The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
factor with which, in basing with such craven shrewdness his calculations upon Mr. Wilding’s feelings for his sister, young Richard had not reckoned. He was not to know that Wilding, bruised and wounded by Miss Westmacott’s scorn of him, had reached that borderland where love and hate are so merged that they are scarce to be distinguished. Embittered by the slights she had put upon him—slights which his sensitive, lover’s fancy had magnified a hundredfold—Anthony Wilding’s frame of mind was grown peculiar. Of his love she would have none; his kindness she seemingly despised. So be it; she should taste his cruelty. If she scorned his wooing and forbade him to pursue it, at least it was not hers to deny him the power to hurt; and in hurting her that would not be loved by him some measure of fierce and bitter consolation seemed to await him.
He realized, perhaps, not quite all this—and to the unworthiness of it all he gave no thought. But he realized enough as he toyed, as cat with mouse, with Richard Westmacott, to know that in striking at her through the worthless person of this brother whom she cherished—and who persisted in affording him this opportunity—a wicked vengeance would be his.
Peace-loving Lord Gervase had heaved himself suddenly to his feet at Westmacott’s last words, still intent upon saving the situation.
“In Heaven’s name…” he began, when Mr. Wilding, ever calm and smiling, though now a trifle sinister, waved him gently into silence. But that persisting calm of Mr. Wilding’s was too much for old Nick Trenchard. He rose abruptly, drawing all eyes upon himself. It was time, he thought, he took a hand in this.
In addition to his affection for Wilding and his contempt for Westmacott, he was filled with a fear that the latter might become dangerous if not crushed at once. Gifted with a shrewd knowledge of men, acquired during a chequered life of much sour experience, old Nick instinctively mistrusted Richard. He had known him for a fool, a weakling, a babbler, and a bibber of wine. Out of such elements a villain is soon compounded, and Trenchard had cause to fear the form of villainy that lay ready to Richard’s hand. For it chanced that Mr. Trenchard was second cousin to that famous John Trenchard, so lately tried for treason and acquitted to the great joy of the sectaries of the West, and still more lately—but yesterday, in fact—fled the country to escape the rearrest ordered in consequence of that excessive joy. Like his more famous cousin, Nick Trenchard was one of the Duke of Monmouth’s most active agents; and Westmacott, like Wilding, Vallancey, and one or two others at that board, stood, too, committed to the cause of the Protestant Champion.
Out of his knowledge of the boy Trenchard was led to fear that if he were leniently dealt with now, tomorrow, when, sober, he came to realize the grossness of the thing he had done and the unlikelihood of its being forgiven him, there was no saying but that to protect himself he might betray Wilding’s share in the plot that was being hatched. That in itself would be bad enough; but there might be worse, for he could scarcely betray Wilding without betraying others and—what mattered most—the Cause itself. He must be dealt with out of hand, Trenchard opined, and dealt with ruthlessly.
“I think, Anthony,” said he, “that we have had words enough. Shall you be disposing of Mr. Westmacott tomorrow, or must I be doing it for you?”
With a gasp of dismay young Richard twisted in his chair to confront this fresh and unsuspected antagonist. What danger was this that he had overlooked? Then, even as he turned, Wilding’s voice fell on his ear, and each word of the few he spoke was like a drop of icy water on Westmacott’s overheated brain.
“I protest you are vastly kind, Nick. But I intend, myself, to have the pleasure of killing Mr. Westmacott.” And his smile fell now in mockery upon the disillusioned lad.
Crushed by that bolt from the blue, Richard sat as if stunned, the flush receding from his face until his very lips were livid. The shock had sobered him, and, sobered, he realized in terror what he had done. And yet even sober he was amazed to find that the staff upon which with such security he had leaned should have proved rotten. True he had put much strain upon it; but then he had counted that it would stand much strain.
He would have spoken, but he lacked words, so stricken was he. And even had he done so it is odds none would have heard him, for the late calm was of a sudden turned to garboil. Every man of that company—with the sole exception of Richard himself—was on his feet, and all were speaking at once, in clamouring, excited chorus.
Wilding alone—the butt of their expostulations—stood quietly smiling, and wiped his face at last with a kerchief of finest lawn. Dominating the others in the Babel rose the voice of Sir Rowland Blake—impecunious Blake; Blake lately of the Guards, who had sold his commission as the only thing remaining him upon which he could raise money; Blake, that other suitor for Miss Westmacott’s hand, the suitor favoured by her brother.
“You shall not do it, Mr. Wilding,” he shouted, his face crimson. “No, by God! You were shamed forever. He is but a lad, and drunk.”
Trenchard eyed the short, powerfully built man beside him, and laughed unpleasantly. “You should get yourself bled one of these days, Sir Rowland,” he advised. “There may be no great danger yet; but a man can’t be too careful when he wears a narrow neckcloth.”
Blake—a short, powerfully built man—took no heed of him, but looked straight at Mr. Wilding, who, smiling ever, calmly returned the gaze of those prominent blue eyes.
“You will suffer me, Sir Rowland,” said he sweetly, “to be the judge of whom I will and whom I will not meet.”
Sir Rowland flushed under that mocking glance and caustic tone. “But he is drunk,” he repeated feebly.
“I think,” said Trenchard, “that he is hearing something that will make him sober.”
Lord Gervase took the lad by the shoulder, and shook him impatiently. “Well?” quoth he. “Have you nothing to say? You did a deal of prating just now. I make no doubt but that even at this late hour if you were to make apology…”
“It would be idle,” came Wilding’s icy voice to quench the gleam of hope kindling anew in Richard’s breast. The lad saw that he was lost, and he is a poor thing, indeed, who cannot face the worst once that worst is shown to be irrevocable. He rose with some semblance of dignity.
“It is as I would wish,” said he, but his livid face and staring eyes belied the valour of his words. He cleared his huskiness from his throat. “Sir Rowland,” said he, “will you act for me?”
“Not I!” cried Blake with an oath. “I’ll be no party to the butchery of a boy unfledged.”
“Unfledged?” echoed Trenchard. “Body o’ me! ’Tis a matter Wilding will amend tomorrow. He’ll fledge him, never fear. He’ll wing him on his flight to heaven.”
Of set purpose did Trenchard add this fuel to the blazing fire. It was no part of his views that this encounter should be avoided. If Richard Westmacott were allowed to live after what had passed, there were too many tall fellows might go in peril of their lives.
Richard, meanwhile, had turned to the man on his left—young Vallancey, a notorious partisan of the Duke of Monmouth’s, a hair-brained gentleman who was his own worst enemy.
“May I count on you, Ned?” he asked.
“Aye—to the death,” said Vallancey magniloquently.
“Mr. Vallancey,” said Trenchard with a wry twist of his sharp features, “you grow prophetic.”
CHAPTER II
SIR ROWLAND TO THE RESCUE
From Scoresby Hall, near Weston Zoyland, young Westmacott rode home that Saturday night to his sister’s house in Bridgwater, a sobered man and an anguished. He had committed a folly which was like to cost him his life tomorrow. Other follies had he committed in his twenty-five years—for he was not quite the babe that Blake had represented him, although he certainly looked nothing like his age. But tonight he had contrived to set the crown to all. He had good cause to blame himself and to curse the miscalculation that had emboldened him to launch himself upon a course of insult against this Wilding, whom he hated with