The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
came to consider the questions the Lord-Lieutenant of Devon would be likely to ask him, he reflected that the answers he must return would so incriminate himself that he would be risking his own neck in the betrayal. He flung himself down again with a curse and a groan, and thought no more of the salvation that might lie for him that way.
The morning of that last day of May found him pale and limp and all a-tremble. He rose betimes and dressed, but stirred not from his chamber till in the garden under his window he heard his sister’s voice, and that of Diana Horton, joined anon by a man’s deeper tones, which he recognized with a start as Blake’s. What did the baronet here so early? Assuredly it must concern the impending duel. Richard knew no mawkishness on the score of eavesdropping. He stole to his window and lent an ear, but the voices were receding, and to his vexation he caught nothing of what was said. He wondered how soon Vallancey would come, and for what hour the encounter had been appointed. Vallancey had remained behind at Scoresby Hall last night to make the necessary arrangements with Trenchard, who was to act for Mr. Wilding.
Now it chanced that Trenchard and Wilding had business—business of Monmouth’s—to transact in Taunton that morning; business which might not be delayed. There were odd rumours afloat in the West; persistent rumours which had come fast upon the heels of the news of Argyle’s landing in Scotland; rumours which maintained that Monmouth himself was coming over from Holland. These tales Wilding and his associates had ignored. The Duke, they knew, was to spend the summer in retreat in Sweden, with (it was alleged) the Lady Henrietta Wentworth to bear him company, and in the mean time his trusted agents were to pave the way for his coming in the following spring. Of late the lack of direct news from the Duke had been a source of mystification to his friends in the West, and now, suddenly, the information went abroad—it was something more than rumour this time—that a letter of the greatest importance had been intercepted. From whom that letter proceeded or to whom it was addressed, could not yet be discovered. But it seemed clear that it was connected with the Monmouth Cause, and it behoved Mr. Wilding to discover what he could. With this intent he rode with Trenchard that Sunday morning to Taunton, hoping that at the Red Lion Inn—that meeting-place of dissenters—he might cull reliable information.
It was in consequence of this that the meeting with Richard Westmacott was not to take place until the evening, and therefore Vallancey came not to Lupton House as early as Richard thought he should expect him. Blake, however—more no doubt out of a selfish fear of losing a valued ally in the winning of Ruth’s hand than out of any excessive concern for Richard himself—had risen early and hastened to Lupton House, in the hope, which he recognized as all but forlorn, of yet being able to avert the disaster he foresaw for Richard.
Peering over the orchard wall as he rode by, he caught a glimpse, through an opening between the trees, of Ruth herself and Diana on the lawn beyond. There was a wicket gate that stood unlatched, and availing himself of this Sir Rowland tethered his horse in the lane and threading his way briskly through the orchard came suddenly upon the girls. Their laughter reached him as he advanced, and told him they could know nothing yet of Richard’s danger.
On his abrupt and unexpected apparition, Diana paled and Ruth flushed slightly, whereupon Sir Rowland might have bethought him, had he been book-learned, of the axiom, “Amour qui rougit, fleurette; amour qui plit, drame du coeur.”
He doffed his hat and bowed, his fair ringlets tumbling forward till they hid his face, which was exceeding grave.
Ruth gave him good morning pleasantly. “You London folk are earlier risers than we are led to think,” she added.
“’Twill be the change of air makes Sir Rowland matutinal,” said Diana, making a gallant recovery from her agitation.
“I vow,” said he, “that I had grown matutinal earlier had I known what here awaited me.”
“Awaited you?” quoth Diana, and tossed her head archly disdainful. “La! Sir Rowland, your modesty will be the death of you.” Archness became this lady of the sunny hair, tip-tilted nose, and complexion that outvied the apple-blossoms. She was shorter by a half-head than her darker cousin, and made up in sprightliness what she lacked of Ruth’s gentle dignity. The pair were foils, each setting off the graces of the other.
“I protest I am foolish,” answered Blake, a shade discomfited. “But I want not for excuse. I have it in the matter that brings me here.” So solemn was his air, so sober his voice, that both girls felt a premonition of the untoward message that he bore. It was Ruth who asked him to explain himself.
“Will you walk, ladies?” said Blake, and waved the hand that still held his hat riverwards, adown the sloping lawn. They moved away together, Sir Rowland pacing between his love of yesterday and his love of today, pressed with questions from both. He shaded his eyes to look at the river, dazzling in the morning sunlight that came over Polden Hill, and, standing thus, he unburdened himself at last.
“My news concerns Richard and—Mr. Wilding.” They looked at him. Miss Westmacott’s fine level brows were knit. He paused to ask, as if suddenly observing his absence, “Is Richard not yet risen?”
“Not yet,” said Ruth, and waited for him to proceed.
“It does credit to his courage that he should sleep late on such a day,” said Blake, and was pleased with the adroitness wherewith he broke the news. “He quarrelled last night with Anthony Wilding.”
Ruth’s hand went to her bosom; fear stared at Blake from out her eyes, blue as the heavens overhead; a grey shade overcast the usual warm pallor of her face.
“With Mr. Wilding?” she cried. “That man!” And though she said no more her eyes implored him to go on, and tell her what more there might be. He did so, and he spared not Wilding. The task, indeed, was one to which he applied himself with a certain zest; whatever might be the outcome of the affair, there was no denying that he was by way of reaping profit from it by the final overthrow of an acknowledged rival. And when he told her how Richard had flung his wine in Wilding’s face when Wilding stood to toast her, a faint flush crept to her cheeks.
“Richard did well,” said she. “I am proud of him.”
The words pleased Sir Rowland vastly; but he reckoned without Diana. Miss Horton’s mind was illumined by her knowledge of herself. In the light of that she saw precisely what capital this tale-bearer sought to make. The occasion might not be without its opportunities for her; and to begin with, it was no part of her intention that Wilding should be thus maligned and finally driven from the lists of rivalry with Blake. Upon Wilding, indeed, and his notorious masterfulness did she found what hopes she still entertained of winning back Sir Rowland.
“Surely,” said she, “you are a little hard on Mr. Wilding. You speak as if he were the first gallant that ever toasted lady’s eyes.”
“I am no lady of his, Diana,” Ruth reminded her, with a faint show of heat.
Diana shrugged her shoulders. “You may not love him, but you can’t ordain that he shall not love you. You are very harsh, I think. To me it rather seems that Richard acted like a boor.”
“But, mistress,” cried Sir Rowland, half out of countenance, and stifling his vexation, “in these matters it all depends upon the manner.”
“Why, yes,” she agreed; “and whatever Mr. Wilding’s manner, if I know him at all, it would be nothing but respectful to the last degree.”
“My own conception of respect,” said he, “is not to bandy a lady’s name about a company of revellers.”
“Bethink you, though, you said just now, it all depended on the manner,” she rejoined. Sir Rowland shrugged and turned half from her to her listening cousin. When all is said, poor Diana appears—despite her cunning—to have been short-sighted. Aiming at a defined advantage in the game she played, she either ignored or held too lightly the concomitant disadvantage of vexing Blake.
“It were perhaps best to tell us the exact words he used, Sir Rowland,” she suggested, “that for ourselves we may judge how far he lacked respect.”
“What