The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
“We’ll let that be. Richard threw his wine in Mr. Wilding’s face? What followed then? What said Mr. Wilding?”
Sir Rowland remembered what Mr. Wilding had said, and bethought him that it were impolitic in him to repeat it. At the same time, not having looked for this cross-questioning, he was all unprepared with any likely answer. He hesitated, until Ruth echoed Diana’s question.
“Tell us, Sir Rowland,” she begged him, “what Mr. Wilding said.”
Being forced to say something, and being by nature slow-witted and sluggish of invention, Sir Rowland was compelled, to his unspeakable chagrin, to fall back upon the truth.
“Is not that proof?” cried Diana in triumph. “Mr. Wilding was reluctant to quarrel with Richard. He was even ready to swallow such an affront as that, thinking it might be offered him under a misconception of his meaning. He plainly professed the respect that filled him for Mistress Westmacott, and yet, and yet, Sir Rowland, you tell us that he lacked respect!”
“Madam,” cried Blake, turning crimson, “that matters nothing. It was not the place or time to introduce your cousin s name.
“You think, Sir Rowland,” put in Ruth, her air grave, judicial almost, “that Richard behaved well?”
“As I would like to behave myself, as I would have a son of mine behave on the like occasion,” Blake protested. “But we waste words,” he cried. “I did not come to defend Richard, nor just to bear you this untoward news. I came to consult with you, in the hope that we might find some way to avert this peril from your brother.”
“What way is possible?” asked Ruth, and sighed. “I would not… I would not have Richard a coward.”
“Would you prefer him dead?” asked Blake, sadly grave.
“Sooner than craven—yes,” Ruth answered him, very white.
“There is no question of that,” was Blake’s rejoinder. “The question is that Wilding said last night that he would kill the boy, and what Wilding says he does. Out of the affection that I bear Richard is born my anxiety to save him despite himself. It is in this that I come to seek your aid or offer mine. Allied we might accomplish what singly neither of us could.”
He had at once the reward of his cunning speech. Ruth held out her hands. “You are a good friend, Sir Rowland,” she said, with a pale smile; and pale too was the smile with which Diana watched them. No more than Ruth did she suspect the sincerity of Blake’s protestations.
“I am proud you should account me that,” said the baronet, taking Ruth’s hands and holding them a moment; “and I would that I could prove myself your friend in this to some good purpose. Believe me, if Wilding would consent that I might take your brother’s place, I would gladly do so.”
It was a safe boast, knowing as he did that Wilding would consent to no such thing; but it earned him a glance of greater kindliness from Ruth—who began to think that hitherto perhaps she had done him some injustice—and a look of greater admiration from Diana, who saw in him her beau-ideal of the gallant lover.
“I would not have you endanger yourself so,” said Ruth.
“It might,” said Blake, his blue eyes very fierce, “be no great danger, after all.” And then dismissing that part of the subject as if, like a brave man, the notion of being thought boastful were unpleasant, he passed on to the discussion of ways and means by which the coming duel might be averted. But when they came to grips with facts, it seemed that Sir Rowland had as little idea of what might be done as had the ladies. True, he began by making the obvious suggestion that Richard should tender Wilding a full apology. That, indeed, was the only door of escape, and Blake shrewdly suspected that what the boy had been unwilling to do last night—partly through wine, and partly through the fear of looking fearful in the eyes of Lord Gervase Scoresby’s guests—he might be willing enough to do today, sober and upon reflection. For the rest Blake was as far from suspecting Mr. Wilding’s peculiar frame of mind as had Richard been last night. This his words showed.
“I am satisfied,” said he, “that if Richard were to go today to Wilding and express his regret for a thing done in the heat of wine, Wilding would be forced to accept it as satisfaction, and none would think that it did other than reflect credit upon Richard.”
“Are you very sure of that?” asked Ruth, her tone dubious, her glance hopefully anxious.
“What else is to be thought?”
“But,” put in Diana shrewdly, “it were an admission of Richard’s that he had done wrong.”
“No less,” he agreed, and Ruth caught her breath in fresh dismay.
“And yet you have said that he did as you would have a son of yours do,” Diana reminded him.
“And I maintain it,” answered Blake; his wits worked slowly ever. It was for Ruth to reveal the flaw to him.
“Do you not understand, then,” she asked him sadly, “that such an admission on Richard’s part would amount to a lie—a lie uttered to save himself from an encounter, the worst form of lie, a lie of cowardice? Surely, Sir Rowland, your kindly anxiety for his life outruns your anxiety for his honour.”
Diana, having accomplished her task, hung her head in silence, pondering.
Sir Rowland was routed utterly. He glanced from one to the other of his companions, and grew afraid that he—the town gallant—might come to look foolish in the eyes of these country ladies. He protested again his love for Richard, and increased Ruth’s terror by his mention of Wilding’s swordsmanship; but when all was said, he saw that he had best retreat ere he spoiled the good effect which he hoped his solicitude had created. And so he spoke of seeking counsel with Lord Gervase Scoresby, and took his leave, promising to return by noon.
CHAPTER III
DIANA SCHEMES
Notwithstanding the brave face Ruth Westmacott had kept during his presence, when he departed Sir Rowland left behind him a distress amounting almost to anguish in her mind. Yet though she might suffer, there was no weakness in Ruth’s nature. She knew how to endure. Diana, bearing Richard not a tenth of the affection his sister consecrated to him, was alarmed for him. Besides, her own interests urged the averting of this encounter. And so she held in accents almost tearful that something must be done to save him.
This, too, appeared to be Richard’s own view, when presently—within a few minutes of Blake’s departure—he came to join them. They watched his approach in silence, and both noted—though with different eyes and different feelings—the pallor of his fair face, the dark lines under his colourless eyes. His condition was abject, and his manners, never of the best—for there was much of the spoiled child about Richard—were clearly suffering from it.
He stood before his sister and his cousin, moving his eyes shiftily from one to the other, rubbing his hands nervously together.
“Your precious friend Sir Rowland has been here,” said he, and it was not clear from his manner which of them he addressed. “Not a doubt but he will have brought you the news.” He seemed to sneer.
Ruth advanced towards him, her face grave, her sweet eyes full of pitying concern. She placed a hand upon his sleeve. “My poor Richard…” she began, but he shook off her kindly touch, laughing angrily—a mere cackle of irritability.
“Odso!” he interrupted her. “It is a thought late for this mock kindliness!”
Diana, in the background, arched her brows, then with a shrug turned aside and seated herself on the stone seat by which they had been standing. Ruth shrank back as if her brother had struck her.
“Richard!” she cried, and searched his livid face with her eyes. “Richard!”
He read a question in the interjection, and he answered it. “Had you known any real care, any true concern for me, you had not given cause for this affair,” he chid her peevishly.
“What