CHAPTER II. SIR ROWLAND TO THE RESCUE
From Scoresby Hall, near Weston Zoyland, young Westmacott rode home thatSaturday night to his sister's house in Bridgwater, a sobered man and ananguished. He had committed a folly which was like to cost him his lifeto-morrow. Other follies had he committed in his twenty-five years--forhe was not quite the babe that Blake had represented him, although hecertainly looked nothing like his age. But to-night he had contrived toset the crown to all. He had good cause to blame himself and to cursethe miscalculation that had emboldened him to launch himself upona course of insult against this Wilding, whom he hated with all thecurrish and resentful hatred of the worthless for the man of parts.
But there was more than hate in the affront that he had offered;there was calculation--to an even greater extent than we have seen. Ithappened that through his own fault young Richard was all but penniless.The pious, nonconformist soul of Sir Geoffrey Lupton--the wealthy unclefrom whom he had had great expectations--had been so stirred to anger byRichard's vicious and besotted ways that he had left every guinea thatwas his, every perch of land, and every brick of edifice to Richard'shalf-sister Ruth. At present things were not so bad for the worthlessboy. Ruth worshipped him. He was a sacred charge to her from their deadfather, who, knowing the stoutness of her soul and the feebleness ofRichard's, had in dying imposed on her the care and guidance of hergraceless brother. But Ruth, in all things strong, was weak with Richardout of her very fondness for him. To what she had he might help himself,and thus it was that things were not so bad with him at present. Butwhen Richard's calculating mind came to give thought to the future hefound that this occasioned him some care. Rich ladies, even when theydo not happen to be equipped in addition with Ruth's winsome beauty andendearing nature, are not wont to go unmarried. It would have pleasedRichard best to have had her remain a spinster. But he well knew thatthis was a matter in which she might have a voice of her own, and itbehoved him betimes to take wise measures where possible husbands wereconcerned.
The first that came in a suitor's obvious panoply was Anthony Wilding,of Zoyland Chase, and Richard watched his advent with foreboding.Wilding's was a personality to dazzle any woman, despite--perhaps evenbecause of--the reputation for wildness that clung to him. That he wasknown as Wild Wilding to the countryside is true; but it were unfair--asRichard knew--to attach to this too much importance; for the adoptionof so obvious an alliteration the rude country minds needed but a slightencouragement. From the first it looked as if Ruth might favour him, andRichard's fears assumed more definite shape. If Wilding married her--andhe was a bold, masterful fellow who usually accomplished what he aimedat--her fortune and estate must cease to be a pleasant pasture land forbovine Richard. The boy thought at first of making terms with Wilding;the idea was old; it had come to him when first he had counted thechances of his sister's marrying. But he found himself hesitating tolay his proposal before Mr. Wilding. And whilst he hesitated Mr.Wilding made obvious headway. Still Richard dared not do it. There wasa something in Wilding's eye that cried him danger. Thus, in the end,since he could not attempt a compromise with this fine fellow, the onlycourse remaining was that of direct antagonism--that is to say, directas Richard understood directness. Slander was the weapon he used inthat secret duel; the countryside was well stocked with stories of Mr.Wilding's many indiscretions. I do not wish to suggest that these wereunfounded. Still, the countryside, cajoled by its primitive sense ofhumour into that alliteration I have mentioned, found that having giventhis dog its bad name, it was under the obligation of keeping up hisreputation. So it exaggerated. Richard, exaggerating those exaggerationsin his turn, had some details, as interesting and unsavoury as they werein the main untrue, to lay before his sister.
Now established love, it is well known, thrives wondrously on slander.The robust growth of a maid's feelings for her accepted suitor is butfurther strengthened by malign representations of his character. Sheseizes with joy the chance of affording proof of her great loyalty, anddefies the world and its evil to convince her that the man to whom shehas given her trust is not most worthy of it. Not so, however, with thefirst timid bud of incipient interest. Slander nips it like a frost; indeadliness it is second only to ridicule.
Ruth Westmacott lent an ear to her brother's stories, incredulous onlyuntil she remembered vague hints she had caught from this person andfrom that, whose meaning was now made clear by what Richard told her,which, incidentally, they served to corroborate. Corroboration, too, didthe tale of infamy receive from the friendship that prevailed betweenMr. Wilding and Nick Trenchard, the old ne'er-dowell, who in histime--as everybody knew--had come so low, despite his gentle birth, asto have been one of a company of strolling players. Had Mr. Wildingbeen other than she now learnt he was, he would surely not cherish anattachment for a person so utterly unworthy. Clearly, they were birds ofa plumage.
And so, her maiden purity outraged at the thought that she had been indanger of lending a willing ear to the wooing of such a man, shehad crushed this love which she blushed to think was on the point ofthrowing out roots to fasten on her soul, and was sedulous thereafter inmanifesting the aversion which she accounted it her duty to foster forMr. Wilding.
Richard had watched and smiled in secret, taking pride in the cunningway he had wrought this change--that cunning which so often is givento the stupid by way of compensation for the intelligence that has beenwithheld them.
And now what time discountenanced, Wilding fumed and fretted all invain, Sir Rowland Blake, fresh from London and in full flight from hiscreditors, flashed like a comet into the Bridgwater heavens. He dazzledthe eyes and might have had for the asking the heart and hand of DianaHorton--Ruth's cousin. Her heart, indeed, he had without the asking, forDiana fell straightway in love with him and showed it, just as he showedthat he was not without response to her affection. There were sometender passages between them; but Blake, for all his fine exterior, wasa beggar, and Diana far from rich, and so he rode his feelings witha hard grip upon the reins. And then, in an evil hour for poor Diana,young Westmacott had taken him to Lupton House, and Sir Rowland had hisfirst glimpse of Ruth, his first knowledge of her fortune. He went downbefore Ruth's eyes like a man of heart; he went down more lowly stillbefore her possessions like a man of greed; and poor Diana might consoleherself with whom she could.
Her brother watched him, appraised him, and thought that in this brokengamester he had a man after his own heart; a man who would be readyenough for such a bargain as Richard had in mind; ready enough tosell what rags might be left him of his honour so that he came by thewherewithal to mend his broken fortunes.
The twain made terms. They haggled like any pair of traders out ofJewry, but in the end it was settled--by a bond duly engrossed andsealed--that on the day that Sir Rowland married Ruth he should makeover to her brother certain values that amounted to perhaps a quarter ofher possessions. There was no cause to think that Ruth would be greatlyopposed to this--not that that consideration would have weighed withRichard.
But now that all essentials were so satisfactorily determined a vexationwas offered Westmacott by the circumstance that his sister seemed nowisetaken with Sir Rowland. She suffered him because he was her brother'sfriend; on that account she even honoured him with some measure of herown friendship; but to no greater intimacy did her manner promise toadmit him. And meanwhile, Mr. Wilding persisted in the face of allrebuffs. Under his smiling mask he hid the smart of the wounds she dealthim, until it almost seemed to him that from loving her he had come tohate her.
It had been well for Richard had he left things as they were and waited.Whether Blake prospered or not, leastways it was clear that Wildingwould not prosper, and that, for the season, was all that need havemattered to young Richard.
But in his cups that night he had thought in some dim way to precipitatematters by affronting Mr. Wilding, secure, as I have shown, in hisbelief that Wilding would perish sooner than raise a finger againstRuth's brother. And his drunken astuteness,
it seemed, had been tohis mind as a piece of bottle glass to the sight, distorting the imageviewed through it.
With some such bitter reflection rode he home to his sleepless couch.Some part of those dark hours he spent in bitter reviling of Wilding, ofhimself, and even of his sister, whom he blamed for this awful situationinto which he had tumbled; at other times he wept from self-pity andsheer fright.
Once, indeed, he imagined that he saw light, that he saw a way outof the peril that hemmed him in. His mind turned for a moment in thedirection that Trenchard had feared it might. He bethought him of hisassociation with the Monmouth Cause--into which he had been beguiled bythe sordid hope of gain--and of Wilding's important share in that samebusiness. He was even moved to rise and ride that very night for Exeterto betray to Albemarle the Cause itself, so that he might have Wildinglaid by the heels. But if Trenchard had been right in having littlefaith in Richard's loyalty, he had, it seems, in fearing treacherymade the mistake of giving Richard credit for more courage than was hisendowment. For when, sitting up in bed, fired by his inspiration, youngWestmacott came to consider the questions the Lord-Lieutenant of Devonwould be likely to ask him, he reflected that the answers he must returnwould so incriminate himself that he would be risking his own neck inthe betrayal. He flung himself down again with a curse and a groan, andthought 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 alla-tremble. He rose betimes and dressed, but stirred not from his chambertill in the garden under his window he heard his sister's voice, andthat of Diana Horton, joined anon by a man's deeper tones, which herecognized with a start as Blake's. What did the baronet here soearly? Assuredly it must concern the impending duel. Richard knew nomawkishness on the score of eavesdropping. He stole to his window andlent an ear, but the voices were receding, and to his vexation he caughtnothing of what was said. He wondered how soon Vallancey would come, andfor what hour the encounter had been appointed. Vallancey had remainedbehind at Scoresby Hall last night to make the necessary arrangementswith Trenchard, who was to act for Mr. Wilding.
Now it chanced that Trenchard and Wilding had business--business ofMonmouth's--to transact in Taunton that morning; business which mightnot be delayed. There were odd rumours afloat in the West; persistentrumours which had come fast upon the heels of the news of Argyle'slanding in Scotland; rumours which maintained that Monmouth himself wascoming over from Holland. These tales Wilding and his associates hadignored. The Duke, they knew, was to spend the summer in retreat inSweden, with (it was alleged) the Lady Henrietta Wentworth to bear himcompany, and in the mean time his trusted agents were to pave the wayfor his coming in the following spring. Of late the lack of direct newsfrom the Duke had been a source of mystification to his friends in theWest, and now, suddenly, the information went abroad--it was somethingmore than rumour this time--that a letter of the greatest importancehad been intercepted. From whom that letter proceeded or to whom it wasaddressed, could not yet be discovered. But it seemed clear that itwas connected with the Monmouth Cause, and it behoved Mr. Wilding todiscover what he could. With this intent he rode with Trenchard thatSunday morning to Taunton, hoping that at the Red Lion Inn--thatmeeting-place of dissenters--he might cull reliable information.
It was in consequence of this that the meeting with Richard Westmacottwas not to take place until the evening, and therefore Vallancey camenot 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 valuedally in the winning of Ruth's hand than out of any excessive concern forRichard himself--had risen early and hastened to Lupton House, in thehope, which he recognized as all but forlorn, of yet being able to avertthe 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 thelawn beyond. There was a wicket gate that stood unlatched, and availinghimself of this Sir Rowland tethered his horse in the lane and threadinghis way briskly through the orchard came suddenly upon the girls.Their laughter reached him as he advanced, and told him they could knownothing yet of Richard's danger.
On his abrupt and unexpected apparition, Diana paled and Ruth flushedslightly, whereupon Sir Rowland might have bethought him, had he beenbook-learned, of the axiom, "Amour qui rougit, fleurette; amour quiplit, drame du coeur."
He doffed his hat and bowed, his fair ringlets tumbling forward tillthey hid his face, which was exceeding grave.
Ruth gave him good morning pleasantly. "You London folk are earlierrisers 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 whathere awaited me."
"Awaited you?" quoth Diana, and tossed her head archly disdainful. "La!Sir Rowland, your modesty will be the death of you." Archness becamethis lady of the sunny hair, tip-tilted nose, and complexion thatoutvied the apple-blossoms. She was shorter by a half-head than herdarker cousin, and made up in sprightliness what she lacked of Ruth'sgentle dignity. The pair were foils, each setting off the graces of theother.
"I protest I am foolish," answered Blake, a shade discomfited. "But Iwant 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 apremonition of the untoward message that he bore. It was Ruth who askedhim to explain himself.
"Will you walk, ladies?" said Blake, and waved the hand that still heldhis hat riverwards, adown the sloping lawn. They moved away together,Sir Rowland pacing between his love of yesterday and his love of to-day,pressed with questions from both. He shaded his eyes to look at theriver, 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 ifsuddenly 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 thenews. "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 warmpallor of her face.
"With Mr. Wilding?" she cried. "That man!" And though she said no moreher 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 whichhe applied himself with a certain zest; whatever might be the outcomeof the affair, there was no denying that he was by way of reaping profitfrom it by the final overthrow of an acknowledged rival. And when hetold her how Richard had flung his wine in Wilding's face when Wildingstood 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 thelight of that she saw precisely what capital this tale-bearer sought tomake. The occasion might not be without its opportunities for her; andto begin with, it was no part of her intention that Wilding should bethus maligned and finally driven from the lists of rivalry with Blake.Upon Wilding, indeed, and his notorious masterfulness did she found whathopes she still entertained of winning back Sir Rowland.
"Surely," said she, "you are a little hard on Mr. Wilding. You speak asif 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 ofheat.
Diana shrugged her shoulders. "You may not love him, but you can'tordain that he shall not love you. You are very harsh, I think. To me itrather seems that Richard acted like a boor."
"But, mistress," cried Sir Rowla
nd, half out of countenance, andstifling his vexation, "in these matters it all depends upon themanner."
"Why, yes," she agreed; "and whatever Mr. Wilding's manner, if I knowhim 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 nameabout 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 herlistening cousin. When all is said, poor Diana appears--despite hercunning--to have been short-sighted. Aiming at a defined advantagein the game she played, she either ignored or held too lightly theconcomitant 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 lackedrespect."
"What signify the words!" cried Blake, now almost out of temper."I don't recall them. It is the air with which he pledged MistressWestmacott."
"Ah yes--the manner," quoth Diana irritatingly. "We'll let that be.Richard threw his wine in Mr. Wilding's face? What followed then? Whatsaid Mr. Wilding?"
Sir Rowland remembered what Mr. Wilding had said, and bethought himthat it were impolitic in him to repeat it. At the same time, not havinglooked for this cross-questioning, he was all unprepared with any likelyanswer. 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 andsluggish of invention, Sir Rowland was compelled, to his unspeakablechagrin, to fall back upon the truth.
"Is not that proof?" cried Diana in triumph. "Mr. Wilding was reluctantto quarrel with Richard. He was even ready to swallow such an affrontas that, thinking it might be offered him under a misconception of hismeaning. He plainly professed the respect that filled him for MistressWestmacott, and yet, and yet, Sir Rowland, you tell us that he lackedrespect!"
"Madam," cried Blake, turning crimson, "that matters nothing. It was notthe 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 behaveon the like occasion," Blake protested. "But we waste words," he cried."I did not come to defend Richard, nor just to bear you this untowardnews. I came to consult with you, in the hope that we might find someway to avert this peril from your brother."
"What way is possible?" asked Ruth, and sighed. "I would not... I wouldnot 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 questionis that Wilding said last night that he would kill the boy, and whatWilding says he does. Out of the affection that I bear Richard is bornmy anxiety to save him despite himself. It is in this that I come toseek your aid or offer mine. Allied we might accomplish what singlyneither of us could."
He had at once the reward of his cunning speech. Ruth held out herhands. "You are a good friend, Sir Rowland," she said, with a palesmile; and pale too was the smile with which Diana watched them. No morethan Ruth did she suspect the sincerity of Blake's protestations.
"I am proud you should account me that," said the baronet, taking Ruth'shands and holding them a moment; "and I would that I could prove myselfyour friend in this to some good purpose. Believe me, if Wilding wouldconsent 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 tono such thing; but it earned him a glance of greater kindliness fromRuth--who began to think that hitherto perhaps she had done him someinjustice--and a look of greater admiration from Diana, who saw in himher 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, likea brave man, the notion of being thought boastful were unpleasant, hepassed on to the discussion of ways and means by which the coming duelmight be averted. But when they came to grips with facts, it seemed thatSir Rowland had as little idea of what might be done as had the ladies.True, he began by making the obvious suggestion that Richard shouldtender Wilding a full apology. That, indeed, was the only door ofescape, and Blake shrewdly suspected that what the boy had beenunwilling to do last night--partly through wine, and partly throughthe fear of looking fearful in the eyes of Lord Gervase Scoresby'sguests--he might be willing enough to do to-day, sober and uponreflection. For the rest Blake was as far from suspecting Mr. Wilding'speculiar frame of mind as had Richard been last night. This his wordsshowed.
"I am satisfied," said he, "that if Richard were to go to-day to Wildingand express his regret for a thing done in the heat of wine, Wildingwould be forced to accept it as satisfaction, and none would think thatit did other than reflect credit upon Richard."
"Are you very sure of that?" asked Ruth, her tone dubious, her glancehopefully anxious.
"What else is to be thought?"
"But," put in Diana shrewdly, "it were an admission of Richard's that hehad 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 wasfor Ruth to reveal the flaw to him.
"Do you not understand, then," she asked him sadly, "that such anadmission on Richard's part would amount to a lie--a lie uttered to savehimself from an encounter, the worst form of lie, a lie of cowardice?Surely, Sir Rowland, your kindly anxiety for his life outruns youranxiety 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 hiscompanions, and grew afraid that he--the town gallant--might come tolook foolish in the eyes of these country ladies. He protested againhis love for Richard, and increased Ruth's terror by his mention ofWilding's swordsmanship; but when all was said, he saw that he had bestretreat ere he spoiled the good effect which he hoped his solicitude hadcreated. And so he spoke of seeking counsel with Lord Gervase Scoresby,and took his leave, promising to return by noon.