If there was, he bethought him that the knowledge might be of value, and it might help to float once more his shipwrecked fortunes. The haste with which Vallancey had proffered a frivolous explanation of Richard’s words, the bustle with which upon the instant he swept Richard and Sir Rowland from the house to get to horse and ride out to Bridgwater were in themselves circumstances that went to heighten those suspicions of Sir Rowland’s. But lacking all opportunity for investigation at the moment, he deemed it wisest to say no more just then lest he should betray his watchfulness.
They were the first to arrive upon the ground – an open space on the borders of Sedgemoor, in the shelter of Polden Hill. But they had not long to wait before Wilding and Trenchard rode up, attended by a groom. Their arrival had an oddly sobering effect upon young Westmacott, for which Mr. Vallancey was thankful. For during their ride he had begun to fear that he had carried too far the business of equipping his principal with artificial valour.
Trenchard came forward to offer Vallancey the courteous suggestion that Mr. Wilding’s servant should charge himself with the care of the horses of Mr. Westmacott’s party, if this would be a convenience to them. Vallancey thanked him and accepted the offer, and thus the groom – instructed by Trenchard – led the five horses some distance from the spot.
It now became a matter of making preparation, and leaving Richard to divest himself of such garments as he might deem cumbrous, Vallancey went forward to consult with Trenchard upon the choice of ground. At that same moment Mr. Wilding lounged forward, flicking the grass with his whip in an absent manner.
“Mr. Vallancey,” he began, when Trenchard turned to interrupt him.
“You can leave it safely to me, Tony,” he growled. “But there is something I wish to say, Nick,” answered Mr. Wilding, his manner mild. “By your leave, then.” And he turned again to Valiancey. “Will you be so good as to call Mr. Westmacott hither?”
Vallancey stared. “For what purpose, sir?” he asked.
“For my purpose,” answered Mr. Wilding sweetly. “It is no longer my wish to engage with Mr. Westmacott.
“Anthony!” cried Trenchard, and in his amazement forgot to swear.
“I propose,” added Mr. Wilding, “to relieve Mr. Westmacott of the necessity of fighting.”
Vallancey in his heart thought this might be pleasant news for his principal. Still, he did not quite see how the end was to be attained, and said so.
“You shall be enlightened if you will do as I request,” Wilding insisted, and Vallancey, with a lift of the brows, a snort, and a shrug, turned away to comply.
“Do you mean,” quoth Trenchard, bursting with indignation, “that you will let live a man who has struck you?”
Wilding took his friend affectionately by the arm. “It is a whim of mine,” said he. “Do you think, Nick, that it is more than I can afford to indulge?”
“I say not so,” was the ready answer; “but .. .”
“I thought you’d not,” said Mr. Wilding, interrupting. “And if any does – why, I shall be glad to prove it upon him that he lies.” He laughed, and Trenchard, vexed though he was, was forced to laugh with him. Then Nick set himself to urge the thing that last night had plagued his mind: that this Richard might prove a danger to the Cause; that in the Duke’s interest, if not to safeguard his own person from some vindictive betrayal, Wilding would be better advised in imposing a reliable silence upon him.
“But why vindictive?” Mr. Wilding remonstrated. “Rather must he have cause for gratitude.”
Mr. Trenchard laughed short and contemptuously. “There is,” said he, ” no rancour more bitter than that of the mean man who has offended you and whom you have spared. I beg you’ll ponder it.” He lowered his voice as he ended his admonition, for Vallancey and Westmacott were coming up, followed by Sir Rowland Blake.
Richard, although his courage had been sinking lower and lower in a measure as he had grown more and more sober with the approach of the moment for engaging, came forward now with a firm step and an arrogant mien; for Vallancey had given him more than a hint of what was toward. His heart had leapt, not only at the deliverance that was promised him, but out of satisfaction at the reflection of how accurately last night he had gauged what Mr. Wilding would endure. It had dismayed him then, as we have seen, that this man who, he thought, must stomach any affront from him out of consideration for his sister, should have ended by calling him to account. He concluded now that upon reflection Wilding had seen his error, and was prepared to make amends that he might extricate himself from an impossible situation, and Richard blamed himself for having overlooked this inevitable solution and given way to idle panic.
Vallancey and Blake watching him, and the sudden metamorphosis that was wrought in him, despised him heartily, and yet were glad – for the sake of their association with him – that things were as they were.
“Mr. Westmacott,” said Wilding quietly, his eyes steadily set upon Richard’s own arrogant gaze, his lips smiling a little, “I am here not to fight, but to apologize.”
Richard’s sneer was audible to all. Oh, he was gathering courage fast now that there no longer was the need for it. It urged him to lengths of daring possible only to a fool.
“If you can take a blow, Mr. Wilding,” said he offensively, “that is your own affair.”
And his friends gasped at his temerity and trembled for him, not knowing what grounds he had for counting himself unassailable.
” Just so,” said Mr. Wilding, as meek and humble as a nun, and Trenchard, who had expected something very different from him, swore aloud and with some circumstance of oaths. “The fact is,” continued Mr. Wilding, “that what I did last night, I did in the heat of wine, and I am sorry for it. I recognize that this quarrel is of my provoking; that it was unwarrantable in me to introduce the name of Mistress Westmacott, no matter how respectfully; and that in doing so I gave Mr. Westmacott ample grounds for offence. For that I beg his pardon, and I venture to hope that this matter need go no further.”
Vallancey and Blake were speechless in astonishment; Trenchard livid with fury. Westmacott moved a step or two forward, a swagger unmistakable in his gait, his nether-lip thrust out in a sneer.
“Why,” said he, his voice mighty disdainful, “if Mr. Wilding apologizes, the matter hardly can go further.” He conveyed such a suggestion of regret at this that Trenchard bounded forward, stung to speech.
“But if Mr. Westmacott’s disappointment threatens to overwhelm him,” he snapped, very tartly, “I am his humble servant, and he may call upon me to see that he’s not robbed of the exercise he came to take.”
Mr. Wilding set a restraining hand upon Trenchard’s arm.
Westmacott turned to him, the sneer, however, gone from his face.
“I have no quarrel with you, sir,” said he, with an uneasy assumption of dignity.
“It’s a want that may be soon supplied,” answered Trenchard briskly, and, as he afterwards confessed, had not Wilding checked him at that moment, he had thrown his hat in Richard’s face.
It was Vallancey who saved the situation, cursing in his heart the bearing of his principal.
“Mr. Wilding,” said he, “this is very handsome in you. You are of the happy few who may tender such an apology without reflection upon your courage.”
Mr. Wilding made him a leg very elegantly. “You are vastly kind, sir,” said he.
“You have given Mr. Westmacott the fullest satisfaction, and it is with an increased respect for you – if that were possible – that I acknowledge it on my friend’s behalf.”
“You are, sir, a very mirror of the elegancies,” said Mr. Wilding, and Vallancey wondered was he being laughed at. Whether he was or not, he conceived that he had done the only seemly thing. He had made handsome acknowledgment of a handsome apology, stung to it by the currishness of Richard.
And there the matter ended, despite Trenchard’s burning eagerness to carry it himself to a different consummation. Wilding prevailed upon him, and withdrew him from the field. But as they rode back to Zoyland Chase the old rake was bitter in his inveighings against Wilding’s folly and weakness.
“I pray Heaven,” he kept repeating, “that it may not come to cost you dear.”
“Have done,” said Mr. Wilding, a trifle out of patience. “Could I wed the sister having slain the brother?”
And Trenchard, understanding at last, accounted himself a numskull that he had not understood before. But he none the less deemed it a pity Richardhad been spared.