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 to-day, 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 to-day 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 are you saying?” she cried, and it occurred to her at last that Richard was afraid. He was a coward! She felt as she would faint.
“I am saying,” said he, hunching his shoulders, and shivering as he spoke, yet, his glance unable to meet hers, “that it is your fault that I am like to get my throat cut before sunset.”
“My fault?” she murmured. The slope of lawn seemed to wave and swim about her. “My fault?”
“The fault of your wanton ways,” he accused her harshly. “You have so played fast and loose with this fellow Wilding that he makes free of your name in my very presence, and puts upon me the need to get myself killed by him to save the family honour.”
He would have said more in this strain, but something in her glance gave him pause. There fell a silence. From the distance came the melodious pealing of church bells. High overhead a lark was pouring out its song; in the lane at the orchard end rang the beat of trotting hoofs. It was Diana who spoke presently. Just indignation stirred her, and, when stirred, she knew no pity, set no limits to her speech.
“I think, indeed,” said she, her voice crisp and merciless, “that the family honour will best be saved if Mr. Wilding kills you. It is in danger while you live. You are a coward, Richard.”
“Diana!” he thundered – he could be mighty brave with women – whilst Ruth clutched her arm to restrain her.
But she continued, undeterred: “You are a coward – a pitiful coward,” she told him. “Consult your mirror. It will tell you what a palsied thing you are. That you should dare so speak to Ruth…”
“Don’t!” Ruth begged her, turning.
“Aye,” growled Richard, “she had best be silent.”
Diana rose, to battle, her cheeks crimson. “It asks a braver man than you to compel my obedience,” she told him. “La!” she fumed, “I’ll swear that had Mr. Wilding overheard what you have said to your sister, you would have little to fear from his sword. A cane would be the weapon he’d use on you.
Richard’s pale eyes flamed malevolently; a violent rage possessed him and flooded out his fear, for nothing can so goad a man as an offensive truth. Ruth approached him again; again she took him by the arm, seeking to soothe his over-troubled spirit; but again he shook her off. And then to save the situation came a servant from the house. So lost in anger was all Richard’s sense of decency that the mere supervention of the man would not have been enough to have silenced him could he have found adequate words in which to answer Mistress Horton. But even as he racked his mind, the footman’s voice broke the silence, and the words the fellow uttered did what his presence alone might not have sufficed to do.
“Mr. VaIlancey is asking for you, sir,” he announced.
Richard started. Vallancey! He had come at last, and his coming was connected with the impending duel. The thought was paralyzing to young Westmacott. The flush of anger faded from his face; its leaden hue returned and he shivered as with cold. At last he mastered himself sufficiently to ask:
“Where is he, Jasper?”
“In the library, sir,” replied the servant. “Shall I bring him hither?”
“Yes – no,” he answered. “I will come to him.” He turned his back upon the ladies, paused a moment, still irresolute. Then, as by an effort, he followed the servant across the lawn and vanished through the ivied porch.