Mistress Wilding
CHAPTER V
THE ENCOUNTER
Ruth Wesmacott rode back like one in a dream, with vague and hazy notions
of what she saw or did. So overwrought was she by the interview from which
she came, her mind so obsessed by it, that never a thought had she for
Diana and her indisposition until she arrived home to find her cousin
there before her. Diana was in tears, called up by the reproaches of her
mother, Lady Horton—the relict of that fine soldier Sir Cholmondeley
Horton, of Taunton.
The girl had arrived at Lupton House a half-hour ahead of Miss Westmacott,
and upon her arrival she had expressed surprise, either feigned or real,
at finding Ruth still absent. Detecting the alarm that Diana was careful
to throw into her voice and manner, her mother questioned her, and
elicited the story of her faintness and of Ruth's having ridden on alone
to Mr. Wilding's. So outraged was Lady Horton that for once in a way this
woman, usually so meek and ease-loving, was roused to an energy and anger
with her daughter and her niece that threatened to remove Diana at once
from the pernicious atmosphere of Lupton House and carry her home to
Taunton. Ruth found her still at her remonstrances, arrived, indeed, in
time for her share of them.
“I have been sore mistaken in you, Ruth!” the dame reproached her. “I can
scarce believe it of you. I have held you up as an example to Diana, for
the discretion and wisdom of your conduct, and you do this! You go alone
to Mr. Wilding's house—to Mr. Wilding's, of all men!”
“It was no time for ordinary measures,” said Ruth, but she spoke without
any of the heat of one who defends her conduct. She was, the slyly
watchful Diana observed, very white and tired. “It was no time to think of
nice conduct. There was Richard to be saved.”
“And was it worth ruining yourself to do that?” quoth Lady Horton, her
colour high.
“Ruining myself?” echoed Ruth, and she smiled never so weary a smile. “I
have, indeed, done that, though not in the way you mean.”
Mother and daughter eyed her, mystified. “Your good name is blasted,” said
her aunt, “unless so be that Mr. Wilding is proposing to make you his
wife.” It was a sneer the good woman could not, in her indignation,
repress.
“That is what Mr. Wilding has done me the honour to propose,” Ruth
answered bitterly, and left them gaping. “We are to be married this day
se'night.”
A dead silence followed the calm announcement. Then Diana rose. At the
misery, the anguish that could impress so strange and white a look on
Ruth's winsome face, she was smitten with remorse, her incipient
satisfaction dashed. This was her work; the fruit of her scheming. But it
had gone further than she had foreseen; and for all that no result could
better harmonize with her own ambitions and desires, for the moment—under
the first shock of that announcement—she felt guilty and grew
afraid.
“Ruth!” she cried, her voice a whisper of stupefaction. “Oh, I wish I had
come with you!”
“But you couldn't; you were faint.” And then—recalling what had
passed—her mind was filled with sudden concern for Diana, even amid
her own sore troubles. “Are you quite yourself again, Diana?” she
inquired.
Diana answered almost fiercely, “I am quite well.” And then, with a change
to wistfulness, she added, “Oh, I would I had come with you!”
“Matters had been no different,” Ruth assured her. “It was a bargain Mr.
Wilding drove. It was the price I had to pay for Richard's life and
honour.” She swallowed hard, and let her hands fall limply to her sides.
“Where is Richard?” she inquired.
It was her aunt who answered her. “He went forth half an hour agone with
Mr. Vallancey and Sir Rowland.”
“Sir Rowland had returned, then?” She looked up quickly.
“Yes,” answered Diana. “But he had achieved nothing by his visit to Lord
Gervase. His lordship would not intervene; he swore he hoped the cub would
be flayed alive by Wilding. Those were his lordship's words, as Sir
Rowland repeated them. Sir Rowland is in sore distress for Richard. He has
gone with them to the meeting.”
“At least, he has no longer cause for his distress,” said Miss Westmacott
with her bitter smile, and sank as one exhausted to a chair. Lady Horton
moved to comfort her, her motherliness all aroused for this motherless
girl, usually so wise and strong, and seemingly wiser and stronger than
ever in this thing that Lady Horton had deemed a weakness and a folly.
Meanwhile, Richard and his two friends were on their way to the moors
across the river to the encounter with Mr. Wilding. But before they had
got him to ride forth, Vallancey had had occasion to regret that he stood
committed to a share in this quarrel, for he came to know Richard as he
really was. He had found him in an abject state, white and trembling, his
coward's fancy anticipating a hundred times a minute the death he was anon
to die.
Vallancey had hailed him cheerily.
“The day is yours, Dick,” he had cried, when Richard entered the library
where he awaited him. “Wild Wilding has ridden to Taunton this morning and
is to be back by noon. Odsbud, Dick!—twenty miles and more in the
saddle before coming on the ground. Heard you ever of the like madness?
He'll be stiff as a broom-handle—an easy victim.”
Richard listened, stared, and, finding Vallancey's eyes fixed steadily
upon him, attempted a smile and achieved a horrible grimace.
“What ails you, man?” cried his second, and caught him by the wrist. He
felt the quiver of the other's limb. “Stab me!” quoth he, “you are in no
case to fight. What the plague ails you?”
“I am none so well this morning,” answered Richard feebly. “Lord Gervase's
claret,” he added, passing a hand across his brow.
“Lord Gervase's claret?” echoed Vallancey in horror, as at some outrageous
blasphemy. “Frontignac at ten shillings the bottle!” he exclaimed.
“Still, claret never does lie easy on my stomach,” Richard explained,
intent upon blaming Lord Gervase s wine—since he could think of
nothing else—for his condition.
Vallancey looked at him shrewdly. “My cock,” said he, “if you're to fight
we'll have to mend your temper.” He took it upon himself to ring the bell,
and to order up two bottles of Canary and one of brandy. If he was to get
his man to the ground at all—and young Vallancey had a due sense of
his responsibilities in that connection—it would be well to supply
Richard with something to replace the courage that had oozed out
overnight. Young Richard, never loath to fortify himself, proved amenable
enough to the stiffly laced Canary that his friend set before him. Then,
to divert his mind, Vallancey, with that rash freedom that had made the
whole of Somerset know him for a rebel, set himself to talk of the
Protestant Duke and his right to the crown of England.
He was still at his talk, Richard listening moodily what time he was
slowly but surely befuddling himself, when Sir Rowland—returning
from Scoresby Hall—came to bring the news of his lack of success.
Richard hailed him noisily, and bade him ring for another glass, adding,
with a burst of oaths, some appalling threats of how anon he should serve
Anthony Wilding. His wits drowned in the stiff liquor Vallancey had
pressed upon him, he seemed of a sudden to have grown as fierce and
bloodthirsty as any scourer that ever terrorized the watch.
Blake listened to him and grunted. “Body o' me!” swore the town gallant.
“If that's the humour you're going out to fight in, I'll trouble you for
the eight guineas I won from you at Primero yesterday before you start.”
Richard reared himself, by the help of the table, and stood a thought
unsteadily, his glance laboriously striving to engage Blake's.
“Damn me!” quoth he. “Your want of faith dishgraces me—and 't
'shgraces you. Shalt ha' the guineas when we're back—and not
before.”
“Hum!” quoth Blake, to whom eight guineas were a consideration in these
bankrupt days. “And if you don't come back at all upon whom am I to draw?”
The suggestion sank through Dick's half-fuddled senses, and the scare it
gave him was reflected on his face.
“Damn you, Blake!” swore Vallancey between his teeth. “Is that a decent
way to talk to a man who is going out? Never heed him, Dick! Let him wait
for his dirty guineas till we return.”
“Thirty guineas?” hiccoughed Richard. “It was only eight. Anyhow—wait'll
I've sli' the gullet of's Mr. Wilding.” He checked on a thought that
suddenly occurred to him. He turned to Vallancey with a ludicrous
solemnity. “'Sbud!” he swore. “'S a scurvy trick I'm playing the Duke. 'S
treason to him—treason no less.” And he smote the table with his
open hand.
“What's that?” quoth Blake so sharply, his eyes so suddenly alert that
Vallancey made haste to cover up his fellow rebel's indiscretion.
“It's the brandy-and-Canary makes him dream,” said he with a laugh, and
rising as he spoke he announced that it was high time they should set out.
Thus he brought about a bustle that drove the Duke's business from
Richard's mind, and left Blake without a pretext to pursue his quest for
information. But the mischief was done, and Blake's suspicions were awake.
He bethought him now of dark hints that Richard had let fall to Vallancey
in the past few days, and of hints less dark with which Vallancey—who
was a careless fellow at ordinary times—had answered. And now this
mention of the Duke and of treason to him—to what Duke could it
refer but Monmouth?
Blake was well aware of the wild tales that were going round, and he began
to wonder now was aught really afoot, and was his good friend Westmacott
in it?
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 Richard
had been spared.