CHAPTER IV. TERMS OF SURRENDER
"MR. WILDING rode at dawn with Mr. Trenchard, madam," announced oldWalters, the butler at Zoyland Chase. Old and familiar servant though hewas, he kept from his countenance all manifestation of the deep surpriseoccasioned him by the advent of Mistress Westmacott, unescorted.
"He rode... at dawn?" faltered Ruth, and for a moment she stoodirresolute, afraid and pondering in the shade of the great pillaredporch. Then she took heart again. If he rode at dawn, it was not inquest of Richard that he went, since it had been near eleven o'clockwhen she had left Bridgwater. He must have gone on other business first,and, doubtless, before he went to the encounter he would be returninghome. "Said he at what hour he would return?" she asked.
"He bade us expect him by noon, madam."
This gave confirmation to her thoughts. It wanted more than half an hourto noon already. "Then he may return at any moment?" said she.
"At any moment, madam," was the grave reply.
She took her resolve. "I will wait," she announced, to the man'sincreasing if undisplayed astonishment. "Let my horse be seen to."
He bowed his obedience, and she followed him--a slender, gracefulfigure in her dove-coloured riding-habit laced with silver--across thestone-flagged vestibule, through the cool gloom of the great hall, intothe spacious library of which he held the door.
"Mistress Horton is following me," she informed the butler. "Will youbring her to me when she comes?"
Bowing again in silent acquiescence, the white-haired servant closed thedoor and left her. She stood in the centre of the great room, drawingoff her riding-gloves, perturbed and frightened beyond all reason atfinding herself for the first time under Mr. Wilding's roof. He wasmost handsomely housed. His grandfather, who had travelled in Italy,had built the Chase upon the severe and noble lines which there he hadlearnt to admire, and he had embellished its interior, too, with manytreasures of art which with that intent he had there collected.
She dropped her whip and gloves on to a table, and sank into a chairto wait, her heart fluttering in her throat. Time passed, and in thesilence of the great house her anxiety was gradually quieted, until atlast through the long window that stood open came faintly wafted to heron the soft breeze of that June morning the sound of a church clock atWeston Zoyland chiming twelve. She rose with a start, bethinking hersuddenly of Diana, and wondering why she had not yet arrived. Was thechild's indisposition graver than she had led Ruth to suppose? Shecrossed to the windows and stood there drumming impatiently upon thepane, her eyes straying idly over the sweep of elm-fringed lawns towardsthe river gleaming silvery here and there between the trees in thedistance.
Suddenly she caught a sound of hoofs. Was this Diana? She sped to theother window, the one that stood open, and now she heard the crunch ofgravel and the champ of bits and the sound of more than two pairs ofhoofs. She caught a glimpse of Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard.
She felt the colour flying from her cheeks; again her heart fluttered inher throat, and it was in vain that with her hand she sought to repressthe heaving of her breast. She was afraid; her every instinct bade herslip through the window at which she stood and run from Zoyland Chase.And then she thought of Richard and his danger, and she seemed to gathercourage from the reflection of her purpose in this house.
Men's voices reached her--a laugh, the harsh cawing of Nick Trenchard.
"A lady!" she heard him cry. "'Od's heart, Tony! Is this a time fortrafficking with doxies?" She crimsoned an instant at the coarse wordand set her teeth, only to pale again the next. The voices werelowered so that she heard not what was said; one sharp exclamation sherecognized to be in Wilding's voice, but caught not the word he uttered.There followed a pause, and she stirred uneasily, waiting. Thencame swift steps and jangling spurs across the hall, the door openedsuddenly, and Mr. Wilding, in a scarlet riding-coat, his boots whitewith dust, stood bowing to her from the threshold.
"Your servant, Mistress Westmacott," she heard him murmur. "My house isdeeply honoured."
She dropped him a half-curtsy, pale and tongue-tied. He turned todeliver hat and whip and gloves to Walters, who had followed him, thenclosed the door and came forward into the room.
"You will forgive that I present myself thus before you," he said,in apology for his dusty raiment. "But I bethought me you might be inhaste, and Walters tells me that already have you waited nigh upon anhour. Will you not sit, madam?" And he advanced a chair. His long whiteface was set like a mask; but his dark, slanting eyes devoured her. Heguessed the reason of her visit. She who had humbled him, who had drivenhim to the very borders of despair, was now to be humbled and to despairbefore him. Under the impassive face his soul exulted fiercely.
She disregarded the chair he proffered. "My visit... has no doubtsurprised you," she began, tremulous and hesitating.
"I' faith, no," he answered quietly. "The cause, after all, is not veryfar to seek. You are come on Richard's behalf."
"Not on Richard's," she answered. "On my own." And now that the ice wasbroken, the suspense of waiting over, she found the tide of her courageflowing fast. "This encounter must not take place, Mr. Wilding," sheinformed him.
He raised his eyebrows--fine and level as her own--his thin lips smilednever so faintly. "It is, I think," said he, "for Richard to prevent it.The chance was his last night. It shall be his again when we meet. If hewill express regret..." He left his sentence there. In truth he mockedher, though she guessed it not.
"You mean," said she, "that if he makes apology...?"
"What else? What other way remains?"
She shook her head, and, if pale, her face was resolute, her glancesteady.
"That is impossible," she told him. "Last night--as I have the story--hemight have done it without shame. To-day it is too late. To tender hisapology on the ground would be to proclaim himself a coward."
Mr. Wilding pursed his lips and shifted his position. "It is difficult,perhaps," said he, "but not impossible."
"It is impossible," she insisted firmly.
"I'll not quarrel with you for a word," he answered, mighty agreeable."Call it impossible, if you will. Admit, however, that it is all Ican suggest. You will do me the justice, I am sure, to see that inexpressing my willingness to accept your brother's expressions of regretI am proving myself once more your very obedient servant. But that it isyou who ask it--and whose desires are my commands--I should let no mango unpunished for an insult such as your brother put upon me."
She winced at his words, at the bow with which he had professed himselfonce more her servant.
"It is no clemency that you offer him," she said. "You leave him achoice between death and dishonour."
"He has," Wilding reminded her, "the chance of combat."
She flung back her head impatiently. "I think you mock me," said she.
He looked at her keenly. "Will you tell me plainly, madam," he begged,"what you would have me do?"
She flushed under his gaze, and the flush told him what he sought tolearn. There was, of course, another way, and she had thought of it;but she lacked--as well she might, all things considered--the courageto propose it. She had come to Mr. Wilding in the vague hope that hehimself would choose the heroic part. And he, to punish for her scornof him this woman whom he loved to hating-point, was resolved that sheherself must beg it of him. Whether, having so far compelled her, hewould grant her prayer or not was something he could not just thenhimself have told you. She bowed her head in silence, and Wilding, thatfaint smile, half friendliness, half mockery, hovering ever on hislips, turned aside and moved softly towards the window. Her eyes, veiledbehind the long lashes of their drooping lids, followed him furtively.She felt that she hated him in very truth. She marked the uprightelegance of his figure, the easy grace of his movements, the finearistocratic mould of the aquiline face, which she beheld in profile;and she hated him the more for these outward favours that must commendhim to no lack of women. He was too masterful. He made her realize tookeenly her
own weakness and that of Richard. She felt that just now hecontrolled the vice that held her fast--her affection for her brother.And because of that she hated him the more. "You see, MistressWestmacott," said he, his shoulder to her, his tone sweet to the pointof sadness, "that there is nothing else." She stood, her eyes followingthe pattern of the parquetry, her foot unconsciously tracing it; hercourage ebbed, and she had no answer for him. After a pause he spokeagain, still without turning. "If that was not enough to suit yourends"--and though he spoke in a tone of ever-increasing sadness, thereglinted through it the faintest ray of mockery--"I marvel you shouldhave come to Zoyland--to compromise yourself to so little purpose."
She raised a startled face. "Com... compromise myself?" she echoed."Oh!" It was a cry of indignation.
"What else?" quoth he, and turned abruptly to confront her.
"Mistress Horton was... was with me," she panted, her voice quivering ason the brink of tears.
"'Tis unfortunate you should have separated," he condoled.
"But... but, Mr. Wilding, I... I trusted to your honour. I accounted youa gentleman. Surely... surely, sir, you will not let it be known that...I came to you? You will keep my secret?"
"Secret!" said he, his eyebrows raised. "'Tis already the talk of theservants' hall. By to-morrow 'twill be the gossip of Bridgwater."
Air failed her. Her blue eyes fixed him in horror out of her strickenface. Not a word had she wherewith to answer him.
The sight of her, thus, affected him oddly. His passion for her surgedup, aroused by pity for her plight, and awakened in him a sense of hisbrutality. A faint flush stirred in his cheeks. He stepped quickly toher, and caught her hand. She let it lie, cold and inert, within hisnervous grasp.
"Ruth, Ruth!" he cried, and his voice was for once unsteady. "Give it nothought! I love you, Ruth. If you'll but heed that, no breath of scandalcan hurt you."
She swallowed hard. "As how?" she asked mechanically.
He bowed low over her hand--so low that his face was hidden from her.
"If you will do me the honour to become my wife..." he began, but got nofurther, for she snatched away her hand, her cheeks crimsoning, her eyesaflame with indignation. He stepped back, crimsoning too. She had dashedthe gentleness from his mood. He was angered now and tigerish.
"Oh!" she panted. "It is to affront me! Is this the time or place..."
He cropped her flow of indignant speech ere it was well begun. He caughther in his arms, and held her tight, and so sudden was the act, so firmhis grip that she had not the thought or force to struggle.
"All time is love's time, all places are love's place," he told her,his face close to her own. "And of all time and places the present everpreferable to the wise--for life is uncertain and short at best. I bringyou worship, and you answer me with scorn. But I shall prevail, and youshall come to love me in very spite of your own self."
She threw back her head, away from his as far as the bonds he had castabout her would allow. "Air! Air!" she panted feebly.
"Oh, you shall have air enough anon," he answered with a half-strangledlaugh, his passion mounting ever. "Hark you, now--hark you, forRichard's sake, since you'll not listen for my own nor yours. There isanother course by which I can save both Richard's life and honour.You know it, and you counted upon my generosity to suggest it. But youoverlooked the thing on which you should have counted. You overlooked mylove. Count upon that, my Ruth, and Richard shall have naught to fear.Count upon that, and when we meet this evening, Richard and I, it isI who will tender the apology, I who will admit that I was wrong tointroduce your name into that company last night, and that what Richarddid was a just and well-deserved punishment upon me. This will I do ifyou'll but count upon my love."
She looked up at him fearfully, yet with flutterings of hope. "What is'tyou mean?" she asked him faintly.
"That if you'll promise to be my wife..."
"Your wife!" she interrupted him. She struggled to free herself,released one arm and struck him in the face. "Let me go, you coward!"
He was answered. His arms melted from her. He fell back a pace, verywhite and even trembling, the fire all gone from his eye, which was nowturned dull and deadly.
"So be it," he said, and strode to the bell-rope. "I'll not offendagain. I had not offended now"--he continued, in the voice of oneoffering an explanation cold and formal--"but that when first I cameinto your life you seemed to bid me welcome." His fingers closed uponthe crimson bell-cord. She guessed his purpose.
"Wait!" she gasped, and put forth her hand. He paused, the rope in his,his eye kindling anew. "You... you mean to kill Richard now?" she askedhim.
A swift lifting of his brows was his only answer. He tugged the cord.From the distance the peal of the bell reached them faintly.
"Oh, wait, wait!" she begged, her hands pressed against her cheeks. Hestood impassible--hatefully impassible. "....... if I were to consentto... this... how... how soon...?" He understood the unfinishedquestion. Interest warmed his face again. He took a step towards her,but by a gesture she seemed to beg him come no nearer.
"If you will promise to marry me within the week, Richard shall have nocause to fear either for his life or his honour at my hands."
She seemed now to be recovering her calm. "Very well," she said, hervoice singularly steady. "Let that be a bargain between us. SpareRichard's life and honour--both, remember!--and on Sunday next..." Forall her courage her voice quavered and faltered. She dared add no more,lest it should break altogether.
Mr. Wilding drew a deep breath. Again he would have advanced. "Ruth!"he cried, and some repentance smote him, some shame shook him inhis purpose. At that moment it was in his mind to capitulateunconditionally; to tell her that Richard should have naught to fearfrom him, and yet that she should go free as the winds. Her gesturechecked him. It was so eloquent of aversion. He paused in his advance,stifled his better feelings, and turned once more, relentless. The dooropened and old Walters stood awaiting his commands.
"Mistress Westmacott is leaving," he informed his servant, and bowedlow and formally in farewell before her. She passed out without anotherword, the old butler following, and presently through the door thatremained open came Trenchard, in quest of Mr. Wilding who stood bemused.
Nick sauntered in, his left eye almost hidden by the rakish cock of hishat, one hand tucked away under the skirts of his plum-coloured coat,the other supporting the stem of a long clay pipe, at which he waspulling thoughtfully. The pipe and he were all but inseparable; indeed,the year before in London he had given appalling scandal by appearingwith it in the Mall, and had there remained him any character to lose,he must assuredly have lost it then.
He observed his friend through narrowing eyes--he had small eyes, veryblue and very bright, in which there usually abode a roguish gleam.
"My sight, Anthony," said he, "reminds me that I am growing old. Iwonder did it mislead me on the score of your visitor?"
"The lady who left," said Wilding with a touch of severity, "will beMistress Wilding by this day se'night."
Trenchard took the pipe from his lips, audibly blew out a cloud of smokeand stared at his friend. "Body o' me!" quoth he. "Is this a time formarrying?--with these rumours of Monmouth's coming over."
Wilding made an impatient gesture. "I thought to have convinced you theyare idle," said he, and flung himself into a chair at his writing-table.
Nick came over and perched himself upon the table's edge, one legswinging in the air. "And what of this matter of the intercepted letterfrom London to our Taunton friends?"
"I can't tell you. But of this I am sure, His Grace is incapable ofanything so rash. Certain is it that he'll not stir until Battiscombreturns to Holland, and Battiscomb is still in Cheshire sounding theDuke's friends."
"Yet were I you, I should not marry just at present."
Wilding smiled. "If you were me, you'd never marry at all."
"Faith, no!" said Trenchard. "I'd as soon play at 'hot-cockles,' or'Parson-has-lost-his-cl
oak.' 'Tis a mort more amusing and the soonerdone with."