The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ IV

      TERMS OF SURRENDER

      “MR. WILDING rode at dawn with Mr. Trenchard, madam,” announced old Walters, the butler at Zoyland Chase. Old and familiar servant though he was, he kept from his countenance all manifestation of the deep surprise occasioned him by the advent of Mistress Westmacott, unescorted.

      “He rode…at dawn?” faltered Ruth, and for a moment she stood irresolute, afraid and pondering in the shade of the great pillared porch. Then she took heart again. If he rode at dawn, it was not in quest of Richard that he went, since it had been near eleven o’clock when she had left Bridgwater. He must have gone on other business first, and, doubtless, before he went to the encounter he would be returning home. “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 hour to 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’s increasing if undisplayed astonishment. “Let my horse be seen to.”

      He bowed his obedience, and she followed him—a slender, graceful figure in her dove-coloured riding-habit laced with silver—across the stone-flagged vestibule, through the cool gloom of the great hall, into the spacious library of which he held the door.

      “Mistress Horton is following me,” she informed the butler. “Will you bring her to me when she comes?”

      Bowing again in silent acquiescence, the white-haired servant closed the door and left her. She stood in the centre of the great room, drawing off her riding-gloves, perturbed and frightened beyond all reason at finding herself for the first time under Mr. Wilding’s roof. He was most handsomely housed. His grandfather, who had travelled in Italy, had built the Chase upon the severe and noble lines which there he had learnt to admire, and he had embellished its interior, too, with many treasures of art which with that intent he had there collected.

      She dropped her whip and gloves on to a table, and sank into a chair to wait, her heart fluttering in her throat. Time passed, and in the silence of the great house her anxiety was gradually quieted, until at last through the long window that stood open came faintly wafted to her on the soft breeze of that June morning the sound of a church clock at Weston Zoyland chiming twelve. She rose with a start, bethinking her suddenly of Diana, and wondering why she had not yet arrived. Was the child’s indisposition graver than she had led Ruth to suppose? She crossed to the windows and stood there drumming impatiently upon the pane, her eyes straying idly over the sweep of elm-fringed lawns towards the river gleaming silvery here and there between the trees in the distance.

      Suddenly she caught a sound of hoofs. Was this Diana? She sped to the other window, the one that stood open, and now she heard the crunch of gravel and the champ of bits and the sound of more than two pairs of hoofs. She caught a glimpse of Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard.

      She felt the colour flying from her cheeks; again her heart fluttered in her throat, and it was in vain that with her hand she sought to repress the heaving of her breast. She was afraid; her every instinct bade her slip 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 gather courage 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 for trafficking with doxies?” She crimsoned an instant at the coarse word and set her teeth, only to pale again the next. The voices were lowered so that she heard not what was said; one sharp exclamation she recognized to be in Wilding’s voice, but caught not the word he uttered. There followed a pause, and she stirred uneasily, waiting. Then came swift steps and jangling spurs across the hall, the door opened suddenly, and Mr. Wilding, in a scarlet riding-coat, his boots white with dust, stood bowing to her from the threshold.

      “Your servant, Mistress Westmacott,” she heard him murmur. “My house is deeply honoured.”

      She dropped him a half-curtsy, pale and tongue-tied. He turned to deliver hat and whip and gloves to Walters, who had followed him, then closed 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 in haste, and Walters tells me that already have you waited nigh upon an hour. Will you not sit, madam?” And he advanced a chair. His long white face was set like a mask; but his dark, slanting eyes devoured her. He guessed the reason of her visit. She who had humbled him, who had driven him to the very borders of despair, was now to be humbled and to despair before him. Under the impassive face his soul exulted fiercely.

      She disregarded the chair he proffered. “My visit…has no doubt surprised you,” she began, tremulous and hesitating.

      “I’ faith, no,” he answered quietly. “The cause, after all, is not very far to seek. You are come on Richard’s behalf.”

      “Not on Richard’s,” she answered. “On my own.” And now that the ice was broken, the suspense of waiting over, she found the tide of her courage flowing fast. “This encounter must not take place, Mr. Wilding,” she informed him.

      He raised his eyebrows—fine and level as her own—his thin lips smiled never 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 he will express regret…” He left his sentence there. In truth he mocked her, 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 glance steady.

      “That is impossible,” she told him. “Last night—as I have the story—he might have done it without shame. Today it is too late. To tender his apology 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 I can suggest. You will do me the justice, I am sure, to see that in expressing my willingness to accept your brother’s expressions of regret I am proving myself once more your very obedient servant. But that it is you who ask it—and whose desires are my commands—I should let no man go unpunished for an insult such as your brother put upon me.”

      She winced at his words, at the bow with which he had professed himself once more her servant.

      “It is no clemency that you offer him,” she said. “You leave him a choice 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 СКАЧАТЬ