Ruth crimsoned again at the memory of his words; a wave of indignation swept through her gentle soul, but was gone at once, leaving an ineffable sadness in its room. What was to be done? She turned to Diana for counsel. But Diana was still whipping up her scorn.
“If he goes out to meet Mr. Wilding, he'll shame himself and every man and woman that bears the name of Westmacott,” said she, and struck a new fear with that into the heart of Ruth.
“He must not go!” she answered passionately. “He must not meet him!”
Diana flashed her a sidelong glance. “And if he doesn't, will things be mended?” she inquired. “Will it save his honour to have Mr. Wilding come and cane him?”
“He'd not do that?” said Ruth.
“Not if you asked him—no,” was Diana's sharp retort, and she caught her breath on the last word of it, for just then the Devil dropped the seed of a suggestion into the fertile soil of her lovesick soul.
“Diana!” Ruth exclaimed in reproof, turning to confront her cousin. But Diana's mind started upon its scheming journey was now travelling fast. Out of that devil's seed there sprang with amazing rapidity a tree-like growth, throwing out branches, putting forth leaves, bearing already—in her fancy—bloom and fruit.
“Why not?” quoth she after a breathing space, and her voice was gentle, her tone innocent beyond compare. “Why should you not ask him?” Ruth frowned, perplexed and thoughtful, and now Diana turned to her with the lively eye of one into whose mind has leapt a sudden inspiration. “Ruth!” she exclaimed. “Why, indeed, should you not ask him to forgo this duel?”
“How, how could I?” faltered Ruth.
“He'd not deny you; you know he'd not.”