“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, very white and even trembling, the fire all gone from his eye, which was now turned dull and deadly.
“So be it,” he said, and strode to the bell-rope. “I'll not offend again. I had not offended now”—he continued, in the voice of one offering an explanation cold and formal—“but that when first I came into your life you seemed to bid me welcome.” His fingers closed upon the 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 asked him.
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. He stood impassible—hatefully impassible. “....... if I were to consent to... this... how... how soon...?” He understood the unfinished question. 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 no cause to fear either for his life or his honour at my hands.”
She seemed now to be recovering her calm. “Very well,” she said, her voice singularly steady. “Let that be a bargain between us. Spare Richard's life and honour—both, remember!—and on Sunday next...” For all 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 in his purpose. At that moment it was in his mind to capitulate unconditionally; to tell her that Richard should have naught to fear from him, and yet that she should go free as the winds. Her gesture checked him. It was so eloquent of aversion. He paused in his advance, stifled his better feelings, and turned once more, relentless. The door opened and old Walters stood awaiting his commands.
“Mistress Westmacott is leaving,” he informed his servant, and bowed low and formally in farewell before her. She passed out without another word, the old butler following, and presently through the door that remained open came Trenchard, in quest of Mr. Wilding who stood bemused.