‘With Argyll!’ echoed Wilfred with an accent of surprise.
‘I know he is called the surest fencer in our small world, but I always thought you more than his match. He never, to my mind, liked your thrust in tierce.’
‘You are right,’ said Wilfred. ‘Grisier thought me perfect in that. I shall meet him with pleasure. If only to show him—— Bah! I am getting so infected with the spirit of your Masquerade that one would think it a real duel. Command me, however.’
‘A thousand thanks. Not later than three to-morrow afternoon. The ladies will not forgive us if we are not punctual.’
From Wilfred Effingham’s expression of relief one might have thought that he had received good tidings. Yet, what was it after all—what could it lead to? A mock duel; a mere fencing match. What was there to clear his visage and lighten his heart in such a game as this?
A trifle, doubtless. But William Argyll was to be his antagonist. Towards him he had been unconsciously nurturing a causeless resentment, which threatened to drift into hatred. Argyll was sunning himself daily (he thought) in the smiles of Vera Fane, pleased with the position and confident of success. And though she, from time to time, regarded Wilfred with glances of such kindly regard that he was well-nigh tempted to confess his past sins and his present love, he had resolutely kept aloof.
Why should he court repulse, and only be more hopelessly humiliated? Did not all say—could he not see—that Miss Fane was merely waiting for Argyll’s challenge to the citadel of her heart to own its conquest and surrender?
The Benmohr people, who knew something of everything and did not suffer their knowledge to decay for lack of practice, were devoted to fencing. Their lumber-room was half an armoury, holding a great array of foils, wire masks, single-sticks, and boxing-gloves. With these and a little pistol practice the dulness of many a wet afternoon had been enlivened. Perhaps in their trials of skill those with the foils were most popular.
This was Argyll’s favourite pastime. A leading performer with all other weapons, he had a passion for fencing, for which his mountain-born activity pre-eminently fitted him. Effingham, a pupil of the celebrated Grisier, was thought to be nearly, if not quite his match. And more than once Argyll’s hasty temper had blazed out as Wilfred had ‘touched him’ with a succession of rapid hits, or sent the foil from his hand by one of the artifices of the fencing school. Now, however, a trial would be afforded, the issue of which would be final and decisive. To each the requisite notice had been given, and each had accepted the chances of the contest. No one in future would be able to assert that this or that man was the better swordsman.
A larger gathering took place at luncheon than could have been expected. Many were the reasons assigned for the punctuality with which all the ladies showed up. Fred Churbett, indeed, openly declared that the gladiator element was becoming dangerously developed, and that it would be soon necessary to shed blood in good earnest, to enjoy a decent reputation with the ladies of the land.