“You may have thought, Ruth, that I was resigned to your marriage with this fellow Wilding,” he began; “or that for other reasons I thought it wiser not to interfere. If you thought that you wronged me. I — Blake and I — have been at work for you during these last days, and I rejoice to say our labours have not been idle.” His manner grew assertive, boastful, as he proceeded.
“You know, of course,” said she, “that I am married.”
He made a gesture of disdain. “No matter,” said he exultantly.
“It matters something, I think,” she answered. “O Richard, Richard, why did you not come to me sooner if you possessed the means of sparing me this thing?”
He shrugged impatiently; her remonstrance seemed to throw him out of temper. “Oons!” he cried; “I came as soon as was ever possible, and, depend upon it, I am not come too late. Indeed, I think I am come in the very nick of time.” He drew a sheet of paper from an inside pocket of his coat and slapped it down upon the table. “There is the wherewithal to hang your fine husband,” he announced in triumph.
She recoiled. “To hang him?” she echoed. With all her aversion to Mr. Wilding it was plain she did not wish him hanged.
“Aye, to hang him,” Richard repeated, and drew himself to the full height of his short stature in pride at the thing he had achieved. “Read it.”
She took the paper almost mechanically, and for some moments she studied the crabbed signature before realizing whose it was. Then she started.
“From the Duke of Monmouth!” she exclaimed.
He laughed. “Read it,” he bade her again, though there was no need for the injunction, for already she was deciphering the crabbed hand and the atrocious spelling — for His Grace of Monmouth’s education had been notoriously neglected. The letter, which was dated from The Hague, was addressed “To my good friend W., at Bridgwater.” It began, “Sir,” spoke of the imminent arrival of His Grace in the West, and gave certain instructions for the collection of arms and the work of preparing men for enlistment in his Cause, ending with protestations of His Grace’s friendship and esteem.
Ruth read the epistle twice before its treasonable nature was made clear to her; before she understood the thing that was foreshadowed. Then she raised troubled eyes to her brother’s face, and in answer to the question of her glance he made clear to her the shrewd means by which they had become possessed of this weapon that should destroy their enemy Mr. Wilding.
Blake and he, forewarned — he said not how — of the coming of this messenger, had lain in wait for him at the Hare and Hounds, at Taunton. They had sought at first to become possessed of the letter without violence. But, having failed in this through having aroused the messenger’s suspicions, they had been forced to follow and attack him on a lonely stretch of road, where they had robbed him of the contents of his wallet. Richard added that the letter was, no doubt, one of several sent over by Monmouth to some friend at Lyme for distribution among his principal agents in the West. It was regrettable that they should have endeavoured to take gentle measures with the courier, as this had forewarned him, and he had apparently been led to remove the letter’s outer wrapper — which, no doubt, bore Wilding’s full name and address — against the chance of such an attack as they had made upon him. Nevertheless, as it was, that letter “to my good friend W.,” backed by Richard’s and Blake’s evidence of the destination intended for it, would be more than enough to lay Mr. Wilding safely by the heels.
“I would to Heaven,” he repeated in conclusion, “I could have come in time to save you from becoming his wife. But at least it is in my power to make you very speedily his widow.”
“That,” said Ruth, still retaining the letter, “is what you propose to do?”
“What else?”
She shook her head. “It must not be, Richard,” she said. “I’ll not consent to it.”
Taken aback, he stared at her; then laughed unpleasantly. “Odds my life! Are you in love with the man? Have you been fooling us?”
“No,” she answered. “But I’ll be no party to his murder.”
“Murder, quotha! Who talks of murder?” Her shrewd eyes searched his face. “How came you by your knowledge that this courier rode to Mr. Wilding?” she asked him suddenly, and the swift change that overspread his countenance showed her that she had touched him in a tender spot, assured her of the thing she had suddenly come to suspect — a suspicion which at the same time started from and explained much that had been mysterious in Richard’s ways of late. “You had knowledge of this conspiracy,” she pursued, answering her own question before he had time to speak, “because you were one of the conspirators.”
“At least I am so no longer,” he blurted out.
“I thank Heaven for that, Richard; for your life is very dear to me. But it would ill become you to make such use as this of the knowledge you came by in that manner. It were a Judas’s act.” He would have interrupted her, but her manner dominated him. “You will leave this letter with me, Richard,” she continued.
“Damn me! no...” he began.
“Ah, yes, Richard,” she insisted. “You will give it to me, and I shall thank you for the gift. It shall prove a weapon for my salvation, never fear.”
“It shall, indeed,” he cried, with an ugly laugh; “when I have ridden to Exeter to lay it before Albemarle.”
“Not so,” she answered him. “It shall be a weapon of defence — not of offence. It shall stand as a buckler between me and Mr. Wilding. Trust me, I shall know how to use it.”
“But there is Blake to consider,” he expostulated, growing angry. “I am pledged to him.”
“Your first duty is to me...”
“Tut!” he interrupted. “Blake feels that he owes it to his loyalty to lay this letter before the Lord-Lieutenant, and, for that matter, so do I.”
“Sir Rowland would not cross my wishes in this,” she answered him.
“Folly!” he cried, now thoroughly aroused. “Give me that letter.”
“Nay, Richard,” she answered, and waved him back.
But he advanced nevertheless.
“Give it me,” he bade her, waxing fierce. “Gad! It was folly to have told you of it. I had not done so but that I never thought you such a fool as to oppose yourself to the thing we intend.”
“Listen, Richard...” she besought him.
But he was grown insensible to pleadings.
“Give me that letter,” he insisted, and caught her wrist. Her other hand, however — the one that held the sheet — was already behind her back.
The door was suddenly thrust open, and Diana appeared. “Ruth,” she announced, “Mr. Wilding is here.”
At the mention of that name, Richard let her free. “Wilding!” he ejaculated, his fierceness all blown out of him. He had imagined that already Mr. Wilding would be in full flight. Was the fellow mad?
“He is following me,” said Diana, and, indeed, a step could be heard in the passage.
“The letter!” growled Richard in a frenzy, between fear and anger now. “Give it me! Give it me, do you hear?”
“Sh! You’ll betray yourself,” she cried. “He is here.”
And at that same moment Mr. Wilding’s tall figure, still arrayed in his bridegroom’s finery of sky-blue satin, loomed in the doorway. He was serene and calm as ever. Neither the discovery of the plot by the abstraction of the messenger’s letter, nor Ruth’s strange conduct — of which he had heard from Lord Gervase — had sufficed to ruffle, outwardly at least, the inscrutable serenity of his air and manner. He paused to make his bow, then advanced into the room, with a passing glance at Richard still spurred and booted and all dust-stained.
“You appear to have ridden far, Dick,” said he, smiling, and Richard shivered in spite of himself at the mocking note that seemed to ring faintly at the words. “I saw your friend, Sir Rowland, in the garden,” he added. “I think he waits for you.”
Though Richard could not fail to apprehend the implied dismissal, he
was minded at first to disregard it. But Mr. Wilding, turning, held the door, addressing Diana.
“Mistress Horton,” said he, “will you give us leave?”
Diana curtsied and passed out, and Mr. Wilding’s eye falling upon the lingering Richard at that moment, Richard thought it best to follow her example. But he went with rage in his heart at being forced to leave that precious document behind him.
As Mr. Wilding, his back to her a moment, closed the door, Ruth slipped the paper hurriedly into the bosom of her low-necked gown. He turned to her, calm but very grave, and his dark eyes seemed to reproach her.
“This is ill done, Ruth,” said he.
“Ill done, or well done,” she answered him, “done it is, and shall so remain.”
He raised his brows. “Ah,” said he, “I appear, then, to have misapprehended the situation. From what Gervase told me, I understood it was your brother forced you to return.”
“Not forced, sir,” she answered him.
“Induced, then,” said he. “It but remains me to induce you to repair what I think was a mistake.”
She shook her head. “I have returned home for good,” said she.
“You’ll pardon me,” said he, “that I am so egotistical as to prefer Zoyland Chase to Lupton House. Despite the manifold attractions of the latter, I do not intend to take up my abode here.”
“You are not asked to.”
“What, then?”
She hated him for the smile, for his masterful air, which seemed to imply that he humoured her because he scorned to use authority, but that when he did use it, hers must it be to obey him. Again she felt that everlasting calm, arguing such latent forces, was the thing she hated most in him.
“I think I had best be plain with you,” said she. “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain that we made. I intend to do no more. I promised that if you spared my brother, I would go to the altar with you to-day. I have carried out my contract to the letter. It is at an end.”
“Indeed,” said he; “I think it has not yet begun.” He advanced towards her, and took her hand. She yielded it, unwilling though she was. “This is unworthy of you, madam,” said he, his tone grave and deferential. “You think to escape fulfilling the spirit of your bargain by adhering to the letter of it. Not so,” he ended, and shook his head, smiling gently. “The carriage is still at your door. You return with me to Zoyland Chase to take possession of your home.”
“You mistake,” said she, and tore her hand from his. “You say that what I have done is unworthy. I admit it; but it is with unworthiness that we must combat unworthiness. Was your attitude towards me less unworthy?”
“I’ll make amends for it if you’ll come home,” said he.
“My home is here. You cannot compel me.”
“I should be loath to,” he admitted, sighing.
“You cannot,” she insisted.
“I think I can,” said he. “There is a law..”
“A law that will hang you if you invoke it,” she cut in quickly. “This much can I safely promise you.”
She had need to say no more to tell him everything. At all times half a word was as much to Mr. Wilding as a whole sentence to another. She saw the tightening of his lips, the hardening of his eyes, beyond which he gave no other sign that she had hit him.
“I see,” said he. “It is another bargain that you make. I do suspect there is some trader’s blood in the Westmacott veins. Let us be clear. You hold the wherewithal to ruin me, and you will use it if I insist upon my husband’s rights. Is it not so?”
She nodded in silence, surprised at the rapidity with which he had read the situation.
“I admit,” said he, “that you have me between sword and wall.” He laughed shortly. “Let me know more,” he begged her. “Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace — so long as I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name — you will not wield the weapon that you hold?”
“You are to understand so,” she answered.
He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging — ignorant as he was of what was in it — the ruin that might follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.
“The letter is in your hands?” he inquired.
“It is,” she answered.
“May I see it?” he asked.
She shook her head — not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it — a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose.
He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke’s interest than his own.
“You know,” quoth he, “the desperate enterprise to which I stand committed. But it is a bargain between us that you do not betray me nor that enterprise so long as I leave you rid of my presence.”
“That is the bargain I propose,” said she.
He looked at her a moment with hungry eyes, and she found his glance almost more than she could bear, so strong was its appeal. Besides, it may be that she was a thought beglamoured by the danger in which he stood, which seemed to invest him with a certain heroic dignity.
“Ruth,” he said at length, “it may well be that that which you desire may speedily come to pass; it may well be that in the course of this rebellion that is hatching you may be widowed. But at least I know that if my head falls it will not be my wife who has betrayed me to the axe. For that much, believe me, I am supremely grateful.”
He advanced. He took her unresisting hand again and bore it to his lips, bowing low before her. Then erect and graceful he turned on his heel and left her.
CHAPTER IX. MR. TRENCHARD’S COUNTERSTROKE
Now, however much it might satisfy Mr. Wilding to have Ruth’s word for it that so long as he left her in peace neither he nor the Cause had any betrayal to fear from her, Mr. Trenchard was of a very different mind.
He fumed and swore and worked himself into a very passion. “Zoons, man!” he cried, “it would mean utter ruin to you if that letter reached Whitehall.”
“I realize it; but my mind is easy. I have her promise.”
“A woman’s promise!” snorted Trenchard, and proceeded with great circumstance of expletives to damn “everything that daggled a petticoat.”
“Your fears are idle,” Wilding assured him. “What she says, she will do.”
“And her brother?” quoth Trenchard. “Have you bethought you of that canary-bird? He’ll know the letter’s whereabouts. He has cause to fear you more than ever now. Are you sure he’ll not be making use of it to lay you by the heels?”
Mr. Wilding smiled upon the fury provoked by Trenchard’s concern and love for him. “She has promised,” he said with an insistent faith that was fuel to Trenchard’s anger, “and I can depend her word.”
“So cannot I,” snapped his friend.
“The thing that plagues me most,” said Wilding, ignoring the remark, “is that we are kept in ignorance of the letter’s contents at a time when we most long for news. Not a doubt but it would have enabled us to set our minds at ease on the score of these foolish rumours.”
“Aye — or else confirmed them,” said pessimistic Trenchard. He wagged his head. “They say the Duke has put to sea already.”
“Folly!” Wilding protested.
“Whitehall thinks otherwise. What of the troops at Taunton?”
“More folly.”
“Well-I would you had that letter.”
“At least,” said Wilding, “I have the superscription, and we know from Shenke that no name was mentioned in th
e letter itself.”
“There’s evidence enough without it,” Trenchard reminded him, and fell soon after into abstraction, turning over in his mind a notion with which he had suddenly been inspired. That notion kept Trenchard secretly occupied for a couple of days; but in the end he succeeded in perfecting it.
Now it befell that towards dusk one evening early in the week Richard Westmacott went abroad alone, as was commonly his habit, his goal being the Saracen’s Head, where he and Sir Rowland spent many a night over wine and cards — to Sir Rowland’s moderate profit, for he had not played the pigeon in town so long without having acquired sufficient knowledge to enable him to play the rook in the country. As Westmacott was passing up the High Street, a black shadow fell athwart the light that streamed from the door of the Bell Inn, and out through the doorway lurched Mr. Trenchard a thought unsteadily to hurtle so violently against Richard that he broke the long stem of the white clay pipe he was carrying. Now Richard was not to know that Mr. Trenchard — having informed himself of Mr. Westmacott’s evening habits — had been waiting for the past half-hour in that doorway hoping that Mr. Westmacott would not depart this evening from his usual custom. Another thing that Mr. Westmacott was not to know — considering his youth — was the singular histrionic ability which this old rake had displayed in those younger days of his when he had been a player, and the further circumstance that he had excelled in those parts in which ebriety was to be counterfeited. Indeed, we have it on the word of no less an authority on theatrical matters than Mr. Pepys that Mr. Nicholas Trenchard’s appearance as Pistol in “Henry IV” in the year of the blessed Restoration was the talk alike of town and court.
Mr. Trenchard steadied himself from the impact, and, swearing a round and awful Elizabethan oath, accused the other of being drunk, then struck an attitude to demand with truculence, “Would ye take the wall o’ me, sir?”
Richard hastened to make himself known to this turbulent roysterer, who straightway forgot his grievance to take Westmacott affectionately by the hand and overwhelm him with apologies. And that done, Trenchard — who affected the condition known as maudlin drunk — must needs protest almost in tears how profound was his love for Richard, and insist that the boy return with him to the Bell Inn, that they might pledge each other.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 168