Anthony Wilding

by Rafael Sabatini

  “I can save you from destruction,” bawled Richard, “you and your army.”

  Perhaps even now Feversham had not heeded him but for Wilding’s sudden interference.

  “Silence, Richard!” he cried to him. “Would you betray…?” He checked on the word; more he dared not say; but he hoped faintly that he had said enough. Feversham, however, chanced to observe that this man who had shown himself hitherto so calm looked suddenly most singularly perturbed.

  “Eh?” quoth the General. “An instan’, Sergean’. What is t’is, eh?” and he looked from Wilding to Richard.

  “Your lordship shall learn at a price,” cried Richard.

  “Me, I not bargain wit’ traitors,” said his lordship stiffly.

  “Very well, then,” answered Richard, and he folded his arms dramatically. “But no matter what your lordship’s life may be hereafter, you will never regret anything more bitterly than you shall regret this by sunrise if indeed you live to see it.”

  Feversham shifted uneasily on his feet. “What you say?” he asked. “What you mean?”

  “You shall know at a price,” said Richard again.

  Wilding, realising the hopelessness of interfering now, stood gloomily apart, a great bitterness in his soul at the indiscretion he had committed in telling Richard of the night attack that was afoot.

  “Your lordship shall hear my price, but you need not pay it me until you have had an opportunity of verifying the information I have to give you.”

  “Tell me,” said Feversham after a brief pause, during which he scrutinised the young man’s face.

  “If your lordship will promise liberty and safe conduct to my sister and myself.”

  “Tell me,” Feversham repeated.

  “When you have promised to grant me what I ask in return for my information.”

  “Yes, if I t’ink your information is wort’ it.”

  “I am content,” said Richard. He inclined his head and loosed the quarrel of his news. “Your camp is slumbering, your officers are all abed with the exception of the outpost on the road to Bridgwater. What should you say if I told you that Monmouth and all his army are marching upon you at this very moment, will probably fall upon you before another hour is past?”

  Wilding uttered a groan, and his hands fell to his sides. Had Feversham observed this he might have been less ready with his sneering answer.

  “A lie!” he answered, and laughed. “My fren’, I ’ave myself been tonight, at midnight, on t’e moor, and I ’ave ’eard t’e army of t’e Duc de Monmoot’ marching to Bristol on t’e road – what you call t’e road, Wentwort’?”

  “The Eastern Causeway, my lord,” answered the captain.

  “Voilà! ” said Feversham, and spread his hands. “What you say now, eh?”

  “That that is part of Monmouth’s plan to come at you across the moors, by way of Chedzoy, avoiding your only outpost, and falling upon you in your beds, all unawares. Lord! sir, do not take my word for it. Send out your scouts, and I dare swear they’ll not need go far before they come upon the enemy.”

  Feversham looked at Wentworth. His lordship’s face had undergone a change.

  “What you t’ink?” he asked.

  “Indeed, my lord, it sounds so likely,” answered Wentworth, “that…that… I marvel we did not provide against such a contingency.”

  “But I ’ave provide’!” cried this nephew of the great Turenne. “Ogelt’orpe is on t’e moor and Sare Francis Compton. If t’is is true, ’ow can t’ey ’ave miss Monmoot’? Send word to Milor’ Churchill at once, Wentwort’. Let t’e matter be investigate’ – at once, Wentwort’ – at once!” The General was dancing with excitement. Wentworth saluted and turned to leave the room. “If you ’ave tole me true,” continued Feversham, turning now to Richard, “you shall ’ave t’e price you ask, and t’e t’anks of t’e King’s army. But if not…”

  “Oh, it’s true enough,” broke in Wilding, and his voice was like a groan, his face overcharged with gloom.

  Feversham looked at him; his sneering smile returned.

  “Me, I not remember,” said he, “that Mr Westercott ’ave include you in t’e bargain.”

  Nothing had been further from Wilding’s thoughts than such a suggestion. And he snorted his disdain. The sergeant had fallen back at Feversham’s words, and his men lined the wall of the chamber. The General bade Richard be seated whilst he waited. Sir Rowland stood apart, leaning wearily against the wainscot, waiting also, his dull wits not quite clear how Richard might have come by so valuable a piece of information, his evil spirit almost wishing it untrue, in his vindictiveness, to the end that Richard might pay the price of having played him false and Ruth the price of having scorned him.

  Feversham meanwhile was seeking – with no great success – to engage Mr Wilding in talk of Monmouth, against whom Feversham harboured in addition to his political enmity a very deadly personal hatred; for Feversham had been a suitor to the hand of the Lady Henrietta Wentworth, the woman for whom Monmouth – worthy son of his father – had practically abandoned his own wife; the woman with whom he had run off, to the great scandal of court and nation.

  Despairing of drawing any useful information from Wilding, his lordship was on the point of turning to Blake, when quick steps and the rattle of a scabbard sounded without; the door was thrust open without ceremony, and Captain Wentworth reappeared.

  “My lord,” he cried, his manner excited beyond aught one could have believed possible in so phlegmatic-seeming a person, “it is true. We are beset.”

  “Beset!” echoed Feversham. “Beset already?”

  “We can hear them moving on the moor. They are crossing the Langmoor Rhine. They will be upon us in ten minutes at the most. I have roused Colonel Douglas, and Dunbarton’s regiment is ready for them.”

  Feversham exploded. “What else ’ave you done?” he asked. “Where is Milor’ Churchill?”

  “Lord Churchill is mustering his men as quietly as may be that they may be ready to surprise those who come to surprise us. By Heaven, sir, we owe a great debt to Mr Westmacott. Without his information we might have had all our throats cut whilst we slept.”

  “Be so kind to call Belmont,” said Feversham. “Tell him to bring my clot’es.”

  Wentworth turned and went out again to execute the General’s orders. Feversham spoke to Richard.

  “We are oblige’, Mr Westercott,” said he. “We are ver’ much oblige’.”

  Suddenly from a little distance came the roll of drums. Other sounds began to stir in the night outside to tell of a waking army. Feversham stood listening. “It is Dunbarton’s,” he murmured. Then, with some show of heat, “ Ah, Pardieu! ” he cried. “But it was a dirty t’ing t’is Monmoot’ ’ave prepare’. It is murder; it is not t’e war.”

  “And yet,” said Wilding critically, “it is a little more like war than the Bridgwater affair to which your lordship gave your sanction.”

  Feversham pursed his lips and considered the speaker. Wentworth re-entered, followed by the Earl’s valet carrying an armful of garments. His lordship threw off his dressing-gown and stood forth in shirt and breeches.

  “Mais dépêche-toi, donc, Belmont! ” said he. “Nous nous battons! Il faut que je m’habille.” Belmont, a little wizened fellow who understood nothing of this topsy-turvey-dom, hastened forward, deposited his armful on the table, and selected a finely embroidered waistcoat, which he proceeded to hold for his master. Wriggling into it, Feversham rapped out his orders.

  “Captain Wentwort’, you will go to your regimen’ at once. But first, ah – wait. Take t’ose six men and Mistaire Wilding. ’Ave ’im shot at once; you onderstan’, eh? Good. Allons, Belmont! my cravat.”

  Chapter 22

  THE EXECUTION

  Captain Wentworth clicked his heels together and saluted. Blake, in the background, drew a deep breath – unmistakably of satisfaction, and his eyes glittered. A muffled cry broke from Ruth, who rose instantly from her chair, he
r hand on her bosom. Richard stood with fallen jaw, amazed, a trifle troubled even, whilst Mr Wilding started more in surprise than actual fear, and approached the table.

  “You heard, sir,” said Captain Wentworth.

  “I heard,” answered Mr Wilding quietly. “But surely not aright. One moment, sir,” and he waved his hand so compellingly that, despite the order he had received, the phlegmatic captain hesitated. Feversham, who had taken the cravat – a yard of priceless Dutch lace – from the hands of his valet, and was standing with his back to the company at a small and very faulty mirror that hung by the overmantel, looked peevishly over his shoulder.

  “My lord,” said Wilding, and Blake, for all his hatred of this man, marvelled at a composure that did not forsake him even now, “you are surely not proposing to deal with me in this fashion – not seriously my lord?”

  “Ah ça! ” said the Frenchman. “T’ink it a jest if you please. What for you come ’ere?”

  “Assuredly not for the purpose of being shot,” said Wilding, and actually smiled. Then, in the tones of one discussing a matter that is grave but not of surpassing gravity, he continued: “It is not that I fail to recognise that I may seem to have incurred the rigour of the law; but these matters must be formally proved against me. I have affairs to set in order against such a consummation.”

  “Ta, ta!” snapped Feversham. “T’at not regard me. Wentwort’, you ’ave ’eard my order.” And he returned to his mirror and the nice adjustment of his neckwear.

  “But, my lord,” insisted Wilding, “you have not the right – you have not the power so to proceed against me. A man of my quality is not to be shot without a trial.”

  “You can ’ang if you prefer,” said Feversham indifferently, drawing out the ends of his cravat and smoothing them down upon his breast. He faced about briskly. “Give me t’at coat, Belmont. His Majesty ’ave empower me to ’ang or shoot any gentlemens of t’e partie of t’e Duc de Monmoot’ on t’e spot. I say t’at for your satisfaction. And look, I am desolate’ to be so quick wit’ you, but please to consider t’e circumstance. T’e enemy go to attack. Wentwort’ must go to his regimen’, and my ot’er officers are all occupi’. You comprehen’ I ’ave not t’e time to spare you – n’est-ce-pas? ”

  Wentworth’s hand touched Wilding on the shoulder. He was standing with head slightly bowed, his brows knit in thought. He looked round at the touch, sighed and smiled.

  Belmont held the coat for his master, who slipped into it, and flung at Wilding what was intended for a consolatory sop. “It is fortune de guerre, Mistaire Wilding. I am desolate; but it is fortune of t’e war.”

  “May it be less fortunate for your lordship, then,” said Wilding dryly, and was on the point of turning, when Ruth’s voice came in a loud cry to startle him and quicken his pulses.

  “My lord!” It was a cry of utter anguish.

  Feversham, settling his gold-laced coat comfortably to his figure, looked at her. “Madame?” said he.

  But she had nothing to say. She stood, deathly white, slightly bent forward, one hand wringing the other, her eyes almost wild, her bosom heaving frantically.

  “Hum!” said Feversham, and he loosened and removed the scarf from his head. He shrugged slightly and looked at Wentworth. “Finissons! ” said he.

  The word and the look snapped the trammels that bound Ruth’s speech.

  “Five minutes, my lord!” she cried imploringly. “Give him five minutes – and me, my lord!”

  Wilding, deeply shaken, trembled now as he awaited Feversham’s reply. The Frenchman seemed to waver.

  “Bien,” he began, spreading his hands. And in that moment a shot rang out in the night and startled the whole company. Feversham threw back his head; the signs of yielding left his face. “Ha!” he cried. “T’ey are arrive’.” He snatched his wig from his lacquey’s hands, donned it, and turned again an instant to the mirror to adjust the great curls. “Quick, Wentwort’! T’ere is no more time now. Make Mistaire Wilding be shot at once. T’en to your regimen’.” He faced about and took the sword his valet proffered. “Au revoir, messieurs! Serviteur, madame! ” And, buckling his sword-belt as he went, he swept out, leaving the door wide open, Belmont following, Wentworth saluting and the guards presenting arms.

  “Come, sir,” said the captain in a subdued voice, his eyes avoiding Ruth’s face.

  “I am ready,” answered Wilding firmly, and he turned to glance at his wife.

  She was bending towards him, her hands held out, such a look on her face as almost drove him mad with despair, reading it as he did. He made a sound deep in his throat before he found words.

  “Give me one minute, sir – one minute,” he begged Wentworth. “I ask no more than that.”

  Wentworth was a gentleman and not ill-natured. But he was a soldier and had received his orders. He hesitated between the instincts of the two conditions. And what time he did so there came a clatter of hoofs without to resolve him. It was Feversham departing.

  “You shall have your minute, sir,” said he. “More I dare not give you, as you can see.”

  “From my heart I thank you,” answered Mr Wilding, and from the gratitude of his tone you might have inferred that it was his life Wentworth had accorded him.

  The Captain had already turned aside to address his men. “Two of you outside, guard that window,” he ordered. “The rest of you, in the passage. Bestir there!”

  “Take your precautions, by all means, sir,” said Wilding; “but I give you my word of honour I shall attempt no escape.”

  Wentworth nodded without replying. His eye lighted on Blake – who had been seemingly forgotten in the confusion – and on Richard. A kindliness for the man who met his end so unflinchingly, a respect for so worthy an enemy, actuated the red-faced captain.

  “You had better take yourself off, Sir Rowland,” said he. “And you, Mr Westmacott – you can wait in the passage with my men.”

  They obeyed him promptly enough, but when outside Sir Rowland made bold to remind the captain that he was failing in his duty, and that he should make a point of informing the General of this anon. Wentworth bade him go to the devil, and so was rid of him.

  Alone, inside that low-ceilinged chamber, stood Ruth and Wilding face to face. He advanced towards her, and with a shuddering sob she flung herself into his arms. Still, he mistrusted the notion to which she was a prey – dreading lest it should have its root in pity. He patted her shoulder soothingly.

  “Nay, nay, little child,” he whispered in her ear. “Never weep for me that have not a tear for myself. What better resolution of the difficulties my folly has created?” For only answer she clung closer, her hands locked about his neck, her slender body shaken by her silent weeping. “Don’t pity me,” he besought her. “I am content it should be so. It is the amend I promised you. Waste no pity on me, Ruth.”

  She raised her face, her eyes, wild and blurred with tears, looked up to his.

  “It is not pity,” she cried. “I want you, Anthony. I love you, Anthony, Anthony!”

  His face grew ashen. “It is true, then!” he asked her. “And what you said tonight was true! I thought you said it only to detain me.”

  “Oh, it is true, it is true!” she wailed.

  He sighed; he disengaged a hand to stroke her face. “I am happy,” he said, and strove to smile. “Had I lived, who knows…?”

  “No, no, no,” she interrupted him passionately, her arms tightening about his neck. He bent his head. Their lips met and clung. A knock fell upon the doors. They started, and Wilding raised his hands gently to disengage her pinioning arms.

  “I must go, sweet,” he said.

  “God help me!” she moaned, and clung to him still. “It is I who am killing you – I and your love for me. For it was to save me you rode hither tonight, never pausing to weigh your own deadly danger. Oh, I am punished for having listened to every voice but the voice of my own heart where you were concerned. Had I loved you earlier – had I owned it e
arlier…”

  “It had still been too late,” he said, more to comfort her than because he knew it to be so. “Be brave for my sake, Ruth. You can be brave, I know – so well. Listen, sweet. Your words have made me happy. Mar not this happiness of mine by sending me out in grief at your grief.”

  Her response to his prayer was brave indeed. Through her tears came a faint smile to overspread her face so white and pitiful.

  “We shall meet soon again,” she said.

  “Aye – think on that,” he bade her, and pressed her to him. “Goodbye, sweet! God keep you till we meet!” he added, his voice infinitely tender.

  “Mr Wilding!” Wentworth’s voice called him, and the captain thrust the door open a foot or so. “Mr Wilding!”

  “I am coming,” he answered steadily. He kissed her again, and on that kiss of his she sank against him, and he felt her turn all limp. He raised his voice. “Richard!” he shouted wildly. “Richard!”

  At the note of alarm in his voice Wentworth flung wide the door and entered, Richard’s ashen face showing over his shoulder. In her brother’s care Wilding delivered his mercifully unconscious wife. “See to her, Dick,” he said, and turned to go, mistrusting himself now. But he paused as he reached the door, Wentworth waxing more and more impatient at his elbow. He turned again.

  “Dick,” he said, “we might have been better friends. I would we had been. Let us part so at least,” and he held out his hand, smiling.

  Before so much gallantry Richard was conquered almost to the point of worship; a weak man himself, there was no virtue he could more admire than strength. He left Ruth in the high-backed chair in which Wilding’s tender hands had placed her, and sprang forward, tears in his eyes. He wrung Wilding’s hands in wordless passion. “Be good to her, Dick,” said Wilding, and went out with Wentworth.

  He was marched down the street in the centre of that small party of musketeers of Dunbarton’s regiment, his thoughts all behind him rather than ahead, a smile on his lips. He had conquered at the last. He thought of that other parting of theirs, nearly a month ago, on the road by Walford. Now, as then, circumstance was the fire that had melted her. But the crucible was no longer – as then – of pity; it was the crucible of love.