CHAPTER XXIII. MR. WILDING'S BOOTS
In the filth of the ditch, Mr. Wilding rolled over and lay prone. Hethrew out his left arm, and rested his brow upon it to keep his faceabove the mud. He strove to hold his breath, not that he might dissembledeath, but that he might avoid being poisoned by the foul gases that,disturbed by his weight, bubbled up to choke him. His body half sankand settled in the mud, and seen from above, as he was presently seenby Wentworth--who ran forward with the sergeant's lanthorn to assurehimself that the work had been well done--he had all the air of beingnot only dead but already half buried.
And now, for a second, Mr. Wilding was in his greatest danger, and thisfrom the very humaneness of the sergeant. The fellow advanced to thecaptain's side, a pistol in his hand. Wentworth held the light aloft andpeered down into that six feet of blackness at the jacent figure.
"Shall I give him an ounce of lead to make sure, Captain?" quoth thesergeant. But Wentworth, in his great haste, had already turned about,and the light of his lanthorn no longer revealed the form of Mr.Wilding.
"There is not the need. The ditch will do what may remain to be done, ifanything does. Come on, man. We are wanted yonder."
The light passed, steps retreated, the sergeant muttering, and thenWentworth's voice was heard by Wilding some little distance off.
"Bring up your muskets!"
"Shoulder!"
"By the right--turn! March!" And the tramp, tramp of feet recededrapidly.
Wilding was already sitting up, endeavouring to get a breath of purerair. He rose to his feet, sinking almost to the top of his boots inthe oozy slime. Foul gases were belched up to envelop him. He seizedat irregularities in the bank, and got his head above the level of theground. He thrust forward his chin and took great greedy breaths in avery gluttony of air--and never came Muscadine sweeter to a drunkard'slips. He laughed softly to himself. He was alone and safe. Wentworthand his men had disappeared. Away in the direction of Penzoy Pound thesounds of battle swelled ever to a greater volume. Cannons were boomingnow, and all was uproar--flame and shouting, cheering and shrieking,the thunder of hastening multitudes, the clash of steel, the pounding ofhorses, all blent to make up the horrid din of carnage.
Mr. Wilding listened, and considered what to do. His first impulse wasto join the fray. But, bethinking him that there could be little placefor him in the confusion that must prevail by now, he reconsidered thematter, and his thoughts returning to Ruth--the wife for whom he hadbeen at such pains to preserve himself on the very brink of death--heresolved to endanger himself no further for that night.
He dropped back into the ditch, and waded, ankle deep in slime, to theother side. There he crawled out, and gaining the moor lay down awhileto breathe his lungs. But not for long. The dawn was creeping pale andghostly across the solid earth, and a faint fresh breeze was stirringand driving the mist in wispy shrouds before it. If he lingered there hemight yet be found by some party of Royalist soldiers, and that would beto undo all that he had done. He rose, and struck out across the peatyground. None knew the moors better than did he, and had he been withGrey's horse that night, it is possible things had fared differently,for he had proved a surer guide than did Godfrey, the spy.
At first he thought of making for Bridgwater and Lupton House. By nowRichard would be on his way thither with Ruth, and Wilding was in hastethat she should be reassured that he had not fallen to the musketsof Wentworth's firing-party. But Bridgwater was far, and he beganto realize, now that all excitement was past, that he was utterlyexhausted. Next he thought of Scoresby Hall and his cousin Lord Gervase.But he was by no means sure that he might count upon a welcome. Gervasehad shown no sympathy for Monmouth or his partisans, and whilst he wouldhardly go so far as to refuse Mr. Wilding shelter, still Wilding felt anaversion to seeking what might be grudged him. At last he bethought himof home. Zoyland Chase was near at hand; but he had not been there sincehis wedding-day, and in the mean time he knew that it had been used asa barrack for the militia, and had no doubt that it had been wrecked andplundered. Still, it must have walls and a roof, and that, for the time,was all he craved, that he might rest awhile and recuperate his wastedforces.
A half-hour later he dragged himself wearily up the avenue between theelms--looking white as snow in the pale July dawn--to the clearing infront of his house.
Desertion was stamped upon the face of it. Shattered windows and hangingshutters everywhere. How wantonly they had wrecked it! It might havebeen a church, and the militia a regiment of Cromwell's iconoclasticPuritans. The door was locked, but going round he found a window--oneof the door-windows of his library--hanging loose upon its hinges. Hepushed it wide, and entered with a heavy heart. Instantly somethingstirred in a corner; a fierce growl was followed by a furious bark, anda lithe brown body leapt from the greater into the lesser shadows toattack the intruder. But at one word of his the hound checked suddenly,crouched an instant, then with a queer, throaty sound bounded forward ina wild delight that robbed it on the instant of its voice. It found itanon and leapt about him, barking furious joy in spite of all hisvain endeavours to calm it. He grew afraid lest the dog should drawattention. He knew not who--if any--might be in possession of hishouse. The library, as he looked round, showed a scene of wreckage thatexcellently matched the exterior. Not a picture on the walls, not anarras, but had been rent to shreds. The great lustre that had hungfrom the centre of the ceiling was gone. Disorder reigned alongthe bookshelves, and yet there and elsewhere there was a certainorderliness, suggesting an attempt to straighten up the place afterthe ravagers had departed. It was these signs made him afraid the housemight be tenanted by such as might prove his enemies.
"Down, Jack," he said to the dog for the twentieth time, patting itssleek head. "Down, down!"
But still the dog bounded about him, barking wildly.
"Sh!" he hissed suddenly. Steps sounded in the hall. It was as hefeared. The door was suddenly thrown open, and the grey morning lightgleamed upon the long barrel of a musket. After it, bearing it, entereda white-haired old man.
He paused on the threshold, measuring the tall disordered stranger whostood there, his figure a black silhouette against the window by whichhe had entered.
"What seek you here, sir, in this house of desolation?" asked the voiceof Mr. Wilding's old servant.
He answered but one word. "Walters!"
The musket dropped with a clatter from the old man's hands. He sank backagainst the doorpost and leaned there an instant; then, whimpering andlaughing, he came tottering forward--his old legs failing him in thisexcess of unexpected joy--and sank on his knees to kiss his master'shand.
Wilding patted the old head, as he had patted the dog's a little whileago. He was oddly moved; there was a knot in his throat. No home-comingcould well have been more desolate. And yet, what home-coming could havebrought him such a torturing joy as was now his? Oh, it is good to beloved, if it be by no more than a dog and an old servant!
In a moment Walters was himself again. He was on his feet, scrutinizingWilding's haggard face and disordered, filthy clothes. He broke intoexclamations between dismay and reproach, but these Wilding interruptedto ask the old man how it happened that he had remained.
"My son John was a sergeant in the troop that quartered itself here,sir," Walters explained, "and so they left me alone. But even had it notbeen for that, I scarcely think they would have harmed an old man. Theywere brave fellows for all the mischief they did here, and they seemedto have little heart in the service of the Popish King. It wasthe officers drove them on to all this damage, and once they'dstarted--well, there were rogues amongst them saw a chance of plunder,and they took it. I have sought to put the place to rights; but they didsome woeful, wanton mischief."
Wilding sighed. "It's little matter, perhaps, as the place is no longermine.
"No... no longer yours, sir?"
"I'm an attainted outlaw, Walters," he explained. "They'll bestow it onsome Popish time-server, unless King Monmouth can follow
up by greatervictories to-night's. Have you aught a man may eat or drink?"
Meat and wine, fresh linen and fresh garments did old Walters find him;and when he had washed, eaten, and drunk, Mr. Wilding wrapped himselfin a dressing-gown and laid himself down to sleep on a settle in thelibrary, his servant and his dog on guard.
Not above an hour, however, was he destined to enjoy his hard-earnedrest. The light had grown, meanwhile, and from grey it had turnedgolden, the heralds of the sun being already in the east. In thedistance the firing had died down to a mere occasional boom.
Suddenly old Walters raised his head to listen. The beat of hoofs wasdrawing rapidly near, so near that presently he rose in alarm, fora horseman was pounding up the avenue, had drawn rein at the mainentrance.
Walters knit his brows in perplexity, and glanced at his master whoslept on utterly worn out. A silent pause followed, lasting someminutes. Then it was the dog that rose with a growl, his coat bristling,and an instant later there came a sharp rapping at the hall door.
"Sh! Down, Jack!" whispered Walters, afraid of rousing Mr. Wilding. Hetiptoed softly across the room, picked up his musket, and, calling thedog, went out, a great fear in his heart, but not for himself.
The rapping continued, growing every instant more urgent, so urgent thatWalters was almost reassured. Here was no enemy, but surely some onein need. Walters opened at last, and Mr. Trenchard, grimy of face andhands, his hat shorn of its plumes, his clothes torn, staggered with anoath across the threshold.
"Walters!" he cried. "Thank God! I thought you'd be here, but I wasn'tcertain. Down, Jack!"
The hound was barking madly again, having recognized an old friend.
"Plague on the dog!" growled Walters. "He'll wake Mr. Wilding."
"Mr. Wilding?" said Trenchard, and checked midway across the hall. "Mr.Wilding?"
"He arrived here a couple of hours ago, sir..."
"Wilding here? Oddsheart! I was more than well advised to come. Where ishe, man?"
"Sh, sir! He's asleep in the library. You'll wake him, you'll wake him!"
But Trenchard never paused. He crossed the hall at a bound, and flungwide the library door. "Anthony!" he shouted. "Anthony!" And in thebackground Walters cursed him for a fool. Wilding leapt to his feet,awake and startled.
"Wha... Nick!"
"Oons!" roared Nick. "You're choicely found. I came to send toBridgwater for you. We must away at once, man."
"How--away? I thought you were in the fight, Nick."
"And don't I look as if I had been?"
"But then...
"The fight is fought and lost; there's an end to the garboil. Monmouthis in full flight with what's left him of his horse. When I quitted thefield, he was riding hard for Polden Hill." He dropped into a chair, hisaccents grim and despairing, his eyes haggard.
"Lost?" gasped Wilding, and his conscience pricked him for a moment,remembering how much it had been his fault--however indirectly--thatFeversham had been forewarned. "But how lost?" he cried a moment later.
"Ask Grey," snapped Trenchard. "Ask his craven, numskulled lordship. Hehad as good a hand in losing it as any. Oh, it was all most infernallymishandled, as has been everything in this ill-starred rising. Grey sentback Godfrey, the guide, and attempted in the dark to find his own wayacross the rhine. He missed the ford. What else could the fool havehoped? And when he was discovered and Dunbarton's guns began to play onus--hell and fire! we ran as if Sedgemoor had been a race-course.
"The rest was but the natural sequel. The foot, seeing our confusion,broke. They were rallied again; broke again; and again were rallied; butall too late. The enemy was up, and with that damned ditch between usthere was no getting to close quarters with them. Had Grey ridden round,and sought to turn their flank, things might have been--O God!--theywould have been entirely different. I did suggest it. But for my painsGrey threatened to pistol me if I presumed to instruct him in his duty.I would to Heaven I had pistolled him where he stood."
Walters, at gaze in the doorway, listened to the bitter tirade. Wilding,on the settle, sat silent a moment, his elbows on his knees, his chinin his hands, his eyes set and grim as Trenchard's own. Then he masteredhimself, and waved a hand towards the table where stood food and wine.
"Eat and drink, Nick," he said, "and we'll discuss what's to be done."
"It'll need little discussing," was Nick's savage answer as he rose andwent to pour himself a cup of wine. "There's but one course open to us--instant flight. I am for Minehead to join Hewling's horse, which wentthere yesterday for guns. We might seize a ship somewhere on the coast,and thus get out of this infernal country of mine."
They discussed the matter in spite of Trenchard's having said that therewas nothing to discuss, and in the end Wilding agreed to go with him.What choice had he? But first he must go to Bridgwater to reassure hiswife.
"To Bridgwater?" blazed Trenchard, in a passion at the folly of thesuggestion. "You're clearly mad! All the King's forces will be there inan hour or two."
"No matter," said Wilding, "I must go. I am dead already, as ithappens." And he related his singular adventure in Feversham's camp lastnight.
Trenchard heard him in amazement. If any suspicion crossed his mind thathis friend's love affairs had had anything to do with rousing Fevershamprematurely, he showed no sign of it. But he shook his head at Wilding'sinsistence that he must first go to Lupton House.
"Shalt send a message, Anthony. Walters will find some one to bear it.But you must not go yourself."
In the end Mr. Trenchard prevailed upon him to adopt this course,however reluctant he might be. Thereafter they proceeded to make theirpreparations. There were still a couple of nags in the stables, in spiteof the visitation of the militia, and Walters was able to find freshclothes for Mr. Trenchard above-stairs.
A half-hour later they were ready to set out on this forlorn hope ofescape; the horses were at the door, and Mr. Wilding was in the actof drawing on the fresh pair of boots which Walters had fetched him.Suddenly he paused, his foot in the leg of his right boot, and satbemused a moment.
Trenchard, watching him, waxed impatient. "What ails you now?" hecroaked.
Without answering him, Wilding turned to Walters. "Where are the bootsI wore last night?" he asked, and his voice was sharp--oddly sharp,considering how trivial the matter of his speech.
"In the kitchen," answered Walters.
"Fetch me them." And he kicked off again the boot he had half drawn on.
"But they are all befouled with mud, sir."
"Clean them, Walters; clean them and let me have them."
Still Walters hesitated, pointing out that the boots he had brought hismaster were newer and sounder. Wilding interrupted him impatiently. "Doas I bid you, Walters." And the old man, understanding nothing, went offon the errand.
"A pox on your boots!" swore Trenchard. "What does this mean?"
Wilding seemed suddenly to have undergone a transformation. His gloomhad fallen from him. He looked up at his old friend and, smiling,answered him. "It means, Nick, that whilst these excellent boots thatWalters would have me wear might be well enough for a ride to the coastsuch as you propose, they are not at all suited to the journey I intendto make."
"Maybe," said Nick with a sniff, "you're intending to journey to TowerHill?"
"In that direction," answered Mr. Wilding suavely.
"I am for London, Nick. And you shall come with me."
"God save us! Do you keep a fool's egg under that nest of hair?"
Wilding explained, and by the time Walters returned with the bootsTrenchard was walking up and down the room in an odd agitation. "Odds mylife, Tony!" he cried at last. "I believe it is the best thing."
"The only thing, Nick."
"And since all is lost, why..." Trenchard blew out his cheeks andsmacked fist into palm. "I am with you," said he.
CHAPTER XXIV. JUSTICE
It has fallen to my lot in the course of this veridical chronicle of Mr.Anthony Wilding's connection
with the Rebellion in the West, and of hiswedding and post-nuptial winning of Ruth Westmacott, to relate certainmatters of incident and personality that may be accounted strange. Butthe strangest yet remains to be related. For in spite of all that hadpassed between Sir Rowland Blake and the Westmacotts on that memorablenight of Sunday to Monday, on which the battle of Sedgemoor was lostand won, towards the end of that same month of July we find him not onlyback at Lupton House, but once again the avowed suitor of Mr. Wilding'swidow. For effrontery this is a matter of which it is to be doubtedwhether history furnishes a parallel. Indeed, until the circumstancesare sifted it seems wild and incredible. So let us consider these.
On the morrow of Sedgemoor, the town of Bridgwater becameinvested--infested were no whit too strong a word--by the King's forcesunder Feversham and the odious Kirke, and there began a reign of terrorfor the town. The prisons were choked with attainted and suspectedrebels. From Bridgwater to Weston Zoyland the road was become an avenueof gallows, each bearing its repulsive grimace-laden burden; for theKing's commands were unequivocal, and hanging was the order of the day.
It is not my desire at this stage to surfeit you with the horrors thatwere perpetrated during that hideous week of July, when no man's lifewas safe from the royal butchers. The awful campaign of Jeffries andhis four associates was yet to follow, but it is doubtful if it couldcompare in ruthlessness with that of Feversham and Kirke. At least, whenJeffries came, men were given a trial--or what looked like it--and thereremained them a chance, however slender, of acquittal, as many lived toprove thereafter. With Feversham there was no such chance. And it wasof this circumstance that Sir Rowland Blake took the fullest and thecowardliest advantage.
There can be no doubt that Sir Rowland was a villain. It might beurged for him that he was a creature of circumstance, and that hadcircumstances been other it is possible he had been a credit to hisname. But he was weak in character, and out of that weakness he haddeveloped a Herculean strength in villainy. Failure had dogged him ineverything he undertook. Broken at the gaming-tables, hounded out oftown by creditors, he was in desperate straits to repair his fortunesand, as we have seen, he was not nice in his endeavours to achieve thatend.
Ruth Westmacott's fair inheritance had seemed an easy thing to conquer,and to its conquest he had applied himself to suffer defeat as he hadsuffered it in all things else. But Sir Rowland did not yet acknowledgehimself beaten, and the Bridgwater reign of terror dealt him a freshhand--a hand of trumps. With this he came boldly to renew the game.
He was as smooth as oil at first, a very penitent, confessing himselfmad in what he had done on that Sunday night--mad with despair and rageat having been defeated in the noble task to which he had turned hishands. His penitence might have had little effect upon the Westmacottshad he not known how to insinuate that it might be best for them to lendan ear to it--and a forgiving one.
"You will tell Mr. Westmacott, Jasper," he had said, when Jasper toldhim that they could not receive him, "that he would be unwise not to seeme, and the same to Mistress Wilding."
And old Jasper had carried his message, and had told Richard of thewicked smile that had been on Sir Rowland's lips when he had uttered it.
Now Richard was in many ways a changed man since that night at WestonZoyland. A transformation seemed to have been wrought in him as odd asit was sudden, and it dated from the moment when with tears in hiseyes he had wrung Wilding's hand in farewell. Where precept had failed,Richard found himself converted by example. He contrasted himself inthat stressful hour with great-souled Anthony Wilding, and saw himselfas he was, a weakling, strong only in vicious ways. Repentance claimedhim; repentance and a fine ambition to be worthier, to resemble asnearly as his nature would allow him this Anthony Wilding whom he tookfor pattern. He changed his ways, abandoned drink and gaming, and gainedthereby a healthier countenance. Then in his zeal he overshot his mark.He developed a taste for Scripture-reading, bethought him of prayers,and even took to saying grace to his meat. Indeed--for conversion,when it comes, is a furious thing--the swing of his soul's pendulumthreatened now to carry him to extremes of virtue and piety. "O Lord!"he would cry a score of times a day, "Thou hast brought up my soul fromthe grave; Thou hast kept me alive that I should not go down to thepit!"
But underlying all this remained unfortunately the inherent weakness ofhis nature--indeed, it was that very weakness and malleability made thissudden and wholesale conversion possible.
Upon hearing Sir Rowland's message his heart fainted, despite his goodintentions, and he urged that perhaps they had better hear what thebaronet might have to say.
It was three days after Sedgemoor Fight, and poor Ruth was worn andexhausted with her grief--believing Wilding dead, for he had sent nomessage to inform her of his almost miraculous preservation. The thinghe went to do in London was fraught with such peril that he foresawbut the slenderest chance of escaping with his life. Therefore, he hadargued, why console her now with news that he lived, when in a few daysthe headsman might prove that his end had been but postponed? To do somight be to give her cause to mourn him twice. Again he was haunted bythe thought that, in spite of all, it may have been pity that had sogrievously moved her at their last meeting. Better, then, to wait;better for both their sakes. If he came safely through his ordeal itwould be time enough to bear her news of his preservation.
In deepest mourning, very white, with dark stains beneath her eyesto tell the tale of anguished vigils, she received Sir Rowland in thewithdrawing-room, her brother at her side. To his expressions ofdeep penitence he found them cold; so he passed on to show them whatdisastrous results might ensue upon a stubborn maintaining of thisattitude of theirs towards him.
"I have come," he said, his eyes downcast, his face long-drawn, for hecould play the sorrowful with any hypocrite in England, "to do somethingmore than speak of my grief and regret. I have come to offer proof of itby service.
"We ask no service of you, sir," said Ruth, her voice a sword ofsharpness.
He sighed, and turned to Richard. "This were folly," he assured hiswhilom friend. "You know the influence I wield."
"Do I?" quoth Richard, his tone implying doubt.
"You think that the bungled matter at Newlington's may have shaken it?"quoth Blake. "With Feversham, perhaps. But Albemarle, remember, trustsme very fully. There are ugly happenings in the town here. Men are beinghung like linen on a washing-day. Be not too sure that yourself arefree from all danger." Richard paled under the baronet's baleful,half-sneering glance. "Be not in too great haste to cast me aside, foryou may find me useful."
"Do you threaten, sir?" cried Ruth.
"Threaten?" quoth he. He turned up his eyes and showed the whites ofthem. "Is it to threaten to promise you my protection; to show you how Ican serve you?--than which I ask no sweeter boon of heaven. A word fromme, and Richard need fear nothing."
"He need fear nothing without that word," said Ruth disdainfully. "Suchservice as he did Lord Feversham the other night..."
"Is soon forgotten," Blake cut in adroitly. "Indeed, 'twill be mostconvenient to his lordship to forget it. Think you he would care to haveit known that 'twas to such a chance he owes the preservation of hisarmy?" He laughed, and added in a voice of much sly meaning, "The timesare full of peril. There's Kirke and his lambs. And there's no sayinghow Kirke might act did he chance to learn what Richard failed to dothat night when he was left to guard the rear at Newlington's!"
"Would you inform him of it?" cried Richard, between anger and alarm.
Blake thrust out his hands in a gesture of horrified repudiation."Richard!" he cried in deep reproof and again, "Richard!"
"What other tongue has he to fear?" asked Ruth.
"Am I the only one who knows of it?" cried Blake. "Oh, madam, why willyou ever do me such injustice? Richard has been my friend--my dearestfriend. I wish him so to continue, and I swear that he shall find mehis, as you shall find me yours."
"It is a boon I could dispense with," she assured him, and rose.
"Thistalk can profit little, Sir Rowland," said she. "You seek to bargain."
"You shall see how unjust you are," he cried with deep sorrow. "It isbut fitting, perhaps, after what has passed. It is my punishment. Butyou shall come to acknowledge that you have done me wrong. You shall seehow I shall befriend and protect him."
That said, he took his leave and went, but he left behind him a shrewdseed of fear in Richard's mind, and of the growth that sprang from itRichard almost unconsciously transplanted something in the days thatfollowed into the heart of Ruth. As a result, to make sure that no harmshould come to her brother, the last of his name and race, she resolvedto receive Sir Rowland, resolved in spite of Diana's outspoken scorn, inspite of Richard's protests--for though afraid, yet he would not have itso--in spite even of her own deep repugnance of the man.
Days passed and grew to weeks. Bridgwater was settling down to peaceagain--to peace and mourning; the Royalist scourge had spread toTaunton, and Blake lingered on at Lupton House, an unwelcome but anundeniable guest.
His presence was as detestable to Richard now as it was to Ruth, forRichard had to submit to the mockery with which the town rake lashed hisgodly bearing and altered ways. More than once in gusts of sudden valourthe boy urged his sister to permit him to drive the baronet from thehouse and let him do his worst. But Ruth, afraid for Richard, bade himwait until the times were more settled. When the royal vengeance hadslaked its lust for blood it might matter little, perhaps, what talesSir Rowland might elect to carry.
And so Sir Rowland remained and waited. He assured himself that he knewhow to be patient, and congratulated himself upon that circumstance.Wilding dead, a little time must now suffice to blunt the sharp edge ofhis widow's grief; let him but await that time, and the rest should beeasy, the battle his. With Richard he did not so much as trouble himselfto reckon.
Thus he determined, and thus no doubt he would have acted but for anunforeseen contingency. A miserable, paltry creditor had smoked him outin his Somerset retreat, and got a letter to him full of dark hints ofa debtor's gaol. The fellow's name was Swiney, and Sir Rowland knew himfor fierce and pertinacious where a defaulting creditor was concerned.One only course remained him: to force matters with Wilding's widow. Fordays he refrained, fearing that precipitancy might lose him all; it washis wish to do the thing without too much coercion; some, he was notcoxcomb enough to think--coxcomb though he was--might be dispensed with.
At last one Sunday evening he decided to be done with dallying, and tobring Ruth between the hammer and the anvil of his will. It was thelast Sunday in July, exactly three weeks after Sedgemoor, and theodd coincidence of his having chosen such a day and hour you shallappreciate anon.
They were on the lawn taking the cool of the evening after anoppressively hot day. By the stone seat, now occupied by Lady Hortonand Diana, Richard lay on the sward at their feet in talk with them,and their talk was of Sir Rowland. Diana--gall in her soul to see thebaronet by way of gaining yet his ends--chid Richard in strong terms forhis weakness in submitting to Blake's constant presence at Lupton House.And Richard meekly took her chiding and promised that, if Ruth would butsanction it, things should be changed upon the morrow.
Sir Rowland, all unconscious--reckless, indeed--of this, sauntered withRuth some little distance from them, having contrived adroitly to drawher aside. He broke a spell of silence with a dolorous sigh.
"Ruth," said he pensively, "I mind me of the last evening on which youand I walked here alone."
She flashed him a glance of fear and aversion, and stood still. Underhis brow he watched the quick heave of her bosom, the sudden flow andabiding ebb of blood in her face--grown now so thin and wistful--and herealized that before him lay no easy task. He set his teeth for battle.
"Will you never have a kindness for me, Ruth?" he sighed.
She turned about, her intent to join the others, a dull anger in hersoul. He sat a hand upon her arm. "Wait!" said he, and the tone inwhich he uttered that one word kept her beside him. His manner changed alittle. "I am tired of this," said he.
"Why, so am I," she answered bitterly.
"Since we are agreed so far, let us agree to end it."
"It is all I ask."
"Yes, but--alas!--in a different way. Listen now."
"I will not listen. Let me go."
"I were your enemy did I do so, for you would know hereafter a sorrowand repentance for which nothing short of death could offer you escape.Richard is under suspicion."
"Do you hark back to that?" The scorn of her voice was deadly. Had itbeen herself he desired, surely that tone had quenched all passion inhim, or else transformed it into hatred. But Blake was playing for afortune, for shelter from a debtor's prison.
"It has become known," he continued, "that Richard was one of the earlyplotters who paved the way for Monmouth's coming. I think that that, inconjunction with his betrayal of his trust that night at Newlington's,thereby causing the death of some twenty gallant fellows of KingJames's, will be enough to hang him."
Her hand clutched at her heart. "What is't you seek?" she cried. It wasalmost a moan. "What is't you want of me?"
"Yourself," said he. "I love you, Ruth," he added, and stepped close upto her.
"O God!" she cried aloud. "Had I a man at hand to kill you for thatinsult!"
And then--miracle of miracles!--a voice from the shrubs by which theystood bore to her ears the startling words that told her her prayer wasanswered there and then.
"Madam, that man is here."
She stood frozen. Not more of a statue was Lot's wife in the moment oflooking behind her than she who dared not look behind. That voice! Avoice from the dead, a voice she had heard for the last time in thecottage that was Feversham's lodging at Weston Zoyland. Her wild eyesfell upon Sir Rowland's face. It showed livid; the nether-lip suckedin and caught in the strong teeth, as if to prevent an outcry; the eyeswild with fright. What did it mean? By an effort she wrenched herselfround at last, and a scream broke from her to rouse her aunt, hercousin, and her brother, and bring them hastening towards her across thesweep of lawn.
Before her, on the edge of the shrubbery, a grey figure stood erect andgraceful, and the face, with its thin lips faintly smiling, its darkeyes gleaming, was the face of Anthony Wilding. And as she stared hemoved forward, and she heard the fall of his foot upon the turf, theclink of his spurs, the swish of his scabbard against the shrubs, andreason told her that this was no ghost.
She held out her arms to him. "Anthony! Anthony!" She staggered forward,and he was no more than in time to catch her as she swayed.
He held her fast against him and kissed her brow. "Sweet," he said,"forgive me that I frightened you. I came by the orchard gate, and mycoming was so timely that I could not hold in my answer to your cry."
Her eyelids fluttered, she drew a long sighing breath, and nestledcloser to him. "Anthony!" she murmured again, and reached up a hand tostroke his face, to feel that it was truly living flesh.
And Sir Rowland, realizing, too, by now that here was no ghost,recovered his lost courage. He put a hand to his sword, then withdrewit, leaving the weapon sheathed. Here was a hangman's job, not aswordsman's, he opined--and wisely, for he had had earlier experience ofMr. Wilding's play of steel.
He advanced a step. "O fool!" he snarled. "The hangman waits for you."
"And a creditor for you, Sir Rowland," came the voice of Mr. Trenchard,who now pushed forward through those same shrubs that had masked hisfriend's approach. "A Mr. Swiney. 'Twas I sent him from town. He'slodged at the Bull, and bellows like one when he speaks of what you owehim. There are three messengers with him, and they tell of a debtor'sgaol for you, sweetheart."
A spasm of fury crossed the face of Blake. "They may have me, andwelcome, when I've told my tale," said he. "Let me but tell of AnthonyWilding's lurking here, and not only Anthony Wilding, but all the restof you are doomed for harbouring him. You know the law, I think," hemocked them, for Lady Horton, Diana, and Richard, who had come up,st
ood now a pace or so away in deepest wonder. "You shall know it betterbefore the night is out, and better still before next Sunday's come."
"Tush!" said Trenchard, and quoted, "'There's none but Anthony mayconquer Anthony.'"
"'Tis clear," said Wilding, "you take me for a rebel. An odd mistake!For it chances, Sir Rowland, that you behold in me an accredited servantof the Secretary of State."
Blake stared, then fell a prey to ironic laughter. He would have spoken,but Mr. Wilding plucked a paper from his pocket, and handed it toTrenchard.
"Show it him," said he, and Blake's face grew white again as he read thelines above Sunderland's signature and observed the seals of office. Helooked from the paper to the hated smiling face of Mr. Wilding.
"You were a spy?" he said, his tone making a question of the odiousstatement. "A dirty spy?"
"Your incredulity is flattering, at least," said Wilding pleasantly ashe repocketed the parchment, "and it leads you in the right direction. Ineither was nor am a spy."
"That paper proves it!" cried Blake contemptuously. Having been a spyhimself, he was a good judge of the vileness of the office.
"See to my wife, Nick," said Wilding sharply, and made as if to transferher to the care of his friend.
"Nay," said Trenchard, "'tis your own duty that. Let me discharge theother for you." And he stepped up to Blake and tapped him briskly on theshoulder. "Sir Rowland," said he, "you're a knave." Sir Rowland staredat him. "You're a foul thing--a muckworm--Sir Rowland," added Trenchardamiably, "and you've been discourteous to a lady, for which may Heavenforgive you--I can't."
"Stand aside," Blake bade him, hoarse with passion, blind to all risks."My affair is with Mr. Wilding."
"Aye," said Trenchard, "but mine is with you. If you survive it, you cansettle what other affairs you please--including, belike, your businesswith Mr. Swiney."
"Not so, Nick," said Wilding suddenly, and turned to Richard. "Here,Richard! Take her," he bade his brother-in-law.
"Anthony, you damned shirk-duty, see to your wife. Leave me to my owndiversions. Sir Rowland," he reminded the baronet, "I have called you aknave and a foul thing, and faith! if you want it proven, you need butstep down the orchard with me."
He saw hesitation lingering in Sir Rowland's face, and he uncurled thelast of the whip he carried. "I'd grieve to do a violent thing beforethe ladies," he murmured deprecatingly. "I'd never respect myself againif I had to drive a gentleman of your quality to the ground of honourwith a horsewhip. But, as God's my life, if you don't go willingly thisinstant, 'tis what will happen."
Richard's newborn righteousness prompted him to interfere, to seek toavert this threatened bloodshed; his humanity urged him to let mattersbe, and his humanity prevailed. Diana watched this foreshadowing oftragedy with tight lips, pale cheeks. Justice was to be done at last,it seemed, and as her frightened eye fell upon Sir Rowland she knew notwhether to exult or weep. Her mother--understanding nothing--plied hermeanwhile with whispered questions.
As for Sir Rowland, he looked into the old rake's eyes agleam withwicked mirth, and rage welled up to choke him. He must kill this man.
"Come," said he. "I'll see to your fine friend Wilding afterwards."
"Excellent," said Trenchard, and led the way through the shrubbery tothe orchard.
Ruth, reviving, looked up. Her glance met Mr. Wilding's; it quickenedinto understanding, and she stirred. "Is it true? Is it really true?"she cried. "I am being tortured by this dream again!"
"Nay, sweet, it is true; it is true. I am here. Say, shall I stay?"
She clung to him for answer. "And you are in no danger?"
"In none, sweet. I am Mr. Wilding of Zoyland Chase, free to come and goas best shall seem to me." He begged the others to leave them a littlewhile, and he led her to the stone seat by the river. He set her at hisside there and told her the story of his escape from the firing-party,and of the inspiration that had come to him on the morrow to make useof the letter in his boot which Sunderland had given him for Monmouthin the hour of panic. Monmouth's cavalier treatment of him when he hadarrived in Bridgwater had precluded his delivering that letter at thecouncil. There was never another opportunity, nor did he again think ofthe package in the stressful hours that followed. It was not until thefollowing morning that he suddenly remembered it lay undelivered, andbethought him that it might prove a weapon to win him delivery from thedangers that encompassed him.
"It was a slender chance," he told her, "but I employed it. I waited inLondon, in hiding, close upon a fortnight ere I had an opportunity ofseeing Sunderland. He laughed me to scorn at first, and threatened mewith the Tower. But I told him the letter was in safe hands and wouldremain there in earnest of his good behaviour, and that did he have mearrested it would instantly be laid before the King and bring his ownhead to the block more surely even than my own. It frightened him; butit had scarcely done so, sweet, had he known that that precious letterwas still in my boot, for my boot was on my leg, and my leg was in theroom with the rest of me.
"He surrendered at last, and gave me papers proving that Trenchardand I--for I stipulated for old Nick's safety too--were His Majesty'saccredited agents in the West. I loathed the title. But..."--he spreadhis hands and smiled--"it was that or widowing you."
She took his face in her hands and stroked it fondly, and they sat thusuntil a dry cough behind them roused them from their joyous silence. Mr.Trenchard was sauntering towards them, his left eye tucked farther underhis hat than usual, his hands behind him.
"'Tis a thirsty evening," he informed them.
"Go, tell Richard so," said Wilding, who knew naught of Richard'saltered ways.
"I've thought of it; but haply he's sensitive on the score of drinkingwith me again. He has done it twice to his undoing."
"He'll do it a third time, no doubt," said Mr. Wilding curtly, andTrenchard, taking the hint, turned with a shrug, and went up the lawntowards the house. He found Richard in the porch, where he hadlingered fearfully, waiting for news. At sight of Mr. Trenchard's grim,weather-beaten countenance he came forward suddenly.
"How has it sped?" he asked, his lips twitching on the words.
"Yonder they sit," said Trenchard, pointing down the lawn.
"No, no. I mean... Sir Rowland."
"Oh, Sir Rowland?" cried the old sinner, as though Sir Rowland weresome matter long forgotten. He sighed. "Alas, poor Swiney! I fear I'vecheated him."
"You mean?"
"Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odourof villainy."
Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes toheaven.
"May the Lord have mercy on his soul!" said he.
"May He, indeed!" said Trenchard, when he had recovered from hissurprise. "But," he added pessimistically, "I doubt the rogue's inhell."
Richard's eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm,"'I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast notmade my foes to rejoice over me.'"
Dumbfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott's mind unhinged,Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance andmisinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy wasunrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh "Poor Blake!"
"Poor, indeed!" quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of hisplay-acting days to suit the case. "The tears live in an onion thatshall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney." Then,in a brisker tone, "Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keepat Lupton House?"
"I have abjured all wine," said Richard.
"A plague you have!" quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. "Haveyou turned Mussulman, perchance?"
"No," answered Richard sternly; "Christian."
Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "Hum," said he atlength. "Peace be with you, then. I'll leave you here to bay the moonto your heart's content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me abrain-wash." And with a final suspicious, wondering look at the
whilombibber, he passed into the house, much exercised on the score of thesanity of this family into which his friend Anthony had married.
Outside, the twilight shadows were deepening.
"Shall we home, sweet?" whispered Mr. Wilding. The shadows befriendedher, a veil for her sudden confusion. She breathed something that seemedno more than a sigh, though more it seemed to Anthony Wilding.
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