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 the 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.
Richard, himself sober, was contemptuous of Trenchard so obviously
obfuscated. At first it was his impulse to excuse himself, as possibly
Blake might be already waiting for him; but on second thoughts,
remembering that Trenchard was Mr. Wilding's most intimate famulus, it
occurred to him that by a little crafty questioning he might succeed in
smoking Mr. Wilding's intentions in the matter of that letter--for from
his sister he had failed to get satisfaction. So he permitted himself to
be led indoors to a table by the window which stood vacant. There were
at the time a dozen guests or so in the common-room. Trenchard bawled
for wine and brandy, and for all that he babbled in an irresponsible,
foolish manner of all things that were of no matter, yet not the most
adroit of pumping could elicit from him any such information as Richard
sought. Perforce young Westmacott must remain, plying him with more and
more drink--and being plied in his turn--to the end that he might not
waste the occasion.
An hour later found Richard much the worse for wear, and Trenchard
certainly no better. Richard forgot his purpose, forgot that Blake
waited for him at the Saracen's Head. And now Trenchard seemed to be
pulling himself together.
“I want to talk to you, Richard,” said he, and although thick, there was
in his voice a certain impressive quality that had been absent hitherto.
“'S a rumour current.” He lowered his voice to a whisper almost, and,
leaning across, took his companion by the arm. He hiccoughed noisily,
then began again. “'S a rumour current, sweetheart, that you're
disaffected.”
Richard started, and his mind flapped and struggled like a trapped bird
to escape the meshes of the wine, to the end that he might convincingly
defend himself from such an imputation--so dangerously true.
“'S a lie!” he gasped.
Trenchard shut one eye and owlishly surveyed his companion with the
other. “They say,” he added, “that you're for forsaking 'Duke's party.”
“Villainous!” Richard protested. “I'll sli' throat of any man 't says
so.” And draining the pewter at his elbow, he smashed it down on the
table to emphasize his seriousness.
Trenchard replenished it with the utmost promptness, then sat back in
his tall chair and pulled a moment at the fresh pipe with which he had
equipped himself.
“I think I espy,”' he quoted presently, “'virtue and valour crouched
in thine eye.' And yet... and yet... if I had cause to think it
true, I'd... I'd run you through the vitals--jus' so,” and he prodded
Richard's waistcoat with the point of his pipe-stem. His swarthy face
darkened, his eyes glittered fiercely. “Are ye sure ye're norrer foul
traitor?” he demanded suddenly. “Are y' sure, for if ye're not...”
He left the terrible menace unuttered, but it was none the less
understood. It penetrated the vinous fog that beset the brain of
Richard, and startled him.
“'Swear I'm not!” he cried. “'Swear mos' solemnly I'm not.”
“Swear?” echoed Trenchard, and his scowl grew darker still. “Swear? A
man may swear and yet lie--'a man may smile and smile and be a villain.'
I'll have proof of your loyalty to us. I'll have proof, or as there's a
heaven above and a hell below, I'll rip you up.”
His mien was terrific, and his voice the more threatening in that it was
not raised above a whisper.
Richard sat back appalled, afraid.
“Wha'... what proof'll satisfy you?” he asked.
Trenchard considered it, pulling at his pipe again. “Pledge me the
Duke,” said he at length. “Ther's truth 'n wine. Pledge me the Duke and
confusion to His Majesty the goldfinch.” Richard reached for his pewter,
glad that the test was to be so light. “Up on your feet, man,” grumbled
Trenchard. “On your feet, and see that your words have a ring of truth
in them.”
Richard did as he was bidden, the little reason left him being
concentrated wholly on the convincing of his fellow tippler. He rose to
his feet, so unsteadily that his chair fell over with a bang. He never
heeded it, but others in the room turned at the sound, and a hush fell
in the chamber. Dominating this came Richard's voice, strident with
intensity, if thick of utterance.
“Down with Popery, and God save the Protestant Duke!” he cried. “Down
with Popery!” And he looked at Trenchard for applause, and assurance
that Trenchard no longer thought there was cause to quarrel with him.
Behind him there was a stir in the room that went unheeded by the boy.
Men nudged their neighbours; some looked frightened and some grinned at
the treasonable words.
A swift change came over Trenchard. His drunkenness fell from him like
a discarded mantle. He sat like a man amazed. Then he heaved himself to
his feet in a fury, and smashed down his pipestem on the wooden table,
sending its fragments flying.
“Damn me!” he roared. “Have I sat at table with a traitor?” And he
thrust at Richard with his open palm, lightly yet with sufficient force
to throw Richard off his precarious balance and send him sprawling on
the sanded floor. Men rose from the tables about and approached them,
some few amused, but the majority very grave. Dodsley, the landlord,
came hurrying to assist Richard to his feet.
“Mr. Westmacott,” he whispered in the rash fool's ear, “you were best
away.”
Richard stood up, leaning his full weight upon the arm the landlord had
about his waist. He passed a hand over his brow, as if to brush aside
the veil that obscured his wits. What had happened? What had he said?
What had Trenchard done? Why did these fellows stand and gape at him? He
heard his companion's voice, raised to address the company.
“Gentlemen,” he heard him say, “I trust there is none present will
impute to me any share in such treasonable sentiments as Mr. Westmacott
has expressed. But if there is any who questions my loyalty, I have
a convincing argument for him--in my scabbard.” And he struck his
sword-hilt with his fist.
Then he clapped on his hat, aslant over the locks of his golden wig,
and, taking up his whip, he moved with leisurely dignity towards the
door. He looked back with a sardonic smile at the ado he was leaving
behind him, listened a moment to the voices that already were being
raised in excitement, then closed the door and made his way briskly
to the stable-yard, where he called for his horse. He rode out of
Bridgwater ten minutes later, and took the road to Taunton as the moon
was rising big and yellow over the hills on his left. He reached Taunton
towards ten o'clock that night, having ridden hell-to-leather. His
first visit was to the Hare and Hounds, where Blake and Westmacott had
overtaken the courier. His next to the house where Sir Edward Phelips
and Colonel Luttrell--the gentlemen lately ordered to Taunton by His
Majesty--had their lodging.
The fruits of Mr. Trenchard's extraordinary behaviour that night were
to be seen at an early hour on the following day, when a constable and
three tything-men came with a Lord-Lieutenant's warrant to arrest Mr.
Richard Westmacott on a charge of high treason. They found the young man
still abed, and most guilty was his panic when they bade him rise and
dress himself--though little did he dream of the full extent to which
Mr. Trenchard had enmeshed him, or indeed that Mr. Trenchard had any
hand at all in this affair. What time he was getting into his clothes
with a tything-man outside his door and another on guard under his
window, the constable and his third myrmidon made an exhaustive search
of the house. All they found of interest was a letter signed “Monmouth,”
which they took from the secret drawer of a secretary in the library;
but that, it seemed, was all they sought, for having found it, they
proceeded no further with their reckless and destructive ransacking.
With that letter and the person of Richard Westmacott, the constable and
his men took their departure, and rode back to Taunton, leaving alarm
and sore distress at Lupton House. In her despair poor Ruth was all for
following her brother, in the hope that at least by giving evidence
of how that letter came into his possession she might do something to
assist him. But knowing, as she did, that he had had his share in the
treason that was hatching, she had cause to fear that his guilt would
not lack for other proofs. It was Diana who urged her to repair instead
to the only man upon whose resource she might depend, provided he were
willing to exert it. That man was Anthony Wilding, and whether Diana
urged it from motives of her own or out of concern for Richard, it would
be difficult to say with certainty.
The very thought of going to him for aid, after all that had passed, was
repugnant to Ruth. And yet what choice had she? Convinced by her cousin
and urged by her affection and duty to Richard, she repressed her
aversion, and, calling for a horse, rode out to Zoyland Chase, attended
by a groom. Wilding by good fortune was at home, hard at work upon a
mass of documents in that same library where she had talked with him on
the occasion of her first visit to his home--to the home of which she
remembered that she was now, herself, the mistress. He was preparing
for circulation in the West a mass of libels and incendiary pamphlets
calculated to forward the cause of the Protestant Duke.
Dissembling his surprise, he bade old Walters--who left her waiting in
the hall whilst he went to announce her--to admit her instantly, and he
advanced to the door to receive and welcome her.
“Ruth,” said he, and his face was oddly alight, “you have come at last.”
She smiled a wan smile of self-pity. “I have been constrained,” said
she, and told him what had happened; that her brother had been arrested
for high treason, and that the constable in searching the house had come
upon the Monmouth letter she had locked away in her desk.
“And not a doubt,” she ended, “but it will be believed that it was to
Richard the letter was indited by the Duke. You will remember that
its only address was 'to my good friend, W.,' and that will stand for
Westmacott as well as Wilding.”
Mr. Wilding was fain to laugh at the irony of this surprising turn of
things of which she brought him news; for he had neither knowledge nor
suspicion of the machinations of his friend Trenchard, to which these
events were due. But noting and respecting her anxiety for her brother,
he curbed his natural amusement.
“It is a judgment upon you,” said he, nevertheless.
“Do you exult?” she asked indignantly.
“No; but I cannot repress my admiration for the ways of Divine Justice.
If you are come to me for advice, I can but suggest that you should
follow your brother's captors to Taunton, and inform the lieutenants of
how the letter came into your power.”
She looked at him in anger almost at what seemed a callousness. “Would
he believe me, think you?”
“Belike he would not,” said Mr. Wilding. “You can but try.”
“If I told them it was addressed to you,” she said, eyeing him sternly,
“does it not occur to you that they would send for you to question you,
and that if they did so, as you are a gentleman you could not lie away
my brother's life.”
“Why, yes,” said he quite calmly, “it does occur to me. But does it not
occur to you that by the time they came here they would find me gone?”
He laughed at her dismay. “I thank you, madam, for this warning,” he
added. “I think I'll bid them saddle for me without delay. Too long
already have I tarried.”
“And must Richard hang?” she asked him fiercely.
Mr. Wilding produced a snuffbox of tortoise shell and gold. He opened it
deliberately. “If he does, you'll admit that he will hang on the gallows
that he has built himself--although intended for another. I'faith! He's
not the first booby to be caught in his own springe. There is in this a
measure of poetic justice. Poetry and justice! Do you know, Ruth,
they are two things I have ever loved?” And he took a pinch of choice
Bergamot.
“Will you be serious?” she demanded.
“Trenchard would tell you that it were to make an exception from the
rule of my life,” he assured her, smiling. “Yet even that might I do at
your bidding.”
“But this is a serious matter,” she told him angrily.
“For Richard,” he acknowledged, closing his snuffbox with a snap. “Tell
me, what would you have me do?”
Since he asked her thus, she answered him in two words. “Save him.”
“At the cost of my own neck?” quoth he. “The price is high,” he reminded
her. “Do you think that Richard is quite worth it?”
“And are you to save yourself at the cost of his?” she
counter-questioned. “Are you capable of such a baseness?”
He looked at her thoughtfully a moment. “You have not reflected,” said
he slowly, “that in this affair is involved more than mine or Richard's
life. There is a great cause weighing in the balance against all
personal considerations. If I accounted Richard of more value to
Monmouth than I am myself, I should not hesitate in riding to set
him free by taking his place. As it is, however, I think I am of the
greatest conceivable importance to His Grace, whilst if twenty Richards
perished--frankly--their loss would be something of a gain, for Richard
has played a traitor's part already. That is with me the first of all
considerations.”
“Am I of no consideration to you?” she asked him. And in an agony of
terror for her brother she now approached him, and, obeying a sudden
impulse, cast herself upon her knees before him. “Listen!” she cried.
“Not thus,” said he, a frown between his eyes. He took her by the elbows
and gently but very firmly brought her to her feet again. “It is not
fitting you should kneel save at your prayers.”
She was standing now, and very close to him, his hands still held her
elbows, though their touch was so light that she scarce felt it.
To release them was easy, and the next second her hands were on his
shoulders, her brave eyes raised to him.
“Mr. Wilding,” she implored him, “you'll not let Richard be destroyed?”
He looked down at her with kindling glance, his arms slipped round her
lissom waist. “It is hard to deny you, Ruth,” said he. “Yet not my love
of my own life compels me; but my duty, my loyalty to the cause to which
I am pledged. I were a traitor were I now to place myself in peril.”
She pressed against him, her face so close to his that her breath fanned
his cheek, whither a faint colour crept in quick response. Despite
herself almost, instinctively, unconsciously, she exerted the weapons of
her sex to bend him to her will.
“You say you love me,” she whispered. “Prove it me now, and I will
believe you.
“Ah!” he sighed. “And believing me? What then?”
He had himself grimly in hand, yet feared he should not prove strong
enough to hold himself for long.
“You... you shall find me your... dutiful wife,” she faltered,
crimsoning.
His arms tightened about her; he crushed her to him, he bent his head to
hers and his lips burnt the lips she yielded to him as though they had
been living fire.
Anon, she was to weep in shame--in shame and in astonishment--at that
instant of surrender, but for the moment she had no thought save for her
brother. Exultation filled her. She accounted that she had conquered,
and she gloried in the power her beauty gave her, a power that had
sufficed to melt to water the hard-frozen purposes of this self-willed
man. The next instant, however, she was cold again with dismay and
newborn terror. He unclasped her arms, he drew back, shaking off the
hands she had rested upon his shoulders. His white face--the flush had
faded from it again--smiled a thought disdainfully.
“You bargain with me,” he said. “But I have some knowledge of your ways
of trading. They are overshrewd for an honest gentleman.”
“You mean,” she gasped, her hand pressed to her heart, her face a
deathly white, “you mean that you'll not save him?”
“I mean,” said he, “that I will have no further bargains with you.”
There was such hard finality in his tone that she recoiled, beaten and
without power, to return to the assault. She had played and lost. She
had yielded her lips to his kisses, and--husband though he might be in
name--shame was her only guerdon.
One look she gave him from out of that face so white and pitiful, then
with a shudder turned from him and fled his presence. He sprang after
her as the door closed, then checked and stood in thought, very grim for
one who professed to bestow no seriousness on the affairs of life. Then
he returned slowly to his writing-table, and rummaged there among the
papers with which it was encumbered, seeking something of which he now
had need. Through the open window he heard the retreating beat of her
horse's hoofs. He sighed and sat down heavily, to take his long square
chin in his hand and stare before him at the sunlight on the lawn
outside.
And whilst he sat thus, Ruth made all haste back to Lupton House to tell
of the failure that had attended her. There was nothing left her now
but to embark upon the forlorn hope of following Richard to Taunton, to
offer her evidence of how the incriminating letter had come to be locked
in the drawer in which the constable had discovered it. Diana met her
with a face as white as her own and infinitely more startled. She had
just learnt that Sir Rowland Blake had been arrested also and that
he had been carried to Taunton together with Richard, and, as a
consequence, she was as eager now that Ruth should repair to Albemarle
as she had erstwhile been earnest in urging her to seek out Mr. Wilding;
indeed, Diana went so far as to offer to accompany her, an offer that
Ruth gladly, gratefully accepted.
Within an hour Ruth and Diana--in spite of all that poor, docile Lady
Horton had said to stay them--were riding to Taunton, attended by the
same groom who had so lately accompanied his mistress to Zoyland Chase.