Mr. Wilding left Monmouth's army at Lyme on Sunday, the 14th of
June, and rejoined it at Bridgwater exactly three weeks later. In the
meanwhile a good deal had happened, yet the happenings on every hand had
fallen far short of the expectations aroused in Mr. Wilding's mind,
now by one circumstance, now by another. In reaching London he had
experienced no difficulty. Men travelling in that direction were not
subjected to the scrutiny that fell to the share of those travelling
from it towards the West, or, rather, to the scrutiny ordained by the
Government; for Wilding had more than one opportunity of observing
how very lax and indifferent were the constables and
tything-men--particularly in Somerset and Wiltshire--in the performance
of this duty. Wayfarers were questioned as a matter of form, but in no
case did Wilding hear of any one being detained upon suspicion. This
was calculated to raise his drooping hopes, pointing as it did to the
general favouring of Monmouth that was toward. He grew less despondent
on the score of the Duke's possible ultimate success, and he came to
hope that the efforts he went to exert would not be fruitless.
But rude were the disappointments that awaited him in town. London, like
the rest of the country, was not ready. There were not wanting men who
favoured Monmouth; but no rising had been organized, and the Duke's
partisans were not disposed to rashness.
Wilding lodged at Covent Garden, in a house recommended to him by
Colonel Danvers, and there--an outlaw himself--he threw himself with a
will into his task. He heard of the burning of Monmouth's Declaration by
the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and of the bill passed by
the Commons to make it treason for any to assert that Lucy Walters was
married to the late King. He attended meetings at the “Bull's Head,”
in Bishopsgate, where he met Disney and Danvers, Payton and Lock; but
though they talked and argued at prodigious length, they did naught
besides. Danvers, who was their hope in town, definitely refused to have
a hand in anything that was not properly organized, and in common with
the others urged that they should wait until Cheshire had risen, as was
reported that it must.
Meanwhile, troops had gone west under Kirke and Churchill, and the
Parliament had voted nearly half a million for the putting down of the
rebellion. London was flung into a fever of excitement by the news
that was reaching it. The position was not quite as Monmouth's
advisers--before coming over from Holland--had represented that it would
be. They had thought that out of fear of tumults about his own person,
King James would have been compelled to keep near him what troops he
had, sparing none to be sent against Monmouth. This, King James had not
done; he had all but emptied London of soldiery, and, considering the
general disaffection, no moment could have been more favourable than
this for a rising in London itself. The confusion that must have
resulted from the recalling of troops would have given Monmouth not
only a mighty grip of the West, but would have heartened those who--like
Sunderland himself--were sitting on the wall, to declare themselves for
the Protestant Champion. This Wilding saw, and almost frenziedly did he
urge it upon Danvers that all London needed at the moment was a resolute
leader. But the Colonel still held back; indeed, he had neither truth
nor valour; he was timid, and used deceit to mask his timidity; he urged
frivolous reasons for inaction, and when Wilding waxed impatient with
him, he suggested that Wilding himself should head the rising if he were
so confident of its success. And Wilding would have done it but that,
being unknown in London, he had no reason to suppose that men would
flock to him if he raised the Duke's banner.
Later, when the excitement grew and rumours ran through town that
Monmouth had now a following of twenty thousand men and that the King's
forces were falling back before him, and discontent was rife at the
commissioning of Catholic lords to levy troops, Wilding again pressed
the matter upon Danvers. Surely no moment could be more propitious.
But again he received the same answer, that Danvers had lacked time to
organize matters sufficiently; that the Duke's coming had taken him by
surprise.
Lastly came the news that Monmouth had been crowned at Taunton amid the
wildest enthusiasm, and that there were now in England two men each
of whom called himself King James the Second. This was the excuse
that Danvers needed to be rid of a business he had not the courage to
transact to a finish. He swore that he washed his hands of Monmouth's
affairs; that the latter had broken faith with him and the promise
he had made him in having himself proclaimed King. He protested that
Monmouth had done ill, and prophesied that his act would alienate from
him the numerous republicans who, like Danvers, had hitherto looked to
him for the country's salvation. Wilding himself was appalled at the
news for Monmouth was indeed going further than men had been given to
understand. Nevertheless, for his own sake, in very self-defence now,
if out of no motives of loyalty to the Duke, he must urge forward the
fortunes of this man. He had high words with Danvers, and the two might
have quarrelled before long but for the sudden arrest of Disney, which
threw Danvers into such a panic that he fled incontinently, abandoning
in body, as he already appeared to have abandoned in spirit, the
Monmouth Cause.
The arrest of Disney struck a chill into Wilding. From his lodging at
Covent Garden he had communicated cautiously with Sunderland a few days
after his arrival, building upon certain information he had received
from the Duke at parting as to Sunderland's attachment to the Cause. He
had carefully chosen his moment for making this communication, having
a certain innate mistrust of a man who so obviously as Sunderland was
running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. He had sent a letter
to the Secretary of State when London was agog with the Axminster
affair, and the tale--of which Sir Edward Phelips wrote to Colonel
Berkeley as “the shamefullest story that you ever heard”--of how
Albemarle's forces and the Somerset militia had run before Monmouth in
spite of their own overwhelming numbers. This promised ill for James,
particularly when it was perceived as perceived it was--that this
running away was not all cowardice, not all “the shamefullest story”
that Phelips accounted it. It was an expression of good-will towards
Monmouth on the part of the militia of the West, and it was confidently
expected that the next news would be that these men who had decamped
before him would presently be found to have ranged themselves under his
banner.
Sunderland had given no sign that he had received Wilding's
communication. And Wilding drew his own contemptuous conclusions of the
Secretary of State's cautious policy. It was a fortnight later--when
London was settling down again from the diversion of excitement created
by the news of Argyle's defeat in Scotland--before Mr. Wilding attempted
to approach Sunderland again. He awaited a favourable opportunity, and
this he had when London was thrown into consternation by the alarming
news of the Duke of Somerset's urgent demand for reinforcements. Unless
he had them, he declared, the whole country was lost, as he could not
get the militia to stand, whilst Lord Stawell's regiment were all fled
and mostly gone over to the rebels at Bridgwater.
This was grave news, but it was followed in a few days by graver. The
affair at Philips Norton was exaggerated by report into a wholesale
defeat of the loyal army, and it was reported--on, apparently, such good
authority that it received credence in quarters that might have waited
for official news--that the Duke of Albemarle had been slain by the
militia which had mutinied and deserted to Monmouth.
It was while this news was going round that Sunderland--in a moment of
panic--at last vouchsafed an answer to Mr. Wilding's letters, and he
vouchsafed it in person, just as Wilding--particularly since Disney's
arrest--was beginning to lose all hope. He came one evening to Mr.
Wilding's lodgings in Covent Garden, unattended and closely muffled, and
he remained closeted with the Duke's ambassador for nigh upon an hour,
at the end of which he entrusted Mr. Wilding with a letter for the Duke,
very brief but entirely to the point, which expressed him Monmouth's
most devoted servant.
“You may well judge, sir,” he had said at parting, “that this is not
such a letter as I should entrust to any man.”
Mr. Wilding had bowed gravely, and gravely he had expressed himself
sensible of the exceptional honour his lordship did him by such a trust.
“And I depend upon you, sir, as you are a man of honour, to take such
measures as will ensure against its falling into any but the hands for
which it is intended.”
“As I am a man of honour, you may depend upon me,” Mr. Wilding solemnly
promised. “Will your lordship give me three lines above your signature
that will save me from molestation; thus you will facilitate the
preservation of this letter.”
“I had already thought of that,” was Sunderland's answer, and he placed
before Mr. Wilding three lines of writing signed and sealed which
enjoined all, straitly, in the King's name to suffer the bearer to pass
and repass and to offer him no hindrance.
On that they shook hands and parted, Sunderland to return to Whitehall
and his obedience to the King James whom he was ready to betray as
soon as he saw profit for himself in the act, Mr. Wilding to return to
Somerset to the King James in whom his faith was scant, indeed, but with
whom his fortunes were irrevocably bound up.
Meanwhile, Monmouth was back in Bridgwater, his second occupation
of which town was not being looked upon with unmixed favour. The
inhabitants had suffered enough already from his first visit; his return
there, after the Philips Norton affair of which such grossly exaggerated
reports had reached London, and which, in point of fact, had been little
better than a drawn battle--had been looked upon with dread by some,
with disfavour by others, and with dismay by not a few who viewed in
this an augury of failure.
Now Sir Rowland Blake, who since his pursuit of Mr. Wilding and
Trenchard on the occasion of their flight from Taunton had--in spite
of his failure on that occasion--been more or less in the service of
Albemarle and the loyal army, saw in this indisposition towards Monmouth
of so many of Bridgwater's inhabitants great possibilities of profit to
himself.
He was at Lupton House, the guest of his friend Richard Westmacott, and
the open suitor of Ruth, entirely ignoring the circumstance that she was
nominally the wife of Mr. Wilding--this to the infinite chagrin of Miss
Horton, who saw all her scheming likely to go for nothing.
In his heart of hearts it was a matter of not the slightest consequence
to Sir Rowland whether James Stuart or James Scott occupied the throne
of England. His own affairs gave him more than enough to think of, and
these disturbances in the West were very welcome to him, since they
rendered difficult any attempt to trace him on the part of his London
creditors. It happens, however, very commonly that enmity to an
individual will lead to enmity to the cause which that individual
espouses. Thus may it have been with Sir Rowland. His hatred of Wilding
and his keen desire to see Wilding destroyed had made him a zealous
partisan of the loyal cause. Richard Westmacott, easily swayed and
overborne by the town rake, whose vices made him seem to Richard the
embodiment of all that is splendid and enviable in man, had become
practically the baronet's tool, now that he had abandoned Monmouth's
Cause. Sir Rowland had not considered it beneath the dignity of his name
and station to discharge in Bridgwater certain functions that made him
more or less a spy. And so reliable had been the information he had sent
Feversham and Albemarle during Monmouth's first occupation of the town,
that he had won by now their complete confidence.
The second occupation and its unpopularity with many of those who
earlier--if lukewarm--had been partisans of the Duke, swelled the number
of loyally inclined people in Bridgwater, and suddenly inspired
Sir Rowland with a scheme by which at a blow he might snuff out the
rebellion.
This scheme involved the capture of the Duke, and the reward of success
should mean far more to Blake than the five thousand pounds at which the
value of the Duke's head had already been fixed by Parliament. He needed
a tool for this, and he even thought of Westmacott and Lupton House, but
afterwards preferred a Mr. Newlington, who was in better case to assist
him. This Newlington, an exceedingly prosperous merchant and one of the
richest men perhaps in the whole West of England, looked with extreme
disfavour upon Monmouth, whose advent had paralyzed his industries to an
extent that was costing him a fine round sum of money weekly.
He was now in alarm lest the town of Bridgwater should be made to
pay dearly for having harboured the Protestant Duke--he had no faith
whatever in the Protestant Duke's ultimate prevailing--and that he,
as one of the town's most prominent and prosperous citizens, might
be amongst the heaviest sufferers in spite of his neutrality. This
neutrality he observed because it was hardly safe in that disaffected
town for a man to proclaim himself a loyalist.
To him Sir Rowland expounded his audacious plan... He sought out the
merchant in his handsome mansion on the night of that Friday which had
witnessed Monmouth's return, and the merchant, honoured by the visit of
this gallant--ignorant as he was of the gentleman's fame in town--placed
himself entirely and instantly at his disposal, though the hour was
late. Sounding him carefully, and finding the fellow most amenable
to any scheme that should achieve the salvation of his purse and
industries, Blake boldly laid his plan before him. Startled at first,
Mr. Newlington upon considering it became so enthusiastic that he hailed
Sir Rowland as his deliverer, and heartily promised his cooperation.
Indeed, it was Mr. Newlington who was, himself, to take the first step.
Well pleased with his evening's work, Sir Rowland went home to Lupton
House and to bed. In the morning he broached the matter to Richard. He
had all the vanity of the inferior not only to lessen the appearance of
his inferiority, but to clothe himself in a mantle of importance; and it
was this vanity urged him to acquaint Richard with his plans in the very
presence of Ruth.
They had broken their fast, and they still lingered in the dining-room,
the largest and most important room in Lupton House. It was cool and
pleasant here in contrast to the heat of the July sun, which, following
upon the late wet weather, beat fiercely on the lawn, the window-doors
to which stood open. The cloth had been raised, and Diana and her mother
had lately left the room. Ruth, in the window-seat, at a small oval
table, was arranging a cluster of roses in an old bronze bowl. Sir
Rowland, his stiff short figure carefully dressed in a suit of brown
camlet, his fair wig very carefully curled, occupied a tall-backed
armchair near the empty fireplace. Richard, perched on the table's edge,
swung his shapely legs idly backwards and forwards and cogitated upon a
pretext to call for a morning draught of last October's ale.
Ruth completed her task with the roses and turned her eyes upon her
brother.
“You are not looking well, Richard,” she said, which was true enough,
for much hard drinking was beginning to set its stamp on Richard, and
young as he was, his insipidly fair face began to display a bloatedness
that was exceedingly unhealthy.
“Oh, I am well enough,” he answered almost peevishly, for these
allusions to his looks were becoming more frequent than he savoured.
“Gad!” cried Sir Rowland's deep voice, “you'll need to be well. I have
work for you to-morrow, Dick.”
Dick did not appear to share his enthusiasm. “I am sick of the work you
discover for us, Rowland,” he answered ungraciously.
But Blake showed no resentment. “Maybe you'll find the present task more
to your taste. If it's deeds of derring-do you pine for, I am the man
to satisfy you.” He smiled grimly, his bold grey eyes glancing across at
Ruth, who was observing him, listening.
Richard sneered, but offered him no encouragement to proceed.
“I see,” said Blake, “that I shall have to tell you the whole story
before you'll credit me. Shalt have it, then. But...” and he checked on
the word, his face growing serious, his eye wandering to the door, “I
would not have it overheard--not for a king's ransom,” which was more
literally true than he may have intended it to be.
Richard looked over his shoulder carelessly at the door.
“We have no eavesdroppers,” he said, and his voice bespoke his contempt
of the gravity of this news of which Sir Rowland made so much in
anticipation. He was acquainted with Sir Rowland's ways, and the
importance of them. “What are you considering?” he inquired.
“To end the rebellion,” answered Blake, his voice cautiously lowered.
Richard laughed outright. “There are several others considering
that--notably His Majesty King James, the Duke of Albemarle, and the
Earl of Feversham. Yet they don't appear to achieve it.”
“It is in that particular,” said Blake complacently, “that I shall
differ from them.” He turned to Ruth, eager to engage her in the
conversation, to flatter her by including her in the secret. Knowing the
loyalist principles she entertained, he had no reason to fear that his
plans could other than meet her approval. “What do you say, Mistress
Ruth?” Presuming upon his friendship with her brother, he had taken to
calling her by that name in preference to the other which he could not
bring himself to give her. “Is it not an object worthy of a gentleman's
endeavour?”
“If you can save so many poor people from encompassing their ruin by
following that rash young man the Duke of Monmouth, you will indeed be
doing a worthy deed.”
Blake rose, and made her a leg. “Madam,” said he, “had aught been
wanting to cement my resolve, your words would supply it to me. My plan
is simplicity itself. I propose to capture Monmouth and his principal
agents, and deliver them over to the King. And that is all.”
“A mere nothing,” croaked Richard.
“Could more be needed?” quoth Blake. “Once the rebel army is deprived of
its leaders it will melt and dissolve of itself. Once the Duke is in the
hands of his enemies there will be nothing left to fight for. Is it not
shrewd?”
“You are telling us the object rather than the plan,” Ruth reminded him.
“If the plan is as good as the object...”
“As good?” he echoed, chuckling. “You shall judge.” And briefly he
sketched for her the springe he was setting with the help of Mr.
Newlington. “Newlington is rich; the Duke is in straits for money.
Newlington goes to-day to offer him twenty thousand pounds; and the Duke
is to do him the honour of supping at his house to-morrow night to fetch
the money. It is a reasonable request for Mr. Newlington to make under
the circumstances, and the Duke cannot--dare not refuse it.”
“But how will that advance your project?” Ruth inquired, for Blake had
paused again, thinking that the rest must be obvious.
“In Mr. Newlington's orchard I propose to post a score or so of men,
well armed. Oh! I shall run no risks of betrayal by engaging Bridgwater
folk. I'll get the fellows I need from General Feversham. We take
Monmouth at supper, as quietly as may be, with what gentlemen happen to
have accompanied him. We bind and gag the Duke, and we convey him with
all speed and quiet out of Bridgwater. Feversham shall send a troop to
await me a mile or so from the town on the road to Weston Zoyland. We
shall join them with our captive, and thus convey him to the Royalist
General. Could aught be simpler or more infallible?”
Richard had slipped from the table. He had changed his mind on the
subject of the importance of the business Blake had in view. Excited by
it, he clapped his friend on the back approvingly.
“A great plan!” he cried. “Is it not, Ruth?”
“It should be the means of saving hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives,”
said she, “and so it deserves to prosper. But what of the officers who
may be with the Duke?” she inquired.
“There are not likely to be many--half a dozen, say. We shall have to
make short work of them, lest they should raise an alarm.” He saw her
glance clouding. “That is the ugly part of the affair,” he was quick
to add, himself assuming a look of sadness. He sighed. “What help is
there?” he asked. “Better that those few should suffer than that, as you
yourself have said, there should be some thousands of lives lost before
this rebellion is put down. Besides,” he continued, “Monmouth's officers
are far-seeing, ambitious men, who have entered into this affair to
promote their own personal fortunes. They are gamesters who have set
their lives upon the board against a great prize, and they know it. But
these other poor misguided people who have gone out to fight for liberty
and religion--it is these whom I am striving to rescue.”
His words sounded fervent, his sentiments almost heroic. Ruth looked at
him, and wondered had she misjudged him in the past. She sighed. Then
she thought of Wilding. He was on the other side, but where was he?
Rumour ran that he was dead; that he and Grey had quarrelled at Lyme,
and that Wilding had been killed as a result. Had it not been for Diana,
who strenuously bade her attach no credit to these reports, she would
readily have believed them. As it was she waited, wondering, thinking of
him always as she had seen him on that day at Walford when he had taken
his leave of her, and more than once, when she pondered the words he had
said, the look that had invested his drooping eyes, she found herself
with tears in her own. They welled up now, and she rose hastily to her
feet.
She looked a moment at Blake who was watching her keenly, speculating
upon this emotion of which she betrayed some sign, and wondering might
not his heroism have touched her, for, as we have seen, he had arrayed
a deed of excessive meanness, a deed worthy, almost, of the Iscariot, in
the panoply of heroic achievement.
“I think,” she said, “that you are setting your hand to a very worthy
and glorious enterprise, and I hope, nay, I am sure, that success must
attend your efforts.” He was still bowing his thanks when she passed out
through the open window-doors into the sunshine of the garden.
Sir Rowland swung round upon Richard. “A great enterprise, Dick,” he
cried; “I may count upon you for one?”
“Aye,” said Dick, who had found at last the pretext that he needed,
“you may count on me. Pull the bell, we'll drink to the success of the
venture.”