The preparations to be made for the momentous coup Sir Rowland meditated
were considerable. Mr. Newlington was yet to be concerted with and
advised, and, that done, Sir Rowland had to face the difficulty of
eluding the Bridgwater guards and make his way to Feversham's camp at
Somerton to enlist the general's cooperation to the extent that we
have seen he looked for. That done, he was to return and ripen his
preparations for the business he had undertaken. Nevertheless, in spite
of all that lay before him, he did not find it possible to leave Lupton
House without stepping out into the garden in quest of Ruth. Through
the window, whilst he and Richard were at their ale, he had watched her
between whiles, and had lingered, waiting; for Diana was with her, and
it was not his wish to seek her whilst Diana was at hand. Speak with
her, ere he went, he must. He was an opportunist, and now, he fondly
imagined, was his opportunity. He had made that day, at last, a
favourable impression upon Richard's sister; he had revealed himself in
an heroic light, and egregiously misreading the emotion she had shown
before withdrawing, he was satisfied that did he strike now victory must
attend him. He sighed his satisfaction and pleasurable anticipation. He
had been wary and he had known how to wait; and now, it seemed to him,
he was to be rewarded for his patience. Then he frowned, as another
glance showed him that Diana still lingered with her cousin; he wished
Diana at the devil. He had come to hate this fair-haired doll to whom
he had once paid court. She was too continually in his way, a constant
obstacle in his path, ever ready to remind Ruth of Anthony Wilding when
Sir Rowland most desired Anthony Wilding to be forgotten; and in Diana's
feelings towards himself such a change had been gradually wrought that
she had come to reciprocate his sentiments--to hate him with all the
bitter hatred into which love can be by scorn transmuted. At first her
object in keeping Ruth's thoughts on Mr. Wilding, in pleading his cause,
and seeking to present him in a favourable light to the lady whom he had
constrained to become his wife, had been that he might stand a barrier
between Ruth and Sir Rowland to the end that Diana might hope to see
revived--faute de mieux, since possible in no other way--the feelings
that once Sir Rowland had professed for herself. The situation was
rich in humiliations for poor, vain, foolishly crafty Diana, and these
humiliations were daily rendered more bitter by Sir Rowland's unwavering
courtship of her cousin in spite of all that she could do.
In the end the poison of them entered her soul, corroded her sentiments
towards him, dissolved the love she had borne him, and transformed
it into venom. She would not have him now if he did penitence for his
disaffection by going in sackcloth and crawling after her on his knees
for a full twelvemonth. But neither should he have Ruth if she could
thwart his purpose. On that she was resolved.
Had she but guessed that he watched them from the windows, waiting for
her to take her departure, she had lingered all the morning, and all
the afternoon if need be, at Ruth's side. But being ignorant of
the circumstance--believing that he had already left the house--she
presently quitted Ruth to go indoors, and no sooner was she gone than
there was Blake replacing her at Ruth's elbow. Mistress Wilding met him
with unsmiling, but not ungentle face.
“Not yet gone, Sir Rowland?” she asked him, and a less sanguine man had
been discouraged by the words.
“It may be forgiven me that I tarry at such a time,” said he, “when we
consider that I go, perhaps--to return no more.” It was an inspiration
on his part to assume the role of the hero going forth to a possible
death. It invested him with noble, valiant pathos which could not, he
thought, fail of its effect upon a woman's mind. But he looked in vain
for a change of colour, be it ever so slight, or a quickening of the
breath. He found neither; though, indeed, her deep blue eyes seemed to
soften as they observed him.
“There is danger in this thing that you are undertaking?” said she,
between question and assertion.
“It is not my wish to overstate it; yet I leave you to imagine what the
risk may be.”
“It is a good cause,” said she, thinking of the poor, deluded, humble
folk that followed Monmouth's banner, whom Blake's fine action was to
rescue from impending ruin and annihilation, “and surely Heaven will be
on your side.”
“We must prevail,” cried Blake with kindling eye, and you had thought
him a fanatic, not a miserable earner of blood-money. “We must
prevail, though some of us may pay dearly for the victory. I have a
foreboding...” He paused, sighed, then laughed and flung back his head,
as if throwing off some weight that had oppressed him.
It was admirably played; Nick Trenchard, had he observed it, might have
envied the performance; and it took effect with her, this adding of a
prospective martyr's crown to the hero's raiment he had earlier donned.
It was a master-touch worthy of one who was deeply learned--from the
school of foul experience--in the secret ways that lead to a woman's
favour. In a pursuit of this kind there was no subterfuge too mean, no
treachery too base for Sir Rowland Blake.
“Will you walk, mistress?” he said, and she, feeling that it were an
unkindness not to do his will, assented gravely. They moved down the
sloping lawn, side by side, Sir Rowland leaning on his cane, bareheaded,
his feathered hat tucked under his arm. Before them the river's smooth
expanse, swollen and yellow with the recent rains, glowed like a sheet
of copper, so that it blurred the sight to look upon it long.
A few steps they took with no word uttered, then Sir Rowland spoke.
“With this foreboding that is on me,” said he, “I could not go without
seeing you, without saying something that I may never have another
chance of saying; something that--who knows?--but for the emprise to
which I am now wedded you had never heard from me.”
He shot her a furtive, sidelong glance from under his heavy, beetling
brows, and now, indeed, he observed a change ripple over the composure
of her face like a sudden breeze across a sheet of water. The deep lace
collar at her throat rose and fell, and her fingers toyed nervously with
a ribbon of her grey bodice. She recovered in an instant, and threw up
entrenchments against the attack she saw he was about to make.
“You exaggerate, I trust,” said she. “Your forebodings will be proved
groundless. You will return safe and sound from this venture, as indeed
I hope you may.”
That was his cue. “You hope it?” he cried, arresting his step, turning,
and imprisoning her left hand in his right. “You hope it? Ah, if you
hope for my return, return I will; but unless I know that you will have
some welcome for me such as I desire from you, I think...” his
voice quivered cleverly, “I think, perhaps, it were well if... if
my forebodings were not as groundless as you say they are. Tell me,
Ruth...”
But she interrupted him. It was high time, she thought. Her face he saw
was flushed, her eyes had hardened somewhat. Calmly she disengaged her
hand.
“What is't you mean?” she asked. “Speak, Sir Rowland, speak plainly,
that I may give you a plain answer.”
It was a challenge in which another man had seen how hopeless was his
case, and, accepting defeat, had made as orderly a retreat as still was
possible. But Sir Rowland, stricken in his vanity, went headlong on to
utter rout.
“Since you ask me in such terms I will be plain, indeed,” he answered
her. “I mean...” He almost quailed before the look that met him from her
intrepid eyes. “Do you not see my meaning, Ruth?”
“That which I see,” said she, “I do not believe, and as I would not
wrong you by any foolish imaginings, I would have you plain with me.”
Yet the egregious fool went on. “And why should you not believe your
senses?” he asked her, between anger and entreaty. “Is it wonderful that
I should love you? Is it...?”
“Stop!” She drew back a pace from him. There was a moment's silence,
during which it seemed she gathered her forces to destroy him, and,
in the spirit, he bowed his head before the coming storm. Then, with a
sudden relaxing of the stiffness her lissom figure had assumed, “I think
you had better leave me, Sir Rowland,” she advised him. She half turned
and moved a step away; he followed with lowering glance, his upper lip
lifting and laying bare his powerful teeth. In a stride he was beside
her.
“Do you hate me, Ruth?” he asked her hoarsely.
“Why should I hate you?” she counter-questioned, sadly. “I do not even
dislike you,” she continued in a more friendly tone, adding, as if by
way of explaining this phenomenon, “You are my brother's friend. But I
am disappointed in you, Sir Rowland. You had, I know, no intention of
offering me disrespect; and yet it is what you have done.”
“As how?” he asked.
“Knowing me another's wife...”
He broke in tempestuously. “A mock marriage! If it is but that scruple
stands between us...”
“I think there is more,” she answered him. “You compel me to hurt you; I
do so as the surgeon does--that I may heal you.”
“Why, thanks for nothing,” he made answer, unable to repress a sneer.
Then, checking himself, and resuming the hero-martyr posture, “I go,
mistress,” he told her sadly, “and if I lose my life to-night, or
to-morrow, in this affair...”
“I shall pray for you,” said she; for she had found him out at
last, perceived the nature of the bow he sought to draw across her
heart-strings, and, having perceived it, contempt awoke in her. He had
attempted to move her by unfair, insidious means.
He fell back, crimson from chin to brow. He stifled the wrath that
welled up, threatening to choke him. He was a short-necked man, of the
sort--as Trenchard had once reminded him--that falls a prey to apoplexy,
and surely he was never nearer it than at that moment. He made her a
profound bow, bending himself almost in two before her in a very irony
of deference; then, drawing himself up again, he turned and left her.
The plot which with some pride he had hatched and the reward he looked
to cull from it, were now to his soul as ashes to his lips. What could
it profit him to destroy Monmouth so that Anthony Wilding lived? For
whether she loved Wilding or not, she was Wilding's wife. Wilding,
nominally, at least, was master of that which Sir Rowland coveted;
not her heart, indeed, but her ample fortune. Wilding had been a
stumbling-block to him since he had come to Bridgwater; but for Wilding
he might have run a smooth course; he was still fool enough to hug
that dear illusion to his soul. Somewhere in England--if not dead
already--this Wilding lurked, an outlaw, whom any might shoot down at
sight. Sir Rowland swore he would not rest until he knew that Anthony
Wilding cumbered the earth no more--leastways, not the surface of it.
He went forth to seek Newlington. The merchant had sent his message
to the rebel King, and had word in answer that His Majesty would be
graciously pleased to sup at Mr. Newlington's at nine o'clock on
the following evening, attended by a few gentlemen of his immediate
following. Sir Rowland received the news with satisfaction, and sighed
to think that Mr. Wilding--still absent, Heaven knew where--would not be
of the party. It was reported that on the Monday Monmouth was to march
to Gloucester, hoping there to be joined by his Cheshire friends, so
that it seemed Sir Rowland had not matured his plan a day too soon.
He got to horse, and contriving to win out of Bridgwater, rode off to
Somerton to concert with Lord Feversham concerning the men he would need
for his undertaking.
That night Richard made free talk of the undertaking to Diana and to
Ruth, loving, as does the pusillanimous, to show himself engaged in
daring enterprises. Emulating his friend Sir Rowland, he held forth
with prolixity upon the great service he was to do the State, and Ruth,
listening to him, was proud of his zeal, the sincerity of which it never
entered her mind to doubt.
Diana listened, too, but without illusions concerning Master Richard,
and she kept her conclusions to herself.
During the afternoon of the morrow, which was Sunday, Sir Rowland
returned to Bridgwater, his mission to Feversham entirely successful,
and all preparations made. He completed his arrangements, and towards
eight o'clock that night the twenty men sent by Feversham--they had
slipped singly into the town--began to muster in the orchard at the back
of Mr. Newlington's house.
It was just about that same hour that Mr. Wilding, saddle-worn and
dust-clogged in every pore, rode into Bridgwater, and made his way to
the sign of The Ship in the High Street, overlooking the Cross where
Trenchard was lodged. His friend was absent--possibly gone with his men
to the sermon Ferguson was preaching to the army in the Castle Fields.
Having put up his horse, Mr. Wilding, all dusty as he was, repaired
straight to the Castle to report himself to Monmouth.
He was informed that His Majesty was in council. Nevertheless, urging
that his news was of importance, he begged to be instantly announced.
After a pause, he was ushered into a lofty, roomy chamber where, in
the fading daylight, King Monmouth sat in council with Grey and Wade,
Matthews, Speke, Ferguson, and others. At the foot of the table stood a
sturdy country-fellow, unknown to Wilding. It was Godfrey, the spy, who
was to act as their guide across Sedgemoor that night; for the matter
that was engaging them just then was the completion of their plans
for the attack that was to be made that very night upon Feversham's
unprepared camp--a matter which had been resolved during the last few
hours as an alternative preferable to the retreat towards Gloucester
that had at first been intended.
Wilding was shocked at the change that had been wrought in Monmouth's
appearance during the few weeks since last he had seen him. His face
was thin, pale, and haggard, his eyes were more sombre, and beneath them
there were heavy, dark stains of sleeplessness and care, his very voice,
when presently he spoke, seemed to have lost the musical timbre that had
earlier distinguished it; it was grown harsh and rasping. Disappointment
after disappointment, set down to ill-luck, but in reality the fruit of
incompetence, had served to sour him. The climax had been reached in
the serious desertions after the Philips Norton fight, and the flight
of Paymaster Goodenough with the funds for the campaign. The company sat
about the long oak table on which a map was spread, and Colonel Wade was
speaking when Wilding entered.
On his appearance Wade ceased, and every eye was turned upon the
messenger from London. Ferguson, fresh from his sermon, sat with elbows
resting on the table, his long chin supported by his hands, his eyes
gleaming sharply under the shadow of his wig which was pulled down in
front to the level of his eyebrows.
It was the Duke who addressed Mr. Wilding, and the latter's keen ears
were quick to catch the bitterness that underlay his words.
“We are glad to see you, sir; we had not looked to do so again.”
“Not looked to do so, Your Gr... Majesty!” he echoed, plainly not
understanding, and it was observed that he stumbled over the Duke's new
title.
“We had imagined that the pleasures of the town were claiming your
entire attention.”
Wilding looked from one to the other of the men before him, and on the
face of all he saw a gravity that amounted to disapproval of him.
“The pleasures of the town?” said he, frowning, and again--“the
pleasures of the town? There is something in this that I fear I do not
understand.”
“Do you bring us news that London has risen?” asked Grey suddenly.
“I would I could,” said Wilding, smiling wistfully.
“Is it a laughing matter?” quoth Grey angrily.
“A smiling matter, my lord,” answered Wilding, nettled. “Your lordship
will observe that I did but smile.”
“Mr. Wilding,” said Monmouth darkly, “we are not pleased with you.”
“In that case,” returned Wilding, more and more irritated, “Your Majesty
expected of me more than was possible to any man.”
“You have wasted your time in London, sir,” the Duke explained. “We sent
you thither counting upon your loyalty and devotion to ourselves. What
have you done?”
“As much as a man could...” Wilding began, when Grey again interrupted
him.
“As little as a man could,” he answered. “Were His Grace not the most
foolishly clement prince in Christendom, a halter would be your reward
for the fine things you have done in London.”
Mr. Wilding stiffened visibly, his long white face grew set, and his
slanting eyes looked wicked. He was not a man readily moved to anger,
but to be greeted in such words as these by one who constituted himself
the mouthpiece of him for whom Wilding had incurred ruin was more than
he could bear with equanimity; that the risks to which he had exposed
himself in London--where, indeed, he had been in almost hourly
expectation of arrest and such short shrift as poor Disney had--should
be acknowledged in such terms as these, was something that turned him
almost sick with disgust. To what manner of men had he leagued himself?
He looked Grey steadily between the eyes.
“I mind me of an occasion on which such a charge of foolish clemency
might, indeed--and with greater justice--have been levelled against His
Majesty,” said he and his calm was almost terrible.
His lordship grew pale at the obvious allusion to Monmouth's mild
treatment of him for his cowardice at Bridport, and his eyes were as
baleful as Wilding's own at that moment. But before he could speak,
Monmouth had already answered Mr. Wilding.
“You are wanting in respect to us, sir,” he admonished him.
Mr. Wilding bowed to the rebuke in a submission that seemed ironical.
The blood mounted slowly to Monmouth's cheeks.
“Perhaps,” put in Wade, who was anxious for peace, “Mr. Wilding has some
explanation to offer us of his failure.”
His failure! They took too much for granted. Stitched in the lining of
his boot was the letter from the Secretary of State. To have achieved
that was surely to have achieved something.
“I thank you, sir, for supposing it,” answered Wilding, his voice hard
with self-restraint; “I have indeed an explanation.”
“We will hear it,” said Monmouth condescendingly, and Grey sneered,
thrusting out his bloated lips.
“I have to offer the explanation that Your Majesty is served in London
by cowards; self-sufficient and self-important cowards who have hindered
me in my task instead of helping me. I refer particularly to Colonel
Danvers.”
Grey interrupted him. “You have a rare effrontery, sir--aye, by God! Do
you dare call Danvers a coward?”
“It is not I who so call him; but the facts. Colonel Danvers has run
away.
“Danvers gone?” cried Ferguson, voicing the consternation of all.
Wilding shrugged and smiled; Grey's eye was offensively upon him. He
elected to answer the challenge of that glance. “He has followed
the illustrious example set him by other of Your Majesty's devoted
followers,” said Wilding.
Grey rose suddenly. This was too much. “I'll not endure it from this
knave!” he cried, appealing to Monmouth.
Monmouth wearily waved him to a seat; but Grey disregarded the command.
“What have I said that should touch your lordship?” asked Wilding, and,
smiling sardonically, he looked into Grey's eyes.
“It is not what you have said. It is what you have inferred.”
“And to call me knave!” said Wilding in a mocking horror.
The repression of his anger lent him a rare bitterness, and an almost
devilishly subtle manner of expressing wordlessly what was passing in
his mind. There was not one present but gathered from his utterance of
those five words that he did not hold Grey worthy the honour of
being called to account for that offensive epithet. He made just an
exclamatory protest, such as he might have made had a woman applied the
term to him.
Grey turned from him slowly to Monmouth. “It might be well,” said he,
in his turn controlling himself at last, “to place Mr. Wilding under
arrest.”
Mr. Wilding's manner quickened on the instant from passive to active
anger.
“Upon what charge, sir?” he demanded sharply. In truth it was the
only thing wanting that, after all that he had undergone, he should be
arrested. His eyes were upon the Duke's melancholy face, and his anger
was such that in that moment he vowed that if Monmouth acted upon this
suggestion of Grey's he should not have so much as the consolation of
Sunderland's letter.
“You have been wanting in respect to us, sir,” the Duke answered him.
He seemed able to do little more than repeat himself. “You return from
London empty-handed, your task unaccomplished, and instead of a becoming
contrition, you hector it here before us in this manner.” He shook his
head. “We are not pleased with you, Mr. Wilding.”
“But, Your Grace,” exclaimed Wilding, “is it my fault that your London
agents had failed to organize the rising? That rising should have taken
place, and it would have taken place had Your Majesty been more ably
represented there.”
“You were there, Mr. Wilding,” said Grey with heavy sarcasm.
“Would it no' be better to leave Mr. Wilding's affair until afterwards?”
suggested Ferguson at that moment. “It is already past eight, Your
Majesty, and there be still some details of this attack to settle that
your officers may prepare for it, whilst Mr. Newlington awaits Your
Majesty to supper at nine.”
“True,” said Monmouth, ever ready to take a solution offered by another.
“We will confer with you again later, Mr. Wilding.”
Wilding bowed, accepting his dismissal. “Before I go, Your Majesty,
there are certain things I would report...” he began.
“You have heard, sir,” Grey broke in. “Not now. This is not the time.”
“Indeed, no. This is not the time, Mr. Wilding,” echoed the Duke.
Wilding set his teeth in the intensity of his vexation.
“What I have to tell Your Majesty is of importance,” he exclaimed, and
Monmouth seemed to waver, whilst Grey looked disdainful unbelief of the
importance of any communication Wilding might have to make.
“We have little time, Your Majesty,” Ferguson reminded Monmouth.
“Perhaps,” put in friendly Wade, “Your Majesty might see Mr. Wilding at
Mr. Newlington's.”
“Is it really necessary?” quoth Grey.
This treatment of him inspired Mr. Wilding with malice. The mere mention
of Sunderland's letter would have changed their tone. But he elected
by no such word to urge the importance of his business. It should be
entirely as Monmouth should elect or be constrained by these gentlemen
about his council-table.
“It would serve two purposes,” said Wade, whilst Monmouth still
considered. “Your Majesty will be none too well attended, your officers
having this other matter to prepare for. Mr. Wilding would form another
to swell your escort of gentlemen.”
“I think you are right, Colonel Wade,” said Monmouth. “We sup at Mr.
Newlington's at nine o'clock, Mr. Wilding. We shall expect you to attend
us there. Lieutenant Cragg,” said His Grace to the young officer who had
admitted Wilding, and who had remained at attention by the door, “you
may reconduct Mr. Wilding.”
Wilding bowed, his lips tight to keep in the anger that craved
expression. Then, without another word spoken, he turned and departed.
“An insolent, overbearing knave!” was Grey's comment upon him after he
had left the room.
“Let us attend to this, your lordship,” said Speke, tapping the
map. “Time presses,” and he invited Wade to continue the matter that
Wilding's advent had interrupted.