Captain Wentworth clicked his heels together and saluted. Blake, in the
background, drew a deep breath--unmistakably of satisfaction, and his
eyes glittered. A muffled cry broke from Ruth, who rose instantly from
her chair, her hand on her bosom. Richard stood with fallen jaw, amazed,
a trifle troubled even, whilst Mr. Wilding started more in surprise than
actual fear, and approached the table.
“You heard, sir,” said Captain Wentworth.
“I heard,” answered Mr. Wilding quietly. “But surely not aright. One
moment, sir,” and he waved his hand so compellingly that, despite the
order he had received, the phlegmatic captain hesitated.
Feversham, who had taken the cravat--a yard of priceless Dutch
lace--from the hands of his valet, and was standing with his back to the
company at a small and very faulty mirror that hung by the overmantel,
looked peevishly over his shoulder.
“My lord,” said Wilding, and Blake, for all his hatred of this man,
marvelled at a composure that did not forsake him even now, “you are
surely not proposing to deal with me in this fashion--not seriously, my
lord?”
“Ah, ca!” said the Frenchman. “T'ink it a jest if you please. What for
you come 'ere?”
“Assuredly not for the purpose of being shot,” said Wilding, and
actually smiled. Then, in the tones of one discussing a matter that is
grave but not of surpassing gravity, he continued: “It is not that I
fail to recognize that I may seem to have incurred the rigour of the
law; but these matters must be formally proved against me. I have
affairs to set in order against such a consummation.”
“Ta, ta!” snapped Feversham. “T'at not regard me Weutwort', you 'ave
'eard my order.” And he returned to his mirror and the nice adjustment
of his neckwear.
“But, my lord,” insisted Wilding, “you have not the right--you have not
the power so to proceed against me. A man of my quality is not to be
shot without a trial.”
“You can 'ang if you prefer,” said Feversham indifferently, drawing out
the ends of his cravat and smoothing them down upon his breast. He faced
about briskly. “Give me t'at coat, Belmont. His Majesty 'ave empower me
to 'ang or shoot any gentlemens of t'e partie of t'e Duc t'e Monmoot' on
t'e spot. I say t'at for your satisfaction. And look, I am desolate' to
be so quick wit' you, but please to consider t'e circumstance. T'e enemy
go to attack. Wentwort' must go to his regimen', and my ot'er
officers are all occupi'. You comprehen' I 'ave not t'e time to spare
you--n'est-ce-pas?”--Wentworth's hand touched Wilding on the shoulder.
He was standing with head slightly bowed, his brows knit in thought. He
looked round at the touch, sighed and smiled.
Belmont held the coat for his master, who slipped into it, and flung
at Wilding what was intended for a consolatory sop. “It is fortune de
guerre, Mistaire Wilding. I am desolate'; but it is fortune of t'e war.”
“May it be less fortunate for your lordship, then,” said Wilding dryly,
and was on the point of turning, when Ruth's voice came in a loud cry to
startle him and to quicken his pulses.
“My lord!” It was a cry of utter anguish.
Feversham, settling his gold-laced coat comfortably to his figure,
looked at her. “Madame?” said he.
But she had nothing to say. She stood, deathly white, slightly bent
forward, one hand wringing the other, her eyes almost wild, her bosom
heaving frantically.
“Hum!” said Feversham, and he loosened and removed the scarf from his
head. He shrugged slightly and looked at Wentworth. “Finissons!” said
he.
The word and the look snapped the trammels that bound Ruth's speech.
“Five minutes, my lord!” she cried imploringly. “Give him five
minutes--and me, my lord!”
Wilding, deeply shaken, trembled now as he awaited Feversham's reply.
The Frenchman seemed to waver. “Bien,” he began, spreading his hands.
And in that moment a shot rang out in the night and startled the whole
company. Feversham threw back his head; the signs of yielding left his
face. “Ha!” he cried. “T'ey are arrive.” He snatched his wig from his
lacquey's hands, donned it, and turned again an instant to the mirror
to adjust the great curls. “Quick, Wentwort'! T'ere is no more time now.
Make Mistaire Wilding be shot at once. T'en to your regimen'.” He faced
about and took the sword his valet proffered. “Au revoir, messieurs!”
“Serviteur, madame!” And, buckling his sword-belt as he went, he swept
out, leaving the door wide open, Belmont following, Wentworth saluting
and the guards presenting arms.
“Come, sir,” said the captain in a subdued voice, his eyes avoiding
Ruth's face.
“I am ready,” answered Wilding firmly, and he turned to glance at his
wife.
She was bending towards him, her hands held out, such a look on her face
as almost drove him mad with despair, reading it as he did. He made a
sound deep in his throat before he found words.
“Give me one minute, sir--one minute,” he begged Wentworth. “I ask no
more than that.”
Wentworth was a gentleman and not ill-natured. But he was a soldier and
had received his orders. He hesitated between the instincts of the
two conditions. And what time he did so there came a clatter of hoofs
without to resolve him. It was Feversham departing.
“You shall have your minute, sir,” said he. “More I dare not give you,
as you can see.
“From my heart I thank you,” answered Mr. Wilding, and from the
gratitude of his tone you might have inferred that it was his life
Wentworth had accorded him.
The captain had already turned aside to address his men. “Two of you
outside, guard that window,” he ordered. “The rest of you, in the
passage. Bestir there!”
“Take your precautions, by all means, sir,” said Wilding; “but I give
you my word of honour I shall attempt no escape.”
Wentworth nodded without replying. His eye lighted on Blake--who had
been seemingly forgotten in the confusion--and on Richard. A kindliness
for the man who met his end so unflinchingly, a respect for so worthy an
enemy, actuated the red-faced captain.
“You had better take yourself off, Sir Rowland,” said he. “And you, Mr.
Westmacott--you can wait in the passage with my men.”
They obeyed him promptly enough, but when outside Sir Rowland made
bold to remind the captain that he was failing in his duty, and that
he should make a point of informing the General of this anon. Wentworth
bade him go to the devil, and so was rid of him.
Alone, inside that low-ceilinged chamber, stood Ruth and Wilding face
to face. He advanced towards her, and with a shuddering sob she flung
herself into his arms. Still, he mistrusted the emotion to which she
was a prey--dreading lest it should have its root in pity. He patted her
shoulder soothingly.
“Nay, nay, little child,” he whispered in her ear. “Never weep for
me that have not a tear for myself. What better resolution of the
difficulties my folly has created?” For only answer she clung closer,
her hands locked about his neck, her slender body shaken by her silent
weeping. “Don't pity me,” he besought her. “I am content it should be
so. It is the amend I promised you. Waste no pity on me, Ruth.”
She raised her face, her eyes wild and blurred with tears, looked up to
his.
“It is not pity!” she cried. “I want you, Anthony! I love you, Anthony,
Anthony!”
His face grew ashen. “It is true, then!” he asked her. “And what you
said to-night was true! I thought you said it only to detain me.”
“Oh, it is true, it is true!” she wailed.
He sighed; he disengaged a hand to stroke her face. “I am happy,” he
said, and strove to smile. “Had I lived, who knows...?”
“No, no, no,” she interrupted him passionately, her arms tightening
about his neck. He bent his head. Their lips met and clung. A knock
fell upon the door. They started, and Wilding raised his hands gently to
disengage her pinioning arms.
“I must go, sweet,” he said.
“God help me!” she moaned, and clung to him still. “It is I who am
killing you--I and your love for me. For it was to save me you rode
hither to-night, never pausing to weigh your own deadly danger. Oh, I
am punished for having listened to every voice but the voice of my own
heart where you were concerned. Had I loved you earlier--had I owned it
earlier...”
“It had still been too late,” he said, more to comfort her than because
he knew it to be so. “Be brave for my sake, Ruth. You can be brave, I
know--so well. Listen, sweet. Your words have made me happy. Mar not
this happiness of mine by sending me out in grief at your grief.”
Her response to his prayer was brave, indeed. Through her tears came a
faint smile to overspread her face so white and pitiful.
“We shall meet soon again,” she said.
“Aye--think on that,” he bade her, and pressed her to him. “Good-bye,
sweet! God keep you till we meet!” he added, his voice infinitely
tender.
“Mr. Wilding!” Wentworth's voice called him, and the captain thrust the
door open a foot or so. “Mr. Wilding!”
“I am coming,” he answered steadily. He kissed her again, and on that
kiss of his she sank against him, and he felt her turn all limp. He
raised his voice. “Richard!” he shouted wildly. “Richard!”
At the note of alarm in his voice, Wentworth flung wide the door
and entered, Richard's ashen face showing over his shoulder. In her
brother's care Wilding delivered his mercifully unconscious wife. “See
to her, Dick,” he said, and turned to go, mistrusting himself now.
But he paused as he reached the door, Wentworth waxing more and more
impatient at his elbow. He turned again.
“Dick,” he said, “we might have been better friends. I would we had
been. Let us part so at least,” and he held out his hand, smiling.
Before so much gallantry Richard was conquered almost to the point of
worship; a weak man himself, there was no virtue he could more admire
than strength. He left Ruth in the high-backed chair in which Wilding's
tender hands had placed her, and sprang forward, tears in his eyes. He
wrung Wilding's hands in wordless passion.
“Be good to her, Dick,” said Wilding, and went out with Wentworth.
He was marched down the street in the centre of that small party of
musketeers of Dunbarton's regiment, his thoughts all behind him rather
than ahead, a smile on his lips. He had conquered at the last. He
thought of that other parting of theirs, nearly a month ago, on the road
by Walford. Now, as then, circumstance was the fire that had melted her.
But the crucible was no longer--as then of pity; it was the crucible of
love.
And in that same crucible, too, Anthony Wilding's nature had undergone a
transmutation; his love for Ruth had been purified of that base alloy of
desire which had driven him into the unworthiness of making her his own
at all costs; there was no carnal grossness in his present passion; it
was pure as a religion--the love that takes no account of self, the love
that makes for joyous and grateful martyrdom. And a joyous and grateful
martyr would Anthony Wilding have been could he have thought that his
death would bring her happiness or peace. In such a faith as that he had
marched--or so he thought blithely to his end, and the smile on his lips
had been less wistful than it was. Thinking of the agony in which he had
left her, he almost came to wish--so pure was his love grown--that he
had not conquered. The joy that at first was his was now all dashed. His
death would cause her pain. His death! O God! It is an easy thing to be
a martyr; but this was not martyrdom; having done what he had done he
had not the right to die. The last vestige of the smile that he had worn
faded from his tight-pressed lips, tight-pressed as though to endure
some physical suffering. His face greyed, and deep lines furrowed
his brow. Thus he marched on, mechanically, amid his marching escort,
through the murky, fog-laden night, taking no heed of the stir about
them, for all Weston Zoyland was aroused by now.
Ahead of them, and over to the east, the firing blazed and crackled,
volley upon volley, to tell them that already battle had been joined
in earnest. Monmouth's surprise had aborted, and it passed through
Wilding's mind that to a great extent he was to blame for this. But it
gave him little care.
At least his indiscretion had served the purpose of rescuing Ruth from
Lord Feversham's unclean clutches. For the rest, knowing that Monmouth's
army by far outnumbered Feversham's, he had no doubt that the advantage
must still lie with the Duke, in spite of Feversham's having been warned
in the eleventh hour.
Louder grew the sounds of battle. Above the din of firing a swelling
chorus rose upon the night, startling and weird in such a time and
place. Monmouth's pious infantry went into action singing hymns, and
Wentworth, impatient to be at his post, bade his men go faster.
The night was by now growing faintly luminous, and the deathly grey
light of approaching dawn hung in the mists upon the moor. Objects grew
visible in bulk at least, if not in form and shape, by the time the
little company had reached the end of Weston village and come upon
the deep mud dyke which had been Wentworth's objective--a ditch that
communicated with the great rhine that served the King's forces so well
on that night of Sedgemoor.
Within some twenty paces of this Wentworth called a halt, and would have
had Wilding's hands pinioned behind him, and his eyes blindfolded, but
that Wilding begged him this might not be done. Wentworth was, as we
know, impatient; and between impatience and kindliness, perhaps, he
acceded to Wilding's prayer.
He even hesitated a moment at the last. It was in his mind to speak some
word of comfort to the doomed man. Then a sudden volley, more terrific
than any that had preceded it, followed by hoarse cheering away to
eastward, quickened his impatience. He bade the sergeant lead Mr.
Wilding forward and stand him on the edge of the ditch. His object was
that thus the man's body would be disposed of without waste of time.
This Wilding realized, his soul rebelling against this fate which
had come upon him in the very hour when he most desired to live. Mad
thoughts of escape crossed his mind--of a leap across the dyke, and a
wild dash through the fog. But the futility of it was too appalling.
The musketeers were already blowing their matches. He would suffer the
ignominy of being shot in the back, like a coward, if he made any such
attempt.
And so, despairing but not resigned, he took his stand on the very edge
of the ditch. In an irony of obligingness he set half of his heels over
the void, so that he was nicely balanced upon the edge of the cutting,
and must go backwards and down into the mud when hit.
It was this position he had taken that gave him an inspiration in that
last moment. The sergeant had moved away out of the line of fire, and he
stood there alone, waiting, erect and with his head held high, his
eyes upon the grey mass of musketeers--blurred alike by mist and
semi-darkness--some twenty paces distant along the line of which glowed
eight red fuses.
Wentworth's voice rang out with the words of command.
“Blow your matches!”
Brighter gleamed the points of light, and under their steel pots the
faces of the musketeers, suffused by a dull red glow, sprang for a
moment out of the grey mass, to fade once more into the general greyness
at the word, “Cock your matches!”
“Guard your pans!” came a second later the captain's voice, and then:
“Present!”
There was a stir and rattle, and the dark, indistinct figure standing
on the lip of the ditch was covered by the eight muskets. To the eyes of
the firing-party he was no more than a blurred shadowy form, showing a
little darker than the encompassing dark grey.
“Give fire!”
On the word Mr. Wilding lost the delicate, precarious balance he had
been sustaining on the edge of the ditch, and went over backwards, at
the imminent risk--as he afterwards related--of breaking his neck.
At the same instant a jagged, eight-pointed line of flame slashed the
darkness, and the thunder of the volley pealed forth to lose itself in
the greater din of battle on Penzoy Pound, hard by.