CHAPTER XVIII. BETRAYAL
Still smarting under the cavalier treatment he had received, Mr. Wildingcame forth from the Castle to find Trenchard awaiting him among thecrowd of officers and men that thronged the yard.
Nick linked his arm through his friend's and led him away. They quittedthe place in silence, and in silence took their way south towards theHigh Street, Nick waiting for Mr. Wilding to speak, Mr. Wilding's mindstill in turmoil at the things he had endured. At last Nick haltedsuddenly and looked keenly at his friend in the failing light.
"What a plague ails you, Tony?" said he sharply. "You are as silent as Iam impatient for your news."
Wilding told him in brief, disdainful terms of the reception theyhad given him at the Castle, and of how they had blamed him for thecircumstance that London had failed to proclaim itself for Monmouth.
Trenchard snarled viciously. "'Tis that mongrel Grey," said he. "Oh,Anthony, to what an affair have we set our hands? Naught can prosperwith that fellow in it." He laid his hand on Wilding's arm and loweredhis voice. "As I have hinted before, 'twould not surprise me if timeproved him a traitor. Failure attends him everywhere, and so unfailinglythat one wonders is not failure invited by him. And that fool Monmouth!Pshaw! See what it is to serve a weakling. With another in his placeand the country disaffected as it is, we had been masters of England bynow."
Two ladies passed them at that moment, cloaked and hooded, walkingbriskly. One of them turned to look at Trenchard, who, waving his armsin wild gesticulation, was a conspicuous object. She checked in herwalk, arresting her companion.
"Mr. Wilding!" she exclaimed. It was Lady Horton.
"Mr. Wilding!" cried Diana, her companion.
Wilding doffed his hat and bowed, Trenchard following his example.
"We had scarce looked to see you in Bridgwater again," said the mother,her mild, pleasant countenance reflecting the satisfaction it gave herto behold him safe and sound.
"There have been moments," answered Wilding, "when myself I scarceexpected to return. Your ladyship's greeting shows me what I had losthad I not done so."
"You are but newly arrived?" quoth Diana, scanning him in the gloaming.
"From London, an hour since."
"An hour?" she echoed, and observed that he was still booted anddust-stained. "You will have been to Lupton House?"
A shadow crossed his face, his glance seemed to grow clouded, all ofwhich watchful Diana did not fail to observe. "Not yet," said he.
"You are a laggard," she laughed at him, and he felt the blood drivenback upon his heart. What did she mean? Was it possible she suggestedthat he should be welcome, that his wife's feelings towards him hadundergone a change? His last parting from her on the road near Walfordhad been ever in his mind.
"I have had weighty business to transact, he replied, and Trenchardsnorted, his mind flying back to the council-room at the Castle, andwhat his friend had told him.
"But now that you have disposed of that you will sup with us," said LadyHorton, who was convinced that since Ruth had gone to the altar withhim he was Ruth's lover in spite of the odd things she had heard.Appearances with Lady Horton counted for everything, and all thatglittered was gold to her.
"I would," he answered, "but that I am to sup at Mr. Newlington's withHis Majesty. My visit must wait until to-morrow."
"Let us hope," said Trenchard, "that it waits no longer." He was alreadyinstructed touching the night attack on Feversham's camp on Sedgemoor,and thought it likely Wilding would accompany them.
"You are going to Mr. Newlington's?" said Diana, and Trenchard thoughtshe had turned singularly pale. Her hand was over her heart, her eyeswide. She seemed about to add something, but checked herself. She tookher mother's arm. "We are detaining Mr. Wilding, mother," said she,and her voice quivered as if her whole being were shaken by some gustyagitation. They spoke their farewells briefly, and moved on. A secondlater Diana was back at their side again.
"Where are you lodged, Mr. Wilding?" she inquired.
"With my friend Trenchard--at the sign of The Ship, by the Cross."
She briefly acknowledged the information, rejoined her mother, andhurried away with her.
Trenchard stood staring after them a moment. "Odd!" said he; "did youmark that girl's discomposure?"
But Wilding's thoughts were elsewhere. "Come, Nick! If I am to rendermyself fit to sit at table with Monmouth, we'll need to hasten."
They went their way, but not so fast as went Diana, urging with her herprotesting and short-winded mother.
"Where is your mistress?" the girl asked excitedly of the first servantshe met at Lupton House.
"In her room, madam," the man replied, and to Ruth's room went Dianabreathlessly, leaving Lady Horton gaping after her and understandingnothing.
Ruth, who was seated pensive by her window, rose on Diana's impetuousentrance, and in the deepening twilight she looked almost ghostly in hergown of shimmering white satin, sewn with pearls about the neck of thelow-cut bodice.
"Diana!" she cried. "You startled me."
"Not so much as I am yet to do," answered Diana, breathing excitement.She threw back the wimple from her head, and pulling away her cloak,tossed it on to the bed. "Mr. Wilding is in Bridgwater," she announced.
There was a faint rustle from the stiff satin of Ruth's gown. "Then..."her voice shook slightly. "Then... he is not dead," she said, morebecause she felt that she must say something than because her wordsfitted the occasion.
"Not yet," said Diana grimly.
"Not yet?"
"He sups to-night at Mr. Newlington's," Miss Horton exclaimed in a voicepregnant with meaning.
"Ah!" It was a cry from Ruth, sharp as if she had been stabbed. She sankback to her seat by the window, smitten down by this sudden news.
There was a pause, which fretted Diana, who now craved knowledge of whatmight be passing in her cousin's mind. She advanced towards Ruth andlaid a trembling hand on her shoulder, where the white gown met theivory neck. "He must be warned," she said.
"But... but how?" stammered Ruth. "To warn him were to betray SirRowland."
"Sir Rowland?" cried Diana in high scorn.
"And... and Richard," Ruth continued.
"Yes, and Mr. Newlington, and all the other knaves that are engaged inthis murderous business. Well?" she demanded. "Will you do it, or mustI?"
"Do it?" Ruth's eyes sought her cousin's white, excited face in thequasi-darkness. "But have you thought of what it will mean? Have youthought of the poor people that will perish unless the Duke is taken andthis rebellion brought to an end?"
"Thought of it?" repeated Diana witheringly. "Not I. I have thought thatMr. Wilding is here and like to have his throat cut before an hour ispast."
"Tell me, are you sure of this?" asked Ruth.
"I have it from your husband's own lips," Diana answered, and told herin a few words of her meeting with Mr. Wilding.
Ruth sat with hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the dim violetafter-glow in the west, and her mind wrestling with this problem thatDiana had brought her.
"Diana," she cried at last, "what am I to do?"
"Do?" echoed Diana. "Is it not plain? Warn Mr. Wilding."
"But Richard?"
"Mr. Wilding saved Richard's life..."
"I know. I know. My duty is to warn him."
"Then why hesitate?"
"My duty is also to keep faith with Richard, to think of those poormisguided folk who are to be saved by this," cried Ruth in an agony. "IfMr. Wilding is warned, they will all be ruined."
Diana stamped her foot impatiently. "Had I thought to find you in thismind, I had warned him myself," said she.
"Ah! Why did you not?"
"That the chance of doing so might be yours. That you might thus repayhim the debt in which you stand."
"Diana, I can't!" The words broke from her in a sob.
But whatever her interest in Mr. Wilding for her own sake, Diana's primeintent was the thwarting of Sir Rowland
Blake. If Wilding were warnedof what manner of feast was spread at Newlington's, Sir Rowland would beindeed undone.
"You think of Richard," she exclaimed, "and you know that Richard is tohave no active part in the affair--that he will run no risk. They haveassigned him but a sentry duty that he may warn Blake and his followersif any danger threatens them."
"It is not of Richard's life I am thinking, but of his honour, of histrust in me. To warn Mr. Wilding were... to commit an act of betrayal."
"And is Mr. Wilding to be slaughtered with his friends?" Diana askedher. "Resolve me that. Time presses. In half an hour it will be toolate."
That allusion to the shortness of the time brought Ruth an inspiration.Suddenly she saw a way. Wilding should be saved, and yet she would notbreak faith with Richard nor ruin those others. She would detain him,and whilst warning him at the last moment, in time for him to savehimself; not do so until it must be too late for him to warn the others.Thus she would do her duty by him, and yet keep faith with Richard andSir Rowland. She had resolved, she thought, the awful difficulty thathad confronted her. She rose suddenly, heartened by the thought.
"Give me your cloak and wimple," she bade Diana, and Diana flew to doher bidding. "Where is Mr. Wilding lodged?" she asked.
"At the sign of The Ship--overlooking the Cross, with Mr. Trenchard.Shall I come with you?"
"No," answered Ruth without hesitation. "I will go alone." She drew thewimple well over her head, so that in its shadows her face might lieconcealed, and hid her shimmering white dress under Diana's cloak.
She hastened through the ill-lighted streets, never heeding the roughcobbles that hurt her feet, shod in light indoor wear, never heeding thecrowds that thronged her way. All Bridgwater was astir with Monmouth'spresence; moreover, there had been great incursions from Taunton and thesurrounding country, the women-folk of the Duke-King's followers havingcome that day to Bridgwater to say farewell to father and son, husbandand brother, before the army marched--as was still believed--toGloucester.
The half-hour was striking from Saint Mary's--the church in which shehad been married--as Ruth reached the door of the sign of The Ship. Shewas about to knock, when suddenly it opened, and Mr. Wilding himself,with Trenchard immediately behind him, stood confronting her. At sightof him a momentary weakness took her. He had changed from his hard-usedriding-garments into a suit of roughly corded black silk, which threwinto relief the steely litheness of his spare figure. His dark brownhair was carefully dressed, diamonds gleamed in the cravat of snowy laceat his throat. He was uncovered, his hat under his arm, and he stoodaside to make way for her, imagining that she was some woman of thehouse.
"Mr. Wilding," said she, her heart fluttering in her throat. "May I...may I speak with you?"
He leaned forward, seeking to pierce the shadows of her wimple; he hadthought he recognized the voice, as his sudden start had shown; andyet he disbelieved his ears. She moved her head at that moment, and thelight streaming out from a lamp in the passage beat upon her white face.
"Ruth!" he cried, and came quickly forward. Trenchard, behindhim, looked on and scowled with sudden impatience. Mr. Wilding'sphilanderings with this lady had never had the old rake's approval. Toomuch trouble already had resulted from them.
"I must speak with you at once. At once!" she urged him, her tonefearful.
"Are you in need of me?" he asked concernedly.
"In very urgent need," said she.
"I thank God," he answered without flippancy. "You shall find me at yourservice. Tell me."
"Not here; not here," she answered him.
"Where else?" said he. "Shall we walk?"
"No, no." Her repetitions marked the deep excitement that possessed her."I will go in with you." And she signed with her head towards the doorfrom which he was barely emerged.
"'Twere scarce fitting," said he, for being confused and full ofspeculation on the score of her need, he had for the moment almostoverlooked the relations in which they stood. In spite of the ceremonythrough which they had gone together, Mr. Wilding still mostly thoughtof her as of a mistress very difficult to woo.
"Fitting?" she echoed, and then after a pause, "Am I not your wife?" sheasked him in a low voice, her cheeks crimsoning.
"Ha! 'Pon honour, I had almost forgot," said he, and though the burdenof his words seemed mocking, their tone was sad.
Of the passers-by that jostled them a couple had now paused to watch ascene that had an element of the unusual in it. She pulled her wimplecloser to her face, took him by the arm, and drew him with her into thehouse.
"Close the door," she bade him, and Trenchard, who had stood aside thatthey might pass in, forestalled him in obeying her. "Now lead me to yourroom, said she, and Wilding in amaze turned to Trenchard as if askinghis consent, for the lodging, after all, was Trenchard's.
"I'll wait here," said Nick, and waved his hand towards an oak benchthat stood in the passage. "You had best make haste," he urged hisfriend; "you are late already. That is, unless you are of a mind to setthe lady's affairs before King Monmouth's. And were I in your place,Anthony, faith I'd not scruple to do it. For after all," he added underhis breath, "there's little choice in rotten apples."
Ruth waited for some answer from Wilding that might suggest he wasindifferent whether he went to Newlington's or not; but he spoke no wordas he turned to lead the way above-stairs to the indifferentparlour which with the adjoining bedroom constituted Mr. Trenchard'slodging--and his own, for the time being.
Having assured herself that the curtains were closely drawn, she put byher cloak and hood, and stood revealed to him in the light of thethree candles, burning in a branch upon the bare oak table, dazzlinglybeautiful in her gown of ivory-white.
He stood apart, cogitating her with glowing eyes, the faintest smilebetween question and pleasure hovering about his thin mouth. He hadclosed the door, and stood in silence waiting for her to make known tohim her pleasure.
"Mr. Wilding..." she began, and straightway he interrupted her.
"But a moment since you did remind me that I have the honour to be yourhusband," he said with grave humour. "Why seek now to overcloud thatfact? I mind me that the last time we met you called me by another name.But it may be," he added as an afterthought, "you are of opinion that Ihave broken faith with you."
"Broken faith? As how?"
"So!" he said, and sighed. "My words were of so little account that theyhave been, I see, forgotten. Yet, so that I remember them, that is whatchiefly matters. I promised then--or seemed to promise--that I wouldmake a widow of you, who had made a wife of you against your will. Ithas not happened yet. Do not despair. This Monmouth quarrel is not yetfought out. Hope on, my Ruth."
She looked at him with eyes wide open--lustrous eyes of sapphire ina face of ivory. A faint smile parted her lips, the reflection of thethought in her mind that had she, indeed, been eager for his death shewould not be with him at this moment; had she desired it, how easy wouldher course have been.
"You do me wrong to bid me hope for that," she answered him, her toneslevel. "I do not wish the death of any man, unless..." She paused; hertruthfulness urged her too far.
"Unless?" said he, brows raised, polite interest on his face.
"Unless it be His Grace of Monmouth."
He considered her with suddenly narrowed eyes. "You have not by chancesought me to talk politics?" said he. "Or..." and he suddenly caught hisbreath, his nostrils dilating with rage at the bare thought that leaptinto his mind. Had Monmouth, the notorious libertine, been to LuptonHouse and persecuted her with his addresses? "Is it that you areacquainted with His Grace?" he asked.
"I have never spoken to him!" she answered, with no suspicion of whatwas in his thoughts.
In his relief he laughed, remembering now that Monmouth's affairs weretoo absorbing just at present to leave him room for dalliance.
"But you are standing," said he, and he advanced a chair. "I deplorethat I have no better hospitality to offer you. I doubt if I ever
shallagain. I am told that Albemarle did me the honour to stable his knackersin my hall at Zoyland."
She took the chair he offered her, sinking to it like one physicallyweary, a thing he was quick to notice. He watched her, his body eager,his soul trammelling it with a steely restraint. "Tell me, now," saidhe, "in what you need me."
She was silent a moment, pondering, hesitation and confusion seeming toenvelop her. A pink flush rose to colour the beautiful pillar of neckand overspread the delicate half-averted face. He watched it, wondering.
"How long," she asked him, her whole intent at present being to delayhim and gain time. "How long have you been in Bridgwater?"
"Two hours at most," said he.
"Two hours! And yet you never came to... to me. I heard of yourpresence, and I feared you might intend to abstain from seeking me."
He almost held his breath while she spoke, caught in amazement. He wasstanding close beside her chair, his right hand rested upon its tallback.
"Did you so intend?" she asked him.
"I told you even now," he answered with hard-won calm, "that I had madeyou a sort of promise."
"I... I would not have you keep it," she murmured. She heard his sharplyindrawn breath, felt him leaning over her, and was filled with anunaccountable fear.
"Was it to tell me this you came?" he asked her, his voice reduced to awhisper.
"No... yes," she answered, an agony in her mind, which groped for somemeans to keep him by her side until his danger should be overpast. Thatmuch she owed him in honour if in nothing else.
"No--yes?" he echoed, and he had drawn himself erect again. "What is'tyou mean, Ruth?"
"I mean that it was that, yet not quite only that."
"Ah!" Disappointment vibrated faintly in his clamation. "What else?"
"I would have you abandon Monmouth's following," she told him.
He stared a moment, moved away and round where he could confront her.The flush had now faded from her face. This he observed and the heaveof her bosom in its low bodice. He knit his brows, perplexed. Here wassurely more than at first might seem.
"Why so?" he asked.
"For your own safety's sake," she answered him.
"You are oddly concerned for that, Ruth."
"Concerned--not oddly." She paused an instant, swallowed hard, and thencontinued. "I am concerned too for your honour, and there is no honourin following his banner. He has crowned himself King, and so provedhimself a self-seeker who came dissembled as the champion of a causethat he might delude poor ignorant folk into flocking to his standardand helping him to his ambitious ends."
"You are wondrously well schooled," said he. "Whose teachings do yourecite me? Sir Rowland Blake's?"
At another time the sneer might have cut her. At the moment she was toointent upon gaining time. The means to it mattered little. The more shetalked to no purpose, the more at random was their discourse, the betterwould her ends be served.
"Sir Rowland Blake?" she cried. "What is he to me?"
"Ah, what? Let me set you the question rather."
"Less than nothing," she assured him, and for some moments afterwards itwas this Sir Rowland who served them as a topic for their odd interview.On the overmantel the pulse of time beat on from a little wooden clock.His eyes strayed to it; it marked the three-quarters. He bethoughthim suddenly of his engagement. Trenchard, below-stairs, supremelyindifferent whether Wilding went to Newlington's or not, smoked on,entirely unconcerned by the flight of time.
"Mistress," said Wilding suddenly, "you have not yet told me in what youseek my service. Indeed, we seem to have talked to little purpose. Mytime is very short."
"Where are you going?" she asked him, and fearfully she shot a sidelongglance at the timepiece. It was still too soon, by at least fiveminutes.
He smiled, but his smile was singular. He began to suspect at last thather only purpose--to what end he could not guess--was to detain him.
"'Tis a singularly sudden interest in my doings, this," said he quietly."What is't you seek of me?" He reached for the hat he had cast upon thetable when they had entered. "Tell me briefly. I may stay no longer."
She rose, her agitation suddenly increasing, afraid that after all hewould escape her. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Answer me that, andI will tell you why I came."
"I am to sup at Mr. Newlington's in His Majesty's company.
"His Majesty's?"
"King Monmouth's," he explained impatiently. "Come, Ruth. Already I amlate."
"If I were to ask you not to go," she said slowly, and she held out herhands to him, her glance most piteous--and that was not acting--as sheraised it to meet his own, "would you not stay to pleasure me?"
He considered her from under frowning eyes. "Ruth," he said, and he tookher hands, "there is here something that I do not understand. What is'tyou mean?"
"Promise me that you will not go to Newlington's, and I will tell you."
"But what has Newlington to do with...? Nay, I am pledged already togo."
She drew closer to him, her hands upon his shoulders. "Yet if I askyou--I, your wife?" she pleaded, and almost won him to her will.
But suddenly he remembered another occasion on which, for purposes ofher own, she had so pleaded. He laughed softly, mockingly.
"Do you woo me, Ruth, who, when I wooed you, would have none of me?"
She drew back from him, crimsoning. "I think I had better go," said she."You have nothing but mockery for me. It was ever so. Who knows?" shesighed as she took up her mantle. "Had you but observed more gentleways, you... you..." She paused, needing to say no more. "Good-night!"she ended, and made shift to leave. He watched her, deeply mystified.She had gained the door when suddenly he moved.
"Wait!" he cried. She paused, and turned to look over her shoulder, herhand apparently upon the latch. "You shall not go until you have toldme why you besought me to keep away from Newlington's. What is it?" heasked, and paused suddenly, a flood of light breaking in upon his mind."Is there some treachery afoot?" he asked her, and his eye went wildlyto the clock. A harsh, grating sound rang through the room. "What areyou doing?" he cried. "Why have you locked the door?" She was tuggingand fumbling desperately to extract the key, her hands all clumsy in hernervous haste. He leapt at her, but in that moment the key came away inher hand. She wheeled round to face him, erect, defiant almost.
"Here is some devilry!" he cried. "Give me that key."
He had no need for further questions. Here was a proof more eloquentthan words to his ready wit. Sir Rowland or Richard, or both, were insome plot for the Duke's ruin--perhaps assassination. Had not her verywords shown that she herself was out of all sympathy with Monmouth? Hewas out of sympathy himself. But not to the extent of standing by to seehis throat cut. She would have the plot succeed--whatever it might beand yet that he himself be spared. There his thoughts paused; but onlyfor a moment. He saw suddenly in this, not a proof of concern born oflove but of duty towards him who had imperilled himself once--and forall time, indeed--that he might save her brother and Sir Rowland.
He told her what had been so suddenly revealed to him, taxing her withit. She acknowledged it, her wits battling to find some way by whichshe might yet gain a few moments more. She would cling to the key, andthough he should offer her violence, she would not let it go without astruggle, and that struggle must consume the little time yet wanting tomake it too late for him to save the Duke, and--what imported more--thussave herself from betraying her brother's trust. Another fear leapt ather suddenly. If through deed of hers Monmouth was spared that night,Blake, in his despair and rage, might slake his vengeance upon Richard.
"Give me that key," he demanded, his voice cold and quiet, his face set.
"No, no," she cried, setting her hand behind her. "You shall not go,Anthony. You shall not go."
"I must," he insisted, still cold, but oh! so determined. "My honour'sin it now that I know."
"You'll go to your death," she reminded him.
He sneer
ed. "What signifies a day or so? Give me the key."
"I love you, Anthony!" she cried, livid to the lips.
"Lies!" he answered her contemptuously. "The key!"
"No," she answered, and her firmness matched his own. "I will not haveyou slain."
"'Tis not my purpose--not just yet. But I must save the others. Godforgive me if I offer violence to a woman," he added, "and lay rudehands upon her. Do not compel me to it." He advanced upon her, but she,lithe and quick, evaded him, and sprang for the middle of the room. Hewheeled about, his self-control all slipping from him now. Suddenly shedarted to the window, and with the hand that clenched the key shesmote a pane with all her might. There was a smash of shivering glass,followed an instant later by a faint tinkle on the stones below, and thehand that she still held out covered itself all with blood.
"O God!" he cried, the key and all else forgotten. "You are hurt."
"But you are saved," she cried, overwrought, and staggered, laughing andsobbing, to a chair, sinking her bleeding hand to her lap, and smearingrecklessly her spotless, shimmering gown.
He caught up a chair by its legs, and at a single blow smashed down thedoor--a frail barrier after all. "Nick!" he roared. "Nick!" He tossedthe chair from him and vanished into the adjoining room to reappear amoment later carrying basin and ewer, and a shirt of Trenchard's--thefirst piece of linen he could find.
She was half fainting, and she let him have his swift, masterful way.He bathed her hand, and was relieved to find that the injury was none sogreat as the flow of blood had made him fear. He tore Trenchard'sfine cambric shirt to shreds--a matter on which Trenchard afterwardscommented in quotations from at least three famous Elizabethandramatists. He bound up her hand, just as Nick made his appearance atthe splintered door, his mouth open, his pipe, gone out, between hisfingers. He was followed by a startled serving-wench, the only otherperson in the house, for every one was out of doors that night.
Into the woman's care Wilding delivered his wife, and without a word toher he left the room, dragging Trenchard with him. It was striking nineas they went down the stairs, and the sound brought as much satisfactionto Ruth above as dismay to Wilding below.