"It has become known," he continued, "that Richard was one of the early plotters who paved the way for Monmouth's coming. I think that that, in conjunction with his betrayal of his trust that night at Newlington's, thereby causing the death of some twenty gallant fellows of King James's, will be enough to hang him."
Her hand clutched at her heart. "What is't you seek?" she cried. It was almost a moan. "What is't you want of me?"
"Yourself," said he. "I love you, Ruth," he added, and stepped close up to her.
"O God!" she cried aloud. "Had I a man at hand to kill you for that insult!"
And then—miracle of miracles!—a voice from the shrubs by which they stood bore to her ears the startling words that told her her prayer was answered there and then.
"Madam, that man is here."
She stood frozen. Not more of a statue was Lot's wife in the moment of looking behind her than she who dared not look behind. That voice! A voice from the dead, a voice she had heard for the last time in the cottage that was Feversham's lodging at Weston Zoyland. Her wild eyes fell upon Sir Rowland's face. It showed livid; the nether-lip sucked in and caught in the strong teeth, as if to prevent an outcry; the eyes wild with fright. What did it mean? By an effort she wrenched herself round at last, and a scream broke from her to rouse her aunt, her cousin, and her brother, and bring them hastening towards her across the sweep of lawn.
Before her, on the edge of the shrubbery, a grey figure stood erect and graceful, and the face, with its thin lips faintly smiling, its dark eyes gleaming, was the face of Anthony Wilding. And as she stared he moved forward, and she heard the fall of his foot upon the turf, the clink of his spurs, the swish of his scabbard against the shrubs, and reason told her that this was no ghost.
She held out her arms to him. "Anthony! Anthony!" She staggered forward, and he was no more than in time to catch her as she swayed.
He held her fast against him and kissed her brow. "Sweet," he said, "forgive me that I frightened you. I came by the orchard gate, and my coming was so timely that I could not hold in my answer to your cry."
Her eyelids fluttered, she drew a long sighing breath, and nestled closer to him. "Anthony!" she murmured again, and reached up a hand to stroke his face, to feel that it was truly living flesh.
And Sir Rowland, realizing, too, by now that here was no ghost, recovered his lost courage. He put a hand to his sword, then withdrew it, leaving the weapon sheathed. Here was a hangman's job, not a swordsman's, he opined—and wisely, for he had had earlier experience of Mr. Wilding's play of steel.
He advanced a step. "O fool!" he snarled. "The hangman waits for you."
"And a creditor for you, Sir Rowland," came the voice of Mr. Trenchard, who now pushed forward through those same shrubs that had masked his friend's approach. "A Mr. Swiney. 'Twas I sent him from town. He's lodged at the Bull, and bellows like one when he speaks of what you owe him. There are three messengers with him, and they tell of a debtor's gaol for you, sweetheart."
A spasm of fury crossed the face of Blake. "They may have me, and welcome, when I've told my tale," said he. "Let me but tell of Anthony Wilding's lurking here, and not only Anthony Wilding, but all the rest of you are doomed for harbouring him. You know the law, I think," he mocked them, for Lady Horton, Diana, and Richard, who had come up, stood now a pace or so away in deepest wonder. "You shall know it better before the night is out, and better still before next Sunday's come."
"Tush!" said Trenchard, and quoted, "'There's none but Anthony may conquer Anthony.'"
"'Tis clear," said Wilding, "you take me for a rebel. An odd mistake! For it chances, Sir Rowland, that you behold in me an accredited servant of the Secretary of State."
Blake stared, then fell a prey to ironic laughter. He would have spoken, but Mr. Wilding plucked a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Trenchard.
"Show it him," said he, and Blake's face grew white again as he read the lines above Sunderland's signature and observed the seals of office. He looked from the paper to the hated smiling face of Mr. Wilding.
"You were a spy?" he said, his tone making a question of the odious statement. "A dirty spy?"
"Your incredulity is flattering, at least," said Wilding pleasantly as he repocketed the parchment, "and it leads you in the right direction. I neither was nor am a spy."
"That paper proves it!" cried Blake contemptuously. Having been a spy himself,' he was a good judge of the vileness of the office.
"See to my wife, Nick," said Wilding sharply, and made as if to transfer her to the care of his friend.
"Nay," said Trenchard, "'tis your own duty that. Let me discharge the other for you." And he stepped up to Blake and tapped him briskly on the shoulder. "Sir Rowland," said he, "you're a knave." Sir Rowland stared at him. "You're a foul thing—a muckworm—Sir Rowland," added Trenchard amiably, "and you've been discourteous to a lady, for which may Heaven forgive you—I can't."
"Stand aside," Blake bade him, hoarse with passion, blind to all risks. "My affair is with Mr. Wilding."
"Aye," said Trenchard, "but mine is with you. If you survive it, you can settle what other affairs you please—including, belike, your business with Mr. Swiney."
"Not so, Nick," said Wilding suddenly, and turned to Richard. "Here, Richard! Take her," he bade his brother-in-law.
"Anthony, you damned shirk-duty, see to your wife. Leave me to my own diversions. Sir Rowland," he reminded the baronet, "I have called you a knave and a foul thing, and faith! if you want it proven, you need but step down the orchard with me."
He saw hesitation lingering in Sir Rowland's face, and he uncurled the last of the whip he carried. "I'd grieve to do a violent thing before the ladies," he murmured deprecatingly. "I'd never respect myself again if I had to drive a gentleman of your quality to the ground of honour with a horsewhip. But, as God's my life, if you don't go willingly this instant, 'tis what will happen."
Richard's newborn righteousness prompted him to interfere, to seek to avert this threatened bloodshed; his humanity urged him to let matters be, and his humanity prevailed. Diana watched this foreshadowing of tragedy with tight lips, pale cheeks. Justice was to be done at last, it seemed, and as her frightened eye fell upon Sir Rowland she knew not whether to exult or weep. Her mother—understanding nothing—plied her meanwhile with whispered questions.
As for Sir Rowland, he looked into the old rake's eyes agleam with wicked mirth, and rage welled up to choke him. He must kill this man.
"Come," said he. "I'll see to your fine friend Wilding afterwards."
"Excellent," said Trenchard, and led the way through the shrubbery to the orchard.
Ruth, reviving, looked up. Her glance met Mr. Wilding's; it quickened into understanding, and she stirred. "Is it true? Is it really true?" she cried. "I am being tortured by this dream again!"
"Nay, sweet, it is true; it is true. I am here. Say, shall I stay?"
She clung to him for answer. "And you are in no danger?"
"In none, sweet. I am Mr. Wilding of Zoyland Chase, free to come and go as best shall seem to me. He begged the others to leave them a little while, and he led her to the stone seat by the river. He set her at his side there and told her the story of his escape from the firing-party, and of the inspiration that had come to him on the morrow to make use of the letter in his boot which Sunderland had given him for Monmouth in the hour of panic. Monmouth's cavalier treatment of him when he had arrived in Bridgwater had precluded his delivering that letter at the council. There was never another opportunity, nor did he again think of the package in the stressful hours that followed. It was not until the following morning that he suddenly remembered it lay undelivered, and bethought him that it might prove a weapon to win him delivery from the dangers that encompassed him.