Richard came forward, nerving himself for what was to follow. It had just occurred to him that he held a card which should trump any trick of Sir Rowland’s vindictiveness, and the prospect heartened and comforted him.
“I am this lady’s brother, my lord,” he answered, and his voice was fairly steady.
“Tiens!” said Feversham, and, smiling, he turned to Wentworth.
“Quite a family party, sir,” said the captain, smiling back.
“Oh! mais tout — fait,” said the General, laughing outright, and then Wilding created a diversion by leading Ruth to a chair that stood at the far end of the table, and drawing it forward for her. “Ah, yes,” said Feversham airily, “let Madame sit.”
“You are very good, sir,” said Ruth, her voice brave and calm.
“But somewhat lacking in spontaneity,” Wilding criticized, which set Wentworth staring and the Frenchman scowling.
“Shall I call the guard, my lord?” asked Wentworth crisply.
“I t’ink yes,” said Feversham, and the captain gained the door, and spoke a word to one of the soldiers without.
“But, my lord,” exclaimed Blake in a tone of protest, “I vow you are too ready to take this fellow’s word.”
“He ‘as spoke so few,” said Feversham.
“Do you know who he is?”
“You ‘af ‘eard ‘im say — t’e lady’s ‘usband.”
“Aye — but his name,” cried Blake, quivering with anger. “Do you know that it is Wilding?”
The name certainly made an impression that might have flattered the man to whom it belonged. Feversham’s whole manner changed; the trivial air of persiflage that he had adopted hitherto was gone on the instant, and his brow grew dark.
“T’at true?” he asked sharply. “Are you Mistaire Wildin’ — Mistaire Antoine Wildin’?”
“Your lordship’s most devoted servant,” said Wilding suavely, and made a leg.
Wentworth in the background paused in the act of reclosing the door to stare at this gentleman whose name Albemarle had rendered so excellently well known.
“And you to dare come ‘ere?” thundered Feversham, thoroughly roused by the other’s airy indifference. “You to dare come ‘ere — into my ver’ presence?”
Mr. Wilding smiled conciliatingly. “I came for my wife, my lord,” he reminded him. “It grieves me to intrude upon your lordship at so late an hour, and indeed it was far from my intent. I had hoped to overtake Sir Rowland before he reached you.”
“Nom de Dieu!” swore Feversham. “Ho! A so great effrontery!” He swung round upon Blake again. “Sare Rowlan’,” he bade him angrily, “be so kind to tell me what ‘appen in Breechwater — everyt’ing!”
Blake, his face purple, seemed to struggle for breath and words. Mr. Wilding answered for him.
“Sir Rowland is so choleric, my lord,” he said in his pleasant, level voice, “that perhaps the tale would come more intelligibly from me. Believe me that he has served you to the best of his ability. Unfortunately for the success of your choice plan of murder, I had news of it at the eleventh hour, and with a party of musketeers I was able to surprise and destroy your cut-throats in Mr. Newlington’s garden. You see, my lord, I was to have been one of the victims myself, and I resented the attentions that were intended me. I had no knowledge that Sir Rowland had contrived to escape, and, frankly, it is a thing I deplore more than I can say, for had that not happened much trouble might have been saved and your lordship’s rest had not been disturbed.”
“But t’e woman?” cried Feversham impatiently. “How is she come into this galare?”
“It was she who warned him,” Blake got out, “as already I have had the honour to inform your lordship.”
“And your lordship cannot blame her for that,” said Wilding. “The lady is a most loyal subject of King James; but she is also, as you observe, a dutiful wife. I will add that it was her intention to warn me only when too late for interference. Sir Rowland, as it happened, was slow in...”
“Silence!” blazed the Frenchman. “Now t’at I know who you are, t’at make a so great difference. Where is t’e guard, Wentwort’?”
“I hear them,” answered the captain, and from the street came the tramp of their marching feet.
Feversham turned again to Blake. “T’e affaire ‘as ‘appen’ so,” he said, between question and assertion, summing up the situation as he understood it. “T’is rogue,” and he pointed to Richard, “‘ave betray your plan to ‘is sister, who betray it to ‘er ‘usband, who save t’e Duc de Monmoot’. N’est-ce pas?”
“That is so,” said Blake, and Ruth scarcely thought it worth while to add that she had heard of the plot not only from her brother, but from Blake as well. After all, Blake’s attitude in the matter, his action in bringing her to Feversham for punishment, and to exculpate himself, must suffice to cause any such statement of hers to be lightly received by the General.
She sat in an anguished silence, her eyes wide, her face pale, and waited for the end of this strange business. In her heart she did permit herself to think that it would be difficult to assemble a group of men less worthy of respect. Choleric and vindictive Blake, foolish Feversham, stupid Wentworth, and timid Richard — even Richard did not escape the unfavourable criticism they were undergoing in her subconscious mind. Only Wilding detached in that assembly — as he had detached in another that she remembered — and stood out in sharp relief a very man, calm, intrepid, self-possessed; and if she was afraid, she was more afraid for him than for herself. This was something that, perhaps, she scarcely realized just then; but she was to realize it soon.
Feversham was speaking again, asking Blake a fresh question. “And who betray you to t’is rogue?”
“To Westmacott?” cried Blake. “He was in the plot with me. He was left to guard the rear, to see that we were not taken by surprise, and he deserted his post. Had he not done that, there had been no disaster, in spite of Mr. Wilding’s intervention.”
Feversham’s brow was dark, his eyes glittered as they rested on the traitor.
“T’at true, sare?” he asked him.
“Not quite,” put in Mr. Wilding. “Mr. Westmacott, I think, was constrained away. He did not intend...”
“Tais-toi!” blazed Feversham. “Did I interrogate you? It is for Mistaire Westercott to answer.” He set a hand on the table and leaned forward towards Wilding, his face very malign. “You shall to answer for yourself, Mistaire Wildin’; I promise you you shall to answer for yourself.” He turned again to Richard. “Eh, bien?” he snapped. “Will you speak?”
Richard came forward a step; he was certainly nervous, and certainly pale; but neither as pale nor as nervous as from our knowledge of Richard we might have looked to see him at that moment.
“It is in a measure true,” he said. “But what Mr. Wilding has said is more exact. I was induced away. I did not dream any could know of the plan, or that my absence could cause this catastrophe.”
“So you went, eh, vaurien? You t’ought t’at be to do your duty, eh? And it was you who tole your sistaire?”
“I may have told her, but not before she had the tale already from Blake.”
Feversham sneered and shrugged. “Natural you will not speak true. A traitor I ‘ave observe’ is always liar.”
Richard drew himself up; he seemed invested almost with a new dignity. “Your lordship is pleased to account me a traitor?” he inquired.
“A dam’ traitor,” said his lordship, and at that moment the door opened, and a sergeant, with six men following him, stood at the salute upon the threshold. “A la bonne heure!” his lordship hailed them. “Sergean’, you will arrest t’is rogue and t’is lady,” — he waved his hand from Richard to Ruth— “and you will take t’em to lock..up.”
The sergeant advanced towards Richard, who drew a step away from him. Ruth rose to her feet in agitation. Mr. Wilding interposed himself between her and the guard, his hand upon his sword.
“My lord,
” he cried, “do they teach no better courtesy in France?”
Feversham scowled at him, smiling darkly. “I shall talk wit’ you soon, sare,” said he, his words a threat.
“But, my lord...” began Richard. “I can make it very plain I am no traitor...”
“In t’e mornin’,” said Feversham blandly, waving his hand, and the sergeant took Richard by the shoulder.
But Richard twisted from his grasp. “In the morning will be too late,” he cried. “I have it in my power to render you such a service as you little dream of.”
“Take ‘im away,” said Feversham wearily.
“I can save you from destruction,” bawled Richard, “you and your army.”
Perhaps even now Feversham had not heeded him but for Wilding’s sudden interference.
“Silence, Richard!” he cried to him. “Would you betray...?” He checked on the word; more he dared not say; but he hoped faintly that he had said enough.
Feversham, however, chanced to observe that this man who had shown himself hitherto so calm looked suddenly most singularly perturbed.
“Eh?” quoth the General. “An instan’, Sergean’. What is t’is, eh?” — and he looked from Wilding to Richard.
“Your lordship shall learn at a price,” cried Richard.
“Me, I not bargain wit’ traitors,” said his lordship stiffly.
“Very well, then,” answered Richard, and he folded his arms dramatically. “But no matter what your lordship’s life may be hereafter, you will never regret anything more bitterly than you shall regret this by sunrise if indeed you live to see it.”
Feversham shifted uneasily on his feet. “‘What you say?” he asked. “What you mean?”
“You shall know at a price,” said Richard again.
Wilding, realizing the hopelessness of interfering now, stood gloomily apart, a great bitterness in his soul at the indiscretion he had committed in telling Richard of the night attack that was afoot.
“Your lordship shall hear my price, but you need not pay it me until you have had an opportunity of verifying the information I have to give you.
“Tell me,” said Feversham after a brief pause, during which he scrutinized the young man’s face.
“If your lordship will promise liberty and safe-conduct to my sister and myself.”
“Tell me,” Feversham repeated.
“When you have promised to grant me what I ask in return for my information.”
“Yes, if I t’ink your information is wort’”
“I am content,” said Richard. He inclined his head and loosed the quarrel of his news. “Your camp is slumbering, your officers are all abed with the exception of the outpost on the road to Bridgwater. What should you say if I told you that Monmouth and all his army are marching upon you at this very moment, will probably fall upon you before another hour is past?”
Wilding uttered a groan, and his hands fell to his sides. Had Feversham observed this he might have been less ready with his sneering answer.
“A lie!” he answered, and laughed. “My fren’, I ‘ave myself been to-night, at midnight, on t’e moore, and I ‘ave ‘eard t’e army of t’e Duc de Monmoot’ marching to Bristol on t’e road — what you call t’e road, Wentwort’?”
“The Eastern Causeway, my lord,” answered the captain.
“Voil!” said Feversham, and spread his hands. “What you say now, eh?”
“That that is part of Monmouth’s plan to come at you across the moors, by way of Chedzoy, avoiding your only outpost, and falling upon you in your beds, all unawares. Lord! sir, do not take my word for it. Send out your scouts, and I dare swear they’ll not need go far before they come upon the enemy.”
Feversham looked at Wentworth. His lordship’s face had undergone a change.
“What you t’ink?” he asked.
“Indeed, my lord, it sounds so likely,” answered Wentworth, “that... that... I marvel we did not provide against such a contingency.”
“But I ‘ave provide’!” cried this nephew of the great Turenne. “Ogelt’orpe is on t’e moor and Sare Francis Compton. If t’is is true, ‘ow can t’ey ‘ave miss Monmoot’? Send word to Milor’ Churchill at once, Wentwort’. Let t’e matter be investigate’ — at once, Wentwort’ — at once!” The General was dancing with excitement. Wentworth saluted and turned to leave the room. “If you ‘ave tole me true,” continued Feversham, turning now to Richard, “you shall ‘ave t’e price you ask, and t’e t’anks of t’e King’s army. But if not...”
“Oh, it’s true enough,” broke in Wilding, and his voice was like a groan, his face over-charged with gloom.
Feversham looked at him; his sneering smile returned.
“Me, I not remember,” said he, “that Mr. Westercott ‘ave include you in t’e bargain.”
Nothing had been further from Wilding’s thoughts than such a suggestion. And he snorted his disdain. The sergeant had fallen back at Feversham’s words, and his men lined the wall of the chamber. The General bade Richard be seated whilst he waited. Sir Rowland stood apart, leaning wearily against the wainscot, waiting also, his dull wits not quite clear how Richard might have come by so valuable a piece of information, his evil spirit almost wishing it untrue, in his vindictiveness, to the end that Richard might pay the price of having played him false and Ruth the price of having scorned him.
Feversham meanwhile was seeking — with no great success — to engage Mr. Wilding in talk of Monmouth, against whom Feversham harboured in addition to his political enmity a very deadly personal hatred; for Feversham had been a suitor to the hand of the Lady Henrietta Wentworth, the woman for whom Monmouth — worthy son of his father — had practically abandoned his own wife; the woman with whom he had run off, to the great scandal of court and nation.
Despairing of drawing any useful information from Wilding, his lordship was on the point of turning to Blake, when quick steps and the rattle of a scabbard sounded without; the door was thrust open without ceremony, and Captain Wentworth reappeared.
“My lord,” he cried, his manner excited beyond aught one could have believed possible in so phlegmatic-seeming a person, “it is true. We are beset.”
“Beset!” echoed Feversham. “Beset already?”
“We can hear them moving on the moor. They are crossing the Langmoor Rhine. They will be upon us in ten minutes at the most. I have roused Colonel Douglas, and Dunbarton’s regiment is ready for them.”
Feversham exploded. “What else ‘ave you done?” he asked. “Where is Milor’ Churchill?”
“Lord Churchill is mustering his men as quietly as may be that they may be ready to surprise those who come to surprise us. By Heaven, sir, we owe a great debt to Mr. Westmacott. Without his information we might have had all our throats cut whilst we slept.”
“Be so kind to call Belmont,” said Feversham. “Tell him to bring my clot’es.”
Wentworth turned and went out again to execute the General’s orders. Feversham spoke to Richard. “We are oblige’, Mr. Westercott,” said he. “We are ver’ much oblige’.”
Suddenly from a little distance came the roll of drums. Other sounds began to stir in the night outside to tell of a waking army.
Feversham stood listening. “It is Dunbarton’s,” he murmured. Then, with some show of heat, “Ah, pardieu!” he cried. “But it was a dirty t’ing t’is Monmoot’ ‘ave prepare’. It is murder; it is not t’e war.
“And yet,” said Wilding critically, “it is a little more like war than the Bridgwater affair to which your lordship gave your sanction.”
Feversham pursed his lips and considered the speaker. Wentworth reentered, followed by the Earl’s valet carrying an armful of garments. His lordship threw off his dressing-gown and stood forth in shirt and breeches.
“Mais duche-toi, donc, Belmont!” said he. “Nous nous battons! Ii faut que je m’habille.” Belmont, a little wizened fellow who understood nothing of this topsy-turveydom, hastened forward, deposited his armful on t
he table, and selected a finely embroidered waistcoat, which he proceeded to hold for his master. Wriggling into it, Feversham rapped out his orders.
“Captain Wentwort’, you will go to your regimen at once. But first, ah — wait. Take t’ose six men and Mistaire Wilding. ‘Ave ‘im shot at once; you onderstan’, eh? Good. Allons, Belmont! my cravat.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE EXECUTION
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.”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 184
