Anthony Wilding

by Rafael Sabatini

  Though Richard could not fail to apprehend the implied dismissal, he was minded at first to disregard it. But Mr Wilding, turning, held the door, addressing Diana.

  “Mistress Horton,” said he, “will you give us leave?” Diana curtsied and passed out, and Mr Wilding’s eye falling upon the lingering Richard at that moment, Richard thought it best to follow her example. But he went with rage in his heart at being forced to leave that precious document behind him.

  As Mr Wilding, his back to her a moment, closed the door, Ruth slipped the paper hurriedly into the bosom of her low-necked gown. He turned to her, calm but very grave, and his dark eyes seemed to reproach her.

  “This is ill done, Ruth,” said he.

  “Ill done, or well done,” she answered him, “done it is, and shall so remain.”

  He raised his brows. “Ah,” said he, “I appear then to have misapprehended the situation. From what Gervase told me, I understood it was your brother forced you to return.”

  “Not forced, sir,” she answered him.

  “Induced, then,” said he. “It but remains for me to induce you to repair what I think was a mistake.”

  She shook her head. “I have returned home for good,” said she.

  “You’ll pardon me,” said he, “that I am so egotistical as to prefer Zoyland Chase to Lupton House. Despite the manifold attractions of the latter, I do not intend to take up my abode here.”

  “You are not asked to.”

  “What then?”

  She hated him for the smile, for his masterful air, which seemed to imply that he humoured her because he scorned to use authority, but that when he did use it, hers must it be to obey him. Again she felt that everlasting calm, arguing such latent forces, was the thing she hated most in him.

  “I think I had best be plain with you,” said she. “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain that we made. I intend to do no more. I promised that if you spared my brother, I would go to the altar with you today. I have carried out my contract to the letter. It is at an end.”

  “Indeed,” said he; “I think it has not yet begun.” He advanced towards her, and took her hand. She yielded it, unwilling though she was. “This is unworthy of you, madam,” said he, his tone grave and deferential. “You think to escape fulfilling the spirit of your bargain by adhering to the letter of it. Not so,” he ended, and shook his head, smiling gently. “The carriage is still at your door. You return with me to Zoyland Chase to take possession of your home.”

  “You mistake,” said she, and tore her hand from his. “You say that what I have done is unworthy. I admit it; but it is with unworthiness that we must combat unworthiness. Was your attitude towards me less unworthy?”

  “I’ll make amends for it if you’ll come home,” said he.

  “My home is here. You cannot compel me.”

  “I should be loath to,” he admitted, sighing.

  “You cannot,” she insisted.

  “I think I can,” said he. “There is a law…”

  “A law that will hang you if you invoke it,” she cut in quickly. “This much can I safely promise you.”

  She had need to say no more to tell him everything. At all times half a word was as much to Mr Wilding as a whole sentence to another. She saw the tightening of his lips, the hardening of his eyes, beyond which he gave no other sign that she had hit him.

  “I see,” said he. “It is another bargain that you make. I do suspect there is some trader’s blood in the Westmacott veins. Let us be clear. You hold the wherewithal to ruin me, and you will use it if I insist upon my husband’s rights. Is it not so?”

  She nodded in silence, surprised at the rapidity with which he had read the situation.

  “I admit,” said he, “that you have me between sword and wall.” He laughed shortly. “Let me know more,” he begged her. “Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace – so long as I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name – you will not wield the weapon that you hold?”

  “You are to understand so,” she answered.

  He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging – ignorant as he was of what was in it – the ruin that might follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.

  “The letter is in your hands?” he inquired.

  “It is,” she answered.

  “May I see it?” he asked.

  She shook her head – not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it – a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose. He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke’s interest than his own.

  “You know,” quoth he, “the desperate enterprise to which I stand committed. But it is a bargain between us that you do not betray me nor that enterprise so long as I leave you rid of my presence.”

  “That is the bargain I propose,” said she.

  He looked at her a moment with hungry eyes, and she found his glance almost more than she could bear, so strong was its appeal. Besides, it may be that she was a thought beglamoured by the danger in which he stood, which seemed to invest him with a certain heroic dignity.

  “Ruth,” he said at length, “it may well be that that which you desire may speedily come to pass; it may well be that in the course of this rebellion that is hatching you may be widowed. But at least I know that if my head falls it will not be my wife who has betrayed me to the axe. For that much, believe me, I am supremely grateful.”

  He advanced. He took her unresisting hand again and bore it to his lips, bowing low before her. Then, erect and graceful, he turned on his heel and left her.

  Chapter 9

  MR TRENCHARD’S COUNTERSTROKE

  Now, however much it might satisfy Mr Wilding to have Ruth’s word for it that so long as he left her in peace neither he nor the Cause had any betrayal to fear from her, Mr Trenchard was of a very different mind.

  He fumed and swore and worked himself into a very passion. “Zoons, man!” he cried, “it would mean utter ruin to you if that letter reached Whitehall.”

  “I realise it; but my mind is easy. I have her promise.”

  “A woman’s promise!” snorted Trenchard, and proceeded with great circumstance of expletives to damn “everything that daggled a petticoat.”

  “Your fears are idle,” Wilding assured him. “What she says she will do.”

  “And her brother?” quoth Trenchard. “Have you bethought you of that canary-bird? He’ll know the letter’s whereabouts. He has cause to fear you more than ever now. Are you sure he’ll not be making use of it to lay you by the heels?”

  Mr Wilding smiled upon the fury provoked by Trenchard’s concern and love for him. “She has promised,” he said with an insistent faith that was fuel to Trenchard’s anger, “and I can depend upon her word.”

  “So cannot I,” snapped his friend.

  “The thing that plagues me most,” said Wilding, ignoring the remark, “is that we are kept in ignorance of the letter’s contents at a time when we most long for news. Not a doubt but it would have enabled us to set our minds at ease on the score of these foolish rumours.”

  “Aye – or else confirmed them,” said pessimistic Trenchard. He wagged his head. “They say the Duke has put to sea already.”

  “Folly!” Wilding protested.

  “Whitehall thinks otherwise. What of the troops at Taunton?”

  “More folly.”

  “Well – I would you had that letter.”

  “At least,” said Wilding, “I have the su
perscription, and we know from Shenke that no name was mentioned in the letter itself.”

  “There’s evidence enough without it,” Trenchard reminded him, and fell soon after into abstraction, turning over in his mind a notion with which he had suddenly been inspired. That notion kept Trenchard secretly occupied for a couple of days; but in the end he succeeded in perfecting it.

  Now it befell that towards dusk one evening early in the week Richard Westmacott went abroad alone, as was commonly his habit, his goal being the “Saracen’s Head,” where he and Sir Rowland spent many a night over wine and cards – to Sir Rowland’s moderate profit, for he had not played the pigeon in town so long without having acquired sufficient knowledge to enable him to play the rook in the country. As Westmacott was passing up the High Street, a black shadow fell athwart the light that streamed from the door of the Bell Inn, and out through the doorway lurched Mr Trenchard a thought unsteadily to hurtle so violently against Richard that he broke the long stem of the white clay pipe he was carrying. Now Richard was not to know that Mr Trenchard – having informed himself of Mr Westmacott’s evening habits – had been waiting for the past half-hour in that doorway hoping that Mr Westmacott would not depart this evening from his usual custom. Another thing that Mr Westmacott was not to know – considering his youth – was the singular histrionic ability which this old rake had displayed in those younger days of his when he had been a player, and the further circumstance that he had excelled in those parts in which ebriety was to be counterfeited. Indeed, we have it on the word of no less an authority on theatrical matters than Mr Pepys that Mr Nicholas Trenchard’s appearance as Pistol in Henry IV in the year of the blessed Restoration was the talk alike of town and Court.

  Mr Trenchard steadied himself from the impact, and, swearing a round and awful Elizabethan oath, accused the other of being drunk, then struck an attitude to demand with truculence, “Would ye take the wall o’ me, sir?”

  Richard hastened to make himself known to this turbulent roysterer, who straightway forgot his grievance to take Westmacott affectionately by the hand and overwhelm him with apologies. And that done, Trenchard – who affected the condition known as maudlin drunk – must needs protest almost in tears how profound was his love for Richard, and insist that the boy return with him to the Bell Inn, that they might pledge each other.

  Richard, himself sober, was contemptuous of Trenchard so obviously obfuscated. At first it was his impulse to excuse himself, as possibly Blake might be already waiting for him; but on second thoughts, remembering that Trenchard was Mr Wilding’s most intimate famulus, it occurred to him that by a little crafty questioning he might succeed in smoking Mr Wilding’s intentions in the matter of that letter – for from his sister he had failed to get satisfaction.

  So he permitted himself to be led indoors to a table by the window which stood vacant. There were at the time a dozen guests or so in the common-room. Trenchard bawled for wine and brandy, and for all that he babbled in an irresponsible, foolish manner of all things that were of no matter, yet not the most adroit of pumping could elicit from him any such information as Richard sought. Perforce young Westmacott must remain, plying him with more and more drink – and being plied in his turn – to the end that he might not waste the occasion.

  An hour later found Richard much the worse for wear, and Trenchard certainly no better. Richard forgot his purpose, forgot that Blake waited for him at the “Saracen’s Head.” And now Trenchard seemed to be pulling himself together.

  “I want to talk to you, Richard,” said he, and, although thick, there was in his voice a certain impressive quality that had been absent hitherto. “’S a rumour current.” He lowered his voice to a whisper almost, and, leaning across, took his companion by the arm. He hiccoughed noisily, then began again. “’S a rumour current, sweetheart, that you’re disaffected.”

  Richard started, and his mind flapped and struggled like a trapped bird to escape the meshes of the wine, to the end that he might convincingly defend himself from such an imputation – so dangerously true.

  “’S a lie!” he gasped.

  Trenchard shut one eye and owlishly surveyed his companion with the other. “They say,” he added, “that you’re for forsaking ’Duke’s party.”

  “Villainous!” Richard protested. “I’ll sli’ throat of any man ’t says so.” And draining the pewter at his elbow, he smashed it down on the table to emphasise his seriousness. Trenchard replenished it with the utmost promptness, then sat back in his tall chair and pulled a moment at the fresh pipe with which he had equipped himself.

  “‘I think I espy,’” he quoted presently, “‘virtue and valour crouched in thine eye.’ And yet…and yet…if I had cause to think it true, I’d… I’d run you through the vitals – jus’ so,” and he prodded Richard’s waistcoat with the point of his pipe-stem. His swarthy face darkened, his eyes glittered fiercely. “Are ye sure ye’re norrer foul traitor?” he demanded suddenly. “Are y’ sure, for if ye’re not…”

  He left the terrible menace unuttered, but it was none the less understood. It penetrated the vinous fog that beset the brain of Richard, and startled him.

  “’Swear I’m not!” he cried. “’Swear mos’ solemnly I’m not.”

  “Swear?” echoed Trenchard, and his scowl grew darker still. “Swear? A man may swear and yet lie – ‘a man may smile and smile and be a villain.’ I’ll have proof of your loyalty to us. I’ll have proof, or as there’s a heaven above and a hell below, I’ll rip you up.”

  His mien was terrific, and his voice the more threatening in that it was not raised above a whisper. Richard sat back appalled, afraid.

  “Wha’…what proof ’ll satisfy you?” he asked.

  Trenchard considered it, pulling at his pipe again. “Pledge me the Duke,” said he at length. “Ther’s truth ’n wine. Pledge me the Duke and confusion to his Majesty the goldfinch.” Richard reached for his pewter, glad that the test was to be so light. “Up on your feet, man,” grumbled Trenchard. “On your feet, and see that your words have a ring of truth in them.”

  Richard did as he was bidden, the little reason left him being concentrated wholly on the convincing of his fellow-tippler. He rose to his feet, so unsteadily that his chair fell over with a bang. He never heeded it, but others in the room turned at the sound, and a hush fell in the chamber. Dominating this came Richard’s voice, strident with intensity, if thick of utterance.

  “Down with Popery, and God save the Protestant Duke!” he cried. “Down with Popery!” And he looked at Trenchard for applause, and assurance that Trenchard no longer thought there was cause to quarrel with him.

  Behind him there was a stir in the room that went unheeded by the boy. Men nudged their neighbours; some looked frightened and some grinned at the treasonable words.

  A swift change came over Trenchard. His drunkenness fell from him like a discarded mantle. He sat like a man amazed. Then he heaved himself to his feet in a fury, and smashed down his pipe-stem on the wooden table, sending its fragments flying.

  “Damn me!” he roared. “Have I sat at table with a traitor?” And he thrust at Richard with his open palm, lightly yet with sufficient force to throw Richard off his precarious balance and send him sprawling on the sanded floor. Men rose from the tables about and approached them, some few amused, but the majority very grave. Dodsley, the landlord, came hurrying to assist Richard to his feet.

  “Mr Westmacott,” he whispered in the rash fool’s ear, “you were best away.”

  Richard stood up, leaning his full weight upon the arm the landlord had about his waist. He passed a hand over his brow, as if to brush aside the veil that obscured his wits. What had happened? What had he said? What had Trenchard done? Why did these fellows stand and gape at him? He heard his companion’s voice, raised to address the company.

  “Gentlemen,” he heard him say, “I trust there is none present will impute to me any share in such treasonable sentiments as Mr Westmacott has expressed. But i
f there is any who questions my loyalty, I have a convincing argument for him – in my scabbard.” And he struck his sword-hilt with his fist. Then he clapped on his hat, aslant over the locks of his golden wig, and, taking up his whip, he moved with leisurely dignity towards the door. He looked back with a sardonic smile at the ado he was leaving behind him, listened a moment to the voices that already were being raised in excitement, then closed the door and made his way briskly to the stable-yard, where he called for his horse. He rode out of Bridgwater ten minutes later, and took the road to Taunton as the moon was rising big and yellow over the hills on his left. He reached Taunton towards ten o’clock that night, having ridden hell-to-leather. His first visit was to the “Hare and Hounds,” where Blake and Westmacott had overtaken the courier. His next to the house where Mr Edward Phelips and Colonel Luttrell – the gentlemen lately ordered to Taunton by His Majesty – had their lodging.

  The fruits of Mr Trenchard’s extraordinary behaviour that night were to be seen at an early hour on the following day, when a constable and three tything-men came with a Lord-Lieutenant’s warrant to arrest Mr Richard Westmacott on a charge of high treason. They found the young man still abed, and most guilty was his panic when they bade him rise and dress himself – though little did he dream of the full extent to which Mr Trenchard had enmeshed him, or indeed that Mr Trenchard had any hand at all in this affair. What time he was getting into his clothes with a tything-man outside his door and another on guard under his window, the constable and his third myrmidon made an exhaustive search of the house. All they found of interest was a letter signed “Monmouth,” which they took from the secret drawer of a secretaire in the library; but that, it seemed, was all they sought, for, having found it, they proceeded no further with their reckless and destructive ransacking.

  With that letter and the person of Richard Westmacott, the constable and his men took their departure, and rode back to Taunton, leaving alarm and sore distress at Lupton House. In her despair poor Ruth was all for following her brother, in the hope that at least by giving evidence of how that letter came into his possession she might do something to assist him. But knowing, as she did, that he had had his share in the treason that was hatching, she had cause to fear that his guilt would not lack for other proofs. It was Diana who urged her to repair instead to the only man upon whose resource she might depend, provided he were willing to exert it. That man was Anthony Wilding, and whether Diana urged it from motives of her own or out of concern for Richard it would be difficult to say with certainty.