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 overcharged 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 dpche-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 the 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.”
“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