Sir Rowland, all unconscious—reckless, indeed—of this, sauntered with Ruth some little distance from them, having contrived adroitly to draw her aside. He broke a spell of silence with a dolorous sigh.
“Ruth,” said he pensively, “I mind me of the last evening on which you and I walked here alone.”
She flashed him a glance of fear and aversion, and stood still. Under his brow he watched the quick heave of her bosom, the sudden flow and abiding ebb of blood in her face—grown now so thin and wistful—and he realized that before him lay no easy task. He set his teeth for battle.
“Will you never have a kindness for me, Ruth?” he sighed.
She turned about, her intent to join the others, a dull anger in her soul. He sat a hand upon her arm. “Wait!” said he, and the tone in which he uttered that one word kept her beside him. His manner changed a little. “I am tired of this,” said he.
“Why, so am I,” she answered bitterly.
“Since we are agreed so far, let us agree to end it.”
“It is all I ask.”
“Yes, but—alas!—in a different way. Listen now.”
“I will not listen. Let me go.
“I were your enemy did I do so, for you would know hereafter a sorrow and repentance for which nothing short of death could offer you escape. Richard is under suspicion.”
“Do you hark back to that?” The scorn of her voice was deadly. Had it been herself he desired, surely that tone had quenched all passion in him, or else transformed it into hatred. But Blake was playing for a fortune, for shelter from a debtor’s prison.
“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,