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.
“It was a slender chance,” he told her, “but I employed it. I waited in London, in hiding, close upon a fortnight ere I had an opportunity of seeing Sunderland. He laughed me to scorn at first, and threatened me with the Tower. But I told him the letter was in safe hands and would remain there in earnest of his good behaviour, and that did he have me arrested it would instantly be laid before the King and bring his own head to the block more surely even than my own. It frightened him; but it had scarcely done so, sweet, had he known that that precious letter was still in my boot, for my boot was on my leg, and my leg was in the room with the rest of me.
“He surrendered at last, and gave me papers proving that Trenchard and I—for I stipulated for old Nick’s safety too—were His Majesty’s accredited agents in the West. I loathed the title. But..”—he spread his hands and smiled—“it was that or widowing you.”
She took his face in her hands and stroked it fondly, and they sat thus until a dry cough behind them roused them from their joyous silence. Mr. Trenchard was sauntering towards them, his left eye tucked farther under his hat than usual, his hands behind him.
“’Tis a thirsty evening,” he informed them.
“Go, tell Richard so,” said Wilding, who knew naught of Richard’s altered ways.
“I’ve thought of it; but haply he’s sensitive on the score of drinking with me again. He has done it twice to his undoing.”
“He’ll do it a third time, no doubt,” said Mr. Wilding curtly, and Trenchard, taking the hint, turned with a shrug, and went up the lawn towards the house. He found Richard in the porch, where he had lingered fearfully, waiting for news. At sight of Mr. Trenchard’s grim, weather-beaten countenance he came forward suddenly.
“How has it sped?” he asked, his lips twitching on the words.
“Yonder they sit,” said Trenchard, pointing down the lawn.
“No, no. I mean… Sir Rowland.”
“Oh, Sir Rowland?” cried the old sinner, as though Sir Rowland were some matter long forgotten. He sighed. “Alas, poor Swiney! I fear I’ve cheated him.”
“You mean?”
“Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odour of villainy.”
Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to heaven.
“May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” said he.
“May He, indeed!” said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his surprise. “But,” he added pessimistically, “I doubt the rogue’s in hell.”
Richard’s eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm, “‘I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.’”
Dumbfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott’s mind unhinged, Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance and misinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy was unrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh “Poor Blake!”
“Poor, indeed!” quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of his play-acting days to suit the case. “The tears live in an onion that shall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney.” Then, in a brisker tone, “Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keep at Lupton House?”
“I have abjured all wine,” said Richard.
“A plague you have!” quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. “Have you turned Mussuman, perchance?”
“No,” answered Richard sternly; “Christian.”
Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “Hum,” said he at length. “Peace be with you, then. I’ll leave you here to bay the moon to your heart’s content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me a brain-wash.” And with a final suspicious, wondering look at the whilom bibber, he passed into the house, much exercised on the score of the sanity of this family into which his friend Anthony had married.
Outside, the twilight shadows were deepening.
“Shall we home, sweet?” whispered Mr. Wilding. The shadows befriended her, a veil for her sudden confusion. She breathed something that seemed no more than a sigh, though more it seemed to Anthony Wilding.
*
CAPTAIN BLOOD
Complete Novel
CHAPTER I
THE MESSENGER
Peter Blood, bachelor of medicine and several other things besides, smoked a pipe and tended the geraniums boxed on the sill of his window above Water Lane in the town of Bridgewater.
Sternly disapproving eyes considered him from a window opposite, but went disregarded. Mr. Blood’s attention was divided between his task and the stream of humanity in the narrow street below; a stream which poured for the second time that day towards Castle Field, where earlier in the afternoon Ferguson, the Duke’s chaplain, had preached a sermon containing more treason than divinity.
These straggling, excited groups were mainly composed of men with green boughs in their hats and the most ludicrous of weapons in their hands. Some, it is true, shouldered fowling pieces, and here and there a sword was brandished; but more of them were armed with clubs, and most of them trailed the mammoth pikes fashioned out of scythes, as formidable to the eye as they were clumsy to the hand. There were weavers, brewers, carpenters, smiths, masons, bricklayers, cobblers, and representatives of every other of the trades of peace among these improvised men of war. Bridgewater,