And Wilding, who was better informed on that score, kept silence.
Chapter XIV.
His Grace’ In Counsel
Mr. Christopher Battiscomb, that mild-mannered Dorchester gentleman, who, like Wade, was by vocation a lawyer, was ushered into the Duke’s presence. He was dressed in black, and, like Ferguson, was almost smothered in a great periwig, which he may have adopted for purposes of disguise rather than adornment. Certainly he had none of that air of the soldier of fortune which distinguished his brother of the robe. He advanced, hat in hand, towards the table, greeting the company about it, and Wilding observed that he wore silk stockings and shoes, upon which there rested not a speck of dust. Mr. Battiscomb was plainly a man who loved his ease, since on such a day he had travelled to Lyme in a coach. The lawyer bent low to kiss the Duke’s hand, and scarce was that formal homage paid than questions poured upon him from Grey, from Fletcher, and from Ferguson.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the Duke entreated them, smiling; and remembering their manners they fell silent.
As Wilding afterwards told Trenchard, they reminded him of a parcel of saucy lacqueys who take liberties with an upstart master for whom they are wanting in respect.
“I am glad to see you, Battiscomb,” said Monmouth, when quiet was restored, “and I trust I behold in you a bearer of good tidings.”
The lawyer’s full face was usually pale; to-night it was, in addition, solemn, and the smile that haunted his lips was a courtesy smile that expressed neither mirth nor satisfaction. He cleared his throat, as if nervous. He avoided the Duke’s question as to the quality of the news he brought by answering that he had made all haste to come to Lyme upon hearing of His Grace’s landing. He was surprised, he said; as well he might be, for the arrangement was that having done his work he was to return to Holland and report to Monmouth upon the feeling of the gentry.
“But your news, Battiscomb,” the Duke insisted. “Aye,” put in Grey; ” in Heaven’s name, let us hear that.”
Again there was the little nervous cough from Battiscomb. “I have scarce had time to complete my round of visits,” he temporized. “Your Grace has taken us so by surprise. I… I was with Sir Walter Young at Colyton when the news of your landing came some few hours ago.” His voice faltered and seemed to die away.
“Well?” cried the Duke. His brows were drawn together. Already he realized that Battiscomb’s tidings were not good, else would he be hesitating less in uttering them. “Is Sir Walter with you, at least?”
“I grieve to say that he is not.”
“Not?” It was Grey who spoke, and he followed the ejaculation by an oath. “Why not?”
“He is following, no doubt?” suggested Fletcher.
“We may hope, sirs,” answered Battiscomb, “that in a few days – when he shall have seen the zeal of the countryside – he will be cured of his present luke-warmness.” Thus, discreetly, did the man of law break the bad news he bore.
Monmouth sank back into his chair like one who has lost some of his strength. “Lukewarmness?” he repeated dully. “Sir Walter Young lukewarm!”
“Even so, Your Grace – alas!” and Battiscomb sighed audibly.
Ferguson’s voice boomed forth again to startle them. “The ox knoweth his owner,” he cried, “the ass his master’s crib; but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider.”
Grey pushed the bottle contemptuously across the table to the parson. “Drink, man, and get sense, said he, and turned aside to question Battiscomb touching others of the neighbourhood upon whom they had depended.
“What of Sir Francis Rolles?” he inquired.
Battiscomb answered the question, addressing himself to the Duke.
“Alas! Sir Francis, no doubt, would have been faithful to Your Grace, but, unfortunately, Sir Francis is in prison already.”
Deeper grew Monmouth’s frown; his fingers drummed the table absently. Fletcher poured himself wine, his face inscrutable. Grey threw one leg over the other and in a voice that was carefully careless he inquired, “And what of Sidney Clifford?”
“He is considering,” said Battiscomb. “I was to have seen him again at the end of the month; meanwhile, he would take no resolve.”
“Lord Gervase Scoresby?” questioned Grey, less carelessly.
Battiscomb half turned to him, then faced the Duke again as he made answer, “Mr. Wilding there, can tell you more concerning Lord Gervase.”
All eyes swept round to Wilding who sat in silence, listening; Monmouth’s were laden with inquiry and some anxiety. Wilding shook his head slowly, sadly. “You must not depend upon him,” he answered; “Lord Gervase was not yet ripe. A little longer and I think I must have won him for Your Grace.”
“Heaven help us!” exclaimed the Duke in petulant vexation. “Is no one coming in?”
Ferguson swung a hand towards the still open window, drawing attention to the sounds without.
“Does Your Grace not hear, that ye can ask?” he cried, almost reproachfully; but they scarce heeded him, for Grey was inquiring if Mr. Strode might be depended upon to join, and that was a matter that claimed the greater attention.
“I think,” said Battiscomb, “that he might have been depended upon.”
“Might have been?” questioned Fletcher, speaking now for the first time since Battiscomb’s arrival.
“Like Sir Francis Rolles, he is in prison,” the lawyer explained.
Monmouth leaned forward, and his young face looked Careworn now; he thrust a slender hand under the brown curls upon his brow. “Will you tell us, Mr. Battiscomb, upon what friends you think that we may count?” he said.
Battiscomb pursed his lips a second, pondering. “I think,” said he, “that you may count upon Mr. Legge and Mr. Hooper, and possibly upon Colonel Churchill, though I cannot say what following they will bring, if any. Mr. Trenchard, upon whom we counted for fifteen hundred men of Taunton, has been obliged to fly the country to escape arrest.”
“We have heard that from Mr. Trenchard’s cousin,” answered the Duke. “What of Prideaux, of Ford? Is he lukewarm?”
“I was unable to elicit a definite promise from him. But he was favourably disposed to Your Grace.”
His Grace made a gesture that seemed to dismiss Prideaux from their calculations. “And Mr. Hucker, of Taunton ?”
Battiscomb’s manner grew yet more ill at ease. “Mr. Hucker himself, I am sure, would place his sword at your disposal. But his brother is a red-hot Tory.”
“Well, well,” sighed the Duke, “I take it we must not make certain of Mr. Hucker. Are there any others besides Legge and Hooper upon whom you think that we may reckon?”
“Lord Wiltshire, perhaps,” said Battiscomb, but with a lack of assurance.
“A plague on perhaps!” exclaimed Monmouth, growing irritable; “I want you to name the men of whom you are certain.”
Battiscomb stood silent for a moment, pondering. He looked almost foolish, like a schoolboy who hesitates to confess his ignorance of the answer to a question set him.
Fletcher swung round, his grey eyes flashing angrily, his accent more Scottish than ever.
“Is it that ye’re certain o’ none, Mr. Battiscomb?” he exclaimed.
“Indeed,” said Battiscomb, “I think we may be fairly certain of Mr. Legge and Mr. Hooper.”
“And of none besides?” questioned Fletcher again. “Be these the only representatives of the flower of England’s nobility that is to flock to the banner of the cause of England’s freedom and religion?” Scorn was stamped on every word of his question.
Battiscomb spread his hands, raised his brows, and said nothing.
“The Lord knows I do not say it exulting,” said Fletcher; “but I told Your Grace yours was hardly the case of Henry the Seventh, as my Lord Grey would have you believe.”
“We shall see,” snapped Grey, scowling at the Scot. “The people are coming in hundreds – aye, in thousands – the gentry will follow; they must”
“Make not too sure, Your Grace – oh, make not too sure,” Wilding besought the Duke. “As I have said, these hinds have nothing to lose but their lives.”
“Faith, can a man lose more?” asked Grey contemptuously. He disliked Wilding by instinct, which was but a reciprocation of the feeling with which Wilding was inspired by him.
“I think he can,” said Mr. Wilding quietly. “A man may lose honour, he may plunge his family into ruin. These are things of more weight with a gentleman than life.”
“Odds death!” blazed Grey, giving a free rein to his dislike of this calm gentleman. “Do you suggest that a man’s honour is imperilled in His Grace’s service?”
“I suggest nothing,” answered Wilding, unmoved. “What I think, I state. If I thought a man’s honour imperilled in this service, you would not see me at this table now. I can make you no more convincing answer.
Grey laughed unpleasantly, and Wilding, a faint tinge on his cheek-bones, measured him with a stern, intrepid look before which his lordship’s shifty glance was observed to fall. Wilding’s eye, having achieved that much, passed from him to the Duke, and its expression softened.