“There is danger in this thing that you are undertaking?” said she, between question and assertion.
“It is not my wish to overstate it; yet I leave you to imagine what the risk may be.”
“It is a good cause,” said she, thinking of the poor, deluded, humble folk that followed Monmouth’s banner, whom Blake’s fine action was to rescue from impending ruin and annihilation, “and surely Heaven will be on your side.”
“We must prevail,” cried Blake with kindling eye, and you had thought him a fanatic, not a miserable earner of blood-money. “We must prevail, though some of us may pay dearly for the victory. I have a foreboding…” He paused, sighed, then laughed and flung back his head, as if throwing off some weight that had oppressed him.
It was admirably played; Nick Trenchard, had he observed it, might have envied the performance; and it took effect with her, this adding of a prospective martyr’s crown to the hero’s raiment he had earlier donned. It was a master-touch worthy of one who was deeply learned – from the school of foul experience – in the secret ways that lead to a woman’s favour. In a pursuit of this kind there was no subterfuge too mean, no treachery too base for Sir Rowland Blake.
“Will you walk, mistress?” he said, and she, feeling that it were an unkindness not to do his will, assented gravely. They moved down the sloping lawn, side by side, Sir Rowland leaning on his cane, bareheaded, his feathered hat tucked under his arm. Before them the river’s smooth expanse, swollen and yellow with the recent rains, glowed like a sheet of copper, so that it blurred the sight to look upon it long.
A few steps they took with no word uttered, then Sir Rowland spoke. “With this foreboding that is on me,” said he, “I could not go without seeing you, without saying something that I may never have another chance of saying; something that – who knows? – but for the emprise to which I am now wedded you had never heard from me.”
He shot her a furtive, sidelong glance from under his heavy, beetling brows, and now, indeed, he observed a change ripple over the composure of her face like a sudden breeze across a sheet of water. The deep lace collar at her throat rose and fell, and her fingers toyed nervously with a ribbon of her grey bodice. She recovered in an instant, and threw up entrenchments against the attack she saw he was about to make.
“You exaggerate, I trust,” said she. “Your forebodings will be proved groundless. You will return safe and sound from this venture, as indeed I hope you may.
That was his cue. “You hope it?” he cried, arresting his step, turning, and imprisoning her left hand in his right. “You hope it? Ah, if you hope for my return, return I will; but unless I know that you will have some welcome for me such as I desire from you, I think…” his voice quivered cleverly, “I think, perhaps, it were well if… if my forebodings were not as groundless as you say they are. Tell me, Ruth…”
But she interrupted him. It was high time, she thought. Her face he saw was flushed, her eyes had hardened somewhat. Calmly she disengaged her hand.
“What is’t you mean?” she asked. “Speak, Sir Rowland, speak plainly, that I may give you a plain answer.”
It was a challenge in which another man had seen how hopeless was his case, and, accepting defeat, had made as orderly a retreat as still was possible. But Sir Rowland, stricken in his vanity, went headlong on to utter rout.
“Since you ask me in such terms I will be plain, indeed,” he answered her. “I mean.. .” He almost quailed before the look that met him from her intrepid eyes. “Do you not see my meaning, Ruth?”
“That which I see,” said she, “I do not believe, and as I would not wrong you by any foolish imaginings, I would have you plain with me.”
Yet the egregious fool went on. “And why should you not believe your senses?” he asked her, between anger and entreaty. “Is it wonderful that I should love you? Is it…?”
“Stop!” She drew back a pace from him. There was a moment’s silence, during which it seemed she gathered her forces to destroy him, and, in the spirit, he bowed his head before the coming storm. Then, with a sudden relaxing of the stiffness her lissom figure had assumed, “I think you had better leave me, Sir Rowland,” she advised him. She half turned and moved a step away; he followed with lowering glance, his upper lip lifting and laying bare his powerful teeth. In a stride he was beside her.
“Do you hate me, Ruth?” he asked her hoarsely.
“Why should I hate you?” she counter-questioned, sadly. “I do not even dislike you,” she continued in a more friendly tone, adding, as if by way of explaining this phenomenon, “You are my brother’s friend. But I am disappointed in you, Sir Rowland. You had, I know, no intention of offering me disrespect; and yet it is what you have done.”
“As how?” he asked.
Knowing me another’s wife…”
He broke in tempestuously. “A mock marriage! If it is but that scruple stands between us…”
“I think there is more,” she answered him. “You compel me to hurt you; I do so as the surgeon does – that I may heal you.”
“Why, thanks for nothing,” he made answer, unable to repress a sneer. Then, checking himself, and resuming the hero-martyr posture, “I go, mistress,” he told her sadly, “and if I lose my life to-night, or to-morrow, in this affair…”
“I shall pray for you,” said she; for she had found him out at last, perceived the nature of the bow he sought to draw across her heart-strings, and, having perceived it, contempt awoke in her. He had attempted to move her by unfair, insidious means.
He fell back, crimson from chin to brow. He stifled the wrath that welled up, threatening to choke him. He was a short-necked man, of the sort – as Trenchard had once reminded him – that falls a prey to apoplexy, and surely he was never nearer it than at that moment. He made her a profound bow, bending himself almost in two before her in a very irony of deference; then, drawing himself up again, he turned and left her.
The plot which with some pride he had hatched and the reward he looked to cull from it, were now to his soul as ashes to his lips. What could it profit him to destroy Monmouth so that Anthony Wilding lived? For whether she loved Wilding or not, she was Wilding’s wife. Wilding, nominally, at least, was master of that which Sir Rowland coveted; not her heart, indeed, but her ample fortune. Wilding had been a stumbling-block to him since he had come to Bridgwater; but for Wilding he might have run a smooth course; he was still fool enough to hug that dear illusion to his soul. Somewhere in England – if not dead already – this Wilding lurked, an outlaw, whom any might shoot down at sight. Sir Rowland swore he would not rest until he knew that Anthony Wilding cumbered the earth no more – leastways, not the surface of it.
He went forth to seek Newlington. The merchant had sent his message to the rebel King, and had word in answer that His Majesty would be graciously pleased to sup at Mr. Newlington’s at nine o’clock on the following evening, attended by a few gentlemen of his immediate following. Sir Rowland received the news with satisfaction, and sighed to think that Mr. Wilding – still absent, Heaven knew where – would not be of the party. It was reported that on the Monday Monmouth was to march to Gloucester, hoping there to be joined by his Cheshire friends, so that it seemed Sir Rowland had not matured his plan a day too soon. He got to horse, and contriving to win out of Bridgwater, rode off to Somerton to concert with Lord Feversham concerning the men he would need for his undertaking.
That night Richard made free talk of the undertaking to Diana and to Ruth, loving, as does the pusillanimous, to show himself engaged in daring enterprises. Emulating his friend Sir Rowland, he held forth with prolixity upon the great service he was to do the State, and Ruth, listening to him, was proud of his zeal, the sincerity of which it never entered her mind to doubt.
Diana listened, too, but without illusions concerning Master Richard, and she kept her conclusions to herself.
During the afternoon of the morrow, which was Sunday, Sir Rowland returned to Bridgwater, his mission to Feversham entirely successful, and all preparations made. He completed his arrangements, and towards eight o’clock that night the twenty men sent by Feversham – they had slipped singly into the town – began to muster in the orchard at the back of Mr. Newlington’s house.