“Maybe,” said Nick with a sniff, “you’re intending to journey to Tower Hill ?”
“In that direction,” answered Mr. Wilding suavely.
“I am for London, Nick. And you shall come with me.”
“God save us! Do you keep a fool’s egg under that nest of hair?”
Wilding explained, and by the time Walters returned with the boots Trenchard was walking up and down the room in an odd agitation. “Odds my life, Tony!” he cried at last. “I believe it is the best thing.”
“The only thing, Nick.”
“And since all is lost, why.. .” Trenchard blew out his cheeks and smacked fist into palm. “I am with you,” said he.
Chapter XXIV.
Justice
It has fallen to my lot in the course of this veridical chronicle of Mr. Anthony Wilding’s connection with the Rebellion in the West, and of his wedding and post-nuptial winning of Ruth Westmacott, to relate certain matters of incident and personality that may be accounted strange. But the strangest yet remains to be related. For in spite of all that had passed between Sir Rowland Blake and the Westmacotts on that memorable night of Sunday to Monday, on which the battle of Sedgemoor was lost and won, towards the end of that same month of July we find him not only back at Lupton House, but once again the avowed suitor of Mr. Wilding’s widow. For effrontery this is a matter of which it is to be doubted whether history furnishes a parallel. Indeed, until the circumstances are sifted it seems wild and incredible. So letus consider these.
On the morrow of Sedgemoor, the town of Bridgwater became invested – infested were no whit too strong a word – by the King’s forces under Feversham and the odious Kirke, and there began a reign of terror for the town. The prisons were choked with attainted and suspected rebels. >From Bridgwater to Weston Zoyland the road was become an avenue of gallows, each bearing its repulsive gemmace-laden burden; for the King’s commands were unequivocal, and hanging was the order of the day.
It is not my desire at this stage to surfeit you with the horrors that were perpetrated during that hideous week of July, when no man’s life was safe from the royal butchers. The awful campaign of Jeifreys and his four associates was yet to follow, but it is doubtful if it could compare in ruthlessness with that of Feversham and Kirke. At least, when Jeifreys came, men were given a trial – or what looked like it – and there remained them a chance, however slender, of acquittal, as many lived to prove thereafter. With Feversham there was no such chance. And it was of this circumstance that Sir Rowland Blake took the fullest and the cowardliest advantage.
There can be no doubt that Sir Rowland was a villain. It might be urged for him that he was a creature of circumstance, and that had circumstances been other it is possible he had been a credit to his name. But he was weak in character, and out of that weakness he had developed a Herculean strength in villainy. Failure had dogged him in everything he undertook. Broken at the gaming-tables, hounded out of town by creditors, he was in desperate straits to repair his fortunes and, as we have seen, he was not nice in his endeavours to achieve that end.
Ruth Westmacott’s fair inheritance had seemed an easy thing to conquer, and to its conquest he had applied himself to suffer defeat as he had suffered it in all things else. But Sir Rowland did not yet acknowledge himself beaten, and the Bridgwater reign of terror dealt him a fresh hand – a hand of trumps. With this he came boldly to renew the game.
He was as smooth as oil at first, a very penitent, confessing himself mad in what he had done on that Sunday night – mad with despair and rage at having been defeated in the noble task to which he had turned his hands. His penitence might have had little effect upon the Westmacotts had he not known how to insinuate that it might be best for them to lend an ear to it – and a forgiving one.
“You will tell Mr. Westmacott, Jasper,” he had said, when Jasper told him that they could not receive him, “that he would be unwise not to see me, and the same to Mistress Wilding.”
And old Jasper had carried his message, and had told Richard of the wicked smile that had been on Sir Rowland’s lips when he had uttered it.
Now Richard was in many ways a changed man since that night at Weston Zoyland. A transformation seemed to have been wrought in him as odd as it was sudden, and it dated from the moment when with tears in his eyes he had wrung Wilding’s hand in farewell. Where precept had failed, Richard found himself converted by example. He contrasted himself in that stressful hour with great-souled Anthony Wilding, and saw himself as he was, a weakling, strong only in vicious ways. Repentance claimed him; repentance and a fine ambition to be worthier, to resemble as nearly as his nature would allow him this Anthony Wilding whom he took for pattern. He changed his ways, abandoned drink and gaming, and gained thereby a healthier countenance. Then in his zeal he overshot his mark. He developed a taste for Scripture-reading, bethought him of prayers, and even took to saying grace to his meat. Indeed – for conversion, when it comes, is a furious thing – the swing of his soul’s pendulum threatened now to carry him to extremes of virtue and piety. “0 Lord!” he would cry a score of times a day, “Thou hast brought up my soul from the grave; Thou hast kept me alive that I should not go down to the pit!”
But underlying all this remained unfortunately the inherent weakness of his nature – indeed, it was that very weakness and malleability made this sudden and wholesale conversion possible.
Upon hearing Sir Rowland’s message his heart fainted, despite his good intentions, and he urged that perhaps they had better hear what the baronet might have to say.
It was three days after Sedgemoor Fight, and poor Ruth was worn and exhausted with her grief- believing Wilding dead, for he had sent no message to inform her of his almost miraculous preservation. The thing he went to do in London was fraught with such peril that he foresaw but the slenderest chance of escaping with his life. Therefore, he had argued, why console her now with news that he lived, when in a few days the headsman might prove that his end had been but postponed? To do so might be to give her cause to mourn him twice. Again he was haunted by the thought that, in spite of all, it may have been pity that had so grievously moved her at their last meeting. Better, then, to wait; better for both their sakes. If he came safely through his ordeal it would be time enough to bear her news of his preservation.
In deepest mourning, very white, with dark stains beneath her eyes to tell the tale of anguished vigils, she received Sir Rowland in the withdrawing-room, her brother at her side. To his expressions of deep penitence he found them cold; so he passed on to show them what disastrous results might ensue upon a stubborn maintaining of this attitude of theirs towards him.
“I have come,” he said, his eyes downcast, his face long-drawn, for he could play the sorrowful with any hypocrite in England, “to do something more than speak of my grief and regret. I have come to offer proof of it by service.
“We ask no service of you, sir,” said Ruth, her voice a sword of sharpness.
He sighed, and turned to Richard. “This were folly,” he assured his whilom friend. “You know the influence I wield.”
“Do I?” quoth Richard, his tone implying doubt. “You think that the bungled matter at Newlington’s may have shaken it?” quoth Blake. “With Feversham, perhaps. But Albemarle, remember, trusts me very fully. There are ugly happenings in the town here. Men are being hung like linen on a washing-day. Be not too sure that yourself are free from all danger.” Richard paled under the baronet’s baleful, half-sneering glance. “Be not in too great haste to cast me aside, for you may find me useful.”
“Do you threaten, sir?” cried Ruth.
“Threaten?” quoth he. He turned up his eyes and showed the whites of them. “Is it to threaten to promise you my protection; to show you how I can serve you? – than which I ask no sweeter boon of heaven. A word from me, and Richard need fear nothing.”
“He need fear nothing without that word,” said Ruth disdainfully. “Such service as he did Lord Feversham the other night…”