The Rafael Sabatini Megapack. Rafael Sabatini
shortly. “Let me know more,” he begged her. “Am I to understand that so long as I leave you in peace—so long as I do not insist upon your becoming my wife in more than name—you will not wield the weapon that you hold?”
“You are to understand so,” she answered.
He took a turn in the room, very thoughtful. Not of himself was he thinking now, but of the Duke of Monmouth. Trenchard had told him some ugly truths that morning of how in his love-making he appeared to have shipwrecked the Cause ere it was well launched. If this letter got to Whitehall there was no gauging—ignorant as he was of what was in it—the ruin that might follow; but they had reason to fear the worst. He saw his duty to the Duke most clearly, and he breathed a prayer of thanks that Richard had chosen to put that letter to such a use as this. He knew himself checkmated; but he was a man who knew how to bear defeat in a becoming manner. He turned suddenly.
“The letter is in your hands?” he inquired.
“It is,” she answered.
“May I see it?” he asked.
She shook her head—not daring to show it or betray its whereabouts lest he should use force to become possessed of it—a thing, indeed, that was very far from his purpose.
He considered a moment, his mind intent now rather upon the Duke’s interest than his own.
“You know,” quoth he, “the desperate enterprise to which I stand committed. But it is a bargain between us that you do not betray me nor that enterprise so long as I leave you rid of my presence.
“That is the bargain I propose,” said she.
He looked at her a moment with hungry eyes, and she found his glance almost more than she could bear, so strong was its appeal. Besides, it may be that she was a thought beglamoured by the danger in which he stood, which seemed to invest him with a certain heroic dignity.
“Ruth,” he said at length, “it may well be that that which you desire may speedily come to pass; it may well be that in the course of this rebellion that is hatching you may be widowed. But at least I know that if my head falls it will not be my wife who has betrayed me to the axe. For that much, believe me, I am supremely grateful.”
He advanced. He took her unresisting hand again and bore it to his lips, bowing low before her. Then erect and graceful he turned on his heel and left her.
CHAPTER IX
MR. TRENCHARD’S COUNTERSTROKE
Now, however much it might satisfy Mr. Wilding to have Ruth’s word for it that so long as he left her in peace neither he nor the Cause had any betrayal to fear from her, Mr. Trenchard was of a very different mind.
He fumed and swore and worked himself into a very passion. “Zoons, man!” he cried, “it would mean utter ruin to you if that letter reached Whitehall.”
“I realize it; but my mind is easy. I have her promise.”
“A woman’s promise!” snorted Trenchard, and proceeded with great circumstance of expletives to damn “everything that daggled a petticoat.”
“Your fears are idle,” Wilding assured him. “What she says, she will do.”
“And her brother?” quoth Trenchard. “Have you bethought you of that canary-bird? He’ll know the letter’s whereabouts. He has cause to fear you more than ever now. Are you sure he’ll not be making use of it to lay you by the heels?”
Mr. Wilding smiled upon the fury provoked by Trenchard’s concern and love for him. “She has promised,” he said with an insistent faith that was fuel to Trenchard’s anger, “and I can depend her word.”
“So cannot I,” snapped his friend.
“The thing that plagues me most,” said Wilding, ignoring the remark, “is that we are kept in ignorance of the letter’s contents at a time when we most long for news. Not a doubt but it would have enabled us to set our minds at ease on the score of these foolish rumours.”
“Aye—or else confirmed them,” said pessimistic Trenchard. He wagged his head. “They say the Duke has put to sea already.”
“Folly!” Wilding protested.
“Whitehall thinks otherwise. What of the troops at Taunton?”
“More folly.”
“Well-I would you had that letter.”
“At least,” said Wilding, “I have the superscription, and we know from Shenke that no name was mentioned in the letter itself.”
“There’s evidence enough without it,” Trenchard reminded him, and fell soon after into abstraction, turning over in his mind a notion with which he had suddenly been inspired. That notion kept Trenchard secretly occupied for a couple of days; but in the end he succeeded in perfecting it.
Now it befell that towards dusk one evening early in the week Richard Westmacott went abroad alone, as was commonly his habit, his goal being the Saracen’s Head, where he and Sir Rowland spent many a night over wine and cards—to Sir Rowland’s moderate profit, for he had not played the pigeon in town so long without having acquired sufficient knowledge to enable him to play the rook in the country. As Westmacott was passing up the High Street, a black shadow fell athwart the light that streamed from the door of the Bell Inn, and out through the doorway lurched Mr. Trenchard a thought unsteadily to hurtle so violently against Richard that he broke the long stem of the white clay pipe he was carrying. Now Richard was not to know that Mr. Trenchard—having informed himself of Mr. Westmacott’s evening habits—had been waiting for the past half-hour in that doorway hoping that Mr. Westmacott would not depart this evening from his usual custom. Another thing that Mr. Westmacott was not to know—considering his youth—was the singular histrionic ability which this old rake had displayed in those younger days of his when he had been a player, and the further circumstance that he had excelled in those parts in which ebriety was to be counterfeited. Indeed, we have it on the word of no less an authority on theatrical matters than Mr. Pepys that Mr. Nicholas Trenchard’s appearance as Pistol in “Henry IV” in the year of the blessed Restoration was the talk alike of town and court.
Mr. Trenchard steadied himself from the impact, and, swearing a round and awful Elizabethan oath, accused the other of being drunk, then struck an attitude to demand with truculence, “Would ye take the wall o’ me, sir?”
Richard hastened to make himself known to this turbulent roysterer, who straightway forgot his grievance to take Westmacott affectionately by the hand and overwhelm him with apologies. And that done, Trenchard—who affected the condition known as maudlin drunk—must needs protest almost in tears how profound was his love for Richard, and insist that the boy return with him to the Bell Inn, that they might pledge each other.
Richard, himself sober, was contemptuous of Trenchard so obviously obfuscated. At first it was his impulse to excuse himself, as possibly Blake might be already waiting for him; but on second thoughts, remembering that Trenchard was Mr. Wilding’s most intimate famulus, it occurred to him that by a little crafty questioning he might succeed in smoking Mr. Wilding’s intentions in the matter of that letter—for from his sister he had failed to get satisfaction. So he permitted himself to be led indoors to a table by the window which stood vacant. There were at the time a dozen guests or so in the common-room. Trenchard bawled for wine and brandy, and for all that he babbled in an irresponsible, foolish manner of all things that were of no matter, yet not the most adroit of pumping could elicit from him any such information as Richard sought. Perforce young Westmacott must remain, plying him with more and more drink—and being plied in his turn—to the end that he might not waste the occasion.
An hour later found Richard much the worse for wear, and Trenchard certainly no better. Richard forgot his purpose, forgot that Blake waited for him at the Saracen’s Head. And now Trenchard seemed to be pulling himself together.
“I want to talk to you, Richard,” said he, and although thick, there was in his voice a certain impressive