Mistress Wilding Read online

  CHAPTER XII. AT THE FORD

  As Mr. Wilding and Nick Trenchard rode hell-to-leather through Tauntonstreets they never noticed a horseman at the door of the Red Lion Inn.But the horseman noticed them. He looked up at the sound of their wildapproach, started upon recognizing them, and turned in his saddle asthey swept past him to call upon them excitedly to stop.

  "Hi!" he shouted. "Nick Trenchard! Hi! Wilding!" Then, seeing that theyeither did not hear or did not heed him, he loosed a volley of oaths,wheeled his horse about, drove home the spurs, and started in pursuit.Out of the town he followed them and along the road towards Walford,shouting and clamouring at first, afterwards in a grim and angrysilence.

  Now, despite their natural anxiety for their own safety, Wilding andTrenchard had by no means abandoned their project of taking cover by theford to await the messenger whom Albemarle and the others would nodoubt be sending to Whitehall; and this mad fellow thundering after themseemed in a fair way to mar their plan. As they reluctantly passed thespot they had marked out for their ambush, splashed through the ford andbreasted the rising ground beyond, they took counsel. They determinedto stand and meet this rash pursuer. Trenchard calmly opined that ifnecessary they must shoot him; he was, I fear, a bloody-minded fellowat bottom, although, it is true he justified himself now by pointing outthat this was no time to hesitate at trifles. Partly because theytalked and partly because the gradient was steep and their horsesneeded breathing, they slackened rein, and the horseman behind themcame tearing through the water of the ford and lessened the distanceconsiderably in the next few minutes.

  He bethought him of using his lungs once more. "Hi, Wilding! Hold, damnyou!"

  "He curses you in a most intimate manner," quoth Trenchard.

  Wilding reined in and turned in the saddle. "His voice has a familiarsound," said he. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked down theslope at the pursuer, who came on crouching low upon the withers of hisgoaded beast.

  "Wait!" the fellow shouted. "I have news--news for you!"

  "It's Vallancey!" cried Wilding suddenly. Trenchard too had drawnrein and was looking behind him. Instead of expressing relief at thediscovery that this was not an enemy, he swore at the trouble towhich they had so needlessly put themselves, and he was still at hisvituperations when Vallancey came up with them, red in the face and veryangry, cursing them roundly for the folly of their mad career, and fornot having stopped when he bade them.

  "It was no doubt discourteous," said Mr. Wilding "but we took you forsome friend of the Lord-Lieutenant's."

  "Are they after you?" quoth Vallancey, his face of a sudden verystartled.

  "Like enough," said Trenchard, "if they have found their horses yet."

  "Forward, then," Vallancey urged them in excitement, and he picked uphis reins again. "You shall hear my news as we ride."

  "Not so," said Trenchard. "We have business here down yonder at theford."

  "Business? What business?"

  They told him, and scarce had they got the words out than he cut inimpatiently. "That's no matter now.

  "Not yet, perhaps," said Mr. Wilding; "but it will be if that lettergets to Whitehall."

  "Odso!" was the impatient retort, "there's other news travelling toWhitehall that will make small-beer of this--and belike it's well on itsway there already."

  "What news is that?" asked Trenchard. Vallancey told them. "The Duke haslanded--he came ashore this morning at Lyme."

  "The Duke?" quoth Mr. Wilding, whilst Trenchard merely stared. "WhatDuke?"

  "What Duke! Lord, you weary me! What dukes be there? The Duke ofMonmouth, man."

  "Monmouth!" They uttered the name in a breath. "But is this reallytrue?" asked Wilding. "Or is it but another rumour?"

  "Remember the letter your friends intercepted," Trenchard bade him.

  "I am not forgetting it," said Wilding.

  "It's no rumour," Vallancey assured them. "I was at White Lackingtonthree hours ago when the news came to George Speke, and I was riding tocarry it to you, going by way of Taunton that I might drop word of itfor our friends at the Red Lion."

  Trenchard needed no further convincing; he looked accordingly dismayed.But Wilding found it still almost impossible--in spite of what alreadyhe had learnt--to credit this amazing news. It was hard to believe theDuke of Monmouth mad enough to spoil all by this sudden and unheraldedprecipitation.

  "You heard the news at White Lackington?" said he slowly. "Who carriedit thither?"

  "There were two messengers," answered Vallancey, with restrainedimpatience, "and they were Heywood Dare--who has been appointedpaymaster to the Duke's forces--and Mr. Chamberlain."

  Mr. Wilding was observed for once to change colour. He gripped Vallanceyby the wrist. "You saw them?" he demanded, and his voice had a husky,unusual sound. "You saw them?"

  "With these two eyes," answered Vallancey, "and I spoke with them."

  It was true, then! There was no room for further doubt.

  Wilding looked at Trenchard, who shrugged his shoulders and made a wryface. "I never thought but that we were working in the service of ahairbrain," said he contemptuously.

  Vallancey proceeded to details. "Dare and Chamberlain," he informedthem, "came off the Duke's own frigate at daybreak to-day. They were putashore at Seatown, and they rode straight to Mr. Speke's with the news,returning afterwards to Lyme."

  "What men has the Duke with him, did you learn?" asked Wilding.

  "Not more than a hundred or so, from what Dare told us."

  "A hundred! God help us all! And is England to be conquered with ahundred men? Oh, this is midsummer frenzy."

  "He counts on all true Protestants to flock to his banner," put inTrenchard, and it was not plain whether he expressed a fact or sneeredat one.

  "Does he bring money and arms, at least?" asked Wilding.

  "I did not ask," answered Vallancey. "But Dare told us that threevessels had come over, so that it is to be supposed he brings somemanner of provision with him."

  "It is to be hoped so, Vallancey; but hardly to be supposed," quothTrenchard, and then he touched Wilding on the arm and pointed with hiswhip across the fields towards Taunton. A cloud of dust was rising frombetween tall hedges where ran the road. "I think it were wise to bemoving. At least, this sudden landing of James Scott relieves my mind inthe matter of that letter."

  Wilding, having taken a look at the floating dust that announced theoncoming of their pursuers, was now lost in thought. Vallancey, who,beyond excitement at the news of which he was the bearer, seemed to haveno opinion of his own as to the wisdom or folly of the Duke's suddenarrival, looked from one to the other of these two men whom he had knownas the prime secret agents in the West, and waited. Trenchard moved hishorse a few paces nearer the hedge, "Whither now, Anthony?" he askedsuddenly.

  "You may ask, indeed!" exclaimed Wilding, and his voice was as bitteras ever Trenchard had heard it. "'S heart! We are in it now! We hadbest make for Lyme--if only that we may attempt to persuade thiscrack-brained boy to ship back to Holland again, and ship ourselves withhim."

  "There's sense in you at last," grumbled Trenchard. "But I misdoubt mehe'll turn back after having come so far. Have you any money?" he asked.He could be very practical at times.

  "A guinea or two. But I can get money at Ilminster."

  "And how do you propose to reach Ilminster with these gentlemen by wayof cutting us off?"

  "We'll double back as far as the cross-roads," said Wilding promptly,"and strike south over Swell Hill for Hatch. If we ride hard we can doit easily, and have little fear of being followed. They'll naturallytake it we have made for Bridgwater."

  They acted on the suggestion there and then, Vallancey going with them;for his task was now accomplished, and he was all eager to get to Lymeto kiss the hand of the Protestant Duke. They rode hard, as Wilding hadsaid they must, and they reached the junction of the roads before theirpursuers hove in sight. Here Wilding suddenly detained them again. Theroad ahead of them ran straig
ht for almost a mile, so that if they tookit now they were almost sure to be seen presently by the messengers.On their right a thickly grown coppice stretched from the road to thestream that babbled in the hollow. He gave it as his advice that theyshould lie hidden there until those who hunted them should have gone by.Obviously that was the only plan, and his companions instantly adoptedit. They found a way through a gate into an adjacent field, and fromthis they gained the shelter of the trees. Trenchard, neglectful ofhis finery and oblivious of the ubiquitous brambles, left his horse inVallancey's care and crept to the edge of the thicket that he might takea peep at the pursuers.

  They came up very soon, six militiamen in lobster coats with yellowfacings, and a sergeant, which was what Mr. Trenchard might haveexpected. There was, however, something else that Mr. Trenchard did notexpect; something that afforded him considerable surprise. At the headof the party rode Sir Rowland Blake--obviously leading it--and with himwas Richard Westmacott. Amongst them went a man in grey clothes,whom Mr. Trenchard rightly conjectured to be the messenger riding forWhitehall. He thought with a smile of what a handful he andWilding would have had had they waited to rob that messenger of theincriminating letter that he bore. Then he checked his smile to consideragain how Sir Rowland Blake came to head that party. He abandoned theproblem, as the little troop swept unhesitatingly round to the left andwent pounding along the road that led northwards to Bridgwater, clearlynever doubting which way their quarry had sped.

  As for Sir Rowland Blake's connection with this pursuit, the towngallant had by his earnestness not only convinced Colonel Luttrell ofhis loyalty and devotion to King James, but had actually gone so far asto beg that he might be allowed to prove that same loyalty by leadingthe soldiers to the capture of those self-confessed traitors, Mr.Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. From his knowledge of their haunts he wasconfident, he assured Colonel Luttrell, that he could be of serviceto the King in this matter. The fierce sincerity of his purpose shonethrough his words; Luttrell caught the accent of hate in Sir Rowland'stense voice, and, being a shrewd man, he saw that if Mr. Wilding was tobe taken, an enemy would surely be the best pursuer to accomplish it. Sohe prevailed, and gave him the trust he sought, in spite of Albemarle'sexpressed reluctance. And never did bloodhound set out more relentlesslypurposeful upon a scent than did Sir Rowland follow now in what hebelieved to be the track of this man who stood between him and RuthWestmacott. Until Ruth was widowed, Sir Rowland's hopes of her must liefallow; and so it was with a zest that he flung himself into the task ofwidowing her.

  As the party passed out of view round the angle of the white road,Trenchard made his way back to Wilding to tell him what he had seen andto lay before him, for his enucleation, the problem of Blake's being theleader of it. But Wilding thought little of Blake, and cared little ofwhat he might be the leader.

  "We'll stay here," said he, "until they have passed the crest of thehill."

  This, Trenchard told him, was his own purpose; for to leave theirconcealment earlier would be to reveal themselves to any of the trooperswho might happen to glance over his shoulder.

  And so they waited some ten minutes or so, and then walked their horsesslowly and carefully forward through the trees towards the road. Wildingwas alongside and slightly ahead of Trenchard; Vallancey followed closeupon their tails. Suddenly, as Wilding was about to put his mare at thelow stone wall, Trenchard leaned forward and caught his bridle.

  "Ss!" he hissed. "Horses!"

  And now that they halted they heard the hoofbeats clear and close athand; the crackling of undergrowth and the rustle of the leaves throughwhich they had thrust their passage had deafened their ears to othersounds until this moment. They checked and waited where they stood,barely screened by the few boughs that still might intervene betweenthem and the open, not daring to advance, and not daring to retreatlest their movements should draw attention to themselves. They remainedabsolutely still, scarcely breathing, their only hope being that ifthese who came should chance to be enemies they might ride on withoutlooking to right or left. It was so slender a hope that Wilding lookedto the priming of his pistols, whilst Trenchard, who had none, loosenedhis sword in its scabbard. Nearer came the riders.

  "There are not more than three," whispered Trenchard, who had beenlistening intently, and Mr. Wilding nodded, but said nothing.

  Another moment and the little party was abreast of those watchers; adark brown riding-habit flashed into their line of vision, and ablue one laced with gold. At sight of the first Mr. Wilding's eyelidsflickered; he had recognized it for Ruth's, with whom rode Diana,whilst some twenty paces or so behind came Jerry, the groom. They werereturning to Bridgwater.

  They came along, looking neither to right nor to left, as the three menhad hoped they would, and they were all but past, when suddenly Wildinggave his roan a touch of the spur and bounded forward. Diana's horseswerved so that it nearly threw her. Ruth, slightly ahead, reined in atonce; so, too, did the groom in the rear, and so violently in his suddenfear of highwaymen that he brought his horse on to its hind legs and hadit prancing and rearing madly about the road, so that he was hard put toit to keep his seat.

  Ruth looked round as Mr. Wilding's voice greeted her.

  "Mistress Wilding," he called to her. "A moment, if I may detain you."

  "You have eluded them!" she cried, entirely off her guard in hersurprise at seeing him, and there echoed through her words a note ofgenuine gladness that almost disconcerted her husband for a moment. Thenext instant a crimson flush overspread her pale face, and her eyes wereveiled from him, vexation in her heart at having betrayed the livelysatisfaction it afforded her to see him safe when she feared himcaptured already or at least upon the point of capture.

  She had admired him almost unconsciously for his daring at the town hallthat day, when his strong calm had stood out in such sharp contrast tothe fluster and excitement of the men about him; of them all, indeed, ithad seemed to her in those stressful moments that he was the only man,and she was--although she did not realize it--in danger of being proudof him. Then again the thing he had done. He had come deliberately tothrust his head into the lion's maw that he might save her brother. Itwas possible that he had done it in answer to the entreaties which shehad earlier feared she had poured into deaf ears; or it was possiblethat he had done it spurred by his sense of right and justice, whichwould not permit him to allow another to suffer in his stead--howevermuch that other might be caught in the very toils that he had preparedfor Mr. Wilding himself. Her admiration, then, was swelled by gratitude,and it was a compound of these that had urged her to hinder thetything-men from winning past her until he and Trenchard should have gotwell away.

  Afterwards, when with Diana and her groom--on a horse which Sir EdwardPhelips insisted upon lending them--she rode homeward from Taunton,there was Diana to keep alive the spark of kindness that glowed at lastfor Wilding in Ruth's breast. Miss Horton extolled his bravery, hischivalry, his nobility, and ended by expressing her envy of Ruth thatshe should have won such a man amongst men for her husband, and wonderedwhat it might be that kept Ruth from claiming him for her own as washer right. Ruth had answered little, but she had ridden very thoughtful;there was that in the past she found it hard to forgive Wilding. And yetshe would now have welcomed an opportunity of thanking him for what hehad done, of expressing to him something of the respect he had wonin her eyes by his act of self-denunciation to save her brother. Thischance, it seemed, was given her, for there he stood, with head baredbefore her; and already she thought no longer of seizing the chance,vexed as she was at having been surprised into a betrayal of feelingswhose warmth she had until that moment scarce estimated.

  In answer to her cry of "You have eluded them!" he waved a hand towardsthe rising ground and the road to Bridgwater.

  "They passed that way but a few moments since," said he, "and by therate at which they were travelling they should be nearing Newton by now.In their great haste to catch me they could not pause to look for me soclose at hand," he a
dded with a smile, "and for that I am thankful."

  She sat her horse and answered nothing, which threw her cousin out ofall patience with her. "Come, Jerry," Diana called to the groom. "Wewill walk our horses up the hill."

  "You are very good, madam," said Mr. Wilding, and he bowed to thewithers of his roan.

  Ruth said nothing; expressed neither approval nor disapproval of Diana'swithdrawal, and the latter, with a word of greeting to Wilding, wentahead followed by Jerry, who had regained control by now of the beasthe bestrode. Wilding watched them until they turned the corner, then hewalked his mare slowly forward until he was alongside Ruth.

  "Before I go," said he, "there is something I should like to say." Hisdark eyes were sombre, his manner betrayed some hesitation.

  The diffidence of his tone proved startling to her by virtue of itsunusualness. What might it portend, she wondered, and sought with graveeyes to read his baffling countenance; and then a wild alarm swept intoher and shook her spirit in its grip; there was something of which untilthis moment she had not thought--something connected with the fatefulmatter of that letter. It had stood as a barrier between them, herbuckler, her sole defence against him. It had been to her what itssting is to the bee--a thing which if once used in self-defence isself-destructive. Not, indeed, that she had used it as her sting; it hadbeen forced from her by the machinations of Trenchard; but used it hadbeen, and was done with; she had it no longer that with it she mighthold him in defiance, and it did not occur to her that he was no longerin case to invoke the law.

  Her face grew stony, a dry glitter came to her blue eyes; she cast aglance over her shoulder at Diana and her servant. Wilding observedit and read what was passing in her mind; indeed, it was not to bemistaken, no more than what is passing in the mind of the recruit wholooks behind him in the act of charging. His lips half smiled.

  "Of what are you afraid?" he asked her.

  "I am not afraid," she answered in husky accents that belied her.

  Perhaps to reassure her, perhaps because he thought of his companionslurking in the thicket and cared not to have them for his audience, hesuggested they should go a little way in the direction her cousin hadtaken. She wheeled her horse, and, side by side, they ambled up thedusty road.

  "The thing I have to tell you," said he presently, "concerns myself."

  "Does it concern me?" she asked him coldly, and her coolness was urgedpartly by her newborn fears, partly to counterbalance such impressionas her illjudged show of gladness at his safety might have made upon hismind. He flashed her a sidelong glance, the long white fingers of hisright hand toying thoughtfully with a ringlet of the dark brown hairthat fell upon the shoulders of his scarlet coat.

  "Surely, madam," he answered dryly, "what concerns a man may wellconcern his wife."

  She bowed her head, her eyes upon the road before her. "True," said she,her voice expressionless. "I had forgot."

  He reined in and turned to look at her; her horse moved on a pace ortwo, then came to a halt, apparently of its own accord.

  "I do protest," said he, "you treat me less kindly than I deserve." Heurged his mare forward until he had come up with her again, andthen drew rein once more. "I think that I may lay some claim to--atleast--your gratitude for what I did to-day."

  "It is my inclination to be grateful," said she. She was very wary ofhim. "Forgive me, if I am still mistrustful."

  "But of what?" he cried, a thought impatiently.

  "Of you. What ends did you seek to serve? Was it to save Richard thatyou came?"

  "Unless you think that it was to save Blake," he said ironically. "Whatother ends do you conceive I could have served?" She made him no answer,and so he resumed after a pause. "I rode to Taunton to serve you for tworeasons; because you asked me, and because I would have no innocent mensuffer in my stead--not even though, as these men, they were but caughtin their own toils, hoist with the petard they had charged for me.Beyond these two motives, I had no other thought in ruining myself."

  "Ruining yourself?" she cried. Yes, it was true; but she had not thoughtof it until this moment; there had been so much to think of.

  "Is it not ruin to be outlawed, to have a price set upon your head, aswill no doubt a price be set on mine when Albemarle's messenger shallhave reached Whitehall? Is it not ruin to have my lands and all Iown made forfeit to the State, to find myself a beggar, hunted andproscribed? Forgive me that I harass you with this catalogue of mymisfortunes. You'll say, no doubt, that I have brought them upon myselfby compelling you against your will to marry me.

  "I'll not deny that it is in my mind," said she, and of set purposestifled pity.

  He sighed and looked at her again, but she would not meet his eye, elseits whimsical expression might have intrigued her. "Can you deny mymagnanimity, I wonder?" said he, and spoke almost as one amused. "All Ihad I sacrificed to do your will, to save your brother from the snareof his own contriving against me. I wonder do you yet realize how muchI sacrificed to-day at Taunton! I wonder!" And he paused, looking at herand waiting for some word from her; but she had none for him.

  "Clearly you do not, else I think you would show me if only a pretenceof kindness." She was looking at him at last, her eyes less hard. Theyseemed to ask him to explain. "When you came this morning with thetale of how the tables had been turned upon your brother, of how hewas caught in his own springe, and the letter found in his keeping wasbefore the King's folk at Taunton with every appearance of having beenaddressed to him, and not a tittle of evidence to show that it had beenmeant for me, do you know what news it was you brought me?" He pauseda second, looking at her from narrowing eyes. Then he answered his ownquestion. "You brought me the news that you were mine to take whensoe'erI pleased. Whilst that letter was in your hands it gave you the power tomake me your obedient slave. You might blow upon me as you listed whilstyou held it, and I was a vane that must turn to your blowing for myhonour's sake and for the sake of the cause in which I worked. Throughno rashness of mine must that letter come into the hands of the King'sfriends, else was I dishonoured. It was an effective barrier between us.So long as you possessed that letter you might pipe as you pleased, andI must dance to the tune you set. And then this morning what you came totell me was that things were changed; that it was mine to call the tune.Had I had the strength to be a villain, you had been mine now, andyour brother and Sir Rowland might have hanged on the rope of their ownweaving."

  She looked at him in a startled, almost shamefaced manner. This was anaspect of the case she had not considered.

  "You realize it, I see," he said, and smiled wistfully. "Then perhapsyou realize why you found me so unwilling to do the thing you craved.Having treated me ungenerously, you came to cast yourself upon mygenerosity, asking me--though I scarcely think you understood--to beggarmyself of life itself with all it held for me. God knows I make nopretence to virtue, and yet I think I had been something more than humanhad I not refused you and the bargain you offered--a bargain that youwould never be called upon to fulfil if I did the thing you asked."

  At last she interrupted him; she could bear it no longer.

  "I had not thought of it!" she cried. It was a piteous wail that brokefrom her. "I swear I had not thought of that. I was all distraught forpoor Richard's sake. Oh, Mr. Wilding," she turned to him, holding out ahand; her eyes shone, filmed with moisture, "I shall have a kindnessfor you... all my days for your... generosity to-day." It was lamentablyweak, far from the hot expressions which she forced it to replace.

  "Yes, I was generous," he admitted. "We will move on as far as thecross-roads." Again they ambled gently forward. Up the slope from theford Diana and Jerry were slowly climbing; not another human being wasin sight ahead or behind them. "After you left me," he continued, "yourmemory and your entreaties lingered with me. I gave the matter of ourposition thought, and it seemed to me that all was monstrously ill-done.I loved you, Ruth, I needed you, and you disdained me. My love wasmaster of me. But 'neath your disdain it was transmuted oddly." H
echecked the passion that was vibrating in his voice and resumed aftera pause, in the calm, slow tones, soft and musical, that were his own."There is scarce the need for so much recapitulation. When the powerwas mine I bent you unfairly to my will; you did as much by me whenthe power suddenly became yours. It was a strange war between us, and Iaccepted its conditions. To-day, when the power was mine again, mineto bring you at last to subjection, behold, I have capitulated atyour bidding, and all that I held--including your own self--have Irelinquished. It is perhaps fitting. Haply I am punished for having wedyou before I had wooed you." Again his tone changed, it grew more cold,more matter-of-fact. "I rode this way a little while ago a hunted man,my only hope to reach home and collect what moneys and valuables I couldcarry, and make for the coast to find a vessel bound for Holland. Ihave been engaged, as you know, in stirring up rebellion to check theiniquities and persecutions that are toward in a land I love. I'll notweary you with details. Time was needed for this as for all things, andby next spring, perhaps, had matters gone well, this vineyard that socarefully and secretly I have been tending, would have been, maybe, incondition to bear fruit. Even now, in the hour of my flight, I learnthat others have come to force this delicate growth into suddenmaturity. There! Soon ripe, soon rotten. The Duke of Monmouth has landedat Lyme this morning. I am riding to him."

  "To what end?" she cried, and he saw in her face a dismay that amountedalmost to fear, and he wondered was it for him.

  "To place my sword at his service. Were I not encompassed by thisruin, I should not have stirred a foot in that direction--so rash, soforedoomed to failure is this invasion. As it is,"--he shrugged andlaughed--"it is the only hope--all forlorn though it may be--for me."

  The trammels she had imposed upon her soul fell away at that like bondsof cobweb. She laid her hand upon his wrists, tears stood in her eyes;her lips quivered.

  "Anthony, forgive me," she besought him. He trembled under her touch,under the caress of her voice, and at the sound of his name for thefirst time upon her lips.

  "What have I to forgive?" he asked.

  "The thing that I did in the matter of that letter."

  "You poor child," said he, smiling gently upon her, "you did it inself-defence."

  "Yet say that you forgive me--say it before you go!" she begged him.

  He considered her gravely a moment. "To what end," he asked, "do youimagine that I have talked so much? To the end that I might show youthat however I may have wronged you I have at the last made some amends;and that for the sake of this, the truest proof of penitence, I may haveyour forgiveness ere I go."

  She was weeping softly. "It was an ill day on which we met," she sighed.

  "For you--aye."

  "Nay--for you.

  "We'll say for both of us, then," he compromised. "See, Ruth, yourcousin grows weary, and I have a couple of comrades who are no doubtimpatient to be gone. It may not be good for us to tarry in these parts.Some amends I have made; but there is one crowning wrong which I havedone you for which there is but one amend to make." He paused. Hesteadied himself before continuing. In his attempt to render his voicecold and commonplace he went near to achieving harshness. "It may bethat this crackbrained rebellion of which the torch is already alightwill, if it does no other good in England, at least make a widow of you.When that has come to pass, when I have thus repaired the wrong Idid you, I hope you'll bear me as kindly as may be in your thought.Good-bye, my Ruth! I would you might have loved me. I sought to forceit." He smiled ever so wanly. "Perhaps that was my mistake. It is anill thing to eat one's hay while it is grass." He raised to his lips thelittle gloved hand that still rested on his wrist. "God keep you, Ruth!"he murmured.

  She sought to answer him, but something choked her; a sob was all sheachieved. Had he caught her to him in that moment there is little doubtbut that she had yielded. Perhaps he knew it; and knowing it kept thetighter rein upon desire. She was as metal molten in the crucible, to bemoulded by his craftsman's hands into any pattern that he chose. But thecrucible was the crucible of pity, not of love; that, too, he knew, and,knowing it, forbore.

  He dropped her hand, doffed his hat, and, wheeling his horse about,touched it with the spur and rode back towards the thicket where hisfriends awaited him. As he left her, she too wheeled about, as if tofollow him. She strove to command her voice that she might recall him;but at that same moment Trenchard, hearing his returning hoofs, thrustout into the road with Vallancey following at his heels. The oldplayer's harsh voice reached her where she stood, and it was querulouswith impatience.

  "What a plague do you mean, dallying here at such a time, Anthony?" hecried, to which Vallancey added: "In God's name, let us push on."

  At that she checked her impulse--it may even be that she mistrusted it.She paused, lingering undecided for an instant; then, turning her horseonce more, she ambled up the slope to rejoin Diana.