LITMIR.BIZ

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is unworthy in you,” she exclaimed, her tone indignant—so indignant that he experienced his first pang of jealousy.

      “It would be were I his rival,” he answered quietly. “But I am not. I have saved you from becoming the prey of such as he by forcing you to marry me.”

      “That I may become the prey of such as you, instead,” was her retort.

      He looked at her a moment, smiling sadly. Then, with pardonable self-esteem when we think of what manner of man it was with whom he now compared himself, “Surely,” said he, “it is better to become the prey of the lion than the jackal.”

      “To the victim it can matter little,” she answered, and he saw the tears gathering in her eyes.

      Compassion moved him. It rose in arms to batter down his will, and in a weaker man had triumphed. Mr. Wilding bent his knee and went down beside her.

      “I swear,” he said impassionedly, “that as my wife you shall never count yourself a victim. You shall be honoured by all men, but by none more deeply than by him who will ever strive to be worthy of the proud title of your husband.” He took her hand and kissed it reverentially. He rose and looked at her. “Tomorrow,” he said, and bowing low before her went his way, leaving her with emotions that found their vent in tears, but defied her maiden mind to understand them.

      The morrow came her wedding-day—a sunny day of early June, and Ruth—assisted by Diana and Lady Horton—made preparation for her marriage as spirited women have made preparation for the scaffold, determined to show the world a brave, serene exterior. The sacrifice was necessary for Richard’s sake. That was a thing long since determined. Yet it would have been some comfort to her to have had Richard at her side; it would have lent her strength to have had his kiss of thanks for the holocaust which for him she was making of all that a woman holds most dear and sacred. But Richard was away—he had been absent since yesterday, and none could tell her where he tarried.

      With Lady Horton and Diana she took her way to Saint Mary’s Church at noon, and there she found Mr. Wilding—very fine in a suit of sky-blue satin, laced with silver—awaiting her. And with him was old Lord Gervase Scoresby, his friend and cousin, the very incarnation of benignity and ruddy health.

      For a wonder Nick Trenchard was not at Mr. Wilding’s side. But Nick had definitely refused to be of the party, emphasizing his refusal by certain choice reflections wholly unflattering to the married state.

      Some idlers of the town were the only witnesses—and little did they guess the extent of the tragedy they were witnessing. There was no music, and the ceremony was brief and soon at an end. The only touch of joy, of festiveness, was that afforded by the choice blooms with which Mr. Wilding had smothered nave and choir and altar-rails. Their perfume hung heavy as incense in the temple.

      “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” droned the parson’s voice, and Wilding smiled defiantly a smile which seemed to answer him, “No man. I have taken her for myself.”

      Lord Gervase stood forward as her sponsor, and as in a dream Ruth felt her hand lying in Mr. Wilding’s cool, firm grasp.

      The ecclesiastic’s voice droned on, his voice hanging like the hum of some great Insect upon the scented air. It was accomplished, and they were welded each to the other until death should part them.

      Down the festooned nave she came on his arm, her step unfaltering, her face calm; black misery in her heart. Behind followed her aunt and cousin and Lord Gervase. On Mr. Wilding’s aquiline face a pale smile glimmered, like a beam of moonlight upon tranquil waters, and it abode there until they reached the porch and were suddenly confronted by Nick Trenchard, red of face for once, perspiring, excited, and dust-stained from head to foot.

      He had arrived that very instant; and, urged by the fearful news that brought him, he had come resolved to pluck Wilding from the altar be the ceremony done or not. But in that he reckoned without Mr. Wilding—for he should have known him better than to have hoped to succeed. He stepped forward now, and gripped him with his dusty glove by the sleeve of his shimmering bridegroom’s coat. His voice came harsh with excitement and smouldering rage.

      “A word with you, Anthony!”

      Mr. Wilding turned placidly to regard him. “What now?” he asked, his bride’s hand retained in the crook of his elbow.

      “Treachery!” snapped Trenchard in a whisper. “Hell and damnation! Step aside, man.”

      Mr. Wilding turned to Lord Gervase, and begged of him to take charge of Mistress Wilding. “I deplore this interruption,” he told her, no whit ruffled by what he had heard. “But I shall rejoin you soon. Meanwhile, his lordship will do the honours for me.” This last he said with his eyes moving to Lady Horton and her daughter.

      Lord Gervase, in some surprise, but overruled by his cousin’s calm, took the bride on his arm and led her from the churchyard to the waiting carriage. To this he handed her, and after her her aunt and cousin. Then, mounting himself, they drove away, leaving Wilding and Trenchard among the tombstones, whither the messenger of evil had meanwhile led his friend. Trenchard rapped out his story briefly.

      “Shenke,” said he, “who was riding from Lyme with letters for you from the Duke, was robbed of his dispatches late last night a mile or so this side Taunton.”

      “Highwaymen?” inquired Mr. Wilding, his tone calm, though his glance had hardened.

      “Highwaymen? No! Government agents belike. There were two of them, he says—for I have the tale from himself—and they met him at the Hare and Hounds at Taunton, where he stayed to sup last night. One of them gave him the password, and he conceived him to be a friend. But afterwards, growing suspicious, he refused to tell them too much. They followed him, it appears, and on the road they overtook and fell upon him; they knocked him from his horse, possessed themselves of the contents of his wallet, and left him for dead—with his head broken.”

      Mr. Wilding drew a sharp breath. His wits worked quickly. He was, he realized, in deadly peril. One thought he gave to Ruth. If the worst came to pass here was one who would rejoice in her freedom. The reflection cut through him like a sword. He would be loath to die until he had taught her to regret him. Then his mind returned to what Trenchard had told him.

      “You said a Government agent,” he mused slowly. “How would a Government agent know the password?”

      Trenchard’s mouth fell open. “I had not thought…” he began. Then ended with an oath. “’Tis a traitor from inside.”

      Wilding nodded. “It must be one of those who met at White Lackington three nights ago,” he answered.

      Idlers—the witnesses of the wedding—were watching them with interest from the path, and others from over the low wall of the churchyard, as well they might, for Mr. Wilding’s behaviour was, for a bridegroom, extraordinary. Trenchard did not relish the audience.

      “We had best away,” said he. “Indeed,” he added, “we had best out of England altogether before the hue and cry is raised. The bubble’s pricked.”

      Wilding’s hand fell on his arm, and its grasp was steady. Wilding’s eyes met his, and their gaze was calm.

      “Where have you bestowed this messenger?” quoth he.

      “He is here in Bridgwater, in bed, at the Bell Inn, whence he sent for you to Zoyland Chase. Suspecting trouble, I rode to him at once myself.”

      “Come, then,” said Wilding. “We’ll go talk with him. This matter needs probing ere we decide on flight. You do not seem to have sought to discover who were the thieves, nor other matters that it may be of use to know.”

      “Rat me!” swore Trenchard. “I was in haste to bring you news of it. Besides, there were other things to talk of. There is news that Albemarle has gone to Exeter, and that Sir Edward Phelips and Colonel Luttrell have been ordered to Taunton by the King.”

      Mr. Wilding stared at him with sudden dismay.

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