Mistress Wilding | Page 3

Trenchard, so lately
tried for treason and acquitted to the great joy of the sectaries of the

West, and still more lately - but yesterday, in fact - fled the country to
escape the rearrest ordered in consequence of that excessive joy. Like
his more famous cousin, Nick Trenchard was one of the Duke of
Monmouth's most active agents; and Westmacott, like Wilding,
Vallancey, and one or two others at that board, stood, too, committed to
the cause of the Protestant Champion.
Out of his knowledge of the boy Trenchard was led to fear that if he
were leniently dealt with now, tomorrow, when, sober, he came to
realize the grossness of the thing he had done and the unlikelihood of
its being forgiven him, there was no saying but that to protect himself
he might betray Wilding's share in the plot that was being hatched. That
in itself would be bad enough; but there might be worse, for he could
scarcely betray Wilding without betraying others and - what mattered
most - the Cause itself. He must be dealt with out of hand, Trenchard
opined, and dealt with ruthlessly.
"I think, Anthony," said he, "that we have had words enough. Shall you
be disposing of Mr. Westmacott to-morrow, or must I be doing it for
you?"
With a gasp of dismay young Richard twisted in his chair to confront
this fresh and unsuspected antagonist. What danger was this that he had
overlooked? Then, even as he turned, Wilding's voice fell on his ear,
and each word of the few he spoke was like a drop of icy water on
Westmacott's overheated brain.
"I protest you are vastly kind, Nick. But I intend, myself, to have the
pleasure of killing Mr. Westmacott." And his smile fell now in
mockery upon the disillusioned lad.
Crushed by that bolt from the blue, Richard sat as if stunned, the flush
receding from his face until his very lips were livid. The shock had
sobered him, and, sobered, he realized in terror what he had done. And
yet even sober he was amazed to find that the staff upon which with
such security he had leaned should have proved rotten. True he had put
much strain upon it; but then he had counted that it would stand much
strain.

He would have spoken, but he lacked words, so stricken was he. And
even had he done so it is odds none would have heard him, for the late
calm was of a sudden turned to garboil. Every man of that company -
with the sole exception of Richard himself - was on his feet, and all
were speaking at once, in clamouring, excited chorus.
Wilding alone - the butt of their expostulations - stood quietly smiling,
and wiped his face at last with a kerchief of finest lawn. Dominating
the others in the Babel rose the voice of Sir Rowland Blake -
impecunious Blake; Blake lately of the Guards, who had sold his
commission as the only thing remaining him upon which he could raise
money; Blake, that other suitor for Miss Westmacott's hand, the suitor
favoured by her brother.
"You shall not do it, Mr. Wilding," he shouted, his face crimson. "No,
by God! You were shamed forever. He is but a lad, and drunk."
Trenchard eyed the short, powerfully built man beside him, and
laughed unpleasantly. "You should get yourself bled one of these days,
Sir Rowland," he advised. "There may be no great danger yet; but a
man can't be too careful when he wears a narrow neckcloth."
Blake - a short, powerfully built man - took no heed of him, but looked
straight at Mr. Wilding, who, smiling ever, calmly returned the gaze of
those prominent blue eyes.
"You will suffer me, Sir Rowland," said he sweetly, "to be the judge of
whom I will and whom I will not meet."
Sir Rowland flushed under that mocking glance and caustic tone. "But
he is drunk," he repeated feebly.
"I think,"" said Trenchard, "that he is hearing something that will make
him sober."
Lord Gervase took the lad by the shoulder, and shook him impatiently.
"Well ?" quoth he. "Have you nothing to say? You did a deal of prating
just now. I make no doubt but that even at this late hour if you were to

make apology..."
"It would be idle," came Wilding's icy voice to quench the gleam of
hope kindling anew in Richard's breast. The lad saw that he was lost,
and he is a poor thing, indeed, who cannot face the worst once that
worst is shown to be irrevocable. He rose with some semblance of
dignity.
"It is as I would wish," said he, but his livid face and staring eyes belied
the valour of his words. He