Part 22 (2/2)

Beyond these two motives, I had no other thought in ruining myself.”

”Ruining yourself?” she cried. Yes, it was true; but she had not thought of 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, as will no doubt a price be set on mine when Albemarle's messenger shall have reached Whitehall? Is it not ruin to have my lands and all I own made forfeit to the State, to find myself a beggar, hunted and proscribed? Forgive me that I hara.s.s you with this catalogue of my misfortunes. You'll say, no doubt, that I have brought them upon myself by compelling you against your will to marry me.

”I'll not deny that it is in my mind,” said she, and of set purpose stifled pity.

He sighed and looked at her again, but she would not meet his eye, else its whimsical expression might have intrigued her. ”Can you deny my magnanimity, I wonder?” said he, and spoke almost as one amused. ”All I had I sacrificed to do your will, to save your brother from the snare of his own contriving against me. I wonder do you yet realize how much I sacrificed to-day at Taunton! I wonder!” And he paused, looking at her and 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 pretence of kindness.” She was looking at him at last, her eyes less hard. They seemed to ask him to explain. ”When you came this morning with the tale of how the tables had been turned upon your brother, of how he was caught in his own springe, and the letter found in his keeping was before the King's folk at Taunton with every appearance of having been addressed to him, and not a t.i.ttle of evidence to show that it had been meant for me, do you know what news it was you brought me?” He paused a second, looking at her from narrowing eyes. Then he answered his own question. ”You brought me the news that you were mine to take whensoe'er I pleased. Whilst that letter was in your hands it gave you the power to make me your obedient slave. You might blow upon me as you listed whilst you held it, and I was a vane that must turn to your blowing for my honour's sake and for the sake of the cause in which I worked. Through no rashness of mine must that letter come into the hands of the King's friends, else was I dishonoured. It was an effective barrier between us.

So long as you possessed that letter you might pipe as you pleased, and I must dance to the tune you set. And then this morning what you came to tell 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, and your brother and Sir Rowland might have hanged on the rope of their own weaving.”

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

”You realize it, I see,” he said, and smiled wistfully. ”Then perhaps you realize why you found me so unwilling to do the thing you craved.

Having treated me ungenerously, you came to cast yourself upon my generosity, asking me--though I scarcely think you understood--to beggar myself of life itself with all it held for me. G.o.d knows I make no pretence to virtue, and yet I think I had been something more than human had I not refused you and the bargain you offered--a bargain that you would 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 broke from her. ”I swear I had not thought of that. I was all distraught for poor Richard's sake. Oh, Mr. Wilding,” she turned to him, holding out a hand; her eyes shone, filmed with moisture, ”I shall have a kindness for you... all my days for your... generosity to-day.” It was lamentably weak, far from the hot expressions which she forced it to replace.

”Yes, I was generous,” he admitted. ”We will move on as far as the cross-roads.” Again they ambled gently forward. Up the slope from the ford Diana and Jerry were slowly climbing; not another human being was in sight ahead or behind them. ”After you left me,” he continued, ”your memory and your entreaties lingered with me. I gave the matter of our position 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 was aster of me. But 'neath your disdain it was trans.m.u.ted oddly.” He checked the pa.s.sion that was vibrating in his voice and resumed after a pause, in the calm, slow tones, soft and musical, that were his own. ”There is scarce the need for so much recapitulation. When the power was mine I bent you unfairly to my will; you did as much by me when the power suddenly became yours. It was a strange war between us, and I accepted its conditions. To-day, when the power was mine again, mine to bring you at last to subjection, behold, I have capitulated at your bidding, and all that I held--including your own self--have I relinquished. It is perhaps fitting. Haply I am punished for having wed you 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 could carry, and make for the coast to find a vessel bound for Holland. I have been engaged, as you know, in stirring up rebellion to check the iniquities and persecutions that are toward in a land I love. I'll not weary you with details. Time was needed for this as for all things, and by next spring, perhaps, had matters gone well, this vineyard that so carefully and secretly I have been tending, would have been, maybe, in condition to bear fruit. Even now, in the hour of my flight, I learn that others have come to force this delicate growth into sudden maturity. There! Soon ripe, soon rotten. The Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme this morning. I am riding to him.”

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

”To place my sword at his service. Were I not encompa.s.sed by this ruin, I should not have stirred a foot in that direction--so rash, so foredoomed to failure is this invasion. As it is,”--he shrugged and laughed--”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 bonds of 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 the first 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 in self-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 you imagine that I have talked so much? To the end that I might show you that 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 have your forgiveness ere I go.”

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

”For you--aye.”

<script>