Part 42 (1/2)
Feversham pursed his lips and considered the speaker. Wentworth reentered, followed by the Earl's valet carrying an armful of garments.
His lords.h.i.+p threw off his dressing-gown and stood forth in s.h.i.+rt and breeches.
”Mais d.u.c.h.e-toi, donc, Belmont!” said he. ”Nous nous battons! Ii faut que je m'habille.” Belmont, a little wizened fellow who understood nothing of this topsy-turveydom, hastened forward, deposited his armful on the table, and selected a finely embroidered waistcoat, which he proceeded to hold for his master. Wriggling into it, Feversham rapped out his orders.
”Captain Wentwort', you will go to your regimen at once. But first, ah--wait. Take t'ose six men and Mistaire Wilding. 'Ave 'im shot at once; you onderstan', eh? Good. Allons, Belmont! my cravat.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE EXECUTION
Captain Wentworth clicked his heels together and saluted. Blake, in the background, drew a deep breath--unmistakably of satisfaction, and his eyes glittered. A m.u.f.fled cry broke from Ruth, who rose instantly from her chair, her hand on her bosom. Richard stood with fallen jaw, amazed, a trifle troubled even, whilst Mr. Wilding started more in surprise than actual fear, and approached the table.
”You heard, sir,” said Captain Wentworth.
”I heard,” answered Mr. Wilding quietly. ”But surely not aright. One moment, sir,” and he waved his hand so compellingly that, despite the order he had received, the phlegmatic captain hesitated.
Feversham, who had taken the cravat--a yard of priceless Dutch lace--from the hands of his valet, and was standing with his back to the company at a small and very faulty mirror that hung by the overmantel, looked peevishly over his shoulder.
”My lord,” said Wilding, and Blake, for all his hatred of this man, marvelled at a composure that did not forsake him even now, ”you are surely not proposing to deal with me in this fas.h.i.+on--not seriously, my lord?”
”Ah, ca!” said the Frenchman. ”T'ink it a jest if you please. What for you come 'ere?”
”a.s.suredly not for the purpose of being shot,” said Wilding, and actually smiled. Then, in the tones of one discussing a matter that is grave but not of surpa.s.sing gravity, he continued: ”It is not that I fail to recognize that I may seem to have incurred the rigour of the law; but these matters must be formally proved against me. I have affairs to set in order against such a consummation.”
”Ta, ta!” snapped Feversham. ”T'at not regard me. Weutwort', you 'ave 'eard my order.” And he returned to his mirror and the nice adjustment of his neckwear.
”But, my lord,” insisted Wilding, ”you have not the right--you have not the power so to proceed against me. A man of my quality is not to be shot without a trial.”
”You can 'ang if you prefer,” said Feversham indifferently, drawing out the ends of his cravat and smoothing them down upon his breast. He faced about briskly. ”Give me t'at coat, Belmont. His Majesty 'ave empower me to 'ang or shoot any gentlemens of t'e partie of t'e Duc t'e Monmoot' on t'e spot. I say t'at for your satisfaction. And look, I am desolate' to be so quick wit' you, but please to consider t'e circ.u.mstance. T'e enemy go to attack. Wentwort' must go to his regimen', and my ot'er officers are all occupi'. You comprehen' I 'ave not t'e time to spare you--n'est-ce-pas?”--Wentworth's hand touched Wilding on the shoulder.
He was standing with head slightly bowed, his brows knit in thought. He looked round at the touch, sighed and smiled.
Belmont held the coat for his master, who slipped into it, and flung at Wilding what was intended for a consolatory sop. ”It is fortune de guerre, Mistaire Wilding. I am desolate'; but it is fortune of t'e war.”
”May it be less fortunate for your lords.h.i.+p, then,” said Wilding dryly, and was on the point of turning, when Ruth's voice came in a loud cry to startle him and to quicken his pulses.
”My lord!” It was a cry of utter anguish.
Feversham, settling his gold-laced coat comfortably to his figure, looked at her. ”Madame?” said he.
But she had nothing to say. She stood, deathly white, slightly bent forward, one hand wringing the other, her eyes almost wild, her bosom heaving frantically.
”Hum!” said Feversham, and he loosened and removed the scarf from his head. He shrugged slightly and looked at Wentworth. ”Finissons!” said he.
The word and the look snapped the trammels that bound Ruth's speech.
”Five minutes, my lord!” she cried imploringly. ”Give him five minutes--and me, my lord!”
Wilding, deeply shaken, trembled now as he awaited Feversham's reply.
The Frenchman seemed to waver. ”Bien,” he began, spreading his hands.