She turned about, her intent to join the others, a dull anger in her soul. He sat a hand upon her arm. "Wait!" said he, and the tone in which he uttered that one word kept her beside him. His manner changed a little. "I am tired of this," said he.
"Why, so am I," she answered bitterly.
"Since we are agreed so far, let us agree to end it."
"It is all I ask."
"Yes, but--alas!--in a different way. Listen now."
"I will not listen. Let me go.
"I were your enemy did I do so, for you would know hereafter a sorrow and repentance for which nothing short of death could offer you escape. Richard is under suspicion."
"Do you hark back to that?" The scorn of her voice was deadly. Had it been herself he desired, surely that tone had quenched all passion in him, or else transformed it into hatred. But Blake was playing for a fortune, for shelter from a debtor's prison.
"It has become known," he continued, "that Richard was one of the early plotters who paved the way for Monmouth's coming. I think that that, in conjunction with his betrayal of his trust that night at Newlington's, thereby causing the death of some twenty gallant fellows of King James's, will be enough to hang him."
Her hand clutched at her heart. "What is't you seek?" she cried. It was almost a moan. "What is't you want of me?"
"Yourself," said he. "I love you, Ruth," he added, and stepped close up to her.
"O God!" she cried aloud. "Had I a man at hand to kill you for that insult!"
And then--miracle of miracles!--a voice from the shrubs by which they stood bore to her ears the startling words that told her her prayer was answered there and then.
"Madam, that man is here."
She stood frozen. Not more of a statue was Lot's wife in the moment of looking behind her than she who dared not look behind. That voice! A voice from the dead, a voice she had heard for the last time in the cottage that was Feversham's lodging at Weston Zoyland. Her wild eyes fell upon Sir Rowland's face. It showed livid; the nether-lip sucked in and caught in the strong teeth, as if to prevent an outcry; the eyes wild with fright. What did it mean? By an effort she wrenched herself round at last, and a scream broke from her to rouse her aunt, her cousin, and her brother, and bring them hastening towards her across the sweep of lawn.
Before her, on the edge of the shrubbery, a grey figure stood erect and graceful, and the face, with its thin lips faintly smiling, its dark eyes gleaming, was the face of Anthony Wilding. And as she stared he moved forward, and she heard the fall of his foot upon the turf, the clink of his spurs, the swish of his scabbard against the shrubs, and reason told her that this was no ghost.