A SINISTER MEETING.
When Master Windybank left the quaint, riverside garden of Captain
Dawe, he was feeling about as amiable as a wolf might feel who has just
been scared from the side of a lamb by the timely arrival of a huge
sheep-dog. He growled with anger, showed his teeth for an instant,
then slunk away with his tail between his legs. He was a spiteful,
malevolent creature, cunning, unprincipled, and tainted with cowardice.
He had pluck of the wolfish sort, and could fight desperately if
cornered; but he shunned the open unless hard pressed, and preferred
snapping at an opponent's heels to flying in his face. He was a
dangerous foe, and pretty Dorothy had gone far towards making one of
him.
In no pleasant frame of mind, Andrew Windybank strode up the high
street of the town. Few of the townsfolk gave him a good-day; he was
not a popular personage. For one thing, he was a Littledean man and
not of the river-side; his family was purse-proud and tyrannical; worst
of all in the eyes of a Pope-hating people, the Windybank family still
clung to the old faith. Young Master Andrew was quite accustomed to
cold looks, and, as a rule, they troubled him not at all. He was by
nature reserved and uncommunicative, and he was sufficiently well
satisfied with himself to care but little for the opinion of other
people. He turned aside from the town and breasted the steep hill that
led to Littledean.
Windybank had not walked through the town with his ears shut, although
he had studiously kept his eyes lowered. More than once he had heard
the name of his rival mentioned, and each time the speaker's tones had
expressed admiration and affection. The angry young gentleman knew
nothing of Morgan's exploit, but the local gossips had seen the
forester pass through, and one had succeeded in getting an account of
the morning's affray. Johnnie was more than ever a popular hero. It
was unfortunate, perhaps, for Dorothy and her rival suitors that
Morgan's arm and Windybank's pride had both been wounded on the same
morning. The rejected lover had always envied and hated Morgan because
of his popularity; the events of the morning were rapidly turning that
hatred into a sort of malevolent frenzy. His heart burned with rage
and jealousy as he went rapidly homewards.
Now, a man's heart will sometimes be attuned to goodness, and his whole
nature, being aglow with conscious virtue, will yearn for some outlet
for the kindliness that wells up within him. None is offered, and the
virtuous fountain trickles itself dry, and no one is a whit the wiser
or better. Anon, the same heart breeds envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness, and straightway comes the chance of working evil.
The temptation is great, the opportunity is eagerly seized, and
wickedness is done; it is so easy to step into the "broad way," so
difficult to find footing in the "strait and narrow path."
Andrew Windybank was not a good man, but apt opportunity led him
farther astray than, in the depths of his heart, he ever intended to
go. His feet were treading the paths of his own domains. His
ancestral home, Dean Tower, raised its dark red walls before him. Some
of the bitterness was gone from his thoughts. Visions of the wealth,
wherein he was superior to his rival and the maiden who had flouted his
advances, were easing the wounds in his pride.
A spare figure, garbed in black, stepped from behind a clump of bushes,
and stood bareheaded in the pathway.
"God be with thee, Master Windybank, and St. James be thine aid!"
exclaimed a harsh voice. Basil confronted him.
Windybank's first feeling was one of annoyance. Basil and his master,
Father Jerome, had visited Dean Tower before, and although they had
come and gone in secret and by night, yet some suspicion of these
Spanish visits had got abroad. The Dean men were proud of their
magnificent sweep of forest-clad hills and dales, and prouder still of
the oaks that gave their beloved England her impregnable "wooden
walls." They were wild with anger and indignation when the first
rumours of King Philip's plot came to their ears. Now they were
inclined to treat the daring project with quiet contempt, but Windybank
knew that scant mercy would be shown a forest man who should be so
unspeakably treacherous as to favour the scheme, even by so little as
holding converse with one of the hated plotters.
These thoughts running through his mind, Master Andrew did not return
the Spaniard's salutation, but waved him aside and endeavoured to
continue his way. Basil barred the path, his black plumed hat still in
his hand, and his face wearing a caricature of a smile.
"One faithful son of the Church should not refuse greeting to a
brother," he said.
"What dost thou want?" was the curt response.
"I am come upon business that hath the blessing of the Holy Father."
"I'll not listen!"
Windybank thrust out his arm to push his unwelcome companion aside.
Basil took him by the shoulders and stared into his face with an
intentness that made the young fellow fancy that the fierce, black orbs
confronting him were burning holes in his brain. For two minutes, that
seemed two full hours, the gaze was concentrated upon him. Windybank
felt his body shrinking into a smaller compass under the fascination.
His breath came thickly, his knees trembled, and his heart laboured in
its beating.
"The Holy Father hath sent a message to thee."
"I have heard it," was slowly gasped out.
"He hath sent another. Thou darest not refuse to listen." The
ex-monk's hand was uplifted in warning. "Shall I be forced to curse
thee as thou standest?" he whispered. "'Tis obey, and be blessed above
measure; or refuse, and--thou knowest the penalty; I will not speak it
here. Listen! Father Jerome and I will come to thee at midnight.
Thou wilt meet us at thy gate and show us to a chamber where we may
confer in secret. Remember!"
Windybank felt the iron hand lifted from his shoulder. Basil was gone.
For a minute he stared blankly at the bush behind which he had
disappeared. A warning signal, "At midnight, remember!" came to his
ears, and awoke him from his half-stupor. He shook himself, tried to
answer, uttered no word, then passed on. He entered his house with a
face that matched his ruff in its sickly yellow colouring.