MASTER WINDYBANK WALKS ABROAD.
A month came and went, and during that time the stir of apprehension
died down in the forest. Men pursued their wonted occupations, by the
river, in the greenwood and the mines, without let or hindrance. Night
was as untroubled as the day; the dreaded men in black appeared no
more. Wayfarer and forester forgot to scan bush and bracken for the
deadly and cadaverous form of Basil. Simple, honest souls believed
that the admiral's council at Newnham, and the measures of defence
adopted thereat, had shown the emissaries of King Philip how impossible
was their wild enterprise.
"Verily," said they, "the villains have gotten a fright, and are gone
back to their rascally master."
Which opinion did credit to the clean-souled fellows who uttered it,
and a glaring injustice to the cunning knaves who had caused such a
fearful commotion amongst them. And all the while the plotters had
secret harbourage at Dean Tower, coming and going by stealth and in the
darkness, avoiding all men, playing no bogy tricks, but maturing their
plans.
Andrew Windybank had lived the wretchedest month of his life. A
mountain of care bowed him down, and fear, rage, jealousy, and wounded
pride gnawed unceasingly at his heart. He knew that he was a suspected
person: his neighbours shunned him; many of his servants and
dependants, by sidelong looks and spying ways, showed that they
mistrusted him. Within a week of the time when Father Jerome and his
two lieutenants quartered themselves upon him, the young master of Dean
Tower went about with pale face and bowed head, ashamed to meet the
eyes of a passer-by; and all the time wild anger surged up in his
heart, equally against those whose tool he was and against those who
stepped aside with a shrug to let him pass. He suffered all the
agonies that come upon weak natures that fall into temptation or
succumb to evil influences. He dreaded the power of the Church of
Rome; he shivered as he thought of the terrors of England's laws
against traitors. He loved his country in a way, and he was proud of
her; yet, having done nothing to merit the applause of his
fellow-countrymen, he was maliciously envious of those who had risen to
emergencies, or deliberately planned great deeds, and thus won
themselves fame. He loved Mistress Dorothy, and he felt that, if she
would only love him, he could be brave and noble; yet he hated the
easy-going, simple-hearted Johnnie Morgan, who had made himself a
popular idol, and was marked out by the gossips as the fittest and
properest husband for pretty Mistress Dawe. Master Windybank could not
help but admire the valiant admiral, and he remembered how he had
flushed with pleasure when Drake had taken him by the hand on the
occasion of their introduction. He hated and feared Father Jerome: but
he was aiding his schemes, and endeavouring to frustrate those of the
gallant sailor whom he honoured.
As the days wore on, unceasing fears began to torture him. Did any one
know of his treason? One aged servitor only had been admitted into the
secret of the unwelcome guests in the Tower, and the honest veteran had
gone straightway upon his knees and besought his young master to cast
them out. Of the Romish faith himself, he would have no hand in plots
against his lawful Queen, and no truckling to the cruel bigot who sat
upon the throne of Spain. But love of his master brought him into the
snare, and made him an unwilling tool of the conspirators. Both fear
and affection lead men to belie their better selves.
After a month of what was almost seclusion, Andrew Windybank determined
to spend a morning by the river. He walked into Newnham, and made his
way to the ferry to watch the tide race up the river. Men, horses, and
dogs were coming across from Arlingham, as the verderers of the forest
had a great hunt fixed for that very day. Windybank, as a verderer,
should have remembered this, but weightier matters had driven it from
his mind.
There was plenty of bustle at the ferry; men were shouting, horses were
neighing, and hounds were baying. The townsfolk had come down to
welcome their friends from the other side, but no Newnham man
approached the master of Dean Tower. There was some whispering, some
furtive glancing in his direction, and the Arlingham folk cut him as
completely as did those of Newnham.
With his heart full of rage and malice, the young gentleman turned on
his heel and strode off up the street. He held his head defiantly
erect, and he gave scorn for scorn and shrug for shrug. From the open
window of "Ye Whyte Beare" a jolly, rolling peal of laughter told him
that young Morgan was within, and two boar-hounds tethered to the
doorpost proclaimed that the Blakeney yeoman purposed hunting other
game than the timid deer that day.
Higher up the street the angry man encountered a group of dark-haired,
sallow-faced miners who were taking a holiday, and a hiss of "Papist!
papist!" greeted him as he passed. His hand went to the hilt of his
dagger, but the fellows flourished their oaken cudgels within an inch
of his nose; so he contented himself with a counter hiss of "Insolent
dogs!" and went on.
Resolved to face his foes, Master Andrew walked the whole length of the
high street, although the road to Littledean branched off about halfway
up. This meant that he must pass Captain Dawe's cottage, which dainty
habitation he had not looked upon since the morning when his wooing had
been interrupted by the coming of his wounded rival. The angry colour
fled from his face, and his head sank lower and lower as he neared the
place. The sound of Dorothy's voice in the garden unnerved him
completely; shame swept over him like the swift river-tide that still
roared in his ears, his chin fell on his breast, and a ghastly pallor
whitened his cheeks. A sob broke from him as he bent low and hurried
by. He did not dare to snatch even a glimpse of the scene beyond the
hedge.
But he heard his name called in quick but quiet tones, "Master
Windybank! Master Windybank!" His heart almost ceased beating. The
shock of detection made him pause for an instant, and that brief space
of time brought Dorothy into view. He would not run, but turned
towards her, throbbing with the panting fears of a creature brought to
bay. The wild light in his eyes was quenched when he saw the kindly
glow in the blue orbs of the maiden. She put out her hand.
"Thou art almost a stranger," she said.
The youth's dry lips could frame no answer, nor did he take the
proffered hand. Kindly concern, where he had expected contempt and
reproach, completely unnerved him. Dorothy's hand was still held out,
and her eyes grew kinder as he looked into them. He took the dainty
fingers in his trembling hand and pressed them to his hot, dry lips.
Dorothy had almost the sensation of a burn, and she winced. Windybank
took the movement as a repulse, and threw the hand from him.
"Art thou going to torture me too?" he cried harshly. "Why do you all
hate me so?"
"Hate!" echoed Dorothy. "La! Master Windybank."
"I am shunned like a leper," he went on. "Shall I get me into a sheet,
carry a bell, and cry 'Unclean! unclean!' as I walk the roads?"
"But I do neither hate thee nor shun thee, else I had not called to
thee. 'Tis thou dost make a hermit of thyself. And thou art ill and
fevered," she added compassionately; "thou art wasted well-nigh to a
shadow."
"I have no rest, no peace," he groaned. "I am scorned of my
neighbours, spied upon, suspected, insulted. Do ye all think I have no
heart to feel these things, no spirit to resent them? But I can return
hate for hate, injury for injury. Let some men look to themselves!"
His tones were so fierce that Dorothy quailed. She recovered herself
quickly.
"Come into the garden," she said.
"I cannot come where I am not welcome."
"I am asking thee."
"I shall not come."
"Then must I come to thee."
Suiting action to the words, the maiden hurried through the gate, and
in a minute more Windybank was sitting beside her in the arbour.
Now Mistress Dorothy was a maiden very prone to act upon impulse. She
would do a thing, and then, after accomplishment, consider the action,
and ofttimes repent. She had never entertained any very great liking
for Master Andrew, although her father had at one time made much of him
and favoured him as an acceptable suitor for his daughter's hand. But
the fact that the young gentleman was in serious disgrace, and spoken
ill of by those who smoked their pipes and sipped their ale around the
captain's table, softened her heart towards him. Ugly clouds of
suspicion hung over him, and men said bitter things concerning him; but
to Dorothy's mind the alleged treason seemed impossible. The accused
man, she would argue, was a gentleman and a forester; he had sat at her
father's board, he had spoken of love to her: such a one could not be a
traitor; she would not condemn him unheard. But she had resolved to
put him upon trial if opportunity offered. The opportunity had come,
and, believing in his innocence, she seized upon it.
Dorothy went straight to her task without bush-beating. She told
Master Andrew very plainly what men were saying about him, and then she
asked him some blunt and awkward questions. Windybank was cunning; he
saw that in Dorothy he had a friend and a ready champion. To answer
her questions truthfully was to forfeit her good opinion and turn her
liking into loathing. He determined to fence.
The maiden would have none of it. "I must have plain answer to plain
question!" she cried.
So Master Windybank gave answers that appeared stamped with the mark of
truth. He assumed the indignation of a wronged innocent, and spouted
with some heat a torrent of lies and cunning half-truths.
It was all very cleverly done, especially the contrite confessions
concerning interviews with Father Jerome and his brother-conspirators.
He acknowledged that men had had some cause to suspect him. "But,"
exclaimed he, "a man should not be written down a criminal because some
one asks him to commit a villainy. All of us are liable to temptation!"
"Truly spoken!" said Dorothy. "However, we must not parley with the
tempter, but flee from him."
"That is not easy," answered Andrew, "for these men steal about like
very wolves. They spring into one's path when least expected. It is
impossible to avoid them."
Dorothy tapped her companion's sword. "Thou art armed," she said, "and
so are they. What shouldst thou do when an avowed enemy of the Queen
crosses thy path actually engaged in evil-doing?"
Windybank gulped. "Cut him down," he replied.
"Exactly!" Dorothy arose and held out her hand.
"I expect to hear that a gentleman and a forester has done his duty to
his Queen, himself, and his friends."
The master of Dean Tower bowed, murmured some words of loyalty and
devotion, and then took his leave. He went the longest way home,
avoiding all frequented ways near which Basil might be lurking.
Loyalty and treason, lodged in his heart, fought a dire fight, and,
thanks to the vision of a pretty face, treason was rather badly wounded.