MASTER WINDYBANK REBELS.
Andrew Windybank slunk away through the forest homewards. He had set
out to play the man; he sidled in through his own gateway like a
whipped puppy. Not once during his ride did he look back, and he
neither hurried nor loitered; the former he would not, and the latter
he dared not do, for he felt that Basil was watching him. Never for an
instant did he lose the consciousness that the beady, black eyes were
upon him. He felt them like two hot points in the middle of his back;
they burned and bored, and the flesh seemed to shrink away from them
beneath the taut skin.
For some time the sounds of the hunt came to his ears, but he heeded
them not. "I am out of the hunt in all ways," he said bitterly.
"Bugle-calls are not for me."
There is no more pitiable object than a man suffering under mental and
moral defeat. He has lost faith in himself. He has tried, he has
failed; and he usually throws his defeat in the face of Providence,
accusing the Almighty of desertion. Windybank did so. Desperate with
anger and humiliation, he went to his own private sanctum. Father
Jerome and Basil were already there, awaiting him. Windybank could not
repress a start of surprise when he found that the ex-monk had
outstripped him. He had hoped for a few minutes of quiet thought
before facing Jerome. A quick wave of anger swept over him when he
realized how closely he was "shadowed." His footsteps dogged if he
went abroad; his privacy was broken, without so much as a "by your
leave," if he stayed at home; he was treated as a puppet, a cat's-paw,
a thing that must move only according to the will of another. A flash
of light showed him the utter depth of his degradation; and the two
basilisks that sat staring and motionless before him were the
instruments that had accomplished his undoing. A wild yearning for
freedom and vengeance arose in his heart.
"We have been waiting for thee since early morn, my son," said Jerome,
breaking the silence. The tone of the speaker's voice was cold, hard,
and threatening. The menace in it stung Windybank into rebellion.
"And why should ye not wait?" he cried. "Who, in God's name, are ye to
establish yourselves unbidden in my house, dog my steps, threaten me,
ruin me with my friends and neighbours, and treat me as though I were a
child without will, aims, or desires of mine own? Ye have tarried for
me; tarry on until doomsday. Henceforth I'll be master of myself!"
Furious with passion, Master Andrew turned to the door.
The effect of this outburst was electric. Jerome sat as one stupefied,
and for a bare instant Basil gazed as stonily as he; but he recovered
in time to prevent the young man's departure. The yellow-faced fanatic
was as quick-handed as he was quick-witted. Windybank had lifted the
latch, and his fingers were on the door pulling it open. Basil drew
his dagger, held it, poised, by the blade for a moment, then cast it
with great force and precision. Master Andrew felt a hot pain in his
hand, tried to pluck it back to his body, and failed; it was pinned
fast to the door. Basil came forward, drew out the dagger, and led his
host to the feet of Father Jerome.
"Thou art drunk," he said meaningly--"drunk with the poison of a
wench's flattery. Down on thy knees and crave forgiveness!"
But the master of Dean Tower was thoroughly aroused, and was not to be
cowed by a word. He threw Basil from him, and, wounded and bleeding
though his hand was, he contrived to draw his sword.
"I'll kneel for forgiveness to no man living!" he cried. "Get ye from
my house, or I will drive ye forth!"
Jerome had recovered from his astonishment; he rose up and laid his
hand gently on the young man's shoulder. "Thou art beside thyself for
the nonce, my son. Let us talk calmly. A host does not draw sword on
his guests."
The words were uttered in a smooth, purring tone, and Andrew lowered
his hand. He was glad to do it, for it throbbed with pain, and the
blood was falling in a quick drip to the floor. His head was reeling,
and he spoke stutteringly.
"Ye are not guests of mine; ye are intruders," he cried.
Jerome tried to press him into a chair, but he resisted. "Hands off,
father! I can stand."
The Spaniard made no further attempt to coerce the maddened young
gentleman, but he took a kerchief from his doublet and carefully bound
up the wounded limb.
"A drop of wine, son Basil, for our friend," he said.
Basil went to a cabinet, but Windybank cried out,--
"Touch nothing of mine, thou devil's cub! Dost think I would drink
ought from thy hands! When wilt thou be gone, as I have bidden thee?
If thou dost not quit, I will run thee through."
Jerome saw that the presence of Basil was a continual irritant to the
desperate man, so he himself ordered his satellite to withdraw. Basil
obeyed with no very good grace, and the look that Windybank received
boded ill. Jerome now placed his victim in a cosy chair, threw open
the casement that the fresh breeze from the woods might enter, and
brought the glass of wine he had ordered. Master Andrew drank it, then
lay back with closed eyes, his brain busy with tumultuous thought. The
Spaniard sat and watched him as a wolf might watch a slumbering dog;
his brain was as busy as that of the other. Was his plan doomed to
failure at the last moment? If the master of Dean Tower failed him at
so critical a juncture, he could not see how to proceed. More than
ever did the conspirators require a place of refuge, not only for
themselves, but for others whom Jerome was daily expecting.
Father Jerome got up and quietly left the room, proceeding to an
ante-chamber where he knew Basil was lurking.
"Well?" asked the latter when he saw his chief.
"Thou hast been too harsh and hasty, my son. The meanest man will turn
to bay if his dignity is wounded too sorely. We have found Master
Windybank weak and pliable, and we have been too contemptuous of his
manhood. He hath a little, and that last blow of thine has aroused it."
Basil fell on his knees in contrition. "Forgive me!" he murmured.
Jerome raised him up and gave him a perfunctory kiss on the forehead.
"We can forgive faults that arise from excess of zeal," he replied,
"and we must have patience with the weak-kneed; a time will come when
we shall be able to visit their sins upon them. At present we must
play the loving friend; we can be the merciless judge at the opportune
moment. Get thee to Gatcombe, my son. Watch the admiral well, and
send the messenger thou wottest of down to Chepstow to learn if there
be any tidings of our friends from Ireland. The time for action is
fully come; the foresters are lulled again to security; we must strike
as speedily as possible. I shall expect thee at midnight to-morrow.
Meantime I will bring back our host to a sense of his duty and
religion."
Basil bent one knee to receive his superior's blessing. "Benedicite!"
murmured Jerome.
His subordinate seized his hand and pressed it to his lips. "I am
forgiven, father?" he asked.
"Forgiven and blessed," answered Jerome. "Go! and the Holy Virgin
watch over thee."
Basil pulled his hood over his face, opened a small oak door whose
hinges had been generously oiled, and disappeared amongst the trees.
Jerome went back to Windybank.