So it ended in frank laughter as they rose and drowned the quarrel in a roaring toast. But Underwood, though he joined them, carried no good look. He was still thinking of Nance Demaine, of the white badge she had offered him. And an uneasy silence settled on them all.
“I heard a queer tale to-day, Will,” said the red-faced squire presently, by way of lifting the talk into easier channels. “Old Luke Faweather met me on the road. He was coming home from market on that fat, piebald horse of his, and he pulled up. He’d ridden wide of Windyhough, it seemed, and swore that he heard gunshots through the snow—rattle after rattle, he said, as if half the moorside were letting off their guns.”
“Oh, Luke!” laughed Underwood, rousing himself from his evil mood. “We know his market-days. He hears and sees queer things at home-coming—carries the bottle in his head, as the saying goes.”
“Aye, but he seemed his own man to-day. The horse wasn’t guiding him for once. His wife had been at him, maybe. He said they were not firing fowling-pieces, but something ‘lustier in the bellows,’ and I could make neither head nor tail of it. Who at Windyhough would be playing Guy Fawkes’ foolery?”
“Rupert, likely,” growled Underwood, some old jealousy aroused. “He was all for joining this precious Rising, till he found they had no use for dreamers. He was left to play nursery games with the women, and grew tired of it, and rummaged through the house till he found the muskets stored there.”
“That’s all very well, Underwood; but the lad would not go firing into the snow just for the frolic of it.”
“Wouldn’t he? I know Rupert. He could dream a whole regiment of enemies into the courtyard there if his mind were set that way, and go on firing at the ghosts.”
“Well, he’s past my understanding,” laughed the squire. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Oh, I can see him,” Underwood went on, old antipathy gaining on him. “He’s ambitious. He would like to be the martyred Charles, and the Prince, and every cursed Stuart of them all. It’s laughable to think how much our scholar dares—in fancy.”
A low growl went round the table, and Underwood knew that he had gone too far.