"The secretary," said the innkeeper, anxious to give the conversation another direction, "is a worshipful youth, and a modest, and grows in favour with the townspeople."
"Ay, and is much beloved by his Lordship," added the Captain.
"And comes, I warrant me, of gentle kind, though I have not heard aught of his country or friends. Dorothy, my wife, says that the women almost swear by him, for his quiet behaviour and pretty words—and they have eyes, Captain Dauntrees, for excellence which we have not."
"There is a cloud upon his birth," said Dauntrees, "and a sorrowful tale touching his nurture. I had it from Burton, the master of the ship who brought him with my Lord to the province."
"Indeed, Captain Dauntrees! you were ever quick to pick up knowledge. You have a full ear and a good memory."
"Drink, drink, comrades!" said the Captain. "We should not go dry because the secretary hath had mishaps. If it please you, I will tell the story, though I will not vouch for the truth of what I have only at second hand."
After the listeners had adjusted themselves in their chairs, Dauntrees proceeded.
"There was, in Yorkshire, a Major William Weatherby, who fought against the Parliament—I did not know him, for I was but a stripling at the time—who, when King Charles was beheaded, went over and took service with the States General, and at Arnheim married a lady of the name of Verheyden. Getting tired of the wars, he came back to England with his wife, where they lived together five or six years without children. The story goes that he was a man of fierce and crooked temper; choleric, and unreasonable in his quarrel; and for jealousy, no devil ever equalled him in that amiable virtue. It was said, too, that his living was riotous and unthrifty, which is, in part, the customary sin of soldiership.—I am frank with you, masters."
"You are a good judge, Captain; you have had experience," said the publican.
"There was a man of some mark in the country where this Weatherby lived, a Sir George Alwin, who, taking pity on the unhappy lady, did her sundry acts of kindness—harmless acts, people say; such as you or I, neighbours, would be moved to do for a distressed female; but the lady was of rare beauty, and the husband full of foul fancies.