to find a means now, when the result would mean security in old age, peace from that eternal war against chance—almost a fortune in these days when money was scarce after the great turmoil of civil war.
Therefore, though he said no more, though he assumed an indifference which he was very far from feeling, he not only watched Mistress Julia, but with every nerve within him, with all the magnetism of his powerful personality, he willed her to accede to his wishes.
She, feeling this subtle influence in the same manner as in ages to come mediums were destined to feel the influence of hypnotic power, she gradually yielded to his unspoken desire—yielded to him whilst believing that she held the threads of her own destiny, and that the final decision only rested with her.
Then she rose and went to that same little bureau in the angle of the room, at which just an hour ago she had penned so laboriously the missive which had summoned Sir John Ayloffe hither. This time, as she sat down to it, she took from beneath her kerchief a small key which was fastened round her neck by a silk ribbon. With this she opened one of the drawers of the bureau, and after another moment of final hesitation she deliberately took a packet from the drawer.
The packet was tied up with green cord; this she untied with a hand that trembled somewhat with feverish excitement. Having selected a paper from among a number of others, she once more fastened the green cord, replaced the packet in the drawer, locked the latter and replaced the key in the folds of her gown.
Then paper in hand she turned back to the settee whereon lolled Sir John Ayloffe, and holding the paper out to him, she said:
"This is an order requesting Master Brooke, goldsmith, of Minchin Lane, to hand over to you on my behalf the sum of £2,000."
Sir John roused himself from his well-studied apathy. He took the paper from Mistress Julia's hand, looked at it very carefully, then folded it and prepared to slip it in his breast pocket.
"Remember, Cousin," she said calmly, "that if I find that you have deceived me in this, that you have deliberately robbed me of this £2,000 without having any intention or power to help me in my need, that, in such a case you will lose the only friend you have in the world. I will turn my back on you for ever; you shall never darken the threshold of my door, and if I saw you in want or in a debtor's prison, I would not pay one farthing to help you in your need. You believe that, do you not?"
"I believe that a woman thwarted is capable of anything," he retorted with a sneer.
"There I think you are right, Cousin," she assented, whilst a look of determination which assorted strangely with her otherwise impulsive ways marred for a moment the childlike prettiness of her face. "You would find me very hard and unforgiving, if you cheated me of my hopes."
"Very hard, I doubt not," he said blandly. "Did I not see a while ago, fair Cousin, your gentle soul taking in with scarce a thought of horror my first suggestion of poison or hired assassin?"
"Tush, man! prate not so lightly of these things. Bah!" she added with some of her former vehemence, "there are other things that kill besides poison or stilettos—things that hurt worse than death—things that no Countess of Stowmaries could endure and live. You have your £2,000, man—go—go and think—a fortune an you succeed."
Sir John Ayloffe smiled. The lady had at last shown to him—mayhap without meaning to do so—the real desire of her heart. She had also set his active brain athinking. As she said, it would be a fortune if he succeeded.
He had placed the valuable paper carefully away in his breast pocket; he tapped this pocket gently to feel that it was secure. Then—as obviously the interview must now come to an end—he rose to go.
Vague thoughts were already floating in his mind, and when she too rose to bid him farewell, and her fevered eyes found his and held them, he responded with a look of distinct encouragement.
Long after Cousin John's footsteps had ceased to echo along the short flagged corridor, Mistress Julia Peyton sat musing, whilst a sigh of content and of hope ever and anon escaped her lips. Her face was quite serene, her expression one of anticipation rather than of trouble. Never for a moment did a pang of conscience trouble her. Remember, that the unknown Countess of Stowmaries—the daughter of the Paris tailor—was but a shadowy personality to her. Less than two hours ago, Mistress Julia was not aware of her existence.
Was it wrong then to wish her out of the way? With commendable satisfaction, the outraged beauty realised that she felt no direct wish for any bodily harm to come to her successful rival. And pray, how many women would have had such scruples? A certain feeling of self-righteousness eased Mistress Julia's soul at the thought.
No. She wished the real and only Countess of Stowmaries no bodily harm. She had made Cousin John understand that, she hoped. Crime might mean remorse, which would be unpleasant, also fear of discovery. Mistress Julia hoped now that she had made Cousin John understand quite clearly that she wanted neither poison nor hired assassin for the end which she had in view—not at first at any rate—later on, mayhap—if other schemes had failed—
There are things which hurt worse than death—and Mistress Julia had placed in the hands of an unscrupulous gambler the means whereby such things could easily be brought about.
If such things be crimes, they certainly were not of the kind which troubled Mistress Julia's conscience.
Having settled these abstract points to her own satisfaction, she adjourned to her tiring-room and rang for her maid. She told the wench to prepare that new butter-coloured satin gown with the pink rosebuds broidered thereon—a vastly becoming gown for setting off the fair Julia's style of beauty—and also the colverteen pinner which had the advantage of making any woman look demure. She had her hair redressed in the newest fashion with immense taure and puffs which made her small head look wide and her tiny face more childlike and innocent than ever.
She meant to finish the day at the King's Playhouse, there to witness a vastly diverting comedy by the late Master Shakespeare. She wished to see and to be seen by His Majesty, by the Duke of York, and all London society. Knowing that her name would be in everybody's mouth, she wished to appear radiant with beauty and good spirits, and in no way concerned with the ugly rumours anent the tailor's daughter over in Paris, and the ridiculous cock and bull story that my lord of Stowmaries was other than engaged to wed Mistress Julia Peyton ere the London season had fully run its course.
CHAPTER VII
Enquire at London 'mongst the taverns there.
—Richard II. V. 3.
You know the place well enough, or failing yourself—if so be that you are less than three-score years and ten—then your father would remember it well.
It was situate in the Strand until that time, close to its junction with Fleet Street and within a pebble's throw from St. Clements. A tall narrow building, raftered and gabled, the timbers painted a dark chocolate colour, with alternate lines of a luscious creamy tint rendered mellow with the dirt and smoke of London. It stood on that selfsame spot two hundred and more years ago, when it was the favourite resort of that band of young rakes who adorned the Court of the Merry Monarch.
It were somewhat difficult to say why my lord of Craye, or Sir Anthony Wykeham, or the Earl of Stowmaries had chosen this very unprepossessing tavern for their evening assemblies. The exterior, as your father could tell you, was certainly not inviting, for the gables were all askew, the stories low and widening one over another, all awry as if ready to fall, the front door, too, was cracked from corner to corner, nor were the public rooms much more alluring. In the coffee room the window with its small panes of bottle glass hardly allowed any daylight to filter in; the floor had once been neatly covered in bricks, but now most of these were broken in half, with pieces of them missing, showing little three-cornered holes which suggested dirt-grubbing insects and storehouses of dust.
There were other disadvantages, too, about the place, which should have scared off any