until four pairs of elbows rested on the table and flagons and mugs were impatiently pushed aside.
Sir Anthony Wykeham was the last to hold aloof, but even he said at last with a distinct ring of excitement in his voice:
"Tell us more fully what you mean, man! Cannot you see that Stowmaries is devoured with impatience?"
"An impatience which I am over-anxious to relieve," rejoined Ayloffe imperturbably, "but firstly let me ask Lord Stowmaries himself—who I assert is a wealthy man—whether he would not give a good tenth of his fortune to be conveniently rid of an unwelcome wife, without hindrance to his belief or conscience."
"I would give half my fortune, good Sir John," sighed Stowmaries dolefully.
"Half is too much, good my lord," responded Sir John blandly. "Popular rumour deems your lordship worth some four hundred thousand pounds in solid cash, besides the rent rolls of half Hertfordshire. Methinks one fourth of that should purchase the freedom which you seek."
"Are you minded to earn that fortune, Sir John?" asked the other not without a sneer.
"Nay, my lord, I am neither young enough, nor sufficiently well-favoured for that desirable task," retorted Sir John imperturbably.
"What have looks or favours to do with it all? Odd's fish!" growled Stowmaries more vehemently, and bringing a clenched fist crashing down upon the table so that mugs and bottles rattled, "meseems that you, Sir John, are trying to fool me, God help me! are even trying to bring ridicule upon my sorrow! By the Mass, sir, if that be so, you'll not find me in a mood to be trifled with."
"Good my lord, I pray you to calm your temper. Am I a man to trifle with your feelings? Have I not professed myself to be your friend? am I not the kinsman of the lady whom you have honoured with your addresses? On mine honour I have her welfare at heart even more so than yours. Can you wonder that I should wish to see you wed her?"
Shrewd Sir John had played a trump card. There was no denying the logic of his statement. He had owned to having much at stake, yet had done so with no lack of dignity. With a certain graciousness not altogether free as yet from his original surliness, Lord Stowmaries owned himself in the wrong.
"You must pardon my evil temper, Sir John," he said with a self-deprecating sigh, "for I am vastly troubled."
This brief interlude had but whetted the curiosity of the others. From Sir John's manner and mode of speech it was fully evident now that his was no empty talk, but that he had assuredly come here this night, with some definite plan for what he termed the welfare of his kinswoman, which no doubt he had much at heart.
The idea pleased these young pleasure-seekers more and more; they cared of a truth but little for the troubles of their friends, but there was now a twinkle in Ayloffe's eyes which vaguely suggested to them the thought of intrigue, mayhap of some adventure, quite unavowable, possibly highly scandalous, which would have that unknown tailor's daughter for its victim.
Such adventures were the delight of the merry monarch who now sat upon the English throne, whose advent had been so earnestly desired, whose personality had been so ardently worshipped. He it was who set the fashion for those gallant episodes which were the boast and delectation of men and the shame and the sorrow of women. But for him and the example set by him I doubt if Sir John Ayloffe would ever have thought of formulating proposals which should have put his present companions to the blush, and which carried subsequently in their train agonies of remorse and of disgrace, wounded honour and more than one broken heart.
CHAPTER IX
Strictly, 'tis what good people style untruth
But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing!
—Browning.
Sir John Ayloffe leaned back in his chair, and satisfied that he once more held the close attention of the company, he resumed pleasantly:
"Will you, good my lord, and all of you gallant gentlemen grant me five minutes wherein to place before you the situation as it at present stands? Here is my lord of Stowmaries tied by so-called indissoluble marriage vows to a bride whom he doth not desire for wife, and whom he last saw borne away kicking and screaming in the arms of a waiting wench. And there over in Paris is the daughter of a worthy tailor, a girl born in a back shop, presumably ill-favoured and certainly vulgar, but who has pretensions of being Countess of Stowmaries de facto as well as de jure. She it was who eighteen years ago was as aforesaid borne away kicking and screaming in the arms of a waiting wench. She was then not much more than twelve months of age, and has not since that moment seen my lord of Stowmaries here, our gracious, if—momentarily—somewhat troubled friend."
A sneering grunt from Sir Knaith Bullock, a groan from Stowmaries and a murmur of assent from the others were audible whilst Sir John paused for breath.
"The Catholic Church for which we all have deep respect," continued Ayloffe, "doth not allow that the bonds of matrimony thus contracted eighteen years ago shall be severed just because my lord of Stowmaries doth not happen for the moment to have a desire for the tailor's daughter; she having done naught to merit repudiation, since her being carried away kicking and screaming from the presence of her lord when her age had not reached fifteen months, doth not constitute a serious offence in the eyes of the law."
"We know all that, man, we know all that," quoth Stowmaries moodily, "and by the Mass you repeat yourself like a country parson in the pulpit."
"Gently, good my lord," rejoined Ayloffe imperturbably. "What I have to say is a somewhat delicate matter. I am dealing with a Countess of Stowmaries—and if you did not accept my scheme—"
He paused and shrugged his shoulders in token of self-deprecation.
"It may not after all meet with your favour."
"Out with it, man—out with it," came, partly gaily, wholly impatiently from every side.
"'Tis simple enough," said Sir John, "but were easier to say an you, gentlemen, would help me by guessing—My lord of Stowmaries hath not seen his bride, nor was he seen by her, since she was little more than a year old—that is so, my lord, is it not?"
"It is," assented Stowmaries curtly.
"Impressions at that age are not lasting. Infantile memory doth not hold an image. We may assume that if the tailor's daughter were placed in the presence of—er—of any gentleman of noble bearing, she would not know if he were her lord—or not."
There was silence around the table now. Neither assent nor dissent followed Ayloffe's last words. On the face of the young Irishman curiosity still remained impressed. The suggestion so slightly hinted at had not yet reached his inner consciousness; on that of Lord Rochester comprehension had just begun to dawn, a sense of astonishment plainly struggled with one of doubt. But Sir Anthony Wykeham almost imperceptibly drew his chair somewhat away from the table.
Lord Stowmaries in the meanwhile kept his eyes steadily fixed on those of Sir John. They expressed neither doubt nor astonishment, only intense excitement, an obvious desire to hear that hint more fully explained. It was his hoarse mutter "Go on! curse you—why don't you go on?" that first broke the momentary silence which had fallen over the small assembly.
"Nay!" rejoined Ayloffe blandly, "I see that you, at least, my lord, have already taken me. Is not my scheme vastly simple? The tailor's daughter awaits her lord. He comes. She falls into his arms, and after the usual festivities in the back shop of her estimable parents, the bridegroom takes his bride home to far-off England. But mark what hath occurred—it was not my lord of Stowmaries who had gone to claim his bride, but some other man who prompted by his passion for the tailor's beautiful daughter, a passion—we might even suppose—encouraged by the lady herself, had impersonated the bridegroom and snatched the golden prize despite my lord of Stowmaries and the most solemn vows of matrimony contracted eighteen years ago. Imagine the result: the shame, the crying scandal! My lord of Stowmaries