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 is of a surety no longer bound to acknowledge a wife whose very name will have become a byword for every gossip to peck at, and whose virtue hath already been the toy of an adventurer as unscrupulous as he was daring. Not the Catholic Church, not the law of England, nor the decree of the Pope would enforce the original marriage vows after that. I give you my word, gentlemen, that my lord of Stowmaries will be granted leave by every high tribunal, spiritual or temporal, to repudiate the wench who had thus disgraced his name."
Sir John Ayloffe had long finished speaking and silence still reigned all around him. Even the noise in the next room seemed for the moment unaccountably to have ceased. Folk say that when such silences occur in merry company, angels fly across the room, and the flutter of their wings can distinctly be heard. What angels then were these who haunted the private room of the "Three Bears" now? What record of ignominy and dishonour did they mark upon the tablets of infinity when with gentle flutter of wings they passed silently by? To the credit of all these gentlemen here present be it said, that their first feeling was one of shame, when they fully understood the dastardly suggestion which Sir John was making to one of themselves; but the shame was not acute enough to produce horrified repudiation.
Sir Anthony Wykeham certainly still held aloof, but Stowmaries had not winced. That he understood the suggestion to the full, there could be no doubt. His face had flushed to the roots of his hair, his fingers were fidgeting nervously against one another and excitement verging on intoxication caused his eyes to glow with an unnatural inward fire. His thoughts had flown straight back to the prettily furnished parlour in Holborn Row, to Mistress Julia Peyton's violet eyes and the exquisite scent of her white hands when he had pressed them to his lips. His love for her—call it passion or desire an you will—had grown in intensity as the obstacle which separated him from her had seemed more and more insurmountable. In the past few hours that same passion had reached a stage of fever heat, impatient at control, chafing at impotence and longing for satisfaction with all the strength of thwarted desire.
Rupert Kestyon, Earl of Stowmaries and Riveaulx, had been brought up in the hard school of colonial life; in his boyhood he had been denied every kind of pleasure and luxury in which the sense of youth revels, through what he called an unjust Fate; then suddenly he had seen himself thrown in the very lap of Fortune, his every desire satisfied and his every whim made law. The change was sudden enough to throw off its balance a more firm character than that of the son of Captain Kestyon—spendthrift, profligate, a rogue from temperament. Like his father's, Rupert's was essentially a weak nature. He had never attempted to fight Fate, when Fate was against him. When Fortune smiled, he took everything she offered him without attempt at restraint;—and the jade had become very lavish with her gifts to the young outcast who awhile ago had often enough been obliged to tighten his belt against the gnawing pangs of hunger.
He had found friends, followers, sycophants; had been favoured by royalty and smiled on by beauty, but Mistress Peyton was the first passion in his life. He had flirted with her for months, made easy love to her for weeks, but he had not realised that he loved her until twenty-four hours ago when he knew that she was lost to him.
The knowledge that here was the chief desire of his heart, and that this desire he could not gratify, despite his position, his personality and his wealth, almost unhinged his mind. It was two years now since he had exercised any self-denial. He had lost all knowledge of that useful art, and was determined not to learn it again.
The day on which he heard that through an appalling catastrophe, which had swept his kindred into the sea and broken the heart of an old man, he, Rupert Kestyon, the penniless son of a spendthrift father, had become rich, influential, one of the greatest gentlemen in the kingdom, he had said with a sigh of genuine satisfaction: "Now I mean to live!" and with him living meant solely the gratification of his every wish. Now he saw his greatest wish in all the world born only to be thwarted.
It was monstrous, unthinkable! But from that wholesome fear of ecclesiastical authority peculiar in those days to men of his creed, he would have rebelled. Respect for the Church to which he belonged, dread of a scandal which might tarnish the great name he bore, and undermine his pleasant position alone caused him to be submissive.
He was not clever enough to find out a means of freeing himself from irksome bonds, and had drained the cup of despair to its bitter dregs without thinking or even hoping for an issue out of his misery.
But now a man spoke—a man whom in his saner moments he heartily despised, whom he knew to be shiftless, unscrupulous, a born gambler—but yet a man who showed him a way out of the quagmire of despair into a possible haven of hope.
He had not been long in catching Ayloffe's meaning. Whilst the others doubted he had already seen the possibilities of success. His bride had never seen him since consciousness grew into her brain; her parents' only recollections of himself dated back eighteen years! Why indeed should not some other man impersonate the bridegroom, carry the bride away and thus forever after leave on her fair maiden name a stain which would render her unfit to be acknowledged as the wife of any honourable gentleman?
How simple it all seemed!
Unlike his friends here present, Stowmaries saw no shame in the scheme—no shame, let us say to himself! Disgrace to the woman—yes! but he did not know her, and he hated the very thought of her! Disgrace perhaps to the scoundrel who would undertake the ignoble treachery! but to the Earl of Stowmaries who would sit quietly at home whilst the roguery was being carried on by others?—'Sblood! who would suggest such a ridiculous idea?
His eyes wandered round the table. Sir Anthony Wykeham was no longer frowning and Lord Rochester had laughed—a little nervously perhaps—but no one had actually protested.
There was no gainsaying the fact that Ayloffe was a rogue to suggest so profligate a scheme, but profligacy was all the rage now and vastly pleased the King.
"By Gad, a mad notion!—But a right merry one!" quoth Sir Knaith Bullock, himself a rogue and as full of dare-devil schemes as an egg is full of meat.
The remark loudly spoken and accompanied by a blasphemous oath and the loud banging of a clenched fist against the table, eased the tension finally. Even Wykeham began to laugh. Not one of these young men here had wanted to feel ashamed, rather did each one desire to seem a vast deal worse than his neighbour. It was no good allowing the recollections of early lessons in chivalry to mar the enjoyment of the present merry life; not even if those lessons had been taught by a father who had died fighting for King and cause.
Let the ball of pleasure be set rolling; that ball partly made up of love of devilry, partly of ennui seeking for amusement and of contempt for woman's virtue.
"'Twere rare sport!" said Rochester.
Sport! The word acted like magic and shame was completely vanquished by the pleasing sense of excitement.
Bah! what was the virtue, the fair name, the happiness of a tailor's daughter worth, in the face of the vastly pleasing entertainment she herself would provide for her betters.
"An ignoble trick to play on a woman," murmured Wykeham.
But his protest had become very feeble. He saw nothing in the suggestion that shocked his religious scruples, for the rest he cared but little. The victim was only a tailor's daughter after all, and Stowmaries—his friend—would not be the one to repudiate his marriage vows.
"Bah! a tailor's daughter!" was the gist of the argument in favour of the scheme.
"She shall have full compensation," quoth my lord Stowmaries somewhat tonelessly, for his throat felt parched and his tongue seemed to be several sizes too large for his mouth.
He drank down a large bumper full of sherry into which Ayloffe had unobtrusively thrown a dash of raw brandy.
"Have you forgotten, gentlemen," now said gallant Sir John lustily, "that my lord of Stowmaries will give seventy thousand pounds to the friend who will help him in his need. A fortune methinks, which should tempt any young gallant in search of romantic adventure and a pretty wife."
"But the details, man! the details!" came from every side, "surely you have thought of them!"
"And of the risks!" suggested Lord Rochester, who was practical, and who had oft suffered because of his gallant adventures.
"There are no risks, gentlemen," quoth Sir John Ayloffe, "not to us at any rate, nor yet to my lord Stowmaries. As for the tailor and his family, believe me they will be so covered with ridicule, that they will not cause his lordship a moment's anxiety. Just think on it! To give away one's daughter to a man who is not her husband! to greet him with festivities and merrimaking, to kill the fatted calf in honour of the man who brings dishonour into one's home! Nay! Nay! The breeches-maker of Paris will have cause to keep silent after the adventure. The maid perchance will retire into a convent, and the gallant adventurer can brave the world in comfort with seventy thousand pounds in his pocket."
"Bravo! Well said!—But the details?—how will you work, it, Ayloffe?"
Obviously the scheme was commending itself more and more to these over-heated brains. There were no shame-faced looks round the table now. Stowmaries did not speak; his excitement was too keen to find vent in words, and he was shrewd enough to realise at once that Ayloffe did not mean to give away the details of his plans to this trio of young addle-pated rakes.
But cries of "The details, man, the details!" became more and more insistent. Sir John, glass in hand, at last rose in response.
"The details are simple enough, gentlemen, and now that I have your approbation, I will be quick enough in working them out. In the meanwhile let us drink to the gallant adventurer who must help us in our scheme. We do not yet know his name, who he is or whence he comes; the fairy Prince who will free my lord Stowmaries from irksome bondage and the tailor's daughter from the fetters of a respectable home. What we do know is that this Prince must be young, else he could not pass for milor of Stowmaries, he must be well-favoured, else the lady might fight shy of him; but he may be as poor as the proverbial church mouse, since seventy thousand pounds, and the fortune of the richest tailor in Paris are jointly to be his. Come, gentlemen, will you take my toast?"
Loud banging of pewter mugs against the deal table greeted this merry sally. The young men jumped to their feet.
"To him! To the unknown!" they shouted laughing with one accord. There were loud calls for Master Foorde, and confused orders for more Spanish wine. Sir John called for brandy, and anon when the worthy hosteler filled the bumpers all round the table, Ayloffe followed him adding brandy here and there to the wine, laughingly insistent, praising the quality of the liquor for inducing to gaiety and all the elegant qualities of amiable drunkenness so fashionable in a gentleman of the period.
He was quite clever enough not to make any further direct allusions to the scheme, the realisation of which meant the transference of twelve thousand pounds from Mistress Julia Peyton's pocket into his own. So far he had gained the first stake in the game which he had set himself to play, and was content for the moment merely to addle still further the heads of these young reprobates by wild talks of adventure, and sly allusions to the delights of coming scandal, mixed with sweeping sarcasm directed at feminine virtue in general and the morals of the Paris bourgeoisie in particular.
He knew well enough that Stowmaries was at one with him by now, but that he never would have succeeded in persuading the young man to enter into such villainous schemes, if he had been alone with him.
Away from the glamour of his rakish friends, of the atmosphere of the tavern, of the smell of wine and tobacco, Stowmaries' better nature and the inherited instincts of honour would have rebelled against the roguery. Any of these young men here present would individually have repudiated the monstrous proposal whilst collectively they were over-ready to trample on any nascent idea of chivalry, each one ashamed to be called squeamish or Puritanical by the other. There was nothing really depraved in these young men, only a desire to outdo each other in profligacy, in a show of anti-Puritanism, the immediate outcome of the enforced restraint of the past generation.
Ayloffe knew this, and, therefore, he had chosen the supper hour, and the presence of a select number of the worst rakes in London—Rochester and Bullock—for testing Stowmaries' willingness to enter into his own villainous scheme. He wanted the support of confused brains, of rowdy excitement, of shouts and of laughter to drown the preliminary call of conscience. This once smothered, would probably never lift a warning voice again, and details could be comfortably settled in private later on.
"Believe me, gentlemen," he said gaily, "that that tailor's minx will thank us all on her knees for the entertainment which we will provide for her. Odd's fish and I mistake not she hath but little stomach for becoming an honourable British matron, and you may be sure that 'tis only her parents who force her into an unwelcome marriage. We shall be the rescuers of beauty in distress, and will provide the wench with such an adventure as will draw the eyes of half Europe upon her and give her that notoriety which all women prize far beyond those virtues which are only vaunted by the old and ugly ones of their own sex. A bumper on it, gentlemen! I pledge the tailor's minx, ill-favoured though she be—my word on that! she'll become the talk of London—I drink to her adventure—and to the bold man who will share in it—By my halidame, were I but twenty years younger, I'd apply for the post myself."
Ayloffe's irresponsible talk, and the heady wines mixed with alcohol completed the work of destruction. Lord Stowmaries and his friends contrived within the next hour or so to lose more self-respect than their fathers had gained in a lifetime through sublime adherence to a forlorn cause.