Читать книгу Fire in Stubble - Baroness Orczy - Страница 12

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With a quick glance thrown on each of the four faces, shrewd Sir John had quickly appraised the mood of this small clique. Stowmaries in sullen rage against the whole world because of this thwarting of his most cherished desire, Rochester and the Irishman, flippant and eager for sport, with Wykeham as the sobering influence, the self-constituted guardian of religious obligations.

It was also obvious to this keen observer of other people’s moods that there would be no need for circumlocution. Though silence reigned in the room, the subject of Stowmaries’ marriage was uppermost in the minds of his friends.

Sir John therefore, having thrown aside his hat and cloak, went boldly up to the table and greeting the others with easy familiarity, he placed one fleshy hand on Stowmaries’ shoulder and said abruptly:

“Tush man! be not so downhearted. My faith on it! have I not seen worse plights even than yours? Yet from which a man of daring and resource soon found a means of extricating himself.”

The interruption was a welcome one, for though Sir John Ayloffe was no longer very popular with the gilded clique of young and noble rakes, since he was known to be at his last resources and was oft in sore straits to pay his gaming debts, nevertheless at this moment his lusty, cheery voice helped to dissipate the gloom which was such an unusual atmosphere for these ribald pleasure-seekers to breathe, and one or two voices with obvious signs of relief cordially invited the newcomer to sit.

“Then you, too, know our friend’s melancholy story?” queried Lord Rochester as he pushed with hospitable intent a mug of wine in the direction of Ayloffe.

“Yes,” replied the latter. “Mistress Julia Peyton is my kinswoman. ’Tis from her I heard the tale.”

Stowmaries’ frown grew even darker than before. He liked not the suggestion thus implied, the more than obvious hint of this second sentimental complication in his life.

Sir John, in the meanwhile, had selected a chair, which was less rickety than most, and sat down deliberately in such a position that not one of the flickering and uncertain rays of candle light touched his face or illumined its expression.

He took the cup of wine offered him by my lord Rochester and drank it down slowly and at one draught, the while a few ribald remarks flew across the table. Ayloffe’s advent seemed certainly to have brought a new atmosphere into the room. Despite Stowmaries’ frown and Wykeham’s protests, Rochester and Sir Knaith took up the lighter side of the past events; they refused to appreciate the solemnity of the subject or the serious obligations resulting from that solemn sacrament of matrimony performed between children over eighteen years ago.

Sir John waited patiently whilst a volley of somewhat coarse jests was fired at the gloomy hero of the romantic adventure, and until he saw that Stowmaries was on the verge of losing his temper, and Wykeham on the point of quarrelling with Bullock.

Then he pushed the empty cup away from him and leaning forward across the table, he broke in quietly: “Nay Sir Anthony,” he said with pleasing urbanity, “we all know what you would say. ‘Sdeath! an I mistake not you have harped on that string passing often in the last hour or so, and we all know too that Lord Stowmaries is not desirous of seeing it snap. But I maintain that if a gentleman is placed in so terrible a predicament as is my lord, then it is the duty of all his friends to try and effect an honourable rescue.”

The earnestness with which he spoke had silenced the jocose as well as the moody tongues. But Sir Anthony Wykeham now protested hotly.

“That is impossible,” he said. “The sacrament of marriage cannot be set aside.”

“Only under certain conditions,” corrected Sir John.

“Methinks this is braggart’s talk,” muttered young Bullock who had no love for the older man.

“How will you do it?” queried Stowmaries with moody hopelessness.

“With his tongue chiefly,” sneered the Irishman.

But Ayloffe seemed in no way abashed by the hostility, which his statement had evoked; he returned the sarcastic or angry glances levelled at him with a stare of assurance.

Leaning heavily upon the table, his prominent eyes fixed boldly on the over-excited faces before him, he looked a strange contrast to the small, chattering crowd which was grouped around him. Unlike the others, he had supped soberly at home and drunk little or no wine; his head was clear, his tongue glib, and the only uncertainty apparent in his demeanour was that with which from time to time he seemed to be listening to the noise in the next room; then a look of vague doubt would suddenly overshadow his steady gaze and cause a more furtive, more anxious look to creep into his eyes.

“Nay, gentlemen,” he resumed after a slight pause vaguely smiling in a condescending manner like one who tells an obvious fact to a child, “’tis no braggart’s talk to speak of saving a friend from the most dire calamity that can befall any man. I repeat most emphatically that this can be done, effectually and easily and without interfering with any of those religious scruples which do my lord of Stowmaries and his friend here so much honour.”

He spoke so quietly, so confidently and with such an air of certitude that instinctively the sneering tongues ceased to aim their shafts at him and four pairs of eyes were now fixed upon the speaker, who with a calm gesture of indifference was readjusting the lace of his cravat.

He waited thus for awhile like the true entertainer who husbands his effects; he waited until the circle round him drew closer and closer, 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.