And do you ask what game she plays?
With me 'tis lost or won;
With thee it is playing still; with him
It is not well begun;
But 'tis a game she plays with all
Beneath the sway o' the sun.
--DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
Mistress Julia Peyton felt a trifle worried. Matters had not turned out
exactly as she had anticipated; it is a way peculiar to matters over
which we have no control.
She had been quite aware of the fact that my lord of Stowmaries, with
Sir John Ayloffe and Lord Rochester, had made the journey over to Paris
in order to be present at the marriage of Michael Kestyon with the
tailor's daughter, and it had been with the intention of frustrating
my lord's desire to pay his final debt of seventy thousand pounds
to Michael that she had sent old Daniel Pye over in the gentlemen's
company, armed with the letters writ in scholarly French by the exiled
Huguenot clerk and intended for good M. Legros' personal perusal.
Mistress Peyton had no special wish to save the susceptibilities of a
tailor's wench, and cared little whether the fraud was discovered by
her before she had left her father's home or afterwards, but--she had
argued this out in her own mind over and over again--if the girl never
actually left her father's house, my lord would not in honour be bound
to pay Michael the additional seventy thousand pounds, since the latter
would not have accomplished his own share of the bargain to the full.
On the other hand there would be quite enough public scandal and gossip
round the girl, as it was, to enable my lord of Stowmaries to justify
his repudiation of the matrimonial bonds, contracted eighteen years
ago, on the grounds that the future Countess of Stowmaries no longer
bore a spotless reputation.
That had been Mistress Peyton's subtle argument, and on the basis of
this unanswerable logic she had laid her plans. Caring nothing for the
girl, she cared everything for the money, and above all for the power
that so vast a sum would place in Michael's hand for the furtherance of
his own case.
Daniel Pye had returned to England about a week after the wedding
at St. Gervais. He was an unblushing liar, both by habit and by
temperament. Therefore, when he presented himself before his mistress,
he assured her that he had handed her letter over to the master tailor
even while the wedding festivities were in progress in the back shop,
and long before the coach bore the bridal pair away.
When Mistress Peyton heard the circumstantial narrative of how her
faithful henchman had fought his way into the tailor's house at peril
of his life, and had given the letter into M. Legros' own hands, the
while his own poor shoulders were bruised and well-nigh broken with
the blows dealt to him by cruel miscreants who strove to hinder him
from performing his duty--when the fair Julia heard all this, I say,
she was vastly pleased and commended Master Pye very highly for his
faithfulness, and I believe even rewarded him by giving him five
shillings.
The wedding it seems had been the talk of Paris, ladies and gentlemen
from the Court had been present thereat, and Mme. de Montespan had
loudly praised the handsome presence of the bridegroom. All this was
passing satisfactory, and Mistress Julia was quite content to think
that the tailor and his family would--after such an esclandre--be
only too willing to hide their humble heads out of the ken of society
wherein they had become a laughing stock.
On legal grounds my lord of Stowmaries could readily command the
nullity of the child-marriage now; as for the religious grounds
which had been the chief stumbling-block hitherto--"Bah!" argued the
fair Julia naïvely to herself, "His Holiness the Pope of Rome is a
gentleman; he will not expect an English grand seigneur to acknowledge
as his countess the cast-off plaything of an adventurer."
The disappointment came some three or four days later when Cousin
John in his turn presented himself at the little house in Holborn
Row. Of course he had known nothing of his fair cousin's treacherous
little scheme, and although he had greatly wondered at Master Pye's
presence in Paris at the time of the wedding, yet he had been far from
suspecting the truth with regard to its purport. All that good Sir John
knew was that the bridal pair did leave the house of M. Legros in a
somewhat unconventional style, for this he had been told by the gaffers
of the neighbourhood.
He had not seen the departure, but had heard glowing accounts of it all
from one or two of the spectators whom he had closely questioned.
There was no doubt that it had been a fine departure: romantic and
epoch-making. No fear now of the scandal being in any way hushed up.
"Milor the Englishman," as that rascal Michael had been universally
called in that quarter of Paris wherein his prowess had been
witnessed, was a magnificent horseman, so the gossips declared with
one accord. The way he had jumped on his horse, using neither stirrup
nor bridle, was a sight good for sore eyes, then two of his English
serving-men had raised the bride to his saddle bow, and after a lusty
shout of farewell milor had ridden away with her, and soon his horse
was head galloping at maddening speed. Never had such a spectacle been
witnessed in the streets of Paris before; the gaffers were still agape
at the remembrance of it, and it had all seemed more like a vivid and
exciting dream than like sober reality.
But no sooner had milor and the bride disappeared round the bend of the
narrow street than the first breath of gossip rose--apparently from
nothingness--in their wake. Whence it originated nobody knew, but sure
it is that within an hour the whole of the quarter was agog with the
scandal. Cousin John prided himself on the fact that he had contributed
more than his share in spreading the report from one end of Paris to
the other that the daughter of the mightily rich and highly-respectable
tailor-in-chief of His Majesty the King of France had eloped with
an adventurer, who was even kinsman to her own husband, my lord of
Stowmaries and Rivaulx.
"The scandal is quite immense, fair Cousin," quoth Cousin John
lustily, and with a merry guffaw the while he sat sipping sack-posset
in Mistress Peyton's elegantly furnished boudoir. "Personally I see
naught for the tailor's wench but the inevitable nunnery, although
Michael--but of this more anon. In the meanwhile Mme. de Montespan
dotes on the adventure. Lord Rochester retailed it all to her outside
the church porch, and you may well believe that it hath lost naught in
the telling. She quite fell in love with Michael's handsome presence,
and His Majesty the King of France vows that English gentlemen are the
primest rogues on this earth; and even sober diplomatists aver that
Michael's prowess and Michael's romantic personality have done more to
cement international friendship than a whole host of secret treaties.
From the Court the scandal hath reached the lower classes of Paris, all
thanks to your humble servant, so I flatter myself; the tailor and his
family are the butt of every quip-maker in the city. There is a rhyme
that goes the round which--nay, your pardon, fair Cousin, I could not
repeat it for fear of offending your ears, but let me assure you that
the heroine thereof is not like to petition Monseigneur the Archbishop
of Paris or His Holiness the Pope to assert her rights to be Countess
of Stowmaries--Countess of Stowmaries," added Sir John with another
prolonged guffaw, "Countess of Stowmaries! Odd's fish! In Paris they
sing of her: '_Une vertu ingulière_--' your pardon--your pardon again,
dear Coz, I was forgetting--"
And Cousin John had indeed to stop in his narration, for he was choking
for very laughter and the tears were streaming down his ruddy cheeks.
Mistress Peyton had listened to the cheerful tale with but
ill-repressed impatience, and had not Sir John been so absorbed in
what was his favourite topic of conversation--the tearing to shreds
of a woman's reputation--he would not have failed to notice that his
kinswoman was far from sharing his own hilarity.
Of a truth, the fair Julia's impatience soon gave place to great anger,
for it was by now quite clear to her that Daniel Pye had failed in
his trust, that he had not only lied like a consummate rogue, but had
actually by his unforgivable delinquency caused his mistress' most
cherished and carefully-conceived counter-intrigue to come absolutely
to naught.
Michael Kestyon had carried off the bride and Lord Stowmaries could not
now as a man of honour refuse to pay him that final seventy thousand
pounds; a fortune, forsooth, wherewith the adventurer, the wastrel, the
haunter of brothels and booths could now make good his claim to the
title and peerage of Stowmaries and Rivaulx.
Given a dissolute, money-grabbing king on whose decision the claim
for the peerage rested, given this adventure which rendered Michael
interesting to those who had the ear of Charles Stuart, and what more
likely than that the present lord of Stowmaries should find himself in
the terrible position of having paid for his own undoing?
And all because a fool of a serving-man had failed in doing what he
had been ordered to do, and this in despite of the most carefully
thought-out plans, most ardent wishes and most subtle schemes. We may
take it that visions of a terrible retribution to be wreaked on that
rascally Daniel Pye already found birth in his mistress' inventive
brain; and whilst good Cousin John was wiping the tears of laughter
which his own narrative had called to his bulgy eyes, his fair cousin
was meditating on the best pretext she could employ for ordering Pye to
be lawfully and publicly flogged.
At last Mistress Peyton's sullen silence brought Cousin John back from
the pleasing realms of gossip and scandal. Looking into her face he saw
anger, where he had expected to witness a smile of triumph; he also saw
two perfect lips closed tightly in obvious moodiness, the while he had
looked forward to unstinted praise for his own share in the furtherance
of her desires.
Cousin John, therefore, was vastly astonished. Puzzlement in its turn
yielded to speculation. Mistress Julia was angered--why? She had
desired the scandal; now she seemed to resent it. Something had gone
amiss then--or had she veered round in her intentions?
Women were strange cattle in Sir John Ayloffe's estimation. Had his
ambitious cousin perchance nurtured some counter-scheme of her own,
which had come to naught through the success of the original intrigue?
It almost seemed like it from the wrathful expression of her face.
The presence of Daniel Pye in Paris came back to Sir John as a swift
memory. There had been a counter-intrigue then?
Of a truth this would trouble him but little, provided that such
intrigue did not affect the due payment to himself of the twelve
thousand pounds promised by the capricious lady. But of this guerdon he
felt fully assured. Which is another proof of the truth of the ancient
adage which says that there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, and also
of the fact that women are far keener diviners of such untoward slips
than are those who belong to the sterner and less intuitive sex.
Even while the prospect of those pleasing thousands was flitting--all
unbeknown to him--further and further from his future grasp, Sir John,
studying his cousin's unaccountable mood tried to make some of his
wonted cynical maxims anent the motives and emotions of the other sex
fit the present situation.
Mistress Peyton was angered when she should have been pleased. Had she
perchance conceived an attachment for the romantic blackguard? Such
things were possible--women's tastes ever erred on the queer side--and
this would certainly account for Julia's impatient anger when she
heard of Michael's interesting departure with the beautiful bride in
his arms.
Nay then! if this was the case, good Cousin John had still the cream
of his narrative in reserve, and the final episode which he had to
relate would of a surety satisfy the most rancorous feelings of revenge
harboured against a hated rival by any fair monster that wore petticoat.
And at the moment that Mistress Peyton finally decided in her own mind
that an accusation of theft preferred by herself against Daniel Pye
would bring that elderly reprobate to the whipping post and the stocks,
Cousin John's mellifluent voice broke in upon these pleasant dreams.
"Odd's fish, fair Coz," he said loudly and emphatically, for he desired
his words to rouse her from her absorption, "imagine our surprise,
nay, our consternation when on our arrival at St. Denis we found one
solitary turtledove mourning over the absence of the other--"
The effect of these words was instantaneous. The fair Julia's thoughts
suddenly flew from prospective vengeance to present interests, and
though the frown did not disappear from her brow, her eyes flashed
eagerness now rather than anger.
"What nonsense is this?" she queried with a show of petulance. "I pray
you, Cousin, speak with less imagery. The matter is of serious portent
to me as you know--and also to yourself," she added significantly, "and
I fear me that my poor wits are too dull to follow the circumlocutions
of your flowery speech."
Sir John smiled complacently; he was quite satisfied that he once more
held his cousin's undivided attention, and resumed his narrative with
imperturbable good-humour.
"I crave your pardon, fair lady," he said, "but on my honour 'tis
just as I have told you. My lord of Stowmaries, Lord Rochester and
your humble servant did journey by coach to St. Denis, for we knew
that thither was the bridal couple bound. We drove in the lumbering
vehicle on God-forsaken roads all the way from Paris, and never in
all my life did I experience such uncomfortable journeying. 'Milor
the Englishman,' quoth Rochester as soon as his feet had touched the
ground, 'is he abed?' For you must know that it was then nigh on ten of
the clock and the hostelry of the Three Archangels looked as dark as
pitch from within and without. 'Milor is upstairs,' exclaimed mine host
who, of a surety, looked vastly bewildered at our arrival. He seemed
like a man bursting with news, and as if eager to explain something,
but we were too impatient to pay any heed to him at the time and ran
helter-skelter upstairs in the wake of Lord Rochester who, as you
know, is ever in the forefront in a spicy adventure, and who moreover
was eager for another peep at the bride, whom he had greatly admired
during the religious ceremony in the church. We none of us had any idea
that anything could be amiss, and as I have had the honour of assuring
you, our consternation was great when on entering the parlour we found
Michael standing by the open window, staring moodily out into the
dreary landscape, the room itself in total darkness, and--as we learnt
afterwards--the bride gone back to Paris by coach in company with her
father."
"Impossible," ejaculated Mistress Peyton, feigning surprise which of a
truth she did not feel. What had been and still was a mystery to Sir
John was clear enough to his fair cousin, and there was, it seems, some
slight attenuation to Daniel Pye's monstrous delinquency. The letter,
by some idiotic blunder on the part of old Pye, had reached Master
Legros just a trifle too late, but it had reached him at last, and the
infuriated father had contrived to reach St. Denis in time to snatch
his daughter away from the arms of the adventurer--who thus stood
prematurely unmasked.
"Impossible!" she reiterated the while Sir John like a true raconteur,
having succeeded in capturing her interest, made an effective pause
in his narration. He could not complain of her moodiness now, for she
seemed all eagerness and agitation.
"True, nevertheless," he asserted quietly, "the bride was gone and
Michael--left desolate--seemed inclined to act like a man bereft of his
senses."
"How mean you that?" she asked.
"He had, it seems, fallen madly in love with the tailor's daughter, and
had no doubt during his hours of loneliness been assailed with remorse
at what he chose to call a shameful bargain."
Again Cousin John paused; his large, prominent eyes were fixed once
more upon his cousin. Clearly there was an undercurrent of intrigue
going on here of which he did not as yet possess the entire secret,
for he had distinctly noted that at his last words the deep frown
which had still lingered on Julia's snow-white brow now vanished
completely, giving place to an excited look of hope. Something of the
inner workings of her mind began to dawn on him, however, a vague,
indefinable sense of what had gone before, what she had feared, and
what she now hoped. Therefore he waited awhile, watching her eager,
impatient face, the play of her delicate features, the nervous
movements of her hands, ere he resumed with well-simulated carelessness.
"Ay! my dear Coz, the more I think on it, the more am I convinced that
Michael in his love-sickness became bereft of reason, for you'll scarce
believe it when I tell you that when my lord of Stowmaries desired to
acquit himself like an honourable gentleman of his debt to his kinsman,
and held out to him the draft for seventy thousand pounds, Michael
refused to take it."
This time there was no mistaking the look of pleasure which lit up
the fair Julia's face. A less acute observer than was Sir John would
have realised at once that this last item of news was essentially
pleasant to the hearer. Mistress Peyton of a truth, found her anxieties
vanishing away, and was at no pains to hide the pleasure which she
felt. Hope was returning to her heart, also gratitude towards Fate who,
it seems, had been kind enough after all to play into her hands.
Psychologically the situation was interesting, and we may assume that
Cousin John was no longer at sea now. He might not yet possess the key
which opened the magic gate into his fair cousin's secret orchard, but
he was essentially a gambler, an unscrupulous schemer himself; money,
to him, was the all-powerful solution of many an obscure puzzle.
The mention of money had brought on the beautiful face before him the
first smile of satisfaction since the beginning of his narrative;
ergo, argued Cousin John, the fair mistress entered into a private,
villainous little scheme of her own, of calling the tune without paying
the piper. Women have no sense of honour, where debts between gentlemen
are concerned.
Once on a track, Sir John was quick enough to follow the puzzle to its
satisfactory solution. But he was not pleased that his cousin, and
partner in the whole enterprise, should thus have intrigued without
his knowledge or counsel. Heavens above, if conspirators did not work
together, every plot, however well laid, would speedily abort. Women
were ever ready for these petty infamies; they seemed to revel in them,
to plan and scheme them even if--as in this case--they were wholly
superfluous.
He was angry with his pretty cousin, and showed it by keeping her on
tenter-hooks, dropping his narrative and ostentatiously draining a mug
of posset to its last drop. He would force her, he thought, to disclose
her treacherous little hand to the full.
And he succeeded, for as he did not speak she was quite unable to curb
her impatience.
"Then--the money--" she asked with obviously affected indifference,
"what became of it?"
"The money?" he asked blandly "What money?"
"The seventy thousand pounds," she said, "which Michael Kestyon was to
receive and which he refused to take."
Cousin John looked at her over the top of his goblet, his round, bulgy
eyes told her quite plainly that he had read her through and through,
and that he for one was not sorry that her little counter-scheme had
failed, since she had not thought fit to ask his advice. But he said
quite lightly, as one who speaks of a trifle too mean to dwell in the
memory:
"Oh! the seventy thousand pounds! They are where they should be, dear
Cousin, in Michael Kestyon's pocket. The just reward for his services
rendered to his kinsman, your future lord, fair Coz!"
"But you said just now--" she stammered on the verge of tears, for the
sudden sense of disappointment had been very bitter to bear.
"I said that Michael had been smitten with remorse, and had at first
refused to take the money, but Lord Stowmaries soon overcame his
scruples and--"
"Lord Stowmaries is a fool!" she interrupted hotly.
Sir John feigned great astonishment.
"A fool? For acquitting himself of a debt of honour?" he asked in tones
of mild reproof.
"Ay! a fool, and thrice a fool," she reiterated with increased
vehemence, for she was no gaby and was not taken in now by Cousin
John's blandness. He had divined her thoughts, and guessed something
of her aborted plans; there was no occasion therefore to subdue her
annoyance any longer. "An Michael Kestyon was such a dotard as to
refuse a fortune," she continued, "why should my lord Stowmaries be
the one to force it upon him. Nay! The whole bargain was iniquitous or
worse. Ridiculous it was of a truth--one hundred and twenty thousand
pounds to a man who would have done the trick for so many pence. I
marvelled at you, Cousin, for lending a hand to such wanton waste and
did my best to circumvent your folly, but thanks to that dolt Daniel
Pye, and apparently to my lord Stowmaries' idiocy, Michael Kestyon
is now in possession of the means whereby he can divest the cousin
who paid him so well not only of his title but of all his wealth. A
blunder, Cousin, an idiotic, silly blunder," she added as she jumped
to her feet, unable to sit still, tramping up and down the room like a
raging wildcat, lashing herself into worse fury by picturing all the
evils which the unfortunate business would bring in its train, chief
amongst these being my lord Stowmaries' undoing, for which she really
cared naught only in so long as it affected her own prospects.
"The silly adventure is already the talk of the town; the king has
asked to see Michael Kestyon. Bah! The man sold his kingdom, the
liberty and dignity of England for a sum not much larger than what
Michael can now offer him for a favourable decision in a peerage claim.
Ye saints above! what fools men are! what blind, blundering, silly
fools, the moment they begin to prate of honour!"
Cousin John had allowed his fair cousin's vehement vituperations
to pass unchallenged over his humbled head. That there was some
truth in her argument he himself could not deny, and it was a fact
that fears very akin to her own in the matter of the money had more
than once crossed his mind. Feeling, therefore, that the reproof,
though exceptionally violent, was not undeserved, he dropped his
bland, cynical manner, and when at last the fair Julia paused in her
invectives, chiefly for lack of breath, and also because tears of
anger were choking her voice, he spoke to her quite quietly and almost
apologetically.
"Indeed, Coz," he said, "I would have you believe that I am deeply
touched by your reproaches, which, alas, I may have merited to a
certain extent. Zeal in your cause may have rendered me less far-seeing
than I really should have been, considering what we both have at stake.
But let me tell you also that I have not been quite such a dolt as you
seem to think. You are quite wrong in supposing that Michael Kestyon
would have acted the part which he did for a less sum than we have
given him. Nothing but a real substantial fortune would have tempted
Michael. Nothing," reiterated Sir John emphatically, seeing that Julia
made a contemptuous gesture of incredulity. "He is a curious mixture
of the wastrel and the gentleman; if we could not satisfy his ambition,
we could not attack his sense of honour. Where we made the mistake was
in thinking that a substantial sum would satisfy him in itself. No one
guessed that his dormant claim to the peerage of Stowmaries was still
of such vital importance to him. He had ceased to move actively in the
matter partly through the lack of money, but also in part through the
moral collapse which he has undergone in the past two years. I confess
that I did think that when he was possessed of his newly-acquired
fortune, he would continue the life of dissolute vagabondage which we
all believed had become his second--nay, his only nature. It seems that
we were all mistaken--"
"What do you mean? Has anything occurred already?" asked Julia, who
found all her fears increased tenfold at Cousin John's seriously-spoken
words.
"No! No! No!" he said reassuringly, "nothing at present, save that
Michael Kestyon has made no attempt to return to his boon companions in
the various brothels which were wont to be his haunts. Rumour hath it
that he is oft seen in the company of my lord Shaftesbury, and there
is no doubt that the king was vastly amused by the adventure. Some say
that royal smiles are the sure precursors to royal favours. But between
entertaining Charles II with tales of spicy adventures and obtaining
actual decisions from him in important matters lie vast gulfs of kingly
indifference and of kindly indolence. There is nothing that the king
hates worse than the giving of a decision, and, believe me, that he
will dilly-dally with Michael until that young reprobate will have
spent every penny of his new fortune, and will have none left to offer
as a bribe to our merry monarch. It is not cheap, believe me, to be a
temporary boon companion to Charles Stuart, and a great deal more than
a hundred thousand pounds would have to pass through Michael's fingers
in keeping up a certain gentlemanly state, in tailor's accounts, in
bets and in losses at hazard, before the king would think of rewarding
him in the only manner which would compensate him for all the money
expended in obtaining the royal smiles."
"You may be right, Cousin," said Mistress Peyton, somewhat reassured,
"at the same time a great deal of anxiety would have been saved me, if
that old liar Daniel Pye had done as he was bid. But he shall rue his
prevarications, and bitterly, too."
"You may wreak what vengeance you will, fair Cousin, on the varlet who
hath disobeyed you. But I entreat you to keep your favours for those
who have tried to serve you to the best of their poor abilities. As
for the rest, let me assure you now that Michael Kestyon refused the
seventy thousand pounds and even offered to repay the first instalment
of fifty thousand on terms which were wholly unacceptable to Lord
Stowmaries. The chief condition being that my lord should rescind the
whole of the bargain, and take the tailor's wench back into his heart
and marital bosom. You see, fair Coz, how impossible it was to treat
with Michael at all, and we certainly were not to blame. My lord of
Stowmaries is still the happiest man on earth; glad enough to have
purchased his happiness for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. An
I mistake not he is in Rome now, awaiting the Pope's decision--but that
is a foregone conclusion. Monseigneur the Archbishop hath assured him
of his cooperation. Soon my lord will receive that for which he craves:
religious dispensation to avail himself of the civil law of England
which will readily grant him nullity of marriage, and the blessing
of the Pope himself on his remarriage with the fairest beauty that
e'er hath graced an ancestral home. Until then I entreat you, Cousin,"
added Sir John with elaborate gallantry, "to smooth away those frowns
of anxiety which ill become the future Countess of Stowmaries. Let me
see you smile, dear Coz, ere I take my leave, having, I trust, assured
you that you have no truer servant than your faithful kinsman, the
recipient of your favours, and, I trust, of many more in the not very
distant future."
There was no resisting Cousin John's assurance and his smile of
confident encouragement. Mistress Peyton did allow the wrinkles of
anger to fade from her smooth brow. But complete peace of mind was not
restored to her in full; she was almost glad that "the happiest man on
earth" was away from her just now. She wanted to think matters over
in absolute quietude, away from her good cousin's bland platitudes.
It almost seemed as if Fate had reshuffled all her cards; she and
her partners in the great life-gamble, Lord Stowmaries, Sir John and
Michael Kestyon, too, had had fresh hands dealt to them. They needed
sorting and the game mayhap reconsidering.
It was even doubtful at the present moment what was the chief trump
card. Daniel Pye with his clumsy fingers had abstracted one out of
his mistress' hand. At thought of that the frown returned and the
"fairest beauty that e'er graced an ancestral home" looked not unlike
a vengeful termagant gloating over the petty revenge which--in a small
measure--would compensate her for all anxieties past, present and to
come.