"Old Rowley liked the tale, and was vastly amused thereby," Lord Rochester had said, thus unceremoniously referring to the merry King of England. "I told it him in all its bearings, and he laughed immoderately at thought of a tailor's wench being actually married to my lord of Stowmaries, and expecting to be presented at Court. But after that first outburst of hilarity he looked very grave and said that the matter must presently be arranged to the satisfaction of all those concerned."
"But how can that be done?" queried Sir Anthony Wykeham, who was a strict Catholic and liked not this light talk of breaking marriage vows.
"Bah! money will do a great deal nowadays," sighed Sir Knaith Bullock, a young Irishman but scantily blessed with the commodity.
"As for me," quoth my lord Rochester with easy bonhomme, "I am on the side of the angels. Mistress Julia Peyton is the most beautiful woman in London. She at any rate would be worthy to become chatelaine of Maries Castle and to be our hostess in the many feasts to be given there to my lord of Stowmaries' friends. As for a tailor's daughter!—Bah!—gentlemen, I ask you, can we see ourselves being entertained by a tailor's daughter? She would feed us on pottage and small beer—"
A roar of laughter greeted this exposé of the situation. Lord Rochester had of a truth voiced the opinion of the majority.
"But—" protested Sir Anthony Wykeham.
"Tush man," interrupted my lord with scant ceremony. "I know what you would say. The marriage sacrament and all that—Odd's fish! we are none of us heathens, and ye Papists are not the only ones, by my faith! who know how to keep vows. But there are other ways of unravelling an undesired tangle—and old Rowley had no thought of suggesting irreligious measures—"
"Hush!" said one of the others suddenly, "I hear Stowmaries' voice outside. I fancy he'll not be in a mood for jesting over the matter."
It was at this point that Stowmaries had entered the room. There was no doubt that he looked excessively glum, and the first attempts at treating his disappointed love in a hilarious manner were met with such obvious moodiness, that gradually the subject was dropped, and the company, who at supper had been fairly numerous, soon began to dwindle away, each seeking in turn more cheerful society than that of this sober young man who seemed determined to look at his own future life in its very blackest aspect.
Only Lord Rochester remained awhile longer for he wanted an audience for his latest poem, also Sir Anthony Wykeham—an intimate friend of my lord Stowmaries—and Sir Knaith Bullock, an irresponsible youth who seemed to scent an adventure in the romantic child-marriage, and vaguely hoped to find sport therein.