Parson Kelly

  CHAPTER XII

  THE PARSON MEETS SCROPE FOR THE THIRD TIME, AND WHAT CAME OF THE MEETING

  It was early in the year 1722 when Mr. Kelly came to _la villesonnante_, and took a lodging at L'Auberge des Papes in the Rue desTrois Faucons. He brought with him a sum of 5,000_l_. collected inEngland, and this sum he was to hand over to a messenger from the Dukeof Ormond, who was then at Corunna in Spain, and, what with hisdisbursements in the purchase of arms, and the support of Irishtroops, was hard put to it for money.

  It was therefore of the last importance that this sum should come safeto Corunna, and so extraordinary precautions were taken to ensure thatresult. The Parson, since he did not know who the messenger might be,was to wait every morning between the hours of nine and ten on thefirst bench to the left of the Porte du Rhone in the boulevard outsidethe city walls, until a man should ask him if he had any comfortablegreeting for Aunt Anne, that being the cant name for the Duke. Thisman was thereafter to prove to Mr. Kelly's satisfaction that he wasindeed the messenger expected.

  Now, the messenger was delayed in his journey, and so for a weekGeorge Kelly, having deposited his money with Mr. Philabe, the banker,sat every morning on his bench with what patience he might. He came inconsequence to take particular notice of an oldish man and a rosebudof a girl who walked along the boulevard every morning at the timethat he was waiting. They were accompanied by a French poodle dog, andindeed it was the poodle dog which first attracted Mr. Kelly'sattention to the couple. It has already been said that Mr. Kelly had atrick of catching a woman's eyes, though this quality implies no greatmerit. On the other hand he drew dogs and children to him, and thatimplies a very great merit, as you may observe from this, that thereis never a human being betwixt here and Cathay will admit that dogsand children have a dislike for him.

  The poodle dog, then, comes to a halt opposite Mr. Kelly's bench onthe very first morning that he sat there, cocks his ears, lifts aforefoot from the ground, and, looking after the old man and the younggirl, says plain as print, 'Here, wait a bit! There's something onthis bench very well worth looking into.' However, his master andmistress were in a close conversation and so the poodle puts his footon the ground and trots after them. But the next morning he came up tothe bench, puts his head of one side to display the fine blue ribandround his neck, squats on his haunches, and flops a paw on to theParson's knee.

  'How d'ye do?' says the Parson politely.

  'I think I'll stretch myself, thank you,' says the poodle, andpromptly proceeds to do so, using Mr. Kelly's knee as a purchase forhis paws. He was still engaged upon this exercise when his youngmistress missed him. She whistled; the poodle looked at the Parsonwith the clearest invitation.

  'Won't you come too?'

  'I have not been presented,' replied the Parson.

  Thereupon the girl turned round.

  'Harlequin,' she called to the dog, and showed Mr. Kelly as sweet aface as a young man ever deserved to see. It was fresh and clear asthe morning dew, with frank eyes and a scarlet bow of a mouth readyfor a laugh. 'Harlequin!' said Mr. Kelly to himself with a start, ashe looked towards the girl. Harlequin trotted off to his mistress, andgot prettily chided for his forwardness, of which chiding he madelittle or no account, and very properly. It is not every dog thatachieves immortality by stretching itself against a stranger's knee.But Harlequin did. For had Harlequin not made Mr. Kelly'sacquaintance, he would never have found a niche in Mr. Swift's verses.

  Now let me tell you plainly, Sir, Our witness is a real cur, A dog of spirit for his years, Has twice two legs, two hanging ears, His name is _Harlequin_, I wot, And that's a name in every plot:

  * * * * * * *

  His answers were extremely witty Before the secret wise Committee; Confest as plain as he could bark, Then with his fore-foot left his mark:

  wrote the Dean of St. Patrick's concerning this very poodle dog ofMiss Rose Townley.

  For Rose Townley was the girl's name, as the Parson now knew, and theold gentleman was her father, who had tended Mr. Nicholas Wogan afterhis wounds in the year '15 at Preston. Mr. Wogan had more than oncespoken to Kelly of Dr. Townley and his daughter Rose, who had retiredto Avignon, after the Rising, and he had made mention of their poodleHarlequin, of which poodle the present or reigning dog, Harlequin II.,was the son and heir. So that, hearing the name called out by Rose,Kelly was aware who the two people were. Dr. Townley had beensuspected in the Rising, and therefore had settled at Avignon asphysician to the Duke of Ormond, and when the nobleman left the town,remained because he was grown old, and had lost his taste for politicsand warrings. He had, moreover, received his pardon for his share inthe struggle, and was indeed at this very time preparing to returninto England. But of this Kelly was not aware.

  The next morning Kelly was again on his bench, and again Dr. Townleyand his daughter passed him. Harlequin came forward at once to wishthe Parson good-morning. Rose spoke to her father, plainly telling himof Harlequin's new friendship, for the Doctor looked up towards Mr.Kelly and the girl looked away. In consequence there sprang up a queersort of acquaintance between the Doctor and his daughter on the onehand, and Parson Kelly on the other. Every morning they looked for himon his bench; every morning he had a few words with Harlequin.

  Doubtless he would have pursued the acquaintance further, but forRose. She it was who kept the Parson from approaching Dr. Townley. Forhe was still sore with Lady Oxford's treacheries, and feminine beautywas _vanitas vanitatum_ to him. Moreover, though he had snatched herladyship's image out of his heart, some of her sayings had stuck inhis mind, and amongst her sayings not a few were aimed at girls.Smilinda was a woman, and saw a rival in each youthful beauty. 'Girlsof our time,' she would say with a sneer, 'were very kind, at allevents, whatever one might think of their looks. And to hear themspeak of marriage, why one would fancy oneself in the company of rakesdressed up like the other sex for a masquerade.' She would gloat overthe misadventures of poor Mistress Dolly Walpole, the Minister'ssister, by the hour, she had even written a ballad thereon, 'TheDolliad,' and since Mr. Kelly had never had been much in the societyof young unmarried women, he had insensibly imbibed a deal ofSmilinda's philosophy upon this head. And so he waited for themessenger in silence.

  Now, upon the fourth day Mr. Philabe the banker sent round for theParson to L'Auberge des Papes, and, when he was come, told him that onthat morning a man called at the bank with a letter which he gave to aclerk. The clerk carried the letter to Mr. Philabe, who opened it. Itenclosed a second letter superscribed to Mr. George Kelly, and prayedthe banker to add to the superscription Mr. Kelly's address. This Mr.Philabe would not do, but sent out word that he would take care theletter came into Kelly's hands. The man, however, who had brought itimmediately replied that it was of the last importance the lettershould be delivered at once: otherwise there was no use in deliveringit at all. If Mr. Philabe would send a messenger at once, well andgood; if not, would he kindly return the letter forthwith.

  This request roused Mr. Philabe's suspicions. For if he sent amessenger, as he was prayed to do, the man could follow him, and aseasily discover the address as if Philabe had written it on the note.He replied consequently that neither could he accede to this request,but that Mr. Kelly should most certainly have the letter that day.

  Upon this the man insisted that the letter should be returned to him,but the more strenuously he insisted, the stronger became Mr.Philabe's suspicions, until he determined not to part with the letterat all, and the man finally went away very ill-pleased.

  Mr. Philabe, as he told this story, handed the letter to Mr. Kelly,who broke open the seal, and found nothing but a clean sheet of paper.

  'Little doubt,' said he, 'why the fellow wanted his letter back. It isa pure trick to know where I lodge. What was he like?'

>   'He wore a travelling-dress,' said Mr. Philabe, 'and a cocked hat.'

  'And very likely a pair of boots,' added Kelly. 'But this tells mevery little of his looks.'

  Mr. Philabe was a poor hand at a description, and beyond that the manhad a nose, two eyes, a mouth, two legs, and a pair of arms, Kellylearned nothing whatever of his appearance.

  That very day, however, the mystery was to be made clear. Betweendaylight and dark Mr. Kelly chanced to walk up the narrow Rue St.Agricole, and had just come abreast of the broad flight of steps whichleads upwards to the church, when a man leaped down in front of him.

  'I beg your pardon,' said the Parson politely stepping aside.

  'That is not enough,' said the other, and, turning on his heel, hefaced Kelly and barred the way.

  Kelly recognised the voice, recognised the face.

  'Ah,' cried he, 'Mr. Scrope.' His first feeling was one almost ofexultation. In the face of his enemy he forgot altogether that therewas no longer any amorous reason for his enmity. He almost forgot,too, what he had heard from Wogan about Mr. Scrope's supposed qualityas a gentleman spy. 'The third time,' he said with a laugh. 'Ipromised myself the third time.'

  Scrope nodded his head.

  'We are of one mind, then.' He looked up and down the street. It wasempty from end to end. 'There is a little square terrace at the top ofthese steps, with blank walls upon the two sides, and the church doorupon the third. The terrace will be very suitable and quiet.'

  He turned as he spoke and set a foot upon the lowest step.

  'One moment,' said Kelly. During Scrope's words he had reflected.Scrope and himself, politics apart, were really in the like case. Forif he had followed Scrope in her ladyship's caprices, Montague hadfollowed him, 'as Amurath to Amurath succeeds.' His enmity quite diedaway, and gave place to something very like a fellow-feeling.Moreover, he had to consider the messenger from the Duke of Ormond andthe 5,000_l_. in Mr. Philabe's keeping.

  'One moment,' he said. Scrope stopped with a sneer.

  'If you can remain a few days at Avignon,' he continued, 'I shall behappy to oblige you in whatever you will. For the moment I haveduties.'

  'Of course,' interrupted Scrope. 'Duties are wonderful convenientthings when one's bones are in danger. The pious AEneas knew that verywell, Mr. Kelly; but then the worthy army-chaplain had not a Scropeupon his heels for the best part of a twelvemonth.'

  'Oh,' cried Kelly, 'then it is you who have followed me.' More thanonce he had heard that his steps were dogged.

  'Over a wearisome stretch of Europe,' agreed Scrope.

  'It was you who came to Philabe this morning?'

  'Who else? So, you see, I have been at some pains to come up with you,and those duties must wait.'

  'Those duties,' replied Kelly, 'are so urgent that I am in two mindswhether to take to my heels.'

  To any man who was acquainted with the Parson this statement wouldhave been proof enough that there was all the necessity in the worldfor delay. But then Scrope knew very little of his opponent, and:

  'I am not at all surprised to hear that,' he replied contemptuously.

  Mr. Kelly reddened at the sneer, but kept a tight hold upon hispatience.

  'Understand me,' said he quietly. 'If I ran away now, I should mostcertainly follow you afterwards, as you have followed me, and when Icame up with you I should kill you.'

  'And understand me,' broke in Scrope. His cold, sneering face suddenlylighted up with a fierce passion. 'Neither you will follow me, nor Iyou. We stand face to face, as I have hoped we should until I havedreamed the hope true. You have robbed me of what I held mostprecious. You have done worse. You have proved to me that what I heldmost precious was never worth so much as a cracked farthing. Thatmorning I came to Brampton Bryan, I came at Lady Oxford's bidding. Wewere to have done with pretences for good and all. Oh, she hadforgotten, if you will, but if she had forgotten, who made her forget?You, Mr. Kelly, the sneaking cuckoo! I would have worn her proudly,for all the world to see--the star upon my coat, the scarf across mybreast. I would have faced my fellows with one arm for her waist, andthe other for a naked sword to silence their slanders with. Well,there's no waist, but there's still the naked sword.' As he spoke,with his left hand he jerked his sword out of the scabbard, and caughtit by the hilt with his right. 'There's still the naked sword,' helaughed, with a sort of thrill in the laugh, and made the bladewhistle through the air. There's still the sword and a vile cuckoo ofa parson--'

  'That's enough,' cried Kelly, marching to the steps in an anger nownot a whit less than Scrope's, for there was a certain sting of truthin Scrope's abuse which put him to shame; 'more than enough.'

  'No, not more than enough,' said Scrope quietly, and he followed.

  'You want a little more?' said Kelly, who had reflected. 'Very well;your heroics may be candid enough, but it is less Mr. Scrope the loverand rival than Mr. Scrope, the spy, that I regard with a certainmisliking.'

  '_Assez_, you die!' said Scrope, with a hiss in his voice.

  The space at the top of the steps was a pretty enough spot for theirpurpose. It was open only on the side towards the street, which wasquite deserted, and raised so high above the pathway that a passer-bywould see nothing of what was doing. On the other hand, however, thelight was failing. Scrope was for bringing the encounter to a speedyend, and drove at the Parson in an impetuous fury. His sword glitteredand darted very chill and cold in that grey twilight. He thrust swiftas a serpent.

  The blood of the Parson was also up. He had at first regarded Scrope'schallenge as a pure piece of irony. Why should two men fight for ahilding who had equally jilted and cheated the pair? That had beenGeorge's first thought; but now his rapier was drawn for the Cause,and to rid it of a dangerous enemy. Scrope was probably on the trackof Ormond and the gold, as well as on that of his rival.

  The Parson was as brave as steel, but (though he never knew it) was notrue master of the play. The men rushed at each other; their swordswere locked, they were breast to breast; George wrenched his bladefree, leaped back to get his distance, struck his heel against acobble, and the next moment he felt Scrope's blade burn into his side.Kelly clasped his hand over the wound, and sank on to the ground. Theblood came through between his fingers; he snatched the cravat fromhis neck, and made a poor shift to bandage it about his body. The onethought in his mind was of the Duke of Ormond's messenger. Perhaps thevery next morning he might come to Avignon and find no one on thebench.

  'A surgeon,' he whispered to Scrope, saving his breath. Scrope wasquietly wiping his sword, and made no reply.

  'A surgeon,' repeated Kelly. 'I must live.'

  'Or die,' said Scrope carelessly. He pulled on his coat, and cameclose to Kelly. Then he suddenly felt in his pockets.

  'No,' he said, with an air of disappointment. 'I was hoping that I hada copy of Virgil wherewith to soothe your last moments. Shall I take amessage to her ladyship?' He picked up his hat. 'Or shall I ask Mr.Nicholas Wogan to write a ballad--"Strephon's Farewell to hisSmilinda"? Mr. Wogan would, I think, be extremely amusing with sopathetical a subject for his Muse. Well, it grows late. You will, nodoubt, excuse me.'

  He made a bow to the Parson, clapped his hat on his head, and walked,whistling to the steps. He stopped when he had descended a couple ofthem, and, turning, shook his head thoughtfully at Kelly.

  'But I am grieved I have no Virgil,' he said, and so disappeared belowthe level of the terrace.

  Kelly listened till the sound of his feet died slowly down the street.Then he began to drag himself painfully upon his knees towards thesteps. He did not dare to get to his feet, lest his blood should flowfaster from his wound. He did not dare to shout. He crawled forwardover the flags for miles, it seemed; then the knot of the bandage gotloose, and a great faintness came over him. With fumbling fingers here-tied the knot; the flags began to heave before his eyes like wavesof the sea, the silence roared in his ears. He looked upwards, and aspinning procession of houses and churches turned him giddy. He sankdown
on his side, and then he was aware of something wet that raspedalong his hand. He looked down. There was a joyous little bark, andthe something wet rasped along his check.

  'Harlequin!' he thought, with a pang of hope. He summoned all hisstrength, all his will; the houses ceased to spin. He let himself downto his full length, with great care drew a scrap from one pocket, apencil from the other, and laboriously wrote. Then he poked the paperunderneath the ribbon round the poodle's neck. 'Home!' he cried,clapping his hands; and fainted.

  But ten minutes afterwards Miss Rose Townley unfolded a slip of paper,with here and there the mark of a bloody thumb, and written on itthese words, 'Help Harlequin's friend'; and at her feet a bright-eyedpoodle dog stood, wagging his tail, ready to conduct her to the spotwhere Harlequin's friend lay in sore need.