Parson Kelly

  CHAPTER XIV

  OF THE GREAT CONFUSION PRODUCED BY A BALLAD AND A DRUNKEN CROW

  From this time until Saturday, May 19, the world seemed to go verywell for those concerned in the Bishop of Rochester's plot, which wasa waiting plot; and in the other scheme, the scheme for an immediaterising, which was a hurrying scheme, and not at all known to the goodBishop. There was a comforting air of discontent abroad; the lossesfrom the South Sea made minds heavy and purses light. Mr. Walpole hadsmoked nothing of what was forward, so far as a man could see; andwithin a month the country was to rise. Mr. Wogan from Paris travelledto Havre-de-Grace, whence James Roche, an Irishman, settled in thatport, and a noted smuggler upon the English coast, set him across theChannel, and put him ashore at the Three Sheds and Torbay nearElephant Stairs in Rotherhithe. Mr. Wogan took his old name of Hilton,and went about his business, paying a visit now and again to the CocoaTree, where amongst other gossip he heard that Lady Oxford was stillon the worst of friendly terms with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and thebest of loving terms with Colonel Montague. There was more than onejest aimed at Mr. Kelly on this last account, since a man who has beenfooled by a woman is ever a fair mark for ridicule; and when JamesTalbot began to talk of the Parson with a mock pity, Wogan could nolonger endure it.

  'Sure your compassion is all pure waste, Crow,' said he. 'I could tellyou a very pretty tale about the Parson were I so minded.'

  Of course he _was_ minded, and he told the story of the Parson'sbetrothal with a good many embellishments. He drew so tender a pictureof Rose, that he became near to weeping over it himself; he clothedher in high qualities as in a shining garment, and you may be sure hedid not spare Lady Oxford in the comparison. On the contrary, he camevery near to hinting that it was the Parson jilted Lady Oxford, whotherefore fell back upon Colonel Montague to cover her discomfiture.At all events that was the story which soon got about, and Mr. Wogannever said a word to correct it, and in due time, of course, and in away not very agreeable, it came to her Ladyship's ears.

  The Parson arrived in London on a Wednesday, the 13th of April. Theweather had been terrible on the sea, and the unhappy dog Harlequinhad contrived to slip his leg by a fall on deck. However, he soonrecovered of his injury, thanks to the care of Mrs. Barnes, and Mr.Kelly carried him to the Bishop's house at Bromley, where his lady laya-dying. There, too, as he had good cause afterwards to remember, hewrote certain letters for the Bishop, to the King, the Duke of Mar,and General Dillon, and put them in the common post. They did butcarry common news, and excuses for delay. The Bishop's lady died onthe 26th of April, and on that very day Harlequin's hurt broke outagain, and the poor creature went whining lugubriously about thegloomy house, as though it was mourning for its mistress. This factshould be mentioned, because the Duke of Mar had made an inquiry in aletter as to how Harlequin fared, and whether _Mr. Illington_, as theBishop was called, had as yet received the dog. Kelly replied that'_Illington_ is in great tribulation for poor Harlequin, who is in abad way, having slipped his leg again,' which was true, for since thedog by his tricks greatly lightened his lady's sickness, the Bishopgrew very fond of him, though at the Bishop's trial, when these thingswere brought up to prove that Illington and he were the same man, itwas said 'he never loved a dog.' So much for Mr. Kelly.

  Rose and her father reached London a fortnight or more after theParson. Wogan had no knowledge of her arrival, for since he leftAvignon he had not so much as clapped his eyes upon the Parson, who,what with the Bishop's grief for his wife, and what with the Bishop'sgout, was much occupied at Bromley. It was not until that calamitousday, the 19th of May, that the two friends met again. Events movedvery quickly upon that same day. It seemed they had been hatching thislong while out of sight, like thunderclouds gathering on a clear dayunder the rim of the sea. Seven breathless hours saw the beginning andthe end. For it was not until six o'clock of the afternoon that Mr.Wogan chanced upon the ballad, that was our ruin, and by three of themorning all was over.

  Now, on the 19th of May, in the morning, Mr. Wogan found himself farenough from London, at the seat of Sir Harry Goring, a gentleman ofSussex, and a very loud friend of the Cause.

  This noisy Sir Harry drove Mr. Wogan back to town, in very great stateand splendour, and drew up before Burton's coffee-house, at an hourwhen the streets had lost the high sun of the day. Mr. Wogan alighted,thinking to seek his letters at Burton's, and the baronet's carriagerolled off to his town house. Wogan entered the coffee-house; thegreat room was extraordinary full, and there was an eager buzz oftalkers, who dropped their voices, and looked oddly at Mr. Wogan as hepassed through, and so upstairs to a little chamber kept private forhimself and his friends.

  As he went he heard roars of laughter, and a voice chanting in thedeplorable, lamenting tone of the street ballad-singer. Mr. Wogancaught a name he knew in this ditty, and knocking hastily in themanner usual and arranged, was admitted. The room was thick withtobacco smoke, and half-a dozen empty bottles made mantraps on thefloor. Through the Virginia haze Wogan saw two men; one was Tyrell, afriend of the Cause, the other was a tall man, very black, in whom herecognised his friend Talbot, of his own country and politics,nicknamed the Crow from his appearance. The Crow was swaying on hislegs as he steadied himself by the table, and he sang:--

  Let Weapons yield them to the Gown, The Latin Singers say: Ye Squires and Ladies of renown, The tune is changed to-day! A Lady loved a Parson good, And vowed she'd still be true, Alas, the Sword goes o'er the Hood, The Sword of Montague!

  'What ribaldry have you got now?' said Wogan, but the Crow hastilyembraced him in the French manner, holding the paper of the balladover his shoulder, and still chanting.

  'The little Parson is made immortal,' quoth he. 'Here is the newestballad, all the story of his late amorous misfortune. Why do you lookso glum?'

  For Wogan had gently disengaged himself from Mr. Talbot's embrace, whoexhaled a perfume of wine and strong waters.

  'Crow, you fool, be quiet,' said Wogan; 'this is miching mallecho! Whowrote that rant?'

  'We think it is Lady Mary Montagu, from the Latin tags; it is headed_Cedat Armis Toga_.'

  But Lady Mary was not the writer, though she got the credit of themischievous nonsense, as was intended, and 'hence these tears,' as theParson said.

  Mr. Wogan had snatched the ballad into his hands by this time, wherehe intended to keep it.

  'Gentlemen,' he asked, 'are you entirely sober?'

  'Does my speech betray me? 'said Tyrell, who, to do him justice, waswholly in his right mind.

  'That is no answer; but, if it were, and if you don't care for alady's name--'

  'She jilted the Parson!' cried the Crow.

  'Have you no thought of the reputation of--Mr. Farmer?'

  'Mr. Farmer?' exclaimed Tyrell. Mr. Farmer was the cant name for theChevalier, and Tyrell scratched his head, wondering what on earth theChevalier had to do in the same galley with the Parson's love affairs.

  'Mr. Farmer!' replied the Crow, blinking his eyes reproachfully.'Indeed, it is yourself has been drinking, Nick. What has the balladof poor George's misfortune to do with Mr. Farmer, a gentleman ofunbleb--upblem--I repeat, sir,' said the Crow with solemnity, 'agentleman of unblemished reputation?'

  'Mark how a long word trips you up, and the evening so young!'

  'Mr. Farmer's health! I buzz the bottle!' cried the Crow, putting outhis hand to the bottle, that was nearly empty.

  Mr. Wogan stopped his hand.

  'I tell you, Crow, the Affair hangs on your nonsense. We may all hangfor it,' he said in a certain tone of voice, which made Tyrell openhis mouth.

  Wogan read through the ballad, which was full of insults enough todrive any woman mad, let alone Lady Oxford. He knew what a woman wildwith anger can do, and blessed his stars that for so many months herLadyship had not met Kelly,
and could know nothing of the inner plotfor an immediate rising. Still, she knew enough to do a power ofmischief. The ballad was written in a feigned hand, which Wogan didnot know.

  'James,' he said to Talbot,' where did you get this thing? You are nothaunting the fine ladies who pass these wares about? Where did you getit?' he said, shaking the Crow, who had fallen half asleep, as hespoke.

  'Got it from my friend Mr. Pope,' answered the Crow drowsily.

  'You got it from Mr. Pope! _You!_ Where did you meet Mr. Pope?'

  'At the Little Fox under the Hill, down by the water.'

  This tavern was precisely the shyest meeting-place of the party, wherethe smugglers came to arrange crossings and receive letters.

  'Mr. Alexander Pope at the Fox under the Hill! Crow, you are raving!What kind of man is your friend Mr. Pope?'

  'Who's Mr. Pope? Don't know the gentleman. Hear he's poet.'

  'The gentleman who gave you the ballad.'

  'Didn't say Pope, said Scrotton,' answered the Crow. 'Very honest man,my friend Mr. Scrotton. Met him often. Exshlent judge of wine, Mr.Scrotton. Exshlent judge of plots. Mr. Scrotton applauded our scheme.'

  'You told him about it? What plot did you tell him of? Not of therising? Not of this immediate Blow? Crow, you should be shot!'

  'I told him! You inshult me, sir. Very good plot, very good wine. Mr.Scrotton told me about plot. Often talked it over a bottle. I'm a mostcautious man. I don't drink except with very honest men. Dangerous!'murmured the Crow.

  'You are sure his name is Scrotton?'

  'Quite certain. Said "Pope" because of poetry. Soshiation of ideas.Mr. Pope's poet. You'd know that, but you are drunk, Mr. Wogan.'

  There was nothing more to be got out of the Crow. Invited to give apersonal description of Mr. Scrotton, he fell back on his moralcharacter as 'a very honest man.' He might be, or, again, he might bea spy. In any case, here was the ballad, and there was the furiouswoman ready for any revenge.

  'Go home; go to bed! Tyrell and I will walk with you to your rooms,'said Mr. Wogan, who, stepping to the letter-rack, picked up an epistlefor Mr. Hilton. The handwriting of the superscription made him look soblank that the others noticed his face and were silent. The letter wasin Lady Oxford's hand. He put it in his pocket.

  They led the Crow to his door in Germain Street. He behaved prettywell on the whole, only insisting that his fortune would be made ifWogan would but give him the ballad and let him sing it at the cornerof St. James's.

  'Affluence would be mine,' he said, and dropped a tear. 'Oh,Wilton--Hogan, I would say--'tis a golden opportunity!'

  But if the opportunity was golden, Wogan was of iron, and they did notleave the debased Crow till he slept in the sheets, which on the nightbefore it was probable that his limbs had never pressed.

  When the Crow was slumbering like a babe, Mr. Wogan and Tyrell steppedout, turning the key of his chamber on the outside and entrusting itto his landlady.

  'Mr. Talbot has a fever,' Wogan told her, 'and will see nobody. Hemust on no account see anyone except Mr. Tyrell, nor must he bedisturbed before his physician calls.'

  Accompanied by the gift of a crown, the key was pocketed by the womanof the house, who expressed anxiety for the health and repose of soquiet a gentleman as Mr. Talbot.

  'And now, what is all this pother about?' Tyrell asked when they weregot into the street.

  'Come towards the Park and I will instruct you. I need quiet forthought, and sylvan repose. What have you been doing all day?'

  'Watching the Crow play the fool at Burton's.'

  'You have no news?'

  'I have seen nobody.'

  They walked for a hundred yards or so in silence, Wogan frowning, andTyrell much perturbed with Wogan's perturbation.

  'The new ballad is a true ballad,' said Wogan after a pause.

  'Devil a doubt of it; but what then?'

  'The greater the truth, the greater the libel.'

  '_Et apres?_'

  'And the greater is the rage of the libelled. This ballad must haverun through all the boudoirs before it reached the Crow.'

  'And yet I do not smoke you. Where does this touch the affair?'

  'The lady that's libelled knew George very well.'

  Tyrell nodded his head.

  'George knew everything,' continued Wogan.

  Tyrell stopped and caught Wogan by the elbow.

  'Then, what George knew the lady knows?'

  'No. Thank God, she knows nothing of what is immediately intended. Itis a year and more since George and she have spoken. She knows nothingof the Blow. But she knows the men who are directing it.'

  'May be she's staunch,' said Tyrell.

  Wogan quoted Lady Mary:

  'Politics are nothing more to her than pawns in the game of love.'

  The two men stood looking at each other for a moment. The matter wastoo serious for them even to swear. Then they walked on again.

  'Do you think,' asked Nick, 'she will be in the best of tempers whenshe hears she is sung about in coffee-houses? Do you think she willblame anybody but Kelly for blabbing? She will give the ballad to LadyMary Wortley Montagu, and isn't Kelly of Lady Mary's friends? No, hedid not blab, but never mind. She will think he did. And do you knowthat she is a kinswoman of the minister, Mr. Walpole? Let her say aword, and she _will_ say it, and where is Mr. Farmer's affair?'

  'Where the Elector's hat and wig often are--in the fire,' answeredTyrell, looking serious enough.

  'That letter which I took up was from her; I know her hand. She isstirring.'

  Wogan opened the scented letter as he walked. It was but to say thatLady Oxford had heard that Mr. Hilton was in town, and begged thefavour of his company at her rout that night.

  He told Tyrell what there was to tell, both of them looking veryunlike a May sunset as they walked under the trees. Since he leftBrampton Bryan, Mr. Wogan had not been favoured with any complimentsfrom Lady Oxford. Why did she begin her favours to-day?

  'She is stirring,' he said again.

  By this time they were got within the Park.

  There much was stirring. Carts were streaming in and out with soldiersdriving, soldiers lounging among the burdens of planks, tents, picks,and spades. Beside the Walnut Walk soldiers in their shirt sleeveswere digging, trenching, measuring; a child could see what wastoward--they were meting out a camp.

  Mr. Wogan looked at Mr. Tyrell, Mr. Tyrell looked at Mr. Wogan.

  'The lady _has_ stirred,' said Tyrell in dismay. 'And what is more sheknows of the Blow.'

  'Or Mr. Scrotton is not a very honest man,' said Wogan, and whistled"Lilliburlero." He was disposed on the whole to agree with Tyrell.Somehow Lady Oxford had got news of the inner plot; perhaps throughthis mysterious Mr. Scrotton.

  The Walnut Walk was all astir and agape with evening loungers; ithummed with gossip. The two gentlemen went to the Cake House, satdown, and called for glasses of ratafia. Studying the face of Mr.Tyrell, of which his own was no doubt the very likeness, Mr. Woganinferred that they needed this refreshment.

  They listened, with conscious grins of innocence, to the talk at thetables, being a little comforted to hear many questions, but nocertain answers. The soldiers, it seems, being asked, could or wouldgive no answer but that they had orders to make a camp. Fair ladies,smiling on private men, could get no other reply. It might be only forpractice. It might be that the French were expected. Mr. Woganheartily wished that they were, but nobody was expected, so far as heknew, save these same ragged regiments of his countrymen with theDuke. And, lo! a welcome was being got ready for them. As for theregiment that had been tampered with in the Tower, they were pitchingtents in the Park. The two gentlemen, who had been conversing on faroand Newmarket, and laying each other fantastic odds, arose and walkedeastwards.

  'I think the air of the waterside would be wholesome,' remarked Mr.Tyrell.

  'I have to see a friend,' said Mr. Wogan, and they shook hands andparted.

  'You will warn the Crow to be on the w
ing?' said Wogan over hisshoulder, and the other nodded. Mr. Wogan could not but smile to thinkof the Crow winging an unsteady flight across the Channel. He managedto steer across, after all, thanks to Tyrell. Then Wogan read LadyOxford's _billet_ again, and he walked to Bury Street.

  He knocked, and the door was opened by Mrs. Barnes.

  'Mr. Johnson at home?'

  'It would appear, Mr. Hilton, that I did not give satisfaction,' saidMrs. Barnes, whose aspect was of a severity.

  'Give satisfaction?'

  'Mr. Kelly has thought to better himself, and if he prefersbed-fellows such as shall be nameless, and the coals disappearing, andhis letters pryed into, and if he thinks that I ever mention mygentlemen's affairs...!'

  Here Mrs. Barnes threw her apron over her head, but gulps oflamentation escaped aloud, though her emotion was veiled like that ofthe Greek gentleman in the picture.

  Mr. Wogan was not unpractised in the art of consoling Mrs. Barnes. Heled her within, she was slowly induced to unshroud her pleasingfeatures, and, at last, revealed the strange circumstance that Kellyhad left her rooms two days before without giving in any soundjustifying plea for this treason. Mr. Wogan, who was well aware ofMrs. Barnes's curiosity and the fluency of her tongue, was in no doubtas to the cause which had led the Parson to leave her, and thought thestep in this posture of their affairs altogether prudent.

  'But he will return,' he reassured her. 'What!--you know Mr. Johnson,he will never desert you.'

  'So he said. He would come back in a month, and paid in advance toreserve the rooms, but it would seem that I do not give satisfaction.And here's all his letters to all manner of names. Look at them! Lookat them! And how many of them are signed Ugus? Oh, I know what thatwill end in, and I'm just going to send the girl round with them--'

  'I'll carry them myself, Mrs. Barnes,' said Wogan, interrupting her.He picked up the letters from the table, and glanced about the room,if by chance Mr. Kelly had left anything inconvenient behind him. But,except the letters, there was not so much as a scrap of paper about toshow that ever he had lodged there. Wogan looked at the scrutoire onwhich the strong-box he had given to his friend at Paris was used torest. It had held Lady Oxford's letters in the old days, but of lateit had lain unused, and the dust had gathered thick upon the lid, sothat in his haste the Parson might well have forgotten it. But he hadcarried it away, and with it his big Bible, which had stood beside itin such an incongruous juxtaposition.

  'I'll carry them myself,' said Wogan, and putting the letters in hispocket he went down the steps. He marched some twenty yards down thestreet and then came to a stop. He looked round. Mrs. Barnes waswatching him from the doorway with as grim a smile as her cheery facecould compass.

  'But, my dear woman, where will I carry them to? 'asks Wogan, comingback.

  'That's it,' cried she with a triumphant toss of her head. 'One minuteMrs. Barnes is a tattling, troublesome woman, and, if you please,we'll not take so much trouble as to say good-bye to her, and the nextit's Mrs. Barnes that must help us, and tell us where we are to go.Mr. Johnson lodges at Mrs. Kilburne's in Ryder Street.'

  'Mrs. Kilburne's! Why, she's your bosom friend, Mrs. Barnes.'

  Mr. Wogan was a trifle surprised that the Parson should leave Mrs.Barnes because of her curiosity and take a lodging with Mrs. Barnes'sbosom friend, who, to tell the truth, was no less of a gossip.

  'Well,' said Mrs. Barnes, firing up. 'D'ye think I would let him go tothose I know nothing of, who would rob him and starve him of his lastcrust of bread. No, for all that he scorns and despises me! No, heasked me where he should go and I told him to Mrs. Kilburne.'

  'Oh, he asked you,' said Wogan. 'Well, it is a very Irish proceeding.I'll go to Mrs. Kilburne's and find him.'

  'You may go to Mrs. Kilburne,' said she as Wogan turned away, 'but asto finding him,' and she shrugged her shoulders.

  'Why, what do you mean?'

  'A man in that moppet's livery, for moppet she is, my Lady or not myLady, brought a note yesterday and he that had been hiding from her,like the honest man he used to be before she came trapesing afterhim.'

  'A note? Was it anything like this?' asked Wogan, pulling from hispocket his own invitation to Lady Oxford's rout.

  'It was very like that,' said Mrs. Barnes. 'I sent the fellow on withthe scented thing.'

  A note from Lady Oxford to George, an heroic epistle from Ariadne toTheseus! An invitation too! Ariadne invites Theseus to her rout, andfor something more, conjectured Wogan, than the pleasure of winninghis money at cards. Wogan's anxiety concerning Lady Oxford's attitudewas much increased. There was the ballad, the camp in Hyde Park, therewere the letters of invitation. Mr. Wogan thought it high time to seeTheseus, and leaving Mrs. Barnes with a becoming blush on her featuresthat laughed through their tears, he walked to Ryder Street.

  Mr. Wogan knocked at the door in the deepening dusk. The landladyopened. She knew Wogan, who, indeed, had occupied her chambers at onetime. She smiled all over her jolly face:

  'Mr. Hilton! Taller than ever, and welcome as ever.'

  'Thank you, Mrs. Kilburne, I shall soon rival the Monument, but I canstill get under your lintel by stooping. Where is Mr. Johnson?'

  'Mr. Johnson? Oh, sir, what a life that poor gentleman lives. Out allnight, home in the morning with mud or dust on him to the shoulder,and so to bed all day.'

  'Then Mr. Johnson must be wakened. I can do it, were he one of theseven sleepers. George!' cried Mr. Wogan, lifting up his voice.

  'Oh, sir, be quiet! A very dainty gentleman has my first floor, and hewill be complaining of the noise. You always were that noisy, Mr.Hilton!' She walked down the passage as she spoke and threw open adoor upon the right. 'Mr. Johnson, he has my ground floor, but youcan't waken him, loud as you are, nor any man, so be quiet, Mr.Hilton.'

  'Have I to weep for my poor friend's decease?' asked Wogan, as heentered the room.

  'No, sir, or I would not be laughing at your nonsense.'

  There was no doubt this was the Parson's lodging. For as Wogan stoodjust within the door, he saw by the window Mr. Kelly's scrutoire. Itwas the first thing indeed on which his eyes fell. He stepped acrossthe room and threw open the lid. He saw a dispatch-box, and from thelock he knew it to be that in which Kelly kept safe the papers of theBishop's plot.

  'So there's another lodger in the house,' said Nick thoughtfully. Hetook up the box and tried the lid. It was locked. But Mr. Wogan wouldhave preferred that the Parson should have kept the papers in the boxwhich he had given him at Paris, of which the lock was stouter. Thatbox he saw further back in the scrutoire, half hidden in news-sheets.But that too he found to be locked, and shaking it in his hand, wasaware that, like the other, it held papers. The lid of the box wascovered with dust, as though it had not been touched for months. LadyOxford's letters had been locked up there. No doubt they were therestill. Mr. Wogan wondered for a little at the strange sentiment whichmakes a man keep such dead tokens of a dead passion. He put the boxback amongst the news-sheets, and turning to Mrs. Kilburne,

  'But where is the man?' he cried. 'George!' and he rapped on the tablewith his cane.

  'You can't waken Mr. Johnson,' said Mrs. Kilburne 'because he awoke anhour ago, and dressed in a hurry, but braver than common, with hissilver-hilted sword, Alencon ruffles, black coat and satin lining,silver shoulder-knots, and best buckles, and out he goes. He wassummoned by a man in the livery of my Lord, the good Bishop ofRochester.'

  'Will you tell him, when he returns, that Mr. Hilton waited on him,and greatly desires to see him in his best before he goes to bed?'Wogan pulled the letters from his pocket and laid them on the tablewhich stood in the centre of the room.

  'I will, sir, but, if you call again, pray, sir, be very quiet. Myfirst floor gentleman is such a dainty gentleman.'

  'A mouse shall be noisy in comparison. I have a great tenderness, Mrs.Kilburne, for the nerves of fine gentlemen.'

  Mrs. Kilburne grinned in a sceptical sort.

  'But,' Wogan added sudden
ly, 'it is very like I shall fall in with Mr.Johnson before then.' He took some half-a-dozen of the letters againinto his hand and looked them over. They were inscribed to such cantnames as Illington, Hatfield, Johnson, Andrews, and were evidentlydangerous merchandise. Mr. Wogan thought they would be safer in hispocket than on Mr. Kelly's table. He picked up the rest, but as he putthem back into his pocket, one fell on to the floor. Wogan caughtsight of the handwriting as it fell. Then it stared up at him from thefloor. The letter was written in a woman's hand, which Mr. Wogan waswell enough acquainted with, although it was neither Lady Oxford's northe hand of Rose. It was in the handwriting of Lady Mary WortleyMontagu. Wogan stooped down and picked it up. For a letter, it wasextraordinary light. Wogan weighed it in his hand for a second,wondering what it might be. However, there was no answer to be gotthat way, and Mr. Wogan had weightier matter to engage his thoughts.He put it into his pocket and marched to his own lodgings, which werehard by in the same street.

  Several problems, a swarm of skirmishing doubts, trooped through hismind.

  'What did my Lady Oxford mean by writing to Kelly?'

  To this Wogan answered that she meant the same thing by Kelly as byhimself, and for some reason had bidden him to her rout. As to hermotive for that act of unexpected hospitality, Wogan had his ownthoughts, which he afterwards confided to his friend. 'But who,' hepondered, 'can answer for a woman's motives when the devil ofperversity sits at her elbow?'

  Next, why had Kelly made himself such a beau? It could not be merelyto do honour to a mourning prelate who would never glance at hissecretary's satin and point d'Alencon.

  Mr. Wogan inferred that his first guess was right, that Lady Oxfordhad bidden Kelly to her rout, and that, by the token of his raiment,Mr. Kelly meant to accept the invitation.

  Kelly knew nothing of the camp, and the discovery which it seemed tospeak of, when he left the lodgings where he had slept all day. Of theballad, too, it was like that Kelly knew nothing, and, in Wogan'sopinion, the ballad was the cause of the military stir. Lady Oxford,inflamed with anger, blaming Lady Mary for the ballad, and blamingKelly for blabbing her fault to her enemy, Lady Mary; had doubtlessvisited Mr. Walpole. The innocent Kelly, innocent of all these things,would be going to Lady Oxford's to fathom the causes of her renewedfriendship.

  Mr. Wogan puzzled his brains over these matters while he supped insolitude at his lodgings. His friends have hinted that his mentalfurnishing is not in a concatenation with his bodily stature. He hasanswered that, if it were so, he would be Shakespeare and the Duke ofMarlborough rolled into one. Though refreshed with Burgundy, his headfelt weary enough when he turned to the question, 'What was he, Wogan,to do next?' In his opinion, the boldest plan is ever the best;moreover, he had a notion that there was no safer place in London forhim, that night, and perhaps for Mr. Kelly, than Queen's Square inWestminster which Lady Oxford had taken for a permanence. Forif Lady Oxford had blabbed, the last place in London where theMessengers would be like to look for the Parson was her ladyship'swithdrawing-room. Unless of course she was laying a trap, which didnot seem likely. In the face of this new ballad, Lady Oxford would notdare to have the Parson arrested within, or even near her house. Itwould provoke too great a scandal. He decided, therefore, first to goto the Dean's house, at Westminster, where the Bishop of Rochesterstayed, see Mr. Kelly, if he could, and unfold his parcel of blacknews. Next, he would take Kelly to Lady Oxford's, if Kelly would come,for Wogan not only deemed this step the safest of his dangers, butexpected to enjoy a certain novelty of the emotions, in which he wasnot disappointed. He therefore, imitating the clerical example, beganto decorate himself in his most seductive shoulder knots to do honourto Lady Oxford.

  It may be that Wogan's mind, already crowded by a number ofoccurrences and dubitations, had exhausted its logical powers, forthere was one idea which should have occurred to him earliest, andwhich only visited him while he was shaving. Who was the first personhe was likely to encounter at Lady Oxford's? Why, the very last personwhom at this juncture it was convenient for him to meet--namely,Colonel Montague. Wogan heartily wished he had left the Colonelbetween two fires at Preston barricade. But now there was no help forit, go he must. The Colonel, like other people, might not remember theboy in the man and under a new name, or, if he did--and then a freshidea occurred to Wogan which made him smile.

  'I was born,' he said, 'to be a lightning conductor!'