Parson Kelly

by Andrew Lang

  CHAPTER VII

  LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU HAS A WORD TO SAY ABOUT SMILINDA

  From Worcester Nicholas Wogan made his way to Bristol, and, takingpassage there on a brigantine bound for Havre-de-Grace with a cargo oflinen, got safely over into France. He travelled forthwith to Paristhat he might put himself at the disposition of General Dillon, and,being commanded to supper some few days after his arrival by the Dukeof Mar, saw a familiar swarthy face nodding cheerily at him across thetable. The lady was embrowned with the Eastern sun, and, having losther eye-lashes by that disease which she fought so manfully toconquer, her eyes were fierce and martial. It was indeed the face ofthe redoubtable Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, sister to the Duchess ofMar, who chanced to be passing through Paris on her travels fromConstantinople. Wogan remembered that Mr. Kelly's rustic friend atBrampton Bryan had spoken of Lady Mary with considerable spleen. Andsince he began to harbour doubts of her rusticity, he determined toseek some certain information from Lady Mary.

  Lady Mary was for a wonder in a most amiable mood, and had more thanone question to put concerning 'Kelly as the Bishop that was to bewhen your King came to his own.'

  'Why, madam, he has a new friend,' said Wogan.

  Lady Mary maybe caught a suspicion of uneasiness in Wogan's tone. Shecocked her head whimsically.

  'A woman?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who?'

  'My Lady Oxford.'

  Lady Mary made a round O of her lips, drew in a breath, and blew itout again.

  'There go the lawn-sleeves.'

  Wogan took a seat by her side.

  'Why?'

  Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders.

  'In what esteem is she held?' continued Wogan, 'of what character isshe?'

  'I could never hear,' returned Lady Mary carelessly. 'For her friendsalways stopped abruptly when they chanced upon her character, and therest was merely pursed lips and screwed-up eyes, which it would be theunfairest thing in the world to translate in her disfavour. Hercharacter, Mr. Wogan, is a tender and delicate plant. It will not growunder glass, but in a dark room, where I believe it flourishes mostinvisibly.'

  Lady Mary seemed ill-disposed to pursue the topic, and began to talkof her journey and the great things she had seen at Constantinople.Wogan waited until she came to a pause, and then stepped in withanother question.

  'Is Lady Oxford political?'

  'Lady Oxford! Lady Oxford!' she repeated almost pettishly. 'Upon myword, the woman has infected you. You can speak of nothing else.Political?' and she laughed maliciously. 'That she is, and on bothsides. She changes her party more often than an ambitious statesman.For politics to my Lady Oxford are just pawns in the great game ofLove.'

  'Oh, Love,' exclaimed Wogan, with a recollection of Mr. Scrope. 'IsLove her quarry?'

  'She will play cat to any man's mouse,' returned Lady Maryindifferently.

  'And there are many mice?'

  Lady Mary shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. However, Wogan'sappetite for information was only whetted, and to provoke Lady Mary tospeak more freely he made an inventory of Lady Oxford's charms. Hedwelt on her attractions. Lady Mary played with her fan, pulledsavagely at the feathers, opened it, shut it up, while Wogandiscoursed serenely on item--a dark eye, big, with a glint of light init like sunshine through a thundercloud. Lady Mary laughed scornfully.Wogan went on to item--a profusion of blackish-brown hair, very silky,with a gloss, and here and there a gold thread in the brown; item--aBarbary shape; item--an admirable instep and a most engaging ankle.

  'It would look very pretty in the stocks,' Lady Mary snapped out.

  Wogan shook his head with a knowing air.

  ''Twould slip out.'

  'Not if I had the locking of it in,' she exclaimed with a viciousstamp of the foot, and rose, as though to cross the room.

  'I have omitted the lady's most adorable merit,' said Woganthoughtfully. Lady Mary was altogether human, and did not cross theroom.

  'She has the greatest affection for your ladyship. She spoke of yourladyship indeed in quite unmeasured terms, and while praising yourladyship's wit would not have it that one single spark was due to thecleverness of your ladyship's friends. Upon that point she was moststrenuous.'

  Lady Mary sat down again. The stroke had evidently told.

  'I am most grateful to her,' she said, 'and when did Lady Oxford showsuch a sweet condescension towards me?'

  'But a few weeks ago at Brampton Bryan, where she was nursing herhusband with an assiduous devotion.'

  'I have known her show the like devotion before, when her losses atcards have driven her from London.'

  'So she gambles?' inquired Wogan. 'Altogether, then, a dangerousfriend for George.'

  Lady Mary nodded.

  'Particularly for George,' said she with a smile. 'For observe, she iscompact of wiles, and so is most dangerous to an honest man. She is atonce insatiable in her desires, and implacable if they are notfulfilled. She is always in love, and knows nothing of what the wordmeans. She is tender at times, but only through caprice; she is neverfaithful except for profit or lack of occasion to be anything else.Coquetry is the abiding principle of her nature, and her virtue merelya habit of hiding her coquetry. Her mind is larded with affectationsas is her face with paint, and once or twice she has been known toweep--when tears were likely to deceive a man. There, Mr. Wogan, youhave her likeness, and I trust you are satisfied.'

  It was not a character very much to Wogan's liking (Lady Mary, helearned later, was quoting from a manuscript 'portrait' of her owndesigning), though he drew a spice of comfort from the thought thatLady Mary might have coloured the effigy with her unmistakable enmity.But events proved that she had not over-coloured it, and even at thattime Lady Oxford had no better reputation than Lady Mary Wortleyattributed to her. The ballad-makers called her gallant, and they didher no wrong--the ballad-makers of the _ruelles_, be it understood,not they of the streets, but such poets as Lady Mary Wortley Montaguherself and his Grace Sophia of Wharton.[1] The street-singers knewnot Lady Oxford, who, indeed, was on the top of the fashion, and couldhold her own in the war of written verses. It was in truth to herability to give as good as she took in the matter of ballads that sheowed Lady Mary's hostility, who had no taste for the counter-stroke.There were many such daring Penthesileas of the pen who never gaveeach other quarter; but neither Wogan nor the Parson were at this timein their secrets, although subsequently a ballad, not from Lady Mary'spen, was to have an astonishing effect upon their fortunes.

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  Footnote 1: Sophia, a nickname of the _Duke_ of Wharton.

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  'Your ladyship can help me to make the best of it, at all events,'said Wogan. 'Since you have told me so much, will you tell me this onething more? Have you ever heard of Mr. Scrope?'

  'Scrope? Scrope?' said she casting about in her recollections. Wogantold her the story of Mr. Scrope's appearance at Brampton Bryan, andthe explanation which Lady Oxford had given to account for it. LadyMary laughed heartily.

  'Secretary to Mr. Walpole?' she said. 'And how, then, did he come tohear that mad sermon of Mr. Kelly's at Dublin?'

  'Sure I have been puzzled to account for that myself,' says Wogan.'But who is he? Where does he come from? What brought him to BramptonBryan? What took him away in such a mighty hurry? For upon my word Ifind it difficult to believe the man's a coward.'

  'And you are in the right,' replied her ladyship. 'I know something ofMr. Scrope, and I will wager it was no cowardice made him run. I doubtyou have not seen the last of Mr. Scrope. It is a passionate,determined sort of creature. He came to London a year or so agone. Itwas understood that he was a country gentleman with a comfortableestate in Leicestershire. He had laid his estate at Lady Oxford'sfeet, before she was as yet her ladyship. Lady Oxford would have it,and then would have none of it, and married the Earl. Well, he hadbeen her valet for a season, and, I have
no doubt, thought the serviceworth any price. She gave him her fan to hold, her gloves to caress,and what more can a man want? He spent much of his money, and somewhisper that he turned informer afterwards.'

  'Oh, did he?' asked Wogan, who was now yet more concerned that he hadlet the informer slip through his fingers.

  'Yes. An informer for conscience' sake--a gentleman spy. His fatherdied for Monmouth's affair. He has ever hated the Pretender and hiscause. He is a Protestant and a fanatic.'

  Then she looked at Wogan and began to laugh.

  'I would have given much to have seen you bouncing down the road afterMr. Scrope's chaise,' and she added seriously, 'But I doubt you havenot heard the last of Mr. Scrope.'

  That also was Wogan's thought. For Lady Mary's story, though vagueenough, was sufficiently clear to deepen his disquietude. Well, Mr.Wogan would get no comfort by the mere addling his brains withthinking of the matter, and he thrust it forth of his mind and wentupon his way, that led him clean out of the path of this story for awhile. He was despatched to Cadiz to take charge of a ship, and, incompany with Captain Galloway of the _Resolution_, who was afterwardsseized at Genoa, and Morgan, of the _Lady Mary_, he spent muchfruitless time in cruising on and off the coasts of France, Spain, andSweden. It was given out that they carried snuff, or were engaged inthe Madagascar trade. But they took no cargoes aboard but barrels ofpowder and stands of arms, and waited on the Rising, which never came.There were weeks idled away at Morlaix, at Roscoff in Brittany, atLisbon in Portugal, at Alicant Bay in Spain, until Wogan's heart grewsick with impatience. At rare times, when the venture wore a face ofpromise, the little fleet would run the hazard of the Channel andcreep along the English coast, from Dartmouth, across the West Bay toPortland, from Portland on to the Isle of Wight. Mr. Wogan would pacethe deck of his little ketch, _Fortune_, of a night, and as he lookedat the quiet fields lying dark beneath the sky, would wonder how theworld wagged for his friend the Parson, and whether my Lady Oxford wasshaping it or no, until a longing would seize on him to drop a boatinto the water and himself into the boat, and row ashore and see. Butit was not for more than a full twelve months that his longing wasfulfilled, and during those twelve months the harm was done.