MR. WOGAN INSTRUCTS THE IGNORANT PARSON IN
THE WAYS OF WOMEN
Mr. Wogan then remained for two days closeted in his friend's
lodgings, and was hard put to it to pass the time, since the Parson,
who acted as secretary and right-hand man to Bishop Atterbury, was
ever dancing attendance upon his lordship at Bromley or the Deanery of
Westminster. Wogan smoked a deal of tobacco, and, knitting his brows,
made a strenuous endeavour to peruse one of George Kelly's books--a
translation of Tully's _Letters_. He did, indeed, read a complete
page, and then being seized with a sudden vertigo, such as from his
extreme youth had prevented him from a course of study, was forced to
discontinue his labours. At this juncture Mrs. Barnes comforted him
with a greasy pack of cards, and for the rest of that day he played
games of chance for extraordinary stakes, one hand against t'other,
winning and losing millions of pounds sterling in the space of a
single hour. By bedtime he was sunk in a plethora of wealth and an
extremity of destitution at one and the same time; and so, since he
saw no way of setting the balance right, he bethought him of another
plan. On the morrow he would write out a full history of his
ancestors, as a memorial of their valour and a shame to the men of
this age.
The Parson, when he was informed of the notable design, quoted a scrap
of Latin to the effect that it would be something more than a brazen
proceeding. Wogan, however, was not to be dissuaded by any tag of
rhyme, and getting up before daylight, since he had but this one day
for the enterprise, was at once very busy with all of Kelly's
spluttering pens. He began with the founder of the family, the great
Chevalier Ugus, who lived in the time of my little Octavius Caesar, and
was commissioned by that unparalleled monarch to build the town of
Florence. 'Ugus,' wrote Mr. Wogan in big round painful letters with a
flourish to each, and, coming to a stop, woke up George Kelly to ask
him in what year of Our Lord Octavius Caesar was born into this weary
world. 'In no year of Our Lord,' grumbled George, a little churlishly
to Wogan's thinking, who went back to his desk, and taking up a new
pen again wrote 'Ugus.' Thereupon he fell into a great profundity of
thought; so many philosophic reflections crowded into his head while
he nibbled his pen, as he felt sure must visibly raise him in the
estimation of his friends. So, taking his candle in one hand and his
pen in the other, he came a second time to Kelly's bedside and sat him
down heavily upon his legs, the better to ensure his awakening. It is
to be admitted that this time the Parson sat up in his bed, and swore
with all the volubility of a dragoon or even of my Lord Bishop of
Rochester. But Wogan smiled amiably, knowing when he communicated his
thoughts how soon those oaths would turn to cries of admiration.
'It is a very curious thing,' said Wogan, shifting himself a little so
that Kelly's shins should not press so sharply, 'how the mere inking
of one's fingers produces speculation. Just as great valorous deeds
are the consequence of swords,' here he paused to snuff the candle
with his fingers, 'so great philosophic thoughts are the consequence
of pens. Put a sword in a man's hand! What does he want to do but cut
his neighbour right open from the chine to the ribs? Put a pen between
his fingers, on the other hand, and what does he want to do but go
away by himself and write down great thoughts?'
'Then, in Heaven's name, why don't you do it?' cried George.
'Because, my friend,' replied Wogan, 'out of the great love I bear for
you, I shall always, always communicate my thoughts first of all to
you.' Here the Parson groaned like a man giving up the ghost, and
Wogan continued:
'For instance, you have doubtless heard of my illustrious forbear the
Chevalier Ugus.' At this Kelly tried to turn on his side; but he could
not do so, since his legs were pinned beneath Wogan's weight. 'The
Chevalier Ugus,' repeated Wogan, 'who built and beautified the city of
Florence to the glory of God in the reign of the Emperor Octavius. How
many of the English have loitered in the colonnades, and feasted their
eyes upon the cathedral, and sauntered on the bridges of the Arno? How
many of them, I say, have drawn profitable thoughts and pleasurable
sensations from the edifices of my great ancestor? And yet not one of
them--if poor Nicholas Wogan, his degenerate son, were to poke his
nose outside of Mrs. Barnes's front door--not one of them but would
truss him hands and heels and hang him up to derision upon a nasty
gibbet.'
So far Wogan had flowed on when a sigh from Kelly's lips brought him
to a pause. He leaned forward and held the candle so that the light
fell upon Kelly's face. Kelly was sound asleep.
'To be sure,' said Wogan in a soft voice of pity, on the chance that
Kelly might be counterfeiting slumber, 'my little friend's jealous of
my reflective powers,' and going back to his chair wrote 'Ugus' a
third time with a third pen; and then, in order to think the more
clearly, laid his hand upon the table and closed his eyes.
It was Mrs. Barnes's hand upon his shoulder, some three hours
afterwards, which roused him from his so deep reflections, and to a
man in Wogan's course of life the shoulder is a most sensitive member.
She took the paper, whereon the great name was thrice inscribed, very
daintily between her forefinger and thumb, as though she touched
pitch; folded it once, twice, thrice, and set it on the mantelshelf.
There Mr. Kelly, coming into the room for breakfast, discovered it,
hummed a little to himself like a man well pleased, and turned over
the leaf to see what was written t'other side.
'That is all,' said Wogan, indifferently.
'And it is a very good night's work,' replied Kelly, with the politest
gravity, 'not a letter--and there are precisely twelve of them in
all--but is writ with scrupulous correctness. Such flourishes, too,
are seldom seen. I cannot call to mind that ever I saw a _g_ so
pictorially displayed. Ugus--Ugus--Ugus--' and he held the paper out
at arm's length.
'I went no further with my work,' explained Wogan, 'because I
reflected--'
'What, again?' asked the Parson in a voice of condolence.
'That the mere enunciation of the name Ugus gives an epitome of the
Wogan family.'
'Indeed, it gives a history in full,' said the Parson.
'It comprises--'
'Nay, it conveys--'
'All that need be known of the Wogan family.'
'All that need be known, indeed, and perhaps more,' added George with
the air of a man turning a compliment Mr. Wogan was sensibly
flattered, and took his friend's words as an apology for that
disrespect which he had shown towards Thomas Wogan two days before,
and the pair seated themselves to breakfast in the best of good
humour.
'We start at nine of the evening,' said George. 'I have commanded a
sober suit of grey cloth for you, Nick, since you cannot squeeze into
my coats, and it should be here by now. Meanwhile, I leave you to Mrs.
Barnes's attentions.'
Of these attentions Mrs. Barnes was by no means sparing. For the buxom
widow of the bookseller, who, to her credit be it said, had her full
share of good looks, joined to an admirable warmth of heart a less
adorable curiosity. With the best intentions in the world for her
lodgers' security, she was always prying into their secrets. Nor did
she always hold her tongue outside her own doors, as Mr. Kelly had
bitter reason afterwards to know. In a word, she had all the
inquisitiveness of her class, and sufficient wiles to make that
inquisitiveness difficult to parry. Not that Nicholas Wogan was at all
troubled upon this score, for if there was one quality upon which the
good man prided himself, it was his comprehension of the sex. 'Woman,'
he would say with a sententious pursing of the lips and a nod of the
head; and again 'woman,' and so drop into silence; as who should say,
'Here's a nut I could show you the kernel of were I so disposed.'
This morning, however, Mrs. Barnes made no demand upon Wogan's
cunning. For she took the paper with the thrice iterated Ugus which
the Parson had replaced upon the mantelshelf, and, with the same
gingerly precautions as she had used in touching it before, dropped it
into the fire.
'And why that?' asked Wogan.
Mrs. Barnes flung out at him in reply.
'I have no patience with you,' she cried. 'What's Ugus, Mr. Wogan?
Answer me that,' and she struck her arms akimbo. 'What's Ugus but one
of your cypher words, and you must needs stick it up on your
mantelshelf for all the world to see?'
'It's no cypher word at all,' replied Wogan with a laugh.
'What is it then?' said she.
'My dear woman, the merest mare's nest,' said he.
'Oh, you may "dear woman" me,' cried she, and sat herself down in a
chair, 'and you may laugh at a woman's fears; but, good lack, it was a
bad day when Mr. Kelly first found a lodging here. What with his
plottings here and his plottings there, it will be a fortunate thing
if he doesn't plot us all into our graves.'
'Whisht,' interrupted Wogan. 'There are no plots at all, any more than
there's sense in your talk.'
But the woman's eloquence was not so easily stemmed.
'Then if there are no plots, why is Mr. Kelly "Mr. Johnson," why is
Mr. Wogan "Mr. Hilton"; and why, oh why, am I in danger of my life and
liberty, and in peril of my immortal soul?'
'Sure you are bubbled with your fears, answered Wogan. 'It is
sufficiently well known that since Mr. George Kelly ceased to minister
to souls he has adopted the more lucrative profession of a lace
merchant. There's some secrecy no doubt in his comings and goings, but
that is because he is most honourably engaged in defrauding the
revenue.'
'A pretty lace merchant, upon my soul,' said she, and she began to
rock her body to and fro. The sight alarmed Nicholas Wogan, since he
knew the movement to be a premonition of tears. 'A lace merchant who
writes letters in Latin, and rides in the Bishop of Rochester's coach,
and goes a-visiting my Lord Oxford in the country. Thirteen shillings
have I paid for letters in one day. Laces, forsooth! It is hempen
ropes the poor gentleman travels in, and never was a man so eager to
fit them to his own neck.' And, at the affecting prospect which her
words called up, the good woman lifted her apron to her eyes and
forthwith dissolved into tears. Sobs tore her ample bosom, her soft
frame quivered like a jelly. Never did Mr. Wogan find his intimate
knowledge of the sex of more inestimable value. He crossed the room;
he took one plump hand into his left palm and gently cherished it with
his right. The tears diminished to a whimpering. He cooed a compliment
into Mrs. Barnes's ear, 'A little white dove of a hand in a brown
nest, my dear woman,' said he, and affectionately tweaked her ear.
Even the whimpering ceased, but ceased under protest! For Mrs. Barnes
began to speak again. Wogan, however, kissed the tearful eyes and
sealed them in content.
'Hoity-toity, here's a set out,' he said, 'because my Lord Oxford
wants a pair of Venice ruffles to hide his gouty fingers, or a new
mantilla for his new spouse,' and so, softly chiding her, he pushed
her out of the room.
At nine o'clock to the minute the chaise drove up to the door. Mr.
Kelly took a stroll along the street to see the coast was clear; Mrs.
Barnes was in two minds whether to weep at losing her lodgers, or to
smile at their prospects of security, and compromised between her
emotions by indulging them alternately; and finally the two friends in
burgess dress entered the chaise and drove off. Mr. Wogan thrust his
head half out of the window, the better to take his fill of the cool
night air, but drew it back something of the suddenest at the corner
where Ryder Street debouches into St. James's.
'Sure the man's a spy,' said he, flinging himself back. Parson Kelly
leaned cautiously forward, and under an oil-lamp above the porch of a
door he saw Captain Montague. The Captain was standing in an
indecisive attitude, tapping with his stick upon the pavement and
looking up and down the street.
'I doubt it,' returned Kelly. 'I have ever heard he was the most
scrupulous gentleman.'
'But he's a Whig. A Whig and a gentleman! But it's a contradiction in
terms. Whigging is a nasty insupportable trade, and infects a man like
a poison. A Whig is a sort of third sex by itself that combines all
the failings of the other two.'
However, this time it was evident that Captain Montague had taken no
note of Nicholas Wogan. He could not but reflect how it was at this
very spot that he had come upon the captain before, and mighty glad he
was when the lights of Knightsbridge had sunk behind them, and they
were driving betwixt the hedgerows. Then at one spring he jumped to
the top of his spirits.
'George, what a night!' cries he. 'Sure I was never designed to live
in a house at all, but to be entirely happy under the blue roof-tree
of the sky. Put me out on a good road at night and the whole universe
converses with me on the most familiar terms. Perhaps it's a bush that
throws out a tendril and says, "Smell that, you devil, and good luck
to you." Or, maybe it's the stars that wink at me and say, "Here's a
world for you, Nick, my little friend. Only wait a moment, and we'll
show you a bit of a moon that'll make a poet of you." Then up comes
the moon, perhaps, in a crescent like a wisp of fire, and, says she,
"It's all very well here, Nicholas, but take my word for it, I can
show you as good on the sea and better. For you'll have all this, and
the hiss of the water under your lee besides, and the little bubbles
dancing on the top." But what troubles you, George?'
But Kelly made little or no reply, being sunk in the consideration of
some difficulty. For two days he remained closeted with his trouble,
and it was not until they had got to Worcester that he discovered it.
They changed horses at the 'Dog and Turk' and drove through the town
under the Abbey clock.
'It is five minutes to twelve,' said Wogan, looking at the clock.
'Yes,' said Kelly with a sigh, 'the face is very plain to read.' Then
he sighed again.
'Now, if the clock were a woman,' said he, 'it might be half-past four
and we still thinking it five minutes to twelve.'
'Oh, is it there you are?' said Wogan.
'Why, yes,' replied Kelly. 'Lord Oxford, do you see, Nick, is a
half-hearted sort of trembler--that we know and are ready for him. But
what of my lady?'
Wogan crossed his legs and laughed comfortably. Here was matter with
which he could confidently deal.
'Well, what of her?' he asked.
'You heard what Fanny Oglethorpe said. She is a kinswoman of Mr.
Walpole's. How shall we be sure of her at all? A woman, Nick, is a
creature who walks in the byways of thought. How shall an obtuse man
follow her?'
Wogan took a pinch of snuff.
'It is very well, George,' said he, 'that I took this journey with
you. I'll make your conduct plain to you as the palm of my hand. In
the first place, there was never a woman yet from Cleopatra downwards
that cared the scrape of a fiddle for politics. 'Twas never more than
a path that led to something else, and is held of just as small
account as the road a girl dances down when she goes to meet her
lover. Look at Fanny Oglethorpe, Olive Trant, and the rest of them in
Paris! D'you think it's the Cause they ever give a thought to? If you
do you're sadly out, my friend. No; what troubles their heads is
simply that the Chevalier is a romantical figure of a man, and would
look extraordinarily well with a gold crown on the top of his periwig.
Now I'm wagering it will be just the same with my Lady Oxford. You
have all the qualifications down to your legs, and let my lady once
take a liking to your person she will gulp your politics without a
grimace.'
Mr. Kelly turned a startled face towards his instructor.
'You would have me pay court to her?' says he.
'Just that,' says Wogan, imperturbably. 'Keep your politics for my
lord and have a soft word ready for my lady. Pen her a delicate ode in
Latin. To be sure the addresses of an erudite man have something
particularly flattering to the sex. Or drop out a pretty compliment on
her ear.'
'Oh, on her ear?' said Kelly, beginning to smile. 'Of what sort?'
'Faith, George, but you exasperate me,' said Nick. 'Isn't there an
infinity of images you could use? For instance--,' said he, and hummed
a little.
'Well, for instance!' said Kelly, urging him on.
'For instance,' returned Wogan, 'you can speak of its functions--'
'I understand. I am to tell her that it is a very proper thing for a
woman to sit and listen to other people.'
'Tell her that,' cries Wogan, lifting up his hands, 'and you will be
drubbed down the staircase pretty quick! No. Tell her there is never a
poet laureate in the world would print a single one of his poems if he
could treasure his music within her ear.'
'Ah,' says Kelly. 'That is a compliment of quite a different kind,'
and he repeated it three times to commit it to memory. 'But one, Nick,
will not suffice. I must have more sayings about her ear.'
'And you shall,' says Wogan. 'You can speak of its appearance.'
'Of its appearance?'
'And fit a simile to it.'
'Give me one,' said Kelly.
'You can say her ear is like a rosy shell on the sea-banks.'
Mr. Kelly began to laugh outright.
'Sure,' said he, 'I might as well tell her at once her hair is sandy.'
'Oh, she will not examine your words so nicely. She will just perceive
that you intend a compliment.'
'And take me for a very impertinent fellow.'
'George' said Wogan, 'for a parson you are a man of a most unnatural
modesty.' In which remark Wogan did his friend no more than the merest
justice. For he had nothing in common with that usual foible of the
young chaplains and tutors who frequent the houses of the great.
To listen to them over a bottle you would think them conquerors of all
hearts, from the still-room maid to my lady and her daughters. But Mr.
Kelly was in a different case. The Bishop of Rochester himself gave
him the character of being prudent and reserved beyond his years. And
perhaps it was by reason of that very modesty that he slid insensibly
into the thoughts of more women than he knew of. Of these, however,
Lady Oxford was not one.
It was about three in the afternoon of the next day when the chaise
drove up to the door of the great house at Brampton Bryan. The Parson
and Nicholas Wogan had barely stepped into the hall before an inner
door opened and my lady came forward to greet them. She was for her
sex uncommonly tall, and altogether of a conquering beauty, which a
simple country dress did but the more plainly set forth. For, seeing
her, one thought what a royal woman she would look if royally attired,
and so came to a due appreciation of her consummate appearance.
Whereas, had she been royally attired, her dress might have taken some
of the credit of her beauty. She stood for a second between the two
men, looking from one to the other as though in doubt.
'And which is Mr. James Johnson? 'said she, with a sly emphasis upon
the name.
'I am,' said George, stepping forward, 'and your Ladyship's humble
servant.'
She gave him a smile and her hand. Mr. Kelly clicked his heels
together, bent over the hand and kissed it reverentially.
The lady sighed a quick little sigh (of pleasure) as she drew her hand
away.
'I have taken the liberty, your Ladyship,' said Kelly, 'to bring my
secretary, Mr. Hilton, with me,' and he waved a hand towards Wogan.
'Mr. Hilton,' she returned, 'is very welcome. For, indeed, we hear too
few voices in the house.' She bowed very graciously, but she did not
give her hand to Mr. Wogan. 'Gentlemen,' she continued, 'my lord bids
me make you his apologies, but he lies abed. Else would he have
welcomed you in person.'
'Your Ladyship,' said Kelley, 'if we come at an inopportune time--'
'By no means,' interrupted Lady Oxford. 'My lord is troubled with the
gout, but the fit is passing. And if for a couple of days my poor
hospitality will content you--'
'Your Ladyship,' protested Kelly, but that was all he said. Now, to
Mr. Wogan's thinking, here was as timely an occasion for a compliment
as a man could wish. And since Mr. Kelly had not the tact to seize it,
why, his friend must come to his help. Accordingly,
'So might the holy angels apologise when they open the gates of
Paradise,' said Wogan with his hand on his heart, and bowed. As he
bowed he heard some stifled sounds, and he looked up quickly. My lady
was crimson in the face with the effort to check her laughter.
'Mr. Hilton is too polite,' said she instantly, with an elaborate
courtesy, and turned again to Kelly with some inquiries about his
journey. Wogan was shown up the stairs before the inquiries were
answered. The staircase ran round the three sides of the hall up to a
landing on the fourth, and as Wogan came to the first turn he saw Lady
Oxford cross to the great wood fire which was burning on the hearth;
when he came to the second he saw that the Parson had crossed too and
stood over against her; when he reached the third turn, my lady was
seated toasting a foot at the blaze; when he reached the landing, Mr.
Kelly had drawn up a chair.
Wogan leaned for a moment over the balustrade. It was a very small
foot with an admirably arched instep; Mr. Wogan had seen the like in
Spain. Well, very likely she only thrust it out to warm it. The
firelight coloured her face to a pretty rose hue, sparkled in her dark
eyes, and searched out the gold threads in her brown hair. Mr. Wogan
was much tempted to whisper a reminder to his friend concerning her
ear. But he resisted the temptation, for after all it seemed there
would be little to do about my lady's politics.