WHAT CAME OF MR. KELLY'S WINNINGS FROM THE
SOUTH SEA
Luck is a chameleon, and in November of that same year 1720, thought
fit to change its complexion. The date, to be precise, was the 17th of
the month. Mr. Wogan can determine on the particular day, for the
reason that Mrs. Barnes carried out her threat, and sent him a
laborious long letter concerning the Parson's moral iniquities. The
letter reached Mr. Wogan in October, who was then cleaning his ship at
Morlaix in Brittany, and what with his fifteen months of purposeless
cruises, felt himself as encrusted with idleness as his ship's bottom
with barnacles. It was just this eternal inactivity which no doubt
induced him to take the serious view of Mrs. Barnes's epistle. 'It is
a most cruel affair,' said he to Mr. Talbot, who was with him, 'and of
the last importance that I should hurry to London and set it
straight.'
'But you are fixed here,' said the Crow, for so Talbot was commonly
called from the blackness of his complexion. 'Can I undertake the
business for you?'
'No,' says Nick, shaking his head very solemn; though maybe his eye
twinkled. Mr. Wogan forgets what point the plot was at then, for since
the black year, 1688, there had been but one plot, though it had
changed and shifted shape like the faces you see in the dark before
you sleep. But he could not hear that anything immediate was intended;
and it would be, therefore, the most convenient occasion to refit his
ketch _Fortune_. He gave orders to that effect, travelled to Paris,
obtained from General Dillon a month's leave to dispose of his own
affairs, and went whistling to London like a schoolboy off on his
holidays. For, to tell the truth, he was not greatly concerned at
George Kelly's backslidings, but on the contrary was inclined to
chuckle over them, and trusted completely to his friend's discretion.
He arrived in London on November 20, and drove boldly to Kelly's
lodging in Bury Street. For the Glenshiel affair had completely blown
over--there had never been more than a rumour that he was there--and
as for the Fifteen, why Mr. Wogan had his pardon like the rest. That
he got for his behaviour to Captain Montagu at Preston; moreover, who
could know the boy Wogan that ran away from Westminster School, and
his task of copying Lord Clarendon's history, in Mr. Hilton, the man
of six feet four in his stockings. He found Kelly's lodgings empty.
'A letter came for him three days ago,' explained Mrs. Barnes, 'and he
set off almost on the instant in an agitation so great that he did not
wait to pack his valise, but had it sent after him.'
'Where to?'
'I do not know,' replied Mrs. Barnes with a sniff of the nose and a
toss of the head, 'and no doubt I am a better woman for not knowing.'
'No doubt, replied Wogan gravely. 'But, Mrs. Barnes, who signed the
letter? Where did it come from?'
'And how should I know that?' she cried. 'Would I demean myself by
reading the letters of a nasty trull? For she's no better for all her
birth, and that's not so high neither.'
'Ah,' says Wogan, 'I see you don't know who signed the letter.'
'And that's truth,' said she, 'but I saw the superscription. As for
the letter, he hid it in his bosom.'
'Well, that's as good as showing the signature. Who carried his valise
after him?'
'Francis Vanlear,' she said, 'the porter who plyed in St. James's
Street and Piccadilly and lodged at the Crown ale-house in Germain
Street.'
Thither Wogan sent for him, and when he was come asked him whither he
had carried the valise.
'To Mr. Gunning's at Mussell Hill,' Vanlear answered, where he had
found a horse ready saddled at the door and 'Mr. Johnson' in a great
fume to be off.
Wogan gave the porter a crown for his trouble and went forthwith to
Mr. Gunning's, whom he had not seen since the occasion of his coming
down from Glenshiel. From Mr. Gunning he learned that Kelly had
undoubtedly taken the Aberystwith road, since he had left the horse he
borrowed at Beaconsfield, and thither had Mr. Gunning sent to fetch
it. Kelly's destination was consequently as clear to Wogan as the
urgency of his haste, and coming back into London he dropped in at the
Cocoa Tree, where he found the story of Lady Oxford and Mr. Kelly a
familiar pleasantry.
He heard of it again that night at Will's coffeehouse in Covent
Garden, and at Burton's in King Street, where Mr. Kelly was very well
known. For, besides being close to Kelly's lodging, it was one of the
houses to which his letters were directed under cover. From Burton's
Wogan came back to Bury Street, and, while smoking a pipe in the
parlour before going to bed, he chanced to notice his strongbox. It
stood on the scrutoire by the side of Mr. Kelly's big Bible, where
Wogan had left it eighteen months before. It was the brother to Mr.
Kelly's strong-box, in every particular but one, and that one a
stouter lock. Wogan remembered that when he had placed the box on the
scrutoire the key was attached to it by a string. Now, however, he
noticed that the key was gone. He was sufficiently curious to cross
the room and try the lock. But the box would not open; it was securely
locked. There were papers too within it, as he found out by shaking
it. Kelly, then, was using the box--but for what purpose? His own box
served for his few political papers. Any other papers that needed the
shelter of a strong box must be love-letters. Here, then, were
amorous, not political epistles. Besides, he was in the habit of
burning all those which had done their work, and the rest which he
needed he carried about in his own dispatch-box.
'Now, I wonder,' said Wogan, tapping the lid, 'I wonder whether a
certain letter, signed--shall we say Smilinda?--and summoning my
friend to Brampton Bryan, is locked up inside you.' Wogan's guess hit
the truth even to the signature, though he was destined to get little
satisfaction from this proof of his sagacity. The letter, he later
learned, lay in box with not a few others in the same handwriting, and
they all ended in the same manner with a request: 'Burn this.' Mr.
Kelly would have been honester had he obeyed it, but, like many a man
when passion gets hold of him, he could not part with them. Faint
whispers breathed, as it seemed, from Heaven, and caught and written
loud in my lady's hand, pure diamonds fetched up from the obscure
mines of a woman's heart, sure he treasured them up beyond all jewels,
and locked them up in Mr. Wogan's despatch-box to his own undoing.
This letter was, (Wogan learned afterwards) the most laconic of them
all, and it was the most momentous. It began, 'My own Strephon,' and
then Strephon was crossed out and again written on the top, and it was
signed 'Smilinda' in a doubtful hand; as though, at first, Brampton
Bryan had recalled to her ladyship the beginning of their affections
with so overpowering a compulsion that she must needs use the names
which were associated with it, and then the dear woman's modesty
timidly crossed them out, and in the end love got the upper hand and
wrote them in again. At least that was a small portion of all the
great meanings which Kelly read in the hesitation of her ladyship's
address. Between the Strephon and the Smilinda there was but one
line--'Come; there is a secret. I have great need of you.' But this
had been quite enough to send Mr. Kelly spurring out into the November
night with such speed that he came to Oxford the next day, where he
found the snow lying very deep. The snow troubled him, no doubt,
because it delayed him, but he took little account of the cold beyond
a sharp pang or two lest Smilinda might have caught a chilblain. For
himself--well, Smilinda had need of him--the great lady turned for
help to the Irish outlaw. Wasn't it always so? Her Majesty throws her
glove to the page, my lord the King Cophetua goes clean daft for a
beggar wench, and the obliging Cupid builds a rickety bridge whereby
the despairing lovers leap into each other's arms.
Smilinda needed him! There was a tune ravished from Heaven! His whole
frame moved to it as the waves to the direction of the moon. It sang
in his blood, his heart beat to it, the hooves of his horse drummed it
out on the road. Even the boughs of the trees whispered the words with
a tender secrecy to the wind, much as the reeds whispered that other
saying, ages ago, which the Queen in the fable had entrusted to them.
And, 'faith, when you come to think of it, there was little difference
in meaning between the two remarks. Smilinda needed Mr. Kelly! It was,
after all, as much as to say 'Mr. Kelly has ass's ears.' He made such
haste that on the evening of the second day after his departure from
London he cantered up the drive of the Manor House.
Lady Oxford met him in the hall, and Mr. Kelly's heart gave a great
jump of pride when he saw her stately figure all softened to an
attitude of expectation.
'I knew you would come,' she said; and, as Mr. Kelly bent over her
hand, she whispered, 'My Strephon,' for all the world as if her
emotion choked her. Then she raised her voice for the servants to
hear: 'My lord is from home, Mr. Johnson, but he has commissioned me
at once to pay you his regrets and to act as his deputy in your
business.'
Mr. Kelly was all impatience to broach his business, but her
ladyship's solicitude would not allow him to speak until he had
supped. She came near to waiting upon him herself, and certainly plied
him with her best wine, vowing that it was ill weather for travellers,
and that if he kept his glass full beside his elbow it was a sure sign
he hated her. This, of course, after the servants had been dismissed.
Mr. Kelly chided her for the thought, and, with a shake of the finger,
quoted her a text: 'We are bidden not to look upon the wine when it is
red,' said he.
'And a very good text, too,' says she; 'so, if you please, shut your
eyes and drink it,' and, coming behind him, she laid her cool hand
upon his eyes and forehead. So Mr. Kelly drank, and the bumper floated
his wits into my lady's haven.
'Now,' says my lady; and, leading the way into her boudoir, she sat
herself down before the fire, and, clasping her hands at the back of
her head, smiled at Mr. Kelly.
'Strephon,' she murmured on a lilt of her voice, and with all the
provocation that witchery could devise. Mr. Kelly was on his knees at
her side in a moment. She laid a white hand upon his breast, and,
gently holding him off:
'Tell me,' says she, 'why I sent for you.'
'Because my Smilinda needed me,' he answered with a laugh of pride.
Her hand caressed his shoulder. She nodded, bit her under lip and
smiled very wisely.
'What is the service Strephon can do?' cried Kelly. 'Is it to lift the
world? Give me but your love and I'll accomplish that.'
Smilinda clapped her hands with delight, like a child.
'It is nothing so important,' said she. 'It is not in truth any
service you can do for me, but rather one that I can do for you.'
Kelly's face lost all its light, and dropped to the glummest
disappointment. He had so nursed that aspiration of doing her some
great service. Through the night, through the day, it had borne him
company. Some great service--that was to be the bridge of Cupid's
building whereby they were to stand firm-footed on equal ground. And
now it was some service Lady Oxford was to do for him. Lady Oxford
noticed the change; it may have been to read the thought which it
expressed, and that the thought touched her to unwonted depths. For
the smile faded from her lips, her eyes became grave, thoughtful,
there was a certain suspense in her attitude.
'Must the woman always owe, the man always pay?' she asked, but in a
broken way, and with almost a repugnance for herself. Indeed, she
barely finished the question, and then, with an abrupt laugh, crossed
to the window, drew aside the curtains, and gazed out upon the
darkness and the glimmering snow.
'A strange, cold world,' she said in an absent voice, 'with a strange
white carpet.' Mr. Kelly in truth had given her a glimpse into a world
yet stranger to her ladyship than that which her eyes beheld--a world
that had an odd white carpet too, though the feet of those who paced
it as often as not were stained--a world of generous impulses and
unselfish devotions. Into this world Lady Oxford was peering with an
uneasy curiosity. Perhaps for a moment she compared it with her own;
perhaps she was caught by it and admired it; but, if so, it was with a
great deal of discomfort. For she dropped the curtain petulantly
across the window, and, coming back to the fire--well, what she would
have said it is impossible to guess, for a gentle tap on the door was
followed by a servant's entrance into the room. He carried a letter on
a salver, and, advancing to Lady Oxford, offered it to her.
Now, Mr. Kelly was standing almost at the centre of the mantelpiece,
Lady Oxford at one end; and they faced one another. So the man
inevitably stopped between them, and, when he lifted up the salver, it
was impossible but that the Parson should observe the superscription.
He recognised the handwriting of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Lady
Oxford recognised it too, for she flushed as she picked the letter up.
But she flushed deeper as she read it through, and then crumpled it up
and flung it into the fire with an anger which showed very clearly she
would have done the like for Lady Mary were the writer instead of her
letter within reach of her vindictive fingers.
'A strange, incomprehensible creature is Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,'
said Lady Oxford with a laugh and a glance at Mr. Kelly. 'The most
whimsical contradiction. She offers you a kindness with one hand and
slaps you in the face with the other. For instance, this letter here.
'Twas written out of pure kindness. It completes the friendliest
service, yet it ends with so rough a jest that but for Strephon's sake
I should be much drawn to reject the service.'
'For my sake? 'asked Kelly.
'Why, to be sure. Lady Mary gave me a piece of news a week ago in
town. It was that news which made me send for you, and she writes now
expressly to confirm it. But, let my Strephon answer me,' and she
asked whether he had yet sent his winnings from the Mississippi to be
used for the King's service.
Now, Mr. Kelly was, after all, a human being. It was all very well in
the first flush of prosperity to propose to scatter his few thousands,
but afterwards he had come to see that they would not go so very far.
Besides, he had now obvious reasons for desiring to cut as agreeable a
figure as he could. At all events the money still remained with Mr.
Child, the goldsmith, and so he told her ladyship, with a little
remorse.
'Then,' she cried in joy,' that chance has come for which Smilinda has
been longing. My presents, Strephon, you have always refused,' which
was true enough; indeed, on the other hand, she had Mr. Kelly's royal
snuff-box and a few of his jewels. 'But now I can make your fortune,
and with yours my own. There's the sweetness of it,' she said, and
clasped her hands on her heart. 'Your fortune, too!'
'My fortune you have made already,' said he, with other compliments
proper to the occasion. But her ladyship was in a practical mood.
'Listen,' says she. 'I am made acquainted that the tide has turned. I
mean, you know, in the Straits of Magellan. The South-Sea stock that
has been falling so long will certainly rise in a week; the Elector is
buying secretly. Lady Mary has it from Mr. Pope, and he at the first
and best hands from Mr. Craggs, the secretary. Mr. Craggs will insert
my name in the next list and your money I shall send to the directors
with my own. You shall be rich, Strephon, on the level of your
merits.'
Mr. Kelly was very well content with his one speculation, but the
evident joy with which Lady Oxford anticipated serving him was worth
more than his thousands.
'My gold shall be in Smilinda's coffers the morning that I get back to
town, 'he said.
'You must go at once,' she exclaimed, 'we must lose no time. Stay. I
will travel with you to-morrow morning if you will favour me with your
company'; and so a new flow of compliments carried the South Sea out
of sight. But a minute or two later Mr. Kelly, chancing to look down
at the hearth, said, quite inconsequently:
'We must not forget to thank Lady Mary.'
Smilinda followed the direction of his eyes, and saw that Lady Mary's
letter had tumbled out of the fire and now lay, half burnt, but the
other half only curled up and scorched. She shivered as though she was
cold, and the better to warm herself knelt down on the hearth-rug.
Then she took up the letter (which Kelly must not see) and carelessly
tossed it into the fire.
'You know Lady Mary,' she said. 'Yes, you told me.'
'I do, indeed,' said Kelly, with a smile.
'I could wish you did not,' said her ladyship with a frown. Smilinda
made it plain that she was jealous. Kelly laughed heartily at the
assumption, which was in truth ridiculous enough.
'Who am I,' said he, 'that I should attract Lady Mary's fancy,'
'You are--my Strephon,' replied Smilinda, with a sigh of exquisite
tenderness.
Kelly argued the matter on other grounds. Smilinda listened to them
all.
'I have no doubt you are right,' she said, with a meek resignation.
'But I remember you spoke very warmly of the friendship you had for
her, and ever since--' here she broke off shyly. 'A weak woman's empty
fears,' she continued,' but they keep her awake at nights. Well, she
must even make the best of them.'
Smilinda lying awake at nights out of jealousy! There was a notion to
convict Mr. Kelly of slow murder. He was on his knees in a moment, and
swore that for the future on earth and in Heaven he would avoid Lady
Mary's company as though she was the devil in person. It was a
confused sort of oath and deprived Mr. Kelly for a time of a very good
friend; but on the other hand it undoubtedly raised a load from Lady
Oxford's anxieties.
She left Brampton Bryan the next morning and travelled with Mr. Kelly
up to London, where the coach set them down at the King's Head in the
Strand. Kelly went straight from the King's Head to the goldsmith and
his money was carried to Queen's Square that same afternoon. It would
seem, however, that Mr. Pope had been choused, for the market fell
from little to nothing. But when the Bubble presently burst into air,
Smilinda burst into tears, and Mr. Kelly was smitten to the heart for
her distress.
'I have ruined thee, my Strephon,' she sobbed. She had covered her
face with her hands and the tears trickled through her fingers.
'Love arms me against such ill-fortunes,' replied Kelly. 'It is only
Smilinda's tears that hurt. Each one of them falls upon Strephon's
heart like a drop of molten lead.'
'Ah, Strephon,' she cried. 'Thou art ruined and Smilinda's hapless
hand hath dealt the blow. The arrow came from her quiver,' she being
one of Dian's nymphs, you are to suppose.
Then Mr. Kelly fell to comparing himself to Procris in the fable, who
was shot by her lover, and said that it was sweet to perish by her
inadvertent shaft. It seems that kind of love-making has now gone out
of date. But that was the humour of it when Kelly and Wogan were
young. Men and women, let them but fall in love, and they were all
swains and nymphs, though they dabbled in the stocks and were as
hard-headed as before and afterwards.
'That odious Lady Mary,' exclaimed Smilinda. 'She was born to be my
bane and curse. 'Twas her counsel that ruined my Strephon. My Strephon
has kept his oath?'
Her Strephon had, but on the other hand, Mr. Wogan had sworn no oath,
and would not have kept it if he had done so. He paid a visit to Lady
Mary soon after Kelly's return from Brampton Bryan. She asked him his
news and gave him a budget of gossip in return.
'And Lady Oxford has sold her diamonds!' she ended.
Wogan asked how that came about, and she answered:
'Lady Oxford was here at the bassette table three weeks since. Her
stakes were ever inordinately high, and she lost to me all night. She
drew a queen when she should have chose the knave, the knave was
Sonica. "There go my diamonds," she said, and vowing she would punt no
more, went home in her chair. I could not see her or hear of her for a
little. I guessed that she had run away into the country until she
could wheedle enough money to pay me out of the dotard husband. So at
a venture I wrote a polite letter to her, hoping that the country air
would restore her credit. Well, here she is back in London and her
losses paid. That means selling her diamonds.'
Wogan laughed over Lady Oxford's straits and came home to the lodging
in Bury Street. Wogan's time was getting short and he must return to
Morlaix. But, as has been said, he left Brittany in a hurry with very
little money in his pocket, and what was left at his journey's end he
had since spent in London. So he said to the Parson:
'George, my friend, I must dip into your winnings after all. For here
am I with a couple of crowns,' he took them out and laid them on the
table. George flushed crimson.
'Nick,' said he, 'you have two crowns more than I have.'
Wogan turned away to the window and looked out into the street,
bethinking him of what Lady Mary had told him.
'Sure, Nick, it's the truth,' Kelly pleaded, entirely miscomprehending
Wogan's action. 'I drew the money out of the Mississippi and sunk it
in the South Sea. It's all gone. I have not two penny pieces to rub
together until this day week, when my pension is paid. Nick, you'll
believe that. Why, Nick, you would ha' been welcome to all that I had.
But you know that. Sure you know it.'
Wogan had no such mean thought as Kelly in his fluster attributed to
him. He turned back to the table.
'So you are as poor as an Irish church mouse again, are you?' he said
with a smile. 'Well, here's two crowns--one for me, one for you.'
He pocketed one coin and pushed the other over to the Parson. The
Parson took it up and turned it over blinking his eyes. For a moment
there was an awkward sort of silence. Wogan laughed; the Parson blew
his nose.
'I hear,' said Wogan, 'that Lady Oxford has lost her diamonds.'
Kelly looked up in perplexity.
'Lost her diamonds!' said he. 'Why, she wore them last night!'
'I thought the rumour was untrue,' said Wogan.
Mr. Kelly slipped his crown into his pocket. There was no more said
about the matter between them, though perhaps they clasped hands at
parting with a trifle more than their ordinary heartiness.
Mr. Wogan, however, told Lady Mary of the Parson's loss, and she was
at no pains to discover the explanation. Lady Oxford had paid Lady
Mary with the Parson's guineas. They had never been in the South Sea
Bubble.
'I should like to send the money I won back to Mr. Kelly,' said Lady
Mary.
'That's plainly impossible,' returned Wogan, and to this Lady Mary
perforce agreed. '_Olet_,' the Latin-learned lady said, and Wogan
remarked, 'Certainly,' so she put the money aside, thinking that some
day she might employ it on Mr. Kelly's behalf. That night Wogan
borrowed his travelling money from Mr. Carte, the historian, whom he
met at the Cocoa Tree, and so set out the next morning for Brittany.