WHEREIN A NEW FLY DISCOURSES ON THE
INNOCENCE OF THE SPIDER'S WEB
Wogan was still leaning on the rail of the balustrade when a watch was
held beneath his nose.
'The half-hour is gone, Mr. Hilton,' said Lord Sidney Beauclerk.
'True,' said Wogan, 'it is now a quarter past eleven.' His eyes moved
from the watch to the closed door. 'Half an hour, my lord,' he mused,
'a small trifle of minutes. You may measure it by grains of sand, but,
if you will, for each grain of sand you may count a life.'
'You hit my sentiments to a nicety.'
Lord Sidney spoke with a grave significance which roused Wogan from
his reflections. The lad's face was hard; his eyes gloomy and fierce.
Wogan remembered that, when Lord Sidney had spoken before, he had not
seemed in the best of good humour.
'My lord,' he said, 'we can hardly talk with comfort here in the
doorway.' He led the way back into the inner withdrawing-room and
across the room to the recess of a window.
'Here we shall be private,' he said.
'Mr. Hilton, you spoke a little while ago of a ballad, wherein, to use
your words, the arm of flesh was preferred to a spiritual Blade. That
may have been wit, of which I do not profess to be the judge. But you
aimed an insult at a woman, and any man may claim to be the judge of
that.'
'My lord,' answered Wogan gently, 'you do not know the woman. I could
wish you never will.'
Lord Sidney laughed with a sharp scorn which brought the blood into
Wogan's face. It was plain the remark was counted an evasion.
'At all events I know an insult when I hear it. Let us keep to the
insult, Mr. Hilton. It reaped its reward, for here and there a coward
smirked his applause.' Lord Sidney's voice began to tremble with
passion. 'But it has yet to be paid for. You must pay for it to me,'
and, since Wogan kept silence, his passion of a sudden got the upper
hand, and in a low quick voice--there was as much pain as anger in
it--'It hurts me,' he said, clenching his hands, 'it positively hurts
me. Here is a woman'--he stopped in full flight, and blushed with a
youthful sort of shame at his eloquence--'a woman, sir, in a word, and
you must torture her with your brave sneers and she must wear a
smiling face while her heart bleeds! Mr. Hilton, are you a man? Why,
then, so am I, and it humiliates me that we should both be men. The
humiliation will not pass even after,' and he drew a breath in through
his shut teeth, 'after I have killed you.'
Mr. Wogan had listened to the outburst with all the respect he thought
due to a boy's frank faith. A boy--Wogan's years were not many more
than his, but he had seen mankind, and marvelled how they will trust a
woman who, they know, has fooled one man, if but a husband. But, at
Lord Sidney's talk of killing him, Wogan sank the philosopher and
could not repress a grin.
'Kill me, my young friend; _ne fait ce tour qui veut_,' he said; 'but
sure you may try if you will. You will not be the first who has
tried.'
'I have no doubt of that,' said Lord Sidney gravely, 'and you will
oblige me by using another word. I may be young, Mr. Hilton, but I
thank God I am not your friend.'
There was a dignity, a sincerity in his manner which to Mr. Wogan's
ears robbed the speech of all impertinence. Wogan simply bowed and
said:
'If you will send your friend to Burton's Coffee House in the
morning----'
'To Burton's Coffee House.'
Lord Sidney turned away. Mr. Wogan drew aside the curtain of the
window and stared out into the night with an unusual discontent.
Across the road Mr. Scrope was still lurking in the shadow--a hired
spy. Very like, he had once been just such another honest lad, with
just the same chivalry, before my lady cast her covetous eyes on him.
Downstairs in the little room the Parson was fighting, for the Cause,
for his sweetheart, for his liberty, and maybe for his life, with
little prospect of a safe issue. It seemed a pity that Lord Sidney
Beauclerk should be wasted too.
'My lord,' said Wogan, calling after Lord Sidney. And Lord Sidney came
back. Wogan was still holding the curtain aside; he had some vague
thought of relating Scrope's history, but his first glance at Lord
Sidney's face showed to him it would not avail. Lord Sidney would
disbelieve it utterly. Wogan dropped the curtain.
'How old is your lordship?' he asked.
Lord Sidney looked surprised, as well he might, and then blushed for
his youth.
'I am twenty,' he said, 'and some months,' with considerable emphasis
on the months as though they made a world of difference.
'Ah,' replied Wogan, 'I am of the century's age, twenty-two and some
more months. You are astonished, my lord. But when I was fifteen I
fought in battles.'
'Was it to tell me this you called me back?'
'No,' said Wogan solemnly, 'but you meet me tomorrow. I am not sure
that I could do you better service than by taking care that you meet
no one afterwards. It was that I had to tell you,' and he added with a
smile, 'but I do not think I shall bring myself to do you that
service.'
Lord Sidney's face changed a little from its formal politeness. He
eyed Mr. Wogan as though for a moment he doubted whether he had not
mistaken his man. Then he said:
'In a duel, Mr. Hilton, there are two who fight.'
'Not always, my lord. Sometimes there is one who only defends,' and
with that they parted. Clamorous dames took Lord Sidney captive. Wogan
looked at his watch. Five minutes had passed since that latch had
clicked. He strolled out of the room to the stairs. The door was still
shut. He came back into the room and stood by Lady Mary, who was
describing to Rose the characters of those who passed by. She looked
anxiously at Wogan, who had no comforting news and shook his head, but
she did not cease from her rattle.
'And here comes Colonel Montague with a yellow bundle of bones tied up
in parchment, 'she cried. Lady Rich was the bundle of bones in
parchment. 'Colonel Montague--well, my dear, he is a gallant officer
in the King's guards who fought at Preston, and he owes his life to a
noisy Irish boy who has since grown out of all recognition.'
Here Rose suddenly looked up at Wogan.
'It was this Colonel Montague you saved!' said she.
'Hush,' whispered Wogan, who had his own reasons for wishing the
Colonel should discover nothing upon that head. 'Remember, if you
please, that my name is Hilton.'
Colonel Montague led Lady Rich to the sofa.
'Colonel, has fortune deserted you that you look so glum?' asked Lady
Mary.
'I am on the losing hand indeed, your ladyship, to-night,' said
Montague bitterly.
'Well, _malheureux en jeu_,' said her ladyship maliciously, 'you may
take comfort from the rest of the proverb.'
Lady Rich shook her rose-coloured ribbons, a girlish simpleton of
forty summers.
'I am vastly ashamed of being so prodigiously ignorant,' said she. 'I
daresay I ask a mighty silly question, but what is the rest?'
'French, my dear, and it means that fifteen years is the properest age
for a woman to continue at, but why need one be five?'
Colonel Montague smiled grimly. Mr. Wogan stifled a laugh. Lady Rich
looked somewhat disconcerted.
'Oh, is that a proverb?' said she with a _minauderie_. 'I shall dote
on proverbs,' and so she simpered out of range.
Lady Mary lifted up her hands.
'_Regardez cet animal!_' she cried; '_considerez ce neant_. There's a
pretty soul to be immortal.'
'Your ladyship is cruel,' said Rose in remonstrance.
'Nay, my dear, it is the only way to keep her quiet. My Lady Rich is
like a top that hums senselessly. You must whip it hard enough and
then it goes to sleep and makes no noise. Mr. Hilton, are you struck
dumb?'
Mr. Hilton's ears were on the stretch to catch the sound of a door,
and making an excuse he moved away. Suspense kept him restless; it
seemed every muscle in his body clamoured to be doing. He walked again
to the window. Scrope was still fixed at his post. Wogan sauntered out
of the room to the stairs, and down the stairs to the hall. The hall
was empty. The door of the little room where Kelly and Lady Oxford
were closeted was shut, and no sound came through it, either of word
or movement. Wogan wished he had been born a housemaid, that he might
lean his ear against the keyhole without any shame at the
eavesdropping. He stood at the stair-foot gazing at the door as though
his eyes would melt the oak by the ardour of their look. Above the
voices laughed, the smooth music murmured of all soft pleasures. Here,
in the quiet of the hall, Wogan began to think the door would never
open; he had a foolish fancy that he was staring at the lid of a
coffin sealed down until the Judgment Day, and indeed the room might
prove a coffin. He looked at his watch; only a poor quarter of an hour
had passed since the door had closed. Wogan could not believe it; he
shook his watch in the belief that it had stopped, and then a hubbub
arose in the street. The noise drew nearer and nearer, and Wogan could
distinguish the shouts of newsboys crying their papers. What they
cried as yet he could not hear. In the great room at the head of the
stairs the voices of a sudden ceased; here and there a window was
thrown open. The ominous din rang through the open windows and floated
down the stairs, first the vague cries, then the sound of running
feet, and last of all the words, clear as a knell:
'Bloody Popish Plot! A Plot discovered!'
So Lady Oxford had played her cards. The plot was out; Scrope was in
the street; the Parson was trapped. Wogan determined to open that
door. He took his hand from the balustrade, but before he had advanced
a step, the door was opened from within. Her ladyship sailed forth
upon Mr. Kelly's arm, radiant with smiles; and, to Wogan's
astonishment, Kelly in the matter of good humour seemed in no wise
behind her.