PRO HONORIA
In the early winter of 1761 the Earl of Bute, then Secretary of State,
gave vent to an outburst of unaccustomed profanity. Mr. Robert
Calverley, who represented England at the Court of St. Petersburg, had
resigned his office without prelude or any word of explanation. This
infuriated Bute, since his pet scheme was to make peace with Russia and
thereby end the Continental War. Now all was to do again; the minister
raged, shrugged, furnished a new emissary with credentials, and marked
Calverley's name for punishment.
As much, indeed, was written to Calverley by Lord Ufford, the poet,
diarist, musician and virtuoso:
Our Scottish Mortimer, it appears, is unwilling to have the map of
Europe altered because Mr. Robert Calverley has taken a whim to go into
Italy. He is angrier than I have ever known him to be. He swears that
with a pen's flourish you have imperiled the well-being of England, and
raves in the same breath of the preferment he had designed for you.
Beware of him. For my own part, I shrug and acquiesce, because I am
familiar with your pranks. I merely venture to counsel that you do not
crown the Pelion of abuse, which our statesmen are heaping upon you,
with the Ossa of physical as well as political suicide. Hasten on your
Italian jaunt, for Umfraville, who is now with me at Carberry Hill, has
publicly declared that if you dare re-appear in England he will have
you horsewhipped by his footmen. In consequence, I would most
earnestly advise----
Mr. Calverley read no further, but came straightway into England. He
had not been in England since his elopement, three years before that
spring, with the Marquis of Umfraville's betrothed, Lord Radnor's
daughter, whom Calverley had married at Calais. Mr. Calverley and his
wife were presently at Carberry Hill, Lord Ufford's home, where,
arriving about moon-rise, they found a ball in progress.
Their advent caused a momentary check to merriment. The fiddlers
ceased, because Lord Ufford had signaled them. The fine guests paused
in their stately dance. Lord Ufford, in a richly figured suit, came
hastily to Lady Honoria Calverley, his high heels tapping audibly upon
the floor, and with gallantry lifted her hand toward his lips. Her
husband he embraced, and the two men kissed each other, as was the
custom of the age. Chatter and laughter rose on every side as pert and
merry as the noises of a brook in springtime.
"I fear that as Lord Umfraville's host," young Calverley at once began,
"you cannot with decorum convey to the ignoramus my opinion as to his
ability to conjugate the verb _to dare_."
"Why, but no! you naturally demand a duel," the poet-earl returned.
"It is very like you. I lament your decision, but I will attempt to
arrange the meeting for to-morrow morning."
Lord Ufford smiled and nodded to the musicians. He finished the dance
to admiration, as this lean dandified young man did
everything--"assiduous to win each fool's applause," as his own verses
scornfully phrase it. Then Ufford went about his errand of death and
conversed for a long while with Umfraville.
Afterward Lord Ufford beckoned to Calverley, who shrugged and returned
Mr. Erwyn's snuff-box, which Calverley had been admiring. He followed
the earl into a side-room opening upon the Venetian Chamber wherein the
fete was. Ufford closed the door. You saw that he had put away the
exterior of mirth that hospitality demanded of him, and perturbation
showed in the lean countenance which was by ordinary so proud and so
amiably peevish.
"Robin, you have performed many mad actions in your life!" he said;
"but this return into the three kingdoms out-Herods all! Did I not
warn you against Umfraville!"
"Why, certainly you did," returned Mr. Calverley. "You informed
me--which was your duty as a friend--of this curmudgeon's boast that he
would have me horsewhipped if I dared venture into England. You will
readily conceive that any gentleman of self-respect cannot permit such
farcical utterances to be delivered without appending a gladiatorial
epilogue. Well! what are the conditions of this duel?"
"Oh, fool that I have been!" cried Ufford, who was enabled now by
virtue of their seclusion to manifest his emotion. "I, who have known
you all your life----!"
He paced the room. Pleading music tinged the silence almost insensibly.
"Heh, Fate has an imperial taste in humor!" the poet said. "Robin, we
have been more than brothers. And it is I, I, of all persons living,
who have drawn you into this imbroglio!"
"My danger is not very apparent as yet," said Calverley, "if Umfraville
controls his sword no better than his tongue."
My lord of Ufford went on: "There is no question of a duel. It is as
well to spare you what Lord Umfraville replied to my challenge. Let it
suffice that we do not get sugar from the snake. Besides, the man has
his grievance. Robin, have you forgot that necklace you and Pevensey
took from Umfraville some three years ago--before you went into Russia?"
Calverley laughed. The question recalled an old hot-headed time when,
exalted to a frolicsome zone by the discovery of Lady Honoria Pomfret's
love for him, he planned the famous jest which he and the mad Earl of
Pevensey perpetrated upon Umfraville. This masquerade won quick
applause. Persons of ton guffawed like ploughboys over the
discomfiture of an old hunks thus divertingly stripped of his bride,
all his betrothal gifts, and of the very clothes he wore. An anonymous
scribbler had detected in the occurrence a denouement suited to the
stage and had constructed a comedy around it, which, when produced by
the Duke's company, had won acclaim from hilarious auditors.
So Calverley laughed heartily. "Gad, what a jest that was! This
Umfraville comes to marry Honoria. And highwaymen attack his coach! I
would give L50 to have witnessed this usurer's arrival at Denton Honor
in his underclothes! and to have seen his monkey-like grimaces when he
learned that Honoria and I were already across the Channel!"
"You robbed him, though----"
"Indeed, for beginners at peculation we did not do so badly. We robbed
him and his valet of everything in the coach, including their breeches.
You do not mean that Pevensey has detained the poor man's wedding
trousers? If so, it is unfortunate, because this loud-mouthed miser
has need of them in order that he may be handsomely interred."
"Lord Umfraville's wedding-suit was stuffed with straw, hung on a pole
and paraded through London by Pevensey, March, Selwyn and some dozen
other madcaps, while six musicians marched before them. The clothes
were thus conveyed to Umfraville's house. I think none of us would
have relished a joke like that were he the butt of it."
Now the poet's lean countenance was turned upon young Calverley, and as
always, Ufford evoked that nobility in Calverley which follies veiled
but had not ever killed.
"Egad," said Robert Calverley; "I grant you that all this was
infamously done. I never authorized it. I shall kill Pevensey.
Indeed, I will do more," he added, with a flourish. "For I will
apologize to Umfraville, and this very night."
But Ufford was not disposed to levity. "Let us come to the point," he
sadly said. "Pevensey returned everything except the necklace which
Umfraville had intended to be his bridal gift. Pevensey conceded the
jest, in fine; and denied all knowledge of any necklace."
It was an age of accommodating morality. Calverley sketched a whistle,
and showed no other trace of astonishment.
"I see. The fool confided in the spendthrift. My dear, I understand.
In nature Pevensey gave the gems to some nymph of Sadler's Wells or
Covent Garden. For I was out of England. And so he capped his knavery
with insolence. It is an additional reason why Pevensey should not
live to scratch a gray head. It is, however, an affront to me that
Umfraville should have believed him. I doubt if I may overlook that,
Horace?"
"I question if he did believe. But, then, what help had he? This
Pevensey is an earl. His person as a peer of England is inviolable.
No statute touches him directly, because he may not be confined except
by the King's personal order. And it is tolerably notorious that
Pevensey is in Lord Bute's pay, and that our Scottish Mortimer, to do
him justice, does not permit his spies to be injured."
Now Mr. Calverley took snuff. The music without was now more audible,
and it had shifted to a merrier tune.
"I think I comprehend. Pevensey and I--whatever were our motives--have
committed a robbery. Pevensey, as the law runs, is safe. I, too, was
safe as long as I kept out of England. As matters stand, Lord
Umfraville intends to press a charge of theft against me. And I am in
disgrace with Bute, who is quite content to beat offenders with a
crooked stick. This confluence of two-penny accidents is annoying."
"It is worse than you know," my lord of Ufford returned. He opened the
door which led to the Venetian Chamber. A surge of music, of laughter,
and of many lights invaded the room wherein they stood. "D'ye see
those persons, just past Umfraville, so inadequately disguised as
gentlemen? They are from Bow Street. Lord Umfraville intends to
apprehend you here to-night."
"He has an eye for the picturesque," drawled Calverley. "My tragedy,
to do him justice, could not be staged more strikingly. Those
additional alcoves have improved the room beyond belief. I must
apologize for not having rendered my compliments a trifle earlier."
Internally he outstormed Termagaunt. It was infamous enough, in all
conscience, to be arrested, but to have half the world of fashion as
witnessess of ones discomfiture was perfectly intolerable. He
recognized the excellent chance he had of being the most prominent
figure upon some scaffold before long, but that contingency did not
greatly trouble Calverley, as set against the certainty of being made
ridiculous within the next five minutes.
In consequence, he frowned and rearranged the fall of his shirt-frill a
whit the more becomingly.
"Yes, for hate sharpens every faculty," the earl went on. "Even
Umfraville understands that you do not fear death. So he means to have
you tried like any common thief while all your quondam friends sit and
snigger. And you will be convicted----"
"Why, necessarily, since I am not as Pevensey. Of course, I must
confess I took the necklace."
"And Pevensey must stick to the tale that he knows nothing of any
necklace. Dear Robin, this means Newgate. Accident deals very hardly
with us, Robin, for this means Tyburn Hill."
"Yes; I suppose it means my death," young Calverley assented. "Well! I
have feasted with the world and found its viands excellent. The
banquet ended, I must not grumble with my host because I find his
choice of cordials not altogether to my liking." Thus speaking, he was
aware of nothing save that the fiddlers were now about an air to which
he had often danced with his dear wife.
"I have a trick yet left to save our honor,----" Lord Ufford turned to
a table where wine and glasses were set ready. "I propose a toast.
Let us drink--for the last time--to the honor of the Calverleys."
"It is an invitation I may not decorously refuse. And yet--it may be
that I do not understand you?"
My lord of Ufford poured wine into two glasses. These glasses were
from among the curios he collected so industriously--tall, fragile
things, of seventeenth century make, very intricately cut with roses
and thistles, and in the bottom of each glass a three-penny piece was
embedded. Lord Ufford took a tiny vial from his pocket and emptied its
contents into the glass which stood the nearer to Mr. Calverley.
"This is Florence water. We dabblers in science are experimenting with
it at Gresham College. A taste of it means death--a painless, quick
and honorable death. You will have died of a heart seizure. Come,
Robin, let us drink to the honor of the Calverleys."
The poet-earl paused for a little while. Now he was like some seer of
supernal things.
"For look you," said Lord Ufford, "we come of honorable blood. We two
are gentlemen. We have our code, and we may not infringe upon it. Our
code does not invariably square with reason, and I doubt if Scripture
would afford a dependable foundation. So be it! We have our code and
we may not infringe upon it. There have been many Calverleys who did
not fear their God, but there was never any one of them who did not
fear dishonor. I am the head of no less proud a house. As such, I
counsel you to drink and die within the moment. It is not possible a
Calverley survive dishonor. Oh, God!" the poet cried, and his voice
broke; "and what is honor to this clamor within me! Robin, I love you
better than I do this talk of honor! For, Robin, I have loved you
long! so long that what we do to-night will always make life hideous to
me!"
Calverley was not unmoved, but he replied in the tone of daily
intercourse. "It is undoubtedly absurd to perish here, like some
unreasonable adversary of the Borgias. Your device is rather
outrageously horrific, Horace, like a bit out of your own romance--yes,
egad, it is pre-eminently worthy of the author of _The Vassal of
Spalatro_. Still I can understand that it is preferable to having fat
and greasy fellows squander a shilling for the privilege of perching
upon a box while I am being hanged. And I think I shall accept your
toast--
"You will be avenged," Ufford said, simply.
"My dear, as if I ever questioned that! Of course, you will kill
Pevensey first and Umfraville afterward. Only I want to live. For I
was meant to play a joyous role wholeheartedly in the big comedy of
life. So many people find the world a dreary residence," Mr. Calverley
sighed, "that it is really a pity some one of these long-faced
stolidities cannot die now instead of me. For I have found life
wonderful throughout."
The brows of Ufford knit. "Would you consent to live as a transported
felon? I have much money. I need not tell you the last penny is at
your disposal. It might be possible to bribe. Indeed, Lord Bute is
all-powerful to-day and he would perhaps procure a pardon for you at my
entreaty. He is so kind as to admire my scribblings. . . Or you might
live among your fellow-convicts somewhere over sea for a while longer.
I had not thought that such would be your choice----" Here Ufford
shrugged, restrained by courtesy. "Besides, Lord Bute is greatly
angered with you, because you have endangered his Russian alliance.
However, if you wish it, I will try----"
"Oh, for that matter, I do not much fear Lord Bute, because I bring him
the most welcome news he has had in many a day. I may tell you since
it will be public to-morrow. The Tzaritza Elizabeth, our implacable
enemy, died very suddenly three weeks ago. Peter of Holstein-Gottrop
reigns to-day in Russia, and I have made terms with him. I came to
tell Lord Bute the Cossack troops have been recalled from Prussia. The
war is at an end." Young Calverley meditated and gave his customary
boyish smile. "Yes, I discharged my Russian mission after all--even
after I had formally relinquished it--because I was so opportunely
aided by the accident of the Tzaritza's death. And Bute cares only for
results. So I would explain to him that I resigned my mission simply
because in Russia my wife could not have lived out another year----"
The earl exclaimed, "Then Honoria is ill!" Mr. Calverley did not
attend, but stood looking out into the Venetian Chamber.
"See, Horace, she is dancing with Anchester while I wait here so near
to death. She dances well. But Honoria does everything adorably. I
cannot tell you--oh, not even you!--how happy these three years have
been with her. Eh, well! the gods are jealous of such happiness. You
will remember how her mother died? It appears that Honoria is
threatened with a slow consumption, and a death such as her mother's
was. She does not know. There was no need to frighten her. For
although the rigors of another Russian winter, as all physicians tell
me, would inevitably prove fatal to her, there is no reason why my
dearest dear should not continue to laugh just as she always does--for
a long, bright and happy while in some warm climate such as Italy's.
In nature I resigned my appointment. I did not consider England, or my
own trivial future, or anything of that sort. I considered only
Honoria."
He gazed for many moments upon the woman whom he loved. His speech
took on an odd simplicity.
"Oh, yes, I think that in the end Bute would procure a pardon for me.
But not even Bute can override the laws of England. I would have to be
tried first, and have ballads made concerning me, and be condemned, and
so on. That would detain Honoria in England, because she is
sufficiently misguided to love me. I could never persuade her to leave
me with my life in peril. She could not possibly survive an English
winter." Here Calverley evinced unbridled mirth. "The irony of events
is magnificent. There is probably no question of hanging or even of
transportation. It is merely certain that if I venture from this room
I bring about Honoria's death as incontestably as if I strangled her
with these two hands. So I choose my own death in preference. It will
grieve Honoria----" His voice was not completely steady. "But she is
young. She will forget me, for she forgets easily, and she will be
happy. I look to you to see--even before you have killed
Pevensey--that Honoria goes into Italy. For she admires and loves you,
almost as much as I do, Horace, and she will readily be guided by
you----"
He cried my lord of Ufford's given name some two or three times, for
young Calverley had turned, and he had seen Ufford's face.
The earl moistened his lips. "You are a fool," he said, with a thin
voice. "Why do you trouble me by being better than I? Or do you only
posture for my benefit? Do you deal honestly with me, Robert
Calverley?--then swear it----" He laughed here, very horribly. "Ah,
no, when did you ever lie! You do not lie--not you!"
He waited for a while. "But I am otherwise. I dare to lie when the
occasion promises. I have desired Honoria since the first moment
wherein I saw her. I may tell you now. I think that you do not
remember. We gathered cherries. I ate two of them which had just lain
upon her knee----"
His hands had clenched each other, and his lips were drawn back so that
you saw his exquisite teeth, which were ground together. He stood thus
for a little, silent.
Then Ufford began again: "I planned all this. I plotted this with
Umfraville. I wrote you such a letter as would inevitably draw you to
your death. I wished your death. For Honoria would then be freed of
you. I would condole with her. She is readily comforted, impatient of
sorrow, incapable of it, I dare say. She would have married me. . . .
Why must I tell you this? Oh, I am Fate's buffoon! For I have won, I
have won! and there is that in me which will not accept the stake I
cheated for."
"And you," said Calverley--"this thing is you!"
"A helpless reptile now," said Ufford. "I have not the power to check
Lord Umfraville in his vengeance. You must be publicly disgraced, and
must, I think, be hanged even now when it will not benefit me at all.
It may be I shall weep for that some day! Or else Honoria must die,
because an archangel could not persuade her to desert you in your
peril. For she loves you--loves you to the full extent of her merry
and shallow nature. Oh, I know that, as you will never know it. I
shall have killed Honoria! I shall not weep when Honoria dies.
Harkee, Robin! they are dancing yonder. It is odd to think that I
shall never dance again."
"Horace--!" the younger man said, like a person of two minds. He
seemed to choke. He gave a frantic gesture. "Oh, I have loved you. I
have loved nothing as I have loved you."
"And yet you chatter of your passion for Honoria!" Lord Ufford
returned, with a snarl. "I ask what proof is there of this?--Why, that
you have surrendered your well-being in this world through love of her.
But I gave what is vital. I was an honorable gentleman without any act
in all my life for which I had need to blush. I loved you as I loved
no other being in the universe." He spread his hands, which now
twitched horribly. "You will never understand. It does not matter. I
desired Honoria. To-day through my desire of her, I am that monstrous
thing which you alone know me to be. I think I gave up much. _Pro
honoria!_" he chuckled. "The Latin halts, but, none the less, the jest
is excellent."
"You have given more than I would dare to give," said Calverley. He
shuddered.
"And to no end!" cried Ufford. "Ah, fate, the devil and that code I
mocked are all in league to cheat me!"
Said Calverley: "The man whom I loved most is dead. Oh, had the world
been searched between the sunrise and the sunsetting there had not been
found his equal. And now, poor fool, I know that there was never any
man like this!"
"Nay, there was such a man," the poet said, "in an old time which I
almost forget. To-day he is quite dead. There is only a poor wretch
who has been faithless in all things, who has not even served the devil
faithfully."
"Why, then, you lackey with a lackey's soul, attend to what I say. Can
you make any terms with Umfraville?"
"I can do nothing," Ufford replied. "You have robbed him--as me--of
what he most desired. You have made him the laughing-stock of England.
He does not pardon any more than I would pardon."
"And as God lives and reigns, I do not greatly blame him," said young
Calverley. "This man at least was wronged. Concerning you I do not
speak, because of a false dream I had once very long ago. Yet
Umfraville was treated infamously. I dare concede what I could not
permit another man to say and live, now that I drink a toast which I
must drink alone. For I drink to the honor of the Calverleys. I have
not ever lied to any person in this world, and so I may not drink with
you."
"Oh, but you drink because you know your death to be the one event
which can insure her happiness," cried Ufford. "We are not much
unlike. And I dare say it is only an imaginary Honoria we love, after
all. Yet, look, my fellow-Ixion! for to the eye at least is she not
perfect?"
The two men gazed for a long while. Amid that coterie of exquisites,
wherein allusion to whatever might be ugly in the world was tacitly
allowed to be unmentionable, Lady Honoria glitteringly went about the
moment's mirthful business with lovely ardor. You saw now unmistakably
that "Light Queen of Elfdom, dead Titania's heir" of whom Ufford writes
in the fourth Satire. Honoria's prettiness, rouged, frail, and
modishly enhanced, allured the eye from all less elfin brilliancies;
and as she laughed among so many other relishers of life her charms
became the more instant, just as a painting quickens in every tint when
set in an appropriate frame.
"There is no other way," her husband said. He drank and toasted what
was dearest in the world, smiling to think how death came to him in
that wine's familiar taste. "I drink to the most lovely of created
ladies! and to her happiness!"
He snapped the stem of the glass and tossed it joyously aside.
"Assuredly, there is no other way," said Ufford. "And armored by that
knowledge, even I may drink as honorable people do. Pro honoria!" Then
this man also broke his emptied glass.
"How long have I to live?" said Calverley, and took snuff.
"Why, thirty years, I think, unless you duel too immoderately," replied
Lord Ufford,--"since while you looked at Honoria I changed our glasses.
No! no! a thing done has an end. Besides, it is not unworthy of me.
So go boldly to the Earl of Bute and tell him all. You are my cousin
and my successor. Yes, very soon you, too, will be a peer of England
and as safe from molestation as is Lord Pevensey. I am the first to
tender my congratulations. Now I make certain that they are not
premature."
The poet laughed at this moment as a man may laugh in hell. He reeled.
His lean face momentarily contorted, and afterward the poet died.
"I am Lord Ufford," said Calverley aloud. "The person of a peer is
inviolable----" He presently looked downward from rapt gazing at his
wife.
Fresh from this horrible half-hour, he faced a future so alluring as by
its beauty to intimidate him. Youth, love, long years of happiness,
and (by this capricious turn) now even opulence, were the ingredients
of a captivating vista. And yet he needs must pause a while to think
of the dear comrade he had lost--of that loved boy, his pattern in the
time of their common youthfulness which gleamed in memory as bright and
misty as a legend, and of the perfect chevalier who had been like a
touchstone to Robert Calverley a bare half-hour ago. He knelt, touched
lightly the fallen jaw, and lightly kissed the cheek of this poor
wreckage; and was aware that the caress was given with more tenderness
than Robert Calverley had shown in the same act a bare half-hour ago.
Meanwhile the music of a country dance urged the new Earl of Ufford to
come and frolic where every one was laughing; and to partake with gusto
of the benefits which chance had provided; and to be forthwith as merry
as was decorous in a peer of England.
THE IRRESISTIBLE OGLE
"_But after SHERIDAN had risen to a commanding position in the gay life
of London, he rather disliked to be known as a playwright or a poet,
and preferred to be regarded as a statesman and a man of fashion who
'set the pace' in all pastimes of the opulent and idle. Yet, whatever
he really thought of his own writings, and whether or not he did them,
as Stevenson used to say, 'just for fun,' the fact remains that he was
easily the most distinguished and brilliant dramatist of an age which
produced in SHERIDAN'S solemn vagaries one of its most characteristic
products._"
Look on this form,--where humor, quaint and sly,
Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye;
Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles
In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles.
Look on her well--does she seem form'd to teach?
Should you expect to hear this lady preach?
Is gray experience suited to her youth?
Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?
Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove
To every theme that slanders mirth or love.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.--_Second Prologue to The Rivals_.
THE IRRESISTIBLE OGLE
The devotion of Mr. Sheridan to the Dean of Winchester's daughter, Miss
Esther Jane Ogle--or "the irresistible Ogle," as she was toasted at the
Kit-cat--was now a circumstance to be assumed in the polite world of
London. As a result, when the parliamentarian followed her into
Scotland, in the spring of 1795, people only shrugged.
"Because it proves that misery loves company," was Mr. Fox's
observation at Wattier's, hard upon two in the morning. "Poor Sherry,
as an inconsolable widower, must naturally have some one to share his
grief. He perfectly comprehends that no one will lament the death of
his wife more fervently than her successor."
In London Mr. Fox thus worded his interpretation of the matter; and
spoke, oddly enough, at the very moment that in Edinburgh Mr. Sheridan
returned to his lodgings in Abercromby Place, deep in the reminiscences
of a fortunate evening at cards. In consequence, Mr. Sheridan entered
the room so quietly that the young man who was employed in turning over
the contents of the top bureau-drawer was taken unprepared.
But in the marauder's nature, as far as resolution went, was little
lacking. "Silence!" he ordered, and with the mandate a pistol was
leveled upon the representative for the borough of Stafford. "One cry
for help, and you perish like a dog. I warn you that I am a desperate
man."
"Now, even at a hazard of discourtesy, I must make bold to question
your statement," said Mr. Sheridan, "although, indeed, it is not so
much the recklessness as the masculinity which I dare call into
dispute."
He continued, in his best parliamentary manner, a happy blending of
reproach, omniscience and pardon. "Only two months ago," said Mr.
Sheridan, "I was so fortunate as to encounter a lady who, alike through
the attractions of her person and the sprightliness of her
conversation, convinced me I was on the road to fall in love after the
high fashion of a popular romance. I accordingly make her a
declaration. I am rejected. I besiege her with the customary
artillery of sonnets, bouquets, serenades, bonbons, theater-tickets and
threats of suicide. In fine, I contract the habit of proposing to Miss
Ogle on every Wednesday; and so strong is my infatuation that I follow
her as far into the north as Edinburgh in order to secure my eleventh
rejection at half-past ten last evening."
"I fail to understand," remarked the burglar, "how all this prolix
account of your amours can possibly concern me."
"You are at least somewhat involved in the deplorable climax," Mr.
Sheridan returned. "For behold! at two in the morning I discover the
object of my adoration and the daughter of an estimable prelate, most
calumniously clad and busily employed in rumpling my supply of cravats.
If ever any lover was thrust into a more ambiguous position, madam,
historians have touched on his dilemma with marked reticence."
He saw--and he admired--the flush which mounted to his visitor's brow.
And then, "I must concede that appearances are against me, Mr.
Sheridan," the beautiful intruder said. "And I hasten to protest that
my presence in your apartments at this hour is prompted by no unworthy
motive. I merely came to steal the famous diamond which you brought
from London--the Honor of Eiran."
"Incomparable Esther Jane," ran Mr. Sheridan's answer, "that stone is
now part of a brooch which was this afternoon returned to my cousin's,
the Earl of Eiran's, hunting-lodge near Melrose. He intends the gem
which you are vainly seeking among my haberdashery to be the adornment
of his promised bride in the ensuing June. I confess to no
overwhelming admiration as concerns this raucous if meritorious young
person; and will even concede that the thought of her becoming my
kinswoman rouses in me an inevitable distaste, no less attributable to
the discord of her features than to the source of her eligibility to
disfigure the peerage--that being her father's lucrative transactions
in Pork, which I find indigestible in any form."
"A truce to paltering!" Miss Ogle cried. "That jewel was stolen from
the temple at Moorshedabad, by the Earl of Eiran's grandfather, during
the confusion necessarily attendant on the glorious battle of Plassy."
She laid down the pistol, and resumed in milder tones: "From an
age-long existence as the left eye of Ganesh it was thus converted into
the loot of an invader. To restore this diamond to its lawful,
although no doubt polygamous and inefficiently-attired proprietors is
at this date impossible. But, oh! what claim have you to its
possession?"
"Why, none whatever," said the parliamentarian; "and to contend as much
would be the apex of unreason. For this diamond belongs, of course, to
my cousin the Earl of Eiran----"
"As a thief's legacy!" She spoke with signs of irritation.
"Eh, eh, you go too fast! Eiran, to do him justice, is not a graduate
in peculation. At worst, he is only the sort of fool one's cousins
ordinarily are."
The trousered lady walked to and fro for a while, with the impatience
of a caged lioness. "I perceive I must go more deeply into matters,"
Miss Ogle remarked, and, with that habitual gesture which he fondly
recognized, brushed back a straying lock of hair. "In any event," she
continued, "you cannot with reason deny that the world's wealth is
inequitably distributed?"
"Madam," Mr. Sheridan returned, "as a member of Parliament, I have
necessarily made it a rule never to understand political economy. It
is as apt as not to prove you are selling your vote to the wrong side
of the House, and that hurts one's conscience."
"Ah, that is because you are a man. Men are not practical. None of
you has ever dared to insist on his opinion about anything until he had
secured the cowardly corroboration of a fact or so to endorse him. It
is a pity. Yet, since through no fault of yours your sex is invariably
misled by its hallucinations as to the importance of being rational, I
will refrain from logic and statistics. In a word, I simply inform you
that I am a member of the League of Philanthropic Larcenists."
"I had not previously heard of this organization," said Mr. Sheridan,
and not without suspecting his response to be a masterpiece in the
inadequate.
"Our object is the benefit of society at large," Miss Ogle explained;
"and our obstacles so far have been, in chief, the fetish of
proprietary rights and the ubiquity of the police."
And with that she seated herself and told him of the league's inception
by a handful of reflective persons, admirers of Rousseau and converts
to his tenets, who were resolved to better the circumstances of the
indigent. With amiable ardor Miss Ogle explained how from the petit
larcenies of charity-balls and personally solicited subscriptions the
league had mounted to an ampler field of depredation; and through what
means it now took toll from every form of wealth unrighteously
acquired. Divertingly she described her personal experiences in the
separation of usurers, thieves, financiers, hereditary noblemen,
popular authors, and other social parasites, from the ill-got profits
of their disreputable vocations. And her account of how, on the
preceding Tuesday, she, single-handed, had robbed Sir Alexander
McRae--who then enjoyed a fortune and an enviable reputation for
philanthropy, thanks to the combination of glucose, vitriol and other
chemicals which he prepared under the humorous pretext of manufacturing
beer--wrung high encomiums from Mr. Sheridan.
"The proceeds of these endeavors," Miss Ogle added, "are
conscientiously devoted to ameliorating the condition of meritorious
paupers. I would be happy to submit to you our annual report. Then
you may judge for yourself how many families we have snatched from the
depths of poverty and habitual intoxication to the comparative comfort
of a vine-embowered cottage."
Mr. Sheridan replied: "I have not ever known of any case where
adoration needed an affidavit for foundation. Oh, no, incomparable
Esther Jane! I am not in a position to be solaced by the reports of a
corresponding secretary. I gave my heart long since; to-night I fling
my confidence into the bargain; and am resolved to serve wholeheartedly
the cause to which you are devoted. In consequence, I venture to
propose my name for membership in the enterprise you advocate and
indescribably adorn."
Miss Ogle was all one blush, such was the fervor of his utterance.
"But first you must win your spurs, Mr. Sheridan. I confess you are
not abhorrent to me," she hurried on, "for you are the most
fascinatingly hideous man I have ever seen; and it was always the
apprehension that you might look on burglary as an unmaidenly avocation
which has compelled me to discourage your addresses. Now all is plain;
and should you happen to distinguish yourself in robbery of the
criminally opulent, you will have, I believe, no reason to complain of
a twelfth refusal. I cannot modestly say more."
He laughed. "It is a bargain. We will agree that I bereave some
person of either stolen or unearned property, say, to the value of
L10,000----" And with his usual carefulness in such matters, Mr.
Sheridan entered the wager in his notebook.
She yielded him her hand in token of assent. And he, depend upon it,
kissed that velvet trifle fondly.
"And now," said Mr. Sheridan, "to-morrow we will visit Bemerside and
obtain possession of that crystal which is in train to render me the
happiest of men. The task will be an easy one, as Eiran is now in
England, and his servants for the most part are my familiars."
"I agree to your proposal," she answered. "But this diamond is my
allotted quarry; and any assistance you may render me in procuring it
will not, of course, affect in any way our bargain. On this
point"--she spoke with a break of laughter--"I am as headstrong as an
allegory on the banks of the Nile."
"To quote an author to his face," lamented Mr. Sheridan, "is bribery as
gross as it is efficacious. I must unwillingly consent to your
exorbitant demands, for you are, as always, the irresistible Ogle."
Miss Ogle bowed her gratitude; and, declining Mr. Sheridan's escort,
for fear of arousing gossip by being seen upon the street with him at
this late hour, preferred to avoid any appearance of indecorum by
climbing down the kitchen roof.
When she had gone, Mr. Sheridan very gallantly attempted a set of
verses. But the Muse was not to be wooed to-night, and stayed
obstinately coy.
Mr. Sheridan reflected, rather forlornly, that he wrote nothing
nowadays. There was, of course, his great comedy, _Affectation_, his
masterpiece which he meant to finish at one time or another; yet, at
the bottom of his heart, he knew that he would never finish it. But,
then, deuce take posterity! for to have written the best comedy, the
best farce, and the best burlesque as well, that England had ever
known, was a very prodigal wiping-out of every obligation toward
posterity. Boys thought a deal about posterity, as he remembered; but
a sensible man would bear in mind that all this world's delicacies--its
merry diversions, its venison and old wines, its handsomely-bound books
and fiery-hearted jewels and sumptuous clothings, all its lovely things
that can be touched and handled, and more especially its ear-tickling
applause--were to be won, if ever, from one's contemporaries. And
people were generous toward social, rather than literary, talents for
the sensible reason that they derived more pleasure from an agreeable
companion at dinner than from having a rainy afternoon rendered
endurable by some book or another. So the parliamentarian sensibly
went to bed.
Miss Ogle during this Scottish trip was accompanied by her father, the
venerable Dean of Winchester. The Dean, although in all things worthy
of implicit confidence, was not next day informed of the intended
expedition, in deference to public opinion, which, as Miss Ogle pointed
out, regards a clergyman's participation in a technical felony with
disapproval.
Miss Ogle, therefore, radiant in a becoming gown of pink lute-string,
left Edinburgh the following morning under cover of a subterfuge, and
with Mr. Sheridan as her only escort. He was at pains to adorn this
role with so many happy touches of courtesy and amiability that their
confinement in the postchaise appeared to both of incredible brevity.
When they had reached Melrose another chaise was ordered to convey them
to Bemerside; and pending its forthcoming Mr. Sheridan and Miss Ogle
strolled among the famous ruins of Melrose Abbey. The parliamentarian
had caused his hair to be exuberantly curled that morning, and figured
to advantage in a plum-colored coat and a saffron waistcoat sprigged
with forget-me-nots. He chatted entertainingly concerning the Second
Pointed style of architecture; translated many of the epitaphs; and was
abundant in interesting information as to Robert Bruce, and Michael
Scott, and the rencounter of Chevy Chase.
"Oh, but observe," said Mr. Sheridan, more lately, "our only covering
is the dome of heaven. Yet in their time these aisles were populous,
and here a score of generations have besought what earth does not
afford--now where the banners of crusaders waved the ivy flutters, and
there is no incense in this consecrated house except the breath of the
wild rose."
"The moral is an old one," she returned. "Mummy is become merchandise,
Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."
"You are a reader, madam?" he observed, with some surprise; and he
continued: "Indeed, my thoughts were on another trail. I was
considering that the demolishers of this place--those English armies,
those followers of John Knox--were actuated by the highest and most
laudable of motives. As a result we find the house of Heaven converted
into a dustheap."
"I believe you attempt an apologue," she said, indignantly. "Upon my
word, I think you would insinuate that philanthropy, when forced to
manifest itself through embezzlement, is a less womanly employment than
the darning of stockings!"
"Whom the cap fits----" he answered, with a bow. "Indeed, incomparable
Esther Jane, I had said nothing whatever touching hosiery; and it was
equally remote from my intentions to set up as a milliner."
They lunched at Bemerside, where Mr. Sheridan was cordially received by
the steward, and a well-chosen repast was placed at their disposal.
"Fergus," Mr. Sheridan observed, as they chatted over their dessert
concerning famous gems--in which direction talk had been adroitly
steered"--Fergus, since we are on the topic, I would like to show Miss
Ogle the Honor of Eiran."
The Honor of Eiran was accordingly produced from a blue velvet case,
and was properly admired. Then, when the steward had been dismissed to
fetch a rare liqueur, Mr. Sheridan laughed, and tossed and caught the
jewel, as though he handled a cricket-ball. It was the size of a
pigeon's egg, and was set among eight gems of lesser magnitude; and in
transit through the sunlight the trinket flashed and glittered with
diabolical beauty. The parliamentarian placed three bits of sugar in
the velvet case and handed the gem to his companion.
"The bulk is much the same," he observed; "and whether the carbon be
crystallized or no, is the responsibility of stratigraphic geology.
Fergus, perhaps, must go to jail. That is unfortunate. But true
philanthropy works toward the benefit of the greatest number possible;
and this resplendent pebble will purchase you innumerable pounds of tea
and a warehouseful of blankets."
"But, Mr. Sheridan," Miss Ogle cried, in horror, "to take this brooch
would not be honest!"
"Oh, as to that----!" he shrugged.
"----because Lord Eiran purchased all these lesser diamonds, and very
possibly paid for them."
Then Mr. Sheridan reflected, stood abashed, and said: "Incomparable
Esther Jane, I confess I am only a man. You are entirely right. To
purloin any of these little diamonds would be an abominable action,
whereas to make off with the only valuable one is simply a stroke of
retribution. I will, therefore, attempt to prise it out with a
nutpick."
Three constables came suddenly into the room. "We hae been tauld this
missy is a suspectit thieving body," their leader cried. "Esther Jane
Ogle, ye maun gae with us i' the law's name. Ou ay, lass, ye ken weel
eneugh wha robbit auld Sir Aleexander McRae, sae dinna ye say naething
tae your ain preejudice, lest ye hae tae account for it a'."
Mr. Sheridan rose to the occasion. "My exceedingly good friend, Angus
Howden! I am unwilling to concede that yeomen can excel in gentlemanly
accomplishments, but it is only charity to suppose all three of you as
drunk as any duke that ever honored me with his acquaintance." This he
drawled, and appeared magisterially to await an explanation.
"Hout, Mr. Sheridan," commenced the leading representative of justice,
"let that flee stick i' the wa'--e dinna mean tae tell me, Sir, that ye
are acquaintit wi' this--ou ay, tae pleasure ye, I micht e'en say wi' this----" |
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