Of course he was minded, and he told the story of the Parson's betrothal with a good many embellishments. He drew so tender a picture of Rose, that he became near to weeping over it himself; he clothed her in high qualities as in a shining garment, and you may be sure he did not spare Lady Oxford in the comparison. On the contrary, he came very near to hinting that it was the Parson jilted Lady Oxford, who therefore fell back upon Colonel Montague to cover her discomfiture. At all events that was the story which soon got about, and Mr. Wogan never said a word to correct it, and in due time, of course, and in a way not very agreeable, it came to her Ladyship's ears.
The Parson arrived in London on a Wednesday, the 13th of April. The weather had been terrible on the sea, and the unhappy dog Harlequin had contrived to slip his leg by a fall on deck. However, he soon recovered of his injury, thanks to the care of Mrs. Barnes, and Mr. Kelly carried him to the Bishop's house at Bromley, where his lady lay a-dying. There, too, as he had good cause afterwards to remember, he wrote certain letters for the Bishop, to the King, the Duke of Mar, and General Dillon, and put them in the common post. They did but carry common news, and excuses for delay. The Bishop's lady died on the 26th of April, and on that very day Harlequin's hurt broke out again, and the poor creature went whining lugubriously about the gloomy house, as though it was mourning for its mistress. This fact should be mentioned, because the Duke of Mar had made an inquiry in a letter as to how Harlequin fared, and whether Mr. Illington, as the Bishop was called, had as yet received the dog. Kelly replied that 'Illington is in great tribulation for poor Harlequin, who is in a bad way, having slipped his leg again,' which was true, for since the dog by his tricks greatly lightened his lady's sickness, the Bishop grew very fond of him, though at the Bishop's trial, when these things were brought up to prove that Illington and he were the same man, it was said 'he never loved a dog.' So much for Mr. Kelly.
Rose and her father reached London a fortnight or more after the Parson. Wogan had no knowledge of her arrival, for since he left Avignon he had not so much as clapped his eyes upon the Parson, who, what with the Bishop's grief for his wife, and what with the Bishop's gout, was much occupied at Bromley. It was not until that calamitous day, the 19th of May, that the two friends met again. Events moved very quickly upon that same day. It seemed they had been hatching this long while out of sight, like thunderclouds gathering on a clear day under the rim of the sea. Seven breathless hours saw the beginning and the end. For it was not until six o'clock of the afternoon that Mr. Wogan chanced upon the ballad, that was our ruin, and by three of the morning all was over.
Now, on the 19th of May, in the morning, Mr. Wogan found himself far enough from London, at the seat of Sir Harry Goring, a gentleman of Sussex, and a very loud friend of the Cause.
This noisy Sir Harry drove Mr. Wogan back to town, in very great state and splendour, and drew up before Burton's coffee-house, at an hour when the streets had lost the high sun of the day. Mr. Wogan alighted, thinking to seek his letters at Burton's, and the baronet's carriage rolled off to his town house. Wogan entered the coffee-house; the great room was extraordinary full, and there was an eager buzz of talkers, who dropped their voices, and looked oddly at Mr. Wogan as he passed through, and so upstairs to a little chamber kept private for himself and his friends.
As he went he heard roars of laughter, and a voice chanting in the deplorable, lamenting tone of the street ballad-singer. Mr. Wogan caught a name he knew in this ditty, and knocking hastily in the manner usual and arranged, was admitted. The room was thick with tobacco smoke, and half-a dozen empty bottles made mantraps on the floor. Through the Virginia haze Wogan saw two men; one was Tyrell, a friend of the Cause, the other was a tall man, very black, in whom he recognised his friend Talbot, of his own country and politics, nicknamed the Crow from his appearance. The Crow was swaying on his legs as he steadied himself by the table, and he sang:--
Let Weapons yield them to the Gown,
The Latin Singers say:
Ye Squires and Ladies of renown,
The tune is changed to-day!