Crimes of Old London: The Scoured Silk by Marjorie Bowen Read online

  All-Story Weekly, June 8, 1918

  HIS is a tale that might be told in many

  interest to many; he had, perhaps, a mild

  ways and from various points of view,

  reputation for eccentricity, but this was

  T hut it has to be gathered from here and founded merely on the fact that he refused to there, a letter, a report, a diary, a casual partake of the amusements of his neighbors reference.

  and showed a dislike for much company.

  In its day the thing was more than a

  But this was excused on the ground of

  passing wonder and it left a mark of abiding

  his scholarly predilections. He was known to

  horror on the neighborhood, until the house

  be translating, in a leisurely fashion, as

  and then the street were finally demolished,

  became a gentleman, Aristo’s great romance

  and legend being uprooted from the stones on

  into English couplets, and to be writing essays which it grew, began to fade and finally on recondite subjects connected with grammar withered away.

  and language, which were not the less

  But the church yet remains—the esteemed because they had never been church where the wedding was to have taken

  published.

  place, St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and where

  For a scholar and a man without kith

  Humphrey Orford used to go and worship

  or kin to call forth the softer side of his nature, every Sunday, for over twenty years always in

  Mr. Orford was not churlish; he had his

  the same pew—a few feet from the mural

  chosen friends and could be a courteous host

  tablet to the memory of his wife, a few feet

  and an attentive guest; he was wealthy, and in

  from the stone which covered the place where

  a prudent way, liberal. His establishment was

  she lay in the vaults beneath.

  well kept, his person well turned out.

  It is round the person of Humphrey

  Both afterward became familiar in

  Orford that this tale turns. On him, at the time, many a print and broadside of the time; his

  all the mystery and horror centered, yet until

  face became associated with all that was

  his personality was brought thus tragically horrible, his house with all that was into fame, he had not been an object of much

  mysterious and awful. He was sung in ballads

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  and his very name used to frighten children.

  it he had come, twenty years ago—nor had he

  That mystery, which is more than any left it since.

  revelation, was allowed to wrap his name.

  He had brought with him an ailing

  But before that fatal day when the wife, a housekeeper, and a man servant. To whole town, nay, the whole country, learned

  the few families of his near acquaintance, who

  of his existence, Mr. Orford was not noticed

  waited on him, he explained that he wished to

  as being in any way remarkable.

  give young Mrs. Orford, who was of a mopish

  His most authentic portrait, taken in

  disposition, the diversion of a few months in

  1733 and intended for a frontispiece for the

  town.

  Aristo when this should come to print, shows

  But soon there was no longer this

  a slender man with reddish hair, rather motive for remaining in London. For the wife, severely dubbed, a brown coat and a muslin

  hardly seen by any one, fell into a short illness cravat. He looks straight out of the picture,

  and died just a few weeks after her husband

  and the face is long, finely shaded and refined, had brought her up from Suffolk.

  with eyebrows rather heavier than one would

  She was buried very simply in St.

  expect from such delicacy of feature.

  Paul’s and the mural tablet set up, with a

  It is a countenance rather draped urn in marble and just her name and expressionless: there is in it no hint of the date. It ran thus: anything strange or peculiar. Only by

  association with the story of the man, does this Flora, wife of Humphrey Orford, Esq.,

  commonplace portrait possess any interest at

  of this parish,

  all.

  Died November, 1713. aged 2? years.

  When this picture was painted Mr.

  Orford was living near Covent Garden, close

  Mr. Orford made no effort to leave the house.

  to the mansion once occupied by the famous

  He remained, people thought, rather stunned

  Dr. Radcliffe. This was a straight-front, dark

  by his loss, and kept himself secluded. For a

  house, of obvious gentility with a little considerable time he wore deep mourning.

  architrave portico over the door and a few

  But this was twenty years ago and all

  steps leading up to it: a house with neat had forgotten the shadowy figure of the young windows and a gloomy air, like every other

  wife, whom so few had seen and whom no

  residence in that street and most other streets one had known anything about or been

  of the same status, in the city of London.

  interested in, and all trace of her seemed to

  And if there was nothing remarkable

  have passed out of the quiet, regular and easy

  about Mr. Orford’s dwelling-place or person

  life of Mr. Orford, when an event that was

  there was nothing, as far as his neighbors

  considered very singular and that gave rise to

  knew, remarkable about his history.

  some gossip, caused the one-time existence of

  He came from a good Suffolk family,

  Flora Orford to be recalled and discussed

  in which county he was believed to have among the curious.

  considerable estates—though it was a known

  This event was none other than the

  fact that he never visited them—and he had no

  sudden betrothal of Mr. Orford and the

  relations, being the only child of an only child announcement of his almost immediate

  and his parents dead.

  marriage.

  His father had purchased this town

  The bride was one who had been a

  house in the reign of King William when the

  prattling child when the groom had first come

  neighborhood was very fashionable and up to

  to London. One old lady who was forever at

  Crimes of Old London: The Scoured Silk 3

  her window watching the little humors of the

  help remarking that it was a pity that Mr.

  streets, recollected and related how she had

  Orford, after all these years of peace and

  seen Flora Orford. alighting from the coach

  quiet, with a wonderful housekeeper, should

  that had brought her from the country, turn to

  change his ease for the sake of a flighty young this child, who was gazing from the railing of

  girl; and the young people could not help

  the neighboring house, and touch her bare

  saying that he was old enough to be her father


  curls lovingly and yet with a sad gesture.

  and that they had always thought she was in And that was about the only time any

  love with the young soldier cousin, who used

  one ever did see Flora Orford, so quickly had

  to visit Dr. Minden whenever he had leave.

  come her decline. The next the inquisitive old

  But these whispers passed unnoticed,

  lady saw of her was the slender brown coffin

  and the quiet betrothal was nearing its

  being carried through the dusk toward St. decorous conclusion, when one day Mr.

  Paul’s Church.

  Orford took Miss Minden for a walk: through

  But that was twenty years ago. Here

  her home, round the piazza of Covent Garden,

  was the baby grown up into Miss Elisa then across the cobbled street, past the stalls Minden, a very personable young woman, banked up with the first spring flowers—it soon to be the second Mrs. Humphrey Orford.

  was the end of March under the portico built

  Of course there was nothing very by the great Inigo Jones, and so into the remarkable about the match. Elisa’s father, Dr.

  church.

  Minden, had been Mr. Orford’s best friend—

  “I want to show you where my wife,

  as far as he could be said to have a best friend, Flora, lies buried,” said Mr. Orford.

  or indeed any friend at all—for many a long

  And that is really the beginning of the

  year; both belonged to the same quiet set, both story.

  knew all about each other.

  Mr. Orford, not much above forty-five,

  Now, Miss Minden had been in this

  was an elegant, well-looking, wealthy man,

  church every Sunday of her life and many

  with no vices and a calm, equable temper—

  week-days and had been used, since a child, to

  while Miss Elisa, though pretty and well-

  see that tablet to Flora Orford, but when she

  mannered, had an insufficient dowry, no heard these words in the quiet voice of her mother to fend for her and the younger sisters

  lover and felt him draw her out of the sunlight to share her slender advantages. So what could

  into the darkness of the church, she felt a great any one say save that the good doctor had

  distaste that was almost fear.

  done very well for his daughter and that Mr.

  It seemed to her both a curious and a

  Orford had been fortunate enough to secure

  disagreeable thing for him to do and she

  such a fresh, capable maiden for his wife.

  slipped her arm out of his as she replied. “Oh, It was said that the scholar intended

  please let us go home,” she said. “Father will

  giving up his bookish ways that he even spoke

  be waiting for us and your good Mrs. Boyd

  of going abroad a while, to Italy, for will be vexed, if the tea is overbrewed.”

  preference. He was, of course, anxious to see

  “But first I must show you this,” he

  Italy, as all his life had been devoted to insisted, and took her arm again and led her preparing the translation of an Italian classic.

  down the church, past his seat, until they stood So the whole thing was quite between his pew and the marble tablet in the comfortable and most suitable. If there were

  wall, which was just a hand’s space above

  any murmurs among these neighborly their heads.

  onlookers—well, the elderly people could not

  “That is to her memory,” said Mr.

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  Orford. “And you see there is nothing said as

  Miss Minden did not respond; hitherto

  to her virtues.”

  she had been fond of the church; now, it

  Now, Elisa Minden knew absolutely

  seemed spoiled for her—tarnished by the

  nothing of her predecessor and could not tell if thought of Flora Orford.

  these words were spoken in reverence or

  Her companion seemed to divine what

  irony. She said nothing, but looked up rather

  reflection lay behind her silence.

  timidly from under the shade of her Leghorn

  “You need not be afraid,” he said

  straw at the tall figure of her lover, who was

  rather harshly. “She is dead. Dead.”

  staring sternly at the square of marble.

  And he reached out the light cane he

  “And what have you to say to Flora

  wore and tapped on the stone above his wife’s

  Orford?” he asked sharply, looking down at

  grave and slowly smiled as the sound rang

  her quickly.

  hollow in the vaults beneath.

  “Why, sir, she was a stranger to me,”

  And then he allowed Elisa to draw him

  replied Miss Minden.

  away and they returned to Mr. Orford’s

  Mr. Orford pressed her arm.

  comfortable house, where, in the upper parlor,

  “But to me she was a wife,” he said.

  Dr. Minden was awaiting them, together with

  “She is buried under your feet. Quite close to

  his sister and her son, that soldier cousin

  where you are standing. Why, think of that,

  whom the quick perceptions of youthful

  Lizzie, if she could stand up and put out her

  friends had believed to be devoted to Elisa

  hand she could catch hold of your dress—she

  Minden. They made a pleasant little party,

  is as near as that.”

  with the red curtains drawn, the fire burning

  The words and his manner of saying

  up between the polished andirons, and all the

  them filled Miss Minden with shuddering service for tea, laid out with scones and terror. She was a sensitive and fanciful girl,

  Naples cake, and Mrs. Boyd coming to and fro

  and it seemed to her a dreadful thing to be

  with plates and dishes. And every one was

  thus standing over the bones of the poor cheerful and friendly and glad to be indoors creature who had loved the man who was now

  together, for it was a bleak afternoon, gray out to be her own husband and horrible to think

  of doors, with a snowstorm coming up and

  that the handful of decay so near them had

  people hurrying home with heads bent, before

  once clung to this man and loved him.

  a cutting wind.

  “Do not tremble, my dear girl,” said

  But to Elisa’s mind had come an

  Mr. Orford. “She is dead.”

  unbidden thought: “I do not like this house, it Tears were in Elisa Minden’s eyes, and

  is where Flora Orford died.”

  she answered coldly:

  In which room, she wondered. Why

  “Sir, how can you speak so?”

  this had never occurred to her before she

  “She was a wicked woman,” he could not say, and glanced rather wistfully at replied; “a very wicked woman.”

  the fresh young face of the soldier cousin, as

  The girl could not reply, for this he stood by the fire in his scarlet-and-white, sudden disclosing of a painful secret abashed

  with his glance on the flames.

  her simple mind.

  Still, it was a cheerful party, and Elisa

  “Need we talk of this?” she asked then

  smiled and jested with the rest as she served

  under her breath. “Need we be married in this

  the dishes at tea.

  church, sir?”

  There is a miniature of her, p
ainted

  “Of course,” he answered shortly. about this time. One may see how she looked

  “Everything is arranged. To-morrow week.”

  with her bright, brown hair and eyes, her rosy

  Crimes of Old London: The Scoured Silk 5

  complexion, her pretty nose and mouth. She is

  “Well,” said Mr. Orford, interrupting

  clothed in a gown of lavender-blue tolinet,

  in a leisurely fashion, “no one has been in

  with a lawn tucker and a lawn cap, fastened

  there—save Mrs. Boyd now and then, to

  under the chin with frilled lappets. The big

  announce a visitor.”

  Leghorn hat, with the velvet strings, was put

  “Oh, scholars,” smiled the doctor. “are

  aside.

  a secretive tribe and a fortunate one. Why, in

  Mr. Orford also looked well to-night.

  my poor room I have had to have three girls

  He did not look his full age in the ruddy

  running to and fro.”

  candle glow, for the gray did not show in his

  The soldier spoke, but not so

  abundant hair nor the lines in his fine face;

  pleasantly as his uncle.

  only the elegancy of his figure, the grace of

  “What have you so mysterious, sir, in

  his bearing, the richness of his simple clothes this same cabinet, that it must be so jealously were displayed to full advantage. Captain guarded?” he asked.

  Hoare looked stiff and almost clumsy by

  “Why, nothing mysterious,” smiled the

  contrast.

  scholar. “only my books and papers and

  Now and then Elisa Minden’s eyes pictures.”

  would rest rather wistfully on the fresh face of