Gallantry | Page 7

Earl in 1759, and lived
to a great age. Bavois, writing in 1797, calls him "a very fine, strong
old gentleman."] can handle a sword, I grant you,--but you are on Usk!
And Mrs. Morfit is here to play propriety--propriety on Usk, God save
the mark! And besides, Rokesle can twist his sister about his little
finger, as the phrase runs. And I find sentinels at the door! I don't like it,
Anastasia. In his way Rokesle loves you; more than that, you are an
ideal match to retrieve his battered fortunes; and the name of my
worthy patron, I regret to say, is not likely ever to embellish the
Calendar of Saints."
Simon Orts paused with a short laugh. The woman had risen to her feet,

her eyes widening and a thought troubled, though her lips smiled
contemptuously.
"La, I should have comprehended that this late in the evening you
would be in no condition to converse with ladies. Believe me, though,
Mr. Orts, I would be glad to credit your warning to officious
friendliness, were it not that the odor about your person compels me to
attribute it to gin."
"Oh, I have been drinking," he conceded; "I have been drinking with a
most commendable perseverance for these fifteen years. But at present
I am far from drunk." Simon Orts took a turn about the hall; in an
instant he faced her with an odd, almost tender smile, "You adorable,
empty-headed, pink-and-white fool," said Simon Orts, "what madness
induced you to come to Usk? You know that Rokesle wants you; you
know that you don't mean to marry him. Then why come to Usk? Do
you know who is king in this sea-washed scrap of earth?--Rokesle.
German George reigns yonder in England, but here, in the Isle of Usk,
Vincent Floyer is king. And it is not precisely a convent that he directs.
The men of Usk, I gather, after ten years' experience in the
administering of spiritual consolation hereabouts"--and his teeth made
their appearance in honor of the jest,--"are part fisherman, part
smuggler, part pirate, and part devil. Since the last ingredient
predominates, they have no very unreasonable apprehension of hell,
and would cheerfully invade it if Rokesle bade 'em do so. As I have
pointed out, my worthy patron is subject to the frailties of the flesh. Oh,
I am candid, for if you report me to his Lordship I shall lie out of it. I
have had practice enough to do it handsomely. But Rokesle--do you not
know what Rokesle is--?"
The Vicar of Heriz Magna would have gone on, but Lady Allonby had
interrupted, her cheeks flaming. "Yes, yes," she cried;' "I know him to
be a worthy gentleman. 'Tis true I could not find it in my heart to marry
him, yet I am proud to rank Lord Rokesle among my friends." She
waved her hand toward the chimney-piece, where hung--and hangs
to-day,--the sword of Aluric Floyer, the founder of the house of
Rokesle. "Do you see that old sword, Mr. Orts? The man who wielded

it long ago was a gallant gentleman and a stalwart captain. And my
Lord, as he told me but on Thursday afternoon, hung it there that he
might always have in mind the fact that he bore the name of this man,
and must bear it meritoriously. My Lord is a gentleman. La, believe me,
if you, too, were a gentleman, Mr. Orts, you would understand! But a
gentleman is not a talebearer; a gentleman does not defame any person
behind his back, far less the person to whom he owes his daily bread."
"So he has been gulling you?" said Simon Orts; then he added quite
inconsequently: "I had not thought anything you could say would hurt
me. I discover I was wrong. Perhaps I am not a gentleman. Faith, no; I
am only a shabby drunkard, a disgrace to my cloth, am I not, Anastasia?
Accordingly, I fail to perceive what old Aluric Floyer has to do with
the matter in hand. He was reasonably virtuous, I suppose; putting
aside a disastrous appetite for fruit, so was Adam: but, viewing their
descendants, I ruefully admit that in each case the strain has
deteriorated."
There was a brief silence; then Lady Allonby observed: "Perhaps I was
discourteous. I ask your forgiveness, Mr. Orts. And now, if you will
pardon the suggestion, I think you had better go to your dying
parishioner."
But she had touched the man to the quick. "I am a drunkard; who made
me so? Who was it used to cuddle me with so many soft words and
kisses--yes, kisses, my Lady!--till a wealthier man came a-wooing, and
then flung me aside like an old shoe?"
This drenched her cheeks with crimson, "I think we