_PROEM:--The Age and a Product of It_
We begin at a time when George the Second was permitting Ormskirk and the
Pelhams to govern England, and the Jacobites had not yet ceased to hope
for another Stuart Restoration, and Mr. Washington was a promising young
surveyor in the most loyal colony of Virginia; when abroad the Marquise de
Pompadour ruled France and all its appurtenances, and the King of Prussia
and the Empress Maria Theresa had, between them, set entire Europe by
the ears; when at home the ladies, if rumor may be credited, were less
unapproachable than their hoop-petticoats caused them to appear,
[Footnote: "Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail,
Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale."]
and gentlemen wore swords, and some of the more reckless bloods were
daringly beginning to discard the Ramillie-tie and the pigtail for their
own hair; when politeness was obligatory, and morality a matter of taste,
and when well-bred people went about the day's work with an ample leisure
and very few scruples. In fine, we begin toward the end of March, in
the year 1750, when Lady Allonby and her brother, Mr. Henry Heleigh, of
Trevor's Folly, were the guests of Lord Rokesle, at Stornoway Crag, on Usk.
As any person of _ton_ could have informed you, Anastasia Allonby was the
widow (by his second marriage) of Lord Stephen Allonby, the Marquis of
Falmouth's younger brother; and it was conceded by the most sedate that
Lord Stephen's widow, in consideration of her liberal jointure, possessed
inordinate comeliness.
She was tall for a woman. Her hair, to-night unpowdered, had the color of
amber and something, too, of its glow; her eyes, though not profound, were
large and in hue varied, as the light fell or her emotions shifted, through
a wide gamut of blue shades. But it was her mouth you remembered: the
fulness and brevity of it, the deep indentation of its upper lip, the
curves of it and its vivid crimson--these roused you to wildish speculation
as to its probable softness when Lady Allonby and Fate were beyond ordinary
lenient. Pink was the color most favorable to her complexion, and this
she wore to-night; the gown was voluminous, with a profusion of lace, and
afforded everybody an ample opportunity to appraise her neck and bosom.
Lady Allonby had no reason to be ashamed of either, and the last mode in
these matters was not prudish.
To such a person, enters Simon Orts, chaplain in ordinary to Lord Rokesle,
and Vicar of Heriz Magna, one of Lord Rokesle's livings.
I
"Now of a truth," said Simon Orts, "that is curious--undeniably that is
curious."
He stayed at the door for a moment staring back into the ill-lit corridor.
Presently he shut the door, and came forward toward the fireplace.
Lady Allonby, half-hidden in the depths of the big chair beside the
chimney-piece, a book in her lap, looked up inquiringly. "What is curious,
Mr. Orts?"
The clergyman stood upon the hearth, warming his hands, and diffusing an
odor of tobacco and stale alcohol. "Faith, that damned rascal--I beg your
pardon, Anastasia; our life upon Usk is not conducive to a mincing nicety
of speech. That rascal Punshon made some difficulty over admitting me; you
might have taken him for a sentinel, with Stornoway in a state of siege. He
ruffled me,--and I don't like it," Simon Orts said, reflectively, looking
down upon her. "No, I don't like it. Where's your brother?" he demanded on
a sudden.
"Harry and Lord Rokesle are at cards, I believe. And Mrs. Morfit has
retired to her apartments with one of her usual headaches, so that I have
been alone these two hours. You visit Stornoway somewhat late, Mr. Orts,"
Anastasia Allonby added, without any particular concealment of the fact
that she considered his doing so a nuisance.
He jerked his thumb ceilingward. "The cloth is at any rascal's beck and
call. Old Holles, my Lord's man, is dying up yonder, and the whim seized
him to have a clergyman in. God knows why, for it appears to me that one
knave might very easily make his way to hell without having another knave
to help him. And Holles?--eh, well, from what I myself know of him, the
rogue is triply damned." His mouth puckered as he set about unbuttoning his
long, rain-spattered cloak, which, with his big hat, he flung aside upon a
table. "Gad!" said Simon Orts, "we are most of us damned on Usk; and that
is why I don't like it--" He struck his hand against his thigh. "I don't
like it, Anastasia."
"You must pardon me," she languidly retorted, "but I was never good at
riddles."
He turned and glanced about the hall, debating. Lady Allonby meanwhile
regarded him, as she might have looked at a frog or a hurtless snake. A
small, slim, anxious man, she found him; always fidgeting, always placating
some one, but never without a covert sneer. The fellow was venomous; his
eyes only were honest, for even while his lips were about their wheedling,
these eyes flashed malice at you; and their shifting was so unremittent
that afterward you recalled them as an absolute shining which had not any
color. On Usk and thereabouts they said it was the glare from within of his
damned soul, already at white heat; but they were a plain-spoken lot on
Usk. To-night Simon Orts was all in black; and his hair, too, and his gross
eyebrows were black, and well-nigh to the cheek-bones of his clean-shaven
countenance the thick beard, showed black through the skin.
Now he kept silence for a lengthy interval, his arms crossed on his breast,
gnawing meanwhile at the fingernails of his left hand in an unattractive
fashion he had of meditating. When words came it was in a torrent.
"I will read you my riddle, then. You are a widow, rich; as women go, you
are not so unpleasant to look at as most of 'em. If it became a clergyman
to dwell upon such matters, I would say that your fleshly habitation is
too fine for its tenant, since I know you to be a good-for-nothing jilt.
However, you are God's handiwork, and doubtless He had His reasons for
constructing you. My Lord is poor; last summer at Tunbridge you declined to
marry him. I am in his confidence, you observe. He took your decision in
silence--'ware Rokesle when he is quiet! Eh, I know the man,--'tisn't for
nothing that these ten years past I have studied his whims, pampered his
vanity, lied to him, toadied him! You admire my candor?--faith, yes, I
am very candid. I am Rokesle's hanger-on; he took me out of the gutter,
and in my fashion I am grateful. And you?--Anastasia, had you treated me
more equitably fifteen years ago, I would have gone to the stake for you,
singing; now I don't value you the flip of a farthing. But, for old time's
sake, I warn you. You and your brother are Rokesle's guests--on Usk!
Harry Heleigh [Footnote: Henry Heleigh, thirteenth Earl of Brudenel, who
succeeded his cousin the twelfth 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 had better not refer to
that boy-and-girl affair. You cannot blame me for your debauched manner
of living. I found before it was too late that I did not love you. I was
only a girl, and 'twas natural that at first I should be mistaken in my
fancies."
The Vicar had caught her by each wrist. "You don't understand, of course.
You never understood, for you have no more heart than one of those
pink-and-white bisque figures that you resemble. You don't love me, and
therefore I will go to the devil' may not be an all-rational deduction, but
'tis very human logic. You don't understand that, do you, Anastasia? You
don't understand how when one is acutely miserable one remembers that at
the bottom of a wineglass--or even at the bottom of a tumbler of gin,--one
may come upon happiness, or at least upon acquiescence to whatever the
niggling gods may send. You don't understand how one remembers, when the
desired woman is lost, that there are other women whose lips are equally
red and whose hearts are tenderer and--yes, whose virtue is less exigent.
No; women never understand these things: and in any event, you would not
understand, because you are only an adorable pink-and-white fool."
"Oh, oh!" she cried, struggling, "How dare you? You insult me, you coward!"
"Well, you can always comfort yourself with the reflection that it scarcely
matters what a sot like me may elect to say. And, since you understand me
now no more than formerly, Anastasia, I tell you that the lover turned
adrift may well profit by the example of his predecessors. Other lovers
have been left forsaken, both in trousers and in ripped petticoats; and
I have heard that when Chryseis was reft away from Agamemnon, the _cnax
andrôn_ made himself tolerably comfortable with Briseis; and that, when
Theseus sneaked off in the night, Ariadne, after having wept for a
decent period, managed in the ultimate to console herself with Theban
Bacchus,--which I suppose to be a courteous method of stating that the
daughter of Minos took to drink. So the forsaken lover has his choice of
consolation--in wine or in that dearer danger, woman. I have tried both,
Anastasia. And I tell you--"
He dropped her hands as though they had been embers. Lord Rokesle had come
quietly into the hall.
"Why, what's this?" Lord Rokesle demanded. "Simon, you aren't making love
to Lady Allonby, I hope? Fie, man! remember your cloth."
Simon Orts wheeled--a different being, servile and cringing. "Your Lordship
is pleased to be pleasant. Indeed, though, I fear that your ears must
burn, sir, for I was but now expatiating upon the manifold kindnesses your
Lordship has been so generous as to confer upon your unworthy friend. I was
admiring Lady Allonby's ruffle, sir,--Valenciennes, I take it, and very
choice."
Lord Rokesle laughed. "So I am to thank you for blowing my trumpet, am I?"
said Lord Rokesle. "Well, you are not a bad fellow, Simon, so long as you
are sober. And now be off with you to Holles--the rascal is dying, they
tell me. My luck, Simon! He made up a cravat better than any one in the
kingdom."
"The ways of Providence are inscrutable," Simon Orts considered; "and
if Providence has in verity elected to chasten your Lordship, doubtless
it shall be, as anciently in the case of Job the Patriarch, repaid by a
recompense, by a thousandfold recompense." And after a meaning glance
toward Lady Allonby,--a glance that said: "I, too, have a tongue,"--he was
mounting the stairway to the upper corridor when Lord Rokesle called to
him.
"By my conscience! I forgot," said Lord Rokesle; "don't leave Stornoway
without seeing me again, I shall want you by and by."