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The Vicar stared at her. "The man I have been," said Simon Orts, "yes! the man I have been!" Something clicked in his throat with sharp distinctness. "Upon my word," said Lord Rokesle, yawning, "this getting married appears to be an uncommonly tedious business." Then Simon Orts laid aside his prayer-book and said: "I cannot do it, my Lord. The woman's right."
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.
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.
No parasitic rhymester of past or present days who feeds his starveling talent on the shreds and orts, "the fragments, scraps, the bits and greasy relics" of another man's board, ever uttered a more parrot-like note of plagiary. The very exactitude of the repetition is a strong argument against the theory which attributes it to Shakespeare.
"I entreat your pardon?" said Lord Rokesle, and without study of Lady Allonby's condition. This was men's business now, and over it Rokesle's brow began to pucker. Simon Orts bore Lady Allonby to the settie. He passed behind it to arrange a cushion under her head, with an awkward, grudging tenderness; and then rose to face Lord Rokesle across the disordered pink fripperies.
Yet there is that in your voice which is curiously familiar, Mr. Orts, and I think that somewhere you and I have met before this." "Ay," he responded, "you have squandered many a shilling on me here in England, where Francis Vanringham bellows and makes faces with the rest of the Globe Company.
You heard the outer door of the corridor closing, heard chains dragged ponderously, the heavy falling of a bolt. Orts dropped the book and, springing into the arm-chair, wrested Aluric Floyer's sword from its fastening. "Tricked, tricked!" said Simon Orts. "You were always a fool, Vincent Floyer." Lord Rokesle blinked at him, as if dazzled by unexpected light. "What d'ye mean?"
LORD ROKESLE, a loose-living, Impoverished nobleman, and loves Lady Allonby. SIMON ORTS, Vicar of Heriz Magna, a debauched fellow, and Rokesle's creature. PUNSHON, servant to Rokesle. LADY ALLONBY, a pleasure-loving, luxurious woman, a widow, and rich. The Mancini Chamber at Stornoway Crag, on Usk. PROEM: The Age and a Product of It
"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."
He was their god, that man!" Simon Orts went toward the dead body, looking down into the distorted face. "And I, too, loved him. Yes, such as he was, he was the only friend I had. And I think he liked me," Simon Orts said aloud, with a touch of shy pride. "Yes, and you trusted me, didn't you, Vincent? Wait for me, then, my Lord, I shall not be long. And now I'll serve you faithfully.
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