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Morals of Marcus Ordeyne

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<h2> CHAPTER V </h2> May 26th. This morning a letter from Judith. “Do not laugh at me,” she writes. “The road to Paris is paved with good intentions. I really could not help it. Delphine put her great arm round my would-be sequestered and meditative self and carried it off bodily, and here it is in the midst of lunches, picture-shows, dinners, suppers, theatres and dances; and if you laugh, you will make me humiliated when I confess that it is thoroughly enjoying itself.” Laugh at her, dear woman? I am only too glad that she can fling her Winter Garment of Repentance into the Fires of Paris Springtide. She has little enough enjoyment in friendless London. Fill your heart with it, my dear, and lay up a store for use in the dull months to come. For my part, however, I am content to be beyond the reach of Delphine’s great arm. I must write to Judith. I shall have to explain Carlotta; but for that I think I shall wait until she becomes a little more explicable. In dealing with women it is well to employ discrimination. You are never quite sure whether they are not merely simple geese or the most complex of created beings. Perhaps they are such a curious admixture that you cannot tell at a given moment which side, the simple or the complex, you are touching. May not there be the deepest of all allegories in Eve standing midway between the innocent apple and the guileful serpent? I shall have to see more of Carlotta before I can safely explain her to Judith. At any rate she is no longer attired like an odalisque of the Second Empire, and Mrs. McMurray has saved her from the lamentable errors of taste shown by the female mountebank of sixteenth century France. My excellent friend safely delivered up an exhausted and bewildered charge at half-past seven last evening, assuring me that her task had been easy, and that her anticipations of it being the day of her life had been fulfilled. It had been like dressing a doll, she explained, beaming. An edifying pastime for an adult woman! I did not utter this sentiment, for she would rightly have styled me the most ungrateful of unhung wretches. Carlotta, then, had followed her about like a perambulatory doll, upon which she had fitted all the finery she could lay her hands on. Apparently the atmosphere of the great shops had acted on Carlotta like an anaesthetic. She had moved in a sensuous dream of drapery, wherein the choice-impulse was paralysed. The only articles upon which, in an unclouded moment, she had set her heart—and that with a sudden passion of covetousness—were a pair of red, high-heeled shoes and a cheap red parasol. “You have no idea what it means,” said Mrs. McMurray, “to buy everything that a woman needs.” I replied that I had a respectful distaste for transcendental philosophy. “From a paper of pins to an opera-cloak,” she continued. “I’m afraid, dear Mrs. McMurray, an opera-cloak is not the superior limit of a woman’s needs,” said I. “I wish it were.” She called me a cynic and went. This morning Carlotta interrupted me in my work. “Will Seer Marcous come to my room and see my pretty things?” In summer blouse and plain skirt she looked as demure as any damsel in St. John’s Wood. She hung her head a little to one side. For the moment I felt paternal, and indulgently consented. Words of man cannot describe the mass of millinery and chiffonery in that chamber. The spaces that were not piled high with vesture gave resting spots for cardboard boxes and packing-paper. Antoinette stood in a corner gazing at the spoil with a smile of beatific idiocy. I strode through the cardboard boxes which crackled like bracken, and remained dumb as a fish before these mysteries. Carlotta tried on hats. She shewed me patent leather shoes. She exhibited blouses and petticoats until my eyes ached. She brandished something in her hand. “Tell me if I must wear it” (I believe the sophisticated call it “them”). “Mrs. McMurray says all ladies do. But we never wear it in Alexandretta, and it hurts.” She clasped herself pathetically and turned her great imploring eyes on me. “Il faut souffrir pour etre belle,” I said. “But with the figure of Mademoiselle, it is stupid!” cried Antoinette. “It is outrageous that I should be called upon to express an opinion on such matters,” I said, loftily. And so it was. My assertion of dignity impressed them. Then, with characteristic frankness, my young lady shakes out before me things all frills, embroidery, ribbons, diaphaneity, which the ordinary man only examines through shop-front windows when a philosophic mood induces him to speculate on the unfathomable vanity of woman. “Les beaux dessous!” breathed Antoinette. “The same ejaculation,” I murmured, “was doubtless uttered by an enraptured waiting-maid, when she beheld the stout linen smocks of the ladies of the Heptameron.” I reflected on the relativity of things mundane. The waiting-maid no doubt wore some horror made of hemp against her skin. If Carlotta’s gossamer follies had been thrown into the vagabond court of the Queen of Navarre, I wonder whether those delectable stories would have been written? As Antoinette does not understand literary English, and as Carlotta did not know what in the world I was talking about, I was master of the conversational situation. Carlotta went to the mantel-piece and returned with a glutinous mass of sweet stuff between her fingers. “Will Seer Marcous have some? It is nougat.” I declined. “Oh!” she said, tragically disappointed. “It is good.” There is something in that silly creature’s eyes that I cannot resist. She put the abominable morsel into my mouth—it was far too sticky for me to hold—and laughingly licked her own fingers. I went down to work again with an uneasy feeling of imperilled dignity. May 29th. I sent her word that I would take her for a drive this afternoon. She was to be ready at three o’clock. It will be wholesome for her to regard her outings with me as rare occurrences to be highly valued. Ordinarily she will go out with Antoinette—for the present at least—as she did yesterday. At three o’clock Stenson informed me that the cab was at the door. “Go up and call Mademoiselle,” said I. In two or three minutes she came down. I have not had such a shock in my life. I uttered exclamations of amazement in several languages. I have never seen on the stage or off such a figure as she presented. Her cheeks were white with powder, her lips dyed a pomegranate scarlet, her eyebrows and lashes blackened. In her ears she wore large silver-gilt earrings. She entered the room with an air of triumph, as who should say: “See how captivatingly beautiful I am!” At my stare of horror her face fell. At my command to go upstairs and wash herself clean, she wept. “For heaven’s sake, don’t cry,” I exclaimed, “or you will look like a rainbow.” “I did it to please you,” she sobbed. “It is only the lowest class of dancing-women who paint their faces in England,” said I, splendide mendax. “And you know what they are in Alexandretta.” “They came to Aziza-Zaza’s wedding,” said Carlotta, behind her handkerchief. “But all our ladies do this when they want to make themselves look nice. And I have put on this nasty thing that hurts me, just to please Seer Marcous.” I felt I had been brutal. She must have spent hours over her adornment. Yet I could not have taken her out into the street. She looked like Jezebel, who without her paint must have been, like Carlotta, a remarkably handsome person. “It strikes me, Carlotta,” said I, “that you will find England is Alexandretta upside down. What is wrong there is right here, and vice versa. Now if you want to please me run away and clean yourself and take off those barbaric and Brummagem earrings.” She went and was absent a short while. She returned in dismay. Water would not get it off. I rang for Antoinette, but Antoinette had gone out. It being too delicate a matter for Stenson, I fetched a pot of vaseline from my own room, and as Carlotta did not know what to make of it, I with my own hands cleansed Carlotta. She screamed with delight, thinking it vastly amusing. Her emotions are facile. I cannot deny that it amused me too. But I am in a responsible position, and I am wondering what the deuce I shall be doing next. I enjoyed the drive to Richmond, where I gave her tea at the Star and Garter and was relieved to see her drink normally from the cup, instead of lapping from the saucer like a kitten. She was much more intelligent than during our first drive on Tuesday. The streets have grown more familiar, and the traffic does not make her head ache. She asks me the ingenuous questions of a child of ten. The tall guardsmen we passed particularly aroused her enthusiasm. She had never seen anything so beautiful. I asked her if she would like me to buy one and give it her to play with. “Oh, would you, Seer Marcous?” she exclaimed, seizing my hand rapturously. I verily believe she thought I was in earnest, for when I turned aside my jest, she pouted in disappointment and declared that it was wrong to tell lies. “I am glad you have some elementary notions of ethics,” said I. It was during our drive that it occurred to me to ask her where she had procured the paint and earrings. She explained, cheerfully, that Antoinette had supplied the funds. I must talk seriously to Antoinette. Her attitude towards Carlotta savours too much of idolatry. Demoralisation will soon set in, and the utter ruin of Carlotta and my digestion will be the result. I must also make Carlotta a small allowance. During tea she said to me, suddenly: “Seer Marcous is not married?” I said, no. She asked, why not? The devil seems to be driving all womankind to ask me that question. “Because wives are an unmitigated nuisance,” said I. A curious smile came over Carlotta’s face. It was as knowing as Dame Quickly’s. “Then-” “Have one of these cakes,” said I, hurriedly. “There is chocolate outside and the inside is chock-full of custard.” She bit, smiled in a different and beatific way, and forgot my matrimonial affairs. I was relieved. With her oriental training there is no telling what Carlotta might have said. May 31st. To-day I have had a curious interview. Who should call on me but the father of the hapless Harry Robinson. My first question was a natural one. How on earth did he connect me with the death of his son? How did he contrive to identify me as the befriender of the young Turkish girl whose interests, he declared, were the object of his visit? It appeared that the police had given him the necessary information, my adventures at Waterloo having rendered their tracing of Carlotta an easy matter. I had been wondering somewhat at the meagre newspaper reports of the inquest. No mention was made, as I had nervously anticipated, of the mysterious lady for whom the deceased had bought a ticket at Alexandretta, and with whom he had come ashore. Very little evidence appeared to have been taken, and the jury contented themselves with giving the usual verdict of temporary insanity. I touched on this as delicately as I could. “We succeeded in hushing things up,” said my visitor, an old man with iron-grey whiskers and a careworn sensitive face. “I have some influence myself, and his wife’s relations—” “His wife!” I ejaculated. The ways of men are further than ever from interpretation. The fellow was actually married! “Yes,” he sighed. “That is what would have made such a terrible scandal. Her relatives are powerful people. We averted it, thank Heaven, and his poor wife will never know. My boy is dead. No public investigation into motives would bring him back to life again.” I murmured words of condolence. “He must have been out of his mind, poor lad, when he induced the girl to run away with him. But, as my son has ruined her,” he set his teeth as if the boy’s sin stabbed him, “I must look after her welfare.” “You may set your mind at rest on that point,” said I. “He smuggled her at once aboard the ship, and seems scarcely to have said how d’ye do to her afterwards. That is the mad part of it.” “Can I be sure?” “I would stake my life on it,” said I. “How do you know?” “Frankness—I may say embarrassing frankness is one of the young lady’s drawbacks.” He looked greatly relieved. I acquainted him with Carlotta’s antecedents, and outlined the part I had played in the story. “Then,” said he, “I will see the child back to her home. I will take her there myself. I cannot allow you any longer to have the burden of befriending her, when it is my duty to repair my boy’s wrongdoing.” I explained to him the terror of Hamdi Effendi’s clutches, and told him of my promise. “Then what is to be done?” he asked. “If any kind people could be found to receive her into their family, and bring her up like a Christian, I should hand her over with the greatest of pleasure. If there is one thing I do not require in this house, it is an idle and irresponsible female. But philanthropists are rare. Who will take her?” “I’m afraid I’m not prepared to do that.” “I never dreamed of having the bad taste to propose it,” said I. “I merely stated the only alternative to my guardianship.” “I should be willing—only too willing—to contribute towards her support,” said Mr. Robinson. I thanked him. But of course this was impossible. I might as well have allowed the good man to pay my gas bill. “I know of a nice convent home kept by the Little Sisters of St. Bridget,” said he, tentatively. “If it were St. Bridget herself,” said I, “I would agree with pleasure. She is a saint for whom I have a great fascination. She could work miracles. When an Irish chieftain made her a facetious grant of as much land as she could cover with her mantle, she bade four of her nuns each take a corner and run north, west, south and east, until her cloak covered several roods. She could have done the same with the soul of Carlotta. But the age of miracles is past, and I fear the Little Sisters would only break their gentle hearts over her. She is an extraordinary creature.” I know I ought to have given some consideration to the proposal; but I think I must suffer from chronic inflammation of the logical faculty. It revolted against the suggested congruity of Carlotta and the Little Sisters of St. Bridget. “What can she be like?” asked the old man, wonderingly. “Would it pain you to see her?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “It would. But perhaps it would bring me nearer to my unhappy boy. He seems so far away.” I rang the bell and summoned Carlotta. “Perhaps you had better not say who you are,” I suggested. When Carlotta entered, he rose and looked at her—-oh, so wistfully. “This, Carlotta,” said I, “is a friend of mine, who would like to make your acquaintance.” She advanced shyly and held out a timid hand. Obviously she was on her best behaviour. I thanked heaven she had tried her unsuccessful experiment of powder and paint on my vile body and not on that of a stranger. “Do you—do you like England?” asked the old man. “Oh, very—very much. Every one is so kind to me. It is a nice place.” “It is the best place in the world to be young in,” said he. “Is it?” said Carlotta, with the simplicity of a baby. “The very best.” “But is it not good to be old in?” “No country is good for that.” The old man sighed and took his leave. I accompanied him to the front door. “I don’t know what to say, Sir Marcus. She moves me strangely. I never expected such sweet innocence. For my boy’s sake, I would take her in—but his mother knows nothing about it—save that the boy is dead. It would kill her.” The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks. I grasped him by the hand. “She shall come to no manner of harm beneath my roof,” said I. Carlotta was waiting for me in the drawing-room. She looked at me in a perplexed, pitiful way. “Seer Marcous?” “Yes?” “Am I to marry him?” “Marry whom?” “That old gentleman. I must, if you tell me. But I do not want to marry him.” It took me a minute or two to arrive at her oriental point of view. No woman could be shown off to a man except in the light of a possible bride. I think it sometimes good to administer a shock to Carlotta, by way of treatment. “Do you know who that old gentleman was?” said I. “No.” “It was Harry’s father.” “Oh!” she said, with a grimace. “I am sorry I was so nice to him.” What the deuce am I to do with her? I lectured her for a quarter of an hour on the ethics of the situation. I think I only succeeded in giving her the impression that I was in a bad temper. So much did I sympathise with Harry that I forbore to acquaint her with the fact that he was a married man when he enticed her away from Alexandretta. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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