The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne Part 42

"But it is preposterous," I objected once more, changing my ground; "Judith craves the arrears of gaiety and laughter which your conduct caused life to leave owing to her. She loves bright dresses, cigarettes, and wine and the things that are anathema in an Evangelical household."

"My wife will find the gaiety and laughter of holiness," replied the fanatic. "She will not be stinted of money to dress herself with becoming modesty; and as for alcohol and tobacco, no one knows better than myself how easy it is to give them up."

"You seem as merciless in your virtues as you were in your vices," said I.

"I have to bring souls to Christ," he answered.

"That doesn't appear to be the way," I retorted, "to bring them."

"Pray remember, Sir Marcus," said he, bending his brows upon me, "that I did not ask you for suggestions as to the conduct of my ministry."

"The general methods you adopt in the case of your congregation," said I, "are matters of perfect indifference to me. But I cannot see Judith imprisoned for life in a tin church without a protest. Your proposal reminds me of the Siennese who owed a victorious general more than they could possibly repay. The legend goes that they hanged him, in order to make him a saint after his death by way of reward. I object to this sort of canonisation of Judith. And she will object, too. You seem to leave her out of account altogether. She is mistress of her own actions. She has a will of her own. She is not going to give up her comfortable flat off the Tottenham Court Road in order to dwell in Hoxton. She won't go back to you under your conditions."

He smiled indulgently and held out his hand to signify that the interview was over.

"She will, Sir Marcus."

Was there ever such a Torquemada of a creature? I respect religion. I respect this man's intense conviction of the reality of his conversion.

I can respect even the long frock coat and the long brown whiskers, which in the case of so dashing a worldling as Rupert Mainwaring were a deliberate and daily mortification of the flesh. But I hold in shuddering detestation "the thumb-screw and the rack for the glory of the Lord," which he cheerfully contemplated applying to Judith.

"Why on earth can't you let the poor woman alone?" I asked, ignoring his hand.

"I am doing my duty to G.o.d and to her," said he.

"With the result that you have driven her into hysterics."

"She'll get over them," said he.

"I wish you good-day," said I. "We might talk together for a thousand years without understanding each other."

"Pardon me," he retorted, with the utmost urbanity. "I understand you perfectly."

He accompanied me to the dining-room where I had left my hat and umbrella, and to the flat door which he politely opened. When it shut behind me I felt inclined to batter it open again and to take Judith by main force from under his nose. But I suppose I am pusillanimous. I found myself in the street brandishing my umbrella like a flaming sword and vowing to perform all sorts of Paladin exploits, which I knew in my heart were futile.

I hailed an omnibus in the Tottenham Court Road, and clambered to the top, though a slight drizzle was falling. Why I did it I have not the remotest idea, for I abhor those locomotive engines of exquisite discomfort. I had no preconceived notion of destination. It was a moving thing that would carry me away from the Tottenham Court Road, away from the Rev. Rupert Mainwaring, away from myself. I was the solitary occupant of the omnibus roof. The rain fell, softly, persistently, soakingly. I laughed aloud.

I recognised the predestined irony of things that at every corner checks the course of the ineffectual man.

CHAPTER XX

November 11th.

I wrote Judith a long letter last night, urging her to disregard the forfeited claims of her husband and to join her life definitely with mine. I was cynical enough to feel that if such a proceeding annoyed the Rev. Rupert Mainwaring it would serve him right. The fact of a man's finding religion and abjuring sack does not in itself exculpate him from wrongs which he has inflicted on his fellow-creatures in unregenerate days. Mainwaring deserved some punishment of which he seemed to have had remarkably little; for, mind you, his sack-cloth and ashes at Hoxton, although sincerely worn, are not much of a punishment to a man in his exalted mood. Now, on the contrary, Judith deserved compensation, such as I alone was prepared to offer her in spite of conventional morality and the feelings of the Rev. Rupert Mainwaring. Indeed, it seemed to be the only way of saving Judith from being worried out of her life by frantic appeals to embrace both himself and Primitive Christianity.

Her position was that of Andromeda. Mine that of an unheroic Perseus, destined to deliver her from the monster--the monster whose lair is a little tin mission church in Hoxton.

I wrote the letter in one of those periods of semi-vitality when the pulses of emotion throb weakly, and sensitiveness is dulled. To-day I have felt differently. My nerves have been restrung. Something ironically vulgar, sordidly tragic has seemed to creep into my relations with Judith.

To my great surprise Judith brought her answer in person this evening.

It is the first time she has entered my house; and her first words, as she looked all around her with a wistful smile referred to the fact.

"It is almost just as I have pictured it--and I have pictured it--do you know how often?"

She was calmer, if not happier. The haggard expression had given place to one of resignation. I wheeled an arm-chair close to the fire, for she was cold, and she sank into it with a sigh of weariness. I knelt beside her. She drew off her gloves and put one hand on my head in the old way.

The touch brought me great comfort. I thought that we had reached the quiet haven at last.

"So you have come to me, Judith," I whispered.

"I have come, dear," she said, "to tell you that I can't come."

My heart sank.

"Why?" I asked.

We fenced a little. She gave half reasons, womanlike, of which I proved the inadequacy. I recapitulated the arguments I had used in my letter.

She met them with hints and vague allusions. At last she cut the knot.

"I am going back to my husband."

I rose to my feet and echud the words. She repeated them in a tone so mournfully distinct, that they had the finality of a death-knell. I had nothing to say.

"Before we part I must make my peace with you, Marcus," she said. "I have suddenly developed a conscience. I always had the germs of it."

"You were always the best and dearest woman in the world," I cried.

"And I betrayed you, dear. That letter from Pasquale told me about his flight with Carlotta. I lied to you--but I was in a state bordering on madness."

I rested my elbow on the mantel-piece and looked down on her. She appeared so sweet and fragile, like a piece of Dresden china, incapable of base actions. As I did not speak she went on: "I did not mean to play into Pasquale's hands, Marcus. Heaven knows I didn't--but I did play into them. Do you remember that awful night and our talk the next morning? I asked you not to see her all day--to mourn our dead love. I knew you would keep your promise. You are a man of sensitive honour. If all men were like you, the world would be a beautiful place."

"It would go to smash in a few weeks through universal incompetence," I murmured, with some bitterness.

"There would be no meanness and treachery and despicable underhand doings. Marcus, you must forgive me--I was a desperate woman fighting for my life's happiness. I thought I would try one forlorn hope. I kept you out of the way and came up here to see Carlotta. Don't interrupt me, Marcus; let me finish. I happened to meet her a hundred yards down the road, and we went into the Regent's Park. We sat down and I told her about ourselves, and my love for you, and asked her to give you up. I don't believe she understood, Marcus. She laughed and threw stones at a little dog. I recovered my senses and left her there and went home sick with shame and humiliation. I knew Pasquale was in love with her, for he had told me so the night before, and asked me how the marriage could be stopped. He didn't believe in your announcement to Hamdi Effendi. But I never mentioned Pasquale to Carlotta, or hinted there might be another than you. I was loyal so far, Marcus. And two or three days afterwards came Pasquale's letter. And I waited for you, in a fearful joy. I knew you would come to me--and I was mad enough to think that time would heal--that you would forget--that we could have the dear past again--and I would teach you to love me. But then, suddenly, without a word of warning--it has always been his way--appeared my husband. After that, you came with your offer of shelter and comfort--and you seemed like the angel of the flaming vengeance. For I had wronged you, dear--robbed you of your happiness. If I hadn't prepared her mind for leaving you, she would never have run away. If I had not done this, or if on the other hand you loved me, Marcus, I should perhaps have looked at things differently. I am beginning to believe in G.o.d and to see his hand in it all. I couldn't come and live with you as your wife, Marcus. Things stronger even than my love for you forbid it. Our life together would not be the sweet and gracious thing it has always been to me. We have come to the parting of the ways. I must follow my husband."

I knew she spoke rightly. When she is not swept away to hysterical action by her temperament, she has a perception exquisitely keen into the heart of truth.

"The parting of the ways?" said I. "Yes; but can't you rest at the cross-roads? Can't you lead your present life--your husband and myself, both, just your friends?"

"Rupert has need of me," she replied very quickly. "He is a man in torment of soul. He has gone to this extreme of religious fanaticism because he is still uncertain of himself. We had another long talk to-day. I may help him."

"Does he deserve the sacrifice of your life?"

She did not take up my question directly; but sat for a few minutes with her chin on her hand looking into the fire.

"He is a man of evil pa.s.sions," she resumed, at last. "Drink and women mainly dragged him down. I knew the h.e.l.l of it during the short time of our married life. If he falls away now, he believes he is d.a.m.ned to all eternity. He believes in the material torture--flames and devils and pitchforks--of d.a.m.ned souls. He says in me alone lies his salvation. I must go. If the tin church gets too awful, I shall run over to Delphine Carrere for a week to steady my nerves."