The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne | Page 5

nearly fainted. He is the correctest of English valets,
and his only vice, I believe, is the accordion, on which he plays jaunty
hymn-tunes when I am out of the house. When he had recovered he
asked me, respectfully, how they were to understand each other. I
explained that he would either have to learn French or teach Antoinette
English. What they have done, I gather, is to invent a nightmare of a
lingua franca in which they appear to hold amicable converse. Now
and again they have differences of opinion, as to-day, over my taste for
_veau a l'oseille_; but, on the whole, their relations are harmonious, and
she keeps him in a good-humour: Naturally, she feeds the brute.
The duty-impulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by
marriage, led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the other, Mrs.
Ralph Ordeyne. She is of a different type from her sister-in-law, being

a devout Roman Catholic, and since the terrible affliction of two years
ago has concerned herself more deeply than ever in the affairs of her
religion. She lives in a gloomy little house in a sunless Kensington
by-street. Only my Cousin Rosalie was at home. She gave me tea made
with tepid water and talked about the Earl's Court Exhibition, which
she had not visited, and a new novel, of which she had vaguely heard. I
tried in vain to infuse some life into the conversation. I don't believe
she is interested in anything. She even spoke lukewarmly of Farm
Street.
I pity her intensely. She is thin, thirty, colourless, bosomless. I should
say she was passionless--a predestined spinster. She has never drunk
hot tea or lived in the sun or laughed a hearty laugh. I remember once,
at my wit's end for talk, telling her the old story of Theodore Hook
accosting a pompous stranger on the street with the polite request that
he might know whether he was anybody in particular. She said, without
a smile, "Yes, it was astonishing how rude some people could be."
And her godfathers and godmothers gave her the name of Rosalie.
Mine might just as well have called me Hercules or Puck.
She told me that her mother intended to ask me to dine with them one
evening next week. When was I free? I chose Thursday. Oddly enough
I enjoy dining there, although we are on the most formal terms, not
having got beyond the "Sir Marcus" and "Mrs. Ordeyne." But both
mother and daughter are finely bred gentlewomen, and one meets few,
oh, very, very few among the ladies of to-day.
I reached home about six and found a telegram awaiting me.
"_Sorry can't give you dinner. Cook in an impossible condition. Come
later._ Judith."
I must confess to a sigh of relief. I am fond of Judith and sorry for her
domestic infelicities, though why she should maintain that alcoholized
wretch in her kitchen passes my comprehension. If there is one thing
women do not understand it is the selection, the ordering, and the
treatment of domestic servants. The mere man manages much better.

But, that aside, Antoinette has spoiled me for Judith's cook's cookery. I
breathed a little sigh of content and summoned Stenson to inform him
that I would dine at home.
A great package of books from a second-hand bookseller arrived during
dinner. Among them were the nine volumes of Pietro Gianone's Istoria
Civile del Regno di Napoli, a copy of which I ought to have possessed
long ago. It is dedicated to the "Most Puissant and Felicitous Prince
Charles VI, the Great, by God crowned Emperor of the Romans, King
of Germany, Spain, Naples, Hungary, Bohemia, Sicily, etcetera." Is
there a living soul in God's universe who has a spark of admiration for
this most puissant and most felicitous monarch crowned by God
Emperor and King of the greater part of Europe (and docked of most of
his pretensions by the Treaty of Utrecht)? We only remember the
forcible-feeble person by his Pragmatic Sanction, and otherwise his
personality has left in history not the remotest trace. And yet, on the
12th February, 1723, a profoundly erudite, subtle, and picturesque
historian grovels before the man and subscribes himself "Of your Holy
Caesarean and Catholic Majesty the most humble and most devoted
and most obsequious vassal and slave Pietro Gianone." What ruthless
judgments posterity passes on once enormous reputations! In Gianone's
admirable introduction we hear of "_il celebre Arthur Duck, il quale
oltro a' con confini della sua Inghilterra volle in altri a piu lontani Paesi
andav rintracciando l'uso a l'autorita delle romane leggi ne' nuovi
domini de' Principi cristiani; e di quelle di ciascheduna Nazione volle
ancora aver conto: le ricerco nella vicina Scozia, e nell' Ibernia;
trapasso nella Francia, e nella