III
Lord George, greatly agitated, had turned into Piccadilly. It washorrible to have met this garish embodiment of his past on the verythreshold of his fair future. The mask-maker's elevating talk about thegods, followed by the initiative ceremony of his saintly mask, haddriven all discordant memories from his love-thoughts of Jenny Mere. Andthen to be met by La Gambogi! It might be that, after his stern words,she would not seek to cross his path again. Surely she would not seek tomar his sacred love. Yet, he knew her dark Italian nature, her passionof revenge. What was the line in Virgil? _Spretaeque_--something. Whoknew but that somehow, sooner or later, she might come between him andhis love?
He was about to pass Lord Barrymore's mansion. Count Karoloff and Mr.FitzClarence were lounging in one of the lower windows. Would they knowhim behind his mask? Thank God! they did not. They merely laughed as hewent by, and Mr. FitzClarence cried in a mocking voice, "Sing us a hymn,Mr. Whatever-your-saint's-name is!" The mask, then, at least, wasperfect. Jenny Mere would not know him. He need fear no one but LaGambogi. But would not she betray his secret? He sighed.
That night he was going to visit Garble's and to declare his love to thelittle actress. He never doubted that she would love him for his saintlyface. Had she not said, "That man whose face is wonderful as are thefaces of the saints, to him I will give my true love"? She could notsay now that his face was as a tarnished mirror of love. She would smileon him. She would be his bride. But would La Gambogi be at Garble's?
The operette would not be over before ten that night. The clock in HydePark Gate told him it was not yet ten--ten of the morning. Twelve wholehours to wait before he could fall at Jenny's feet! "I cannot spend thattime in this place of memories," he thought. So he hailed a yellowcabriolet and bade the jarvey drive him out to the village ofKensington.
When they came to the little wood where he had been but a few hours ago,Lord George dismissed the jarvey. The sun, that had risen as he stoodthere thinking of Jenny, shone down on his altered face, but, though itshone very fiercely, it did not melt his waxen features. The oldwoodman, who had shown him his way, passed by under a load of faggotsand did not know him. He wandered among the trees. It was a lovely wood.
Presently he came to the bank of that tiny stream, the Ken, which stillflowed there in those days. On the moss of its bank he lay down and letits water ripple over his hand. Some bright pebble glistened under thesurface, and, as he peered down at it, he saw in the stream thereflection of his mask. A great shame filled him that he should so cheatthe girl he loved. Behind that fair mask there would still be the evilface that had repelled her. Could he be so base as to decoy her intolove of that most ingenious deception? He was filled with a great pityfor her, with a hatred of himself. And yet, he argued, was the maskindeed a mean trick? Surely it was a secret symbol of his truerepentance and of his true love. His face was evil, because his life hadbeen evil. He had seen a gracious girl, and of a sudden his very soulhad changed. His face alone was the same as it had been. It was not justthat his face should be evil still.
There was the faint sound of some one sighing, Lord George looked up,and there, on the further bank, stood Jenny Mere, watching him. As theireyes met, she blushed and hung her head. She looked like nothing but atall child as she stood there, with her straight limp frock of lilaccotton and her sunburnt straw bonnet. He dared not speak; he could onlygaze at her.
Suddenly there perched astride the bough of a tree, at her side, thatwinged and laughing child in whose hand was a bow. Before Lord Georgecould warn her, an arrow had flashed down and vanished in her heart, andCupid had flown away.
No cry of pain did she utter, but stretched out her arms to her lover,with a glad smile. He leapt quite lightly over the little stream andknelt at her feet. It seemed more fitting that he should kneel beforethe gracious thing he was unworthy of. But she, knowing only that hisface was as the face of a great saint, bent over him and touched himwith her hand.
"Surely," she said, "you are that good man for whom I have waited.Therefore do not kneel to me, but rise and suffer me to kiss your hand.For my love of you is lowly, and my heart is all yours."
But he answered, looking up into her fond eyes, "Nay, you are a queen,and I must needs kneel in your presence."
But she shook her head wistfully, and she knelt down, also, in hertremulous ecstasy, before him. And as they knelt, the one to the other,the tears came into her eyes, and he kissed her. Though the lips thathe pressed to her lips were only waxen, he thrilled with happiness, inthat mimic kiss. He held her close to him in his arms, and they weresilent in the sacredness of their love.
From his breast he took the posy of wild flowers that he had gathered.
"They are for you," he whispered. "I gathered them for you hours ago, inthis wood. See! They are not withered."
But she was perplexed by his words and said to him, blushing, "How wasit for me that you gathered them, though you had never seen me?"
"I gathered them for you," he answered, "knowing I should soon see you.How was it that you, who had never seen me, yet waited for me?"
"I waited, knowing I should see you at last." And she kissed the posyand put it at her breast.
And they rose from their knees and went into the wood, walking hand inhand. As they went, he asked the names of the flowers that grew undertheir feet. "These are primroses," she would say. "Did you not know? Andthese are ladies'-feet, and these forget-me-nots. And that white flower,climbing up the trunks of the trees and trailing down so prettily fromthe branches, is called Astyanax. These little yellow things arebuttercups. Did you not know?" And she laughed.
"I know the names of none of the flowers," he said.
She looked up into his face and said timidly, "Is it worldly and wrongof me to have loved the flowers? Ought I to have thought more of thosehigher things that are unseen?"
His heart smote him. He could not answer her simplicity.
"Surely the flowers are good, and did you not gather this posy for me?"she pleaded. "But if you do not love them, I must not. And I will try toforget their names. For I must try to be like you in all things."
"Love the flowers always," he said. "And teach me to love them."
So she told him all about the flowers, how some grew very slowly andothers bloomed in a night; how clever the convolvulus was at climbing,and how shy violets were, and why honeycups had folded petals. She toldhim of the birds, too, that sang in the wood, how she knew them all bytheir voices. "That is a chaffinch singing. Listen!" she said. And shetried to imitate its note, that her lover might remember. All the birds,according to her, were good, except the cuckoo, and whenever she heardhim sing she would stop her ears, lest she should forgive him forrobbing the nests. "Every day," she said, "I have come to the wood,because I was lonely, and it seemed to pity me. But now I have you. Andit is glad!"
She clung closer to his arm, and he kissed her. She pushed back herstraw bonnet, so that it dangled from her neck by its ribands, and laidher little head against his shoulder. For a while he forgot histreachery to her, thinking only of his love and her love. Suddenly shesaid to him, "Will you try not to be angry with me, if I tell yousomething? It is something that will seem dreadful to you."
"_Pauvrette_," he answered, "you cannot have anything very dreadful totell."
"I am very poor," she said, "and every night I dance in a theatre. It isthe only thing I can do to earn my bread. Do you despise me because Idance?" She looked up shyly at him and saw that his face was full oflove for her and not angry.
"Do you like dancing?" he asked.
"I hate it," she answered, quickly. "I hate it indeed. Yet--to-night,alas! I must dance again in the theatre."
"You need never dance again," said her lover. "I am rich and I will paythem to release you. You shall dance only for me. Sweetheart, it cannotbe much more than noon. Let us go into the town, while there is time,and you shall be made my bride, and I your bridegroom, this very day.Why should you and I be lonely?"
"I
do not know," she said.
So they walked back through the wood, taking a narrow path which Jennysaid would lead them quickest to the village. And, as they went, theycame to a tiny cottage, with a garden that was full of flowers. The oldwoodman was leaning over its paling, and he nodded to them as theypassed.
"I often used to envy the woodman," said Jenny, "living in that dearlittle cottage."
"Let us live there, then," said Lord George. And he went back and askedthe old man if he were not unhappy, living there alone.
"'Tis a poor life here for me," the old man answered. "No folk come tothe wood, except little children, now and again, to play, or lovers likeyou. But they seldom notice me. And in winter I am alone with JackFrost! Old men love merrier company than that. Oh! I shall die in thesnow with my faggots on my back. A poor life here!"
"I will give you gold for your cottage and whatever is in it, and thenyou can go and live happily in the town," Lord George said. And he tookfrom his coat a note for two hundred guineas, and held it across thepalings.
"Lovers are poor foolish derry-docks," the old man muttered. "But Ithank you kindly, Sir. This little sum will keep me cosy, as long as Ilast. Come into the cottage as soon as can be. It's a lonely place anddoes my heart good to depart from it."
"We are going to be married this afternoon, in the town," said LordGeorge. "We will come straight back to our home."
"May you be happy!" replied the woodman. "You'll find me gone when youcome."
And the lovers thanked him and went their way.
"Are you very rich?" Jenny asked. "Ought you to have bought the cottagefor that great price?"
"Would you love me as much if I were quite poor, little Jenny?" he askedher after a pause.
"I did not know you were rich when I saw you across the stream," shesaid.
And in his heart Lord George made a good resolve. He would put away fromhim all his worldly possessions. All the money that he had won at theclubs, fairly or foully, all that hideous accretion of gold guineas, hewould distribute among the comrades he had impoverished. As he walked,with the sweet and trustful girl at his side, the vague record of hisinfamy assailed him, and a look of pain shot behind his smooth mask. Hewould atone. He would shun no sacrifice that might cleanse his soul. Allhis fortune he would put from him. Follard Chase he would give back toSir Follard. He would sell his house in St. James's Square. He wouldkeep some little part of his patrimony, enough for him in the wood withJenny, but no more.
"I shall be quite poor, Jenny!" he said.
And they talked of the things that lovers love to talk of, how happythey would be together and how economical. As they were passingHerbert's pastry shop, which as my little readers know, still stands inKensington, Jenny looked up rather wistfully into her lover's asceticface.
"Should you think me greedy," she asked him, "if I wanted a bun? Theyhave beautiful buns here!"
Buns! The simple word started latent memories of his childhood. Jennywas only a child after all. Buns! He had forgotten what they were like.And as they looked at the piles of variegated cakes in the window, hesaid to her, "Which are buns, Jenny? I should like to have one, too."
"I am almost afraid of you," she said. "You must despise me so. Are youso good that you deny yourself all the vanity and pleasure that mostpeople love? It is wonderful not to know what buns are! The round,brown, shiny cakes, with little raisins in them, are buns."
So he bought two beautiful buns, and they sat together in the shop,eating them. Jenny bit hers rather diffidently, but was reassured whenhe said that they must have buns very often in the cottage. Yes! he, thefamous toper and _gourmet_ of St. James's, relished this homely fare, asit passed through the insensible lips of his mask to the palate. Heseemed to rise, from the consumption of his bun, a better man.
But there was no time to lose now. It was already past two o'clock. Sohe got a chaise from the inn opposite the pastry-shop, and they wereswiftly driven to Doctors' Commons. There he purchased a speciallicence. When the clerk asked him to write his name upon it, hehesitated. What name should he assume? Under a mask he had wooed thisgirl, under an unreal name he must make her his bride. He loathedhimself for a trickster. He had vilely stolen from her the love shewould not give him. Even now, should he not confess himself the manwhose face had frightened her, and go his way? And yet, surely, it wasnot just that he, whose soul was transfigured, should bear his old name.Surely George Hell was dead, and his name had died with him. So hedipped a pen in the ink and wrote "George Heaven," for want of a bettername. And Jenny wrote "Jenny Mere" beneath it.
An hour later they were married according to the simple rites of a dearlittle registry-office in Covent Garden.
And in the cool evening they went home.