V
One morning, as he was helping Jenny to water the flowers, he said toher suddenly, "Sweetheart, we had forgotten!"
"What was there we should forget?" asked Jenny, looking up from hertask.
"'Tis the mensiversary of our wedding," her husband answered gravely."We must not let it pass without some celebration."
"No indeed," she said, "we must not. What shall we do?"
Between them they decided upon an unusual feast. They would go into thevillage and buy a bag of beautiful buns and eat them in the afternoon.So soon, then, as all the flowers were watered, they set forth toHerbert's shop, bought the buns and returned home in very high spirits,George bearing a paper bag that held no less than twelve of thewholesome delicacies. Under the plane-tree on the lawn Jenny sat herdown, and George stretched himself at her feet. They were loth to enjoytheir feast too soon. They dallied in childish anticipation. On thelittle rustic table Jenny built up the buns, one above another, tillthey looked like a tall pagoda. When, very gingerly, she had crowned thestructure with the twelfth bun, her husband looking on with admiration,she clapped her hands and danced about it. She laughed so loudly (for,though she was only sixteen years old, she had a great sense of humour)that the table shook, and alas! the pagoda tottered and fell to thelawn. Swift as a kitten, Jenny chased the buns, as they rolled, hitherand thither, over the grass, catching them deftly with her hand. Thenshe came back, flushed and merry under her tumbled hair, with her armfull of buns. She began to put them back in the paper bag.
"Dear husband," she said, looking down to him, "Why do not you too smileat my folly? Your grave face rebukes me. Smile, or I shall think I vexyou. Please smile a little."
But the mask could not smile, of course. It was made for a mirror oftrue love, and it was grave and immobile. "I am very much amused, dear,"he said, "at the fall of the buns, but my lips will not curve to asmile. Love of you has bound them in spell."
"But I can laugh, though I love you. I do not understand." And shewondered. He took her hand in his and stroked it gently, wishing it werepossible to smile. Some day, perhaps, she would tire of this monotonousgravity, this rigid sweetness. It was not strange that she should longfor a little facial expression. They sat silently.
"Jenny, what is it?" he whispered suddenly. For Jenny, with wide-openeyes, was gazing over his head, across the lawn. "Why do you lookfrightened?"
"There is a strange woman smiling at me across the palings," she said."I do not know her."
Her husband's heart sank. Somehow, he dared not turn his head to theintruder.
"She is nodding to me," said Jenny. "I think she is foreign, for she hasan evil face."
"Do not notice her," he whispered. "Does she look evil?"
"Very evil and very dark. She has a pink parasol. Her teeth are likeivory."
"Do not notice her. Think! It is the mensiversary of our wedding,dear!"
"I wish she would not smile at me. Her eyes are like bright blots ofink."
"Let us eat our beautiful buns!"
"Oh, she is coming in!" George heard the latch of the gate jar. "Forbidher to come in!" whispered Jenny, "I am afraid!" He heard the jar ofheels on the gravel path. Yet he dared not turn. Only he clasped Jenny'shand more tightly, as he waited for the voice. It was La Gambogi's.
"Pray, pray, pardon me! I could not mistake the back of so old afriend."
With the courage of despair, George turned and faced the woman.
"Even," she smiled, "though his face has changed marvellously."
"Madam," he said, rising to his full height and stepping between her andhis bride, "begone, I command you, from this garden. I do not see whatgood is to be served by the renewal of our acquaintance."
"Acquaintance!" murmured La Gambogi, with an arch of her beetle-brows."Surely we were friends, rather, nor is my esteem for you so dead that Iwould crave estrangement."
"Madam," rejoined Lord George, with a tremor in his voice, "you see mehappy, living very peacefully with my bride----"
"To whom, I beseech you, old friend, present me."
"I would not," he said hotly, "desecrate her sweet name by speaking itwith so infamous a name as yours."
"Your choler hurts me, old friend," said La Gambogi, sinking composedlyupon the garden-seat and smoothing the silk of her skirts.
"Jenny," said George, "then do you retire, pending this lady'sdeparture, to the cottage." But Jenny clung to his arm. "I were lessfrightened at your side," she whispered. "Do not send me away!"
"Suffer her pretty presence," said La Gambogi. "Indeed I am come thislong way from the heart of the town, that I may see her, no less thanyou, George. My wish is only to befriend her. Why should she not set youa mannerly example, giving me welcome? Come and sit by me, little bride,for I have things to tell you. Though you reject my friendship, give me,at least, the slight courtesy of audience. I will not detain youoverlong, will be gone very soon. Are you expecting guests, George? _Ondirait une masque champetre!_" She eyed the couple critically. "Yourwife's mask," she said, "is even better than yours."
"What does she mean?" whispered Jenny. "Oh, send her away!"
"Serpent," was all George could say, "crawl from our Eden, ere youpoison with your venom its fairest denizen."
La Gambogi rose. "Even _my_ pride," she cried passionately, "knowscertain bounds. I have been forbearing, but even in _my_ zeal forfriendship I will not be called 'serpent.' I will indeed be gone fromthis rude place. Yet, ere I go, there is a boon I will deign to beg.Show me, oh, show me but once again, the dear face I have so oftencaressed, the lips that were dear to me!"
George started back.
"What does she mean?" whispered Jenny.
"In memory of our old friendship," continued La Gambogi, "grant me thispiteous favour. Show me your own face but for one instant, and I vowthat I will never again remind you that I live. Intercede for me, littlebride. Bid him unmask for me. You have more authority over him than I.Doff his mask with your own uxorious fingers."
"What does she mean?" was the refrain of poor Jenny.
"If," said George, gazing sternly at his traitress, "you do not go now,of your own will, I must drive you, man though I am, violently from thegarden."
"Doff your mask and I am gone."
George made a step of menace towards her.
"False saint!" she shrieked, "then _I_ will unmask you."
Like a panther she sprang upon him and clawed at his waxen cheeks. Jennyfell back, mute with terror. Vainly did George try to free himself fromhis assailant, who writhed round and round him, clawing, clawing at whatJenny fancied to be his face. With a wild cry, Jenny fell upon thefurious creature and tried, with all her childish strength, to releaseher dear one. The combatives swayed to and fro, a revulsive trinity.There was a loud pop, as though some great cork had been withdrawn, andLa Gambogi recoiled. She had torn away the mask. It lay before her uponthe lawn, upturned to the sky.
George stood motionless. La Gambogi stared up into his face, and herdark flush died swiftly away. For there, staring back at her, was theman she had unmasked, but lo! his face was even as his mask had been.Line for line, feature for feature, it was the same. 'Twas a saint'sface.
"Madam," he said, in the calm voice of despair, "your cheek may wellblanch, when you regard the ruin you have brought upon me. Neverthelessdo I pardon you. The gods have avenged, through you, the imposture Iwrought upon one who was dear to me. For that unpardonable sin I ampunished. As for my poor bride, whose love I stole by the means of thatwaxen semblance, of her I cannot ask pardon. Ah, Jenny, Jenny, do notlook at me. Turn your eyes from the foul reality that I dissembled." Heshuddered and hid his face in his hands. "Do not look at me. I will gofrom the garden. Nor will I ever curse you with the odious spectacle ofmy face. Forget me, forget me."
But, as he turned to go, Jenny laid her hands upon his wrists andbesought him that he would look at her. "For indeed," she said, "I ambewildered by your strange words. Why did you woo me under a mask? Andwhy do you imagin
e I could love you less dearly, seeing your own face?"
He looked into her eyes. On their violet surface he saw the tinyreflection of his own face. He was filled with joy and wonder.
"Surely," said Jenny, "your face is even dearer to me, even fairer, thanthe semblance that hid it and deceived me. I am not angry. 'Twas wellthat you veiled from me the full glory of your face, for indeed I wasnot worthy to behold it too soon. But I am your wife now. Let me lookalways at your own face. Let the time of my probation be over. Kiss mewith your own lips."
So he took her in his arms, as though she had been a little child, andkissed her with his own lips. She put her arms round his neck, and hewas happier than he had ever been. They were alone in the garden now.Nor lay the mask any longer upon the lawn, for the sun had melted it.
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
A BEAUTIFUL EDITION OF
THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
Illustrated in Colour by GEORGE SHERINGHAM
_Daily Graphic._--"A superb edition of a modern classic."
_Scotsman._--"Gracefully illustrated in colour, 'The Happy Hypocrite' makes an exquisite gift book.... For old or young the book is full of a fanciful beauty."
_Country Life._--"Mr Sheringham's delightful drawings printed in colour make this volume as fascinating a 'colour book' as has been seen for some time."
_Times._--"Illustrated by Mr George Sheringham, this edition is one which any parent who duly respects himself will steal from the schoolroom shelves and keep upon his own.... The variety of Mr Sheringham's illustrations is wide.... Delicious ornament, subtle appreciation of the author's spirit, gracious fantasy, a fruitful joy in the coxcombry and style of the period--these help to produce a work which gives in an unusual degree the impression that the artist liked doing it."
* * * * *
THE WORKS OF MAX BEERBOHM WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHY BY JOHN LANE
MORE
YET AGAIN
A CHRISTMAS GARLAND
ZULEIKA DOBSON
CARICATURES OF TWENTY-FIVE GENTLEMEN
THE POET'S CORNER
A BOOK OF CARICATURES
FIFTY CARICATURES
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_Pall Mall._--"A pretty wit.... Mr Beerbohm has clear vision, discrimination, and like the best of paradox makers, always a fund of good sense."
_Illustrated London News._--"He is altogether delightful in his whimsical moods.... 'More' is a book to buy and to turn to at odd moments."
_Scotsman._--"Readers who have grappled with 'The Works of Max Beerbohm' will stagger beneath the announcement that 'More' has come from the same hand.... It is not so much what he is talking about that matters in the case of this author, as what he says. He writes oddly, but is always amusing: a pleasant and readable exposition of the London way of looking at life."
_Referee._--"Not long ago 'The Works of Max Beerbohm' were published in one slim volume. Polite literature has now been enriched by the same author's 'More.' ... _Maximum Superbus_."
_Daily Telegraph._--"When some three years ago the public were informed that they could buy 'The Works of Max Beerbohm' for a small sum, those who had not followed contemporary letters very closely imagined that the long-forgotten volumes of some bygone author were offered for sale in the lump, and scented a bargain with which to fill the gaps in their bookshelves. In the small book which comprised 'the works' they got their bargain. They have now a chance of acquiring 'More.'"
_Academy._--"Mr Beerbohm can think and observe and write. He has the uncommon gift of seeing clearly the other side of things. He can stand aside impartially and watch contemporary life with the eye of the historian: his fastidiousness, when disciplined, is exquisite; his appreciation of the best is sound."
* * * * *
_BOOKS BY RICHARD KING_
OVER THE FIRESIDE (WITH SILENT FRIENDS)
With an Introduction by Sir ARTHUR PEARSON.
WITH SILENT FRIENDS
Essay in Everyday Philosophy. Seventeenth Edition.
SECOND BOOK OF SILENT FRIENDS
Third Edition.
PASSION AND POT-POURRI
Third Edition.
BELOW THE SURFACE
Footnotes to the Everyday.
SOME CONFESSIONS OF AN AVERAGE MAN
_The Times._--"Mr King is one of the Masters of the causerie, as those who have read his books well know."
_Evening Standard._--"You will enjoy many pleasant hours with one of our most intimate essayists."
_Daily Express._--"Mr King's easy, intimate, sympathetic style has made for him thousands of friends."
C. K. SHORTER in _The Sphere_.--"Richard King is a man of genius."
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