<h2><SPAN name="V" id="V"></SPAN>V</h2>
<p>One morning, as he was helping Jenny to water the flowers, he said to
her suddenly, "Sweetheart, we had forgotten!"</p>
<p>"What was there we should forget?" asked Jenny, looking up from her
task.</p>
<p>"'Tis the mensiversary of our wedding," her husband answered gravely.
"We must not let it pass without some celebration."</p>
<p>"No indeed," she said, "we must not. What shall we do?"</p>
<p>Between them they decided upon an unusual feast. They would go into the
village 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 to
Herbert's shop, bought the buns and returned home in very high spirits,
George bearing a paper bag that held no less than twelve of the
wholesome delicacies. Under the plane-tree on the lawn Jenny sat her
down, and George stretched himself at her feet. They were loth to enjoy
their feast too soon. They dallied in childish anticipation. On the
little rustic table Jenny built up the buns, one above another, till
they looked like a tall pagoda. When, very gingerly, she had crowned the
structure 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 the
lawn. Swift as a kitten, Jenny chased the buns, as they rolled, hither
and thither, over the grass, catching them deftly with her hand. Then
she came back, flushed and merry under her tumbled hair, with her arm
full of buns. She began to put them back in the paper bag.</p>
<p>"Dear husband," she said, looking down to him, "Why do not you too smile
at my folly? Your grave face rebukes me. Smile, or I shall think I vex
you. Please smile a little."</p>
<p>But the mask could not smile, of course. It was made for a mirror of
true 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 a
smile. Love of you has bound them in spell."</p>
<p>"But I can laugh, though I love you. I do not understand." And she
wondered. He took her hand in his and stroked it gently, wishing it were
possible to smile. Some day, perhaps, she would tire of this monotonous
gravity, this rigid sweetness. It was not strange that she should long
for a little facial expression. They sat silently.</p>
<p>"Jenny, what is it?" he whispered suddenly. For Jenny, with wide-open
eyes, was gazing over his head, across the lawn. "Why do you look
frightened?"</p>
<p>"There is a strange woman smiling at me across the palings," she said.
"I do not know her."</p>
<p>Her husband's heart sank. Somehow, he dared not turn his head to the
intruder.</p>
<p>"She is nodding to me," said Jenny. "I think she is foreign, for she has
an evil face."</p>
<p>"Do not notice her," he whispered. "Does she look evil?"</p>
<p>"Very evil and very dark. She has a pink parasol. Her teeth are like
ivory."</p>
<p>"Do not notice her. Think! It is the mensiversary of our wedding,
dear!"</p>
<p>"I wish she would not smile at me. Her eyes are like bright blots of
ink."</p>
<p>"Let us eat our beautiful buns!"</p>
<p>"Oh, she is coming in!" George heard the latch of the gate jar. "Forbid
her to come in!" whispered Jenny, "I am afraid!" He heard the jar of
heels on the gravel path. Yet he dared not turn. Only he clasped Jenny's
hand more tightly, as he waited for the voice. It was La Gambogi's.</p>
<p>"Pray, pray, pardon me! I could not mistake the back of so old a
friend."</p>
<p>With the courage of despair, George turned and faced the woman.</p>
<p>"Even," she smiled, "though his face has changed marvellously."</p>
<p>"Madam," he said, rising to his full height and stepping between her and
his bride, "begone, I command you, from this garden. I do not see what
good is to be served by the renewal of our acquaintance."</p>
<p>"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 I
would crave estrangement."</p>
<p>"Madam," rejoined Lord George, with a tremor in his voice, "you see me
happy, living very peacefully with my bride——"</p>
<p>"To whom, I beseech you, old friend, present me."</p>
<p>"I would not," he said hotly, "desecrate her sweet name by speaking it
with so infamous a name as yours."</p>
<p>"Your choler hurts me, old friend," said La Gambogi, sinking composedly
upon the garden-seat and smoothing the silk of her skirts.</p>
<p>"Jenny," said George, "then do you retire, pending this lady's
departure, to the cottage." But Jenny clung to his arm. "I were less
frightened at your side," she whispered. "Do not send me away!"</p>
<p>"Suffer her pretty presence," said La Gambogi. "Indeed I am come this
long way from the heart of the town, that I may see her, no less than
you, George. My wish is only to befriend her. Why should she not set you
a 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 you
overlong, will be gone very soon. Are you expecting guests, George? <i>On
dirait une masque champêtre!</i>" She eyed the couple critically. "Your
wife's mask," she said, "is even better than yours."</p>
<p>"What does she mean?" whispered Jenny. "Oh, send her away!"</p>
<p>"Serpent," was all George could say, "crawl from our Eden, ere you
poison with your venom its fairest denizen."</p>
<p>La Gambogi rose. "Even <i>my</i> pride," she cried passionately, "knows
certain bounds. I have been forbearing, but even in <i>my</i> zeal for
friendship I will not be called 'serpent.' I will indeed be gone from
this 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 often
caressed, the lips that were dear to me!"</p>
<p>George started back.</p>
<p>"What does she mean?" whispered Jenny.</p>
<p>"In memory of our old friendship," continued La Gambogi, "grant me this
piteous favour. Show me your own face but for one instant, and I vow
that I will never again remind you that I live. Intercede for me, little
bride. Bid him unmask for me. You have more authority over him than I.
Doff his mask with your own uxorious fingers."</p>
<p>"What does she mean?" was the refrain of poor Jenny.</p>
<p>"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 the
garden."</p>
<p>"Doff your mask and I am gone."</p>
<p>George made a step of menace towards her.</p>
<p>"False saint!" she shrieked, "then <i>I</i> will unmask you."</p>
<p>Like a panther she sprang upon him and clawed at his waxen cheeks. Jenny
fell back, mute with terror. Vainly did George try to free himself from
his assailant, who writhed round and round him, clawing, clawing at what
Jenny fancied to be his face. With a wild cry, Jenny fell upon the
furious creature and tried, with all her childish strength, to release
her dear one. The combatives swayed to and fro, a revulsive trinity.
There was a loud pop, as though some great cork had been withdrawn, and
La Gambogi recoiled. She had torn away the mask. It lay before her upon
the lawn, upturned to the sky.</p>
<p>George stood motionless. La Gambogi stared up into his face, and her
dark flush died swiftly away. For there, staring back at her, was the
man 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's
face.</p>
<p>"Madam," he said, in the calm voice of despair, "your cheek may well
blanch, when you regard the ruin you have brought upon me. Nevertheless
do I pardon you. The gods have avenged, through you, the imposture I
wrought upon one who was dear to me. For that unpardonable sin I am
punished. As for my poor bride, whose love I stole by the means of that
waxen semblance, of her I cannot ask pardon. Ah, Jenny, Jenny, do not
look at me. Turn your eyes from the foul reality that I dissembled." He
shuddered and hid his face in his hands. "Do not look at me. I will go
from the garden. Nor will I ever curse you with the odious spectacle of
my face. Forget me, forget me."</p>
<p>But, as he turned to go, Jenny laid her hands upon his wrists and
besought him that he would look at her. "For indeed," she said, "I am
bewildered by your strange words. Why did you woo me under a mask? And
why do you imagine I could love you less dearly, seeing your own face?"</p>
<p>He looked into her eyes. On their violet surface he saw the tiny
reflection of his own face. He was filled with joy and wonder.</p>
<p>"Surely," said Jenny, "your face is even dearer to me, even fairer, than
the semblance that hid it and deceived me. I am not angry. 'Twas well
that you veiled from me the full glory of your face, for indeed I was
not worthy to behold it too soon. But I am your wife now. Let me look
always at your own face. Let the time of my probation be over. Kiss me
with your own lips."</p>
<p>So he took her in his arms, as though she had been a little child, and
kissed her with his own lips. She put her arms round his neck, and he
was 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.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></SPAN> <i>Lord Coleraine's Correspondence</i>, page 101.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></SPAN> <i>Contemporary Bucks</i>, vol. i, page 73.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></SPAN> It would seem, however, that, on special occasions, his
Lordship indulged in odd costumes. "I have seen him," says Captain
Tarleton (vol. i, p. 69), "attired as a French clown, as a sailor, or in
the crimson hose of a Sicilian grandee—<i>peu beau spectacle</i>. He never
disguised his face, whatever his costume, however."</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote"><p><SPAN name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></SPAN> I would refer my little readers once more to the pages of
<i>Contemporary Bucks</i>, where Captain Tarleton speculates upon the sudden
disappearance of Lord George Hell and describes its effect on the town.
"Not even the shrewdest," says he, "even gave a guess that would throw a
ray of revealing light on the <i>disparition</i> of this profligate man. It
was supposed that he carried off with him a little dancer from Garble's,
at which <i>haunt of pleasantry</i> he was certainly on the night he
vanished, and whither the young lady never returned again. Garble
declared he had been compensated for her perfidy, but that he was sure
she had not succumbed to his Lordship, having in fact rejected him
soundly. Did his Lordship, say the cronies, take his life—and hers? <i>Il
n'y a pas d'épreuve.</i> The <i>most astonishing</i> matter is that the runaway
should have written out a complete will, restoring all money he had won
at cards, etc. etc. This certainly corroborates the opinion that he was
seized with a sudden repentance and fled over the seas to a foreign
monastery, where he died at last in <i>religious silence</i>. That's as it
may, but many a spendthrift found his pocket clinking with guineas, a
not unpleasant sound, I declare. The Regent himself was benefited by the
odd will, and old Sir Follard Follard found himself once more in the
ancestral home he had forfeited. As for Lord George's mansion in St.
James's Square, that was sold with all its appurtenances, and the money
fetched by the sale, no bagatelle, was given to various good objects,
according to my Lord's stated wishes. Well, many of us blessed his
name—we had cursed it often enough. Peace to his ashes, in whatever urn
they may be resting, on the billows of whatever ocean they float!"</p>
</div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="BY_THE_SAME_AUTHOR" id="BY_THE_SAME_AUTHOR"></SPAN><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></h2>
<h3>A BEAUTIFUL EDITION OF</h3>
<h3>THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE</h3>
<h3>Illustrated in Colour by GEORGE SHERINGHAM</h3>
<blockquote><p><i>Daily Graphic.</i>—"A superb edition of a modern classic."</p>
<p><i>Scotsman.</i>—"Gracefully illustrated in colour, 'The Happy
Hypocrite' makes an exquisite gift book.... For old or young
the book is full of a fanciful beauty."</p>
<p><i>Country Life.</i>—"Mr Sheringham's delightful drawings printed
in colour make this volume as fascinating a 'colour book' as
has been seen for some time."</p>
<p><i>Times.</i>—"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."</p>
</blockquote>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<h3>THE WORKS OF MAX BEERBOHM WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHY BY JOHN LANE</h3>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">MORE<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">YET AGAIN<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A CHRISTMAS GARLAND<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">ZULEIKA DOBSON<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">CARICATURES OF TWENTY-FIVE GENTLEMEN<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">THE POET'S CORNER<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">A BOOK OF CARICATURES<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">FIFTY CARICATURES<br/></span></div>
</div>
<blockquote><p><i>Daily Telegraph.</i>—"It is very seldom that a writer can treat
with such wit and humour, blended with the most delicate fancy,
such unpromising subjects as are included in this collection.
In the ordinary events of the moment, in the most prosaic
institutions, he finds something wonderful or something
bizarre: from the dreariest of subjects he draws matter for
quiet laughter."</p>
<p><i>Pall Mall.</i>—"A pretty wit.... Mr Beerbohm has clear vision,
discrimination, and like the best of paradox makers, always a
fund of good sense."</p>
<p><i>Illustrated London News.</i>—"He is altogether delightful in his
whimsical moods.... 'More' is a book to buy and to turn to at
odd moments."</p>
<p><i>Scotsman.</i>—"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."</p>
<p><i>Referee.</i>—"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.' ... <i>Maximum Superbus</i>."</p>
<p><i>Daily Telegraph.</i>—"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.'"</p>
<p><i>Academy.</i>—"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."</p>
</blockquote>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<h2><i>BOOKS BY RICHARD KING</i></h2>
<h3>OVER THE FIRESIDE (WITH SILENT FRIENDS)</h3>
<h4>With an Introduction by Sir <span class="smcap">Arthur Pearson</span>.</h4>
<h3>WITH SILENT FRIENDS</h3>
<h4>Essay in Everyday Philosophy. Seventeenth Edition.</h4>
<h3>SECOND BOOK OF SILENT FRIENDS</h3>
<h4>Third Edition.</h4>
<h3>PASSION AND POT-POURRI</h3>
<h4>Third Edition.</h4>
<h3>BELOW THE SURFACE</h3>
<h4>Footnotes to the Everyday.</h4>
<h3>SOME CONFESSIONS OF AN AVERAGE MAN</h3>
<blockquote><p><i>The Times.</i>—"Mr King is one of the Masters of the causerie,
as those who have read his books well know."</p>
<p><i>Evening Standard.</i>—"You will enjoy many pleasant hours with
one of our most intimate essayists."</p>
<p><i>Daily Express.</i>—"Mr King's easy, intimate, sympathetic style
has made for him thousands of friends."</p>
<p><span class="smcap">C. K. Shorter</span> in <i>The Sphere</i>.—"Richard King is a man of
genius."</p>
</blockquote>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />