The sun gleamed brightly on the window and on the bald head and varnished shoes of fat little Mr. Aeneas. It was too early for any customers to come, and Mr. Aeneas seemed to be greatly enjoying his leisure in the fresh air. He smiled complacently as he stood there, and well he might, for he was a great artist and was patronized by several crowned heads and not a few of the nobility. Only the evening before, Mr. Brummell had come into his shop and ordered a light summer mask, wishing to evade for a time the jealous vigilance of Lady Otterton. It pleased Mr. Aeneas to think that his art made him the recipient of so many high secrets. He smiled as he thought of the titled spendthrifts who, at this moment, perdus behind his masterpieces, passed unscathed among their creditors. He was the secular confessor of his day, always able to give absolution. A unique position!

  The street was as quiet as a village street. At an open window over the way, a handsome lady, wrapped in a muslin peignoir, sat sipping her cup of chocolate. It was La Signora Gambogi, and Mr. Aeneas made her many elaborate bows. This morning, however, her thoughts seemed far away, and she did not notice the little man’s polite efforts. Nettled at her negligence, Mr. Aeneas was on the point of retiring into his shop, when he saw Lord George Hell hastening up the street, with a posy of wild flowers in his hand.

  “His Lordship is up betimes!” he said to himself. “An early visit to La Signora, I suppose.”

  Not so, however. His Lordship came straight towards the mask-shop. Once he glanced up at Signora’s window and looked deeply annoyed when he saw her sitting there. He came quickly into the shop.

  “I want the mask of a saint,” he said.

  “Mask of a saint, my Lord? Certainly!” said Mr. Aeneas, briskly. “With or without halo? His Grace the Bishop of St. Aldred’s always wears his with a halo? Your Lordship does not wish for a halo? Certainly! If your Lordship will allow me to take his measurement——”

  “I must have the mask to-day,” Lord George said. “Have you none ready-made?”

  “Ah, I see. Required for immediate wear,” murmured Mr. Aeneas, dubiously. “You see, your Lordship takes a rather large size.” And he looked at the floor.

  “Julius!” he cried suddenly to his assistant, who was putting the finishing touches to a mask of Barbarossa which the young king of Zürremburg was to wear at his coronation the following week. “Julius! Do you remember the saint’s mask we made for Mr. Ripsby, a couple of years ago?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. “It’s stored upstairs.”

  “I thought so,” replied Mr. Aeneas. “Mr. Ripsby only had it on hire. Step upstairs, Julius, and bring it down. I fancy it is just what your Lordship would wish. Spiritual, yet handsome.”

  “Is it a mask that is even as a mirror of true love?” Lord George asked, gravely.

  “It was made precisely as such,” the mask-maker answered. “In fact it was made for Mr. Ripsby to wear at his silver wedding, and was very highly praised by the relatives of Mrs. Ripsby. Will your Lordship step into my little room?”

  So Mr. Aeneas led the way to his parlour behind the shop. He was elated by the distinguished acquisition to his clientèle, for hitherto Lord George had never patronized his business. He bustled round his parlour and insisted that his Lordship should take a chair and a pinch from his snuff-box, while the saint’s mask was being found.

  Lord George’s eye travelled along the rows of framed letters from great personages, which lined the walls. He did not see them though, for he was calculating the chances that La Gambogi had not observed him as he entered the mask-shop. He had come down so early that he had thought she would still be abed. That sinister old proverb, La jalouse se lève de bonne heure, rose in his memory. His eye fell unconsciously on a large, round mask made of dull silver, with the features of a human face traced over its surface in faint filigree.

  “Your Lordship wonders what mask that is?” chirped Mr. Aeneas, tapping the thing with one of his little finger nails.

  “What is that mask?” Lord George murmured, absently.

  “I ought not to divulge, my Lord,” said the mask-maker. “But I know your Lordship would respect a professional secret, a secret of which I am pardonable proud. This,” he said, “is a mask for the sun-god, Apollo, whom heaven bless!”

  “You astound me,” said Lord George.

  “Of no less a person, I do assure you. When Jupiter, his father, made him lord of the day, Apollo craved that he might sometimes see the doings of mankind in the hours of night time. Jupiter granted so reasonable a request, and when next Apollo had passed over the sky and hidden in the sea, and darkness had fallen on all the world, he raised his head above the waters that he might watch the doings of mankind in the hours of night time. But,” Mr. Aeneas added, with a smile, “his bright countenance made light all the darkness. Men rose from their couches or from their revels, wondering that day was so soon come, and went to their work. And Apollo sank weeping into the sea. ‘Surely,’ he cried, ‘it is a bitter thing that I alone, of all the gods, may not watch the world in the hours of night time. For in those hours, as I am told, men are even as gods are. They spill the wine and are wreathed with roses. Their daughters dance in the light of torches. They laugh to the sound of flutes. On their long couches they lie down at last, and sleep comes to kiss their eyelids. None of these things may I see. Wherefore the brightness of my beauty is even as a curse to me, and I would put it from me.’ And as he wept, Vulcan said to him, ‘I am not the least cunning of the gods, nor the least pitiful. Do not weep, for I will give you that which shall end your sorrow. Nor need you put from you the brightness of your beauty.’ And Vulcan made a mask of dull silver and fastened it across his brother’s face. And that night, thus masked, the sun-god rose from the sea and watched the doings of mankind in the night time. Nor any longer were men abashed by his bright beauty, for it was hidden by the mask of silver. Those whom he had so often seen haggard over their daily tasks, he saw feasting now and wreathed with red roses. He heard them laugh to the sound of flutes, as their daughters danced in the red light of torches. And when at length they lay down upon their soft couches and sleep kissed their eyelids, he sank back into the sea and hid his mask under a little rock in the bed of the sea. Nor have men ever known that Apollo watches them often in the night time, but fancied it to be some pale goddess.”

  “I myself have always thought it was Diana,” said Lord George Hell.

  “An error, my Lord!” said Mr. Aeneas, with a smile. “Ecce signum!” And he tapped the mask of dull silver.

  “Strange!” said his Lordship. “And pray how comes it that Apollo has ordered of you this new mask?”

  “He has always worn twelve new masks every year, inasmuch as no mask can endure for many nights the near brightness of his face, before which even a mask of the best and purest silver soon tarnishes and wears away. Centuries ago, Vulcan tired of making so very many masks. And so Apollo sent Mercury down to Athens, to the shop of Phoron, a Phœnician mask-maker of great skill. Phoron made Apollo’s masks for many years, and every month Mercury came to his shop for a new one. When Phoron died, another artist was chosen, and, when he died, another, and so on through all the ages of the world. Conceive, my Lord, my pride and pleasure when Mercury flew into my shop, one night last year, and made me Apollo’s warrant-holder. It is the highest privilege that any mask-maker can desire. And when I die,” said Mr. Aeneas, with some emotion, “Mercury will confer my post upon another.”

  “And do they pay you for your labour?” Lord George asked.

  Mr. Aeneas drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. “In Olympus, my Lord,” he said, “they have no currency. For any mask-maker, so high a privilege is its own reward. Yet the sun-god is generous. He shines more brightly into my shop than into any other. Nor does he suffer his rays to melt any waxen mask made by me, until its wearer doff it and it be done with.”

  At this moment Julius came in with the Ripsby mask. “I must ask your Lordship’s pardon, for having kept you so long,” pleaded Mr. Aeneas. “But I have a large store of old masks and they are imperfectly catalogued.”

  It certainly was a beautiful mask, with its smooth pink cheeks and devotional brows. It was made of the finest wax. Lord George took it gingerly in his hands and tried it on his face. It fitted à merveille.

  “Is the expression exactly as your Lordship would wish?” asked Mr. Aeneas.

  Lord George laid it on the table and studied it intently. “I wish it were more as a perfect mirror of true love,” he said at length. “It is too calm, too contemplative.”

  “Easily remedied!” said Mr. Aeneas. Selecting a fine pencil, he deftly drew the eyebrows closer to each other. With a brush steeped in some scarlet pigment, he put a fuller curve upon the lips. And behold! it was the mask of a saint who loves dearly. Lord George’s heart throbbed with pleasure.

  “And for how long does your Lordship wish to wear it?” asked Mr. Aeneas.

  “I must wear it until I die,” replied Lord George.

  “Kindly be seated then, I pray,” rejoined the little man. “For I must apply the mask with great care. Julius, you will assist me!”

  So, while Julius heated the inner side of the waxen mask over a little lamp, Mr. Aeneas stood over Lord George gently smearing his features with some sweet-scented pomade. Then he took the mask and powdered its inner side, quite soft and warm now, with a fluffy puff. “Keep quite still, for one instant,” he said, and clapped the mask firmly on his Lordship’s upturned face. So soon as he was sure of its perfect adhesion, he took from his assistant’s hand a silver file and a little wooden spatula, with which he proceeded to pare down the edge of the mask, where it joined the neck and ears. At length, all traces of the “join” were obliterated. It remained only to arrange the curls of the lordly wig over the waxen brow.

  The disguise was done. When Lord George looked through the eyelets of his mask into the mirror that was placed in his hand, he saw a face that was saintly, itself a mirror of true love. How wonderful it was! He felt his past was a dream. He felt he was a new man indeed. His voice went strangely through the mask’s parted lips, as he thanked Mr. Aeneas.

  “Proud to have served your Lordship,” said that little worthy, pocketing his fee of fifty guineas, while he bowed his customer out.

  When he reached the street, Lord George nearly uttered a curse through those sainted lips of his. For there, right in his way, stood La Gambogi, with a small pink parasol. She laid her hand upon his sleeve and called him softly by his name. He passed her by without a word. Again she confronted him.

  “I cannot let go so handsome a lover,” she laughed, “even though he spurn me! Do not spurn me, George. Give me your posy of wild flowers. Why, you never looked so lovingly at me in all your life!”

  “Madam,” said Lord George, sternly, “I have not the honour to know you.” And he passed on.

  The lady gazed after her lost lover with the blackest hatred in her eyes. Presently she beckoned across the road to a certain spy.

  And the spy followed him.

  III

  Lord George, greatly agitated, had turned into Piccadilly. It was horrible to have met this garish embodiment of his past on the very threshold of his fair future. The mask-maker’s elevating talk about the gods, followed by the initiative ceremony of his saintly mask, had driven all discordant memories from his love-thoughts of Jenny Mere. And then 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 to mar his sacred love. Yet, he knew her dark Italian nature, her passion of revenge. What was the line in Virgil? Spretaeque—something. Who knew but that somehow, sooner or later, she might come between him and his 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 know him behind his mask? Thank God! they did not. They merely laughed as he went 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, was perfect. Jenny Mere would not know him. He need fear no one but La Gambogi. But would not she betray his secret? He sighed.

  That night he was going to visit Garble’s and to declare his love to the little actress. He never doubted that she would love him for his saintly face. Had she not said, “That man whose face is wonderful as are the faces of the saints, to him I will give my true love”? She could not say now that his face was as a tarnished mirror of love. She would smile on 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 Hyde Park Gate told him it was not yet ten—ten of the morning. Twelve whole hours to wait before he could fall at Jenny’s feet! “I cannot spend that time in this place of memories,” he thought. So he hailed a yellow cabriolet and bade the jarvey drive him out to the village of Kensington.

  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 stood there thinking of Jenny, shone down on his altered face, but, though it shone very fiercely, it did not melt his waxen features. The old woodman, who had shown him his way, passed by under a load of faggots and 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 still flowed there in those days. On the moss of its bank he lay down and let its water ripple over his hand. Some bright pebble glistened under the surface, and, as he peered down at it, he saw in the stream the reflection of his mask. A great shame filled him that he should so cheat the girl he loved. Behind that fair mask there would still be the evil face that had repelled her. Could he be so base as to decoy her into love of that most ingenious deception? He was filled with a great pity for her, with a hatred of himself. And yet, he argued, was the mask indeed a mean trick? Surely it was a secret symbol of his true repentance and of his true love. His face was evil, because his life had been evil. He had seen a gracious girl, and of a sudden his very soul had changed. His face alone was the same as it had been. It was not just that 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 their eyes met, she blushed and hung her head. She looked like nothing but a tall child as she stood there, with her straight limp frock of lilac cotton and her sunburnt straw bonnet. He dared not speak; he could only gaze at her.

  Suddenly there perched astride the bough of a tree, at her side, that winged and laughing child in whose hand was a bow. Before Lord George could warn her, an arrow had flashed down and vanished in her heart, and Cupid 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 and knelt at her feet. It seemed more fitting that he should kneel before the gracious thing he was unworthy of. But she, knowing only that his face was as the face of a great saint, bent over him and touched him with 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 her tremulous 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 that he pressed to her lips were only waxen, he thrilled with happiness, in that mimic kiss. He held her close to him in his arms, and they were silent 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, in this wood. See! They are not withered.”

  But she was perplexed by his words and said to him, blushing, “How was it 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 posy and put it at her breast.

  And they rose from their knees and went into the wood, walking hand in hand. As they went, he asked the names of the flowers that grew under their feet. “These are primroses,” she would say. “Did you not know? And these are ladies’-feet, and these forget-me-nots. And that white flower, climbing up the trunks of the trees and trailing down so prettily from the branches, is called Astyanax. These little yellow things are buttercups. 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 wrong of me to have loved the flowers? Ought I to have thought more of those higher 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 to forget 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 and others bloomed in a night; how clever the convolvulus was at climbing, and how shy violets were, and why honeycups had folded petals. She told him of the birds, too, that sang in the wood, how she knew them all by their voices. “That is a chaffinch singing. Listen!” she said. And she tried to imitate its note, that her lover might remember. All the birds, according to her, were good, except the cuckoo, and whenever she heard him sing she would stop her ears, lest she should forgive him for robbing 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. And it is glad!”

 

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