The Happy Hypocrite: A Fairy Tale for Tired Men

  IV

  In the cottage that had been the woodman's they had a wonderfulhoneymoon. No king and queen in any palace of gold were happier thanthey. For them their tiny cottage was a palace, and the flowers thatfilled the garden were their courtiers. Long and careless and full ofkisses were the days of their reign.

  Sometimes, indeed, strange dreams troubled Lord George's sleep. Once hedreamed that he stood knocking and knocking at the great door of acastle. It was a bitter night. The frost enveloped him. No one came.Presently he heard a footstep in the hall beyond, and a pair offrightened eyes peered at him through the grill. Jenny was scanning hisface. She would not open to him. With tears and wild words he besoughther, but she would not open to him. Then, very stealthily he crept roundthe castle and found a small casement in the wall. It was open. Heclimbed swiftly, quietly, through it. In the darkness of the room someone ran to him and kissed him gladly. It was Jenny. With a cry of joyand shame he awoke. By his side lay Jenny, sleeping like a little child.

  After all, what was a dream to him? It could not mar the reality of hisdaily happiness. He cherished his true penitence for the evil he haddone in the past. The past! That was indeed the only unreal thing thatlingered in his life. Every day its substance dwindled, grew fainteryet, as he lived his rustic honeymoon. Had he not utterly put it fromhim? Had he not, a few hours after his marriage, written to his lawyer,declaring solemnly that he, Lord George Hell, had forsworn the world,that he was where no man would find him, that he desired all hisworldly goods to be distributed, thus and thus, among these and those ofhis companions? By this testament he had verily atoned for the wrong hehad done, had made himself dead indeed to the world.

  No address had he written upon this document. Though its injunctionswere final and binding, it could betray no clue of his hiding-place. Forthe rest, no one would care to seek him out. He, who had done no good tohuman creature, would pass unmourned out of memory. The clubs,doubtless, would laugh and puzzle over his strange recantations, enviousof whomever he had enriched. They would say 'twas a good riddance of arogue, and soon forget him.[4] But she, whose prime patron he had been,who had loved him in her vile fashion, La Gambogi, would she forget himeasily, like the rest? As the sweet days went by, her spectre, also,grew fainter and less formidable. She knew his mask indeed, but howshould she find him in the cottage near Kensington? _Devia dulcedolatebrarum!_ He was safe-hidden with his bride. As for the Italian, shemight search and search--or had forgotten him, in the arms of anotherlover.

  [Footnote 4: I would refer my little readers once more to the pages of_Contemporary Bucks_, where Captain Tarleton speculates upon the suddendisappearance of Lord George Hell and describes its effect on the town."Not even the shrewdest," says he, "even gave a guess that would throw aray of revealing light on the _disparition_ of this profligate man. Itwas supposed that he carried off with him a little dancer from Garble's,at which _haunt of pleasantry_ he was certainly on the night hevanished, and whither the young lady never returned again. Garbledeclared he had been compensated for her perfidy, but that he was sureshe had not succumbed to his Lordship, having in fact rejected himsoundly. Did his Lordship, say the cronies, take his life--and hers? _Iln'y a pas d'epreuve._ The _most astonishing_ matter is that the runawayshould have written out a complete will, restoring all money he had wonat cards, etc. etc. This certainly corroborates the opinion that he wasseized with a sudden repentance and fled over the seas to a foreignmonastery, where he died at last in _religious silence_. That's as itmay, but many a spendthrift found his pocket clinking with guineas, anot unpleasant sound, I declare. The Regent himself was benefited by theodd will, and old Sir Follard Follard found himself once more in theancestral home he had forfeited. As for Lord George's mansion in St.James's Square, that was sold with all its appurtenances, and the moneyfetched by the sale, no bagatelle, was given to various good objects,according to my Lord's stated wishes. Well, many of us blessed hisname--we had cursed it often enough. Peace to his ashes, in whatever urnthey may be resting, on the billows of whatever ocean they float!"]

  Yes! Few and faint became the blemishes of his honeymoon. At first hehad felt that his waxen mask, though it had been the means of hishappiness, was rather a barrier 'twixt him and his bride. Though it wassweet to kiss her through it, to look at her through it with lovingeyes, yet there were times when it incommoded him with its mockery.Could he put it from him! Yet that, of course, could not be. He mustwear it all his life. And so, as days went by, he grew reconciled to hismask. No longer did he feel it jarring on his face. It seemed to becomea very part of him, and, for all its rigid material, it did forsoothexpress the one emotion that filled him, true love. The face for whosesake Jenny gave him her heart could not but be dear to this GeorgeHeaven, also.

  Every day chastened him with its joy. They lived a very simple life, heand Jenny. They rose betimes, like the birds, for whose goodness theyboth had so sincere a love. Bread and honey and little strawberries weretheir morning fare, and in the evening they had seed-cake and dewberrywine. Jenny herself made the wine, and her husband drank it, in strictmoderation, never more than two glasses. He thought it tasted far betterthan the Regent's cherry brandy, or the Tokay at Brooks's. Of thesetreasured topes he had indeed, nearly forgotten the taste. The wine madefrom wild berries by his little bride was august enough for his palate.Sometimes, after they had dined thus, he would play the flute to herupon the moonlit lawn, or tell her of the great daisy-chain he was goingto make for her on the morrow, or sit silently by her side, listening tothe nightingale, till bedtime. So admirably simple were their days.