You may imagine his mortification when his delicious damsel suddenly repulsed him from her arms. He looked over his shoulder, and there was his wife, clambering over the edge, terribly red in the face, with the fury of a demon in her eye, and the mighty scimitar gripped firmly between her teeth.
Henry tried to rise, but she was beforehand with him, and while yet he had but his left foot on the ground, she caught him one across the loins with the huge and jagged bilbo, which effectually hamstrung him, so that he fell grovelling at her feet. «For heaven's sake!» he cried. «It's all a trick. Part of the act. It means nothing. Remember our public. The show must go on.»
«It shall,» said she, striking at his arms and legs.
«Oh, those notches!» cried he. «To oblige me, my dear, please sharpen it a little upon a stone.»
«It is good enough for you, you viper,» said she, hacking away all the time. Pretty soon Henry was a limbless trunk.
«For the love of God,» said he, «I hope you remember the passes. I can explain everything.»
«To hell with the passes!» said she, and with a last swipe she sent his head rolling like a football.
She was not long in picking up the scattered fragments of poor Henry, and flinging them down to earth, amid the applause and laughter of the crowd, who were more than ever convinced it was all done by mirrors.
Then, gripping her scimitar, she was about to swarm down after him, not from any soft-hearted intention of reassembling her unfortunate spouse, but rather to have another hack or two at some of the larger joints. At that moment she became aware of someone behind her, and, looking round, there was a divine young man, with the appearance of a Maharaja of the highest caste, an absolute Valentino, in whose eyes she seemed to read the words, «It is better to bum upon the Bed of Passion than in the Chair of Electricity.»
This idea presented itself with an overwhelming appeal. She paused only to thrust her head through the aperture, and cry, «That's what happens to a pig of a man who betrays his wife with a beastly native,» before hauling up the rope and entering into conversation with her charmer.
The police soon appeared upon the scene. There was nothing but a cooing sound above, as if invisible turtle doves were circling in amorous flight Below, the various portions of Henry were scattered in the dust, and the bluebottle flies were already settling upon them.
The crowd explained it was nothing but a trick, done with, mirrors.
«It looks to me,» said the sergeant, «as if the biggest one most have splintered right on top of him.»
LITTLE MEMENTO
A young man who was walking fast came out of a deep lane onto a wide hilltop space, where there was a hamlet clustered about a green. The setting encompassed a pond, ducks, the Waggoner Inn, with white paint and swinging sign; in fact, all the fresh, clean, quiet, ordinary appurtenances of an upland Somerset hamlet.
The road went on, and so did the young man, over to the very brink of the upland, where a white gate gave upon a long garden well furnished with fruit trees, and at the end of it a snug little house sheltered by a coppice and enjoying a view over the vast vale below. An old man of astonishingly benevolent appearance was pottering about in the garden. He looked up as the walker, Eric Gaskell, approached his gate.
«Good morning,» said he. «A fine September morning!»
«Good morning,» said Eric Gaskell.
«I have had my telescope out this morning,» said the old man. «I don't often get down the hill these days. The way back is a little too steep for me. Still, I have my view and my telescope. I think I know all that goes on.»
«Well, that's very nice,» said Eric.
«It is,» said the old man. «You are Mr. Gaskell?»
«Yes,» said Eric. «I know. We met at the vicarage.»
«We did,» said the old man. «You often take your walk this way. I see you go by. Today I thought, 'Now this is the day for a little chat with young Mr. Gaskell!' Come in.»
«Thanks,» said Eric. «I will, for a spell.»
«And how,» said the old man, opening his gate, «do you and Mrs. Gaskell like Somerset?»
«Enormously,» said Eric.
«My housekeeper tells me,» said the old man, «that you come from the East Coast. Very bracing. Her niece is your little maid. You don't find it too dull here? Too backward? Too old-fashioned?»
«We like that part of it best,» said Eric, sitting with his host on a white seat under one of the apple trees.
«In these days,» said the old man, «young people like old-fashioned things. That's a change from my day. Now most of us who live about here are old codgers, you know. There's Captain Felton, of course, but the Vicar, the Admiral, Mr. Coperus, and the rest — all old codgers. You don't mind that?»
«I like it,» said Eric.
«We have our hobbies,» said the old man. «Coperus is by way of being an antiquarian; the Admiral has his roses.»
«And you have your telescope,» said Eric.
«Ah, my telescope,» said the old man. «Yes, yes, I have my telescope. But my principal pastime — what I really plume myself on — is my museum.»
«You have a museum?» said Eric.
«Yes, a museum,» said the old man. «I should like you to have a look at it and tell me what you think.»
«I shall be delighted,» said Eric.
«Then come right in,» said the old man, leading him toward the house. «I seldom have the chance of showing my collection to a newcomer. You must bring Mrs. Gaskell one of these days. Does she find enough entertainment in this quiet part, would you say?»
«She loves it,» said Eric. «She can't see too much of the country here. She drives out almost every day.»
«All by herself in that little red roadster of hers,» said the old man. «Does she like the house?»
«Well, I don't know,» said Eric. «She did when we chose it last spring. She liked it very much.»
«It is a very nice house,» said the old man.
«She finds it a little oppressive lately, I'm afraid,» said Eric. «She says she has to get out to breathe.»
«It is the difference in the air,» said the old man. «After living on the East Coast.»
«Probably it's that,» said Eric.
By this time they had reached the front door. The old man ushered Eric in. They entered a very snug, trim little room, the furniture all well polished and everything meticulously arranged. «This is my little sitting-room,» the old man said. «My dining-room, too, these days. The drawing-room and the little study beyond I have given over entirely to my museum. Here we are.»
He threw open a door. Eric stepped in, looked around, and stared in amazement. He had been expecting the usual sort of thing: a neat cabinet or two with Roman coins, flint implements, a snake in alcohol, perhaps a stuffed bird or some eggs. But this room and the study, seen through the connecting doorway, were piled high with the most broken, battered, frowzy, gimcrack collection of junk he had ever seen in his life. What was oddest of all was that no item in this muddle of rubbish had even the excuse of a decent antiquity. It was as if several cartloads of miscellaneous material had been collected from the village dump and spilled over the tables, sideboards, chairs, and floors of these two rooms.
The old man observed Eric's astonishment with the greatest good humour. «You are thinking,» said he, «that this collection is not the sort of thing one usually finds in a museum. You are right. But let me tell you, Mr. Gaskell, that every object here has a history. These pieces are pebbles rolled and broken by the stream of time as it flows over the villages in our quiet little district. Taken together, they are a — a record. Here is a souvenir from the War: a telegram to the Bristows in Upper Medium, saying their boy was killed. It was years before I could get that from poor Mrs. Bristow. I gave her a pound for it.»