THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
“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 the garden.”
“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. Jenny fell back, mute with terror. Vainly did George try to free himself from the hideous 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 There was a loud pop, as though some great cork had been withdrawn, and La Gambogi recoiled.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.
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.
51
