What gave most truly the colour of a masquerade was the unmasking. This, of course, was never general, nor at any time simultaneous, except with two or three; yet, here and there, withdrawn a little to the side of a room, or near a corner, ladies might be seen who wore no expression at all, or else looked jaded or even frostily observant of the show. Sometimes clubs of two seemed to form temporarily, the members unmasking to each other, exhibiting their real faces in confidence, and joining in criticism of the maskers about them. At such times, if a third lady approached, the two would immediately resume their masks and bob and beam; then they might seem to elect her to membership; whereupon all three would drop their masks, shout gravely, close to one another’s ears, then presently separate, masking again in facial shapings designed to picture universal love and jaunty humour.
But among the hundred merrymakers there was one of whom it could not be said that she was masked; yet, strange to tell, neither could it be said of her that she was not masked; for either she wore no mask at all or wore one always. Her face at Mrs. Cromwell’s was precisely as it was when seen anywhere else; though where it seemed most appropriately surrounded was in church.
Calm, pale, the chin uplifted a little, with the slant of the head always more toward heaven than earth, this angelic face was borne high by the straight throat and slender figure like the oriflamme upon its staff; and so it passed through the crowd of shouting women, seeming to move in a spiritual light that fell upon them and illuminated them, yet illuminated most the uplifted face that was its source. Moreover, upon the lips the exquisite promise of a smile was continuously hinted; and the hint foreshadowed how fine the smile would be: how gentle, though a little martyred by life, and how bravely tolerant.
The beholder waited for this promised heavenly smile, but waited in vain. “You always think she’s just going to until you see her often enough to find she never does,” a broad-shouldered matron explained to two of her friends at Mrs. Cromwell’s. The three had formed one of the little clubs for a temporary unmasking and were lookers-on for the moment. “It’s an old worn-out kind of thing to say,” the sturdy matron continued;—“but I never can resist applying it to her. Nobody can ever possibly be so good as Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite looks. I’ll even risk saying that nobody can ever possibly be so good as she seems to behave!”
“Oh, Mrs. Dodge!” one of the others exclaimed. “But isn’t behaviour the final proof? My husband says conduct is the only test of character.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” the brusque Mrs. Dodge returned. “When we do anything noble, it’s in spite of our true character; that’s what makes it a noble thing to do. I’ve lived next door to that woman for five years, and, though I seldom exchange more than a word with her, I can’t help having her in my sight pretty often. She always looks noble and she always sounds noble. Even when she says, ‘Isn’t it a lovely day,’ she sounds noble—and, for my part, I’m sick and tired of her nobility!”
“But my husband says——”
“I don’t care what Mr. Battle says,” Mrs. Dodge interrupted. “The woman’s a nuisance!”
“To me,” said the third of the group, gravely, “that sounds almost like sacrilege. I’ve always felt that even though Mrs. Leslie Braithwaite is still quite a young woman, she’s the focus of spiritual life for this whole community. I think the people here generally look upon her as the finest inspiration we have among us.”
“I know they do,” Mrs. Dodge said, irritably. “That’s one reason I think she’s a pest. People are always trying to live up to her, and it makes cowards and hypocrites of ’em. Look at her now!”