“Oh yes!” said Lisbeth. “And, of course, a little music, and then a little supper, and a little dancing, and all that sort of thing.” And she frowned impatiently.
Mrs. Despard looked at her in some displeasure.
“You are in one of your humors, again, Lisbeth,” she said, sharply.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” answered Miss Crespigny, not a whit1 awed2 by her patroness. “People’s humors are their privileges. I would not help mine if I could. I like them because they are my own private property, and no one else can claim them.”
“I should hardly think any one would want to claim yours,” said Mrs. Despard, dryly, but 8 at the same time regarding the girl with a sort of curiosity.
Lisbeth Crespigny shrugged4 her shoulders—those expressive5 shoulders of hers. A “peculiar girl,” even the mildest of people called her, and as to her enemies, what did they not say of her? And her enemies were not in the minority. But “peculiar” was not an unnatural6 term to apply to her. She was “peculiar.” Seeing her kneeling close before the fender this winter evening, one’s first thought would have been that she stood apart from other girls. Her very type was her own, and no one had ever been heard to say of any other woman, “she is like Lisbeth Crespigny.” She was rather small of figure, she had magnificent hair; her black brows and lashes7 were a wonder of beauty; her eyes were dark, mysterious, supercilious8. She often frightened people. She frightened modest people with her nerve and coolness, bold people with her savage9 sarcasms10, quiet people with her moods. She had alarmed Mrs. Despard, occasionally, when she had first come to live with her; but after three years, Mrs. Despard, who was strong of nerve herself, had become used to her caprices, though she had not got over being curious and interested in spite of herself. 9
She was a widow, this Mrs. Despard. She had been an ambitious nobody in her youth, and having had the luck to marry a reasonably rich man, her ambition had increased with her good fortune. She was keen, like Lisbeth, quick-witted and restless. She had no children, no cares, and thus having no particular object in life, formed one for herself in making herself pleasingly conspicuous11 in society.
It was her whim12 to be conspicuous; not in a vulgar way, however; she was far too clever for that. She wished to have a little social court of her own, and to reign13 supreme14 in it. It was not rich people she wanted at her entertainments, nor powerful people; it was talented people—people, shall it be said, who would admire her ?sthetic soirées, and talk about her a little afterward15, and feel the distinction of being invited to her house. And it was because Lisbeth Crespigny was “peculiar” that she had picked her up.
During a summer visit to a quaint16, picturesque17, village on the Welsh coast, she had made the acquaintance of the owners of a cottage, whose picturesqueness18 had taken her fancy. Three elderly maiden19 ladies were the Misses Tregarthyn, and Lisbeth was their niece, and the apple of each gentle spinster’s 10 eye. “Poor, dear Philip’s daughter,” and poor, dear Philip, who had been their half-brother, and the idol20 of their house, had gone abroad, and “seen the world,” and, after marrying a French girl, who died young, had died himself, and left Lisbeth to them as a legacy21. And then they had transferred their adoration22 and allegiance to Lisbeth, and Lisbeth, as her manner was, had accepted it as her right, and taken it rather coolly. Mrs. Despard had found her, at seventeen years old, a restless, lawless, ambitious young woman, a young woman when any other girl would have been almost a child. She found her shrewd, well-read, daring, and indifferent to audacity23; tired of the picturesque little village, secretly a trifle tired of being idolized by the three spinsters, inwardly longing24 for the chance to try her mettle25 in the great world. Then, too, she had another reason for wanting to escape from the tame old life. In the dearth26 of excitement, she had been guilty of the weakness of drifting into what she now called an “absurd” flirtation27, which had actually ended in an equally absurd engagement, and of which she now, not absurdly, as she thought, was tired.
“I scarcely know how it happened,” she said, with cool scorn, to Mrs. Despard, when 11 they knew each other well enough to be confidential29. “It was my fault, I suppose. If I had let him alone, he would have let me alone. I think I am possessed30 of a sort of devil, sometimes, when I have nothing to do. And he is such a boy,” with a shrug3, “though he is actually twenty-three. And then my aunts knew his mother when she was a girl. And so when he came to Pen’yllan, he must come here and stay with them, and they must encourage him to admire me. And I should like to know what woman is going to stand that.” (“Woman, indeed!” thought Mrs. Despard.) “And then, of course, he has some sense of his own, or at least he has what will be sense some day. And he began to be rather entertaining after a while; and we boated, and walked, and talked, and read, and at last I was actually such a little fool as to let it end in a sort of promise, for which I was sorry the minute it was half made. If he had kept it to himself, it would not have been so bad; but, of course, being such a boyish animal, he must confide28 in Aunt Millicent, and Aunt Millicent must tell the others; and then they must all gush31, and cry, and kiss me, as if everything was settled, and I was to be married in ten minutes, and bid them all an everlasting32 farewell in fifteen. So I began to 12 snub him that instant, and have snubbed him ever since, in hopes he would get as tired of me as I am of him. But he won’t. He does nothing but talk rubbish, and say he will bear it for my sake. And the fact is, I am beginning to hate him; and it serves me right.”
She had always interested Mrs. Despard, but she interested her more than ever after this explanation. She positively33 fascinated her; and the end of it all was, that when the lady left Pen’yllan, she carried Lisbeth with her. The Misses Tregarthyn wept, and appealed, and only gave in, under protest, at last, because Lisbeth was stronger than the whole trio. She wanted to see the world, she said. Mrs. Despard was fond of her. She had money enough to make her so far independent, that she could return when the whim seized her; and she was tired of Pen’yllan. So, why should she not go? She might only stay a month, or a week, but, however that was, she had made up her mind to see life. While the four fought their battle out, Mrs. Despard looked on and smiled. She knew Lisbeth would win, and of course Lisbeth did. She packed her trunk, and went her way. But the night before her departure she had an interview with poor Hector Anstruthers, who came to the garden to speak to 13 her, his boyish face pale and haggard, his sea-blue eyes wild and hollow with despair; and, like the selfish, heartless, cool little wretch34 that she was, she put an end to his pleadings peremptorily35.
“No!” she said. “I would rather you would not write to me. I want to be let alone; and it is because I want to be let alone that I am going away from Pen’yllan. I never promised one of the things you are always insisting that I promised. You may call me as many hard names as you like, but you can’t deny that——”
“No!” burst forth36 the poor lad, in a frenzy37. “You did not promise, but you let me understand——”
“Understand!” echoed his young tyrant38. “I tried hard enough to make you understand that I wanted to be let alone. If you had been in your right senses, you might have seen what I meant. You have driven me almost out of my mind, and you must take the consequences.” And then she turned away and left him, stunned39 and helpless, standing40, watching her as she trailed over the grass between the lines of rose-bushes, the moonlight falling on her white dress and the little light-blue scarf she had thrown over her long, loose, dusky hair. 14
Three years ago all this had happened, and she was with Mrs. Despard still, though of course she had visited Pen’yllan occasionally. She had not tired her patroness, if patroness she could be called. She was not the sort of girl to tire people of their fancy for her. She was too clever, too cool, too well-poised. She interested Mrs. Despard as much to-day as she had done in the first week of their acquaintance. She was just as much of a study for her, even in her most vexatious moods.
“Have you a headache?” asked Mrs. Despard, after a while.
“No,” answered Lisbeth.
“Have you had bad news from Pen’yllan?”
Lisbeth looked up, and answered Mrs. Despard, with a sharp curiousness.
“How did you know I had heard from Pen’yllan?” she demanded.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Despard, “I guessed so, from the fact that you seemed to have no other reason for being out of humor; and lately that has always been a sufficient one.”
“I cannot see why it should be,” said Lisbeth, tartly41. “What can Pen’yllan have to do with my humor?”
“But you have had a letter?” said Mrs. Despard. 15
“Yes; from Aunt Clarissa. There is no bad news in it, however. Indeed, no news at all. How did I ever exist there?” her small face lowering.
“You would not like to go back?” suggested Mrs. Despard.
Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders.
“Would you like me to go back?” she questioned.
“I?” in some impatience42. “You know, as well as I do, that I cannot do without you. You would never miss me, Lisbeth, as I should miss you. It is not your way to attach yourself to people.”
“How do you know?” interposed Lisbeth. “What can you know about me? What can any one man or woman know of another? That is nonsense.”
“It is the truth, nevertheless,” was the reply. “Whom were you ever fond of? Were you fond of the Misses Tregarthyn, who adored you? Were you fond of that poor boy, who was so madly in love with you? Have you been fond of any of the men who made simpletons of themselves, because you had fine eyes, and a soft voice, and knew, better than any other woman in the world, how to manage them? No; you know you have not.” 16
Lisbeth shrugged her shoulders again.
“Well, then, it is my way, I suppose,” she commented; “and my ways are like my humors, as you call them. So, we may as well let them rest.”
There was a pause after this; then Lisbeth rose, and going to the table, began to gather together the parcels she had left there when she returned from her shopping expedition.
“You have not seen the dress?” she said.
“No.”
“It is a work of art. The pansies are as real as any that ever bloomed. They might have been just gathered. How well that woman understands her business!”
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1
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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picturesqueness
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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