“Lisbeth,” she said, “you never told me much about your acquaintance with Hector Anstruthers. I wonder how it was. You knew him very well, it seems.”
“I wish,” broke out Lisbeth, almost angrily, “that I had never known him at all.”
The faithful heart, beating in the breast of the girl at her side, leaped nervously1.
“It was Lisbeth,” said she to herself. “It was Lisbeth.”
“I wish,” repeated Lisbeth, frowning at the sea, “that I had never seen him.”
“Why?” was Georgie’s quiet question.
“Because—because it was a bad thing for us both,” in greater impatience2 than ever.
Georgie looked up at her sadly.
“Why, again?” she ventured, in her soft voice. She could not help it.
But for a moment Lisbeth did not answer. 105 She had risen, and stood leaning against the rock, a queer look on her face, a queer darkening in her eyes. At length she broke into a little, hard laugh, as if she meant to defy herself to be emotional.
“How horror-stricken you would be, if I were to tell you why,” she said.
“Does that mean,” Georgie put it to her “that you were unkind to him?”
“It means,” was her strange reply—“it means that it was I who ruined his life forever.”
She made the confession3 fairly, in spite of herself. And she was emotional—vehement. She could not stand this innocent Georgie, and her beliefs any longer. She had been slowly approaching this mood for months, and now every inner and outer influence seemed to combine against her natural stubborn secretiveness. Perhaps Pen’yllan, the sea, the shore, the sky, helped her on to the end. At any rate, she must tell the truth this once, and hear what this innocent Georgie would say to it.
“I ruined his life for him,” she repeated. “I broke his faith. I believe I am to blame for every evil change the last few years have wrought4 in him. I, myself—Lisbeth. Do you hear, Georgie?” 106
The face under Georgie’s straw hat was rather pale, but it was not horror-stricken.
“You were too young,” she faltered5, “to understand.”
“Too young?” echoed Lisbeth. “I never was young in my life. I was born old. I was born a woman, and I was born cold and hard. That was it. If I had been like other girls, he would have touched my heart, after he had touched my vanity, or he might even have touched my heart first. You would have loved him with all your soul. Are you willing to hear the whole history, Georgie?”
“Quite willing. Only,” and she raised her face with a bright, resolute6, affectionate look, “you cannot make me think harshly of you. So, don’t try, Lisbeth.”
Lisbeth regarded her with an entirely7 new expression, which had, nevertheless, a shade of her old wonder in it.
“I really do not believe I could,” she said. “You are very hard to deal with; at least I find it hard to deal with you. You are a new experience. If there was just a little flavor of insincerity or uncharitableness in you, if you would be false to your beliefs now and then, I should know what to do; but, as it is, you 107 are perplexing. Notwithstanding, here comes the story.”
She put her hands behind her, and bracing10 herself against the rock, told it from beginning to end, in her coolest, most daring way, even with a half-defiant air. If she had been telling some one else’s story, she could not have been more caustic11 and unsparing, more determined12 to soften13 no harsh outline, or smooth over anything. She set the girl Lisbeth before her listener, just as Lisbeth Crespigny at seventeen had been. Selfish, callous14, shallow, and deep, at once: restless, ungrateful, a half-ripe coquette, who, notwithstanding her crudeness, was yet far too ripe for her age. She pictured the honest, boyish young fellow, who had fallen victim to her immature15 fascinations16, simply because he was too guileless and romantic to see in any woman anything but a goddess. She described his sincerity8, his unselfish willingness to bear her caprices, and see no wrong in them; his lavish17 affection for every thing and every one who shared his love for her; his readiness to believe, his tardiness18 to doubt and see her as she really was; the open-hearted faith which had made the awakening19 so much harder to bear, when it forced itself upon him at last. She left out the recital20 of no petty wrong she 108 had done him, and no small tyranny or indignity21 she had made him feel. She told the whole story, in fact, as she saw it now; not as she had seen it in that shallow, self-ruled girlhood; and when she had touched upon everything, and ended with that last scene in the garden, among Aunt Clarissa’s roses, she stopped.
And there was a silence.
Georgie’s eyelashes were wet, and so were her cheeks. A tear or so stained her pink cravat22. It was so sorrowful. Poor Hector again! And then, of course, poor Lisbeth! By her own showing, Lisbeth deserved no pity; but the warm young heart gave her pity enough, and to spare. Something had been wrong somewhere. Indeed, it seemed as if everything had been wrong, but—Poor Lisbeth! She was so fond of Lisbeth herself, and mamma was so fond of her, and the Misses Tregarthyn. So many people were fond of Lisbeth.
And then Lisbeth’s voice startled her. A new voice, tremulous and as if her mood was a sore and restive23 one.
“You are crying, of course, Georgie? I knew you would.”
“I have been crying.” 109
Pause enough to allow of a struggle, and then—
“Well, since you are crying, I suppose I may cry, too. It is queer enough that I should cry, but—” And to Georgie’s amazement24 and trouble, Lisbeth put her hand up on the rough rock, and laid her face against it.
“Lisbeth!” cried the girl.
“Wait a moment,” said Lisbeth. “I don’t know what has come over me. It is a new thing for me. I—I——”
It was a new thing, indeed, and it did not last very long. When she raised her head, and turned again, her eyelashes were wet, too, and she was even pale.
“Ah, Lisbeth!” said Georgie, pitying her, “you are sorry.”
Lisbeth smiled, faintly.
“I never was sorry before for anything I had done; never, in my life,” she answered. “I have had a theory that people should take care of themselves, as I did. But now—Well, I suppose I am sorry—for Hector Anstruthers; and perhaps a little for myself. No one will offer me such an unreasoning love again. Very few women are offered such a love once; but I always got more than my share of everything. It is my way. I suppose 110 I was born under a lucky star. Georgie, what do you think of me now?”
Georgie got up, and kissed her, in a most earnest fashion.
“What?” cried Lisbeth, with a dubious25 smile. “You can’t be moral, and improving, and sanctimonious26, even now. Think what an eloquent27 lecture you might read me! I have sometimes thought I was merely created to point a moral, or adorn28 a tale! See how reckless I am, after all. You ought to be down on me, Georgie. It is your duty, as a well-trained young woman of the period.”
“Then,” said Georgie, “I can’t do my duty. You are so different from other people. How can I pretend to understand what has made you do things that other people are not tempted29 to do? And then you know how fond I am of you, Lisbeth.”
“You are a good, pure little soul!” cried Lisbeth, her pale face flushing excitedly. “And the world is a thousand times better for your being in it. I am better myself, and Heaven knows I need something to make me better. Here, let me take hold of your hand, and let us go home.”
And as they turned homeward, on the beach, hand-in-hand, like a couple of children, Georgie 111 saw that there were tears in the inconsistent creature’s eyes again.
They did not say much upon the subject after this. That wise young woman, Miss Esmond, felt that it was a subject of far too delicate a nature to be lightly touched upon. It had been Lisbeth’s secret so long, that, even after this confidence, she could not help regarding it as Lisbeth’s secret still. Perhaps she felt in private that there were certain little confidences of her own, which she would scarcely be willing even for Lisbeth to refer to, as if they were her own property. For instance, that accidental confession, made in the bedroom, on the first night they had spent in it together. How glad she had been that Lisbeth had let it pass, as if she had not noticed it very particularly. But though the subject was not discussed, is it to be supposed that it was not brought to mind at all, but was buried in oblivion? Certainly not. While that terse30 young woman, Miss Esmond, said little, she thought much, and deeply. She had constantly before her a problem, which she was very anxious to work out. Was it not possible that these two interesting beings might be brought to—might be induced to—well, not to put too fine a point upon it—to think better of each 112 other, and the unfortunate past, and the world generally? Would it not be dreadful to think that so much poetic31 material had been lost? That these two who might have been so happy, should drift entirely apart, and leave their romance incomplete, as the most unsatisfactory of novels? Probably, having sensibly, even if with a little pang32, given up that bud of a romance of her own, the girl felt the need of some loving plot to occupy her mind; and if so, it was quite natural and very charming, that she should turn to her friend. Hector would make his appearance one of these fine days, and then, perhaps, Pen’yllan, and its old familiar scenes, would soften his heart, as she had an idea they had softened33 Lisbeth’s. Surely, old memories would touch him tenderly, and make him more ready to forgive his injuries. In fact, Miss Georgie painted for herself some very pretty mental pictures, in which the figures of Lisbeth and her ex-lover were always the prominent features. Lisbeth in the trysting-place, the sea-breeze blowing her beautiful hair about, and coloring her pale face; that queer mist of tears in her mysterious eyes. Lisbeth, in one of her soft moods, making those strange, restive, unexpected speeches, which were so fascinating, because so unlookedfor, 113 and Hector Anstruthers standing9 by, and listening. Such interesting little scenes as these she imagined, and, having imagined them, positively34 drew some consolation35 from their phantom36 existence.
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1
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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2
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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3
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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4
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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5
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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6
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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7
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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8
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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9
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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10
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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11
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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12
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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13
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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14
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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15
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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16
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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17
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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18
tardiness
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| n.缓慢；迟延；拖拉 | |
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19
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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20
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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21
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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23
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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24
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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25
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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26
sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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27
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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28
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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29
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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30
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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31
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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32
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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33
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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34
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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35
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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36
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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