A SONG.
Thus a friendship arose which, in the course of time, became a very
close one. Colonel Esmond’s house was luxurious and pleasant, and
everybody’s heart opened to a favorite of Georgie’s. Accordingly,
Lisbeth’s niche in the family was soon found. It was rather agreeable
to go among people who admired and were ready to love her, so she went
pretty often. In fact, Georgie kept firm hold upon her. There appeared
always some reason why it was specially necessary that Lisbeth should
be with her. She had visitors, or she was alone and wanted company; she
had some new music and wanted Lisbeth’s help, or she had found some old
songs Lisbeth must try--Lisbeth, whose voice was so exquisite. Indeed,
it was Lisbeth, Lisbeth, Lisbeth, from week to week, until more than
one of Miss Esmond’s admirers wished that there had been no such person
as Miss Crespigny in the world. As Anstruthers had said, Miss Georgie
Esmond was quite a belle, in this the first year of her reign, and if
she had been so inclined, it was generally believed that she might have
achieved some very brilliant social triumphs, indeed. But I am afraid
that she had the bad taste not to aspire as she might have done.
“I don’t want to be uncharitable,” she had said, innocently, to her
friend. “And I don’t in the least believe the things people often
say about society--the things Hector says, for instance; but really,
Lisbeth, I have sometimes thought that the life behind all the glare
and glitter was just the least bit stupid and hollow. I know I should
get dreadfully tired of it, if I had nothing else to satisfy me; no
real home-life, and no true, single-hearted, close friends to love,
like you and mamma.”
It made Lisbeth wince, this pretty speech. Georgie Esmond often made
her wince.
And Mr. Hector Anstruthers discovered this fact before any great length
of time had passed, and the discovery awakened in him divers new
sensations.
He had looked on at the growing friendship with a secret sneer; but the
sneer was not at Georgie. Honestly, he liked the girl something the
better for her affectionate credulity; nothing could contaminate her,
not even Lisbeth Crespigny. But sometimes, just now and then, he found
it a trifle difficult to control himself, and resist the impulse to be
openly sarcastic.
He encountered this difficulty in special force one evening about a
month after the studio luncheon. The girls had spent the afternoon
together, and, dinner being over, Lisbeth was singing one of Georgie’s
favorite songs. It was a love song, too, for though Miss Georgie had
as yet had no practical experience in the matter of love, she had some
very pretty ideas of that tender passion, and was very fond of love
songs, and poems, and love stories, such as touched her heart, and
caused her to shed a few gentle tears. And this song was a very pretty
one, indeed. “All for love, and the world well lost,” was the burden
of its guileless refrain. All for love, love which is always true, and
always tender, and never deceives us. What is the world, it demanded,
what is life, what rest can we find if we have not love? The world is
our garden, and love is the queen of roses, its fairest bloom. Let us
gather what flowers we may, but, oh, let us gather the rose first,
and tend it most delicately. It will give its higher beauty to our
lives; it will make us more fit for heaven itself; it will shame our
selfishness, and help us to forget our sordid longings. All for love,
and the world well lost. And so on, through three or four verses, with
a very sweet accompaniment, which Georgie played with great taste.
And Lisbeth was singing, and, as she had a trick of doing, was quite
forgetting herself. And her exquisite, full-toned voice rose and fell
with a wondrous fervor, and her immense dark eyes glared, and her small
pale face glowed, and a little pathetic shadow seemed to rest upon her.
So well did she sing, indeed, that one might have fancied that she had
done nothing, all her life, but sing just such sweetly sentimental
songs, and believe every word of them implicitly; and when she had
finished, Georgie’s eyes were full of tears.
“Oh, Lisbeth!” she cried, looking up at her affectionately, “you make
everything sound so beautiful and--and true. I could never, never sing
in that way. It must be because you can feel beautiful, tender things
so deeply, so much more deeply than other people do.”
Lisbeth awoke from her dream suddenly. Hector Anstruthers, who had
been standing at the other side of the piano, looked at her with a
significance which would have roused her at any time. Their eyes met,
and both pair flashed; his with the very intensity of contempt; hers
with defiance.
“My dear Georgie,” he said, “I admire your enthusiasm, but scarcely
think you quite understand Miss Crespigny. She is one of those
fortunate people who cannot help doing things well. It is a habit she
has acquired. No sentiment would suffer in her hands, even a sentiment
quite opposite to the one she has just illustrated the force of so
artistically.”
Georgie looked a little amazed. She did not liked to be chilled when
all her gentle emotions were in full play; and, apart from this, did
not such a speech sound as if it suggested a doubt of the sincerity of
her beloved Lisbeth?
“People cannot teach themselves to be innocent and loving,” she said,
almost indignantly. “At least, they cannot be artistically loving and
innocent. You cannot make art of truth and faith, and you cannot be
generous and kind through nothing but habit. Your heart must be good
before you can be good yourself. At least, that is my belief, and I
would rather have my beliefs than your cynicisms; and so would Lisbeth,
I am sure, even if they are not so brilliant and popular. You are too
sarcastic, sir, and you have quite spoiled our pretty song.”
“I did not mean to spoil it,” he answered. “Forgive me, I beg,” with a
satirical bow, “and pray favor me with another, that I may learn to
believe. Perhaps I shall. I am inclined to think Miss Crespigny could
convince a man of anything.”
“You don’t deserve another,” said Georgie. “Does he, Lisbeth?”
“Hardly,” said Lisbeth, who was turning over some music, with an
indifferent face. But she sang again nevertheless, and quite as well
as she had done before, though it must be admitted that she influenced
Georgie to a choice of songs of a less Arcadian nature.
The following morning Anstruthers called to see Mrs. Despard, and found
that lady absent, and Miss Crespigny in the drawing-room. Consequently,
it fell to Miss Crespigny’s lot to entertain him during his brief
visit. He made it as brief as possible; but when he rose to take his
leave, to his surprise Lisbeth detained him.
“There is something I should like to say to you,” she began, after she
had risen with him.
He paused, hat in hand.
“It is about Georgie--Miss Esmond,” she added. “You were very kind to
speak to her of me as you did last night. It was very generous. I feel
that I ought to thank you for trying to make her despise me.” And her
eyes flashed with an expression not easy to face.
“I ask pardon,” he returned, loftily. “If I had understood that your
friendship was of such a nature----”
“If its object had been a man, instead of an innocent girl, you would
have understood easily enough, I have no doubt,” she interposed,
angrily.
He bowed, with the suspicion of a sneer upon his face.
“Perhaps,” he answered.
“Thank you,” said she. “However, since you need the matter explained,
I will explain it. I am fond of Georgie Esmond, and she is fond of me,
and I do not choose to lose her affection; so I must resort to the poor
expedient of asking you to deny yourself the gratification of treating
me contemptuously in her presence. Say what you please when we are
alone, as we are sometimes forced to be; but when we are with your
cousin, be good enough to remember that she is my friend, and trusts
me.”
It was so like the girl Lisbeth, this daring, summary course, this
confronting and settling the matter at once, without the least sign of
hesitation or reluctance, that he began to feel very uncomfortable.
Had he really behaved himself so badly, indeed? Was it possible that
he had allowed himself to appear such a rampant brute as her words
implied? He, who so prided himself upon his thoroughbred impassibility?
“I treat you contemptuously!” he exclaimed.
“It is not you I care for,” she answered him. “It is Georgie Esmond.”
He had no resource left but to accept his position, the very
humiliating position of a man whose apologies, if he offered any, would
be coolly set aside, whose humiliation was of no consequence, and who
was expected to receive punishment, like a culprit whose sensations
were not for a moment to be regarded.
He left the house feeling angry and helpless, and returning to his
chambers, wrote a stinging criticism of a new book. Poor Blanke, who
had written the book, received the benefit of the sentiments Miss
Crespigny had roused.
On her part, Lisbeth resorted to one of her “humors,” to use Mrs.
Despard’s expression. She was out of patience with herself. She had
lost her temper almost as soon as she had spoken her first words; and
she had been so sure of perfect self-control before she began. That was
her secret irritant. Why could she not have managed it better? It was
not usual with her to give way when she was sure of herself.
“Somebody has been here,” said Mrs. Despard, when she came in, and
found her sitting, alone with her sewing. “Some one you do not like, or
some one who has said something awkward or unpleasant to you.”
“Hector Anstruthers has been here,” was Lisbeth’s answer, but she
deigned no further explanation, and did not even lift her eyes as she
spoke.