A GHOST.
He had thought of her very often of late, and indeed had been quite
eager to make his visit to Pen’yllan, for no other reason, he told
himself, than because he should see her there, and hear her sweet young
voice again. And now he had come, and she had welcomed him, and they
were walking over the sands, side by side. And yet--and yet--Was it
possible that he felt restless and dissatisfied with his own emotions?
Was it possible that the rapture he had tried to imagine, in London,
was not so rapturous here, in Pen’yllan? Could it be that, after all,
he was still only admiring her affectionately, in a brotherly way,
as he had always done--admiring and reverencing her, gently, as the
dearest, prettiest, truest girl he had ever known? Long ago, when, at
the time of that old folly, he remembered a certain tremulous bliss
he had experienced when he had been permitted to spend an hour with
the beloved object, he remembered the absolute pangs of joy with which
one glance from certain great, cruel, dark eyes had filled him; he
remembered how the sound of a girlish voice had possessed the power to
set every drop of blood in his veins beating. He was as calm as ever he
had been in his life, as he strolled on with Georgie Esmond; he could
meet her bright eyes without even the poor mockery of a tremor. He had
felt nothing but calm pleasure even when he grasped her soft hand in
greeting. Would it always be thus? Was it best that it should be so?
Perhaps! And yet, in the depths of his heart lay a strange yearning
for just one touch of the old delirium--just one pang of the old,
bitter-sweet pain.
“There!” exclaimed Georgie, ending his reverie for him. “There she is,
standing on the rocks. Don’t you see that dark-blue ribbon, fluttering?”
It was curious enough that his heart should give such a startled
bound, when his eyes fell upon the place to which Georgie directed his
attention. But, then again, perhaps, it was no wonder, considering
how familiar the scene before him was. Years ago he had been wont to
come to this very spot, and find a slight figure standing in that very
nook of rocks; a slight girl’s figure, clad in a close-fitting suit of
sailor-blue, a cloud of blown-about hair falling to the waist, and
dark-blue ribbons fluttering from a rough-and-ready little sailor-hat
of straw. And there was the very figure, and the very accompaniments;
the dress, the abundant tossed-about hair, the fluttering ribbon, the
sea, the sky, the shore. He was so silent, for a moment, that Georgie
spoke to him again, after a quick glance at his changed expression.
“Don’t you see that it is Lisbeth?” she said, laughing. “She is very
quiet, but she is alive, nevertheless. We shall reach her in a minute.
She is watching the gulls, I think. I thought we should find her here.
This is our favorite resting-place.”
Lisbeth was evidently either watching something, or in a very
thoughtful mood. She did not move, or even appear to be conscious
of any approaching presence, until Georgie called to her, “Lisbeth!
Lisbeth!” and then she looked round with a start.
“What!” she said. “Is it you two? How you startled me! You came like
ghosts! And Mr. Anstruthers,” glancing at Hector, “looks like one. He
is so pale!”
“I have seen a ghost,” was his reply.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Lisbeth, coolly. “Ghosts make a place
interesting.”
She is so like herself, so self-possessed, and wholly Lisbeth-like,
that she wakens him completely from the sort of stupor into which he
had for a moment fallen. She holds out her hand for him to shake, and
favors him with an unmoved, not too enthusiastic smile. She is polite
and reasonably hospitable in her greeting, but she does not seem to be
overwhelmed with the power of her emotions.
“Sit down,” she says, “and let us rest a while. We have plenty of time
to reach home before dinner; and if we hadn’t, it would not matter
much. My aunts are used to being kept waiting. They are too amiable to
be iron-hearted about rules.”
So they sit down, and then, despite the reality of her manner,
Anstruthers finds himself in a dream again. As Lisbeth talks, her
voice carries him back to the past. Unconsciously she has fallen into
an attitude which is as familiar as all the rest, her hands folded on
her knees, her face turned seaward. The scent of the sea is in the
air; the sound of its murmurs in his ears. The color on the usually
clear, pale cheek is the color he used to admire with such lover-like
extravagance--a pure pink tint, bright and rare. She seems to have gone
back to her seventeen years, and he has gone back with her.
When at last they rise to return, he is wandering in this dream still,
and he is very silent as they walk home. As they enter the garden gate,
they see Miss Clarissa standing at the window, watching for them, just
as she had used to do, to Lisbeth’s frequent irritation, in the olden
days. And Lisbeth, pausing at the gate, gathered a large red rose.
“The roses are in bloom,” she says, “just as they were when I went away
with Mrs. Despard. I could almost persuade myself that I had never been
away at all.”
That velvet-leaved red rose was placed carelessly in her hair, when she
came down stairs, after dressing for dinner, and its heavy fragrance
floated about her. She wore one of her prettiest dresses, looked her
best, and was in a good humor; and accordingly the Misses Tregarthyn
were restored to perfect peace of mind, and rendered happy. It was
plain, they thought, that Miss Esmond had been right, and there was no
need for fear. How the spinster trio enjoyed themselves that evening,
to be sure!
“You used to sing some very pretty songs for us, my love,” said Miss
Clarissa. “I wonder if you remember the one Hector was so fond of?
Something very sweet, about drinking to somebody with your eyes, and
he would not ask for wine. I really forget the rest.”
Lisbeth, who was turning over a pile of her old music, looked up at
Anstruthers with a civil, wicked smile.
“Did I sing, ‘Drink to me only’?” she said. “And was it a favorite
of yours? I wonder if it is here? How nice that Aunt Clarissa should
remind us of it!”
She drew out the yellow old sheet from under the rest of the music in a
minute more, her smile not without a touch of venomous amusement. How
she had loathed it a few years ago!
“I wonder if I could sing it,” she said; and, prompted by some daring
demon, she sat down at the piano, and sang it from beginning to end.
But, by the time she had struck the last chord, her mood changed. She
got up, with a little frown, and she did not look at Anstruthers at all.
“Bah!” she said. “What nonsense it is!” And she pushed the poor, old,
faded sheet impatiently aside.
Anstruthers moved a step forward, and laid his hand upon it.
“Will you give it to me?” he asked, with a suppressed force in his
manner, quite new.
“Why?” she demanded, indifferently.
“For a whim’s sake,” he answered. “There is no accounting for tastes.
Perhaps I may fancy that I should like to learn it.”
She raised her eyebrows, and gave her shoulders a puzzled little shrug.
“You are welcome to it,” she commented. “It is not an article of value.”
“Thanks,” rather sardonically; and he folded the sheet, and slipped it
into his pocket.
Their life at Pen’yllan was scarcely exciting; but notwithstanding
this, they found it by no means unenjoyable, even now, when the first
week or so had accustomed them to it. They took long stretches of
walks; they sunned themselves on the sands; they sailed, and rowed, and
read, and studied each other in secret. Georgie, who studied Lisbeth
and Anstruthers by turns, found that she made more progress with the
latter than the former. Lisbeth, never easy to read, was even more
incomprehensible than usual. She shared all their amusements, and was
prolific in plans to add to them, but her manner toward her ex-adorer
was merely reasonably civil and hospitable, and certainly did not
encourage comment. To her friend it was a manner simply inscrutable.
“Can she care at all?” wondered Georgie. “She does not look as if she
had ever been sorry in her life; and yet she cried that day.”
With Anstruthers it was different. He could not pursue the even tenor
of his way without feeling sometimes a sting. At first he controlled
himself pretty well, and held his own against circumstances, even
almost calmly. Then the stings came only at rare intervals, but
afterward he experienced them more frequently. He was not so callous,
after all, and he found it more difficult to conceal his restlessness
when some old memory rushed upon him with sudden force. Such memories
began to bring bitter, rebellious moods with them, and once or twice
such moods revealed themselves in bitter speeches. Sometimes he was
silent, and half gloomy, sometimes recklessly gay. But at all times he
held to Georgie as his safeguard. Whatever his mood might be, he drew
comfort from her presence. She gave him a sense of security. That kind
little hand of hers held him back from many an indiscretion. Surely,
the day was drawing near when he could open his heart to her, and
ask her to let the kind young hand be his safeguard forever. He was
sorely tempted many a day, but somehow it always ended in “Not yet!
Not quite yet!” But his tender admiration for her showed itself so
undisguisedly, in every action, that the Misses Tregarthyn looked on
delighted.
“I am sure that there is an understanding between them,” observed Miss
Millicent.
Miss Hetty shook her head in a comfortable, approving fashion.
“Ah, yes, indeed!” she said. “One can easily see that. What do you
think, my dear?” This was to Lisbeth, who was sitting reading.
Lisbeth shut her book suddenly, and getting up, came to the window.
“What is it you are saying?” she demanded, in the manner of one who had
just awakened from a sleep, or a drowsy reverie. “I don’t think I heard
you.”
“We were speaking,” said Miss Millicent, “of our young friends in the
garden. Sister Hetty thinks, with me, that Hector is very fond of Miss
Esmond.”