“That is true,” she said. “You do not understand. I do not understand myself, but—Well, I have told you lies enough before, when it has suited me. Now, I will tell you the truth, for once. Your blunder was not such a blunder, after all. My heart has been touched, just as a better woman’s might have been—almost as Georgie’s might have been. And this letter touched it—this effusion of poor Aunt Clarissa’s; and that was why I was crying when you came into the room—why I am crying now.” And having made this unlooked-for confession, she walked out of the room, just as Mrs. Despard came in.
On his next visit to his friends, the Esmonds, Mr. Anstruthers found the pretty head of the lovely Miss Georgie full of a new project. Had he not heard the news? She was going to Pen’yllan with Lisbeth, and they were to stay with the Misses Tregarthyn. Miss Clarissa had written the kindest letter, the dearest, most affectionate letter, as affectionate as if she had known her all her life. Wasn’t it delightful?
“So much nicer, you know, than going to some stupid, fashionable place,” said Miss Georgie, with bright eyes, and the brightest of fresh roses on her cheeks. “Not that I am so ungrateful as to abuse poor old Brighton, and the rest; but this will be something new.”
“And new things are always better than old ones,” suggested Anstruthers.
“Some new things always are,” answered Georgie, with spirit. “New virtues, for instance, are better than old follies. New resolutions to be charitable, instead of old tendencies to be harsh. New——”
“I give it up!” interposed Hector. “And I will agree with you. I always agree with you, Georgie,” in a softer tone.
The poor, pretty face bloomed into blush-rose color, and the sweet eyes met his with innocent trouble.
“Not always,” said Georgie. “You don’t agree with me when I tell you that you are not as good as you ought to be—as you might be, if you would try.”
“Am I such a bad fellow, then?” drawing nearer to her. “Ah, Georgie! etc., etc.——” until, in fact, he wandered off in spite of himself, into that most dangerous ground, of which I have already spoken.
Actually, within the last few days, the idea had occurred to him, that, perhaps—possibly, just possibly—he would not be going so far wrong, if he let himself drift into a gentle passion for Georgie. Perhaps, after all, he could give her a better love than he had ever given to Lisbeth Crespigny. It would be a quieter love. Was not a man’s second love always quieter than the first, and at the same time was it not always more endurable and deep? But perhaps he could make it a love worthy of her. Mind you, he was not shallow or coarse enough to think that anything would do; any mock sentiment, any semblance of affection. It was only that he longed to anchor himself somehow, and admired and trusted this warm-souled young creature so earnestly, that he instinctively turned toward her. She was far too good for him, he told himself, and it was only her goodness that could help her to overlook his many faults; but perhaps she would overlook them; and perhaps, in time, out of the ashes of that wretched passion of his youth, might arise a phœnix, fair enough to be worthy of her womanhood.