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 terse 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 other, and the unfortunate past, and the world generally? Would it not be dreadful to think that so much poetic 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 pang, 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 softened 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, and Hector Anstruthers standing by, and listening. Such interesting little scenes as these she imagined, and, having imagined them, positively drew some consolation from their phantom existence.
CHAPTER XII.
A VISITOR.
In the meantime, however, she made herself very agreeable and attractive to her hostesses, and enjoyed Pen’yllan very much, in a girlish way. She explored the tiny village, and the rude shore. She made friends with fishermen, and their wives, and sturdy children. She won admiration on every side by her pretty interest in everything appertaining to the Pen’yllanites. She took long walks on the sands, and brought home shells, and sea-weed, and pebbles, with such honest delight in any trifling rarity, as made Lisbeth look on and feel restless, and the Misses Tregarthyn grow young again, unitedly.
“I wish, my dear,” said Miss Clarissa to Lisbeth, “that you enjoyed yourself as much; but—but I am afraid you do not. I am afraid you find Pen’yllan rather dull.”
“I never found Pen’yllan so pleasant in my life before, but you know I am not like Georgie,” said Lisbeth. “Pen’yllan is all right, Aunt Clarissa, and I enjoy myself here more than I should anywhere else.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, my love,” Miss Clarissa faltered. “Sometimes, do you know, I have really fancied that you were not quite—quite happy?”
Lisbeth got up from her chair, and came to the window, her incomprehensible eyes reaching far out to sea.
“Happy!” she echoed, absently. “Is anybody happy? What a conundrum to answer? As for me, I give it up.”
She gave up a good many things during these weeks at Pen’yllan. She was wont to be fond of a certain cool class of metaphysics, but somehow things of that order seemed to slip from her grasp. She was not so sure of her self as she had been—not so obstinately complacent. Indeed, she had never been so ill-satisfied and out of patience with Lisbeth Crespigny in her life.