CHAPTER VII.
THE drawing-room was deserted; the ladies were in the garden. As
Kenelm and Mr. Emlyn walked side by side towards the group (Sir Thomas
and Mr. Braefield following at a little distance), the former asked,
somewhat abruptly, "What sort of man is Miss Cameron's guardian, Mr.
Melville?"
"I can scarcely answer that question. I see little of him when he
comes here. Formerly, he used to run down pretty often with a
harum-scarum set of young fellows, quartered at Cromwell
Lodge,--Grasmere had no accommodation for them,--students in the
Academy, I suppose. For some years he has not brought those persons,
and when he does come himself it is but for a few days. He has the
reputation of being very wild."
Further conversation was here stopped. The two men, while they thus
talked, had been diverging from the straight way across the lawn
towards the ladies, turning into sequestered paths through the
shrubbery; now they emerged into the open sward, just before a table,
on which coffee was served, and round which all the rest of the party
were gathered.
"I hope, Mr. Emlyn," said Elsie's cheery voice, "that you have
dissuaded Mr. Chillingly from turning Papist. I am sure you have
taken time enough to do so."
Mr. Emlyn, Protestant every inch of him, slightly recoiled from
Kenelm's side. "Do you meditate turning--" He could not conclude the
sentence.
"Be not alarmed, my dear sir. I did but own to Mrs. Braefield that I
had paid a visit to Oxford in order to confer with a learned man on a
question that puzzled me, and as abstract as that feminine pastime,
theology, is now-a-days. I cannot convince Mrs. Braefield that Oxford
admits other puzzles in life than those which amuse the ladies." Here
Kenelm dropped into a chair by the side of Lily.
Lily half turned her back to him.
"Have I offended again?"
Lily shrugged her shoulders slightly and would not answer.
"I suspect, Miss Mordaunt, that among your good qualities, nature has
omitted one; the bettermost self within you should replace it."
Lily here abruptly turned to him her front face: the light of the
skies was becoming dim, but the evening star shone upon it.
"How! what do you mean?"
"Am I to answer politely or truthfully?"
"Truthfully! Oh, truthfully! What is life without truth?"
"Even though one believes in fairies?"
"Fairies are truthful, in a certain way. But you are not truthful.
You were not thinking of fairies when you--"
"When I what?"
"Found fault with me."
"I am not sure of that. But I will translate to you my thoughts, so
far as I can read them myself, and to do so I will resort to the
fairies. Let us suppose that a fairy has placed her changeling into
the cradle of a mortal: that into the cradle she drops all manner of
fairy gifts which are not bestowed on mere mortals; but that one
mortal attribute she forgets. The changeling grows up; she charms
those around her: they humour, and pet, and spoil her. But there
arises a moment in which the omission of the one mortal gift is felt
by her admirers and friends. Guess what that is."
Lily pondered. "I see what you mean; the reverse of truthfulness,
politeness."
"No, not exactly that, though politeness slides into it unawares: it
is a very humble quality, a very unpoetic quality; a quality that many
dull people possess; and yet without it no fairy can fascinate
mortals, when on the face of the fairy settles the first wrinkle. Can
you not guess it now?"
"No: you vex me; you provoke me;" and Lily stamped her foot
petulantly, as in Kenelm's presence she had stamped it once before.
"Speak plainly, I insist."
"Miss Mordaunt, excuse me: I dare not," said Kenelm, rising with a
sort of bow one makes to the Queen; and he crossed over to Mrs.
Braefield.
Lily remained, still pouting fiercely.
Sir Thomas took the chair Kenelm had vacated.
