“They are lines that many critics have found
unintelligible; but Lily seems like the living key
to them.”
Kenelm’s dark face lighted up, but he made no
answer.
“Only,” continued Mr. Emlyn, “how
a girl of that sort, left wholly to herself, untrained,
undisciplined, is to grow up into the practical uses
of womanhood, is a question that perplexes and saddens
me.”
“Any more wine?” asked the host, closing
a conversation on commercial matters with Sir Thomas.
“No?—shall we join the ladies?”
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?”
