“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.
THE hour for parting came. Of all the guests,
Sir Thomas alone stayed at the house a guest for the
night. Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn had their own carriage.
Mrs. Braefield’s carriage came to the door for
Mrs. Cameron and Lily.
Said Lily, impatiently and discourteously, “Who
would not rather walk on such a night?” and
she whispered to her aunt.
Mrs. Cameron, listening to the whisper and obedient
to every whim of Lily’s, said, “You are
too considerate, dear Mrs. Braefield; Lily prefers
walking home; there is no chance of rain now.”
Kenelm followed the steps of the aunt and niece, and
soon overtook them on the brook-side.
“A charming night, Mr. Chillingly,” said
Mrs. Cameron.
“An English summer night; nothing like it in
such parts of the world as I have visited. But,
alas! of English summer nights there are but few.”
“You have travelled much abroad?”
“Much, no, a little; chiefly on foot.”
Lily hitherto had not said a word, and had been walking
with downcast head. Now she looked up and said,
in the mildest and most conciliatory of human voices,—
“You have been abroad;” then, with an
acquiescence in the manners of the world which to
him she had never yet manifested, she added his name,
“Mr. Chillingly,” and went on, more familiarly.
“What a breadth of meaning the word ‘abroad’
conveys! Away, afar from one’s self, from
one’s everyday life. How I envy you! you
have been abroad: so has Lion” (here drawing
herself up), “I mean my guardian, Mr. Melville.”
