Lily"s face became bathed in blushes, and her voice faltered, as she answered,--
"I was not offended; I was not in a bad temper then: it was worse than that."
"Worse? what could it possibly be?"
"I am afraid it was envy."
"Envy of what? of whom?"
"I don"t know how to explain; after all, I fear aunty is right, and the fairy tales put very silly, very naughty thoughts into one"s head. When Cinderella"s sisters went to the king"s ball, and Cinderella was left alone, did not she long to go too? Did not she envy her sisters?"
"Ah! I understand now: Sir Charles spoke of the Court Ball."
"And you were there talking with handsome ladies--and--oh! I was so foolish and felt sore."
"You, who when we first met wondered how people who could live in the country preferred to live in towns, do then sometimes contradict yourself, and sigh for the great world that lies beyond these quiet water banks. You feel that you have youth and beauty, and wish to be admired!"
"It is not that exactly," said Lily, with a perplexed look in her ingenuous countenance, "and in my better moments, when the "bettermost self" comes forth, I know that I am not made for the great world you speak of. But you see--" Here she paused again, and as they had now entered the garden, dropped wearily on a bench beside the path. Kenelm seated himself there too, waiting for her to finish her broken sentence.
"You see," she continued, looking down embarra.s.sed, and describing vague circles on the gravel with her fairy-like foot, "that at home, ever since I can remember, they have treated me as if--well, as if I were--what shall I say? the child of one of your great ladies. Even Lion, who is so n.o.ble, so grand, seemed to think when I was a mere infant that I was a little queen: once when I told a fib he did not scold me; but I never saw him look so sad and so angry as when he said, "Never again forget that you are a lady." And, but I tire you--"
"Tire me, indeed! go on."
"No, I have said enough to explain why I have at times proud thoughts, and vain thoughts; and why, for instance, I said to myself, "Perhaps my place of right is among those fine ladies whom he--" but it is all over now." She rose hastily with a pretty laugh, and bounded towards Mrs.
Cameron, who was walking slowly along the lawn with a book in her hand.
CHAPTER XII.
IT was a very merry party at the vicarage that evening. Lily had not been prepared to meet Kenelm there, and her face brightened wonderfully as at her entrance he turned from the book-shelves to which Mr. Emlyn was directing his attention. But instead of meeting his advance, she darted off to the lawn, where Clemmy and several other children greeted her with a joyous shout.
"Not acquainted with Macleane"s Juvenal?" said the reverend scholar; "you will be greatly pleased with it; here it is,--a posthumous work, edited by George Long. I can lend you Munro"s Lucretius, "69. Aha! we have some scholars yet to pit against the Germans."
"I am heartily glad to hear it," said Kenelm. "It will be a long time before they will ever wish to rival us in that game which Miss Clemmy is now forming on the lawn, and in which England has recently acquired a European reputation."
"I don"t take you. What game?"
"Puss in the Corner. With your leave I will look out and see whether it be a winning game for puss--in the long-run." Kenelm joined the children, amidst whom Lily seemed not the least childlike. Resisting all overtures from Clemmy to join their play, he seated himself on a sloping bank at a little distance,--an idle looker-on. His eye followed Lily"s nimble movements, his ear drank in the music of her joyous laugh. Could that be the same girl whom he had seen tending the flower-bed amid the gravestones? Mrs. Emlyn came across the lawn and joined him, seating herself also on the bank. Mrs. Emlyn was an exceedingly clever woman: nevertheless she was not formidable,--on the contrary, pleasing; and though the ladies in the neighbourhood said "she talked like a book,"
the easy gentleness of her voice carried off that offence.
"I suppose, Mr. Chillingly," said she, "I ought to apologize for my husband"s invitation to what must seem to you so frivolous an entertainment as a child"s party. But when Mr. Emlyn asked you to come to us this evening, he was not aware that Clemmy had also invited her young friends. He had looked forward to rational conversation with you on his own favourite studies."
"It is not so long since I left school, but that I prefer a half holiday to lessons, even from a tutor so pleasant as Mr. Emlyn,--
""Ah, happy years,--once more who would not be a boy!""
"Nay," said Mrs. Emlyn, with a grave smile. "Who that had started so fairly as Mr. Chillingly in the career of man would wish to go back and resume a place among boys?"
"But, my dear Mrs. Emlyn, the line I quoted was wrung from the heart of a man who had already outstripped all rivals in the race-ground he had chosen, and who at that moment was in the very Maytime of youth and of fame. And if such a man at such an epoch in his career could sigh to "be once more a boy," it must have been when he was thinking of the boy"s half holiday, and recoiling from the task work he was condemned to learn as man."
"The line you quote is, I think, from "Childe Harold," and surely you would not apply to mankind in general the sentiment of a poet so peculiarly self-reflecting (if I may use that expression), and in whom sentiment is often so morbid."
"You are right, Mrs. Emlyn," said Kenelm, ingenuously. "Still a boy"s half holiday is a very happy thing; and among mankind in general there must be many who would be glad to have it back again,--Mr. Emlyn himself, I should think."
"Mr. Emlyn has his half holiday now. Do you not see him standing just outside the window? Do you not hear him laughing? He is a child again in the mirth of his children. I hope you will stay some time in the neighbourhood; I am sure you and he will like each other. And it is such a rare delight to him to get a scholar like yourself to talk to."
"Pardon me, I am not a scholar; a very n.o.ble t.i.tle that, and not to be given to a lazy trifler on the surface of book-lore like myself."
"You are too modest. My husband has a copy of your Cambridge prize verses, and says "the Latinity of them is quite beautiful." I quote his very words."
"Latin verse-making is a mere knack, little more than a proof that one had an elegant scholar for one"s tutor, as I certainly had. But it is by special grace that a real scholar can send forth another real scholar, and a Kennedy produce a Munro. But to return to the more interesting question of half holidays; I declare that Clemmy is leading off your husband in triumph. He is actually going to be Puss in the Corner."
"When you know more of Charles,--I mean my husband,--you will discover that his whole life is more or less of a holiday. Perhaps because he is not what you accuse yourself of being: he is not lazy; he never wishes to be a boy once more; and taskwork itself is holiday to him. He enjoys shutting himself up in his study and reading; he enjoys a walk with the children; he enjoys visiting the poor; he enjoys his duties as a clergyman. And though I am not always contented for him, though I think he should have had those honours in his profession which have been lavished on men with less ability and less learning, yet he is never discontented himself. Shall I tell you his secret?"
"Do."
"He is a _Thanks-giving Man_. You, too, must have much to thank G.o.d for, Mr. Chillingly; and in thanksgiving to G.o.d does there not blend usefulness to man, and such sense of pastime in the usefulness as makes each day a holiday?"
Kenelm looked up into the quiet face of this obscure pastor"s wife with a startled expression in his own.
"I see, ma"am," said he, "that you have devoted much thought to the study of the aesthetical philosophy as expounded by German thinkers, whom it is rather difficult to understand."
"I, Mr. Chillingly! good gracious! No! What do you mean by your aesthetical philosophy?"
"According to aesthetics, I believe man arrives at his highest state of moral excellence when labour and duty lose all the harshness of effort,--when they become the impulse and habit of life; when as the essential attributes of the beautiful, they are, like beauty, enjoyed as pleasure; and thus, as you expressed, each day becomes a holiday: a lovely doctrine, not perhaps so lofty as that of the Stoics, but more bewitching. Only, very few of us can practically merge our cares and our worries into so serene an atmosphere."
"Some do so without knowing anything of aesthetics and with no pretence to be Stoics; but, then, they are Christians."
"There are some such Christians, no doubt; but they are rarely to be met with. Take Christendom altogether, and it appears to comprise the most agitated population in the world; the population in which there is the greatest grumbling as to the quant.i.ty of labour to be done, the loudest complaints that duty instead of a pleasure is a very hard and disagreeable struggle, and in which holidays are fewest and the moral atmosphere least serene. Perhaps," added Kenelm, with a deeper shade of thought on his brow, "it is this perpetual consciousness of struggle; this difficulty in merging toil into ease, or stern duty into placid enjoyment; this refusal to ascend for one"s self into the calm of an air aloof from the cloud which darkens, and the hail-storm which beats upon, the fellow-men we leave below,--that makes the troubled life of Christendom dearer to Heaven, and more conducive to Heaven"s design in rendering earth the wrestling-ground and not the resting-place of man, than is that of the Brahmin, ever seeking to abstract himself from the Christian"s conflicts of action and desire, and to carry into its extremest practice the aesthetic theory, of basking undisturbed in the contemplation of the most absolute beauty human thought can reflect from its idea of divine good!"
Whatever Mrs. Emlyn might have said in reply was interrupted by the rush of the children towards her; they were tired of play, and eager for tea and the magic lantern.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE room is duly obscured and the white sheet attached to the wall; the children are seated, hushed, and awe-stricken. And Kenelm is placed next to Lily.
The tritest things in our mortal experience are among the most mysterious. There is more mystery in the growth of a blade of gra.s.s than there is in the wizard"s mirror or the feats of a spirit medium. Most of us have known the attraction that draws one human being to another, and makes it so exquisite a happiness to sit quiet and mute by another"s side; which stills for the moment the busiest thoughts in our brain, the most turbulent desires in our heart, and renders us but conscious of a present ineffable bliss. Most of us have known that. But who has ever been satisfied with any metaphysical account of its why or wherefore? We can but say it is love, and love at that earlier section of its history which has not yet escaped from romance; but by what process that other person has become singled out of the whole universe to attain such special power over one is a problem that, though many have attempted to solve it, has never attained to solution. In the dim light of the room Kenelm could only distinguish the outlines of Lily"s delicate face, but at each new surprise in the show, the face intuitively turned to his, and once, when the terrible image of a sheeted ghost, pursuing a guilty man, pa.s.sed along the wall, she drew closer to him in her childish fright, and by an involuntary innocent movement laid her hand on his. He detained it tenderly, but, alas! it was withdrawn the next moment; the ghost was succeeded by a couple of dancing dogs. And Lily"s ready laugh--partly at the dogs, partly at her own previous alarm--vexed Kenelm"s ear. He wished there had been a succession of ghosts, each more appalling than the last.
The entertainment was over, and after a slight refreshment of cakes and wine-and-water the party broke up; the children visitors went away attended by servant-maids who had come for them. Mrs. Cameron and Lily were to walk home on foot.
"It is a lovely night, Mrs. Cameron," said Mr. Emlyn, "and I will attend you to your gate."
"Permit me also," said Kenelm.