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Kenelm Chillingly, Book 6.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Kenelm Chillingly, Book 6.




"Very true," said Kenelm, amused by the girl's critical definitions.
"The difference between dramatic poetry and lyrical. But may I ask
what that definition has to do with the subject into which you so
suddenly introduced it?"

"Much; for when Lion was explaining this to my aunt, he said, 'A
perfect woman is a poem; but she can never be a poem of the one kind,
never can make herself at home in the hearts with which she has no
connection, never feel any sympathy with crime and evil; she must be a
poem of the other kind, weaving out poetry from her own thoughts and
fancies.' And, turning to me, he said, smiling, 'That is the poem I
wish Lily to be. Too many dry books would only spoil the poem.' And
you now see why I am so ignorant, and so unlike other girls, and why
Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn look down upon me."

"You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for it was he who first said to me,
'Lily Mordaunt is a poem.'"

"Did he? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion will be!"

"Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence over your
mind," said Kenelm, with a jealous pang.

"Of course. I have neither father nor mother: Lion has been both to
me. Aunty has often said, 'You cannot be too grateful to your
guardian; without him I should have no home to shelter you, no bread
to give you.' He never said that: he would be very angry with aunty
if he knew she had said it. When he does not call me Fairy he calls
me Princess. I would not displease him for the world."

"He is very much older than you; old enough to be your father, I
hear."

"I dare say. But if he were twice as old I could not love him
better."

Kenelm smiled: the jealousy was gone. Certainly not thus could any
girl, even Lily, speak of one with whom, however she might love him,
she was likely to fall in love.

Lily now rose up, rather slowly and wearily. "It is time to go home:
aunty will be wondering what keeps me away,--come."

They took their way towards the bridge opposite to Cromwell Lodge.

It was not for some minutes that either broke silence. Lily was the
first to do so, and with one of those abrupt changes of topic which
were common to the restless play of her secret thoughts.

"You have father and mother still living, Mr. Chillingly?"

"Thank Heaven, yes."

"Which do you love the best?"

"That is scarcely a fair question. I love my mother very much; but my
father and I understand each other better than--"

"I see: it is so difficult to be understood. No one understands me."

"I think I do."

Lily shook her head with an energetic movement of dissent.

"At least as well as a man can understand a young lady."

"What sort of young lady is Miss Cecilia Travers?"

"Cecilia Travers! When and how did you ever hear that such a person
existed?"

"That big London man whom they call Sir Thomas mentioned her name the
day we dined at Braefieldville."

"I remember,--as having been at the Court ball."

"He said she was very handsome."

"So she is."

"Is she a poem too?"

"No; that never struck me."

"Mr. Emlyn, I suppose, would call her perfectly brought up,--well
educated. He would not raise his eyebrows at her as he does at
me,--poor me, Cinderella!"

"Ah, Miss Mordaunt, you need not envy her. Again let me say that you
could very soon educate yourself to the level of any young ladies who
adorn the Court balls."

"Ay; but then I should not be a poem," said Lily, with a shy, arch
side-glance at his face.

They were now on the bridge, and before Kenelm could answer Lily
resumed quickly, "You need not come any farther; it is out of your
way."

"I cannot be so disdainfully dismissed, Miss Mordaunt; I insist on
seeing you to at least your garden gate."

Lily made no objection and again spoke,--

"What sort of country do you live in when at home; is it like this?"

"Not so pretty; the features are larger, more hill and dale and
woodland: yet there is one feature in our grounds which reminds me a
little of this landscape,--a light stream, somewhat wider, indeed,
than your brooklet; but here and there the banks are so like those by
Cromwell Lodge that I sometimes start and fancy myself at home. I
have a strange love for rivulets and all running waters, and in my
foot wanderings I find myself magnetically attracted towards them."

Lily listened with interest, and after a short pause said, with a
half-suppressed sigh, "Your home is much finer than any place here,
even than Braefieldville, is it not? Mrs. Braefield says your father
is very rich."

"I doubt if he is richer than Mr. Braefield; and, though his house may
be larger than Braefieldville, it is not so smartly furnished, and has
no such luxurious hothouses and conservatories. My father's tastes
are like mine, very simple. Give him his library, and he would
scarcely miss his fortune if he lost it. He has in this one immense
advantage over me."

"You would miss fortune?" said Lily, quickly.

"Not that; but my father is never tired of books. And shall I own it?
there are days when books tire me almost as much as they do you."

They were now at the garden gate. Lily, with one hand on the latch,
held out the other to Kenelm, and her smile lit up the dull sky like a
burst of sunshine, as she looked in his face and vanished.

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