CECILIA stole a shy glance at Kenelm as the two emerged from the
fernery into the open space of the lawn. His countenance pleased her.
She thought she discovered much latent gentleness under the cold and
mournful gravity of its expression; and, attributing the silence he
maintained to some painful sense of an awkward position in the abrupt
betrayal of his incognito, sought with womanly tact to dispel his
supposed embarrassment.
"You have chosen a delightful mode of seeing the country this lovely
summer weather, Mr. Chillingly. I believe such pedestrian exercises
are very common with university students during the long vacation."
"Very common, though they generally wander in packs like wild dogs or
Australian dingoes. It is only a tame dog that one finds on the road
travelling by himself; and then, unless he behaves very quietly, it is
ten to one that he is stoned as a mad dog."
"But I am afraid, from what I hear, that you have not been travelling
very quietly."
"You are quite right, Miss Travers, and I am a sad dog if not a mad
one. But pardon me: we are nearing the marquee; the band is striking
up, and, alas! I am not a dancing dog."
He released Cecilia's arm, and bowed.
"Let us sit here a while, then," said she, motioning to a
garden-bench. "I have no engagement for the next dance, and, as I am
a little tired, I shall be glad of a reprieve."
Kenelm sighed, and, with the air of a martyr stretching himself on the
rack, took his place beside the fairest girl in the county.
"You were at college with Mr. Belvoir?"
"I was."
"He was thought clever there?"
"I have not a doubt of it."
"You know he is canvassing our county for the next election. My
father takes a warm interest in his success, and thinks he will be a
useful member of Parliament."
"Of that I am certain. For the first five years he will be called
pushing, noisy, and conceited, much sneered at by men of his own age,
and coughed down on great occasions; for the five following years he
will be considered a sensible man in committees, and a necessary
feature in debate; at the end of those years he will be an
under-secretary; in five years more he will be a Cabinet Minister, and
the representative of an important section of opinions; he will be an
irreproachable private character, and his wife will be seen wearing
the family diamonds at all the great parties. She will take an
interest in politics and theology; and if she die before him, her
husband will show his sense of wedded happiness by choosing another
lady, equally fitted to wear the family diamonds and to maintain the
family consequences."
In spite of her laughter, Cecilia felt a certain awe at the solemnity
of voice and manner with which Kenelm delivered these oracular
sentences, and the whole prediction seemed strangely in unison with
her own impressions of the character whose fate was thus shadowed out.
"Are you a fortune-teller, Mr. Chillingly?" she asked, falteringly,
and after a pause.
"As good a one as any whose hand you could cross with a shilling."
"Will you tell me my fortune?"
"No; I never tell the fortunes of ladies, because your sex is
credulous, and a lady might believe what I tell her. And when we
believe such and such is to be our fate, we are too apt to work out
our life into the verification of the belief. If Lady Macbeth had
disbelieved in the witches, she would never have persuaded her lord to
murder Duncan."
"But can you not predict me a more cheerful fortune than that tragical
illustration of yours seems to threaten?"
"The future is never cheerful to those who look on the dark side of
the question. Mr. Gray is too good a poet for people to read
nowadays, otherwise I should refer you to his lines in the 'Ode to
Eton College,'--
"'See how all around us wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train.'
"Meanwhile it is something to enjoy the present. We are young; we are
listening to music; there is no cloud over the summer stars; our
conscience is clear; our hearts untroubled: why look forward in search
of happiness? shall we ever be happier than we are at this moment?"
Here Mr. Travers came up. "We are going to supper in a few minutes,"
said he; "and before we lose sight of each other, Mr. Chillingly, I
wish to impress on you the moral fact that one good turn deserves
another. I have yielded to your wish, and now you must yield to mine.
Come and stay a few days with me, and see your benevolent intentions
carried out."
Kenelm paused. Now that he was discovered, why should he not pass a
few days among his equals? Realities or shams might be studied with
squires no less than with farmers; besides, he had taken a liking to
Travers. That graceful /ci-devant/ Wildair, with the slight form and
the delicate face, was unlike rural squires in general. Kenelm
paused, and then said frankly,--
"I accept your invitation. Would the middle of next week suit you?"
"The sooner the better. Why not to-morrow?"
"To-morrow I am pre-engaged to an excursion with Mr. Bowles. That may
occupy two or three days, and meanwhile I must write home for other
garments than those in which I am a sham."
"Come any day you like."
"Agreed."
"Agreed; and, hark! the supper-bell."
"Supper," said Kenelm, offering his arm to Miss Travers,--"supper is a
word truly interesting, truly poetical. It associates itself with the
entertainments of the ancients, with the Augustan age, with Horace and
Maecenas; with the only elegant but too fleeting period of the modern
world; with the nobles and wits of Paris, when Paris had wits and
nobles; with Moliere and the warm-hearted Duke who is said to have
been the original of Moliere's Misanthrope; with Madame de Sevigne and
the Racine whom that inimitable letter-writer denied to be a poet;
with Swift and Bolingbroke; with Johnson, Goldsmith, and Garrick.
Epochs are signalized by their eatings. I honour him who revives the
Golden Age of suppers." So saying, his face brightened.