Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 3. Watson William Davy
were still in the brain or the portfolio of the architect. The realization of Darwin's prophecy,
"Soon shall thy arm, unconquered Steam, afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car,"
although it had taken place on one element, seemed as far distant on shore as when the poet wrote. What wonders have been wrought in these thirty years of peace! And is it possible to think, that once more our progress may be arrested by war, and that the energies which have so long been devoted to the cause of civilization—that great cause of the whole human race, in which nations may fraternize without reciprocal encroachment, which is identical with the advance of true liberty, and of the only equality which mortals can attain, that of virtue—is it possible that these energies can once more be required for self-defence, that the death-drum may again summon us to repel a foreign foe, or that symbols and watchwords may divide ourselves, and our ancient flag find a rival standard unfurled by the sons of those who fought the battle of freedom? Rather let us hope that the convulsions around us may be found to have cleared the air, and brought the day more near,
"When the drum shall throb no longer, and the battle-flag be furled,
In the parliament of man, the federation of the world."
The coming of Polydore Riches was an event of some interest to the worthy couple of the peachery. Clotilda, in common with most spinsters of her age, was much in the habit of criticising the mien and aspect of clergymen, and formed her own idea of the appearance of the chaplain from the respect and affection with which Helen always spoke of him. And it must be owned she was a little disappointed. She had expected rather a portly man, with white hair, and a commanding presence. She encountered a slight figure and a pale face, the habitual pensiveness of which was now deepened by anxiety, and which was shaded by locks wherein silver had as yet but little share. Miss Peach allowed that Polydore was "interesting," but she had expected something more.
But Randolph was quite right in predicting that the chaplain and Cornelius would agree together admirably. The two old bachelors speedily conceived a high mutual esteem. Their tastes were very similar. In each there was the same simplicity of character. Polydore was more refined and enthusiastic; Cornelius more humorous and practical. The worthy host soon prevailed on his new friend to join him in a pipe, a luxury in which the chaplain had scarcely indulged since he quitted the classic shades of Granta. And they exhaled the fragrant fumes, due to Peach's ancient friend Sir Walter, so long, that the old clerk fell into a rhapsody on the perfections of that creature of his dreams, Mabel; and actually extracted from Polydore a murmured panegyric on that treasure of his memory, Rose Griffith. And then might a spectator have been amused to observe how the names of Mabel and Rose alternated with the puffs of smoke, and were often sighed forth in concert, with a pathos that might have done honour to the unworthily-used Malvolio.
CHAPTER V
Margaret. To me what's title when content is wanting? Or wealth, raked up together with much care, And to be kept with more, when the heart pines, In being dispossessed of what it longs for Beyond the Indian mines? Or the smooth brow Of a pleased sire, that slaves me to his will, Leaving my soul nor faculties nor power To make her own election? Allworth. But the dangers That follow the repulse,– Margaret. To me they're nothing: Let Allworth love, I cannot be unhappy.
As Mr. Winston's suggestion to his wife, that she should ask Miss Trevethlan to their house, seemed suddenly to improve their mutual understanding, so did Helen's acceptance of the invitation make them still better known to each other. Among the commonest and worst features of unions like theirs, is a prejudice on one side or the other that happiness is impossible, which closes every avenue to amelioration. The discontented parties have eyes only for defects. The heart which accepted the match with ill-disguised repugnance, is subsequently too proud to admit it was in error. It will not resign the privilege of complaint. It insists on continually galling itself with what it calls its chains. It hugs the satisfaction of considering itself ill-used. For the world, it would not allow itself, even in reverie, to be at ease. Yet, when there is no real deficiency either in character or temper, a hopeful spirit will probably soon find grounds for esteem, and esteem will be likely to ripen into affection. And then the very contrasts of disposition which at first appeared to preclude sympathy, will really promote it, by furnishing opportunities for good-humoured mirth, instead of objects for silent peevishness.
Gertrude Winston had never thought it worth her while to understand her husband. She married him as a pure negation, preferring King Log to King Stork. He was neither sulky, nor mean, nor selfish; he was not meddlesome, nor fidgety, nor exacting. His wife never heard a sharp word from his lips. Surely she might have taken the trouble to go a little below the surface, and see if his pedantry and apathy concealed no qualities which she might first admire, and then love. But no; she had determined to be a "victim," and resolutely closed both heart and mind against any appreciation of whatever might be endearing in his disposition. And for him,—indolent and even-tempered, having married because people usually married, in the same way as they were born and buried,—he certainly took no pains to display his merits, and allowed his wife to do exactly as she pleased, without let or hinderance.
And Gertrude did not abuse the licence. She would not have asked Helen to her house without consulting her husband. In his ready though measured proposal to that effect, Mrs. Winston felt there was a kindness which she had failed to perceive in all his previous demeanour towards her. And when their guest arrived, he surprised her still more by rousing himself from his monotonous pursuits to find sources of interest and amusement for Miss Trevethlan. Gertrude was far above jealousy, and attributed his attentions to their true motive,—a desire to alleviate the anxiety of their new friend.
Yet was Helen one who might well awaken the domestic fiend. Rather under the average height of woman, but of a full and luxurious form, she moved with that soft and undulating mien which fascinates even from afar; and if, allured by the figure, you permitted yourself to advance and look upon the face, you would find it was worthy of the shape. You would see a forehead of the purest white, not very high, but broad and serene, shaded by long dark ringlets, and supported by eyebrows of the same colour, rather far apart, and very slightly arched. Under these you would look into eyes also as dark as night, so gentle and so fond, that well would it be for you if they did not haunt your slumbers for many a night to come. Their long lashes drooped over cheeks perhaps a thought too pale, but so transparently fair that they flushed with every transient emotion, and then almost rivalled the full and tempting lips, which lost themselves in dimples at each corner, and showed that the pensiveness usually characterizing the countenance was not unwilling to give place to any gaiety of the hour.
At the present time, however, pensiveness prevailed, and increased the contrast which Helen's beauty always presented to the attractions of her cousins. She might trace in Mrs. Winston a strong resemblance to the features of the miniature found upon her father's heart, which she had since worn upon hers, and whose original she detected at that eventful visit to the opera. There were the same inscrutable dark eyes, like those in which Charles Lamb said lurked the depth of Jael; there were the same haughty will, and the same decision of purpose; but there was, Helen thought, something more of tenderness and less of disdain.
She had been but a very short time in Cavendish-square when she made the acquaintance of Mildred. Having informed her sister of her invitation, Mrs. Winston could scarcely avoid the introduction, although she was cognizant of a certain secret. Helen possessed no corresponding knowledge, yet a gentle confidence grew up between the maidens, and Mildred perhaps regarded her cousin as not unlikely to be more nearly related to her. Naturally also, and unavoidably, she heard not a little concerning Randolph, and listened to such intelligence with no untroubled heart.
Indeed she had