# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 65

CHAPTER XXX.
SIR ROBERT WALPOLE AND HOUSE.
This is the charm of poetry: it comes On sad perturbed moments; and its thoughts, Like pearls amid the troubled waters, gleam. That which we garnered in our eager youth, Becomes a long delight in after years: The mind is strengthened, and the heart refreshed By some old memory of gifted words, That bring sweet feelings, answering to our own, Or dreams that waken some more lofty mood Than dwelleth with the commonplace of life.
The two friends were roused from the sad and subdued mood into which they had gradually sank, by the sudden stoppage of the carriage at the entrance to Sir Robert Walpole's house. The arrival took them by surprise: Ethel, who had quite lost the passing cheerfulness of the morning, turned yet paler, but Lady Marchmont was at once aroused by ​the excitement of the coming interview; as she afterwards said, laughing, she felt what her beauty owed to itself!
"I have a friend at court," whispered she to her companion: "last night I singled out one of Sir Robert's secretaries, and a few smiles made him my devoted chevalier, and he promised to insure an interview."
So saying, she gave a small billet to one of the servants; and almost before they had time to look at each other, and to see that neither ringlet nor riband were displaced by their long drive, down came the young secretary. He handed them from the carriage with an air of devoted gallantry, and led them to a small breakfast-room, which overlooked the garden.
"Here," said he, "I must leave you, while I ascertain whether Sir Robert will not be too proud to receive the loveliest lady in England!"
"Now, honour and glory to la haute science de la coquetterie! My rank, though I own that it is a very pretty thing to be a countess, ​would have done nothing for me in this case; my wealth, no more; for, despite of the opposition, I do not think Sir Robert would have allowed me to offer a pair of diamond earrings, even with his favourite daughter in the background: but I flung myself on a woman's best prerogative, and mes beaux yeux have settled the matter at once for me. Ethel, why don't you thank me for having made such good use of them?"
Pale and agitated, Ethel could scarcely force a smile; and, to divert her attention from the dreaded interview, Lady Marchmont began to notice the objects around them. The window opened towards a most lovely garden, whose smooth turf and gorgeous parterres swept down to the river. A peacock stood on the grass lawn, his brilliant plumage expanded in the sunshine, while every movement shewed some change of colour. Beyond, as if to shew the infinite variety of beauty, floated two swans; they were coming to shore, in the full glory of their arching necks and snowy wings. No marvel that the ancient Greeks, ​who never lost an image of loveliness, linked them to the chariot of the Queen of Beauty!
"A swan," said Lady Marchmont, "always gives the idea of a court-lady,—stately in her grace, ruffling in her bravery, and conscious of the floating plumes that mark her pretensions. The peacock is a coquette; it turns in the sunshine, it looks round as if to ask the conscious air of its purple and gold; but the swan sails on in majestic tranquillity, it sees the fair image of its perfect grace on the waters below, and is content:
'It seeks not the applause of vulgar eyes.'"
"And which of these," asked Ethel, "do you consider to be your prototype?"
"Oh, a happy mixture of both!" returned the young countess, laughing: "it is the greatest mistake possible, to be always the same; I appeal to the high authority of Pope:—
'Ladies, like tulips, in the sunshine show,
'Tis to variety their charms they owe!'
The swan is a particularly well-bred bird, it ​has a proper court and reception manner; but there are times when you may well permit yourself the airs and graces of the peacock. Indeed, I think a very pretty system of ornithology might be got up for the use of our sex; you, for example, have taken your lessons of the dove!"
"Thank you!" returned her companion.
"You would say to your lover,
'I disdain
All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise
Of kings and courts from us, whose gentle souls
Our kindly stars have steered another way.
Free as the forest-doves, we'll pair together,
Flee to the arbours, grots, and flowery meads,
And in soft murmurs interchange our souls;
Together drink the crystal of the stream,
Or taste the yellow fruit which autumn brings;
And when the golden evening calls us home,
Wing to our downy nest, and sleep till morn.'"
"I do not believe I should say any thing," replied Ethel "I am naturally silent."
'Speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.'
I do not know the reason," continued Henrietta, "but whenever I am very anxious about any thing, and I am, indeed, anxious now, my memory, by way of passing the time, always seems to fill with what were its earliest delights. How well I remember the old dark-looking volumes, from which my uncle used to evoke such beautiful creation! How real they then seemed to be! How devoutly I believed in these ethereal creations! Love, hope, and happiness, then appeared to me actual existences. Alas! as Lady Mary says, 'To my extreme mortification, I grow wiser every day!'"
"I do not know," said Ethel, with a deep sigh, "whether I am wiser, but I am not happier than I used to be; I am not so happy!"
"The future owes you recompense," answered her companion; "at all events, there is a great deal of pleasure before you, if you come out as a beauty and an heiress: I trust that Sir ​Robert will decree that you shall be set in gold!"
"Let him give my poor old grandmother liberty, and I care for nothing else!"
"Well," cried Henrietta, "do not look so pale and wo-begone about it,
'As some fair tulip, by a storm oppressed,
 Shrinks up, and folds its silken arms to rest;
And, bending to the blast all pale and dead,
 Hears from within the winds sing round its nest.
So shrouded up, your beauty disappears;
Unveil, my love! and lay aside your fears.'"
At that very moment the door opened, and the young secretary announced that Sir Robert Walpole would be happy to receive them.