"But can the noble mind for ever brood,
The willing victim of a weary mood,
On heartless cares that squander life away,
And cloud young genius brightening into day?
Shame to the coward thought that e'er betrayed
The noon of manhood to a myrtle shade!"
CAMPBELL.
The Trevethlans, it has already been remarked, were a crotchetty race.
One of their peculiarities was displayed in the disposition of their
property. No portion had been entailed within the memory of man, and
the whole had very frequently descended simply by inheritance. Wills
were of rare occurrence among the family muniments, and marked the
existence of disagreement. And now that cause was active, and produced
its effect. A few days after Mr. Trevethlan's funeral, his children
were summoned by the chaplain to hear the last desires of their
parent, Mr. Griffith being also present with his account books.
The will which Polydore produced was very short and simple. The
testator merely appointed the Rev. Polydore Riches and Mr. Edward
Griffith, to be the guardians of his children, in case he died before
they were of age, leaving his property to descend by inheritance. A
short silence ensued when the chaplain finished reading the document:
it was first broken by the steward.
"It is but a small patrimony," he said, "Mr. Trevethlan, that you
inherit. A very small patrimony for the owner of this castle. And a
sad trust is this for me, who can remember, when from the top of the
watch-tower, we saw little that was not ours."
"Mr. Griffith," Randolph said, "we must think of the present and the
future, not of the past. But if the trust is unwelcome, do not
undertake it."
"The trust is not unwelcome, Randolph," observed the chaplain, with a
slight accent of reproof. "The sadness of which our friend speaks is
caused by the lightness, not the oppressiveness, of our duty. We
promised to undertake it, and we shall feel pleasure in fulfilling it,
so as most effectually to promote your welfare in every respect."
"I know it," said the heir. "I am sure of it; I did not mean to doubt
Mr. Griffith's good will."
"Here," the steward said, opening one of his books, "here are the
accounts of the last few years: and here is an abstract or estimate,
which I have prepared from them, showing the probable receipts and the
necessary expenses for the future."
Randolph took the paper from Mr. Griffith's hands, and perused it
attentively, his sister also looking over him.
"From this," he said at length, "I perceive that our total income is
something under seven hundred pounds a year, and the needful outgoings
something more than two; leaving us a clear revenue of four hundred.
Why, Helen, we are rich!"
"They are young," the steward observed aside to Polydore.
The brother and sister conferred together for a few minutes in an
under tone. Then Randolph spoke aloud:--
"Mr. Riches, the expenditure of the castle household, as here set
down, is very small. Surely it does not include--" He stopped.
"I know what you would say, Randolph," the chaplain remarked. "The
services of Mr. Griffith and myself have already been remunerated far
in advance. There is nothing due on our account, nor will there be for
a long time."
Metaphorically, this might be true. Randolph looked incredulous.
"Mr. Trevethlan," said the steward, "I hope you will not press us into
a difficulty. That statement is made up strictly from my books; and
unless you desire to alter the establishment----"
"Oh, no, certainly not," Randolph exclaimed. "I wish everything to go
on as hitherto."
"And have you formed any plan for the future?" the chaplain asked. "Do
you propose to live here in retirement, or to go into the world?"
This question was not answered immediately. Randolph's heart was full.
He rose from his seat and walked to a window of the apartment, where
he leant his forehead against the glass, and gazed upon the sea. A
mist clouded his eyes. Helen came softly to his side, and laid her
hand on his shoulder, but he turned not towards her, for it was of her
loneliness that he was thinking.
"'Tis a hard question for him, Mr. Riches," said Griffith.
"He will answer it as he ought," observed the chaplain.
"Randolph," Helen whispered in the mean time, "is this our firmness?
Who said, 'we will not fail?' See, it is my turn now."
He turned and looked at her, meeting a smile so full of hope, that his
momentary irresolution vanished at once. The castle rose again in the
air, firm and substantial. He led his sister back to her seat, and
resuming his own, said:--
"You, Mr. Riches, and you, my good sir, will not smile at a scheme
which has been often discussed by my sister and myself, and to which
our poor father assented almost with his parting words. If we are
visionaries, you will be gentle in removing the illusion. This then is
our plan."
And at some length, Randolph unfolded the design with which the reader
is already acquainted. Both the chaplain and the steward listened
with great interest, although the latter could not avoid smiling to
himself, as he perceived the little artifices by which the speaker
blinded his eyes to the difficulties of his proposition. Polydore was
willing to be also blind to them.
"And now, my friends," Randolph concluded, having talked himself into
cheerfulness, "we will leave you to deliberate on our romance. Helen
and I will go to the flower-garden, and await the reply of the oracle.
Let it be at least decisive."
So saying, he took Helen's arm upon his, and led her from the room.
Griffith looked at the chaplain, and repeated his previous
observation, "they are young."
"Youth and imprudence are not necessarily connected, Mr. Griffith,"
answered Polydore.
"And are you disposed to sanction this scheme?" the steward asked. "Do
not you see its difficulties? Are fortunes to be found now as in
nursery tales? And at the bar, of all ways? Even in my narrow
experience, what failures have I known! and with fairer prospects than
Mr. Randolph's. It is a lottery, Mr. Riches; a mere lottery."
"It is not the chance of a prize," said the chaplain, "upon which I
reckon. I hate lotteries. It is the price which must in this instance
be paid for a chance, and which I believe Randolph is prepared to pay,
that reconciles me to the speculation."
"You mean the labour bestowed and the knowledge acquired," observed
Griffith. "Is it of the best kind? Might not better be obtained here?"
"You interpret my meaning rightly but not completely, Mr. Griffith,"
the chaplain said. "I include in the term knowledge, knowledge of the
world; that knowledge, without which we cannot love the world. A
recluse may fancy that he loves his race, but it is not until he has
actually felt their kindness, ay, and their unkindness, that he can
realize the affection. A man is worthless until he has experienced
some of the buffeting of the world."
"And do you think Mr. Randolph qualified to withstand it to
advantage?" the steward inquired.
"Do I, Mr. Griffith?" exclaimed Polydore. "I should take shame to
myself if I did not. He may not succeed at the bar. He may return to
Trevethlan Castle as poor as he quits it. As poor, I mean, in worldly
goods. But he will return to enjoy life: not to mope away a miserable
time of idleness amongst these gray walls: not to pine for what is
unattainable, and sicken with ever-increasing discontent: not to
vanish from the stage an unprofitable supernumerary. No, the habits he
will have acquired will accompany him in his retreat; in his solitude
he will still be active; he will give his thoughts to the world; he
will be a benefactor to his race. Let him go, Mr. Griffith. The very
chivalry of the idea is charming in my eyes. Believe me, his portrait
will one day be an honour to our gallery."
The steward was infected with Polydore's enthusiasm. He shook the
chaplain's hand with great warmth.
"Mr. Riches," he said, "I know how much Trevethlan owes to you; and
your words inspire me with hope. Yet, Miss Helen, is the scheme
equally adapted for her?"
"And why not, my good sir?" answered the chaplain. "Where can she be
better than with her brother? What can cheer his studies, no trifle,
Mr. Griffith, like her company when they are over? What would not I
have given for a sister to make my tea at college? She will be his
comfort and his stay; his light and his hope; his joy and his pride.
Let them go, my friend; we shall see a dance at Trevethlan yet."
Griffith, a quiet and thoughtful man, was entirely carried away by the
increasing animation of the chaplain. In silence he assented to
Polydore's conclusion. "Come," said the latter, "let us seek them in
their garden;" and he took the steward's arm and led him thither. On
their way prudential considerations again beset the man of business,
and he stopped the man of letters to speak of their wards'
inexperience.
"Inexperience!" echoed the divine; "and how shall they gain
experience? Staying here, they will always be inexperienced. No fear,
my friend; give them a good introduction to Winter, and they'll do.
Winter's the very personification of prudence."
Randolph and his sister were watching the bees on a bed of
mignionette, one of the pleasantest pastimes afforded by a garden in
autumn. The eye is gratified by the unceasing flutter of the busy
insects; the ear rejoices in the perpetual murmur accompanying their
industry; a delicious fragrance arises from the gently agitated
florets; and some observers may, perhaps, remember a moral they were
taught to lisp in childhood, and cast a fond retrospect over their
early years.
"Joy for you, Randolph Morton," cried the chaplain; "and for you,
Helen Morton; joy for your old master, and for the towers of
Trevethlan. You shall go forth like Fortunio, without needing his
seven servants; like Fortunatus, without requiring his purse."
In his glee Polydore had quitted Mr. Griffith, and preceded him. The
brother and sister turned at the sound of his voice, ran rather than
walked to meet him, and each seizing a hand, as they used of old,
looked into his face with sparkling eyes.
"Be still," he said, "be still, or Mr. Griffith will declare you must
not be trusted alone."
"And may we go?" Randolph asked. "May I try to be useful upon earth?"
"Stay away, Mr. Griffith," cried the chaplain to the steward, who was
now approaching; "stay away, or you will say that even I am a child.
Yes," he continued, turning to Randolph, "yes, you shall have your
wish, and we doubt not that with the blessing of God, you will prosper
to your heart's content."
Warm and sincere were the acknowledgments paid by the orphans to their
guardians for this acquiescence in their scheme; and by Polydore, at
least, they were as warmly returned. Child-like, but not childish, was
the good chaplain in his affections. And if the sanguine ardour of
youth is a glorious thing, surely the tempered enthusiasm of mature
age is as admirable, and less uncertain.
The preparations for departure were commenced immediately. Mrs.
Griffith was saddened a little when Helen brought her the news; but
she recovered her spirits under the influence of her old pupil's
animation. And strange it would have been, if the anticipation of so
great a change had not produced considerable excitement in those upon
whom it was about to fall. They had never--as Mrs. Pendarrel
remarked--spent a night away from the castle; they had seen no town
larger than Penzance; they had been familiar with none save the
household around them. Wonderful it would have been, if with a calm
pulse they could contemplate abiding in mighty London, among a host of
strangers, and competing in the great race of life. Yet upon their
earnest tempers the prospect produced less effect than it would on
dispositions less serious; and they watched and superintended the
necessary arrangements with a foresight which delighted Polydore, and
was satisfactory even to the steward.
At length, these were completed, and the eve of the journey arrived.
The autumnal sun was setting in radiance over the opposite side of
Mount's Bay, when the orphans, moved by a sympathetic impulse, took
their way for a farewell visit to Merlin's Cave. A purple flush lay on
the uplands above Gulvall and Ludgvan; there was scarce a ripple on
the sea, and the fishermen of Newlyn were obliged to use their oars to
gain the offing. The tranquillity of the evening sank into the hearts
of the brother and sister, as they sat in silence, side by side, under
their little canopy of rock. But at last, Helen interrupted the
reverie. The sun had reached the crest of the hills; the tower of St.
Paul's Church stood out dark against the sky, with its edges fringed
by the level rays; the flush on the heather had grown deeper and
warmer; when she suddenly began to sing, to an old Jacobite air, a
ballad, composed by an ancestor who fled to Switzerland at the
Restoration, and known in the family as "Trevethlan's Farewell:"--
"Farewell to Trevethlan! A farewell for ever!
Farewell to the towers that stand by the sea!
Ah! hard is my fortune from home so to sever,
And seek me a shelter where still men are free!
"No more at midsummer to see our hills lighted
With bonfires that welcome the eve of St. John;
No more by old Christmas to frolic invited,
To greet our fair orchards with glad benison;--
"Nor yet in the May-time, at Helston's gay furry,
With garlands of oak-leaves to dance to the song;
But far o'er the waters an exile to hurry,
And pine for my kinsmen strange faces among.
"Ay, sad as the children of Morvah retreating
To Pendeen's dark caverns beside the sea-swell,
While the crags of Penvonlas bewailed the fierce meeting,
And Men Skryfa marked where Rialobran fell.
"The sun will still brighten St. Michael's high tower,
And redden at setting the rocks of Trereen;
The billow lave gently Lamorna's soft bower,
By banished Trevethlan no more to be seen.
"The maidens of Madron will hie to their fountain,
And drop the smooth pebble his fortune to tell--
Ah! glad for the exile, afar on the mountain,
The day when no ripple shall ruffle the well.
"But, hark! 'tis the signal from home now to sever--
O'er ruin Tregagel is howling his glee:
Farewell to Trevethlan! A farewell for ever!
Farewell to the towers that stand by the sea!"
The last note of Helen's song had some time died away, and the sun had
sunk behind the hill; but the western sky was still ruddy, and the
warm tint still lingered on the moorlands.
"Surely, my dear sister," Randolph said, with a gentle smile, "your
song is not of good omen for our exile."
"Oh! yes," Helen answered quickly; "recollect that Reginald survived
the Revolution, and ended his days happily at Trevethlan."
"'T was a long banishment, Helen," observed her brother. "But the sun
has set. Let us return to the castle."
And, making not a few pauses, they pursued the path homewards.