CHAPTER XVII._Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 3 (of 3)

O blisful ordre, O wedlock precious,

Thou art so mery, and so virtuous,

And so commended, and approved eke,

That every man that holt him worth a leke,

Upon his bare knees oughten all his lif

Thanken his God that him hath sent a wif;

Or elles pray to God him for to send

A wif to last until his lives end.

Chaucer.

Odious are town-weddings. To our fancy there is something appalling in

the splendour with which the ceremony is invested. And it seems to

defeat its object; for the festivities which follow the departure of the

new-married pair are proverbially dull. But the train of carriages, the

cloud of bride-maids, and all the rest of the pomp and parade, appear to

us more fitted to gratify the taste of the mob on the pavement, than to

show the refinement of the nineteenth century. A solemn rite is

converted into a theatrical entertainment. What should be a scene of

deep and heart-felt joy becomes a laborious piece of acting. The bridal

wreath is sullied by the incense which rises round it. To be sure if

there is no heart in the business, if the gist of the union is to be

found in the settlements, and the promise to love, honour, and obey is

made as a matter of form, then the scenic character of the accessaries

is perhaps in keeping, and may serve to throw a decorous veil over the

sacrifice. But the village-church is the proper shrine for matrimony.

The rustics who make a holiday of the occasion, and come in their Sunday

raiment to take respectful leave of their squire's daughter, form a much

more seemly retinue, than the gamins and idlers who throng the portico

of the London church, staring with rude wonder, and eager for vulgar

satire. And is it a childish desire that would fain invest the spot

where our fondest hopes were crowned, with a little romance? May we not

look forward to future pilgrimages to the altar where we were made the

happiest of men? And who could dream of so revisiting St. George's? Nay,

even the bells, inaudible in the metropolis, but in the country

proclaiming our happiness, will thereby require a new charm in our ears,

and their music will awake a new sympathy amidst its many dear and holy

associations.

There would, however, as the reader will readily suppose, be little or

no display at the re-marriage of Randolph and Mildred. It was fixed to

take place at the church belonging to the district in which Mrs.

Pendarrel resided. There at the appointed hour, the little party met;

and the union, which was before furtive and irregular, received the

sanction of Heaven at the hands of Polydore Riches. The ceremony was,

perhaps, more impressive than usual, for more serious emotions

accompanied its celebration. When it was over, the company returned

through a gaping crowd to their carriages, and were driven home to May

Fair. And from thence in no great time the bride and bridegroom, after

many fond leave-takings, departed to travel by a circuitous route to

Trevethlan Castle.

For it had been arranged that Helen, under the chaplain's safe-conduct,

should precede them, and be ready to welcome her new sister to the old

gray towers. And she carried with her a certain tender reminiscence; for

when the time to part approached, Rereworth's love at last over-flowed.

A select circle of friends was assembled at Mrs. Pendarrel's to

celebrate the event of the day. They were all strangers to Helen, and

thus Seymour was able to appropriate her to himself. Even this little

party was a novelty to her, and served to prolong the excitement caused

by the ceremony of the morning. In the midst of a rapid and animated

conversation, some allusion to the happiness of the married couple,

which reached Seymour's ear, threw him completely off his guard.

"Happy!" he exclaimed. "Oh, dearest Miss Trevethlan, may not a like

happiness be mine? May not I also--"

His voice sunk into a whisper, but his prayer was heard. And the ice

being thus broken, Rereworth told hurriedly of all he desired, and he

might read in Helen's flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, that he need not

fear. He had accepted an invitation from Randolph to spend a portion of

the ensuing long vacation at the castle, and then he flattered himself

he might appear as Helen's recognised suitor.

In the afternoon Mr. Riches returned to his quarters at Hampstead, to

spend his last night at the metropolis. Long was the session, which he

held there with the old clerk. A hint had made Cornelius and his sister

acquainted with the scene of the marriage, and they had been unobserved,

but not unobservant, spectators of the ceremony. And for many a day

after Polydore's departure, the two old bachelors maintained a constant

correspondence, in which they discussed the merits of old essayists, and

criticised the beauties of old plays. Sister Clotilda and her brother

never seemed to grow older than they were when Randolph and Helen dwelt

beneath their roof. Sometimes their old lodger invited them through the

chaplain to make a tour to Trevethlan Castle, promising to shew them all

the wonders of the land. But Cornelius, though he did not appear to age,

grew more and more fond of the flags of the metropolis, and could not be

prevailed upon to attempt so long an excursion. "I am no traveller," he

once wrote to Mr. Riches. "Twenty or twenty-five miles of nice quiet

road, with green hedges and comfortable inns, a cow or two here and

there, and now and then a pig, that is all the country I like. London is

my pleasure. I affect a bit of enthusiasm to strangers about this

village of Hampstead, but I should like it better without the hill." And

so peace and farewell to the peachery.

The arrival of Helen and the chaplain occasioned much rejoicing in the

hamlet of Trevethlan, but the main demonstration was of course reserved

for the coming of the young squire and his bride. And a proud day it was

for old Jeffrey, when their carriage dashed over the green amidst the

cheers of the villagers, and he finally hoisted the family flag to the

top of its staff.

There was firing and feasting, and dancing, in the hamlet and the

castle; the great hall was thrown open to all comers, and the rivalry

between Trevethlan and Pendarrel was drowned in flowing bowls, and

forgotten in the unions of the mazy measure. And night had long hung her

pall over the sea, before silence reigned in the towers on the cliff.

And here, perhaps, we might drop the curtain. But the reader will not be

displeased at a rapid glance over some of the years which have elapsed

since that happy day. The tranquillity which succeeded to the first

exuberance of joyousness, was not unchequered with feelings of a more

pensive cast.

The hamlet, indeed, throve under the renewed splendour of the castle.

Mrs. Miniver removed the boards from the windows in the wings of the

hostelry, and re-opened the rooms which had so long been closed. Nay,

she was no longer Mrs. Miniver, having submitted to the change at which

farmer Colan had hinted, and taken unto herself a husband. Edward Owen

was the fortunate man. True, he was a dozen or fifteen years younger

than his buxom bride, but she was more youthful in spirit than in age.

The match seemed to turn out as comfortably as either party could

desire. It is probable that the lady retained possession of her bunch of

keys.

His old sweetheart, Mercy, was not to be tempted into wedlock. Helen

renewed her confidence with the fair rustic, and introduced her to

Mildred. But she never forgot her unworthy lover. She scarcely believed

he was lost to her forever; but sometimes felt a transient fear that, in

a foreign land, he might have found the fate predicted for him by the

old sibyl of St. Madron's Well. But no intelligence ever arrived, either

to confirm or to contradict the maiden's apprehensions.

Mildred had been only a very short time at the castle when she was

introduced to Merlin's Cave. We cannot close our labours without

reverting for a moment to the grotto, which possessed so many

associations for Randolph and Helen. Few of our readers, we would

believe, will not, at some period of their lives, have had a Merlin's

Cave of their own. Seated under the little canopy of rock, the young

bride learned the traditional ballad of her new home, and trusted that

it might never again be applicable to the fortunes of the family. There

too she became acquainted with the black-letter lore, which of old was

the delight of her husband and sister; and there in long detail she

heard the story of their early ambition. On Mid-summer eve they all

repaired thither to witness the lighting of St. John's fires. Then as

the shades of evening fell over the sea, long streams of radiance rose

into the sky from all the numerous villages surrounding the beautiful

bay. From Carn Dew over Lamorna Cove all round to Cudden Point, the

landscape sparkled with the festive bonfires. The spectators might hear

the sounds of distant revelry borne from afar over the waters, and

echoed more loudly from the green of their own hamlet.

At the trial of the prisoners charged with the incendiarism at

Pendarrel, it was suggested, in their defence, that the fire was

occasioned by the lightning. Gabriel Denis kept his own counsel. And the

doubt so raised, combined with certain powerful intercession, availed to

mitigate the extreme penalties of the law. Of the criminals, some were

transported for various terms, and others imprisoned. Gabriel's little

girl was brought up at Trevethlan Castle, and caused no small trouble,

with her hot Spanish blood. But it was endured, in remembrance of the

confession of the witness, Wyley.

The long vacation brought Rereworth to the castle, and few days had

passed when he communicated to Randolph, Helen's sanction of his dearest

aspirations. And the brother rejoiced at the news, and warmly

congratulated both himself and his friend. Seymour thought himself

fortunate in obtaining a house, with pleasant grounds attached, in the

neighbourhood where he had first met the lady of his love; and thither,

in the space of a few months, he had the joy of conducting her as his

bride. And Helen cordially accepted her new abode, shared her husband's

hopes, and encouraged his professional ambition. She might be unable to

repress an occasional regret for the land of her infancy, childhood, and

youth, but the feeling was never visible in the company of her friend,

lover, and husband.

Some years elapsed before Mrs. Pendarrel revisited the country of her

ancestors. She was content to see Mildred and Randolph, when they came

to stay a while with the Winstons or Rereworths, which they did every

spring. She had subsided into a moping kind of melancholy, which annoyed

her husband and grieved her children. The only circumstance which ever

seemed to dissipate it was the growing good understanding between

Gertrude and Mr. Winston. This appeared to remove some of the weight

which oppressed her mind. And it showed, that if those who are cast

together by accident, or even against their will, will study one

another's merits, instead of seeking for faults and dwelling on

discomforts, happiness may be found in circumstances where least it

might be expected beforehand. It was a lesson which Gertrude learned

with a thankful heart.

The visits of the spring were returned in the autumnal holidays, when a

joyous throng of young people met regularly, in the course of time, at

Trevethlan Castle. Holidays they were indeed. The Rereworths were always

there, and most often the Winstons. Then the base court resounded with

the glee of children, with a confusion of tongues and of names worthy of

Babel. Griffith, declining gently into the vale of years, presided over

the gambols. Sometimes the ancient sport of archery, the loss of which

is so much deplored by Cornwall's old surveyor, Carew, was revived, and

all the neighbouring country met to try their skill at the butts; while

the little ones, escaping from the mild dominion of Polydore Riches, who

was now, in green old age, the teacher of a new generation, mimicked the

proceedings of their seniors, with bows and arrows suited to their

years.

Pendarrel Hall remained a ruin. The estate was settled upon Mildred and

her husband, and it seemed unnecessary to maintain two large residences

upon the united property. The flower-garden surrounding it was allowed

to run to waste, and the blackened walls continued standing, mournful

memorials of an outrage which had exiled several of its perpetrators

from their native land. Ivy was planted around the foundations, and at

some future day, the ruin might become a picturesque feature in the

landscape.

It was the doom which its mistress, in the opening of this narrative,

anticipated for the towers of Trevethlan. The menace or the desire had

been deeply avenged. But Esther was not the only person upon whom the

storm left traces of its passage. Mildred was often visited with

feelings of compunction and remorse, and the cloud which they brought

upon her brow called down a similar shadow upon Randolph's. And when her

mother survived Mr. Pendarrel, and in her loneliness accepted the

shelter of Trevethlan Castle, her aspect and demeanour were a constant

source of self-reproach to her daughter. Without being actually

imbecile, she required minute attention. She was very rigid and exacting

in all the little business of life. Her temper was uncertain, and it was

difficult to gratify her fleeting wishes. At times it might be thought

that she remembered how she should have been mistress of the castle, and

imagined for a brief space that she in fact occupied that position.

Frequently, too, she fell into long and silent reveries, and then it was

that the melancholy which overspread her countenance, caused the

greatest anxiety to her children. She always wore the miniature of

herself, and used to gaze at it, with a vacant but mournful expression,

for an hour at a time. But at length they found a means of diverting her

attention. She attached herself particularly to her eldest

grand-daughter; and whenever she sank into too prolonged a train of

musing, the little girl crept softly to her knees, and took her hand.

And then Esther awoke from her dream of the past, and smoothed the dark

hair upon the child's forehead, and told many little stories, which

delighted the young listener.

Rarely did it happen that this manner of relief failed of effect. But

sometimes Esther's abstraction was too deep to yield. At such seasons

she murmured to herself in low tones. And the little girl caused her

mother a bitter pang, by unwittingly telling her that, on one of these

occasions, grandmamma was only repeating, over and over again, and

without intermission--

"Pendar'l and Trevethlan shall own one name."

THE END.