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TREVETHLAN:
A Cornish Story.
BY WILLIAM DAVY WATSON, ESQ.
BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
1848.
London:
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
Old Bailey.
TREVETHLAN.
CHAPTER I.
Pur' e soave cosa, a chi del tutto
Non e privo di senso, il patrio nido:
Che die Natura al nascimento umano,
Verso il caro paese, ov' altri e nato,
Un non so che di non inteso affetto,
Che sempre vive, e non invecchia mai.
Guarini.
Once more we stand on the shore of Mount's Bay. Far behind we have left
the whirl and tumult of the metropolis, and we hear only the hoarse roar
of the surges, driven by the last winds of January to beat against the
granite at our feet. When last we looked over the same waters, the
yellow leaves were falling from the trees, and the little waves rippled
musically upon the rock, while the voice of mourning was heard in our
halls. Yet if the year was declining, there was beauty in the decay; if
the season was sad, there was hope amidst the sorrow. We return to find
the fields desolate, and the sea tempestuous, and our house still
forlorn. The face of nature is gloomy and cold, and hope has vanished
from our fireside.
Such might be among the first reflections of the orphans of Trevethlan,
as they gazed from the windows of the castle over the well-known
landscape. They had come home, not as children from school to holiday,
exulting in freedom and buoyant with hope, to exchange coercion for
caresses; nor as older pupils, having learnt the value of time, merely
to modify the routine of occupation, and gladden parental affection with
their progress and prudence; nor yet as those who, having entered on the
labour of life, know that the bow must not always be bent, and rejoice
to seek relaxation around the hearth where they were nursed. Far deeper
than any of these were the emotions of the sister, and dark and stern
were the thoughts of the brother.
Helen's letter had fallen upon Polydore like a thunderbolt. She had,
indeed, in previous communications somewhat ruffled his serenity by
indistinct references to the new solicitude she detected in Randolph;
but the worthy chaplain readily explained all similar hints by the
novelty of his old pupil's situation. "He will become used to it before
long, Mr. Griffith," Polydore would say, when the steward ventured to
remind him of their difference of opinion respecting the orphans'
scheme. "'Tis only the roughness of a first meeting with the world. The
points will be soon rubbed smooth. There's a great difference between
the Temple and Trevethlan Castle." In reply to which sort of remark,
Griffith could only shrug his shoulders, and hope it might all turn out
well in the end.
So when the missive arrived, in which Helen announced that her brother
had proclaimed their real name, and abandoned his career, and that they
should follow the letter without delay, Polydore was struck with sudden
consternation. The steward was too delicate to show that he felt no
similar surprise in the chaplain's presence, but to his wife he avowed
that he was not in the least astonished. "A Trevethlan conceal his
name!" he exclaimed. "It's not in the blood. No, Charlotte Griffith; if
we are poor, we are also proud. The secret would be always on the tip of
his tongue. Why, suppose he quarrelled? Not unlikely, I can tell you, in
one of our house. D'ye think, Mrs. Griffith, Randolph Trevethlan would
go out as Mr. Morton? Pooh! pooh!"
Mrs. Griffith rather shuddered at the idea, but she remembered sundry
anecdotes of the picture gallery which forbade her to impeach the
justice of her husband's position. Whatever were the cause of the
return, she rejoiced at the effect, and spread the same feeling among
all the little household, by her orders to prepare for the reception of
her young master and mistress.
So they came. It was early in the afternoon when their chaise rattled
round the green of the hamlet; but a cold sleet drove along upon the
wind, and kept the villagers within doors. The folk hurried to their
windows only in time to see that the carriage had passed, but the
extreme rarity of such a visitation drew forth a few of the curious to
gaze after the chaise, as it wound more slowly up the ascent of the
base-court. Randolph lay back in his corner, gloomy and foreboding; but
Helen leant forward to catch the first glimpse of an old familiar face.
And Jeffrey was duly on the watch; he caught sight of the carriage as it
began the ascent; he soon recognized his young lady's face at the
window; the gates flew open under his hand; before the travellers had
alighted at the hall-door, he had run the old flag to the top of its
staff, and a faint cheer from the hamlet greeted the appearance of the
well-known signal. The orphans were at home.
Anxieties and forebodings vanished for a season in the warmth of
welcome. The time for questions and explanations was not arrived.
Everything seemed in exactly the same order as when the brother and
sister left; and were it not for the difference of the seasons--were it
not that a fire crackled cheerfully in the great chimney, and that
patches of snow lay on the bed of mignionette, they might have supposed
a night only had elapsed since their departure. But the change in
themselves told that the interval had been fraught with momentous
consequences for each of them.
When the first hurry of congratulation was over, Helen retired for some
confidential talk with Mrs. Griffith, and her brother accompanied the
chaplain in a walk round the castle. Yes, every thing remained exactly
as it was. In the library, even the volume which Randolph was reading
with his instructor, "Cicero on the Art of Divination," remained on the
table, as if closed but yesterday, and the subject brought a passing
cloud upon his brow. The portraits in the picture-gallery showed the
recent care of Mrs. Griffith.
"My mother's likeness is not here, Mr. Riches?" Randolph said abruptly,
as they passed along.
The chaplain, greatly surprised, shook his head in silence.
They ascended to the battlements, and faced the inclemency of the
weather. The ancient pieces of ordnance showed signs of that diligence
on the part of old Jeffrey, to which Polydore had alluded in a recent
letter to Hampstead. More dangerous they, perchance, to the defender
than the foe.
"Is there really so much alarm in the country, my dear sir?" Randolph
asked. "Are our good Jeffrey's perilous precautions in any way
warranted?"
"_It fama per urbes_--you know the rest," the chaplain answered. "We
will speak of it by and by."
They descended to the court-yard. If the castle was unchanged, its
scanty retainers were as little altered. At the great gateway Randolph
found Jeffrey pacing up and down under the arch in demi-military style,
while an old-fashioned brass blunderbuss rested against the wall.
"God bless you! Master Randolph," said the old man, taking the offered
hand between both of his; "and welcome back. And thanks be to Him, that
if so be these walls must fall to the riff-raff from Castle Dinas, why,
fall they will around a Trevethlan. But the day shall not come,
while"--he caught up his piece, and suddenly discharged it in the
air--"the evening gun, Master Randolph. A little too soon, and not like
that as was fired in the old time. But it just serves maybe to frighten
the rascals, and let 'em know old Jeffrey is awake."
Randolph thanked the trusty warder for his zeal, and expressed a hope
that his forebodings might not be realized; but the sentry shook his
head dolefully, and reloaded his gun, saying, "Ye might as well just
keep your pistols handy, Master Randolph."
Already, even in this short perambulation, the chaplain was greatly
struck by the change which he observed in his former pupil. The
stripling, meditative and gentle, had become a man, haughty and
impassioned. The disposition, of old plastic as wax, was now at once
obstinate and capricious. The change was marked in the imperiousness of
Randolph's bearing, in the curl of his lip, and the abruptness of his
speech. There was no want of his former respect or affection; but it was
plain that henceforth he acted on his own impulse, and was not to be
swayed by those who might surround him. "Is it for good or for evil?"
the chaplain asked himself, when Randolph parted from him to descend to
the beach, and intimated that he wished to be alone. "Pray Heaven for
good, or surely my life has been wasted."
It was becoming dusky. The sleet had passed over, and the sky was
cloudless; but the blast still whistled along the sea, and brought great
waves to break on the well-known promontory of rock. Randolph stood on
the point, heedless of the wind and spray, and gave vent to the emotions
which were struggling within his bosom.
"For what am I here?" he said. "Why have I come to my home? To bury
myself amidst these gray walls, and watch the gradual ebbing of all the
springs of existence? To die in sullen desolation, and find a lonely
grave in yonder churchyard? Hope it not, Esther Pendarrel. Not so easily
quenched is the fire within me: it may ravage all around it, but it will
not smoulder away, consuming only myself. But I must be alone. My sweet
sister must not be scathed by my waywardness. She will rest here, while
I go forth to achieve the one purpose of my heart. Our scheme has broken
to pieces, but my pledge remains. Alas, that my father should bind me by
so fatal an undertaking! Yet, if Esther loved--if Esther loved----
"And thou, too, whom I never knew, of whom no trace remains in my
memory, my mother! Would that thou hadst not been summoned hence so
soon! Would that I had felt thy softening influence, and he learnt of
thee to be merciful! Why have I thought of thee so often of late? Why
has that veiled shape glided through my dreams? Wilt thou not reveal
thyself to thy son? Visit me, oh my mother! fling aside the veil that
hides thy face, and be a light to my soul in the darkness that surrounds
it."
The muser dwelt long on this invocation, pacing to and fro on the narrow
strip of rock. It was the first time he had given expression to an idea
which for some while had been lurking among his thoughts. At last he
looked round the sky, and saw the mild radiance of the evening star.
"Beautiful planet!" he said, "which fancy chose for the arbiter of my
fate, is _she_ also beholding thee? Smile upon her, fair planet, and
remind her of me. Teach her to think of me, even as thou hast taught me
to remember her."
Tranquillized by the reflection, Randolph returned through the deepening
twilight to the castle, and joined his sister and the chaplain in a
small parlour, occupying a turret that overlooked the sea. It was a
favourite room. There, in the evening, Polydore described at some length
the state of the adjacent country. "Discontent," he said, "was very
general; not only among the miners, who thought they did not earn a just
share of their labour's produce, but also among the agricultural
population, who complained that wages were too low in proportion to the
price of provisions. And social dissatisfaction had partly assumed the
aspect of political disaffection. Agitators, strangers to the district,
were said to have gone about among the people. Minor outrages had not
been very rare, and expressions had been reported nearly equivalent to
the 'Guerre aux Chateaux' of the great French Revolution. Musters of men
in military array were said to have been held on the moorlands. Rumours
flew about of the landing of arms on different parts of the coast. But
all," Polydore concluded, "is vague and shadowy. I believe there is
great exaggeration abroad. Positive, however, it is, that a patrol of
cavalry occasionally dashes at speed by a lonely cottage, and that the
coast-guard display unwonted activity. Behold the confirmation of my
words!"
For while they were being uttered, his hearers might see a long line of
fire rise into the air from the shore of the bay near Mousehole,
denoting the flight of a rocket.
"That is the way they amuse us almost every night," continued the
chaplain. "'Tis too dark, I suppose, to see anything afloat. Let us put
the candles in the shade, and look."
So said, so done. Fruitlessly, for they could discover nothing on the
dark waters. But while they were gazing across the bay, a faint, rushing
sound fell on their ear, above the noise of the sea; and, turning
hastily, they perceived the last sparks of a second rocket, which had
been fired from their own coast.
"Yes, that is the way," Polydore repeated. "Of old, the folks would just
have wished the smuggler luck, and perhaps turned out in hope to run a
keg or so; but they seem to think there's more in these signals now."
"And you feel no alarm yourself, my dear sir?" Helen inquired.
"None, Helen," replied the chaplain. "I may be mistaken, but I do not
expect to see Jeffrey's blunderbuss brought into action; and I have a
trust which never yet proved wanting."
So saying, Polydore rang the bell, a summons which speedily assembled
all the household for family prayer, according to old usage; and when
the rite was over, the members sought their respective resting-places,
and silence reigned in the castle.
But Randolph could not sleep. Throwing a cloak around him, and shading
his lamp with his hand, he proceeded with the stealthy step of one who
dreads he knows not what, along the desolate corridors to the state
apartments. Through their faded grandeur he wandered on, until he
reached the great chamber which was the scene of his father's death. He
placed his light so that only a faint glimmer fell upon the bed, and
leant against one of the pillars, and resumed his reverie of the
afternoon with such vividness of imagination, that he fancied he again
beheld the bright eyes of the dying man, and heard the injunctions which
seemed now to separate him from what he held dearest upon earth. But his
reverie had not terminated with those gloomy forebodings, nor did his
dream. A frail and slender form, veiled in gossamer-like drapery, bent
dimly over the couch for a short space and floated away, beckoning him
to follow. It rested a moment in the doorway, for he had only obeyed the
sign with his eyes. But when he hastily seized the lamp, it flitted fast
before him, fading and fading away, until it disappeared entirely as he
crossed the threshold of his own chamber. He flung himself on his bed,
and closed his eyes for sleep; and as the last gleam of consciousness
vanished, a face which he appeared to have known in days long past, meek
and lovely,--that of a woman, in her morning of beauty,--bent down upon
his, and kissed his lips.
The kiss seemed yet fresh upon them when he woke, and found the sun
shining gaily into the apartment.