Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 1

"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 lightedWith 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 retreatingTo Pendeen's dark caverns beside the sea-swell,While the crags of Penvonlas bewailed the fierce meeting,And Mên 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.

CHAPTER V

"Then hope grew round me like the twining vine, And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine."Coleridge.

The promise of the red evening described in the last chapter was faithfully kept, and a splendid day witnessed the departure of the heir of Trevethlan and his sister from their ancestral home. At their earnest request, Polydore Riches accompanied them as far as Falmouth, from whence places had been secured for London by the mail. The chaplain thought that the more sudden the change, the better it would be borne; and would gladly at once have cast the orphans upon their own resources; but he succumbed to their entreaties. And if a tear glistened in Polydore's eye when the mail had disappeared round the first corner, it surely will not be thought to bring discredit upon his head.

In subdued sadness the chaplain returned to the castle. There it was generally understood that Mr. Randolph and Miss Helen were going to travel abroad for some years. And this impression was confirmed by the following announcement, which appeared in the local journals, and was copied into some of the metropolitan:—"We are informed that Mr. and Miss Trevethlan have left Trevethlan Castle, to make a sojourn of some duration in the South of Europe." The paragraph flavoured many a cup of tea at Helston and Penzance, and attracted attention at one house in May Fair.

But the mail is rattling along, to the music of the guard's horn and the quadrupedant sound of the horses, heedless alike of local verjuice and of London pride. Not yet had it been polished into the dashing Quicksilver, but it rattled along very respectably, contented with itself, and despising the heavy Subscription. Poor thing!—its vanity has been severely punished. Needless it is to dwell on the incidents of the journey. Long and wearisome it was, and glad were the orphans when the wheels had made their last turn, and they alighted about daybreak in the yard of the old Bull and Mouth, St. Martin's-le-Grand. Slumber soon brought oblivion both of care and fatigue.

When Randolph, leaving his chamber near noon, was shown into a sitting-room, he found Helen already there. She was looking out of the old-fashioned window, the heavy wood-work of which might remind her of farm-houses in her own country. Traffic was in full vigour in the street below, and the noise and hurry so confused her, that she was not aware of her brother's approach until he stood by her side.

"Welcome to London, Miss Helen Morton," he said, becoming in turn amazed at the scene beneath his eyes.

They breakfasted with considerable gaiety in the excitement of their new situation; and then Randolph started to discover Mr. Winter's offices in Lincoln's Inn; while his sister sat down to write Polydore an account of their safe arrival at their journey's end.

Griffith had already written to the attorney, requesting his services on behalf of the son of an old friend, recently deceased. Mr. Morton, he said, possessed a small competence, and was desirous of proceeding to the bar. He would be in town with his only sister in a few days, and any kindness which Mr. Winter could show them would confer a great favour upon his correspondent.

Winter has been spoken of by the chaplain as an impersonation of prudence. The description was just; but it was a prudence untainted by the slightest selfishness. He was a man of a large, liberal, and honourable nature, without a trace of the narrow-mindedness so often and so erroneously thought inseparable from his profession; he was so genial, withal, in his temper, that his friends used to quote him as a notable example of the rule, that surnames go by contraries. Spring, they would say, was the proper season for Winter, and Winter was proper for all seasons. Happy were they, privileged in July to sip his claret in the arbour of his garden at Hampstead—there was a touch of the Cockney about him—and in December to quaff his old port in his sanctum within-doors: hours never grudged by Mrs. Winter, who was as cheerful as her spouse.

For several generations the legal business of the Trevethlan family had been managed in the office over which Mr. Winter now presided; and it was with a sad heart that the worthy attorney effected the alienations ordered by the late owner of the castle. He entertained a high regard for the steward, and was quite prepared to extend it to the son of his friend. No time elapsed after Randolph had sent in his name, before he was ushered into Mr. Winter's private room.

"Welcome, my young friend," the lawyer cried, extending his hand, and looking with satisfaction on Randolph's open countenance, "welcome to town. I have been expecting you: it is a pleasure to know a friend of Griffith's. How is the worthy steward? He has had his trials, poor man! Trevethlan is not what it was—Ah me! The young squire going abroad, I understand. No use. He should marry, Mr. Morton. There's many a girl would jump at the castle, even yet.—So you are for the bar. A fashionable profession just now, Mr. Morton. Red coats are cheap. Cornets from Waterloo—midshipmen of Trafalgar—all rushing to the law. Uncommonly martial it is just now. N'importe: there's room for all. But this by-and-by.—Miss Morton came with you—Where have you left her?—Not over-fatigued, I hope?"

The attorney's volubility was meant to give his new acquaintance time to overcome his first diffidence, and effected its object. Randolph thanked him, and gave the information asked for.

"Lodgings," said Winter, "that's what you want, I suppose? There is a friend of mine on Hampstead Heath, who might perhaps suit you. An old clerk in one of the great city houses, and a sterling fellow; with an amiable old maiden sister. Would you like to try it?"

"Surely, my dear sir," Randolph answered.

"I thought so," Winter said. "Then just observe: here is the precise address. A porter of the inn will put you and Miss Morton into a coach, which will drop you at Peach's door. Tell Clotilda, Miss Peach, I mean, you are from me. If you like it, well. Let Miss Morton take possession then and there. You come back for the luggage. If it does not suit, ask Miss Peach the way to my house—I live at Hampstead—leave your sister there, and equally come back for the traps. I shall he home by six. So, you understand. And now excuse me. There is no time to lose. There never is. Good morning."

Randolph left the gloomy chambers with much the same feelings, that a patient experiences, when after long suffering on a sick bed, he is at last bid "throw physic to the dogs," and begone to the sea. He seemed to be already at work, and enjoyed the exhilarating effect. With light feet and as light a heart, he hurried back to the Bull and Mouth. Helen had finished her letter, and gave it him to read: she looked over his shoulder while he wrote a postscript, saying in hyperbolical terms, how delighted he was with Mr. Winter. A porter guided the young pair to a Hampstead coach, in which they were the third part of a half dozen, and in no long time the vehicle rumbled over the stones towards Camden Town.

A squalid part of the metropolis it was they traversed, but it was forgotten when the conveyance stopped, and the announcement "Mr. Peach's, if you please, sir," summoned Randolph and Helen to alight. Clotilda was at the parlour window, and came to meet her visitors. Mr. Winter had prepared the way for them, and Randolph had only to mention his name to gain a welcome.

"Walk in, my dear sir," said the spinster, "walk in, my dear young lady. I wish Cornelius was at home. Mr. Winter spoke of Cornelius, I suppose. The lodgings? yes, it is all the first floor. Two bed-rooms and sitting-room. Cornelius says–"

No matter what. Miss Peach had preceded her guests upstairs. Helen walked to the drawing-room window, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Buried in that old six inside convenience, she had not observed that it had been ascending a considerable hill. The front of Mr. Peach's cottage looked on a sandy lane. But the drawing-room was at the back, and well might Helen be startled, for the window she stood at commanded a view of the rich landscape lying between the heath and Harrow. Five minutes afterwards the bargain was struck, and in five minutes more Randolph was on his way back into the city in quest of the boxes and bags, leaving Helen to become acquainted with their future hostess.

A quaint but genial pair of humourists were Cornelius and Clotilda Peach. Mr. Shandy would perhaps have attributed some of their oddity to the chance which gave them their names. A row of folio volumes in the parlour might afford some key to the brother's tastes, and would intimate that he was fond of old poems, old plays, and old divinity. Here and there a bit of paper peeping from the leaves, and written upon, betrayed some scribbling propensity on the part of the owner. Manly and kindly were all his favourite authors, and if the latter quality predominated in himself, it was only perhaps because the former had never been called into activity. Everyone who knew him loved Cornelius Peach.

And his sister loved him best. She looked up to him also, as something great. She never contradicted him, except at whist, a game in which they both rejoiced. In all other matters, when she had quoted the opinion of Cornelius, she considered the question at issue decided. A small garden was attached to the cottage, and Clotilda piqued herself on her pansies and carnations, but never grudged a flower for her brother's button-hole. Sometimes, but very rarely, her sisterly care was tried by the effect of a social party upon his uprightness, on which occasions Cornelius was apt to become sentimental about a certain Mabel whom he said he ought to have married, but whom his friends believed to be a mere phantom of his imagination. They never could learn her sirname.

Such were the worthy couple with whom the orphans of Trevethlan were now to be domesticated. When Randolph returned with the luggage, he found dinner ready for himself and Helen; and after the repast, he inquired his way to Mr. Winter's—the Elms—and left a message there, expressing his thanks, and saying how comfortably his sister and he were settled. Later in the evening a note invited them to dinner at the lawyer's the following day, which engagement they accepted with pleasure. And then, till bed-time, they were busied in arranging their goods and chattels. Mr. Peach, with thoughtful politeness, deferred an introduction till the morning.

When it came, Cornelius made his bow, and a very awkward one it was, to his new lodgers.

"Good morrow, Mr. Morton," he said, looking nowhere straight, but at Helen sideways; "good morning, Miss Morton. 'Pack clouds away, and welcome day,' I trust you have rested well. Some never can sleep in a strange bed. Yours I hope will not have that fault long."

Randolph thanked him: they had slept very well.

"Ah, Miss Morton," continued the landlord, "I would you had come earlier in the year. The fall is a sad season. Nothing in the garden but Michaelmas daisies, those miserable old bachelors of flowers; and a few chrysanthemums, the showy old maids. You will never be a chrysanthemum, Miss Morton."

The ponderous machine which called at the cottage every morning to convey Mr. Peach to the city, was now heard lumbering along the lane, and the jocund little man took his departure.

So far Randolph and Helen had scarcely found time to breathe, much less to think; but when they strolled out upon the heath in the course of the day, reflections came crowding upon their minds. The foundation of the aërial castle was fairly laid: did it promise as well, as when viewed from Merlin's Cave? Not quite perhaps. Something grated on their feelings; it might be they missed the sound of the sea; it might be the flurry through which they had passed; it might be such a trifle as the oddities of their host and hostess. The total disruption of all their old habits was more violent than they had expected. They experienced a vague uneasiness. They almost began to regret the calm of Trevethlan Castle. And when they gazed down upon the vast city, veiled by the clouds that roll continually from its myriad hearths, through which the dome of St. Paul's loomed in exaggerated dimensions, it must be confessed that their vision of the future wore a doubtful and variable hue. Their looks were downcast; gravity took the place of animation in their faces; and it was with some anxiety that they set forth on their way to the Elms.