Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 1

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Watson William Davy. Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 1

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

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Randolph Trevethlan was just of age when his father died; his sister, two years younger. Their singular education had impressed peculiarities upon each of them; but, trained so entirely together, their habits and dispositions had grown into a conformity almost perfect. Their pursuits, their wishes, their attachments were always the same. Their father never allowed them to set foot on any ground which had been alienated from the castle; and as such surrounded it at a short distance, their inland walks were restricted within a very narrow cordon. But the beach, no man's land, was open to their rambles: a winding stair led from the castle to a portal cut in the face of the rock on which it stood, and a flight of steps descended from this doorway to the shingles, washed by the waves which rolled eternally from the farthest Atlantic. Not far to the south, the rock formed a narrow promontory of inconsiderable height, but running out some distance into the sea. The rough granite afforded good footing, and with a little exertion, it was not difficult to reach the extremity, where there was a small cave. Randolph smoothed the ruggedness of the way, and this recess, which they called Merlin's Cave, became the favourite resort of himself and Helen. From it, they looked straightforward past Mousehole and the Logan Rock to the meeting of sea and sky, while a turn to the right, showed them St. Michael's Mount and the beautiful woods over Penzance. Here, in the warm season, they often sat for many hours together, reading the legends of Cornubia, and of Armorica across the waters. Here, in the winter, when the wind blew heavily from the west, they came to admire the huge swell of the ocean thundering idly on the granite beneath their feet. It might be thought that such a life would produce a dreamy and feeble turn of mind, ill-calculated to withstand the buffets of the world. And it will be found, in fact, that this result did in some degree follow. But the lessons and conversation of Polydore Riches, and the cold cynicism of Mr. Trevethlan, furnished a partial antidote to its enervating tendency. It made the brother and sister highly enthusiastic, but it did not entirely substitute romance for reality. They knew very little of the world, yet the castles which they built in the air, were of brick and mortar, not of crystal and vapour. The plan which Randolph disclosed to his dying father, had been often discussed between himself and Helen. An old edition of Blackstone's Commentaries, and one, equally out of date of Burn's Justice, which he found in the library, attested by their wear and tear, the diligence of the young student, who little thought of the depth to which he must dive, to find the sands of the legal Pactolus. To go to London, to take some suburban lodging, to dwell in frugal retirement, was the scheme arranged by Randolph and Helen Morton. Mr. Griffith and Polydore would be their only confidants; the former would introduce Randolph to the family lawyer, of course in his feigned name, who would procure his admission at an Inn of Court; five years—that was the bitter in the cup—five long years would qualify him for the bar: and then, he should stretch forth his hand and collect the golden grains. When a sufficiency of the commodity was stored up, Randolph and Helen Trevethlan would arrive one fine day at Trevethlan Castle, which would have been gradually restored to receive them, and there would be ringing of bells and firing of cannon; a new flag would fly from the lofty watch-tower; Griffith and his wife would weep for joy; Polydore would give them his blessing; and the sun of Trevethlan, long hidden by clouds, would shine out with a glory never to be again obscured.

These visions were interrupted by Mr. Trevethlan's illness and death. The preparations necessary for the funeral devolved upon the steward and his wife. Mrs. Griffith produced some velvet which had once been black, wherewith to hang the state chamber, and a few tapers lighted up the solemn mockery. The orphan brother and sister sat afar in those rooms, which have been already described as overlooking a small flower garden. The blinds, lowered reverentially, debarred the occupants from beholding the prospect, and seemed to sever them from all communion with the world. They leant against each other in sad silence, as if they were too feeble to sustain themselves apart, and required mutual support. Little had they thought how much the loss, even of their father, could add to the loneliness of Trevethlan Castle. And the scheme on which they had so long and so often dwelt in Merlin's Cave, and which then seemed so simple and feasible, now assumed a hard and perplexing aspect. The edifice, which at a distance looked fair and stately, presented on a nearer view the whited wall of the sepulchre.

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The development of such traits in the peasant might be owing to his early life. When Margaret Basset sorrowfully obeyed the order which seemed to make her mistress of Trevethlan Castle, her family conceived great hopes from her elevation, instead of sympathising in her grief. Her nephew, Michael, was trained in the habits they fancied most likely to conciliate the favour of their lord, vulgar obsequiousness and fawning dissimulation. For some time after Mrs. Trevethlan's death, he was allowed to hang about the castle, enjoying the benefit of Polydore's instruction, and encouraged in the idea, that he might grow to be the confidant and companion of the youthful heir. Those who thought so, little knew Mr. Trevethlan. Pride hates the sycophancy which is acceptable to vanity. He was simply disgusted by the offered homage; and at once perceiving its drift, excluded his wife's relations from all connexion with his household, and ejected them from their little farm. They settled upon the neighbouring estates of Pendarrel, cherishing a natural enmity against their late landlord, and beholding his ruin with a certain exultation. They also chose to consider that poor Margaret had been aggrieved by the compulsion in which they themselves participated, and thus sharpened craft and malice with the feeling of injury. With such spiteful mind old Maud Basset came to the funeral, and flung in Randolph's teeth a prophecy, which had been much recited of late years among the peasantry of the neighbourhood.

And now Trevethlan Castle re-assumed its usual appearance. One of Randolph's first cares after the funeral was to warn Jeffrey, the porter, that all visitors whatsoever who might present themselves at the gates, were to be informed neither he nor his sister was at home, and were not to be admitted on any pretence. Archbishop Secker is reported to have said, that the first person who used this excuse told a lie. It sorely puzzled old Jeffrey's notions of morality.

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