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.
"Not at home, Master Randolph," he said; "and are ye and my young lady to leave us so soon?"
"No, Jeffrey," was the answer; "we are not going away immediately. But we desire to see no company, and this is the usual mode of saying so."
"Good truth, Master Randolph, 'twill be a strange thing for company to come to Trevethlan," said the porter. "And where shall I say you are gone?"
"Nowhere," replied Randolph. "Say no more than that we are not at home; and do not open the gates, whoever may ask."
"Trust old Jeffrey to obey a Trevethlan," the retainer said as his master retired; "and faith, we want no fine folks here spying out the nakedness of the land. Jeffrey will send them away with a flea in their ear."
CHAPTER III
"Nature never framed a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice:
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak."
Shakspeare.
The gentleman so addressed put down an untasted glass of wine with which he was about to give zest to his luncheon, and he looked towards the lady who spoke. She was reading a newspaper.
"Did you observe this?" she continued. "We regret to announce the death of Henry Trevethlan, Esq., of Trevethlan Castle!"
"My poor nephew!" exclaimed the gentleman.
The lady flung a glance upon him, which made him lower his eyes, and read on. "He is succeeded in his estates—his estates!—by his son Randolph Trevethlan, Esq., who, with his sister, is now at the castle."
Mr. Pendarrel, probably thinking of the look which had just rebuked him, made no further observation.
"Have you nothing to remark upon this intelligence?" asked his wife. "No commiseration for your great nephew and niece, as well as their father?"
"They must be very poor," her husband answered. "Anything I can do—"
"Anything you can do, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel!" the lady exclaimed, interrupting him sharply. "You must buy me the castle, and they may live on the price.
'Pendar'l and Trevethlan shall own one name!'"
She laid aside the newspaper, and rising, walked to and fro in the apartment, speaking in a tone free from the irony and scorn which had given an unfeminine expression to her previous words.
"Let me see. Seventeen, ninety-six-seven—Randolph must be just of age. And Helen a year or two younger. Poor! Indeed they must be poor. The castle will be very ornamental as a ruin. Already it is more picturesque than habitable. They will be relieved to have it taken off their hands. And we can be generous. If not, what do they know? Why, Randolph has never slept away. They must be as wild as mountain-goats. And their society! What ideas can they have formed of life? Yet we may be generous; if they like, friendly. There is a pleasant cottage on the shore under Pendarrel: comfortable; suitable for straitened means; in wild scenery, like Trevethlan. They might have it at an easy rent; or in part purchase of the castle."
Thus, Alnaschar-like, Mrs. Pendarrel accomplished in reverie what had long been the settled purpose of her mind. Such was the vision that rose from her basket of crockery. She was a woman of genius, and knew it, and loved the knowledge.
"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, have you yet finished your luncheon? Then follow me to the library. You must write to Randolph; and I shall go down to Cornwall next week, and visit him and his sister."
In the library the lady dictated the letter which the reader has already perused. When her husband looked over what he had written, he ventured to remonstrate.
"Do you not think, my dear Esther, this is rather, just a little, the least in the world; you know what I mean."
"No, I do not, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel. I am not initiated in the mysteries of your office, where they use language to conceal their thoughts."
"Nay, I know it is not your intention," continued her husband; "but might it not be supposed? It would be quite wrong, of course. Still, perhaps, they might think—people do form such curious ideas."
"Your ideas seem very curious indeed," said the lady. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Why, my dear Esther, might not this letter, quite undesignedly, quite—might it not wound Mr. Randolph Trevethlan's feelings?"
"Not if I appreciate them rightly, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel," answered his wife; "and it will furnish me with a key to his character. If, as I fully expect, that offer is regarded as kind, and gratefully accepted, the heir of Trevethlan becomes my humble dependent. If, as I think very unlikely, the letter is resented as an affront, then I know that the old spirit still animates the old ruin, and I prepare accordingly. Is it sealed? Well: remember to give the instruction to Messrs–."
And so saying, the lady withdrew. Her husband was the brother of the late Henry Trevethlan's father, and, therefore, great-uncle to Randolph; but having been born more than twenty years after his elder brother, he was but little older than his nephew, and was brought up in companionship with him at Trevethlan Castle. Rivalry for the hand of Esther Pendarrel disturbed their affection soon after Henry succeeded to the estates, and it gave place to hatred, when Philip carried off the prize and assumed his wife's name. Rumour said, that nothing but Henry's positive refusal to submit to this condition, led to his rejection.
For once rumour was probably right. The families of Trevethlan and Pendarrel had long lived in the usual friendship of neighbours, frequently intermarrying, but never united under one head. When, however, circumstances made Esther sole heiress of her house, it seemed likely that this might at last occur, and that the name of Pendarrel might merge in that of Trevethlan. The lady's own attention was attracted to this contingency by a little altercation she happened to overhear between two peasants, respecting the prophecy already quoted.
"Well, Jem," said one, "ye see Pendar'l's like to come to Trevethlan without a bride from under the thatch. 'T is a bonny lady whereby they'll own one name."
"Do not ye think it, Robin," answered the other. "The saying's as old as Carn Dew. My lady's not one to sink her name: there's that in her eye tells another tale."
When Esther heard these remarks, the first rustic seemed to be much nearer the truth than the second; for Henry Trevethlan was so close an attendant upon her, that it could not be supposed that his assiduity was unwelcome. But she had been trained in a sufficiently high sense of her own importance; and the peasant's words made her ponder, and roused the pride which had almost been laid to sleep by love. She quarrelled with Henry, and married Philip.
Her first lover endeavoured to forget his disappointment in the excitement of play. She, always hoping to realize the prediction in her own sense, rejoiced in adding the estates which he sold, one after another, to the already extensive domains of Pendarrel. By degrees, she thus drove the enemy into his citadel, and beleaguered him on all sides, trusting at last to starve him into submission. And now that the defence had fallen into young and inexperienced hands, she rushed eagerly to the assault, heralding it with the demand for a capitulation, contained in the letter she caused her husband to write.
He, poor man, did not count for much in his wife's arrangements. At home, he was nearly a nonentity; abroad, he held a subordinate place of some importance under Government. His official consequence consoled him for his domestic insignificance; and some such comfort he needed; for he had no will of his own whenever Esther interfered, so rigorous was the sway wherewith the strong mind ruled the weak.
Their family—a sore point was this with Mrs. Pendarrel, who foresaw that in some shape her own manœuvre must be repeated—consisted of two daughters, Gertrude and Mildred. Gertrude was nearly thirty, married, but without offspring: Mildred was not quite twenty. In appearance, they both resembled their mother, and might be imagined to exhibit traces of the ancient people said, in some legends, to have founded Marazion.
Esther lost no time in fulfilling her purpose of visiting the orphans. As soon as possible after the despatch of the letter, she started for Pendarrel Hall, which, unlike Trevethlan Castle, was a modern mansion, surrounded by a large park. The day after her arrival, she drove to perform her errand.
Old Jeffrey had pondered much on the novel instructions received from his young master; and every sound of the gate-bell roused him to a great display of vigilance. First, he reconnoitred the party seeking admission, through a loop-hole: if that scrutiny were satisfactory, he opened a slit in the wicket, and held a parley: if this proved equally free from danger, he unclosed the wicket itself, and allowed the visitor to enter. Hitherto, he had not been called upon to pronounce the message of exclusion.
But the sound of an approaching carriage awoke all the caution of the old warder. Mrs. Pendarrel's chariot wound heavily up the now rugged road, which led through the base-court to the main gateway of the castle. The lady looked from side to side, and viewed the surrounding desolation with some secret triumph, as betokening a necessity which must be glad to accept relief. At length her carriage drew up in front of the arched portal, and a servant alighted, and rang the bell with correct violence.
Old Jeffrey had sufficient shrewdness to know that such an attack as this could not be repelled from the loop-hole; so he descended to parley through the opening in the wicket.
"Now, sir," said the invading servant, "how long is my lady to wait?"
"Who did you want to see?" asked the porter in turn.
"Open the gates, sir: let us drive to the hall-door."
"Troth," said Jeffrey, "this is the hall-door just now. Who did ye want to see?"
Mrs. Pendarrel, slightly impatient, repeated her servant's demand from the window of the carriage: Jeffrey met it with the same question.
"Mr. Trevethlan," said the lady.
"Mr. Trevethlan's not at home," said the obstinate warder.
"Not at home, sir! What do you mean? Where is he?"
"He's not at home," Jeffrey repeated.
Mrs. Pendarrel mused for a moment.
"Miss Trevethlan is at home, I suppose?" she asked.
"Miss Trevethlan is not at home," was again the reply.
"This is insolence," the lady said. "Do you know, sir, who I am?"
"I think I know the Pendar'l liveries," answered Jeffrey.
"Home," said Mrs. Pendarrel to her servant. And the carriage rattled down the descent.
A young man was leaning on the gate of the base-court: as the chariot approached, he opened it, and stood cap in hand while the lady drove through. She pulled the check-string, and beckoned the stranger to the window.
"Do you belong to the castle?" she asked, when he drew near.
"No, in good truth, ma'am," the youth replied with a peculiar smile: "I am a tenant of Pendar'l."
"What is your name?"
"Sinson, ma'am; Michael Sinson at your service, ma'am; grandson of old Maud Basset."
"What!" exclaimed the lady hastily, "a relation–"
"The late Mrs. Trevethlan's nephew, ma'am," said Michael.
"Come to the hall to-morrow," Mrs. Pendarrel said; "I may be able to employ you."
Michael made a cringing bow, and the carriage drove on.
"So," mused its occupant, "it is war. The old spirit does animate the old ruin. A pleasant pastime, Henry Trevethlan, have you bequeathed to your children. Long shall your race rue the day, when you took a woman at her first word. Was not Esther Pendarrel worth asking twice? Was it impossible to conciliate her pride, except by the sacrifice of your own? Was no allowance to be made for the petulance of a girl nursed by flattery? Was there no middle course? Might not Trevethlan have been preserved, yet Pendarrel not extinguished? I smiled when you left me: I smiled when I saw your rapid gallop down the avenue: I smiled still, when I heard you were departed to London. No falconer's voice, methought, will be required, 'to lure my tassel-gentle back again.' A week—and another, and another—and no news. A month, and news. His kinsman comes. To intercede for him? Ah, no. To tell me of his folly, and to plead for himself. 'There is no fury like a woman scorned.' I listened, but it was long before I consented. A bold wooer truly was my worthy lord! Did he not venture to urge, that his nephew's passion was so ardent, it would prevent him from any other union? That therefore the castle would descend to him? That so the properties would be united in my name? That he loved me more—oh, cant and hypocrisy, how I loathed you at the time! Yet I listened, and listened, and in my wrath and for my sorrow, consented. Did I drive you to ruin, Henry Trevethlan? Did I embitter your days? Alas! mine have been equally dark. Proud man, I ask again, why did you trample on me? Why might we not minister to our mutual happiness, instead of running a race for revenge? I could not, you knew I could not, unasked, revoke my words. Might I not have had the opportunity? And should I submit to my doom in patience?
"And you have bequeathed your hatred to your children. To the children of Margaret Basset. And, verily, they seem worthy of the trust. But they shall find their match in Esther Pendarrel. And now the plan of the campaign. I must learn the nature of the ground. Then, sound trumpets, and no quarter."
The following morning young Sinson fulfilled Mrs. Pendarrel's behest, by calling at the hall, where he had an interview of some length with its mistress. One of the park lodges, Wilderness gate, happened to be vacant at the time, and was assigned to Michael as a residence, in consideration of services, either past or to come, which were a mystery to the retainers of the family, among whom some jealousy was created by the preference.
Within a few days afterwards, Mrs. Pendarrel returned to London.
CHAPTER IV
"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 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.