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