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