"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 a.s.sented 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 G.o.d, 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 Men 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 succ.u.mbed 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.