Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 1 (of 3)

What, am I poor of late? 'Tis certain, greatness, once fallen out with fortune, Must fall out with men too. What the declined is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others, As feel in his own fall: for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer; And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honour; but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, favour, Prizes of accident as oft as merit.
Shakspeare.
Late in September, some thirty years ago, Henry Trevethlan lay dying in the state-bedchamber of Trevethlan Castle; in Cornwall. It was a large and lofty apartment, indifferently lighted by Gothic casements overlooking the sea, and wearing a gloomy and desolate aspect. Old hangings of tapestry, much faded and worn, covered the walls; the furniture was scanty and inconvenient; the floor was bare, and the dark oak had lost its polish; the very logs in the spacious chimney seemed damped by the cheerlessness of the room, and threw a dull red glare over the prodigious bed, where death was silently counting the few sands yet remaining in the upper half of his hour-glass.
As soon as he found himself seriously ill, Mr. Trevethlan had solemnly charged his medical attendant to warn him of the first approach of danger; and immediately that the announcement was made, he caused himself to be removed from the smaller but more commodious apartment which he usually occupied, to the dreary greatness of the state-chamber, taking no heed of the remonstrance that the change would probably hasten his dissolution.

Pshaw! said he. What matter a few days? The Trevethlans always die in the state-rooms.
Accordingly their present representative was duly observing the custom. Four days had elapsed since his removal, and he had sunk so rapidly, that it was now doubtful whether as many more hours remained to him; but his mental faculties were still clear and unclouded. His son and daughter watched mournfully by his bedside.