"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.
"Helen," he said, "Helen Trevethlan, I wish to speak with your brother. Leave us for a while."
The girl rose silently, and glided out of the room. As soon as she had closed the door, the dying man turned feebly upon his pillows, fixed his still bright eyes upon his son, and spoke in low but distinct accents:
"Randolph, I leave you a beggar and a Trevethlan! May my curse cling to you, if ever you suffer poverty to tamper with pride. Employment will be open to you: may your appointment be your death-warrant. Ay, methinks it may raise my ghost, if Randolph Trevethlan accept a favour from Philip Pendarrel. Live, sir, here, as I have lived. Marry, sir, as I married. Rear an heir to the castle, as I have reared you. Bequeath him the same legacy, which I bequeath you. But there is my fear. How much of your mother's blood runs in your veins? What base leanings may you not have inherited from her? Feel you not a love for your peasant relatives? Gratifying my revenge by engrafting a wild bud on a noble stem, I forgot that the fruit might degenerate. Speak, sir, is it so? Do the honours of Trevethlan descend upon a dastard? Say it, that a father's curse may embitter the remainder of your days."
"Oh, my father," said the young man, in deep and earnest tones, "never shall our name be degraded while it belongs to me. But may I not strive to restore it to splendour? Must Trevethlan ever be desolate? Shall the successors of our race wander in these halls, only to mourn over their decay? And is the livery of office the sole passport to the means of renovation? Have I not hands, and a head, and heart?"
"What would you, sir?" exclaimed the father. "Hands! would you dig? There speaks your peasant mother. Head! learning! profession! What portrait has its face turned to the wall in yonder gallery? Mr. Justice Trevethlan, attaint of corruption. Heart! arms! Ay, but not in peace. No Trevethlan wears a sword to adorn a levee. And now, sir, the source of your commission would make it a disgrace."
"My father," Randolph again said, "to no patron will I be indebted for advancement. On myself alone I rely. May I not exert the powers I derive from nature? I thought not of the army: a uniform has no temptations for me. But, gazing on the back of that picture, might I not hope to wipe out the stain incurred in a corrupt age, by rising to be an example in purer times?"
"Shall a Trevethlan descend among the paltry Chiquanous?" said the dying man, with great bitterness. "Shall that name be mingled with the low trickery of the modern forum; exposed to the risk of failure, and to the mockery of upstart talent? Shall Esther Pendarrel smile at the rude eloquence of her rejected suitor's heir, and exult over the unretrieved ruin of his house? No, sir. Think it not. Starve, sir, here in Trevethlan Castle."
"But my father," the young man urged, "if means could be found whereby all such risk should be avoided; if success might restore our house, while failure could not degrade it; might I not venture on a career so guarded?"