HALF A MILLION OF MONET.

Westport Times, Volume III, Issue 403, 14 November 1868, Page 2

HALF A MILLION OF MONET.

IiI'THE AUTHOR OF " BAKCAIu's HISTORY."

CHifTEll IV. THE CHATEA.TJ ROTZ BEBG This, then, was the home to which his threat-grand father's eldest son had emigrated one hundred years before —■ this, the birthplace of the heir at-law ! William Trefalden smiled somewhat bitterly as he paused and looked upon it.

It was a thorough Swiss mediaeval dwelling, utterly irregular, and consisting apparently of a cluster of some live or six square turrets, no two of which were of the same size or height. They were surmounted alike by steep slated roofs and grotesque weathercocks ; and the largest, which had been suffered to fall to ruin, was green with ivy from top to bottom. The rest of the chateau gave signs of only partial habitation. Many of the narrow windows were boarded up, while others showed a scrap of chintz on the inner side, or a flower-pot on the sill. A low wall, enclosing a small court-yard, lay to the south of the building, and was approached by a quaint old gateway supporting a sculptured scutcheon, close above which a stork had built his nest.

None of these-details escaped the practised eye of "William Trefalden. lie saw all in a moment—poverty, pieturesqueness, and neglect. As he crossed the open sward, and came in sight of a steep road winding up from the valley on the other side, he remarked that frieie were no tracks of wheels upon it. Passing under the. gateway, he observed how the heraldic hearings were effaced upon the shield, and how those fractures were such as could only have been dealt by the hand of man. Is r ot even the grass that had ssrung up amid the payings in the court-yard, nor the mossy penthouse over the well, no? the empty kennel in the corner, remained unnoticed as he went up to the door of the chateau. It was standing partly open —a mossy oaken portal, studded with and protected only by a heavy latch. William Trefalden looked round for a bell, but there was none. Then he knocked with his clenched hand, but no one came. He called aloud, but no one answered. At last he went

The door opened into a stone hall of irregular shape, with a cavernous fireplace at the end, and a large modern window at the other. The ceiling was low, and the rafters were black with smoke. An old carved press, a screen, some chairs and settles of antique form, a great oak table on which lay a newspaper, a pair of clumsy silver spectacles, a curious Swiss clock with a toy skeleton standing in a little sentry-box just over the dial, aspinning wheel and a linen-press, were all the furniture that it contained. A couple of heavy Tyrolean riiles, with carved stocks to fit to the shouldt r, were standing behind the door, and an old sabre, a pair of antlers, and a yellow parchment in a blaok frame, hung over the mantelpiece. A second door, also partly open, stood nearly opposite the first, and led into a garden. Hav'ng surveyed this modest interior iVoin the threshold, and found him-elf alone there, Mr Trefalden crossed over to the fireplace and examined the parchment at his leisure. !"fc was Captain Jacob's commission, signed and sealed by His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Second, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and forty-eight. Turning from this to the newspaper on the table, he saw it was printed in some language with which he was not acquainted—a language that was neither French, nor Italian, nor Spanish, but which seemed to bear a vague resemblance to all three. It was entitled ' Amity del Pievel.' Having lingered over this journal with some enriosity, he laid it down again, and passed out through the second door into the garden. Here, at least, he had expected to find some one belonging to the place ; but it was a mere kitchen garden, and contained nothing higher in the scale of creation than cabbages and potatoes, gooseberry-bushes, and beds of early salad. Mr Trefalden began to ask himself whether bis Swiss kindred had deserted the Chateau Hotzberg altogether. Strolling slowly along a side-path sheltered by a high privet hedge, and glancing back every now and then at the queer little turreted building with all its weathercocks glittering in the sun, he suddenly became aware of voice s not far distant. He stopped—■

listened—wont; on a few steps further—and found that they proceeded from some lower level than that on which ho stood. Having once ascertained the direction of the sounds, he followed them rapidly enough. His quick eye detected a gap in the edge at the upper end of the garden. From this <*ap, a flight of rough steps led down to a little ' orchard some eighteen or twenty feet helow—a mere shelf of verdure on the face of the prccipie.'e, commanding a glorious view all over the valley, and lying full to the sunset. It was planted thickly witli Fruit-trees, and protected at the verge of a cliff by a fragail rail. At the further end, built up in an angle of the rock, stood a. rustic summer-house newly thatched with Indian corn-straw. Towards this point William Trefalden made his way through the deep grass and the wild flowers.

As he drew neai'er, he heard the' sounds again. There was but ono voice new —a man's—and he was reading. What was he reading ? Not German. Not thatdialect printed in the ' Amity del Pievel.' Certainly not Latin. He advanced a little further. "Was it, could it be—Greek ?

Mr Trefalden's Greek had grown somewhat rusty these last eighteen years or so ; but there could be no mistake about those sonorous periods. He recognised the very lines as they fell from the lips of the speaker—line 3 sweet and strong as that god-like wine stored of old in the chamber of Ulysses. It was many a year since he had heard them, though at Eton they had been ' fimiliar in his mouth as household words :'

About our heads elms and tall poplars whispered ; While from its rocky cave beside us trickled The sacred waters of a limpid fountain.

The cricket chirped i' the hedge, and the

sweet throstle Sang loudly from the copse. Who should this be but Theocritus of Sicily ? William Trefalden could scarcely believe his ears. Theocritus in the valley of Domleschg ! Theocritus in. the mouths of such outer barbarians as the dwellers in the Chateau Rotzberg ? Having ended the famous description of the garden of Phrasidamus, the reader paused. William Trefalden hastened up to the front of the sum-mer-house. An old man smoking a Grerman pipe, and a youth bending over a book, were its only occupants. Both looked up; and both, by a simultaneous impulse of courtesy, rose to receive him. ' I beg you pardon,' he said, lifting his hat. ' This is, I fear, an unceremonious intrusion ; but lamnotquite a stranger and—•' He checked himself. French was the language which ho had found generally understood in the prisons, and he had inadvertently used his native English. But the old man bowed, laid his pipe aside, and replied in English as pure as his own. ' Whoever you may be, sir, yon are welcome.'

' I think I have the pleasnre of addressing a relative,' observed the lawyer. ' My name is "William. Trefalden.' The old man stepped forward, took him by the hands, and, somewhat to his surprise, kissed him on each cheek. ' Cousin,' he said, ' thou art thrice welcome. Saxon, my son, embrace thy kinsinau.' CHAPTER "V. ME. TREFAEDEN AND HIS COUSINS. Mr Trefaeden took the rustic handed to him by his younger kinsman, and placed it just against the entrance to the summer-house. It was his habit, he said, to avoid a strong light, and the sunset dazzled him. The old man resumed his seal. The youth remained standing. Both looked at the new comer with a cordial, undissembled curiosity; and for a few seconds there was silence. Mr Trcfalden's elder kinsman was fragile, pale, white haired, with brilliant dark eyes, and thin sensitive lips, that trembled when he spoke earnestly. The other was a tall, broad - shouldered, broad - browed, powerful young fellow, with a boyish down upon his upper lip, and a forest of thick golden-brown hair, crisp and curly as the locks of Chaucer's Squire. His eyebrows and eyelashes were some shades darker than his hair; and his eyes looked out from beneath them with an expression half shy, half fearless, such as we sometimes see in the eyes of children. In short, he was as goodly a specimen of the raee of Adam as one might hope to meet with between London and the valley of Domleschg, or even further; and this Mr Trefalden could not but admit at the first glance. The old man was the first to speak.

' Tou did not find your way without a guide, cousin?' said lie. 'lt was not a very difficult achievement,' replied the lawyer. ' I enjoyed the walk.' ' From Chur ?,

' No —from Beiehenau. I have taken up my quarters at the ' Adler.' My landlord described the road to me. It was easy enough to find; not, perhaps, quite so easy to follow.' ' Ah, you camo by the footpath. It is sadly out of repair, and would seem steep to a stranger. Saxon, go hid kettli prepare supper; and open a bottle of d'Asti wine. Our cousin is weary.'

Mr Trefalden hastened to excuse himself; but it was of no avail. The old gentleman insisted that he should 'at least break bread and drink wine' with them ; and Mr Trefalden, seeing he attached some patriarchal import to this ceremony, yielded the point. 'You have a son, sir, of whom you may be proud,' said he, looking after the youth as he strode away through the trees.

The old man smiled, and with the smile his whole face grew tender and gracious. 'Heis my great hope and joy,'-he replied; ' but he is not my son. Tie is the only son of my dear brother, who died twelve years ago.' Mr Trefalden had already heard this down at Beiehenau ; but he said, '' Indeed ?' and looked interested.

'My brother was a farmer,' continued the other ; ' I entered the Lutheran Church. He married late in life; I have been a bachelor all my •days.' ' And your brother's wife,' said Mr Trefalden, 'is she still living?' 'No ; she died two years after she "became a mother. Per twelve years Saxon has had no parent but myself. He calls me 'father'—l call him I could not love him more if he were really my own offspring. I have been his only tutor, also. I have taught him all that I know. Every thought of his heart is open to me. He is what Grod and my teaching have made him.' 'He is a magnificent fellow, at all events,' said Mr Trefalden dryly. ' My brother was almost as tall and handsome at his age,' replied the pastor, with a sigh. ' What is his age ? asked the law-

yer. ' He was twenty-two on the thirtieth of last December.' ' I should not take him to be more than twenty.' ' Twenty- tv, o—twenty-two years, and four months —a man in age, in statue, in strength, in learning:; but a boy at heart, cousin—a boy at heart !"

' All the better for him,' said Mr Trefalden, with his quiet vioce and pleasant smile. ' Many of the greatest that ever lived were boys to the last.'

' I have no desire to see my Saxon become a great man,' said Martin Trefalden, hastily. ' God forbid it! I have tried to make him. a good man. That is enough.' ' And I have no doubt that you have succeeded.'

The old man looked troubled. ' I have tried,' said be ; ' but I know not whether I have tried in the right way. I have trained him according to my own belief and ideas ; and what I have done has been done for the best. I mav have acted wrongly. I may not have done my duty ; but I have striven to do it. I prayed for light—l prayed for God's blessing on my work. I believe my prayers were heard ; but I have had heavy misgivings of late—heavy, heavy misgivings !' ' I feel sure they must be groundless,' said Mr Trefalden.

The pastor shook his head. He was evidently anxious, and ill at ease. ' That is because you do not know,' replied he. ' I cannot tell you now—another time —when wo ean be longer alone. In the mean while, I thank Heaven for the chance that has brought you hither. Cousin, you are our only surviving kinsman —you are acquainted with the world —you will advise me —you will be good to him ; I am sure you will. I see it in your face.'

' I shall be very glad to receive your confidence, and to give you what counsel I can,' replied Mr Trefaldeu. ' God bless you !' said the pastor, and shook hands with him across the table.

At this moment there came a sound of voices from the further end of the terrace.

' One more word,' cried Martin, eagerly. ' You know our family history, and the date that is drawing near?' 'I do. ' Not a syllable before Mm, till we have again spoken together. Hush ! •he is bore.' (to be continued.)