YOUR name is Tresithny, is it not?—and you are the gardener here, by what I understand, and have lived at Penarvon all your life. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. My father was gardener to the old Duke, and he brought me up to take his place; and I’ve been working on the place here, man and boy, these fifty years. I was only a lad of eight when first I used to help my father with some of the lighter tasks, and now I have all the men on the place working under my orders. It is a long while since you paid us a visit, sir; but I remember you well as a little fellow when you came to Penarvon.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember you. Boys are selfish little brats, and go about thinking of nothing but their own amusement. But, Tresithny, I have come to you now for information. They tell me you are a thoughtful man, and have educated yourself soundly in your leisure hours. One can almost see as much by looking at you and hearing you speak. I feel as though you are the man I want to get hold of. I have been here nearly a month now, and I have not been idle meantime: I have come here with an object, and I have been collecting information as far as I have been able to do so alone; but I believe you will be able to help me better than I can help myself.”
The gardener raised his head, and looked at the young gentleman before him with thoughtful mien. Although this was the first time he had been addressed by Eustace, he had seen him often pacing the garden paths in meditative abstraction, and had heard of him from others as walking or riding over the country roads, and asking strange questions of those he encountered in his rambles. He had been down amongst the fisher-folk of the bay. He had been up amongst the downlands, talking with the shepherd-folk who dwelt in the scattered stone huts that were met with from time to time there. He had been seen at various farmsteads, making friends with their inhabitants, and people were beginning to ask in a puzzled way what he meant by it all, and to wonder at the nature of his questions, albeit the stolid rustic mind was not wont to disturb itself much by inquiry or speculation. When asked a question of the bearing of which he was doubtful, the peasant would generally scratch his head and look vacantly out before him; and again and again, when pressed by Eustace for an answer, would drawl out something like the following reply—
“Zure, thee’d better ask Maister Tresithny. He mid knaw. He du knaw a sight o’ things more’n we. ’E be a’most as gude as Passon tu talk tu. Thee’d best ask he.”
And after some time Eustace had followed this counsel, and was now face to face with his uncle’s servant, although in the first instance he had told himself that he would speak of these things to nobody at Penarvon itself.
“I’ll be pleased and proud to help any one of your name and race, sir,” answered Abner quietly, “so far as I may rightly do so. What can I do for you, sir? You have been main busy since you came here, by all I see and hear.”
“You have heard of me, then?” questioned Eustace, with a smile. “People have talked of my comings and goings, have they?”
“Folks here mostly take notice of what goes on up to the castle,” answered Abner, “and they say that the young master is wonderful little there, but out all day on his own business, which is what they cannot make out.”
Eustace laughed pleasantly, and then his face grew grave again.
“I should be more at the castle if I could be of service to his Grace or Lady Bride; but there is a sorrow upon which a stranger may not intrude, and at present I can call myself little else. In time I trust I may win my way there; but during these first days I believe the truest kindness is to keep away from them for the greater part of my time. And I have my own object to pursue, which is one that may not be ignored; for it is a duty, and I am resolved to do it to the utmost of my power.”
Abner nodded his head in grave approval.
“That is the way our duties should be tackled, sir. It is no good giving half our energies to them. We have our orders plain and simple—‘What thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’”
“Yes—just so,” answered Eustace, with a quick glance at the man, whose hands were still at work amongst his pots, even whilst he talked. He was in the potting-shed, pricking out a quantity of young seedlings; and although he gave intelligent heed to the words of the young gentleman before him, he continued his employment with scrupulous care and exactness. “By-the-bye, Tresithny,” Eustace suddenly interpolated, “aren’t you something of a preacher, by what they say? Don’t you hold meetings in St. Bride’s amongst the fisher-folk? I have heard something of it down amongst the people there.”
“Well, sir,” answered Abner, “it isn’t so to say a service; but we’ve got men-folk down there as will not enter the doors of a church, do what you will; and though they be good enough friends with the Rev. Tremodart when he comes down on the bit of a quay to chat with them, they won’t go to church, and he’s too wise, may be, to try and force them. But they’ll sometimes come of a Sunday evening to Dan Denver’s cottage, and listen whilst I read them a chapter and talk it over afterwards. Some days they don’t seem to have much to say, and leaves it most to me, and then it du seem to them almost like a bit of a sermon. But that’s not what I mean it to be. I want to get them to think and talk as well.”
The young man’s eyes suddenly flashed, and he took up the word with suppressed eagerness.
“Ah! Tresithny, that’s just it! That’s the very pith of the whole matter. You and I ought to be friends. We both want to rouse the people to think. If we could do that—how much could be achieved!”
“Ay, indeed it could, sir. There be times when it seems as though it would be as easy to get the brute beast of the field to think, as it is to rouse them up to do it. And yet they have all immortal souls, though they care no more what becomes of them than the beasts that perish. Think of it!—think of it!”
Eustace gave Abner a quick keen look of mingled sympathy and criticism. He saw that their minds were working on absolutely different lines, but was by no means sure that these lines might not be made to coincide by a little gentle diplomacy. He recognised at once in this upright and stalwart old gardener a man of considerable power and influence, who might be a valuable ally if won over to the cause. But he knew, too, that the limitations imposed upon his intellect by the manner of his life, and his opportunities of self-culture, might form a serious barrier between them, so he resolved to feel his way cautiously before advocating openly any of those opinions of which he was apparently the pioneer in these parts.
“Ah!” he said, with a long-drawn breath, “that hopeless apathy towards everything ennobling and elevating comes from centuries of oppression and injustice. Whilst men are forced to live like beasts, they will grovel in the mire like beasts, and not even know that they are treated like beasts. But let them be raised out of their helpless misery and grinding poverty, and their minds will grow healthy with their bodies. The state into which the people of this land have fallen is a disgrace to humanity; and all men of principle must stand shoulder to shoulder together to strive to raise and elevate them. It is a duty which in these days is crying aloud to Heaven, and to which thinking men in all countries are responding with more or less of zeal and energy. Things cannot go on as they have been doing. France has taught us a grim lesson of what will happen at last if we continue to tread down and oppress our humble brethren, as we have been doing all these long years and centuries!”
Eustace threw back his head, and the fire flashed from his eyes. His nature was always stirred to its depths by the thought of the wrongs of humanity. He had not found round and about Penarvon quite that amount of physical misery that he had heard described in other places; yet he had seen enough of the bovine apathy and stolid indifference of the rustics to rouse within him feelings of indignation and keen anger. He argued fiercely within himself that men were made into patient beasts of burden just to suit the selfish desires of the classes above them, who dreaded the day of reckoning which would follow any awakening on their part to a sense of their wrongs. The artisans of the Midlands and the North had partially awakened, and from all sides was the cry going up—the cry for justice, for a hearing, for some one to expound their grievances and make a way out of them. Their helpless rage had hitherto been expended in the breaking of machinery, which they took to be their worst enemy, and in riots which had brought condign punishment upon them. Now they were being taken in hand by men of wealth and power, and were raising the cry of reform—crying aloud for representation in Parliament—agitating for a thing the nature of which they hardly understood, but which they were told would bring help and well-being in its wake. And men like Eustace Marchmont, with generous ardour all aflame in the cause which they held to be sacred and righteous, longed to see the spread of this feeling through the length and breadth of the land. The agricultural labourers were far more difficult to arouse than the artisan classes had been; but if the whole nation with one accord raised its voice aloud in a cry for justice, would not that cry prevail in spite of the whole weight and pressure brought to bear against it, and carry all before it in a triumphant series of long-needed reforms?
So Eustace argued in his hot and generous enthusiasm, and gently and cautiously did he strive to explain his views to Abner and win his sympathy for them. Here was a man who loved his fellows with a great and tender love—in that at least the two men were in accord—but whilst Abner thought almost exclusively of their immortal souls, Eustace’s mind was entirely bent upon the improvement of their physical condition. He was by no means certain in his heart of hearts whether they possessed souls at all. As to everything connected with the spiritual world his mind was altogether a blank. There might or might not be a life to come; he could not profess any opinion of his own on such a point as that, but at least of this present life he was sure, and his religion, in as far as he could be said to have one, was directed with perfect singleness of purpose towards the attainment of what he held to be the loftiest aim and object a man could have, namely, raising his fellow-men to a sense of their own responsibilities and rights, to ameliorate their condition, teach them self-restraint, self-culture, rational and intelligent happiness, to give them sunshine in their lives here, and a high code of moral ethics to live up to when they were able to receive it.
Something of all this did he strive to make plain to Abner as he sat beside him at his work. That he succeeded in winning the interest of his hearer was abundantly evident from the expression of the thoughtful intelligent face, and that the gardener understood a good deal of the questions of the day appeared from the nature of the questions and comments he made from time to time.
When Eustace had said his say there was silence for a while, and he waited with some eagerness to hear the effect produced upon the old man. He felt that Abner was a power in the place, and that a good deal of his own success might depend on how far he could get him to be a partisan in the good cause. Abner was slow to speak when his mind was not made up, and he was not one to reach a conclusion in a hurry. It was some time before he spoke, and then he said slowly and meditatively, “There’s a deal of good in what you say, sir, and a deal more good in what you mean; but yet for all that I can’t quite see as you do. There’s something in it all that’s like putting the cart before the horse, to use a homely phrase, and that’s not a thing as is found to answer when folks come to try it on.”
“I don’t think I quite take your meaning, Tresithny.”
“No, sir? Well, I’ll try to make it plainer like—that is, if you care to hear what an old man like me thinks, who has picked up his knowledge a bit here and a bit there, and less from books than from men.”
“I do care,” answered Eustace, “and yours are the best methods of gaining instruction. You are a man of the people and a thinking man. I do value your opinion, and should like to have it.”
“Well, sir, you shall. I am, as you truly say, a man of the people, and I think I may lay claim to understand my people as well as gentlefolks can do; and I’m very sure of one thing, that I’d be very sorry to live in a country where they were the rulers; for they haven’t either the patience, or the knowledge, or the faculty of government; and things will go badly for England if the day comes when the voice of the people shall prevail as the voice of God.”
“Ah! but the people have to be elevated and educated to be fit to rule,” said Eustace. “They are not fit now, I admit, but we are to seek to raise them, body, soul, and spirit, and then a vastly different state of affairs will be brought about.”
But Abner’s face was very grave, and anything but acquiescent.
“Sir,” he said, “I can’t see that as you do. I’ve read a bit of history here and there, and I’ve seen too in my own lifetime something of what comes when the voice of the people prevails.”
“It is not fair to charge upon the people the horrors of the French Revolution,” interposed Eustace quickly. “The tyrants who provoked it were the people really to blame. They had made brutes and devils of the people, and they only reaped what they had sown.”
“Very well, sir, I know in part at least you are right. We will say no more about history that may be open to such arguments as yours. But we always have our Bibles to go to when in doubt and perplexity, and we have it there in black and white that the powers that be are ordained of God, that riders and men of estate are to be reverenced, obeyed, and feared, that we are to submit ourselves to them as the ordinance of God.”
“Yes, yes, Tresithny, in moderation; and if they do their duty on their side, that would be all right enough,” answered Eustace, who began to feel that Abner was taking an unconsciously unfair advantage of him in adducing arguments drawn from Holy Writ, which had no value for him whatsoever. “But when kings and men of estate abuse their powers and become tyrannical and oppressive, then the compact on both sides is broken, and the people must stand up for themselves and their rights, or they will only fall into absolute slavery.”
“Well, sir, I can’t quite see that,” answered Abner thoughtfully. “When St. Paul wrote by the power of the Holy Ghost about the reverence due to the great men and rulers of the earth, he was speaking in the main of heathen tyrants, of whom he stood in peril of his own life; but he still recognised them as the ordinance of God, as our Lord Himself did when He stood at the judgment-seat of Pilate. It isn’t that I deny the wrongdoing of kings and nobles, but that I don’t think you’ve got hold of the right way of making things better. I said it was like putting the cart before the horse, and that’s just how it appears to me.”
“But you have not explained how.”
“Well, sir, that’s soon done. My way of thinking is this. God meant first of all, in the early dispensations, to rule the world directly Himself, through His prophets and faithful servants; but the hardness and perverseness of man stood in His way, and so He gave them rulers and governors of their own to be their natural heads; and before the Christian dispensation had come, this was the ordered method, and He Himself gave it His sanction and blessing in many ways when He lived on earth: ‘Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s,’ and so forth. Now, knowing that God has ordained kings and rulers, it seems plain to me that we should continue to give them reverence and honour; and if the world is going wrong through those evils which you speak of as abuses, that instead of the wise, and earnest, and good men (such as yourself, sir) coming to the people and trying to stir up in their hearts hatred and ill-will towards those above them—which your doctrine will and does do, sir, whether you mean it or not—you should go to the kings and the nobles. Why not strive to stir them up to do their duty by the people, to be just and merciful and liberal, to cease from oppression where it exists, and give them such things as are good for them to have by free and willing pleasure, instead of teaching the people to wring them from them little by little grudgingly and unwillingly? If men like you, sir, and those you have told me of, born to wealth and all that is great in the world, can feel for the wrongs and distresses of the poor of the land, surely others can be brought to do the same, the more so when they learn that mercy and liberality and justice are enjoined by God Himself. Then the people would learn to love and trust those above them, and would rejoice in their rulers as the Lord means them to; but teach them discontent and hatred and rebellion, and indeed, sir, I know not where it will end.”
Eustace smiled with something of covert triumph.
“No; we do not know where it will end, save that it will end in the emancipation of the people from tyranny and oppression, which is what we aim for. That is the fear which holds men back from the good cause; but we are careless of that. Do what is right and leave the rest: that is our maxim. You who are such a theologian should know, Tresithny, that all things work together for good.”
“To those who love the Lord, sir,” answered Abner quietly, and then there was silence for a moment between the men.
“Your plan is not bad in theory, Tresithny,” broke out Eustace, after a pause, “but practically it is unworkable in these days. It would not accomplish our ends. We should not be listened to. We are not listened to. We are scouted and held in abhorrence of rulers.”
“You might not be listened to all at once,” said Abner, as the young man paused; “but neither will the people listen all at once. You say yourself it will take a generation, perhaps two or three, to accomplish what should be done. Suppose those generations were given to the other attempt—the striving to work upon the hearts of those in high places to study the needs of the land, and do justly by its humbler sons, might not there be hopes of a better result? I am but an unlettered man; I am scarce fit to dispute with you; but I think I know the nature of the classes you wish to see holding power, and I should not desire to be ruled by them.”
“Well, well, we must agree to differ in some things, I see,” said Eustace, rising with a smile, and holding out his hand in token of good-fellowship; “all this sounds strange and sudden to you. Men’s minds have to grow into new ideas. But at least you love your people—in that we are agreed; and you would fain see them raised, and their condition improved, if it could be achieved. In that at least we agree. So we will part friends, and not oppose each other, even though we each see the shield on a different side.”
Abner’s smile was pleasant to see, and Eustace sauntered away, a little disappointed perhaps—for Abner’s look of intellect had made him hope to win a disciple here—but pleased and interested in the man, and by no means despairing of winning him at last.
A few days later the Duke spoke to him upon a subject of keen interest to him. Both the Duke and his daughter had kept themselves very much secluded since the funeral, as was rather the custom of the day, although in their case it was real broken-hearted sorrow which held them aloof from all the world at this juncture. But February came with sunshine and soft south winds, and the old nobleman began to resume his ordinary habits, and was pleased in his silent way to have a companion in Eustace. The young kinsman was sincerely attached to the head of his house, and his quick sympathies were aroused to real tenderness for him in his great sorrow. He had hitherto avoided any sort of speech that could possibly raise any irritation in the Duke’s mind. Their talk had been of a subdued and quiet kind, so that nothing had arisen to disturb the harmony that existed between them.
Yet Eustace knew that he and his kinsman differed widely in thought and opinion, and that some day this divergence must appear in their talk. He meant to be very moderate and reasonable in all he might be forced to say, but to hide his views either from cowardice or motives of policy was a thing abhorrent to his nature, and could not be contemplated for a moment.
The first note of warning was struck one day when the pair were riding together across a stretch of bleak down. The Duke suddenly looked at his companion and asked—
“Do you ever think of standing for Parliament, Eustace?”
The young man flushed quickly.
“I have had some thoughts of it,” he answered with subdued eagerness, “but I do not know of any constituency that would accept me. I am almost a stranger to my country.”
“Ah! yes—that German education of yours was a great mistake—a great mistake,” said the Duke, with drawn brow; but after a few moments his face cleared and he drew rein, his companion following his example. “But after all, you might manage it—it might be done. Do you see yonder heap of stones away there to the left? Well, that marks the site of an old manor belonging to us. That heap of stones returns a member to Parliament. I return the member, in point of fact, as you doubtless know. The old member now sitting is growing infirm and deaf: he feels the journeys backwards and forwards too much for him. I think it will not be long before he resigns. When he does so, the borough will fall vacant, and I can give it as I please. Then would come your chance, boy.”
Eustace had flushed quickly; now he grew pale. The whole iniquity of this system of rotten boroughs was one of the flagrant abuses of the day, which he stood pledged to sweep away. Whilst growing and opulent cities like Manchester, Birmingham, and Sheffield had no representation of any kind, a heap of stones, a lonely field, a tiny group of hovels frequently returned a member to Parliament. Practically the House of Lords returned half the House of Commons, and the middle and lower classes were scarcely represented in any way.
Eager as Eustace was for a voice in the legislation of the future, he hesitated to think of gaining it in such a fashion.
“You are very good, uncle, he said”—he found it pleased the Duke to be so addressed. “But I am afraid I should hardly be a candidate to your mind. Times advance, and men’s views change, and I suspect that mine and yours are scarcely in accord.”
He had expected a sharp and almost scornful answer, and certainly a close and sifting examination; but nothing of the kind came, and looking into his kinsman’s face, Eustace was surprised to see a strangely far-away and softened expression stealing over it.
“Times change!—ay, verily, they do—and men with them,” he said, in a very gentle tone, “and we must learn to be patient with new ways and not condemn them unheard. Boy, I am not fond of change. I have lived my life from day to day and year to year in quiet and peace, and I have not seen that good follows on the steps of those things that men call reform. But I am an old man now, and shall not be here much longer. What I think matters little, so that the right be done. Do not be afraid to speak to me freely. I will, at least, hear you patiently. I have learned that God’s purposes may be fulfilling themselves when we can least see it. I may not agree, nor yet approve, but at least I can strive after patience.”
Greatly surprised at a development altogether unexpected in the irascible old Duke, as he remembered him in the past, with his intolerance of anything but the strongest Tory statesmanship and the most conservative fashion of regarding everything, Eustace spoke with an answering moderation and sympathy, ignoring nothing that was wise and good in the old régime, but pointing out that the day for advance had come, and that the good of the country was at stake. He spoke well, for he had education and enthusiasm, and had thought for himself as well as having learned from others.
The Duke rode on very silently, only putting in a word here and there, but listening with close attention; and as they entered the courtyard, at last, still in earnest talk, he said—
“I do not agree with you, Eustace. I cannot see things as you do; but I will not go so far as to say you are altogether wrong. There may be two sides to the question, and we will talk more of it another time. I am sorry you take such pronounced views upon a side I hold to be in error, but you do so with pure motives and honest conviction. Youth is always ardent, and you are young. Perhaps in days to come you will see that we are not altogether to blame for a state of things such as exists in the country to-day. I have lived longer than you have done in the world, boy; and I do not think you are going to rid the world of sin, misery, oppression, and degradation by your methods. If you have strength to carry them, you will work a silent and I trust a bloodless revolution; but you have an enemy to fight stronger than you think for. You may reduce the power of the Crown to a mere cipher. You may abolish privilege, prerogative, and a hundred other bugbears against which your ardent spirits are chafing. But when you have hurled them down from their places, do you think you will have contented the seething masses you are stirring up to ask for their ‘rights?’ Do you think crime, misery, vice, and degradation will be lessened? I think they will steadily increase, and that you will find yourselves, you reformers, fifty years hence, face to face with problems in comparison with which these before you now are but molehills to mountains. But go your way, go your way. Only experience can teach you your lesson; and that is the dearest master you can have—and generally teaches his lessons just a generation too late!”