_THE DUKE’S HEIR_
“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!”
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