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      Eustace Marchmont: a friend of the people, by Evelyn Everett-Green—A Project Gutenberg eBook
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68596 ***</div>

<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt="" /></div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<p class="caption">“‘There he is,’ said Bride softly to Eustace. ‘I think you had better go to him alone.’...<br />
Without pausing to rehearse any speech, Eustace walked up to the lonely<br />
figure on the rocks, holding out his hand in greeting.”—P. <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</p>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_title.jpg" alt="" /></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="titlepage">

<h1>EUSTACE MARCHMONT</h1>

<p><span class="large">A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE</span></p>

<p>BY<br />

<span class="large">EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN</span></p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_titlelogo.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<p>BOSTON:<br />
<span class="large">A. I. BRADLEY &amp; CO.</span><br />
PUBLISHERS.</p>

</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[vii]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_a007.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<table>

<tr><td class="tdr"><small>CHAP.</small></td><td class="tdr" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td> ON CHRISTMAS EVE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">      1</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td> THE DUCHESS OF PENARVON</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_17">      17</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td> THE HOUSE OF MOURNING</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32">      32</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td> THE DUKE’S HEIR</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">      48</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td> MAN OF THE WORLD AND MYSTIC &#160; &#160; </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63">      63</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td> THE GOSPEL OF DISCONTENT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78">      78</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td> THE KINDLED SPARK</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">      94</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td> BRIDE’S PERPLEXITIES</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_111">      111</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td> THE WAVE OF REVOLT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_129">      129</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td> A STRANGE NIGHT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_145">      145</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td> DUKE AND DEFAULTER</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160">      160</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td> AUTUMN DAYS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_176">      176</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td> TWO ENCOUNTERS </td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">     193</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td><td> EUSTACE’S DILEMMA</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_209">      209</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td><td> STIRRING DAYS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_225">      225</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[viii]</span></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td><td> THE POLLING AT PENTREATH</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_242">      242</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td><td> THE DUKE’S CARRIAGE</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_258">      258</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XVIII.</td><td> ABNER’S PATIENT</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_274">      274</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XIX.</td><td> THE BULL’S HORNS</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_289">      289</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XX.</td><td> BRIDE’S VIGIL</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_307">      307</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XXI.</td><td> FROM THE DEAD</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_322">      322</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XXII.</td><td> SAUL TRESITHNY</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_337">      337</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XXIII.</td><td> BRIDE’S PROPOSAL</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_353">      353</a></td></tr>

<tr><td class="tdr">XXIV.</td><td> CONCLUSION</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_368">      368</a></td></tr>
</table>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_a008.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b001a.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<p class="ph2">EUSTACE MARCHMONT</p>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER I<br />

<i>ON CHRISTMAS EVE</i></h2>
</div>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="first">“Yer’s tu thee, old apple-tree,</div>
<div class="verse">Be zure yu bud, be zure yu blaw,</div>
<div class="verse">And bring voth apples gude enough</div>
<div class="indent">Hats vul! caps vul!</div>
<div class="verse">Dree bushel bags vul!</div>
<div class="verse">Pockets vul and awl!</div>
<div class="indent">Urrah! Urrah!</div>
<div class="verse">Aw ’ess, hats vul, caps vul!</div>
<div class="verse">And dree bushel bags vul!</div>
<div class="indent">Urrah! Urrah! Urrah!”</div>
</div></div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b001t.jpg" alt="T" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">THIS strange uncouth song was being chanted by
moonlight by two score or more of rough West-Country
voices. For half-a-mile the sound was
carried by the sea-breeze, and all the cottagers
within hearing of the chant had run forth to join, both in
the song and in the ceremony which it marked.</p>

<p>For it was Christmas Eve, and Farmer Teazel was
“christening his apple-trees,” according to the time-honoured
custom of the place. And when the trees were
being thus christened, there was cider to be had for the
asking; and the farmer’s cider was famed as being the best
in all St. Bride’s, or indeed in any of the adjacent parishes.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span>The moon shone frostily bright in a clear dark sky. A
thin white carpet of sparkling frost coated the ground;
but the wind blew from the west over the rippling sea,
and was neither cruel nor fierce, so that even little children
were caught up by their mothers to assist at this
yearly ceremony; and Farmer Teazel’s orchard had, by
ten o’clock, become the centre of local attraction, fully a
hundred voices swelling the rude chant as the largest
and best trees in the plantation were singled out as the
recipients of the peculiar attentions incident to the
ceremony.</p>

<p>First, copious libations of cider were poured round the
roots of these trees, whilst large toast sops were placed
amid the bare branches; all this time the chant was sung
again and again, and the young girls and little children
danced round in a ring, joining their shriller voices with
the rougher tones of the men. The cider can that supplied
the trees with their libations passed freely amongst the
singers, whose voices grew hoarse with something beyond
exercise.</p>

<p>When the serenading and watering had been sufficiently
accomplished, guns were fired through the branches of the
chosen trees, and the company broke up, feeling that now
they had done what was necessary to ensure a good crop
of cider-apples for the ensuing year.</p>

<p>But whilst the singing and drinking was at its height,
and the moon gazed calmly down upon the curious assembly
beneath the hoary old trees in the farmer’s orchard, a keen
observer might have noted a pair of figures slightly withdrawn
from the noisy throng around the gnarled trees
that were receiving the attentions of the crowd—a pair
that gravitated together as if by mutual consent, and stood
in a sheltered nook of the orchard; the man leaning against
the rude stone wall which divided it from the farm buildings
of one side, the girl standing a few paces away from
him beside a sappling, her face a little bent, but a look of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>
smiling satisfaction upon her red lips. She was clasping
and unclasping her hands in a fashion that bespoke something
of nervous tremor, but that it was the tremor of
happiness was abundantly evident from the expression of
her face.</p>

<p>The moon shone clearly down upon the pair, and perhaps
gave a touch of additional softness and refinement
to them, for at that moment both appeared to the best
advantage, and looked handsome enough to draw admiring
regards from even fastidious critics.</p>

<p>The man was very tall, and although he was habited in
the homely garb of a farm labourer of the better sort,
there was a something in his air and carriage which often
struck the onlooker as being different from the average
man of his class. If he had been a gentleman, his mien
would have been pronounced “distinguished;” but there
was something incongruous in applying such a term as
that to a working man in the days immediately prior to
the Reform agitation of 1830. If the artisan population
of the Midlands had begun to recognise and assert their
rights as members of the community, entitled at least to
be regarded as having a voice in the State (though how
that was to be accomplished they had hardly formulated
an opinion), the country labourer was still plunged in his
ancient apathy and indifference, regarding himself, and
being regarded, as little more than a serf of the soil.
The years of agricultural prosperity during the Great War
had been gradually followed by a reaction. Whilst trade
revived, agriculture was depressed; and the state of the
labourers in many places was very terrible. Distress and
bitter poverty prevailed to an extent that was little known,
because the sufferers had no mouthpiece, and suffered in
silence, like the beasts of the field. But a growing sense
of sullen discontent was slowly permeating the land, and
in the restless North and the busy Midlands there was a
stirring and a sense of coming strife which had not yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>
reached the quiet far West. And here was this young
son of Anak, with the bearing of a prince and the garb of
a labourer, standing beside the farmer’s daughter, Genefer,
and telling her of his love.</p>

<p>Although he was but one of the many men who worked
by day for her father, and slept at night in a great loft
above the kitchen, in common with half-a-dozen more
men so employed, yet Genefer was listening to his words
of love with a sense of happy triumph in her heart, and
without the smallest feeling of condescension on her part.
Possibly her father might have thought it presumptuous
of the young man thus boldly to woo his only daughter;
and yet the girl did not feel much afraid of any stern
parental opposition; for Saul Tresithny, in spite of a history
that to many men would have been a fatal bar towards
raising himself, had acquired in the parish of St. Bride’s
a standing somewhat remarkable, and was known upon
the farm as the handiest and most capable, as well as the
strongest man there, and one whom the farmer especially
favoured.</p>

<p>Genefer was the farmer’s only daughter, and had to
work as hard as either father or brothers, for since her
mother’s death, a year or two ago, the whole management
of the dairy and of the house had passed into her hands,
and she had as much to do in the day as she could get
through. Perhaps it was from the fact that Saul was
always ready to lend a helping hand when her work was
unwontedly pressing, and that he would work like a fury
at his own tasks by day in order to have a leisure hour
to lighten her labours towards supper-time, that she had
grown gradually to lean on him and feel that life without
him would be but a barren and desolate sort of existence.
Her brothers, ’Siah and ’Lias, as they were invariably
called, were kind to her in their own fashion, and so was
her father, who was proud of her slim active figure, her
pretty face, and crimpy dark hair. West-Country women<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>
are proverbially good to look at, and Genefer was a
favourable specimen of a favoured race. Her eyes were
large and bright, and of a deep blue tint; her skin was
clear, and her colour fresh and healthy, and the winter
winds and summer suns had failed to coarsen it. She
was rather tall, and her figure was full of unconscious
grace and activity. If her hands were somewhat large,
they were well shaped and capable, and her butter, and
cream, and bread were known far and wide for their
excellence. She had a woman and a girl to help her in
the house, but hers was the head that kept all going in
due order, and her father had good cause to be proud
of her.</p>

<p>And now young Saul stood beside the old grey wall
in the light of the full moon, and boldly told her of his
love.</p>

<p>“I’ll be a gude husband to yu if yu’ll have me, Genefer,”
he said in the soft broad speech of his native place,
though Saul could speak if he chose without any
trace of dialect, albeit always with a subtle intonation,
which gave something of piquancy to his words. “I
du lovee rarely, my girl. Doee try to love me back.
I’ll serve day and night for yu if thee’ll but say the
word.”</p>

<p>“What word am I to zay, Zaul?” asked the girl softly,
with a shy upward look that set all his pulses tingling.
“Yu du talk so much, I am vair mazedheaded with it all.
What is it yu would have me zay to thee?”</p>

<p>“Only that yu love me, Genefer,” answered Saul, taking
a step forward, and possessing himself of one of the restless
hands that fluttered in his grasp, and then lay still, as
if content to be there. “It’s such a little word for yu to
zay, yet it means such a deal to me.”</p>

<p>She let herself be drawn nearer and nearer to him as
he spoke; but there was still a look of saucy mischief in
her eyes, despite their underlying softness.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>“Yu be such a masterful chap, Zaul, I du feel half
afeared on ye. It’s all zoft talk now, but the clapper-claw
come afterwards.”</p>

<p>“Nay, lassie, I’ll never clapper-claw yu. Yu needen
be afeared of that. I’ll work for yu, and toil for yu, and
yu shall be as happy as I can make yu. Only say yu
can love me, Genefer. That is all I care to hear yu say
to-night.”</p>

<p>He had drawn her close to his side by this time, and
she was pressed to his heart. He bent his head and
kissed her on the lips, and only when a few minutes had
passed by, of which they kept no count, did the sudden
salvo of the guns cause them to start suddenly apart, and
Genefer exclaimed, almost nervously—</p>

<p>“Whatever will vaither zay?”</p>

<p>“Du yu think he will make a bobbery about it,
Genefer?”</p>

<p>“Nay, I dwon’t know. He is fond of yu, Zaul, but I
du not think he will part easy with me; and then——”</p>

<p>“I du not ask that of him, Genefer,” broke in Saul
quickly; “yu du know that I have no home tu take yu
tu yet. It’s the love I want to make sure of now, lassie.
If I know I have your heart, I can wait patiently for the
rest. Can yu be patient tu?”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes, Zaul, so as I know yu love me,” answered the
girl with a quick blush; “dwon’t yu think that is enow
for the present? Why need we speak to vaither about
it at all? May be it mid anger un. Why shouldn’t we
keep it a secret betwixt us twain?”</p>

<p>“With all my heart, if yu will have it so,” answered
Saul, who was fully prepared to wait many years before
he should be in a position to marry. That he would one
day be a man of some small substance as things went in
those parts, he was aware. But his grandfather, from
whom he looked to receive this modest heritage, was yet a
hale man, and it might not be his for some years to come.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>
Meantime he had at present no ideas beyond working on
with Farmer Teazel, as he had done since his boyhood,
and it quite satisfied him to feel that he had won Genefer’s
heart. He was ready to let this mutual avowal of
love remain a secret between them for the present. He
had of late been consumed with jealousy of a certain
smart young farmer, who paid frequent visits to the Cliff
Farm, and appeared to pay a great amount of attention
to the pretty daughter who ruled there. It did not take
two eyes to see what a treasure Genefer would be as a
farmer’s wife, and Saul was afraid the girl’s father had
begun to look with favour upon the visits of young Mr.
Hewett. It was this fear which made him resolve to put
his fate to the touch on this particular Christmas Eve. He
half believed that his love was returned by Genefer, but
he could no longer be satisfied with mere hope. He must
be certain how things were to be between them in the
future; but having been so satisfied, he was quite content
to leave matters where they were, and not provoke any
sort of tempest by openly letting it be known that he
had aspired to the hand of his master’s daughter. He
knew that his present position did not warrant the step
he had taken, yet it was his nature to hazard all upon one
throw, and this time he had won. He feared no tempest
himself, but he would have been loth to provoke one that
might have clouded Genefer’s life, and Farmer Teazel
could be very irascible when angered, and by no means
good to live with then.</p>

<p>Whilst the lovers were thus standing in the corner of the
orchard, exchanging vows of constancy which meant more
than their quiet homely phrases seemed to imply, an
elderly man with a slight stoop in his tall figure and a
singularly thoughtful and attractive face, was coming
slowly up the long steep slope of down which led to the
farm, guided alike by the brilliance of the moonbeams
and by the voices singing the rude chant round the apple-trees.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>
That he was a man occupying a humble walk in
life was evident from the make and texture of his garments,
the knotted hardness of his hands, and other more
subtle and less definable indications; but the moonlight
shone down upon a face that riveted attention from any
but the most unobservant reader of physiognomy, and
betrayed at once a man of unusual thoughtfulness for his
walk in life, as well as of unwonted depth of soul and
purity of character. The face was quite clean shaven, as
was common in those times, when beards were regarded
as indicative of barbarism in the upper classes, and were
by no means common in any rank of life save that of seafaring
men. The features were, however, very finely cut, and
of a type noble in themselves, and farther refined by individual
loftiness of soul. The brow was broad, and projected
over the deep-set eyes in a massive pent-house; the nose
was long and straight, and showed a sensitive curve at the
open nostril; the mouth was rather wide, but well formed,
and indicative of generosity and firm sweetness; the
eyes were calm and tranquil in expression. The colour it
was impossible to define: no two people ever agreed
upon the matter. They looked out upon the world from
their deep caverns with a look that was always gentle,
always full of reflection and questioning intelligence, but
was expressive above all of an inward peace so deep and
settled that no trouble from without could ruffle it.
Children always came to his side in response to a look
or a smile; women would tell their troubles to Abner
Tresithny, whose lips were sealed to all the world beside.
There was something in the man, quiet though he was,
that made him a power in his own little world, and yet he
had never dreamed of seeking power. He was at once
the humblest and the most resolute of men. He would
do the most menial office for any person, and see no
degradation in it; he was gentle as a woman and mild as
a little child: yet once try to move him beyond the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>
bounds he had set himself in life, and it would be as easy
to strive to move that jagged reef of rocks guarding St.
Bride’s Bay on the south side—the terror of hapless vessels
driven in upon the coast—the safeguard and joy of the
hardy smugglers who fearlessly drove their boats across
it with the falling tide, and laughed to scorn the customs-house
officers, who durst not approach that line of boiling
foam in their larger craft.</p>

<p>Abner Tresithny had grown up at St. Bride’s Bay, and
was known to every soul there and in the neighbouring
parish of St. Erme, where Farmer Teazel’s farm lay.
Perhaps no man was more widely beloved and respected
than he, and yet he was often regarded with a small spice
of contempt—especially amongst the men-folk; and those
who were fullest of the superstitions of the time and
locality were the readiest to gibe at the old gardener as
being a “man of dreams and fancies”—a mystic, they
might have called it, had the word been familiar to them—a
man who seemed to live in a world of his own, who
knew his Bible through from end to end a sight better
than the parson did—leastways the parson of St. Bride’s—and
found there a vast deal more than anybody else in
the place believed it to contain.</p>

<p>To-night an unwonted gravity rested upon Abner’s
thoughtful face—a shadow half of sorrow, half of triumphant
joy, difficult to analyse; and sometimes, as he paused
in the long ascent and wiped the moisture from his brow,
his eyes would wander towards the sea lying far below,
over which the moon was shining in misty radiance,
marking a shimmering silver track across it from shore to
horizon, and he would say softly to himself—</p>

<p>“And she will soon know it all—all the mysteries we
have longed to penetrate. All will be known so soon to
her. God be with her! The Lord Jesus be near her in
His mercy and His love in that struggle! O my God, do
Thou be near her in that last hour, when flesh and heart<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>
do fail! Let not her faith be darkened! Let not the
enemy prevail against her! Do Thou be very very near,
dear Lord. Do Thou receive her soul into Thy hands.”</p>

<p>And after some such softly breathed prayer, during
which his eyes would grow dim and his voice husky, he
would turn his face once more towards the upland farm
and resume his walk thither.</p>

<p>The firing of the guns, which told him the ceremony
was over, met his ears just as he reached the brow of the
hill, and he began to meet the cottagers and fisher-folk
streaming away. They all greeted him by name, and he
returned their greetings gently: but he could not refrain
from a gentle word of reproof to some whose potations
had been visibly too deep, and who were still roaring their
foolish chant as they staggered together down the slippery
slope.</p>

<p>Abner was known all round as an extraordinary man,
who, whilst believing in an unseen world lying about us
as no one else in the community did, yet always set his
face quietly and resolutely against these time-honoured
customs of propitiating the unseen agencies, which formed
such a favourite pastime in the whole country. It was a
combination altogether beyond the ken of the rustic
mind, and encircled Abner with a halo of additional
mystery.</p>

<p>“Yu should be to home with your sick wife, Nat,” he
said to one man who was sober, but had plainly been
enjoying the revel as much as the rest. “What good
du yu think can come of wasting good zyder over the
trees, and singing yon vulish song to them? Go
home to your sick wife and remember the true Christmas
joy when the morrow comes. All this is but idle
volly.”</p>

<p>“Nay, nay, maister,” answered the man, with sheepish
submission in his tone, albeit he could not admit any folly
in the time-honoured custom. “Yu knaw farmer he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>
wants a ’bundant craap of awples next year, an we awl of
us knaw tha’ the trees widden gi’ us a bit ef we didden
holler a bit tu ’m the night.”</p>

<p>“Nay, nay, Nat, it’s not your hollering that makes the
trees give of their abundance,” answered Abner, with
gentle sadness in his tone. “It’s the abiding promise of
the Lord that seed-time and harvest shall not vail. Go
home, go home, and mind thy wife.”</p>

<p>“Ay, ay, maister, I’m gwoan,” answered the man, and
beat a hasty retreat, secretly wondering whether one of
these days the black witches wouldn’t “overlook” Abner’s
house and affairs generally, since he was known for a man
of such peculiar views. The Duke’s head-gardener was
looked upon with considerable respect by the mere
labourers, and always addressed as “maister” by them.
He came of a good stock himself; and from having
been so much with the “quality,” he could speak pure
English as easily as the Saxon vernacular of the peasantry.
It was constant conversation with him which had given to
Saul his command of language. From the time of his
birth till he began to earn his own bread, Saul had lived
with his grandfather; and it had been a disappointment
to the old man that his grandson had refused the place of
garden boy offered him by the Duchess when he was old
enough to be of use on the place. Before that he had
scared birds for Farmer Teazel, and had done odd jobs
about the farm; and to the surprise of all who knew the
prestige and advantages attached to the service of the
Duke, the lad had elected to continue a servant of the
farmer rather than work in the ducal gardens. The
grandfather had not attempted to coerce his grandson, but
had let him follow his own bent, although he thought he
was making a mistake, and was perplexed and pained by
his independent attitude.</p>

<p>“He wants to get away from the old ’un—he can’t
stand all that preachin’ and prayin’,” had been the opinion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>
in some quarters; but Abner knew this was not the case.
His grandson had always been attached to him, and the
old man had never obtruded his own opinions upon him.
Saul’s reason for his decision lay beyond any natural desire
for an independent home of his own. He had independence
of a kind up at the farm, but only of a kind. He
was a member of Farmer Teazel’s household. He had to
keep the hours observed there. He had not nearly
such comfortable quarters there as in his grandfather’s
cottage. He had to work hard early and late, and
had none of the privileges accorded from time to time
on high days and holidays to the servants at Penarvon
Castle. Yet he never appeared to regret the decision
he had made, or spoke of desiring to change his condition.
This was in one way a satisfaction to Abner;
but he missed the youth from his own home, and was
always glad of an excuse to get him down there for a
few days.</p>

<p>This was, in fact, the reason of his errand to the farm
on this winter evening. To-morrow (Christmas Day) no
work would be done, and the day following was Sunday;
so that if Saul would come home with him to-night they
would have quite a little spell together before he had to
return to his work on the Monday morning.</p>

<p>The farmer saw his approach, and hailed him with
friendly greeting, offering him a tankard of cider, of
which the old man partook sparingly, as was his way.</p>

<p>“How gwoes the world down to St. Bride’s?” asked
the master, as he received back the tankard and put it to
his own lips. “They du say as the Duchess be mortal
bad. Is it trew that the doctors ’a given her oop, poor
zoul?”</p>

<p>Abner shook his head mournfully.</p>

<p>“So they du zay,” he answered; “I asked at the castle
my own self this even, and they said she could scarce
live over the night. St. Bride will lose a kind friend<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>
when it loses her. God be with her and with us all this
night!”</p>

<p>Faces were grave and serious as the sense of Abner’s
words penetrated beyond the immediate circle round him.
The Duchess of Penarvon had been long ill: for several
years she had been more or less of an invalid; but it
had not been known until quite recently that the nature
of her malady was so serious as it had now proved to
be, and the confirmation of the tidings of her extremity
was received with a considerable amount of feeling. The
Duke was a stern grave man, just and not unkindly, but
self-restrained and hard in his looks and words, whatever
his acts might be. But the Duchess was gentle and
kindly towards rich and poor alike, and had a personal
acquaintance with most of the fisher-folk and cottagers in
the parishes of St. Bride and St. Erme. If those who
were in trouble could obtain speech with the Duchess,
they nearly always went rejoicing home again. If any
casualty occurred amongst the fisher-folk in the bay
during a winter storm, the Duchess was almost sure to
send substantial aid to make up the loss. It was no
wonder then that the news Abner brought with him was
regarded as a public calamity, and that even those who
had drunk most deeply of the farmer’s cider were sobered
into gravity and propriety of demeanour by the thought
of what was passing at the castle down by the Bay of
St. Bride.</p>

<p>“I came to fetch Saul to bide with me till Monday,”
explained Abner. “It makes a bit of company, and my
heart is heavy with sorrow for them all. They say that
Lady Bride looks as if her heart was breaking. She and
her mother have been together almost by night and day,
ever since the Duchess’s health first failed her so sadly.
It’ll be a sad day for her, poor young thing, when her
mother is taken from her.”</p>

<p>“Ay, that it will be,” answered one and another, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>
heads were gravely shaken. For the position of Lady
Bride in stately solitude at Penarvon Castle, without the
sheltering protection of her mother’s love, was felt even by
these unimaginative rustics to be a trying one. It was
whispered around that her father had never quite forgiven
her for not being a boy. It was hard upon him that
their only child should be a girl, incapable of inheriting
title or estates. He was not a violent or irascible man,
but the disappointment of having no son had eaten deeply
into his nature, and there had always been a sense of
injured disapproval in his dealings with his daughter, of
which that sensitive young thing had been keenly conscious.
It had thrown her more and more upon the one
parent of whose love she felt secure, and even the unlettered
village hinds (who knew a good deal of the tittle-tattle
of the servants’ hall) could stand mute and struck
for a few minutes in contemplating the thought of the
terrible blank that would be left in the girl’s life when
her invalid mother was taken away.</p>

<p>But Abner would not stay to discuss the situation with
the farmer and his family. He was anxious to get home,
and Saul was quickly found, and appeared ready and
willing to go with him. Saul indeed was not sorry just
at this juncture for a good excuse to leave the farm for a
few days till he and Genefer had had time to get used to
the secret that now existed between them. Genefer was
quite as much relieved as her lover at this temporary
parting. She felt that she should in his presence be in
imminent danger of betraying herself a dozen times a
day; and as her father would be at home enjoying his
brief holiday, he might have leisure to note little symptoms
which would pass him by on a working day. Moreover,
Mr. Hewett might very likely drive over and bring her
some sort of a fairing in honour of the season, and if he
did so, and she was forced to be civil and friendly to him,
she would just as soon have Saul fairly out of the way.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>Grandfather and grandson walked down the hill together,
the old man’s mind full of the mystery of death, the
young man’s flooded by that kindred mystery of love—the
two most wonderful mysteries of the world. He had
been sorry to hear of the extremity of the Duchess; but it
seemed a thing altogether apart from himself, and his
own new happiness soon banished it from his mind. Not
that he had not some feeling that was not happiness
mingling with his own bright dreams, as the growingly
stern expression of his face testified; and all of a sudden
he turned upon his grandfather and asked—</p>

<p>“Do you know who my father was?”</p>

<p>“I cannot say that I <i>know</i>. I have my suspicions.
But your mother would not tell even me, and she died so
soon. Had she lived a little longer I should perhaps have
learned more.”</p>

<p>“And so I must always be called Saul Tresithny, though
that is not my name by right?”</p>

<p>“It is your name by right, because you were so
christened. You may have another name as well, my
lad, or you may not.”</p>

<p>The last words were spoken very slowly and sorrowfully,
but Saul started as though they stung him.</p>

<p>“I will never believe that my mother,” he began, and
then stopped short, his face contracted with passion and
pain.</p>

<p>“I trust not also, Saul,” said the grandfather, his face
expressing a far keener depth of pain than that of his
young companion. “But she may have been deceived—that
has been the fate of too many loving and ignorant
women; and she came without papers upon her and
would speak no word. Illness and sorrow sealed her lips,
and there was no time for urging speech upon her of
herself. There was but time to point the way heavenwards
for the departing spirit. I have left that question with
my Maker all these years, and you will have to do the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
same, my boy, for I fear the truth will never be known on
this side of the grave.”</p>

<p>Saul compressed his lips and walked on in silence. His
face in the moonlight looked as if carved out of solid
marble.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b016.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b017.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER II<br />

<i>THE DUCHESS OF PENARVON</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b017p.jpg" alt="P" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">PENARVON CASTLE was a great pile of grey
building situated on the commanding promontory
of land that jutted out into the sea and formed
the division between the two bays of St. Bride
and St. Erme.</p>

<p>St. Bride’s Bay lay to the south of the castle, and was
a small and insignificant inlet, not deep enough to afford
anchorage for vessels of any size, and avoided on account
of the dangers of the jagged reef on its southern boundary,
which went by the name of “Smuggler’s Reef.” The
little bay, however, was a favourite spot for boats and
small craft, as its waters were generally smooth, save
when a direct west wind was blowing, and the smooth
sand of its beach made landing safe and easy. A little
hamlet of fisher-folk (and smugglers) nestled beneath the
overhanging cliffs, which broke up just at this point and
became merged in the green slopes of the downs behind.
Smuggled goods landed in the bay could be transported
thence without any great difficulty, and not a fisherman in
the place but did not have his own private smuggling
venture whenever fortune favoured, and his own clientèle
amongst the neighbouring farmers and gentlemen, who were
glad to purchase what he brought and ask no questions.</p>

<p>The castle faced due west, and on its north side lay the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>
wider and larger bay of St. Erme; but the character of
the coast along this bay was not such as to tempt either
boats or larger vessels, for the cliffs ran sheer down into
the sea and presented a frowning iron-bound aspect, and
the shelter of the bay was sometimes too dearly purchased
by vessels running before the gale; for if they once struck
upon one of the many sunken rocks with which its bottom
was diversified, they were almost bound to go to pieces
without hope of rescue.</p>

<p>The castle was a turreted building of quadrangular
construction, and in one lofty turret on all stormy nights
a brilliant light was always burning, which had at last
become as a beacon to passing vessels, showing them
where they were, and warning them especially of those
twin and much dreaded rocks called the “Bull’s Horns,”
which lay just beneath the castle walls, forming the
northern boundary to St. Bride’s Bay, and between which
lay a shifting expanse of quicksand, out of which no
vessel ever emerged if once she had run upon it.</p>

<p>Upon this eve of the festival of Christmas, late though
the hour was, there were lights shining from many windows
of the great pile of grey stone—lights that the stranger
would believe to portend some festivity going on within
those walls, but which in reality indicated something
altogether different.</p>

<p>The two doctors summoned in haste earlier in the day
had at last taken their leave with hushed steps and grave
faces. All that human skill could avail had been done,
and done in vain. Throughout the castle it was known
that the fiat had gone forth that the gentle mistress whom
all loved lay dying—that she would hardly see the dawn
of the Christmas morning; and there was hardly a dry eye
amongst the assembled household, gathered together to
talk in whispers of the sad intelligence, and to listen
breathlessly for any sound proceeding from the part of
the house where the dying woman lay.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>The pealing of the bell of the outer door caused a
commotion in their midst, till the butler, who rose to
answer the summons, remarked that it was most likely one
of the two parsons come to see the Duchess. The Duke
had sent a message to both when the death sentence had
gone forth, and this was probably the response.</p>

<p>He went to the door, and sure enough there walked in,
with hushed step and awed face, the Rev. Job Tremodart,
resident clergyman of St. Bride’s, whose parsonage stood
not half-a-mile away.</p>

<p>He was a tall, loose-limbed, lantern-jawed man, with a
plain but benevolent countenance, an awkward manner,
and a very decided inclination to slip into the native
dialect in conversation. He entered with a nervous air,
and seemed reluctant to follow the servant up the great
staircase to the floor above.</p>

<p>“May be I shan’t be wanted,” he whispered, trying to
detain the man. “Du yu know if her Grace has asked
for me?”</p>

<p>“It was his Grace that sent word for you to be told,
sir, you and Mr. St. Aubyn, of her Grace’s condition,”
answered the man respectfully. “His Grace is in the
little parlour here when he is not in the room. I will let
him know you are here.”</p>

<p>“Has Mr. St. Aubyn come too?” asked Mr. Tremodart,
a look of relief crossing his face; “he will du her Grace
more gude than I.”</p>

<p>“He is not here yet, sir,” answered the butler, and then
stood aside and motioned to the clergyman to go on, for
at the top of the staircase stood a tall rigid figure, and Mr.
Tremodart found himself shaking hands with the Duke
almost before he had had time to realise the situation.</p>

<p>“The Duchess will be glad to see you,” was the only
word spoken by the stricken husband; and whether he
would or no, the hapless pastor was compelled to follow
his noble host.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>The Duke was tall and very spare in figure, and seemed
to have grown more so during the past week of anxiety
and watching. His hair, which had hitherto been dark
streaked with silver, seemed all at once to have silvered
over almost entirely. His face was finely cut, and the
features gave the impression of having been carved out of
a piece of ivory. The eyebrows were very bushy and were
still dark, and the eyes beneath were a steely blue and of
a peculiarly penetrating quality. The thin-lipped mouth
was indicative of an iron will, and the whole countenance
was one to inspire something of awe and dread. At the
present moment it was difficult to imagine that a smile
could ever soften it—difficult, at least, until the Duke
approached the side of his wife’s bed, and then the
change which imperceptibly stole over it showed that
beneath a hard and even harsh exterior—too deep
perhaps for outward expression—lay a power of love and
tenderness such as only a strong nature can truly
know.</p>

<p>“My love,” said the Duke very quietly, “Mr. Tremodart
is here.”</p>

<p>“I shall be glad to see Mr. Tremodart,” spoke a soft
voice from the bed; and in response to a sign from the
Duke, the clergyman (visibly quaking) passed round the
great screen which shut off the bed from the rest of the
room, and found himself face to face with the dying
woman.</p>

<p>It was a scene not to be forgotten by any who looked
upon it. The Duchess lay back upon a pile of snowy
pillows, the peculiar pallor of approaching death lying like
a shadow across her beautiful face. And yet, save for
this never-to-be-mistaken shadow, there was nothing of
death in her aspect. Few and far between as Mr.
Tremodart’s pastoral visits had been (for he was always
fearful of intruding upon the great folks at the castle), he
had many times seen the Duchess look more worn and ill<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>
than she did now. The lines of pain, which had deepened
so much of late in her face, had all been smoothed away.
Something of the undefinable aspect of youth had come
back to the expression, and the soft dark eyes were full
of a liquid brightness which it was somehow difficult for
him to meet. It was as though the brightness had been
absorbed from an unseen source. There was a great awe
in his eyes as he approached and touched the feeble hand
for a moment extended to him.</p>

<p>On her knees beside the bed, grasping the other hand
of the dying woman, was a young girl whose face could
not at this moment be seen, for it was pillowed in the
bed-clothes, whilst the slight figure was shivering and
heaving with suppressed emotion. All that could be seen
besides the slim graceful form was a mass of rippling
loosened hair that looked dark in shadow, but lighted up
with gleams of ruddy gold where the light touched it. Mr.
Tremodart gave a compassionate glance at the weeping girl.
It needed no word to explain the terrible loss which was
coming upon her.</p>

<p>“My journey is just done, sir,” said the Duchess, with a
swift glance from the face of her husband to that of the
clergyman. “The call home has come at last. Will you
speak some word of peace to me before I go? Let me hear
the message that my Lord sends to me. Give me some
promise of His to lead me on my way.”</p>

<p>The voice was very low, but clearly audible in the deep
stillness. Poor Mr. Tremodart twisted his great hands
together and felt as though an angel from heaven had
asked counsel of him.</p>

<p>“O my dear lady!” he burst out at last, “you know
those promises far better than I do. You have no need
of any poor words of mine. Your life has ever been a
blameless one. It is you who should teach me. God
knows I need it. But you, if you are going before His
judgment throne, can scarcely have a sin upon your soul.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>
I stand mute in presence of a holiness greater than any I
ever have known.”</p>

<p>The eyes of the dying woman were fixed upon Mr.
Tremodart’s face with an expression he scarce understood.</p>

<p>“Am I to go into the presence of my God clad in the
robe of my own righteousness?” she asked with a faint
smile.</p>

<p>“O my dear lady, how better could you go?” questioned
the confused and embarrassed clergyman. “Surely if ever
there were a saint upon earth it is yourself. Everybody
in the place knows it. What can I say to you that you do
not already know?”</p>

<p>Still the same searching inexplicable gaze fixed upon
his face—tender, pitying, regretful. Never had the Rev.
Job Tremodart felt so utterly unworthy of his office and
calling as at that moment. He had always recognised
the fact that he had “never been cut out for a parson,”
as he had phrased it. He had allowed himself to be
ordained and presented with a living in deference to his
father’s wishes and the pressure of circumstances, and he
had striven after his own light to do his duty amongst his
illiterate and semi-savage flock. On the whole he had
succeeded fairly well to his satisfaction, and was as good
a clergyman as many of his brethren around. But somehow,
beside the dying bed of the Duchess of Penarvon,
he stood shamed and silent, having no word to speak to
her save to remind her of her own saint-like life and her
own righteousness. Even he felt a faint qualm as he
spoke those words, yet their incongruity hardly struck
him in its full force. But it was an immense relief when
a slight stir without was followed by the entrance of
another figure into the room, and he could step back and
motion the new-comer to take his place beside the bed.
Even the girl raised her head now and looked round with
eyes dark-rimmed and dim with weeping. She did not
otherwise move, but she no longer kept her face hidden;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>
she turned it towards her mother with a hungry intensity
of gaze that was infinitely pathetic.</p>

<p>“You are welcome, my friend,” said the Duchess in
the same soft even tone. “I am glad to look upon your
face once more. I am going down into the valley at last.
The shadow is closing round me. You have brought me
some word to take with me there?”</p>

<p>Mr. St. Aubyn came one step nearer and laid his hand
upon the nerveless one of the dying woman. He was an
older man than his brother clergyman, and one of very
different aspect. His face was worn and hollow, as if
with thought and toil; his eyes were deep and tranquil,
often full of a dreamy brilliance, which bespoke a mind
far away. His features, if not beautiful in themselves,
were redeemed by a wonderful sweetness and depth of
expression. He looked like one whose “conversation is
in heaven,” and the dying woman’s eyes sought his with
quiet confidence and joy.</p>

<p>“The shadow truly is there—but the rod and the staff
are with all the servants of the Lord who can trust in
Him—and the brightness of the eternal city is beyond.
Truly the enemy’s power is but brief. He can but cast a
shadow betwixt us and our Saviour, and we who have
the staff of His consolation in our grasp need not fear.
To depart and be with Christ is a blessed thing. It is
through the grave and gate of death that we pass to our
joyful resurrection. There is no fear, no darkness, no
shadow that can come between us and that glorious
promise, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life.’”</p>

<p>The eyes of the dying woman kindled—filled suddenly
with a beautiful triumphant joy. Her lips moved, and
she softly repeated the words—</p>

<p>“‘I am the Resurrection and the Life’—ah! that is
enough—that is all we need to think of when our peace is
made.”</p>

<p>“Yea, verily—the Lamb of God suffered death for us<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>
to reconcile us again to God: and He rose triumphant
from the grave—the first-fruits of them that sleep—for
us to know that in the appointed day we too may rise
again and be glorified together with Him. And meantime
we rest in His peace, awaiting the day of our common
perfecting. Ah! and when the trump of the Archangel is
heard, it is the blessed dead who rise first, whilst in a
moment of time the faithful living are caught away with
them to meet the Lord in the air. O blessed, blessed
hope for living and dead alike—to meet the Lord and be
ever with Him! Surely that is the promise that takes
the sting from death and robs the grave of victory. We
know not the day nor the hour—that is hid in the foreknowledge
of the Divine Father; but we have the everlasting
promise—the promise which robs death of its
sting, even for those who are left behind—who are parted
from our loved ones. For at any moment the wondrous
shout of the Lord may be heard as He descends from
heaven to awaken the dead and call ‘those that are His at
His coming,’ and we may be one with them in the blessed
and holy first resurrection. ‘Wherefore comfort one
another with these words.’”</p>

<p>The gaze of the clergyman as he spoke these latter
words was rather bent on the daughter than the mother,
and the dying woman read the thought in his heart and
laid her own feeble hand upon her child’s head. The
girl’s tears were dry now. Her lips had parted in a smile
of wondrous vividness and hope. She clasped her hands
together, and her glance sought her mother’s face.</p>

<p>“O mother, my mother—if it might only be soon! O
pray for me that I lose not heart—that I may learn to
live in the hope in that promise!”</p>

<p>“The Lord will give you help and grace so to live, my
child, if you will but trust in Him. Heaven and earth
may pass away, but His word will not pass away, and
that hope is His most blessed promise. ‘We shall not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>
all sleep, but we shall all be changed.’ O my child, never
think to put off the making of your peace with God till
the hour of death, as some do. Remember that ‘we shall
not all die.’ It is the life eternal, not the grave and
gate of death, upon which our hearts must be fixed.
Although I am called to pass through that gate, ask not,
my child, for power to die. Ask rather the gift of the
everlasting life which will be given without dying at the
coming of the Lord. Ask for that coming and kingdom
to be hastened, that He will come down speedily upon
this rent and riven earth, and cause His reign of peace to
begin. Yea, pray for the outpouring of His Spirit in this
time of darkness and perplexity. Pray for that great
and glorious day when mortality shall be swallowed up
of life!”</p>

<p>The Duchess had half risen upon her pillows as she
spoke. A strange light was in her eyes. In spite of her
physical weakness, she spoke with a power and strength
that had seemed impossible a few moments before. Was
it the last expiring spark, flashing out with momentary
vividness; or was it some spiritual power within her that
gave to her this access of strength?</p>

<p>Those about her knew not, yet they hung upon her
words with a sense of strange wonder and awe.</p>

<p>To the Duke and the other clergyman this talk was
absolutely inexplicable—like words spoken in a strange
language. Deeply as the reserved and stern husband had
loved his wife, there were subjects that were never spoken
of between them, owing to his resolute reserve and reticence.
Dry orthodoxy and an upright walk before men had
been characteristic of the Duke through life. The fruits
of the Spirit, showing forth in love, joy, and peace, and
the yearning for light upon the dealings of God with His
children, were absolutely unknown to him; and though
he knelt with the rest when Mr. St. Aubyn offered a
prayer beside the bed of his dying wife, the words spoken<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>
fell meaningless on his ears. He had far more sympathy
with the clergyman who had called his wife a saint, and
shrunk from striving to speak any words of promise, than
with him who was speaking of things so far beyond his
ken as to appear to him idle mysticism and folly.</p>

<p>But the peace and joy beaming from those dying eyes
told him more eloquently than any words what it meant
to her, and he bowed his head and stifled the groan which
rose to his lips as he realised that, despite their tender
love, they had yet lived so far asunder in spirit that a great
gulf already seemed to divide them.</p>

<p>Yet the wife would not suffer herself to be long sundered
in spirit from her husband; and when the two clergymen
had silently departed, having done all that they could, each
in his own way, she summoned him to her bedside by a
glance, and brought her mind back to earth again with
something of an effort.</p>

<p>“My dear, dear husband,” she fondly whispered; and
then the groan would have its way, as he took her hand in
his and dropped down into the seat beside the bed which
had been his for so many long hours during the past days.</p>

<p>The Duchess bent her head softly towards the other side
where her daughter knelt, and said in a low voice—</p>

<p>“My child, I would be alone with your father a brief
while. Leave me for one short half-hour, then you shall
return, and I will send you away no more, my patient
darling.”</p>

<p>The words of tender endearment brought a rush of tears
to the girl’s eyes, but she rose without a word, and slipped
noiselessly from the room. The mother looked after her
with wistful eyes.</p>

<p>“Husband,” she said softly, “you will be tender with
the child? You will let her take my place with you so far
as such a thing is possible. She will try to do her duty
by you and by all. You will let that duty be a labour of
love?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span>“I will do what I can; but I am old to change my
ways, and I do not understand young girls. No one can
take your place; you talk of impossibilities. O Geraldine!
Geraldine! it is too hard to be thus left, old and
stricken, and alone. Why must it be?—you so many,
many years younger than I. I never thought to be the
one left behind. I cannot be resigned. I cannot be willing
to let you go. The Almighty is dealing very bitterly
with me!”</p>

<p>“Dear husband, the parting will be the shorter that you
are well stricken in years,” she answered gently, answering
him according to the measure of his understanding
and feeling. “It will be but a few short years before we
meet again in the place where there is no parting. And
now, my husband, before I am taken away from you—before
this new strength, which, I believe, God has given
me for a purpose, be spent—I have a few things to say to
you—a few charges to give to you. Will you let me speak
from my very heart, and forgive me if in any sort I pain
and grieve you?”</p>

<p>“<i>You</i> pain or grieve me by any precious words you may
speak! That thing is impossible. Let me know all that
is in your tender, noble heart. It shall be the aim and
object of the miserable residue of my days to carry out
whatever you may speak.”</p>

<p>The Duchess pressed his hand affectionately, and lay still
for a moment, gathering strength. Her husband gave her
some of the cordial which stood at hand, and presently she
spoke again—</p>

<p>“My husband, we are living in troubled and anxious
days. The world around us is full of striving and upheaval.
You and I remember those awful struggles in France now
dying out of men’s minds, and we have indications, only
too plainly written on the face of the earth, that the spirit
of lawlessness and anarchy thus let loose is seething and
fermenting throughout the world.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>The Duke bent his head in assent. He well knew such
to be the case, but hardly expected that to be the subject
of his dying wife’s meditations. She continued speaking
with pauses in between.</p>

<p>“My husband, perhaps you know that ever since those
terrible days, when men began to see in that awful Revolution
the first outpouring of God’s last judgments
upon the earth, godly men and women of every shade of
opinion have been earnestly and constantly praying for
God’s guidance and Spirit, that they may read the signs
of the times aright, and learn what are His purposes
towards mankind, as revealed in His written Word. I
will not speak too particularly of all that has been given
in answer to this generation of prayer; but it is enough
for me to tell you that Light has come, that the long-neglected
prophetic writings have been illumined by the
light of God’s Spirit to many holy men and women, who
have made them their study day by day and year by year,
and that rays of light from above have come to us, illumining
the darkness, and showing us faintly, yet clearly, God’s
guiding hand in these days of darkness and trouble. Do
you follow me so far?”</p>

<p>“I understand your words, and am ready to believe that
in these things you have a knowledge that I cannot attain
unto; but what then?”</p>

<p>“What I would ask of you, my husband, is patience and
trust—patience with many things that will seem strange to
you, that will seem like a subversion of all your ideas of
wisdom and prudence—and trust in God’s power to make
all things work together for good, and to bring good out
of evil. We know that the latter days are coming fast
upon us—that the armies of good and evil are gathering
for that last tremendous struggle which precedes the reign
of the Lord. We know that the strange upheavals we
see in the world about us are the beginnings of these
things, and that those who would be found faithful must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span>
learn to discern between the evil and the good; for Satan
can transform himself into an angel of light, and deceive,
if it were possible, the very elect, whilst God has again
and again chosen the weak and despised things of this
world to confound the strong; and it is human nature
to turn away in scorn from all such weak things, and
look for strength and salvation from the mighty and
approved.”</p>

<p>The Duke listened with a sigh. He understood but
little of all this. Yet every word from his dying wife
was precious, and engraved itself upon his memory in
indelible characters.</p>

<p>“There are difficult days coming upon the earth: great
wrongs will be righted, much that is pure and good will
spring up; and side by side with that much that is evil,
lawless, and terrible. Dear husband, what I would ask
of you is a patient mind, patience to look at changes
without prejudice, and strive prayerfully to discern
whether or not they be of God;—also patience to hear
what is said by their advocates, and to weigh well what
you hear. Let mercy ever temper justice in your dealings
with your dependents; and condemn not those who
are not at one with you without pausing to understand
the nature of all they are striving to accomplish. The
evil and the good will and must grow up together till the
day of the harvest. The wheat and the tares cannot be
sorted out till the reapers are sent forth from God. But
let us strive with eyes anointed from above to distinguish
in our own path that which is good, and not cast
it scornfully aside, nor rush after what is evil because it
approves itself to the great ones of the earth. I am
sure that God will lead and guide all those who truly
turn to Him in these times of darkness and perplexity.
My dear, dear husband, if I could feel sure that you
would be amongst those who would thus turn to Him
now, I should pass away with a sweeter sense of trust and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
hope—a brighter confidence in that most blessed meeting
on the other shore.”</p>

<p>The white head of the husband was bowed upon the
pillow. He did not weep—the fountain of his tears lay
too deep for him to find relief thus—but a few deep
breaths, like gasps, bespoke the intensity of his emotion,
and when he could articulate, he answered briefly—</p>

<p>“My life, I will try—I will try—so help me God!”</p>

<p>“He will help you, my precious husband,” she
answered, with quivering tenderness of intonation, “and
you know the promise that cannot fail, ‘All things are
possible to him that believeth.’”</p>

<p>And then from that bowed head there came the
earnest cry—</p>

<p>“‘Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.’”</p>

<p>After that followed a pause of deep silence. The
Duchess, exhausted but content, lay back on her pillow
with closed eyes. The Duke held her hand between his,
and fought out his battle in silence and alone. He was
passing through deeper waters than the dying woman;
for her peace was made, and she was going confidently
forth to meet Him who had bidden her to come; whilst
he was fighting in doubt and helplessness the tempestuous
winds and waves, feeling every moment that they
must engulf him. And yet never had the two loving
hearts beat more in sympathy and unison. Those
moments were unspeakably precious to both, although no
word passed between them.</p>

<p>The silence was scarcely broken as the door opened
softly, and Bride stole back to her mother’s side. She
had been caught by her old nurse meantime, and had
been dosed with soup and wine, while some of the dishevelment
of her dress and hair had been removed.
Her aching eyes had been bathed, and she looked altogether
strengthened and refreshed. The dying eyes
turned upon her took in this, and the Duchess smiled with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
a sense of relief to think that there was one faithful
woman beneath the castle roof who would make Bride
her first care.</p>

<p>The girl’s eyes sought her mother’s face with wistful
intensity of gaze, and at once noted a change that even
that brief half-hour had brought with it. The shadow
had deepened; there was a dimness coming over the
bright eyes, the hand she touched was icy cold.</p>

<p>“Mother!—mother!—mother!” she cried, and sank
down on her knees beside the bed.</p>

<p>“My child, my little Bride. You have been a dear,
dear child to me. In days to come, if you live to have
children of your own, may you be rewarded for all the
tenderness you have shown to me.”</p>

<p>“Mother, mother, let me die too! I cannot bear it! I
cannot live without you!”</p>

<p>“Dearest, you must live for your father; you must
comfort each other,” and with a last effort of strength,
the dying woman brought the hands of father and
daughter together across her emaciated form, and held
them locked together so in her stiffening fingers.</p>

<p>When the end came they neither knew exactly. Bride
was on her knees, her face hidden, the shadow seeming to
weigh her down till all was blackness round her, and she
felt sinking, sinking, sinking down into some unknown
abyss, clinging frantically to something which she took
to be her mother’s hand. The Duke, with his eyes upon
his wife’s face, saw the fluttering of the eyelids, heard a
soft sigh, and then watched the settling down upon that
wan face of a look of unspeakable rest and sweetness.</p>

<p>If that was death, why need death be dreaded? It
was like nothing that he had seen or imagined before.
The only words which came into his mind were those of a
familiar formula never understood before—</p>

<p>“The peace of God that passeth all understanding.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b032.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER III<br />

<i>THE HOUSE OF MOURNING</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b032e.jpg" alt="E" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">EUSTACE MARCHMONT came in sight of Penarvon
Castle just as the last rays of the winter
sunset were striking upon its closed windows and
turning them into squares of flashing red light
dazzling to the eye. The castle stood commandingly upon
its lofty promontory of jagged cliff, and from its garden
walls, as the young man remembered well, the spectator
could look sheer down a deep precipice into the tossing
waves of the sea beneath. He remembered the long side
terrace of the castle, against which the thunder of the surf
in winter months made a perpetual roar and battle; whilst
even on summer evenings, when the sea lay like a sheet of
molten gold beneath them, the ceaseless murmur was
always to be heard, suggestive of the restless life of the
ocean. It was natural perhaps that Eustace should draw
rein and look at the majestic pile with something of pride
in his gaze, for he was the Duke’s next of kin, and in the
course of nature would one day be master here. Yet there
was no exultation in the steady gaze he fixed upon his
future home: it was speculative and thoughtful rather
than triumphant. There was a shade of perplexity in the
wide-open grey eyes intently fixed upon the place, which
looked at the moment as though lit up for illumination, and
the firm lips set themselves in lines that were almost grim.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>Eustace Marchmont was clad in a suit of black, which
was evidently quite new, although slightly stained and
disordered by the evidences of a long and hasty journey.
He had, in fact, ridden hard from town ever since the
news of the Duchess’s death reached him, now three days
ago. He knew that propriety demanded he should be
present at her funeral, even without the invitation from
the Duke. He had come as fast as post-horses could
bring him, with his two servants in attendance, and had
travelled without mischance.</p>

<p>It was many years now since Eustace had visited
Penarvon. His father (dead two years since) and the
Duke were cousins, and the Duke had no brother. As
young men there had been some attachment between
them, but they had grown apart with the advance of years.
The Duke was by many years the elder of the two; and
perhaps on account of seniority, perhaps from his position
as head of the family, had striven with possibly unwise
persistence to mould his cousin after his own wishes.
Disagreement had ended in coolness, and the intercourse
had become slacker. Although Eustace had visited his
“uncle’s” house (he had been taught so to speak of the
Duke), he did not remember ever having seen his father
there, and since his own boyhood he had not seen the
place himself.</p>

<p>He had not understood at the time why his visits
ceased, but he knew it well enough now. Although the
Duke long cherished hopes of a son of his own to succeed
him, he had always regarded Eustace as a possible heir,
and had desired to have a voice in his education. The boy
had been sent to Eton at his suggestion; but when his
school-days were ended, and his uncle naturally supposed
that the University would be the next step in his training,
Mr. Marchmont had suddenly decided to travel abroad
with the boy and see the world—the close of the long
war having just rendered travelling possible with safety.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
When he himself returned to England at the end of two
years, it was with the news that Eustace had been left
behind in Germany to finish his education there; and the
indignant remonstrances of the Duke had resulted in a
coolness which had never been altogether conquered. He
considered that the young man would be rendered entirely
unfit by such training, for the position every year seemed
to make it more probable he would one day hold, whilst
Mr. Marchmont argued that, the youth’s heart being set
upon it, it was far better to give him his own way than try
to force him into paths uncongenial and distasteful.</p>

<p>Eustace was now seven-and-twenty, and in command
of an ample fortune. Both his parents were dead—his
mother he did not even remember, and he had neither
brother nor sister. His second cousin, Lady Bride
Marchmont, whom he dimly remembered as a shrinking
little girl, for ever clinging to her mother’s hand, was the
only relative of his own generation that he possessed; and
it had naturally occurred to him before now that to marry
the Duke’s daughter, if he could learn to love her and
teach her to love him, would be the best reparation he
could make to her for the lack of brothers of her own. It
seemed to him a hard and unjust thing that her sex should
disqualify her from succeeding to her father’s wealth and
title. Eustace was no lover of the time-honoured laws of
primogeniture, entail, or the privileges of the upper classes.
The leaven of the day was working strongly in him, and
he was ready to break a lance in the cause of freedom and
brotherly equality with whatever foe came in his way.</p>

<p>His face bespoke something of this temperament. He
had the broad lofty brow of the thinker, the keen steady
eye of the man of battle, the open sensitive nostril of the
enthusiast, and the firm tender mouth of the philanthropist.
Without being handsome he was attractive, and his face
was worthy of study. There was something of quiet scorn
lying latent in his expression, which argument easily called<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>
into active existence. The face could darken sternly, or
soften into ardent tenderness and enthusiasm, as the case
might be. He had the air of a leader of men. His voice
was deep, penetrating, and persuasive, and he had a fine
command of language when his pulses were stirred. In
person he was tall and commanding, and had that air of
breeding which goes far to win respect with men of all
classes. He moved with the quiet dignity and ease of
one perfectly trained in all physical exercises, and in
whom no thought of self-consciousness lurks. He looked
well on horseback, riding with the grace of long practice.
As he followed the windings of the zigzag road which
led up to the castle, looking about him with keen eyes to
observe what changes time had made in the old place, he
looked like one whom the Duke might welcome with pride
as his heir, since it had not pleased Providence to bestow
upon him a son of his own.</p>

<p>He rode quietly up to the great sweep before the gateway
and passed beneath it, answering the respectful salute
of the porter with a friendly nod, and found himself in the
quadrangle upon which the great hall door opened. His
approach had been observed, and the servants in their
sombre dress were waiting to receive him; but the drawn
blinds over all the windows, and the deep hush which
pervaded the house, struck a chill upon the spirit of the
young man as he passed beneath the portal, and a quick
glance round the hall assured him that none but servants
were there.</p>

<p>A great hound lying beside the roaring fire of logs rose
with a suspicious bay and advanced towards him, but
seeming to recognise kinship in the stranger, permitted
him to stroke his head, as Eustace, standing beside the
hearth, addressed the butler in low tones:—</p>

<p>“How is it with his Grace?”</p>

<p>The man slowly shook his head.</p>

<p>“Sadly, sir, but sadly. He keeps himself shut up in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span>
own room—the room next to that in which her Grace lies—and
unless it be needful nobody disturbs him. He looks
ten years older than he did a month back: it has made
an old man of him in a few weeks.”</p>

<p>“And the Lady Bride?”</p>

<p>“She is bearing up wonderfully, but we think she has
scarce realised her loss yet. She seems taken out of
herself by it all—uplifted like—almost more than is
natural in so young a lady. But she was always half
a saint, like her Grace herself. She will be just such
another as her mother.”</p>

<p>“And the funeral is to-morrow?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir—on the first day of the new year. Her Grace
died very early upon the morning of Christmas Day—just
a week from now.”</p>

<p>Eustace was silent for a few minutes, and then turning
to the servant, said—</p>

<p>“Does his Grace know I am here? Shall I see him
to-day? Does he see anybody?”</p>

<p>“If you will let me show you your rooms, sir, I will let
him know you have arrived. He will probably see you at
dinner-time. He and Lady Bride dine together at five—their
other meals they have hitherto taken in their own
rooms, but that may be changed now. You will join them
at dinner, of course, sir.”</p>

<p>“If they wish it, certainly,” answered Eustace; “but I
have no wish to intrude if they would prefer to be alone.
Is anybody else here?”</p>

<p>“There is nobody else to come, sir. Her Grace’s few
relatives are in Ireland, and there has not been time to
send for them, and they were not nearly related to her
either. I am glad you are here, sir. It is a long time
since Penarvon has seen you.”</p>

<p>“Yes, I have been much abroad, but the place looks
exactly the same. I could believe I had been here only
yesterday.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>And then Eustace followed the man up the grand
marble staircase and down a long corridor, so richly
carpeted that their foot-falls made no sound, till they
reached a small suite of apartments, three in number,
which had been prepared for the use of the guest, and
which were already bright with glowing fires, and numbers
of wax candles in silver sconces arranged along the walls.</p>

<p>The costliness and richness of his surroundings was
strange to Eustace, for although wealth was his, his
habits were very simple, and he neither desired nor
appreciated personal indulgences of whatever kind they
might be. He looked round him now with a smile not
entirely free from contempt, although he recognised in
the welcome thus accorded him a spirit of friendly regard,
which was pleasant.</p>

<p>“Unless, indeed, it is all the work of hired servants,”
he said, after a moment’s cogitation. “Probably it is so—who
else would have thought to spare for a guest at such
a time as this? This is the regular thing at the castle for
every visitor. There is nothing personal to me in all this
warmth and brightness.”</p>

<p>His baggage had arrived, and his servant had laid out
his evening dress: but Eustace never required personal
attention, and the man had already taken his departure.
The young man donned his new suit of decorous black
with rapidity and precision. He was no dandy, but he
was no sloven either, and always looked well in his
clothes. After his rapid toilet was completed, he sat
down beside the fire to muse, and was only interrupted
by the message to the effect that his Grace desired the
pleasure of his company at the dinner-table that evening.</p>

<p>This being the case, and the hands of the clock on the
mantelpiece pointing ten minutes only to the hour of five,
Eustace at once rose and descended to the drawing-room,
the door of which was thrown open for him by one of the
footmen carrying in some logs to feed the huge fire. One<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>
glance round the once familiar apartment showed him
that it was empty. It was the smallest of the three
drawing-rooms, opening one into the other in a long suite,
and formed indeed the ante-chamber to the larger ones
beyond; but it was the one chiefly used when there were
no guests at the castle; and Eustace remembered well the
pictures on the white and gold walls, the amber draperies,
and the cabinets with their treasures of silver, china,
and glass.</p>

<p>Nothing seemed changed about the place, and the sense
of stationary immutability and repose struck strangely
upon the alert faculties of the young man, whose life had
always been full of variety—not only of place and scene,
but of thought and principle. A dreamlike feeling came
over him as he stood looking about him, and he did not
know whether the predominant sensation in his mind were
of satisfaction or impatience.</p>

<p>The door slowly opened, and in came a slim black-robed
figure. For a moment Eustace, standing near to an
interesting picture, and shadowed by a curtain, passed
unnoticed, so that he took in the details of this living
picture before he himself was seen. He knew in a
moment who it was—his cousin Bride—the little timid
girl of his boyish recollections; but if all else were
unchanged at Penarvon, there was change at least here,
for had he seen her in any other surroundings he would
never have known or recognised her.</p>

<p>Bride’s face was very pale, and there were dark violet
shadows beneath the eyes which told of vigil and of
weeping; yet the face was now not only calm, but full of
a deep spiritual tranquillity and exaltation, which gave to
it an aspect almost unearthly in its beauty. Bride had
inherited all her mother’s exceptional loveliness of feature,
but she owed more to that expression—caught from,
rather than transmitted by, that saintly mother—which
struck the beholder far more than mere delicacy of feature<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>
or purity of colouring. Eustace was no mean student of
art, and had studied at the shrine of the old masters
with an enthusiasm born of true appreciation for genius;
yet never had he beheld, even in the greatest masterpieces,
such a wonderfully spiritualised and glorified face as he
now beheld in the person of his cousin Bride. A wave of
unwonted devotional fervour came suddenly upon him.
He felt that he could have bent the knee before her and
kissed the hem of her garment; but instead of that he
was constrained by custom to walk forward with outstretched
hand, meeting the startled glance of her liquid
dark eyes as she found herself not alone.</p>

<p>“You are my cousin Eustace,” she said, in a low
melodious voice that thrilled him strangely as it fell upon
his ear; “my father will be glad you are come.”</p>

<p>For once Eustace’s readiness failed him. He held
Bride’s hand, and knew not how to address her. His
heart was beating with quick strong throbs. He felt
as though he were addressing some being from another
sphere. What could he say to her at such a moment?</p>

<p>Perhaps his silence surprised her, for she raised her
soft eyes again to his, and the glance went home to his
soul like a sword-thrust, so that he quivered all over.
But he found his voice at last.</p>

<p>“Forgive me,” he said, and his voice was soft and even
tremulous. “If I am silent, it is because I have no words
in which to express what I wish. There are moments in
life when we feel that words are no true medium of
thought. I remember your mother, Bride—that is all
I can find to say. I remember her—and before the
thought of your great loss I am dumb. Silence is sometimes
more eloquent that any speech can be.”</p>

<p>He still held her hand. She raised her eyes to his, and
he saw that he had touched her heart, for they were
swimming now in bright tears, but her sweet mouth did
not quiver.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>“Thank you,” she said, in tones that were little raised
above a whisper. “I am glad you have said that. I am
glad you remember her. I think she was fond of you,
Eustace.”</p>

<p>Then the door opened and the Duke appeared.</p>

<p>Eustace was shocked at his aspect. He remembered
him as a very upright, dignified, majestic man, whose
words were few and to the point, whose personality inspired
awe and reverence in all about him, whose wishes
were law, and whose will none ventured to dispute. He
beheld before him now a bowed, white-headed man, out
of whose eyes the light and keenness had passed, whose
voice was low and enfeebled, and whose whole aspect betokened
a mind and heart broken by grief, and a physique
shattered by the blow which had desolated his home.</p>

<p>Nevertheless this form of grief did not appear to the
young man so pathetic as Bride’s, and he was not tongue-tied
before the Duke. His well-chosen words of sympathy
and condolence were received kindly by the old man, and
before the first dinner was over Eustace felt that the ice
was broken, and that he began to have some slight knowledge
of the relatives with whom he felt he should in
the future have considerable dealings if he succeeded
in winning their favour. Their loneliness, isolation, and
weakness appealed to the manly instincts of his nature,
and he resolved that any service he could perform to
lighten their burden should not be lacking.</p>

<p>When left alone with the Duke after Bride had vanished,
little passed between them. The host apologised for his
silence, but said he could not yet begin to talk of common
things, and contented himself by obtaining a promise from
Eustace to remain some weeks at the castle as his guest.
In those days visits were always of considerable length,
and Eustace had made his preparations for a lengthened
absence from London, in case he should be required here.
He accepted the invitation readily, and the Duke, rising<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>
and saying good night, with an intimation that he should
retire at once to his room, Eustace strolled across the
vast hall to the drawing-room, half expecting to find it
empty; but his heart gave a quick bound as he saw it
tenanted by the slim black-robed figure, and met the
earnest gaze of Bride’s soft eyes.</p>

<p>She rose as he appeared, and advanced to met him.
Upon her face was an expression which he did not understand
till her next words explained it.</p>

<p>“Would you like to come and see her for the last time?
To-morrow it will be too late.”</p>

<p>Eustace bent his head in voiceless assent. He could
not say nay to such an invitation, albeit he thought that
there was something morbid in the feeling which prompted
it. Habituated to foreign ways and customs, this keeping
of the dead unburied for so many days was in his eyes
slightly repulsive; but he followed the noiseless steps of
his guide, and was at last ushered into a large dim room,
lighted by many wax tapers, the light of which seemed,
however, absorbed into the heavy black draperies with
which the walls were hung.</p>

<p>In this sombre apartment the Duchess had lain in state
(if such a phrase might be used) for many days. The
whole population of St. Bride and St. Erme had combined
to plead for a last look upon her who in life had been so
greatly beloved; and both the Duke and his daughter
had been touched by the request, which was promptly
gratified.</p>

<p>And so Eustace now found himself before a prostrate
figure that bore the likeness of a marble effigy, but was
clad in soft white robes of sheeny texture, the fine dark
hair being dressed as in life, and crowned by the film of
priceless lace which the Duchess was wont to wear. Tall
lilies in pots made a background for the recumbent figure,
and the wax tapers cast their light most fully upon the
tranquil face of the dead. And when once the eye rested<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
on that face, the accessories were all forgotten. Eustace
looked, and a great awe and wonder fell upon him. Bride
looked, and her face kindled with that expression which
he marked upon it when first he had seen her, and which
afterwards, when he heard the words, seemed to him
best described in this phrase, “Death is swallowed up
of victory.”</p>

<p>She knelt down beside the couch on which all that was
mortal of her mother lay, and when Eustace turned his
eyes away from the peaceful face of the dead, it was to
let them rest for a moment upon the ecstatic countenance
of the living.</p>

<p>But after one glance he softly retired, unnoticed by
Bride, and shut the door behind him noiselessly.</p>

<p>In the shelter of his own room the sense of mystic awe
and wonder that possessed him fell away by degrees. He
paced up and down, lost in thought, and presently a frown
clouded the eyes that had been till now full of pity and
sympathy.</p>

<p>“She looks as though she had been living with the dead
till she is more spirit than flesh. How can they let her?
It is enough to kill her or send her mad! Well, thank
heaven, the funeral is to-morrow. After that this sort
of thing must cease. Poor child, poor girl! A father
who seems to have no knowledge of her existence, her
mother snatched away in middle life. And she does not
look made of the stuff that forgets either. She will have
a hard time of it in the days to come. I wonder if she will
let me help her, if I can in any wise comfort her. That
must be a heart worth winning, if one had but the key.”</p>

<p>Upon the forenoon of the next day the funeral of the
Duchess was celebrated with all the pomp and sombre
show incident to such occasions in the days of which we
write. Bride did not accompany the sable procession as
it left the castle and wound down the hill. Women did
not appear in public on such occasions then; and she only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>
watched from a turret window the mournful cortège as it
set forth, the servants of the household forming in rank
behind the coaches, and walking in procession in the rear,
and as the gates were reached, being followed in turn by
almost every man, woman, and child within a radius of
five miles, the whole making such a procession as had
never been seen in the place before.</p>

<p>Hitherto the girl had been supported by the feeling that
her mother, although dead, was still with her; that she
could gaze on that dear face at will, feel the shadowing
presence of her great love, and know something of the
hallowing brooding peace which rested upon the quiet
face of the dead. Moreover, she was upheld all these days
by a wild visionary hope that perhaps even yet her mother
would be restored to her. Her intense faith in the power
of God made it easy to her to imagine that in answer to
her fervent prayer the soul might be restored to its tenement—the
dead raised up to life. If the prayer of faith
could move mountains—if <i>all</i> things were possible to him
that believeth, why might not she believe that her own
faith, her own prayer, might be answered after this
manner? Had not men been given back from the dead
before now? Why not this precious life, so bound up in
her own and in the hearts of so many?</p>

<p>Thus the girl had argued, and thus she had spent her
days and her nights in fasting and prayer, raised up
above the level of earth by her absorbing hope and faith,
till she had almost grown to believe that the desired
miracle would become a reality. And now that the
dream was ended, now that she stood watching the disappearance
of that long procession, and knew that God
had not answered her prayers, had not rewarded her faith
as she felt it deserved to be rewarded, a strange leaden
heaviness fell upon her spirit. The reaction from the
ecstatic fervour of spirit set in with somewhat merciless
force. She felt that the earth was iron and the heavens<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>
brass, that there was none below to love her, none above
to hear her. A sense akin to terror suddenly possessed
her. She turned from her post of observation and fled
downwards. She felt choking, and craved the fresh salt
air, which had not kissed her cheek for more than this
eternity of a week. At the foot of the turret was a door
opening into the garden. She fled down, and found
herself in the open air, and with hasty steps she passed
through the deserted gardens till she came to the great
glass conservatory, which had been erected at no small
cost for the winter resort of the Duchess since she became
so much the invalid; and flinging herself down upon the
couch which still stood in its accustomed place in the
recess made for it, the girl burst into wild weeping, and
beat her head against the cushions in a frenzy akin to
despair.</p>

<p>How long she thus remained she knew not. Darkness
seemed to fall upon her, and a great horror of she knew
not what. The next sensation of which she was really
conscious was the touch of a hand on her shoulder, and
the sound of a kindly and familiar voice in her ear—</p>

<p>“Lady Bride, ladybird, don’tee take on so bitterly, my
lamb. It is not <i>her</i> they have put underground. May
be <i>she</i> is near yu now whilst you weep. May be it
was she who put it into my heart to come here just at
this time. If they can grieve whom the peace of God
Almighty has wrapped round, I think ’twould grieve
her to see yu breaking your heart to-day.”</p>

<p>“O Abner!” cried the girl, sitting up and pushing the
heavy hair out of her eyes, “I am glad you have come!
I felt as though there was no one left in the wide world
but me—that I was all alone, and all the world was dead.
But I have not been like this before. Till they took her
away I felt I had her with me. I knew that she was near—that
she was watching over me. There was always the
hope that she was not dead—that her spirit might come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>
back once more. O Abner, Abner! why does God
always take those who can least be spared? There are
so many who would scarce be missed, and she——”</p>

<p>Bride could not complete her sentence, and the old
gardener looked tenderly at her. He had known her
from her birth. He had guided her tottering steps round
the garden before she could fairly walk alone. He had
watched her growth and development with an almost
fatherly tenderness and pride. She was as dear to him
as though she had been his own flesh and blood; and the
mother who was now taken away had never interfered
with the friendship between the child and the old servant;
nay, she had many and many a time held long talks
herself with Abner, and knew how strong a sympathy
there was between his views and her own, despite their
widely different walk in life. And so in the old gardener
Bride had a friend to whom at such a moment as this she
could talk more freely than to any other living creature.</p>

<p>“May be the Lord wants the most beautiful flowers for
His own garden, my Ladybird,” answered the old man,
using the familiar pet name which had grown up between
them in childhood. “When I used to gather flowers for
her Grace’s room, I chose the sweetest and most perfect
blossoms I could find. We mustn’t wonder if the Lord
sometimes does the same—nor grudge Him the fairest
and purest flowers, even though the loss is ours.”</p>

<p>Slightly soothed by the thought, Bride tried to smile.</p>

<p>“Only it seems as though we wanted them so much
more,” said she.</p>

<p>“I don’t know. The dear Lord must have loved her
full as much as we do. He lent her to us for many
years; may be He knew she would be better placed in His
garden now, where no pruning-knife need ever touch
her, and no suns can scorch her, and where her leaves
will never wither. Sure, my Ladybird, yu du not grudge
her her place in God’s garden of Paradise?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>“O Abner! I will try not. I know what you mean;
she did have much suffering to bear here, and I am
thankful she will have no more. But there are some
things so hard to understand, even when we believe
them. I cannot bear to think of her body lying in
the cold ground, and becoming—oh! it does not bear
thinking of.”</p>

<p>“Then, why think of it, Ladybird?—why not look
beyond this poor corruptible body, and think of the
glorious resurrection body with which we shall all arise?”</p>

<p>“Oh, it is so hard to understand!” cried Bride, pressing
her hands together—“it is so hard to understand!”</p>

<p>“I think it is not possible to understand,” said the old
man quietly, “but surely it is easy to believe, for we see
it every day and every year.”</p>

<p>“How do we see it?” asked Bride, almost listlessly.</p>

<p>Abner put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a
little packet of seed, some of which he poured into his
palm.</p>

<p>“Lady Bride,” he said in his grave meditative way, “it
does not seem wonderful to yu that each of these tiny
seeds will, after it has rotted in the ground, germinate
and bear leaves and flowers and fruit. But if yu did not
know it from constant seeing it year by year, if it was a
strange thing that yu have been told, and yu would not
believe it, and yu said to me, ‘No, Abner, that cannot be.
It is not sense. It cannot be understood. I must prove
it first before I believe it.’ And suppose yu took that
seed and put it under that glass which clever men use
for discoveries, and suppose beneath that powerful glass
yu pulled it bit by bit to pieces to see if it contained the
germ of the mystery, du yu think yu would find it
there? Du yu think your seed would grow after being
treated so?”</p>

<p>“No, of course not,” answered Bride.</p>

<p>“Well, isn’t it just so with the mysteries of God? He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>
gives them to us, and says, ‘Here is your body. It is
corruptible and mortal; but it has within it the germ of
immortality, and though it will die and perish in the
ground, yet it will rise again glorified when the day of
resurrection comes.’ But men in these days take that
mystery and say, ‘We will not take God’s word for it;
we will put it beneath the glass of our great intellects, and
examine and see if it be true, and if we may not prove it
by examination, then we will not believe it!’ And so
they set to work, and when they have done, they tell men
not to believe God any longer, because they have proved
Him a liar by the gauge of their own intellects. Du yu
think these men would believe that this seed would sprout
into a flower if they did not see it do so with their own
eyes? No; they would laugh yu to scorn for telling
them so. And so they laugh us to scorn who tell them
that there will be a resurrection of the dead. But, Ladybird,
never let your heart fail you. Never let doubt steal
over your mind. What God has promised we know He
will surely accomplish—and His words cannot fail.”</p>

<p>She rose with a faint smile and held out her hand,
which the old gardener took reverently and tenderly
between both of his own.</p>

<p>“I will try to think of that if ever I doubt again,” she
said softly. “I do know—I do believe—but sometimes
it is very hard to keep fast hold on the faith.”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b047.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b048.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IV<br />

<i>THE DUKE’S HEIR</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b048y.jpg" alt="Y" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“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?”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>
I believe you will be able to help me better than I can
help myself.”</p>

<p>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—</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>“You have heard of me, then?” questioned Eustace,
with a smile. “People have talked of my comings and
goings, have they?”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Eustace laughed pleasantly, and then his face grew
grave again.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>Abner nodded his head in grave approval.</p>

<p>“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.’”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“Well, sir,” answered Abner, “it isn’t so to say a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>
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.”</p>

<p>The young man’s eyes suddenly flashed, and he took
up the word with suppressed eagerness.</p>

<p>“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!”</p>

<p>“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!”</p>

<p>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,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>
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.</p>

<p>“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!”</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>
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?</p>

<p>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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.”</p>

<p>“I don’t think I quite take your meaning, Tresithny.”</p>

<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>
here and a bit there, and less from books than from
men.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>But Abner’s face was very grave, and anything but
acquiescent.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>
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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“But you have not explained how.”</p>

<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>
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 <i>them</i>
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.”</p>

<p>Eustace smiled with something of covert triumph.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“To those who love the Lord, sir,” answered Abner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
quietly, and then there was silence for a moment between
the men.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>A few days later the Duke spoke to him upon a subject
of keen interest to him. Both the Duke and his daughter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>
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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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—</p>

<p>“Do you ever think of standing for Parliament,
Eustace?”</p>

<p>The young man flushed quickly.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>“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.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
“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>I</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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Eager as Eustace was for a voice in the legislation
of the future, he hesitated to think of gaining it in
such a fashion.</p>

<p>“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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>“Times change!—ay, verily, they do—and men with
them,” he said, in a very gentle tone, “and we must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
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.”</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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—</p>

<p>“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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>
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>I</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!”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b062.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b063.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER V<br />

<i>MAN OF THE WORLD AND MYSTIC</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b001t.jpg" alt="T" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“THERE be no zarvice in the church to-day, my
lady—not to St. Bride’s,” said a garden lad to
Bride one bright Sunday morning in February
as she was returning from a walk along the
cliff in time for the eight-o’clock breakfast. Eustace
had met her strolling homewards and had joined her.
This had happened once or twice lately, and the strangeness
of the feeling of having a companion was beginning
to wear off.</p>

<p>“No service?” questioned the girl, pausing in her
walk. “Is Mr. Tremodart ill? I had not heard of it.”</p>

<p>The lad scratched his head as he replied in the slow
drawl of his native place—</p>

<p>“’Tisn’t ezactly that, my lady. Passon isn’t zick;
but he du have one of his hens a settin’ in the pulpit,
and zo he du not wish her distarbed.”</p>

<p>Eustace broke into a peal of laughter. It seemed a
delicious notion to him that the service of the parish
church was to be suspended because an erratic hen had
chosen to sit herself in the sacred building. It chimed
in with many notions he already held of the effeteness
and deadness of the Church. He glanced into his companion’s
face for an answering smile, but Bride was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>
looking straight before her with an expression in her
liquid dark eyes which he was quite unable to fathom.</p>

<p>“You can go to hear Mr. St. Aubyn at St. Erme,
George,” she said kindly to the lad, after a moment’s
pause, but he only scratched his head again, and said—</p>

<p>“Mappen I’ll go tu Dan’s and year Maister Tresithny.
They du zay as he’ll read a bit out o’ the book and tell
folks what it all means.”</p>

<p>“That will be better than getting into mischief,” said
the lady, with a grave though kindly look at the lad; and
then she passed onwards to the house, Eustace walking
beside her, smiling still.</p>

<p>“Are the services of the Church often suspended here
for such weighty reasons?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Not often,” answered Bride, still in the same gravely
quiet way; “but Mr. Tremodart is hardly alive to the
sacredness of his calling nor the sanctity of his office. He
is a kind man, but he does not win souls by his teaching.
The church is very badly attended: no doubt he thinks
one service more or less of small importance. The people,
I believe, like him all the better for giving them an
occasional holiday from attendance, even though they may
be very irregular in coming.”</p>

<p>“I should think that highly probable,” answered
Eustace, still examining Bride’s face with some curiosity,
as if anxious to gauge her thoughts on this subject
and to seek to find in them some accord with his own.
“My experiences of the services at St. Bride’s Church
are not very stirring. The smell of dry-rot suggests
the idea that it has been caught from the calibre of
the discourses heard there. Our friend Mr. Tremodart
may have many virtues, but he has not the gift
of eloquence.”</p>

<p>Bride made no response. In her eyes there was a look
akin to pain, as though she felt the truth of the stricture,
and yet it went against her to admit its truth.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>Eustace waited for a moment and then continued in the
same light way—</p>

<p>“And will the service of the parish church be suspended
for three Sundays?—for, if my boyish recollections serve
me, that is the time required by a hen for bringing off
her brood.”</p>

<p>“Oh, no,” answered Bride, with a quick earnestness and
energy, “that will certainly not be. Poor Mr. Tremodart,
he knows no better perhaps; but it is very, very sad.
I suppose it was only found out last night or this
morning. There was no sermon last Sunday, so I suppose
the eggs collecting in the pulpit were not noticed. Of
course they should have been taken away at once. But
Mr. Tremodart is very fond of his animals, and he does
not think of sacred things quite as—as—others do. Of
course it will be done before next Sunday. Oh, I am
sorry it has happened. I am sorry for the poor people.”</p>

<p>Eustace could not understand her mood. He saw only
the humorous side of the incident, but he would not
say so to her. He was very anxious to approach nearer
in thought and feeling to his beautiful cousin, who was as
yet almost as much of a stranger to him as she had been
upon the day of his arrival. Although he saw her daily,
sat at table with her, and sometimes spent an hour over
the piano with her in the evening (for both were good
musicians, as things went in those days), he still felt as
though she were a thing apart from him, wrapped in a
world of her own of which he knew nothing. The barrier
which divided them was at once impenetrable and invisible,
yet he had never succeeded in discovering wherein
its power lay, and what might be done to break it down
and bring them together.</p>

<p>“You will go to St. Erme’s Church to-day, I suppose?”
he said next, without trying to solve the problem suggested
by her speech. “I have never attended St. Erme for a
service, although I have met Mr. St. Aubyn. Will you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
let me be your escort there? I suppose your father will
hardly walk as far.”</p>

<p>“No, I think not. He seldom goes out when there is
no service at St. Bride. He does not care for Mr. St.
Aubyn’s preaching as I do: he prefers that of Mr.
Tremodart.”</p>

<p>Eustace secretly thought it must be a queer sort of
preaching that could be inferior to that of the parson
of St. Bride’s; but he made no remark, and merely
asked—</p>

<p>“Then you will let me be your escort?”</p>

<p>“Thank you,” answered Bride quietly; “if you wish to
go, I think you will be rewarded.”</p>

<p>Eustace felt that his reward would be in the pleasure
of the walk to and fro with his cousin; but he did not
say so, even though rather exaggerated and high-flown
compliments were then the fashion of the day more than
they have since become. Something in Bride’s aspect
and manner always withheld him from uttering words
of that kind, and his own honesty and common-sense
kept him at all times within bounds, so that he had never
acquired the foolish foppery that was fashionable amongst
the gilded youth of the aristocracy. In one thing at
least he and Bride were agreed—that life was given
for something more than mere idle amusement and
pleasure-seeking. And when they started off together
for their two miles’ walk across cliff and down for the
little church of St. Erme, Eustace began to ask questions
of her as to the condition of the people, their ignorance,
their poverty, their state of apathy and neglect, which all
at once aroused her interest and sympathy, and caused
her to open out towards him as she had never done
before.</p>

<p>Bride loved the people—that was the first fact he
gathered from the answers she made him. She loved
them—and he loved them too. He was conscious that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>
they loved them with a difference—that when they spoke
of raising them and making them better and happier,
she was thinking of one thing and he of another. He
was conscious of this, but he did not think she was;
and he was very careful to say no word to check the
impulse of confidence which had arisen between them.
Bride was grieved for the state of things about her:
she mourned over the degradation, the apathy, the almost
bestial indifference to higher things that reigned amongst
the humble folks about her home. She spoke with a
glimmer as of tears in her eyes of their absolute indifference
to all that was high and noble and true; of the deep
superstitions, which stultified their spiritual aspirations,
and the blind error and folly of those who, turning away
from God, sought wisdom and help from those calling
themselves witches—many of whom did possess, or appear
to possess, occult powers that it was impossible altogether
to explain away or disbelieve.</p>

<p>“Yes, Bride, it is very sad to hear of,” said Eustace
gravely, “and it all points to the same thing. We
must teach the people. We must raise them. We
must feed them with wholesome food, and then they
will turn away in disgust from these effete superstitions,
which are only the outcome of ignorance and degraded
minds.”</p>

<p>“I fear me there is something worse in them than
that, Eustace,” said Bride, looking out before her with
that luminous gaze he often noticed in her, which suggested
a mind moving in a sphere above that of the
common earth. “It is the work of something more than
blind ignorance. It is the work of the devil himself.
The powers many of these witches exert is something
beyond what any mere trickery can account for. There
is an agency beyond anything of that sort—it is the devil
who endows these miserable beings with powers above
those of their fellows. God have mercy on the souls of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
such! For in an evil hour, and for the hope of worldly
gain, they have placed their neck beneath an awful yoke,
and God alone knows whether for such there can be
pardon and restoration!”</p>

<p>Eustace listened in silent amazement. He knew that
gross superstition reigned amongst the degraded and
ignorant; but he had always believed that it was confined
to them, and that those who had enjoyed the advantages
of education were far above anything so credulous as a
belief in a personal devil working through the medium of
men. It was an age when materialism and rationalism
in one form or another stalked triumphantly over the
earth. Spirituality was at a low ebb; the Catholic revival
was in its infancy. The wave of earnestness and
spiritual light which had been awakened by Wesley had
dwindled and spent itself, leaving many traces behind of
piety and zeal, but without accomplishing that work of
awakening its founders had hoped to do. The Court set a
bad example; the people followed it more or less. It was
an age of laxity both in morals and in thought; but the
prevailing tone of ordinary men was one of condescending
scepticism—tolerating religion, but believing that a
new era was coming upon the world in which Christianity
should be superseded by “natural religion”—a
thing far purer and higher in the estimation of its
devotees.</p>

<p>That the world was evil, and in the greatest need of
reform, Eustace would be the last man to deny; but to
refer the gross superstitions of a benighted peasantry
to the direct agency of a personal devil savoured to
his mind of utter childishness, although possibly it was
not more logically untenable than a belief in a personal
Saviour, from whom proceeded all holy impulses, all
elevating and pardoning love, all earnest searchings after
the higher life. But if he was equally sceptical on both
of these points, he would fain have gauged the soul of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>
his companion, being keenly interested, not only in herself,
but in every aspect of thought as it presented itself
to minds of different calibre.</p>

<p>“You mean that you still believe in a certain devil-possession?”
he asked tentatively; and Bride turned upon
him one long inscrutable glance as she answered, after a
long pause—</p>

<p>“Has the world ever been without devil-possession of
one kind or another, varying infinitely in its forms, to
blind and deceive those who dwell on the earth? What
is sin at all but the work in men’s hearts of the devil
and his angels, ever prompting, deceiving, suggesting?
But where ignorance is grossest, and the light of God
shines least, there he finds the readiest victims to listen
to his seducing whispers.” She paused a moment, looked
first at Eustace, with the earnestness that always perplexed
and stimulated his curiosity, and then added,
in a much lower tone, “And are we not to look for
more and more indications of his powers, more manifestations
of them in forms of every kind, in the days
that are coming?”</p>

<p>“Why?” asked Eustace, in a tone as low as hers.</p>

<p>She clasped her hands lightly together as she made
reply—</p>

<p>“Ah! because the days of the end are approaching—because
the great day of Armageddon is coming upon
us, and the armies of heaven and hell are mustering in
battle-array for that awful final struggle which shall
mark the end of this dispensation, in which the Antichrist
shall be revealed—the man of sin, in whom the great
apostasy shall be consummated, and whom the Lord shall
finally destroy when He rides triumphant to do the final
will of God, with the armies of heaven following Him on
white horses. And will the devil be idle when he knows
that his time is but short? Will he fail to send the strong
delusion to blind men’s eyes, and make them ready to hail<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>
the Man of Sin when he shall arise? Men have thought
that they saw him in the great conqueror whose power
was broken but a few short years ago; but there is
another and a greater to arise than he, and the devil is
working now in the hearts of men to prepare them for
his coming.”</p>

<p>Eustace regarded her with keen interest and curiosity
as she spoke. Her face had kindled in a wonderful way.
In the liquid depths of her eyes there were strange lights
shining. That she saw before her as in a picture all that
she spoke of he could not doubt, nor yet that she hoped
herself to be numbered in the armies of the Lord of Hosts
when He went forth conquering and to conquer. He had
never before met mysticism carried to such a point, and it
stirred his pulses with quick thrills of wonderment and
curiosity.</p>

<p>“But, Bride, I would understand more of this,” he said
very gently, so as not to rouse her from her trance of
feeling. “How do you know that the days of the end are
approaching so near? Why should not the world be, as
many believe her to be, still in her infancy?”</p>

<p>“Because the voice of God has been awakened in the
Church,” answered Bride, in a low tense tone. “Because
God has at last answered the prayers of those who, ever
since those awful days of the uprising in France, have been
sending up supplications to His throne to send us light
and help from above. He has answered. He has shown
us through holy men, who have been, with fasting and
prayer, making study of the prophetic books of Scripture,
so long sealed to man, what all this stirring and uprising
of the nations portends; and He has told us that this is
the beginning of those judgments of God, which in the
last days He will pour out upon the earth, when the
apostasy of the world and of the Church shall be avenged,
and the Lord will purify the earth before He comes to
reign there. We know, because the voice of the Lord has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>
spoken it. But the world will not hear His voice. The
world will not listen; and the devil, for fear lest it should,
sends false voices—messages from the dead—teaches men
to inquire of spirits that peep and mutter, instead of inquiring
to the living God; and so we see an awakening of
the spirits of evil as well as of those of good; and so it will
go on, each party growing stronger and stronger; though
that of the evil one will have the seeming mastery, till the
final struggle shall be consummated, and the enemies of
God overthrown for ever.”</p>

<p>Eustace was saved the perplexity of trying to find an
answer by the sudden approach of Mr. St. Aubyn (whose
old-fashioned rectory house they were now passing) just
as he turned out of his gate in the direction of the church.
He greeted Bride and her companion cordially, made them
promise to come to his house at the conclusion of the
service and refresh themselves before their walk home,
and then had them ushered into the rectory pew, which
was always empty at this time of year, for his wife was a
great invalid, and could only get out of doors in the most
genial season of the year.</p>

<p>The little church of St. Erme was very antiquated, and
interesting to archæologists; but under Mr. St. Aubyn’s care
it had lost the air of neglect and desolation which was so
common in rural churches. The congregation was good for
the size of the place, and the service was reverently and
intelligently conducted. The sermon was very simple, in
accordance with the needs of the flock; but there was a
vein of spirituality and piety running through it that
struck Eustace as being unusual and original, and kept
alive his interest in the views of “pietists,” as he
classified them in his mind. He had been taught to
regard every form of belief or unbelief as a portion of a
classified system of speculation or philosophy; and he was
glad to think he might have an opportunity of some
conversation with Mr. St. Aubyn after the service, as he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>
had struck him on other occasions when they had met as
being a man of intellect and wide reading.</p>

<p>The Rector himself escorted the guests to his house, and
Bride went upstairs to see the invalid, who reminded her
a little of her own mother, and whose presence always
acted on her soothingly and gratefully.</p>

<p>She felt refreshed by the hour spent in that quiet room,
refreshed in body and mind. She had had food given her
to eat; and communion of thought with one who sympathised
with her, even where their opinions might not be
altogether in accord, was more to her in those days than
any bodily sustenance could be. Since her mother’s death
Bride had been shut up entirely within herself, and it is
not good for such an ardent soul as hers to be deprived of
the natural outlet of speech with her fellow-man.</p>

<p>When the girl went downstairs again, she found the
two men deep in talk, and sat quietly down in a shadowy
corner to wait till they had finished. Mr. St. Aubyn
observed her entrance, though Eustace, whose back was
towards her, did not. The two were keenly interested in
their discourse, and continued it with animation. Bride
soon began to pick up the drift of it, and listened with
wonder and amaze, a sense of indignation and sadness
inextricably mixed together falling upon her as she realised
what it all meant.</p>

<p>The two scholars were discussing the various phases of
German rationalism which had arisen close on the heels
of French and English deism; and from the tone taken
by Eustace it was abundantly evident that he was deeply
bitten by the philosophy of Wolff, by the destructive
rationalism of Semler and Bretschneider, and the subjective
philosophy of Kant and his followers, who evolve
all things in heaven and earth from their own consciousness
of them, on the principle that “cogito, ergo sum.”</p>

<p>He had been educated at Jena and Weimar, where this
school of philosophy had its headquarters; and he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>
deeply impregnated with the teaching of those who had
followed upon the first bold propounders of its doctrines.
The names of Descartes and Locke, Spinoza and Fichte, fell
glibly from his tongue, as he ran through in a masterly
way the methods of these great thinkers of the different
centuries, and strove to show how, one after another, each
in a different way had struggled to show a blinded world
that there could be no religion that did not appeal to the
reason; that the allegorical and the dogmatic methods
of interpreting Scripture had been tried in the balances
and found wanting, and that only the historic—the true
rational interpretation—could be found lasting with thinking
men.</p>

<p>It was with a smile, and with great courtesy and patience,
that Mr. St. Aubyn listened to the clear and terse
arguments of his intellectual guest; and then he asked
him what he thought of the Berlin school of thought,
which had trodden quickly upon the heels of the one he had
been ardently advocating—asked him what had been the
teaching of Schleiermacher and Neander and De Wette,
and whether they had been able (whilst giving all due
weight to the value of reason) to remain where the destructive
rationalist thinkers had left them. Already
they had begun to strive to reconstruct a living and
personal Christ out of the ruins of the historic method,
which would have robbed Him of all but a shadowy
existence as a misguided though well-meaning fanatic,
deceiving and deceived. How was it men could never
rest without some theory of a Divine personality, call it by
what name they would? Was it not the most rational
deduction to admit that the reason for this inherent longing
(which none of the world’s greatest thinkers had ever
attempted to deny) was that the subjective philosophy
never can content the heart of man; that man <i>must</i> have an
object of worship, an external standard, a living Head, and
not an abstraction, simply because there <i>is</i> a living God,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>
who created him in His own image; because he <i>has</i> been
redeemed by a living and incarnate Saviour, and because
the Spirit of the Eternal God the Father and the Son is
for ever working in his heart, and seeking to bring it back
to uniformity with the heart of Christ, overflowing with
love towards God and towards man?</p>

<p>That, in brief, was the argument on both sides, only
argued out at length with skill and knowledge and versatility
of thought by each combatant. Bride, in her dim
corner, sat and listened, and sometimes shivered in horror,
sometimes glowed with an ecstatic rapture, but always
listened with undivided attention, for these matters were
not to her the dry arguments of philosophers merely, but
indications of the spirit of perversity and blindness at work
in the world in the latter days—the spirit of the lawless one,
coming in every insidious form; first under the guise of
liberality of thought and intellect, then teaching men to
throw off from them all the fetters imposed by the precepts
of Christ, all the external authority of the Church;
paving the way for that other rising against kings and
rulers and external authority of any kind whatsoever
which she had been warned was one of the signs of the
latter days, when the voice of the people should prevail
once again, and they should give the power to him who
should come “in his own name.”</p>

<p>But the discussion ended at last as all such do, each man
thinking as he did before, though glad of the opportunity
of exchanging ideas with a scholar and person of intellectual
acumen.</p>

<p>“We can at least agree to differ,” said Mr. St. Aubyn,
as he shook hands warmly. “We can be friends, even
though we have our private thoughts about each other’s
folly. You are young yet. You have your tilt with the
world before you. It is natural to your age and temperament
to take nothing on trust, to examine all for
yourself. Perhaps in the days to come you may learn the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
lesson which other philosophers of your own school have
done—that there is no living on systems and philosophies—that
the hungry human heart of man must have more
to feed on than husks. Well, there is the Bread of Life
waiting for you when you are willing to receive it. I
think the day will come when you will take it at the
hands of the all-forgiving and all-loving Father.”</p>

<p>Eustace smiled, and pressed the hand he held. He was
no bigot, and he had a vein of poetical imagination within
him to which these words appealed. Besides, Bride was
standing by, and he would not willingly have pained her.
He did not know how much she had heard of the previous
discussion, nor how much she would have understood
if she had heard. He said his adieus cordially,
hoped he and Mr. St. Aubyn would often meet, and gave
his arm to his cousin to escort her home again.</p>

<p>He was sufficiently thoughtful himself that his silence
did not strike him till they had walked some way; but
when he did strive to speak on subjects which generally
commanded her interest, he found her absolutely unresponsive.</p>

<p>He looked at her, and saw that her face was cold
and tranquil in its statuesque beauty. The light which
so often beamed in her eyes was extinguished now. She
was very pale, and moved mechanically, and as though
with something of an effort. He asked her if she were
tired, but received a monosyllabic negative; and then he
made one more effort to interest her by a theme which
had never failed heretofore.</p>

<p>The ignorance of the peasantry was with her, as with
him, a source of pain and dissatisfaction. She and her
mother had been planning, before the death of the latter,
how some small beginning might be made to get the children
taught just such rudiments of knowledge as should
raise them above the level of the beasts they tended.
Hardly a single labourer or respectable working man in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>
country districts could either read or write. Sometimes
a substantial farmer could do no more than set his name
to a bill; and clever lads, who might have raised themselves
in the world, were kept down and hampered all
their lives by the inability to master the rudiments of
education. Bride’s grief was that none of the villagers
and fisher-folks could read the Bible—that it must
remain to them a sealed book, save when others expounded
it to them. Eustace’s objection to ignorance
was very differently grounded; but hitherto the subject
had been one of common interest, and when together
they had taken pleasure in discussing Bride’s favourite
plan of erecting a small school in memory of her mother,
where such men, women, and children as could find
time and had the desire to learn might be taught by a
qualified person, and gradually win for the place a higher
standard of life and faith than was to be found in the
surrounding villages.</p>

<p>But even this subject to-day did not rouse in the
girl any spark of her wonted interest. She looked at
him with steadfast sadness, as he spoke of what he
meant to try to do in this matter in other places (he
did not, from motives of delicacy, identify himself too
much with St. Bride in talking to his cousin), and said
very gently, but with a severity which was not altogether
without intention—</p>

<p>“I am not sure that the people will not be better as
they are, Eustace, than taught as you will be likely to
teach them.”</p>

<p>The young man flushed quickly. Philosopher though
he was, he was human, and this was a taunt he hardly
cared to let pass.</p>

<p>“Do you mean to say that you think I should do
them harm and not good by helping them out of their
mists of darkness?” he asked, with slight incisiveness
of manner.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>“Do you think you <i>would</i> be helping them out of
the mists of darkness?” asked the girl, suddenly turning
her eyes upon him, with a look he could not fathom.</p>

<p>“Certainly,” he answered quickly, and without hesitation.</p>

<p>Her face was turned away then. He only saw the pale
pure profile outlined against the sky.</p>

<p>“I am afraid not,” she answered, in a quiet serious way,
that indicated sadness if not depression; “there are worse
forms of darkness than intellectual darkness.”</p>

<p>“Do you think so?” he answered, in a tone that implied
absolute disagreement.</p>

<p>“I know it,” she answered, without the smallest hesitation.
“Intellectual darkness is sad, carried to the extent
we see it here. But spiritual darkness is a thousand
times sadder, and, oh! how much more difficult to enlighten!”</p>

<p>He said nothing. “Why try to argue with a fanatic?”
he thought, and they took their homeward way in silence.</p>

<p>Bride left him at the castle door and went quietly up
to her room. Eustace stood looking after her.</p>

<p>“You are very beautiful, my cousin,” he said to himself,
“and you fascinate me as no woman has fascinated
me yet; but you are a mystic and a fanatic both—and
both these are beings inexplicable to me—and yet I
shall try to find you out, and teach you that there are
nobler things a woman can be than you have dreamed
of as yet.”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b077.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b078.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VI<br />

<i>THE GOSPEL OF DISCONTENT</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b078s.jpg" alt="S" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">SAUL TRESITHNY was in a restless and disturbed
frame of mind just now. He did not
himself know what was creeping over him, but
he had been for some time now experiencing
a change of feeling,—a sense of weariness and disgust
with his daily toil, with the people about him, with the
world in general, that he had never felt before, and which
perplexed him not a little.</p>

<p>A few weeks earlier, when this state had first assailed
him, he believed it to be the outcome of his growing
affection for Genefer, the farmer’s daughter, and thought,
if he could but assure himself that his affection was
returned, he should be himself once more; but in this
conjecture he had not proved right. Genefer had admitted
her preference for him; they held stolen interviews
at all manner of times in and about the farm;
she took care that his material comforts were greater
than they had ever been before, and he could (if he chose)
look forward to settling in life at no very distant date
with a wife and home of his own. And yet he was not
happy—he was more restless and discontented than ever
in his life before.</p>

<p>Was it the monotony of farm labour that was the cause<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
of this? Of course Saul and those about him had long
known that he could do much better for himself if he
wished. His grandfather had always told him that there
was a home open to him in his comfortable cottage if he
ever chose to avail himself of it, and that a wife of his
would be warmly welcomed to make the home bright and
cheerful for them both. He knew that the Duke would
at any time give him employment in his stables, for Saul
had a knack with horses that was well known all through
the neighbourhood, and often caused him to be summoned
to look at some refractory animal, and assist in the task
of breaking him. Mr. St. Aubyn had more than once
offered him the post of “odd man” at the rectory,
where his one servant kept the flower garden and looked
after the one stout cob which the Rector rode on his
parish rounds, and had a comfortable little cottage at the
gates for his home. But for some unexplained reason
Saul had always declined these chances of bettering
himself, and remained obstinately at his ill-paid farm
work, greatly to the satisfaction of the farmer, who had
never had so good an all-round man before, and who
always treated Saul with consideration and affability,
recognising qualities in him that he would have been
loth to part with.</p>

<p>But perhaps no man of latent talent and energy is
really content long together in a life that gives no scope
for the exercise of his higher powers. Possibly it was
merely this sense of constraint and uselessness which
was at the bottom of Saul’s inexplicable and little understood
depression. However that maybe, he had certainly
taken to a mood of sullen brooding, which could hardly
be dignified by the name of thought. He avoided his
grandfather’s cottage on Sunday, preferring to work off
his oppression by taking long walks across the cliffs;
often finding himself in the little town of Pentreath
before he was ready for a halt; and it was in this place<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>
that he first began to know and hear something of the
questions of the day that were stirring in the great world
around his humble home.</p>

<p>Newspapers never found their way to St. Bride’s, save
to the castle; but Saul had formed the acquaintance of a
cobbler in Pentreath, who was an ardent politician in his
own way, and, with the natural and unexplained bias of
his class, was a red-hot Radical to boot, and loved nothing
so well as to inveigh with untrained and perfervid eloquence
against the evils of the day—the oppression and
misery of the poor, the tyranny and licentiousness, the
cruelty and selfishness, of the rich. He prognosticated a
day when there should be a general upheaval and turning
of the tables, when every man should have his “rights,”
and the tyrants of the earth should quake and tremble
before their outraged slaves, as had been the case in
France but a generation ago—the fearful story of which
was well known to him, and over which he gloated with
eager delight, even in its most ghastly details.</p>

<p>With this man we have no concern in these pages.
He was one of that class of demagogues and agitators
which was arising in England, and has flourished there
to a greater or less extent ever since. Hundreds and
thousands of these men were too obscure and too ignorant
ever to make a name in the world, but they acted on
the ignorant people about them as the leaven in the pan,
and did much to bring about the state of general discontent
and revolt which preceded the era of reform.</p>

<p>All through the month of January, when Saul would
not spend his Sundays at the farm, on account of the
visits of young Farmer Hewett, who was his especial
aversion, he walked over to Pentreath and passed several
hours with the cobbler, whose acquaintance he had made
some time previously. At first the man’s talk had small
interest for him, but he had a natural thirst for information;
and great enthusiasm is like to kindle sparks in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
minds of others, even when at first there seems small
sympathy between them. Almost in spite of himself,
Saul began to feel interested in the monologues and
diatribes of the bright-eyed little artisan, and whether
or no he agreed in his conclusions, he did come to have
some notion of the state of the country at this time,
the abuses which reigned there in many quarters, and
the general sense amongst the people that something
had got to be done to remedy this state of affairs—or
they would know the reason why!</p>

<p>Thus it came about that when Saul first came into
contact with Eustace Marchmont, he was not in that state
of blank ignorance which was the usual attribute of the
rustic of those parts, but had been instructed, although
in a one-sided and imperfect way, upon the grievances
of his class, and had, at least, been aroused to a sense
that the world was all wrong, whether or not he was to
have a hand in the setting of it to rights.</p>

<p>Eustace had seen Saul once or twice before he attempted
to speak with him. His fine presence always
attracted attention, and in his case the strong likeness
to Abner gave him another mark of interest for those
who knew the elder man. Eustace would have tried
to get speech with him before, being impressed by the
intelligence and character of the face, but had been
somewhat deterred from the fact that he heard Abner
had had the bringing up of the boy, and if so, he felt
he might not find there the sort of soil he wanted.
He liked a talk with the gardener at any time he
could get him to engage in conversation, but the two
never agreed in their conclusions. Both fully admitted
the evils of the day and the need for reformation, but
how that reformation was to be effected they never could
agree; and although they parted friends, and had a warm
esteem one for the other, Eustace secretly wished that
Tresithny either knew a little more or a little less, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
that his uncle did not possess a servant of such strong
and peculiar views, and with so much influence in the place.</p>

<p>If Saul should prove to be a disciple of his grandfather’s,
Eustace felt that it would be time wasted to
seek to win him to his own view of the situation; whilst,
on the other hand, if he could gain the young man as
a convert to the new gospel, such a recruit would be a
great power in his hand; for no one could look into Saul’s
dark handsome face, and note the development of brow
and head, without being certain that he possessed intelligence
beyond the wont of his fellows, and force of character,
which went farther in such a cause than keenness
of wits.</p>

<p>But though Eustace often tried to get speech with
the young man in a casual and incidental way, he never
succeeded in doing so. He went to the farm from time
to time and made himself pleasant to the farmer and
his family. He walked about the place, and chatted
as occasion served with the broad-faced, soft-spoken
labourers, who grinned at any small sally he might make,
and looked bland, though deferential, if he spoke of
matters beyond their ken, as he had a way of doing tentatively,
although with an object in view. He began to
be talked of as a man with something in his head that
was quite unfathomable. All agreed that he was an
affable young gentleman, and well-spoken and friendly;
but the rustics were shy of him nevertheless, and his
chief friends were made amongst the bold and lawless
fisher and smuggling folks down in the cluster of hovels
beneath the shelter of the cliff. They were more or less
at war with the law as it was—at least with the excise
laws, which were the only ones about which they knew
or cared a halfpenny; and it was easy to convince them
that there was something rotten in the present system
of administering the law generally, and that the people
must combine to insist on a reformation. But even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>
whilst winning grunts and snorts of approval from these
rough fellows, Eustace felt that his mind and theirs were
really poles asunder, and that the lawlessness they looked
upon as the embodiment of welfare and happiness was
an altogether different thing from that beautiful justice,
law, and order which he strove to believe was to come
into the world when his doctrines had leavened and
fermented and taken shape. Sometimes he was almost
disheartened with his want of success, wondering whether
this doctrine of discontent were a wise one to instil into
the minds of these wild, fierce fisher-folk. Some of the
conclusions they drew from his teaching startled him not
a little, as when one of them remarked that, since the
great folks were so tyrannical and wicked and selfish,
it would be no more that right and a just judgment to
lure them to their death by false lights some stormy
night, that their goods might fall a prey to the suffering
poor; and this savage suggestion was hailed with such
enthusiasm that Eustace was sternly horrified, and spoke
with terse eloquence against any such wickedness, only
to find, as other teachers and orators have found before
him, that though it was easy to convince men of the
truth of a doctrine towards which they were predisposed,
it was altogether another matter to hinder them from
deductions altogether false, and foreign to the matter in
hand, when these also were to their liking; and that
they were far less patient in listening to words that
opposed these deductions than they had been to those
which suggested them.</p>

<p>It was after some such experiences as these that
Eustace had left the fishermen and striven to win the
friendship of the rustics, but had been met by the placid
stolidity and uncomprehending ignorance which seemed
to form almost as absolute a barrier between them as
the lack of reason and speech in brute beasts. Indeed,
they and their sheep and oxen seemed to understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>
each other better than he and the labouring men upon
the land. It was discouraging and uphill work from first
to last; and the one man whom he really desired to gain,
and felt certain possessed the stamp of mind and the
intelligence he longed to meet, avoided him with a persistence
which led him to the conclusion at last that
Tresithny had warned his grandson to have no dealings
with the gentleman from the castle.</p>

<p>But accident led at last to a meeting, and from that
meeting dated the train of circumstances which led to
a strange but lasting friendship between the two men
whose walks in life lay so widely apart.</p>

<p>Eustace was out upon the downs riding a mettlesome
young horse from the Duke’s stable. He was a fearless
horseman, but not an experienced one. During the
years he had spent in travel and in Germany, horse exercise
had not come much in his way, save as a means
of locomotion, and then the animals ridden had not been
of a fiery kind. He had a firm seat and a steady hand,
but he was by no means familiar with the tricks of a
flighty young mare, when the spring of the year sets
the hot blood of all young things stirring joyously in
their veins, and incites them to all sorts of vagaries and
extravagant gambols. Eustace was possessed with the
master-mind that must always gain the upper hand of
any creature under his control; and perhaps he was a
thought too stern in his desire after discipline; for in lieu
of indulging the wild spirits of his steed with a healthy
gallop over the short elastic turf, which might soon have
reduced her to quietness and submission, he held her
with a strong firm hand, resolved that he and he alone
would decide the time when her limbs should be allowed
to stretch themselves as they longed to do;—with the effect
that the beautiful, high-spirited creature, fretted beyond
the limits of endurance, commenced to buck-jump with
such alarming persistence and velocity, that Eustace was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>
at last unseated, and measured his length ignominiously
upon the short turf, whilst his horse, tossing her dainty
head with a gesture of visible triumph, set off at a mad
gallop straight across the green down, which she hardly
seemed to touch with her feet.</p>

<p>Eustace was not hurt. He had kicked his feet free of
the stirrups before he slipped off, and the ground was
soft. The mare had avoided touching him with her feet
as she sped off, and, save for the humiliation of the fall,
and the fear lest the horse should be hurt, Eustace cared
little for the accident. He could no longer see the flying
steed. The ridge of swelling down hid her from him; but
he picked himself up and wondered what he should do
next, and whether the creature would find her way home or
should be pursued, for she had not headed for her stable,
but had gone tearing away over the green turf in a diagonal
direction. Brushing the traces of his accident from
his clothes, Eustace slowly mounted the low ridge, and
then to his relief saw a horseman cantering towards him
up the opposite side. A second glance told him that the
horseman was none other than Saul Tresithny, and that
he was mounted upon the runaway mare, whom he had
evidently captured before she had had time to do herself
a mischief.</p>

<p>Two minutes later Saul had come to a standstill beside
him, and was on his own feet in a twinkling.</p>

<p>“I hope you are not hurt, sir,” he said shortly.</p>

<p>“Not at all, thank you—only humiliated. I did not
mean to let her have her own way, but she took it in
spite of me. How did you manage to catch her? And
how come you to be so good a rider? You manage her
far better than I do.”</p>

<p>“I broke her in, you see, sir,” answered Saul, who was
stroking the glossy foam-flecked neck of the beautiful
creature, whilst she dropped her nose into his palm, and
was evincing every sign of satisfaction in the meeting.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
“His Grace bought her from Farmer Teazel. She was
bred on these downs, and I had the breaking of her.
She’ll make a capital hunter one of these days; but it’s
not every rider she’ll let mount her, nor yet keep mounted
when once they’ve been on her back. She’ll give you
some trouble, I expect, sir, the next time you try to ride
her. But Lady Bride can guide her with a silken thread.
She took to her ladyship from the first moment she
mounted her.”</p>

<p>“And she seems to take to you too. I think your name
is Tresithny, isn’t it? You are grandson to the gardener
at the castle?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” answered Saul, and said no more, holding
the stirrup for Eustace to mount, but without anything
the least servile or obsequious in his attitude. The young
man noted also in his speech the absence of the vernacular
peculiarities that characterised all the ordinary rustics of
the place. Saul’s voice was soft, and his speech had an
intonation that bespoke him a native of these parts, but
that was all. Just as it was with the grandfather, so it
was with the grandson: they could put off the dialect
when they chose, and use it when they chose. Abner
had early taught his young charge the same purity of
diction as he had acquired himself, and in speaking to
his superiors Saul adopted it naturally.</p>

<p>“I don’t think I’ll ride again just yet, thanks,” said
Eustace, with his frank and pleasant smile. “If you don’t
object, I’ll walk your way, Tresithny. I’ve often wanted
to talk with you, but I’ve never had the opportunity
before.”</p>

<p>Saul’s face was not responsive; but he was too well
trained to refuse to lead the horse for the gentleman
when asked, and after all it was not so very far back to
his work, where he must of necessity shake off this
undesirable companion.</p>

<p>“I want to speak to you, Tresithny, about the cause<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
which (in addition to the death of the Duchess) brought
me just now into these parts. You know of course that,
in the natural order of things, I shall one day be master
here. It is not a position I covet. I hold that there is
great injustice in making one man ruler and owner of
half a county perhaps, and of huge revenues, holding vast
powers in his hand whether he be capable or not of ruling
wisely and well—simply from an accident of birth, whilst
hundreds and thousands of his fellow-men are plunged in
untold misery, and vice that is the outcome of that undeserved
misery. I believe myself that the whole system of
the country is rotten and corrupt, and that the day has
come when a new and better era will dawn upon the
world. But meantime, in the present, I have to look
forward to succeeding his Grace, and I am naturally
very greatly interested in the people of this place, and
intensely anxious to see them elevated and ennobled.”</p>

<p>Saul suddenly looked at the young man as he had never
looked at him before, and said between his teeth—</p>

<p>“That’s a strange thing for <i>you</i> to say, sir.”</p>

<p>“Why strange?” asked Eustace, half guessing the
answer,</p>

<p>“Because, sir, if once the people begin to think for
themselves, to see for themselves, and to understand the
meaning of things around them, they soon won’t stand
what they see—won’t stand that one set of men in the
country should have everything, and roll in wealth and
wallow in luxury, whilst they can’t get bread to put in
their children’s mouths. They’ll think it’s time their turn
came—as they did in France, I’ve heard, not so very long
ago, and that’ll be a bad day for you and for all those
like you.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” answered Eustace, with emphasis, “such a bad
day for us, and (if <i>that</i> form of revolution were repeated)
such a bad day for England too—ay, and for you, Tresithny,
and your class—that we men who recognise and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>
deplore the injustice and tyranny of the present system
are resolved to try and prevent it by making the people’s
cause ours, and ridding them of their grievous wrongs
before they shall have been goaded to madness and rise
in ignorant savagery, and become butchers and not reformers.
The French Revolution turned France into a
veritable hell upon earth. What we are striving to
accomplish is to bring a day of peace and plenty, and
justice and happiness upon England, without the shedding
of one drop of blood, without any but gentle measures,
and the increase of confidence and goodwill between class
and class.”</p>

<p>“And do you think you are going to do it?” asked
Saul, with a grim look about his mouth, which Eustace
did not altogether understand.</p>

<p>“I think so—I trust so. Earnest and devoted men of
every class are banded together with that object. But,
Tresithny, we want the help of the people. We want the
help of such as you. What is the use of our striving to
give their rights to the people if they remain in stolid
apathy and do not ask for them? We must awaken and
arouse them; we must teach them discontent with their
present state of misery and ignorance, and then open the
way for them to escape from it. Do you understand at
all what I mean? We must awaken and arouse them.
They are—in this part of the world, at least—like men
sleeping an unnatural drugged sleep. The poison of
ignorance and apathy is like opium in its effects upon
their spirits. We must awaken and arouse them before
there is hope for cure. Tresithny, we want men of
intelligence like you to help in this work. You know
their ways and their thoughts. You can appeal to their
slumbering senses far better than we can do. We want
to interest those who live with them and amongst them,
and whose language they understand as they cannot
understand ours. There is a great work to be accomplished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
by such as you, Tresithny, if you will but join the good
cause.”</p>

<p>Saul was roused by a style of talk for which much of
his recent brooding had prepared the way, and made a
reply which showed Eustace that here at least there was
no impassable barrier of ignorance or apathy to be overcome.
In ten minutes’ time the men were in earnest talk,
Eustace giving his companion a masterly summary of the
state of parties and the feeling of the day (vastly different
from anything he had heard before, and before which
his mental horizon seemed to widen momentarily), and
he joining in with question and retort so apt and pointed,
that Eustace was more and more delighted with his
recruit, and felt that to gain such a man as Saul Tresithny
to his side would be half the battle in St. Bride’s.</p>

<p>But even here he could not achieve quite the success he
coveted. He could implant the gospel of discontent easily
enough—the soil was just of the kind in which the plant
would take ready root; but with that other side of the
doctrine—that endeavour to make men distinguish between
the abuses, and the men who had hitherto appeared to
profit by them—ay, there was the rub!</p>

<p>“You speak, sir, sometimes of doing all this without
making the people hate their tyrants and their oppressors;
but that isn’t human nature. If they’ve a battle
to fight against those that hold the power now, and if
they are stirred up to fight it, they will hate them with
a deadly hatred; and even when the victory is ours, as
you say it will and must be one day, the hatred will go
on and on. It’s in our blood, and it’ll be there till the
world’s end. We may forget it whilst we’re sleeping;
but once you and the like of you wake us up, it won’t
sleep again in a hurry; no, and it shall not either!” And
the young man raised his arm and shook his fist in the
air with a wild gesture, as though hurling defiance at the
whole world.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>“Ah! Tresithny, that is a natural feeling at the outset;
and although we regret it, we cannot wonder at it, nor try
to put it down with too strong a hand. But it is not the
right feeling—and the right one will prevail at last, as
I fully hope and trust. When we are boys at school
and under restraint, against which we kick and fret,
we look upon our masters as natural enemies; yet as we
grow to manhood and meet them again, they become
valued friends, and we laugh together over former animosities.
And so it will be when the great work of reform is
carried out in the generous spirit that we strive to instil;
and you amongst others will be the first to hold out the
hand of fellowship to all men, when wrongs have been
righted, and society has come forth purified and ennobled
by the struggle.”</p>

<p>“Never!” cried Saul, with a look of such concentrated
hatred that Eustace was startled. “You may talk till
you are black in the face, sir, but you’ll never talk out
the hatred that is inborn between class and class. I know
what that is. I am a man of the people, and for the
rights of the people I am ready to live and to die. But
I <span class="allsmcap">HATE THE RACE OF TYRANTS AND OPPRESSORS</span>. I hate,
and shall always hate and loathe them. Do not talk to
me of goodwill and friendship. I will have none of it.
I would set up a gallows over yonder, if I had my way,
and hang every noble of the land upon it—as the French
set up their guillotine, and set the heads of the king and
queen and nobles of the land rolling from it!”</p>

<p>This was not by any means the spirit Eustace had
desired to kindle in his disciple; but, after all, might not
such sentiments be but the natural ebullition of enthusiasm
in one who was young, untrained, and ardent? Certainly
it was preferable in his eyes to apathy, and he was not
disposed to strain the relations newly set up between them
by opposing such sanguinary statements.</p>

<p>“The wrongs of humanity do indeed set up a strong<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>
sense of righteous indignation,” he said quietly; “but,
believe me, the fierce and sanguinary revolutions of history
have not had half the lasting effects of the bloodless
ones accomplished by nations within themselves, by the
accord of all classes concerned. That is what we are now
bent upon striving to accomplish. We want your help,
Tresithny, but not all the bloodthirsty eagerness you are
disposed to give us. You must temper your zeal with
discretion. Have you any personal cause to hate the
so-called upper classes as you do?”</p>

<p>The young man’s face was so dark and stern that
Eustace almost repented of his question.</p>

<p>“Have I?—have I? Have I not, indeed! The upper
classes! Ay, indeed, they are well called! Oh, can I but
help to hurl them down to the dust, my life will not
have been lived for nothing!”</p>

<p>Eustace looked earnestly at him.</p>

<p>“Can you not tell me what you mean, Tresithny?
Believe me, I would be your friend, if you would permit it.
I have seen no one since I came here in whom I take so
warm an interest.”</p>

<p>There was this about Eustace that always made him
popular wherever he went, and that was his perfect sincerity.
When he spoke words like these, it was obvious
that he meant them, and those whom he addressed felt
this by instinct. Saul did so, and the fierce darkness
died out of his face. He turned and looked into Eustace’s
eyes, and Eustace returned the glance steadily, holding
out his hand as he did so.</p>

<p>“I mean what I say, Tresithny,” he said, with a smile.
“If you will have me for a friend, I will be worthy of
your confidence.”</p>

<p>And then Saul, by a sudden impulse, put his hand into
that of the Duke of Penarvon’s heir, and the compact was
sealed.</p>

<p>“I will tell you my story, or rather my mother’s story,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
he said, after a few moments of silence, “and then perhaps
you will understand what I have said. It is common
enough—too common, perhaps, to interest you; but to
me it can never become common. My grandfather was
gardener to the Duke. He had a loving wife, and one
daughter, whom they both loved as the apple of their eye.
When she was old enough to do something for herself, she
was taken into the castle and rose to be second maid to
her Grace, who was always very kind to her attendants,
and took pains that the girl should be taught many things
that would be of value to her as she grew up in life.
There was plenty of fine company at the castle then: it
was before Lady Bride was born, and her Grace’s health
gave way. Of course I cannot tell what went on; but a
day came when my mother disappeared from St. Bride,
and none knew where she had gone. It killed her mother,
for there was no manner of doubt but that she had been
persuaded to go with or after one of the fine gentlemen
who had been visiting there.”</p>

<p>“Or one of their servants,” suggested Eustace, very
quietly.</p>

<p>For a moment Saul paused, as though such an idea had
never entered his head before, as indeed it never had
done. He had heard very little of his young mother’s
mournful tale, but he had always believed that she left
her parents for the protection of one of the Duke’s fine
popinjay friends.</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” he answered sullenly, “but they all
said it was a certain gentleman. She broke her father’s
heart, and killed her mother, and came back at the end
of a year to die herself. She could never tell her story—or
would not—whether or not she had been betrayed.
That we shall never know; but she left me behind her to
my grandfather’s care, and I have grown up knowing all.
I never would enter the castle as servant. I never would,
and I never will. I will carry my enmity to your class,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>
sir, to my life’s end, and I will fight against it with
might and main, and with all the powers that I have. I
have taken your hand in friendship, because I see you
mean well by us, and because I cannot help it; but I will
never do so a second time. I will not make a second
friend of one above me in rank. I will keep the right to
fight against them and to hate—<i>hate</i>—<span class="allsmcap">HATE</span> them—and
not all your honeyed pleadings can change that. Now I
have told you all, and you can choose whether you will
have me or not; for it will be war to the death when I
fight, and you may as well know it first as last!”</p>

<p>Eustace smiled at the vehemence of his disciple as he
said quietly—</p>

<p>“We will have you, Saul, hatred and all. You are too
useful a tool to be spared because your edge is over sharp.”</p>

<p>And thus the compact was sealed between them.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b093.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b094.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VII<br />

<i>THE KINDLED SPARK</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b094i.jpg" alt="I" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">“I DON’T approve of it,” said the Duke, bringing
his hand down upon the table with an emphasis
that made all the glasses on it ring. “You
may talk as you will, Eustace; you may mix
argument with sophistry as much as you like, but you’ll
never make black white by all the rhetoric of the world.
I don’t like it. I don’t like the whole movement, and I
don’t believe that good will ever come of it; but leaving
alone that point, on which we shall never agree, I hold
that your methods are vile and hateful. You are setting
class against class; you are rousing ill-will and stirring
up hatred and enmity; you are teaching men to be discontented
with their position in life——”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir, I know I am, because they <i>ought</i> to be
discontented with degradation, ignorance, and hopeless
misery. There is no reason why it should continue and
increase as it does. We want them to be disgusted and
discontented with it. Would there ever have been any
civilisation and culture in the world had men always
been contented to remain exactly in the position in which
they were born?”</p>

<p>“Don’t talk your stump-orator nonsense to me,” said
the old Duke sternly. “Confusion of terms does all very
well to blind and deceive an ignorant mob; but keep it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span>
for them, and don’t try to advance your flimsy arguments
by using it to men who can think and reason. The
gradual growth of science and art and learning—the
building on and on from an original foundation as the
mental horizon extends—is generically different from the
aimless discontent and selfish desire to rob and plunder,
which is the outcome of the vaunted discontent you wish
to inspire in the breasts of the people; and you know it as
well as I do. You may keep <i>that</i> sort of talk for those
who cannot see through it, and answer the fool according
to his folly. But when you have men to deal with, and
not ignorant children, you must think of sounder arguments
if you desire to be listened to patiently.”</p>

<p>Eustace flushed rather hotly at the taunt, which was
hardly deserved in his case, although he was aware that
his cause—like too many others—was promoted by means
of arguments which could be torn to shreds by any shrewd
thinker. But for all that, he had a profound belief in the
gospel of discontent as the most powerful factor in the
world’s history, and he used it with a genuine belief in it,
not with the desire to promote confusion in the minds of
his hearers. But he did not reply to his kinsman’s sharp
retort, and after a brief pause the Duke recommenced his
former diatribe.</p>

<p>“I have been patient with you, Eustace. I recognise
fully your position here, and that you have a certain latitude
with regard to the people which would be accorded to
no one else; but——”</p>

<p>“Indeed, uncle, I hope you do not think I have presumed
upon that,” cried Eustace, with almost boyish
eagerness, and a sidelong look at Bride, who was leaning
back in her chair, a silent but watchful spectator of the
little drama, and a keenly interested listener to the
frequent arguments and dialogues which passed after
dinner between her father and her cousin. It had become
a regular custom with them to discuss the questions of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span>
day during the hour they passed at the exit of the
servants and the advent of dessert. Neither of them were
drinkers of wine, but both were accomplished talkers; and
Bride, though seldom speaking, had come to take a keen
interest in these discussions, which were adding to her
store of facts, and admitting her to regions of debate
which had hitherto been sealed to her. She was not
ignorant of the events passing in the world. She had
read the newspapers to her mother too regularly for that;
but naturally she had not seen those organs of the press
which advocated the new and more liberal ideas coming
then into vogue; and many of her cousin’s harrowing
pictures of the fearful miseries of certain classes of the
community haunted her with terrible persistency, and
awakened within her an impotent longing to be able to
do something to rescue them from such degradation and
misery.</p>

<p>Her father, too, listened to Eustace with a moderation
and patience which surprised her not a little, since up till
the present time the very name of Radical filled him with
disgust, and provoked him to an outbreak of scornful
anger. If Eustace did not openly proclaim himself one
of this party, he was advocating every principle of reform
with all the ardour of one; and yet, until the present
moment, the Duke had heard him expound his views, and
had answered his arguments with considerable patience,
and often with a certain amount of sympathy. To-day,
however, the atmosphere was more stormy. Something
had occurred to raise the displeasure of the old man, and
soon it became apparent what the grievance was.</p>

<p>“I do not accuse you of presuming upon that,” he said,
still speaking sternly—“not intentionally, at any rate;
but you do wrong in being led blindfold by your youthful
and headstrong passions, and by teaching others to follow
in your wake, without your substratum of sense and
moderation. That young Tresithny has been openly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>
teaching the people in St. Erme’s and St. Bride’s to set
law and order at defiance, and if necessary to avenge
their so-called ‘wrongs’ at the sword’s point. He is
collecting a regular following in the place, and there will
be mischief here before long if things go on at this rate.
On inquiry I found, of course, that he has been seen
frequently in conversation with you, Eustace. Of course
the inference is plain. You are teaching him your views,
and trying to make a demagogue and stump-orator of
him, with apparently only too much success. And he is
just the type of man to be most dangerous if he is once
aroused, as you may find to your cost one of these days,
Eustace.”</p>

<p>“Most dangerous—or most useful—which is it?”
questioned Eustace thoughtfully; yet, remembering some
of the words and looks that had escaped Saul during
their conversations, he could hardly have answered that
question himself.</p>

<p>“From whom have you heard this?” he asked. Eustace
had himself been absent from the castle for a few days,
spending his time in the neighbourhood, but not returning
to his kinsman’s house to sleep. He had returned this
day only, to find the Duke’s mood somewhat changed,
and he began now to suspect the cause of this.</p>

<p>“Mr. Tremodart is my informant,” answered the Duke
briefly. “He will give you any information on the subject
that you desire. I shall say no more. The subject is
very distasteful and painful to me. I am well aware that
I am growing old, and that the world is changing around
me. I know perfectly that no power of mine will suffice
to stem the current, and I shall therefore refrain from
futile efforts. But none the less does it pain me that one
bearing my name, and coming after me when I am gone,
should be one of the foremost to stir up strife and set
class against class, as you are doing, Eustace. And let me
add just one more word of warning. It is an easy thing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span>
to set a stone rolling down a hill-side; but no man can
foresee where it will stop when once in motion, and no
human power can stop it when once the impetus is upon
it. It will go hurtling down, carrying death and destruction
with it; and those who have set it in motion can
simply stand helplessly by, looking with dismay at the
ruin they have provoked. Beware how you set in motion
the forces of anarchy, Eustace, for Heaven alone knows
what the end will be when that is done!” and the old
man rose from his seat and walked from the room with a
quiet and sorrowful dignity of aspect which struck and
touched both his hearers. It was so unusual for him to
break through the trifling ceremonial rules of life, that the
very fact of his leaving the table before his daughter had
risen showed that he must be greatly disturbed in mind.
Bride looked after him with wistful eyes, and then suddenly
turned upon Eustace with an imploring air, which was
harder still to resist.</p>

<p>“You will not go on grieving him, Eustace!” she
pleaded; “you will give it up?”</p>

<p>“Give what up, Bride?” he asked quietly.</p>

<p>“The actions which grieve him, which stir up strife in
our peaceful community, which rouse hatred and foment
discontent. Ah! Eustace, if you would only give yourself
to a nobler task, how much you might do for the cause
of right!—whilst now you are, in the hope of doing good,
fomenting the worst passions of the human heart, and
leading men to break not only the laws of man, but those
of God.”</p>

<p>Perhaps never before had Eustace been so strongly
tempted as at that moment to abandon the cause to which
he was pledged. Through all the weeks he had spent
beneath the roof of Castle Penarvon, he had been conscious
of two strong influences working upon him—one the desire
to enkindle in the minds of the ignorant rustics the spark
of discontent and revolt against needless wrongs, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>
should result in reformed legislation, and the raising of
the whole country; the other, the keen desire to win for
his wife the beautiful and unapproachable girl he called
cousin, and who every day exercised over him a stronger
and stronger power. With him it had been a case of love
almost at first sight. Eustace was one of those men who
are always striving to attain and obtain the best and
highest good which the world has to offer, not as a matter
of preference only, but as a matter of principle. Hitherto
he had never seen a woman who stirred his heart, for he
had never seen one who in any way corresponded to
the lofty ideals of womanhood which he had kept pure
within him from boyhood. His whole mind and soul had
been given to study, to learning, and to the attainment
of those objects upon which, as his mind matured, his
whole being became set. Woman as an individual had
neither part nor lot in his life until he met his cousin
Bride, and knew before he had been many days at
Penarvon that in her he had found his ideal. That she
was a mystic, that she held extraordinary and altogether
impracticable views of life, and lived in a world of her own
which could never be his, he was perfectly aware; but
then he was also aware that the ideal woman of his dreams
must likewise live a life apart, wrapped in her own pure
imaginings and Divine ideals, until the power of love
should awake within her another and a deeper life, and
bring her to a knowledge of joys hitherto unknown. A
sceptic himself, he was in nowise daunted to find that
the woman of his choice was as devout, and almost as full
of mystic fervour, as a mediæval nun. Somehow it all
pieced in with his preconceived ideas of perfect womanhood,
and he said within himself that this single-minded
devotion and power to lead the higher life, when directed
into other channels by the kindling touch of a
great love, was exactly the force and power most needed
for the work which must be that of his own life and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>
of hers who became bone of his bone and flesh of his
flesh.</p>

<p>The cause was first with him, the woman second, when
Bride was not present; but when confronted by her soft
deep eyes, when beneath the spell of her thrilling voice and
the magnetic attraction which, with absolute unconsciousness,
she exercised upon him, he was often conscious that
the cause was relegated to the second place, and that the
desire to win this woman for his wife took the foremost
position there. It was so just at this moment. The words
spoken by the Duke had struck somewhat coldly upon him.
They were the echo of a thought which sometimes obtruded
itself unsuggested when he was in conversation with those
very men of whom he hoped most in the forwarding of the
cause—the thought that after all he and such as he were
playing with edged tools, and were rather in the position
of boys experimenting with explosives of unknown force.
They might safely reckon that what they desired might be
accomplished by their means, but were they equally certain
that, whereas they only meant to break down and overthrow
certain obstructions which were standing in the way
of progress and a better order, the forces they had set in
motion might not sweep over all appointed bounds and
land them in a state of confusion and anarchy they never
contemplated for a moment at the outset? This was, he
knew, the cry of all supporters of the old order, the time-honoured
cry against any sort of progress or reform. But
might there not be perhaps some sound substratum of
truth at the bottom?—and were he and his comrades wise
to listen always with a smile of pity, and even of contempt,
when that plea was brought forward?</p>

<p>Just for a moment, under Bride’s pleading glances,
under the impression produced by the Duke’s warning,
Eustace was tempted to fling to the winds everything
save his overmastering desire to call Bride his own, to win
her love even at the sacrifice of his own career; but before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>
the burning thoughts had been translated into words
or had passed his lips, other and cooler considerations
pushed themselves to the front, and he checked himself
before attempting a reply. After that his words were
chosen with care, and fell quietly and resolutely from his
lips.</p>

<p>“I would do much, very much, for you and for your
father, Bride; but I cannot, even for you, be untrue to
myself, and to the cause of suffering humanity. The
woes of our brethren are crying aloud for redress.
Christianity and humanity are alike disgraced by the
scenes which are daily enacted in this Christian land.
Believe me, Bride, you and I are nearer in heart than
you are able yet to see. You have lived your life in
this peaceful spot, and know little or nothing of the
fearful abuses which stalk rampant through the land.
Did you know what I know, had you seen what I
have seen, you would know that I am embarked upon a
righteous cause, and that the power you call God—which
is in very truth the spirit of justice, mercy, and true and
lasting peace—is with us. I do not deny that, in stirring
up men’s hearts, even in a righteous cause, evil and
selfish passions are too often inevitably stirred also.
Human nature finds it all but impossible to hate the
abuse without hating those who in their eyes at least
are the living embodiment of that abuse. We have a
twofold mission to execute—to rouse in men a hatred
of evil and oppression, whilst at the same time striving to
inculcate patience towards those who appear to them
to be the incarnation of that evil. The one task is of
course easier at the outset than the other; but we do not
despair of accomplishing both. No reformation of abuses
was ever yet made without the stirring up of evil passions—without
many and great dangers and mistakes;
yet the world has been better, and purer, and wiser for
these same reforms, and so it will be again. Ah! Bride,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>
my beautiful cousin, we want noble-hearted women to
aid us in the task. If we men can rouse the slumbering
to claim the rights of humanity for themselves, you
women can pour oil on troubled waters, and instil gentle
and tender feelings into rude hearts that we find it hard
to subdue. If you would walk hand in hand with me
in this thing, Bride, how much might not be accomplished
for Penarvon and those poor benighted people
in whom your own interest is so keen! Bride, will you
not let it be so? Will you not help me? Will you not
help a cause which is pledged to raise the people of this
land from misery and degradation, and teach them that
even for them there is a higher and a better life, if they
will but strive and attain to it?”</p>

<p>The girl’s eyes were fixed upon his face in one of her
inscrutable gazes, in which she seemed to be looking
him through and through, and reading his very soul,
whilst hers was to him as a sealed book.</p>

<p>“Ah! Eustace,” she said very softly, “would that you
<i>were</i> striving to teach to them the true meaning of the
higher life. Then, indeed, would I most gladly, most
willingly, follow where you lead; but, alas, alas! I fear
me it is not so. Oh, my cousin, can you truly tell me that
you yourself are striving after the higher life—the highest
life—the life of the Kingdom—so that you can teach it
to another?”</p>

<p>He did not answer—for, indeed, he did not fully understand
her; he only knew that in speaking of the
higher life he and she meant something altogether different,
although he still trusted that the difference was
but superficial, and that deeper down lay an accord which
would some day become patent to both. Meantime, with
her eyes upon him, he knew not what to say; and Bride,
with a look of sorrow and gentle compassion that went
to his heart, rose and glided away, leaving him alone in
the great dining-hall, with the flicker of many wax<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>
candles mingling with the fading light of the March
evening.</p>

<p>It was half-past six, and the light without, although
fast dying, was not yet gone. Eustace felt it impossible
after what had passed to join either the Duke in his
study or Bride in the drawing-room; and taking his hat
and putting on a thin overcoat, he sallied out from the
castle, and after descending the road by the wide zigzag
drive, he paused a moment at the lodge gate, and then
turned off in the direction of the parsonage, where Mr.
Tremodart lived alone in the solitude of childless widowhood.</p>

<p>Eustace had been to that house before. He knew its
disorderly and comfortless aspect, the long low rooms
littered about with pipes and books and papers, fishing-tackle
and riding-whips. He knew well the aspect of
the tall gaunt parson, seated at some table with a pipe
between his lips, and his long fingers busy over the
manufacture of artificial flies. For Mr. Tremodart was
a mighty fisherman, and there was excellent trout-fishing
in the many streams that watered the plains above, and
pike-fishing in the land-locked lakes high up in the
moors. The season dear to the heart of anglers was
coming on apace, and Eustace found the master of the
ramshackle abode deep in the mysteries of his craft.</p>

<p>Eustace had not pulled the cracked and broken bell.
He knew that the deaf old crone who lived at the parsonage,
and did as much or as little of the needful work
there as her goodwill or rheumatism permitted, deeply
resented a needless journey to the door, which always
stood wide open from morning to night, save in the very
bitterest weather. He walked straight in, and after
glancing in at one or two open doors, was at length
guided by a small stream of light beneath the one
farthest down the passage, to that place where the parson
was found at work. Mr. Tremodart had long since ceased<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>
to have a regular room in which either to sit or to eat. He
would use one of the many apartments upon the ground-floor
of his rambling parsonage for both purposes, until
it grew too terribly dirty and untidy to be borne, and
then he would move into another, gradually making the
whole round. At the end of some three or four months
he would turn in a couple of stout young women, with
pails and brooms and dusters, and have the whole house
swept and garnished, whilst he spent the day on the
moors with rod and gun; and then the rotatory fashion
of living would begin over again, the old woman confining
her labours to her kitchen, preparing the needful
meals in such fashion as she chose, and making her
master’s bed and setting his sleeping chamber to rights
in the morning. Mr. Tremodart appeared quite content
with his <i>ménage</i> as it existed; and if he were satisfied,
there was no need for any one to waste pity on him.</p>

<p>He welcomed Eustace with a smile, his plain broad
face lighting up genially, in a fashion that redeemed it
from ugliness, despite the blunt features and tanned
skin. He did not rise, or even hold out his hand, having
both well occupied in some delicate operation of tying;
but he indicated with a nod a chair for his guest, and
asked if he would smoke.</p>

<p>Eustace had acquired in Germany a habit which was
still in his own country designated as “filthy” by a
large section of the upper classes; and though he never
smoked at the castle, was not averse to indulging himself
in the recesses of the parsonage. He took a pipe
from his pocket and filled it leisurely, coming out at last
with the matter next his heart.</p>

<p>“What is this I hear about young Tresithny? He
seems to have been setting the place by the ears in my
absence.”</p>

<p>The parson gave him one keen quick glance out of his
deep-set eyes, and remarked in the soft drawling tone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>
that had a strong touch of the prevailing vernacular
about it—</p>

<p>“I think yu should know more about it than I du, sir.
I take it he is your disciple. It is yu who are going
about teaching our country-folk that they are being
ground down and oppressed, is it not? Well, may be
it will please yu tu know that young Tresithny is following
in your steps and making all St. Bride writhe
under a sense of a deep and terrible oppression she never
found out for herself before.”</p>

<p>Eustace flushed very slightly. He was keen to note
a touch of irony when directed against the cause he had
at heart. He looked to meet it in many quarters, but he
had hardly expected to find it here, nor was he absolutely
certain of the drift of Mr. Tremodart’s remark.</p>

<p>“What has he been doing?” he asked briefly.</p>

<p>“Why, I think yu would call it turning stump-orator,”
was the reply, as Mr. Tremodart bent over his work again.
“He hasn’t any time by the week to help enlighten the
ignorance of his fellow-men, but he was good enough to
invite them to a preaching or a speaking on the shore
on Sunday morning in church hours, so we had an empty
church save for the Duke and Lady Bride, and some of
the castle servants.” The parson raised his head and gently
scratched his nose with his forefinger as he concluded
reflectively, “If yu come tu think of it, ’tis a curious
thing how much more attractive it is to mankind to
know how they may rob their neighbours than how they
may save their souls.”</p>

<p>Eustace could not for the life of him refrain from the
retort which sprang to his lips—</p>

<p>“And you hold that they do learn that important
lesson by coming to the weekly service at St. Bride’s
church?”</p>

<p>Mr. Tremodart continued gently to rub his nose with
his forefinger. His rugged face expressed no annoyance,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span>
rather some compunction and humility, and yet he
answered with the quiet composure which in most cases
appeared natural to him.</p>

<p>“I know what yu are thinking, young man. I can
tell yu that without either feeling or meaning offence.
Yu are thinking that my poor discourses in yon pulpit
are but sorry food for the souls of men—and I am with
yu there. Yu are thinking that if I shut up the church
on a Sunday from time to time on some paltry excuse, I
cannot greatly value its services for the poor. Yu could
say some very harsh things of me, and I in shame and
sorrow would be forced to say ‘Amen’ to them. I am a
sorry minister, and I know it; but for all that, I would
have yu distinguish between the unworthy servant and
the Master he serves. My incapacity, idleness, and mistakes
must not be set down to Him. A most unworthy
and disobedient servant may yet serve in some sort the
best of masters.”</p>

<p>“Forgive me,” said Eustace frankly; “I should not
have spoken as I did; although I confess I was thinking
of the service suspended on account of the sitting hen.”</p>

<p>“Yes, I made an error there,” answered Mr. Tremodart,
pushing his hands through his hair; “but she was the
best hen in my yard. I had set my heart on having a
brood of her chickens to bring up, and she was so wild
and shy that I feared we’d never find her, and that the
foxes would get at the eggs of the chicks before ever
we could make sure of them. I had a bad cold too, and
was in bed when the old sexton came hurrying in to tell
me of the find. I knew once we rudely and hastily disturbed
her she would never sit again, and I had no other
broody hen to take her place; so I just said we’d have no
service that day, thinking David would go and say it was
my cold that kept me to home. But instead, he told the
story of the hen, and shamed me before my flock. And
yet I cannot complain—it was my own sinfulness. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>
mark my word, my young friend: however sinful the
minister may be, the church is the house of God, and
a blessing rests on those who come thither to worship
Him, talk as you hot-headed young reformers may of
your newer and more rational religions which are to take
the place of that ordained by God.”</p>

<p>With Mr. St. Aubyn Eustace would have argued, but
this man had not the learning to enable him to support
his beliefs, and Eustace declined controversy by saying,
with a smile—</p>

<p>“I am, at least, quite ready to admit that if we have
souls in your sense of the word, they may easily be saved
through regular attendance at St. Bride’s or any other
church.”</p>

<p>The Cornishman threw back his head with a gesture
that was at once emphatic and picturesque.</p>

<p>“Young man, do not mock,” he said in his deep-toned,
resonant voice. “The soul of man is a mystery which
your philosophy will never fathom; and mark me again—when
I speak of saving souls and attendance at church
in one breath, I mean something far different than what
yu imply in your light phrase. What I should say is this—let
the preacher be never so ignorant and unworthy,
in our churches we have forms of prayer which embrace
the whole circle of Christian doctrine. On our knees we
confess our sins to God; on our knees we hold up before
Him the one Atonement of the Cross as our only hope of
salvation, and pray for the guidance of the Holy Spirit
to rule and direct our hearts. We read the word of God
in our midst. We offer psalms, and hymns, and spiritual
songs. And I say again that Christ has taught us that
penitent confession, coupled with faith in Him, is sufficient
for salvation—that every erring sinner coming to
Him is never cast out, and that He has given His Spirit
to be our guide and comforter through life. Wherefore
I say and maintain that all those who truly follow the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>
services offered in our churches week by week may find
in them salvation, whether he who offers them be as weak
and unworthy as the man before you now.”</p>

<p>Eustace rose and held out his hand.</p>

<p>“Believe me, sir, I had no such stricture in my mind
when I spoke. I respect solid conviction and true faith
wherever I meet it, even when I hold that the faith is
misplaced, and that the day is coming when a sounder
and truer form of worship will be seen in this earth. At
least we are in accord in wishing the best for the people
we both love; only at present we disagree as to what is
the best. In days to come I trust and believe that we
shall be in accord even here. Meantime I will see this
hot-headed young Tresithny, and warn him not to hold
his addresses at times when men should be in church.
The young and ardent have more zeal than discretion,
but if I can help it you shall not be annoyed again.”</p>

<p>“Nay, I am not annoyed,” said the parson, with a broad
smile; “his Grace was more annoyed than I. But yu
will have a tougher job in holding back yon mettlesome
lad, I take it, than in starting him off along
the road. But there is good in the Tresithnys, though
there is a tough grain in them which makes it no light
task to try and carve them into shape. Must yu go?
Then fare yu well, and give you a good issue to your
mission.”</p>

<p>Eustace strode away, and without any pause set off in
the direction of Farmer Teazel’s farm in the next parish.
He walked rapidly, as a man does when burning words
are welling up in his heart, and he seeks to prepare himself
for an interview in which strong arguments may be
needed. But when he returned along the same road, it
was with slower step and bent head. He had found his
disciple, and had spoken long and earnestly with him,
but had come away with the conviction that he had spoken
in vain. He had kindled a spark in Saul’s passionate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span>
heart which had lighted a long-smouldering flame. Now
this had burst into active conflagration, and what the
result would be no man could yet say. At present a
violent class hatred was raging within him, and he was
bent upon setting class against class in the spirit of the
true demagogue. The wiser and more moderate teachings
of Eustace fell upon deaf ears. The young man
began to see that Saul was growing far less keenly interested
in the wrongs of his fellow-men, which it was right
and needful to alleviate and remove, than in the opportunity
afforded by a general movement after reform for
a rising against the privileged classes, for whom he had
long cherished an undying hatred. The very intelligence
and quickness of the young man made him the
more dangerous. He could turn upon Eustace with some
argument of his own, used perhaps for another purpose,
and by no means intended to be universally applied, and
deduce from it conclusions only too mercilessly logical,
tending to the subversion of the empire and the awakening
of a spirit of lawless violence, which of all things
Eustace desired to prevent. He had hoped, when first he
took to giving instruction and counsel to so apt and attentive
a pupil, that he should retain over Saul the influence
he gained in the first place; and even now he recognised
that the young man was deeply attached to him, and
believed that so long as his eye was upon him he would
keep within bounds. But the limits of Eustace’s visit
to Penarvon were drawing near, and he did not think, in
face of what was occurring, that the Duke would press
him to remain. He would leave, and then what would
happen to that wild spirit? Already the farmer had
threatened him with dismissal if he persisted in his
obstinate courses, and tried to instil and introduce lawless
opinions amongst his servants. Saul had not been
daunted by that threat. It appeared that already he
had made friends amongst kindred spirits in the town,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span>
and would find support and employment there if he
chose to break away from his old associates.</p>

<p>Eustace walked back to the castle in a state of mind
that was by no means happy or satisfied. He had made
a great step in Penarvon since his arrival; but was it
altogether such a step as was wise or right?</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b110.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b111.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER VIII<br />

<i>BRIDE’S PERPLEXITIES</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b111b.jpg" alt="B" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">BUT if Eustace suffered from doubts and fears,
even when embarked upon a cause which he
fully believed to be that of right and justice,
other people were not exempt from their share
of perplexity and mental distress, and certainly the youthful
Lady Bride was no exception to this rule. For her,
things seemed to have come hardly. Just as she was
deprived of the loving counsels and tender training of a
mother whom she literally adored, was she confronted by
problems and questions which had never entered into her
inner life before, and which threatened at times to upheave
many of her most cherished notions, or to land her
in a perfect sea of doubt and bewilderment.</p>

<p>True, she had not grown up in actual ignorance of the
questions beginning to agitate the world, but hitherto she
had regarded them, as it were, from an infinite distance:
they had not penetrated to her own sphere. She could
regard them in perspective, and moralise upon them in
an abstract fashion totally distinct from that which confronted
her, now that they had in a sense intruded into
her very home, and risen up in altogether unexpected
proportion before her eyes. Calm as she appeared to the
eyes of those about her, remote and aloof as Eustace felt
her to be, dwelling in a world of her own, and hardly
awake to the throbbing life of that other world of which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span>
he was a member, she was in reality far more aware of
its pulsating life than he ever dreamed, and far more
perplexed by the problems of the times than he as yet
suspected. Pity and love for the humble and poor had
been instilled into Bride’s heart by her mother from
her earliest years, and it was a lesson not likely to be
ignored now that she was left so lonely and desolate in
her palatial home. Towards her father she felt a deep
and reverential affection and compassion, and they had
drawn a very little nearer together during this time of
common sorrow; but the habits of a lifetime are seldom
broken through, even when there is willingness to break
them, and the Duke found himself unable to open his
heart to his young daughter, as he had learned to do to his
gentle wife, even when he was conscious that if the effort
could be made it would be abundantly rewarded. He was
gentle towards her, and more tender than he had ever
been in his life before, but there was no impulse of confidence
between them. It was just as hard for Bride to
try to speak to him out of her heart (as she had been
wont to do to her mother) as for him to cast off his reserve
before her; so that when perplexities arose within
her, the girl had to fight them out alone, and increasingly
hard did she find the battle as day by day fresh thoughts
and problems presented themselves before her mental
vision.</p>

<p>Mr. St. Aubyn might have helped her, but she was
timid of seeking him out. She felt towards him a deep
and reverential affection. She had always hung upon his
words when he visited her mother, and the two talked
together long and earnestly of the coming crisis in the
world’s history of which both were keenly conscious, and
for which both were preparing themselves in different
measure. But the girl had never opened her own heart
to the clergyman, or indeed to any person except her
mother, and she did not know how to make the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span>
advance now, although feeling often in sore need of
guidance and help.</p>

<p>But there was still one person to whom she sometimes
spoke when the sense of the burden became greater than
she could bear, and that was to the old gardener, Abner
Tresithny. She had a great respect, and indeed affection,
for the faithful old servant, who from childhood had always
been ranked as one of her friends, so that the habit of
reserve had not extended to her intercourse with him.
Bride had her own outdoor pursuits in the garden, which
Abner superintended with his advice and assistance, and
as the pair worked together in greenhouse or potting-shed,
they often talked of many other matters than
the plants they tended. Bride had gained much of her
insight into human nature and the state of the village
from Abner; and now when Saul’s fervid discourses had
stirred up so much excitement there, it was natural that
the matter should be mentioned, and that other things of
a kindred nature should be discussed.</p>

<p>Abner had been pained and grieved by his grandson’s
(apparently sudden) development, and Bride saw that the
subject was a sore one with him. With her ready tact
she avoided the point which most pained the old man,
and opened her heart to him on the subject which had
been with her night and day for many a long week now,
and which will raise itself before each one of us with a
ceaseless iteration so long as this state of sin and misery
lasts in the world.</p>

<p>“O Abner, can we wonder?—can we blame them so
very much if they do rise in rebellion and revolt? Why
is it—ah! why is it that some—not just a few here and
there, but hundreds and thousands—even millions of
human beings are born into the world to a life of hopeless
misery, degradation, and poverty, from which not
one man in a thousand has power to raise himself? My
cousin has been telling me things—I have heard him and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>
my father talking—and it goes to my very heart to
think what it all means. I know—oh! I can never
doubt it—that in every human soul there is the
power to live the higher life by the grace of the Spirit
of God; but oh! Abner, how is it, humanly speaking,
possible that this germ of heavenly fire should be developed
in such surroundings? How can those encompassed
by every physical misery and degradation ever lift
their hearts and their hopes heavenward? How can it
be looked for? And why does God permit such awful
inequalities in the destinies of His children? If He loves
us all—as we know He does—why, oh! why are these
things allowed?”</p>

<p>The pain in her face and in her voice plainly showed
how deeply she had taken to heart what she had gleaned
of late respecting the condition of a large section of the
population at that time. Abner looked at his young
mistress with a world of sympathy in his steady, deep-set
eyes, and slowly shook his head.</p>

<p>“There be many of us ask that same question, my
Ladybird, as we go on in life, and none of us can rightly
answer it. And yet may be the answer is under our hand
all the while. It is the sin of man that brought the
curse into the world; and ever since the hardness of
man’s heart has been making him choose the evil and
the curse instead of the way of the Lord and the blessing,
and every generation sinks the world deeper and
deeper into the slough.”</p>

<p>“I know, I know that. Sin is at the root of all,”
answered Bride, with quick eagerness, “but that does not
seem to answer everything. It is the awful inequalities
of the world that frighten me, and the sense of the
terrible gulf that seems to divide such lives as mine from
those of the miserable women and children born in the
midst of a squalor and misery of which my cousin tells
me I can have no conception. We are all born in sin,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>
but we are not all born to utter want and wretchedness.
God loves all His children alike: why should such things
be? Oh, why should they be?”</p>

<p>She clasped her hands together in a passion of perplexity
and pain. The eyes which were so deep and inscrutable
to Eustace were full of a pleading intensity of gaze, as
though she would wring an answer to her appeal from the
heavens themselves. Abner looked at her with a softening
of the lines of his rugged face; and as he steadily
pursued his task of cleansing from blight a great camellia
tree that stood in the centre of the conservatory, he made
an answer that was eminently characteristic of him, and
which roused the instant interest of the girl.</p>

<p>“My Ladybird, I think we can none of us rightly
answer such a question, because the ways of the Almighty
are past finding out, and we can by no stretch of our poor
finite minds hope to understand the eternal wisdom of the
Infinite. And yet, inasmuch as we have God’s own word
that we are made in His image, we can just get here and
there a glimpse into the workings of His mind; and I
often think that a gardener at his toil gets a clearer bit of
insight into His dealings than some others can do.”</p>

<p>“Oh, tell me how,” cried Bride, who dearly loved to listen
to Abner’s deductions from the world of nature to the
realm of human experience. She had been used to listening
to his allegories from childhood, and always found in
them food for thought and farther research.</p>

<p>Quietly pursuing his task, as was his way when thinking
most deeply, Abner took up his parable again.</p>

<p>“It sometimes comes to me like this, my lady, when I
am amongst my flowers and plants and seeds, and folks
come to me and say, ‘Abner, why do you do this?’ and
‘Abner, why do you do that?’ Look at the little seeds
as they lie on your hand—seeming so like to one another
that even the best of us would be puzzled to know some
kinds apart; but when they grow up, how different they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>
appear, and how different they have to be treated! Some
are hardy things, and are put out to face the biting winds
and cruel snows of winter, and nothing given them for
protection, whilst others are tenderly protected from the
least hardship, and grow up in the soft warm air of the hot-house,
watered and tended and watched over like petted
children. Is it because the gardener loves one sort of
seed more than another that he treats them so differently?
What sort of a garden would he have when the summer
came had he put the tender hot-house seeds out in the
cold ground, and tried to grow the hardy seedlings in a
hot-house? And then again, see how the different plants
are treated as they grow up under the same gardener’s eye.
Look at these great specimen heliotropes and fuchsias
and petunias. How were they treated when they were
young?—pinched in, trained, clipped, kept back, as it
seemed, in every possible way, everything against them,
everything, as one would say, taken from them, till the
right stature and height and growth had been attained,
and then encouraged to bud and break where it had been
decided they should; and now see the beautiful graceful
trees—a joy to the eye and to the heart—covered with
blossom, rejoicing as it seems in their beauty, the pride
of the gardener who seemed at first so cruel to them, so
resolved to keep them barren and unlovely.”</p>

<p>Bride drew a long breath and clasped her hands together.
She had asked sometimes deep down in her heart why
her own life had been left so desolate by the death of
her mother. Was she in some sort finding an answer
now? Was it perhaps for her ultimate good and for the
glory of God that she was thus heavily chastened in her
youth?</p>

<p>Abner had made a slight pause, but now he continued,
speaking in the same slow way, with the same rather remarkable
choice of words for a man of his class.</p>

<p>“And again, look at another class of plants—look at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>
our bulbs. Does not the gardener find a quiet nook for
them in the garden where they will never be disturbed,
and put them in, and let them come up year after year
undisturbed and unmolested? Is it because he loves
them more that he leaves them to bloom at their own
time and in their own fashion, and does not even cut
down their leaves when the blooming season is over?
Why is he so cruel (as the ignorant folk might put it) to
some of his plants, and so tender to others? Why does
he treat them so differently? Why do some grow up
and flourish for a season only, and are rooted up and cast
away at its close, whilst others remain year by year in the
ground, or are tended in warmth and luxury in the glass
homes provided for them? Why such inequalities when
originally all start alike from a tiny seed germ, one of
which scarce differs from another? Is it because the
gardener is partial or cruel? or because he knows as no
untrained person can, what is best for each, and how in
the end, after patient waiting and watching, the most
perfect garden will arise up under his hand? And if
this is so in our little world, can we not understand that
it must be something the same in the great garden of God—that
kingdom of Christ for which we are waiting and
watching, and for which He is working in His own all-powerful
and mysterious way? Ah! how often I think of
that as I go about my daily toil—that reign of the Lord’s
upon earth, when the wilderness shall blossom as the rose,
where sorrow and pain and sin shall be done away, and
we shall see the meaning of all those things which perplex
and bewilder us now, and understand the love in the
Father’s heart, although the discipline seemed hard to
understand at the first.”</p>

<p>Bride raised her eyes with the light shining in them
which the thought of the coming kingdom of the Lord
always brought there.</p>

<p>“Ah! yes,” she said softly, “we shall know then—we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span>
shall understand then—we shall see face to face.
O Abner, would that that day might come quickly!
Ah! why does not God hear the cry of His people in
their trouble and perplexities, and send forth the Great
Deliverer? Are we not praying for His appearing
hour by hour and day by day? Why does He tarry
so long?”</p>

<p>Abner slowly shook his head. He understood perfectly
those utterances of the girl, which from time to time
filled Eustace with absolute bewilderment. One result of
the awakening of spiritual perception, and of the unceasing
prayer which had been offered up by all sorts and
conditions of men for many years, had been a deep and
earnest conviction that the Second Advent was at hand,
that the French Revolution was but the commencement
of the Great Apostasy of the latter days, and that the
times of the end were approaching. Amongst all the
confusion of prophetic interpretation stirring the minds
of men and raising up countless differences of opinion and
beliefs as to what was coming upon the earth, there stood
out one paramount conviction which attracted multitudes
to adhere to it, which was that before the final judgments
were to be poured upon the earth, as foretold in the
Revelation according to St. John, there would be a gathering
together of the first-fruits to Christ—the dead and
living saints called alike to meet Him in the air, and thus
escape the horrors that were coming upon the world—the
company typified in Scripture as the hundred and
forty-four thousand sealed ones standing with the Lamb
upon Mount Zion before the last vials of wrath are poured
out, and before the resurrection of the multitude whom
no man can number, who have come scathlessly through
the great tribulation of the days of Antichrist.</p>

<p>This had been the unshaken conviction of the Duchess,
and Bride had received it from her mother with an
absolute trust. Abner, like many men of his class and race,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>
was equally filled with a devout hope and expectation of
living to see the Lord appear without sin unto salvation.
The wave of revived spirituality and personal faith which
had swept over the West-Country with the advance of
Methodism a generation before, had, as it were, prepared
the minds of men for a fresh development of faith in the
fulfilment of God’s prophetic word. Methodism itself had
already begun to fossilise to a certain extent into a system,
and had been rent by faction and split into hostile camps;
but this new wave of awakened spirituality was sweeping
over the land with all its first strength, and destined in
one form or another to do a great work in the Church.
The thought and the hope of the Kingdom was one so
familiar and so congenial to those who had accepted it,
that already they were striving after the life of the Kingdom
in the present world of sorrow and sin. To Bride it
was the very source and centre of all her happiness in life,
and anything that turned her thoughts back to it again
brought solace and comfort with it; so that even the
hope that the darkness and perplexity around her would
be explained and made clear in the Kingdom, and that
what she now saw with pain and shrinking would at last
prove to be God’s way of bringing good out of the mass
of evil engendered by the sin and disobedience of man,
brought a measure of comfort with it, and Bride walked
through the sunny gardens in a deep reverie, looking
around her at the awakening of nature with a strange but
intensely real hope that it was but the type and foretaste
of another and more wondrous resurrection, in which
she might be counted worthy to have a share, perhaps
even before this same young year had run its appointed
course.</p>

<p>Her meditations were interrupted by the sudden appearance
at her side of her cousin Eustace. How he came she
knew not. She had not observed his approach, but here
he was walking beside her; and as she raised her eyes for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>
a moment to his face, she was aware that it wore an expression
of strange concentration, whilst at the same time
in his voice there was a tone which she did not remember
ever to have heard there before.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said, speaking more abruptly than usual,
“you know that I am going away soon?”</p>

<p>“I had heard something of it. I did not know the
day was fixed. I think you must feel glad. There is so
little to do at Penarvon—for one like you.”</p>

<p>“I fear your father thinks I have done too much, as it
is,” answered Eustace hastily. “Bride, have I made him
hate me? Has he spoken with disapproval of me to
you?”</p>

<p>“Oh, no!” answered Bride. “My father seldom speaks
disparagingly of any one who is not there to defend
himself. He would say nothing to me that he did not
say to you; and if he did. I could not repeat it, of
course.”</p>

<p>“No,” answered Eustace quickly; “I was wrong in
asking; but I was nervously afraid, I think, lest he should
have said something to do hurt to my cause. Bride, are
you sorry I am going away? Will you miss me when I
am gone?”</p>

<p>He spoke with covert eagerness, almost with excitement,
and Bride was puzzled at the note of emotion in his
voice, and paused to consider her answer. She was always
transparently truthful and sincere, and although brought
up to show courtesy to all with whom she came in contact,
she had never taught herself to utter the platitudes
and shallow untruths of society, and chose her words with
care when appealed to in such a fashion.</p>

<p>“I think I shall miss you,” she answered, looking reflectively
before her. “It will seem strange not to see
your face at table, or to have some one to talk to in the
evenings. I think father will miss you too. He likes to
converse with one who knows the world and can understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>
him. Perhaps you will come again some day,
Eustace?”</p>

<p>“Do you ask it, Bride?” he questioned, his voice
quivering.</p>

<p>“I have no power to invite guests to Penarvon,” she
answered gently. “My father has never given me leave
to do so; but I think he will be glad to think you will
come again: he has so few belonging in any way to
him now.”</p>

<p>“Would you be glad, Bride?” he asked, in the same
tense and almost impassioned way; “that is what I wish
to know. Would you be glad to think that I should come
again soon?”</p>

<p>Something in his tone aroused in Bride a vague sense
of shrinking and distaste. She could not understand
exactly what produced this feeling; but at that moment
her impulse was to leave her cousin hastily and fly to the
shelter of her own room. That being impossible, she
could only retire into the shell of her own impenetrable
reserve, and Eustace was at once aware that some of the
light had gone out of her eyes, and that she very slightly
drew away from him.</p>

<p>“I do not know,” she said very quietly; “that depends
upon so many things. You have been very kind, Eustace,
and yet you have done things which have brought great
trouble to us. If you could learn to be a comfort to my
father, I would welcome you gladly again; but you can
hardly expect it when you trouble and distress him.”</p>

<p>“Bride, Bride, do not speak so! do not drive me to
despair!” cried Eustace suddenly, losing his long-preserved
self-control. “Do you not know that I love you, that I
have loved you almost ever since I saw you first three
months ago? Oh, my love, my life, only love me in return,
and do what you will with me! I am yours, body and
soul, and together we will walk through life, and yours
shall be the guiding and directing will, for you are the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span>
guiding star of my life! Bride, Bride! hear me! Be
my wife, and I will be in the future what you will. You
shall rule my life for me. Only let me know that your
love is mine, and I care for nothing else!”</p>

<p>She understood then, and the surprise of it all held her
mute and spellbound. Perhaps no maiden in the length
and breadth of the land had grown up more oblivious
of the thought of love and marriage than Lady Bride
Marchmont. No young companions had she ever known to
suggest such ideas. Her mother had preserved the guarded
silence on the subject that mothers are wont to do whilst
their daughters are yet young, and her father had followed
his wife’s example. She had seen the best and happiest
side of married life in the tender love and dependence of
her parents; but as a thing applied to herself she had
never given it a thought, and now she recoiled from this
passionate appeal with a sense of shrinking and distaste
which she found it difficult to refrain from expressing in
words that would inflict pain on the man before her. She
did not wish to pain him. She was woman enough to
know that he meant to do her honour by this proffer of
love and service; but he had utterly failed to awaken any
answering chord in her heart, and she felt that he ought
not to have spoken as he had done, or to use such arguments
to her.</p>

<p>“No, Eustace,” she said, not ungently, as he tried to
take her hand. “You must not speak to me so. It is
not right. It is not even manly. I think you can know
very little of me when you speak of offering yourself to
me body and soul, or tell me that you care for nothing
else if you can have my love. Do you think I can love
any one, save with the love of a deep pity, who can place
a mere earthly love before everything else, and talk as
though his soul were his own to give into the keeping
of another? Do you think I like to hear you say that
you would even abandon a cause which seemed to you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>
holy and just and right, simply because you think I
may not approve it? Do you wish to make of me your
conscience-keeper? O Eustace! think what such words
mean!—think what treachery they imply, not only to God
but to man, and I am sure you yourself will be ashamed
of them.”</p>

<p>“I can think of nothing but that I love you, Bride,”
broke in Eustace, hotly and passionately, his heart moved
by the wonderful beauty of the woman before him; her
utter unconsciousness of the wild passions of love and
tenderness stirring within him only rousing him to a
sense of wilder resolve to win her at all cost. “I love
you! I love you! I love you! All my religion, all my
faith, all my happiness here or hereafter are comprised
within the limits of those three little words. I love you!
Surely you will not tell me in return that you hate me,
and would spurn me from your presence. O Bride, my
life, my love! do not say that you have no love to give
me in return.”</p>

<p>There was something so appealing in his voice that
her heart was touched with compassion, though with
no answering response. She let him possess himself
of her hand, but it lay cool and passive in his hot
clasp.</p>

<p>“I do not hate you, Eustace—why should I? I do not
hate any living thing. I do not spurn you. I do not
spurn your love.”</p>

<p>“My darling, ten thousand thanks for that sweet
word. If my love is not spurned, surely it will some
day be returned! Bride, you will at least let me hope
that?”</p>

<p>“I cannot help what you hope,” she answered, with
childlike frankness. “But, Eustace, I do not think I can
ever love you as you wish, and I can never, never, never
be your wife unless I do. I like you as a cousin; but
indeed that is all. I do not understand what it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>
that makes you wish to marry me. We should be very
unhappy together—I am quite sure of that.”</p>

<p>“Ah! no, Bride! Do not speak so. Unhappy, and
with you!”</p>

<p>“I should be very unhappy,” answered the girl steadily,
“and you <i>ought</i> to be, Eustace, if you really knew what
love meant.”</p>

<p>He looked at her in amaze; that <i>she</i> should be speaking
to <i>him</i> of the nature of love with that look of divine
compassion in her eyes was a thing altogether too
strange and perplexing. Her very attitude and quiet
composure told of a heart unruffled as yet by any touch
of human passion, and yet she was turning upon him
and rebuking him for his ignorance. It was she who
broke the momentary pause, seeming almost to read his
thoughts.</p>

<p>“You wonder how I know perhaps, but, ah! if you
had seen my father and mother together you would
have understood. If you had known what love there
was between my mother and me, you would understand.
Do not I know what love is? Ah! do I not? It is
the power to lay bare the innermost sanctuary of your
soul, and to know that you will be understood, helped,
strengthened, comforted. It is the knowledge that
thoughts too deep, and hopes too wonderful and mysterious
for words are shared together, and can be whispered
of together without being tarnished by the poor
attempt to reduce them to speech; the consciousness
that in everything we are in accord, that we are often
thinking the same things at the same moment; the
knowledge that the deeper and deeper we go the more
and more sympathy and sweet accord there is between
us; that not only are we one in opinion about temporal
and changing things, but knit close, close together in
soul and spirit as well, sharing the same faith, the same
hope, the same love! Ah! Eustace! if you had known<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>
such a love as that, you could never think that there
would be happiness for you and me in linking our lives
together!”</p>

<p>He stood silent, almost abashed, before her, marvelling
alike at her eloquence and at the insight displayed of a
union of spirit, of which Eustace was forced to admit that
he had not thought. To win Bride as his wife, to set
her up as his object of adoring love, had seemed all-sufficient
to him hitherto. Now it suddenly dawned upon
him that with such a woman as this, that would be but
the travesty and mockery of happiness. She was right
and he was wrong: without a deeper sympathy and love
than any which had come into his philosophy as yet,
marriage would be a doleful blunder. He would be no
nearer to her than before—perhaps farther away. He
must learn to share with her that inner and mystic life
of which he saw glimpses from time to time when she
opened out for a moment and showed him what lay below
the calm surface of her nature. Either he must share
that with her, or wean her away from it; replacing mysticism
with philanthropy, fanaticism with practical benevolence,
objective with subjective religion. One of those
two ends must be accomplished before he could hope to
win the desire of his heart. As he stood in the bright
spring sunshine facing her, he became suddenly aware of
that, and a new light leaped into his eyes—the light of
battle and of resolve. He would win her yet, but it must
be by slower steps than any he had contemplated hitherto.
She was worthy of better things than becoming a mere
dreamer and nunlike recluse. It should be his to lead
her steps to surer ground, to show her that there was a
higher Christianity than any of which she had hitherto
dreamed. Not now—not all at once, but he would come
again and begin upon a surer foundation. He looked into
her eyes, and gently taking her hand before she had time
to draw it away, he said quietly—</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>“Do not be afraid, Bride; I see that you judged more
wisely than I. You are right and I am wrong, and I
will go away and trouble you no more in the present; but
the time will come when I shall return, and I trust that
by slow and sure degrees we shall draw so closely together
that you will no longer shrink from me in fear and
trembling. You are very young, sweet cousin, and there
are many things you have yet to learn. It is a beautiful
thing, I doubt not, to hold commune in the spirit with
the higher world; but we are set in our place here below
for something I hold to be more truly noble than that.
We are set in a world of sin and misery that we may
gird our armour upon us and fight the battle with this sin
and misery—fight it for our poor and afflicted brethren,
as they cannot fight it for themselves. That is the true
Christianity; that is the highest form of religious devotion.
You can read it for yourself in your Bible—‘True
religion and undefiled before God and the Father
is this, to visit the widows and orphans in their affliction’—to
be ministers, in fact, of mercy and blessing
in any sphere, of which one is given as the type.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” answered Bride very softly, “and to keep himself
unspotted from the world.”</p>

<p>She looked straight at Eustace as she spoke, and he
looked back at her, marvelling at the extraordinary
depth and beauty of those dark eyes. He longed, as
he had never longed before, to take her in his arms
and hold her to his heart; but he knew that he must
not, so with a great effort he restrained himself, and
kept back the words of passionate love which rose to
his lips.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he answered steadily; “and for your sweet
sake, Bride, I will strive to do even that—evil and full
of temptation as my world is.”</p>

<p>“Not for my sake, Eustace, not for my sake,” she
replied, with an earnestness he scarcely understood; “that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span>
would be indeed a vain resolve. If you cannot yet
strive in the power and might of the Risen and Ascended
Lord, whom you deny, strive at least in the power of
the right you own and believe in, though you know
not from whence it comes.”</p>

<p>He looked at her in some amaze.</p>

<p>“Why do you say I deny your Risen Saviour, Bride?”</p>

<p>“Because I heard you with your own lips do so, in
effect if not in actual words. You spoke of His miracles
as being ordinary gifts of healing exaggerated by the
devotion of His followers; of the Transfiguration being
a like delusion—men awakened from sleep seeing their
Master standing in the glory of the sunrise, and mistaking
the morning mists for other luminous figures
beside Him. You said that the Resurrection had been
accounted for by the theory that the Saviour did not
die, but was taken from the Cross in a state of trance,
from which He recovered in the tomb.”</p>

<p>A flush mounted quickly into Eustace’s face.</p>

<p>“You mistake me, Bride,” he answered hastily. “We
were discussing—Mr. St. Aubyn and I—some of the
teachings of various philosophers and thinkers, and I
was explaining to him how Paulus had extended to
the New Testement the method which Eichhorn had
applied to the Old. I was not defending the theory, but
merely stating it as a matter of speculation amongst
men of a certain school.”</p>

<p>Bride looked at him intently.</p>

<p>“If that is so, I am thankful and glad; but I heard
too much not to know very well where your sympathies
and convictions lie. If you do not follow the
impious teachings of this Paulus, you are very far along
the road which does not lead to the Father’s house.
No, Eustace; let us talk no more of this—it is only
painful to both. I shall never convince you; but I shall
pray for you. And now farewell. I trust when next<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>
we meet it will be without this sense of unutterable
distance between us; but it must be you to change—for
I never shall.”</p>

<p>She turned and left him standing there in the sunshine.
That same day Eustace took leave of Penarvon,
and commenced his backward journey to London.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b128.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b129.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER IX<br />

<i>THE WAVE OF REVOLT</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b129f.jpg" alt="F" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“FEGS! if theer’s tu be a bobbery up tu Pentreath,
us lads o’ St. Bride’s wunt be left owt on’t!”</p>

<p>“Dashed if us wull! Wheer theer’s fightin’
and a fillyboo, theer’s more’n hard knocks to be
gotten. Us’ll soon see what us can get by un!”</p>

<p>“Aw dally-buttons, that us wull! They du say as our
Saul’s theer in t’ thick of un. But what’s it awl about?
Dost any o’ yu knaw?”</p>

<p>The swarthy fishermen looked each other in the face
with a grin, but nobody seemed ready with an answer.</p>

<p>“May’ap ’tis because the king’s dead,” suggested one.</p>

<p>“Naw, ’tidden that ezakally,” objected another. “’Tis
becos they Frenchers ’ave abin an’ gone for tu ’ave a new
bobbery ower theer—what the great folks calls a reverlooshon.
They’ve a druv theer king over tu England:
that’s what ’as set all the lads ower heer in a takin’ after
theer roights.”</p>

<p>“’Tidden theer roights theer a’ter,” remarked a woman
who was sitting hunched up in the chimney-corner of
the hut where this confabulation was going on, “’tis
other folks’ goods they want. They thinks wheerever
a bobbery be theer’ll be gutterin’ and guzzlin’, and that’s
all they care for. You’d a best ’ave nowt tu du
with un.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>But this piece of advice was received with ridicule and
disfavour.</p>

<p>“Ef theer be zo much as gutterin’ and guzzlin’ why
shetten us be left behind? ’Tidden much of either us
gets nowadays with those dashed customs-men always
a’ter we. Crimminy! but us’ll take our share ef zo be as
theer’s awght to be gotten. I’ve heerd tell theer be
a real hollerballoo up tu Pentreath. I be agwaine to
see un.”</p>

<p>“Zo be I! Zo be I!” echoed in turn a dozen or
more voices, and from the dim chimney-corner there only
came a rough snort of disapproval.</p>

<p>“Go ’long wi’ ye then. When the dowl’s abroad
’twidden be in yer to bide tu home. Go ’long and help
make the bobbery wusser. ’Tidden hurt I. But it’ll be
a poor-come-along-on’t for some o’ yu, I take it. Theer’ll
be trouble at St. Bride along on’t.”</p>

<p>The men hesitated for a moment, for the old woman
who thus spoke had won the not too enviable reputation
of being next door to a witch, and of reading or moulding
future events—which, it was not altogether certain in the
minds of the people. She was a lonely widow woman,
but lived in one of the best cottages in the place, where
she kept a sort of private bar, selling spirits and tobacco
to the fishermen, and allowing them to make use of her
sanded kitchen, where at all seasons of the year a fire was
burning, as a place of resort where all the gossip of the
place could be discussed. They never put two and two
together in seeking to account for the occult knowledge
possessed by the old woman respecting the private concerns
of the whole community. She affected to be rather
deaf, and therefore low-toned conversations were carried
on freely in her presence. Old Mother Clat was quite
a character in her way, and a distinct power in the
fishing community of St. Bride.</p>

<p>But her advice was not sufficient to deter the bolder<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span>
spirits from taking part in the exciting scenes known to
be passing in the country round them. At that moment
England was passing through a crisis more perilous than
was fully realised at the time. The sudden revolution
in France, which had culminated in the abdication and
flight of the king, the death of the English king, George
the Fourth, at almost the same moment, and the whispers
in the air that Belgium and other countries were about to
imitate France, and rise in revolt against the oppression
and tyranny of princes, acted in an extraordinary fashion
upon the minds of the discontented population of this
land. The long period of depression and distress,
whilst it had ground down one section of the community
to a state of passive despair, had aroused in others the
spirit of insubordination and revolt. Like leaven in
the loaf was this fermentation going on, greatly helped
by the knowledge that the cause of the people was
exercising the minds of many of the great ones of
the land, and that in them they would find a mouthpiece
if only they could succeed in making their voice
heard.</p>

<p>Now when there is any great uprising in any one
district, there is generally a local as well as a general
cause of complaint; and in this remote West-Country
district it was far less the question of reformed representation
and the abolishment of certain grave abuses
which was exercising the minds of the community than
the fact that new machinery had recently been set up
in some of the mills at Pentreath, and in some of the
farmsteads scattered about the district; and the panic
of the Midlands had spread down to the South and West,
the people fully believing that this would be the last
straw—the last drop of bitterness in their cup, and that
nothing but absolute starvation lay before them unless
they took prompt measures to defend themselves from
the dreaded innovations.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>The Midlands and North had set the example. Ever
since the rising of the Luddites there had been more
or less of disturbance in the manufacturing districts,
where, of course, in the first instance the introduction
of machinery did throw certain classes of operatives out
of employment; and they were unable to realise that
this would soon be more than made up to them by the
increase of trade resulting from the improvement in
the many complicated processes of manufacture. In
the North the riots were on the wane. It was just
beginning to dawn upon the minds of the more enlightened
artisans, that if they would leave matters to
take a peaceful course they would soon see themselves
reinstated in the mills, where trade was growing more
brisk and active than ever before. But away down in
the remote West, any innovation was received with the
greatest horror and aversion, and the people had heard
just enough about their wrongs to be in that restless
state when any sort of activity becomes attractive, and
any uprising against authority appears in the light of an
act of noble resistance to tyranny.</p>

<p>Pentreath was an ancient town, though a small one.
It sent a member to Parliament, although the huge and
fast-increasing towns of the North did not. Of late years
it had become a small centre of manufacturing industry,
the water-power there being considerable. There were
two cloth-mills and one silk-mill, a paper manufactory,
and another where soap and essences were made. One
reason why the district round Pentreath was not feeling
the general poverty and distress very keenly was that
from the rural districts men who could not get employment
upon the land could generally find it in the mills.
But when almost at one and the same time improved
machinery became introduced both into agriculture and
manufacture, the sense of revolt was deeply stirred.
A certain number of turbulent spirits had been simultaneously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span>
dismissed both from the farms and from the
mills, and these two contingents at once banded together
in somewhat dangerous mood to talk over the situation
and their own private grievances, and to set about to
find a remedy.</p>

<p>It was the Duke who first introduced the machinery
into the neighbourhood, although he had dismissed no
servant of his until three of his men were found tampering
with and injuring the new machine, when he promptly
sent them about their business. Their bad example
was followed by others, and four more were summarily
dismissed; whereupon the Duke let it be thoroughly
understood that any servant of his taking that line
would be promptly discharged, but that he had no
intention of dismissing any of those on his estate who
were orderly and obedient, and used the improved implements
in a right and workmanlike way. This declaration
had the effect at Penarvon of stopping depredations for
the moment, and no more labourers were sent away; but
those who had already received notice were not taken on
again: for the Duke, though a just and liberal master,
was a stern upholder of law and order, and had no intention
of having his will or his authority set at naught by
a handful of ill-conditioned fellows, who refused to listen
to any other guides than their own blind passions.</p>

<p>These men gravitated naturally into Pentreath, in the
hope of finding employment there, only to be met by
the news that the mills were turning off hands, owing
to the saving of labour by the introduction of improved
machinery. The band of what in these days would be
termed “unemployed” gathered together by common
accord, and roved the streets by day, begging and picking
up odd jobs of work as they could get them, and meeting
at night in a low tavern on the outskirts of the town to
spend their pittance generally on raw spirit, and to talk
sedition and treason.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>Possibly, had no other power been at work just at that
juncture, the whole thing might have begun and ended in
talk; but there were other forces in operation, all favourable
to the spirit of revolt and vengeful hatred which
actuated this small band; and as discontented men of every
class draw together by common consent, however various
their grievances may be, so did the newly aroused politicians
of the place, eager and anxious to awaken the country
to a sense of its political grievances, and the urgent need
of parliamentary reform, gravitate towards the little band
of discontented labourers and operatives, sure of finding
in them allies in the general feeling of revolt against
the prevailing system, which they had set themselves to
amend, and hoping quickly to arouse in them the patriotic
enthusiasm which kindled their own hearts.</p>

<p>Saul’s friend the cobbler was the first to address these
men on the subject of the hoped-for reform. He went to
them upon several evenings, strove to arouse in them a
sense of indignation against prevailing abuses and evils,
and found his task an easy one. Wherever he made out
that the country was suffering from the oppression of
tyrants and the greed of the rich, he was received with
howls of approval and delight. The answer of his
audience was invariably a cry of “Down with it! Down
with them!” They would have rushed with the greatest
pleasure through the streets, and attacked the houses of the
mill-owners, or have broken into the mills and gutted them,
had there been any to lead them. But the cobbler
was a man of words rather than of action. He was
one to foster fierce passions, but his talents did not lie
in directing the action which follows upon such an
arousing. One Sunday afternoon, it is true, he headed
a procession which marched through the streets, shouting
and threatening, so that the people shut their shutters
in haste, and begged that the watchmen or the military
might go out and disperse the mob. No harm, however,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>
came of the demonstration, save that an uneasy
feeling was aroused in the minds of the townfolk, who
looked askance upon the haggard men seeking alms or
employment about their doors, and were less disposed
to help them than they had been at first.</p>

<p>Thus the ill-feeling between class and class grew and
increased, and it was to a band of men rendered well-nigh
desperate by misery and a sense of burning wrong
that Saul came down one Sunday, his own heart inflamed
by passion and hatred, to supplement the efforts
of the cobbler by one of his own harangues, which
had already won for their author a certain measure of
celebrity.</p>

<p>Saul had greatly changed during the past six months,
changed and developed in a remarkable manner. When
he stood by the orchard wall making love to Genefer
Teazel, he had looked a very fine specimen of his race,
and superior in many points to the labourers with whom
he consorted, and whose toil he shared; but since the
rapid development of his mental faculties had set in,
he had altered wonderfully in his outward man, and no
one to look at him would believe, save from his dress
and the hardness of his hands, that he had spent his
life in mere manual toil on a farm. His face, always
well-featured, had now taken an expression of concentration
and purpose, seldom seen in a labouring man; the
eyes were very intense in their expression, and, as the
fisher-folk were wont to say, went through you like a
knife. His tall figure had grown rather thin and gaunt,
as though the activity of the mind had reacted on the
body, or else that he had been denying himself the
needful support for his strong frame. He looked like a
man whom it would not be well to incite to anger.
There was a sufficient indication in his face of suppressed
passion and fury held under firm control, yet
ready to blaze up into a fierce life under provocation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>
He looked like a man born to be an Ishmaelite in his
life’s pilgrimage—his hand against every man, and
every man’s hand against him—a man in revolt against
the world, against society, against himself. A keen
and yet sympathetic physiognomist could hardly study
that face without a sigh of compassion. Saul Tresithny,
with his nature, his temperament, his antecedents, could
scarcely have any but an unhappy life—unless he had
been able to yield himself in childlike submission to
the teachings of his grandfather, and look for peace and
happiness beyond the troublous waves of this world, to
the far haven of everlasting peace.</p>

<p>Saul had spent the past six months in close reading and
study, whenever time and opportunity were his. First from
his friend the cobbler, then from his friend the Duke’s
heir, he had received books and papers; and out in the
fields in his dinner-hour, or trudging to and fro with
the plough, or up in his attic at night, with his companions
snoring around him, he had studied and read and
thought—thought till it seemed often as though thought
would madden him, read until he looked haggard and
wan from his long vigils, and he found the best part
of his pittance of wage go in the purchase of the
rushlights by which he studied his books at night.
Eustace had lent him histories of other nations—down-trodden
peoples who had revolted at last from their
oppressors, and had won for themselves freedom—sometimes
of body, sometimes of mind, at the sword’s point.
Eustace had tried to choose writers of impartiality; but
his own bias had been too strong to make him a very
good director of such a mind as Saul’s; and when a
man of that temperament reaches passages which are
not to his liking, he simply skips over them till he
reaches what is more to his taste; and Saul had invariably
missed out those explanatory and exculpatory
pages, wherein the historian shows the other side of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>
the question, and explains how some of the grievances
most declaimed against by an oppressed people are the
result rather of circumstance, and the changing order
of the day, than the direct outcome of a real injustice
and tyranny.</p>

<p>So his mind rapidly developed in a fashion by no means
desired by his mentor; and so soon as the restraining
influence of Eustace was removed, the wild and ardent
imagination of the young man had full sway, and he had
none to give him better counsel or strive to check the
hot intemperance of his great zeal. He avoided his
grandfather, and Abner was too wise to force his company
where it was not wanted. He would not speak to
Mr. St. Aubyn when the latter found him out, and sought,
in his gentle and genial way, to get the hot-headed youth,
of whom much talk was going about, to make a friend of
him, and open out upon the subjects of such moment to
all the country. No; Saul maintained a rigid and obstinate
silence; and the Rector went away disappointed, for
he feared there were evil days in store for Saul. Farmer
Teazel, who was a staunch old Tory, and an ardent believer
in the existing state of things, even though he admitted
times to be bad in the immediate present, had no manner
of patience with his new-fangled notions, that were, as
he said, “driving honest folks crazy.” He had winked
at Saul’s conduct as long as he could, valuing the many
sterling qualities possessed by the young man, and
hoping every day that he would turn over a new leaf.
But his patience had long been sorely tried. Saul, not
content with haranguing the fisher-folk down in the
hamlet, who were always ready to imbibe any sort of lawless
doctrine—their one idea being that the law and the
customs were one and the same, and that to revolt against
any existing order was a step towards that freedom of
traffic which was their idea of prosperity and happiness.
Not that they wished the excise duties withdrawn—for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>
that would render abortive their illicit traffic; but they
always fancied that there was advantage to be gained
from stirring up strife and revolting against established
order, and were eager listeners to Saul’s speeches. But
not content with that, Saul was working might and main
amongst the more placid and bovine rustics, his fellow-labourers
on the farm, to emulate the fisher-folk in their
restless discontent, and with this amount of success, that
when Farmer Teazel, in imitation of his noble landlord,
introduced with pride and delight a new and wonderful
machine into his own yard, his own men rose in the
night and did it some fatal injury, which cost him pounds
to repair, as well as delaying for a whole month the operations
which it had especially been bought to effect.</p>

<p>This was too much. The farmer was in the main a placid
man and a good-tempered one; but he could not stand this,
and he well knew whom he had to thank for the outrage.
Whether or no Saul had prompted the men to do the
mischief mattered little. It was he who had fostered in
them the spirit of disobedience and self-will which had
been at the bottom of the outrage; and so long as he
remained on the place there was no prospect of things
being better. Before his anger had had time to cool,
he summoned Saul, and a battle of words ensued, which
led to the summary dismissal of the young man, whilst
the farmer strode out of the kitchen, in which the
interview had taken place, in a white heat of rage and
disappointment.</p>

<p>Saul stood looking after him with a strange gleam
in his eyes, and then his eyes caught sight of Genefer
crouching in a corner with her hands over her face.</p>

<p>Saul had not thought much of Genefer all this while,
as presumably she had been well aware; but the sight of
her distress touched him, and he would have approached
her to offer some rude sympathy, had she not suddenly
sprung up and faced him with blazing eyes and a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>
fury only second to that which her father had displayed.</p>

<p>In the emphatic and most idiomatic vernacular, which
is always used by natives in moments of excitement, she
told Saul <i>her</i> opinion of him and of his conduct; she let
loose in a flood all the mingled pique, anger, disappointment,
and jealousy which his conduct of the past months
had inspired. That he should presume to ask her love,
and then care for nothing but wild notions that savoured
to her of the devil himself, and which all right-minded
people reprobated to the last extent, was an insult she
could not put up with. Woman-like, she had looked to
stand first and to stand paramount with handsome Saul,
when once she had permitted him to woo her; and instead
of this, he had heeded her less and less with every week
that passed, and had even refused to remain on Sunday
at the farm when she had asked it as a favour; and at
last had done this mischief to her father through his mischievous,
ill-conditioned tongue. She would have none
of him, no, not she! He might go to his friends the fisher-folk,
or to the slums of Pentreath for a wife, if he wanted
one!—she would have none of him! He had been false to
her, he had treated her shamefully, and now he might go.
She never wished to see him again! And bursting into
tears (the almost invariable climax to an outburst of anger
with women of her class) Genefer rushed from the room,
and Saul, looking white about the lips, but with a blaze
in his eyes which made all who met him shrink away from
him, put together the few things he had at the farm
besides his books, and stalked away into Pentreath, where
he found an audience as ready to listen to him as he was
to address them.</p>

<p>And this is how it came about that St. Bride was set in
a ferment of excitement by the news that there were
exciting scenes going on at Pentreath—mysterious outbreaks
of popular fury—machines broken in the mills—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span>
statue of the old king standing in the market-place,
found in the river-bed one morning greatly shattered by
the fall—a baker’s shop looted in broad daylight another
day; and over all a sense that there was more to come,
and that this was but the beginning of what might grow
to rival one of the great risings of the Midlands and the
North, when private houses had been broken into, and an
untold amount of damage inflicted upon rich men, who
had drawn upon themselves the popular hatred.</p>

<p>Now St. Bride, as represented by the fishermen, had
no wish to be left out of any enterprise which promised
either excitement or reward. It was whispered in all
quarters that Saul was at the head of the rioters, and
that his was the master-mind there. If so, they would
be certain of a welcome from him if they joined his little
band; and so it came about that, whilst the boats still
lay high and dry upon the beach, the men of the place
were almost all mysteriously missing, and their womenfolk
professed absolute ignorance as to what had taken
them off.</p>

<p>“Oh, Mr. St. Aubyn,” said Bride, with tears in her eyes,
as she encountered the clergyman of St. Erme on the
downs, bent in the same direction as herself, to the cottage
where a sick woman was lying, “do you think it is true
what they are all saying, that Abner’s grandson is gathering
together a band of desperate men, and intends to try
and provoke a general rising, and to march all through
the district, breaking machines and robbing and plundering?
It seems too dreadful to think of; but wherever
I go I hear the same tale. Do you believe that it is
true?”</p>

<p>“I trust that you have heard an exaggerated account
of what is passing, Lady Bride,” he said; “though I fear
that there are troublous days before us; but I think we
are prepared for that, and can look without over-much
dismay around. Remember, my child, that when we see<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>
the beginning of these things coming to pass, we are to
lift up our heads, because our redemption draweth nigh.
In that is our safeguard and our hope.”</p>

<p>The light flashed into Bride’s eyes.</p>

<p>“Ah! thank you for reminding me. It is so hard to keep
it always in mind; but indeed it is like the beginning—men’s
heart’s failing them for fear, and for looking after
those things that are coming on the earth. Mr. St.
Aubyn, tell me, <i>are</i> the people altogether wrong in demanding
redress of those grievances which lie so heavy
upon them? Is it right that they should have so little,
so very little voice in the government of the nation, when
we call this a free and a constitutional form of government?
Need we condemn them altogether for doing
what their ignorance and misery drive them to do? Are
we not also to blame in that they are so miserable and
ignorant?”</p>

<p>“In very truth we are, Lady Bride——”</p>

<p>“Ah! no; not <i>Lady</i> Bride to you, when we are alone
like this,” she pleaded. “It never used to be so. Let it
be Bride again, as though I were a child. Ah! would that
I were, and that <i>she</i> were with me! Oh, it is all so dark
and perplexing now!”</p>

<p>“It is, my child, it is, even for the best and wisest on
the earth. Let us take comfort in the thought that it is
light with God, and that He sees the working out of His
eternal purposes, even where most let and hindered by the
sin and opposition of man. A time of darkness is upon us—that
none can deny—not in this land alone, but in all
the lands of Christendom; and you are right in your feeling
that it is not the ignorant masses who are alone in
fault. We—the Church—the nobility, the great ones of
the earth, have failed again and again in our duties
towards those below them, and now they have to suffer.
Two wrongs do not make one right, and the method in
which the ignorant seem like to set to work is not only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span>
foolish, but sinful also; and in our sense of sympathy for
the people and our self-reprobation, we must not palliate,
even though we may partially understand the cause of
the sin. It is right that the people should be thought of
and rightly done by. God has taught us that again and
again; but it is not the ordinance of God that the people
should govern—and yet, if I read my Bible and interpret
aright, that is what we shall come to in the days of the
end; it will no longer be the voice of God, nor yet the
voice of the king which will prevail, but the voice of
the people; and we shall again hear in newer and more
subtle forms that word of blasphemy which tells us that
the voice of the people is the voice of God.”</p>

<p>“Ah! do you think so? That is what I have heard
said; but surely it will take long, very long, to accomplish?”</p>

<p>“Perhaps; I know not. In France it was accomplished
in a few terrible years. Methinks in this land, where
God has been so gracious times and again, it may be
differently done and with less of terror and bloodshed;
but the end will assuredly be the same. One can see,
even from a worldly aspect, how it will be accomplished.
Men say, and with justice and truth, that there should
be in the community, for the good of all, a fair class representation—that
is, that each class should have such a
voice in the discussion of the affairs of the nation as will
secure for that class the meed of justice and consideration
to which its position entitles it. At present this is not
so. The rising and important middle class have almost
no representation, and the labouring and artisan class
none. Yet they have a stake in the country, and are
entitled to a voice.”</p>

<p>“That is what Eustace says, and it sounds right.”</p>

<p>“It is right, according to my ideas of justice, and will
be gradually accomplished, as you know, by extension of
franchise and so forth. We need not discuss that theme<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>
now. What I mean to point out to you is the danger
that threatens us in the future. From claiming a fair
class representation as the basis of sound government,
the next step will be the theory that every man—or at
least every householder—should have a vote, and most
plausible reasons will be given for this. Probably in
time it will be carried into law, and then you will see at
once an end of class representation as well as of fair
constitutional government. The power will no longer be
balanced. It will all be thrown into the hands of one
class, and that the most numerous but the least educated,
the least thoughtful, the least capable of clear and sound
judgment, because their very conditions of life preclude
them from study and the acquisition of the needful knowledge
requisite for sound government. The power will be
vested in the class the most easily led or driven by unprincipled
men, by the class with the least stake in the
country, and the least power of seeing the true bearing
of a measure which may be very plausible, but absolutely
unsound. It may take the people very long to find their
power, and perhaps longer still to dare to use it; but in
time both these things will be achieved, and then the
greatness of England will be at an end; and, as I think,
the state of misery and confusion which will ensue will
be far, far greater than what she has endured beneath the
sway of her so-called tyrants and oppressors.”</p>

<p>Bride heaved a long sigh.</p>

<p>“Eustace would not think that,” she remarked softly.</p>

<p>“No, nor many great men of the day; and time has
yet to show whether they are right, or an old parish
priest who has been buried alive all his days and knows
nothing, as they would argue, of the signs of the times;”
and here Mr. St. Aubyn smiled slightly. “Well, well,
God knows, and in His good time we shall know. For the
present that must content us. Let us not be in haste to
condemn. Let us be patient, and full of faith and hope.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>
He has always pointed out a way of escape for His
faithful servants and followers before things become too
terrible for endurance. Our hope no man can take from
us. Let us live in its heavenly light, and then shall we
not be confounded at the swelling of the waters and the
raging of the flood—those great waters of the latter days—supporting
the beast and his scarlet rider, which are
peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues, the
power of a great and lawless democracy.”</p>

<p>Bride looked awed and grave, yet full of confidence
and hope; but the conversation was brought to a close
by their arrival at the cottage whither both were bound.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b144.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b145.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER X<br />

<i>A STRANGE NIGHT</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b094i.jpg" alt="I" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">IT was a sultry August night, and Bride felt no
disposition for sleep. She had acquired during
her mother’s long illness the habit of wakefulness
during the earlier hours of the night,
when she was frequently beside the sick-bed, ministering
to the wants of the patient. Since death had robbed her
of that office, she had fallen into the habit of spending
the earlier hours of the night in meditation and prayer,
together with a study of the Scriptures; and to-night,
after her old nurse had brushed out her abundant hair,
and arranged it for the night, and after she had exchanged
her dress for a long straight wrapper which was
both cooler and more comfortable, she dismissed the old
servant with a few sweet words of thanks, and setting
her windows wide open to the summer night, knelt down
beside the one which looked out over the moonlit bay,
and was soon lost to all outward impression by her absorption
in her own prayerful meditations.</p>

<p>The hour of midnight had boomed from the clock-tower
before she moved, and then she was aroused less
by that sound than by a gradual consciousness that
there was in the sky, to which her eyes were frequently
raised, a glow that was not of the moon, but was more
ruddy in tone, and seemed to absorb into itself the
softer and whiter light. As she remarked this, her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>
thoughts came back to earth again, and rising from her
knees, she leaned out of the window, and then crossed
the room hastily towards that other window looking
away in the direction of Pentreath, and then at once she
understood.</p>

<p>A tall column of fire arose from behind the belt of
woodland which hid the distant town, a beautiful but
awful pillar of fire, reaching up as it seemed to the very
heavens, and swaying gently to and fro in the light
summer breeze. For a few moments Bride stood gazing
at it with eyes in which pain and wonderment were
gathering, and then a stifled exclamation broke from
her lips.</p>

<p>“God forgive them!—that is the work of incendiaries!”</p>

<p>She stood rigid and motionless a few moments longer,
and then with rapid fingers she began unfastening her
wrapper, and clothing herself in one of her dark walking
dresses. Her heart was beating fast and furiously. Her
face was very pale, for she was taking a resolution that
cost her a great effort; but she seemed to see her duty
clearly mapped out before her, and she came of a race
that was not wont to shrink from the path of duty because
the road was rough.</p>

<p>Few knew better than did Lady Bride Marchmont the
temper of the rude fisher-folk of St. Bride’s Bay. From
her childhood she had been wont to accompany her
mother down to that cluster of cottages and hovels
which formed the little community, and she had grown
up with an intuitive understanding of the people, and
their ways and methods of thought, which had been
matured and deepened by her many talks with Abner.
She knew full well that, although in the main kindly
men individually, there was a vein of ferocity running
through the fibre of their nature, which a certain class of
events always awoke to active life. Thirty years back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>
these men, or their fathers, were professionally wreckers,
and it had needed long patience, and all the gentle
influence of the Duchess and her helpers, to break them
of this terrible sin. Of late years deliberate wrecking
had to a very great extent died out, but there
was still in the hearts of the fishermen an irradicable
conviction that when “Providence” did send a vessel
to pieces on their iron-bound coast, the cargo of that
vessel became their lawful prey; and they were careless
enough, in striving to outwit the authorities and secure
the booty, of any loss of human life which might have
been averted by prompt measures on their part. They
made it rather a principle than otherwise to let the
crew drown before their eyes without any attempt at
rescue. When the crew were saved, they had a way of
claiming the contents of the ship if any came ashore,
and that was a notion altogether foreign to the ideas
of the fishermen of St. Bride.</p>

<p>The same instinct of plunder awoke within them
when any misfortune occurred in the neighbourhood;
and wherever there was booty to be had for the
taking, there were the hardy fisher-folk of the place
likely to be found. Bride realised in a moment that
if they saw the glow of this fire, and understood its
meaning as she did, they would set off at once to join
the band of marauders and incendiaries; and as every
addition to such a band brings a fresh access of lawlessness
and a growing sense of power, the very fact of the
arrival of this reinforcement was likely enough to result
in fresh outrage, and fresh scenes of destruction and
horror.</p>

<p>Whilst standing rigid and silent, watching that terrible
pillar of flame, Bride had turned the matter over in her
mind, and resolved upon her own course of action. She
knew the fishermen well, and knew their nature—at
once soft and passionate, gentle and ferocious. Were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>
she to alarm the household and get her father to send
down a number of the servants to try and stop them by
force from marching to join the riot, she knew that
nothing but fighting and disaster would ensue. There
was a long-standing and instinctive feud between the
servants of the castle, many of whom were not natives of
the place, and the rugged fisher-folk of the bay. The
servants despised the fishermen, and the fishermen hated
the servants. No good could possibly result from such a
course of action. But Bride knew every man amongst
them. She had gone fearlessly in and out of their houses
since childhood. She had sailed in their boats on
the bay, she had visited their wives in sickness, and
had clothed their children with the work of her own
hands. They loved her in their own rough way. She
knew that well, and she was a power in their midst, as
her mother had been before her. They might be stayed
by her pleading words, when no attempt at force would
do more than whet their desire after battle and plunder.
If she went alone, she had a chance with them; if she
stayed to get help, all would be lost.</p>

<p>Her resolution was taken in less time than it has taken
to read these lines. Donning her plainest dress and
cloak, and softly summoning from the anteroom a great
hound, who was the invariable companion of her lonely
walks, she opened another door into one of the turreted
chambers of the castle, and found her way down a spiral
staircase, lighted by broad squares of moonlight from
unclosed windows, to a door at the base, the bolts of
which she drew back easily—for this was her own ordinary
mode of access to the gardens—and found herself
out in the soft night-air with the moon overhead, and
that glow in the sky behind her which told such a terrible
tale of its own. There were two ways from the castle to
the fishing-village lying out of sight beneath the shelter
of the cliff. One was the long and roundabout way of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>
the zigzag carriage-drive, leading through the grounds
and out by the lodge upon the road, from which a bye-lane
led down to the shore. The other was a far shorter,
but a rough and in some seasons a perilous track—a narrow
pathway formed by a jutting ledge of rock, extending
by one of nature’s freaks from a little below the great terrace
in front of the castle right round the angle of the
bluff, and so to St. Bride’s Bay itself. A long, long flight
of steps led down from the sea-terrace of Penarvon to
the beach below, where the castle boats lay at anchor, or
were housed within their commodious boat-house, according
to weather and season; and from one spot as you descended
these steps a sure-footed person could step upon
the ledge of rock which formed the pathway round the
headland. Bride was familiar from childhood with this
path, and had traversed it too often and too freely to feel
the smallest fear now. The moonlight was clear and
intense. She knew every foot of the way, and even the
hound who followed closely in her wake was too well used
to the precarious ledge to express any uneasiness when
his mistress led the way down to it.</p>

<p>With rapid and fearless precision Bride made the
transit round the rocky headland, and saw the waters of
the bay lying still and calm at her feet. The ledge of
rock sloped rapidly down on this side of the bluff, and
very quickly Bride found herself quite close to the hamlet,
which lay like a sleeping thing beneath the sheltering
crags. Her heart gave a bound of relief. All was still
as yet. Perhaps the men had not realised what was
passing, and were all at home and asleep. She paused
a moment, reconnoitring, wondering whether she would
do better to go forward or back. But the sight of a light
shining steadily in one window, and a shadow passing to
and fro within the room it lighted, convinced her that
something was astir, and decided her to go on. She
knew the cottage well. It was that of the old woman who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span>
went by the name of Mother Clat. Bride knew that if
any mischief were afoot, she would be the first to know
it; nay, it was like enough it would be hatched and discussed
beneath her very roof. Even now the worst
characters of the place, the boldest of the men, and those
most bent on riot and plunder, might be gathered together
there; but the knowledge of this probability did no deter
Bride, who had all the resolute fearlessness of her race
and temperament; and she went composedly forward and
knocked at the outer door.</p>

<p>“Coom in wi’ ye,” answered a familiar voice, and
Bride lifted the latch and entered.</p>

<p>A fire of peat turves glowed on the open hearth, over
which a pot was hanging; but the room was empty, save
for the old woman herself, who gazed in unaffected amaze
at the apparition of the slim black-robed girl with her
white face and shining eyes.</p>

<p>“Loramassy! ef it ban’t t’ Laady Bride hersen!
Mercy on us! What’s brought she doon heer at such
a time! My pretty laady, you ’a no beznez out o’ your
bed sech a time as this. You shudden ’ave abin an’
gone vor tu leave t’ castle to-night!”</p>

<p>“Why not?” asked Bride, coming forward towards
the fire, and looking full at the woman, who shrank
slightly under the penetrating gaze. “What is going
on abroad to-night, Mother Clat? I know that something
is?”</p>

<p>“Fegs! I’m thinking the dowl himsel’s abroad these
days,” answered the woman uneasily. “The bwoys are
that chuck vull o’ mischief. Theer’s no holdin’ un when
’e gets un into ’is maw. It du no manner o’ gude to
clapper-claw un. ’T on’y maakes un zo itemy’s a bear
wi’ a zore yed.”</p>

<p>“Where are the men?” asked Bride quietly. The
woman eyed the girl uneasily and not without suspicion,
but the expression of her face seemed to reassure her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>“Ye dwawnt mean no harm to the bwoys ef so be as
I tellee?” she answered tentatively.</p>

<p>“No, indeed,” answered Bride earnestly. “I want to
keep them from harm all I can. I am so terribly afraid
they are running into it themselves. I hoped I should
be in time to stop it. Oh, I fear I am too late!”</p>

<p>“Crimminy!” ejaculated the old woman, with admiration
in her voice and eyes, “ef yu came to try an’ stop
they bwoys from mischief, yu are a righy bold un!—that
yu be! But ’tidden no use tu argufy widden. I did go
for tu try mysen: but twarn’t no use. Et gwoeth agin
the grain o’ men-folk tu listen tu a woman—let alone
a bit of a gurl like yu, my laady.”</p>

<p>“I think they would have listened to me if I could
have found them in time,” said Bride softly, with a great
regret in her eyes. “You mean they have all gone off
to join the rioters over at Pentreath?”</p>

<p>“They’ve abin tu Pentreath ever sin’ yestereen. Yu’ve
coom tu late, my pretty laady. Du ee go back now.
’Tidden no place for yu heer. What ud his Graace say
ef he heard you was tu St. Bride’s at this time o’ night?”</p>

<p>The woman was so manifestly uneasy that the girl
suspected something, though she knew not what. As she
stood looking into the fire, Mother Clat still urging her
to be gone, it suddenly occurred to her that possibly
the rioters had other plans than those whispered designs
against the mills of Pentreath. Had not her own father
angered one section of the community by the introduction
of machinery upon the land? And when the spirit
of revolt was aroused and well whetted by scenes of outrage,
might not one lead to others?</p>

<p>Looking straight at the old woman with the grave direct
glance which made this girl a power sometimes with those
about her, she asked clearly and steadily—</p>

<p>“Do you mean that you are expecting the men
back? that they are bent on doing mischief here? Do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>
not try and deceive me. It is always best to speak the
truth.”</p>

<p>The old woman cowered before the girl, as she never
cowered in the midst of the rude rough men, even when
they were in their cups, and threatened her with rough
ferocity.</p>

<p>“Yu nidden be glumpy wi’ I,” she half whimpered,
“I an’t adued nawt but try to keep un back. I twold
un it ud coom tu no gude. They’d better letten bide.
But I be terrabul aveared they means mischief. It’s
awl along o’ that Zaul. He’ve abin arufyin’, and aggin’
un on, and now they du zay as ’e’s leadin’ un the dowl
on’y knaws wheer; and they’re fair ’tosticated wi’t all!”</p>

<p>Bride started a little, as though something had stung
her, and a look of keen pain came into her face.</p>

<p>“Saul,” she said softly, “Abner’s boy! Ah! what a
sorrow it will be for him! And that is Eustace’s doing!
It was he who is responsible, not the poor hot-headed
youth himself. O Eustace! Eustace! will you ever see
the danger of the path you are treading, and the peril
into which you are leading others?”</p>

<p>The woman was loth to speak at first, but the charm
of Bride’s gentleness, and her absolute sense of security
in the goodwill of the young lady, overcame her reticence
at last, and she told the girl all she knew. It was not
much; but she had gathered from some news that
reached her at dusk that she might expect a party some time
in the small hours of the morning, who would
stand in need of refreshment, but would pay her well
for her trouble. Reading between the lines of the message,
she had got a shrewd notion that the marauders
under Saul Tresithny would pay a visit to the neighbourhood
of St. Bride’s that night, and it might be presumed
that the Duke’s new machinery might suffer in consequence.
This was by no means certain, however. The
Duke was known to take precautions not possible for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>
smaller farmers with fewer servants and less issue at
stake, and it might be that the attack would be made
upon the smaller men, who would less easily recoup themselves
for the loss. Of that the woman knew nothing; as
a matter of fact, she did not know, but only guessed,
that an attack might be made at all. She had soon
come to an end of such information as she possessed,
and Bride was left to consider what she ought to do
under the circumstances.</p>

<p>Should she go home and rouse her father’s men? or
would that only bring about the very collision she so
much wished to avoid? Was the information received
sufficient for her to act upon, or had it originated with the
woman herself, who was evidently not in the confidence
of the men? Musing for a few moments over this
question, Bride made a quick resolve, and after saying
a brief but kindly farewell to Mother Clat, who was
anxiously studying her face all the while, she slipped
out of the cottage, and along the silent little street of
the village beneath the cliff, till she found herself upon
the bit of rough road which led upwards from the shore,
through a narrow gully, towards the church and the
rectory.</p>

<p>Bride knew the habits of Mr. Tremodart. He was
seldom in bed before one or two o’clock in the morning.
He was a man of eccentric ways, and almost invariably
after his supper at half-past eight, sat down to smoke in
one of his untidy rooms, and at ten o’clock started out on
a long walk over the moors or along the cliffs, coming
home about midnight, and sitting up with a book for
an hour or two later. It was not much after one o’clock
now, and she had good hopes of catching him before
he retired. With all his peculiarities, and his lack of
the spirituality that was to Bride as the breath of life,
the Cornishman was a shrewd, hard-headed man, with a
large fund of common-sense, and a wide experience of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>
St. Bride’s folks and their ways. He would be by far
the best person to acquaint with the danger of the hour.
He was (as was usual in those days) magistrate as well
as clergyman, had a secular as well as sacred charge
over his people. To her great relief, as she unlatched
the garden-gate, she saw him standing out in his untidy
plot of ground and looking at the red light in the sky.
As her light footfall fell upon his ear, he turned with
a start, and his face expressed a great amazement
when he saw who had come to disturb his solitude at
such an hour.</p>

<p>“Lady Bride! Will wonders never cease! And what
are yu doing out here alone at this time of night, my
child? It is hardly fit yu should be abroad with no
protector but your dog. Is anything amiss at home?
And why did yu not send rather than come?”</p>

<p>In a few words Bride told the story of her evening’s
vigil and its result, the clergyman standing and looking
down at her in the moonlight, and making patterns on
the gravel with the point of his stick.</p>

<p>“The foolish lads! the foolish, wrong-headed lads!
they will bring mischief on their heads one of these
days, I take it. Well, well, well, it is perhaps less their
fault than those who egg them on, and puzzle their
heads by half-truths. Dear, dear, we must stop the
mischief if we can. I wonder now where they are like
to go first. To the Duke’s, think you, Lady Bride?
’Twas he who first brought in this new machinery, and
there would be most glory in destroying his property, as
they would think it, poor misguided souls!”</p>

<p>“Yes, but they know my father’s men have firearms,
and that the dogs are left loose in the great yard where
the machines are kept, and that there is always one
man sleeping in the room by the great alarm-bell that
was put up, who would rouse the whole castle if he
heard any sound of attack.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>“If they know that, they are hardly likely to be
daring enough to try to injure his Grace’s property,”
remarked Mr. Tremodart thoughtfully. “But there are
several more in their black books—Farmer Teazel, for
instance—and that misguided young Tresithny, whom
yu say is at the head of all this, knows the place well,
and would be able to lead them to it.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I cannot believe it of Saul!” cried Bride, with a
note of pain in her voice, “to turn into a leader of
cowardly mobs, after the teaching and the training he
has had! It doesn’t seem possible; yet I fear it is too
true. And it is, I fear, the doing of my cousin Eustace.
Oh, it seems too sad that we should first lead them on
to riot, and then sit in judgment upon them for what
we have taught them to do.”</p>

<p>“I must see if I cannot stop this before it has come to
a matter for the magistrates,” said Mr. Tremodart, with
a firm look upon his face; “if things go too far, it becomes
a hanging matter for the ringleaders—examples
are made, and the people intimidated by the hanging of
those who lead them. We must not let Abner’s grandson
finish his life upon the gallows if we can help it. So
come with me, Lady Bride; I will see you to the gate of
your home, and then go and meet these lads if they do
pay us a visit. They will most likely take the direct
road for some distance, and the night is very still. I
think I shall find them out by the tramp of their feet. I
have good ears for sound.”</p>

<p>Bride knew that, and walked rapidly by his side up
the steep road trending upwards towards the castle; but
when the lodge gate was reached, and he would have
opened it for her, she paused and placed her hand upon
his arm.</p>

<p>“I cannot,” she said; “I must go on. I must see the
end of this. Indeed, I shall get no harm. Nobody will
lay a finger on me. No, do not refuse me; do not think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>
me self-willed, but I must go with you. Something
within me tells me I must. Mr. Tremodart, it has been
the doing of a Marchmont that Saul Tresithny and these
poor ignorant fishermen are abroad with evil intent to-night.
You must not hinder me from striving to do
my share to avert the threatened danger, and I know I
shall not be hurt. You will be with me, and no one will
lay a finger on either of us. They may not listen to us;
but they will not hurt us. Our West-Country men are
not savages.”</p>

<p>Mr. Tremodart rubbed his chin and shook his head
in some perplexity. He did not think the delicate
girl was suited to the task in hand, and he rather
feared what the Duke might say when this night’s
work came to his ears; but then it was very difficult for
him to overcome the resistance of Lady Bride, whose
rank and standing gave her an importance of her own
quite independent of that exercised by her strong personality.</p>

<p>“I will tell my father that it was my own doing,” said
Bride quietly, observing his hesitation, and taking his
arm, she led him onwards, he yielding the point, because
he did not exactly know what else to do, having no authority
over her to insist on her return.</p>

<p>The walk was a swift but silent one. The road lay
white beneath their feet, and the moon, which was now
sinking in the sky, threw long strange shadows over the
world. The track grew rougher as it rose upon the
down-land, but both were good walkers, and did not
heed. The great hound paced silently behind them as
they moved, till all at once it lifted up its huge head, and
after sniffing the air suspiciously for a while, broke into a
low deep bay.</p>

<p>At that sound both pedestrians stopped and listened
intently, and in a few brief moments they heard a noise.
It was not the sound of the measured tramping they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>
had expected first to hear, but rather that of voices—voices
in confabulation or dispute, sometimes low and
confused, sometimes rising higher and higher, as if in
angry debate—the voices of a multitude, as was testified
by the continual hum, in addition to the more distinct
sounds of argument or strife. The moon just now had
passed behind a cloud, and the moor was very dark, but
Mr. Tremodart and Bride walked swiftly and silently
forward, leaving the road for the soft grass, as they
deflected their course, so as to come near to the spot
where the colloquy was being held. Their footsteps made
no sound, and Bride held the hound by the collar and
hushed him into silence. Very soon they had approached
near enough to hear what was passing, and to catch every
word of a harangue being delivered in a voice which
both of them knew only too well.</p>

<p>“I tell yu yu are cowards to think only of duing what
is safest and easiest for yourselves. Are we fighting for
ourselves, or for our miserable and oppressed brothers?
Men, we are bound together in a great undertaking; and
if we stand shoulder to shoulder in the fight, and are true
tu ourselves and tu each other all over the land, no power
can stand against us. We are bound together tu overthrow
tyrants and oppressors—the great ones of the
earth, who fatten upon our misery and grind us to the
very dust. Those are our enemies, and all of yu know
it as well as I. And now to-night, when the power is
in our hands, are we to disgrace our cause by falling
upon men only a little better off than ourselves, and
wrecking their goods and bringing them to misery? No—I
say no. I say that would be a coward act. And
those who want to go to yon upland farm, and ruin a man
who was once as one of us, till by his industry he raised
himself to comfort, or his father before him, must go
alone. I will not be with him. There is one man only
in these parts upon whose goods I will lay a hand, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>
that is the Duke of Penarvon. He is the type tu us of
that wealth and power we are banded together tu overthrow,
and I will lead yu on tu his place and lay down
my life in the struggle with all joy. But I will knock
down the first man who tries to go to the farm, and yu
men in the crowd who owe the farmer a grudge and
hound the rest on to attack him, yu best know whether
or not I can keep my word!”</p>

<p>There was dead silence after this speech, which was
evidently the culminating oration of a hot debate, and a
voice from the crowd called out—</p>

<p>“Us ban’t agwain’ vur tu be a-killed by the Duke’s
men an’ theer guns—we’m had enough o’ guns. We’ll
de dalled ef we du! Ef we can’t have a slap at t’old
varmer’s ’chines, us’ll gwo home tu our beds. Be yu
agwaine to take we theer or ban’t yu?”</p>

<p>“I’ll not take yu tu the varm, nor yet stand by and
zee yu gwo!” answered Saul hotly, lapsing from the
dignity of speaker into that of a common disputer, and
for a minute the battle raged again; but perhaps the
crowd from Pentreath had about tired itself out, for
there was no very determined resistance to Saul’s resolute
opposition, and evidently no disposition in the mob to
run the gauntlet of the Duke’s well-known and organised
opposition to such attacks.</p>

<p>In the darkness of the night—darkest before the dawn—the
crowd slowly melted away, slowly at first, but with
considerable rapidity, as the men realised that they were
hungry, and tired, and cold, and that many of them had
plunder from the burning mill to secrete before the
authorities came in search of them. Before the moon
shone out again the mob had melted like snow before the
sun, and Mr. Tremodart and Bride, whose figures seemed
to rise up out of the very ground before the astonished
gaze of one man left standing alone upon the moor, found
themselves face to face with Saul Tresithny, who looked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>
in the white low moonlight as though confronted by
veritable wraiths.</p>

<p>“Saul,” said Bride, coming one step forward, “why do
you hate my father so much? What ill has he ever done
to you, or to any in St. Bride?”</p>

<p>The man made no attempt to reply, till the glance
fixed full upon him seemed to draw the answer, but without
his own volition.</p>

<p>“It is not he himself I hate,” he said, speaking with
difficulty, “it is the whole system he supports. He is
one of the enemies of the cause of the people. He and
all his class are barriers and bulwarks against our freedom.
You do not understand; you could not. But we do, and
Mr. Marchmont will tell you all, if you ask him. He
knows. It is not the men themselves we hate, but the
power they hold over us. We will not have it longer.
We will break the yoke off our neck.”</p>

<p>At this moment the sound of galloping horse-hoofs was
heard along the soft turf, and the three standing in the
moonlight saw a young officer of dragoons, followed by
three mounted troopers, heading straight for them.</p>

<p>“That’s the fellow!” cried the officer; “seize him,
men, and make him fast. I thought we’d run him to
earth here. That’s your man. See he does not escape
you!”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b159.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b160.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XI<br />

<i>DUKE AND DEFAULTER</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b111b.jpg" alt="B" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">BRIDE made three steps forward and stood beside
the horse ridden by the young officer, the moonlight
shining clear upon her, and adding to the
pure pale character of her beauty.</p>

<p>“Captain O’Shaughnessy,” she said gently, “I think
you are making a mistake about this man.”</p>

<p>In a second the young officer was off his horse and
on his feet. He recognised the speaker now, although
his astonishment at such an encounter at such an hour
of the night—or rather morning, for the dawn would
soon begin to break—was past all power of expression.</p>

<p>“Lady Bride!—Can it be you? or do I see a ghost?”</p>

<p>“No, it is I,” answered the girl quietly; “I came out
with our good clergyman, Mr. Tremodart, to see if we
could persuade our foolish and misguided fishermen from
St. Bride to come quietly home. We were afraid they
were bent on mischief. But we only came up as the
crowd was dispersing. Your prisoner there was refusing
to permit an attack on the machinery at Farmer Teazel’s,
which the men were eager to make. That is why I
say that I think you are making a mistake in arresting
him.”</p>

<p>The young officer, who had received hospitality from
the Duke on occasion, as all the officers of the regiment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>
quartered near to Pentreath did from time to time,
looked from his prisoner to the lady and from the
lady to the prisoner in some perplexity, and then said
doubtfully—</p>

<p>“Do you not think you are mistaken, Lady Bride?
Was not the man urging them to make the attack?”</p>

<p>“No,” answered Bride at once. “He would have been
willing to do so had they marched upon my father’s place,
where there would have been a warm welcome for them,
and hard fighting; but his followers were not prepared
for that. They wished to go where there would be little
or no resistance, and where they could effect their purpose
with impunity. But your prisoner there threatened
to knock down the first man who attempted such a thing,
and his words had the effect of dispersing the crowd.
As you yourself saw, he was alone when you came up.
But for him, that dispersed crowd would have been in
full march upon one of the nearest farms here. Are
you arresting him for that?”</p>

<p>“Faith no!” answered the young man, evidently
rather nonplussed by the lady’s story, and uncertain
how to proceed. “Nevertheless this is the man, as I
take it, whom I was sent out to capture. Is not your
name Saul Tresithny?” he asked, turning towards the
prisoner, who stood perfectly still and quiet between his
guards, making no attempt at escape.</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>“And you were leading the mob in Pentreath this
night—helping to set fire to the mills?”</p>

<p>“I was with them part of the time,” answered Saul
fearlessly.</p>

<p>“And you are the man who makes speeches that sends
them all stark raving mad? I’ve heard of you, Saul
Tresithny. I think it is high time you had a taste of
prison discipline.”</p>

<p>“I do what I can for the cause of freedom,” answered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>
Saul, throwing back his head with a gesture that was
rather fine. “I cry death to tyranny and tyrants wherever
they be, but I’ll have no hand in harming poor
men’s goods. If my men would have marched on the
castle to-night, I’d have led them with all my best
ability; but they had not the stomach for it—poor, ill-fed
wretches—one can’t wonder. Courage and starvation
are not wont to walk hand in hand, so they melted
away like a mist just before you came. But I am here,
ready to lay down my life for the cause, if that will be
any good to it.”</p>

<p>The young officer shrugged his shoulders and turned
back to the lady with a gesture that spoke volumes.</p>

<p>“There, Lady Bride, you see what kind of a temper
that fellow has got; your pleadings are quite thrown
away on such as he.”</p>

<p>“He is only repeating what he has been taught, and
that by those who should know better,” pleaded Bride
gently, yet earnestly. “Captain O’Shaughnessy, I have
known that young man all my life, and until he was led
away by the voice of this cruel agitation he bore the best
of characters; and to-night he has dispersed a lawless
mob by the strength of his own determination. Men
are not punished for their intentions but for their deeds.
He says he would have injured my father’s property;
but he did not do it. What he did do was all in the
cause of law and order. Mr. Tremodart, tell Captain
O’Shaughnessy what we saw and heard; then he will
understand better that he is making a mistake about
Saul.”</p>

<p>“I can only testify that what you’ve said is the truth,
Lady Bride. I can’t say, of course, what the young man
has been doing earlier on; but we came out to try and
stop the boys of St. Bride from getting intu mischief,
which is a way they have when mischief is afloat; and
we came upon the young fellow making a speech which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span>
had the effect of sending them tu the right-about and
dispersing them. That’s all true as gospel; but whether
yu are justified in letting your prisoner escape yu, I
don’t profess to judge. Yu should know your duty better
than we can teach it yu.”</p>

<p>“And I’m afraid my duty is to arrest him and take
him back to Pentreath,” said the young man regretfully.
“Lady Bride, I don’t like doing anything against your
wishes, but my orders were to ride after the mob and
disperse it, and capture Saul Tresithny if possible. I
don’t think I should be justified in letting him escape
me after that—once having my hands upon him. You
wouldn’t wish me, I am sure, to fail in my own duty
and obedience?”</p>

<p>The young fellow spoke almost pleadingly, and Bride’s
face changed. The soft eager light went out of her
eyes, and was replaced by one of sadness and resignation.</p>

<p>“I must persuade no one to fail in duty and obedience,”
she said, with a sigh, “least of all one of his
Majesty’s soldiers. But will you remember all that I have
spoken in his favour, and let it be known what he did
to-night?”</p>

<p>“Faith and I will. I’ll say everything I can in his
favour—how he didn’t resist us, but behaved as quietly
and as well as possible, and had sent all the people to
the right-about before ever we had got up to them.
I’ll say everything I know for him, poor fellow. For
he’ll need it—with the charges they’ll bring against
him.”</p>

<p>The soldiers, at a sign from their superior, had walked
the prisoner a little farther away, and Bride, looking
anxiously into Captain O’Shaughnessy’s face, asked, in a
low voice—</p>

<p>“What charges will they bring?”</p>

<p>“Arson, for one thing,” answered the young man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>
significantly. “You see, there’s been a lot of damage done
in Pentreath to-night, and it’s pretty well known that
Tresithny and another little cobbler fellow have been the
stirrers-up of all this turbulence. They’ve got the cobbler
fast enough; and now I’ve got Tresithny too. They’ll
be examined to-morrow before the magistrates, and most
likely committed for trial. It’s been a bad bit of business,
and the country is getting exasperated with all this
senseless rioting and destruction of property. They make
signal examples now and again of ringleaders—just to try
and deter others.”</p>

<p>Bride turned very white in the dying moonlight.</p>

<p>“What do you think they will do to him?” she asked,
in a low voice.</p>

<p>“Well, I can’t say. I’ll tell all you’ve told me,
Lady Bride. I’ll say what there is to say in his favour,
for he’s a plucky fellow, and deserves a better fate.
He’d make an uncommon fine soldier, if he were only in
the ranks now. But many men have been hanged for
less than has been astir in Pentreath these past few days,
and there’s a strong feeling in the place against this
fellow Tresithny.”</p>

<p>Bride caught her breath a little sharply, but her voice
was quite calm as she bowed her adieus to the young
officer.</p>

<p>“Well, I must not detain you any longer, Captain
O’Shaughnessy. I am grateful to you for telling me
the truth, and for promising to befriend Saul Tresithny
as far as you are able. You say he will be brought before
the magistrates to-morrow—does that mean to-day?
It is their day for sitting, I know.”</p>

<p>“To-day! why, to be sure it is to-day,” answered
the young man, with a short laugh. “Good morning,
Lady Bride. I must be off after my men. They have
been out the best part of the night. I’ll say all I can
for that fellow Tresithny; but——”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span>He sprang on his horse, and the rest of the sentence,
if it was ever finished, was lost on Bride. She took
Mr. Tremodart’s arm, and he felt that she was trembling
all over.</p>

<p>“This has been too much for you, Lady Bride,” he
said, with his awkward gentleness. “I ought not to have
let you come.”</p>

<p>“It is not that,” answered Bride, in a very low voice.
“I am not tired; it is the thought of <i>that</i>. Oh, Mr.
Tremodart, is it true?—can they hang him for it?”</p>

<p>“The magistrates cannot hang him,” answered Mr.
Tremodart; “and if he is committed for trial, several
weeks will elapse before the assize comes on, and things
may have happened to divert public attention; so perhaps
the feeling against him will not be running so high.
All those things make a great difference.”</p>

<p>“But have they hanged men before for this sort of
thing?”</p>

<p>“Yes—they have certainly done so.”</p>

<p>Bride shuddered again. She spoke some words, as if
to herself, in so low a voice that he could not catch
them; but he thought he heard the name of Eustace pass
her lips.</p>

<p>He shook his own head sorrowfully.</p>

<p>“I was afraid Mr. Marchmont was wrong in trying to
stir up the people to be discontented and rebellious. He
meant well—all those reformers mean well, and have a
great deal on their side; but they go to work so often
in the wrong way, and their followers make the blunder
ten times worse. It’s not easy to say out of hand how
the thing should be done; but I take it they’ve not got
hold of the right end of the stick yet.”</p>

<p>The two walked with rapid steps, their thoughts keeping
them silent for the most part. Bride’s mind was
hard at work; her feelings were keenly stirred within her.
The burden of the song which kept ringing in her ears<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>
was, “This is Eustace’s doing, this is Eustace’s work.
Oh, how can we let another die, and die perhaps unfit
and impenitent through his act, through his teaching?
It must not be. Oh, it shall not be! Saul must not die
through Eustace’s fault!”</p>

<p>Bride had come to think of Eustace in a way she
scarcely understood herself. She had not greatly liked
him on his visit. For many weeks she had thought little
of him, and later on, when she knew him better, she saw
too much in him to disapprove to grow in any way
dependent upon him. And yet since his departure
she was conscious that he filled a good deal of her
thoughts, that she felt a certain responsibility in his
career, and that she was unable to help identifying
herself with him in a fashion she could neither understand
nor explain.</p>

<p>True he had made her an offer of marriage, and had
professed an undying love for her. He had gone away
half pledged to return and seek her again; and no woman
can be utterly indifferent towards a man who loves her,
especially when she is young, and has never known what
it is to be wooed before. Bride had shrunk back in
justifiable reproof when Eustace spoke of her as being
the sun and star of his life, the elevating power which
could raise him to what heights she would; but none
the less did his words leave an impress on her sensitive
mind, and gave her much food for reflection. She was too
well taught, as well as too full of spiritual insight, to be
confused by such an outburst, or to come to look upon herself
as responsible for the soul of the man who had almost
offered it to her to make what she would of; but she had
begun to wonder what she might be able to do for him
by prayer and unceasing intercession, and the thought
was helping her to take a keener and more personal interest
in any matter in which Eustace was concerned than
would otherwise have been the case.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>The dawn was breaking as Bride reached home, but
she slipped up to her room unobserved. She was too
worn out and weary to think any more just then; and
slipping off her clothes and getting into bed, she fell into
a deep sleep, which lasted till the attendant came to rouse
her in the morning.</p>

<p>Refreshed by those few hours of dreamless sleep, but
with her mind as full as before of the events of the past
night, she rose and dressed, and found her way to the
breakfast-room just as her father was entering.</p>

<p>The Duke’s face was very stern. He had just heard
of the riots in Pentreath. Mr. St. Aubyn had come half-an-hour
earlier to speak to him on the matter. He was
on his way to Pentreath, for both he and Mr. Tremodart,
according to the prevailing custom of the day, were on
the magisterial bench, and he often came in on his way
to a sitting to consult the Duke on some point of law,
or ask leave to look in his many and valuable books for
some information on a knotty point. He was in the
library at this moment, and the Duke was ordering some
refreshment to be taken to him there, as he had no time
to come to the breakfast-room.</p>

<p>When he saw his daughter, he greeted her with an
air of abstraction; and as the two sat at table together,
he told her in a few words the news which had
reached him, and spoke of his own intention of accompanying
Mr. St. Aubyn to Pentreath, in order to make
personal inquiries and inspection as to the magnitude
of the riot.</p>

<p>Bride listened in silence whilst he spoke; and then
suddenly summoning up all her own courage (for she had
all her life stood in considerable awe of her father), she
told him in unconsciously graphic words the whole story
of her night’s adventure, and of the terrible peril now
menacing Saul Tresithny.</p>

<p>The Duke listened in silence, but evidently the story<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>
produced a profound impression on him. His eyes never
moved from his daughter’s face as she proceeded, and at
the end he sat perfectly silent for a full three minutes
before he put a sudden question—</p>

<p>“And why are you so keenly interested in the fate of this
Saul Tresithny, Bride? What is he more to you than the
cobbler, for instance, of whom Captain O’Shaughnessy
spoke? Is it because he is a St. Bride man—Abner’s
grandson? Poor old Abner!—it will be a terrible blow to
him!”</p>

<p>“I think it will kill him if Saul is condemned to death,”
said the girl, with shining eyes. “Yes, papa, it is all that—I
have known Saul ever since I can remember anything—ever
since I was a tiny child, and he used to collect
shells and seaweed for me, and make me boats to sail.
But it is not that quite—it is not only that he belongs to
our village, and that he is Abner’s grandson. That would
always make me interested in him, and dreadfully sorry if
he got into trouble. But there is another and a much
greater reason than that. Oh, papa! surely you know
what it is!”</p>

<p>He was still looking at her earnestly. Little as Bride
knew it, there was at this moment in her face a look of
her mother which the Duke had never observed there
before; her face was pale from her night’s vigil, and from
the stress of her emotion. Her dark eyes were full of a
liquid light, reminding him painfully of the dying brightness
of his wife’s eyes as she gave him her last solemn
charge. Even the note of appeal in the girl’s voice had
something of the mother’s sweetness and softness. Bride
<i>had</i> been growing increasingly like her mother during the
past months—many people had observed it; but her father
had never noticed it till now. Now the likeness struck
him with a curious force, and Bride noted that he seemed
arrested by her words as had seldom been the case before.
But he made no verbal response, and she suddenly rose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span>
and came over to him and knelt down at his feet, clasping
her hands upon the arm of his chair, and turning her
sweet, quivering, earnest face up towards him. Probably
she would never have ventured upon this demonstration
before her unapproachable father, had it not been that
her sensitive spirit had received some instinctive consciousness
of sympathy new between him and herself. He
laid his hand now upon her clasped fingers, and the touch
sent a quick thrill through her.</p>

<p>“Papa, Saul must not die!” she said, with intense
earnestness of resolve. “He must not die a traitor’s
death, for the things he has done are not prompted by
his own imaginings. The words he has spoken are not
his own. It is Eustace who has done it all—Eustace who
is the author of all. Oh, papa, the punishment must not
fall on Saul’s head. I think it would break Eustace’s
heart if he were to know that Saul had come to his death
like that.”</p>

<p>The Duke’s face was very dark and stern, but his sternness
was not for his child, as Bride knew by the pressure
of the fingers upon her hand.</p>

<p>“Eustace should think of this before he sets about
playing with explosives. Could he not see that young
Tresithny was not a man to be stirred up with impunity?
What a man sows, that shall he also reap.”</p>

<p>“Ah! truly he does! Oh, papa, I fear me the harvest
Eustace will have to reap will be a very bitter one; but,
indeed, indeed Saul must not die for Eustace’s fault.
Eustace is our kinsman. He was here as our guest.
We cannot altogether shirk the responsibility of his deeds.
Papa, you will not let Saul die for what is the folly and
sin of Eustace. Ah! no. You will save him, I know.
You will save him, for the honour of the name of Marchmont!”</p>

<p>“What can I do. Bride? I have no power. I am not
one of the magistrates.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>“You are not a magistrate, but you have more power
than any one in the county,” answered Bride, with a smile
so like her mother’s, that the heart of the old man contracted
first with pain, and then swelled with a sense
of new happiness. “Eustace would perhaps call it an
abuse, that one man should have so much power in his
hands just because he had wealth and lands; but I do
not think that. I hold that if he uses his power on behalf
of true justice and true mercy, and in the cause of Christ,
it can be a power of great good to be used for the glory
of God and the blessing of man. <i>You</i> will use your power
so, dearest father, will you not? Saul would have striven
to do you hurt last night, not from any personal enmity,
but because he has been wrongly taught by our own kinsman.
You will go to-day and plead for him before his
accusers, and show him that the rich do not hate and
oppress the poor, that the great ones of the world can feel
compassion and tenderness for those who are deceived
and led away, and that in them, and not in those who raise
the cry of hatred and bitterness, their friends are to be
found.”</p>

<p>The Duke was silent for several minutes, and Bride did
not disturb him by so much as a word. He had laid his
hand upon her head, and was looking into her eyes with a
glance she could not understand. In very truth he was
recalling the parting scene with his wife, the last charge
she had given him before the hand of death had been
laid upon those lips. It seemed to him as if now,
all these months later, he was listening to the echo of
those words; and a strange wave of tenderness swept over
him, softening the hard lines of his face, and bringing
into it something which Bride had scarcely seen there
before.</p>

<p>“You would have me stand before our ministers of the
law as the advocate of one who has been lawless, criminal,
and the stirrer-up of sedition? Am I to appear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span>
before our townsfolks as the supporter of anarchy and
arson?”</p>

<p>“No, but of mercy and goodwill towards the erring
and deceived,” answered Bride, “as the one man perhaps
in the whole place who can so stand fearlessly
forward on the side of mercy, when he is known to be
held the greatest enemy to the public good, the bitterest
enemy these poor misguided creatures have. They hold
you to be the embodiment of all that is cruel and crushing—you
will show them that you are their best friend.
You will plead for them, their ignorance, their inability to
see the falsity and folly of their teachers. You will show
that Saul has hitherto led an honest and industrious life;
that till he was led away by the teachings of Eustace, he
was one of the steadiest men in St. Bride. You will tell
how he averted the attack on the farm last night, and
strive to gain mercy for one who has been only blinded
and maddened by others, and has within him the germs
of so much that is good. It is a first offence. Surely
you can gain mercy for him! Oh, I do not know how to
bear the thought that Saul may have to die for what is
the fault of Eustace!”</p>

<p>The Duke sat very still, thinking deeply.</p>

<p>“You hold the fault to be Eustace’s?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” answered Bride, slowly and mournfully. “Other
causes may have helped, but Eustace set the ball rolling.
He taught Saul discontent, as he has tried to teach it to
others. He thinks that that is the first step towards
trying to make men raise themselves. As Abner truly
says, it is beginning at the wrong end; but he cannot see
that. If they would but be discontented with themselves
first—with their sinfulness, with their vices—if they
would rise higher by that repentance and cleansing which
would purify their hearts, then there would be hope for
them to rise in other ways. But to begin by stirring up
all that is most selfish and wicked, all the anger, hatred,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>
and malice, which Christ came down to destroy and overcome—ah!
how can they look for good to come? It never
will and it never can.”</p>

<p>The Duke suddenly rose to his feet, for the clock had
chimed the hour of ten.</p>

<p>“I must be going if I am to go,” he said. “My child,
you are your mother’s daughter. Her voice speaks to
me in yours. I will do what I can for that miserable
man, for her sake and yours.”</p>

<p>Her face quivered as she heard these words, and she
turned away to hide her emotion. He could not have
spoken words which would more cheer her than these
which spoke of a likeness to her mother. Would she
ever be able in some small degree to take that vacant
place with him?</p>

<p>The day seemed to pass wearily for Bride. Abner was
not in the garden. The Duke himself had sent him to
the town to try and get speech of his turbulent grandson,
and to persuade him, if it were possible, to comport
himself with due humility, and without a needless show
of defiance before the magistrates that day. None knew
better than the Duke how much harm Saul might do
to his own cause by an assumption of defiance and
impenitence before the arbiters of his fate; and none
knew better than he how little chance the young man
stood if he were once committed for trial at the County
Assizes. Although the spirit of reform was stirring all
classes of the community, the feeling against revolution
was growing stronger in England with each small outbreak—stronger,
that is, in the eyes of the governing
powers—and signal examples were made of many obscure
persons who had been concerned in turbulent risings
and riots. Once before the criminal judges of the land,
accused of arson, riot, and such-like misdemeanours,
a short shrift and a long halter were almost sure to be
his fate. All lay in the Duke’s power to avert a committal,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>
and Abner had been despatched with all speed
to seek and use his influence with the impracticable
young man, that he might not tie a rope round his
own neck by some such speeches as he had made before
Captain O’Shaughnessy.</p>

<p>The day seemed interminably long to Bride. She
went down to the fishing-village, and spoke earnestly
with many of the men (now returned home in that state
of sheepish shame and satisfaction that betrayed the
fact of their having been engaged in some lawless but
by no means profitless undertaking) of the wickedness
of such attacks on other people’s property, and this
spoiling of other people’s goods.</p>

<p>They listened to her grave gentle remonstrances in
silence, half ashamed of their conduct so long as her
eye was upon them, never daring in her presence to
attempt the style of argument freely indulged in alone.
There was not one of those wild rough men who would
have laid a finger on this slight gentle girl, not though
she was clad in gold and jewels, or would have
spoken a rough word or used an oath in her presence.
She and her mother had been and still were an
embodiment to them of something transcendently pure
and holy: it was the one elevating and sanctifying element
in their lives; and many a man or woman, when
the hand of death seemed about to clutch them, had sent
in haste to know whether one of the ladies from the
castle would come, feeling that in such a presence as
that even the king of terrors would be robbed of half
his power to hurt.</p>

<p>The day drew at last to its close, and Bride stationed
herself at a window to watch for the return of her father.
She saw him at last riding slowly up the ascent, with
the servants behind him; and giving him time to alight
and reach the hall, she met him there with an eager
question on her lips.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>“Oh, papa, what have you to tell me?”</p>

<p>“He is not committed for trial,” answered the Duke,
as he moved slowly across to his study, and sat down
wearily in his own chair. “I could not save him altogether,
and perhaps it will be well for him to taste
prison discipline after what he has been doing these
past weeks.”</p>

<p>“Prison! Oh, is Saul in prison?”</p>

<p>“He has been sent to jail for six months. It was
the least sentence that could well be passed upon him.
There were two on the bench almost resolved to make
a criminal case of it; but as you say, my love, my word
goes a long way yet, and Mr. Tremodart and Mr. St.
Aubyn and another clergyman were on the side of mercy.
Your story was told, and it was corroborated by Captain
O’Shaughnessy, and Saul’s previous good character and
steadiness up to the time he had been led away by
demagogues” (and a little spasm crossed the Duke’s face)
“was all in his favour. It was the first time he had
been had up—a first offence in the eyes of the law,
though there were stories of months of conduct the
reverse of satisfactory to the authorities. Still he had
dispersed the crowd last night—no one could dispute
that; and he was not proved to have been present at
the firing of the mills. The evidence on that point
was too confused and contradictory to go for anything.
He denied himself having been there, and we all believed
he spoke the truth, for he seemed almost reluctant to
admit that he had not been in the forefront of the riot.
He had been attracted to the spot by the sight of the
flames, and had consented to head a march upon my
yard. How that ended you know. There was another
ringleader who had headed the arson mob, a cobbler, a
well-known and most dangerous man. He was committed
for trial; there is no chance for him. His life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>
will pay the forfeit of his crime; but Saul Tresithny
has escaped with six months’ imprisonment. Let us
hope that he will have time and leisure in prison to
meditate on the error of his ways and come out a better
and a wiser man.”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b175.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b176.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XII<br />

<i>AUTUMN DAYS</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b176d.jpg" alt="D" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">DURING the latter half of the year 1830, England
was passing through some searching experiences,
and through a crisis of her political
history. The events of these momentous years
of the Reform struggle have become by this time a matter
of history, but a very brief outline of passing events may
not be out of place for younger readers.</p>

<p>When George IV. mounted the throne, the hopes of
the Whig party rose high. He was held to be the
champion of liberty and reform, and it was a bitter
disappointment to those who had regarded him as the
friend and pupil of Fox, to find him cast himself into
the arms of the Tory party and turn his back on former
associates. The leaven of reformed representation had
taken such hold of the nation, however, that already a
strong party existed, not in the country alone, but in
Parliament; yet the prospects of that party were at a
very low ebb, till the sudden turn brought about in the
first place by the death of the king, and secondly by the
“Three days of July” in Paris, when an arbitrary ministry,
striving to override the Chamber of Deputies and
subvert the constitution, brought about the momentous
rising in Paris which cost Charles X. his throne, and
raised Louis Philippe to be “King of the Barricades.”</p>

<p>With the accession of William IV., the hopes of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>
Reform party rose high. The Sailor Prince, as the people
liked to call him, although he had been something of a
Tory in early life, did not stand pledged to any side in
politics, and might have the shrewdness to take warning
by the fate of his brother of France, and deem it wise
and politic to support all that was right and reasonable
in the projected scheme of reform. The champions of
the movement were Lord Grey, Lord Durham, his son-in-law,
Lord John Russell, and Lord Brougham; but the
Duke of Wellington and his cabinet were strenuously
opposed to any alteration in the existing method of Parliamentary
representation; and when Parliament met
for the first time in the new king’s reign, in October,
the premier plainly stated this opinion in his opening
speech, and with his customary boldness asserted that
not only would he introduce no measure of reform, but
he would strenuously oppose any that should be brought
before the House.</p>

<p>It is well for a minister to have the courage of his
opinions; but from the moment of the delivery of that
speech the existing ministry became highly unpopular
throughout the country. All far-seeing men, of whatever
shade of opinion, recognised that, whether for good
or ill, the time had come when something must be done
to give the large cities and the opulent middle classes a
voice in the representation of their country. The rotten
boroughs, however desirable from a partisan point of
view, were obviously an abuse, and were doomed; the
country was in a state of ferment which threatened to
become dangerous, and the spirit shown by the Wellington
Ministry was one which was at that juncture
impossible to carry out in practical legislation. They
recognised this themselves, and resigned in November,
upon a very small and insignificant defeat, knowing that
if they did not do so then, they would only be forced later
on upon a more crucial question.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>Lord Grey was intrusted by the king with the formation
of the next ministry, and the winter months were
spent in private discussions amongst the leaders of the
Reform party as to the nature of the bill to be introduced.
Its terms were kept a profound secret till the following
March, when Lord John Russell announced them in a
densely packed and intensely excited House of Commons.
After a spirited debate the House agreed to accept the
introduction of the bill for amending the representation
without a division; but the second reading was carried
only by a majority of one, and the Government, foreseeing
that so strong a measure could never be carried
through committee with such an uncertain majority,
determined to appeal to the country, and on sustaining
a small defeat on a resolution of General Gascoigne’s,
resolved on a dissolution. The king was greatly opposed
to this, but was persuaded at last to consent to it; and to
the great joy of the reforming party all over the country,
Parliament was dissolved, and writs for a fresh election
issued.</p>

<p>This is anticipating matters in the course of the narrative,
but it is better to give the brief abstract of the
work of Lord Grey’s ministry consecutively. As for the
terms of the new Reform Bill, they will be found in any
history of the day, and are hardly in place in the pages
of a story.</p>

<p>These autumn days, spent by Saul Tresithny eating out
his heart in prison, but by the country at large in a state
of seething excitement and unrest, and by such men as
Eustace Marchmont in an eager canvassing amongst men
of all shades of opinion and all sorts of positions for
adherents to the new gospel of reform and emancipation,
were passed by Bride very quietly in her sea-girt home,
and by the Duke in much serious thought, and study of
the vexed questions of the day.</p>

<p>He and his daughter, since that day when she made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span>
her appeal to him on behalf of Saul, had drawn slowly
yet surely nearer together. The change was hardly
noticeable at first, though Bride was sensible of an increased
gentleness in her father’s manner. But by
degrees he came to talk more to her of the things
working in his mind, and she began to ask questions of
him, which hitherto she had kept locked up in her own
heart. Both were the better for the outlet, and began to
look forward to the evening hour after dinner, when they
sat together in the big drawing-room and spoke of whatever
was uppermost in their minds. It was in this way
that they came to speak often about the questions of the
day, which subject led naturally to that of Eustace and
his doings and sayings. Eustace was often a great deal
in the minds both of father and daughter just then. He
wrote to the Duke regularly, though not frequently, and
his letters were always full of interesting information,
though this information was not always palatable to the
recipient, who was too old to change his attitude of mind,
and whilst striving after tolerance and a spirit of justice
and impartiality, regarded with something very much like
dread the coming strife.</p>

<p>“Shall we invite Eustace to spend his Christmas with
us this winter?” asked the Duke of his daughter one
day towards the latter end of October.</p>

<p>Bride glanced at her father, and her cheek crimsoned
suddenly.</p>

<p>“If—if—you wish it, papa,” she said, with visible hesitancy.</p>

<p>The old man glanced at her with a quick searching look.</p>

<p>“Does that mean you would not wish it yourself?”</p>

<p>“I—I—hardly know. I had not thought of it. Eustace
was very kind to me when he was here; but——”</p>

<p>Again she faltered in a way that was not much like
her, and her father, watching her with a newly awakened
interest, said gently—</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>“I do not wish to distress you, my dear. Perhaps
there is something in this that I do not understand.
I have no wish to force your confidence. We will say no
more about it.”</p>

<p>But Bride rose quickly, and came and knelt down beside
her father, turning her sweet trustful face up to his.</p>

<p>“Papa, do not speak so, please—as though I would not
tell you everything in my heart. I think I should like you
to know. I did not say anything at first—I did not know
whether Eustace might have done so or not, for he went
the very same day, and I think just when it happened I
could not have talked about it. But before he went he
told me that he loved me, and he asked me to be his wife;
but I could not, and so he went away; and I do not know
whether he will ever come back any more. That is why I do
not know what to say about asking him for Christmas.”</p>

<p>The Duke was silent for many minutes, stroking Bride’s
soft hair with gentle fingers, and looking very thoughtfully
into her face. She knelt beside him, only thankful for
the caressing touch, which was still sufficiently infrequent
to stir her pulses and awaken a sense of indescribable
happiness.</p>

<p>“So he asked you to be his wife, and you refused him.
What does that mean, Bride? Does it mean that you do
not like him?”</p>

<p>“No, papa; it means that I do not love him.”</p>

<p>The Duke paused and looked into the fire. The expression
on his face made the girl ask quickly—</p>

<p>“You are not vexed with me for answering as I did?”</p>

<p>“No, my child, I am not vexed. You were right to
answer according to the dictates of your own heart. And
yet, had things been a little different with Eustace, I would
gladly have seen you his wife.”</p>

<p>A faint glow of colour stole into Bride’s face.</p>

<p>“If things were different with Eustace,” she said very
softly, “I think perhaps I could have answered differently.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span>
I think about him a great deal. I am grateful for his
love, and it hurts me to have none to give in return; but
as things now are, I cannot give it to him. He grieves
me so often. I know that he would make me miserable
if I had let his earnestness carry me away. He might
be so great, so noble, so good, but he just fails in everything;
and I think he would break my heart if I were
his wife.”</p>

<p>The Duke looked earnestly into her earnest eyes.</p>

<p>“It is his views that stagger you? Yes, my child,
that is what I feel about him—and them. I will not
deny that when first he came to us I had hopes that
you and he might learn to love one another. You will
never be anything but a rich woman, Bride, even though
Penarvon and its revenues must go to Eustace. You will
have your mother’s ample fortune, and everything I have
to leave independently of the estate. You will have wealth
and position; but you are very lonely. You have no near
relations, and your mother’s health made it impossible for
you to be taken to London and presented and introduced
to society. Your life has been a very solitary one, and
I have regretted it. I confess I had hopes with regard
to Eustace; but when I learnt what manner of man he
was, and how he stands pledged to a policy which I can
never approve in the abstract, though I will not deny
that some of its concrete measures are just and fair,
I began to feel differently on the subject. And you have
the same feelings, it seems, as I.”</p>

<p>Bride slipped to a footstool at her father’s feet, and
leaned upon his knee with his hand still held in hers, and
her face turned towards the fire.</p>

<p>“Papa,” she said, “I do not think it is Eustace’s
Radical views which repel me, except in so far as they are
bound up in those which to me are both sinful and sad.
I know that he has the welfare of this land and its
people as much at heart as you; that he loves his country<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>
and the poor in it as we love them; that he wishes to
raise and teach and make them better and happier.
I know he would spend his life and his fortune in the
cause and grudge it nothing if good could be done.
There is a great deal that I admire and love in Eustace;
but, ah! I cannot divide into two distinct parts his political
views and those other views of his which are so
integral a part of his character. To me they seem interlocked
at every point, and therefore at every point I see
something which repels me—something which I shrink
from—something which seems to me untrue and evil
in essence, even though on the surface so much may
be said for it. I do not know if you understand me.
Sometimes I scarcely understand myself—hardly know
how to put my thoughts into words; but they are there,
always with me; and the more I think, the less I can
feel that the two things can ever be altogether divided.”</p>

<p>“What two things?” asked the Duke. “I do not
think I follow you.”</p>

<p>“I mean, papa, the spiritual and the intellectual side
of our nature. You know we have a threefold nature—body,
soul, and spirit; but yet it is all one, and I think
people make a great mistake when they seek to try and
divide the physical and the intellectual from the spiritual.
Eustace does—in practice, if not in theory. He wishes to
gain for the poor an improved condition of bodily comfort,
and I am sure this is a kindly and a right wish. He
has told me things that make my blood curdle about the
awful misery and want reigning in many places. He
wants to raise men intellectually, to think for themselves,
to learn many things which will help in their advancement,
to strive after a better standard, and to be disgusted
at their present ignorance and degradation. But having
done that, he stops short. He has no wish to quicken in
their spirits the love of God, which would purify these
other desires and hold in check the baser passions they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>
so often arouse without that curb. Of their spirits he
takes no heed—how should he, when he does not even
admit that there is an inner and spiritual life—when he
is content to remain in ignorance of everything beyond
the limits of his own understanding, and to assert that
nothing can be positively taught as truth which cannot
be proved by the finite intellect of man? I may not
put his case quite justly, because he does not speak of
these things openly to me. He tries to pass them over
in vague words, and keep the talk to ‘practical matters.’
But I have heard enough to know what he does think—to
know that he has no faith in the Crucified Saviour—in
an Incarnate God—in a Sanctifying Spirit; and without
that faith, how can he hope to lead men aright?
Ah! he will never do it!”</p>

<p>The Duke looked down at the girl’s face seen in
profile as she half raised it towards him, and he marvelled
at her, yet traced in her words the outcome of
her mother’s teaching, and felt as though his wife were
speaking to him through the lips of her daughter. He
had always regarded his wife as something of a saint
or angel—recognising in her deep spirituality a calibre
of mind altogether different from his own, and in her
faith, intense and vivid, a something vastly different
from his own dry orthodoxy. He had often listened to
her in wonder and amaze, half lifted up by her earnestness,
half shrinking from following her into regions so
strangely unfamiliar; but there was in Bride’s line of
argument a thread of practical common-sense which
aroused in him a curiosity to know more of her mind,
and he said tentatively—</p>

<p>“You mean that you do not believe even in political
reform unless it is based on the highest spiritual
motives?”</p>

<p>“I think I mean,” answered Bride thoughtfully,
“that I do not believe there <i>can</i> be any true reform<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span>
at all that does not come from a spiritual impulse.
How can I say it best? Eustace is fond of quoting
the Bible to me. He bids me remember that we are
called upon by Christ to love our neighbours as ourself,
and goes on to point out that he is trying to
work upon that principle. But he forgets that we are
<i>first</i> bidden to love God with all our soul and mind
and strength, and that the brotherly love is the outcome,
the corollary of the love to God which should be
the leading thought of our whole life.”</p>

<p>“Yes!—and what do you deduce from that?”</p>

<p>“Oh, papa, can you not see? Look what those men
are doing who think that they can love their brothers
and do them good without loving God first and best!
Look what Eustace has done!—stirred up strife and
discontent all round the country, landed poor Saul in
a prison, provoked deeds of violence, lawlessness, and
reckless wickedness—deeds that he himself would be
the first to deplore and condemn, yet which are the
direct outcome of his teaching. These men love their
brothers, yet they stir up class hatred wherever they
go—and why? It is because they forget that love of
God <i>must</i> come first if any good is to come; it is
because, though they themselves love their fellows, they
cannot teach love of mankind to these more ignorant
men whom they would lead. When men do not understand
the sweetness of obedience to the perfect law of
God, how can they ever be taught the duty of obedience
to the imperfect law of man?—and yet we know that
obedience to law—even when that law is sadly imperfect—is
God’s will and ordinance, and that it brings its
blessing with it. Oh, if men would go about teaching
the people to love God with all their heart and soul
and strength, to love each other in the bond of unity
and peace, and to <i>pray</i> for their rulers and governors,
that God would turn their hearts from all thought of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>
oppression and tyranny, and make them to be just and
merciful rulers of the people, then indeed might our
land become a country blessed by God and relieved from
the burden of her woes! If great and small would look
to God for His guidance in all things, and cease warring
with each other in anger and jealous hate, then would
true reform begin. But when the cleverest, and often
the most earnest men of the day leave God out of their
thoughts and plans, and smile at the thought of working
through the power of His name, then what can we
expect but confusion and anarchy, and a slowly growing
discontent amongst the people, which will lead at
last to some terrible end? Eustace says that this movement
is but the beginning of a huge wave that will
sweep right over the country, and end by making the
people—the masses—the rulers of the world. He looks
upon that as an era of universal good to all—a Utopia,
as he calls it—which is to supersede everything that has
gone before—including Christianity itself—in its perfection
of all human systems and the development of
his gospel, ‘the greatest good to the greatest number.’
But though I think it will come—I think we can see
that in the prophetic words of Scripture about the
latter days—I fear it will come with more fearful misery
and terror and tyranny than anything that has gone
before. It is the men who practically refuse Christ—the
Incarnate Son of God—though they may use the
name of Christ still for an abstraction of their own,
who will welcome the Antichrist coming in his own
name. I think men <i>do</i> welcome any leader now who
comes in his own name, and almost makes himself a
god. Was it not so with Napoleon Buonaparte, whom
some almost believed to be the Antichrist himself? It
is those who come to them in the name of God whom
they will not hear; for if they look to God as the Head,
they must keep His laws; and men who are striving<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>
after bringing about this new era of happiness on the
earth, do not want to do that. They like their own
ways best.”</p>

<p>There was a long silence after this. Bride had paused
many times for her father to speak, and had then gone
on with her train of musing, almost forgetting she had
an auditor. After a prolonged pause, the Duke said
slowly—</p>

<p>“So this is why you could not bring yourself to marry
Eustace?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” she answered softly; “I do not think there
could be happiness for us, thinking so differently. He
thinks now that he could give up everything for my sake—but
I know him better than he knows himself. Besides,
I would not wish him to give up anything for <i>my</i> sake;
if he gives it up, it must be because he knows and
feels it to be contrary to the law of God—and I do not
think such an idea as that has ever entered into his
head.”</p>

<p>“Yet if you could get him to give up some of his wild
notions for love of you, it would be a step in the right
direction,” said the Duke thoughtfully; but Bride shook
her head.</p>

<p>“No, not in the right direction—it would be doing evil
that good might come—teaching Eustace to act against
his conscience and better judgment, just to please me.
It would be like what he is doing himself when he stirs
up the evil passions of men to try and overthrow a great
abuse. He admits the present evil, but says the end
will justify the means, and that the evil is an incidental
detail, whilst the good will remain permanent. That is
where we cannot agree. And we are not likely to agree
when Eustace really admits no outward standard of right
and wrong, but abides by his own judgment and the
prompting of his individual conscience. And even what
he cannot defend he excuses—his conscience condemns,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>
but his judgment palliates the wrong—and there is nothing
stronger and more perfect and holy to which to appeal.
That is the most terrible thing of all to me, and, oh! how
terrible it must be in the sight of God.”</p>

<p>Bride had Eustace very much on her mind and heart
just now. She had promised to pray for him, and she did
this with increasing earnestness as the days went by.
She prayed too for the unhappy Saul, wearing out his
weary term of imprisonment, visited from time to time
by Abner, who looked years older ever since the trouble
of that August night. He brought back disquieting
accounts of the prisoner to his young mistress, who never
failed to ask after him. Saul was utterly impenitent and
hardened. He had thrown off all semblance of outward
faith, and was an open advocate of the very darkest and
baldest forms of atheism. He had learnt this fearful
creed from the cobbler, by this time lying under sentence
of death; but Bride recognised with a shudder now and
again, as she talked with Abner and heard his sorrowful
accounts of Saul’s words, the influence upon him of
Eustace’s more subtle scepticism. Here and there a word
or phrase came in where she recognised her cousin’s mind.
Doubtless Saul had opened his heart on this point too
with his master, and Eustace had probably only confirmed
him in his unbelief by his assertions of the impossibility of
knowing the truth where all thinking men were at variance.</p>

<p>The thought of these two men haunted her with a persistence
that was wearying. She was haunted too by
thoughts of that condemned criminal in his lonely cell,
dying perhaps in utter blackness and infidelity, and passing
out into the presence of his Maker without one thought
of repentance or submission. Suppose Saul had been
called upon to die, would he too have gone forth in that
frame of mind? If illness or accident were to smite
down Eustace, what would be his method of meeting
death? Would they all reject the love of the Saviour?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>
Would they all remain impenitent to the last? And
what, ah! what was the fate of those who passed away
without one cry for mercy, without one glance towards
that Cross whereon the sins of the whole world had been
expiated?</p>

<p>This thought became such a terror to her, that she
took it at last to her one friend and confidante, Mrs.
St. Aubyn, and she had hardly got out her trouble
before the Rector himself, unknowing of her visit, entered
his wife’s room; and Bride hardly knew whether
she were glad or sorry that the question should be referred
to him.</p>

<p>It was Mrs. St. Aubyn who told her husband the nature
of their talk, and added, as she did so—</p>

<p>“I was going to say that I myself almost doubted
whether any human soul could die absolutely and entirely
impenitent. We know that the outward aspect of some
remains unchanged to the last; but how can any man
dare to deny that some strange and mysterious intercourse
may not go on in spirit between man and his
Maker, unknown and unseen by any human eye? Thought
cannot be measured by our time. A few brief seconds
may be enough to establish some sort of spiritual communication.
Where we are told so little, perhaps it is
not wise to speculate too curiously; but I cannot help
thinking that where blind ignorance and the doctrine
of false teachers has kept a soul away from God, He
may yet in His infinite mercy deal with that erring soul
at the last in such a way as to break in upon the darkness,
and kindle one ray of the Divine love, even with the
dying breath. For we know that it is not the will of
the Father that one should perish, and that He gave
His Son to die for all—only they must approach Him
through the living Saviour.”</p>

<p>She looked at her husband as she spoke, and he smiled
in response as he said—</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>“There are mysteries in God’s dealings with man into
which we may not too closely look, and especially is this
the case in reference to those departed or departing this
life; but there is so much that we <i>do</i> know to cheer and
encourage us to hope all things and believe all things,
that we may well let our minds dwell upon these things,
and argue from them that God’s ways are wider and
more merciful than the heart of man can fathom.”</p>

<p>“Bride is unhappy about several persons who seem
to be wandering so far away from the fold,” said Mrs.
St. Aubyn, in her gentle tones. “She is suffering, as
we all suffer at some time or another, when those we
love seem rather against than with us. Can you say
something to comfort her? I think she has come here
for a little bit of comfort. Have you not, my child?”</p>

<p>Bride’s soft eyes swam in tears. She was rather
unhinged by her own intensity of thought. The motherly
words almost broke her down. Mrs. St. Aubyn took
her hand and caressed it gently. The clergyman, after
a moment of silence, spoke, in his thoughtful tender
fashion—</p>

<p>“Yes, we have so much cause for hope, even for
those who have gone far, far astray. We must not
think of them as sundered from the love of the Father,
for we know that He does not so regard them, even
though His heart may be full of pain at the thought
of their transgressions and neglect. We have such
beautiful lessons set before us by our Lord, who knew
the heart of the Father as none of us can know it.
Let us think, just for one minute, of that wonderful
story of the prodigal son.”</p>

<p>Bride raised her face quickly.</p>

<p>“He repented,” she said softly.</p>

<p>“Yes,” said Mr. St. Aubyn, “he had been full of self-will
and folly. He had gone very far from the father’s
house, and the place which was his there by the father’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span>
wish. He was in a far country. He had squandered
the gifts of a loving father—the talents, the faculties,
the opportunities—upon unworthy and sinful objects.
He had followed the dictates of his own heart, and had
not heeded his father’s loving counsel and admonitions;
and at the last he was reduced to husks, those unsubstantial
and empty husks which are in the end all that is left
to us of a life of worldly pleasure, take what form it will
at the outset. Only the husks remained, and the hunger
of the soul set in, which is the worst hunger of all to bear.
When that stage has been reached, the backward glance
to the father’s house becomes inevitable. The young man
in the far country felt it; and I think there was much
more than the mere craving for physical comforts in the
resolve which was embodied in the words, ‘I will arise and
go to my father.’ There is much more than that in those
words of penitence, followed up by the resolve to ask,
‘Make me as one of thy hired servants.’ That was what
the son set out to say—‘make me as one of thy hired
servants;’ but when he reached his father he could not
say it. Why not?”</p>

<p>Bride was silent. The tears were still in her eyes.
Mr. St. Aubyn looked at her, looked at his wife, and then
went on softly—</p>

<p>“He could not say it because he was ashamed to say it—because
the love of his father, the love which was watching
for him after all these years of absence, which went
out to meet him whilst he was yet a great way off, which
wrapped him round in its embrace in that mysterious
fulness of fatherhood, shamed him into silence. He
could confess his sins and his unworthiness; perhaps at
no moment had he ever felt so utterly humiliated, yet
he could not say ‘make me as one of thy hired servants’—the
father’s love had taught him his place as a son; the
father’s love had broken down the last barrier of reserve.
Unworthy, humbled to the dust, broken down by his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span>
emotion, he yet knew that it was as a son he was received
back; and the deep unchanging love of the father <i>shamed</i>
him, I say, from trying to seek the lower place. When
God gives us the right to call ourselves sons, is it for us
to say, ‘Nay, Lord, but let me be as a hired servant?’
Is that the humility that the Lord asks of us? Is that
the truest faith?”</p>

<p>Still Bride was silent, and as if in answer to her unspoken
thought, Mr. St. Aubyn continued—</p>

<p>“Thank God it is given to some of us to remain ever in
the Father’s house. We have not been tempted to stray
from it. We live in His love, and seek every day to do
Him service. But there is always the peril to us of looking
abroad at our brothers who have wandered away, and of
asking ourselves, sometimes in tender anxiety, sometimes
with a sense of compassionate disfavour, sometimes perhaps
in something too nearly approaching scorn, whether
for them there can ever be a return to the Father’s house,
whether they will ever be worthy to be received there
once more, even if they do return; and there are not
lacking those amongst us, I fear, who would sometimes,
consciously or unconsciously, deny them their place in the
home, judging them to have lost it for ever through disobedience
and rebellion.”</p>

<p>Bride clasped her hands together, her soft eyes shining.</p>

<p>“Oh, go on,” she said softly; “tell me the rest.”</p>

<p>“It has been told already, my child, told in the reception
of the erring son, not as a stranger or a servant,
but as a son. The love of the Father transcends our love
for our brethren, as much as did the father’s love transcend
that of the jealous elder son. It is not for us to
despair for the wanderers, for the Father does not despair
of them. He watches for them, and when their faint and
lagging footsteps are homeward turned, irresolutely perhaps,
fearfully perhaps, despondently perhaps, while they
are a great way off he goes Himself to meet them. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>
sends no servant; He sends no brother even; He goes
Himself. And then, when the lost son feels the Father’s
arms about his neck, hears the Father’s voice speaking
in his ear, the faint and fearful love of his heart is turned
to a deep stream of true filial devotion, and he knows
himself in all his abasement and humility for a son, and
the first word he speaks, amidst his tears, is the word
‘Father.’ And after that word is spoken there can be
no talk of being a hired servant. Father!—our Father—that
is the essence of Christ’s redeeming work on earth.”</p>

<p>“Thank you,” said Bride, drawing a long breath; “I
think you have given me comfort. I was too much like
the elder brother, too much inclined to despair of those
who had strayed away. I will think of them differently
now. Surely they will one day turn back to the home
again.”</p>

<p>“I trust so; we can at least pray that it may be so.
Prayer is the strongest power there is for leading men
back to God; and I often think and note that, when He
would draw to Himself an erring son who will not pray
for himself, He puts it into the heart of a brother or a
sister to pray for him, and so the erring one is drawn
back towards the Father’s house.”</p>

<p>Bride’s face quivered as she held out her hand in farewell,
but she went home greatly comforted.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b192.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b193.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIII<br />

<i>TWO ENCOUNTERS</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b111b.jpg" alt="B" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">BRIDE was riding slowly down the hill from
St. Erme’s on her little Exmoor pony, with
a grave and sorrowful face. Around her the
green billowy downs stretched away in all
their bright spring greenness, overhead the larks were
carolling as though their hearts were filled with rapture,
whilst far below the sea tossed and sparkled in the brilliant
sunshine in a fashion that was exhilarating and gladsome.</p>

<p>It was a day late on in March—one of those days not
unfrequent at that season, especially in the south and
west—a day that seems filled with a promise of coming
summer—a day in which all nature rejoices, which stirs
the pulses and sets the blood coursing joyously, and fills
the air with subtle promises of life and hope.</p>

<p>Bride’s face had been tranquil and happy as she rode
up the heights towards Farmer Teazel’s farm, but it was
sorrowful and troubled now as she returned, for she had
failed in the mission on which she had been bound, and
was experiencing one of those revulsions of feeling which
often follow upon a period of solitary meditation and
resolve, when the dreamer is brought face to face with
the stern realities of human life and human nature.</p>

<p>Bride’s mission to the farm had been to plead with the
farmer to offer a place in his service to Saul Tresithny,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>
now just out of prison. His sentence had been up a few
weeks earlier, but he had been ill of fever in the prison
hospital when the period of release came, and had only
that week been set at liberty.</p>

<p>All through the term of his imprisonment Bride’s
thoughts and her prayers had been much exercised with
him. The compassion she felt towards him partook of the
nature of a great yearning tenderness, curious in a girl
of her age and station, and she could not help believing
that her feelings must be in some sort reflected in the
minds of others. Her father she knew felt compassion
for Saul, though he seldom spoke his name. Abner, as
was natural, yearned over his grandson with a great love
and tenderness, and both Mr. Tremodart and Mr. St. Aubyn
were interested in him, and were willing to give him occupation
in their service on his release, if he would accept it.
But Saul’s known aversion to service in any of its branches
was too well known in the place for any one to have much
hope of his falling in with either of these offers. Abner
shook his head whenever he was questioned on the subject,
and said he feared Saul had not changed or softened
with his incarceration. But the thought came to Bride
that if his old master the farmer, with whom he had always
got on so well, would offer him his old place at the farm,
that offer would be accepted, and she had gone up to
talk poor Saul’s case over with the kind-hearted yeoman,
and get him to see the matter in the light that she herself
viewed it.</p>

<p>But only disappointment and sorrowful surprise awaited
her here. Farmer Teazel <i>was</i> a thoroughly kind-hearted
man, and very fond indeed of the little Lady Bride, whom
he had known ever since her infancy. He loved to see
her riding up to his farm on the pony of his own breeding
and choosing. He was all smiles and kindness till her
subject was broached, and then she found that there was
a limit to his benevolence, and to the influence she had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span>
over him—a barrier like a ledge of hard rock against
which her arguments rebounded helplessly.</p>

<p>Saul Tresithny had sinned in a fashion the farmer
could not forgive, and he had no pity upon misfortune
deliberately run into by a man who has had every
opportunity of knowing better. The fact that Saul had
averted the attack upon his own homestead did not weigh
with him here. He argued that Saul had had his revenge
on his (the farmer’s) machines before this. The sturdy
yeoman had his own grievance against Saul and his
teaching, and was not disposed to be grateful for the
other deliverance. No, Saul was a reprobate and a
jail-bird, and he would have none of him. He had had
enough of the mischief his tongue did before. It wasn’t
in reason he should put up with it again. No, no; he
was sorry to refuse Lady Bride anything; but ladies did
not understand these things—did not understand the
nature of great, ill-conditioned demi-gods (as he called
it in his haste) such as Saul had become. It was no use
talking to him of forgiveness and mercy. It would be
time enough for that when the man had repented. He
hadn’t ever learned that there was any call to forgive
before the sinner was sorry. From all he heard, Saul
wasn’t a bit humbled or penitent. It would only be
the old trouble over again if he came back; the farmer
would take care he had nothing more to do with such a
fellow.</p>

<p>When Bride had exhausted her eloquence upon the
farmer, and he had gone out to his work again, she tried
what she could do with the daughter; but Genefer was
even more impracticable than her father. Half ashamed of
ever having given encouragement to Saul, who had behaved
so cavalierly to her afterwards, she was bitterly set against
him, and did not pick her words when launching forth
about him. Moreover, Genefer was now openly betrothed
in marriage to young Farmer Hewett, and was mortally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>
afraid lest he should ever hear that she had permitted
Saul to make love to her. She would not for anything in
the world have had him again at the farm, and Bride was
forced to ride away downcast and sorrowful, wondering
in her heart how it was that people of the same class
were so hard upon one another, and musing by degrees
on the result to the community of a gradual change
which should practically throw the governing power into
the hands of the masses. Would that power be exercised
on the side of mercy and love, or would it become only
a new form of tyranny and hardness, far more difficult to
modify and soften than any monarchical harshness of
rule? It was a question she could not answer, but it
helped to keep her face grave and her brow sad as
she rode slowly down the hill, rode right down by the
rough lane to the cottages upon the shore, where she had
an errand of mercy to perform; and leaving her pony
to nibble at the salt herbage at the base of the rocks, as
he loved to do, she walked forward alone towards the
margin of the sea, and came suddenly and quite unexpectedly
face to face with Saul Tresithny, who was
sitting in the hot sunshine on a rock, and gazing out
over the sea, with those strange dark eyes of his that
gleamed with sombre fire.</p>

<p>She knew that he was free, but thought him still at
Pentreath, he having refused to come to his grandfather’s
cottage on his release. The recognition was mutual, and
the man instinctively, though sullenly, rose to his feet.
Bride glanced up at the tall towering figure, which looked
taller than before in the gauntness of recent illness.
There was something rather terrible in the gloom of the
cadaverous face. Saul had been stricken down with that
terrible fever which was so common in prisons during the
previous century, and went by the significant name of
jail-fever, and which still lingered about those prisons
which were overcrowded or unsanitary, and generally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span>
claimed for its victims those who were unused to confinement
and a close atmosphere, and had led an open-air
life hitherto.</p>

<p>The terrible sufferings Saul had endured during six
months of imprisonment were too clearly written on his
face to evade observation. What such incarceration
meant to one of his nature and training can only be
realised by those who have lived the life he had hitherto
led, and have been out in the open air from dawn till
dark every day of their lives, summer and winter, from
boyhood. Bride shrank back as she saw his face, with
a sense akin almost to terror; but then her sense of
Divine compassion and tenderness for the wild impenitent
prisoner came back with a bound, and she put out her
little gloved hand and laid it on his arm.</p>

<p>“Saul, I have been so sorry for you, so very sorry,”
she said, softly and gently. “But it is over now, and
you have life still before you. You will learn to——”</p>

<p>“To forget? never!” interrupted he, with a strange
flash in his eyes. “I will never forget, ay! and never
forgive, to the end of my days. Stacked like pigs in a
stye, crowded together in hunger and dirt, and wretchedness
unspeakable, the best man amongst them hanged by
the neck till he died, and all for preaching the gospel of
truth to a down-trodden people, that is what England
has to look for from her rulers! That is what we have
to look forward to who strive to raise our brothers from
abject misery and degradation. Forget! No, I will never
forget. I will avenge those months of misery, and the death
of my best and truest friend; ay! I <i>will</i> avenge it on the
proud heads of the tyrants of this land. Don’t come near
me, don’t speak to me, Lady Bride. I would not hurt you
willingly; but there is that within me that may prompt
me to do you a mischief if you stand there much longer.
Go, I say, go! You are a woman; I believe you are a good
and a merciful woman; but you come of a race that is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>
doomed. Go, let me never see you here again! Look to
yourself, and let your father look to himself, for they
have made a Cain and an Ishmaelite of me; and I will
be in very truth what they have made me. I will give
them cause to tremble!”</p>

<p>But Bride looked at him with quiet fearlessness, sorrowful,
yet not afraid. That the fever and weakness,
combined with long months of brooding and suffering,
had partially clouded his brain, she could well understand.
His threats did not alarm her. She knew he
would never lay a finger upon her.</p>

<p>“I am very grieved for you, Saul,” she said again. “It
has been very hard to bear, and the more so because all
the while you believed you were doing right. That is
what is so hard to understand in this world—how to
do right without doing wrong too; and there is only
one Power that can help us to know that. I hope
some day you will learn to know that Power, and see
with unclouded eyes. Meantime, if you will let me, I
should like to help you and to be your friend. I think
you know that you may trust me, even though you may
not be able to help hating me.”</p>

<p>He looked at her with a strange expression in his
hollow eyes that sometimes burned so brightly, and sometimes
were clouded over with a mist of bewilderment
and semi-delirious imaginings. He looked at her as
though about to speak, but then suddenly closing his
lips, he turned hastily away and walked rapidly, though
a little unsteadily, in the opposite direction; whilst a
woman from a neighbouring cottage came hurrying out,
and Bride saw that Mother Clat was approaching.</p>

<p>“’Tidden wise o’ yu tu talk wi’ yon lad out heer alone,
Laady Bride. He be maazed wi’ t’ prison vever, he be,”
she said anxiously, with a backward glance over her
shoulder at the retiring figure of Saul. “Duee go tu
home now, and letten ’lone tu coom tu hisself. Yu’ll on’y<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>
be aggin’ he on to du wusser ef zo be as yu try to talk
un zoft.”</p>

<p>“I am very sorry for him. He looks very ill,” said
Bride compassionately. “Do you know where he is
living now?”</p>

<p>“He du be bidin’ wi’ me these past tu daays,” answered
the woman; “I wunt zay how long he’ll bide. He’s gotten
zome money, an’ he’s a rare hand wi’ th’ bwoats. I reckon
he can maake a shift to live down along wi’ we, ef zo be as
he’s got a mind tu.”</p>

<p>“Take care of him, then,” said Bride pleadingly. “I
think he wants care and good food whilst he looks
so thin and gaunt. Give him all you think he needs,
and I will take care you are no loser. Don’t say a
word to him, but just let me know. See, I will leave
this crown with you now. Get him everything he ought
to have. I never saw anybody so dreadfully changed
before.”</p>

<p>The woman took the coin and nodded. She was
perfectly to be trusted, despite the peculiarity of her
position in St. Bride as the known ally of smugglers,
and the cleverest hider and concealer of contraband goods
in the place. Bride perfectly recognised the distinction
between general dishonesty and this particular sin, so
common in those days amongst men otherwise upright
and trustworthy. She left the bay a little comforted by
learning that Saul had at least a roof over his head,
and was amongst men who liked and trusted him.
Mother Clat was, with all her witch-like aspect and rough
speech, a kind-hearted woman, and would do her best
for her lodger. Saul was better here by the salt sea waves
than in some poor lodging in Pentreath. Evidently the
death of the cobbler and the scattering of the little band
of malcontents had for the time shattered his dream of
becoming a semi-professional agitator. The fascination
of the blue sea, the boundless sky, and the tossing salt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span>
waves had drawn him back to St. Bride’s. If only some
gentler influence could be brought to bear upon him,
he might yet become a changed character with patience
and time.</p>

<p>“If Eustace could see his pupil now, what would he
think?” questioned the girl to herself, as she rode up the
rough beach path; and she wondered to herself whether
his influence, could it be brought to bear, would be for
good or for ill—though this seemed but idle speculation,
as Eustace was far away in London, and she did not
think he would visit Penarvon for long enough to come.
Musing thus, she turned in at the lodge gate and rode
quietly up the zigzag track through the pine wood, till,
arriving at the point where the road divided, she took
the right-hand fork and rode direct to the stable-yard,
and three minutes later reined in her pony in the big
enclosure, a groom coming forward to assist her to dismount.</p>

<p>Three strange horses stood tied up in the yard, looking
as though they had been ridden somewhat hard that day.
Stablemen were grooming them down with assiduity, the
head-coachman looking on and making remarks from time
to time to his subordinates. As he saw his young mistress
he came respectfully forward.</p>

<p>“Has some visitor arrived?” she asked, with a glance
at the strange horses; but there was no need for the
man to answer. At that moment a tall figure entered
the yard through the door of the covered way leading
from stable-yard to house—entered hurriedly, as though
to give some forgotten order, and Bride found herself
face to face with her cousin Eustace.</p>

<p>They both started slightly, but Bride recovered herself
immediately, and quietly offered her hand.</p>

<p>“This is an unlooked-for pleasure,” she said gently;
and his face flushed from brow to chin beneath the
bronze of the sunny journey in March shine and blow.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>“Thank you,” he answered, pressing her hand gratefully;
and then, turning for a moment to the coachman,
he gave the instruction in reference to his horse which
he had come to deliver. That done, he turned once more
to Bride and said—</p>

<p>“Your father is not within—he has ridden out too.
I thought I should have to wait for any welcome. I
trust that I have not taken an unwarrantable liberty in
coming thus unannounced, but I have news that I thought
would interest the Duke, and it is necessary that I should
have personal speech with him.”</p>

<p>“I am sure my father will bid you welcome to Penarvon,”
answered Bride, with gentle dignity. “I trust
the news that you bring is good and not bad.”</p>

<p>“I trust so myself. It is news that cannot fail to
stir all hearts more or less at such a time. Parliament
is dissolved. There is to be a new appeal to the electors
of the country!”</p>

<p>Bride paused to look at her cousin’s face, which was
full of an enthusiasm and glad hopefulness that was almost
infectious. Instead of taking the covered way back to
the castle, the cousins were slowly following the longer road
by which horses and carriages travelled. Bride caught
her long skirt up with one hand, the other held her whip.
Her face was flushed with the surprise of this second
unlooked-for encounter. Eustace thought he had never
seen her look more lovely than at this moment, in the
close-fitting habit and picturesque hat with its waving
plume.</p>

<p>“A dissolution!” she exclaimed; “I thought the king
was altogether averse to that. I thought your bill had
just achieved its second triumph.”</p>

<p>“It has, and it has not. The papers have kept you
conversant with the bald facts of the case. But what
it comes to is this, that without a more powerful majority
than we have now, such a measure as ours cannot be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>
successfully passed through the House. It would be so
mauled and mutilated in committee that it would utterly
fall to pieces. We must know now what the country
feels on this great question. We must feel the pulse of
the nation. It is the only thing to do. The king was
against the measure; but the voice of wisdom prevailed.
As soon as his consent was gained, I took horse and
started off. I wished to be the first to bring the news
to Penarvon. Tell me, Bride, what have these six
months done for my uncle in modifying or changing
his views on this question? He now knows the just
and moderate terms of the bill. Does he feel against
it all the same prejudice he did at the outset, when
we none of us knew exactly on what lines it had been
framed?”</p>

<p>“I do not think he feels any very great hostility to
the present bill,” answered Bride quietly. “He has
fully recognised that there are abuses with regard to
the representation of the country that may well be
mended, and on the whole I think he admits the present
measure to be moderate and wise. But he knows as well
as you know that this is only the beginning, and whilst
you approve heart and soul the movement of which it
is the pioneer, he distrusts and dreads it. That is why
the success of even a wise measure fills him with no
enthusiasm. He still believes that the abuses which
will grow up under your new régime, when it is established,
will far transcend those which flourish under
the old, and that sin and want and misery will increase
rather than diminish. That is as much as I can tell
you of his opinions, for he does not talk of this thing
often. The subject is rather a painful one to him. It
brings with it a sense of helplessness, a sense of drifting
away from the old moorings into a troubled sea
for which he has no chart or compass. I think he
knows that the thing must be; but he does not look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>
forward with joy to the future it will bring in its
wake.”</p>

<p>“At his age that is perhaps natural,” answered
Eustace. “He is a more liberal-minded man than
many of his generation and position. I am thankful
he is not bitter in opposition, for I shall want something
from him that he might be very loth to give did
he feel as some do.”</p>

<p>Bride turned to look at him. Eustace was flushed
and excited. His face had grown more intent and
earnest during the past months. Bride thought that
his expression was improved; but just at this moment
he was more excited than she had ever seen him before.
She wondered at the reason.</p>

<p>“I have come to ask a favour of your father, Bride,”
he said, as they reached the castle, and instead of passing
through the gateway and entering the hall, skirted
round the building till they stood upon the magnificent
stone terrace that overhung the sea on the west side.
“Do you think he will grant it me?”</p>

<p>“A favour!—what favour?” asked Bride, looking wonderingly
at him, with steady fearlessness in her eyes.
She was no longer shy with him, for her instinct told
her that it was not on an errand of love-making that
he had come. The last time they talked together alone
he had been seeking for her love; now he had other
matters foremost in his mind. The individual was sunk
in the cause. Almost before the words of his answer
were spoken, she guessed what they would be; yet she
heard them almost with surprise.</p>

<p>“Bride, this next Parliament will be one that will
mark an epoch in the world’s history; I feel that I
must take my share in it. I am a man young and
untried, but I feel that I can serve my country in its
need. I long to be one of its legislators in the coming
struggle, which will, I know, be a triumphant one. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>
have come to ask your father for the seat which he
has in his own hands. He almost offered it to me
once. Will he give it to me now, do you think, when I
come to solicit it at his hands?”</p>

<p>Bride’s eyes expressed a grave surprise.</p>

<p>“A pocket borough, as you have called them, Eustace?
I thought the system of pocket boroughs was utterly
abhorrent to you—one of the abuses which most cried
for redress!”</p>

<p>“Yes—and I long to be one of the legislators who
shall abolish the abuse!” cried Eustace eagerly. “I
would sweep all such anomalies from the face of the
earth; but to assist in the battle with all my powers,
I must be entitled for once to sit in the next Parliament.”</p>

<p>Bride said nothing. She looked away from Eustace
over the sea, and he saw that a shadow had fallen on
her face.</p>

<p>“What is it, Bride?” he questioned quickly, feeling
the sense of her beauty and purity again stealing over
him like a charm. He had fancied after all these months
that he could meet her without emotion, but already he
felt the old fascination creeping over him.</p>

<p>“I am sorry,” answered Bride gently, “I am sorry—that
is all.”</p>

<p>“Sorry about what?” he asked quickly.</p>

<p>“Sorry that you feel like that—that you can stoop to
such a thing.”</p>

<p>He started as though something had stung him.</p>

<p>“I do not understand you,” he said, with a certain
hauteur in his tone and a look of pain in his eyes.</p>

<p>She raised hers to his and looked him full in the
face.</p>

<p>“It is not difficult to understand. You look on
these pocket boroughs as a flagrant abuse, and yet you
are willing to profit by that abuse. It is just the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span>
story over again. You are willing to do evil that good
may come, Eustace. I do not think that good ever
does come when men have stooped to employ unworthy
means. Take care you do not ruin your own cause by
making that mistake all through.”</p>

<p>Yes, it was the same girl he had left—the same Bride—the
mystic, the impracticable woman of dreams and
theories. Beautiful ideals are so plausible till you come
to try and apply them to the sordid realities of life—and
then how untenable they become! But how was
she to know that, living in this old-world spot and in
a dreamland of her own? So he stifled his irritation
and answered very patiently—</p>

<p>“You hardly understand, Bride. Your father will have
to nominate a member at this election, though probably
for the last time. The abuse is yet unredressed, and
cannot be redressed till honest men who love their country
combine to blot it out. I wish to have the honour
and privilege of being among that number; and I am
your father’s next of kin, and the man it would be most
natural for him to appoint. It lies here; he must either
give it to a man who would fight against the good cause,
though he would accept the seat without a qualm, or it
must go to one like myself, who, recognising the thing
as a manifest outrage upon constitutional representation,
yet for this last time would take advantage of a pernicious
system in order to hurl it down for ever more. I hold
that mine is the right position to hold. If I were to
stand aside for a man who would take the seat and strive
to hold back the cause of reform, I should be a traitor to
the cause and to my country. I ought not to stand idly
by without striving to win it for myself.”</p>

<p>She made no reply; but her silence was not the silence
of assent, and he knew it. He took one or two turns
upon the terrace and then said—</p>

<p>“Why do you always try to take the heart out of me,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span>
Bride? I never speak with you, but it is always the
same old story. You look like one of God’s angels from
heaven; you talk like a veritable saint upon earth;
and yet you stand there as it were opposed to every
effort to raise and bless and benefit humanity—a
champion for what is tyrannous and oppressive and
hateful!”</p>

<p>It was not often that Eustace was carried away by his
ardour in this fashion; but the excitement through which
he had recently been passing had somewhat shaken and
unnerved him. Bride looked away from him and out over
the sea with one of those intense gazes of hers which
calmed him better than any words could have done.
He came up and took her hand, which she did not withdraw
from his clasp.</p>

<p>“Forgive me,” he said; “I spoke like a brute. I
did not know what I was saying. But, O Bride! why
will not you and such as you help us? Why will
you stand aloof with pitying scorn when the world
and humanity are crying aloud for your sympathy and
help?”</p>

<p>“Not scorn,” answered Bride gently, “not scorn; but
pity—yes. I often do feel pity for you, Eustace, because
I know that you will be so bitterly disappointed. You want
to make men better and happier and more prosperous;
and more prosperous you may make them by improved
legislation. Many will be content when that is done,
but you will not. Your aim goes higher. You want to
see them raised out of their degradation—to see them
ennobled and made truly better. And you will be so
bitterly disappointed! I know you will; and I pity you
often from the bottom of my heart; but indeed I do not
scorn you. I know you—and—love you far too much for
that.”</p>

<p>She spoke with quiet fearlessness, and used the word
in an impersonal sense that Eustace could not misunderstand.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span>
He bent forward and lifted the hand he held to
his lips, and she did not shrink away, for it was not the
action of a lover, and she felt it and was not afraid. Nor
was the salute in itself altogether obsolete in those days,
though growing rarer and rarer.</p>

<p>“You shall teach me the knowledge in which I am
lacking,” he said ardently; but she slightly shook her
head.</p>

<p>“I am afraid not, Eustace; I am afraid the task
would be too hard. You cannot see with my eyes, nor
I with yours. You think all the way through that the
end justifies the means. I hold that no lasting good can
be, or ever has been done when unworthy and time-serving
means have been employed. A man must be pure
in heart before he can successfully fight the good fight
against evil.”</p>

<p>“You mean that I must give up hoping to sit in Parliament?”
said Eustace hotly, unable to help applying the
doctrine to the matter most near his heart.</p>

<p>“No, I do not mean that. I should like to see you
there; but I would rather you fought your seat like
other men, and did not profit by the very abuse you
seek to overthrow.”</p>

<p>“Seats are only won by wading through a sink of iniquity!”
said Eustace bitterly; and Bride was silent, her
face growing sternly sorrowful. Her heart often grew
heavy within her as she realised the terrible wickedness
of the great world without.</p>

<p>“No seat is worth that,” she said softly; but Eustace
could not agree with her.</p>

<p>“We must purify legislation; we must so work that a
new and perfect system rises from the ashes of the old!”
he cried, his quick enthusiasm firing at the thought.
“Men can and shall be raised. We shall one day see
the dawn of a brighter and purer day. This is but the
hour of darkness which precedes the dawn. The brightness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>
of the day will atone for all. You will live to see
a new world yet, Bride!”</p>

<p>A sudden light sprang into her eyes. For a moment
her face was transfigured; but as she looked at him that
light died out. She realised how widely apart were their
ideas of a new world.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b208.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b209.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIV<br />

<i>EUSTACE’S DILEMMA</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b078s.jpg" alt="S" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“SHE is right in theory—she is perfectly right.
She holds the stronger position. But yet I
cannot give it up. One cannot live in the
world, and breathe an atmosphere so far above
it as she does. The thing is not possible. What!—go
back to London—go back to my friends there, and
say that I cannot accept my kinsman’s seat, because in
right and justice he should not have it to give! What
a howl of derision I should provoke! And to have to
confess that my adviser in this was a girl years younger
than myself, who had hardly left her sea-girt home all
her life—who knows no more of the world than the
babe in the nursery! Why, I should become a laughing-stock
to the whole of the town! I should never be able
to face the world again. No, no, no—such scruples are
untenable. A great work has to be done, and men
are wanted of birth, energy, determination, and probity;
I think I may, without undue self-appreciation, assert
that I possess all these needful qualifications. Better
men than myself have told me so. First let us get the
upper hand, and then we will see what may be done
for purifying the country and raising a higher and a
better standard. If the world <i>would</i> listen to such
teachings as Bride’s, I will not say the world might
not be a better place; but if it will not—why, we must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>
needs employ tools more fitted for the work. To be
deterred by such a scruple!—no—it would be unworthy
of the Cause!”</p>

<p>Eustace was alone in his room, dressing for dinner.
His welcome from his kinsman had been kind and
cordial, and he was now bracing himself for the discussion
which must follow upon the request he had to make.
The subject had not yet been broached between them,
though he fancied that the Duke half suspected his
errand, or rather the motive which had prompted it;
but hitherto the talk had been all on public matters,
and he had been relieved to find the old man by no
means so hostile in mind towards the bill as he had
feared to find him. Bride’s estimate of her father’s
attitude of mind was pretty correct. He knew that
some sort of change was needed, and that improved
legislation was required for the peace and prosperity
of the country; but he felt that the proposed measure
would but be the beginning of an upheaval from which
he shrank with natural distaste, and he feared that evils
would follow of magnitude greater than those to be
done away. Therefore he watched the advance of the
wave with no little dread, feeling almost sad that he
should have lived to see so many old landmarks washed
away or submerged.</p>

<p>So much Eustace had gathered, but he was not daunted.
Things might have been much worse. He had been received
more cordially at the castle than he expected,
and there was exhilaration in the thought of his close
proximity to Bride, even though he resolved not to
make any attempt this visit to approach her as a
lover.</p>

<p>But he was still quite resolved to win her for his
wife if possible. The few hours spent in her company
had riveted his chains afresh. He had never met a
woman who exercised one-tenth part of the charm upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>
him that Bride did. Her very unapproachableness made
her dearer and more fascinating. The bright sunshine
of the March afternoon beguiled him from his room
some while before the dinner-hour. He strolled out
into the gardens, and began wandering there, thinking
of his love. Turning a corner, he came suddenly upon
Abner, and was grieved to see such a change in the
old man. His hair had grown many degrees more white,
and there was a bowed look about the shoulders which had
not been noticeable before. His fine old face was seamed
with lines that told of pain, either mental or physical,
whilst the eyes, though retaining their old steadfastness
and brightness, had taken something of wistfulness withal,
as though some haunting regret or unanswered longing
were always present in his mind.</p>

<p>“Why, Tresithny, I fear you have been ill,” said
Eustace, with his kindly smile, as he greeted the old
man, and expressed his pleasure at seeing him again.
“You have not worn as well as my uncle. Has the
winter been too much for you?”</p>

<p>“Nay, it’s not the weather, sir—I’m too well seasoned
to mind that. I hadn’t heard as we were tu see yu
down to the castle again, sir. I wish you well, and hope
I see yu in good health.”</p>

<p>“The best, thank you, Tresithny, and this beautiful
air of yours is like the elixir of life, if you’ve ever heard
of that. But I want to know what ails you; you are
not looking the same man as when I left. Have you
had some illness?”</p>

<p>“No, sir, thank yu,” answered Abner quietly, with a
quick glance into Eustace’s face that seemed to tell him
all he wished to know. “Belike yu haven’t heard of
the trouble. Such things don’t get into the newspapers
yu’ll be likely to see, I take it.”</p>

<p>“Trouble!—what trouble?” asked Eustace kindly, his
quick sympathies stirred at once by the thought of any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>
sort of suffering. “I have not heard much news from
Penarvon and St. Bride since I left. My uncle has
written occasionally, but he does not give me much
local news.”</p>

<p>“No, sir, there’s other things more important to be
spoke of; but his Grace was the best friend we had in
the trouble, and there’s no manner of doubt that he
saved his life—poor misguided lad. ’Twould have abin
a hanging matter with him, as ’twas with t’other, but
for his Grace coming himself to speak up for him. I’ll
never forget that. He’s been our best friend throughout,
him and our own Lady Bride—bless her!”</p>

<p>“Ay, you may well say that,” answered Eustace fervently;
“a sweeter creature never drew breath on this
earth. But I want to know more of this, Tresithny.
What in the world has been going on? I did not
know you could have such serious troubles in this
little paradise of a place. It seems as though it
should be exempt from the strife and crime of the
great world.”</p>

<p>“No, sir,” answered Abner gravely, “there’s no place
where human life abides that is free from the curse of
sin. We live in no paradise here. One place is very
much like another, as far as that goes, all the world over,
I take it. But I won’t weary yu with my talk. There’s
not much to tell, and it’s soon told. My grandson, Saul,
got into bad company and bad hands last year. They
deceived and misled the poor lad, and he, being hot and
fiery by nature, was all the more ready to their hand.
He took to preaching rebellion, and I don’t know what,
to the folks who would listen, and so lost his place on
the farm.”</p>

<p>“He was always too good for a mere labourer,” spoke
Eustace, in a quick low tone. “He was just eating his
heart out in the solitude and the lack of human interest
and sympathy.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>“Well, sir, I don’t know that he mended matters much
by leaving. He went to Pentreath and got some sort of
work there—I’m not very clear what—and got more and
more with bad companions. Then came those riots you’ve
heard tell of all over the country—sometimes against the
new machines, sometimes against the masters, or any rich
men whom the people think worth robbing when they
get the chance. Saul was mixed up in these riots. I
shan’t never know, I s’pose, exactly how much he was to
blame; but he’d got a bad name, and folks were after
him; and at last he and the cobbler, whose house he
lived at, were took up and brought before the magistrates.
Saul got off with six months’ imprisonment; but the
cobbler went before the judges at assizes and was hanged.
They all say Saul would have been served the same if his
Grace hadn’t gone down on purpose to speak up for him
to their reverences: it was that that did it. But six
months of prison has been enough for the boy. I doubt
me he’ll ever be the same again.”</p>

<p>Eustace was not a little shocked by this story. He
remembered Saul as he had last seen him—a fine, manly,
fearless fellow, strong as a giant, and with mental and
intellectual possibilities that raised him far above his
fellows. He knew something of the state of country
prisons; that was one of the abuses he and his friends
meant to inquire into when the time came. Something
had been done towards amending their condition, even in
the previous century; but very much yet remained that
needed to be done. How had Saul borne that life for six
long weary months? It was bad enough for a town-bred
man, used to confinement and foul air, but what must it
have been for this son of the sea and the downs?</p>

<p>“Tresithny, I am grieved—I am deeply grieved,” he
said. “Tell me more of the poor fellow. I always thought
highly of Saul. Tell me how he has borne it. He is out
again now, I trust?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>“Yes, shattered in body and soul and spirit,” answered
the old man very sadly, though without bitterness. “The
iron has entered into his soul, and for him there is yet no
healing touch that can salve the soreness of that wound.”</p>

<p>“He has been ill?”</p>

<p>“Ay, of the jail-fever. It’s rarer now than ’twas years
ago; but it got fast hold of Saul. May be the fresh winds
will make a strong man of him again before long; but
I’m feared he’s gotten a hurt that is worse than weakness
of body.”</p>

<p>“Poor fellow!” said Eustace with sincere concern. “I
must go and see him as soon as I can.”</p>

<p>There was a momentary silence, and then Abner said
quietly—</p>

<p>“Yu must do as yu will about that, sir.”</p>

<p>There was something in these words so foreign to
the old gardener’s customary respectful cordiality that
Eustace, who in his own fashion was sensitive enough,
gave a keen quick look at his interlocutor, and spoke with
subdued vehemence.</p>

<p>“Tresithny, I trust you do not believe that it has been
my doing that poor Saul has fallen into this trouble.”</p>

<p>Abner finished tying up the young shoot of the tree he
was training before making answer, and then he spoke
very slowly and with an air of sorrowful resignation, which
seemed sadder to the young man than open expressions
of anger or grief.</p>

<p>“Sir,” he said, “I am not one lightly to lay any man’s
sin at another man’s door. Only the Lord in heaven can
know what blame may attach to each—the one for his
act, the other for words which it were better he should
not have spoken. No, sir; Saul has sinned, and he has
suffered for his sin. I have tried to think no bitter
thoughts of any of those who helped to lead him astray.
Some of them are poor, ignorant, miserable creatures,
who doubtless knew no better. Some, I doubt not, have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>
many and just causes of complaint, and have been goaded
to violence and lawlessness by the fear of starvation,
which works like poison in the blood. It is hard to think
hard thoughts of such, especially when they are left in
their ignorance and misery, and those who should be
their pastors and shepherds seek not after the scattered
flock to gather and feed them. My boy had doubtless
seen and heard enough to fire his blood, and God Almighty
alone may judge of the measure of his guilt. But for my
part, I would that he had been saved from that teaching,
and those thoughts which have worked like madness
in his brain; and you know better than I can do, sir,
how much of the wild words he uses have been learned
from you.”</p>

<p>“Not much wildness, I think,” answered Eustace
gravely. “He has certainly learned a good many facts
from me, but I have said very much to him to try and
curb the wild spirit of hatred and lawless revolt which
I saw in him. He would tell you that himself if you
asked him.”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir; I don’t doubt it; but when you bring gunpowder
close to the fire to dry it, as you may think, and
take every care that it doesn’t explode, you run a great
risk, even with the most cautious intentions. A puff of
wind down the chimney will send a spark into it, and
then comes an explosion. It’s something like that when
you educated and clever gentlemen begin to bring your
fire near the hot inflammable minds of our ignorant lads.
You don’t mean there to be any spark; you mean to get
your material well dried and in good working order, so
that it can be used for right and legitimate ends; but
though you’re clever enough to make it dry and hot
and fit for service, you can’t stop the fall of the spark
that brings about the explosion, and then you call it
a sad accident and deplore it as much as any but you
don’t always consider the fearful risks you run of bringing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>
about this very accident, which may perhaps recoil one
day on your own head, and which has injured for life
many and many a brave lad who might have lived out
his days in innocence and a fair amount of happiness but
for that.”</p>

<p>Eustace stood looking down at the path with a thoughtful
face. He could have brought many arguments to
bear upon the old man, explaining how every good cause
as yet undertaken against every existing form of evil had
been marred and hindered at the outset, and indeed all
through its career, by the rashness, the impetuosity, the
ill-advised action of individuals; but he held his peace,
and said nothing that might sound like an excuse for his
own conduct. He <i>did</i> take blame to himself in the case
of Saul. He had felt again and again, whilst talking with
that fiery youth, with his strong character and individuality,
and his burning hatred against the ruling classes,
that he was playing with edged tools. The pleasure of
finding so much intelligence and sympathy in a man of
the people had led him on often to speak out things
which on calmer consideration he would hardly have
put into words so freely. From time to time his own
conscience had warned him that Saul might one day
turn out an unmanageable disciple; but he had hoped
his own strong influence upon him would suffice to hold
in check his fiery partisan zeal, and had forgotten how
quickly that influence would be removed, whilst the
memory of his words, and the feelings they excited, would
live on and ferment and eat into his very soul.</p>

<p>“I am sorry,” he said at last, looking up at Abner with
frank, open regret in his eyes; “I think I was wrong. I
think I had better have let Saul alone. He has too
much gunpowder, as you rightly call it, in his composition.
I should have been warned by that and have
let him alone.”</p>

<p>This frank apology evoked a smile from Abner.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>“Sir,” he said, “don’t think I don’t appreciate your
care for the people, or that I don’t know you wish to do
good. I’m very sure of that; and Saul had heard a good
deal more than was good for him before he ever met
you. But knowing that a gentleman such as you felt with
him went a long way with him—seemed to turn the
scale altogether, if you know what I mean. But I’m not
saying he might not have gone as far without, if he’d
taken up with the lads of Pentreath as he’s lately done.
However, he seems to have took altogether against Pentreath
now, and spends his time down on the shore with the
fisher-folk. He’ll be glad enough to see you, sir, I doubt
not. It isn’t many as he’s got a welcome for, but I think
he’ll have it for you.”</p>

<p>“And I’ll try and see that he is none the worse for my
visit,” said Eustace, with a grave smile; and then he
walked back to the castle, for the dinner-hour had all
but arrived.</p>

<p>His face was grave and absorbed as he took his seat.
The conversation with Abner had left a painful impression
on his mind. He felt like a man on the horns of a
dilemma. His whole heart was in the cause of reform.
He felt that he was pledged to it, and that he must give
his whole life and energies to it, come what might;
and yet at every turn he was confronted by problems
past his power to solve. He had worked amongst the
people—and behold, his most promising pupil had been
spending the winter in jail, and had but just come
forth shattered in body and mind. He might do more
good by sitting in Parliament and fighting the battle
there—that indeed was his great desire; but to do so
he must take a step which seemed in a sense to be
a sacrifice of principle and self-respect. He seemed
hedged in by difficulties all ways; but his resolution
did not waver.</p>

<p>“Once let me get this seat, and the knot will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span>
cut,” he kept saying to himself, as the meal proceeded
in its quiet stately course; and feeling that the sooner
the plunge was taken the better it would he, he only
waited until the servants had withdrawn at the conclusion
of the meal before he spoke out freely and
frankly.</p>

<p>“Uncle,” he said, with an abruptness that was the
result of repressed excitement, “last year, before you
knew much of my views on politics, you offered to give
me a seat in Parliament upon the first opportunity.
That opportunity has now come, and I have come to
remind you of your offer, and to ask you whether—knowing
my views—you still feel disposed to give it
me. Your old friend has retired, as you told me he
would. He will not sit again. I want, above all things,
to be a member of that House which will—if I mistake
not greatly—have the honour of passing that measure
which will be the keystone to the prosperity of England.
I believe that there is no doubt as to the composition
of the next House of Commons. The voice of
the nation cannot longer be misunderstood or ignored.
It will be a great and a glorious time for England, and
I want to have the great honour and privilege of serving
her at this crisis. Will you give me that seat of
which you spoke, that I may realise this ambition and
happiness?”</p>

<p>“And pass a measure about which I feel the very
gravest doubts, and which, I fear, may prove anything
but the keystone to greatness and prosperity?” said the
Duke.</p>

<p>“I know, sir, we do not think alike on this subject.
It is scarcely likely we should. But you have had enough
experience of the ways of the world to be aware that
the advancing wave cannot be turned back. If these
most crucial and important measures are to be passed,
is it not better that they should be drawn up and passed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>
by men of birth and station, men of education and sound
principle? Without claiming for myself qualifications
which I do not possess, or any very great amount of
experience in legislating, I think I have the qualities
I have named; and I am a Marchmont, and the Marchmonts
have not shown themselves deficient either in
ability or in governing power in days of yore. I cannot
but feel that you would prefer your kinsman in the
House to a mere stranger; and I would remember and
respect your scruples and injunctions, and would place
them before my colleagues, giving them all due weight
and respect.”</p>

<p>The Duke smiled slightly.</p>

<p>“The boy talks as though he would be a cabinet
minister at once!” he remarked to the room at large.
“Do you suppose anybody will pay any attention to
what a tyro like you will think or speak? and, for my
own part, if I have anything to say to the bill which
I hold to be worth saying, I can go to Westminster and
say it for myself.”</p>

<p>“Yes, in the Upper House,” said Eustace; “but it is
in the Commons that the battle will be fought.”</p>

<p>“And you think you can be my mouthpiece there?”
asked the Duke, a little grimly. “Boy, do you not think
I could find a better mouthpiece for my views than you
will ever make?”</p>

<p>But the question was put with a smile which made
Eustace believe that there would not be much of a battle
to fight. His kinsman was not without the strong family
feeling which was so strong a characteristic of his race;
and the very fact that Eustace desired the seat was a
strong reason why he should have it. With all his
advanced views, he was a Marchmont, and a man of
rectitude and high principle. That the Reform Bill would
assuredly pass the next House of Commons the whole
country fully believed, and the Duke also. There was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span>
good deal in Eustace’s argument about getting it drawn
up and debated by the best stamp of men possible.</p>

<p>“But you—what has so changed your view?” asked
the old man, suddenly turning upon Eustace, and looking
keenly at him. “When first I made my offer, it only
evoked a tirade against the abuse of rotten or pocket
boroughs, as I think you called them. I was led to
imagine that you would recoil in horror from profiting by
such an abuse; and behold, here are you in a year’s time
craving to advance yourself by that very means! How
comes that, my fine young redresser of evils? How can
you reconcile it to your conscience to accept the seat
which you dispute my right to hold?”</p>

<p>A flush mounted to Eustace’s face.</p>

<p>“I accept it, and even crave it, that I may be one of those
to abolish it in the future. Till the laws are amended,
the abuse must last, and to amend those laws is the aim
and object of my life. I admit that my position is one
which appears inconsistent. You can easily put me in a
dilemma by well-planted questions; but my mind is clear
and my conscience too. You have to find a candidate for
this seat, and I, as your next of kin, desire it. I openly
proclaim to you the fact that once I am seated in Parliament,
I shall strain every nerve to accomplish the
abolition of the abuse by which I have gained my seat so
readily; but I am neither afraid nor ashamed to seek it
now. I will profit by the iniquity to expunge that iniquity
from our country for ever!”</p>

<p>“To do a great right, do a little wrong,” quoted the
Duke thoughtfully. “Well, Eustace, you shall have the
seat if you desire it, but I cannot help feeling that
I wish you had not asked me for it, or been willing to
take it.”</p>

<p>The flush deepened in Eustace’s face as the Duke spoke,
and he caught the answering glance in Bride’s eyes. He
had purposely made his request before her, although it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>
cost him something to do it. He wished to prove to
himself that he had the courage of his opinions, and
was not ashamed of the trifling inconsistency, which he
explained away again and again to what he called his
own satisfaction. He was not prepared to make himself
the laughing-stock of his friends in town for a scruple
of this sort; but he wished he could have avoided the
apparent inconsistency with these kinsfolk of his, who
appeared to look on at the strife of parties and the battle
of life from an altitude which was rather perplexing and
discomfiting.</p>

<p>“I am greatly obliged, sir,” said Eustace, hardly believing
the battle was already won. He had looked for much
more argument and resistance. “I will try to be worthy
of the trust reposed in me. I hope you do not distrust
me for my willingness to take advantage for once of this
custom so soon to be made obsolete?”</p>

<p>“I do not distrust your loyalty to your cause; I think
you deserve to sit in the next House, and may in time
make yourself of value to your party. At the same time,
since you do hold so strongly your advanced views, I had
rather you obtained your seat in another fashion, speaking
simply from a moral and theoretic standpoint.”</p>

<p>“I agree with you there, in theory,” answered Eustace
eagerly. “I wish the world could be governed according
to theory; but, alas! in practice too many of our brightest
and best theories break down. If I had any chance of
winning a seat by an ordinary contest, I would gladly do
so; but I know that I have not. I am an untried man,
and unknown in any constituency. I should not stand
the ghost of a chance; and the bribery and corruption
of an election under such conditions is too revolting to
think of.”</p>

<p>A faint smile played round the lips of the old Duke.</p>

<p>“Yes, bribery and corruption are the lawful methods
by which our House of Commons is returned by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>
country, save where there are rotten or pocket boroughs
to be given by favour, or openly bought and sold; and
when these last are done away with, and more contests
set on foot, there will be more bribery and corruption,
rioting and drunkenness, than ever, and this will be the
first step of the great reform.”</p>

<p>“Yes, but only the first step,” answered Eustace
eagerly. “After that step will follow others for the
purifying of these contests, and the rectifying of these
flagrant abuses. Some great men say it can and will be
done by establishing a system of ballot-voting, by which
no man may know how his neighbour votes, so that a
deathblow will be dealt to bribery.”</p>

<p>“<i>Will</i> it?” questioned the Duke significantly.</p>

<p>“Yes,” was the fearless answer, “because men will
learn to see the worse than folly of bribing a man who
can pocket the bribe, take one from his opponent, and
then go perfectly free and unfettered to vote as he
pleases! The thing will die a natural death as a matter
of course. It may die hard, but die it must.”</p>

<p>“Yes, it will die in its open form. Votes will no
longer be bought at so much a head; but mark my word,
Eustace, a more corrupt and iniquitous form of bribery
will creep slowly and surely upon the country. Governments
will outbid each other with promises of measures
which will appeal to the selfish and self-seeking passions
of the people, just to get into power, quite apart from
true statesmanship or the true good of the nation. There
will be one long struggle after popularity with the unthinking
masses—one long bribing of them by a wholesale
system of promises, more or less faithfully carried
out, which will corrupt the nation to the core as the old
bribery has never corrupted it. Don’t tell me, boy! I
have lived longer than you. I know human nature. An
inducement—a bribe—men will have; and the bribe will
now be of increased power, increased franchise, increased<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span>
ability to levy taxes which those who levy them will not
pay—a system of legalised robbery, which will sooner or
later bring the country to ruin. Ah! yes, you smile.
You think I am a croaker and a pessimist. Well, well,
well—thank God, I shall not live to see the day; but
that day will come for England before many generations
have passed, when she will be groaning beneath the
burden laid upon her by her reformers, but absolutely
unable to break that increasing yoke from off her neck.
Men may rise up in arms against their tyrants when
their tyrant is a monarch; but when they are their own
tyrants, their own legislators, their own oppressors, where
are they to find redress?”</p>

<p>Eustace made no attempt to reply. The Duke was
talking a language incomprehensible to him and absurd.
Even argument seemed thrown away here; yet all the
while he respected the sincerity and the character of the
man before him, and he answered with a smile—</p>

<p>“Well, uncle, if we cannot agree as to the outcome of
these measures, at least we can agree to differ, and we
can each pocket our little bit of inconsistency with a
quiet conscience. You will give me the seat, whilst
holding that eventual ill will come from the cause I
advocate; and I will profit by an abuse to do away with
that abuse. I think it comes pretty much to this: we
both know that this first step is inevitable, therefore you
cease to fight against it, whilst I seek to help to forward it
by every wise and right method. There are many men in
the country more ‘advanced’ than I, and I have a dread
of rash precipitation. I think I shall do good and not
harm even to your cause by my voice. I shall certainly
take warning by your words, and be always on the side
of moderation.”</p>

<p>“You shall have the seat,” said the Duke, “because
you are my next of kin, and because I respect you as a
man, if I do not agree with you as a politician. In the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span>
course of nature you will not long be able to sit in the
House of Commons; and since your heart is set upon it,
I will give you the chance this time. You can choose
which you will do—accept the seat I have at my disposal—getting
in by an abuse; or I will give my seat to the
Tory member for Pentreath, and put you up in his place
and give you my influence there. Pentreath has hitherto
always returned a Tory candidate, and Sir Roland Menteith
is a very popular man locally—you would have no
chance against him; but if I gave him my seat, and you
stepped forward as the Reform candidate—a moderate
reformer supported by the Penarvon interest, you might
stand an excellent chance. There would certainly be
another Tory adversary put up against you, but I know
of no man likely to be popular. The people of the place
have become strongly leavened by the spirit of the day,
and my influence would go far to turn the scale with a
great many. You can think it over and do as you will.
Personally you have no influence, or little here; but as a
Marchmont and the future Duke, you would have a good
deal. There would be expenses of course—we could talk
about that later. I do not seek to persuade you to anything;
I only tell you what I will do for you if you prefer
to contest a seat rather than get one by an abuse. You
can think it quietly over, and decide at your leisure.
Sir Roland is dining here in a week’s time. He always
comes to see me after his return from Westminster to
give me all the news. We can talk the matter over with
him then.”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b224.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b225.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XV<br />

<i>STIRRING DAYS</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b078s.jpg" alt="S" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">SIR ROLAND MENTEITH was slightly known
to Eustace, who had spent much time in the
lobbies of the House of Commons, and was personally
known to the majority of its members,
by sight if not by name. He was a fine-looking man of
some five-and-thirty summers, and although a Tory by
descent and tradition, was by no means an enemy of such
moderate measures of parliamentary reform as were at
present under discussion. He had voted for the reading
of the recent bill, and was by no means prepared to
pledge himself to his constituency as its enemy. There
were many amongst his enemies who said he had no right,
with the views he held, to call himself a Tory; but he
would defend himself by the argument that Tories would
soon cease to exist if they never moved one step forward
with the times they lived in. A system originally sound
and good could well become corrupt and bad under a
changed condition of affairs, and if Tories were pledged
to resist any sort of change, bad or good—well, they at
once placed themselves in a false position, and made their
own extinction only a matter of time. He maintained
that the true Tory aimed always for the best and soundest
policy, the policy that would make England respected
abroad and prosperous at home. Tearing down and splitting
up were actions bad and degrading to a government,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>
but gradual change, especially of a constructive character,
was essential to the development of the national life. So
he argued, and Eustace cordially agreed, whilst the old
Duke listened with his slight peculiar smile, and said
little, but kept true to the point in the little he did say.
Sir Roland had come over to the castle in great excitement
only one day following the arrival of Eustace there,
and he had easily been persuaded to remain on as a
guest whilst these important and stirring themes were
under discussion. He was very well pleased to find in
young Marchmont so moderate and temperate a reformer.
Eustace had certainly learnt more moderation of thought
during the past year, and was more cautious both in what
he advocated and what he approved. He had had several
experiences of a kind likely to awaken in him some distrust
of the methods which once had seemed entirely
right and praiseworthy; and he began to have an inkling
that there was something wanting in his system before it
could be called in any way perfect. The passions of the
people could easily be stirred; but there was no power
he knew of as yet strong enough to hold them in a just
and proper repression. It was a hateful thing to him
to be accused (as he knew he was in many quarters)
of being one of those demagogues bent on rousing all
that was worst and most cruel and wild in the natures
over which he acquired influence. Sir Roland, after one
of his many morning rides into Pentreath, told him flatly
that he had the credit of being at the bottom of those
riots which had caused such loss and destruction of property
there in the autumn, and it was soon ascertained
that the feeling there was so strongly against him that it
would be hopeless for him to stand as a candidate on
either one side or the other.</p>

<p>This piece of intelligence came as rather a severe shock
to him. After the interview with the Duke on the day
of his arrival, he had thought more and more of the suggestion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>
that he should contest the seat at Pentreath,
sparing Sir Roland the cost and the worry. His own
income was large, and could well stand the strain, and
the Duke was a man of known wealth and liberality.
Eustace, too, was indulging in halcyon dreams of contesting
the seat with rigid purity of method, hoping even to
shame his adversary into better ways by his own absolute
probity. Sir Roland, although fond of his constituents,
and rather fond of the excitement and bustle of an election
and the sound of his own clever speeches on the
hustings, was by no means averse to be spared the trouble
and expense for once, stepping quietly into the Duke’s
pocket borough, and throwing in his influence for young
Marchmont, with whom upon the essential matter of the
coming strife he agreed. Eustace was feeling something
of the keen exhilaration of the coming strife, and was
enjoying the release from the anomalous position he would
have occupied (at least in the eyes of Bride) as his kinsman’s
nominee, when this fresh blow was dealt to his
pride and his hopes. Sir Roland had heard enough to be
very certain that the very name of Eustace Marchmont
would arouse an uproar of fury amongst the class who
had the voting power; also, there could be no manner
of doubt that his appearance as a candidate would provoke
fresh riots of a very serious nature. Investigation
of these rumours only confirmed them. Eustace Marchmont’s
name had been on the lips of all the rioters who
made havoc of the town during the recent outbreak.
Their young leader, Saul Tresithny, had quoted him as
his authority for almost every wild argument by which
he had stirred the people to madness, and roused them to
any act of violence, in order to overthrow, or at least be
revenged upon, their tyrants and foes. If he were to
appear on the hustings, he would be at once the idol of
the lawless (and voteless) mob; but the object of reprobation,
if not of execration, to all the sober-minded citizens,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span>
whatever might be their political views. Had Eustace
come amongst them as a stranger with the Penarvon and
Menteith interest at his back, he might have carried all
before him, for there was no popular man in the place
likely to oppose him under those conditions; but branded
as he now was by the names of Radical and revolutionary,
all men looked askance at him, and it was with a keen
sense of disappointment, not to say humiliation, that he
had to abandon the idea of contesting the seat, and revert
to his original plan of accepting his kinsman’s nomination.</p>

<p>“I suppose you think that my sin has found me out,”
he said rather bitterly to Bride, when this unpalatable
news had become verified as actual fact. “I suppose you
believe that I went about the country last year inciting
men to arson and pillage and every sort of brutality.
You know that is what is said of me by the respectable
people of Pentreath, that I provoked and incited riot, and
took very good care to be out of the way when it took
place, that others might bear the punishment.”</p>

<p>“It is cruel to say such things of you,” answered Bride,
with a quiet indignation which was very grateful to him.
“I know they are not true, and I almost think the people
who say them know that there is only a very small
substratum of truth in them. But, Eustace,” and she
looked up at him with one of her rare smiles, “do you
not think you sometimes say things almost as untrue on
the other side? Do you not sometimes make out men in
high places to be little else than monsters, when all the
time they are almost as helpless, and perhaps even less to
blame for the effects of a system, than you for those riots
at Pentreath, which above all things you disapprove and
deprecate?”</p>

<p>“I know what you mean,” he said; “I think we all
go too far in our attack and defence. But those men <i>do</i>
uphold a system of tyranny and iniquity, even if they are
not responsible for it, whilst I never uphold violence and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>
lawlessness. I hate and abominate it with my whole
heart.”</p>

<p>“I know you do; but you will not get ignorant men to
believe it, when you teach them how bad the laws are.
Their idea of mending the existing state of things is to
rebel against it by force.”</p>

<p>“Yes; and great present mischief is the result; but,
Bride, if all men held your doctrine of patience and submission,
no reformation or reform, no redress of abuses,
no respite from tyranny and oppression, would ever have
been effected in the world’s history. When you have
such imperfect material to deal with, imperfections are
everywhere. Good is always mixed with evil, and will
be to the end of the chapter.”</p>

<p>“Yes; until the Kingdom,” answered Bride sadly, yet
with a sudden lighting of the eyes. “Yes, Eustace, I
know that so long as human nature is what it is, nothing
can be done without evil creeping in. But I still think
that if men would be content to leave results, and simply
strive themselves after the best and highest good, and try
and teach the ignorant and the degraded the one true and
only way of raising themselves—if men would look to
God for His teaching—from the highest to the lowest—trying
in all things to do not their will but His—then I
think the world would gradually raise itself without
these cruel scenes of strife and bloodshed, without these
heart-burnings and miserable factions. ‘Thy kingdom
come!’ It is a prayer always on our lips; but do men
try to apply the laws of God’s kingdom to this earth
which He has made and they have marred?”</p>

<p>“I think that is about the last thing men of the present
day think of,” answered Eustace, with a curious sidelong
look at the earnest face beside him. “They want something
more practical to go by. When it comes to be a
question what God wills, every divine and every school of
theology and philosophy has a different answer to give.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span>
Such an appeal as that would only make confusion worse
confounded.”</p>

<p>A very wistful, sorrowful look crept into the fair young
face.</p>

<p>“I was not thinking of schools of theology or philosophy,”
she answered very quietly, “I was thinking of
God Himself as revealed in His Incarnate Son; but I do
not think we understand each other when we speak of
that, Eustace.”</p>

<p>In very truth he did not understand her. Did she
seriously believe that the affairs of the world could be
directed by a Divine voice straight from heaven? It
almost appeared sometimes as though she did, and yet in
most matters Lady Bride, mystic and dreamer though she
was, was not lacking in quiet common-sense and a fair
amount of experience of such life as she had seen.</p>

<p>For a moment he stood silent beside her—they were
on the terrace, looking down at the sparkling sea below.
Then he roused himself, and changed the subject suddenly.</p>

<p>“Shall we go down to the shore and see Saul Tresithny?
I have not succeeded in catching him yet. I do not
think he tries to avoid me. Your gardener says he is
much attached to me; but he has always been out with
the boats. There seems plenty of fishing just now. I
hope the poor fellow is not suffering from lack of employment.”</p>

<p>“I think not. There is always plenty of work with
the boats in the summer months. It is the winter that
is so hard for our people, except when they take to
smuggling, as too many do. I am afraid that is what
Saul will do when fishing gets slack. He always had a
leaning towards any sort of adventure and danger.
Abner managed to keep him away from the fishing-village
as a lad, and when he went to the farm he had other
work, and was too far off; but I am afraid how it will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>
with him now. I had hoped he would go to Mr. St.
Aubyn and take care of his garden and horse, but he
will not. Nobody can do anything with him—poor
Saul!”</p>

<p>“I will see what I can do,” said Eustace, with hopeful
confidence. “He is too good to turn into a mere fisherman
and smuggler. There are traits of great promise in
him. I suppose birth and blood <i>does</i> tell, and there is
reason to believe that his father was a man of birth, I
hear, although he may have been a villain. Certainly
the man is very different from his fellows. I wonder
whether he would come to London as my servant. I could
do very well with another groom, and I know he has a
great knack with horses. He might be very useful.”</p>

<p>“I wish he would,” said Bride earnestly. “It might
be a turning-point in his life to get away from old associates
and old ideas.”</p>

<p>They were by this time walking down towards the
shore by the little ridge-like path before described.
Eustace was behind, and Bride in front, so that she could
not see the sudden light which leaped into his eyes; but
she heard something new in the tone of his voice as he
said—</p>

<p>“Then you do not hold that I have been the ruin of
Saul—body and soul, as so many do? You do not think
that to take him away with me would be but to consummate
that ruin?”</p>

<p>“No, indeed I do not,” answered Bride gently. “I
think that the people who say such things do not understand
you, Eustace. I think you might perhaps do poor
Saul more good than anybody just now, because I think
he will listen to you, and he will listen to no one
else. I should like to think of him going away with
you. If you cannot teach him all he will have to learn
before he can be a truly happy man, you can teach him
a great deal that he will be better for the knowing;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>
and perhaps some day, when the right time has come,
he will be ready to be taught the rest.”</p>

<p>“Then you do not call me a demagogue, an infidel—a
man dangerous to the whole community, and to the
world at large?” questioned Eustace, with the insistance
of one whose heart has been deeply wounded by accusations
hurled against him—all the more deeply from
the consciousness that the censure has not been wholly
undeserved.</p>

<p>“No,” answered Bride softly, “I do not call you any
of those names—not even in my thoughts. I know
you have not been very wise; I think you know that
yourself, and will learn wisdom for the future. But I
know that you believed yourself right in what you said
and did, and were generous and disinterested in your
teaching. About your faith I know very little. I think
you know very little yourself; but we can leave that
in God’s hands. It does not come by man, or through
man, but by the will of God. I think it is His will,
Eustace, to draw you to Himself one day; but that
day must come in His good time. I think we sometimes
make a great mistake in striving to urge and
drive those whom we love. Waiting <i>is</i> hard, and sometimes
it seems very, very long. But things are so
different with God—His patience as well as His love are
so much greater than ours. And we can always pray—that
helps the time of waiting best.”</p>

<p>Eustace was intensely thrilled by these low-spoken
words, which he only just caught through the plash of the
waves beneath. That magnetic influence which Bride
always exercised upon him was almost overpoweringly
strong at that moment. He could almost have fallen at
her feet in adoration. After the good-natured strictures
of Sir Roland, the slight grim reproofs of the Duke, and
his knowledge of the cutting criticisms and violent abuse
levelled at him by the world of Pentreath, these words<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span>
of Bride’s fell like balm upon his spirit. He felt lifted
into a different atmosphere, and the question could not
but present itself to him—</p>

<p>“If faith and those unseen things in which that pure
girl believes, which are to her the greatest realities of
life, are nothing but a myth, a figment of the imagination,
what gives them such power over a nature like
mine? Why do I thrill at the thought of them? Why
do I see glimpses, as through a rifted cloud, of a glory,
a beauty, a peace beyond anything I have ever conceived?
Why, even by the teachings of my own philosophy,
the fact of this stirring of spirit indicates a reality
of some sort. And is there, after all, nothing higher than
philosophy? Is there no object of objective worship? Is
there, after all, a God?”</p>

<p>Little did Bride suspect the quick stirrings of spirit
her words had evoked. She walked on, with her sweet
face set in earnest lines, thinking of Saul and his grandfather’s
ceaseless prayers on his behalf, praying herself
for him in a half-unconscious fashion, as was her habit
when thoughts of the erring one presented themselves.
Her mind was more with him just at that moment
than with the kinsman behind her, with whom, however,
thoughts of Saul were always more or less mixed up;
therefore the question, when it came, did not in any wise
startle her.</p>

<p>“Bride, do you mean that you ever pray for me?”</p>

<p>“Yes, Eustace. I always pray for those whom I love,
and for those who seem to need my prayers.”</p>

<p>He was silent for several minutes, and then his thoughts
surging back to a question that had been on the tip of
his tongue before, he asked, “Bride, you said I could not
teach Saul to be a truly happy man. Do you think that
I am not a happy man myself?”</p>

<p>“Not a truly happy one,” she answered, with quiet
certainty. “I believe you are happy in one way—in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>
world’s way. But that is not what I mean by true
happiness. There is another happiness I hope you will
learn some day—I think you will; and then you will
understand. I do not think you can understand yet.”</p>

<p>He was not sure that he could not. He remembered
the Duchess in former years; he had Bride before his eyes
now. Even old Abner, in the midst of all his trouble,
showed a substratum of unchanging serenity which nothing
seemed able to shake. He believed he apprehended without
understanding what manner of thing this happiness was—a
thing altogether different from and independent of the
fluctuations of enjoyment and pleasure which went by
the name of happiness in his world. Eustace was receiving
impressions just now with a force and a rapidity that
was startling to him. Every day something seemed
added to his list of experiences, and not the least was the
peculiar wave of emotion that swept over him now.</p>

<p>Yet Bride noticed nothing different in his manner as
they reached the beach, and were able to walk on side by
side. He was a little absent and thoughtful perhaps, as
was natural with the interview just hanging over him;
and it soon appeared that their journey was not in vain,
for the tall form of Saul was seen seated upon a rock not
far away, and Bride said softly to Eustace, “There he is.
I think you had better go to him alone. I will go and
see some of the poor people and join you later on.”</p>

<p>Eustace was grateful to her for this suggestion. Now
that he was almost face to face with his quondam pupil,
he felt that he would rather be alone. He did not know
in what mood Saul would meet him, and it was better
perhaps that they should be without the fetter which the
presence of Bride must necessarily impose.</p>

<p>Without pausing to rehearse any speech, Eustace walked
straight up to the lonely figure on the rock, and holding
out his hand in greeting (a demonstration very rare in those
days between men of such different stations), said, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>
warm feeling, “Tresithny, you have suffered in what you
took to be the cause of the people. That must make a
fresh bond between us, whatever else we may have to say
upon the subject.”</p>

<p>Saul started at the sound of the familiar, unexpected
voice (the plash of the waves had drowned approaching
footsteps); he started again at sight of the outstretched
hand; but after a moment of visible hesitation, he took it
in his grasp and wrung it till Eustace could have winced.
The sombre face was working strangely. The mask of
stolid indifference and contempt had fallen from it. There
was a new light in the hollow eyes as they met the searching
gaze of Eustace’s, and the first words came out with
something of a gasp.</p>

<p>“Then you have come at last, sir, and you have not
changed!”</p>

<p>“Why should I change?” asked Eustace, with a smile,
wonderfully relieved to find that this unapproachable man,
who was puzzling all the world besides, did not turn a
deaf ear upon him. Shocked as he was at the change he
saw in the outward aspect of Saul, he saw that it was
the same Saul as of old, a man full of strength and fight—a
tool that might be dangerous to work with, or of
inestimable value, according as it could be guided and
tempered. A sense of true admiration and fellowship
sprang up within him towards this stern-faced son of
toil, with his sorrowful story and suffering face.</p>

<p>“Why should I change?” he asked; and then Saul’s
pent-up feeling burst out.</p>

<p>Every one had changed—the whole world—the very
cause itself. All had left him in his hour of need—all
had turned upon him and betrayed and deserted him.
Months of solitary brooding, the delirium of fever, the
overwrought nervous condition into which imprisonment
had driven him, had all combined to produce in Saul a
distorted image of life, of the world, and of every single<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>
being in it. Hitherto he had locked these feelings in his
own heart; but now, before Eustace, the one man who had
proffered him friendship in the midst of his trouble, the
friendship of comrade to comrade, man to man, it all came
pouring out in one great flood of impassioned eloquence
and imprecation, terrible sometimes to listen to. It was
not easy at times even to follow his rapid speech, which
alternated between the roughest vernacular and the purest
English he had ever spoken, rehearsed a hundred times
in his prison-house, as he had prepared the speeches which
were to raise all Devon and Cornwall to arms, if need be,
against the monstrous class tyranny under which the country
lay groaning. Eustace let him have his fling, never
stopping him by argument or opposition, leading him on by
a sympathetic word now and again to outpour everything
that was in his heart without fear. He knew by instinct
what the relief would be, how much good it would do for
the outlet to be found at length; and though unable to
repress a sense of shuddering loathing at some of the
words of his companion, he could well excuse them in the
thought of his great sufferings and state of mental distraction,
and was very hopeful by slow degrees of winning him
back to a better and more reasonable frame of mind.</p>

<p>It was much to have gained his confidence—much that
Saul was able to depend on the sympathy of his former
master, and was not afraid of baring his inmost soul
before him. Eustace was seized sometimes with a sense
of something like dismay to find how absolutely Saul believed
he would echo even the most blasphemous of his
thoughts, how securely he reckoned upon finding in his
leader the same absolute denial of all revealed religion—religion
which he himself fiercely decried and ridiculed, as
part and parcel of a corrupt system soon to be exploded.
Much that the young man thus hotly declaimed against—much
of his wild and random vituperation must have
been learned from others. Eustace could honestly affirm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>
he had never allowed such expressions to pass his lips;
but here and there a phrase of his own would mingle with
the wilder words of Saul, and half startle Eustace by the
method of its application. Also he could not help recognising,
as this man poured out his soul before him by the
shore that day, that his own standpoint had very slightly
and insensibly changed from those days, more than a year
back now, when he had first sought to awaken in Saul a
response to his own ardent imaginings. What the change
was he could scarcely define, but he was aware that
arguments and assertions which would then have passed
by as only slight exaggerations of a legitimate truth, now
came to him with something of a shock, bringing a realisation
of some unheeded change or development in himself
which had silently leavened during the past months, till
it had attained a proportion he never suspected.</p>

<p>Rousing himself with a start from the train of thought
thus suggested, he tried to bring his companion back to
the world of real things, and to leave these idle denunciations
and invectives alone for the present. When Saul
had about tired himself with his own impetuosity, and
had kept silence for a few moments, Eustace spoke a few
well-chosen words of sympathy, and gradually bringing
round the subject of the forthcoming election, he explained
to the ex-prisoner what had been going on in
the world during his incarceration, and what bright
hopes were now entertained in this country of better
days in store for it, when a strong Government, pledged
to redress the gravest of political abuses, should be in
power.</p>

<p>Saul was not entirely ignorant of what had passed, but
had very distorted ideas as to the amount and character
of the opposition offered to the bill and the prospects of
its speedy success. He listened eagerly to what Eustace
told him, and his remarks and questions again struck his
master as showing a quickness of insight and a power<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>
of appreciation most remarkable in one of his class. He
was a more excitable, a more sombre, a more embittered
man than he had been a year before. His class hatred
had sunk deeper into his soul, and become a more integral
part of his nature. Eustace recognised how the humiliation,
if not the destruction, of the moneyed classes was
to him almost more of an object than the redress of the
grievances of the poor. The two were linked together
in his mind, it was true; but it was easy to see which of
them held the foremost place. Eustace realised, as perhaps
he had never done so well before, the temper of the
French revolutionaries of forty years back. He could
well picture Saul in their midst, and think with a
shudder of the deeds he would commit at the head of
a furious mob, wrought up to a pitch of ungovernable
fury by the rude eloquence of such a leader. Perhaps
he realised, too, what might come to England if her sons
were stirred up to a like madness, instead of being worked
upon by gentler methods. He well knew that there had
been moments when his own country had been on the
brink of revolution, and that such moments might even
come again. Surely it was needful for the men who
stood in the forefront of the van of reform to walk
warily. They had an immense power behind them; but
it was, as Abner had said, the power of an explosive
whose properties and whose energies were but imperfectly
understood. Reform may be the best hindrance
to revolution, but it may also incite the very danger it
strives to avert. Eustace had been told this a hundred
times before, but he had never been so convinced of the
truth of the warning as he was whilst walking on the
shore that day in the company of Saul.</p>

<p>He suggested taking him away from St. Bride, and
showing him the other side of life in the great centres
of the world; but Saul, though visibly attracted by the
thought of continuing near to Eustace, for whom his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>
love and admiration were most loyal, gave no decided
answer. He shrank from the confinement even of freedom
in a great city, shrank from even such slight bondage
as service under such a master as this would entail.
Moreover, there was no need for a speedy decision.
Eustace would be some weeks at the castle; he would
probably remain there till the result of the election was
known. It would be time enough to settle then what
should be done. For the present, Saul would remain
unfettered and untrammelled.</p>

<p>“For I must be in Pentreath if there is to be an election,”
he said, the light of battle leaping into his eyes.
He remembered elections in past times, and the attendant
excitement and fighting and fun, as in those days it seemed
to him. He was no politician then, and had only the
vaguest notion as to what it was all about; but he was
always foremost in the crowd about the hustings, cheering,
howling, flinging missiles, according to the spirit of
the moment and the wave of public opinion, which would
ebb and rise and change a dozen different times in as
many hours. He had always been instinctively the
enemy of the Tory and the supporter of the Whig candidate,
because he had always taken on every matter the
contrary opinion of the Castle—almost as a matter of
religion. Otherwise he could not be said to have had an
opinion heretofore in such things. But the excitement,
the indiscriminate treating, the rowdyism of the whole
place, and the fights and scrimmages that were constantly
arising, were like the elixir of life to the ardent temperament
of one who was forced by circumstances into a life
of monotonous toil. He always obtained a few days’
holiday on such occasions, and spent them in a fashion
dear to his heart. Now he looked forward to a longer
spell of excitement, and to struggles of a very different
kind. Then it had all been fun, now it would be stern
earnest with him. There was a fierce light of battle in his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>
eyes. The hope sprang up again in his heart of striking
a blow for the cause. Eustace saw the look, heard the
half hissed words of joy and anticipation, and smilingly
laid a hand on the young fisherman’s arm.</p>

<p>“Yes, I think you will do well to be there. You are
one of those who may do us good, and help on the cause
of right and liberty; but not by violence, Saul—always
remember that. Violence is not our friend, but our most
deadly foe. It puts a sword in the hands of our enemies
to slay us withal. There must be no unseemly violence
at the Pentreath election—remember that. We must
give our opponents no reason to say that the cause of
reform is advocated by cowardly and unworthy means.
Leave all that sort of thing to our foes. Let them get
up as many riots as they please. Our part is to be just
and wise and patient, secure in the righteousness and
justice of our object. You will find we shall come out
in a far stronger position by remembering this than if we
organise disturbances and lead angry mobs to deeds of
reckless lawlessness.”</p>

<p>Saul made no response; Eustace was not even sure
that he heard. His eyes were flashing, his nostrils working;
he clenched and unclenched his hand in a fashion
indicative of strong excitement.</p>

<p>Eustace judged it wiser to say no more for the present.
There would be plenty of time before the elections came
off to gain an increasing ascendency over this wild spirit.
His first beginning had been by no means bad.</p>

<p>Yet Eustace, as he walked homewards silently with
Bride, could hardly help smiling at the thought of the
part he should be forced to play with Saul. That there
were stirring days coming upon the country he could not
doubt, and he meant to take his part in them with a will;
but he realised that, with Saul watching his every movement,
and pledged to follow him to the utmost limit to
which his own arguments could be pushed, he should be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span>
forced to weigh his words, and direct his actions with a
greater prudence end moderation than he had originally
purposed. Perhaps it might be well for him to have this
reminder well before his eyes, but he could not but smile
at the peculiar result which had been brought about by
his own endeavour to work some sort of small agitation
amongst the people at St. Bride’s, St. Erme, and
Penarvon.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b241.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b242.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVI<br />

<i>THE POLLING AT PENTREATH</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b032e.jpg" alt="E" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">EVEN Bride caught something of the prevailing
excitement as the days and weeks flew by, and
nothing was spoken of, or thought of in the
world about her, but the coming election and the
prospects of the Reform party. The far West-Country
might be a little long in growing into the burning questions
of the day, but once aroused, it could show an amount of
eagerness and enthusiasm not to be despised by busier
centres. Moreover, party and local feeling always runs
very high in out-of-the-world places, and many in and
around Pentreath who cared but little, and understood
less, of the real point at issue, were keenly excited over
the coming contest on account of the exceptional nature
it presented.</p>

<p>Hitherto their member, Sir Roland Menteith, had been
returned almost without opposition. He was popular
with all sections of the community, and such opposition
as he met with was of a kind sufficient to be the excuse
for unlimited treating and unlimited rowdyism on polling
day, without being enough to awaken the smallest
amount of anxiety or uncertainty as to the result of the
struggle. But now all this was to be changed, and as
days and weeks rolled on, it became very evident that
there would be a decided and sharp contest; and although
the supporters of Sir Roland were fairly sanguine as to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>
the result, the election was not the foregone conclusion it
had been in days of yore.</p>

<p>In the first place, there was already division in the
camp; for so soon as it became known that Sir Roland,
whilst still professing Tory principles, intended to give his
adhesion to the bill which was before the country for
the reform of the franchise, a strong party, including
large numbers of wealthy men, at once seceded from
him, and in a short time it was announced that young
Viscount Lanherne was coming forward in the Tory
interest to dispute the seat with Sir Roland; whilst in
the extreme Whig or Radical interest a candidate was
forthcoming in the person of Mr. Morval, a wealthy and
influential middle-class man, whose power and importance
in the place had been steadily growing during the
past years, and who promised to bring a strong army of
voters to the poll when the day should come.</p>

<p>The defection of these old-fashioned and “rabid” Tories
from the ranks of Sir Roland was a serious blow, for
hitherto he had always counted securely upon every vote
this section of the community had to give. It was a
distinct split in the ranks, and a very serious one. The
young Viscount, though personally popular in society,
was only a lad fresh from Oxford, and knew nothing
of the bulk of his constituents. He had practically no
chance of success, yet greatly endangered Sir Roland’s
seat, and was in great danger of making it a present to
the Radical candidate. From a common-sense standpoint
it was a grave error of judgment, but when party feeling
runs high, common-sense too often goes to the wall.
There was a large section in the county who absolutely
refused to give any vote to a man not pledged to fight
the Reform Bill tooth and nail. By this section Sir
Roland was looked upon as a turncoat and renegade; nor
could the old-fashioned soundness of his Conservative
principles on other questions condone the fact that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span>
stood pledged to the support of this measure, which was
looked upon as the first step towards the overthrow of
the existing constitution.</p>

<p>Neither did the Whig and Radical section trust the
policy of Sir Roland. They had too long been accustomed
to regard him as the Tory candidate to look upon
him with favouring eyes now. In plain English, the appearance
of another Tory candidate in the field, pledged
to the old-fashioned Tory policy, had taken the wind out
of his sails, and made his position an anomalous one. He
found himself in the quandary so many do who try to
adopt a moderate and liberal policy without giving up
altogether the older traditions in which they have been
reared: he was suspected and distrusted by a large section
on both sides, and regarded as one who was neither
“fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring,” a position not
a little galling and irritating to a man who had hitherto
carried all before him with easy assurance.</p>

<p>The Penarvon interest was his, and that went a long
way; and Eustace, who worked most energetically on his
committee, did all that one man can do to ensure a victory.
Eustace, however, was not always the best of advocates,
for though he had a wide popularity in certain classes, he
was very greatly suspected and distrusted in others, and
those who would most willingly have followed his lead
were not of the class that had votes to give.</p>

<p>Still Sir Roland was by no means out of heart as to
the result. He had a very large following of men of
moderate opinions, and the support of the Duke, who was
greatly respected by the upper classes in the neighbourhood,
was the best guarantee he could possess that he
was not going to pursue a destructive and outrageous
policy. Men who had wavered at first and had heard with
enthusiasm the news that Viscount Lanherne was coming
forward, began to think better of the matter after reading
some of Sir Roland’s manifestoes and hearing some of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>
speeches. The young Viscount, though eager for the
excitement of the coming contest, and all on fire for the
cause on which he had embarked, was neither a man of
experience nor knowledge, and he betrayed his lack of
many of the needful requirements of a politician whenever
he addressed a meeting or harangued a crowd.
People began to take up the name of “painted popinjay,”
which had been freely flung at him by the Radicals. It
seemed somehow to fit the young spark, who was always
dressed in the tiptop of fashion, and whose face was as
brightly tinted as that of a girl.</p>

<p>Sir Roland had won for himself the name of “trimmer,”
and found it difficult to know what to call himself, since
the name Tory was now absorbed by the Viscount’s party,
whilst the other opponent had taken upon himself the
name and office of the Whig representative. At last,
following the example of the great trimmer, Lord Halifax,
he, with a mixture of tact and good-humour which did
him credit and proved a strategic success, himself adopted
the name thrust upon him, and in his speeches and printed
addresses openly advocated the policy of “trimming,”
when it had become a certainty that neither of the two
advocated extremes could any longer govern the country.
Of course there was an immense power in the style of
argument adopted from the great peer of two centuries
back, who had often found himself in a parallel dilemma;
and his arguments, dressed up in a fresh garb, were freely
used by Sir Roland, and that with no small effect.
Eustace read up the subject of compromise for him, and
furnished him with most telling precedents to quote to his
audiences. The Duke spoke to those friends who came
to remonstrate with, or consult him, in a fashion that was
not without effect. Men began to say to one another
that if the Duke of Penarvon had reached the conclusion
that it was hopeless to try and stem the tide, and that
the wisest and best course now was to seek to place in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>
authority men of known experience, probity, and moderation
to guide the bark of the country through the troubled
waters of reform, why then they had better follow the same
tactics. He would certainly have advocated a fighting
policy if there was any reasonable hope of maintaining
the struggle with success; but if he despaired of this,
it showed, indeed, that the time for compromise had
come, and every one who knew anything of human nature
or the history of nations, must be aware that to insist on
fighting a hopeless battle was only to stir up an infinity
of bitterness and party feeling, and render the winning
side tenfold more violent and destructive.</p>

<p>And so the days fled swiftly by; Eustace, though secure
of his own seat, working as hard in the cause of Sir
Roland as though it had been his own, striving to live
down the distrust and ill-feeling he found prevailing
against him in Pentreath and its neighbourhood, and gaining
an experience and insight into human nature which
he had never obtained before. He found himself sometimes
in a rather awkward corner, it is true; for his own
views were far more in accordance with those of the
Radical candidate, Mr. Morval, than with those of Sir
Roland, and it was by no means always easy to avoid
being landed again and again on the horns of a dilemma.
But since Sir Roland and he were of one mind upon the
great question upon which the appeal to the country was
made, Eustace felt that side issues and other matters of
policy could be left to take care of themselves. It would
have been impossible to remain a guest at Penarvon
and to have flung himself into the arms of the Radical or
even the Whig party (it was all one, called at the castle
Radical, and in the town Whig, for the name Radical
was still unpopular amongst those who were voters, though
beginning to be caught up by the people). Eustace had no
strong temptation to do this, having from the first taken
a liking for Sir Roland, and feeling grateful towards his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span>
kinsman the Duke, who had been liberal enough to promise
him the coveted seat, even whilst regretting the nature
of the great measure his kinsman was pledged to support.
Eustace would have sacrificed more to win his goodwill
and approval, or to keep in touch and in sympathy with
Bride. She was awaking to a keener interest in the
coming struggle than he had ever looked to see in her.
He could not tell exactly what she thought about it
all, or what view she took of the question of Reform; but
there was something in her method of receiving his
accounts of their doings that inspired him with a keen
wish to retain her sympathies; and those he had found
he could never have unless his own doings were perfectly
upright and honourable. Many and many a time he was
restrained from employing some common trick or some
unworthy inducement by the remembrance of the look in
Bride’s eyes when Sir Roland had laughingly boasted of
a like bit of sharp practice. In point of fact, he was
growing to rule his life by a new standard since knowing
more of Bride and her ideals. He hardly recognised this
himself as yet; but, had he paused to look back, he would
have known that there were innumerable little ways in
which he had changed. Things which in old days would
have appeared absolutely legitimate, if not actually advisable,
were now avoided by him with a scrupulousness
which often exposed him to a laugh. He began to ask
himself instinctively how Bride would regard any course
of action about which he was uncertain, and again and
again that question had arrested him from taking a
slightly doubtful course, and kept him upon the road of
strict probity and honesty.</p>

<p>Nor could Bade be altogether unconscious of this herself,
and it began to form a silent bond between them,
which was, perhaps, almost dangerously sweet. Eustace
was the most conscious of this, and it often made his
heart thrill with pleasure; neither was it without its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span>
effect upon her—one of these being an increased interest
in everything concerning this contest, and the keenest
sympathy with Eustace’s strenuous endeavours that it
should be conducted on lines of the strictest equity, and
that nothing should be said or done to disgrace the cause
or give a handle for calumny or reproach. Bride was
scarcely more sorrowful than he when it was found that
the agent was conniving at time-honoured abuses, and
setting on foot the ordinary methods for vote-catching.
Things that were looked upon as a matter of course by
Sir Roland, and received with a laugh and a shrug,
Eustace heard with a sense of repulsion which he certainly
would not have experienced a year before; and he worked
might and main to impose purer and more equitable
methods upon his subordinates, till it really began to be
said in Pentreath that Sir Roland deserved the seat if it
was only for his probity and upright dealing.</p>

<p>Eustace had hoped to have Saul working with and for
him in these stirring days; but, to his disappointment,
and rather to his surprise, he utterly failed in bringing
his disciple into the arena of his own efforts. Saul was
working in his own fashion with a fierce resolution and
single-heartedness; but no argument or persuasion on
Eustace’s part would induce him to cast in his lot with
the candidate of the Castle party. It was in vain to say
that he was on the side of the great reform, that he was
fighting the battle of the bill; Saul would reply that Mr.
Morval was also doing that, and that <i>he</i> was a man
pledged to the cause of the people through thick and thin,
whilst everybody knew that Sir Roland was only advocating
the bill because he knew it was hopeless to oppose
it, and that at heart he was a Tory and an aristocrat. It
was quite enough for Saul that the Castle was supporting
him. No gentle words from Lady Bride, no good offices
from the Duke, had had the smallest effect in overcoming
the bitter hostility of this man towards the house of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>
Penarvon. Eustace sometimes doubted whether he should
ever retain Saul’s confidence if he were to succeed to the
dukedom one day, as was probable. As it was, Saul
seemed able to dissever the man from his name and
race; but how long this might be the case was an open
question.</p>

<p>At any rate, Saul would not work with Eustace, and he
worked on lines absolutely independent, if not openly
hostile. There was a section in the town which was quite
disposed to make an idol of the young fellow, who had
undergone a term of imprisonment and suffered so much
in the cause of justice and liberty.</p>

<p>This section was not one which commanded many
votes; but the voice of numbers always makes itself felt,
and Saul was possessed of a rude eloquence which commanded
attention; and publicans began to find that, if
Saul was going to address a meeting in the evening, it
was sure to be largely attended by a class of customers
who brought grist to the mill. The operatives from the
mills—now finding that the hated machinery was a friend
rather than a foe to them, and almost all of them working
again there—rallied round Saul to a man. They liked
to have as their spokesman and champion a man of his
grand physique and of a power of expression so much in
advance of their own. They always came to hear him
speak, and he was gradually becoming something of a
power in the place. It is true that his addresses were of
so inflammatory a character that they were often followed
by a demonstration or a small riot which was alarming
to the more orderly inhabitants; but, at election times,
people made up their mind to disturbances, and tried to
regard them philosophically as the natural concomitants
of the crisis.</p>

<p>The scenes presented by the hustings as the election
day drew on were increasingly lively and animated.
Eustace came home one day with his coat half torn off<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span>
his back, having adventured himself rather unwisely
down a side alley where some considerable body of rabid
socialists had gathered to listen to one of their own
number denouncing anything and everything in the past
systems of government with a beautiful impartiality. He
often returned soiled and draggled, sometimes with a cut
on the face or hands. Sir Roland did not escape some of
these amenities either, and declared with good-humoured
amusement that it promised to be the most lively election
he could remember.</p>

<p>The excitement became so acute as the day drew on,
that even Bride caught the infection of it, and was more
aroused from her dreamy life of silent meditation and
prayer than she had ever been before. Not that she
ceased to pray constantly and earnestly for the victory of
the righteous cause—whichever that should be; but she
spent less time in silent musing and meditation, and more
in the study of those papers and journals which told her
of the questions of the day, and the aim and ultimate
object of this hot party strife.</p>

<p>When the polling day really came, and her father
settled to drive in in the coach, taking Eustace with
him—Sir Roland had his rooms at the hotel in Pentreath,
and had ceased to make headquarters at the
castle—Bride suddenly asked to accompany the party,
a request so foreign to her ordinary habits that both the
men looked at her in surprise.</p>

<p>“It will be very noisy and rowdy in the town,” said
Eustace, “and we may get into some street-fights, and
have a warm reception ourselves. Would you not be
better and safer at home?”</p>

<p>“I should like to see the town at election time,”
answered Bride, “and I should like to be with my
father.”</p>

<p>The Duke was surprised, and said a few words to
dissuade her, but finding her really bent upon it, gave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>
way. He did not anticipate anything very different
to-day from what he had experienced at other elections,
and his daughter would go straight to the hotel
where Sir Roland’s committee-room was situated, and
would remain there till he drove out again. He himself
would go early to the poll and register his vote,
and then come back and await the news which from
time to time would be brought in. He did not intend
to remain late, to remain till the result was announced;
but he would spend a few hours in the place, and gain
a general idea how the fortunes of the day were going.</p>

<p>The town presented an extraordinary appearance to
Bride, as the great coach rumbled through its streets,
ordinarily so quiet and silent and sleepy. The whole
place was alive. It seemed as though every inhabitant
of the town and neighbourhood was abroad in the
streets, and shouts and yells, hootings and cheers,
greeted the appearance of the ducal equipage as it
turned every corner. On the whole, however, the crowd
seemed jovial and good-tempered, and although Bride
shrank back sometimes in vague distress and alarm at
the sound of certain hoarse cries which assailed her
ears, she was aroused and interested by all she saw.
The carriage passed through the streets without molestation,
though with many needful halts on account of
the congested state of the traffic, till it stopped at the
hotel, and the Duke handed out his daughter amid the
cheering of a large crowd, which had gathered there
in the expectation of hearing some speeches from Sir
Roland. Bride was glad to hide herself in the building;
but was soon provided with a chair near the
window, from which she could look out into the market-place
below. Sheltered by a curtain, she could see
without being seen. The room opened by one of its
long windows upon the great square balcony formed
by the roof of the projecting porch; and from time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>
to time Sir Roland, or one of his coadjutors, stepped out
upon this balcony and made a short speech, always
received with vociferous applause. When it was known
that the Duke had arrived, there were many shouts for
him; and at last he gratified the people by going
forward, and making a brief but able little speech, in
which encouragement and warning were blended in a
way that produced an obvious effect, and set the people
thinking.</p>

<p>Eustace made a speech to which Bride listened with
undivided attention; and never for a moment did he
forget that she was listening, and seldom perhaps had
he spoken better, or so eloquently advocated his entire
belief in the use of the best and noblest weapons only,
in the noble cause to which they were pledged. When
he came in again, after being warmly applauded from
without, she gave him a glance which set his heart
bounding and his pulses throbbing; but he had no
time for speech then, as the Duke wished to go to the
poll at once, and he accompanied him to try and ward
off anything like personal attack or insult; for he was
by no means sure what Saul and his band of malcontents
were up to; and his own presence at the side of
his kinsman would be the greatest protection from any
disagreeable interlude.</p>

<p>Bride remained in the hotel, sometimes watching the
animated scene without, sometimes exchanging courtesies
with the gentlemen of the county who came in
and out, some accompanied by their wives, who, like
Bride, had come to see what was going on, and who
were pleased to see the girl again after her long period
of seclusion following on her mother’s last illness and
death.</p>

<p>Luncheon was spread in a room below, and partaken
of as the appetite or convenience of the guests suggested.
The Duke returned from the poll with tidings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>
so far favourable to their candidate. But it was too
early to feel any security; and the supporters of the
Viscount were rallying bravely round him, and talking
grandly of carrying the seat in the Tory interest in face
of all Radical and time-serving opposition.</p>

<p>At two o’clock, however, things were still looking well
for Sir Roland, and better still at three. The Viscount’s
poll remained almost stationary now, and the Radical
candidate was left far behind. True, his supporters were
mainly those likely to register their votes later in the
day, but on the whole there was a feeling in the minds
of Sir Roland and his committee that the day was going
very well for them, and the cheering and enthusiasm
outside, whenever news from the poll was received, was
loud and increasing.</p>

<p>But the Duke, though keenly interested in the contest,
was not desirous of remaining much longer. He
wished to get home before the mills ceased work, and
the operatives came pouring out. At any rate, he wished
to be clear of the town by that time; and when he was
told that to-day many of the mills were to close at four
o’clock, he quickly ordered his carriage to be got ready,
for there was not too much time to spare.</p>

<p>It took time, with the yard so full of vehicles and
the stables so overcrowded, to get the great coach out
and equipped; and Eustace suddenly resolved that he
would at least make one of the party in it on its way
through the streets. The hands of the clock were
drawing rapidly on to the hour of four, and still the
coach could not be got free of the yard. Then a messenger
from the poll came tearing up with news of farther
advances for Sir Roland, and some more congratulations
and cheering had to be gone through, whilst the
crowd, surging up closer and closer round the hotel, made
egress for the moment practically impossible. Before
the horses were in and the start accomplished, the clocks<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span>
had boomed out the hour of four some ten minutes since;
and as Eustace looked out through the window at the
crowded state of the streets, and the threatening aspect
of the operatives swarming round them, he wished they
had cleared the precincts of the town some half-hour ago,
but was very glad he was in the carriage.</p>

<p>They had turned out of the main thoroughfare, where
progress was almost impossible, on account of its proximity
to the polling booth, and were making their way down a
narrow alley, when a sudden sound of hooting and yelling
broke upon their ears, and Eustace, trained to such things,
detected a note of menace in it which he feared was
directed against the well-known carriage of the Duke. This
suspicion was heightened by the conduct of the coachman
on the box, who suddenly lashed his horses into a mad
gallop, as though the man felt that this was the only
chance of getting through some barrier suddenly raised
before them.</p>

<p>This manœuvre was received with a howl and a yell.
The next moment, the carriage lurched violently, the
horses plunged and kicked in wild terror. Cries, groans,
and curses arose in deafening tumult around the carriage,
and Bride half started up, exclaiming—</p>

<p>“They are trampling down the people. Eustace, stop
the horses! Tell the coachman to pull up! They must
not hurt the people! See that they do not! See if any
one is hurt!”</p>

<p>There was no fear in her face, only a great compassion
and anxiety. But before Eustace could make any move
or answer, the horses had been brought to a standstill by
the hands of the mob, and the wild and enraged people
were yelling and surging round the carriage in a fashion
which could not but remind all its occupants of scenes
they had heard described as having taken place in France
during the days of the uprising of the populace there.</p>

<p>Bride sank back in her seat, pale, but with a look of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span>
quiet resolution, which bespoke the high courage of her
race. The Duke put out his hand and took his daughter’s
in its clasp, but remained otherwise perfectly quiet and
unmoved. His fine old face regarded the tumult without
a change or a quiver; his eyes looked quietly, though
rather sternly, out from beneath the pent-house of his
bushy brows, and his lips looked a little thin and grim.
The men on the box were making a gallant fight, laying
about them right and left with the great whip and with
the reins, whose buckled end made no bad weapon when
whirled round the head of some approaching ruffian. But
these demonstrations only provoked the crowd to wilder
fury, and Eustace knew not whether to open the door and
remonstrate with both parties, or reserve his words for
any attack likely to be made upon the party inside. It
was a terribly anxious moment for him, knowing as he did
the temper of the people, and the terrible lengths to which
angry passions will drive furious and disappointed men.
It was very plain that these turbulent malcontents had
heard that Sir Roland seemed carrying the day; and
their native bitterness towards all persons of rank and
station was intensified fourfold by the discouraging news
just made known.</p>

<p>A large stone came crashing in through the window,
shivering the glass to fragments, and sending the sharp
morsels flying round the occupants in a most dangerous
fashion.</p>

<p>“Come out of that!—give up your coach to proper
uses!” cried rough voices in every key. “Down with the
tyrants and oppressors! Down with all dukes and baronets
and fine gentlemen!”</p>

<p>Eustace looked out of the window with flaming eyes.</p>

<p>“Men!” he cried in a loud voice—and for a moment
his well-known face and voice arrested attention and
respect, “be men!—not brutes! There is a lady with us.
Respect her womanhood, if you cannot respect her station;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>
and let us pass in peace. You do not make war on women.
Be men, and let us through. I will go with you if you
will; but not till you have promised not to molest this
carriage.”</p>

<p>A mocking roar was the answer; those behind set it
going, and the whole crowd took it up.</p>

<p>“You!—and what are you, pray?—a turncoat—a
deserter—a trimmer!”—and at that word a yell went up
transcending anything that had gone before.</p>

<p>“Trimmer!—trimmer!—traitor!” was bawled and
yelled on all sides, and then there arose such a hubbub
as cannot be described, a hubbub in which no articulate
words could be detected, save oaths of blasphemous import,
which made Bride whiten and shiver as no sense
of personal peril could do. Eustace better analysed the
meaning of those shouts and yells and cries, and turning
to the Duke, he said, “I think we must leave the carriage.
If we were alone we might sit it out and brave them;
but we have a lady with us, and it will not do to provoke
them too far. They will stop short, I fully believe, at
personal violence, and there is a house just opposite where
they are making friendly signals to us, and will give us
shelter if we can reach the door. Bride, will you be
afraid to face the mob for one minute? They will howl
and yell; but they will not molest you—they shall not!
Come!—there is no time to lose.”</p>

<p>Indeed there was not. A new sound arose, a sound of
more hooting and yelling, as though a new crowd was
upon them; and as this fresh noise smote upon the ears of
the mob round the carriage, it became mingled with a
new war-cry, and Eustace distinguished the shout of
“Saul Tresithny!—Saul Tresithny!” mingling with other
sounds.</p>

<p>If indeed it were Saul coming upon them, he would be
most likely heading the wildest crew in the town. Eustace
looked suddenly pale but intensely resolute as he flung<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>
open the door of the carriage and sprang out, before the
people were prepared for the action.</p>

<p>“You shall have the carriage, men,” he said, “but make
way for this lady to pass;” and he gave his hand to
Bride, who came out with her simple air of quiet fearless
dignity, and stood for a second regarding the surging
crowd with such a great compassion in her eyes, that
those nearest involuntarily fell back, and not a sound
arose from any but the hinder ranks, as the Duke and his
daughter passed through the mob and gained the friendly
shelter of the humble house which Eustace had recognised
as a place where they would find shelter.</p>

<p>Was it the fearless dignified bearing of the old nobleman,
or the gentle self-possession of the girl? Eustace
wondered, and could not say. All he knew was that for
the brief moment of the transit there was comparative
silence and tranquillity; and the Duke showed no sign of
nervous haste as he paused to direct the coachman and
footman to cease ineffectual resistance and to come also
within doors.</p>

<p>Then he followed Eustace and Bride with firm and
quiet bearing, whilst just as the door closed behind the
whole party, the hootings and yells redoubled in fury,
mingling freely with the name which seemed to infuse
fresh life into the howling mob—the name of Saul
Tresithny.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b257.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b258.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVII<br />

<i>THE DUKE’S CARRIAGE</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b001t.jpg" alt="T" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">TWO hours later Bride looked up with an eager
air, for she had heard the sound of a familiar
footstep on the stair, and knew that she should
have tidings at last.</p>

<p>She was comfortably established in a small parlour over
a shop, and was making friends with a pair of solemn-looking
little children, who were strangely fascinated by,
though half afraid of, the pretty stranger lady. The house
which had opened its door to the Duke’s party—and had
had several windows broken in consequence—belonged to
some humble tradespeople, and they had put everything
in their house at the disposal of the Duke and his daughter,
and had done all in their power to make them comfortable
during the brief time which they had been forced to
remain prisoners, owing to the presence of the howling
mob without. Then when the crowd was diverted to some
other spot, and had left this little street empty, Bride had
still been left in the security of this humble abode, whilst
the Duke and Eustace made their way back to the hotel,
promising to return for her when the kidnapped carriage
should have been recovered, and they could make another
attempt to quit the town.</p>

<p>Bride had passed these two hours somewhat anxiously—her
anxiety being for her father and Eustace, not for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>
herself. The grocer’s two big lads, who acted the part of
scouts, and ran in and out with items of news, reported
that there was much excitement and rioting going on in
the town now that all the mill hands were at liberty, and
the supporters of the Radical candidate going to the poll.
Sometimes sounds of distant yelling and hooting broke
upon the ears of the listening girl, and sent a thrill
through her frame. Sometimes there was a rush of
growling operatives down the narrow street where she
had found shelter, and for a moment her heart would
stand still in expectation of an attack upon this very
house; but the worthy people who had sheltered her
took it all very quietly, and were not at all seriously
disturbed. They said it was always so at election times,
and smiled at the notion of there being any danger to
dread.</p>

<p>So Bride had sipped the tea brought to her, and begged
for the company of the two little children when their
mother was obliged to go to her duties below. The time
passed somewhat wearily and anxiously, but at last the
sound of a familiar footstep without warned her that her
time of waiting was at an end.</p>

<p>The door opened and Eustace entered, his face pale,
his left arm in a sling, his clothes, though not exactly
torn, and evidently carefully brushed, showing traces that
their owner had been in some sort of skirmish or riot.
The girl sprang up anxiously at sight of him, her face
blanching a little.</p>

<p>“My father——?” she began, her lips forming the
words, though her voice was barely a whisper. Eustace’s
smile reassured her.</p>

<p>“He is quite safe. He will be here soon with a coach
to take you safely home. He has not been in any of the
troubles; he has been in the hotel ever since he left
you. We got there by the back way without any difficulty;
but the town was too disturbed for it to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>
advisable to attempt to drive out till some sort of order
had been restored.”</p>

<p>“But you are hurt,” said Bride, with a look at the slung
arm; “what have you been doing?”</p>

<p>“Oh, it is nothing,” answered Eustace, as he sat down to
tell his tale, for he had been on his feet the best part of
the day and was very fatigued; “only a little crushed and
mangled—no bone broken. I could not keep within
doors when so much that was exciting was going on
without, and I was in the thick of the <i>mêlée</i> once.
Poor Saul Tresithny fared worse than I. I am afraid
he will never walk again. They are taking him to
his grandfather’s house to be cared for: we thought
it was the best thing to do. Poor fellow! poor fellow!—such
a fine character run to waste! He might have
done much for the cause of liberty and advancement;
but he would not listen to aught save his own wild
passions.”</p>

<p>Bride clasped her hands and looked earnestly at
Eustace.</p>

<p>“Tell me what has happened,” she said breathlessly.</p>

<p>“I will tell you as much as I know myself. You are
aware, of course, that to get possession of your father’s
carriage and drag all the Radical voters to the poll in it
was considered the most wonderful triumph over us and
our man. As soon as you were safely out of the way, the
mob turned its attention to the spoil they had confiscated.
A young blacksmith who could drive was put on the box;
the colours were torn from the horses and replaced by
others; and the equipage was sent dashing all over the
town, returning each time crammed inside and out with
the shabbiest and least reputable voters that could be
found, the snorting, terrified, foaming horses being goaded
almost to madness by the shouting and the blows they
received, and threatening again and again to become
altogether unmanageable.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>“Poor creatures!” said Bride softly; “I hope they
have not been hurt. My father would be grieved.”</p>

<p>“I think they will not be the worse in the end. They
are on their homeward way now with their own coachman
driving them, and poor Saul lies groaning in the
torn and ruined carriage, being taken to his grandfather’s
cottage by the wish of the Duke. It is doubtful whether
he will live through the effects of this day’s work;
and your father wished him to be taken to Abner, as
the only person likely to exercise the smallest influence
over him.”</p>

<p>“Ah! poor Abner!” said Bride, with compassion; and
looking again at Eustace, she said, “Go on, please; tell me
the rest.”</p>

<p>“Well, as far as I understand the matter, it was like
this. Saul and his satellites were in possession of the
Duke’s carriage, and acted as a sort of bodyguard whilst
it made its journeys through the town. But as soon as it
was recognised by the other side as being the Duke’s
coach, and rumour spread abroad the report of how it had
been taken from his Grace and put to these vile purposes,
a counter-demonstration was at once organised. A
mob of men wearing the colours not only of Sir Roland
but of the Viscount, combined together to effect the
rescue of the carriage, and very soon this ill-fated vehicle
became the centre of a continuous and never-ceasing
furious riot. It still remained in the possession of Saul’s
men, but it was hemmed in by a crowd of enemies; and
though by sheer weight and dogged power of resistance
it was driven to and fro between the polling place and
the town streets, its progress became with each succeeding
journey more difficult, and the fighting around it
hotter and hotter.”</p>

<p>“How extraordinary people are!” said Bride, with a
light shiver, “as though it did any good to make these
fearful disturbances and riots. Do they really think any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>
cause will be benefited by such things? It seems all so
strange and sad.”</p>

<p>“At least it seems the outcome of ordinary human
nature at such times,” answered Eustace. “I did not
know much about what was going on for some time, but
by-and-bye word was brought that the fighting over the
carriage was getting really rather serious. Once it had
been taken possession of by the rival rabble, and was being
borne back in triumph to the hotel to be put once more
at the service of its owner; but then Saul led a tremendous
charge with his roughs, and the fortunes of the day
turned once more in his favour. Things in the town were
getting so serious that some soldiers had been brought
in under Captain O’Shaughnessy, and were drawn up
in readiness not far off. But we all hoped there would
be no need for their interference, and I thought I would
go down and see what it was all about, and, if it was
possible, draw off our own adherents from the unseemly
riot.”</p>

<p>“And that was how you got hurt?” said Bride.</p>

<p>“Yes; perhaps I was foolish to suppose that one man,
and that myself, could do any good at such a moment;
but I think one has a natural desire to be in the thick of
everything, and I knew that I should not come to harm,
if Saul Tresithny could help it. I went down and out
into the street. The noise told me that the carriage could
not be far away, and very soon I had forced myself into
the thick of the fight, hoping, when I got between the
combatants, to induce Saul on the one side to draw off
his men, whilst I urged those of our own supporters who
had joined in the scrimmage to retire from the unseemly
disturbance. But things had gone much too far
for any pacific endeavours on my part. I do not know
exactly in whose possession the carriage was at the moment
when I reached it; and the press round it and the fighting
was so fierce and indiscriminate that I could hardly move<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span>
or breathe, let alone trying to make my voice heard.
And soon I was recognised by one great fellow as an
enemy, and a new element of fury was added to the
struggle; but what really made the danger, and caused
the damage at last, was a sudden shout raised at the back
of the crowd that the soldiers were coming.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” breathed Bride softly.</p>

<p>“I suppose the man on the box of the carriage saw over
our heads that it was true, for he suddenly deserted his post,
and flung himself down to the ground; whilst the horses,
feeling the sudden jerk of the reins, and then the slackness
which followed, set to plunging and kicking wildly,
scattering the mob right and left, and knocking down
at least half-a-dozen of the crowd, as they swerved and
tried to turn, before bolting off in their terror. Saul
saw the peril to every one, rushed forward and made a
gallant spring at their heads; but he was knocked down
and trampled upon in a fearful way, before I and a few
others could come to his assistance and get to the heads
of the horses. When we brought them to a standstill at
last, I had got my arm crushed, I shall never know exactly
how; and the other fellows had all got bruises or cuts of
one sort or another. As for poor Tresithny, he lay on
the ground like one dead, his head bleeding, one foot so
crushed that I fear he will never walk again, and with
other injuries of quite as grave a character. But the
mob had scattered helter-skelter by that time, and the
soldiers, with their bayonets fixed, were quietly bearing
down through the street, clearing a path before them,
as a gale of wind clears away the fog wreaths through a
valley.”</p>

<p>“They did not hurt the people—they did not
fire?”</p>

<p>“Oh, no; they behaved very well and good-temperedly,
for they were a good bit pelted and hooting at starting. I
heard. They just fixed their bayonets, and marched quietly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span>
on in rank, and the mob dispersed more quickly than one
would suppose possible. I think the fall of poor Tresithny,
and the rumour that he was dead, frightened and discouraged
the crowd, and perhaps they had had enough of
it by that time. At any rate, by the time the soldiers
reached us the street was almost clear; and after we had
soothed and quieted the poor horses, who were in a lather
from head to foot and quaking in every limb, they had
picked up Tresithny tenderly enough, and laid him in the
carriage, making a sort of bed for him there with all the
cushions. It did not matter then that the poor fellow
was bleeding, and that his clothes were covered with dust
and mud: the carriage was in such a state inside and
out that nothing could harm it more. When we had
placed him there, we led the horses to the hotel yard, and
your father was told everything, and came down to look
for himself at the state of the equipage, and at the prostrate
leader of the mob.”</p>

<p>“And he sent him home to Abner?” said Bride, with
a soft light in her eyes.</p>

<p>“Yes. We got a surgeon to look at him without moving
him, and he bound up the wound on his head, and cut
away the boot from the crushed foot. He would not have
him taken out of the carriage or moved in any way till
he could be put straight to bed; and after the horses had
been groomed and fed, the coachman was called for,
and directed to drive young Tresithny to his grandfather’s
cottage, the surgeon going in the carriage with
him.”</p>

<p>“Poor Abner!” said Bride once more; “but it will be
the happiest thing for him to have Saul under his own
roof.”</p>

<p>“That is what your father said. So two soldiers were
told off to see the carriage safe out of the town, and there
is a sharp patrol of the streets being kept up to prevent
any more organised rioting. I think the disturbers of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>
the peace have had enough of it by this time. There is
the ordinary scrimmaging and hustling about the poll,
but that is quite a different thing from the desperate
fighting and blackguardism that was going on round
the Duke’s carriage. And now I have come to tell
you that you will soon be called for and taken home.
The hotel has furnished us with a coach to drive back
in, and Captain O’Shaughnessy himself will accompany us
out of the town to make sure there is no more rioting
about us.”</p>

<p>“And how is the poll going?”</p>

<p>“Well for us. Mr. Morval has polled a large number
of votes these past two hours, but Sir Roland still
holds his own. So far as one may guess till the end
has come, I should say he was quite safe for the seat;
though I think his majority will be considerably reduced,
as is natural, seeing how the party split. Things might
have been much worse under such circumstances.”</p>

<p>The rattle of wheels below announced the arrival of
the promised coach, and Bride took her departure, after
having made acknowledgment of all kinds to the friendly
people who had given her shelter. She found her father
looking fagged and worn, but quiet and tranquil, and
the journey home was accomplished without any farther
disturbance.</p>

<p>Early next morning news reached the castle that Sir
Roland had won the seat by a reduced though still substantial
majority. The other piece of news was that Saul
Tresithny had lived through the night, and, though very
much injured, might still survive, only that he must lose
his foot. It was so crushed and mangled and dislocated
that nothing could be done for it. If his life were to be
saved, the foot must go.</p>

<p>Bride went down herself to see Abner and make personal
inquiries. The old man looked very pale and grave,
but was quiet and composed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>“It may be, my Ladybird, that the Lord has sent this
in mercy and not in wrath,” he said. “There’s many a
one as has found the door of the fold in the time of
weakness and sorrow and pain, that never could see it
when things were otherwise with him. It is better to
enter into life maimed than to lose the hope of salvation
for this life and the next. Pray God he will turn to
Him at last in this dark hour, when he could not make
shift to see the way before.”</p>

<p>“Ah! I hope so!—I trust so,” said Bride softly.
“That is why I am so glad for him to be with you
and not amongst strangers. You can point the way;
you can tell him of the hope. When his life here
looks so dark before him, perhaps he will turn at last
to the hope of the glory and blessedness that will be
revealed in the kingdom. I do not see how men
can live without that hope, when the things of earth
fail them, and show how hollow and empty they always
are.”</p>

<p>Abner smiled with a look on his face in which hope
and sorrow were strangely blended. He knew better
than this girl could do the hardness of the human heart
and the stubborn toughness of a nature like Saul’s, and
yet he would not despond.</p>

<p>“The Great Gardener never takes the pruning-knife
but for the good of the plant He is about to prune,” he
said. “It’s hard sometimes to watch the living tree cut
away from the stem, but in days to come one sees and
knows why it was needful. We can but live in faith
that it will be so with these poor frail bodies of
ours.”</p>

<p>“Does he know?” asked Bride, with a little shiver.</p>

<p>“No, he has never come to his senses yet, and I am
hoping he won’t until it is all over. The doctor will
come this afternoon with another gentleman, and then
’twill be done quick and sharp. I’m hoping and praying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span>
it will all be over before the poor lad comes rightly to
himself.”</p>

<p>Bride spent that day mostly alone, and much of it in
prayer. Her father, wearied out by the fatigues and
excitements of yesterday, kept to his room, and Eustace
had gone into Pentreath to see Sir Roland.</p>

<p>It was evening when a message from Abner was brought
to the girl to tell her that the operation was over successfully,
and that the patient was sleeping quietly under
the influence of an opiate.</p>

<p>That evening she and Eustace dined alone together,
the Duke preferring to keep still to his room. It was a
soft clear evening in May, and the sunlight lay broad
and bright upon the sparkling water as they passed out,
at Eustace’s suggestion, upon the terrace, and sat there
watching the beautiful pageantry of the evening sky.
Eustace looked pale and tired, and there was a touch of
gentle solicitude in Bride’s manner towards him that sent
quick thrills through all his pulses. Those weeks just
passed had not been too full of other interests and excitements
to blind Eustace to the fact that Bride was still
the one woman of all others for him. He had not spoken
a single word of love to her all this while, and she gave
no sign of remembering what had once passed between
them; but the thought of it was strong in his mind
to-night, and he was wondering with an intensity of
feeling whether he might venture upon expressing some
of those many thoughts and hopes which always came
crowding upon him in the presence of his cousin when
they were alone together.</p>

<p>She had told him all she knew of Saul—they could
talk of him, at any rate; and both were keenly interested
in the young man, and deeply grieved at the terrible
injury he had received.</p>

<p>“If it had been in a good cause, it would have been
easier to bear, I think,” she said. “But a street-fight—in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>
the display of brute violence and unmeaning
hostility—ah! it makes me so sad even to think
of it!”</p>

<p>“I think it was better than that, Bride,” said Eustace.
“I think, when Saul sprang at that great pair of plunging
horses, he was trying to hinder mischief and hurt for
others. I think he was trying to save me, for one, for
I was very near. He had been fighting and leading
rioters; but I think he fell in the cause of humanity
and charity; I think he deliberately sacrificed himself for
others.”</p>

<p>Bride’s eyes lightened and glistened.</p>

<p>“Oh, I am glad of that—I am very glad. I must tell
Abner.”</p>

<p>There was silence for a few minutes between them, and
then Eustace said in a low voice—</p>

<p>“Bride, you will let me know how it goes with him,
and what sort of a recovery he makes. Your father is
not very likely to mention it in his letters; but will you
write now and then yourself, and tell me how it fares
with Saul?”</p>

<p>She looked up quickly.</p>

<p>“Then are you going, Eustace?”</p>

<p>“I must go soon, quite soon, Bride. I do not know
exactly when this new Parliament will first meet. The
polling in the country is not over yet, but it soon will
be now; and there is much to learn and to discuss
before the House meets. I cannot delay much longer,
now that I have a seat of my own.”</p>

<p>“No, I had forgotten for a moment. Of course, you
are a member of Parliament now.”</p>

<p>He looked at her rather searchingly.</p>

<p>“Bride—tell me that you do not despise me for
it?”</p>

<p>“Oh, no, Eustace, I do not despise you. I hope I do
not despise anybody. I think it is very sad that men and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>
women should ever hate or despise each other. We have
all our faults and our imperfections. We ought to be
very gentle and loving and patient.”</p>

<p>He wished she would be just a little less impersonal
in her replies; and yet he could not wish her other than
she was. He put out his hand and laid it softly on
hers.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said, “you have not given me the promise
I asked for.”</p>

<p>She did not take her hand away, but let his lie upon
it as they sat together in the soft evening light. She
turned her sweet face towards him. It was not flushed,
and was very calm and tranquil; yet, deep down in those
liquid dark eyes there was a look which sent the blood
coursing through his veins in a fashion that made him
giddy for a moment. Yet he showed nothing outwardly,
and she saw nothing to alarm her or drive her into
herself.</p>

<p>“What promise?” she asked softly.</p>

<p>“To write to me sometimes when I am far away.”</p>

<p>“To tell you about Saul?” she added quietly. “Yes,
Eustace, I will do that very willingly.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, Bride; but do not let your letters be restricted
to news of Saul only. You will tell me of other
things. You will tell me of St. Bride, St. Erme, of the
St. Aubyns, Mr. Tremodart, of yourself.”</p>

<p>“I will tell you any news that I think will interest
you,” she answered. “But you know there is little to
happen at Penarvon. Nothing ever happens to me that
would interest you.”</p>

<p>“Indeed, you are wrong there,” he answered with suppressed
eagerness; “everything that happens to you is
of the greatest possible interest to me.”</p>

<p>“I hardly think so,” she said musingly; “for
you see one day here is outwardly just like another.
Except at such times as these, there are no external<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>
events; and I do not think you take account of
any but outward things—no one can speak of what
is inward and spiritual to one who does, not understand.”</p>

<p>“And you think that I do not understand such things,
Bride?”</p>

<p>Her glance into his face was very steady and searching.</p>

<p>“I do not <i>think</i> you do—yet,” she answered; “I may
be wrong, but we generally feel those things. You have
an intellectual life—a much deeper and fuller one than
mine; but I think you have starved your spiritual life for
a great many years. I think you have tried to judge all
things spiritual by your intellectual standard, and all the
things that cannot be made to agree with your philosophy
are set aside as superstitions. I often think that the
pride many men take in being above superstition is one
of the subtlest and most destructive weapons the devil
has ever forged. What is superstition? I have been told
that long, long ago, it was almost the same in meaning
as religion. It certainly means a belief in the unseen—in
the powers of good and evil, in the mysterious actions
of God—and of the devil—with regard to the children of
men. But everything too deep or mysterious for human
comprehension may be called superstition by those whose
spiritual insight is blunted, and who have no experience
of God’s dealing in the hearts of individual men. I
know that hundreds and thousands of clever men call it
superstition when they hear of men and women believing
in special providences of God—believing that prayer
is answered for such things as rainfall or drought or
epidemic sickness. Others call it superstition when they
are told of the coming kingdom of Christ and His
Second Coming in glory, of which the Apostles constantly
wrote and spoke, and which long ago the Early Church
hoped to see. It is all so very, very sad to me when I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span>
think of it. Ah! Eustace, if you could but see the
beautiful truth of God with eyes unclouded by the mists
of your worldly philosophy! I sometimes think and
believe that you will do so yet; but I do not think men
can ever shake off the scales from their eyes until they
begin to know that scales are there. Whilst they think
it is their eyes that see, and their souls that embrace
true wisdom, how can the Spirit of God find a home in
their hearts? It is those who pray, ‘Lord, that I might
receive my sight!’ who feel the Saviour’s hand laid upon
them, and go away seeing.”</p>

<p>Eustace sat perfectly still, with his eyes fixed upon
Bride’s face. A quick strange thrill went through him
at her words, as it had done many times before when she
was speaking with him. But during these past busy
weeks there had been no talk of this sort between the
cousins; and Eustace felt with a sensation of surprise,
and almost of exultation, how far more responsive was
his heart now when such words fell on his ear, than it had
been months ago—a year ago, when she had sometimes
spoken in this strain, and he had smiled to himself at her
mystic fanaticism.</p>

<p>She had certainly come gradually to a clearer appreciation
of what was going on in the world, and to a juster
estimate of the good and the evil of the movements of the
day. He often felt her increased power of sympathy
and comprehension, and rejoiced in it; but had he too
changed on his side, and were they really growing nearer
together in all things? He no longer felt disposed to
smile when she spoke words like these; rather he longed
for her purity of faith and singleness of heart, and felt
that she possessed a reserve of power and strength that was
in many respects greater than his own. Where he would
be led away by self-interest, she would see with perfect
clearness of vision. Where he would be influenced by a
partisan spirit to fail in discrimination, and adopt the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>
evil with the good without analysis or reflection, she
would detect at once all that was impure and unworthy,
and refuse contact with it, even at the price of personal
loss. It was, perhaps, impossible for a man in the vortex
of political life and a keen party struggle to keep his
heart perfectly pure, and always be found on the side of
right, and the opponent of wrong in every phase; but at
least she had inspired him with this desire as he had
never known it before; and he began to understand—what
once he would not have believed—that she gained
this insight and this purity of heart and motive through
the workings of that spiritual nature which had been such
a perplexity to him before.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said at last, in a strange voice, which he
hardly knew for his own, “you almost persuade me to
ask for that power of vision myself.”</p>

<p>Her eyes lighted with a strange radiance, though they
were not turned to him, but out over the sea.</p>

<p>“I think it is never asked in vain,” she said softly, “if
it is asked in humble repentant faith.”</p>

<p>“You will have to teach me, Bride, for I am very
ignorant in all these things.”</p>

<p>“I cannot teach you,” she answered softly, “though,
perhaps, I can help you with my prayers. Only the
Spirit of God can guide you into all truth. He will lead
you to the cross of the Crucified One first, and then by
gradual steps to the knowledge of the Risen, the Ascended,
the Glorified Lord, for whose bright and glorious
coming we and all creation are waiting in patient confidence
and joyful hope.”</p>

<p>He was silent. He could not follow her yet into these
regions, but faint stirrings of the desire to do so were
working in him. Once he had thought, “I must draw
her down to earth and my level;” now, the unconscious
aspiration of his mind was, “Would that I might follow
her there!” But all he said was—</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span>“Do you pray for me, then, Bride?”</p>

<p>“Always,” she answered softly; and although Eustace
went in having spoken no word of love (as he had almost
intended at the outset), he felt that he and Bride had
never been so near together as at that moment.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b273.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b274.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XVIII<br />

<i>ABNER’S PATIENT</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b032e.jpg" alt="E" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">EUSTACE went back to London about ten days
after the election at Pentreath. Parliament was
to meet in June, and there was much of importance
to be discussed beforehand. He and Sir
Roland travelled in company, and the Duke’s farewell was
warmer and more cordial by many degrees than it had
been on the occasion of his last departure. As for Bride,
there had been something so sweet and subtly tender in
their relations during the past few days, that the parting
with her was wonderfully hard. Eustace lay awake the
whole of his last night at the castle, thinking of her,
and wondering how he could bear to say adieu; and when
they met in the morning, her eyes were heavy and her
face was sorrowful, as though she too had kept vigil
and dreaded the coming day. In point of fact, Bride had
kept vigil in a very literal fashion, for she had been
kneeling in prayer for Eustace very many hours of that
summer’s night—praying that he might be delivered
from any and all of those perils which might happen to
the body whilst travelling through an excited country;
but above all, praying that he might be kept safe in those
assaults of evil that might assail and hurt the soul—that
he might be strong to resist temptation, that he might be
the champion always for good, yet discriminate and discern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span>
the moment when evil crept in, and where party
spirit took the place of the true desire after the best welfare
of the nation. She understood far better than she
had done a year ago the difficulties of that strife, and
where once she would have stood aloof with a sense of
pained disappointment and disapproval, she would now, as
it were, stretch forward a helping hand, and strive to show
the firm path amid all the quagmires of strife and emulation.
As she clasped hands with Eustace for the last
time, and their eyes met, some strange electric current
seemed to pass between them, and, as though in answer to
spoken words, he said, in a low moved tone—</p>

<p>“I will be true—I will be faithful—I will strive to fight
the good fight, and you will be my best helper.”</p>

<p>She did not answer with her lips, but her eyes made
amends for that. Suddenly Eustace came one step nearer,
put both his hands upon her shoulders, and bent his head
and kissed her on the lips. For a single second she started,
as though the touch of his hands had alarmed her, but the
next moment she looked straight into his eyes, and yielded
her lips to his for that last salute.</p>

<p>“God be with you, Eustace,” she whispered; and as the
young man rode away he felt he understood for the first
time in his life the true meaning and application of the
simple and oft-used phrase, “Good-bye.”</p>

<p>Bride stood where he had left her, in the middle of that
anteroom where their parting had been exchanged. Her
face was slightly flushed; there was a strange gleam of
vivid light in her eyes; the sweet mouth was tremulous
with emotions strongly stirred. The Duke, who had
witnessed the parting between them, looked at her with a
veiled inquiry in his eyes. Bride, coming back to everyday
life, saw that look and answered it.</p>

<p>“It is not what you think, papa,” she said very
softly, “yet I think Eustace and I belong to one another
now. I do not know how else to say it. It seems as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>
though there was something linking us together stronger
than ourselves.”</p>

<p>A slight smile lighted the old man’s face.</p>

<p>“I am glad to hear that, my child,” he said gently.
“I am far better pleased with Eustace this time than I
was before. He has greatly grown in wisdom and moderation—greatly
improved. I believe he will turn out
one of those men whom the world needs. He is after
all a Marchmont, and the Marchmonts have generally the
gift of government in some form or another. A young
and ardent temperament may be led astray at the outset;
but the experience of life gives ballast; and there seem to
have been many influences at work upon Eustace, moderating
his impetuosity, and showing him the reverse side of
the shield.”</p>

<p>“I think he is learning a great deal,” answered Bride
softly; “I am glad you feel the same about him.”</p>

<p>She could not settle to her ordinary avocations that day.
There was a subtle sense of exhilaration and happiness in
her pulses which made active exercise needful to her.
She had her pony saddled, and started to ride along the
cliffs to St. Erme. She wanted to be alone for awhile to
think and muse upon the sudden sense of new happiness
that had come into her life. She had visits to pay at St.
Erme’s which had been waiting for a day of leisure.
Eustace had filled much of her time of late, but now
she must learn to do without him. She rode quietly onward,
with the sunshine about her, and the soft breeze
fanning her cheek and lighting her eyes. There came
over her, almost for the first time in her life, a sense of the
beauty and joyousness of it, even in this fallen world of
sorrow and sin. Before she had thought, almost exclusively
at such times as these, when alone with nature and
at peace with herself and all the world, of the brightness
and glory of the Kingdom. Her heart had had little here
to feed itself upon, and she had dwelt in the thought of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>
the glory which shall be revealed. But to-day she felt as
though she was experiencing a strange foretaste of that
glory and happiness in this inexpressible sense of sweetness
and love. An atmosphere of joy seemed to enwrap and
envelop her. She scarcely understood herself or her
heart; but she was happy with a happiness that was
almost startling, and in her head some words seemed to
set themselves to the joyous hymn that nature was singing
all the while.</p>

<p>“I will be faithful—I will be true!” ... “God be
with you!”</p>

<p>Her absorption of mind did not hinder her from paying
her visits and entering with full sympathy and tenderness
into the trials and troubles of those she had come to see.
The sight of her was always very welcome to the simple
people who had known her from childhood, and who
regarded her something as an angel visitor, as they had
regarded her mother before her.</p>

<p>Her visits paid, she was about to turn homewards,
when, as she was passing the gate of the rectory, she
encountered Mr. St. Aubyn riding forth on his sturdy cob.
They exchanged greetings gladly.</p>

<p>“I am on my way to St. Bride,” he said, smiling. “Shall
we go in company? or are you coming to pay a visit to
my wife?”</p>

<p>“I think I will ride back with you,” said Bride, “and
see Mrs. St. Aubyn another day. It will be too hot to be
out with comfort if I linger longer. Are you coming to
the castle?”</p>

<p>“My errand is to your gardener’s cottage. My good
friend Mr. Tremodart has asked me to visit young Tresithny
in his terrible affliction. He seems to close his heart
and his lips against all the world. My kind friend at the
parsonage thought I might have more success in dealing
with him; but I fear me the time has not yet come when
the words of man will avail aught.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>Bride’s face was very sorrowful.</p>

<p>“It seems so sad,” she said softly, “so very, very sad.
Oh, I am grieved for Abner. He looks aged and bowed
like an old man, yet his faith never fails. He is a lesson
to us all. ‘The child of many prayers,’ he calls Saul, and
he will not give up hope. But it must be terrible for him
to have to sit by and hear the poor young man shouting
out all sorts of horrible imprecations and blasphemies in
his delirium and pain. No one can tell whether he quite
knows what he is saying; but his words are terrible to
hear. Widow Curnow has come to help to nurse him, and I
hear almost more from her than from Abner. I hoped he
would have been able to see my cousin Eustace before he
went to London; but he has never been enough himself,
and all excitement has to be avoided. I believe Eustace
has the most influence upon him of any person in the
world. He has won his affection, and I fear poor Saul
knows more of hatred than of love towards the world
at large.”</p>

<p>“He has had a very sad life,” said the clergyman sorrowfully,
“a life of spiritual revolt against the very conditions
of his existence, as well as a mental and physical
revolt against the wrongs of a world which can never be
set truly right, save by the advent of One to whom in
their blindness these would-be reformers never look for
guidance, still less join in the cry for Him to appear and
take the reins of government Himself. It is sorrowful to
think of—that the very men most forward in the struggle
to do justice to their fellow-men, are often the most careless
about giving God His dues. They will render to
Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, but will they render to
God the things that are God’s? How often, as one hears
them speak or reads the words they are speaking to the
nation, does one say in one’s heart, ‘Lord, open their eyes
so that they may see!’ for philanthropy alone will never
raise or purify the world; it must be joined with a living<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span>
faith in a living God, and the first love and service of our
hearts must belong to God; the second, given to our
neighbours.”</p>

<p>Bride looked with a sudden questioning wistfulness
into the clergyman’s face.</p>

<p>“Mr. St. Aubyn, do you not think that a man who loves
mankind with a true and unselfish love must somewhere
in the depths of his heart have a love for God also, even
though he may not know it? Is not love in its essence
Divine? and can there be a true and pure love that does
not in some sort own allegiance to God?”</p>

<p>Mr. St. Aubyn’s face was serious and thoughtful.</p>

<p>“Pure and true love is indeed Divine in its essence;
but there is a carnal and earthly love too, which is but a
travesty of God-given love, and burns to its own destruction.
I think man often confuses these two loves, and
sometimes calls the lower one the higher. Perhaps no
eye but God’s can really distinguish altogether the gold
and the dross, but we can sometimes judge the tree by its
fruit. How often do we see evil fruit springing from a
tree which we have thought to be good! We are deceived
sometimes, but our Heavenly Father never!”</p>

<p>“Yes! I think I know what you mean. I have seen
something of that, as in poor Saul’s case. The fruit is a
sorrowful crop, and yet he means nobly and well, I am
sure. But there is no love of God in his heart; and
yet I sometimes wonder whether perhaps the love for
man does not come first with some: ‘If he loves not
his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God
whom he hath not seen?’ There are words very like that
somewhere.”</p>

<p>“True, God’s love is so beautiful and infinite, and His
patience with His erring children so inexhaustible, that He
will do everything in His power to lead their hearts to Him.
We are taught and entreated throughout the Bible to seek
<i>first</i> the kingdom of heaven; to give the whole of our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>
strength, and mind, and heart, and soul to God in loving
submission; to be living members of His Body first, and
then members one of another; but as though He would
make provision for the weakness and frailty of the flesh,
and the infirmity and lack of faith in human nature, we
find here and there just such loving touches as show us
that our Father will lead us to Himself by every possible
means; that love for our brethren shall be a stepping-stone,
if used aright, towards that higher and holier love; though
perhaps the truer meaning of the words is to teach us
that no love for God can be really pure and sincere if it
does not carry with it love for our brethren too. The
greater must embrace the less; and a man cannot truly
love God who is in bitterness with the brethren.”</p>

<p>They rode along in silence for a time then, each thinking
deeply. Mr. St. Aubyn was the first to speak.</p>

<p>“Mr. Marchmont has left you then?”</p>

<p>“Yes, he started for London this morning.”</p>

<p>“I knew it was to be soon. He came to say good-bye
a few days ago. I was greatly pleased by the talk we
had on that occasion.”</p>

<p>Bride looked up quickly.</p>

<p>“I did not know Eustace had been to see you.”</p>

<p>“Yes, he came and sat above two hours with me. We
had a most interesting conversation. I almost wish you
had been there to hear.”</p>

<p>Bride was silent. She would not ask the nature of
the conversation. She knew that Mr. St. Aubyn would
tell her all that he felt at liberty to reveal.</p>

<p>Presently he spoke again, a slight smile playing on his
lips.</p>

<p>“Long ago, as you know, we had a talk, part of which
you overheard, in which Mr. Marchmont betrayed how
deeply the philosophy of the destructive rationalists had
eaten into his soul. I told him then that he would never
be able to rest where he was; that even the philosophers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>
and students who had been so glad to destroy were already
finding rest impossible, and were beginning a constructive
form of rationalism, in which scope was allowed for an
objective as well as a subjective Divinity, and a semblance
of Christian faith creeping back, because men invariably
find at last that they cannot do without it, although they
too often content themselves with half-truths, or very
small fragments of the whole truth. Well, he did not
agree with me then; but it is wonderful what this year
has done for his spiritual life. It is like talking to another
man. It was wonderfully inspiring to mark the work of
the Spirit in that heart. But I dare say you have found
that out for yourself.”</p>

<p>There were tears of joy in Bride’s eyes. She did not
turn her head as she answered—</p>

<p>“I have hoped so—I have thought so; but I have been
afraid to ask or to hope too much.”</p>

<p>“Ah! you need never fear that. Are we not bidden to
‘hope and believe all things’? Is anything too hard for
the Lord?”</p>

<p>“Indeed, I think not,” answered Bride softly.</p>

<p>“It made me think of our talk once about forgiveness
and the Father’s love,” continued Mr. St. Aubyn musingly.
“It is such a beautiful mystery—that yearning love over
all these myriads of disobedient children. And yet never
an individual instance of spiritual grace comes before us,
but we realise how true it is that the Father has gone
forth to meet the erring son whilst he is still a great
way off, and is leading him so tenderly home, sometimes
almost before the wanderer has realised it himself.”</p>

<p>Bride made no reply: her heart was too full; and so
in happy communion of spirit the pair rode down the
hill, and through the gate of the castle grounds.</p>

<p>“You will come and see my father when you have
been to see Saul?” said Bride. “He would be sorry for
you to go without paying him a visit.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>Mr. St. Aubyn promised, and Bride rode on to the
castle, and had changed her riding gear for a cool white
dress before the clergyman appeared. His face was grave,
and he looked troubled and compassionate.</p>

<p>“I have seen him,” he said, in reply to Bride’s look
of inquiry, “I have seen him, and I found him stronger
in body than I anticipated after all I have heard of
the injuries he received. The doctor was leaving as I
rode to the door, and said he was making a wonderful
recovery. But I fear that the recovery is only one of
the body. The soul and spirit are terribly darkened. It
seems almost as though the powers of evil had so taken
possession there that there was no room for the entry of
God’s light. I could not even speak the words I would
have done. I saw that to do so would be only to provoke
more blasphemies. May God in His mercy do something
to soften that hard heart, for only He can do it!”</p>

<p>It was the same tale all the way through where poor
Saul was concerned. Impenitent, rebellious, cursing his
own fate and crippled condition, and cursing yet more
bitterly those he held responsible for the accident—the
tyrants who set soldiers upon poor and harmless people,
to trample them to death beneath their iron heel for no
other offence than claiming the rights of human beings
and citizens of the commonwealth. He refused all visits
save those from such men of his own fashion of thinking
as came to condole with him, and to fan the flame of his
bitterness and wrath. Abner soon ceased to try and
reason with him. He wrestled ceaselessly in prayer for
him, as indeed did many of his neighbours, who were wont
to meet together at intervals for the reading the Scripture,
and that prayer for the speedy coming of the Lord, which
had become one of the leading features of the faith of
the little community of St. Bride. It was indeed all that
could be done for the unhappy young man; and so soon
as he was able to get about on crutches, he announced<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>
his intention of going back to Mother Clat’s, and resuming
his old life with the fishermen.</p>

<p>There was indeed one very good reason why he should
do this. In a boat his lameness would matter comparatively
little. He could manage sheet and tiller whilst
he sat quietly in the stern; and although there would
be moments when he would feel somewhat keenly the
loss of his foot and his crippled condition, yet this would
be not nearly the same hindrance to him on the water as
it would be on land.</p>

<p>A collection had been made for him in the town by
a number of those who regarded him as a victim and a
martyr. This amounted to a sum sufficient to enable him
to purchase a little cutter of his own, that happened to
be going cheap at a neighbouring seaport town. Saul’s
mates having heard of it, went to look at it, and finally
negotiated the purchase, which made him the proud
possessor of this fast-sailing cutter, which was significantly
said to be far faster and more responsive to wind
and tide than any of the Customs boats in these parts.</p>

<p>And now a new life began for Saul. He had always
done some smuggling along the coast with his friends the
fishermen; but now it became a regular trade with him.
Fishing was the merest excuse for the more serious occupation
of his life; and as his health and strength returned
with this free life on the sea, so did his ferocious hatred to
all restraints of law and order grow and increase in him.
He delighted in his illicit traffic far more because he was
a breaker of the law than because it brought him large
gains. He began to be a notable man along the coast;
appearing now at this place, now at the other; landing
his goods with a skill and daring that made him the idol
of the fisher-folk all around, and the terror of the custom-house
officers, who tried in vain to catch him, and began
to think he must bear a charmed life, so absolutely impossible
did they find it to get sight of him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span>As for the gentry round, there was a very mixed feeling
in their minds with regard to the defaulter and his
occupation. They had nearly all of them cellars of
excellent brandy and wine that had never paid duty,
and were by no means desirous of seeing the illicit traffic
too rigidly put down. They winked at it, if they did not
actually encourage it; and it was well known that half
of them would always buy smuggled goods and ask no
question, in spite of all that the indignant officers could
urge to the contrary.</p>

<p>The country was soon in a state of pleasurable excitement
with the news that the Reform Bill had successfully
passed the Commons, and had only to go through
the Upper House to become law. The ignorant people
considered the triumph already assured, and began to
wonder why something wonderful did not immediately
happen to change the current of their lives and issue in
a new prosperity and affluence. But others shook their
heads, and said the Lords would be certain to throw
it out, whilst some argued that they would not dare,
when the mind of the country had been so emphatically
declared.</p>

<p>The Duke was very doubtful as to the result.</p>

<p>“The Duke of Wellington will fight it tooth and nail,”
he said to those who asked his opinion, “and I think he
will carry the House with him. My kinsman, young
Marchmont, tells me that if the Lords refuse to pass it,
they will urge the King to make such a number of new
Whig peers as shall suffice to carry it in the teeth of all
opposition. His Majesty is very averse to such a step,
though anxious for the passage of the bill. It remains
to be seen what will happen. But I do not think the
Iron Duke will give way.”</p>

<p>All this talk sufficed to keep the country alive and
excited through the early autumn months. Eustace
wrote regularly, sometimes to the Duke, sometimes to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>
Bride; and she wrote to him according to promise, telling
him the news of the place, her own particular history,
and the doings of Saul. Eustace himself wrote to Saul
from time to time, and received answers from the wild
young man always breathing a spirit of personal loyalty
and devotion; but nothing which passed induced him
for one moment to give up his wild life. His boat was
always speeding between the shores of England and
France. He was seldom at home, and when in the
cottage on the beach, seldom to be spoken with by any
of those who would gladly have tried to approach him
for his own good. Bride once or twice encountered him,
and spoke gently to him; but though he stood before her
silently and with an outward aspect of respect, he would
scarcely give her back a word, and only appeared to
listen to her with any willingness when she told him
of Eustace.</p>

<p>He sometimes went into Pentreath, and addressed
meetings there, in response to invitations from old associates;
but his personal interest in the place and in
politics seemed to have flagged just now. The passing
of the measure upon which his heart had been set took
away from him his sense of grievance, and robbed that
side of his character of its main element. He shared the
half-ignorant expectations of the lower classes, that as
soon as the Reform Bill became law some great change
in the condition of the people would result immediately
from it; and he supposed this change was already going
on in other places, and would soon reach the West-Country.
If that was so, his task was over for the present, until
some new agitation was set on foot. Meantime the free
and lawless life he was leading was all-sufficient for him.
He was the hero of St. Bride’s Bay, the most successful
man all along the coast, and was not only making money
fast, but was enjoying his life as he had perhaps never
enjoyed it before.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>But the old class hatred which had long burned within
him was still smouldering as fiercely as before, and only
wanted a breath of wind to fan it to a raging flame.</p>

<p>Nor was this breath long wanting; for in November
came the news that the Lords had thrown out the bill,
that for the moment it was dead, could not pass into law,
that the battle would have to be fought all over again
(as most people thought), and that the Lords had shown
themselves once and for all the fierce and inveterate
enemies of the rights and liberties of the people.</p>

<p>A great wave of anger and revolt swept all through
England when this thing became known. Perhaps never
had she been so near to revolution as that dark November,
when the people, eagerly awaiting the advent of
some wonderful and semi-miraculous change in their
condition, received the news that the measure which
was to ensure this had been trampled under foot, and
cast ignominiously to the four winds of heaven by the
peers of the realm. A cry of execration and hatred
ran through the country. Riots and incendiary fires
broke out wherever the news penetrated. At Pentreath
there was a hot demonstration of popular fury; and Saul
had never so raged against his physical infirmity as when
he found himself forced to remain at home, eating his
heart out in silence, whilst the other men of his persuasion
marched with the rioters, and committed acts of
lawlessness which gratified their bitter hatred, without,
as it happened, doing very much permanent harm in the
place.</p>

<p>But the passion that can vent itself is less dangerous
than that which is locked up without an outlet, and
seethes and smoulders till something suddenly causes
a violent explosion. Could Saul have gone with his
comrades, perhaps more immediate mischief might have
been done, since his was always the most daring spirit;
but possibly the blackest chapter of his life might not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span>
have been written, and he might have been saved from
the depth of iniquity into which he speedily fell.</p>

<p>There is an anger so terrible in its intensity that it
works like madness in the brain; and this anger is
generally the fiercest when it exists between class and
class, and results in reality less from inherent ill-will
between the two parties concerned, than from a constitutional
and insurmountable difficulty in mutual understanding.</p>

<p>This hatred (which has been at the bottom of many
of the world’s tragedies) was now burning with such a
white heat of silent fury in Saul’s breast that there
began to creep into his sombre eyes a light like that of
madness. He would sit up late into the night brooding
over the dying embers of the fire, and thinking thoughts
that hardly bore putting into words. The wild weather
had for the present put a stop to his cruises. He felt
the change from the mild autumn days, and often had
pain in the maimed member which had suffered from the
surgeon’s knife. He was not able to get out much in
the cold and wet, and this constant brooding and fierce
silent thought were almost enough to turn any man’s
brain.</p>

<p>“Revenge! revenge! revenge!” such was the burden
of his thoughts; and as he sat pondering over his wild
yearnings after vengeance, there would steal into his
mind, like whispers from the evil one, memories of what
desperate men in past days had done to bring about ruin
and disaster. Great ships, containing the wealth of the
proud and prosperous, had been shattered on these cruel
rocks, and high-born men and women had found a grave
in the dark cruel waters, a grave less cruel and dark
than the one which engulfed hundreds and thousands
of their helpless brothers and sisters through their own
greed and selfishness. Would it not be a righteous retribution
to lure some such vessel with its living freight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span>
upon those cruel “Bull’s Horns”? He knew his comrades
would aid and abet such a notion, if he propounded it, for
the sake of the plunder and the gain it would bring. But
for him the plunder was nothing; he would not touch the
gold. But he should feel he had struck a vengeful blow
against the rich and the mighty of the land, and then
perchance the fever-thirst of his soul would be quenched,
and he could rest again.</p>

<p>And thus, brooding and planning and meditating, the
dark days slipped by one by one, and the light of madness
and unquenchable hatred burned ever brighter and
brighter in Saul’s eyes.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b288.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b289.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XIX<br />

<i>THE BULL’S HORNS</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b094i.jpg" alt="I" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">IT was so fatally easy.</p>

<p>St. Bride’s Bay lay between two very dangerous
points along the coast. Its south extremity was
bounded by the long jagged reef known as the
Smuggler’s Reef, whilst its northern limit was formed by
the jutting cliff upon which Penarvon Castle had been
built, and by those two huge crescent-like projecting rocks,
significantly termed the Bull’s Horns, just below the
castle walls, with the treacherous silting, shifting bed of
quicksand between.</p>

<p>For many years now in one turret of the castle there
had burned from dusk till dawn a strong, steady light,
warning vessels along the coast of this dangerous spot.
The lantern-tower, as it was commonly called, had a separate
entrance and staircase of its own, and the light was
watched and tended by a disabled fisherman, who had
been appointed by the late Duchess to the office when
unfit for more active work. Although growing old and
feeble now, he still clung to his task, and had never been
found unfaithful to his post, or unable to fulfil the light
duties it imposed upon him.</p>

<p>The light in this lantern-tower warned vessels of their
exact position, and was a most valuable beacon to
them; for as soon as ever they had passed it, it became<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>
necessary (if they were passing down Channel) to set the
ship’s head almost due east, so as to avoid a dangerous
cross current round some sunken rocks out at sea, and
to keep for some short distance very near in-shore, the
water being at this point very deep, and free from any
rock or reef.</p>

<p>The plan fermenting in the darkened mind of Saul
Tresithny became thus fatally easy. A small body of
determined men had only to go to the lantern-tower
after the household at the castle had retired to rest,
overpower the old custodian, extinguish the light, and
light a false beacon farther along the coast—a little to
the south of the Smuggler’s Reef—and the thing was
done. Any vessel beating down Channel would see the
light, would clear it, and then turn sharp towards the
land, and upon a dark and moonless night would strike
hopelessly, and without a moment’s warning, upon those
cruel Bull’s Horns, from whose deadly embrace there
would be no escape. The vessel would shatter, the
crew and passengers would be sucked into a living tomb.
The men bent on plunder would have time to secure
for themselves a certain amount of the cargo, but before
morning dawned the vessel would in all probability have
disappeared utterly and entirely. Saul’s act of purposeless
vengeance would be accomplished, and he told himself
that he should then have some peace.</p>

<p>Of the hapless crew—men drawn from his own class—he
would not allow himself to think. They always went,
more or less, with their lives in their hands, and sooner
or later a large proportion met a watery death. They
must take their chance. It was not with them he was
concerned. What he longed to do was to strike a blow
at wealth, prosperity, and rank. He was unable to
take any part in the turbulent scenes enacting in the
country round; but if he could lure to its fate some
great vessel with its freight of passengers—one of those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>
new vessels which worked by steam-power, that were
just beginning to make headway and to appear along the
coasts, to the astonishment and superstitious terror of the
fishermen—if he could lure one of these vessels, which
always carried wealthy passengers, who could afford to
pay for the extra advantages of speed and independence
of contrary wind, he felt he should be striking a blow
at the hated world of wealth and opulence; and little
recked he of any personal peril he might run were the
thing found out.</p>

<p>As to his own fate, he was perfectly indifferent. A
fierce despair mingled with his reckless hatred of his kind.
He would willingly lay down his own life if he could by
those means compass the ruin of his enemies. He would
sometimes sit and ponder, with a fierce brooding envy,
over the story of the death of Samson, with which Abner’s
reading of the Scriptures to him in his childhood had
made him familiar. If only he could achieve an act of
vengeance like that! What a glorious death it would be!
But there was no such way open to him of avenging
his nameless wrongs against the world. He could only
accomplish an isolated act of malevolent cruelty and
destruction. But he brooded over that, and thought out
its details, till he seemed in his feverish dreams to see
the thing enacted over and over, till every detail was
familiar. He used to dream that the vessel had struck,
that she was going to pieces fast, that he and his comrades
were out in their boats, listening to the cries and
shrieks of the drowning wretches, always avoiding giving
the help so agonisingly demanded, pushing savagely from
the gunnel of their boat any frantic hand that might cling
to it, and laughing with fiendish joy as the wretched victims
sank with a gurgling cry, or were washed within the
region of the treacherous quicksand.</p>

<p>Such dreams might well work a sort of madness in a
brain inflamed with hatred, and a mind all but unhinged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>
by illness, and perpetual revolt against the conditions of
life. Saul had every detail planned by this time with
almost diabolical precision. All that was wanted now
was the right moment and the right vessel. He had his
scouts out along the coast. He knew they would receive
warning of the approach of such a vessel as would afford
a rich prey for plunderers and a rich vengeance for him.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>“Papa,” said Bride one morning, seeking her father
with an open letter in her hand, and a soft flush upon
her cheek, “I have a letter here from Eustace. He
thinks of coming to the castle to tell us all about the
bill, and what has been happening in London, and what
is likely to happen.”</p>

<p>The Duke looked up with something approaching
eagerness in his face. He had missed his young kinsman
during these past months, and was beginning to feel
it pleasant to have Eustace about the place, even though
they were by no means of entire accord in their views
or in their outlook on life. Although he seldom spoke
on the subject, the old peer had begun to feel his hold
upon life rather uncertain. He had never recovered the
shock of his wife’s death, and he experienced from time
to time an uneasy sensation in the region of the heart,
which made him suspect that that organ was in some sort
affected. His father had died suddenly of syncope at
seventy years of age, and the Duke remembered hearing
him describe sensations exceedingly like those from which
he began at times to suffer himself.</p>

<p>He could not therefore but feel a wish to see something
settled as to Bride’s future. She was very much alone in
the world, and would be in sore need of a protector were
her father taken away. He had long felt that a husband’s
loving and protecting care was what she truly needed, and
rather blamed himself for having kept her so entirely from
meeting with men of her own age and station. But if his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span>
own heir, this young enthusiast Eustace, of whom he was
really beginning to think well and to regard with affection,
had really succeeded in making an impression upon the
girl’s sensitive heart, nothing could be more entirely satisfactory
from a worldly standpoint. No one knew better
than the Duke how well fitted his daughter was to be the
future Duchess of Penarvon, and how greatly she would
be beloved by all, as indeed she was already. He had
entertained this hope when first Eustace came amongst
them, and had then allowed it to fall into abeyance, fearing
how the young man’s character would turn out, and
that he and Bride would never agree. But hope had
revived upon the second visit, when Eustace had shown
a different calibre of mind and a greater moderation and
thoughtfulness. The hearts of both father and daughter
had changed towards him, and again a hope had awakened
within the Duke’s heart that he should still live to see
his daughter the wife of the man who must succeed him
at Penarvon.</p>

<p>Thus this announcement of Bride’s came upon him
with a note of gladness, and he looked at her with unwonted
animation.</p>

<p>“A visit from Eustace? That is good hearing. I had
written to ask if he could not spend his Christmas with
us. Is this his answer?”</p>

<p>“I think he can hardly have got your letter. It does
not sound like an answer. But he speaks of a wish to
see Penarvon again, and to consult with you about the
political outlook. He knows he will be welcome, from
other things you have said. He will get your invitation,
I dare say, before he starts. I hope he will be with us
then. It is hard to be happy at Christmas—hard not to
feel it a sorrowful instead of a joyful day; but it will help
us to have Eustace. I am glad he will be with us.”</p>

<p>“Does he say when he will come?”</p>

<p>“Not exactly; he does not know when he can get away.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>
He seems very busy; but he says he thinks he shall come
by water. The roads are so very heavy after the long
autumn rains.”</p>

<p>“It may be easier and more comfortable,” said the
Duke, “but I have always preferred land travelling myself.
Contrary winds make water journeys too tedious
at times, and I am not a lover of the sea.”</p>

<p>“I think Eustace is. And he says he will not come if
he has to take a sailing-vessel; but he thinks he can
travel by one of those wonderful new boats which go by
steam-power. He has been in one before. He went to
Scotland so once, he told me. Last time he was here he
was very full of it. He thinks there will soon be nothing
else used for long voyages. It is wonderful to think how
they can move through the water without sails or oars.
He says in his letter he thinks he may soon have a chance
of coming along the coast in one of these strange and
wonderful vessels, and will be put ashore either at Plymouth
or Falmouth, and come on to us from there.”</p>

<p>“That would not be a bad plan. I myself have sometimes
wished to travel by these new boats; but I hardly
think I shall do so in my time. In yours they may
become more common. Eustace was telling me of them
himself. If I knew where he would land, I would travel
down to meet him and see the ship myself.”</p>

<p>“Ah! I wish we did know,” answered Bride, with
brightening eyes; “I would go with you, papa, and see
the wonderful new ship too.”</p>

<p>The Duke was studying her face attentively.</p>

<p>“You are pleased to think of having your cousin here
again, Bride?” he asked tentatively.</p>

<p>Her face was very sweet in its soft increase of colour,
but her eyes were steady, and truthfully fearless.</p>

<p>“I think I am very glad,” she said softly. There was
a pause after this which neither seemed exactly to know
how to break; but at last Bride said in a different tone,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>
“And I am glad for another reason too. Eustace is the
only person who has any influence over poor Saul Tresithny.
It seems as though he were the only person in
the world that Saul has ever loved. He does love him.
His name is just the one thing that will rouse him to
listen to Abner, or which wins him a look from me if
I try to speak to him. Whatever harm Eustace may
have done Saul in the beginning—and I fear he did help
to rouse in him those fierce and evil passions which have
worked such havoc of his life—at least he has won the
only love of a heart that seems closed to all the world
besides; and Abner thinks as I do, and Mr. St. Aubyn
also, that no soul is quite dead, no spirit altogether beyond
hope of reclaim in which the spirit of love yet burns,
however feebly and fitfully. Eustace always believes
that it was to save him from being trampled down by the
sudden turning and plunging of the horses that day in
the crowd, which made Saul spring at them, and almost
cost him his life. If so, there must be a vein of gold in
his nature somewhere; and I always think that Eustace
will find it some day, somehow. Poor Saul! He looks
most terribly haggard and wild and miserable. Everybody
else has failed to touch him; but I do think Eustace
may succeed when he comes. He had to leave last time,
before Saul had recovered consciousness enough to bear
the excitement of a visit.”</p>

<p>“I trust it may be so, for the sake of the unhappy
young man himself, and of his patient and heroic old
grandfather. Abner’s faith is a lesson to us all. May
God send him at last his heart’s desire!”</p>

<p>It was so seldom that her father spoke thus, that sudden
tears sprang to the girl’s eyes; and instead of answering,
she laid her hand softly on his shoulder, the mute caress
speaking more eloquently than words. For a moment
there was silence between them, and then the Duke asked—</p>

<p>“Shall you let Saul know that Eustace is coming?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span>“I shall tell Abner. I never see Saul now. He can
do as he thinks best; but I believe he will decide to
say nothing, but let Eustace come upon him quite unexpectedly,
before Saul knows anything about his being
here, or has had time to harden his heart, as he might try
to do, even against Eustace, if he were prepared beforehand.
I think with such natures as his it is better to
give no time for that. But Abner will know best.”</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>“Now’s our chance. Her be beatin’ down Channel.
The lads ’a sighted she round t’ corner. Her’ll be passin’,
in an hour. ’Tis zo dark’s a hadge out o’ doors, and ’twill
be cruel cold bimbye. The bwoys are all out ready with
the false light. We’m goin’ to put out t’other light,
then we’ll be all ready.”</p>

<p>The light leaped into Saul’s sombre eyes as this news
was brought by a pair of breathless and excited fishermen,
after more than ten days of anxious watching. So soon as
the last moon had begun to wane, a close watch was established
all along the coast, and had been continued on
every dark night since; and as all the nights had been
wild and dark, the watch had never been relaxed. The
watchers kept their look-out from a little cove not more
than four miles off as the crow flies, but situated just
where the coast made a great bend, so that the coasting
vessels had to make a great détour, and took a considerable
time getting round the point, especially with a
raging north-westerly gale driving up Channel as on to-night.</p>

<p>“Be she a zailin’ ship?” asked Saul.</p>

<p>“Naw, her be one o’ they new-fangled ones wi’ smoke
querkin’ out of her middle. Yu’ll be gwoin’ to the
bwoat, Zaul, mappen, and get she out. Us’ll be a’ter
yu quick’s us can. ’Twidden tak’ us long to put out
ol’ Joey’s light.”</p>

<p>“I’ll go tu the boat,” answered Saul, seizing his crutch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span>
“She’s all ready at her moorin’s. Yu’ll find me there
when yu’ve changed the lights. I’ll watch for yu tu
come. I s’pose it’s pretty quiet in the bay?”</p>

<p>“Ess zure. Win’s tu northerly tu hurt she. Us wunt
keep yu long waitin’. Coome on, lad. Us is bound vur
tu be sharp.”</p>

<p>The men hurried off through the driving rain and bitter
wind of midnight upon their diabolic errand; and Saul,
with a look upon his face which spoke of a purpose
equally diabolic, limped down to the shore, seeming to see
in the dark like a cat, and took up his place in his own
stout and seaworthy little boat.</p>

<p>It was what sailors call a “dirty night,” a stiff half-gale
blowing, and scuds of rain driving over, making the
darkness more pitchy whilst they lasted. There was no
moon, and the sky was obscured by a thick pall of low-lying
cloud. It was the kind of night just suited to a
deed of darkness and wickedness, such as the one about
to be perpetrated.</p>

<p>Saul, with a face that matched in gloom and wildness
the night itself, sat in his boat with his eyes fixed steadfastly
upon the gleaming light in the lantern-tower of the
castle, that strong and steady light which shone out over
the waste of waters like a blessing as well as a beacon.
All at once, even whilst he watched, the light suddenly
flickered and went out, whilst at the very same instant up
sprang another light, equally steady and strong, on the
other side of the bay, which, after flickering for a few
moments, settled down as it were, and burned on with a
fixed and calm radiance.</p>

<p>Saul’s face, turned towards it, seemed to catch a momentary
gleam. His dark eyes glowed and flashed in their
hollow caverns. His hands clenched themselves convulsively
upon the tiller by which he sat. There was in
his fierce heart a throb of triumphant satisfaction which
made life almost a joy to him at that moment. He felt a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span>
spring of life well up within him, such as he had not
experienced for months. After all, so long as vengeance
remained to him, life was not altogether devoid of joy.</p>

<p>The sound of voices approaching from the shore warned
him that his confederates were approaching. Some came
from the castle, others from the neighbourhood of the
false light they had kindled. In all there were a dozen
of them, stout fierce men, bent on plunder, and caring
nothing for the loss of human life, like too many of their
race all along the coast in those days.</p>

<p>Some of these men pushed off in a second boat, others
joined Saul in his small cutter. They carried no lights
with them, nor did they do more than row out into the
bay. Once safely off from shore, they lay still on their
oars, and listened and watched intently, talking in low
tones to one another from time to time, but mostly
absorbed in the excitement of expectation.</p>

<p>All at once out of the darkness hove a light, out beyond
the Smuggler’s Reef, where the false light was burning,
and a stilled exclamation of triumph burst from all—</p>

<p>“That be she!”</p>

<p>Then deep silence fell again, and the men held their
breath to watch her course. She went slowly by the reef;
they could hear the throb of her engines in pauses of the
gale; and then suddenly they saw her lights shift—she
had fallen into the trap—she was turning inwards. In a
few short minutes more she would strike upon those cruel
horns, and be dashed to pieces before them, without the
chance of escape. If they struck outside the rock, there
would be more spoil and prey; but it might be safer for
the wreckers if she went within the extended horns and
grounded there. Then the quicksands would suck down
all traces in a very short time, and none would know
the fate of the missing vessel, which would be supposed
to have met her death through the failure of the new-fangled
machinery.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>Onward, ever onward, came the doomed ship, riding
fearlessly through the angry sea, secure of the course she
was going. She had slowed down a little in turning, but
the engines were at work now at full power. Her light
was very near. The men in the boats almost felt as though
their close proximity would be observed....</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Crash!</span></p>

<p>It was an awful sound. No man of those who heard
it that night ever forgot it, and it rang in Saul’s ears
for many a long weary day, driving him well-nigh to
madness.</p>

<p>One terrific splintering crash, and then an awful sound
of grinding and tearing and battering. The ship’s lights
heaved up and fell again in a terrible fashion, and amid
the shrill whistling of the gale there rang out a wail of
human anguish and despair, and then hoarse loud voices,
as if in command; though there was no distinguishing
words in the strife of the elements.</p>

<p>Motionless, awed, triumphant, yet withal almost terrified,
the wreckers sat in their boats and listened and
waited. It needed no great exercise of knowledge to
tell them that the great vessel had heeled over and was
settling—settling slowly to her end; that there could
be no launching of boats—no hope for any on board
unless they were stout and sturdy swimmers and well
acquainted with the coast. The vessel had actually impaled
itself, as it were, upon the cruel sharp point of
one of the horns. The water had rushed in through
the ruptured side, and almost at once the great floating
monster had heeled over, and, though partially upheld
by the rocks, was being battered and dashed in the
most fearful way, so that no living being could long
escape either being drawn down to a watery death, or
battered out of all human form upon the cruel jagged
rocks.</p>

<p>At first a shriek and a cry of human anguish would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>
rend the silence for a moment, and then sink again.
But now many moments had passed and no such sound
had been heard. Moments grew into minutes, and
perhaps a quarter of an hour passed thus in watching
the one light rising and falling as the vessel rose on
the crests of the waves only to be dashed down again
with renewed fury, whilst the rending of timbers and
snapping of spars told a tale that was intelligible enough
to the fierce men only a stone’s throw from the doomed
vessel.</p>

<p>At last they deemed they had waited long enough.
From the very nature of the catastrophe, it was unlikely
there would be many survivors. All who were below
must have perished like rats in a trap, and the few
on deck would quickly have been swept overboard.
It was time the plundering began, else there might be
little left to plunder. As it was, there would be peril
in trying to rifle the hull; but these men knew what
they were about, and producing their dark lanterns,
they cautiously approached the floating mass, and after
due precautions, scrambled one after another upon her,
and commenced a rapid but cautious search.</p>

<p>With this sort of thing Saul had no concern. He
knew that his comrades must be gratified in their
thirst for plunder, but his work had been accomplished
when the great vessel struck without hope of succour.
As the larger boat could not approach too nearly to
the wreck, all the men had gone off in the smaller one,
and were to bring to him from time to time such valuables
as they could find and secure. Twice already had this
been done, and the men reported that there was more still
to come, and that they might make a second journey to
the wreck perhaps, if she would only hold together
whilst both the laden boats put ashore and came out again
empty. His comrades were daring and skilful, and ran
less risk than they appeared to do in thus treading the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span>
decks of the vessel. She had lodged now, and though
still swept by heavy seas, was not tossed about as she
had been at first. The tide was falling and had landed
her fast upon a serrated ledge of rock. Unless she
broke up, she would lie there till the next tide dashed
her off again and sucked her into the quicksand. But
as the water fell, more and more booty became accessible.
The greed in the men’s hearts rose with what they found.
They told themselves that this night’s work would make
them rich for life.</p>

<p>But Saul would not leave the spot. A curious fascination
held him rooted to it. When the boats were filled
and the men insisted on going, he said he would get
upon the wreck and await their return there. The wind
was abating. The sea was running less high. It was
clear to experienced eyes that for some hours at least the
vessel would lie where she was, and that there would be
no great peril in remaining on her. Saul was not a man
easy to thwart or contradict. His comrades raised no
objection to what he proposed. It was his affair, not
theirs, and they helped him to a station on the deck
and left him. They left a light with him—it would
serve them as a beacon in returning.</p>

<p>Saul sat where he had been placed and watched them
row away, their light growing fainter and fainter over the
great crested waves. He sat alone upon the shivering,
heaving wreck, pondering on the night’s work, and on all
he had seen and done. He pictured the scene that these
decks must have witnessed but one short hour ago, and
thought of all the dead men—and fair women, perhaps—lying
drowned and dead in the cabins beneath his feet. A
savage light came into his eyes. A wild triumphant laugh
rang out in the silence and the darkness. He thought
for a moment of trying to get below and looking upon
the dead faces of his foes—men and women he had hated
for no other cause than that they lived in a world that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>
was for him a place of evil and oppression, and deserved
to die for the tyranny and oppression of the race they
represented to his disordered imagination.</p>

<p>But he did not go. For one thing, his lameness hindered
him; for another, there was something almost too
ghastly even for him in the thought. But as he sat brooding
and thinking of it all out in the cold and the darkness
of the night, well might he have been taken for the
very spirit of the storm, sitting wild-eyed and sullenly
triumphant in the midst of all this destruction, gloating
over the death of his fellow-men, and picturing the
ghastly details with the fascination of a mind on the
verge of madness.</p>

<p>Suddenly an object floating in the water, quite near to
the vessel, took his eyes, and roused him from his lethargy.
In another moment his experienced and cat-like
eyes had grasped its outline, and he knew what it was.</p>

<p>A human creature—a man, in all probability—supported
in the water by a life-belt, for he could see the
outlines of head and shoulders above the crests of the
waves. Well could Saul guess what had happened.
This man—sailor or passenger, whichever he might be—had
been on deck when the ship struck. He had had
the good fortune and presence of mind to secure a life-belt
about him during the few minutes that the ship kept
above water, and probably struck out for shore when
washed from the deck. In all probability he had quickly
been dashed against the rocks and deprived of consciousness,
and the ebb of the tide had dragged and sucked him
back from the shore and in the direction of the wreck.
A little more and he would be washed upon the shoals of
treacherous quicksand—and then!</p>

<p>A sudden fierce desire came upon Saul to see the face
of this man. He was floating almost close to the wreck
now, rising and falling upon the heaving waves without
any motion save what they endowed him with. Saul<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>
turned and possessed himself of his lantern, and moving
cautiously to the very edge of the wreck, turned the light
full upon the floating object in the water.</p>

<p>Then the silence of the night was rent by a wild and
exceeding bitter cry; and in the midst of the darkness
and terror of that winter’s night, the soul of Saul Tresithny
suddenly awoke, amid throbs of untold anguish,
from its long lethargy and death. In one moment of intense
illumination, in which for a moment he seemed
wrapped in flame—scorched by a remorse and despair
that was in essence different from anything he had experienced
hitherto, he saw his past life and the crime of the
night in a totally new aspect. It was a moment not to be
analysed, not to be described; but the impression was
such that its memory was graven on his mind ever after
in characters of fire. It was as if in that awful moment
something within him had died and something been born.
Heart and soul, for those few brief seconds in which he
stood mute and paralysed with horror, were crowded with
all the bitterness of death and the pangs of birth. Yet
it was scarce five seconds that the spell held him in its
thrall.</p>

<p>What was it that he saw in that heaving waste of
waters?</p>

<p>The face of the one man that he loved. The face of the
only human creature whom he had thought on as a friend.
The face of Eustace Marchmont!</p>

<p>And he—Saul Tresithny—had lured his only friend,
and the one being he loved and trusted—to a terrible and
hideous death.</p>

<p>It was as he realised this that the awful cry broke
from him, and after that the five seconds of paralysed
waiting and watching that seemed like an eternity to him.</p>

<p>Then in the midst of that unspeakable agony there
came one whisper as of hope—the voice of an angel—penetrating
the terrible despairing anguish of his soul.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span>“Perhaps he is not yet dead. Perchance it may be
given you to save him yet. But lose not a moment, else
your chance may come too late.”</p>

<p>When Saul heard that voice, he hesitated not one
second. Flinging off his heavy pilot-coat, and casting a
rope round him, which he fastened to a broken mast, he
plunged without a moment’s hesitation into the sea,
striking out for the floating object now just being carried
beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp.</p>

<p>Saul had always been a strong and bold swimmer, but
since he became maimed and lame and enfeebled, he had
seldom been in the water save for the purpose of launching
his boat or getting it in, and he had done no swimming
for many months. Still there was no difficulty
in reaching Eustace and getting a firm grip round his
neck. The life-buoy supported the double weight well;
but when Saul strove to strike out in the direction of the
ship, he found that the ebb of the tide was carrying them
both farther and farther away. Struggle as he would, he
could get no nearer, but saw the light as it were receding
from him, and knew that the ebb was sucking them little
by little towards those terrible quicksands close at hand,
which if they touched, their doom was sealed.</p>

<p>When would the rope be payed out and stop them?
He had not guessed how long it was when he had tied one
end about his waist and fastened the other about the
broken mast. Would it never become taut, that he could
try hauling himself and his comrade in? And even
where they now were they might touch the sand any
moment with the fall of the tide. It was constantly
changing and shifting. No one knew exactly where it
would lie from day to day and week to week.</p>

<p>A sense of cold numb horror fell upon Saul. He was
growing faint and giddy. A whisper in another voice
now assailed his ears.</p>

<p>“Save yourself at least—and leave him to perish.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>
Likely enough he is dead already; why risk your life for
a corpse? Without his weight you could easily make the
ship. Save yourself, and leave him to his fate. What is
he to you?”</p>

<p>Saul’s senses were leaving him fast, ebbing away in a
deadly faintness that made even the terror of his position
more like a dream than a reality. But even so the words
of the tempter fell powerless upon his ears. His answer
was to set his teeth and close his embrace more fast
around his friend.</p>

<p>“If he dies, I will die with him!” was the unspoken
thought of his heart.</p>

<p>A sudden jerk told him that the rope was all payed
out. Had he strength to pull it in again? Rallying his
failing powers with an almost superhuman effort, and still
keeping his arms clasped about Eustace, he got hold of
the rope behind his back, and bit by bit he pulled upon
it, drawing the double burden slowly—oh! how slowly and
painfully!—inch by inch towards the wreck.</p>

<p>The whole of his past life seemed to rise up in review
before him without any volition on his own part—his
happy childhood with his grandfather in the gardener’s
cottage—Abner’s words of loving admonition and instruction—the
teaching he had imbibed almost without knowing
it, and had deliberately thrust from him later on.
Then he seemed to see himself at the farm, working early
and late with Farmer Teazel’s men; his brief but ardent
courting of Genefer seemed like nothing but a dream;
whilst the sudden appearance of Eustace Marchmont into
his life was stamped upon his soul as in characters of fire.
This man had called him friend—had taught him, cared
for him, put himself on an equality with him—had taken
his hand as brother might the hand of brother. And he—Saul—had
brought him to <i>this</i>—had perhaps done him
to death! It must not—it should not be!</p>

<p>A noise of rushing was in his ears. His breath came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>
in laboured gasps. His heart seemed bursting; his eyes
were blinded, and could see nothing but a floating, blood-red
haze. In laboured gasps of agony the words came
from him—words of the first prayer which had ever
passed his lips since the days of his childhood—</p>

<p>“Lord, have mercy upon us! God, give me strength
to save him!”</p>

<p>And even with those words on his lips his consciousness
failed him; black darkness swallowed him up.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b306.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b307.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XX<br />

<i>BRIDE’S VIGIL</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b111b.jpg" alt="B" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">BRIDE was awakened from sleep by the sound
of a voice.</p>

<p>“Bride! Bride! Oh, my love, farewell! God
grant we meet again in the eternal haven of
rest! Farewell, my love, farewell!”</p>

<p>The voice sounded so loud in her ears that the girl
started wide awake in bed, and found herself sitting up,
gazing across the dimly-lighted room, in the expectation
of seeing some one beside her.</p>

<p>But there was nothing. The room was empty, save
for her own presence. The fire was not yet out, and
the night-lamp on the table in the corner burned with
a steady ray. Outside, the voice of the storm wailed
round the corners of the house; but Bride was too well
used to the voice of wind and water to think she had
been deceived by that. There was nothing in the voice
of the gale to-night different from what she was used
to hear wherever the winter days had come. Often and
often the tempest raged with double and treble power
about the exposed castle, and yet she was not disturbed.
What, then, had happened to-night?</p>

<p>She passed her hands across her eyes, as if to clear
away the mists of sleep.</p>

<p>“It was Eustace’s voice!” she said in her heart, and
a light shiver ran through her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span>Perhaps she had been thinking of Eustace at sea
before she slept, for her dreams had been of a ship
ploughing through the waves. She could not recall all
that she had dreamed; but she was vaguely conscious
that her visions had been uneasy ones of terror and
peril. She could not be sure whether she had dreamed
of Eustace: everything was confused in her mind. But
that voice calling her name through the darkness had
been utterly different from anything that had gone before,
and had effectually aroused her from sleep.</p>

<p>“Is he in peril? Is he thinking of me?” she asked
herself; and even as she put the question she rose
from her bed and began mechanically to dress herself;
for there was only one thing now possible for Bride,
and that was to pour out her soul in prayer for the
man she loved—the man she believed to be in danger at
this very moment. Why that conviction of his peril came
so strongly upon her she could hardly have explained.
She had had no vivid dream; she had gone to rest with
no presentiment of evil. That dream-cry was the only
cause of her uneasiness; but the conviction was so strong
that there could be no more sleep for her that night.
She was absolutely certain of that, and she quickly
dressed herself, as though to be ready for a call when
it came; and when she had stirred the fire into a glow,
and had trimmed and lighted her larger lamp, she knelt
down beside the little table whereon lay her books of
devotion, and the Bible which had been her mother’s,
and laid bare her soul in supplication and prayer for
the man she now knew that she loved, and whom she
fully believed to be in peril to-night, though whether this
peril were physical or spiritual she could not tell.</p>

<p>And yet it mattered not, for God knew, and He would
hear her supplication, and answer it in His own way.
Bride did not know whether Eustace had yet learned
to pray for himself; but she had been praying so long<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>
that there was nothing strange in this long and impassioned
prayer for him to-night. How the time passed
the girl did not know; nor did she know what it was
that prompted her at last to go to the window and draw
aside the curtain to look out into the night.</p>

<p>When she did this, however, she became aware that
the darkness without was something unwonted, and for
a moment she could not understand the cause of this.
There was no moon, and the sky was obscured by a wrack
of drifting cloud; why should there be anything but
black darkness? and yet it was not always so, even on
the pitchiest nights. And then a sudden cry broke from
her pale lips—</p>

<p>“The lantern-tower is not lighted to-night!”</p>

<p>That was it. That was what she missed—the faint
refulgence she was accustomed to see shining from the
turret where the great lamp always burned. What had
happened? Had the old fisherman neglected to come?
or had he been negligent of his charge and suffered the
lamp to go out? She felt sure the light must have
been burning as usual earlier in the night. It was
lighted at five now, and numbers of persons would have
noticed had it not been lighted, and news would certainly
have quickly reached the castle. No, it must be that
the old fisherman had gone to sleep, and had omitted to
fill up the lamp, which had burned down and gone out.
And ah! suppose some vessel even now was beating down
Channel, and anxiously looking out for the beacon!
Oh, suppose some vessel was already in peril for want
of the guiding light! Suppose that vessel were the one
in which Eustace was journeying to them! Ah!—was
that the meaning of that cry? Had it indeed been
sent as a sign—as a warning?</p>

<p>With a sense of sudden comprehension Bride turned
back into the room and hastily took up her lamp.
Without waiting to summon any other person—without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>
a moment of needless delay—she made her way along
the dark still corridors, where the heavy shadows lay
sleeping, but woke and fled away like spectres at her
approach; through the blank silence of the great house
she stepped, followed silently by the faithful hound, who
always slept at her door, till she reached a heavy oaken
door, studded with brass nails, and fastened on the inside
with heavy bolts and clamps, that led from the castle
into that corner turret which had for so many years been
given up to the beacon light and its custodian.</p>

<p>Bride used as a child to go frequently into the tower
with her mother. Latterly she had been much less often,
but she was familiar with the fastenings of the door,
and knew her way to the upper chamber where the
great lamp burned.</p>

<p>The place was perfectly dark as she entered, and as
silent as the grave; but as she ascended the spiral
staircase which led to the chamber where the great
lamp burned, she was aware of a peculiar moaning sound,
she hardly knew whether human or not, and a thrill of
horror ran through her, though she did not pause in her
rapid ascent.</p>

<p>The hound heard it too, and sped past her with a
low whimper of curiosity, bounding upwards and into
the room overhead, where he broke into a loud bay.</p>

<p>Bride was keenly excited, too much excited to feel any
personal fear; moreover, she knew that if the dog had
found any unknown occupant in that upper chamber, he
would have flown at him at once and pinned him, and
she should be warned by the sounds as to what was
going on. Hastily mounting the last flight, she entered
the room, which, as she fully expected, was in utter
darkness. The sound of inarticulate moaning grew louder
as she approached, and the moment her lamp threw its
beams within the chamber, she saw the old custodian
lying on the floor, gagged, and bound with cruel cords, his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span>
head bleeding a little from some cuts upon it, and his face
drawn and white.</p>

<p>In a moment she had sprung to his aid. The hound
was sniffing round the room with lashing tail and a
red light in his eyes, uttering from time to time a deep
bay, as though asking to be let out to follow on the track
of the evil-doers who had forced a way into the tower to
do this deed of darkness.</p>

<p>But Bride could not attend to him then. She got a
strong knife out of the old fisherman’s pocket, and in
another minute he was free. He rose, looking dazed and
shaken; but his first thought was for the extinguished
light.</p>

<p>“They put her out zo zoon’s they’d gotten me down,”
he explained in trembling tones, as he set about to kindle
the beacon, not able even to drink the contents of the
cup Bride had mixed for him (there was always refreshment
kept in the room for the watcher on these cold
nights) till he had set the lamp burning again. “They
bwoys ban’t a’ter no gude. Lord help any ship that’s
passed to-night. A take it they will ’ave abin an’ gone vur
tu light a valse light zumwheeres ’long t’ coast. Yu can’t
remember they days, my laady, when ’t wuz common
’nuff for the bwoys tu du that. But his Grace and your
mawther, they zet theerselves agin it: and a’ter vour
or vive o’ the worst o’ the lot ’ad abin clapped intu
clink, and t’ light zet burnin’ heer, theer wuzzn’t near zo
much, and a thought it wuz pretty night stopped vur
good. A reckon Zaul Tresithny’s abin at the bottom o’
this night’s work, that a du. A zeed he t’other daay.
’E wuz just zo zavage’s a bear, he wuz. With the faace
aw’m like a death’s ’ead ’pon a mop-stick. A zed then
theer’d be mischief wi’ ’e, afore we heerd t’ last o’t.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I trust not!” breathed Bride, with clasped hands,
as she stood watching the old man kindling the lamp,
slowly drawling out his words as he did so. “It would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span>
be too terrible. Saul of all people! Oh, I trust it is not
so! It is awful for any of them to do such things; but
some are too ignorant to understand the full meaning
of such a fiendish act. But Saul is not ignorant; he
would know. I pray he has had no hand in this thing!”</p>

<p>“A dawn’t knaw, but a zuzpecs ’e’s abin at the bottom
o’t,” was the deliberate reply. “Ef yu wuz tu luke
out o’ yon winder, my laady, mappen yu may zee a false
light a burning zomewheeres ’long the shore. They’ll a’ve
tu putten out now we got this ’un alight: but I reckon
they will ’ave abin burnin’ one all this time. God help
any poor ships as may ’ave bin goin’ by tu-night!”</p>

<p>Bride, shivering with a nameless horror, went to the
window indicated, and there, sure enough, about a mile
away, she saw the twinkling of a false light, the dread
purpose of which she but too well divined. Heaven send
that no vessel had been lured by its false shining to a terrible
fate!</p>

<p>“David,” she said to the old man, “I must go and
rouse the men, and send down to the shore to see what
has been passing there. It is too fearful. Are you
afraid to be left? Do you think there is any chance of
those wicked men coming back? I will send somebody
to you very quickly, and the dog shall stay to protect
you meantime: he will not let anybody touch you or the
light so long as he is here.”</p>

<p>“Lorblessee! Dawntee by afeared to leev me. A
dawn’t think as they’ll dare come agin. They’d be vules
ef they were tu. A’ll be zafe’s a want in ’is burrow.
Duee go and tell his Grace what they bwoys ’ave abin at.
A reckon they’d not ’a dued it unless they’d ’a knawed
as zome ship were like tu pass by. They bwoys mostly
knaws what tu be at. Yu let me be, and go tu his
Grace. Mappen theer’s help wanted tu the shore by
now.”</p>

<p>Bride hastened away with a beating heart, leaving the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span>
angry hound, who had never ceased sniffing round the
doorway which led downwards to the outer door of the
tower, to act as protector to the old man, in case the miscreants
should again invade him with intent to put out
the light. She rapidly retraced her steps to the inhabited
part of the castle, and knocking at her father’s
door, told him enough to cause him to ring the bell in
his room which communicated with the men’s quarters,
and quickly brought quite a number of them hurrying
up to the master’s room, ready dressed against some emergency.</p>

<p>The Duke had hastily attired himself, and was in
earnest confabulation with his daughter by the time the
household assembled. A few words to them sent them
flying after lanterns and ropes, and Bride asked her
father—</p>

<p>“What are you going to do?”</p>

<p>“I am going down to the shore, with all the men I
can muster, to try and seize the wreckers if possible at
their fiendish work, or to render help if it be possible to
any hapless vessel they may have lured to destruction.
I pray Heaven we may defeat their villainous intentions;
but I fear old David is right, and that they know very
well what they are about, and do not light false fires
without warrant that they light them not in vain. Bride,
remain you here; call up the women, and let one or two
rooms be prepared. It may be we shall have some half-drowned
guest with us when we return. It can do no
harm to be prepared. That is your office. See that all
is in readiness if wanted.”</p>

<p>The excitement and alarm had by this time spread
to the stables, and the men from there came hurrying
round, eager to take a share in the night’s expedition.
Two stout young fellows were sent to the foot of the
lantern-tower to keep guard there, and see that no hurt
came to the old man; and the rest were formed into a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span>
regular marching squad by the Duke, who always had
his servants drilled into some sort of military precision,
ready for an emergency of this kind, and led by him
straight down to the beach, carrying such things as were
thought needful, both in the event of a struggle with the
wreckers, or the necessity of organising a rescue party to
some vessel in distress.</p>

<p>Bride was left in the castle, surrounded by the women
of the household, who had by this time been aroused,
and had come out of their rooms, some in terror, some
in excitement, and were all eager to know both what had
happened and what was to be done.</p>

<p>Bride took a little on one side the housekeeper and
her old nurse, two old servants in whom she had the
utmost confidence, and quietly gave her orders. One or
two of the spare bed-chambers were to be quickly prepared
for the accommodation of possible guests. The
fire in the hall was to be lighted, and some refreshment
spread there. Visitors at the castle had been rare
of late, and some of the chambers were likely to be
damp, and the fires might very likely smoke on being
lighted.</p>

<p>“You had better make use of the rooms Mr. Marchmont
uses when he is here,” said Bride. “They have
been used a good deal this year. I think there has
never been any trouble with them.”</p>

<p>“They are all ready, my lady,” answered the housekeeper.
“His Grace gave orders that they were to be
put in readiness to receive him at any time. They only
want the fires lighting.”</p>

<p>“Ah! true—I remember,” answered Bride. “Then let
fires be lighted there instantly. Set the girls to work
at something. They are only growing frightened and
upset by talking and wondering. Let everything be
ready in case there are persons brought in drowned,
or almost drowned. Let everything be at hand that can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span>
be wanted. Nurse, you understand that sort of thing.
You know what is needed in every kind of emergency.
See that all is ready. We do not know what may be
coming to-night.”</p>

<p>Bride spoke calmly, but her heart was throbbing wildly
the whole time. In her head was beating the ceaseless repetition
of the one name—“Eustace! Eustace! Eustace!”</p>

<p>She seemed all at once to understand the meaning of
her troubled dream, and the cry which had awakened
her. Eustace was truly in some deadly peril, and her
name had been upon his lips, as it was in his heart, at
the supreme moment when he believed himself passing
from life to death. Bride had too full a belief in the independent
life of the spirit to feel any great surprise at
such a thing as this. The power and the deep mystery
of love were a part of her creed. She held that a true
and God-given love was as immortal as the soul—was the
very essence of the soul; and now that she fully recognised
the depth of her own love for Eustace, she could
well believe (knowing his love for her) that his spirit
would seek to meet hers in the supreme moment when he
thought death was coming upon him. But, surely—ah!
surely, her prayer for him, which had immediately followed
upon that cry, would have been heard in heaven,
and God would give him back to her! Ah! how she had
prayed for this man—body, soul, and spirit! How she
had poured out herself in supplication for him again and
yet again, that his heart might be changed and softened,
that the Spirit of grace might work therein, that he might
learn to know his Saviour, and that his body might be
preserved from all perils.</p>

<p>Bride had that faith which believes all things; and
even through the anxious terrors of that night she believed
that Eustace would be given back to her. She
believed absolutely that he had been in deadly peril,
that the cry she had heard in her dreams was no dream,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>
but that it portended some crisis in the life of her lover.
She knew that he was likely to be at sea to-night, and
coming down Channel along these very coasts. It might
indeed have been his vessel that these desperate men had
striven to wreck. She never tried to fight against the
conviction that something terrible had befallen Eustace
that night; but so convinced was she that God had heard
her prayers, and had made of her an instrument for
the deliverance and saving of her lover, that she was
able to retain her calmness and tranquillity, even through
that terrible hour of suspense, saying always to herself—</p>

<p>“Perhaps it is the Father’s way of leading home the
erring son. Perhaps it was in the darkness and the storm
that He went out to meet him. I think he will be given
back to me; but even if not, and he is in the safe-keeping
of the Father, I can bear it. But I believe I shall receive
him back as from the dead.”</p>

<p>She went to and fro through the house, seeing that her
own and her father’s orders were carried out, her face
wearing a strange expression of intense expectancy, but
her bearing and manner retaining their customary calmness.
When everything that could be done in advance
had been done, she went down into the hall again. The
fire was blazing there and the lights were burning. Upon
a table stood refreshments, and all was as she desired to
see it. The old butler, who had not gone with the rest of
the men, stood in a dim recess, looking out of the window,
and half concealed by the curtain. Suddenly he moved
quickly towards the door.</p>

<p>“Do you see anything?” asked Bride breathlessly.</p>

<p>“I hear steps,” he answered, and went to the door.
The next minute he opened it wide and the Duke entered.</p>

<p>Bride made a quick step forward. Her father’s face
was pale and stern. His clothes were wet as from contact
with salt water, but his manner was composed, though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span>
indicative of mental disturbance. His first words were to
the servant.</p>

<p>“Go or send instantly to Abner Tresithny’s cottage,
and tell him to come here at once.”</p>

<p>The butler disappeared without waiting to hear more.
Abner’s cottage was on the premises, a little distance from
the stable-yard. He could be there in a very short time
after the summons reached him; but why was he summoned?</p>

<p>Bride’s eyes asked the question her lips could not
frame. Her father came forward, and put his hands upon
her shoulders.</p>

<p>“Can you be brave to bear bad news, Bride?” he asked;
and she saw that his face looked very grave, and that his
lips quivered a little involuntarily.</p>

<p>“I think so,” she answered steadily. “Is it Eustace?”</p>

<p>She felt him give a slight start.</p>

<p>“How did you know? Who has told you?”</p>

<p>“I hardly know—Eustace himself, I think. I have
felt sure the whole time that he has been in peril to-night.
Do not be afraid to tell me the worst. Is he
dead?”</p>

<p>“I fear so! I fear so! God grant I may be mistaken,
but I have no hope—it is the face of the dead!”</p>

<p>There was something in the tone of the voice that
bespoke a keener distress than Bride would have looked
for her father to show in any matter connected with
Eustace. She gave him a quick glance of grateful sympathy,
and, moving from his side, went to the table and
poured him out a glass of wine. He drank it, and then
she said softly—</p>

<p>“Tell me about it.”</p>

<p>“I will tell you all I know; it is a hideous tale, but the
details will only be known when the wretched miscreants
whom we have apprehended are brought before the proper
authorities. We know that our light was extinguished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>
and a false one kindled, in order that some vessel might
be deluded to dash itself upon the Bull’s Horns, where
nothing can save it. This diabolic deed has been done
only too well. The men, taken red-handed bringing their
boat back full of spoil, could deny nothing. Evidence was
too clear against them. We apprehended every man of
them, and they are lying bound under a strong guard of
our fellows to await the arrival of the officers of the law.
But one man said that Saul Tresithny was still upon the
wreck, that it was he who had planned all this, and that
he was waiting there till they went for another load and
fetched him off.”</p>

<p>“And you sent a boat for him?” questioned Bride
breathlessly.</p>

<p>“The men were for leaving him to his fate, but of
course that could not be allowed, and I wished to see for
myself the position of the wreck, and to learn all that
was possible about her; for we all know that before
another tide has risen and fallen she may be dashed off
the ledge on which she rests now, and sucked into the
treacherous shoals of quicksand.”</p>

<p>“Papa,” said Bride quickly, interrupting the tale for
a moment; “tell me one thing—are any lives saved?”</p>

<p>“None—unless Eustace be living, and I fear he is not
and as Bride for a moment pressed her hand to her eyes,
the Duke took up the thread of his narrative, though
always with his face towards the open door, listening
and watching intently.</p>

<p>“The sea was falling, and we in the bay were sheltered
from its power. We soon reached the wreck,
and there found a light burning, but for a moment
there was no sign of Tresithny. Then one of our men
called out that he saw something in the water—that it
was attached to the wreck by a rope. We got hold of
the rope and pulled upon it, and drew the floating mass
towards us.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span>“And found—Eustace.”</p>

<p>The words were scarcely a whisper. Bride’s pale lips
moved, but scarce a breath came through them.</p>

<p>“Found Eustace and Saul Tresithny, locked in an
embrace so tenacious that it has been impossible to
unloose it. How they came to be so locked together
no man yet knows. The wreckers declare that there was
no living soul on board when they left Saul alone on the
wreck. What passed whilst he was there alone none can
say. Eustace had a great life-belt passed under his arms,
holding him well out of the water. Saul Tresithny’s arms
were locked in a bear-like embrace around his neck, and
his hands were so clenched upon the rope which was
attached to the broken mast of the vessel that it was
impossible to loosen it. We had to cut the rope when
the two men were lifted into the boat. Had Saul been
alone, one would have said that he was hauling himself in
towards the vessel, from which he had been washed off
when unconsciousness had come over him. But how
those two came to be locked thus together none can say.
I can form no guess. That will be one of the riddles we
shall never solve.”</p>

<p>“Is Saul dead too?” asked Bride, in an awed voice.</p>

<p>“So far as we can tell, both are dead,” answered the
Duke; “but until they can be separated it is not possible
to be absolutely certain on the point. Saul cannot have
been so very long in the water, and the belt supported
both well; but there appears no sign of life about either.
I think they have both passed away together in the darkness
and the storm—master and pupil together—master
and pupil! Ah! Eustace, Eustace! what do you think of
your teaching now?”</p>

<p>The last words were only just breathed in a tone of
gentle sorrow. Bride said nothing, for the sound of
measured tramping was borne to her ears, and she looked
quickly at her father.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span>“They are bringing them here, of course?”</p>

<p>“Of course,” he answered, with a slight motion of his
head. “Whether living or dead, Eustace must lie here;
and till Tresithny’s grasp can be unloosened we cannot
separate them.”</p>

<p>“Let Saul lie here too, papa,” said Bride suddenly.
“Whether living or dead, let us shelter him. If he has
greatly sinned, he has suffered terribly. We do not carry
enmity beyond the grave, nor punishment after a man has
been so struck down.”</p>

<p>“I have sent for his grandfather. I will settle with
him about that unhappy young man. Bride, my dear, I
think you had better go. This will be no sight for you.”</p>

<p>But Bride slipped her hand within her father’s arm, and
looked beseechingly into his face.</p>

<p>“Do not send me away till I have seen him. You
know that I love Eustace, papa, and he loves me. I
believe that this is God’s way of giving him back to me.
I can bear it whichever way it turns.”</p>

<p>The Duke said no more. He recognised in Bride that
inherent strength of character, born of a perfect faith,
which had characterised her mother. He let her stay
beside him as the heavy steps drew nearer and nearer,
and the hand upon his arm did not quiver as the bearers
appeared with their strange load at the great door.</p>

<p>In they came, panting with the effort, for the ascent to
the castle was steep, and the load a heavy one. And when
once within the shelter of the hall, they were forced, without
waiting for leave, to lay it down and gasp for breath.</p>

<p>Bride stepped forward and looked. There was nothing
ghastly in the sight to her—only something unspeakably
solemn and mysterious.</p>

<p>The faces of both men were white and rigid, but in nowise
distorted. There was a calm nobility of aspect about
Eustace, which suggested the hope that the soul was at
peace in the midst of the terrors of that fearful night.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span>
Saul’s brow was knitted, and his lips were set in lines of
vehement resolution, as though not even death could obliterate
from his face the intensity of his great resolve.</p>

<p>As Bride looked, she said within herself, “He died
trying to save Eustace;” and though she could not tell
how such a thing could be, she felt the sense of certainty
rise up glad and strong within her. If his life had been
a wild and wicked one, might not his death have witnessed
to the dawn of the eternal love in his darkened heart?
Might not this sudden act of self-sacrifice have been the
Divine spark kindling in his soul, and lighting his way to
God?</p>

<p>And then from two different doors entered on the one
hand Abner, and the other the doctor, who had been summoned
in hot haste by a mounted messenger some time
before; and Bride, with one last lingering look upon her
lover’s face, silently withdrew, to return to her vigil and
her prayers, till she could learn what was the verdict about
these two men so strangely locked together.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b321.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b322.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXI<br />

<i>FROM THE DEAD</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b322m.jpg" alt="“M" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“MY lady, I cannot stay, but I must be the one to
bring the news. He is living after all.”</p>

<p>Bride had risen from her knees at the sound
of hurrying steps along the corridor, and now
stood face to face with the faithful old nurse, who with
the doctor had been fighting the two hours’ battle, in the
teeth of almost hopeless despair, over the rigid and motionless
form of Eustace Marchmont, and now she stood white
and panting before her young mistress, but with tears of
gladness standing in her eyes.</p>

<p>Bride raised her face for a moment, her eyes alight
with the intensity of her thanksgiving. The dawn was
just stealing in through the uncurtained window. She
looked for a moment at the crimson blush in the east,
and then suddenly bent her head and kissed the faithful
woman beside her.</p>

<p>“Thank God!” she said very softly; “and thank you,
dear nurse, for I know how you have been toiling for him—and
for me.”</p>

<p>“Oh, my Ladybird, it would have broken my heart if he
had slipped away out of life just when—but there, there!
I mustn’t stop to talk. And we mustn’t build too much on
keeping him here. He’s been a terrible time in the water,
and been fearfully dashed about. He’ll have a fight to
pull through; but then he’s young and strong, and he’ll<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span>
have the best sort of hope to help him. There, deary,
there, there! I can’t linger longer. There’s a deal to be
done, and the doctor has to go when he can spare a
moment to look to that other poor fellow. I don’t know
which is the worst of the two, but they are both of them
alive at least.”</p>

<p>“Saul too? Ah! I am glad!” cried Bride; and then
the nurse hurried away, and she sat down after the long
strain of those strange hours, and tried to collect her
scattered thoughts.</p>

<p>Eustace living—though by no means out of danger!
Ah! but was it not enough just now to be assured that
the life was still in him? Surely since God had given
him back in answer to her prayers, He had spared him
for some great purpose. He had brought him to the
very gates of death, but had brought him back therefrom
already. Was not that evidence that he was spared for
some good purpose? Might she not look forward in faith
and confidence to Him, Who had saved him from these
terrible bodily perils, that He would also be with him
in any other trial that might lie before him, bodily or
spiritual? Need she be fearful or troubled any more
after the wonderful experiences of the past night? Eustace
had been given back to her prayers. What need she
fear when that proof of Fatherly love was hers?</p>

<p>Bride mechanically put the finishing touches to her
toilet, and washed from her face the traces of her long
vigil; then, unable to remain inactive any longer, she
left her room and descended the staircase, the light
broadening and strengthening in the sky as she did so,
as the sun rose from behind banks of low-lying cloud,
and looked forth upon the new day now begun.</p>

<p>The great door at the far end of the hall stood wide
open to the breezy morning, and even as Bride reached
the foot of the staircase a tall figure darkened it for a
moment, and Mr. Tremodart came in with an uncertain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span>
air, glancing about him here and there, as if in search of
something or some one.</p>

<p>Bride stepped forward and held out her hand.</p>

<p>“You have heard?” she asked briefly.</p>

<p>“Ah yes! it is a terrible thing, a terrible thing! Lady
Bride, it makes me feel that I must send in my resignation
to the Bishop, and ask him to appoint another pastor
to this flock. Surely had I done my duty, they would
not now be such savages and fiends! I have been down
with them, poor miserable men! I have been hearing
their confession. They have been led away by a spirit
stronger than their own. The Lord forgive me! Perhaps
had I been more to them and more with them, they
would not have hearkened to such evil counsel!”</p>

<p>The clergyman’s remorse was painful to see. Bride had
grown to feel a great liking and respect for Mr. Tremodart
during the past year. That he was somewhat out
of his element as a parish priest, she never attempted
to deny. That he had been placed in his present position
without any real aptitude for his vocation, he never himself
denied; but he had tried to do his duty according to
his own lights; and though often too much engrossed in
his favourite pursuits to give all the time he should have
done to his flock, he had never neglected to respond to
a summons from any one of them, however personally
inconvenient, and had always striven to relieve distress,
both of body and mind, as far as in him lay, though his
methods were sometimes clumsy, and his words halting
and lame.</p>

<p>Still on the whole he had won the respect and liking
of his flock, and the confidence of the black sheep better,
perhaps, than a more truly earnest and devoted man
might have done. The fishermen were not afraid of him.
They knew he understood their ways of thinking, and had
a sympathy with them even in their peccadillos. He
did not receive or purchase smuggled goods, as too many<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span>
of his profession did in those days; but he did not look
with any very great displeasure on a traffic that he had
been used to all his life, and which seemed almost a part
of the economy of life. But with all his faults and his
easy-going ways, he had never for a moment encouraged
indifference to human life or suffering; and the knowledge
that the men of Bride’s Bay had deliberately lured
to her doom a great vessel, from which only one man
had been rescued alive, was a terrible thought. The
moment the news had been brought to him, Mr. Tremodart
had hastened down to the shore to learn the truth
of the matter, and had now come to the castle with a
grave face and heavy heart, to seek news of the survivor,
and the man who had been found with him.</p>

<p>“Perhaps we might all have done more for them than
we did,” said Bride gently; “but men will listen so much
more readily to the voice of the tempter than to those
who would hold them back from their sinful deeds.
And Saul Tresithny had such power over them! I fear
it was he who led them on.”</p>

<p>“Ay! ay! there can be no doubting that. One and all,
they all say it. ’Twas his doing—his planning from first to
last. They, poor fellows, thought of the spoil to be had,
and listened with greedy ears; but he was thinking darker
thoughts, I fear. They say he wanted nothing for himself.
All his mind was fixed upon some evil hope of
vengeance. His hatred for mankind had driven him
well-nigh mad. Ah! Lady Bride, I think that we may
well say that if God is Love—as we have His blessed
assurance—then the devil is—hatred. For sure only the
devil himself could so have inspired that spirit of hatred
which could vent itself in such an act as that of last
night.”</p>

<p>“Indeed, I think so,” answered Bride, in a low tone
of great feeling. “It is too terrible to think of. What
will happen to those poor men? Where are they now?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span>“The officers have taken them. I fear they will be
committed for trial. I scarce know the penalty—transportation,
I should think. Perhaps a few may be released—a
few of the younger men; but example will be made
of some. It would scarce be right to wish it otherwise.
That noble vessel! and all hands lost, and every soul
on board save one! Ah me! ah me! And the men
of St. Bride the culprits! I could sink to the ground
for shame!”</p>

<p>“Do you know who the survivor is?” asked Bride.</p>

<p>“Nay; I did but hear he had been carried here—he
and Tresithny, locked in one embrace, none knowing
whether either were alive or dead. I came for news of
them.”</p>

<p>“They are both living—now,” answered Bride, with a
strange light in her eyes, “though we must not build too
much on that. The survivor from the wreck is our kinsman,
Eustace Marchmont.”</p>

<p>“God bless my soul! you don’t say so?” cried the
clergyman, starting back in great astonishment.</p>

<p>“Yes,” answered Bride; “we were expecting him shortly,
and he spoke of coming by sea in one of the new steam-ships.
That was the one which was wrecked last night.
Eustace was there. He had on a great life-belt, and
Saul was clinging round him when they were carried in.
Saul had been left behind on the wreck whilst the other
men took their first load of spoil to shore. What happened
then nobody yet knows; but when my father and
his men reached the wreck, they found those two in the
water, floating near to it at the end of a rope—whether
alive or dead, it was hours before anybody knew.”</p>

<p>“You don’t say so? What an extraordinary thing!
Do you think they were struggling together in the water?
Could Saul have been striving to do some injury to
Mr. Marchmont——?”</p>

<p>“Oh no, no,” cried Bride quickly; “I am sure that was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span>
not so. What it all means I cannot tell yet; but I know
that Saul loved Eustace. I think he was the only being in
the world he has ever truly loved. I cannot help thinking
he was trying to save him—trying to draw him out of
the water. But we may never know the truth of it.
Yet I shall never believe that Saul would lift up a hand
against Eustace.”</p>

<p>“I trust not—I trust not. Ah! poor fellow, it will be
a mercy for him if he die a natural death from exposure.
He has nothing to live for now, I fear, save transportation
or the gallows.”</p>

<p>Bride turned pale and took a backward step. That
aspect of the case had not struck her before.</p>

<p>“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a little gasp, and was silent,
trying to take it all in. Oh, that blind, misguided nature,
warped and deformed by unreasoning and unreasonable
hatred! How had the springs of nobility lying latent
there been poisoned at their very source! How had the
man’s whole career been blasted and shattered through the
entering in of that demon of jealousy and hatred, which had
gradually struggled with and overpowered every other emotion,
and become absolute master of the man! And there
had been a time when Saul had been spoken of as a youth of
such promise. Alas! how had that promise been fulfilled?</p>

<p>Bride and the clergyman stood facing each other in
silence, the morning sunshine lying in broad bands across
the paved floor of the hall, and the sounds of life from
without speaking cheerful things of the awakening day.
The butler came forward and broke the spell of silent
musing by informing his young mistress that breakfast
had been carried in, but that His Grace was still resting
after the fatigues of the night, and did not wish to be
disturbed.</p>

<p>“Then you will breakfast with me, Mr. Tremodart,”
said Bride, “and then we will ask for fresh news of the
patients.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>The meal was a silent one, but both stood in need of
refreshment and felt strengthened by it. At the conclusion
Bride rose up, and looking at her companion said—</p>

<p>“Will you come with me? I am going to ask news
of him at his door. Perhaps, if he is conscious, he will
like to see you. I fear his life will be in danger for some
time. He may feel the need of your presence.”</p>

<p>“I—I—hardly know whether I could help him if such
were the case,” answered Mr. Tremodart, always rather
nervous at the prospect of being called upon for spiritual
ministrations, especially by those of the educated and
superior classes. He was not a man of ready speech, and
felt his deficiency greatly. “Perhaps Mr. St. Aubyn would
come,” he suggested. “I think he knows Mr. Marchmont
better than I.”</p>

<p>“I think it is likely he will come when he hears,”
answered Bride; “but we belong to you too, Mr. Tremodart,
and at least you will come and hear the news from the
sick-room?”</p>

<p>He was very anxious to do so, and followed the girl
up the staircase and along the corridors. Bride paused
at length at a half-open door. It led into a pleasant
room furnished as a study, and beyond it was the bedroom,
from which proceeded a quiet murmur of voices.</p>

<p>Bride held her breath to listen. Was it Eustace
speaking? No, she thought it was the doctor; but was
there not a still lower voice, a mere whisper? or was it
only the beating of her heart?</p>

<p>The door of communication opened suddenly, and the
nurse came out. Her face lighted at the sight of Bride.</p>

<p>“Oh, my lady, I think he is asking for you. We can’t
quite make out his words. He has no voice, and scarce any
breath; but I saw his lips move, and I’m almost sure he’s
saying your name. We can’t tell whether he knows us
yet—whether his mind is there. But I think if you
would go in to him we might be able to tell.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>Bride looked at her companion.</p>

<p>“Let us go in together,” she said, feeling a strange desire
for the support of another presence. She hardly knew
what it was that she would be called upon to witness
in that room; but at least Eustace was there—Eustace
was still living; and if he wanted her, was not that
enough?</p>

<p>Her face was very pale, but her manner was quite
composed as she walked forward, passed the screen, and
stood beside the bed.</p>

<p>Upon the bed, perfectly flat, with only one thin pillow
beneath his head, lay Eustace, as motionless and almost
as rigid as though life were extinct. His arms lay passively
outside the bed-clothing just as they had been
placed. The left arm was bound up in a splint, but the
right lay almost as helpless and powerless beside him.
There was a white bandage about his head, and his face
was almost as white as the linen. The lips were ashen
grey, and a shadow seemed to rest upon the face, robbing
it of almost all semblance of life. Only the eyes retained
any of their colour. They were sunken and dim, but
there was life in their glance yet; and as Bride stood
beside him, and softly spoke his name, a sudden gleam of
joyous recognition flashed from them, and the white lips
curved to the faint semblance of a smile.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said, in the lowest whisper.</p>

<p>She took the powerless hand in his, and then bent
down and kissed him.</p>

<p>“I am here, Eustace, I am with you. You will live
for my sake,” she said, in soft clear tones, which seemed to
penetrate the mists of weakness closing him in. The dim
eyes brightened more and more, and fixed themselves
upon her fair, sweet face. She felt a very slight answering
pressure of the fingers she held, and again she heard
the whisper of her name.</p>

<p>The doctor was standing a little distance off. He had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span>
known Bride from her infancy, and was watching the
little scene with extreme interest, both professional and
personal. Now he came forward and stood on the other
side of the bed; his kind old face was beaming with satisfaction.</p>

<p>“That is good, very good, Lady Bride,” he said; “I can
see what is the medicine our patient wants. You have
done more for him in a minute than I have been able to
do all these hours. We want him to get a grip on life
again—just to help him to hold on to it till Nature can
make up for the terrible exhaustion of those hours in the
water. Now look here, it’s most important he should
take the hot soup and the cordial nurse has over there.
We can’t get more than a few drops down at a time, but
perhaps you will be more successful. We are keeping up
the animal heat by outward applications, but we must
keep the furnace inside going still. Try what you can do
for him, my dear. I think you have made him understand
as we have not succeeded in doing yet.”</p>

<p>The nurse came to the bedside with cup and spoon, and
Bride took them from her hand. With a gentle tenderness
almost like that of a mother she bent over Eustace,
raised his head as she had been wont to do for her mother
in her long last illness, and gave him what the doctor
bade her.</p>

<p>He swallowed it without a murmur, perfectly understanding
her voice and touch. Three or four spoonsful
were taken in this way, the doctor looking on and slightly
rubbing his hands.</p>

<p>“If you can stay with him two hours, and feed him like
that every ten minutes, Lady Bride,” he said, “I think
we shall see a change for the better by that time. Everything
depends on keeping up the vital power. It was
down to the very lowest ebb when he was brought in. If
he had not the most magnificent constitution, he could
never have survived all that exposure. It will be everything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span>
if he can be kept up. Will you be his nurse for to-day,
and keep guard over him? You can do more than
all the rest of us put together. Are you willing?”</p>

<p>Bride desired nothing better. She had hardly dared to
let herself hope to see Eustace for many days, and here
she was established beside him as head-nurse, and the
person most needful to his recovery. Her heart bounded
within her as the doctor and Mr. Tremodart stole away
together to visit the other patient, and she found herself
left in charge of her lover.</p>

<p>Yes, she called him so now without hesitation or fear.
She had long known that love was stealing more and more
into her heart, and latterly she had not been afraid to
face the thought and to follow it to its conclusion.</p>

<p>She loved Eustace, and he loved her. She had heard
that from his own lips before she had had any love to give
to him. But since she had begun to pray for him, to intercede
for him, to bring his name into the presence of God
day by day and night by night, not in despondency, but
in perfect faith, faith that her prayers for him would be
heard and answered, and that the Father would turn his
heart homewards, and go forth to meet him when once
his steps were homeward set—since she had begun to
think of him and pray for him thus, love had gradually
stolen into her heart; whilst since the strange events of
the past night, when their spirits had met in the darkness
and the storm, and God had used her as an instrument
for the saving of her lover’s life, she had not feared to recognise
that love, and to call Eustace her own.</p>

<p>His eyes were turned now upon her with a restful look
of infinite content. He did not try to speak; he had not
strength to return the soft pressure of her hand from time
to time, but he lay and looked at her; and when she bent
over him, and spoke his name in words that sounded like
a caress, and touched his brow with her lips, or smoothed
away the dank tumbled hair, he smiled a slight smile of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span>
restful peace, and he never resisted her pleading voice
when she put food to his lips, and bade him make the
effort to swallow it “for her sake.”</p>

<p>Two hours had gone by thus, and Bride began to see a
slight, indefinite change in her patient. The grey shadow
was lighter than it had been. There was more brightness
in the eyes; once or twice she had heard a whispered
“thank you” spoken, and when the sound of the opening
door fell upon their ears, he as well as she looked to see
who was coming—a plain proof of a distinct advance in
his condition.</p>

<p>It was the Duke. He looked weary and worn and
pale. He had not escaped without some exhaustion
and suffering from the effects of the night’s adventure,
and was feeling old and shaken, as indeed he looked. But
sleep had restored him to some extent, and now his
anxiety had brought him to Eustace’s side. His face
lighted with pleasure as he saw the look of recognition on
the white face, and noted that Bride had taken up her
station beside the bed.</p>

<p>He came forward and stood beside them, looking down
at his young kinsman.</p>

<p>“You are better, Eustace?” he said kindly; and to
Bride’s surprise the answer came quite audibly, though
only in a very faint whisper—</p>

<p>“Bride is giving me new life.”</p>

<p>“That is well, very well. Do not talk. Keep quiet,
and Bride will take care of you;” and at that moment
the doctor came back, and looked at his patient with an
emphatic nod of approval.</p>

<p>“Very good, very good, couldn’t be better. Lady Bride,
if you will only go on as successfully as you have begun,
we shall have him round the corner by the time the day
is over. A magnificent constitution—truly a magnificent
one! Could not have believed it! Gave very little signs
of life four hours ago—just a flicker; but I was afraid to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span>
hope too much, and now—why, there’s quite a pulse, and
no fever. Wonderful! wonderful!”</p>

<p>Eustace was growing drowsy by this time—a very
favourable symptom in the doctor’s sight. The murmur
of voices about him induced a state of dreamy torpor.
His eyes closed, and he dropped off into a light dose, as
people do who are very weak, but have no fever or pain.
Bride looked up with a smile at her father.</p>

<p>“He will be better if he sleeps,” she said. “Will you
not sit down, papa? you look so tired.”</p>

<p>The doctor gave a shrewd glance at the Duke’s face, and
seconded his daughter’s recommendation. They drew a
little away from the bed, and Bride asked softly—</p>

<p>“What about Saul?”</p>

<p>The doctor shook his head.</p>

<p>“He is in a raging fever. Whether it is an affection of
the brain, or the effects of the exposure and wetting on
a constitution already much enfeebled, I hardly know yet,
but he is in raving delirium at present, and I doubt if we
pull him through. Poor fellow! poor fellow! It is a fine
character blasted and ruined, a fine career flung away for
the gratification of senseless passion! Ah me!—we live
in a world of perplexities. The history of that young
man has been a source of wonderment and sorrow to the
whole place. I fear it is drawing to its close now.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps that is the happiest thing for him,” said Bride
softly, “if only——”</p>

<p>She did not finish her sentence—there was no need.
All who knew the young man’s story could finish it themselves.
As the girl sat beside Eustace whilst the hours sped
by, each one renewing her hope and sense of thankful
relief in seeing the flame of life within him burn more
steadily and brightly, her thoughts were much with that
other patient lying not so far away, wondering what was
going on in his soul, and whether this chastening had indeed
been for the salvation of his soul. Towards evening<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span>
Eustace was so wonderfully recovered that he had spoken
a few short sentences, and would have told her something
of the wreck of the vessel, only that consecutive speech
was forbidden him. The grey shadow had vanished,
a faint colour had come into his lips. He was able to
take such nourishment as his condition required, and to
dispense with much of the outward application of heat.
At last he fell into a sound, refreshing, and perfectly
natural sleep, and Bride, at the suggestion of the nurse,
stole away to get a mouthful of air on the terrace before
dark, after which she went herself to that other part of
the house where Saul lay, to try to get speech of Abner,
who was with his grandson, as he had been ever since he
was brought in the previous night.</p>

<p>The old man came out to her, looking bent and aged,
but with a light in his eyes which Bride saw at once.</p>

<p>“Is he better?” she asked eagerly; and the answer
was curious.</p>

<p>“I trust and hope that he is, my lady. I think that
he has prayed.”</p>

<p>“Prayed?” repeated Bride, her eyes lighting in quick
response. “Ah, Abner!—then he must indeed be better!”</p>

<p>“I think he will die,” said Abner, with quiet calmness;
“but what matters the death of the corruptible body, if
the spark of immortal life and love be quickened in the
soul? My lady, in his ravings of fever my boy has laid
bare his soul to me—all the terrible darkness, all the wild
hatred, all the fearful thoughts which went to prompt that
last dread act of his life. But he has told other things
as well. He has told how, whilst he sat alone upon the
wreck, gloating over the crime he had committed, he saw
an object in the water, and knew that one of his victims
was near him. I cannot paint that scene as he has
painted it in his ravings, but I think I see it all. He
turned his light upon the victim, and he saw the face
of Mr. Marchmont, his friend. Then I think he saw<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span>
his handiwork as it appears in the sight of God. He
saw himself the blackest of sinners, and with a prayer
on his lips that he might be permitted to make this
atonement, he sprang into the water to strive and save
Mr. Marchmont, who else must surely have been sucked
back into the cruel quicksands lying so close at hand.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” cried Bride softly, “I said so—I thought so!”</p>

<p>“So he tied himself to the vessel—ah! he has been
acting it all so fearfully, that I can see it as though I had
been there!—he flung himself into the sea and grappled
with the floating figure, trying to pull it to the wreck
and place it in safety. Ah! how he must have struggled
with the wind and tide that were fighting against him!
but in his mortal agony he turned in prayer to the God
he had despised and defied, and prayed to Him that this
life—this one life—might be given to him. Ah! how
many times has that prayer passed his lips to-day—‘God
help me! God give me strength! God be merciful
to me, a sinner!’ He knows not what he says now, but
he knew it when he lifted his heart in prayer in the hour
of his extremest need. It was not for his own life he
prayed, but for the life of the one he sought to save.
I truly believe that in those terrible moments he lived
through a lifetime of agony and repentance. God does
not measure time as we do. I think He will accept those
moments of agonised penitence as He accepted the repentance
of the thief upon the cross. I think he looked to
his Saviour in that hour of mortal weakness and despair,
when life and all seemed slipping away. Last night was
the witness of the crowning sin of his reckless life, yet
I believe, by the grace of God, it was witness, too, of a
penitent malefactor turning towards Him at the last.
This gives me more hope and joy than I have ever known
before for him.”</p>

<p>Bride went away with a great awe upon her—a
deep respect and sympathy for the faith of this patient<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span>
man, and a sense of the intense reality of the power of
prayer such as she had scarcely experienced in her life
before. She knew that Abner had been praying for the
conversion of Saul, even as she had been praying that
Eustace might turn in faith towards the God of Salvation.
Once it had seemed as though nothing could conquer the
invincible wildness of the one or the intellectual scepticism
of the other. But God had put forth His hand in
power, and had caused that even the powers of evil should
aid in bringing about the answer. She wanted to think
it out. She wanted to be alone in her awe and her thankfulness.
She went swiftly up to her own room, and sank
upon her knees, burying her face in her hands.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b336.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b337.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXII<br />

<i>SAUL TRESITHNY</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b337h.jpg" alt="H" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">HIS eyes opened slowly upon the unfamiliar room.
The shaft of sunlight slanting in from the west
shone upon a comfortable apartment, far larger
and loftier than anything to which he had been
accustomed. The window was larger, the fireplace was
wider, and there was a clear fire of coal burning in the
grate, very different from the peat and driftwood fires to
which he had been long accustomed. The only familiar
object in the room was the figure of his grandfather,
bending over the big Bible on the table, as he had been
so used to see it from childhood, when he awakened
from sleep in the early hours of the night, and looked
about him to know where he was.</p>

<p>For a moment a dreamy wonderment came over him.
He asked himself whether he had not been dreaming a long,
long troubled dream of manhood and strife, and whether,
after all, he were not a little child again, living in his
grandfather’s cottage, happy in his games upon the shore,
and looking eagerly forward to the time when he should
be a man and could follow the fortunes of fishermen
and smugglers, or have a big garden to care for like
Abner.</p>

<p>But this dreamy condition did not last long. There
was a bowed look about Abner, and his hair was altogether
too white for him to be identified with the Abner<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span>
of twenty years back. Saul raised his own hand and
looked at it curiously. It was shrunken to skin and
bone, but a great hand still, with indications of vanished
power and strength. The dark sombre eyes roved round
and round the room. Memory was awakening, the mists
of fever and delirium were passing away. Suddenly
Saul seemed to see as in a panorama the whole map
of his past life rolled out before him. It was written
in characters of fire upon the bare walls of the room.
Everywhere he looked he saw his wild and evil deeds
depicted. Why was it that they looked black and
hideous to him now, when hitherto he had gloried in
them—gloated over them? He saw, last of all, the
doomed vessel bearing straight down upon the cruel
rocks. And now he seemed to see a face on board that
vessel—the face of one he loved—the face of the man who
had held out his hand in friendship, when (as he believed)
all the world beside had turned its back upon him. He
saw the face of this friend looking at him with a deep
reproach in the eyes, and a sudden groan of anguish broke
from Saul’s lips as he stretched out his hands to stay the
course of the doomed vessel.</p>

<p>At the sound of that groan Abner rose quickly and
came forward to the bedside. The ray of dying daylight
was fading already, and the shadow of the winter’s evening
closing in; and yet in the dimness about the bed,
Abner thought he saw something new in Saul’s face.</p>

<p>“Saul, my lad,” he said gently, “do you know me?”</p>

<p>“Tu be sure I du,” answered Saul, and wondered why
his voice sounded so distant and hollow. “What’s the
matter, grandfather?”</p>

<p>“You have been in a fever for many days, my lad, and
didn’t know anybody about yu. What is it, boy? Don’t
excite yourself. Yu must be kept quite quiet.”</p>

<p>Saul’s face was changing every moment, turning from
red to pale and pale to red. He was struggling with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span>
emotion and a rush of recollection. For a moment
Abner’s voice and presence had arrested the course of
his memories; but now they came surging back.</p>

<p>“Grandfather, tell me,” he cried, struggling to sit up
and then sinking back in his weakness, “what happened?—how
did I get out of the water? Where is Mr.
Marchmont?”</p>

<p>“Here in the castle. You were brought in together.
They could not loose your clasp upon him for a long
time.”</p>

<p>“And where is he? Is he alive?”</p>

<p>“Yes—alive, and like to live.”</p>

<p>Saul suddenly pressed his hands together and broke
into wild weeping.</p>

<p>“Thank God! thank God!” he cried, his whole frame
shaken with sobs. “Grandfather, pray for me—you
know I never learned to pray for myself—at least I have
well-nigh forgotten now. But down on your knees
and thank God for that for me! May be He will hear
yu. It must have been He that saved him; for the
devil was at my ear all the while prompting me to let
him die.”</p>

<p>Abner was already on his knees, with a thanksgiving
of his own to offer. He had prayed too much and too
earnestly, both in secret and before his fellow-men, to
lack words now in this hour of intense gratitude and
thanksgiving. In rugged yet not ill-chosen words he
lifted up his voice and gave thanks to God for His great
and unspeakable mercies in giving back this one life
from the destruction that had come upon all besides;
and in permitting the very man whose sin had brought
about this fearful thing to be His instrument for the
salvation of the life of his friend. He pleaded for mercy
for the sinner with an impassioned eloquence which
bespoke a spirit deeply moved. He brought before the
Lord the sins and shortcomings of this erring man, now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span>
stretched on a bed of sickness, and besought that the
cleansing blood of Christ might wash them all away.
He pleaded for Saul as he never could have pleaded for
himself. He brought together all those eternal promises
of mercy which are to the sinner as the anchor and stay
of the soul in the deep and bitter waters of remorse. He
pleaded with his Redeemer for the soul of his grandson
with a fervour only inspired by a love and a faith too
deep to be daunted by any considerations as to the weight
of iniquity to be pardoned, or the lack of faith in the
one thus prayed for. And Saul, lying helpless and
tempest-tossed, listened to this pleading, and found his
tears bursting forth again. He had seen before all the
black and crushing iniquity of his own past record, but
now was brought before his eyes a picture of the infinite
and ineffable love of a dying Saviour—the Lord of
Glory crucified for <i>him</i>—bearing <i>his</i> sins upon the
Cross of shame—stretching out His wounded hands and
bidding <i>him</i> come to that Cross and lay down his burden
there. It was too much for Saul, softened as he was
by the sense that God had already answered his prayer
even in the midst of his sin and wickedness, and had
given him the one petition, the only one he ever remembered
to have offered. The whole conception of such divine
mercy was too much—it broke down all his pride and
reserve and sullen defiance—it broke his heart and made
it as the heart of a little child. His tears gushed forth.
He clasped his hands, and lifted them in supplication to
his Saviour. He could not have found words for his
own guilt, but he could follow the earnest words of the
grandfather, whose simple piety he had hitherto held in
a species of lofty contempt. And in that still evening
hour, with the dying day about them, and the shadow
of death hovering as it were in the very air above them
(for Saul was dying, although he knew it not yet; and
Abner knew that his hours were numbered, though he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span>
might linger for a day or two yet), the erring soul turned
in penitence and love to the Saviour in Whose death
lay the only hope of pardon, and in Whose resurrection-life
the only hope of that life immortal beyond the
grave, beyond the power of the second death, and found
at last peace and rest, in spite of all the blackness of
past sin.</p>

<p>For when the Saviour’s Blood has washed away the
sin, the blackness can no longer remain. Humble penitence
and contrite love remain, but the misery and despair
are taken away. He bears the grief and carries the
sorrow; He takes the shame, the curse, the wrath of a
holy and a just God. It was a thought almost too overwhelming
for Saul to bear. It broke his heart and
humbled him to the very dust. But he no longer fought
against the infinite love—no longer hardened his heart
against the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of comfort and sanctification.
He had felt the blessedness of the pardoning
love, and he yearned for the guiding light that should
show him how he might direct his steps for the time
that remained to him.</p>

<p>Of that time he had not yet thought. Those hours
had been too crowded with extreme emotion. He had
passed through a crisis of spiritual existence which made
all earthly things dwarf into insignificance. It was only
when the hour of midnight tolled forth, and he recollected
that a new day had begun for him, that he first
folded his hands in prayer, lifting up his heart to God
in thanksgiving for the light which was now in his soul,
and then turning his gaze upon Abner, who had never
moved from his side all this while, asked softly—</p>

<p>“What day is it?”</p>

<p>“Sunday, my lad. A new day and a new week. I
little thought upon the last Sunday what the Lord had
in store for me for this. The Lord’s Day, my lad—the
Lord’s Day. That’s what I love to call it. May we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span>
have grace to keep it to His glory. Saul, my lad, you
have no fears now?”</p>

<p>“Fears of what, grandfather?”</p>

<p>“Fears about the Lord’s love—about the forgiveness
He has granted yu?”</p>

<p>A singular radiance came over Saul’s face.</p>

<p>“No—I can’t doubt it. It’s too wonderful to be understood.
But I can feel it right through me. I’ve no
fear.”</p>

<p>“And would you fear, my boy, if you had to see Him
face to face—if you should be called upon to meet Him—if
He should come this very night to gather to Himself
those that wait for His coming?”</p>

<p>Saul looked earnestly into the old man’s face. He
knew something of Abner’s belief and hope, though it
was now several years since he had spoken of it in his
hearing. As a youth his grandfather, who was slowly
gathering up fragments from the prophetic Scriptures,
and, in common with many others who met for prayer
and meditation, beginning to awaken to a belief in the
sudden and instantaneous appearing of the Lord on earth,
had striven to convince the boy of the truth of this belief,
and awaken within his soul that burning love and longing
after the coming and kingdom of the Lord which was
stealing upon his own. Saul, however, had not been
responsive. To him it was all old wives’ fables, and he
had sometimes mocked and sometimes sneered, so that
Abner had soon ceased to urge him, trusting that faith
would come at last through the mercy of God, though
not by the will of man. Nevertheless the foundations
had been laid, inasmuch as Saul now understood what his
grandfather meant, and could even recall the words of
Scriptural promise in which Christ had spoken of His
return, and the Apostles had exhorted the early churches to
remain steadfast in the hope of it. And as these memories
crowded in upon his mind and brain now—now that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span>
the love of the Lord had awakened within him, and he
was only longing for some means of showing that love
and abasing himself at His feet in penitence and adoration—the
memory of these words and promises came back
to him charged with a wonderful beauty and significance,
and clasping his hands together he replied in a choked
voice—</p>

<p>“It is too wonderful and beautiful to be believed, but
He has said it. If He were to come to-night, grandfather,
I dare scarcely to hope that such an one as I should
be counted worthy to be caught away to meet Him in the
air; but if I might but look upon His glorified face it
would be enough. He would know how much I love
Him, and how I hate myself and my vile life. I should
see Him—I should be able to look up to Him and
say—‘My Lord and my God!’ I do not even ask
more!”</p>

<p>Abner was silent for a moment, and then said in a
voice that quivered with the intensity of his emotion—</p>

<p>“And, my lad, if the Lord delays His own coming, but
calls to you to meet Him in another way, would you be
afraid?”</p>

<p>Saul looked at him quickly, and read in a moment all
that was in Abner’s soul.</p>

<p>“Do you mean that I shall die?” he asked.</p>

<p>There was silence for a moment, and then Abner
spoke—</p>

<p>“It may not be to-night, but it must be soon. The
doctor says you strained your heart so terrible hard
that night, and there was something amiss with you
before. I don’t rightly understand his words, but you’ve
never been the same since that fever, and when you were
knocked down by the horses they did you a mischief
you’ve never got over. That night on the wreck was the
last straw, as folks say. There’s something broke and
hurt past mending. You won’t have no pain, but things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span>
can’t go on long. You’ll not be long before you see your
Saviour, my lad; for I’m very sure we go to be with Him,
even though we may not share His glory till the blessed
day of the Resurrection.”</p>

<p>A strange awe fell upon Saul. His eyes looked straight
at Abner with an expression the latter could hardly
fathom. Was it fear? Was it joy? Was it triumph?
He did not know, but Saul’s next words gave him the
clue.</p>

<p>“It is goodness past belief—I can’t understand it!”</p>

<p>“What, my boy?”</p>

<p>“Why, that the Lord should take me to Himself, when
He might have left me to a life of misery and degradation
in a far-off land with criminals and evil-doers, or sent me
to the scaffold, as I was nearly sent before. After such a
life as I’ve led, to take me away to His beautiful land of
rest. It’s too much—it’s too much! I don’t know how
to thank Him aright. Grandfather, get down upon your
knees again and tell Him—though He knows it, to be
sure—that for love of Him I’m willing to live that life of
misery, or die the shameful death I’ve deserved, and led
others to, I fear. Let it be only as He wills, but to
be taken away from it all to be with Him seems more
blessedness and goodness than I can rightly understand.”</p>

<p>Tears were running down Abner’s face. His voice was
broken by sobs.</p>

<p>“Oh, my boy! my boy! if that’s how you feel, I’ve no
fears for you. That’s the feeling we should all strive
after. Whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and
whether we die, we die unto the Lord: so that, living or
dying, we are the Lord’s. If it’s so with thee, my boy,
there’s nought else to wish for thee. The peace that
passes all understanding will be with thee to the end.
Oh, bless the Lord! thank the Lord! Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span>For many minutes there was in that chamber of death
such a sense of joy and peace as was indeed a foretaste of
the everlasting peace of God. Saul lay and looked out
before him through the casement, through which a very
young moon was just glinting. It was a strange thought
that before that moon waned his body would be lying
stiff and cold beneath the churchyard sod. But there
was no fear in Saul’s mind. Fear had never been a friend
to him, and now the perfect love of his crucified and
ascended Lord had driven out all fear. Yet even with
the prospect of that wondrous change to pass upon him,
Saul’s thoughts were not all of himself. He listened to all
there was to know of the men he had lured and tempted
to this great crime, and heaved a sigh of relief to hear
that the magistrates had themselves dealt with the cases
of the younger men—men some of them little more than
lads, who had plainly been led away by their associates,
and had had a lesson they would not be likely to forget.
Only six had been committed for trial, and these were all
men of bad character and reckless lives. Their fate might
likely be a hard one, but they were to have counsel to
defend them, and stress was to be laid upon the action of
Saul in the matter, and the part he had taken in urging
the crime upon them. Saul made a full confession of all
his share to Abner that night, and made him promise to
attend the trial and repeat this before the judges if possible.
It might militate in their favour perhaps, and Saul
directed that his boat and all that he had should be sold
and given to the wives of the two men out of the six who
were married; and having settled all this with his grandfather,
he felt his mind relieved of a part of its burden,
and lay quiet and exhausted for some time.</p>

<p>He had fallen into a doze when Abner aroused him
to take food, and looking up quickly he asked—</p>

<p>“Where are we now? I don’t know this place.”</p>

<p>“It’s a room in the castle—in the servants’ block,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span>
answered Abner. “I told yu they could not get your
clasp loosened from Mr. Marchmont’s neck. They had
tu bring yu both here, and then the doctor would not let
yu be taken away—not even so far as my cottage. Yu
were brought here, and yu’ve had the same care and
attention as Mr. Marchmont himself. The doctor went
to and fro betwixt yu all that night, and has been three
and four times a day tu see yu ever since.”</p>

<p>A little flicker passed over Saul’s face. He remembered,
as a thing long since past, his old hatred of the
class above him. Now he could only feel love for all men—a
natural outcome of the intense and burning love for
his Lord which was filling all his heart.</p>

<p>“If I could only see him once more!” he said softly.</p>

<p>“See what?”</p>

<p>“Mr. Marchmont.”</p>

<p>But Abner shook his head, and such an expression
of gravity came over his face that Saul cried out
quickly—</p>

<p>“What is it? Yu said he was doin’ well!”</p>

<p>“Yes—that is what we heard at first. It is true tu—so
far as it goes. When we feared he would die, it
seemed everything to know that his life was spared; but
after that came terrible bad news tu. His life is safe—the
doctor says he will live years and years—to be an
old man like enough; but it’s doubtful whether he will
ever walk again. He’s been hurt in the back, and is what
folks call half paralysed. He’s got the feelin’s in his
limbs, but no power. He lies on his back, and there he’ll
lie for years. He may get better very slowly, they say.
A great doctor from London has been down, and says
with his strength and youth he may bit by bit get back
his strength and power; but anyhow it’ll be a question
of years; and meantime there he’ll lie like a log, and
have to be tended and cared for like a baby.”</p>

<p>Saul put his hand before his eyes and Abner stopped<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span>
short, realising that perhaps he had said too much, and
that what had grown familiar to him during these past
days had come on Saul as a shock.</p>

<p>And indeed it might well do so; for if any one in so
different a position in life could estimate the terrible
death-in-life of such a fate for one with all Eustace’s
enthusiasm and ardent thirst for active work, Saul Tresithny
could; for Eustace had talked with him as man
to man, and had told him of his personal aims and ambitions
and purposes as a man of his class seldom does to
one in a sphere so entirely different.</p>

<p>“Crippled for life—perhaps! Crippled through my
crime! O my God, can there be forgiveness for this?
Ah! yes—His Blood washes away <i>all</i> sin. But my
punishment seems greater than I can bear!”</p>

<p>He lay still for a few moments and then half rose up
in bed.</p>

<p>“I must see him—I must! I must ask his pardon
on my knees. If my Saviour has pardoned my guilt, I
must yet ask pardon of him whom I have so grievously
wronged. Grandfather, help me!—I must go to him.
I cannot die till I have seen him once again!”</p>

<p>In great perplexity and distress, Abner strove to reason
with the excited patient, and great was his relief when
the doctor appeared suddenly upon the scene.</p>

<p>Inquiring what all the commotion was about, and learning
that Saul had recovered his senses, but had grown
excited in his desire to see Mr. Marchmont once more,
he thrust out his under lip and regarded the young man
intently, his finger upon his patient’s wrist all the while.
Then he spoke to him quietly and soothingly.</p>

<p>“I will let you see him to-morrow, if possible,” he said
kindly. “I understand your feeling; but to-night you
must be content to wait and gather a little strength.
Mr. Marchmont is sleeping, and had better not be disturbed;
but if you sleep too, the hours will soon pass.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span>
To-morrow I will do what I can to gratify you,” and
having quieted Saul and administered a soothing draught,
he drew Abner with him outside the door.</p>

<p>“Can he really do it?” asked the old man wonderingly.
“I thought he was like to die at any sudden movement
or exertion.”</p>

<p>“Yes, that is true; but there are cases where repose of
mind does more than rest of body. Saul is so near to the
gates of death that it matters little what he does or does
not do. How the heart’s action keeps up at all in the
present condition of the organ I do not know; but the
end cannot be far off. If he is bent on this I shall not
thwart him beyond a certain point. He may have forgotten
by the morning; but if not, we must see what we
can do to get him there. The distance is very short—only
a few steps along this corridor, and through the
swing door, and you are close to Mr. Marchmont’s room.
I think the exertion of movement will try him less than
the tossing and restlessness of unfulfilled expectation
and desire. Let him have his night in peace, if possible.
But if the desire should grow too strong upon him, let
him have his way. It cannot do more than hasten the
inevitable end by a brief span. I am not sure whether
his strength will not desert him at the first attempt to
move, and he may give it up of his own free will; but
do not thwart him beyond a certain point. We doctors
always try to give dying men their way. It is cruelty
to thwart them save to gain some real advantage. In
your grandson’s case there is nothing to be gained. He
is past human skill; but if we can ease his passage by
relieving his mind of any part of its burden, I should not
stand in the way because it might hasten the end by a
brief hour or more.”</p>

<p>Saul, lying with closed eyes, his senses preternaturally
acute and sharpened by illness, heard every word the
doctor spoke, and a quick thrill of gratitude and thankfulness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span>
ran through him. He lay quite still when his
grandfather returned. He gave no sign of having heard.
He was exhausted to an extent which made any sort of
speech or movement impossible at the moment, and told
him even more clearly than the doctor’s words had done
of his close approach to the dark valley. But his mind
was at rest, concentrated upon the one purpose of making
his peace with man, as he had already made it with God.
He felt a perfect confidence that this thing also would be
permitted him, and he lay calm and tranquil, resting and
thinking.</p>

<p>He saw his grandfather moving softly about the room,
saw him put out beside the fire a suit of his own (Saul’s)
clothes, evidently ready against a possible emergency.
He saw a servant come in with food for them both, and
watched through half-closed eyes while Abner ate his
supper. Then he felt himself made comfortable in bed
and fed with something strong and warm, which gave him
an access of strength. He fell into a light sleep after that,
and when he opened his eyes again, Abner was sleeping
soundly in his chair—sleeping that deep sleep of utter
exhaustion which always follows at last on a prolonged
vigil.</p>

<p>Saul lay still and watched him, and then a sudden
and intense desire took possession of him. He sat up
in bed, and found himself strong beyond all expectation.
A glass of some cordial was standing at the bedside.
He took it and swallowed the potion, and rose to his
feet. He crossed the room softly, still marvelling at
the power which had come to him, and clad himself in
the warm garments put out in readiness. Abner meantime
slept on, utterly unconscious of what was passing.
To Saul it all seemed like part of the same wonderful
miracle which had been wrought upon his spirit by the
power of the Eternal Spirit of God. His eyes had been
opened at the eleventh hour to see the light; and now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[350]</span>
the goodness of God was giving to him just that measure
of physical strength which was needed to accomplish the
last desire of his heart before he should be called away
from this earth.</p>

<p>Once dressed, there was no difficulty in finding his way
to the room where Eustace lay. Saul knew something
of the castle, and had once been taken by Eustace himself
up the staircase in the servants’ wing, past the
door of this very room, and into the rooms he occupied
to look at some plant under the microscope. He opened
the door softly, and found that the passage was lighted
by a lamp. He was able to walk by supporting one
shoulder against the wall and crawling slowly along.
His breath was very short; every few steps he had to
pause to pant, and there were strange sensations as of
pressure upon his windpipe; but he felt that he had
strength for what he purposed, and he persevered.</p>

<p>Through the swing door he passed, and into the carpeted
corridor of the main block of building, and here
a light was also burning, whilst the door he remembered
to have opened before stood ajar. He paused there a
moment and looked in. The room was empty, and beyond
lay the sleeping chamber, its door half-open also. Pausing
again to gather breath, Saul passed slowly through that
door, and found himself in a dim and quiet chamber,
where a man-servant kept a quiet watch in a chair beside
the fire; and upon the bed, his eyes closed and his face
quite peaceful, lay Eustace Marchmont.</p>

<p>But the entrance of this tall, gaunt, spectre-like figure
produced an effect Saul had not calculated upon. The
man-servant well knew Saul Tresithny by sight, and knew
that he lay at the point of death in an adjoining chamber
of the castle. Seeing this figure glide noiselessly through
the door and up to the bed, he fully believed he saw the
young fisherman’s ghost, and springing to his feet with a
cry of terror, he fled precipitately from the room, overcome<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[351]</span>
by invincible fear. The cry awoke Eustace, and the
next moment he and Saul Tresithny were looking into
each other’s eyes—almost as men might look who had
passed beyond the realms of this world and had met in
the land of spirits.</p>

<p>“Is that you, Saul—in the flesh?” asked Eustace
faintly. “I have asked for you, but never thought to
see you again.”</p>

<p>“I have come to ask forgiveness of you,” cried Saul in
a choked voice, sinking to his knees beside the bed, partly
through physical weakness, partly through the abasement
of his self-humiliation. “I am dying, sir; I am glad
to die, for I know my sins are forgiven by a merciful
Saviour. But oh! I feel I cannot go without your forgiveness
too! I have done you so terrible an injury.
Ah! let me hear you say you can forgive me even that
before I go!”</p>

<p>The voice was choked and strained. Saul’s head sank
heavily upon the bed. Eustace heard the gasping breath,
and a hoarse rattle in the throat, which told its own tale.
With a great effort he just lifted his hand and laid it on
the bowed head.</p>

<p>“My poor fellow,” he said, “you have as much to forgive
as I. May God forgive you all your sins, as I forgive all
you have done amiss towards me, and as I pray I may be
myself forgiven for such part and lot as I have had in
much of sin that has stained your past life.”</p>

<p>With one last effort Saul raised his head, and saw
standing beside him a shining figure which he took to be
one of the angels from heaven. A wonderful, radiant
smile lit up his haggard face, his eyes seemed to look
through and beyond those about him, and with the faint
but rapturous cry—</p>

<p>“My Lord and my God!” he fell prone upon the
bed.</p>

<p>Bride, aroused by the cry of the servant, had come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[352]</span>
in hastily, clad in her white flowing wrapper, with her
hair about her shoulders, and laid a soft hand upon his
head as she said in a very low voice—</p>

<p>“Lord, into Thine Almighty Hands we commend the
spirit of this our brother!” and even as she spoke the
words, both she and Eustace knew that the soul of Saul
Tresithny had returned to the God who gave it.</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b352.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[353]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b353.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIII<br />

<i>BRIDE’S PROPOSAL</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b017p.jpg" alt="P" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap2">“PAPA,” said Bride softly, coming into the Duke’s
study and standing behind his chair with her
arms loosely clasped about his neck, “will you
let me marry Eustace now?”</p>

<p>The Duke gave a very slight start, and then sat perfectly
still. He could not see Bride’s face, and he was
glad for a moment that his own could not be seen.</p>

<p>“My dear child,” he said, after an appreciable pause,
“do you mean that you do not know?”</p>

<p>“I think I know everything,” answered Bride softly.
“I know that Eustace will be as he is now for two or
three years—perhaps all his life; but I do not think it
will be that—I mean not all his life. I had a long talk
before he went with the doctor from London, and he said
he was almost confident that power would return, only
the patient must have good nursing, care, and freedom
from worry of mind, or anxious fears for himself, which
might react unfavourably upon him. It is only for a
few years he will be helpless; and I want to be his wife
during those years, to help him through with them, to
keep him from the worry and the care which I believe he
will feel if he thinks he may perhaps never be a strong
man again, never be able to ask me to marry him. I
know that he loves me, papa, and that I can do more for
him than anybody else. I know that even now he is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[354]</span>
beginning to lose heart, not because his work is stopped—he
is most wonderfully brave over that—but because
he thinks he may lose me. Does it sound vain to say
that? But indeed it is true. I can read Eustace through
and through, because I love him so. Why should I not
be his wife? Then I could nurse him back to health and
strength, and he could stay here with us all the time, and
we should be so happy together!”</p>

<p>The Duke had been silent at first from sheer amaze.
He had never yet entered into all the still depths of
Bride’s nature; and though personally conscious of his
disappointment that his daughter and heir could not now
think of marriage till the health of the latter was reestablished,
he had never thought of a different solution
of the difficulty with regard to Eustace in his helpless
and lonely condition. He had been grieving over the
situation in silence many long days, but the thing that
Bride suggested so quietly and persuasively had never
entered his head.</p>

<p>Yet even as she spoke there came upon him a conviction
of the truth of her words. None knew better
than he the comfort and support that a man can receive
from a loving and tender wife. He was beginning to
recognise in his daughter those very traits of character
which had been so strongly developed in her mother.
Well could he understand what it would be to Eustace
to be nursed and tended, consoled and strengthened, by
such a wife. Doubtless it would be an enormously
powerful factor in his recovery, and the father had long
wished with a great desire to see the future of his child
settled before many more months should pass. It had
been a sad blow to him to hear that Eustace’s recovery
must be so slow, for he felt very sure he should not live
to see him on his feet again; and what would become of
Bride, left so utterly alone in the world?</p>

<p>Now he drew her gently towards him, and she knelt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[355]</span>
beside him at his feet, looking up into his face with a
soft and lovely colour in her cheeks.</p>

<p>“Has Eustace spoken of this to you, my dear?” he
said.</p>

<p>“Ah no!” she answered quickly. “Is it likely he
would? He calls himself a helpless log; and I know
that the worst trouble of all is, that he thinks his
helplessness divides him from me. Papa, I want you to
go to him. I want you to tell him that we will be
married very soon—as soon as it can be arranged—and
that I will nurse him back to health. Tell him that
we will stay happily together here, and have only one
home, here at Penarvon. I know you do not want to
lose me, yet I know (for you have told me) that you
would like to see me Eustace’s wife. Well, it is all
so easy. Do you not see it so yourself? Dearest father,
I love him, and he loves me. What can anything else
matter? Does not his weakness and his helplessness
make me love him all the more? I want to have the
right to be with him always, to lighten the load which
will weigh on him, however brave and patient he is,
heavily sometimes. I shall never love anybody else;
and I think he will not either. Why should we wait?
Why should we not have the happiness of belonging to
one another before he is strong again as well as after?
Why should those years be wasted for us both?”</p>

<p>The Duke looked into her soft, unfathomable eyes, and
he ceased to oppose her.</p>

<p>“It shall be as you wish, my dear,” he said. “I believe
had it been with me as it is with Eustace, your mother
would have done just what you propose to do. God has
His angels here below amongst us still. I will go and
speak of this to Eustace, if you wish it. You are right,
my child, in saying that I would fain see you married
to Eustace, since you love each other. I had not thought
of this way, but perhaps it is the best.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[356]</span>“You will come and tell me what he says,” answered
Bride, with a lovely blush upon her face; and the Duke
went slowly upstairs to the sick-room.</p>

<p>Eustace was gaining vital power rapidly and most
satisfactorily, and was not paralysed in the ordinary
acceptation of the term; but he had received such violent
blows in the spine, either from the force of the waves
whilst he was tossed to and fro at their mercy, or by
being dashed upon rocks—though there were few outward
bruises or cuts—that the whole nervous power had been
most seriously impaired, and he could neither raise
himself in bed nor move any of his limbs, although
sensation was not materially affected. It was a case
likely to be tedious and trying rather than dangerous
or hopeless. There was every prospect of an ultimate
recovery; but great patience would be needed, and any
premature attempts at exertion might lead to bad results.
Eustace had heard his fate with resolute courage, and
had breathed no word of repining since; but a gravity
had settled down upon him which deepened rather than
lessened day by day; and Bride had been quick to note
this, and trace it to its source.</p>

<p>With the Duke, the relations of the young man were
now of a most cordial character. His kinsman had
played a father’s part to him during these past days, and
his visits were always welcome in the monotony of sick-room
life.</p>

<p>“I have been talking to Bride,” said the elder man, as
he took his accustomed seat; “we have been talking about
your marriage, Eustace, and neither she nor I see why it
should be indefinitely postponed. Indeed, there seems
good reason for hastening it on, since she can then
be your companion and nurse, as is not possible now,
greatly as she wishes it. We cannot think of parting
with you till you are well and strong once more, and that
will not be for some time even at best. Have I your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[357]</span>
authority to arrange with Mr. St. Aubyn for a marriage
here as quickly as it can be arranged? Since your minds
are both made up, there appears no reason why Bride
should not have the comfort of caring for you and making
you her charge. Perhaps you hardly estimate the joy
which such a charge is to a woman of her loving nature.
But you know her well enough to believe that she never
speaks a word that is not literal truth; and as she wishes
to have that privilege, I confess I see no legitimate
objection.”</p>

<p>Eustace had been silent, much as the Duke had been
silent when the girl laid her proposal before him. Sheer
astonishment and an unbounded sense of his own unworthiness
and her almost divine devotion and love held
him spellbound for a moment; and when his words came
they were tempestuous and contradictory, declaring one
moment the thing impossible—Bride’s youth must not be
so sacrificed—the next declaring that it was too much
happiness, that he dared not accept it, because it was altogether
too much joy to contemplate. The Duke let him
have his fling, and then took up his word again, imposing
silence by a gentle motion of the hand.</p>

<p>“I respect your doubts and your scruples, Eustace;
but I think you need not let them weigh too heavily
in the balance against your own wishes and ours. I
will take you into my confidence, and I think you will
then see that even for Bride’s sake this thing is a good
one. She does not know it, but I have a mortal illness
upon me, which may carry me off at any moment, though
I may perhaps be spared some few years longer. I myself
consulted the physician whom we summoned for you,
and he admitted that my life was a bad one, and that with
my family history I must not look to be spared much longer.
You know how lonely Bride would be were I taken
from her. You can imagine how greatly I desire to see
her settled in life with a husband to love and cherish her.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[358]</span>
Were I to die whilst you were thus laid aside, you must
of necessity be separated, and where would Bride go?
What would she do? Money is not everything. A home—a
husband’s care—that is what a woman wants. Eustace,
if you are made man and wife now, all this anxiety will
be done away, and the happiness of all will be secured.
Will you not consent? It all rests with you, for I desire
it, and Bride desires it—I think you desire it——”</p>

<p>“Only too much!” cried Eustace, with such a light in
his eyes as had not been seen there for weeks, “only
too much. I am afraid of my own intensity of desire.”</p>

<p>“If that is all, we may dismiss the objection as
frivolous,” said the Duke with a slight smile. “Then I
have your consent to make the arrangements? I will go
and tell Bride, and send her to you.”</p>

<p>She came within half-an-hour, calm, tranquil, serene as
ever, a lovely colour in her face, but no other outward
sign of excitement or confusion. Her eyes sought his
with one of those glances he had learned to look for
and treasure; and when she came to his side she bent and
kissed him, which hitherto she had not made a habit of
doing.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said softly, getting possession of her hand,
“is this true?”</p>

<p>“Yes, Eustace,” she answered softly; “I do not think
we can love each other more than we do; but we can
belong to each other more when we have been joined
together by God. That is what I want, to be one with you
in His sight, so that nothing can part us more.”</p>

<p>He looked earnestly at her, the love in his eyes as
eloquent as it was in hers, and scarcely as much under
control.</p>

<p>“You are not afraid, my darling? You were afraid of
trusting yourself to me once?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” she answered gently; “I had not learned to love
you then, and you had not learned love either. You have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[359]</span>
only learned that slowly, as I have learned it slowly
myself.”</p>

<p>“How do you know I have learned it—the love which
you mean?”</p>

<p>She looked at him with a smile that brought an answering
smile to his face.</p>

<p>“Do you think I have been with you all these weeks,
in and out, by day and night, and have not known that?
Do you forget how you showed it in those days when you
seemed to be slipping away from life, and only the eternal
promises of everlasting love and help could reach you to
help and strengthen you? You did not talk, but you
made us talk to you, and your eyes gave their answer.
You found then that it was not a beautiful philosophy,
but a living Saviour you wanted; not an abstraction
representing an ideal purity, but a Man, the one Incarnate
Son of God, to whom you must cling in the darkness of
the night. Ah! Eustace, it was then that you truly turned
back to the Father’s house; and I know that the Father
came out to meet you, and to bring you into His safe
shelter. I knew He would—oh! I think I have known
that for a long time now; but the joy of the certainty is
so wonderful and beautiful——”</p>

<p>Her voice broke, and she turned her head away for a
moment, but he said softly—</p>

<p>“The angels of God rejoicing over one sinner that
repenteth? Is that it, Bride? For you are a veritable
angel upon earth!”</p>

<p>“Ah no!” she answered quickly, “do not say that—do
not think it. Holy and blessed as the angels of God are, we
have yet a higher vocation—a higher calling to live up to.
It is a human body, not an angelic body, that our Lord
took and sanctified to all eternity. It is for fallen human
creatures, not for the angels, that He came down to die.
And it is glorified human beings, changed into His glorious
likeness, who are called to live and reign with Him in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[360]</span>
glory unspeakable. I never want to be an angel. Ours
is a more truly blessed and glorious calling. To be His
at His coming. To hear His voice, and be caught up to
meet Him in the air. To be ever with the Lord—kings
and priests for ever and ever! O Eustace! we cannot
conceive of such a thing yet; but the day <i>will</i> come when
the kingdoms of this world shall become the Kingdoms of
our God and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever
and ever!”</p>

<p>The face she turned upon him was as it were transfigured
already, and it seemed to Eustace as though for a
moment a curtain lifted before his eyes and showed him
a glimpse of some unspeakable glory which lay beyond
the ken of mortal man. For the first time since he had
known her he began to understand that what had seemed
to him as the outcome of a mystic fanaticism might be
in reality the development of some purer spiritual understanding
than he had been able to attain to. Lying for
days at the gate of the unseen world as he had done,
he had learned that many things formerly slighted and
almost despised were the very things which brought a
man peace at the last, and which glowed and strengthened
beneath the mysterious fire of peril that turned to dross
and nothingness the wisdom in which he had trusted,
and the staff upon which he had tried to lean. Having
learned this much, he could believe there was more to
learn; that even when fear was cast out and faith reigned
in its stead, there was still progress to be made in the
heavenly life. He did indeed believe that the Saviour
had died for the sins of the whole world, and that He
lived to make intercession eternally for those who claimed
the Atonement of His blood. But now he began to
understand that for those who truly love Him and
walk every step of their lives in the light from above,
there is a vision of unspeakable and unimagined glory
always open before them; and that, leaving those things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[361]</span>
that are behind, there is a continual pressing forward
to the prize of our high calling in Christ—the one overmastering
desire so to live as to be His at His coming,
and be used for His eternal purpose of establishing His
Kingdom on the earth.</p>

<p>“Bride,” he said softly, after a long pause, “you must
teach me more of this Kingdom. I had hoped to do a
great work for our fellow-men in this land, and even
now I may live to do something; but I can at least seek
to understand God’s ways of working, which are not
always man’s ways; that if it please Him to raise me
up, I may consecrate my life, <i>first</i> to His service, and
secondly to the service of man. Abner truly told me I
was beginning at the wrong end when I first spoke to
him long ago. I did not understand him then, but I
begin to do so now. I may never see things clearly, as
you do, in the heavenly light; but at least I do see that
our first aim and object must be to do God’s work on
earth in His way; not blinded by our own wishes and
ambitions. The fate of poor Saul Tresithny will always
be a warning and a landmark to me. He <i>might</i> have
grown as wild and reckless without my teaching—with
that I have nothing to do—but I did teach him dangerous
doctrines of all sorts, and his life and death are
a standing memorial to me of what such teaching may
lead to. I trust the lesson has not been learned in
vain.”</p>

<p>“And I think his death was a very happy one,” said
Bride softly. “I think I am glad he died with us alone.
He loved you, Eustace. And I am sure if any of us
had our choice, we should always choose to be with the
being we love best at the moment of our death. It
was so with him. I think it was rather beautiful
and wonderful how he rose and came to you when the
hand of death was upon him. Poor Saul!—but we need
not grieve for him. Abner has ceased to grieve, and is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[362]</span>
more peaceful and happy than I have seen him for many
years. ‘To depart and be with Christ’ was so much better
for him than anything he had to expect upon earth.
He learned his lesson at the last—I am sure his end
was peace.”</p>

<p>After that there was no reserve on any subject between
Eustace and his betrothed wife. Bride was able
to speak to him from the very depths of her heart, and
as she elevated and strengthened his spiritual perceptions,
so did he in another fashion impart to her such
knowledge of the things of this world as were beneficial
to her in forming her mind and character, and helping
her to obtain a just and accurate outlook upon the affairs
of the nation and the events moving the hearts of men.
They acted as a check one upon the other; helping,
strengthening, teaching, and encouraging—growing every
day nearer in love and in spirit, finding fresh happiness
and closer unity of soul each day as it passed, and always
upheld by the thought that a few days more would see
their union hallowed and blessed in the sight of God—a
thought so unspeakably sweet and precious to both that
they seldom spoke of it, though it was never altogether
out of their thoughts.</p>

<p>Mr. St. Aubyn was to perform the ceremony, with the
cordial consent of Mr. Tremodart, who was glad to be
spared the task himself. The Rector of St. Erme had
been much at the castle when Eustace lay in so critical
a state, and the young man had profited much from his
instruction and counsel. Now he came frequently to
see both Bride and her betrothed husband, for he was
one of those who rejoice to see true spirituality in all
its forms, and to be certain before hearing pronounced
any solemn and binding vows that they are spoken from
the very heart.</p>

<p>The Duke went about looking very happy in those
days, and his manner to his daughter was more gentle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[363]</span>
and fatherly than it had ever been before. The whole
castle was in a subdued state of excitement, whilst a
lawyer from London arrived, who was to remain till the
completion of the ceremony and see to all the needful
papers. But with these things Bride felt little concern,
and went about with a tranquil face, thankful to be
spared the bustle of preparation which would have been
needful under ordinary circumstances, but which was
quite superfluous now.</p>

<p>A bridal dress and veil were, however, quickly provided,
and Bride was content that it should be so, knowing
that her white would be pleasing to the eye of the
sick man. She herself was calmly and tranquilly happy,
spending much time beside the patient, and the rest in
earnest musings and meditation, or in visits to the poor,
amongst whom so much of her life had been passed.</p>

<p>It was a clear, sunny morning toward the end of
January when Bride awoke with the consciousness that
it was her wedding-day—though so quiet and uneventful
a wedding as was to be hers perhaps no Duke’s daughter
had yet known. Even her name would not be changed,
as Eustace had playfully told her, nor would she leave
the shelter of her father’s roof. All the change that
would take place would be that she and her husband
would take up their quarters in a suite of rooms specially
prepared for them, with Bride’s nurse and Eustace’s man
for their especial attendants. But the young wife would
continue to take her place at her father’s table when he
took his meals, waiting upon her husband and sharing
his at different hours, such hours as were prescribed by
his medical man. Although all this sounded strange to
outsiders, who heard with amaze that Lady Bride was
going to marry her father’s heir while he was still crippled
and helpless, it did not seem strange to her. Others
said it was an obvious marriage of convenience and diplomacy,
but never had been a marriage of purer and truer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[364]</span>
affection. Bride robed herself with a happy heart and a
serene face, and was not surprised to receive a message
at the last that Abner would much like a few words with
his young mistress, if she could spare them for him.</p>

<p>He was in the great conservatory when she went down—the
place where so many talks had taken place between
them, and where Bride pictured Eustace lying in comfort
and pleasure before very long, surrounded by sweet
scents and beautiful blossoms. Abner held in his hand
a beautiful bouquet of white flowers, and Bride thanked
him with one of her sweetest smiles as she took it from
his hands.</p>

<p>“I did want to see yu my own self, my Ladybird,” he
said in a voice that shook a little, “to wish yu every joy
and a blessing on your new life. I know there will be a
blessing on it, for there’s One above as has yu very near
His heart; but yu’ll let an old man as has loved yu ever
since yu were a babe in the nurse’s arms give yu his
blessing to-day.”</p>

<p>Bride held out her slim white hand, which the old man
took and carried very tenderly to his lips; and her voice
shook a little as she said, “Thank you for that blessing,
Abner. I feel my heart the warmer for it. We know
that this world’s happiness is but a small thing compared
to the glory that is to be revealed; but yet we must be
thankful when it does come to us, and take it as God’s
best gift. I think that your heart is at peace now, and
that your worst trouble is laid at rest.”</p>

<p>“Bless the Lord—it is so indeed. My boy died with
His name on his lips. I couldn’t ask more for myself.”</p>

<p>Bride could not linger. Mr. St. Aubyn had already
arrived and wished to speak with her alone. She found
him pacing the room with slow and thoughtful mien, but
his eyes were very bright and glad.</p>

<p>“My child,” he said softly, “I wished to speak with
you a few moments before we go upstairs. I have just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[365]</span>
been seeing him you are to wed. My dear, I think I
need not say all that I feel about the change I find in
him since first I knew him. I can pronounce the benediction
of holy matrimony over you two with a glad and
thankful heart. In the sight of man and of God such a
union as yours must be holy indeed.”</p>

<p>Bride’s eyes were softly bright.</p>

<p>“I know we love one another,” she said softly, “but I
think that the love of God comes first—indeed, I trust it
is so.”</p>

<p>“I believe so truly,” he answered; “and, my child, I
have been talking to-day to Eustace. He has long been
hindered by sickness from the ordinances of the Church—the
most blessed ordinance instituted by our Lord for
His faithful people to follow until His coming again.
Before that, as you know, he was something slack and
doubtful, and did not avail himself of the Christian privileges
in their fullest measure; and it is long since
he has partaken of the bread and wine blessed in the
name of the Lord. And he wishes now that he may
receive this Holy Communion with you—his newly wedded
wife—so soon as you are made one. I indeed have thankfully
and joyfully assented to this, and even now the room
is being prepared for the simple ceremony which shall make
you his, and then you can together partake of that Body
and Blood—the sign and symbol of the Ineffable Love.
I am sure, my child, that your heart will rejoice, as mine
does, over this return of the lost sheep to the fold. We
have known for long that that son has been turning homewards,
and that the Father has gone forth to meet him.
Now we shall see him at the Father’s table, partaking of
the mystical feast which it is our Christian privilege to
enjoy. ‘Do this in remembrance of Me.’ It will, I know,
be a joyous thing for you that the following of this
gracious and simple command shall be the first act of
your married life.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[366]</span>Tears were standing in Bride’s soft eyes. She put out
her hand and laid it on Mr. St. Aubyn’s arm.</p>

<p>“I am too happy to talk about it,” she said; “it is the
one thing to make the day complete; but oh! Mr. St.
Aubyn, I have so often wanted to thank you for what
you said to me that day long ago about the lost son and
the returning home. It was such a help. It was that
which made me begin to pray in hope for Eustace,
instead of naming him only in a sort of faithless despondency.
I was in danger of being like the elder brother,
and looking upon him and many others as altogether
beyond the pale of the Father’s love. After that I could
always pray in hope; and I think—I believe, that my
prayers did help him. You know what you said about
that being God’s way of leading to Him some one who
would not yet pray for himself.”</p>

<p>The clergyman smiled tenderly upon the girl.</p>

<p>“God bless you, my child,” he said softly. “I think you
will be your mother over again as the years go by. Such
faith as hers I have never seen in any one else, but I
think I shall live to see it in you.”</p>

<p>“I have received so much,” answered Bride softly, “I
should not be able to doubt even if I wished.”</p>

<p>Only a few minutes later, and Bride entered the room
where Eustace lay, leaning on her father’s arm, her face
shaded by her veil, but not so concealed that its serene
beauty and composure could not be seen. Some dozen of
the old servants of the castle, and two or three old friends,
were present to witness the simple ceremony; but Bride
only saw Eustace; and none who caught the glance that
flashed from one to the other ever forgot it. The room
was decked with flowers, everything was perfectly simple,
yet perfectly appropriate, and Mr. St. Aubyn’s rendering
of the holy words was doubly impressive from the peculiar
circumstances of the case. Bride’s vows were spoken with
a steady sweetness which brought tears to many eyes; all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[367]</span>
the faltering was on Eustace’s part, and was made through
the depth of his emotion. It was a strangely simple yet
strangely impressive wedding, never forgotten by those
who saw it. When all was spoken that was needed to
make them man and wife, Bride stooped and kissed her
husband, without a thought of any who stood by, and
they heard the passionate intensity of love in the voice
that responded—</p>

<p>“My Bride—my wife!”</p>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b367.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[368]</span>

<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_b368.jpg" alt="" /></div>

<h2 class="nobreak">CHAPTER XXIV<br />

<i>CONCLUSION</i></h2>
</div>

<div>
  <img class="drop-cap" src="images/i_b111b.jpg" alt="B" />
</div>

<p class="drop-cap">BRIDE was riding homewards from Pentreath to
the castle on a sunny day early in June. The
sound of joy-bells was in the air, the faces
of men were glad and triumphant, all nature
seemed in tune with the general rejoicing which some
recent event had plainly set on foot; and the young wife’s
face was glad, too, though thoughtfully and temperately.
For she knew that the news of which she was the bearer
would gladden the heart of her husband, though it would
not be to him now that source of triumphant exhilaration
which it would have been a year before.</p>

<p>Behind her rode the servant with a bag full of papers
at his saddle-bow. It was these letters and newspapers
which had been the object of Bride’s ride that day. Her
husband had persuaded her to go herself on the chance
of news; he was always glad to make an excuse to induce
her to take the amount of needful air and exercise which
was good for her health, and she always found it so hard
to leave him.</p>

<p>But to-day she had been persuaded, and was now
riding rapidly homewards with her budget of news,
knowing how impatiently her husband and father at
home would be awaiting her return.</p>

<p>Dismounting at the castle door, and taking the bag
from the hands of the servant, she passed hastily through<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[369]</span>
hall and corridor into the great conservatory, where Eustace
was now daily wheeled upon his couch. Since the beginning
of May he had been taken down to a ground-floor
room in the wing which he and his wife occupied, in
order that, when possible, he might be taken out of doors,
or into this pleasant place of flowers. He had made as
much progress as the most sanguine could hope for during
the past months, and recovery was considered now only a
matter of time and patience. Time and patience were the
only doctors for such a case as his, and Eustace surprised
all who came in contact with him by the extreme patience
and cheerfulness he showed under a condition of helplessness
so trying to youthful manhood; but he would say,
with a smile, that Bride made life too sweet for him for
any repining to be possible. Each day he found filled
with happiness—the happiness of her presence, and of
that full community of soul which made their union what
it was. Every day brought its own measure of temporal
happiness and spiritual growth; and though the young
man looked forward with ardent expectation to the hope
of being able to fight the battle of life once more, and
work in the service of his fellow-men, he recognised fully
and freely that this period of enforced idleness had been
sent him by the Father in mercy and love, and was resolved
that the lesson it was sent to teach him should not
be learnt in vain.</p>

<p>The way in which his face kindled at the sight of his
wife was a sight good to see. She came quickly forward,
bent over and kissed him, and said softly—</p>

<p>“It is good news, Eustace. The Lords have passed the
bill!”</p>

<p>“Ah!” he said, and drew a long breath. “I felt it
would be so when the King was obliged to recall Lord
Grey. All parties must have known then that the mind
of the country was made up, and that the thing was
right, and must be made law. Have you read the news?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_370">[370]</span>“No; I only heard what they were all saying in
Pentreath. I met many friends, and they all told me
something. The Duke of Wellington, when he found
the King would create enough new peers to pass the bill,
if that was the only resource left, retired from his place
in the House, and, some say, will retire from public life
altogether. Lord Wharncliffe and his party of waverers
came over at once to the side of Lord Grey, and so the
bill was passed at once. The people are wild with
delight, the bells are being rung, and bonfires are being
built up. I sometimes wonder whether they really
understand what it is that they rejoice at. They seem
to think that some wonderfully good time is coming for
them. Poor creatures! I fear they will be disappointed.
An act of constitutional justice has been done; but the
troubles of England lie far, far deeper than an imperfect
system of constitutional representation.”</p>

<p>Eustace was eagerly skimming the contents of newspapers
and private letters, and from time to time giving
bits of information to his wife; but the sense of her
words came home to his mind for all that, and by-and-bye,
laying down the papers, he said—</p>

<p>“That is only too true, Bride. That is the very point
upon which my eyes have been opened latterly. I used
to think that good government and pure government
was the backbone of a nation’s prosperity and well-being—as
in one sense of the word it is. I mean, that if
all men were doing their utmost to walk in the ways
appointed by God, we should have a pure and good
government, and the nation would prosper. But I see
only too clearly now that I was quite deceived in my
old belief that this country and the world can ever be
renovated and made good by any scheme of political
reform instituted by man. We may do our best to be
just and temperate, to act uprightly, and think impartially
of the interests of all classes; but that alone will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_371">[371]</span>
never raise them, never give them true happiness, never
lift them out of the degradation into which they, as well
as too many of us so-called ‘superiors,’ have fallen.
There is only one Power which can do that, only one
Power mighty enough for that task, and that is the
Power of which I fear that we, as a nation of politicians
and upright rulers, think singularly little. The time may
come when we shall awake to the remembrance that
God must be Ruler in the earth if right and justice and
equity are to be done; but at present, though we listen
to such words with approval from the pulpit, we are
absolutely ignorant how to put them into daily practice,
and our profession and practice are utterly at variance.
That is where our failure comes in, and where
I, for one, foresee failure all along the line. This bill
may be the inauguration of an enlightened and liberal
policy for the next generation; but my old hope of
seeing the world raised out of its misery, its degradation,
its wickedness by any such means, is fading fast
within me.”</p>

<p>Bride was silent for a while, looking out before her
with a sweet sad smile upon her fair face.</p>

<p>“It will not be achieved by such means,” she said
quietly at last; “and yet, if men would but look to the
Lord for help and deliverance, I truly believe He would
show us the perfect way, and restore to us those things
which are lacking in the order of our daily lives, of our
worship, of our government. We know that the powers
that be are ordained of God; but we have lost so much
of His guidance. Yet I verily believe that if men would
with one voice and one heart cry to Him for light and
guidance, He would send it to them, even as in days of
old. Is He not the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever?
Though we have forsaken Him, yet He has not forsaken
us. As He spoke by holy men of old, moved by His
Spirit, so I truly believe He would speak again had men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_372">[372]</span>
but faith to listen. But it is that which is always the
stumbling-block—the hindrance. Men have lost their
faith; they will not believe that God is still amongst
them, even as of old—nay, far more truly and nearly than
of old; for Christ is the living Head of His Church, and
all who believe and are baptized are very members of
His mystical Body. And yet we say He is far away, He
has passed into the heavens, He is no more working with
and amongst us, save through the workings of the Spirit
in our hearts. But I feel so very, very sure that, would
we let Him, He would fain be much more to us than
that, as indeed He will be one day—in the day when the
Kingdom shall be set up on earth.”</p>

<p>Eustace drew a long breath. He, too, lying there in
helplessness, and seeing much of the brightness of his
early visions fade into dimness as he watched the course
of events and learned to see more of the workings of this
world, had come to think with a great longing of the
coming Kingdom, when all that is vile and evil shall be
done away, and when Christ Himself shall be revealed
and rule in righteousness. Once that thought had seemed
to him as the veriest vision of the mystic; now he had
come to long for it himself with a great and increasing
longing. Loving his fellow-men as he did, he yet
loved the Lord more; and to see Him reigning over the
world, and the misery and the sin all done away, was a
prospect too bright and happy not to excite his ardent
longings. Even in his satisfaction at the news just
brought, he could yet think with calm hopefulness of the
time when the crooked things should be made straight,
and the rough places plain, and men should live together
in peace and love, and strivings and hatred should be
done away.</p>

<p>“And until that day comes,” he said softly at last,
“we shall do more to help our brethren by teaching
them to look for the Kingdom of God and of His Christ,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_373">[373]</span>
than by stirring up in their hearts desires after earthly
good which perhaps may never be theirs.”</p>

<p>Bride looked up with a sweet smile.</p>

<p>“Ah! that is just what I feel about it, Eustace; let
us do all that is right for them, but teach them to
strive after contentment and love of God themselves.
That is the only thing that will really raise them or
make them truly happy.”</p>

<p>“Seek ye first——” said Eustace musingly, not finishing
the quotation, for there was no need. “After all, that
is the best and highest wisdom, though for eighteen
hundred years men have had the answer to their strivings
and heart-burnings under their hand, and have not known
how to use it. You must help me, sweet wife, in the
future, when I go forth, as I trust by God’s mercy I may,
to take my place in the battle of life, and stand up for
the right and the truth, as I may be called upon to do,
to bear in mind that great precept, for without it we can
accomplish nothing.”</p>

<p>Bride gave him an eloquent glance, but made no
reply, for her father was coming in, anxious to know the
news.</p>

<p>She told her tale once more, and the papers were read
and discussed between the two men with eager interest.
It was strange how, by almost imperceptible degrees,
those two had drawn together—not entirely in opinion,
but in mutual understanding and sympathy, so that
differences of opinion seemed trifles. Now it was real
pleasure to both to be together; and though they still
argued and disputed, it was in a spirit of toleration and
mutual respect and liking which made such argument
pleasant and stimulating rather than irritating. The
Duke took a more despondent view of the future of the
country than Eustace, and had far less confidence in the
success of the coming era of more liberal principles of
government for redressing wrongs and bringing about a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_374">[374]</span>
lasting state of prosperity and peace; but then Eustace
was far less sanguine about the coming Utopia, far more
patient and reasonable when existing wrongs were discussed,
far less confident in the powers of legislation for
the elevation of mankind than he once had been. Like
many other ardent young dreamers in the forefront of
the battle of reform, he had practically left out of his
calculations the mystery of original sin—the inherent
corruption of men’s hearts, and their perversity of vision,
their determination to do evil until their eyes are opened
to see God’s dealings in all things, and their hearts are
purified by the Holy Spirit. No system, however perfect,
will ever make men righteous that does not first
lead them to God. It was this that Eustace had never
realised before when he sought to raise men by increased
prosperity, and wiser and more just legislation. Now he
had begun to see the futility of his former dreams, and
insensibly he grew to sympathise with the feelings of his
kinsman, who had lived through so many crises of the
world’s history, but had found at the end that human
nature was never changed, and that no era of bliss and
joy followed upon the violent efforts made to secure a
better order of things.</p>

<p>Leaving them to talk thus together and to discuss the
situation to their hearts’ content, Bride stole away into
the garden, and wandered along some of the shady paths,
thinking her own thoughts, and filled with a sense of
profound thankfulness and joy in the unity of spirit now
existing between herself and her husband. It was the
same daily joy to her that it was to him, and her heart
was charged with a peace and restful content that sometimes
seemed to her to be a foretaste of the Kingdom
itself, towards which her heart was always turning.</p>

<p>In one of the alleys of the rose-garden she came upon
Abner, who was tying up the young shoots upon the
arch, and picking off the dead blossoms. He welcomed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_375">[375]</span>
her with the smile that the sight of her always called up
in his eyes, and stood still with a face full of interest
whilst she told him the news.</p>

<p>“Well, well, well,” he said when she had done, “may be
it’ll be a good thing. It sounds just, and right, and
reasonable; but I don’t understand these big matters,
and there’s a deal to be said on both sides, so far as I
can see. My poor boy would have been pleased. He
was terrible set on it; but I used to think that when he
got it, he would find himself as discontented as ever,
and set off after some new teacher who would tell him
this was only the beginning of what men must demand.
May be he sees things clearer now. I sometimes think
we’ll know a deal better what to think of such matters
once we are free of the burden of the sinful flesh. But
there’s always comfort in the thought that the Lord’s
working in one way or another in all these things. He
sees the fulfilment of His purpose all through, though we
can’t. That’s what I comfort myself with when things
seem blackest. The frost and the snow, the biting winds
and the storms, all seem against the gardener; but by-and-bye
he sees they all have their use, and his plants
would not have done as well without them. I always
go back to that when I’m perplexed and worried. The
great Gardener will bring out His perfected garden on
the earth in time; and it should be enough for us to be
trying to help Him on in our little corner, without thinking
He can’t rule the world without us.”</p>

<p>Bride smiled as she answered softly—</p>

<p>“Yes; though perhaps He wants to use some of us for
great tasks, as He uses us all for little ones. But I know
what you mean, Abner, and I feel with you. We can
never fully understand God’s purposes till they are revealed
to us in His perfect Kingdom; but we can all
strive to live the life of the Kingdom here below, as far
as our sinful natures will let us, and try to make just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_376">[376]</span>
the little corner about us bear flowers and fruit, as a
garden should. I do not think we shall be called upon
for any great work. I think our lot will lie here, away
in the west, in this little place. But, for my part, I shall
be content if we can bring the hope and the life of the
Kingdom into just this little corner of the vineyard—to
our sisters and brothers of St. Bride’s Bay.”</p>

<p class="center">THE END</p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />

<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>

<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>

<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>

<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p>

<p>The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber using the original cover as the background and is entered into the public domain.</p>
</div></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68596 ***</div>
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