Chapter 14: Eustace’s Dilemma

“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 would 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 needs employ tools more fitted for the work. To be deterred by such a scruple!—no—it would be unworthy of the Cause!”

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.

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.

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 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.

“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?”

“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.”

“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?”

“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.”

“Trouble!—what trouble?” asked Eustace kindly, his quick sympathies stirred at once by the thought of any 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.”

“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!”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”