“The wrongs of humanity do indeed set up a strong 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?”
The young man’s face was so dark and stern that Eustace almost repented of his question.
“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!”
Eustace looked earnestly at him.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
And then Saul, by a sudden impulse, put his hand into that of the Duke of Penarvon’s heir, and the compact was sealed.
“I will tell you my story, or rather my mother’s story,” 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.”
“Or one of their servants,” suggested Eustace, very quietly.