“Yu must do as yu will about that, sir.”
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.
“Tresithny, I trust you do not believe that it has been my doing that poor Saul has fallen into this trouble.”
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.
“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 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.”
“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.”
“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 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.”
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 did 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.
“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.”
This frank apology evoked a smile from Abner.