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Research Software Engineering
with Python
Research Software Engineering
with Python
Building software that makes research
possible

Damien Irving
Kate Hertweck
Luke Johnston
Joel Ostblom
Charlotte Wickham
Greg Wilson
First edition published 2022
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742

and by CRC Press

2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN

© 2022 Damien Irving, Kate Hertweck, Luke Johnston, Joel Ostblom, Charlotte Wickham, and
Greg Wilson

CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author and
publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the consequences of their
use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright holders of all material
reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if permission to publish in this
form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not been acknowledged please write and
let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.

Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted, reproduced,
transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or in any information
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For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, access
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Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks and are
used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.

Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data

Names: Irving, Damien, author.
Title: Research software engineering with Python : building software that
makes research possible / Damien Irving, Kate Hertweck, Luke William
Johnston, Joel Ostblom, Charlotte Wickham, and Greg Wilson.
Description: First edition. | Boca Raton, FL : CRC Press, 2021. | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021006032 | ISBN 9780367698348 (hardback) | ISBN
9780367698324 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003143482 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Research--Data processing. | Computer
software--Development. | Python (Computer program language)
Classification: LCC Q180.55.E4 I76 2021 | DDC 001.40285/5133--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006032

ISBN: 978-0-367-69834-8 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-367-69832-4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-14348-2 (ebk)

DOI: 10.1201/9781003143482

Publisher's note: This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the authors.
 To David Flanders
who taught me so much about growing and sustaining coding communities.
— Damien

To the UofT Coders Group

who taught us much more than we taught them.
— Luke and Joel

To my parents Judy and John

who taught me to love books and everything I can learn from them.
— Kate

To Joshua.
— Charlotte

To Brent Gorda
without whom none of this would have happened.
— Greg

All royalties from this book are being donated to The Carpentries,
an organization that teaches foundational coding and data science skills
to researchers worldwide.
Contents

Welcome 1
0.1 The Big Picture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
0.2 Intended Audience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
0.3 What You Will Learn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
0.4 Using this Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
0.5 Contributing and Re-Use . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
0.6 Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

1 Getting Started 7
1.1 Project Structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
1.2 Downloading the Data . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
1.3 Installing the Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
1.4 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
1.5 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
1.6 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

2 The Basics of the Unix Shell 13

2.1 Exploring Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
2.2 Moving Around . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
2.3 Creating New Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24
2.4 Moving Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
2.5 Copying Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
2.6 Deleting Files and Directories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
2.7 Wildcards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
2.8 Reading the Manual . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

iii
iv Contents

2.9 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
2.10 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
2.11 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44

3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell 45

3.1 Combining Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
3.2 How Pipes Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
3.3 Repeating Commands on Many Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
3.4 Variable Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.5 Redoing Things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
3.6 Creating New Filenames Automatically . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
3.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

4 Going Further with the Unix Shell 69

4.1 Creating New Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
4.2 Making Scripts More Versatile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
4.3 Turning Interactive Work into a Script . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
4.4 Finding Things in Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
4.5 Finding Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
4.6 Configuring the Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
4.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

5 Building Command-Line Tools with Python 95

5.1 Programs and Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
5.2 Handling Command-Line Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
5.3 Documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
5.4 Counting Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
5.5 Pipelining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Contents v

5.6 Positional and Optional Arguments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

5.7 Collating Results . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
5.8 Writing Our Own Modules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
5.9 Plotting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
5.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120

6 Using Git at the Command Line 121

6.1 Setting Up . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
6.2 Creating a New Repository . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
6.3 Adding Existing Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
6.4 Describing Commits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
6.5 Saving and Tracking Changes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 130
6.6 Synchronizing with Other Repositories . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
6.7 Exploring History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
6.8 Restoring Old Versions of Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
6.9 Ignoring Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
6.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
6.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
6.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

7 Going Further with Git 157

7.1 What’s a Branch? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
7.2 Creating a Branch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
7.3 What Curve Should We Fit? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
7.4 Verifying Zipf’s Law . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
7.5 Merging . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172
7.6 Handling Conflicts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
7.7 A Branch-Based Workflow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
7.8 Using Other People’s Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
vi Contents

7.9 Pull Requests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

7.10 Handling Conflicts in Pull Requests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
7.11 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194
7.12 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195
7.13 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

8 Working in Teams 199

8.1 What Is a Project? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
8.2 Include Everyone . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
8.3 Establish a Code of Conduct . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 202
8.4 Include a License . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
8.5 Planning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
8.6 Bug Reports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 212
8.7 Labeling Issues . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
8.8 Prioritizing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
8.9 Meetings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
8.10 Making Decisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
8.11 Make All This Obvious to Newcomers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.12 Handling Conflict . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223
8.13 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 226
8.14 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
8.15 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229

9 Automating Analyses with Make 231

9.1 Updating a Single File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
9.2 Managing Multiple Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
9.3 Updating Files When Programs Change . . . . . . . . . . . 237
9.4 Reducing Repetition in a Makefile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 238
9.5 Automatic Variables . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
9.6 Generic Rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241
9.7 Defining Sets of Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243
Contents vii

9.8 Documenting a Makefile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 246

9.9 Automating Entire Analyses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 248
9.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
9.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251
9.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255

10 Configuring Programs 257

10.1 Configuration File Formats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258
10.2 Matplotlib Configuration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259
10.3 The Global Configuration File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
10.4 The User Configuration File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
10.5 Adding Command-Line Options . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263
10.6 A Job Control File . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264
10.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267
10.8 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 268
10.9 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 270

11 Testing Software 271

11.1 Assertions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272
11.2 Unit Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 274
11.3 Testing Frameworks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276
11.4 Testing Floating-Point Values . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280
11.5 Integration Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283
11.6 Regression Testing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
11.7 Test Coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286
11.8 Continuous Integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289
11.9 When to Write Tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293
11.10 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
11.11 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 294
11.12 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298
viii Contents

12 Handling Errors 299

12.1 Exceptions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 300
12.2 Writing Useful Error Messages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
12.3 Testing Error Handling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309
12.4 Reporting Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310
12.5 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
12.6 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314
12.7 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319

13 Tracking Provenance 321

13.1 Data Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323
13.2 Code Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325
13.3 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
13.4 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 330
13.5 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 333

14 Creating Packages with Python 335

14.1 Creating a Python Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 336
14.2 Virtual Environments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 339
14.3 Installing a Development Package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 342
14.4 What Installation Does . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 349
14.5 Distributing Packages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 350
14.6 Documenting Packages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355
14.7 Software Journals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
14.8 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
14.9 Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 366
14.10 Key Points . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 368

15 Finale 369
15.1 Why We Wrote This Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 370

Appendix 371
Contents ix

A Solutions 371

B Learning Objectives 419

B.1 Getting Started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419
B.2 The Basics of the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 419
B.3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
B.4 Going Further with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 420
B.5 Building Command-Line Tools with Python . . . . . . . . . 420
B.6 Using Git at the Command Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
B.7 Going Further with Git . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 421
B.8 Working in Teams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.9 Automating Analyses with Make . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.10 Configuring Programs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 422
B.11 Testing Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.12 Handling Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.13 Tracking Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 423
B.14 Creating Packages with Python . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 424

C Key Points 425

C.1 Getting Started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 425
C.2 The Basics of the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 425
C.3 Building Tools with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 426
C.4 Going Further with the Unix Shell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 427
C.5 Building Command-Line Programs in Python . . . . . . . . 427
C.6 Using Git at the Command Line . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428
C.7 Going Further with Git . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 428
C.8 Working in Teams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
C.9 Automating Analyses with Make . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 429
C.10 Configuring Programs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.11 Testing Software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.12 Handling Errors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 430
C.13 Tracking Provenance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 431
C.14 Creating Packages with Python . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 431
x Contents

D Project Tree 433

E Working Remotely 437

E.1 Logging In . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 437
E.2 Copying Files . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 439
E.3 Running Commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
E.4 Creating Keys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 441
E.5 Dependencies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 443

F Writing Readable Code 447

F.1 Python Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 447
F.2 Order . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 450
F.3 Checking Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 452
F.4 Refactoring . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 454
F.5 Code Reviews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 463
F.6 Python Features . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 467
F.7 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 472

G Documenting Programs 473

G.1 Writing Good Docstrings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 473
G.2 Defining Your Audience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 476
G.3 Creating an FAQ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 478

H YAML 481

I Anaconda 485
I.1 Package Management with conda . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 485
I.2 Environment Management with conda . . . . . . . . . . . . 487

J Glossary 489

K References 503

Index 511
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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.
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 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.
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.
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:—
“How is it with his Grace?”
The man slowly shook his head.
“Sadly, sir, but sadly. He keeps himself shut up in his 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.”
“And the Lady Bride?”
“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.”
“And the funeral is to-morrow?”
“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.”
Eustace was silent for a few minutes, and then turning to the
servant, said—
“Does his Grace know I am here? Shall I see him to-day? Does he
see anybody?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Yes, I have been much abroad, but the place looks exactly the
same. I could believe I had been here only yesterday.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
“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.”
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?
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
Then the door opened and the Duke appeared.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
“Would you like to come and see her for the last time? To-morrow it
will be too late.”
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.
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.
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 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.”
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.
But after one glance he softly retired, unnoticed by Bride, and shut
the door behind him noiselessly.
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.
“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.”
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 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.
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 all 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?
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 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.
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—
“Lady Bride, ladybird, don’tee take on so bitterly, my lamb. It is not
her they have put underground. May be she 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.”
“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 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——”
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.
“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.”
Slightly soothed by the thought, Bride tried to smile.
“Only it seems as though we wanted them so much more,” said she.
“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?”
“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.”
“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?”
“Oh, it is so hard to understand!” cried Bride, pressing her hands
together—“it is so hard to understand!”
“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.”
“How do we see it?” asked Bride, almost listlessly.
Abner put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a little packet of
seed, some of which he poured into his palm.
“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?”
“No, of course not,” answered Bride.
“Well, isn’t it just so with the mysteries of God? He 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.”
She rose with a faint smile and held out her hand, which the old
gardener took reverently and tenderly between both of his own.
“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.”
 CHAPTER IV
THE DUKE’S HEIR
“YOUR name is Tresithny, is it not?—and you are the gardener here,
by what I understand, and have lived at Penarvon all your life. Is that
so?”
“Yes, sir. My father was gardener to the old Duke, and he brought me
up to take his place; and I’ve been working on the place here, man
and boy, these fifty years. I was only a lad of eight when first I used
to help my father with some of the lighter tasks, and now I have all
the men on the place working under my orders. It is a long while
since you paid us a visit, sir; but I remember you well as a little fellow
when you came to Penarvon.”
“I’m afraid I don’t remember you. Boys are selfish little brats, and go
about thinking of nothing but their own amusement. But, Tresithny, I
have come to you now for information. They tell me you are a
thoughtful man, and have educated yourself soundly in your leisure
hours. One can almost see as much by looking at you and hearing
you speak. I feel as though you are the man I want to get hold of. I
have been here nearly a month now, and I have not been idle
meantime: I have come here with an object, and I have been
collecting information as far as I have been able to do so alone; but I
believe you will be able to help me better than I can help myself.”
The gardener raised his head, and looked at the young gentleman
before him with thoughtful mien. Although this was the first time he
had been addressed by Eustace, he had seen him often pacing the
garden paths in meditative abstraction, and had heard of him from
others as walking or riding over the country roads, and asking
strange questions of those he encountered in his rambles. He had
been down amongst the fisher-folk of the bay. He had been up
amongst the downlands, talking with the shepherd-folk who dwelt in
the scattered stone huts that were met with from time to time there.
He had been seen at various farmsteads, making friends with their
inhabitants, and people were beginning to ask in a puzzled way what
he meant by it all, and to wonder at the nature of his questions, albeit
the stolid rustic mind was not wont to disturb itself much by inquiry or
speculation. When asked a question of the bearing of which he was
doubtful, the peasant would generally scratch his head and look
vacantly out before him; and again and again, when pressed by
Eustace for an answer, would drawl out something like the following
reply—
“Zure, thee’d better ask Maister Tresithny. He mid knaw. He du knaw
a sight o’ things more’n we. ’E be a’most as gude as Passon tu talk
tu. Thee’d best ask he.”
And after some time Eustace had followed this counsel, and was
now face to face with his uncle’s servant, although in the first
instance he had told himself that he would speak of these things to
nobody at Penarvon itself.
“I’ll be pleased and proud to help any one of your name and race,
sir,” answered Abner quietly, “so far as I may rightly do so. What can
I do for you, sir? You have been main busy since you came here, by
all I see and hear.”
“You have heard of me, then?” questioned Eustace, with a smile.
“People have talked of my comings and goings, have they?”
“Folks here mostly take notice of what goes on up to the castle,”
answered Abner, “and they say that the young master is wonderful
little there, but out all day on his own business, which is what they
cannot make out.”
Eustace laughed pleasantly, and then his face grew grave again.
“I should be more at the castle if I could be of service to his Grace or
Lady Bride; but there is a sorrow upon which a stranger may not
intrude, and at present I can call myself little else. In time I trust I
may win my way there; but during these first days I believe the truest
kindness is to keep away from them for the greater part of my time.
And I have my own object to pursue, which is one that may not be
ignored; for it is a duty, and I am resolved to do it to the utmost of my
power.”
Abner nodded his head in grave approval.
“That is the way our duties should be tackled, sir. It is no good giving
half our energies to them. We have our orders plain and simple
—‘What thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.’”
“Yes—just so,” answered Eustace, with a quick glance at the man,
whose hands were still at work amongst his pots, even whilst he
talked. He was in the potting-shed, pricking out a quantity of young
seedlings; and although he gave intelligent heed to the words of the
young gentleman before him, he continued his employment with
scrupulous care and exactness. “By-the-bye, Tresithny,” Eustace
suddenly interpolated, “aren’t you something of a preacher, by what
they say? Don’t you hold meetings in St. Bride’s amongst the fisher-
folk? I have heard something of it down amongst the people there.”
“Well, sir,” answered Abner, “it isn’t so to say a service; but we’ve got
men-folk down there as will not enter the doors of a church, do what
you will; and though they be good enough friends with the Rev.
Tremodart when he comes down on the bit of a quay to chat with
them, they won’t go to church, and he’s too wise, may be, to try and
force them. But they’ll sometimes come of a Sunday evening to Dan
Denver’s cottage, and listen whilst I read them a chapter and talk it
over afterwards. Some days they don’t seem to have much to say,
and leaves it most to me, and then it du seem to them almost like a
bit of a sermon. But that’s not what I mean it to be. I want to get them
to think and talk as well.”
The young man’s eyes suddenly flashed, and he took up the word
with suppressed eagerness.
“Ah! Tresithny, that’s just it! That’s the very pith of the whole matter.
You and I ought to be friends. We both want to rouse the people to
think. If we could do that—how much could be achieved!”
“Ay, indeed it could, sir. There be times when it seems as though it
would be as easy to get the brute beast of the field to think, as it is to
rouse them up to do it. And yet they have all immortal souls, though
they care no more what becomes of them than the beasts that
perish. Think of it!—think of it!”
Eustace gave Abner a quick keen look of mingled sympathy and
criticism. He saw that their minds were working on absolutely
different lines, but was by no means sure that these lines might not
be made to coincide by a little gentle diplomacy. He recognised at
once in this upright and stalwart old gardener a man of considerable
power and influence, who might be a valuable ally if won over to the
cause. But he knew, too, that the limitations imposed upon his
intellect by the manner of his life, and his opportunities of self-
culture, might form a serious barrier between them, so he resolved to
feel his way cautiously before advocating openly any of those
opinions of which he was apparently the pioneer in these parts.
“Ah!” he said, with a long-drawn breath, “that hopeless apathy
towards everything ennobling and elevating comes from centuries of
oppression and injustice. Whilst men are forced to live like beasts,
they will grovel in the mire like beasts, and not even know that they
are treated like beasts. But let them be raised out of their helpless
misery and grinding poverty, and their minds will grow healthy with
their bodies. The state into which the people of this land have fallen
is a disgrace to humanity; and all men of principle must stand
shoulder to shoulder together to strive to raise and elevate them. It is
a duty which in these days is crying aloud to Heaven, and to which
thinking men in all countries are responding with more or less of zeal
and energy. Things cannot go on as they have been doing. France
has taught us a grim lesson of what will happen at last if we continue
to tread down and oppress our humble brethren, as we have been
doing all these long years and centuries!”
Eustace threw back his head, and the fire flashed from his eyes. His
nature was always stirred to its depths by the thought of the wrongs
of humanity. He had not found round and about Penarvon quite that
amount of physical misery that he had heard described in other
places; yet he had seen enough of the bovine apathy and stolid
indifference of the rustics to rouse within him feelings of indignation
and keen anger. He argued fiercely within himself that men were
made into patient beasts of burden just to suit the selfish desires of
the classes above them, who dreaded the day of reckoning which
would follow any awakening on their part to a sense of their wrongs.
The artisans of the Midlands and the North had partially awakened,
and from all sides was the cry going up—the cry for justice, for a
hearing, for some one to expound their grievances and make a way
out of them. Their helpless rage had hitherto been expended in the
breaking of machinery, which they took to be their worst enemy, and
in riots which had brought condign punishment upon them. Now they
were being taken in hand by men of wealth and power, and were
raising the cry of reform—crying aloud for representation in
Parliament—agitating for a thing the nature of which they hardly
understood, but which they were told would bring help and well-
being in its wake. And men like Eustace Marchmont, with generous
ardour all aflame in the cause which they held to be sacred and
righteous, longed to see the spread of this feeling through the length
and breadth of the land. The agricultural labourers were far more
difficult to arouse than the artisan classes had been; but if the whole
nation with one accord raised its voice aloud in a cry for justice,
would not that cry prevail in spite of the whole weight and pressure
brought to bear against it, and carry all before it in a triumphant
series of long-needed reforms?
So Eustace argued in his hot and generous enthusiasm, and gently
and cautiously did he strive to explain his views to Abner and win his
sympathy for them. Here was a man who loved his fellows with a
great and tender love—in that at least the two men were in accord—
but whilst Abner thought almost exclusively of their immortal souls,
Eustace’s mind was entirely bent upon the improvement of their
physical condition. He was by no means certain in his heart of hearts
whether they possessed souls at all. As to everything connected with
the spiritual world his mind was altogether a blank. There might or
might not be a life to come; he could not profess any opinion of his
own on such a point as that, but at least of this present life he was
sure, and his religion, in as far as he could be said to have one, was
directed with perfect singleness of purpose towards the attainment of
what he held to be the loftiest aim and object a man could have,
namely, raising his fellow-men to a sense of their own responsibilities
and rights, to ameliorate their condition, teach them self-restraint,
self-culture, rational and intelligent happiness, to give them sunshine
in their lives here, and a high code of moral ethics to live up to when
they were able to receive it.
Something of all this did he strive to make plain to Abner as he sat
beside him at his work. That he succeeded in winning the interest of
his hearer was abundantly evident from the expression of the
thoughtful intelligent face, and that the gardener understood a good
deal of the questions of the day appeared from the nature of the
questions and comments he made from time to time.
When Eustace had said his say there was silence for a while, and he
waited with some eagerness to hear the effect produced upon the
old man. He felt that Abner was a power in the place, and that a
good deal of his own success might depend on how far he could get
him to be a partisan in the good cause. Abner was slow to speak
when his mind was not made up, and he was not one to reach a
conclusion in a hurry. It was some time before he spoke, and then he
said slowly and meditatively, “There’s a deal of good in what you say,
sir, and a deal more good in what you mean; but yet for all that I
can’t quite see as you do. There’s something in it all that’s like
putting the cart before the horse, to use a homely phrase, and that’s
not a thing as is found to answer when folks come to try it on.”
“I don’t think I quite take your meaning, Tresithny.”
“No, sir? Well, I’ll try to make it plainer like—that is, if you care to
hear what an old man like me thinks, who has picked up his
knowledge a bit here and a bit there, and less from books than from
men.”
“I do care,” answered Eustace, “and yours are the best methods of
gaining instruction. You are a man of the people and a thinking man.
I do value your opinion, and should like to have it.”
“Well, sir, you shall. I am, as you truly say, a man of the people, and I
think I may lay claim to understand my people as well as gentlefolks
can do; and I’m very sure of one thing, that I’d be very sorry to live in
a country where they were the rulers; for they haven’t either the
patience, or the knowledge, or the faculty of government; and things
will go badly for England if the day comes when the voice of the
people shall prevail as the voice of God.”
“Ah! but the people have to be elevated and educated to be fit to
rule,” said Eustace. “They are not fit now, I admit, but we are to seek
to raise them, body, soul, and spirit, and then a vastly different state
of affairs will be brought about.”
But Abner’s face was very grave, and anything but acquiescent.
“Sir,” he said, “I can’t see that as you do. I’ve read a bit of history
here and there, and I’ve seen too in my own lifetime something of
what comes when the voice of the people prevails.”
“It is not fair to charge upon the people the horrors of the French
Revolution,” interposed Eustace quickly. “The tyrants who provoked
it were the people really to blame. They had made brutes and devils
of the people, and they only reaped what they had sown.”
“Very well, sir, I know in part at least you are right. We will say no
more about history that may be open to such arguments as yours.
But we always have our Bibles to go to when in doubt and perplexity,
and we have it there in black and white that the powers that be are
ordained of God, that riders and men of estate are to be reverenced,
obeyed, and feared, that we are to submit ourselves to them as the
ordinance of God.”
“Yes, yes, Tresithny, in moderation; and if they do their duty on their
side, that would be all right enough,” answered Eustace, who began
to feel that Abner was taking an unconsciously unfair advantage of
him in adducing arguments drawn from Holy Writ, which had no
value for him whatsoever. “But when kings and men of estate abuse
their powers and become tyrannical and oppressive, then the
compact on both sides is broken, and the people must stand up for
themselves and their rights, or they will only fall into absolute
slavery.”
“Well, sir, I can’t quite see that,” answered Abner thoughtfully. “When
St. Paul wrote by the power of the Holy Ghost about the reverence
due to the great men and rulers of the earth, he was speaking in the
main of heathen tyrants, of whom he stood in peril of his own life; but