The summer twilight had faded into sweet night; the young andstar-attended moon glittered like a sickle in the deep purple sky; ofall the luminous host, Hesperus alone was visible; and a breeze, thatbore the last embrace of the flowers by the sun, moved languidly andfitfully over the still and odorous earth.
The moonbeam fell upon the roof and garden of Gerard. It suffused thecottage with its brilliant light, except where the dark depth of theembowered porch defied its entry. All around the beds of flowers andherbs spread sparkling and defined. You could trace the minutest walk;almost distinguish every leaf. Now and then there came a breath, andthe sweet-peas murmured in their sleep; or the roses rustled, as if theywere afraid they were about to be roused from their lightsome dreams.Farther on the fruit-trees caught the splendour of the night; and lookedlike a troop of sultanas taking their gardened air, when the eye of mancould not profane them, and laden with jewels. There were apples thatrivalled rubies; pears of topaz tint: a whole paraphernalia of plums,some purple as the amethyst, others blue and brilliant as the sapphire;an emerald here, and now a golden drop that gleamed like the yellowdiamond of Gengis Khan.
Within--was the scene less fair? A single lamp shed over the chambera soft and sufficient light. The library of Stephen Morley had beenremoved, but the place of his volumes had been partly supplied, for theshelves were far from being empty. Their contents were of no ordinarycharacter: many volumes of devotion, some of church history, one or twoon ecclesiastical art, several works of our elder dramatists, some goodreprints of our chronicles, and many folios of church music, whichlast indeed amounted to a remarkable collection. There was no musicalinstrument however in the room of any kind, and the only change in itsfurniture, since we last visited the room of Gerard, was the presence ofa long-backed chair of antique form, most beautifully embroidered, and aportrait of a female saint over the mantel-piece. As for Gerard himselfhe sat with his head leaning on his arm, which rested on the table,while he listened with great interest to a book which was read to him byhis daughter, at whose feet lay the fiery and faithful bloodhound.
"So you see, my father," said Sybil with animation, and dropping herbook which however her hand did not relinquish, "even then all was notlost. The stout earl retired beyond the Trent, and years and reignselapsed before this part of the island accepted their laws and customs."
"I see," said her father, "and yet I cannot help wishing that Harold--"Here the hound, hearing his name, suddenly rose and looked at Gerard,who smiling, patted him and said, "We were not talking of thee, goodsir, but of thy great namesake; but ne'er mind, a live dog they say isworth a dead king."
"Ah! why have we not such a man now," said Sybil, "to protect thepeople! Were I a prince I know no career that I should deem so great."
"But Stephen says no," said Gerard: "he says that these great men havenever made use of us but as tools; and that the people never can havetheir rights until they produce competent champions from their ownorder."
"But then Stephen does not want to recall the past," said Sybil with akind of sigh; "he wishes to create the future."
"The past is a dream," said Gerard.
"And what is the future?" enquired Sybil.
"Alack! I know not; but I often wish the battle of Hastings were to befought over again and I was going to have a hand in it."
"Ah! my father," said Sybil with a mournful smile, "there is ever yourfatal specific of physical force. Even Stephen is against physicalforce, with all his odd fancies."
"All very true," said Gerard smiling with good nature; "but all the samewhen I was coming home a few days ago, and stopped awhile on the bridgeand chanced to see myself in the stream, I could not help fancying thatmy Maker had fashioned these limbs rather to hold a lance or draw a bow,than to supervise a shuttle or a spindle."
"Yet with the shuttle and the spindle we may redeem our race," saidSybil with animation, "if we could only form the minds that move thosepeaceful weapons. Oh! my father, I will believe that moral power isirresistible, or where are we to look for hope?"
Gerard shook his head with his habitual sweet good-tempered smile. "Ah!"said he, "what can we do; they have got the land, and the land governsthe people. The Norman knew that, Sybil, as you just read. If indeed wehad our rights, one might do something; but I don't know; I dare say ifI had our land again, I should be as bad as the rest."
"Oh! no, my father," exclaimed Sybil with energy, "never, never! Yourthoughts would be as princely as your lot. What a leader of the peopleyou would make!"
Harold sprang up suddenly and growled.
"Hush!" said Gerard; "some one knocks:" and he rose and left the room.Sybil heard voices and broken sentences: "You'll excuse me"--"I take itkindly"--"So we are neighbours." And then her father returned, usheringin a person and saying, "Here is my friend Mr Franklin that I wasspeaking of, Sybil, who is going to be our neighbour; down Harold,down!" and he presented to his daughter the companion of Mr St Lys inthat visit to the Hand-loom weaver when she had herself met the vicar ofMowbray.
Sybil rose, and letting her book drop gently on the table, receivedEgremont with composure and native grace. It is civilization that makesus awkward, for it gives us an uncertain position. Perplexed, we takerefuge in pretence; and embarrassed, we seek a resource in affectation.The Bedouin and the Red Indian never lose their presence of mind; andthe wife of a peasant, when you enter her cottage, often greets you witha propriety of mien which favourably contrasts with your reception bysome grand dame in some grand assembly, meeting her guests alternatelywith a caricature of courtesy or an exaggeradon of superciliousself-control.
"I dare say," said Egremont bowing to Sybil, "you have seen our poorfriend the weaver since we met there."
"The day I quitted Mowbray," said Sybil. "They are not without friends."
"Ah! you have met my daughter before."
"On a mission of grace," said Egremont.
"And I suppose you found the town not very pleasant, Mr Franklin,"continued Gerard.
"No; I could not stand it, the nights were so close. Besides I have agreat accumulation of notes, and I fancied I could reduce them into areport more efficiently in comparative seclusion. So I have got a roomnear here, with a little garden, not so pretty as yours; but still agarden is something; and if I want any additional information, why,after all, Mowbray is only a walk."
"You say well and have done wisely. Besides you have such late hours inLondon, and hard work. Some country air will do you all the good in theworld. That gallery must be tiresome. Do you use shorthand?"
"A sort of shorthand of my own," said Egremont. "I trust a good deal tomy memory."
"Ah! you are young. My daughter also has a wonderful memory. For my ownpart, there are many things which I am not sorry to forget."
"You see I took you at your word, neighbour," said Egremont. "When onehas been at work the whole day one feels a little lonely towards night."
"Very true; and I dare say you find desk work sometimes very dull; Inever could make anything of it myself. I can manage a book well enough,if it be well written, and on points I care for; but I would soonerlisten than read any time," said Gerard. "Indeed I should be right gladto see the minstrel and the storyteller going their rounds again. Itwould be easy after a day's work, when one has not, as I have now, agood child to read to me."
"This volume?" said Egremont drawing his chair to the table and lookingat Sybil, who intimated assent by a nod.
"Ah! it's a fine book," said Gerard, "though on a sad subject."
"The History of the Conquest of England by the Normans," said Egremont,reading the title page on which also was written "Ursula Trafford toSybil Gerard."
"You know it?" said Sybil.
"Only by fame."
"Perhaps the subject may not interest you so much as it does us," saidSybil.
"It must interest all and all alike," said her father; "for we aredivided between the conquerors and the conquered."
"But do not you think," said Egremont, "that
such a distinction has longceased to exist?"
"In what degree?" asked Gerard. "Many circumstances of oppression havedoubtless gradually disappeared: but that has arisen from the change ofmanners, not from any political recognition of their injustice. The samecourse of time which has removed many enormities, more shocking howeverto our modern feelings than to those who devised and endured them,has simultaneously removed many alleviating circumstances. If the merebaron's grasp be not so ruthless, the champion we found in the churchis no longer so ready. The spirit of Conquest has adapted itself to thechanging circumstances of ages, and however its results vary in form, indegree they are much the same."
"But how do they show themselves?"
"In many circumstances, which concern many classes; but I speak ofthose which touch my own order; and therefore I say at once--in thedegradation of the people."
"But are the people so degraded?"
"There is more serfdom in England now than at any time since theConquest. I speak of what passes under my daily eyes when I say thatthose who labour can as little choose or change their masters now,as when they were born thralls. There are great bodies of the workingclasses of this country nearer the condition of brutes, than they havebeen at any time since the Conquest. Indeed I see nothing to distinguishthem from brutes, except that their morals are inferior. Incest andinfanticide are as common among them as among the lower animals. Thedomestic principle waxes weaker and weaker every year in England: norcan we wonder at it, when there is no comfort to cheer and no sentimentto hallow the Home."
"I was reading a work the other day," said Egremont, "that statisticallyproved that the general condition of the people was much better at thismoment than it had been at any known period of history."
"Ah! yes, I know that style of speculation," said Gerard; "yourgentleman who reminds you that a working man now has a pair of cottonstockings, and that Harry the Eighth himself was not as well off. Atany rate, the condition of classes must be judged of by the age, and bytheir relation with each other. One need not dwell on that. I deny thepremises. I deny that the condition of the main body is better now thanat any other period of our history; that it is as good as it has beenat several. I say, for instance, the people were better clothed, betterlodged, and better fed just before the war of the Roses than they are atthis moment. We know how an English peasant lived in those times: he eatflesh every day, he never drank water, was well housed, and clothed instout woollens. Nor are the Chronicles necessary to tell us this. Theacts of Parliament from the Plantagenets to the Tudors teach us alikethe price of provisions and the rate of wages; and we see in a momentthat the wages of those days brought as much sustenance and comfort as areasonable man could desire."
"I know how deeply you feel upon this subject," said Egremont turning toSybil.
"Indeed it is the only subject that ever engages my thought," shereplied, "except one."
"And that one?"
"Is to see the people once more kneel before our blessed Lady," repliedSybil.
"Look at the average term of life," said Gerard, coming unintentionallyto the relief of Egremont, who was a little embarrassed. "The averageterm of life in this district among the working classes is seventeen.What think you of that? Of the infants born in Mowbray, more than amoiety die before the age of five."
"And yet," said Egremont, "in old days they had terrible pestilences."
"But they touched all alike," said Gerard. "We have more pestilence nowin England than we ever had, but it only reaches the poor. You neverhear of it. Why Typhus alone takes every year from the dwellings of theartisan and peasant a population equal to that of the whole county ofWestmoreland. This goes on every year, but the representatives of theconquerors are not touched: it is the descendants of the conquered alonewho are the victims."
"It sometimes seems to me," said Sybil despondingly, "that nothing shortof the descent of angels can save the people of this kingdom."
"I sometimes think I hear a little bird," said Gerard, "who sings thatthe long frost may yet break up. I have a friend, him of whom I wasspeaking to you the other day, who has his remedies."
"But Stephen Morley does not believe in angels," said Sybil with a sigh;"and I have no faith in his plan."
"He believes that God will help those who help themselves," said Gerard.
"And I believe," said Sybil, "that those only can help themselves whomGod helps."
All this time Egremont was sitting at the table, with the book in hishand, gazing fitfully and occasionally with an air of absence on itstitle-page, whereon was written the name of its owner. Suddenly he said"Sybil."
"Yes," said the daughter of Gerard, with an air of some astonishment.
"I beg your pardon," said Egremont blushing; "I was reading your name. Ithought I was reading it to myself. Sybil Gerard! What a beautiful nameis Sybil!"
"My mother's name," said Gerard; "and my grandame's name, and a name Ibelieve that has been about our hearth as long as our race; and that's avery long time indeed," he added smiling, "for we were tall men in KingJohn's reign, as I have heard say."
"Yours is indeed an old family."
"Ay, we have some English blood in our veins, though peasants and thesons of peasants. But there was one of us who drew a bow at Azincourt;and I have heard greater things, but I believe they are old wives'tales."
"At least we have nothing left," said Sybil, "but our old faith; andthat we have clung to through good report and evil report."
"And now," said Gerard, "I rise with the lark, good neighbour Franklin;but before you go, Sybil will sing to us a requiem that I love: itstills the spirit before we sink into the slumber which may this nightbe death, and which one day must be."
Book 3 Chapter 6