The beam of the declining sun, softened by the stained panes of a smallgothic window, suffused the chamber of the Lady Superior of the conventof Mowbray. The vaulted room, of very moderate dimensions, was furnishedwith great simplicity and opened into a small oratory. On a table wereseveral volumes, an ebon cross was fixed in a niche, and leaning in ahigh-backed chair, sate Ursula Trafford. Her pale and refined complexionthat in her youth had been distinguished for its lustre, became herspiritual office; and indeed her whole countenance, the delicate brow,the serene glance, the small aquiline nose, and the well-shaped mouth,firm and yet benignant, betokened the celestial soul that habited thatgracious frame.
The Lady Superior was not alone; on a low seat by her side, holdingher hand, and looking up into her face with a glance of reverentialsympathy, was a maiden over whose head five summers have revolved sincefirst her girlhood broke upon our sight amid the ruins of Marney Abbey,five summers that have realized the matchless promise of her charms, andwhile they have added something to her stature have robbed it of nothingof its grace, and have rather steadied the blaze of her beauty thandiminished its radiance.
"Yes, I mourn over them," said Sybil, "the deep convictions that mademe look forward to the cloister as my home. Is it that the world hasassoiled my soul? Yet I have not tasted of worldly joys; all that Ihave known of it has been suffering and tears. They will return, thesevisions of my sacred youth, dear friend, tell me that they will return!"
"I too have had visions in my youth, Sybil, and not of the cloister, yetam I here."
"And what should I infer?" said Sybil enquiringly.
"That my visions were of the world, and brought me to the cloister, andthat yours were of the cloister and have brought you to the world."
"My heart is sad," said Sybil, "and the sad should seek the shade."
"It is troubled, my child, rather than sorrowful."
Sybil shook her head.
"Yes, my child," said Ursula, "the world has taught you that there areaffections which the cloister can neither satisfy nor supply. Ah! Sybil,I too have loved."
The blood rose to the cheek of Sybil, and then returned as quickly tothe heart; her trembling hand pressed that of Ursula as she sighed andmurmured, "No, no, no."
"Yes, it is his spirit that hovers over your life, Sybil; and in vainyou would forget what haunts your heart. One not less gifted than him;as good, as gentle, as gracious; once too breathed in my ear the accentsof joy. He was, like myself, the child of an old house, and Nature hadinvested him with every quality that can dazzle and can charm. But hisheart was as pure, and his soul as lofty, as his intellect and framewere bright,--" and Ursula paused.
Sybil pressed the hand of Ursula to her lips and whispered, "Speak on."
"The dreams of by-gone days," continued Ursula in a voice of emotion,"the wild sorrows than I can recall, and yet feel that I was wiselychastened. He was stricken in his virtuous pride, the day before he wasto have led me to that altar where alone I found the consolation thatnever fails. And thus closed some years of human love, my Sybil," saidUrsula, bending forward and embracing her. "The world for a seasoncrossed their fair current, and a power greater than the world forbadetheir banns; but they are hallowed; memory is my sympathy; it is softand free, and when he came here to enquire after you, his presence andagitated heart recalled the past."
"It is too wild a thought," said Sybil, "ruin to him, ruin to all. No,we are severed by a fate as uncontrollable as severed you dear friend;ours is a living death."
"The morrow is unforeseen," said Ursula. "Happy indeed would it be forme, my Sybil, that your innocence should be enshrined within these holywalls, and that the pupil of my best years, and the friend of my serenelife, should be my successor in this house. But I feel a deep persuasionthat the hour has not arrived for you to take the step that never can berecalled."
So saying, Ursula embraced and dismissed Sybil; for the conversation,the last passages of which we have given, had Occurred when Sybilaccording to her wont on Saturday afternoon had come to request thepermission of the Lady Superior to visit her father.
It was in a tolerably spacious and not discomfortable chamber, the firstfloor over the printing-office of the Mowbray Phalanx, that Gerard hadfound a temporary home. He had not long returned from his factory,and pacing the chamber with a disturbed step, he awaited the expectedarrival of his daughter.
She came; the faithful step, the well-known knock; the father and thedaughter embraced; he pressed to his heart the child who had clung tohim through so many trials, and who had softened so many sorrows, whohad been the visiting angel in his cell, and whose devotion had ledcaptivity captive.
Their meetings, though regular, were now comparatively rare. Thesacred day united them, and sometimes for a short period the previousafternoon, but otherwise the cheerful hearth and welcome home were nolonger for Gerard. And would the future bring them to him? And what wasto be the future of his child? His mind vacillated between the conventof which she now seldom spoke, and which with him was never a cherishedidea, and those dreams of restored and splendid fortunes which hissanguine temperament still whispered him, in spite of hope so longdeferred and expectations so often baulked, might yet be realized. Andsometimes between these opposing visions, there rose a third and morepractical, though less picturesque result, the idea of her marriage. Andwith whom? It was impossible that one so rarely gifted and educated withso much daintiness, could ever make a wife of the people. Hatton offeredwealth, but Sybil had never seemed to comprehend his hopes, and Gerardfelt that their ill-assorted ages was a great barrier. There was ofall the men of his own order but one, who from his years, his greatqualities, his sympathy, and the nature of his toil and means, seemednot unfitted to be the husband of his daughter; and often had Gerardmused over the possibility of these intimate ties with Morley. Sybilhad been, as it were, bred up under his eye; an affection had alwayssubsisted between them, and he knew well that in former days Sybil hadappreciated and admired the great talents and acquirements of theirfriend. At one period he almost suspected that Morley was attached toher. And yet, from causes which he had never attempted to penetrate,probably from a combination of unintentional circumstances, Sybil andMorley had for the last two or three years been thrown little together,and their intimacy had entirely died away. To Gerard it seemed thatMorley had ever proved his faithful friend: Morley had originallydissuaded him with energy against that course which had led to hisdiscomfiture and punishment; when arrested, his former colleague was hisbail, was his companion and adviser during his trial; had endeavoured toalleviate his imprisonment; and on his release had offered to share hismeans with Gerard, and when these were refused, he at least suppliedGerard with a roof. And yet with all this, that abandonment of heart andbrain, and deep sympathy with every domestic thought that characterizedold days, was somehow or other wanting. There was on the part of Morleystill devotion, but there was reserve.
"You are troubled, my father," said Sybil, as Gerard continued to pacethe chamber.
"Only a little restless. I am thinking what a mistake it was to havemoved in '39."
Sybil sighed.
"Ah! you were right, Sybil," continued Gerard; "affairs were not ripe.We should have waited three years."
"Three years!" exclaimed Sybil, starting; "are affairs riper now?"
"The whole of Lancashire is in revolt," said Gerard. "There is not asufficient force to keep them in check. If the miners and colliers rise,and I have cause to believe that it is more than probable they will movebefore many days are past,--the game is up."
"You terrify me," said Sybil.
"On the Contrary," said Gerard, smiling, "the news is good enough; I'llnot say too good to be true, for I had it from one of the old delegateswho is over here to see what can be done in our north countree."
"Yes," said Sybil inquiringly, and leading on her father.
"He came to the works; we had some talk. There are to be no leaders thistime, at least no visible ones. The people will
do it themselves. Allthe children of Labour are to rise on the same day, and to toil no more,till they have their rights. No violence, no bloodshed, but toil halts,and then our oppressors will learn the great economical truth as well asmoral lesson, that when Toil plays Wealth ceases."
"When Toil ceases the People suffer," said Sybil. "That is the onlytruth that we have learnt, and it is a bitter one."
"Can we be free without suffering," said Gerard. "Is the greatest ofhuman blessings to be obtained as a matter of course; to be plucked likefruit, or seized like a running stream? No, no: we must suffer, butwe are wiser than of yore,--we will not conspire. Conspiracies are foraristocrats, not for nations."
"Alas, alas! I see nothing but woe," said Sybil. "I cannot believe thatafter all that has passed, the people here will move: I cannot believethat after all that has passed, all that you, that we, have endured,that you, my father, will counsel them to move."
"I counsel nothing," said Gerard. "It must be a great national instinctthat does it: but if all England, if Wales, if Scotland won't work, isMowbray to have a monopoly?"
"Ah! that's a bitter jest," said Sybil. "England, Wales, Scotland willbe forced to work as they were forced before. How can they subsistwithout labour? And if they could, there is an organised power that willsubdue them."
"The Benefit Societies, the Sick and Burial Clubs, have money in thebanks that would maintain the whole working classes, with aid in kindthat will come, for six weeks, and that will do the business. And as forforce, why there are not five soldiers to each town in the kingdom. It'sa glittering bugbear this fear of the military; simultaneous strikeswould baffle all the armies in Europe."
"I'll go back and pray that all this is wild talk," said Sybilearnestly. "After all that has passed, were it only for your child, youshould not speak, much less think, this, my father. What havoc to ourhearts and homes has been all this madness! It has separated us; it hasdestroyed our happy home; it has done more than this--" and here shewept.
"Nay, nay, my child," said Gerard, coming up and soothing her; "onecannot weigh one's words before those we love. I can't hear of thepeople moving with coldness--that's out of nature; but I promise youI'll not stimulate the lads here. I am told they are little inclined tostir. You found me in a moment of what I must call I suppose elationbut I hear they beat the red-coats and police at Staley Bridge, and thatpricked my blood a bit. I have been ridden down before this when I was alad, Sybil, by Yeomanry hoofs. You must allow a little for my feelings."
She extended her lips to the proffered embrace of her father. He blessedher and pressed her to his heart, and soothed her apprehensions withmany words of softness. There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Gerard. And there came in Mr Hatton.
They had not met since Gerard's release from York Castle. There Hattonhad visited him, had exercised his influence to remedy his grievances,and had more than once offered him the means of maintenance on receivinghis freedom. There were moments of despondency when Gerard had almostwished that the esteem and regard with which Sybil looked upon Hattonmight have matured into sentiments of a deeper nature; but on thissubject the father had never breathed a word. Nor had Hatton, exceptto Gerard, ever intimated his wishes, for we could scarcely call themhopes. He was a silent suitor of Sybil, watching opportunities and readyto avail himself of circumstances which he worshipped. His sanguinedisposition, fed by a very suggestive and inventive mind, and stimulatedby success and a prosperous life, sustained him always to the last.Hatton always believed that everything desirable must happen if a manhad energy and watched circumstances. He had confidence too in theinfluence of his really insinuating manner; his fine taste, his tendertone, his ready sympathy, all which masked his daring courage andabsolute recklessness of means.
There were general greetings of the greatest warmth. The eyes of Hattonwere suffused with tears as he congratulated Gerard on his restoredhealth, and pressed Sybil's hand with the affection of an old friendbetween both his own.
"I was down in this part of the world on business," said Hatton, "andthought I would come over here for a day to find you all out." Andthen after some general conversation he said "And where do you think Iaccidentally paid a visit a day or two back? At Mowbray Castle. I seeyou are surprised. I saw all your friends. I did not ask his Lordshiphow the writ of right went on. I dare say he thinks 'tis all hushed. Buthe is mistaken. I have learnt something which may help us over the stileyet."
"Well-a-day," said Gerard, "I once thought if I could get back the landsthe people would at last have a friend; but that's past. I have been adreamer of dreams often when I was overlooking them at work. And so weall have I suppose. I would willingly give up my claim if I could besure the Lancashire lads will not come to harm this bout."
"'Tis a more serious business," said Hatton, "than any thing of the kindthat has yet happened. The government are much alarmed. They talk ofsending the Guards down into the north, and bringing over troops fromIreland."
"Poor Ireland!" said Gerard. "Well, I think the frieze-coats might giveus a helping hand now, and employ the troops at least."
"No, my dear father, say not such things."
"Sybil will not let me think of these matters friend Hatton," saidGerard smiling. "Well, I suppose it's not in my way, at least Icertainly did not make the best hand of it in '39; but it was Londonthat got me into that scrape. I cannot help fancying that were I on ourMoors here a bit with some good lads it might be different, and I mustsay so, I must indeed, Sybil."
"But you are very quiet here I hope," said Hatton.
"Oh! yes," said Gerard, "I believe our spirit is sufficiently brokenat Mowbray. Wages weekly dropping, and just work enough to hinder sheeridleness; that sort of thing keeps the people in very humble trim. Butwait a bit, and when they have reached the starvation point I fancy weshall hear a murmur."
"I remember our friend Morley in '39, when we returned from London, gaveme a very good character of the disposition of the people here," saidHatton "I hope it continues the same. He feared no outbreak then, andthe distress in '39 was severe."
"Well," said Gerard, "the wages have been dropping ever since. Thepeople exist, but you can scarcely say they live. But they are cowed Ifancy. An empty belly is sometimes as apt to dull the heart as inflamethe courage. And then they have lost their leaders, for I was away yousee, and have been quiet enough since I came out; and Warner is broken:he has suffered more from his time than I did; which is strange, for hehad his pursuits; whereas I was restless enough, and that's the truth,and had it not been for Sybil's daily visit I think, though I may neverbe allowed to live in a castle, I should certainly have died in one."
"And how is Morley?"
"Right well; the same as you left him: I saw not a straw's change when Icame out. His paper spreads. He still preaches moral force, andbelieves that we shall all end in living in communities. But as the onlycommunity of which I have personal experience is a gaol, I am not muchmore inclined to his theory than heretofore."
Book 6 Chapter 6