Egremont with composure and native grace. It is civilization that makes
us awkward, for it gives us an uncertain position. Perplexed, we take
refuge in pretence; and embarrassed, we seek a resource in affectation.
The Bedouin and the Red Indian never lose their presence of mind; and
the wife of a peasant, when you enter her cottage, often greets you with
a propriety of mien which favourably contrasts with your reception by
some grand dame in some grand assembly, meeting her guests alternately
with a caricature of courtesy or an exaggeration of supercilious
self-control.
“I dare say,” said Egremont bowing to Sybil, “you have seen our poor
friend 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 a
great accumulation of notes, and I fancied I could reduce them into a
report more efficiently in comparative seclusion. So I have got a room
near here, with a little garden, not so pretty as yours; but still a
garden 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 in
London, and hard work. Some country air will do you all the good in the
world. That gallery must be tiresome. Do you use shorthand?”
“A sort of shorthand of my own,” said Egremont. “I trust a good deal to
my memory.”
“Ah! you are young. My daughter also has a wonderful memory. For my own
part, there are many things which I am not sorry to forget.”
“You see I took you at your word, neighbour,” said Egremont. “When one
has 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; I
never 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 sooner
listen than read any time,” said Gerard. “Indeed I should be right glad
to see the minstrel and the storyteller going their rounds again. It
would be easy after a day’s work, when one has not, as I have now, a
good child to read to me.”
“This volume?” said Egremont drawing his chair to the table and looking
at 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 to
Sybil Gerard.”
“You know it?” said Sybil.
“Only by fame.”
“Perhaps the subject may not interest you so much as it does us,” said
Sybil.
“It must interest all and all alike,” said her father; “for we are
divided between the conquerors and the conquered.”
“But do not you think,” said Egremont, “that such a distinction has long
ceased to exist?”
“In what degree?” asked Gerard. “Many circumstances of oppression have
doubtless gradually disappeared: but that has arisen from the change of
manners, not from any political recognition of their injustice. The same
course of time which has removed many enormities, more shocking however
to our modern feelings than to those who devised and endured them,
has simultaneously removed many alleviating circumstances. If the mere
baron’s grasp be not so ruthless, the champion we found in the church
is no longer so ready. The spirit of Conquest has adapted itself to the
changing circumstances of ages, and however its results vary in form, in
degree they are much the same.”
“But how do they show themselves?”
“In many circumstances, which concern many classes; but I speak of
those which touch my own order; and therefore I say at once--in the
degradation of the people.”
“But are the people so degraded?”
“There is more serfdom in England now than at any time since the
Conquest. I speak of what passes under my daily eyes when I say that
those who labour can as little choose or change their masters now,
as when they were born thralls. There are great bodies of the working
classes of this country nearer the condition of brutes, than they have
been at any time since the Conquest. Indeed I see nothing to distinguish
them from brutes, except that their morals are inferior. Incest and
infanticide are as common among them as among the lower animals. The
domestic principle waxes weaker and weaker every year in England: nor
can we wonder at it, when there is no comfort to cheer and no sentiment
to hallow the Home.”
“I was reading a work the other day,” said Egremont, “that statistically
proved that the general condition of the people was much better at this
moment than it had been at any known period of history.”
“Ah! yes, I know that style of speculation,” said Gerard; “your
gentleman who reminds you that a working man now has a pair of cotton
stockings, and that Harry the Eighth himself was not as well off. At
any rate, the condition of classes must be judged of by the age, and by
their relation with each other. One need not dwell on that. I deny the
premises. I deny that the condition of the main body is better now than
at any other period of our history; that it is as good as it has been
at several. I say, for instance, the people were better clothed, better
lodged, and better fed just before the war of the Roses than they are at
this moment. We know how an English peasant lived in those times: he eat
flesh every day, he never drank water, was well housed, and clothed in
stout woollens. Nor are the Chronicles necessary to tell us this. The
acts of Parliament from the Plantagenets to the Tudors teach us alike
the price of provisions and the rate of wages; and we see in a moment
that the wages of those days brought as much sustenance and comfort as a
reasonable man could desire.”
“I know how deeply you feel upon this subject,” said Egremont turning to
Sybil.
“Indeed it is the only subject that ever engages my thought,” she
replied, “except one.”
“And that one?”
“Is to see the people once more kneel before our blessed Lady,” replied
Sybil.
“Look at the average term of life,” said Gerard, coming unintentionally
to the relief of Egremont, who was a little embarrassed. “The average
term of life in this district among the working classes is seventeen.
What think you of that? Of the infants born in Mowbray, more than a
moiety 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 now
in England than we ever had, but it only reaches the poor. You never
hear of it. Why Typhus alone takes every year from the dwellings of the
artisan and peasant a population equal to that of the whole county of
Westmoreland. This goes on every year, but the representatives of the
conquerors are not touched: it is the descendants of the conquered alone
who are the victims.”
“It sometimes seems to me,” said Sybil despondingly, “that nothing short
of the descent of angels can save the people of this kingdom.”
“I sometimes think I hear a little bird,” said Gerard, “who sings that
the long frost may yet break up. I have a friend, him of whom I was
speaking 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 whom
God helps.”
All this time Egremont was sitting at the table, with the book in his
hand, gazing fitfully and occasionally with an air of absence on its
title-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. I
thought I was reading it to myself. Sybil Gerard! What a beautiful name
is Sybil!”
“My mother’s name,” said Gerard; “and my grandame’s name, and a name I
believe that has been about our hearth as long as our race; and that’s a
very long time indeed,” he added smiling, “for we were tall men in King
John’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 the
sons 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; and
that 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: it
stills the spirit before we sink into the slumber which may this night
be death, and which one day must be.”
Book 3 Chapter 6
A bloom was spread over the morning sky. A soft golden light bathed with
its fresh beam the bosom of the valley, except where a delicate haze,
rather than a mist, still partially lingered over the river, which yet
occasionally gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine. A sort of shadowy
lustre suffused the landscape, which, though distinct, was mitigated in
all its features--the distant woods, the clumps of tall trees that rose
about the old grey bridge, the cottage chimneys that sent their smoke
into the blue still air, amid their clustering orchards and garden of
flowers and herbs.
Ah! what is there so fresh and joyous as a summer morn! That spring time
of the day, when the brain is bright, and the heart is brave; the season
of daring and of hope; the renovating hour!
Came forth from his cottage room the brother of Lord Marney, to feel the
vigorous bliss of life amid sunshiny gardens and the voices of bees and
birds.
“Ah! this is delicious!” he felt. “This is existence! Thank God I am
here; that I have quitted for ever that formal and heartless Marney.
Were it not for my mother, I would remain Mr Franklin for ever. Would I
were indeed a journalist; provided I always had a mission to the vale
of Mowbray. Or anything, so that I were ever here. As companions,
independent of everything else, they are superior to any that I have
been used to. Why do these persons interest me? They feel and they
think: two habits that have quite gone out of fashion, if ever they
existed, among my friends. And that polish of manners, that studied and
factitious refinement, which is to compensate for the heartlessness or
the stupidity we are doomed to--is my host of last night deficient in
that refinement? If he do want our conventional discipline, he has a
native breeding which far excels it. I observe no word or action which
is not prompted by that fine feeling which is the sure source of good
taste. This Gerard appears to me a real genuine man; full of knowledge
worked out by his own head; with large yet wholesome sympathies; and a
deuced deal better educated than Lord de Mowbray or my brother--and they
do occasionally turn over a book, which is not the habit of our set.
“And his daughter--ay, his daughter! There is something almost sublime
about that young girl, yet strangely sweet withal; a tone so lofty
combined with such simplicity is very rare. For there is no affectation
of enthusiasm about her; nothing exaggerated, nothing rhapsodical. Her
dark eyes and lustrous face, and the solemn sweetness of her thrilling
voice--they haunt me; they have haunted me from the first moment I
encountered her like a spirit amid the ruins of our abbey. And I am
one of ‘the family of sacrilege.’ If she knew that! And I am one of the
conquering class she denounces. If also she knew that! Ah! there is much
to know! Above all--the future. Away! the tree of knowledge is the tree
of death. I will have no thought that is not as bright and lovely as
this morn.”
He went forth from his little garden, and strolled along the road in the
direction of the cottage of Gerard, which was about three quarters of
a mile distant. You might see almost as far; the sunshiny road a little
winding and rising a very slight ascent. The cottage itself was hid by
its trees. While Egremont was still musing of one who lived under that
roof, he beheld in the distance Sybil.
She was springing along with a quick and airy step. Her black dress
displayed her undulating and elastic figure. Her little foot bounded
from the earth with a merry air. A long rosary hung at her side; and
her head was partly covered with a hood which descended just over her
shoulders. She seemed gay, for Harold kept running before her with a
frolicsome air, and then returning to his mistress, danced about her,
and almost overpowered her with his gambols.
“I salute thee, holy sister,” said Egremont.
“Oh! is not this a merry morn!” she exclaimed with a bright and happy
face.
“I feel it as you. And whither do you go?”
“I go to the convent; I pay my first visit to our Superior since I left
them.”
“Not very long ago,” said Egremont, with a smile, and turning with her.
“It seems so,” said Sybil.
They walked on together; Sybil glad as the hour; noticing a thousand
cheerful sights, speaking to her dog in her ringing voice, as he
gambolled before them, or seized her garments in his mouth, and ever and
anon bounded away and then returned, looking up in his mistress’ face to
inquire whether he had been wanted in his absence.
“What a pity it is that your father’s way each morning lies up the
valley,” said Egremont; “he would be your companion to Mowbray.”
“Ah! but I am so happy that he has not to work in a town,” said Sybil.
“He is not made to be cooped up in a hot factory in a smoky street. At
least he labours among the woods and waters. And the Traffords are such
good people! So kind to him and to all.”
“You love your father very much.”
She looked at him a little surprised; and then her sweet serious face
broke into a smile and she said, “And is that strange?”
“I think not,” said Egremont; “I am inclined to love him myself.”
“Ah! you win my heart,” said Sybil, “when you praise him. I think that
is the real reason why I like Stephen; for otherwise he is always saying
something with which I cannot agree, which I disapprove; and yet he is
so good to my father!”
“You speak of Mr Morley--”
“Oh! we don’t call him ‘Mr’,” said Sybil slightly laughing.
“I mean Stephen Morley,” said Egremont recalling his position, “whom I
met in Marney Abbey. He is very clever, is he not?”
“He is a great writer and a great student; and what he is he has made
himself. I hear too that you follow the same pursuit,” said Sybil.
“But I am not a great writer or a great student,” said Egremont.
“Whatever you be, I trust,” said Sybil, in a more serious tone, “that
you will never employ the talents that God has given you against the
People.”
“I have come here to learn something of their condition,” said Egremont.
“That is not to be done in a great city like London. We all of us live
too much in a circle. You will assist me, I am sure,” added Egremont;
“your spirit will animate me. You told me last night that there was no
other subject, except one, which ever occupied your thoughts.”
“Yes,” said Sybil, “I have lived under two roofs, only two roofs; and
each has given me a great idea; the Convent and the Cottage. One has
taught me the degradation of my faith, the other of my race. You should
not wonder, therefore, that my heart is concentrated on the Church and
the People.”
“But there are other ideas,” said Egremont, “that might equally be
entitled to your thought.”
“I feel these are enough,” said Sybil; “too great, as it is, for my
brain.”
Book 3 Chapter 7
At the end of a court in Wodgate, of rather larger dimensions than usual
in that town, was a high and many-windowed house, of several stories
in height, which had been added to it at intervals. It was in a most
dilapidated state; the principal part occupied as a nail-workshop, where
a great number of heavy iron machines were working in every room on each
floor; the building itself in so shattered a condition that every part
of it creaked and vibrated with their motion. The flooring was so broken
that in many places one could look down through the gaping and rotten
planks, while the upper floors from time to time had been shored up with
props.
This was the Palace of the Bishop of Wodgate, and here with his arms
bare and black, he worked at those locks, which defied any skeleton key
that was not made by himself. He was a short, thickset man, powerfully
made, with brawny arms disproportionately short even for his height, and
with a countenance, as far as one could judge of a face so disfigured by
his grimy toil, rather brutal than savage. His choice apprentices, full
of admiration and terror, worked about him; lank and haggard youths, who
never for an instant dared to raise their dingy faces and lack-lustre
eyes from their ceaseless labour. On each side of their master, seated
on a stool higher than the rest, was an urchin of not more than four or
five years of age, serious and demure, and as if proud of his eminent
position, or working incessantly at his little file;--these were two
sons of the bishop.
“Now boys,” said the bishop, in a hoarse, harsh voice, “steady, there;
steady. There’s a file what don’t sing; can’t deceive my ear; I know all
their voices. Don’t let me find that un out, or I won’t walk into him,
won’t I? Ayn’t you lucky boys, to have reg’lar work like this, and the
best of prog! It worn’t my lot, I can tell you that. Give me that shut,
you there, Scrubbynose, can’t you move? Look sharp, or I won’t move you,
won’t I? Steady, steady! All right! That’s music. Where will you hear
music like twenty files all working at once! You ought to be happy boys,
oughtn’t you? Won’t there be a treat of fish after this, that’s all!
Hulloa, there, you red-haired varmint, what are you looking after? Three
boys looking about them; what’s all this? Won’t I be among you?” and he
sprang forward and seized the luckless ears of the first apprentice he
could get hold off, and wrung them till the blood spouted forth.
“Please, bishop,” sang out the boy, “it worn’t my fault. Here’s a man
what wants you.”
“Who wants me?” said the bishop, looking round, and he caught the figure
of Morley who had just entered the shop.
“Well, what’s your will? Locks or nails?”
“Neither,” said Morley; “I wish to see a man named Hatton.”
“Well, you see a man named Hatton,” said the bishop; “and now what do
want of him?”
“I should like to say a word to you alone,” said Morley.
“Hem! I should like to know who is to finish this lock, and to look
after my boys! If it’s an order, let us have it at once.”
“It is not an order,” said Morley.
“Then I don’t want to hear nothing about it,” said the bishop.
“It’s about family matters,” said Morley.
“Ah!” said Hatton, eagerly, “what, do you come from him?”
“It may be,” said Morley.
Upon this the bishop, looking up to the ceiling of the room in which
there were several large chinks, began calling out lustily to some
unseen person above, and immediately was replied to in a shrill voice of
objurgation, demanding in peremptory words, interlarded with many oaths,
what he wanted. His reply called down his unseen correspondent, who soon
entered his workshop. It was the awful presence of Mrs Hatton; a tall,
bearded virago, with a file in her hand, for that seemed the distinctive
arm of the house, and eyes flashing with unbridled power.
“Look after the boys,” said Hatton, “for I have business.”
“Won’t I?” said Mrs Hatton; and a thrill of terror pervaded the
assembly. All the files moved in regular melody; no one dared to raise
his face; even her two young children looked still more serious and
demure. Not that any being present flattered himself for an instant that
the most sedulous attention on his part could prevent an outbreak; all
that each aspired to, and wildly hoped, was that he might not be the
victim singled out to have his head cut open, or his eye knocked out, or
his ears half pulled off by the being who was the terror not only of the
workshop, but of Wodgate itself,--their bishop’s gentle wife.
In the meantime, that worthy, taking Morley into a room where there were
no machines at work except those made of iron, said, “Well, what have
you brought me?”
“In the first place,” said Morley, “I would speak to you of your
brother.”
“I concluded that,” said Hatton, “when you spoke of family matters
bringing you here; he is the only relation I have in this world, and
therefore it must be of him.”
“It is of him,” said Morley.
“Has he sent anything?”
“Hem!” said Morley, who was by nature a diplomatist, and instantly
comprehended his position, being himself pumped when he came to pump;
but he resolved not to precipitate the affair. “How late is it since you
heard from him?” he asked.
“Why, I suppose you know,” said Hatton, “I heard as usual.”
“From his usual place?” inquired Morley.
“I wish you would tell me where that is,” said Hatton, eagerly.
“Why, he writes to you?”
“Blank letters; never had a line except once, and that is more than
twelve year ago. He sends me a twenty-pound note every Christmas; and
that is all I know about him.”
“Then he is rich, and well to do in the world? said Morley.”
“Why, don’t you know?” said Hatton; “I thought you came from him!”
“I came about him. I wished to know whether he were alive, and that you
have been able to inform me: and where he was; and that you have not
been able to inform me.”
“Why, you’re a regular muff!” said the bishop.
Book 3 Chapter 8
A few days after his morning walk with Sybil, it was agreed that
Egremont should visit Mr Trafford’s factory, which he had expressed
a great desire to inspect. Gerard always left his cottage at break of
dawn, and as Sybil had not yet paid her accustomed visit to her friend
and patron, who was the employer of her father, it was arranged that
Egremont should accompany her at a later and more convenient hour in the
morning, and then that they should all return together.
The factory was about a mile distant from their cottage, which belonged
indeed to Mr Trafford, and had been built by him. He was the younger son
of a family that had for centuries been planted in the land, but who,
not satisfied with the factitious consideration with which society
compensates the junior members of a territorial house for their
entailed poverty, had availed himself of some opportunities that offered
themselves, and had devoted his energies to those new sources of wealth
that were unknown to his ancestors. His operations at first had been
extremely limited, like his fortunes; but with a small capital, though
his profits were not considerable, he at least gained experience. With
gentle blood in his veins, and old English feelings, he imbibed, at an
early period of his career, a correct conception of the relations which
should subsist between the employer and the employed. He felt that
between them there should be other ties than the payment and the receipt
of wages.
A distant and childless relative, who made him a visit, pleased with
his energy and enterprise, and touched by the development of his social
views, left him a considerable sum, at a moment too when a great opening
was offered to manufacturing capital and skill. Trafford, schooled in
rigid fortunes, and formed by struggle, if not by adversity, was ripe
for the occasion, and equal to it. He became very opulent, and he lost
no time in carrying into life and being the plans which he had brooded
over in the years when his good thoughts were limited to dreams. On the
banks of his native Mowe he had built a factory which was now one of the
marvels of the district; one might almost say, of the country: a
single room, spreading over nearly two acres, and holding more than two
thousand work-people. The roof of groined arches, lighted by ventilating
domes at the height of eighteen feet, was supported by hollow cast-iron
columns, through which the drainage of the roof was effected. The height
of the ordinary rooms in which the work-people in manufactories are
engaged is not more than from nine to eleven feet; and these are built
in stories, the heat and effluvia of the lower rooms communicated to
those above, and the difficulty of ventilation insurmountable. At Mr
Trafford’s, by an ingenious process, not unlike that which is practised
in the House of Commons, the ventilation was also carried on from below,
so that the whole building was kept at a steady temperature, and little
susceptible to atmospheric influence. The physical advantages of thus
carrying on the whole work in one chamber are great: in the improved
health of the people, the security against dangerous accidents for women
and youth, and the reduced fatigue resulting from not having to ascend
and descend and carry materials to the higher rooms. But the moral
advantages resulting from superior inspection and general observation
are not less important: the child works under the eye of the parent, the
parent under that of the superior workman; the inspector or employer at
a glance can behold all.
When the workpeople of Mr Trafford left his factory they were not
forgotten. Deeply had he pondered on the influence of the employer on
the health and content of his workpeople. He knew well that the domestic
virtues are dependent on the existence of a home, and one of his first
efforts had been to build a village where every family might be well
lodged. Though he was the principal proprietor, and proud of that
character, he nevertheless encouraged his workmen to purchase the fee:
there were some who had saved sufficient money to effect this: proud of
their house and their little garden, and of the horticultural society,
where its produce permitted them to be annual competitors. In every
street there was a well: behind the factory were the public baths; the
schools were under the direction of the perpetual curate of the church,
which Mr Trafford, though a Roman Catholic, had raised and endowed. In
the midst of this village, surrounded by beautiful gardens, which
gave an impulse to the horticulture of the community, was the house of
Trafford himself, who comprehended his position too well to withdraw
himself with vulgar exclusiveness from his real dependents, but
recognized the baronial principle reviving in a new form, and adapted to
the softer manners and more ingenious circumstances of the times.
And what was the influence of such an employer and such a system of
employment on the morals and manners of the employed? Great: infinitely
beneficial. The connexion of a labourer with his place of work, whether
agricultural or manufacturing, is itself a vast advantage. Proximity to
the employer brings cleanliness and order, because it brings observation
and encouragement. In the settlement of Trafford crime was positively
unknown: and offences were very slight. There was not a single person in
the village of a reprobate character. The men were well clad; the women
had a blooming cheek; drunkenness was unknown; while the moral condition
of the softer sex was proportionately elevated.
The vast form of the spreading factory, the roofs and gardens of the
village, the Tudor chimneys of the house of Trafford, the spire of the
gothic church, with the sparkling river and the sylvan hack-ground, came
rather suddenly on the sight of Egremont. They were indeed in the
pretty village-street before he was aware he was about to enter it. Some
beautiful children rushed out of a cottage and flew to Sybil, crying
out, “the queen, the queen;” one clinging to her dress, another seizing
her arm, and a third, too small to struggle, pouting out its lips to be
embraced.
“My subjects,” said Sybil laughing, as she greeted them all; and then
they ran away to announce to others that their queen had arrived.
Others came: beautiful and young. As Sybil and Egremont walked along,
the race too tender for labour, seemed to spring out of every cottage
to greet “their queen.” Her visits had been very rare of late, but they
were never forgotten; they formed epochs in the village annals of the
children, some of whom knew only by tradition the golden age when Sybil
Gerard lived at the great house, and daily glanced like a spirit among
their homes, smiling and met with smiles, blessing and ever blessed.
“And here,” she said to Egremont, “I must bid you good bye; and this
little boy,” touching gently on his head a very serious urchin who had
never left her side for a moment, proud of his position, and holding
tight her hand with all his strength, “this little boy shall be your
guide. It is not a hundred yards. Now, Pierce, you must take Mr Franklin
to the factory, and ask for Mr Gerard.” And she went her way.
They had not separated five minutes when the sound of whirling wheels
caught the ear of Egremont, and, looking round, he saw a cavalcade of
great pretension rapidly approaching; dames and cavaliers on horseback;
a brilliant equipage, postilions and four horses; a crowd of grooms.
Egremont stood aside. The horsemen and horsewomen caracoled gaily by
him; proudly swept on the sparkling barouche; the saucy grooms pranced
in his face. Their masters and mistresses were not strangers to him: he
recognized with some dismay the liveries, and then the arms of Lord de
Mowbray, and caught the cold, proud countenance of Lady Joan, and the
flexible visage of Lady Maud, both on horseback, and surrounded by
admiring cavaliers.
Egremont flattered himself that he had not been recognised, and
dismissing his little guide, instead of proceeding to the factory he
sauntered away in an opposite direction, and made a visit to the church.
The wife of Trafford embraced Sybil, and then embraced her again. She
seemed as happy as the children of the village, that the joy of her
roof, as of so many others, had returned to them, though only for a few
hours. Her husband she said had just quitted the house; he was obliged
to go to the factory to receive a great and distinguished party who were
expected this morning, having written to him several days before for
permission to view the works. “We expect them to lunch here afterwards,”
said Mrs Trafford, a very refined woman, but unused to society, and who
rather trembled at the ceremony; “Oh! do stay with me, Sybil, to receive
them.”
This intimation so much alarmed Sybil that she rose as soon as was
practicable; and saying that she had some visits to make in the village,
she promised to return when Mrs Trafford was less engaged.
An hour elapsed; there was a loud ring at the hall-door, the great
and distinguished party had arrived. Mrs Trafford prepared for the
interview, and tried to look very composed as the doors opened, and her
husband ushered in and presented to her Lord and Lady de Mowbray, their
daughters, Lady Firebrace, Mr Jermyn, who still lingered at the castle,
and Mr Alfred Mountchesney and Lord Milford, who were mere passing
guests, on their way to Scotland, but reconnoitering the heiresses in
their course.
Lord de Mowbray was profuse of praise and compliments. His lordship was
apt to be too civil. The breed would come out sometimes. To-day he was
quite the coffee-house waiter. He praised everything: the machinery, the
workmen, the cotton manufactured and the cotton raw, even the smoke. But
Mrs Trafford would not have the smoke defended, and his lordship gave
the smoke up, but only to please her. As for Lady de Mowbray, she was as
usual courteous and condescending, with a kind of smouldering smile on
her fair aquiline face, that seemed half pleasure and half surprise at
the strange people she was among. Lady Joan was haughty and scientific,
approved of much, but principally of the system of ventilation, of which
she asked several questions which greatly perplexed Mrs Trafford, who
slightly blushed, and looked at her husband for relief, but he was
engaged with Lady Maud, who was full of enthusiasm, entered into
everything with the zest of sympathy, identified herself with the
factory system almost as much as she had done with the crusades, and
longed to teach in singing schools, found public gardens, and bid
fountains flow and sparkle for the people.
“I think the works were very wonderful,” said Lord Milford, as he was
cutting a pasty; “and indeed, Mrs Trafford, everything here is quite
charming; but what I have most admired at your place is a young girl we
met--the most beautiful I think I ever saw.”
“With the most beautiful dog,” said Mr Mountchesney.
“Oh! that must have been Sybil!” exclaimed Mrs Trafford.
“And who is Sybil?” asked Lady Maud. “That is one of our family names.
We all thought her quite beautiful.”
“She is a child of the house,” said Mrs Trafford, “or rather was, for I
am sorry to say she has long quitted us.”
“Is she a nun?” asked Lord Milford, “for her vestments had a conventual
air.”
“She has just left your convent at Mowbray,” said Mr Trafford,
addressing his answer to Lady Maud, “and rather against her will. She
clings to the dress she was accustomed to there.”
“And now she resides with you?”
“No; I should be very happy if she did. I might almost say she was
brought up under this roof. She lives now with her father.”
“And who is so fortunate as to be her father?” enquired Mr Mountchesney.
“Her father is the inspector of my works; the person who accompanied us
over them this morning.”
“What! that handsome man I so much admired,” said Lady Maud, “so very
aristocratic-looking. Papa,” she said, addressing herself to Lord de
Mowbray, “the inspector of Mr Trafford’s works we are speaking of, that
aristocratic-looking person that I observed to you, he is the father of
the beautiful girl.”
“He seemed a very intelligent person,” said Lord de Mowbray with many
smiles.
“Yes,” said Mr Trafford; “he has great talents and great integrity. I
would trust him with anything and to any amount. All I wish,” he added,
with a smile and in a lower tone to Lady de Mowbray, “all I wish is,
that he was not quite so fond of politics.”
“Is he very violent?” enquired her ladyship in a sugary tone.
“Too violent,” said Mr Trafford, “and wild in his ideas.”
“And yet I suppose,” said Lord Milford, “he must be very well off?”
“Why I must say for him it is not selfishness that makes him a
malcontent,” said Mr Trafford; “he bemoans the condition of the people.”
“If we are to judge of the condition of the people by what we see here,”
said Lord de Mowbray, “there is little to lament in it. But I fear these
are instances not so common as we could wish. You must have been at a
great outlay, Mr Trafford?”
“Why,” said Mr Trafford, “for my part. I have always considered that
there was nothing so expensive as a vicious population. I hope I had
other objects in view in what I have done than a pecuniary compensation.
They say we all have our hobbies; and it was ever mine to improve the
condition of my workpeople, to see what good tenements and good
schools and just wages paid in a fair manner, and the encouragement of
civilizing pursuits, would do to elevate their character. I should
find an ample reward in the moral tone and material happiness of this
community; but really viewing it in a pecuniary point of view, the
investment of capital has been one of the most profitable I ever made;
and I would not, I assure you, for double its amount, exchange my
workpeople for the promiscuous assemblage engaged in other factories.”
“The influence of the atmosphere on the condition of the labourer is a
subject which deserves investigation,” said Lady Joan to Mr Jermyn, who
stared and bowed.
“And you do not feel alarmed at having a person of such violent
opinions as your inspector at the head of your establishment,” said Lady
Firebrace to Mr Trafford, who smiled a negative.
“What is the name of the intelligent individual who accompanied us?”
enquired Lord de Mowbray.
“His name is Gerard,” said Mr Trafford.
“I believe a common name in these parts,” said Lord de Mowbray looking a
little confused.
“Not very,” said Mr Trafford; “‘tis an old name and the stock has
spread; but all Gerards claim a common lineage I believe, and my
inspector has gentle blood, they say, in his veins.”
“He looks as if he had,” said Lady Maud.
“All persons with good names affect good blood,” said Lord de Mowbray;
and then turning to Mrs Trafford he overwhelmed her with elaborate
courtesies of phrase; praised everything again; first generally and then
in detail; the factory, which he seemed to prefer to his castle--the
house, which he seemed to prefer even to the factory--the gardens, from
which he anticipated even greater gratification than from the house. And
this led to an expression of a hope that he would visit them. And so in
due time the luncheon was achieved. Mrs Trafford looked at her guests,
there was a rustling and a stir, and everybody was to go and see the
gardens that Lord de Mowbray had so much praised.
“I am all for looking after the beautiful Nun,” said Mr Mountchesney to
Lord Milford.
“I think I shall ask the respectable manufacturer to introduce me to
her,” replied his lordship.
In the meantime Egremont had joined Gerard at the factory.
“You should have come sooner,” said Gerard, “and then you might have
gone round with the fine folks. We have had a grand party here from the
castle.”
“So I perceived,” said Egremont, “and withdrew.”
“Ah! they were not in your way, eh?” he said in a mocking smile. “Well,
they were very condescending--at least for such great people. An earl!
Earl de Mowbray,--I suppose he came over with William the Conqueror. Mr
Trafford makes a show of the place, and it amuses their visitors I dare
say, like anything else that’s strange. There were some young gentlemen
with them, who did not seem to know much about anything. I thought I had
a right to be amused too; and I must say I liked very much to see one of
them looking at the machinery through his eye-glass. There was one very
venturesome chap: I thought he was going to catch hold of the fly-wheel,
but I gave him a spin which I believed saved his life, though he did
rather stare. He was a lord.”
“They are great heiresses, his daughters, they say at Mowbray,” said
Egremont.
“I dare say,” said Gerard. “A year ago this earl had a son--an only son,
and then his daughters were not great heiresses. But the son died and
now it’s their turn. And perhaps some day it will be somebody else’s
turn. If you want to understand the ups and downs of life, there’s
nothing like the parchments of an estate. Now master, now man! He who
served in the hall now lords in it: and very often the baseborn change
their liveries for coronets, while gentle blood has nothing left
but--dreams; eh, master Franklin?”
“It seems you know the history of this Lord de Mowbray?”
“Why a man learns a good many things in his time; and living in these
parts, there are few secrets of the notables. He has had the title to
his broad acres questioned before this time, my friend.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes: I could not help thinking of that to-day,” said Gerard, “when he
questioned me with his mincing voice and pulled the wool with his cursed
white hands and showed it to his dame, who touched it with her little
finger; and his daughters who tossed their heads like pea-hens--Lady
Joan and Lady Maud. Lady Joan and Lady Maud!” repeated Gerard in a voice
of bitter sarcasm. “I did not care for the rest; but I could not stand
that Lady Joan and that Lady Maud. I wonder if my Sybil saw them.”
In the meantime, Sybil had been sent for by Mrs Trafford. She had
inferred from the message that the guests had departed, and her animated
cheek showed the eagerness with which she had responded to the call.
Bounding along with a gladness of the heart which lent additional lustre
to her transcendent brightness, she suddenly found herself surrounded
in the garden by Lady Maud and her friends. The daughter of Lord de
Mowbray, who could conceive nothing but humility as the cause of her
alarmed look, attempted to re-assure her by condescending volubility,
turning often to her friends and praising in admiring interrogatories
Sybil’s beauty.
“And we took advantage of your absence,” said Lady Maud in a tone of
amiable artlessness, “to find out all about you. And what a pity we did
not know you when you were at the convent, because then you might have
been constantly at the castle; indeed I should have insisted on it. But
still I hear we are neighbours; you must promise to pay me a visit,
you must indeed. Is not she beautiful?” she added in a lower but still
distinct voice to her friend. “Do you know I think there is so much
beauty among the lower order.”
Mr Mountchesney and Lord Milford poured forth several insipid
compliments, accompanied with some speaking looks which they flattered
themselves could not be misconstrued. Sybil said not a word, but
answered each flood of phrases with a cold reverence.
Undeterred by her somewhat haughty demeanour, which Lady Maud only
attributed to the novelty of her situation, her ignorance of the
world, and her embarrassment under this overpowering condescension,
the good-tempered and fussy daughter of Lord de Mowbray proceeded to
re-assure Sybil, and to enforce on her that this perhaps unprecedented
descent from superiority was not a mere transient courtliness of the
moment, and that she really might rely on her patronage and favourable
feeling.
“You really must come and see me,” said Lady Maud, “I shall never be
happy till you have made me a visit. Where do you live? I will come and
fetch you myself in the carriage. Now let us fix a day at once. Let me
see; this is Saturday. What say you to next Monday?”
“I thank you,” said Sybil, very gravely, “but I never quit my home.”
“What a darling!” exclaimed Lady Maud looking round at her friends. “Is
not she? I know exactly what you feel. But really you shall not be the
least embarrassed. It may feel strange at first, to be sure, but then I
shall be there; and do you know I look upon you quite as my protege.”
“Protege,” said Sybil. “I live with my father.”
“What a dear!” said Lady Maud looking round to Lord Milford. “Is not she
naive?”
“And are you the guardian of these beautiful flowers?” said Mr
Mountchesney.
Sybil signified a negative, and added “Mrs Trafford is very proud of
them.”
“You must see the flowers at Mowbray Castle,” said Lady Maud. “They are
unprecedented, are they not, Lord Milford? You know you said the other
day that they were almost equal to Mrs Lawrence’s. I am charmed to find
you are fond of flowers,” continued Lady Maud; “you will be so delighted
with Mowbray. Ah! mama is calling us. Now fix--shall it be Monday?”
“Indeed,” said Sybil, “I never leave my home. I am one of the lower
order, and live only among the lower order. I am here to-day merely for
a few hours to pay an act of homage to a benefactor.”
“Well I shall come and fetch you,” said Maud, covering her surprise and
mortification by a jaunty air that would not confess defeat.
“And so shall I,” said Mr Mountchesney.
“And so shall I,” whispered Lord Milford lingering a little behind.
The great and distinguished party had disappeared; their glittering
barouche, their prancing horses, their gay grooms, all had vanished;
the sound of their wheels was no longer heard. Time flew on; the bell
announced that the labour of the week had closed. There was a half
holiday always on the last day of the week at Mr Trafford’s settlement;
and every man, woman, and child, were paid their wages in the great
room before they left the mill. Thus the expensive and evil habits which
result from wages being paid in public houses were prevented. There was
also in this system another great advantage for the workpeople. They
received their wages early enough to repair to the neighbouring markets
and make their purchases for the morrow. This added greatly to their
comfort, and rendering it unnecessary for them to run in debt to the
shopkeepers, added really to their wealth. Mr Trafford thought that next
to the amount of wages, the most important consideration was the method
in which wages are paid; and those of our readers who may have read or
can recall the sketches, neither coloured nor exagerated, which we have
given in the early part of this volume of the very different manner in
which the working classes may receive the remuneration for their toil,
will probably agree with the sensible and virtuous master of Walter
Gerard.
He, accompanied by his daughter and Egremont, is now on his way home. A
soft summer afternoon; the mild beam still gilding the tranquil scene; a
river, green meads full of kine, woods vocal with the joyous song of the
thrush and the blackbird; and in the distance, the lofty breast of the
purple moor, still blazing in the sun: fair sights and renovating
sounds after a day of labour passed in walls and amid the ceaseless and
monotonous clang of the spindle and the loom. So Gerard felt it, as he
stretched his great limbs in the air and inhaled its perfumed volume.
“Ah! I was made for this, Sybil,” he exclaimed; “but never mind, my
child, never mind; tell me more of your fine visitors.”
Egremont found the walk too short; fortunately from the undulation of
the vale, they could not see the cottage until within a hundred yards of
it. When they were in sight, a man came forth from the garden to greet
them; Sybil gave an exclamation of pleasure; it was MORLEY.
Book 3 Chapter 9
Morley greeted Gerard and his daughter with great warmth, and then
looked at Egremont. “Our companion in the ruins of Marney Abbey,” said
Gerard; “you and our friend Franklin here should become acquainted,
Stephen, for you both follow the same craft. He is a journalist like
yourself, and is our neighbour for a time, and yours.”
“What journal are you on, may I ask?” enquired Morley.
Egremont reddened, was confused, and then replied, “I have no claim to
the distinguished title of a journalist. I am but a reporter; and have
some special duties here.”
“Hem!” said Morley, and then taking Gerard by the arm, he walked away
with him, leaving Egremont and Sybil to follow them.
“Well I have found him, Walter.”
“What, Hatton?”
“No, no; the brother.”
“And what knows he?”
“Little enough; yet something. Our man lives and prospers; these are
facts, but where he is, or what he is--not a clue.”
“And this brother cannot help us?”
“On the contrary, he sought information from me; he is a savage, beneath
even our worst ideas of popular degradation. All that is ascertained
is that our man exists and is well to do in the world. There comes an
annual and anonymous contribution, and not a light one, to his brother.
I examined the post-marks of the letters, but they all varied, and were
evidently arranged to mislead. I fear you will deem I have not done
much; yet it was wearisome enough I can tell you.”
“I doubt it not; and I am sure Stephen, you have done all that man
could. I was fancying that I should hear from you to-day; for what think
you has happened? My Lord himself, his family and train, have all been
in state to visit the works, and I had to show them. Queer that, wasn’t
it? He offered me money when it was over. How much I know not, I would
not look at it. Though to be sure, they were perhaps my own rents, eh?
But I pointed to the sick box and his own dainty hand deposited the sum
there.”
“‘Tis very strange. And you were with him face to face?”
“Face to face. Had you brought me news of the papers, I should have
thought that providence had rather a hand in it--but now, we are still
at sea.”
“Still at sea,” said Morley musingly, “but he lives and prospers. He
will turn up yet, Walter.”
“Amen! Since you have taken up this thing, Stephen, it is strange how my
mind has hankered after the old business, and yet it ruined my father,
and mayhap may do as bad for his son.”
“We will not think that,” said Morley. “At present we will think of
other things. You may guess I am a bit wearied; I think I’ll say good
night; you have strangers with you.”
“Nay, nay man; nay. This Franklin is a likely lad enough; I think you
will take to him. Prithee come in. Sybil will not take it kindly if you
go, after so long an absence; and I am sure I shall not.”
So they entered together.
The evening passed in various conversation, though it led frequently to
the staple subject of talk beneath the roof of Gerard--the Condition
of the People. What Morley had seen in his recent excursion afforded
materials for many comments.
“The domestic feeling is fast vanishing among the working classes of
this country,” said Gerard; “nor is it wonderful--the Home no longer
exists.”
“But there are means of reviving it,” said Egremont; “we have witnessed
them to-day. Give men homes, and they will have soft and homely notions,
If all men acted like Mr Trafford, the condition of the people would be
changed.”
“But all men will not act like Mr Trafford,” said Morley. “It requires
a sacrifice of self which cannot be expected, which is unnatural. It
is not individual influence that can renovate society: it is some new
principle that must reconstruct it. You lament the expiring idea of
Home. It would not be expiring, if it were worth retaining. The domestic
principle has fulfilled its purpose. The irresistible law of progress
demands that another should be developed. It will come; you may
advance or retard, but you cannot prevent it. It will work out like the
development of organic nature. In the present state of civilization and
with the scientific means of happiness at our command, the notion of
home should be obsolete. Home is a barbarous idea; the method of a
rude age; home is isolation; therefore anti-social. What we want is
Community.”
“It is all very fine,” said Gerard, “and I dare say you are right,
Stephen; but I like stretching my feet on my own hearth.”
Book 3 Chapter 10
Time passes with a measured and memorable wing during the first period
of a sojourn in a new place, among new characters and new manners.
Every person, every incident, every feeling, touches and stirs the
imagination. The restless mind creates and observes at the same time.
Indeed there is scarcely any popular tenet more erroneous than that
which holds that when time is slow, life is dull. It is very often and
very much the reverse. If we look back on those passages of our life
which dwell most upon the memory, they are brief periods full of action
and novel sensation. Egremont found this so during the first days of his
new residence in Mowedale. The first week, an epoch in his life, seemed
an age; at the end of the first month, he began to deplore the swiftness
of time and almost to moralize over the brevity of existence. He found
that he was leading a life of perfect happiness, but of remarkable
simplicity; he wished it might never end, but felt difficulty in
comprehending how in the first days of his experience of it, it had
seemed so strange; almost as strange as it was sweet. The day that
commenced early, was past in reading--books lent him often too by Sybil
Gerard--sometimes in a ramble with her and Morley, who had time much
at his command, to some memorable spot in the neighbourhood, or in the
sport which the river and the rod secured Egremont. In the evening, he
invariably repaired to the cottage of Gerard, beneath whose humble roof
he found every female charm that can fascinate, and conversation that
stimulated his intelligence. Gerard was ever the same; hearty, simple,
with a depth of feeling and native thought on the subjects on which they
touched, and with a certain grandeur of sentiment and conception which
contrasted with his social position, but which became his idiosyncracy.
Sybil spoke little, but hung upon the accents of her father; yet ever
and anon her rich tones conveyed to the charmed ear of Egremont some
deep conviction, the earnestness of her intellect as remarkable as
the almost sacred repose of her mien and manner. Of Morley, at first
Egremont saw a great deal: he lent our friend books, opened with
unreserve and with great richness of speculative and illustrative power,
on the questions which ever engaged him, and which were new and highly
interesting to his companion. But as time advanced, whether it were that
the occupations of Morley increased, and the calls on his hours left him
fewer occasions for the indulgence of social intercourse, Egremont saw
him seldom, except at Gerard’s cottage, where generally he might be
found in the course of the week, and their rambles together had entirely
ceased.
Alone, Egremont mused much over the daughter of Gerard, but shrinking
from the precise and the definite, his dreams were delightful, but
vague. All that he asked was, that his present life should go on for
ever; he wished for no change, and at length almost persuaded himself
that no change could arrive; as men who are basking in a summer sun,
surrounded by bright and beautiful objects, cannot comprehend how the
seasons can ever alter; that the sparkling foliage should shrivel and
fall away, the foaming waters become icebound, and the blue serene, a
dark and howling space.
In this train of mind, the early days of October having already stolen
on him, an incident occurred which startled him in his retirement, and
rendered it necessary that he should instantly quit it. Egremont
had entrusted the secret of his residence to a faithful servant who
communicated with him when necessary, under his assumed name. Through
these means he received a letter from his mother, written from London,
where she had unexpectedly arrived, entreating him, in urgent terms, to
repair to her without a moment’s delay, on a matter of equal interest
and importance to herself and him. Such an appeal from such a quarter,
from the parent that had ever been kind, and the friend that had been
ever faithful, was not for a moment to be neglected. Already a period
had elapsed since its transmission, which Egremont regretted. He
resolved at once to quit Mowedale, nor could he console himself with
the prospect of an immediate return. Parliament was to assemble in the
ensuing month, and independent of the unknown cause which summoned him
immediately to town, he was well aware that much disagreeable business
awaited him which could no longer be postponed. He had determined not
to take his seat unless the expenses of his contest were previously
discharged, and despairing of his brother’s aid, and shrinking from
trespassing any further on his mother’s resources, the future looked
gloomy enough: indeed nothing but the frequent presence and the constant
influence of Sybil had driven from his mind the ignoble melancholy
which, relieved by no pensive fancy, is the invariable attendant of
pecuniary embarrassment.
And now he was to leave her. The event, rather the catastrophe,
which under any circumstances, could not be long postponed, was to be
precipitated. He strolled up to the cottage to bid her farewell and to
leave kind words for her father. Sybil was not there. The old dame who
kept their home informed him that Sybil was at the convent, but would
return in the evening. It was impossible to quit Mowedale without seeing
Sybil; equally impossible to postpone his departure. But by travelling
through the night, the lost hours might be regained. And Egremont made
his arrangements, and awaited with anxiety and impatience the last
evening.
The evening, like his heart, was not serene. The soft air that had
lingered so long with them, a summer visitant in an autumnal sky and
loth to part, was no more present. A cold harsh wind, gradually rising,
chilled the system and grated on the nerves. There was misery in its
blast and depression in its moan. Egremont felt infinitely dispirited.
The landscape around him that he had so often looked upon with love and
joy, was dull and hard; the trees dingy, the leaden waters motionless,
the distant hills rough and austere. Where was that translucent sky,
once brilliant as his enamoured fancy; those bowery groves of aromatic
fervor wherein he had loved to roam and muse; that river of swift
and sparkling light that flowed and flashed like the current of his
enchanted hours? All vanished--as his dreams.
He stood before the cottage of Gerard; he recalled the eve that he had
first gazed upon its moonlit garden. What wild and delicious thoughts
were then his! They were gone like the illumined hour. Nature and
fortune had alike changed. Prescient of sorrow, almost prophetic
of evil, he opened the cottage door, and the first person his eye
encountered was Morley.
Egremont had not met him for some time, and his cordial greeting of
Egremont to-night contrasted with the coldness, not to say estrangement,
which to the regret and sometimes the perplexity of Egremont had
gradually grown up between them. Yet on no occasion was his presence
less desired by our friend. Morley was talking as Egremont entered with
great animation; in his hand a newspaper, on a paragraph contained in
which he was commenting. The name of Marney caught the ear of Egremont
who turned rather pale at the sound, and hesitated on the threshold. The
unembarrassed welcome of his friends however re-assured him, and in a
moment he even ventured to enquire the subject of their conversation.
Morley immediately referring to the newspaper said, “This is what I have
just read--
“EXTRAORDINARY SPORT AT THE EARL OF MARNEY’S.
On Wednesday, in a small cover called the Horns, near Marney Abbey, his
grace the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine, the Earl of Marney, Colonel Rippe and
Captain Grouse, with only four hours shooting, bagged the extraordinary
number of seven hundred and thirty head of game, namely hares three
hundred and thirty-nine; pheasants two hundred and twenty-one; partridges
thirty-four; rabbits eighty-seven; and the following day upwards of fifty
hares, pheasants, &c., (wounded the previous day) were picked up. Out
of the four hours’ shooting two of the party were absent an hour and
a-half, namely the Earl of Marney and Captain Grouse, attending an
agricultural meeting in the neighbourhood; the noble earl with his
usual considerate condescension having kindly consented personally
to distribute the various prizes to the labourers whose good conduct
entitled them to the distinction.”
“What do you think of that, Franklin?” said Morley. “That is our worthy
friend of Marney Abbey, where we first met. You do not know this part of
the country, or you would smile at the considerate condescension of the
worst landlord in England; and who was, it seems, thus employed the day
or so after his battue, as they call it.” And Morley turning the paper
read another paragraph:--
“At a Petty Sessions holden at the Green Dragon Inn, Marney, Friday,
October--, 1837.
“Magistrates present: The Earl of Marney, the Rev. Felix Flimsey, and
Captain Grouse.
“Information against Robert Hind for a trespass in pursuit of game in
Blackrock Wood, the property of Sir Vavasour Firebrace, Bart. The case
was distinctly proved; several wires being found in the pocket of the
defendant. Defendant was fined in the full penalty of forty shillings
and costs twenty-seven; the Bench being of opinion there was no excuse
for him, Hind being in regular employ as a farm labourer and gaining his
seven shillings a-week. Defendant being unable to pay the penalty, was
sent for two months to Marham Gaol.”
“What a pity,” said Morley, “that Robert Hind, instead of meditating the
snaring of a hare, had not been fortunate enough to pick up a maimed one
crawling about the fields the day after the battue. It would certainly
have been better for himself; and if he has a wife and family, better
for the parish.”
“Oh!” said Gerard, “I doubt not they were all picked up by the poulterer
who has the contract: even the Normans did not sell their game.”
“The question is,” said Morley, “would you rather be barbarous or mean;
that is the alternative presented by the real and the pseudo Norman
nobility of England. Where I have been lately, there is a Bishopsgate
Street merchant who has been made for no conceiveable public reason a
baron bold. Bigod and Bohun could not enforce the forest laws with such
severity as this dealer in cotton and indigo.”
“It is a difficult question to deal with--this affair of the game laws,”
said Egremont; “how will you reach the evil? Would you do away with the
offence of trespass? And if so, what is your protection for property?”
“It comes to a simple point though,” said Morley, “the Territorialists
must at length understand that they cannot at the same time have the
profits of a farm and the pleasures of a chase.”
At this moment entered Sybil. At the sight of her, the remembrance that
they were about to part, nearly overwhelmed Egremont. Her supremacy over
his spirit was revealed to him, and nothing but the presence of other
persons could have prevented him avowing his entire subjection. His hand
trembled as he touched her’s, and his eye, searching yet agitated, would
have penetrated her serene soul. Gerard and Morley, somewhat withdrawn,
pursued their conversation; while Egremont hanging over Sybil, attempted
to summon courage to express to her his sad adieu. It was in vain.
Alone, perhaps he might have poured forth a passionate farewell. But
constrained he became embarrassed; and his conduct was at the same time
tender and perplexing. He asked and repeated questions which had already
been answered. His thoughts wandered from their conversation but not
from her with whom he should have conversed. Once their eyes met, and
Sybil observed his suffused with tears. Once he looked round and caught
the glance of Morley, instantly withdrawn, but not easy to be forgotten.
Shortly after this and earlier than his wont, Morley rose and wished
them good night. He shook hands with Egremont and bade him farewell with
some abruptness. Harold who seemed half asleep suddenly sprang from the
side of his mistress and gave an agitated bark. Harold was never very
friendly to Morley, who now tried to soothe him, but in vain. The dog
looked fiercely at him and barked again, but the moment Morley had
disappeared, Harold resumed his usual air of proud high-bred gentleness,
and thrust his nose into the hand of Egremont, who patted him with
fondness.
The departure of Morley was a great relief to Egremont, though the
task that was left was still a painful effort. He rose and walked for
a moment up and down the room, commenced an unfinished sentence,
approached the hearth and leant over the mantel; and then at length
extending his hand to Gerard he exclaimed, in a trembling voice, “Best
of friends, I must leave Mowedale.”
“I am very sorry,” said Gerard; “and when?”
“Now,” said Egremont.
“Now!” said Sybil.
“Yes; this instant. My summons is urgent. I ought to have left this
morning. I came here then to bid you farewell,” he said looking at
Sybil, “to express to you how deeply I was indebted to you for all your
goodness--how dearly I shall cherish the memory of these happy days--the
happiest I have ever known;” and his voice faltered. “I came also to
leave a kind message for you, my friend, a hope that we might meet again
and soon--but your daughter was absent, and I could not leave Mowedale
without seeing either of you. So I must contrive to get on through the
night.”
“Well we lose a very pleasant neighbour,” said Gerard; “we shall miss
you, I doubt not, eh, Sybil?”
But Sybil had turned away her head; she was leaning over and seemed to
be caressing Harold and was silent.
How much Egremont would have liked to have offered or invited
correspondence; to have proffered his services when the occasion
permitted; to have said or proposed many things that might have
cherished their acquaintance or friendship; but embarrassed by his
incognito and all its consequent deception, he could do nothing but
tenderly express his regret at parting, and speak vaguely and almost
mysteriously of their soon again meeting. He held out again his hand
to Gerard who shook it heartily: then approaching Sybil, Egremont said,
“you have shewn me a thousand kindnesses, which I cherish,” he added
in a lower tone, “above all human circumstances. Would you deign to
let this volume lie upon your table,” and he offered Sybil an English
translation of Thomas a Kempis, illustrated by some masterpieces. In its
first page was written “Sybil, from a faithful friend.”
“I accept it,” said Sybil with a trembling voice and rather pale, “in
remembrance of a friend.” She held forth her hand to Egremont, who
retained it for an instant, and then bending very low, pressed it to his
lips. As with an agitated heart, he hastily crossed the threshold of
the cottage, something seemed to hold him back. He turned round. The
bloodhound had seized him by the coat and looked up to him with an
expression of affectionate remonstrance against his departure. Egremont
bent down, caressed Harold and released himself from his grasp.
When Egremont left the cottage, he found the country enveloped in a
thick white mist, so that had it not been for some huge black shadows
which he recognized as the crests of trees, it would have been
very difficult to discriminate the earth from the sky, and the mist
thickening as he advanced, even these fallacious landmarks threatened to
disappear. He had to walk to Mowbray to catch a night train for London.
Every moment was valuable, but the unexpected and increasing obscurity
rendered his progress slow and even perilous. The contiguity to the
river made every step important. He had according to his calculations
proceeded nearly as far as his old residence, and notwithstanding the
careless courage of youth and the annoyance of relinquishing a project,
intolerable at that season of life, was meditating the expediency of
renouncing that night the attempt on Mowbray and of gaining his former
quarters for shelter. He stopped, as he had stopped several times
before, to calculate rather than to observe. The mist was so thick that
he could not see his own extended hand. It was not the first time that
it had occurred to him that some one or something was hovering about his
course.
“Who is there?” exclaimed Egremont. But no one answered.
He moved on a little, but very slowly. He felt assured that his ear
caught a contiguous step. He repeated his interrogatory in a louder
tone, but it obtained no response. Again he stopped. Suddenly he was
seized; an iron grasp assailed his throat, a hand of steel griped his
arm. The unexpected onset hurried him on. The sound of waters assured
him that he was approaching the precipitous bank of that part of the
river which, from a ledge of pointed rocks, here formed rapids. Vigorous
and desperate, Egremont plunged like some strong animal on whom a beast
of prey had made a fatal spring. His feet clung to the earth as if they
were held by some magnetic power. With his disengaged arm he grappled
with his mysterious and unseen foe.
At this moment he heard the deep bay of a hound.
“Harold!” he exclaimed. The dog, invisible, sprang forward and seized
upon his assailant. So violent was the impulse that Egremont staggered
and fell, but he fell freed from his dark enemy. Stunned and exhausted,
some moments elapsed before he was entirely himself. The wind had
suddenly changed; a violent gust had partially dispelled the mist; the
outline of the landscape was in many places visible. Beneath him
were the rapids of the Mowe, over which a watery moon threw a faint,
flickering light. Egremont was lying on its precipitous bank; and Harold
panting was leaning over him and looking in his face, and sometimes
licking him with that tongue which, though not gifted with speech, had
spoken so seasonably in the moment of danger.
END OF THE THIRD BOOK