Urged by Sybil’s entreaties the cab-driver hurried on. With all the
skilled experience of a thorough cockney charioteer he tried to conquer
time and space by his rare knowledge of short cuts and fine acquaintance
with unknown thoroughfares. He seemed to avoid every street which
was the customary passage of mankind. The houses, the population, the
costume, the manners, the language through which they whirled their way,
were of a different state and nation to those with which the dwellers
in the dainty quarters of this city are acquainted. Now dark streets of
frippery and old stores, new market-places of entrails and carrion with
gutters running gore, sometimes the way was enveloped in the yeasty
fumes of a colossal brewery, and sometimes they plunged into a
labyrinth of lanes teeming with life, and where the dog-stealer and the
pick-pocket, the burglar and the assassin, found a sympathetic multitude
of all ages; comrades for every enterprise; and a market for every
booty.
The long summer twilight was just expiring, the pale shadows of the moon
were just stealing on; the gas was beginning to glare in the shops of
tripe and bacon, and the paper lanthorns to adorn the stall and the
stand. They crossed a broad street which seemed the metropolis of the
district; it flamed with gin-palaces; a multitude were sauntering in the
mild though tainted air; bargaining, blaspheming, drinking, wrangling:
and varying their business and their potations, their fierce strife and
their impious irreverence, with flashes of rich humour, gleams of native
wit, and racy phrases of idiomatic slang.
Absorbed in her great mission Sybil was almost insensible to the scenes
through which she passed, and her innocence was thus spared many a sight
and sound that might have startled her vision or alarmed her ear. They
could not now he very distant from the spot; they were crossing this
broad way, and then were about to enter another series of small obscure
dingy streets, when the cab-driver giving a flank to his steed to
stimulate it to a last effort, the horse sprang forward, and the wheel
of the cab came off.
Sybil extricated herself from the vehicle unhurt; a group immediately
formed round the cab, a knot of young thieves, almost young enough for
infant schools, a dustman, a woman nearly naked and very drunk, and two
unshorn ruffians with brutality stamped on every feature, with pipes in
their mouths, and their hands in their pockets.
“I can take you no further,” said the cabman: “my fare is three
shillings.”
“What am I to do?” said Sybil, taking out her purse.
“The best thing the young lady can do,” said the dustman, in a hoarse
voice, “is to stand something to us all.”
“That’s your time o’day,” squeaked a young thief.
“I’ll drink your health with very great pleasure my dear,” hiccupped the
woman.
“How much have you got there?” said the young thief making a dash at the
purse, but he was not quite tall enough, and failed.
“No wiolence,” said one of the ruffians taking his pipe out of his mouth
and sending a volume of smoke into Sybil’s face, “we’ll take the young
lady to Mother Poppy’s, and then we’ll make a night of it.”
But at this moment appeared a policeman, one of the permanent garrison
of the quarter, who seeing one of her Majesty’s carriages in trouble
thought he must interfere. “Hilloa,” he said, “what’s all this?” And the
cabman, who was a good fellow though in too much trouble to aid Sybil,
explained in the terse and picturesque language of Cockaigne, doing full
justice to his late fare, the whole circumstances.
“Oh! that’s it,” said the policeman, “the lady’s respectable is
she? Then I’d advise you and Hell Fire Dick to stir your chalks,
Splinter-legs. Keep moving’s the time of day, Madam; you get on. Come;”
and taking the woman by her shoulder he gave her a spin that sent her
many a good yard. “And what do you want?” he asked gruffly of the lads.
“We wants a ticket for the Mendicity Society,” said the captain of the
infant hand putting his thumb to his nose and running away, followed by
his troop.
“And so you want to go to Silver Street?” said her official preserver to
Sybil, for she had not thought it wise to confess her ultimate purpose,
and indicate under the apprehended circumstances the place of rendezvous
to a member of the police.
“Well; that’s not very difficult now. Go a-head; take the second turning
to your right, and the third to your left, and you’re landed.”
Aided by these instructions, Sybil hastened on, avoiding notice as much
as was in her power, and assisted in some degree by the advancing gloom
of night. She had reached Silver Street; a long, narrow, hilly Street;
and now she was at fault. There were not many persons about, and there
were few shops here; yet one was at last at hand, and she entered
to enquire her way. The person at the counter was engaged, and many
customers awaited him: time was very precious: Sybil had made the
enquiry and received only a supercilious stare from the shopman, who was
weighing with precision some article that he was serving. A young man,
shabby, but of a very superior appearance to the people of this quarter,
good-looking, though with a dissolute air, and who seemed waiting for a
customer in attendance, addressed Sybil. “I am going to Hunt Street,” he
said, “shall I show you the way?”
She accepted this offer most thankfully. “It is close at hand, I
believe?”
“Here it is,” he said; and he turned down a street. “What is your
house?”
“No. 22: a printing-office.” said Sybil; for the street she had entered
was so dark she despaired of finding her way, and ventured to trust so
far a guide who was not a policeman.
“The very house I am going to,” said the stranger: “I am a printer.” And
they walked on some way, until they at length stopped before a glass
and illumined door, covered with a red curtain. Before it was a group
of several men and women brawling, but who did not notice Sybil and her
companion.
“Here we are,” said the man; and he pushed the door open, inviting Sybil
to enter. She hesitated; it did not agree with the description that
had been given her by the coffee-house keeper, but she had seen so much
since, and felt so much, and gone through so much, that she had not at
the moment that clear command of her memory for which she was otherwise
remarkable; but while she faltered, an inner door was violently thrown
open, and Sybil moving aside, two girls, still beautiful in spite of gin
and paint, stepped into the Street.
“This cannot be the house,” exclaimed Sybil starting back, overwhelmed
with shame and terror. “O! holy Virgin aid me!”
“And that’s a blessed word to hear in this heathen land,” exclaimed an
Irishman, who was one of the group on the outside.
“If you be of our holy church,” said Sybil appealing to the man who
had thus spoken and whom she gently drew aside, “I beseech you, by
everything we hold sacred, to aid me.”
“And will I not?” said the man; “and I should like to see the arm that
would hurt you;” and he looked round, but the young man had disappeared.
“You are not a countrywoman I am thinking,” he added.
“No, but a sister in Christ,” said Sybil; “listen to me, good friend.
I hasten to my father,--he is in great danger,--in Hunt Street,--I
know not my way,--every moment is precious,--guide me, I beseech
you,--honestly and truly guide me!”
“Will I not? Don’t you be afraid my dear. And her poor father is ill! I
wish I had such a daughter! We have not far to go. You should have taken
the next turning. We must walk up this again for ‘tis a small street
with no thoroughfare. Come on without fear.”
Nor did Sybil fear; for the description of the street which the honest
man had incidentally given, tallied with her instructions. Encouraging
her with many kind words, and full of rough courtesies, the good
Irishman led her to the spot she had so long sought. There was the court
she was told to enter. It was well lit, and descending the steps she
stopped at the first door on her left, and knocked.
Book 5 Chapter 7
On the same night that Sybil was encountering so many dangers, the
saloons of Deloraine House blazed with a thousand lights to welcome
the world of power and fashion to a festival of almost unprecedented
magnificence. Fronting a royal park, its long lines of illumined windows
and the bursts of gay and fantastic music that floated from its walls
attracted the admiration and curiosity of another party that was
assembled in the same fashionable quarter, beneath a canopy not less
bright and reclining on a couch scarcely less luxurious, for they were
lit by the stars and reposed upon the grass.
“I say, Jim,” said a young genius of fourteen stretching himself upon
the turf, “I pity them ere jarvies a sitting on their boxes all the
night and waiting for the nobs what is dancing. They as no repose.”
“But they as porter,” replied his friend, a sedater spirit with the
advantage of an additional year or two of experience. “They takes their
pot of half-and-half by turns, and if their name is called, the link
what they subscribe for to pay, sings out ‘here;’ and that’s the way
their guvners is done.”
“I think I should like to be a link Jim,” said the young one.
“I wish you may get it,” was the response: “it’s the next best thing to
a crossing: it’s what every one looks to when he enters public life, but
he soon finds ‘taint to be done without a deal of interest. They keeps
it to themselves, and never lets any one in unless he makes himself very
troublesome and gets up a party agin ‘em.”
“I wonder what the nobs has for supper,” said the young one pensively.
“Lots of kidneys I dare say.”
“Oh! no; sweets is the time of day in these here blowouts: syllabubs
like blazes, and snapdragon as makes the flunkys quite pale.”
“I would thank you, sir, not to tread upon this child,” said a widow.
She had three others with her, slumbering around, and this was the
youngest wrapt in her only shawl.
“Madam,” replied the person whom she addressed, in tolerable English,
but with a marked accent, “I have bivouacked in many lands, but never
with so young a comrade: I beg you a thousand pardons.”
“Sir, you are very polite. These warm nights are a great blessing, but I
am sure I know not what we shall do in the fall of the leaf.”
“Take no thought of the morrow,” said the foreigner, who was a Pole; had
served as a boy beneath the suns of the Peninsula under Soult and fought
against Diebitsch on the banks of the icy Vistula. “It brings many
changes.” And arranging the cloak which he had taken that day out of
pawn around him, he delivered himself up to sleep with that facility
which is not uncommon among soldiers.
Here broke out a brawl: two girls began fighting and blaspheming; a man
immediately came up, chastised and separated them. “I am the Lord Mayor
of the night,” he said, “and I will have no row here. ‘Tis the like of
you that makes the beaks threaten to expel us from our lodgings.” His
authority seemed generally recognized, the girls were quiet, but they
had disturbed a sleeping man, who roused himself, looked around him and
said with a scared look, “Where am I? What’s all this?”
“Oh! it’s nothin’,” said the elder of the two lads we first noticed,
“only a couple of unfortinate gals who’ve prigged a watch from a
cove what was lushy and fell asleep under the trees between this and
Kinsington.”
“I wish they had not waked me,” said the man, “I walked as far as from
Stokenchurch, and that’s a matter of forty miles, this morning to see
if I could get some work, and went to bed here without any supper. I’m
blessed if I worn’t dreaming of a roast leg of pork.”
“It has not been a lucky day for me,” rejoined the lad, “I could not
find a single gentleman’s horse to hold, so help me, except one what was
at the House of Commons, and he kept me there two mortal hours and said
when he came out, that he would remember me next time. I ain’t tasted no
wittals to-day except some cat’s-meat and a cold potatoe what was given
me by a cabman; but I have got a quid here, and if you are very low I’ll
give you half.”
In the meantime Lord Valentine and the Princess Stephanie of Eurasberg
with some companions worthy of such a pair, were dancing a new Mazurka
before the admiring assembly at Deloraine House. The ball was in the
statue gallery illumined on this night in the Russian fashion, which
while it diffused a brilliant light throughout the beautiful chamber,
was peculiarly adapted to develop the contour of the marble forms of
grace and loveliness that were ranged around.
“Where is Arabella?” enquired Lord Marney of his mother, “I want to
present young Huntingford to her. He can be of great use to me, but he
bores me so, I cannot talk to him. I want to present him to Arabella.”
“Arabella is in the blue drawing-room. I saw her just now with Mr Jermyn
and Charles. Count Soudriaffsky is teaching them some Russian tricks.”
“What are Russian tricks to me; she must talk to young Huntingford;
everything depends on his working with me against the Cut-and-Come-again
branch-line; they have refused me my compensation, and I am not going to
have my estate cut up into ribbons without compensation.”
“My dear Lady Deloraine,” said Lady de Mowbray. “How beautiful your
gallery looks to-night! Certainly there is nothing in London that lights
up so well.”
“Its greatest ornaments are its guests. I am charmed to see Lady Joan
looking so well.”
“You think so?”
“Indeed.”
“I wish--” and here Lady de Mowbray gave a smiling sigh. “What do you
think of Mr Mountchesney?”
“He is universally admired.”
“So every one says, and yet--”
“Well what do you think of the Dashville, Fitz?” said Mr Berners to Lord
Fitzheron, “I saw you dancing with her.”
“I can’t bear her: she sets up to be natural and is only rude; mistakes
insolence for innocence; says everything which comes first to her lips
and thinks she is gay when she is only giddy.”
“‘Tis brilliant,” said Lady Joan to Mr Mountchesney.
“When you are here,” he murmured.
“And yet a ball in a gallery of art is not in my opinion in good taste.
The associations which are suggested by sculpture are not festive.
Repose is the characteristic of sculpture. Do not you think so?”
“Decidedly,” said Mr Mountchesney. “We danced in the gallery at Matfield
this Christmas, and I thought all the time that a gallery is not the
place for a ball; it is too long and too narrow.”
Lady Joan looked at him, and her lip rather curled.
“I wonder if Valentine has sold that bay cob of his,” said Lord Milford
to Lord Eugene de Vere.
“I wonder,” said Lord Eugene.
“I wish you would ask him, Eugene,” said Lord Milford, “you understand,
I don’t want him to know I want it.”
“‘Tis such a bore to ask questions,” said Lord Eugene.
“Shall we carry Chichester?” asked Lady Firebrace of Lady St Julians.
“Oh! do not speak to me ever again of the House of Commons,” she replied
in a tone of affected despair. “What use is winning our way by units?
It may take years. Lord Protocol says that ‘one is enough.’ That Jamaica
affair has really ended by greatly strengthening them.”
“I do not despair,” said Lady Firebrace. “The unequivocal adhesion of
the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine is a great thing. It gives us the northern
division at a dissolution.”
“That is to say in five years, my dear Lady Firebrace. The country will
be ruined before that.”
“We shall see. Is it a settled thing between Lady Joan and Mr
Mountchesney?”
“Not the slightest foundation. Lady Joan is a most sensible girl, as
well as a most charming person and my dear friend. She is not in a
hurry to marry, and quite right. If indeed Frederick were a little more
steady--but nothing shall ever induce me to consent to his marrying her,
unless I thought he was worthy of her.”
“You are such a good mother,” exclaimed Lady Firebrace, “and such a good
friend! I am glad to hear it is not true about Mr Mountchesney.”
“If you could only help me, my dear Lady Firebrace, to put an end to
that affair between Frederick and Lady Wallington. It is so silly, and
getting talked about; and in his heart too he really loves Lady Joan;
only he is scarcely aware of it himself.”
“We must manage it,” said Lady Firebrace, with a look of encouraging
mystery.
“Do, my dear creature; speak to him; he is very much guided by your
opinion. Tell him everybody is laughing at him, and any other little
thing that occurs to you.”
“I will come directly,” said Lady Marney to her husband, “only let me
see this.”
“Well, I will bring Huntingford here. Mind you speak to him a great
deal; take his arm, and go down to supper with him if you can. He is a
very nice sensible young fellow, and you will like him very much I am
sure; a little shy at first, but he only wants bringing out.”
A dexterous description of one of the most unlicked and unlickable cubs
that ever entered society with forty thousand a year; courted by all,
and with just that degree of cunning that made him suspicious of every
attention.
“This dreadful Lord Huntingford!” said Lady Marney.
“Jermyn and I will intefere,” said Egremont, “and help you.”
“No, no,” said Lady Marney shaking her head, “I must do it.”
At this moment, a groom of the chambers advanced and drew Egremont
aside, saying in a low tone, “Your servant, Mr Egremont, is here and
wishes to see you instantly.”
“My servant! Instantly! What the deuce can be the matter? I hope the
Albany is not on fire,” and he quitted the room.
In the outer hall, amid a crowd of footmen, Egremont recognized his
valet who immediately came forward.
“A porter has brought this letter, sir, and I thought it best to come on
with it at once.”
The letter directed to Egremont, bore also on its superscription these
words. “This letter must be instantly carried by the bearer to Mr
Egremont wherever he may be.”
Egremont with some change of countenance drew aside, and opening the
letter read it by a lamp at hand. It must have been very brief; but the
face of him to whom it was addressed became, as he perused its lines,
greatly agitated. When he had finished reading it, he seemed for a
moment lost in profound thought; then looking up he dismissed his
servant without instructions, and hastening back to the assembly, he
enquired of the groom of the chambers whether Lord John Russell, whom he
had observed in the course of the evening, was still present; and he was
answered in the affirmative.
About a quarter of an hour after this incident, Lady Firebrace said to
Lady St Julians in a tone of mysterious alarm. “Do you see that?”
“No! what?”
“Do not look as if you observed them: Lord John and Mr Egremont, in
the furthest window, they have been there these ten minutes in the most
earnest conversation. I am afraid we have lost him.”
“I have always been expecting it,” said Lady St Julians. “He breakfasts
with that Mr Trenchard and does all those sorts of things. Men who
breakfast out are generally liberals. Have not you observed that? I
wonder why?”
“It shows a restless revolutionary mind,” said Lady Firebrace, “that can
settle to nothing; but must be running after gossip the moment they are
awake.”
“Yes,” said Lady St Julians. “I think those men who breakfast out or who
give breakfasts are generally dangerous characters; at least, I would
not trust them. The whigs are very fond of that sort of thing. If Mr
Egremont joins them, I really do not see what shadow of a claim Lady
Deloraine can urge to have anything.”
“She only wants one thing,” said Lady Firebrace, “and we know she cannot
have that.”
“Why?”
“Because Lady St Julians will have it.”
“You are too kind,” with many smiles.
“No, I assure you Lord Masque told me that her Majesty--” and here Lady
Firehrace whispered.
“Well,” said Lady St Julians evidently much gratified, “I do not think I
am one who am likely to forget my friends.”
“That I am sure you are not!” said Lady Firebrace.
Book 5 Chapter 8
Behind the printing office in the alley at the door of which we left
Sybil, was a yard which led to some premises that had once been used
as a work-shop, but were now generally unoccupied. In a rather spacious
chamber over which was a loft, five men, one of whom was Gerard, were
busily engaged. There was no furniture in the room except a few chairs
and a deal table, on which was a solitary light and a variety of papers.
“Depend upon it,” said Gerard, “we must stick to the National Holiday:
we can do nothing effectively, unless the movement is simultaneous. They
have not troops to cope with a simultaneous movement, and the Holiday is
the only machinery to secure unity of action. No work for six weeks, and
the rights of Labour will be acknowledged!”
“We shall never be able to make the people unanimous in a cessation
of labour,” said a pale young man, very thin but with a countenance of
remarkable energy. “The selfish instincts will come into play and will
baulk our political object, while a great increase of physical suffering
must be inevitable.”
“It might be done,” said a middle-aged, thickset man, in a thoughtful
tone. “If the Unions were really to put their shoulder to the wheel, it
might be done.”
“And if it is not done,” said Gerard, “what do you propose? The people
ask you to guide them. Shrink at such a conjuncture, and our influence
over them is forfeited and justly forfeited.”
“I am for partial but extensive insurrections,” said the young man.
“Sufficient in extent and number to demand all the troops and yet to
distract the military movements. We can count on Birmingham again, if we
act at once before their new Police Act is in force; Manchester is
ripe; and several of the cotton towns; but above all I have letters that
assure me that at this moment we can do anything in Wales.”
“Glamorganshire is right to a man,” said Wilkins a Baptist teacher. “And
trade is so bad that the Holiday at all events must take place there,
for the masters themselves are extinguishing their furnaces.
“All the north is seething,” said Gerard.
“We must contrive to agitate the metropolis,” said Maclast, a shrewd
carroty-haired paper-stainer. “We must have weekly meetings at
Kennington and demonstrations at White Conduit House: we cannot do more
here I fear than talk, but a few thousand men on Kennington Common every
Saturday and some spicy resolutions will keep the Guards in London.”
“Ay, ay,” said Gerard; “I wish the woollen and cotton trades were as bad
to do as the iron, and we should need no holiday as you say, Wilkins.
However it will come. In the meantime the Poor-law pinches and
terrifies, and will make even the most spiritless turn.”
“The accounts to-day from the north are very encouraging though,” said
the young man. “Stevens is producing a great effect, and this plan of
our people going in procession and taking possession of the churches
very much affects the imagination of the multitude.”
“Ah!” said Gerard, “if we could only have the Church on our side, as
in the good old days, we would soon put an end to the demon tyranny of
Capital.”
“And now,” said the pale young man, taking up a manuscript paper, “to
our immediate business. Here is the draft of the projected proclamation
of the Convention on the Birmingham outbreak. It enjoins peace and
order, and counsels the people to arm themselves in order to secure
both. You understand: that they may resist if the troops and the police
endeavour to produce disturbance.”
“Ay, ay,” said Gerard. “Let it be stout. We will settle this at once,
and so get it out to-morrow. Then for action.”
“But we must circulate this pamphlet of the Polish Count on the manner
of encountering cavalry with pikes,” said Maclast.
“‘Tis printed,” said the stout thickset man; “we have set it up on a
broadside. We have sent ten thousand to the north and five thousand
to John Frost. We shall have another delivery tomorrow. It takes very
generally.”
The pale young man read the draft of the proclamation; it was canvassed
and criticised sentence by sentence; altered, approved: finally put to
the vote, and unanimously carried. On the morrow it was to be posted in
every thoroughfare of the metropolis, and circulated in every great city
of the provinces and populous district of labour.
“And now,” said Gerard, “I shall to-morrow to the north, where I am
wanted. But before I go I propose, as suggested yesterday, that we five
together with Langley, whom I counted on seeing here to-night, now
form ourselves into a committee for arming the people. Three of us are
permanent in London; Wilkins and myself will aid you in the provinces.
Nothing can be decided on this head till we see Langley, who will make
a communication from Birmingham that cannot be trusted to writing. The
seven o’clock train must have long since arrived. He is now a good hour
behind his time.”
“I hear foot-steps,” said Maclast.
“He comes,” said Gerard.
The door of the chamber opened and a woman entered. Pale, agitated,
exhausted, she advanced to them in the glimmering light.
“What is this?” said several of the council.
“Sybil!” exclaimed the astonished Gerard, and he rose from his seat.
She caught the arm of her father, and leant on him for a moment in
silence. Then looking up with an expression that seemed to indicate she
was rallying her last energies, she said, in a voice low yet so distinct
that it reached the ear of all present, “There is not an instant to
lose: fly!”
The men rose hastily from their seats; they approached the messenger
of danger; Gerard waved them off, for he perceived his daughter was
sinking. Gently he placed her in his chair; she was sensible, for she
grasped his arm, and she murmured--still she murmured--“fly!”
“‘Tis very strange,” said Maclast.
“I feel queer!” said the thickset man.
“Methinks she looks like a heavenly messenger,” said Wilkins. “I had
no idea that earth had anything so fair,” said the youthful scribe of
proclamations.
“Hush friends!” said Gerard: and then he bent over Sybil and said in a
low soothing voice, “Tell me, my child, what is it?”
She looked up to her father; a glance as it were of devotion and
despair: her lips moved, but they refused their office and expressed no
words. There was a deep silence in the room.
“She is gone,” said her father.
“Water,” said the young man, and he hurried away to obtain some.
“I feel queer,” said his thickset colleague to Maclast.
“I will answer for Langley as for myself.” said Maclast; “and there is
not another human being aware of our purpose.”
“Except Morley.”
“Yes: except Morley. But I should as soon doubt Gerard as Stephen
Morley.”
“Certainly.”
“I cannot conceive how she traced me,” said Gerard. “I have never even
breathed to her of our meeting. Would we had some water! Ah! here it
comes.
“I arrest you in the Queen’s name,” said a serjeant of police.
“Resistance is vain.” Maclast blew out the light, and then ran up
into the loft, followed by the thickset man, who fell down the stairs:
Wilkins got up the chimney. The sergeant took a lanthorn from his
pocket, and threw a powerful light on the chamber, while his followers
entered, seized and secured all the papers, and commenced their search.
The light fell upon a group that did not move: the father holding the
hand of his insensible child, while he extended his other arm as if to
preserve her from the profanation of the touch of the invaders.
“You are Walter Gerard, I presume,” said the serjeant, “six foot two
without shoes.”
“Whoever I may he,” he replied, “I presume you will produce your
warrant, friend, before you touch me.”
“‘Tis here. We want five of you, named herein, and all others that may
happen to be found in your company.”
“I shall obey the warrant,” said Gerard after he had examined it; “but
this maiden, my daughter, knows nothing of this meeting or its purpose.
She has but just arrived, and how she traced me I know not. You will let
me recover her, and then permit her to depart.”
“Can’t let no one out of my sight found in this room.”
“But she is innocent, even if we were guilty; she could be nothing else
but innocent, for she knows nothing of this meeting and its business,
both of which I am prepared at the right time and place to vindicate.
She entered this room a moment only before yourself, entered and
swooned.”
“Can’t help that; must take her; she can tell the magistrate anything
she likes, and he must decide.”
“Why you are not afraid of a young girl?”
“I am afraid of nothing; but I must do my duty. Come we have no time for
talk. I must take you both.”
“By G--d you shall not take her;” and letting go her hand, Gerard
advanced before her and assumed a position of defence. “You know,
I find, my height: my strength does not shame my stature! Look to
yourself. Advance and touch this maiden, and I will fell you and your
minions like oxen at their pasture.”
The inspector took a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at Gerard.
“You see,” he said, “resistance is quite vain.”
“For slaves and cravens, but not for us. I say you shall not touch her
till I am dead at her feet. Now, do your worst.”
At this moment two policemen who had been searching the loft descended
with Maclast who had vainly attempted to effect his escape over a
neighbouring roof; the thickset man was already secured; and Wilkins had
been pulled down the chimney and made his appearance in as grimy a state
as such a shelter would naturally have occasioned. The young man too,
their first prisoner who had been captured before they had entered the
room, was also brought in; there was now abundance of light; the four
prisoners were ranged and well guarded at the end of the apartment;
Gerard standing before Sybil still maintained his position of defence,
and the serjeant was, a few yards away, in his front with his pistol in
his hand.
“Well you are a queer chap,” said the serjeant; “but I must do my duty.
I shall give orders to my men to seize you, and if you resist them, I
shall shoot you through the head.”
“Stop!” called out one of the prisoners, the young man who drew
proclamations, “she moves. Do with us as you think fit, but you cannot
be so harsh as to seize one that is senseless, and a woman!”
“I must do my duty,” said the serjeant rather perplexed at the
situation. “Well, if you like, take steps to restore her, and when she
has come to herself, she shall be moved in a hackney coach alone with
her father.”
The means at hand to recover Sybil were rude, but they assisted a
reviving nature. She breathed, she sighed, slowly opened her beautiful
dark eyes, and looked around. Her father held her death-cold hand; she
returned his pressure: her lips moved, and still she murmured “fly!”
Gerard looked at the serjeant. “I am ready,” he said, “and I will carry
her.” The officer nodded assent. Guarded by two policemen the tall
delegate of Mowbray bore his precious burthen out of the chamber through
the yard, the printing-offices, up the alley, till a hackney coach
received them in Hunt Street, round which a mob had already collected,
though kept at a discreet distance by the police. One officer entered
the coach with them: another mounted the box. Two other coaches carried
the rest of the prisoners and their guards, and within halt an hour from
the arrival of Sybil at the scene of the secret meeting, she was on her
way to Bow Street to be examined as a prisoner of state.
Sybil rallied quickly during their progress to the police office.
Satisfied to find herself with her father she would have enquired as to
all that had happened, but Gerard at first discouraged her; at length he
thought it wisest gradually to convey to her that they were prisoners,
but he treated the matter lightly, did not doubt that she would
immediately be discharged, and added that though he might be detained
for a day or so, his offence was at all events bailable and he had
friends on whom he could rely. When Sybil clearly comprehended that
she was a prisoner, and that her public examination was impending, she
became silent, and leaning back in the coach, covered her face with her
hands.
The prisoners arrived at Bow Street; they were hurried into a back
office, where they remained some time unnoticed, several police-men
remaining in the room. At length about twenty minutes having elapsed, a
man dressed in black and of a severe aspect entered the room accompanied
by an inspector of police. He first enquired whether these were the
prisoners, what were their names and descriptions, which each had to
give and which were written down, where they were arrested, why they
were arrested: then scrutinising them sharply he said the magistrate was
at the Home Office, and he doubted whether they could be examined until
the morrow. Upon this Gerard commenced stating the circumstances under
which Sybil had unfortunately been arrested, but the gentleman in black
with a severe aspect, immediately told him to hold his tongue, and when
Gerard persisted, declared that if Gerard did not immediately cease
he should be separated from the other prisoners and be ordered into
solitary confinement.
Another half hour of painful suspense. The prisoners were not permitted
to hold any conversation; Sybil sat half reclining on a form with her
back against the wall, and her face covered, silent and motionless. At
the end of half an hour the inspector of police who had visited them
with the gentleman in black entered and announced that the prisoners
could not be brought up for examination that evening, and they must make
themselves as comfortable as they could for the night. Gerard made a
last appeal to the inspector that Sybil might be allowed a separate
chamber and in this he was unexpectedly successful.
The inspector was a kind-hearted man: he lived at the office and his
wife was the housekeeper. He had already given her an account,
an interesting account, of his female prisoner. The good woman’s
imagination was touched as well as her heart; she had herself suggested
that they ought to soften the rigour of the fair prisoner’s lot; and the
inspector therefore almost anticipated the request of Gerard. He begged
Sybil to accompany him to his better half, and at once promised all the
comforts and convenience which they could command. As, attended by the
inspector, she took her way to the apartments of his family, they passed
through a room in which there were writing materials, and Sybil speaking
for the first time and in a faint voice enquired of the inspector
whether it were permitted to apprise a friend of her situation. She was
answered in the affirmative, on condition that the note was previously
perused by him.
“I will write it at once,” she said, and taking up a pen she inscribed
these words,
“I followed your counsel; I entreated him to quit London this night. He
pledged himself to do so on the morrow.
“I learnt he was attending a secret meeting; that there was urgent
peril. I tracked him through scenes of terror. Alas! I arrived only in
time to be myself seized as a conspirator, and I have been arrested and
carried a prisoner to Bow Street, where I write this.
“I ask you not to interfere for him: that would be vain; but if I were
free, I might at least secure him justice. But I am not free: I am to be
brought up for public examination to-morrow, if I survive this night.
“You are powerful; you know all; you know what I say is truth. None else
will credit it. Save me!”
“And now,” said Sybil to the inspector in a tone of mournful desolation
and of mild sweetness, “all depends on your faith to me,” and she
extended him the letter, which he read.
“Whoever he may be and wherever he may be,” said the inspector with
emotion, for the spirit of Sybil had already controlled his nature,
“provided the person to whom this letter is addressed is within possible
distance, fear not it shall reach him.”
“I will seal and address it then,” said Sybil, and she addressed the
letter to
“THE HON. CHARLES EGREMONT M.P.”
adding that superscription the sight of which had so agitated Egremont
at Deloraine House.
Book 5 Chapter 9
Night waned: and Sybil was at length slumbering. The cold that precedes
the dawn had stolen over her senses, and calmed the excitement of her
nerves. She was lying on the ground, covered with a cloak of which
her kind hostess had prevailed on her to avail herself, and was partly
resting on a chair, at which she had been praying when exhausted nature
gave way and she slept. Her bonnet had fallen off, and her rich hair,
which had broken loose, covered her shoulder like a mantle. Her slumber
was brief and disturbed, but it had in a great degree soothed the
irritated brain. She woke however in terror from a dream in which she
had been dragged through a mob and carried before a tribunal. The coarse
jeers, the brutal threats, still echoed in her ear; and when she looked
around, she could not for some moments recall or recognise the scene.
In one corner of the room, which was sufficiently spacious, was a bed
occupied by the still sleeping wife of the inspector; there was a great
deal of heavy furniture of dark mahogany; a bureau, several chests of
drawers: over the mantel was a piece of faded embroidery framed, that
had been executed by the wife of the inspector when she was at school,
and opposite to it, on the other side, were portraits of Dick Curtis
and Dutch Sam, who had been the tutors of her husband, and now lived as
heroes in his memory.
Slowly came over Sybil the consciousness of the dreadful eve that was
past. She remained for some time on her knees in silent prayer: then
stepping lightly, she approached the window. It was barred. The room
which she inhabited was a high story of the house; it looked down upon
one of those half tawdry, half squalid streets that one finds in the
vicinities of our theatres; some wretched courts, haunts of misery and
crime, blended with gin palaces and slang taverns, burnished and
brazen; not a being was stirring. It was just that single hour of
the twenty-four when crime ceases, debauchery is exhausted, and even
desolation finds a shelter.
It was dawn, but still grey. For the first time since she had been a
prisoner, Sybil was alone. A prisoner, and in a few hours to be examined
before a public tribunal! Her heart sank. How far her father had
committed himself was entirely a mystery to her; but the language
of Morley, and all that she had witnessed, impressed her with the
conviction that he was deeply implicated. He had indeed spoken in their
progress to the police office with confidence as to the future, but then
he had every motive to encourage her in her despair, and to support
her under the overwhelming circumstances in which she was so suddenly
involved. What a catastrophe to all his high aspirations! It tore
her heart to think of him! As for herself, she would still hope that
ultimately she might obtain justice, but she could scarcely flatter
herself that at the first any distinction would be made between her case
and that of the other prisoners. She would probably be committed for
trial; and though her innocence on that occasion might be proved, she
would have been a prisoner in the interval, instead of devoting all her
energies in freedom to the support and assistance of her father. She
shrank, too, with all the delicacy of a woman, from the impending
examination in open court before the magistrate. Supported by her
convictions, vindicating a sacred principle, there was no trial perhaps
to which Sybil would not have been superior, and no test of her energy
and faith which she would not have triumphantly encountered; but to be
hurried like a criminal to the bar of a police office, suspected of the
lowest arts of sedition, ignorant even of what she was accused, without
a conviction to support her or the ennobling consciousness of having
failed at least in a great cause; all these were circumstances which
infinitely disheartened and depressed her. She felt sometimes that she
should be unable to meet the occasion: had it not been for Gerard she
could almost have wished that death might release her from its base
perplexities.
Was there any hope? In the agony of her soul she had confided last night
in one; with scarcely a bewildering hope that he could save her. He
might not have the power, the opportunity, the wish. He might shrink
from mixing himself up with such characters and such transactions; he
might not have received her hurried appeal in time to act upon it, even
if the desire of her soul were practicable. A thousand difficulties, a
thousand obstacles now occurred to her; and she felt her hopelessness.
Yet notwithstanding her extreme sorrow, and the absence of all
surrounding objects to soothe and to console her, the expanding dawn
revived and even encouraged Sybil. In spite of the confined situation,
she could still partially behold a sky dappled with rosy hues; a sense
of freshness touched her: she could not resist endeavouring to open the
window and feel the air, notwithstanding all her bars. The wife of the
inspector stirred, and half slumbering, murmured, “Are you up? It cannot
be more than five o’clock. If you open the window we shall catch cold;
but I will rise and help you to dress.”
This woman, like her husband, was naturally kind, and at once influenced
by Sybil. They both treated her as a superior being; and if, instead of
the daughter of a lowly prisoner and herself a prisoner, she had been
the noble child of a captive minister of state, they could not have
extended to her a more humble and even delicate solicitude.
It had not yet struck seven, and the wife of the inspector suddenly
stopping and listening, said, “They are stirring early:” and then, after
a moment’s pause, she opened the door, at which she stood for some time
endeavouring to catch the meaning of the mysterious sounds. She looked
back at Sybil, and saying, “Hush, I shall be back directly,” she
withdrew, shutting the door.
In little more than two hours, as Sybil had been informed, she would be
summoned to her examination. It was a sickening thought. Hope vanished
as the catastrophe advanced. She almost accused herself for having
without authority sought out her father; it had been as regarded him
a fruitless mission, and, by its results on her, had aggravated his
present sorrows and perplexities. Her mind again recurred to him whose
counsel had indirectly prompted her rash step, and to whose aid in her
infinite hopelessness she had appealed. The woman who had all this time
been only standing on the landing-place without the door, now re-entered
with a puzzled and curious air, saying, “I cannot make it out; some one
has arrived.”
“Some one has arrived.” Simple yet agitating words. “Is it unusual,”
enquired Sybil in a trembling tone, “for persons to arrive at this
hour?”
“Yes,” said the wife of the inspector. “They never bring them from the
stations until the office opens. I cannot make it out. Hush!” and at
this moment some one tapped at the door.
The woman returned to the door and reopened it, and some words were
spoken which did not reach Sybil, whose heart beat violently as a wild
thought rushed over her mind. The suspense was so intolerable, her
agitation so great, that she was on the point of advancing and asking
if--when the door was shut and she was again left alone. She threw
herself on the bed. It seemed to her that she had lost all control over
her intelligence. All thought and feeling merged in that deep suspense
when the order of our being seems to stop and quiver as it were upon its
axis.
The woman returned; her countenance was glad. Perceiving the agitation
of Sybil, she said, “You may dry your eyes my dear. There is nothing
like a friend at court; there’s a warrant from the Secretary of State
for your release.”
“No, no,” said Sybil springing from her chair. “Is he here?”
“What the Secretary of State!” said the woman.
“No, no! I mean is any one here?”
“There is a coach waiting for you at the door with the messenger from
the office, and you are to depart forthwith. My husband is here, it
was he who knocked at the door. The warrant came before the office was
opened.”
“My father! I must see him.”
The inspector at this moment tapped again at the door and then entered.
He caught the last request of Sybil, and replied to it in the negative.
“You must not stay,” he said; “you must be off immediately. I will tell
all to your father. And take a hint; this affair may be bailable or it
may not be. I can’t give an opinion, but it depends on the evidence. If
you have any good man you know--I mean a householder long established
and well to do in the world--I advise you to lose no time in looking him
up. That will do your father much more good than saying good bye and all
that sort of thing.”
Bidding farewell to his kind wife, and leaving many weeping messages for
her father, Sybil descended the stairs with the inspector. The office
was not opened: a couple of policemen only were in the passage, and as
she appeared one of them went forth to clear the way for Sybil to
the coach that was waiting for her. A milkwoman or two, a stray
chimney-sweep, a pieman with his smoking apparatus, and several of
those nameless nothings that always congregate and make the nucleus of
a mob--probably our young friends who had been passing the night in Hyde
Park--had already gathered round the office door. They were dispersed,
and returned again and took up their position at a more respectful
distance, abusing with many racy execrations that ancient body that from
a traditionary habit they still called the New Police.
A man in a loose white great coat, his countenance concealed by a shawl
which was wound round his neck and by his slouched hat, assisted
Sybil into the coach, and pressed her hand at the same time with great
tenderness. Then he mounted the box by the driver and ordered him to
make the best of his way to Smith’s Square.
With a beating heart, Sybil leant back in the coach and clasped her
hands. Her brain was too wild to think: the incidents of her life during
the last four-and-twenty hours had been so strange and rapid that she
seemed almost to resign any quality of intelligent control over her
fortunes, and to deliver herself up to the shifting visions of the
startling dream. His voice had sounded in her ear as his hand had
touched hers. And on those tones her memory lingered, and that pressure
had reached her heart. What tender devotion! What earnest fidelity! What
brave and romantic faith! Had she breathed on some talisman, and called
up some obedient genie to her aid, the spirit could not have been more
loyal, nor the completion of her behest more ample and precise.
She passed the towers of the church of St John: of the saint who had
seemed to guard over her in the exigency of her existence. She
was approaching her threshold; the blood left her cheek, her heart
palpitated. The coach stopped. Trembling and timid she leant upon his
arm and yet dared not look upon his face. They entered the house; they
were in the room where two months before he had knelt to her in vain,
which yesterday had been the scene of so many heart-rending passions.
As in some delicious dream, when the enchanted fancy has traced for a
time with coherent bliss the stream of bright adventures and sweet
and touching phrase, there comes at last some wild gap in the flow of
fascination, and by means which we cannot trace, and by an agency which
we cannot pursue, we find ourselves in some enrapturing situation that
is as it were the ecstasy of our life; so it happened now, that while in
clear and precise order there seemed to flit over the soul of Sybil
all that had passed, all that he had done, all that she felt--by some
mystical process which memory could not recall, Sybil found herself
pressed to the throbbing heart of Egremont, nor shrinking from the
embrace which expressed the tenderness of his devoted love!
Book 5 Chapter 10
Mowbray was in a state of great excitement. It was Saturday evening: the
mills were closed; the news had arrived of the arrest of the Delegate.
“Here’s a go!” said Dandy Mick to Devilsdust. “What do you think of
this?”
“It’s the beginning of the end,” said Devilsdust.
“The deuce!” said the Dandy, who did not clearly comprehend the bent of
the observation of his much pondering and philosophic friend, but was
touched by its oracular terseness.
“We must see Warner.” said Devilsdust, “and call a meeting of the people
on the Moor for to-morrow evening. I will draw up some resolutions. We
must speak out; we must terrify the Capitalists.”
“I am all for a strike,” said Mick.
“‘Tisn’t ripe,” said Devilsdust.
“But that’s what you always say, Dusty,” said Mick.
“I watch events,” said Devilsdust. “If you want to be a leader of the
people you must learn to watch events.”
“But what do you mean by watching events?”
“Do you see Mother Carey’s stall?” said Dusty, pointing in the direction
of the counter of the good-natured widow.
“I should think I did; and what’s more, Julia owes her a tick for
herrings.”
“Right,” said Devilsdust: “and nothing but herrings are to be seen on
her board. Two years ago it was meat.”
“I twig,” said Mick.
“Wait till it’s wegetables; when the people can’t buy even fish. Then we
will talk about strikes. That’s what I call watching events.”
Julia, Caroline, and Harriet came up to them.
“Mick,” said Julia, “we want to go to the Temple.”
“I wish you may get it,” said Mick shaking his head. “When you have
learnt to watch events, Julia, you will understand that under present
circumstances the Temple is no go.”
“And why so, Dandy?” said Julia.
“Do you see Mother Carey’s stall?” said Mick, pointing in that
direction. “When there’s a tick at Madam Carey’s there is no tin for
Chaffing Jack. That’s what I call watching events.”
“Oh! as for the tin,” said Caroline, “in these half-time days that’s
quite out of fashion. But they do say it’s the last night at the Temple,
for Chaffing Jack means to shut up, it does not pay any longer; and we
want a lark. I’ll stand treat; I’ll put my earrings up the spout--they
must go at last, and I would sooner at any time go to my uncle’s for
frolic than woe.”
“I am sure I should like very much to go to the Temple if any one would
pay for me,” said Harriet, “but I won’t pawn nothing.”
“If we only pay and hear them sing,” said Julia in a coaxing tone.
“Very like,” said Mick; “there’s nothing that makes one so thirsty as
listening to a song, particularly if it touches the feelings. Don’t you
remember, Dusty, when we used to encore that German fellow in ‘Scots wha
ha.’ We always had it five times. Hang me if I wasn’t blind drunk at the
end of it.”
“I tell you what, young ladies,” said Devilsdust, looking very solemn,
“you’re dancing on a volcano.”
“Oh! my,” said Caroline. “I am sure I wish we were; though what you mean
exactly I don’t quite know.”
“I mean that we shall all soon be slaves,” said Devilsdust.
“Not if we get the Ten-Hour Bill,” said Harriet.
“And no cleaning of machinery in meal time,” said Julia; “that is a
shame.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” said Devilsdust. “I tell
you, if the Capitalists put down Gerard we’re done for another ten
years, and by that time we shall be all used up.”
“Lor! Dusty, you quite terrify one,” said Caroline.
“It’s a true bill though. Instead of going to the Temple we must meet on
the Moor, and in as great numbers as possible. Go you and get all your
sweethearts. I must see your father, Harriet; he must preside. We will
have the hymn of Labour sung by a hundred thousand voices in chorus. It
will strike terror into the hearts of the Capitalists. This is what we
must all be thinking of if we wish Labour to have a chance, not of going
to Chaffing Jack’s and listening to silly songs. D’ye understand?”
“Don’t we!” said Caroline; “and for my part for a summer eve I prefer
Mowbray Moor to all the Temples in the world, particularly if it’s a
sociable party and we have some good singing.”
This evening it was settled among the principal champions of the cause
of Labour, among whom Devilsdust was now included, that on the morrow
there should be a monster meeting on the Moor to take into consideration
the arrest of the delegate of Mowbray. Such was the complete
organisation of this district that by communicating with the various
lodges of the Trades Unions fifty thousand persons, or even double that
number, could within four-and-twenty hours on a great occasion and on a
favourable day be brought into the field. The morrow being a day of
rest was favourable, and the seizure of their cherished delegate was a
stimulating cause. The excitement was great, the enthusiasm earnest
and deep. There was enough distress to make people discontented without
depressing them. And Devilsdust after attending a council of the Union,
retired to rest and dreamed of strong speeches and spicy resolutions,
bands and banners, the cheers of assembled thousands, and the eventual
triumph of the sacred rights.
The post of the next morning brought great and stirring news to Mowbray.
Gerard had undergone his examination at Bow Street. It was a long and
laborious one; he was committed for trial for a seditious conspiracy,
but he was held to bail. The bail demanded was heavy; but it was
prepared and instantly proffered. His sureties were Morley and a Mr
Hatton. By this post Morley wrote to his friends, apprising them that
both Gerard and himself intended to leave London instantly, and that
they might be expected to arrive at Mowbray by the evening train.
The monster meeting of the Moor it was instantly resolved should be
converted into a triumphant procession, or rather be preceded by one.
Messengers on horseback were sent to all the neighbouring towns to
announce the great event. Every artisan felt as a Moslemin summoned by
the sacred standard. All went forth with their wives and their children
to hail the return of the patriot and the martyr. The Trades of
Mowbray mustered early in the morning, and in various processions took
possession of all the churches. Their great pride was entirely to fill
the church of Mr St Lys, who not daunted by their demonstration, and
seizing the offered opportunity, suppressed the sermon with which he had
supplied himself and preached to them an extemporary discourse on “Fear
God and honour the King.” In the dissenting chapels thanksgivings were
publicly offered that bail had been accepted for Walter Gerard. After
the evening service, which the Unions again attended, they formed in the
High Street and lined it with their ranks and banners. Every half hour
a procession arrived from some neighbouring town with its music and
streaming flags. Each was received by Warner or some other member of the
managing committee, who assigned to them their appointed position, which
they took up without confusion, nor was the general order for a moment
disturbed. Sometimes a large party arrived without music or banners,
but singing psalms and headed by their minister; sometimes the children
walked together, the women following, then the men each with a ribbon
of the same colour in his hat: all hurried, yet spontaneous and certain,
indications how mankind under the influence of high and earnest feelings
recur instantly to ceremony and form; how when the imagination is
excited it appeals to the imagination, and requires for its expression
something beyond the routine of daily life.
It was arranged that the moment the train arrived and the presence of
Gerard was ascertained, the Trade in position nearest to the station
should commence the hymn of Labour, which was instantly to be taken
up by its neighbour, and so on in succession, so that by an almost
electrical agency the whole population should almost simultaneously be
assured of his arrival.
At half past six o’clock the bell announced that the train was in sight;
a few minutes afterwards Dandy Mick hurried up to the leader of the
nearest Trade, spoke a few words, and instantly the signal was given and
the hymn commenced. It was taken up as the steeples of a great city in
the silence of the night take up the new hour that has just arrived; one
by one the mighty voices rose till they all blended in one vast waving
sea of sound. Warner and some others welcomed Gerard and Morley, and
ushered them, totally unprepared for such a reception, to an open
carriage drawn by four white horses that was awaiting them. Orders were
given that there was to be no cheering or any irregular clamour. Alone
was heard the hymn. As the carriage passed each Trade, they followed
and formed in procession behind it; thus all had the opportunity of
beholding their chosen chief, and he the proud consolation of looking
on the multitude who thus enthusiastically recognised the sovereignty of
his services.
The interminable population, the mighty melody, the incredible order,
the simple yet awful solemnity, this representation of the great cause
to which she was devoted under an aspect that at once satisfied
the reason, captivated the imagination, and elevated the heart--her
admiration of her father, thus ratified as it were by the sympathy of a
nation--added to all the recent passages of her life teeming with such
strange and trying interest, overcame Sybil. The tears fell down her
cheek as the carriage bore away her father, while she remained under the
care of one unknown to the people of Mowbray, but who had accompanied
her from London,--this was Hatton.
The last light of the sun was shed over the Moor when Gerard reached it,
and the Druids’ altar and its surrounding crags were burnished with its
beam.
Book 5 Chapter 11
It was the night following the day after the return of Gerard to
Mowbray. Morley, who had lent to him and Sybil his cottage in the dale,
was at the office of his newspaper, the Mowbray Phalanx, where he now
resided. He was alone in his room writing, occasionally rising from
his seat and pacing the chamber, when some one knocked at his door.
Receiving a permission to come in, there entered Hatton.
“I fear I am disturbing an article,” said the guest.
“By no means: the day of labour is not at hand. I am very pleased to see
you.”
“My quarters are not very inviting,” continued Hatton. “It is remarkable
what bad accommodation you find in these great trading towns. I should
have thought that the mercantile traveller had been a comfortable
animal--not to say a luxurious; but I find everything mean and
third-rate. The wine execrable. So I thought I would come and bestow my
tediousness on you. ‘Tis hardly fair.”
“You could not have pleased me better. I was, rather from distraction
than from exigency, throwing some thoughts on paper. But the voice of
yesterday still lingers in my ear.”
“What a spectacle!”
“Yes; you see what a multitude presents who have recognised the
predominance of Moral Power,” said Morley. “The spectacle was august;
but the results to which such a public mind must lead are sublime.”
“It must have been deeply gratifying to our friend,” said Hatton.
“It will support him in his career,” said Morley.
“And console him in his prison,” added Hatton.
“You think that it will come to that?” said Morley inquiringly.
“It has that aspect; but appearances change.”
“What should change them?”
“Time and accident, which change everything.”
“Time will bring the York Assizes,” said Morley musingly; “and as for
accident I confess the future seems to me dreary. What can happen for
Gerard?”
“He might win his writ of right,” said Hatton demurely, stretching out
his legs and leaning back in his chair. “That also may be tried at the
York Assizes.”
“His writ of right! I thought that was a feint--a mere affair of tactics
to keep the chance of the field.”
“I believe the field may be won,” said Hatton very composedly.
“Won!”
“Ay! the castle and manor of Mowbray and half the lordships round,
to say nothing of this good town. The people are prepared to be his
subjects; he must give up equality and be content with being a popular
sovereign.”
“You jest my friend.”
“Then I speak truth in jest; sometimes, you know, the case.”
“What mean you?” said Morley rising and approaching Hatton; “for though
I have often observed you like a biting phrase, you never speak idly.
Tell me what you mean.”
“I mean,” said Hatton, looking Morley earnestly in the face and speaking
with great gravity, “that the documents are in existence which prove
the title of Walter Gerard to the proprietorship of this great district;
that I know where the documents are to be found; and that it requires
nothing but a resolution equal to the occasion to secure them.”
“Should that be wanting?” said Morley.
“I should think not,” said Hatton. “It would belie our nature to believe
so.”
“And where are these documents?”
“In the muniment room of Mowbray castle.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Morley in a prolonged tone.
“Kept closely by one who knows their value, for they are the title deeds
not of his right but of his confusion.”
“And how can we obtain them?”
“By means more honest than those they were acquired by.”
“They are not obvious.”
“Two hundred thousand human beings yesterday acknowledged the supremacy
of Gerard,” said Hatton. “Suppose they had known that within the walls
of Mowbray Castle were contained the proofs that Walter Gerard was the
lawful possessor of the lands on which they live; I say suppose that had
been the case. Do you think they would have contented themselves with
singing psalms? What would have become of moral power then? They would
have taken Mowbray Castle by storm; they would have sacked and gutted
it; they would have appointed a chosen band to rifle the round tower;
they would have taken care that every document in it, especially an iron
chest painted blue and blazoned with the shield of Valence, should have
been delivered to you, to me, to any one that Gerard appointed for the
office. And what could be the remedy of the Earl de Mowbray? He could
scarcely bring an action against the hundred for the destruction of the
castle, which we would prove was not his own. And the most he could
do would be to transport some poor wretches who had got drunk in his
plundered cellars and then set fire to his golden saloons.”
“You amaze me,” said Morley, looking with an astonished expression on
the person who had just delivered himself of these suggestive details
with the same coolness and arid accuracy that he would have entered into
the details of a pedigree.
“‘Tis a practical view of the case,” remarked Mr Hatton.
Morley paced the chamber disturbed; Hatton remained silent and watched
him with a scrutinizing eye.
“Are you certain of your facts?” at length said Morley abruptly
stopping.
“Quite so; Lord de Mowbray informed me of the circumstances himself
before I left London, and I came down here in consequence.”
“You know him?”
“No one better.”
“And these documents--some of them I suppose,” said Morley with a
cynical look, “were once in your own possession then?”
“Possibly. Would they were now! But it is a great thing to know where
they may be found.”
“Then they once were the property of Gerard?”
“Hardly that. They were gained by my own pains, and often paid for with
my own purse. Claimed by no one, I parted with them to a person to whom
they were valuable. It is not merely to serve Gerard that I want them
now, though I would willingly serve him. I have need of some of these
papers with respect to an ancient title, a claim to which by a person
in whom I am interested they would substantiate. Now listen, good friend
Morley; moral force is a fine thing especially in speculation, and so is
a community of goods especially when a man has no property, but when
you have lived as long as I have and have tasted of the world’s delight,
you’ll comprehend the rapture of acquisition, and learn that it is
generally secured by very coarse means. Come, I have a mind that you
should prosper. The public spirit is inflamed here; you are a leader
of the people. Let us have another meeting on the Moor, a preconcerted
outbreak; you can put your fingers in a trice on the men who will do our
work. Mowbray Castle is in their possession; we secure our object. You
shall have ten thousand pounds on the nail, and I will take you back to
London with me besides and teach you what is fortune.”
“I understand you,” said Morley. “You have a clear brain and a bold
spirit; you have no scruples, which indeed are generally the creatures
of perplexity rather than of principle. You ought to succeed.”
“We ought to succeed you mean,” said Hatton, “for I have long perceived
that you only wanted opportunity to mount.”
“Yesterday was a great burst of feeling occasioned by a very peculiar
cause,” said Morley musingly; “but it must not mislead us. The
discontent here is not deep. The people are still employed, though not
fully. Wages have fallen, but they must drop more. THE PEOPLE are not
ripe for the movement you intimate. There are thousands who would rush
to the rescue of the castle. Besides there is a priest here, one St
Lys, who exercises a most pernicious influence over the people. It will
require immense efforts and great distress to root him out. No; it would
fail.”
“Then we must wait awhile,” said Hatton, “or devise some other means.”
“‘Tis a very impracticable case,” said Morley.
“There is a combination for every case,” said Hatton. “Ponder and it
comes. This seemed simple; but you think, you really think it would not
answer?”
“At this moment, not; that is my conviction.”
“Well suppose instead of an insurrection we have a burglary. Can you
assist me to the right hands here?”
“Not I indeed!”
“What is the use then of this influence over the people of which you and
Gerard are always talking? After yesterday I thought here you could do
anything.”
“We have not hitherto had the advantage of your worldly knowledge; in
future we shall be wiser.”
“Well then,” said Hatton, “we must now think of Gerard’s defence. He
shall have the best counsel. I shall retain Kelly specially. I shall
return to town to-morrow morning. You will keep me alive to the state
of feeling here, and if things get more mature drop me a line and I will
come down.”
“This conversation had better not be mentioned to Gerard.”
“That is obvious; it would only disturb him. I did not preface it by a
stipulation of confidence because that is idle. Of course you will keep
the secret; it is your interest; it is a great possession. I know very
well you will be most jealous of sharing it. I know it is as safe with
you as with myself.”
And with these words Hatton wished him a hearty farewell and withdrew.
“He is right,” thought Morley; “he knows human nature well. The secret
is safe. I will not breathe it to Gerard. I will treasure it up. It is
knowledge; it is power: great knowledge, great power. And what shall I
do with it? Time will teach me.”
END OF THE FIFTH BOOK