“I am sure it’s Shuffle and Screw going to work half time,” said

Harriet. “I always said so.”

“It’s something to put down the people,” said Julia: “I suppose the Nobs

have met, and are going to drop wages again.”

“I think Dusty is going to be married,” said Caroline.

“Not at this rate of wages I should hope,” said Mrs Carey, getting in a

word.

“I should think not,” said Devilsdust. “You are a sensible woman, Mrs

Carey. And I don’t know exactly what you mean, Miss Caroline,” he added,

a little confused. For Devilsdust was a silent admirer of Caroline, and

had been known to say to Mick, who told Julia, who told her friend, that

if he ever found time to think of such things, that was the sort of girl

he should like to make the partner of his life.

“But Dusty,” said Julia, “now what is it?”

“Why, I thought you all knew,” said Mick.

“Now, now,” said Julia, “I hate suspense. I like news to go round like a

fly-wheel.”

“Well,” said Devilsdust, dryly, “this is Saturday, young women, and Mrs

Carey too, you will not deny that.”

“I should think not,” said Mrs Carey, “by the token I kept a stall for

thirty year in our market, and never gave it up till this summer, which

makes me always think that, though I have seen many ups and downs,

this--”

“Well, what has Saturday to do with us?” said Caroline; “for neither

Dandy Mick nor you can take us to the Temple, or any other genteel

place, since they are all shut from the Corn Laws, or some other cause

or other.”

“I believe it’s the machines more than the Corn Laws that have shut up

the Temple,” said Harriet. “Machines, indeed! Fancy preferring a

piece of iron or wood to your own flesh and blood. And they call that

Christianlike!”

“It is Saturday,” said Julia, “sure enough; and if I don’t lie in bed

to-morrow till sunset, may I get a bate ticket for every day for a week

to come.”

“Well, go it my hearty,” said Mick to Devilsdust. “It is Saturday, that

they have all agreed.”

“And to-morrow is Sunday,” said Devilsdust solemnly. “And the next

day is the blackest day in all the week,” said Julia. “When I hear the

factory bell on Monday morning, I feel just the same as I did when I

crossed with my uncle from Liverpool to Seaton to eat shrimps. Wasn’t I

sick coming home, that’s all!”

“You won’t hear that bell sound next Monday,” said Devilsdust solemnly.

“You don’t mean that?” said Julia.

“Why, what’s the matter?” said Caroline. “Is the Queen dead?”

“No bell on Monday morning,” said Mrs Carey, incredulously.

“Not a single ring if all the Capitalists in Mowbray were to pull

together at the same rope,” said Devilsdust.

“What can it be?” said Julia. “Come, Mick; Dusty is always so long

telling us anything.”

“Why we are going to have the devil’s own strike,” said Mick unable any

longer to contain himself and dancing with glee.

“A strike!” said Julia.

“I hope they will destroy the machines,” said Harriet.

“And open the Temple,” said Caroline, “or else it will be very dull.”

“I have seen a many strikes,” said the widow, “but as Chaffing Jack was

saying to me the other day--”

“Chaffing Jack be hanged,” said Mick. “Such a slow coach won’t do in

these high-pressure times. We are going to do the trick and no mistake.

There shan’t be a capitalist in England who can get a day’s work out of

us, even if he makes the operatives his junior partners.”

“I never heard of such things,” said Mrs Carey in amazement.

“It’s all booked, though,” said Devilsdust. “We’ll clean out the

Savings’ Banks; the Benefits and Burials will shell out. I am treasurer

of the Ancient Shepherds, and we passed a resolution yesterday

unanimously, that we would devote all our funds to the sustenance of

Labour in this its last and triumphant struggle against Capital.”

“Lor!” said Caroline, “I think it will be very jolly.”

“As long as you can give us money, I don’t care, for my part, how long

we stick out,” said Julia.

“Well,” said Mrs Carey, “I didn’t think there was so much spirit in the

place. As Chaffing Jack was saying the other day--”

“There is no spirit in the place,” said Devilsdust, “but we mean

to infuse some. Some of our friends are going to pay you a visit

to-morrow.”

“And who may they be?” said Caroline.

“To-morrow is Sunday,” said Devilsdust, “and the miners mean to say

their prayers in Mowbray Church.”

“Well, that will be a shindy!” said Caroline.

“It’s a true bill, though,” said Mick. “This time to-morrow you will

have ten thousand of them in this town, and if every mill and work in it

and ten mile round is not stopped, my name is not MICK RADLEY!”

Book 6 Chapter 9

It was Monday morning. Hatton, enveloped in his chamber robe and

wearing his velvet cap, was lounging in the best room of the principal

commercial inn of Mowbray, over a breakfast table covered with all the

delicacies of which a northern matin meal may justly boast. There

were pies of spiced meat and trout fresh from the stream, hams that

Westphalia never equalled, pyramids of bread of every form and flavour

adapted to the surrounding fruits, some conserved with curious art, and

some just gathered from the bed or from the tree.

“It’s very odd,” said Hatton to his companion Morley, “you can’t get

coffee anywhere.”

Morley who had supposed that coffee was about the commonest article of

consumption in Mowbray, looked a little surprised; but at this moment

Hatton’s servant entered with a mysterious yet somewhat triumphant air,

and ushering in a travelling biggin of their own fuming like one of the

springs of Geyser.

“Now try that,” said Hatton to Morley, as the servant poured him out a

cup; “you won’t find that so bad.”

“Does the town continue pretty quiet?” enquired Morley of the servant as

he was leaving the room.

“Quite quiet I believe, Sir; but a great many people in the streets. All

the mills are stopped.”

“Well, this is a strange business,” said Hatton when they were once more

alone. “You had no idea of it when I met you on Saturday?”

“None; on the contrary, I felt convinced that there were no elements of

general disturbance in this district. I thought from the first that the

movement would be confined to Lancashire and would easily be arrested;

but the feebleness of the government, the want of decision, perhaps the

want of means, have permitted a flame to spread the extinction of which

will not soon be witnessed.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Whenever the mining population is disturbed the disorder is obstinate.

On the whole they endure less physical suffering than most of the

working classes, their wages being considerable; and they are so

brutalized that they are more difficult to operate on than our reading

and thinking population of the factories. But when they do stir there

is always violence and a determined course. When I heard of their

insurrection on Saturday I was prepared for great disturbances in

their district, but that they should suddenly resolve to invade another

country as it were, the seat of another class of labour, and where the

hardships however severe are not of their own kind, is to me amazing,

and convinces me that there is some political head behind the scenes,

and that this move, however unintentional on the part of the miners

themselves, is part of some comprehensive scheme which, by widening the

scene of action and combining several counties and classes of labour

in the broil, must inevitably embarrass and perhaps paralyse the

Government.”

“There is a good deal in what you say,” said Hatton, taking a

strawberry with a rather absent air, and then he added, “You remember a

conversation we once had, the eve of my departure from Mowbray in ‘39?”

“I do,” said Morley reddening.

“The miners were not so ready then,” said Hatton.

“They were not,” said Morley speaking with some confusion.

“Well they are here now,” said Hatton.

“They are,” said Morley thoughtfully, but more collected.

“You saw them enter yesterday?” said Hatton. “I was sorry I missed it,

but I was taking a walk with the Gerards up Dale to see the cottage

where they once lived, and which they used to talk of so much! Was it a

strong body?”

“I should say about two thousand men, and as far as bludgeons and iron

staves go, armed.”

“A formidable force with no military to encounter them.”

“Irresistible, especially with a favourable population.”

“You think the people were not grieved to see them?”

“Certainly. Left alone they might have remained quiet; but they only

wanted the spark. We have a number of young men here who have for a

long time been murmuring against our inaction and what they call want

of spirit. The Lancashire strike set them all agog; and had any popular

leader, Gerard for example or Warner, resolved to move, they were

ready.”

“The times are critical,” said Hatton wheeling his arm-chair from the

table and resting his feet on the empty fire-place. “Lord de Mowbray had

no idea of all this. I was with him on my way here, and found him quite

tranquil. I suppose the invasion of yesterday has opened his eyes a

little.”

“What can he do?” said Morley. “It is useless to apply to the

Government. They have no force to spare. Look at Lancashire; a few

dragoons and rifles hurried about from place to place and harassed by

night service; always arriving too late, and generally attacking the

wrong point, some diversion from the main scheme. Now we had a week ago

some of the 17th Lancers here. They have been marched into Lancashire.

Had they remained the invasion would never have occurred.”

“You haven’t a soldier at hand?”

“Not a man; they have actually sent for a party of 73d from Ireland to

guard us. Mowbray may be burnt before they land.”

“And the castle too,” said Hatton quietly. “These are indeed critical

times Mr Morley. I was thinking when walking with our friend Gerard

yesterday, and hearing him and his charming daughter dilate upon the

beauties of the residence which they had forfeited, I was thinking what

a strange thing life is, and that the fact of a box of papers belonging

to him being in the possession of another person who only lives close

by, for we were walking through Mowbray woods--”

But at this moment a waiter entered and said there was one without who

wished to speak with Mr Morley.

“Let him come up,” said Hatton, “he will give us some news perhaps.”

And there was accordingly shown up a young man who had been a member of

the Convention in ‘39 with Morley, afterwards of the Secret Council with

Gerard, the same young man who had been the first arrested on the

night that Sybil was made a prisoner, having left the scene of their

deliberations for a moment in order to fetch her some water. He too had

been tried, convicted, and imprisoned, though for a shorter time than

Gerard; and he was the Chartist Apostle who had gone and resided at

Wodgate, preached the faith to the barbarians, converted them, and was

thus the primary cause of the present invasion of Mowbray.

“Ah! Field,” said Morley, “is it you?”

“You are surprised to see me;” and then the young man looked at Hatton.

“A friend,” said Morley; “speak as you like.”

“Our great man, the leader and liberator of the people,” said Field with

a smile, “who has carried all before him, and who I verily believe will

carry all before him, for Providence has given him those superhuman

energies which can alone emancipate a race, wishes to confer with you on

the state of this town and neighbourhood. It has been represented to

him that no one is more knowing and experienced than yourself in this

respect; besides as the head of our most influential organ in the Press,

it is in every way expedient that you should see him. He is at this

moment below giving instructions and receiving reports of the stoppage

of all the country works, but if you like I will bring him up here, we

shall be less disturbed.”

“By all means,” said Hatton who seemed to apprehend that Morley would

make some difficulties. “By all means.”

“Stop;” said Morley, “have you seen Gerard?”

“No,” said Field. “I wrote to him some time back, but his reply was not

encouraging. I thought his spirit was perhaps broken.”

“You know that he is here?”

“I concluded so, but we have not seen him; though to be sure, we have

seen so many, and done so much since our arrival yesterday, it is not

wonderful. By the bye, who is this blackcoat you have here, this St Lys?

We took possession of the church yesterday on our arrival, for it’s a

sort of thing that pleases the miners and colliers wonderfully, and I

always humour them. This St Lys preached us such a sermon that I was

almost afraid at one time the game would be spoiled. Our great man was

alarmingly taken by it, was saying his prayers all day and had nearly

marched back again: had it not been for the excellence of the rum and

water at our quarters, the champion of the Charter would have proved a

pious recreant.”

“St Lys will trouble you,” said Morley. “Alas! for poor human nature,

when violence can only be arrested by superstition.”

“Come don’t you preach,” said the Chartist. “The Charter is a thing the

people can understand, especially when they are masters of the country;

but as for moral force, I should like to know how I could have marched

from Wodgate to Mowbray with that on my banner.”

“Wodgate,” said Morley, “that’s a queer place.”

“Wodgate,” said Hatton, “what Wodgate is that?”

At this moment a great noise sounded without the room, the door was

banged, there seemed a scuttling, some harsh high tones, the deprecatory

voices of many waiters. The door was banged again and this time flew

open, while exclaiming in an insolent coarse voice, “Don’t tell me of

your private rooms; who is master here I should like to know?” there

entered a very thickset man, rather under the middle size, with a brutal

and grimy countenance, wearing the unbuttoned coat of a police serjeant

conquered in fight, a cocked hat, with a white plume, which was also a

trophy of war, a pair of leather breeches and topped boots, which from

their antiquity had the appearance of being his authentic property. This

was the leader and liberator of the people of England. He carried in his

hand a large hammer which he had never parted with during the whole

of the insurrection; and stopping when he had entered the room,

and surveying its inmates with an air at once stupid and arrogant,

recognizing Field the Chartist, he halloed out, “I tell you I want him.

He’s my Lord Chancellor and Prime Minister, my head and principal Doggy;

I can’t go on without him. Well, what do you think,” he said advancing

to Field, “here’s a pretty go! They won’t stop the works at the big

country mill you were talking of. They won’t, won’t they? Is my word the

law of the land or is it not? Have I given my commands that all labour

shall cease till the Queen sends me a message that the Charter is

established, and is a man who has a mill, to shut his gates upon my

forces, and pump upon my people with engines? There shall be fire for

this water;” and so saying the Liberator sent his hammer with such force

upon the table, that the plate and porcelain and accumulated luxuries of

Mr Hatton’s breakfast perilously vibrated.

“We will enquire into this, Sir,” said Field, “and we will take the

necessary steps.”

“We will enquire into this and we will take the necessary steps,” said

the Liberator, looking round with an air of pompous stupidity, and then

taking up some peaches, he began devouring them with considerable zest.

“Would the Liberator like to take some breakfast?” said Mr Hatton.

The Liberator looked at his host with a glance of senseless

intimidation, and then as if not condescending to communicate directly

with ordinary men, he uttered in a more subdued tone to the Chartist

these words, “Glass of ale.”

Ale was instantly ordered for the Liberator, who after a copious draught

assumed a less menacing air, and smacking his lips, pushed aside the

dishes, and sate down on the table swinging his legs.

“This is my friend of whom I spoke and whom you wished to see, Sir,”

said the Chartist, “the most distinguished advocate of popular rights we

possess, the editor of the Mowbray Phalanx, Mr Morley.”

Morley slightly advanced, he caught the Liberator’s eye, who scrutinized

him with extreme earnestness, and then jumping from the table shouted;

“Why this is the muff that called on me in Hell-house Yard three years

ago.”

“I had that honour,” said Morley quietly.

“Honour be hanged,” said the Bishop, “you know something about somebody;

I couldn’t squeeze you then, but by G-- I will have it out of you now.

Now, cut it short; have you seen him, and where does he live?”

“I came then to gain information, not to give it,” said Morley. “I had a

friend who wished much to see this gentleman--”

“He ayn’t no gentleman,” said the Bishop; “he’s my brother: but I tell

you what, I’ll do something for him now. I’m cock of the walk you see,

and that’s a sort of thing that don’t come twice in a man’s life. One

should feel for one’s flesh and blood, and if I find him out I’ll make

his fortune, or my name is not Simon Hatton.”

The creator and counsellor of peers started in his chair and turned

pale. A look was interchanged between him and Morley which revealed

their mutual thoughts, and the great antiquary--looking at the Liberator

with a glance of blended terror and disgust--walked away to the window.

“Suppose you put an advertisement in your paper,” continued the Bishop.

“I know a traveller who lost his keys at the Yard and got them back

again by those same means. Go on advertising till you find him, and my

prime minister and principal doggy here shall give you an order on the

town council for your expenses.”

Morley bowed his thanks in silence.

The Bishop continued--“What’s the name of the man who has got the big

mill here, about three mile off, who won’t stop his works and ducked

my men this morning with his engines. I’ll have fire I say for that

water--do you hear that Master Newspaper--I’ll have fire for that water

before I am many hours older.”

“The Liberator means Trafford,” said the Chartist.

“I’ll Trafford him,” said the Liberator and he struck the table with his

hammer. “He ducks my messenger does he? I tell you I’ll have fire for

that water,” and he looked around him as if he courted some remonstrance

in order that he might crush it.

“Trafford is a humane man,” said Morley in a quiet tone, “and behaves

well to his people.”

“A man with a big mill humane!” exclaimed the Bishop; “with two or three

thousand slaves working under the same roof, and he doing nothing but

eating their vitals. I’ll have no big mills where I’m main master. Let

him look to it. Here goes,” and he jumped off the table. “Before an hour

I’ll pay this same Trafford a visit and I’ll see whether he’ll duck me.

Come on my prime Doggy,” and nodding to the Chartist to follow him, the

Liberator left the room.

Hatton turned his head from the window, and advanced quickly to Morley.

“To business, friend Morley. This savage can-not be quiet for a moment;

he exists only in destruction and rapine. If it were not Trafford’s mill

it would be something else. I am sorry for the Traffords; they have old

blood in their veins. Before sunset their settlement will be razed to

the ground. Can we prevent it? And why not attack the castle instead of

the mill?”

Book 6 Chapter 10

About noon of this day there was a great stir in Mowbray. It was

generally whispered about that the Liberator at the head of the

Hell-cats and all others who chose to accompany them was going to pay

a visit to Mr Trafford’s settlement, in order to avenge an insult which

his envoys had experienced early in the morning when, accompanied by

a rabble of two or three hundred persons, they had repaired to the

Mowedale works in order to signify the commands of the Liberator that

labour should stop, and if necessary to enforce those commands. The

injunctions were disregarded, and when the mob in pursuance of their

further instructions began to force the great gates of the premises,

in order that they might enter the building, drive the plugs out of

the steam-boilers, and free the slaves enclosed, a masqued battery of

powerful engines was suddenly opened upon them, and the whole band of

patriots were deluged. It was impossible to resist a power which seemed

inexhaustible, and wet to the skins and amid the laughter of their

adversaries they fled. This ridiculous catastrophe had terribly excited

the ire of the Liberator. He vowed vengeance, and as, like all great

revolutionary characters and military leaders, the only foundation of

his power was constant employment for his troops and constant excitement

for the populace, he determined to place himself at the head of the

chastising force, and make a great example which should establish

his awful reputation and spread the terror of his name throughout the

district.

Field the Chartist had soon discovered who were the rising spirits of

Mowbray, and Devilsdust and Dandy Mick were both sworn on Monday morning

of the council of the Liberator, and took their seats at the board

accordingly. Devilsdust, used to public business and to the fulfilment

of responsible duties, was calm and grave, but equally ready and

determined. Mick’s head on the contrary was quite turned by the

importance of his novel position. He was greatly excited, could devise

nothing and would do anything, always followed Devilsdust in council,

but when he executed their joint decrees and showed himself about the

town, he strutted like a peacock, swore at the men and winked at the

girls, and was the idol and admiration of every gaping or huzzaing

younker.

There was a large crowd assembled in the Market Place, in which were the

Liberator’s lodgings, many of them armed in their rude fashion, and

all anxious to march. Devilsdust was with the great man and Field; Mick

below was marshalling the men, and swearing like a trooper at all who

disobeyed or who misunderstood.

“Come stupid,” said he addressing Tummas, “what are you staring about?

Get your men in order or I’ll be among you.”

“Stupid!” said Tummas, staring at Mick with immense astonishment. “And

who are you who says ‘Stupid?’ A white-livered Handloom as I dare say,

or a son of a gun of a factory slave. Stupid indeed! What next, when a

Hell-cat is to be called stupid by such a thing as you?”

“I’ll give you a piece of advice young man,” said Master Nixon taking

his pipe out of his mouth and blowing an immense puff; “just you go

down the shaft for a couple of months, and then you’ll learn a little of

life, which is wery useful.”

The lively temperament of the Dandy would here probably have involved

him in an inconvenient embroilment had not some one at this moment

touched him on the shoulder, and looking round he recognised Mr Morley.

Notwithstanding the difference of their political schools Mick had a

profound respect for Morley, though why he could not perhaps precisely

express. But he had heard Devilsdust for years declare that Stephen

Morley was the deepest head in Mowbray, and though he regretted the

unfortunate weakness in favour of that imaginary abstraction called

Moral Force for which the editor of the Phalanx was distinguished, still

Devilsdust used to say that if ever the great revolution were to occur

by which the rights of labour were to be recognised, though bolder

spirits and brawnier arms might consummate the change, there was only

one head among them that would be capable when they had gained their

power to guide it for the public weal, and as Devilsdust used to add,

“carry out the thing,” and that was Morley.

It was a fine summer day, and Mowedale was as resplendent as when

Egremont amid its beauties first began to muse over the beautiful. There

was the same bloom over the sky, the same shadowy lustre on the trees,

the same sparkling brilliancy on the waters. A herdsman following some

kine was crossing the stone bridge, and except their lowing as they

stopped and sniffed the current of fresh air in its centre, there was

not a sound.

Suddenly the tramp and hum of a multitude broke upon the sunshiny

silence. A vast crowd with some assumption of an ill-disciplined order

approached from the direction of Mowbray. At their head rode a man on

a white mule. Many of his followers were armed with bludgeons and

other rude weapons, and moved in files. Behind them spread a more

miscellaneous throng, in which women were not wanting and even children.

They moved rapidly; they swept by the former cottage of Gerard; they

were in sight of the settlement of Trafford.

“All the waters of the river shall not dout the blaze that I will light

up to-day,” said the Liberator.

“He is a most inveterate Capitalist,” said Field, “and would divert the

minds of the people from the Five Points by allotting them gardens and

giving them baths.”

“We will have no more gardens in England; everything shall be open,”

said the Liberator, “and baths shall only be used to drown the enemies

of the People. I was always against washing; it takes the marrow out of

a man.”

“Here we are,” said Field, as the roofs and bowers of the village, the

spire and the spreading factory, broke upon them. “Every door and every

window closed! The settlement is deserted. Some one has been before us

and apprised them of our arrival.”

“Will they pour water on me?” said the Bishop. “It must be a stream

indeed that shall put out the blaze that I am going to light. What shall

we do first? Halt there, you men,” said the Liberator looking back with

that scowl which his apprentices never could forget. “Will you halt or

won’t you? or must I be among you?”

There was a tremulous shuffling and then a comparative silence.

The women and children of the village had been gathered into the factory

yard, of which the great gates were closed.

“What shall we burn first?” asked the Bishop.

“We may as well parley with them a little,” said Field; “perhaps we may

contrive to gain admission and then we can sack the whole affair, and

let the people burn the machinery. It will be a great moral lesson.”

“As long as there is burning,” said the Bishop, “I don’t care what

lessons you teach them. I leave them to you; but I will have fire to put

out that water.”

“I’ll advance,” said Field, and so saying he went forward and rang at

the gate; the Bishop, on his mule, with a dozen Hell-cats accompanying

him; the great body of the people about twenty yards withdrawn.

“Who rings?” asked a loud voice.

“One who by the order of the Liberator wishes to enter and see whether

his commands for a complete cessation of labour have been complied with

in this establishment.”

“Very good,” said the Bishop.

“There is no hand at work here,” said the voice; “and you may take my

word for it.”

“Your word be hanged,” said the Bishop. “I want to know--”

“Hush, hush!” said Field, and then in a louder voice he said, “It may be

so, but as our messengers this morning were not permitted to enter and

were treated with great indignity--”

“That’s it,” said the Bishop.

“With great indignity,” continued Field, “we must have ocular experience

of the state of affairs, and I beg and recommend you therefore at once

to let the Liberator enter.”

“None shall enter here,” replied the unseen guardian of the gate.

“That’s enough,” cried the Bishop.

“Beware!” said Field.

“Whether you let us in or not, ‘tis all the same,” said the Bishop; “I

will have fire for your water, and I have come for that. Now lads!”

“Stop,” said the voice of the unseen. “I will speak to you.”

“He is going to let us in,” whispered Field to the Bishop.

And suddenly there appeared on the flat roof of the lodge that was on

one side of the gates--Gerard. His air, his figure, his position were

alike commanding, and at the sight of him a loud and spontaneous cheer

burst from the assembled thousands. It was the sight of one who was

after all the most popular leader of the people that had ever figured

in these parts, whose eloquence charmed and commanded, whose

disinterestedness was acknowledged, whose sufferings had created

sympathy, whose courage, manly bearing, and famous feats of strength

were a source to them of pride. There was not a Mowbray man whose heart

did not throb with emotion, and whose memory did not recall the orations

from the Druid’s altar and the famous meetings on the moor. “Gerard for

ever” was the universal shout.

The Bishop who liked no one to be cheered except himself, like many

great men, was much disgusted, a little perplexed. “What does all this

mean?” he whispered to Field. “I came here to burn down the place.”

“Wait awhile,” said Field, “we must humour the Mowbray men a bit. This

is their favourite leader, at least was in old days. I know him well; he

is a bold and honest man.”

“Is this the man who ducked my people?” asked the Bishop fiercely.

“Hush!” said Field; “he is going to speak.”

“My friends,” said Gerard, “for if we are not friends who should be?

(loud cheers and cries of “Very true”), if you come hear to learn

whether the Mowedale works are stopped, I give you my word there is

not a machine or man that stirs here at this moment (great cheering). I

believe you’ll take my word (cheers, and cries of “We will”). I believe

I’m known at Mowbray (“Gerard for ever!”), and on Mowbray Moor too

(tumultous cheering). We have met together before this (“That we have”),

and shall meet again yet (great cheering). The people haven’t so many

friends that they should quarrel with well-wishers. The master here has

done his best to soften your lots. He is not one of those who deny

that Labour has rights (loud cheers). I say that Mr Trafford has always

acknowledged the rights of Labour (prolonged cheers and cries of “So he

has”). Well, is he the man that we should injure? (“No, no”). What if

he did give a cold reception to some visitors this

morning--(groans)--perhaps they wore faces he was not used to (loud

cheers and laughter from the Mowbray people). I dare say they mean as

well as we do--no doubt of that--but still a neighbour’s a neighbour

(immense cheering). Now, my lads, three cheers for the National

Holiday,” and Gerard gave the time, and his voice was echoed by the

thousands present. “The master here has no wish to interfere with the

National Holiday; all he wants to secure is that all mills and works

should alike stop (cries of “Very just”). And I say so too,” continued

Gerard. “It is just; just and manly and like a true-born Englishman

as he is, who loves the people and whose fathers before him loved the

people (great cheering). Three cheers for Mr Trafford I say;” and they

were given; “and three cheers for Mrs Trafford too, the friend of the

poor!” Here the mob became not only enthusiastic but maudlin; all vowing

to each other that Trafford was a true-born Englishman and his wife a

very angel upon earth. This popular feeling is so contagious that even

the Hell-cats shared it--cheering, shaking hands with each other, and

almost shedding tears--though it must be confessed that they had some

vague idea that it was all to end in something to drink.

Their great leader however remained unmoved, and nothing but his brutal

stupidity could have prevented him from endeavouring to arrest the tide

of public feeling, but he was quite bewildered by the diversion, and for

the first time failed in finding a prompter in Field. The Chartist was

cowed by Gerard; his old companion in scenes that the memory lingered

over, and whose superior genius had often controlled and often led him.

Gerard too had recognized him and had made some personal allusion and

appeal to him, which alike touched his conscience and flattered

his vanity. The ranks were broken, the spirit of the expedition had

dissolved, the great body were talking of returning, some of the

stragglers indeed were on their way back, the Bishop silent and confused

kept knocking the mane of his mule with his hammer.

“Now,” said Morley who during this scene had stood apart accompanied

by Devilsdust and Dandy Mick. “Now,” said Morley to the latter, “now is

your time.”

“Gentlemen!” sang out Mick.

“A speech, a speech!” cried out several.

“Listen to Mick Radley,” whispered Devilsdust moving swiftly among

the mob and addressing every one he met of influence. “Listen to Mick

Radley, he has something important.”

“Radley for ever! Listen to Mick Radley! Go it Dandy! Pitch it into

them! Silence for Dandy Mick! Jump up on that ere bank,” and on the bank

Mick mounted accordingly.

“Gentlemen,” said Mick.

“Well you have said that before.”

“I like to hear him say ‘Gentlemen;’ it’s respectful.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Dandy, “the National Holiday has begun--”

“Three cheers for it!”

“Silence; hear the Dandy!”

“The National Holiday has begun,” continued Mick, “and it seems to

me the best thing for the people to do is to take a walk in Lord de

Mowbray’s park.”

This proposition was received with one of those wild shouts of

approbation which indicate the orator has exactly hit his audience

between wind and water. The fact is the public mind at this instant

wanted to be led, and in Dandy Mick a leader appeared. A leader to be

successful should embody in his system the necessities of his followers;

express what every one feels, but no one has had the ability or the

courage to pronounce.

The courage and adroitness, the influence of Gerard, had reconciled

the people to the relinquishment of the great end for which they had

congregated; but neither man nor multitude like to make preparations

without obtaining a result. Every one wanted to achieve some object by

the movement; and at this critical juncture an object was proposed,

and one which promised novelty, amusement, excitement. The Bishop whose

consent must be obtained, but who relinquished an idea with the same

difficulty with which he had imbibed it, alone murmured, and kept saying

to Field, “I thought we came to burn down the mill! A bloody-minded

Capitalist, a man that makes gardens and forces the people to wash

themselves: What is all this?”

Field said what he could, while Devilsdust leaning over the mule’s

shoulder, cajoled the other ear of the Bishop, who at last gave his

consent with almost as much reluctance as George the Fourth did to the

emancipation of the Roman Catholics; but he made his terms, and said in

a sulky voice he must have a glass of ale.

“Drink a glass of ale with Lord de Mowbray,” said Devilsdust.

Book 6 Chapter 11

When the news had arrived in the morning at Mowbray, that the messengers

of the Bishop had met with a somewhat queer reception at the Mowedale

works, Gerard prescient that some trouble might in consequence occur

there, determined to repair at once to the residence of his late

employer. It so happened that Monday was the day on which the cottages

up the dale and on the other side of the river were visited by an envoy

of Ursula Trafford, and it was the office of Sybil this morning to

fulfil the duties of that mission of charity. She had mentioned this to

her father on the previous day, and as in consequence of the strike, he

was no longer occupied, he had proposed to accompany his daughter on

the morrow. Together therefore they had walked until they arrived at

the bridge, it being then about two hours to noon, a little above

their former residence. Here they were to separate. Gerard embraced his

daughter with even more than usual tenderness; and as Sybil crossed

the bridge, she looked round at her father, and her glance caught his,

turned for the same fond purpose.

Sybil was not alone; Harold, who had ceased to gambol, but who had

gained in stature, majesty and weight what he had lost of lithe and

frolick grace, was by her side. He no longer danced before his mistress,

coursed away and then returned, or vented his exuberant life in a

thousand feats of playful vigour; but sedate and observant, he was

always at hand, ever sagacious, and seemed to watch her every glance.

The day was beautiful, the scene was fair, the spot indeed was one which

rendered the performance of gracious offices to Sybil doubly sweet. She

ever begged of the Lady Superior that she might be her minister to the

cottages up Dale. They were full of familiar faces. It was a region

endeared to Sybil by many memories of content and tenderness. And as she

moved along to-day her heart was light, and the natural joyousness

of her disposition, which so many adverse circumstances had tended to

repress, was visible in her sunny face. She was happy about her father.

The invasion of the miners, instead of prompting him as she had feared

to some rash conduct, appeared to have filled him only with disgust.

Even now he was occupied in a pursuit of order and peace, counselling

prudence and protecting the benevolent.

She passed through a copse which skirted those woods of Mowbray wherein

she had once so often rambled with one whose image now hovered over her

spirit. Ah! what scenes and changes, dazzling and dark, had occurred

since the careless though thoughtful days of her early girlhood! Sybil

mused: she recalled the moonlit hour when Mr Franklin first paid a visit

to their cottage, their walks and wanderings, the expeditions which she

planned and the explanations which she so artlessly gave him. Her memory

wandered to their meeting in Westminster, and all the scenes of sorrow

and of softness of which it was the herald. Her imagination raised

before her in colours of light and life the morning, the terrible

morning when he came to her desperate rescue; his voice sounded in her

ear; her cheek glowed as she recalled their tender farewell.

It was past noon: Sybil had reached the term of her expedition, had

visited her last charge; she was emerging from the hills into the open

country, and about to regain the river road that would in time have

conducted her to the bridge. On one side of her was the moor, on the

other a wood that was the boundary of Mowbray Park. And now a number

of women met her, some of whom she recognised, and had indeed visited

earlier in the morning. Their movements were disordered, distress and

panic were expressed on their countenances. Sybil stopped, she spoke

to some, the rest gathered around her. The Hell-cats were coming,

they said; they were on the other side of the river, burning mills,

destroying all they could put their hands on, man, woman and child.

Sybil, alarmed for her father, put to them some questions, to which they

gave incoherent answers. It was however clear that they had seen no one,

and knew nothing of their own experience. The rumour had reached them

that the mob was advancing up Dale, those who had apprised them had,

according to their statement, absolutely witnessed the approach of the

multitude, and so they had locked up their cottages, crossed the bridge,

and ran away to the woods and moor. Under these circumstances, deeming

that there might be much exaggeration, Sybil at length resolved to

advance, and in a few minutes those whom she had encountered were out

of sight. She patted Harold, who looked up in her face and gave a

bark, significant of his approbation of her proceeding, and also of his

consciousness that something strange was going on. She had not proceeded

very far before two men on horseback, at full gallop, met her. They

pulled up directly they observed her, and said, “You had better go back

as fast as you can: the mob is out, and coming up Dale in great force.”

Sybil enquired, with much agitation, whether they had themselves seen

the people, and they replied that they had not, but that advices had

been received from Mowbray of their approach, and as for themselves they

were hurrying at their utmost speed to a town ten miles off, where

they understood some yeomanry were stationed, and to whom the Mayor

of Mowbray had last night sent a despatch: Sybil would have enquired

whether there were time for her to reach the bridge and join her father

at the factory of Trafford, but the horsemen were impatient and rode

off. Still she determined to proceed. All that she now aimed at was to

reach Gerard and share his fate.

A boat put across the river; two men and a crowd of women. The mob had

been seen; at least there was positively one person present who had

distinguished them in the extreme distance, or rather the cloud of dust

which they created; there were dreadful stories of their violence and

devastation. It was understood that a body meant to attack Trafford’s

works, but, as the narrator added, it was very probable that the greater

part would cross the bridge and so on to the Moor, where they would hold

a meeting.

Sybil would fain have crossed in the boat, but there was no one to

assist her. They had escaped, and meant to lose no time in finding a

place of refuge for the moment. They were sure if they recrossed now,

they must meet the mob. They were about to leave her, Sybil in infinite

distress, when a lady driving herself in a pony carriage, with a couple

of grooms behind her mounted also on ponies of the same form and colour,

came up from the direction of the Moor, and observing the group and

Sybil much agitated, pulled up and enquired the cause. One of the men,

frequently interrupted by all the women, immediately entered into a

narrative of the state of affairs for which the lady was evidently quite

unprepared, for her alarm was considerable.

“And this young person will persist in crossing over,” continued the

man. “It’s nothing less than madness. I tell her she will meet instant

death or worse.”

“It seems to me very rash,” said the lady in a kind tone, and who seemed

to recognise her.

“Alas! what am I to do!” exclaimed Sybil. “I left my father at Mr

Trafford’s!”

“Well, we have no time to lose,” said the man, whose companion had now

fastened the boat to the bank, and so wishing them good morning, and

followed by the whole of his cargo, they went on their way.

But just at this moment a gentleman, mounted on a very knowing little

cob, came cantering up, exclaiming, as he reached the pony carriage, “My

dear Joan, I am looking after you. I have been in the greatest alarm for

you. There are riots on the other side of the river, and I was afraid

you might have crossed the bridge.”

Upon this, Lady Joan related to Mr Mountchesney how she had just become

acquainted with the intelligence, and then they conversed together for

a moment or so in a whisper: when turning round to Sybil, she said, “I

think you had really better come home with us till affairs are a little

more quiet.”

“You are most kind,” said Sybil, “but if I could get back to the town

through Mowbray Park, I think I might do something for my father!”

“We are going to the Castle through the park at this moment,” said the

gentleman. “You had better come with us. There you will at least be

safe, and perhaps we shall be able to do something for the good people

in trouble over the water,” and so saying, nodding to a groom who,

advancing, held his cob, the gentleman dismounted, and approaching Sybil

with great courtesy, said, “I think we ought all of us to know each

other. Lady Joan and myself had once the pleasure of meeting you, I

think, at Mr Trafford’s. It is a long time ago, but,” he added in a

subdued tone, “you are not a person to forget.”

Sybil was insensible to Mr Mountchesney’s gallantry, but alarmed and

perplexed, she yielded to the representations of himself and Lady Joan,

and got into the phaeton. Turning from the river, they pursued a road

which entered after a short progress into the park, Mr Mountchesney

cantering on before them, Harold following. They took their way for

about a mile through a richly-wooded demesne, Lady Joan addressing many

observations with great kindness to Sybil, and frequently endeavouring,

though in vain, to distract her agitated thoughts, till they at length

emerged from the more covered parts into extensive lawns, while on

a rising ground which they rapidly approached rose Mowbray Castle, a

modern castellated building, raised in a style not remarkable for its

taste or correctness, but vast, grand, and imposing.

“And now,” said Mr Mountchesney, riding up to them and addressing Sybil,

“I will send off a scout immediately for news of your father. In the

mean time let us believe the best!” Sybil thanked him with cordiality,

and then she entered--Mowbray Castle.

Book 6 Chapter 12

Less than an hour after the arrival of Sybil at Mowbray Castle the scout

that Mr Mountchesney had sent off to gather news returned, and with

intelligence of the triumph of Gerard’s eloquence, that all had ended

happily, and that the people were dispersing and returning to the town.

Kind as was the reception accorded to Sybil by Lady de Mowbray and her

daughter on her arrival, the remembrance of the perilous position of her

father had totally disqualified her from responding to their advances.

Acquainted with the cause of her anxiety and depression and sympathising

with womanly softness with her distress, nothing could be more

considerate than their behaviour. It touched Sybil much, and she

regretted the harsh thoughts that irresistible circumstances had forced

her to cherish respecting persons, who, now that she saw them in

their domestic and unaffected hour, had apparently many qualities to

conciliate and to charm. When the good news arrived of her father’s

safety, and safety achieved in a manner so flattering to a daughter’s

pride, it came upon a heart predisposed to warmth and kindness and all

her feelings opened. The tears stood in her beautiful eyes, and they

were tears not only of tenderness but gratitude. Fortunately Lord

de Mowbray was at the moment absent, and as the question of the

controverted inheritance was a secret to every member of the family

except himself, the name of Gerard excited no invidious sensation in

the circle. Sybil was willing to please and to be pleased: every one

was captivated by her beauty, her grace, her picturesque expression and

sweet simplicity. Lady de Mowbray serenely smiled and frequently when

unobserved viewed her through her eyeglass. Lady Joan, much softened by

marriage, would show her the castle; Lady Maud was in ecstasies with all

that Sybil said or did: while Mr Mountchesney who had thought of little

else but Sybil ever since Lady Maud’s report of her seraphic singing,

and who had not let four-and-twenty hours go by without discovering,

with all the practised art of St James’, the name and residence of the

unknown fair, flattered himself he was making great play when Sybil,

moved by his great kindness, distinguished him by frequent notice.

They had viewed the castle, they were in the music-room, Sybil had been

prevailed upon, though with reluctance, to sing. Some Spanish church

music which she found there called forth all her powers: all was

happiness, delight, rapture, Lady Maud in a frenzy of friendship, Mr

Mountchesney convinced that the country in August might be delightful,

and Lady Joan almost gay because Alfred was pleased. Lady de Mowbray

had been left in her boudoir with the “Morning Post.” Sybil had just

finished a ravishing air, there was a murmur of luncheon--when suddenly

Harold, who had persisted in following his mistress and whom Mr

Mountchesney had gallantly introduced into the music-room, rose and

coming forward from the corner in which he reposed, barked violently.

“How now!” said Mr Mountchesney.

“Harold!” said Sybil in a tone of remonstrance and surprise.

But the dog not only continued to bark but even howled. At this moment

the groom of the chambers entered the room abruptly and with a face

of mystery said that he wished to speak with Mr Mountchesney. That

gentleman immediately withdrew. He was absent some little time, the

dog very agitated; Lady Joan becoming disquieted, when he returned. His

changed air struck the vigilant eye of his wife.

“What has happened Alfred?” she said.

“Oh! don’t be alarmed,” he replied with an obvious affectation of ease.

“There are some troublesome people in the park; stragglers I suppose

from the rioters. The gate-keeper ought not to have let them pass.

I have given directions to Bentley what to do, if they come to the

castle.”

“Let us go to mama,” said Lady Joan.

And they were all about leaving the music-room, when a servant came

running in and called out “Mr Bentley told me to say, sir, they are in

sight.”

“Very well,” said Mr Mountchesney in a calm tone but changing colour.

“You had better go to your mama, Joan, and take Maud and our friend

with you. I will stay below for a while,” and notwithstanding the

remonstrances of his wife, Mr Mountchesney went to the hall.

“I don’t know what to do, sir,” said the house steward. “They are a very

strong party.”

“Close all the windows, lock and bar all the doors,” said Mr

Mountchesney. “I am frightened,” he continued, “about your lord. I fear

he may fall in with these people.”

“My lord is at Mowbray,” said Mr Bentley. “He must have heard of this

mob there.”

And now emerging from the plantations and entering on the lawns, the

force and description of the invading party were easier to distinguish.

They were numerous, though consisting of only a section of the original

expedition, for Gerard had collected a great portion of the Mowbray men,

and they preferred being under his command to following a stranger whom

they did not much like on a somewhat licentious adventure of which

their natural leader disapproved. The invading section therefore were

principally composed of Hell-cats, though singular enough Morley of all

men in the world accompanied them, attended by Devilsdust, Dandy Mick,

and others of that youthful class of which these last were the idols

and heroes. There were perhaps eighteen hundred or two thousand persons

armed with bars and bludgeons, in general a grimy crew, whose dress and

appearance revealed the kind of labour to which they were accustomed.

The difference between them and the minority of Mowbray operatives was

instantly recognizable.

When they perceived the castle this dreadful band gave a ferocious

shout. Lady de Mowbray showed blood; she was composed and courageous.

She observed the mob from the window, and re-assuring her daughters and

Sybil she said she would go down and speak to them. She was on the point

of leaving the room with this object when Mr Mountchesney entered and

hearing her purpose, dissuaded her from attempting it. “Leave all to

me,” he said; “and make yourselves quite easy; they will go away, I am

certain they will go away,” and he again quitted them.

In the meantime Lady de Mowbray and her friends observed the proceedings

below. When the main body had advanced within a few hundred yards of

the castle, they halted and seated themselves on the turf. This step

re-assured the garrison: it was generally held to indicate that the

intentions of the invaders were not of a very settled or hostile

character; that they had visited the place probably in a spirit of

frolic, and if met with tact and civility might ultimately be induced to

retire from it without much annoyance. This was evidently the opinion

of Mr Mountchesney from the first, and when an uncouth being on a white

mule, attended by twenty or thirty miners, advanced to the castle and

asked for Lord de Mowbray, Mr Mountchesney met them with kindness,

saying that he regretted his father-in-law was absent, expressed his

readiness to represent him, and enquired their pleasure. His courteous

bearing evidently had an influence on the Bishop, who dropping his usual

brutal tone mumbled something about his wish to drink Lord de Mowbray’s

health.

“You shall all drink his health,” said Mr Mountchesney humouring

him, and he gave directions that a couple of barrels of ale should be

broached in the park before the castle. The Bishop was pleased, the

people were in good humour, some men began dancing, it seemed that the

cloud had blown over, and Mr Mountchesney sent up a bulletin to Lady de

Mowbray that all danger was past and that he hoped in ten minutes they

would all have disappeared.

The ten minutes had expired: the Bishop was still drinking ale, and

Mr Mountchesney still making civil speeches and keeping his immediate

attendants in humour.

“I wish they would go,” said Lady de Mowbray.

“How wonderfully Alfred has managed them,” said Lady Joan. “After all,”

said Lady Maud, “it must be confessed that the people--” Her sentence

was interrupted; Harold who had been shut out but who had laid down

without quietly, though moaning at intervals, now sprang at the door

with so much force that it trembled on its hinges, while the dog again

barked with renewed violence. Sybil went to him: he seized her dress

with his teeth and would have pulled her away. Suddenly uncouth and

mysterious sounds were heard, there was a loud shriek, the gong in the

hall thundered, the great alarum-bell of the tower sounded without, and

the housekeeper followed by the female domestics rushed into the room.

“O! my lady, my lady,” they all exclaimed at the same time, “the

Hell-cats are breaking into the castle.”

Before any one of the terrified company could reply, the voice of Mr

Mountchesney was heard. He was approaching them; he was no longer calm.

He hurried into the room; he was pale, evidently greatly alarmed. “I

have come to you,” he said; “these fellows have got in below. While

there is time and we can manage them, you must leave the place.”

“I am ready for anything.” said Lady de Mowbray.

Lady Joan and Lady Maud wrung their hands in frantic terror. Sybil very

pale said “Let me go down; I may know some of these men.”

“No, no,” said Mr Mountchesney. “They are not Mowbray people. It would

not be safe.”

Dreadful sounds were now heard; a blending of shouts and oaths and

hideous merriment. Their hearts trembled.

“The mob are in the house, sir,” called out Mr Bentley rushing up to

them. “They say they will see everything.”

“Let them see everything,” said Lady de Mowbray, “but make a condition

that they first let us go. Try Alfred, try to manage them before they

are utterly ungovernable.”

Mr Mountchesney again left them on this desperate mission. Lady de

Mowbray and all the women remained in the chamber. Not a word was

spoken: the silence was complete. Even the maid-servants had ceased to

sigh and sob. A feeling something like desperation was stealing over

them.

The dreadful sounds continued increased. They seemed to approach nearer.

It was impossible to distinguish a word, and yet their import was

frightful and ferocious.

“Lord have mercy on us all!” exclaimed the housekeeper unable to

restrain herself. The maids began to cry.

After an absence of about five minutes Mr Mountchesney again hurried

in and leading away Lady de Mowbray, he said, “You haven’t a moment to

lose. Follow us!”

There was a general rush, and following Mr Mountchesney they passed

rapidly through several apartments, the fearful noises every moment

increasing, until they reached the library which opened on the terrace.

The windows were broken, the terrace crowded with people, several of the

mob were in the room, even Lady de Mowbray cried out and fell back.

“Come on,” said Mr Mountchesney. “The mob have possession of the castle.

It is our only chance.”

“But the mob are here,” said Lady de Mowbray much terrified.

“I see some Mowbray faces,” cried Sybil springing forward, with a

flashing eye and glowing cheek. “Bamford and Samuel Carr: Bamford, if

you be my father’s friend, aid us now; and Samuel Carr, I was with your

mother this morning: did she think I should meet her son thus? No,

you shall not enter,” said Sybil advancing. They recognised her, they

paused. “I know you, Couchman; you told us once at the Convent that

we might summon you in our need. I summon you now. O, men, men!” she

exclaimed, clasping her hands. “What is this? Are you led away by

strangers to such deeds? Why, I know you all! You came here to aid, I

am sure, and not to harm. Guard these ladies; save them from these

foreigners! There’s Butler, he’ll go with us, and Godfrey Wells.

Shall it be said you let your neighbours be plundered and assailed

by strangers and never tried to shield them? Now, my good friends, I

entreat, I adjure you, Butler, Wells, Couchman, what would Walter Gerard

say, your friend that you have so often followed, if he saw this?”

“Gerard forever!” shouted Couchman.

“Gerard forever!” exclaimed a hundred voices.

“‘Tis his blessed daughter,” said others; “‘tis Sybil, our angel Sybil.”

“Stand by Sybil Gerard.”

Sybil had made her way upon the terrace, and had collected around her

a knot of stout followers, who, whatever may have been their original

motive, were now resolved to do her bidding. The object of Mr

Mountchesney was to descend the side-step of the terrace and again the

flower-garden, from whence there were means of escape. But the throng

was still too fierce to permit Lady de Mowbray and her companions to

attempt the passage, and all that Sybil and her followers could at

present do, was to keep the mob off from entering the library, and to

exert themselves to obtain fresh recruits.

At this moment an unexpected aid arrived.

“Keep back there! I call upon you in the name of God to keep back!”

exclaimed a voice of one struggling and communing with the rioters,

a voice which all immediately recognised. It was that of Mr St Lys.

Charles Gardner, “I have been your friend. The aid I gave you was often

supplied to me by this house. Why are you here?”

“For no evil purpose, Mr St Lys. I came as others did, to see what was

going on.”

“Then you see a deed of darkness. Struggle against it. Aid me and Philip

Warner in this work; it will support you at the judgment. Tressel,

Tressel, stand by me and Warner. That’s good, that’s right! And you too,

Daventry, and you, and you. I knew you would wash your hands of this

fell deed. It is not Mowbray men who would do this. That’s right, that’s

right! Form a band. Good again. There’s not a man that joins us now who

does not make a friend for life.”

Mr St Lys had been in the neighbourhood when the news of the visit

of the mob to the castle reached him. He anticipated the perilous

consequences. He hastened immediately to the scene of action. He had

met Warner the handloom weaver in his way, and enlisted his powerful

influence with the people on his side.

The respective bands of Sybil and Mr St Lys in time contrived to join.

Their numbers were no longer contemptible; they were animated by the

words and presence of their leaders: St Lys struggling in their midst;

Sybil maintaining her position on the terrace, and inciting all around

her to courage and energy.

The multitude were kept back, the passage to the side-steps of the

terrace was clear.

“Now,” said Sybil, and she encouraged Lady de Mowbray, her daughters,

and followers to advance. It was a fearful struggle to maintain the

communication, but it was a successful one. They proceeded breathless

and trembling, until they reached what was commonly called the Grotto,

but which was in fact a subterranean way excavated through a hill and

leading to the bank of a river where there were boats. The entrance of

this tunnel was guarded by an iron gate, and Mr Mountchesney had

secured the key. The gate was opened, Warner and his friends made almost

superhuman efforts at this moment to keep back the multitude, Lady de

Mowbray and her daughters had passed through, when there came one of

those violent undulations usual in mobs, and which was occasioned by a

sudden influx of persons attracted by what was occurring, and Sybil and

those who immediately surrounded her and were guarding the retreat were

carried far away. The gate was closed, the rest of the party had passed,

but Sybil was left, and found herself entirely among strangers.

In the meantime the castle was in possession of the mob. The first great

rush was to the cellars: the Bishop himself headed this onset, nor

did he rest until he was seated among the prime binns of the noble

proprietor. This was not a crisis of corkscrews; the heads of the

bottles were knocked off with the same promptitude and dexterity as if

they were shelling nuts or decapitating shrimps: the choicest wines of

Christendom were poured down the thirsty throats that ale and spirits

had hitherto only stimulated; Tummas was swallowing Burgundy; Master

Nixon had got hold of a batch of tokay; while the Bishop himself seated

on the ground and leaning against an arch, the long perspective of

the cellars full of rapacious figures brandishing bottles and torches,

alternately quaffed some very old Port and some Madeira of many voyages,

and was making up his mind as to their respective and relative merits.

While the cellars and offices were thus occupied, bands were parading

the gorgeous saloons and gazing with wonderment on their decorations

and furniture. Some grimy ruffians had thrown themselves with disdainful

delight on the satin couches and the state beds: others rifled the

cabinets with an idea that they must be full of money, and finding

little in their way, had strewn their contents--papers and books and

works of art over the floors of the apartments; sometimes a band who had

escaped from below with booty came up to consummate their orgies in

the magnificence of the dwelling rooms. Among these were Nixon and his

friends, who stared at the pictures and stood before the tall mirrors

with still greater astonishment. Indeed many of them had never seen an

ordinary looking-glass in their lives.

“‘Tis Natur!” said Master Nixon surveying himself, and turning to

Juggins.

Many of these last grew frantic, and finished their debauch by the

destruction of everything around them.

But while these scenes of brutal riot were occurring there was one

select but resolute band who shared in none of these excesses. Morley,

followed by half a dozen Mowbray lads and two chosen Hell-cats, leaving

all the confusion below, had ascended the great staircase, traced

his way down a corridor to the winding steps of the Round Tower, and

supplied with the necessary instruments had forced his entrance into the

muniment room of the castle. It was a circular chamber lined with tall

fire-proof cases. These might have presented invincible obstacles to any

other than the pupils of Bishop Hatton; as it was, in some instances

the locks in others the hinges yielded in time, though after prolonged

efforts, to the resources of their art; and while Dandy Mick and his

friends kept watch at the entrance, Morley and Devilsdust proceeded to

examine the contents of the cases: piles of parchment deeds, bundles of

papers arranged and docketed, many boxes of various size and materials:

but the desired object was not visible. A baffled expression came over

the face of Morley; he paused for an instant in his labours. The thought

of how much he had sacrificed for this, and only to fail, came upon

him--upon him, the votary of Moral Power in the midst of havoc which he

had organised and stimulated. He cursed Baptist Hatton in his heart.

“The knaves have destroyed them,” said Devilsdust. “I thought how it

would be. They never would run the chance of a son of Labour being lord

of all this.”

Some of the cases were very deep, and they had hitherto in general, in

order to save time, proved their contents with an iron rod. Now Morley

with a desperate air mounting on some steps that were in the room,

commenced formally rifling the cases and throwing their contents on the

floor; it was soon strewn with deeds and papers and boxes which he and

Devilsdust the moment they had glanced at them hurled away. At length

when all hope seemed to have vanished, clearing a case which at first

appeared only to contain papers, Morley struck something at its back;

he sprang forward with outstretched arm, his body was half hid in the

cabinet, and he pulled out with triumphant exultation the box, painted

blue and blazoned with the arms of Valence. It was neither large nor

heavy; he held it out to Devilsdust without saying a word, and Morley

descending the steps sate down for a moment on a pile of deeds and

folded his arms.

At this juncture the discharge of musketry was heard.

“Hilloa!” said Devilsdust with a queer expression. Morley started from

his seat. Dandy Mick rushed into the room. “Troops, troops! there are

troops here!” he exclaimed.

“Let us descend,” said Morley. “In the confusion we may escape. I will

take the box,” and they left the muniment room.

One of their party whom Mick had sent forward to reconnoitre fell back

upon them. “They are not troops,” he said; “they are yeomanry; they are

firing away and cutting every one down. They have cleared the ground

floor of the castle and are in complete possession below. We cannot

escape this way.”

“Those accursed locks!” said Morley clenching the box. “Time has beat

us. Let us see, let us see.” He ran back into the mumment room and

examined the egress from the window. It was just possible for any one

very lithe and nimble to vault upon the roof of the less elevated

part of the castle. Revolving this, another scout rushed in and said,

“Comrades, they are here! they are ascending the stairs.”

Morley stamped on the ground with rage and despair. Then seizing Mick by

the hand he said, “You see this window; can you by any means reach that

roof?”

“One may as well lose one’s neck that way,” said Mick. “I’ll try.”

“Off! If you land I will throw this box after you. Now mind; take it to

the convent at Mowbray and deliver it yourself from me to Sybil Gerard.

It is light; there are only papers in it; but they will give her her own

again, and she will not forget you.”

“Never mind that,” said Mick. “I only wish I may live to see her.”

The tramp of the ascending troopers was heard.

“Good bye my hearties,” said Mick, and he made the spring. He seemed

stunned, but he might recover. Morley watched him and flung the box.

“And now,” he said drawing a pistol, “we may fight our way yet. I’ll

shoot the first man who enters, and then you must rush on them with your

bludgeons.”

The force that had so unexpectedly arrived at this scene of devastation

was a troop of the yeomanry regiment of Lord Marney. The strike in

Lancashire and the revolt in the mining districts had so completely

drained this county of military, that the lord lieutenant had insisted

on Lord Marney quitting his agricultural neighbourhood and quartering

himself in the region of factories. Within the last two days he had

fixed his headquarters at a large manufacturing town within ten miles

of Mowbray, and a despatch on Sunday evening from the mayor of that

town having reached him, apprising him of the invasion of the miners,

Egremont had received orders to march with his troop there on the

following morning.

Egremont had not departed more than two hours when the horsemen whom

Sybil had met arrived at Lord Marney’s headquarters, bringing a most

alarming and exaggerated report of the insurrection and of the

havoc that was probably impending. Lord Marney being of opinion that

Egremont’s forces were by no means equal to the occasion resolved

therefore at once to set out for Mowbray with his own troop. Crossing

Mowbray Moor he encountered a great multitude, now headed for purposes

of peace by Walter Gerard. His mind inflamed by the accounts he had

received, and hating at all times any popular demonstration, his

lordship resolved without inquiry or preparation immediately to disperse

them. The Riot Act was read with the rapidity with which grace is

sometimes said at the head of a public table--a ceremony of which none

but the performer and his immediate friends are conscious. The people

were fired on and sabred. The indignant spirit of Gerard resisted; he

struck down a trooper to the earth, and incited those about him not to

yield. The father of Sybil was picked out--the real friend and champion

of the People--and shot dead. Instantly arose a groan which almost

quelled the spirit of Lord Marney, though armed and at the head of armed

men. The people who before this were in general scared and dispersing,

ready indeed to fly in all directions, no sooner saw their beloved

leader fall than a feeling of frenzy came over them. They defied the

troopers, though themselves armed only with stones and bludgeons; they

rushed at the horsemen and tore them from their saddles, while a shower

of stones rattled on the helmet of Lord Marney and seemed never to

cease. In vain the men around him charged the infuriated throng; the

people returned to their prey, nor did they rest until Lord Marney fell

lifeless on Mowbray Moor, literally stoned to death.

These disastrous events of course occurred at a subsequent period of the

day to that on which half-a-dozen troopers were ascending the staircase

of the Round Tower of Mowbray Castle. The distracted house-steward of

Lord de Mowbray had met and impressed upon them, now that the Castle

was once more in their possession, of securing the muniment room, for Mr

Bentley had witnessed the ominous ascent of Morley and his companions to

that important chamber.

Morley and his companions had taken up an advantageous position at the

head of the staircase.

“Surrender,” said the commander of the yeomanry. “Resistance is

useless.”

Morley presented his pistol, but before he could pull the trigger a shot

from a trooper in the rear, and who from his position could well observe

the intention of Morley, struck Stephen in the breast; still he fired,

but aimless and without effect. The troopers pushed on; Morley fainting

fell back with his friends who were frightened, except Devilsdust, who

had struck hard and well, and who in turn had been slightly sabred.

The yeomanry entered the muniment room almost at the same time as their

foes, leaving Devilsdust behind them, who had fallen, and who cursing

the Capitalist who had wounded him managed to escape. Morley fell when

he had regained the room. The rest surrendered.

“Morley! Stephen Morley!” exclaimed the commander of the yeomanry. “You,

you here!”

“Yes. I am sped,” he said in a faint voice. “No, no succour. It is

useless and I desire none. Why I am here is a mystery; let it remain

so. The world will misjudge me; the man of peace they will say was a

hypocrite. The world will be wrong, as it always is. Death is bitter,”

he said with a deep sigh, and speaking with great difficulty, “more

bitter from you; but just. We have struggled together before, Egremont.

I thought I had scotched you then, but you escaped. Our lives have been

a struggle since we first met. Your star has controlled mine; and now

I feel I have sacrificed life and fame--dying men prophecy--for your

profit and honour. O Sybil!” and with this name half sighed upon his

lips the votary of Moral Power and the Apostle of Community ceased to

exist.

Meanwhile Sybil, separated from her friends who had made their escape

through the grotto, was left with only Harold for her protector, for she

had lost even Warner in the crush. She looked around in vain for

some Mowbray face that she could recognise, but after some fruitless

research, a loud shouting in the distance, followed by the firing of

musketry, so terrified all around her, that the mob in her immediate

neighbourhood dispersed as if by magic, and she remained alone crouching

in a corner of the flower-garden, while dreadful shouts and shrieks

and yells resounded from the distance, occasionally firing, the

smoke floating to her retreat. She could see from where she stood the

multitude flying about the park in all directions, and therefore she

thought it best to remain in her present position and await the terrible

events. She concluded that some military force had arrived, and that if

she could maintain her present post, she hoped that the extreme danger

might pass. But while she indulged in these hopes, a dark cloud of smoke

came descending in the garden. It could not be produced by musket or

carbine: its volume was too heavy even for ordnance: and in a moment

there were sparks mingled with its black form; and then the shouting and

shrieking which had in some degree subsided, suddenly broke out again

with increased force and wildness. The Castle was on fire.

Whether from heedlessness or from insane intention, for the deed sealed

their own doom, the drunken Hell-cats brandishing their torches, while

they rifled the cellars and examined every closet and corner of the

offices, had set fire to the lower part of the building, and the flames

that had for some time burnt unseen, had now gained the principal

chambers. The Bishop was lying senseless in the main cellar, surrounded

by his chief officers in the same state: indeed the whole of the

basement was covered with the recumbent figures of Hell-cats, as black

and thick as torpid flies during the last days of their career. The

funeral pile of the children of Woden was a sumptuous one; it was

prepared and lighted by themselves; and the flame that, rising from the

keep of Mowbray, announced to the startled country that in a short hour

the splendid mimickry of Norman rule would cease to exist, told also the

pitiless fate of the ruthless savage, who, with analogous pretension,

had presumed to style himself the Liberator of the People.

The clouds of smoke, the tongues of flame, that now began to mingle with

them, the multitude whom this new incident and impending catastrophe

summoned hack to the scene, forced Sybil to leave the garden and

enter the park. It was in vain she endeavoured to gain some part less

frequented than the rest, and to make her way unobserved. Suddenly a

band of drunken ruffians, with shouts and oaths, surrounded her; she

shrieked in frantic terror; Harold sprung at the throat of the foremost;

another advanced, Harold left his present prey and attacked the new

assailant. The brave dog did wonders, but the odds were fearful; and

the men had bludgeons, were enraged, and had already wounded him. One

ruffian had grasped the arm of Sybil, another had clenched her garments,

when an officer covered with dust and gore, sabre in hand, jumped from

the terrace, and hurried to the rescue. He cut down one man, thrust away

another, and placing his left arm round Sybil, he defended her with

his sword, while Harold now become furious, flew from man to man, and

protected her on the other side. Her assailants were routed, they made

a staggering flight; the officer turned round and pressed Sybil to his

heart.

“We will never part again,” said Egremont.

“Never,” murmured Sybil.

Book 6 Chapter 13

It was the Spring of last year, and Lady Bardolf was making a morning

visit to Lady St Julians.

“I heard they were to be at Lady Palmerston’s last night,” said Lady St

Julians.

“No,” said Lady Bardolf shaking his head, “they make their first

appearance at Deloraine House. We meet there on Thursday I know.”

“Well, I must say,” said Lady St Julians, “that I am curious to see

her.”

“Lord Valentine met them last year at Naples.”

“And what does he say of her.”

“Oh! he raves!”

“What a romantic history! And what a fortunate man is Lord Marney. If

one could only have foreseen events!” exclaimed Lady St Julians. “He was

always a favourite of mine though. But still I thought his brother was

the very last person who ever would die. He was so very hard!”

“I fear Lord Marney is entirely lost to us,” said Lady Bardolf looking

very solemn.

“Ah! he always had a twist,” said Lady St Julians, “and used to

breakfast with that horrid Mr Trenchard, and do those sort of things.

But still with his immense fortune, I should think he would become

rational.”

“You may well say immense,” said Lady Bardolf. “Mr Ormsby, and there is

no better judge of another man’s income, says there are not three peers

in the kingdom who have so much a year clear.”

“They say the Mowbray estate is forty thousand a year,” said Lady St

Julians. “Poor Lady de Mowbray! I understand that Mr Mountchesney has

resolved not to appeal against the verdict.”

“You know he has not a shadow of a chance,” said Lady Bardolf. “Ah! what

changes we have seen in that family! They say the writ of right killed

poor Lord de Mowbray, but to my mind he never recovered the burning of

the Castle. We went over to them directly, and I never saw a man so cut

up. We wanted them to come to us at Firebrace, but he said he should

leave the county immediately. I remember Lord Bardolf mentioning to me,

that he looked like a dying man.”

“Well I must say,” said Lady St Julians rallying as it were from a fit

of abstraction, “that I am most curious to see Lady Marney.”

The reader will infer from this conversation that Dandy Mick, in spite

of his stunning fall, and all dangers which awaited him on his recovery,

had contrived in spite of fire and flame, sabre and carbine, trampling

troopers and plundering mobs, to reach the Convent of Mowbray with the

box of papers. There he enquired for Sybil, in whose hands, and whose

hands alone he was enjoined to deposit them. She was still absent, but

faithful to his instructions, Mick would deliver his charge to none

other, and exhausted by the fatigues of the terrible day, he remained

in the court-yard of the Convent, lying down with the box for his pillow

until Sybil under the protection of Egremont herself returned. Then he

fulfilled his mission. Sybil was too agitated at the moment to perceive

all its import, but she delivered the box into the custody of Egremont,

who desiring Mick to follow him to his hotel bade farewell to Sybil,

who equally with himself, was then ignorant of the fatal encounter on

Mowbray Moor.

We must drop a veil over the anguish which its inevitable and speedy

revelation brought to the daughter of Gerard. Her love for her father

was one of those profound emotions which seemed to form a constituent

part of her existence. She remained for a long period in helpless woe,

soothed only by the sacred cares of Ursula. There was another mourner

in this season of sorrow who must not be forgotten; and that was Lady

Marney. All that tenderness and the most considerate thought could

devise to soften sorrow and reconcile her to a change of life which at

the first has in it something depressing were extended by Egremont to

Arabella. He supplied in an instant every arrangement which had been

neglected by his brother, but which could secure her convenience and

tend to her happiness. Between Marney Abbey where he insisted for the

present that Arabella should reside and Mowbray, Egremont passed his

life for many months, until by some management which we need not trace

or analyse, Lady Marney came over one day to the Convent at Mowbray and

carried back Sybil to Marney Abbey, never again to quit it until on

her bridal day, when the Earl and Countess of Marney departed for Italy

where they passed nearly a year, and from which they had just returned

at the commencement of this chapter.

During the previous period however many important events had occurred.

Lord Marney had placed himself in communication with Mr Hatton, who had

soon become acquainted with all that had occurred in the muniment room

of Mowbray Castle. The result was not what he had once anticipated;

but for him it was not without some compensatory circumstances. True

another, and an unexpected rival, had stepped on the stage with whom

it was vain to cope, but the idea that he had deprived Sybil of her

inheritance, had ever, since he had became acquainted with her, been the

plague-spot of Hatton’s life, and there was nothing that he desired more

ardently than to see her restored to her rights, and to be instrumental

in that restoration. How successful he was in pursuing her claim, the

reader has already learnt.

Dandy Mick was rewarded for all the dangers he had encountered in the

service of Sybil, and what he conceived was the vindication of

popular rights. Lord Marney established him in business, and Mick took

Devilsdust for a partner. Devilsdust having thus obtained a position

in society and become a capitalist, thought it but a due homage to the

social decencies to assume a decorous appellation, and he called himself

by the name of the town where he was born. The firm of Radley, Mowbray,

and Co., is a rising one; and will probably furnish in time a crop

of members of Parliament and Peers of the realm. Devilsdust married

Caroline, and Mrs Mowbray became a great favorite. She was always

perhaps a little too fond of junketting but she had a sweet temper and

a gay spirit, and sustained her husband in the agonies of a great

speculation, or the despair of glutted markets. Julia became Mrs Radley,

and was much esteemed: no one could behave better. She was more orderly

than Caroline, and exactly suited Mick, who wanted a person near him

of decision and method. As for Harriet, she is not yet married. Though

pretty and clever, she is selfish and a screw. She has saved a good deal

and has a considerable sum in the Savings’ Bank, but like many heiresses

she cannot bring her mind to share her money with another. The great

measures of Sir Robert Peel, which produced three good harvests,

have entirely revived trade at Mowbray. The Temple is again open.

newly-painted, and re-burnished, and Chaffing Jack has of course

“rallied” while good Mrs Carey still gossips with her neighbours

round her well-stored stall, and tells wonderful stories of the great

stick-out and riots of ‘42.

And thus I conclude the last page of a work, which though its form be

light and unpretending, would yet aspire to suggest to its readers some

considerations of a very opposite character. A year ago. I presumed to

offer to the public some volumes that aimed to call their attention to

the state of our political parties; their origin, their history, their

present position. In an age of political infidelity, of mean passions

and petty thoughts, I would have impressed upon the rising race not to

despair, but to seek in a right understanding of the history of their

country and in the energies of heroic youth--the elements of national

welfare. The present work advances another step in the same emprise.

From the state of Parties it now would draw public thought to the state

of the People whom those parties for two centuries have governed. The

comprehension and the cure of this greater theme depend upon the

same agencies as the first: it is the past alone that can explain the

present, and it is youth that alone can mould the remedial future. The

written history of our country for the last ten reigns has been a mere

phantasma; giving to the origin and consequence of public transactions a

character and colour in every respect dissimilar with their natural form

and hue. In this mighty mystery all thoughts and things have assumed an

aspect and title contrary to their real quality and style: Oligarchy

has been called Liberty; an exclusive Priesthood has been christened a

National Church; Sovereignty has been the title of something that has

had no dominion, while absolute power has been wielded by those who

profess themselves the servants of the People. In the selfish strife of

factions two great existences have been blotted out of the history of

England--the Monarch and the Multitude; as the power of the Crown has

diminished, the privileges of the People have disappeared; till at

length the sceptre has become a pageant, and its subject has degenerated

again into a serf.

It is nearly fourteen years ago, in the popular frenzy of a mean and

selfish revolution which neither emancipated the Crown nor the People,

that I first took the occasion to intimate and then to develop to the

first assembly of my countrymen that I ever had the honour to address,

these convictions. They have been misunderstood as is ever for a season

the fate of Truth, and they have obtained for their promulgator much

misrepresentation as must ever be the lot of those who will not follow

the beaten track of a fallacious custom. But Time that brings all things

has brought also to the mind of England some suspicion that the idols

they have so long worshipped and the oracles that have so long deluded

them are not the true ones. There is a whisper rising in this country

that Loyalty is not a phrase. Faith not a delusion, and Popular Liberty

something more diffusive and substantial than the profane exercise of

the sacred rights of sovereignty by political classes.

That we may live to see England once more possess a free Monarchy and

a privileged and prosperous People, is my prayer; that these great

consequences can only be brought about by the energy and devotion of our

Youth is my persuasion. We live in an age when to be young and to be

indifferent can be no longer synonymous. We must prepare for the coming

hour. The claims of the Future are represented by suffering millions;

and the Youth of a Nation are the trustees of Posterity.