"Your wife is ill?" said Sybil.
"Very!" replied Warner's wife. "Our daughter has behaved infamously tous. She has quitted us without saying by your leave or with your leave.And her wages were almost the only thing left to us; for Philip is notlike Walter Gerard you see: he cannot earn two pounds a-week, though whyhe cannot I never could understand."
"Hush, hush, wife!" said Warner. "I speak I apprehend to Gerard'sdaughter?"
"Just so."
"Ah! this is good and kind; this is like old times, for Walter Gerardwas my friend, when I was not exactly as I am now."
"He tells me so: he sent a messenger to me last night to visit you thismorning. Your letter reached him only yesterday."
"Harriet was to give it to Caroline," said the wife. "That's the girlwho has done all the mischief and inveigled her away. And she has leftTrafford's works, has she? Then I will be bound she and Harriet arekeeping house together."
"You suffer?" said Sybil, moving to the bed-side of the woman; "give meyour hand," she added in a soft sweet tone. "'Tis hot."
"I feel very cold," said the woman. "Warner would have the window open,till the rain came in."
"And you, I fear, are wet," said Warner, addressing Sybil, andinterrupting his wife.
"Very slightly. And you have no fire. Ah! I have brought some things foryou, but not fuel."
"If he would only ask the person down stairs," said his wife, "for ablock of coal; I tell him, neighbours could hardly refuse; but he neverwill do anything; he says he has asked too often."
"I will ask," said Sybil. "But first, I have a companion without," sheadded, "who bears a basket for you. Come in, Harold."
The baby began to cry the moment a large dog entered the room; a youngbloodhound of the ancient breed, such as are now found but in a few oldhalls and granges in the north of England. Sybil untied the basket, andgave a piece of sugar to the screaming infant. Her glance was sweetereven than her remedy; the infant stared at her with his large blue eyes;for an instant astonished, and then he smiled.
"Oh! beautiful child!" exclaimed Sybil; and she took the babe up fromthe mattress and embraced it.
"You are an angel from heaven," exclaimed the mother, "and you may wellsay beautiful. And only to think of that infamous girl, Harriet, todesert us all in this way."
Sybil drew forth the contents of the convent basket, and called Warner'sattention to them. "Now," she said, "arrange all this as I tell you, andI will go down stairs and speak to them below as you wish, Harold restthere;" and the dog laid himself down in the remotest corner.
"And is that Gerard's daughter?" said the weaver's wife. "Only thinkwhat it is to gain two pounds a-week, and bring up your daughters inthat way--instead of such shameless husseys as our Harriet! But withsuch wages one can do anything. What have you there, Warner? Is thattea? Oh! I should like some tea. I do think tea would do me some good.I have quite a longing for it. Run down, Warner, and ask them to let ushave a kettle of hot water. It is better than all the fire in the world.Amelia, my dear, do you see what they have sent us. Plenty to eat. TellMaria all about it. You are good girls; you will never be like thatinfamous Harriet. When you earn wages you will give them to your poormother and baby, won't you?"
"Yes, mother," said Amelia.
"And father, too," said Maria.
"And father, too," said the wife. "He has been a very good father to youall; and I never can understand why one who works so hard should earnso little; but I believe it is the fault of those machines. The policeought to put them down, and then every body would be comfortable."
Sybil and Warner re-entered; the fire was lit, the tea made, the mealpartaken. An air of comfort, even of enjoyment, was diffused over thischamber, but a few minutes back so desolate and unhappy.
"Well," said the wife, raising herself a little up in her bed, "I feelas if that dish of tea had saved my life. Amelia, have you had any tea?And Maria? You see what it is to be good girls; the Lord will neverdesert you. The day is fast coming when that Harriet will know what thewant of a dish of tea is, with all her fine wages. And I am sure," sheadded, addressing Sybil, "what we all owe to you is not to be told. Yourfather well deserves his good fortune, with such a daughter."
"My father's fortunes are not much better than his neighbours," saidSybil, "but his wants are few; and who should sympathise with the poor,but the poor? Alas! none else can. Besides, it is the Superior of ourconvent that has sent you this meal. What my father can do for you, Ihave told your husband. 'Tis little; but with the favour of heaven, itmay avail. When the people support the people, the divine blessing willnot be wanting."
"I am sure the divine blessing will never be wanting to you," saidWarner in a voice of great emotion.
There was silence; the querulous spirit of the wife was subdued by thetone of Sybil; she revolved in her mind the present and the past; thechildren pursued their ungrudged and unusual meal; the daughter ofGerard, that she might not interfere with their occupation, walked tothe window and surveyed the chink of troubled sky, which was visible inthe court. The wind blew in gusts; the rain beat against the glass. Soonafter this, there was another knock at the door. Harold started from hisrepose, and growled. Warner rose, and saying, "they have come for therent. Thank God, I am ready," advanced and opened the door. Two menoffered with courtesy to enter.
"We are strangers," said he who took the lead, "but would not be such. Ispeak to Warner?"
"My name."
"And I am your spiritual pastor, if to be the vicar of Mowbray entitlesme to that description."
"Mr St Lys."
"The same. One of the most valued of my flock, and the most influentialperson in this district, has been speaking much of you to me thismorning. You are working for him. He did not hear of you on Saturdaynight; he feared you were ill. Mr Barber spoke to me of your distress,as well as of your good character. I came to express to you my respectand my sympathy, and to offer you my assistance."
"You are most good, sir, and Mr Barber too, and indeed, an hour ago, wewere in as great straits--."
"And are now, sir," exclaimed his wife interrupting him. "I have been inthis bed a-week, and may never rise from it again; the children haveno clothes; they are pawned; everything is pawned; this morning we hadneither fuel, nor food. And we thought you had come for the rent whichwe cannot pay. If it had not been for a dish of tea which was charitablygiven me this morning by a person almost as poor as ourselves that is tosay, they live by labour, though their wages are much higher, as high astwo pounds a-week, though how that can be I never shall understand, whenmy husband is working twelve hours a day, and gaining only a penny anhour--if it had not been for this I should have been a corpse; and yethe says we were in straits, merely because Walter Gerard's daughter, whoI willingly grant is an angel from heaven for all the good she has doneus, has stepped into our aid. But the poor supporting the poor, as shewell says, what good can come from that!"
During this ebullition, Mr St Lys had surveyed the apartment andrecognised Sybil.
"Sister," he said when the wife of Warner had ceased, "this is not thefirst time we have met under the roof of sorrow."
Sybil bent in silence, and moved as if she were about to retire: thewind and rain came dashing against the window. The companion of Mr StLys, who was clad in a rough great coat, and was shaking the wet off anoilskin hat known by the name of a 'south-wester,' advanced and said toher, "It is but a squall, but a very severe one; I would recommend youto stay for a few minutes."
She received this remark with courtesy but did not reply.
"I think," continued the companion of Mr St Lys, "that this is not thefirst time also that we have met?"
"I cannot recall our meeting before," said Sybil.
"And yet it was not many days past; though the sky was so verydifferent, that it would almost make one believe it was in another landand another clime."
Sybil looked at him as if for explanation.
"It was at Marney Abbey," said the companion of Mr
St Lys.
"I was there; and I remember, when about to rejoin my companions, theywere not alone."
"And you disappeared; very suddenly I thought: for I left the ruinsalmost at the same moment as your friends, yet I never saw any of youagain."
"We took our course; a very rugged one; you perhaps pursued a more evenway."
"Was it your first visit to Marney?"
"My first and my last. There was no place I more desired to see; noplace of which the vision made me so sad."
"The glory has departed," said Egremont mournfully.
"It is not that," said Sybil: "I was prepared for decay, but not forsuch absolute desecration. The Abbey seems a quarry for materials torepair farm-houses; and the nave a cattle gate. What people they mustbe--that family of sacrilege who hold these lands!"
"Hem!" said Egremont. "They certainly do not appear to have much feelingfor ecclesiastical art."
"And for little else, as we were told," said Sybil. "There was a fire atthe Abbey farm the day we were there, and from all that reached us, itwould appear the people were as little tendered as the Abbey walls."
"They have some difficulty perhaps in employing their population inthose parts."
"You know the country?"
"Not at all: I was travelling in the neighbourhood, and made a diversionfor the sake of seeing an abbey of which I had heard so much."
"Yes; it was the greatest of the Northern Houses. But they told me thepeople were most wretched round the Abbey; nor do I think there is anyother cause for their misery, than the hard hearts of the family thathave got the lands."
"You feel deeply for the people!" said Egremont looking at herearnestly.
Sybil returned him a glance expressive of some astonishment, and thensaid, "And do not you? Your presence here assures me of it."
"I humbly follow one who would comfort the unhappy."
"The charity of Mr St Lys is known to all."
"And you--you too are a ministering angel."
"There is no merit in my conduct, for there is no sacrifice. When Iremember what this English people once was; the truest, the freest, andthe bravest, the best-natured and the best-looking, the happiest andmost religious race upon the surface of this globe; and think of themnow, with all their crimes and all their slavish sufferings, theirsoured spirits and their stunted forms; their lives without enjoymentand their deaths without hope; I may well feel for them, even if I werenot the daughter of their blood."
And that blood mantled to her cheek as she ceased to speak, and her darkeye gleamed with emotion, and an expression of pride and courage hoveredon her brow. Egremont caught her glance and withdrew his own; his heartwas troubled.
St Lys. who had been in conference with the weaver, left him and wentto the bedside of his wife. Warner advanced to Sybil, and expressed hisfeelings for her father, his sense of her goodness. She, observing thatthe squall seemed to have ceased, bade him farewell, and calling Harold,quitted the chamber.
Book 2 Chapter 15