The clock of St John's church struck three, and the clock of St John'schurch struck four; and the fifth hour sounded from St John's church;and the clock of St John's was sounding six. And Gerard had not yetreturned.
The time for a while after his departure had been comparativelylight-hearted and agreeable. Easier in her mind and for a time busiedwith the preparations for their journey, Sybil sate by the open windowmore serene and cheerful than for a long period had been her wont.Sometimes she ceased for a moment from her volume and fell into areverie of the morrow and of Mowbray. Viewed through the magic hazeof time and distance, the scene of her youth assumed a character oftenderness and even of peaceful bliss. She sighed for the days of theircottage and their garden, when the discontent of her father was onlytheoretical, and their political conclaves were limited to a discussionbetween him and Morley on the rights of the people or the principles ofsociety. The bright waters of the Mowe and its wooded hills; her matinwalks to the convent to visit Ursula Trafford--a pilgrimage of piety andcharity and love; the faithful Harold, so devoted and so intelligent;even the crowded haunts of labour and suffering among which she glidedlike an angel, blessing and blessed; they rose before her--thosetouching images of the past--and her eyes were suffused with tears, oftenderness, not of gloom.
And blended with them the thought of one who had been for a season thekind and gentle companion of her girlhood--that Mr Franklin whom she hadnever quite forgotten, and who, alas! was not Mr Franklin after all. Ah!that was a wonderful history; a somewhat thrilling chapter in the memoryof one so innocent and so young! His voice even now lingered in herear. She recalled without an effort those tones of the morning, tones oftenderness and yet of wisdom and considerate thought, that had soundedonly for her welfare. Never had Egremont appeared to her in a lightso subduing. He was what man should be to woman ever-gentle, and yet aguide. A thousand images dazzling and wild rose in her mind; a thousandthoughts, beautiful and quivering as the twilight, clustered round herheart; for a moment she indulged in impossible dreams, and seemed tohave entered a newly-discovered world. The horizon of her experienceexpanded like the glittering heaven of a fairy tale. Her eye was fixedin lustrous contemplation, the flush on her cheek was a messenger fromher heart, the movement of her mouth would have in an instant become asmile, when the clock of St John's struck four, and Sybil started fromher reverie.
The clock of St John's struck four, and Sybil became anxious; the clockof St John's struck five, and Sybil became disquieted; restless andperturbed, she was walking up and down the chamber, her books long sincethrown aside, when the clock of St John's struck six.
She clasped her hands and looked up to heaven. There was a knock at thestreet door; she herself sprang out to open it. It was not Gerard. Itwas Morley.
"Ah! Stephen," said Sybil, with a countenance of undisguiseddisappointment, "I thought it was my father."
"I should have been glad to have found him here," said Morley. "Howeverwith your permission I will enter."
"And he will soon arrive," said Sybil; "I am sure he will soon arrive. Ihave been expecting him every minute--"
"For hours," added Morley, finishing her sentence, as they entered theroom. "The business that he is on," he continued, throwing himself intoa chair with a recklessness very unlike his usual composure and evenprecision, "The business that he is on is engrossing."
"Thank Heaven," said Sybil, "we leave this place to-morrow."
"Hah!" said Morley starting, "who told you so?"
"My father has so settled it; has indeed promised me that we shalldepart."
"And you were anxious to do so."
"Most anxious; my mind is prophetic only of mischief to him if weremain."
"Mine too. Otherwise I should not have come up today." "You have seenhim I hope?" said Sybil.
"I have; I have been hours with him."
"I am glad. At this conference he talked of?"
"Yes; at this headstrong council; and I have seen him since; alone.Whatever hap to him, my conscience is assoiled."
"You terrify me, Stephen," said Sybil rising from her seat. "What canhappen to him? What would he do, what would you resist? Tell me--tellme, dear friend."
"Oh! yes," said Morley, pale and with a slight yet bitter smile. "Oh!yes; dear friend!"
"I said dear friend for so I deemed you." said Sybil; "and so we haveever found you. Why do you stare at me so strangely, Stephen?"
"So you deem me, and so you have ever found me," said Morley in a slowand measured tone, repeating her words. "Well; what more would you have?What more should any of us want?" he asked abruptly.
"I want no more," said Sybil innocently.
"I warrant me, you do not. Well, well, nothing matters. And so," headded in his ordinary tone, "you are waiting for your father?"
"Whom you have not long since seen," said Sybil, "and whom you expectedto find here?"
"No;" said Morley, shaking his head with the same bitter smile; "no, no.I didn't. I came to find you."
"You have something to tell me," said Sybil earnestly. "Something hashappened to my father. Do not break it to me; tell me at once," and sheadvanced and laid her hand upon his arm.
Morley trembled; and then in a hurried and agitated voice, said, "No,no, no; nothing has happened. Much may happen, but nothing has happened.And we may prevent it."
"We! Tell me what may happen; tell me what to do."
"Your father," said Morley, slowly, rising from his seat and pacing theroom, and speaking in a low calm voice, "Your father--and my friend--isin this position Sybil: he is conspiring against the State."
"Yes, yes," said Sybil very pale, speaking almost in a whisper and withher gaze fixed intently on her companion. "Tell me all."
"I will. He is conspiring, I say, against the State. Tonight they meetin secret to give the last finish to their plans; and tonight they willbe arrested."
"O God!" said Sybil clasping her hands. "He told me truth."
"Who told you truth?" said Morley, springing to her side, in a hoarsevoice and with an eye of fire.
"A friend," said Sybil, dropping her arms and bending her head in woe;"a kind good friend. I met him but this morn, and he warned me of allthis."
"Hah, hah!" said Morley with a sort of stifled laugh; "Hah, hah; he toldyou did he; the kind good friend whom you met this morning? Did I notwarn you, Sybil, of the traitor? Did I not tell you to beware of takingthis false aristocrat to your hearth; to worm out all the secrets ofthat home that he once polluted by his espionage, and now would desolateby his treason."
"Of whom and what do you speak?" said Sybil, throwing herself into achair.
"I speak of that base spy Egremont."
"You slander an honourable man," said Sybil with dignity. "Mr Egremonthas never entered this house since you met him here for the first time;save once."
"He needed no entrance to this house to worm out its secrets," saidMorley maliciously. "That could be more adroitly done by one who hadassignations at command with the most charming of its inmates."
"Unmannerly churl!" exclaimed Sybil starting in her chair, her eyeflashing lightning, her distended nostril quivering with scorn.
"Oh! yes. I am a churl," said Morley; "I know I am a churl. Were I anoble the daughter of the people would perhaps condescend to treat mewith less contempt."
"The daughter of the people loves truth and manly bearing, StephenMorley; and will treat with contempt all those who slander women,whether they be nobles or serfs."
"And where is the slanderer?"
"Ask him who told you I held assignations with Mr Egremont or with anyone."
"Mine eyes--mine own eyes--were my informant," said Morley. "This morn,the very morn I arrived in London, I learnt how your matins were nowspent. Yes!" he added in a tone of mournful anguish, "I passed the gateof the gardens; I witnessed your adieus."
"We met by hazard," said Sybil, in a calm tone, and with an expressionthat denoted she was thinking of other things, "and in all probabilitywe sh
all never meet again. Talk not of these trifles. Stephen; myfather, how can we save him?"
"Are they trifles?" said Morley, slowly and earnestly, walking to herside, and looking her intently in the face. "Are they indeed trifles,Sybil? Oh! make me credit that, and then--" he paused.
Sybil returned his gaze: the deep lustre of her dark orb rested onhis peering vision his eye fled from the unequal contest: his heartthrobbed, his limbs trembled; he fell upon his knee.
"Pardon me, pardon me," he said, and he took her hand. "Pardon the mostmiserable and the most devoted of men!"
"What need of pardon, dear Stephen?" said Sybil in a soothing tone. "Inthe agitated hour wild words escape. If I have used them, I regret; ifyou, I have forgotten."
The clock of St John's told that the sixth hour was more than half-past.
"Ah!" said Sybil, withdrawing her hand, "you told me how precious wastime. What can we do?"
Morley rose from his kneeling position, and again paced the chamber,lost for some moments in deep meditation. Suddenly he seized her arm,and said, "I can endure no longer the anguish of my life: I love you,and if you will not be mine, I care for no one's fate."
"I am not born for love," said Sybil, frightened, yet endeavouring toconceal her alarm.
"We are all born for love," said Morley. "It is the principle ofexistence, and its only end. And love of you, Sybil," he continued, ina tone of impassioned pathos, "has been to me for years the hoardedtreasure of my life. For this I have haunted your hearth and hoveredround your home; for this I have served your father like a slave, andembarked in a cause with which I have little sympathy, and which canmeet with no success. It is your image that has stimulated my ambition,developed my powers, sustained me in the hour of humiliation, andsecured me that material prosperity which I can now command. Oh! deignto share it; share it with the impassioned heart and the devoted lifethat now bow before you; and do not shrink from them, because they arethe feelings and the fortunes of the People."
"You astound, you overwhelm me," said Sybil, agitated. "You came foranother purpose, we were speaking of other feelings; it is the hour ofexigency you choose for these strange, these startling words."
"I also have my hour of exigency," said Morley, "and its minutes are nownumbering. Upon it all depends."
"Another time," said Sybil, in a low and deprecatory voice; "speak ofthese things another time!"
"The caverns of my mind are open," said Morley, "and they will notclose."
"Stephen," said Sybil, "dear Stephen, I am grateful for your kindfeelings: but indeed this is not the time for such passages: cease, myfriend!"
"I came to know my fate," said Morley, doggedly.
"It is a sacrilege of sentiment," said Sybil, unable any longer torestrain her emotion, "to obtrude its expression on a daughter at such amoment."
"You would not deem it so if you loved, or if you could love me, Sybil,"said Morley, mournfully. "Why it's a moment of deep feeling, and suitedfor the expression of deep feeling. You would not have answered thus, ifhe who had been kneeling here had been named Egremont."
"He would not have adopted a course," said Sybil, unable any longer torestrain her displeasure, "so selfish, so indecent."
"Ah! she loves him!" exclaimed Morley, springing on his legs, and with ademoniac laugh.
There was a pause. Under ordinary circumstances Sybil would have leftthe room and terminated a distressing interview, but in the presentinstance that was impossible; for on the continuance of that interviewany hope of assisting her father depended. Morley had thrown himselfinto a chair opposite her, leaning back in silence with his facecovered; Sybil was disinclined to revive the conversation about herfather, because she had already perceived that Morley was only too muchaware of the command which the subject gave him over her feelings andeven conduct. Yet time, time now full of terror, time was stealingon. It was evident that Morley would not break the silence. At length,unable any longer to repress her tortured heart, Sybil said, "Stephen,be generous; speak to me of your friend."
"I have no friend," said Morley, without taking his hands from his face.
"The Saints in heaven have mercy on me," said Sybil, "for I am verywretched."
"No, no, no," said Morley, rising rapidly from his seat, and againkneeling at her side, "not wretched; not that tone of anguish! What canI do? what say? Sybil, dearest Sybil, I love you so much, so fervently,so devotedly; none can love you as I do: say not you are wretched!"
"Alas! alas!" said Sybil.
"What shall I do? what say?" said Morley.
"You know what I would have you say," said Sybil. "Speak of one whois my father, if no longer your friend: you know what I would have youdo--save him: save him from death and me from despair."
"I am ready," said Morley; "I came for that. Listen. There is a meetingto-night at half-past eight o'clock; they meet to arrange a generalrising in the country: their intention is known to the government; theywill be arrested. Now it is in my power, which it was not when I sawyour father this morning, to convince him of the truth of this, andwere I to see him before eight o'clock, which I could easily do, I couldprevent his attendance, certainly prevent his attendance, and hewould be saved; for the government depend much upon the papers, someproclamations, and things of that kind, which will be signed thisevening, for their proofs. Well, I am ready to save Gerard, my friend,for so I'll call him as you wish it; one I have served before and long;one whom I came up from Mowbray this day to serve and save; I am readyto do that which you require; you yourself admit it is no light deed;and coming from one you have known so long, and, as you confess, somuch regarded, should be doubly cherished; I am ready to do this greatservice; to save the father from death and the daughter from despair.--if she would but only say to me, 'I have but one reward, and it isyours.'"
"I have read of something of this sort," said Sybil, speaking in amurmuring tone, and looking round her with a wild expression, "thisbargaining of blood, and shall I call it love? But that was ever betweenthe oppressors and the oppressed. This is the first time that a childof the people has been so assailed by one of her own class, and whoexercises his power from the confidence which the sympathy of theirsorrows alone caused. It is bitter; bitter for me and mine--but for you,pollution."
"Am I answered?" said Morley.
"Yes," said Sybil, "in the name of the holy Virgin."
"Good night, then," said Morley, and he approached the door. His handwas on it. The voice of Sybil made him turn his head.
"Where do they meet to-night?" she inquired, in a smothered tone.
"I am bound to secrecy," said Morley.
"There is no softness in your spirit," said Sybil.
"I am met with none."
"We have ever been your friends."
"A blossom that has brought no fruit."
"This hour will be remembered at the judgment-seat," said Sybil.
"The holy Virgin will perhaps interpose for me," said Morley, with asneer.
"We have merited this," said Sybil, "who have taken an infidel to ourhearts."
"If he had only been a heretic, like Egremont!" said Morley. Sybil burstinto tears. Morley sprang to her. "Swear by the holy Virgin, swear byall the saints, swear by your hope of heaven and by your own sweet name;without equivocation, without reserve, with fulness and with truth, thatyou will never give your heart or hand to Egremont;--and I will saveyour father."
As in a low voice, but with a terrible earnestness, Morley dictatedthis oath, Sybil, already pale, became white as the marble saint of somesacred niche. Her large dark eyes seemed fixed; a fleet expression ofagony flitted over her beautiful brow like a cloud; and she said, "Iswear that I will never give my hand to--"
"And your heart, your heart," said Morley eagerly. "Omit not that.Swear by the holy oaths again you do not love him. She falters! Ah! sheblushes!" For a burning brightness now suffused the cheek of Sybil. "Sheloves him," exclaimed Morley, wildly, and he rushed franticly from theroom.
Book 5 Chapter
5