G. A. Henty - "Saint George for England"

Sir Samuel W. Baker - "Wild Beasts and their Ways"

Suelette Dreyfus - "Underground"

W.W. Jacobs - "Short Cruises"

Sybil, or the Two Nations

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Sybil, or the Two Nations




Was there any hope? In the agony of her soul she had confided
last night in one; with scarcely a bewildering hope that he
could save her. He might not have the power, the opportunity,
the wish. He might shrink from mixing himself up with such
characters and such transactions; he might not have received
her hurried appeal in time to act upon it, even if the desire
of her soul were practicable. A thousand difficulties, a
thousand obstacles now occurred to her; and she felt her
hopelessness.

Yet notwithstanding her extreme sorrow, and the absence of all
surrounding objects to soothe and to console her, the
expanding dawn revived and even encouraged Sybil. In spite of
the confined situation, she could still partially behold a sky
dappled with rosy hues; a sense of freshness touched her: she
could not resist endeavouring to open the window and feel the
air, notwithstanding all her bars. The wife of the inspector
stirred, and half slumbering, murmured, "Are you up? It
cannot be more than five o'clock. If you open the window we
shall catch cold; but I will rise and help you to dress."

This woman, like her husband, was naturally kind, and at once
influenced by Sybil. They both treated her as a superior
being; and if, instead of the daughter of a lowly prisoner and
herself a prisoner, she had been the noble child of a captive
minister of state, they could not have extended to her a more
humble and even delicate solicitude.

It had not yet struck seven, and the wife of the inspector
suddenly stopping and listening, said, "They are stirring
early:" and then, after a moment's pause, she opened the door,
at which she stood for some time endeavouring to catch the
meaning of the mysterious sounds. She looked back at Sybil,
and saying, "Hush, I shall be back directly," she withdrew,
shutting the door.

In little more than two hours, as Sybil had been informed, she
would be summoned to her examination. It was a sickening
thought. Hope vanished as the catastrophe advanced. She
almost accused herself for having without authority sought out
her father; it had been as regarded him a fruitless mission,
and, by its results on her, had aggravated his present sorrows
and perplexities. Her mind again recurred to him whose
counsel had indirectly prompted her rash step, and to whose
aid in her infinite hopelessness she had appealed. The woman
who had all this time been only standing on the landing-place
without the door, now re-entered with a puzzled and curious
air, saying, "I cannot make it out; some one has arrived."

"Some one has arrived." Simple yet agitating words. "Is it
unusual," enquired Sybil in a trembling tone, "for persons to
arrive at this hour?"

"Yes," said the wife of the inspector. "They never bring them
from the stations until the office opens. I cannot make it
out. Hush!" and at this moment some one tapped at the door.

The woman returned to the door and reopened it, and some words
were spoken which did not reach Sybil, whose heart beat
violently as a wild thought rushed over her mind. The
suspense was so intolerable, her agitation so great, that she
was on the point of advancing and asking if--when the door was
shut and she was again left alone. She threw herself on the
bed. It seemed to her that she had lost all control over her
intelligence. All thought and feeling merged in that deep
suspense when the order of our being seems to stop and quiver
as it were upon its axis.

The woman returned; her countenance was glad. Perceiving the
agitation of Sybil, she said, "You may dry your eyes my dear.
There is nothing like a friend at court; there's a warrant
from the Secretary of State for your release."

"No, no," said Sybil springing from her chair. "Is he here?"

"What the Secretary of State!" said the woman.

"No, no! I mean is any one here?"

"There is a coach waiting for you at the door with the
messenger from the office, and you are to depart forthwith.
My husband is here, it was he who knocked at the door. The
warrant came before the office was opened."

"My father! I must see him."

The inspector at this moment tapped again at the door and then
entered. He caught the last request of Sybil, and replied to
it in the negative. "You must not stay," he said; "you must
be off immediately. I will tell all to your father. And take
a hint; this affair may be bailable or it may not be. I can't
give an opinion, but it depends on the evidence. If you have
any good man you know--I mean a householder long established
and well to do in the world--I advise you to lose no time in
looking him up. That will do your father much more good than
saying good bye and all that sort of thing."

Bidding farewell to his kind wife, and leaving many weeping
messages for her father, Sybil descended the stairs with the
inspector. The office was not opened: a couple of policemen
only were in the passage, and as she appeared one of them went
forth to clear the way for Sybil to the coach that was waiting
for her. A milkwoman or two, a stray chimney-sweep, a pieman
with his smoking apparatus, and several of those nameless
nothings that always congregate and make the nucleus of a mob-
-probably our young friends who had been passing the night in
Hyde Park--had already gathered round the office door. They
were dispersed, and returned again and took up their position
at a more respectful distance, abusing with many racy
execrations that ancient body that from a traditionary habit
they still called the New Police.

A man in a loose white great coat, his countenance concealed
by a shawl which was wound round his neck and by his slouched
hat, assisted Sybil into the coach, and pressed her hand at
the same time with great tenderness. Then he mounted the box
by the driver and ordered him to make the best of his way to
Smith's Square.

With a beating heart, Sybil leant back in the coach and
clasped her hands. Her brain was too wild to think: the
incidents of her life during the last four-and-twenty hours
had been so strange and rapid that she seemed almost to resign
any quality of intelligent control over her fortunes, and to
deliver herself up to the shifting visions of the startling
dream. His voice had sounded in her ear as his hand had
touched hers. And on those tones her memory lingered, and
that pressure had reached her heart. What tender devotion!
What earnest fidelity! What brave and romantic faith! Had
she breathed on some talisman, and called up some obedient
genie to her aid, the spirit could not have been more loyal,
nor the completion of her behest more ample and precise.

She passed the towers of the church of St John: of the saint
who had seemed to guard over her in the exigency of her
existence. She was approaching her threshold; the blood left
her cheek, her heart palpitated. The coach stopped.
Trembling and timid she leant upon his arm and yet dared not
look upon his face. They entered the house; they were in the
room where two months before he had knelt to her in vain,
which yesterday had been the scene of so many heart-rending
passions.

As in some delicious dream, when the enchanted fancy has
traced for a time with coherent bliss the stream of bright
adventures and sweet and touching phrase, there comes at last
some wild gap in the flow of fascination, and by means which
we cannot trace, and by an agency which we cannot pursue, we
find ourselves in some enrapturing situation that is as it
were the ecstasy of our life; so it happened now, that while
in clear and precise order there seemed to flit over the soul
of Sybil all that had passed, all that he had done, all that
she felt--by some mystical process which memory could not
recall, Sybil found herself pressed to the throbbing heart of
Egremont, nor shrinking from the embrace which expressed the
tenderness of his devoted love!




Book 5 Chapter 10



Mowbray was in a state of great excitement. It was Saturday
evening: the mills were closed; the news had arrived of the
arrest of the Delegate.

"Here's a go!" said Dandy Mick to Devilsdust. "What do you
think of this?"

"It's the beginning of the end," said Devilsdust.

"The deuce!" said the Dandy, who did not clearly comprehend
the bent of the observation of his much pondering and
philosophic friend, but was touched by its oracular terseness.

"We must see Warner." said Devilsdust, "and call a meeting of
the people on the Moor for to-morrow evening. I will draw up
some resolutions. We must speak out; we must terrify the
Capitalists."

"I am all for a strike," said Mick.

"'Tisn't ripe," said Devilsdust.

"But that's what you always say, Dusty," said Mick.

"I watch events," said Devilsdust. "If you want to be a
leader of the people you must learn to watch events."

"But what do you mean by watching events?"

"Do you see Mother Carey's stall?" said Dusty, pointing in the
direction of the counter of the good-natured widow.

"I should think I did; and what's more, Julia owes her a tick
for herrings."

"Right," said Devilsdust: "and nothing but herrings are to be
seen on her board. Two years ago it was meat."

"I twig," said Mick.

"Wait till it's wegetables; when the people can't buy even
fish. Then we will talk about strikes. That's what I call
watching events."

Julia, Caroline, and Harriet came up to them.

"Mick," said Julia, "we want to go to the Temple."

"I wish you may get it," said Mick shaking his head. "When
you have learnt to watch events, Julia, you will understand
that under present circumstances the Temple is no go."

"And why so, Dandy?" said Julia.

"Do you see Mother Carey's stall?" said Mick, pointing in that
direction. "When there's a tick at Madam Carey's there is no
tin for Chaffing Jack. That's what I call watching events."

"Oh! as for the tin," said Caroline, "in these half-time days
that's quite out of fashion. But they do say it's the last
night at the Temple, for Chaffing Jack means to shut up, it
does not pay any longer; and we want a lark. I'll stand
treat; I'll put my earrings up the spout--they must go at
last, and I would sooner at any time go to my uncle's for
frolic than woe."

"I am sure I should like very much to go to the Temple if any
one would pay for me," said Harriet, "but I won't pawn
nothing."

"If we only pay and hear them sing," said Julia in a coaxing
tone.

"Very like," said Mick; "there's nothing that makes one so
thirsty as listening to a song, particularly if it touches the
feelings. Don't you remember, Dusty, when we used to encore
that German fellow in 'Scots wha ha.' We always had it five
times. Hang me if I wasn't blind drunk at the end of it."

"I tell you what, young ladies," said Devilsdust, looking very
solemn, "you're dancing on a volcano."

"Oh! my," said Caroline. "I am sure I wish we were; though
what you mean exactly I don't quite know."

"I mean that we shall all soon be slaves," said Devilsdust.

"Not if we get the Ten-Hour Bill," said Harriet.

"And no cleaning of machinery in meal time," said Julia; "that
is a shame."

"You don't know what you are talking about," said Devilsdust.
"I tell you, if the Capitalists put down Gerard we're done for
another ten years, and by that time we shall be all used up."

"Lor! Dusty, you quite terrify one," said Caroline.

"It's a true bill though. Instead of going to the Temple we
must meet on the Moor, and in as great numbers as possible.
Go you and get all your sweethearts. I must see your father,
Harriet; he must preside. We will have the hymn of Labour
sung by a hundred thousand voices in chorus. It will strike
terror into the hearts of the Capitalists. This is what we
must all be thinking of if we wish Labour to have a chance,
not of going to Chaffing Jack's and listening to silly songs.
D'ye understand?"

"Don't we!" said Caroline; "and for my part for a summer eve I
prefer Mowbray Moor to all the Temples in the world,
particularly if it's a sociable party and we have some good
singing."

This evening it was settled among the principal champions of
the cause of Labour, among whom Devilsdust was now included,
that on the morrow there should be a monster meeting on the
Moor to take into consideration the arrest of the delegate of
Mowbray. Such was the complete organisation of this district
that by communicating with the various lodges of the Trades
Unions fifty thousand persons, or even double that number,
could within four-and-twenty hours on a great occasion and on
a favourable day be brought into the field. The morrow being
a day of rest was favourable, and the seizure of their
cherished delegate was a stimulating cause. The excitement
was great, the enthusiasm earnest and deep. There was enough
distress to make people discontented without depressing them.
And Devilsdust after attending a council of the Union, retired
to rest and dreamed of strong speeches and spicy resolutions,
bands and banners, the cheers of assembled thousands, and the
eventual triumph of the sacred rights.

The post of the next morning brought great and stirring news
to Mowbray. Gerard had undergone his examination at Bow
Street. It was a long and laborious one; he was committed for
trial for a seditious conspiracy, but he was held to bail.
The bail demanded was heavy; but it was prepared and instantly
proffered. His sureties were Morley and a Mr Hatton. By this
post Morley wrote to his friends, apprising them that both
Gerard and himself intended to leave London instantly, and
that they might be expected to arrive at Mowbray by the
evening train.

The monster meeting of the Moor it was instantly resolved
should be converted into a triumphant procession, or rather be
preceded by one. Messengers on horseback were sent to all the
neighbouring towns to announce the great event. Every artisan
felt as a Moslemin summoned by the sacred standard. All went
forth with their wives and their children to hail the return
of the patriot and the martyr. The Trades of Mowbray mustered
early in the morning, and in various processions took
possession of all the churches. Their great pride was
entirely to fill the church of Mr St Lys, who not daunted by
their demonstration, and seizing the offered opportunity,
suppressed the sermon with which he had supplied himself and
preached to them an extemporary discourse on "Fear God and
honour the King." In the dissenting chapels thanksgivings were
publicly offered that bail had been accepted for Walter
Gerard. After the evening service, which the Unions again
attended, they formed in the High Street and lined it with
their ranks and banners. Every half hour a procession arrived
from some neighbouring town with its music and streaming
flags. Each was received by Warner or some other member of
the managing committee, who assigned to them their appointed
position, which they took up without confusion, nor was the
general order for a moment disturbed. Sometimes a large party
arrived without music or banners, but singing psalms and
headed by their minister; sometimes the children walked
together, the women following, then the men each with a ribbon
of the same colour in his hat: all hurried, yet spontaneous
and certain, indications how mankind under the influence of
high and earnest feelings recur instantly to ceremony and
form; how when the imagination is excited it appeals to the
imagination, and requires for its expression something beyond
the routine of daily life.

It was arranged that the moment the train arrived and the
presence of Gerard was ascertained, the Trade in position
nearest to the station should commence the hymn of Labour,
which was instantly to be taken up by its neighbour, and so on
in succession, so that by an almost electrical agency the
whole population should almost simultaneously be assured of
his arrival.

At half past six o'clock the bell announced that the train was
in sight; a few minutes afterwards Dandy Mick hurried up to
the leader of the nearest Trade, spoke a few words, and
instantly the signal was given and the hymn commenced. It was
taken up as the steeples of a great city in the silence of the
night take up the new hour that has just arrived; one by one
the mighty voices rose till they all blended in one vast
waving sea of sound. Warner and some others welcomed Gerard
and Morley, and ushered them, totally unprepared for such a
reception, to an open carriage drawn by four white horses that
was awaiting them. Orders were given that there was to be no
cheering or any irregular clamour. Alone was heard the hymn.
As the carriage passed each Trade, they followed and formed in
procession behind it; thus all had the opportunity of
beholding their chosen chief, and he the proud consolation of
looking on the multitude who thus enthusiastically recognised
the sovereignty of his services.

The interminable population, the mighty melody, the incredible
order, the simple yet awful solemnity, this representation of
the great cause to which she was devoted under an aspect that
at once satisfied the reason, captivated the imagination, and
elevated the heart--her admiration of her father, thus
ratified as it were by the sympathy of a nation--added to all
the recent passages of her life teeming with such strange and
trying interest, overcame Sybil. The tears fell down her
cheek as the carriage bore away her father, while she remained
under the care of one unknown to the people of Mowbray, but
who had accompanied her from London,--this was Hatton.

The last light of the sun was shed over the Moor when Gerard
reached it, and the Druids' altar and its surrounding crags
were burnished with its beam.




Book 5 Chapter 11



It was the night following the day after the return of Gerard
to Mowbray. Morley, who had lent to him and Sybil his cottage
in the dale, was at the office of his newspaper, the Mowbray
Phalanx, where he now resided. He was alone in his room
writing, occasionally rising from his seat and pacing the
chamber, when some one knocked at his door. Receiving a
permission to come in, there entered Hatton.

"I fear I am disturbing an article," said the guest.

"By no means: the day of labour is not at hand. I am very
pleased to see you."

"My quarters are not very inviting," continued Hatton. "It is
remarkable what bad accommodation you find in these great
trading towns. I should have thought that the mercantile
traveller had been a comfortable animal--not to say a
luxurious; but I find everything mean and third-rate. The
wine execrable. So I thought I would come and bestow my
tediousness on you. 'Tis hardly fair."

"You could not have pleased me better. I was, rather from
distraction than from exigency, throwing some thoughts on
paper. But the voice of yesterday still lingers in my ear."

"What a spectacle!"

"Yes; you see what a multitude presents who have recognised
the predominance of Moral Power," said Morley. "The spectacle
was august; but the results to which such a public mind must
lead are sublime."

"It must have been deeply gratifying to our friend," said
Hatton.

"It will support him in his career," said Morley.

"And console him in his prison," added Hatton.

"You think that it will come to that?" said Morley
inquiringly.

"It has that aspect; but appearances change."

"What should change them?"

"Time and accident, which change everything."

"Time will bring the York Assizes," said Morley musingly; "and
as for accident I confess the future seems to me dreary. What
can happen for Gerard?"

"He might win his writ of right," said Hatton demurely,
stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair. "That
also may be tried at the York Assizes"

"His writ of right! I thought that was a feint--a mere affair
of tactics to keep the chance of the field."

"I believe the field may be won," said Hatton very composedly.

"Won!"

"Ay! the castle and manor of Mowbray and half the lordships
round, to say nothing of this good town. The people are
prepared to be his subjects; he must give up equality and be
content with being a popular sovereign."

"You jest my friend."

"Then I speak truth in jest; sometimes, you know, the case."

"What mean you?" said Morley rising and approaching Hatton;
"for though I have often observed you like a biting phrase,
you never speak idly. Tell me what you mean."

"I mean," said Hatton, looking Morley earnestly in the face
and speaking with great gravity, "that the documents are in
existence which prove the title of Walter Gerard to the
proprietorship of this great district; that I know where the
documents are to be found; and that it requires nothing but a
resolution equal to the occasion to secure them."

"Should that be wanting?" said Morley.

"I should think not," said Hatton. "It would belie our nature
to believe so."

"And where are these documents?"

"In the muniment room of Mowbray castle."

"Hah!" exclaimed Morley in a prolonged tone.

"Kept closely by one who knows their value, for they are the
title deeds not of his right but of his confusion."

"And how can we obtain them?"

"By means more honest than those they were acquired by."

"They are not obvious."

"Two hundred thousand human beings yesterday acknowledged the
supremacy of Gerard," said Hatton. "Suppose they had known
that within the walls of Mowbray Castle were contained the
proofs that Walter Gerard was the lawful possessor of the
lands on which they live; I say suppose that had been the
case. Do you think they would have contented themselves with
singing psalms? What would have become of moral power then?
They would have taken Mowbray Castle by storm; they would have
sacked and gutted it; they would have appointed a chosen band
to rifle the round tower; they would have taken care that
every document in it, especially an iron chest painted blue
and blazoned with the shield of Valence, should have been
delivered to you, to me, to any one that Gerard appointed for
the office. And what could be the remedy of the Earl de
Mowbray? He could scarcely bring an action against the
hundred for the destruction of the castle, which we would
prove was not his own. And the most he could do would be to
transport some poor wretches who had got drunk in his
plundered cellars and then set fire to his golden saloons."

"You amaze me," said Morley, looking with an astonished
expression on the person who had just delivered himself of
these suggestive details with the same coolness and arid
accuracy that he would have entered into the details of a
pedigree.

"'Tis a practical view of the case," remarked Mr Hatton.

Morley paced the chamber disturbed; Hatton remained silent and
watched him with a scrutinizing eye.

"Are you certain of your facts?" at length said Morley
abruptly stopping.

"Quite so; Lord de Mowbray informed me of the circumstances
himself before I left London, and I came down here in
consequence."

"You know him?"

"No one better."

"And these documents--some of them I suppose," said Morley
with a cynical look, "were once in your own possession then?"

"Possibly. Would they were now! But it is a great thing to
know where they may be found."

"Then they once were the property of Gerard?"

"Hardly that. They were gained by my own pains, and often
paid for with my own purse. Claimed by no one, I parted with
them to a person to whom they were valuable. It is not merely
to serve Gerard that I want them now, though I would willingly
serve him. I have need of some of these papers with respect
to an ancient title, a claim to which by a person in whom I am
interested they would substantiate. Now listen, good friend
Morley; moral force is a fine thing especially in speculation,
and so is a community of goods especially when a man has no
property, but when you have lived as long as I have and have
tasted of the world's delight, you'll comprehend the rapture
of acquisition, and learn that it is generally secured by very
coarse means. Come, I have a mind that you should prosper.
The public spirit is inflamed here; you are a leader of the
people. Let us have another meeting on the Moor, a
preconcerted outbreak; you can put your fingers in a trice on
the men who will do our work. Mowbray Castle is in their
possession; we secure our object. You shall have ten thousand
pounds on the nail, and I will take you back to London with me
besides and teach you what is fortune."

"I understand you," said Morley. "You have a clear brain and
a bold spirit; you have no scruples, which indeed are
generally the creatures of perplexity rather than of
principle. You ought to succeed."

"We ought to succeed you mean," said Hatton, "for I have long
perceived that you only wanted opportunity to mount."

"Yesterday was a great burst of feeling occasioned by a very
peculiar cause," said Morley musingly; "but it must not
mislead us. The discontent here is not deep. The people are
still employed, though not fully. Wages have fallen, but they
must drop more. THE PEOPLE are not ripe for the movement you
intimate. There are thousands who would rush to the rescue of
the castle. Besides there is a priest here, one St Lys, who
exercises a most pernicious influence over the people. It
will require immense efforts and great distress to root him
out. No; it would fail."

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