Sybil, Benjamin Disraeli [best life changing books .txt] 📗

fine folks. We have had a grand party here from the castle."

"So I perceived," said Egremont, "and withdrew."

"Ah! they were not in your way, eh?" he said in a mocking smile. "Well, they were very condescending--at least for such great people. An earl! Earl de Mowbray,--I suppose he came over with William the Conqueror. Mr Trafford makes a show of the place, and it amuses their visitors I dare say, like anything else that's strange. There were some young gentlemen with them, who did not seem to know much about anything. I thought I had a right to be amused too; and I must say I liked very much to see one of them looking at the machinery through his eye-glass. There was one very venturesome chap: I thought he was going to catch hold of the fly-wheel, but I gave him a spin which I believed saved his life, though he did rather stare. He was a lord."

"They are great heiresses, his daughters, they say at Mowbray," said Egremont.

"I dare say," said Gerard. "A year ago this earl had a son--an only son, and then his daughters were not great heiresses. But the son died and now it's their turn. And perhaps some day it will be somebody else's turn. If you want to understand the ups and downs of life, there's nothing like the parchments of an estate. Now master, now man! He who served in the hall now lords in it: and very often the baseborn change their liveries for coronets, while gentle blood has nothing left but--dreams; eh, master Franklin?"

"It seems you know the history of this Lord de Mowbray?"

"Why a man learns a good many things in his time; and living in these parts, there are few secrets of the notables. He has had the title to his broad acres questioned before this time, my friend."

"Indeed!"

"Yes: I could not help thinking of that to-day," said Gerard, "when he questioned me with his mincing voice and pulled the wool with his cursed white hands and showed it to his dame, who touched it with her little finger; and his daughters who tossed their heads like pea-hens--Lady Joan and Lady Maud. Lady Joan and Lady Maud!" repeated Gerard in a voice of bitter sarcasm. "I did not care for the rest; but I could not stand that Lady Joan and that Lady Maud. I wonder if my Sybil saw them."

In the meantime, Sybil had been sent for by Mrs Trafford. She had inferred from the message that the guests had departed, and her animated cheek showed the eagerness with which she had responded to the call. Bounding along with a gladness of the heart which lent additional lustre to her transcendent brightness, she suddenly found herself surrounded in the garden by Lady Maud and her friends. The daughter of Lord de Mowbray, who could conceive nothing but humility as the cause of her alarmed look, attempted to re-assure her by condescending volubility, turning often to her friends and praising in admiring interrogatories Sybil's beauty.

"And we took advantage of your absence," said Lady Maud in a tone of amiable artlessness, "to find out all about you. And what a pity we did not know you when you were at the convent, because then you might have been constantly at the castle; indeed I should have insisted on it. But still I hear we are neighbours; you must promise to pay me a visit, you must indeed. Is not she beautiful?" she added in a lower but still distinct voice to her friend. "Do you know I think there is so much beauty among the lower order."

Mr Mountchesney and Lord Milford poured forth several insipid compliments, accompanied with some speaking looks which they flattered themselves could not be misconstrued. Sybil said not a word, but answered each flood of phrases with a cold reverence.

Undeterred by her somewhat haughty demeanour, which Lady Maud only attributed to the novelty of her situation, her ignorance of the world, and her embarrassment under this overpowering condescension, the good-tempered and fussy daughter of Lord de Mowbray proceeded to re-assure Sybil, and to enforce on her that this perhaps unprecedented descent from superiority was not a mere transient courtliness of the moment, and that she really might rely on her patronage and favourable feeling.

"You really must come and see me," said Lady Maud, "I shall never be happy till you have made me a visit. Where do you live? I will come and fetch you myself in the carriage. Now let us fix a day at once. Let me see; this is Saturday. What say you to next Monday?"

"I thank you," said Sybil, very gravely, "but I never quit my home."

"What a darling!" exclaimed Lady Maud looking round at her friends. "Is not she? I know exactly what you feel. But really you shall not be the least embarrassed. It may feel strange at first, to be sure, but then I shall be there; and do you know I look upon you quite as my protege."

"Protege," said Sybil. "I live with my father."

"What a dear!" said Lady Maud looking round to Lord Milford. "Is not she naive?"

"And are you the guardian of these beautiful flowers?" said Mr Mountchesney.

Sybil signified a negative, and added "Mrs Trafford is very proud of them."

"You must see the flowers at Mowbray Castle," said Lady Maud. "They are unprecedented, are they not, Lord Milford? You know you said the other day that they were almost equal to Mrs Lawrence's. I am charmed to find you are fond of flowers," continued Lady Maud; "you will be so delighted with Mowbray. Ah! mama is calling us. Now fix--shall it be Monday?"

"Indeed," said Sybil, "I never leave my home. I am one of the lower order, and live only among the lower order. I am here to-day merely for a few hours to pay an act of homage to a benefactor."

"Well I shall come and fetch you," said Maud, covering her surprise and mortification by a jaunty air that would not confess defeat.

"And so shall I," said Mr Mountchesney.

"And so shall I," whispered Lord Milford lingering a little behind.

The great and distinguished party had disappeared; their glittering barouche, their prancing horses, their gay grooms, all had vanished; the sound of their wheels was no longer heard. Time flew on; the bell announced that the labour of the week had closed. There was a half holiday always on the last day of the week at Mr Trafford's settlement; and every man, woman, and child, were paid their wages in the great room before they left the mill. Thus the expensive and evil habits which result from wages being paid in public houses were prevented. There was also in this system another great advantage for the workpeople. They received their wages early enough to repair to the neighbouring markets and make their purchases for the morrow. This added greatly to their comfort, and rendering it unnecessary for them to run in debt to the shopkeepers, added really to their wealth. Mr Trafford thought that next to the amount of wages, the most important consideration was the method in which wages are paid; and those of our readers who may have read or can recall the sketches, neither coloured nor exagerated, which we have given in the early part of this volume of the very different manner in which the working classes may receive the remuneration for their toil, will probably agree with the sensible and virtuous master of Walter Gerard.

He, accompanied by his daughter and Egremont, is now on his way home. A soft summer afternoon; the mild beam still gilding the tranquil scene; a river, green meads full of kine, woods vocal with the joyous song of the thrush and the blackbird; and in the distance, the lofty breast of the purple moor, still blazing in the sun: fair sights and renovating sounds after a day of labour passed in walls and amid the ceaseless and monotonous clang of the spindle and the loom. So Gerard felt it, as he stretched his great limbs in the air and inhaled its perfumed volume.

"Ah! I was made for this, Sybil," he exclaimed; "but never mind, my child, never mind; tell me more of your fine visitors."

Egremont found the walk too short; fortunately from the undulation of the vale, they could not see the cottage until within a hundred yards of it. When they were in sight, a man came forth from the garden to greet them; Sybil gave an exclamation of pleasure; it was MORLEY.


Book 3 Chapter 9


Morley greeted Gerard and his daughter with great warmth, and then looked at Egremont. "Our companion in the ruins of Marney Abbey," said Gerard; "you and our friend Franklin here should become acquainted, Stephen, for you both follow the same craft. He is a journalist like yourself, and is our neighbour for a time, and yours."

"What journal are you on, may I ask?" enquired Morley.

Egremont reddened, was confused, and then replied, "I have no claim to the distinguished title of a journalist. I am but a reporter; and have some special duties here."

"Hem!" said Morley, and then taking Gerard by the arm, he walked away with him, leaving Egremont and Sybil to follow them.

"Well I have found him, Walter."

"What, Hatton?"

"No, no; the brother."

"And what knows he?"

"Little enough; yet something. Our man lives and prospers; these are facts, but where he is, or what he is--not a clue."

"And this brother cannot help us?"

"On the contrary, he sought information from me; he is a savage, beneath even our worst ideas of popular degradation. All that is ascertained is that our man exists and is well to do in the world. There comes an annual and anonymous contribution, and not a light one, to his brother. I examined the post-marks of the letters, but they all varied, and were evidently arranged to mislead. I fear you will deem I have not done much; yet it was wearisome enough I can tell you."

"I doubt it not; and I am sure Stephen, you have done all that man could. I was fancying that I should hear from you to-day; for what think you has happened? My Lord himself, his family and train, have all been in state to visit the works, and I had to show them. Queer that, wasn't it? He offered me money when it was over. How much I know not, I would not look at it. Though to be sure, they were perhaps my own rents, eh? But I pointed to the sick box and his own dainty hand deposited the sum there."

"'Tis very strange. And you were with him face to face?"

"Face to face. Had you brought me news of the papers, I should have thought that providence had rather a hand in it--but now, we are still at sea."

"Still at sea," said Morley musingly, "but he lives and prospers. He will turn up yet, Walter."

"Amen! Since you have taken up this thing, Stephen, it is strange how my mind has hankered after the old business, and yet it ruined my father, and mayhap may do as bad for his son."

"We will not think that," said Morley. "At present we will think of other things. You may guess I am a bit wearied; I think I'll say good night; you have strangers with you."

"Nay, nay man; nay. This Franklin is a likely lad enough;