The Last of the Barons — Complete by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (books to read for self improvement TXT) 📕

The night had now commenced, and Sibyll was still listening—or, perhaps, listening not—to the soothing babble of the venerable servant. They were both seated in the little room that adjoined the hall, and their only light came through the door opening on the garden,—a gray, indistinct twilight, relieved by the few earliest stars. The peacock, his head under his wing, roosted on the balustrade, and the song of the nightingale, from amidst one of the neighbouring copses, which studded the ground towards the chase of Marybone, came soft and distant on the serene air. The balm and freshness of spring were felt in the dews, in the skies, in the sweet breath of young herb and leaf; through the calm of ever-watchful nature, it seemed as if you might mark, distinct and visible, minute after minute, the blessed growth of April into May.

Suddenly Madge uttered a cry of alarm, and pointed towards the opposite wall. Sibyll, startled from her revery, looked up, and saw something dusk and dwarf-like perched upon the crumbling eminence. Presently this apparition leaped lightly into the garden, and the alarm of the women was lessened on seeing a young boy creep stealthily over the grass and approach the open door.

“Hey, child!” said Madge, rising. “What wantest thou?”

“Hist, gammer, hist! Ah, the young mistress? That’s well. Hist! I say again.” The boy entered the room. “I’m in time to save you. In half an hour your house will be broken into, perhaps burned. The boys are clapping their hands now at the thoughts of the bonfire. Father and all the neighbours are getting ready. Hark! hark! No, it is only the wind! The tymbesteres are to give note. When you hear their bells tinkle, the mob will meet. Run for your lives, you and the old man, and don’t ever say it was poor Tim who told you this, for Father would beat me to death. Ye can still get through the garden into the fields. Quick!”

“I will go to the master,” exclaimed Madge, hurrying from the room.

The child caught Sibyll’s cold hand through the dark. “And I say, mistress, if his worship is a wizard, don’t let him punish Father and Mother, or poor Tim, or his little sister; though Tim was once naughty, and hooted Master Warner. Many, many, many a time and oft have I seen that kind, mild face in my sleep, just as when it bent over me, while I kicked and screamed, and the poor gentleman said, ‘Thinkest thou I would harm thee?’ But he’ll forgive me now, will he not? And when I turned the seething water over myself, and they said it was all along of the wizard, my heart pained more than the arm. But they whip me, and groan out that the devil is in me, if I don’t say that the kettle upset of itself! Oh, those tymbesteres! Mistress, did you ever see them? They fright me. If you could hear how they set on all the neighbours! And their laugh—it makes the hair stand on end! But you will get away, and thank Tim too? Oh, I shall laugh then, when they find the old house empty!”

“May our dear Lord bless thee—bless thee, child,” sobbed Sibyll, clasping the boy in her arms, and kissing him, while her tears bathed his cheeks.

A light gleamed on the threshold; Madge, holding a candle, appeared with Warner, his hat and cloak thrown on in haste. “What is this?” said the poor scholar. “Can it be true? Is mankind so cruel? What have I done, woe is me! what have I done to deserve this?”

“Come, dear father, quick,” said Sibyll, drying her tears, and wakened by the presence of the old man into energy and courage. “But put thy hand on this boy’s head, and bless him; for it is he who has, haply, saved us.”

The boy trembled a moment as the long-bearded face turned towards him, but when he caught and recognized those meek, sweet eyes, his superstition vanished, and it was but a holy and grateful awe that thrilled his young blood, as the old man placed both withered hands over his yellow hair, and murmured,—

“God shield thy youth! God make thy manhood worthy! God give thee children in thine old age with hearts like thine!” Scarcely had the prayer ceased when the clash of timbrels, with their jingling bells, was heard in the street. Once, twice, again, and a fierce yell closed in chorus,—caught up and echoed from corner to corner, from house to house.

“Run! run!” cried the boy, turning white with terror.

“But the Eureka—my hope—my mind’s child!” exclaimed Adam, suddenly, and halting at the door.

“Eh, eh!” said Madge, pushing him forward. “It is too heavy to move; thou couldst not lift it. Think of thine own flesh and blood, of thy daughter, of her dead mother! Save her life, if thou carest not for thine own!”

“Go, Sibyll, go, and thou, Madge; I will stay. What matters my life,—it is but the servant of a thought! Perish master, perish slave!”

“Father, unless you come with me, I stir not. Fly or perish, your fate is mine! Another minute—Oh, Heaven of mercy, that roar again! We are both lost!”

“Go, sir, go; they care not for your iron,—iron cannot feel. They will not touch that! Have not your daughter’s life upon your soul!”

“Sibyll, Sibyll, forgive me! Come!” said Warner, conscience-stricken at the appeal.

Madge and the boy ran forwards; the old woman unbarred the garden-gate; Sibyll and her father went forth; the fields stretched before them calm and solitary; the boy leaped up, kissed Sibyll’s pale cheek, and then bounded across the grass, and vanished.

“Loiter not, Madge. Come!” cried Sibyll.

“Nay,” said the old woman, shrinking back, “they bear no grudge to me; I am too old to do aught but burthen ye. I will stay, and perchance save the house and the chattels, and poor master’s deft contrivance. Whist! thou knowest his heart would break if none were by to guard it.”

With that the faithful servant thrust the broad pieces that yet remained of the king’s gift into the gipsire Sibyll wore at her girdle, and then closed and rebarred the door before they could detain her.

“It is base to leave her,” said the scholar-gentleman.

The noble Sibyll could not refute her father. Afar they heard the tramping of feet; suddenly, a dark red light shot up into the blue air, a light from the flame of many torches.

“The wizard, the wizard! Death to the wizard, who would starve the poor!” yelled forth, and was echoed by a stern hurrah.

Adam stood motionless, Sibyll by his side.

“The wizard and his daughter!” shrieked a sharp single voice, the voice of Graul the tymbestere.

Adam turned. “Fly, my child,—they now threaten thee. Come, come, come!” and, taking her by the hand, he hurried her across the fields, skirting the hedge, their shadows dodging, irregular and quaint, on the starlit sward. The father had lost all thought, all care but for the daughter’s life. They paused at last, out of breath and exhausted: the sounds at the distance were lulled and hushed. They looked towards the direction of the home they had abandoned, expecting to see the flames