Sybil by Benjamin Disraeli (book recommendations website TXT) 📕

the amethyst, others blue and brilliant as the sapphire; an emerald here, and now a golden drop that gleamed like the yellow diamond of Genghis Khan.

Within⁠—was the scene less fair? A single lamp shed over the chamber a soft and sufficient light. The library of Stephen Morley had been removed, but the place of his volumes had been partly supplied, for the shelves were far from being empty. Their contents were of no ordinary character: many volumes of devotion, some of church history, one or two on ecclesiastical art, several works of our elder dramatists, some good reprints of our chronicles, and many folios of church music, which last indeed amounted to a remarkable collection. There was no musical instrument however in the room of any kind, and the only change in its furniture, since we last visited the room of Gerard, was the presence of a long-backed chair of antique form, most beautifully embroidered, and a portrait of a female saint over the mantelpiece. As for Gerard himself he sat with his head leaning on his arm, which rested on the table, while he listened with great interest to a book which was read to him by his daughter, at whose feet lay the fiery and faithful bloodhound.

“So you see, my father,” said Sybil with animation, and dropping her book which however her hand did not relinquish, “even then all was not lost. The stout earl retired beyond the Trent, and years and reigns elapsed before this part of the island accepted their laws and customs.”

“I see,” said her father, “and yet I cannot help wishing that Harold⁠—” Here the hound, hearing his name, suddenly rose and looked at Gerard, who smiling, patted him and said, “We were not talking of thee, good sir, but of thy great namesake; but ne’er mind, a live dog they say is worth a dead king.”

“Ah! why have we not such a man now,” said Sybil, “to protect the people! Were I a prince I know no career that I should deem so great.”

“But Stephen says no,” said Gerard: “he says that these great men have never made use of us but as tools; and that the people never can have their rights until they produce competent champions from their own order.”

“But then Stephen does not want to recall the past,” said Sybil with a kind of sigh; “he wishes to create the future.”

“The past is a dream,” said Gerard.

“And what is the future?” enquired Sybil.

“Alack! I know not; but I often wish the battle of Hastings were to be fought over again and I was going to have a hand in it.”

“Ah! my father,” said Sybil with a mournful smile, “there is ever your fatal specific of physical force. Even Stephen is against physical force, with all his odd fancies.”

“All very true,” said Gerard smiling with good nature; “but all the same when I was coming home a few days ago, and stopped awhile on the bridge and chanced to see myself in the stream, I could not help fancying that my Maker had fashioned these limbs rather to hold a lance or draw a bow, than to supervise a shuttle or a spindle.”

“Yet with the shuttle and the spindle we may redeem our race,” said Sybil with animation, “if we could only form the minds that move those peaceful weapons. Oh! my father, I will believe that moral power is irresistible, or where are we to look for hope?”

Gerard shook his head with his habitual sweet good-tempered smile. “Ah!” said he, “what can we do; they have got the land, and the land governs the people. The Norman knew that, Sybil, as you just read. If indeed we had our rights, one might do something; but I don’t know; I dare say if I had our land again, I should be as bad as the rest.”

“Oh! no, my father,” exclaimed Sybil with energy, “never, never! Your thoughts would be as princely as your lot. What a leader of the people you would make!”

Harold sprang up suddenly and growled.

“Hush!” said Gerard; “someone knocks:” and he rose and left the room. Sybil heard voices and broken sentences: “You’ll excuse me”⁠—“I take it kindly”⁠—“So we are neighbours.” And then her father returned, ushering in a person and saying, “Here is my friend Mr. Franklin that I was speaking of, Sybil, who is going to be our neighbour; down Harold, down!” and he presented to his daughter the companion of Mr. St. Lys in that visit to the hand-loom weaver when she had herself met the vicar of Mowbray.

Sybil rose, and letting her book drop gently on the table, received Egremont with composure and native grace. It is civilization that makes us awkward, for it gives us an uncertain position. Perplexed, we take refuge in pretence; and embarrassed, we seek a resource in affectation. The Bedouin and the Red Indian never lose their presence of mind; and the wife of a peasant, when you enter her cottage, often greets you with a propriety of mien which favourably contrasts with your reception by some grand dame in some grand assembly, meeting her guests alternately with a caricature of courtesy or an exaggeration of supercilious self-control.

“I dare say,” said Egremont bowing to Sybil, “you have seen our poor friend the weaver since we met there.”

“The day I quitted Mowbray,” said Sybil. “They are not without friends.”

“Ah! you have met my daughter before.”

“On a mission of grace,” said Egremont.

“And I suppose you found the town not very pleasant, Mr. Franklin,” continued Gerard.

“No; I could not stand it, the nights were so close. Besides I have a great accumulation of notes, and I fancied I could reduce them into a report more efficiently in comparative seclusion. So I have got a room near here, with a little garden, not so pretty as yours; but still a garden is something; and if I want any additional information, why, after all, Mowbray is only a walk.”

“You say well and have done wisely. Besides you have