Sybil by Benjamin Disraeli (book recommendations website TXT) 📕

running before her with a frolicsome air, and then returning to his mistress, danced about her, and almost overpowered her with his gambols.

“I salute thee, holy sister,” said Egremont.

“Oh! is not this a merry morn!” she exclaimed with a bright and happy face.

“I feel it as you. And whither do you go?”

“I go to the convent; I pay my first visit to our Superior since I left them.”

“Not very long ago,” said Egremont, with a smile, and turning with her.

“It seems so,” said Sybil.

They walked on together; Sybil glad as the hour; noticing a thousand cheerful sights, speaking to her dog in her ringing voice, as he gambolled before them, or seized her garments in his mouth, and ever and anon bounded away and then returned, looking up in his mistress’ face to inquire whether he had been wanted in his absence.

“What a pity it is that your father’s way each morning lies up the valley,” said Egremont; “he would be your companion to Mowbray.”

“Ah! but I am so happy that he has not to work in a town,” said Sybil. “He is not made to be cooped up in a hot factory in a smoky street. At least he labours among the woods and waters. And the Traffords are such good people! So kind to him and to all.”

“You love your father very much.”

She looked at him a little surprised; and then her sweet serious face broke into a smile and she said, “And is that strange?”

“I think not,” said Egremont; “I am inclined to love him myself.”

“Ah! you win my heart,” said Sybil, “when you praise him. I think that is the real reason why I like Stephen; for otherwise he is always saying something with which I cannot agree, which I disapprove; and yet he is so good to my father!”

“You speak of Mr. Morley⁠—”

“Oh! we don’t call him ‘Mr.,’ ” said Sybil slightly laughing.

“I mean Stephen Morley,” said Egremont recalling his position, “whom I met in Marney Abbey. He is very clever, is he not?”

“He is a great writer and a great student; and what he is he has made himself. I hear too that you follow the same pursuit,” said Sybil.

“But I am not a great writer or a great student,” said Egremont.

“Whatever you be, I trust,” said Sybil, in a more serious tone, “that you will never employ the talents that God has given you against the people.”

“I have come here to learn something of their condition,” said Egremont. “That is not to be done in a great city like London. We all of us live too much in a circle. You will assist me, I am sure,” added Egremont; “your spirit will animate me. You told me last night that there was no other subject, except one, which ever occupied your thoughts.”

“Yes,” said Sybil, “I have lived under two roofs, only two roofs; and each has given me a great idea; the Convent and the Cottage. One has taught me the degradation of my faith, the other of my race. You should not wonder, therefore, that my heart is concentrated on the Church and the people.”

“But there are other ideas,” said Egremont, “that might equally be entitled to your thought.”

“I feel these are enough,” said Sybil; “too great, as it is, for my brain.”

VII

At the end of a court in Wodgate, of rather larger dimensions than usual in that town, was a high and many-windowed house, of several stories in height, which had been added to it at intervals. It was in a most dilapidated state; the principal part occupied as a nail-workshop, where a great number of heavy iron machines were working in every room on each floor; the building itself in so shattered a condition that every part of it creaked and vibrated with their motion. The flooring was so broken that in many places one could look down through the gaping and rotten planks, while the upper floors from time to time had been shored up with props.

This was the Palace of the Bishop of Wodgate, and here with his arms bare and black, he worked at those locks, which defied any skeleton key that was not made by himself. He was a short, thickset man, powerfully made, with brawny arms disproportionately short even for his height, and with a countenance, as far as one could judge of a face so disfigured by his grimy toil, rather brutal than savage. His choice apprentices, full of admiration and terror, worked about him; lank and haggard youths, who never for an instant dared to raise their dingy faces and lacklustre eyes from their ceaseless labour. On each side of their master, seated on a stool higher than the rest, was an urchin of not more than four or five years of age, serious and demure, and as if proud of his eminent position, or working incessantly at his little file;⁠—these were two sons of the bishop.

“Now boys,” said the bishop, in a hoarse, harsh voice, “steady, there; steady. There’s a file what don’t sing; can’t deceive my ear; I know all their voices. Don’t let me find that un out, or I won’t walk into him, won’t I? Ayn’t you lucky boys, to have reg’lar work like this, and the best of prog! It worn’t my lot, I can tell you that. Give me that shut, you there, Scrubbynose, can’t you move? Look sharp, or I won’t move you, won’t I? Steady, steady! All right! That’s music. Where will you hear music like twenty files all working at once! You ought to be happy boys, oughtn’t you? Won’t there be a treat of fish after this, that’s all! Hulloa, there, you red-haired varmint, what are you looking after? Three boys looking about them; what’s all this? Won’t I be among you?” and he sprang forward and seized the luckless ears of the first apprentice he could get hold off, and wrung them till the blood spouted forth.

“Please, bishop,” sang out