The time for a while after his departure had been comparatively light-hearted and agreeable. Easier in her mind and for a time busied with the preparations for their journey, Sybil sate1 by the open window more serene2 and cheerful than for a long period had been her wont3. Sometimes she ceased for a moment from her volume and fell into a reverie of the morrow and of Mowbray. Viewed through the magic haze4 of time and distance, the scene of her youth assumed a character of tenderness and even of peaceful bliss5. She sighed for the days of their cottage and their garden, when the discontent of her father was only theoretical, and their political conclaves6 were limited to a discussion between him and Morley on the rights of the people or the principles of society. The bright waters of the Mowe and its wooded hills; her matin walks to the convent to visit Ursula Trafford—a pilgrimage of piety7 and charity and love; the faithful Harold, so devoted8 and so intelligent; even the crowded haunts of labour and suffering among which she glided9 like an angel, blessing10 and blessed; they rose before her—those touching11 images of the past—and her eyes were suffused12 with tears, of tenderness, not of gloom.
And blended with them the thought of one who had been for a season the kind and gentle companion of her girlhood—that Mr Franklin whom she had never quite forgotten, and who, alas13! was not Mr Franklin after all. Ah! that was a wonderful history; a somewhat thrilling chapter in the memory of one so innocent and so young! His voice even now lingered in her ear. She recalled without an effort those tones of the morning, tones of tenderness and yet of wisdom and considerate thought, that had sounded only for her welfare. Never had Egremont appeared to her in a light so subduing15. He was what man should be to woman ever-gentle, and yet a guide. A thousand images dazzling and wild rose in her mind; a thousand thoughts, beautiful and quivering as the twilight16, clustered round her heart; for a moment she indulged in impossible dreams, and seemed to have entered a newly-discovered world. The horizon of her experience expanded like the glittering heaven of a fairy tale. Her eye was fixed17 in lustrous18 contemplation, the flush on her cheek was a messenger from her heart, the movement of her mouth would have in an instant become a smile, when the clock of St John’s struck four, and Sybil started from her reverie.
The clock of St John’s struck four, and Sybil became anxious; the clock of St John’s struck five, and Sybil became disquieted19; restless and perturbed20, she was walking up and down the chamber21, her books long since thrown aside, when the clock of St John’s struck six.
She clasped her hands and looked up to heaven. There was a knock at the street door; she herself sprang out to open it. It was not Gerard. It was Morley.
“Ah! Stephen,” said Sybil, with a countenance22 of undisguised disappointment, “I thought it was my father.”
“I should have been glad to have found him here,” said Morley. “However with your permission I will enter.”
“And he will soon arrive,” said Sybil; “I am sure he will soon arrive. I have been expecting him every minute—”
“For hours,” added Morley, finishing her sentence, as they entered the room. “The business that he is on,” he continued, throwing himself into a chair with a recklessness very unlike his usual composure and even precision, “The business that he is on is engrossing23.”
“Thank Heaven,” said Sybil, “we leave this place to-morrow.”
“Hah!” said Morley starting, “who told you so?”
“My father has so settled it; has indeed promised me that we shall depart.”
“And you were anxious to do so.”
“Mine too. Otherwise I should not have come up today.” “You have seen him I hope?” said Sybil.
“I have; I have been hours with him.”
“I am glad. At this conference he talked of?”
“Yes; at this headstrong council; and I have seen him since; alone. Whatever hap14 to him, my conscience is assoiled.”
“You terrify me, Stephen,” said Sybil rising from her seat. “What can happen to him? What would he do, what would you resist? Tell me—tell me, dear friend.”
“Oh! yes,” said Morley, pale and with a slight yet bitter smile. “Oh! yes; dear friend!”
“I said dear friend for so I deemed you.” said Sybil; “and so we have ever found you. Why do you stare at me so strangely, Stephen?”
“So you deem me, and so you have ever found me,” said Morley in a slow and measured tone, repeating her words. “Well; what more would you have? What more should any of us want?” he asked abruptly25.
“I want no more,” said Sybil innocently.
“I warrant me, you do not. Well, well, nothing matters. And so,” he added in his ordinary tone, “you are waiting for your father?”
“Whom you have not long since seen,” said Sybil, “and whom you expected to find here?”
“No;” said Morley, shaking his head with the same bitter smile; “no, no. I didn’t. I came to find you.”
“You have something to tell me,” said Sybil earnestly. “Something has happened to my father. Do not break it to me; tell me at once,” and she advanced and laid her hand upon his arm.
Morley trembled; and then in a hurried and agitated26 voice, said, “No, no, no; nothing has happened. Much may happen, but nothing has happened. And we may prevent it.”
“We! Tell me what may happen; tell me what to do.”
“Your father,” said Morley, slowly, rising from his seat and pacing the room, and speaking in a low calm voice, “Your father—and my friend—is in this position Sybil: he is conspiring27 against the State.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sybil very pale, speaking almost in a whisper and with her gaze fixed intently on her companion. “Tell me all.”
“I will. He is conspiring, I say, against the State. Tonight they meet in secret to give the last finish to their plans; and tonight they will be arrested.”
“O God!” said Sybil clasping her hands. “He told me truth.”
“Who told you truth?” said Morley, springing to her side, in a hoarse28 voice and with an eye of fire.
“A friend,” said Sybil, dropping her arms and bending her head in woe29; “a kind good friend. I met him but this morn, and he warned me of all this.”
“Hah, hah!” said Morley with a sort of stifled30 laugh; “Hah, hah; he told you did he; the kind good friend whom you met this morning? Did I not warn you, Sybil, of the traitor31? Did I not tell you to beware of taking this false aristocrat32 to your hearth33; to worm out all the secrets of that home that he once polluted by his espionage34, and now would desolate35 by his treason.”
“Of whom and what do you speak?” said Sybil, throwing herself into a chair.
“I speak of that base spy Egremont.”
“You slander36 an honourable37 man,” said Sybil with dignity. “Mr Egremont has never entered this house since you met him here for the first time; save once.”
“He needed no entrance to this house to worm out its secrets,” said Morley maliciously38. “That could be more adroitly39 done by one who had assignations at command with the most charming of its inmates40.”
“Unmannerly churl41!” exclaimed Sybil starting in her chair, her eye flashing lightning, her distended42 nostril43 quivering with scorn.
“Oh! yes. I am a churl,” said Morley; “I know I am a churl. Were I a noble the daughter of the people would perhaps condescend44 to treat me with less contempt.”
“The daughter of the people loves truth and manly45 bearing, Stephen Morley; and will treat with contempt all those who slander women, whether they be nobles or serfs.”
“Ask him who told you I held assignations with Mr Egremont or with any one.”
“Mine eyes—mine own eyes—were my informant,” said Morley. “This morn, the very morn I arrived in London, I learnt how your matins were now spent. Yes!” he added in a tone of mournful anguish47, “I passed the gate of the gardens; I witnessed your adieus.”
“We met by hazard,” said Sybil, in a calm tone, and with an expression that denoted she was thinking of other things, “and in all probability we shall never meet again. Talk not of these trifles. Stephen; my father, how can we save him?”
“Are they trifles?” said Morley, slowly and earnestly, walking to her side, and looking her intently in the face. “Are they indeed trifles, Sybil? Oh! make me credit that, and then—” he paused.
Sybil returned his gaze: the deep lustre48 of her dark orb49 rested on his peering vision; his eye fled from the unequal contest: his heart throbbed50, his limbs trembled; he fell upon his knee.
“Pardon me, pardon me,” he said, and he took her hand. “Pardon the most miserable51 and the most devoted of men!”
“What need of pardon, dear Stephen?” said Sybil in a soothing52 tone. “In the agitated hour wild words escape. If I have used them, I regret; if you, I have forgotten.”
The clock of St John’s told that the sixth hour was more than half-past.
“Ah!” said Sybil, withdrawing her hand, “you told me how precious was time. What can we do?”
Morley rose from his kneeling position, and again paced the chamber, lost for some moments in deep meditation53. Suddenly he seized her arm, and said, “I can endure no longer the anguish of my life: I love you, and if you will not be mine, I care for no one’s fate.”
“We are all born for love,” said Morley. “It is the principle of existence, and its only end. And love of you, Sybil,” he continued, in a tone of impassioned pathos55, “has been to me for years the hoarded56 treasure of my life. For this I have haunted your hearth and hovered57 round your home; for this I have served your father like a slave, and embarked58 in a cause with which I have little sympathy, and which can meet with no success. It is your image that has stimulated59 my ambition, developed my powers, sustained me in the hour of humiliation60, and secured me that material prosperity which I can now command. Oh! deign61 to share it; share it with the impassioned heart and the devoted life that now bow before you; and do not shrink from them, because they are the feelings and the fortunes of the People.”
“You astound62, you overwhelm me,” said Sybil, agitated. “You came for another purpose, we were speaking of other feelings; it is the hour of exigency63 you choose for these strange, these startling words.”
“I also have my hour of exigency,” said Morley, “and its minutes are now numbering. Upon it all depends.”
“Another time,” said Sybil, in a low and deprecatory voice; “speak of these things another time!”
“Stephen,” said Sybil, “dear Stephen, I am grateful for your kind feelings: but indeed this is not the time for such passages: cease, my friend!”
“It is a sacrilege of sentiment,” said Sybil, unable any longer to restrain her emotion, “to obtrude66 its expression on a daughter at such a moment.”
“You would not deem it so if you loved, or if you could love me, Sybil,” said Morley, mournfully. “Why it’s a moment of deep feeling, and suited for the expression of deep feeling. You would not have answered thus, if he who had been kneeling here had been named Egremont.”
“He would not have adopted a course,” said Sybil, unable any longer to restrain her displeasure, “so selfish, so indecent.”
“Ah! she loves him!” exclaimed Morley, springing on his legs, and with a demoniac laugh.
There was a pause. Under ordinary circumstances Sybil would have left the room and terminated a distressing67 interview, but in the present instance that was impossible; for on the continuance of that interview any hope of assisting her father depended. Morley had thrown himself into a chair opposite her, leaning back in silence with his face covered; Sybil was disinclined to revive the conversation about her father, because she had already perceived that Morley was only too much aware of the command which the subject gave him over her feelings and even conduct. Yet time, time now full of terror, time was stealing on. It was evident that Morley would not break the silence. At length, unable any longer to repress her tortured heart, Sybil said, “Stephen, be generous; speak to me of your friend.”
“I have no friend,” said Morley, without taking his hands from his face.
“The Saints in heaven have mercy on me,” said Sybil, “for I am very wretched.”
“No, no, no,” said Morley, rising rapidly from his seat, and again kneeling at her side, “not wretched; not that tone of anguish! What can I do? what say? Sybil, dearest Sybil, I love you so much, so fervently68, so devotedly69; none can love you as I do: say not you are wretched!”
“Alas! alas!” said Sybil.
“What shall I do? what say?” said Morley.
“You know what I would have you say,” said Sybil. “Speak of one who is my father, if no longer your friend: you know what I would have you do—save him: save him from death and me from despair.”
“I am ready,” said Morley; “I came for that. Listen. There is a meeting to-night at half-past eight o’clock; they meet to arrange a general rising in the country: their intention is known to the government; they will be arrested. Now it is in my power, which it was not when I saw your father this morning, to convince him of the truth of this, and were I to see him before eight o’clock, which I could easily do, I could prevent his attendance, certainly prevent his attendance, and he would be saved; for the government depend much upon the papers, some proclamations, and things of that kind, which will be signed this evening, for their proofs. Well, I am ready to save Gerard, my friend, for so I’ll call him as you wish it; one I have served before and long; one whom I came up from Mowbray this day to serve and save; I am ready to do that which you require; you yourself admit it is no light deed; and coming from one you have known so long, and, as you confess, so much regarded, should be doubly cherished; I am ready to do this great service; to save the father from death and the daughter from despair. —if she would but only say to me, ‘I have but one reward, and it is yours.’”
“I have read of something of this sort,” said Sybil, speaking in a murmuring tone, and looking round her with a wild expression, “this bargaining of blood, and shall I call it love? But that was ever between the oppressors and the oppressed. This is the first time that a child of the people has been so assailed70 by one of her own class, and who exercises his power from the confidence which the sympathy of their sorrows alone caused. It is bitter; bitter for me and mine—but for you, pollution.”
“Am I answered?” said Morley.
“Good night, then,” said Morley, and he approached the door. His hand was on it. The voice of Sybil made him turn his head.
“I am bound to secrecy,” said Morley.
“There is no softness in your spirit,” said Sybil.
“I am met with none.”
“We have ever been your friends.”
“A blossom that has brought no fruit.”
“This hour will be remembered at the judgment-seat,” said Sybil.
“We have merited this,” said Sybil, “who have taken an infidel to our hearts.”
“If he had only been a heretic, like Egremont!” said Morley. Sybil burst into tears. Morley sprang to her. “Swear by the holy Virgin, swear by all the saints, swear by your hope of heaven and by your own sweet name; without equivocation74, without reserve, with fulness and with truth, that you will never give your heart or hand to Egremont;—and I will save your father.”
As in a low voice, but with a terrible earnestness, Morley dictated75 this oath, Sybil, already pale, became white as the marble saint of some sacred niche76. Her large dark eyes seemed fixed; a fleet expression of agony flitted over her beautiful brow like a cloud; and she said, “I swear that I will never give my hand to—”
“And your heart, your heart,” said Morley eagerly. “Omit not that. Swear by the holy oaths again you do not love him. She falters77! Ah! she blushes!” For a burning brightness now suffused the cheek of Sybil. “She loves him,” exclaimed Morley, wildly, and he rushed franticly from the room.
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1
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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conclaves
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| n.秘密会议，教皇选举会议，红衣主教团( conclave的名词复数 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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56
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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60
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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astound
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| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
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exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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66
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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67
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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68
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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69
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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70
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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71
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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72
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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73
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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74
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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75
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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76
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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77
falters
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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