The summer twilight had faded into sweet night; the young and
star-attended moon glittered like a sickle in the deep purple
sky; of all the luminous host, Hesperus alone was visible; and
a breeze, that bore the last embrace of the flowers by the
sun, moved languidly and fitfully over the still and odorous
earth.
The moonbeam fell upon the roof and garden of Gerard. It
suffused the cottage with its brilliant light, except where
the dark depth of the embowered porch defied its entry. All
around the beds of flowers and herbs spread sparkling and
defined. You could trace the minutest walk; almost
distinguish every leaf. Now and then there came a breath, and
the sweet-peas murmured in their sleep; or the roses rustled, as if they were afraid they were about to be roused from their lightsome dreams. Farther on the fruit-trees caught the splendour of the night; and looked like a troop of sultanas taking their gardened air, when the eye of man could not profane them, and laden with jewels. There were apples that rivalled rubies; pears of topaz tint: a whole paraphernalia of plums, some purple as the amethyst, others blue and brilliant as the sapphire; an emerald here, and now a golden drop that gleamed like the yellow diamond of Gengis 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 mantel-piece. 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?"
