Sybil Benjamin Disraeli (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📖

Mr. Mountchesney blamed her for not taking him. He liked music, singing, especially female singing; when there was so little to amuse him, he was surprised that Lady Maud had not been careful that he should have been present. His sister-in-law reminded him that she had particularly requested him to drive her over to Mowbray, and he had declined the honour as a bore.

“Yes,” said Mr. Mountchesney, “but I thought Joan was going with you, and that you would be shopping.”

“It was a good thing our House was adjourned before these disturbances in Lancashire,” said Lord Bardolf to Lord de Mowbray.

“The best thing we can all do is to be on our estates I believe,” said Lord de Mowbray.

“My neighbour Marney is in a great state of excitement,” said Lord Bardolf; “all his yeomanry out.”

“But he is quiet at Marney?”

“In a way; but these fires puzzle us. Marney will not believe that the condition of the labourer has anything to do with them; and he certainly is a very acute man. But still I don’t know what to say to it. The poor-law is very unpopular in my parish. Marney will have it, that the incendiaries are all strangers hired by the anti-Corn-law League.”

“Ah! here is Lady Joan,” exclaimed Lady Bardolf, as the wife of Mr. Mountchesney entered the room; “My dearest Lady Joan!”

“Why Joan,” said Mr. Mountchesney, “Maud has been to Mowbray, and heard the most delicious singing. Why did we not go?”

“I did mention it to you, Alfred.”

“I remember you said something about going to Mowbray, and that you wanted to go to several places. But there is nothing I hate so much as shopping. It bores me more than anything. And you are so peculiarly long when you are shopping. But singing, and beautiful singing in a Catholic chapel by a woman; perhaps a beautiful woman, that is quite a different thing, and I should have been amused, which nobody seems ever to think of here. I do not know how you find it, Lady Bardolf, but the country to me in August is a something⁠—” and not finishing his sentence, Mr. Mountchesney gave a look of inexpressible despair.

“And you did not see this singer?” said Mr. Hatton, sidling up to Lady Maud, and speaking in a subdued tone.

“I did not, but they tell me she is most beautiful; something extraordinary; I tried to see her, but it was impossible.”

“Is she a professional singer?”

“I should imagine not; a daughter of one of the Mowbray people I believe.”

“Let us have her over to the Castle, Lady de Mowbray,” said Mr. Mountchesney.

“If you like,” replied Lady de Mowbray, with a languid smile.

“Well at last I have got something to do,” said Mr. Mountchesney. “I will ride over to Mowbray, find out the beautiful singer, and bring her to the Castle.”

The beam of the declining sun, softened by the stained panes of a small gothic window, suffused the chamber of the Lady Superior of the convent of Mowbray. The vaulted room, of very moderate dimensions, was furnished with great simplicity and opened into a small oratory. On a table were several volumes, an ebon cross was fixed in a niche, and leaning in a high-backed chair, sat Ursula Trafford. Her pale and refined complexion that in her youth had been distinguished for its lustre, became her spiritual office; and indeed her whole countenance, the delicate brow, the serene glance, the small aquiline nose, and the well-shaped mouth, firm and yet benignant, betokened the celestial soul that habited that gracious frame.

The Lady Superior was not alone; on a low seat by her side, holding her hand, and looking up into her face with a glance of reverential sympathy, was a maiden over whose head five summers have revolved since first her girlhood broke upon our sight amid the ruins of Marney Abbey, five summers that have realized the matchless promise of her charms, and while they have added something to her stature have robbed it of nothing of its grace, and have rather steadied the blaze of her beauty than diminished its radiance.

“Yes, I mourn over them,” said Sybil, “the deep convictions that made me look forward to the cloister as my home. Is it that the world has assoiled my soul? Yet I have not tasted of worldly joys; all that I have known of it has been suffering and tears. They will return, these visions of my sacred youth, dear friend, tell me that they will return!”

“I too have had visions in my youth, Sybil, and not of the cloister, yet am I here.”

“And what should I infer?” said Sybil enquiringly.

“That my visions were of the world, and brought me to the cloister, and that yours were of the cloister and have brought you to the world.”

“My heart is sad,” said Sybil, “and the sad should seek the shade.”

“It is troubled, my child, rather than sorrowful.”

Sybil shook her head.

“Yes, my child,” said Ursula, “the world has taught you that there are affections which the cloister can neither satisfy nor supply. Ah! Sybil, I too have loved.”

The blood rose to the cheek of Sybil, and then returned as quickly to the heart; her trembling hand pressed that of Ursula as she sighed and murmured, “No, no, no.”

“Yes, it is his spirit that hovers over your life, Sybil; and in vain you would forget what haunts your heart. One not less gifted than him; as good, as gentle, as gracious; once too breathed in my ear the accents of joy. He was, like myself, the child of an old house, and Nature had invested him with every quality that can dazzle and can charm. But his heart was as pure, and his soul as lofty, as his intellect and frame were bright⁠—” and Ursula paused.

Sybil pressed the hand of Ursula to her lips and whispered, “Speak on.”

“The dreams of bygone days,” continued Ursula in a voice of emotion, “the wild sorrows than I can recall, and yet feel that I was wisely chastened. He was