CHAPTER II.
THE MAN AWAKES IN THE SAGE, AND THE SHE-WOLF AGAIN HATH TRACKED THE
LAMB.
From the night in which Hastings had saved from the knives of the
tymbesteres Sibyll and her father, his honour and chivalry had made
him their protector. The people of the farm (a widow and her
children, with the peasants in their employ) were kindly and simple
folks. What safer home for the wanderers than that to which Hastings
had removed them? The influence of Sibyll over his variable heart or
fancy was renewed. Again vows were interchanged and faith plighted.
Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers, who, however gallant an enemy, was
still more than ever, since Warwick's exile, a formidable one, and who
shared his sister's dislike to Hastings, was naturally at that time in
the fullest favour of King Edward, anxious to atone for the brief
disgrace his brother-in-law had suffered during the later days of
Warwick's administration. And Hastings, offended by the manners of
the rival favourite, took one of the disgusts so frequent in the life
of a courtier, and, despite his office of chamberlain, absented
himself much from his sovereign's company. Thus, in the reaction of
his mind, the influence of Sibyll was greater than it otherwise might
have been. His visits to the farm were regular and frequent. The
widow believed him nearly related to Sibyll, and suspected Warner to
be some attainted Lancastrian, compelled to hide in secret till his
pardon was obtained; and no scandal was attached to the noble's
visits, nor any surprise evinced at his attentive care for all that
could lend a grace to a temporary refuge unfitting the quality of his
supposed kindred.
And, in her entire confidence and reverential affection, Sibyll's very
pride was rather soothed than wounded by obligations which were but
proofs of love, and to which plighted troth gave her a sweet right.
As for Warner, he had hitherto seemed to regard the great lord's
attentions only as a tribute to his own science, and a testimony of
the interest which a statesman might naturally feel in the invention
of a thing that might benefit the realm. And Hastings had been
delicate in the pretexts of his visits. One time he called to relate
the death of poor Madge, though he kindly concealed the manner of it,
which he had discovered, but which opinion, if not law, forbade him to
attempt to punish: drowning was but the orthodox ordeal of a suspected
witch, and it was not without many scruples that the poor woman was
interred in holy ground. The search for the Eureka was a pretence
that sufficed for countless visits; and then, too, Hastings had
counselled Adam to sell the ruined house, and undertaken the
negotiation; and the new comforts of their present residence, and the
expense of the maintenance, were laid to the account of the sale.
Hastings had begun to consider Adam Warner as utterly blind and
passive to the things that passed under his eyes; and his astonishment
was great when, the morning after the visit we have just recorded,
Adam, suddenly lifting his eyes, and seeing the guest whispering soft
tales in Sibyll's ear, rose abruptly, approached the nobleman, took
him gently by the arm, led him into the garden, and thus addressed
him,--
"Noble lord, you have been tender and generous in our misfortunes.
The poor Eureka is lost to me and the world forever. God's will be
done! Methinks Heaven designs thereby to rouse me to the sense of
nearer duties; and I have a daughter whose name I adjure you not to
sully, and whose heart I pray you not to break. Come hither no more,
my Lord Hastings."
This speech, almost the only one which showed plain sense and judgment
in the affairs of this life that the man of genius had ever uttered,
so confounded Hastings, that he with difficulty recovered himself
enough to say,--
"My poor scholar, what hath so suddenly kindled suspicions which wrong
thy child and me?"
"Last eve, when we sat together, I saw your hand steal into hers, and
suddenly I remembered the day when I was young, and wooed her mother!
And last night I slept not, and sense and memory became active for my
living child, as they were wont to be only for the iron infant of my
mind, and I said to myself, 'Lord Hastings is King Edward's friend;
and King Edward spares not maiden honour. Lord Hastings is a mighty
peer, and he will not wed the dowerless and worse than nameless girl!'
Be merciful! Depart, depart!"
"But," exclaimed Hastings, "if I love thy sweet Sibyll in all honesty,
if I have plighted to her my troth--"
"Alas, alas!" groaned Adam.
"If I wait but my king's permission to demand her wedded hand, couldst
thou forbid me the presence of my affianced?"
"She loves thee, then?" said Adam, in a tone of great anguish,--"she
loves thee,--speak!"
"It is my pride to think it."
"Then go,--go at once; come back no more till thou hast wound up thy
courage to brave the sacrifice; no, not till the priest is ready at
the altar, not till the bridegroom can claim the bride. And as that
time will never come--never--never--leave me to whisper to the
breaking heart, 'Courage; honour and virtue are left thee yet, and thy
mother from heaven looks down on a stainless child!'"
The resuscitation of the dead could scarcely have startled and awed
the courtier more than this abrupt development of life and passion and
energy in a man who had hitherto seemed to sleep in the folds of his
thought, as a chrysalis in its web. But as we have always seen that
ever, when this strange being woke from his ideal abstraction, he
awoke to honour and courage and truth, so now, whether, as he had
said, the absence of the Eureka left his mind to the sense of
practical duties, or whether their common suffering had more endeared
to him his gentle companion, and affection sharpened reason, Adam
Warner became puissant and majestic in his rights and sanctity of
father,--greater in his homely household character, than when, in his
mania of inventor, and the sublime hunger of aspiring genius, he had
stolen to his daughter's couch, and waked her with the cry of "Gold!"
Before the force and power of Adam's adjuration, his outstretched
hand, the anguish, yet authority, written on his face, all the art and
self-possession of the accomplished lover deserted him, as one spell-
bound.
He was literally without reply; till, suddenly, the sight of Sibyll,
who, surprised by this singular conference, but unsuspecting its
nature, now came from the house, relieved and nerved him; and his
first impulse was then, as ever, worthy and noble, such as showed,
though dimly, how glorious a creature he had been, if cast in a time
and amidst a race which could have fostered the impulse into habit.
"Brave old man!" he said, kissing the hand still raised in command,
"thou hast spoken as beseems thee; and my answer I will tell thy
child." Then hurrying to the wondering Sibyll, he resumed: "Your
father says well, that not thus, dubious and in secret, should I visit
the home blest by thy beloved presence. I obey; I leave thee, Sibyll.
I go to my king, as one who hath served him long and truly, and claims
his guerdon,--thee!"
"Oh, my lord!" exclaimed Sibyll, in generous terror, "bethink thee
well; remember what thou saidst but last eve. This king so fierce, my
name so hated! No, no! leave me. Farewell forever, if it be right,
as what thou and my father say must be. But thy life, thy liberty,
thy welfare,--they are my happiness; thou hast no right to endanger
them!" And she fell at his knees. He raised and strained her to his
heart; then resigning her to her father's arms, he said in a voice
choked with emotion,--
"Not as peer and as knight, but as man, I claim my prerogative of home
and hearth. Let Edward frown, call back his gifts, banish me his
court,--thou art more worth than all! Look for me, sigh not, weep
not, smile till we meet again!" He left them with these words,
hastened to the stall where his steed stood, caparisoned it with his
own hands, and rode with the speed of one whom passion spurs and goads
towards the Tower of London.
But as Sibyll started from her father's arms, when she heard the
departing hoofs of her lover's steed,--to listen and to listen for the
last sound that told of him,--a terrible apparition, ever ominous of
woe and horror, met her eye. On the other side of the orchard fence,
which concealed her figure, but not her well-known face, which peered
above, stood the tymbestere, Graul. A shriek of terror at this
recognition burst from Sibyll, as she threw herself again upon Adam's
breast; but when he looked round to discover the cause of her alarm,
Graul was gone.
