Sybil/Book 5/Chapter 5

Agitated and overcome by these unexpected and passionateappeals, and these outrageous ebullitions acting on her at atime when she herself was labouring under no ordinaryexcitement, and was distracted with disturbing thoughts, themind of Sybil seemed for a moment to desert her; neither bysound nor gesture did she signify her sense of Morley's lastwords and departure; and it was not until the loud closing ofthe street door echoing through the long passage recalled herto herself, that she was aware how much was at stake in thatincident. She darted out of the room to recall him; to makeone more effort for her father; but in vain. By the side oftheir house was an intricate passage leading into a labyrinthof small streets. Through this Morley had disappeared; andhis name, more than once sounded in a voice of anguish in thatsilent and most obsolete Smith's Square, received no echo.

Darkness and terror came over the spirit of Sybil; a sense ofconfounding and confusing woe, with which it was in vain tocope. The conviction of her helplessness prostrated her. Shesate her down upon the steps before the door of that drearyhouse, within the railings of that gloomy court, and buriedher face in her hands: a wild vision of the past and thefuture, without thought or feeling, coherence or consequence:sunset gleams of vanished bliss, and stormy gusts of impendingdoom.

The clock of St John's struck seven.

It was the only thing that spoke in that still and drearysquare; it was the only voice that there seemed ever to sound;but it was a voice from heaven; it was the voice of St John.

Sybil looked up: she looked up at the holy building. Sybillistened: she listened to the holy sounds. St John told herthat the danger of her father was yet so much advanced. Oh!why are there saints in heaven if they cannot aid the saintly!The oath that Morley would have enforced came whispering inthe ear of Sybil—"Swear by the holy Virgin and by all thesaints."

And shall she not pray to the holy Virgin and all the saints?Sybil prayed: she prayed to the holy Virgin and all thesaints; and especially to the beloved St John: most favouredamong Hebrew men, on whose breast reposed the divine Friend.

Brightness and courage returned to the spirit of Sybil: asense of animating and exalting faith that could movemountains, and combat without fear a thousand perils. Theconviction of celestial aid inspired her. She rose from hersad resting-place and re-entered the house: only, however, toprovide herself with her walking attire, and then alone andwithout a guide, the shades of evening already descending,this child of innocence and divine thoughts, born in a cottageand bred in a cloister, she went forth, on a great enterpriseof duty and devotion, into the busiest and the wildest hauntsof the greatest of modern cities.

Sybil knew well her way to Palace Yard. This point was soonreached: she desired the cabman to drive her to a Street inthe Strand in which was a coffee-house, where during the lastweeks of their stay in London the scanty remnants of theNational Convention had held their sittings. It was by a mereaccident that Sybil had learnt this circumstance, for when shehad attended the meetings of the Convention in order to hearher father's speeches, it was in the prime of their gatheringand when their numbers were great, and when they met inaudacious rivalry opposite that St Stephen's which they wishedto supersede. This accidental recollection however was heronly clue in the urgent adventure on which she had embarked.

She cast an anxious glance at the clock of St Martin's as shepassed that church: the hand was approaching the half hour ofseven. She urged on the driver; they were in the Strand;there was an agitating stoppage; she was about to descend whenthe obstacle was removed; and in a few minutes they turneddown the street which she sought.

"What number. Ma'am?" asked the cabman.

"'Tis a coffee-house; I know not the number nor the name ofhim who keeps it. 'Tis a coffee-house. Can you see one?Look, look, I pray you! I am much pressed."

"Here's a coffee-house, Ma'am," said the man in a hoarsevoice.

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"How good you are! Yes; I will get out. You will wait forme, I am sure?"

"All right," said the cabman, as Sybil entered the illumineddoor. "Poor young thing! she's wery anxious about summut."

Sybil at once stepped into a rather capacious room, fitted upin the old-fashioned style of coffee-rooms, with mahoganyboxes, in several of which were men drinking coffee andreading newspapers by a painful glare of gas. There was awaiter in the middle of the room who was throwing some freshsand upon the floor, but who stared immensely when looking uphe beheld Sybil.

"Now, Ma'am, if you please," said the waiter inquiringly.

"Is Mr Gerard here?" said Sybil.

"No. Ma'am; Mr Gerard has not been here to-day, nor yesterdayneither"—and he went on throwing the sand.

"I should like to see the master of the house," said Sybilvery humbly.

"Should you, Ma'am?" said the waiter, but he gave noindication of assisting her in the fulfilment of her wish.

Sybil repeated that wish, and this time the waiter saidnothing. This vulgar and insolent neglect to which she was solittle accustomed depressed her spirit. She could haveencountered tyranny and oppression, and she would have triedto struggle with them; but this insolence of the insignificantmade her feel her insignificance; and the absorption all thistime of the guests in their newspapers aggravated her nervoussense of her utter helplessness. All her feminine reserve andmodesty came over her; alone in this room among men, she feltoverpowered, and she was about to make a precipitate retreatwhen the clock of the coffee-room sounded the half hour. In aparoxysm of nervous excitement she exclaimed, "Is there notone among you who will assist me?"

All the newspaper readers put down their journals and stared.

"Hoity-toity," said the waiter, and he left off throwing thesand.

"Well, what's the matter now?" said one of the guests.

"I wish to see the master of the house on business ofurgency," said Sybil, "to himself and to one of his friends,and his servant here will not even reply to my inquiries."

"I say, Saul, why don't you answer the young lady?" saidanother guest.

"So I did," said Saul. "Did you call for coffee, Ma'am?"

"Here's Mr Tanner, if you want him, my dear." said the firstguest, as a lean black-looking individual, with grizzled hairand a red nose, entered the coffee-room from the interior."Tanner, here's a lady wants you."

"And a very pretty girl too," whispered one to another.

"What's your pleasure?" said Mr Tanner abruptly.

"I wish to speak to you alone," said Sybil: and advancingtowards him she said in a low voice, "'Tis about Walter GerardI would speak to you."

"Well, you can step in here if you like," said Tanner verydiscourteously; "there's only my wife:" and he led the way tothe inner room, a small close parlour adorned with portraitsof Tom Paine, Cobbett, Thistlewood, and General Jackson; witha fire, though it was a hot July, and a very fat womanaffording still more heat, and who was drinking shrub andwater and reading the police reports. She stared rudely atSybil as she entered following Tanner, who himself when thedoor was closed said, "Well, now what have you got to say?"

"I wish to see Walter Gerard."

"Do you indeed!"

"And," continued Sybil notwithstanding his sneering remark, "Icome here that you may tell me where I may find him."

"I believe he lives somewhere in Westminster," said Tanner,"that's all I know about him; and if this be all you had tosay it might have been said in the coffee-room."

"It is not all that I have to say," said Sybil; "and I beseechyou, sir, listen to me. I know where Gerard lives: I am hisdaughter, and the same roof covers our heads. But I wish toknow where they meet to-night—you understand me;" and shelooked at his wife, who had resumed her police reports; "'tisurgent.

"I don't know nothing about Gerard," said Tanner, "except thathe comes here and goes away again."

"The matter on which I would see him," said Sybil, "is asurgent as the imagination can conceive, and it concerns you aswell as himself; but if you know not where I can find him"—and she moved as if about to retire—" 'tis of no use."

"Stop." said Tanner, "you can tell it to me."

"Why so? You know not where he is; you cannot tell it tohim."

"I don't know that," said Tanner. "Come, let's have it out;and if it will do him any good. I'll see if we can't manageto find him."

"I can impart my news to him and no one else," said Sybil. "Iam solemnly bound."

"You can't have a better counseller than Tanner," urged hiswife, getting curious; "you had better tell us."

"I want no counsel; I want that which you can give me if youchoose—information. My father instructed me that if certaincircumstances occurred it was a matter of the last urgencythat I should see him this evening and before nine o'clock, Iwas to call here and obtain from you the direction where tofind him; the direction," she added in a lowered tone, andlooking Tanner full in the face, "where they hold their secretcouncil to-night."

"Hem!" said Tanner: "I see you're on the free-list. And prayhow am I know you *are* Gerard's daughter?"

"You do not doubt I am his daughter!" said Sybil proudly.

"Hem!" said Tanner: "I do not know that I do very much," andhe whispered to his wife. Sybil removed from them as far asshe was able.

"And this news is very urgent," resumed Tanner; "and concernsme you say?"

"Concerns you all," said Sybil; "and every minute is of thelast importance."

"I should like to have gone with you myself, and then therecould have been no mistake," said Tanner; "but that can't be;we have a meeting here at half-past eight in our great room.I don't much like breaking rules, especially in such abusiness; and yet, concerning all of us, as you say, and sovery urgent, I don't see how it could do harm; and I might—Iwish I was quite sure you were the party.

"How can I satisfy you?" said Sybil, distressed.

"Perhaps the young person have got her mark on her linen,"suggested the wife. "Have you got a handkerchief Ma'am?" andshe took Sybil's handkerchief and looked at it, and examinedit at every corner. It had no mark. And this unforeseencircumstance of great suspicion might have destroyedeverything, had not the production of the handkerchief bySybil also brought forth a letter addressed to her fromHatton.

"It seems to be the party," said the wife.

"Well," said Tanner, "you know St Martin's Lane I suppose?Well, you go up St Martin's Lane to a certain point, and thenyou will get into Seven Dials; and then you'll go on. Howeverit is impossible to direct you; you must find your way. HuntStreet, going out of Silver Street, No. 22. 'Tis what youcall a blind street, with no thoroughfare, and then you godown an alley. Can you recollect that?"

"Fear not."

"No. 22 Hunt Street, going out of Silver Street. Remember thealley. It's an ugly neighbourhood; but you go of your ownaccord."

"Yes, yes. Good night."