“Look at the average term of life,” said Gerard, coming unintentionally to the relief of Egremont, who was a little embarrassed. “The average term of life in this district among the working classes is seventeen. What think you of that? Of the infants born in Mowbray, more than a moiety die before the age of five.”
“And yet,” said Egremont, “in old days they had terrible pestilences.”
“But they touched all alike,” said Gerard. “We have more pestilence now in England than we ever had, but it only reaches the poor. You never hear of it. Why Typhus alone takes every year from the dwellings of the artisan and peasant a population equal to that of the whole county of Westmoreland. This goes on every year, but the representatives of the conquerors are not touched: it is the descendants of the conquered alone who are the victims.”
“It sometimes seems to me,” said Sybil despondingly, “that nothing short of the descent of angels can save the people of this kingdom.”
“I sometimes think I hear a little bird,” said Gerard, “who sings that the long frost may yet break up. I have a friend, him of whom I was speaking to you the other day, who has his remedies.”
“But Stephen Morley does not believe in angels,” said Sybil with a sigh; “and I have no faith in his plan.”
“He believes that God will help those who help themselves,” said Gerard.
“And I believe,” said Sybil, “that those only can help themselves whom God helps.”
All this time Egremont was sitting at the table, with the book in his hand, gazing fitfully and occasionally with an air of absence on its title-page, whereon was written the name of its owner. Suddenly he said “Sybil.”
“Yes,” said the daughter of Gerard, with an air of some astonishment.