GLORIANA;
OR,
THE REVOLUTION OF 1900.
[Illustration: Faithfully yours. Florence Dixie.]
GLORIANA;
OR,
THE REVOLUTION OF 1900.
BY
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,
AUTHOR OF “REDEEMED IN BLOOD,” “THE YOUNG CASTAWAYS,” “ACROSS
PATAGONIA,” ETC.
LONDON:
HENRY AND COMPANY,
6, BOUVERIE STREET, E.C.
1890.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
TO
ALL WOMEN
AND
SUCH HONOURABLE, UPRIGHT, AND COURAGEOUS
MEN
_As, regardless of Custom and Prejudice, Narrow-mindedness and
Long-established Wrong, will bravely assert and uphold the Laws of
Justice, of Nature, and of Right; I dedicate the following pages, with
the hope that a straightforward inspection of the evils afflicting
Society, will lead to their demolition in the only way possible—namely,
by giving to Women equal rights with Men. Not till then will Society be
purified, wrongdoing punished, or Man start forward along that road
which shall lead to Perfection._
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
“Thus we were told in words Divine
That there were truths men could not bear
E’en from the lips of Christ to hear.
These have now slowly been unfurled,
But still to a reluctant world.
“Prophets will yet arise to teach
Truths which the school-men fail to reach,
Which priestly doctrine still would hide,
And worldly votaries deride,
And statesmen fain would set aside.”
I make no apology for this preface. It may be unusual but then the book
it deals with is unusual. There is but one object in “Gloriana.” It is
to speak of evils which do exist, to study facts which it is a crime to
neglect, to sketch an artificial position—the creation of laws false to
Nature—unparalleled for injustice and hardship.
Many critics, like the rest of humanity, are apt to be unfair. They take
up a book, and when they find that it does not accord with their
sentiments, they attempt to wreck it by ridicule and petty, spiteful
criticism. They forget to ask themselves, “Why is this book written?”
They altogether omit to go to the root of the Author’s purpose; and the
result is, that false testimony is often borne against principles which,
though drastic, are pure, which, though sharp as the surgeon’s knife,
are yet humane; for it is genuine sympathy with humanity that arouses
them.
There is no romance worth reading, which has not the solid foundation of
truth to support it; there is no excuse for the existence of romance,
unless it fixes thought on that truth which underlies it. Gloriana may
be a romance, a dream; but in the first instance, it is inextricably
interwoven with truth, in the second instance, dreams the work of the
brain are species of thought, and thought is an attribute of God.
Therefore is it God’s creation.
There may be some, who reading “Gloriana,” will feel shocked, and be apt
to misjudge the author. There are others who will understand,
appreciate, and sympathise. There are yet others, who hating truth, will
receive it with gibes and sneers; there are many, who delighting in the
evil which it fain would banish, will resent it as an unpardonable
attempt against their liberties. An onslaught on public opinion is very
like leading a Forlorn Hope. The leader knows full well that death lies
in the breach, yet that leader knows also, that great results may spring
from the death which is therefore readily sought and faced. “Gloriana”
pleads woman’s cause, pleads for her freedom, for the just
acknowledgment of her rights. It pleads that her equal humanity with man
shall be recognised, and therefore that her claim to share what he has
arrogated to himself, shall be considered. “Gloriana,” pleads that in
woman’s degradation man shall no longer be debased, that in her
elevation he shall be upraised and ennobled. The reader of its pages
will observe the Author’s conviction, everywhere expressed, that Nature
ordains the close companionship not division of the sexes, and that it
is opposition to Nature which produces jealousy, intrigue, and unhealthy
rivalry.
“Gloriana” is written with no antagonism to man. Just the contrary. The
Author’s best and truest friends, with few exceptions, have been and are
men. But the Author will never recognise man’s glory and welfare in
woman’s degradation.
“And hark! a voice with accents clear
Is raised, which all are forced to hear.
’Tis woman’s voice, for ages hushed,
Pleading the cause of woman crushed;
Pleading the cause of purity,
Of freedom, honour, equity,
Of all the lost and the forlorn,
Of all for whom the Christ was born.”
If, therefore, the following story should help men to be generous and
just, should awaken the sluggards amongst women to a sense of their
Position, and should thus lead to a rapid Revolution it will not have
been written in vain.
THE AUTHOR.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MAREMNA’S DREAM 1
BOOK I. 5
BOOK II. 116
BOOK III. 249
[Illustration]
MAREMNA’S DREAM.
INTRODUCTION TO
GLORIANA;
_OR, A DREAM OF THE REVOLUTION OF 1900_.
A rose-red sunset,
Mingling its radiance with the purple heath,
Flooding the silver lake with blushing light,
Dyeing the ocean grey a crimson hue,
Streaking the paling sky with rosy shafts;
Clinging to Nature with a ling’ring kiss,
Ere it shall vanish from a drowsy earth,
To rouse in new-deck’d cloak of shining gold
A waking world far o’er the ocean’s wave.
Maremna sleeps,
Close cushion’d in the heather’s warm embrace;
The rose-red sunset plays around her form—
A graceful, girlish figure, lithe and fair,
Small, slim, yet firmly knit with Nature’s power—
Unfetter’d Nature! which will not be bound
By Fashion’s prison rules and cultur’d laws.
Maremna sleeps.
One rosy cheek lies pillow’d on her hand,
And through her waving, wandering auburn curls
The zephyr cupids frolic merrily,
Tossing them to and fro upon her brow
In sportive play. It is a brow of thought,
Endow’d by God and Nature, though, alas!
Held in paralysis by selfish laws
Which strive to steal a fair inheritance,
And bid the woman bow the knee to man.
Maremna sleeps.
The white lids veil the large grey, lustrous eyes,
The auburn lashes sweep the sunlit cheeks,
Yet are they wet, and cling to the soft skin
Whereon the damp of tears is glazing fast.
Maremna’s sleep is not the sleep of rest,
For ever and anon the blood-red lips
Unclose, and strive to speak, but yet remain
Silent and speechless, tied by some dread force
Which intervenes, denying to the brain
That comfort which the power of speech doth bring.
Who is Maremna?—
A noble’s child, rear’d amidst Nature’s scenes,
Her earliest friends! _They_ guided her first steps,
Speaking of God and His stupendous works
Long ere Religion’s dogma intervened.
Child of a chieftain o’er whose broad domains
She roamed, a happy, free, unfetter’d waif,
Loving the mountain crag and forest lone,
The straths and corries, rugged glens and haunts
Of the red deer and dove-like ptarmigan;
Loving the language of the torrent’s roar,
Or the rough river’s wild bespated rush;
Loving the dark pine woods, amidst whose glades
The timid roe hides from the gaze of man;
Loving the great grey ocean’s varying face,
Now calm, now rugged, rising into storm,
Anon so peaceful, so serene, and still,
When passion’s fury sinks beneath the wave.
Maremna sleeps
Amidst the scenes that rear’d her early years
Yet is Maremna now no more a child,
Nor guileless with the innocence of youth.
Hers it has been to roam God’s mighty world,
And learn the ways and woful deeds of men,
And, weary with her world-wide pilgrimage,
Maremna’s steps have sought her early haunts,
Hoping for rest where childhood once did play.
Rest for Maremna!
An idle thought; a foolish sentiment!
Unto the brain which God has bidden “Think”
No rest can come from Solitude’s retreat;
For solitude breeds thought, and shapes its course
And bids it live within the form of speech,
Or bids the mighty pen proclaim its life,
And write its words upon the scrolls of men.
Thus with Maremna.
Rest she has sought, but sought it all in vain.
What God decrees no mortal hand can stay.
“Think.” He ordains, and lo! the brain _must_ think,
Nor close its eyes upon the mammoth truth.
Truth must prevail! Truth must be held aloft!
What matter if the cold world sneers or scoffs?
Sneering and scoffing is the work of man,
Truth, the almighty handiwork of God.
It may be dimm’d, it may be blurr’d from sight,
Yet must it triumph in the end, and win;
For is not truth a sun which cannot die,
Though unbelief may cloud it for a time?
Maremna sleeps;
Sleeps where in childhood oft she lay and dream’d,
Dream’d of fantastic worlds and fairy realms.
And now, in sleep, Maremna dreams again,
But dreams no more of elves and laughing sprites.
Hers, though a dream, is stern reality,
Mingled with visions of a future day;
Hers is a dream of hideous, living wrong,
Wrong which ’tis woman’s duty to proclaim
And man’s to right, and right right speedily,
Or crush the form of justice underfoot.
Maremna sleeps,
And in her sleep a vision fills her brain.
This is Maremna’s Dream.
[Illustration]
GLORIANA;
OR,
_THE REVOLUTION OF 1900._
_BOOK I._
CHAPTER I.
“I am tired, mother.”
“Tired, child! And why?”
“Mother, I have been spouting to the wild sea waves.”
“And what have you been saying to them, Gloria?”
“Ah, mother! ever so much.”
Let us look at the speakers, a mother and child, the former as she
stands leaning against a stone balustrade, which overlooks a small
Italian garden, upon which the sun is shining brightly. Far out beyond
is the gleaming sea, and on its sparkling, silvery sheen the woman’s
eyes are absently fixed as she hearkens to the complaining prattle of
the child by her side. She is a beautiful woman is Speranza de Lara, one
upon whom Dame Nature has showered her favours freely. As the stranger,
looking upon her for the first time, would deem her but a girl in years,
and exclaim admiringly at her beauty, it would be difficult to convince
him that her age is thirty-five, as in effect it is.
Speranza’s eyes are blue, with the turquoise shade lighting up their
clear depths, and a fringe of silky auburn eyelashes confining them
within bounds. Her magnificent hair is of a slightly lighter hue, and as
the sun plays on the heavy coil that is twisted gracefully upon her
noble head, the golden sparks dance merrily around it, like an aureole
of gold.
And the child? We must look nearer still at her, for she not only is
beautiful, but there is writ upon her face the glowing sign of genius.
Like her mother, Gloriana, or, as we shall prefer to call her, Gloria,
has blue eyes, but they are the blue of the sapphire, deep in
contradistinction to the turquoise shade, which characterises those of
Speranza. Auburn eyelashes, too, fringe the child’s wonderful eyes, but
again these are many shades darker than the mother’s, while masses of
auburn curls play negligently and unconfined, covering the girl’s back
like a veil of old-gold. Such is Gloriana de Lara at the age of twelve.
“Won’t Gloria tell mother what that ‘_ever so much_’ was?”
She puts the question gently, does Speranza. She has never moved from
the position in which we first found her, and her eyes are still
dreamily searching the waste of blue waters beyond. But as she speaks
the child puts her arm caressingly through that of the mother’s, and
lays her golden head against that mother’s shoulder.
“Ah! yes, mother, of course I will tell _you_.”
“Then tell me, Gloria.”
“I was imagining the foam flakelets to be girls, mother, and I looked
upon them as my audience. I told them, mother darling, of all the wrongs
that girls and women have to suffer, and then I bade them rise as one to
right these wrongs. I told them all I could think of to show them how to
do so, and then I told them that I would be their leader, and lead them
to victory or die. And the wavelets shouted, mother. I seemed to hear
them cheer me on, I seemed to see them rising into storm, the wind
uprose them, and their white foam rushed towards me, and I seemed to see
in this sudden change the elements of a great revolution.”
“Like a dream, Gloria.”
“A living dream, mother; at least it was so to me. It brought a feeling
to my heart, mother, which I know will never leave it more, until,
until——”
The girl pauses, and the great tears rise to her eyes. Speranza raises
herself suddenly, and, confronting the child, lays both hands upon her
shoulders.
“Until what, child?”
“Until I’ve won, mother,” cries Gloria, as she raises her glorious eyes,
in which the tears still tremble, to her mother’s face.
“Ah, Gloria! the odds are against you, my darling.”
“Don’t I know that, mother; don’t I know that well? But I am not afraid.
I made a vow, mother, to-day, I made it to those waves; and something
tells me that I shall keep that vow and win, though in doing so I may
die.”
“Hush, Gloria, hush, child; don’t talk like that.”
“And don’t you want me to win, mother? After all you have suffered,
after all you have taught me, would you have your child turn back from
the path she has set herself to follow, because perhaps at that path’s
end lies death?”
“Child, it is a cause I would gladly lay down my life for, but how can I
bring myself to wish you to sacrifice yourself?”
“What is sacrifice in a great cause, mother? I fear no sacrifice, no
pain, no consequence, so long as victory crowns me in the end.”
The mother’s arms are round her child’s neck now, her head is bending
down and the bright gold of Speranza’s lovely hair is close beside the
glossy, wandering dark gold curls of Gloria. In the heart of the former
a new-born hope is rising, vague, undefinable, yet still there, and
which fills it with a happiness she has not known for many and many a
day.
“My child,” she exclaims softly, “can it be, that after all these years
of weary, lonely suffering, I am awaking to find in you, you, the
offspring of a forbidden love, the messenger that shall awake the world
to woman’s wrongs, and make suffering such as I have endured _no longer
possible_?”
“Yes, mother, I feel it,” answers Gloria earnestly; “and that is why I
have made my plans to-day. Everything must have a beginning you know,
mother, and therefore I must begin, and begin at once. You must help me,
mother darling. I can do nothing without your co-operation.”
“Tell me your plans, Gloria, and mother will help you if she can.”
“My plans are many, but the first must have a premier consideration.
Mother, I must go to school.”
“To school, child! I thought you always have begged me not to send you
to school.”
“It must be to a boy’s school, mother. You must send me to Eton.”
“To Eton?”
“Yes, mother; don’t you understand?”
* * * * *
Here a retrospect is necessary to enable the reader to comprehend the
above conversation.
Thirty-five years previously there had been born to a young widow in the
Midland Counties of England a posthumous child and daughter, to whom the
name of Speranza had been given. The widow, Mrs. de Lara by name, was
left badly off. Her husband, who had been an officer in the British
service, had sold out, and accepted an estate agency from a rich
relative, upon whose property he lived in a tiny but snug cottage, which
nestled amidst some pine and oak woods on the shores of as beautiful a
lake as was to be seen all the country round. Captain and Mrs. de Lara
were a very happy pair. Theirs had been a love match; and she never
regretted the rich offers of marriage which she had rejected for the
sake of the handsome, dashing but well-nigh penniless young officer. Her
father, furious at what he considered a _mésalliance_, had cut her off
with a shilling; and thus it was that the two had had a hard struggle to
make ends meet on the little possessed by the captain. What mattered it?
They were happy.
Grief, however, soon came to cloud that home of peace and contentment.
An accidental discharge of his gun inflicted on Captain de Lara a mortal
wound. He died in the arms of his heart-broken wife, who lived just long
enough to give birth to the little Speranza, dying a fortnight later,
and leaving, penniless and friendless, two little boys and the baby girl
referred to. The captain’s rich relative adopted them. He was a
kind-hearted man, and felt that he could not turn them adrift on the
world, but his wife, a hard-hearted and scheming woman, resented the
adoption bitterly, and led the children a sad and unhappy life. She had
a son and daughter of her own, aged respectively five and six years, and
upon these she lavished a false and mistaken affection, spoiling them in
every possible way, and bringing them up to be anything but pleasant to
those around them.
When old enough Speranza’s brothers were sent to school, and given to
understand by their adopted father that they might choose their own
professions. The eldest selected the army, the youngest the navy, and
each made a start in his respective line of life. But Speranza, being a
girl, had no chances thrown out to her. She was a very beautiful girl,
strong, healthy, and clever; but of what use were any of these
attributes to her?
“If I were only a boy,” she would bitterly moan to herself, “I could
make my way in the world. I could work for my living, and be free
instead of being what I am, the butt of my adopted mother.”
It is necessary to explain that Speranza’s adopted parents were the Earl
and Countess of Westray, and that their two children were Bertrand
Viscount Altai and Lady Lucy Maree. Dordington Court was the family
seat, and it was here that Speranza spent the first sixteen years of her
life.
There were great doings at Dordington Court when Lord Altai came of age.
A large party was invited to take part in the week’s festivities, and
duly assembled for the occasion. Many beautiful women were there, but
none could compare in beauty with Speranza de Lara. She was only
seventeen years of age at the time, but already the promise of exquisite
loveliness could not but be apparent to every one. It captivated many,
but none more so than young Altai himself.
He was not a good man was the young viscount. Injudicious indulgence as
a child had laid the seeds of selfishness and indifference to the
feelings of others. He had been so accustomed to have all he wanted,
that such a word as “refusal” was hardly known to him. He had grown up
in the belief that what Altai asked for must be granted as a matter of
course. And now, in pursuit of his passions, he chose to think himself,
or imagined himself, in love with Speranza, and had determined to make
her his wife.
He chose his opportunity for asking her. It was the night of a great
ball given at Dordington Court during the week’s festivities. Speranza
had been dancing with him, and when the dance was over he led her away
into one of the beautiful conservatories that opened from one of the
reception-rooms, and was lighted up with softly subdued pink fairy
lamps. He thought he had never seen her look more beautiful, and his
passion hungered to make her his own more than ever.
He put the usual question, a question which—no reason has yet been given
why—a man arrogates to himself _alone_ to put. He never dreamed that
she, the penniless Speranza de Lara, the adopted orphan of his father
and mother, would refuse _him_. He took it as of course for granted that
she would jump at his offer. Were there not girls—and plenty too—in the
house who would have given their eyes for such a proposal? He put the
question therefore confidently, nay, even negligently, and awaited the
answer without a doubt in his mind as to what it would be.
He started. She was speaking in reply. Could he believe his ears, and
was that answer No? And yet there was no mistaking it, for the voice,
though low, was clear and very distinct. It decidedly said him Nay. Yes,
Speranza had refused him. It was the first rebuff he had ever received
in his life, the first denial that had ever been made to request of his.
It staggered him, filled him with blind, almost ungovernable, fury. More
than ever he coveted the girl who had rejected him, more than ever he
determined to make her, what the law told him she should be if he
married her, his own.
He left her suddenly, anger and rage at heart, and she, with a sad and
weary restlessness upon her, wandered out into the clear moonlit night,
and stood gazing over the beautiful lake at her feet, and at the tiny
cottage at the far end where her father and mother had died, and where
she had been born.
What was it that stood in Speranza’s eyes? Tears, large and clear as
crystals, were falling from them, and sobs shook her graceful upright
frame, as she stood with her hands clasped to her forehead in an agony
of grief. Only seventeen, poor child, and yet so miserable! It was a
cruel sight for any one to see. But no one saw it save the pale moon and
twinkling stars that looked down calmly and sweetly on the sobbing girl.
A harsh voice sounded suddenly at her elbow, a rough grasp was laid upon
her arm. With a cry in which loathing and horror were mixed Speranza
turned round, only to confront the contemptuous, haughty woman, who had
never said a kind or nice word to her in all her life.
“How dare you, girl, behave like this?” had cried the countess
furiously. “How dare you so answer my darling boy, who has thus
condescended to honour you with his love?”
In vain the miserable child had striven to explain to the infuriated
woman that she did not care for Lord Altai. Such an explanation had only
aggravated the countess’s anger, who, after many and various threats,
had declared that unless Speranza consented to gratify her darling boy’s
passion, she would induce the earl to deprive Speranza’s two brothers of
their allowances, and therefore of their professions, which, in other
words, meant ruin to them.
She was a clever woman was Lady Westray. She knew exactly where to
strike to gain her end. The threat which she threw out about Speranza’s
two brothers she knew pretty well would take effect; for did she not
also know that out to them the poor child’s whole heart had gone? Rather
than injure them, the girl determined to sacrifice herself.
A month later a great wedding took place. Envied of all who saw her,
Speranza de Lara became Viscountess Altai, and the wife of the man whom
she detested and loathed. Sold by the law which declares that however
brutally a man may treat his wife, so that he does not strike her, she
has no power to free herself from him; sold by the law which declares
her to be that man’s slave, this woman, bright with the glory of a high
intellect, perfect in Nature’s health and strength, was committed to the
keeping of a man whom Fashion courted and patted on the back, whilst
declaring him at the same time to be the veriest _roué_ in London. _He_
could go and do as _he_ pleased; indulge in brutal excess, pander to
every hideous passion of his heart, poison with his vile touch the
beautiful creature whom he looked down upon as “only a woman”; but
_she_, if _she_ dared to overstep the line of propriety, and openly
declare her love for another, she would be doomed to social ostracism,
shunned and despised as a wanton, and out of the pale of decent society.
She did so dare! For six long years she bore with his brutal excess and
depraved passions; for six long years she suffered the torture which
only those who have so suffered can understand. Then she succumbed.
It was a dark November evening when she met her fate. The Altais were in
Scotland, entertaining a party of friends for the covert shooting in
Lord Westray’s splendid Wigtownshire preserves. The guests had all
arrived but one, and he put in an appearance when the remainder of the
party had gone upstairs to dress for dinner. Lady Altai had waited for
him, as he was momentarily expected, and on his arrival he had been
ushered into the drawing-room. His name was Harry Kintore, a captain in
a smart marching regiment. As she entered the drawing-room he was
standing with his back to the fire, and their eyes met. Right through
her ran a thrill, she knew not why or wherefore, while he, transfixed by
her beauty, could not remove his eyes. There have been such cases before
of love at first sight. This was a case about which there could be no
dispute; both felt it was so, both knew it to be beyond recall.
How she struggled against her fate none can tell. With her husband’s
increased brutality the gentleness and devotion of young Kintore was all
the more _en evidence_. And when at length he bade her fly with him
beyond the reach of so much misery and cruelty, was it a wonder that she
succumbed, and flew in the face of the law that bound her to the
contrary?
She left him, that cruel brute, who had made her life a desert and a
hell. She left him for one who to her was chivalrous and tender, loving
and sympathetic. The world cried shame upon her, and spoke of Lord Altai
as an injured man; the world ostracised her while it courted anew the
fiend who had so grievously wronged her. And when, in the hunger of his
baffled passion, this pampered _roué_ followed the two who had fled from
him, and with cold-blooded cruelty shot dead young Harry Kintore, the
world declared it could not blame him, and that it served Lady Altai
right.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
“Good-morning, my dear,” exclaims Lady Manderton, as she enters the cosy
boudoir of her bosom friend and confidante, Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, as this
latter, in a neat _peignoir_, lies stretched out, novel in hand, on an
easy couch overlooking the fast-filling street of Piccadilly about
eleven o’clock on the morning of the 5th June, 1890.
“Ciel! my dear, what brings you here, and dressed, too, at this
unearthly hour?”
“Chute, Vivi, don’t talk so loud. A mere rencontre, that’s all. Arthur
and I have arranged a little lark, and I told him to meet me here. I
knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“He, he!” giggles Vivi; “but what have you done with Man?”
“Oh! he’s safe enough, my dear. Gone off to his club. Thinks I’ve gone
to get a gown tried on. He, he! What fools men are!”
“Think themselves deuced clever, nevertheless, Dodo,” laughs Vivi. “It’s
not an hour since Trebby was raving at me, laying down the law at the
way I go on with Captain Kilmarnock. Of course I pretended to be awfully
cut up, rubbed my eyes, got up a few tears and sniffs, got rid of him
with a kiss or two, packed him off to his club, and at twelve o’clock
Kil and I are off to Maidenhead together.”
This announcement creates the greatest amusement between the two ladies,
judging by the peals of laughter that follow it.
“By-the-bye, Dodo, where were you yesterday?” inquires Vivi Trevor,
after the laughter has subsided.
“I, my dear? Why, I was with H.R.H.’s party for the 4th of June. You
can’t think what a jolly day we had, Vivi. Some of the recitations were
quite delightful, and there was a boy called Hector D’Estrange, who was
simply too lovely for words. We all fell in love with him, I can tell
you. I never saw such eyes in my life. Won’t he break some of our hearts
some day!”
“Hector D’Estrange; but who is he?”
“That’s just what every one was asking, but no one seemed to know. It
appears he has taken the school by storm. Does everything tiptop.
Splendid batsman, bowler, oarsman, wonderful at racquets, undefeatable
at books—in fact, my dear, beautiful as an Adonis, and clever past
expression.”
“Oh, Dodo! I must see this Adonis. I love pretty boys.”
“And plucky ones, too,” laughs Vivi. “I was speaking to young Estcourt,
who is his chum, and he told me that when Hector D’Estrange first came
to Eton, a good many attempts were made to bully him, but he soon
settled his tormentors, and gave one of them, a big overgrown monster,
such a drubbing, that he never molested him more. What fun, Dodo, it
would have been to see my Adonis punching the overgrown bully! I did
laugh when Estcourt told me. I do so hate overgrown boys. Don’t you,
Dodo?”
“Of course I do, Vivi. Detest them!”
There is a ring at the door bell. Vivi jumps up and looks out of the
window.
“It’s Arthur!” is all she exclaims.
“Well, ta ta, Vivi! won’t bother you with him,” laughs Lady Manderton,
as she stoops to kiss her friend. “See you to-night, I suppose, at
Ferdey’s—eh? Love to Kil. Don’t let Trebby catch you, and a pleasant
outing to you both;” saying which she is off out of the room, and
running downstairs to meet her friend Sir Arthur Muster-Day, a smart
young guardsman, whom it has pleased her for the time being to think
that she likes better than any one else in the world.
They are off together, happy in each other’s company. Sir Arthur is not
married, and he thinks it just the thing to be seen about as much as
possible in the company of one of London’s newest belles. Lady Manderton
doesn’t care a rap for her husband, and is considerably bored that her
husband evinces a certain amount of affection for her; she only married
him for his money and position, and did not at all bargain for the
affection part of the affair.
As for Vivi, after her friend is gone, she jumps up and rings for her
maid. That important individual having made her appearance, she and Vivi
are soon engrossed with the all-paramount question of the moment—dress.
Half-a-dozen gowns are pulled out, put on, pulled off and discarded,
until at length one appears to please more than the others.
“How do you think I look in this, Marie?” she inquires a little
anxiously. “Is it becoming?”
“Mais, madame, c’est tout-à-fait charmante,” replies the well-drilled
maid with an expression of admiration.
Vivi is satisfied. The gown remains on her person, and in a short time
she is dressed and ready for her day’s outing. Twelve o’clock strikes. A
neat brougham dashes up to the door. In less time almost than it takes
to tell it, Vivi has taken her seat in the carriage, and is being
whirled through the busy streets of London, _en route_ to Captain
Kilmarnock’s rooms. There she will pick him up, and together they will
proceed to Maidenhead, what to do God knows. We had better leave them.
A few minutes later, and there is another ring at the door, and the
footman opens it to Mr. de Lacy Trevor. As he does so, the latter
inquires—
“Is Mrs. Trevor in?”
“No, sir, just gone out,” answers the servant.
“Do you know where to, James?” again asks Mr. Trevor.
“I do not, sir, but perhaps Mademoiselle Marie will know.”
Marie is called, and arrives all smiles and bows. “Really, she thinks
madame has gone out for a drive with her friend Lady Manderton, and to
lunch with her afterwards. _C’est tout._”
Mr. Trevor sighs.
“There will be no lunch wanted, James,” he observes quietly. “I shall
lunch at the club.”
He wanders down the street in the direction of St. James’s. He wonders
if Vivi has forgotten the promise she made him that morning to lunch at
home, and go for a ride with him afterwards. He so rarely sees her now,
and when he does it is seldom alone. She never seems to have any time to
give to him, and yet he is not brutal to her, or neglectful, or wrapped
up in some one else, as many other men are. He loves her so dearly, and
would do anything to make her happy; but he can quite see how she shuns
him, and how much happier she looks when in Captain Kilmarnock’s
company. And then, with a shudder, he starts and stares eagerly across
the street, for there she is—yes, actually there she is, in Captain
Kilmarnock’s brougham, with the captain beside her, driving rapidly in
the direction of Piccadilly.
Mr. Trevor has a strange lump in his throat as he ascends the steps of
the Conservative and enters that roomy club.
“Waiter!” he calls out, and his voice is somewhat husky.
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me a stiff brandy-and-soda, waiter, and mind it _is_ stiff,”
continues Mr. Trevor, as he throws himself wearily into a chair. The
soda with its stiff complement of brandy arrives. It is mixed carefully
by the waiter, and handed to the sad-hearted man. He drinks it eagerly.
He has not a strong head, and knows that he cannot take much, but he
feels that oblivion must in this instance be sought, if possible, no
matter how, so long as it is attained.
The brandy, in a measure, has the desired effect. He feels it
perforating through his body and mounting to his brain. Things don’t
look quite so gloomy to him now, and the loneliness of his position is
less acutely felt. Two men are talking to each other close by him. He
knows one of them. It is Sir Ralph Vereton, and he holds in his hand a
copy of the June number of the _Free Review_.
“It is a wonderful article for a boy to write, and an Eton boy, too,” he
hears the baronet exclaiming. “Have you read it, Critchley?”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I have, but I will, old chap, when I get
home. I’m afraid I haven’t time to just now.”
“What’s that, Vereton?” inquires Mr. Trevor, leaning forward in his
chair, “anything particularly clever?”
“Hulloa, Trevor! you there? Didn’t see you, old man. What! you haven’t
read an Eton boy’s ‘Essay on Woman’s Position’? Every one is talking
about it. It’s deuced clever and original, whatever one may think of the
opinions, and is clearly written by a lad who will make his mark in the
world.”
“Let’s have a look at it, Vereton, if you don’t want it, there’s a good
chap. I want something to read,” exclaims Mr. Trevor eagerly, reaching
out his hand for the periodical, which the baronet passes to him
good-naturedly. It is open at the page of honour, the first page in the
book, and as Mr. Trevor scans the heading he reads it as follows:
“Woman’s Position in this World. By Hector D’Estrange, an Eton boy.” He
starts reading it, languidly at first, as if the remarks of a boy on
such a subject cannot possibly be worth reading, but he is soon absorbed
in the article, and never budges in his chair until he has read it
through and through.
And there are some parts to which he turns again and again, as though he
would burn their truths into his brain, and keep them there never to be
forgotten. One in especial rivets his attention, so much so that he
commits it to memory.
“When a girl is born,” it ran, “no especial difference is made in the
care of her by doctor or nurse. Up to a certain age the treatment which
she and her brother receive is exactly the same. Why, I ask, should
there be ever any change in this treatment? Why should such a marked
contrast be drawn later on between the sexes? Is it for the good of
either that the girl should be both physically and mentally stunted,
both in her intellect and body,—that she should be held back while the
boy is pressed forward? Can it be argued with any show of reason that
her capacity for study is less, and her power of observation naturally
dwarfed in comparison with that of the boy? Certainly not. I confidently
assert that where a girl has fair play, and is given equal opportunities
with the boy, she not only equals him in mental capacity, but far
outruns him in such; and I also confidently assert, that given the
physical opportunities afforded to the boy, to develop and expand, and
strengthen the body by what are called ‘manly exercises,’ the girl would
prove herself every inch his equal in physical strength. There are
those, I know, who will sneer at these opinions, but in the words of
Lord Beaconsfield, I can only asseverate that ‘the time will come,’ when
those who sneer will be forced to acknowledge the truth of this
assertion.
“Well then, granting, for the sake of argument, that what I have stated
is correct, why, I ask, should all that men look forward to and hold
most dear, be denied to women? Why should the professions which men have
arrogated to themselves be entirely monopolised by their sex, to the
exclusion of women? I see no manner of reason why, if women received the
same moral, mental, and physical training that men do, they should not
be as fit—nay, infinitely more fit—to undertake the same duties and
responsibilities as men. I do not see that we should be a wit less badly
governed if we had a woman Prime Minister or a mixed Cabinet, or if
women occupied seats in the Houses of Parliament or on the bench in the
Courts of Justice.
“Of course woman’s fitness to undertake these duties depends entirely on
the manner in which she is educated. If you stunt the intellect, tell
her nothing, and refuse to exercise the physical powers which Nature has
given her, you must expect little from such an unfortunate creature. Put
man in the same position in which yon put woman, and he would be in a
very short time just as mentally and physically stunted as she is.
“All very well to declare that it is a woman’s business to bear
children, to bring them up, to attend to household matters, and to leave
the rest to men. A high-spirited girl or woman will not, in every
instance, accept this definition of her duties by man as correct. That
such a definition is clearly man’s, it is not difficult to see, for
woman would never have voluntarily condemned herself to a life of such
inert and ambitionless duties as these. But so long as this definition
of woman’s duty and position be observed and accepted by Society, so
long will this latter be a prey to all the evils and horrors that
afflict it, and which are a result of woman’s subjection and
degradation.
“Think you, you who read these words, that hundreds of women now
unhappily married would ever have contracted that terrible tie had they
been aware of what they were doing, or had they had the smallest hope of
advancement and prospects of success in life without? Certainly not.
Marriage is contracted in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred by women
desirous of making for themselves a home, and because in no other
quarter can they adopt agreeable and pleasant professions and
occupations like men. Were it possible, they would either not have
married, or at least have waited until, with the knowledge of man which
they _should_ possess—but which, unfortunately, nowadays comes to them
only with marriage—they could select for themselves, with their eyes
open, a partner suited to them in every respect. As it is, what does one
see? Women, especially in the higher grades of society, marry only to
escape in many instances the prim restraints of home. Others marry for
money and position, because they know that the portals, through which
men may pass to try for these, are closed to them. The cruel laws by
which men have shut women out from every hope of winning name and fame,
are responsible for hundreds of wretched marriages, which have seared
the world with their griefs. If, in the narrow sphere within which she
moves, a woman errs, let not the man blame her, but rather look to the
abolition of unnatural laws which have brought about her degradation.”
* * * * *
Mr. Trevor sits very still in his chair. A flood of thoughts have come
to fill his brain. They keep him very busy and occupied. The revelations
thrown upon woman’s position by the straightforward, truth-breathing
article of Hector D’Estrange, have taken him by storm, and have
completely revolutionised his ideas. He has hitherto been so accustomed
to look upon and treat women with the self-satisfied, conscious feeling
of superiority assumed by men, that such ideas as these before him are
startlingly strange and extraordinary. His position with Vivi, and hers
in regard to him, presents itself now to his mind in a totally different
light to that in which he has hitherto been accustomed to regard it. He
remembers how he first met her hardly a year ago, a beautiful, lively,
healthy girl, whose scheming mother, knowing no better, had thrust her
into the busy mart, willing to sell her to the highest bidder. He
remembers how passionately he fell in love with this girl, how he never
paused to ask himself if his love were returned. He recalls full well
the bitter look that had crossed her face when he had asked her to be
his wife, and the cold, matter-of-fact way in which she had accepted
him. Then his thoughts fly back to his wedding day, and a shudder runs
through Launcelot Trevor as he recalls the utter absence of love on her
part towards him. And, remembering all this, he cannot but feel that
Hector D’Estrange is right. If, in the narrow sphere within which poor
Vivi had moved, she had, according to the notions of propriety laid down
by Mrs. Grundy, erred, Launcelot Trevor feels that the blame must rest
not so much with her, as with the cruel laws that had left that
beautiful girl no other option but to sell herself for gold; for be it
remembered, she had been educated up to no higher level, been imbued
with no better aim. She had been taught that the only opening for a girl
is to get herself well married, that while men could go forth into the
world with a score of professions to choose from, she must for ever
regard herself as shut out from that world of enterprise, daring, and
fame, created, so says man, solely for himself.
He sits on in his chair, his thoughts still busy with the new problem
that has presented itself so startlingly to his mind. The luncheon hour
is far past, much of the afternoon has slipped away, still Launcelot
Trevor remains where he had seated himself many hours before. Men keep
coming in and out; friends and acquaintances nod to him as they pass. He
scarcely heeds them, or pays attention to what they say. His mind is
absorbed by the truths which he has faced for the first time.
Suddenly he starts; the clock is striking seven. He remembers that at
eight o’clock he and Vivi are engaged to dine out. He jumps up, bids the
hall-porter hail a hansom, and in a few minutes is being driven towards
Piccadilly.
“Has Mrs. Trevor returned yet?” he again inquires of the servant who
opens the door to him.
“Yes, sir, she is in the drawing-room with Captain Kilmarnock.”
He walks slowly upstairs. All is very silent in the room mentioned. He
stands on the threshold, hardly daring to open the door. He can hear a
rustling inside, and, yes, unmistakably the sound of a kiss. He coughs
audibly as he lays his hand on the door’s handle. He can hear a
scuffling of feet, and on entering perceives Vivi sitting bolt upright
on the sofa, and Captain Kilmarnock apparently warming his hands over
the fireplace. Unfortunately there is no fire!
She looks at him as he comes in, and for a moment their eyes meet. A
bright flush rises to Vivi’s cheeks. She expects to see him furious, as
he had been that morning, and is surprised, nay, even awed by the sad
expression on his face.
“Vivi,” he says very quietly, “I think we ought to be dressing for
dinner. Good-evening to you, Kilmarnock. Are you to be at Ferdey’s
to-night?”
“No, Trevor,” stammers the captain, visibly uncomfortable. “I have
another engagement.”
“Oh, well, shall see you again, I suppose, soon? Good-night, old chap.
Must go and dress. Vivi dear, don’t be late.”
He goes out as he speaks, and closes the door behind him. Hector
D’Estrange’s words are still next his heart.
“Poor Vivi,” he mutters to himself. “It is not her fault. Poor Vivi.”
He is hardly out of the room, when she looks up at Captain Kilmarnock.
The scared expression is still in her face.
“Kil,” she whispers, “that _was_ a near squeak. You had better be off,
old man. Didn’t hear the front door bell ring, did you?”
“No,” he answers in a rather sulky tone. “Hang him! He’s always where
he’s not wanted. But you are right. I’d better be off. To-morrow at
three. Don’t forget.”
“All right,” she answers, with a smile.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
Always busy and astir, the little town of Melton Mowbray presents a more
than usually busy aspect on the morning of the 15th April, 1894. It is
early yet, nevertheless the streets ring with the sound of trotting and
cantering hacks, as well as the more sober paces of the strings of
horses returning from exercise to their respective stables.
People are coming and going at a rapid rate. They nearly all seem to
know each other, judging by the little nods, and “good-mornings,” and
suchlike familiar greetings with which friends meet, and in which these
afore-mentioned personages indulge, as they hurry by each other.
A party of horsemen and horsewomen are just riding out of the stables
belonging to The Limes. They are laughing and talking merrily. We have
seen two of the women before, and their names are Mrs. de Lacy Trevor
and Lady Manderton. Close in attendance upon them are two smart
good-looking men, whom we must introduce to the reader as Lord Charles
Dartrey and the Earl of Westray. The former appears to be entirely taken
up with the first-named lady, the latter—already introduced to the
reader in a former chapter as Lord Altai—with the last-named one.
There is yet another pair in that cheery group that we must particularly
notice. They are a man and woman, both young, both good-looking, and
both unmistakably at home in the saddle. If one can judge from
appearances, the woman must be about twenty-two years of age, the man
perhaps five or six years her senior. Both are mounted on grey horses,
and both look every inch what they are, splendid equestrians. The woman
is well known in Society’s world, as also in the tiny hunting world of
Melton. She is Lady Flora Desmond, and the man is handsome Captain
“Jack” Delamere.
They trot through the streets at a merry pace, down past the Harborough
Hotel, over the railway, away on by Wicklow Lodge, towards Burton
Lazarus. It is a beautiful morning, and the sun is shining brightly on
the flats that lie below. Dalby Hall, nestling amidst its woods on the
far hillside, stands out distinct and clear, with the same bright sun
gleaming on its gables and windows.
“What a glorious morning, Jack!” exclaims Lady Flora enthusiastically.
“Why, it’s like summer, is it not?”
The others are a little on ahead, and these two have fallen in the rear.
Jack looks at the speaker with a smile.
“It is a grand day, Florrie, and it suits you, too. I never saw you
looking better in my life.”
She flushes up. Florrie Desmond does not care about compliments,—she
values them at their worth,—but she and Jack are fast friends, and she
is not quite averse to them from him. She answers, however.
“Shut up, you goose, and don’t talk nonsense.”
She is a clever woman is Flora Desmond, cleverer far than some people
take her to be. Her bringing up has not been exactly like other women’s,
and she has always kicked against the restraints and restrictions put
upon her sex. She is the daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness of
Douglasdale, and an orphan, having lost her father at an early age. Lady
Douglasdale was, in her day, a very beautiful woman, a _persona grata_
at Court, where her husband exercised the duties of Comptroller of the
Household, and was a favourite with his sovereign; but after the
marquis’s death she took greatly to travelling, and thus it was that
Flora Ruglen, in conjunction with her twin brother Archie, saw most of
the great world of Europe before she was ten years of age.
Travelling expands the mind, and brightens the senses. It had this
effect upon the girl, forming much of her character before its time. At
that early age she exhibited peculiar characteristics. No one could get
her to settle down to study under a governess; she loathed the sight of
school books, and led her unfortunate preceptors a sad life; yet, in
strange contradiction to so much wilfulness and apparent indolence, she
was seldom without the companionship of a book in her play hours, and
when not otherwise engaged with her brother, would invariably be found
poring over these books, thirstily seeking knowledge, or committing to
paper, in powerful language for one so young, the impressions of her
youthful brain.
She had dreams had Flora Ruglen—dreams of a bright future, an
adventurous career. The time had not arrived when the road which she and
her twin brother had been pursuing, would branch off in different
directions, his leading forth to opportunities of power, fame, and
glory, hers along a lane, narrow and cramped, and with nothing to seek
at the end, save that against which her bright independent spirit
rebelled and revolted. But it came at last, when the companion of her
happy childhood’s days was taken from her, when Archie was sent to
school, and she was left alone. It came upon her with a suddenness which
she found difficult to realise, and the blow was terrible. To describe
what she suffered would be well-nigh impossible. Only those who by
experience have learnt it, could be brought to understand the horror of
her position. But Flora Ruglen, having faced it, brought all the courage
of her nature to support it, though from that moment she became utterly
changed. She had no one in whom to confide; neither her mother nor any
one else would have understood her. With girls of her own age she had
nothing in common, and they looked on her with awe as a proud, stuck-up
being. None could guess at the warm heart that beat beneath Flora
Ruglen’s apparently cold and reserved demeanour—except one, and that one
was a boy of about her own age.
She had made his acquaintance during the holidays, when Archie, home
from school, had invited his “best pal” to spend them at Ruglen Manor,
the beautiful dower property of Lady Douglasdale. It was with young Lord
Estcourt that Archie Douglasdale had struck up so keen a friendship. The
lads had been “new boys” at Eton together, and in the first strangeness
of introduction to that boy’s world had been thrown into each other’s
company a good deal, being in the same house, and, as in Flora’s case,
much of the same age.
When Estcourt came to Ruglen Manor Flora Ruglen was about seventeen
years of age. She was interested in her brother’s friend, inasmuch as he
had lately lost his mother, and was an orphan. It did not take long for
a firm friendship to spring up between the boy and girl. Nigel Estcourt
was an only child, had never known what it was to have brothers and
sisters, and was ready to look upon Flora in that light gladly enough.
He and she were a great deal in each other’s company, and for the first
time in her life she unloosed the cords of her heart, and told him of
the trouble that had descended upon her life.
He sympathised with her did young Nigel. How could he help it, being, as
he was, the friend of Hector D’Estrange? That extraordinary boy had
risen to be head of the school. None could equal him at Eton, and his
name had gone forth beyond the portals of the college as the coming man
of his day. The article in the _Free Review_, which had first brought
his name into prominence in the year 1890, had created a good deal of
discussion in many circles. Of course it had been vigorously attacked.
What great stroke aimed at Justice and Freedom but has ever been so
opposed, hounded down, and decried? But truth is like a bright sun which
no mortal power can dim. It may be clouded for a time, but it must shine
forth and ultimately prevail.
He had left Eton, gone to Oxford, and had there taken high honours. He
no sooner made his appearance in the world of fashion, politics, and
letters, than he was received and courted everywhere. Never before had a
youth risen so rapidly in the scale of success. He was undoubtedly the
idol of his day, and in 1894 only twenty-one. It was extraordinary.
Hector D’Estrange would marvel often at it himself. He had gone out into
the world in what was mere childhood, prepared to combat with the many
difficulties which he knew must beset his path. He was over modest was
this boy. He had not sufficiently estimated his great and surpassing
genius, but it had shone forth, been recognised and approved of, because
he was a man.
To return to Flora Ruglen. At the age of eighteen she lost her mother,
and the guardianship of the girl devolved on her aunt, a giddy, worldly
woman, the late marquis’s sister, and Countess of Dunderfield. No two
women could have been more diametrically opposite then these two, no two
characters more unlike. Briefly, and to cut the matter short, Lady
Dunderfield insisted on taking Flora into Society, and set herself to
bring about a match between the high-souled, high-spirited girl, and the
Duke of Dovetail, a rich old monstrosity, whose rent-roll was nigh on a
million, and whose body was afflicted by almost every disease under the
sun.
Had the girl been in a position to map out her own line of life, what a
different tale might now be told! She was not. The law denied her the
right to choose her future; it curtailed her line of action within
certain bounds. What could she do? The odds were against her, and she
sought refuge through the first outlet that presented itself.
This outlet was in the shape of a young baronet, a youth of twenty-one.
He thought himself very much in love with Lady Flora Ruglen. He
proposed, and she accepted him. Lady Dunderfield forbade Sir Reginald
Desmond the house. The young people took French leave of her, fled to
Scotland, and were married, and Lady Dunderfield, green with
disappointment and rage, had to accept the fact. This is how Flora
Ruglen became Lady Flora Desmond. Had she erred in the step she took?
Perhaps so. What other alternative had she? Had the law permitted her to
go out into the world and adopt the profession of her choice, there is
little doubt that ere this Flora Ruglen would have made a great name for
good.
* * * * *
He pretends to be offended at her remark does Jack Delamere, and pulls
his horse a little away from her own. She notices the movement, and
laughs lightly, as she urges her animal alongside him, and taps him
gently on the shoulder with her whip.
“Look there, Jack!” she exclaims at the same time; “we are not the first
on the course after all. Look at those two riding over the fence
alongside the brook. Who are they, I wonder? The woman can ride, it is
easy enough to see that.”
They are just turning to the left through the gate leading to the
Steeplechase Course on the Burton Flats, and as Jack Delamere’s eyes
follow the direction indicated by Flora Desmond, he at once perceives
two mounted figures, galloping up the course in the direction of the
grand stand. One is a man, the other a woman.
As Flora Desmond has declared, the woman can ride. She sits her horse
straight as a dart. He is pulling a bit, but she has him well in hand,
and he is not likely to get away with her.
“Hector D’Estrange, by all that’s holy! and with a woman, too,” laughs
Jack Delamere. “Look, Florrie! Is the world coming to an end, or am I
dreaming?”
“That you are certainly not,” she answers quickly; “there is no mistake
about it. But who is she?”
They have joined the others now, and find them equally exercised over
the female apparition.
It may be explained that this is the morning of the Melton Hunt
Steeplechases, and that this party has ridden over early to the course
to go round the fences, and inspect them severally. They had bargained
on being the first in the field, but now perceive that they have been
forestalled by Hector D’Estrange and his companion.
“Let’s go and have a look,” suggests Lord Westray. He is an admirer of
women, and it is easy to perceive, even at the distance which separates
the party from the stranger, that she is a fine one.
They all gallop down to the stand, riding along in a row towards Hector
and his friend. He sees them coming, and says something to her, and
Flora notices that she brings her horse closer to his side. Mrs. Trevor
and Lady Manderton are all eyes and stare as they pass the two. Hector
has raised his hat politely, and wished them a good-morning. His face is
flushed with the exercise of riding, his rich auburn hair shines out
like gold in the sunlight, his glorious eyes, dark in their
sapphire-blue, look particularly winning and beautiful. But it is with
his companion that the eyes of the others are busy. They are all struck
by her extreme loveliness, and are loud in wonder as to who she is. Only
Lord Westray is silent; white as a sheet, too. It is years since he set
eyes on Lady Altai, and now he sees again, after a long lapse of time,
the woman whom he so grievously wronged more than twenty-two years
before—his divorced wife, Speranza de Lara.
“Come on,” he exclaims, just a shade roughly to Lady Manderton. He has
of late been, by the way, making up to her. She has got tired of Sir
Arthur Muster-Day, and has shelved him for the “wicked earl,” by which
name Lord Westray is known in Society circles. Mrs. Trevor, too, though
she still sticks to Kil, and makes him believe that she is as devoted to
him as ever, has managed to hook on to herself several other devoted
swains, to all of whom in turn she expresses a mint of devotion, while
really feeling not the slightest affection for any of them. She has
played her part well, however, for they each severally believe
themselves to be “_the_ favoured man” in her good graces.
They gallop forward in the wake of Lord Westray, and Flora Desmond and
Jack Delamere are once more alone.
“What a lovely woman!” she bursts out, as soon as they have passed
Hector D’Estrange and Speranza. “Jack, did you ever see such eyes? I
never saw lovelier, unless perhaps Hector D’Estrange’s. What a handsome
pair the two make!”
“Well, yes, Florrie, she is certainly a lovely woman. Cunning dog, young
Hector, to have kept her out of sight so long. Now we can understand why
he is so cold to women. Of course that’s where his heart is, without
doubt,” answers Jack Delamere, with a smile.
* * * * *
“The Melton Hunt Steeplechases of 1894 are over. The meeting will long
be remembered by the unparalleled success of Mr. Hector D’Estrange, who,
riding in the six races printed on the card for competition, came in
first, the winner of every one of them. This success is all the more
remarkable, inasmuch as four of the winners were non-favourites, so that
the wins must be ascribed to the splendid horsemanship of their jockey.
The feat is unparalleled, the nearest approach to it being when Captain
‘Doggie’ Smith in 1880 carried off all the races on the card except one,
being defeated in a match which closed the day’s proceedings between
Lord Hastings’ Memory, and Lord James Douglas’ The General. In this
match ‘Doggie’ Smith rode Lord Hastings’ mare, and Lord James Douglas
his own horse, The General.”
Such is the announcement chronicled in a well-known weekly sporting
paper a few days after the Melton Hunt Steeplechases of 1894, scoring
yet another triumph on the path of thoroughness for Hector D’Estrange.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
“So you will not?”
“A thousand times, no!”
They are standing facing each other are the speakers—one a beautiful,
tall, graceful woman, with masses of rich gold hair coiled upon her
noble head, and eyes whose light is like the turquoise gem, the other a
middle-sized, handsome, good-looking man, whose dark eyes gleam with
fury and disappointed passion.
We have seen them both before, this man and woman, seen them on more
than one occasion; for it is not difficult to recognise in that
evil-featured man the person of Lord Westray, or in that beautiful woman
that of Speranza de Lara.
He has come here for no good purpose has the “wicked earl.” Ever since,
on the Burton Flats, he had fallen across the lovely woman whose life he
had made a desert, Lord Westray had been a prey to a consuming passion
to regain that which he had lost. Twice in her life Speranza had defied
him, and on each occasion he had had his revenge. The first was when, as
a girl of seventeen, she had refused him, and he, through the
instrumentality of his cruel mother, who had played on her love for her
brothers, had forced her to become his wife. The second was when, in
defiance of man’s laws, she had fled from his vile brutality and hateful
presence, with the first and last love of her young life, poor Harry
Kintore; and he, following up those two to the sunny land where they had
sought a refuge, and where they asked for no other boon but to be
allowed to live with and for each other, had shot down in her very
presence the man to save whom she would have given a thousand lives of
her own.
And now he is here, oblivious of all his past brutality, to insult her
with yet another proposal, one more hideous than any he has ever made
before. Consumed with passion for this woman, who had defied him, he has
actually come to propose that she shall forget the past and re-marry
him!
Forget the past! Is it likely? Will the memory of her suffering
childhood ever pass away? Will the recollection of her wedding day fade
from her mind? Will the six years of torture as his wedded wife
disappear like a dream? Above all, can she ever forget her first meeting
with Harry Kintore, the heart’s awakening that came with it, or the
terrible moment when, struck down at her feet, his dear eyes looked
their love for the last time? Impossible.
He grinds his teeth with rage does Lord Westray as her clear, sad voice
distinctly gives him his answer. He is racking his brain for a means of
overcoming her, and forcing her once more to obey his will. The fact
that she defies him, hates him, loathes him, has refused him, only
arouses in him more madly than ever the desire to become possessed of
her once again. Lord Westray possesses, in a heightened degree, in an
aggravated form, the characteristic peculiar to all men, of desiring
that which is either hard to get, or which denies itself to them, and
which, if once obtained, fades in value in their eyes. It is Speranza’s
resistance to his wishes that fires him with the fury of a wild animal
to regain her.
“You shall repent this!” he mutters angrily. “Speranza, you should know
better than to defy _me_. Have I not been a match for you twice? and, by
God! if you do not do as I ask now I will be again.”
She shudders with horror as she hears his cold-blooded words, triumphing
at his past deeds of brutality and crime. She pulls herself together,
however. She is alone with him, and must keep him at bay. Speranza is no
coward.
“I do not fear you,” she answers haughtily; “you cannot do me more evil
than you have already. I am beyond the reach of your vengeance now.
Nothing _you_ can do can harm _me_.”
“I don’t know so much about that,” he replies savagely. “How about
Hector D’Estrange?”
She starts, and the rich blood flushes to her face as she eyes him with
evident terror. Can it be that he knows, that he will unveil the secret
before—but no, it is impossible; she has it safe enough.
He notes the start, the crimson blush, and the look of terror, and he
congratulates himself on having, by a chance shot, hit on the right
point to cow her.
“You’re a fine person to play the prude and the proper,” he says, with a
sneer. “They used to tell me that you were inconsolable over that ass
Kintore, but the beauty of Hector D’Estrange appears to have effected a
sudden cure. I congratulate you on your new conquest. You have aimed
high. He is the rising man of his day, and you have thrown your net well
to catch the golden fish. Are you not ashamed of yourself, however,
woman,—you who are over the forties, to take up with a boy of
twenty-one?”
She flushes again. Then he does not know? Thank God for that! How young
she looks as she stands there in her unfading beauty, with a look in her
blue eyes of contemptuous loathing. She will let him believe what he
likes, so that he does not know the truth; that is all she desires to
hide from him.
In pursuance of this desire she answers:
“Hector D’Estrange and I _are_ friends. I am not ashamed to own it.
Neither he nor I require your advice, however, as to how our friendship
is to be conducted. And now I bid you leave me. I order you from my
house, which I inhabit not by your charity.”
“No, but by the charity of Harry Kintore, you wanton!” he answers with
an oath. “You knew pretty well what you were about when you got the fool
to settle all his estates and money on you, which you now lavish on
Hector D’Estrange, but——”
“Peace, devil! fiend in human shape!” she cries furiously, as she
clenches her hands, and brings the right one down with a crash on the
table beside her. He notices a flash on one of the fingers. All the
others are ringless but this one, and on it sparkles two splendid
diamonds and sapphires set deep in their broad thick band of gold. He
knows this ring of old. He saw it long ago, when she held the dying head
of Harry Kintore in her hands, and he knows that it was the young man’s
gift to her. That she should wear it, now that she has taken up with
Hector D’Estrange, mystifies him.
He is about to reply, when the door of the room they are in opens, and
Lord Westray finds himself face to face with Hector. He is a head and
shoulders taller than the earl is this young man, and as he advances
into the room the latter’s face falls slightly, and his fingers move
nervously by his side. Like all bullies, Lord Westray is a coward, and
doesn’t half fancy his position.
But there is no angry look in Hector D’Estrange’s eyes; only from their
sapphire depths looks out a cold, calm expression of contempt.
“Lord Westray,” he remarks, in a voice impressive because of its very
quietness, “for what reason have we the honour of your presence here?
Allow me to inform you that this honour is not desired by Mrs. de Lara.
Your brougham is at the door. I must request you to seek it.”
He says no more, but stands with the handle of the door in his hand,
waiting for the earl to obey. This latter looks at him fiercely, the
eyes of the two meet. Those of the bully and depraved coward cannot face
the calm, disdainful look of Hector D’Estrange; they fall before it, and
in another moment the earl is gone.
They listen to the wheels of the departing brougham as it rattles
through the streets in the direction of South Kensington. As its echoes
die away the young man turns to Speranza.
“Mother,” he exclaims, “has he been here to insult you? Ah, mother! God
only knows the strain I put upon myself, or I would have shot him down
where he stood, the brute, the fiend! I nearly lost control of myself,
but I heard your last words, and understood what you were striving to
hide from him. Thank God I did, or in a hasty moment I might have laid
bare our secret.”
“And I, too, say thank God, Gloria. At one moment I fancied he was in
possession of it, but I quickly found out that he was on another tack.
Horrible as the idea was, it was better to let him foster it, than to
give him a chance of learning the truth. Ah, Gloria dearest! if once the
secret is in his hands, we need look for no mercy in that quarter.”
“I know it, mother,” answers Gloria, in other words Hector D’Estrange;
for the reader must have had no difficulty in recognising in this
latter, the beautiful girl who had made her vow to the wild sea waves,
ten years previously on the sunny shores of the Adriatic, and who now,
as Hector D’Estrange, is working out the accomplishment of that vow.
And she has worked well has Gloria de Lara, patiently and perseveringly,
never losing an opportunity, never casting a chance aside. Her beauty
and her genius have gone straight to the hearts of men, and she uses
these gifts given her by God, not for vain glory and fleeting
popularity, but in pursuit of justice and in furtherance of the one
great aim of her life.
“Let us change the subject, my darling,” exclaims Speranza, with a
shudder; “let us drive from our minds the thought of one so horrible and
contemptible. Tell me, my precious child,” she continues, laying her
hand on Gloria’s shoulder, and kissing her gently on the forehead, “how
have you got on with the clubs to-day?”
“Excellently, mother. I came to tell you all about them, or I should not
have been here until to-morrow,” answers Gloria, as she seats herself on
a low stool at her mother’s feet.
It is the middle of May, the sun is shining brightly, and the sparrows
are hopping and chirping merrily about in the square outside. The early
green on the trees is as yet unclouded by the dust of London’s busy
season, and all is fair, and soft, and young to look upon.
The large fortune and noble estates left to Speranza de Lara by young
Harry Kintore have been well and wisely wielded by the woman, in whose
heart the memory of her darling still shines as brightly as on the day
he died. She has never misspent a farthing of the vast wealth that he
confided to her care. It has been used in carrying out philanthropic
works, alleviating suffering, and helping on the accomplishment of their
child’s design, his child and hers.
They are busy over a new one just now. With her mother’s money at her
command, Gloria, under the name of Hector D’Estrange, is establishing
throughout London, and in the different large towns of Great Britain and
Ireland, institutions where women and girls can meet each other, and for
a mere nominal fee learn to ride, to shoot with gun and rifle, to swim,
to run, and to indulge in the invigorating influences of gymnastics and
other exercises, calculated to strengthen and improve the physique of
those taking part therein. Classes, too, technical and otherwise, for
the education of girls and women on an equality with boys and men, as
well as free libraries, form part of these institutions, each of which,
as it is founded, becomes crowded to overflowing.
In connection with these institutions Gloria has lately set on foot
clubs, the members of which she is forming into volunteer companies, who
are drilled by the hand of discipline into smartness and efficiency. The
movement has been enthusiastically taken up by the women of Great
Britain and Ireland, thousands of whom have been enrolled in these
volunteer forces. Of course Hector D’Estrange has his enemies. The
jealous and the narrow-minded; the old fogies who would have a great
wrong continue for ever, rather than fly in the face of prejudice to
right it; the women who love their degradation and hug their chains; the
men who think the world must be coming to an end if women are to be
acknowledged as their equals, have all fought tooth and nail against the
splendid idea and the practical conception of Hector D’Estrange.
Ridicule, abuse, calumny, false testimony, have been hurled against his
giant work. They have each and all failed to disturb or harm it, for its
foundation is built on the rock of justice, of right, and of nature.
“Well, mother,” continues the girl, “we have had a great consultation
to-day. All the details for a big review have been discussed. We shall
want two good years more to get everything efficiently arranged, when I
calculate that Hector D’Estrange will be able to bring into the field
quite 100,000 well-drilled troops. But I am in no hurry yet; there is
still much to be done. And now I have some more news to give you,
mother. I have been invited to stand by the Douglasdale division of
Dumfriesshire for Parliament, and to contest the seat when Mr. Reform
resigns. I saw Archie Douglasdale to-day; he has promised to give me all
his support. And what do you think, mother? Why, his sister, Lady Flora
Desmond, has joined our new club. It is to be called the Desmond Lodge,
and I have put her in command of it.”
“She will be a great help to you, Gloria,” answers Speranza. “From all
you have told me of her, she is the right sort in the right place.”
“She is indeed, mother. Although I have many a good and true lieutenant
thoroughly in touch with my ideas in our volunteer force, there is not
one that can come up to Lady Flora. She will be a mountain of help to
me, and I know I can trust her. I could trust her even with _our_
secret.”
“Oh! never divulge _that_, Gloria.”
“Not I, mother! It was only an allegory, to give you an idea of my high
opinion of her. But, till the right time comes, our secret will be with
me as silent as the grave.”
They talk on, busy with their plans, hopeful of the future, and what it
is to bring, do these two women. The afternoon flits by, the chirp of
the sparrows grows dull, the sun is sinking aslant the roofs of the
opposite houses, the evening is creeping on apace. Gloria de Lara rises
from her seat, and throws her arms around Speranza’s neck.
“I must go now, mother,” she says gently. “I wish I could stay, but I
have an engagement. Good-night, my precious mother. Kiss Gloria before
she goes.”
“God bless you, my child,” answers the mother, as she presses the girl
to her heart; “God bless you, and keep you prospering in your work, my
valiant young Hector D’Estrange.”
And the girl passes out from her mother’s presence into the silent
square. She is echoing Speranza’s prayer, and is pulling herself
together, for out of that mother’s presence she has her part to play.
She is no longer Gloria de Lara, but popular, successful Hector
D’Estrange.
* * * * *
There is yet another scene at which we must glance before this chapter
closes. Let us enter Lord Westray’s house in Grosvenor Square. He is in
the drawing-room pacing up and down, his face dark with anger and
passion. A footman enters, bearing on a massive silver salver a tiny
scented bijou note. He hands the missive respectfully to his lordship,
who takes it impatiently.
“The bearer is to wait for an answer, my lord.”
“Answer be d——d!” begins Lord Westray; but suddenly recollecting
himself, he continues, “Very well, Walter, come up when I ring.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The servant retires. His face is very grave, but it relaxes into a leer
as he closes the door.
“’Spec’s the old un’s rather tired of her by now. Gives her another week
before they sez good-morning to each other,” he soliloquises to himself
as he goes downstairs. As he does so, Lord Westray opens the note. It is
from Lady Manderton, and runs as follows:—
“DEAREST OLD POTSIE,—Have got a ripping little supper on to-night.
Man’s away, and we will have some fun. Have asked several kindred
spirits. Shall look for you at ten.
“Your ever-devoted ‘DODO.’”
“I can’t go,” he mutters. “Hang the woman, I’m sick of her! She was all
very well a little while ago, but nothing will satisfy me but Speranza
now. I _will_ have her or nobody; and if I don’t have her, I will have
what’s next best, revenge.”
He writes a note hastily. It is to excuse himself. He has an awful
headache, and cannot come.
Lady Manderton gets the note a quarter of an hour later, and bites her
lip as she reads it. “Never mind,” she says quietly, “he sha’n’t have
another chance. My next man is Spicer. He’s rich, he’s good-looking,
he’s awfully in love, and he’ll be very useful. He’ll do.”
She sits down and writes another note. It is addressed to the Hon. Amias
Spicer, Grenadier Guards. She sends him the same sort of invitation
which she sent to Lord Westray.
It is not long before an answer comes back. Amias Spicer is in the
seventh heaven. He will be sure to come.
And at ten o’clock he comes punctually. Poor young fool!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
Montragee House is decked out at its brightest. The noble owner, Evelyn,
Duke of Ravensdale, is giving a ball this night, to which all the pearl
of London society has been bidden. Flocks of royalties have been also
invited, and nearly all have signified their intention of being present.
It is a wonderful sight as one drives up to the entrance gates of the
great mansion, which is ablaze with light. Every window is neatly framed
in soft green moss, from out of which fairy lamps peep and sparkle like
thousands of glow-worms. Festoons of roses twine around the porch
pillars of the great front door, and the scene that greets the eye on
entry almost baffles description. Floating throughout the corridors and
vestibules come the soft sounds of dreamy music, the atmosphere is
redolent with the sweet scent of rare and lovely flowers, the place is a
wilderness of beautiful sights, as up and down the broad flights of the
magnificent staircase well-known men and women come and go.
A burst of martial music ever and anon heralds the approach of royalty.
As each successive arrival takes place, the brilliant crowd sways to and
fro to catch a sight of the gods which it adores. Above, the sound of
lively strains announces that dancing has begun, and every one hurries
to take part in the pleasure of the light fantastic toe.
The dance music has suddenly ceased. Every one has turned to ascertain
the cause. The noble host is observed to be making for the centre of the
magnificent suite of rooms where every one is enjoying his or herself.
He carries in his hand a telegram, and with the other hand slightly
raised, appears to be enjoining silence. Very striking to look at is
Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale. His age may be between twenty-five and
twenty-six. He is very tall and broad-shouldered, his hair, dark as the
raven’s wing, close curls about his forehead, which is high, and white,
and intellectual. His eyes are also very dark, with a soft, dreamy look
in them, his mouth firm set and well made, is sheltered by a long silken
moustache.
Silence has sunk on all around. One might hear a pin drop so intense has
it become. Every one is on a tiptoe of expectation. The sight of that
telegram has set every heart beating.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” calls out the duke, raising it on high, “I have
good news for you all. This is a telegram from my dear friend, Hector
D’Estrange. He has beaten his opponent by 2,330 votes, and is now member
for the Douglasdale division of Dumfriesshire.”
What a shout goes up! Men and women cheer again and again. It is felt
that the pinnacle of fame on which that young man rests has gone up
higher in the scale of merited success. Even his enemies cannot help
feeling glad, for Hector D’Estrange is a name to conjure by.
“He’ll be Prime Minister before another year or two are gone,” exclaims
Sir Randolph Fisticuffs, just a little jealously to a lady by his side.
She looks at him earnestly as she replies,
“God bless the day when he is! We shall get justice then.”
“Oh!” he answers pettishly, “that’s just it. He has set all you women
discontented with your lot; he has lit a fire which won’t be readily
extinguished. Mark my words, he’ll burn his fingers over it yet, if he
don’t take care.”
“Not he,” she answers stoutly; “Hector D’Estrange knows what he is
about. He has won the devoted, undying love of hundreds, nay, thousands
and tens of thousands of women, for his brave, chivalrous exposure of
their wrongs, and defence of their rights.”
Sir Randolph Fisticuffs laughs.
“You ought to join the Woman’s Volunteer Corps,” he observes
sarcastically.
“Ought I?” She opens her grey eyes wide. “As it happens, I joined it a
year ago.”
“The devil you did!” he exclaims in a surprised tone. “So you are a
Hector D’Estrangeite, eh?”
“I am,” she answers proudly.
The music has recommenced; a dreamy waltz is sounding through the room;
every one has begun dancing again. Only the dowagers are at rest. Not a
man appears unoccupied. Yes, one is, though. It is the young Duke of
Ravensdale himself.
He is leaning against a bank of moss and roses apparently watching the
busy throng. There is a far-away look in his eyes, however, which tells
that his thoughts have flown beyond the giddy pastime of the hour. He is
thinking of his friend’s latest triumph, and what will be the outcome of
it all. For Evelyn Ravensdale’s heart has gone out to Hector D’Estrange,
and he loves him with that devoted, admiring love which some men have
been known to inspire in others.
“Just look at the duke,” whispers Lady Tabbycat to her friend Mrs.
Moreton Savage; “one would think there wasn’t a pretty girl in the room,
or a heart aching for him, by the way he stands there doing nothing and
saying nothing. I can’t think what makes him so shy and reserved. He was
all fire just now when he was telling us of Hector D’Estrange’s triumph;
and now just look at him, my dear.”
Mrs. Moreton Savage does look at him, but she is just as far from making
him out as her friend Lady Tabbycat is. Mrs. Moreton Savage is a dame
whose mind has never soared beyond the fitting on of a dress, the making
of matches, and the desirability of knowing all the best people in
society. She has worked assiduously with those aims in view, and has the
satisfaction of knowing that she has been more or less successful. Such
a thought as the condition of society, and the people in the past,
present, and future, has never entered her brain. She is quite content
that things should go on exactly as they are, that there should be
immense riches on one side, intense misery and poverty on the other.
Such problems as the relation of man and woman in this world, and the
terrible evils arising out of the false position of the sexes, has never
troubled her. She has no wish to see mankind perfected, or to place
Society on a higher level and basis than it is. There is just this
difference, therefore, between herself and the man whom she and Lady
Tabbycat are discussing, and that is that _he does_. Often and often
have the young duke and Hector D’Estrange discussed these problems
together in their early morning rides or cosy after-dinner chats. It is
Hector D’Estrange who has converted him to his present way of thinking.
He had come into his property a sufficiently self-conceited, spoilt
young man; with the world at his feet, men and women angling for his
favours, as many will do to the highborn and the rich. He had never
paused to wonder what he should do with his money, and position, and
power. He was preparing himself to enjoy life in the only way which up
till then he had viewed as possible, when a fateful chance threw him in
the path of Hector D’Estrange.
Men wondered at the change in the young Duke of Ravensdale. It was such
a sudden one; they could not make it out; it mystified them altogether.
Some put it down to love, and wondered who was the lucky one.
He has roused himself from his dreams with a shake and a start, and is
standing upright now. A boy is passing close by him, a boy with pretty
curling brown hair and large hazel eyes, a boy in whose face laughter
and happiness are shining brightly, a boy whose life so far has been
sunshine perpetual, without the storm and the hurricane. It would hardly
be possible to find two brothers more extremely unlike than Evelyn, Duke
of Ravensdale, and his younger and only brother, Lord Bernard Fontenoy.
No one looking at the two standing together would take them to be
related, certainly not so closely as they are.
“Bernie,” calls the duke, as the boy passes along, and in an instant
this latter is at his side.
“Yes, Evie,” he asks inquiringly, looking up into his brother’s face.
“Anything you want me to do?”
“Yes, dear,” answers the duke. “I want you to take my place for an hour
or two. I have business that calls me away. Now, do you think, Bernie,
that I can trust your giddy head to see to everything in my absence?”
“Giddy head!” pouts the boy, pretending to look seriously offended. “If
you did well-nigh eight months’ hard study out of twelve, you would like
to enjoy yourself in the few hours snatched from toil and mental
struggle.”
“Poor boy! you look hard-worked and suffering,” laughs the duke, as he
eyes the bright, healthy, handsome face of the youthful complainant;
“but seriously, Bernie, can I trust you to overlook everything for me?”
“Of course you can, Evie,” replies Bernard, with a look of importance.
“I promise you I will see to everything tiptop. I suppose if you’re away
I shall have to take in the Princess to supper, sha’n’t I? Do you think
Her Royal Highness will put up with a jackanapes like me?”
“I think so, Bernie. Anyhow, you must do your best. Go and make my
excuses to the Prince. A sudden business calls me away; I will be back
as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, my boy, do your best to take my
place. I am sure I can trust you.”
He lays his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder as he turns to go. Bernie
Fontenoy idolises his brother, but he feels at this moment as if there
is nothing in the wide world he would not do for him, if it were in his
power.
Evie Ravensdale passes quickly down the beautiful grand staircase
towards the front door. Pompous servants are hurrying to and fro. A big
portly butler, with a magnificent white waistcoat and ponderously heavy
gold chain, is giving his orders in a voice the importance of which can
only be measured by the value he puts upon himself. As he sees the duke
descending, however, he moderates his tone, and is all obsequiousness in
a moment.
“Repton, give me my cloak and hat, please,” commands the duke in a
quiet, civil voice, and the magnificent functionary hastens to obey. He
is wondering all the time, however, what it can be that takes his Grace
out at such a time.
“A hansom, Repton, please.”
Repton turns to a crimson-plushed, knee-breeched, white-silk-stockinged
subordinate.
“Call a hansom, John,” he says loftily. It would be quite impossible for
himself, the great Mr. Repton, to perform such a menial office; no one
could expect it of _him_. The whistle rings through Whitehall. Rumbling
wheels answer the summons. In a few minutes a hansom dashes up. The
great Mr. Repton holds open the front door; Evie Ravensdale passes out.
One of the crimson-plushed, knee-breeched menials unfolds the cab doors,
and stands with his hands over the wheels while his master springs in;
then he closes them to.
“Where to, your Grace?” he inquires respectfully.
And Evie Ravensdale, looking up at his brilliantly lighted luxurious
mansion above him, answers somewhat absently, “Whitechapel.”
The fit is on him to see and contrast the misery of some of London’s
quarters with the wealth and the luxury which he has just quitted.
Hector D’Estrange’s telegram has brought it to his mind. He remembers
his last conversation with that dearly beloved friend, and how it had
turned on that very point. The splendour of his own mansion, the
brilliancy that he saw around him a few minutes since is about to be
changed for cold, dark, ill-lighted streets, narrow alleys, and filthy
courts. He wants to see it all for himself.
The hansom rattles through the streets. It goes at a good pace, but it
seems a long time getting to its destination. At length it pulls up.
“What part of Whitechapel, sir?” inquires the cabman, looking through
the aperture in the roof of his vehicle.
“You may put me down here, cabby,” answers the young duke, handing him
half-a-sovereign; “and if you like to wait for me, I may be about an
hour gone. I’ll pay you well, if you will.”
“You’re a genelman, I can sees that pretty plainly,” answers the cabman
glibly, as he touches his hat, and pockets the half-sovereign. “I’ll
wait, sir; no fear.”
Evelyn Ravensdale wanders through the gloomy, ill-lighted streets.
Midnight has chimed out from Big Ben; it is getting on towards one
o’clock, and he does not meet many people. A policeman or two saunter
along their beats, and turn their lights upon him as he passes.
Sometimes a man and woman flit past him, or a solitary man by himself.
He passes a dark, gloomy-looking archway into which the light from a
flickering gas-lamp just penetrates. He can see a boy and girl with
white, pinched faces asleep in an old barrel in one corner, a shivering,
skinny dog curled up at their feet. The sight is terrible to him. He
steps into the archway, and touches the boy on the shoulder. With a
frightened cry the lad starts up and eyes him beseechingly.
“Ah, bobby! Don’t turn us out to-night,” he says pleadingly. “Maggie’s
so poorly and sick, she can hardly stand up. See, she’s asleep now.
Don’t wake her, please, bobby, don’t.”
He starts suddenly, and pulls his forelock as he perceives that it is
not a policeman he is talking to. “Beg pardon, sir,” he says, “thought
it was a bobby.”
“Have you no better place than this to sleep in, my poor lad?” inquires
the duke pityingly, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder.
“Ah, sir! this is a gran’ place. We don’t allays gets the likes o’ this.
Poor Maggie, she was so pleased when we found this ’ere barrel. See,
sir, how she do sleep.”
“Is Maggie your sister?” asks the young duke, with a half-sob.
“No, sir, she’s my gal. Maggie and me, we’ves been together a long time
now, we has.”
“And what do you do for a living, boy?” continues Evelyn Ravensdale
gently.
“Anything, sir, we can get to do. It’s not allays we can get a job, and
then we have to go hungry like.”
“My God!” bursts from the young man’s lips, but he says no more. The
next moment he has pressed a couple of sovereigns into the poor lad’s
hand, and is gone.
He wanders on through the same street. He takes no note of the name of
it. His thoughts are far too busy for that. He is approaching another
street, less lonely and better lighted than the one he is in. There are
more people about, and he sees several women loitering up and down near
the corner. Instinctively he crosses the street so as to avoid them. Two
of them are making off after two men that have just passed by, the third
is left alone. She spies the young duke at once, and runs across the
street to cut him off. He sees he cannot avoid her, and pulls himself
together. In another moment she is by his side, with one hand on his
arm.
“Won’t you come home with me, dear?” she says softly. “Won’t you——”
“Peace, woman!” he almost shouts, as he flings off her hand from his
arm. She starts back with a low cry, and he sees a face, young still,
with traces of great beauty, but careworn and haggard with suffering.
His heart is filled with a great pity; he feels that such sights as
these are unendurable to him. He feels that he cannot face them.
“Poor thing, poor thing,” he says gently; “forgive me if I was rough to
you. This is no place for you, my child. You look a mere child; are you
not one?”
“I am eighteen,” she stammers.
“Eighteen, and so fallen!” he exclaims in a horrified tone. “Ah, child!
get away out of this.”
“And starve?” she ejaculates bitterly. “Easy for you to talk; you are
not starving.”
“Starving!” He utters that word with a peculiar intonation. It tells her
what pity there is in his heart for her.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaims, “I would not be here if I were not driven to
it. I don’t want to be here. I hate it; I hate it! It is my hard, hard
fate, that I am here.”
“Have you no father, no mother to care for you?” he asks sadly.
“No, sir, not to care for me,” she answers, with a sob. “Father’s in
gaol. Mother walks the streets like me, to make her bread. She told me
I’d better do so too, unless I wanted to starve. That’s how it is, sir.”
He covers his face with one hand, and groans aloud. His thoughts have
rushed back to the luxury he has but lately quitted; he compares it with
the misery he has just witnessed. Once more his hand is in his pocket.
“If I give you this, my child,” he says, drawing out a five-pound note,
“will you promise me to go home at once, and leave these streets of
infamy and wrong; and if I give you my card, and promise to place you in
a way of earning an honest livelihood, will you call at my house
to-morrow for a letter which I will leave to be given to you? Will you
try and get your mother, too, to come with you?”
She bursts into tears. “Ah, sir! may God in heaven bless you. Yes, yes,
I will promise; indeed I will. Gladly, too gladly.”
He holds out to her the card and the bank-note. As she takes them she
bends over his hand and kisses it passionately. He draws it gently away.
“Remember your promise,” he says quietly.
“I will,” she answers, between her sobs. “Oh God! I would die for you,
sir.”
He watches her as she turns away and disappears in the gloom. Heavy
tears are in his eyes.
“I must go home now,” he whispers to himself. “_I cannot see more._”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
“Ten to one bar one, ten to one bar one, ten to one bar one.” The ring
is roaring itself hoarse over these words; the hubbub is deafening; it
reverberates all around; it echoes and re-echoes through the hot June
air.
It is Derby Day. The waving downs of Epsom are alive with people; they
swarm over every cranny and nook of the wide-stretching space on either
side of the straight run-in; they surge to and fro like a sea of dark,
moving matter; they contribute to the busy air of life, that has
established its reign on all around. It is a great day. Always crowded,
Epsom is more than usually so. Old _habitués_ of the place declare, that
never in their memories—and some of them have pretty old ones—can they
recollect such a swarming throng.
But the reason for all this crowd is an excellent one. Have not the
people come to see the great horse win?
He is in the paddock now, and is being stripped, for the saddling bell
has rung. He is the centre of a pushing, hustling throng, all eager to
catch a glimpse of the unbeaten hero of the day; for have not his
triumphs been such as a horse and its owner might well be proud of,
carrying, as he does, the laurels of the Dewhurst Plate, the Middle Park
Plate, and the Two Thousand Guineas upon him?
What a grand-looking horse he is! How his rich, ruddy chestnut coat
glistens in the sun like armour of burnished gold! Such a quiet beast,
too, neither snatching, nor stamping, nor doing aught that a restive or
vicious racehorse would.
“He can’t be beat!” exclaims a young man who has been standing silently
watching the stripping process. “I’ll be a man or a mouse, Florrie; I’ll
stand every penny I’ve got on him or lose all, hanged if I won’t!”
“Don’t be a fool, Reggie,” answers the lady addressed. She is close
beside him, and has laid her hand on his arm. It is Flora Desmond.
“Fool or no fool,” he answers quickly, “I mean to have this dash. I tell
you he can’t be beat. It’s only a question of pluck laying the odds.
Hanged if I won’t stand every penny of the £100,000 which I have got on
him. They are taking twenty to one now.”
“Suppose he is beaten,” she says quietly?
“Then I shall be a beggar,” he answers, with a laugh; “but I’m not
afraid. By God! I’ll stand my chance.”
He turns as he speaks, and tries to get through the crowd. What can she
do? She has little or no influence with him, and if she had, this is no
place in which to reason and argue with him. She feels downcast and sad;
for although she, like every one else, has little doubt in her mind that
Corrie Glen will win, there is just the chance, ever so slight, that he
might not. And if he does not, “well, what then?”
“Ruin!” she soliloquises half aloud, as she puts the question to
herself, and answers it in that one word. There is a bitter smile on
Flora Desmond’s face, for she knows what ruin would mean.
“Are you looking Corrie Glen over, Lady Flora?” inquires a voice at her
elbow. She has no need to turn round to discover the speaker, for she
knows the voice full well. It is that of Hector D’Estrange.
He has heard the conversation between Sir Reginald Desmond and his wife,
and as the former elbows his way through the crowd, he has pushed
forward and sidled into his place by her side.
“Yes, Mr. D’Estrange, I am,” she answers just a shade wearily. “Like
every one else, I am looking at the crack. I suppose he can’t be beat?
By-the-bye,” she adds hastily, “you’ve a horse in this race, haven’t
you?”
“I have a mare,” he replies significantly; “and whom do you think is
going to ride her, qualified for a jockey’s license, and everything on
purpose?”
“Who?” she inquires absently.
“Why, Bernie Fontenoy. The boy’s a splendid rider, and mark my words,
Lady Flora, if he doesn’t win, it will be a near thing between my Black
Queen and Corrie Glen.”
She starts. She has never known Hector D’Estrange to err yet, and her
husband’s rash act recurs more forcibly to her mind. “May I see Black
Queen?” she inquires hastily.
“Certainly,” he answers; “come with me.”
They push through the crowd, still surging round the chestnut horse, and
make their way across the paddock to a quiet spot, where very few people
are observable. A coal-black mare has just been stripped, and her jockey
is standing close beside her. His colours are tinselled-gold.
“That is Black Queen,” observes Hector D’Estrange quietly. “You are a
good judge of a horse, Lady Flora; what do you think of her?”
She does not reply, but walks up to within a few paces of the mare, and
looks her over keenly. She sees before her an animal which, to her eyes,
used though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect picture. The
mare is coal-black; there is not a white hair on her; she is faultlessly
shaped all over.
“I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all my life!” exclaims
Flora Desmond, and there is a true ring of admiration in her tone. As
she speaks the Duke of Ravensdale comes up.
“So you’re going to win the Derby, Bernie, are you?” he inquires
jokingly, as he raises his hat to Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand
to her. “Nice youngster that,” he continues, addressing her. “Gave me no
peace till I gave him leave to ride, which I never should have done, had
it not been at Hector’s request; and now I do believe that he thinks he
is going to win!”
“I shall have a good try, Evie,” the boy replies in a mettled voice. “I
can’t do more than ride my very best, can I, Mr. D’Estrange?”
“No indeed, my boy, that you cannot,” answers this latter kindly. “Do
your best; no one can ask for more.”
There is a light in Bernie’s eye, a flush on his cheek. Flora notes them
both. Full well she knows what they mean.
“Mr. D’Estrange,” she says hurriedly, moving a few paces aside, “may I
speak to you for one moment?”
He follows her with a grave, inquiring look.
“I know you never bet,” she continues quickly, “but do you know what
they are laying against Black Queen?”
“A hundred to one,” he answers carelessly.
“Then will you do me a great favour?” she says in a sad, pleading voice.
“Though you never bet, and I hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in
the ring, so that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I wouldn’t
ask this of you, only you seem so confident in your mare, and, and——”
“I understand,” he answers quietly; “I’ll do it for you, Lady Flora. The
race lies between Corrie Glen and my mare, and I quite understand why
you want to back the latter. I couldn’t help hearing what Sir Reginald
said over there. It’s on his account, is it not?”
“It is,” she answers bitterly. “As you heard him, you will quite
understand.”
“Leave it to me,” he continues in a kind voice. “I’ll just give Bernie
his last instructions, and then I’ll hurry across and do your
commission. Will you come over to the stand with Ravensdale?”
“I will,” she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes.
And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the beautiful mare, with its
handsome jockey, is moving slowly across the paddock to the course. The
tinselled-gold on the boy’s jacket gleams and sparkles in the sun, and
many an admiring eye rests on the two as they pass out.
He has come out last, and is at the tail end of the long file of horses
parading past the stand. Every one is so keen on singling out the
favourite, that Black Queen at first is not much noticed. Yet the
sparkling gold on the jacket is bound to attract the eye, and the fact
that Lord Bernard Fontenoy, brother of the Duke of Ravensdale, is riding
the coal-black mare, awakens interest in the dark steed.
“Why, it’s little Lord Bernie riding, I do declare!” giggles Mrs. de
Lacy Trevor to Lord Charles Dartrey, who is leaning over her chair
pointing out the horses and jockeys on the card in her lap. “What a duck
he looks! Oh, I wish Dodo was here!”
“Can’t think what D’Estrange means by putting the boy up. He can’t win;
and it will only break his heart,” ejaculates Lord Charles
superciliously.
“How old is Lord Bernie?” queries Mrs. Trevor in an interested voice.
“Oh, I do wish the darling would win!”
“That’s impossible,” says Lord Charles loftily, “nothing can beat Corrie
Glen.”
They are cantering down to the post now, the favourite with great raking
strides covering his ground comfortably, and playing kindly with his
snaffle, as his jockey leans forward and eases him a bit. Bernie has not
started the Black Queen yet; he is leaning down talking to his brother.
All eyes are upon him, however, as they see him squeeze the duke’s hand,
which is laid on the boy’s knee. Suddenly, however, he dresses himself
upright.
“I must go now, Evie dear,” he says, and there is a tremor in his voice.
“Oh, pray that I may win!”
Then he sets the mare into a canter, and follows in the wake of the
others.
“My word! that mare moves well,” exclaimed Sir Horsey de Freyne
nervously; “don’t half like the look of her. Think I must have something
on her for luck. Belongs to that deuced lucky fellow D’Estrange, too.
Shouldn’t be surprised to see the gold jacket flashing in first.”
“Bosh!” answers Sir Reginald Desmond, who is standing next to him. “My
dear old fellow, it’s only throwing your money away. Corrie Glen can’t
be beat.”
But Sir Horsey de Freyne is not convinced, and goes off to see what he
can get laid him against the mare.
“S’pose you’ve backed the favourite, old chap?” inquires another shining
light at Sir Reggie’s elbow.
“Yes,” answers this latter shortly.
“Had a plunge, eh?” persists the golden youth, who doesn’t know a horse
from a cow.
“Have got £100,000 on him,” is Sir Reggie’s curt reply. He is looking
through his glasses, and his face is rather white.
“Oh! I say,” blurts out the youth, as he edges off to tell all those who
will listen to him; “I say, you know, Desmond’s laid out £100,000 on the
favourite.”
There is a murmur in the stands; it runs through them all like an
electric shock. “They’re off!” is the hoarse cry that resounds suddenly
from hundreds of throats. To an excellent start, Lord Marcovitch Bolster
has despatched the lot, and as they all stare through their glasses,
they can perceive that Hamptonian has taken up the running, closely
followed by Masterman Ready, Holyoakes, and Kesteven. Lying fifth is the
favourite, and two lengths behind him gleams a flashing spot of gold. A
strange horse is overhauling the lot, Hamptonian drops back, and the
stranger creeping to the front makes the pace terrific. But fast as he
goes he cannot shake off the chestnut, who apparently without effort is
going easily enough, and keeping his place as fifth in the crowd. Now
the spot of gold seems nearer up; it passes Corrie Glen, and falls into
fourth place, Kesteven retiring to the rear. They are racing down the
incline. Masterman Ready begins to tire, and the spot of flashing gold
closes up to Holyoakes. These two come along neck and neck, Corrie Glen
just behind them, the strange horse still in the van. Tattenham Corner
is reached. They round it in the order named, and enter the straight;
but here the stranger is in difficulties, and Holyoakes and Black Queen,
on which sits the spot of gold rigid almost as marble, begin to close
upon him. A little more than a quarter of a mile from home they reach
him, and he flings up the sponge, retiring to the rear. There are only
three horses left in the race now, Holyoakes, Black Queen, and Corrie
Glen. This latter is drawing up to the first two named, with great
raking strides he is alongside them, and quickly the three are abreast.
A distant roar sounds in Bernie’s ears, there is a film over his eyes,
his heart feels as if it must stop beating, but he sits very still, and
does not attempt to urge his horse any faster. Suddenly he sees a flash
on his left. The jockey who is riding Holyoakes has his whip out, and
Bernie knows he has nothing any longer to fear from him. He glances to
the right; the great chestnut is flashing along; there is no whip needed
there.
“Oh God! let me win,” bursts from the boy’s pale lips, as he tightens
his rein ever so little, and touches the mare gently with the spur. He
is surprised at the effect. He thought she had been going fast before,
but she is going faster now. She is quite a length ahead of Corrie Glen,
and the jockey of this latter is visibly surprised. He has begun to ride
the horse at last, and his whip is actually out.
“Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” comes the wild shout from the
stands, as the noble chestnut, with a supreme effort, closes with the
Black Queen. They are hardly fifty yards from the winning post; the roar
is terrific. Bernie hears it, but he can see nothing now. He makes,
however, a final effort, and calls on the mare once more; he has never
used his whip.
“Corrie Glen wins! Corrie Glen wins!” The words pierce to his brain. He
has done his best, he cannot do more; he knows this well; yet would to
God he could win!
“Corrie Glen wins!” Ah! they don’t know the Black Queen. She has
answered the boy’s last call; she has made one more magnificent effort;
and, shooting ahead of the favourite, passes the post a winner by a
neck!
What a yell goes up from the ring! Blank deadly consternation is in the
faces of the backers. In the stands there is very little cheering.
Hardly a soul in all that vast crowd has backed the “dark” black mare.
And Sir Reginald Desmond is still standing where we left him. He is
deadly pale; his arms are folded on his chest; there is despair in his
eyes.
“Had a bad race, old chap? I fear we all have,” says a voice at his
elbow. He laughs, and turns towards the speaker. This latter starts as
he notices the ghastly, haggard look on the young baronet’s face.
“Yes—well, yes, haven’t had a good one,” answers Sir Reggie coolly,
taking out his cigarette-case and leisurely selecting a cigarette
therefrom. “Have a cigarette, Fernley?”
“No thanks, Desmond, am just going to have lunch. Wonderful race young
Bernie Fontenoy rode there. Won’t the brat be proud?”
“Oh! ah! yes, won’t he?” answers Sir Reggie absently. His thoughts have
wandered again. He is looking ahead into the black future. Now that it
is too late, he is cursing himself for a fool and an idiot. Oh! why did
he not take Flora’s advice?
The stand in which he is, is nearly empty. Every one is making off to
get lunch; in a few minutes it is entirely deserted. He sits on alone in
it. The cigarette he had lit so ostentatiously not long since has gone
out, but it is still clenched between his teeth.
The future _will_ rise to his mind. How can such as he face it? He has
never been brought up to do anything; he is ill-read, ill-taught, and
ignorant. He has never given his mind to anything but amusing himself;
and now if he pays the ring what is justly owing to it he will be a
beggar, with nothing to live on and nothing to look forward to but
misery, and, in his eyes, disgrace.
Poor Sir Reginald! He feels his position acutely, it is burning itself
into his brain. He feels that it is past endurance, that _he cannot_
face it.
“I’ll go home,” he says wearily to himself. “I can’t face Flora after
this; it’s all too dreadful.”
He rises wearily and goes out. The back of the stand is more or less
crowded by the hangers-on and scum of every race-course. How he hates
and loathes the sight of them now; how their rough, coarse,
pleasure-seeking faces bring up to his mind, with haunting horror, the
great loss which he has sustained! He is staying near the race-course,
and has not far to go, so he hurries through the crowd and makes
straight for The Laurels, which is the name of the place. He reaches it,
and tries the front door. It is locked; of course no one is expected
back yet. He knows of a side-entrance though through the smoking-room.
Ten to one the careful servants have forgotten it. He walks round and
tries it. Yes, true enough, they have. Very quietly Sir Reginald slips
in. In another moment he is upstairs and in his bedroom.
He turns the key in the door, and goes over to the writing table. His
face is still deadly pale, and he walks like one who has had too much to
drink. He sits at the table and scrawls a few hurried lines. They are as
follows:—
“Flora dear, forgive me. I’ve been a brute and an idiot. Would to God
I had taken your advice! But it’s too late now. You’ll pay the ring
for me, dear. Let them know it was my last wish. If I lived we should
be beggars, and I can’t condemn you and the ‘little one’ to that. But
at my death you’ll get all that money that is to come to you and the
child. Good-bye, dear old girl. You’ve been good and kind to me. This
is about all Reggie can do to show you he is grateful. Good-bye.
Forgive.”
She has been looking for him a long time, and so has Hector D’Estrange,
but there is no sign of Sir Reginald Desmond anywhere. At last she can
stand it no longer.
“I must go back to The Laurels,” she says; “perhaps he is there.”
Estcourt, who is standing by her, offers to accompany her, and thither
they proceed in silence. Of course when they reach the house no one has
seen him. The servants assure her ladyship that Sir Reginald has not
returned; they must have seen him if he had. They forget to add that the
greater number of them have been perched on the high wall surrounding
The Laurels, during the greater part of the day, watching the races.
“I’ll just run up to the bedroom and have a look,” says Flora to
Estcourt. “I won’t be a minute.”
He waits below, but almost directly hears his name called,—
“Estcourt, come here.”
He races up the stairs. He finds her standing outside the door of a
bedroom.
“I can’t get in,” she says hurriedly. “I’ve called, but there is no
reply. Oh, Estcourt! do you think he is in there?”
He makes no reply, but runs downstairs. In a few minutes he is back with
a hatchet. Curious servants are following him.
“Stand back,” he says to Flora. She obeys, and the young man brings the
hatchet with tremendous force against the lock. Three, four, five
strokes, and he has broken it to shivers. Then he opens the door.
Sir Reginald Desmond is seated at his writing table. His left hand is
beneath his chest, his head is resting on the table above it, his right
is outstretched and hanging over the side. Just below it on the floor
lies a revolver, and drip, drip, drip, dripping on to the chair on which
he sits, is a stream of running blood. Who shall judge him as he lays
there silent, and fast stiffening? for—
“He is dead, and blame and praise fall on his ear alike, now hushed in
death.”
Those may do so who can. I cannot.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
“Were you in the Commons last night? Did you go to hear Hector
D’Estrange?”
“Rather; I think all the world was there, or trying to be there. I don’t
think I have ever seen such a crowd before.”
“What a wonderful speaker he is, to be sure!”
“Yes. With the exception of Gladstone, I don’t suppose there ever was
one like him, or ever will be again. Talk of orators of bygone days!
Pooh! they never came up to him.”
“Well, the women have got the Suffrage in full at last, thanks to him.
The next thing is to see what use they’ll make of it.”
“Better, perhaps, than we men have.”
The speakers are two men, the Honourable Tredegar Molyneux, M.P., and
Colonel des Vœux of the Blues. Nearly four years have passed since the
events related in the last chapter. The world has been slowly marching
forward, and many things have happened between that time and this. In
the political world, and in Parliament, like everywhere else, Hector
D’Estrange has made a stir. His eloquence and debating power are the
wonder of all who hear him, and his practical, sympathetic knowledge of
the social questions of the day has made him the idol of the masses. He
has just succeeded in carrying his Woman’s Suffrage Bill by a large
majority, thereby conferring on women, married or unmarried, in this
respect, identical rights with men. And now to-day in the monster Hall
of Liberty, which he has founded, and which has been erected by the
lavish subscriptions of the women of Great Britain, Ireland, and the
world at large, he is to preside at the ceremony of its opening. It _is_
a monster building. Talk of Olympia, of the Albert Hall—why, they are
dwarfs beside it!
In shape it is circular, and towers aloft towards heaven, its great dome
pinnacle crowned by a cap of glass, which report declares to consist of
a million panes. Around this glass a gilded crown is twined, and holding
it there—one in a kneeling attitude, the other upright, with one hand
high upraised towards heaven—are two gilded women’s forms. They are the
Statues of Liberty.
The interior of this vast structure is wonderful to look upon. The floor
or centre is raised, and constructed so as to move on a pivot slowly
round. It consists of an immense ring, the middle of which presents the
appearance of a giant circus. On the right, or side facing the great
entrance, is a monster swimming bath, and exactly opposite, or on the
other side of the circus, is a huge platform. Suspended in mid air, a
very network of trapezes and other gymnastic appliances hang, while
stretched tightly beneath them is a monster net. Around the arena, with
a low palisade separating it from the same, is a broad circular
horse-ride, and raised slightly above this, running all round in a
similar manner, a roomy promenade. Then come tier above tier, tier above
tier of seats, amidst which here and there boxes are placed
promiscuously, while dotted about all over these countless and seemingly
never-ending stories, are cosy platforms enthroned in a wealth of green,
where abundance of refreshments are obtainable.
The seats come to an end at last, and are replaced by six broad
balconies running entirely round the building, and built one above the
other; opening on to these balconies are what appear to the spectator in
the arena as thousands of pigeon-holes. In reality they are doors,
communicating each one with a tiny but compact room, in which stands a
bed, two chairs, a washhand-stand, a small dressing table, and a writing
table. It is stated that in all, opening off from these balconies, are
ten thousand rooms. These rooms have been included in the building to
accommodate women students from all parts of the world, who may wish to
take part in the physical drill or educational advantages afforded by
this great central institute for the training of womankind. Attached to
the Hall of Liberty are large lecture-rooms, studying-rooms, and
reading-rooms, and in connection with these a monster library. Outside
the building are the stables, one of the wonders of London, the grooms
being entirely composed of girls and women; and clustering round the
mother structure like a miniature town, are the pretty cottages and
dwellings of the immense staff of instructors, teachers, and lecturers
connected with the institution. It is a wonderful structure, and its
erection is a triumph, the magnitude of which can hardly be measured,
for Hector D’Estrange. It was he who conceived it, it was he who
submitted it to the approval of his countrymen, and it was he who
commanded the expenditure of the voluminous subscriptions, which in
answer to his appeal poured in from all quarters of the globe. No less
marvellous was the rapidity with which it arose, thousands of workmen
having been employed in its construction.
It is finished now; it towers to heaven like a mighty giant from some
unknown world. The gilded Statues of Liberty flash back the sun’s rays,
and stand out to view for miles and miles around. All London is flocking
to the ceremony of its opening, for is not the genius that conceived and
placed it there to be the principal functionary of the day?
All is orderly in the streets; the vast crowd is held and kept in check
by the military and the police. A good-humoured, happy crowd, it seems
to be, with here and there occasionally a little rough horse-play. But
no harm is done. The people are on their best behaviour, for Hector
D’Estrange, the idol of that people, has appealed to them to preserve
order.
The vast building is rapidly filling. Since the great doors have been
thrown open, it has been one successive influx of people. There is no
disorder, for there is a separate passage for the holders of each class
of ticket, and along these the incomers are marshalled by the liveried
servants of the establishment. It is a wonderful sight to see the people
swarming to their places, and all the while through the building
trembles dreamy music, which thrills the senses, and makes them all
aglow with gentle and tender feeling. At last it is full. There is not
an inch of standing room in all that vast space set aside for
spectators; every seat is appropriated. Not a vacant one to be seen, and
it is computed that there are 50,000.
Every class is there; from the prince and peer, to the labouring man and
peasant, all have come, attracted by the all-powerful genius who is to
address that monster meeting this day. Imbued with the same feeling,
impelled by the same curiosity, attracted by the same sentiment, that
crowd of mixed denominations and sexes awaits his coming in breathless
expectation.
And it has not long to wait. The clock is striking eleven, when a
distant roar is heard, and the strains of martial music come floating
from afar. In the great Hall of Liberty a sudden hush has fallen; the
dreamy music has ceased abruptly, and a supreme silence reigns.
Again that roar! It is like the booming of a thousand cannons. It is
steady now and unceasing; it rushes forward along the dense walls of
spectators that throng the streets on either side of the way up which
Hector D’Estrange has to pass.
A whisper runs through the vast hall, a whisper of suppressed excitement
and expectation. “He is coming; he is coming!” is on every one’s lips,
as with eyes aglow and hearts thrilling with eagerness, the people bend
forward in their seats to watch for him.
The crowds outside the building have begun to cheer. The martial music
is very distinct now. The plaudits are every moment becoming more
intense, until they break into a deep and prolonged roar. As they do so,
the great folding doors of the Hall of Liberty are thrown open, and the
people rise in a body to their feet.
He is entering now. Preceded by the band of the White Regiment of the
Women’s Volunteer Companies, playing a march triumphant, he passes
through the giant portals. His head is bared, and he is mounted on a
milk-white horse, which he sits with grace and ease. As he does so the
sun shines down on his dark auburn hair, lighting it up with the tints
of old-gold that play amidst the curls which nestle on his high, white
brow, while the sapphire light in his glorious eyes shoots forth with a
gleam of triumph as he surveys the magnificent scene.
He is dressed in the White Guard Regiment uniform of the Women’s
Volunteer Companies, of which he is Commander-in-Chief; but the regiment
itself is his own especial one. It was the first which he established
four and a half years ago, when he first took the matter in hand. The
idea has prospered since then, and the women enrolled in all the
companies of the Volunteer force number 200,000.
It is a fitting uniform for the occasion, one which he has done well to
don; for the first business of to-day’s ceremonial will be the march
past of the “picked” of the companies of these 200,000.
He has ridden round the broad, spacious horse-ride followed by one or
two especial friends, conspicuous amongst whom is the Duke of
Ravensdale. The cheering is deafening; it never ceases for a moment. It
swells and swells again, like the mighty midocean waves, that bear
onwards in their wild career to break on the lone sea-shore.
And now he has dismounted, and, with his friends, has taken his place on
the evergreen flower-decked platform. Even as he does so his dark
sapphire eyes are raised aloft, and sweep with their dreamy gaze the
thousands that throng that vast Hall of Liberty, as if seeking amidst
the multitude one especial form. It is even so; and as they roam the sea
of faces, all turned to his, they are suddenly brought to a standstill.
The anxious, searching look within them dies away, giving place to one
of calm contentment and repose, for Speranza is there.
The mother’s eyes are fixed upon her child. Through the filmy distance
of space cannot Gloria perceive this well? For a moment, one brief
moment, the hero of the hour is Gloriana de Lara, in the next, he is
Hector D’Estrange. The audience is still cheering,—it seems as though it
will never cease,—but he has raised his hand, and like magic a great
silence falls.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, and the clear, exquisite voice
thrills through the huge building, “I shall have a few words to say to
you before I declare the Hall of Liberty open, but first we will witness
the march past of the representatives of all the companies of the
Women’s Volunteer force of which I have the honour to be
Commander-in-Chief.”
A flourish of trumpets and loud cheering greets this announcement. Once
more the great entrance doors unfold, the band of the White Regiment
strikes up a march, as through the portals, ten abreast, and mounted on
grey horses, that regiment advances at a trot.
And at their head is one whom we have seen before. Very handsome she
looks in her uniform of pure white cloth, with the gold facings
glittering on her breast, and her sword in its silver sheath dangling
sparkling at her side. Flora Desmond is not greatly changed since we saw
her last, in appearance certainly, but over her life has come a wondrous
transformation. She is Hector D’Estrange’s right hand, and in aiding him
to carry out his noble aims is thoroughly in her element.
The white troopers advance at a trot rapid enough, but as each line
passes the platform on which Hector D’Estrange is standing they break
into a canter, increased to a gallop, whirling round the broad-spaced
horse-ride in magnificent order. Looking along the serried line of
horses’ heads hardly a hair’s breadth in difference can be
distinguished, so compact is the position which is maintained throughout
the ranks.
The march strains cease, and give way to a flourish of trumpets.
Simultaneously the galloping steeds are reined on to their haunches,
remaining motionless as statues. Thus they stand until the voice of
Flora Desmond is heard giving the order to retreat, when they fall into
position, and retire at the trot, she riding round to join her chief on
the platform.
And in this wise, headed by their respective bands and officers,
representative companies of Hector D’Estrange’s two hundred regiments
march or gallop past him. The ceremony occupies some two hours, but they
roll by all too quickly for the spectators, who, spell-bound by what
they see, watch the revolving scenes with the keenest interest.
The last one closes appropriately. Crashing and rumbling through the
wide-opened entrance dash the artillery. They come on at a rapid pace,
and wheeling round into the vast arena form up into splendid line. The
work of detaching the horses and unlimbering the guns is that of a
moment. In the next, a tremendous roar rings forth from the mouths of a
score of cannon which have been rapidly charged and fired.
Ere the echoes have died away the horses are again attached, the guns as
rapidly limbered up, and one by one the gun-carriages dash from the
scene, the great doors closing upon them.
Then cheer after cheer rings through the densely packed building as
Hector D’Estrange advances to the front of the platform to speak. But he
is raising his hand once more, as though appealing to be heard, and
again a great silence falls.
“We are here to-day,” the bright, clear ringing voice declares, “to open
a building the magnitude of which cannot be measured by any other in the
world. The Hall of Liberty stands here to day as a living witness to the
desire of woman to be heard. It was six years ago that I first saw it in
my dreams. It is reality now, and will endure through all time, as a
memorial of the first great effort made by woman to shake off the chains
of slavery, that ever since our knowledge of man began, have held her a
prisoner in the gilded gaols of inactivity and helplessness. I stand
here to-day prepared to deny that woman is the inferior of man, either
in mental capacity or physical strength, provided always that she be
given equal advantages with him. I go further still, and declare that in
the former respect she is his superior. You deny it? Then give her the
chance, and I have no fear but that she will prove that I have not lied.
You have to-day seen passed in review 10,000 representatives of the
200,000 volunteers that in a little more than four years have been
enrolled and drilled into the splendid efficiency witnessed on this
memorable occasion. Will you pretend or seek to tell yourselves that in
warfare they would be unavailing? I laugh such an idea to scorn. One of
our most heart-stirring writers—I allude to Whyte-Melville—has left it
declared in his writings, ‘that if a legion of Amazons could be rendered
amenable to discipline they would conquer the world.’ He was right. The
physical courage, of which men vaunt so much, is as nothing when
compared with that greater and more magnificent virtue, ‘moral courage,’
which women have shown that they possess in so eminent a degree over
men; and hence physical courage would come as an agreeable and welcome
visitor where hitherto it has been forcibly denied admission.
“Men and women who hear me to-day, I beseech you ponder the truth of
what I have told you in your hearts. You boast of a civilisation
unparalleled in the world’s history. Yet is it so? Side by side with
wealth, appalling in its magnitude, stalks poverty, misery, and wrong,
more appalling still. I aver that this poverty, misery, and wrong is, in
a great measure, due to the false and unnatural position awarded to
woman; nor will justice, reparation, and perfection be attained until
she takes her place _in all things_ as the equal of man.
“And now, my friends, I will detain you no longer. In this great Hall of
Liberty woman will find much which has long been denied her. It is but a
drop in the ocean of that which is her right, yet is it a noble
beginning of that which must inevitably come. I declare this Hall of
Liberty to be open.”
That is all. He says no more, but with a stately inclination to the vast
audience turns back to where his friends stand. His horse is led forward
by a youthful orderly in the uniform of the White Regiment, and as he
mounts it the band strikes up once more. Bareheaded as he entered, he
rides slowly from the scene of his triumph, and passing again through
the portals of the Hall of Liberty comes out into the densely,
wall-lined street, amidst the roar of the thousands that are there to
greet. Such is the welcome of _the people_ to Hector D’Estrange.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
Lord Westray sits alone in his sanctum in Grosvenor Square. There is an
anxious expression on his face, for he has been expecting some one who
has not turned up. He has already consulted his watch about half-a-dozen
times, and he consults it again. Then he gets up and rings the bell.
He can hear it tinkling downstairs from where he sits. “A smart
servant,” he thinks to himself, “would have answered it quickly.” Yet he
would think this no longer, if he could only hear “his smart servant’s”
remark anent that bell.
“James,” calls out that worthy, who is seated in the room on an easy
armchair in front of the fireplace, with his feet against the
chimney-piece, “what bell’s that?”
“My lord’s, sir,” is the laconic reply from the lackey outside.
“Oh! ah! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again.”
The bell does peal again, this time furiously, and Stuggins, with a face
of disgust, pulls his feet down from the chimney-piece.
“My word! what a hard time of it we have’s,” he ejaculates to himself,
as he rises slowly from his seat to go upstairs.
On reaching Lord Westray’s sanctum, however, his face is composed and
affable.
“This is the second time I’ve rung,” exclaims Lord Westray angrily.
“Surely, Stuggins, there is some one in the house to answer the bell.”
“I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it,” responds Stuggins in a
conciliatory voice.
“Has no one called yet, Stuggins?”
“No one, my lord.”
“Well, he’ll be here at any moment now. Mind he is shown up without any
delay.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling.
Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the doorbell. Lord Westray
starts and listens.
“It’s he!” he ejaculates briefly.
And in a few minutes the “he” is politely waved in by Stuggins.
“Mr. Trackem, my lord.”
“All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home if any one else calls.”
“Very good, my lord.”
The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes the new-comer by the
hand.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem,” he observes heartily. “Began to fear you
were not coming. A little late, eh?”
“A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed.”
“Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem?”
“Yes,” responds this latter solemnly.
Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly.
“Where?” he asks eagerly.
“Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by shadowing Mr. D’Estrange.”
“Capital!” exclaims Lord Westray, with a laugh. “And does she still go
under the name of Mrs. de Lara?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now, Mr. Trackem, what are your plans?”
Mr. Trackem puts on a mysterious look, walks quickly to the door of the
sanctum, and opens it suddenly. “What do you want?” he inquires sharply
of some one without.
“If you please, sir, I was just coming in to see if his lordship had
rung,” answers Stuggins stolidly, who had never quitted the outside of
the door since we last saw him, and who had been listening intently all
the time.
“Lord Westray did _not_ ring,” answers Mr. Trackem, coldly, “and you are
_not_ required.”
“Oh! very good, sir,” and Stuggins retires defeated, and much put about.
Mr. Trackem watches the butler’s retreating form till it is out of
sight, then he closes the door softly, and returns to his original place
near Lord Westray.
“These are my plans, my lord. I propose to take down two of my men by
rail. Two will be ample, as more might attract attention and be in the
way. I shall send a brougham and smart pair of trotters the day before.
I have ascertained by observation that Mrs. de Lara invariably goes for
a walk in the evening by herself, that her servants do not sit up for
her, as she writes in her study late at night, and I have further
ascertained that she is frequently in the habit of leaving the house
before any one is up, and coming up to town. This is a most valuable
point, as her absence will attract no attention. But to be safe I have
possessed myself of some of her writing paper and a sample of her
writing, and a note will be duly left, apprising her maid of her
departure, and intention to remain in London for a few days.”
“By Jove, Mr. Trackem, you are a smart one! I don’t see how your plan
can fail,” exclaims the wicked earl with a laugh.
“I never fail, my lord, in any of these little businesses,” answers Mr.
Trackem, with a suave smile.
“But ain’t you afraid of the police finding you out?” inquires Lord
Westray, just a little nervously.
Mr. Trackem laughs outright. “Police!” he ejaculates contemptuously.
“What’s the good of them? Think they know a lot, know nothing. Why, my
lord, the police are useless in matters of this sort; and as for
detectives, why, it’s easy to green them up the wrong way. I don’t fear
them. I’m a match for every noodle detective in and around Scotland
Yard, I am,” and Mr. Trackem gives a self-satisfied laugh.
“Well, Mr. Trackem, when is it to be?” inquires the earl anxiously,
after a short lull in the conversation.
“It’s to be the day after to-morrow,” answers Mr. Trackem. “To-morrow my
men go down. I shall follow, and just give them a squint at the place,
and then they’ll be all prepared for the next day. Never fear, my lord;
by Wednesday she shall be in your power.”
“In _my_ power!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly,
through the ground teeth of the man whom Speranza de Lara had called,
and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him,
loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long
years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be
amply and surely revenged.
“Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the
excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my
commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50
down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally
accomplished. Is not that so?”
“It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly.
Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a
cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of
self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and
commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and
stick, preparatory to leaving.
“Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell.
“A glass of sherry, brandy-and-soda, or what?”
“No thank you, my lord, nothing,” answers Mr. Trackem. “Must keep a
clear head in my business. Thanks all the same.”
They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, both intent on a base and
ruffianly deed, yet one of them is regarded as a gentleman, is received
and welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the Government of the
day, and accounted a clever man and useful statesman. Clothed in these
mantles of virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will not
bar Society’s doors against him, or lose him his high preferments. Is he
not a man, one of the dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore,
is he not free to do as he pleases?
* * * * *
The day has come,—a hot July one. Down upon the dusty country roads the
sun has burnt fiercely all day long. The cattle and beasts of the field
have eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the torturing flies that
ever haunt their presence, but evening has fallen at last, and with it
relief has come.
It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old Thames. The silver
streak glides sluggishly along, with the moon’s pale light playing
softly upon it. The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief
sweet reign; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of sleep.
A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and clinging ivy, peeps
forth upon that scene. The smooth lawns around it gleam white as the
driven snow beneath the moon’s soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise up
behind in ebony framework, making an efficient background, while through
the still air trembles and quivers the nightingale’s exquisite song.
It would seem, at a first glance, as if all were asleep in that cottage;
but no, there is yet a light left in one of the rooms on the
ground-floor. Suddenly a pair of window-doors in it are flung open, and
a tall, graceful woman steps out through them. Her head is uncovered,
the moon gleams down upon the thick masses of pale gold hair that cover
it, and shines in her glittering eyes of turquoise-blue. It is Speranza
de Lara.
“What a glorious night!” she soliloquises to herself. “I suppose my
darling is speaking now. She said it would be about ten o’clock. Oh,
Harry! my precious long-lost love, would that you could see _our_ child
now!”
She has pressed the ring with its glittering brilliants to her lips,—the
only ring she wears. The stones flash and sparkle in the moon’s light
like gems of living fire, beautiful, pure, and shining as the love that
is next her heart. Much more than a score of years have passed away
since Harry Kintore died in her arms, but if she lived through countless
scores of years that love would burn just the same. She wanders along
the gravel carriage drive, her thoughts busy with the past. Anon they
fleet forward to the future, and then a light of triumph dances in her
eyes. But it is with the past that she is chiefly occupied this night,
for it is the 14th of July, the anniversary of the day on which her
darling died.
She has passed along the shady avenue, and entered a tiny straggling
path, shut in by tall dark trees. It is a glade upon which the gardener
has not been allowed to bestow his fostering care. He has been forbidden
this spot by his mistress, who loves to leave it in possession of the
primrose and violet, the wild anemone or dark blue hyacinth that Nature
has scattered so plentifully around. It is Speranza’s safe retreat, away
from the outside world, the spot where she best loves to roam.
All is quiet; not a sound disturbs the tenor of her thoughts as she
walks quietly along. Suddenly, however, her eye is arrested by a gleam
of light in front of her. The next moment two dark forms spring forward
in her path, and she sees that they are men.
Speranza is no coward. We already know that well. Screaming is without
her ken, she has no knowledge of it. Of fear, she only knows the name.
If it is a thrill that permeates the body from head to foot, and sends
the blood rushing through the system with irresistible impetus, then
Speranza knows what that strange, mysterious sensation called fear is.
But then it only makes her feel defiant. She has no thought of fleeing.
Her impulse is to stand and face the danger, whatever it may be.
“Who are you?” she asks in a quiet, measured voice; “and what do you
want here?”
“You,” is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes her by the arm, and
deftly getting behind her, endeavours to draw her two elbows together.
The pain is excruciating, but Speranza’s blood is up. She is no weakly
woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and want of muscle power. She
is strong and flexible as wire, and makes her assailant feel this too,
as with a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward behind him,
facing them both once more. With a foul oath the man who had first
attacked her bares a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does
so as well.
“No use resisting!” exclaims this latter. “If you do you’ll get a taste
of these. Better come quietly.”
She does not even answer them. Her lovely head is thrown back, her blue
eyes shoot defiance, even while in them trembles the look of despair.
Her hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails for a second.
They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. She seizes the
blades with both her hands, and holds them with the grim clutch of a
last great effort. With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and the
sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed palms. Out pours the
rich, dark blood from the cruel, gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the
first that has escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the
ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to the ground. In
another moment the gag is on her mouth, tight straps are round her arms
and ankles, and she is a prisoner at their feet.
“Come on quick, now!” exclaims one of the men. “My, Bill! she be a
strong, plucky one, and no mistake! If it ’adn’t been for that there
root we shouldn’t have mastered her so easily—no, nor we should.”
The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of a fallen tree. Against
this Speranza’s head had struck in falling, rendering her senseless. No
wonder they tied her so easily.
They lift her between them, and carry her across the copsewood towards a
low hedge, outside which lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and
then lay her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, low
whistle.
There is an answering whistle down the road, a rumbling and stamping as
of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the
darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a
carriage dashes up.
“Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out.
“Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer.
“Well, put her in! Look sharp; no time to lose. I thought I heard
footsteps as I came along,” and Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open
the door.
They obey his orders without more ado, and then he jumps in.
“Now then! look alive, men! One on the box, one in with her and me.”
It is done. The men are “sharp uns.” They know their master, and he
knows his men. The next moment the carriage is bowling along towards
Windsor, _en route_ for London.
Who will track them, who discover them? Not the detectives of Scotland
Yard!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
There has been a late sitting in the House of Commons. A protracted
debate on the crowded condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that
most wonderful city of the world, London, has kept members fully
occupied. But twelve o’clock, midnight, has struck, and the Commons are
dispersing. It has been a great night for Hector D’Estrange. He has
spoken for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; for does it not
know full well that the subject of that night’s discussion is one in
which he is no novice, it having been undertaken on his own motion?
He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told them many things. Has
he not a right to do so? None like him have dived into those terrible
slums, have visited night after night, as he has done, those abodes of
crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. He knows them well, and
has depicted them as they _are_, to the wondering representatives of a
nation, in language of which he alone is master.
He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which he has depicted so
vividly, yet not even he knows some of the depths of infamy that exist
in that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another experience to
incur.
“Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of yours!” exclaims the Duke
of Ravensdale, who, having been an attentive listener during the debate,
has run down to join his friend as the latter leaves the Commons. “Come
across to Montragee House, and let us have a little supper. Wish you
would stay there the night, old man!”
“I can’t, Evie,” replies Hector. “I have to go down to Windsor by an
early train, and must go home and order my things to be packed up; but
I’ll come across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as I went
without my dinner.”
They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards Whitehall, and as they do so
Big Ben chimes out the hour of half-past twelve.
“How time flies, to be sure!” remarks the young duke thoughtfully.
“Funny thing time is—eh, Hector?”
“It is,” answers this latter gravely; “a something without being, shape,
or substance, and yet a thing that has been, is, and yet shall be.”
“What a happy chap you ought to be, Hector! I don’t suppose there’s an
hour in your life which you can look back upon as having wasted or
misspent, save in doing good and trying to help others,” exclaims his
friend in an almost envious tone. “Would to God I could say the same of
myself!”
“Hush, Evie! don’t try and make me vain; and don’t run yourself down
before me. I won’t allow it. God knows you are earnest enough in your
desire to do good, and, dear Evie, you have succeeded. I don’t suppose
there’s another in your position who has done so much. I never had such
a good true friend as you in all my undertakings, except one, and of
course I except her.”
“Her!” exclaims his friend in a somewhat surprised voice. “Whom,
Hector?”
“My mother,” he answers quietly. “She has been my right hand through
life. I could not have got on without her.”
“Your mother, Hector!” says the duke in a low voice. “Have you a mother
alive?”
“Yes, Evie, and one of the best that ever lived. I will introduce her to
you some day. She knows you well by hearsay, for I have often spoken of
you to her. But a favour, dear old Evie; don’t ever mention her to any
one; promise me.”
“Of course not, Hector. You know the simplest wish of yours is law to
me. Well, here we are; we’ll finish our chat inside over some soup and
oysters, and anything else you like to have.”
The duke’s hand is on the bell, but he pulls it very softly.
“Won’t do to peal it,” he remarks. “The sound would awaken Bernie, he’s
such a light sleeper; and always will get up to welcome me if he awakes,
dear little chap.”
“Let’s see, how old is he now?” queries Hector D’Estrange; “well nigh
sixteen, is he not? He’s a dear lad, and I like him especially on
account of his love for you. He does love you, Evie.”
“Yes,” answers the duke softly, “and I love him. Bernie is all I have
got to love, unless it be you, Hector.”
He does not see the bright flush that rises to Hector D’Estrange’s
beautiful face, or the passionate look in the sapphire eyes. It might
have startled him if he had. But the great massive doors are unclosing
now, and he enters, followed by his friend.
“Supper in my study, Repton, please,” he exclaims. “Is Lord Bernard
asleep?”
“Fast, your Grace,” answers that individual confidentially. “His
lordship wanted to sit up for your Grace, but when I gave him your
Grace’s message he went straight to bed.”
“That’s right,” says the duke heartily. “Bernie’s a good lad. God bless
him!”
The two have moved on into the duke’s study, and Repton has hurried off
to command his Grace’s supper to be served immediately. He has pompous
manners, has Repton, a high opinion of himself, and certain notions of
his own importance and dignity, but he is a good servant nevertheless,
and a faithful one. He is not of the Stuggins’ class. He would as soon
dream of keeping his Grace waiting for his supper as of jumping over the
moon.
The consequence is, that in the twinkling of an eye supper is served in
the study. And the two friends, as they sit discussing it, wander off on
some favourite theme, so that the time passes quicker than they think.
Suddenly they are startled by hearing a bell peal. The duke springs to
his feet.
“Good heavens! What can that be?” he exclaims nervously. “Is it Bernie’s
bell; is the boy ill, I wonder? I must go and see. It’s past two
o’clock.”
“It’s the front door bell, I think,” says Hector D’Estrange. “Hark,
Evie! there are voices in the entrance hall. Open the door and listen.”
The duke does so. A woman’s voice is plainly distinguishable, appealing
to Repton.
“For God’s sake,” he hears her saying, “let me see the duke. I must see
him. It is a matter of life and death. If you tell him it is for Mr.
D’Estrange he will see me, I know.”
“I have no orders from his Grace to admit you,” answers Repton
pompously, “and certainly cannot disturb his Grace at this hour. You
must write or call again to-morrow morning, and all I can do is to
report your wish to his Grace.”
He bangs the door to as he speaks, but the next moment steps sound
behind him, and Hector D’Estrange has seized the handle and pulled it
open. His face is very white, and there is terror in his eyes.
“Rita!” he calls out, “is that you, Rita? My God! what brings you here?”
“Mr. D’Estrange!” she bursts out with a low, glad cry. “Oh, are you
here? Thank God! thank God!”
She has rushed forward and seized him by the hand, and the duke, who has
followed close behind him, recognises in the youthful, fair-featured
girl the sad, haggard, careworn, starving creature whom but a few years
back he had rescued from prostitution and degradation. Yet in what a
terrible condition she seems. Her dress is torn and mudstained, her
shoes likewise, her fair, soft hair dishevelled and hanging about her
face and down her back, while her expression is that of one scared by a
terrible fear.
“Come quick, come quick!” she cries imploringly, “before it is too late.
Oh, Mr. D’Estrange! they have waylaid her, and carried her off. I saw
her bound, with her poor cut bleeding hands, and could not help her; but
I know where she is, and can guide you to the place, if you will only
come.”
“Rita,” exclaims Hector D’Estrange, in a voice the very calmness of
which fills her with awe, “come into the duke’s study for a minute, and
explain yourself. Follow me.”
He leads the way with Evie Ravensdale following, and she close behind
the duke. As for Repton, he is rigid with astonishment.
The three enter the study, and the door is closed. “Now, Rita,” queries
Hector excitedly, “explain.”
“I will,” she cries again. “It is your mother. She was out in her
favourite walk this evening about ten, and I was coming home rather late
from Windsor. I saw her attacked by two men in the spinny, bound hand
and foot, after having been knocked senseless. A carriage drove up, and
they put her into it. My first impulse was to rush to help her and shout
for assistance, but in a moment I reflected how useless that would be. I
determined to hang on to the carriage behind, and see where they took
her to. It was a terrible drive, but God helped me, and I succeeded,
though I’m about done. I saw the house they took her into. I know the
spot well; I can take you there straight now. But come, please come, or
it will be too late.”
There is a look of fury and hatred so intense in Hector D’Estrange’s
eyes, that the duke can hardly recognise him as the sweet,
gentle-featured friend whom he loves so dearly.
“Evie,” he says in a strained, unnatural voice, “I can explain nothing
now. It is impossible. But you can trust me, Evie. My mother, my
precious mother, is in terrible danger. Will you help me to save her?”
The duke’s reply is laconic, but Hector knows its meaning. They are
simple words, “I will.”
“Then come,” he exclaims feverishly; “lead on, Rita, brave, plucky Rita!
I’ll never forget what you have done to-day.”
She does not reply, for they are hurrying out of the room. They are in
the hall now, and both Hector and Evie Ravensdale have seized their
hats. But the next moment the duke has slipped a loaded revolver into
his pocket, and handed another to his friend.
“Take this,” is all he says. “You may want it.”
There is a four-wheeler at the door. They all three get in quickly. As
Rita does so she gives the order, “Whitechapel. Quick,” she adds, “and
you shall be paid well!”
The cab-horse trots swiftly along. The hope of a substantial fare has
given the cabby wings. No well-bred brougham horse could go quicker. He
flies along does that old cab-horse.
On the outskirts of Whitechapel Rita calls a halt. “We must get out
here,” she observes. “Mr. D’Estrange, please give the cabman a
sovereign, and tell him to wait.”
He obeys her. He can trust her, can Hector D’Estrange. Ever since the
day when, at Evie Ravensdale’s request, he had appointed her as his own
and his mother’s secretary, Rita Vernon has served him with a fidelity
and painstaking exactitude of which he knows no parallel. She leads the
way through dark, uninviting streets. She knows the locality well. She
learnt it years ago, before Evie Ravensdale came there to save her from
a doom far more terrible than death. She had declared then that she
would willingly die for him. The same feeling animates her now. For Evie
Ravensdale Rita Vernon would deem it a happiness to die.
They have passed through courts and filthy alleys, through streets well
and ill-lighted. Very few people are about. Only a policeman or two on
their beats pass them as they move along. Now they are turning into a
sort of crescent or half square, with houses superior to those of the
localities they have traversed. As they do so Rita turns to the two men
following her, and pointing to a house at the further end, exclaims,
“There!”
There are no lights in the windows; the place is silent and dark.
“How shall we get in?” asks the duke.
There is a bitter smile on Rita’s face as she replies.
“I will show you, but remember you must play your part. I shall pretend
I am bringing you here, and that there’s another woman coming. I’ll
order a room, and once in there I know how to find her.”
She says no more, but passes swiftly along the pavement, they close at
her heels. On reaching the house she pulls the bell softly.
The door is opened cautiously, and a woman’s face peers out.
“What’s wanted?” she inquires suspiciously.
“I’ve brought these gentlemen here,” answers Rita. “We want a room. Your
best if it’s empty.”
“Can’t have you to-night,” replies the woman. “The whole house is took.”
She is about to shut the door when Rita springs into the opening. The
next moment she has the woman by the throat. “Quick!” she cries in a low
voice. “Gag her, tie her hands and feet!”
No need to speak further. Both Hector D’Estrange and Evie Ravensdale
have obeyed. Three handkerchiefs suffice to gag the woman, tie her
ankles together, and her wrists behind her. Then they look at Rita.
“Put her in here!” exclaims this latter, opening a door on the right.
“It’s dark. Never mind; I know the place; she’s safe there.”
They lift her in, and lay her on the floor. Rita closes the door, and
locks it. A dim light is burning in the hall, but no one is stirring;
only in the distance they think they catch a sound of voices.
“Come on,” she says excitedly. “I am sure I can find them. They’ll be in
the best room. Follow me.”
She goes up the stairs quietly, her companions as noiselessly following.
On reaching the landing she turns down a passage to the right, and comes
to a halt opposite a door.
“Listen,” she says in a low tone. “_You two should know that voice._”
But she has no time to say more. Pale with fury, with murder in his
eyes, Hector D’Estrange has burst open the door. A flood of light almost
blinds him as he enters, but through it all he sees the mother that he
loves.
Speranza de Lara is stretched on a sofa. Her ankles are still tightly
secured, her wrists likewise. Around her, like a cloak of gold, falls
her lovely hair. There is a mad, wild look in her eyes terrible to
behold, but her lips are mute and speechless, for she is gagged. And
beside her stands that monster, that petted _roué_ of Society, that
“fiend in human shape,”—the Earl of Westray.
There is a loud cry as a shot rings through the silent house.
END OF BOOK I.
[Illustration]
_BOOK II._
CHAPTER I.
It is the year 1900. Men are hoping that it will be a peaceful one,
after the factious bickerings of 1898–99. While the National party and
the Progressists have been snarling over contentious bones, they have
omitted to notice in the bye-elections unmistakable signs of public
weariness and disgust with squabbles so profitless.
The National party, into which the Unionists have been merged, and the
Progressists—a party arisen on the ashes of the Liberals—have failed to
take warning by these signs. Woman’s Suffrage, established as law by the
action of Hector D’Estrange, has materially altered the aspect of the
old state of things, and brought about a thorough and healthy change of
thought in many places. The women have given their aid enthusiastically
to Hector D’Estrange, and worked heartily in support of the youthful
reformer. Almost every bye-election has returned a D’Estrangeite
candidate.
Now at length the General Election is over, and the Parliament returned
is a curious one. Including the Irish, Scotch, and Welsh Home Rulers,
the D’Estrangeite members are in a majority, the Nationals coming next,
and the Progressists last.
And yet the majority referred to is a somewhat precarious and unworkable
one, for if the two latter parties choose to combine, they can wreck the
new Government completely. No one knows this better than Hector
D’Estrange, who, having been invited by his sovereign to form a Cabinet,
has succeeded in doing so, and occupies the proud position of Prime
Minister at the age of twenty-eight.
Only sixteen years since Gloria de Lara made her vow to the wild sea
waves,—and now?
Has the prayer that accompanied that vow been answered?
Not yet.
* * * * *
“Is it not tempting defeat, my child, to introduce the bill at so early
a date?”
“Mother dear, it is my only opportunity. The position I hold is, I know,
quite untenable for any length of time. The Government may be defeated
at any moment, and then my chance is gone. Though I have not the
slightest hope of carrying the bill, I shall yet gain a tremendous point
by its introduction. I shall be defeated on it without a doubt, but it
will be before the country, and I can appeal to the country upon it.”
“Ever right, my child.”
The speakers are Speranza and Gloria de Lara. The former is now fifty
years of age, but years sit lightly on her shoulders. The new century
beholds her as lovely and youthful-looking as ever; time has not played
havoc with that fair face.
And the pale golden hair is golden still. No sign of whitening age is
discernible in the thick tresses. It seems as though fair youth will
never quit her side, for Speranza is unchanged.
Unchanged in all save one thing. Since that terrible day, upon which the
last chapter closed so abruptly, there has dwelt in Speranza’s lovely
eyes a hunted, haunting look of fear. She has never quite recovered from
the shock of that most awful trial, and none dare mention to her the
name of Lord Westray.
He has never been heard of since that day. His disappearance at the time
caused the greatest excitement. Men declared that he must have been
foully murdered, and his body secreted by the murderer or murderers. Of
course the blame was thrown on the Irish, with whom Lord Westray was no
favourite. Not long before his disappearance he had been appointed Chief
Secretary for Ireland, an appointment that had given the greatest
dissatisfaction to the Irish. There was nothing beyond surmise, however,
to account for his fate.
They are sitting in Speranza de Lara’s private room in Montragee House,
which has been her home ever since the terrible day above referred to.
Apartments in the huge building have been set aside for her use, for it
is the delight of Evie Ravensdale to lavish upon the mother of his
dearest friend on earth all the affection and love of a son. And his
love is returned indeed, for Speranza’s heart has gone out to him with
all the love of a mother, a love only surpassed by that which she feels
for her child.
The great day has come at last, when Hector D’Estrange is to introduce
to Parliament his bill for the absolute and entire enfranchisement of
the women of his country. The bill, it is whispered, is not a mere
stepping-stone to future power for the sex, but a free and unfettered
charter of liberty, a distinct emancipation from past slavery, a final
and decisive declaration that women are not man’s inferiors, but have as
clear and inalienable a right as he to share the government of their
country, and to adopt the professions hitherto arrogated by men solely
to themselves. Hector D’Estrange’s colleagues have been made aware of
the bill’s contents, and have loyally and nobly elected to stand or fall
upon it. They have all been selected for their singularly wide and
sympathetic views, and are not likely to forsake their chief in the
moment of trial. So also can he depend upon all the D’Estrangeite
members, without a fear that there will be a single seceder from their
ranks; but he knows that the defeat which he expects will come from the
united forces of the Progressists and Nationals, who for a time have
buried their feuds and disputes, in the desire to defeat the
revolutionary schemes of Hector D’Estrange.
There is a knock at the door, and, in response to Hector’s invitation to
enter, it opens, and a young man comes in. It is Lord Bernard Fontenoy,
very much grown since we saw him last. He is eighteen now, but looks
older, and is the Duke of Ravensdale’s Secretary, the duke being
Minister for Foreign Affairs.
“A telegram, Mr. D’Estrange,” he observes. “Will there be any answer?”
Hector takes the missive and opens it. It is from Flora Desmond, and
runs as follows:—
“The ten regiments have marched in from Oxford, and are quartered in
the Hall of Liberty. Twenty-seven miles completed in eight and a half
hours; not a single private fell out of the ranks. Will be down to see
you in an hour or so.”
“No, Bernie; no answer, thanks. Is Evie in yet?” queries the recipient.
“I’ll go and see,” answers the youth, vanishing as he speaks.
“Dear mother, I must leave you now, but will see you again before I go
to the House. Estcourt and Douglasdale will be here directly, and the
latter is to escort you to-night,” observes Hector D’Estrange, rising
and kissing Speranza.
The mother throws her arms around her child. The anxious look in her
eyes is intensified.
“My darling, may all go well with you to-night. It is foolish, I know,
but there is a foreboding of evil next my heart which I cannot shake
off, try as I may. Ah, Gloria! if aught should happen to you, my
precious child, what would your mother do?”
“Why, mother, what ails you, dearest? Evil happen to Gloria? What fancy
is this? Of course I expect defeat; but that will not be evil; merely
the beginning of a great end.
“I do not allude to that, dear one, but to something quite different.
Gloria, I had a terrible dream last night. I saw him close to me, the
being that I loathe. He had you down, and stood above you with a naked
sword raised threateningly. I rushed to save you, but ere I could avert
his arm he had pointed it straight down at you, and pierced you to the
heart.”
“Tush, mother, a mere dream, that’s all. You must not dwell upon it.
Dear mother, put it from your mind.”
“Would to God that I could, Gloria! But it haunts me like a spectre, and
will not pass away. However, my child, I must not damp your spirits with
my fancies. Go now to your duties, from which I must not keep you, and
mother will do her best to drive the dream away.”
“That’s right, motherling. Do, for Gloria’s sake.”
He kisses her tenderly and goes out, for he hears Evie Ravensdale’s step
approaching. The two friends and colleagues meet just outside the door.
“Let’s go to your room, Evie,” he says gently, “and let us have a chat
before I go to work. Chats with you are a luxury now. We don’t find much
time for them, do we? By-the-bye, I have just had a telegram from Flora
Desmond: the regiments have reached the Hall of Liberty. She reports the
last march of twenty-seven miles in eight and a half hours, with not one
single fall out from the ranks. Yet they would have us believe that
women are weak, feeble creatures, unable to endure fatigue. There is the
lie direct.”
They pass on into the duke’s study, a room full of pleasant memories for
Hector D’Estrange. Many a happy hour has he spent here with the truest
and best friend of his life, the one man whom he loves above all things,
and, with the exception of Speranza, the only being to whom he is
passionately attached. A big oil painting hangs above the fireplace. Two
figures are represented on the canvas. One is a tall, dark-haired,
dark-eyed man, with long silken moustache and aristocratic mien, the
other of shorter and slighter build, with a face of exquisite beauty.
The features are those of a very young man, the eyes are sapphire-blue,
the glossy, close curling hair of a deep old-gold colour. It is easy to
recognise the former as Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, the latter as Hector
D’Estrange. The picture has been executed by the duke’s order, and
represents the two friends first meeting—ever memorable for both.
They sit on alone together, these kindred spirits, happy in the
communion of each other’s thoughts. They are seeking to scan the future
and what it will bring, diving into the days that have yet to come. With
Evie Ravensdale, it is a firm belief in the ultimate success of Hector
D’Estrange’s scheme, a supreme and absolute confidence in his young
chief’s ascendant star.
“I wonder who will be the first woman Prime Minister,” he observes
dreamily. He is looking into the glowing coals, and does not notice the
flush that rises to Hector D’Estrange’s cheeks.
“Ah, yes, who indeed?” echoes the latter quietly.
“Sometimes I think, Hector, that I can see her. Certainly I have seen
her in my dreams,” continues the young duke softly.
“Can you describe her, Evie?” asks his friend.
“Ask me to paint your face, Hector, and then you have her in living
life. Yes, my woman Prime Minister is an exact counterpart of Hector
D’Estrange. Ah, Hector! if you were only a woman how madly I should love
you; for love you as I do now, it can never be the same love as it would
be if you were a woman.”
It is fortunate that the shaded and softly subdued lamps in Evie
Ravensdale’s study are low, or certainly the look in Hector D’Estrange’s
face would have betrayed the secret of Gloria de Lara. As it is, he only
laughs softly.
“So I am your woman’s ideal, am I, Evie?” he asks in a would-be
bantering tone.
“Yes, Hector, you are. Your face is too lovely for a man’s. You ought to
have been a woman. And yet if you had been, the glory of Hector
D’Estrange would be an untold tale. There is, alas! no woman living, I
fear, who would have been able to beat down the laws that held her
enchained as you have done. How the women worship you, Hector, and
rightly.”
The front door bell is pealing. In a few minutes the study door is
opened, and Lady Flora Desmond is announced.
She comes in easy and graceful, her White Guard’s uniform fitting to
perfection her supple and agile form. People have grown accustomed to
Hector D’Estrange’s women volunteers. The uniforms no longer strike them
as strange and unfeminine, for custom is the surest cure with offended
Mrs. Grundy.
“What a dense crowd there is, to be sure!” she exclaims, after first
greetings have been exchanged. “I had hard work to get my guards through
it. But they are in order now, and a clear way is kept right up to
Westminster, so you will have no difficulty in getting your carriage
along, Mr. D’Estrange.”
“Is it so late?” he inquires in a surprised tone. “Evie and I have been
talking away, and did not notice how the time was slipping. Pray wait
here. I shall not be many minutes dressing. I must wear my White Guard’s
uniform to-night, you know.”
“Very well, Mr. D’Estrange. I will wait for you here,” she replies.
There is a ring in Flora Desmond’s voice which tells how happy she is.
She has never dreamed of seeing such a day as this.
* * * * *
He is standing on the steps of Montragee House, clad in his White
Guard’s uniform. A long line of the White Regiment keep the road clear
to Westminster. The crowd is dense all round. Nothing but a sea of faces
can be seen, and the cheers of the people have grown into a hoarse,
continuous roar. Thousands and thousands of women are amongst that
crowd, women, with hearts full of love and devotion for their hero;
women who would account it a happiness to die for him at any hour; women
who are strong in their gratitude for what he has done, and is trying to
do for them. He has entered the carriage that stands in waiting in front
of the ducal mansion, and with Evie Ravensdale has taken his seat
therein. As it drives rapidly towards Westminster the mighty volume of
cheering is again and again renewed, a few hisses being here and there
noticeable.
How describe the scene within the House of Commons? To attempt to do so
would be but to court failure. The precincts are thronged until there is
no standing room. There is eager expectation on every face.
The roar of the crowd outside has penetrated the vast building, and
tells those within that he is approaching. A thrill runs through that
assembly of princes, peers, commoners, and ladies who are there to await
his coming, and then the silence of intense expectation falls on all
around.
He is entering now, and walks slowly forward to take his seat. He is
received with a burst of enthusiasm by his own colleagues and party, and
is watched with interest by every woman who looks down upon him from the
spacious galleries that at his instance have been erected for ladies, in
place of the wild beast cage originally considered by men as good enough
for the inferior sex. And now he has taken his seat while awaiting the
usual formalities, and the eyes of the House are upon him. It would be a
trying position for an old Parliamentary hand, one used to many years of
debate. Is it not just a shade so for Gloria de Lara, as she sits there
under the name of Hector D’Estrange preparing to do battle for her sex?
But she has risen now. The silence of death has fallen once more on the
House, for the clear, beautiful voice is speaking at last, and this is
what it says.
[Illustration]