“What news, Evie?”
The speaker has risen from a low wooden stool just outside the
verandahed porch of a pretty, straggling, rambling cottage, hidden
amidst many and various creepers, whose parasitical arms interlace with
each other in bewildering confusion. All around stretch dark pine woods
far as the eye can reach, as it scans their broad expanse through the
cuttings in the forest, fashioned by the hand of man.
Gloria de Lara it is, who thus questions the new-comer. A tall,
powerful-looking man, with thick, bushy beard and whiskers, and a
clean-shaven upper lip. He is dressed in the habiliments of a navvy, and
carries on his back a bag of tools. These he throws down as he replies,
“News, Gloria? Much what I expected. You are to be hunted down by every
means at the command of Scotland Yard. Warrants are out not only for
your arrest but for Lady Flora’s as well, and the military are to be
employed to assist the police in suppressing the ‘riotous crowds,’ as
such are termed the people who are agitating in your favour. Pandulph
Chertsey has resigned. Bernie was in the House last night to hear him
give his reasons. He says Chertsey made a splendid speech, in which he
advocated an appeal to the country to settle this question, and a fresh
trial for you. His remarks were received in gloomy silence by both
Progressists and Nationals, though loudly applauded by the
D’Estrangeites. But the two former have no intention to appeal at
present. They hate you and yours too much, Gloria. They want to crush
you first before they do anything else. To accomplish this, dog and cat
though they be, they will be amicable in order to attain their end.”
“I know that,” she answers, with a sad smile; “but I will do my best to
baulk them until my work is done. Then, they may do as they please.”
“Hush, Gloria!” exclaims Evie Ravensdale, with a shudder. “Do not speak
of harm befalling you. O God, forfend it! I could not survive it.”
She smiles again, still sadly, as she lays her hand on his arm, and
looks at him with the dark sapphire eyes that have haunted him day and
night for many a year with a strange, yearning love, which he often
found hard to fathom. He understands it all now, however. There is no
mystery about that love any longer. Its cause, Gloria de Lara.
“It is I who should say hush, Evie dear,” she says gently, “and it is
you who must not speak thus. Remember the great cause we have both at
heart, the glorious cause that must and shall win! On its behalf are we
not ready to face trial and trouble, and many an anxious hour? Ah, Evie!
remember our vows.”
Yes, he remembers them well enough. Is he not striving to fulfil them
even now? But the future, threatening, as it does, the person of all
that he holds most dear, is dark and fearsome in Evie Ravensdale’s
anxious mind.
“Did you manage to see Flora Desmond?” she inquires, breaking thus the
silence which has followed her last words.
“Yes, Gloria,” he answers; “and that reminds me that I have much to tell
you. Lady Flora has not been idle. She is indeed a most wonderful woman.
There she is working away in the heart of London, with the warrant for
her arrest duly out, with detectives and police in every direction, and
yet not an idea have they where she is, thanks to the people’s loyalty.”
“God bless them!” is all Gloria says. She is eagerly awaiting the
information he has to give her.
“She is not working single-handed either. Who do you think has joined
the White Guards, Gloria? You will never guess.”
“Who?” she says anxiously.
“Why, Lady Manderton! and Launcelot Trevor has offered his services to
Lady Flora.”
“Lady Manderton!” Gloria can hardly believe her ears. She looks
incredulously at the speaker.
“It is true, Gloria, however impossible it may seem; and a real
enthusiastic worker she is. However, to business. Lady Flora told me to
tell you, that she has sent picked messengers from the White Guards to
every one of our Volunteer centres, so as to be able to keep up active
communication with them all. The code adopted works admirably, and has
been arranged with extreme skill and forethought. In a few days all will
be ready for your campaign. She suggests that you should hold a first
meeting in the Hall of Liberty. The White Guards will be in readiness
for that one. If the police and military interfere every means for
escape will be at hand. Before they have time to look round you will be
heard of at York, where you will be attended by the Women’s Rifle Corps,
and so on. Rapidity of action will be the characteristic feature of your
campaign—a regular Will-o’-the-wisp crusade, in fact. Of course it will
be attended by a good deal of risk; but it is quite certain that the
people must be appealed to, and those who are supporting you now not
left in the lurch. God grant there may be no more blood shed!”
“Yes, God grant it indeed!” she answers fervently. “Nevertheless, Evie,
’twere better thus to shed one’s blood than to submit any longer and
without protest to the present state of things. Whatever may be the
outcome of this revolution, I have no fear but that it will lead up to
victory in the future. I may never see the day. What matter? _It will
come._”
She laughs softly, a low triumphant laugh, as her mind’s eye strives to
pierce the murky darkness of the future. Instinctively she realises what
lies behind that impenetrable veil, and sees with the glance of prophecy
the promised land beyond. It is thus with all reformers. If to them was
only vouchsafed the cold, sneering support which the world generally
bestows upon early effort, they would sink and die beneath the venomed
shafts of the unbelievers; but these latter do not see the noble visions
which are given to the pioneers of the future, visions which beckon them
forward, and unfold to their eager gaze the triumph of their labours in
the establishment of that for which they have given their lives.
“Well, I will go and get rid of this disguise,” observes the duke, with
a smile. “This beard and these whiskers are uncommonly hot, Gloria.
By-the-bye, when does Mrs. de Lara sail?”
“In two days, Evie, she goes by the White Star Line,” answers his
companion. “I left her in the study just before meeting you. Go in and
see her before you change.”
He passes on through the porch, outside of which he had found her
sitting on his arrival, and enters the cottage, and Gloria takes up her
old position to ponder and think over the situation of affairs, which
her trusty messenger has brought to her from the outside world.
We have not seen her since that eventful evening, when she was rescued
by Flora Desmond and her White Guards from the arm of the law, and
safely escorted to Montragee House. Here a hasty consultation had been
held, and it was at once decided that without delay she must quit the
duke’s mansion. Within an hour of her entrance she had left the ducal
residence, and in a suit of plain dark clothes had sought a safe asylum
with humble friends, in a quarter of the city where no one dreamed of
searching for her. The duke himself had quitted his home to avoid
awkward questions, leaving it in the care of his brother, and Mrs. de
Lara had repaired to her Windsor residence. Communication had been
maintained through loyal and trustworthy friends, and from her refuge in
the mighty city, Gloria had rejoined her mother and the duke at “The
Hut,” a tiny out-of-the-way residence belonging to the latter, situated
in the heart of the pine forests that clothe the country for miles
around, between Bracknell and Wokingham. From this secluded nook she
could hold communication with her friends through the medium of Evie
Ravensdale, who in various disguises passed to and fro between Bracknell
and London daily.
Meanwhile the Devonsmere Ministry has been active. Supported by the
Nationals and Progressists, a Bill has been hastily passed through the
House of Commons, and sent up to the House of Lords for approval. It
grants the Government exceptional facilities for suppressing the public
meetings, which may be held by Gloria de Lara’s supporters. A large
number of special constables have been enrolled, and entrusted with
extensive powers. The military have been ordered to hold themselves in
readiness to support the police, and a special proclamation has been
issued, offering a large reward for the delivery up to justice of the
persons of Gloria de Lara and Flora Desmond, or any man or woman found
actively espousing the former’s cause. Armed with these tremendous
powers, the Devonsmere Ministry are confident that the revolution will
be summarily suppressed, and the chief actors brought speedily to
justice. In vain Lord Pandulph Chertsey has warned them against the
course they have resolved upon. He is unheeded, for the Ministry have a
majority in their favour in both Houses, and are determined to enforce
their policy rigidly and unrelentingly.
All this Gloria de Lara knows full well. The situation is thoroughly
understood by her, and the risk fully appreciated, but she knows also
that she will be faithful to her vow. She is of the same mind now as she
was when, as a child, looking over the lovely Adriatic, that feeling had
entered her heart which had bidden her go forward and struggle for the
cause, even though the struggle should end in death. She made a vow
then; through all these years she has kept it. Now that danger and death
stare her in the face, will she draw back appalled? No, ten thousand
times no.
Her plans are fully formed, and none so fit as Gloria to carry them into
effect. In every part of the kingdom she has faithful emissaries at
work. Aided by them, large open-air meetings are to be convened, which
she will address in turn, vanishing as quickly and mysteriously as she
appears. In this way she will be able to hold communication with the
people in every part of the country, and scatter broadcast the seeds of
her great doctrine. She knows full well that aid and sympathy will come
to her from all parts of the world. She is sending messengers in every
direction, Mrs. de Lara having volunteered to visit America on behalf of
her child’s cause. She knows that the flame once kindled, will never
more be extinguished, until victory waves aloft the wand of peace. If in
the struggle she be doomed to fall—what matter, so that the great cause
triumph?
She has the law against her, but law is only strong so long as the
people acknowledge it to be just, and agree to obey it. No law is
binding or sacred which has not been ratified by the people’s approval.
There is no natural Divine right which gives to a few men the power and
authority to impose on millions a command to obey. Might alone can force
it. It has been declared that might is right. What if the people defy
might, and struggle against its tyranny for the triumph of right?
She sits on alone, revolving this truth in her mind. Thought absorbs her
with its dreamy influence, carrying her on beyond the present into the
great unfathomed future before her. She sees the storm which she has
raised angry and defiant, the elements thereof tossed and buffeted, but
she knows that after that storm the waves of fury will be stilled in a
great calm.
“Dreaming, Gloria? Of what, pray?”
She starts. The voice thrills her, for she loves it well. Gloria’s
contact with the world in her self-imposed duties has not blunted or
dulled the instincts of Nature. In past days, it was a favourite remark
with our grandmothers and grandfathers, that woman’s connection with the
coarser things of life would degrade her by constant familiarity with
them. Poor things! They judged of Nature from the narrow-minded
platforms on which they had been educated, knew nothing of and cared
nothing for the sighs of liberty, or the rights of Nature.
Yes! though her life has been one of constant intercourse with man,
though she has been and is familiar with the coarser things of life,
Gloria loves, and loves truly and well. Hers is not the love of a timid,
ignorant girl, longing to escape the captivity in which she has been
reared, or the selfish, guilty love of the _intriguante_, whose love
would fade and disappear were it not deemed unholy. Hers is the love of
one who, knowing the world well, understanding the character of man,
drilled to a knowledge of the laws of Nature, yet elects to love one
being above all others. Gloria’s love is one that once given, can never
die.
As with her, so it is with Evie Ravensdale. The world has courted his
love, but its wiles have not awoke it. Often, when in loving commune
with his friend Hector D’Estrange, the thought would flash through the
young duke’s mind, that if Hector had been a woman, the great love of
which he felt himself capable, would have gone out to her absolutely and
without reserve. What was the subtle power that had attracted him to
Hector D’Estrange, which had made him pause on the verge of pleasure’s
precipice, and, casting to the winds his hitherto selfish existence, had
made him body and soul the devoted adherent of the young reformer?
Evie Ravensdale knows the reason now. From the moment that he learnt
that in Hector D’Estrange was embodied the person of Gloria de Lara, he
understood that the influence of a noble, high-minded, and genuine
woman, had allured him from the false glare and glitter of the world,
and had given him an aim in life.
“Ah, dear Evie! have I not much to think of? In such times as these,
thought does not take much rest.”
She rises as she speaks, and links her arm in his. Men have often
watched Hector D’Estrange and the Duke of Ravensdale in this friendly
attitude before. Such an ape is Fashion, that it has become the _proper
thing_ for men to walk arm-in-arm. Doubtless, however, in view of the
change which has come about in the altered fortunes of Hector
D’Estrange, it will be suddenly discovered that such an attitude is both
unbecoming and improper. So much for the monkey Custom and its cousin
ape Fashion!
“Let us go for a stroll, Gloria,” he pleads, “the evening is so
glorious; and it may be long before we have the chance again of a quiet
chat together. We used to enjoy those _tête-à-têtes_ at Montragee when
you were Hector D’Estrange, did we not?”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I did love them, Evie. In fact, I think I set
too great a store upon them, more than was good for me to do; but they
were a true rest and pleasure after toil and anxiety, and I accepted
them as such.”
They have descended a gentle slope as she speaks and entered a glade in
the forest. The warm, red glow of the setting sun pierces in parts the
thickly grouped pines, and plays upon the ferns and bracken that grow in
green luxuriance beneath. The evening commune of the birds is dying into
a low twitter, and the rabbits have commenced to peep forth from their
burrows to see if all is still, preparatory to indulging in the evening
meal, as is their wont and custom at this hour.
What is it that throws its shadow across the glade in the wake of Evie
Ravensdale and Gloria de Lara? As the two saunter slowly along the
forest’s green pathway, the figure of a man suddenly presents itself at
the entrance to the glade, and stands motionless gazing after the
retreating pair. Only for a moment though, as with a low laugh he turns
quickly in the direction of “The Hut.” His movements are peculiar. He
does not walk openly up to the cottage, but, concealing himself behind
the rhododendron bushes which surround it in thick luxuriance, he
stealthily and silently gains the porch, outside of which Gloria de Lara
was sitting on the arrival of Evie Ravensdale.
Passing noiselessly along the verandah which runs round “The Hut,” the
man suddenly comes to a halt outside a half-opened window, and peers in.
A logwood fire burns cheerily on the hearth, but there are no lamps as
yet in the room, and this is the only light that irradiates it. It is
sufficient, however, to enable him to make out the form of a woman
seated by the fire. Her elbows are resting on her knees, and her head is
bent in her hands, and through the half-opened fingers she is gazing
into the glowing blaze. A single ring flashes on the third finger of her
left hand; one ring only, but no more. The man’s eyes dilate with
passion and fury as they watch her. The expression is that of a wild
beast gloating upon its prey. This man, too, has a smile of triumph upon
his coarse, sensual lips, mingled with malignity and hate.
A quick shudder runs through Speranza de Lara—for this lonely woman is
no other than she—as with a sudden impulse she raises her head and looks
towards the window with a scared and startled expression. The man draws
quickly back from his post of observation, and passing rapidly along the
verandah disappears amidst the thick bushes already mentioned. Too late,
however, to conceal his features from the gaze of the woman, who, alas!
knows them too well. With a cry of horror she springs forward, and
pushing open the window makes her way out on to the verandah. Two
minutes later, and the tongue of a little tower bell rings out
half-a-dozen sharp, warning notes. Evie Ravensdale and Gloria de Lara
know full well their meaning. Their sound heralds the word “danger,” and
brings them sharply to attention. When, a few minutes later, they reach
“The Hut,” they find Speranza anxiously awaiting them.
“Evie and Gloria,” she says in a quiet, self-possessed voice, in which
all trace of excitement is absent, “this is no longer a safe place for
either of you. It must be quitted at once. I have just seen him.”
“Him! Who, mother dearest?” inquires Gloria anxiously.
“The worst enemy I have ever known, and therefore yours too,” my
darling, answers Speranza, with a shudder. “Ever right, my child, were
you when you said he was not dead, for I have just looked on the face of
Lord Westray.”
As she speaks the distant sound of a galloping horse strikes upon their
ears.
“Evie,” says Gloria coolly, a quiet smile lighting up her face, “will
you see to the horses being saddled at once?”
[Illustration]