The blinds are drawn down in the single window of a small bedroom that
overlooks a narrow, dull, and dingy street, not far removed from
Trafalgar Square. The room, though clean, bears a poverty-stricken look,
for in it, in addition to the bed, there are only two chairs, an old
table, and a dilapidated sofa with a thin rug covering it. There is a
small washhand-stand in this room besides the other articles named, but
this is all.
Lying on the bed is a large-eyed, pale, emaciated young man, upon whose
face is unmistakably written the sign of death. His thin hands, in which
the blue veins show prominently clear, lie listlessly on the coverlet,
though now and again the feeble fingers twitch nervously thereat, and a
hectic flush covers his pale cheeks. His large hollow eyes have a
brilliant, shining look in them, and they appear to be fixed on the door
of the room which stands slightly ajar.
There is a sound of the street door downstairs opening, and the movement
of several feet. The young man raises himself up and listens eagerly,
but the exertion is too much for him, and he sinks back with a heavy
sigh. The footsteps he has heard are ascending the staircase, however,
and his eyes devour the door more eagerly than before. It opens and
admits a young girl, a girl who would decidedly be called pretty were it
not for the pinched, careworn look that rules in her regular and
well-cut features. She bears a great resemblance to the invalid whom we
have been describing. This is not to be wondered at, seeing she is his
twin-sister.
“Maggie,” he exclaims in a low voice as she enters, “have you brought
him?”
“Yes, Eric,” she answers at once, as she comes to his bedside, and puts
the old faded coverlet at which his fingers have been twitching smooth
and tidy.
“Where is he?” again asks the brother in the same low voice.
“Downstairs, Eric. I’ll fetch him up. He’s brought another gentleman
with him. He calls him a magistrate, I think. He said this gentleman
must take your deposition, because he couldn’t,” says Maggie, as she
opens the door. The next minute she is running down the somewhat rickety
staircase. Two gentlemen are standing in the passage below.
“This way, please, sirs,” she says politely, and they follow up behind
her to Eric Fortescue’s room. The two gentlemen are Colonel Francis
Barrett, divisional magistrate, and Evie, Duke of Ravensdale.
Eric Fortescue fixes his eyes on the latter, whom he knows well by
sight. He has seen him often before with Hector D’Estrange.
“You wish to see me, my lad?” inquires the duke in a kind, but sad
voice. “Your sister tells me you have something particular to say to
me?”
“Yes,” answers the sick youth, in his low, feeble voice; “and I want
you, sir, to take down what I say, and hear me swear it’s all true. I
want to tell you quick, sir, because I’m dying; I can’t last long.”
There is a sob over by the window. Maggie is looking out into the
miserable street with her forehead pressed against one of its cracked
panes.
“Say all you have to say very slowly to this gentleman then, my lad,”
answers Evie Ravensdale. “He is a magistrate, and will take your
deposition, and hear you swear to it.”
“I want to tell you, sir, how wicked I have been. But God has forgiven
me, for Father Vaughan has heard my confession, and given me absolution.
I’m a Catholic, sir, you know. But Father Vaughan told me I ought to
tell you what I’m going to, because of the great wrong which other
people have suffered by what I’ve helped to do. So, sir, this is it.
“I’m twenty-three years of age, sir, and I have earned my living since a
boy, and since poor mother died, in the service of Mr. Trackem. He’s a
private detective agent, sir, and something else besides. He always said
I was a sharp lad, and that I did things quick for him, so that when I
was eighteen he made me his head clerk, and used to tell me all about
his affairs and jobs. It was he and I who arranged that attack on Mrs.
de Lara, and several days before it I had watched her every night when
she came out for her evening stroll, and the night before the attack I
got into her sitting-room while she was out, and stole a lot of her
note-paper and some of her writing. I was at Mr. D’Estrange’s trial,
sir, and all what Mrs. de Lara and Miss Vernon and you swore to was
quite true, and nearly all what Mr. Trackem said was a lie. Well, sir,
after Mr. D’Estrange and you and Miss Vernon rescued Mrs. de Lara, Mr.
Trackem and I and Lord Westray held a consultation. His lordship was
very much put about, and swore he would be revenged. He offered me and
Mr. Trackem a deal of money to help him, and then Mr. Trackem hatched
the plan, sir. I can imitate handwriting well, and he made me write two
letters copying Mrs. de Lara’s handwriting. One was to her maid, saying
she was going up to London, and the other to Mr. Trackem, telling him to
keep the house in Verdegrease Crescent for her and Lord Westray. And
then Lord Westray himself wrote several letters in the vein described by
Mr. Trackem at the trial. And then, sir, Mr. Trackem arranged with his
lordship all about buying a poor man’s body, as soon as one could be
found suitable for the purpose. You look startled, sir, but it’s not
difficult to do a job of that sort in some parts of London, and, in
fact, one was soon got. We put Lord Westray’s gold ring on one of its
little fingers, and hung the chain and locket about its neck, and it was
me, sir, that took it down by night and buried it in Mrs. de Lara’s
grounds where it was found, and close to it I buried the clothes which
Lord Westray was wearing the night that Mr. D’Estrange fired at him. By
this time Lord Westray had gone abroad, but it was all arranged that in
two years’ time or so Mr. D’Estrange was to be accused of the murder.
When that time had elapsed, anonymous letters were sent to the present
Lord Westray, telling him all about the murder, and then Mr. Trackem
went and told his lordship what he knew. Everything happened as we
wanted it to. The matter was placed in Mr. Trackem’s hands; he
communicated with the police, and he employed me and a dog of his called
Nero, a half-bred bloodhound, to hunt the grounds of Mrs. de Lara’s
place at night in search of the body and clothes. I had previously given
Nero a lesson or two as to their whereabouts, so he soon traced them in
the presence of the police. This is all I know, sir. On my dying oath I
swear that Mr. D’Estrange did not murder Lord Westray. The wound
received was slight, and soon healed up. This is my confession, sir. I
know I did wrong, but I was a poor boy, and I was sorely tempted by the
money offered me. I loved a girl, sir. She was called Léonie, and she
was in Mr. Trackem’s service. I wanted to marry her, and I didn’t dare
ask her till I got money. But God has punished me. I shall never see
Léonie again; she’s gone away, I don’t know where, and now I’m dying. If
it had not been for dear sister Maggie I should have been dead by now,
for Lord Westray never paid me the money he promised to; least if he
gave it to Mr. Trackem I never got it. Not that I want it now. I would
not touch it for all the world, indeed I would not. And now, sir, I want
to ask you to forgive me as I know God has, and I want you to ask Mrs.
de Lara and Mr. D’Estrange to forgive me too. I think if they saw me as
you do now, sir, they would pity and forgive me.”
The young man pauses, and listens eagerly for a reply. The hectic flush
has deepened in his cheeks, and his eyes gleam with the fire that
heralds death more brilliantly than ever.
“My poor lad, I do forgive you, as I hope to be forgiven myself,” says
Evie Ravensdale softly. Terrible and horrible as is the plot which this
dying youth has disclosed to him, yet in the presence of that death
which he can see approaching fast, he feels that he must forgive.
“And Mrs. de Lara, Mr. D’Estrange?” persists Eric Fortescue anxiously.
“Mr. D’Estrange is dead,” is all that Evie Ravensdale can trust himself
to reply.
Eric Fortescue starts up in his bed, and stares wildly at the duke.
“Not hanged, sir? Oh God! not hanged, sir? I thought he escaped, sir?”
A hollow racking cough seizes him. The blood dyes his lips as he falls
back helplessly as before. In a moment Maggie is by his side with her
left arm tenderly round him, and supporting him in a sitting position,
as she wipes the blood from his lips with an old handkerchief.
“Have you anything, my girl, to moisten his lips with?” inquires the
duke, horrified at the sight before him.
“No, sir,” she answers in a low, hopeless voice. “He had his last orange
yesterday, and I have not a penny left except enough for the rent. I
daren’t use that. They would turn us out if that was not paid punctual.”
Evie Ravensdale shudders; words would not paint his feelings.
“Here, Maggie,” he says, “here is some money. Run, my girl, and buy what
you think he will fancy, and we will stay with him until you return. At
least, colonel, I won’t ask you to. I know your time is precious. Will
you swear this lad, and let him sign that deposition, and then I won’t
keep you? But I want to stay myself and see him comfortable before I
leave.”
With a happy smile lighting up her face Maggie Fortescue hurries from
the room, and then Eric swears to and signs the deposition. The
signature is tremblingly and weakly penned, still there it is, a living
witness to the truth of Speranza and Gloria de Lara’s innocence.
These formalities completed, Colonel Barrett takes his departure with
the precious document in his safe keeping. Its contents will ring
through the world before another sun is down. No sooner has he gone,
than Eric Fortescue turns his eyes once more on the duke.
“I’m glad he’s gone, sir,” he says slowly, and speaking with difficulty,
“because I want to tell you one more thing very particular, sir. It will
be my last words, I think, for I feel I’m sinking. It’s about Léonie,
sir. I want to tell you who she is, sir. Mr. Trackem told me, sir, long
ago. Her mother was Nell Stanley. Of course you know who I mean, sir—the
big beauty whom your father, sir, took away from Lord Beauladown. It was
she they fought that duel over. Well, Léonie is Nell Stanley’s child,
and her father was the late Duke of Ravensdale. He treated her mother
very bad, poor thing, and forsook her altogether after she got
disfigured with the small-pox. She came to live in Verdegrease Crescent,
and earned her living on the streets. But she did not live long, and
died at Mr. Trackem’s house when Léonie was three years old. Mr. Trackem
was beginning detective business then. Léonie was so pretty and so
smart, that he kept her and trained her to the work, and that’s how I
came to know her, sir. And I did love her, and it was my love which
tempted me to do all the wicked things I did. But God has punished me,
sir. I am dying. I shall never see Léonie any more. Still I should be
happy if I knew you would care for her, sir.”
He says the last words in a whisper. He has used all the strength that
he possesses to make this last statement. Poor Eric Fortescue! _It is
his last._
Maggie’s footstep is on the stairs; she is coming up so quickly. She has
bought some grapes amongst other things with the duke’s gift.
“Look, Eric dear!” she exclaims, as she hurries in, and holds up a big
bunch of fine black grapes for him to view. “Look what I’ve got you!”
But Eric’s eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has given way to a
deathly pallor. He has made his last effort on this earth.
She sets the things down on the rickety table with a low cry, and comes
over to the bedside.
“Eric,” she pleads, “look at Maggie, Eric, poor Maggie; she’s brought
you such nice things.”
He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them has died out; there
is a dead, heavy, vacant look in them.
“I’m going, Maggie,” she hears him mutter; “tell Father Vaughan I _did_
tell all. There’s mother, Maggie; how pretty she looks. She’s in a
garden full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. The sun is so
bright and the air so pure. And there’s Léonie—dear, pretty little
Léonie. Don’t hold me, Maggie; I must go to her, I must——”
And Maggie, bending over her twin brother, hears his voice grow still,
feels on her cheek the last breath of life that goes forth with these
words, for Eric Fortescue is dead.
Poor Maggie! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. For weeks she has
worked hard to support her brother, and watched by his bedside in her
spare hours. She has stinted herself of food to buy him little
delicacies. But of late, work has been hard to get, and during the last
week she has obtained but scant employment, barely sufficient to buy
bread with. At this moment food has not passed her lips for thirty-six
hours, and the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, the
remnants of some bread from the crumb of which she had made her brother
a little bread and milk. Poor Maggie! It is as well. He wants no bread
and milk now.
But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is all over. She merely
closes the dull, staring, lustreless eyes, smooths the worn coverlet
once more, joins his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small crucifix
from her chest, kisses it, and places it between his thin white fingers.
Then she turns to Evie Ravensdale.
“He is dead, your Grace,” she says meekly; “it is God’s will. I will
never forget your kindness in forgiving him. Poor Eric! he was a good
lad if he had not been led astray. Can I fetch you a cab, your Grace?”
Her voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact, and yet Maggie Fortescue is
alone in the world, hungry, tired, weary, and penniless.
“No, Maggie,” he says gently, “certainly not. I am going away now, but I
will send some one to help you. And when you have buried your poor
brother, you must come to this address and let me know. I have several
things to ask you, and you must let me help you to earn a comfortable
living.”
“God bless your Grace!” she answers in a low voice. Then, as Evie
Ravensdale turns to go, she holds out some silver to him, saying as she
does so:
“It’s the change, your Grace, out of what you gave me to get those
things for Eric.”
“Keep it, keep it, Maggie,” he says huskily; and then he turns and
leaves the poor scantily furnished room in which he has learned so much,
and in which he has established, absolutely and completely, the
innocence of the woman whose lost image is ever before his eyes.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
And while Eric Fortescue unburdens his soul of the heavy sin that has
stained it, and bears it, purified and triumphant, through the portals
of a new life, there is confusion and rage in the heart of Mr. Trackem
as he sits at his business table hastily examining papers and committing
them to the safe keeping of a large fire, which consumes each
consignment as it is thrown in.
Mr. Trackem’s usually confident and satisfied expression, has given
place to one of anxiety and fear. That he is disturbed is evident.
“Curse the fellow!” he keeps muttering to himself; and then a gleam of
baffled rage shoots from his cunning eyes.
There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. He is evidently
acquainted with it, for he looks up eagerly and calls out, “Come in.”
A woman enters obedient to the summons. She is a woman with a plump,
artificial-looking figure, her hair is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes,
and eyebrows are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and rouge affords
to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, which all women who decorate
themselves in this manner verily believe looks natural and becoming.
Alas! if they could only see themselves as others see them! She is
overdressed is this woman, with plenty of rings on her fingers and
jewellery about her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for what
she is.
“Well?” inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient voice, as she comes in.
“How you dawdle, Victoire! Were they there?”
“Yes,” she replies at once. “I saw the duke, and a strange gentleman,
and the girl Maggie, all go into the house.”
“Did you follow and hear what Eric said?” again asks Mr. Trackem. He
never stops the work upon which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety
to hear what she has to say.
“How could I?” she answers peevishly. “I’m not a fairy who can become
invisible at will. I saw them go in, that’s all, and then I hurried back
here.”
“Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he works away
harder than ever.
Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-coat, and
on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-stick. On the
ground below the chair stands a small black business bag. Into this bag
Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper from out the heap that he is
destroying.
There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks.
“What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here now?” she
inquires.
“Safe!” he laughs angrily, “rather not. I suppose they’ll have the
bloodhounds on me before an hour’s out. No, Victoire, I must cut it.”
“And what’s to become of me?” she asks, somewhat aghast. “You’ll leave
me some money, Trackem, and let me know where you are going to?”
“Money! I’ve deuced little left of that now; and as for telling you
where I’m going to, I’m not such a fool. Why, you’d blurt it out any
moment,” and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly.
“But what’s to become of me?” she again inquires.
“Damned if I know!” he replies impatiently. “I don’t suppose you’ll have
much trouble in making a living along with some one else, same way as
you’ve made it here. You don’t suppose I can saddle myself with you now,
and drag you about wherever I go? What a fool you are, Victoire!”
“Then you are going to throw me up?” she asks in a low voice.
“Haven’t I told you I can’t drag you about all over the place?” he
answers savagely.
“But you’ll leave me a little money, won’t you?” she says, with a half
sob. “I haven’t got a farthing, Trackem.”
“Then you must go and make it, my girl,” he replies coarsely. “You’ll
have no difficulty in doing that, and I’ve no money to give you. You
know perfectly well that I’ve nigh ruined myself with lending all the
money that I did to that Lord Westray, and now he’s dead I can’t get it
back. Curse him! I wish I’d never seen him, or had anything to do with
that Mrs. de Lara and her daughter. They’ve beat us fair and square,
Victoire, even though the daughter be dead. Fair and square.”
“I hate them both,” she bursts out with unreasoning fury. “They are the
cause of my misery now. Oh, Trackem! don’t forsake me. I might have had
a comfortable, respectable home with Charles, but I threw it up to be
with you. What did I do it for but because I loved you? I’m a bad one,
no doubt; but at least I loved you, and do love you still. Don’t forsake
me! I’ll stop here and put the trackers off the scent, and do all I know
how to help you, only promise me you’ll let me know where you are
by-and-by, and let me join you again.”
A brilliant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has not the slightest
intention of doing as she asks, but it will be just as well, he thinks,
to lead her to believe that he will. And meantime she may be useful in
assisting his escape.
“Well, Victoire,” he says in a more conciliatory voice, “you’re a good
girl and a faithful one. Look here, here’s five pounds, and I’ll send
you more soon. Stay here as long as you can, and keep the bloodhounds at
bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink them. When you change
your address put it in the _Times_. And now, my girl, give us a kiss. I
must be off. Every moment makes it more risky.”
He has finished burning his compromising papers, has taken up his hat,
stick, and gloves, thrown his coat over one arm, and picked up the
business bag. He is quite ready to go.
She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, degraded, wicked as is
Victoire Hester, yet she loves this vile, scheming, and contemptible
wretch, for whose sake she has steeped her soul in the inky dye of sin,
and turned from the path of honour and of truth.
“There now, there now, that’s enough, old girl,” he says hastily, and as
she unclasps her hands from about his neck, he steps quickly towards the
door and opens it.
“Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers,” he says significantly, and
then he passes out from her presence, and is gone.
She hears the front door open and shut again, and springs to the window.
She can just catch sight of him as he passes along the Crescent. It is
her last glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the contrary, she feels
that it is. But Victoire Hester for the moment forgets herself. In the
presence of the danger which threatens the man she loves, she becomes
calm. All trace of his hasty departure must be quickly obliterated. She
feels that this is imperatively necessary. Quickly she sets to work,
tidies up his table, sets the room neat, and with her own hands collects
the burnt paper and carries it off. Then she opens the windows to let
out the smell which the burning paper has emitted, heaps more coals on
the fire, and moves into Mr. Trackem’s bedroom to arrange his things. In
less than an hour all is ship-shape and tidy as usual. There is not a
sign of hasty departure.
A few hours later there comes a ring at the front door. Victoire has
given instructions that she will see any one that calls. She has often
before undertaken this duty in Mr. Trackem’s absence, and the servant
sees nothing strange in the order. He therefore admits the new-comers,
and shows them into Mr. Trackem’s business room. These two new-comers
are men. They are dressed in dark clothes, and they both seat themselves
to await his coming.
“Run him in pretty sharp, eh?” observes one of them with a smile, as the
door closes on the servant.
“Haven’t got him yet, Bush,” retorts the other quietly. Inspector
Truffle is not of so sanguine a temperament as is Inspector Bush.
“As good as though,” replies Inspector Bush confidently, but he stops
abruptly as he hears steps approaching. Again the door of Mr. Trackem’s
business room opens. Victoire enters. There is blank disappointment on
Inspector Bush’s face. Victoire sees it as she fixes her dark eyes full
upon him.
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she says quietly; “you wished to see Mr.
Trackem? I am sorry to say he is away, but I expect him back the day
after to-morrow. His head clerk is ill too, but I can do anything for
you in Mr. Trackem’s place. I always attend to his affairs in his
absence.”
She smiles good-naturedly on the blank, nonplussed detectives. She seems
to give her attention especially to Inspector Bush. Inspector Truffle
rises to the occasion.
“Thank you, madam,” he says briskly, “but I fear the business we have
come about can only be transacted with Mr. Trackem. The fact is, madam,
we came to settle an account that we owe him, and which would require
Mr. Trackem’s signature to be of any use as a receipt. And the worst of
it is, we are going away, and shall not be able to call again.”
He fixes a piercing glance upon her as he speaks, but Victoire is equal
to the occasion. She does not believe a word of Inspector Truffle’s
statement, and divines perfectly well what his business is.
She assumes a disappointed air as she exclaims,
“It is a great pity. But what is to be done? I do not think I can
possibly get Mr. Trackem back before the day after to-morrow. However, I
will telegraph to him, and will send you his reply. Will you favour me
with your address?”
Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, and inwardly chuckles. But again
Inspector Truffle attempts to uphold the fair fame of detective
smartness.
“Certainly, madam,” he replies, as he takes out his card-case and hands
her a card therefrom, upon which she reads the address of a well-known
firm of solicitors.
She assumes a most deferential manner.
“I think Mr. Trackem will make every effort to be here by to-morrow. I
will telegraph at once, and unless you hear to the contrary, will you
kindly call on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-morrow, if you please,
gentlemen?”
Mr. Truffle is triumphant.
“We will,” he answers. “Well, thank you, madam. Good-afternoon to you.”
“Good-afternoon, gentlemen,” she replies with admirably feigned regret
ringing in her voice.
Inspectors Truffle and Bush betake themselves to the comfortable hansom
that awaits them. As it rattles along, the former breaks silence.
“We managed that capitally,” he says with a chuckle. “Quite took her in.
The chink of money soon made her open her ears. Bet you it brings Mr.
Trackem home pretty quick.”
“Yes,” answers Inspector Bush. “I didn’t like the look of the woman when
she first came in, but she took the bait readily enough. Poor things,
those sort of women. No match for the likes of us, eh?”
Inspector Truffle has had more experience than Inspector Bush, and
doesn’t agree there. But he thinks, as he drives along, that anyhow
_this one_ is quite taken in.
Is she, though? You’ll find out your mistake, inspector, when you call
to-morrow with Inspector Bush _at the same hour_!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
The lights are low and softly subdued in Evie Ravensdale’s private study
or sanctum in Montragee House, the blinds and curtains are drawn, the
fire casts its flickering shadows on the ceiling and walls as ever and
anon the little gas-jets from the coals shoot forth their vivid blaze,
relapsing immediately after into smoke and gloom. The sounds of mimic
warfare which they produce are the only ones which break the stillness
prevailing, unless it be the low breathing of the dog Nero, which is
stretched upon the hearthrug.
He would hardly, however, lie there so quietly and contentedly, if he
were the only occupant of the room, for a dog’s chief characteristic is
love of company, loneliness being his pet aversion.
Nor is he alone, as we shall see if we glance at the big armchair drawn
up in front of the fire, and looking again, perceive that it is
occupied.
The figure which sits there, is in truth very still and silent. It is
laying back with its knees crossed and its arms resting on each side of
the chair. Its head is slightly bent forward, and its dreamy eyes
glitter in the firelight, which they are roving as if in search of an
object prized but lost.
What does Evie Ravensdale see in that flickering firelight which appears
suddenly to arrest his gaze? It must be some cherished object indeed,
judging by the happy smile which for a few brief moments lights up the
otherwise sad face, on which melancholy has stamped its mournful
features. That which he sees is but a passing vision however, for the
smile quickly dies away, and leaves the dark eyes searching again amidst
the glowing coals, for the picture that has come and vanished. Above the
fireplace, shrouded on either side by heavy curtains of old-gold plush,
hangs the oil painting which represents his first meeting with Hector
D’Estrange. It is only when alone that Evie Ravensdale draws those
curtains aside, and then none can see the emotion which the picture
arouses in him. For the memories which it awakens, albeit noble and
tender, are painful, recalling, as they do, the image of her whom in
life he has most cherished and now lost.
He is sitting there alone, but his mind is busy and his brain hard at
work. The sudden revulsion of feeling throughout the country, aroused by
the discovery of the drowned body of Lord Westray and the tragic fate of
Gloria de Lara, coupled with the published declarations of Léonie
Stanley, and later on the startling dying depositions of Eric Fortescue,
have all combined to create this reaction in favour of the D’Estrangeite
party. The Devonsmere Government, weak in composition and intellect, at
once succumbed, and Lord Pandulph Chertsey, the free lance of the
National party, stepped into the Duke of Devonsmere’s shoes. But Lord
Pandulph was too clever and practical to attempt to govern the fiery
steed of public opinion with mimic reins of power. He appealed to that
tribunal which alone has the right to nominate its rulers, the people,
and demanded of the country its mandate. And now the country, without
demur or hesitation, has spoken out in no uncertain tone. The light of a
pure and noble life has penetrated the darkness of opposition and
prejudice, and has fulfilled the prophecy which in childhood Gloria de
Lara predicted. The cause of right and justice has triumphed, and the
reign of selfishness, greed, and monopoly has passed away.
By a glorious majority D’Estrangeism has won. The Progressists are
nowhere, and the Nationals have been returned mutilated in numbers. The
D’Estrangeites, recruited by sixty additional seats, declare the
country’s will, and Evie Ravensdale, at the command of his sovereign,
has formed a Ministry, known under the name of the Second D’Estrangeite
Cabinet.
These changes have been rapid. Little more than a month has passed away
since the death of Gloria de Lara resounded through the world, and
already the vision which her childhood’s genius conjured up as she spoke
to the waves of the blue Adriatic, and predicted victory, is on the eve
of realisation. For even as it had been her first act of power to bring
in a bill for the complete emancipation of women, so is it Evie
Ravensdale’s intention to do likewise.
But the position is different. When Hector D’Estrange submitted his bill
to the Commons, he knew that for many reasons it was doomed, the first,
and foremost being that the country had not spoken, or pronounced
unmistakably for or against the change. On this occasion there can be no
misunderstanding however, for the Parliament returned gives the
D’Estrangeites a majority over the other parties in the House combined,
and in plain words declares the will of the people. But there is just
this difference again. Whereas the first bill was introduced to the
Commons, the second, in virtue of Evie Ravensdale’s rank, must make its
_début_ in the Lords. Will this latter assembly accept it? It remains to
be seen. Yet surely in the face of the country’s mandate, the peers will
submit to the people’s wishes!
No wonder then that the brain of the young Premier is busy and hard at
work. In three hours from now, he will be submitting the bill to his
peers, and appealing to them in the name of justice and right, in the
name of fairness and honesty, in the name of the great dead, to breathe
upon it the breath of life. Surely the victory which the child Gloria
foretold, which the young genius foresaw, is now at length to be won.
Ah! surely yes.
“My darling,” he whispers softly, as the vision, which for a few brief
moments has shone in the gleaming coals, passes away in the changing
light thereof, “my darling, would to God that you were here, would to
God that I had the counsel of your clear brain, the courage of your
strong heart to support me! Yet hear me, Gloria, and help me to keep my
vow. Have I not sworn to dedicate my life to the great work which your
noble genius conceived and sought to accomplish? And with God’s help I
will be the faithful servant of your great cause. So help me God!”
He rises as he speaks, and fixes his gaze on the painting above him. It
almost seems to him as though the figure of Hector D’Estrange portrayed
therein, stands there in living life. He can hardly realise, as he looks
at the beautiful face, that the spirit which made Gloria so noble in
life, does not animate it now. In the subdued light and the flickering
gleam of the fire, the features look living and real; to Evie Ravensdale
they bring high resolves and noble inspirations, which only the
influence of that which is great and lofty, can awaken.
* * * * *
Estcourt is late in the House, too late to hear the whole of the
Premier’s speech; he has been delayed by business of pressing moment.
About five o’clock in the afternoon, a telegram had been put into his
hands, the contents of which had dazed and struck him well-nigh
speechless. He could not summon courage to credit its contents.
Recovering however, from his surprise, his first impulse had been to
seek his chief and lay the telegram before him. Second thoughts had
decided him, however, on not doing so, and he had elected instead to
send off a long telegram himself. This telegram bore reference entirely
to the one which he had received, and was addressed to a friend in South
America. During the remainder of the day Estcourt has been anxiously and
feverishly awaiting the reply. So important does he regard this reply,
that he continues to await it, and in the House of Lords, crowded by
every active member belonging to it, he alone is absent. It is natural,
therefore, that his absence should have caused both surprise and
comment, especially as he is a prominent member of the Second
D’Estrangeite Ministry.
He has come in now, however, and his colleagues eye him curiously. They
cannot help noticing the suppressed look of excitement in his face, and
the eager, restless expression in his eyes. Estcourt’s ordinary manner
is so quiet and calm that these unusual symptoms are all the more
noticeable and surprising. But the duke is still speaking; attention is
soon again riveted on what he is saying, and Estcourt is enabled, at any
rate, to hear the latter part of a speech whose persuasive eloquence and
oratorical power, amaze the House, Evie Ravensdale never before having
been regarded but as a common-place speaker, and orator of mediocre
talent.
“On this solemn occasion,” he is saying as Estcourt comes in, “I beseech
of your lordships to cast aside the cloak of old prejudices and selfish
monopoly, and obey the unmistakable will of the country, which has
appointed a House of Commons pledged to carry this great act of human
justice and reparation. I appeal to you to show on this occasion a true
courage worthy of men, and abolish for ever from the Statute Book those
disabilities under which women are deprived of rights to which they are
entitled by reason of their common humanity with man. The stale
arguments of past days can no longer be advanced in opposition to this
bill. The false and brutal pretexts which formerly were adopted to
reason away the human rights of women, can no longer be resorted to.
Woman has triumphantly established the fact that her mental capacities
are equal to man’s—ay, and her physical powers of strength and endurance
as well, where she has been given fair chances and fair play. There
remains but one argument against the removal of her disabilities and the
triumphant assertion of the principles of this bill; that one argument
is selfishness. Men are unwilling, in many instances, to allow women
whom they have held in subjection so long, to assume a position of
equality with themselves. These men object to remove the halo with which
they have self-crowned themselves; they object, in fact, to share with
women the good things of this earth. There is but one definition of this
attitude of opposition, and that is selfishness, my lords, pure and
unadulterated selfishness. But the time has come when this selfishness
is too glaring and apparent to pass from sight, when it must be faced,
fought with, and conquered. On its defeat depends—not the welfare of man
only, but the welfare and advance of the world. We have sought to rule
against the laws of Nature too long, we have sought, by artificial
means, to keep the world going, and we have failed. What has the rule of
man accomplished? The vain gratification of a few, the misery of
millions and hundreds of millions. War has been invented to glorify men,
to uphold dynasties loathed, in many instances, by the people; vice and
immorality rage for the gratification of the ruler man; philanthropy
exists to patch up the sores and abscesses brought about in Society by
his excesses; the starving, the criminal, and the miserable, are
supported by taxes wrung from the people. Religion spreads abroad its
thousands of arms, each one asserting its sole right to be, but the fact
remains: war is spreading, crime increasing, immorality assuming giant
proportions, misery, disease, and wrongdoing growing mightier day by
day, while the forces that could and would stay these horrors, still
wear the badge of slavery.
“I appeal to your lordships to face these facts, and act upon them
generously and courageously. From our midst a great and commanding
figure has but lately passed away,—one who began in childhood an heroic
and courageous resistance to wrong, and who maintained that resistance
through her all too short career. Gloria de Lara, in the person of
Hector D’Estrange, triumphantly established the fact of woman’s equality
with man, and undeniably asserted the right of her sex to share with him
in the government of the world.
“And I ask your lordships to consider in a generous manner the motives
which first prompted the great heart of Gloria de Lara to do battle for
her sex, and which ultimately strengthened its resolve to maintain the
contest to the last. Was it not a dawning comprehension of the terrible
wrong under which her mother had become an outcast in this world,
shunned and despised by Society at large? Did not Gloria de Lara
recognise that in woman’s unnatural position lay the root of the evil?
Then, as she grew up, and personally made herself acquainted with the
woes afflicting Society, did she not struggle to remedy this position,
recognising therein the key to human suffering? I bear testimony to her
life of patient, unwearying research amidst the suffering and slaving
classes. This it was that gave her such a grasp of her subject, when in
the House of Commons she sought to unveil to the members thereof the
horrors that existed. The dream of her life was, to be spared in order
to carry great social measures of reform, but she recognised the fact
that to do this effectually, woman must first be placed on the level of
equality with man. For this she struggled, for this she fought on
against overwhelming odds. I need not dwell on the false and brutal
charge which was brought against her, which forced her to disclose her
sex, which condemned her to die, and which—when rescued by her own Women
Guards—made her an outcast and a wanderer, and a felon in the eyes of
the law. The falsity of this detestable lie has been abundantly proved
in the discovery of the dead body of the man who ruined and blasted her
mother’s life, who brought about her own pathetic and irredeemable
death. In her name I appeal for justice, and I confidently believe that
I shall not appeal in vain. I desire that the division shortly to be
taken shall seal the fate of the measure on behalf of victory or defeat.
You have the voice of the country ringing in your ears, but high above
that voice should sound the loud appeal, which a great and noble example
sends forth, the appeal of the glorious dead.”
He sits down amidst a storm of applause, unusual in this august and
dignified assembly. He hardly hears it; he takes no note of the varied
scene around him. Evie Ravensdale sees before him the face of but one
being, that being Gloria de Lara. Is not her spirit near encouraging,
upholding, and leading him on to victory?
But he is awakened from his dream at the call of duty. The division is
being taken at last, and all wait in breathless expectation for the
result.
“The Content’s have it!” By a majority of 107 the peers obey the
country’s mandate, and acknowledge the people’s will as law. Gloria has
triumphed. That which she predicted is realised, the vow which she made
is accomplished. Ah! in this moment of victory, who would not wish her
here, instead of in the cold arms of death?
Of death? Silence is being called for, and Lord Estcourt is endeavouring
to make himself heard. He is successful at last.
“I wish to explain to the House,” he begins, “why I was not in my place
when my noble friend began his speech. My excuse will be acceptable to
this House, I feel sure. The fact is, I received a telegram containing
startling intelligence, so startling that I conceived it to be a hoax. I
took steps to ascertain the truth, and am satisfied of the authenticity
of the first intelligence. I have to announce to your lordships the
glorious news that Gloria de Lara is not dead. By God’s almighty
goodness she is alive—alive to witness the triumph of her cause. Truly
indeed you may exclaim with me in accepting this wonderful intelligence,
it is God’s will—it is the hand of God.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
“Gloria de Lara lives!” The words have rung far and wide o’er land and
distant sea. They have entered the homes of the great, the cottages of
the poor, they have brought joy to millions of weary hearts, who know
that while that great name breathes the breath of life, reform cannot
die.
Yes, Gloria lives, lives! But how? Have we not seen her in the clutch of
Death?
We left her therein. We left her being borne down by the resistless,
sucking whirlpool of the sinking smack as the massive trading steamer,
which had cut clean through the frail barque, bore on its course. As she
parted her hold of Léonie, Gloria had clutched the sinking wreck with
that strong and tenacious grip which the drowning alone can command. The
lighter and severed portion of the wreck had been swept forward by an
enormous wave, which carried with it likewise the body of Léonie,
supported on the crest of the sea by the life-belt, which Gloria had
tied around her.
But the bright, flashing light which had danced in Gloria’s eyes ere she
was borne downwards, had searched from stem to stern the helpless,
storm-tossed craft, and the anxious gaze of the man on the look out had
been able to detect those two frail human forms. As the shout of “Boat
ahoy!” had rung out through the shrieking storm, the steamer had crashed
through her frail antagonist in the manner already described. But the
skipper of _The Maid of Glad Tidings_, as such the steamer was named,
was brave and humane. In spite of the storm he had skilfully brought his
vessel to the rescue. The electric light had swept the sea in search of
the unlucky boat, and after a time a portion of her had been sighted, a
helpless and dismantled wreck. Yet to that wreck a human form was
clinging.
A brave crew had manned the lifeboat, and with the true pluck of British
seamen, had fought against terrible odds to rescue that one lone,
helpless creature. They succeeded; and amidst that black night and
howling storm, another deed of heroism had silently written its tale
upon the scrolls of British fame. And as Captain Ruglen’s gaze had first
fallen on the rescued victim of the storm, he had started. He was a big,
powerful man, with a tender, kindly heart. When, therefore, he bent over
the silent figure and raised it in his arms, bearing it below to his own
cabin, his men only saw in this act another evidence of the skipper’s
kindly disposition. Yet in that brief glance, Gloria de Lara had been
recognised; for what devoted adherent of her cause who had ever looked
upon her face could forget it? Certes, not Captain Ruglen. A member of
Ruglen clan, he was also an out-and-out D’Estrangeite; nor was this the
first time that he had been in the company of Hector D’Estrange. But he
knew that the once successful and powerful idol of Society was now a
hunted and doomed felon, with a large reward out for her apprehension.
He knew that many of his crew were not D’Estrangeites, and that it might
go hard with him and her if she were recognised. Thus had he borne her
to his cabin, determined there to protect and shield her, and carry her
to the far-away free shores of the Spanish main, whither _The Maid of
Glad Tidings_ was bound.
Reaching it, Gloria’s first act had been to wire to Speranza de Lara in
North America, and to Estcourt in England. As yet she had heard no
tidings of the wonderful events which had led up to the triumph of her
cause.
But those tidings sped back to her along the electric wire. They came in
the shape of a loving message of welcome from the man she loved. From
Evie Ravensdale she learnt how victory had crowned her efforts; from him
came the tidings of great joy that her vow had been accomplished.
* * * * *
Once more the vast crowd of London surges in the streets,—a happy,
joyous, good-humoured crowd nevertheless. Every house is gay with
bunting and flags, and triumphal arches are in every street through
which the procession will pass along.
What procession?
Why, is not this the day upon which Gloria de Lara is to reach our
shores, and is she not to be welcomed back and publicly honoured in the
great Hall of Liberty, where, when last she stood, she was a condemned
and hunted felon?
The yacht _Eilean_ has gone to meet her. It has joined the _Colossus_,
in which Gloria has made her passage from South America at the mouth of
the Thames. The party on board the _Eilean_ consists solely of Speranza
de Lara, Flora Desmond, and her child, a fine girl of seven years,
together with Evie Ravensdale, Estcourt, Léonie, and Rita Vernon. All,
with the exception of Speranza, wear the white gold-braided uniform of
the White Guards’ Regiment of the Women Volunteers, an organisation
which a Royal Proclamation has called back to life.
The _Colossus_ has yielded up its precious charge. As the cutter bears
Gloria de Lara away from the great war monster’s side towards the white,
graceful _Eilean_ that awaits her, the cannon belch forth their parting
salute and welcome in one breath. There, standing on the deck ready to
grasp her hand in a deep and loving tenderness, with heartfelt gratitude
for her wonderful deliverance, stand the two beings whom she loves most
in the world, Speranza de Lara and Evie Ravensdale. What human words
could describe that meeting, for they thought her dead, and behold she
is there in living life?
Tilbury Docks are reached; the roar of distant cannon announce her
arrival. There she stands on the yacht’s bridge with Evie Ravensdale by
her side. As the crowd sways to and fro to catch a glimpse of her, the
people see that she wears the White Guards’ Uniform. The regiment is
there to meet and welcome her. As she leaves the yacht, its band strikes
up the beautiful march “Triumphant,” the same which had welcomed her to
the Hall of Liberty, when, as Hector D’Estrange, she had performed the
opening ceremony. The milk-white steed which she had ridden on that
occasion now awaits her in its trappings of white-and-gold. Never has
horse been so groomed and petted as this one.
In sight of the crowd she bids her mother a courteous and tender
farewell, for Speranza has elected to drive straight to Montragee House,
there to await her child’s return. A brilliant mounted throng await the
former’s coming; many well-known faces are there, amongst which Gloria
catches sight of those of Lady Manderton and Launcelot Trevor.
Now she has mounted her milk-white charger Saladin, and with Evie
Ravensdale and Nigel Estcourt on her right, and Flora Desmond and Archie
Douglasdale on her left, is riding slowly forward. In close attendance
behind are Rita Vernon and Léonie Stanley. The latter’s eyes are busy in
the crowd, and seem to search the ranks forward as they ride along. The
brilliant throng of mounted friends close in, the cheering of the crowd
is deafening; it will be one long loud roar until the Hall of Liberty is
reached.
The way is kept by the Women’s Volunteer Regiments, and the order is
perfect. As Gloria and Flora ride along, they catch glimpses of old,
tried, true, and trusty friends among the ranks—friends who in time of
trouble stood by them, and laboured lovingly to make easier the rugged
path which they were then treading.
It is a soul-inspiring sight. Many of the people have brought flowers
with them, and as the procession approaches they cast them loosely in
the air, out of which they descend in a shower of many colours to carpet
the way, along which Gloria must pass, with their bright and variegated
bloom. The strains of the White Guards’ band, the glitter of their
white-and-gold uniforms, the loud cheering of the enthusiastic crowds as
the brilliant cavalcade moves along, is a sight which the onlooker is
not likely to forget. It thrills the hearts of that vast woman world,
assembled to do honour to the one who has worked for and who has won
their emancipation.
One long triumphal march. One uninterrupted scene of unchecked
enthusiasm is the welcome accorded her from the Docks to the Hall of
Liberty. The sun is shining on the gilded statues and million panes
which crown that wondrous structure, as she approaches the building
which her genius conceived and raised,—approaches it, no longer as the
hunted felon upon whose head the price of gold is set, but as a free
woman, a victorious general who has conquered the demon armies of
Monopoly and Selfishness, and thrown open to the people the free gates
of happiness and reform. Now through the giant portals she rides once
more. Great God! what a burst of welcome, and what a scene! From floor
to ceiling the monster building is crammed. Every available space has
been occupied; there is not a foot of standing room.
She has uncovered, and they see her face as she rides round the circular
ride towards the huge platform,—the same face of exquisite beauty which
they remember and know so well. As she dismounts, she is received by the
chairman of the committee appointed to carry out the day’s proceedings,
and to present the people’s address of welcome, to which thousands of
representative names from every county have been attached.
On the platform are gathered every member of the Ministry and every
D’Estrangeite Member of Parliament. Truly a royal welcome by staunch and
faithful friends; for as Gloria dismounts and steps upon the platform
she is greeted with a loud long cheer by these men of generous mould,
who have fought so nobly on behalf of her holy cause. All honour be to
them for ever!
Sir Arthur Hazlerigg, Lord Mayor of London, presents and reads the
address of welcome, and as he concludes it, Gloria de Lara stands
forward to reply. An intense silence falls. All are eager to hear again
a voice which they had believed to be for ever stilled in death.
“My friends,” she begins, and though the voice has all the clear,
ringing sweetness of yore, there is undoubtedly a tremor in it, “it
would require a special language, one of which we have yet no knowledge,
to convey to you the emotions which this scene of magnificent welcome
awakens within me. From the bottom of my heart I thank you for it, as
well as all those true and gallant friends who have created this
glorious day; for next to God it is the people who have created it. In
this welcome which you give to me, the humble and all too unworthy
representative of a magnificent cause, the great principle of human
freedom is at length recognised, that freedom inherited at birth, and
only wrung from individuals by oppression and wrong. Human freedom means
the right to take part in the creation of laws for the better government
and perfection of man; it means that man and woman are born equal, are
created to work hand in hand for the greater happiness of mankind.
Hitherto this principle of mighty truth has not been recognised, with
the awful results shown forth in man’s ever-increasing degradation. By
the acknowledgment of this principle you have laid the train which, when
fired, will put an end to immorality and social wrongs, which will make
evil unpleasant to perform, and which will degrade the performer to the
position of a leper, the shunned and outcast of Society, loathed and
despised by his fellow-men. By the acknowledgment of this principle, a
day of darkness has sunk to rise no more, and one of brightness, and
promise, and fair hope has arisen to cheer us along the glorious path of
reform. Much there is to be done, mountains of prejudice, and
selfishness, and greed yet to be faced and conquered; but the army which
the acknowledgment of human freedom has raised, is an army which will
fight victoriously to the end; for it is an army in which men and women
will do battle side by side and shoulder to shoulder, undeterred by
class jealousies or the odious assumption of superiority by one sex over
another. My friends, as I stand to-day in this Hall of Liberty and look
upon this magnificent scene, memories rise up before me of a stirring
and eventful past. I see before me now, a picture which in childhood I
loved to imagine, a glorious reality which in the past haunted my waking
dreams. On many incidents of that past I would prefer not to dwell,
arousing, as they must, the bitterness of human nature. Rather is the
province of the conqueror, of the victorious to forgive and forget, to
look forward to the future, and strive for the possibilities which that
future may contain. We are starting along a new path in life, a path
open to all, not monopolised by the few, a path which, as time goes on,
shall show traces of victory on all sides. I ask the great army of my
countrymen to endeavour to win those victories as speedily as possible,
so that in the future, the day may dawn when there shall be no misery,
no wickedness, no crime. In that army, women now find a place; let them
triumphantly prove their right to be there. They have yet an uphill road
to climb, but I have confidence that they will compass it, and now that
the gates of freedom are thrown open to them, take part in all the great
deeds of the world. Upon them the eyes of this world will be fixed; upon
them depends the ultimate freedom of the human race. I have no fear as
to the result; I do not for one moment dread the trial. I believe,
moreover, that the presence and natural companionship of woman will
upraise and influence man’s character for good, banishing from his daily
life those coarser habits which self-indulgence and lack of moral
influence have allowed to creep therein, and that Society, in its
remodelled state, will thus be enabled to deal with the evils which
infest it. My friends, I need detain you no longer. On my arrival in
this country I was informed that my old constituency had re-elected me
as its member. I rejoice to hear that I have several women
fellow-members in the Legislature to whom men, generous and
noble-hearted men, have relinquished places. To tell you that the
remainder of my life, which God has so mercifully spared to me, will be
employed in working for the people, in devoting every energy I possess
to their advancement, is the sum of my declaration here to-day. Rest
assured that for them, no one will struggle harder than Gloria de Lara.”
A simple speech, a quiet, honest declaration. Though she stands there,
the cynosure of all eyes, there is no vanity or conceit in those few
simple words. Gloria’s aim is unveiled. It is the upraising and triumph
of humanity. She lives but to work on its behalf.
She is on the point of stepping back amidst a perfect hurricane of
cheers, when Evie Ravensdale comes to her side.
“One moment, Gloria; stay where you are,” he whispers. “I have something
to say.”
He raises his hand to ask for silence, and the people accord it to him.
“My friends,” he exclaims, “for with Gloria de Lara may I not call you
my friends? I have a pleasing task to perform in that which I am going
to say. As Gloria de Lara has told you, the law of this country has at
length acknowledged the principle of human freedom, and woman’s right to
equal man is finally recognised. When the country spoke out so
unmistakably on behalf of human freedom, my sovereign bade me assume the
reins of power. I accepted them, not unwillingly; for the only object I
had in life was to carry out the great reforms which the genius of
Gloria de Lara had conceived, and of which she had made me the
confidant. At that time I believed, with all others, that she was dead.
But, my friends, she is alive. And now I tell you that she only has a
right to assume the reins confided to me, she alone has the right to
carry those great reforms. The person who conceived them alone has that
right, and I, her deputy, relinquish it to her. I tell you that Gloria
de Lara must be your Prime Minister, while I will take my part as a
humble worker with the people. With the full approval of my colleagues
and every D’Estrangeite member, I intend forthwith to tender my
resignation, and to advise my sovereign to send for Gloria de Lara.”
There can be no mistaking the genuine ring of approval in the mighty
cheer that bursts forth from the thousands of throats in that densely
packed building. Truly the child’s heartfelt prayer has been answered in
this splendid tribute paid to her unselfish labours, from the days of
childhood far into those of womanhood.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
Wealth and magnificence rear their forms in and around the precincts of
St. Stephen’s. They do not, however, monopolise the entire space, for
here and there the squalid streets of poverty abide, with all their
_wealth_ and _magnificence_, of suffering, crime, and sin. One of these
streets is just across the river, and the clock in the big tower of the
Houses of Parliament can peep and peer therein, even from its misty
height.
Staring from a dust-begrimed window on the second floor of a
dirty-looking dwelling situated in the street named, stands a woman,
whose rough, untidy hair is tied back in a knot, and whose coarse,
seared features show signs of former enamelling, now disused. Poor
wretch! there is hunger and misery in her eyes, and despair as well.
Some would say insanity gleams there.
She is listening to the cannons’ roar as they belch forth their welcome
to Gloria de Lara. Their booming sound is maddening to the hungry,
lonely, despairing woman, who stands there with not a friend in the
world.
Yes, he has forsaken her, got away scot-free himself, but left her to
wait for and look for him in vain. Victoire Hester has parted with her
jewellery and tawdry finery for a mere song, the five-pound note which
Mr. Trackem gave her is expended, and she has not a farthing left in the
world. To-morrow she must find three shillings for the rent of her
miserable, unhealthy room, and she has not got it, nor has a morsel of
food touched her lips this day. She is broken-hearted. Worse than that,
she is jealous, angry, bitter. It maddens her to think of Gloria at the
pinnacle of success, and she who sought to assist in her ruin, at the
bottom of the abyss of abject misery.
What is left to her in the world? Nothing. Her character is gone. She
cannot find work, and if she could, she would not undertake it. She has
no heart to do anything, for in her coarse, hard way, she loved Trackem,
loved him only to lose him.
“Whose fault but hers?” she mutters angrily as the cannon boom once
more. “Why should she be happy, while I die here like a dog? Not that I
want to live, I mean to die; but she sha’n’t live to be happy, that she
sha’n’t! I’ll send her first, and then I’ll go myself. Ha, ha!”
Surely insanity rings in that voice. Poor Victoire! You do not know how
lovingly Gloria would forgive you, if she only knew the state you were
in, how eagerly she would seek to raise you from that fallen state, and
set you on the straight path once more. But all this you do not know.
She goes over to a tumble-down-looking chest of drawers that has seen
better days, and pulls open one of the drawers. Out of this she takes a
six-chambered bull-dog revolver, examines it carefully, and slips it
into her pocket. It used to belong to Mr. Trackem, and she had brought
it away with her when she left the house in Verdegrease Crescent, a few
hours after the departure of Inspectors Truffle and Bush. She has kept
it by her,—it is about the only thing she has not parted with,—vaguely
feeling that it may be useful, if Mr. Trackem does not answer her
piteous appeals in the agony columns of the _Times_; for Victoire Hester
has determined to put an end to herself now that he has forsaken her.
The rich and well clothed may condemn her, but who could, who diving
into the arid desert of that lonely, hopeless heart, beheld the mortal
wound inflicted by despair?
The revolver safe, she next unearths an old woollen shawl, which she
flings over her head and pins under her chin. Then she is ready, and she
gropes her way down the dark staircase into the street.
She is hungry, weary, and weak, but she walks briskly along, looking
straight ahead of her. People are hurrying across Westminster Bridge
eager to get a good place in the line along which Gloria de Lara will
pass on her way from the Hall of Liberty to Montragee House. Victoire
Hester is intent on securing a good place too.
And she is successful. She takes her stand in Whitehall, not a stone’s
throw from the Duke of Ravensdale’s mansion. She will have a long time
to wait, but she steels herself to endure it.
Denser and denser grows the throng, but Victoire Hester, though pushed
and hustled about, nevertheless maintains her position in the front
rank. She feels she must hold that at any cost; it is necessary for her
purpose. There is a tremor in the crowd, as if an electric current had
passed through it. Now the boom of cannon resounds once more. These
warning notes tell the people that the ceremony is over in the Hall of
Liberty, and that Gloria de Lara is leaving it for Montragee House.
A hum runs along the serried walls of human forms; the electric current
is apparently again at work. From afar strains of martial music come
floating to the people’s ears, arousing them to the pitch of expectancy
and excitement. There is a dull continuous roar too; it never seems to
cease, as it rises and falls like the waves of a turbulent sea, breaking
upon the wild shores of a rock-bound coast. Yet as it comes nearer, the
roar assumes a human sound; it is that of thousands and tens of
thousands of voices cheering lustily. Victoire Hester’s trembling hand
gropes in her pocket for the revolver. She knows now that Gloria de Lara
is approaching, and that the moment which will close her own life is at
hand. Yes, surely insanity is writ in those eyes as they stare hungrily
forward. How terribly they gleam!
No one notices her, however. Every eye is bent upon the approaching
procession. There comes the band of the White Guards,—how soul-stirring
its music!—and there, too, is the milk-white charger Saladin, with
arching neck and proud carriage; for does he not bear a precious charge
indeed, in the person of Gloria de Lara?
The sun gleams down upon her gilded helmet, and lights with a living
blaze the gold braiding upon her uniform. How beautiful she looks as she
rides along with the glance of eager thousands upon her! How she loves
the people! How they return that love! Surely none in that wildly
enthusiastic crowd would seek to harm her?
Yes, _one_ would though, and we know who. The madness in Victoire
Hester’s brain is increased by the scene before her. More than ever she
questions the right of this woman to be happy, to be the idol of
thousands, while she is doomed to be friendless and miserable.
Will no one stay her hand? Will no one arrest and strike down the engine
of death which she is steadily raising and bringing to bear full on
Gloria’s breast? Ah! can no one in this moment of wild excitement see
the danger that threatens the idol of the people? See! Victoire’s finger
is on the trigger! God! can no one see and stay it?
Yes, one can see it, though she cannot stay it—one whose glance has
faithfully swept the crowd ahead of Gloria all the way along. Only a
pair of dark grey faithful eyes, with a wondrous wealth of lashes
shading their intelligent depths, only a girl in years, yet with the
light of genius stamped on the beautiful forehead above them. She sees
and recognises Victoire Hester in spite of her changed aspect and the
mad look in her eyes. Léonie Stanley sees the revolver raised and the
assassin’s finger on the trigger. Deep into her horse’s flanks she
drives her spurs. He springs furiously forward, brushes roughly against
Saladin and his rider, and covers like a shield the person of Gloria de
Lara.
Only just in time though! The revolver’s note rings forth, speeding from
its lips the messenger of death; yet another note, and it claims two
victims for its own. One is a wild, pale, haggard woman stretched out
upon the street, from whose temple blood is flowing, the other a young
officer of the White Guards’ Regiment, who has fallen forward on the
grey neck of her horse, and whose blood is staining his dappled
well-groomed coat. Dear little Léonie, she has not lived in vain; she
has proved her love and gratitude at last; she has shown how ill-fitting
was the cloak of Judas, in which the wicked had striven to clothe her.
She has lived to prove her gratitude, and is faithful unto death.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
=1999.= It is a lovely scene on which that balloon looks down,—a scene
of peaceful villages and well-tilled fields, a scene of busy towns and
happy working people, a scene of peace and prosperity, comfort and
contentment, which only a righteous Government could produce and
maintain.
The balloon is passing over London, a London vastly changed from the
London of 1900. Somehow it wears a countrified aspect, for every street
has its double row of shady trees, and gardens and parks abound at every
turn. This London, unlike its predecessor, is not smoke-begrimed, nor
can it boast of dirty courts and filthy alleys like the London of 1900.
Every house, great and small, bears the aspect of cleanliness and
comfort, for poverty and misery are things no longer known.
A stranger in the balloon looks down with interest upon this scene. His
gaze, wandering across the mighty city, is arrested by two gleaming
gilded statues crowning a monster edifice, upon whose cap of glittering
panes the sun is shining brightly.
“Is that the Hall of Liberty?” he inquires of his guide.
“Yes,” answers the person addressed, “the same as was raised a century
ago by the great Duchess of Ravensdale, of noble memory.”
“Is she buried there?” asks the stranger dreamily.
“Buried there! Ah, no!” replies the man almost indignantly. “I thought
all the world knew where Gloria of Ravensdale sleeps. There is a
beautiful grave overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on the shores of Glenuig
Bay. It is there where Gloria sleeps, by the side of her husband Evelyn,
the good Duke of Ravensdale. It was her wish, and her wish with the
nation was law. Every year the grave is resorted to by thousands, who
lay upon it their tributes of lovely flowers.”
“Is any one else buried there?” again the stranger asks.
“Yes, sir, a great woman, Lady Flora Desmond. She survived Gloria of
Ravensdale for many years, and carried on her noble works of reform. She
was Prime Minister for twenty years, and her last request was to be
buried at the feet of the Duke and Duchess of Ravensdale.”
“The Ravensdales owned immense wealth, and parted with it all, so
history says,” murmurs the stranger.
“Ay, sir, they gave it all to the poor. At least, they spent it on the
poor, and by their noble example induced others to do likewise,” answers
the man. “There is no poverty in this country now, sir. As we pass
across it you will see evidence of peace and contentment, and plenty
everywhere. We owe it all to the glorious reforms of Gloria of
Ravensdale.”
“That is a very lovely garden not far from Westminster Bridge which you
lately pointed out to me,” continued the stranger. “What a glorious
wealth of flowers!”
“Ah! that sir is where Léonie Stanley saved Gloria de Lara from
assassination by a maniac. But she lost her life in doing so. She was
accorded a public funeral, and by the wish of the nation buried where
she fell. The garden was laid out afterwards. It is the nation’s pride
to keep it beautiful. Léonie’s heroic deed will for ever live in the
hearts of a grateful people.”
“And where is the great Lord Estcourt buried?”
“In the National Burial Ground, where only those whom the nation loves
to honour are laid.”
“Yonder splendid building is the Imperial Parliament, is it not?”
pursues the stranger.
“Yes, sir. That is where the representatives of our Federated Empire
watch over its welfare. To Gloria of Ravensdale we owe the triumph of
Imperial Federation. She lived long enough to see England, Ireland,
Scotland, and Wales peacefully attending to their private affairs in
their Local Parliaments, while sending delegates to represent them in
the Imperial Assembly. Ah, sir! that Imperial Assembly is a wonderful
sight. Therein we see gathered together representative men and women
from all parts of our glorious Empire, working hand in hand to spread
its influence amongst the nations of the world, with all of whom we are
at peace.”
The balloon is rapidly drifting northwards. As the shades of evening
begin to creep on apace it moves along Scotland’s western coasts. The
aeronaut in charge of it guides it above the graves of Evie and Gloria
Ravensdale, and Lady Flora Desmond. As the sun goes down across the
western sea, it bathes, with a farewell flood of glory, the last
resting-place on this earth of the great dead. The balloon descends,
guided by a skilful hand. It soon reaches the ground, and in a short
time the stranger stands by these graves. Three simple marble hearts lie
above them, on which are engraved in golden letters the names of those
who sleep below. And at the head of the graves a marble cross is
standing with a few simple words thereon. The stranger goes over to the
cross, and reads:—
Sacred to the Memory of
GLORIA DE LARA, DUCHESS OF RAVENSDALE,
The mighty Champion of Women’s Freedom
and the Saviour of her People.
As also to that of Evelyn, the good Duke of Ravensdale,
and the beloved and revered Lady Flora Desmond.
Their names are engraved in the hearts of millions now
and for all time. Amen.
Surely Gloria had triumphed? What greater reward did she hope for than
the welfare and love of the people?
* * * * *
MAREMNA’S DREAM.
A soft wind sweeps across Maremna’s form,
She starts, and springs from off her heath’ry couch.
It was a dream, and yet not all a dream;
For scenes which in her wand’rings she’s beheld
Have throng’d that vision. She has seen again
That which has cross’d her in the paths of men,
That which has taught her life’s reality.
Yet deep within, Maremna’s soul is stirr’d
By that bright vision of a fight well won,
A gleam of hope that yet these things shall be,
That freedom shall not ever droop and pine,
But strike a blow for glorious liberty.
A waking vision to Maremna’s soul,
Yet none the less inspiring, for the gleam
Which first awoke within her mightier half
Has glow’d and burnt into a fervent flame,
which none but God can ever extinguish.
A blood-red sunset!
Bathed in its glow Maremna stands alone,
Alone where oft in childhood she has play’d.
The vision is before her bright and clear—
Lo! it awakes her from a living trance,
Bids her arise and buckle on her mail.
Far off she hears the busy din of war,
And knows that duty calls her to the fray.
In that brief hour Maremna’s vow is made.
Low sinks the sun, and gloom o’erspreads the earth,
As down the rugged mountain side she wends
Her way. Maremna’s high resolve is ta’en—
Faithful till Death to be, unto her vow.
THE END.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
REDEEMED IN BLOOD.
BY
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,
_Author of
“The Young Castaways,” “Across Patagonia,” “In the Land of Misfortune,”
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NEW WORK FOR THE YOUNG.
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ANIWEE;
OR, THE WARRIOR QUEEN.
A Tale of the Araucanian Indians.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.