CHAPTER IV.
“Mrs. de Lara,” queries Hector D’Estrange, in a voice in which respect and tenderness are mingled, “you have heard the statement for the prosecution in which you and I are accused of undue intimacy? You have heard my reply, in which I declare you to be my mother? Which statement is correct?”
“Yours,” she replies in a firm, clear voice. “I am your mother.”
“And my father?” he again asks.
“Was Captain Harry Kintore.”
“Both Weston and Victoire state that they gave you a month’s notice. Is this a fact?”
“It is not,” she replies firmly; “it was I who gave it to them. To Weston for being drunk and impertinent, to Victoire for the latter fault.”
“It is stated by Weston that you were in the habit of receiving frequent visits from Lord Westray? Is this so?”
“It is not,” she answers quickly; “the statement is a wicked falsehood. Only once he obtained admittance, when he came to insult me with the proposal that I should re-marry him and forget the past. You came in when he was there, and requested him to leave the house.”
“Did he do so?”
“At once,” she replies.
“Since then have you been annoyed by his presence, or in any other way?”
“By his presence, no, until the night on which he is alleged to have been murdered, but by letters, yes.”
“You have kept or destroyed those letters?”
“Every one is destroyed!” she replies almost fiercely; “most of them unopened.”
“Can you remember the date when Rita Vernon first came to you, and who sent her?”
“Yes, well,” answers Speranza. “It was the 21st of June, 1894. She brought a letter from you, written at the instance of the Duke of Ravensdale. I at once made her my secretary and general amanuensis.”
“Has she served you faithfully?”
“None more so,” she replies.
“Mrs. de Lara, you have heard Mr. Trackem’s statement, that you sent her with a note to him on the day of the supposed murder. Is this true, or false?”
“False!” she replies sternly.
“And you have heard Victoire’s declaration that you left a letter for her, apprising her of your departure for London the night of the supposed murder. Is this true?”
“It is not,” she answers. “I wrote no letter.”
“Will you give his lordship and the gentlemen of the jury your version of what occurred on the night in question.”
She gives it in a firm, clear voice, without hesitation or faltering. She tells the facts as we have described them in a former chapter. A shudder runs through the court at their mere recital. Is it possible that such horrors reflect the truth? Sir Anthony smiles superciliously.
“Hallucination,” he mutters audibly. “Many women are subject to it.”
She looks at him contemptuously, but scorns to further notice the great man’s brutality.
“You swear, Mrs. de Lara, that what you have stated is absolutely correct?”
“Absolutely,” she answers calmly; “I swear it.”
Cross-examined by the Attorney-General.
“You will swear that you were not in the habit of receiving Lord Westray, Mrs. de Lara? Now, pray be careful, very careful.”
Again the same contemptuous glance, as she proudly replies, “I swear it.”
“And you mean to say that you never sent Rita Vernon with a letter to Mr. Trackem, or left a note for Victoire Hester on the day of Lord Westray’s murder? Again I ask you to be careful.”
“I did not!” is her fierce reply.
Sir Anthony puts his hands on his hips. There is a self-satisfied smile on his face as he glances round the court, but he questions no further.
“I have no more to ask the witness,” he remarks jauntily.
Rita Vernon is next called and questioned. She describes her first meeting with the Duke of Ravensdale, and what followed. She gives in simple, unaffected language the story of the attack on Speranza and the part she played in it. Again Sir Anthony is heard to mutter the word “hallucination.” He has no questions to put to the witness—yet stay—as she is about to leave the box he jumps up.
“One moment please, Miss Vernon,” he remarks in a suave voice. “I presume, of course, that you are grateful to the Duke of Ravensdale for all his kindness?”
There is a flash in her grey eyes, but she answers quietly,
“Need you ask it, sir? I would die for his Grace.”
The next witness is the duke himself. He corroborates the statements made by Hector D’Estrange, Speranza de Lara, and Rita Vernon. His evidence is listened to with marked attention, and the keenest interest by the Court. Sir Anthony does not cross-examine him.
As he steps down, Hector D’Estrange’s voice is heard speaking.
“I have one more witness to call,” he is saying. “This will be my last, my lord. I call for Dr. Merioneth.”
A white-haired man enters the box and is sworn.
“Dr. Merioneth, do you recall attending Mrs. de Lara many years ago?” inquires the accused.
“I do,” replies the witness.
“Will you state for what purpose, and how many years have elapsed since then?” is the next question.
“I attended Mrs. de Lara in her confinement, and it is twenty-eight years ago,” answers the old doctor.
“Where, Dr. Merioneth?”
“At Ancona, sir, on the Adriatic.”
“The child was born well and healthy, I believe?”
“A beautiful child indeed,” replies the doctor. “I wish all children resembled it.”
“Thank you, Dr. Merioneth.”
“Stay, I have a word, please, to put to you,” exclaims the Attorney-General, jumping up. “You have not told us the sex of the child, doctor.”
For a moment the old man hesitates. Then he looks sadly at the prisoner.
“A girl it was,” he replies in a low voice.
“Ha! a girl you say?” echoes the counsel for the prosecution in a loud voice, as he looks round the court with a knowing air. “Thank you, doctor. I am greatly obliged to you for that information.”
This concludes the evidence for the defence.
Then Sir Anthony rises slowly and portentously. His hands are behind him, he leans perilously forward, and his gown is stuck out behind like a lady’s dress-improver. He appears thoroughly satisfied with the appearance of importance which he believes this attitude gives him, but it is not so certain that others share that opinion.
“My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” he begins in a somewhat pompous voice, “the case before us is a very peculiar one, yet I hope to detain you at very little length in reviewing it. The prisoner, Mr. D’Estrange, is accused of a base and horrible murder, and it is my painful duty to endeavour to bring home to the jury the absolute certainty of his guilt. It will be necessary in so doing to show motive for the crime, and I think I shall be able to point to this motive as conclusive, jealousy prompting and being at the bottom of it. It is now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, nigh on thirty years ago that Mrs. de Lara, then known as Lady Altai, broke faith with her husband, whom in wedding she had sworn to love, honour, and obey, and shamelessly fled with her lover, Captain Harry Kintore. It is known that Lord Altai, who was devoted to his wife, pursued the two, coming up with them at Ancona. Here, having confronted them, a fierce dispute ensued. It is said that Captain Kintore drew a revolver, and in self-defence Lord Altai fired at him, unfortunately with fatal effect. I wish to dwell as lightly as possible upon a matter so terrible, and therefore pass on to the next event in this painful story, namely, the birth of a child. Dr. Merioneth has been called, ostensibly to bear witness to that birth. Unfortunately he has marred the case for the defence by informing us that the child to which Mrs. de Lara gave birth was a female. Now, my lord, one of the chief points of Mr. D’Estrange’s defence is, that the intimacy which we declare has existed between him and this lady for so long a time is impossible, inasmuch as Mrs. de Lara is his mother. She has herself so stated this, and furthermore pointed to Captain Kintore as being Mr. D’Estrange’s father. This statement must fall to the ground in face of what Dr. Merioneth has told us. So much for that portion of the defence, as I do not suppose Mr. D’Estrange is going to pose before us as a woman. It would appear that Mrs. de Lara is not averse to this mode of life. She married Lord Altai by her own free will. Next we find her leaving him and electing a new lover in the person of Captain Kintore, and of late years we have direct evidence that Mr. D’Estrange has been the favoured man. Yet not only this, but the evidence sworn to by Charles Weston, Victoire Hester, and Mr. Trackem points to the existence of a secret intimacy carried on by this lady with her divorced husband, Lord Westray. Both she and Mr. D’Estrange now tell us that only once did the late earl obtain admission to Mrs. de Lara’s house, and then it was in opposition to the latter’s wishes. I leave you to judge if this statement be possible of either acceptance or belief, in face of what the witnesses referred to have told us.
“We have heard some evidence likewise of the way in which Rita Vernon became introduced into Mrs. de Lara’s household. It appears that she was formerly no novice to Mr. Trackem’s house. She does not deny this. In fact, how could she? Does it not strike you, gentlemen, that Rita Vernon was just a peculiar class of young woman to put in the responsible position described by Mrs. de Lara, and does it not seem very clear that the use to which her services were put was of a totally different nature? We were told distinctly by Mr. Trackem that Mrs. de Lara sent him a note by Rita Vernon on the day of the murder, instructing him to retain his house for her and Lord Westray. Mrs. de Lara denies having written this note. I produce it, and it runs as follows:—
“‘Sir,—Please to reserve the house to-night as usual for Lord Westray and myself. We shall arrive between twelve and one.
“What is to be thought, my lord, of the veracity of such witnesses as Mrs. de Lara and Rita Vernon, for the girl denies having delivered this note? Yet here we have it, and we have furthermore the fact, that on the night when Mr. D’Estrange shot Lord Westray, Mrs. de Lara was found alone with that nobleman in Mr. Trackem’s house. And, gentlemen, as against this very clear and circumstantial evidence, we are asked by Mrs. de Lara and Rita Vernon to accept a romance which all sane men can only regard in the light of hallucination, if not, as I regret to believe, downright deliberate falsehood. We are asked to believe that Mrs. de Lara was waylaid in her own grounds at night, overcome by ruffians, and carried off bound hand and foot to London. We are asked to believe that a slight, frail girl like Rita Vernon performed a task which a man of herculean strength would have found almost beyond his power to accomplish. We are asked, in fact, to believe that Rita Vernon, whom you have had an opportunity of seeing, could cling to a brougham between Windsor and London, and then sum up sufficient force to make her way to Montragee House at half-past two in the morning, where of course, like in a fairy tale, she finds the Duke of Ravensdale and Mr. D’Estrange all ready to accompany her to the release of the lady fair. The story defeats its own end by its wild improbability, unsupported by fact, and establishes at once the reasonable and circumstantial evidence of the side for the prosecution. I maintain that there is proof positive that Mr. D’Estrange, assisted by Rita Vernon,—who in this instance betrayed her mistress,—came upon the unfortunate earl with intent to murder. He admits that he shot him, but he declines to give any further information as to what he did with Lord Westray after leaving the house in Verdegrease Crescent. We find, moreover, that the three letters purporting to come from Lord Westray, and addressed to Mr. Trackem, are all written on paper which Victoire Hester has identified as the quality and class always used by Mr. D’Estrange and Mrs. de Lara, and exactly similar to the paper on which the notes to Mr. Trackem and Victoire Hester were penned on the day of the murder. The writing of the last note is denied. Again I meet that denial by producing the note. It runs thus:—
“‘Hester,—I have gone up to town for a few days, will let you know when to expect me back. Miss Vernon has accompanied me.
“Such facts leave very little doubt in my mind but that Mrs. de Lara had arranged to meet Lord Westray, and that Rita Vernon betrayed her intention to Mr. D’Estrange. Such facts convince me that this latter resolved on vengeance. He deliberately went to Verdegrease Crescent, and shot Lord Westray, and finally, under cover of repentance, decoyed him from the house, and got rid of him somehow and somewhere. What follows? A letter arrives for Mr. Trackem, who is frightened out of his wits at the turn affairs have taken—a letter, purporting to come from Lord Westray. By a strange coincidence, this letter and others following are all written on the same class of paper as that used by Mr. D’Estrange in Mrs. de Lara’s house. Lastly, the very suit which Lord Westray was known to have been wearing the night he was shot at, has been found buried deep in the ground on the property of Mrs. de Lara at Windsor, bearing evidence of having been a long time under the earth, and in close proximity to it the body of a man reduced to a skeleton was also discovered. Around the neck of this skeleton a gold chain and locket was found, and on the little finger a plain gold ring. These have been identified by the late earl’s valet, who has sworn to seeing them on the earl’s person the day he disappeared. It would be superfluous for me to detain you with further details, the points of evidence which I have submitted being, it appears to me, too clear for it to be possible to draw any other conclusion but the one that Mr. D’Estrange deliberately, and of malice aforethought, did shoot at Lord Westray with intent to kill, and did afterwards, in some manner not yet unravelled, make away with the life of that unfortunate nobleman. I ask you, therefore, to put aside from your minds Mr. D’Estrange’s high position and social status, and to find a verdict in accordance with the evidence before you.”
The great man sits down hastily, and glances round the court. An almost unnatural stillness reigns therein. Every eye is bent on the prisoner, and then on the beautiful, pale, gold-headed woman, whose gaze is riveted on her child’s face with an intensity terrible to witness. But there is nothing but calmness on the features of Hector D’Estrange, in whose eyes the confident, triumphant expression shines, which conscious innocence alone could create.
“I will endeavour, like the Attorney-General,” he observes, “to detain the Court as shortly as possible. But at the very outset I would wish to point out to you that the evidence of Weston and Victoire is not trustworthy, as being that of discharged servants. Mrs. de Lara has told you most emphatically that Lord Westray paid her no visits, save the one referred to by the coachman, Alfred Hawkins. She has told you how that visit was forced upon her, and how Lord Westray was ordered out of the house by myself. There is absolutely no evidence corroborative of that given by Charles Weston, which I can only characterise as pure and malicious invention, the same remark applying to the false testimony of Victoire Hester. This woman has declared that Mrs. de Lara wrote her a note the night of the supposed murder apprising her of her visit to London. Yet these visits with Mrs. de Lara were of frequent occurrence, and she had never before found it necessary to acquaint Victoire of her movements. My lord, I declare the letter to be a forgery, as I also declare the letter to which Mr. Trackem refers as coming from Mrs. de Lara to be likewise. My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, the Attorney-General has passed a cruel and unnecessary sneer on Mrs. de Lara’s account of the ruffianly and brutal attack made upon her by the undoubtedly hired scoundrels of her most bitter foe. He has attributed all to romance, hallucination, deliberate falsehood. His insinuations are brutal and cowardly. My mother, like myself, would scorn to tell a lie. We leave that to the poltroons and cowards who seek by forgery and perjury to swear away the life of one who is innocent. I maintain that Mrs. de Lara’s account and description of what took place is in every essential particular true, while the corroborative evidence of Rita Vernon bears it out in every detail. The Duke of Ravensdale has clearly stated to you how the poor girl sought him at Montragee House, and the state she was in after her terrible drive. The Attorney-General smiles scornfully at the idea of a woman being capable of such pluck and heroism as Rita Vernon evinced on that occasion. I cast back the slur into his teeth. I tell him that if he wishes to find true courage and heroism combined, he must go to a woman to discover it. But it is not to such as he, that women will go for justice.
“And now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to put yourselves in my place. Had you been called to that house of ill fame, and there found a being whom you honoured, loved, and respected, in the hands and power of her bitterest enemy, bound hand and foot, gagged, bleeding, and helpless, would you not have acted as I did, and in the fury and horror of the moment lost all power of restraint? I admit that I shot Lord Westray; I have never denied it. But I do deny that I caused his death; and what is more, I confidently believe that he is alive at this moment, and that this foul accusation is a plot to ruin me, to be, in fact, revenged on yonder noble lady, who has through life resented his brutality, defied and scouted him, and refused to submit to his hideous desires. I make no pretence of being able to account for his disappearance, for the alleged discovery of his body and clothes, for the letters written in his handwriting on the paper used by myself and Mrs. de Lara. I am unable to understand it all save in the light of a base, foul, and detestable plot which has for its object revenge. Of that I know him to be perfectly capable.
“And now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I have but one more statement to make ere I close these remarks. I once more positively affirm that Mrs. de Lara is my mother, and that the intimacy of which I am accused is a base and unfounded fabrication.”
He has folded his arms, and his voice has ceased. A burst of applause greets him as he stops speaking. Vainly the judge calls for order.
“This is an exhibition that I will not tolerate,” exclaims that worthy functionary. “Another such a disgraceful proceeding, and I will cause the whole court to be instantly cleared.”
This produces silence. Sir James Grumpy is a bit of a martinet. The public knows that he means what he says.
And now he proceeds in his summing up. Very carefully he goes over all the points advanced by both sides, but it is apparent to all, from the first, that the summing up is most unfavourable to the accused. It takes him about an hour to get through his task, and all the time Hector D’Estrange stands motionless, with folded arms and immovable features. Only now and again the dark blue eyes wander to where Speranza is sitting, with the Duke of Ravensdale by her side.
The summing up is over at length, and the jury have retired to consider their verdict. Apparently, however, they had made up their minds beforehand, for they do not keep the Court long waiting. In a few minutes every one has reassembled.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your verdict?” rings out a harsh, sing-song voice.
“We have,” answers the foreman.
“You find the accused guilty or not guilty of the murder of Lord Westray?”
Amidst a silence, terrible in its intensity, comes the answer—
“Guilty.”
A thrill of horror runs through the court. There is hardly a dry eye within it. The duke has got Speranza’s hand in his, but she never moves.
“Hector D’Estrange, have you any reason to give why sentence of death should not be passed upon you?” again inquires the harsh, sing-song voice.
“I have,” he answers, with a low musical laugh. “My reason is, that if I am put to death, murder will indeed be committed, for I am guiltless. I wish to add also one word of explanation, for I see the time has come. Both Sir Anthony and the learned judge have laid great stress on the apparent falsehood of which they allege I have been guilty, in declaring that I am the child of Captain Harry Kintore and Mrs. de Lara. They point to the fact that Dr. Merioneth has declared that the child born at Ancona was a girl. Has it never struck you, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, that a girl could do what I have done in youth, a woman accomplish what I have accomplished in maturer years? No. I plainly see that this has not struck you, for you are men. You will not acknowledge that a woman can equal man, and with fair opportunities rise to power and fame. Yet such has been my aim in life to prove, for this I have struggled; and had it not been for the base machinations of enemies, would assuredly have lived to triumphantly achieve. Know, however, that Hector D’Estrange is no liar. If for sixteen years he has practised on Society what may be called a fraud, it was for the sake of righting a terrible wrong. My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I again declare myself to be the child of Captain Kintore and Mrs. de Lara, but I confess my sex. In Hector D’Estrange the world beholds a woman—her name, Gloria de Lara.”
Amidst confusion and excitement unparalleled sentence of death is passed. Yet, as the judge’s words come to a close, a voice rings through the court, a voice in which defiance and love are mingled. It is a woman’s voice. Many recognise it as Flora Desmond’s.
“As there is a God above,” it cries, “Gloria de Lara shall not die!”
But even as all eyes are turned in search of the speaker, Flora Desmond has vanished.
CHAPTER V.
“Guilty!” “Condemned to death!” “Hector D’Estrange a woman!” The words have passed through the court, along the corridors, and out into the street beyond, where the crowds press eagerly forward to hear the news. It is received at first with astonishment and incredulity. Some people call it a hoax, others laugh at the statement as a wild improbability, and wonder what the real truth is. But even as they discuss the rumour, a movement is visible opposite the court, as an officer of the White Guards’ Regiment makes her appearance outside. An orderly mounted on a grey horse is holding an empty-saddled white one in readiness, and as the officer makes her appearance, brings the steed alongside the steps leading up to the entrance.
The officer is no stranger to the crowd. Flora Desmond’s features are well known to it. Is she not the leader of Hector D’Estrange’s especial regiment, a regiment entirely drawn from the women of “the people”? Whatever may be the feeling of the middle class and a portion of that one which claims to rank above it, in regard to Hector D’Estrange, one thing is certain, that amidst the poor and the needy, amidst the suffering and the struggling, that name is a talisman to conjure by.
She comes down the steps hurriedly, and mounts her horse in haste. The crowd sways and presses towards her in spite of the efforts of large numbers of police to repress them.
“The verdict?” they shout inquiringly. “Tell us the verdict!”
She stands up in her stirrups and looks at that sea of faces. Enemies there may be amongst them, hundreds, perhaps, antagonistic to Hector D’Estrange, but amidst the rough faces of the thousands that press around her, she knows that the majority are true as steel.
“Guilty!” she calls out. “He is condemned to die! I mistake the people, however, if they will believe the verdict or acquiesce in the sentence. Say you, whom he loves, whose hard lot he has struggled to raise, will you permit it?”
“Never!” comes the fierce shout from hundreds, nay, thousands of throats. “Hector D’Estrange shall not die!”
“I knew it,” she replies proudly. “Justice shall be upheld. I knew the people would be true to him, men as well as women. He shall not die!”
They cheer and cheer again as she makes her way through the crowd followed by her orderly. It gives room to her willingly, and opens a passage for her horse. She rides along rapidly in the direction of a quiet side street, well away from the thronging crowd of people. Even as she does so the rumbling wheels of the prison-van strike on her ear. She can see it approaching, surrounded by a strong force of police, and as she does so, she urges on her horse.
Flora Desmond passes rapidly along the quiet, deserted street, until she nearly reaches the end, and then turns her horse down a narrow alley leading therefrom. This brings her into a wide, spacious yard, around which a big square building is built, in the centre of which is a large archway with strong iron gates, guarded by two mounted sentries. They salute her as she rides up, and the iron gates are unlocked at once. She rides through them, and enters what appears to be an immense riding-school, in which are drawn up a hundred troopers of the White Regiment. Her eye scans them keenly and rapidly. They are in perfect order, and look fit for any work. Every face is turned towards her.
“Hector D’Estrange has been declared guilty,” she says in a clear, distinct voice, “and is condemned to die! I am here to lead you to his rescue. If any one is to die, it shall be we who will do so, not him. Follow me, guards. There is not a moment to be lost.”
She places herself at their head. They pass out into the courtyard, and the gates are locked behind them. The sentries fall into their places, and the troopers, six abreast, follow in the wake of their gallant-hearted leader. At a smart trot they pass down the quiet street. In the distance they can hear the roar of the crowd, which is cheering loudly; and they know that Hector D’Estrange is being removed to the prison from which his accusers hope never again to see him issue.
They are nearing the crowd now, for it is surging their way. The prison-van is coming along at a smart pace, guarded by its bevy of policemen. It is not a hundred yards from where Flora Desmond, at the head of her hundred and two guards, sits motionless on her horse, for she has called a halt, and is awaiting their coming.
Suddenly she stands up in her stirrups and turns to her troopers. At the same moment she draws her sword.
“Forward!” she cries, waving it above her head. “Forward, guards of his regiment; rescue him or die!”
She has put her horse in motion as she speaks, and with the rush of a whirlwind the White Guards bear down upon the prison-van. The policemen catch sight of them coming, and close around it manfully. The driver whips up the horses, and urges them along at a canter. “Of what avail?” The White Guards are upon them; nothing can withstand the charge. It is the work of a moment.
“Sever the traces; cut the horses loose!” shouts Flora Desmond, as she gallops up alongside one of the animals, and, seizing its rein, brings it up on to its haunches, one of the troopers doing likewise by the other.
They obey her promptly and rapidly, while the remainder engage the police escort, who resist gallantly. “Of what avail?” The crowd has closed round, willing and eager to assist in the work of rescue. The odds are too great to allow the representatives of law and order to prevail.
Twice over Flora Desmond has summoned the policeman inside to unlock the door of the van, but he stands to his guns and refuses. “If you do not,” she cries, “I shall be forced to fire through the lock until I break it, and the bullets may injure you. Come, man, no use resisting now.”
But the policeman is staunch in the performance of what he considers his duty, and remains firm in his determination not to betray his trust.
“Then throw yourself flat on the ground, my man,” again calls out Flora Desmond, “for I am going to fire.”
She pauses for a moment to give him time to obey, then raises a revolver, and fires once, twice, thrice through the lock, which gives way at last. The crowd cheers loudly, the door of the van is flung open, and in a moment Flora Desmond is beside Gloria de Lara.
“Thank God!” she exclaims. “Here, come this way. I have a horse all ready for you.”
The policeman is lying motionless on the floor of the van. The two step across him, and pass quickly out of the wheeled prison. As they do so the people press forward to welcome their hero, for to them, in spite of the rumours, Gloria de Lara is still Hector D’Estrange. She has mounted her horse, and raised her hand to enjoin silence. The police escort has been overcome; its members are passively accepting what to them is the inevitable. They have sought to do their duty. They can do no more.
“Friends,” she calls out in the voice they know and love so well, “I have been unjustly accused and unjustly condemned. If it were not so, I would not accept the rescue brought me by my faithful women guards, aided by your kindly and generous devotion. My enemies are those who would fight against true progress, and the abolition of scandals and wrongs which must destroy this great nation with their wickedness, unless abolished in time. I have sought to probe to their root these scandals and these wrongs, have sought to submit to you the quickest and surest way to remedy them. I tell you that the greatest evils we have to face are the social ones. To them I ascribe all the sufferings and sins of the poor, the sins and false position of the rich. There are bad laws which must be done away with, good ones which must be set up to accomplish such social reform. Before you can do this you must set Nature on an even footing, and do away with the artificial barriers which you have raised against woman’s progress and advancement; for until she has the same powers and opportunities as man, a thorough and exhaustive reform of the evils which afflict Society, will never be efficiently undertaken.
“And now, my friends, we are on the eve of a great revolution. If the people will stand by me, I will stand by them. Let us loyally determine to carry this great question to a successful issue, nor rest till it has been accomplished. I am going to trust myself amongst those whom I have ever loved, whose condition I have sought to raise. Yet ere doing so, I have one confession to make to you. Hector D’Estrange, whose advancement has been rapid and unparalleled almost in the annals of statesmanship, must be no longer known to you under that name. The time has come when I must confess myself. Before you you see one of the despised and feeble sex, the unfitted to rule, the inferior of man. I am a woman! Henceforth I am no longer Hector D’Estrange, but Gloria de Lara.”
She has ceased speaking, and begun to move her horse through the crowd. Men and women press round her to kiss her hand. Poor men are more generous than rich ones. With rare exceptions, the fire of suffering purifies from self, and makes the heart appreciate true worth more readily. It is the people’s voice that generally forces on all great reforms; it is the people’s will that carries everything before it, when the reform required is a just one.
It never enters these men’s minds to depreciate her deeds, to belittle her acts, because she is a woman. Their reason tells them that she understands their wants, that her great heart is in sympathy with their needs, that she has sought to help them when in power, and that now her enemies have got the upper hand, all their loyalty and devotion is needed to support the cause, which she has told them lies at the root of all future social reform, which means progress, comfort, and happiness for the toiling millions. But there is a sound of many horses’ feet coming towards them, and all eyes are turned in the direction whence the sounds come. The ever-increasing crowd sways to and fro, expectant and anxious, instinctively apprehending what is to come.
“Form up, guards!” Flora Desmond’s voice is heard shouting. “Close round her, and defend her with your lives. It is not we who seek to spill blood, but if our rulers will have it so, then let it be. We will show them that woman is not the helpless coward they imagine. If necessary, we will fight to save her. Retreat in good order on Montragee House.”
They close round her, obedient to the order. The movement is executed silently but swiftly, and with an exactitude which speaks volumes for the discipline of the White Guards. “Shade of Whyte-Melville,” could ye arise now, you would behold your prophecy an accomplished fact, for the Amazons, whom you predicted, if rendered amenable to discipline, could conquer the world, are before you there. The sounds have assumed shape, and a troop of Horse Guards Blue, hastily turned out to support the arm of the law, are in view now. The horses have been ridden at a good pace, for the foam studs their black shining coats. At the word of command the troopers rein up.
The position is a difficult one. Between them and the White Guards a dense, impenetrable crowd is surging. To charge that crowd means death to many, yet it can only be compassed in this manner. The order which the officer in command has received is, however, specific. It is to disperse the crowd, to give every assistance to the police, and to recapture the prisoner at any cost.
It is a soldier’s duty to obey superior orders, nor question the why or wherefore. It is no part of a soldier’s duty to use his own discretion.
So at least thinks Colonel Jack Delamere, as his quick eye takes in the scene. Duty is a strange thing. It nerves the heart not only to physical but to moral deeds of courage. Surely it is no insignificant act of the latter which draws from that gallant officer the command to obey an order which he loathes, for, apart from all other considerations, Jack Delamere loves Flora Desmond, and knowing her as he does, he is aware that the order will probably mean death to the being for whom he would willingly sacrifice his own life.
“Make way, my friends,” he calls out imploringly to the people. “Make way, I beseech of you. My orders are to disperse the crowd, and I must obey them. If you do not make way, I shall be forced to order my men to charge.”
A loud shout of defiance is the only reply which he receives. There are heroes and heroines in that crowd. They are resolved that only over their trampled and crushed bodies, shall Jack Delamere and his Blues come up with the White Guards, who are retreating in good order with Gloria de Lara in their midst. Every minute is precious for this latter, and the crowd will do its best to afford these precious minutes.
There is a tremor in Jack Delamere’s voice as he once more puts his request. The crowd mistake it for a sign of anger, and defy him with jeers and sneers.
“Then be it so,” he says sadly, as with a heavy heart he gives the order which must bring death to many.
His men obey. The black horses charge into the swaying mass, and men and women go down before them. Some make a desperate fight for it before they succumb, clinging to the animals’ bridles, and attempting to force them back from their onward career. But the troopers have their swords out, and the unarmed cannot prevail over the armed. Nevertheless there is no surrender, no cry for quarter or mercy. The crowd are in earnest in their desire to let the White Guards get away with their beloved charge, and their resistance is dogged and determined.
The police have joined in, and are using their batons freely. Shouts and cries resound, and the crowd grows denser every moment, swelled by the numbers that have hastened to the scene. Dead and dying are lying on the cold stone pavements of the street. Even the latter are forgotten in the fierce fight that is raging, a fight undertaken by the people that the idol of their hearts may live.
It is an unequal contest, and can only end one way. Nigh every trooper has cut his way through at the expense of many a life. They are re-forming now, and with Jack Delamere at their head set off in pursuit of the White Guards, the crowd following as best it can in the rear.
But its devotion and sturdy resistance have given the start to Gloria de Lara’s escort, and ride as they may, the Blues on their black horses cannot come up with the lightly mounted greys of the White Guards. These flash along Whitehall at full speed, with their precious charge in their midst. Another moment, and the hoofs of the horses are clattering through the entrance to Montragee House. It is the work of an instant for the great folding doors to unclose. Once through them, and Gloria de Lara is safe. Flora Desmond has laid her hand on the bridle of this latter’s horse.
“Quick!” she exclaims. “Pass in there, Gloria. Ah! do not delay. Remember that your life means liberty to thousands. It is not a question of self. I know well how you would wish to stay and help us, but your duty is to preserve your life first. No one doubts your courage.”
“God bless you, Flora! Yes, I will do my duty, for the sake of the great cause that shall triumph.”
She springs from her horse as she speaks, and as one of the troopers leads it towards the stables, she turns to the others. “Brave guards,” she exclaims, “none know better than you that Gloria de Lara is grateful for your devotion and staunch loyalty.”
“We would die for you!” they shout enthusiastically, and many of their voices tremble. Even as they cease, the Duke of Ravensdale is on the threshold of his noble mansion. His hand is on Gloria’s arm.
“Great God be praised!” bursts from his white lips. “Gloria, they shall never touch you here!”
He draws her gently into the great front hall, and the door is closed and barred behind them. There is a triumphant smile on Flora Desmond’s features; her quick ear has caught the sound of galloping horses. “Do you hear them?” she laughs defiantly. “They come too late. Brave people! They have done their part well, and she is saved. Now follow me, guards. She has no need of us just yet. We must seek a safety for the future good that we may do, and for the sake of the cause we love. There is work ahead of us—hard work, and plenty too, for the revolution has begun!”
CHAPTER VI.
“My dear, how did you ever manage to get here? How could you venture out? Isn’t it terrible, my dear?” exclaims Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, as her friend Lady Manderton enters her boudoir in the snug Piccadilly mansion, already introduced to the reader, on the morning following upon the events related in the last chapter. Outside, the streets are filled with an angry and excited crowd. The rougher element have taken advantage of the mêlée, to introduce themselves into its midst, and are parading the streets, causing confusion and terror to the more respectable and orderly portion of the crowd, whose presence is to be accounted for by totally different circumstances to those which have attracted the irredeemable portion of Society. The news of the verdict and sentence on Hector D’Estrange, the confession as to sex of the late Prime Minister, the daring and masterly rescue of the prisoner by Flora Desmond and her White Guards, the devoted resistance of the crowd to the charge of the Blues under Colonel Delamere, and the ultimate escape of Gloria de Lara from her pursuers, has spread like wild-fire through the metropolis. London has been in a state of the greatest excitement throughout the night. The most startling and improbable rumours have been afloat as to the intentions of the Government, while the people are loudly clamouring for a squashing of the verdict, an annulment of the sentence, and a free pardon for their idol, to many more than ever popular now that her sex is disclosed. For, let it be whispered, that this disclosure has operated in winning over to Gloria de Lara’s side many a wavering mind, which is able now to recognise in the brilliant successful life of Hector D’Estrange, the unanswerable and irrefutable proof of woman’s power to equal man in all things, provided fair play and equal opportunities be given to her. Of the murder of Lord Westray, her adherents believe her to be absolutely guiltless, and are loud in condemnation of the verdict.
Such is the position of affairs on the morning in question,—a position sufficiently grave, to warrant the calling out of the troops to assist the police in maintaining order, amidst this wholly unparalleled scene of public protest and sympathy.
There is a quiet smile on Lady Manderton’s face as she answers her friend.
“I came here on foot, Vivi, and I have come to say good-bye. Ah, Vivi! you need not stare, dear. I’m not the old Dodo you have been accustomed to. Great God! why were not my eyes opened before, all the time that Hector D’Estrange has been working for us? But it is not too late. I can retrieve the past even yet, by working on behalf of Gloria de Lara’s cause. Ay, Vivi, it is a cause well worth dying for.”
“Why, Dodo, you must be clean gone cracked! What are you going to do?”
Lady Manderton takes a newspaper out of her pocket, and hands it to Mrs. de Lacy Trevor. “Have you read this?” she inquires at the same time.
Mrs. de Lacy Trevor opens it and reads.