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.”
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.
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.
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:—