CHAPTER I.
It is the year 1900. Men are hoping that it will be a peaceful one, after the factious bickerings of 1898–99. While the National party and the Progressists have been snarling over contentious bones, they have omitted to notice in the bye-elections unmistakable signs of public weariness and disgust with squabbles so profitless.
The National party, into which the Unionists have been merged, and the Progressists—a party arisen on the ashes of the Liberals—have failed to take warning by these signs. Woman’s Suffrage, established as law by the action of Hector D’Estrange, has materially altered the aspect of the old state of things, and brought about a thorough and healthy change of thought in many places. The women have given their aid enthusiastically to Hector D’Estrange, and worked heartily in support of the youthful reformer. Almost every bye-election has returned a D’Estrangeite candidate.
Now at length the General Election is over, and the Parliament returned is a curious one. Including the Irish, Scotch, and Welsh Home Rulers, the D’Estrangeite members are in a majority, the Nationals coming next, and the Progressists last.
And yet the majority referred to is a somewhat precarious and unworkable one, for if the two latter parties choose to combine, they can wreck the new Government completely. No one knows this better than Hector D’Estrange, who, having been invited by his sovereign to form a Cabinet, has succeeded in doing so, and occupies the proud position of Prime Minister at the age of twenty-eight.
Only sixteen years since Gloria de Lara made her vow to the wild sea waves,—and now?
Has the prayer that accompanied that vow been answered?
Not yet.
“Is it not tempting defeat, my child, to introduce the bill at so early a date?”
“Mother dear, it is my only opportunity. The position I hold is, I know, quite untenable for any length of time. The Government may be defeated at any moment, and then my chance is gone. Though I have not the slightest hope of carrying the bill, I shall yet gain a tremendous point by its introduction. I shall be defeated on it without a doubt, but it will be before the country, and I can appeal to the country upon it.”
“Ever right, my child.”
The speakers are Speranza and Gloria de Lara. The former is now fifty years of age, but years sit lightly on her shoulders. The new century beholds her as lovely and youthful-looking as ever; time has not played havoc with that fair face.
And the pale golden hair is golden still. No sign of whitening age is discernible in the thick tresses. It seems as though fair youth will never quit her side, for Speranza is unchanged.
Unchanged in all save one thing. Since that terrible day, upon which the last chapter closed so abruptly, there has dwelt in Speranza’s lovely eyes a hunted, haunting look of fear. She has never quite recovered from the shock of that most awful trial, and none dare mention to her the name of Lord Westray.
He has never been heard of since that day. His disappearance at the time caused the greatest excitement. Men declared that he must have been foully murdered, and his body secreted by the murderer or murderers. Of course the blame was thrown on the Irish, with whom Lord Westray was no favourite. Not long before his disappearance he had been appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, an appointment that had given the greatest dissatisfaction to the Irish. There was nothing beyond surmise, however, to account for his fate.
They are sitting in Speranza de Lara’s private room in Montragee House, which has been her home ever since the terrible day above referred to. Apartments in the huge building have been set aside for her use, for it is the delight of Evie Ravensdale to lavish upon the mother of his dearest friend on earth all the affection and love of a son. And his love is returned indeed, for Speranza’s heart has gone out to him with all the love of a mother, a love only surpassed by that which she feels for her child.
The great day has come at last, when Hector D’Estrange is to introduce to Parliament his bill for the absolute and entire enfranchisement of the women of his country. The bill, it is whispered, is not a mere stepping-stone to future power for the sex, but a free and unfettered charter of liberty, a distinct emancipation from past slavery, a final and decisive declaration that women are not man’s inferiors, but have as clear and inalienable a right as he to share the government of their country, and to adopt the professions hitherto arrogated by men solely to themselves. Hector D’Estrange’s colleagues have been made aware of the bill’s contents, and have loyally and nobly elected to stand or fall upon it. They have all been selected for their singularly wide and sympathetic views, and are not likely to forsake their chief in the moment of trial. So also can he depend upon all the D’Estrangeite members, without a fear that there will be a single seceder from their ranks; but he knows that the defeat which he expects will come from the united forces of the Progressists and Nationals, who for a time have buried their feuds and disputes, in the desire to defeat the revolutionary schemes of Hector D’Estrange.
There is a knock at the door, and, in response to Hector’s invitation to enter, it opens, and a young man comes in. It is Lord Bernard Fontenoy, very much grown since we saw him last. He is eighteen now, but looks older, and is the Duke of Ravensdale’s Secretary, the duke being Minister for Foreign Affairs.
“A telegram, Mr. D’Estrange,” he observes. “Will there be any answer?”
Hector takes the missive and opens it. It is from Flora Desmond, and runs as follows:—
“The ten regiments have marched in from Oxford, and are quartered in the Hall of Liberty. Twenty-seven miles completed in eight and a half hours; not a single private fell out of the ranks. Will be down to see you in an hour or so.”
“No, Bernie; no answer, thanks. Is Evie in yet?” queries the recipient.
“I’ll go and see,” answers the youth, vanishing as he speaks.
“Dear mother, I must leave you now, but will see you again before I go to the House. Estcourt and Douglasdale will be here directly, and the latter is to escort you to-night,” observes Hector D’Estrange, rising and kissing Speranza.
The mother throws her arms around her child. The anxious look in her eyes is intensified.
“My darling, may all go well with you to-night. It is foolish, I know, but there is a foreboding of evil next my heart which I cannot shake off, try as I may. Ah, Gloria! if aught should happen to you, my precious child, what would your mother do?”
“Why, mother, what ails you, dearest? Evil happen to Gloria? What fancy is this? Of course I expect defeat; but that will not be evil; merely the beginning of a great end.
“I do not allude to that, dear one, but to something quite different. Gloria, I had a terrible dream last night. I saw him close to me, the being that I loathe. He had you down, and stood above you with a naked sword raised threateningly. I rushed to save you, but ere I could avert his arm he had pointed it straight down at you, and pierced you to the heart.”
“Tush, mother, a mere dream, that’s all. You must not dwell upon it. Dear mother, put it from your mind.”
“Would to God that I could, Gloria! But it haunts me like a spectre, and will not pass away. However, my child, I must not damp your spirits with my fancies. Go now to your duties, from which I must not keep you, and mother will do her best to drive the dream away.”
“That’s right, motherling. Do, for Gloria’s sake.”
He kisses her tenderly and goes out, for he hears Evie Ravensdale’s step approaching. The two friends and colleagues meet just outside the door.
“Let’s go to your room, Evie,” he says gently, “and let us have a chat before I go to work. Chats with you are a luxury now. We don’t find much time for them, do we? By-the-bye, I have just had a telegram from Flora Desmond: the regiments have reached the Hall of Liberty. She reports the last march of twenty-seven miles in eight and a half hours, with not one single fall out from the ranks. Yet they would have us believe that women are weak, feeble creatures, unable to endure fatigue. There is the lie direct.”
They pass on into the duke’s study, a room full of pleasant memories for Hector D’Estrange. Many a happy hour has he spent here with the truest and best friend of his life, the one man whom he loves above all things, and, with the exception of Speranza, the only being to whom he is passionately attached. A big oil painting hangs above the fireplace. Two figures are represented on the canvas. One is a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man, with long silken moustache and aristocratic mien, the other of shorter and slighter build, with a face of exquisite beauty. The features are those of a very young man, the eyes are sapphire-blue, the glossy, close curling hair of a deep old-gold colour. It is easy to recognise the former as Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, the latter as Hector D’Estrange. The picture has been executed by the duke’s order, and represents the two friends first meeting—ever memorable for both.
They sit on alone together, these kindred spirits, happy in the communion of each other’s thoughts. They are seeking to scan the future and what it will bring, diving into the days that have yet to come. With Evie Ravensdale, it is a firm belief in the ultimate success of Hector D’Estrange’s scheme, a supreme and absolute confidence in his young chief’s ascendant star.
“I wonder who will be the first woman Prime Minister,” he observes dreamily. He is looking into the glowing coals, and does not notice the flush that rises to Hector D’Estrange’s cheeks.
“Ah, yes, who indeed?” echoes the latter quietly.
“Sometimes I think, Hector, that I can see her. Certainly I have seen her in my dreams,” continues the young duke softly.
“Can you describe her, Evie?” asks his friend.
“Ask me to paint your face, Hector, and then you have her in living life. Yes, my woman Prime Minister is an exact counterpart of Hector D’Estrange. Ah, Hector! if you were only a woman how madly I should love you; for love you as I do now, it can never be the same love as it would be if you were a woman.”
It is fortunate that the shaded and softly subdued lamps in Evie Ravensdale’s study are low, or certainly the look in Hector D’Estrange’s face would have betrayed the secret of Gloria de Lara. As it is, he only laughs softly.
“So I am your woman’s ideal, am I, Evie?” he asks in a would-be bantering tone.
“Yes, Hector, you are. Your face is too lovely for a man’s. You ought to have been a woman. And yet if you had been, the glory of Hector D’Estrange would be an untold tale. There is, alas! no woman living, I fear, who would have been able to beat down the laws that held her enchained as you have done. How the women worship you, Hector, and rightly.”
The front door bell is pealing. In a few minutes the study door is opened, and Lady Flora Desmond is announced.
She comes in easy and graceful, her White Guard’s uniform fitting to perfection her supple and agile form. People have grown accustomed to Hector D’Estrange’s women volunteers. The uniforms no longer strike them as strange and unfeminine, for custom is the surest cure with offended Mrs. Grundy.
“What a dense crowd there is, to be sure!” she exclaims, after first greetings have been exchanged. “I had hard work to get my guards through it. But they are in order now, and a clear way is kept right up to Westminster, so you will have no difficulty in getting your carriage along, Mr. D’Estrange.”
“Is it so late?” he inquires in a surprised tone. “Evie and I have been talking away, and did not notice how the time was slipping. Pray wait here. I shall not be many minutes dressing. I must wear my White Guard’s uniform to-night, you know.”
“Very well, Mr. D’Estrange. I will wait for you here,” she replies. There is a ring in Flora Desmond’s voice which tells how happy she is. She has never dreamed of seeing such a day as this.
He is standing on the steps of Montragee House, clad in his White Guard’s uniform. A long line of the White Regiment keep the road clear to Westminster. The crowd is dense all round. Nothing but a sea of faces can be seen, and the cheers of the people have grown into a hoarse, continuous roar. Thousands and thousands of women are amongst that crowd, women, with hearts full of love and devotion for their hero; women who would account it a happiness to die for him at any hour; women who are strong in their gratitude for what he has done, and is trying to do for them. He has entered the carriage that stands in waiting in front of the ducal mansion, and with Evie Ravensdale has taken his seat therein. As it drives rapidly towards Westminster the mighty volume of cheering is again and again renewed, a few hisses being here and there noticeable.
How describe the scene within the House of Commons? To attempt to do so would be but to court failure. The precincts are thronged until there is no standing room. There is eager expectation on every face.
The roar of the crowd outside has penetrated the vast building, and tells those within that he is approaching. A thrill runs through that assembly of princes, peers, commoners, and ladies who are there to await his coming, and then the silence of intense expectation falls on all around.
He is entering now, and walks slowly forward to take his seat. He is received with a burst of enthusiasm by his own colleagues and party, and is watched with interest by every woman who looks down upon him from the spacious galleries that at his instance have been erected for ladies, in place of the wild beast cage originally considered by men as good enough for the inferior sex. And now he has taken his seat while awaiting the usual formalities, and the eyes of the House are upon him. It would be a trying position for an old Parliamentary hand, one used to many years of debate. Is it not just a shade so for Gloria de Lara, as she sits there under the name of Hector D’Estrange preparing to do battle for her sex?
But she has risen now. The silence of death has fallen once more on the House, for the clear, beautiful voice is speaking at last, and this is what it says.
