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