CHAPTER X.
1999. It is a lovely scene on which that balloon looks down,—a scene of peaceful villages and well-tilled fields, a scene of busy towns and happy working people, a scene of peace and prosperity, comfort and contentment, which only a righteous Government could produce and maintain.
The balloon is passing over London, a London vastly changed from the London of 1900. Somehow it wears a countrified aspect, for every street has its double row of shady trees, and gardens and parks abound at every turn. This London, unlike its predecessor, is not smoke-begrimed, nor can it boast of dirty courts and filthy alleys like the London of 1900. Every house, great and small, bears the aspect of cleanliness and comfort, for poverty and misery are things no longer known.
A stranger in the balloon looks down with interest upon this scene. His gaze, wandering across the mighty city, is arrested by two gleaming gilded statues crowning a monster edifice, upon whose cap of glittering panes the sun is shining brightly.
“Is that the Hall of Liberty?” he inquires of his guide.
“Yes,” answers the person addressed, “the same as was raised a century ago by the great Duchess of Ravensdale, of noble memory.”
“Is she buried there?” asks the stranger dreamily.
“Buried there! Ah, no!” replies the man almost indignantly. “I thought all the world knew where Gloria of Ravensdale sleeps. There is a beautiful grave overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on the shores of Glenuig Bay. It is there where Gloria sleeps, by the side of her husband Evelyn, the good Duke of Ravensdale. It was her wish, and her wish with the nation was law. Every year the grave is resorted to by thousands, who lay upon it their tributes of lovely flowers.”
“Is any one else buried there?” again the stranger asks.
“Yes, sir, a great woman, Lady Flora Desmond. She survived Gloria of Ravensdale for many years, and carried on her noble works of reform. She was Prime Minister for twenty years, and her last request was to be buried at the feet of the Duke and Duchess of Ravensdale.”
“The Ravensdales owned immense wealth, and parted with it all, so history says,” murmurs the stranger.
“Ay, sir, they gave it all to the poor. At least, they spent it on the poor, and by their noble example induced others to do likewise,” answers the man. “There is no poverty in this country now, sir. As we pass across it you will see evidence of peace and contentment, and plenty everywhere. We owe it all to the glorious reforms of Gloria of Ravensdale.”
“That is a very lovely garden not far from Westminster Bridge which you lately pointed out to me,” continued the stranger. “What a glorious wealth of flowers!”
“Ah! that sir is where Léonie Stanley saved Gloria de Lara from assassination by a maniac. But she lost her life in doing so. She was accorded a public funeral, and by the wish of the nation buried where she fell. The garden was laid out afterwards. It is the nation’s pride to keep it beautiful. Léonie’s heroic deed will for ever live in the hearts of a grateful people.”
“And where is the great Lord Estcourt buried?”
“In the National Burial Ground, where only those whom the nation loves to honour are laid.”
“Yonder splendid building is the Imperial Parliament, is it not?” pursues the stranger.
“Yes, sir. That is where the representatives of our Federated Empire watch over its welfare. To Gloria of Ravensdale we owe the triumph of Imperial Federation. She lived long enough to see England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales peacefully attending to their private affairs in their Local Parliaments, while sending delegates to represent them in the Imperial Assembly. Ah, sir! that Imperial Assembly is a wonderful sight. Therein we see gathered together representative men and women from all parts of our glorious Empire, working hand in hand to spread its influence amongst the nations of the world, with all of whom we are at peace.”
The balloon is rapidly drifting northwards. As the shades of evening begin to creep on apace it moves along Scotland’s western coasts. The aeronaut in charge of it guides it above the graves of Evie and Gloria Ravensdale, and Lady Flora Desmond. As the sun goes down across the western sea, it bathes, with a farewell flood of glory, the last resting-place on this earth of the great dead. The balloon descends, guided by a skilful hand. It soon reaches the ground, and in a short time the stranger stands by these graves. Three simple marble hearts lie above them, on which are engraved in golden letters the names of those who sleep below. And at the head of the graves a marble cross is standing with a few simple words thereon. The stranger goes over to the cross, and reads:—
Sacred to the Memory of
GLORIA DE LARA, DUCHESS OF RAVENSDALE,
The mighty Champion of Women’s Freedom
and the Saviour of her People.
As also to that of Evelyn, the good Duke of Ravensdale,
and the beloved and revered Lady Flora Desmond.
Their names are engraved in the hearts of millions now
and for all time. Amen.
Surely Gloria had triumphed? What greater reward did she hope for than the welfare and love of the people?
MAREMNA’S DREAM.
A soft wind sweeps across Maremna’s form,
She starts, and springs from off her heath’ry couch.
It was a dream, and yet not all a dream;
For scenes which in her wand’rings she’s beheld
Have throng’d that vision. She has seen again
That which has cross’d her in the paths of men,
That which has taught her life’s reality.
Yet deep within, Maremna’s soul is stirr’d
By that bright vision of a fight well won,
A gleam of hope that yet these things shall be,
That freedom shall not ever droop and pine,
But strike a blow for glorious liberty.
A waking vision to Maremna’s soul,
Yet none the less inspiring, for the gleam
Which first awoke within her mightier half
Has glow’d and burnt into a fervent flame,
which none but God can ever extinguish.
A blood-red sunset!
Bathed in its glow Maremna stands alone,
Alone where oft in childhood she has play’d.
The vision is before her bright and clear—
Lo! it awakes her from a living trance,
Bids her arise and buckle on her mail.
Far off she hears the busy din of war,
And knows that duty calls her to the fray.
In that brief hour Maremna’s vow is made.
Low sinks the sun, and gloom o’erspreads the earth,
As down the rugged mountain side she wends
Her way. Maremna’s high resolve is ta’en—
Faithful till Death to be, unto her vow.
THE END.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney Ld., London and Aylesbury.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
REDEEMED IN BLOOD.
BY
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,
Author of
“The Young Castaways,” “Across Patagonia,” “In the Land of Misfortune,” etc.
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ANIWEE;
OR, THE WARRIOR QUEEN.
A Tale of the Araucanian Indians.
By LADY FLORENCE DIXIE.
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RAYMI;
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
- Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.