“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:—