‘And I,’ said young Lady Dunlop, loud enough to be heard all over the House, ‘shall remain to see Lord Chester—I mean, His Majesty the King. He is a handsome fellow, and of course Constance will be his Queen.’
‘Ladies,’ said the Duchess, dignified and austere to the last, ‘it is at least our duty to make a final stand for religion.’
Lady Dunlop scoffed. ‘Religion!’ she cried. ‘Have we not had enough of that nonsense? Which of us believes any more in the Church? Even men have ceased to believe—especially since they were called upon to marry their grandmothers. The Perfect Woman! Why, we are ourselves the best educated, the best bred, the best born—and look at us! As for me, I shall go over to Lord Chester’s religion, and in future worship the Perfect Man, if he likes to order it so.’
The Duchess made no reply. She had received so many insults; such dreadful things had been said; her cherished faiths, prejudices, and traditions had been so rudely attacked,—that all her forces were wanted to maintain her dignity. She sat now motionless, expectant, haggard. The game was played out. She had lost. She would have no more power.
It was then about half-past three in the afternoon. They waited in silence, these noble ladies, like the Senators of Rome when the Gaul was in the streets—without a word. Before long the tramp of feet and the clatter of arms were heard in Westminster Hall.
The very servants and officers, the clerks, of the House, had run away; there was not a woman in the place except themselves: the House looked deserted already.
There hung behind the Chancellor a heavy curtain rich with gold and lace: no one in that House had ever seen the curtain drawn. Yet it was known that behind it stood the image in marble of the only Sovereign acknowledged by the House—the Perfect Woman.
When the trampling of feet was heard in Westminster Hall, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh rose and slowly walked—she seemed ten years older—towards this curtain: when the doors of the House were thrown open violently, she stood beside the Chancellor, her hand upon the curtain.
Tan-ta-ra-ta-ra! A flourish of trumpets, and the trumpeters stood aside.
The Guards came after, marching up the floor of the House. They formed a lane. Then came the Bishop in his robes, preceded by his chaplain, the Rev. Clarence Veysey, surpliced, carrying a Book upon a velvet cushion; then the officers of the Staff with drawn swords; last, in splendid dress and flowing robes, the King himself.