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As, regaj'dless of Custom and Prejudice, Narrow- 
mindedness and Long-Established Wrong, will hraxely 
assert and uphold the Laws of Justice, of Nature, and 
of Right ; I dedicate the following 2mges, with the 
hope that a straightforward inspection of the evils 
abiding Society, will lead to their demolition in 
the only way possible — namely, by giving to Women 
equal rights with Men, Not till then will Society be 
purified, wrongdoing punished, or Man start forward 
along that road which shall lead to Perfection. 


" Thus we were told in words Divine 
That there were truths men could not bear 
E'en from the lips of Christ to hear. 
These have now slowly been unfurled, 
But still to a reluctant world. 

" Prophets will yet arise to teach 
Truths which the schoolmen fail to reach, 
Which priestly doctrine still would hide. 
And worldly votaries deride, 
And statesmen fain would set aside." 

I MAKE no apology for this x^i'eface. It may be 
i-innsiial but then the book it deals with is uu- 
nsiial. There is but one object in " Gloriana." It is 
to speak of evils which do exist, to study facts which 
it is a crime to neglect, to sketch an artificial position 
— the creation of laws false to Nature— unparalleled 
for injustice and hardship. 


Mauy critics, like the rest of hnmanity, are apt to 
be unfair. They take np a book, and when they find 
that it does not accord with their sentiments, they 
attempt to wreck it by ridicule and petty, spiteful 
criticism. They forget to ask themselves, " Why is 
this book written ? " They altogether omit to go 
to the root of the Author's purpose ; and the result 
is, that false testimony is often borne against prin- 
ciples which, though drastic, are pure, which, though 
sharp as the surgeon's knife, are yet humane ; for 
it is genuine sympathy with humanity that arouses 

There is no romance worth reading, which has not 
the solid foundation of truth to support it ; there is no 
excuse for the existence of romance, unless it fixes 
thought on that truth which underlies it. Gloriana 
may be a romance, a dream ; but in the first instance, 
it is inextricably interwoven with truth, in the second 
instance, dreams the work of the brain are species of 
thought, and thought is an attribute of God. There- 
fore is it God's creation. 

There may be some, who reading " Gloriana," will feel 
shocked, and be apt to misjudge the author. There are 
others who will understand, appreciate, and sympathise. 
There are yet others, who hating truth, will receive it 
with gibes and sneers ; there are many, who delighting 


in the evil whicli it fain would banish, will resent it as 
an unpardonable attempt against their liberties. An 
onslaught on public opinion is very like leading a 
Forlorn Hope. The leader knows full well that death 
lies in the breach, yet that leader knows also, that 
great results may spring from the death which is 
therefore readily sought and faced. " Gloriana " pleads 
woman's cause, pleads for her freedom, for the just ac- 
knowledgment of her rights. It pleads that her equal 
humanity with man shall be recognised, and there- 
fore that her claim to share what he has arrogated 
to himself, shall be considered. " Gloriana," pleads 
that in woman's degradation man shall no longer be 
debased, that in her elevation he shall be upraised and 
ennobled. The reader of its pages will observe the 
Author's conviction, everywhere expressed, that Nature 
ordains the close companionship not division of the 
sexes, and that it is opposition to Nature which pro- 
duces jealousy, intrigue, and unhealthy rivalry. 

" Gloriana " is written with no antagonism to man. 
Just the contrary. The Author's best and truest 
friends, with few exceptions, have been and are men. 
But the Author will never recognise man's glory and 
welfare in woman's degradation. 

" And hark ! a voice with accents clear 
Is raised, wMch all are forced to hear. 



'Tis woman's voice, for ages hushed, 

Pleading the cause of woman crushed ; 

Pleading the cause of purity, 

Of freedom, honour, equity, 

Of all the lost and the forlorn, 

Of all for whom the Christ was bom." 

If, therefore, the following story should help men 
to be generous and just, should awaken the sluggards 
amongst women to a sense of their Position, and should 
thus lead to a rapid Revolution it will not have been 
written in vain. 

The Author. 





Makemna's Dream 1 

Book 1 6 

Book II 116 

Book III 249 





A ROSE-RED sunset, 
Mingling its radiance witli the purple heath, 
Flooding the silver lake with blushing light. 
Dyeing the ocean grey a crimson hue. 
Streaking the paling sky with rosy shafts ; 
Clinging to Nature with a ling'ring kiss. 
Ere it shall vanish from a drowsy earth, 
To rouse in new-deck'd cloak of shining gold 
A waking world far o'er the ocean's wave. 
Maremna sleeps, 

Close cushion'd in the heather's warm embrace ; 
The rose-red sunset plays around her form — 



A graceful, girlish figure, lithe and fair, 

Small, slim, yet firmly knit with Nature's power — 

Unfetter'd Nature ! which will not be bound 

By Fashion's prison rules and cultur'd laws. 

Maremua sleeps. 

One rosy cheek lies pillow'd on her hand, 

And through her waving, wandering auburn curls 

The zephyr cupids frolic merrily, 

Tossing them to and fro upon her brow 

In sportive play. It is a brow of thought, 

Endow'd by God and Nature, though, alas ! 

Held in paralysis by selfish laws 

Which strive to steal a fair inheritance. 

And bid the woman bow the knee to man. 

Maremua sleeps. 

The white lids veil the large grey, lustrous eyes, 

The auburn lashes sweep the sunlit cheeks, 

Yet are they wet, and cling to the soft skin 

Whereon the damp of tears is glazing fast. 

Maremna's sleep is not the sleep of rest. 

For ever and anon the blood-red lips 

Unclose, and strive to speak, but yet remain 

Silent and speechless, tied by some dread force 

Which intervenes, denying to the brain 

That comfort whicli the power of speech doth bring. 

Who is Maremna ? — 

A noble's child, rear'd amidst Nature's scenes, 

Her earliest friends I They guided her first steps, 

Sj)eaking of God and His stupendous works 


Loug ere Religion's dogma iutervened. 

Child of a chieftain o'er whose broad domains 

She roamed, a happy, free, mifetter'd waif, 

Loving the mountain crag and forest lono, 

The straths and corries, rugged glens and haunts 

Of the red deer and dove-like ptarmigan ; 

Loving the language of the torrent's roar, 

Or the rough river's wild bespated rush ; 

Lo\ing the dark pine woods, amidst whose glades 

The timid roe hides from the gaze of man ; 

Loving the great grey ocean's varying face, 

Now calm, now rugged, rising into storm. 

Anon so peaceful, so serene, and still. 

When passion's fury sinks beneath the wave. 

Maremna sleeps 

Amidst the scenes that rear'd her early years 

Yet is Maremna now no more a child, 

Nor guileless with the innocence of youth. 

Hers it has been to roam God's mighty world. 

And learn the ways and woful deeds of men. 

And, weary with her world-wide pilgrimage, 

Maremna's steps have sought her early haunts. 

Hoping for rest where childhood once did play. 

Rest for Maremna ! 

An idle thought ; a foolish sentiment ! 

Unto the brain which God has bidden " Think " 

No rest can come from Solitude's retreat ; 

For solitude breeds thought, and shapes its course 

And bids it live within the form of speech, 


Or bids the mighty pen proclaim its life, 

And write its words upon the scrolls of men. 

Thus with Maremna. 

Eest she has sought, hut sought it all in vain. 

What God decrees no mortal hand can stay. 

" Think." He ordains, and lo ! the brain must think, 

Nor close its eyes npon the mammoth trnth. 

Trnth must prevail ! Truth must be held aloft ! 

What matter if the cold world sneers or scoffs ? 

Sneering and scoffing is the work of man, 

Truth, the almighty handiwork of God. 

It may be dimm'd, it may be blurr'd from sight. 

Yet must it triumph in the end, and win ; 

For is not truth a sun which cannot die. 

Though unbelief may cloud it for a time ? 

Maremna sleeps ; 

Sleeps where in childhood oft she lay and dream'd, 

Dream'd of fantastic worlds and fairy realms. 

And now, in sleej), Maremna dreams again. 

But dreams no more of elves and laughing sjirites. 

Hers, though a dream, is stern reality. 

Mingled with visions of a future day ; 

Hers is a dream of hideous, living wrong, 

AVrong which 'tis woman's duty to proclaim 

And man's to right, and right right speedily. 

Or crush the form of justice underfoot. 

Maremna sleei)s. 

And in her sleep a vision fills her brain. 

This is Maremna's Dream. 





" T AM tired, mother." 
1 " Tired, child ! And why ? " 

" Mother, I have been spouting to the wihl sea 

"And what liave yoii been saying- to them, Gloria?" 

"Ah, motlier I ever so mncli." 

Let us look at. the sjieakers, a mother and child, 
the former as she stands leaning against a stone 
balustrade, which overlooks a small Italian garden, 
upon which the sun is shining brightly. Far out 


beyond is tlie gleaming sea, and on its sparkling, 
silvery sheen the woman's eyes are absently iixed 
as she hearkens to the comjilaining i)rattle of the 
child by her side. She is a beautiful woman is 
Speranza de Lara, one upon wliom Dame Nature has 
showered her favours freely. As the stranger, looking 
upon her for the first time, would deem her but a girl 
in years, and exclaim admiringly at her beauty, it 
would be difficult to convince him that her age is 
thirty-five, as in effect it is. 

Speranza's eyes are blue, with the turquoise shade 
lighting up their clear depths, and a fringe of silky 
auburn eyelashes confining them within bounds. Her 
magnificent hair is of a slightly lighter hue, and as 
the sun plays on the heavy coil that is twisted grace- 
fully upon her noble head, the golden sparks dance 
merrily around it, like an aureole of gold. 

And the child ? We must look nearer still at her, 
for she not only is beautiful, but there is writ upon 
her face the glowing sign of genius. Like her mother, 
Gloriana, or, as we shall prefer to call her, Gloria, has 
blue eyes, but they are the blue of the sa2)phire, deep 
in contradistinction to the turquoise shade, which 
characterises those of Speranza. Auburn eyelashes, 
too, fringe the child's wonderful eyes, but again these 
are many shades darker than (lie mother's, while 
masses of auburn curls play negligently and uncoii- 
fined, covering the girl's back like a veil of old-gold. 
Such is Gloriana de Lara at the a<;e of twelve. 


" Won't Gloria tell mother what that ' evo' so muck ' 
was ? " 

She puts the question gently, does Speranza. She 
has never moved from the position in which we first 
found her, and her eyes are still dreamily searching 
the waste of blue waters beyond. But as she sjieaks 
the child puts her arm caressingly through that of 
the mother's, and lays her golden head against that 
mother's shoulder. 

" Ah ! yes, mother, of course I will tell y(}«." 

" Then tell me, Gloria." 

" I was imagining the foam flakelets to be girls, 
mother, and I looked upon them as my audience. I 
told them, mother darling, of all tlie wrongs that girls 
and women have to suffer, and then I bade them rise 
as one to right these wrongs. I told them all I could 
think of to show them how to do so, and then I tokl 
them that I would be their leader, and lead them to 
victory or die. And the wavelets shouted, mother. 
I seemed to hear them cheer me on, I seemed to see 
them rising into storm, the wind uprose them, and 
their white foam rushed towards me, and I seemed to 
see in this sudden change the elements of a great 

" Like a dream, Gloria." 

" A living dream, mother ; at least it was so to me. 
It brouglit a feeling to my heart, mother, which I 
know will never leave it more, until, until " 

The girl pauses, and the great tears rise to her eyes. 


Speraiiza raises herself suddenly, and, confronting the 
child, lays both hands upon her shoulders . 

" Until what, child ? " 

" Until I've won, mother," cries Gloria, as she 
raises her glorious eyes, in which tlie tears still 
tremble, to her mother's face. 

"Ah, Gloria! the odds are against you, my darling." 

" Don't I know that, mother ; don't 1 know that 
well ? But I am not afraid. I made a vow, mother, 
to-day, I made it to those waves ; and something tells 
me that I shall keep that vow and win, though in 
doing so I may die." 

"Hush, Gloria, hush, child; don't talk like that." 

" And don't you want me to win, mother? After all 
you have suffered, after all you have taught me, would 
you have your child turn back from the path she has 
set herself to follow, because perhaps at that path's 
end lies death ? " 

" Child, it is a cause I would gladly lay down my 
life for, but how can I bring myself to wish you to 
sacrifice yourself ? "^ 

" What is sacrifice in a great cause, mother ? I fear 
no sacrifice, no pain, no consequence, so long as victory 
crowns me in the end." 

The mother's arms are round her child's neck now, 
her head is bending down and the bright gold of 
Speranza's lovely hair is close beside the glossy, 
wandering dark gold curls of Gloria. In tlie heart of 
the former a new-born lio])e is rising, vague, undefiu- 


able, yet still there, and which fills it with a happiness 
she has not known for many and many a day. 

" My child," she exclaims softly, " can it he, that 
after all these years of weary, lonely suffering, I am 
awaking to find in you, you, the offspring of a forbidden 
love, the messenger that shall awake the world to 
woman's wrongs, and make suffering such as I have 
endured no longer possible? " 

" Yes, mother, I feel it," answers Gloria earnestly; 
" and that is why I have made my jdans to-day. 
Everything must have a beginning you know, mother, 
and therefore I must begin, and begin at once. You 
must help me, mother darling. I can do nothing 
\\4thout your co-operation." 

" Tell me your plans, Gloria, and mother will help 
you if she can." 

" My plans are many, but the first must have a 
premier consideration. Mother, I must go to school." 

" To school, child ! I thought you always have 
begged me not to send you to school." 

" It to a boy's school, mother. You must 
send me to Eton." 

'' To Eton ? " 

" Yes, mother ; don't you understand ? " 


Here a retrospect is necessary to enable the reader 
to comprehend the above conversation. 

Thirty-five years previously there had been born to 
a young widow in the Midland (*ounties of England 


a postlinmous child aud daughter, to whom the name 
of Speranza had been given. The widow, Mrs. de 
Lara by name, was left badly oiF. Her husband, who 
had been an officer in the British service, had sold out, 
and accepted an estate agency from a rich relative, upon 
whose property he lived in a tiny but snug cottage, 
which nestled amidst some pine and oak woods on the 
shores of as beautiful a lake as was to be seen all the 
country round. Captain aud Mrs. de Lara were a very 
happy pair. Theirs had been a love match; and she 
never regretted the rich offers of marriage which she 
had rejected for the sake of the handsome, dashing 
but well-nigh penniless young officer. Her father, 
furious at what he considered a mesalliance, had cut 
her off with a shilling ; and thus it was that the two 
had had a hard struggle to make ends meet on the 
little possessed by the captain. What mattered it ? 
They were happy. 

Grief, however, soon came to cloud that liome of 
peace and contentment. An accidental discharge of 
his gun inflicted on Captain de Lara a mortal wound. 
He died in the arms of his heart-broken wife, who 
lived just long enough to give birth to the little 
Speranza, dying a fortnight later, and leaving, penni- 
less and friendless, two little boys and the baby girl 
referred to. Tlie captain's rich relative adopted them. 
He was a kind-liearted man, and felt that he could 
not turn them adrift on the world, but his wife, a hard- 
hearted aud scheming woman, resented the adoption 


bitterly, and led tlie cliildren a sad and unhappy life. 
She had a sou and daughter of her own, aged respect- 
ively five and six years, and upon these she lavished 
a false aud mistaken affection, spoiling them in every 
possible way, aud bringing them up to be anything 
but jileasant to those around them. 

When old enough Speranza's brothers were sent to 
school, and given to understand by their adopted 
father that they might choose their own professions. 
The eldest selected the army, the youngest the navy, 
and each made a start in his respective line of life. 
But Speranza, being a girl, had no chances thrown out 
to her. She was a very beautiful girl, strong, healthy, 
and clever ; but of what use were any of these attri- 
butes to her ? 

" If I were only a boy," she would bitterly moan 
to herself, " I could make my way in the world. I 
could work for my living, aud be free instead of being 
what I am, the butt of my adopted mother." 

It is necessary to explain that Speranza's adopted 
parents were the Earl aud Countess of Westray, and 
that their two children were Bertrand Viscount Altai 
and Lady Lucy Maree. Dordiugton Court was the 
family seat, and it was here that Speranza spent the 
first sixteen years of her life. 

There were great doings at Dordington Court when 
Lord Altai came of age. A large party was in\'ited to 
take part in the week's festivities, and duly assembled 
for the occasion. Many beautiful women were there, 


but none could compare in beauty with Sjieranza cle 
Lara. She was only seventeen years of age at the 
time, but already the promise of exquisite loveliness 
could not but be apparent to every one. It caj^tivated 
many, but none more so than young Altai himself. 

He was not a good man was the young viscount. 
Injudicious indulgence as a child had laid the seeds of 
selfishness and indifference to the feelings of others. 
He had been so accustomed to have all he wanted, 
that such a word as " refusal " was hardly known to him. 
He had grown up in the belief that what Altai asked 
for must be granted as a matter of course. And now, 
in pursuit of his passions, he chose to think himself, 
or imagined himself, in love with Speranza, and had 
determined to make her his wife. 

He chose his opportunity for asking her. It was 
the night of a great ball given at Dordington Court 
during the week's festivities. Speranza had been 
dancing with him, and when the dance was over he 
led her away into one of the beautiful conservatories 
that opened from one of the reception-rooms, and was 
lighted up with softly subdued pink fairy lamps. 
He thought he had never seen her look more beautiful, 
and his passion hungered to make her his own more 
than ever. 

He put the usual question, a question which — no 
reason has yet been given why — a man arrogates to 
himself alone to jjut. He never dreamed that she, 
tlie iienuiless Speranza de Lara, the ado2)ted ori)han of 


his father and mother, would refuse him. He took it 
as of course for granted that she woukl jump at his 
offer. Were there not girls — and plenty too — in the 
house who would have given their eyes for such a 
proposal ? He put the question therefore confidently, 
nay, even negligently, and awaited the answer without 
a doubt in his mind as to what it would be. 

He started. She was speaking in rejjJy. Could he 
believe his ears, and was that answer No ? And yet 
there was no mistaking it, for the voice, though low, 
was clear and very distinct. It decidedly said him 
Nay. Yes, Speranza had refused him. It was the 
first rebuff he had ever received in his life, the first 
denial that had ever been made to request of his. It 
staggered him, filled him with blind, almost ungovern- 
able, fury. More than ever he coveted the girl who 
had rejected him, more than ever he determined to 
make her, what the law told him she should be if he 
married her, his own. 

He left her suddenly, anger and rage at heart, and 
she, with a sad and weary restlessness upon her, 
wandered out into the clear moonlit niglit, and stood 
gazing over the beautiful lake at her feet, and at the 
tiny cottage at the far end where her father and 
mother had died, and where she had been born. 

What was it that stood in Speranza's eyes ? Tears, 
large and clear as crystals, were falling from them, 
and sobs shook her graceful upright frame, as she 
stood with her hands clasped to her forehead in an 


agony of grief. Only seventeen, poor child, and yet 
so miserable ! It was a cruel sight for any one to see. 
But no one saw it save the pale moon and twinkling 
stars that looked down calmly and sweetly on the 
sobbing girl. 

A harsh voice sounded suddenly at her elbow, a 
rough grasp was laid upon her arm. With a cry in 
which loathing and horror were mixed Speranza turned 
round, only to confront the contemptuous, haughty 
woman, who had never said a kind or nice word to her 
in all her life. 

" How dare you, girl, behave like this ? " had cried 
the countess furiously. " How dare you so answer my 
darling boy, who has thus condescended to honour you 
with his love ? " 

In vain the miserable child had striven to explain 
to the infuriated woman that she did not care for 
Lord Altai. Such an explanation had only aggravated 
the countess's auger, who, after many and various 
threats, had declared that unless Speranza consented 
to gratify her darling boy's passion, she would induce 
the earl to deprive Speranza's two brothers of their 
allowances, and therefore of tJieir professions, which, in 
other words, meant ruin to them. 

She was a clever woman was Lady Westray. She 
knew exactly where to strike to gain her end. The 
tlireat which she threw out about Speranza's two 
brothers she knew pretty well would take effect ; for 
did she not also know that out to them the poor 


child's whole heart had gone ? Rather than injure 
them, the girl determined to sacrifice herself. 

A month later a great wedding took phice. En- 
vied of all who saw her, Sperauza de Lara became 
Viscountess Altai, and the wife of the man wliom she 
detested and loathed. Sold by the law which declares 
that however brutally a man may treat his wife, so 
that he does not strike her, she has no power to free 
herself from him ; sold by the law which declares 
her to be that man's slave, this woman, bright with 
the glory of a high intellect, perfect in Nature's health 
and strength, was committed to the keeping of a man 
whom Fashion courted and patted on the back, whilst 
declaring him at the same time to be the veriest roue 
in London. He could go and do as he pleased ; 
indulge in brutal excess, pander to every hideous 
passion of his heart, poison with his vile touch the 
beautiful creature whom he looked down upon as 
" only a woman " ; but she, if die dared to overstep 
the line of propriety, and openly declare her love for 
another, she would be doomed to social ostracism, 
shunned and despised as a wanton, and out of the pale 
of decent society. 

She did so dare ! For six long years she bore with 
his brutal excess and depraved passions ; for six 
long years she suffered the torture which only those 
who have so suffered can understand. Then she 

It was a dark November evening when she met her 


fate. The Altais were in Scotland, entertaining a 
party of friends for the covert shooting in Lord 
Westray's si)leudid Wigtownshire preserves. The 
guests had all arrived but one, and he put in an 
appearance when the remainder of the jjarty had gone 
upstairs to dress for dinner. Lady Altai had waited 
for him, as he was momentarily expected, and on his 
arrival he had been ushered into the drawing-room. 
His name was Harry Kintore, a captain in a smart 
marching regiment. As she entered the drawing-room 
he was standing with his back to the fire, and their 
eyes met. Right through her ran a thrill, she knew 
not why or wherefore, while he, transfixed by her 
beauty, could not remove his eyes. There have been 
such cases before of love at first sight. This was 
a case about which there could be no dispute ; both 
felt it was so, both knew it to be beyond recall. 

How she struggled against her fate none can tell. 
With her husband's increased brutality the gentleness 
and devotion of young Kintore was all the more en 
evidence. And when at length he bade her fly with 
him beyond the reach of so much misery and cruelty, 
was it a wonder that she succumbed, and flew in the 
face of the law that bound her to the contrary ? 

She left him, that cruel brute, who had made her 
life a desert and a hell. She left him for one who 
to her was chivalrous and tender, loving and sympa- 
thetic. The world cried shame upon her, and spoke 
of Lord Altai as an injured man ; the world ostracised 


Ler while it courted anew the fiend who had so o-riev- 
ously wronged her. And when, in the hunger of his 
baffled passion, this pampered rour followed the two 
who had fled from him, and with cold-blooded cruelty 
shot dead young Harry Kintore, the world declared 
\i could not blame him, and that it served Lady Altai 


GOOD-MORNING, my dear," exclaims Lady 
MandertoD, as slie enters the cosy boudoir of 
lier bosom friend and confidante, Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, 
as this latter, in a weoijoeignoir, lies stretched out, novel 
in hand, on an easy couch overlooking the fast-filling 
street of Piccadilly about eleven o'clock on the morning 
of the 5th June, 1890. 

" Ciel ! my dear, what brings you here, and dressed, 
too, at this unearthly hour ? " 

" Chute, Vivi, don't talk so loud. A mere rencontre, 
that's all. Arthur and I have arranged a little lark, 
and I told him to meet me here. I knew you wouldn't 

" He, he ! " giggles Vivi ; " but what have you done 
with Man ? " 

"Oh ! he's 'Safe enough, my dear. Gone off to his 
club. Thinks I've gone to get a gown tried on. He. 
he ! What fools men are ! " 

" Think themselves deuced clever, nevertheless, 


Dodo," laugiis Vivi. "It's not an hour since Trebby 
was raving- at me, laying down the law at the way I 
go on with Captain Kilmarnock. Of course I pre- 
tended to be awfully cut up, rubbed my eyes, got up 
a few tears and sniffs, got rid of him with a kiss or 
two, packed him off to his club, and at twelve o'clock 
Kil and I are off to Maidenhead together." 

This announcement creates the greatest amusement 
between the two ladies, judging by the peals of laughter 
that follow it. 

" By-the-bye, Dodo, where were you yesterday ? " 
inquires Vivi Trevor, after the laughter has subsided. 

"I, my dear? Why, I was with H.R.H.'s party 
for the 4th of June. You can't think what a jolly 
day we had, Vivi. Some of the recitations were (piite 
delightful, and there was a boy called Hector 
D'Estrange, who was simply too lovely for words. 
We all fell in love with him, I can tell you. I never 
saw such eyes in my life. Won't he break some of 
our hearts some day ! " 

" Hector D'Estrange ; but who is he ? " 

" That's just what every one was asking, but no one 
seemed to know. It appears he has taken the school 
by storm. Does everything tiptop. Splendid bats- 
man, bowler, oarsman, wonderful at racquets, unde- 
featable at books— in fact, my dear, beautiful as an 
Adonis, and clever past expression." 

" Oh, Dodo ! I must see this Adonis. I love pretty 


" And plucky ones, too/' laughs Vivi. " I was 
speaking to young Estcourt, who is liis chum, and lie 
told me that when Hector D'Estrange first came to 
Eton, a good many attemi)ts were made to bully him, 
but he soon settled his tormentors, and gave one of 
them, a big overgrown monster, such a drubbing, that 
he never molested him more. What fun, Dodo, it 
would have been to see my Adonis punching the 
overgrown bully ! I did laugh when Estcourt told 
me. I do so hate overgrown boys. Don't you, Dodo ? " 

" Of course I do, Vivi. Detest them ! " 

There is a ring at the door bell. Vivi jnmjis uj) 
and looks out of the window. 

" It's Arthur I " is all she exclaims. 

" Well, ta ta, Vivi ! won't bother you with him," 
laughs Lady Manderton, as she stoops to kiss her 
friend. " See you to-night, 1 suppose, at Ferdey's — eh ? 
Love to Kil. Don't let Trebby catch you, and a pleasant 
outing to you both ; " saying which she is off out of 
the room, and running downstairs to meet her friend 
Sir Arthur Muster-Day, a smart young guardsman, 
whom it has pleased her for the time being to think 
that she likes better than any one else in the world. 

They are off together, hai)])y in eacli other's com- 
pany. Sir Arthur is not married, and he tliinks it just 
the thing to be seen about as niucli as possible in the 
company of one of London's newest belles. Lady 
Manderton doesn't care a ni]) for her husband, and is 
considerablv Ijored that her husband evinces a certain 


amount of afFectiou for lier ; slie only married liim for 
liis money and position, and did not at all bargain for 
the afiectiou part of tlie affair. 

As for Vivi, after her friend is gone, she jumps up 
and rings for her maid. That important individual 
having made her appearance, she and Vivi are soon 
engrossed with the all-paramount question of the 
moment — dress. Half-a-dozen gowns are pulled out, 
jHit on, pulled off and discarded, until at length one 
appears to please more than the others. 

" How do you think I look in this, Marie?" she 
inquires a little anxiously. '' Is it becoming ? " 

" Mais, madame, c'est tout-a-fait charmante," re- 
plies the well-drilled maid with an expression of 

Vivi is satisfied. The gown remains on her person, 
and in a short time she is dressed and ready for 
her day's outing. Twelve o'clock strikes. A neat 
brougham dashes up to the door. In less time almost 
than it takes to tell it, Vivi has taken her seat in the 
carriage, and is being whirled through the busy streets 
of London, en route to Captain Kilmarnock's rooms. 
There she will pick him up, and together they will 
proceed to Maidenhead, what to do God knows. We 
had better leave them. 

A few minutes later, and there is another ring at the 
door, and the footman opens it to Mr. de Lacy Trevor. 
As he does so, the latter inquires — 

" Is Mrs. Trevor in ? " 


" No, sir, just gone out," answers tlie servant. 

" Do you know where to, James ? " again asks 
Mr. Trevor. 

" I do not, sir, but perbaj^s Mademoiselle Marie will 

Marie is called, and arrives all smiles and bows. 
" Really, she thinks madame has gone out for a driv'e 
with her friend Lady Manderton, and to lunch with 
her afterwards. Cest toiitr 

Mr. Trevor sighs. 

" There will be no lunch wanted, James," he observes 
quietly. " I shall lunch at the club," 

He wanders down the street in the direction of 
St. James's. He wonders if Vivi has forgotten the 
promise she made him that morning to lunch at home, 
and go for a ride with him afterwards. He so rarely 
sees her now, and when he does it is seldom alone. 
She never seems to have any time to give to him, and 
yet he is not brutal to her, or neglectful, or wrapped 
up in some one else, as many other men are. He loves 
her so dearly, and would do anything to make lier 
happy; but lie can quite see how she shuns him, and 
how much happier she looks when in Captain Kilmar- 
nock's company. And then, with a shudder, he starts 
and stares eagerly across the street, for there she is — 
yes, actually there she is, in Captain Kilmarnock's 
brougham, with the ca})taiu beside her, driving 
ra])idly in the direction of Piccadilly. 

Mr. Trevor has a strange lump in his throat as he 


ascends the steps of the Conservative and enters that 
roomy chib. 

" Waiter ! " he calls out, and his voice is somewhat 

" Yes, sir." 

" Bring me a stiff brandy-and-soda, waiter, and 
mind it is stiff," continues Mr. Trevor, as he tlirows 
himself wearily into a chair. The soda with its stiff 
complement of brandy arrives. It is mixed carefully 
by the waiter, and handed to the sad-hearted man. 
He drinks it eagerly. He has not a strong head, and 
knows that he cannot take much, but he feels that 
oblivion must in this instance be sought, if possible, 
no matter how, so long as it is attained. 

The brandy, in a measure, has the desired effect. 
He feels it perforating through his body and mounting 
to his brain. Things don't look quite so gloomy to 
him now, and the loneliness of his position is less 
acutely felt. Two men are talking to each other close 
by him. He knows one of them. It is Sir Ralph 
Vereton, and he holds in his hand a copy of the June 
number of the Free Review. 

"It is a wonderful article for a boy to write, and 
an Eton boy, too," he hears the baronet exclaiming. 
" Have you read it, Critchley ? " 

" Well, no, I can't say that I liave, but I will, old 
chap, when I get home. I'm afraid I haven't time to 
just now." 

" What's that, Vereton ? " inquires Mr. Trevor, 


leaning forward in his chair, '' auythinfr particnlarly 
clever ? " 

" Hiilloa, Trevor I you there ? Didn't see yon, old 
man. What ! you haven't read an Eton boy's ' Essay 
on Woman's Position ' ? Every one is talking about 
it. It's deuced clever and original, whatever one may 
think of the opinions, and is clearly written by a lad 
who will make his mark in the world." 

" Let's have a look at it, Vereton, if you don't want 
it, there's a good chap. I want something to read," 
exclaims Mr. Trevor eagerly, reaching out his hand 
for the periodical, which the baronet passes to him 
good-naturedly. It is open at the page of honour, the 
first page in tlie book, and as Mr. Trevor scans the 
heading he reads it as follows : " Woman's Position 
in this World. By Hector D'Estrange, an Eton boy." 
He starts reading it, languidly at first, as if the 
remarks of a boy on such a subject cannot possibly be 
worth reading, but he is soon absorbed in the article, 
and never budges in his cJiair until he has read it 
through and through. 

And there are some parts to which he turns again 
and again, as though he would burn their truths into 
his brain, and keep them there never to be forgotten. 
One in especial rivets his attention, so much so tliat 
he commits it to memory, 

" When a girl is born," it ran, " no especial differ- 
ence is made in the care of her by doctor or nurse. Up 
to a certain age the treatment which she and her 



brother receive is exactly tlie same. Why, I ask, 
should there be ever any change in this treatment ? 
Why shonld snch a marked contrast be drawn later 
on between tlie sexes ? Is it for the good of either 
that the girl shonld be both physically and mentally 
stunted, both in her intellect and body, — that she 
should be held back while the boy is pressed forward ? 
Can it be argued with any sliow of reason that her 
capacity for study is less, and her power of observa- 
tion naturally dwarfed in comparison with that of 
the boy ? Certainly not. I confidently assert that 
where a girl has fair play, and is given equal oppor- 
tunities with the boy, she not only equals him in 
mental capacity, but far outruns him in such ; and I 
also confidently assert, that given the physical oppor- 
tunities afforded to the boy, to develop and expand, 
and strengthen the body by what are called ' manly 
exercises,' the girl would prove herself every inch his 
equal in physical strength. There are those, I know, 
who will sneer at these opinions, but in the words of 
Lord Beaconsfield, I can only asseverate that ' the 
time will come,' when those who sneer will be forced 
to acknowledge the truth of this assertion. 

" Well then, granting, for the sake of argument, 
that what I have stated is correct, why, I ask, should 
all that men look forward to and hold most dear, be 
denied to women ? Why should the professions which 
men have arrogated to themselves be entirely mono- 
polised by their sex, to the exclusion of women ? 1 


see no manner of reason why, if women received the 
same moral, mental, and physical training that men 
do, they should not be as fit — nay, infinitely more 
fit — to undertake the same duties and responsibilities 
as men. I do not see that we should be a wit less 
badly governed if we had a woman Prime Minister or 
a mixed Cabinet, or if women occupied seats in the 
Houses of Parliament or on the bench in the Courts 
of Justice. 

" Of course woman's fitness to undertake these duties 
depends entirely on the manner in which she is edu- 
cated. If you stunt the intellect, tell her nothing, and 
refuse to exercise the physical j^owers which Nature 
has given her, you must expect little from such an 
unfortunate creature. Put man in the same position 
in which you put woman, and he would be in a very 
short time just as mentally and physically stunted as 
she is. 

" All very well to declare that it is a woman's busi- 
ness to bear children, to bring them uj), to attend to 
household matters, and to leave the rest to men. A 
high-spirited girl or woman will not, in every instance, 
accept this definition of her duties by man as correct. 
That such a definition is clearly man's, it is not difilcult 
to see, for woman would never have voluntarily con- 
demned herself to a life of such inert and ambitionless 
duties as these. But so long as this definition of 
woman's duty and position be observed and accepted 
by Society, so long will tliis latter be a prey to all the 


vils and horrors that afflict it, and which are a resnlt 
of woman's subjection and degradation. 

'' Think yon, you who read these words, that hun- 
dreds of women now unhappily married would ever 
have contracted tliat terrible tie had they been aware 
of what they were doing, or had they had the smallest 
hope of advancement and prospects of success in life 
without ? Certainly not. Marriage is contracted in 
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred by women desirous 
of making for themselves a home, and because in no 
other quarter can they adopt agreeable and pleasant 
professions and occupations like men. "Were it pos- 
sible, they would either not have married, or at least 
have waited until, with the knowledge of man whicli 
they should possess — but which, unfortunately, nowa- 
days comes to them only with marriage — they could 
select for themselves, with their eyes open, a partner 
suited to them in every respect. As it is, wliat does 
one see ? Women, especially in the higher grades of 
society, marry only to escape in many instances the 
prim restraints of home. Others marry for money and 
position, because they know that the portals, through 
which men may pass to try for these, are closed to 
them. The cruel laws by which men have shut 
women out from every hope of winning name and 
fame, are responsible for hundreds of wretched mar- 
riages, which have seared the world with their griefs. 
If, in the narrow sphere ^\dthin which she moves, a 
woman errs, let not the man blame her, but rather 


look to the abolition of unnatural laws which have 
brought about her degradation." 

Mr. Trevor sits very still in his chair. A flood of 
thoughts have come to fill his brain. They keep him 
very busy and occupied. The revelations thrown upon 
woman's position by tlie straightforward, truth-breath- 
ing article of Hector D'Estrange, have taken him by 
storm, and have completely revolutionised his ideas. 
He has hitherto been so accustomed to look upon 
and treat women with the self-satisfied, conscious 
feeling of superiority assumed by men, that such ideas 
as these before him are startlingly strange and extra- 
ordinary. His position with Vivi, and hers in regard 
to him, presents itself now to his mind in a totally 
diff'erent light to that in which he has hitherto been 
accustomed to regard it. He remembers how he first 
met her hardly a year ago, a beautiful, lively, healthy 
girl, whose scheming mother, knowing no better, had 
thrust her into the busy mart, willing to sell her to 
the highest bidder. He remembers how jiassionately 
lie fell in love with this girl, how he never jiaused to 
ask himself if his love were returned. He recalls full 
well the bitter look that had crossed her face when 
he had asked her to be his wife, and the cold, matter- 
of-fact way in which she had accepted him. Tlien his 
thoughts fly back to his wedding day, and a shudder 
runs throno-li Launcelot Trevor as he recalls the utter 


absence of love on iier part towards liim. And, re- 
membering all this, lie cannot but feel that Hector 
D'Estrange is right. If, in the narrow sjDhere within 
which poor Vivi had moved, she had, according to the 
notions of propriety laid down by Mrs. Grundy, erred, 
Launcelot Trevor feels that the blame must rest not 
so much with her, as with the cruel laws that had left 
that beautiful girl no other option but to sell herself 
for gold; for be it remembered, she had been educated 
up to no higher level, been imbued with no better 
aim. She had been taught that the only opening for 
a girl is to get herself well married, that while men 
could go forth into the world with a score of jjrofes- 
sions to choose from, she must for ever regard herself 
as shut out from that world of enterprise, daring, and 
fame, created, so says man, solely for himself. 

He sits on in his chair, his thoughts still busy with 
the new problem that has presented itself so start- 
lingly to his mind. The luncheon hour is far past, 
much of the afternoon has slipped away, still Launcelot 
Trevor remains where he had seated himself many 
hours before. Men keej) coming in and out ; friends 
and acquaintances nod to him as they pass. He 
scarcely heeds them, or pays attention to what they 
say. His mind is absorbed by tlie truths wliicli he 
lias faced for the first time. 

Suddenly he starts; the clock is striking seven. He 
remembers that at eight o'clock he and Vivi are 
engaged to dine out. He jumps up, bids the hall- 


porter hail a hansom, and in a few minutes is l)eing 
driven towards Piccadilly. 

" Has Mrs. Trevor returned yet ? " he again inquires 
of the servant who opens the door to him. 

" Yes, sir, she is in the drawing-room with Captain 

He walks slowly ui)stairs. All is very silent in the 
room mentioned. He stands on the threshold, hardly 
daring to open the door. He can hear a rustling 
inside, and, yes, unmistakably the sound of a kiss. 
He coughs audibly as he lays his hand on the door's 
handle. He can hear a scuffling of feet, and on enter- 
ing perceives Vivi sitting bolt upright on the sofa, 
and Captain Kilmarnock apparently warming his 
liands over the fireplace. Unfortunately there is no 

She looks at him as he comes in, and for a moment 
their eyes meet. A bright flush rises to Vivi's cheeks. 
She expects to see him furious, as he had been that 
morning, and is surprised, nay, even awed by the sad 
expression on his face. 

" Vivi," he says very quietly, " I think we ought to 
be dressing for dinner. Good-evening to you, Kil- 
marnock. Are you to be at Ferdey's to-night ? " 

" No, Trevor," stammers the captain, visibly uncom- 
fortable. " I have another engagement." 

" Oh, well, shall see you again, I su^q^ose, soon ? 
Good-night, old chaj). Must go and dress. Vivi dear, 
don't be late." 


He goes out as he speaks, and closes tlie door Leliind 
him. Hector D'Estrange's words are still next his 

" Poor Vivi," he mutters to himself. " It is not 
her fault. Poor Vivi." 

He is hardly out of the room, when she looks up at 
Captain Kilmarnock. The scared expression is still 
in her face. 

" Kil," she whispers, " that ivas a near s(j[ueak. 
You had better be off, old man. Didn't hear the front 
door bell ring, did you ? " 

" No," he answers in a rather sulky tone. " Hang 
him ! he's always where he's not wanted. But you 
are right. I'd better be off. To-morrow at three. 
Don't forget." 

" All right," she answers, with a smile. 


ALWAYS busy and astir, the little town of Meltou 
Mowbray j)resents a more than usually busy 
aspect on the morning of the 1 5th April, 1894. It 
is early yet, nevertheless the streets ring with the 
sound of trotting and cantering hacks, as well as the 
more sober paces of the strings of horses returning 
from exercise to their respective stables. 

People are coming and going at a rapid rate. 
They nearly all seem to know each other, judging by 
the little nods, and " good-mornings," and suchlike 
familiar greetings with which friends meet, and in 
which these afore-mentioned personages indulge, as 
they hurry by each other. 

A party of horsemen and horsewomen are just riding 
out of the stables belonging to The Limes. They are 
laughing and talking merrily. We liave seen two of 
the women before, and tlieir names are Mrs. de Lacy 
Trevor and Lady Manderton. Close in attendance 
ui)on them are two smart good-looking men, whom we 


must introduce to the reader as Lord Charles Dartrey 
and the Earl of Westray. The forraer appears to be 
entirely taken up with the first-named lady, the latter 
— already introduced to the reader in a former chapter 
as Lord Altai — with the last-named one. 

There is yet another pair in that cheery gronji that 
we must particularly notice. They are a man and 
woman, both young, both good-looking, and both un- 
mistakably at home in the saddle. If one can judge 
from appearances, the woman must be about twenty- 
two years of age, the man perhaps five or six years 
her senior. Both are mounted on grey horses, and 
both look every inch what they are, splendid eques- 
trians. The woman is well known in Society's world, 
as also in the tiny hunting world of Melton. She is 
Lady Flora Desmond, and the man is handsome 
Captain " Jack " Delamere. 

They trot through the streets at a merry pace, down 
past the Harborough Hotel, over the railway, away on 
by Wicklow Lodge, towards Burton Lazarus. It is 
a beautiful morning, and the sun is shining brightly on 
the flats that lie below. Dalby Hall, nestling amidst 
its woods on the far hillside, stands out distinct and 
clear, with the same bright sun gleaming on its gables 
and windows. 

" What a glorious morning, Jack ! " exclaims Lady 
Flora enthusiastically. " Why, it's like summer, is it 

The others are a little on ahead, and these two have 



fallen iu the rear. Jack looks at the speaker with a 

" It is a grand day, Florrie, and it suits j^on, too. I 
never saw yon looking better in my life." 

She flushes ujx Florrie Desmond does not care 
about compliments, — she values them at their worth, — - 
but she and Jack are fast friends, and she is not quite 
averse to them from him. She answers, however. 

" Shut up, you goose, and don't talk nonsense." 

She is a clever woman is Flora Desmond, cleverer 
far tlian some i)eople take her to be. Her bringing 
up has not been exactly like other women's, and she 
lias always kicked against the restraints and restric- 
tions put upon her sex. She is the daughter of the 
Marquis and Marchioness of Douglasdale, and an 
or])han, having lost her father at an early age. Lady 
Douglasdale was, in her day, a very beautiful woman, 
a persona grata at Court, where her husband exercised 
the duties of Comptroller of the Household, and was a 
favourite with his sovereign ; but after the marquis's 
death she took greatly to travelling, and thus it was 
that Flora Ruglen, in conjunction with her twin 
brother Archie, saw most of the great Avorld of 
Enro])e before she was ten years of age. 

Travelling exjiands the mind, and brightens the 
senses. It had this effect upon the girl, forming much 
of her character before its time. At that early age 
she exhibited peculiar characteristics. No one could 
get her to settle down to study under a governess ; she 


loathed the sight of sdiool books, aud led her uu- 
fortunate preceptors a sad life ; yet, in strange 
contradiction to so much wilfulness and aj)parent 
indolence, she was seldom without the companionship 
of a book in her play hours, and when not otherwise 
engaged with her brother, would invariably be found 
poring over these books, thirstily seeking know- 
ledge, or committing to jxxper, in powerful language 
for one so young, the impressions of her youthful 

She had dreams had Flora Ruglen — dreams of a 
bright future, an adventurous career. The time had 
not arrived when the road which she and her twin 
brother had been pursuing, would branch off in 
different directions, his leading forth to opportunities 
of jjower, fame, and glory, hers along a lane, narrow 
and cramped, and with nothing to seek at the end, 
save that against which her bright independent spirit 
rebelled and revolted. But it came at last, when the 
companion of her happy childhood's days was taken 
from her, when Archie was sent to school, and she 
was left alone. It came upon her with a suddenness 
which she found difficult to realise, and the blow was 
terrible. To describe what she suffered would be well- 
nigh impossible. Only those who by experience have 
learnt it, could be brought to understand the liorror 
of her position. But Flora Ruglen, having faced it, 
brought all the courage of her nature to support it, 
though from that moment she became utterly changed . 


Slie had no one in wliom to confide ; neither lier 
mother nor any one else wonld have understood her. 
With girls of her own age she had nothing in 
common, and they looked on her with awe as a proud, 
stuck-up being. None could guess at the warm heart 
that beat beneath Flora Ruglen's apparently cold and 
reserved demeanour — excej^t one, and that one was a 
boy of about her own age. 

She had made his acquaintance during the holidays, 
when Archie, home from school, had invited his " best 
jial " to spend them at Ruglen Manor, the beautiful 
dower property of Lady Douglasdale. It was with 
young Lord Estcourt that Archie Douglasdale had 
struck up so keen a friendship. The lads had been 
" new boys " at Eton together, and in the first 
strangeness of introduction to that boy's world had 
been thrown into each other's company a good deal, 
being in the same house, and, as in Flora's case, much 
of the same age. 

When Estcourt came to Ruglen Manor Flora 
Ruglen was about seventeen years of age. She was 
interested in her brother's friend, inasmuch as he had 
lately lost his mother, and was an orphan. It did not 
take long for a firm friendshiji to spring up between 
the boy and girl. Nigel Estcourt was an only child, 
had never known what it was to have brothers and 
sisters, and was ready to look upon Flora in that 
liglit gladly enough. He and she were a great deal in 
each other's company, and for the first time in her life 


she unloosed the cords of lier heart, and told him of 
the trouble that had descended upon her life. 

He sympathised with her did young Nigel. How 
could he helji it, being, as he was, the friend of Hector 
D'Estrange ? That extraordinary boy had risen to be 
head of the school. None could equal him at Eton, 
and his name had gone forth beyond the portals of the 
college as the coming man of his day. The article in 
the Free Review, which had first brought his name into 
prominence in the year 1890, had created a good deal 
of discussion in many circles. Of course it had been 
vigorously attacked. What great stroke aimed at 
Justice and Freedom but has ever been so opposed, 
hounded down, and decried ? But truth is like a 
bright sun which no mortal power can dim. It may 
be clouded for a time, but it must shine forth and 
ultimately prevail. 

He had left Eton, gone to Oxford, and had there 
taken high honours. He no sooner made his aj^pear- 
ance in the world of fashion, jjolitics, and letters, than 
he was received and courted everywhere. Never before 
had a youth risen so rapidly in the scale of success. 
He was undoubtedly the idol of his day, and in 
1894 only twenty-one. It was extraordinary. Hector 
D'Estrange would marvel often at it himself. He had 
gone out into the world in what was mere childhood, 
prepared to combat with the many difficulties which he 
knew must beset his path. He was over modest was 
this boy. He had not sufficiently estimated his great 


and surpassing genius, but it Lad shone forth, bccu 
recognised and approved of, because he was a man. 

To return to Flora Ruglen. At the age of eighteen 
she lost her mother, and the guardianship of the girl 
devolved on her aunt, a giddy, worldly woman, the 
late marquis's sister, and Countess of Dunderfield. No 
two women could have been more diametrically 
opposite then these two, no two characters more un- 
like. Briefly, and to cut the matter short, Lady 
Dunderfield insisted on taking Flora into Society, and 
set herself to bring about a match between the high- 
souled, high-spirited girl, and the Duke of Dovetail, 
a rich old monstrosity, whose rent-roll was nigh on a 
million, and whose body was afflicted by almost every 
disease under the sun. 

Had the girl been in a position to map out her own 
line of life, what a different tale might now be told ! 
She was not. The law denied her the right to choose 
her future ; it curtailed her line of action within certain 
bounds. AVhat could she do? The odds were against 
her, and she sought refuge through the first outlet that 
presented itself. 

This outlet was in the shape of a young baronet, a 
youth of twenty-one. He thought himself very much 
in love with Lady Flora Euglen. He proposed, and 
she accepted him. Lady Dunderfield forbade Sir 
Reginald Desmond tlie house. The young people 
took French leave of her, fled to Scotland, and were 
married, and Lady Dunderfield, green with disai)point- 


incut and rao'p, liad to accept the fact. This is how 
Flora JJngleu became Lady Flora Desmond. Had 
she erred in the step she took ? Perhaps so. What 
other alternative had she ? Had the law permitted 
her to go out into the world and adopt the profession 
of her choice, there is little doubt that ere this Flora 

Ruglen would have made a great name for good. 


He pretends to be offended at her remark does 
Jack Delamere, and pulls his horse a little away from 
her own. She notices the movement, and laughs 
lightly, as she urges her animal alongside him, and 
taps him gently on the shoulder with her whij). 

" Look there, Jack ! " she exclaims at the same 
time ; " we are not the first on the course after all. 
Look at those two riding over the fence alongside the 
brook. Who are they, I wonder? The woman cctti 
ride, it is easy enough to see that." 

They are just turning to the left through the gate 
leading to the Steeplechase Course on the Burton 
Flats, and as Jack Delamere's eyes follow the 
direction indicated by Flora Desmond, he at once 
perceives two mounted figures, galloping up the 
course in the direction of the grand stand. One is a 
man, the other a woman. 

As Flora Desmond has declared, tlie woman can 
ride. She sits her horse straight as a dart. He is 
pulling a bit, but she has him well in hand, and he is 
not likely to get away with lier. 


" Hector D'E strange, by all that's holy ! and with 
a woman, too," laughs Jack Delamere. " Look, 
Florrie ! Is the world coming to an end, or am I 
dreaming ? " 

" That you are certainly not," she answers quickly ; 
" there is no mistake about it. But who is she ? " 

They have joined the others now, and find them 
equally exercised over the female aj^paritiou. 

It may be exi)lained that this is the morning of the 
Melton Hunt Steeplechases, and that this party has 
ridden over early to the course to go round the fences, 
and inspect them severally. They had bargained on 
being the first in the field, but now perceive that they 
have been forestalled by Hector D'Estrange and his 

" Let's go and have a look," suggests Lord Westray. 
He is an admirer of women, and it is easy to perceive, 
even at the distance which sejiarates the party from 
tlie stranger, that she is a fine one. 

They all gallop down to the stand, riding along in 
a row towards Hector and his friend. He sees them 
coming, and says something to her, and Flora notices 
that she brings her horse closer to his side. Mrs. 
Trevor and Lady Manderton are all eyes and stare 
as they ])ass the two. Hector has raised his hat 
politely, and wislied them a good-morning. His face 
is flushed witli the exercise of riding, his rich auburn 
hair shines out like gold in the sunlight, his glorious 
eyes, dark in tlieir sapi»liire-blue, look j)articularly 


winning and beautiful. But it is witli his companion 
that the eyes of the others are busy. They are all 
struck by her extreme loveliness, and are loud in 
wonder as to who she is. Only Lord Westray is 
silent ; white as a sheet, too. It is years since he set 
eyes on Lady Altai, and now he sees again, after a 
long lapse of time, the woman whom he so grievously 
wronged more than twenty-two years before — his 
divorced wife, Speranza de Lara. 

" Come on," he exclaims, just a shade roughly to 
Lady Manderton. He has of late been, by the way, 
making up to her. She has got tired of Sir Arthur 
Muster-Day, and has shelved him for the " wicked 
earl," by which name Lord Westray is known in 
Society circles. Mrs. Trevor, too, though she still 
sticks to Kil, and makes him believe that she is as 
devoted to him as ever, has managed to hook on to 
herself several other devoted swains, to all of whom 
in turn she exj)resses a mint of devotion, while really 
feeling not the slightest affection for any of them. 
She has played her part well, however, for they each 
severally believe themselves to be " the fovoured man " 
in her good graces. 

They gallo]) forward in the wake of Lord Westray, 
and Flora Desmond and Jack Delamere are once more 

" Wliat a lovely woman ! " she bursts out, as soon 
as they have passed Hector D'E strange and Speranza. 
" Jack, did you ever see such eyes ? I never saw 

42 GLoniANA ; or, the revolution of 1900. 

lovelier, unless perhjips Hector D'E.strange's. What 
a liaiidsome j)air the two make ! " 

" Well, yes, Florrie, she is certainly a lovely woman. 
Cunning dog, young Hector, to have kept her out of 
sight so long. Now we can understand why he is so 
cold to women. Of course that's where his heart is, 

without doubt," answers Jack Delamere, with a smile. 


"The Melton Hunt Steeplechases of 1894 are over. 
The meeting will long he rememhered by tlie un- 
paralleled success of Mr. Hector D'Estrange, who, 
riding in the six races printed on the card for com- 
petition, came in first, the winner of every one of them. 
This success is all the more remarkable, inasmuch as 
four of the winners were non-favourites, so that the 
wins must be ascribed to the splendid horsemanship 
of their jockey. The feat is unparalleled, the nearest 
approach to it being when Captain ' Doggie ' ►Smith in 
1880 carried off all the races on the card except one, 
being defeated in a match which closed the day's 
proceedings between Lord Hastings' Memory, and 
Lord James Douglas' The General. In this match 
' Doggie ' Smith rode Lord Hastings' mare, and Lord 
James Douglas his own horse, The General." 

Sucli is the announcement chroniided in ;). well- 
known weekly s])orting ]);ipei- a few days after tlie 
M(dton Hunt Stceidechases of 1804, scoring yet 
another trium])h on the path of thoroughness for 
Hector D'Estrange. 



you will not ? " 

" A thonsaud times, no ! " 

They are standing facing each other are the speakers 
— one a beautiful, tall, graceful woman, with masses 
of rich gold hair coiled upon her noble head, and eyes 
whose light is like the turquoise gem, the other a 
middle-sized, handsome, good-looking man, whose 
dark eyes gleam with fury and disappointed passion. 

We have seen them both before, this man and 
woman, seen them on more than one occasion ; for it 
is not difficult to recognise in tliat evil-featured man 
the person of Lord Westray, or in that beautiful 
woman that of Speranza de Lara. 

He has come here for no good purpose has the 
" wicked earl." Ever since, on the Burton Flats, he 
had fallen across tlie lovely woman whose life he had 
made a desert, Lord Westray had been a prey to a 
consuming passion to regain that which he had lost. 
Twice in her life Sjieranza had defied him, and on 
each occasion he had liad his revenge. The first was 


when, as a girl of seventeen, sbe had refused liim, and 
lie, througli the instrumentality of his cruel mother, 
who had played on her love for her brothers, had 
forced her to become his wife. The second was when, 
in defiance of man's laws, she had fled from his vile 
brutality and hateful presence, with the first and last 
love of her young life, poor Harry Kintore ; and he, 
following uj) those two to the sunny land where they 
had sought a refuge, and where they asked for no 
other boon but to be allowed to live with and for each 
other, had shot down in her very presence the man 
to save whom she would have given a thousand lives 
of her own. 

And now he is here, oblivious of all his past bru- 
tality, to insult her with yet another proposal, one 
more hideous than any he has ever made before. Con- 
sumed with passion for this woman, who had defied 
him, he has actually come to propose that she shall 
forget the past and re-marry him ! 

Forget the j^ast ! Is it likely ? Will the memory 
of her sufi'ering childhood ever pass away ? Will the 
recollection of her wedding day fade from her mind ? 
Will the six years of torture as his wedded wife dis- 
appear like a dream ? Above all, can she ever forget 
her first meeting with Harry Kintore, the heart's 
awakening that came with it, or the terrible moment 
when, struck down at her feet, his dear eyes looked 
their love for the last time ? Impossible. 

He grinds his teeth* with rage does Lord Westray 


as lier clear, sad voice distinctly gives him his answer. 
He is racking his brain for a means of overcoming her, 
and forcing her once more to obey his will. The fact 
that she defies him, hates him, loathes him, has 
refused hun, only arouses in him more madly than 
ever the desire to become possessed of her once again. 
Lord Westray possesses, in a heightened degree, in 
an aggravated form, the characteristic peculiar to all 
men, of desiring that which is either hard to get, or 
which denies itself to them, and which, if once obtained, 
fades in value in their eyes. It is Speranza's resist- 
ance to his wishes that fires him with the fury of a 
wild animal to regain her. 

" You shall repent this ! " he mutters angrily. 
" Speranza, you should know better than to defy me. 
Have I not been a match for you twice ? and, by God I 
if you do not do as I ask now I will be again." 

She shudders with horror as she hears his cold- 
blooded words, triumphing at his past deeds of bru- 
tality and crime. Sbe pulls herself together, however. 
She is alone with him, and must keep him at bay. 
Speranza is no coward. 

"I do not fear you," she answers haughtily; "you 
cannot do me more evil than you have already. I am 
beyond the reach of your vengeance now. Nothing 
you can do can harm meT 

" I don't know so much about that," he replies 
savagely. " How about Hector D'Estrange ? " 

She starts, and the rich blood flushes to her face as 


she eyes him with evident terror. Can it be tliat he 
knows J that he will nnveil the secret before — but 
no, it is impossible ; she has it safe enough. 

He notes the start, the crimson blush, and the look 
of terror, and he congratulates himself on having, by 
a chance shot, hit on the right point to cow her. 

" You're a fine person to play the prude and the 
proper," he says, with a sneer. " They used to tell 
me tliat you were inconsolable over that ass Kiutore, 
but the beauty of Hector D'Estrange appears to have 
effected a sudden cure. I congratulate you on your 
new conquest. You have aimed high. He is the 
rising man of his day, and you have thrown your net 
well to catch the golden fish. Are you not ashamed 
of yourself, however, woman, — you who are over the 
forties, to take up with a boy of twenty-one ? " 

8he flushes again. Then he does not know ? Thank 
God for that ! How young she looks as she stands 
there in her unfading beauty, with a look in her blue 
eyes of contemptuous loathing. She will let him 
believe what he likes, so that he does not know the 
truth ; that is all she desires to hide from him. 

In pursuance of this desire she answers : 

" Hector D'Estrange and I are friends. I am not 
ashamed to own it. Neither he nor I require your 
advice, however, as to how our friendship is to be con- 
ducted. And now I bid you leave me. I order you 
from my house, which I inhabit not by your charity." 

" No, but by the charity of Harry Kintore, you 


wanton I " he answers witli an oath. " You knew pretty 
well what you were about when you got the fool to 
settle all his estates and money on you, which you 
now layish on Hector D'Estrange, but " 

" Peace, deyil ! fiend in human shape ! " she cries 
furiously, as she clenches her hands, and brings the 
right one down with a crash on the table beside her. 
He notices a flash on one of the fingers. All the 
others are ringless but this one, and on it sparkles 
two splendid diamonds and sapphires set deep in their 
.broad thick band of gold. He knows tliis ring of old. 
He saw it long ago, when she held the dying head of 
Harry Kintore in her hands, and he knows that it was 
the young man's gift to her. That she should wear it, 
now that she has taken up with Hector D'Estrange, 
mystifies him. 

He is about to reply, wlien t]ie door of the room 
they are in opens, and Lord Westray finds himself 
face to face with Hector. He is a head and shoulders 
taller than the earl is this young man, and as he 
advances into the room the latter's face falls slightly, 
and his fingers move nervously by his side. Like all 
bullies, Lord Westray is a coward, and doesn't lialf 
fancy his position. 

But there is no angry look in Hector D'Estrange's 
eyes ; only from their sa})phire depths looks out a 
cold, calm expression of contempt. 

" Lord Westray," he remarks, in a voice impres- 
sive because of its very quietness, " for what reason 


have we' the honour of your presence here ? Allow 
me to inform you that this honour is not desired by 
Mrs. de Lara. Your brougham is at the door. I must 
request you to seek it." 

He says no more, but stands with the handle of the 
door in his hand, waiting for the earl to obey. This 
latter looks at him fiercely, the eyes of the two meet. 
Those of the bully and depraved coward cannot face 
the calm, disdainful look of Hector D'Estrange; they 
fall before it, and in another moment the earl is gone. 

They listen to the wheels of the departing brougham 
as it rattles through the streets in the direction of 
South Kensington. As its echoes die away the young 
man turns to Speranza. 

" Mother," he exclaims, " has he been here to insult 
you ? Ah, mother ! God only knows the strain I put 
upon myself, or I would have shot him down where 
he stood, the brute, the fiend ! I nearly lost control 
of myself, but I heard your last words, and understood 
what you were striving to hide from him. Thank 
God I did, or in a hasty moment I might have laid 
bare our secret." 

" And I, too, say thank God, Gloria. At one 
moment I fancied he was in possession of it, but I 
quickly found out that he was on another tack. 
Horrible as the idea was, it was better to let him 
foster it, than to give him a chance of learning the 
truth. Ah, Gloria dearest ! if once the secret is in 
his hands, we need look for no mercy in that quarter." 


" I know it, mother," answers Gloria, iu other words 
Hector D'Estrange ; for the reader must have had no 
difficulty in recognising in this latter, the beautifnl 
girl who had made her vow to the wild sea waves, 
ten years previously on the sunny shores of the Adriatic, 
and who now, as Hector D'Estrange, is working out the 
accomplishment of that vow. 

And she has worked well has Gloria de Lara, 
patiently and perseveringly, never losing an oppor- 
tunity, never casting a chance aside. Her beauty and 
her genius have gone straight to the hearts of men, 
and she uses these gifts given her by God, not for vain 
glory and fleeting popularity, but in pursuit of justice 
and in furtherance of the one great aim of her life. 

" Let us change the subject, my darling," exclaims 
Speranza, with a shudder ; " let us drive from our 
minds the thought of one so horrible and contemptible. 
Tell me, my precious child," she continues, laying her 
hand on Gloria's shoulder, and kissing her gently on 
the forehead, " how have you got on with the clubs 
to-day ? " 

" Excellently, mother. I came to tell you all about 
them, or I should not have been here until to-morrow," 
answers Gloria, as she seats herself on a low stool at 
her mother's feet. 

It is the middle of May, the sun is shining brightly, 
and the sparrows are hopping and chirping merrily 
about in the square outside. The early green on the 
trees is as yet unclouded by the dust of London's 



busy season, and all is fair, and soft, and yonng to 
look ni)on. 

The large fortune and noble estates left to Speranza 
de Lara by young Harry Kintore have been well and 
wisely wielded by the woman, in whose heart the 
memory of her darling still shines as brightly as on 
the day he died. She has never missj)ent a farthing 
of the vast wealth that he confided to her care. It 
has been used in carrying out ])hilanthropic works, 
alleviating suffering, and helping on the accomplish- 
ment of their child's design, his child and hers. 

They are busy over a new one just now. With her 
mother's money at her command, Gloria, under the 
name of Hector D'Estrange, is establishing throughout 
London, and in the different large towns of Great 
Britain and Ireland, institutions where women and 
girls can meet each other, and for a mere nominal fee 
learn to ride, to shoot with gun and rifle, to swim, to 
run, and to indulge in tlie invigorating influences of 
gymnastics and other exercises, calculated to strengthen 
and imj)rove the physique of those taking part therein. 
Classes, too, technical and otherwise, for the education 
of girls and women on an equality with boys and men, 
as well as free libraries, form part of these institutions, 
each of which, as it is founded, becomes crowded to 

In connection with these institutions Gloria lias 
lately set on foot clubs, the members of which she 
is forming into volunteer companies, who are drilled 


by the hand of discipline into smartness and efficiency. 
The movement has been enthnsiastically taken up by 
the women of Great Britain and Ireland, thousands of 
whom have been enrolled in these volunteer forces. 
Of course Hector D'Estrange has his enemies. The 
jealous and the narrow-minded ; the old fogies who 
would have a great wrong continue for ever, rather than 
fly in the face of prejudice to right it ; the women who 
love their degradation and hug their chains ; the men 
who think the world must be coming to an end if 
women are to be acknowledged as their equals, have 
all fought tooth and nail against the splendid idea 
and the practical conception of Hector D'Estrange. 
Ridicule, abuse, calumny, false testimony, have been 
hurled against his giant work. They have each and 
all failed to disturb or harm it, for its foundation is 
built on the rock of justice, of right, and of nature. 

" Well, mother," continues the girl, " we have had 
a great consultation to-day. All the details for a big 
review have been discussed. We shall want two good 
years more to get everything efficiently arranged, when 
I calculate that Hector D'Estrange will be able to 
bring into the tield quite 100,000 well-drilled troops. 
But I am in no hurry yet ; there is still much to be 
done. And now I have some more news to give you, 
mother. I have been invited to stand by the Douglas- 
dale division of Dumfriesshire for Parliament, and to 
contest the seat when Mr. Keform resigns. I saw 
Archie Douglasdale to-day; he has promised to give 


me all his support. And what do you think, mother ? 
Why, his sister, Lady Flora Desmond, has joined our 
new club. It is to be called the Desmond Lodge, and 
I have put her in command of it." 

'' She will be' a great help to you, Gloria," answers 
Speranza. " From all you have told me of her, she 
is the right sort in the right place." 

" She is indeed, mother. Although I have many 
a good and true lieutenant thoroughly in touch with 
my ideas in our volunteer force, there is not one that 
can come up to Lady Flora. She will be a mountain 
of help to me, and I know I can trust her, I could 
trust her even with our secret." 

" Oh ! never divulge that, Gloria." 

" Not I, mother ! It was only an allegory, to give 
you an idea of my high opinion of her. But, till the 
righ^ time comes, our secret will be with me as silent 
as the grave." 

They talk on, busy with their plans, hojieful of the 
future, and what it is to bring, do these two women. 
The afternoon flits by, the chirp of the sparrows grows 
dull, the sun is sinking aslant the roofs of the ojjposite 
houses, the evening is creeping on apace. Gloria de 
Lara rises from her seat, and throws her arms around 
Speranza's neck. 

" I must go now, mother," she says gently. " I wish 
I could stay, but I have an engagement. Good-night, 
my precious mother. Kiss Gloria before she goes." 

*' God bless you, my child/' answers the mother, as 



she presses the girl to her lieart ; " Goa l)less yon, and 
keep yon prospering in yonr work, my valiant yonng 
Hector D'Estrange." 

And the girl passes ont from her mother's presence 
into the silent square. She is echoing Speranza s 
prayer, and is pnlling herself together, for out of that 
mother's presence she has her part to play. She is no 
longer Gloria de Lara, but popular, successful Hector 



There is yet another scene at which we must 
glance before this chapter closes. Let us enter Lord 
Westray's house in Grosvenor Square. He is in the 
drawing-room pacing up and down, his face dark with 
anger and passion. A footman enters, bearing on a 
massive silver salver a tiny scented bijou note. He 
hands the missive respectfully to his lordship, who 
takes it impatiently. 

" The bearer is to wait for an answer, my lord." 

"Answer be d d!" begins Lord Westray; but 

suddenly recollecting himself, he continues, "Very 
well, Walter, come up when I ring." 

" Yes, my lord." 
. The servant retires. His face is very grave, but 
it relaxes into a leer as he closes the door. 

" 'Spec's the old un's rather tired of her by now. 
Gives her another week before they sez good-morn- 
ing to each other," he soliloquises to himself as he 
goes downstairs. As he does so. Lord Westray opens 


the note. It is from Lady Manderton, and runs as 
follows : — 

" Dearest old Potsie, — Have got a ripping little 
snpper on to-niglit. Man's away, and we will have 
some fun. Have asked several kindred sjiirits. Shall 
look for you at ten. 

" Your ever-devoted ' Dodo.' " 

"I can't go," he mutters. "Hang the woman, I'm 
sick of her ! She was all very well a little while ago, 
but nothing will satisfy me but Speranza now. I 
tiiill have her or nobody; and if I don't have her, I 
will have what's next best, revenge." 

He writes a note hastily. It is to excuse himself. 
He has an awful headache, and cannot come. 

Lady Manderton gets the note a quarter of an 
hour later, and bites her lip as she reads it. " Never 
mind," she says quietly, " he sha'n't have another 
chance. My next man is Spicer. He's rich, he's 
good-looking, he's awfully in love, and he'll be very 
useful. He'll do." 

She sits down and writes another note. It is 
addressed to the Hon. Amias Sjjicer, Grenadier 
Guards. She sends him the same sort of Invitation 
which she sent to Lord Westray. 

It is not long before an answer comes back. Amias 
Spicer is in the seventh heaven. He will be sure to come. 

And at ten o'clock he comes punctually. Poor 
young fool ! 


MONTKAGEE HOUSE is decked out at its 
brightest. The noble owner, Evelyn, Dnke of 
Ravensdale, is giving a ball this night, to which all 
the pearl of London society has been bidden. Flocks of 
royalties have been also invited, and nearly all have 
signified their intention of being present. It is a won- 
derful sight as one drives up to the entrance gates of 
the great mansion, which is ablaze with light. Every 
window is neatly framed in soft green moss, from out 
of which fairy lamps peej) and sparkle like thousands 
of glow-worms. Festoons of roses twine around the 
porch pillars of the great front door, and the scene 
that greets the eye on entry almost baffles description. 
Floating throughout the corridors and vestibules 
come the soft sounds of dreamy music, the atmo- 
sphere is redolent with the sweet scent of rare and 
lovely flowers, the place is a wilderness of beautiful 
sights, as up and down the broad flights of the mag- 
nificent staircase well-known men and women come 
and go. 


A l)urst of martial music ever and anon heralds the 
approach of royalty. As each successive arrival takes 
])lace, the brilliant crowd sways to and fro to catch a 
sight of the gods which it adores. Above, the sound 
of lively strains announces that dancing has begun, 
and every one hurries to take 23art in the jileasure of 
the light fantastic toe. 

The dance music has suddenly ceased. Every one • 
has turned to ascertain the cause. The noble host is 
observed to be making for the centre of the magnificent 
suite of rooms where every one is enjoying his or 
herself. He carries in his hand a telegram, and with 
the other hand slightly raised, appears to be enjoining 
silence. Very striking to look at is Evelyn, Duke of 
Ravensdale. His age may be between twenty-five 
and twenty-six. He is very tall and broad-shouldered, 
his hair, dark as the raven's wing, close curls about 
his forehead, which is high, and white, and intel- 
lectual. His eyes are also very dark, with a soft, 
dreamy look in them, his mouth firm set and well 
made, is sheltered by a long silken moustache. 

Silence has sunk on all around. One might hear a 
pin drop so intense has- it become. Every one is on 
a tiptoe of expectation. The sight of that telegram 
has set every heart beating. 

" Ladies and gentlemen," calls out the duke, raising 
it on high, " I have good news for you all. This is a 
telegram from my dear friend. Hector D'Estrange. 
He has beaten his opponent by 2,330 votes, and 


is now member for the Doug-lasdale division of 

What a shout goes up ! Men and women cheer 
again and again. It is felt that the pinnacle of fame 
on which that young man rests has gone up higher 
in the scale of merited success. Even his enemies 
cannot help feeling glad, for Hector D'Estrange is 
a name to conjure b}'. 

He'll be Prime Minister before another year or two 
are gone," exclaims Sir Randolph Fisticuffs, just a 
little jealously to a lady by his side. She looks at 
him earnestly as she replies, 

" God bless the day when he is I We shall get 
justice then." 

" Oh ! " he answers pettishly, " that's just it. He 
has set all you women discontented with your lot; he 
has lit a fire which won't be readily extinguished. 
Mark my words, he'll l)urn his fingers over it yet, if 
he don't take care." 

" Not he," she answers stoutly; " Hector D'Estrange 
knows what he is about. He has won the devoted, 
undying love of hundreds, nay, thousands and tens of 
thousands of women, for his brave, chivalrous exposure 
of their wrongs, and defence of their rights." 

Sir Randolph Fisticuffs laughs. 

" You ought to join the Woman's Volunteer ('orps," 
he observes sarcastically. 

" Ought I ? " She opens her grey eyes wide. " As 
it happens, I joined it a year ago." 


'' The devil yon did ! " lie exclaims in a surprised 
tone. " So you are a Hector D'Estrangeite, eli ? " 

" I am," slie answers proudly. 

Tlie music has recommenced ; a dreamy waltz is 
sounding through the room ; every one has begun 
dancing again. Only the dowagers are at rest. Not 
a man appears unoccupied. Yes, one is, though. It 
is the young Duke of Ravensdale himself. 

He is leaning against a bank of moss and roses 
apparently watching the busy throng. There is a 
far-away look in his eyes, however, which tells that 
his thoughts have flown beyond the giddy pastime 
of the hour. He is tliinking of his friend's latest 
triumph, and what will be the outcome of it all. For 
Evelyn Bavensdale's heart has gone out to Hector 
D'E strange, and he loves him with that devoted, 
admiring love whicli some men have been known to 
inspire in others. 

" Just look at the duke," whispers Lady Tabbycat 
to her friend Mrs. Moreton Savage; " one would think 
there wasn't a pretty girl in the room, or a heart 
aching for him, by the way he stands there doing- 
nothing and saying nothing. I can't think what 
makes him so shy and reserved. He was all fire just 
now when he was telling us of Hector D'Estrange's 
trium])]!; and now just look at him, my dear." 

Mrs. Moreton Savage does look at him, but she is 
just as far from making him out as her friend Lady 
Tabbycat is. Mrs. Moreton Savage is a dame whose 


luiiul has never soared beyond the fitting on of a 
dress, the making of matches, and the desirability of 
knowing all the best people in society. She lias 
worked assidnously with those aims in view, and has 
the satisfaction of knowing that she has been more or 
less successful. Such a thought as the condition of 
society, and the people in the past, present, and future, 
has never entered her brain. She is quite content that 
things should go on exactly as they are, that there 
should be immense riches on one side, intense misery 
and i^overty on the other. Such problems as the 
relation of man and woman in this world, and the 
terrible evils arising out of the false^ position of the 
sexes, has never troubled her. She has no wish to see 
mankind perfected, or to place Society on a higher 
level and basis than it is. Tliere is just this differ- 
ence, therefore, between lierself and the man whom 
she and Lady Tabbycat are discussing, and that is 
that he does. Often and often have the young duke 
and Hector D'Estrange discussed these problems 
together in their early morning rides or cosy after- 
dinner chats. It is Hector D'Estrange who has con- 
verted him to his present way of thinking. He liad 
come into his property a sufficiently self-conceited, 
spoilt young man; with the world at his feet, men 
and women angling for his favours, as many will do 
to tlie highborn and the rich. He had never paused 
to wonder what he should do with his money, and 
position, and power. He was preparing himself to 


enjoy life in tlie only way which np till then he had 
viewed as possible, when a fateful chance tlirew him 
in the path of Hector D'Estrange. 

Men wondered at the change in the young Duke of 
Raven sdale. It was such a sudden one ; they could 
not make it out ; it mystified them altogether. Some 
I)ut it down to love, and wondered who was the lucky 

He has roused himself from his dreams with a 
shake and a start, and is standing upright now. A 
boy is passing close by him, a boy with joretty curling 
brown hair and large hazel eyes, a boy in whose face 
laughter and haj^piness are shining brightly, a boy 
whose life so far has been sunshine perpetual, without 
the storm and the hurricane. It would hardly be 
possible to find two brothers more extremely unlike 
than Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, and his younger 
and only brother, Lord Bernard Fontenoy. No one 
looking at the two standing together would take them 
to be related, certainly not so closely as they are. 

" Bernie," calls the duke, as -the boy passes along, 
and in an instant this latter is at his side. 

" Yes, Evie," he asks inquiringly, looking up into 
his brother's face. " Anything you want me to do ? " 

" Yes, dear," answers the duke. " I want you to 
take my place for an hour or two. I have business 
that calls me away. Now, do you think, Bernie, that 
I can trust your giddy head to see to everything in 
my absence ? " 



" Giddy liead ! " pouts the boy, pretending to look 
seriouBlv offended. "If yon did well-nigh eight 
months' hard study out of twelve, you would like to 
enjoy yourself in the few hours snatched from toil 
and mental struggle." ^ • . .. 

" Poor boy ! vou look hard-worked and suffering, 
lauo-hs the duke, as he eyes the bright, healthy, hand- 
some face of the youthful complainant; "but seriously, 
Bernie, can I trust you to overlook everything for 

me : ^ .,1 

" Of course vou can, Evie," replies Bernard, with a 
look of importance. " I promise you I will see to 
everything tiptop. I suppose if you're away I shall 
have to take in the Princess to supper, sha n t i . Do 
yon think Her Royal Highness will put up with a 
iackauapes like me ? " 

- I think so, Bernie. Anyhow, yon must do your 
l^est. Go and make my excuses to the Prince A 
sudden business calls me away; I will be back as 
quickly as possible. Meanwhile, my boy, do your best 
to tak; my place. I am sure I can trust you." 

He lavs his hand gently on the boy's shoulde as 
he turns^to go. Bernie Fontenoy idolises his brother, 
but he feels at this moment as if there is nothing m 
the wide world he would not do for him, if it were m 

^' EvrRavensdale passes quickly down the beautiful 
grand staircase towards the front door. Pompous 
Lvants are hurrymg to and fro. A big portly butler. 


with a magnificent white waistcoat and ponderously 
heavy gokl chain, is giving his orders in a voice the 
importance of which can only be measured by the 
value he puts upon himself. As he sees the duke 
descending, however, he moderates his tone, and is all 
obsequiousness in a moment. 

" Eepton, give me my cloak and hat, please," com- 
mands the duke in a quiet, civil voice, and the magni- 
ficent functionary hastens to obey. He is wondering 
all t]\e time, however, what it can be that takes his 
Grace out at such a time. 

" A hansom, Repton, please." 

Repton turns to a crimsou-plushed, knee-breeched, 
white-silk-stockinged subordinate. 

" Call a hansom, John/' he says loftily. It would 
be quite impossible for himself, the great Mr. Repton, 
to perform such a menial office ; no one could expect 
it of him. The whistle rings through Whitehall. 
Rumbling wheels answer the summons. In a few 
minutes a hansom dashes up. The great Mr. Repton 
holds open the front door ; Evie Raven sdale passes 
out. One of the crimson-plushed, knee-breeched 
menials unfolds the cab doors, and stands with his 
hands over the wheels while his master springs in; 
then he closes them to. 

" Where to, your Grace ? " he inquires respectfully. 

And Evie Ravensdale, looking up at his brilliantly 
liglited luxurious mansion above him, answers some- 
what absently, " Whitechapel." 


Tlie fit is on liim to see and contrast the misery of 
some of Loudon's quarters with tlie wealth and the 
luxury which he has just quitted. Hector D'Estrange's 
telegram has brought it to liis mind. He remembers 
his last conversation witli that dearly beloved friend, 
and how it had turned on that very point. The 
splendour of his own mansion, the brilliancy that he 
saw around liim a few minutes since is about to be 
changed for cold, dark, ill-lighted streets, narrow 
alleys, and filthy courts. He wants to see it all for 

The hansom rattles through the streets It goes at 
a good pace, but it seems a long time getting to its 
destination. At length it pulls up. 

" AVhat part of Whitechapel, sir ? " inquires the 
cabman, looking through the aperture in the roof of 
his vehicle. 

" You may put me down here, cabby," answers the 
young duke, handing him half-a-sovereign; " and if 
you like to wait for me, I may be about an hour gone. 
I'll j)ay you well, if you will." 

" You're a genelman, I can sees that pretty i)lainly," 
answers the cabman glibly, as he touches his hat, and 
pockets the half-sovereign. " I'll wait, sir; no fear." 

Evelyn Ravensdale wanders through the gloomy, 
ill-lighted streets. Midnight has chimed out from 
Big Ben; it is getting on towards one o'clock, and 
he does not meet many people. A policeman or two 
saunter along their beats, and turn their lights upon 


him as he passes. Sometimes a man and woman flit 
past him, or a solitary man by himself. He passes 
a dark, gloomy-looking archway into which the light 
from a flickering gas-lamj) jnst penetrates. He can 
see a boy and girl with white, pinched faces asleep in 
an old barrel in one corner, a shivering, skinny dog 
curled up at their feet. The sight is terrible to him. 
He steps into the archway, and touches the boy on 
the shoulder. With a frightened cry the lad starts 
up and eyes him beseechingly. 

" Ah, bobby ! Don't turn us out to-night," he says 
2)leadingly. " Maggie's sO poorly and sick, she can 
hardly stand up. See, she's asleep now. Don't wake 
her, please, bobby, don't." 

He starts suddenly, and pulls his forelock as he 
perceives that it is not a policeman he is talking 
to. " Beg pardon, sir," he says, " thought it was a 

" Have you no better place than this to sleep in, 
my poor lad ? " inquires the duke pityingly, his hand 
still on the boy's shoulder. 

" Ah, sir ! this is a gran' place. We don't allays 
gets the likes o' this. Poor Maggie, she was so 
pleased when we found this 'ere barrel. See, sir, how 
she do sleep." 

" Is Maggie your sister ? " asks the young duke, 
with a half-sob. 

" No, sir, she's my gal. Maggie and me, we'ves 
been together a long time now, we has." 


" And wliat do yoa do for a living", boy ? " continues 
Evelyn Ravensdale gently. 

" Anything, sir, we can get to do. It's not allays 
we can get a job, and then we have to go hungry 

'' My God ! " bursts from the young man's lips, but 
he says no more. The next moment he has pressed 
a couple of sovereigns into the poor lad's hand, and is 

He wanders on through the same street. He takes 
no note of the name of it. His thoughts are far too 
busy for that. He is approaching another street, less 
lonely and better lighted than the one he is in. There 
are more people about, and he sees several women 
loitering up and down near the corner. Instinctively 
he crosses the street so as to avoid them. Two of them 
are making oif after two men that have just j^assed by, 
the third is left alone. She spies the young duke at 
once, and runs across the street to cut him off. He 
sees he cannot avoid her, and pulls himself together. 
In another moment she is by his side, with one hand 
on his arm. 

" Won't you come home with me, (U'ar ? " she says 
softly. '' Won't you " 

" Peace, woman ! " he almost shouts, as he flings off 
her hand from his arm. She starts back with a low 
cry, and he sees a face, young still, with traces of great 
beauty, but careworn and haggard with suffering. 
His heart is filled with a great pity ; he feels tliat sucli 



sigiits as these are unendurable to him. He feels that 
he cannot face them. 

*' Poor thing, poor thing," he says gently; '' forgive 
me if I was rongh to yon. This is no place for you, 
my child. You look a mere child ; are you not one ? " 

" I am eighteen," she stammers. 

" Eighteen, and so fallen ! " he exclaims in a horri- 
fied tone. " Ah, child ! get away out of this." 

" And starve ? " she ejaculates bitterly. " Easy for 
you to talk ; you are not starving." 

" Starving ! " He utters that word with a peculiar 
intonation. It tells her what pity there is in his heart 
for her. 

" Oh, sir ! " she exclaims, " I would not be here if 
I were not driven to it. I don't want to be here. I 
hate it ; I hate it ! It is my hard, hard fate, tliat I 
am here." 

" Have you no father, no mother to care for you ? " 
he asks sadly. 

'' No, sir, not to care for me," she answers, with a 
•;ob. " Father's in gaol. Mother walks the streets 
like me, to make her bread. Slie told me I'd better 
do so too, unless I wanted to starve. Tliat's how it 
is, sir." 

He covers his face with one hand, and groans aloud. 
His thoughts have rushed back to the luxury he has 
])ut lately quitted ; he compares it witli tlie misery he 
has just witnessed. Once more his hand is in his 

on, THE l^EVOLTTTION OF 1900. 67 

" If I g-ive von this, my child," he says, drawing 
out a five-poiind note, " will you promise mo to go 
liome at once, and leave these streets of infixmy and 
wrong ; and if I give you my card, and promise to place 
you in a way of earning an honest livelihood, will you 
call at my house to-morrow for a letter which I will 
leave to be given to you ? Will you try and get your 
mother, too, to come with you ? " 

She bursts into tears. " Ah, sir ! may God in 
heaven bless you. Yes, yes, I will jiromise; indeed I 
will. Gladly, too gladly." 

He holds out to her the card and the bank-note. As 
she takes them she bends over his hand and kisses it 
])assiouately. He draws it gently away. 

" Remember your promise," he says quietly. 

" I will," she answers, between her sobs. " Oh 
God ! I would die for you, sir." 

He watches her as she turns away and disappears 
in the gloom. Heavy tears are in his eyes. 

" I must go home now," he whispers to himself. 
" / cannot see more." 


" rriEN to one bar cue, ten to one bar one, ten to one 

-L bar one." The ring is roaring itself hoarse over 
these words ; the hnbbub is deafening ; it reverberates 
all aronnd; it echoes and re-echoes through the hot 
June air. 

It is Derby Day. The waving downs of Epsom 
are alive with people ; they swarm over every cranny 
and nook of the wide-stretching space on either side 
of the straight run-in ; they surge to and fro like a sea 
of dark, moving matter; they contribute to the busy 
air of life, that has established its reign on all around. 
It is a great day. Always crowded, Epsom is more 
than usually so. Old habitues of the place declare, that 
never in their memories — and some of them have pretty 
old ones — can they recollect such a swarming throng. 

But the reason for all this crowd is an excellent one. 
Have not the people come to see the great horse win ? 

He is in the paddock now, and is being strijjped, for 
the saddling bell has rung. He is the centre of a 
pushing, hustling throng, all eager to catch a glimj)se 


of the unbeaten hero of the day ; for have not his 
triumphs been such as a horse and its owner might 
well be proud of, carrying, as he does, the laurels of 
the Dewhurst Plate, the Middle Park Plate, and 
the Two Thousand Guineas ui")on him ? 

What a grand-looking horse he is I How his rich, 
ruddy chestnut coat glistens in the sun like armour 
of burnished gold ! Such a quiet beast, too, neither 
snatching, nor stamping, nor doing aught that a 
restive or vicious racehorse would. 

" He can't be beat ! " exclaims a young man who has 
been standing silently watching the stripping process. 
" I'll be a man or a mouse, Florrie ; I'll stand every 
penny I've got on him or lose all, hanged if I won't ! " 

" Don't be a fool, Reggie," answers the lady addressed. 
She is close beside him, and has laid her hand on his 
arm. It is Flora Desmond. 

" Fool or no fool," he answers quickly, '' I mean to 
have this dash. I tell you he can't be beat. It's 
only a question of pluck la}iug the odds. Hanged if I 
won't stand every penny of the £100,000 which I have 
got on him. They are taking twenty to one now." 

" Suppose he is beaten," she says quietly ? 

" Then I shall be a beggar," he answers, with a laiTgh ; 
" but I'm not afraid. By God ! I'll stand my cliance." 

He turns as he speaks, and tries to get through the 
crowd. "What can she do? She has little or no 
influence with him, and if she had, this is no place in 
which to reason and argue with him. She feels down- 


cast and sad ; for although she, like every one else, 
has little doubt in her mind that Corrie Glen will win, 
there is jnst the chance, ever so sliglit, that he might 
not. And if he does not, " well, what then ? " 

" Rnin ! " she soliloquises half aloud, as she puts 
the question to herself, and answers it in that one 
word. There is a bitter smile on Flora Desmond's 
face, for she knows what ruin would mean. 

" Are you looking Corrie Glen over, Lady Flora ? " 
Inquires a voice at her elbow. She has no need to 
turn round to discover the sjieaker, for she knows the 
voice full well. It is that of Hector D'Estrange. 

He has heard the conversation between Sir Reginald 
Desmond and his wife, and as the former elbows his 
way through the crowd, he has pushed forward and 
sidled into his place by her side. 

" Yes, Mr. D'Estrange, I am," she answers just a 
shade wearily. " Like every one else, I am looking at 
the crack. I suppose he can't be beat ? By-the-bye," 
she adds hastily, " you've a horse in this race, haven't 
you ? " 

"I have a mare," he replies significantly; " and whom 
do you think is going to ride her, qualified for a jockey's 
license, and everything on ijurjmse ? " 

" Wlio ? " she in(|uires absently. 

" Wliy, l^ernie Fontenoy. The boy's a splendid 
rider, and mark my words, Lady Flora, if he doesn't 
will, it will be a near thing between my Black Queen 
and ( /orrie Glen." 


She starts. She has never known Hector D'Estrange 
to err vet, and her husband's rash act recurs more 
forcibly to her mind. " May I see Bhick Queen ? " 
she inquires hastily. 

" Certainly," he answers ; " come with me." 

They push through the crowd, still surging round 
the chestnut horse, and make their way across the 
paddock to a quiet spot, where very few jjeople are 
observable. A coal-bhick mare has just been stripped, 
and her jockey is standing close beside her. His 
colours are tinselled-gold. 

" That is Black Queen," observes Hector D'Estrange 
quietly. " You are a good judge of a horse. Lady 
Flora; what do you think of her ? " 

She does not reply, but walks up to within a few 
paces of the mare, and looks her over keenly. She 
sees before her an animal which, to her eyes, used 
though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect 
j)icture. The mare is coal-black ; there is not a white 
hair on her ; she is faultlessly shaped all over. 

'* I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all 
my life ! " exclaims Flora Desmond, and there is a 
true ring of admiration in her tone. As she speaks 
the Duke of Raven sdale comes up. 

" So you're going to win the Derby, Bernie, are 
you ? " he inquires jokingly, as he raises his hat to 
Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand to her. " Nice 
youngster that," he continues, addressing her. " Gave 
me no peace till I gave him leave to ride, which 1 


uever should have done, liad it not been at Hector's 
request ; and now I do believe that he thinks he is 
going to win ! " 

" I shall have a good try, Evie," the boy replies in 
a mettled voice. " I can't do more than ride my very 
best, can I, Mr. D'E strange ? " 

" No indeed, my boy, that you cannot," answers this 
latter kindly. " Do your best ; no one can ask for 

There is a light in Bernie's eye, a flush on his cheek. 
Flora notes them both. Full well she knows what 
they mean. 

" Mr. D'Estrange," she says hurriedly, moving a 
few j)aces aside, " may I speak to you for one 
moment ? " 

He follows her with a grave, inquiring look. 

"I know you never bet," she continues quickly, 
" but do you know what they are laying against Black 
Queen ? " 

" A hundred to one," he answers carelessly. 

" Then will you do me a great favour ? " she says in 
a sad, i^leading voice. " Though you uever bet, and I 
hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in the ring, so 
that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I 
wouldn't ask this of you, only you seem so confident 
in your mare, and, and " 

" I understand," he answers (piietly; " I'll do it for 
you, Lady Flora. The race lies between Corrie Glen 
and my mare, and I quite understand why you want 


to back the latter. I couldn't help hearing what Sir 
Reginald said over there. It's on his account, is it 

" It is," she answers bitterly. '' As you heard him, 
you will quite understand." 

" Leave it to me," he continues in a kind voice. 
" I'll just give Bernie his last instructions, and tlien 
I'll hurry across and do your commission. Will yon 
come over to the stand with Ravensdale ? " 

" I will,'" she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes. 

And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the 
beautiful mare, with its handsome jockey, is moving 
slowly across the paddock to the course. The tin- 
selled-gold on the boy's jacket gleams and sparkles in 
the sun, and many an admiring eye rests on the two 
as they pass out. 

He has come out last, and is at the tail end of the 
long file of horses parading past the stand. Every 
one is so keen on singling out the favourite, that 
Black Queen at first is not much noticed. Yet the 
sparkling gold on the jacket is bound to attract the 
eye, and the fact that Lord Bernard Fontenoy, l)rother 
of the Duke of liavensdale, is riding the coal-bhick 
mare, awakens interest in the dark steed. 

" Why, it's little Lord Bernie riding, 1 do declare ! " 
giggles Mrs. de Lacy Trevor to Lord C'harlcs Dartrey, 
who is leaning over her chair pointing out the horses 
and jockeys on the card in her lap. " What a duck 
he looks ! Oh, I wish Dodo was here ! " 


" Can't think what D'Estrange mc;ius by putting 
the boy np. He can't win ; and it will only break Lis 
lieart," ejaculates Lord Charles superciliously. 

" How old is Lord Bernie ? " queries Mrs. Trevor 
in an interested voice. " Oh, I do wish the darling 
would win I " 

" That's impossible," says Lord (Charles loftily, 
" nothing can beat Corrie Glen." 

They are cantering down to the post now, the 
favourite with great raking strides covering his ground 
comfortably, and jdaying kindly with his snaffle, as 
his jockey leans forward and eases him a bit. Bernie 
has not started the Black Queen yet; he is leaning 
down talking to his brother. All eyes are upon him, 
however, as they see him squec/^e the duke's hand, 
which is laid on the boy's knee. Suddenly, however, 
he dresses himself upright. 

" I must go now, Evie dear," he says, and there is 
a tremor in his voice. " Oh, pray that I may win ! " 

Then he sets the mare into a canter, and follows in 
the wake of the others. 

" My word ! that mare moves well," exclaimed >Sir 
Horsey de Freyne nervously ; " don't half like the 
look of her. Think I must have something on her for 
luck. Belongs to that deuced lucky fellow D'Estrange, 
too. Sliouldn't be surprised to see the gold jacket 
flasliing in first." 

" Bosh ! " answers Sir lleginald Desmond, who is 
standing next to him. " My dear old fellow, it's only 


throwing your money away. Corrie Glen can't be 

But Sir Horsey de Freyne is not convinced, and 
goes off to see wliat lie can get laid him against the 

" S'pose you've backed the favourite, old chap ? " 
inquires another shining light at Sir Reggie's elbow. 

" Yes," answers this latter shortly. 

" Had a plunge, eh ? " persists the golden youth, 
who doesn't know a horse from a cow. 

'•' Have got £100,000 on him," is Sir Reggie's curt 
reply. He is looking through his glasses, and his 
face is rather white. 

" Oh I I say," blurts out the youth, as he edges off 
to tell all those who will listen to him ; " I say, 
you know, Desmond's laid out £100,000 on the 

There is a murmur in the stands ; it runs through 
them all like an electric shock. " They're off ! " is the 
hoarse cry that resounds suddenly from hundreds of 
throats. To an excellent start. Lord Marcovitch 
Bolster has despatched the lot, and as they all stare 
through their glasses, they can perceive that Hamp- 
tonian has taken up the running, closely followed by 
Mastermau Ready, Holyoakes, and Kesteven. Lying 
fifth is the favourite, and two lengths behind liim 
gleams a flashing spot of gold. A strange horse is 
overhauling the lot, Hamptonian drojjs back, and the 
stranger creeping to the front .makes the i)ace terrific. 


But fast as lie goes he cannot shake off the chestnut, 
who apparently without effort is going easily enough, 
and keeping his j^lace as fifth in the crowd. Now the 
spot of gold seems nearer up ; it i)asses Corrie Glen, 
and falls into fourth place, Kesteven retiring to the 
rear. They are racing down the incline. Masterman 
Heady begins to tire, and tlie spot of flasJiing gold 
closes up to Holyoakes. These two come along neck 
and neck, Corrie Glen just behind them, the strange 
horse still in the van. Tattenham Corner is reached. 
They round it in the order named, and enter the 
straight ; but here the stranger is in difficulties, and 
Holyoakes and Black Queen, on which sits the spot 
of gold rigid almost as marble, begin to close upon 
him. A little more than a quarter of a mile from 
home they reach him, and he flings up the sponge, 
retiring to the rear. There are only three horses left 
in the race now, Holyoakes, Black Queen, and Corrie 
Glen. This latter is drawing uji to the first two 
named, with great raking strides he is alongside them, 
and quickly the three are abreast. A distant roar 
scnuids in Bernie's ears, there is a film over his eyes, 
his heart feels as if it must stop beating, but he sits 
very still, and does not attempt to urge his horse any 
faster. Suddenly he sees a flasli on liis left. The 
jockey who is riding Holyoakes has liis whip out, and 
Beruie knows he lias nothing any longer to fear from 
him. He glances to the right ; the great chestnut is 
flashing along ; there is no whip needed there. 

on. THK r^EVOLT'TIOX OF 1000. 77 

" Oh God ! let rae 'oin," bursts from the boy's pale 
lips, as he tightens his rein ever so little, and touches 
the mare gently with the spur. He is surprised at 
the effect. He thought she had been going fast before, 
but she is going faster now. She is quite a length 
ahead of Corrie Glen, and the jockey of this latter is 
visibly surjjrised. He has begun to ride the horse at 
last, and his whip is actually out. 

" Corrie Glen wins I Corrie Glen wins ! " comes the 
wikl shout from the stands, as the noble chestnut, with 
a sujireme effort, closes with the Black Queen. They 
are hardly fifty yards from the winning post ; the roar 
is terrific. Bernie hears it, but he can see nothing 
now. He makes, however, a final effort, and calls on 
the mare once more ; he has never used his whip. 

" Corrie Glen wins I Corrie Glen wins ! " The 
words pierce to his brain. He has done his best, he 
cannot do more; he knows this well; yet would to 
God he could win ! 

" Corrie Glen wins I " Ah ! they don't know the 
Black Queen. She has answered the boy's last call ; 
she has made one more magnificent effort ; and, shoot- 
ing ahead of the favourite, passes the post a winner by 
a neck ! 

What a yell goes up from the ring ! Blank deadly 
consternation is in the faces of the backers. In the 
stands there is very little cheering. Hardly a soul in 
all that vast crowd has backed the "dark" black 

i^ GLoriiAyA ; 

And Sir Reginald Desmond is still standi n.i;- where 
we left him. He is deadly 2)ale; his arms are folded 
on his chest; there is despair in his eyes. 

" Had a bad race, old chap ? I fear we all have," 
says a voice at his elbow. He langhs, and turns 
towards the speaker. This latter starts as he notices 
the ghastly, haggard look on the young baronet's 

" Yes — well, yes, haven't had a good one," answers 
Sir Reggie coolly, taking out his cigarette-case and 
leisurely selecting a cigarette therefrom. " Have a 
cigarette, Fernley ? " 

" No thanks, Desmond, am just going to have 
lunch. Wonderful race young Bernie Fontenoy rode 
there. Won't the brat be proud ? " 

" Oh ! ah ! yes, won't he ? " answers Sir Reggie 
absently. His thoughts have wandered again. He 
is looking ahead into the black future. Now that it 
is too late, he is cursing himself for a fool and an 
idiot. Oh ! why did he not take Flora's advice ? 

The stand in which he is, is nearly empty. Every 
one is making off to get lunch ; in a few minutes it is 
entirely deserted. He sits on alone in it. The cigarette 
he had lit so ostentatiously not long since has gone 
out, but it is still clenched between liis teeth. 

The future will rise to his mind. How can such as 
he face it ? He has never been brought up to do any- 
thing; he is ill-read, ill-taught, and ignorant. He has 
never given his mind to anything but amusing himself; 


and now if he pays the ring what is justly owing to 
it he will be a beggar, with nothing to live on and 
nothing to look forward to but misery, and, in his 
eyes, disgrace. 

Poor Sir Reginald I He feels his position acutely, 
it is burning itself into his brain. He feels that it is 
past endurance, that he cannot face it. 

" I'll go home," he says wearily to himself. " I 
can't face Flora after this; it's all too dreadful." 

He rises wearily and goes out. The back of the 
stand is more or less crowded by the hangers-on and 
scum of every racecourse. How he hates and loathes 
the sight of them now ; how their rough, coarse, 
pleasure-seeking faces bring up to his mind, with 
haunting horror, the great loss which he has sus- 
tained ! He is staying near the race-course, and has 
not far to go, so he hurries through the crowd and 
makes straight for The Laurels, which is the name 
of the place. He reaches it, and tries the front door. 
It is locked; of course no one is expected back yet. 
He knows of a side-entrance though through the 
smoking-room. Ten to one the careful servants have 
forgotten it. He walks round and tries it. Yes, true 
enough, they have. Very quietly Sir Reginald slijis 
in. In another moment he is upstairs and in his 

He turns the key in the door, and goes over to the 
writing table. His face is still deadly pale, and he 
walks like one who has had too much to drink. He 

80 GT.OTtrANA ; 

sits at tlie table and scrawls a few hnrried lines. They 
are as follows : — 

" Flora dear, forgive me. I've been a brute and 
an idiot. Would to God I had taken your advice ! 
But it's too late now. You'll jiay the ring for me, 
dear. Let them know it was my last wish. If I lived 
we should be beggars, and I can't condemn you and 
the ' little one ' to that. But at my death you'll get 
all that money tliat is to come to you and the child. 
Good-bye, dear old girl. You've been good and kind to 
me. This is about all Reggie can do to sliow you he is 
grateful. Good-bye. Forgive." 

She has been looking for him a long time, and so 
has Hector D'Estrange, but there is no sign of Sir 
Reginald Desmond anywhere. At last she can stand 
it no longer. 

" I must go back to The Laurels," she says ; 
" perhaps he is there." 

Estcourt, who is standing by her, offers to accom- 
pany her, and thither they proceed in silence. Of 
course when they reach the house no one has seen 
him. The servants assure her ladyship that Sir 
Reginald has not returned; they must have seen him 
if he had. They forget to add that the greater 
number of tliem have been perched on the high wall 
surrounding The Laurels, during the greater part of 
the day, watching the races. 


" I'll just run up to the bedroom and have a look," 
says Flora to Estcourt. " I won't be a miuutc." 

He waits below, but almost directly hears his name 
called, — 

" Estcourt, come here." 

He races up the stairs. He finds her standing out- 
side the door of a bedroom. 

" I can't get in," she says hurriedly. " I've called, 
but there is no reply. Oh, Estcourt ! do you think he 
is in there ? " 

He makes no reply, but runs downstairs. In a few 
minutes he is back with a hatchet. Curious servants 
are following him. 

" Stand back," he says to Flora. She obeys, and 
the young man brings the hatchet with tremendous 
force against the lock. Three, four, five strokes, and 
he has broken it to shivers. Then he opens the door. 

Sir Reginald Desmond is seated at his writing table. 
His left hand is beneath his chest, his head is resting 
on the table above it, his right is outstretched and 
hanging over the side. Just below it on the floor lies a 
revolver, and drip, drip, drip, dripping on to the chair 
on which he sits, is a stream of running blood. Who 
shall judge him as he lays there silent, and fast 
stiffening ? for — 

" He is dead, and blame and praise fall on his ear 
alike, now hushed in death." 

Those may do so who can. I cannot. 


WERE yon in the Commons last niglit ? Did 
you go to hear Hector D'E strange ? " 
" Rather ; I think all the world was there, or trying 
to be there. I don't think I have ever seen snch a 
crowd before." 

" What a wonderful speaker he is, to be sure ! " 
" Yes. With the exception of Gladstone, I don't 
suppose there ever was one like him, or ever will be 
again. Talk of orators of bygone days ! Pooli ! they 
never came up to him." 

" Well, the women have got tlie Suffrage in full at 
last, thanks to him. The next thing is to see what 
use they'll make of it." 

" Better, perhaps, than we men have." 
The speakers are two men, tlie Honourable Tredegar 
Molyneux, M.P., and Colonel des Vanix of the Blues. 
Nearly four years have jjassed since the events related 
in the last chapter. The world has been slowly 
marching forward, and many things have happened 
between that time and this. In the political world, 


and in Parliament, like everywhere else, Hector 
D'Estrange has made a stir. His eloquence and 
debating power are the wonder of all who hear him, 
and his practical, sympathetic knowledge of the social 
questions of the day has made him the idol of the 
masses. He has just succeeded in carrying his 
Woman's Suffrage Bill by a large majority, thereby 
conferring on women, married or unmarried, in this 
respect, identical rights with men. And now to-day 
in the monster Hall of Liberty, which he has founded, 
and which has been erected by the lavish subscrip- 
tions of the women of Great Britain, Ireland, and the 
world at large, he is to preside at the ceremony of its 
opening. It is a monster building. Talk of Olympia, 
of the Albert Hall — why, they are dwarfs beside it ! 

In shape it is circular, and towers aloft towards 
heaven, its great dome pinnacle crowned by a cap of 
glass, which report declares to consist of a million 
panes. Around this glass a gilded crown is twined, 
and holding it there — one in a kneeling attitude, the 
other upright, with one hand high upraised towards 
heaven — are two gilded women's forms. They are the 
Statues of Liberty. 

The interior of this vast structure is wonderful to 
look upon. The floor or centre is raised, and con- 
stmcted so as to move on a pivot slowly round. It 
consists of an immense ring, the middle of which 
presents the appearance of a giant circus. On the right, 
or side facing the great entrance, is a monster swim- 


ruing bath, and exactly opposite, or on tlie other side 
of the circus, is a huge platform. Suspended in mid 
air, a very network of trapezes and other gymnastic 
a])pliances hang, while stretched tightly beneath them 
is a monster net. Around the arena, with a low pali- 
sade separating it from the same, is a broad circular 
horse-ride, and raised slightly above this, running all 
round in a similar manner, a roomy promenade. Then 
come tier above tier, tier above tier of seats, amidst 
which here and there boxes are placed promiscuously, 
while dotted about all over these countless and seem- 
ingly never-ending stories, are cosy jjlatforms enthroned 
in a wealth of green, where abundance of refreshments 
are obtainable. 

The seats come to an end at last, and are replaced 
by six broad balconies running entirely round the 
building, and built one above the other; opening on to 
these balconies are what appear to the spectator in 
the arena as thousands of pigeon-holes. In reality 
they are doors, communicating each one with a tiny 
but compact room, in which stands a bed, two chairs, 
a washhand-stand, a small dressing table, and a 
writing table. It is stated that in all, opening off 
from these balconies, are ten thousand rooms. These 
rooms have been included in the building to accom- 
modate women students from all })arts of the world, 
who may wish to take i)art in tlie physical drill or 
educational advantages afforded by this great central 
institute for the training of womankind. Attached 


to the Hall of Liberty are large lecture-rooms, study- 
iiig-rooms, and reading-rooms, and in connection with 
these a monster library. Outside the building are the 
stables, one of the wonders of London, the grooms 
being entirely composed of girls and women ; and 
clustering round the mother structure like a miniature 
town, are the jiretty cottages and dwellings of the 
immense staff of instructors, teachers, and lecturers 
connected with the institution. It is a wonderful 
structure, and its erection is a triumph, the magnitude 
of wliich can hardly be measured, for Hector 
D'Estrange. It was he who conceived it, it was he 
who submitted it to the approval of his countrymen, 
and it was he who commanded the expenditure of 
the voluminous subscriptions, whicli in answer to his 
appeal poured in from all quarters of the globe. No 
less marvellous was the rapidity with which it arose, 
thousands of workmen having been emj)loyed in its 

It is finished now; it towers to heaven like a mighty 
giant from some unknown world. The gilded Statues 
of Liberty flash back the sun's rays, and stand out 
to view for miles and miles around. All London is 
flocking to the ceremony of its oi)ening, for is not the 
genius that conceived and placed it there to be the 
principal functionary of the day ? 

All is orderly in the streets ; the vast crowd is held 
and kept in check by the military and the police. A 
good-humoured, hapi)y crowd, it seems to be, with 


here and tliere occasionally a little rough horse-play. 
But no harm is done. The people are on their best 
behavionr, for Hector D'Estrange, the idol of that 
people, has appealed to them to preserve order. 

The vast building is rapidly filling. Since the 
great doors have been thrown open, it has been one 
successive influx of jjeople. There is no disorder, for 
there is a separate i)assage for the holders of each 
class of ticket, and along these the incomers are 
marshalled by the liveried servants of the establish- 
ment. It is a wonderful sight to see the 2:)eople 
swarming to their places, and all the while through 
the building trembles dreamy music, which thrills 
the senses, and makes them all aglow with gentle and 
tender feeling. At last it is full. There is not an 
inch of standing room in all that vast space set aside 
for spectators; every seat is appropriated. Not a 
vacant one to be seen, and it is computed that there 
are 50,000. 

Every class is there ; from the jirince and peer, to 
the labouring man and peasant, all have come, 
attracted by the all-powerful genius who is to address 
that monster meeting this day. Imbued with the 
same feeling, impelled by the same curiosity, attracted 
by the same sentiment, that crowd of mixed denomi- 
nations and sexes awaits his coming in breathless 

And it has not long to wait. The clock is striking 
eleven, when a distant roar is heard, and the strains 


of martial mnsic come floating from afar. In the 
great Hall of Liberty a sudden hush has fallen ; the 
dreamy music has ceased abruptly, and a supreme 
silence reigns. 

Again that roar ! It is like the booming of a 
thousand cannons. It is steady now and unceasing; 
it rushes forward along the dense walls of spectators 
that throng the streets on either side of the way up 
which Hector D'Estrange has to pass. 

A whisper runs through the vast hall, a whisper 
of suppressed excitement and expectation. "He is 
coming ; he is coming ! " is on every one's lips, as with 
eyes aglow and hearts thrilling with eagerness, the 
people bend forward in their seats to watch for him. 

The crowds outside the building have begun to 
cheer. The martial music is very distinct now. The 
plaudits are every moment becoming more intense, 
until they break into a deep and prolonged roar. As 
they do so, the great folding doors of the Hall of 
Liberty are thrown open, and the people rise in a body 
to their feet. 

He is entering now. Preceded by the band of the 
White Regiment of the Women's Volunteer (Jom- 
panies, playing a march triumphant, he passes through 
the giant portals. His head is bared, and he is 
mounted on a milk-white horse, which he sits with 
grace and ease. As he does so the sun shines down 
on his dark auburn hair, lighting it up with the tmts 
of old-gold that play amidst the curls which nestle 


on his high, white brow, while the sapphire light in 
his glorious eyes shoots forth with a gleam of triumph 
as he surveys the magnificent scene. 

He is dressed in the White Guard Regiment uni- 
form of the Women's Volunteer Companies, of which 
he is Commander-in-Chief; but the regiment itself 
is his own especial one. It was the first which he 
established four and a half years ago, when he first 
took the matter in hand. The idea has prospered 
since then, and the women enrolled in all the com- 
panies of the Volunteer force number 200,000. 

It is a fitting uniform for the occasion, one which 
he has done well to don; for the first business of 
to-day's ceremonial will be the march past of the 
" picked " of the companies of these 200,000. 

He has ridden round the broad, spacious horse-ride 
followed by one or two especial friends, conspicuous 
amongst whom is the Duke of Ravensdale. The 
cheering is deafening; it never ceases for a moment. 
It swells and swells again, like the mighty mid- 
ocean waves, that bear onwards in their wild career 
to break on the lone sea-shore. 

And now he has dismounted, and, with his friends, 
has taken his place on the evergreen fiower-decked 
platform. Even as he does so his dark sapphire 
eyes are raised aloft, and sweep with their dreamy 
gaze the thousands that throng that vast Hall of 
Liberty, as if seeking amidst the multitude one 
especial form. It is even so; and as they roam the sea 


of faces, all turned to his, they are siiddeuly brought 
to a standstill. The anxious, searching look within 
them dies away, giving place to one of calm content- 
ment and repose, for Speranza is there. 

The mother's eyes are fixed upon her child. Through 
the filmy distance of space cannot Gloria ])erceive this 
well ? For a moment, one brief moment, the hero of 
the hour is Gloriana de Lara, in the next, he is Hector 
D'Estrange. The audience is still cheering, — it seems 
as though it will never cease,— but he has raised his 
hand, and like magic a great silence falls. 

" Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, and the clear, 
exquisite voice thrills through the huge building, " I 
shall have a few words to say to you before I declare 
the Hall of Liberty open, but first we will witness the 
march past of the representatives of all the companies 
of the Women's Volunteer force of which I have the 
honour to be Commander-in-Chief." 

A flourish of trumpets and loud cheering greets this 
announcement. Once more the great entrance doors 
unfold, the band of the White Regiment strikes up a 
march, as through the portals, ten abreast, and mounted 
on grey horses, that regiment advances at a trot. 

And at their head is one whom we have seen before. 
Very handsome she looks in her uniform of pure 
white cloth, with the gold facings glittering on her 
breast, and her sword in its silver sheath dangling 
sparkling at her side. Flora Desmond is not greatly 
changed since we saw her last, in appearance certainly, 


but over her life has come a wondrous transformation. 
She is Hector D'Estrange's right liand, and in aiding 
him to carry out his noble aims is thoroughl}' in her 

The white troopers advance at a trot rajjid enough, 
but as each line passes the platform on which Hector 
D'Estrange is standing they break into a canter, in- 
creased to a gallop, whirling round the broad-spaced 
horse-ride in magnificent order. Looking along the 
serried line of horses' heads hardly a hair's breadth in 
difference can be distinguished, so compact is the 
position which is maintained throughout the ranks. 

The march strains cease, and give way to a flourish 
of trumpets. Simultaneously the galloping steeds are 
reined on to their haunches, remaining motionless as 
statues. Thus they stand until the voice of Flora 
Desmond is heard giving the order to retreat, when 
they fall into position, and retire at the trot, she riding- 
round to join her chief on the platform. 

And in this wise, headed by their respective bands 
and officers, representative comj)anies of Hector 
D'Estrange's two hundred regiments march or gallop 
past him. The ceremony occupies some two hours, 
but they roll by all too quickly for the spectators, who, 
spellbound by what they see, watch the revolving- 
scenes with the keenest interest. 

The last one closes appropriately. Crashing and 
rumbling through the wide-opened entrance dash the 
artillery. They come on at a rapid pace, and wheeling 


round into the vast arena form up into splendid line. 
The work of detaching the horses and unlimbcring the 
guns is that of a moment. In the next, a tremendous 
roar rings forth from the mouths of a score of cannon 
which have been rapidly charged and fired. 

Ere the echoes have died away the horses are again 
attached, the guns as rapidly limbered up, and one by 
one the gun-carriages dash from the scene, the great 
doors closing upon them. 

Then cheer after cheer rings through the densely 
packed building as Hector D'Estrange advances to the 
front of the platform to speak. But he is raising his 
hand once more, as though appealing to be heard, and 
again a great silence falls. 

" We are here to-day," the bright, clear ringing 
voice declares, "to open a building the magnitude 
of which cannot be measured by any other in the 
world. The Hall of Liberty stands here to day as a 
living witness to the desire of woman to be heard. It 
was six years ago that I first saw it in my dreams. 
It is reality now, and will endure through all time, as 
a memorial of the first great effort made by woman to 
shake off the chains of slavery, that ever since our 
knowledge of man began, have held her a prisoner in 
the gilded gaols of inactivity and helplessness. I stand 
here to-day prepared to deny that woman is the 
inferior of man, either in mental capacity or physical 
strength, provided always that she be given equal 
advantages with him. I go further still, and declare 


that in the former resjiect she is his . superior. You 
deny it ? Then give lier the chance, and I have no 
fear but that slie will i)rove that I have not lied. You 
have to-day seen passed in review 10,UOO representa- 
tives of the 200,000 volunteers that in a little more 
than four years have been enrolled and drilled into 
the splendid efficiency witnessed on this memorable 
occasion. Will you pretend or seek to tell yourselves 
that in warfare they would be unavailing ? I laugh 
such an idea to scorn. One of our most lieart-stirring 
writers — I allude to Whyte-Melville — has left it de- 
clared in his writings, '■ that if a legion of Amazons 
could be rendered amenable to discipline they would 
conquer the world.' He was right. The jihysical 
courage, of which men vaunt so much, is as nothing 
when compared with that greater and more magnifi- 
cent virtue, ' moral courage,' which women have shown 
that they possess in so eminent a degree over men ; 
and hence pliysical courage would come as an agree- 
able and welcome visitor where hitherto it has been 
forcibly denied admission. 

" Men and women who hear me to-day, 1 beseech you 
ponder the truth of what I have told you in your 
hearts. You boast of a civilisation unparalleled in 
the world's history. Yet is it so ? Side by side with 
wealth, appalling in its magnitude, stalks poverty, 
misery, and wrong, more appalling still. I aver that 
this poverty, misery, and wrong is, in a groat measure, 
due to the false and unnatural position awarded to 


woman ; nor will justice, reparation, and perfection be 
attained until she takes her place in all things as the 
equal of man. 

" And now, my friends, I will detain you no longer. 
In this great Hall of Liberty woman will find much 
which has long been denied her. It is but a droj) 
in the ocean of that which is her right, yet is it a 
noble beginning of that which must ine^^tably come. 
I declare this Hall of Liberty to be open." 

That is all. He says no more, but with a stately 
inclination to the vast audience turns back to where 
liis friends stand. His horse is led forward by a 
youthful orderly in the uniform of the White Regi- 
ment, and as he mounts it the band strikes up once 
more. Bareheaded as he entered, he rides slowly 
from the scene of his triumph, and passing again 
through the portals of the Hall of Lil^erty comes out 
into the densely, wall-lined street, amidst the roar of 
the thousands that are there to greet. Such is the 
welcome of the people to Hector D'Estrange. 


LORD WESTRAY sits alone in his sanctum in 
Grosvenor Square. There is an anxious expres- 
sion on his face, for he has been expecting some one 
who has not turned up. He has already consulted his 
watch about half-a-dozen times, and he consults it 
again. Then he gets up and rings the bell. 

He can hear it tinkling downstairs from where he 
sits. " A smart servant," he thinks to himself, " would 
have answered it quickly." Yet he would think this 
no longer, if he could only hear " his smart servant's " 
remark anent that bell. 

" James," calls out that worthy, who is seated in 
the room on an easy armchair in front of the fire- 
place, with his feet against the chimney-piece, " what 
bell's that?" 

" My lord's, sir," is the laconic reply from tlie 
lackey outside. 

" Oh ! ah ! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again." 

The bell does peal again, this time furiously, and 


Stuggins, witli a face of disgust, pulls bis feet down 
from the cliimuey-l)iece. 

" My word ! what a hard time of it we have's," he 
ejacuhxtes to himself, as he rises slowly from his seat 
to go upstairs. 

On reaching Lord Westray's sanctum, however, his 
face is composed and affable. 

" This is the second time I've rung," exclaims Lord 
Westray angrily. " Surely, Stuggins, there is some one 
in the house to answer the bell." 

" I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it," 
responds Stuggins in a conciliatory voice. 
" Has no one called yet, Stuggins ? " 
" No one, my lord." 

" Well, he'll be here at any moment now. Mind he 
is shown up without any delay." 
" Certainly, my lord." 

And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling. 
Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the door- 
bell. Lord Westray starts and listens. 
" It's he ! " he ejaculates briefly. 
And in a few minutes the " he " is politely waved 
in by Stuggins. 

" Mr. Trackem, my lord." 

" All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home 
if any one else calls." 
" Very good, my lord." 

The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes 
the new-comer by the hand. 


" Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem," he observes 
lieartily. " Began to fear you were not coming. A 
little late, ek ? " 

" A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed." 

" Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem ? " 

" Yes," responds this latter solemnly. 

Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly. 

" Where ? " he asks eagerly. 

" Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by 
shadowing Mr. D'Estrange." 

" Cai)ital ! " exclaims Lord Westray, with a laugh. 
" And does she still go under the name of Mrs. de 
Lara ? " 

" Yes, my lord." 

" Now, Mr. Trackem, what are your plans ? " 

Mr. Trackem puts on a mysterious look, walks 
quickly to the door of the sanctum, and opens it 
suddenly. " What do you want ? " he inquires 
sharply of some one without. 

"If you please, sir, I was just coming in to see if his 
lordship had rung," answers Stuggins stolidly, who 
had never quitted the outside of the door since we 
last saw him, and who had been listening intently all 
the time. 

" Lord Westray did not ring," answers Mr. Trackem, 
coldly, " and you are not required." 

" Oh ! very good, sir," and Stuggins retires defeated, 
and much put about. 

Mr. Trackem watches the butler's retreating, form 


till it is out of siglit, then he closes the door softly, 
and returns to his original place near Lord Westray. 

" These are my plans, my lord. I propose to take 
down two of my men by rail. Two will be ample, as 
more might attract attention and be in the way. I 
shall send a brougham and smart pair of trotters 
the day before. I have ascertained by observation 
that Mrs. de Lara invariably goes for a walk in the 
evening by herself, that her servants do not sit up for 
her, as she writes in her study late at night, and I 
have further ascertained that she is frequently in the 
habit of leaving the house before any one is ujJ, and 
coming up to town. This is a most valuable point, as 
lier absence will attract no attention. But to be safe 
I have possessed myself of some of her writing paper 
and a sample of her writing, and a note will be duly 
left, apprising her maid of her departure, and intention 
to remain in London for a few days." 

" By Jove, Mr. Trackem, you are a smart one ! I 
don't see how your plan can fail," exclaims the wicked 
earl with a laugh. 

" I never fail, my lord, in any of these little busi- 
nesses," answers Mr. Trackem, with a suave smile. 

" But ain't you afraid of the police finding you out ? " 
inquires Lord Westray, just a little nervously. 

Mr. Trackem laughs outright. " Police ! " he 
ejaculates . contemptuously. "What's the good of 
them ? Think they know a lot, know nothing. YV^hy, 
my lord, the police are useless in matters of this sort ; 



and as for detectives, why, it's easy to green them up 
the wrong way. I don't fear them. I'm a match for 
every noodle detective in and around Scotland Yard, 
I am," and Mr. Trackem gives a self-satisfied laugh. 

" Well, Mr. Trackem, when is it to be ? " inquires 
the earl anxiously, after a short lull in the conver- 

" It's to be the day after to-morrow," answers Mr. 
Trackem. " To-morrow my men go down. I shall 
follow, and just give them a squint at the place, and 
then they'll be all prepared for the next day. Never 
fear, my lord ; by Wednesday she shall be in your 

" In my power ! " The words come triumphantly, 
though mutteringly, througli the ground teeth of the 
man whom Speranza de Lara had called, and justly 
so, " a fiend in human shape." Yes, she had spurned 
him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her 
presence. Through these long years he had striven 
to regain her in vain, and now — ah, now ! — he would 
be amply and surely revenged. 

" Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank 
you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you 
have laid your plans in order to carry out my com- 
mission," he says warmly. " And now to business. 
I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining 
£150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. 
Is not that so ? " 

" It is, my lord," answers the vile creature blandly. 


Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing 
table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in 
writins: off an order for £50 to the credit of self. 
This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferen- 
tially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after 
which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to 

" Won't you take something ? " inquires the earl 
with his hand on the bell. " A glass of sherry, 
brn,ndy-and-soda, or what ? " 

"No thank you, my lord, nothing," answers Mr. 
Trackem. " Must keep a clear head in my business. 
Thanks all the same." 

They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, 
both intent on a base and ruffianly deed, yet one of 
them is regarded as a gentleman, is received and 
welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the 
Government of the day, and accounted a clever man 
and useful statesman. Clothed in these mantles of 
virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will 
not bar Society's doors against him, or lose him his 
high preferments. Is he not a man, one of the domi- 
nant and self-styled superior race ? Therefore, is he 
not free to do as he pleases ? 

■^ ^ ■3|t "Sjf tJc '^ 

The day has come, — a hot July one. Down upon 
the dusty country roads the sun has burnt fiercely all 
day long. The cattle and beasts of the field have 
eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the tortur- 


ing flies that ever haunt their presence, but evening 
has fallen at last, and with it relief has come. 

It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old 
Thames. The silver streak glides sluggishly along, 
with the moon's pale light playing softly upon it. 
The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief 
sweet reign ; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of 

A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and 
clinging ivy, peeps forth upon that scene. The smooth 
lawns around it gleam white as the driven snow 
beneath the moon's soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise 
up behind in ebony framework, making an efficient 
background, while through the still air trembles and 
quivers the nightingale's exquisite song. 

It would seem, at a first glance, as if all were asleep 
in that cottage ; but no, there is yet a light left in one 
of the rooms on the ground-floor. Suddenly a pair of 
window-doors in it are flung open, and a tall, graceful 
woman steps out through them. Her head is un- 
covered, the moon gleams down upon the thick masses 
of pale gold hair that cover it, and shines in her 
glittering eyes of turquoise-blue. It is Speranza de 

" What a glorious night ! " she soliloquises to 
herself. " I suppose my darling is speaking now. 
She said it would be about ten o'clock. Oh, Harry I 
my precious long-lost love, would that you could see 
our child now ! " 


She has pressed the ring with its glittering 
brilliants to her lii:)s, — the only ring she wears. The 
stones flash and sparkle in the moon's light like gems 
of living fire, beautiful, pure, and shining as the love 
that is next her heart. Much more than a score of 
years have passed away since Harry Kintore died in 
her arms, but if she lived through countless scores 
of years that love would burn just the same. She 
wanders along the gravel carriage drive, her thoughts 
busy with the past. Anon they fleet forward to the 
future, and then a light of triumph dances in her 
eyes. But it is with the past that she is chiefly occu- 
pied this night, for it is the 14th of July, the anni- 
versary of the day on which her darling died. 

She has passed along the shady avenue, and entered 
a tiny straggling path, shut in by tall dark trees. It 
is a glade upon which the gardener has not been 
allowed to bestow his fostering care. He has been 
forbidden this spot by his mistress, who loves to leave 
it in possession of the primrose and violet, the wild 
anemone or dark blue hyacinth that Nature has 
scattered so plentifully around. It is Speranza's safe 
retreat, away from the outside world, the spot where 
she best loves to roam. 

All is quiet; not a sound disturbs the tenor of her 
thoughts as she walks quietly along. Suddenly, how- 
ever, her eye is arrested by a gleam of light in front 
of her. The next moment two dark forms spring 
forward in her path, and she sees that they are men. 


Speranza is no coward. We already know that 
well. Screaming is without her ken, she has no 
knowledge of it. Of fear, she only knows the name. 
If it is a thrill that permeates the body from head to 
foot, and sends the blood rushing through the system 
with irresistible impetus, then Speranza knows what 
that strange, mysterious sensation called fear is. 
But then it only makes her feel defiant. She has no 
thought of fleeing. Her impulse is to stand and face 
the danger, whatever it may be. 

" Who are you ? " she asks in a quiet, measured 
voice; " and what do you want here ? " 

" You," is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes 
her by the arm, and deftly getting behind her, endea- 
vours to draw her two elbows together. The pain is 
excruciating, but Speranza's blood is up. She is no 
weakly woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and 
want of muscle power. She is strong and flexible as 
wire, and makes her assailant feel this too, as with 
a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward 
behind him, facing them both once more. With a 
foul oath the man who had first attacked her bares 
a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does 
so as well. 

" No use resisting ! " exclaims this latter. " If you 
do you'll get a taste of these. Better come quietly." 

She does not even answer them. Her lovely head 
is thrown back, her blue eyes shoot defiance, even 
while in them trembles the look of despair. Her 


hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails 
for a second. 

They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. 
She seizes the blades with both her hands, and holds 
them with the grim clutch of a last great effort. 
With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and 
the sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed 
palms. Out pours the rich, dark blood from the cruel, 
gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the first that has 
escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the 
ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to 
the ground. In another moment the gag is on her 
mouth, tight straps are round her arms and ankles, 
and she is a prisoner at their feet. 

" Come on quick, now ! " exclaims one of the men. 
" My, Bill ! she be a strong, plucky one, and no 
mistake ! If it 'adn't been for that there root we 
shouldn't have mastered her so easily — no, nor we 

The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of 
a fallen tree. Against this Speranza's head had struck 
in falling, rendering her senseless. No wonder they 
tied her so easily. 

They lift her between them, and carry her across 
the copsewood towards a low hedge, outside which 
lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and then lay 
her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, 
low whistle. 

There is an answering whistle down the road, a 


I'umbling and stam|jing as of carriage wheels and 
horses' feet. Two lights gleam throngh the darkness, 
like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next 
moment a carriage dashes wp. 

" Got her ? " inquires a thin, spare man, jumping 

" Right as a trivet, sir," they answer. 

"Well, jDut her in ! Look sharp; no time to lose. 
I thought I heard footsteps as I came along," and 
Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open the door. 

They obey his orders without more ado, and then 
lie jumps in. 

" Now then ! look alive, men ! One on the box, one 
in with her and me." 

It is done. The men are "sharp uns." They 
know their master, and he knows his men. The 
next moment the carriage is bowling along towards 
AVindsor, en route for Loudon. 

Who will track them, who discover them ? Not the 
detectives of Scotland Yard ! 


THERE has been a late sitting in the House of 
Commons. A protracted debate on the crowded 
condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that most 
wonderful city of the^world, London, has kept members 
fully occupied. But twelve o'clock, midnight, has 
struck, and the Commons are dispersing. It has been 
a great night for Hector D'Estrange. He has spoken 
for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; 
for does it not know full well that the subject of that 
night's discussion is one in which he is no novice, it 
having been undertaken on his own motion ? 

He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told 
them many things. Has he not a right to do so ? 
None like him have dived into those terrible slums, 
have visited night after night, as he has done, those 
abodes of crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. 
He knows them well, and has depicted them as they 
are, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in 
language of which he alone is master. 


He has seen mncli, and knows much of the horrors 
whicli he has depicted so vividly, yet not even he 
knows some of the depths of infamy that exist in 
that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another 
experience to incur. 

" Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of 
yours ! " exclaims the Duke of Ravensdale, who, having 
been an attentive listener during the debate, has run 
down to join his friend as the latter leaves the 
Commons. " Come across to Montragee House, and 
let us have a little supper. Wish you would stay 
there the night, old man ! " 

" I can't, Evie," replies Hector. " I have to go 
down to Windsor by an early train, and must go home 
and order my things to be packed up ; but I'll come 
across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as 
I went without my dinner." 

They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards White- 
hall, and as they do so Big Ben chimes out the hour 
of half-past twelve. 

" How time flies, to be sure ! " remarks the young 
duke thoughtfully. " Funny thing time is — eh. 

" It is," answers this latter gravely; "a something 
without being, shape, or substance, and yet a thing 
that has been, is, and yet shall be." 

" What a happy chap you ought to be. Hector ! I 
don't suppose there's an hour in your life wliicli you 
can look back upon as having wasted or misspent, save 

OE, THE EEYOLUTIOlSr OF 1900. 107 

in doing good and trying to help others," exclaims 
his friend in an almost envious tone. " Would to God 
I could say the same of myself I " 

" Hush, Evie ! don't try and make me vain ; and 
don't run yourself down before me. I won't allow it. 
God knows you are earnest enough in your desire to 
do good, and, dear EWe, you have succeeded. I don't 
suppose there's another in your position who has done 
so much. I never had such a good true friend as you 
in all my undertakings, except one, and of course I 
except her." 

" Her I " exclaims his friend, in a somewhat sur- 
prised voice. '* Whom, Hector ? " 

" My mother," he answers quietly. " She has been 
my right hand through life. I could not have got on 
without her." 

" Your mother, Hector I " says the duke in a low 
voice. " Have you a mother alive ? " 

" Yes, Evie, and one of the best that ever lived. I 
will introduce her to you some day. She knows you 
well by hearsay, for I have often sjjoken of you to her. 
But a favour, dear old Evie ; don't ever mention her 
to any one ; promise me." 

" Of course not. Hector. You know the simplest 
wish of yours is law to me. Well, here we are; we'll 
finish our chat inside over some soup and oysters, and 
anything else you like to have." 

The duke's hand is on the bell, but he pulls it very 



" Won't do to peal it," he remarks. " The sound 
would awaken Bernie, he's such a light sleeper ; and 
always will get up to welcome me if he awakes, dear 
little chap." 

" Let's see, how old is he now ? " queries Hector 
D'Estrange; "well nigh sixteen, is he not? He's a 
dear lad, and I like him especially on account of his 
love for you. He does love you, Evie." 

" Yes," answers the duke softly, " and I love him. 
Bernie is all I have got to love, unless it be you, 

He does not see the bright flush that rises to Hector 

. D'Estrange's beautiful face, or the passionate look in 

the sapphire eyes. It might have startled him if he 

had. But the great massive doors are unclosing now, 

and he enters, followed by his friend. 

" Supper in my study, Repton, please," he exclaims. 
" Is Lord Bernard asleep ? " 

" Fast, your Grace," answers that individual con- 
fidentially, " His lordship wanted to sit up for your 
Grace, but when I gave him your Grace's message he 
went straight to bed." 

" That's right," says the duke heartily. " Bernie's 
a good lad. God bless him ! " 

The two have moved on into the duke's study, and 
Repton has hurried off to command his Grace's supper 
to be served immediately. He has pompous manners, 
has Repton, a high opinion of himself, and certain 
notions of his own importance and dignity, but he is 


a good servant nevertheless, and a faithful one. He 
is not of the Stuggins' class. He would as soon dream 
of keeping his Grace waiting for his supper as of 
jumping over the moon. 

The consequence is, that in the twinkling of an eye 
supper is served in the study. And the two friends, 
as they sit discussing it, wander off on some favourite 
theme, so that the time passes quicker than they 
think. Suddenly they are startled by hearing a bell 
peal. The duke sj) rings to his feet. 

" Good heavens ! What can that be ? " he exclaims 
nervously. " Is it Bernie's bell ; is the boy ill, I 
wonder ? I must go and see. It's past two o'clock." 

" It's the front door bell, I think," says Hector 
D'Estrange. " Hark, Evie I there are voices in the 
entrance hall. Open the door and listen." 

The duke does so. A woman's voice is plainly 
distinguishable, appealing to Bepton. 

" For God's sake," he hears her saying, " let me 
see the duke. I must see him. It is a matter of life 
and death. If you tell him it is for Mr. D'Estrange 
he will see me, I know." 

" I have no orders from his Grace to admit you," 
answers Repton pompously, "and certainly cannot 
disturb his Grace at this hour. You must write or 
call again to-morrow morning, and all I can do is 
to report your wish to his Grace." 

He bangs the door to as he speaks, but the next 
moment steps sound behind him, and Hector D'Estrange 


has seized the handle aud pulled it open. His face 
is very white, and there is terror in his eyes. 

" Rita ! " he calls out, " is that you, Rita ? My 
God ! what brings you here ? " 

" Mr. D'Estrange ! " she bursts out with a low, glad 
cry. " Oh, are you here ? Thank God ! thank God ! " 

She has rushed forward and seized him by the 
hand, and the duke, who has followed close behind 
him, recognises in the youthful, fair-featured girl the 
sad, haggard, careworn, starving creature whom but 
a few years back he had rescued from prostitution and 
degradation. Yet in what a terrible condition she 
seems. Her dress is torn and mudstained, her shoes 
likewise, her fair, soft hair dishevelled and hanging 
about her face and down her back, while her expression 
is that of one scared by a terrible fear. 

" Come quick, come quick ! " she cries imploringly, 
" before it is too late. Oh, Mr. D'Estrange ! they 
have waylaid her, and carried her off. I saw her 
bound, with her poor cut bleeding hands, and could 
not help her ; but I know where she is, and can guide 
you to the place, if you will only come." 

" Rita," exclaims Hector D'Estrange, in a voice 
the very calmness of which fills her with awe, " come 
into the duke's study for a minute, and explain yourself. 
Follow me." 

He leads the way witli Evie Ravensdale following, 
and she close behind the duke. As for Repton, he 
is rigid with astonishment. 


The three enter the study, and the door is closed. 
" Now, Rita," queries Hector excitedly, " explain." 

" I will," she cries again. " It is your mother. 
She was out in her favourite walk this evening about 
ten, and I was coming home rather late from Windsor. 
I saw her attacked by two men in the spinny, bound 
hand and foot, after having been knocked senseless. A 
carriage drove up, and they put her into it. My first 
impulse was to rush to help her and shout for assist- 
ance, but in a moment I reflected how useless that would 
be. I determined to hang on to the carriage behind, 
and see where they took her to. It was a terrible 
drive, but God helped me, and I succeeded, though I'm 
about done. I saw the house they took her into. I 
know the spot well ; I can take you there straight now. 
But come, please come, or it will be too late." 

There is a look of fury and hatred so intense in 
Hector D'Estrange's eyes, that the duke can hardly 
recognise him as the sweet, gentle-featured friend 
whom he loves so dearly. 

" Evie," he says in a strained, unnatural voice, " I 
can explain nothing now. It is impossible. But you 
can trust me, Evie. My mother, my precious mother, 
is in terrible danger. Will you help me to save her ? " 

The duke's reply is laconic, but Hector knows its 
meaning. They are simple words, " I will." 

" Then come," he exclaims feverishly ; " lead on, 
Rita, brave, plucky Rita ! I'll never forget what you 
have done to-day." 

1 1 2 GLORIANA ; 

She does not reply, for they are hurrying ont of the 
room. They are in the hall now, and both Hector and 
Evie Raveusdale have seized their hats. Bnt the next 
moment the duke has slipped a loaded revolver into 
his pocket, and handed another to his friend. 

" Take this," is all he says, " You may want it." 

There is a four-wheeler at the door. They all three 
get in quickly. As Rita does so she gives the order, 
" Whitechapel. Quick," she adds, " and you shall be 
paid well ! " 

The cab-horse trots swiftly along. The liope of a 
substantial fare has given the cabby wings. No well- 
bred brougham horse could go quicker. He flies along 
does that old cab-horse. 

On the outskirts of Whitechapel Rita calls a halt. 
" We must get out here," she observes. " Mr. 
D'Estrange, please give the cabman a sovereign, and 
tell him to wait." 

He obeys her. He can trust her, can Hector 
D'Estrange. Ever since the day when, at Evie 
Ravensdale's request, he had appointed her as his own 
and his motlier's secretary, Rita Vernon has served 
him with a fidelity and painstaking exactitude of 
which he knows no parallel. She leads the way 
through dark, uninviting streets. She knows the 
locality well. She learnt it years ago, before Evie 
Ravensdale came there to save her from a doom far 
more terrible than death. She had declared then that 
she would willingly die for him. The same feeling 

OR, THK REVOLrTION OF 1900. 11:^ 

animates lier now. For Evie Havensdale Rita Vcruou 
would deem it a happiness to die. 

They have passed through courts and filthy alleys, 
through streets well and ill-lighted. Very few people 
are about. Only a policeman or two on their beats pass 
them as they move along. Now they are turning into 
a sort of crescent or half square, with houses superior 
to those of the localities they have traversed. As 
they do so Rita turns to the two men following her, 
and pointing to a house at the further end, exclaims, 
" There I " 

There are no lights in the windows ; the place is 
silent and dark. 

" How shall we get in ? " asks the duke. 

There is a bitter smile on Rita's face as she replies. 

" I will show you, but remember you must play your 

part. I shall pretend I am bringing you here, and 

that there's another woman coming. I'll order a 

room, and once in there I know how to find her." 

She says no more, but passes swiftly along the 
pavement, they close at her heels. On reaching the 
house she pulls the bell softly. 

The door is opened cautiously, and a woman's face 
peers out. 

" What's wanted ? " she inquires suspiciously. 
" I've brought these gentlemen here," answers Rita. 
" We want a room. Your best if it's empty." 

"Can't have you to-night," replies the woman. 
"The whole house is took." 


114 (ILOltlAKA ; 

She is about to shut the door when Rita springs 
into the opening. The next moment she has the 
woman by the throat. " Quick ! " she cries in a low 
voice. " Gag her, tie her hands and feet ! " 

No need to speak further. Both Hector D'Estrange 
and Evie Ravensdale have obeyed. Three hand- 
kerchiefs suffice to gag the woman, tie her ankles 
together, and her wrists behind her. Then they look 
at Rita. 

'' Put her in here ! " exclaims this latter, oj)ening 
a door on the right. " It's dark. Never mind; I know 
the place; she's safe there." 

They lift her in, and lay her on the floor. Rita 
closes the door, and locks it. A dim light is burning 
in the hall, but no one is stirring; only in the distance 
they think they catch a sound of voices. 

" Come on," she says excitedly. " I am sure I can 
find them. They'll be in the best room. Follow me." 

She goes up the stairs quietly, her companions as 
noiselessly following. On reaching the lauding she 
turns down a passage to the right, and comes to a 
halt opposite a door. 

" Listen," she says in a low tone. " You two should 
know that voice.^^ 

But she has no time to say more. Pale with fury, 
with murder in his eyes, Hector D'Estrange has burst 
open the door. A flood of light almost blinds him 
as he enters, but through it all he sees the mother 
that he loves. 

Orv, THE REVOLUTION OF 1000. 115 

Speranza de Lara is stretched ou a sofa. Her 
aukles are still tightly secured, her wrists likewise. 
Around her, like a cloak of gold, falls her lovely hair. 
There is a mad, wild look in her eyes terrible to 
behold, but her lips are mute and speechless, for she 
is gagged. And beside her stands that monster, that 
I^etted roue of Society, that " fiend in human shape," 
— the Earl of Westray. 

There is a loud cry as a shot rings through the 
silent house. 




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 Pro- 
gressists have been snarling over contentious bones, 
they have omitted to notice in the bye-elections 
unmistalcable 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 

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, 1 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 cliapter 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 excite- 
ment. 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 disajipearance he had been appointed 
Chief Secretary for Ireland, an appointment that had 
given the greatest dissatisfaction to the Irish. There 


was liuthiug 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 buiklins; 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 affec- 
tion 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 stejiping-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 pro- 
fessions hitherto arrogated by men solely to them- 
selves. 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 sym- 
pathetic views, and are not likely to forsake their 
chief in the moment of trial. So also can he depend 


upon all the D'Estraugeite members, without a fear 
that there will be a single seceder from their ranks ; 
but he knows that the clefeati 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 Raven sdale's 
Secretary, the duke being Minister for Foreign 

" 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 
ho speaks. 


" Dear mother, I must leave yon uow, but will see 
yon again before I go to the House. Estconrt and 
Donglasdale 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 begin- 
ning 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 uj^on 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, 1 must not dam]) your spirits with my fancies. 


Go now to your duties, from which I must not keep 
yon, and mother will do her best to drive the dream 

" That's right, motherling. Do, for Gloria's sake." 

He kisses her tenderly and goes ont, 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 worlv. 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'Estrauge. Many a 
ha2)py 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 jiassionately attached. 
A big oil j^ainting 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-bhie, 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 yon 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 yoii were 
a woman." 

It is fortunate that the shaded and softly subdued 
lamjDS 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. Aud 
yet if you had been, the glory of Hector D'Estrauge 
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 uufemininc, 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 ke|)t right 

01?, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 125 

up to Westminster, so you will have uo difficulty in 
getting your carriage along, Mr. D'Estrange." 

" Is it so late ? " lie 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 AVestminster. 
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 
liavensdale 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 witliin the House of Com- 
mons ? To attempt to do so wouhl be but to court 
faihire. The precincts are thronged until there is no 
standing room. There is eager expectation on every 

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 formali- 
ties, 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'E strange 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. 


ME. SPEAKER, I make no apology to yon, sir, 
or to LoDonrable gentlemen for the bill which 
I am al)ont to introdnce to the House. It is a bill 
embodying a simple act of justice to woman, a tardy 
though complete offer by man to repair the wrong 
which he has done her in the past. Now the bill is 
simple enough, and contains no ambiguous clauses. 
It states in terse, clear language what it is that we 
propose to bestow on woman, the rights to which she 
is entitled, and the manner in which we suggest that 
they should take effect. 

" We have rightly, though tardily, bestowed the 
suffrage upon her. That was an act which should 
have been performed years ago, but one which has 
been delayed by much of that unwieldy and unwork- 
able machinery that clogs and hampers the operations 
of the Westminster Parliament. I refer to the 
numerous local affairs of England, Scotland, Ireland, 
and Wales, which, as you know, I have frequently 
expressed as my opinion, might be more profitably, 


efficiently, and quickly disposed of in the separate 
countries named, leaving the time that is consumed 
here in attending to them free for the consideration 
of great Imperial and National social questions, 
which are, alas ! and dangerously so, being pressed 
into the background. 

" The bestowal of the suffrage on woman is a prac- 
tical acknowledgment by man that woman has a 
right to be considered as a being who can reason, and 
who can study humanity in its various phases, and act 
on her own responsibility. It is not for me here to 
seek for the causes which have hitherto led man to 
believe to the contrary. His belief, in a great measure, 
has been due to woman's weak acceptance of his 
arbitrary laws ; for I do not suppose it will be pre- 
tended by any one that the laws laid down for the 
sacrifice of woman's freedom were the creation of 
a woman's brain. But this weak acceptance of these 
arbitrary laws cannot fairly be ascribed entirely to the 
fault of woman. ' Slavery in no form is natural;' it 
is an artificial creation of man's ; and woman's slavery 
cannot be taken as an exception to this maxim. She 
has, in point of fact, been subjected to bondage, a 
bondage which has, in a manner, become second nature 
to her, and which custom has taught her to regard as 
a part of the inevitable. 

" But if honourable gentlemen will believe me, 
Nature is stronger than custom, and more powerful 
than law. Nature is a force that cannot be repressed 


finally and absolutely. It is like an overwhelming 
torrent against which you may erect monster dykes, 
which you may dam up for a time, but all the while 
the waters are rising, and will find their level in the 
end. Through countless years woman has been 
repressed. Every human force and ingenuity of man 
have been employed to establish her subjection. 
From religion downwards it lias been the cry ' Women, 
submit to men I ' a cry which I may safely say was 
never originated by herself. 

" Now Nature has established a law which is invio- 
lable. It has laid down the distinction between the 
sexes, but here Nature stops. Nature gives strength 
and beauty to man, and Nature gives strength and 
beauty to woman. In this latter instance man flies in 
the face of Nature, and declares that she must be arti- 
ficially restrained. Woman must not be allowed to 
grow up strong like man, because if she did, the fact 
would establish her equality with him, and this cannot 
be tolerated. So the boy and man are allowed free- 
dom of body, and are trained up to become muscular 
and strong, while the woman, by artificial, not natural 
laws, is bidden to remain inactive and passive, and in 
consequence weak and imdeveloped. Mentally it is 
the same. Nature has unmistakably given to woman 
a greater amount of brain power. This is at once 
perceivable in childhood. For instance, on the stage, 
girls are always employed in preference to boys, for 
they are considered brighter and sharper in intellect 


1 o() GLOr.IANA ; 

and brain x)ower. Yet man deliberately sets himself 
to stunt that early evidence of mental capacity, by 
laying down the law that woman's education shall be 
on a lower level than that of man's ; that natural 
truths, which all women should early learn, should be 
hidden from her ; and that while men may be taught 
everything, women must only acquire a narrow and 
imjierfect knowledge both of life and of Nature's 

" I maintain to honourable gentlemen that this pro- 
cedure is arbitrary and cruel, and false to Nature. I 
cliaracterise it by the strong word of Infamous. It 
has been the means of sending to their graves unknown, 
unknelled, and unnamed, thousands of women whose 
high intellects have been wasted, and whose powers for 
good have been paralysed and undeveloped. To the 
subjection and degradation of woman I ascribe the 
sufferings and crimes of humanity, nor will Society 
be ever truly raised, or ennobled, or perfected until 
woman's freedom has been granted, and she takes 
her rightful place as the equal of man. Viewing this 
great social problem in this light, we have deemed it 
our duty to present to Parliament a bill, establishing 
as law, firstly, the mixed education of the sexes, that 
is to say, bringing into force the principle of mixed 
schools and colleges, in which girls and boys, young 
men and young women, can be educated together ; 
secondly, the extension of the rights of primogeniture 
to the female sex, so that while primogeniture remains 

OR, THE r>EYOLTTTION OF 1900. 131 

associated witli the law of entail, the eldest born, not 
the eldest son, shall succeed the owner of property 
and titles ; also that all the professions and positions 
in life, official or otherwise, shall be thrown open as 
equally to women as to men; and thirdly, that women 
shall become eligible as Members of Parliament, and 
peeresses in their own right eligible to sit in the 
Upper House as well as to undertake State duties. 
Such is the drastic, the sweeping measure by which we 
desire to wipe off for ever and repair, though tardily, 
a great wrong. Honourable gentlemen will perceive 
that we take no half-way course. We are not inclined 
to accept the doctrine of ' by degrees,' believing that 
this would only jjrolong the evil and injustice which 
daily arise from the delay in emancipating the female 
sex; and I will now as briefly as pos.jible set forth 
to honourable gentlemen the arguments in favour of 
the three clauses contained in this ])ill. 

"With regard to the first one, namely, the advisability 
of educating girls and boys, young women and young 
men, together, it is necessary to point out that the 
system of separating the sexes throughout their edu- 
cational career has arisen chiefly from the totally 
different forms of education meted out to each. We 
hold that these difterent forms are pernicious and 
morally unhealthy, calculated to evilly influence the 
sensual instincts of the male sex, and to instil into the 
other sex a totally wrong and mischievous idea of the 
right and wronsr side of Nature. We are convinced 


that this system has been productive of an immense 
amount of immorality and • consequent snifering and 
degradation in the past, and that the system of elevat- 
ing Nature into a mystery is the greatest conceivable 
incitement to sensuality and immorality. We hold 
that there should be no mystery or secrecy anent the 
laws of God. We hold that in creating mystery we 
condemn God's law — namely, Nature, to be what it is 
not — indecent; and we hold that the system of separat- 
ing the sexes, of telling all to the one and enshrouding 
everything in silence and mystery to the other, has 
had the evil effect of producing immorality, so wide 
and far-spreading as to be frightful in its hideousness 
and magnitude ; while it has been productive of 
millions of miserable marriages, of disease, and of evil 
immeasurable and appalling. 

" Nature tells us truths which we cannot condemn as 
falsehoods, however much we may avert our eyes from 
their light. Nature tells us that it is natural for the 
male and female sex to be together. If we bring up 
the young to face this truth, if we bring up the young 
to accept as natural and rational the laws of pure and 
unaffected Nature, they will accept it as it is. But if 
we clothe it in boys' and men's eyes in fanciful garments, 
and leave girls and women in ignorance of its truths, 
we must expect the terrible and horrible results which 
have followed such unnatural teaching through cen- 
turies of time. 

" We therefore emphatically in this clause record our 


protest against the system of teaching the young to 
regard Nature in a false light, in other words, to judge 
of God's laws as impure. We believe such a system 
of education to be, as we have said, an incentive to 
the male sex to do wrong, while totally unfitting the 
female sex to do right. The beginning of all immo- 
rality on woman's side has sprung from ignorance, and 
from the system of mystery and the tendency to declare 
indecent that which cannot be so, being God's law. 
In regard to the physical condition of the sexes, we 
hold that where equal opjwrtunities are afforded to 
both of strengthening, developing, and improving the 
body, little material difference will be found in the 
two. There are many strong men in this world, and 
there are many strong women, as there are weakly 
men and weakly women. I have never heard it yet 
argued, that because a man is not strong in body he 
is therefore unfitted to take part in the afiairs of State. 
Yet woman's weakness is one of the reasons adduced 
for excluding her therefrom. We believe that in a 
big public school, say, for instance, at Eton, if girls 
and boys were admitted together, that girls would 
very soon j)rove that neither physically nor mentally 
were they inferior to boys, nor should such a per- 
nicious doctrine be ever inculcated into the boy's brain. 
He should not be brought up as he is now, to look 
down on his sisters as inferior to him, nor should 
those sisters be told that he is their superior in 
strength and mental capacity. It is a doctrine the 

134 GLOKlANA ; 

pernicionsness of which is far-reaching, and a distinct 
infringement of the natnral. 

"This leads us to the consideration of the second 
clause, the adoption by women of those professions 
hitherto arrogated to themselves solely by men. We 
are of oi)iniou that, granted a similar education as men, 
women are in every way as fitted to occupy those 
j)rofessions. I may be allowed here jierhaps, to refer 
with pride to that magnificent body of women over 
200,000 strong who are now enrolled in the regiments 
of the Women's Volunteer forces, of which I am proud 
to call myself a member, and whose uniform I am 
fittingly wearing on this occasion. We have before 
us a splendid evidence of woman's power to combine 
and come under discipline. These regiments are kept 
up to their full force, and are all due to individual 
effort and womanly sacrifice. There is no State aid in 
the question, and yet the efficiency of each , regiment 
is perfect. Disbanded and scattered, they can be 
summoned to their ranks at a few days' notice, without 
fear that they will fail. I j^oint to this as a brilliant 
examjile of what women can accomplish in so short 
a time, by self-sacrifice and simple determination. 
The same argument of their efficiency to enter the 
army ai)i)lies to the navy, and to any other profession 
hitherto occupied solely by man. 

" But, believing as I do, that with the admission of 
women into the conduct of affairs of vState, wars, and 
all their attendant horrors, would quickly become a 


thing of the past, I dwell shortly on the second clause, 
passing on to the third, which, in conjunction with 
the first, I regard as the most important part to be 

" It is now eleven years since County Councils were 
established. At the very first elections women were 
chosen as representatives, but on an appeal to the 
law they were ousted from their seats. We have 
wisely remedied that state of things, and no one thinks 
it odd or extraordinary now, to see women sitting 
in these County Councils as members. On the con- 
trary, it is tacitly acknowledged that their presence is, 
and has been, productive of much good. Well, will 
honourable gentlemen tell me in what great ])articulars 
these County Councils difi'er from Parliament ? 

" Both are debating assemblies, and both are con- 
ducted on almost similar lines. What is tliere prepos- 
terous and appalling in the suggestion that women 
should become Members of Parliament, and when, 
by genius or talents, they can attain to such, assume 
Cabinet rank, and claim the right to carry on the afiairs 
of their country ? It is merely custom that now debars 
them, a custom established by the selfishness and 
arrogance of man, and accepted by woman in the same 
manner as slaves in the past, from long custom, accepted 
the lash from their taskmasters. The taskmasters 
had established the right to flog their slaves ; they 
had dammed up the slowly rising waters of rebellion, 
but these rose to their level at last, and overflowed. 


and slavery is no more. The analogy holds good in 
the case of woman, whose greater slavery is not yet 
entirely overcome. That it will finally be, is as cer- 
tain as that the hours of Time never go back. Yon 
may fight against it, you may pile the dykes higher, 
you may go on damming the rising waters as you will, 
but the time must inevitably come, when those dykes 
and dams will crumble away beneath the overwhelming 
flood, which your own efibrts will have entirely accu- 
mulated and brought to its tremendous and irresistible 
strength. We may be met with many arguments in 
condemnation of this bill. One will be that it will 
obstruct the rite of marriage. We deny this. We 
grant you that it may diminish the number of 
marriages, but we contend that this will be a blessing 
rather than a curse. Thousands of miserable unions 
are yearly effected in consequence of woman's un- 
natural and one-sided position in Society. In all these 
cases she does not marry because, with a knowledge 
of the subject, with every profession thrown open to 
her and chance to get on equal to men, she is satisfied 
that she prefers married life. No. In the cases re- 
ferred to, she marries for money, or for position, or 
to escape the restraints of home, or because she has 
no chance of making her way in the world, and the 
result is that these marriages are miserable failures, 
and the ofi"s2jring of such either diseased in body or 
in mind, or condemned to grow uj) to a life of misery, 
and^ in thousands of cases, immorality and crime. 


" There is a problem creeping gradually forward upon 
us, a problem that will have to be solved in time, 
and that is the steady increase of population. If it 
advances at its present rate, the hour will come when 
this earth will not be able to contain it. What then ? 
We may possibly by that time have arranged, with 
the aid of science, for conveyances which shall carry 
our suj)erfluous population to other realms of light, 
but it is equally possible that if this be so, those 
realms may not consent to receive the emigrants. 
What then ? I believe that with the emancipation 
of women we shall solve this problem now. Fewer 
children will be born, and those that are born will 
be of a higher and better physique than the present 
order of men. The ghastly abortions, which in many 
part.s jmss muster nowadays, owing to the unnatural 
physical conditions of Society, as men, women, and 
children, will make room for a nobler and higher order 
of beings, who will come to look upon the production 
of mankind in a diseased or degraded state, as a 
wickedness and unpardonable crime, against which all 
men and women should fight and strive. The eman- 
cipation of women will, I am convinced, lead up to the 
creation of the great and the beautiful, to higher 
morals and nobler aims. 

" Yet, as we are now, what is the sad reality ? In 
this huge, over-crowded city alone, the greatest the 
world has ever known, amidst rich and jjoor alike, 
teems immorality awful and aj^palliug in its magnitude. 


Deeds are committed ol" wliicli even some of the most 
vicious have no idea. Thousands are born in our 
midst wlio should never see the light of day. Born 
in disease, these miserable victims of vice and immo- 
ralitj^ grow up to beget to others like horrors, and in 
the teeming millions of this vast city alone exist 
misery and sin too terrible to contemplate. 

" We submit, therefore, to honourable gentlemen that 
the first step towards the regeneration and upraising 
of mankind is the emancipation of woman, and with 
her emancipation the careful training of the sexes 
together. Convinced that the time has come, when 
it would be dangerous to delay this emancipation, we 
have made it the plank on wliich the Government of 
the day intend to stand or fall. We would further, 
perhaps, overstep the bonnds of custom, and ask that 
the fate of the measure be decided to-night by a vote 
taken on it immediately. If tlie vote be adverse, the 
Government will at once resign, and appeal to the 
country on the clauses of the bill. They are clauses 
which I think, to-night, it would be but waste of time 
to discuss. They can be discussed before the country 
if the bill be rejected. Yet, ere 1 sit down, I would 
beg of honourable gentlemen to consider the few 
words which I have had the honour, and, I thank God, 
tlie opi)ortnnity to make to them. I would a])peal to 
them to put aside party feeling, and vote for the 
common good as their consciences dictate. I solemnly 
warn them, however, that they cannot put back the 


hand of time, and that the hour must be reached at 
last wlieu the cause of woman will triumph; for, as 
I have already remarked, Nature is like the rising 
waters of a great flood, which the hand and ingenuity 
of man may restrain for a time, but which must find 
a level at last and overflow. The course of Nature 
is unconquerable ; no art of man can defeat it, wrought 
as it is by the liand of God." 

He has sat down. He has been heard throughout 
in death-lilce silence, but now the Ministerialists and 
D'Estrangeites are cheering him again and again. 
Yet chill as ice are the Nationals and Progressists. 
They cannot rise to the height of generosity to which 
he has ajipealed. In this moment of uncertainty for 
many. Hector D'Estrange knows that the bill is 



The House has divided. It has recorded its vote. 
The numbers for and against the emancipation of 
women have been announced. The author of the bill 
was no false prophet when he predicted defeat. By 
a majority of 120 it has been rejected. 

Then the rafters ring with the \\ald cheering of the 
victorious Opposition, of that strange medley of parties, 
that hating each other cordially, yet hate still more 
the high-souled, far-reacliiug, justice-loving principles 
of Hector D'Estrange. Again and again the cheering 
is renewed, drowning in its volume the counter-cheers 
of the D'Estrangeites, wild, ahuost ungovernable in 


its elation, full of bitter meaning, echoing with sneer- 
ing emphasis the triumph of selfishness over right. 

He sits very quietly through it all, hardly seeming 
to notice this outburst of the victors. He does not 
grudge them their momentary triumph; his thoughts 
do not dwell upon the defeat which he has just 
sustained. They are ftir away, out beyond the portals 
of the present, clasping the warm hands of the future, 
reading the bright letters that twine their golden 
circlet round its brow, as they flash their meaning forth 
in the one word " Victory ! " 

Be of good cheer, brave heart, for victory is at 
hand ! 

The House has adjourned ; it is five minutes past 
twelve. As the Prime Minister passes out he is 
joined by Evie Ravensdale, who at once links his arm 
within that of his friend and colleague. Although 
the duke's carriage is in waiting, these two purposely 
refrain from entering it, so as to avoid the crowd 
and the inevitable demonstration which would follow 
recognition thereby. In this manner they escape 
detection by the populace. 

Not entirely, however. Sharp eyes have recognised 
Hector D'Estrange, He has not gone many steps 
when a hand is laid on his shoulder. 

" Mr. D'Estrange," he hears a voice saying, " I 
arrest you in the name of the law." 

" Oil what charge ? " he inquires in a quick, startled 


" On the charge, sir, of mnrdering Lord W^'stray," 
is the reply. 

In a moment his quick brain has taken in the 
situation, and he knows that resistance is useless. 

" Very well," he answers quietly, " I will go with 
you. Evie," he adds, in a calm, composed voice 
" please go at once to my poor mother." 












" QAY, prisoner at tlie bar, are you or are yon not 
k-^ guilty of the mnrder of Lord Westray ? " 

" Not guilty." 

The answer comes in a clear and distinct voice, a 
voice in which there is neither faltering nor evasion. 
It is a voice singularly rich and melodious, a voice 
which one would think could not readily lie. 

A hum runs through the crowded court, an inde- 
scribable buzz and movement of excitement, but there 
is joy and relief on many a face, where hitherto doubt 
and perj^lexity had reigned. 

The court is crowded to suffocation. All tlie well- 
known faces of the day are })resent. The rush to obtain 
admittance has been unprecedented, and the excite- 
ment and popular feeling in regard to the case is 
unparalleled in the annals of the law courts. 

He stands there very quietly, but erect as a dart. 
His arms are folded on his chest, and his whole 
carriage is one of easy dignity. None, looking at the 
beautiful face, with its clear, radiant complexion, mag- 


nificeut eyes, and high, pale, thoughtful- brow, around 
which the old-gold curls lovingly cluster, could bring 
tliemselves to believe that that man is a murderer. 

Yet, as we have seen, of crime so terrible Hector 
D'Estrange stands accused. Since that fearful night 
when, with murder in his eyes, he had burst into that 
room of ill-f\ime, and found his beloved mother in the 
power and at the mercy of the man who had blighted 
her early life, and who had pursued her with such 
relentless vengeance, neither Hector D'Estrange nor 
society at large had seen Lord Westray. As we may 
remember, the former in that moment of horror and 
fury had been tried to the highest pitch. A shot had 
rung out through the silent house, followed by a loud 
cry, and that was all. 

He stands accused not merely of murder, but of 
having secreted the body of his victim with intent 
to avoid detection. At the coroner's inquest evidence 
had been forthcoming to show how, acting upon 
various anonymous communications received, the heir- 
at-law of the deceased had jjlaced the matter in the 
hands of the police, who thereupou had discovered 
the body and clothes of Lord Westray buried deep 
in the ground at Mrs. de Lara's residence near 
Windsor. Evidence had likewise been forthcomino- 
to prove, that Hector D'Estrange was the last person 
seen in the company of Lord Westray, and the clothes 
of the murdered nobleman had been fully identified 
by his valet and others as those in which lie was last 


seen alive. The body was, of course, past recognition. 
Two years in the earth would necessarily render it 
so ; yet on the skeleton little finger of one hand a 
plain gold ring had been found, as also around the 
skeleton's neck a gold chain and locket, the latter 
containing a faded portrait of the late Countess of 
Westray, the earl's mother. It had been proved that 
Lord Westray always wore this ring, chain, and locket, 
and his valet had sworn that he was wearing them 
the very day on which he disappeared. Public opinion 
was perplexed. Even those who would glory in 
Hector D'Estrange's innocence found it difficult to 
believe him so. Everything appeared so clear against 
him, so unanswerably conclusive, that men and women 
shook tlieir heads and sighed when hopes of his 
acquittal '*vere expressed. But the day of trial had 
come at last, and Hector D'Estrange was there to 
confront his accusers. 

In face of the terrible charge preferred against their 
chief, the members of the Ministry have unconditionally 
resigned, and a provisional Government, pending an 
appeal to the country, has been hastily constructed 
from the National party. The Government of the day 
is therefore known to be rabidly antagonistic to the 
late revolutionary Prime Minister, who now stands 
accused of murder. The counsel retained for the 
prosecution by the Crown is the Attorney-General, 


aided and assisted by two Q.C.'s, but Hector D'Estrange 
has retained no one to aid him. He defends him- 

And now with a flourish and many theatrical atti- 
tudes, Sir Anthony Stickleback begins the case for 
the prosecution. Sir Anthony is fond of rhetoric, 
and he airs it to the court, fully to his own satisfac- 
tion. He has many long-winded phrases to get 
through before he closes with the main point, which 
may be briefly told in his closing summary of the 
statements contained in his oj^ening address. 

" I shall therefore, my lord, call witnesses who 
will speak to the evident intimacy which has existed 
between Mr. D'Estrange and Mrs. de Lara through 
so many years. These witnesses will be able to show 
moreover, that on several occasions Mrs. de Lara 
received visits from her late husband, Lord Westray, 
during Mr. D'Estrange's absence ; that she was fre- 
quently in the habit of mysteriously disappearing from 
her residence near Windsor on visits to London, and 
that on one of these occasions — the occasion, in fact, 
when Mr. D'Estrange followed her — she actually left 
a note for her maid, acquainting her with her depar- 
ture. I shall show how Mr. D'Estrange, having 
surprised her in the company of Lord Westray, deli- 
berately fired his revolver at that nobleman. The last 
thing seen of this latter unfortunate gentleman was 
in the company of Mr. D'Estrange, who had announced 
his intention of taking him to his home in Grosvenor 


146 GLORiANA ; 

Square. It is needless to say that from that day for- 
ward Lord Westray bas never been seen in living life, 
though, in consequence of several anonymous com- 
munications received, private in(juiry was set on foot 
by those who have been determined to bring the 
murderer to justice, and which has resulted in the 
discovery of the body and the clothes which Lord 
Westray was wearing when last seen, buried deep in 
the earth, in the private grounds near Windsor belong- 
ing to Mrs. de Lara. I will now, my lord, proceed to 
call the witnesses for the prosecution." 

And one by one the witnesses are brought forward 
to swear away the life of Hector D'Estrauge. 

Charles Weston deposes that he was for many 
years Mrs. de Lara's butler, and that he frequently 
admitted Lord Westray to her house, but always in 
the absence of Mr. D'Estrange. Only on one occasion 
did Mr. D'Estrange come in while Lord Westray was 
in the house, and he recalls high words passing be- 
tween the two, followed by the hasty departure of 
Lord Westray, whose brougham was awaiting him at 
Mrs. de Lara's door. This was when she resided in 
London. After this Lord Westray always came on 
foot, and he, Weston, had strict orders to keep a 
sharp look out for Mr. D'Estrange, so as to give the 
two full warning. He remembers perfectly well bring- 
ing Mrs. de Lara a note from Lord Westray the very 
day on wliich she disappeared from her Windsor 
residence, and the same on which Lord Westray was 


murdered, and he also remembers a uote being left 
that night by Mrs. de Lara for her rnauL 

Cross-examined by Hector D'Estrange. " Are you 
not a discharged servant of Mrs. de Lara's, Weston ? " 

" No, sir," answers this person with cool effrontery. 
" I gave notice myself." 

" Yon will swear, Weston, that Mrs. de Lara did not 
dismiss you for drunkenness and gross impertinence ?" 

" C^ertaiuly, sir. Mrs. de Lara told me I had had 
too much to drink, and I told her I would leave. I 
gave a month's notice." 

" Thank you, Weston, I have no more to ask you." 
Hector D'Estrange's voice has a peculiar ring of 
unutterable contempt in it. The wretch winces as he 
receives the order to " stand down." 

Victoire Hester is next called. She deposes to 
being Mrs. de Lara's late maid. She corroborates 
Charles Weston's evidence. Asked if she remembers 
the writing pai)er used by Mrs. de Lara and Hector 
D'Estrange, " Perfectly," is her reply. 

" Can she select a specimen from amidst the packet 
of letters handed her ? " 

" Certainly," she replies again. 

In a few minutes she has picked out three letters 
all written in the same hand and on a similar stamp 
of paper. 

" This," she declares, " is the paper used by Mrs. de 
Lara and Mr. D'Estrange all the time that I have 
been in Mrs. de Lara's service." 


Asked agaiu if slie recognises the liauclwriting on 
the letter, she unhesitatingly declares it to resemble 
Lord Westray's. Asked if she received a note from 
Mrs. de Lara, acquainting her with her sudden depar- 
ture for London the night of the murder, she answers, 

Cross-examined by Hector D'Estrange. 

" Victoire Hester, are you not engaged to Charles 
Weston, and were you not dismissed by Mrs. de 
Lara ? " 

" No, sir," she unblushingly replies. " I gave 
notice same as C'harles did, because Mrs. de Lara 
behaved so improperly to me." 

" Victoire Hester, you say that Mrs. de Lara left 
a note for you on the night of the supposed murder 
of Lord Westray, informing you she had gone to 
London ? " 

" Yes," is the reply. 

" But was she not in the habit of frequently going 
up to town in the same way without leaving notes ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

"Then how is it slie should trouble to do what she 
had never done before, Victoire Hester ? " 

The maid is visibly flurried. 

" I don't know, sir," she stammers. 

" Thank you, Victoire." The cold, calm, contemptu- 
ous voice comes again, and the maid in turn steps 

Alfred Hawkins corroborates Charles Weston's 


evidence, as to driving Lord Westray to Mrs. de 
Lara's Sonth Kensington residence on one occasion. 
He states that he was groom to the late lord, and is 
still so to his snccessor. 

" I call for Mr. Trackem," enunciates Sir Anthony 
Stickleback in an important voice, " since the accused 
does not wish to ask Alfred Hawkins any questions." 

Mr. Trackem enters the witness box. He is extremely 
well dressed, and has an air of importance about him. 
Like Sir Anthony, he has evidently a good opinion of 

" Mr. Trackem, you own a certain house in Verde- 
grease Crescent, do you not ? " inquires Sir Anthony 

" I do, sir," answers Mr. Trackem. 

" Have you or have you not admitted Mrs. de Lara 
to the house ? " 

" Frequently, sir," answers that individual. 

" Presumably for what jiurpose ? " 

" On each occasion, sir, to meet Lord Westray." 

" Do you, Mr. Trackem, know anything of Rita 
Vernon ? " asks Sir Anthony. 

" Certainly, sir. She used frequently to visit my 

" Will you name the last two occasions you have 
seen her, Mr. Trackem ? " 

" Well, sir, the first was on tlie night of the 20th of 
June, 1894, and the last on the night of Lord Westray 's 
murder," answers Mr. .Trackem. 

1 50 GLORIANA ; 

■ " Was she with any one on those two occasions ? " 
" Yes, sir, each time with the same person." 
'' And that person, Mr. Trackem, was ?" 
" The Dnke of Ravensdale," answers the scomidrel 

A movement of intense surprise pervades the 

" Will you describe to his lordship and the jury all 
you know about the terrible occurrence of which Lord 
Westray was the victim, Mr. Trackem ? " commands 
Sir Anthony Stickleback, folding his arms. 

" I will do my best, sir. On the afternoon of the 
day on which Lord Westray disappeared, I received 
a note from Mrs. de Lara, sent especially by Rita 
Vernon. In this note she instructed me to retain my 
liouse free for the night, and to admit no one but Lord 
Westray. I acted as requested, and she and his lord- 
ship arrived about half-past one. I retired to bed, there 
being no one in the liouse but two men-servants and 
a woman. The men, like myself, had retired to rest. 
Suddenly I was startled by liearing a shot, followed 
by a loud cry. I jumped out of bed, slipped into my 
trousers, and called my two men. We proceeded to 
the room in which were Lord Westray and Mrs. de 
Lara. On entering, we found it in possession of 
Mr. D'Estrange, the Duke of Ravensdale, and Rita 
Vernon. The two latter were beside Mrs. de Lara, 
who was lying on a sofa. Lord Westray was stretched 
out on the floor, blood issuing from a wound in the 


throat, and above him stood Mr. D'Estrauge, with 
a discharged revolver iu his hand. 

" I at once rushed up to him, and accused him of 
attempting to murder Lord Westray. He replied that 
he was sorry for what he had done, but that he did it 
iu a moment of passion. He declared that he did not 
think he had seriously hurt the earl, and that he 
would take him to his home if I would procure a cab. 
At the same time he begged the Duke of Raveusdale 
and Rita Vernon to take charge of Mrs. de Lara. I 
was getting seriously alarmed at the turn aflPairs had 
taken, and upon Lord Westray expressing a wish to 
get home, I acceded to Mr. D'Estrange's request. 
Two cabs were procured. In one of them Mr. 
D'Estrange and Lord Westray took their departure, in 
the other Mrs. de Lara, the duke, and Rita Vernon. 
I saw them off from the door, and then re-entered the 
house. As I did so, I heard a groaning in a room on 
the right. I procured a light and opened the door, 
the key of which was turned in the lock. To my 
surprise I found my woman servant laid out on the 
ground, bound hand and foot with handkerchiefs, while 
a third gagged her mouth. I produce these handker- 
chiefs now. One has a ducal coronet on it, the other 
H. D'Estrange worked on it, and the third the name 
of Rita Vernon. Next day I received a letter, appa- 
rently in Lord Westray's writing, begging me to keep 
strict silence on all that had occurred. He declared 
that if it leaked out his reputation would be lost, 


and ho informed me that he intended disappearing for a 
conple of years, at the end of which he wonkl return. 
He enclosed me some money, and promised to continue 
the donation quarterly, on condition of my silence. I 
received six donations in all, and three letters. At 
last the donations ceased, and I began to grow 

" What first made you suspicions ? " 

" Well, sir, I noticed one day that the j^aper on 
which these letters were written was exactly similar 
to the quality used by Mrs. de Lara in her note to 
me on the afternoon of tiie day when the murder was 
committed, and I also thought Lord Westray's con- 
tinued absence after the time specified was suspicious. 
Finally, I went and made a clean breast of it to the 
present earl, who I found in receipt of various anony- 
mous communications declaring the murder, and indi- 
cating where the body and clothes were concealed. 
He employed me to find out all I could. I set to 
work, sir, communicated with the })olice, and investi- 
gations were set on foot, with the result as we all 
know it." 

" Ah ! you combine the work of a private detective 
with your other business, do you, Mr. Trackem ? " 
inquires the Attorney-General graciously. 

" I do, sir." 

Cross-examined by Hector D'Estrange. 

" Have you the letter which you allege Mrs. de 
Lara wrote you ? " 


" The counsel for the prosecution lias it, sir," 
answers Mr. Trackem. 

" Is it not a little strange yon should have pre- 
served that letter all tliese years, in view of tlie fact 
that you thought Lord Westray alive, and is it not a 
little strange that your communication to the new 
Lord Westray should have been almost simultaneous 
with the receipt by him of anonymous information ? " 
pursues the accused. 

It is Mr. Trackem's turn to look confused, but he 
quickly pulls himself together as he answers, " No, 
I do not think so." 

Other witnesses are called to corroborate Mr. 
Trackem's statement in some particulars, and to testify 
to the discovery of Lord Westray's body and clothes, 
the latter being produced in court, this production 
causing much excitement. 

Walter Long is next called. He identifies the 
chain, locket, and ring found on the skeleton as be- 
longing to his late master, and he also identifies the 
clothes. He swears positively that Lord Westray 
was wearing all these things the day he disappeared. 

" These, my lord," declares Sir Anthony, " are the 
witnesses for the prosecution." 

And with this statement the Court adjourns for 

On reassembling, Hector D'Estrange opens the case 
for the defence. 

" I shall not," he observes quietly, " detain the 


Court at any length witli my opening statement. 1 
liave been chai-ged with nndue intimacy with Mrs. de 
Lara. The charge is stupid and disgusting, and when 
I inform your lordship and the gentlemen of the jury 
that Mrs. de Lara is my mother, this will at once be 
evident, and show the groundlessness of the charge. 
I deny the statement that Lord Westray was a 
frequent and admitted visitor at my mother's house, 
tliough he made many endeavours to be one. Only 
once he obtained ingress, and was ordered out both by 
Mrs. de Lara and myself. He has been the curse of 
my mother's life. The sufferings of Lady Altai must 
be green in the memory of many, while the fate that 
befell my father at liis hands is matter of history. 
I shall call Mrs. de Lara, who will deny having 
written either to Mr. Trackem or to her maid. She 
will explain how these so-called mysterious visits 
to London were solely to see her child. She will 
describe to you Jiow it was lier custom to walk out 
at niglit in her grounds at Windsor, and how on the 
evening of the day on which I am accused of murder- 
ing Lord Westray, she was set upon by two men, 
gagged, bound hand and foot, transferred to a carriage, 
and taken in it to London, where, at the house of Mr. 
Trackem, she was handed over to the mercy of Lord 
Westray, from whom God in His mercy enabled me 
to rescue her in time. This evidence will l)e corrobo- 
rated by Rita Vernon, who will explain all she was 
eyewitness to, She will tell you how she clung to 


the back of the brougham which contained Mrs. de 
Lara all the way to London, and having taken note 
of the honse — which, alas I she knew too well — hurried 
to Montragee House to apprise the Duke of Ravens- 
dale, whom she knew to be my dear friend, of the 
terrible occurrence. There she happily found both 
him and myself, and we at once proceeded to my 
mother's rescue. Eifecting an entrance into the 
house, we gagged and bound the woman who let us 
in, and then, guided by Rita Vernon, stole noiselessly 
upstairs to what Rita styled the best room. On 
reaching the door she halted, and bade me listen to 
a voice, which I recognised as that of Lord Westray's. 
Mad with fury, I dashed open the door — what to find ? 
Why my mother, gagged and bound, a prisoner in the 
hands of the scoundrel who had wrecked and ruined 
her life. My lord, would not the sight have driven 
you mad ? I drew my revolver, and shot him where 
he stood. He uttered a cry and fell. Quickly the 
duke and I cut the thongs that bound my mother. 
Her hands were cramped and saturated with blood, 
across both palms extending a ghastly gash. We 
carried her tenderly downstairs, procured a cab, and 
in Rita Vernon's and the Duke of Ravensdale's kind 
care she was transferred to Montragee House. I then 
went back to the room where Lord Westray was lying, 
where I found him alone with Mr. Trackem. I 
offered to call the police and state what had occurred. 
Lord Westray was seated on the sofa, and begged me 

156 GLOPvTANA ; 

not to do so. He declared the wonnd was iiothinjr, 
and requested me to leave him, and on no acconnt to 
disclose what had occnrred. For m}' mother's sake, and 
yet on another acconnt, I agreed. Next day I called 
upon Mr. Trackem, wlio informed me of the letter he 
had received from Lord Westray, the contents of 
which he has communicated in his evidence to-day. 
I regret, however, to have to say that tlie greater part 
of the remainder of his evidence has been falsely 
given, why, I am at a loss to understand, as beyond 
the encounter in the house in Verdegrease Crescent, 
I had no quarrel with him whatsoever. I propose 
now to call my witnesses." 

Mrs. de Lara is called. Her appearance in court 
excites the greatest interest. For though few have 
seen the beautiful Lady Altai of former days, tlie 
story of her marriage, her flight with Harry Kiutore, 
and the tragic sequel in which Lord Westray figured 
so prominently, is well known in Society. So this is 
Speranza de Lara, mother of Hector D'Estrange ? 

" No wonder he is handsome, with such a mother 
as that ! " gasps Mrs. de Lacy Trevor. " Dodo dear, 
it's the same lovely woman we met him riding with 
on the Burton Course long ago, at Melton, don't you 
remember ? The mystery's cleared at last." 

She stops abruptly and stares at her friend, for 
Lady Manderton is scarcely heeding her, and there are 
large tears in her fine, handsome eyes. 

" Why, what is the matter, Dodo ? " 


" Nothing, Vivi, nothing ! There, don't attract 
attention," she answers hastily. 

She is thinking though, how wasted has been her 
life. She has heard Hector D'Estrange's statement, 
and believes it implicitly. She is thinking that others 
may not, though. If Hector D 'Estrange is con- 
demned, well, Dodo Manderton feels that she would 
die to save him. 


MRS. DE LARA," queries Hector D'Estraiige, in 
a voice in which respect and tenderness are 
mingled, " you have heard the statement for the 
prosecution in which you and I are accused of undue 
intimacy ? You have heard my reply, in which I 
declare you to be my mother ? Which statement is 
correct ? " 

" Yours," she replies in a firm, clear voice. " I am 
your mother." 

" And my father ? " he again asks. 

" Was Captain Harry Kintore." 

'' Both Weston and Victoire state that they gave 
you a month's notice. Is this a fact ? " 

"It is not," she replies firmly; ''it was I who gave 
it to them. To Weston for being drunk and imper- 
tinent, to Victoire for the latter fault." 

" It is stated by Weston that you were in the habit 
of receiving frequent visits from Lord Westray ? Is 
this so ? " 

" It is not," she answers quickly; " the statement is 


a wicked falsehood. Ouly once he obtained admit- 
tance, when he came to insult me with the proposal 
that I should re-marry him and forget the past. You 
came in when he was there, and requested him to 
leave the house." 

" Did he do so ? " 

" At once," she replies. 

" Since then have you been annoyed by his presence, 
or in any other way ? " 

" By his presence, no, until the night on which he 
is alleged to have been murdered, but by letters, 

'' You have kept or destroyed those letters ? " 

" Every one is destroyed ! " she replies almost 
fiercely; " most of them unopened." 

" Can you remember the date when Rita Vernon 
first came to you, and who sent her ? " 

" Yes, well," answers Speranza. " It was the 
21st of June, 1894. She brought a letter from you, 
written at the instance of the Duke of Ravensdale. 
I at once made her my secretary and general amanu- 

" Has she served you faithfully ? " 

" None more so," she replies. 

" Mrs. de Lara, you have heard Mr. Trackem's 
statement, that you sent her with a note to him on 
the day of the supposed murder. Is this true, or 
false ? " 

" False I " she replies sternly. 


" And you have heard Victoire's declaration that 
you left a letter for her, apprising her of your depar- 
ture for London the night of the supposed murder. 
Is this true ? " 

"■ It is not," she answers. " I wrote no letter." 

" Will you give his lordship and the gentlemen of 
the jury your version of what occurred on the night 
in question." 

She gives it in a firm, clear voice, without hesita- 
tion or faltering. She tells the facts as we have 
described them in a former chapter. A shudder runs 
through the court at their mere recital. Is it possible 
that such horrors reflect the truth ? Sir Anthony 
smiles superciliously. 

" Hallucination," he mutters audibly. " Many women 
are subject to it." 

She looks at him contemptuously, but scorns to 
further notice the great man's brutality. 

" You swear, Mrs. de Lara, that what you have 
stated is absolutely correct ? " 

"Absolutely," she answers calmly; " I swear it." 

Cross-examined by the Attorney-General. 

" You will swear that you were not in the habit of 
receiving Lord Westray, Mrs. de Lara ? Now, pray 
be careful, very careful." 

Again the same contemptuous glance, as she proudly 
replies, " I swear it." 

" And you mean to say that you never sent Rita 
Vernon with a letter to Mr. Trackem, or left a note 


for Victoire Hester on the day of Lord Westray's 
murder ? Again I ask yon to be careful." 

" I did not ! " is her fierce reply. 

Sir Anthony puts his hands on his hips. There is 
a self-satisfied smile on his face as he glances round 
the court, but he questions no further. 

" I have no more to ask the witness," he remarks 

Rita Yernon is next called and questioned. She 
describes her first meeting with the Duke of Ravensdale, 
and what followed. She gives in simple, unafi'ected 
language the story of the attack on Speranza and the 
part she played in it. Again Sir Anthony is heard to 
mutter the word "hallucination." He has no ques- 
tions to put to the witness — yet stay — as she is about 
to leave the box he jumps up. 

" One moment please, Miss Vernon," he remarks 
in a suave voice. " I j)resume, of course, that you 
are grateful to the Duke of liavensdale for all his 
kindness ? " 

There is a flash in her grey eyes, but she answers 

" Need you ask it, sir ? I would die for his Grace." 

The next witness is the duke himself. He corro- 
borates the statements made by Hector D'E strange, 
Speranza de Lara, and Rita Vernon. His evidence is 
listened to with marked attention, and the keenest 
interest by the Court. Sir Anthony does not cross- 
examine him. 



As he steps down, Hector D'Estrange's voice is 
heard speaking. 

" I have one more witness to call," he is saying. 
" This will be my last, my lord. I call for Dr. 

A white-haired man enters the box and is sworn. 

" Dr. Merioneth, do you recall attending Mrs. de 
Lara many years ago ? " inquires the accused. 

" I do," replies the witness. 

" Will you state for what purpose, and how many 
years have elapsed since then ?" is the next question. 

" I attended Mrs. de Lara in her confinement, and 
it is twenty-eight years ago," answers the old doctor. 

" Where, Dr. Merioneth ? " 

" At Ancona, sir, on the Adriatic." 

" The child was born well and healthy, I believe ? " 

" A beautiful child indeed," replies the doctor. " I 
wish all children resembled it.". 

" Thank you, Dr. Merioneth." 

" Stay, I have a word, please, to put to you," exclaims 
the Attorney-General, jumping up. " You have not 
told us the sex of the child, doctor." 

For a moment the old man hesitates. Then he 
looks sadly at the prisoner. 

" A girl it was," he replies in a low voice. 

" Ha 1 a girl you say ? " echoes the counsel for the 
prosecution in a loud voice, as he looks round the 
court with a knowing air. " Thank you, doctor. I 
am greatly obliged to you for that information." 


This concludes the evidence for the defence. 

Then Sir Anthony rises slowly and portentously. 
His hands are behind him, he leans perilously forward, 
and his gown is stuck out behind lil^e a lady's dress- 
improver. He appears thoroughly satisfied with the 
appearance of importance which he believes this 
attitude gives him, but it is not so certain that others 
share that opinion. 

" My lord, and gentlemen of the jury," he begins 
in a somewhat pompous voice, " the case before us 
is a very peculiar one, yet I hope to detain you at 
very little length in reviewing it. The prisoner, Mr. 
D'Estrange, is accused of a base and horrible murder, 
and it is my painful duty to endeavour to bring home 
to the jury the absolute certainty of his guilt. It will 
be necessary in so doing to show motive for the crime, 
and I think I shall be able to point to this motive as 
conclusive, jealousy prompting and being at the bottom 
of it. It is now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, 
nigh on thirty years ago that Mrs. de Lara, then 
known as Lady Altai, broke faith with her husband, 
whom in wedding she had sworn to love, honour, and 
obey, and shamelessly fled with her lover. Captain 
Harry Kintore. It is known that Lord Altai, who 
was devoted to his wife, pursued the two, coming up 
with them at Ancona. Here, having confronted them, 
a fierce dispute ensued. It is said that Captain 
Kintore drew a revolver, and in self-defence Lord 
Altai fired at him, unfortunately with fatal effect. 


I wish to dwell as lightly as possible upon a matter 
so terrible, and therefore pass on to the next event 
in this painful story, namely, the birth of a child. 
Dr. Merioneth has been called, ostensibly to bear 
witness to that birth. Unfortunately he has marred 
the case for the defence by informing us that the child 
to which Mrs. de Lara gave birth was a female. Now, 
my lord, one of the chief points of Mr. D'Estrange's 
defence is, that the intimacy which we declare has 
existed between him and this lady for so long a time 
is impossible, inasmuch as Mrs. de Lara is his mother. 
She has herself so stated this, and furthermore pointed 
to Captain Kintore as being Mr. D'Estrange's father. 
This statement must fall to the ground in face of what 
Dr. Merioneth has told us. So much for that portion 
of the defence, as I do not suppose Mr. D'E strange 
is going to pose before us as a woman. It would 
appear that Mrs. de Lara is not averse to this mode 
of life. She married Lord Altai by her own free will. 
Next we find her leaving him and electing a new lover 
in the person of Captain Kintore, and of late years 
we have direct evidence that Mr. D'Estrange has been 
the favoured man. Yet not only this, but the evidence 
sworn to by Charles Weston, Victoire Hester, and 
Mr. Trackem points to the existence of a secret inti- 
macy carried on by this lady with her divorced husband, 
Lord Westray. Both she and Mr. D'Estrange now 
tell us that only once did the late earl obtain admis- 
sion to Mrs. de Lara's house, and then it was in 


02)positiou to tlie latter's wishes. I leave you to judge 
if this statement be possible of either acceptance or 
belief, in face of what the witnesses referred to have 
told ns. 

" We have ]ieard some evidence likewise of the way 
in which Rita Vernon became introduced into Mrs. 
de Lara's household. It appears that she was formerly 
no novice to Mr. Trackem's house. She does not deny 
this. In fact, how could she ? Does it not strike you, 
gentlemen, that Rita Vernon was just a peculiar class 
of young woman to put in the responsible position 
described by Mrs. de Lara, and does it not seem very 
clear that the use to which her services were put was 
of a totally different nature ? We were told distinctly 
by Mr. Trackem that Mrs. de Lara sent him a note 
by Rita Vernon on the day of the murder, instructing 
him to retain his house for her and Lord Westray. 
Mrs. de Lara denies having written this note. I 
produce it, and it runs as follows: — 

" ' Sir, — Please to reserve the house to-night as 

usual for Lord Westray and myself. We shall arrive 

between twelve and one. 

" S. DE Lara.' 

" What is to be thought, my lord, of the veracity of 
such witnesses as Mrs. de Lara and Rita Vernon, for 
the girl denies having delivered this note ? Yet here 
we have it, and we have furthermore the fact, that on 
the night when Mr. D'Estrange shot Lord Westray, 


Mrs. de Lara was found alone with that nobleman in 
Mr. Trackem's house. And, gentlemen, as against 
this very clear and circumstantial evidence, we are 
asked by Mrs. de Lara and Rita Vernon to accept a 
romance which all sane men can only regard in the 
light of hallucination, if not, as I regret to believe, down- 
right deliberate falsehood. We are asked to believe 
that Mrs. de Lara was waylaid in her own grounds at 
night, overcome by ruffians, and carried off bound hand 
and foot to London. We are asked to believe that a 
slight, frail girl like Rita Vernon performed a task 
which a man of herculean strength would have found 
almost beyond his power to accomj)lish. We are 
asked, in fact, to believe that Rita Vernon, whom you 
have had an opportunity of seeing, could cling to a 
brougham between Windsor and London, and then 
sum up sufficient force to make her way to Montragee 
House at half-jiast two in the morning, where of course, 
like in a fairy tale, she finds the Duke of Ravensdale 
and Mr. D'Estrange all ready to accompany her to the 
release of the lady fair. The story defeats its own 
end by its wild improbability, unsupported by fact, 
and establishes at once the reasonable and circumstan- 
tial evidence of the side for the prosecution. I main- 
tain that there is proof positive that Mr. D'Estrange, 
assisted by Rita Vernon, — wlio in this instance betrayed 
her mistress, — came upon the unfortunate earl with 
intent to murder. He admits that he sliot him, but 
he declines to give any further information as to what 


he did with Lord Westray after leaving the house in 
Verdegrease Crescent. We find, moreover, that the 
three letters purporting to come from Lord Westray, 
and addressed to Mr. Trackem, are all written on 
paper which Victoire Hester has identified as the 
quality and class always used by Mr. D'Estrauge and 
Mrs. de Lara, and exactly similar to the paper on 
which the notes to Mr. Trackem and Victoire Hester 
were penned on the day of the murder. The writing 
of the last note is denied. Again I meet that denial 
by producing the note. It runs thus : — 

" ' Hester, — I have gone up to town for a few days, 
will let you know when to expect me back. Miss 
Vernon has accompanied me. 

" ' Faithfully yours, 

" ' S. DE Lara.' 

" Such facts leave very little doubt in my mind but 
that Mrs. de Lara had arranged to meet Lord Westray, 
and that Rita Vernon betrayed her intention to Mr. 
D'Estrange. Such facts convince me that this latter re- 
solved on vengeance. He deliberately went to Verde- 
grease Crescent, and shot Lord Westray, and finally, 
under cover of repentance, decoyed him from the house, 
and got rid of him somehow and somewhere. What 
follows ? A letter arrives for Mr. Trackem, who is 
frightened out of his wits at the turn affairs have 
taken — a letter purporting to come from Lord West- 
ray. By a strange coincidence, this letter aud others 


following are all written on tlie same class of paper 
as that used by Mr. D'Estrange in Mrs. cle Lara's 
house. Lastly, the very suit which Lord Westray was 
known to have been wearing the night he was shot 
at, has been found buried deep in the ground on the 
property of Mrs. de Lara at Windsor, bearing evidence 
of having been a long time under the earth, and in 
close proximity to it the body of a man reduced to a 
skeleton was also discovered. Around the neck of 
this skeleton a gold chain and locket was found, and 
on the little finger a plain gold ring. These have 
been identified by the late earl's valet, who has 
sworn to seeing them on the earl's person the day he 
disappeared. It would be superfluous for me to detain 
you with further details, the points of evidence which 
I have submitted being, it appears to me, too clear for 
it to be possible to draw any other conclusion but the 
one that Mr. D'Estrange deliberately, and of malice 
aforethought, did shoot at Lord Westray with intent 
to kill, and did afterwards, in some manner not yet 
nnravelled, make away with the life of that unfortu- 
nate nobleman. I ask you, therefore, to put aside from 
your minds Mr. D'Estrange's high position and social 
status, and to find a verdict in accordance with the 
evidence before you." 

The great man sits down hastily, and glances round 
the court. An almost unnatural stillness reigns 
therein. Every eye is bent on the prisoner, and then 
on the beautiful, pale, gold-headed woman, whose 


gaze is riveted on lier child's face with an intensity 
terrible to witness. But there is nothing but calm- 
ness on the features of Hector D'Estrange, in whose 
eyes the confident, triumphant expression shines, which 
conscious innocence alone could create. 

" I will endeavour, like the Attorney-General," he 
observes, " to detaiu the Court as shortly as possible. 
But at the very outset I would wish to point out to 
you that the evidence of Weston and Victoire is not 
trustworthy, as being that of discharged servants. 
Mrs. de Lara has told you most emphatically that 
Lord Westray paid her no visits, save the one referred 
to by the coachman, Alfred Hawkins. She has told 
you-how that visit was forced upon her, and how Lord 
Westray was ordered out of the house by myself. 
Tliere is absolutely no evidence corroborative of that 
given by Charles Weston, which I can only character- 
ise as pure and malicious invention, the same remark 
applying to the false testimony of Victoire Hester. 
This woman has declared that Mrs. de Lara wrote her 
a note the night of the supposed murder apprising her 
of her \dsit to London. Yet these visits with Mrs. de 
Lara were of frerj[uent occurrence, and she had never 
before found it necessary to acquaint Victoire of her 
movements. My lord, I declare the letter to be 
a forgery, as I also declare the letter to which Mr. 
Trackem refers as coming from Mrs. de Lara to be 
likewise. My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, the 
Attorney-General has passed a cruel and unnecessary 


sneer on Mrs. de Lara's account of the ruffianly and 
brutal attack made upon her by the undoubtedly hired 
scoundrels of her most bitter foe. He has attributed 
all to romance, hallucination, deliberate falsehood. 
His insinuations are brutal and cowardly. My mother, 
like myself, would scorn to tell a lie. We leave that 
to the poltroons and cowards who seek by forgery and 
perjury to swear away the life of one who is innocent. 
I maintain that Mrs. de Lara's account and description 
of what took place is in every essential particular true, 
while the corroborative evidence of Rita Vernon bears 
it out in every detail. The Duke of Ravensdale has 
clearly stated to you how the poor girl sought him at 
Montragee House, and the state she was in after her 
terrible drive. The Attorney-General smiles scornfully 
at the idea of a woman being capable of such pluck 
and heroism as llita Vernon evinced on that occasion. 
I cast back the slur into his teeth. I tell him that if 
he wishes to find true courage and heroism combined, 
he must go to a woman to discover it. But it is not 
to such as he, that women will go for justice. 

" And now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I 
ask you to put yourselves in my place. Had you been 
called to that house of ill fame, and there found a 
being whom you honoured, loved, and respected, in 
the hands and ])ower of her bitterest enemy, bound 
hand and foot, gagged, bleeding, and helpless, would 
you not have acted as I did, and in the fury and horror 
of the moment lost all i)ower of restraint ? I admit 


that I shot Lord Westray ; I have never denied it. But 
I do deny that I caused his death ; and what is more, 
/ confdently believe that he is alive at this moment^ 
and that this foul accusation is a plot to ruin me, to be, 
in fact, revenged on yonder noble lady, who has through 
life resented his brutality, defied and scouted him, and 
refused to submit to his hideous desires. I make no 
pretence of being able to account for his disappearance, 
for the alleged discovery of his body and clothes, for 
the letters written in his handwriting on the paper used 
by myself and Mrs. de Lara. I am unable to under- 
stand it all save in the light of a base, foul, and 
detestable plot which has for its object revenge. Of 
that I know him to be perfectly capable. 

" And now, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, 1 
have but one more statement to make ere I close these 
remarks. I once more positively affirm that Mrs. de 
Lara is my mother, and that the intimacy of which I 
am accused is a base and unfounded fabrication." 

He has folded his arms, and his voice has ceased. 
A burst of applause greets him as he stops S2)eaking. 
Vainly the judge calls for order. 

" This is an exhibition that I will not tolerate," 
exclaims that worthy functionary. " Another such a 
disgraceful proceeding, and I will cause the whole court 
to be instantly cleared." 

This produces silence. Sir James Grumpy is a bit 
of a martinet. The public knows that he means what 
he says. 


And now lie proceeds in his summing ii^). Very 
carefully he goes over all the points advanced by both 
sides, but it is apparent to all, from the first, that the 
summing np is most unfavourable to the accused. 
It takes him about an hour to get through his task, 
and all the time Hector D'Estrange stands motionless, 
with folded arms and immovable features. Only now 
and again the dark blue eyes wander to where 
Sperauza is sitting, with the Duke of Ravensdale by 
her side. 

The summing up is over at length, and the jury 
have retired to consider their verdict. Apparently, 
however, they had made up their minds beforehand, 
for they do not keep the Court long waiting. In a few 
minutes every one has reassembled. 

" Gentlemen of the jury, have you considered your 
verdict ? " rings out a harsh, sing-song voice. 

" We have," answers the foreman. 

" You find the accused guilty or not guilty of the 
murder of Lord Westray ? " 

Amidst a silence, terrible in its intensity, comes the 
answer — 

" Guilty." 

A thrill of horror runs through the court. There 
is hardly a dry eye within it. The duke has got 
Speranza's hand in his, but she never moves. 

" Hector D'Estrange, have you any reason to give 
why sentence of death should not be passed upon 
you ? " again inq[uires the harsli, sing-song voice. 


" I have," be answers, with a low musical laugh. 
" My reason is, that if I am put to death, murder will 
indeed be committed, for I am guiltless. I wish to 
add also one word of explanation, for I see the time 
has come. Both Sir Anthony and the learned judge 
have laid great stress on the apparent falsehood of 
which they allege I have been guilty, in declaring that 
1 am the child of Captain Harry Kintore and Mrs. 
de Lara. They point to the fact that Dr. Merioneth 
has declared that the child born at Ancona was a girl. 
Has it never struck you, my lord, and gentlemen of 
the jury, that a girl could do what I have done in 
youth, a woman accomplish what I have accomplished 
in maturer years ? No. I plainly see that this has 
not struck you, for you are men. You will not acknow- 
ledge that a woman can equal man, and with fair 
opportunities rise to power and fame. Yet such has 
been my aim in life to prove, for this I have struggled ; 
and had it not been for the base machinations of 
enemies, would assuredly have lived to triumphantly 
achieve. Know, however, that Hector D'E strange is 
no liar. If for sixteen years he has practised on 
Society what may be called a fraud, it was for the sake 
of righting a terrible wrong. My lord, and gentlemen 
of the jury, I again declare myself to be the child of 
Captain Kintore and Mrs. de Lara, but I confess my 
sex. In Hector DE'strange the world beholds a 
woman — her name, Gloria de Lara." 

Amidst confusion and excitement unparalleled 


sentence of death is jjassed. Yet, as the judge's 
words come to a close, a voice rings through the 
court, a voice in which defiance and love are mingled. 
It is a woman's voice. Many recognise it as Flora 

" As there is a God above," it cries, " Gloria de 
Lara shall not die ! " 

But even as all eyes are turned in search of the 
speaker, Flora Desmond has vanished. 


GUILTY ! " " Condemned to death ! " " Hector 
D'Estrange a woman ! " The words have passed 
through the court, along the corridors, and out into the 
street beyond, where the crowds press eagerly forward 
to hear the news. It is received at first with astonish- 
ment and incredulity. Some people call it a hoax, 
others laugh at the statement as a wild improbability, 
and wonder what the real truth is. But even as they 
discuss the rumour, a movement is visible opposite 
the court, as an officer of the White Guards' Regiment 
makes her appearance outside. An orderly mounted 
on a grey horse is holding an empty-saddled white one 
in readiness, and as the officer makes her appearance, 
brings the steed alongside the steps leading up to the 

The officer is no stranger to the crowd. Flora 
Desmond's features are well known to it. Is she 
not the leader of Hector D'Estrange's especial regi- 
ment, a regiment entirely drawn from the women of 
" the people " ? Whatever may be the feeling of the 


middle-class and a portion of that one whicli claims 
to rank above it, in regard to Hector D'Estrange, one 
thing is certain, that amidst the jjoor and the needy, 
amidst the suffering and the struggling, that name is 
a talisman to conjure by. 

She comes down the steps hurriedly, and mounts 
her horse in haste. The crowd sways and presses 
towards her in spite of the efforts of large numbers 
of police to repress them. 

" The verdict ? " they shout inquiringly. " Tell us 
the verdict ! " 

She stands up in her stirrups and looks at that 
sea of faces. Enemies there may be amongst them, 
hundreds, perhaps, antagonistic to Hector D'Estrange, 
but amidst the rough faces of the thousands that press 
around her, she knows that the majority are true as 

" Guilty ! " she calls out. " He is condemned to die I 
I mistake the i)eople, however, if they will believe the 
verdict or acquiesce in the sentence. Say you, whom 
he loves, whose hard lot he has struggled to raise, will 
you permit it ? " 

" Never ! " comes the fierce shout from hundreds, 
nay, thousands of throats. " Hector D'Estrange shall 
not die ! " 

" I knew it," she rej^lies proudly. " Justice shall be 
upheld. I knew the people would be true to him, 
men as well as women. He shall not die ! " 

They cheer and cheer again as she makes her way 


through the crowd followed by her orderly. It gives 
room to her willingly, and opens a passage for her 
horse. She rides along rapidly in the direction of 
a quiet side street, well away from the thronging 
crowd of people. Even as she does so the rumbling 
wheels of the prison-van strike on her ear. She can 
see it approaching, surrounded by a strong force 
of police, and as she does so, she urges on her 

Flora Desmond passes rapidly along the quiet, 
deserted street, until she nearly reaches the end, and 
then turns her horse down a narrow alley leading 
therefrom. This brings her into a wide, spacious 
yard, around which a big square building is built, in 
the centre of which is a large archway with strong 
iron gates, guarded by two mounted sentries. They 
salute her as she rides up, and the iron gates are 
unlocked at once. She rides through them, and 
enters what appears to be an immense riding-school, 
in which are drawn up a hundred troopers of the 
White Regiment. Her eye scans them keenly and 
rapidly. They are in perfect order, and look fit for 
any work. Every face is turned towards her. 

" Hector D'Estrange has been declared guilty," she 
says in a clear, distinct voice, "and is condemned to 
die ! I am here to lead you to his rescue. If any 
one is to die, it shall be we who will do so, not him. 
Follow me, guards. There is not a moment to be 



She places herself at their head. They pass out 
into the courtyard, and the gates are locked behind 
them. The sentries fall into their j^laces, and the 
troopers, six abreast, follow in the wake of their 
gallant-hearted leader. At a smart trot they pass 
down the qniet street. In the distance they can hear 
the roar of the crowd, which is cheering loudly; and 
they know that Hector D'Estrange is being removed 
to the prison from which his accusers hope never again 
to see him issue. 

They are nearing the crowd now, for it is surging 
their way. The prison-van is coming along at a smart 
pace, guarded by its bevy of policemen. It is not a 
hundred yards from where Flora Desmond, at the 
head of her hundred and two guards, sits motionless 
on her horse, for she has called a halt, and is awaiting 
their coming. 

Suddenly she stands up in her stirrups and turns 
to her troopers. At the same moment she draws her 

" Forward ! " she cries, waving it above her head. 
"Forward, guards of his regiment; rescue him or 
die ! " 

She has put her horse in motion as she speaks, 
and with the rush of a whirlwind the White Guards 
bear down upon the prison-van. The policemen catch 
sight of them coming, and close around it manfully. 
The driver whips up the horses, and urges them along 
at a canter. " Of what avail ? " The White Guards 


are upon them; nothing can withstand the charge. 
It is the work of a moment. 

" Sever the traces ; cut the horses loose ! " shouts 
Flora Desmond, as she gallops up alongside one of 
the animals, and, seizing its rein, brings it up on to 
its haunches, one of the troopers doing likewise by 
the other. 

They obey her promptly and rapidly, while the 
remainder engage the police escort, who resist gallantly. 
" Of what avail ? " The crowd has closed round, 
willing and eager to assist in the work of rescue. The 
odds are too great to allow the representatives of law 
and order to prevail. 

Twice over Flora Desmond has summoned the 
policeman inside to unlock the door of the van, but 
he stands to his guns and refuses. " If you do not," 
she cries, " I shall be forced to fire through the lock 
until I break it, and the bullets may injure you. Come, 
man, no use resisting now." 

But the policeman is staunch in the performance 
of what he considers his duty, and remains firm in 
his determination not to betray his trust. 

*' Then throw yourself flat on the ground, my man," 
again calls out Flora Desmond, " for I am going to 

She pauses for a moment to give him time to obey, 
then raises a revolver, and fires once, twice, thrice 
through the lock, which gives way at last. The 
crowd cheers loudly, the door of the van is flung 


open, and in a moment Flora Desmond is beside 
Gloria de Lara. 

" Thank God ! " she exclaims. " Here, come this 
way. I have a horse all ready for you." 

The policeman is lying motionless on the floor of 
the van. The two step across him, and pass quickly 
out of the wheeled prison. As they do so the people 
press forward to welcome their hero, for to them, in 
spite of the rumours, Gloria de Lara is still Hector 
D'Estrange. She has mounted her horse, and raised 
her hand to enjoin silence. The police escort has 
been overcome ; its members are passively accepting 
what to them is the inevitable. They have sought 
to do their duty. They can do no more. 

" Friends," she calls out in the voice they know 
and love so well, " I have been unjustly accused and 
unjustly condemned. If it were not so, I would not 
accept the rescue brought me by my faithful women 
guards, aided by your kindly and generous devotion. 
My enemies are those who would fight against true 
progress, and the abolition of scandals and wrongs 
which must destroy this great nation with their wicked- 
ness, unless abolished in time. I have sought to 
probe to their root these scandals and these wrongs, 
have sought to submit to you the quickest and surest 
way to remedy them. I tell you that the greatest 
evils we have to face are the social ones. To them 
I ascribe all the sufferings and sins of the poor, the 
sins and false position of the rich. There arc bad 


laws which must be done away with, good ones which 
must be set up to accomplish such social reform. 
Before yon can do this yon mnst set Nature on an 
even footing, and do away with the artificial barriers 
which you have raised against woman's progress and 
advancement; for until she has the same powers 
and opportunities as man, a thorough and exhaustive 
reform of the evils which afflict Society, will never 
be efficiently undertaken. 

" And now, my friends, we are on the eve of a great 
revolution. If the people will stand by me, I will 
stand by them. Let us loyally determine to carry 
this great question to a successful issue, nor rest till 
it has been accomplished. I am going to trust myself 
amongst those whom I have ever loved, wliose con- 
dition I have sought to raise. Yet ere doing so, I 
have one confession to make to you. Hector D'E strange, 
whose advancement has been rapid and unparalleled 
almost in the annals of statesmanship, must be no 
longer known to you under that name. The time has 
come when I must confess myself. Before you you 
see one of the despised and feeble sex, the unfitted 
to rule, the inferior of man. / am a icoman ! Hence- 
forth I am no longer Hector D'Estrange, but Gloria 
de Lara." 

She has ceased speaking, and begun to move her 
horse through the crowd. Men and women press 
round her to kiss her hand. Poor men are more 
generous than rich ones. With rare exceptions, the 

1 82 GLORIANA ; 

fire of suffering purifies from self, and makes the heart 
appreciate true worth more readily. It is the people's 
voice that generally forces on all great reforms ; it is 
the people's will that carries everything before it, 
when the reform required is a just one. 

It never enters these men's minds to depreciate her 
deeds, to belittle her acts, because she is a woman. 
Their reason tells them that she understands their 
wants, that her great heart is in sympathy with their 
needs, that she has sought to help them when in 
power, and that now her enemies have got the upper 
hand, all their loyalty and devotion is needed to 
support the cause, which she has told them lies at 
the root of all future social reform, which means 
progress, comfort, and happiness for the toiling millions. 
But there is a sound of many horses' feet coming 
towards them, and all eyes are turned in the direction 
whence the sounds come. The ever-increasing crowd 
sways to and fro, expectant and anxious, instinctively 
apprehending what is to come. 

" Form up, guards ! " Flora Desmond's voice is 
lieard shouting. " Close round her, and defend her 
with your lives. It is not we who seek to spill blood, 
but if our rulers will have it so, then let it be. We 
will show them that woman is not the helpless coward 
they imagine. If necessary, we will fight to save her. 
Retreat in good order on Montragee House." 

They close round her, obedient to the order. The 
movement is executed silently but swiftly, and with 


an exactitude which sj^eaks volumes for the discipline 
of the White Guards. " Shade of Whyte-Melville," 
could ye arise now, you would behold your prophecy 
an accomplished fact, for the Amazons, whom you 
predicted, if rendered amenable to discipline, could 
conquer the world, are before you there. The sounds 
have assumed shape, and a troop of Horse Guards 
Blue, hastily turned out to support the arm of the 
law, are in view now. The horses have been ridden 
at a good pace, for the foam studs their black shining 
coats. At the word of command the troopers rein up. 

The position is a difficult one. Between them and 
the White Guards a dense, impenetrable crowd is surg- 
ing. To charge that crowd means death to many, yet 
it can only be compassed in this manner. The order 
which the officer in command has received is, however, 
specific. It is to disperse the crowd, to give every 
assistance to the police, and to recaj)ture the prisoner 
at any cost. 

It is a soldier's duty to obey superior orders, nor 
question the why or wherefore. It is no part of a 
soldier's duty to use his own discretion. 

" His not to reason why, 
His but to do and die." 

So at least thinks Colonel Jack Delamere, as his 
quick eye takes in the scene. Duty is a strange thing. 
It nerves the heart not only to physical but to moral 
deeds of courage. Surelv it is no insiojnificant act of 


the latter whicli draws from that gallant officer the 
command to obey an order which he loathes, for, apart 
from all other considerations, Jack Delamere loves 
Flora Desmond, and knowing her as he does, he is 
aware that the order will probably mean death to the 
being for whom he would willingly sacrifice his own 

" Make way, my friends," he calls out imploringly 
to the people. " Make way, I beseech of yon. My 
orders are to disperse the crowd, and I must obey 
them. If you do not make way, I shall be forced to 
order my men to charge." 

A loud shout of defiance is the only reply which he 
receives. There are heroes and heroines in that crowd. 
They are resolved that only over their trampled and 
crushed bodies, shall Jack Delamere and his Blues 
come up with the White Guards, who are retreating in 
good order with Gloria de Lara in their midst. Every 
minute is precious for this latter, and the crowd will 
do its best to afford these precious minutes. 

There is a tremor in Jack Delamere's voice as he 
once more puts his request. The crowd mistake it for 
a sign of anger, and defy him with jeers and sneers. 

" Then be it so," he says sadly, as with a heavy 
heart he gives the order which must bring death to 

His men obey. The black horses charge into the 
swaying mass, and men and women go down before 
them. Some make a desperate fight for it before 


they succumb, clinging to the animals' bridles, and 
attempting to force them back from tlieir onward 
career. But the troopers have their swords out, and 
the unarmed cannot prevail over the armed. Never- 
theless there is no surrender, no cry for quarter or 
mercy. The crowd are in earnest in their desire to let 
the White Guards get away with their beloved charge, 
and their resistance is dogged and determined. 

The police have joined in, and are using their batons 
freely. Shouts and cries resound, and the crowd grows 
denser every moment, swelled by the numbers that 
have hastened to the scene. Dead and dying are 
lying on the cold stone pavements of the street. 
Even the latter are forgotten in the fierce fight that 
is raging, a fight undertaken by the peoj)le that the 
idol of their hearts may live. 

It is an unequal contest, and can only end one way. 
Nigh every trooper has cut his way through at the 
expense of many a life. They are re-forming now, and 
with Jack Delamere at their head set off in pursuit of 
the White Guards, the crowd following as best it can 
in the rear. 

But its devotion and sturdy resistance have given the 
start to Gloria de Lara's escort, and ride as they may, 
the Blues on their black horses cannot come up with 
the lightly mounted greys of the White Guards. 
These flash along Whitehall at full speed, with their 
precious charge in their midst. Another moment, 
and the hoofs of the horses are clattering through the 


entrance to Montragee House. It is tlie work of an 
instant for the great folding doors to unclose. Once 
througli them, and Gloria de Lara is safe. Flora 
Desmond has laid her hand on the bridle of this 
latter's horse. 

" Quick ! " she exclaims. " Pass in there, Gloria. 
Ah ! do not delay. Remember that your life means 
liberty to thousands. It is not a question of self. I 
know well how you would wish to stay and help us, 
but your duty is to preserve your life first. No one 
doubts your courage." 

" God bless you, Flora ! Yes, I will do my duty, for 
the sake of the great cause that shall triumph." 

She springs from her horse as she speaks, and 
as one of the troopers leads it towards the stables, she 
turns to the others. " Brave guards," she exclaims, 
"none know better than you that Gloria de Lara is 
grateful for your devotion and staunch loyalty." 

" We would die for you ! " they shout enthusiastic- 
ally, and many of their voices tremble. Even as they 
cease, the Duke of Ravensdale is on the threshold of 
his noble mansion. His hand is on Gloria's arm. 

" Great God be praised ! " bursts from his white 
lips. " Gloria, they shall never touch you here ! " 

He draws her gently into the great front hall, and 
the door is closed and barred behind them. There is 
a triumphant smile on Flora Desmond's features; her 
quick ear has caught the sound of galloping horses. 
" Do you hear them ? " she laughs defiantly. " They 


come too late. Brave people ! They have done their 
part well, and she is saved. Now follow me, guards. 
She has no need of us just yet. We must seek a 
safety for the future good that we may do, and for the 
sake of the cause we love. There is work ahead of 
us — hard work, and plenty too, for the revolution has 
besfuu ! " 


" ly/TY dear, liow did you ever manage to get here ? 
-LtX How could you venture out ? Isn't it terrible, 
my dear ? " exclaims Mrs. de Lacy Trevor, as her 
friend Lady Manderton enters her boudoir in the snug 
Piccadilly mansion, already introduced to the reader, 
on the morning following upon the events related in 
the last chapter. Outside, the streets are filled with 
an angry and excited crowd. The rougher element 
have taken advantage of the melee, to introduce them- 
selves into its midst, and are parading the streets, 
causing confusion and terror to the more respectable 
and orderly portion of the crowd, whose presence is to 
be accounted for by totally different circumstances to 
those which have attracted the irredeemable portion 
of Society. The news of the verdict and sentence on 
Hector D'Estrange, the confession as to sex of the 
late Prime Minister, the daring and masterly rescue of 
the prisoner by Flora Desmond and her White Guards, 
the devoted resistance of the crowd to the charge of 
the Blues under Colonel Delamere, and the ultimate 


escape of Gloria de Lara from her pursuers, has spread 
like wild-fire through the metropolis. London has 
been in a state of the greatest excitement throughout 
the night. The most startling and improbable rumours 
have been afloat as to the intentions of the Govern- 
ment, while the people are loudly clamouring for a 
squashing of the verdict, an annulment of the sentence, 
and a free pardon for their idol, to many more than 
ever popular now that her sex is disclosed. For, 
let it be whispered, that this disclosure has operated 
in winning over to Gloria de Lara's side many a 
wavering mind, which is able now to recognise in 
the brilliant successful life of Hector D'Estrange, 
the unanswerable and irrefutable proof of woman's 
power to equal man in all things, provided fair play 
and equal opportunities be given to her. Of the 
murder of Lord Westray, her adherents believe her to 
be absolutely guiltless, and are loud in condemnation 
of the verdict. 

Such is the position of affairs on the morning in 
question, — a position sufficiently grave, to warrant the 
calling out of the troops to assist the police in main- 
taining order, amidst this wholly unparalleled scene 
of public protest and sympathy. 

There is a quiet smile on Lady Manderton's face 
as she answers her friend. 

" I came here on foot, Vivi, and I have come to say 
good-bye. Ah, Vivi ! you need not stare, dear. I'm 
not the old Dodo you have been accustomed to. Great 


God ! why were not my eyes opened before, all the 
time that Hector D'E strange has been working for 
us ? But it is not too late. I can retrieve the past 
even yet, by working on behalf of Gloria de Lara's 
cause. Ay, Vivi, it is a cause well worth dying for." 

" Why, Dodo, you must be clean gone cracked ! 
What are you going to do ? " 

Lady Manderton takes a newspaper out of her 
pocket, and hands it to Mrs. de Lacy Trevor. " Have 
you read this ? " she inquires at the same time. 

Mrs. de Lacy Trevor opens it and reads. 


Speeches of the Attorney-General and 

Hector D'Estrange. 

The Judge's Summing Up. 

Verdict and Sentence. 

Extraordinary Confession of the Prisoner. 

Sentence of Death. 

Daring Rescue of the Prisoner 

BY Lady Flora Desmond and White Guards. 

Determined Resistance to the Military. 

Great Loss of Life. 

Death of the Policeman Fortescue, who was in 

Charge of the Prisoner. 

Warrants out for the Arrest of Gloria de Lara 

AND Lady Flora Desmond. 

Beneath these startling announcements Mrs. de Lacy 


Trevor further reads much of which she did not know. 
Then she lays down the paper. 

" My dear, it's like a dream," she exclaims. " What 
will happen ? " 

" What has happened already," answers Lady 
Manderton. " Revolution. Vivi," she continues 
eagerly, " I sujjpose it's no use asking you to take 
the step I'm going to ? I'm going to throw in my 
lot with Gloria de Lara, and help her by every means 
in my poor power." 

" Dodo ! what do you mean ? " cries her friend in a 
horrified voice. 

'' I mean what I have c: jd, Vivi," answers Lady 
Manderton in a quiet, sad voice. " Vivi, I can't tell 
you how terribly I feel my past wasted life. But it 
was not all my fault. I was brought up to nothing 
better, and probably should never have realised it, 
if Hector D 'Estrange had not been born. Ah, Vivi I 
Gloria's life has opened my eyes. I see now that 
if woman had fair play, women in the position of you 
and I, Vivi, would never throw away and waste our 
lives as we have done. But, thank God, there is a 
chance of remedying it. At any rate, I'll do my 
best. For Gloria de Lara's noble cause I would die 
willingly a thousand times." 

She has taken her friend's hand as she speaks. 
" Good-bye, Vivi," she says gently. 

But Vivi has risen and thrown her arms round 
Lady Manderton's neck. 


" Don't, don't, Dodo ! You miisn't go ! There are 
going to be terrible doings; I can see that plainly. 
Oh, Dodo ! please don't go." 

There is just a slight curl of contempt uj)on the 
lips of Lady Manderton's handsome mouth as she 
kisses the weak, timid woman, whom all these years 
she has been contented to call friend. Then she gently 
undoes the tightly clasped hands of Vivi Trevor from 
around her neck, and presses her firmly but kindly 
back into her seat. " I have no fear, Vivi. There, 
now, don't cry; you will hear of me soon, dear — God 
grant better employed than I have been. There now, 
think of what I've said. Good-bye." The next 
moment she is gone, and Vivi Trevor is left alone. 

For a time she sits like one in a dream, then she 
rises and walks to the window. The crowd is still 
surging to and fro. All traffic is rendered impossible 
save on foot. Mounted policemen and military patrol 
the street, interfering as little as possible with the 
people, who, save for the rougher element already 
mentioned, are orderly enough, albeit excited and 

" What will happen ? " mutters Vivi to herself. 
" What a strange sight ! Never realised before what 
a number of people London contains, and what a 
strange-looking lot, too ! Didn't think there were 
such people in existence." 

There is a knock at her boudoir door as she stands 
thus soliloquising to herself. 

OR, THE REVOLrnON OF 19o0. 193 

'' Come in,'' she answers. 

It is Marie, the French maid, and she is the bearer 
of a note. 

" A letter for madame," she says. 

" Marie, what a fearful crowd ! " exclaims her 
mistress. " What will happen ? Have you ever seen 
anything like it before ? " 

" Mais jamais, jamais de ma vie, madame," answers 
the Frenchwoman shuddering. " C'est terrible." 

" Marie, you can bring me my coffee and bread-and- 
butter now,'' continues Vivi, as she turns the note 
over in her hand and looks at it curiously. It is from 
Mr. Trevor. 

" Madame will have to take cafe noir this morning," 
remarks the maid gloomily. 

" Cafe noir ? You know I hate it, Marie." • 

" Tant pis, madame," replies the woman, with a 
shrug of the shoulders. " But no milkman has called, 
and there is no milk in the house." 

" But we shall starve, Marie I " exclaims her 

" Je le crois bien, madame," is all the other replies 
as she leaves the room. Marie is not a stranger to 
revolution. She was in Paris as a vouns: o-irl durins: 
the revolt which cost Napoleon III. his throne. 
She knows well the suffering which an upheaval of 
the people always brings with it. She will be as- 
tonished at nothing that may come. Has she not 
been detailing her experiences downstairs to the 



frightened servants, who are undergoing their iirst 
hardships in Mr. and Mrs. de Lacy Trevor's luxurious 
service by having to go without milk in their tea 
that morning ? Do they, by any chance, cast a thought 
to the suffering thousands who have no tea into which 
to put either milk or sugar, — those suffering thousands 
whose condition and very existence has given the brain 
of Gloria de Lara many a racking thought, as — when 
in power— she has pondered the problem, so far un- 
ravelled, of their amelioration and upraising ? Not 
a bit of it. These servants do not realise a suffering 
which they have never seen. It is just the world's 
way. Not one half of it knows how the other half 

Left alone, Vivi Trevor opens her husband's note. 
She thinks it strange he should write to her. He has 
never written to her before while staying under the 
same roof. She has not set eyes on him since the 
day before, when he parted with her after the trial, 
conviction, and sentence of Hector D'Estrange. He 
had not come in to dinner that night, nothing out 
of the way to Vivi, the comings and goings of her 
husband being of small importance or interest to her. 
These two have drifted more than ever apart since 
the days when Mr. Trevor first had his eyes opened 
by the Eton boy's article in the Frae, Rediew. He has 
never sought to interfere with his wife's goings on, 
feeling that to do so would only make his desolate 
home more unhomelv and comfortless than ever. It 


is therefore with some surprise that Vivi reads the 
following : — 

" My Dearest Vivi, — Yon will wouder at these few 
lines, but I feel I owe you some little explanation, 
though whether you will care about it I know not. 
Our lives as regards one another have not been over 
happy; at least I can speak for myself in saying so. 
I do not blame you, Vivi, for the want of alFection you 
have always shown me, or for your goings on with 
other men. The fault lies in your bringing up, and 
the false position in which your sex is placed by man's 
unnatural laws. I learnt to recognise this long ago, 
and to acknowledge the teaching of Hector D'Estrange 
as true and just. That noble genius, now unveiled to 
a wondering world as Gloria de Lara, is paying the 
penalty of her attempt to naturalise woman's position 
in this world, as a lead up to many and much-needed 
social reforms. I feel strongly that in this moment 
of trial she should receive the support of all men and 
women, high and low, rich and poor, who feel with 
her, and I have determined to place my services at 
her disposal. This, Vivi, will naturally take me away 
from you for a time, perhaps for ever. Who knows ? 
Only God. You will not miss me, for I have never 
been anything to you. 1 do not blame you, dearest, 
for I ought never to have married you. Still I loved 
you, and love you still ; that is my only plea, and I ask 
your forgiveness. You will perhaps accord it when 


you realise that I am giving my life to the upraising 
of your sex, and to attaining its freedom, thereby 
accomplishing the first great step in the direction of 
social reform, on which the gaze of Gloria de Lara 
i« fixed. How this struggle will end 1 know not. It 
will be the greatest revolution this world has ever 
known, — far-reaching in its results, and, let us hope 
and joray, bringing about a final, fair, and lasting settle- 
ment of that all-momentous question, which has given 
to the world its noblest woman in Gloria de Lara. 
Good-bye, Vivi. 

" Your ever-devoted husband, 

"■ Launcelot Trevor." 

She lays the letter down on her lap, and sits staring 
at it. Her thoughts fly back across the years of her 
wedded life, years spent in vain amusements and false 
excitements. She cannot recall a single kindly or 
unselfish act on her part towards tlie man who has 
loved her so devotedly and tenderly, nor can she lay 
hold of one single act of usefulness upon which she 
can look back with either pleasure or satisfaction. 
Very acutely she feels this now ; and yet has it been 
entirely her own fault ? 

" What else could I do ? " she murmiirs to herself. 
" I was never brought up to think of anytliing else. 
Mother bade me marry well and quickly. That's 
exactly what I did do. What other opening was given 
me None. If I had been a man, and properly 


oducatod, I might have done something ; bnt as it 
was, what else conld I do ? " 

Her thonghts are flying on aliead now, to that 
vagne future of which she can know nothing till it 
comes. Yet what hope does that glance ahead 
bring to Vivi Trevor ? Absolutely none. In the 
past her life had been wasted, and now the future, 
when regarded, brings her nothing bnt the vagne 
dread of growing old and passee, with nothing to 
turn to when that time comes, nothing to console 
her for the gay, giddy life which she has led in 
the past. 

She is beginning to understand Lady Manderton's 
words and action better now. Launcelot Trevor's note 
has opened her eyes very wide. Vivi vividly sees 
what she has never seen before, for she is beginning 
to think for the first time. 

She throws herself face downwards on the sofa 
upon which she had been reclining so daintily, when 
Lady Manderton called in upon her but a short time 
since. There is a big black void all round Vivi 
Trevor's heart, a dull, hopeless feeling of despair. 
Large tears are welling up into her beautiful eyes, 
and bitter sobs shake her slight, girlish frame. 

Poor Vivi ! She is truly miserable, and yet she 
has no idea how to end that misery. In a like position. 
Lady Manderton had risen equal to the occasion; but 
then the latter is of different stuff to her hitherto gay, 
unthinking friend, a woman of stronger brain and sterner 


mould," one who is able to make np her mind, and act 
promptly when occasion requires it. 

There she lies, this victim of neglected childhood 
and nnfair, unnatural laws. She lies there, a living 
protest against the selfishness and conceit that have 
built up that wall within which she lies imprisoned. 
Of what good is life to such as she, whose education 
since childhood has been vain, mindless, ephemeral ? 
If Vivi Trevor had never been born, the world would 
have lost nothing. And yet, as a drop is to an ocean, 
so is the life of this one despairing soul to the 
thousands who, like her, have gone down to their graves 
in uselessness and obscurity, not because in natural 
body and mind they were unfitted to work in the 
great army of man, not because in desire and willing- 
ness they were found wanting, but because of that 
barrier, that artificial mountain which one sex has 
forbidden the other sex to climb, which one sex has 
erected in the face of Nature, to shut out the opera- 
tions of Nature's laws. 

These words but reflect the thoughts of thousands, 
who, wearily struggling along the path of life, ask 
themselves wonderingly, " Why existence, if this is 
all it brings ? " Many a tired and saddened soul has 
lain itself down to die, with the undefined feeling that 
the wasted life left behind might not have been if 
only — only — ay, if only what ? Gloria de Lara, Flora 
Desmond, and others, could answer that vague, yearning 
cry. They would reply, '' If only Nature had been 


obeyed."- Therein lies the secret of the troubles of 
this world, the suffering, agony, and misery that 
millions have to put up with, while a clique lives and 
reigns, making laws and leading the multitude by the 
nose under the guise of liberty and freedom ! For 
every happy heart, thousands tliere are of wretched 
ones; for every well-fed mortal, thousands there are 
who starve and suffer. The world is old, its years 
unknown to the ken of man. Through all these years 
man has ruled therein, and this is what he has brought 
it to I Can he do nothing better ? Yes, but only 
hand in hand with woman. Nature declares it ; and 
he who would fight against Nature, must create the 
evils that torture the world. 


DOWNING STREET is awake betimes, and within 
the precincts of the residence of the First Lord 
of the Treasury an unusual stir and signs of an 
unwonted anxiety are perceivable. Seated around a 
long oblong table in a singularly doleful-looking room, 
are a baker's dozen of gentlemen, apparently in eager 
discussion. Perplexity and anxiety is on every face, 
not unmixed, in some cases, with vacuity. A stranger 
droj^ped from the clouds, and unaccustomed to the 
ways, and manners, and customs of our jdanet, might 
innocently inquire who these disturbed- looking per- 
sonages are, and what their business ? He would be 
told in reply that the personages are nothing more 
nor less than the Sovereign of Great Britain's Ministers, 
their business, the holding of a Cabinet Council. But 
at such an hour, nine o'clock in the morning ! Why, 
in the ordinary course of affairs, poor old Lord Muddle- 
head, the Secretary of State for the Colonies, would 
be adjusting his night-ca]), and turning over for liis 


second sleep in bed, and that excellent nonentity, 
Lord Donothing, Lord President of tlie Council and 
Privy Seal, would be sweetly dreaming of rest and 
peace, well merited and well earned, after the 
arduous and fatiguing duties attaching to his noble 
office ! 

However, a matter of importance has shaken sleep 
from their eyes, as they have been summoned post- 
haste to attend their chief on urgent public business. 

The chief in question, the first Lord of the Treasury, 
the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Ireland, is 
the Duke of Devonsmere, a tall, aristocratic-looking 
man, with thick moustaches, whiskers, and beard, in 
which the grey hairs of advancing age are rapidly 
gathering. He has thick lips, a not very pleasant 
eye, and a forehead chiefly remarkable for the crease 
or wrinkle, which, starting from the centre, runs down 
perpendicularly to meet the nose. He has a voice far 
from genial ; and, in fact, his manner all round is cold, 
and haughty, and unwinning. 

The duke is a good speaker. That is his chief 
forte. He has not ])articularly distinguished himself 
through life as a great politician, though he has held 
high posts in various Ministries. He has been 
Secretary for War in a former Ministry, but seceded 
from his chief when this latter brought in his Irish 
Home Rule Bill. No one has ever been able to accuse 
the Duke of Devonsmere of attempting to aggrandise 
himself. In politics he has been strictly honest 


according' to his lights, though many believe that in 
the old days of Conservatives and Liberals, he would 
have graced more api)ropriately the ranks of the 
former, which as a Unionist he eventually joined. 
However, those days are past. There are no Liberals, 
or Conservatives, or Unionists now. The former having 
adopted the Progressist title, the two latter become 
merged in the National party, of which party the 
Duke of Devonsmere is the head. 

The position which he holds at this moment is an 
awkward one. His is only a provisional Ministry, 
held together by the temporary support of the Pro- 
gressist party, the natural and avowed enemy of the 
Nationals. But the hatred of the Progressists for the 
D'Estrangeites is so intense, that for a time their 
minor enmity with the Nationals is merged and 
forgotten in this new and greater one. It is, therefore, 
with such assistance as this, that the duke, ^ath a 
Cabinet chiefly distinguished for its dulness and want 
of perspicacity, is endeavouring to cope with the 
extraordinary state of affairs, that has arisen on the 
defeat of Hector D'Estrange's policy, and the revolu- 
tion which has resulted from the events following 
upon that defeat. 

Gloria de Lara is at large. Although warrants have 
been issued for her arrest as well as that of Lady Flora 
Desmond, no traces of either have yet been discovered. 
Of course the officials of Scotland Yard surrounded 
Montragee House, and demanded admission soon after 


the former's rescue ; but when at knigtli the great 
front door was thrown open for tlie admittance of the 
officers of the Law, they were received only by Lord 
Bernard Foutenoy, who smilingly regretted that he 
conld afford them no information or assist their search 
in any way. All he knew was that his brother had 
left him in charge of Montragee House during his 
unavoidable absence. Clearly there was very little 
to be extracted from the youthful lord. 

The Home Department Minister is speaking now, 
but apparently affording but cold comfort to his 
colleagues. Mr. Mayhew belongs to the English bar. 
He is an excellent speaker, but that is all. It would 
have been better if he had stuck to his profession 
exclusively, and left politics alone, for he has not 
shone in them. He is a weak man, and an obstinate 
one, and can never be got to acknowledge having 
committed a mistake. He has held office before in a 
Conservative Ministry in the same department, which 
did not profit much by his supervision, or attain any 
particular distinction for efficiency. He is the best 
man, however, that the Nationals have at their com- 
mand for the post, which is not saying much for the 
existing state of things. 

" Detectives are at work in nearly every great 
centre, and the police are fully instructed how to act," 
he assures his colleagues. 

" Don't you think, Mayhew, that Hector D'Estrange, 
or, as I suppose we must now call her, Gloria de Lara, 


has many secret friends in the force ? There is no 
doubt she has the mass of the working classes of the 
country on her side — certainly nearly every woman 
amongst them. Depend upon it your detectives will 
not trace her, and it seems to me you are all of you 
vastly underrating her power." 

The speaker is a man of about fifty years of age, 
with a fine forehead, rather scant hair, prominent, 
intelligent eyes, a sallow complexion, and somewhat 
of the middle height. He looks younger than he 
really is, and it is probably his long thick moustache 
that gives him a little of the military appearance. 
But Lord Pandulph Chertsey is no soldier. He is 
every inch a politician, living for nothing else but 

While we can pass over the remainder of the Devons- 
mere Cabinet without notice, because of the extreme 
mediocrity of talent displayed therein, a glance at the 
character of Lord Pandulph Chertsey is necessary. 
The extraordinary point which first strikes one is — 
why is not Lord Pandulph Prime Minister ? Clearly 
amongst all those thirteen gentlemen he is the only 
one possessing a large grasp of thought, or a power 
to look at events and regard them as they are. Few 
men have been more abused than Lord Pandulph; and 
yet he has done nothing to merit that abuse beyond 
showing a certain independence of mind and an inclina- 
tion to follow the dictates of conscience before ])arty. 
He has been accused of ambition. It is certain that 


if he had been less honest in his political career, and 
less straightforward, he might have risen more 
quickly to supreme power. But though doubtless 
ambitious— and what sin is there in that ?— he has 
known how to subordinate his ambition to the dictates 
of his conscience in all matters, which, according to 
his lights, he believes affect the welfare of Society. 
He sees clearly now what the high and dignified 
Duke of Devonsmere, old Lord Muddlehead, Lord 
Donothing, and their colleagues do not see in the least. 
He sees that Gloria de Lara, though she may have 
many an enemy in the country, is yet a power which 
must not be despised. Lord Pandulph has no sym- 
pathy with her cause or her teachings; but that is no 
reason why he should ignore the fact that there are 
thousands who have, and who are prepared to support 
her. Mr. Mayhew shakes his head. We have said 
he is an obstinate man, and obstinacy is more or less 
a sign of weakness. 

^ " No, no," he says hastily. " I think it is you, 
Chertsey, who overrate her power. Of course she 
has a few friends, but not many. I always said 
D'Estrangeism was ephemeral. You will see how 
quickly the storm she has raised will become subdued. 
I have not the slightest doubt on that score. But for 
the sake of law and order we must strain everv nerve 
to arrest both her and Lady Flora. It is a terrible 
business, but murder cannot go unpunished, that is 
very clear." 


Lord Pandulph langhs, as he glances at the duke, wlio 
is sprawling back in his chair with his legs stretched 
ont. Mr. Mayhew's remarks appear to him ridicnlons. 
" Depend upon it," he exclaims again, " that you are 
utterly underrating her power. We know enough 
of Hector D'Estrange to be pretty well certain that 
Gloria de Lara will not remain inactive. You talk of 
your detectives and police, but let me remind you that 
there are scattered throughout the country those com- 
panies of Women Volunteers, whom she can call out 
at any moment. Surely you do not underrate their 
power for mischief ? " 

Bnt Mr. Mayhew does, and so do the rest of the 
Cabinet, including the Duke of Devonsmere. This 
latter is a bitter opponent of Gloria de Lara's 
advocacy for woman's freedom. He is quite convinced 
that the sex is hopelessly inferior to his own, and 
regards their emancipation with the same horror 
as did the South in the American Civil War when 
the North upheld the abolition of slavery. 

" I think we are straying wide of the mark, Chert- 
sey," he observes rather gruffly. " The policy we 
have got to decide on, is how the riotous crowds that 
are paralysing public freedom are to be suppressed. 
There is no doubt that for the moment this adven- 
turess has a strong party in her favour, but I think, 
with Mayhew, that all symi)athy with her will ([uickly 
subside, especially if the Government show a bold and 
determined front to the mutineers. Tlie most strenu- 


Oils efforts must be made to arrest those two women, 
and so put an end to the mutiny which they have 
provoked. I consider, therefore, that the military 
ought to be employed to assist the police, and I 
have little doubt that in a very short time order 
will be restored. Do you all think with me ? " 

The eleven satellites do, but not the independent 
planet. Lord Paudulph does not agree, and he says 
so plainly. He thinks it will be madness to employ 
the military, and thus provoke ci\'il brawls, and perhaps 
civil war. He cannot make himself responsible for 
such a state of thmgs. 

" I am very sorry," he says gravely, " but I am 
quite unable to fall in with such a policy, which, if 
pursued, I believe will entail lamentable results. Do 
your best if you think it possible to arrest the leaders 
of this movement by means of detectives and police, 
but for goodness' sake keep the soldiers out of the fray. 
However, if yon persist, I can make way for a fresh 
Secretary for India. I can resign." 

" That is an old game with you," remarks the duke 
drily. " It will not be the lirst time you have left 
your colleagues in the lurch." 

*' Say rather not the first time that I have refused 
to stifle conscience for the sake of office, or to make 
over my honest opinion to the care of others," answers 
Lord Panduljih somewhat hotly, nettled no doubt by 
the duke's unfair remark. " However," he continues 
quietly, " I have no wish to mar the unanimity of 


these proceedings, and will withdraw. My reasons 
for resignation can be fully explained in the proper 

There is a significant ring in his voice which cannot 
be mistaken. The dnke knows perfectly well that 
with Lord Pandulph oat of his Cabinet, this excellent 
clique will be little less than a group of mechanical 
dolls. To lose Lord Pandulph means discredit to his 
Ministry, and a considerable loss of confidence outside 
it. He feels he must temporise. 

" Really, Chertsey, I don't understand what you 
want," he observes impatiently. " A short while ago 
you were making fun of the detective force, and assur- 
ing us we had underrated Gloria de Lara's power. 
Now that I propose to take decisive measures to arrest 
that power, you object to them. Will you propose a 
policy yourself ? " 

" Well, I will, as you invite me. to do so," answers 
Lord Pandulj)h, with a smile, " but I do not suppose 
you will adopt it. However, here is my opinion. I 
am not in sympathy with Gloria de Lara's desires, but 
1 fully recognise that her doctrines are accepted by 
thousands. I am not likely to forget that it was she 
who raised the Hall of Liberty, who drilled into 
efficiency a large Woman Volunteer Force, and who 
has worked her way into tlie affections of vast numbers 
of the working classes. Having read the evidence at 
her trial, I am extremely dissatisfied with the verdict, 
while in regard to the death of the policeman in the 


prison-van, I do not look upon Lady Flora's act as 
murder. We are assured by members of the police 
force, that she fired through the lock of the van, only 
after giving the policeman full warning of her inten- 
tion to do so. She naturally supposed he had lain 
down as she bade him; and though his death is most 
grievous, really she cannot be accused of murder. 
Looking at matters in this light, I think the wisest 
thing the present Government can do is to appeal to 
the country to decide the question, revoke the warrant 
against Lady Flora, and offer Gloria de Lara a fresh 
trial. Such a policy may be out of the way, but we 
must not forget that we are now facing a state of 
affairs unparalleled in the world's history. For my 
part, I cannot take the responsibility of deciding for 
the country. It is the country which should be 
appealed to, and allowed to decide for itself." 

He has spoken as befits a statesman, who is able 
and willing to look upon the people as the proper 
tribunal to decide the policy to be pursued. But the 
Duke of Devonsmere, unlike Lord Paudulph, has 
never and will never be able to quit his aristocratic 
perch in order to descend to the people's level. He is 
willing to give them a policy and ask them to accept 
it, but he cannot realise that the masses are able to 
produce one for themselves. It is not wonderful that 
he thinks as lie does, for he is not, and never has been, 
in touch with the people. 

Like Mr. Mayhew, he shakes his head. 



" Yonr proposal is simple madness, Chertsey. I, 
for one, cannot fall in with it." 

He looks sternly at tlie eleven satellites who are 
regarding him. They thoroughly understand that 

"Nor we," they murmur deferentially, apeing the 
abject acquiescence of poor old Lord Muddlehead. 

Again Lord Pandulph laughs. Words would not 
measure the contemptuous ring that there is in that 

" And you will pardon me if I say that I think your 
proposal madness also. I cannot agree to it, and it 
is best I should resign," he says quietly. 

"Very well," answers the duke coldly. "As you 
are determined, so be it, Chertsey." 

Lord Pandulph rises. He accepts his conge willingly. 
It has been gall and wormwood to work with sucli 
colleagues as these. He is out of place, and he feels 
it. He knows that he ought to be where the duke 
is sitting. Undoubtedly he ought. 

" Then it is understood ? I shall tender my resig- 
nation without any delay, so that you will be able 
to nominate my successor. This being so, it is better 
I should retire at once. Good-morning, Devonsmere." 
And without deigning recognition of the eleven 
satellites. Lord Pandulph leaves the room. 

" Really, Chertsey is about the most insufferable 
fellow to deal with I have ever known," murmurs 
Lord Hankney, the Minister for Agriculture, adjusting 


liis eyeglass. " We sliall do miicli better without him, 

So they sit on in council tliese strange twelve, a 
Ministry misrepresentative of tlie peo2)le. The jwlicy 
against which Lord Pandulph warned tliem, they 
agree to adopt. The military is to be ordered out, 
a direct incentive to civil war, while the warrants 
for the arrest of Gloria de Lara and Lady Flora 
Desmond are to remain in force. It is the old story, 
merely history repeating itself, of a group of men 
omitting to consult the people — whose paid servants 
they are — before acting. Office, unfortunately, now- 
adays is too much considered as the happy hunting 
ground of a clique or class, to the exclusion of the 
jieople's acknowledged representatives. So the wrong 
men step in, and take upon themselves responsibilities 
for which they are totally disqualified and unfitted ; 
and thus are mistakes committed for which those who 
pay the taxes have to suffer. The case in point is 
a good one. Such a decision would never have been 
come to had the Duke of Devonsmere's Cabinet con- 
tained some of the people's representatives. 

CHAPTER yill. 

WHAT news, Evie ? " 
The speaker has risen from a low wooden 
stool jnst outside the veraudahed porch of a pretty, 
stragg-ling, rambling cottage, hidden amidst many and 
various creepers, whose parasitical arms interlace with 
each other in bewildering confusion. All around 
stretch dark june woods far as the eye can reach, 
as it scans their broad expanse tlirough 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. ^Varrants 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. 
God, forfend it I I could not survive it." 

She smiles again, still sadly, as she lays her liand 
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 Loudon, 
with the warrant for her arrest duly out, with detec- 
tives and j)olice in every direction, and yet not an 
idea have they wliere she is, thanks to the 2)eople's 

" God bless them ! " is all Gloria says. She is 
eagerly awaiting the information he has to give 

" Slie is not working singh'-lianded either. Who 
do 3'ou think has joined the AVhite Guards, Gloria ? 
You will never guess." 

" AVho ? " slie says anxiously. 


" Why, Lady Maudertou ! and Lauucelot Trevor 
lias offered bis services to Lady Flora." 

" Lady Maudertou ! " Gloria cau hardly believe lier 
ears. She looks iucredulonsly 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 cami^aign. 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 witli 
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 ; Imt 
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 liave 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 cliange." 

He passes on through the porch, outside of which 
he had found her sitting on liis arrival, and enters the 
cottage, and Gloria takes \\\) her old position to ponder 


and think over the situation of affairs, which her 
trusty messenger has brought to her from the out- 
side 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 consul- 
tation 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 clotlies 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 main- 
tained 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 communi- 
cation with her friends through the medium of Evie 
Eavensdale, 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 lias 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 supi)orters. 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 con- 
fident that the revolution will be summarily sup2)ressed, 
and the chief actors brought speedily to justice. In 
vain Lord Pandulph (Jhertsey 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 situa- 
tion 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 cliild, 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. ISlie 


made a vow then ; tb rough 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 direc- 
tion, 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 tlie 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 i)eople'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. Miglit alone can force it. It has 
been declared that might is right. What if the peoi)le 


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, carry- 
ing her on beyond the present into the great un- 
fathomed 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 

" 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 inter- 
course 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 
intrigaantc,, whose love would fade and disappear were 


it not deemed unholy. Hers is the love of one who, 
knowing tlie 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 jmuse on the verge of pleasure's precij)ice, 
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 tliese, thought does not take much 

She rises as she speaks, and links her arm in his. 
Men liave often watched Hector D'Estrange and the 


Duke of Ravensdale in this frieudh" attitude before. 
Such an ape is Fashion, that it has become the proper 
thing for men to walk arm-in-arm. Doubtless, how- 
ever, in view of the change which has come about in 
the altered fortunes of Hector D'Estrange, it will ])e 
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 
liave the chance again of a quiet chat together. We 
used to enjoy those tcte-d-tctes 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 tliem, 
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 
groni)od 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 tliat throws its shadow across the glade 

OE, THE IlE VOLUTION OF 1900. 223 

in the wake of Evie Ravensdale and Gloria de Lara? 
As the two saunter slowly along the forest's green 
])atliway, the fignre 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, con- 
cealing himself behind the rhododendron bushes 
wliich 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 wliich runs 
round " The Hut," the man suddenly comes to a halt 
outside a half-oi^ened window, and peers in. A log- 
wood 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 — 

224 GLOTilANA ; 

for this lonely woman is no otlier 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 observa- 
tion, and passing rapidly along the verandah disajjpears 
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 ! Who, mother dearest ? " inquires Gloria 

" The worst enemy I have ever known, and there- 
fore 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 ? " 



THE roar of Loudon's traffic has died away, for 
a few brief hours, peace has sjiread her mystic 
wings o'er the city of wealth and jioverty, pleasure 
aud suffering, joy and paiu, virtue and crime. In the 
sumptuous dwellings of the wealthy, the gentry stretch 
their pampered bodies on the soft couch of ease and 
warmth, imitated to a nicety by their dependents. In 
the dwellings of the middle class, comfort if not 
absolute sumptuousness is displayed aud enjoyed. In 
the dwellings of the working class, overcrowding and 
limited space is the chief characteristic, while in the 
dwellings of the helpless, homeless, and foodless, the 
vault of heaven is their canopy, the cold flag-stones 
their couch of rest. 

Yet above these scenes, so diversified and strange, 
peace for a few brief hours has spread her wings. 
The tramp of the tired horse is silent, the patter of 
millions of feet is still. Even the wandering, home- 
less, hungry cur is curled u]» in some byway fast 


asleep, dreaming, no doubt, of the rich steaks of meat 
upon which his poor famislied eyes had been fixed this 
afternoon, when the cruel butcher drove him so merci- 
lessly away. 

But there is a faint glimmer of light stealing 
through the fast-closed shutters of Mr. Trackem's 
private room, in Verdegrease Crescent, and if, like 
the fairy of old, we obtain ingress therein in some 
mysterious manner, we shall find that worthy seated 
in a comfortable armchair, with his head thrown back 
against a soft cushion, his legs crossed, his elbows 
firmly planted on the chair's arms, and his hands 
lightly joined together. A warm fire glows in front 
of him, and the smile on his face betokens a thorough 
satisfaction with things in general, and especially with 

On the opposite side of the hearthrug is another 
armchair, likewise occupied, but by a man apparently 
in by no means so placid and contented a frame of 
mind as Mr. Trackem. He wears a rough coat and 
waistcoat of Cheviot wool, and his cord riding breeches 
and black top-boots are covered with mud and mire. 
There is blood on his spurs too, which betokens a hard 
usage of the poor beast that has lately carried him. 
On the floor lies a brown slouch hat and riding-whip, 
while by their side is a soft satin cushion, similar to the 
one against which Mr. Trackem's head is reclining, and 
which his visitor has disdainfully tossed on one side. 

The manner of this man is excited, and he h 


leaning forward, and speaking fast and rajiidly. He 
is a handsome man, but has not a nice face, and 
grey hairs are beginning to mingle in his thick beard, 
whiskers, and moustache, as well as amidst the once 
raven locks of his hair. He has thick sensual lips, 
two rows of fine white teeth, and a restless, roving- 
expression in his dark eyes. 

"I tell you, Trackem, I have seen them all three, 
and I greatly fear that Mrs. de Lara recognised me. 
Maybe she did not, for the moment she looked round 
I made off as hard as I could, and have ridden straight 
from the spot to this place. But if she did, there will 
be great danger of our plot being discovered, and the 
idea to me is simply maddening after all I have done, 
and risked, and put up with to carry it successfully to 
an issue." 

Mr. Trackem refuses, however, to get excited. 
" Pray listen, my lord," he says suavely. " I think 
it is extremely unlikely that Mrs. de Lara recognised 
you. But even if she did, of what avail ? She cannot 
prove it, and her statement would only be regarded 
in the light of falsehood, invented to screen Gloria 
de Lara, or else in the light of hallucination. We 
managed that i)oint very well at the trial. No, no ; 
have no fear on that score. The only point to be 
looked at is this. If Mrs. de Lara recognised you, or 
even took alarm at seeing a stranger in her child's 
place of refuge, she, and those with her, have in all 
probability sought a fresh hiding-place. If this be so, 


their arrest will have to be postponed, until we can 
lay hands on the spot of their new asylum. It is a 
pity, for my efforts appeared to be on the verge of 
crowning success. However, cheer up, my *lord. 
Trackem has never yet failed iu any of his jobs, and 
will not in this one." 

" I was a fool to act as I did ! " exclaims Lord 
Westray, for it is no other than he ; '' but I could not 
resist the impulse, Trackem. How do you propose to 
act if to-morrow we find the birds have flown ? " 

"I propose this, my lord," answers Mr. Trackem 
in a decided voice. " I intend to send round informa- 
tion to Scotland Yard of their whereabouts. Should 
this information prove too late, I propose to proceed 
m this wise. I have in my employ a young woman 
of extremely prepossessing appearance, and without 
doubt the cutest of all my staff. She has never failed 
me yet, and I am not apprehensive that she will on 
this occasion. My instructions to her will be to ascer- 
tain Gloria de Lara's whereabouts, to join her in this 
rebellion-to be, in fact, one of her most devoted 
adherents, until such time as I shall require her to be 
otherwise. When she has been thoroughly entrusted 
with the rebel secrets, nothing will be easier than to 
transmit them to us ; in fact, I think you know what 
I mean, my lord." 

" I understand," mutters the other moodily. " You 
mean to set her to the informer's trade. A female 
Judas, in fact." 


" Yon have it, my lord, extremely well expressed. 
Ha, La ! '' laiiglis Mr. Trackem quietly, as lie rubs bis 
hands together, and wods approvingly. " And what 
does your lordship think of my little plan ? " he 
continues inquiringly. 

" Damned clever and diabolical, Trackem, if you 
want to know the truth," answers Lord Westray a 
shade bitterly. He has fallen pretty low, but this 
seems indeed the lowest depth of the abyss into which 
he is invited to plunge, for the being who is an acces- 
sory before the fact is every whit as villainous as the 
being performing the deed. Of course he knows 

" Clever, I grant you, my lord. It is my business 
to be so. Diabolical I demur to. All is fair in love 
and war. But pardon me, excuse a moment's absence," 
and Mr. Trackem, as if struck by a sudden idea, rises 
and leaves the room. 

Lord Westray rises, too, and begins pacing up and 
down it. There is a dark, angry look in his eyes, and 
a cruel smile on his thick lips. 

" All fair in love and war," he exclaims savagely ; 
" that is a true saying. I loved her — yes, I did love 
Speranza once, but she scorned and flouted me, and I 
could not forget that. Even after I married her I 
loved her, I believe, though she comjjlained that 
I treated her cruelly. And what if I did ? She was 
only a woman, and my wife. What business had she 
to complain ? What business had she to take the 


law into lier own hands, and go off with that fellow ? 
Ah I I think she counted without her host there, 
but I was revenged,— yes, yes, I took ample revenge. 
And then, when she might have made it up, when 
I offered to remarry her, she flung me from her 
path, and that girl of hers, whom I thought then 
was a man, ordered me out of the house. Ah ! but 
I think there again I have come off the victor. I 
think it is I who have scored. The world believes me 
dead ; Hector D'Estninge, now Gloria de Lara, is my 
murderer. If we lay hands on her, the Government 
is bound to make her pay the full penalty of the law. 
It will break Speranza's heart, and I, I shall triumph 
and be revenged. None shall flout or scorn me with- 
out rueing it. By God ! no one ever shall," 

The laugh is a horrid one with which these last 
words are accompanied. It is hard to believe the 
man a human being. Character of this description 
is false to Nature, surely ? Yes, but the education 
which produced it was false and unnatural too. 
Human character depends greatly on early teaching. 
The parent has a heavy resi^onsibility in the moulding 
of youth's first imjjressions. Lady AVestray, if from 
the grave you could arise and look upon your handi- 
work, perhaps even you, shallow, vain, heartless as 
you were in life, might shudder and repent ! 

At this stage the door opens, readmitting Mr. 
Trackem. He walks over to his seat by the fire and 
reoccupies it. 


" I have sent for lier, my lord," he informs Lord 
Wostray in a businesslike voice. " It has struck 
me that it will be best to employ my female Judas 
without any delay. Secoijd thoughts convince me 
that it would be mere waste of time to communicate 
with Scotland Yard. I have not the smallest doubt 
that, as Mrs. de Lara caught sight of you, ' The Hut ' is 
vacated ere this. At any rate, we will put Leonie on 
the track, and start her from there. I have no fear 
that she will disappoint us. She has a marvellous 
genius for the discovery of the hidden." 

" A human bloodhound and Judas combined in 
one," laughs Lord Westray. " I am curious, Trackem, 
to behold this monstrosity." 

'' A curiosity which is about to be gratified," 
remarks the other coolly, as a low tap is heard on 
the door of the room in which these two men are 
hatching their diabolical plans. " (yome in, Leonie." 

The door opens softly, and a woman glides in. She 
is small and of slight build, with a bright, fair com- 
plexion, even, firm mouth, dark grey eyes fringed 
round with a wealth of lashes, which at once attract 
tlie onlooker by their extraordinary thickness. Her 
liair, which is cut short, is soft, glossy, and wavy, and 
is parted on one side, clustering upon her forehead 
and around her face. On this face play the lights 
and shades of a constantly changing expression, and' 
if ever genius told its tale in eyes, it is indelibly 
stamped in these. 

01?, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 233 

Mr. Trackem smiles covertly as he glances at Lord 
Westray, and notices the expression of surprise in 
this latter's face. Leonie has walked straight over 
to Mr. Trackem's chair, and is standing beside 

" Yon want me ? " she inquires in a matter-of-fact 
voice. Apparently the break of dawn summons is 
not in the least strange to her. 

" I do, Leonie," answers her master quickly. " I 
have a little job on hand that I think I can entrust 
to you, and I rely upon you to carry it out successfully. 
There is, as you no doubt know, a large reward offered 
for the apprehension of the adventuress Gloria de 
Lara, or for such information as may lead to that 
apprehension. Now I see no reason why my clever 
little Leonie should not be the person to win that 
reward, or at any rate a part of it. My commission 
to you is this. First of all get speech with this 
Gloria. This necessitates finding her out. Next, 
worm yourself into her confidence by a display of zeal 
which I can perfectly trust you to simulate. Keep 
me informed of her plans and movements as soon as 
you are able to speak witli certainty of them, and be 
ready to act as I bid you on receipt of any communi- 
cation or instruction which I may desire to send you. 
Now, L6onie, remember I trust this job to you, 
because there is none so fitted as you to undertake it. 
I have every faith in your sagacity and prudence. 1 
have heard a good deal of Gloria de Lara's wonderful 


cleverness ; I am mistaken if my little Leonie is not 
her match." 

There is a glitter in the girl's dark grey eyes, a 
quiet smile on her lips. 

" Yon may trust me," she remarks laconically. 

"I know I can," answers Mr. Trackem gravely; 
" I know that very well. Now, Leonie, your work 
begins at once. Gloria de Lara, her mother Speranza 
de Lara, and the Duke of Ravensdale were seen at a 
little place called ' The Hut,' near Bracknell, belonging 
to the duke. I have reason to think, however, that 
they have fled that place this very night. You had 
better go straight there, and take up the scent from 
the spot. I leave all to you. You can draw upon 
me, you know. Keep me advised of your whereabouts, 
stick to the letter of my instructions, and send me 
good news as quickly as possible. I have no more 
to say, unless it be that you are to effect that which 
Scotland Yard cannot." 

" I will," answers this strange laconic creature, as 
with a slight inclination she turns and leaves the 

" Well, I'm blowed, Trackem, if that is not the 
queerest elf I ever set eyes upon in my life ! " exclaims 
Lord Westray as the door closes. " Where on earth 
did yon raise her from ? " 

" A pretty elf, too, eh, my lord ? Hardly a mon- 
strosity," observes Mr. Trackem drily. " Where did I 
raise her from, you ask ? Well, that's just the point. 


I don't care to tell yon who she is, but I'll tell you 
this much. She's the daughter of a customer of past 
days. Her father was a great man. At least the 
world said he was. She's got plenty of blue blood in 
her veins ; she's well bred enough. Her mother died 
here. The great man forsook her, and the child was 
left in my hands. I found her pretty, remarkably 
intelligent, and quick-witted. I determined to train 
her to be useful, and I think I have succeeded. She 
has certainly proved a most profitable speculation, and 
repaid the excellent education I have given her. I 
have no reason to repent my philanthropic act," and 
Mr. Trackem laughs drily. 

" Well, you are a clever fellow, and no mistake, 
Trackem. I gave you credit for a good deal, but not 
for rearing detectives from childhood. I thought I 
knew pretty nearly everything, but this is a new 
experience," remarks the earl, fairly surprised. 

" Yes, my lord, you have seen a good deal and know 
a good deal. I admit your experience is wide and 
varied. But not even you know half that goes on 
in this wonderful city. There's many a queer thing 
takes place about which outsiders know nothing. It's 
only natural. What else can you expect in a place 
like this ? And now I think I have no more to com- 
municate for the moment. It will be daylight soon, 
and I feel I want a snatch of sleep. I will bid you 
good-night therefore; and I don't suppose you will be 
sorry to follow my example. You have had a pretty 

236 GLorjANA ; or the kevolution of 1900. 

long, tiring, and eventful day. Good-night, my 

Saying which, Mr. Trackem rises from his armchair, 
takes hold of a small hand-lamp standing on a table 
close by, and with an obsequious bow to the patron, 
for the sake of whose gold he is serving, leaves the 

For yet another hour that patron paces up and down 
it, absorbed in moody thought. It is liard to draw 
the picture of this man, when one thinks how other- 
wise it might have been had the passions of his youth 
been curbed, his early life disciplined, and his powers 
for good fostered and encouraged. If the dream of 
Gloria de Lara be realised, the time will come when 
character such as this will know an existence no 
longer ; but this can only be when the standard of 
morality is placed on a higher pedestal, and the laws 
of Nature are acknowledged and upheld. 


QUITTING the presence of Mr. Trackem and Lord 
Westray, Leouie lias hurried to her bedroom, 
from which the former personage had so imceremo- 
nionsly summoned her. The bedroom in question is 
small and plainly furnished. A scant, square piece 
of carpet covers the middle of the floor. There are 
two chairs in the room, a tiny iron bedstead, a wash- 
hand-stand, and a large wardrobe. This latter article 
takes up an ungenerous share of the space which the 
little room affords, but it is evidently an article of 
some imjjortance, for Leonie goes straight to it and 
throws it open, displaying to view some half-a-dozen 
shelves, ujjon which a number of suits of clothes of 
varied and multifarious shapes, are neatly arranged. 

After scrutinising them for a few minutes Leonie 
selects a strong dark-coloured pair of riding breeches, 
gaiters to match, and a loose jacket and waistcoat of 
the same material, which she lays on the bed. To 
these are quickly added a grey flannel shirt and a 
complete silk under riding suit. She then proceeds 


with her toilet, and when dressed looks every inch a 
comely lad of some seventeen summers, smart, neat, 
and natty. 

Her next act is to pack a small saddle portmanteau 
with a change of underclothing, toilet and washing 
articles, which completes the outfit of Mr. Trackem's 
youthful detective ; for Leonie, though a slave, is not 
unmindful of her personal appearance. She knows 
she is pretty, and likes to look so, a vanity for which 
the looking-glass is largely responsible. A small oil 
lamj) burns fitfully in one corner of the room. She 
fills a tiny kettle with water, and placing it on a 
miniature stand, sets it to heat above the flame. Then 
she makes her bed, and tidies uj) her room with 
business-like alacrity, and as the kettle begins to 
hiss, she takes from the chimney-piece a cup and 
saucer, a small tin of preserved coifee and milk, and 
a spoon. In a few minutes this Bohemian girl has 
mixed herself a steaming cupful of the beverage, and 
abstracting a couple of biscuits from a small i)aper 
parcel also on the chimney-piece, proceeds to enjoy 
her somewhat camp-like meal. 

But she wastes no time over it. Leonie is essen- 
tially a business-like person. She has settled in her 
mind the exact hour at which she must set out, and 
she knows she has not many minutes to spare. 

In effect, grey dawn is beginning to streak the 
murky sky with light. She can hear a distant tower 
clock chiming the hour of five, and she sets down 


lier cup on a chair close by and takes up the little 
l)ortmantean. " Time I started," she mutters to her- 
self, as she cons in her mind Mr. Trackem's instrnctions. 
Leonie is a most perfectly disciplined young lady; 
she has thoroughly learnt the lesson of obedience. It 
has never entered her head to disregard or evade her 
master's commands. Mr. Trackem has certainly 
succeeded in teaching her to take a pride in her 
work, and in training her to a faithful discharge of 
duty. He has reason to congratulate. himself, and to 
boast that this girl slave has never failed him yet. 

She passes along the passage leading to the stair- 
case, and descends this latter noiselessly. All is silent 
throughout the house as she lets herself out of the 
front door and closes it softly behind her. Then she 
sets off at a smart walk along the Crescent, and gaining 
a side street turns down it. 

The street in question is more or less a mews, but 
as yet there are very few signs of life within it. 
Leonie, however, seems quite at home in this place, 
for she walks down it unhesitatingly, until at length 
she comes to a halt opposite a stable door. 

Drawing a key from her pocket she unlocks this 
door and lets herself in. There are some half-a-dozen 
horses tied up in an equal number of stalls, and they 
greet her with neighs and a good deal of grunting and 
stamping about. A rougli shaggy-looking dog, with 
the coat and body of a staghound, and the head and 
droo2)iug ears of a bloodhound, rises from a bed of liay 


in the corner of the stable, and comes np to her with 
wagging tail and a doggy smile on his rongh and 
shaggy face. She pats him kindly. " Come on, 
Nero," she says at the same time; " I shall want you." 
Then she goes to the corn bin and measures into the 
sieve a feed of oats, which she takes over to a bay 
horse at the far end of the stable. This produces a 
loud protest from the remaining five animals, which 
to any one acquainted with horse language is unmis- 

Perhaps there is a kind corner in Leonie's heart. 
Maybe it is only to secure quiet. Who knows ? But 
she fills up the sieve brimful once more, and divides 
the oats amongst the five protesting animals. At any 
rate, it gives them contentment for a while, judging by 
the crunching and mimching that goes on. 

A little harness-room adjoins the stable, and Leonie 
dives into this, and unearths a neat light man's saddle 
with grey girths and a pair of bright small steels. 
The saddle is quickly girthed on to the bay horse, and 
then a plain double snaffle is produced from the same 
quarter to be slipped in the animal's mouth directly 
he has finished his meal. Leonie is anxious to be off" 
before the stable men come in, which will be about 
six o'clock. 

Consulting her watch, she sees it is nigh on half- 
past five. As the clock chimes tliat hour the girl 
leads the horse out into the mews, followed by Nero. 
Closing the stable door and locking it, she turns to her 


steed, and gathering the reins in her left liand puts 
her foot in the stirrup, and swings herself lightly on to 
his back. 

" Come on, Nero," she calls again to the dog as she 
puts her horse into a trot and leaves the mews behind 

Her course is taken for Waterloo Station. None 
whose gaze fall upon her as she rides through the 
awakening streets, followed by her shaggy companion, 
would take her for what she is, a female detective in 
the employ of Mr. Trackem. But then a well-got-up 
detective ought to be unrecognisable, and Leonie, the 
handsome, gentlemanly youth to all appearance, is 
well got up. 

On reaching Waterloo, Leonie sees to the boxing 
of her horse and dog. She elects, too, to travel with 
them in the horse-box as far as Bracknell, which place 
is reached at nine o'clock. Here the horse-box is run 
into a siding. 

Leonie loses no time, for she knows that every 
moment is j^recious. She sees to the unboxing of the 
liorse, and before remounting him slips a shilling into 
the porter's hand. 

" How far is ' The Hut ' from here ? " she inquires 
as she does so. 

" What, the Duke of Ravensdale's Hut, sir ? Oh, 
nigh on two miles. But there's no one there, sir. 
It's shut up ; there's only the forrester and his wife." 

" Just the persons I want to see. You mean of 



course— — , there now, tlie name has qnite slipped 
me," exclaimed L^onie, with well-feigned appearance 
of annoyance at the name having just that moment 
escaped her memory. 

"Why, Miles Gripper, old Miles Gripper and his 
wife, sir," puts in the porter, eager to supply the 
young gentleman's defective memory. " They are 
well known to the country round, sir." 

" Of course, of course ; how stupid of me to forget ! " 
answers L^onie briskly. " Well, now, my man, just 
tell me how I must frame for ' The Hut." 

" Just cross that there bridge, sir," explains the 
porter, pointing upwards, " and bear away down to 
the right. Keep straight on that road, sir, till you 
can't go no further ; there you'll see a road going left 
and right. Take the right turn, sir, and after that the 
next right turn what ever is, and then stick to that 
road, and never mind any turns that you see, until you 
come to two cross-roads, the left one with a sign- 
board directing to Aldershot. Don't you go taking 
either of those two turns, sir, but ride on another 
fifty yards, and you'll see a small wooden gate on the 
left. That leads to 'The Hut'. It's away in the 
forest.' " 

" Thank you, my man," says L^onie politely. " I 
think I understand. I go up over that, bridge, bear to 
the right, keep straight on till I must turn right or 
left, then take the right turn, and the very next that 
is, ride straight on until I reach the cross-roads, then 


about fifty yards further, where a gate on the left 
leads up to ' The Hut.' Is that it ? " 

" Exact, sir. You couldn't have it more exact, 
sir. If you follow those directions you can't mis- 
take," answers the porter glibly. The shilling and 
the young gentleman's whole appearance has im- 
pressed him. 

" Well, good-morning, my man, and many thanks," 
says L^onie, as she begins to move her horse away. 
She is surprised when the next moment the porter 
comes up alongside her. 

" Beg pardon, sir, no offence, sir, but be you a 
friend of the duke ? " 

L^onie is perplexed, but she answers evasively, 
" What do you want to know that for, my man ? " 

" Because," answers the honest fellow with an eager 
look in his eyes, " because, sir, I've been reading all 
about how the Government is a-hunting of him and 
that great man Mr. Hector D'Estrauge. Least they 
say Mr. D'Estrange is a woman. I don't know, and 
I don't care. I don't see what it matters whether 
Mr. D'Estrange is a man or a woman, sir. He's the 
l)eoi3le's friend, sir ; he wants to help us poor folk. 
There is no humbug about him, sir, and we love him 
for that, we do. If you know them, can you tell me 
if they are safe, sir ? Forgive a poor fellow asking 
this, sir — but oh ! I'd die for them, I would, sir ! " 

The blood rushes to L^onie's face. What is it that 
brings it there ? Perhaps a vague, undefined feeling 


oi' shame tliat she should be bent on an errand so 
degrading with the true words of the honest working 
man ringing in her ears. 

" Yes, they are safe," she says hurriedly. " Here, 
take this, my man." 

She throws him another shilling, and as he stoops 
to pick it uji, she puts her horse into a quick trot, and 
widens the distance between herself and her inter- 
locutor. What does L^onie know of goodness, grati- 
tude, or any high and noble virtue ? In that young, 
cold, calculating heart of hers, what room is there for 
devotion or love ? She wonders, as she rides along, 
why that man's words brought that flush to her face, 
and what that strange feeling was that made her 
heart beat and her pulse throb. She puts it down to a 
fear that her object and mission might be recognised. 

" I'm getting nervous, I believe," she laughs to 
herself. " That will never do. Mr. Trackem has 
always told me to be cool and self-possessed. What a 
fool I was to let that man see he had flustered me ! 
L^onie, you are an idiot ! " 

She tightens her horse's rein, and just touches 
him lightly with her heels as she S2)eaks, and the 
animal breaks into a canter. Nero gallops happily 
by her side. The dog is enjoying his outing in the 
country. Two miles at this pace is quickly got over, 
but L(5onie draws rein as she reaches the cross-roads. 
To the left stands a signboard, and " Aldershot " is 
written on it. 


" Fifty yards further on," mutters the girl as she 
trots forward. The porter's directions are very exact; 
the wooden gate is before her. 

She rides through it, and enters a narrow carriage 
drive, closed in on both sides by tall pine-trees. Thick 
rhododendron bushes fill up a few open spaces here 
and there. The little road is steep and iirecipitous, 
leading sharply upwards. L6onie throws the reins 
on her horse's neck and gives him his head. She has 
no fear that her four-footed friend will stumble. Horse 
and rider know each other well. 

Suddenly, however, she picks uj) the reins and urges 
him forward. A sudden thouglit has struck Leonie. 
She must not be caught napping. The time has come 
to employ her detective wiles, and she acts on the 
impulse that has seized her. Such a pace up such 
an incline is naturally trying to her steed. Thus, 
when rounding a sharjj turn in the forest road she 
comes into full view of ' The Hut,' her animal's sides 
are heaving pretty freely, and he is decidedly blowing. 

She brings him up to the little front entrance at 
the same pace, and reins him up abruptly. In another 
moment she has pealed the bell. 

She can hear a slight scuttling inside, and voices 
whisijering, which causes a delay not at all in keeping 
with her plans, so she peals the bell again. 

Then steps come rapidly forward, and an elderly 
man in a dark green cord suit and brass buttons opens 
the door. 


"I have a message for the Duke of Ravensdale," 
exclaims Leonie in a low, confidential voice. " You 
are Miles Gripper, are yon not ? Ask liis Grace if 
I can see him. It is of the utmost importance, admit- 
ting of no delay." 

Miles Grij^per scratches his silver head and looks 
perplexed. He is a faithful servant and an honest 
one. His instructions have been most sijecific. He 
has been told to feign absolute ignorance of the 
duke's movements or whereabouts, though he knows 
them well. But Leonie's words have staggered him. 

" Gracious ! " he ejaculates. " But his Grace is 
not here, sir." 

" Not here! " gasps Leonie, with well-feigned dismay. 
" Good God ! what is to be done ? " 

" Is his Grace in danger ? " blurts out the forrester 
tremulously. " Oh, sir ! what is it ? " 

" Danger I " echoes Leonie. " I should just think 
so. Look here, my man, I have come post-haste 
from London to see him. He must be warned, or 
both he and Gloria de Lara will be in custody before 
the day is do^n. Can I trust you to take his Grace 
a message ? I was told you were a faithful and 
trustworthy servant of his." 

Miles Gripper is completely taken in. His honest 
heart bounds witli loyalty at Leonie's words. 

" Ah, sir ! and that's just true. His Grace has no 
one more devoted than old Miles Gripj)er. I'd give 
my life for liis Grace, I would. But, God forgive me, 

on, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 247 

liow caa I take your message, sir, in time ? He's far 
from here by now." 

" What I far from here ? " again gasps Leonie ; " but 
not out of riding distance, surely ? Tell me where 
he is, and, tired as my horse is, I'll do all that is 
in human power to reach him. God grant I may 
not be too late ! " 

What does Leonie know of God ? Still less does 
she care about Him. God, to Leonie, is an expression, 
a forcible expression, and no more. The expression 
serves her well on this occasion, however. Miles 
Gripper's honest heart is no match for detective acting. 
Believing tliat he is serving the duke, he passes the 
secret, which he was bidden to keep, into the care 
of this apparently devoted and self-sacrificing adherent 
of his master. 

" And drat ye for a big-headed fool, when liis Grace 
express forbade ye say aught of his whereabouts save 
to the Lady Flora," Leonie hears a sharp, angry 
woman's voice exclaiming. But she waits to hear 
no more. She is on her horse, and trotting quickly 
down the hill with the secret she had been imzzling 
her brains how to win, safe in her keeping. Small 
wonder at Dame Gripper's ire. 

" Come on, Nero, laddie," laughs the girl detective. 
" I thought I should want you, doggie, but I can do 
without you now. However, come along." 

She rides back to the cross-roads and the signboard. 
On one of this latter's arms is printed " Marlow." 


" That's it," she mutters to herself, as she turns her 
horse's head into the long straight road, which, girt 
on either side by tall dark trees, stretches far as the 
eye can reach. " I'm safe on the track now, I am." 

Leonie is happy. One of the most difficult obstacles 
in her path has been lightly cleared, and quite unex- 
pectedly too. Yes, she is hapi)y, if it be possible for 
one so hard and callous to be so. Perhaps the dawn 
of a better day is coming for this child of an unholy 
love. As she rides along in the bright spring morning 
however, with her rough dog galloj)ing by her side, 
she has no higher aim in life than to carry out success- 
fully the '' little job " which Mr. Track em has confided 
to her care. 




IT is the last day of summer, and the evening hour 
is creeping on apace. A truly glorious day it has 
been, warmed by a brilliant sun, the heat of which 
has been tempered by one of those gentle zephyrs that 
love to play where all is warmth and sunshine. 

But now the day is dying, fading, as it were, gradu- 
ally away. Time, which the science of man can never 
stay, stalks slowly on his path. It is he who declares 
that the spell of life which has lit the day with its 
brilliance, must pass onward into the darkness of 
advancing night. 

For what is life but a greater day of warmth and 
sunshine, storm and rain ? What is death but the 
night wliicJi brings rest after the toils or i:)leasures of 
that day ? What is the future life beyond, but a 
new day breaking into existence, perchance in a world 
more lovely than our own ? 


So thinks Gloria tie Lara as she leans on her oars 
and watches the dying glories of this fading day 
vanish beneath the waves of the western sea. The 
zephyr which has played so joj'onsly amidst the light 
and sunshine of earlier hours, has fled to his couch of 
rest, and now not a breath stirs the glassy waters 
of Glenuig Bay, which, lit by the radiance of the 
setting sun, blazes all around like a lake of molten 

Above its gleaming waters and those of Loch Eilort 
tower heather-girt mountains in their mantles of 
purple and of blue. Higher still above these well- 
clad slopes the grey stone of shaggy crags looks down, 
and higher yet above these lonely scenes the golden 
eagle hovers, secure from the destroying hand of 
man. Not altogether lonely though, if one may judge 
from a pale, thin line of smoke that suddenly curls 
upwards through the still air from one of those high 
grey crags. It catches the eye of Gloria de Lara as 
she leans upon her oars, and sends a flush of surprise 
to her thoughtful, dreaming face. 

" So soon ! " she exclaims, and there is a ring of 
wonder in her tone; but she settles herself to her oars, 
and sends the boat along with quick, powerful strokes. 
She has pointed its head for the open sea, straight, in 
fact, for the channel that joins the heaving swell of 
the grey Atlantic with the placid waters of Loch 

Months have passed away since we were last in 

oil, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 251 

Gloria de Lara's company. We left ber when the 
spring of the early year was just budding into life, 
we rejoin her now on the eve of spring's destroyer's 
advent — autumn. 

How has it fared through these months of light 
and sunshine with this woman and her cause ? A 
retrospect will show. 

We have seen how L^onie, on reaching ' The Hut,' 
had found it vacated, and had ridden on in the direction 
of Great Marlow. Truth indeed, she took the same 
route over which Gloria, Speranza, and Evie Ravens- 
dale had ridden the night before. No sooner had it 
been decided to quit ' The Hut,' than Gloria had de- 
s})atched Rita Vernon to London, to apprise Flora 
Desmond of the change, and then she and her two 
companions had ridden on in the darkness of night 
towards Great Marlow. On reaching the outskirts of 
the town, the three had turned down a narrow lane 
leading in the direction of Bisham Abbey woods, 
and Gloria, with a confidence which familiarity with 
a place always engenders, had led the way. Finally, 
the lane had opened into green fields with a line of 
bridle gates leading through them, and these she had 
carefully followed for a time. At length, however, 
Gloria liad borne away from the beaten track, and 
directed her horse's head towards a long strip or belt 
of trees, at the further end of which stood a solitary 
cottage with a large barn behind it, and some com- 
pactly built dog-kennels in the rear. In one of the 


windows of tliis loiioly dwelling a solitury light was 
burning, a light which told the fugitive in silent words 
of the faithful watch that was being kept. 

Now this was the cottage of the head keeper of the 
Bisham Abbey estate, both of whose daughters were 
troopers in the White Guards' Regiment. The entire 
family was loyal to Gloria de Lara's cause, and this 
cottage was one amidst many a dwelling of the people 
where Gloria knew she had only to knock to gain 
admittance, only to show herself to obtain a loyal 
greeting and hospitable and secure shelter from track- 
ing foes. The organisation which had thus contrived 
to spread a network of secret and devoted friends 
throughout the length and breadth of the United 
Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was surely no 
mean and contemptible one, and spoke volumes for 
the constructive and administrative capacity of Gloria 
de Lara and Flora Desmond. In every county this 
network had its headquarters in the Volunteer centres, 
with which communication was actively kept up by 
means of a code peculiar to this organisation. 

Against these forces of a people's love the Govern- 
ment had brought to bear the forces of the law. All 
that money and power could procure were at this 
Government's command. And yet the difficulty of 
working liad become pretty soon apparent, amidst a 
people whose lips refused to tell, and whose eyes 
became blinded by a sudden cloud whenever informa- 
tion was sought or demanded. In order to guard 


against the importation of informers into tlie Volun- 
teer ranks, Flora Desmond had issued an order to the 
effect that no more aspirants were to be enrolled, an 
order which greatly hampered and took by surprise 
the forces of Scotland Yard, which had counted on 
informers' assistance to a large degree in obtaining 

It was at the cottage, therefore, of staunch, true, old 
Joe Webster, that Gloria had sought her first refuge 
amongst the people, after her flight from the metro- 
polis. It was from the same cottage that Speranza 
bad bidden her child farewell before setting out on 
her voyage to the United States, as an accredited 
delegate to plead the D'Estrangeite cause. It was at 
this cottage that Flora Desmond had secretly held 
council with her chief, and had arranged the details 
of the first public meeting at which Gloria was to 
appear. And it was at old Joe "Webster's cottage, too, 
that Leonie, in pursuit of the rule which Mr. Trackem 
had set her to play, had presented herself before 
Gloria, and representing herself as one who had left 
home and interests to serve the great cause, had 
implored Gloria de Lara not to refuse her services, 
but to let her work for her even in the most menial 

The bright, earnest face of the girl, her dark eyes 
glowing with genius, her pleading voice and ajiparent 
enthusiasm, had struck home to Gloria de Lara's heart, 
the noble nature of which could not suspect treachery 


to hirlv beneath sncli evident devotion. Leonie's 
prayer had been heard by the woman who trusted her, 
and on whose betrayal and destruction she was bent. 
The first great meeting had been one of unlimited 
success for the D'Estrangeite cause, and therefore of 
proportionate discomfiture and humiliation for the 
Government. In the crowded Hall of Libert}', the 
D'Estrangeite members had assembled to protest 
against the assumption by the Nationals of the con- 
duct of affairs without first making an aj^peal to the 
country, and also to call for a free pardon for Flora 
Desmond, and a fresh trial for Gloria de Lara. 
Government reporters had attended and taken volu- 
minous notes of the speeches, policemen and detectives 
had assembled in full force by command of Mr. 
Mayhew, and established a strict watch. Proceedings, 
in fact, were in full swing, and it only needed the 
presence of one being on whom the thoughts of all 
were centred in that vast throng, to complete the 
assembly. Suddenly, upon the lowest of the six 
circular galleries that surrounded the dome of the 
hall, two forms were seen to ap])ear. No need in 
pointing them out to inquire who they were. The low 
cheer which greeted their first appearance, soon swelled 
into a roar of wild, tumultuous applause and welcome, 
which flooded the vast building with deafening strain, 
and told of the enthusiasm and love that awoke it. 
What other being but Gloria de I^ara could have com- 
manded such an ovation ? Truth it was she and her 


trusty companiou Flora Desmond, who stood before 
them, habited in the imiform of the White Guards' 
Regiment, in which the people knew them both so 

In full view of the crowded House, in full view of 
the D'Estrangeite members, in full view of Govern- 
ment reporters, and Mr. Mayhew's j^olice and detective 
forces, Gloria had addressed the vast throng. Spell- 
bound the people had listened to her words of hope, 
of encouragement, and of cheer. And when, in con- 
clusion, she had bidden them fight on for the right, 
and actively resist wrong, the cheers had rung out 
again and again with deafening roar. Yet even as 
tliose cheers began to die away and tlie people's eyes 
turn lovingly once more to their great leader, Gloria 
and her companion had vanished. 

And what had Mr. Mayhew's police been about ? 
Why had they not arrested these daring two ? How 
possible ? The only means by which the galleries 
above could be reached, was through some twenty iron 
doors below. Yet when the police sought an entry, 
they found these doors securely barred by an invisible 
hand from within. 

Of course a cordon of constables had been quickly 
drawn around the building, and detectives had watched 
anxiously day and night. Futile ! as it soon became 
evident, when news reached the Government a few 
days later that Gloria de Lara had addressed a meet- 
ing in the north of England, that the police and troops 


hastily summoned had attemi)ted to arrest her, but 
that, securely guarded by the Women's Border Light 
Horse Volunteers, she had managed to effect an escape, 
and no trace of her whereabouts had up till then been 
obtained. Energetic authorities, however, took care 
to cap this unwelcome intelligence with the information 
that the police were prosecuting an unremitting search ! 
Cui bono ? 

Meeting upon meeting had followed ; concourse 
after concourse had assembled. Simultaneously they 
would be heard of in the north, south, east, and west 
of England, of Scotland, or of Ireland. No public 
placards or advertisements announced these meetings, 
and yet they were always well attended. It seemed 
as though some secret, mysteriously silent fiery cross 
passed through the districts in which they were held. 
But the authorities could not say for certain ; they 
could only surmise. Macliinery was at work beneath 
the surftice which they had no jjower to fathom. The 
speakers at these meetings were manifold and various. 
The D'Estrangeite members were particularly active, 
but after Gloria de Lara and Flora Desmond, the 
peoj^le's favourites were undoubtedly the Duke of 
Ravensdale, Nigel Estcourt, Lady Manderton, Launce- 
lot Trevor, Archie Douglasdale, and Jack Delamere I 
Wonder of wonders ! What ! Colonel Delamere ? 
the swagger Guardsman, tlie si)oilt child of Society, 
the man whose life had hitherto been one long succes- 
sion of amusement and pleasure ? Is it possible ? 


Quite SO. There is no impossibility when Nature steps 
in to the rescue. 

What influence has been at work thus to change 
the current of Jack Delamere's pleasant but useless 
existence ? What has induced him to take up the 
cudgels for Gloria de Lara's cause ? Ay, what ? 

Ever since that evening when, in obedience to orders. 
Jack Delamere had charged the crowd which barred 
the way between his Blues and the White Guards, 
ever since that day when he had marked the heroism 
of those men and women that composed it, ever 
since he had seen them go down before the horses of 
his troopers, sacrificing their lives so that their idol's 
miglit be spared, Jack Delamere had been a faithful 
and devoted adherent of the D'Estrangeite cause. 
Perhaps, too, his love for Flora Desmond may have 
influenced him. Who knows ? The influence of a 
noble and high-souled woman is surely the greatest 
incentive a man can have to do right. 

Money, too, had jjoured in from all quarters of the 
globe, and from all manners and classes of people. 
The women, who in the palmy days of Hector 
D'Estrange had responded to his appeal on behalf 
of the Hall of Liberty, had not been laggard when 
the author of its being had again called upon them 
for symjjathy and aid. The sinews of war had flowed 
in rapidly, and none had commanded it more quickly 
than Speranza de Lara. 

Such a state of things had of course become intoler- 



able to the Devoiismere Ministry, which in the early 
days of the movement had so confidently predicted 
its speedy collapse, as well as the arrest of Gloria de 
Lara and Flora Desmond. Every effort to capture 
these two had, however, proved unavailing, protected 
as they had been by a peojile's love. 

A people's love ! It was a noble gift to have won, 
a treasure of which they might well be jjroud, one 
which they might surely pray ever to deserve. None 
knew better than Gloria de Lara and Flora Desmond, 
that without it their fates must long since have been 
a prison's cell and a felon's doom. 

In the eyes of this Government matters had become 
desperate. Tlie efforts of the police had been paralysed. 
Conflicts had taken place between the military and the 
Women's Volunteer Regiments, and strong measures 
appeared necessary to check the disorders. Gloria de 
Lara's enemies had pointed to the Volunteer organi- 
sation as the root of the mischief, and it had been 
resolved to destroy it. Parliament had been asked 
to grant exceptional powers to meet this dangerous 
combination. Parliament had acquiesced, and forth- 
with a proclamation had been issued declaring the 
Women's Volunteer organisation to be illegal, and 
decreeing the instant disbandment of its regiments. 
The exceptional powers had furthermore empowered 
the police to arrest and imi)rison without trial all 
women who should be seen wearing the uniform of 
these regiments; and it had likewise been decreed a 


felony to shelter or harbour the persons of Gloria de 
Lara or Lady Flora Desmond, or to take part in any 
public meeting- in which they should participate. 

This Coercion Act, the first which had ever been 
passed for Great Britain and Ireland combined, had 
rendered the position of Gloria de Lara and Flora 
Desmond one of extreme peril, while threatening 
the liberties of thousands of their countrymen. A 
secret meeting had been called, the situation discussed, 
and it had been agreed that for the sake of the cause 
thus threatened these two must leave the country. 

But how? That was the question. Every port 
and sea-going vessel was strictly watched. In this 
dilemma Archie Douglasdale had submitted a plan. 

This j)lan was that his sister and Gloria de Lara, 
together with Nigel Estcourt and himself, should retire 
to one of his properties on the shores of Glenuig Bay, 
where amidst its shaggy woods nestled a little fishing 
box, remote from the haunts of man. In this lonely 
retreat, guarded by trusty Ruglen retainers, he had 
declared his belief that for a time they could rest 
concealed, while Evie Ravensdale, repairing to Loudon, 
should from there direct the immediate fitting-out 
of his yacht, in which, so soon as ready, he should 
put to sea, and work round to the Sound of Arisaig, 
where the fugitives could be embarked. And this 
plan had been approved of and acted upon. Gloria 
de Lara, Flora Desmond, Nigel Estcourt, and Archie 
Douglasdale had taken up their quarters in this safe 


retreat, and Evie Ravensdale Lad repaired to London. 
With him had gone L6onie, who had been commis- 
sioned to bear back the duke's instructions wlien all 
was ready. It was a fatal arrangement this last ; 
but Leonie had played her part well, and had won 
the confidence of all. Thus it is that we find Gloria 
de Lara on the last dying day of summer, amidst the 
scenes described at the opening of this chapter. 

Leonie has arrived from London. She has been 
instructed, she declares, to inform Gloria de Lara that 
the duke's yacht Eilean will jiroceed to sea and cruise 
about in the neighbourhood of Muck Island, so as 
to avoid the steamer track. The duke himself will 
make Glenuig Bay in a fishing smack, embarking 
every one thereon the day after his arrival. This 
arrival is timed for to-day, and Evie Ravensdale 
has sent a private message by Leonie asking Gloria 
to meet the smack at its entrance to the bay. At 
least so says Leonie, and Gloria believes her. She 
has sent the former to the toj) of a high crag to watch 
for the advent of the smack, with instructions to light 
a warning fire on sighting it. We have seen the 
l)ale blue line arise, and now Gloria, with quick, rapid 
strokes, is pulling for the bay's entrance. Her heart 
is happy, for is not Evie Ravensdale at hand ? She 
never dreams of treachery. 

The boat flies through the water, which parts with 
hissing sound on either side of the bow's keel. Now 
the splash and upheaving of the craft tells the rower 


that she has left the bay and entered the opeu sea. 
She casts a glance ahead, and sees the smack bearing 
down towards her, and then she sees the sail lowered 
and the vessel hove to. Once more slie plies her 
^ars, for she has caught sight of a tall figure waving 
to her, and making signs to bring the boat alongside 
the smack. 

"• Ship oars ! " she hears a voice exclaiming as she 
nears it, and she obeys with alacrity. 

In another moment a sailor has seized the painter, 
and two others have sprung into the boat. She looks 
up expecting to see the face of Evie Ravensdale. One 
glance, and she knows that she is betrayed. 

" Up with the sails ! Starboard the helm ! Put 
the boat about, and fetch yon lad ofi" the rocks," is the 
quick command she hears given as the sailors heave 
her aloft on to the deck, and two other men push her 
into the cabin below. Then the hatch is battened 
down. There is a coarse laugh. Once more has 
L6onie won. 



^ '■ " " " " ' ' ^J II -r1 


" rpHERE is the smoke, Estcourt ; Ravensdale must 

J- be in sight," exclaims Flora Desmond, as she 
leans on her empty rifle and scans the peaceful scene 
far away below. 

" So soon ? " inquires the young man looking up. 
" We must have strangely miscalculated the time." 

" Wei], there's the smoke right enough, Estcourt ; 
and L^onie is far too smart to make a mistake. How- 
ever, no need to hurry ; it is such a glorious evening, 
and the last for me on these dear old hills, perhaps 
for ever." 

She says the last words sadly, and there is a yearn- 
ing look in her fine eyes as they rove the familiar 
glens and corries, rugged crags and purple stretches 
which she and Archie Douglasdale learnt to know by 
heart in childhood, in their happy hunting excursions 
together long ago. Far away below. Loch Eilort and 
Glenuig Bay shimmer in the setting sun, whose light 
is gleaming across the grey waters of the open sea. 

These two have been away all day after deer, and 

GLORIANA ; OR, THE llEVOLUTIO^^ OF 19<)0. 263 

Archie Douglasdale is still absent on the same quest. 
They have not seen him since they parted with him 
on the Black Crags some seven hours ago. 

Lord Estcourt rises and comes to her side. He 
is a tall, well-made man, with expressive features, 
and a pair of grey eyes which Society has declared 
to be magnificent. Plenty of women therein have 
been willing to fall in love with "Nigel Estcourt; 
no end of scheming and would-be mothers-in-law 
have instructed their daughters in the virtues, wealth, 
and charming characteristics of that very nice young 
fellow, and charged the poor things to exert their 
utmost to win him. But Nigel Estcourt has never 
yet been seen to pay court to any woman, and Fashion 
marvels thereat. But since he was a boy of seventeen 
he has held love's secret next his heart. It was at 
Ruglen Manor, long ago, when, as a mere lad, he first 
saw Flora Ruglen, that Nigel Estcourt first opened 
the book of love. It was to him that she, his first 
girl friend, had opened her heart, and it was to her 
that his boyish soul had responded. Born with a 
golden spoon in his mouth, with all that the world 
most covets, it was but natural that Fashion should 
court him. But Nigel Estcourt was not responsive 
to its adulation, and snubbed it most unmercifully. 

When Flora Ruglen had married Sir Reginald 
Desmond, young Nigel had sorely grieved ; but his 
friendship for her had not abated, for he loved her just 
the same. He was still only a boy, of course, and no 


one would have seriously predicted that this, his first 
love, would be his last. 

Other men had loved Flora Desmond, and love her 
still. She has had no lack of offers since poor Reggie 
Desmond died. Over and over again has smart Jack 
Delamere pressed his suit. He has never loved any 
woman like he does her, but he presses his suit in vain ; 
for gently, kindly but firmly, Flora Desmond has told 
him that she will never marry again. She had told 
Estcourt the same thing when for tlie first time, now 
three years ago, he had confessed his love and asked her 
to marry him. She liad told him then that he must 
put that love from him for ever, for the reply which 
she then gave him would remain unchanged. Yet, 
with tears in her lovely eyes. Flora had told him also 
how deeply she valued his friendship, how grateful 
and honoured she felt by his love, and how she prayed 
that the strong, firm bond which had held them 
together so long, since as boy and girl they had first 
made friends, would endure through life. Perhaps if 
one thing had not happened, Flora Desmond might 
have returned young Estcourt's love. Perhaps if the 
wand of fate had not decreed otherwise, her heart 
might have gone out to him. It seemed almost 
natural that she should love him, he who had 
received her earliest confidences and been her first 
friend. But one thing had intervened to make this 
impossible. Flora Desmond loved another. 

Some women can love much and often, some can 


almost adore, and then forget. To Flora this was 
impossible. Hers was a heart which could not lightly 
love, which, slow to appreciate, would nevertheless, 
when once unlocked, love truly, faithfully, and well. 
And thus it had been with this woman so seemingly 
love free. For years ago that feeling had flooded 
her heart, had taken possession of her, never to pass 
away, when as Lady Flora Desmond, but a year 
after her marriage, she had seen Evie Ravensdale 
for the first time. 

Who shall describe or fathom the depth of a true 
and pure love ? None have been able to do so yet, 
none ever will. Flora's love was such as asked for no 
return, content only to be allowed to love. 

And yet, who knows that there may not have shot, 
now and again, through Flora's heart when, after the 
death of Heginald Desmond, she and Evie Ravens- 
dale were thrown often into each other's company, a 
gleam of hope that her love might in time come to be 
returned ? It may have been so ; but if so, it van- 
ished finally and for ever when the personality of 
Hector D'Estrange was revealed in Gloria de Lara. 
Unmistakably on that evening when she had rescued 
this latter from the prison-van and had handed lier 
into Evie Ravensdale's safe keeping at Montragee 
House, Flora Desmond had read in the dark and 
beautiful eyes of the young duke the secret of his 

It never entered her mind to cavil at his choice or 


to resent it. No pang of jealousy had shot through 
lier heart against the woman to whom his love had 
been clearly given. Only, when she had read his 
secret, had the feeling rushed over her that the love 
which she had nursed and cherished for so long, was 
imperishable and impossible of recall. 

Not that she wished or sought to recall it. Flora 
would have sooner died than part with the first true 
love of her life ; it was to her a treasure that she prized 
beyond expression, priceless to her in value. He lays 
his right hand on her shoulder for a moment as he 
stands by her side, and she feels it tremble. 

" It is a day I shall never forget. Flora," he says 
gently; "I have been very happy. It will be some- 
thing for your old friend to look back upon, when 
you are far away." 

" What do you mean Estcourt ? " she incpiires 
hastily. " But you are coming with us ? " 

" No," he answers decisively. " I have other work 
to do. I shall never rest till I have obtained for you 
the pardon that will extricate you from this outlawed 
life. I can be of use to you by remaining, I liave 
some influence still in high quarters, and I could do 
you no good by going to America. Of course I should 
like to go ; you know. Flora, I am never so hai)i)y as 
wlien I am with you, but I don't mean to think of 
Ego on this occasion." 

The tears rise to her eyes. 

" I sliall miiss you, Estcourt, dear old Estconrt," 

OR, THE REVOLUTIO^r OF 1900. 267 

she says softly; aud then her hand steals into his, 
and he feels the grateful pressure in its firm touch. 

The blood rushes to the young man's face, for that 
touch thrills him through and through, though the 
ring in her voice tells him that affection, and affection 
only, not love, is there. 

" You'll never miss me as I shall you," he answers 
passionately. " Ah, Flora ! you don't know the dull, 
blank void that comes over me when you are not by; 
you don't understand the lonely feeling that masters 
me, the yearning to see your dear face again. Of 
course. Flora, you cannot understand what I suffer, 
for I don't believe you know what love means. I 
have often heard you called ' the cold Lady Flora.' 
I begin to believe you are rightly named." 

It is her turn to flush now, but she turns her head 
away that he may not see the hot blood in her cheeks. 
Evie Raven sdale's face is before her in imagination. 
She sees the dear, dark, dreamy eyes, the clear-cut 
features, the beautiful forehead around which the raven 
curls are clustering; she sees him as plainly as 
thougli he stood before her, for is not his presence 
burnt into her mind with the exactitude of reality ? 
She loves him with all her heart, and power, and 
soul, and mind. No sacrifice for his sake would 
seem hard. To die that he might live would be a 
joy. If Flora Desmond does not know what love 
means, then who does ? 

But Estcourt can only judge by what he sees. He 


knows she has rejected the love of many men. There 
is no one, save himself, to whom she apjiears to give 
a preference, and has she not told him that she can 
never marry him ? Is he not justified in his conclu- 
sions, therefore ? Perhaps so. Few men have ever 
been able to read a woman right. 

She pulls herself together, however, and turns his 
remark off with a jest. 

" Cold am I, Estcourt ? An iceberg, probably ! I 
almost think so, too, for it's actually beginning to 
feel chilly uj) here. How blood-red the sun has 
turned. Mark my words ; we are in for a storm this 
evening, and I doubt any embarkation being possible 
to-morrow. I know these old shores well." 

" If you are chilly, Flora," he says almost bitterly, 
" we had better make haste down the Crag Vale. 
It would not do for you to catch cold." Her evident 
desire to turn the conversation has not escaped him. 
It hurts him, and he shows it. 

She marks the bitter tone of his voice. Flora 
knows Estcourt so well. A woman can generally 
read a man pretty correctly if she chooses to ; of a 
certainty if the man loves her. 

She faces him suddenly with the glow of the blood- 
red sun lighting up her handsome face. She is earnest 
in what she is going to say, and she looks it. 

" Estcourt, dear old Estcourt, let there be no mis- 
understanding between us two, and on the eve of 
parting. This may be the last op})ortunity of telling 


YOU what I wish to. Don't gibe me as cold and 
lieartless, for it is not true, not true. Do I not know 
liow chivalrously and devotedly you have loved me, 
and am I not grateful to you for your noble and 
generous love ? Why should I ask the question, 
because you know it ? You know I would not speak 
untruly, and I tell you that your love is very precious 
to me, and I value your great friendship more than 
anybody else's in this world. Were you not my first 
friend ? Am I likely to forget that ? But, Estcourt, 
dear old man, you must not throw your love away on 
me, for I shall never marry again. I shall always 
look on you as my tirst, best, and truest friend, and 
love you dearly, very dearly as such, but I can never 
marry again — no, Estcourt, never ! " 

" Nor I," he answers quietly, with a sad smile. 
" You are hardly the woman to bid a man marry 
where he does not love. Flora, I have loved you 
ever since I first saw you ; I shall never love any one 
else but you. At least you will do me the justice 
to believe that I am as unalterable as you are. Let 
us never bring this subject up again. Let it bide by 
the Crag Vale Cairn." 

He kisses her hand tenderly and respectfully, and 
then he lets it fall. 

" Let's go down now, Flora dear," he says gently. 
" I wonder why Raveusdale's smack has not turned 
the point yet. It ought to be round by now if Leonie 
were right." 


" I'll back lier to be right," answers Flora, with a 
slight laugh. " She's not likely to mislead Gloria, 
who, by-the-bye, I saw turning the point in her 
coracle quite ten minutes ago. They'll be round in 
a second, I daresay." 

The two scramble down the rough face of the 
mountain side in silence. The thoughts of both are 
busy. Suddenly, however, Estcourt brings himself 
to a halt and calls out to Flora, who is a little ahead 
of him, 

" Flora ! who can that be ? " 

Her eyes follow the direction in which his hand 
points, and she sees a four-oared boat coming out of 
Loch Eilort into the Sound of Arisaig at a rapid pace, 
and heading for Glenuig Bay. 

" It must be Archie," she calls back. " I suppose 
he got to the far end of the lake, and has come back 
by water. The boat is Bruce Ruglen's, and the oars- 
men are his four sons. I know it and them well." 

He comes runnino- down to where she is standino'. 

" Flora dear," he says quickly, " use your eyes. 
The man in the stern is not Douglasdale. It's Evie, 
as I live ! What can L^onie have meant, and why 
does not Gloria come back ? Surely there cannot 
have been treachery ? My God ! surely not ? " 

But Flora never stops to surmise. Her face is 
deadly pale, and she has turned at his words, and 
is hurrying with fleet steps down tlie mountain side, 
with Estcourt following quickly in the rear. Fast, 

on, THE EEVOLUTION OF 1900. 271 

faster she goes. Flora Desraoiid is as nimble as a 
deer. No monstrous, tied-back petticoats encumber 
her. She is habited in the neat, graceful kilt in the 
tartan of her brother's clan and her own, which suits 
to perfection her supple, well-made form. In it she 
is free to use the physical powers which Nature has 
given her, and which she has never sought to stunt 
or to curtail. 

She makes straight for the shore, and as she moves 
along she loads her rifle. Then as she reaches the 
water's edge she fires it oif. 

This attracts the inmates of the boat. They look 
her way, and perceive that she is signalling to them 
to come in shore. In a moment Evie Ravensdale has 
turned the boat's nose in her direction, and she sees 
that he is urging the oarsmen to exert their utmost. 

The men endeavour to obey ; they bend their backs, 
and send the boat hissing through the still waters. 
Foam flakelets fly before the racing keel propelled by 
irresistible force, and yet to Flora Desmond it appears 
to come but slowly. 

" Back water, men I " she shouts, as the boat nears 
the shore. " Don't beach her. I want to push her 
off and jump in." 

Estcourt is beside her now, and they are both up 
to their knees in the water. The men are restins: 
on their oars as the boat glides slowly forward. 

But Flora and Estcourt have it by the prow. 

" Now, Estcourt, push off ! " exclaims tlie former, 



as bending chest downwards she arrests its course. 
The edge of her kilt in front sinks into the water, in 
another moment her knee is on the boat's edge, and 
she is standing in the bow with her companion by her 

"Evie!" she exclaims, in a low excited voice, 
" how is it you have come this way ? Is anything 
wrong ? We expected you in a smack, and Gloria has 
gone to meet you." 

" A smack ! " gasps the young duke. " What do 
you mean ? " 

But she does not answer him. She has turned, and 
is addressing the four clansmen. 

" Ruglens," she says quickly, " pull to the point 
for your lives ! Pull men, pull ; pull with the strength 
God gave you. God in heaven, pull I " 

They answer to her appeal, do these young giants. 
Do they not know her well ? Is she not a liuglen ? 
Are they not Ruglens too ? Have they not as children 
played with their young chief and his sister, joined 
in their rambles, mingled with their sports ? Well 
do these Highland laddies understand her quick com- 
mand, understand it and obey. She has crossed to the 
stern, where the duke sits staring mutely at her. 

" Give me the helm, Evie," she says quietly. " I 
can steer the shortest cut. Don't look like that, Evie ; 
it may be all a mistake." 

But her voice tells him she does not think so. 

The boat tears through the water; the clansmen are 


doing their best. There is not a word spoken. Only 
the sphish of the oars, the dull thud of the twisting 
rowlocks, the hiss of the boat's keel, break the 
stillness of Glennig's Bay. 

They have reached the jjoint now. Fonr more 
gallant strokes from the men whose brows are thickly 
studded with the bead drops of extraordinary toil, and 
the boat rises on the first rolling swell of the open 

The smack is there ; it catches the straining eyes of 
Evie Raveusdale, as he sjiriugs up and gazes across 
the great grey ocean waste. To lier dying day Flora 
will never forget the terrible groan of agony which 
bursts from him. 

Ay, the smack is there, but they come too late. 
The brown sail is spread, it is already far away, 
vanishing into the creej)ing, dull, dark veil of the 
advancing night and rising storm. 



" A LL shall come right, eveiything shall be ex- 
-t\. plained ; you shall have immediate liberty, if, 
on behalf of your mother, yon will promise me what I 
ask. I know perfectly well she will do it if you ask 
her. Now will yon ? " 

The speaker is a middle-aged man, with deeji, dark 
eyes, handsome featnres, and bold, resolnte carriage. 
Grey hairs peep here and there from ont his thick 
beard, monstache, and whiskers, and there are grey 
hairs in his once raven hair. He is dressed in a navy- 
blue serge suit, and wears the buttons of the royal 
yacht squadron. 

To all appearance the person he is addressing is 
a young man of some twenty-three or twenty-four 
summers. He is tall, and slight, with a face of extreme 
beauty. He has rich gold-auburn hair, and his eyes 
are deep blue in colour. Nothing will compare with 
them but the sapphire. 

He wears a well-fitting shepherd's plaid kilt, stock- 
ings to match, and silver mounted brogues. A loose 


white flaimel shirt and waistcoat and jacket complete 
his attire. 

" I will not," is the stern, cold reply which he gives 
to the speaker's query. 

This latter grinds his teeth, hut checks the rising 
anger within him, and speaks once more in a persua- 
sive, almost pleading voice. 

" Think again. Consider all that depends on your 
decision. After all, my request is perfectly honourable. 
I simply ask that she shall consent to re-marry me." 

" Great God I and you call that an honourable 
request, Lord Westray ? You think it a simple 
matter, that my mother should wed again my father's 
murderer ? I tell you a death of hideous torture 
would be more preferable to me, than that a fate so 
awful should befall her. Cease, I 2)ray you, this 
subject. I have but one answer to your hateful pro- 
posal, and that is, no I " 

" Have you weighed well in your mind the fate 
that awaits you, Hecter D'Estrange, if you persist in 
this refusal ? " asks Lord Westray threateningly. 

" My name is Gloria de Lara, my lord, not Hector 
D'Estrange, as I think you know full well. The fate 
that awaits me I fully realise. I am condemned to 
death for a murder never committed; I am to die that 
your vile vengeance on my beloved mother may be 
fully wreaked. Do your worst. I do not fear death ; 
and my mother will bear the blow as bravely and as 
nobly as she has borne others." 


She folds her arms proudly, and there is a world of 
scorn in her beautiful eyes as she fixes them on the 
cowardly brute before her. A wild gust of wind 
shrieks angrily above board as the smack rises and 
plunges in the trough of a choppy sea. The blood-red 
sun has vanished, an inky darkness has set in, and the 
wind is rajudly increasing from a fresh breeze into a 
regular fierce and nasty gale. 

Lord Westray staggers, and almost reels up against 
her as the smack lurches forward on the crest of a 
more than usually excitable wave. There is a rush of 
feet on deck, and men's voices are heard sliouting 
above the noisy wind. She starts back from him in 
horror ; she would not touch him for the world. His 
very presence in the close, stuffy little cabin seems to 
stifle her. Gladly would she seek an asylum in the 
ocean's angry waves,,^and trust to Fate to enable her 
to reach the shore, or die. 

The cabin door opens, and the skijjper peers in. 

" Beg pardon, sir," he says, touching his oil-skin 
ca]), " but I must put to sea, sir, I must. We're in 
for a regular duster. I daren't coast no longer, sir. 
It's pitch black, and the shore for miles along is 
almighty dangerous." 

" I'll come on deck, Hutchins," answers Lord 
Westray quickly. He is a good sailor, but the intelli- 
gence does not please him. As he turns to leave the 
cabin Leonie steals in. She is drenched with sea 
water, and her hair is wringing wet. As she seats 


herself in a corner of tlie cabin she glances shyly at 
Gloria. This latter returns the look with one of 
mingled pity and contempt. Leonie's eyes drop 
before that look. For the first time in her life a 
feeling of shame rushes over her. 

" This is a terrible storm," she says in a low voice, 
as a wave crashes along the deck, part of it finding 
its way into the cabin. " I heard one of the men say 
he did not think the boat would weather it." 

" God grant it may not ! " answers Gloria sternly, 
and then, as if influenced by a sudden impulse, she 
continues gently, " Ah ! L^onie, child, what could 
have tempted you to act so basely ? What have I 
ever done to you that you should treat me thus ? " 

" I did my duty," answers the girl sullenly. " I 
did what I was ordered to do. It is my trade." 

" Your trade, child ? Good heavens ! what are you, 
and who ordered you to betray me ? " 

" My master, Mr. Trackem," answers L6onie, 
simply. " I belong to his detective gang. I've served 
him ever since I can remember. I've never failed 
him yet, and he told me not to fail him this time. I 
promised I would not, and I have obeyed him." 

There is an evident sincerity in her tone, and Gloria, 
with her power of deep insight into character, reads 
Leonie's at a glance. 

" Have you no mother, no father, my poor L6onie? " 
she inquires softly, as she comes over to the girl's 
Bide, and lays her hand on her curly head. 


" Mother, father ? No, of course not," answers 
L^onie, with a slight langh. " Tiiey are both dead. 
Mr. Trackem always says he's acted father, mother, 
brother, sister, uncle, aunt, and cousiu by me. I don't 
quite know what he means by that, but that is what 
he says." 

" Poor L^onie, poor wee L^onie. God ! what a 
fate ! You are not to blame then, my poor child. 
Ah ! how fully I forgive you," says Gloria, as with 
a sudden impulse she stoops and kisses the girl wlio 
has betrayed her, on the cheek. Only another revela- 
tion has come to her from that cesspool of Modern 
Babylon ; only another fearful wrong unknown, un- 
studied, and unforbidden, brought to light. 

L^onie looks up quickly. Tliere is a queer expres- 
sion in her intelligent eyes. 

" Why do you kiss me ? Why do you speak so 
kindly? Why do you forgive me for betraying 
you ? " she inquires I'ather eagerly. 

" Because I believe in God," answers Gloria 

" God ! Why, Mr. Trackem always lauglis at 
God," interi)0ses Leonie, with a shrug of her 
shoulders. " He always tells me that God is an in- 
vention of the devil, and all clergymen and priests 
are fallen angels." 

" Oh, hush, Leonie ; husli, my poor, poor child ! 
This is terrible. Do not talk in that awful way," 
and the tears start trembling to Gloria's lovely eyes. 


"L^onie, God is good; He is oiir friend, He helps 
those who pray to Him. If we die to-night we shall 
be brought face to face with Him." 

" I don't understand what you mean," answers the 
girl quietly, " but I do know this. I expected abuse 
and reproaches from you, but I have received only 
kindness, forgiveness, and gentle words. You have 
kissed me, and no one has ever done that before. 
I am sorry now I betrayed you. Yes, I am ; and I 
will try and save you if I can— unless, unless we are 
drowned to-night. Do you think we shall be drowned ? 
You can swim, I know, but I can't. Mr. Trackem 
never taught me how to do that." 

" If it comes to swimming I will do my best to help 
you, L^onie, at least so long as God gives me strength 
to do so," answers Gloria quietly. 

Again Leonie looks up. In her untrained, untutored 
mind Nature is beginning to assert its sway, and 
gratitude knocks gently at her heart. 

"You would do that for me, would you? You 
would try to save my life, after what I have done to 
you? Did God teach you that?" she asks with a 
quivering voice. 

" Yes, L6onie." 

" Then I love God, and I love you. May I give 
yon a kiss, just as you kissed me ? I want to show 
you how I love you," cries Leonie, with a half sob. 
" No one has ever been kind to me like this before." 

She rises as she speaks, and takes one of Gloria's 


hands. This latter is almost startled by the extra- 
ordinary likeness which for a brief moment sweeps 
across the girl's featm'es, a likeness to Bernie Fontenoy. 
There is a terrible crash overhead. It sounds like 
falling timber. Again a rush of feet, and Gloria and 
L4onie hear the ski])per's voice raised in loud command. 
" He is ordering out the boat, Leonie. That must 
have been the mast that went with that crash. I can 
feel by the movement of the ship that she's helpless. 
We shall drift on the rocks, and then she'll soon break 
up," exclaims Gloria, almost eagerly. 

" Then we shall be drowned," answers her com- 
panion in a quiet, composed voice. " I'm not afraid. 
I think I should have been if this had hapj)ened 
yesterday, but I am not now." 

She stops suddenly as the cabin door creaks open 
to admit Lord Westray. 

He looks flurried and anxious, but his glance at 
once seeks Gloria. 

" The smack is practically a wreck," he says quickly, 
" and we are going to take to the boat. I will save 
you if you will promise me what I asked you." 

" Go ! " cries Gloria sternly. " Now you know that 
I will die rather than do so. Go, bad man ! and may 
God have mercy on you." 

He looks at her furiously. But there is no time 
for arguing; the skipper is calling to him to hurry. 

" So be it," he bursts out, with a coarse laugh. 
" Your blood be on your own head. I'll leave you. 


and save the gallows the trouble of hanging yon. 
Come on, girl." 

These last words are addressed to L4onie. 
" What I go with yon, and leave her ? I'll drown 
rather ! " exclaims L6onie, with a contemptuous laugh, 
" Drown like a rat, then," he says witli an oatli, 
as he hangs the door and leaves them. They hear 
him scrambling up the little companion ladder, they 
hear his voice shouting to the skipper, but the wind 
shrieks louder, and the howl of the tempest drowns 
all other sounds. 

Again there is a rush of water along the deck, a 
hissing and washing sound, as the huge wave which 
has occasioned it tears madly on its course, part of 
it bursting open the cabin door, and flooding the floor 
on which Gloria and L^onie are standing. 

" We must get on deck, L^onie ; we can't stay here, 
child. Here, take hold of my hand; we must keep 
together," exclaims Gloria in a quick, peremptory 

They are half-blinded by the thick spray which 
sweeps in their faces as they stagger up the ladder, 
clinging like grim death to the rails. It is pitch 
dark, not the faintest gleam of light gives them the 
smallest indication of their whereabouts, only the 
white foam of the towering billows now and again 
flashes across their aching eyes, blinded by the salt 

Plenty of wreckage is floating about on the deck, 


and amongst it a life-belt knocks up against one of 
Gloria's ankles. With a pleased exclamation she at 
once secures it, and proceeds to slip it over L6onie's 

" If this poor wreck founders," she explains as she 
does so, " this will keep you afloat, child. I am glad 
I saw it." 

"But you," says Leonie quickly; "you have not 

" Never mind me, child. You forget that I can 
swim. If we manage to stick together, this belt will 
be a great help to me, as you will see. And now, 
Leonie, we can do nothing but cling to these rails 
and trust in God. Keep a good look out for the 
waves. When you see one rushing this way don't try 
and stand up against it, it will only knock you back- 
wards, but bend yourself, hold your breath, and put 
your head through it. Quick, have a care, child ! " 
She utters these last words in a sharj) warning tone 
as she tightens her grasp on Leonie's hand. A dense 
dark wall seems to tower above them, a swirl and 
a rush is all she hears as a monster wave envelops 
her and Leonie in its folds. It tears the rail, to which 
her left hand clings, from her grasj). She feels her- 
self lifted up like a straw, and borne forward by the 
resistless rush and volume of water. With the des- 
peration of death in her clutch, her right hand still 
grips the still, cold fingers of her young companion, 
whose grasp has slackened altogether. A floating 


spar strikes her with some force. She clutches at it, 
but it sweeps past her, and is gone as the wave carries 
her ever onwards. 

A sudden ebb in the resistless current as if by 
magic arrests her course. She feels herself dragged 
back along the line she has come. Then the volume 
of water abruptly leaves her, and her feet touch the 
deck again. 

Gloria is up in a moment ; she knows there is not 
a minute to spare. In her present position another 
such a billow would sweep her clear of the smack 
altogether into the raging sea. 

" Jump up, L^onie ! " she shouts, but L^onie never 
stirs. As Gloria tugs at her arm to try and arouse 
her, she knows by the dead weight of the girl's body 
that L6onie is either dead or insensible. 

With a supreme effort she raises the now helpless 
girl in her arms, and staggers forward to the cabin 
with her burden. A wave strikes her as she reaches 
it, and dashes her once more to the ground. For a 
second time she is swept like a straw along the deck, 
and for the second time the ebb arrests her progress, 
and leaves her in the same position as before. 

" Oh God! " she gasps, " how long? This is indeed 
a living death." 

She still grasps the stiff, clammy fingers of the 
helpless girl, but hope has left her. She only now 
wishes that death may come, and come quickly. 

There is a wild shriek ahead. It rises high above 


the wind's roar. Then a ghastly, unearthly sonnd 
comes ont of the blackness of night. Even on death's 
threshold it awakes to attention the senses of Gloria 
de Lara. Through the blinding spray she strains the 
last glance on life which she feels is left to her. 
High above, like a huge black mountain rising sud- 
denly out of the sea, looms a gigantic apparition. It 
towers above her like some fearful, unknown spectre. 
There is a flash of light in the air, a loud shout, a 
grating sound. Loud o'er all shrieks the temjiest 
whistle, she feels the smack part from her, a mighty 
current sucks her beneath the waves ; down, down it 
drags her into the bottomless abyss of the ocean's 
awful crater, as the great ship sweeps forward on 
its course. Even in this moment of death's agony 
Gloria's brain is clear. She relaxes her grasp of 
Leonie, who, with the life-belt around her, has that 
one straw of hope to cling to. As the waters of the 
surging Atlantic sweep over her her last cry is to 
God ; her last vision of the life which she is quitting, 
is the face of Evie Ravensdale. 



EACE after the storm ! Ay, in so far that the 
_ tempest fiend has vanished, leaving behind him 
only the low moan of the dying gale. High above 
the heights which look down on Eilean Fianan, 
Tiorin's ruins, and the lovely woods of Shona's Isle, 
hover the cloud mists of rismg morn, through whose 
seemingly tissue veil glint and gleam the joyous 
sparks, fantastic offspring of the new-born sun. 

Its light, too, is warming those heights with a rosy 
glow, and the thick dark woods are pierced with its 
golden shafts. Like myriad diamonds sparkle the 
raindrops on the pines, and the dew on the glades and 
fairy rmgs, where elfin goblins have held their mid- 
night orgies. 

Yet the gale has left its after-birth in the rolling 
swell, which beats in relentless fury on the rock-girt 
coast of Shona's Isle, and lashes the sandy stretch of 
beach between Ardtoe and Ru Druimnich. High 
tide is rising on those shores, an inland current has 


set in, and in its grasp are the trophies of the storm- 
fiend's \dctory over the handiwork of man. 

What are these trophies ? Why, here and there a 
spar, a tossing barrel, a broken oar. There is some- 
thing floating, too, on the heaving swell with which 
the waves are making merry, for they carry it to the 
sandy beach and drag it back again, toss it still 
further inland, and smother it in their spray. 

It is a choice plaything ; the salt sea waves are 
battling for it hard, but the tide and the inland 
current say them nay, and the sandy beach gives it a 
rugged welcome. There for a time it may rest. 

It ! But what may it be ? A human body, 
surely ? 

Out in the bay the yacht Eilean is coasting \\\) and 
down. Eager eyes are scanning the waste of water, 
and every sign of wreckage is minutely observed. 
Ever and anon the voices of the men aloft shout down 
some new discovery to the anxious watchers on the 
deck below. There is a look of intense agony in the 
eyes of the young Duke of Ravensdale as he paces 
that snow-white deck. His features are drawn and 
haggard, his cheeks are deathly pale, and the lines of 
care have seared their mark indelibly across his high 
and noble brow. 

" Wreckage ahoy ! " The men on the look-out have 
spied another victim of the gale which the inland 
current is drawing to Ardnamurchan's shores. What 
can it be ? It looks like the back of u whale, or a 


huge porpoise turning over in its course. Wliat can 
it be? 

The Eilean steams towards it, and comes close up 
alongside it. No, it is no wliale. Only the remnant 
of a fishing smack, part of which appears to have been 
bodily severed from the whole. 

The sharp order to man the lifeboat cntter is given. 
In a few minutes it is riding the heaving swell. All 
eyes are occupied with this new discovery ; even the 
look-out men have forgotten their duty aloft. Suddenly, 
however. Flora's Desmond's voice rings out. She has 
been keeping silent, faithful watcli by Evie Ravensdale. 

" What's that ? " she cries. 

In a moment he is straining with an eager, hungry 
look those wild, despairing eyes. She is pointing 
away to starboard, and he sees, unmistakably sees, a 
human head and shoulders rising up and down on the 
grey ocean's surface. With a low cry he springs 
forward. Were it not for Flora's restraining clutch 
he would be overboard and swimming to meet it. 

" Wait, Evie ! " she says imploringly. " The boat 
wall fetch it in a moment. Don't go, Evie. Alas, it 
is not she ! " 

She has a clear sight has Flora Desmond. She has 
caught a glimpse of the dead white face thrown back 
as it rises on the crest of the heaving swell, and she 
knows that it is not the face of Gloria de Lara. But 
when the lifeboat cutter retrieves the body, and it 
is hoisted on to the deck, then indeed Flora cannot 


restrain a cry of horror as she recognises in the set, 
rigid face, wide open, staring eyes, and close clenched 
teeth the unmistakable features of the girl traitoress, 
the female Judas, Leonie. 

" Take her from my sight ! Oh God ! take her 
away ! " bursts from the pale lips of Evie Ravensdale, 
as in a moment the sight of the body before him 
drives from his heart the clinging hope that Gloria 
is not dead. He knows now that the storm-fiend 
has claimed her for his victim, that on this earth the 
dark blue eyes will never look their love again. 

As they bear Leonie from his sight an unnatural 
calmness seizes him. He turns to Flora. 

" We must do our duty, Flora. Mine is to see you 
safe. We will put the helm about, and steer for the 
great free land. And when we get there Flora, you 
will see her mother and break it to her, won't you ? " 

His words are so cold and measured, his face so 
unmoved, that Flora is half fearful for his reason. 
She lays her hand gently on his arm. 

" Not yet, Evie. We must put back to Shona first. 
We must not give up the search yet. I mean to 
examine the whole coast line between this and Ru 

" But she is dead, Flora. Don't you know slie is 
dead ? " he says coldly. 

" Still, Evie, we may find her dear body. Oh no, 
Evie, we must not give up the search ; we must seek 
on," answers Flora. She dare not buoy him up with 


the fresh hope that Gloria may be alive. The sight 
of Leonie has told her this cannot be ; yet still she 
is resolved more than ever to search on for the body 
of her friend. The boatswahi is standing near. She 
sends him with instructions to the captain, to put 
the yacht's head about and run for Moi dart's Loch, 
and then she resumes her watch by Evie Ravensdale. 
Time flies, but he does not notice her; his eyes are 
staring out over the ocean wave. As they near the 
Loch, Nigel Estcourt comes up. 

" A moment, Flora," he says, motioning her to 
come apart. " The doctor is trying to bring Leonie 
round. He says life is not extinct. If he can only 
succeed, we may be able to extract from her wliat 
has happened. Will you go and see her? I will 
keep Ravensdale company while you go down ? " 

" You must be very gentle, Estcourt. You must 
watch him closely, too; I am terribly afraid for his 
reason. He seems turned to stone since he set eyes 
on Leonie. It is a bad sign. If tears would come 
they would relieve him. Ah ! God help him. It is 

She sighs deeply as she turns from him. Heavy 
at heart, yet is Flora's heart heavier still when it 
thinks of the agony which Evie Ravensdale is suffer- 
ing. What would she not endure to bring comfort 
and peace to his tortured soul ! 

She makes her way down to the cabin where Leonie 
is lying ; the doctor, with the stewardess and her 



assistant, are biis}^ treating" her. He looks up hope- 
fully as Flora enters. 

" She has moved ; she has struggled for breath/' he 
observes quickly. " Lady Flora, she will live. She 
seems to me a mere child. I wonder who she is." 

But Flora does not answer, only she moves over 
to the couch, and looks down on the motionless 

It is strange, but as she looks she sees the same 
remarkable resemblance in this girl to Bernie Fon- 
tenoy, which Gloria had remarked the previous night. 
Certainly it is strange, very strange. 

There is a long-drawn sigh, and then a struggle for 
breath. Leonie clutches the air with her hands, and 
her lips move. 

" I am stifling," she gasps ; "don't choke me, don't, 
please don't ! Let me breathe, please let me breathe ! " 
The doctor raises her up slightly, and again Leonie 
sighs. Then she draws a long breath. " I love you," 
she says softly'; " I love you, Gloria. I love God, too. 
I wish I hadn't betrayed you now. But you have 
forgiven me, you have been kind to me, you have 
kissed me. Oh ! those waves, those dreadful waves ! 
They will kill you ; you have given me the life-belt, 
and you have not got one. Take it off, Gloria. Put it 
on yourself and leave me. I don't mind drowning. I 
would like to drown for you. Let me kiss you first. 
Let me sleep now ; let me die." 

Her hitherto fixed and staring eyes shoot with a 


gleam of returning intelligence. She closes them, and 
her head falls forward. 

" She will sleep now," observes the doctor, as he 
lays her down and turns her on her side, " and when 
she awakes she will be all right. A marvellous re- 
covery. She must have wonderful vitality in her. 
We will leave her now quiet, Lady Flora. The yacht 
is in motion again. Do we continue the search ? " 

" Yes, but along the coast. I must go now, doctor. 
You will let me know later how the patient is, won't 
you ? " 

" Certainly," he answers cheerfully. 

Flora returns on deck. Leonie's words have puzzled 
her. They were clearly addressed to Gloria, and yet 
these disjointed utterances can convey but one inter- 
pretation of her fate. Gladly would Flora swallow 
a grain of hope, but she knows that it would only 
make the reality harder to bear, a reality which she 
has faced and accepted already. 

" Gloria," she whispers, " if you can hear me now, 
you will know how true was Flora's friendship. God 
help me, and I will clear your name of that foul charge 
laid to your door. L6onie may know something of 
it, and she will tell me, for on the threshold of death 
has she not said that she loves you ? " 

Brave, noble Flora ! Self is buried in those generous 
words. She never pauses to think of the danger in 
which she stands, or the trouble which she must suffer 
But Flora is heroic. 


The yacht is gliding into Moidart's Loch, and again 
the lifeboat cutter is manned and lowered. Flora 
has determined to search the whole shore within the 
radius of the drifting inland current, which long 
experience of these coasts has taught her, draws 
wrecks thereto. 

She will conduct the search in this direction her- 
self, while, as is now arranged, Estcourt and Archie 
Douglasdale will prosecute it along Shona's rocky 
coast in the large gig. Archie had returned to Glenuig 
Bay, on the evening before, only to find the fishing box 
deserted, his sister, Ravensdale, and Estcourt gone. 
One of his trusty Ruglen retainers awaited him, how- 
ever, with the information that they had crossed the 
hills by Kinlockmoidart for Eilean Shona, where the 
duke's yacht lay anchored. The message which Leonie 
had been entrusted to convey was to this very effect, 
the duke having further commissioned her to apprise 
Gloria of his intended arrival alone, from the Loch 
Eilort side. 

" Evie," says Flora gently, " you will come with 
me, will you not ? I am going to search the sand 
beaches in the cutter up to Ru Druimnich. Come, 

He turns almost sullenly. God heljj him ! The 
torture he is suffering is writ in his eyes. " She is 
dead," is all he says. But he follows Flora, never- 
theless, and they enter the cutter together. Then he 
bows his face in his hands and remains silent. 


The search they make is thorongh. How could it 
be else with Flora in command ? And g-radually the 
cutter creeps slowly on in the direction of the body 
on the shore. 

It is sighted at length ; the look-out man utters his 
warning cry, and Flora stands suddenly up and stares 
eagerly ahead. 

Yes, there it lies, high and dry on the sandy beach. 
Undoubtedly a human form. 

" Bend to your oars, lads ! " she cries. "I'm going 
to beach her ; " and with that she brings the boat's 
nose sharply for the shore. " Evie," she says again, 
" rouse yourself, Evie. We shall be in the breakers 
in a minute. There is a body on the beach." 

He looks up quickly. Just a gleam of hope is in 
his wild eyes, and he is thoroughly on the alert. The 
boat rushes forward ; it rises high on the first breaker, 
and is hurled towards the shore. True is the hand 
that holds the tiller and the nerve that guides it. 
Straight as a dart does Flora keep the cutter's nose, 
and her voice encourages the oarsmen to their duty, 
the seething foam half fills the boat, but it gallantly 
rides the water still, as another breaker bears it 
onward. Now the keel grates the sandy bottom. 

" Ship oars, lads, and out of her ! " Flora commands, 
but she sets the example, too. 

She is in the water waist high. In a moment the 
stalwart sailors have obeyed her. Rough, willing 
hands grasp the cutter's sides, and with combined 


force to the seaman's cheery " Pull, boys, together," 
run her high and dry on to the beach. 

But Evie Ravensdale has rushed forward. Hope 
still surges in his heart. The body is stretched out 
upon the sand, the figure is lying on its face, the 
hands are clenched. It is easy, however, to see that 
the body is not that of a woman ; it is plain as plain 
can be that it is a man. 

He sees this at once, and turns away with a bitter, 
desjjairing cry. It was a mad, vain hope to have 
indulged in, and yet in his breaking heart, Evie 
Ravensdale had prayed to be allowed to look upon 
her face once more, ay, even though it were in death. 

An exclamation from Flora for a moment attracts 
him. She has followed him and has turned the body 

" Evie ! " she cries, and there is a passionate 
ring of triumph in her voice, "though Gloria be 
dead, her pure, fair fame is saved. Though God has 
taken her. He has dashed to the ground the foul lie 
with which they sought to doom her. Look, Evie, 
look ! Her noble name is cleared." 

With a startled, eager look he comes to her side. 
He sees at his feet the pallid upturned face of a dead 
man. This man has dark hair, and a dark thick beard, 
moustache and wliiskers in which grey hairs are steal- 
ing fast. This man has dark eyes, but the lustre of 
life has left them, and his white teeth are clenched 
together with a horrid grin. 


He stares down at the corpse below liim. The wild, 
hungry look in his beautiful eyes is dying now. 
Triumph and exultation are there. ; 

" Gloria I " he cries, " my darling, you have 
triumphed. They thought they could kill you with a 
false and awful lie. There is your answer. Nor 
shall your great cause die. I swear to win it for 
you ! 1 swear— I swear it now ! " 

He turns away with a gasping sob. But Flora has 
no longer any fear for him. Evie Ravensdale's vow 
will bid him live, live on for Gloria's sake. 

Calmly and quietly she turns to the sailors. We 
will carry that body to Dorlin, my lads. Guard it 
well. There lies the man whom a too confident jury 
declared to be dead, for whose murder the noblest 
of women was unjustly condemned. That corpse is 
Lord Westray ! " 


THE blinds are drawn down in the single window of 
a small bedroom that overlooks a narrow, dnll, 
and dingy street, not far removed from Trafalgar 
Square. The room, though clean, bears a poverty- 
stricken look, for in it, in addition to the bed, there 
are only two chairs, an old table, and a dilapidated 
sofa with a tliin rug covering it. There is a small 
washhand- stand in this room besides the other 
articles named, but this is all. 

Lying on the bed is a large-eyed, pale, emaciated 
young man, upon whose face is unmistakably written 
the sign of death. His thin hands, in which the blue 
veins show lu-ominently clear, lie listlessly on the 
coverlet, though now and again the feeble fingers 
twitch nervously thereat, and a hectic flush covers his 
pale cheeks. His large hollow eyes have a brilliant, 
shining look in them, and they appear to be fixed on 
the door of the room which stands slightly ajar. 

There is a sound of the street door downstairs 
opening, and the movement of several feet, The young 


man raises himself up aud listens eagerly, but the 
exertion is too much for him, aud he sinks back with 
a heavy sigh. The footsteps he has heard are ascend- 
ing the staircase, however, and his eyes devour the 
door more eagerly than before. It opens and admits 
a young girl, a girl who would decidedly be called 
pretty were it not for the pinched, careworn look that 
rules in her regular and well-cut features. She bears 
a great resemblance to the invalid whom we have been 
describing. This is not to be wondered at, seeing she 
is his twin-sister. 

" Maggie," he exclaims in a low voice as she enters, 
" have you brought him ? " 

" Yes, Eric," she answers at once, as she comes to 
his bedside, and puts the old faded coverlet at which 
his fingers have been twitching smooth and tidy. 

" Where is he ? " again asks the brother in the 
same low voice. 

" Downstairs, Eric. I'll fetch him up. He's 
brought another gentleman with him. He calls him 
a magistrate, I think. He said this gentleman must 
take your deposition, because he couldn't," says 
Maggie, as she opens the door. The next minute 
she is running down the somewhat rickety staircase. 
Two gentlemen are standing in the passage below. 

" This way, please, sirs," she says politely, and 
they follow up behind her to Eric Fortescue's room. 
The two gentlemen are Colonel Francis Barrett, divi- 
sional magistrate, and Evie, Duke of Ravensdale, 


Eric Fortesciie fixes his eyes on the latter, whom he 
knows well by sight. He has seen him often before 
with Hector D'Estrange. 

" Yon wish to see me, my lad ? " inquires the duke 
in a kind, but sad voice. " Yom- sister tells me yon 
have something particular to say to me ? " 

" Yes," answers the sick youth, in his low, feeble 
voice ; " and I want you, sir, to take down what I say, 
and hear me swear it's all true. I want to tell you 
quick, sir, because I'm dying ; I can't last long." 

There is a sob over by the window. Maggie is 
looking out into the miserable street with her forehead 
pressed against one of its cracked panes. 

" Say all you have to say very slowly to this gentle- 
man then, my lad," answers Evie Ravensdale. " He 
is a magistrate, and will take your deposition, and hear 
you swear to it." 

" I want to tell you, sir, how wicked I have been. 
But God has forgiven me, for Father Vaughan has 
heard my confession, and given me absolution. I'm 
a Catholic, sir, you know. But Father Vaughan told 
me I ouglit to tell you what I'm going to, because 
of the great wrong which other people have suffered 
by what I've helped to do. So, sir, this is it. 

" I'm twenty-three years of age, sir, and I have 
earned my living since a boy, and since poor mother 
died, in the service of Mr. Trackem. He's a private 
detective agent, sir, and something else besides. He 
always said I was a sharp lad, and that I did things 


qnick for him, so that when I was eighteen he made 
me his head clerk, and used to tell me all about his 
aiFairs and jobs. It was he and I who arranged that 
attack on Mrs. de Lara, and several days before it 
I had watched her every night when she came out 
for her evening stroll, and the night before the attack 
I got into her sitting-room while she was out, and 
stole a lot of her note-paper and some of her writing. 
I was at Mr. D'Estrange's trial, sir, and all what Mrs. 
de Lara and Miss Vernon and you swore to was quite 
true, and nearly all what Mr. Trackem said was a lie. 
Well, sir, after Mr. D'Estrange and you and Miss 
Vernon rescued Mrs. de Lara, Mr. Trackem and I and 
Lord Westray held a consultation. His lordship was 
very much put about, and swore he would be revenged. 
He offered me and Mr. Trackem a deal of money to 
help him, and then Mr. Trackem hatched the plan, 
sir. I can imitate handwriting well, and he made 
me write two letters copying Mrs. de Lara's hand- 
writing. One was to her maid, saying she was going 
up to London, and the other to Mr. Trackem, telling 
him to keep the house in Verdegrease Crescent for 
her and Lord Westray. And then Lord Westray 
himself wrote several letters in the vein described by 
Mr. Trackem at the trial. And then, sir, Mr. Trackem 
arranged with his lordship all about buying a poor 
man's body, as soon as one could be found suitable 
for the purpose. You look startled, sir, but it's not 
difficult to do a job of that sort in some parts oi 


London, and, in fact, one was soon got. We put Lord 
Westray's gold ring on one of its little fingers, and 
hung the chain and locket about its neck, and it was 
me, sir, that took it down by night and buried it in 
Mrs. de Lara's grounds where it was found, and close 
to it I buried the clothes which Lord Westray was 
wearing the night that Mr. D'Estrange fired at him. 
By this time Lord Westray had gone abroad, but it 
was all arranged that in two years' time or so Mr. 
D'Estrange was to be accused of the murder. When 
that time had elapsed, anonymous letters were sent 
to the present Lord Westray, telling him all about 
the murder, and then Mr. Trackem went and told his 
lordship what he knew. Everything happened as we 
wanted it to. The matter was placed in Mr. Trackem's 
hands ; he communicated with the police, and he 
employed me and a dog of his called Nero, a half- 
bred bloodhound, to hunt the grounds of Mrs. de 
Lara's place at night in search of the body and clothes. 
I had previously given Nero a lesson or two as to their 
whereabouts, so he soon traced them in the presence 
of the police. This is all I know, sir. On my dying 
oath I swear that Mr. D'Estrange did not murder 
Lord Westray. The wound received was slight, 
and soon healed up. This is my confession, sir. I 
know I did wrong, but I was a poor boy, and I was 
sorely tempted by the money offered me. I loved 
a girl, sir. She was called L^onie, and she was in 
Mr. Trackem's service, I wanted to marry lier, and I 


didn't dare ask her till I got money. But God lias 
punished me. I shall never see Leonie again; she's 
gone away, I don't know where, and now I'm dying. 
If it had not been for dear sister Maggie I should 
have been dead by now, for Lord Westray never paid 
me the money he promised to ; least if he gave it to 
Mr. Trackem I never got it. Not that I want it now. 
I would not touch it for all the world, indeed I would 
not. And now, sir, I want to ask you to forgive me as 
I know God has, and I want you to ask Mrs. de Lara 
and Mr. D'Estrange to forgive me too. I think if 
they saw me as you do now, sir, they would pity and 
forgive me." 

The young man pauses, and listens eagerly for a 
reply. The hectic flush has deepened in his cheeks, 
and his eyes gleam with the fire that heralds death 
more brilliantly than ever. 

" My poor lad, I do forgive you, as I hope to be 
forgiven myself," says Evie Eavensdale softly. 
Terrible and horrible as is the plot which this dying 
youth has disclosed to him, yet in the presence of 
that death which he can see approaching fast, he 
feels that he must forgive. 

" And Mrs. de Lara, Mr. D'Estrange ? " persists 
Eric Fortescue anxiously. 

" Mr. D'Estrange is dead," is all that Evie Ravens- 
dale can trust himself to reply. 

Eric Fortescue starts up in his bed, and stares 
wildly at the duke. 


" Not hanged, sir ? Oh God ! not hanged, sir ? I 
thought he escaped, sir ? " 

A hollow racking cough seizes him. The blood dyes 
his lips as he falls back helplessly as before. In a 
moment Maggie is by his side with her left arm 
tenderly round him, and supporting him in a sitting 
position, as she wipes the blood from his lips with an 
old handkerchief. 

" Have you anything, my girl, to moisten his lips 
with ? " inquires the duke, horrified at the sight before 

"No, sir," she answers in a low, hopeless voice. 
" He had his last orange yesterday, and I have not 
a penny left except enough for the rent. I daren't 
use that. They would turn us out if that was not 
paid punctual." 

Evie Ravensdale shudders; words would not paint 
his feelings. 

" Here, Maggie," he says, " here is some money. 
Run, my girl, and buy what you think he will fancy, 
and we will stay with him until you return. At least, 
colonel, I won't ask you to. I know your time is 
precious. Will you swear this lad, and let him sign 
that deposition, and then I won't keej) you ? But I 
want to stay myself and see him comfortable before 
I leave." 

With a happy smile lighting up her face Maggie 
Fortescue hurries from the room, and then Eric swears 
to and signs the deposition. The signature is tremb- 

oil, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 303 

lingly aud weakly penned, still there it is, a living 
witness to the truth of Speranza and Gloria de Lara's 

These formalities completed, Colonel Barrett takes 
his departure with the precious document in his safe 
keeping. Its contents will ring through the world 
before another sun is down. No sooner has he gone, 
than Eric Fortescue turns his eyes once more on the 

"I'm glad he's gone, sir," he says slowly, and 
speaking with difficulty, " because I want to tell you 
one more thing very particular, sir. It will be my 
last words, I think, for I feel I'm sinking. It's about 
Leonie, sir. I want to tell you who she is, sir. Mr. 
Trackem told me, sir, long ago. Her mother was Nell 
Stanley. Of course you know who I mean, sir — the 
big beauty whom your father, sir, took away from Lord 
Beauladown. It was she they fought that duel over. 
Well, Leonie is Nell Stanley's child, aud her father 
was the late Duke of Ravensdale. He treated her 
mother very bad, poor thing, and forsook her altogether 
after she got disfigured with the small-pox She came 
to live in Verdegrease Crescent, and earned her living 
on the streets. But she did not live long, and died 
at Mr. Trackem's house when Leonie was three years 
old. Mr. Trackem was beginning detective business 
then. Leonie was so pretty and so smart, that he 
kept her and trained her to the work, and that's how 
I came to know her, sir. And I did love her, and it 


was my love which tempted me to do all the wicked 
things I did. But God has punished me, sir. I am 
dying. I shall never see Leonie any more. Still I 
should be happy if I knew you would care for her, 

He says the last words in a whisper. He has 
used all the strength that he possesses to make this 
last statement. Poor Eric Fortescue! It is his last. 

Maggie's footstep is on the stairs ; she is coming 
up so quickly. She has bought some grapes amongst 
other things with the duke's gift. 

" Look, Eric dear ! " she exclaims, as she hurries in, 
and holds up a big bunch of fine black grapes for him 
to view. " Look what I've got you ! " 

But Eric's eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has 
given way to a deathly pallor. He has made his last 
effort on this earth. 

She sets the things down on the rickety table with 
a low cry, and comes over to the bedside. 

" Eric," she pleads, " look at Maggie, Eric, poor 
Maggie ; she's brought you such nice things." 

He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them 
has died out ; there is a dead, heavy, vacant look in 

" I'm going, Maggie," she hears him mutter ; " tell 
Father Vaughan I did tell all. There's mother, 
Maggie ; how pretty she looks. She's in a garden 
full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. Tlie 
sun is so bright and the air so pure. And there's 


Leonie — dear, pretty little Leoaie. Don't bold me, 
Maggie ; I must go to her, I must " 

And Maggie, bending over her twin-brother, hears 
his voice grow still, feels on her cheek the last breath 
of life that goes forth with these words, for Eric 
Fortescue is dead. 

Poor Maggie ! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. 
For weeks she has worked hard to support lier brother, 
and watched by his bedside in her spare hours. She 
has stinted herself of food to buy him little delicacies. 
But of late, work has been liard to get, and during 
the last week she lias obtained but scant employment, 
barely sufficient to buy bread with. At this moment 
food has not passed her lips for thirty-six hours, and 
the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, 
the remnants of some bread from the crumb of which 
she had made her brother a little bread and milk. 
Poor Maggie ! It is as well. He wants no bread 
and milk now. 

But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is 
all over. She merely closes the dull, staring, lustre- 
less eyes, smooths the worn coverlet once more, joins 
his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small 
crucifix from her chest, kisses it, and places it 
between his thin white fingers. Then she turns 
to Evie Ravensdale. 

"He is dead, your Grace," she says meekly; "it 
is God's will. I will never forget your kindness in 
forgiving him. Poor Eric ! he was a good lad if he 



had not been led astray. Can I fetcli yon a cab, yonr 
Grace ? " 

Her voice is qnict, almost matter-of-fact, and yet 
Maggie Fortesciie is alone in the world, hungry, tired, 
weary, and penniless. 

" No, Maggie," he says gently, " certainly not. I 
am going away now, but I will send some one to lielj) 
you. And when you have buried your jjoor brother, 
you must come to this address and let me know. I 
have several things to ask you, and you must let me 
help you to earn a comfortable living." 

" God bless your Grace ! " she answers in a low 
voice. Then, as Evie Ravensdale turns to go, she 
holds out some silver to him, saying as she does so : 

" It's the change, your Grace, out of what you 
gave me to get those things for Eric." 

" Keep it, keep it, Maggie," he says huskily ; and 
then he turns and leaves the jwor scantily furnished 
room in which he has learned so much, and in which 
he has established, absolutely and completely, the 
innocence of the woman whose lost image is ever 
before his eyes. 


A ND wliile Erie Fortescne unburdens his soul of 
A the heavy sin that lias stained it, and bears it, 
purified and triumpliant, through the portals of a 
new life, there is confusion and rage in the heart of 
Mr. Trackem as he sits at his business table hastily 
examining papers and committing them to the safe 
keeping of a large fire, which consumes each consign- 
ment as it is thrown in. 

Mr. Trackem's usually confident and satisfied ex- 
pression, has given place to one of anxiety and fear. 
That he is disturbed is evident. 

" Curse the fellow ! " he keeps muttering to himself; 
and then a gleam of baffled rage slioots from his 
cunning eyes. 

There comes a knock at the door, a peculiar knock. 
He is evidently acquainted with it, for he looks up 
eagerly and calls out, " Come in." 

A woman enters obedient tO' the summons. She is 
a woman with a plump, artificial-looking . figure, her 


hail- is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows 
are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and 
rouge affords to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, 
which all women who decorate themselves in this 
manner verily believe looks natural and becoming. 
Alas ! if they could only see themselves as others 
see them ! She is overdressed is this woman, with 
plenty of rings on her fingers and jewellery about 
her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for 
what she is. 

" Well ? " inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient 
voice, as she comes in. " How you dawdle, Victoire ! 
Were they there ? " 

" Yes," she replies at once. " I saw the duke, and 
a strange gentleman, and the girl Maggie, all go into 
the house." 

"Did you follow and hear what Eric said?" again 
asks Mr. Trackem. He never stoi)s the work upon 
which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety to hear 
what she has to say. 

" How could I ? " she answers peevishly. " I'm not 
a fairy who can become invisible at will. I saw them 
go in, that's all, and then I hurried back here." 

" Curse him ! " is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in 
reply, but he works away harder than ever. 

Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table 
is a great-coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of 
gloves, and walking-stick. On the ground below tlie 
chair stands a small black business bag. Into this 


bag Mr. Trackem ever and anou commits a paper from 
out the heap that he is destroying. 

There is a long pause. Then Yictoire speaks. 

'' What are you going to do ? I suppose you won't 
be safe here now ? " she inquires. 

'' Safe ! " he laughs angrily, " rather not. I sup- 
pose they'll have the bloodhounds on me before an 
hour's out. No, Victoire, I must cut it." 

" And what's to become of me ? " she asks, some- 
what aghast. " You'll leave me some money, Trackem, 
and let me know where you are going to ? " 

" Money I I've deuced little left of that now ; 
and as for telling you wliere I'm going to, I'm not 
such a fool. Why, you'd blurt it out any moment," 
and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly. 

" But what's to become of me ? " she again inquires. 

" Damned if I know ! " he replies impatiently. " I 
don't suppose you'll have much trouble in making a 
living along with some one else, same way as you've 
made it here. You don't suppose I can saddle myself 
with you now, and drag you about wherever I go ? 
What a fool you are, Yictoire ! " 

" Then you are going to throw me up ? " she asks 
in a low voice. 

" Haven't I told you I can't drag you about all over 
the place ? " he answers savagely. 

" But you'll leave me a little money, won't you ? " 
she says, with a half sob. " I haven't got a farthing, 


"Then yon must go and make it, my girl," he 
replies coarsely. " You'll have no difficulty in doing 
that, and I've no money to give you. You know 
perfectly well that I've nigh ruined myself with lend- 
ing all the money that I did to that Lord Westray, 
and now he's dead I can't get it back. Curse him ! 
I wish I'd never seen him, or had anything to do with 
that Mrs. de Lara and her daughter. They've beat us 
fair and square, Victoire, even though the daughter 
be dead. Fair and square." 

" I hate them both," she bursts out with unreasoning 
fury. " They are the cause of my misery now. Oh, 
Trackem ! don't forsake me. I might have had a 
comfortable, respectable home with Charles, but I 
threw it up to be with you. What did I do it for 
but because I loved you ? I'm a bad one, no doubt ; 
but at least I loved you, and do love you still. Don't 
forsake me I I'll stop here and put the trackers off 
the scent, and do all I know how to help you, only 
promise me you'll let me know where you are 
by-and-by, and let me join you again." 

A brilhant thought strikes Mr. Trackem. He has 
not the slightest intention of doing as she asks, but 
it will be just as well, he thinks, to lead her to believe 
that he will. And meantime she may be useful in 
assisting his escape. 

" Well, Victoire," he says in a more conciliatory 
voice, " you're a good girl and a faithful one. Look 
here, here's five pounds, and I'll send you more soon. 


Stay here as long as you can, and keep the Lloodhoiinds 
at bay. If the staff get uneasy, you can hoodwink 
them. When you change your address put it in the 
Times. And now, my girl, give us a kiss. I must 
be off. Every moment makes it more risky." 

He has finished burning his compromising i)apers, 
has taken up his hat, stick, and gloves, thrown his 
coat over one arm, and picked up the business bag. 
He is quite ready to go. 

She throws her arms round his neck. Fallen, 
degraded, wicked as is Victoire Hester, yet she loves 
this vile, scheming, and contemptible wretch, for 
whose sake she has steeped her soul in the inky dye 
of sin, and turned from the path of honour and of 

" There now, there now, that's enough, old girl," 
he says hastily, and as she unclasps her hands from 
about his neck, he steps quickly towards the door and 
opens it. 

" Remember, Victoire, you baulk the trackers," he 
says significantly, and then he passes out from her 
presence, and is gone. 

She hears the front door open and shut again, and 
springs to the window. She can just catch sight of 
him as he passes along the Crescent. It is her last 
glimpse, and in spite of his promise to the contrary, 
she feels that it is. But Victoire Hester for the 
moment forgets herself. In tlie presence of the danger 
which threatens the man she loves, she becomes calm. 


All trace of his hasty departure must be quickly oblite- 
rated. She feels that this is imperatively necessary. 
Quickly she sets to work, tidies up his table, sets the 
room neat, and with her own hands collects the burnt 
paper and carries it off. Then she opens the windows 
to let out the smell which the burning paper has 
emitted, heaps more coals on the fire, and moves into 
Mr. Trackem's bedroom to arrange his things. In 
less than an hour all is ship-shajie and tidy as usual. 
There is not a sign of hasty dej^arture. 

A few hours later there comes a ring at the front 
door. Victoire has given instructions that she will 
see any one that calls. She has often before under- 
taken this duty in Mr. Trackem's absence, and the 
servant sees nothing strange in the order. He there- 
fore admits the new-comers, and shows them into 
Mr. Trackem's business room. These two new-comers 
are men. They are dressed in dark clothes, and they 
both seat themselves to await his comiug. 

" Run him in pretty sharp, eh ? " observes one of 
them with, a smile, as the door closes on the 

" Haven't got him yet, Bush," retorts the other 
quietly. Inspector Truffle is not of so sanguine a 
temperament as is Insi)ector Bush. 

" As good as though," replies Inspector Bush con- 
fidently, but he stops abrujitly as he hears steps 
approaching. Again the door of Mr. Trackem's busi- 
ness room opens. Victoire enters. There is blank 


disappointment on Inspector Bash's face. Victoire 
sees it as slie fixes lier dark eyes full upon him. 

" Good-afternoon, gentlemen," she s?eys, quietly ; 
" yon wished to see Mr. Trackem ? I am sorry to 
say he is away, but I expect him back the day after 
to-morrow. His head clerk is ill too, but I can do 
anything for you in Mr. Trackem's place. I always 
attend to his affairs in his absence." 

She smiles good-naturedly on the blank, nonplussed 
detectives. She seems to give her attention especially 
to Inspector Bush. Inspector Truffle rises to the 

" Thank you, madam," he says briskly, " but I fear 
the business we have come about can only be transacted 
with Mr. Trackem. The fact is, madam, we came to 
settle an account that we owe him, and w^hich would 
require Mr. Trackem's signature to be of any use as 
a receipt. And the worst of it is, we are going away, 
and shall not be able to call again." 

He fixes a piercing glance uj^on her as he speaks, 
but Victoire is equal to the occasion. She does not 
believe a word of Inspector Truffle's statement, and 
divines perfectly well what his business is. 

She assumes a disapjjointed air as she exclaims, 

" It is a great pity. But what is to be done ? I do 
not tliink I can possibly get Mr. Trackem back before 
the day after to-morrow. However, I will telegraph 
to him, and will send you his reply. Will you favour 
me A\ith vour address ? " 

314 GLOiHA^TA ; 

Here is a poser. Victoire sees it, aud inwardly 
chuckles. But again Inspector Truffle attempts to 
uphold the fair fame of detective smartness. 

" Certainly, madam," he replies, as he takes out 
his card-case and hands her a card therefrom, upon 
which she reads the address of a well-known firm of 

She assumes a most deferential manner. 

"I think Mr. Trackem will make every eifort to 
be here by to-morrow. I will telegraph at once, and 
unless you hear to the contrary, will you kindly call 
on Mr. Trackem at the same hour to-morrow, if you 
please, gentlemen ? " 

Mr. Truffle is triumphant. 

" We will," he answers. " Well, thank you, madam. 
Good-afternoon to you." 

" Good-afternoon, gentlemen," she replies with 
admirably feigned regret ringing in her voice. 

Inspectors Truffle aud Bush betake themselves to 
the comfortable hansom that awaits them. As it 
rattles along, the former breaks silence. 

" We managed that capitally," he says with a 
chuckle. " Quite took her in. The chink of money 
soon made her open her ears. Bet you it brings 
Mr. Trackem home pretty quick." 

" Yes," answers Inspector Bush. " I didn't like the 
look of the woman when she first came in, but she 
took the bait readily enough. Poor things, those sort 
of women. No match for the likes of us, eh ? " 


Inspector Truffle has liad more experience than 
Inspector Bush, and doesn't agree there. But he 
thinks, as he drives along, that anyhow this one is 
quite taken in. 

Is she, though ? You'll find out your mistake, 
inspector, when you call to-morrow with Inspector 
Bush at the same hour! 



THE lights are low and softly siibdnecl in Evie 
Raveusdale's private study or sanctum in Mont- 
ragee House, the blinds and curtains are drawn, the 
fire casts its flickering shadows on the ceiling and 
walls as ever and anon the little gas-jets from the 
coals shoot forth their vivid blaze, relapsing immedi- 
ately after into smoke and gloom. The sounds of 
mimic warfare which they produce are the only ones 
which break the stillness prevailing, unless it be the 
low breathing of the dog Nero, which is stretched 
upon the heartlirug. 

He would hardly, however, lie there so quietly and 
contentedly, if he were the only occupant of the room, 
for a dog's chief characteristic is love of company, 
loneliness being his jiet aversion. 

Nor is he alone, as we shall see if we glance at the 
big armchair drawn up in front of the fire, and looking 
again, perceive tliat it is occupied. 

The figure which sits there, is in truth very still 
and silent. It is laying back with its knees crossed 


and its arms resting ou each side of the chair. Its 
head is slightly bent forward, and its dreamy eyes 
glitter in the firelight, wliich they are roving as if 
in search of an object prized but lost. 

What does Evie Ravensdale see in that flickering 
firelight which appears suddenly to arrest his gaze ? 
It must be some cherished object indeed, judging by 
the happy smile which for a few brief moments lights 
u]i the otherwise sad face, on which melancholy has 
stamped its mournful features. That which he sees 
is but a passing vision however, for the smile quickly 
dies away, and leaves the dark eyes searching again 
amidst the glowing coals, for the picture that has 
come and vanished. Above the fireplace, shrouded on 
either side by heavy curtains of old-gold plush, hangs 
the oil painting which represents his first meeting 
with Hector D'Estrange. It is only when alone that 
Evie Ravensdale draws those curtains aside, and then 
none can see the emotion which the picture arouses 
in him. For the memories which it awakens, albeit 
noble and tender, are painful, recalling, as they do, 
the image of her whom in life he has most cherished 
and now lost. 

He is sitting there alone, but his mind is busy and 
his brain hard at work. The sudden revulsion of 
feeling throughout the country, aroused by the dis- 
covery of the drowned body of Lord Westray and 
the tragic fate of Gloria de Lara, coupled with the 
published declarations of Leonie Stanley, and later on 


tlie startling dying depositions of Eric Fortescne, have 
all combined to create this reaction in favour of the 
D'Estrangeite party. The Devonsmere Government, 
weak in composition and intellect, at once succnmbed, 
and Lord Pandiilph Chertsey, the free lance of the 
National party, stepjied into the Duke of Devonsmere's 
shoes. But Lord Pandulph was too clever and 
practical to attempt to govern the fiery steed of public 
ojdnion with mimic reins of power. He ajipealed to 
that tribunal which alone has the right to nominate 
its rulers, the people, and demanded of the country 
its mandate. And now the country, without demur 
or hesitation, has spoken out in no uncertain tone. 
The light of a pure and noble life has penetrated the 
darkness of opposition and prejudice, and has fulfilled 
the prophecy which in childhood Gloria de Lara pre- 
dicted. The cause of right and justice has triumphed, 
and the reign of selfishness, greed, and monopoly has 
jjassed away. 

By a glorious majority D'Estrangeism has won. 
The Progressists are nowhere, and the Nationals 
have been returned mutilated in numbers. The 
D'Estrangeites, recruited by sixty additional seats, 
declare the country's will, and Evic Ravensdale, at 
the command of his sovereign, has formed a Ministry, 
known under the name of the Second D'Estrangeite 

These changes have been rapid. Little more than a 
month has passed away since the death of Gloria de 


Lara resouaded through the world, and already the 
vision which her childhood's genius conjured up as 
she spoke to the waves of the blue Adriatic, and pre- 
dicted victory, is on the eve of realisation. For even 
as it had been her first act of power to bring in a 
bill for the complete emancipation of women, so is it 
Evie Ravensdale's intention to do likewise. 

But the position is different. When Hector 
D'Estrange submitted his bill to the Commons, he knew 
that for many reasons it was doomed, the first and 
foremost being that the country had not spoken, or 
pronounced unmistakably for or against the change. 
On this occasion there can be no misunderstanding 
however, for the Parliament returned gives the 
D'Estrangeites a majority over the other parties in 
the House combined, and in plain words declares the 
will of the peoj)le. But there is just this difference 
again. Whereas the first bill was introduced to the 
Commons, the second, in virtue of Evie Ravensdale's 
rank, must make its (Ichut in the Lords. Will this 
latter assembly accejit it ? It remains to be seen. 
Yet surely in the face of the country's mandate, the 
peers will submit to the people's wishes ! 

No wonder then that the brain of the vounsf Premier 
is busy and hard at work. In three hours from now, 
he will be submitting the bill to his peers, and ap- 
pealing to them in the name of justice and right, in 
the name of fairness and honesty, in the name of the 
great dead, to breathe upon it the breath of life. 


Surely the victoiy which the child Gloria foretold, 
which the young genius foresaw, is now at length to 
be won. Ah ! surely yes. 

" My darling," he whispers softly, as the vision, 
which for a few brief moments has shone in the 
gleaming coals, passes away in the changing light 
thereof, "my darling, would to God that you were 
here, would to God that I had the counsel of your 
clear brain, the courage of your strong heart to sup- 
port me ! Yet hear me, Gloria, and help me to keep 
my vow. Have I not sworn to dedicate my life to 
the great work which your noble genius conceived and 
sought to accomplish ? And with God's helji I will 
be the faithful servant of your great cause. So help 
me God ! " 

He rises as he speaks, and fixes his gaze on the 
painting above him. It almost seems to him as 
though the figure of Hector D'Estrange i)ortrayed 
therein, stands there in living life. He can hardly 
realise, as he looks at the beautiful face, that the spirit 
which made Gloria so noble in life, does not animate 
it now. In the subdued light and the flickering gleam 
of the fire, the features look living and real ; to Evie 
Ravensdale they bring high resolves and noble inspira- 
tions, which only the influence of that which is great 

and lofty, can awaken, 


Estcourt is late in the House, too late to hear the 
whole of the Premier's speech; he has been delayed 


l)yl)usiness of prcssinii' moment. About five o'clock in 
the afternoon, a telegram bad been j^ut into bis bands, 
tbe contents of which bad dazed and struck him well- 
nigh speechless. He could not summon courage to 
credit its contents. Recovering liowever, from liis 
surprise, bis first impulse bad been to seek his chief 
and lay tbe telegram before him. Second thoughts 
liad decided him, however, on not doing so, and he 
had elected instead to send off a long telegram him- 
self. This telegram bore reference entirely to the 
one wliich he had received, and was addressed to a 
friend in Soutli America. During the remainder of 
the day Estcourt has been anxiously and feverishly 
awaiting tbe rej^ly. So important does be regard this 
reply, that be continues to await it, and in tbe House 
of Lords, crowded by every active member belonging 
to it, he alone is absent. It is natural, therefore, that 
liis absence should have caused both surprise and 
comment, esj)ecia]ly as be is a prominent member of 
the Second D'Estrangeite Ministry. 

He has come in now, however, and bis colleagues 
eye liim curiously. They cannot help noticing the 
supjiressed look of excitement in bis face, and tbe 
eager, restless exi)ression in bis eyes. Estcourt's 
ordinary manner is so quiet and calm that these un- 
usual symjjtoms are all the more noticeable and sur- 
prising. But the duke is still speaking ; attention 
is soon again riveted on what be is saying, and 
Estcourt is enabled, at any rate, to hear the latter part 



of a speech whose persuasive eloquence and oratorical 
power, amaze the House, Evie Ilaveusdale never 
before having- been regarded but as a common-place 
speaker, and orator of mediocre talent. 

" On this solemn occasion," he is saying as Estcourt 
comes in, " I beseech of your lordshijDs to cast aside 
the cloak of old prejudices and selfish monopoly, and 
obey the unmistakable will of the country, which has 
appointed a House of Commons pledged to carry this 
great act of human justice and reparation. I appeal 
to you to show on this occasion a true courage worthy 
of men, and abolish for ever from the Statute Book 
those disabilities under which women are deprived of 
rights to which they are entitled by reason of their 
common humanity with man. The stale arguments 
of past days cau no longer be advanced in opposition 
to this bill. The false and brutal pretexts which 
formerly were adopted to reason away the human 
rights of women, can no longer be resorted to. Woman 
has trinmphantly established the fact that her mental 
capacities are equal to man's — ay, and her physical 
powers of strength and endurance as well, where she 
has been given fair chances and fair play. There 
remains but one argument against the removal of her 
disabilities and the triumphant assertion of the 
principles of this bill ; tliat one argument is selfish- 
ness. Men are unwilling, in many instances, to allow 
women whom they have held in subjection so long, to 
assume a position of equality with themselves. These 


men object to remove the halo with which they have 
self-crowned themselves; they object, in fact, to share 
witli women the good things of this earth. There is 
but one definition of this attitude of opposition, and 
that is selfishness, my lords, pure and unadulterated 
selfishness. But the time has come when this selfish- 
ness is too glaring and apparent to pass from sight, 
when it must be faced, fought with, and conquered. 
On its defeat depends — ^not the welfare of man only, 
])ut the welfare and advance of the world. We have 
sought to rule against the laws of Nature too long, 
we have sought, by artificial means, to keep the world 
going, and we have failed. AVhat has tlie rule of man 
accomplished ? The vain gratification of a few, the 
misery of millions and hundreds of millions. War 
has been invented to glorify men, to uphold dynasties 
loathed, in many instances, by the people ; vice and 
immorality rage for the gratification of the ruler man ; 
l)hilanthropy exists to patch up tlie sores and abscesses 
brought about in Society by his excesses ; the starving, 
tlie criminal, and the miserable, are supported by taxes 
wrung from the people. Religion spreads abroad its 
thousands of arms, each one asserting its sole right 
to be, but the fact remains : war is spreading, crime 
increasing, immorality assuming giant proportions, 
misery, disease, and wrongdoing growing mightier 
day by day, while the forces that could and would 
stay these horrors, still wear the badge of slavery. 
" I appeal to your lordships to face these facts, and 


act upon tliem generously and conrageonsh'. From 
our midst a great and commanding figure has but 
lately j^assed away, — one who began in cliildhood an 
heroic and courageous resistance to wrong, and who 
maintained that resistance through her all too short 
career. Gloria de Lara, in the person of Hector 
D'Estrange, triumphantly established the fact of 
woman's equality with man, and undeniably asserted 
the right of her sex to share with him in the goveru- 
ment of the world. 

" And I ask your lordships to consider in a generous 
manner the motives which first promjDted the great 
h^art of Gloria de Lara to do battle for her sex, and 
which ultimately strengthened its resolve to maintain 
the contest to the last. Was it not a dawning com- 
prehension of the terrible wrong under which her 
mother had become an outcast in this world, shunned 
and despised by Society at large ? Did not Gloria de 
Lara recognise that in woman's unnatural position lay 
the root of the evil ? Then, as she grew uji, and per- 
sonally made herself acquainted with the woes afliicting 
Society, did she not struggle to remedy this position, 
recognising therein the key to human suffering ? I 
bear testimony to her life of jiatient, unwearying 
research amidst tlie suffering and slaving classes. 
This it was that gave her such a grasjj of her subject, 
when in the House of Commons she sought to unveil 
to the members thereof the horrors that existed. The 
dream of her life was, to be s])ared in order to carry 


great social measures of reform, but she recognised 
the fact that to do this effectually, woman must first 
he placed on the level of equality with man. For this 
slie struggled, for this she fought on against over- 
wlie] ming odds. I need not dwell on the false and brutal 
charge which was brought against her, which forced 
her to disclose her sex, which condemned her to die, 
and which — when rescued by her own Women Guards 
—made her an outcast and a wanderer, and a felon 
in the eyes of the law. The falsity of this detestable 
lie has been abundantly proved in the discovery of 
the dead body of the man who ruined and blasted her 
mother's life, who brought about her own pathetic and 
irredeemable death. In her name I a2)peal for justice, 
and I confidently believe that I shall not appeal in 
vain. I desire that the division shortly to be taken 
shall seal the fate of the measure on behalf of victory 
or defeat. You have the voice of the country rino-iuo- 
in your ears, but high above that voice should sound 
the loud aj^peal, which a great and noble example 
sends forth, the api)eal of the glorious dead." 

He sits down amidst a storm of applause, unusual 
in this august and dignified assembly. He hardly 
hears it ; he takes no note of the varied scene around 
liim. Evie Ravensclale sees before him the face of 
but one being, that being Gloria de Lara. Is not 
her spirit near encouraging, upholding, and leading 
liim on to victory ? 

But he is awakened from his dream at the call of 


duty. The division is being taken at last, and all 
wait in breatliless expectation for the result. 

" The Content's have it ! " By a majority of 107 
the peers obey the country's mandate, and acknow- 
ledge the people's will as law. Gloria has triumphed. 
That which she predicted is realised, the vow -which 
she made is accomplished. Ah ! in this moment of 
victory, who would not wish her here, instead of in 
the cold arms of death ? 

Of death ? Silence is being called for, and Lord 
Estcourt is endeavouring to make himself heard. He 
is successful at last. 

" I wisli to explain to the House," he begins, " why 
I was not in my place when my noble friend began 
his siJeech. My excuse will be acceptable to this 
House, I feel sure. The fact is, I received a telegram 
containing startling intelligence, so startling that 1 
conceived it to be a hoax. I took steps to ascertain 
the truth, and am satisfied of the authenticity of tlie 
first intelligence. I have to announce to your lord- 
ships the glorious news that Gloria de Lara is not 
dead. By God's almighty goodness she is alive — alive 
to witness the triumph of her cause. Truly indeed 
you may exclaim with me in accepting this wonderful 
intellioTnce, it is God's will — it is the hand of God." 


GLORIA DE LARA lives ! " The words liave rung 
lar and wide o'er land aud distant sea. Tliey 
have entered the homes of the great, the cottages of 
the poor, they have brought joy to millions of weary 
hearts, who know that wliile that great name l)reathes 
the breath of life, reform cannot die. 

Yes, Gloria lives, lives I But how ? Have we not 
seen her in the clutch of Death ? 

We left her therein. We left her being borne down 
by the resistless, sucking whirlpool of the sinking 
smack as the massive trading steamer, which had cut 
clean through the frail barque, bore on its course. As 
she parted her hold of Leonie, Gloria had clutched 
the sinking wreck with that strong and tenacious 
grip which the drowning alone can command. Tlie 
lighter and severed portion of the wreck had been 
swei)t forward by an enormous wave, which carried 
with it likewise the body of Leonie, .supported on the 
crest of the sea by the life-belt, which Gloria had tied 
around her. 


But the briglit, flashing light wliich had danced 
in Gloria's eyes ere she was borne downwards, had 
searched from stem to stern the helpless, storm-tossed 
craft, and the anxious gaze of the man on the look 
out had been able to detect those two frail human 
forms. As the shout of " Boat ahoy ! " had rung out 
through the shrieking storm, the steamer had crashed 
through her frail antagonist in the manner already 
described. But the skipper of The Maid of Glad 
Tidings, as such the steamer was named, was brave 
and humane. In spite of the storm he had skilfully 
brought his vessel to the rescue. The electric light 
had swept the sea in search of the unlucky boat, and 
after a time a portion of her had been sighted, a 
helpless and dismantled wreck. Yet to that wreck 
a human form was clinging. 

A brave crew had manned the lifeboat, and with 
the true pluck of British seamen, had fought against 
t-Trible odds to rescue that one lone, hel])less creature. 
They succeeded ; and amidst that black night and 
howling storm, another deed of heroism had silently 
written its tale upon the scrolls of British fame. 
And as Captain Ruglen's gaze had first fallen on the 
rescued victim of the storm, he had started. He was 
a big, powerful man, with a tender, kindly heart. 
When, therefore, he bent over the silent figure and 
raised it in his arms, bearing it below to his own 
cabin, his men only saw in this act another evidence 
of the skipper's kindly disjx)sition. Yet in that brief 


glance, Gloria de Lara had been recognised ; for what 
devoted adherent of her cause who had ever looked 
upon her face could forget it ? Certes, not Captain 
Ruglen. A member of Rnglen clan, he was also an 
out-and-out D'Estrangeite ; nor was this the first time 
that he had been in the company of Hector D'Estrange. 
But he knew that the once successful and jwwerful 
idol of Society was now a hunted and doomed felon, 
with a large reward out for her apprehension. He 
knew that many of his crew were not D'Estrangeites, 
and that it might go hard with him and her if she 
were recognised. Thus had he borne her to his 
cabin, determined there to protect and shield lier, and 
carry her to the far-away free shores of the Spanish 
main, whither Tli.e Maid of Glad Tidings was bound. 

Reaching it, Gloria's first act had been to wire to 
Speranza de Lara in North America, and to Estcourt 
in England. As yet she had heard no tidings of the 
wonderful events which had led up to the triumpli 
of her cause. 

But those tidings sped back to her along the electric 
wire. They came in the shape of a loving message of 
welcome from the man she loved. From Evie Ravens- 
dale she learnt how victory had crowned her efforts ; 
from him came the tidings of great joy that her vow 

had been accomplished. 


Once more the vast crowd of London surges in the 
streets, — a happy, joyous, good-humoured crowd never- 


theless. Every house is gay with bunting and flags, 
and triumphal arches are in every street through 
which the procession will pass along. 

What procession ? 

Why, is not this the day upon which Gloria de Lara 
is to reach our shores, and is she not to be welcomed 
back and publicly honoured in the great Hall of Liberty, 
where, when last she stood, she was a condemned and 
hunted felon ? 

The yacht Eilean has gone to meet her. It has 
joined the Colossus, in which Gloria has made her 
passage from South America at the mouth of the 
Thames. Tlie party on board the Eilean consists 
solely of Speranza de Lara, Flora Desmond, and her 
child, a fine girl of seven years, together with Evie 
Kavensdale, Estcourt, Ijconie, and Rita Vernon. All, 
with the exception of Speranza, wear the white gold- 
braided uniform of the White Guards' Regiment of 
the Women Volunteers, an organisation which a 
Royal Proclamation has called back to life. 

The Colossus has yielded up its precious charge. 
As the cutter bears Gloria de Lara away from the 
great war monster's side towards the white, graceful 
Eilean that awaits her, the cannon belch forth their 
parting salute and welcome in one breatli. There, 
standing on the deck ready to grasp her hand in a 
deep and loving tenderness, with heart-felt gratitude 
for her wonderful deliverance, stand the two beings 
whom she loves most in the world, Speranza de Lara 


and Evie Ravensdale. What human words could 
describe that meeting, for they thought her dead, and 
behold she is there in living life ? 

Tilbury Docks are reached ; the roar of distant cannon 
announce her arrival. There she stands on the yacht's 
bridge with Evie Ravensdale by her side. As the 
crowd sways to and fro to catch a glimpse of her, the 
people see that she wears the White Guards' Uniform. 
The regiment is there to meet and welcome her. As 
she leaves the yacht, its baud strikes up the beautiful 
march "Triumphant," the same which had welcomed her 
to the Hall of Liberty, when, as Hector D'Estrange, 
she had performed the opening ceremony. The milk- 
white steed which she had ridden ou that occasion 
now awaits her in its trai)i)ings of white-aud-gold. 
Never has horse been so groomed and petted as this 

In sight of the crowd she bids her mother a courteous 
and tender farewell, for Speranza has elected to drive 
straight to Montragee House, there to await her child's 
return. A brilliant mounted throng await the former's 
coming ; many well-known faces are there, amongst 
which Gloria catches sight of those of Lady Mandertou 
and Launcelot Trevor. 

Now she has mounted her milk-white charger 
Saladin, and with Evie Ravensdale and Nigel 
Estcourt on her right, and Flora Desmond and Archie 
Douglasdale ou her left, is riding slowly forward. In 
close attendance behind are Rita Vernon and Leonie 


Stanley. The hitter's eyes are busy in the crowd, and 
seem to search the ranks forward as they ride along. 
The brilliant throng of mounted friends close in, the 
cheering of the crowd is deafening ; it will be one long 
loud roar until the Hall of Liberty is reached. 

The way is kept by the Women's Volunteer Regi- 
ments, and the order is perfect. As Gloria and Flora 
ride along, they catch glimpses of old, tried, true, and 
trusty friends among the ranks — friends who in time 
of trouble stood by them, and laboured lovingly to 
make easier the rugged path which they were then 

It is a soul-inspiring sight. Many of the people 
have brought flowers with them, and as the procession 
approaches they cast them loosely in the air, out of 
which they descend in a shower of many colours to 
carpet the way, along which Gloria must pass, with 
their bright and variegated bloom. The strains of 
the White Guards' band, the glitter of their white- 
and-gold uniforms, the loud cheering of the enthu- 
siastic crowds as the brilliant cavalcade moves along, 
is a sight which the onlooker is not likely to forget. 
It thrills the hearts of that vast woman world, 
assembled to do honour to the one who has worked 
for and who has won their emancipation. 

One long triumphal march. One uninterrupted 
scene of unchecked enthusiasm is the welcome accorded 
her from the Docks to the Hall of Liberty. The sun is 
shining on the gilded statues and million panes which 

OR. THE REVOLUTION OF 1000. 8??'^ 

crown that wondrous structure, as she approaches tlie 
building which her genius conceived and raised, — 
apjiroaches it, no longer as the hunted felon upon 
Avhose head the price of gold is set, but as a free 
woman, a \ictorious general who has concpiered tlie 
demon armies of Monopoly and Selfishne.^s, and thrown 
open to the peoi)le the free gates of happiness and 
reform. Now through the giant portals she rides 
once more. Great God I what a burst of welcome, 
and what a scene ! From floor to ceiling the monster 
building is crammed. Every avaihxble space has been 
occupied ; there is not a foot of standing room. 

She has uncovered, and they see her face as she 
rides round the circular ride towards the huge plat- 
form, — the same face of exquisite beauty which they 
remember and know so well. As she dismounts, she 
is received by the chairman of the committee appointed 
to carry out the day's proceedings, and to present the 
people's address of welcome, to which thousands of 
representative names from every county have been 

On the platform are gathered every member of the 
Ministry and every D'Estrangeite Member of Parlia- 
ment. Truly a royal welcome by staunch and faithful 
friends ; for as Gloria dismounts and stejts upon the 
platform she is greeted with a loud long cheer by 
these men of generous mould, who have fought so 
nobly on behalf of her holy cause. All honour be to 
them for ever ! 


Sir Arthur Hazlerigg, Lord Mayor of London, 
presents and reads the address of welcome, and as 
he concludes it, Gloria de Lara stands forward to 
reply. An intense silence falls. All are eager to 
hear again a voice which they had believed to be 
for ever stilled in death. 

" My friends," she begins, and though the voice has 
all the clear, ringing sweetness of yore, there is un- 
doubtedly a tremor in it, " it would require a special 
langnage, one of which we have yet no knowledge, 
to convey to you the emotions which this scene of 
magnificent welcome awakens within me. From the 
bottom of my heart I thank you for it, as well as all 
those true and gallant friends who have created this 
glorious day; for next to God it is the people who 
liave created it. In this welcome which you give to 
me, the humble and all too unworthy representative 
of a magnificent cause, the great principle of human 
freedom is at length recognised, that freedom inherited 
at birth, and only wrung from individuals by opjires- 
sion and wrong. Human freedom means the right to 
take part in the creation of laws for the better govern- 
ment and perfection of man ; it means that man and 
woman are born equal, are created to work hand in 
liand for the greater happiness of mankind. Hitherto 
this principle of mighty truth has not been recognised, 
with the awful results shown forth in man's ever- 
increasing degradation. By the acknowledgment of 
this principle you have laid the train which, when 


fired, will put an end to immorality and social wrongs, 
whicli will make evil unpleasant to perform, and 
which will degrade the performer to the position ot 
a lei)er, the shunned and outcast of Society, loathed 
and despised by his fellow-men. By the acknowledg- 
ment of this principle, a day of darkness has sunk to 
rise no more, and one of brightness, and promise, and 
fair hope has arisen to cheer us along the glorious 
path of reform. Much there is to be done, mountains 
of prejudice, and selfishness, and greed yet to be faced 
and con^picred ; but the army which the acknowledg- 
ment of liuman freedom has raised, is an army wliicli 
will fight victoriously to tlie end ; for it is an army in 
which men and women will do battle side by side and 
shoulder to shoulder, undeterred by class jealousies or 
the odious assumption of sujieriority by one sex over 
another. My friends, as I stand to-day in this Hall 
of Liberty and look upon this magnificent scene, 
memories rise up before me of a stirring and eventful 
past. I see before me now, a picture which in child- 
hood I loved to imagine, a glorious reality which in 
the jjast haunted my waking dreams. On many in- 
cidents of that past I would prefer not to dwell, 
arousing, as they must, the bitterness of human nature. 
Rather is the province of the conqueror, of the vic- 
torious to forgive and forget, to look forward to tlie 
future, and strive for the possibilities which that 
future may contain. We are starting along a new 
path in life, a path open to all, not monopolised by 

336 GLOT^IANA ; 

the few, a patli which, as time goes on, shall show 
traces of victory on all sides. I ask the great army 
of my countrymen to endeavom- to win those victories 
as speedily as possible, so that in the future, the day 
may dawn when there shall be no misery, no wicked- 
ness, no crime. In that army, women now find a 
place; let them triumphantly prove their right to be 
there. They have yet an uphill road to climb, but 
I have confidence that they will compass it, find now 
that the gates of freedom are thrown open to them, 
take part in all the great deeds of the world. Upon 
them the eyes of this world will be fixed ; upon them 
depends the ultimate freedom of the human race. I 
have no fear as to the result ; I do not for one moment 
dread the trial. I believe, moreover, that the presence 
and natural comjjanionship of woman will upraise 
and influence man's character for good, banishing 
from his daily life those coarser habits which self- 
indulo-ence and lack of moral influence have allowed 
to creep therein, and that Society, in its remodelled 
state, will thus be enabled to deal with the evils which 
infest it. My friends, I need detain you no longer. 
On my arrival in tliis country I was informed that 
my old constituency liad re-elected me as its member. 
I rejoice to hear that I have several women fellow- 
members in the Legislature to whom men, generous 
and noble-hearted men, have relinquislied places. To 
tell you that the remainder of my life, which God has ' 
so mercifully spared to me, will be employed in work-. 


ing for the jieople, in devoting every energy I possess 
to their advancement, is the sum of my declaration 
here to-day. Kest assured that for them, no one will 
struggle harder than Gloria de Lara." 

A simple speech, a quiet, honest declaration. 
Though she stands there, the cynosure of all eyes, 
there is no vanity or conceit in those few simple 
words. Gloria's aim is unveiled. It is the upraising 
and triumph of humanity. She lives but to work on 
its behalf. 

She is on the point of stepping back amidst a 
perfect hurricane of cheers, when Evie Ravensdale 
comes to her side. 

"One moment, Gloria; stay wliere you are," he 
whispers. ''I have something to say." 

He raises his hand to ask for silence, and the people 
accord it to him. 

" My friends," he exclaims, " for with Gloria de Lara 
may I not call you my friends ? I have a pleasing 
task to perform in that which I am going to say. As 
Gloria de Lara has told you, the law of this country 
lias at length acknowledged the principle of human 
freedom, and woman's right to equal man is finally 
recognised. When the country spoke out so unmis- 
takably on behalf of human freedom, my sovereign 
bade me assume the reins of power. I accepted them, 
not unwillingly ; for the only object I had in life was' 
to carry out the great reforms which the genius of 
Gloria de Lara had conceived, and of which she had 



made me the confid;int. At that time I believed, with 
all others, that she was dead. Bat, my friends, she 
is alive. And now I tell you that she only has a 
right to assmne the reins confided to me, she alone 
has the right to carry those great reforms. The 
person who conceived them alone has that right, and 
I, her deputy, relinquish it to her. I tell you that 
Gloria de Lara must be your Prime Minister, while 
I will take my part as a humble worker with the 
people. With the full approval of my colleagues 
and every D'Estrangeite member, I intend forthwith 
to tender my resignation, and to advise my sovereign 
to send for Gloria de Lara." 

There can be no mistaking the genuine ring of 
approval in the mighty cheer that bursts forth from 
the thousands of throats in tliat densely packed 
building. Truly the child's heartfelt prayer has 
been answered in this splendid tribute i)aid to her 
unselfish labours, from tlie days of childhood far 
into those of womanhood. 


WEALTH and ma^iiiificenco rear tlioir forms in and 
around the ])rcciucts of St. Stephen's. Tliev do 
not, however, monoi)olise the entire space, for here 
and there the squalid streets of poverty abide, with 
all their icealth and magnificence^ of suffering, crime, 
and sin. One of these streets is just across the 
river, and the clock in the big tower of the Houses 
of Parliament can peep and |)eer therein, even from 
its misty height. 

Staring from a dust-begrimed window on the second 
floor of a dirty-looking dwelling situated in the street 
named, stands a woman, whose rough, untidy hair is tied 
back in a knot, and whose coarse, seared features show 
signs of former enamelling, now disused. Poor wretch I 
there is hunger and misery in her eyes, and despair 
as well. Some would say insanity gleams there. 

She is listening to the cannons' roar as they belch 
forth their welcome to Gloria de Lara. Their booming 
sound is maddening to the hungry, lonely, despairing 


woman, who stands tliere with not a friend in the 

Yes, he has forsaken her, got away scot-free himself, 
hut left her to wait for and look for him in vain. 
Victoire Hester has parted with her jewellery and 
tawdry finery for a mere song, the five-pound note 
which Mr. Trackem gave her is expended, and she 
has not a farthing left in the world. To-morrow she 
must find three shillings for the rent of her miserable, 
unhealthy room, and she has not got it, nor has a 
morsel of food touched her lij)s this day. She is 
broken-hearted. Worse than that, she is jealous, 
angry, bitter. It maddens her to think of Gloria 
at the pinnacle of success, and she who sought to 
assist in her ruin, at the bottom of the abyss of 
abject misery. 

What is left to her in the world ? Nothing. Her 
character is gone. She cannot find work, and if she 
could, she would not undertake it. She has no heart 
to do anything, for in her coarse, hard way, she loved 
Trackem, loved him only to lose him. 

"Whose fault but hers?"" she mutters angrily as 
the cannon boom once more. "Why should she be 
happy, while I die here like a dog ? Not that I want 
to live, I mean to die ; but she sha'n't live to be 
happy, that she sha'n't I I'll send her first, and then 
I'll go myself. Ha, ha ! " 

Surely insanity rings in that voice. Poor Victoire 1 
You do not know how lovingly Gloria would forgive 


you, if she only knew the state you were in, how 
eagerly she would seek to raise you from that fallen 
state, and set you on the straight i)ath once more. 
But all this you do not know. 

She goes over to a tumble-do wn-lookiug chest of 
drawers that has seen better days, and pulls open one 
of the drawers. Out of this she takes a six-chambered 
bull-dog revolver, examines it carefully, and slips it 
into her pocket. It used to belong to Mr. Trackem, 
and she had brought it away with her when she left 
the house in Verdegrease Crescent, a few hours after 
the departure of Inspectors Truffle and Bush. She 
has kept it by her,— it is about the only thing she has 
not parted with,— vaguely feeling that it may be useful, 
if Mr. Trackem does not answer her piteous ai)peals in 
the agony columns of the Times ; for Victoire Hester 
has determined to put an end to herself now that he 
has forsaken her. The rich and well clothed may con- 
demn her, but who could, who diving into the arid 
desert of that lonely, hopeless heart, beheld the mortal 
wound inflicted by despair ? 

The revolver safe, she next unearths an old woollen 
shawl, which she flings over her head and pins under 
her chin. Then she is ready, and she gropes her way 
down the dark staircase into the street. 

She is hungry, weary, and weak, but she walks 
briskly along, looking straight ahead of her. People 
are hurrying across Westminster Bridge eager to 
get a good place in the line along which Gloria de 


Lara will pass on her way from the Hall of Libert.y 
to Montraoee House. Victoire Hester is intent on 
securing- a good place too. 

And she is successful. She takes her stand in 
Whitehall, not a stone's throw from the Dake of 
llavensdale's mansion. She will have a long time to 
wait, but she steels herself to endure it. 

Denser and denser grows the throng, but Victoire 
Hester, though pushed and hustled about, nevertheless 
maintains her position in tlie front rank. She feels 
she must hold that at any cost ; it is necessary for 
her purpose. There is a tremor in the crowd, as if 
an electric current had passed through it. Now the 
boom of cannon resounds once more. These warning- 
notes tell the people that the ceremony is over in the 
Hall of Liberty, and that Gloria de Lara is leaving it 
for Montragee House. 

A hum runs along the serried walls of human forms; 
the electric current is apparently again at work. From 
afar strains of martial music come floating- to the 
people's ears, arousing them to the pitch of expectancy 
and excitement. Tliere is a dull continuous roar too ; 
it never seems to cease, as it rises and falls like the 
waves of a turbulent sea, breaking upon the wild 
shores of a rock-bound coast. Yet as it comes nearer, 
the roar assumes a human sound ; it is that of thou- 
sands and tens of thousands of voices cheering lustily. 
Victoire Hester's trembling hand gropes in her j)ocket 
for the revolver. She knows now that Gloria de Lara 

(^R, THE REVOLUTION OF 1900. 343 

is approaching, and that the moment which will close 
her own life is at hand. Yes, snrely insanity is writ 
in those eyes as thoy stare hungrily forward. How 
terribly they gleam I 

No one notices her, however. Every eye is bent 
upon the approaching procession. There comes the 
band of the White Guards, — how soul-stirring its 
music I — and there, too, is the milk-white charger 
Saladin, with arching neck and proud carriage; for 
does he not bear a precious charge indeed, in the 
person of Gloria de Lara ? 

The sun gleams down upon her gilded Iielmet, and 
lights with a living blaze the gold braiding upon her 
uniform. How beautiful she looks as she rides along 
with the glance of eager thousands upon her ! How 
slie loves the people ! How they return that love ! 
Surely none in that wildly enthusiastic crowd would 
seek to harm her ? 

Yes, one would though, and we know who. The 
madness in Victoire Hester's brain is increased by the 
scene before her. More than ever she questions the 
right of this woman to be happy, to be the idol of 
thousands, whilf^ she is doomed to be friendless 
and miserable. 

Will no one stay her hand ? Will no one arrest 
and strike down the engine of death which she is 
steadily raising and bringing to bear full on Gloria's 
breast ? Ah ! can no one in this moment of wild 
excitement see the danger that threatens the idol of 


the people ? See ! Victoire's finger is on tlie trigger ! 
God ! can no one see and stay it ? 

Yes, one can see it, tliougli slie cannot stay it — one 
whose glance lias faithfully swept the crowd ahead of 
Gloria all the way along. Only a pair of dark grey 
faithful eyes, with a wondrous wealth of lashes shading 
their intelligent depths, only a girl in years, yet with 
the light of genius stamped on the beautiful forehead 
above them. She sees and recognises Victoire Hester 
in spite of her changed aspect and the mad look in her 
eyes. Leonie Stanley sees the revolver raised and the 
assassin's finger on the trigger. Deep into her horse's 
flanks she drives her spurs. He sinkings furiously 
forward, brushes roughly against Saladin and his rider, 
and covers like a shield the person of Gloria de Lara. 

Only just in time though ! The revolver's note rings 
forth, speeding from its lips the messenger of death ; 
yet another note, and it claims two victims for its own. 
One is a wild, pale, haggard woman stretched out upon 
the street, from whose temple blood is flowing, the 
other a young officer of the White Guards' Regiment, 
who has fallen forward on the grey neck of her horse, 
and whose blood is staining his dappled well-groomed 
coat. Dear little Leonie, she has not lived in vain; 
she has proved her love and gratitude at last ; she has 
shown how ill-fitting was the cloak of Judas, in which 
the wicked had striven to clothe her. She has lived 
to prove her gratitude, and is faithful unto death. 


J^QQQ It is a lovely scene ou which tliat balloon 
looks down, — a scene of peaceful villages and 
well-tilled fields, a scene of bns}- towns and happy work- 
ing people, a scene of peace and prosperity, comfort 
and contentment, which only a righteons Government 
could produce and maintain. 

The balloon is passing over London, a London 
vastly changed from tlie 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. Tliis London, unlike its pre- 
decessor, 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 tlie 
mighty city, is arrested by two gleaming gilded statues 


crowning a monster edifice, upon whose cap of glitter- 
ing- panes the snn is shining brightly. 

" Is that the Hall of Liberty ? " he inquires of his 

" 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 Ravens- 
dale. 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 tlieir tributes of lovely 

" Is any one else buried there ? " again the stranger 

" 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 Ravens- 

" That is a very lovely garden not far from West- 
minster Bridge which you lately pointed out to me," 
continued the stranger. " What a glorious wealth of 
flowers ! " 

" Ah ! that sir is where Leonie 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. L^onie's heroic 
deed will for ever live in the hearts of a grateful 

" 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 sjjlendid building is the Imjjerial Parlia- 
ment, is it not ? " i)ursues the stranger. 

" Yes, sir. That is where the representatives of our 
Federated Empire watch over its welfare. To Gloria 
of Raveusdale we owe the triumph of Imperial Federa- 
tion. 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, work- 
ing 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 Raveusdale, 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 eus-raved 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 : — 

SacrcD to tbe /iftemorg of 


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 Lad triumphed ? What greater re- 
ward did she hope for thau the welfare and love of 
the peojjle ? 


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 whicli 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 bris-ht and clear— 


Lo ! it awakes lier 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. 


tainted by Hazell, Watsob, & Vihey Ld., London and Aylesbury. 




Author of 
awtti/s," "Across Patagonia," "In the Land o, 

In Three Vols. Crown 8vo, 31s. 6d. 

Author of 
The Young Cmtaways," "Across Patagonia," "In the Land of Misforlu)ie," etc. 


" A novel of stirring adventure, but also one with a piu'iiose." — Morninij Post. 

" In this novel, Lady Florence Dixie inculcates her well-kuown tlieories about 
the education and petition of women. The way is paved for various thrilling 
ail ventures." — Times. 

" Lady Florence Dixie has the courage of her opinions ; she writes freely and 
frankly, with a natural grace of manner tliat makes her works interesting and 
re;idable, and she lia.s tlie art of writing a good story while enforcing lier theories. 
There is plenty of excitement, adventure, and interest in the story, and, apart 
from its too startling title, Lady Florence Dixie's novel will commend itself to the 
reading public." — Life. 

"Under whatever Impression the book is first opened, it is likely to be perused 
for its own sake to the end." — Sunday Timf.9. 

" Carries us through at breathless speed." — Truth. 

" That Lady Florence Dixie Civn wTite well, is shown not only by her natural 
sketch McEVA, but by the character of Lady Ettrick, and her charming sketches 
at the opening of the youthful lovei-s Hory and Loma, who certainly do not bend 
to the customs of conventional society. Whatever else be said for or against the 
novel it is indubitjibly exciting." — Academy. 

" Lady Florence is a vivacious writer ; many of her social sketches are very 
liappy, and among her faults she ceiiainly does not number that of dulness."^- 
Literary World. 

" Lady Florence Dixie always writes brightly . . . her dominant qualities are to 
be found in 'Redeemed in Blood.' " — World. 

" On the subject of rational dress and the prevaOing system of bringing up 
young people, I^idy Florence is neither silent nor soft spoken ; she has veiy 
pronounced opinions as to the way in which girls should be brought up, and 
she gives free expression to them. She writes naturally, sensibly, and skilfully."^- 

"It is written with so much dash and go, and there is so much delightfully 
fresh incident in it, that it is eminently readable." — Glasgow Herald. 

" There is no sham romanticism in the book ; its literary workmanship is 
vigorous. Whatever else Lady Florence may be, she is emphatically original." — 

Scottish Leader. 

" The opening chapter contains some capital descriptive writing, and the 
interest is most cleverly kept up to the end." — Newcastle Chronicle. 

London : HENRY & Co., 6, Bouverie Street, E.G. 
And at all Librakies. 


By the Author of "The Young Castaways." 



A Tale of the Araucanian Indians. 


Large Cro/rn 8vo, with Illustrations, 5s. [In preparation. 
London : HENEY & Co., 6, Bouverie Street, E.G. 

Price OS. Illustrated, 



A Tale of Adventure, 


Author of" The Golden Hawk," etc. 


" All attractive tale of advent me." — Morning Post. 

" We have had a great many stories of adventure showered inwn lis. . . 
Home of these have been good, some, a large proportion, bad : many indifferent. . . . 
' Raymi ' is moi-e good than indifferent ; it is certainly very far from being a bad 
book of its kind." — Doily News. 

" There is much quaint and fresh interest about this well- written story of 
adventures and wonders in far-away lands. . . . The relations of the girl (Clara 
Savill) to the crew and her father are touched in with a firm hand, and 
delineated in a way that inve.sts this part of the narrative with all the charm of 
truth to nature. . . . Let it suffice that in ' Raymi ' we have a good stin-ing story of 
adventure, which is marred neither by improbability nor extravagance." — Public 

" A tale of adventure and peril of surpassing interest is comprised in this large 
and handsome volume. ... It possesses all the traits that go to captivate 
attention."— ^6c?'(/ceii Journal. 

" A really cleverly written story of stirring sea fights and buccaneering deeds, 
and strange adventures among a strange people. . . . Mr. Holland conducts his 
hero through many mar\ellous nautical and terrestrial experiences with a skill 
which seems to us not to fall very far behind that of Mr. Clark Russell. . . . 
' Raymi ' has not a single fault that we can discover." — Glasgow Herald. 

" We have here a book to delight the heart and stir the pulse of adventurous 
youth, besides containing much matter to interest ' children of older gi-owth.' . . . 
The author's story is all his own, and is not unworthy in plot and vividness of the 
reputation won by his earlier work. The author traces with no little skill and 
graphic power the remote wanderings and strange and thrilling experiences of one 
Hugh Carton, a sailor lad, in distant pa,vts."—Birming/iaid Dally Post. 

"This admirable romance. The adventures of the hero amongst 'marvellous, 
scenes and marvellous people ' are related most vividly and with considerable 
skill. . . . The sea fights and perils and dangers of the deep are also very well 
done." — Newcastle Doily Chronicle. 

London: HENRY & CO., 6, Bouverie Street, E.C, 
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