BOOK III.
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, gradually 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 which brings rest after the toils or pleasures 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 de 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 joyously 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 gold.
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 Eilort.
Months have passed away since we were last inGloria de Lara’s company. We left her 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 Léonie, 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 Ravensdale had ridden the night before. No sooner had it been decided to quit ‘The Hut,’ than Gloria had despatched 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 had 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 compactly built dog-kennels in the rear. In one of thewindows of this lonely dwelling a solitary 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 tracking 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 Government 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 had become pretty soon apparent, amidst a people whose lips refused to tell, and whose eyes became blinded by a sudden cloud whenever information was sought or demanded. In order to guardagainst the importation of informers into the Volunteer 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 information.
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 metropolis. It was from the same cottage that Speranza had 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 Léonie, in pursuit of therôlewhich 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 capacity.
The bright, earnest face of the girl, her dark eyes glowing with genius, her pleading voice and apparent enthusiasm, had struck home to Gloria de Lara’s heart, the noble nature of which could not suspect treacheryto lurk beneath such evident devotion. Léonie’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 Liberty, the D’Estrangeite members had assembled to protest against the assumption by the Nationals of the conduct of affairs without first making an appeal 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 voluminous 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 appear. 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 Lara could have commanded such an ovation? Truth it was she and hertrusty companion Flora Desmond, who stood before them, habited in the uniform of the White Guards’ Regiment, in which the people knew them both so well.
In full view of the crowded House, in full view of the D’Estrangeite members, in full view of Government reporters, and Mr. Mayhew’s police and detective forces, Gloria had addressed the vast throng. Spellbound the people had listened to her words of hope, of encouragement, and of cheer. And when, in conclusion, 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 those cheers began to die away and the 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 meeting in the north of England, that the police and troopshastily summoned had attempted 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. Machinery was at work beneath the surface which they had no power 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 people’s favourites were undoubtedly the Duke of Ravensdale, Nigel Estcourt, Lady Manderton, Launcelot Trevor, Archie Douglasdale, and Jack Delamere! Wonder of wonders! What! Colonel Delamere? The swagger Guardsman, the spoilt child of Society, the man whose life had hitherto been one long succession 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 might 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 poured 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 sympathy 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 intolerableto the Devonsmere 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 people’s love.
A people’s love! It was a noble gift to have won, a treasure of which they might well be proud, 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. The 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 organisation 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 forthwith 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 imprison without trial all women who should be seen wearing the uniform of these regiments; and it had likewise been decreed afelony 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 plan 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 London, 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 saferetreat, and Evie Ravensdale had repaired to London. With him had gone Léonie, who had been commissioned to bear back the duke’s instructions when all was ready. It was a fatal arrangement this last; but Léonie 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.
Léonie has arrived from London. She has been instructed, she declares, to inform Gloria de Lara that the duke’s yachtEileanwill proceed 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 Léonie asking Gloria to meet the smack at its entrance to the bay. At least so says Léonie, and Gloria believes her. She has sent the former to the top 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 pale 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 rowerthat she has left the bay and entered the open 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 she plies her oars, 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 off 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 Léonie won.
“There is the smoke, Estcourt; Ravensdale must 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.”
“Well, there’s the smoke right enough, Estcourt; and Léonie is far too smart to make a mistake. However, 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 yearning 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, andArchie 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 noone 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 the first time, now three years ago, he had confessed his love and asked her to marry him. She had 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 canalmost 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 Reginald Desmond, she and Evie Ravensdale 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 vanished 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 her 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 heart.
It never entered her mind to cavil at his choice orto resent it. No pang of jealousy had shot through her 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 something for your old friend to look back upon, when you are far away.”
“What do you mean Estcourt?” she inquires 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 have 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 happy as when I am with you, but I don’t mean to think ofEgoon this occasion.”
The tears rise to her eyes.
“I shall miss you, Estcourt, dear old Estcourt,”she says softly; and 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 Ravensdale’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 though 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. Heknows she has rejected the love of many men. There is no one, save himself, to whom she appears to give a preference, and has she not told him that she can never marry him? Is he not justified in his conclusions, 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 up 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 misunderstanding between us two, and on the eve of parting. This may be the last opportunity of tellingyou what I wish to. Don’t gibe me as cold and heartless, for it is not true, not true. Do I not know how 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 first, 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 Ravensdale’s smack has not turned the point yet. It ought to be round by now if Léonie were right.”
“I’ll back her 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 oarsmen are his four sons. I know it and them well.”
He comes running down to where she is standing.
“Flora dear,” he says quickly, “use your eyes. The man in the stern is not Douglasdale. It’s Evie, as I live! What can Léonie 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 the mountain side, with Estcourt following quickly in the rear. Fast,faster she goes. Flora Desmond 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 off.
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!” 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 resting on their oars as the boat glides slowly forward.
But Flora and Estcourt have it by the prow.
“Now, Estcourt, push off!” exclaims the 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 side.
“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!”
They answer to her appeal, do these young giants. Do they not know her well? Is she not a Ruglen? 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 command, 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 aredoing their best. There is not a word spoken. Only the splash of the oars, the dull thud of the twisting rowlocks, the hiss of the boat’s keel, break the stillness of Glenuig’s Bay.
They have reached the point now. Four 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 sea.
The smack is there; it catches the straining eyes of Evie Ravensdale, as he springs up and gazes across the great grey ocean waste. To her 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 creeping, dull, dark veil of the advancing night and rising storm.
“All shall come right, everything shall be explained; you shall have immediate liberty, if, on behalf of your mother, you will promise me what I ask. I know perfectly well she will do it ifyouask her. Now will you?”
The speaker is a middle-aged man, with deep, dark eyes, handsome features, and bold, resolute carriage. Grey hairs peep here and there from out his thick beard, moustache, 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, stockings to match, and silver mounted brogues. A loosewhite flannel 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, but checks the rising anger within him, and speaks once more in a persuasive, 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! 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 pray you, this subject. I have but one answer to your hateful proposal, and that is, no!”
“Have you weighed well in your mind the fate that awaits you, Hector 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 rapidly 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 shouting 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 skipper peers in.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he says, touching his oil-skin cap, “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 intelligence does not please him. As he turns to leave the cabin Léonie steals in. She is drenched with sea water, and her hair is wringing wet. As she seatsherself in a corner of the cabin she glances shyly at Gloria. This latter returns the look with one of mingled pity and contempt. Léonie’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! Léonie, 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 Léonie, 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 Léonie’s at a glance.
“Have you no mother, no father, my poor Léonie?” she inquires softly, as she comes over to the girl’s side, and lays her hand on her curly head.
“Mother, father? No, of course not,” answers Léonie, with a slight laugh. “They are both dead. Mr. Trackem always says he’s acted father, mother, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, and cousin by me. I don’t quite know what he means by that, but that is what he says.”
“Poor Léonie, poor wee Léonie. God! what a fate! You are not to blame them, my poor child. Ah! how fully I forgive you,” says Gloria, as with a sudden impulse she stoops and kisses the girl who has betrayed her, on the cheek. Only another revelation has come to her from that cesspool of Modern Babylon; only another fearful wrong unknown, unstudied, and unforbidden, brought to light.
Léonie looks up quickly. There is a queer expression 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 rather eagerly.
“Because I believe in God,” answers Gloria gently.
“God! Why, Mr. Trackem always laughs at God,” interposes Léonie, with a shrug of her shoulders. “He always tells me that God is an invention of the devil, and all clergymen and priests are fallen angels.”
“Oh, hush, Léonie; hush, my poor, poor child! This is terrible. Do not talk in that awful way,” and the tears start trembling to Gloria’s lovely eyes.“Léonie, God is good; He is our 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, Léonie, at least so long as God gives me strength to do so,” answers Gloria quietly.
Again Léonie 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, Léonie.”
“Then I love God, and I love you. May I give you a kiss, just as you kissed me? I want to show you how I love you,” cries Léonie, 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’shands. This latter is almost startled by the extraordinary likeness which for a brief moment sweeps across the girl’s features, a likeness to Bernie Fontenoy.
There is a terrible crash overhead. It sounds like falling timber. Again, a rush of feet, and Gloria and Léonie hear the skipper’s voice raised in loud command.
“He is ordering out the boat, Léonie. 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 companion in a quiet, composed voice. “I’m not afraid. I think I should have been if this had happened 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 you. Come on, girl.”
These last words are addressed to Léonie.
“What! go with you, and leave her? I’ll drown rather!” exclaims Léonie, with a contemptuous laugh.
“Drown like a rat, then,” he says with an oath, as he bangs 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 Léonie are standing.
“We must get on deck, Léonie; we can’t stay here, child. Here, take hold of my hand; we must keep together,” exclaims Gloria in a quick, peremptory voice.
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 sea water.
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 Léonie’s shoulders.
“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 Léonie quickly; “you have not one.”
“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, Léonie, 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 backwards, but bend yourself, hold your breath, and put your head through it. Quick, have a care, child!” She utters these last words in a sharp warning tone as she tightens her grasp on Léonie’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 Léonie in its folds. It tears the rail, to which her left hand clings, from her grasp. She feels herself lifted up like a straw, and borne forward by the resistless rush and volume of water. With the desperation of death in her clutch, her right hand still grips the still, cold fingers of her young companion, whose grasp has slackened altogether. A floatingspar 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, Léonie!” she shouts, but Léonie 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 Léonie 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 abovethe wind’s roar. Then a ghastly, unearthly sound comes out 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 suddenly 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 tempest 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 Léonie, 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.