“Were you in the Commons last night? Did you go to hear Hector D’Estrange?”
“Rather; I think all the world was there, or trying to be there. I don’t think I have ever seen such 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! Pooh! they never came up to him.”
“Well, the women have got the 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, the Honourable Tredegar Molyneux, M.P., and Colonel des Vœux of the Blues. Nearly four years have passed 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 subscriptions of the women of Great Britain, Ireland, and the world at large, he is to preside at the ceremony of its opening. Itisa 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 constructed 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 swimmingbath, and exactly opposite, or on the other side of the circus, is a huge platform. Suspended in mid air, a very network of trapezes and other gymnastic appliances hang, while stretched tightly beneath them is a monster net. Around the arena, with a low palisade 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 seemingly never-ending stories, are cosy platforms 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 accommodate women students from all parts of the world, who may wish to take part in the physical drill or educational advantages afforded by this great central institute for the training of womankind. Attachedto the Hall of Liberty are large lecture-rooms, studying-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 pretty 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 which 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, which 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 employed in its construction.
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 opening, 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, happy crowd, it seems to be, withhere and there occasionally a little rough horse-play. But no harm is done. The people are on their best behaviour, 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 people. There is no disorder, for there is a separate passage for the holders of each class of ticket, and along these the incomers are marshalled by the liveried servants of the establishment. It is a wonderful sight to see the people 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 prince 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 denominations and sexes awaits his coming in breathless expectation.
And it has not long to wait. The clock is striking eleven, when a distant roar is heard, and the strainsof martial music 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 Companies, 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 tints of old-gold that play amidst the curls which nestleon 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 uniform 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 companies 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 midocean 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 flower-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 seaof faces, all turned to his, they are suddenly brought to a standstill. The anxious, searching look within them dies away, giving place to one of calm contentment and repose, for Speranza is there.
The mother’s eyes are fixed upon her child. Through the filmy distance of space cannot Gloria perceive 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 hand, and in aiding him to carry out his noble aims is thoroughly in her element.
The white troopers advance at a trot rapid enough, but as each line passes the platform on which Hector D’Estrange is standing they break into a canter, increased 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 companies 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, spell-bound 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 wheelinground into the vast arena form up into splendid line. The work of detaching the horses and unlimbering 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 declarethat in the former respect she is his superior. You deny it? Then give her the chance, and I have no fear but that she will prove that I have not lied. You have to-day seen passed in review 10,000 representatives 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 heart-stirring writers—I allude to Whyte-Melville—has left it declared in his writings, ‘that if a legion of Amazons could be rendered amenable to discipline they would conquer the world.’ He was right. The physical courage, of which men vaunt so much, is as nothing when compared with that greater and more magnificent virtue, ‘moral courage,’ which women have shown that they possess in so eminent a degree over men; and hence physical courage would come as an agreeable and welcome visitor where hitherto it has been forcibly denied admission.
“Men and women who hear me to-day, I 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 great measure, due to the false and unnatural position awarded towoman; nor will justice, reparation, and perfection be attained until she takes her placein all thingsas 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 drop in the ocean of that which is her right, yet is it a noble beginning of that which must inevitably 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 his friends stand. His horse is led forward by a youthful orderly in the uniform of the White Regiment, 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 Liberty comes out into the densely, wall-lined street, amidst the roar of the thousands that are there to greet. Such is the welcome ofthe peopleto Hector D’Estrange.
Lord Westray sits alone in his sanctum in Grosvenor Square. There is an anxious expression 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 fireplace, with his feet against the chimney-piece, “what bell’s that?”
“My lord’s, sir,” is the laconic reply from the lackey outside.
“Oh! ah! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again.”
The bell does peal again, this time furiously, andStuggins, with a face of disgust, pulls his feet down from the chimney-piece.
“My word! what a hard time of it we have’s,” he ejaculates 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 doorbell. 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 heartily. “Began to fear you were not coming. A little late, eh?”
“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.”
“Capital!” 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 didnotring,” answers Mr. Trackem, coldly, “and you arenotrequired.”
“Oh! very good, sir,” and Stuggins retires defeated, and much put about.
Mr. Trackem watches the butler’s retreating formtill it is out of sight, 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 up, and coming up to town. This is a most valuable point, as her 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 businesses,” 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. Why, 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 conversation.
“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 power.”
“Inmypower!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly, through 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 commission,” 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 writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving.
“Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell. “A glass of sherry, brandy-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 dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore, is he not free to do as he pleases?
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 torturingflies 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 sleep.
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 uncovered, 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 Lara.
“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! my precious long-lost love, would that you could seeourchild now!”
She has pressed the ring with its glittering brilliants to her lips,—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 occupied this night, for it is the 14th of July, the anniversary 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, however, 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, endeavours 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. Herhands 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 should.”
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, arumbling and stamping as of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a carriage dashes up.
“Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out.
“Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer.
“Well, put 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 he 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 Windsor,en routefor London.
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 theyare, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in language of which he alone is master.
He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which 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 Whitehall, 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, Hector?”
“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 which you can look back upon as having wasted or misspent, savein 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!”
“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 Evie, 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!” exclaims his friend in a somewhat surprised 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!” 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 spoken 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 softly.
“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, Hector.”
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 confidentially. “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 isa 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 springs 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! 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 Repton.
“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’Estrangehas seized the handle and 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 with 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 assistance, 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.”
She does not reply, for they are hurrying out of the room. They are in the hall now, and both Hector and Evie Ravensdale have seized their hats. But 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 hope 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 mother’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 feelinganimates her now. For Evie Ravensdale Rita Vernon 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!”
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.”
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 handkerchiefs 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, opening 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 landing 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.
Speranza de Lara is stretched on a sofa. Her ankles 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 pettedrouéof Society, that “fiend in human shape,”—the Earl of Westray.
There is a loud cry as a shot rings through the silent house.