"It's all very well to laugh, Herrick, but, damme, sir, it's the last straw, it's the last straw!" roared the General.
"Just what we've been wanting," said Sir Robert, calmly.
"Eh, what d'ye mean?" General Hartwell stared.
"When people get the last straw laid on, they can't stand any more. So now's the time for the worm to turn."
"You're right! By gad, you're right! But how's the worm going to manage it?" cried the old officer, leaning back.
The judge fingered the stem of his wine glass and gazed thoughtfully at the table-cloth. Major Wardlaw turned his gaze on him as if suddenly recalled from the regions of mental speculation. Linton, also self-absorbed as yet, began to listen and to wonder.
"You have strong views about women. You don't exactly love the sex," said the Judge.
"How can a man love 'em when he sees the mischief they've done by their ambitions and pertinacity?" demanded the General.
"My dear fellow, you are too sweeping. They're not all alike. There are plenty of good women left in the world."
"Show me where they are, then! I don't say they all set out to break the Ten Commandments. But it's their love of power, their restless ambitions, their confounded unreasonableness, that have played the deuce with us. They want to rule the world, sir, and they weren't meant for it, and it's not good for them, and they know it!"
They all laughed at the General's vehemence, and extending a wrinkled forefinger, he went on, with unabated powers of declamation:
"Men ought to have nipped it in the bud, that's what they ought to have done. Instead of which we gave place to their insidious aggressions. We gave 'em an inch and they took an ell. We gave 'em the whip hand, and they weren't content with it in little things. By heaven, they're chastising us with scorpions. And there'll be the devil to pay before we can put 'em back in their proper place. But, mark you, it'll have to be done, if we want to call our souls our own, it'll have to be done. Why! my blood boils when I think of the misery shrewish, self-willed women have inflicted on some of the best fellows in the world. I know cases. I've seen it done among my old friends. I knew a man, he was a retired Colonel with a splendid record. What do you think? His scold of a wife used to send him out to buy cream for the apple-tart. It's not always the wife. Sometimes it's the mother-in-law. Sometimes it's a sister. Now and then it's a daughter. I know an old school-fellow, a parson; the poor beggar has three plain sisters quartered on him; great, gauntwomen who talk about 'dear Robert,' and badger dear Robert out of his life. His only happy moment is when they're all gone to bed. He'd like to marry; but he's too soft-hearted to send 'em about their business. I tell you the man's afraid. I know another fellow, too ... but there—what's the good of talking!"
Major Wardlaw was raising from his seat.
"Excuse me for two minutes, General!"
"Yes, yes, to be sure," assented his host, and when the Major had closed the door behind him, he dropped his voice and leaned across the table.
"Now there's a man! The best engineer the British army has produced for thirty years. That man, sir, designed the great fort they built at Dover to guard the Channel Tunnel. He's got a big brain and a great heart, but in one way he's shown himself a fool. What does he do but go and marry a garrison flirt, sir, a little thing with a pretty face and fluffy hair, and the tongue of a viper. The poison of asps was under her lips. I can tell you she led Wardlaw a life. Now she's dead and gone, and I do believe he's sorry! He worships the child she left him,—little Miss Flossie. She's upstairs at the present moment. Wardlaw's gone to say good-night to her. He worships the ground she walks on, and that child takes it all for granted. By heaven! she orders him about. She's got her mother's blue eyes and fluffy hair, and I'd wager she's got her temper too. By-and-by she'll lead her father a pretty dance. He wouldn't come here to stay with me—and, mind you, I'm his oldest friend,—no, he wouldn't come without Miss Flossie. Oh these women! By heaven, they raise my gorge."
"My dear Hartwell," said the Judge, calmly, "You go too far. You're prejudiced...."
"Prejudiced!" exclaimed the General, "were Thackeray and Dickens prejudiced? Look at Becky Sharpe and the way she treated that big affectionate booby, Rawdon Crawley. Look at that girl Blanche Amory, the little plotter who ran after Pendennis. And if you come to Dickens, what about Rosa Dartle,—a woman as venomous as a serpent!"
"Types, my dear fellow, types; but not a universal type."
"There's lots more like 'em," nodded the General.
"And many more unlike them. You see, we old fogeys...."
"Fogeys, by gad! Speak for yourself, Herrick."
"I do," said the Judge, "it isn't that I feel like a fogey any more than you do. It's the label that the world insists on fastening on men of our age, and it is apt to make us feel bitter. We're supposed to have had our time and finished it. It's not what we feel, Hartwell, it's what we look that settles it, and I'm afraid, my dear fellow, sometimes when our hair turns grey our tempers turn bitter. It's the way of the world...."
"It's the way of the women, I grant you."
"Come, come, let us leave the women alone for a bit. They've brought things to a crisis. It's the last straw. Well and good. Doesn't that suggest an opportunity?"
"Now, you know, you've got something in your lawyer's head. Come, man, what the deuce are you driving at?"
"We haven't drunk Renshaw's health yet," said the Judge with apparent irrelevance. They rose and raised their glasses. Linton—who had taken no part in the recent discussion—now watched his uncle expectantly. "Renshaw, God bless him! and bring him back to England!"
"By the way," said Sir Robert, casually, as they resumed their seats, "is Wardlaw with us?"
The General, who had taken his old friend's lecture in good part, nodded: "Of course he is. Isn't nearly every man, in both services? Do you suppose we want an army of Amazons armed with lethal weapons to keep in order?"
"What about the Corps of Commissionaires?"
"Being their Commander, I ought to know. Seventy per cent. of 'em, at least, are dead against petticoat government. They're good chaps, and they've seen good service. They don't like the way the country is being run any more than you or I do. You take my word for that."
The Judge mused for a moment, tipping the ash from his cigar.
"What about the old Household troops?" he asked.
"Same story. But what can we do without a leader in Parliament? and suppose, after all, poor Renshaw is dead?"
Sir Robert Herrick suddenly abandoned his careless bearing, threw away his cigar, and took from his pocket a letter written on foreign notepaper. "Listen," he said, "both of you," and lowering his voice, he read the letter, slowly and distinctly so that every word was understood. Then he twisted it into a spill and burnt it bit by bit. They sat for a few moments in silence.
Then from the General, whose fierce little eyes seemed starting from his head under the bristling white eyebrows, there came a sort of gasping exclamation: "God bless my soul! Why not?" Then, after a pause, dropping into the familiar style of their early days: "You know, Bob, there's risk in it. I'm with you to the last. I'm with you; but there's risk in it, we must remember that."
"Yes, there's risk in it," answered Sir Robert, gravely. "We must count the cost. But the risk and the cost are not half what they were in other days, when men were ready to die for their country and their cause. If Tower Hill could talk it could tell many a tale of men who were faithful unto death. If the block could unfold its secrets; if the red axe could speak, there'd be some stern lessons for modern men to ponder on. Did you ever read how Balmerino faced the headsman after Culloden? Come what may, we shouldn't have to face the axe, Hartwell."
"Hanging would be no improvement," growled the General. "Still, mind this, I'm with you heart and soul, if we can work it out."
"I don't think we should have to face the hangman either," said the Judge quietly. "We might, perhaps, have to spend the evening of our days behind prison bars. Even that is doubtful. Nothing succeeds like success. What's treason under one rule becomes loyalty under another. History has illustrated that over and over again?"
"What age would Renshaw be by this time?"
"Why, not forty, even after ten years' captivity. He is the only man who can bring back the ancient glory and prestige of the Kingdom. Once in our midst, the people will rally round him with enthusiastic loyalty. If well organised, it will be a bloodless revolution, Hartwell, a glorious and thankful reversion to the old system of man's government for man and woman. It is best suited to the British nation. We've tried something else and it's proved a failure."
"A d——d failure," agreed the General, heartily.
"We've given way to cranks and noisy, shrill-voiced women; to vapouring politicians; to socialismand all the other isms. We had a notion that we could ante-date the millennium and work the scheme of national life according to ideas of equality and uniformity. It can't be done. Experience proves that anomalies work well when logical systems fail. It's a conceited age, a puffed up generation. We are not really wiser than our fathers, though we think we are. Let us try to revert to first principles."
"I'm your man, heart and soul," said General Hartwell, and the two old friends grasped hands across the table.
"I knew you would be!" There was a shine as of tears in the Judge's eyes. "But you and I can't work this thing alone. We must have colleagues; not many, but some, or at least one," and he looked at Linton Herrick.
"I'm with you too, sir," said the young man simply, "show me the way, that's all."
"We three alone at present, with loyal hearts and silent tongues," said Sir Robert, gravely.
"The Three Musketeers!" ventured Linton.
"By Jove, yes," agreed the old officer.
"And we undertake everything that serves the State," added Sir Robert, solemnly. They rose by mutual understanding and clinked their glasses.
"All for one! and one for all!" they cried with one accord.
And Major Wardlaw, opening the door at that moment, stared amazed.
CHAPTER VI.
THE REVOLT OF WOMAN.
England was agitated by two items of the latest intelligence. The same journal which announced the sudden and serious illness of President Jardine also recorded a bold move in the campaign of the Lady Catherine Kellick, Vice-President of the Council of State. Enormous interest was roused, not so much by the advertised notice of a public meeting on affairs of State, as by the rumours of its real object. Ostensibly, the people of London were invited, so far as the accommodation of the Queen's Hall would permit, to hear a statement as to the position of public affairs and to consider questions of national importance. But it was well understood that the real aim of the convener of the meeting was to strengthen her grip on the helm of State by means of her rumoured forward policy, in the interests of the sex which she claimed to represent.
Long before the hour fixed for the meeting, multitudes of people of both sexes approached Langham Place by every converging avenue. The doors of the Hall were besieged by an enormous concourse, and the police on duty soon found themselves entirely powerless to preserve order. As evening approached, the crowd became more and more dense, extending southward far into Regent Street, and northward into Portland Place. Every window inthe Langham Hotel was crowded with wondering visitors, looking down upon the immense assembly, from which rose angry shouts as mounted constables forced their horses through the outskirts of the crowd in the vain effort to keep the people on the move. When darkness rendered the situation still more dangerous, urgent representations were made to the managers of the Hall, and the doors were suddenly thrown open. A wild yell of relief or eagerness rose from thousands of throats, and a scene of indescribable violence and confusion followed, as men and woman pushed, struggled, and fought their way towards the entrances. In a few moments every seat had been seized, every inch of standing room occupied. The attempts of the attendants to attend to the angry demands of those who held tickets for reserved seats were absolutely futile. Every gangway was blocked by pushing and struggling humanity, and those who, alarmed by such a condition of things, sought to force their way out were prevented from doing so by the swarms of people who were already wedged in the corridors.
A babel of voices arose on every side, but at length the audience was weeded out to some extent, and the great numbers that remained settled down in patient expectation, solaced, after a time, by the music of the grand organ and the singing of the songs and choruses. Tier after tier at the back of the platform, usually occupied by musicians, had been reserved for Members of Parliament and officials of State. Not one seat was vacant save the chair of the Vice-President. When the hour appointed for the meeting struck on the clocks of the neighbouring churches, there was a great clapping of hands, and an excited waving of hats and handkerchiefs. A tall thin figure, wearing a flowingrobe of scarlet, now advanced from the right-hand side of the platform, and, on emerging from behind the rows of palms and ferns, came into full view of the audience.
Although she had become so great a power in England, the Vice-President was only known by means of pictures and photographs to a great number of those who were present. They gazed at her with wonder and interest. There was character in every line of her face. Her grey hair, swept back from the broad low brow, made her look older than her actual years. Her eyes were rather prominent and staring. The upper lip was so long as to betoken a marked degree of obstinacy, and her chin, square and firm, with the flesh bagging a little on either side, accentuated the general indications of hardness.
When she spoke, her greatest charm was made known. Her voice was excellent, it had that kind of purring intonation which reminded some of the older people of the celebrated actress Sarah Bernhardt; her friends said that it was partly because of the "purr" that she had acquired the popular nickname of "Lady Cat."
There were no formal preliminaries. Raising her hand for silence, she began to speak, and her first sentence was well chosen and arresting:
"The Amazon is the greatest river in the world!"
Puzzled glances were exchanged, and here and there was heard a wondering titter. Were they in for a lecture on geography?
The speaker went on without a pause, and swiftly undeceived them:
"The Amazon flows from the Andes with such stupendous force, in such enormous volume, that its waters are carried unmixed into the Atlantic Ocean."
They now had a dim idea of what was coming, and the impression was speedily confirmed:
"There are other mighty forces in the world besides that river, and I for one, speaking for the sex to which I belong, would glory in the name of Amazon. Call us Amazons, if you will. Let those laugh who win; women are winning all along the line!"
Shrill applause went up from hundreds of women in the audience. The men, in a minority, were silent and uneasy.
"The time has come for facing facts, for examining claims and titles. Man's title to be Lord of Creation is full of flaws, and we dispute it."
Frantic cheers and handkerchief-waving came from the women; a few deep groans from the men.
"It is no use trusting to recent history. The men by force and fraud got into possession of all the good things, all the power that life has to offer, and thousands of us have meekly acquiesced. If you are content to be regarded as the weaker vessel, if it satisfies you to be compared with men as water is compared with wine, or moonlight unto sunlight, be it so; we who are wiser must leave you to your fate. But some of us have already advanced a stage or two towards the position we claim rightfully as our own. Yet, you women of England, mark this, the stages already covered are nothing to what we can and will achieve."
Excited applause for a few minutes prevented the speaker from proceeding. A fierce disturbance broke out at the back of the Hall, but was promptly quelled.
"One thing all men and women here to-night must realise. There cannot be two Kings in Brentford, no, nor a King and Queen. Of the two sexes, one alone can reign. Which shall it be?"
Shrill cries of "ours, ours!" broke from the speaker's supporters.
"Yes," she cried triumphantly, "our turn has come at last; itshallbe ours, if women only stand to their guns. But there can be no halting half way. Forward or Retreat!"
"Forward, Forward!" came from the now enthusiastic audience, with eager cheers and shouts, and again the cry went up: "Forward, one and all."
"Forward let it be. But, remember, the race will be to the swift and the battle to the strong. To-night I call you to arms. To-night I remind you that among the ancient races of the world there were women who set us the example that we need. The story of the Amazons of old is no fable. They lived—they fought for supremacy. They won it and they held it. So can we!"
Tumultuous cries, blended now with angry hisses from the men, disturbed the meeting. But so great was the ascendency which the Vice-President already had acquired over most of her hearers, that a wave of her hand stilled the uproar, and she was enabled to proceed. At the same moment, on a screen at the back of the platform, was thrown a startling life-sized picture of an Amazonian warrior:
"Behold!" cried the orator, grasping the dramatic moment and extending her arm, "Behold Thalestris—Queen of the Amazons!"
For an instant the vast audience paused—surprised, staring, almost bewildered.
"You are asking yourselves who was Thalestris," the speaker continued. "The Amazons founded a state in Asia Minor on the coast of the Black Sea. Herodotus will tell you how they fought with theGreeks; how they hunted in the field and marched with the Scythians to battle. Well, Thalestris became their Queen. They styled her the daughter of Mars. She set the men to spin wool and do the work of the house. The women went to the wars, and the men stayed at home and employed themselves in those mean offices which in this country have been forced upon our sex. The Amazons went from strength to strength; they built cities, erected palaces, and created an empire. And there were other Amazonian nations. All of them acted on the same principle. The women kept the public offices and the magistracy in their own hands. Husbands submitted to the authority of their wives. They were not encouraged, or allowed, to throw off the yoke. The women, in order to maintain their authority, cultivated every art of war. For this is certain—all history proves it: force is the ultimate remedy in all things. That was why the Amazons of old learnt how to draw the bow and throw the javelin."
"For shame! for shame!" roared a man's voice from the balcony.
"There is plenty of cause for shame," was the speaker's swift retort, "but the shame is on the men, the swaggering, bullying, self-sufficient men who in times past held women in subjection. Why, there were men in England not so very long ago who would put a halter round a wife's neck and bring her into open market, for sale to the highest bidder. It used to be the law of England that men might chastise their wives with a rod of specified dimensions...."
"We don't do it now," shouted the same voice.
"No! because you cannot and you dare not. It used to be said that there was one law for the rich andanother law for the poor. But it was always a much more glaring truth that there was one law for men and another law for women. It was so in the Divorce Court until we women altered it. It was so in respect of the results of what was called a lapse from virtue, and we are going to alter that. It was so in regard to votes and representation, and you know we have changed all that!" Loud and vehement applause from the majority of the audience greeted this allusion to the suffrage.
"More than half the nation is no longer disenfranchised. But we must not rest content. Like Alexander, we seek more worlds to conquer, and conquest will be ours. While women have grown, men have shrivelled. Athletic exercise and a freer and more varied life have given our women thews and sinews. But the men are decadent, degenerates who have led indolent, self-indulgent lives. They have given up the Battle of Life. Thousands of them are as enfeebled in body as in intellect. We see around us an undeveloped, puny, stunted race. What? Call these creatures men? I tell you they are not men, they are only mannikins!"
Immense uproar broke out again in every part of the heated, crowded building. When it was subdued, the speaker resumed in scornful tones:
"Better masculine women than effeminate men! Better the Amazon than the mannikin! Read the story of Boadicea, of Joan of Arc, and of Joan of Montfort! Read what history will tell you about Margaret of Anjou! Worthy successors were they of the Amazons of the Caucasus and the Amazons of America, the noble women who gave their name to the greatest river in the world. Like the women of old, let the Amazons of the present century—the Amazons of England—learn to arm, and learn to fight."
There was a moment's pause. Then the Vice-President, in tones now piercing and tremulous, cried out:
"Who will join the First Regiment of the Amazons of England?"
The electrified audience saw the speaker raise her hand, and at the signal twenty girls in smart military uniform marched on to the platform, saluted, and stood at attention. Each Amazon's hair was cut short, but not too short to be frizzed. On each small head was worn a helmet like that of Thalestris. The braided tunic was buttoned from shoulder to shoulder in the Napoleonic style, and the two rows of gilt buttons narrowed down to the bright leather belt that encircled the waist. "Bloomers" completed the costume, and a light cutlass and a revolver furnished each Amazon's warlike equipment.
Laughter, applause, and shouted comments greeted the entrance of the girl-soldiers. It became a scene of indescribable confusion.
Then once more the Vice-President vehemently appealed to the audience:
"Who will join the Amazons of England?"
Shouts of "I will, I will!" came, first, from the body of the hall; then from every part of the building, until, at last, the women seemed to answer in a perfect scream of eagerness. Many minutes passed before silence was restored. Then it was announced that all recruits could give in their names as they left the hall, and the Vice-President went on to move in formal terms a resolution declaring that this meeting was firmly persuaded that the cause of the nation and of woman required that the women of England should take up arms, and pledged itself, first, to support the establishment of a new body ofmilitia to be recruited from the ranks of the young women of England; and, secondly, to claim from the State the same rate of pay that hitherto had been paid to men alone.
A thin young woman with hectic cheeks and excited manner sprang to her feet on the right of the platform and seconded the motion. She only made one point, but it went home. "I'll ask you one question," she exclaimed, in tones so shrill that here and there a laugh broke out: "Are we inferior to poor Tommy Atkins?"
The aggregate answer was so ready and so violent a negative that the opposing element was momentarily subdued. Storms of applause broke out as she resumed her seat.
But with equal readiness another speaker was on her feet on the other side of the platform. In clear high tones her voice rang out over the noisy assembly: "I oppose it!"
Another storm—a storm of remonstrance now arose. Cries of "Shame, shame," were hurled towards the platform. Then, as some of the audience recognized the new speaker, they exclaimed to the people near them: "It's the President's daughter! It's Zenobia Jardine!"
"Order, order!" roared a minority of the audience, now somewhat encouraged, and in a few minutes, while Zenobia waited—her eyes bright, her lips firmly set—order was secured. The Vice-President had sat down. She looked at her young opponent with no friendly eye, taking no trouble to secure her a quiet hearing. But there was a section of the audience that had only waited for a champion, and meant to see fair play.
"I oppose it," repeated Zenobia, "because I believe that to arm women and train them to fightwill be a mad and wicked act. It would mean a return to barbarism. It would be adding a monstrous climax to the progress of a great cause. Instead of being the final exaltation of our sex, it would lead to our political extinction and our ruin. Let us have none of it."
The Vice-President's face wore a wicked look, and her thin lips tightened as this appeal drew a loud cheer from the men and from a certain number of the women in the excited audience.
"It has been said that the empire of women is an empire of softness, of address. Her commands are caresses, her menaces are tears!"
"No! No!" came from the throats of the Vice-President's supporters. The Vice-President herself arose.
"Will the speaker favour us with the authority for her quotations?" she asked in loud and cutting tones.
"Rousseau...." began Zenobia nervously.
"An effeminate authority indeed!" exclaimed the Vice-President. "We are not all in love" she added sneeringly.
She seemed for the moment to have won the audience back to her cause. But Zenobia was not beaten.
"Very well!" she cried, "I will give you an English author. Doctor Johnson, at least, was not effeminate. What did he say? 'The character of the ancient Amazons was terrible, rather than lovely. The hand could not be very delicate that was only employed in directing the bow and brandishing the battle-axe. Their power was maintained by cruelty; their courage was deformed by ferocity'.... Besides, the whole thing's impossible." Conflicting cries broke out in every quarter, and the rest of thesentence became wholly inaudible. There was a slight lull when the Vice-President rose and raised her hand.
"Is it your pleasure that this lady be heard further?" she demanded. The hint received a ready response, and shrieks of "No, no!" drowned the protests of the minority. In a moment, the Vice-President put her resolution and called for a show of hands. In another moment, she had declared the motion carried by an overwhelming majority.
At a sign, the organ gave forth a trumpet note, and then burst into a rushing volume of sound, which drowned all cries and counter-cries, and ended the meeting in a scene of unexampled tumult and excitement.
CHAPTER VII.
THE PRICE OF POWER.
After the great and epoch-making meeting in Queen's Hall, the disturbed state of public feeling was accentuated. It was generally felt that the sex-conflict which the revolt of woman had brought about now was shaping towards some new and startling climax. A crisis was at hand. Moreover, at the same time, the appearance and rapid development of a serious and unfamiliar epidemic created widespread alarm.
At first people had laughed at the "new disease," but the laughter was shortlived—like great numbers of those whom the epidemic attacked. Harley Street described it professionally as a recrudescence ofplica polonica; and just as at an earlier period people had contracted influenza into "the flue," they now went about asking each other how about the "plic." It was a malady which at one time had prevailed extensively in Poland, and but little doubt could be felt that it had now been introduced into England by the Polish Jews, whose alien colony in Whitechapel and other parts of the East End had attained enormous proportions. The peculiar feature of the plic. was that it attacked the hair of the head, matting it together and twisting it in hard knots, to touch which caused the most exquisite pain; this symptom was often accompanied with manifestationsof acute nervous disorder. The patient speedily became feverish, and in most instances showed signs of derangement in the functions of the brain. As the malady developed sleep was banished, or, when obtained, would be disturbed by dreadful dreams. Profound depression weighed upon the spirits, and the bare sight of food and drink excited strong repulsion. Gouty pains in arms and legs caused acute agony to some of the sufferers, and in many cases there were fits of giddiness and an affection of the optic nerve that produced temporary blindness.
The disease more often than not proved fatal. Physicians were at a loss for radical cures, and a course of thermal baths was found to be the most efficacious palliative that the faculty could recommend. Under the advice of Harley Street, great numbers of patients, in the early stages of the disease, flocked to Bath for the water-cure. Not since the days of the Georges had the famous city of the west harboured so many afflicted visitors. Every hotel was crowded from basement to attic. The lodging-house keepers exacted monstrous prices for the most indifferent accommodation. Local doctors drove a roaring trade, and every other woman in the street seemed to wear the familiar garb of the hospital nurse.
Among the distinguished persons who had been advised to have recourse to the healing properties of the famous baths was the foremost man, officially speaking, in the country. Nicholas Jardine was declared to be suffering from a severe attack of the prevailing epidemic, and the papers announced that the President would at the earliest possible moment leave London for Bath.
This intelligence caused far more anxiety throughout the country than might have been anticipated.It was not that the President was particularly beloved, but that among a large section of the community the Vice-President was distinctly unpopular. Her ambitions and the determination of her character were well known. Hence the prevailing apprehensions. What might not Lady Cat accomplish in the temporary absence of the President? And, worse still, what might not she dare and do, as the champion and inciter of woman, if the head of the Government should die?
The instrument of Government provided that supreme executive authority should be vested in one person—the President, or his deputy for the time being, in conjunction with the Commons in Parliament assembled. The functions of the Lords had long since been abrogated. The President, or his deputy, in the circumstances stated, with the assistance of the members of the Committee or Council of State, had the fullest powers as the executive, and, in effect, presided over the destinies of the nation.
From the President the judiciaries and magistrates derived their honours and emoluments. In him was vested civil command of the national forces both by sea and land. With the sanction of the Council, he could maintain peace or declare war. These powers were to some extent checked by the enactment that no law of the realm could be repealed, suspended, or amended without the consent of Parliament; but in Parliament the Vice-President had powerful support.
In the event of the death of the President, the other members of the Council could immediately nominate his successor. It was well known that the "Cat" had striven to ally herself in marriage with Nicholas Jardine, with the object, as mostpeople believed, of indirectly grasping the reins of Government. It was known also that, foiled in that design, she treasured feelings of animosity against the President and his daughter. What, then, would be likely to limit her revenge or curb her ambition if an opportunity like the present could be made to serve her purpose?
It was widely felt that a crisis impended; that events of dark and threatening character were shaping for some great struggle or convulsion, the issue of which no one could foresee. The men of England, though in the course of years they had yielded inch by inch before the persistent aggression of the other sex, were not wholly forgetful of their past, nor blind to the possibilities of the future. The more virile among them remained rebels against woman's dominion, struggling, like strong but despairing swimmers, against the rushing tide that was sweeping them away. But such men were in a notable minority. Vast numbers seemed to have lapsed without resistance, if not without reluctance, into the position of underlings. Relieved of various responsibilities, they acquiesced in the position which the other sex had gradually assumed. They had grown lazy and half-hearted. With a shrug of the shoulders they accepted the widely-held dictum that their own sex was decadent. In point of numbers that was beyond denial. The entire birth rate of the country had fallen, year after year, but more notable than that was the emphasis given to the dominant note of the age by a steady diminution in the percentage of new-born males.
The more vital question arose, what view would the women themselves take of any new departure on the part of their leading representative in theCouncils of the State? But such a question could not readily be answered. It might be hazarded that most of those who had displaced the male competitor or who were already in the way of promotion, would be for holding the ground and making any further bid for supremacy that occasion should suggest. But still there were known to be great numbers, patient and, so far, inarticulate women, who viewed the existing state of things with deep regret, and anticipated the future with positive alarm. If the men and the women were in opposite camps, "the sex" undoubtedly was divided in sentiment; for the change of the old order of things had brought many developments that told against the grace and charm of woman's life.
She had gained something; but she had lost more. The protective character which in former times man had felt bound in honour to assume for the benefit of the weaker vessel had been largely discarded. Chivalrous feelings were blunted by the competition in which woman had engaged with man. If the grey mare was bent on being the better horse, she must accept the conditions of the competition. However reasonable and welcome this might seem to the mature or hardened woman, it was far from agreeable to the young and charming girl. For still there were charming girls in England, girls who wanted to be wooed and won; girls whose hearts fluttered at the sound of a certain footstep; girls who did not want to rule their lovers, but to lean on them; girls to whom romance was the spice of life. Such girls as these, and it was whispered that they grew in numbers, shrank from the harsh conflict of the battle of life, in which it seemed to be expected that each and all would readily engage. They found in the open doors of professional business or politicallife inadequate compensation for the deference, tenderness, and delicate consideration which had been accorded by men to earlier generations of women. The Forward faction with their facts and figures, could count on great numbers of adherents. But certainly there were others, and perhaps the best and sweetest in the world of women, who looked with growing distaste and resentment upon the leaders who had brought the business and the pleasures of life to such a pass.
There was one English girl who, in the trouble that had come upon her by reason of her father's illness, discovered and pondered on these momentous questions. What would it profit a woman to force herself out of her ordained place in the plan of creation? And what should she give in exchange for that submissive tender love of wife for husband which the Sacred Book declared to be the law of God?
Zenobia Jardine, turning for the first time to the Bible, pondered over mysterious passages of the early Scriptures, which came to her with all the greater force because they had not been weakened by parrot-like familiarity. It was a revelation. Historical or allegorical—regarded either way—the story of the Garden of Eden and the first parents of the human race was imperishable in its power and significance. Therein lay the true lesson of life. The waves of the centuries had vainly surged around it. Like pygmies biting on the rock, the newest of new theologists, and the latest of scientific discoverers, had left the rock still standing, impregnable in its eternal strength. The voice that spake to the woman in the garden seemed to be speaking still: "What is this that thou hast done?" And the woman's answer was: "The serpent beguiled me,and I did eat." The enmity that had sprung from that far-off and typical wrong-doing was bearing bitter fruit. The bruising of the heel had been renewed through all the history of man and woman. The woman now was bruised in her affections.
In the Homeric story, Thetis took her son Achilles by the heel and dipped him in the river Styx to make the boy invulnerable. The water covered him save where the heel was covered by his mother's hand. And it was through the heel, that one vulnerable spot, that ultimately death assailed the hero. So, also, it seemed to the reflective girl, the heel typified her heart. All the armour of life that she had taken to herself under the auspices of her father would not avail against the enemy who assailed her in that one weak spot.
There were times when she felt that she had discredited her training and fallen below her appointed level. There were other times when she felt instinctively convinced that in woman's weakness lay her truest strength—her greatest victory in her ordained defeat.
CHAPTER VIII.
WARDLAW'S WORKS.
To counteract the dangers arising from the Channel Tunnel, long since an accomplished fact, and to soothe the apprehensions of a large section of the public, new defence works of enormous strength and intricacy had been constructed on the heights of Dover. Always a place of vast importance by reason of its position, the ancient stronghold now had become more notably than ever the key to England. As a watering place it had steadily dwindled in importance. Its neighbour, Folkestone, easily held the palm for all pleasure-seekers; but the commercial development of Dover as a port of call for the great liners had been remarkable, just as its strength for naval purposes had been vastly augmented. The completion of the Admiralty Harbour by the construction of the East Arm and the South Breakwater now afforded a safe haven for the largest warships in the British Navy. Here they might ride at anchor, or safely come and go, always protected by the monster guns which had been mounted in the various forts.
The commercial harbour had been provided with a huge marine station, where transatlantic passengers in ever-increasing numbers were enabled to land or embark under shelter, continuing their journey either on land or sea with a modicum of inconvenience. It was the great aim of competing steam and railway companies to simplify the methods of travel and enable everybody to go everywhere and do everything with the greatest possible amount of comfort. Those who could not trust themselves, invaluable as they were to themselves, amid the chops of the Channel, now might travel by tunnel to and from the Continent, and thus avoid the risks of nausea or the inconsiderate assaults of wind or wave.
By one means or another thousands upon thousands of passengers of all nations and tongues streamed through Dover year after year. It was before all things a place of passage—in so far as it was not a place of arms. If one had repeated to most of these globe-trotters Gloster's question in King Lear: "Dost thou know Dover?" the answer would probably have been: "Well, I just caught a glimpse of it." From the Channel, Shakespeare's Cliff, to the westward of the Admiralty pier, certainly was found less impressive than most people had expected. Like English life, as a whole, it seemed less spacious than it was considered to be in the days of good Queen Bess. But then, of course, Shakespeare, with his cloud-capp'd towers and gorgeous palaces, was always such a very imaginative dramatist. Still, there was the ancient, though slowly-crumbling, cliff remaining in evidence to remind English folk and foreigners of the splendid story of England's past. There, too, on Castle Hill, the ancient Roman Pharos—adjoining St. Mary's-in-Castro—reared its roofless walls towards the clouds. The mariners of England and of Gaul no longer needed the lights of the Pharos to guide them in the Channel, and, of course, the venerable bells that used to ring for matins and evensong were silentmany a year before Admiral Rooke removed them to Portsmouth parish church.
The great Castle, close at hand, was visited by very few excursionists. The climb between Castle Hill and the Western heights was found fatiguing. More Americans than Englishmen appeared to interest themselves in the story of the Castle; its occupation by William of Normandy after the Battle of Hastings, its associations with King John's craven submission to the Papal Legate, its victorious defence by Hubert de Burgh, the French attack—fruitless again—of 1278, and other incidents of historic interest. The Long Gun, known as Queen Elizabeth's pocket-pistol, still pointed its muzzle sea-ward, and the inscription in low Dutch, very freely translated, rashly adjured the current generation to—
"Load me well and keep me clean,I'll carry my ball to Calais Green."
But inspection of the Castle was not encouraged, and tourists of foreign appearance who showed a disposition to take snapshots in the vicinity were promptly checked in their pursuit of the pleasing but too common art of photography. Yet it was certain that, pigeon-holed in every war department, of continental and, perhaps, of certain Eastern powers, there were full details, or nearly full, of the elaborate defence works with which Dover was provided. It was known that Castle Hill was honeycombed with subterranean passages and galleries, and that the Castle (nowadays a barrack rather than a fortress) was thus connected with the modern forts in its immediate vicinity.
Fort Burgoyne, to the north of the castle itself, was, until recent times, the strongest link in the chain of defence, its guns being of great calibre, and commanding a vast range over land and sea. Butfar more powerful, and better equipped with modern armament and military resources, was Fort Warden; such being the name given to the works which had been specially constructed as a safeguard against possible attack by means of the Channel Tunnel. The very hill had been hewn and carved and moulded to meet the needs of such a danger. Commanding the gradual sweep by which the railway descended towards the Tunnel, the great guns of Fort Warden were always trained upon the gaping archway from which the incoming trains were constantly emerging.
The highest battery of the Fort occupied a dominating position overlooking all theenceintefortifications, which were armed with machine guns and small cannon. There was a subterranean passage connecting the fort with the waterworks of a large service reservoir in a hollow of the hill, which had been constructed in modern times to ensure an adequate supply of water for the troops and the Duke of York's School. Fort Warden was complete in itself; but, linked up with the other fortifications, it formed, as it were, the citadel of a composite fortress where, in the event of attack, the last stand would be made by England's defenders. Round the fort extended a double row of trenches, and within these was a moat. Strong wire entanglements defended the trenches, and the loopholes in the breastworks were protected by 3/4-inch steel plates with a cross-shaped opening for the rifles. In addition, strong bomb-proofs were provided for the reserves, with wide bomb-proof passages leading to certain of the other forts. In all directions on the hill were placed howitzers and mortars, most of the battery positions and gun epaulements being ingeniously masked and difficult for an advancing enemy to locate. The military scientist who had designed most of the elaborate defences and put finishing touches to those of earlier construction was Major Edgar Wardlaw of the Royal Engineers. His old friend General Hartwell held that from the point of view of an invading enemy, this quiet, unassuming officer was the most dangerous man in all the British army. Major Wardlaw certainly knew better than anyone else of what Dover Castle Hill was capable. The military authorities were very chary of rehearsing its possible performances, because, in the vulgar parlance of an earlier period, it would give the show away. It was a "show" that must be closely reserved and kept dark in times of international peace and quietness.
Meanwhile, the hillside showed but few signs of life; the winds of heaven blew over it, the rains descended, or the sun shone. Birds hopped about, and people came and went. Often there was hardly a sound to break the silence of the hill. A visitor who had climbed the heights could gaze over the town of Dover and the hills and valleys behind it, or look right across the Channel to the coast of France, quite undisturbed by human voice or sound of busy life. But Major Wardlaw could have told that visitor that on the instant, at a signal, this placid scene could be converted into one of awful violence and furious sound; that in a flash the hill would vomit forth, as if from many avenues of hell, wholesale, fiery death and indiscriminate destruction. On every side would rise the roar of monster ordnance, the ceaseless rattle of machine guns, the deafening crack of musketry.
Woe betide the foe that dared to rouse the sleeping monster of the hill!
Such were Wardlaw's Works, as they were called throughout the British army. When the Majorretired from active service, he still lingered in the neighbourhood of hismagnum opus. In a charming bungalow, perched on the hillside of Folkestone Warren, he and Miss Flossie spent unruffled days amid eminently healthy surroundings.
The Warren, a bay of much natural beauty, had been rescued from neglect. A station on the line from Folkestone proper to Dover afforded easy access to the Bay; trees had been planted and roads cut in the hillside. Everywhere on summer nights the lights gleamed from villas and bungalows, and down below on the new jetty, and at the mastheads of scores of pleasure craft. The place suited Major Wardlaw admirably, and even little Miss Wardlaw, who was by way of being exacting, seemed quite satisfied with her surroundings. Her father kept a small cutter in the bay, and frequently took the young lady for health-giving sails upon the dancing sea. Usually their port of call was Dover. The Major was always going to Dover. He couldn't keep away from it. When the cutter was laid up for the winter, he went by train, or sometimes walked across the wind-swept downs. Dover town itself had no particular attractions for him. The magnet lay on Castle Hill. In short, Wardlaw could not keep away from Wardlaw's Works. Even when he was not visiting the Works, he was always thinking about them. When military friends of his came over from the Castle or from Shorncliffe, they seemed to talk of nothing else but Fort Warden—all that it was, and all that it would be if the critical hour of conflict or invasion ever came.
Flossie Wardlaw disapproved of the whole thing. It annoyed her—this constant absorption, this ever recurring topic of conversation. Personally, she refused to discuss the Works, and had it beenpossible would have forbidden all allusion to the Fort when those tiresome friends dropped in and talked "shop" with her father. Poor Wardlaw, torn with conflicting emotions, knowing that the child was jealous of the Works, used to look at her apologetically when one of his cronies started the everlasting topic. But Flossie was not easily to be mollified. With her little nose in the air, she would glance severely, disdainfully, at the author of her being, tossing back that mass of silky, sunny hair from which her pet name was derived.
And now the hated subject of the "Works" was more to the fore than ever, for the military movement among the women of England had brought Fort Warden into prominence in the newspapers. The Vice-President of the Council, in pursuance of her policy, was turning the Fort to unforeseen account. The First Amazons, as they were popularly called, had been "enrolled and uniformed," and now the Fighting Girls (as some people styled them) were to have this wonderful fort placed at their disposal for the purpose of training and instruction in the art of war. The idea was very popular among the Amazons. Some two hundred of them were to spend a fortnight in the Fort, and then give place to another batch, the Fort meanwhile being vacated by the artillerymen, save only a handful of gunnery instructors and lecturers. So the men marched out of the tortoise-backed "Works," and the Amazons, very smart in their new uniforms, and full of gleeful excitement, briskly and triumphantly marched in.
It was a picturesque episode in martial history which afforded excellent scope for lively descriptive reporting. Great numbers of people seemed to be pleasurably interested in the event, just as they used to be in the volunteer military picnics on EasterMonday. There were others, however, who, like General Hartwell noisily, and Edgar Wardlaw quietly, condemned the whole thing as monstrous, unseemly, and fraught with danger to the nation. The majority, however, laughed at the minority. What was there to be afraid of? There was not a cloud in the international sky. England's difficulties, they said, now were purely domestic. Greater Britain had been so cut up and divided that we had nothing further to fear. Surely no greedy Jezebel would dream of stirring up a Continental Ahab to covet and lay violent hands on the remnant of Naboth's Vineyard.
CHAPTER IX.
THE LOOSENED GRIP.
"Bladud, the son of Lud, founded this Bath three hundred years before Christ."
It was a far cry from Bladud to Nicholas Jardine! A goodly span, too, from the time when a great statesman was carried through the streets of Bath, swathed in flannels; his livid face, peering through the windows of the sedan chair, the fierce eyes staring from beneath his powdered wig. One can almost see his ghost in Milsom Street, and hear the whisper spread from group to group: "There he goes! the great Commoner, Mr. Pitt!"
And now through the streets of the same town they wheeled a very different sort of statesman; and yet, perhaps, the product, by slow processes of inevitable evolution, of that very time "when America thrust aside the British sceptre, when the ingenious machine of Dr. Guillotine removed the heads of King and Queen in France, when Ireland rose in rebellion, when Napoleon grasped at the dominion of the Western World, when Wellington fought the French Marshals in Spain," and when, God be thanked! Nelson triumphed in Trafalgar Bay.
Just as the inhabitants and visitors of Bath used to take off their hats to William Pitt in his sedan chair, so now the new generation saluted Nicholas Jardine, when, seated in his bath-chair, he wasdrawn through the streets to the baths. For though times were changed, the President in his way was a great personage—such a remarkably successful man; and in all times it has been proved true that nothing succeeds like success. Jardine, when he acknowledged these salutations, showed an awkwardness unknown to those to the Manor born. It disconcerted him to be stared at, especially now that he was ill. He hated traversing the public streets, and often sat with closed eyes until his chair entered the bathing establishment. Once there he became alert and interested—but not in the reminiscences of Georgian functions and the manners and customs of the fops and flirts of that vanished period. What appealed to him, as a trained mechanic, was the heritage of far remoter days. The brain of the Roman Engineer and the skilled hand of the Roman Architect and Mason had left these signs and wonders for future generations to look upon. The great rectangular bath had only been uncovered about sixty years earlier. The Goths and Vandals of an earlier period had built over it their trumpery shops and dwelling-houses. But the present bath, with its modern additions, actually was built upon the ancient piers. The very pavements, or scholæ, that bordered it were those which the Roman bathers had trod. The recesses or exedræ corresponded with those at Pompeii, and had been used for hanging the clothes of the Roman bathers or for resting places. The floor of the bath was coated with lead, and in all probability that lead was brought from the Roman mines in the Mendip Hills, where had been discovered the imperial emblems of Claudius and Vespasian.
The President was not without a sense of the beautiful. The scene around him awakened hisimagination. He knew that the wooded slopes of the stately hills, the stone hewn from the inexhaustible quarries, and the broad river—formerly spanned by bridges and aqueducts graceful in outline and noble in proportions—each and all had furnished the means which skilful hands had put to glorious uses. Yet all these ingredients of beauty might have remained unused but for the wonderful thermal waters which here, for untold centuries, had risen ceaselessly from fathomless depths, streaming ever from rocky fissures, filling the pools and natural basins, and still overflowing into the rushing river.
But this beneficent spring and these now verdant hills must have had their remote origin in some terrible concussion of natural forces. Mother Earth had laboured and brought them forth, far back in her pre-historic ages. Subterranean fires, begotten by the portentous union of iron and sulphur, had waited their appointed time. Drop after drop, the hidden waters had filtered on inflammable ingredients, until the imprisoned air at last exploded, and the earth, rending and rocking in appalling convulsions, opened enormous chasms and brought forth, amid fire and smoke and vapour, the embryo of all this lovely scene. The City was the offspring of seismic action; the earth had travailed and brought forth these wooded hills. The smiling valley, where now stood the City, was but the crater of an extinct volcano, perpetuated in memory by the steaming waters that still gushed upward from the mystic depths.
Below the streets and houses of the modern town were the original baths of the City of Sulcastra, of many acres in extent. Here, indeed, in this most wonderful of Spas, history unfolded itself page by page—the City of Sul in the grip, successively, ofRoman, Saxon, Dane; dynasty succeeding dynasty, sovereign coming after sovereign, statesman after statesman, until now, when a Walsall mechanic in a bath-chair was all that England had to show by way of substitute for absolute sovereignty and sceptred sway.
And with Nicholas Jardine, too, the relentless law of time was at work. The sceptre was falling from his grasp. The grass withereth; the flower fadeth. Man passes to his long home, and the mourners go about the street. Would it be his turn next? Every day Zenobia seemed to see in her father's face signs of a slowly working change. She witnessed the melancholy spectacle of waning strength, of failing interest in those things that once had absorbed his thoughts and energies. It wrought in her a corresponding change, a protective tenderness which she had never felt before, a deepening sense of the transience and sadness of human pomp and circumstance, a broadened sympathy with all the sons of men.
A great silence seemed to have fallen upon the man who in the past had made so many speeches. A brooding wistfulness revealed itself in his expression. There was a haunting look of doubt or question in his eyes, a look as of one who, without compass and without rudder, finds himself drifting on an unknown sea. The land was fading from his sight. The solid earth on which he had walked, self-confident, self-sufficient, no longer gave him foothold. His nerveless hands were losing grip on the only life of which he knew anything, the only life in which he had been able to believe. And day by day, and night by night, there came to his mind the memory of his earlier life, of the faith that he had seen shining in the dying eyes of the womanwho had believed while he had disbelieved. Vividly he recalled to mind—albeit with a sense of wonder and irritation—an occasion when he had sat beside her in the old Cathedral at Lichfield. The sun was setting, and its glory illumined the huge western window; the words of the great man of action, who was also the man of great faith, were being read from the lectern, and at a certain passage his wife had turned and looked at him with sad and supplicating eyes: "If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable."
If in this life only ...! All other hope he had scorned and rejected. No other hope had seemed needful to his happiness and success. But now? Alreadythislife was dwindling and departing. He felt it; he knew it in his inmost being, as his steps faltered, his hands grew thin and pallid, and his brain, once so busy with a hundred projects and ambitions, now refused to work, or brought to him only recurrent recollections of things which in the prime and strength of his manhood he had scouted and despised.
If in this life only ...!
Sometimes a great restlessness possessed him, and Zenobia, in the silent watches of the night, heard him moving heavily and slowly about his room. On one of these nights, anxious and alarmed, she hurried in and found him standing at the window in the darkness. The furnished house they occupied was on Bathwick Hill, and the night scene from the windows was one of striking mystery and beauty. The blackness of the valley in which lay the ancient city, and of the towering hills on every side, was studded with myriads of lights—shining like stars in an inverted firmament.
"Father!"
She crossed the room and laid her hand upon his arm; but, scarcely heeding her, the sick man still stood by the window, looking as if fascinated on the magical scene of the night. Zenobia also gazed, and gazed steadfastly; but the impression made upon herself was wholly different. With him it was a sad impression of farewell. But in Zenobia's brain there suddenly sprang up an extraordinary sense of recognition. There was a subtle, haunting familiarity in the scene she looked upon—this valley and these hills, in and about which all that was modern, save the lights, was quite invisible. Thus might the valley of Sulcastra have looked under the darkened sky two thousand years ago. Thus might the lamps of Roman villas, temples, baths, and public buildings have twinkled when a vestal virgin, maintaining Sul's undying fires upon the altar, looked down upon the silent city.
The puzzled girl caught her breath, half sighing, unable to shake off the belief that at some remote period she had gone through precisely the same experience that was now presented to her. And, doubly strange, in connection with the scene, though she could see no reason for it, her thoughts flew instantly to Linton Herrick. She became oppressed, almost suffocated, with a sense as of pre-existence—a bewildering sensation, almost a revelation—that seemed to tell of the mystery of the ego, of the indestructibility of human life.
It was the last time that Nicholas Jardine looked down upon the old city, by night or by day. The next day he remained in bed, and the day after, and all the days that were left to him. The afternoon sunshine came upon the walls, the shadows followed, night succeeded day. The demarcations of timebecame blurred. His calendar was growing shorter and shorter. The world mattered less and less to him, who had played a leading part in it; and already he mattered nothing to the world. Death was not close at hand. Nevertheless he was dying.
"For this losing is true dying:This is lordly man's down-lying:This his slow but sure reclining,Star by star his world resigning."
CHAPTER X.
ZENOBIA'S DREAM.
The night which followed her heartsearching experience of feeling on looking down upon the sleeping city of Bath, Zenobia had a dream. It was a vision of extraordinary vividness, and strangely circumstantial.
Beneath her eyes the golden light of a summer sunset was flooding the temples, the baths, the stately villas of ancient "Rome in England"—the city of Sulcastra. Garbed as a Priestess of the Temple, she stood upon a plateau, high on the Hill of Sul on the east side of the valley. Behind her rose the Temple of the Goddess, and by her side stood one whom she knew to be the sculptor Lucius Flaccus, son of that centurion who was charged to carry Paul from Adramythium to Rome. He had been telling her in graphic phrases of his association with the great Apostle; how for the first time he had heard him on Mars' Hill at Athens boldly rebuking the listening and resentful throng who had erected there an altarto the unknown God. Then with a gesture of repugnance which horrified the priestess, the narrator, quoting the Christian preacher's words, had turned and pointed towards the Temple in which she with other vestals kept ever burning the sacred fire of Sul.
"Forasmuch, then, as we are the offspring of God, we ought not to think that the Godhead is like silveror gold, graven by art or man's device...." Thus far he had spoken when her own voice interrupted passionately:
"Do not blaspheme the gods!"
"The gods are dead," he answered sternly, "nay, rather, they have never lived. Our Roman gods have eyes that see not, ears that hear not, they are but silver, gold, or stone—the work of hands like these." Thus speaking, he held forth his hands, delicate and mobile, in one of which was grasped the chisel of his ancient art. The priestess stood for a moment looking in his eyes, silent, terror-stricken. "Yet," he went on, bending his gaze upon the city with a sigh, "Sulcastra is beautiful."
He knew and loved each particular feature of artistic beauty in the city. Its architecture afforded him a delight that never failed. The symbolic work of the chisel was evidenced on every side. The noble columns that supported the terraces; the pavements resembling those of Pompeii; the graceful friezes and delicate cornices appealed irresistibly to every votary of art. Indeed, the Thermæ of Sulcastra were held by many of the cultured Romans to be not less splendid than the baths at Scipio Africanus, or even those built at Rome by Caracalla and Diocletian. For here, too, the lofty chambers were ornamented with curious mosaics, varied in rich colours and infinitely delicate in design. And here, also, the medicinal waters were poured into vast reservoirs through wide mouths of precious metal and Egyptian granite, while the green marble of Numidia had been brought from afar to give variety to the native stone from the adjacent quarries. The fame of the wonderful waters went back for eight centuries before the birth of Christ. Here, according to tradition, Bladud, son of Ludthe British King, father of King Lear, had found a cure for his foul leprosy. Yonder had stood the first Temple of Minerva, dedicated by that same Bladud to the goddess. Had he not sought by magical aid to soar aloft like the eagle, only to fall and be dashed to pieces on Minerva's altar?
The sculptor shaded his eyes against the slanting rays of sunlight, and turned his gaze upon the vast stadium in which at stated intervals the people of Sulcastra witnessed the elaborated games of mighty Rome. Such an occasion recently had occurred, a scene of splendid pageantry and power which invariably moved the spectators to superstitious awe, and often to wild excesses of fanaticism. Young and old had implored the favour of the gods, and pledged themselves to maintain unbroken the religious observances of the Rome people. In the darkness of night, mystic sacrifices had been offered on the banks of the river; and the whole city, as the sculptor and the priestess now looked down upon it, still seemed to be fermenting with the excitement which the great celebration had occasioned.
At that very moment an imposing procession was seen to be advancing towards the Temple of Minerva. Trumpet note after trumpet note echoed round the hills. Chariots full of garlands and branches of myrtle approached the shrine. A large black bull was being led to the sacrificial altar, and youths and maidens, chanting a hymn to Minerva, carried in procession costly vases full of wine and milk to be poured as libations to the goddess, while others bore cruets of wine, oil, and perfumed essences to anoint the pillars of the sacred monuments within the temple.
Lucius Flaccus looked down upon the procession with sad and moody eyes. The Vestal's eyes were bent no less sadly on the sculptor, as if divining allhis thoughts. They sprang, she doubted not, out of the subject of their conversation, and she turned uneasily towards the pillar-altar on which the sculptor's skilful hands had been at work. It stood upon the turf at the entrance to a little grove which gave access to the gates of the Temple of Sul, the temple in which she herself ministered as priestess.
A cloth lay over the graceful monument, to the inscription upon which the young Roman had but just now put the final touch. His work upon the monument, screened from view, had long excited the interest and curiosity of the Romans and the slaves who passed that way, but reverence for the goddess and respect for the sculptor himself had served to arrest all questions. The work of art, it was thought, would be unveiled in time; and doubtless it would prove to be another and a worthy tribute to the goddess who presided in a special manner over the fortunes of the city.
Lucius Flaccus had studied in a great and noble school. He had gazed long and often on the famous statue of the Olympian Jove modelled in ivory by the master hand of Phidias. He had marked every curve and feature of the Minerva—standing sixty cubits high—on whose shield the great Athenian sculptor had so marvellously represented the wars of the Amazons. There were those, indeed, familiar with the work of the young Roman who foretold for him an imperishable reputation as an exponent of the noble art to which he was devoted.
Lucius Flaccus had been welcomed in Sulcastra as one who was likely to add to the beauty of the city, and the honour of the special goddess of the citizens. The sculptor's art, like the Ten Commandments, was written on tables of stone. It was for all time; nearly five hundred years had passed since the chiseldropped from the hand of Phidias, but the glory of his work remained. It was indestructible. So also, thought some, might the handiwork of Lucius Flaccus be handed down from century to century.
The cult of Sul was scarcely distinguishable from that of Vesta. Like Vesta, she was a home-goddess, a national deity, whose vestals were solemnly pledged ever to maintain her altar-fire, lest its extinction should bring disaster on the people.
Sul, also, was a fire deity. According to the kindred mythology of Scandinavia, the goddess was so beautiful a being that she had been placed in heaven to drive the chariot of the Sun from which she took her name—that glorious sun, the rays of which were now illuminating the city of Sulcastra. Sul, in the eyes of the Romans, was more exalted than Soma, daughter of the Moon, though in the East Soma was held in the highest reverence as the mother of Buddha. Soma was the sovereign goddess of plants and planets. In the Vedic hymns she was identified with the moon-plant which a falcon had brought down from heaven. Its juice was an elixir of life. To drink it conferred immortality on mortals, and even exhilarated the gods themselves. But even greater virtue and miraculous power did the Romans attribute to the waters of Sul, and with better evidence of their potency. For here, in Sulcastra, century after century, and ever at the same temperature, the magical, unfathomable well had poured forth its mystic waters for the healing of the people.