ATseven in the morning, Lord Chester was roused from an extremely disagreeable dream. He was, in this vision, being led off to execution, in company with the Bishop, Constance, the Professor, and Grace Ingleby. The Duchess of Dunstanburgh headed the procession, carrying the ropes in her own illustrious hand. Her face was terrible in its sternness. The Chancellor was there, pointing skinny fingers, and saying ‘Yah!’ Before him, within five minutes’ walk, stood five tall and comely gallows, with running tackle beautifully arranged; also, in case there should be any preference expressed by the criminals for fancy methods of execution, there were stakes and fagots, guillotines, wheels to be broken upon, men with masks, and other accessories of public execution.
It was therefore a relief, on opening his eyes, to discover that he was as yet only a peaceful guest of Professor Ingleby, and that the Great Revolt had not yet begun. ‘At all events,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I shall have the excitement of the attempt, if I am to be hanged or beheaded for it. And most certainly it will be less disagreeable to be hanged than to marry theDuchess. Perhaps even there may be, if one is lucky, an opportunity of telling her so. A last dying speech of that kind would be popular.’
Shaking off gloomy thoughts, therefore, he dressed hastily, and descended to the Hall, where most of the party of the preceding night were collected, waiting for him. The tinkling of a bell which had awakened him now began again. Algy Dunquerque told him it was the bell for chapel.
‘But,’ he added, ‘don’t be afraid. It is not the kind of service we are accustomed to. There is no homily on obedience; and, thank goodness, there is no Perfect Woman here!’
The chapel was a long room, fitted simply with a few benches, a table at the east end, a brass eagle for lectern, and some books. The Professor and the girls were already in their places, and in a few moments the Bishop himself appeared, in lawn-sleeves and surplice.
For the first time Lord Chester witnessed the spectacle of a man conducting the services. It gave a little shock and a momentary sense of shame, which he shook off as unworthy. A greater shock was the simple service of the Ancient Faith which followed.
To begin with, there were no flowers, no incense girls, no anthems, no pictures of Sainted Women, no figures of the Holy Mother, no veiled Perfect Woman on an altar crowned with roses; and there were no genuflections, no symbolical robes, no mystic whisperings, no change of dress, no pretence at mysterious powers. All was perfectly simple—a few prayers, a lessonfrom a great book, a hymn, and then a short address.
The Ancient Faith had long since become a thing dim and misty, and wellnigh forgotten save to a few students. Most knew of it only as an obsolete form of religion which belonged to the semi-barbarism of Man’s supremacy: it had been superseded by the fuller revelation of the Perfect Woman,—imposed, so to speak, upon the world for the elevation of women into their proper place, and for the guidance of subject man. It was carefully taught with catechism, articles, doctrines, and history, to children as soon as they could run about. It was now a settled Faith, venerable by reason of its endowments and dignities rather than its age, supported by all the women of England, defended on historical and intellectual grounds by thousands of pens, by weekly sermons, by domestic prayers, by maternal admonitions, by the terrors of the after-world, by the hopes of that which is present with us. A great theological literature had grown up around the Faith. It was the only recognised and tolerated religion; it was not only the religion of the State, but also the very basis of the political constitution. For as the Perfect Woman was the goddess whom they worshipped, the Peeresses who ruled were rulers by divine right, and the Commons—before that House had been abolished—were members of their House by divine permission: every member officially described herself a member by divine permission. To dispute about the authority of the ecclesiastical Decrees which came directfrom the Upper House, was blasphemy, a criminal offence, and punishable by death; and to deny the authority of the Decrees was to incur certain death. It is not, therefore, surprising to hear that there was neither infidelity nor nonconformity in the whole country. On the other hand, because there must be some outlet for private and independent opinion, there were many interpretations of the law, and opinions as many and as various as those who disputed concerning the right interpretation. Under the rule of woman, there could be no doubt, no compromise, no dispute, on essentials. The principles of religion, like those of moral, social, and political economy, were fixed and unalterable; they were of absolute certainty. As to the Articles of Religion, as to the Great Dogma of the Revealed Perfect Woman, there could be no doubt, no discussion.
And now, after a most religious training, Lord Chester—a man who ought to have accepted and obeyed in meekness—was actually assisting, in a spirit half curious, half converted, at a service in which the Perfect Woman was entirely left out. What next? and next?
Ever since Lord Chester had become awakened to the degradation of man and the possibility of his restoration, his mind had been continually exercised by the absolute impossibility of reconciling his new Cause with his Religion. How could the Grand Revolt be carried out in the teeth of the most sacred commandments? How could he remain a faithful servant of the Church, and yet rebel against the first law of the Church?How could he continue to worship the Perfect Woman when he was thrusting woman out of her place? We may suppose Cromwell, by way of parallel, trying to reconcile the divine right of kings with the execution of Charles the First.
Here, however, though as yet he understood it not, there was a service which absolutely ignored the Perfect Woman. The prayers were addressed direct to the Eternal Father as the Father. The language was plain and simple. The words of the hymn which they sang were strong and simple, ringing true as if from the heart, like the hammer on the anvil.
The Bishop closed his book, bowed his head for a few moments in silent prayer, then rose and addressed his congregation; and, as he spoke, the young men clasped hands, and the girls sobbed.
‘Beloved,’ he began, ‘at this moment it would be strange indeed if our hearts were not moved within us—if our prayers and praises were not spontaneous. Let us remember that we are the descendants of those who handed down the lamp in secrecy from one to the other, always with prayer that they might live to see the Day of Restoration. The Day of Attempt, indeed, is, nigh at hand. We pray with all our hearts that we may bring the Return of the Light of the World. Then may those who witness the glorious sight cry aloud to depart in peace, because there will be nothing more for them to pray for. What better thing could there be for us, my children, than to die in this attempt?
‘You who have learned the story of the past;you who worship with me in the great and simple Faith of your ancestors; you who know how man did wondrous deeds in the days of old, and how he fell and became a slave, who was created to be master; you who are ready to begin the upward struggle; you who are the apostles of the Old Order,—children of the Promise, go forth in your strength and conquer.’
Then he gave them the Benediction, and the service was concluded.
Half an hour afterwards, when the emotions of this act of worship were somewhat calmed, they met at breakfast. The girls’ eyes were red, and the young men were grave; but the conversation flowed in the accustomed grooves.
After breakfast, Lord Chester was intrusted to the care of the pale and austere young man who had been first presented to him.
‘Clarence Veysey,’ said the Bishop, ‘is my secretary, my private chaplain, and my pupil. He is himself in full priest’s orders, and will instruct you in the rudiments of our Faith. We do not substitute one authority for another, Lord Chester. You will be exhorted to try and examine for yourself the doctrines before you accept them. Yet you will understand that what you are taught stood the test of question, doubt, and attack for more than two thousand years before it was violently torn from mankind. Go, my son, receive instruction with docility; but do not fear to question and to doubt.’
‘I am indeed a priest,’ said Clarence Veysey, taking him into the library. ‘I have been judged worthy of the laying on of hands.’
‘And do not your friends know or suspect?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘It is, in fact’—here he blushed and hesitated—‘a position of great difficulty. I must, perforce, until we are ripe for action, act a deceptive part. The necessity for concealment is a terrible thing. Yet, what help? One remembers him who bowed himself in the House of Rimmon.’
‘The concealment,’ said Lord Chester, unfeelingly, because he knew nothing about Naaman, ‘would be part of the fun.’
‘The fun?’ this young priest gasped. ‘But, of course—you do not know. We are in deadly earnest, and he calls it—fun: we strive for the return of the world to the Faith, and he calls it—fun!’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Lord Chester. ‘I seem—I hardly know why—to have offended you. I really think it must be very good fun to have this pretty secret all to yourself when you are at home.’
‘Oh! he is very—very ignorant,’ cried Clarence.
‘Well——’ Lord Chester did not mind being instructed by the old Bishop or by the Professor. But the superiority of this smooth-cheeked youth of his own age galled him. Nevertheless, he saw that the young priest was deeply in earnest, and he restrained himself.
‘Teach me, then,’ he said.
‘As for the deception,’ said Clarence, ‘it is horrible. One falsehood leads to another. I pretend weakness—even disease and pain—to escape being married to some one; because whatcan a man of my position—of the middle class—do to earn my bread? Then I have simulated sinful paroxysms of bad temper. This keeps women away: so long as I am believed to be ill-tempered and sickly, of course no one will offer to marry me. A reputation of ill-temper is, fortunately, the best safeguard possible for a young man who would possess his soul in freedom. I try to persuade myself that necessary deception is harmless deception; and if we succeed——’ he paused and sighed. ‘Come, my lord, let me teach you something of the true Faith.’
They spent the whole morning together, while Clarence Veysey unfolded the mysteries of the Ancient Faith, and showed how divine a thing it was, and how fitted for every possible phase or emergency of life. His earnestness, the sincerity and honesty of his belief, deeply moved Lord Chester.
‘But how,’ asked the neophyte, ‘came this wonderful religion to be lost?’
‘It was thrown away, not lost,’ replied the priest. ‘Even before the women began to encroach upon the power of men, it was thrown away. Had the Ancient Faith survived, we should have been spared the coming struggle. It was thrown away. Men themselves threw it away—some wilfully, others through weakness—receiving forms and the pretensions of priests instead of the substance; so that they surrendered their liberty, put the priest between themselves and the Father, practised the servile rite of confession, and went on to substitute theimage of the Mother and Child upon their altars, in place of the Divine Manhood, whose image had been in their fathers’ hearts. Why, when after many years it was resolved to place on every altar the Veiled Figure of the Perfect Woman, the very thought of the Divine Man had been wellnigh forgotten.
‘But not lost,’ he went on in a kind of rapture—‘not lost. He lingers still among us—here in this most sacred house. He is spoken of in rustic speech; He lingers in rustic traditions; many a custom still survives, the origin of which is now forgotten, which speaks to us who knew of the dear old Faith.’
He spoke more of this old Faith,—the only solution, he declared, ever offered, of the problem of life,—the ever-living Divine Brother, always compassionate, always helping, always lifting higher the souls of those who believe.
‘See!’ cried the enthusiast, falling on his knees, ‘He is here. O Christ—Lord—Redeemer, Thou art with us—yea, always and always!’
When he brought Lord Chester again into the presence of the Bishop, they both had tears in their eyes.
‘He comes, my lord,’ said Clarence, a sober exultation in his voice—‘he comes as a catechumen, seeking instruction and baptism.’
Needless here to relate by what arguments, what teaching, Lord Chester became a convert to the New Faith; nor how he was baptized, nor with what ardour he entered into the doctrines of a religion the entrance to which seemed like the bursting of prison-doors, the breaking offetters, the sudden rush of light. His new friends became, in a deeper sense, his brothers and his sisters. They were of the same religion; they worshipped God through the revelation of the Divine Man.
Then followed a quiet time of study, talk, and preparation, during which Lord Chester remained in perfect seclusion, and went into no kind of society. Professor Ingleby reported to Lady Boltons that her ward went nowhere, desired no other companionship, amused himself with reading, made no reference whatever to the Duchess or Lady Carlyon, and appeared to be perfectly happy, in his ‘quietest and most delightful manner.’ The letter was forwarded by Lady Boltons to the Chancellor, and by her to the Duchess, who graciously expressed her approbation of the young man’s conduct. There was thus not the least suspicion. On Sunday, which was a day of great danger, because the young men were growing impatient of restraint, Lord Chester went to church with the Professor and her daughters.
Here, while the organ pealed among the venerable aisles of the University Church, while the clouds of incense rolled about before the Veiled Statue on the altar, while the hymn was lifted, while the preacher in shrill tones defended a knotty point in theology, while the dons and heads of houses slumbered in their places, while the few undergraduates remaining up for the Long leaned over the gallery and looked about among the men below for some handsome faceto admire, Lord Chester sat motionless, gazing straight before him, obedient to the form, with his thoughts far away.
The strangeness of the new life passed away quickly; the outside life, the repression and pretence, were forgotten, or only remembered with indignation. These young men were free; they laughed—a thing almost unknown under a system when a jest was considered as necessarily either rude or scoffing, certainly ill-bred—they laughed continually; they made up stories; they related things which they had read. Algy Dunquerque, who was an actor, made a little comedy of the Chancellor and the Duchess; and another of the trial and execution of the rebels, showing the fortitude of Clarence Veysey and the unwillingness of himself; and another on the arguments for the Perfect Government. They sat up late; they drank wine and sang songs; they talked of love and courtship; above all, they read the old books.
Think of their joy, when they found on the shelves Shakespeare, Rabelais, Fielding, Smollett, and Dickens! Think of their laughter when they read aloud those rude and boisterous writers, who respected nothing, not even marriage, and had never heard of any Perfect Woman at all! Think, too, of their delight when the words of wisdom went home to them; when they reflected on the great and wise Pantagruel, followed the voyagers among the islands of Humanity, or watched over the career of Hamlet, the maddened Prince of Denmark! These were for their leisure hours, butserious business occupied the greater part of the day.
Continually, also, the young men held counsel together, and discussed their plans. It was known that the rising would take place at the earliest possible opportunity. But two difficulties presented themselves. What would constitute a favourable opportunity? and what would be the best way to take advantage of it?
Algy Dunquerque insisted, for his part, that they should ride through the country, calling on the men to rise and follow. What, however, if the men refused to rise and follow?
Jack Kennion thought they should organise a small body first, drill and arm them, and then seize upon a place and hold it. Clarence Veysey thought that he was himself able, book in hand, to persuade the whole of the country.
For men to rise against women seems, since the event, a ridiculously easy thing. As a matter of fact, it was an extremely difficult thing. For the men had been so kept apart that they did not know how to act together, and so kept in subjection that they were cowed. The prestige of the ruling sex was a factor of the very highest importance. It was established, not only by law, but by religion. How ask men to rebel when their eternal interests demanded submission? Men, again, had no longer any hope of change. While the present seems unalterable, no reform can ever be attempted. Life was dull and monotonous; but how could it be otherwise? Men had ceased to ask if a change was possible. And the fighting spirit had left them; they were strong,of course, but their strength was that of the patient ox.
If there was to be fighting, the material on the side of the Government consisted first of the Horse Guards—three regiments, beautifully mounted and accoutred in splendid uniforms—every man a tall handsome fellow six feet high. These soldiers formed the escort at all great Functions. They never left London; they enjoyed a very fair social consideration; some of them were married to ladies of good family, and all were married well; they were commanded from the War Office by a department of a hundred secretaries, clerks, and copying-women.
Would they fight for the Government? or would they come over? At present no one could tell.
In addition to these regiments, the nation, which had no real standing army, maintained a force of constabulary for prison-warders. It has been already stated that the prisons were crowded with desperadoes and violent persons convicted of wife-beating, boxing their wives’ ears, pulling their hair, and otherwise ill-treating them against the religion and law. They were coerced and kept in order by some fifteen or twenty thousand of the constabulary, who were drilled and trained, commanded by men chosen from their own ranks as sergeants, and armed with loaded rifles. It is true that the men were recruited from the lowest class—many of them being thieves, common rogues, and jailbirds, some of them having even volunteered asan exchange from prison; their pay was low, their fare poor; no woman of respectability would marry one of them; they were rude, fierce, and ill-disciplined; they frequently ill-treated the prisoners; and their superior officers—women who commanded from the rooms of a department—had no control whatever over them. They would probably fight, if only for the contempt and hatred in which they were held by men.
Where, for their own part, could they look for soldiers?
There were the rustics. They were strong, healthy, accustomed to work together, outspoken, never more than half-convinced of the superiority of women, practising the duty of obedience no more than they were obliged, fain to go courting on their own account, the despair of preachers, who were constantly taunted with the ill success of their efforts. Why, it was common—in some cases it was the rule—to find the woman in the cottage that most contemptible thing—a man-pecked wife. What was the good of paying wages to this wife, when her husband took from her what he wanted for himself? What was the good of making laws that men should not be abroad alone after dark, when in most of the English villages the men stood loitering and talking together in the streets till bed-time? What was the use of prohibiting all intoxicating drinks, when in every village there were some women who made beer and sold it to all the men who could pay for it, and though perfectly well known, were never denounced?
‘They are ready to our hand,’ said Lord Chester. ‘The only question is, how to raise them, and how to arm them when they are raised.’
ONEmorning, after six weeks of this pleasant life, Lord Chester, who had made excellent use of his time, and was now as completely a man as his companions, was summoned to the Bishop’s study, and there received a communication of the greatest importance.
The Professor was the only other person present.
‘I have thought it prudent, Lord Chester,’ said the Bishop gravely, ‘to acquaint you with the fact that the time is now approaching when the great Attempt will be made. Are you still of the same mind? May we look for your devotion—even if we fail?’
‘You may, my lord.’ The young man held out his hand, which the aged Bishop clasped.
‘It is good,’ he said, ‘to see the devotion of youth ready to renounce life and its joys; to incur the perils of death and dishonour. This seems hard even in old age, when life has given all it has to give. But in young men—— Yet, my son, remember that the martyr does but change a lower life for a higher.’
‘I give you my life, if so it must be,’ Lord Chester repeated.
‘We take what is offered cheerfully. You must know then, my lord, that the ground has been artfully prepared for us. This conspiracy, which you have hitherto thought confined to one old man’s house and half a dozen young men living with him, is in reality spread over the whole country. We have organisations, great or small, in nearly every town of England. Some of them have as yet only advanced to the stage of discontent; others have been pushed on to learn that the evil condition of men is due chiefly to the government of women; others have learned that the sex which rules ought to obey; others, that the worship of the Perfect Woman is a vain superstition: none have gone so far as you and your friends, who have learned more—the faith in the Perfect Man. That is because you are to be the leaders, you yourself to be the Chief.
‘Now, my lord, the thing having so far advanced, the danger is, that one or other of our secret societies may be discovered. True, they do not know the ramifications or extent of the conspiracy. They cannot, therefore, do us any injury by treachery or unlucky disclosures; yet the punishment of the members would be so severe as to strike terror into the rest of our members. Therefore, it is desirable to begin as soon as possible.’
‘To-day!’ cried the young Chief.
‘No—not to-day, nor to-morrow. The difficulty is, to find some pretext,—some reasonable pretext—under cover of which we might rise.’
‘Can we not invent something.’
‘There are the convicts. We might raise a force, and liberate those of the prisoners who are victims of the harsh laws of violence and the refusal to take a husband’s evidence when accused by a wife. Then the country would be with us. But I shrink from commencing this great rebellion with bloodshed.’
He paused and reflected for a time.
‘Then there is the labour cry. We might send our little force into the towns, and call on the workmen to rise for freedom. But suppose they would not rise? Then—more bloodshed.
‘Or we might preach the Faith throughout the land, as Clarence Veysey wants to do. But I incline not to the belief in wholesale miracles, and the age of faith is past, and the number of our preachers is very small.’
‘You will be helped,’ said the Professor, ‘in a quarter where you least suspect. I, too, with my girls, have done my little.’
She proceeded to open a packet of papers, which she laid before the young Chief.
‘What are these?’ he asked.
‘They are called Tracts for the Times,’ she replied. ‘They are addressed to the Women of England.’
He took them up and read them carefully one by one.
‘Who wrote these?’
‘The girls and I together. We posted them wherever we could get addresses—to all the undergraduates, to all the students of hospitals, Inns of Court, and institutions of every kind; to quiet country vicarages; to rich people andpoor people,—wherever there was a chance, we directed a tract.’
‘You have done well,’ said the Bishop.
‘They have been found out, and a reward is offered for the printers. As they were printed in the cellars of this house, the reward is not likely to be claimed. They were all posted here, which makes the Government the more uneasy. They believe in the spread of what they call irreligion among the undergraduates. Unfortunately, the undergraduates are as yet only discontented, because all avenues are choked.’
The Bishop took up one of the tracts again, and read it thoughtfully. It was headed,Tracts for the Times: For Young Women, and was the first number. The second title wasWork and Women.
The writer, in brief telling paragraphs, very different from the long-winded, verbose style everywhere prevalent, called upon women seriously to consider their own position, and the state that things had been brought to by the Government of the Peeresses. Every profession was crowded: the shameful spectacle of women begging for employment, even the most ill-paid, was everywhere seen; the law in both branches was filled with briefless and clientless members; there were more doctors than patients; there were more teachers than pupils; there were artists without number who produced acres of painted canvas every year and found no patrons; the Church had too many curates; while architects, journalists, novelists, poets, orators, swarmed, and were all alike ravenous for workat any rate of pay, even the lowest. The happiest were the few who could win their way by competitive examination into the Civil Service; and even there, the Government having logically applied the sound political axioms of supply and demand to the hire of their servants, they could hardly live upon their miserable pay, and must give up all hopes of marriage. There was a time, the tract went on, when men had to do all the work, including the work of the professions. In those days all kinds of work were considered respectable, so that there was not this universal run upon the professions. And in those days, said the writer, the axiom of open competition in professional charges was not acted up to, insomuch that physicians, barristers, and solicitors charged a sum agreed upon by themselves—and that an adequate sum—for services rendered; while the pay of the Service was given in consideration to the amount required for comfortable living. The only way out of the difficulty, concluded the author, was to limit the number of those who entered the professions, to regulate the charges on a liberal scale, and to increase the pay of the Services. As for the rest, if women must work, they must do the things which women can do well—sew, make dresses, cook, and, in fact, perform all those services which were thought menial, unless, indeed, they preferred the hard work of men in the fields and at the looms.
The second tract treated of the Idleness of Men.
By the wisdom of their ancestors, it had beenordained that every man should be taught a handicraft, by means of which to earn his own living. This wholesome rule had been allowed to fall into abeyance; for while some sort of carpenter’s work was nominally and officially taught in boys’ schools, it had long been considered a mark of social inferiority for man to do any work at all. ‘We educate our men,’ the tract went on, ‘in the practice of every gymnastic and athletic feat; we turn them out strong, active, able to do and endure, and then we find nothing for them to do. Is it their fault that they become vacuous, ill-tempered, discontented, the bane of the house which their virtues ought to make a happy home? What else can we expect? Whence the early falling off into fat cheeks and flabby limbs? whence the love of the table—that vice which stains our manhood? whence the apathy at Church services?—whence should they come but from the forced idleness, the lack of interest in life?’
The tract went on to call for a reform in this as in other matters. Let the men be set to work; let men of all classes have to work. Why should women do all, as well as think for all? ‘It must be considered, again, that every man cannot be married; indeed, under the present state of things few women can think of marriage till they have arrived at middle age, and therefore most men must remain single. Why should we doom them to a long life of forced inaction? Happier far the rustic who ploughs the field, or the cobbler who patches the village boots.’ Then there followed an artful and specious referenceto old times: ‘Under the former régime, men worked, and women, in the freedom of the house, thought. The nominal ruler was the Hand; the actual, the Head. In those days, the flower of woman’s life was not wasted in study and competition. The maidens were wooed while they were young and beautiful; their lovers worked for them, surrounded them with pleasant things, lapped them in warmth, brought them all that they could desire, made their lives a restful dream of love. It has come to this, O women of the New Faith, that you have thrown away the love of men, and with it the whole joy of creation! You worship the Woman; your mothers, happier in their generation, were contented each to be worshipped by a man.’
‘That is very good,’ said the Bishop.
Then the Professor produced another and a more dangerous manifesto, addressed to the young men of England. It was dark and mysterious: it bade them be on the watch for a great and glorious change; they were to remember the days when men were rulers; they were to distrust their teachers, and especially the priestesses; they were to look with loathing upon the inaction to which they were condemned; they were told to ask themselves for what end their limbs were strong if they were to do nothing all their lives; and they were taught how, in the old days, the men did all the work, and were rewarded by marrying young and lovely women. This tract had been circulated from hand to hand, none of the agents in its distribution knowing anything of the plot.
There were others, all turning upon the evils of the times, and all recalling the old days when women sat at home.
‘We want,’ said the Bishop, ‘a pretext,—we want a spark which shall set fire to this mass of discontent.’
That very night there was a stormy debate in the House of Peeresses. The Duchess of Dunstanburgh, whose Ministry was kept in power by nothing but the stern will of their leader, because it had never commanded the confidence or even the respect of the House, came down with a bundle of papers in her hand. They were these very tracts. She read them through, one by one. She informed the House that these tracts had been circulated wholesale: from every town in the country she received intelligence that they had been taken from some girl’s hands,—in many cases from the innocent hands of young men. She said that it had been ascertained so far that the tracts were posted from Cambridge; it was believed they were the work of certain mischievous and infidel undergraduates. She had taken the unusual course of instituting a college visitation, so far without effect. Meantime she assured the House that if the author of these tracts could be discovered, no punishment would be too severe to meet the offence.
The Countess of Carlyon rose to reply. She said that no one regretted more than herself the tone of these tracts. At the same time there was, without doubt, ample cause for discontent. The professions were crammed; thousands of learned young women were asking themselves wherethey were to look for even daily bread. In the homes, the young men, seeing the misery, were, for their part, asking why they should not work, if work of any kind were to be got. To sit at home, and starve in gentility, was a hard thing to do, even by the most patient and religious young man; while for a girl to see the days go by barren and unprofitable, while her beauty withered,—to have no hope of marriage; to see the man she might have loved taken from her—here the Countess faced the Duchess with indignant eyes—taken from her by one old enough to be his grandmother,—surely here was cause enough for discontent! She urged the appointment of a commission for the consideration of grievances; and she urged, further, that the evidence of men, old and young, should be received—especially on two important points: first, whether they reallylikeda life of inaction; and secondly, whether they reallylikedmarrying their grandmothers.
The scene which followed this motion was truly deplorable. The following of Lady Carlyon consisted of all the younger members of the House—a minority, but full of life and vigour; on the opposite side were the old and middle-aged Peeresses, who had been brought up in the doctrine of woman’s divine right of authority, and of man’s divine rule of obedience. The elders had a tremendous majority, of course; but not the less, the fact that such a motion could be made was disquieting. The debate was not reported, but it got abroad; and while the tracts circulated more widely than ever, nomore were seized, because they were all kept hidden, and circulated underhand.
From end to end of the country, the talk was of nothing but of the old times. Was it true, the girls asked, that formerly the women ruled at home, while the men did all the work? If that was so, would no one find a compromise by which they could restore that part, at least, of the former régime? Oh, to end these weary struggles,—these studies, which led to examinations; these examinations, which led to diplomas; these diplomas which led to nothing; these agonising endeavours to trample upon each other, to push themselves into notoriety, to snatch the scraps of work from each other’s hands! Oh, to rest, to lie still, to watch the men work! Oh—but this they whispered with clasping of hands—oh, to be worshipped by a lover young and loyal! What did the tract say? Happy women of old, when there was no Perfect Woman, but each was the goddess of one man!
INthe early autumn the Cambridge party broke up. Clarence Veysey was the first to go. His sisters wanted him at home, they said.
‘They are good girls,’ he sighed, ‘and less unsexed than most of their sex. Thanks to my reputation for ill health, they do not interfere with my pursuits, and I can read and meditate. Writing is, of course, dangerous.’
Lord Chester had not been long at the Professor’s before he discovered two of those open secrets which are known by everybody. They were naturally affairs of the heart. It was pleasant to find that the young priest, the ardent apostle of the old Faith, was in love, and with Grace Ingleby. The courtship was cold, yet serious; he loved her with the selfish affection of men who have but one absorbing interest in life, and yet want a wife in whom to confide, and from whom to receive undivided care and worship. This he would find in Grace Ingleby,—one of those fond and faithful women who are born full of natural religion, to whom love, faith, and enthusiasm are as the air which they breathe.
The other passion was of a less spiritual kind. Algy Dunquerque, in fact, was in love withFaith Ingleby,—head over ears in love, madly in love,—and she with him. He would break off the most absorbing conversation—even a speculative discussion as to how they would carry themselves, and what they would say, when riding in the cart to execution—in order to walk about under the trees with the girl.
‘The fact is,’ he explained, ‘that if it were not for Faith and for you, I doubt if I should have been secured at all for the Revolution. One more good head would have been saved.’
Another complication made his case serious, and added fresh reasons for despatch in the work before them. His mother addressed him, while he was at Cambridge, a long and serious letter—that kind of letter which must be attended to.
After compliments of the usual kind to the Professor and to Lord Chester,—- it was for the sake of this young man’s friendship, and its possible social advantages, that Algy, as well as Jack Kennion, was permitted to stay so long from home,—Lady Dunquerque opened upon business of a startling nature. She reminded her son that he was now two-and-twenty years of age, a time when many young men of position are already established. ‘I have been willing,’ she said, ‘to give you a long run of freedom,—partly, I confess, because of your friendship for Lord Chester, who, though in many respects not quite the model for quiet and home-loving boys’—here Algy read the passage over again, and nodded his head in approbation—‘will be quite certainly the Duke of Dunstanburgh, and in that positionwill be the first gentleman of England. But an event has occurred, an event of such good fortune, that I am compelled to recall you without delay. You have frequently met the great lawyer Frederica Roe, Q.C. You will, I am sure, be pleased to learn’—here Algy took the hand of Faith Ingleby, and held it, reading aloud—‘that she has asked for your hand.’
‘I am greatly pleased,’ said Algy. ‘Bless the dear creature! She dresses in parchment, Faith, my angel: if you prick her, she bleeds ink; if she talks, it is Acts of Parliament; and when she coughs, it is a special pleading. Her complexion is yellow, her eyes are invisible, she has gone bald, and she is five-and-fifty. What good fortune! What blessed luck!’ Then he went on with his letter.
‘Of course I hastened to accept. She will be raised to the Peerage whenever a vacancy occurs on the Bench. I confess, my dear son, that this match, so much beyond our reasonable expectations, so much higher than our fortune and position entitled us to hope for on your behalf—a match in all respects, and from every point of view, so advantageous—pleases your father and myself extremely. The disparity of age is not greater than many young men have to encounter, and it is proved by numberless examples to be no bar to real happiness. I say this because, in the society of Lord Chester, you may have imbibed—although I rely upon your religious principles—some of those pernicious doctrines which are, falsely perhaps, attributed to him. However, we hope to see you return to us as youleft us, submissive, docile, and obedient. And your friendship with Lord Chester may ultimately prove of the greatest advantage to you,’ ‘I hope it will,’ said Jack, laughing, as he read this passage. ‘Your father begs me to add that Frederica, who is only a few years older than himself, is in reality, though somewhat imperious and brusque in manner, a most kind-hearted woman, and likely to prove the most affectionate and indulgent of wives.’
‘What do you think of that, brothers mine?’ he asked, folding up the letter. They looked at each other.
‘Oh, begin at once!’ cried Faith, clasping her hands. ‘They will marry you all, the horrid creatures, before you have struck the first blow. Do you hear, Algy? begin at once.’
‘It is serious,’ said Jack. ‘If pity is any good to you, Algy, you have it. A crabbed old lawyer—a soured, peevish, argumentative Q.C.’ He shuddered. ‘It is already Vacation; she is sure to want to push on the marriage without delay. What are we to do?’
He looked at Lord Chester for a reply.
‘My own case,’ said the young Chief, ‘comes before the House in October. The first blow, so far as I am concerned, must be struck before then.’
‘For Heaven’s sake,’ cried Algy, ‘strike it before this old lawyer swallows me up! I feel like a piece of parchment already. A little delay I can manage; a toothache, a cold, a sore throat—anything would do—but that would only delay the thing a week.’
The little party was broken up. Jack Kennion alone remained. He had obtained permission to accompany Lord Chester to Chester Towers, his country seat. The Professor and the girls were to go too—an arrangement sanctioned by Lady Boltons, happily ordered abroad to drink the waters.
Three weeks passed. Letter after letter came from Algy. His fiancée was pressing on the marriage; he had resorted to every expedient to postpone it; he knew not what he could do next; the day had to be named; wedding presents were coming in; and the learned lawyer proved more odious than could be imagined.
Lord Chester was not idle.
He was sitting one afternoon at this time, Algernon’s last despairing letter in his pocket, on a hill-side four or five miles from the Castle. Beside him stood a young gamekeeper, Harry Gilpin, stalwart and brawny: there was no shooting to be done, but he carried his gun.
‘It is our only chance, Harry,’ said Lord Chester, in low, earnest tones. ‘We must do it. Things are intolerable.’
‘If there’s any chance in it; but it is a poor chance at best.’
‘What, Harry! would you not follow me?’
‘I’ll follow your lordship wherever you lead. I’ll go for your lordship wherever you point. Don’t think I’m afeard for myself. I’m but a poor creature—easy to find plenty as good as me; and if so be I must end my days in a convict-prison, why, I’d rather do it for you, my lord, than for lying accusations.’
‘Good, Harry,’ Lord Chester held out his hand. ‘We understand each other. Death rather than a convict-prison. We strike for freedom. Tell me next about the discontent.’
‘All the country-side is discontented, along o’ the old women. It’s this way, my lord. We get on right well, let us marry our own gells. When the gells gets shoved out o’ the way, and we be told by the Passon to marry this old woman, an’ that, why ... ‘tis nature.’
‘It is, Harry, and my case as well as yours. Then if all are discontented, we may get all to join us.’
‘Nay, my lord; many are but soft creatures, and mortal afraid of the women. We shall get some, but we must make them desperate afore they’ll fight.’
‘You keepers can shoot. How many can we reckon on?’
Harry laughed.
‘When your lordship lifts up your little finger,’ he replied, ‘there’s not a keeper for miles and miles round that won’t run to join you, nor a stable-boy, nor a groom, nor a gardener. Ay! a hundred and fifty men, counting boys, will come in, once pass the word. A Chester has lived in these parts longer than men can remember.’
‘Do they remember, Harry, that a Chester once ruled this country?’
‘Ay ... so some say ... in the days when ... but there! it is an old story.’
‘But the girls, Harry, who have lost their lovers,—your own girl, what will she do?’
‘They whimper a bit; they have a row withthe old woman; and then the Passon steps in and talks about religion, and they give in.’
‘What! If they saw a chance, if they thought they could get their sweethearts back again, would they not rejoice?’
Harry hesitated.
‘Some would, some wouldn’t. You see, my lord, it’s their religion stands in the way; and their religion means everything. What they say is, that if they married their sweethearts, these being young and proper men, and masterful, they would perhaps get put upon; whereas, they love to rule their husbands. But some would ... yes, some would.’
Lord Chester rose, and began slowly to return home across the fields.
A hundred and fifty, and all true and loyal men! As the occupation of most of them prevented their going to church, and kept them apart from the rest, in a kind of loneliness, they were comparatively uninfluenced by religion; and though their wives drew the pay, the keepers understood little about obedience, and indeed had everything their own way. A hundred and fifty men!—a little army. Never before had he felt so grateful for the preservation of game.
‘You said, Harry, a hundred and fifty men!’
‘A hundred and fifty men, my lord, of all ages, by to-morrow morning, if you want them, and no doubt a hundred and fifty more the day after. Why, there are seventy men on the Duchess’s estate alone, counting the rangers, the gardeners, the keepers, stable-boys, and all.’
Three hundred men!
Lord Chester was silent. He had communicated enough of the plot. Harry knew that his master, like himself, was threatened with an elderly wife. He also knew that his master proposed an insurrection against the marriage of young men against their wills. Further, Harry did not inquire.
Now, while the leader of the Revolt was considering what steps to take,—nothing is harder in revolutions than to make a creditable and startling commencement,—accident put in his way a most excellent beginning. There was a hard-working young blacksmith in the village—a brawny, powerful man of thirty or thereabouts. No better blacksmith was there within thirty miles: his anvil rang from morning until night; he was as handsome in a rough fashion as any man need be; and he ought to have been happy. But he was not, for he was married to a termagant. Not only did this wife of his take all his money, which was legitimate, but she abused him with the foulest reproaches, accusing him perpetually of wife-beating, of infidelity, of drunkenness, and of all the vices to which male flesh is liable, threatening him in her violent moods with imprisonment.
That morning there had been a more than usually violent quarrel. The scolding of the beldam in her house was heard over the whole village, so that the men trembled and grew pale, thus admonished of what an angry woman can say. During the forenoon there was peace, the blacksmith working quietly at his forge.In the dinner-hour the row began again, worse than ever. At two o’clock the poor man came out with hanging head and dejected face to his work. One or two of the elder women admonished him against exasperating his wife; but he replied nothing. Children, for whom the unlucky smith had ever a kind word and a story, came as usual, and stayed outside waiting. But there was no word of kindness for them that day. Men passed down the village street and spoke to him; but he made no reply. Then the village cobbler, a widower, and independent, and so old and crusty of temper that no one was likely to marry him, came forth from his shop and spoke to him.
‘How goes it, Tom?’
‘Bad,’ said Tom. ‘Couldn’t be worse. And I wish I was dead—dead and buried and out of it.’
The cobbler shook his head and retired.
Then there came slowly down the street, carrying a basket with vegetables, a young woman of five-and-twenty, and she stopped in front of the forge, and said softly, ‘Poor Tom! I heard her this morning.’
Tom looked up and shook his head. His eyes, which were soft and gentle, were full of tears.
And then ... then ... the wife rushed upon the scene. Her eyes were red, her lips were quivering, her whole frame shook with passion. For she was no longer simply in a common, vulgar, everyday rage; she was in a rage of jealousy. She seized the younger woman by the arm, dragged her into the middle of theroad, and threw herself before her husband in a fine attitude. ‘Stand back!’ she cried. ‘You ... you ... Susan! He is my man, not yours—not yours.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Susan. She was a young person with black hair and resolute eyes, and it was well known that she had regarded Tom as her sweetheart. ‘Poor fellow! It was a bad job indeed for him when he became your man.’
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A war of words between an elderly woman, who may be taunted with her years, her jealousy, her lack of children, teeth, and comeliness, and a young woman, who may be charged with many sins, is at best a painful thing to witness, and a shameful thing to describe. Suffice it to say, that the elder lady was completely discomfited, and that long after she was extinguished, the girl continued to pour upon her the vials of her wrath. The whole village meanwhile—all the women, and such of the men as were too old for work—crowded round, taking part in the contest. Finally, the wife, stung by words whose bitterness was embittered by their truth, cried aloud, taking the bystanders to witness, that the husband for whose sake, she said, she had endured patiently the falsehoods and accusations of yonder hussy, was nothing better than a beater, a striker, a kicker, a trampler, and a cuffer of his wife.
‘I’ve borne it long,’ she cried, ‘but I will bear it no longer. To prison he shall go. If Iaman old woman, and like to die, you shall never havehim—do you hear? To prison he shall go, and for life.’
At these words a dead silence fell on all.
The blacksmith stood still, saying not a word, leaning on his hammer. Then his wife spoke again, but slowly.
‘Last night,’ she said, ‘he dragged me round the room by the hair of my head; this morning he knocked me down with his fist; and last Sunday, after church, he kicked me off my chair; yesterday fortnight he beat me with a poker——’
‘Lies!lies!!LIES!!!’ cried Susan. ‘Tom say they are lies.’
Tom shook his head but spoke never a word.
‘Tom!’ she cried again, ‘they will take you to prison; say they are lies.’
Then he spoke.
‘I would rather go to prison.’
‘Don’t believe her,’ Susan cried. ‘Don’t believe her. Why, she’s got no hair to be pulled.... Don’t ... Oh! oh! oh!’
She burst into an agony of weeping.
The women clamoured round the group,—some for justice, because wife-beating is an awful sin; some for mercy, because this woman was in her fits of wrath a most notorious liar, and not a soul believed her accusations.
It was in the midst of this altercation that there arrived on the scene, from opposite points, Lord Chester with Harry, and two of the rural police.
‘Take him into custody,’ gasped the blacksmith’s wife. ‘Take him to prison. Oh, thewretch! oh, the wife-beater! oh, I am beaten to a jelly—I am bruised black and blue!’
Lord Chester stepped before the unhappy blacksmith.
‘Stay!’ he said to the policewomen. ‘Not so fast. Tom, what do you say?’ he asked the blacksmith.
‘I never laid hand on her,’ said the unhappy man. ‘But all’s one for that. I suppose I’ll have to go to prison, my lord. Anyhow, there can’t be no prison worse than this life. I’m glad and happy to be rid of her.’
‘Stay again,’ said his lordship. The people gathered closer in wonder. The masterful young lord looked as if he meant to interfere. ‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘take this woman away, and look for any marks of violence. No,’ as the elder women pressed forward, ‘not you who have got young husbands of your own, and would like to get rid of them yourselves perhaps. Some of you girls take her.’
But she refused to go, while the old women murmured amongst each other.
‘Must obey orders, my lord,’ said one of the police. ‘Here’s a case for the magistrates. Woman says her husband struck, beat, and kicked her. Magistrates will hear the case, my lord.’
She pulled out her handcuffs.
Then Lord Chester saw that the moment had arrived.
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘stand by.’
He laid his hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder.
‘No one shall harm him,’ he said. ‘Tom, come with me.’
‘My lord!... my lord!’ cried the policewomen. ‘What shall we do? It’s obstructing law—it’s threatening the executive: what will the justices say? It’s a most dreadful offence.’
‘Come, Tom,’ he said.
The crowd parted right and left with awestruck eyes.
As Lord Chester carried off his rescued prisoner, the Vicar came running out with dismay upon her face.
‘My lord! my lord!’ she cried. ‘What dreadful thing is this? And you, Tom,—you, after all your promises! Inmyparish, too!’
‘Hold your foolish tongue!’ said Lord Chester, roughly. ‘Why not in your parish? In every parish, thanks to you and your accursed religion, the young men are torn from the girls, and there is misery. Stand aside.... You, Susan, will you come with me and your old sweetheart?’
The Vicar gasped. She turned white with terror. ‘Foolish tongue! Accursed religion!’ Had she heard aright?
The police-constables looked stupidly at one another.
‘Please, my lord,’ said one, ‘we must report your lordship.’
‘Go and report,’ replied the rebel.
It was now half-past five in the afternoon, and the labourers were returning from the fields. The village street was crowded with men, most of them young men.
The men began whispering together, and the women were all delivering orations at once.
The Chief pointed to some of the men and called them by name.
‘You, John Deer; you, Nick Trulliber; you—and you—and you,—come with me. You have old wives too; unless you want to be sent to prison for life for wife-beating, come with me and fight for your liberty.’
They hesitated; they trembled; they looked at the vicar, at their wives: they would have been lost but for the presence of mind of the cobbler.
He was, as I have said, an elderly man, bowed down by his work and by years. But he sprang to the front and shouted to the men:—
‘Come, unless you are cowards and deserve the hulks. Why, it’s slavery, it’s misery; it’s unnatural pains and penalties. Come out of it, you poor, wretched chaps, that ought to be married to them as is young and comely. Come away, all you young fellows that want young wives. Hooray! his lordship’s going to deliver us all. Three cheers for Lord Chester! We’ll fight for our liberty.’
He brandished his bradawl, seized one of the men, and the rest followed. There was a general scream from the women of rage and terror; for all the men followed, like sheep, in a body. Not a single man of the village under sixty years of age or over sixteen slept in his wife’s house that night.
‘I always knew, my lord,’ said the cobbler, ‘that it was stuff an’ nonsense, them and their submission. Yah! some day there was bound to be a row. Don’t let ‘em go back, my lord. I’ll stick by your lordship.’
(‘It is a very odd thing,’ said the Professor, when she heard the story, ‘that cobblers have always been atheists.’)
What next?
Lord Chester had now got his men—a band forty-seven strong, nearly all farm-labourers—within the iron gates of his park, and these were closed and locked. They were as fine a body of men, both young and old together, as could be collected anywhere. But they understood as yet nothing of what was going to be done, and they slouched along wondering stupidly, yet excited at the risk they were running.
Lord Chester made them a speech.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that the prisons of England are full of men charged with wife-beating. They never had an opportunity of defending themselves; they are tortured day and night. You may, all of you—any of you—be charged with this offence. Your word is not taken; you are carried off to hopeless imprisonment. Is that a pleasant thing for you?’
They murmured. But Tom the blacksmith waved his hammer, and Harry the keeper his gun, and the cobbler his bradawl, and these three shouted.
‘Who asked you,’ cried Lord Chester, ‘if you wanted to marry an old woman? Did any of you choose her for yourselves? Why, when there were girls in the village, sweet and young and pretty, longing for your love, is it likely you would take an old woman?’
Then the girl they called Susan, who had followed with Tom, sprang to the front.
‘Look at me, all of you,’ she cried. ‘Tom and me was courtin’ since we were children—wasn’t we, Tom.’ Tom nodded assent. ‘And she comes and takes him from me. And the Passon said it was all right, because a man must obey, and sweetheartin’ was nonsense. How long are you going to stand it? If I was a man, and strong, would I let the women have their own way? How long will you stand it, I say?’
Here the men lifted up their voices and growled. Liberty begins with a growl; rage begins with a growl; fighting begins with a growl,—it is a healthy symptom for those who promote mischief.
‘Are they pretty, your old women?’ the orator went on. ‘Are they good-tempered? Are they pleasant to live with?’
There was another growl.
‘Men,’ cried Lord Chester, ‘we have borne enough. Wake up! We will end all this. We will marry the women we love—the pretty sweethearts who love us—the young girls who will make us happy. Who will follow me?’
Harry the keeper stepped to the front with a shout. Tom the blacksmith followed with a shout, brandishing his hammer. The cobbler pushed and shoved the men. Susan threw her arms round Tom’s neck and kissed him, crying, ‘Go and fight, Tom; follow his lordship. Come, all you that are not cowards.’
Two things happened then which determined the event and rallied the waverers, who, to tell the truth, were already beginning to expect their wives and sisters upon the scene.
The first was the appearance of Jack Kennion, followed by two men bearing a great cask of beer. Then tankards passed from lip to lip, and the courage which is said to belong to Holland rather than to England mounted in their hearts.
‘Drink about, lads,’ cried Jack. ‘Here! give me the mug. Hurrah for Lord Chester! Drink about. Hurrah!’
They drank—they shouted. And while they shouted they became aware of a tall and beautiful girl who came from the house and stood beside Lord Chester. Her lips were parted; her long hair flowed upon her shoulders; the tears stood in her beautiful eyes. She tried to speak, but for a moment could not.
‘Oh, men!’ she cried at last,—‘Men of England! I thank kind Heaven for this day, which is the beginning of your freedom. Oh, be brave! think not of your own wrongs only. Think of the thousands of men lingering in prison; think of all who are shut in houses, working all day for their unloved wives; think of the young girls who have lost their lovers; think of your strength and your courage, and fight—to the death, if needs be!’
‘We will fight,’ cried the cobbler, ‘to the death!’
Then Grace Ingleby, for it was she, went from man to man and from group to group, praising them, telling them that it was no small thing they had done—that no common or cowardly man would have dared to do it; commending their courage, admiring their strength, and informing them carefully that this their act could never be forgiven, so that if they did notsucceed they would assuredly all be hanged; and imploring them to lose no time in drilling and learning the use of weapons.
The Professor, meantime, was writing letters. She wrote to her husband, begging him to remain quiet while the news was spreading abroad, when he had better get across country by night and join the insurgents. She wrote to all the disciples, telling them to escape and make their way to Lord Chester; and assisted by the girls of the household, who all espoused the cause of the men, she took down the guns, swords, and weapons from the walls, and brought them out for use.
After supper—they cooked plentiful chops for the hungry men, with more beer—Jack called the men out for first drill. It was hard work; but then drill cannot at first be anything but hard work. The men were armed with pikes, guns, clubs, anything; and before nightfall, they had received their first lesson in the art of standing shoulder by shoulder.
They slept that night in tents made of sheets spread out on sticks—a rough shelter, but enough. But the chiefs sat till late, thinking and talking.
Early in the morning, at daybreak, Lord Chester dropped asleep, worn out. When he awoke, Grace stood over him with smiling face.
‘Come, my lord,’ she said, ‘I have something to show you.’
He stood upon the terrace. The night before, he had seen a group of fellows in smock-frocks shoving each other about in a vain attempt tostand in rank and file. Now, the lawns were crowded with men of a different kind, who had come in during the night.
First and foremost, there were a hundred bronzed and weather-beaten men armed with guns—they were Harry’s friends, the keepers, rangers, and foresters; among them stood a score of boys who had been sent round to summon them; and behind the keepers stood the rustics.
Oh, wonderful conversion! They had been already put into some sort of uniform which was found among the lumber of the Castle. The jackets were rusty of colour and moth-eaten, but they made the men look soldier-like; every man had round his arm a scarlet ribbon; some had scarlet coats, but not many. At sight of their Chief they all shouted together and brandished their weapons.
The Revolt of Man had begun!