THEREwas great excitement in the village of Much cum Milton—a little place about thirty miles from Chester Towers—because Lady Dunquerque’s only son, Algernon, was to be married that day to the great lawyer, Frederica Roe. Apart from the natural joy with which such an event is welcomed in a monotonous country village, Algernon was deservedly popular. No better rider, no better shot, no stouter, handsomer lad was to be found in the country-side; nor was it to his discredit that he was the personal friend of young Lord Chester, whose Case was on everybody’s lips; nor, among young people, was it to his discredit that he was suspected of being on Lady Carlyon’s side. The village girls smiled and looked meaningly at each other when he passed: there were reports that the young man had more than once shown a certain disposition to freedoms; but these, for the sake of his father’s feelings, were not spread abroad; and indeed, in country districts, things which would have ruined a young man’s reputation in town—such as kissing a dairymaid or a dressmaker—were rather regarded with favour by the girls thus outraged.
The only drawback to the general joy was the thought that the bride was over fifty years of age. Even making great allowances for the safety which experience gives, it is not often that a young man who has attracted the affections of a woman thirty years his senior, is found to study how to preserve those affections; and even considering the position offered by a woman safe of the next vacancy among the judges, a difference of thirty years did seem to these village girls, who knew little of the ways of the great world, a bar to true love. Their opinion, however, was not asked, and the festivities were not outwardly marred by them.
Early in the morning the village choir assembled on the lawn beneath the bridegroom’s chamber, and sang the well-known wedding-hymn beginning:—
Break, happy day! Rise, happy sun!Breathe softer, airs of Paradise!The days of hope and doubt are done;To higher heights of love we rise.Ah! trembling heart of trusting youth,Fly to the home of peace and rest;From woman’s hands receive the truth,In woman’s arms be fully blessed.O sweet exchange! O guerdon strange!For love and guidance of a wife,To yield the will, and follow stillIn holy meekness all your life.
Break, happy day! Rise, happy sun!Breathe softer, airs of Paradise!The days of hope and doubt are done;To higher heights of love we rise.Ah! trembling heart of trusting youth,Fly to the home of peace and rest;From woman’s hands receive the truth,In woman’s arms be fully blessed.O sweet exchange! O guerdon strange!For love and guidance of a wife,To yield the will, and follow stillIn holy meekness all your life.
Break, happy day! Rise, happy sun!Breathe softer, airs of Paradise!The days of hope and doubt are done;To higher heights of love we rise.
Ah! trembling heart of trusting youth,Fly to the home of peace and rest;From woman’s hands receive the truth,In woman’s arms be fully blessed.
O sweet exchange! O guerdon strange!For love and guidance of a wife,To yield the will, and follow stillIn holy meekness all your life.
The bridegroom-elect within his room made no sign; the window-blind was not disturbed. As a matter of fact, Algy was half-dressed, andwas sitting in a chair looking horribly ill at ease.
They began to ring the bells at six; by eight the whole village population was out upon the Green, and the final preparations were made. Of course there were Venetian masts, with gay-coloured flags flying. The tables were spread in a great marquee for the feast which, at mid-day, was to be given to the whole village. There were to be sports and athletics for the young men on the Green; there was to be dancing in the evening; there was a band already beginning to discourse sweet music; there was a circus, which was to perform twice, and both times for nothing; there were ginger-bread booths, and rifle-galleries, and gipsies to tell fortunes; they had set up the perambulating theatre for the drama of Punch and Judy, in which the reprobate Punch, who dares to threaten his wife with violence, and disobeys her orders, is hanged upon the stage—a moral lesson of the greatest value to boys; and there was a conjuring-woman’s tent. The church was gaily dressed with flowers, and all the boys of the village were told off to strew roses, though the season was late, under the feet of bride and bridegroom.
At the Hall an early breakfast was spread; but the young bridegroom, the hero of the day, was late.
‘Poor boy,’ said his sister, ‘no doubt he is anxious and excited with so much happiness before him.’
It was a well-bred family, and the disparity of age was not allowed to be even hinted at.The marriage was to be considered a love-match on both sides: that was the social fiction, though everybody knew what was said and thought. Lady Dunquerque had got the boy off her hands very well: there was an excellent establishment, and a good position, with a better one to follow; as for love—here girls looked at each other and smiled. Love was become a thing no longer possible, except for heiresses, of whom there are never too many. Fifty years of age and more; a harsh voice, a hard face, a hard manner, an unsympathetic, exact woman, wrinkled and gray-haired,—how, in the name of outraged Cupid, could such a woman be loved by such a lad? But these things were not even spoken,—they were only conveyed to each other by looks, and smiles, and nods, and little movements of the hands.
‘I think, Robert,’ said Lady Dunquerque, ‘that you had better go up and call Algernon.’ Sir Robert obediently rose and departed.
When he came down again, his face, usually as placid as the face of a sheep, was troubled.
‘Algernon will not take any breakfast,’ he said.
‘Nonsense! the boy must take breakfast. Is he dressed?’ Lady Dunquerque was evidently not disposed to surrender her authority over her son till he had actually passed into the hands of his wife.
‘Yes, yes,—he is nearly dressed,’ stammered her husband.
‘Well, then, go and tell him to come to breakfast at once, without any nonsense.’
Sir Robert went once more. Again he came back with the intelligence that the boy refused to come down.
Thereupon Lady Dunquerque herself went up to his room. The two girls looked at each other with apprehension. Algy was hot-headed: he had already, though not before his mother, made use of very strong language about his bride; could he be meditating some disobedience? Horrible! And the guests all invited, and the day arrived, and the boy’s wedding outfit actually ready!
‘What did he say, papa?’ one of them asked.
I cannot tell you, my dear. I wash my hands of it. Your mother must bring him to reason. I have done my best.’ Sir Robert answered in a nervous trembling manner not usual with him.
‘Does he ... does he ... express any unwillingness?’ asked his daughter.
‘My dear, he says nothing shall make him marry the lady. That is all. The day arrived and everything. No power on earth, he says, shall make him marry the lady. That is all. What will come to us if her ladyship cannot make him hear reason, I dare not think.’
Just then Lady Dunquerque returned. Her husband, trembling visibly, dared not lift his eyes.
‘My dear girls,’ she said, with the calmness of despair, ‘we are disgraced for ever. The boy refuses to move. He disregards threats entreaties, everything. I have appealed to his obedience, to his religion, to his honour—all is of no avail. Go yourselves, if you can. Now,Sir Robert, if you have anything to advise, let me hear it.’
‘I can advise nothing,’ said her husband, quite overwhelmed with this misfortune. ‘Who could have thought that a——’
‘Yes—yes,—it is of no use lamenting. What are we to do? Heavens! there are the church bells again!’
Meantime his sisters were with Algernon. They found him sitting grim and determined. Never before had they seen that expression of determination upon a man’s face. He absolutely terrified them.
‘You are come to try your powers, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Well; have your say. But remember, no power on earth shall make me marry that detestable old woman.’
‘Algernon!’ cried his younger sister. ‘Is it possible that you ... you ... our own brother, should use these words?’
‘A great deal more is possible. I, for one, protest against this abominable sale of men in marriage. I am put up in the market; this rich old lawyer, with a skin of parchment, blood of ink, heart of brown paper, buys me: I will not be bought. Go, tell my mother that she may do her worst. I will not marry the woman.’
‘If you will not think of yourself,’ said his elder sister coldly, ‘pray think of us. Our guests are invited,—they are already assembling in the church; listen—there are the bells!’
‘I should like,’ said Algy laughing,—‘I should like to see the face of Frederica Roe in half an hour’s time.’
The two girls looked at each other in dismay. What was to be done? what could be said?
‘You two little hypocrites!’ he went on. ‘you and your goody talk about the day of happiness! and the humbugging hymn! and your sham and mockery of the Perfect Woman! and your reign of the Intellect! Wait a little, my sisters; I promise you a pleasing change in the monotony of your lives.’
‘Sister,’ said the younger, ‘he blasphemes. We must leave him. Oh, unhappy boy! what fate are you preparing for yourself?’
‘Come,’ answered the elder. ‘Come away, my dear. Algernon, if you disgrace us this day, you shall be no more brother of mine; I renounce you.’
They left him. Presently his father came back.
‘Algernon,’ he said feebly, ‘have you come to your right mind?’
‘I have,’ he replied—‘I have. That is the reason why I am here, and why I am staying here.’
‘Then I can do nothing for you. Poor boy! my heart bleeds for you.’
‘My poor father,’ said his son, speaking in a parable, ‘my heart has bled for you a long time. Patience!—wait a little.’
‘The last wedding-present has arrived,’ said Sir Robert. ‘What we are to do I cannot, dare not, think. Your mother must break the news to Frederica.’
‘Whose is the wedding-present?’
‘It is from Lord Chester—the most magnificent hunter, saddled, and all; with a note.’
Algernon sprang to his feet and rushed to the window. On the carriage-drive he saw a little stable-boy leading a horse. He knew the boy as one of Lord Chester’s—a sharp, trusty lad. What was the horse saddled for?
‘Give me the letter,’ he said almost fiercely, to his father.
Sir Robert handed him the note, which lady Dunquerque had opened and read:—
‘Congratulations, dear Algy; the happy day has dawned.—Yours most sincerely,‘Chester.’
‘Congratulations, dear Algy; the happy day has dawned.—Yours most sincerely,
‘Chester.’
‘Among other disasters, you will lose this friend, Algy,’ moaned his father. ‘No one can ever speak to you again; no one can——’
‘Tell my mother, sir, that I am ready,’ he interrupted, with a most extraordinary change of manner. ‘I will be with her as soon as I can complete my toilet. One must be smart upon one’s wedding-day. Go, dear father, tell her I am coming downstairs, and beg her not to make a row—I mean, not to allude to the late distressing scene.’
He pushed his father out of the room.
Two minutes later he stood in the breakfast-room, actually laughing as if nothing had happened.
‘I am glad my son,’ said his mother, ‘that you have returned to your senses.’
‘Yes,’ he replied gaily, as if it had been a question of some simple act of petulance; ‘it is a good thing, isn’t it? Have you seen Lord Chester’s gift, sisters?’
The girls looked at each other in a kind of stupor. Whatcouldmen be like that they should so lightly pass from one extreme to the other?
‘Tell the boy,’ he ordered the footman, ‘to lead the horse to the Green; I should like all the lads to see it. Tell them it is Lord Chester’s gift, with his congratulations on the dawn of the happy day—tell them to remember the dawn of the happy day.’
He seemed to talk nonsense in his excitement. But Sir Robert, overjoyed at this sudden return to obedience, shed tears.
‘Now,’ said Lady Dunquerque, ‘we have no time to lose. Girls, you can go on with your father. Algernon, of course, accompanies me.’
When they were left alone, his mother began a lecture, short but sharp, on the duty of marital obedience.
‘I say no more,’ she concluded,’ on the lamentable display of temper of this morning. Under the circumstances, I pass it over on condition that you look your brightest and best all day, and that you show yourself alive to the happiness of the position I have gained for you.’
‘I think,’ he replied, ‘that in the future, if not to-day, you will congratulate yourself on my line of action.’
A strange thing for the young man to say. Afterwards they remembered it, and understood it.
Meantime the churchyard was full of the village people, and the church was crammed with the guests in wedding-favours; on the Green the band was discoursing sweet music; in the centre,an object of the deepest admiration for the village lads, stood Lord Chester’s gift, led by his boy.
At a quarter to eleven punctually, the carriage containing the bride and principal bridesmaid, a lady also of the Inner Bar, about her own age, arrived. The bride was beautifully dressed in a rich white satin. She was met in the porch by the other bridesmaids, including the groom’s sisters. All were in great spirits, and even the harsh face of the bride looked smiling and kind. The sisters, reassured on the score of their brother, were rejoicing in the sunshine of the day, the crowds, and the general joy. Sir Robert and the other elderly gentlemen were standing in meditation, or devoutly kneeling before the chancel.
Hush! silence! Hats off in the churchyard! There are the wheels of the bridegroom’s carriage. Here come the Vicar and the Choir ready to strike up the Processional Hymn. Clash, clang the bells! one more, and altogether, if it brings down the steeple! Now the lads make a lane outside. Off hats! Cheer with a will, boys! Hurrah for the bridegroom! He sits beside his mother, his head back, his eyes flashing; he laughs a greeting to the crowd.
‘Capital, Algernon!’ says his mother. ‘Now subdue your joy; we are at the lych-gate.’
The carriage stopped. Algernon sprang out, and assisted his mother to alight. Then the procession, already formed, began slowly to move up the aisle singing the hymn, and the notes of the organ rolled among the old low arches of the little village church; and the Vicar walked last, carrying her hymn-book in her hand, singinglustily, and thinking, poor woman, that the marriage procession was advancing behind her.
Well, it was not; and when she turned round, having reached the altar, she stared blankly, because there was no marriage procession, but a general looking at each other, and whispering.
What happened was this.
After helping Lady Dunquerque out of the carriage, Algernon quietly left her, and without the slightest appearance of hurry, calmly walked across the Green and mounted Lord Chester’s gift.
Then he rode to the churchyard gate, and took off his hat to his bride, and shouted, so that all could hear him, even in the church, ‘Very sorry, old lady, but you must look for another husband.’ Then he turned his horse and cantered quickly away through the crowd, laughing and waving his hand.
Half an hour later, Frederica Roe, after a stormy scene with Lady Dunquerque, which ended in the latter thanking Providence for having delivered her headstrong boy, even at the last moment, from so awful a temper, returned with her best-maid to town. There was laughter that evening when the news reached the Club. Cruel things, too, were said by the Juniors. There would have been more cruel things but for the circumstances which followed.
It was naturally a day of Rebuke at the village. The circus, the gipsies, the conjurors, and the acrobats, were all packed off about their business; there was no feast; the children weresent back to school; the wedding-guests dispersed in dismay; and Lady Dunquerque, with rage and despair in her heart, sat amid her terror-stricken household, none daring to say a word to soothe and comfort her. Later on, her husband suggested the consolations of religion, but these failed.
The summons reached Clarence Veysey on the next day. The boy who brought him the letter had ridden fifty miles.
He was waiting at home in great despondency. The perpetual acting, the deception, tortured his earnest soul; he lacked companionship; he wanted the conversation of Grace Ingleby; his sisters wearied him with their talk, and their aims—aims which he was about to make impossible for them. The boy, who was the son of one of Lord Chester’s keepers, came to the house by the garden entrance, and found Clarence walking on the lawn. He tore open the note, which was as follows:—
‘Come at once; we have begun.—C.’
‘Come at once; we have begun.—C.’
Then Clarence waited for nothing, but started to walk to Chester Towers. He walked for four-and-twenty hours; when he arrived he was faint with hunger and fatigue, but he was there. The Rebellion had begun, and he was with the rebels.
THEfirst days were spent in drill, in exhortation, in feasting, and in singing. Grace Ingleby fitted new words to old tunes, and the men sang them marching across the park. A detachment of keepers was placed at the gates to receive new recruits, and to keep out the women who crowded round them all day long—some laughing, some crying, some threatening. The women of the Castle, being offered their choice whether to remain in the service of the Earl or to go at once, divided themselves into two parties—the elder women deciding to go, and the younger to remain; ‘for,’ as they said, ‘if the men ride all over the country, as Mrs Ingleby says they will, what can we women do to keep them down?’ And then they blamed the unequal marriages, and irreligious things were said about the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. Those who stayed were employed in making rosettes and ribbons in scarlet silk, and in getting out of the old lumber-rooms all the finery which could be found to serve for the men’s uniforms.
‘First rule,’ said Jack the prudent, ‘keep the men’s spirits up—with beer, and singing, and feasting; next, make them proud of their gallant show.’
Every hour raised the spirits of the men, every moment new recruits came in, who were greeted with shouts, beer, and exhortation, chiefly from the cobbler, who now wore a glittering helmet, and carried a ten-foot pike.
In the course of the next two or three days all the Bishop’s disciples came in: Clarence Veysey, dusty and wayworn, yet full of ardour; Algy Dunquerque rode in gallantly, laughing at his escape. The others came in one after the other, eager for employment, and were at once set to work. No time this for love-making; but Grace exchanged a few words with Clarence, and Faith ran about among the men, telling them all that Captain Dunquerque was her sweetheart, asking who were the girls they loved, and how they wooed them, and so delightfully turning everything upside down that she was better than all the barrels of beer.
Lord Chester was the Chief, but Captain Dunquerque was the favourite. It was he who kept everybody in good spirits—who organised races in the evening, set the men to box, to wrestle, to fight with single-stick, with prizes and cheering for the winners; so that the lads for the first time in their lives felt the fierce joy of battle and the pride of victory. It was Captain Dunquerque who had a word for every man, forgetting none of their names; who praised them and encouraged them, was all day long in the camp, never tired, never lost his temper—as some of the keepers did who were promoted to be sergeants; who was generous with the beer; who promised to every man money,independent work, and a pretty wife—after the Cause was won. So that Algy Dunquerque, the first commander-in-chief under the new régime, began his popularity as the soldiers’ general from the very first.
On the evening of his arrival, Clarence preached to the men—a faithful discourse, which yet only revealed half the Truth. We must destroy before we can build up.
He bade them remember that they were, as men, the workers of the world—nothing could be done except by them; and then he told them some of the wonders which had been accomplished by their forefathers in the days when men had been acknowledged to be the thinkers and creators as well as the workers, and he told them in such simple language as he could command, how, since women had taken over the reins, everything had gone backwards. Lastly, he bade them remember what they were, what their lives had been, how slavish and how sad, and what their lives would still continue to be unless they freed themselves.
‘Time was—the good old time—when every man could raise himself, when there was a ladder from the lowest station to the highest. Now, as you are born, so you must die. No rising for you—no hope for you. Work and slave—and die. That is your lot. They invented a religion to keep you down. They told you that it is the will of Heaven that you should obey women. It is aLIE.’ The preacher shouted the words. ‘It is aLIE. There is no such religion; and I am here to teach you theTruth, when you have proved that you are fit to receive it.’
The preacher was received with an indifference which was discouraging. In fact, the men had been preached at so long, that they had ceased to pay any attention to sermons. Nor could even Clarence’s earnestness surpass that of the Preaching Order, the Holy sisterhood, which trained its members in the art of inspiring Hope, Terror, and Faith.
The address finished, the men betook them once more to singing, while the beer went round about their camp-fires. Here was a glorious change! Even the gamekeepers—a race not easily moved—congratulated each other on the recovery of their freedom. That night a proclamation was made in camp that every man would receive his pay himself—the same as that earned in the fields—in full. Men looked at each other and wondered. Those who only half believed in the Cause were reassured. To be paid, instead of seeing your wife paid, proved, as nothing else could, the strength and reality of the Rebellion. Another proclamation was made, repealing all prohibitions for men to assemble, remain out-of-doors after sunset, and form societies. This was even more warmly received than the former proclamation, because many of the men did not know what to do with their money when they got it; whereas they had all of them learned this grand pleasure of companionship, drink, and song.
On that night and the next, two councils were held, big with importance to the Realm of England. The first of these was at Chester Towers,under the presidency of Lord Chester. There were present the Bishop—whose impatience made him set out on the first receipt of the news—Clarence Veysey, Algernon Dunquerque, Jack Kennion, and the rest of the disciples. The Professor and the girls were in the room but they did not speak.
They sat until late considering many things. Had they known more of man’s real nature, there would have been no hesitation, and a bold forward march might have saved many difficulties. The Bishop and Clarence Veysey, who believed the Truth by itself a sufficient weapon, wanted to await the arrival of all Englishmen in the Park, and meantime to be preaching perpetually. Algernon was for movement. The Chief at last decided on a compromise. They would advance, but slowly; and would send out, meanwhile, scouts and small parties to bring in recruits. The danger of the Revolt, provided it were sufficiently widespread, lay chiefly in the imagination. It was difficult even for the leaders, who had been so long and so carefully trained by the Bishop and his wife, to shake off the awe inspired by the feminine oppression and their early training. Every woman seemed still their natural ruler, yet the Reign of Woman rested on no more solid basis than this awe. Its only defence lay in the regiments of Horse Guards and its Convict Wardens; while, to make the latter available, the prisoners would have to be discharged.
The other council of war was held in the House of Peeresses, called together hastily. There hadbeen grave disquiet all day long; and though nothing definite was known, it was whispered that there was an outbreak of the Men. A Cabinet Council was called at noon, the Home Department was agitated, the secretaries went about with pale faces, there was continual ringing of bells and scurrying of clerks, the Archbishop of Canterbury was sent for hurriedly, crowds of women gathered about the lobbies of the House, and it was presently known everywhere that the thing most dreaded of all things had happened—a Rising. Outside the House it was not yet known where this had occurred, nor under what leaders: within, the doors were closed, and in the midst of a silence most profound and most unusual, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh rose, with papers in her hand.
She briefly announced that a rebellion had broken out in Norfolk. A score or so of poor peasants belonging to one small village had risen in revolt. They were headed by Lord Chester. It was nothing—a mere lamentable outbreak, which would be put down at once by the strong hand of law.
Then she sat down. All faces were turned immediately to her Grace’s young rival. Lady Carlyon rose and asked if her Grace had any more details to give the House. She implored the Government to put the House in possession of all the facts, however painful they might be. The Duchess replied that the news of this insurrection, about which there could unfortunately be no doubt, reached her that morning only. It arrived in the shape of a Report drawn up by theVicar of Chester Towers, and sworn before two justices of the peace. The rising, if it was worthy to be called by such a name, was begun by the forcible rescue from the hands of the law of a certain blacksmith—a scoundrel guilty of wife-beating in its most revolting forms. He was torn from the hands of the police by Lord Chester and a gamekeeper. The misguided young man then called upon the men of the village to rise and follow him. He led them to his own Castle. He was joined by a body of gamekeepers, and men connected with manly sports of other kinds. By the last advices, he had gone the desperate length of defying the Government, and was now drilling and arming his troops. The Duchess assured the House again that there was nothing to fear except a probable loss of life, which was lamentable, but must be faced; that the Government had ordered two thousand of the Convict Wardens to be held in readiness, and that meanwhile they had sent two sisters of the Holy Preaching Order with twenty constables to disperse the mob. As for the ringleaders, they appeared to be, besides Lord Chester himself, Professor Ingleby of Cambridge, her husband, her two daughters, and a band of some half-dozen young gentlemen. The House might rest assured that signal justice would be done upon these mad and wicked people, and that no favour should be shown to rank or sex. As for herself, the House knew the relations which existed between herself and Lord Chester——
Lady Carlyon sprang to her feet, and asked what relations these were. The Duchess wenton to say that there was no occasion to dilate upon what was perfectly well known. She would, however, assure the House that this unhappy man had cut himself off altogether from her sympathy. She gave up, without a sigh, hopes that had once been dear to her, and left a miscreant so godless, so abandoned, to his fate.
Lady Carlyon begged the House to suspend its judgment until the facts were clearly known. At present all that appeared certain was, that a body of men had locked themselves within the gates of Lord Chester’s park. She would ask her Grace whether any grievances had been stated.
The Duchess replied that at the right moment the alleged grievances, if there were any, would be laid before the House.
Lady Carlyon asked again whether one of the grievances was not the custom—falsely alleged to be based upon religion—which compelled young men to marry women who were unsuitable and distasteful to them by reason of age, temper, or other incompatibility?
This was the signal for the most frightful scene of disorder ever witnessed in the House; for all Peeresses with husbands younger than themselves screamed on one side, and the young Peeresses on the other. After a little quiet had been obtained, Lady Carlyon was heard again, and accused the Duchess of Dunstanburgh of being herself the sole cause of the Insurrection. ‘It is time,’ she said, ‘to use plainness of speech. Let us recognise the truth that a young mancannot but abhor and loathe so unnatural a union as that of twenty years with forty, fifty, sixty. For my own part, I do not wonder that a man so high-spirited as Lord Chester should have been driven to madness. All in this House know well, without any pretences as to the honour of Peeresses, that a majority in favour of the Duchess was certain. Can any one believe that the judgment of the House would have been given for the happiness of the young man? Can any one believe that he could have contemplated the proposed union without repugnance? We know well what the end of the rising may be; and of this am I well assured, that the blood of this unhappy boy, and the blood of all those who perish with him, are upon the head of the Duchess of Dunstanburgh.’
Then began another terrible scene, in which all the invective, the recrimination, the accusations, the insinuations, of which the language is capable, seemed gathered together and hurled at each other: there was no longer a Government and an Opposition; there was the wrath of the young, who had seen, or looked to see, the men they might have loved torn from them by the old; there was the fury of the old, calling upon Religion, Law, Piety, and Order.
Constance withdrew in the height of the battle, having said all she had to say. It was a clear and bright morning; the sun was already rising; there were little groups of women hanging about the lobbies still, waiting for news. One of them stepped forward and saluted Constance. She was a young journalist of greatpromise, and had often written leaders at Constance’s suggestion.
‘Has your ladyship any more news?’ she asked.
‘I know nothing but what I have heard from ... from the Duchess.’ It was by an effort that Constance pronounced her name. ‘I know no more.’
‘We have heard more,’ the journalist went on. ‘We have heard from Norfolk, by a girl who galloped headlong into town with the intelligence, and is now at the War Office, that, yesterday morning at nine o’clock, Lord Chester rode out of his Park, followed by his army, carrying banners, and armed with guns, pikes, and swords. They are said to number at present some two or three hundred only.’
Constance was too weary and worn with the night’s excitement to receive this dreadful news. She burst into passionate tears.
‘Edward,’ she cried, ‘you rush upon certain death!’ Then she recovered herself. ‘Stay! let me think. We must do something to allay the excitement. The Government will issue orders to keep the men at home—that is their first thought. We must do more: we must agitate for a reform. There is one concession that must be made. Go at once and write the strongest leader you ever wrote in all your life: treat the rebellion as of the slightest possible importance; do not weigh heavily upon the unhappy Chief; talk as little as possible about misguided lads; say that, without doubt, the men will disperse; urge an amnesty; and thenstrike boldly and unmistakably for the great grievance of men and women both. Raise the Cry of “The Young for the Young!” And keep harping on this theme from day to day.’
It was, however, too late for newspaper articles: a wild excitement ran through the streets of London; the men were kept indoors; workmen who had to go abroad were ordered not to stop on their way, not to speak with each other, not to buy newspapers. Special constables were sworn in by the hundred. Later on, when it became known that the insurgent forces were really on their southward march, a proclamation was issued, ordering a general day of humiliation, with services in all the churches, and prayers for the safety of Religion and the Realm. The Archbishop of Canterbury herself performed the service at Westminster Abbey, and the Bishop of London at St Paul’s.
Meantime, spite of law and orders, the country-people flocked from all sides to see the gallant show of Lord Chester’s little army. Captain Dunquerque led the van, which consisted of fifty stalwart keepers. At the head of the main body rode the Chief, clad in scarlet, with glittering helmet; with him were the officers of his Staff, also gallantly dressed and splendidly mounted. Next came, marching in fours, his army of three hundred sturdy countrymen, armed with rifle and bayonet; after them marched the younger men, some mere lads, carrying guns of all descriptions, pikes, and even sticks,—not one among these that did not carry a cockade: their banner,borne by two of the strongest, was of red silk, with the words, ‘We will be free!’ An immense crowd of women looked on as they started: some of them cursed and screamed; but the girls laughed. Then other men of the villages broke away from their wives and sisters, and marched beside the soldiers, trying to keep in step, snatching their cockades, and shouting with them. Last of all came a little band of twenty-five, mounted, who served to keep the crowd from pressing too closely, and guarded a carriage and four, in which were the Bishop, the Professor, and the two girls. They sat up to their knees in scarlet cockades and rosettes, which the girls were making up and the Professor was distributing.
In this order they marched. After the first few hours, it was found that, besides a great number of recruits, the army had been joined by at least a hundred village girls, who walked with them and refused to go back. They followed their sweethearts. ‘Let us keep them,’ said the Professor: ‘they will be useful to us.’
At the next halting-place she had all these girls drawn up before her, and made them a speech. She told them that if they desired a hand in the great work, they might do their part: they would be allowed to join the army on condition of marching apart from the men; of not interfering with them in any way; of doing what they were told to do, and of carrying a banner. To this they readily consented, being, in fact, to one woman, enraged with the existing order of things, and caring very little about being the mistressif they could not have their own lovers. And in the end, they proved most valuable and useful allies.
Whenever they passed a house, Lord Chester sent half a dozen men to seize upon whatever arms they could find, and all the ammunition, if there was any. They had orders, also, to bring out the men, whom the officers inspected; and if there were any young fellow among them, they offered him a place in their ranks. A good many guns were got in this way, but very few men,—the young men of the middle class being singularly spiritless. They had not the healthy outdoor life, with riding, shooting, and athletics, that men of Lord Chester’s rank enjoyed; nor had they the outdoor work and companionship which hardened the nerves of the farm-labourers. Mostly, therefore, they gazed with wonder and terror at the spectacle; and on being brought out and harangued, meekly replied that they would rather stay at home, and retired amid the jeers of the soldiers.
Several pleasant surprises were experienced. At one house, the squire, a jolly fox-hunting old fellow, turned out with his four sons, all well mounted, and brought with him a dozen good rifles with a large supply of ammunition. The old fellow remarked that he was sixty-five years of age, and had been wishing all his life, and so had his father and his grandfather before him, to put an end to the intolerable upside-down condition of things. ‘And mind, my lady,’ he shouted to his wife and daughters, who were standing by, filled with rage and consternation,‘you and the girls, when we get back again, will sing another tune, or I will know the reason why!’ Nor was this the only instance.
When they marched through a village the trumpets blew, the drums beat, the soldiers shouted and sang; then the men were brought out, and invited to join; the place was searched for arms, and the company of women ran about congratulating the girls of the place on the approaching abolition of Forced Marriages.
The first day’s march covered twenty miles. The army had passed through five villages and one small town; they had seized on about two hundred guns of all kinds, and a considerable quantity of ammunition; they had increased their ranks by two hundred and fifty strong and lusty fellows. The evening was not allowed to be wasted in singing and shouting. Drill was renewed, and the new-comers taught the first elements of marching in step and line. For the first time, too, they attempted a sham fight, with sad blunders, as may be imagined.
‘They are good material,’ said the Professor, ‘but your army has yet to be formed.’
‘If only,’ murmured Clarence, ‘they would listen to my preaching.’
‘They have had too much preaching all their lives,’ said the Bishop. ‘We will conquer first, and preach afterwards. Let us pray that there may be no bloodshed.’
The second day’s march was like the first; but the little army was now swelling beyond all expectations. At the close of the second day it numbered a thousand, and commissariatdifficulties began. Here the company of women proved useful. They were all country girls, able to ride and drive; they ‘borrowed’ the carts of the farm-houses, and, escorted by soldiers, drove about the country requisitioning provisions. It became necessary to have wagons: these also were borrowed, and in a short time the army dragged at its heels an immense train of wagons loaded with ammunition, provisions, and stores of all kinds. For everything that was taken, an order for its value was left behind, stamped with the signature of ‘Chester.’
At the close of the second day’s march, being then near Bury St Edmunds, they were two thousand strong; at the end of the third, being on Newmarket Heath, they were five thousand; and here, because the place was open and the position good, a halt of three days was resolved upon, in which the men might be drilled, taught to act together, and divided into corps; also, sham fights would be fought, and the men, some of whom were little more than boys, could grow accustomed to the discharge of guns and the use of their weapons. The camp was protected by sentinels, and the cavalry scoured the country for recruits and information. As yet no sign had been made by the Government. But on Sunday morning, being the third day of the halt, the scouts brought in a deputation from the House of Peeresses, consisting of two Sisters of the Holy Preaching Order, and a guard of twenty-five policewomen. Lord Chester and his staff rode out to meet them.
‘What is your message?’ he asked.
‘The terms offered by the House to the insurgents,’ replied one of the Sisters, ‘are, first laying down of arms, and dispersion of the men; secondly, the immediate submission of the leaders.’
‘And what then?’ asked Lord Chester.
‘Justice,’ replied the Sister sternly. ‘Now stand aside and let us address the men.’
Lord Chester laughed.
‘Go call a dozen of the women’s company,’ he ordered. ‘Now,’ when they came, ‘take these two Sisters, and march them through the camp with drum and fife. These are the women who are trained to terrify the men with lying threats, false fears, and vain superstitions. As for you policewomen, you can go back and tell the House that I will myself inform them of my terms.’
The officers of law looked at each other. They saw before them spread out the white tents of the camp, the splendid army, the glittering weapons, the brilliant uniforms, the flags, the noise and tumult of the camp, and they were afraid. Presently they beheld, with consternation, the most singular procession ever formed. First went the drums and fifes; then came, handcuffed, the two Holy Preaching Sisters—they were clad in their sacred white robes, to touch which was sacrilege; behind them ran and danced the troop of village girls, shouting, pointing, singing their new songs about Love and Freedom; and the soldiers came forth from their tents clapping their hands and applauding. But the Bishop sent word that they were to be stripped of their white robes and turned out of the camp. It wasin ragged flannel petticoats that the poor Sisters regained their friends, and in woeful plight of mind as well as of body.
The three days’ halt finished, Lord Chester gave the word to advance. And now his army, he thought, was large enough to meet any number of Convict Wardens who might be sent against him. He had eight thousand men, hastily drilled, but full of ardour; he had a picked corps of five hundred guards, consisting of his faithful gamekeepers and the men who had been always with gentlemen about their sports. These were good shots, and pretty sure to be steady even under fire. He had five hundred cavalry, mostly mounted well, and consisting of farmers’ sons, officered by the fox-hunting squire, his four sons, and a few other gentlemen who had come in. The difficulty now was to admit all who crowded to the camp. For the news had spread over all England, and the roads were crowded with young fellows flying from their homes, defying the rural police, to join Lord Chester’s camp.
The time was come for a bold stroke. It was resolved to leave Jack Kennion—greatly to his discontent, but there was no help—behind, to receive recruits, and form an army of reserve. Lord Chester himself, with the main body and Algy Dunquerque, was to press on. The boldest stroke of all was the surprise of London, and this it was decided to attempt. For by this time the ardour of the troops was beyond the most sanguine hopes of the leaders: the submissiveness of three generations had disappearedin a week; the meek and docile lads whose wives received the pay, and ordered them to go and sit at home when there was no work to do, were changed into hardy, reckless, and enthusiastic soldiers. Turenne himself had not a more daredevil lot. They were nearly all young; they had never before been free for a single day; they rejoiced in their new companionship; they gloried in the sham fights, the wrestling, the single-stick—all the games with which the fighting spirit was awakened in them. As for the march, it was splendid: they sang as they went; if they did not sing, they laughed—the joy of laughter was previously unknown to these lads. The ruling sex did not laugh among themselves, nor did they understand the masculine yearning for mirth. In the upper classes jesting was ill-bred, and in the lower it was irreligious. Irreligious! Why, in this short time the whole army had thrown off their religion.
All over the country the men were rising and rushing to join Lord Chester. The great conspiracy was not alone answerable for this sudden impulse; nor, indeed, had the conspirators been successful in the towns, where the spirit of the men had been effectually crushed by long isolation. Here, however, the leaflets distributed among the girls bore good fruit. Not a household in the country but was now fiercely divided between those who welcomed the rebellion and those who hated and dreaded the success of the men: on the one side, orthodoxy, age, conservatism; on the other, youth, and the dream of an easy life, rendered easier by the work and devotionof a lover. So that, though the towns remained outwardly quiet, they were ready for the occupation of the rebels.
The army presented now an appearance very different from the ragged regiment which sallied forth from the gates of the Park. They were dressed in uniform: the guards wore a dark-green tunic—only proved shots were admitted into their body; the cavalry were in scarlet, the line were in scarlet; the artillery wore dark-green. All the men were armed with rifles. Of course, the uniforms were not in all cases complete, yet every day improved them; for among the volunteers were tailors, cobblers, and handicraftsmen of all kinds, whose services were given in their own trades. The great banner, with the words ‘We will be free!’ was carried after the Chief, and in the rear marched the company of a hundred girls, also in a kind of uniform, carrying their banner, ‘Give us back our sweethearts!’
The line of march was kept as much as possible away from the towns, because it was thought advisable not to irritate the municipalities until the time came when they could be gently upset; also, the material of the men in the towns was not of the sturdy kind with which they hoped to win their battles.
Nothing more was heard of the House of Peeresses. What, then, were they doing? They were holding meetings in the morning, and wrangling. No one knew what to propose. They had sent executive officers of the law to the camp; these had been contemptuously toldto go back. They had summoned the leaders to lay down their arms; they had been informed that Lord Chester would dictate his own terms. They had sent Preaching Sisters,—the most eloquent, the most persuasive, the most sacred: they had been stripped of their sacred robes, tied to a cart-tail, and driven through the camp by women, amid the derision of women—actually women! What more could they do?
The army was reported as marching southwards by rapid marches, headed by Lord Chester. They passed Bury St Edmunds and Cambridge, without, however, entering the town. They recruited as they went; so that beside the regularly drilled men, now veterans of a fortnight or so, it was reported that the line of march was followed for miles by runaway boys, apprentices, grooms, artisans, and labourers shouting for Lord Chester and for liberty. All these things, and worse, were hourly reported to the distracted House.
‘And what are we doing?’ shrieked the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. ‘What are we doing but talk? Are we, then, fallen so low, that at the first movement of an enemy we have nothing but tears and recrimination? Is this a time to accuse me—ME—of forcing the rebel chief into rebellion? Is it not a time to act? When the rebellion is subdued, when the Chief is hanged, and his miserable followers flogged—yes, flogged at the very altars they have derided—let us resume the strife of tongues. In the name of our sex, in the name of our religion, let us Act.’
They looked at each other, but no one proposed the only step left to them. Lady Carlyon was no longer among them. She would attend no more sittings. The clamour of tongues humiliated her. She sat alone in her house in Park Lane, thinking sadly of what might happen.
‘On me,’ said the Duchess solemnly, ‘devolves the duty, the painful duty, of reminding the House that there is but one way to meet rebellion. All human institutions, even when, like our own, they are of Divine origin, are based upon—Force. Law is an idle sound without—Force. Duty, religion, obedience, rest ultimately upon—Force. These men have dared to band themselves together against law, order, and religion. We must remember that they represent a very small, a really insignificant, section of the men of this country. It is cheering, at this moment of gloom and distress, to receive by every post letters from every municipality in the country expressing the loyalty of the towns. Order reigns everywhere, except where this turbulent boy is leading his troops—to destruction. I use this word with the utmost reluctance; but I must use this word. I say—destruction. Among the ranks of that army are men known to many in this House. My own gamekeepers, many of my own tenants’ sons and husbands, are in that rabble-rout of raw, undisciplined, and imperfectly armed rustics. Yet I say—destruction. We have now but one thing to do. Call out our prison-guards, and let loose these fierce and angry hounds upon the foe. I wait for the approval of the House.’
All lifted their hands, but in silence; for they were sadly conscious that they were sending the gallant, if mistaken fellows to death, and bringing sorrow upon innocent homes. The House separated, and for a while there was no more recrimination. The Duchess called a Cabinet Council, and that night messengers sped in all directions to bring together the Convict Guards—not only the two thousand first ordered to be in readiness, but as many as could be spared. It was resolved to replace them by men chosen from the prisoners, whose cases, in return for their service, should have favourable consideration. By forced marches, and by seizing on every possible means of conveyance, it was reckoned that they could muster some ten thousand,—all strong, desperate villains, capable of anything, and a match for twice that number of raw village lads.
They came up in driblets—here a hundred and there a hundred—from the various prisons throughout the country: they were men of rough and coarse appearance; they wore an ugly yellow uniform; they bore themselves as if they were ashamed of their calling, which certainly was the most repulsive of any; they showed neither ardour for the work before them nor any kind of fear.
They were received by clerks of the Prison Department, who sent them off to camp in Hyde Park, where rations of some kind were prepared for them. The clerks showed them scant courtesy, which, indeed, they seemed to take as a matter of course; and once established in their camp,they gave no trouble, keeping quite to themselves, and patiently waiting orders.
Three days were thus expended. The excitement of the town was frightful. Business was suspended, prayers were offered at all the churches every morning, the men were most carefully kept from associating together, constables patrolled in parties of four all night long, and continually the post-girls came galloping along the roads bringing the news. ‘They are coming, they are coming!’ Oh, what was the Government about? Could they do nothing, then? What was the use of the Convict Wardens, unless they were to be sent out to arrest the leaders, and shoot all who refused to disband and disperse? But there were not wanting ominous whispers among the crowds of wild talkers. What, it was asked, would happen if the men did come? They would take the power into their own hands. Very good. It could not be in worse hands than Lady Dunstanburgh’s. They would turn the women out of the Professions. Very well, said the younger women. They only starved in the Professions; and if the men were in power, they would have to find homes and food at least for their sisters and wives. Let them come.
In three days Lord Chester was at Bishop-Stortford. Next, he was reported to be encamped in Epping Forest. His cavalry had seized the arsenal at Enfield, which, with carelessness incredible, had been left in charge of two aged women. This gave him a dozen pieces of ordnance. He was on the march from Epping; he was but a few miles from London; contradictoryrumours and reports of all kinds flew wildly about; he was going to massacre, pillage, and plunder everything; he was afraid to advance farther; he would destroy all the churches; he was restrained at the last moment by respect for the faith in which he had been brought up; his men had mutinied; his men clamoured to be led on London. All these reports, and more, were whispered from one to the other. What was quite certain was, that the Convict Wardens were all arrived, and were under orders to march early in the morning. And it was also certain, because girls who had ventured on the north roads had seen them, that the rebels were encamped on Hampstead Heath, and it was said that they were in high spirits—singing, dancing, and drinking. No one knew how many they were—thousands upon thousands, and all armed.
There was little sleep in London during that night. The married women remained at home to calm the excitement of the men, now getting beyond their control. The unmarried women flocked by thousands to Hyde Park to look at the tents of the Convict Wardens, now called the Army of Avengers. In every tent eight men, more than a thousand tents; ten thousand men; the fiercest, bravest, most experienced of men. What a lesson, what a terrible lesson, would the rebels learn next morning!
ITwas evening when the rebel leader stood upon the heights of Hampstead and looked before him, by the light of the setting sun, upon the hazy and indistinct mass of the great city which he was come to conquer. Behind him his ten thousand men, with twice ten thousand followers, were erecting their tents and setting up the camp with a mighty bustle, noise, and clamour. Yet there was no confusion. Thanks to the administrative capacity of Algy Dunquerque, all was done in order. The Professor, who had left her carriage, stood beside Lord Chester. He was dismounted, and, with the aid of a glass, was trying to make out familiar towers in the golden mist that rested upon the great city.
‘So far, my lord, we have sped well,’ she said softly.
He started at her voice.
‘Well, indeed, my dear Professor,’ he replied. ‘I would to-morrow were over.’
‘Fear not; your men will answer to your call.’
‘I do not fear. They are brave fellows. Yet—to think that their blood must be spilt!’
‘There spoke Lord Chester of the past, not the gallant Prince of the present. Why, what if a few hundreds of dead men strew this field to-morrow provided the Right prevails? Of what good is a man’s life to him, if he does not give it for the sacred cause? To give a life—why, it is to lend a thing; to hasten the slow course of time; to make the soul take at a single leap the immortality which comes to others so slowly. Fear not for the blood of martyrs, my lord.’
‘You always cheer and comfort me, Professor.’
‘It is because I am a woman,’ she replied. ‘Let me fulfil the highest function of my sex.’
They were interrupted by an aide-de-camp, who came galloping across the Heath.
‘From Captain Dunquerque, my lord,’ he began. ‘The Convict Wardens are encamped in force in Hyde Park; they number ten thousand, and have got thirty guns; they march to-morrow morning.’
‘Very good,’ said the Chief; and the young officer fell back.
‘Ten thousand strong!’ said the Professor. ‘Then they have left the prisons almost without a guard. When these are dispersed, where will they find a new army? They are delivered into your hands.’
Hampstead Heath may be approached by two or three roads: there is the direct road up Haverstock Hill; or there is the way by the Gospel Oak and the Vale of Health; or, again, there is the road from the north, or that from Highgate.But the way by which the Convict Wardens would march from Hyde Park was most certainly that of Haverstock Hill; and they would emerge upon the Heath by one of the narrow roads known as Holly Hill, Heath Street, and the Grove,—probably by all three. Or they might attempt the upper part of the Heath by the Vale of Health.
The plan of battle was agreed to with very little debate, because it was simple.
The cannon, loaded with grape-shot and masked by bushes, were drawn up to command these three streets.
Behind the cannon the Guards were to lie, ready to spring to their feet and send in a volley after the first discharge of grape-shot.
The cavalry were to be posted among the trees, on the spot called after a once famous tavern which formerly stood there—Jack Straw’s Castle; the infantry, now divided into five battalions, each two thousand strong, were to lie in their places behind the Guards. These simple arrangements made, the Chief rode into the camp to encourage the men.
They needed little encouragement; the men were in excellent spirits; the news that they would have to fight those enemies of mankind, the Convict Wardens, filled them with joy. Not one among them all but had some friend, some relation, immured within the gloomy prisons, for disobedience, mutiny, or violence; some had themselves experienced the rigours of imprisonment, and the tender mercies of the ruffians who were allowed to maintain discipline with rod and lash, rifle and bayonet. These were themen who were coming out to shoot them down! Very good; they should see.
Lord Chester and his Staff rode about the camp, making speeches, cheering the men, drinking with them, and encouraging them. Their liberties, he told them, were in their own hand: one victory, and the cause was won. Then he inspired them with contempt as well as hatred for their opponents. They were men who could shoot down a flying prisoner, but had never stood face to face with a foe: they were coming out, expecting to find a meek herd, who would fly at the first shot; in their place they would meet an army of Englishmen. The men shouted and cheered: their spirit was up. And later on, about ten o’clock, a strange thing happened. No one ever knew how it began, or who set it going; but from man to man the word was passed. Then all the army rose to their feet, and shouted for joy; then the company of girls came, and shed tears among them, but for joy; and some, including the girl they had called Susan, fell upon the necks of their old sweethearts, and kissed them, bidding them be brave, and fight like men; and those who were old men wept, because this good thing had come too late for them.
For the word was—Divorce!
The young men, they said, were to abandon the wives they had been forced to marry. With Victory they were to win Love!
It was about ten o’clock when Lord Chester sought the Bishop’s tent. He had just concluded an Evening Service, and was sitting with his wife, his daughters, and Clarence Veysey.
With the Chief came Algernon Dunquerque.
‘We are here,’ said Lord Chester, ‘for a few words—it may be of farewell. My Lord Bishop, are you contented with your pupils?’
‘I give you all,’ he said solemnly, ‘my blessing. Go on and prosper. But as we may fail and so die, because victory is not of man, let those who have aught to say to each other say it now.’
Algernon spoke first, though all looked at each other.
‘I love your daughter Faith. Give us your consent, my Lord Bishop, before we go out to fight.’
The Bishop took the girl by the hand, and gave her to the young man, saying, ‘Blessed be thou, O my daughter!’
Then Clarence Veysey spoke likewise, and asked for Grace; and with such words did the father give her to him.
‘Now,’ said Algernon, ‘there needs no more. If we fall, we fall together.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace quietly, ‘we should not survive the cause.’
‘I hope,’ said Lord Chester, smiling gravely, ‘that one of you will live at least long enough to take my last message to Lady Carlyon. You will tell her, Grace, or you, my dear Professor, that my last thought was for her.’ But as he spoke the curtain of the tent was pulled aside, and Constance herself stood before them.
She was pale, and tears were in her eyes. She wore a riding-habit; but it was covered with dust.
‘Edward!’ she cried. ‘Fly ... fly ... while there is time! All of you fly!’
‘What is it, Constance? How came you here?’
‘I came because I can bear it no longer. I came to warn you, and to help your escape, if that may be. The Duchess has issued a warrant for my arrest,—for High Treason: that is nothing,’ with a proud gesture. ‘They will say I ran away from the warrant: that is false. Edward, your life is gone unless you are twenty miles from London to-morrow!’
‘Come, Constance,’ said the Professor, ‘you are hot and tired. Rest a little; drink some water; take breath. We are prepared, I think, for all that you can tell us.’
‘Oh, no!... no!... you cannot be. Listen! They have ten thousand Convict Wardens in Hyde Park ...’
‘We know this,’ said Algernon.
‘Who will attack you to-morrow.’
‘We know this too.’
‘Their orders are to shoot down all without parley; all—do you hear?—who are found with arms. The Chiefs are to be taken to the Tower!’ she shuddered.
‘We know all this, Constance,’ said Lord Chester.
‘You know it! and you can look unconcerned?’
‘Not unconcerned entirely, but resigned perhaps, and even hopeful.’
‘Edward, what can you do?’
‘If they have orders to shoot all who do notfly, my men, for their part, have orders not to fly, but to shoot all who stand in their way.’
‘Your men? Poor farm-labourers! what can they do?’
‘Wait till morning, Constance, and you shall see. Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘Yes. After the Wardens have dispersed the rebels, the Horse Guards are to be ordered out to ride them down.’
‘Oh!’ said Lord Chester. ‘Well ... after we are dispersed, we will consider the question of the riding down. Then we need not expect the Horse Guards to-morrow morning?’
‘No; they will come afterwards.’
‘Thank you, Constance; you have given me one piece of intelligence. I confess I was uncertain about the Guards. And now, dear child,’—he called her, the late Home Secretary, ‘dear child,’—‘as this is a solemn night, and we have much to think of and to do ... one word before we part. Constance, you have by this act of yours, cast in your lot with us, because you thought to save my life. Everything is risked upon to-morrow’s victory. If we fail we die. Are you ready to die with me?’
She made no reply. The old feeling, the overwhelming force of the man, made her cheek white and her heart faint. She held out her hands.
He took her—before all those witnesses—in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Stay with us, my darling,’ he whispered; ‘cast in your lot with mine.’
She had no power to resist, none to refuse.She was conquered; Man was stronger than Woman.
‘Children,’ said the Bishop solemnly, ‘you shall not die, but live.’
Constance started. She knew not this kind of language, which was borrowed from the Books of the Ancient Faith.
‘There are many things,’ said the Bishop, ‘of which you know not yet, Lady Carlyon. After to-morrow we will instruct you. Meantime it is late; the Chief has business; I would be alone. Go you with my daughters and rest, if you can, until the morning.’
The very atmosphere seemed strange to Constance: the young men in authority, the women submissive; this old man speaking as if he were a learned divine, reverend, grave, andaccustomed to be heard; and, outside, the voices of men ringing, of arms clashing, of music playing,—all the noise of a camp before it settles into rest for the night.
‘Can they,’ Constance whispered to Grace Ingleby, looking round her outside the tent—‘will theydareto fight these terrible and cruel Convict Wardens?’
‘Oh, Lady Carlyon!’ Grace replied, ‘you do not know, you cannot guess, what wonderful things Lord Chester has done with the men in the last fortnight. From poor, obedient slaves, he has made them men indeed.’
‘Men!’ Constance saw that she could not understand the word in the sense to which she had been accustomed.
‘Surely you know,’ Grace went on, ‘thatour object is more than we have ventured to proclaim. We began with the cry of “Youth for the Young.” That touched a grievance which was more felt, perhaps, in country districts, where men retained some of their independence, than in towns. But we meant very much more. We shall abolish the Established Church, and the supremacy of Woman. Man will reign once more, and will worship, after the manner of his ancestors, the real living Divine Man, instead of the shadowy Perfect Woman.’
‘Oh!’ Constance heard and trembled. ‘And we—what shall we do?’
‘We shall take our own place—we shall be the housewives; we shall be loving and faithful servants to men, and they will be our servants in return. Love knows no mastery. Yet man must rule outside the house.’
‘Oh!’ Constance could say no more.
‘Believe me, this is the true place of woman; she is the giver of happiness and love; she is the mother and the wife. As for us, we have reigned and have tried to rule. How much we have failed, no one knows better than yourself.’
Grace guided her companion to a great marquee, where the company of girls, sobered now, and rather tearful, because their sweethearts were to go a-fighting in earnest on the morrow, were making lint and bandages.
‘I must go on with my work,’ said Grace. Her sister Faith was already in her place, tearing, cutting and shaping. ‘Do you lie down’ here is a pile of lint—make that your bed, and sleep if you can.’
Constance lay down; but she could not sleep. She already heard in imagination the tramp of the cruel Convict Wardens; she saw her lover and his companions shot down; she was herself a prisoner; then, with a cry, she sprang to her feet.
‘Give me some work to do,’ she said to Grace; ‘I cannot sleep.’
They made a place for her, Grace and Faith between them, saying nothing.
By this time the girls were all silent, and some were crying; for the day was dawning—the day when these terrible preparations of lint would be used for poor wounded men.
When, about half-past five, the first rays of the September sun poured into the marquee upon the group of women, Grace sprang to her feet, crying aloud in a kind of ecstacy.
‘The day has come—the day is here! Oh, what can we do but pray!’
She threw herself upon her knees and prayed aloud, while all wept and sobbed.
Constance knelt with the rest, but the prayer touched her not. She was only sad, while Grace sorrowed with faith and hope.
Then Faith Ingleby raised her sweet strong voice, and, with her, the girls sang together a hymn which was unknown to Constance. It began:—