The Revolt of Man
by Walter Besant · English · Gutenberg #48690 · 374,436 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Revolt of Man
Author: Walter Besant
Release date: April 12, 2015 [eBook #48690]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REVOLT OF MAN ***
THE REVOLT OF MAN
[Illustration: 'The breaking of fetters, the sudden rush of light.'
R.M.
_Page_ 143.]
[Illustration: _The
Revolt
of
Man_
_Walter Besant_
_Collins' Clear-Type Press_
_London & Glasgow_]
PREFACE
It is now fourteen years since this book appeared anonymously. At first
the story stood cold and shivering, disregarded by the world. Six weeks,
however, after its production a highly appreciative review in one of the
most important journals caused people to inquire after it. Since then it
has gone through many editions.
Every one who has written stories knows the unaccountable difference
there is between the ease and delight of writing some and the
difficulties and troubles which attend the writing of others. The
_Revolt of Man_ was written during a certain summer holiday; day by day
chapter by chapter, was read out, as it was finished, to two ladies. It
is needless to say that their comments on the progress of events were
often most valuable. Above all I may now acknowledge their advice as to
the conclusion of the story. At first it ended in a real battle. 'Let
the _Revolt of Man_ be bloodless,' said my advisers. It _is_ bloodless.
The advice was excellent, and I followed it; and now, after fourteen
years, I take this opportunity of thanking them.
W. B.
UNITED UNIVERSITY CLUB;
_December 1896_.
CONTENTS
CHAP PAGE
I. IN PARK LANE 11
II. THE EARL OF CHESTER 33
III. THE CHANCELLOR 48
IV. THE GREAT DUCHESS 62
V. IN THE SEASON 75
VI. WOMAN'S ENGLAND 92
VII. ON THE TRUMPINGTON ROAD 119
VIII. THE BISHOP 135
IX. THE GREAT CONSPIRACY 150
X. THE FIRST SPARK 160
XI. A MARRIAGE MARRED 179
XII. IN THE CAMP AT CHESTER TOWERS 191
XIII. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 215
XIV. THE ARMY OF AVENGERS 228
CONCLUSION 241
Collins' 7^{d.} net Modern Fiction
(_In Great Britain Only_)
WITH FRONTISPIECE AND DESIGNED TITLE PAGE
EACH VOLUME HAS AN ATTRACTIVE COLOURED WRAPPER
1 The Great Refusal MAXWELL GRAY
3 The Brown Eyes of Mary MADAME ALBANESI
4 The Golden Butterfly BESANT AND RICE
6 A Weaver of Webs JOHN OXENHAM
7 Saints in Society MRS. BAILLIE-SAUNDERS
8 The Wreck of the Grosvenor W. CLARK RUSSELL
9 Comin' Thro' the Rye HELEN MATHERS
10 The Deemster HALL CAINE
11 The Happy Valley B. M. CROKER
13 New Arabian Nights R. L. STEVENSON
15 American Wives and English Husbands GERTRUDE ATHERTON
18 The Tempestuous Petticoat ROBERT BARR
19 A Ward of the Golden Gate BRET HARTE
21 Under the Greenwood Tree THOMAS HARDY
23 The Firm of Girdlestone A. CONAN DOYLE
25 The School for Saints JOHN OLIVER HOBBES
26 Ready-Money Mortiboy BESANT AND RICE
27 Nature's Comedian W. E. NORRIS
28 The Luck of the Fairfaxes KATHERINE TYNAN
29 Comethup TOM GALLON
30 A Sack of Shakings FRANK T. BULLEN
31 Red Spider S. BARING-GOULD
32 Pretty Polly Pennington MADAME ALBANESI
33 Genevra C. MARRIOTT
35 The Locum Tenens VICTOR L. WHITECHURCH
36 A Princess of Thule WILLIAM BLACK
37 Daireen F. FRANKFORT MOORE
39 A Waif of the Plains BRET HARTE
40 Terence B. M. CROKER
41 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton WILLIAM BLACK
42 Brendle MARMADUKE PICKTHALL
43 Eve S. BARING-GOULD
44 How to be Happy though Married REV. E. J. HARDY
45 Macleod of Dare WILLIAM BLACK
46 Loaves and Fishes BERNARD CAPES
47 My Little Girl BESANT AND RICE
48 The Light of Scarthey EGERTON CASTLE
49 The Amazing Duke SIR WM. MAGNAY, BART.
50 Diana Harrington. B. M. CROKER
51 Sister Anne MADAME ALBANESI
52 A Gentleman of London MORICE GERARD
53 An English Girl in Paris CONSTANCE E. MAUD
54 Despair's Last Journey D. C. MURRAY
55 Running Water A. E. W. MASON
56 John Holdsworth--Chief Mate W. CLARK RUSSELL
57 The Ivory Gate SIR WALTER BESANT
58 The Tempting of Paul Chester ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW
59 A Royal Indiscretion RICHARD MARSH
60 The Cattle-Baron's Daughter HAROLD BINDLOSS
61 A Breach of Promise LADY TROUBRIDGE
62 Harum Scarum ESME STUART
63 The Journal of a Jealous Woman PERCY WHITE
64 The Fowler BEATRICE HARRADEN
65 Count Bunker J. STORER CLOUSTON
66 Robert Orange JOHN OLIVER HOBBES
67 The Parish Nurse MARY E. MANN
68 Eve and the Law ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW
69 The Path of a Star MRS EVERARD COTES
(Sara Jeannette Duncan)
70 The Shadow of a Crime HALL CAINE
71 George V., Our Sailor King ROBERT HUDSON
72 My French Friends CONSTANCE E. MAUD
73 Pretty Miss Neville B. M. CROKER
74 Sicilian Lovers DOUGLAS SLADEN
75 Christine of the Hills MAX PEMBERTON
76 Grand Babylon Hotel ARNOLD BENNETT
77 A Prince of Lovers SIR WM. MAGNAY, BART.
78 The Whip Hand KEBLE HOWARD
79 The Suspicions of Ermengarde MAXWELL GRAY
80 The Column CHARLES MARRIOTT
81 Cynthia LEONARD MERRICK
82 Jennifer Pontefracte ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW
83 Molly Bawn MRS HUNGERFORD
84 A Sower of Wheat HAROLD BINDLOSS
85 2835 Mayfair FRANK RICHARDSON
86 Two Little Wooden Shoes OUIDA
87 A Bride from the Bush ERNEST W. HORNUNG
_Further Volumes in Preparation_
London and Glasgow: Collins' Clear-Type Press.
CHAPTER I
IN PARK LANE
Breakfast was laid for two in the smallest room--a jewel of a room--of
perhaps the largest house in Park Lane. It was already half-past ten,
but as yet there was only one occupant of the room, an elderly lady of
striking appearance. Her face, a long oval face, was wrinkled and
crow-footed in a thousand lines; her capacious forehead was contracted
as if with thought; her white eyebrows were thick and firmly drawn; her
deep-set eyes were curiously keen and bright; her features were strongly
marked,--it was a handsome face which could never, even in early
girlhood, have been a pretty face; her abundant hair was of a rich
creamy white, the kind of white which in age compensates its owner for
the years of her youth when it was inclined to redness; her mouth was
full, the lower lip slightly projecting, as is often found with those
who speak much and in large rooms; her fingers were restless; her figure
was withered by time. When she laid aside the paper she had been
reading, and walked across the room to the open window, you might have
noticed how frail and thin she seemed, yet how firmly she walked and
stood.
This wrinkled face, this frail form, belonged to the foremost intellect
of England; the lady was none other than Dorothy Ingleby, Professor of
Ancient and Modern History in the University of Cambridge.
It would be difficult, without going into great detail, and telling many
anecdotes, to account for her great reputation and the weight of her
authority. She had written little; her lectures were certainly not
popular with undergraduates, partly because undergraduates will never
attend Professors' lectures, and partly because the University would not
allow her to lecture at all on the history of the past, and the story of
the present was certainly neither interesting nor enlivening.
As girls at school, everybody had learned about the Great Transition,
and the way in which the transfer of Power, which marked the last and
greatest step of civilisation, had been brought about: the gradual
substitution of women for men in the great offices; the spread of the
new religion; the abolition of the monarchy; the introduction of pure
theocracy, in which the ideal Perfect Woman took the place of a personal
sovereign; the wise measures by which man's rough and rude strength was
disciplined into obedience,--all these things were mere commonplaces of
education. Even men, who learned little enough, were taught that in the
old days strength was regarded more than mind, while the father actually
ruled in the place which should have been occupied by the mother; these
things belonged to constitutional history--nobody cared much about
them; while, on the other hand, they would have liked to know--the more
curious among them--what was the kind of world which existed before the
development of culture gave the reins to the higher sex; and it was well
known that the only person at all capable of presenting a faithful
restoration of the old world was Professor Ingleby.
Again, there was a mystery about her: although in holy orders, she had
always refused to preach; it was whispered that she was not orthodox.
She had been twice called upon to sign the hundred and forty-four
Articles, a request with which, on both occasions, she cheerfully
complied, to the discomfiture of her enemies. Yet her silence in matters
of religion provoked curiosity and surmise--a grave, woman, a woman with
all the learning of the University Library in her head, a woman who,
alone among women, held her tongue, and who, when she did speak, spoke
slowly, and weighed her words, and seemed to have written out her
conversation beforehand, so pointed and polished it was. In religion and
politics, however, the Professor generally maintained silence absolute.
Now, if a woman is always silent on those subjects upon which other
women talk oftenest and feel most deeply, it is not wonderful if she
becomes suspected of heterodoxy. It was known positively, and she had
publicly declared, that she wished the introduction--she once said,
mysteriously, the return--of a more exact and scientific training than
could be gained from the political, social, and moral economy which
formed the sole studies of Cambridge. Now, the Heads of Houses, the
other professors, the college lecturers, and the fellows, all held the
orthodox doctrine that there is no other learning requisite or desirable
than that contained in the aforesaid subjects. For these, they
maintained, embrace all the branches of study which are concerned with
the conduct of life.
* * * * *
The Professor threw aside the _Gazette_, which contained as full a
statement as was permitted of last night's debate, with an angry
gesture, and walked to the open window.
'Another defeat!' she murmured. 'Poor Constance! This time, I suppose,
they must resign. These continual changes of ministry bring contempt as
well as disaster upon the country. Six months ago, all the Talents!
Three months ago, all the Beauties! Now, all the First-classes! And what
a mess--what a mess--they make between them! Why do they not come to me
and make me lecture on ancient history, and learn how affairs were
conducted a hundred years ago, when man was in his own place, and'--here
she laughed and looked around her with a certain suspicion--'and woman
was in hers?'
Then she turned her eyes out to the park below her. It was a most
charming morning in June; the trees were at their freshest and their
most beautiful: the flowers were at their brightest, with great masses
of rhododendron, purple lilac, and the golden rain of the laburnum. The
Row was well filled: young men were there, riding bravely and gallantly
with their sisters, their mothers, or their wives; girls and ladies were
taking their morning canter before the official day began; and along the
gravel-walks girls were hastening quickly to their offices or their
lecture-rooms; older ladies sat in the shade, talking politics; idlers
of both sexes were strolling and sitting, watching the horses or talking
to each other.
'Youth and hope!' murmured the Professor. 'Every lad hopes for a young
wife; every girl trusts that success will come to her while she is still
young enough to be loved. Age looks on with her young husband at her
side, and prides herself in having no illusions left. Poor creatures!
You destroyed love--love the consoler, love the leveller--when you, who
were born to receive, undertook to give. Blind! blind!'
She turned from the window and began to examine the pictures hanging on
the walls. These consisted entirely of small portraits copied from
larger pictures. They were arranged in chronological order, and were in
fact family portraits. The older pictures were mostly the heads of men,
taken in the fall of life, gray-bearded, with strong, steadfast eyes,
and the look of authority. Among them were portraits of ladies, chiefly
taken in the first fresh bloom of youth.
'They knew,' said the Professor, 'how to paint a face in those days.'
Among the modern pictures a very remarkable change was apparent. The men
were painted in early manhood, the women at a more mature age; the
style was altered for the worse, a gaudy conventional mannerism
prevailed; there was weakness in the drawing and a blind following in
the colour: as for the details, they were in some cases neglected
altogether, and in others elaborated so as to swamp and destroy the
subject of the picture. The faces of the men were remarkable for a
self-conscious beauty of the lower type: there was little intellectual
expression; the hair was always curly, and while some showed a bull-like
repose of strength, others wore an expression of meek and gentle
submissiveness. As for the women, they were represented with all the
emblems of authority--tables, thrones, papers, deeds, and pens.
'As if,' said the Professor, 'the peeresses' right divine to rule was in
their hearts! But, in these days, the painter's art is a rule of thumb.'
There was a small stand full of books, chiefly of a lighter kind,
prettily bound and profusely gilt. Some were novels, with such titles as
_The Hero of the Cricket Field_, _The Long Jump_, _The Silver Racket_,
and so on. Some were apparently poems, among them being Lady Longspin's
_Vision of the Perfect Knight_, with a frontispiece, showing the Last
Lap of the Seven-Mile Race; Julia Durdle's poems of the _Young Man's
Crown of Glory_, and Aunt Agatha's _Songs for Girls at School or
College_. There were others of a miscellaneous character, such as _Guide
to the Young Politician_, being a series of letters to a peeress at
Oxford; _Meditations in the University Church_; _Hymns for Men_; the
_Sacrifice of the Faithful Heart_; _The Womanhood of Heaven; or, the
Light and Hope of Men_, with many others whose title proclaimed the
nature of their contents. The appearance of the books, however, did not
seem to show that they were much read.
'I should have thought,' said the Professor, 'that Constance would have
turned all this rubbish out of her breakfast-room. After all, though,
what could she put in its place here?'
As the clock struck eleven, the door opened, and the young lady whom the
Professor spoke of as Constance appeared.
She was a girl of twenty, singularly beautiful, her face was one of
those very rare faces which seem as if nature, after working steadily in
one mould for a good many generations, has at last succeeded in
perfecting her idea. Most of our faces, somehow, look as if the mould
had not quite reached the conception of the sculptor. Unfortunately,
while such faces as that of Constance, Countess of Carlyon, are rare,
they are seldom reproduced in children. Nature, in fact, smashes her
mould when it is quite perfect, and begins again upon another. The hair
was of that best and rarest brown, in which there is a touch of gold
when the sun shines upon it. Her eyes were of a dark, deep blue; her
face was a beautiful and delicate oval; her chin was pointed; her cheek
perhaps a little too pale, and rather thin; and there was a broad edging
of black under her eyes, which spoke of fatigue, anxiety, or
disappointment. But she smiled when she saw her guest.
'Good morning, Professor,' she said, kissing the wrinkled cheek. 'It
was good indeed of you to come. I only heard you were in town last
night.'
'You are well this morning, Constance?' asked the Professor.
'Oh, yes!' replied the girl wearily. 'I am well enough. Let us have
breakfast. I have been at work since eight with my secretary. You know
that we resign to-day.'
'I gathered so much,' said the Professor, 'from the rag they call the
_Official Gazette_. They do not report fully, of course, but it is clear
that you had an exciting debate, and that you were defeated.'
The Countess sighed. Then she reddened and clenched her hands.
'I cannot bear to think of it,' she cried. 'We had a _disgraceful_
night. I shall never forget it--or forgive it. It was not a debate at
all; it was the exchange of unrestrained insults, rude personalities,
humiliating recrimination.'
'Take some breakfast first, my dear,' said the Professor, 'and then you
shall tell me as much as you please.'
Most of the breakfast was eaten by the Professor herself. Long before
she had finished, Constance sprang from the table and began to pace the
room in uncontrollable agitation.
'It is hard--oh! it is very hard--to preserve even common dignity, when
such attacks are made. One noble peeress taunted me with my youth. It is
two years since I came of age--I am twenty,--but never mind that.
Another threw in my teeth my--my--my cousin Chester,'--she blushed
violently; 'to think that the British House of Peeresses should have
fallen so low! Another charged me with trying to be thought the
loveliest woman in London; can we even listen to such things without
shame? And the Duchesse de la Vieille Roche'--here she laughed
bitterly--'actually had the audacity to attack my Political
Economy--mine; and I was Senior in the Tripos! When they were tired of
abusing me, they began upon each other. No reporters were present. The
Chancellor, poor lady! tried in vain to maintain order; the scene--with
the whole House, as it seemed, screeching, crying, demanding to be
heard, throwing accusations, innuendoes, insinuations, at each
other--made one inclined to ask if this was really the House of
Peeresses, the Parliament of Great Britain, the place where one would
expect to find the noblest representatives in the whole world of culture
and gentlehood.'
Constance paused, exhausted but not satisfied. She had a good deal more
to say, but for the moment she stood by the window, with flashing eyes
and trembling lips.
'The last mixed Parliament,' said the Professor, thoughtfully--'that in
which the few men who were members seceded in a body--presented similar
characteristics. The abuse of the liberty of speech led to the abolition
of the Lower House. _Absit omen!_'
'Thank Heaven,' replied the Countess, 'that it was abolished! Since then
we have had--at least we have generally had--decorum and dignity of
debate.'
'Until last night, dear Constance, and a few similar last nights. Take
care.'
'They cannot abolish us,' said Constance, 'because they would have
nothing to fall back upon.'
The Professor coughed dryly, and took another piece of toast.
The Countess threw herself into a chair.
'At least,' she said, 'we have changed mob-government for divine right.'
'Ye--yes.' The Professor leaned back in her chair. 'James II., in the
old time, said much the same thing; yet they abolished him. To be sure,
in his days, divine right went through the male line.'
'Men said so,' said the Countess, 'to serve their selfish ends. How can
any line be continued except through the mother? Absurd!'
Then there was silence for a little, the Professor calmly eating an egg,
and the Home Secretary playing with her tea-spoon.
'We hardly expected success,' she continued, after a while; 'it was only
in the desperate condition of the Party that the Cabinet gave way to my
proposal. Yet I did hope that the nature of the Bill would have awakened
the sympathy of a House which has brothers, fathers, nephews, and male
relations of all kinds, and does not consist entirely of orphaned only
daughters.'
'That is bitter, Constance,' sighed the Professor. 'I hope you did not
begin by saying so.'
'No, I did not. I explained that we were about to ask for a Commission
into the general condition of the men of this country. I set forth, in
mild and conciliating language, a few of my facts. You know them all; I
learned them from you. I showed that the whole of the educational
endowments of this country have been seized upon for the advantage of
women. I suggested that a small proportion might be diverted for the
assistance of men. Married men with property, I showed, have no
protection from the prodigality of their wives. I pointed out that the
law of evidence, as regards violence towards wives, presses heavily on
the man. I showed that single men's wages are barely sufficient to
purchase necessary clothing. I complained of the long hours during which
men have to toil in solitude or in silence, of the many cases in which
they have to do housework and attend to the babies, as well as do their
long day's work. And I ventured to hint at the onerous nature of the
Married Mother's Tax--that five per cent. on all men's earnings.'
'My dear Constance,' interrupted the Professor, 'was it judicious to
show your whole hand at once? Surely step by step would have been
safer.'
'Perhaps. I ventured next to call the serious attention of the House to
the grave discontent among the younger women of the middle classes who,
by reason of the crowded state of the professions, are unable to think
of marriage, as a rule, before forty, and often have to wait later. This
was received with cold disapprobation: the House is always touchy on the
subject of marriage. But when I went on to hint that there was danger
to the State in the reluctance with which the young men entered the
married state under these conditions, there was such a clamour that I
sat down.'
The Professor nodded.
'Just what one would have expected. Talk the conventional commonplace,
and the House will listen; tell the truth, and the House will rise with
one consent and shriek you down. Poor child! what did you expect?'
'A dozen rose together. Lady Cloistertown caught the Chancellor's eye. I
suppose you know her extraordinary command of commonplaces. She asked
whether the House was prepared to place man on an equality with woman;
she supposed we should like to see him sitting with ourselves, voting
with the rudeness of his intellect, even speaking with the bluntness of
the masculine manner. And then she burst into a scream. "Irreligion,"
she cried, "was rampant; was this a moment for bringing forward such a
motion? Not only women, but even men, had begun to doubt the Perfect
Woman; the rule of the higher intellect was threatened; the new
civilisation was tottering; we might even expect an attempt to bring
about a return of the reign of brute force-" Heavens! and that was only
a beginning. Then followed the weary platitudes that we know so well.
Can no one place truth before us in words of freshness?'
'If you insist upon every kind of truth being naked,' said the
Professor, 'you ought not to grumble if her limbs sometimes look
unlovely.'
'Then let us for a while agree to accept truth in silence.'
'I would we could!' echoed the elder lady. 'I know the weariness of the
commonplace. When we are every year invaded by gentlemen at
Commemoration, I have to go through the same dreary performance. The
phrases about the higher intellect, the sex which is created to carry on
the thought, while the other executes the work of this world; the
likeness and yet unlikeness between us due to that beautiful arrangement
of nature; the extraordinary success we are making of our power; the
loveliness of the new religion, revealed bit by bit, to one woman after
another, until we were able to reach unto the conception, the vision,
the realisation of the Perfect Woman----'
'Professor,' interrupted Constance, laying her hand on her friend's
shoulder, 'do not talk so. Strengthen my faith; do not destroy what is
left of religion by a sneer. Alas! everything seems falling away;
nothing satisfies; there is no support anywhere, nor any hope. I suppose
I am not strong enough for my work; at least I have failed. The whole
country is crying out with discontent. The Lancashire women cannot sell
their husband's work. I hear that they are taking to drink. Wife-beating
has broken out again in the Potteries. It is reported that secret
associations are again beginning to be formed among the men; and then
there are these county magistrates with their unjust sentences. A man at
Leicester has been sentenced to penal servitude for twenty years because
his wife says he swore at her and threatened her. I wrote for
information; the magistrate says she thought an example was needed. And,
innocent or guilty, the husband is not allowed to cross-examine his
wife. Then look at the recent case at Cambridge.'
'Yes,' said the Professor; 'that is bad indeed.'
'The husband--a man of hitherto blameless character,--young, well-born,
handsome, good at his trade, and with some pretensions to the higher
culture--sentenced to penal servitude for life for striking his wife,
one of the senior fellows of Trinity!'
The Professor's eyes flashed.
'As you are going out of office to-day, my Lady Home Secretary, and can
do no more justice for a while, I will tell you the truth of that case.
The wife was tired of her husband. It was a most unhappy match. She
wanted to marry another man, so she trumped up the charge; that is the
disgraceful truth. No fishwife of Billingsgate could have lied more
impudently. He, in accordance with our, no doubt most just and
well-intentioned, laws, becomes a convict for the rest of his days; she
marries again. Everybody knows the truth, but nobody ventures to state
it. She banged her own arm black and blue herself with the poker, and
showed it in open court as the effects of his violence. As for her
husband, I visited him in prison. He was calm and collected. He says
that he is glad there are no children to lament his disgrace, that
prison life is preferable to living any longer with such a woman, and
that, on the whole, death is better than life when an innocent man can
be so treated in a civilised country.'
'Poor man!' groaned Constance. 'Stay; I have a few hours yet of power.
His name? she sprang to her desk.
'John Phillips--no; Phillips is the wife's name. I forgot that the
sentence itself carries divorce with it. His bachelor name was Coryton.'
Constance wrote rapidly.
'John Coryton. He shall be released. A free pardon from the Home
Secretary cannot be appealed against. He is free.'
She sprang from the table and rang the bell. Her private secretary
appeared.
'This despatch to be forwarded at once,' she said. 'Not a moment's
delay.'
'Constance!' The Professor seized her hand. 'You will have the thanks of
every woman who knows the truth. All those who do not will curse the
weakness of the Home Secretary.'
'I care not,' she said. 'I have done one just action in my short term of
office. I--who looked to do so many good and just actions!'
'It is difficult, more difficult than one ever suspects, for a Minister
to do good. Alas! my dear, John Coryton's case is only one of many.'
'I know,' replied Constance sighing. 'Yet what can I do! Our greatest
enemies are--ourselves. Oh, Professor! when I think of the men working
at their looms from morning until night, cooking the dinners and looking
after the children, while the women sit about the village pump or in
their clubs, to talk unmeaning politics--Tell me, logician, why our
theories are all so logical, and our practice is so bad?'
'Everything,' said the Professor, 'in our system is rigorously logical
and just. If it could not be proved scientifically--if it were not
absolutely certain--the system could never be accepted by the exact
intellect of cultivated women. Have not Oxford and Cambridge proclaimed
this from a hundred pulpits and in a thousand text-books? My dear Lady
Carlyon, you yourself proved it when you took your degree in the most
brilliant essay ever written.'
The Countess winced.
'Must we, then,' she asked, 'cease to believe in logic?'
'Nay,' replied Professor Ingleby; 'I said not that. But every conclusion
depends upon the minor premiss. That, dear Countess, in the case of our
system, appears to me a little uncertain.'
'But where is the uncertainty? Surely you will allow me, my dear
Professor,'--Constance smiled,--'although I am only a graduate of two
years' standing, to know enough logic to examine a syllogism?'
'Surely, Constance. My dear, I do not presume to doubt your reasoning
powers. It was only an expression of perplexity. We are so right, and
things go so wrong.'
Both ladies were silent for a few moments, and Constance sighed.
'For instance,' the Professor went on, 'we were logically right when we
suppressed the Sovereignty. In a perfect State, the head must also be
perfect. Whom, then, could we acknowledge as head but the Perfect
Woman? So we became a pure theocracy. Then, again, we were right when we
abolished the Lower House; for in a perfect State, the best rulers must
be those who are well-born, well-educated, and well-bred. All this
requires no demonstration. Yet----'
But the Countess shook her head impatiently, and sprang to her feet.
'Enough, Professor! I am tired of debates and the battles of phrase. The
House may get on without me. And I will inquire no more, even of you,
Professor, into the foundations of faith, constitution, and the rest of
it. I am brave, when I rise in my place, about the unalterable
principles of religious and political economy: brave words do not mean
brave heart. Like so many who are outspoken, which I cannot be--at least
yet--my faith is sapped, I doubt.'
'She who doubts,' said the Professor, 'is perhaps near the truth.'
'Nay; for I shall cease to investigate; I shall go down to the country
and talk with my tenants.'
'Do you learn much,' asked the Professor, 'of your country tenants?'
The Countess laughed.
'I teach a great deal, at least,' she replied. 'Three times a-week I
lecture the women on constitutional law, and twice on the best
management of husbands, sons, and farm-labourers, and so forth.'
'And you are so much occupied in teaching that you never learn? That is
a great pity, Constance. Do you observe?'
'I suppose I do. Why, Professor?'
'Old habits linger longest in country places. What do you find to remark
upon, most of all?'
'The strange and unnatural deference,' replied the girl, with a blush of
shame, 'paid by country women to the men. Yes, Professor, after all our
teaching, and in spite of all our laws, in the country districts the old
illogical supremacy of brute force still obtains, thinly disguised.'
'My dear, who manages the farm?'
'Why,' said the Countess, 'the wives are supposed to manage, but their
husbands really have the whole management in their own hands.'
'Who drives the cattle, sows the seed, reaps, ploughs?'
'The husband, of course. It is his duty.'
'It is,' said the Professor. 'Child, a few generations ago he did all
this as the acknowledged head of the house. _He does not forget._'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, my dear Countess, that things are never so near their end as
when they appear the firmest. Now, if you please, tell me something more
of this great speech of yours, which so roused the wrath of assembled
and hereditary wisdom. What did you intend to say?'
Constance began, in a quick, agitated way, nervously pacing the room, to
run through the main points of the speech which she had prepared but had
not been allowed to deliver. It was a plea for the intellectual
elevation of the other sex. She pointed out that, although there was
legislation in plenty for their subjection,--although the greatest care
was taken to prevent men from working together, conspiring, and meeting,
so that most work was done in solitude or at home--and when that was not
the case, a woman was always present to enforce silence--although laws
had been passed to stamp out violence, and to direct the use of brute
strength into useful channels,--little or nothing had been done, even by
private enterprise, for the education of men. She showed that the
prisons were crammed with cases of young men who had 'broken out'; that
very soon they would have no more room to hold their prisoners; that the
impatience of men under the severe restrictions of the law was growing
greater every day, and more dangerous to order; and that, unless some
remedy were found, she trembled for the consequences.
Here the Professor raised her eyes, and laughed gently.
The Countess went on with her speech. 'I am not advocating, before this
august assembly, the adoption of unconstitutional and revolutionary
measures,--I claim only for men such an education of their reasoning
faculties as will make them reasoning creatures. I would teach them
something of what we ourselves learn, so that they may reason as we
reason, and obey the law because they cannot but own that the law is
just. I know that we must first encourage the young men to follow a
healthy instinct which bids them be strong; yet there is more in life
for a man to do than to work, to dig, to carry out orders, to be a good
athlete, an obedient husband, and a conscientious father.'
Here the Professor laughed again.
'Why do you laugh, Professor?'
'Because, my dear, you are already in the way that leads to
understanding.'
'You speak in parables.'
'You are yet in twilight, dear Constance.' The Professor rose and laid
her hand on the young Countess's arm. 'Child, your generous heart has
divined what your logic would have made it impossible for you to
perceive--a great truth, perhaps the greatest of truths. Go on.'
'Have I? The House would not allow me to say it, then; my own friends
deserted me; a vote of want of confidence was hurriedly passed by a
majority of 235 to 22; and'--the young Minister laughed bitterly--'there
is an end of my great schemes.'
'For a time--yes,' said the Professor. 'But, Constance, there is a
greater work before you than you suspect or dream. Greatest of the women
of all time, my child, shall you be--if what I hope may be brought to
pass. Let not this little disappointment of an hour vex you any longer.
Go--gain strength in the country--meditate--and read.'
'Oh, read!' cried the girl, impatiently; 'I am sick of reading.'
'Read,' continued the Professor; 'read--with closed doors--the
_forbidden books_. They stand in your own castle, locked up in cases;
they have not been destroyed because they are not known to exist. Read
Shakespeare.'
Events which followed prevented the Countess from undertaking this
course of study; for she remained in town. From time to time the
Professor was wont to startle her by reading or quoting some passage
which appealed to her imagination as nothing in modern poetry seemed
able to do. She knew that the passage came from one of the old books
which had been put away, locked up, or destroyed. It was generally a
passage of audacity, clothing a revolutionary sentiment in words which
burned themselves into her brain, and seemed alive. She never forgot
these words, but she dared not repeat them. And she knew herself that
the very possession of the sentiments, the knowledge that they existed,
made her 'dangerous,' as her enemies called her; for most of them were
on the attributes of man.
The conversation was interrupted by a servant, who brought the Countess
a note.
'How very imprudent!' cried Constance, reddening with vexation. 'Why
will the boy do these wild things? Help me, Professor. My cousin, Lord
Chester, wants to see me, and is coming, _by himself_, to my
house--here--immediately.'
'Surely I am sufficient guardian of the proprieties, Constance. We will
say, if you like, that the boy came to see his old tutor. Let him come,
and, unless he has anything for your ear alone, I can be present.'
'Heaven knows what he has to say,' his cousin sighed. 'Always some
fresh escapade, some kicking over the limits of convention.' She was
standing at the window, and looked out. 'And here he comes, riding along
Park Lane as if it were an open common.'
CHAPTER II
THE EARL OF CHESTER
'Edward!' cried Constance, giving her cousin her hand, 'is this prudent?
You ride down Park Lane as if you were riding after hounds, your unhappy
attendant--poor girl!--trying in vain to keep up with you; and then you
descend openly, and in the eyes of all, alone, at my door--the door of
your unmarried cousin. Consider me, my dear Edward, if you are careless
about your own reputation. Do you think I have no enemies? Do you think
young Lord Chester can go anywhere without being seen and reported? Do
you think all women have kind hearts and pleasant tongues?'
The young man laughed, but a little bitterly.
'My reputation, Constance, may just as well be lost as kept. What do I
care for my reputation?'
At these terrible words Constance looked at him in alarm.
He was worth looking at, if only as a model, being six feet high,
two-and-twenty years of age, strongly built, with crisp, curly brown
hair, the shoulders of a Hercules, and the face of an Apollo. But to-day
his face was clouded, and as he spoke he clenched his fist.
'What has happened now, Edward?' asked his cousin. 'Anything important?
The new groom?'
'The new groom has a seat like a sack, is afraid to gallop, and can't
jump. As for her nerve, she's got none. My stable-boy Jack would be
worth ten of her. But if a man cannot be allowed--for the sake of his
precious reputation--to ride without a girl trailing at his heels, why,
I suppose there is no more to be said. No, Constance; it is worse than
the new groom.'
'Edward, you are too masterful,' said his cousin, gravely. 'One cannot,
even if he be Earl of Chester, fly in the face of all the _convenances_.
Rules are made to protect the weak for their own sake; the strong obey
them for the sake of the weak. You are strong; be therefore considerate.
Suppose all young men were allowed to run about alone?'
The Professor shook her head gravely.
'It would be a return,' she said, 'to the practice of the ancients.'
'The barbarous practice of the ancients,' added Constance.
'The grooms might at least be taught how to ride,' grumbled the young
man.
'But about this disaster, Edward; is it the postponement of a cricket
match, the failure of a tennis game----'
'Constance,' he interrupted, 'I should have thought you capable of
believing that I should not worry you at such a moment with trifles. I
have got the most serious news for you--things for which I want your
help and your sympathy.'
Constance turned pale. What could he have to tell her except one
thing--the one thing which she had been dreading for two or three years?
Edward, Earl of Chester in his own right, held his title by a tenure
unique in the peerage. For four generations the Countesses of Chester
had borne their husbands one child only, and that a son; for four
generations the Earls of Chester had married ladies of good family,
certainly, but of lower rank, so that the title remained. He
represented, by lineal descent through the male line, the ancient Royal
House; and though there were not wanting ladies descended through the
female line from old Kings of England, by this extraordinary accident he
possessed the old royal descent, which was more coveted than any other
in the long lists of the Red Book. It was objected that its honours were
half shorn by being transmitted through so many males; but there were
plenty to whisper that, according to ancient custom, the young Earl
would be none other than the King of England. So long a line of only
children could not but result in careful nursing of the estate, which
was held in trust and ward by one Countess after another, until now it
was one of the greatest in the country; and though there were a few
peeresses whose acres exceeded those of the Earl of Chester, there was
no young man in the matrimonial market to be compared with him. His hand
was at the disposal--subject, of course, to his own agreement, which was
taken for granted--of the Chancellor, who, up to the present time, had
made no sign.
Young, handsome, the holder of a splendid title, the owner of a splendid
rent-roll, said to be of amiable disposition, known to be proud of his
descent--could there be a husband more desirable? Was it to be wondered
at if every unmarried woman in a certain rank of life, whether maid or
widow, dreamed of marrying the Earl of Chester, and made pictures in her
own mind of herself as the Countess, sitting in the House, taking
precedence as Première, after the Duchesses, holding office, ruling
departments, making eloquent speeches, followed and reported by the
society papers, giving great entertainments, actually being and doing
what other women can only envy and sigh for?
It was whispered that Lady Carlyon would ask her cousin's hand; it was
also whispered that the Chancellor (now a permanent officer of the
State) would never grant her request on account of her politics; it was
also whispered that a certain widow, advanced in years, of the highest
rank, had been observed to pay particular attention to the young Earl in
society and in the field. This report, however, was received with
caution, and was not generally believed.
'Serious news!' Constance for a moment looked very pale. The Professor
glanced at her with concern and even pity. 'Serious news!' She was going
to add, 'Who is it?' but stopped in time. 'What is it?' she said
instead.
'You have not yet heard, then,' the Earl replied, 'of the great honour
done to me and to my house?'
Constance shook her head. She knew now that her worst fears were going
to be realised.
'Tell me quickly, Edward.'
'No less a person than her Grace the Duchess of Dunstanburgh has offered
me, through the Chancellor, the support and honour of her hand.'
Constance started. This was the worst, indeed. The Duchess of
Dunstanburgh! Sixty-five years of age; already thrice a widow; the
Duchess of Dunstanburgh! She could not speak.
'Have you nothing to say, Constance?' asked the young man. 'Do you not
envy me my happy lot? My bride is not young to be sure, but she is a
Duchess; the old Earldom will be lost in the new Duchy. She has buried
three husbands already; one may look forward with joy to lying beside
them in her gorgeous mausoleum. Her country house is finer than mine,
but it is not so old. She is of rank so exalted that one need not
inquire into her temper, which is said to be evil; nor into the little
faults, such as jealousy, suspicion, meanness, greed, and avarice, with
which the wicked world credits her.'
'Edward! Edward!' cried his cousin.
'Then, again, one's religion will be so beautifully brought into play.
We are required to obey--that is the first thing taught in the Church
catechism; all women are set in authority over us. I must therefore obey
the Chancellor.'
His hearers were silent.
'Again, what says the text?--"It is man's chiefest honour to be chosen:
his highest duty to give, wherever bidden, his love, his devotion, and
his loyalty."'
The Professor nodded her head gravely.
'What martyrs of religion would ask for a more noble opportunity,' he
asked, 'than to marry this old woman?'
'Edward!' Constance could only warn. She sees no way to advise. 'Do not
scoff.'
'Let us face the position,' said the Professor. 'The Chancellor has gone
through the form of asking your consent to this marriage. When?'
'Last night.'
'And when do you see her?'
'I am to see her ladyship this very morning.'
'To inform her of your acquiescence. Yes; it is the usual form. The time
is very short.'
'My acquiescence?' asked the Earl. 'We shall see about that presently.'
'Patience, my lord!' The Professor was thinking what to advise for the
best. 'Patience! Let us have no sudden and violent resolves. We may get
time. Ay--time will be our best friend. Remember that the Chancellor
_must_ be obeyed. She may, for the sake of courtesy, go through the form
of proposing a suitable alliance for your consideration, but her
proposition is her order, which you must obey. Otherwise it is contempt
of court, and the penalty----'
'I know it,' said the Earl, 'already. It is imprisonment.'
'Such contempt would be punished by imprisonment for life. Imprisonment,
hopeless.'
'Nay,' he replied. 'Not hopeless, because one could always hope in the
power of friends. Have I not Constance? And then, you see, Professor, I
am two-and-twenty, while the Chancellor and the Duchess are both
sixty-five. Perhaps they may join the majority.'
The Professor shook her head. Even to speak of the age of so great a
lady, even to hint at her death as an event likely to happen soon, was
an outrage against propriety--which is religion.
'My determination is this,' he went on, 'whatever the consequence, I
will never marry the Duchess. Law or no law, I will never marry a woman
unless I love her.' His eye rested for a moment on his cousin, and he
reddened. 'I may be imprisoned, but I shall carry with me the sympathy
of every woman--that is, of every young woman--in the country.'
'That will not help you, poor boy,' said the Professor. 'Hundreds of men
are lying in our prisons who would have the sympathies of young women,
were their histories known. But they lie there still, and will lie there
till they die.'
'Then I,' said the Earl proudly, 'will lie with them.'
There were moments when this young man seemed to forget the lessons of
his early training, and the examples of his fellows. The meekness,
modesty, submission, and docility which should mark the perfect man
sometimes disappeared, and gave place to an assumption of the authority
which should only belong to woman. At such times, in his own castle, his
servants trembled before him; the stoutest woman's heart failed for
fear: even his guardian, the Dowager Lady Boltons, selected carefully by
the Chancellor on account of her inflexible character, and because she
had already reduced to complete submission a young heir of the most
obstinate disposition, and the rudest and most uncompromising material,
quailed before him. He rode over her, so to speak. His will conquered
hers. She was ashamed to own it; she did not acquaint the Chancellor
with her ward's masterful character, but she knew, in her own mind, that
her guardianship had been a failure. Nay, so strange was the personal
influence of the young man, so infectious among the men were such
assertions of will, that any husband who happened to witness one of
them, would go home and carry on in fashion so masterful, so
independent, and so self-willed, even those who had previously been the
most submissive, that they were only brought to reason and proper
submission by threats, remonstrances, and visits of admonition from the
vicar--who, poor woman, was always occupied in the pulpit, owing to the
Earl's bad example, with the disobedience of man and its awful
consequences here and hereafter. Sometimes these failed. Then they
became acquainted with the inside of a prison and with bread and water.
'Let us get time,' said the Professor. 'My lord, I hope,'--here she sunk
her voice to a whisper--'that you will neither lie in a prison nor marry
any but the woman you love.'
Again the young man's eyes boldly fell upon Constance, who blushed
without knowing why.
Then the Professor, without any excuse, left them alone.
'You have,' said Lord Chester, 'something to say to me, Constance.'
She hesitated. What use to say now what should have been said at another
time and at a more fitting opportunity?
'I am no milky, modest, obedient youth, Constance. You know me well.
Have you nothing to say to me?'
In the novels, the young man who hears the first word of love generally
sinks on his knees, and with downcast eyes and blushing face
reverentially kisses the hand so graciously offered to him. In ordinary
life they had to wait until they were asked. Yet this young man was
actually asking--boldly asking--for the word of love--what else could he
mean?--and instead of blushing, was fixedly regarding Constance with
fearless eyes.
'It seems idle now to say it,' she replied, stammering and
hesitating--though in novels the woman always spoke up in a clear, calm,
and resolute accents; 'but, Edward, had the Chancellor not been
notoriously the personal friend and creature of the Duchess, I should
have gone to her long ago. They were schoolfellows; she owes her
promotion to the Duchess; she would most certainly have rewarded her
Grace by refusing my request.'
'Yet you are a Carlyon and I am a Chester. On what plea?'
'Cousinship, incompatibility of temper, some legal quibble--who knows?
However, that is past; forget, my poor Edward, that I have told what
should have been a secret. You will marry the Duchess--you----'
He interrupted her by laughing--a cheerfully sarcastic laugh, as of one
who holds the winning cards and means to play them.
'Fair cousin,' he said, 'I have something to say to you of far more
importance than that. You have retired before an imaginary difficulty. I
am going to face a real difficulty, a real danger. Constance,' he went
on, 'you and I are such old friends and playfellows, that you know me as
well as a woman can ever know a man who is not her husband. We played
together when you were three and I was five. When you were ten and I was
twelve, we read out of the same book until the stupidity and absurdity
of modern custom tried to stop me from reading any more. Since then we
have read separately, and you have done your best to addle your pretty
head with political economy, in the name and by the aid of which you and
your House of Lawmakers have ruined this once great country.'
'Edward! this is the wildest treason. Where, oh, where, did you learn to
talk--to think--to dare such dreadful things?'
'Never mind where, Constance. In those days--in those years of daily
companionship--a hope grew up in my heart,--a flame of fire which kept
me alive, I think, amidst the depression and gloom of my fellow men. Can
you doubt what was that hope?'
Constance trembled--the Countess of Carlyon, the Home Secretary,
trembled. Had she ever before, in all her life, trembled? She was
afraid. In the novels, it was true, many a young man, greatly daring,
by a bold word swept away a cloud of misunderstanding and reserve. But
this was in novels written by women of the middle class, who can never
hope to marry young, for the solace of people of their own rank. It was
not to be expected that in such works there should be any basis of
reality--they were in no sense pictures of life; for, in reality, as was
deplored almost openly, when these elderly ladies were rich enough to
take a husband and face the possibilities of marriage, though they
always chose the young men, it was rare indeed that they met with more
than a respectful acquiescence. Nothing, ladies complained, among each
other, was more difficult to win and retain a young man's love. But here
was this headstrong youth, with love in his eyes--bold, passionate,
masterful love--overpowering love--love in his attitude as he bent over
the girl, and love upon his lips. Oh, dignity of a Home Secretary! Oh,
rules and conventions of life! Oh, restraints of religion! Where were
they all at this most fatal moment?
'Constance,' he said taking her hand, 'all the rubbish about manly
modesty is outside the door: and that is closed. I am descended from a
race who in the good old days wooed their brides for themselves, and
fought for them too, if necessary. Not toothless, hoary old women, but
young, sunny, blooming girls, like yourself. And they wooed them thus,
my sweet.' He seized her in his strong arms and kissed her on the lips,
on the cheeks, on the forehead. Constance, frightened and moved, made no
resistance, and answered nothing. Once she looked up and met his eyes,
but they were so strong, so burning, so determined, that she was fain to
look no longer. 'I love you, my dear,' the shameless young man went
on,--'I love you. I have always loved you, and shall never love any
other woman; and if I may not marry you, I will never marry at all. Kiss
me yourself, my sweet; tell me that you love me.'
Had he a spell? was he a wizard, this lover of hers? Could Constance,
she thought afterwards, trying to recall the scene, have dreamed the
thing, or did she throw her arms about his neck and murmur in his ears
that she too loved him, and that if she could not marry him, there was
no other man in all the world for her?
To recall those five precious minutes, indeed, was afterwards to
experience a sense of humiliation which, while it crimsoned her cheek,
made her heart and pulse to beat, and sent the blood coursing through
her veins. She felt so feeble and so small, but then her lover was so
strong. Could she have believed it possible that the will of a man
should thus be able to overpower her? Why, she made no resistance at all
while her cousin in this unheard-of manner betrayed a passion which ...
which ... yes, by all the principles of holy religion, by all the rules
of society, by all the teaching which inculcated submission, patience,
and waiting to be chosen, caused this young man to deserve
punishment--condign, sharp, exemplary. And yet--what did this mean?
Constance felt her heart go forth to him. She loved him the more for
his masterfulness; she was prouder of herself because of his great
passion.
That was what she thought afterwards. What she did, when she began to
recover, was to free herself and hide her burning face in her hands.
'Edward,' she whispered, 'we are mad. And I, who should have known
better, am the more culpable. Let us forget this moment. Let us respect
each other. Let us be silent.'
'Respect?' he echoed. 'Why, who could respect you, Constance, more than
I do? Silence? Yes, for a while. Forget? Never!'
'It is wrong, it is irreligious,' she faltered.
'Wrong! Oh, Constance, let us not, between ourselves, talk the foolish
unrealities of school and pulpit.'
'Oh, Edward!'--she looked about her in terror--'for Heaven's sake do not
blaspheme. If any were to hear you. For words less rebellious men have
been sent to the prisons for life.'
He laughed. This young infidel laughed at law as he laughed at religion.
'Have patience,' Constance went on, trying to get into her usual frame
of mind; but she was shaken to the very foundation, and at the moment
actually felt as if her religion was turned upside down and her
allegiance transferred to the Perfect Man. 'Have patience, Edward; you
will yet win through to the higher faith. Many a young man overpowered
by his strength, as you have been, has had his doubts, and yet has
landed at last upon the solid rock of truth.'
Edward made no reply to this, not even by a smile. It was not a moment
in which the ordinary consolations of religion, so freely offered by
women to men, could touch his soul. He took out his watch and remarked
that the time was getting on, and that the Chancellor's appointment must
be kept.
'With her ladyship, I suppose,' he said, 'we shall find the painted,
ruddled, bewigged old hag who has the audacity to ask me--_me_--in
marriage.'
Constance caught his hand.
'Edward! cousin! are you mad? Are you proposing to seek a prison at
once? Hag? old? painted? ruddled? And this of the Duchess of
Dunstanburgh? Are you aware that the least of these charges is
actionable at common law? For my sake, Edward, if not your own, be
careful.'
'I will, sweet Constance. And for your sake, just to our two selves, I
repeat that the painted----'
'Oh!'
'The ruddled----'
'Oh, hush!'
'The bewigged----'
'Edward!'
'Old hag--do you hear?--OLD HAG shall never marry me.'
Once more this audacious and unmanly lover, who respected nothing,
seized her by the waist and kissed her lips. Once more Lady Carlyon felt
that unaccountable weakness steal upon her, so that she was bewildered,
faint, and humiliated. For a moment she lay still and acquiescent in his
arms. Worse than all, the door opened and Professor Ingleby surprised
her in this compromising situation.
'Upon my word!' she said, with a smile upon her lips; 'upon my word, my
lord--Constance--if her Grace of Dunstanburgh knew this! Children,
children!'--she laid her withered hand upon Constance's head--'I pray
that this thing may be. But we want time. Let us keep Lord Chester's
appointment. And, as far as you can, leave to me, my lord, your old
tutor, the task of speech. I know the Duchess, and I know the
Chancellor. It may be that the oil of persuasion will be more
efficacious than the lash of contradiction. Let me try.'
They stood confused--even the unblushing front of the lover reddened.
'I have thought of a way of getting time. Come with us, Constance, as
Lord Chester's nearest female relation; I as his tutor, in absence of
Lady Boltons, who is ill. When the Chancellor proposes the Duchess, do
you propose--yourself. She will decide against you on the spot. _Appeal
to the House_; that will give us three months' delay.'
CHAPTER III
THE CHANCELLOR
The Chancellor, a lady now advanced in years, was of humble origin--a
fact to which she often alluded to at public meetings with a curious
mixture of humility and pride: the former, because it did really
humiliate her in a country where so much deference was paid to
hereditary rank, to reflect that she could not be proud of her
ancestors; the latter, because her position was really so splendid, and
her enemies could not but acknowledge it. She had plenty of enemies--as
was, of course, the case with every successful woman in every line of
life--and these were unanimous in declaring that she proclaimed her
humble origin only because, if she attempted to conceal it, other people
would proclaim it for her. And, indeed, without attributing
extraordinary malice to these ladies, the Chancellor's unsuccessful
rivals and enemies, this statement was probably true--nothing being more
common, during an animated debate, than for the ladies to hurl at each
other's heads all such facts procurable as might be calculated to damage
the reputation of a family: and this so much so, that after a lively
night the family trees were as much scotched, broken, and lopped as a
public pleasure-garden in the nineteenth century after the first Monday
in August.
At this time the Chancellor had arrived at a respectable age--being,
that is to say, in her sixty-sixth year. She was a woman of uneven
temper, having been soured by a long life of struggle against rivals who
lost no opportunity of assailing her public and private reputation. She
had remained unmarried, because, said her foes, no man would consent to
link his lot with so spiteful a person; she was no lawyer, they said,
because her whole desire and aim had been to show herself a lawyer of
the highest rank; she was partial--this they said for the same reason,
because she wanted to be remembered as an upright judge. They alluded in
the House to her ignorance of the higher culture--although the poor lady
had taught herself half-a-dozen languages, and was skilled in many arts;
and they taunted her with her friendship for, meaning her dependence
upon, her patron, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. The last accusation was
the burr that stuck, because the poor Chancellor could not deny its
truth. She was, in fact, the daughter of a very respectable woman--a
tenant-farmer of the Duchess. Her Grace found the girl clever, and
educated her. She acquired over her, by the force of her personal
character, an extraordinary influence--having made her entirely her own
creature. She found the money for her entrance at the Bar, pushed her at
the beginning, watched her upward course, never let her forget that
everything was owing to her own patronage at the outset, and, when the
greatest prize of the profession was in her grasp, and the farmer's girl
became Chancellor, the Duchess of Dunstanburgh--by one of those acts of
hers which upset the debates and resolutions of years--passed a Bill
which made the appointment tenable for life, and so transferred into her
own hands all the power, all the legal skill of the Chancellor. It was
the most brilliant political _coup_ ever made. Those who knew whispered
that the Chancellor had no voice, no authority, no independent action at
all; her patron regulated everything. While this terrible Duchess lived,
the Court of Chancery belonged to her with all its manifold and
complicated powers. She herself was, save at rare intervals, Prime
Minister, Autocrat, and almost Dictator. Certainly it was notorious that
whatever the Duchess of Dunstanburgh wanted she had; and it was also a
fact not to be disputed, that there were many lawyers of higher repute,
more dignified, more learned, more eloquent, and of better birth, who
had been passed over to make room for this protégée of the Duchess--this
'daughter of the plough.'
Lord Chester, accompanied by the Countess of Carlyon and Professor
Ingleby, arrived at the Law Courts at twelve, the hour of the
Chancellor's appointment, and were shown into an ante-room. Here, with a
want of courtesy most remarkable, considering the rank of the ward in
Chancery whose future was to be decided at this interview, they were
kept waiting for half an hour. When at length they were admitted to the
presence, they were astonished to find that, contrary to all precedent,
the Duchess of Dunstanburgh herself was with the Chancellor. In fact she
had been directing her creature in the line she was to take: she
intended to receive the hand of the Earl from her, and to push on the
marriage without an hour's delay. It was sharp practice; but her Grace
was not a woman who considered herself bound by the ordinary rules. Any
lesser person would have made her petition for the hand of a ward, and
waited until she had received in due course official notification of
acceptance, when an interview would have been arranged and the papers
signed. All this, owing to the delays of Chancery, generally took from a
twelvemonth upwards; and in the case of poor people who had no interest,
perhaps their petitions were never decided at all, so that the
unfortunate petitioner waited in vain, until she died of old age, still
unmarried; and the unlucky ward lived on, hoping against hope, till his
time for marriage went by. The Duchess possessed even more than the
dignity which became her rank. She was rather a tall woman, with
aquiline features; her age was sixty-five, and in her make-up she
studiously affected, not the bloom and elasticity of youth, but the
vigour and strength of middle life--say of fifty. All the resources of
art were lavished upon her with this object: her hair showed a touch of
gray upon the temples, but was still abundant, rich, and glossy, and was
so beautifully arranged that it challenged the admiration even of those
who knew that it was a wig; her eyebrows were dark and well defined--her
enemies said she kept a special artist continually employed in making
new eyebrows; her teeth were of pearly whiteness; her cheeks, just
touched with paint, showed none of the wrinkles of time--though no one
knew how that was managed; her forehead strong and broad, was crossed by
three deep lines which could not be effaced by any artist. Some said
they were caused by the successive deaths of three husbands, and
therefore marked the Duchess's profound grief and the goodness of her
heart, because it was known that one of them at least--the third,
youngest, and handsomest of all, upon whom the fond wife lavished all
her affections--had given her the greatest trouble; indeed, it was even
said that--and that--and that--with many other circumstances showing the
blackest ingratitude, so that women held up their hands and wondered
what men wanted. But her Grace's enemies said that her famous wrinkles
were caused by her three great vices of pride, ambition, and avarice;
and they declared that if she developed another such furrow, it would
represent her other great vice of vanity. As for that third
husband--could one expect the poor young man to fall in love with a
woman already fifty-eight when she married him?
The Duchess was richly but plainly dressed in black velvet and lace; her
figure was still full. As she rose to greet the Chancellor's ward, she
leaned upon a gold-headed stick--being somewhat troubled with gout. Her
smile was encouraging and kind towards the Earl; to Constance, as to a
political enemy who was to be treated with all external courtesy, she
bowed low; and she coldly inclined her head in return to the profound
act of deference paid to her by the Professor. The Chancellor, a fussy
little woman with withered cheeks, wrinkled brow, and thin gray locks,
sat at her table. She hardly rose to greet her ward, whom she motioned
to a chair. Then she looked at Constance, and waited for her to explain
her presence.
'I come with Lord Chester on this occasion,' said Constance, 'as his
nearest female relation. As your ladyship is probably aware, I am his
second cousin.'
The Chancellor bowed. Then the Professor spoke.
'I ask your ladyship's permission to appear in support of my pupil on
this important occasion. His guardian, Lady Boltons, is unfortunately
too ill to be present.'
'There is no reason, I suppose,' said the Chancellor, ungraciously, and
with a glance of some anxiety at the Duchess, 'why you should not be
present, Professor Ingleby;--unless, that is, the Earl of Chester would
rather see me alone. But the proceedings are most formal.'
Lord Chester, who was very grave, merely shook his head. Then the
Chancellor shuffled about her papers for a few moments, and addressed
her ward.
'Your lordship will kindly give me your best attention,' she began, with
some approach to blandness. 'I am glad, in the first place, to
congratulate you on your health, your appearance, and your strength. I
have received the best reports on your moral and religious behaviour,
and your docility, and--and--so on, from your guardian, Lady Boltons,
and I am only sorry that she is not able to be here herself, in order to
receive from me my thanks for the faithful and conscientious discharge
of her duties, and from the Duchess of Dunstanburgh a recognition of her
services in those terms which come from no one with more weight and more
dignity than from her Grace.' The Duchess held up a hand in deprecation;
the Professor nodded, and lifted up her hands and smiled, as if a word
of thanks from the Duchess was all she, for her part, wanted, in order
to be perfectly happy. The Earl, one is sorry to say, sat looking
straight at the Chancellor without an expression of any kind, unless it
were one of patient endurance. The Chancellor went on.
'You will shortly, you now know, pass from my guardianship to the hands
and care of another far more able and worthy to hold the reins of
authority than myself.'
Here Constance rose.
'Before your ladyship goes any further, I beg to state to you that Lord
Chester has only this morning informed me of a proposal made to you by
her Grace of Dunstanburgh, which is now under your consideration.'
'It certainly is,' said the Chancellor, 'and I am about----'
'Before you proceed,'--Constance changed colour, but her voice was
firm,--'you will permit me also to make official and formal application
in the presence of the Duchess herself, who will, I am sure, be a
witness, and Professor Ingleby, for the hand of Lord Chester. There is,
I think, no occasion for me to say anything in addition to my simple
proposal. What I could add would probably not influence your ladyship's
decision. You know me, and all that is to be known about me----'
'This is most astonishing!' cried the Duchess.
'May I ask your Grace what is astonishing about this proposal? May I
remind you that I have known Lord Chester all my life; that we are
equals in point of rank, position, and wealth; that I am, if I may say
so, not altogether undistinguished, even in the House of which your
Grace is so exalted an ornament? But I have to do with the judgment of
your ladyship, not the opinion of the Duchess.'
The Chancellor turned anxiously to her patroness, as if for direction.
She replied with dignity.
'Your ladyship is aware that, as the earlier applicant, my proposal
would naturally take precedence in your ladyship's consideration of any
later ones. I might even demand that it be considered on its own merits,
without reference at all to Lady Carlyon's proposal, with regard to
which I keep my own opinion.'
Constance remarked, coldly, that her Grace's opinion was unfortunately,
in most important matters, exactly opposite to her own and to that of
her friends, and she was contented to disagree with her. She then
informed the Chancellor that as no decision had been given as to the
marriage of Lord Chester, the case was still before her, and, she
submitted, the proposals both of herself and of the Duchess should be
weighed by her ladyship. 'And,' she added, 'I would humbly submit that
there are many other considerations, in the case of so old and great a
House as that represented by Lord Chester, which should be taken account
of. Higher rank than his own, for instance, need not be desired, nor
greater wealth; nor many other things which in humbler marriages may be
considered. I will go further: in this room, which is, as it were, a
secret chamber, I say boldly that care should be taken to continue so
old and illustrious a line.'
'And why,' cried the Duchess sharply, and dropping her stick--'why
should it not be continued?'
Here a remarkable thing happened. Lord Chester should have affected a
complete ignorance of the insult which Constance had deliberately flung
in her rival's teeth: what he did do was to turn slowly round and stare,
in undisguised wonder, at the Duchess, as if surprised at her audacity.
Even her Grace, with all her pride and experience, could not sustain
this calm, cold look. She faltered and said no more. Lord Chester picked
up the stick, and handed it to her with a low bow.
'I am much obliged to you, Lady Carlyon,' said the Chancellor, tapping
her knuckles with her glasses; 'very much obliged to you, I am sure, for
laying down rules for _my_ guidance--MINE!--in the interpretation of the
law and my duty. That, however, may pass. It is my business--although I
confess that this interruption is of a most surprising and unprecedented
nature--to proceed with the case before me, which is that of the
proposal made by the Duchess of Dunstanburgh.'
'Do I understand,' asked Lady Carlyon, 'that you refuse to receive my
proposal? Remember that you _must_ receive it. You cannot help receiving
it. This is a public matter, which shall, if necessary, be brought
before the House and before the nation. I say that your ladyship must
receive my proposal.'
'Upon my word!' cried the Chancellor. 'Upon my word!'
'Perhaps,' said the Duchess, 'if Lady Carlyon's proposal were to be
received--let me ask that it may be received, even if against
precedent--the consideration of the case could be proceeded with at
once, and perhaps your ladyship's decision might be given on the spot.'
'Very good--very good.' The Chancellor was glad to get out of a
difficulty. 'I will take the second proposal into consideration as well
as the first. Now then, my Lord. You have been already informed that the
Duchess has asked me for your hand.'
Here the Duchess made a gesture, and slowly rose, as if about to speak.
'A proposition of this kind,' she said, in a clear and firm voice,
'naturally brings with it, to any young man, and especially a young man
of our Order, some sense of embarrassment. He has been taught--that is'
(here she bent her brows and put on her glasses at the Professor, who
was bowing her head at every period, keeping time with her hands, as if
in deference to the words of the Duchess, and as if they contained
truths which could not be suffered to be forgotten), 'if he has been
properly taught--the sacredness of the marriage state, the unworthiness
of man, the duties of submission and obedience, which, when rightly
carried out, lead to the higher levels. And in proportion to the
soundness of his training, and the goodness of his heart, is he
embarrassed when the time of his great happiness arrives.' The Professor
bowed, and spread her hands as if in agreement with so much wisdom so
beautifully expressed. 'Lord Chester,' continued the Duchess, 'I have
long watched you in silence; I have seen in you qualities which, I
believe, befit a consort of my rank. You possess pride of birth,
dexterity, skill, grace; you know how to wield such authority as becomes
a man. You will exchange your earl's coronet for the higher one of a
duke. I am sure you will wear it worthily. You will----' Here Constance
interrupted.
'Permit me, your Grace, to remind you that the Chancellor's decision has
not yet been given.'
The Duchess sat down frowning. This young lady should be made to feel
her resentment. But for the moment she gave way and scowled, leaning her
chin upon her stick. It was a hard face even when she smiled; when she
frowned it was a face to look upon and tremble.
The Chancellor turned over her papers impatiently.
'I see nothing,' she said.--'I see nothing at all in the proposition
made by Lady Carlyon to alter my opinion, previously formed, that the
Duchess has made an offer which seems in every way calculated to promote
the moral, spiritual, and material happiness of my ward.'
'May I ask,' said Lord Chester quietly, 'if I may express my own views
on this somewhat important matter?'
'You?' the Chancellor positively shrieked. 'You? The ignorance in which
boys are brought up is disgraceful! A ward in Chancery to express an
opinion upon his own marriage! Positively a real ward in Chancery! Is
the world turning upside down?'
The audacity of the remark, and the happy calmness with which it was
proffered, were irresistible. All the ladies, except the Chancellor,
laughed. The Duchess loudly. This little escapade of youth and ignorance
amused her. Constance laughed too, with a little pity. The Professor
laughed with some show of shame, as if Lord Chester's ignorance
reflected in a manner upon herself.
Then the Chancellor went on again with some temper.
'Let me resume. It is my duty to consider nothing but the interests of
my ward. Very good. I have considered them. My Lord Chester, in giving
your hand to the Duchess of Dunstanburgh, I serve your best and highest
interests. The case is decided. There is no more to be said.'
'There is, on the contrary, much more to be said,' observed Constance.
'I give your ladyship notice of appeal to the House of Peeresses. I
shall appeal to them, and to the nation through them, whether your
decision in this case is reasonable, just, and in accordance with the
interests of your ward.'
This was, indeed, a formidable threat. An appeal to the House meant,
with such fighting-power as Constance and her party, although a
minority, possessed, and knew how to direct, a delay of perhaps six
months, even if the case came on from day to day. Even the practised old
Duchess, used to the wordy warfare of the House, shrank from such a
contest.
'You will not, surely, Lady Carlyon,' she said, 'drag your cousin's name
into the Supreme Court of Appeal.'
'I certainly will,' replied Constance.
'It will cost hundreds of thousands, and months--months of struggle.'
'As for the cost, that is my affair; as for the delay, I can
wait--perhaps longer than your Grace.'
The Duchess said no more. Twice had Lady Carlyon insulted her. But her
revenge would wait.
'We have already,' she said, 'occupied too much of the Chancellor's
valuable time. I wish your ladyship good morning.'
Lord Chester offered his arm.
'Thank you,' she said accepting it, 'as far as the carriage-door only,
_for the present_. I trust, my lord, that before long you will have the
right to enter the carriage with me. Meanwhile, believe me, that it is
not through my fault that your name is to be made the subject of public
discussion. Pending the appeal, let us not betray, by appearing
together, any feeling other than that of pure friendship. And I hope,'
viciously addressing Constance, 'that you, young lady, will observe the
same prudence.'
Constance simply bowed and said nothing. The Chancellor rose, shook
hands with her ward, and retired.
The Duchess leaned upon the strong arm which led her to her carriage,
and kissed her hand in farewell to the young man with so much affection
and friendly interest that it was beautiful to behold. After this act of
politeness, the young man returned to Constance.
'Painted----' he began.
'Edward, I will not allow it. Silence, sir! We part here for the
present.'
'Constance,' he whispered, 'you will not forget--_all_ that I said?'
'Not one word,' she replied with troubled brow. 'But we must meet no
more for a while.'
'Courage!' cried the Professor, 'we have gained time.'
CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT DUCHESS
Impossible, of course, that so important a case as the appeal of Lady
Carlyon should be concealed. In fact Constance's policy was evidently to
give it as much publicity as possible. She rightly judged that although,
in her own Order, and in the House, which has to look at things from
many points of view, motives of policy might be considered sufficient to
override sentimental objections, and it was not likely that much weight
would be attached to a young man's feelings; yet the Duchess had many
enemies, even on her own side of the House--private enemies wounded by
her pride and insolence--who would rejoice at seeing her meet with a
check in her self-willed and selfish course. But, besides the House,
there was the outside world to consider. There was never greater need on
the part of the governing caste for conciliation and respect to public
opinions than at this moment--a fact perfectly well understood by all
who were not blind to the meaning of things current. The abolition of
the Lower House, although of late years it had degenerated into
something noisier than a vestry, something less decorous than a
school-board in which every woman has her own hobby of educational
methods, had never been a popular act. A little of the old respect for
so ancient a House still survived,--a little of the traditional
reverence for a Parliament which had once protected the liberties of the
people, still lingered in the hearts of the nation. The immediate
relief, it is true, was undoubtedly great when the noise of
elections--which never ceased, because the House was continually
dissolved--the squabbles about corruption, the scandals in the House
itself, the gossip about the jobs perpetrated by the members, all ceased
at once, and as if by magic the country became silent; yet the pendulum
of opinion was going back again--women who took up political matters
were looking around for an outlet to their activity, and were already at
their clubs asking awkward questions about what they had gained by
giving up all the power to hereditary legislators. Nor did the old plan
of sending round official orators to lecture on the advantages of
oligarchical and maternal government seem to answer any longer. The
women who used to draw crowded audiences and frantic applause as they
depicted and laid bare the scandals and miseries and ridiculous
squabbles of the Lower House, who pointed to session after session
consumed in noisy talk, now shouted to empty benches, or worse still,
benches crowded with listless men, who only sat bored with details in
which they were forbidden to take any part, and therefore had lost all
interest. Sometimes the older women would attend and add a few words
from their own experience; or they would suggest, sarcastically, that
the Upper House was going the way of the Lower. As for the younger
women, either they would not attend at all, or else they came to ask
questions, shout denials, groan and hiss, or even pass disagreeable
resolutions. Constance knew all this; and though she would have shrunk,
almost as much as the Duchess, from lending any aid to revolutionary
designs, she could not but feel that the popular sympathy awakened in
her favour at such a moment as the present might assume such strength as
to be an irresistible force.
How could the sympathies of the people be otherwise than on her side?
These marriages of old or middle-aged women with young men, common
though they had become, could never be regarded by the youth of either
sex as natural. The young women bitterly complained that the lovers
provided for them by equality of age were taken from them, and that
times were so bad that in no profession could one look to marry before
forty. The young men, who were not supposed to have any voice in the
matter, let it be clearly known that their continual prayer and daily
dream was for a young wife. The general discontent found expression in
songs and ballads, written no one knew by whom: they passed from hand to
hand; they were sung with closed doors; they all had the same _motif_;
they celebrated the loves of two young people, maiden and youth; they
showed how they were parted by the elderly woman who came to marry the
tall and gallant youth; how the girl's life was embittered, or how she
pined away, or how she became misanthropic; and how the young man spent
the short remainder of his days in an apathetic endeavour to discharge
his duty, fortified on his deathbed with the consolations of religion
and the hopes of meeting, not his old wife, but his old love, in a
better and happier world. Why, there could be nothing but sympathy with
Constance and Lord Chester. Why, all the men, old and young alike, whose
influence upon women and popular opinion, though denied by some, was
never doubted by Constance, would give her cause their most active
sympathies.
She remained at home that day, taking no other step than to charge a
friend with the task of communicating the intelligence to her club,
being well aware that in an hour or two it would be spread over London,
and, in fact, over the whole realm of England. The next day she went
down to the House, and had the satisfaction of finding that the
excitement caused by her resignation--a ministerial resignation was too
common a thing to cause much talk--had given way altogether to the
excitement caused by this great Appeal. No one even took the trouble of
asking who was going to be the new Home Secretary. It was taken for
granted that it would be some friend of the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. The
lobbies were crowded--reporters, members of clubs, diners-out, talkers,
were hurrying backwards and forwards, trying to pick up a tolerably
trustworthy anecdote; and there was the _va et vient_, the nervous
activity, which is so much more easily awakened by personal quarrels
than by political differences. And here was a personal quarrel! The
young and beautiful Countess against the old and powerful Duchess.
'Yes,' said Constance loudly, in answer to a whispered question put by
one of her friends--she may have observed two or three listeners
standing about with eager ears and parted lips--'yes, it is all quite
true; it was an understood thing--this match with my second cousin. The
pretensions of the Duchess rest upon too transparent a foundation--the
poor man's money, my dear. As if she were not rich enough already! as if
three husbands are not enough for any one woman to lament! Thank you;
yes, I have not the slightest doubt of the result. In a matter of good
feeling as well as equity one may always depend upon the House, whatever
one's political opinions.'
The Duchess certainly had not expected this resistance to her will. In
fact, during the whole of her long life she had never known any
resistance at all, except such as befalls every politician. But in her
private life her will was law, which no one questioned or disputed. Nor
did it even occur to her to inquire, before speaking to the Chancellor,
whether there would be any rival in the field. Proud as she was, and
careless of public opinion in a general way, it was far from pleasant,
even for her, to reflect on the things which would be said of her
proposal when the Appeal was brought before the House--on the motives
which would be assigned or insinuated by her enemies; on the allusions
to youth and age--the more keen the more skilfully they were disguised
and wrapped in soft words; the open pity which would be expressed for
the youth whose young life--she knew very well what would be said--was
to be sacrificed; the sarcastic questions which would be asked about the
increase of her property by the new marriage, and so forth. The plain
speech of Peeresses in debate was well known to her. Yet pride forbade a
retreat: she would fight it out; she could command, by ways and by
methods only known to herself, a majority; yet she felt sure,
beforehand, that it would be a cold and unsympathetic majority--even a
reproachful majority. Nor was her temper improved by a visit from her
old friend, once her schoolfellow, Lady Despard. She came with a long
face, which portended expostulation.
'You have quite made up your mind, Duchess?' she began, without a word
of explanation or preamble, but with a comfortable settlement in the
chair, which meant a good long talk.
'I have quite made up my mind,' Between such old friends, no need to ask
what was intended.
'Lord Chester,' said Lady Despard, thoughtfully, 'who is, no doubt, all
that you think him--worthy in every way, I mean, of this promotion and
your name--is, after all, a very young man.'
'That,' replied the Duchess spitefully, 'is my affair. His age need not
be considered. I am not afraid of myself, Julia. With my experience, at
all events, I can say so much.'
'Surely, Duchess; I did not mean that. The most powerful mind, coupled
with the highest rank,--how should that fail to attract and fix the
affection and gratitude of a man? No, dear friend; what I meant was
this: he is too young, perhaps, for the full development either of
virtues--or their opposites,--too young, perhaps, to know the reality of
the prize you offer him.'
'I think not, Julia,' the Duchess spoke kindly,--'I think not. It is
good of you to consider this possibility in so friendly a way; but I
have the greatest reliance on the good qualities of Lord Chester. Lady
Boltons is his guardian; who would be safer? Professor Ingleby has been
his tutor; who could be more discreet?'
'Yes,--Professor Ingleby. She is certainly learned; and yet--yet--at
Cambridge there is an uneasy feeling about her orthodoxy.'
'I care little,' said the Duchess, 'about a few wild notions which he
may have picked up. On such a man, a little freedom of thought sits
gracefully. A Duke of Dunstanburgh cannot possibly be anything but
orthodox. Yes, Julia; and the sum of it all is that I am getting old,
and I am going to make myself happy with the help of this young
gentleman.'
'In that case,' said her friend, 'I have nothing to say, except that I
wish you every kind of happiness that you can desire.'
'Thank you, Julia. And you will very greatly oblige me if you will
mention, wherever you can, that you know, on the very best authority,
that the match will be one of pure affection--on both sides; mind, on
both sides.'
'I will certainly say so, if you wish,' replied Lady Despard. 'I think,
however, that you ought to know, Duchess, something of what people
say--no, not common people, but people whose opinions even you are bound
to consider.'
'Go on,' said the Duchess frowning.
'They say that Lord Chester is so proud of his hereditary title and his
rank that he would be broken-hearted to see it merged in any higher
title; that he is too rich and too highly placed to be tempted by any of
the ordinary baits by which men are caught; that you can give him
nothing which he cannot buy for himself; and, lastly, that he is already
in love,--even that words of affection have been passed between him and
the Countess of Carlyon.'
Here the Duchess interrupted, vehemently banging the floor with the
crutch which stood at her right hand.
'Lord Chester in love? What nonsense is this, Julia? A young nobleman of
his rank--almost my rank--in love! Are you mad, Julia? Are you softening
in the brain? Are you aware that the boy has been properly brought up?
Will you be good enough to remember that Lady Boltons is beyond all
suspicion, and that he could never have seen Lady Carlyon alone since he
was a boy?'
'I answer your questions by one or two others,' replied her friend
calmly. 'Are you, Duchess, aware that these two young people have had
constant opportunities of being alone everywhere--coming from church,
going to church, in conservatories, at morning parties, at dances, in
gardens? Lady Boltons is all discretion; but still--but still--girls
will be girls--boys love to flirt. My dear Duchess, we are still young
enough to remember----'
The Duchess smiled: the Duchess laughed. Good humour returned.
'What else, Julia? You are a retailer of horrid gossip.'
'This besides. On the very morning when he waited on the Chancellor, he
rode to Lady Carlyon's----'
'I know the exact particulars,' said the Duchess. 'Lady Boltons wrote to
me on the subject to prevent misunderstanding. Professor Ingleby, his
old tutor, was there. He rode there alone because his guardian could not
go with him. Of course he was properly attended. Lady Carlyon is his
second cousin. Properly speaking, perhaps he should have remained at
home until the Professor came to him. But a man of Lord Chester's rank
may do things which smaller men cannot. And, besides, this
impulsiveness--this apparent impatience of conventional restraint--seems
to me only to prove the pride and dignity of his character. Is that all,
Julia? Have you any more hearsays?'
They were brave words; but the Duchess felt uneasy.
'I have; there is more behind, and worse. Still, in your present mood, I
do not know that I ought to say what I should wish to say.'
'Say on, Julia. You know that I wish to hear all. Perhaps there may be
something after all. Hide nothing from me.'
'Very good. They say that Lord Chester is, of all men, the least
submissive, the least docile, the least manly--in the highest sense of
the word. He habitually assumes authority which belongs to Us; he flies
into violent rages; he horsewhips stable-boys; he presumptuously defies
orders; he almost openly derides the laws which regulate man's
obedience. He questions--he actually questions--the fundamental
principles on which society and government are based.'
'Quite as it should be,' said the Duchess, folding her hands. 'I want my
husband to obey no one in the world--except myself: he shall accept no
teaching, except mine; no doctrine shall be sacred in his eyes--until it
has received my authority.'
'Would you like the Duke of Dunstanburgh to horsewhip stable-boys?'
The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.
'Why not? No doubt the stable-boys deserve it. We cannot, of course,
allow common men to use their strength in this way. But, my dear, in men
of very high rank we should encourage--within proper limits--a
masterfulness which is, after all, nothing but the legitimate expression
of legitimate pride. What is crime in a clown or an artisan, is a virtue
in Lord Chester; and, believe me, Julia, for my own part, I know how to
tame the most obstinate of men.'
She folded her hands and set her teeth together. Julia thought of the
late three dukes, and trembled.
'No one should know better, dear Duchess. There remains one thing only.
You tell me that the proposed match is to be one of pure affection--on
both sides. I am truly rejoiced to hear it. Nothing is better
calculated to allay these silly reports about Lady Carlyon and the Earl.
Still you should know that outside people say that, should the Appeal go
in your favour----'
'"Should!" Julia, do not be absurd. It _must_ go in my favour.
"_Should!_"'
'In that case the Earl has declared before witnesses that he will
absolutely refuse, whatever the penalty, to accept your hand. How am I
to meet such stories as this? By your authorised statement of mutual
affection?'
'Idle gossip, Julia, may be left to itself. The Earl is only anxious to
have the matter settled as soon as possible. Besides, is it in reason
that he should have made such a declaration? Why, he knows--every man
knows--that such a refusal would be nothing short of contempt--contempt
of the Sovereign Majesty of the Realm. It is punishable--ay, and it
_shall_ be punished--that is, it should be punished'--the face of the
Duchess darkened--'by imprisonment with hard labour for life--Earl or no
Earl.'
'Then, Duchess,' said Lady Despard, with a smile, 'I say no more. Of
course, a marriage of affection should be encouraged; and we women are
all match-makers. You will have the best wishes of all as soon as things
are properly understood.'
'Julia,' the Duchess laid her hand upon her friend's arm, 'I am
unfeignedly glad that you have told me all this. We have had an
explanation which has cleared the air. I refuse to believe that my
future husband has so lost all manly feeling as to fall in love. Imagine
an Earl of Chester falling in love like a sentimental rustic! Your
_canards_ about private interviews trouble me not; I am well assured
that so well-bred a man will obey the will of the House without a
murmur--nay, joyfully, even without consideration of his own
inclinations, which, as I have told you, are already decided. And, upon
my honour as a peeress, Julia, I am certain that when you come to my
autumn party at Dunstanburgh in November next, you will acknowledge that
the new Duke is the handsomest bridegroom in the world, that I am the
most indulgent wife, and that there is not a happier couple in all
England.'
Nothing could be more gracious than the smile of the Duchess when she
chose to smile. Lady Despard, although she knew by this time what the
smile was worth, was nevertheless always carried away by it. For the
moment she believed what her friend wished her to believe.
'My dear Duchess,' she cried with effusion, 'you _deserve_ happiness for
your part; and, upon my word, I think that the boy will get it, whether
he deserves it or not.'
* * * * *
The smile died out from the Duchess's face when she was left alone. A
hard, stern look took its place. She took up a hand-glass, and intently
examined her own face.
'He is in love with the girl, is he?' she murmured; 'and she with him.
Why, I saw it in their guilty stolen looks; her accents betrayed her
when she spoke. It is not enough that she must cross me in the House,
but she would rob me of a husband. Not yet, Lady Carlyon--not yet.' ...
She looked at herself again. 'Oh, that I could be again what I was at
one-and-twenty! It is true, as Julia said, that I have nothing to give
the boy in return for what I ask of him--his affection. I am an old
woman--sixty-five years of age. I suppose I have had my share of love.
Harry loved me when I was young, because I was young. Poor Harry! I did
not then know how much he loved me, nor the value of a man's heart. Well
... as for the other two, they loved me after their fashion--but it was
not like Harry's love; they said they loved me, and in return I gave
them all they wanted. They were happy, and I had to be contented.' She
mused in silence for a time; then she roused herself with an effort.
'What then? Let them talk. I am the Duchess of Dunstanburgh. She shall
have her whim; she shall have her darling, and if he chooses to sulk,
she will punish him until he smiles again. Wait, my lord, only wait till
you are safe on the Northumberland coast, and in my castle of
Dunstanburgh.'
CHAPTER V
IN THE SEASON
Women, especially politicians, are (or rather were, until the Revolt)
accustomed to the publicity of photographs, illustrated papers,
paragraphs in society papers, and to the curiosity with which people
stare after them wherever they show themselves. They used to like it.
Men, who were, on the other hand, taught to respect modest retirement
and that graceful obscurity becoming to the masculine hand which carries
out the orders of the female brain, shrank from such notoriety. It was a
curious sensation for young Lord Chester to feel, rather than to see and
to hear, the people pointing him out, and talking about him.
'Courage!' whispered the Professor. 'You will have to encounter a great
deal more curiosity than this before long. Above all, do not show by any
sign or change of expression that you are conscious of their staring.'
This was at the Royal Academy. The rooms were crowded with the usual
mob, for it was early in June. There were the country ladies--rosy, fat,
and jolly--catalogue and pencil in hand, dragging after them husbands,
brothers, sons--ruddy, stalwart fellows--who wearily followed from room
to room,--ignorant of art, and yet unwilling to be thought
ignorant,--flocking to any picture which seemed to contain a story or a
subject likely to interest them, such as a horse, or a race, or a match
of some kind, and turning away with a half-conscious feeling that they
ought to rejoice in not liking the much-praised picture, instead of
being ashamed of it, so unlike a horse did they find it, so unfaithful a
representation of figure or of action. There were artistic ladies with
their new fashion of dress and pale languid airs, listlessly exchanging
the commonplace of the fashionable school; there were professional
ladies, lawyers, and doctors, 'doing' all the rooms between two
consultations in an hour; there were schoolgirls from Harrow, yawning
over the Exhibition, which it was a duty they owed to themselves to see
early in the season, unless they could get tickets, which they all
ardently desired, for the fortnight's private view; there were shoals of
men in little parties of two and four, escorted by some good-natured
uncle or elderly cousin. The crowd squeezed round the fashionable
pictures; they passed heedlessly before pictures of which nobody talked;
they all tried to look critical; those who pretended to culture searched
after strange adjectives; those who did not, said everything was pretty,
and yawned furtively; the ladies whispered remarks to each other, with a
quick nod of intelligence; and they received the feeble criticism of the
men with the deferent smile due to politeness, or a half-concealed
contempt.
This year there were more than the usual number of pictures--in fact,
the whole of the five-and-twenty rooms were crowded. Fortunately, they
were mostly small rooms, and it was remarkable that the same subjects
occurred over and over again. 'The same story,' said the Professor,
'every year. No invention; we follow like sheep. Here is Judith slaying
Holofernes'--they were then in the Ancient History Department--'here is
Jael slaying Sisera; here are Miriam and Deborah singing their songs of
triumph; here is Joan of Arc raising the siege of Orleans,--all exactly
the same as when I was a girl forty years ago and more. Ancient History,
indeed! What do they know about Ancient History?'
'Why do you not teach them, then, Professor?' asked Lord Chester.
'I will tell you why, my lord, in a few weeks,--perhaps.'
There were a great many altar-pieces in the Sacred Department. In these
the Perfect Woman was depicted in every attitude and occupation by which
perfection may best be represented. It might have been objected, had any
one so far ventured outside the beaten path of criticism, that the
Perfect Woman's dress, her mode of dressing her hair, and her ornaments
were all of the present year's fashion. 'As if,' said the Professor, the
only one who did venture, 'as if no one had any conception of beauty and
grace except what fashion orders. Sheep! sheep! we follow like a flock.'
The pictures were mostly allegorical: the Perfect Woman directed
Labour--represented by twenty or thirty burly young men with implements
of various kinds; this was a very favourite subject. Or she led Man
upwards. This was a series of pictures: in the first, Man was a rough
rude creature, carrying a club with which he banged something--presumably
Brother Man; he gradually improved, until at the end he was depicted as
laying at the altar of womanhood flowers, fruit, and wine, from his own
husbandry. By this time he had got his beard cut off, and was smooth
shaven, save for a pair of curly moustaches; his dress was in the
fashion of the day; his eyes were down-dropped in reverential awe; and
his expression was delightfully submissive, pious, and _béate_. 'Is it,'
asked Lord Chester, 'impossible to be religious without becoming such a
creature as _that_?'
Again, the Perfect Woman sat alone, thinking for the good of the world.
She had a star above her head; she tried, in the picture, not to look as
if she were proud of that star. Or the Perfect Woman sat watching, in
the dead of night, in the moonlight, for the good of the world; or the
Perfect Woman was revealed to enraptured man rising from the waves, not
at all wet, and clothed in the most beautifully-fashioned and most
expensive modern garments. These two rooms, the Sacred and the Ancient
History Departments, were mostly deserted. The principal interest of the
Exhibition was in the remaining three-and-twenty, which were devoted to
general subjects. Here were sweetnesses of flower and fruit, here were
lovely creamy faces of male youth, here were full length figures of
athletes, runners, wrestlers, jumpers, rowers, cricket-players, and
others, treated with delicate conventionality, so that the most
successful pictures represented man with no more expression in his face
than a barber's block, and the strongest young Hercules was figured with
tiny hands or fingers like a girl's for slimness, for transparency, and
for whiteness, and beautifully small feet; on the other hand, his calves
were prodigious. In fact, as was always maintained at the Academy
dinner, the Exhibition was the great educator of the people in the sense
of beauty. To know the beautiful, to recognise what should be
delightful, and then take joy in it, was given, it was said, only to
those women of culture who had been trained by a course of Academy
exhibitions. Here men, for their part, who would never otherwise rise
beyond the phenomenal to the ideal, learned what was the Perfect
Man--the Man of woman's imagination. Having learned, he might go away
and try to resemble him. Women who could not feel, unhappily, the full
sense of the beautiful, might learn from these models into what kind of
man they should shape their husbands.
'The drawing of this picture,' said the Professor aloud, before a
picture round which were gathered a throng of worshippers--for it was
painted by a Royal Academician of great repute--'is inaccurate. Did one
ever see a man with such shoulders, and yet with such a waist and such a
hand? As for the colouring, it is as false as it is conventional; and
look at the peach-like cheek and the feeble chin! It is the flesh of a
weakly baby, not of a grown man and an athlete.'
There were murmurs of dissent, but no one ventured to dispute the
Professor's opinion; and indeed most of the bystanders had already
recognised Lord Chester, and were staring at the hero of so much talk.
'He is better-looking,' he overheard one schoolgirl whispering to
another, 'than the fellow on the canvas, isn't he?'
The 'fellow on the canvas' was, in fact, the Ideal Man. He was meant by
the artist to represent the noblest, tallest, strongest, straightest,
and most dexterous of men. He carried a cricket-bat. It would have been
foolish to figure him with book, pencil, or paper. Art, literature,
science, politics, all belonged to the other sex. Only his strength was
left to man, and that was to be expended by the orders of the superior
sex, who were quite competent to exercise the functions for which they
were born--namely, to think for the world.
Of course, all the artists were women. Once there was a man who,
assuming a female name, actually got a picture exhibited in the Academy.
He was a self-taught man it was afterwards discovered; he had never been
in a studio; he had never seen a Royal Academy. He painted an Old Man
from nature. There was a faithful ruggedness about his work which made
artists scoff, and yet brought tears to the eyes of country girls who
knew no better. When the trick was discovered, the picture was taken
down and burnt, and the wretched man--who was discovered in a little
country cottage, painting two or three more in the same style--went mad,
and was locked up for the rest of his days. Presently Lord Chester grew
tired of the pictures and of the staring crowd. 'I have seen enough,
Professor, if you have. They are all exactly like those of last
year--the gladiators, and the runners, and all. Are we always to go on
producing the same pictures?'
'I suppose so,' she replied. 'They say that the highest point of art has
been reached. It would be a change if we were only to deteriorate for a
few years. Meanwhile, one is reminded of the mole, who was asked why he
did not invent another form of architecture.'
'What did she reply?'
'He, not she, my lord, replied that science could go no further; and so
he goes on building the same shaped hill.'
The crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs of the Academy and made a
lane for Lord Chester quite to his carriage. It was a crowd of the best
people in England, composed of ladies and gentlemen. Yet was it no
insignificant sign of the times that many a handkerchief was waved to
him, that all hats were lifted, and that one girl's voice was heard
crying, 'Young men for young wives!' at which there was a general murmur
of assent.
In the evening there were the usual engagements of the season, beginning
with a lecture on the Arrival at the Highest Level. The lecturer--a
young Oxford woman--was learned and eloquent, though the subject was, so
to speak, wellnigh threadbare. Yet the discontent of the nation was so
great, that it was necessary continually to raise the courage of the
people by showing that if the Ministries failed, it was only because the
right Cabinet had not yet been found. On this night, however, no one
listened. All eyes were turned to the young lord, who, it was everywhere
stated, had announced his rebellious intention not to obey the law if
Lady Carlyon's appeal went against her. The men whispered; the elderly
ladies assumed airs of virtuous indignation; the younger ones looked at
each other and laughed.
Then there was a dance, at which Lord Chester was seen, but only for a
quarter of an hour, because the rush made by all the girls who could get
an introduction for his name on their cards was almost unseemly. The
Professor therefore took him home.
In the Park the next afternoon, at the theatre in the evening, the same
curiosity of the multitude. Indeed the play, as happened very often in
those days, was entirely neglected. Glasses were levelled at Lord
Chester's box; the whole audience with one consent fell to talking among
themselves; the actors went on with the piece unregarded, and the
curtain fell unnoticed.
Perhaps the perfection of the drama was the thing on which the new
civilisation chiefly prided itself, unless, indeed, it was the
perfection of painting and sculpture already described. The old
tragedies, in which women played the secondary part, were long since
consigned to oblivion. The old style of farce, which was simply brutal,
raising laughter by the representation of situations in which one or
more persons are made ridiculous, was absolutely prohibited; the once
favourite ballet was suppressed, because it was below the dignity of
woman to dance for the amusement of the people, and because neither men
nor women wished to see men dancing; the comic man naturally disappeared
with the farce, because no one ever wrote anything for him. It was
resolved, after a series of letters and discussion in the _Academy_, the
only literary paper left--it owed its continued existence to the
honourable associations of its early years--that laughter was for the
most part vulgar; that it always rudely disturbed the facial lines; that
to make merriment for others was quite beneath the notice of an educated
woman; and that the drama must be severe, and even austere--a school for
women and for men. Such it was sought to make it, with as yet
unsatisfactory results, because the common people, finding nothing to
laugh at, came no more to the theatre; and even the better class, who
wanted to be amused, and were only instructed, ceased to attend.
When, therefore, the curtain fell, the scanty audience rushed to the
doors of the house, and there was something very much like a
demonstration, a report of which, the Professor felt with pleasurable
emotion, could not fail to be carried to the Duchess.
The next day there came a letter to Lady Boltons--who was still confined
to her room with gout--from no less a person than the Duchess of
Dunstanburgh, suggesting that the publicity thrust upon Lord Chester
through the unconstitutional action of his cousin might produce an
injurious effect upon a mind so young. In other words, her Grace was
already sensible of the sympathy which was growing up for what was
believed to be a love affair, cruelly blighted by herself. If Lord
Chester was kept in retirement until the case was decided, he would,
perhaps be forgotten. As for Lady Carlyon, the Duchess rightly judged
that the sympathy which one woman gets from another in such cases is
generally scant.
No doubt she was right, but unfortunately she was too late. The young
Earl had been seen everywhere; his story, much altered and improved, was
in everybody's mouth; his likeness was in all the shop windows, side by
side with that of Lady Carlyon, or, as if to give emphasis to the
difference between the two suitors, he was placed with the Duchess on
his left and Lady Carlyon on his right. The young men envied him because
he was so rich, so handsome, and so gallant; the young ladies looked and
sighed. He was nearer the Ideal Man than any they had ever seen; his
bold and daring eyes struck them with a kind of awe, which they thought
was due to his rank, ignorant of the manhood in those eyes, which
attracted and yet daunted them. They bought his photograph by thousands,
and spent their leisure hours, or even the hours of study, when they
ought to have been 'mugging bones,' or drawing contracts, or reading
theology, in gazing upon that remarkable presence. Older ladies--those
who had established positions and could think of marriage--wished that
such young men were within their reach; and very old ladies, looking at
the photograph with admiring eyes, would wag their heads, and tell their
grandsons how their grandfather, dead and gone, had been just such
another as Lord Chester--so handsome, so strong, so brave, and yet
withal the most dutiful and obedient of husbands. They did not explain
how the virtue of submission was compatible with such frank and fearless
eyes.
The mischief, therefore, was done. So far as the sympathies of the
people were concerned, Constance could rest content. There remained,
however, the House.
Lord Chester appeared no more in public. He went to none of the
cricket-matches and athletics which made the season so lively; nor was
he seen at any balls or dinners; nor did he ride in the Row. He was kept
in almost monastic seclusion, a few companions only being invited to
play tennis on his own lawns. But the Professor was with him
constantly--Lady Boltons continuing to be laid up with her gout--and
they had long talks in the gardens, sitting beneath the shade of the
trees, or walking on the lawns. During these conversations the young man
would clench his fist and stamp his foot with rage; or his eyes would
kindle, and he would stretch out his right hand as if moved beyond
control. And he became daily more masterful, insomuch that the women
were afraid of him, and the men-servants--whom he had cuffed until they
respected him--laughed, seeing the dismay of the women. Never any man
like him! 'Why,' said the butler, a most respectable old lady, 'if he
goes on like this, he'll be like the Duchess of Dunstanburgh herself.
She'll have a handful, whichever o' their ladyships gets him. Beer, my
lord? At twelve o'clock in the morning! It isn't good for your lordship.
Better wait--oh dear, dear! Yes, my lord, in one minute.'
One afternoon, towards the end of June, a little party had been made up
for his amusement. It consisted of half a dozen young men of his own
age, and a few ladies whose age more nearly approached that of the
Professor. The young men played one or two matches of tennis, changed
their flannels for morning dress, and joined the ladies at afternoon
tea. The one topic of conversation possible at the moment was forbidden
in that house: it was, of course, that of the great Appeal, and how some
said that the Countess wanted it pushed on, so as to take advantage of
the public sympathy, and the Duchess wanted it delayed, so as to give
this feeling time to cool down; but the Duchess had sworn by everything
dear to her that she would marry the young lord whether the House gave a
decision in her favour or not; how Lady Carlyon declared that she would
carry him off under the very nose of the Duchess; with a thousand other
_canards_, rumours, little secrets, whispers on the best authority, and
so forth. As, of course, that could not be entered upon in Lord
Chester's own house, the afternoon was dull to the ladies. They pumped
the Professor artfully, but learned nothing. She was enthusiastic in her
praises of her pupil, but was reticent about his previous relations, if
any, with either of his suitors; nor would she reveal anything, if she
knew anything, about his inclinations--if he had any preference. As for
his character, she spoke openly; he was certainly,--well, say
masterful--that could not be denied--in a way which would be unbecoming
in a man below his rank; as for his religion, no one could more truly
love and revere the Perfect Woman than did Lord Chester; as for his
abilities, they were far beyond the common: and for his reading, 'I have
always considered,' said the Professor, 'his rank as of more importance
than his sex; and though I have, perhaps, given him a wider and deeper
education than is generally considered prudent for the masculine brain,
I believe it will be found, in the long-run, a course productive of
great good. In fact,' she whispered, 'I believe that Lord Chester is a
man likely to be the father of daughters, illustrious not only by their
birth, but also by their strength of intellect and force of character.'
'No man,' said one of the guests--one of those persons who always know
how to find the right commonplace at the right time,--'no man can have a
more worthy object of ambition. To sink himself in the family, to work
for them, to reproduce his own virtues in their higher feminine form in
his own daughters,--I hope his lordship will obtain this happiness.'
'But he can't,' cried another--one of those persons who always say the
wrong things,--'he can't if he marries the Duc--'
'Hush!' said the Professor. 'My dear madam, we were talking, I think,
about Lord Chester's character. Yes, he is in many respects a most
remarkable young man.'
'But is he,' asked another lady, 'is he quite--are you sure of what you
say, Professor, about his orthodoxy?'
Professor Ingleby smiled. All smiled, indeed, because her own faith had
been greatly suspected, as everybody knew.
'As sure,' she said, 'as I am of my own. Oh! I know what wicked people
have hinted at Cambridge. But wait; have patience; I will before long
prove my religious convictions, and satisfy the world once for all, in a
way that will perhaps astonish, but certainly convince everybody, what
my faith really is, and how truly orthodox--and I will answer for my
pupil.'
Then the young men appeared, and they began to talk about the games over
their tea. Presently they pressed Lord Chester to sing. No one had a
better voice, or sang with greater expression. He refused at first, on
the ground of being tired of the words of all his songs, but gave way
and sang, with a laughing protest at the sentiment of the song and the
inanity of the words, the following ballad, just then popular:--
'Through sweet buttercups, through sweet hay
Rolled in swathes by the southern wind;
Side by side they wended their way;
The sloping sun on their faces lay,
And dragged long shadows behind.
'Eighteen he, and stalwart to see;
Muscles of steel and a heart of gold.
Cheeks hot-burning, and eyes down-dropped,--
What did he think when she suddenly stopped,
And gave him her hand--to hold?
'She was but thirty; her lands around
Lay with orchards and cornfields spread;
Meadow and hill with the sunlight crowned,
Wealth and joy without stint or bound,
And all for the lad she would wed!
'He listened in silence, as young men should,
While she pictured the life to come;
In tangled copse, in the way of the wood,
With new spring flowers and old leaves strewed,
She spoke of a love-lit home.
'Only a year: and the hay again
Lies in swathes, like the weed on the shore;
Lone he wanders with troubled brain,
Crying, "When will she come again?"
Poor fool; for she comes no more.
Forgotten her troth; and broken her oath;
His love will return no more.
'The air is not bad,' said the singer, when he had finished, rising from
the piano,' but the words are ridiculous. As if he were likely to care
for a woman eighteen years his senior!'
These words fell among them like a bomb. There was a dead silence. No
one dared raise her eyes except the Professor, who looked up in warning.
Presently an old gentleman, who had been half asleep, shook his head and
spoke.
'The songs are all alike now. A young fellow gets made love to, and is
engaged, and then thrown over. Then he breaks his heart: In real life he
would have called for his horse and galloped off his disappointment.'
'Come, Sir George,' said the Professor, 'you must allow us a little
sentiment--some belief in man's heart, else life would be too dull. For
my own part, I find the words touching and true to nature.'
'How would it do?' asked Lord Chester, smiling, 'to invert the thing?
Could we have a ballad showing how a young lady--she must be
young--pined away and died for love of a man who broke his promise?'
They all laughed at this picture, but the young men looked as if Lord
Chester had said something wonderful in its audacity. Most certainly,
thought the Professor, his words would be quoted in all the clubs that
very day. And what--oh! what would the Duchess say? And although she had
no legitimate power over the ward of Chancery, she could do what she
pleased with the Chancellor.
There was one young fellow present, a certain Algy Dunquerque, who
entertained an affection for Lord Chester amounting almost to worship.
No one was like him; none so strong, so dexterous, so good at games; no
one so clever; no one so audacious; no one so gloriously independent.
They were talking together in a low whisper, unregarded by the ladies,
who were talking loudly.
'Algy,' said Lord Chester, 'you said once that you would come to me if
ever I asked you, and stand by me as long as I asked you. Are you still
of the same mind?'
'That kind of promise holds,' said Algy. 'What shall I do?'
'Be in readiness.'
'I am always ready. But what are you going to do? Shall we run away
together?'
'Hush! I do not know,--yet. All that a desperate man can do.'
CHAPTER VI
WOMAN'S ENGLAND
The next day was Sunday, and of course Lord Chester went to church with
the Professor, who was always careful to observe forms.
The congregation was large, and principally composed of men. The service
was elaborate, and the singing good. Perhaps the incense was a little
too strong, and there was some physical fatigue in the frequent changes
of posture. Nothing, however, could have been more splendid than the
procession with banners, which closed the service; nothing sweeter than
the voices of the white-robed singing-girls. It was a large and
beautiful church, with painted glass, pictures having lights burning
before them; and the altar, on which stood the veiled figure of the
Perfect Woman, was heaped with flowers.
The sermon was preached by the Dean of Westminster, whose eloquence and
fervour were equalled by her scholarship. No one, except perhaps,
Professor Ingleby, was better read in ecclesiastical history, or knew
more about the beginnings of the New Religion. She had written a book,
showing from ancient literature how the germs of the religion were
dormant even in the old barbaric times of man's supremacy. Even so far
back as the Middle Ages men delighted to honour Woman. Every poet chose
a mistress for his devotion, and ignorantly worshipped the type in the
Individual. Every knight became servant and slave to one woman, in whose
honour his noblest deeds were done. Even the worship of the Divine Man
became, first in Catholic countries, and afterwards in England, through
a successful conspiracy of certain so-called 'ritualists,' the worship
of the Mother and Child. At all times the effigies of the virtues,
Faith, Hope, Love, had been figures of women. The form of woman had
always stood for the type, the standard, the ideal of the Beautiful. The
woman had always been the dispenser of gifts. The woman had always been
richly dressed. Men worked their hardest in order to pour their
treasures into the lap of woman. All the reverence, all the poetry, all
the imagination with which the lower nature of man was endowed, had been
freely spent and lavished in the service of woman. From his earliest
infancy, women surrounded, protected, and thought for men. Why, what was
this, what could this mean, but a foreshadowing, an indication, a
revelation, by slow and natural means, of the worship of the Perfect
Woman, dimly comprehended as yet, but manifesting its power over the
heart? The Dean handled this, her favourite topic, in the pulpit this
morning with singular force and eloquence. After touching on the
invisible growth of the religion, she painted a time of anarchy, when
men had given up their old beliefs and were like children--only children
with weapons in their hands--crying out with fear in the darkness. She
told how women, at last assuming their true place, substituted, little
by little, the true, the only faith--the Worship of the Perfect Woman,
the Feminine Divinity of Thought, Purpose, and Production. She pointed
out how, by natural religion, man was evidently marked out for the
second or lower creature, although, by the abuse of his superior
strength, he had wrested the authority and used it for his own purposes.
He was formed to execute, he was strong, he was the Agent. Woman, on the
other hand, was the mother--that is to say, the Creative Thought; that
is, the Sovereign Ruler. In the animal creation, again, it is the male
who works, while the female sits and directs. And even in such small
points as the gender of things inanimate, everything of grace,
usefulness, or beauty was, and always had been, feminine. Then she
argued from the natural quickness and intelligence of women, and from
the corresponding dullness of men, from the lower instincts of men
compared with the spiritual nature of women; and she showed how, when
women took their natural place in the government of the nation, laws
were for the first time framed on sound and economical principles, and
for the benefit of man himself. Finally, in a brilliant peroration, she
called upon her male hearers to defend, even to the death if necessary,
the principles of their religion; she warned the women that a spirit of
questioning and discontent was abroad; she exhorted the men to find
their true happiness in submission to authority; and she drew a vivid
picture of the poor wretch who, beginning with doubt and disobedience,
went on to wife-beating, atheism, and despair, both of this world and
the next.
The sermon lasted nearly an hour. The Dean never paused, never
hesitated, was never at a loss. Yet, somehow she failed to affect her
hearers. The women looked idly about them, the men stared straight
before them, showing no response, and no sympathy. One reason of this
apathy was that the congregation had heard it all before, and so often,
that it ceased to move them; the priestesses of the Faith, in their
ardour, endeavouring constantly to make men intelligent as well as
submissive supporters, overdid the preaching, and by continual
repetition ruined the effect of their earnest eloquence, and reduced it
to the level of rhetorical commonplace.
The Professor and her pupil walked gravely homewards.
'I think,' said Lord Chester, 'that I could preach a sermon the other
way round.'
'You mean----'
'I mean that I could just as well show how natural religion intended man
to be both agent and contriver.'
'I think,' said the Professor, 'that such a sermon had better not be
preached, at least, just yet. It was _rather_ a risky thing to make that
remark of yours about the ballad which you sang yesterday. Such a sermon
as you contemplate would infallibly land its composer--even Lord
Chester--in a prison--and for life.'
Lord Chester was silent.
'Do you speculate often,' asked his tutor, 'in these theological
matters?'
'Of late,' he replied. 'Yes, this perpetual admonition about Authority
worries me. Why should we accept statements on Authority? I have been
looking through the text-books, and I conclude----'
'Pray do not tell me,' she interrupted laughing. 'For the present, let
me not know the nature of your conclusions. But, Lord Chester, for your
own sake, for every one's sake, be guarded--be silent,' She pressed his
arm; he nodded gravely, but made no reply. When they reached home they
learned that the Chancellor herself was waiting to see Lord Chester. She
wished to see the Professor as well.
The Chancellor was in a great worry and fidget--as if this unhappy
business of the Appeal was not enough for her--because, whatever
decision was arrived at by the House, she would have to defend her own,
and there was little doubt that her enemies would not lose so good a
chance of attacking her; and now the boy must needs get saying things
which were repeated in every club in London.
'I must say, Lord Chester,' she began irritably, 'that a little
respect--I say a little respect--is due to a person who holds my office.
I have been waiting for you a good quarter of an hour.'
'Had I known your ladyship's wish to see me, I would have saved you the
trouble of coming here, and waited upon you myself. I have but just
returned from church.'
'Church!' she repeated in mockery; 'what is the good of people going to
church if they fly in the face of all religion? Do not answer me, pray.
Your lordship thinks yourself, I know, a privileged person. You are to
say, and to do, anything you please. But I am the Chancellor, remember,
and your guardian. Now, sir, I learn that you make dangerous,
revolutionary remarks--you made one yesterday--openly, on the
impossibility of a young man marrying a woman older than himself.'
'Pardon me,' said Lord Chester; 'I did not say the impossibility of
marrying, but of loving, a woman twenty years his senior.'
'The distinction shows the unhappy condition of your mind. To marry a
woman is to love her. What would the boy want? what would he have?
Professor Ingleby, have you anything to advise? He is your pupil. You
are, in fact, partly responsible for this deplorable exhibition of
wilfulness.'
'With your ladyship's permission,' replied the Professor softly, 'I
would venture to suggest that, considering recent events, it would be
much better for Lord Chester to be out of London as soon as possible.'
'What is the use of talking about leaving town when Lady Boltons is
ill?'
'If your ladyship will entrust your noble ward to my care,' continued
the Professor, 'I will undertake the charge of him at my own house for
the next three months.'
The Chancellor reflected. The plan seemed the best. Since Lady Boltons
was ill, there was really no one to look after the young man, while, at
the present moment of excitement, it seemed most desirable that he
should be out of town. If the boy was to go on talking in this way about
old women and young men, there was no telling what might not happen; and
the Duchess would be pleased with such an arrangement. That
consideration decided her.
'If you really can take charge of him--you could draw on Lady Boltons
for whatever you like, in reason,--it does seem the best thing to do.
Yes--he would be safer out of the way. When can you start?'
'To-morrow.'
'Very good; then we will settle it so. You will accompany Professor
Ingleby, Lord Chester; you will consider her as your guardian--and--and
all that. And for Heaven's sake, let us have no more folly!'
She touched his fingers with her own, bowed slightly to the Professor,
and left them.
'My dear boy,' said the Professor, when the door was shut, 'I foresee a
great opportunity. And as for that sermon you spoke of----'
'Well, Professor?'
'You may begin to compose it as soon as you please, and on the road I
will help you. Meantime, hold your tongue.'
With these enigmatic words the Professor left him.
* * * * *
There was really nothing very remarkable in Lord Chester's leaving
London even at the height of the season. Most of the athletic meetings
were over; it was better to be in the country than in town: a young man
of two-and-twenty is not supposed to take a very keen delight in
dinner-parties. Had it not been for the Appeal and the way in which
people occupied themselves in every kind of gossip over Lord
Chester--what he said, how he looked, and what he hoped--he might have
left town without the least notice being taken. As it was, his departure
gave rise to the wildest rumours, not the least wild being that the
Duchess, or, as some said, the Countess, intended to follow and carry
him off from his country house.
Without troubling themselves about rumours and alarms of this kind, the
Professor and her pupil drove away in the forenoon of Monday. The air
was clear and cool; there was a fresh breeze, a warm sun, and a sky
flecked with light clouds. The leaves on the trees were at their best,
the four horses were in excellent condition. What young fellow of
two-and-twenty would have felt otherwise than happy at starting on a
holiday away from the restraints of town, and in such weather?
'There is only one thing wanting,' he said, as they finally cleared the
houses, and were bowling along the smooth highroad between hedges bright
with the flowers of early summer.
'What is that?' asked the Professor.
'Constance,' he replied boldly; 'she ought to be with us to complete my
happiness.'
The Professor laughed.
'A most unmanly remark,' she said. 'How can you reconcile it with the
precepts of morality? Have you not been taught the wickedness of
expressing, even of allowing yourself to feel an inclination for any
young lady?'
'It is your fault, my dear Professor. You have taught me so much, that I
have left off thinking of unmanliness and immodesty and the copy-book
texts.'
'I have taught you,' she replied gravely, 'things enough to hang myself
and send you to the Tower for life. But remember--remember--that you
have been taught these things with a purpose.'
'What purpose?' he asked.
'I began by making you discontented. I allowed you to discover that
everything is not so certain as boys are taught to believe. I put you in
the way of reading, and I opened your mind to all sorts of subjects
generally concealed from young men.'
'You certainly did, and you are a most crafty as well as a most
beneficent Professor.'
'You have gradually come to understand that your own intellect, the
average intellect of Man, is really equal to the consideration of all
questions, even those generally reserved and set apart for women.'
'Is it not time, therefore, to let me know this mysterious purpose?'
Professor Ingleby gazed upon him in silence for a while.
'The purpose is not mine. It is that of a wiser and greater being than
myself, whose will I carry out and whom I obey.'
'Wiser than _you_, Professor? Who is she? Do you mean the Perfect Woman
herself?'
'No,' she replied; 'the being whom I obey and reverence is none other
than--my own husband.'
Lord Chester started.
'Your husband?' he cried. '_You obey your husband?_ This is most
wonderful.'
'My husband. Yes, Lord Chester, you may now compose that sermon which
shall show how Man is the Lord and Master of all created things,
including--Woman. I told you I would help you in your sermon. Listen.'
* * * * *
All that day they drove through the fair garden, which we call England.
Along the road they passed the rustics hay-making in the fields; the
country women were talking at their doors; the country doctor was
plodding along her daily round; the parson was jogging along the
wayside, umbrella in hand, to call upon her old people; the country
police in blue bonnets, carrying their dreaded pocket-books, were
loitering in couples about cross-roads; the farmer drove her cart to
market, or rode her cob about the fields; little girls and boys carried
dinner to their fathers. Here and there they passed a country-seat, a
village with its street of cottages, or they clattered through a small
sleepy town with its row of villas and its quiet streets, where the men
sat working at the windows in hopes of getting a chat or seeing
something to break the monotony of the day.
The travellers saw, but noted nothing. For the Professor was teaching
her pupil things calculated to startle even the Duchess, and at which
Constance would have trembled--things which made his cheek to glow, his
eyes to glisten, his mouth to quiver, his hands to clench;--things not
to be spoken, not to be whispered, not to be thought, this Professor
openly, boldly, and without shame, told the young man.
'I might have guessed it,' he said. 'I had already half guessed it. And
this--this is the reason why we are kept in subjection!--this is the LIE
they have palmed upon us!'
'Hush! calm yourself. The thing was not done in a day. The system was
not invented by conscious hypocrites and deceivers; it grew, and with it
the new religion, the new morality, the new order of things. Blame no
one, Lord Chester, but blame the system.'
'You have told me too much now,' he said; 'tell me more.'
She went on. Each word, each new fact, tore something from him that he
would have believed part of his nature. Yet he had been prepared for
this day by years of training, all designed by this crafty woman to arm
him with strength to receive her disclosures.
'What you see,' she said, as they drove through a village, 'seems calm
and happy. It is the calmness of repression. Those men in the fields,
those working men sitting at the windows--they are all alike unhappy,
and they know not why. It is because the natural order has been
reversed; the sex which should command and create is compelled to work
in blind obedience. You will see, as we go on, that we, who have usurped
the power, have created nothing, improved nothing, carried on nothing.
It is for you, Lord Chester, to restore the old order.'
'If I can--if I can find words,' he stammered.
'I have trusted you,' the Professor went on, 'from the very first. _Bon
sang ne peut mentir._ Yet it was wise not to hurry matters. Your life,
and my own life too, if that matters much, hang upon the success of my
design. Nothing could have happened more opportunely than the Duchess's
proposal. Why? on the one hand, a sweet, charming, delightful girl; and
on the other, a repulsive, bad-tempered old woman. While your blood is
aflame with love and disgust, Lord Chester, I tell you this great
secret. We have three months before us. We must use it, so that in less
than two we shall be able to strike, and to strike hard. You are in my
hands. We have, first, much to see and to learn.'
Their first halt was Windsor. Here, after ordering dinner, the Professor
took her pupil to visit Eton. It was half-holiday, and the girls were
out of school. Some were at the Debating Society's rooms, where a
political discussion was going on; some were strolling by the river
under the grand old elms; some were reading novels in the shade; some
were lying on the bank talking and laughing. It was a pleasant picture
of happy school life.
'Look at these buildings,' said the Professor, taking up a position of
vantage. 'They were built by one of your ancestors, beautified by
another, repaired and enlarged by another. This is the noblest of the
old endowments--for boys.'
The Earl looked round him in wonder.
'What would boys do with such a splendid place?' he asked.
'Have my lessons borne so little fruit that you should ask that
question?' The Professor looked disappointed. 'My dear boy, they played
in the playing-fields, they swam and rowed in the river, they studied in
the school, they worshipped in the chapel. When it was resolved to
divide the endowments, women naturally got the first choice, and they
chose Eton. Afterwards the boys' public schools fell gradually into
decay, and bit by bit they were either closed or became appropriated by
girls. There was once a famous school at a place called Rugby. That
died. The Lady of the Manor, I believe, gradually absorbed the revenues.
Harrow and Marlborough fell in, after a few years, for girls. You see,
when once mothers realised the dangers of public school life for boys,
they naturally left off sending them.'
'Yes--I see--the danger that----'
'That they would become masterful, Lord Chester, like yourself; that
they would use their strength to recover their old supremacy; that they
would discover'--here she sank her voice, although they were not within
earshot of any one--'that they would discover how strength of brain goes
with strength of muscle.'
She led the young man back across the river to the Windsor side. On the
way they passed an open gate; over the gate was written 'Select school
for young gentlemen.' Within was a gymnasium, where a dozen boys were
exercising on parallel bars swinging with ropes, and playing with
clubs.
'As for your education,' said the Professor, 'we have discovered that
the best chance for the world is for a boy to be taught three things. He
must learn religion--_i.e._ submission, and the culture of Perfect
Womanhood; he must learn a trade of some kind, unless he belongs to the
aristocracy, so as not to be necessarily dependent; and he must be made
healthy, strong, and active. History will credit us with one thing, at
least; we have improved the race.'
It wanted an hour of dinner. The Professor, who was never tired, led her
pupil over such portions of the old Castle as could still be
visited--the great tower and one or two of the terraces.
'This was once yours,' she said. 'This is the castle of your ancestors.
Courage, my lord; you shall win it back.'
It was in a dream that the young man spent the rest of the evening. The
Professor had ordered a simple yet dainty dinner, consisting of a Thames
trout, a Châteaubriand, quails, and an omelette, with some Camembert
cheese, but her young charge did scanty justice to it. After dinner,
when the coffee had been brought, and the door was safely shut, the
Professor continued the course of lectures on ancient history, by which
she had already upset the mind of her pupil, and filled his brain with
dreams of a revolution more stupendous than was ever suspected by the
watchful bureau of police.
Their next day's drive brought them to Oxford. It was vacation, and the
colleges were empty. Only here and there a solitary figure of some
lonely Fellow or Lecturer, lingering after the rest had gone, flitted
across the lawns. The solitude of the place pleased the Professor. She
could ramble with her pupil about the venerable courts and talk at her
ease.
'Here,' she said, 'in the old days was once the seat of learning and
wisdom.'
'What is it now?' asked her disciple, surprised. 'Is not Oxford still
the seat of learning?'
'You must read--alas! you would not understand them--the old books
before you can answer your own question. What is their political
economy, their moral philosophy, their social science--of which they
make so great a boast--compared with the noble scholarship, the science,
the speculation of former days? How can I make you understand? There was
a time when everything was advanced--by men. Science must advance or
fall back. We took from men their education, and science has been
forgotten. We cannot now read the old books; we do not understand the
old discoveries; we cannot use the tools which they invented, the men of
old. Mathematics, chemistry, physical science, geology--all these exist
no longer, or else exist in such an elementary form as our ancestors
would have been ashamed to acknowledge. Astronomy, which widened the
heart, is neglected; medicine has become a thing of books; mechanics are
forgotten----'
'But why?'
'Because women, who can receive, cannot create; because at no time has
any woman enriched the world with a new idea, a new truth, a new
discovery, a new invention; because we have undertaken the impossible.'
The Professor was silent. Never before had Lord Chester seen her so
deeply moved.
'Oh, Sacred Learning!' she cried, 'we have sinned against thee! We poor
women in our conceit think that everything may be learned from books: we
worship the Ideal Woman, and we are content with the rags of learning
which remain from the work of Man. Yes, we are contented with these
scraps. We will accept nothing that is not absolutely certain. Therefore
we blasphemously and ignorantly say that the last word has been said
upon everything, and that no more remains to be learned.'
'Mankind is surrounded,' the Professor went on as if talking to herself,
'by a high wall of black ignorance and mystery. The wall is for ever
receding or closing in upon us. The men of the past pushed it back more
and more, and widened continually the boundaries of thought, so that the
foremost among them were godlike for knowledge and for a love of
knowledge. We women of the present are continually contracting the wall,
so that soon we shall know nothing, unless--unless you come to our
help.'
'How can I help to restore knowledge,' asked the young man, 'being
myself so ignorant?'
'By giving back the university to the sex which can enlarge our bounds.'
Always the same thing--always coming back to the one subject.
There was a university sermon in the afternoon, being the feast of St
Cecilia; they looked in, but the church was empty. In vacation time one
hardly expects more than two or three resident lecturers with their
husbands and boys, and a sprinkling of young men from the town. The
sermon was dull--perhaps Lord Chester's mind was out of sympathy with
the subject; it treated on the old well-worn lines of Woman as the
Musician.
'I will show you at Cambridge,' said the Professor when they came out,
'some of the music of the past. What are the feeble strains, the
oft-repeated phrases of modern music, compared with the grand old music
conceived and written by men? Women have never composed great music.'
They left Oxford the next day and proceeded north.
'I think,' said the Professor as they were driving smoothly along the
road, 'that they did wrong in not trying to maintain the old railways.
True there were many accidents, and sometimes great loss of life; yet it
must have been a convenience to get from London to Liverpool in five
hours. To be sure the art of making engines is dead: such arts could not
survive when their new system of separate labour was introduced.'
They passed the old tracks of the railways from time to time, now long
canals grass-grown, and now high embankments covered with trees and
bushes. There were black holes, too, in the hill-sides through which the
iron road had once run.
'The country in the nineteenth century,' said the Professor, 'was
populous and wealthy; but it would be at first terrible for one of us to
see and to live in. From end to end there were great factories driven by
steam-engines, in which men worked in gangs, and from which a perpetual
black cloud of smoke rose to the sky; trains ran shrieking along the
iron roads with more clouds of smoke and steam. The results of the work
were grand; but the workmen were uncared for, and killed by the long
hours and the foul atmosphere. I talk like a woman'--she checked herself
with a smile,--'and I want to talk so that you shall feel like a man--of
the ancient type.
'There is one point of difference between man's and woman's legislation
which I would have you bear in mind. Man looks to the end, woman thinks
of the means. If man wanted a great thing done, he cared little about
the sufferings of those who did that thing. A great railway had to be
built; those who made it perished of fever and exposure. What matter?
The railway remained. A great injustice had to be removed; to remove it
cost a war, with death to thousands. Man cared little for the deaths,
but much for the result. Man was like Nature, which takes infinite pains
to construct an insect of marvellous beauty, and then allows it to be
crushed in thousands almost as soon as born. Woman, on the other hand,
considers the means.'
They came, after three days' posting, to Manchester. They found it a
beautiful city, situated on a clear sparkling stream, in the midst of
delightful rural scenery, and regularly built after the modern manner
in straight streets at right angles to each other: the air was
peculiarly bright and bracing. 'I wanted very much,' said the Professor,
'to show you this place. You see how pretty and quiet a place it is; yet
in the old times it had a population of half a million. It was
perpetually black with smoke; there were hundreds of vast factories
where the men worked from six in the morning until six at night. Their
houses were huts--dirty, crowded nests of fever; their sole amusements
were to smoke tobacco and to drink beer and spirits; they died at thirty
worn out; they were of sickly and stunted appearance; they were habitual
wife-beaters; they neglected their children; they had no education, no
religion, no hopes, no wishes for anything but plentiful pipe and beer.
See it now! The population reduced to twenty thousand; the factories
swept away; the machinery destroyed; the men working separately each in
his own house, making cotton for home consumption. Let us walk through
the streets.'
These were broad, clean, and well kept. Very few persons were about. A
few women lounged about the Court, or gathered together on the steps of
the Town Hall, where one was giving her opinions violently on politics
generally; some stood at the doorways talking to their neighbours; in
the houses one could hear the steady click-click of the loom or
spinning-jenny, as the man within, or the man and his sons, sat at their
continuous and solitary labour.
'This is beautiful to think of, is it not?'
'I do not know what to say,' he replied. 'You ask me, after all that
you have taught me, to admire a system in which men are slaves. Yet all
looks well from the outside.'
'It began,' the Professor went on, without answering him directly, 'with
the famous law of the "Clack" Parliament--that in which there were three
times as many women as men--which enacted that wives should receive the
wages of their husbands on Monday morning, and that unmarried men,
unless they could be represented by mothers or sisters, or other female
relations of whom they were the support, should be paid in kind, and be
housed separately in barracks provided for the purpose, where discipline
could be maintained. It was difficult at first to carry this legislation
into effect: the men rebelled; but the law was enforced at last. That
was the death-blow to the male supremacy. Woman, for the first time, got
possession of the purse. What was done in Manchester was followed in
other places. Young man, the spot you stand on is holy, or the reverse,
whichever you please, because it is the birthplace of woman's
sovereignty.
'Presently it began to be whispered abroad that the hours were too long,
the work too hard, and the association of men together in such large
numbers was dangerous. Then, little by little, wives withdrew their
husbands from the works, mothers their sons, and set them up with
spinning-jennies and looms at home. Hand-made cotton was protected; the
machine-made was neglected. Soon the machines were silent and the
factories closed; in course of time they were pulled down. Then other
improvements followed. The population was enormously diminished, partly
by the new laws which forbade the marriage of unhealthy or deformed men,
and only allowed women to choose husbands when they had themselves
obtained a certificate of good health and good conduct. Formerly the men
married at nineteen; by the new laws they were compelled to wait until
four-and-twenty; then, further, to wait until they were asked; and
lastly, if they were asked, to obtain a certificate of soundness and
freedom from any complaint which might be transmitted to children.
Therefore as few of the Manchester workmen were quite free from some
form of disease, the population rapidly decreased.'
'But,' said Lord Chester, 'is that wrong? A man ought to be healthy.'
That was, indeed, the creed in which he had been brought up.
'I am telling you the history of the place,' replied the Professor.
'Marriage being thus almost impossible, the Manchester women emigrated
and the workmen stayed where they were, and gradually the weakly ones
died out. As for the present Manchester man, you shall see him on Sunday
when he goes to church.'
They stayed in this pleasant and countrified town for some days. On
Sunday they went to the cathedral, and attended the service, which was
conducted by the Bishop herself and her principal clergy. As the Bishop
preached, Lord Chester looked about him, and watched the men. They were
mostly a tall and handsome race, though, in the middle-aged men, the
labour at the spindles had bowed their shoulders and contracted their
chests. Their faces, however, like those of the London congregation,
were listless and apathetic; they paid little heed to the sermon, yet
devoutly knelt, bowed, and stood up at the right places. They seemed
neither to feel nor to take any interest in life. Some of the women
looked as if they interpreted the law of marital obedience in the
strictest, even its harshest manner possible.
Lord Chester looked with a certain special curiosity at a regiment of
young unmarried workmen. He had often enough before watched such a
regiment passing to and from church, but never with such interest. For
in these boys he had now learned to recognise the masters of the future.
They were mostly quite young, and naturally presented a more animated
appearance than their married elders. Those of them who came from the
country, or had no parents, were kept in a barrack under strict rule and
discipline, having prescribed hours for gymnastics, exercises, and
recreation, as well as for labour.
They were not all boys. Among them marched those whom unkind Nature or
accident had set apart as condemned to celibacy. These were the
consumptive, the asthmatic, the crippled, the humpbacked, the deformed;
those who had inherited diseases of lung, brain, or blood; the
unfortunates who could not marry, and who were, therefore, cared for
with what was officially known as kindness. These poor creatures
presented the appearance of the most hopeless misery. At other times
Lord Chester would have passed them by without a thought. He knew now
how different would have been their lot under a government which did not
call itself maternal. Neither boys nor incurables received pay, and the
surplus of their work was devoted to the great Mother's Sustentation
Fund, or, as it was called for short, the Mother's Tax. This was
intended to supplement the wages earned by the husband at home in case
of insufficiency. But the wives were exhorted and admonished to take
care of their husbands, and keep them constantly at work.
'They do take care of them,' said the Professor. 'They make them clean
up house, cook meals, and look after the children, as well as carry on
their trade; while they themselves wrangle over politics in the street
or in some of the squabble-halls, which are always open. The men never
go out except on Sundays; they have no friends; they have no
recreation.'
'But formerly they were even worse off, according to your own showing.'
'No; because if they were slaves to their wheels, they were slaves who
worked in gangs, and they sometimes rose from the ranks. These men are
solitary slaves who can never rise.'
'Is there nothing good at all?' cried the young man. 'Would you make a
revolution, and upset everything? As for religion----'
'Say nothing,' said the Professor, 'about religion till I have shown you
the old one. Yes; there was once something grander than anything you
can imagine. We women, who have belittled everything, have even spoiled
our religion.'
They passed a couple of young men wending their way to the gymnasium
with racquets in their hands.
'They are the sons of the doctor or lawyer, I suppose,' said the
Professor looking after them. 'Fine young fellows! But what are we to do
with them? The law says that every boy, except the son of a peeress,
shall learn a trade. No doubt these boys have learned a trade, but they
do not practise it. They stay at home idle, or they spend their days in
athletics. Some time or other they will marry a woman in their own rank,
and then the rest of their lives will be devoted to managing the house
and looking after the children, while their wives go to office and earn
the family income.'
'What would you do with them?'
'Nay, Lord Chester; what will _you_ do for them? That is the question.'
The next day they left Manchester, and proceeded on their journey. At
Liverpool they saw seven miles of splendid old docks, lining the banks
of the river; but there were no ships. The trade of the old days had
long since left the place: it was a small town now with a few fishing
smacks. The Professor enlarged upon the history of the past.
'But were the men happy?'
'I do not know. That is nowhere stated. I imagine there used to be
happiness of a kind for men in forming part of a busy hive. At least
the other plan--our plan--does not seem to produce much solid
happiness....'
Gradually Lord Chester was being led to think less of the individual and
more of his work. But it took time to eradicate his early impressions.
At Liverpool they visited the convict-prison--the largest prison in
England. It was that prison specially devoted to the worst class of
criminals--those undergoing life sentences for wife-beating. They found
a place surrounded by a high wall and a deep ditch; they were admitted,
on the Professor showing a pass, through a door at which a dozen female
warders were sitting on duty. One of them was told off to conduct them
round the prison. The convicts, coarsely clad in sackcloth, were engaged
in perpetually doing unnecessary and profitless work--some dug holes
which others filled up again; some carried heavy weights up ladders and
down again,--there was the combined cruelty of monotony, of uselessness,
and of excessive toil. In this prison--because physical force is
necessary for men of violence--they had men as well as women for
warders. These were stationed at intervals, and were armed with loaded
guns and bayonets. It was well known that there was always great
difficulty in persuading men to take this place, or to keep them when
there. Mostly they were criminals of less degree, who purchased their
liberty by becoming, for a term of years, convict-warders.
'No punishment too bad for wife-beaters,' said the Professor when they
came away. 'What punishment is there for women who make slaves of their
husbands, lock them up, kill them with work? or for old women who marry
young men against their will?'
'You must clear out that den,' she went on, after a pause. 'A good many
men are imprisoned there on the sole unsupported charge of their
wives--innocent, no doubt; and if not innocent, then they have been
punished enough.'
Lord Chester was being led gradually to regard himself, not as an
intending rebel, but as a great reformer. Always the Professor spoke of
the future as certain, and of his project, yet vague without a definite
plan, as of a thing actually accomplished.
They left the dreary and deserted Liverpool, with its wretched
convict-prison. They drove first across the country, which had once been
covered with manufacturing towns, now all reduced to villages; they
stopped at little country inns in places where there yet lingered
traditions of former populousness; they passed sometimes gaunt ruins of
vast brick buildings which had been factories; the roads were quiet and
little used; the men they met were chiefly rustics going to or returning
from their work; there was no activity, no traffic, no noise upon these
silent highways.
'How can we ever restore the busy past?' asked Lord Chester.
'First release your men; let them work together; let them be taught; the
old creative energy will waken again in the brains of men, and life will
once more go forward. It will be for you to guide the movement when you
have started it.'
As their journey drew to a conclusion, the Professor gave utterance, one
by one, to several maxims of great value and importance:--
'Give men love,' she said; 'we women have killed love.'
'There is no love without imagination. Now the imagination cannot put
forth its flowers but for the sake of young and beautiful women.'
'No true work without emulation; we have killed emulation.'
'No progress without ambition; we have killed ambition.'
'It is better to advance the knowledge of the world one inch than to win
the long-jump with two-and-twenty feet.'
'Better vice than repression. A drunken man may be a lesson to keep his
fellows sober.'
'Nothing great without suffering.'
'Strong arm, strong brain.'
'When women begin to invent they will justify their supremacy.'
'The Higher Intelligence is a phrase that must be transferred, not lost
sight of.'
'Men who are happy laugh--they must laugh. Women, who have never felt
the necessity of laughter, have killed it in men.'
'The sun is masculine--he creates. The moon is feminine--she only
reflects.'
And so, with many other parables, dark sayings, and direct teachings,
the wise woman brought her disciple to her own house at Cambridge.
CHAPTER VII
ON THE TRUMPINGTON ROAD
Professor Ingleby lived on the Trumpington Road, about a mile and a
quarter from the Senate House. Her residence was a large and handsome
house shut in by a high wall, with extensive grounds, and surrounded by
high trees, so that no one could see the garden from the main road. The
house was a certain mystery to the girls who on Sundays took their
constitutional to Trumpington and back. Some said that the Professor was
ashamed of her husband, which was the reason why he was never seen, not
even at Church; others said that she kept him in such rigid discipline
that she refused the poor man permission even to walk outside the
grounds of the house. Her two daughters, who regularly came to church
with their mother, were pretty girls, but had a submissive gentle look
quite strange among the turbulent young spirits of the University. They
were never seen in society; and for some reason unknown to anybody
except herself, the Professor refused to enter them at any college.
Meantime no one was invited to the house: when one or two ladies tried
to break through the reserve so strangely maintained by the most
learned Professor in the University, and left their cards, the visit
was formally returned by the Professor herself, accompanied by one of
her girls. But things went no further, and invitations were neither
accepted nor returned. It is therefore not surprising that this learned
woman, who seemed guided by none of the motives which influence most
women--who was not ambitious, who refused rank, who desired not
money--gradually came to bear a mythical character. She was represented
as an ogre: the undergraduates, always fond of making up stories, amused
themselves by inventing legends about her home life and her autocratic
rule. Some, however, said that the house was haunted, her husband off
his head, and her daughters weak in their intellect. There was,
therefore, some astonishment when it was announced officially that the
Professor was bringing Lord Chester to stay at her own house--'in
perfect seclusion,' added the paper, to the disgust of all Cambridge,
who would have liked to make much of this interesting young peer.
However, long vacation had begun when he came up, so that the few left
were either the reading undergraduates or the dons.
'Here,' said the Professor, as she ushered her guest into a spacious
hall, with doors opening into other rooms on either hand, 'you will find
yourself in a house of the past. Nothing in my husband's house, or
hardly anything, that is not two hundred years old at least; nothing
which does not belong to the former dynasty: we use as little as
possible that is new.'
Lord Chester looked about him: the hall was hung with pictures, and
these were of a kind new to him, for they represented scenes in which
man was not only the executive hand, but also the directing head,
usurping to himself the functions of the Higher Intelligence. Thus Man
was sitting on the Judicial Bench; Man was preaching in the Church; Man
was holding debate in Parliament; Man was writing books; Man was
studying. Where, then, was Woman? She was represented as spinning,
sewing, nursing the baby, engaged in domestic pursuits, being wooed by
young lovers, young herself, sitting among the children.
'You like our pictures?' asked the Professor. 'They were painted during
the Subjection of Woman two hundred years ago. Men in those days worked
for women; women gave men their love and sympathy: without love, which
is a stimulus, labour is painful to man; without sympathy, which
supports, labour is intolerable to him; with, or without,
labour--necessary work with head or hand for the daily bread--is almost
always intolerable to woman. Therefore, since the Great Revolution,
there has been no good work done by man, and no work at all by women.'
She opened a door, holding the handle for a moment, as if with reverence
for what was within.
'Here is our library,' she whispered. 'Come, let me present you to my
husband. I warn you, beforehand, that our manners are like our
furniture--old-fashioned.'
It was a large room, filled with books of ancient aspect: at a table
sat, among his papers, a venerable old man, the like of whom Lord
Chester had never seen before. It must be owned that the existing régime
did not produce successful results in old men. They were too often
frivolous or petulant; they were sometimes querulous; they complained of
the want of respect with which they were treated, and yet generally
neither said nor did anything worthy of respect.
But this was a dignified old man: thin white locks hung round his square
forehead, beneath which were eyes still clear and full of kindliness;
and his mobile lips parted with a peculiarly sweet smile when he greeted
his guest. For the first time in his life, Lord Chester looked, with
wonder, upon a man who bore in his face and his carriage the air of
Authority.
The room was his study: the walls were hidden with books; the table was
covered with papers. Strange, indeed, to see an old man in such a place,
engaged in such pursuits!
'Be welcome,' he said, 'to my poor house. Your lordship has, I learn,
been the pupil of my wife.'
'An apt and ready pupil,' she interposed, with meaning.
'I rejoice to hear it. You will now, if you please, be my pupil--for a
short time only. You have much to learn, and but a brief space to learn
it in before we proceed upon the Mission of which you know. Will you
leave Lord Chester with me, my dear?'
The Professor left them alone.
'Sit down, my lord. I would first ask you a few questions.'
He questioned the young man with great care; ascertained that he knew
already, having been taught in these late days by the Professor, the
most important points of ancient history; that he was fully acquainted
with his own pedigree, and _what it meant_; that he was filled with
indignation and shame at the condition of his country; that he was ready
to throw off the restraints and prejudices of Religion, and eager to
become the Leader of the 'Great Revolt,' if he only knew how to begin.
'But,' said Lord Chester, stammering and confused, 'I shall want
help--direction--even words. If the Professor----' he looked about in
confusion.
'I will find you the help you want. Look to me, and to those who work
with me, for guidance. This is a man's movement, and must be guided by
men alone. Sufficient for the moment that we have in your lordship our
true leader, that you will consent to be guided until you know enough to
lead--and that you will be with us--to the very death, if that must be.'
'To the very death,' replied Lord Chester, holding out his hand.
'It is well that you should first know,' the old man went on, 'who I am,
and to what hands you entrust your future. Learn, then, that by secret
laying on of hands the ancient Episcopal Order hath been carried on, and
continues unto this day. Though there are now but two or three Bishops
remaining of the old Church, I am one--the Bishop of London. This
library contains the theology of our Church--the works of the Fathers.
The Old Faith shall be taught to you--the faith of your wise fathers.'
Lord Chester stared; for the Professor had told him nothing of this.
'You may judge of all things,' said the Bishop, 'by their fruits. You
have seen the fruits of the New Religion: you have gone through the
length and the breadth of the land, and have found whither the
superstition of the Perfect Woman leads. I shall teach you the nobler
Creed, the higher Faith,--that'--here his voice lowered, and his eyes
were raised--'that, my son, of the PERFECT MAN--the DIVINE MAN.
'And now,' he went on, after a pause, ringing the bell, 'I want to
introduce to you some of your future officers and followers.'
There appeared in answer to this summons a small band of half a dozen
young men. Among them, to Lord Chester's amazement, were two friends of
his own, the very last men whom he would have expected to meet. They
were Algy Dunquerque, the young fellow we have already mentioned, and a
certain Jack Kennion, as good a rider, cricketer, and racquet-player as
any in the country. These two men in the plot? Had he been walking and
living among conspirators?
The two entered, but they said nothing. Yet the look of satisfaction on
their faces spoke volumes.
'Gentlemen,' said the Bishop, 'I desire to present you to the Earl of
Chester. In this house and among ourselves he is already what he will
shortly be to the whole world--His Royal Highness the Earl of Chester,
heir to the crown--nay--actual King of England. The day long dreamed of
among us, my children--the day for which we have worked and planned--has
arrived. Before us stands the Chief, willing and ready to lead the Cause
in person.'
They bowed profoundly. Then each one advanced in turn, took his hand,
and murmured words of allegiance.
The first was a tall thin young man of four-and-twenty, with eager eyes,
pale face, and high narrow forehead, named Clarence Veysey. 'If you are
what we hope and pray,' he said, looking him full in the face with
searching gaze, 'we are your servants to the death. If you are not, God
help England and the Holy Faith!'
The next who stepped forward was Jack Kennion. He was a young man of his
own age, of great muscular development, with square head, curly locks,
and laughing eyes. He held out his hand and laughed. 'As for me,' he
said, 'I have no doubt as to what you are. We have waited for you a long
time, but we have you at last.'
The next was Algy Dunquerque.
'I told you,' he said laughing, 'that I was ready to follow you. But I
did not hope or expect to be called upon so soon. Something, of course,
I knew, because I am a pupil of the Bishop, and knew how long Professor
Ingleby has been working upon your mind. At last, then!' He heaved a
mighty sigh of satisfaction, and then began to laugh. 'Ho, ho! Think of
the flutter among the petticoats! Think of the debates in the House!
Think of the excommunications!'
One after the other shook hands, and then the Bishop spoke, as if
interpreting the thought of all.
'This day,' he said, 'is the beginning of new things. We shall recall
the grandeurs of the past, which no living man can remember. Time was
when we were a mighty country, the first in the world: we had the true
Religion, two thousand years old; a grand state Church; we had an
ancient dynasty and a constitutional monarchy; we had a stately
aristocracy always open to new families; we had an immense commerce; we
had flourishing factories; we had great and loyal colonies; we had a
dense and contented population; we had enormous wealth; science in every
branch was advancing; there was personal freedom; every man could raise
himself from the lowest to the highest rank; there was no post too high
for the ambition of a clever lad. In those days Man was in command.
'Let us,' he continued, after a pause, 'think how all this has been
changed. We have lost our reigning family, and have neither king nor
queen; we have thrown away our old hereditary aristocracy, and replaced
it by a false and pretentious House, in which the old titles have
descended through a line of women, and the new ones have been created
for the noisiest of the first female legislators; we have abolished our
House of Commons, and given all the power to the Peeresses; we have lost
the old worship, and invented a creed which has not even the merit of
commanding the respect of those who are most interested in keeping it
up. Does any educated woman now believe in the Perfect Woman, except as
a means of keeping men down?
'As for our trade, it is gone; as for our greatness, it is gone; as for
our industries, they are gone; as for our arts, they have perished: we
stand alone, the contempt of the world to whom we are no longer a Power.
Our men are kept in ignorance; they are forbidden to rise, by their own
work, from one class to another; class and caste distinctions are
deepened, and differences in rank are multiplied; there is no more
science; electricity, steam, heat, and air are the servants of man no
longer; men cannot learn; they are even forbidden to meet together; they
have lost the art of self-government; they are cowed; they are cursed
with a false religion; they have no longer any hopes or any aims.
'Fortunately,' he continued, 'they have left man something: he has
retained his strength; they have even legislated with the view of
keeping him healthy and strong. In your strength, my sons, shall you
prosper. But you will have to revive the old spirit. That will be the
most difficult--the only difficult--task. Take Lord Chester away now, my
children, and show him our relics of the past.'
In the room next to the library was a collection of strange and
wonderful things, all new and unintelligible to Lord Chester. Jack
Kennion acted as exhibitor.
'These,' he said, 'are chiefly models of the old machinery. I study them
daily, in the hope of restoring the mechanical skill of the past. These
engines with multitudinous wheels which are so intricate to look at,
and yet so simple in their action, formerly served to keep great
factories at work, and found occupation for hundreds and thousands of
men; these black round boxes were steam machines which dragged long
trains full of people about the country at the rate of sixty miles an
hour; these glittering things in brass were made to illustrate knowledge
which has long since died out, unless I can recover it by the aid of the
old books; these complicated things were weapons among us when science
ruled everything; all these books treat of the forgotten knowledge;
these paintings on the wall show the life of the very world as it was
when men ruled it; these maps showed the former greatness of the
country: everything here proves from what a height we have fallen. And
to think that it is only here--in this one house of all England--that we
can feel what we once were,--what we _will_ be--yes, we _will_
be--again.'
His eyes were lit with fire, his cheeks aflame as he spoke.
During the talk of this afternoon, Lord Chester discovered that the
education of every one of these young men had been conducted with a view
to his future work in or after the Revolution. Thus Algernon Dunquerque
was learned in the old arts of drilling and ordering masses of men. Jack
Kennion had studied mechanics and mathematics; another had learned
ancient law and history; another had been trained to speak,--and so on.
Clarence Veysey, for his part, had been taught by the Bishop the
Mysteries of the Old Religion, and was an ordained Priest. These things
the new recruit made out from the eager talk of his friends, who seemed
all of them anxious to instruct him at once in everything they knew.
It was a relief at last, when the first bell rang, to be alone for a few
minutes, if only to get his ideas cleared a little. What had he learned
since he left London? What was before him?
Anyhow, change, action, freedom.
He found the Professor and her daughters in the drawing-room. The girls
received him with smiles of welcome. The elder, Grace--a girl whose
sweetness of face was new to Lord Chester, accustomed to the hard lines
which a life of combat so early brings upon a woman's eyes and
brow--had, which was the first thing he noticed in her, large, clear
gray eyes of singular purity. The other, Faith, was smaller, slighter,
and perhaps more lovely, though in a different way, a less spiritual
fashion. Both, in the outer world would have been considered painfully
shy. Lord Chester was beginning to consider shyness as a virtue in
women. At all events, it was a quality rarely experienced outside.
He was already prepared for many changes, and for customs new to him.
Yet he was hardly ready for the complete reversal of social rules as he
experienced at this dinner. For the subjects of talk were started by the
men, who almost monopolised the conversation; while the ladies merely
threw in a word here and there, which served as a stimulus, and showed
appreciation rather than a desire to join in the argument. And such
talk! He had been accustomed to hear the ladies talk almost
uninterruptedly of politics--that is, of personal matters, squabbles in
the House, disputes about precedence, intrigues for title and higher
rank--and dress. Nothing else, as a rule, occupied the dinner-table. The
men, who rarely spoke, were occasionally questioned about some
cricket-match, some long race, or some other kind of athletics. This was
due to politeness only, however; for, the question put and answered, the
questioner showed how little interest she took in the subject by
instantly returning to the subject previously in discussion. But at this
table,--the Professor's--no, the Bishop's table,--the men talked of art,
and in terms which Lord Chester could not understand. Nevertheless, he
gathered that the so-called art of the Academicians was a thing
absolutely beneath contempt. They talked of science, especially the
square-headed youth Jack Kennion, to whom they deferred as to an
authority; and he spoke of subjects, forms, and laws of which Lord
Chester was absolutely ignorant: they talked of history, and all,
including the Bishop's daughters--strange, how easily the new proselyte
fell into the way of considering how the highest education is best
fitted for men!--showed as intimate an acquaintance with the past as the
Professor herself. They talked of religion; and here all deferred to the
Bishop, who, while he spoke with authority, invited discussion.
Strangest thing of all!--every man spoke as if his own opinion were
worth considering. There was not the slightest deference to authority.
The great and standard work of Cornelia Nipper on Political Economy, in
which she summed up all that has been said, and left, as was taught at
Cambridge, nothing more to be said; the _Encyclopædia of Science_,
written by Isabella Bunter, in which she showed the absurdity of pushing
knowledge into worthless regions; the sermons and dogmas of the
illustrious and Reverend Violet Swandown, considered by the orthodox as
containing guidance and comfort for the soul under all possible
circumstances,--these works were openly scoffed at and derided.
Lord Chester said little; the conversation was for the most part beyond
him. At his side sat the Bishop's elder daughter, Grace--a young lady of
twenty-one or twenty-two, of a type strange to him. She had a singularly
quiet, graceful manner; she listened with intelligent pleasure, and
showed her appreciation by smiles rather than by words; when she spoke,
it was in low tones, yet without hesitation; she was almost
extravagantly deferent to her father, but towards her mother showed the
affection of a loved and trusted companion. It was too much the custom
in society for girls to show no regard whatever for the opinions or the
wishes of their fathers.
The younger daughter, Faith, talked less; but Lord Chester noticed that
as she sat next to Algy Dunquerque, that young man frequently ceased to
join in the general conversation, and exchanged whispers with her; and
they were whispers which made her eyes to soften and her cheek to glow.
Good; in the new state of things the men would do the wooing for
themselves. He thought of Constance, and wished she had been there.
When the ladies retired, the Bishop began to talk of the Great Cause.
'Your training,' he said to Lord Chester, 'has been, by my directions,
that of a Prince rather than a private gentleman. That is to say, you
have been taught a great many things, but you have not become a
specialist. These friends of ours,'--he pointed to his group of
disciples,--'are, each in his own line, better than yourself, and better
than you will ever try to become. A Prince should be a patron of art,
learning, and science and literature; but it does not become him to be
an artist, a scholar, a philosopher, or a poet. You must be contented to
sit outside the circle, so to speak. Now let us speak of our chances.'
He proceeded to discuss the best way of raising the country. His plan
was a simultaneous revolt in half a dozen country districts; an appeal
to the rustics; the union of forces; the seizure of towns; continual
preaching and exhortation for the men; repression for the women; the
destruction of their sacred pictures and figures; but no violence--above
all, no violence. The Bishop was an ecclesiastic, and he was a recluse.
He therefore did not understand what men are like when the passion of
fighting is roused in them. He dreamed of a bloodless Revolution; he
pictured the men voluntarily confessing the wisdom and the truth of the
Old Religion. The event proved that all human institutions rest on
force, and cannot be upset without the employment of force. To be sure,
women cannot fight; but they had on their side the aid of superstition
and the strong arms of the men whom they led in superstitious chains.
Upstairs one of the girls played and sang old songs: the words were
strange; words and air went direct to the heart. Lord Chester listened
disturbed and anxious, yet exultant.
The Professor pressed his hand.
'It is death or success,' she whispered. 'Be of good cheer; in either
event you shall be counted noble among the men to come.'
When Grace Ingleby wished him good-night, she held his hand in hers with
the firm grasp of a sister.
'You are one of us,' she said frankly. 'In this house we are all
brothers and sisters in hope and in Religion. And if they found us out,'
she added with a laugh, 'we should be brothers and sisters in death.
Courage, my lord! There is all to gain.'
Faith Ingleby, the younger sister, who had less ardour for the Cause
than for the men who were pledged to it, whispered low, as he took her
hand,--
'We know all about Lady Carlyon; and we pray daily for her, and for you.
Mother says she is worthy to become--to be raised--to be----'
'What?' he asked, reddening; for the girl hesitated and looked at him
with a kind of awe.
'Queen of England.'
'Don't anticipate, Faith,' said Algy. 'Considering, however, what we
have come out of, it strikes me that we have nothing to lose, whatever
we may gain. Come, Chester, we want to have a quiet talk together as
soon as the Bishop goes to bed.'
* * * * *
They talked for nearly the whole night. There was so much to say; one
subject after another was started; there were so many chances to
consider,--that it was four o'clock when they parted. Algy found,
somewhere or other, a bottle of champagne.
'Come,' he cried, 'a stirrup-cup! I drink to the day when the "King
shall enjoy his own again."'
'Algy!' said Lord Chester. 'To think that you have deceived me!'
'To think,' he replied laughing, 'that we have dreamed of this day so
long! What would our Revolution be worth unless we were to have our
hereditary and rightful king for leader! Yet, I confess it was hard to
see you drawn daily closer to us, and not to hold out hands to drag you
in--long ago. Yes, the Professor was right. She is always right. She
glories in her obedience to the Bishop, but--whisper,--we all know very
well that the Bishop does nothing without consulting her first, and
nothing that she does not agree with. Don't be too sure, dear boy, about
the Supremacy of Man.'
CHAPTER VIII
THE BISHOP
At seven 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 the Duchess. 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 lesson from 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
direct from 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 what can 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 the image 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 of
fetters, 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 face to 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
indignat
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