Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7. Karel Čapek

you were striving to hide from him. Thank God I did, or in a hasty moment I might have laid bare our secret.”

      “And I, too, say thank God, Gloria. At one moment I fancied he was in possession of it, but I quickly found out that he was on another tack. Horrible as the idea was, it was better to let him foster it, than to give him a chance of learning the truth. Ah, Gloria dearest! if once the secret is in his hands, we need look for no mercy in that quarter.”

      “I know it, mother,” answers Gloria, in other words Hector D’Estrange; for the reader must have had no difficulty in recognising in this latter, the beautiful girl who had made her vow to the wild sea waves, ten years previously on the sunny shores of the Adriatic, and who now, as Hector D’Estrange, is working out the accomplishment of that vow.

      And she has worked well has Gloria de Lara, patiently and perseveringly, never losing an opportunity, never casting a chance aside. Her beauty and her genius have gone straight to the hearts of men, and she uses these gifts given her by God, not for vain glory and fleeting popularity, but in pursuit of justice and in furtherance of the one great aim of her life.

      “Let us change the subject, my darling,” exclaims Speranza, with a shudder; “let us drive from our minds the thought of one so horrible and contemptible. Tell me, my precious child,” she continues, laying her hand on Gloria’s shoulder, and kissing her gently on the forehead, “how have you got on with the clubs today?”

      “Excellently, mother. I came to tell you all about them, or I should not have been here until tomorrow,” answers Gloria, as she seats herself on a low stool at her mother’s feet.

      It is the middle of May, the sun is shining brightly, and the sparrows are hopping and chirping merrily about in the square outside. The early green on the trees is as yet unclouded by the dust of London’s busy season, and all is fair, and soft, and young to look upon.

      The large fortune and noble estates left to Speranza de Lara by young Harry Kintore have been well and wisely wielded by the woman, in whose heart the memory of her darling still shines as brightly as on the day he died. She has never misspent a farthing of the vast wealth that he confided to her care. It has been used in carrying out philanthropic works, alleviating suffering, and helping on the accomplishment of their child’s design, his child and hers.

      They are busy over a new one just now. With her mother’s money at her command, Gloria, under the name of Hector D’Estrange, is establishing throughout London, and in the different large towns of Great Britain and Ireland, institutions where women and girls can meet each other, and for a mere nominal fee learn to ride, to shoot with gun and rifle, to swim, to run, and to indulge in the invigorating influences of gymnastics and other exercises, calculated to strengthen and improve the physique of those taking part therein. Classes, too, technical and otherwise, for the education of girls and women on an equality with boys and men, as well as free libraries, form part of these institutions, each of which, as it is founded, becomes crowded to overflowing.

      In connection with these institutions Gloria has lately set on foot clubs, the members of which she is forming into volunteer companies, who are drilled by the hand of discipline into smartness and efficiency. The movement has been enthusiastically taken up by the women of Great Britain and Ireland, thousands of whom have been enrolled in these volunteer forces. Of course Hector D’Estrange has his enemies. The jealous and the narrow-minded; the old fogies who would have a great wrong continue for ever, rather than fly in the face of prejudice to right it; the women who love their degradation and hug their chains; the men who think the world must be coming to an end if women are to be acknowledged as their equals, have all fought tooth and nail against the splendid idea and the practical conception of Hector D’Estrange. Ridicule, abuse, calumny, false testimony, have been hurled against his giant work. They have each and all failed to disturb or harm it, for its foundation is built on the rock of justice, of right, and of nature.

      “Well, mother,” continues the girl, “we have had a great consultation today. All the details for a big review have been discussed. We shall want two good years more to get everything efficiently arranged, when I calculate that Hector D’Estrange will be able to bring into the field quite 100,000 well-drilled troops. But I am in no hurry yet; there is still much to be done. And now I have some more news to give you, mother. I have been invited to stand by the Douglasdale division of Dumfriesshire for Parliament, and to contest the seat when Mr. Reform resigns. I saw Archie Douglasdale today; he has promised to give me all his support. And what do you think, mother? Why, his sister, Lady Flora Desmond, has joined our new club. It is to be called the Desmond Lodge, and I have put her in command of it.”

      “She will be a great help to you, Gloria,” answers Speranza. “From all you have told me of her, she is the right sort in the right place.”

      “She is indeed, mother. Although I have many a good and true lieutenant thoroughly in touch with my ideas in our volunteer force, there is not one that can come up to Lady Flora. She will be a mountain of help to me, and I know I can trust her, I could trust her even with our secret.”

      “Oh! never divulge that, Gloria.”

      “Not I, mother! It was only an allegory, to give you an idea of my high opinion of her. But, till the right time comes, our secret will be with me as silent as the grave.”

      They talk on, busy with their plans, hopeful of the future, and what it is to bring, do these two women. The afternoon flits by, the chirp of the sparrows grows dull, the sun is sinking aslant the roofs of the opposite houses, the evening is creeping on apace. Gloria de Lara rises from her seat, and throws her arms around Speranza’s neck.

      “I must go now, mother,” she says gently. “I wish I could stay, but I have an engagement. Good-night, my precious mother. Kiss Gloria before she goes.”

      “God bless you, my child,” answers the mother, as she presses the girl to her heart; “God bless you, and keep you prospering in your work, my valiant young Hector D’Estrange.”

      And the girl passes out from her mother’s presence into the silent square. She is echoing Speranza s prayer, and is pulling herself together, for out of that mother’s presence she has her part to play. She is no longer Gloria de Lara, but popular, successful Hector D’Estrange.

      There is yet another scene at which we must glance before this closes. Let us enter Lord Westray’s house in Grosvenor Square. He is in the drawing-room pacing up and down, his face dark with anger and passion. A footman enters, bearing on a massive silver salver a tiny scented bijou note. He hands the missive respectfully to his lordship, who takes it impatiently.

      “The bearer is to wait for an answer, my lord.”

      “Answer be d——d!” begins Lord Westray; but suddenly recollecting himself, he continues, “Very well, Walter, come up when I ring.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      The servant retires. His face is very grave, but it relaxes into a leer as he closes the door.

      “‘Spec’s the old un’s rather tired of her by now. Gives her another week before they sez good-morning to each other,” he soliloquises to himself as he goes downstairs. As he does so. Lord Westray opens the note. It is from Lady Manderton, and runs as follows:—

      “Dearest old Potsie,—Have got a ripping little supper on to-night. Man’s away, and we will have some fun. Have asked several kindred spirits. Shall look for you at ten.

      “Your ever-devoted ‘Dodo.’”

      “I can’t go,” he mutters. “Hang the woman, I’m sick of her! She was all very well a little while ago, but nothing will satisfy me but Speranza now. I will have her or nobody; and if I don’t have her, I will have what’s next best, revenge.”

      He writes a note hastily. It is to excuse himself. He has an awful headache, and cannot come.

      Lady Manderton gets the note a quarter of an hour later, and bites her lip as she reads it. “Never mind,” she says quietly, “he sha’n’t have another chance. My next