Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7. Karel Čapek

crowded condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that most wonderful city of the world, London, has kept members fully occupied. But twelve o’clock, midnight, has struck, and the Commons are dispersing. It has been a great night for Hector D’Estrange. He has spoken for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; for does it not know full well that the subject of that night’s discussion is one in which he is no novice, it having been undertaken on his own motion?

      He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told them many things. Has he not a right to do so? None like him have dived into those terrible slums, have visited night after night, as he has done, those abodes of crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. He knows them well, and has depicted them as they are, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in language of which he alone is master.

      He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which he has depicted so vividly, yet not even he knows some of the depths of infamy that exist in that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another experience to incur.

      “Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of yours!” exclaims the Duke of Ravensdale, who, having been an attentive listener during the debate, has run down to join his friend as the latter leaves the Commons. “Come across to Montragee House, and let us have a little supper. Wish you would stay there the night, old man!”

      “I can’t, Evie,” replies Hector. “I have to go down to Windsor by an early train, and must go home and order my things to be packed up; but I’ll come across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as I went without my dinner.”

      They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards White-hall, and as they do so Big Ben chimes out the hour of half-past twelve.

      “How time flies, to be sure!” remarks the young duke thoughtfully. “Funny thing time is—eh. Hector?”

      “It is,” answers this latter gravely; “a something without being, shape, or substance, and yet a thing that has been, is, and yet shall be.”

      “What a happy chap you ought to be. Hector! I don’t suppose there’s an hour in your life which you can look back upon as having wasted or misspent, save in doing good and trying to help others,” exclaims his friend in an almost envious tone. “Would to God I could say the same of myself I”

      “Hush, Evie! don’t try and make me vain; and don’t run yourself down before me. I won’t allow it. God knows you are earnest enough in your desire to do good, and, dear Evie, you have succeeded. I don’t suppose there’s another in your position who has done so much. I never had such a good true friend as you in all my undertakings, except one, and of course I except her.”

      “Her !” exclaims his friend, in a somewhat surprised voice. “Whom, Hector?”

      “My mother,” he answers quietly. “She has been my right hand through life. I could not have got on without her.”

      “Your mother, Hector !” says the duke in a low voice. “Have you a mother alive?”

      “Yes, Evie, and one of the best that ever lived. I will introduce her to you some day. She knows you well by hearsay, for I have often spoken of you to her. But a favour, dear old Evie; don’t ever mention her to any one; promise me.”

      “Of course not. Hector. You know the simplest wish of yours is law to me. Well, here we are; we’ll finish our chat inside over some soup and oysters, and anything else you like to have.”

      The duke’s hand is on the bell, but he pulls it very softly.

      “Won’t do to peal it,” he remarks. “The sound would awaken Bernie, he’s such a light sleeper; and always will get up to welcome me if he awakes, dear little chap.”

      “Let’s see, how old is he now?” queries Hector D’Estrange; “well nigh sixteen, is he not? He’s a dear lad, and I like him especially on account of his love for you. He does love you, Evie.”

      “Yes,” answers the duke softly, “and I love him. Bernie is all I have got to love, unless it be you, Hector.”

      He does not see the bright flush that rises to Hector

      . D’Estrange’s beautiful face, or the passionate look in the sapphire eyes. It might have startled him if he had. But the great massive doors are unclosing now, and he enters, followed by his friend.

      “Supper in my study, Repton, please,” he exclaims. “Is Lord Bernard asleep?”

      “Fast, your Grace,” answers that individual confidentially, “His lordship wanted to sit up for your Grace, but when I gave him your Grace’s message he went straight to bed.”

      “That’s right,” says the duke heartily. “Bernie’s a good lad. God bless him!”

      The two have moved on into the duke’s study, and Repton has hurried off to command his Grace’s supper to be served immediately. He has pompous manners, has Repton, a high opinion of himself, and certain notions of his own importance and dignity, but he is a good servant nevertheless, and a faithful one. He is not of the Stuggins’ class. He would as soon dream of keeping his Grace waiting for his supper as of jumping over the moon.

      The consequence is, that in the twinkling of an eye supper is served in the study. And the two friends, as they sit discussing it, wander off on some favourite theme, so that the time passes quicker than they think. Suddenly they are startled by hearing a bell peal. The duke springs to his feet.

      “Good heavens! What can that be?” he exclaims nervously. “Is it Bernie’s bell; is the boy ill, I wonder? I must go and see. It’s past two o’clock.”

      “It’s the front door bell, I think,” says Hector D’Estrange. “Hark, Evie I there are voices in the entrance hall. Open the door and listen.”

      The duke does so. A woman’s voice is plainly distinguishable, appealing to Repton.

      “For God’s sake,” he hears her saying, “let me see the duke. I must see him. It is a matter of life and death. If you tell him it is for Mr. D’Estrange he will see me, I know.”

      “I have no orders from his Grace to admit you,” answers Repton pompously, “and certainly cannot disturb his Grace at this hour. You must write or call again tomorrow morning, and all I can do is to report your wish to his Grace.”

      He bangs the door to as he speaks, but the next moment steps sound behind him, and Hector D’Estrange has seized the handle and pulled it open. His face is very white, and there is terror in his eyes.

      “Rita!” he calls out, “is that you, Rita? My God! what brings you here?”

      “Mr. D’Estrange!” she bursts out with a low, glad cry. “Oh, are you here? Thank God! thank God!”

      She has rushed forward and seized him by the hand, and the duke, who has followed close behind him, recognises in the youthful, fair-featured girl the sad, haggard, careworn, starving creature whom but a few years back he had rescued from prostitution and degradation. Yet in what a terrible condition she seems. Her dress is torn and mudstained, her shoes likewise, her fair, soft hair dishevelled and hanging about her face and down her back, while her expression is that of one scared by a terrible fear.

      “Come quick, come quick!” she cries imploringly, “before it is too late. Oh, Mr. D’Estrange! they have waylaid her, and carried her off. I saw her bound, with her poor cut bleeding hands, and could not help her; but I know where she is, and can guide you to the place, if you will only come.”

      “Rita,” exclaims Hector D’Estrange, in a voice the very calmness of which fills her with awe, “come into the duke’s study for a minute, and explain yourself. Follow me.”

      He leads the way with Evie Ravensdale following, and she close behind the duke. As for Repton, he is rigid with astonishment.

      The three enter the study, and the door is closed. “Now, Rita,” queries Hector excitedly, “explain.”

      “I