IN the early autumn the Cambridge party broke up. Clarence Veysey was the first to go. His sisters wanted him at home, they said.

‘They are good girls,’ he sighed, ‘and less unsexed than most of their sex. Thanks to my reputation for ill health, they do not interfere with my pursuits, and I can read and meditate. Writing is, of course, dangerous.’

Lord Chester had not been long at the Professor’s before he discovered two of those open secrets which are known by everybody. They were naturally affairs of the heart. It was pleasant to find that the young priest, the ardent apostle of the old Faith, was in love, and with Grace Ingleby. The courtship was cold, yet serious; he loved her with the selfish affection of men who have but one absorbing interest in life, and yet want a wife in whom to confide, and from whom to receive undivided care and worship. This he would find in Grace Ingleby,—one of those fond and faithful women who are born full of natural religion, to whom love, faith, and enthusiasm are as the air which they breathe.

The other passion was of a less spiritual kind. Algy Dunquerque, in fact, was in love with Faith Ingleby,—head over ears in love, madly in love,—and she with him. He would break off the most absorbing conversation—even a speculative discussion as to how they would carry themselves, and what they would say, when riding in the cart to execution—in order to walk about under the trees with the girl.

‘The fact is,’ he explained, ‘that if it were not for Faith and for you, I doubt if I should have been secured at all for the Revolution. One more good head would have been saved.’

Another complication made his case serious, and added fresh reasons for despatch in the work before them. His mother addressed him, while he was at Cambridge, a long and serious letter—that kind of letter which must be attended to.

After compliments of the usual kind to the Professor and to Lord Chester,—- it was for the sake of this young man’s friendship, and its possible social advantages, that Algy, as well as Jack Kennion, was permitted to stay so long from home,—Lady Dunquerque opened upon business of a startling nature. She reminded her son that he was now two-and-twenty years of age, a time when many young men of position are already established. ‘I have been willing,’ she said, ‘to give you a long run of freedom,—partly, I confess, because of your friendship for Lord Chester, who, though in many respects not quite the model for quiet and home-loving boys’—here Algy read the passage over again, and nodded his head in approbation—‘will be quite certainly the Duke of Dunstanburgh, and in that position will be the first gentleman of England. But an event has occurred, an event of such good fortune, that I am compelled to recall you without delay. You have frequently met the great lawyer Frederica Roe, Q.C. You will, I am sure, be pleased to learn’—here Algy took the hand of Faith Ingleby, and held it, reading aloud—‘that she has asked for your hand.’

‘I am greatly pleased,’ said Algy. ‘Bless the dear creature! She dresses in parchment, Faith, my angel: if you prick her, she bleeds ink; if she talks, it is Acts of Parliament; and when she coughs, it is a special pleading. Her complexion is yellow, her eyes are invisible, she has gone bald, and she is five-and-fifty. What good fortune! What blessed luck!’ Then he went on with his letter.

‘Of course I hastened to accept. She will be raised to the Peerage whenever a vacancy occurs on the Bench. I confess, my dear son, that this match, so much beyond our reasonable expectations, so much higher than our fortune and position entitled us to hope for on your behalf—a match in all respects, and from every point of view, so advantageous—pleases your father and myself extremely. The disparity of age is not greater than many young men have to encounter, and it is proved by numberless examples to be no bar to real happiness. I say this because, in the society of Lord Chester, you may have imbibed—although I rely upon your religious principles—some of those pernicious doctrines which are, falsely perhaps, attributed to him. However, we hope to see you return to us as you left us, submissive, docile, and obedient. And your friendship with Lord Chester may ultimately prove of the greatest advantage to you,’ ‘I hope it will,’ said Jack, laughing, as he read this passage. ‘Your father begs me to add that Frederica, who is only a few years older than himself, is in reality, though somewhat imperious and brusque in manner, a most kind-hearted woman, and likely to prove the most affectionate and indulgent of wives.’

‘What do you think of that, brothers mine?’ he asked, folding up the letter. They looked at each other.

‘Oh, begin at once!’ cried Faith, clasping her hands. ‘They will marry you all, the horrid creatures, before you have struck the first blow. Do you hear, Algy? begin at once.’

‘It is serious,’ said Jack. ‘If pity is any good to you, Algy, you have it. A crabbed old lawyer—a soured, peevish, argumentative Q.C.’ He shuddered. ‘It is already Vacation; she is sure to want to push on the marriage without delay. What are we to do?’

He looked at Lord Chester for a reply.

‘My own case,’ said the young Chief, ‘comes before the House in October. The first blow, so far as I am concerned, must be struck before then.’

‘For Heaven’s sake,’ cried Algy, ‘strike it before this old lawyer swallows me up! I feel like a piece of parchment already. A little delay I can manage; a toothache, a cold, a sore throat—anything would do—but that would only delay the thing a week.’

The little party was broken up. Jack Kennion alone remained. He had obtained permission to accompany Lord Chester to Chester Towers, his country seat. The Professor and the girls were to go too—an arrangement sanctioned by Lady Boltons, happily ordered abroad to drink the waters.

Three weeks passed. Letter after letter came from Algy. His fiancÉe was pressing on the marriage; he had resorted to every expedient to postpone it; he knew not what he could do next; the day had to be named; wedding presents were coming in; and the learned lawyer proved more odious than could be imagined.

Lord Chester was not idle.

He was sitting one afternoon at this time, Algernon’s last despairing letter in his pocket, on a hill-side four or five miles from the Castle. Beside him stood a young gamekeeper, Harry Gilpin, stalwart and brawny: there was no shooting to be done, but he carried his gun.

‘It is our only chance, Harry,’ said Lord Chester, in low, earnest tones. ‘We must do it. Things are intolerable.’

‘If there’s any chance in it; but it is a poor chance at best.’

‘What, Harry! would you not follow me?’

‘I’ll follow your lordship wherever you lead. I’ll go for your lordship wherever you point. Don’t think I’m afeard for myself. I’m but a poor creature—easy to find plenty as good as me; and if so be I must end my days in a convict-prison, why, I’d rather do it for you, my lord, than for lying accusations.’

‘Good, Harry,’ Lord Chester held out his hand. ‘We understand each other. Death rather than a convict-prison. We strike for freedom. Tell me next about the discontent.’

‘All the country-side is discontented, along o’ the old women. It’s this way, my lord. We get on right well, let us marry our own gells. When the gells gets shoved out o’ the way, and we be told by the Passon to marry this old woman, an’ that, why ... ‘tis nature.’

‘It is, Harry, and my case as well as yours. Then if all are discontented, we may get all to join us.’

‘Nay, my lord; many are but soft creatures, and mortal afraid of the women. We shall get some, but we must make them desperate afore they’ll fight.’

‘You keepers can shoot. How many can we reckon on?’

Harry laughed.

‘When your lordship lifts up your little finger,’ he replied, ‘there’s not a keeper for miles and miles round that won’t run to join you, nor a stable-boy, nor a groom, nor a gardener. Ay! a hundred and fifty men, counting boys, will come in, once pass the word. A Chester has lived in these parts longer than men can remember.’

‘Do they remember, Harry, that a Chester once ruled this country?’

‘Ay ... so some say ... in the days when ... but there! it is an old story.’

‘But the girls, Harry, who have lost their lovers,—your own girl, what will she do?’

‘They whimper a bit; they have a row with the old woman; and then the Passon steps in and talks about religion, and they give in.’

‘What! If they saw a chance, if they thought they could get their sweethearts back again, would they not rejoice?’

Harry hesitated.

‘Some would, some wouldn’t. You see, my lord, it’s their religion stands in the way; and their religion means everything. What they say is, that if they married their sweethearts, these being young and proper men, and masterful, they would perhaps get put upon; whereas, they love to rule their husbands. But some would ... yes, some would.’

Lord Chester rose, and began slowly to return home across the fields.

A hundred and fifty, and all true and loyal men! As the occupation of most of them prevented their going to church, and kept them apart from the rest, in a kind of loneliness, they were comparatively uninfluenced by religion; and though their wives drew the pay, the keepers understood little about obedience, and indeed had everything their own way. A hundred and fifty men!—a little army. Never before had he felt so grateful for the preservation of game.

‘You said, Harry, a hundred and fifty men!’

‘A hundred and fifty men, my lord, of all ages, by to-morrow morning, if you want them, and no doubt a hundred and fifty more the day after. Why, there are seventy men on the Duchess’s estate alone, counting the rangers, the gardeners, the keepers, stable-boys, and all.’

Three hundred men!

Lord Chester was silent. He had communicated enough of the plot. Harry knew that his master, like himself, was threatened with an elderly wife. He also knew that his master proposed an insurrection against the marriage of young men against their wills. Further, Harry did not inquire.

Now, while the leader of the Revolt was considering what steps to take,—nothing is harder in revolutions than to make a creditable and startling commencement,—accident put in his way a most excellent beginning. There was a hard-working young blacksmith in the village—a brawny, powerful man of thirty or thereabouts. No better blacksmith was there within thirty miles: his anvil rang from morning until night; he was as handsome in a rough fashion as any man need be; and he ought to have been happy. But he was not, for he was married to a termagant. Not only did this wife of his take all his money, which was legitimate, but she abused him with the foulest reproaches, accusing him perpetually of wife-beating, of infidelity, of drunkenness, and of all the vices to which male flesh is liable, threatening him in her violent moods with imprisonment.

That morning there had been a more than usually violent quarrel. The scolding of the beldam in her house was heard over the whole village, so that the men trembled and grew pale, thus admonished of what an angry woman can say. During the forenoon there was peace, the blacksmith working quietly at his forge. In the dinner-hour the row began again, worse than ever. At two o’clock the poor man came out with hanging head and dejected face to his work. One or two of the elder women admonished him against exasperating his wife; but he replied nothing. Children, for whom the unlucky smith had ever a kind word and a story, came as usual, and stayed outside waiting. But there was no word of kindness for them that day. Men passed down the village street and spoke to him; but he made no reply. Then the village cobbler, a widower, and independent, and so old and crusty of temper that no one was likely to marry him, came forth from his shop and spoke to him.

‘How goes it, Tom?’

‘Bad,’ said Tom. ‘Couldn’t be worse. And I wish I was dead—dead and buried and out of it.’

The cobbler shook his head and retired.

Then there came slowly down the street, carrying a basket with vegetables, a young woman of five-and-twenty, and she stopped in front of the forge, and said softly, ‘Poor Tom! I heard her this morning.’

Tom looked up and shook his head. His eyes, which were soft and gentle, were full of tears.

And then ... then ... the wife rushed upon the scene. Her eyes were red, her lips were quivering, her whole frame shook with passion. For she was no longer simply in a common, vulgar, everyday rage; she was in a rage of jealousy. She seized the younger woman by the arm, dragged her into the middle of the road, and threw herself before her husband in a fine attitude. ‘Stand back!’ she cried. ‘You ... you ... Susan! He is my man, not yours—not yours.’

‘Poor fellow!’ said Susan. She was a young person with black hair and resolute eyes, and it was well known that she had regarded Tom as her sweetheart. ‘Poor fellow! It was a bad job indeed for him when he became your man.’

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A war of words between an elderly woman, who may be taunted with her years, her jealousy, her lack of children, teeth, and comeliness, and a young woman, who may be charged with many sins, is at best a painful thing to witness, and a shameful thing to describe. Suffice it to say, that the elder lady was completely discomfited, and that long after she was extinguished, the girl continued to pour upon her the vials of her wrath. The whole village meanwhile—all the women, and such of the men as were too old for work—crowded round, taking part in the contest. Finally, the wife, stung by words whose bitterness was embittered by their truth, cried aloud, taking the bystanders to witness, that the husband for whose sake, she said, she had endured patiently the falsehoods and accusations of yonder hussy, was nothing better than a beater, a striker, a kicker, a trampler, and a cuffer of his wife.

‘I’ve borne it long,’ she cried, ‘but I will bear it no longer. To prison he shall go. If I am an old woman, and like to die, you shall never have him—do you hear? To prison he shall go, and for life.’

At these words a dead silence fell on all.

The blacksmith stood still, saying not a word, leaning on his hammer. Then his wife spoke again, but slowly.

‘Last night,’ she said, ‘he dragged me round the room by the hair of my head; this morning he knocked me down with his fist; and last Sunday, after church, he kicked me off my chair; yesterday fortnight he beat me with a poker——’

‘Lies! lies!! LIES!!!’ cried Susan. ‘Tom say they are lies.’

Tom shook his head but spoke never a word.

‘Tom!’ she cried again, ‘they will take you to prison; say they are lies.’

Then he spoke.

‘I would rather go to prison.’

‘Don’t believe her,’ Susan cried. ‘Don’t believe her. Why, she’s got no hair to be pulled.... Don’t ... Oh! oh! oh!’

She burst into an agony of weeping.

The women clamoured round the group,—some for justice, because wife-beating is an awful sin; some for mercy, because this woman was in her fits of wrath a most notorious liar, and not a soul believed her accusations.

It was in the midst of this altercation that there arrived on the scene, from opposite points, Lord Chester with Harry, and two of the rural police.

‘Take him into custody,’ gasped the blacksmith’s wife. ‘Take him to prison. Oh, the wretch! oh, the wife-beater! oh, I am beaten to a jelly—I am bruised black and blue!’

Lord Chester stepped before the unhappy blacksmith.

‘Stay!’ he said to the policewomen. ‘Not so fast. Tom, what do you say?’ he asked the blacksmith.

‘I never laid hand on her,’ said the unhappy man. ‘But all’s one for that. I suppose I’ll have to go to prison, my lord. Anyhow, there can’t be no prison worse than this life. I’m glad and happy to be rid of her.’

‘Stay again,’ said his lordship. The people gathered closer in wonder. The masterful young lord looked as if he meant to interfere. ‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘take this woman away, and look for any marks of violence. No,’ as the elder women pressed forward, ‘not you who have got young husbands of your own, and would like to get rid of them yourselves perhaps. Some of you girls take her.’

But she refused to go, while the old women murmured amongst each other.

‘Must obey orders, my lord,’ said one of the police. ‘Here’s a case for the magistrates. Woman says her husband struck, beat, and kicked her. Magistrates will hear the case, my lord.’

She pulled out her handcuffs.

Then Lord Chester saw that the moment had arrived.

‘Harry,’ he said, ‘stand by.’

He laid his hand on the blacksmith’s shoulder.

‘No one shall harm him,’ he said. ‘Tom, come with me.’

‘My lord!... my lord!’ cried the policewomen. ‘What shall we do? It’s obstructing law—it’s threatening the executive: what will the justices say? It’s a most dreadful offence.’

‘Come, Tom,’ he said.

The crowd parted right and left with awestruck eyes.

As Lord Chester carried off his rescued prisoner, the Vicar came running out with dismay upon her face.

‘My lord! my lord!’ she cried. ‘What dreadful thing is this? And you, Tom,—you, after all your promises! In my parish, too!’

‘Hold your foolish tongue!’ said Lord Chester, roughly. ‘Why not in your parish? In every parish, thanks to you and your accursed religion, the young men are torn from the girls, and there is misery. Stand aside.... You, Susan, will you come with me and your old sweetheart?’

The Vicar gasped. She turned white with terror. ‘Foolish tongue! Accursed religion!’ Had she heard aright?

The police-constables looked stupidly at one another.

‘Please, my lord,’ said one, ‘we must report your lordship.’

‘Go and report,’ replied the rebel.

It was now half-past five in the afternoon, and the labourers were returning from the fields. The village street was crowded with men, most of them young men.

The men began whispering together, and the women were all delivering orations at once.

The Chief pointed to some of the men and called them by name.

‘You, John Deer; you, Nick Trulliber; you—and you—and you,—come with me. You have old wives too; unless you want to be sent to prison for life for wife-beating, come with me and fight for your liberty.’

They hesitated; they trembled; they looked at the vicar, at their wives: they would have been lost but for the presence of mind of the cobbler.

He was, as I have said, an elderly man, bowed down by his work and by years. But he sprang to the front and shouted to the men:—

‘Come, unless you are cowards and deserve the hulks. Why, it’s slavery, it’s misery; it’s unnatural pains and penalties. Come out of it, you poor, wretched chaps, that ought to be married to them as is young and comely. Come away, all you young fellows that want young wives. Hooray! his lordship’s going to deliver us all. Three cheers for Lord Chester! We’ll fight for our liberty.’

He brandished his bradawl, seized one of the men, and the rest followed. There was a general scream from the women of rage and terror; for all the men followed, like sheep, in a body. Not a single man of the village under sixty years of age or over sixteen slept in his wife’s house that night.

‘I always knew, my lord,’ said the cobbler, ‘that it was stuff an’ nonsense, them and their submission. Yah! some day there was bound to be a row. Don’t let ‘em go back, my lord. I’ll stick by your lordship.’

(‘It is a very odd thing,’ said the Professor, when she heard the story, ‘that cobblers have always been atheists.’)

What next?

Lord Chester had now got his men—a band forty-seven strong, nearly all farm-labourers—within the iron gates of his park, and these were closed and locked. They were as fine a body of men, both young and old together, as could be collected anywhere. But they understood as yet nothing of what was going to be done, and they slouched along wondering stupidly, yet excited at the risk they were running.

Lord Chester made them a speech.

‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that the prisons of England are full of men charged with wife-beating. They never had an opportunity of defending themselves; they are tortured day and night. You may, all of you—any of you—be charged with this offence. Your word is not taken; you are carried off to hopeless imprisonment. Is that a pleasant thing for you?’

They murmured. But Tom the blacksmith waved his hammer, and Harry the keeper his gun, and the cobbler his bradawl, and these three shouted.

‘Who asked you,’ cried Lord Chester, ‘if you wanted to marry an old woman? Did any of you choose her for yourselves? Why, when there were girls in the village, sweet and young and pretty, longing for your love, is it likely you would take an old woman?’

Then the girl they called Susan, who had followed with Tom, sprang to the front.

‘Look at me, all of you,’ she cried. ‘Tom and me was courtin’ since we were children—wasn’t we, Tom.’ Tom nodded assent. ‘And she comes and takes him from me. And the Passon said it was all right, because a man must obey, and sweetheartin’ was nonsense. How long are you going to stand it? If I was a man, and strong, would I let the women have their own way? How long will you stand it, I say?’

Here the men lifted up their voices and growled. Liberty begins with a growl; rage begins with a growl; fighting begins with a growl,—it is a healthy symptom for those who promote mischief.

‘Are they pretty, your old women?’ the orator went on. ‘Are they good-tempered? Are they pleasant to live with?’

There was another growl.

‘Men,’ cried Lord Chester, ‘we have borne enough. Wake up! We will end all this. We will marry the women we love—the pretty sweethearts who love us—the young girls who will make us happy. Who will follow me?’

Harry the keeper stepped to the front with a shout. Tom the blacksmith followed with a shout, brandishing his hammer. The cobbler pushed and shoved the men. Susan threw her arms round Tom’s neck and kissed him, crying, ‘Go and fight, Tom; follow his lordship. Come, all you that are not cowards.’

Two things happened then which determined the event and rallied the waverers, who, to tell the truth, were already beginning to expect their wives and sisters upon the scene.

The first was the appearance of Jack Kennion, followed by two men bearing a great cask of beer. Then tankards passed from lip to lip, and the courage which is said to belong to Holland rather than to England mounted in their hearts.

‘Drink about, lads,’ cried Jack. ‘Here! give me the mug. Hurrah for Lord Chester! Drink about. Hurrah!’

They drank—they shouted. And while they shouted they became aware of a tall and beautiful girl who came from the house and stood beside Lord Chester. Her lips were parted; her long hair flowed upon her shoulders; the tears stood in her beautiful eyes. She tried to speak, but for a moment could not.

‘Oh, men!’ she cried at last,—‘Men of England! I thank kind Heaven for this day, which is the beginning of your freedom. Oh, be brave! think not of your own wrongs only. Think of the thousands of men lingering in prison; think of all who are shut in houses, working all day for their unloved wives; think of the young girls who have lost their lovers; think of your strength and your courage, and fight—to the death, if needs be!’

‘We will fight,’ cried the cobbler, ‘to the death!’

Then Grace Ingleby, for it was she, went from man to man and from group to group, praising them, telling them that it was no small thing they had done—that no common or cowardly man would have dared to do it; commending their courage, admiring their strength, and informing them carefully that this their act could never be forgiven, so that if they did not succeed they would assuredly all be hanged; and imploring them to lose no time in drilling and learning the use of weapons.

The Professor, meantime, was writing letters. She wrote to her husband, begging him to remain quiet while the news was spreading abroad, when he had better get across country by night and join the insurgents. She wrote to all the disciples, telling them to escape and make their way to Lord Chester; and assisted by the girls of the household, who all espoused the cause of the men, she took down the guns, swords, and weapons from the walls, and brought them out for use.

After supper—they cooked plentiful chops for the hungry men, with more beer—Jack called the men out for first drill. It was hard work; but then drill cannot at first be anything but hard work. The men were armed with pikes, guns, clubs, anything; and before nightfall, they had received their first lesson in the art of standing shoulder by shoulder.

They slept that night in tents made of sheets spread out on sticks—a rough shelter, but enough. But the chiefs sat till late, thinking and talking.

Early in the morning, at daybreak, Lord Chester dropped asleep, worn out. When he awoke, Grace stood over him with smiling face.

‘Come, my lord,’ she said, ‘I have something to show you.’

He stood upon the terrace. The night before, he had seen a group of fellows in smock-frocks shoving each other about in a vain attempt to stand in rank and file. Now, the lawns were crowded with men of a different kind, who had come in during the night.

First and foremost, there were a hundred bronzed and weather-beaten men armed with guns—they were Harry’s friends, the keepers, rangers, and foresters; among them stood a score of boys who had been sent round to summon them; and behind the keepers stood the rustics.

Oh, wonderful conversion! They had been already put into some sort of uniform which was found among the lumber of the Castle. The jackets were rusty of colour and moth-eaten, but they made the men look soldier-like; every man had round his arm a scarlet ribbon; some had scarlet coats, but not many. At sight of their Chief they all shouted together and brandished their weapons.

The Revolt of Man had begun!