Once more, as in ancient times, the banquet was spread in the great hall of St. Stephen's Palace at Westminster.
Old white statues of the Kings looked down upon this new Queen, crowned by the Grace of God, Defender of the Faith, Defender of our time-honoured, well-tried Faith. That faith of disciplined freedom had made a little nation very great, and had given an awful and far-reaching power.
At the high table the great officers of the kingdom waited upon our Lady with every solemnity that has come down through the centuries of a nation's youth. The heat was stifling, the fierce light of the morning was quenched in a white haze, and the sun was hidden now, for the air was darkening. Many of those who sat at the banquet tables have since spoken of the prevailing depression and weariness. Once somebody laughed, and the sound seemed out of place, for people were seized with vague misgivings, a sense of restless uneasiness verging on fear. The hall became dim as though it were evening, darkness swept down out of the spaces of the timbered roof. The air was full of electric tension, and the silence that fell upon the assemblage was broken at times by the roll of distant thunder; while the semi-darkness was now and then illumined by the flicker of far-off lightning. One of the Queen's ladies fainted, causing some stir for a moment, while the darkness deepened until it seemed to be night. A moaning wind caught the doors and swept them wide apart. Then came a peal of trumpets while three horsemen clattered in from the palace yard. Here came the hereditary Champion of England, mounted and clad in plate armour, attended by the Earl Marshal and the Lord Great Chamberlain on horseback, and by a body of trumpeters and heralds.
Then a herald, lifting up his voice, made proclamation that the Champion of England challenged in single combat to the death, any who should dare dispute the right of Margaret to the British Throne. When the proclamation had been made, the Champion rode forward, and taking the steel gauntlet from his hand, he flung it ringing upon the pavement.
Even as he gave the challenge, the lightning blazed behind him, the roof was shaken with a crash of thunder, men sprang to their feet, and women screamed aloud, while with roar of wind, hissing rain, shaft upon shaft of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder, the dreadful elements took up the challenge. Amazed and appalled, the Queen and her nobles sat for the most part silent, but some few fled aimlessly from the tables, rushing here and there in panic.
Nobody noticed in that confusion that a trooper, in the armour of the Guard, picked up the Champion's gauntlet from the floor. By that act he challenged Margaret's accession, and accepted the gage of battle with the Queen's Champion.
Dymoke bent forward in the saddle, trying to see through the gloom.
"Who are you?" he cried. "Damn you! Let see me your face."
A blaze of lightning revealed to him the face of Prince Ali.
"You fool," he cried; "do you challenge our Lady's right?"
"Don't talk nonsense," said Ali, laughing. "Here," he presented the gauntlet with a gesture of mock humility, "you can't leave this lying about."
The Champion seized the gauntlet, and with it struck Prince Ali across the face.
The Indian drew back, his eyes gleaming out of the darkness.
"Afterwards," he said. "Afterwards. You have challenged Heaven, and your God has answered you."
It was evening, and the sweet cool dusk brought many tired Londoners to the Mall. From the Victoria Monument to Trafalgar Square extended that old avenue where garlands of lamps festooned the trees, fountains sprayed liquid air to cool the gardens, cafés set out their tables and seats upon the gravel, and a military band provided music. At one of the tables a journeyman carpenter was at ease with ale and a pipe; and looking about for a seat came a grey old soldier, an Anglo-Indian colonel, lately retired. When the artisan made room and found a chair, the old man gruffly thanked him and sat down.
"A warm night, sir?"
"Ugh!" grunted the Colonel. "Where's that confounded waiter? Warm! Would you like a frost?"
"Big crowd to-night, sir," ventured the carpenter.
"Disgusting babel. Ur-r-r! In my time one came here for peace and quiet. I hate mixed crowds."
"The modern democracy," observed the carpenter, his eyes twinkling amusement. "In the old days my father could not have sat here chattering sociably with your father, sir."
"I didn't come here to jabber, curse you, sir!" said the Colonel. "Surely," he leaned forward, "I ought to know that old frump with the cloak——
"Lord Fortescue?"
"The Chief of Staff! Of course. Dear me, how old he's grown. Polly Fortescue of course! Where's that damned waiter?"
The carpenter touched the Colonel's sleeve. "Look, sir, those two men in silver."
"Bah!" the old soldier snorted with rage. "Queen's Blackguards. Bah! In fancy dress, the bounders! This so-called Chivalrie Renaissance among the idle rich is a piece of damned disgusting snobbery. Ugh!"
"The young 'un is the Duke of Lancaster. The tall lean chap is the Chancellor's son, the Marquess of Sydney—rare good at the wicket, sir."
The Colonel scowled sideways at the passing Guardsmen.
"I hate this foppery—ought to be whipped."
"We may need them," the carpenter turned grave, "may need them badly, sir—may need every man we have in the Empire. Have you heard, sir, that Brand is provisioning the country for a siege?"
"Pooh! Old invasion scare again—young man, I was brought up to that."
"I'm afraid, sir, it's something worse than invasion. There's a rumour that unless the Government drops this Russian Alliance, Brand's going to read them a lesson."
"Don't talk to me about Brand, a beastly common tradesman—ought to be locked up. Bah!"
"Well, I'm a working man," said the carpenter, "and we're not much in love with this Capitalist Government. Hello, here's the Marquess of Sydney back again with—look," he pointed with his pipe stem. "That's John Brand!"
"Brand, you say?" The Colonel half choked with excitement, "point him out quick. Is that really Brand himself? Why, damme!"
Brand and Lord Sydney were talking in low tones, earnestly, as they passed through the lanes of trees.
"My dear Brand, it's too horrible," said the Guardsman, "you never could hold the reins through such a crisis. There must be some other way."
"There is only one other way. Get back the Russian papers. I must have those papers, I must publish them word for word, then leave the people to judge."
"I have tried. Can't you believe that I've tried to get them, Brand?"
"I couldn't blame you, Sydney, if you refused your help. I know what it means to you."
"To rob my father, to betray him to his enemies, to hand him over to justice, then to be Duke of Ulster afterwards in his place, and bribe thieves and prostitutes to shake hands with me—the leper. I know what it means, and I have not turned back."
"Give it up, Sydney, leave it to me, and let me get the papers."
"First spy, then coward, I must sneak, and then run away?"
Yet that old dread seized him which has shaken the nerve of many a gallant Englishman, before and since, who has heard his country call on him to serve. What is this England? She gives her children to the wolves, to the sharks, the desert, the ice field, plague, famine, war; waters the continents with our blood, paves the sea with our bones, and goes on her way forgetting, asking for more. And if she is not content that we die the lesser death, but requires the son to give his father's body, shall she find men cowards, afraid to sacrifice?
"No, I have not turned back!" cried my Lord. "How could I turn back!"
Brand wrung Lord Sydney's hand but made no answer.
Then my Lord told him what had been done already, and how the Duke of Ulster defended the Chancellory from attack with a force of detectives, a cordon of police, and in his private room reliefs of Queen's messengers on guard by night and day.
"I think," Sydney continued, "I can force the outer cordon. On the eve of the Coronation, yes, Monday—that's five days ago, a recruit took the oaths, a fellow called Browne, a cowboy from the Arctic. He has let me make friends with him, a good horseman, Brand, and we'll be through the lines before the police can fire. That's all arranged, but the trouble begins when we reach Ulster's room. The Queen's messenger for the first night watch is a newly appointed man, a retired Anglo-Indian officer, Colonel Anderson, V.C., otherwise known as Red Pepper. I saw him just now as we passed, at one of the tables. A friend of mine was talking with him, a carpenter."
"I noticed him," said Brand. "The carpenter was pointing me out. Your friend, you say?"
"When I was a youngster he built me a model ship; we've been chums ever since."
"Isn't such a friendship awkward for him?"
"I asked him once," answered my Lord, "and he went over to the open doors of the workshop. He was bearing a plank, and stood there in the sunlight pointing at the shadow which he cast upon the floor at my feet. It was the shadow of the Cross. 'Don't you envy me that?' says he. Then I looked up at his face and seemed to see the Carpenter of Bethlehem, offering a crown in exchange for only a coronet."
"You have sent your carpenter to Colonel Anderson?"
"Yes," said my Lord, cheerfully. "My carpenter has a rare gift of making friends. I told him everything, and he said that surely Colonel Anderson would serve the Queen if he knew."
"Colonel Anderson," answered Brand, "will obey the Queen's orders. Go to her and get a written command."
* * * * *
The Duke of Ulster was writing a letter to his son. "I am lonely," he wrote, and scratched out the words; "I am all alone," he wrote, and drew his pen hastily through the line. "I am left all alone. For thirty years I have laboured to leave to my son a great heritage of honour, to pass down to my heirs such——" He tore the paper to shreds and began again. How could written words carry his pain to another, or any confession, or any cry for help clear that estrangement!
For many days this poor traitor had been silent in the flames of his punishment, but now the fire burning within him kindled, and his mortally wounded spirit screamed for mercy. Only the night heard, only the pitiless walls rang back in answer. No human ear would ever hear that cry, no human heart would ever understand. In this night his soul died. Never again did he hope either for the help of men or the pity of God. Never again was he known to show mercy to either men or women, but fought with ruthless power in blind pain.
One whose name may not be given found fragments of scattered paper with the words upon them which the doomed man tried in vain to write to his son. The fragments have been by a strange chance preserved, surely the most pitiful scripture in all our national archives. Perhaps at the Day of Judgment this cry of a dying soul may yet be weighed and lie as heavy in the scales as Ulster's sin. So one prays who has himself need of mercy.
For a long time the Duke lay back motionless in his chair, his face bowed down upon his breast. Then an electric instrument stirred on the table beside him, clicking and throbbing out a printed message.
"MY LORD DUKE,
"I have the honour to warn you that the safe in your lordship's office will be broached to-night from the rear. We hope to take the assailant red-handed, but any papers of vital importance should be secured from a possible injury by explosives. I have the honour to be,
"Your Grace's Obedient Servant,"PATRICK O'ROOKE, Sergeant."
The Duke hurriedly crossed to the safe, set the cypher, opened the doors, and secured the package of the Russian papers. After some hesitation he opened a cupboard between the windows, and hid the package in the pocket of an old office coat. A spy concealed within the panelling of the walls saw everything, the matured result of a plot to get the papers taken out of the safe and placed within reach of capture.
The Duke came out from the closet, turned to close the door, then with a violent start swung round raising his arms as though to defend himself. The Secretary for War had entered unannounced, was crossing towards the desk, and him the Duke confronted, his head thrown back, white fluttering hands waving dismissal.
"Leave my room," he said haughtily, "request my secretary to announce you, sir."
"Bosh—keep that for your flunkies, Ulster, I've got no time for your trumpery etiquette. Come to the House if you want to save your Government."
The Duke sat down in his official chair, and under lowering brows, glared at the Minister.
"Sir Myles," he said, "do you think you are entirely safe insulting me?"
"Safe? Confound you, Ulster—do your worst. We'll both be ruined by midnight anyway. Brand's people have attacked us in the Commons—they've produced this damned Treaty of yours with Russia—clause by clause, and the House is furious. We've had to give them the lie that there's any such Treaty. Come down and defend yourself, man, if you want to stay in office."
"Sir Myles," answered the Chancellor, "go to the Opposition with all your tribe, if you dare! Go, take your panic back to your seat in the House, and when I follow, see that I find you there. Get out of my room."
The Chancellor was alone in the silence, gnawing his fingers, biting his nails to the quick.
He must go to the House of Lords, he must fight, he must get the Commons pacified, the Russian Treaty accepted by Parliament—that or war with the Leagued Nations, that or the destruction of the betrayed fleets, that or invasion, conquest, the fall of the Empire, his own destruction, and never-ending infamy. What could he do in the Parliament, what threats, sacrifices, appeals—to rally his scattered forces, to stay their panic? Yes! In one flash he saw his way cleared. He rose from his place triumphant, his eyes alight with victory! The Queen's move gives checkmate to this King Brand III.
A secretary crept in timidly, offering up words, then with a gasp of fear recoiled before Ulster's eyes.
"A letter? Bring it here. Go."
The Duke saw the superscription, and a trembling seized him, so that he sank back into his chair, for the writing was in the hand of Brand, his adversary, strong, hard, ominous. He wrenched the cover open, bent, and read, his livid face and burning eyes set on the script.
And in effect the ultimatum ran: "Resign, or fight Lyonesse."
He looked up, his lips quivering, his face convulsed.
"I must, I must," he muttered. To resign was to face the Russian vengeance, to fight, destruction. "I must, I must!" he whispered. "I shall go to the Queen."
Then throwing himself upon the desk, he buried his face in his arms.
There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young blood with lurid prophesy.
On Monday, the 9th of June, pretty Mrs. Osbourne called. Her Jack had told her that his cousin, Miss Temple, was "a gay old puss who would tell naughty stories by the hour."
Miss Temple had lately published fulminations against the wearing of boy dress by athletic women, so at Jack's mischievous suggestion, Mrs. Osbourne called in her riding costume to hear the naughty stories. What transpired between the two ladies is not exactly known, but there are rumours of a locked door and sobs. Anyway when Lord Sydney dropped in for tea he found Miss Temple complacent and Mrs. Osbourne damp. Sydney, having urgent business, was by no means gratified at finding the old governess engaged.
"Now, pet," she said cheerfully, as she rose to welcome the Guardsman, "this is the Marquess of Sydney."
"Rattles, but doesn't bite," he responded. He was on duty, and the armour was always a nuisance indoors. Moreover, he could not find a seat, for Miss Temple dated from the quaint times of the old King when furniture was devised solely for ornament.
"Glad to see you, Mrs. Osbourne," he said, plumping abstractedly down on a doubtful stool. "Miss Temple often lets me come for tea."
"Oh!" quoth Mrs. Osbourne in a state of collapse. "Oh, thank you!" Sydney presented her teacup, and sat down again with his own. Then he turned to Miss Temple.
"How is our Lady?"
Miss Temple sighed. "She must have done something more dreadful than usual, for she wears plain black, poor child, sits in her penance-room, and watches the vulgar sparrows on the terrace. Do you know, I waited a whole hour with her before she even spoke, yes, and then she sighed. 'Dearie,' she said—you know her funny way,—'these sparrows have fleas'—she will be vulgar sometimes: 'and the Queen has worries, and the Chancellor has his party, and the Party has constituents, and the constituents have taxes, poor things. But the worm'—now why should she think of a worm!—'the worm has his skin scratched all the time so he never feels the least irritation. I wish I was a worm!' There! Did you ever hear such notions? I never taught her about worms, I always tried to lead her up to think of higher things. But then, just when I was going to correct her, do you know a great big tear rolled down her cheek. So I told her to comfort herself with the thirty-ninth Psalm. I wonder now what she has done?"
"Pawned the crown jewels?" suggested the Guardsman.
Miss Temple rustled with disapproval. "I think it's a message from the Chancellor. I'm afraid your father must have demanded another audience." Then the old lady glanced towards Mrs. Osbourne, who might gossip. "Of course," she added stiffly, "it must be about the duel."
Mrs. Osbourne sitting bolt upright on the sofa, knees together, toes in, squeaked like a mouse.
"What—a duel, oh!"
"Yes," said Miss Temple. "Prince Ali is to fight the Queen's Champion." Then she bit her lips in great vexation, for to a mere civilian she had betrayed a secret of the Guard.
"That's all right," Lord Sydney laughed heartily. "We had the duel this morning. I was Dymoke's second, and young Browne for Trooper Ali. We seconds arranged the detail—swords at ten paces."
"But," said Miss Temple, primly, "swords won't reach!"
"No," Sydney shook his head, "they won't. You should have heard our warriors cursing! I'm afraid my revered father has graver business than that to worry our Lady."
"Oh," chirped Mrs. Osbourne, "and my Jack said there was a dreadful rumour on the Stock Exchange. They say that monster at Lyonesse is behaving disgracefully. Yes, he has made horrible threats about the thingum-jig, the what d'ye call 'em."
"The price of gold?" Sydney was exchanging glances with Miss Temple.
"That's it," said the governess; "that must be it. You know how strongly I disapprove of profane books. This morning my poor child was fretting herself to death about Mayne's 'Gold and Lyonesse.' I took it away from her. What a shameful thing that Margaret should be crying over a book like that! Why should a godless man like Mr. Brand be clothed with such frightful power?Let him put his mouth in the dust. Now why are such things permitted?"
"Miss Temple," said Sydney, "can you remember back to the Black Decade? But no, you must have been a mere child then."
"A child? My dear James, I was a grown woman. We were so poor that we had to give up crinolines, and come down to two-yard skimps. The country was desolate,the rampart and the wall languished together, and coals were so high that we had to use briquettes. Trade was going all to pieces, and to keep up the Fleet, they actually taxed excursion tickets. My father was ruined by the crash in Centralias, and I went out as a governess."
"But Lyonesse," said Sydney, "has made everything all right. We were never so prosperous."
"My dear James, I am still a governess. Lyonesse? It was a moor in those days,and the foxes walked upon it. Yes, there was a very frousty old man who smelt of tobacco, in a shed where Lyonesse stands now, and a rumour got about that he could take common water and make it into gold. That was John Brand I. Yes, the workshop was very smelly, I remember; but think of it, pet, he was making solid blocks of gold as if they were only bricks."
The old lady was very busy at her lace cushion. "Yes, my father took me to see him just when I got over the mumps—most unbecoming, dear, with red flannel wraps. His son, John Brand II., was a fat man with a wart on his nose, and oh, such manners! He was the one who brought hundreds of tons of gold to the Mint, so that the price went down, and all the mines had to close, and lots of people were ruined. Russia went bankrupt; that was in 1940, and all the really nice people there had their heads chopped off in the Red Terror. That was an unspeakable mercy, because, you see, they had to leave off invading India.
"People used to say that the gold making wasall vanity and lying divination, but the Government asked Mr. Brand if he would mind being taxed. He said he mustn't be taxed too much or he would go over to the United States, but he didn't mind paying for the fleets, and armies, and things."
"Do you know what taxes Lyonesse pays now?" said my Lord. "Brand pays over a hundred million pounds a year in Imperial taxes alone. Besides that he has to give all Governments a big profit on their coinages—and that amounts to millions a year saved to the tax-payers of the world. Goodness only knows how rich the man is. I suppose——"
Miss Temple, who hated interruptions, turned briskly to Mrs. Osbourne.
"Now, my dear pet," she said, "I hope James doesn't bore you?"
"Oh no, dear Miss Temple, I'm quite used to it. My Jack, you know, is on the Stock Exchange."
"Now where was I?" asked Miss Temple. "Oh yes, the city of Lyonesse. Well, that was named after the place where King Arthur came from when he was washed up. Merlin the sorcerer, you know, was fishing, and caught Arthur; and afterwards when Arthur didn't die, you know, but went away to be healed of his grievous wound by the Three Queens in one barge—well, I forget exactly how it was, but anyway King Arthur went to Lyonesse, wherever that is. And some day he's to come back and save England. Lyonesse, the real place I mean, has grown, until now it has any amount of people (and they do say that the co-operative stores are ridiculously cheap and most fashionable), and it's been the saving of England. Now John Brand II. is buried there—cremated, I mean—and John Brand III. reigns in his stead. Is it true, Sydney, that he's a woman hater?"
"Jack says he's a beast," was Mrs. Osbourne's comment; "but then Jack has lost a lot himself on Lyonesse Branch Industrials."
"Lay not up for yourselves treasures on the earth," said the governess, fiercely. "I wonder if it is finance which has worried my poor Margaret."
"No, Miss Temple," Sydney launched his bombshell. "My father is going to force our Lady to marry the Grand Swine Alexander."
"That horrible story again! Oh, James!"
"Yes, again, Miss Temple. Can you wonder now why she wears black, and sits in her penance-room envying the sparrows?"
"I must go to her," cried Miss Temple, rising, in great disorder. "My child! My poor child! Let me pass, Lord Sydney."
But the Guardsman barred her passage. "Her Majesty," he said, "is engaged."
Sydney turned upon the little lady in boy dress.
"Mrs. Osbourne."
"Oh, you made me jump!"
"These matters, Mrs. Osbourne, are secret."
She rose, drawing on her gauntlets. "Of course," she twittered, "I would never dream—wild horses couldn't——"
"They wouldn't be so rude, dear lady. But is it true that there are rumours on 'Change?"
"Oh, dreadful rumours, my Jack——" she was arranging her hair—"says that the gold fiend is going to sell his gold at a penny an ounce. He says that if that's true a sovereign won't buy a loaf of bread next week, but then, dear Miss Temple, that would never matter to my Jack. He always has rusks, you know. Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye, pet," said Miss Temple, kissing her on the forehead.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Osbourne."
"Good-bye, Lord Sydney—Ta-ta!"
"Thank goodness she's gone," said Sydney, closing the door behind her.
"Oh, but Sydney," Miss Temple quivered, "she'll tell it all over the town."
"Better than a newspaper," said the trooper.
"Sit down, James," Miss Temple resumed her place, "you tell me that Margaret is being forced into marriage with that odious Russian prince. But what has this to do with Lyonesse?"
"Dear old Mummie," answered the Guardsman. "Don't you see? Lyonesse doesn't care who marries the Queen. But Lyonesse is a business concern, and has no use for a Russian Alliance."
"And quite right, too."
"So Brand says to Ulster, 'Break with Russia, or I lower the price of gold.'"
"His father, John Brand II., did that, and Russia went bankrupt!"
"Russia will go bankrupt again, France bankrupt, Germany bankrupt. Who'll dare to disobey the man who can bankrupt civilization?"
Miss Temple thought that dear Sydney was getting very pompous and uplifted.
"Dear me," she tossed her head. "Your Mr. Brand will be getting himself arrested. A sort of commercial person—who is he to give orders to the Chancellor of the Empire?"
"This commercial person," Sydney laughed, "happens to live in a respectable democracy where a shopkeeper can sell anything he pleases at his own price."
"But, James, if the old Russian Empire was swept away by his father——"
"The world may be swept away by the son, Mummie. At all costs the Queen has got to be saved, England has got to be saved. There's still time to prevent this horror. I can't explain—I daren't—but you've got to help, you've got to go to our Lady. Tell her that if she will only give me a private audience I may be able to put an end to the Russian marriage."
"But, James, she daren't give a private audience to you. We should be found out, and there'd be such a scandal."
"You must be present, Mummie, but even at the risk of scandal go to the Queen."
* * * * *
In her penance-room our Lady was giving audience to the Chancellor, and while he, in his clear, exact speech, set forth the perils of the State, Margaret was thinking about something else. She sat before the window upon a low, square stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin upon her hands, just crushed into a lovely dimple by the mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, her dreamy, big, blue eyes set on the gardens.
The Empire, said Ulster, had prospered in the trade of Lyonesse, in great revenues furnished by the ungrudging Brands; and the people were proud of the giant merchant firm, strong in its long-tried honour and good faith.
But Margaret looked upon the wind-swept elms, the big white cloud-fleets sailing in high heaven, and silver flaws of wind coursed down the lawns. The Chancellor's words throbbed on her ears unheard.
The standard of all value, gold, was secured, he said, in the keeping of John Brand. What else, save gold, could measure the workman's wage, the cost of shelter, and the price of food? Strike down that standard, and the bread-winner could have no wages, could pay no rent, could buy no bread.
But Margaret saw the lilac and the may, the trees weighed down with bloom, swayed to the rushing wind, and little white daisies laughed along the lawns. And still the Chancellor's voice drummed without meaning.
Stab a man to the heart, was the statesman's thesis, and his blood will drain away leaving death behind. But gold was the life-blood of nations, gold money the driving force of civilization. Brand's monopoly was the life-blood of human society, in his good faith the public welfare lay, and all mankind depended on his honour.
Now Margaret heard the dull pain quaver in Lord Ulster's voice, as he urged the extremity of the general peril that Brand had broken faith.
"I wish I could understand," said the poor girl dreamily. "I've tried so hard to understand."
When the flowers unfold their petals to the sun; when wild birds preen their first fine bridal plumes; when a maid first trembles to a lad's shy kiss, spring stirs young blood, and the rose-flush of heaven glows in a girl's pure face, as the dawn of childhood flames to the day of life—then God ordains the sacred truce of Love. Child-life is shadowed with fears of the Unknown, the days of a woman are dark with the sorrows of the world, but between the time of fear and the coming time of sorrow is set the holy Sabbath, and truce of Love. Bitter the lot of a woman who looking back from the sunset time of life, and that long twilight waning down to night, remembers no daybreak, no flush of sunrise, no Sabbath of Love which strengthened her for pain.
Queen Guinevere went maying in the spring, Elizabeth rode a-hawking, Marie Antoinette played milkmaid; and Queens, who bear the heavy burden of state, have need of love and laughter to cheer the way, before the crown of diamonds is changed to a crown of thorns. Hungry for freedom, for love, the delight of life, Queen Margaret turned with a little bitter smile, turned her back to the gardens, and tried to think of finance.
"Don't be cross with me, dear Lord Ulster, I can't understand yet. Tell me again what Mr. Brand has threatened."
"To sell gold at a penny an ounce."
"But the coin, the sovereign, is something more than gold. It's stamped with a dreadfully hideous portrait of me, and my name, for a proof that the head wasn't meant for a crocodile."
"Yes, madame, it pledges the national honour that melted down or ground to powder its precious gold remains of untarnished worth. Failing that, the coin, even with the Queen's image, is spurious."
"A promise to pay," said Margaret, "and the promise keeps if I'm beggared."
"To pay, madame, yes, in food or fuel, or clothes, but the question is how much? For in the great sea of commerce, the prices rise and fall; and like a post to measure the flood and the ebb, so is the changeless standard of gold recording the tides of trade. Without that index, no man could sell his labour, or buy food. If Brand strikes down the standard, the world will starve."
"I understand," said Margaret. "Have you told me all?"
"About this peril, madame? No, not half. The wreck of the world can hardly be put in a phrase."
"I mean about Mr. Brand's letter. He threatened these terrors unless—unless what?"
"Unless the Queen suspends all relations with Russia. That means war with Europe."
The Queen laughed nervously. "Is Mr. Brand so wicked as all that? Shall we have him beheaded? I've got a headache, and I'd like to have somebody beheaded."
"I wish it were possible," the Chancellor sighed. "Statecraft was so simple, so direct, so easy once. But now——"
"Would Mr. Brand be as fierce if he had to make his threat openly in public?"
"Excellent!" said Ulster. "I could call him to appear at the Bar of the Commons. But that is a last resort—a forlorn hope. There's a gentler way than that. Do you remember, madame, the old Greek myth of Una, who led a lion captive to her beauty. I cannot fight this lion——"
Margaret blushed.
"Turn this gentleman from his purpose. I come to the Queen to confess myself defeated, beaten, humbled, a toothless old man in a terrible mess. Ah, madame, you can hardly know as yet the mysterious power of a woman's beauty."
"It sounds such utter nonsense," said Margaret, "and besides he's a monster, he hates women! Subdue this lion?" she added, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Lyonesse will do the like with me."
* * * * *
The Chancellor was gone, and Margaret sat alone, watching the passing shadows of white clouds, when Miss Temple came in upon her Lady's solitude, trembling lest the Queen should scold her, and hovered over her with a kiss and some whispers.
"Why, of course," said Margaret, gaily. "Let him come."
The governess returned leading Lord Sydney by the hand, while at the sound of the man's armour, Margaret felt a queer small thrill in her veins.
"Sydney, come here."
He bent upon his knee, kissed her white hand, but dared not lift his eyes to see her face.
"Dear me," said Margaret, "please be human, Jimmy. I've been sitting here all day trying to be good, whereas I'm just crazy for a game of cricket. Do you remember when you bowled, and raised a lump on my shin as big as an egg?"
He looked up into her face, and though she heard a little quivering sigh his eyes seemed to be laughing.
"You were Peggy, and I was Jimmy then, when you were ten and I nineteen."
"And me up in a tree stealing the cherries, and that awful farmer trying to shake me down! Then you came to the rescue."
"Can you trust me, Peggy?"
"Why, of course! What's the matter?"
He took a written paper and a pen which he laid on Margaret's knee.
"Will the Queen trust Jimmy even to signing that?"
"Colonel Anderson," she read, "Queen's Messenger, is to obey the bearer, Trooper the Marquess of Sydney."
"Is it something very wicked?" she asked.
"Awfully."
So the Queen wrote in great haste: "Margaret. R.I."
THE SECRET OF LYONESSE
AN INTERLUDE
This is the secret of Lyonesse, that the Divine methods of creation had been applied to the needs of man.
Come just for a moment upon this path of thought, leaving the old earth, to tread a course of stars, to traverse the Milky Way. Come to the very end, to the edge of the Formless Void. And now look down into Space, into the outer darkness, into the Ether.
The Almighty has put a stress upon it, and the Ether lives. Stressed in one way and we know it at once for Matter, a fine dust. Its desire for rest we know as Force, driving that dust in a whirlwind roaring through the dark. The dust is heated by its movement, and flames into light whirling through space. That whirling cloud of light is a new-born sun. So suns are born. The sun cloud throws off a lesser cloud, which gathers into a separate sphere. The little globe whirling about its parent will cool and become a planet, like the Earth. So worlds are born.
There are many Forces, but one group, the ripples of the Ether, form an octave like that of music. First of the seven notes are the long, slow ripples which we feel as heat; second, are the Hertzian ripples used in the wireless telegraph; third, is a region of the unknown; fourth, is the octave of Light the rays of the spectrum; fifth, the Rontgen rays; sixth, the Gamma rays proceeding from radium; seventh, the ripples of the Etheric Force. It is upon the notes of this vast scale that the forces of creation play the music of the spheres.
The dust vibrations are of many kinds. One we know as gold, another as hydrogen, a third as carbon; and when two kinds vibrate in perfect harmony, they mingle together just like notes of music. Thus oxygen and hydrogen vibrating in harmony are water.
The first man who ever walked upon this path of thought was John Brand I. He measured and reproduced the vibrations of matter, the tremours of Force. For him, in very deed, the stars sang together. First of all mortals he heard the music of the spheres.
It was John Brand II. who made hydrogen cease to vibrate, so that it lapsed into ether, then struck that mighty chord which brought the ether to life again as gold. He had mastered the Divine alchemy, he followed upon the footsteps of the Creator, he played the music of the spheres.
For ages the alchemist, not fathoming the ways of God, had failed, but this humble and reverent man grasped the great secret. He learned how to make not only gold but all the elements of matter; he struck the chords of Force.
To the foreman of the works, the physicist William Robertson, had been entrusted the secret formula for making gold. As a shareholder in Lyonesse this man grew fabulously rich, and more, the brilliant Sir William Robertson was ambitious of power and splendour. Ill could he bear with the new master of Lyonesse, plain Mister Brand of the shabby clothes, the thread-bare furnishings, the cautious policy. The two men were never friends, time made them enemies.
Robertson earned a barony by joining Lord Ulster's party, and expected an earldom for publicly affronting his master. Then came the day of trouble, when Brand joined issue with the Chancellor, and war was imminent between Lyonesse and the Government. The ingenious physicist was frightened, foresaw disaster whichever side he joined, and promptly betrayed them both. He was in America now, starting new factories to undersell the gold from Lyonesse.
So ended the great monopoly, so was the standard wrenched from the master's hand, so came the fall of gold. Brand only knew of one way upwards. For him ascent of mountain heights meant sweating labour, endurance, patience, faith. He could not understand the winged vanity of this servant who betrayed him in his own household, or of Lord Ulster, who had betrayed the Empire. These men had bartered their souls for wealth, rank, office, as though the admiration of their fellows could ever lift them up above the earth. They bartered their souls for wings, and that which rose upon the wings was only a swollen corruption.
Brand had no pity for the tortuous errors of weak men, only a dull anger without understanding, a smouldering rage which the slightest breath would kindle into the flames of war. Then the Queen sent for him. A woman was to turn aside the fury of Lyonesse, to subdue and tame this man who reined the coursers of the sun, and drove the awful powers of creation.
The Queen sent for him. Brand mentioned to his secretary that he had a business appointment, and so, leaving his London office for an hour, he walked to the palace, glad of a little exercise and fresh air. He came to the gates, presented his card, and was told that popes and archangels would be denied admittance if they came to a state ball in a tweed suit.
Lord Sydney got him passed through the gates, but drew him aside under the shadows of the porch.
"Have you no other clothes?"
"Not in London, Sydney. Is it vital?"
"To a woman, yes."
"It seems there's some sort of a dance here, to-night."
"Only a state ball," said the trooper sarcastically, "for the royalties of Europe, the Embassies, and all the dignitaries of the Empire—most of them took the trouble to change their clothes."
They stood within the great Ionic portico, lighted with flaring torches, occupied by the Yeoman of the Guard in their ancient scarlet livery, bearing halbards. By the door stood clusters of gorgeous officers, and within one could see walls of translucent alabaster, clusters of malachite columns, a vast perspective melting into haze of golden light.
"Princes and dignitaries," said the master, thoughtfully. "I wonder how many of them will be alive next month."
"Is it so bad?" asked Sydney.
"Unless you can get me the Russian papers."
"This afternoon," answered Sydney, "Her Majesty gave me the order."
"Use it to-night."
"I can't leave the palace."
"These fripperies are more important!" Brand turned away from him in angry impatience. "I can wait no longer. Take me," he said, "to the Queen."
They crossed the portico, they entered the vestibule, but at the foot of the alabaster stairs Brand drew back, clutching Lord Sydney's arm.
The trooper saw the colour leave Brand's face.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"That carpet," said the master under his breath. "Why is it red?"
Lord Sydney stared at him amazed. "Why not?"
Without answer, the great man brushed roughly past him and hurried on. Did he foresee that within a few weeks these alabaster stairs must run cascades of blood, the gorgeous corridors beyond be choked with corpses, the gaunt and starving mob ravage these chambers of state, while shattered dome and reeling tower crashed down through the burning roof? Did he foresee that the princes and dames and gentlemen who thronged the rooms were to offer tiaras of diamonds for horseflesh, to haggle with stars and orders for a cup of water, and be dragged out of the cellars and murdered in the streets of the blazing capital?
People shrank away from the look in Brand's eyes as he approached them, many who began to comment on his dress, stopped in mid speech, a lane of silent spectators opened to give him passage, a confusion of rumour followed in his wake, and the news of his coming spread excitement to every corner of the palace. For no light purpose would the master of Lyonesse come unprepared in haste at such an hour, business of moment was afoot, a crisis in public affairs. Was it open war between John Brand and the Government?
Attended by Lord Sydney, the master entered the throne room, and even he seemed to be moved by the dazzling splendour of the scene. He saw a vault of gold sustained on columns of onyx, an atmosphere of radiant light, dense with perfume, tremulous with music, a confusion of robes and gems, the slow grave movement of some stately dance, then a lane of people opening to the very steps of the throne, where Margaret stood attended by her court.
Her robes were like an iridescent cloud, and wondrous opals starred her coronet. And like the changing colour of the gems, her face was different as he looked, a shade of annoyance melted to a smile, yet in the very gentleness of her greeting, the man was doubtful of a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
Brand heard Lord Sydney making the presentation, felt that the people about him seemed embarrassed, wondered what fantastic etiquette he ought to follow, looked our Lady straight in the face, took her extended hand with reverence in both his own.
"Forgive me," he said. "Please tell me what to do."
He could not hear his own words, his heart so thundered, and every artery in his body thrilled. Margaret was shaking hands with him frankly, cordially.
"Yes, shake hands," she cried, tremulous with laughter. "Let the Queen shake hands with the King of Lyonesse!"
"I am ashamed," he said, humbly. "I ought to have dressed—to have——"
"Come in disguise? Why that would be absurd for Lyonesse. We will ask you only to wear the Rose of England," she took from her shoulder a blood-red rose, and fastened it with a jewelled brooch upon his breast. "My Lords," she cried to her attendants, "witness that we create the Order of the Rose for Englishmen who have served their country well. Brand of Lyonesse, first Knight of the Order of the Rose, this is our thanks for great and ungrudging service. Come, honour us with your escort, Mr. Brand."
She led him to a balcony overlooking the gardens—faint came the sound of distant music there. She thought of the things to be said, the things to be done, wondered how she could deal with this rough monster, hated the Chancellor for setting such a task, gave up the whole business in despair, and set herself to find out why Brand hated women.
"Here we can rest," she said; "you shall sit there and let me stand where I can see all my beech trees. Sometimes I stay here all through a summer night with Orion and the Pleiads to keep me company."
He could see her face dark against the full moon, wonderfully still. Her breast rose and fell as she breathed, her every movement swayed the changing glory of her moonlight robes. She seemed not earthly, but kin of great Orion and the Pleiads.
"What is your garden like in Lyonesse?"
"My garden?" he answered, trying to control his voice.
"I know," said Margaret, "what it must be like, a garden of rocks and the white surf for flowers. Your gardener is the wind—I should like your garden."
"From my cottage," he answered, "the wall goes down three hundred feet sheer to the breakers."
"Oh, I can see it! A wonderful cliff with big outstanding stacks and bastions, where the sea-eagles breed. How beautiful! But can you live there in winter?"
"Yes. I had a fright though once when a sea wrecked my study."
"At three hundred feet?"
"Seas have been known to break higher than that. My sister and I spend many an hour watching the big sou'-westers. Then the spray lashes miles inland over the city."
"And what is your sister like?"
"I believe she is plain," he looked at the Queen; "yes, she must be very plain, but somehow I never thought of that till now. I'll ask her."
"Please don't," said Margaret, hastily, "she might be angry."
"I'd rather not then," his grey eyes twinkled. "Sarah has so many things to vex her."
"And you always live in that eyrie?"
"Oh no, we go away sometimes in theMary Rose, our yacht."
"For holidays?"
"We went to the Himalayas last, and perched for the sunset view on Everest."
"I didn't think that even an aerial yacht could live up there."
"I could show the Queen some wonderful places if she would venture a trip in an etheric yacht."
"How I should like to see the world like that!" The Queen sighed. "I'm tied up, you know, and everything I do is most improper."
This, then, was the monster, the dragon of the Chancellor's fears, this simple-minded, plain-living merchant, whose pleasure was in the greater, wilder moods of Nature, who spoke so gently of a virago sister.
"Please tell me about the factories," she said.
"Must I talk of sympathetic vibratory physics?"
"Heaven forbid! Why that's worse than even the Budget!"
"And in practice a simpler, easier trade than cooking."
"Even the changing of water into gold?"
"A matter of rule of thumb, like making bread. But I must not bore the Queen by talking shop."
Our Lady's eyes intently studied Brand. "Do you know," she said gravely, "that my advisers call you a public enemy."
The man looked up at her smiling. "They lie," he said frankly.
He dared to call her Chancellor a liar! "You will explain," she said.
"Oh, but I didn't want to offend you!"
Margaret smiled despite herself. "You said you would make gold cheap."
"I am so much a public enemy," he answered, laughing, and spoke with easy confidence of a new merchandise in wares of gold, of plates and cups, of lamps and ornaments, for the common use and comfort of the poor, such as had been beyond the means of kings. He spoke of dreary brick houses, and dismal streets annealed with rough gold, of silver columns and gemmed entablatures, of public monuments in golden bronze, of cities which will not rust, or tarnish, or get dirty, which frost cannot splinter or rain dissolve, their splendour imperishable and their celestial beauty. Margaret thought he had taken leave of his senses. For which of us in those days dreamed of the golden age or ever supposed that this should all come true?
Our Lady's voice had a resentful note as she reverted to the issues of the time, as in the Chancellor's terms, she voiced his horror at the fall of gold.
"A standard of gold set in the tides of trade? A beautiful image," said Brand, thoughtfully. "But, dear me, how it condemns poor Ulster! The tide is an age-long ebb of falling prices. So is the standard changed to a cross, and the debtor hangs there."
"I don't understand," cried Margaret, affrighted.
"Neither did the Jews. The cross was of timber once. Do you remember? and He who suffered, expressly said, 'they know not what they do.' The Jews were priests then, now they are bankers, brokers of money, usurers, capitalists of Ulster's party. And the cross is changed to gold where mankind hangs crucified. 'They know not what they do.'"
"Oh, this is blasphemy!"
"May I not even speak of the cross—I, the bearer of that cross?"
Our Lady looked at his clear eyes, and was ashamed. Then trying to defend her cause—
"My Chancellor came to me," she cried.
"It is not then the crucified who cried to the Queen for help? Oh, may I plead for them?"
So gravely, sorrowfully he spoke for the men who labour on the land, who face the dangers of the air, who sweat in the deep pits, who drive the machines in the factories—for all the great labouring nation.
"Oh, Mr. Brand, I can't listen to this! The nation sends the men who advise me."
"The Jewish nation? Yet even Ulster, their high priest, has generously permitted my coming."
"Not to convert me to your strange views, Mr. Brand."
"But to be condemned unheard? Oh, surely not!"
"Go on," said the Queen, indignantly.
"I spoke of the standard, or cross of gold," he said. "I, the idol maker, dared to speak blasphemously of the false god I have to uphold."
Margaret saw the twinkle in his eye, and could hardly restrain herself from smiling.
"I'm going to be still more wicked," he went on. "I'm going to tear the idol down and break it all to pieces. Ulster would agree with me that our wealth is the stored-up labour of the bread-winners, that all our capital arises from their patient, endless work. By that measure we are so much better than our savage ancestors, whose way of earning was to snatch and run."
The Queen nodded assent.
"These counters then, which we call money, are something more sacred than stamped gold or silver. They are hours of human life beaten out on the anvils of destiny. My tokens of labour were first used at Lyonesse, and it has become the most prosperous town in the world. The United States adopted the labour money, and it is the most prosperous of all nations. My currency stops half the cheating in finance, and Ulster's capitalists are in a state of fear. I speak for the whole labour party throughout the Empire, and for my own dear country, for after three generations we Brands are still Republicans of the United States. Yes, Ulster has argued wisely of the tides of trade—he dreads the tidal wave. I have set it in motion, and if this Chancellor attempts the least resistance, it will sweep away his Government."
Then Margaret turned on Brand in furious anger. "You threaten this tidal wave," she cried. "You dare to avow this sudden, cowardly, unprovoked attack upon my Government."
"So far is it sudden," said Brand, with grave respect, "that my foreman, bribed by Ulster with a title, has bolted, to set up American factories, and undersell my gold."
"Is this true?"
"It was in my letter which Ulster has shown to the Queen."
Margaret was silent.
"My attack," said Brand, "is cowardly."
"You admit that!"
"Yes, I admit the fear that the Government will commit suicide. In this emergency I strengthen the public credit with certain lands as a gift forever to the British nation. That also is in my letter which the Queen has read. There is no danger to the Empire."
Margaret sank into a chair, and remained silent.
"My attack," continued the master, "is unprovoked. Far be it from me to even seem provoked when the Chancellor offers the Queen in marriage to a Russian dipsomaniac lately released from an asylum. The Chancellor no doubt is the Queen's servant expressing her Majesty's will."
Our Lady's fan broke in her hands, but she remained silent.
"The public enemy," said Brand, "has so far avowed his sudden, cowardly, unprovoked attack upon Ulster's party. I have but reminded the Queen as to terms of my letter which had escaped her memory."
"Don't torture me," cried Margaret. "I have not read the letter!"
"I dare not accuse the Chancellor," said Brand, "of leaving his sovereign to face such issues unarmed and unprepared. He is an English gentleman incapable of conduct such as that."
"Stop, I command you!"
"No," said Brand, rising to his feet. "If the Chancellor has not warned the Queen, I shall! Bear with me, Queen Margaret! I have to deal with rough and brutal facts, to say things that hurt. Forgive me; be patient with me."
Margaret sat in rigid silence, at bay, waiting.
"The Queen has called me here," said Brand, "and I must speak. I have come to plead for the people, no matter what the cost. Russia, France and Germany are mobilizing. In feverish haste the League is arming for the invasion of England. Your people are never prepared for war; the Imperial fleets and armies are utterly unready—I dare not say how weak. Ulster, absorbed in appeals to Russia, offering terms for peace so shameful that they had to be denied in the House of Commons. There is no hope in war, no hope of peace. Nothing can save this country but the wreck of the Leagued Nations by the fall of gold."
The Queen sat motionless, staring.
"There need be no fear," he said. "Ulster's people dare not resist, lest they be swept away with the Leagued Nations."
Then Margaret leaned forward in her seat, wide, staring eyes intent upon his face, a slow hand reaching out along the balustrade, and groping fingers found an electric bell.
"Are we deposed?" Her voice was low and tremulous with passion. "Will you usurp our crown when you have swept away our Government?"
But the man who was to be tamed heard nothing, because of his pity for this helpless woman cursed with the heavy burden of the Imperial crown—betrayed, abandoned, yet still of unbroken and unflinching courage.
He took from its clasp the rose which the Queen had given, the blood-red Order of the Rose for Englishmen who have served their country well.
"It is bruised," he said, humbly, "by my clumsiness."
"It still has thorns!" cried Margaret. "You have slandered our Ministers, and to-morrow you shall meet them face to face, to repeat this treason word for word at your own peril before the House of Commons. You have insulted your sovereign!" Her hand struck the bell thrice. "Gentlemen of the Guard!"
Presently two orderlies of the Guard drew up in her presence, saluting.
"Gentlemen," said her Majesty, "we have been insulted. Expel this man from the Palace!"
Margaret sat alone in her balcony trying to hate Mr. Brand. She had never been so angry in her life.
All men did her worship, hundreds of millions rendered to her their homage, whole continents obeyed her, and in her name the masters of the world commanded. Her Imperial Majesty had never been disobeyed, and here was a man who dared——
What had he dared?
He dared to pity her because she had lost her temper.
She tore her fan all to pieces and scattered the wreck on the floor.
This monster had come to be subdued, to be tamed, to be turned from his purpose. He had not been much subdued, or to any great extent tamed, or in the least degree turned from his purpose. He was not even ruffled! The surf of her fury had beat against his cliffs, and then he said he was sorry to see her bruised.
There was the stab of defeat. Thrust a sword into a pool, and where it touches the water it seems to bend. Such is the sweet obliquity of a woman's mind that, in its clearness, her defeat may seem better than triumph. He was rather a nice monster, this Brand; friendly in a quaint way, very frank in his admiration, and, whether she liked it or not, determined to save her from the Russian marriage. She was very angry still—with the Chancellor!
When at last she gave the Chancellor audience, her face was hard, her manner cheerful, her bearing defiant.
"Ulster," she said, "I've failed."
The statesman was not such a fool as to ask for reasons. Well he knew the danger signals, the anger growing in her eyes, as she spoke with the directness of a man.
"Mr. Brand," she continued, "wrote you a letter, part of which you told me, the other part kept back. Give me the letter!"
"Oh, madam, not that, I implore you."
"I insist."
"Dear Lady, forgive an old, tried servant of the State, who would give his life to guard you from such things!"
"Give me that letter!"
There were tears in old Ulster's eyes as, with a shrinking reluctance, he protested—even while he obeyed—speaking of things unfit for the Queen to see, and devilish evil planned against her throne.
But Margaret, in burning eagerness, wrenched the paper from his hand, and bending forward to the light which streamed from the windows, spread out the sheet upon her knees and read.
There is no need to quote this forged letter, which made the Queen believe that Brand of Lyonesse, under pretext of the gold crisis, was plotting to seize the actual reins of power.
Subtly was the mind of our Lady poisoned until the Chancellor seemed to defend the realm from foul and deadly treason, against the nation, and against the Queen.
"Ah, madam," he said, "I am an old man, my eyes are dim with the passage of many years in the royal service. I cannot claim the inspired foresight which commanded that this traitor expose his own infamy at the very bar of the House of Commons. Your Majesty has been pleased to hale this man before the bar of the nation's judgment. When he speaks in public, when he threatens the nation, when he declares war against civilization—then, and then only, will public opinion support the Government, and we shall deal swift vengeance. But there will be a panic, this threat of the fall of gold will disturb the peace of the nations, and, madam, the nations will hold Ministers responsible."
"But you're not."
"What, madam, do France, Russia and Germany care for that? Remember the League has but one purport, one policy—the destruction of the British Empire. Here is the chance for which they have been waiting for many years. They are mobilized, they are ready, and their strength is overwhelming."
"Yes," cried the Queen; "but our Treaty with Russia."
"If it were only signed. We have offered Russia her own terms, yet she hangs back."
"But why?"
"Because the old Emperor dreams of a dearer and more personal bond."
The Queen turned pale.
"The Russian constitutional monarchy allied by blood to the ancient and royal line of England. Ah, madam, the dream is worthy of that great prince. For, once unite these two Empires with ties of blood, and henceforth that alliance ensures the power which alone brings peace."
"And the newspapers will gush," said Margaret, bitterly. "And the people will shout. Oh, this is worthy of you!"
The Queen rose from her seat trembling, her face white with fear, her hands clenched, her teeth set. But what was in her heart could not be spoken. From her childhood the lesson had been drilled into her brain that princes may not have hearts, that they may not love, or mate, save for public ends. But used as she was to the curse of the blood royal, she shrank back affrighted when national policy doomed her to marry the Grand Duke Alexander.
"Ulster," she cried, "Margaret of England says that an English gentleman might be found, who is neither a prince nor a cousin, nor a coward, nor even a drunkard, and the nation be all the stronger."
"Madam, remember the blood royal of that great race which has for twenty centuries reigned in this island. Your ancestors never failed the nation, though many died for England, and all have suffered for her. Is Margaret less royal, less brave, than they? If the Queen fails us now, this coming world-storm of financial panic will bring the great invasion on our coasts. We need in our sovereign, courage sprung from a race of kings."
The Queen was in torment, and now in the background of her mind, a sunburnt, manly gentleman was speaking of his cottage on the cliffs, of his sister Sarah, who was plain, of the surf which beat upon the rocks, and the spray which drove for miles, and the spindrift high in air above the storm-lashed granite of Lyonesse.
"There will be war," said Ulster. "Thousands must die upon the field of battle. Women must cry, and orphan children must starve."
"Let there be war," cried Margaret. "War is better than shame."
"Your Majesty, if war can save us from shame—let there be war. But when we are overwhelmed, when all our people are given over to their enemies, then there is shame. When our bread-winners, ruined by the invasion, must starve to pay indemnity to Europe—then there is shame. And shall the last of our great sovereigns leave us to shame like that?"
Margaret, standing between the glow of the lamps and the soft pallor of the night, robed in a texture of changing glory like the wings of angels, looked up to the smiling face of the dead moon. Must she, like that poor servant of the world, the life fire quenched and hope utterly perished, move on an orbit of unending patience, and by a borrowed light from Heaven shine for cold duty's sake before mankind? So many a woman with a broken heart has made of her living death a light for men.