"Would he wake if I moved him?"
"No—nothing would wake him short of an electric battery."
The aerograph began to speak again.
"What shall I do, sir?"
"Destroy theGolden Hind," clicked the slow signals.
"You must be ill, sir," flashed the swift reply. "Remember her power, her size, her speed. TheLioncan neither fight nor run."
"Mr. Brand is unconscious. I am Miss Brand. Come down—rescue the master. He'll be captured—quick."
"Madam, it's too late. I should be caught aground. I must fight theGolden Hind. It will give you time to get the master away."
"How can you fight?"
"With the formula for explosives, and if she has none on board, I'll try the ram. Get the master away."
"Where are you?"
"Seven miles directly overhead. For Heaven's sake, be quick."
"He's right," said Mistress Sarah aloud. "Dr. Boyes, within ten minutes this house will be attacked and my brother captured unless I can get him away. There's only one place safe from treachery. Under this window the cliff falls straight to the sea, but fifty feet down there is a narrow ledge. From that ledge there are steps cut down to my brother's bathing place. He uses a knotted rope to reach the ledge. I'm going to lower him down."
"That I forbid," said Dr. Boyes. "It's almost certain death."
"To stay here is certain capture. He'd rather die."
Then looking up from his place by the master's head, "Our Lady is in love with him," said Lancaster. "He's got to be saved!"
"It's impossible."
"In the Queen's name," cried Lancaster, "I command!"
"Quick!" said Mistress Brand. "Run, lad, to the dressing-room—it's next to this; the coil of rope is in the window casing. There's no time to lose."
Once more the aerograph spoke. "My engineers have mutinied. If I'm rammed, your house is directly below—I can't move the ship—the engineers——"
Then silence.
"I've read the signals, madam," said Dr. Boyes. "I'll help."
Lancaster was at hand dragging the coil of rope, and Mistress Sarah seized the turk's head—a large knot finishing the end. Five feet from that she bent a half-hitch. "Dr. Boyes, lift him by the arms! There—" She passed the rope under her brother's back, slipped the turk's head through the ring of her knot, hauled taut, and had a sling under Brand's armpits ready. Breathing hard, she took up a coil of rope and passed it round the heavy iron guard-bar outside the window. She made the loose end of the rope well fast to the bar. "Lad," she said quickly to Lancaster, "lift his feet as I haul; lift him half out through the window."
Dr. Boyes laid on to the rope behind her, while Lancaster gently guided the master's body outwards until it swung clear, suspended by the armpits. Then the rope was lowered away until the weight was taken by the rock ledge fifty feet below.
"Dr. Boyes," cried the woman, "leave the house at once—get to safety outside. His life depends on yours—you'll send down food, and you will rescue him. Lad—down the rope with you!"
Dr. Boyes ran to get the servants out of the house.
"Lad, get down that rope."
"Madam, I help you first."
"My place is here—get down, and I'll lower some bedding. Get down, I say! He may die before you can reach him."
Lancaster swung himself out against the moonlight and the sea, and once again the waves below beat in their slow monotony, the little waves of time, beating against the eternities from everlasting to everlasting.
The woman breathed a great sigh of content, reaching out her arms to grasp the bar, and swing out upon the rope. Even then a new star shone in the heavens, a growing glory lighting her red hair, her violet robes, and finding majesty in her hard face.
The earth was calling theLion—rammed in mid-air—the wind raged against her flanks, she was red hot, she blazed white, and as a falling star, cast her fierce splendour over land and sea, attended by rushing hurricanes of wind, winged with the souls of dying men, and freighted with the bodies of the dead.
Then in a crash of thunder the light went out, and again the moon was shining on a silver sea, grey cliffs, lonely, desolate and gaunt, crowned by a column of dust where a house had been.
And the little waves crept up one by one out of silence, to beat out their lives against the eternal walls.
The 18th—19th—20th and 21st of June are known as the Queen's days, a time of quiet in the Palace, while Margaret was sheltered by the love of her servants from all the horrors of the blood-stained world. Outside the guarded walls reason had fled from the earth and our humane civilization seemed to be dying.
On the Wednesday we knew that Brand's council had assembled. On Thursday while we waited for news it rained, on Friday a merry breeze was laughing among the trees. On Saturday great clouds came sailing up from the west, and scattered their sparkling showers through the sunlight; but still we heard no tidings, saw no ships. On Sunday it rained again, and Margaret, with her knights and gentlemen, attended the service of the Eucharist. After luncheon Margaret left the Russian Prince as usual to his wine, and walked with her hounds beside the garden lake. Nobody knew what our Lady thought, nobody guessed how much our Lady hoped, but Sydney found her sitting in the rose arbour. At her feet the rippling lake pawed with tiny insistence on the pebbles, but the Queen was watching the clouds, a squadron of big white clouds which came from Avalon, from Lyonesse.
Trooper Browne, as usual, was with Sydney, but the recruit hung back a little so that my lord was alone when he bent on his knee before the Queen.
"What is it, Sydney?"
"We are sent, madam, to be in attendance on the Queen's Majesty."
"But I want to be alone."
Sydney looked up, and in his grave, grey eyes there was trouble.
"We all know," he said, "that our Lady wants to be alone."
"And yet you come?"
"I can't help it."
She saw the trouble deepen in his face. "God guard you, Sydney. What's the matter now?"
"Nothing serious, madam, but please sit quite still for a moment."
Even while he spoke a gunshot rang out close beside the Queen, a deep groan sounded from the bush behind her, and Trooper Browne rushed past with a smoking pistol.
"Let our Lady keep still," said Sydney, never moving; and presently Browne came back, with over elaborate calmness, to report.
"It's all right," he saluted; "only a duck."
"Ducks are out of season," remarked the Queen, gravely. "Trooper Browne, don't you know it's unlawful to poach ducks? This is not Canada."
"A wooden decoy duck," Browne explained, calmer than ever.
"Is it dead?"
"Quite dead, madam."
"Was it armed?"
"Yes—that is—no, madam."
"English?"
"Imported."
"Poor duck! I've heard the bushes rustling this last ten minutes. I even heard your wooden decoy duck breathe. Come, gentlemen, sit in the arbour with me, and look out for ducks."
They both protested.
"Nay, I command you, gentlemen." So they removed their helmets, and Browne, sheathing his pistol, sat down very gingerly all on edge, nursing his sword, red hot with embarrassment. Sydney crouched down on a stool at our Lady's feet.
"At ease, dear lads," said Margaret, pleading against their silence. "Only a minute ago you saved my life—now you must make glum faces. You're most depressing."
Still both men were silent.
"Come," urged the Queen. "We're two men and a maid under the roses, and it's your bounden duty to amuse the maid. Tell me the news. How is our guest, the Russian?"
Sydney turned away his face.
"Come," cried Margaret, insisting; "what does he see now—snakes?"
"They've grown, madam," Browne grinned. "He's having a fight with sea-serpents."
"I'd rather amuse the Queen," said my Lord. "My story is better than that."
"A story!" Now Margaret clapped her hands with a gay little laugh. "Once upon a time—go on, I like my fairies as naughty as can be, and mind, plenty of fairies."
"There's only one fairy left." Sydney looked away across the sunlit lake. "Romance is dead, and there's nothing to tell the fairy Queen but grim, sordid, horrible tragedy."
"He's awfully tired, madam," said Browne. "Why, we've had more fun these last three days than——"
"Let Browne begin." My Lord looked up with a smile. "I do believe he'll make it a fairy tale."
"Why, Trooper Browne!" our Lady laughed. "This after all your headlong adventures in Canada! Then London is not so tame and dull as you thought?"
"Dull! Mother will be standing on her head when she knows that I've made friends with the Marquess of Sydney, and actually spoken to the very Queen herself. Me!"
"You dear boy,"—Margaret unfastened her bracelet;—"when you see your mother, give her this with my love. There now, tell me the story."
Mr. Browne was a little hysterical, but presently, under threats from Sydney, began.
"I can't understand—do you know, madam, that there's another London underneath the ground, with thousands of miles of tunnels and passages, railroads and rivers—and—well, there is!
"Three nights ago, Sydney and I were off duty, and he was in my room telling me——"
"This man," my Lord interrupted sharply, "can smell things just like an animal, and as to his sight and hearing, they're very witchcraft."
"People here," said Browne, indignantly, "are blind, deaf, dumb, and their noses fit for nothing but catching a cold. Why, if Sydney turns round a corner he's lost. Anyway, that night I heard something underground, crowbars, I thought—anyway, men at work. We knew there must be something wrong, so we armed ourselves and bolted down to the cellars. There's acres and acres of palace down underground, and what with the darkness, the hundreds of different sounds, and all the mixed smells——"
"What smells?"
"Why sawdust, madam, and wine casks and stores, machinery—all sorts of smells. I couldn't tell where to look. We were off near the south-west court, when all of a sudden I smelt sumach leaves rotting after a frost—Sydney made out it was drains, and that was no dream either when we got a little nearer. It came through a door, and behind we could hear men at work trying to keep quiet—shouting in whispers, and splashing as if they were all having a bath. When we broke through the door we found it opened into a ventilator shaft which goes up three hundred feet through the south-west tower. Close under us it opened down into a big tunnel half full of water, sort of railway tunnel it looked, but Sydney says it's a sewer."
"It's the Tyburn," my Lord explained.
A thousand years ago the Tyburn was a brook, and one can trace its valley still through Tyburnia—the Mayfair district, the dip in Piccadilly, and the hollows of Green Park and St. James's Park, to where it ran into the Thames at Westminster.
"The Tyburn," said my Lord, "has become a sewer, and it flows right under the Palace."
"A river under my Palace!"
"Yes, madam," said Browne, "we found it full of punts and little barges, with flaring torches to light them, and a score of sewer men working away like beavers."
"But what were they doing?"
"They were busy unloading the boxes, small chests, several tons, madam."
"Chests of what?"
"Dynamite, madam."
"Good gracious!"
"Please don't be frightened, there's nothing to fear," my Lord laughed easily. "I inspected the work, and the electrician showed me some really excellent casing and insulation. The foreman, a Mr. Briggs, had no doubt whatever that the effect would be most volcanic, and they all took quite a pride when I praised their efforts."
"To blow up the Palace!"
"Yes, Lord Ulster is ever thoughtful for our Lady's comfort. I proposed to send down refreshments."
"Refreshments," Browne chuckled. "He threatened to empty the Palace tanks and drown them."
"I'm sorry to say," continued my Lord, "that Trooper Browne was rude to Mr. Briggs. If his carbine had actually gone off—the dynamite you know—the situation needed delicate handling."
"They sneaked behind Sydney and made him prisoner!" cried Browne, indignantly.
"A guest," said my Lord, correcting him. "I had ventured to suggest that the explosives should be moved further down the tunnel and stacked underneath the Departments of State in Whitehall, Ulster's seat of Government. They thought he might be annoyed, and Ulster, you see, provided food for their wives and families. They offered to take me to his Grace of Ulster."
"They lashed him down on the barge," said Trooper Browne.
"Yes," my Lord assented; "Browne jumped down into the barge on top of me, ran his sword through Mr. Briggs, settled with the electrician, and cut me loose. The rest of the men attacked us vigorously, but it was hardly fair play, as we could not provide them with swords. Several were hurt. After Browne's jump, I had little wind for talking, but in the end we resumed the conversation just where it left off."
"He'd talk a bird off a tree!" said Browne.
"Somehow," my dear Lord flushed, "I have a knack of making friends with the very roughest men, though I always fail with the smooth. This dear Browne, for instance, seems to get on with me. I told the sewer men that I had the honour to be Ulster's next-of-kin—that—that if—if the Lord Protector were to leave this world which he has so graced, certain estates would fall to me—which I could not accept. In fact, by a written deed I made them in some measure heirs of his Grace—and more suitable heirs than I for such a nobleman. I expressly by deed forbade them to assist at his death. If Whitehall is changed by earthquake, no man will fire the mine save my Lord Protector. He has laid mines, let him fire his mines with his own hand, and go to his God for judgment."
The Queen's hand stole out softly and rested upon my Lord's shoulder.
"And may I go on?" he asked.
"Surely."
"My friends of the sewers have been very good to me, and they had to save their families from hunger.
"They're a queer people, wearing great heavy boots up to their thighs, and rough suits of canvas. They lent us such clothes the night before last, and Browne and I went with them to see the mines of dynamite under Whitehall. In course of a long, rather unpleasant ramble we came directly underneath the Chancellery and got our friends to break a passage upward into the building. Last night—taking our swords as a precaution, we visited the Chancellor's room, and found there a gentleman engaged at the telegraph. We had to wait some time before this gentleman noticed our presence. When he was at leisure Browne offered him the use of a sword. I found him an accomplished swordsman."
"Who was this gentleman?" asked Margaret, and Lord Sydney rose upon his knees.
"Madam," he said, gravely, "I engaged my commanding officer."
"You fought the Duke of Gloucester!'
"I killed him."
Sydney drew his sword, and pointing the blade at his own breast presented the hilt to his sovereign.
"You have killed Rupert!" Margaret laid her hands upon the hilt. "Heaven be my witness that now, and afterwards, I am ready to share the blame, and if there's punishment now or afterwards let it fall on me. What am I, Sydney, that I should have a friend like you, so loyal, so fearless, and so great? There, my dear friend, put away your sword. I knew that my cousin Gloucester was disloyal, and you have cleansed the dishonour of the Guard."
"I am forgiven?"
"So far as a very unhappy woman can forgive the dearest friend she has in the world." She thought for a moment, then, speaking eagerly, "What time did this happen?"
"At eight this morning, madam."
"Do you know that was the time of the early service?"
"I was thinking of that."
"Sydney, when I knelt before the Table, I saw you at my side!"
"To-day I have been at peace," said my Lord.
"I, too, Sydney. You have news for me. Why keep it back?"
"Madam, I have news. I want to turn my back—for once, upon my Lady. May I?"
He crouched at her feet again, looking away across the lake, the garden trees, and the white cloud flecks, even to where the sun was, westward.
"I must speak," he said in a low voice, "of Ulster, who is reputed to be my father. I don't think I have any bitter thoughts left, but I would not claim this man for my father. My mother was a gentlewoman, and is with the angels. That she was his wife so tarnishes her sacred memory that I would rather believe her mistaken in supposing the Duke of Ulster to be my father."
Margaret was stroking the man's bowed head. "Sydney," she whispered, "I loved her. And Trooper Browne is here."
"Browne is deaf," said my Lord.
"Browne is deaf," echoed the man who loved him.
"But Margaret hears," said our Lady; "and Margaret understands."
"In Ulster's office,"—my Lord looked down at the rippled lake—"I overheard an exchange of messages between his Royal Highness and the Lord Protector. Of all spies and eavesdroppers I seem the most fortunate."
"Oh, Sydney, you have news of Lyonesse?"
"Madam, for three days past, Ulster has been in possession of the city."
Our Lady uttered a low cry of fear.
"He captured one of the great etheric liners—theGolden Hind. Brand had but one ship, theLion, on guard above his cottage at the time his Ministers assembled. TheLionwas rammed by theGolden Hind, and fell right on the crown of the Tol Pedn cliffs, and the very rocks on which the cottage stood were thrown down the wall into the sea."
"I cannot bear it, Sydney! I cannot bear it!"
My Lord looked up, his eyes glittering with tears. "You are a woman, and women are braver than men. You are the Queen, and dying England dies with majesty. The lightnings of God shall find no cowardice, and at the Last Judgment England shall not flinch."
"I forgot myself," said Margaret very humbly, "Go on—I will be quiet."
"I must go on,"—my Lord wiped the sweat from his forehead. "When Brand recaptured Lyonesse last Sunday, Ulster's troops took refuge near Marazion, and there starved. On Friday morning, under orders from theGolden Hindthey entered the city again, and for these two days they have murdered, plundered, and burned while they searched for Brand. Lyonesse is a ruin, but the master has not been found. It is known that he is alive, signals from his aerograph have been intercepted; but the search for his hiding-place has failed, and Ulster is coming back to-day."
The Queen was praying.
"In the great purposes of God he lives." My Lord lifted his eyes towards the declining sun. "There is hope, and I know that God will not let England go from serving Him. The fire of our national life dies down to ashes until the one spark left is hidden courage, ready to flame again when the time comes."
Browne turned his face away, for our Lady sobbed.
"Ulster is coming," said my Lord presently. "He has stolen the powers of Lyonesse, and for the time he is master—for the time."
Browne was peering at the western sky, shading his eyes with both hands.
"I see something," he muttered, "right under the sun, a bright speck, like a planet. Is that theGolden Hind?"
"Ulster is coming," my Lord shivered. "He will come here demanding audience." Then, looking up from where he crouched at her feet, "My Lady," he said in a very soft low voice, his lips tremulous, his eyes full of yearning love; "perhaps this is the last favour I may ever ask—to see the Queen alone."
"Trooper Browne," said our Lady, huskily, "as I'm a woman I ought to be ready to receive the Duke when he comes. Please, will you go and gather some of the very dark roses that are nearly black—and bring them to me here."
"Margaret,"—my Lord's eyes watched his friend going away in search of dark roses. "I shall go with Ulster presently. For me this is the end."
"We shall not live, dear Sydney," answered the Queen. "We shall not have to bear the pain for ever, and Death is merciful."
"Then let the words come, Margaret, since nothing matters any more. Before I go out to meet this death, I love you. Oh, most royal woman that ever lived, I came to serve in the Palace knowing that because I dared to love the Queen, I must never know peace of mind again—except such peace—you say that I was with you this morning?"
"At the Communion Table, yes."
"Was I beside you, Margaret?"
"Yes."
"Did you see me lift my hands to take the Elements?"
"They were covered with blood."
"At that moment I knelt by Gloucester, and my hands were wet with blood trying to tie an artery. I lifted my hands and you were beside me, Margaret! Margaret, I have been at peace knowing well that to-day I must take my father's life."
"Oh, my dear brother! my brother Sydney! The only brother I have known."
Bending down she took his face within her hands and kissed him upon the forehead.
Then looking steadfastly into her eyes. "I see," he whispered, awestruck, "the Queen seated on the throne—the old throne in the Abbey, and Brand is standing on the steps of the throne. So be it." And laying his head upon her knees he cried, our Lady giving him ease with a touch of her fingers.
* * * * *
The Queen had granted audience to Ulster. In her face there was peace as of one dead, about her shoulders and in her hair she wore long, thorny, sprays of the dark roses whose petals were like a sacramental wine. She neither moved nor spoke, and silent on her right hand, and her left, stood the two Guardsmen, their hands resting on the hilts of their drawn swords in readiness.
The Dictator was greatly changed, grown very old, his flesh wasted, his eyes burning as though with fever. Behind him the sun was setting, the lake was red, and over his face the shadows of night were deepening.
"Princess Margaret," he said, laying bitter stress on the words of courtesy, "I have come to declare to the ex-Queen these written intentions of the Government." He presented a roll of parchment, which our Lady made no movement to accept. He laid the parchment at her feet. "Your Royal Highness is granted until sunrise," he announced, "to repudiate the treason of John Brand."
"Sydney," the Queen whispered, "speak to this man."
My Lord Sydney turned his eyes slowly to the Dictator. "George, Duke of Ulster," he said, very quietly, "Her Imperial Majesty commands your attendance at sunrise here. Meanwhile she is pleased to grant you my escort to the gates." Still with the drawn sword in his hand, my Lord saluted her Majesty, and backed from the presence. "Sir," he said to the Dictator, "we have her Majesty's permission to withdraw. Come." He led Ulster away, and as they passed out of sight among the trees, "Father," he said, "father!"
"What, you?"
"There's no one in hearing, sir."
The Dictator turned upon his son. "What do you mean?"
"All courtesy, sir."
"You abandon that woman's service?"
"Otherwise, my dear father, you would have been shot in her very presence."
"You take service with me?"
"His Grace of Ulster loses the old acumen. Was there ever a time, sir, when a son of our honourable house failed to go over to the winning side? Come. I must get you out of this garden. Your life is not safe. And keep your eyes about you when we enter the Palace."
"Jim, are you playing fair with your father?"
"Time will show that."
They gained the lower terrace, and Ulster, supporting himself upon the arm of his son, wondered why Sydney must turn to look back to the lake, the rose garden, and the bower where Margaret sat.
"Good-bye," Sydney was muttering. "For ever and for ever, Margaret. Come, sir, come on," he laughed. "I've news for you." They entered the silent corridors of the Palace. "Queen Margaret has a keen scent for explosives, and all your thoughtful arrangements have been changed. From the Broad Sanctuary to Trafalgar Square your Departments of State are mined with high explosives. In your own office Gloucester's lying dead. There's conspiracy afield to take your life to-day, or Margaret would never have named to-morrow for surrender. Even with my help you may be dead by then. Hush! It's not safe to talk till we gain your ship."
They crossed the throne room, traversed the State apartments, and gained the head of the alabaster stairs.
"Guard, turn out!" cried my Lord, and the main guard paraded before they reached the porch.
"By her Majesty's command,"—Sydney saluted the officer of the day. "The main guard is desired to attend my Lord Duke to his ship. Pass, sir," he said to Ulster, "I attend you."
And as the main guard formed as an escort of State, Sydney hung back until Sergeant Dymoke passed him.
"Dymoke," he whispered, "fall out."
The Queen's Champion fell out of the ranks, and my lord held him within the shadow of the columns.
"Dymoke, old man,"—his voice was scarcely audible—"I'm going with Ulster in theGolden Hind, and I leave you a message for the Guard. I know a little of these etheric ships. Long years ago Brand showed me the detail of their gear. When they rise they're free from the pull of the earth, and but for the brake would be whirled into outer space. One blow of my sword will shatter the brake past mending. I'm going for a long voyage, Dymoke."
"Sydney, we can't spare you! Oh, let me go myself, if it must be done."
"Am I not to guard my own honour?" My Lord dropped his sword on the wrist sling.
"I am the Queen's Champion."
"Live for her then," he said. He took off his helmet, and unfastened the Queen's favour, her glove, which was bound to the brow. "This to our Lady," he whispered. Then looking out to where the gigantic ship lay waiting him, and the Dictator impatiently cried for his son to come, "Tell her I go to plead for her and for England. Good-bye." My lord drew off his gauntlet, and, with his finger, touched his friend upon the forehead. "We shall not be long parted, you and I."
Then looking up to heaven, his face flushed by the dying sunlight, he set the glowing helmet on his head, took up his sword and passed slowly between the waiting ranks of the guard to where Lord Ulster received him upon the gangway. Even as the Dictator led him, he turned in the shadow of the port, and, lifting his sword hilt to his brow, gave the salute.
The gangway crashed home. Nine hundred feet in length, dwarfing the lofty Palace with her bulk, all gleaming steel aglow in the sunset light, theGolden Hindwith one faint tremor spurned the ground away. She rose from her couch upon the shattered trees, slow lifting, while the glass of all her ports, tier upon tier, glittered and flashed like rubies.
Dismissed from their ranks, the Guardsmen clustered about the columns of the porch, watched the great ship go up.
Then Dymoke spoke to the officer and the rest. "Lords and gentlemen of the Guard, I have a message to you which Sydney left me. The Dictator threatened our Lady's life, and goes to meet his death at the hands of his son. My friend was too knightly a man even to take her token on such a quest." He showed them our Lady's glove. "He dies for the Queen and for his honour."
The rising ship was already far aloft.
"He has destroyed theGolden Hind!"
The ship at terrific speed whirled upward into the heavens.
Then Dymoke, removing his helmet, spoke to the others for "our dear brother departed. He asks us to pray for him."
With bared heads they waited, these, my Lord's comrades, watching the ship, which like a blood-red star, glowed in the heights, and vanished even as the sparks fly upward.
May we all have strength at the last to serve as you served, to die as you died, Lord Sydney!
The sun was rising, the keen still air had a tang of smoke from one or two parishes sacked and burned over-night. Under the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace a starving street arab was at work with a few grains of banana meal and a string noose, trying to snare a pigeon. A man watched him furtively from beside one of the buttresses of the Abbey. That man had been a barrister before the World-Storm, now he was a tramp, and his coat was buttoned up because his underclothes had been sold for a meal. All night he had been with a crowd in the Strand wrecking the hotels in search of food. A dog or two had been dragged out of the flames, and torn to pieces; but the barrister won not so much as a taste of the blood, because some stronger desperadoes charged in a body and carried the food away. Now the Savoy district was a smouldering furnace, and the barrister watched the street arab, intending robbery if the lad got meat.
Something caught his wandering attention; the body of a man, which lay at the base of the statue of Richard Cœur de Lion, out in the bare paved square. The barrister stole across from the Abbey, but when he bent over the man, hoping for plunder, he found he had made a mistake. The supposed corpse proved to be alive, and remarked that he had nothing worth stealing.
The barrister shrank back, smiling vaguely. "Watching that boy in the hope of a pigeon, eh?"
"No," said the other; "it's better to rest and not use up one's tissue. That's economy."
The barrister sat down beside him, produced a pipe, and demanded tobacco.
The other shook his head, but the lawyer thought that a little friendly conversation might win him a fill for his pipe. So he looked at the starving wretch beside him.
"Oxford?" he ventured.
"Yes, Brasenose. Are you a college man, too?"
"Dublin," said the barrister. "I was a novelist."
"I was a curate; I used to preach about the Day of Judgment—but d'you know, it's quite different. The canonists never suggested that it would last so long, but it's extremely interesting, and I'm planning a work on contemporary Eschatology."
"Judgment be blowed," the barrister snorted, "it's the usual cause and effect, machinery broken down—passengers hungry. I'm beastly pinched."
"Are you really?" The curate still had a trace of his pulpit manner. "Now that is most curious. My hunger has gone away quite, but if my mind seems to wander pray correct me. Am I talking nonsense now?"
"No; what was your last meal?"
"A portion of rat," said the parson, smiling at the pleasant suggestion of memory. "But my landlady has taken to improper courses, led away, poor thing, by her daughter. She has joined one of the cannibal clubs. I felt that she was becoming untrustworthy, and withdrew to the streets."
The barrister laughed wearily. "My wife and children—" he said; "I shot them last night—well—who cares?"
"How shocking," said the curate. "Hope," he continued, "is dead, and our prayers break upon the brazen echoing heavens. Who would have supposed that the world would die so hard?"
"Don't preach," said the barrister, "it makes me sick."
The curate looked up with a vacant stare at the towering heights of the Abbey. From far away came the rumble of the organ, for this was the time for the early Celebration. By the calendar it was Monday, the Twelfth Day of the Terror.
"I think I could have hoped," the parson wiped a tear away with his torn sleeve, "only there's always such a crowd at the Government food shops. The men trample the women and children to death, and that takes away one's appetite."
"Yes, we're savages now," said the barrister, "we've shed our infernal skin of gentility."
He looked away towards the street arab. The lad was rejoicing on the verge of success, but rejoiced too early, for the pigeon flew clear of the snare. Then the lad cursed.
"I watched all night," said the curate, "by the Palace. Our poor little Queen works hard."
The other was cynical. "Does she?"
"D'you know," said the other, "that Ulster is dead?"
"No such luck."
"But it's true. A woman stabbed him. Really."
"How do you know?"
"I crept into the porch, and there were two gentlemen of the Bodyguard, talking. They turned me away into the rain. D'you know there was something going on. All night I saw ships and private yachts, hundreds of them, reporting at the Palace towers. The air was black with them coming and going."
"It may be," muttered the lawyer. "Ulster dead!"
"Once," the curate went on bubbling with news, "a Guardsman rode out with his servant, and the orderly stopped behind to tighten a girth. I helped him. D'you know I smelt bread and real cold beef in his wallet. He told me that the trades unions have proclaimed a Republic—yes, at Manchester. Then I asked him for some of the meat, and he was so rude."
"The Republic proclaimed already? Then Ulster must be dead. My friend, do you realize what this means? The Republic? It means that the Territorials have revolted, five hundred thousand men in arms against the Government."
"We have the Fleet." The curate lifted his head and answered proudly.
"The Fleet, Mr. Parson? And when the Republicans seize the power station, when they cut off the whole supply of electric force—what becomes of your Fleet? Answer me that!"
"Oh, but my dear man, really, don't y'know, we have Malta, Gibraltar, and the Newfoundland station. They can all flash electric power to our ships."
"If they had warning, yes; but all the telegraphs are cut. I tell you the power stations will be captured this very day, and nothing can save the Fleet. I wonder—when the London guardships founder, why, we may get some food from the wrecks! Yes, food! And the London Unionists, too—they'll be revolting to-day—they'll attack the departments of State. Parson, I know a house not far from here, with five barrels of flour. There'll be no police to-day—come on, let's rob that house!'
"Rob a house?" said the curate, wistfully. "Oh, but I'm in Holy Orders, don't y'know." Then rolling over exhausted, "My dear friend," he whispered, "couldn't you bring me just a little flour?"
"I might," the barrister sneered, "and I might not. All right, go off to sleep, don't mind me." He looked round. "Hello, the boy's got that pigeon!" The barrister scrambled to his feet. "The little brute!"
He looked at the curate, who seemed to be asleep, then at the street arab who was sucking the pigeon's blood. He felt the parson's clothes for tobacco, but his eyes were on the lad who had captured food.
Staggering with weakness he went for the street arab, drawing a knife from his pocket. The lad crouched unheeding, tearing the bird apart. The barrister, staring dreadfully about him, stole upon the lad, his knife ready, his lips twitching, his teeth set. Then a rifle shot rang out from one of the barricaded windows of St. Stephen's Palace, the barrister leaped into the air, and fell doubled up upon the pavement, his limbs relaxed, his mouth wide open, One of his legs gave a last twitch and he lay quite still. The street arab had run away.
Then from a distance came the steady tramp of marching men, and the curate seemed to wake at the sound from a spell of sleep. He rose upon his hands and knees, he tried to stand up, but he had not the strength. He looked at the Palace, and just opposite to him was a door which led into the purlieus of the House of Lords. He crawled across the pavement, lifted himself wearily up the low steps, and banged with a stone against the door.
Nearer and nearer came the tramp of men.
"Help!" screamed the curate. "The Republicans! Save me! Save me!"
* * * * *
In the Council Chamber at the Queen's Palace, my Lord Protector's Ministers were assembled. The Duke of Ulster had warned them, the Princess Margaret summoned them. Our Lady was to render her submission, to repudiate the treason of John Brand.
Then upon a flourish of trumpets, entered, not his Grace of Ulster, but her Imperial Majesty attended by a hundred gentlemen-at-arms.
Amid the consternation of Ulster's Ministers it was the First Lord of the Admiralty who dared to come forward barring our Lady's passage to the throne.
Waving his hands towards the foot of the table, "Madam," he cried, "the place for the Princess Margaret is here."
For a moment the Queen fell back, surprised at old Lord Mendip's audacity, then her eyes glittered ominously as she turned to the adjutant of the Guard.
"Tell this gentleman," she said, "to stand aside."
So she swept on to the throne, and there turning, faced her enemies. Our Lady was in mourning, robed in a cloud of dusky violet silk, some folds of it veiling her head and making the sad face white in livid contrast. Verily she was Queen, if only by right of sorrow, by majesty of pain, and by dominion of men's love and worship.
"My lords," she said, nervously, "and gentlemen," this with a gracious bow, and a smile of welcome. "I am shy at having to meet you here again—forgive that to a woman—here, where you honoured me with—with your homage. Do you remember, it was in this very room, and the gray light stole in through the frost on those windows. How bitterly cold it was, and I had just come from where my dear father lay in death. Don't you remember? You, my Lord Mendip, cried 'Long live Queen Margaret!' You, Mr. Jesmond, told me how I must wear the terrible white crown, sit on the stone of Destiny—and I cried. You, Sir Roderic Scott, were first to kiss my hand—this hand which has gone cold at the very thought of it. And afterwards, in the Abbey, before the altar, you swore to serve me—all of you. How have you kept that oath?"
The Ministers were standing in groups about the table, whispering one to another behind their hands. Lord Roderic Scott was inquiring of the impassive Guards as to his Grace of Ulster, when once again the Queen began to speak.
"You have come," this very gently, "to receive—what are the words? Yes, my repudiation of the treason of Mr. Brand. There are some other things mentioned, I think. Will you not sit down?"
Reluctantly, one by one, the Ministers took their seats in order of precedence.
"Thank you," said Margaret, "it is right that you should sit, and that I stand until I have dealt with this matter of treason. I am to repudiate treason. Oh, my lords and gentlemen of the Imperial Council, do you forget that by the Coronation oaths I must do more than repudiate every treason? I am bound to punish treason, to punish treason with death. And I am resolved this day, either to punish all treason in my realm, or die in the attempt—yes, die! I know the cost. I have been honoured with the service of many loyal men, and I have not failed any of them in love or gratitude. I have only found one strong friend in the whole world, and he is John Brand. I have not failed him in love or in gratitude. He has dared to be true, dared to be loyal, dared to be my friend—and he has paid the price. He was the richest man in the world—who is so poor now? He was the most powerful subject that ever a sovereign had—who is so fallen? He was desperately wounded fighting for me, he is a hunted outcast for my sake, and he is ready at any time to die for me.
"The man who is guilty of treason must die, or I refuse to live.
"You are wondering if I speak as the Princess Margaret, or as Queen and Empress? Well, for the present I am content to be one concerned for your honour, for your dignity. I have a letter here—see, this letter—bearing all your signatures. You wrote to me, twelve days ago—saying that a Bill was passed by Parliament deposing Margaret, appointing a Lord Protector, and tearing up the British Constitution. It took hundreds of years to create that Constitution, and it was destroyed in a few minutes. Without consulting the people, or their sovereign, the Parliament under your guidance did this thing, then blind with panic, wriggled away into dissolution, leaving its precious Bill to be dishonoured by all honest men. My lords and gentlemen, how about your oath?"
The Ministers were ill at ease, some passing furtive notes one to another, the rest consulting in whispers.
"You had the Lord Protector of your choice," said Margaret, bitterly. "He once betrayed the Indian Empire for a bribe, and laid the blame upon an innocent man—who died for it. Lately he divulged the Formula of the Fleets, gave shameful concessions to his Russian master, and would sell his Queen, even to such a buyer as Prince Alexander. Nay, silence! I command your silence, gentlemen, while I speak. Proof piled on proof in Ulster's own handwriting, condemns this felon. You are waiting for him now to sit in judgment on me. So you keep your oath!
"You swore to be faithful to Ulster? Why, half of you wrote privately to me betraying him! And others of you in privy conspiracy, offered the kingdom to my cousin Rupert—such is your honour! And having betrayed me, and betrayed Ulster, and betrayed Prince Rupert, you came back here to humble me, to punish me, to receive my abject submission, to demand my repudiation of John Brand! What a court of honour! Do you know where Rupert is—the Duke of Gloucester?"
Our Lady was breathing deep, but not another sound broke the silence until she spoke again.
"He is in Ulster's office, gentlemen. Your letters to him are lying upon his breast, and lest any of them be blown away by the wind, they are pinned down with a sword. My cypher is inscribed upon that blade. I am favoured, my lords and gentlemen, that you are polite enough to hear me now without whisperings or scribbling of notes, while you await the Lord Protector's coming. Are you wondering where next my sword will fall? Is Ulster late?"
Her Majesty ordered the barring of the doors. "Where is your leader?" she asked. "Are you deserted by the chief of your rebellion? Let the Guard salute!"
The gentlemen of the Bodyguard presented arms, and Margaret took the throne.
"Stand!" she commanded, and in amazement the Ministers obeyed. "I have to speak to you concerning the action of my dear friend now at rest, Trooper of the Bodyguard, James, Marquess of Sydney.
"By the hand of his own son, I have taken the Duke of Ulster's life for capital felony. Your Lord Protector is dead, and I am Queen."
The Guard ordered and grounded arms with a crash.
"Come, gentlemen," said Margaret, "I have made an end to your delirium of treason. You were once my people's chosen servants—who else shall I trust if I may not believe in you? I recall you to your oaths, your patriotism, your honour, your manhood. I ask you again to be my Ministers, to accept my love and confidence. One of you I except." And Margaret's eyes fell on Lord Roderic Scott. "Oh, be kind to me, gentlemen," her voice broke with a great sob. "I'd rather be a servant and scrub floors, yet I am Queen—you laid that burden on me, and I must reign until it pleases Heaven to let me die. But must I go on fighting all alone? Is there no one left who cares for England's honour?"
For a moment there was silence, then the First Lord, the aged Earl of Mendip, rose to answer.
"Dear madam, dear sovereign, please let me speak for my poor colleagues here, and comrades in wrong-doing. I am too old to blush—my blood is all needed at the heart which still beats only for the service of the Empire—but I'm sure I never dreamed I was such a villain. Your Majesty has youthful blood, and dauntless courage, but pardon me, not quite omniscient wisdom. Some vestiges of right remain to us, some quivering nerves of honour, even some shreds of manhood.
"In the evening of our lives we have had the grace to worship the Evening Star, we called her Margaret. The sun of our Finance was Mr. Brand. It is no censure if I say that the sun was sometimes rather hot for us. In a state of ecstasy, perhaps, he fell from the heavens, came too near, and burned us. Were we a little restive at being burned? Was it unnatural that, in the agony of a world destroyed, we forgot our worship of the Evening Star?
"Well, well, I shall pursue the metaphor no further. Mr. Brand has gone with Ulster, and the unfortunate Prince Rupert, to face a greater tribunal than ours."
"He is not dead!" cried Margaret.
"Stripped of his power, wounded, a fugitive——"
"The man who saved the honour of the Empire."
"The man who wrecked the world!"
"Gentlemen!" our Lady's white face was set in stern defiance. "As he was loyal to me, so am I Brand's loyal friend. I have sent the royal yacht to succour him, and he will come back with his ships to meet my enemies."
Lord Mendip bowed. "We are ready," he said, "to serve your Majesty, but——" a rifle shot rang out beyond the palace walls, then another and another.
"But what?" asked Margaret, scornfully.
"Madam, this Brand is an attainted traitor."
"Attainted by whom, pray?"
Again there were rifle shots in the distance, a dropping fire.
"Attainted, madam, by the Commonwealth."
"Am I not sovereign?"
"Madam, I spoke with unbecoming fervour of the gentleman who—his party, madam, the Labour Party——"
"His party? Listen, my lord, to that firing! Is this a time for parties? Lord Mendip, in the peril of the State there is but one party—mine! You serve me as Brand serves me, or you are rebels."
Sir Myles Strangford, Secretary for War, rose to give answer.
"Your Majesty," cried the War Secretary, "we are loyal. We will take the oath and serve!"
"Sir!" our Lady flushed with rage. "Do I hear you speak of oaths?"
For a moment her voice was drowned in a roar of musketry. "My patience is at an end. Rupert is dead, Ulster is dead; shall I spare you? I let you live while you are loyal to me, and at the slightest sign of treason I shall kill. As you tore up the Constitution, so I reign—I reign in the way of my fathers—so long as there is danger, absolute Monarch. Gentlemen of the Guard, you may withdraw—we need no protection while our Council sits!"
She rose from her throne, she turned her back upon the Council, and so stood waiting until she should be alone with her sullen, mutinous, vengeful officers. They saw that she looked out through the bayed windows; not the tears which blinded her or the forlorn gesture of her prayer for help.
The gentlemen-at-arms had swung to half sections and marched out from the chamber before our Lady moved. These windows, from a high salient of the Palace, commanded Whitehall. Half veiled in mist, the departmental buildings flashed with a thousand tiny points of fire, the rifle flame, the blaze from heavy artillery, then the glare of exploding shells. For now the crackling of musketry was drowned by spitting, shrieking machine guns, and the great roar of battle.
Sir Myles Strangford came and stood beside our Lady's throne as though on guard. A shell screamed close above the roof, a stray bullet crashed through the window and almost grazing Margaret's hair, lodged in the wall behind.
"Sir Myles," said our Lady, turning to the Secretary for War, "can the Departments hold out?"
"Your Majesty, for Heaven's sake, take shelter."
"Are the Departments safe?" she insisted, smiling.
"I had eight hours' warning, madam. The buildings can hold out until Lord Mendip's patrol ships come to the rescue."
"I have called them, madam," old Mendip touched his aerograph. "The Departments will be relieved in an hour."
"These Republicans, Sir Myles—are there many of them?"
"Twenty-eight thousand," answered the Secretary for War. "They're bringing up their batteries, and certainly, madam, we depend on the ships."
The firing slackened now, and Margaret, returning to her seat, questioned Lord Mendip as to affairs in the Midlands. It was true, he admitted, that the Republicans had attacked the power station, and, in the event of its capture, nothing could save the Fleet. But the position was an impregnable fortress, the Channel Squadron had been ordered north, and, indeed, there was nothing to fear.
"Nothing to fear," our Lady muttered to herself. "Nothing to fear. Then, my lord, are these Republicans mad? The Departments impregnable, the power station impregnable, the ships expected; on these conditions the Republicans would never dare to attack. They would not dare to attack unless they knew the Fleet could be destroyed. They expect to capture the power station; they're sure of it—they stake their lives on that. Are you sure, Lord Mendip, of this power station?"
"There's no stronger fortress in Europe."
"My lord, is any fortress proof against treachery? These rebels have staked their lives that the place will be betrayed to them. Call up the officer commanding."
The old lord, with tremulous fingers, signalled by aerograph, but there was no answer. Again and again he called, but there was no answer.
"Madam," he said, "I fear——"
The aerograph began to be disturbed; a rush of signals hummed from its armature.
"Position mined—rebels in possession. Ground the Fleet!—Ground the Fleet!—Ground the Fleet!"
"Oh, quick!" cried Margaret, in agony. "Order the ships to ground!"
The First Lord, poor Mendip, had fallen back in his chair, his white face convulsed, his fingers twitching and pulling in frenzy at the key of his instrument. Our Lady rushed to his side, seized the aerograph from him, begged him to dictate the orders to the ships. And all the while, the old man striving for utterance, the rest of the Ministers frantic to hear him speak, the gun-fire quickened in the distance, and some one was thundering for admittance outside the door of the room.
"He's dying!" Margaret's voice broke to a wail of misery. "Oh, who knows the cypher of the Fleet? We'll be too late—too late!"
The door burst open, an officer of the Bodyguard broke headlong into the room.
"Madam," he yelled, "the ships—the destroyers of the patrol are foundering!"
Lord Mendip's head had fallen back, his fingers were tearing at his breast, his eyes were glazing. Then his arms fell limp, and the change passed over his face, and the jaw dropped.
Our Lady bent and kissed the still dead face, then reaching out her hand beckoned the living.
"Kneel, gentlemen," she said in a low, awed voice. "Pray for the passing Fleet, for ninety thousand men called by their God."
So they all knelt, our Lady, the adjutant of the Guard, the Ministers of State, while outside, the crash of musketry, the roar of guns thundered the requiem of the English Fleet. Presently the body of the old lord slipped down and fell before Margaret's knees. Shrinking away, she went back to her place upon the throne.
Some of the Ministers were moving to take away the body, but our Lady checked them.
"No," she said, "do not take it away, but lay it there before us upon the table."
They laid the frail body upon the table, paying some reverent offices, closing the eyelids, folding the hands. Shrinking from that presence, dreading, fearing it, our Lady lifted her reluctant eyes.
"We need this reminder," she said faintly, "that we are all being judged."
Then that swaggering, gallant, old Lord Roderic Scott rose, bowing to her Majesty and to the dead.
"Madam," he said, "the Fleet is gone, the Departments may last an hour, and then the Republicans will turn their guns upon this building. If your Majesty is determined to wait, I trust we shall all have the decency to die like gentlemen. But I beg your Majesty to accept the use of my private yacht, and return to Windsor until we can raise an army."
"My dear Lord Roderic," our Lady smiled. "What armies would care to fight for a runaway Government? I think I have a better plan than that. Sir Myles, I see you have troops here guarding the Palace."
"Three thousand, madam, and a battery."
"You have not enough men to save both the Departments and the Palace?"
"Not nearly enough."
"But if we had all the troops here, we might save the Palace?"
"A desperate venture, madam."
"So in any case the Departments must be lost?"
"Better, madam, to give up the Palace itself, than to surrender the very seat of Government."
"The Palace," cried Sir Roderic, "is no safe place for your Majesty."
"I beg you, madam," urged Jesmond, "to retire."
"Why so nervous, gentlemen?" asked Margaret, bitterly. "I see anxiety in all your faces—so loyal, so moved for my safety. Is it because you mined my Palace with a hundred and fifty tons of dynamite? How thoughtful of you! How considerate! You supplied me with explosives enough to mine all your Departments of State; for two days, gentlemen, I have been considering your case. There, over by the wall, on that little table, stands an electric key—one touch on that key at any moment these two days past would have released you all from these dull cares of State. One of you—a gentleman seated at this table—is the very leader of these Republicans. His aerograph lies upon the table before him, and he appears anxious to warn his friends by signalling." Her Majesty's piercing stare was fastened upon none other than Lord Roderic Scott. "Lord Roderic, you will lower your hand, both hands, down against your sides. Mr. Jesmond, you will take away his aerograph. If he lifts his hands he dies. Sir Myles Strangford, you will signal the officer commanding at Whitehall to withdraw and fall back upon the Palace, and you will order the troops here on guard to cover the retreat."
* * * * *
Whitehall, a congeries of palaces, a city in itself of unusual grandeur, had never seemed so vast as when it loomed through the cloud of battle. Pale wreaths of smoke girded the walls, columns of dust went up from bursting shells, and little, innumerable spurts of fire lightened the windows, outlined the terraced roofs. A column of red flame waved high above the Admiralty, and, shattered by artillery from beyond the river, the Palace of St. Stephen's crashed down in acres of ruin. One by one the palaces were taken, barrier after barrier was broken through as the brigades of starving Republicans, mad with bloodshed, swept back the Imperial troops.
And all through the rooms and corridors, thousands of people went about their business, in the strange English way; the clerks who still worked at their desks or helped to bury the archives and treasures of their departments; the nurses, the surgeons, the chaplains who helped the wounded, gave comfort to the dying, closed the eyelids of the dead; the soldiers who fell back from the windows to fight the advancing flames.
It was long past noon when the Queen's orders came—the signal to retire upon her Palace.
Building after building was left to the next triumphant rush of the enemy, until the Imperial forces were jammed together at the Foreign Office, guarding the non-combatants, and, under cover of troops from the Palace, began the final movement of retreat. It was but half a mile to the Palace gates along Death's Avenue.
Up against the windows of the Council Chamber, nearer and nearer lashed the hurricane of sound—the yells of dying men, the rattle of musketry, scream of machine guns, roar of artillery, crash of falling walls, and, beyond all, the deep dull roar of the conflagration.
Within the Council Chamber the great lords of the administration sat still at their table. Before them all lay the body of the old Lord Mendip, the green cloth of the table casting a dreadful glow upon his face. By the left hand there was placed an electric key with covered wires trailing to the floor, and opposite to that two Ministers sat guarding Sir Roderic Scott, a prisoner. Bolt upright in the chair of state, our Lady never moved save once, when she covered her face with one fold of silken gauze from the hood of her violet robe.
Sir Myles Strangford at the windows reported from time to time how the battle went.
"Shot down like dogs," he cried. "Nurses, civilians, clergy, and broken troops, officers beating the poor fellows with their swords—and the retreat—by George they're falling by hundreds. The whole avenue jammed." For a moment his voice was drowned by the uproar.
"The rear guard's clear of the Department!"
Her Majesty leaned forward. "Lord Roderic Scott," she cried, "reach forward your right hand and touch that key! Mr. Jesmond, take the knife and drive it into that man's flesh until he obeys me. Now, Roderic Scott, reach out your right hand, and lay it on the key! and may God have mercy on your soul!"
* * * * *
And the river rushed in upon the site of Whitehall.
This poor history book! It set out to chronicle the affairs of all mankind, and has only room for one woman.
So a boy goes forth into the world strong, careless, jubilant, thinking the Earth, the lights of Heaven, the dark of Space, all made on purpose to be a playground for him. But an old man looks back with his wan smile of memory, and sees that the sun, moon, and stars made but an aureole for one mighty love.
Let the old man maunder a little at the heads of the chapters—you may be an old fool, too, before you have turned the last sad page in the dear Book of Life.
Except for some who foully revile Brand, the learned historians lay all the blame on Margaret.
Learning has chilled the blood in their sluggish veins, conceit of their knowledge given them scaly hides, and their blind logic made them sinuous, these bookworms, who with exuding venom have fastened their poisonous teeth on Margaret's fame. She sheltered Brand, staked crown, reputation, life upon the hazard of her faith in him. She had Prince Rupert slain, the Dictator slain, and the metropolitan chiefs of the Republic slain. The seat of treasonous revolt against her she cleansed with the waters of the Thames. Aye, and more, she reigned as no sovereign in modern times had ever dared to reign. We were lost in the night of despair, we fought in the maelstrom of Death, but the memory of that time is the memory of one white spirit, pure and strong, whom no waves of misfortune could overwhelm, or mist of anguish hide. We were men-at-arms who worshipped Margaret then, and those that are left of us are old fools now, fearful lest any venom so much as touch her robe.
In these days there were two or three attempts made by insane persons upon her Majesty's life. At the petition then of the whole corps of the Bodyguard she appointed orderlies for close attendance upon her person, choosing the two nearest friends of my Lord Sydney, Sergeant Dymoke to be on duty in the day time, Trooper Browne at night. Her Majesty was pleased also to confer upon Trooper Browne the honour of Knighthood in the order of St. Michael and St. George.
It was after midnight—how we missed the bells of fallen Westminster—and Trooper Sir Patrick Browne, faint with excess of pride, stood in a vain pose by the door of the private rooms. He was startled out of all his dignity when, the door opening, he found himself of a sudden face to face with her Majesty.
"Hush!" our Lady pressed a finger of warning to her lips. "There," she cautiously shut the door. "I'm afraid of waking Miss Temple. Follow softly."
So gathering her white cloak, she sped like a ghost, he following, to the south-west tower. Not stairs but inclined planes circled upwards, an easy hill, to where a flight of steps gave on the roof, and one looked out over London.
This night began the great gale, and already, far down beneath, the trees were lashing and swaying. Low above trailed the flame-lighted clouds, the wind was roaring round the tower walls, and red embers flashed past in the smoke. The gale swept by in gusts, fiery hot, then of a sudden, icy cold, then slanting hot again. Right up against the wind, Belgravia was in flames, and down to leeward, the whole district of the Strand glowed like a furnace. Spiral columns of flame went reeling eastwards, then lifting clear from their base, rolled up and burst. And over all the roar of wind and fire one heard the screaming machine guns crushing out the Republican revolt.
"Madam," cried the trooper, "come away, this is too horrible for any woman."
"For any woman? Sir Patrick, are there not thousands of women yonder?" Our Lady turned, the flame-light on her face. "Do you think I care? Do you think I suffer? Dear lad," she turned away again with a wan little laugh, "I don't care now, I'm an old, old woman—past caring any more. Let me rest here."
The trooper laid his cloak in a sheltered place, and there for a long time she sat, crouched down, all shrunk into the corner, staring at the flames.
Was this the Margaret who seven weeks ago held court of Love in her gardens, Queen of the May, loading grave officers of the Palace with wreaths and garlands, then with the mischievous gravity of a fairy, tootling a jig on the pan pipes while the Lord Great Chamberlain danced!
Margaret crouched down in a corner, haggard with sleepless misery, staring with great wild eyes on the burning of London!
The sentries were calling from salient to salient, bastion to bastion.
"Number one, all's well!"
"Number two, all's well!"
"Number three, all's well!"
Then faintly in the distance of the gardens, "Number four, all's well!" Forty-five gentlemen of the corps had fallen in the confused fighting of these last two days; many more had been sent away by yacht, or by road with messages on the business of the State. How we grudged every man who was taken away from guarding Margaret. We all had our private troubles—those who were dear to us did not escape ruin and hunger, and one trooper who visited his home, came back to the Palace insane. These matters we kept to ourselves, but there was an understanding in the mess that each man must keep his life at our Lady's service so long as she had need of the Guard.
This had been midsummer day, the longest in all the year; but Margaret was at work from dawn to dusk, and her Ministers had barely time for food.
The Departments of State found themselves quarters in the Palace, and the Postmaster-General contrived the telegraphs, some sort of money was arranged for the public—what kind of currency mattered nothing now. A power station was got to work in the Midlands so that electric shipping was able to take the air. The Fleet reserve was mobilized, and the royal yacht squadron assembled. The railways were seized, and a service of trains commenced. The Imperial army began to concentrate upon London, regiment after regiment, brigade after brigade being quartered and fortified to protect the main supplies of food.
And so her Majesty began to reign. The fallen lifted their eyes, those who despaired ventured to think and to hope, those who were weak had strength to work for her, the wounded forgot their pain, the stricken their bereavement, the mourners their dead, and dying England lived for Margaret.
"Number one, all's well!"
"All's well."
"All's well."
"All's well."
Was our Lady asleep there in her corner? The trooper from his furthest side of the pavement, glanced through the corner of one eye, just daring to see her white robe shine against the black of his cloak upon the flags. He had not courage to really look at her, even if she slept, but paced his beat slowly from end to end, nine paces, and nine paces, inventing conversation all the time in which he made her seem to speak to him.
Somebody was coming up within the tower, and Browne at the stairhead waited ready to fire. A man?—the trooper boiled over at his insolence. Sir Myles Strangford, indeed!
"Get down," he whispered hoarsely. "Our Lady is here. Get down with you!"
"Who is it?" asked her Majesty. "What—Sir Myles? Don't go."
"Madam, forgive me," Sir Myles bowed to her. "I didn't know. Let me retire."
"No, stay, Sir Myles."
"Madam," he bowed again, "I couldn't sleep."
"Nor I. Come, sit in the shelter here and talk to me."