Chapter IX: The Royal Prerogative

If Brand knew that his formal attainder was pending in the Commons, he did not know that the Chancellor had ordered his summary arrest.

The horse carried him to the Opera House, and from the portico he found his way up the main stairway into the foyer. There, at the ante-room of the royal box, an equerry was in attendance who conveyed his word to her Majesty.

"A Queen's messenger desires audience, and sends this white glove as a token."

Police officers had entered the box office below; Brand heard them on the stairs; and orders were shouted in the very foyer before the equerry returned.

"For the Queen's sake," he begged, "be quick!"

"Her Majesty will grant you audience."

Brand dashed past him into the ante-room. "Now," he said, "guard that door."

He found himself alone in a small, dark chamber, the very walls trembling with the crash of triumphal music, and loud voices from the corridor behind were already demanding admission. Then curtains were drawn asunder, and Margaret herself stood in the opening, against the glare of the auditorium, a glory of light shining as a halo about her, kindling the diamonds of her tiara. Her face was in shadow, her eyes big and dark as they searched the gloom of the place, until they fastened upon him.

"Mr. Brand? How dare you! You a Queen's messenger?"

With a gesture of rage, Brand flung the Russian papers upon the table between them.

"By right of blood!" he answered. "In the attempt to bring those papers to you, Colonel Anderson gave his life, Lord Sydney and Trooper Browne their liberty--and I am Queen's messenger in their place."

Margaret, with trembling hands, turned on the lights, and, moved by an impulse of horror, shrank back from the blood-stained papers; then, startled by a noise in the corridors--

"What's that?" she cried.

"Don't be frightened," he answered quietly. "It's only the police."

"What do they want?"

"Only me, don't trouble yourself. Here,"--he took the Russian papers, and wrenched off the blood-stained cover--"read," he said sternly.

Wonderstruck at his daring, confused by the glitter of his eyes, humbled by the prescience of some great calamity, Margaret sank down into a chair, while Brand spread the papers before her. She was dazed at first, understanding nothing of what she read. Presently she became absorbed, scanning page after page in feverish eagerness. Then, in deadly rage thrusting the papers aside, she rose confronting Brand.

"You accused our Chancellor, you slandered him, you insulted your sovereign with falsehoods about our administration, you were expelled from our palace in disgrace." She clutched her throat, hardly able to speak. "And you come back--with these--infamous slanders!"

"I have come back, woman, with the proofs for which Colonel Anderson gave his life-blood and two gallant gentlemen their liberty."

"But you have accused our Chancellor!"

"Not I." Brand pointed downwards at the papers. "These in his own hand accuse the man who has sold your honour."

"My honour? You mention my honour? Understand this, and tell all who care to hear, that it has pleased us to take for our Consort His Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke Alexander of Russia, whose sword will deal with questions concerning our honour. Now go!"

Brand bent forward across the table and stared into the Queen's eyes.

"I go," he said, "to Sydney and Browne in prison, and on to Colonel Anderson in Hades, bearing the Queen's message that by her orders, Ulster betrayed the Formula of the Fleets."

"The Formula of the Fleets? What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you are moved neither by absolute proof of Ulster's treason, nor by the blood of your servants, then you are partner with him, you share his guilt, for you betray your people."

Then Margaret quailed before his eyes, shrank back from him and turned away her face.

"Oh, I can't, I can't!" She looked up at him, convulsed with terror, her arms thrust out in protest. "I can't believe. He couldn't betray me like that! Betrayed! Betrayed!"

"Yes," answered Brand; "betrayed."

"But the Formula of the Fleets? Prove your words. On your peril prove everything you say--who charges our Chancellor with divulging the Formula of the Fleets?"

"His own son brings the charge. I have Lord Sydney's word."

"Lord Sydney's word! And that is more than proof. But how shall I know that you come from Sydney?"

"That glove!" said Brand. "How else should I have that glove?"

"And yet!" Margaret wrenched a letter from within her dress. "Since yesterday I have kept this with me to read, to study." There was hope in her voice, a flash in her eyes again. "You wrote this to the Chancellor. How can you speak of treason; you, who wrote this?" She flung the letter across the table. "Read!"

"My letter to the Chancellor? Why, this. My letter was short--that's not my signature!" He held the paper against the light. "The paper--how does it come to bear this water-mark, the Imperial cypher, 'M.R.I.'? The water-mark in mine is 'Lyonesse.' Is Lord Ulster insane? Does he suppose that I--a business man, would send such a letter as that, and keep no certified copy?" He opened his pocket-book, and produced a copy sworn before witnesses. "Let these be compared!"

Intently Margaret studied both the water-marks, and the texts of these two documents. Then, without a word, crossed to an armchair over against the curtains, and there lay back with closed eyes, thinking.

"Mr. Brand," she said at last, wearily, "you and my Chancellor charge one another with treason. You spoke of Sydney--what part has he in it?"

"He came to me," Brand answered, "a month ago, gave me these papers, begged me to save the Queen, and delivered his own father into my hands for punishment."

"Go on."

"Without any proofs against him, I had to attack the Chancellor at once. There was no time to lose. Without any proofs, I attempted yesterday to warn the Queen of her peril, and was driven out from her presence. Without any proofs, I was compelled to-night to face the House of Commons. A Bill is being passed attainting me of High Treason."

"How did you get back these papers?"

"Yesterday Lord Sydney begged the Queen to sign an order commanding Colonel Anderson to obey him."

With a little startled movement, Margaret looked up.

"How did you know that?"

"I sent Lord Sydney."

"Proof upon proof," she muttered. "Please go on."

"By the Queen's command, Colonel Anderson stole these papers from the Chancellor's office. He was shot down, Sydney was captured, Browne surrendered. By accident the message passed to me."

"And the police are waiting outside that door for you?"

"I am an outlaw," Brand laughed, "and here in sanctuary."

For a long time her Majesty remained silent, while the ante-room shook with the tremor of music, and the glow from the stage shone softly between the curtains.

The performance was an oratorio based by Mr. Stevenson upon the Divine Comedy of Dante, but in accordance with a usage still new in 1980 both vocalists and chorus stood in the wings of the proscenium, supported by the orchestra, and a concealed cathedral organ. For the oratorio was rendered in the music of colour upon a screen, and Stevenson's "Inferno" is notable for the dim, awful beauty of its opening numbers, and for passages of terrible splendour. For an hour there was no word spoken in the ante-room, while the light changed and glowed between the curtains, and the great chorus swelled and rolled from the proscenium.

At last, with a little sigh, Margaret looked up. "Tell me, Mr. Brand, what shall I do?"

"Who am I," said Brand, with reverence, "that I should dare give counsel to the Queen?"

"At the risk of your life you came to warn me."

"That the Chancellor has committed treason; that I am a rebel in open revolt, that war has been waged to-night, blood has been shed. This very house is guarded by my yacht."

Margaret was silent.

"How shall I dare advise the Queen?" said Brand. "I have come to offer my life and all the strength of Lyonesse to defend my sovereign and my adopted country. I dare not advise, but weigh the facts, Queen Margaret, and let me hold the scales. As head of the State you must decide for England. There is no compromise, no middle way. Denounce the Chancellor of Treason, or commit me a rebel to prison."

Margaret leaned forward, her hands resting upon the arms of the chair, her eyes full of wonder.

"And you will submit?"

"Am I not the Queen's servant?"

"But they'll kill you."

"Should I care to live?"

His manner was changed, the roughness was all gone, as after a storm the ocean is at rest, deep, quiet, fathomless. His eyes seemed to smile, and his voice was low and reverent.

"Perhaps I am wrong, but I should not live to see this country a vassal of Russia. My people at Lyonesse and I have always worked for England, and we all have a certain pride in working well. Set that aside, my life is not the weight in either scale of the Queen's judgment. Who will serve England best, Ulster or Brand, the traitor or--the rebel?"

"What if I refuse," said the Queen, proudly, "to treat you as a rebel? What if I, the Queen, share the guilt of rebellion with you, and place myself at the head of this revolt?"

"There will be civil war," Brand answered coldly, dispassionately, "the most terrible war in all the annals of the world."

From Margaret's neck there hung a cross of diamonds, a thing of pitiless white splendour. The Queen pressed the sharp stones of it against her forehead.

"You," she said, "are ready to die for England, and I--and I--and I have sold my body to this Alexander of Russia. Death would be such a little thing compared with that. If you give yourself up, and I give myself up, there'll be no civil war."

"There'll be no war," he answered thoughtfully. "No war if the people accept the shame of peace."

"They will think as we do," said the Queen. "The men like you, the women like me. The same blood runs in them--and they'd cry out for war." Margaret laughed nervously, and dropping the cross, bent forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her face in her hands. "To think for the people--to live for the people, I was drilled to that, to be married for the people with a thing that one could not touch with the end of a glove. Ugh!" She shivered. "For the people, and I hate them! Yes, hate them. I wouldn't mind dying for them, but to live for them like that is horrible!

"I shall never forget that night when mother told me. Nobody will ever know what she suffered bravely, quietly, hopelessly, wearing what she called her crown of thorns. And then one night she took me on her knee--a poor, little, scraggy thing I was, all arms and legs. How she cried--and I was crying too. She told me that after her I must be brave and wear the crown of thorns, and I nearly cried my head off. Yes"--Margaret's voice broke with a little whimper--"and I didn't know then all that it meant."

She brushed away a tear with her gloved hand, then looked up.

"I wonder," she said abruptly, "why I told you--you of all men. Forget what I said, do you hear?--forget that I whined like a sick child--forget, I say! No, don't speak to me." Then in low, awed tones, "I've got to think for the people." The horror rushed in upon her senses, and feeling as one does in the presence of the dead, in overwhelming sorrow: "I am the Queen," she said, "and I must hold the scales, must judge for the people. I can't, I daren't. Oh, what am I that I should judge for the people? A little while ago I was playing with dolls, on Monday rode with my Guard, on Tuesday danced, and to-day I have to judge between you and Ulster, between life and death, between war and peace!"

But to Brand it seemed a dispensation of heaven that the fate of mankind was not at the mercy either of a treacherous politician, or of a master of industry, stained with the vices of the world, blunted and brutalized by lifelong struggle. This child, in her innocence and her purity, could only see the great plain issue between right and wrong.

Margaret looked up into his face. "And I must make up my mind?" she asked.

The whole fate of the world hung in the balance, and he answered gently--

"Yes."

A burst of triumphant music filled the theatre, and then the clatter of applause, and, in the silence afterwards, from some far distance of the streets, a sound, a confused murmur growing to a dull, ominous roar.

"Hark," whispered the Queen, "what is that?"

And Brand answered, "That is the beginning of the storm."

A hum of conversation in the house drowned out the sound, the auditorium was flooded with electric light, men moved from their places to rest in the interlude, and standing at the curtains Brand looked down out upon the golden tiers garlanded with roses, and throngs of women waving their slow fans.

Outside in the streets men were shouting, but he could not hear what they cried, amid the gusts and eddies of the gathering uproar. A crowd had surrounded the building now, turbulent, yelling. Gentlemen from the audience who had strolled out to the stairways returned to the tiers with blanched faces. Some bade their women put on their cloaks to leave, many brought newspapers, and were assailed with questioning. The tidings of the night spread on from tier to tier, an orator began shouting from the gallery and had to be removed; even in the grand tier a woman screamed.

In haste the management had the lights turned down while organ, orchestra and chorus took up the measure of the oratorio, but not even the seven Hells of Dante could still that audience, or drown the sullen, vengeful roar of the crowds outside. Many who tried to leave the theatre came back unable to face the tumult of the streets. The management began cautiously to withdraw the audience by way of the iron doors and the stage, while the performance dragged on amid tumult and growing panic.

Only once in that hour Margaret spoke. "Are you not afraid?"

Brand smiled and shook his head. "Not even a little."

"I see the Queen's face," he said, "I hear the Queen's voice, and my world has narrowed down to these four walls. Presently the Chancellor will come, and the Queen will give her judgment." He laughed a little, looking down at her from his place by the curtains. "Outside these walls of life there is another broader world than this. The storm has broken here, there are no storms yonder, in that other broader world where we shall serve. Here you are the mightiest of all earthly sovereigns, and I your servant ready when you need me. But there we shall have hands to grasp the stars, feet to tread the orbit of the sun, and greater strength to serve for greater ends. You hold life in your right hand, death in your left hand, Margaret, and presently you will judge whether I serve weakly here, or strongly in the hereafter. Why should I be afraid?"

"You've given me back my courage," said Margaret, humbly. "I shall not be afraid."

It was then that the equerry came announcing the Chancellor and two Ministers of State who desired audience.

"Let them come," said Margaret, and when the doors had closed, she told Mr. Brand to wait in the royal box. "Leave me," she said, and with a smile held out her hand to him. "Whether it is life, Mr. Brand, or death, you will know that I tried to do right?"

"I am your servant," he answered, "in life or death," and bending down he kissed our Lady's hand.

Margaret was alone when Ulster came, standing before the table, while all about the small, dark, silent room swept the roar of the great panic. The two Ministers bowed low as they entered her presence, but her eyes were upon the Chancellor, so, instead of bending his head, he looked at her wondering, and laid a roll of parchment upon the table. Then he drew back from before her stare, and bowed profoundly.

"Your Majesty," he muttered.

"You may speak."

Before her staring eyes the Chancellor stammered, "My colleagues and I--and I have begged this audience, madam, on business of most desperate urgency."

"What is this business?"

"It is the will of the Parliament that Mr. John Brand be attainted of treason felony. A Bill has been passed, and requires only the royal fiat. _La Reine le veult?_"

"My Lords," the Queen spoke slowly, monotonously, staring all the time into the Chancellor's eyes; "I send this matter back to an Imperial Parliament which has had no time to think."

"Is it possible," cried the Chancellor, indignant, "that your Majesty sets the whole Empire at defiance?"

"Is that a threat?"

"No threat," he answered, furiously; "but a reminder that the Royal Prerogative fell on the scaffold of King Charles the First. Under the guidance of her Ministers, the Queen will not expose herself to deposition."

"My Lords,"--her Majesty turned upon the attendant Ministers--"you have heard me say that this Bill concerning Mr. Brand must be again considered before we make it an Act of Parliament. You have heard my Chancellor threaten deposition, even death, as though the Queen could be bullied with the blustering of so pitiful a coward. As a woman I demand your protection from this man, as your Sovereign we command you to obey."

The Chancellor tried to interfere.

"Silence," cried Margaret. "Silence! I, the Queen, am speaking, and I, not the Parliament, am England. My Lords, I charge this man, my subject, with being a paid spy and agent of Russia. He has attempted to imprison Mr. Brand because he is loyal and has come to my defence. He has betrayed the Formula of my Fleets. I command you to seize the Duke of Ulster, and to hold him as my prisoner. You shall disobey me at your peril. Arrest that man!"

But these Ministers, supposing Margaret to be insane, backed slowly out from her presence.