Chapter VII: The Taming of Lyonesse

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 the _Mary 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.