"Margaret, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland, and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas,
Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India."
In the Year of our Lord, 1980, and on the third day of June in that
year was Margaret crowned.
Three weeks before the Coronation the sun was setting over St.
Michael's woods, and changed the grey walls of Ulster House to
luminous orange. A purple bloom of shadow lay on the terrace, but
full in the glow from the windows sat the master of the house asleep.
The cane chair creaked at times under his weight as he changed
dreams. Dressed in the evening costume of the
period--claret-coloured broadcloth, and silk stockings, low shoes
with garnet buckles, and white ruffles--he was a picture of dignified
innocence and stately rest: His Grace, the Duke of Ulster, Chancellor
of the federated British Empire, Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs, full of years, honours, and a good dinner.
Close to him, in the ivy of the wall, a pair of ring-doves cooed and
crooned between love and slumber. They were newly wed, and all the
world was at rest.
Above the cedars to the eastward a ship rose like a planet, her
aeroplanes in red glory against the deeps of heaven. She swept
across the south, hovered for an instant, drooped her ethereal wings,
and flashed in narrowing circles downward until she fell out of the
afterglow and loomed vast in the lower shadows. With feathery
lightness she poised on the lawn, her gauze propellers singing
themselves to sleep with the whirr of humming-birds. Then from under
the gloom of her shadow came a man--a gaunt old man in a grey
military cloak--who climbed the steps of the terrace and crossed the
gravel space until he came in front of the lighted windows. There
the man stood looking down with austere disgust upon the sleeping
Chancellor. His ship had risen into the afterglow before the visitor
moved a chair and sat down, still intently studying Lord Ulster's
face.
Under that prolonged stare, the Chancellor stirred in his sleep, and
muttering to himself, awakened, lifting his heavy eyes. In the
deepening shadows he saw that silent motionless figure, tried to
dispel the impression with a wave of his hand, then found himself
broad awake, face to face with Nicholas IV. Emperor of Russia.
At once the Chancellor rose to his feet, and made his royal guest
welcome with many a courteous phrase. He offered apology that his
servants were all at a church concert this Sunday evening, and that
neither himself nor his son had been at hand to receive the Imperial
yacht with proper honours. He offered hospitality, invited his
Imperial Majesty to enter the house.
His words disappeared into the air, slow cold eyes followed his every
movement, and the Emperor waited in freezing silence. Motionless,
chilled, shocked, dismayed, the Chancellor stayed his speech.
"Your Grace will understand," said the Emperor, "that I do not come
as a friend."
Germany and France had been gathering armaments, relations were
strained to the breaking point, war might be declared at any moment,
the allies were only held from attack by the ominous silence of
Russia. Then Ulster had won the Emperor to his side, and an alliance
was now in treaty between the Russian and the British Empires which
would make the threatened war impossible. It was in the moment of
the Chancellor's triumph that Nicholas IV. came to his house an enemy.
"For your own sake," said the Emperor, coldly, "you'd better see that
we are not overheard."
Ulster seized this chance of covering his confusion, entered the
house, surveyed the empty study and returned, saying again that his
household were all at the church. The Emperor had taken one of the
garden chairs, his back to the windows, and thoughtfully looked out
upon the garden, his long lean fingers tapping a cigarette. By a
gesture he told the Chancellor to sit down.
"There is," he began in his purring, sibilant English, "a young
Indian prince now resident in England."
The Chancellor had been racking his brain to find the meaning of the
Emperor's coldness. His head was lowered in thought, but now he
glanced up sideways under his heavy brows.
"Lots of them," said he.
"I speak," said the Emperor, "of the Maharajah of Haidar."
"I remember, sir," answered Ulster, thoughtfully. "He is serving in
Her Majesty's Bodyguard."
"Exactly," said the Emperor in a tone which forbade further comment.
"This young prince is descended, your Grace, from the ancient royal
line of the Moguls. On his elevation to the throne of Haidar, he was
recognized by the Moslem as a sacred personage. He demanded of the
Indian Government the restoration of the ancient Peacock Throne,
which had been taken from his ancestors by the Persians, and later
secured by the British from the Persian Treasury. He demanded also
the right of a royal salute, claimed to be addressed as a Royal
Highness, and asked for certain privileges of maintaining armed
forces within his kingdom of Haidar. All these demands were granted."
"Sir," the Chancellor spoke satirically, "these statements are of the
profoundest interest."
"They are," said the Emperor. "The concessions granted to this
prince actually endangered the British supremacy in India. The
restoration of the Peacock Throne met with violent protests both from
the loyal princes and from the English press. When this throne was
brought to Haidar, its arrival was attended by portents, so-called
miracles, a ferment in the bazaars, riots in many cities, and at last
a revolt in the North West Provinces. Of course revolt was crushed.
"The presence of Prince Ali, perfectly loyal as he was throughout,
became so dangerous that he was hurried out of India, and gradually
the country settled down. But the memory remained of gallant English
officers who were slaughtered, mutilated, of innocent children dashed
against stone walls, of women who were--we will pass that by.
Whoever gave orders for the granting of Prince Ali's claims was
guilty of all that, the massacres, and the vengeance. The man who
had to face the rage of England then, might have envied Judas
Iscariot. The Viceroy of India claimed to have received orders from
the India Office in London. Then the Secretary of State for India
proved that he had issued no such orders. So the Viceroy shot
himself. Your Grace was at that time Secretary for India."
A bluish pallor had overspread Lord Ulster's face, and he answered
nothing.
It was then that the Marquess of Sydney, the Chancellor's only son,
returned from the church. Entering the house from the north, and
making no sound upon the carpets, he passed through a curtained
doorway into the study. In the afternoon he had been writing a
letter at the desk set between the middle windows, and now, returning
to finish it, he was glad to find the room unoccupied. He sat down,
took the letter from his blotting-pad, and considered what he had
written.
Then he heard the striking of a match outside on the terrace, and the
sound of his father's voice. Lord Sydney was slightly annoyed,
uncertain for the moment whether to take his writing elsewhere. Some
neighbour, old Pollock probably, had dropped in to talk politics and
would stay as usual lor supper. His father was still speaking in
low, even tones, not likely to disturb him. Lord Sydney became
absorbed in his letter. It is curious to note that pens and matches
were still in those days used by old-fashioned people.
Outside, the Emperor, striking a match, and lighting his cigarette,
heard the Chancellor patiently.
"Yes," he said, "I understand, of course. Your Grace was,
comparatively speaking, a poor man, and could not as such aspire to
the Chancellorship. A legitimate ambition thwarted by want of means,
a career in jeopardy--yes, I understand. As to Prince Ali's demands
they seemed quite innocent--a diamond throne, a royal salute, a few
such trifles. He offered you two millions sterling if the Viceroy
could be moved to grant his claims. The Viceroy was moved, had no
writings to show in defence--and shot himself. The claims were
granted, and babies were dashed against stone walls. His Grace of
Ulster, with two millions of money, rose to the Chancellorship. It
might be awkward for my Lord Duke if these facts became generally
known."
The Chancellor gripped the arms of his chair, and leaning forward
laughed in his throat.
"Your Majesty," he answered hoarsely, "has acted with rare prudence.
I am grateful for the opportunity of dealing with this disgraceful
slander, which might otherwise have endangered our relations with
your Imperial Majesty's Government. The fabrications of some secret
service agent----"
"Enough, my Lord; the agent in question was my agent, the money with
which Prince Ali bought you was my money, and here," the Emperor
produced from under his cloak the famous Russian papers, "I hold the
written transactions."
"Am I a child, sir," cried Ulster, testily, "to be frightened with
bogies?"
Nicholas opened the papers and bent forward that the Chancellor might
see them.
"Is that enough," he asked, "or do you want to see more? Look," he
turned the papers slowly page by page, "at this, and this, and this!"
"Forgeries," answered the other boldly, "forgeries all. How could
your Majesty be so deceived?"