When on the terrace of Ulster House, Nicholas of Russia dealt heavily
with the Chancellor to his ruin, one witness was so placed that he
heard all. The witness was the Duke of Ulster's son, James, Marquess
of Sydney. It is a very pleasant thing to hold this gentleman in
memory, to think of him as he was in life, and at that time in the
thirtieth year of his age. He was a tall man, nervous rather than
strong, his face very fair and comely. In habit he was lean, bronzed
with the sun; in bearing most knightly and courteous; in manner a
little cynical with a grave humour. But that tells nothing of the
quality in his eyes, and in his smile, which made one love and trust
him. None of the pictures or statues to his memory do justice to
that wonderful quality of the man, nor can a written word call back
the charm.
It was on the 11th day of May, 1980, that he heard the passages
between the Emperor and his father. It was on Friday, the 30th, four
days before the Coronation, that he moved. There were railways in
those old-fashioned times, lines of a single rail. Catching the 9
a.m. express from Paddington, Lord Sydney reached the Land's End
district by noon, and alighted at Lyonesse.
This was his first visit to the etheric city, and as he left the
terminus to enter Brand Street, he was astonished at the grandeur of
the place. Thanks to the mildness of the Cornish climate, palms and
acacias sheltered the pavement. Down the long vistas of sub-tropic
trees there were fountains spraying white splendour into the
sunlight, and statues of golden bronze lurked in the shadows. The
street was lined with shops and theatres, traffic throbbed upon the
causeway, the pavements were thronged with people. The town, even in
1980, was large, its population numbering half a million, a grey
granite city walled about on three sides by the sea cliffs. The
streets were filled with a tumult of affairs, but where they
converged upon St. Buryan Square, there was a resting-place of lawns
and trees shadowed by groups of buildings. Upon the western frontage
of the square, stood a rough-hewn palace some acres in extent, the
office of John Brand III.
Homely and plain was the master's room in that palace. The
threadbare carpet, the shabby furniture, the queer old plans and
pictures on the walls were relics passed down from another age. In
that chair an American of the nineteenth century had dreamed, from
the books of that case had learned, at that table planned--and the
result was Lyonesse. The relics spoke of poverty, of research, of
noble patience, and the founder's grandson kept these things as a
reminder.
The American sat at his desk, and one might have known him for
Lyonesse, so mighty his physical strength, so shabby and neglected
his dress, so steady his labour. They say he was a hard man at that
time, rugged, avaricious, rather feared than liked.
A sealed envelope was brought to him, with explanation that a man had
called who would not be denied and had given trouble. Brand opened
the cover and within found a visiting card.
"Trooper the Marquess of Sydney,
Her Majesty's Bodyguard."
His face brightened as he read; gladly he sent a welcome to his
visitor, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed, and in the
interim of waiting set all his work aside.
He rose at Lord Sydney's entrance. "Well, old fellow," he spoke
heartily, as they shook hands, "is it ten years?"
"Fourteen since our last fight at school. I'm awfully glad to see
you, Brand."
"You've forgotten the black eyes I gave you?"
"I'd be sorry to fight again; you're much too strong. But your nose,
Brand, you must remember my sign manual, and I was so proud of that
nose."