In the wondrous romance of our Island history the reigns of three
English Queens stand out with singular splendour. First came
Elizabeth the Great, then Victoria the Good, and now in the fulness
of time reigns Margaret the Fair.
At the end of his long reign the old King built on the site of
Buckingham House, a great white palace for Margaret. Above the
marble walls terrace upon terrace the hanging gardens bloomed, and
tier on tier of gleaming colonnades; then pearl-white domes broke the
long lines above, and gemmed pavilions flanked the central towers.
Not that Margaret cared for palaces. Her mind ran upon lighting, and
she showed the old King books about the Varangian Guard of Greek
Byzantium, the Grand Musketeers of Muscovy, the Mousquetaires of
France. For her sake he took liberties with the Ancient and
Honourable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms, a nice piece of antique
frippery which he changed into a standing regiment generally to be
known as the Queen's Blackguards. This force he quartered in the
palace and made it a very good nursery to train young officers for
the Imperial Army.
To enlist, a lad must undergo the severest tests of mind and body,
then pass the school of arms. Then the Queen granted to him chain
mail and helmet of silver, a black cloak charged with the royal arms,
the sword and the spurs. For officers the armour was of gold, the
cloak scarlet; for undress, a suit of woven gold or silver. Quarters
were given in the palace, but the trooper must provide his own
sustenance, and for his servant a trained man who rode in the rear
rank of his squadron. The discipline was rigid, and what with
training for the Imperial army, there was little time for mischief.
They were the last cavalry of the civilized world.
Such were the Queen's toys, palace and guard, beyond all jurisdiction
save her will.
The Plutocracy ruled, the Imperial court only remained in the realm
on sufferance as a venerable fiction, and nobody ever dreamed that
Margaret's playthings, accepted by the nation as a joke, were
destined to prove a most momentous fact. For the present it was
pretty to see the fair maid, ruddy, sunburnt, wilful, playing with
her glittering pageantry of state in the white palace. So the rose
of England bloomed in a garden of swords, and on the eve of the
Coronation no little cloud had risen as yet in warning. Looking back
through a score of years it seems a wonder passing belief that June,
1980, dawned with a cloudless heaven, and the earth at peace.
One glance at the calendar brings it all to mind. Only last Friday
Sharon won the Derby, Jim Carrington up, wearing Tom of Lancaster's
colours--rose red, and how the people cheered the young prince
afterwards! On Saturday Her Majesty was at the Colosseum to close
the Pan-Anglican games, and with her own hands crowned the victors
with wreaths. The Maharajah of Gwalior gave a Nautch at his palace
in Kensington. On Sunday the great Dignitaries assembled in town for
the Coronation, attended a special service at St. Paul's. On the 2nd
of June, Monday morning, the _Gigantic_ arrived--one of Mr. Brand's
etheric liners--with a contingent from the army of the United States
in honour of the Coronation.
Word came in the afternoon that Mr. Partridge with his yacht _Meteor_
had won the America Cup at St. Louis. This evening was set for the
Masquerade at Devonshire House, and there was to be a torch-light
procession of the City Liveries. As to the palace, that was mostly
concerned on Coronation eve with matters of apparel, the burnishing
of jewels, nervous rehearsals, and feverish attempts at repose.
In the portico, three saddled horses, overcome with heat, mouthed
their chained bits, and swished their lazy tails. In the guardroom,
midway upon the alabaster stairs, three gentlemen of the guard,
Queen's orderlies in waiting, tried not to fall asleep. They had
taken off their casques with the lions, but still that ridiculous
chain mail was suffocating. They yawned for want of better
occupation, talked to keep themselves in a state of decent
wakefulness.
"Ho-la," said MacNeill, rolling over in his chair, "I'll grill my
other side now. By the bars of Hades I'd be cooler at home."
MacNeill was half Spaniard, a banker's son from Venezuela. "Ali," he
turned to the Indian prince who lounged by the wall, "you know all
about this business to-morrow. What's it like?"
Lazily the Prince lifted his eyes--big, soft, gentle eyes they were.
"My dear MacNeill, what business?"
"Why the Coronation, of course; weren't you crowned when they made
you King of Haidar?"
The Prince laughed easily. "It wasn't a crown, we have a green
umbrella."
"The ancestral gamp," said MacNeill, irreverently. "Is Haidar so
wet? What do they worship--ducks?"
"Allah, el Allah!"
The Prince scarcely breathed the awful name, and his eyes were hard
now.
MacNeill apologized with much politeness, and asked if the State
Umbrella was old.
"Very old." Prince Ali smiled.
"Holy?"
"As my Faith."
"Won't keep out the wet?"
Still smiling, the Prince drew off his gauntlet, and swept it softly
across MacNeill's face.
So long Lord Sydney had watched Prince Ali in silence, now he came
forward, and, with a little bow, laid claim to the gauntlet.
"Your Highness," he said respectfully, "as a reigning sovereign
cannot fight this cad, or he would never have dared to insult you.
You," he said, turning upon MacNeill, "will apologize to the
Maharajah or I'll thrash you within an inch of your life."
"I didn't insult him," growled the offender, sulkily. "I don't
understand what you're driving at."
"My dear Prince," Lord Sydney turned his back upon MacNeill. "He
would not understand more if I thrashed him."
"You're quite right, Sydney," Prince Ali accepted the return of his
gauntlet. "I have so few friends that one more," he clasped Lord
Sydney's hand, "has the larger place in a full heart. I shall
remember."
Just then an Equerry came down the stairway, and gave to MacNeill a
letter from her Majesty to be despatched. The trooper, muttering
wrathfully, set on his helmet, took up his gloves and sword, and
swaggered away down the stairs. Without, they heard his horse
dancing with excitement, break off at a canter into the distance.
Sydney and the Prince laughed together.
"Maharajah," my Lord Sydney laid his hands very tenderly upon Ali's
shoulders. "Do you believe that I am your friend?"
"Surely you have proved it more than once."
"Will you promise me not to be offended if I ask a still more
personal question than even MacNeill dared?"