There was one door in the palace which the frivolous passed on
tiptoe, where the boldest paused before they ventured to knock. Miss
Temple lived there, the Queen's governess, who was supposed to
refresh herself daily from the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Psalms
of Imprecation, and the cheering pages of Job. If ever the Queen's
ladies romped in the corridor, she would come forth denouncing the
iniquities of the age, and once when a profane Guardsman blew
cigarette smoke through the keyhole, Miss Temple curdled his young
blood with lurid prophesy.
On Monday, the 9th of June, pretty Mrs. Osbourne called. Her Jack
had told her that his cousin, Miss Temple, was "a gay old puss who
would tell naughty stories by the hour."
Miss Temple had lately published fulminations against the wearing of
boy dress by athletic women, so at Jack's mischievous suggestion,
Mrs. Osbourne called in her riding costume to hear the naughty
stories. What transpired between the two ladies is not exactly
known, but there are rumours of a locked door and sobs. Anyway when
Lord Sydney dropped in for tea he found Miss Temple complacent and
Mrs. Osbourne damp. Sydney, having urgent business, was by no means
gratified at finding the old governess engaged.
"Now, pet," she said cheerfully, as she rose to welcome the
Guardsman, "this is the Marquess of Sydney."
"Rattles, but doesn't bite," he responded. He was on duty, and the
armour was always a nuisance indoors. Moreover, he could not find a
seat, for Miss Temple dated from the quaint times of the old King
when furniture was devised solely for ornament.
"Glad to see you, Mrs. Osbourne," he said, plumping abstractedly down
on a doubtful stool. "Miss Temple often lets me come for tea."
"Oh!" quoth Mrs. Osbourne in a state of collapse. "Oh, thank you!"
Sydney presented her teacup, and sat down again with his own. Then
he turned to Miss Temple.
"How is our Lady?"
Miss Temple sighed. "She must have done something more dreadful than
usual, for she wears plain black, poor child, sits in her
penance-room, and watches the vulgar sparrows on the terrace. Do you
know, I waited a whole hour with her before she even spoke, yes, and
then she sighed. 'Dearie,' she said--you know her funny way,--'these
sparrows have fleas'--she will be vulgar sometimes: 'and the Queen
has worries, and the Chancellor has his party, and the Party has
constituents, and the constituents have taxes, poor things. But the
worm'--now why should she think of a worm!--'the worm has his skin
scratched all the time so he never feels the least irritation. I
wish I was a worm!' There! Did you ever hear such notions? I never
taught her about worms, I always tried to lead her up to think of
higher things. But then, just when I was going to correct her, do
you know a great big tear rolled down her cheek. So I told her to
comfort herself with the thirty-ninth Psalm. I wonder now what she
has done?"
"Pawned the crown jewels?" suggested the Guardsman.
Miss Temple rustled with disapproval. "I think it's a message from
the Chancellor. I'm afraid your father must have demanded another
audience." Then the old lady glanced towards Mrs. Osbourne, who
might gossip. "Of course," she added stiffly, "it must be about the
duel."
Mrs. Osbourne sitting bolt upright on the sofa, knees together, toes
in, squeaked like a mouse.
"What--a duel, oh!"
"Yes," said Miss Temple. "Prince Ali is to fight the Queen's
Champion." Then she bit her lips in great vexation, for to a mere
civilian she had betrayed a secret of the Guard.
"That's all right," Lord Sydney laughed heartily. "We had the duel
this morning. I was Dymoke's second, and young Browne for Trooper
Ali. We seconds arranged the detail--swords at ten paces."
"But," said Miss Temple, primly, "swords won't reach!"
"No," Sydney shook his head, "they won't. You should have heard our
warriors cursing! I'm afraid my revered father has graver business
than that to worry our Lady."
"Oh," chirped Mrs. Osbourne, "and my Jack said there was a dreadful
rumour on the Stock Exchange. They say that monster at Lyonesse is
behaving disgracefully. Yes, he has made horrible threats about the
thingum-jig, the what d'ye call 'em."
"The price of gold?" Sydney was exchanging glances with Miss Temple.
"That's it," said the governess; "that must be it. You know how
strongly I disapprove of profane books. This morning my poor child
was fretting herself to death about Mayne's 'Gold and Lyonesse.' I
took it away from her. What a shameful thing that Margaret should be
crying over a book like that! Why should a godless man like Mr.
Brand be clothed with such frightful power? _Let him put his mouth
in the dust_. Now why are such things permitted?"
"Miss Temple," said Sydney, "can you remember back to the Black
Decade? But no, you must have been a mere child then."
"A child? My dear James, I was a grown woman. We were so poor that
we had to give up crinolines, and come down to two-yard skimps. The
country was desolate, _the rampart and the wall languished together_,
and coals were so high that we had to use briquettes. Trade was
going all to pieces, and to keep up the Fleet, they actually taxed
excursion tickets. My father was ruined by the crash in Centralias,
and I went out as a governess."
"But Lyonesse," said Sydney, "has made everything all right. We were
never so prosperous."
"My dear James, I am still a governess. Lyonesse? It was a moor in
those days, _and the foxes walked upon it_. Yes, there was a very
frousty old man who smelt of tobacco, in a shed where Lyonesse stands
now, and a rumour got about that he could take common water and make
it into gold. That was John Brand I. Yes, the workshop was very
smelly, I remember; but think of it, pet, he was making solid blocks
of gold as if they were only bricks."
The old lady was very busy at her lace cushion. "Yes, my father took
me to see him just when I got over the mumps--most unbecoming, dear,
with red flannel wraps. His son, John Brand II., was a fat man with
a wart on his nose, and oh, such manners! He was the one who brought
hundreds of tons of gold to the Mint, so that the price went down,
and all the mines had to close, and lots of people were ruined.
Russia went bankrupt; that was in 1940, and all the really nice
people there had their heads chopped off in the Red Terror. That was
an unspeakable mercy, because, you see, they had to leave off
invading India.
"People used to say that the gold making was _all vanity and lying
divination_, but the Government asked Mr. Brand if he would mind
being taxed. He said he mustn't be taxed too much or he would go
over to the United States, but he didn't mind paying for the fleets,
and armies, and things."
"Do you know what taxes Lyonesse pays now?" said my Lord. "Brand
pays over a hundred million pounds a year in Imperial taxes alone.
Besides that he has to give all Governments a big profit on their
coinages--and that amounts to millions a year saved to the tax-payers
of the world. Goodness only knows how rich the man is. I
suppose----"
Miss Temple, who hated interruptions, turned briskly to Mrs. Osbourne.
"Now, my dear pet," she said, "I hope James doesn't bore you?"
"Oh no, dear Miss Temple, I'm quite used to it. My Jack, you know,
is on the Stock Exchange."
"Now where was I?" asked Miss Temple. "Oh yes, the city of Lyonesse.
Well, that was named after the place where King Arthur came from when
he was washed up. Merlin the sorcerer, you know, was fishing, and
caught Arthur; and afterwards when Arthur didn't die, you know, but
went away to be healed of his grievous wound by the Three Queens in
one barge--well, I forget exactly how it was, but anyway King Arthur
went to Lyonesse, wherever that is. And some day he's to come back
and save England. Lyonesse, the real place I mean, has grown, until
now it has any amount of people (and they do say that the
co-operative stores are ridiculously cheap and most fashionable), and
it's been the saving of England. Now John Brand II. is buried
there--cremated, I mean--and John Brand III. reigns in his stead. Is
it true, Sydney, that he's a woman hater?"
"Jack says he's a beast," was Mrs. Osbourne's comment; "but then Jack
has lost a lot himself on Lyonesse Branch Industrials."
"_Lay not up for yourselves treasures on the earth_," said the
governess, fiercely. "I wonder if it is finance which has worried my
poor Margaret."
"No, Miss Temple," Sydney launched his bombshell. "My father is
going to force our Lady to marry the Grand Swine Alexander."
"That horrible story again! Oh, James!"
"Yes, again, Miss Temple. Can you wonder now why she wears black,
and sits in her penance-room envying the sparrows?"
"I must go to her," cried Miss Temple, rising, in great disorder.
"My child! My poor child! Let me pass, Lord Sydney."
But the Guardsman barred her passage. "Her Majesty," he said, "is
engaged."
Sydney turned upon the little lady in boy dress.
"Mrs. Osbourne."
"Oh, you made me jump!"
"These matters, Mrs. Osbourne, are secret."
She rose, drawing on her gauntlets. "Of course," she twittered, "I
would never dream--wild horses couldn't----"
"They wouldn't be so rude, dear lady. But is it true that there are
rumours on 'Change?"
"Oh, dreadful rumours, my Jack----" she was arranging her hair--"says
that the gold fiend is going to sell his gold at a penny an ounce.
He says that if that's true a sovereign won't buy a loaf of bread
next week, but then, dear Miss Temple, that would never matter to my
Jack. He always has rusks, you know. Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye, pet," said Miss Temple, kissing her on the forehead.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Osbourne."
"Good-bye, Lord Sydney--Ta-ta!"
"Thank goodness she's gone," said Sydney, closing the door behind her.
"Oh, but Sydney," Miss Temple quivered, "she'll tell it all over the
town."
"Better than a newspaper," said the trooper.
"Sit down, James," Miss Temple resumed her place, "you tell me that
Margaret is being forced into marriage with that odious Russian
prince. But what has this to do with Lyonesse?"
"Dear old Mummie," answered the Guardsman. "Don't you see? Lyonesse
doesn't care who marries the Queen. But Lyonesse is a business
concern, and has no use for a Russian Alliance."
"And quite right, too."
"So Brand says to Ulster, 'Break with Russia, or I lower the price of
gold.'"
"His father, John Brand II., did that, and Russia went bankrupt!"
"Russia will go bankrupt again, France bankrupt, Germany bankrupt.
Who'll dare to disobey the man who can bankrupt civilization?"
Miss Temple thought that dear Sydney was getting very pompous and
uplifted.
"Dear me," she tossed her head. "Your Mr. Brand will be getting
himself arrested. A sort of commercial person--who is he to give
orders to the Chancellor of the Empire?"
"This commercial person," Sydney laughed, "happens to live in a
respectable democracy where a shopkeeper can sell anything he pleases
at his own price."
"But, James, if the old Russian Empire was swept away by his
father----"
"The world may be swept away by the son, Mummie. At all costs the
Queen has got to be saved, England has got to be saved. There's
still time to prevent this horror. I can't explain--I daren't--but
you've got to help, you've got to go to our Lady. Tell her that if
she will only give me a private audience I may be able to put an end
to the Russian marriage."
"But, James, she daren't give a private audience to you. We should
be found out, and there'd be such a scandal."
"You must be present, Mummie, but even at the risk of scandal go to
the Queen."
* * * * *
In her penance-room our Lady was giving audience to the Chancellor,
and while he, in his clear, exact speech, set forth the perils of the
State, Margaret was thinking about something else. She sat before
the window upon a low, square stool, her elbows on her knees, her
chin upon her hands, just crushed into a lovely dimple by the mouth.
Her lips were slightly parted, her dreamy, big, blue eyes set on the
gardens.
The Empire, said Ulster, had prospered in the trade of Lyonesse, in
great revenues furnished by the ungrudging Brands; and the people
were proud of the giant merchant firm, strong in its long-tried
honour and good faith.
But Margaret looked upon the wind-swept elms, the big white
cloud-fleets sailing in high heaven, and silver flaws of wind coursed
down the lawns. The Chancellor's words throbbed on her ears unheard.
The standard of all value, gold, was secured, he said, in the keeping
of John Brand. What else, save gold, could measure the workman's
wage, the cost of shelter, and the price of food? Strike down that
standard, and the bread-winner could have no wages, could pay no
rent, could buy no bread.
But Margaret saw the lilac and the may, the trees weighed down with
bloom, swayed to the rushing wind, and little white daisies laughed
along the lawns. And still the Chancellor's voice drummed without
meaning.
Stab a man to the heart, was the statesman's thesis, and his blood
will drain away leaving death behind. But gold was the life-blood of
nations, gold money the driving force of civilization. Brand's
monopoly was the life-blood of human society, in his good faith the
public welfare lay, and all mankind depended on his honour.
Now Margaret heard the dull pain quaver in Lord Ulster's voice, as he
urged the extremity of the general peril that Brand had broken faith.
"I wish I could understand," said the poor girl dreamily. "I've
tried so hard to understand."
When the flowers unfold their petals to the sun; when wild birds
preen their first fine bridal plumes; when a maid first trembles to a
lad's shy kiss, spring stirs young blood, and the rose-flush of
heaven glows in a girl's pure face, as the dawn of childhood flames
to the day of life--then God ordains the sacred truce of Love.
Child-life is shadowed with fears of the Unknown, the days of a woman
are dark with the sorrows of the world, but between the time of fear
and the coming time of sorrow is set the holy Sabbath, and truce of
Love. Bitter the lot of a woman who looking back from the sunset
time of life, and that long twilight waning down to night, remembers
no daybreak, no flush of sunrise, no Sabbath of Love which
strengthened her for pain.
Queen Guinevere went maying in the spring, Elizabeth rode a-hawking,
Marie Antoinette played milkmaid; and Queens, who bear the heavy
burden of state, have need of love and laughter to cheer the way,
before the crown of diamonds is changed to a crown of thorns. Hungry
for freedom, for love, the delight of life, Queen Margaret turned
with a little bitter smile, turned her back to the gardens, and tried
to think of finance.
"Don't be cross with me, dear Lord Ulster, I can't understand yet.
Tell me again what Mr. Brand has threatened."
"To sell gold at a penny an ounce."
"But the coin, the sovereign, is something more than gold. It's
stamped with a dreadfully hideous portrait of me, and my name, for a
proof that the head wasn't meant for a crocodile."
"Yes, madame, it pledges the national honour that melted down or
ground to powder its precious gold remains of untarnished worth.
Failing that, the coin, even with the Queen's image, is spurious."
"A promise to pay," said Margaret, "and the promise keeps if I'm
beggared."
"To pay, madame, yes, in food or fuel, or clothes, but the question
is how much? For in the great sea of commerce, the prices rise and
fall; and like a post to measure the flood and the ebb, so is the
changeless standard of gold recording the tides of trade. Without
that index, no man could sell his labour, or buy food. If Brand
strikes down the standard, the world will starve."
"I understand," said Margaret. "Have you told me all?"
"About this peril, madame? No, not half. The wreck of the world can
hardly be put in a phrase."
"I mean about Mr. Brand's letter. He threatened these terrors
unless--unless what?"
"Unless the Queen suspends all relations with Russia. That means war
with Europe."
The Queen laughed nervously. "Is Mr. Brand so wicked as all that?
Shall we have him beheaded? I've got a headache, and I'd like to
have somebody beheaded."
"I wish it were possible," the Chancellor sighed. "Statecraft was so
simple, so direct, so easy once. But now----"
"Would Mr. Brand be as fierce if he had to make his threat openly in
public?"
"Excellent!" said Ulster. "I could call him to appear at the Bar of
the Commons. But that is a last resort--a forlorn hope. There's a
gentler way than that. Do you remember, madame, the old Greek myth
of Una, who led a lion captive to her beauty. I cannot fight this
lion----"
Margaret blushed.
"Turn this gentleman from his purpose. I come to the Queen to
confess myself defeated, beaten, humbled, a toothless old man in a
terrible mess. Ah, madame, you can hardly know as yet the mysterious
power of a woman's beauty."
"It sounds such utter nonsense," said Margaret, "and besides he's a
monster, he hates women! Subdue this lion?" she added, thoughtfully.
"Perhaps Lyonesse will do the like with me."
* * * * *
The Chancellor was gone, and Margaret sat alone, watching the passing
shadows of white clouds, when Miss Temple came in upon her Lady's
solitude, trembling lest the Queen should scold her, and hovered over
her with a kiss and some whispers.
"Why, of course," said Margaret, gaily. "Let him come."
The governess returned leading Lord Sydney by the hand, while at the
sound of the man's armour, Margaret felt a queer small thrill in her
veins.
"Sydney, come here."
He bent upon his knee, kissed her white hand, but dared not lift his
eyes to see her face.
"Dear me," said Margaret, "please be human, Jimmy. I've been sitting
here all day trying to be good, whereas I'm just crazy for a game of
cricket. Do you remember when you bowled, and raised a lump on my
shin as big as an egg?"
He looked up into her face, and though she heard a little quivering
sigh his eyes seemed to be laughing.
"You were Peggy, and I was Jimmy then, when you were ten and I
nineteen."
"And me up in a tree stealing the cherries, and that awful farmer
trying to shake me down! Then you came to the rescue."
"Can you trust me, Peggy?"
"Why, of course! What's the matter?"
He took a written paper and a pen which he laid on Margaret's knee.
"Will the Queen trust Jimmy even to signing that?"
"Colonel Anderson," she read, "Queen's Messenger, is to obey the
bearer, Trooper the Marquess of Sydney."
"Is it something very wicked?" she asked.
"Awfully."