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?"