This poor history book! It set out to chronicle the affairs of all
mankind, and has only room for one woman.
So a boy goes forth into the world strong, careless, jubilant,
thinking the Earth, the lights of Heaven, the dark of Space, all made
on purpose to be a playground for him. But an old man looks back
with his wan smile of memory, and sees that the sun, moon, and stars
made but an aureole for one mighty love.
Let the old man maunder a little at the heads of the chapters--you
may be an old fool, too, before you have turned the last sad page in
the dear Book of Life.
Except for some who foully revile Brand, the learned historians lay
all the blame on Margaret.
Learning has chilled the blood in their sluggish veins, conceit of
their knowledge given them scaly hides, and their blind logic made
them sinuous, these bookworms, who with exuding venom have fastened
their poisonous teeth on Margaret's fame. She sheltered Brand,
staked crown, reputation, life upon the hazard of her faith in him.
She had Prince Rupert slain, the Dictator slain, and the metropolitan
chiefs of the Republic slain. The seat of treasonous revolt against
her she cleansed with the waters of the Thames. Aye, and more, she
reigned as no sovereign in modern times had ever dared to reign. We
were lost in the night of despair, we fought in the maelstrom of
Death, but the memory of that time is the memory of one white spirit,
pure and strong, whom no waves of misfortune could overwhelm, or mist
of anguish hide. We were men-at-arms who worshipped Margaret then,
and those that are left of us are old fools now, fearful lest any
venom so much as touch her robe.
In these days there were two or three attempts made by insane persons
upon her Majesty's life. At the petition then of the whole corps of
the Bodyguard she appointed orderlies for close attendance upon her
person, choosing the two nearest friends of my Lord Sydney, Sergeant
Dymoke to be on duty in the day time, Trooper Browne at night. Her
Majesty was pleased also to confer upon Trooper Browne the honour of
Knighthood in the order of St. Michael and St. George.
It was after midnight--how we missed the bells of fallen
Westminster--and Trooper Sir Patrick Browne, faint with excess of
pride, stood in a vain pose by the door of the private rooms. He was
startled out of all his dignity when, the door opening, he found
himself of a sudden face to face with her Majesty.
"Hush!" our Lady pressed a finger of warning to her lips. "There,"
she cautiously shut the door. "I'm afraid of waking Miss Temple.
Follow softly."
So gathering her white cloak, she sped like a ghost, he following, to
the south-west tower. Not stairs but inclined planes circled
upwards, an easy hill, to where a flight of steps gave on the roof,
and one looked out over London.
This night began the great gale, and already, far down beneath, the
trees were lashing and swaying. Low above trailed the flame-lighted
clouds, the wind was roaring round the tower walls, and red embers
flashed past in the smoke. The gale swept by in gusts, fiery hot,
then of a sudden, icy cold, then slanting hot again. Right up
against the wind, Belgravia was in flames, and down to leeward, the
whole district of the Strand glowed like a furnace. Spiral columns
of flame went reeling eastwards, then lifting clear from their base,
rolled up and burst. And over all the roar of wind and fire one
heard the screaming machine guns crushing out the Republican revolt.
"Madam," cried the trooper, "come away, this is too horrible for any
woman."
"For any woman? Sir Patrick, are there not thousands of women
yonder?" Our Lady turned, the flame-light on her face. "Do you
think I care? Do you think I suffer? Dear lad," she turned away
again with a wan little laugh, "I don't care now, I'm an old, old
woman--past caring any more. Let me rest here."
The trooper laid his cloak in a sheltered place, and there for a long
time she sat, crouched down, all shrunk into the corner, staring at
the flames.
Was this the Margaret who seven weeks ago held court of Love in her
gardens, Queen of the May, loading grave officers of the Palace with
wreaths and garlands, then with the mischievous gravity of a fairy,
tootling a jig on the pan pipes while the Lord Great Chamberlain
danced!
Margaret crouched down in a corner, haggard with sleepless misery,
staring with great wild eyes on the burning of London!
The sentries were calling from salient to salient, bastion to bastion.
"Number one, all's well!"
"Number two, all's well!"
"Number three, all's well!"
Then faintly in the distance of the gardens, "Number four, all's
well!" Forty-five gentlemen of the corps had fallen in the confused
fighting of these last two days; many more had been sent away by
yacht, or by road with messages on the business of the State. How we
grudged every man who was taken away from guarding Margaret. We all
had our private troubles--those who were dear to us did not escape
ruin and hunger, and one trooper who visited his home, came back to
the Palace insane. These matters we kept to ourselves, but there was
an understanding in the mess that each man must keep his life at our
Lady's service so long as she had need of the Guard.
This had been midsummer day, the longest in all the year; but
Margaret was at work from dawn to dusk, and her Ministers had barely
time for food.
The Departments of State found themselves quarters in the Palace, and
the Postmaster-General contrived the telegraphs, some sort of money
was arranged for the public--what kind of currency mattered nothing
now. A power station was got to work in the Midlands so that
electric shipping was able to take the air. The Fleet reserve was
mobilized, and the royal yacht squadron assembled. The railways were
seized, and a service of trains commenced. The Imperial army began
to concentrate upon London, regiment after regiment, brigade after
brigade being quartered and fortified to protect the main supplies of
food.
And so her Majesty began to reign. The fallen lifted their eyes,
those who despaired ventured to think and to hope, those who were
weak had strength to work for her, the wounded forgot their pain, the
stricken their bereavement, the mourners their dead, and dying
England lived for Margaret.
"Number one, all's well!"
"All's well."
"All's well."
"All's well."
Was our Lady asleep there in her corner? The trooper from his
furthest side of the pavement, glanced through the corner of one eye,
just daring to see her white robe shine against the black of his
cloak upon the flags. He had not courage to really look at her, even
if she slept, but paced his beat slowly from end to end, nine paces,
and nine paces, inventing conversation all the time in which he made
her seem to speak to him.
Somebody was coming up within the tower, and Browne at the stairhead
waited ready to fire. A man?--the trooper boiled over at his
insolence. Sir Myles Strangford, indeed!
"Get down," he whispered hoarsely. "Our Lady is here. Get down with
you!"
"Who is it?" asked her Majesty. "What--Sir Myles? Don't go."
"Madam, forgive me," Sir Myles bowed to her. "I didn't know. Let me
retire."
"No, stay, Sir Myles."
"Madam," he bowed again, "I couldn't sleep."
"Nor I. Come, sit in the shelter here and talk to me."
The Secretary for War sat down at our Lady's feet. "Tried to drug
myself," he said frankly; "daren't take another drop--and sleep! How
could I sleep?"
"It's not for you or for me," said Margaret. "'And so He giveth His
beloved sleep'--only His beloved, you see--not for us."
"Madam, I can't stand it; I won't stand it," he spoke in breathless
haste. "I don't care if you kill me for saying it. This declaration
of war is impossible."
"I expelled Prince Alexander from the Palace; I gave the Ambassadors
from Russia, France and Germany all their passports; I recalled my
Ambassadors; I declared war," she turned upon the statesman. "You,
Sir Myles, have the frankness and courage to protest, and you had the
loyalty to obey."
"I behaved like a madman," he cried. "The Fleet is lost, the army is
perishing."
"And the nation," said Margaret, "tearing itself to pieces. See
there--all that--look; those are my people murdering each other like
mad beasts! What would my fathers, the Kings, have done with them?
Do I love my people less than those old kings who called with the
bale fires and the trumpets--To arms! To arms! Bring your swords
and save England! To-night, Sir Myles, all over the length and
breadth of the Kingdom, my trumpets and bugles are sounding the call
to arms. The old, old patriotism--the dear love never fails. There
will be no factions to-morrow, but England, Britain, the Empire,
ready to fight for the flag!"
"And you a woman! Madam!"
"And I, a woman, Sir Myles. I am something come down through many
centuries--flesh and bone, blood and nerves, soul, spirit, made that
I may suffer for my people. I am not a statesman, not a man, but a
weak, miserable woman--and I am England. I know you may think it
madness to declare war with the League, having neither Fleet nor
troops--I know! Come, put it to the proof. No fleet, you say? The
ports are jammed with deep-sea shipping, the arsenals crowded with
good aerial ships of the Fleet reserve, the country teems with yachts
of the royal yacht squadrons."
"But, madam, the very Formula of the Fleets was betrayed."
"We can change the Formula now."
"But the power station is gone."
"We'll use the mercantile stations."
"But the Fleets of the League! Madam, this is sheer madness."
"Sir Myles; call it madness. You will remember that Brand's ships in
every part of the Kingdom were seized by Ulster's orders."
"I remember, madam."
"I never forgot. Brand is my servant, and do you think I have let
his sailors starve to death in my prisons? No. The General
Superintendent of Prisons, by my direct commands, had loads of
provisions supplied to feed those men. I have saved them alive. You
remember that Ulster seized one ship--the _Golden Hind_?"
"And became invincible!"
"God is invincible," said Margaret.
"Madam, how many ships?"
"I have eleven--the crews are released to-night; the ships will
assemble here at sunrise. How are the Fleets of the League to fight
etheric rams?"