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Title: The King Who Went on Strike

Author: Pearson Choate

Release date: January 12, 2022 [eBook #67147]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company

Credits: Tim Lindell, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KING WHO WENT ON STRIKE ***

THE KING WHO WENT ON STRIKE




 THE KING WHO
 WENT ON STRIKE

 BY

 PEARSON CHOATE

 Author of "Men Limited: An Impertinence"

 "And those things do best please me
 That befal preposterously."

 Puck

 "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
 Act. III. Scene II.



 NEW YORK
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
 1924


 Copyright, 1924
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

 PRINTED IN U.S.A.

 VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.
 BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK


 "Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has
 been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried
 it, and they cut the rope."

 "The French Revolution, A History."
 Part I. Book VII. Chapter XI
 _Thomas Carlyle_




THE KING WHO WENT ON STRIKE




CHAPTER I


The King leant against the stone balustrade, which runs round the
roof of Buckingham Palace, and looked about him. All around him,
above him, and below him, the night was ablaze with a myriad lights.
Loyal Londoners, in accordance with their custom, were closing their
Coronation celebrations with illuminations, with fireworks, and with
good-humoured horse-play in the crowded streets. In spite of gloomy
predictions to the contrary, the proverbial Coronation weather of the
last day or two had not failed. A radiant June day had given place to
a wonderful June night. Here, on the palace roof, high up above the
tumult and the shouting the night air was cool and fragrant. The King
rested his elbows on the broad top of the carved stone balustrade. He
was very weary. But he was glad to be out in the open air once again.
And he was gladder still, at last, to be alone--

"A tall, fair, goodlooking young man, still in the early twenties,
with an open, almost boyish face": "A young man of athletic build,
clean-shaven, and very like his dead brother, the Prince, but lacking,
perhaps, something of the Prince's personal distinction, and charm":
"Thick, fair, curly hair, blue eyes, and a happy, smiling mouth":
"A typical young English naval officer, with an eager, boyish face,
unclouded, as yet, by any shadow of his high destiny"--it was in
phrases such as these that the descriptive writers in the newspapers
had described, more or less adequately, the new King's outward
appearance. What he was inwardly, what the inner man thought, and felt,
and suffered, was not within their province, or their knowledge. At the
moment, his outward appearance was completed by an easy fitting, black,
smoking jacket, plain evening dress trousers, and a pair of shabby
dancing pumps, into which he had changed immediately after the state
banquet, which had been the final ordeal of his long and exhausting
official day. It was characteristic of the inner man, about whom so
little was known, that he should have been thus impatient to throw
off the gorgeous uniform, and the many unearned decorations, which the
banquet had necessitated. It was characteristic of him, too, that he
should be bareheaded, now, and drawing absently at a pipe, which he had
forgotten to fill--

All the crowded events of the long, tense, and exhausting Coronation
Day which was, at last, happily at an end had seemed strangely unreal
to the King. The slow and stately progress to the Abbey in the morning,
the huge gilt state coach, the team of cream horses, the gold-coated
powdered footmen, the bodyguard of plumed Household Cavalry, the
decorated streets, the crowds, the wild cheering, the thousand faces,
the thousand eyes, his own mechanical bowing, his own mechanical smile;
the protracted, exhausting ceremony in the Abbey, the ermine-caped
peers and peeresses, the grotesque gorgeously clad officers of state,
the tall figure of the venerable Archbishop with his hands raised
in benediction, his own heavy royal robes, the Crown, the bursts of
music and of song, the pealing bells, the brilliant uniforms of the
soldiery; the streets once again, the crowds and the wild cheering, his
own mechanical bowing, his own mechanical smile, the heat, the glitter
and the glare, the tension, the thousand flushed curious faces, the
thousand eyes, the slow movement of the coach, the secret, hidden,
inward fear; the all too short rest in the afternoon, with its few
minutes of troubled, nightmare sleep; the interminable state banquet in
the evening, the gold plate, the uniforms, the colours, and the lights,
the Family, strangely subservient, the congratulations, the speeches,
the homage; the dense crowd round the palace after the banquet, his own
repeated appearance at the huge, open window above the main entrance,
the night air, the thousand eyes yet once again, the cheering, and the
lights--all these things had been unreal, unbelievable, the bewildering
phantasmagoria of a fevered dream--

Now, as he leant against the roof balustrade, the same sense of
unreality which had haunted him all day was still with him.

But he compelled himself to look at the blazing illuminations, none the
less.

A man could not afford to live, indefinitely, in a fevered dream.

The trees in the densely thronged Mall were hung with innumerable,
coloured electric lights. A blaze of yellow, smokeless flambeaux, on
the left, marked the line of Carlton House Terrace. "God Save the
King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second"--house after house, in
the terrace, repeated the loyal prayers in glittering letters of fire.
The same devices were reproduced, in a picturesque setting of crowns
and flags, on the lavishly illuminated Admiralty Arch. Beyond was the
glare of Trafalgar Square, where the Nelson Column, pricked out in
red, white, and blue lamps, soared aloft, a shaft of vivid colours
against the dark blue of the night sky. Further away, on the right,
the familiar, luminous clock face of Big Ben, which showed that it
was already nearing midnight, shone out, brightly, above the golden
brilliance of Whitehall. Westminster Abbey towers were touched with
fire. Queen Anne's Mansion was a broad, solid wedge of blazing, various
colour. Up and down the square tower of the Westminster Cathedral ran
a hand of flame, writing a loyal motto, in crabbed, monkish Latin,
difficult to translate. On the left, beyond the Green Park, shone the
lights of Piccadilly, where the fronts of the clubs vied in patriotic
radiance. From the Green Park itself, and from Hyde Park, in the
distance, soared rockets, which burst into clusters of red, white,
and blue stars, and showers of multi-coloured rain. The cheers of the
crowds, in the parks, and in the streets, rose with the rockets, in a
regular, muffled roar. Overhead, above the lights, above the rockets, a
score or more of illuminated aeroplanes hummed, diving, nose-spinning,
side-slipping, and looping the loop, with the agility, the grace, and
the breathless swiftness of the aerial acrobats who know not fear.

"God Save the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second."

The mere repetition of the blazing words impressed them upon the King's
notice.

Their irony was his second thought.

Did the people know, the cheering people, far down below there, in the
crowded parks, and illuminated streets, that, stereotyped formulae as
they were, there was real need, now, for those prayers?

And, if they did know, would they care?

Save him from his enemies?

Perhaps. Almost certainly.

But from himself--an unwilling King?

A light, night breeze from the west, blew softly across the palace
roof, rustling the silken folds of the Royal Standard, as it hung
limply against the fifty-foot flagstaff, immediately above the King's
head. With the quick, subconscious instinct of the trained sailor, he
looked up to see if the flag was in order. To be "a sailor, not a
Prince" had been, for years, his publicly avowed ambition, an ambition
which had only recently been thwarted. His interest in this, no doubt,
trivial matter of a flag was typical of the lasting impression which
his long and happy years of naval service had left upon his character.
In most things, small and great, the Navy had taught him, the Navy had
formed him.

The flag was correct. The very knots in the rope left no loophole for
criticism.

The small, gilt Royal Crown, which normally surmounted the
flagstaff had been removed. In its place a large crown of coloured,
electric lamps had been erected, as a finishing touch to the palace
illuminations. Above the lights of this crown, the pointed shaft of the
lightning conductor, which ran up the flagstaff, protruded, clearly
visible against the night sky.

The lightning conductor had been left in position.

A slow smile lit up the King's face, and something of his weariness
fell from him, as he saw the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor.

Here, at last, was reality, presented, paradoxically enough, in the
form of an allegory, a symbol.

The words of the old Duke of Northborough came back to the King.

At the close of one of the earliest of the many, long, informal talks,
in the course of which the old Duke had set himself to explain to the
young and inexperienced Prince, who had been called, so unexpectedly,
to the throne, a few of the more urgent problems of Government, the
King had brought the veteran Prime Minister up on to the palace roof,
to see the new roof garden, which was the only innovation he had made,
so far, in the palace arrangements, an innovation due to his pleasant
recollection of nights of shore leave spent in the roof gardens of New
York, during his service with the Atlantic Fleet. The old Duke had
admired the flowers, and approved the tubbed trees; then he had looked
up at the flagstaff, where the Royal Standard had been flying in a
noble breeze; the juxtaposition of the pointed shaft of the lightning
conductor, and the Royal Crown, at the top of the flagstaff, had caught
his eye; and he had called the King's attention to it, at once, with an
arresting gesture.

"It is an allegory, a symbol, sir," he had said, in his vivid, forceful
way. "You wear the Crown. I am the lightning conductor. It will be my
duty, and the honour of my life, when the storm breaks, to take the
full shock of the lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your
head, unshaken."

There had been no need for the King to ask of what impending storm
the old Duke spoke. From the first, in all his talk, the increasing
menace of the world-wide revolutionary conspiracy had been the veteran
statesman's most constant theme.

"In your grandfather's time revolution in England was impossible, sir.
In your father's time it was possible, but unthinkable. If your brother
had lived, it might have remained unthinkable for years, perhaps for
the whole of his reign." "Like your father, your brother had the secret
of arousing personal loyalty. The Prince smiled, and men and women
loved him. For years he had been preparing himself, and consolidating
his hold on the people, making ready for the struggle which he saw he
must come." "It is not for me to disguise from you, sir, that your
brother's death has given a new impetus to the revolutionary movement
in this country. A younger son, a Prince who never expected, who
was never expected, to reign--against you, sir, the international
revolutionary forces feel that they have their first real chance in
England. The Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent,
and the extremists amongst our own Labour leaders, are likely to effect
a working agreement. It is necessary that we should remember, that it
has been by such agreements, that Europe has been swept almost clear of
Kings, from end to end." "We must be prepared. We are prepared. But it
is of vital importance that you, sir, should understand the position.
Make no mistake, sir. They would haul down your Royal Standard, from
the flagstaff here, sir, and run up their pitiable rag of a Red Flag,
in its place."

A new understanding of the difficulties that his father had faced,
of the heavy burden that he had borne, for so many years, without
complaint, had come to the King, in recent weeks. More poignant
still was the new understanding of, and the new sympathy with, his
dead brother, the Prince, that the last few weeks had brought him.
His father had always been remote. Between him, and his brother, the
Prince, there had been real friendship, and familiar, easy intercourse,
in spite of the Prince's splendid future, in spite of his own frequent
absences at sea. But he had not known. He had not understood. With a
sailor's contemptuous impatience in such matters, he had always turned
an almost deaf ear to the Prince's talk of politics and parties. The
Prince's splendid future! And he stood now, in the Prince's place.

It was the Prince who had urged him to trust, and to listen to, the old
Duke.

Once again, the King stood by the bed, in his brother's room, late in
the afternoon of the day, when the disease, which had stricken the
Prince so inexplicably, within a few weeks of their father's death, had
done its worst, and it was known that he, too, must die, die, after
all, uncrowned.

Deathly white the Prince lay there, propped up in bed, with his eyes
closed.

Outside the sun was setting, and the London sparrows were twittering
their vesper hymn.

The blue uniformed nurse bent down over the bed, and spoke in the
Prince's ear.

The Prince opened his eyes, saw him, recognized him, and smiled.

"They tell me that I have got 'the route' Alfred," he whispered
painfully. "I am not afraid to die. But I would live if I could. I
know, no one knows as I know, what this will mean to you. They tell me
I mustn't talk. I can't talk.

"The Duke is your man. Trust the Duke! He will not fail you. He will
be your sheet anchor. With the Duke to steady the ship, you will ride
out the storm."

An hour later, the Prince lay dead.

The King flung up his head.

The Duke had not failed him.

Many men had mourned the Prince's death, but no man had mourned it, as
had the veteran Prime Minister. Between the Duke and the Prince, it
was notorious, there had been a friendship, a constant association,
personal and political, closer than that between many a father and son.
Politically, the Prince's death must have been a staggering blow to
the Duke. And yet the wonderful old man had never faltered. Early and
late, he had laboured, with inexhaustible patience, at times with a
surprising freedom, and yet always with a tact which made his freedom
possible, to place his unrivalled knowledge, and his ripe wisdom,
untouched by party spirit, at the service of a new, a young, and an
inexperienced King.

The King was not ungrateful.

Still leaning wearily as he was against the roof balustrade, he turned
now, as he thought of the old Duke, and looked across the shadowed
darkness of St. James's Park, at the golden glare thrown up by the
illuminations in Whitehall. There, in the silent, rather comfortless,
and closed in house, in Downing Street, where he had lived, with hardly
a break, for so many years, his father's minister, his brother's
friend, the old Duke, even now, as likely as not, was hard at work,
indomitable, tireless, resourceful, sparing neither himself, nor his
subordinates, so that he, the King, "a sailor, not a Prince," might
reign.

Yes. The lightning conductor was in position.

He, the man who wore the Crown, must not fail.

He must not fail the Duke.

It was odd, but the thought that he might fail to support the Duke,
that he might not come up to the standard which the Duke might set for
him, had more weight with him, than any thought of the people, of the
nation. It was an instance of the Duke's personal magnetism, of course.
His personal magnetism, his dominance, had been talked about for years.
Did the Duke dominate him? No. But the Duke was a living, forceful
personality, a man, a strong man. The people, the nation--well, they
were only phantoms; they were the thousand, flushed, curious faces;
the thousand eyes; the cheering crowds, far away down there, in the
darkness, in the crowded parks and illuminated streets below.

It was, in a sense, a triumph, or at least, a notable success, for
the Duke, that he, the King, had been crowned; that the day had
passed without hostile demonstrations, without a single regrettable
incident. What reward could he give, what return could he make, to the
old statesman, for his ungrudging, tireless service? The Duke was his
servant. In intimate, familiar talk, he never failed to call him "sir."
The Duke must be his friend. His friend? A King could have no friends.
A man apart, isolated, lonely, and remote, as his father had always
been, a King was condemned to live alone.

A sudden, unbearable sense of loneliness, a terror of himself, a terror
of this new, isolated, remote life, in which he was to be denied even
the poor palliative of friendship, swept over the King. He had longed
to be alone. He had come up, out here, on to the palace roof, to be
alone. He had been eager to escape from the curious faces, from the
thousand eyes. But now he longed for human companionship, for human
sympathy, for human hands.

"Judith!"

The name rose to the King's lips, unsought, unbidden.

Judith, tall and slender, with her deep, dark, mysterious eyes, and
her crown of jet black hair; Judith, with her cheeks flushed with
pleasure, her eyes aglow, and her hand stretched out to him in joyous
welcome--the King saw, and felt, her bodily presence, as in a vision,
and his loneliness, and his terror, his weariness, and his fever, fell
from him.

He must go to Judith.

It would be dangerous. It was always dangerous. It would be more
dangerous, tonight, than ever before. But he would go. He must go. All
day he had smiled, and bowed, and posed, for the multitude, playing his
part in the gorgeous, public pageantry, which the multitude loved, an
actor playing his part, an actor, the servant of the public. Surely,
now, he might wrest a few brief hours, from the night, for himself?

It was a long time, a week or more, since he had seen Judith.

A few brief hours with Judith, a few brief hours of rest, of rural
peace, and quiet talk; a romp with the Imps, who would be fast asleep
now, tucked up in their cots, each clutching some cherished toy, some
strange, woolly animal, or some dearly prized, deadly instrument of
mimic war, but who would awake, with their prattle, like the birds, at
dawn; a few minutes of Uncle Bond's diverting nonsense, about the next
instalment of his forthcoming serial, and the dire distresses he had
invented for his latest business girl heroine--a few brief hours, so
spent, would bring him back to the palace, refreshed and strengthened,
ready to shoulder, once again, the heavy burden of his isolation, the
heavy burden which seemed now too heavy to be borne.

Yes. Late as it was, he would go to Judith. A night visit? It would be
after one o'clock in the morning, when he arrived. Would Judith mind?
Surely not! Judith and he were outside conventions.

With the quick, impulsive movement of the man who puts an end to
hesitation, the King swung round from the stone balustrade, crossed the
roof, and so passed, without another glance at the blazing Coronation
illuminations, or at the night sky, down the broad, wrought-iron
staircase which led from the roof into the palace.




CHAPTER II


In the anteroom to his own newly decorated suite of rooms, the King
found two of his valets still on duty. One of them was Smith, the
rubicund, grizzled old sailor, who had been his servant in the Navy.
Dismissing the other man with a gesture, the King beckoned to Smith,
and entered his dressing room.

"I do not want to be disturbed, in the morning, until I ring my bell,
Smith," he announced. "I shall probably go out into the garden for a
breath of fresh air, last thing. See that the door into the garden is
left open. That is all now. Good-night."

Smith withdrew, at once, with the bob of his bullet-shaped head, which
was the nearest approach he could make to the bow required by etiquette.

Left alone, the King glanced round the dressing room.

Of all the rooms in the palace which he used habitually, this room had
become the most distasteful to the King. The massive, old-fashioned,
mahogany furniture, the heavy curtains drawn right across the windows,
the thick-piled carpet, and the softly shaded lights, in the room,
oppressed him, not so much because of what they were in themselves, as
because of what they were associated with, already, in his own mind.
It was here that he dressed for Court functions. It was here that
he dressed, three or four times a day, not for his own pleasure and
convenience, but "suitably for the occasion."

A masculine doll. A male mannequin. A popinjay.

But he was going to dress to please himself, now, anyway.

Moving swiftly about the room, he proceeded to ransack drawers, and to
fling open wardrobe doors, as he searched for a particular blue serge
suit, of which the Royal staff of valets strongly disapproved.

At last he found the suit he sought.

A few minutes later, he had effected, unaided, a complete change of
toilet.

The blue serge suit, instinct with the Navy style that was so much
to his mind, together with the grey felt hat, and the light dust
coat, which he selected, made an odd, and subtle, difference in his
appearance. Before, even in the easy undress of his smoking jacket, he
had been--the King. Now he was, in every detail, merely a young naval
officer in mufti, rejoicing in shore leave.

Looking at himself in the huge, full-length mirror which stood
immediately in front of the heavily curtained windows, the King
approved this result.

The young naval officer in mufti, who looked back at the King out
of the cunningly lighted mirror, tall, fair, and clean-shaven, had
retained much of the unconscious pride of youth. The face was, as yet,
only lightly marked by the lines, the thoughtful frown, and the dark
shadows, which are the insignia of a heavier burden, of a greater
responsibility, and of a more constant anxiety, and care, than any
known at sea. The mouth and chin were pronounced and firm, moulded by
the habit of command. The lips were a trifle full, and not untouched
by passion. A student of that facial character, which all men, princes
and peasants alike, must carry about with them, wherever they go, would
have said that this young man had a will of his own, which might be
expressed by rash and impetuous action. The brow was broad and high.
This was a young man capable of thought, and of emotion. Something of
the healthy tan, which long exposure to wind and weather leaves, still
lingered on the cheeks, but a slight puffiness under the tired blue
eyes, told of weariness, and of flagging physical condition.

"A breath of Judith's country air will certainly do me good. It will
freshen me up," the King muttered.

Swinging round from the mirror, he crossed the room, to the door, and
switched off all the lights. Then he opened the door. The long corridor
outside, which led from his suite of rooms to the central landing,
and so to the main staircase in the palace, was still brilliantly
lit. Closing the dressing room door behind him, the King slipped
quickly down the corridor. Avoiding the central landing, and the main
staircase, which lay to his right, he turned to the left, up a short
passage, which brought him to the head of a private staircase, which
was strictly reserved for his personal use. This staircase led down to
the ground floor of the palace, and ended in a small, palm and orange
tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, which had
been a favourite retreat of his father. A glass door opened out of the
lounge into the palace garden. This door, as he had directed, had been
left open. Quickly descending the staircase, the King passed through
the lounge, out by the open door, into the garden.

A sharp glance, first to the right, and then to the left, assured
him that he was unobserved. By his order, the posts of the military
guard, and the beats of the police, on duty round the palace, had been
altered recently, so that he could use this door untrammelled by their
compliments. An unmistakable impatience with even necessary observation
of his personal movements had already become known as one of the new
King's most pronounced characteristics, and the military, and the
police authorities, alike, had done their best to meet his wishes in
the matter, although his wishes had added greatly to their difficulties.

The palace garden was full of the fragrance of the wonderful summer
night. The west breeze blew softly along the paths, and rustled amongst
the innumerable leaves of the overhanging trees. A few minutes of brisk
walking led the King through the darkness of the shrubberies, across
the deserted lawns, and past the shining, light-reflecting water of the
lake, to the boundary wall at the far end of the garden.

A small, old, and formerly little used wooden door in this wall was his
objective.

Lately, by his order, this door had been repainted, and fitted with
a new lock. One or two members of the palace household staff were
housed in Lower Grosvenor Place, the thoroughfare on to which the
wall abutted. It was, ostensibly, in order that these trustworthy and
discreet members of the household staff might be able to pass in and
out of the door, unchallenged, and so use the short cut through the
garden to the palace, that the King had considerately directed that
the lock on the door should be renewed, and that new keys should be
distributed.

It was one of these new keys which he now produced from his own pocket,
and, after a hurried glance behind him to assure himself that he was
still unobserved, fitted into the lock.

The lock worked smoothly.

The door opened inwards.

The King stepped out on to the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.

The door, operated by a spring, closed silently behind him.

Lower Grosvenor Place, normally a quiet and deserted thoroughfare
was, tonight, for once, thronged with people. A cheering, singing
rollicking crowd, the backwash of the larger crowds, which had been
attracted to the palace, and to the display of fireworks in the parks,
had taken possession of the roadway. For a moment, the noise of the
crowd, and the lights of the street, coming so abruptly after the
silence, and the secluded darkness of the garden, disconcerted the
King. Next moment, smiling a little at the thought of his own bizarre
position, he darted into the crowd, and began to work his way across
the road.

Inevitably jostled, and pushed, by the crowd, he made slow progress.

Suddenly, his progress was arrested altogether.

A little company of West End revellers, half a dozen youthful dandies
from the clubs, and as many daringly dressed women, who were moving
down the centre of the road, with their arms linked, singing at the top
of their voices, deliberately intercepted him, and circling swiftly
round him, held him prisoner.

"Where are your colours, old man?" one of the women demanded, in
an affected, provocative drawl. She was young, and, in spite of
her artificial complexion, and dyed eyebrows, she still retained a
suggestion of prettiness, and even of freshness. "Here! This is what
you want!"

As she spoke, she caught hold of the lapel of the King's coat, and
pinned to it a large rosette of red, white, and blue ribbons.

"There! That looks better," she declared. "You don't want people
to think you're one of these Communist cads, and in favour of a
revolution, do you?"

The King laughed merrily.

That he, the King, should be suspected of being in favour of revolution
struck him as irresistibly absurd. Then the second thought which is
so often nearer to the truth than the first, supervened. After all,
was the idea so absurd? Was he not--an unwilling King? Had he not been
increasingly conscious, of late, of a thought lurking at the back of
his mind, that he, of all men, had, perhaps, least to lose, and most
to gain, in the welter and chaos of revolution? What would he lose?
The intolerable burden of his isolation: the responsibility, and the
exacting demands of the great position, into which he had been thrust
so unexpectedly, and so much against his will. What would he gain?
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity! The revolutionary slogan voiced his own
personal needs. His laughter died away.

Happily, a precocious, fair-haired youth, who was leaning on the
shoulder of the rosette-distributing girl, broke the awkward little
silence which ensued.

"Chuck it, Doris! Can't you see he's one of us?" he remarked. "He's got
Navy written all over him."

And he nodded to the King, as to a brother officer.

"Mind your own business, Bobbie, and I'll mind mine," Doris drawled,
unperturbed. "He's a nice boy, but he'd forgotten his rosette. No man,
who isn't wearing the right colours, is going to pass me by, tonight,
unchallenged."

The King pulled himself together with an effort.

"But now that I am wearing the right colours, you will let me pass?" he
suggested. "I am in rather a hurry."

Bobbie promptly dragged the laughing and protesting Doris to one side,
and so left the road clear for the King.

"Pass, friend!" Bobbie announced. "All's well!"

The King dived hastily, once again, into the crowd. A sudden, and
curiously belated, fear of recognition, here in the immediate vicinity
of the palace, lent wings to his feet. No doubt the reckless audacity
of his excursion almost precluded the possibility of recognition. And
yet thousands of these people had seen him, at close quarters, only a
few hours ago.

So they knew about the impending storm, and they were already taking
sides. He looked at the rollicking crowd which surged about him, now,
with new interest. Red, white, and blue rosettes, similar to the one
which was pinned to his own coat, were being worn everywhere. The right
colours appeared to be popular. In the elaborate, secret, protective
schemes, lettered for code purposes, in the Greek alphabet, from Alpha
to Gamma, which the old Duke of Northborough had laid before him, to
demonstrate the Cabinet's readiness for every eventuality, the loyalty
of the people had no place. Might not that loyalty render the old
Duke's schemes unnecessary? But the old Duke wanted, he seemed almost
anxious, to force a fight. And the old Duke was, of course, right.

By this time, the King had succeeded in working his way across the
road. He turned now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, side
street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but afforded, on the right, an
entrance to one of those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and
stables, which are to be found all over the West End of London, tucked
away behind the great houses, from which they usually take their
directory title, with the addition of that admirably significant word,
mews. Here, in a small, lock-up garage, which he had contrived to rent
in the name of a youthful member of his personal, secretarial staff,
the King kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor car. Geoffrey
Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage, a light-hearted but discreet,
cadet of a good house, had also lent his name for the purchase of the
car. In recognition of Blunt's complaisance in the matter, the King had
allowed him to accompany him in one or two harmless Caliph Haroun Al
Raschid night interludes, in which the car had figured; but Blunt, as
Vizier, had no idea that the King, his Caliph, used the car, as now,
for solitary excursions.

The police constable on the beat happened to be testing, with
his bull's-eye lantern in action, the fastenings of the adjacent
coach-houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, when the King arrived
at the garage. Recognizing in the King, as he thought, a resident in
one of the neighbouring houses, the constable saluted him respectfully,
and helped him to open the garage doors, and run out the car.

"You'll find the traffic difficult tonight, sir, I'm thinking," he
remarked, with a hint of a London tamed Irish brogue. "They turned
the people out of the parks, when the fireworks finished, a full half
hour ago, but, bless you, they are in no hurry to go home. Well, it's
one night in a lifetime, as you might say, isn't it, sir? And, beyond
holding up the traffic, there's no harm in the people--they're just
lively, that's all. There'll be a good many of them will lie in late,
when they do get to bed, in the morning, I'm thinking. But the tiredest
man, in all London, this night, and in the whole Empire, too, if it
comes to that, I should think must be the King himself, God bless
him! Did you get a good view of him, yourself, sir? I was in duty in
Whitehall for the procession, and barring a yard or two, I was as close
to him then, as I am, now, to you. As fine, and upstanding a young
fellow, as you could wish to see, he is, too, and as like his poor dead
brother, the Prince, God rest his soul! as two peas. But he looked
tired, I thought. I hope they won't work him too hard, at first. He's
only a young man still, and he's got his troubles before him, they say,
although to look at the people, tonight, you wouldn't think so, would
you? But give him his chance, and he'll do as well as his brother,
the Prince, I say, for all that he's a sailor. I'm an old Guardsman,
myself, sir, the same as the Prince was, but, after all, it's time you
had your turn, in the Senior Service, isn't it, sir?"

Busy putting on the thick leather motor coat, and adjusting the
goggles, which he kept stored in the car, the King listened to the
constable's garrulous, friendly talk with rich amusement, not untouched
by a more serious interest. He almost wished that he could reveal
his real identity to the man, and then shake hands with him. Surely
the loyalty of the people had been underestimated? This garrulous
police constable had a juster appreciation, and a more sympathetic
understanding, of the difficulties and the dangers of his position,
than he had ever imagined possible.

With the constable's assistance the King closed, and re-locked the
garage doors. Then he slipped a handful of loose silver into the man's
not too ready palm, and sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel
of the car.

"Liquidate that in drinking to the King's health, constable," he
directed, as he started the car. "Drink it to the frustration of all
the King's enemies."

All the King's enemies? His worst enemy? Himself?

The man's reply was drowned by the throbbing beat of the powerful
engine.

A moment later, the car leapt forward, out of the dimly lit mews,
swung up the quiet side street, beyond, and so passed into the densely
thronged roadway in Lower Grosvenor Place.

The police constable's prediction as to the difficulties of the traffic
proved more than justified. In Grosvenor Place, the King found that he
could only advance at a snail's pace, sounding his siren continuously.
Over and over again, he had hurriedly to apply all his brakes. The
crowd, singing, cheering, and rollicking, had taken complete possession
of the roadway, and ignored the approach of all vehicles of whatsoever
kind. Fellow motorists, in like case with himself, grinned at the
King, in friendly, mutual commiseration. For his part, it was with
difficulty, that he restrained his impatience, and kept his temper. He
was still far too close to the palace for his peace of mind.

At Hyde Park Corner, the police, mounted and on foot, had contrived
to maintain a narrow fairway, which made real, although still slow,
progress through the locked traffic possible. But in Park Lane, the
crowd had it all their own way again, spread out across the road, and
indulging in rough horse-play, as nearly out of hand as the London
crowd ever permits itself to go. Happily, by the Marble Arch, the
road cleared once more. In Oxford Street, in spite of the brilliant
illuminations of the famous shops and stores, and the huge crowds
which they had attracted there, the King found that he could slightly
increase his speed. When he swung, at last, into Tottenham Court Road,
and so headed the car directly north, the traffic, by comparison with
that through which he had just passed, seemed almost normal. Free now
from the necessity of extra vigilance, and only occasionally called
upon to sound his siren, or to apply his brakes, he was able to open
out the car considerably, and settle himself more comfortably at the
steering wheel.




CHAPTER III


It was a wonderful summer night. Here, as the car ran out into the
quieter, less crowded, and more humbly illuminated area of the inner
suburbs, the night reasserted itself. Rising late, above the roofs and
twisted chimney pots, a large, round, golden moon hung low in the dark
blue sky. The rush of air, stirred by the throbbing car, was cool and
fresh. Naturally, and inevitably, the King's thoughts turned now, once
again, to Judith.

It was on just such a wonderful summer night, as this, in early June, a
year ago, that he had first seen Judith.

On that memorable night, the King had driven alone, out of London,
late at night, just as he was driving now, at the end of a fortnight's
leave, which he had spent incognito, in town. Soon after he had run
through the fringe of the outer suburbs, which he was even then
entering, with four hundred odd miles of road between him and the Naval
Base in Scotland, where he was due to rejoin his ship, and with barely
time to make them good, the car he was driving had developed engine
trouble. A few minutes of frenzied tinkering had set the car going
again, but the engine had only served to carry him well clear of the
town, out into the sleeping countryside, when it had failed, once more,
this time completely, and he had found himself stranded, at the side of
the lonely, deserted, country road, the victim of a permanent breakdown.

The King smiled to himself, now, as he recalled his reckless, humorous
appreciation of that situation. In those days, "a sailor, not a
Prince," he had had a light heart. Nothing had been able to disturb his
equanimity for long.

Abandoning the broken down car, almost at once, at the side of the
road, he had set out, adventurously, on foot, to look for succour.
The night had been, then, as now, cool, fragrant, and moonlit.
Soon a narrow, winding, wooded lane, on the left of the road, had
attracted him. Turning down this lane, he had followed its twisting,
tree-shadowed course, for over a mile or more, until, suddenly, he
had come upon the small lodge, and open carriage gate, of an isolated
country house, which stood, a little back from the road, surrounded by
tall trees.

The short, moonlit drive, where the rhododendron bushes and the
laburnum trees were in full blossom, had led him to the front of the
silent, darkened house.

The King remembered vividly the odd sense of impending romance, the
little thrill of excitement, and of expectancy, with which he had rung
the front door bell.

A short pause had ensued, a period of waiting.

And then he had heard a movement on his right, and he had turned, and
he had seen Judith--seen Judith, for the first time.

She had slipped through the open window door, on his right, on to the
verandah, which ran all round the shadowy house, and she had stood
there, close beside him, tall and slender, surrounded by the ghostly
white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah
pillars and rail--Judith with her cheeks delicately flushed, her deep,
dark, mysterious eyes aglow, and her wealth of jet black hair knotted
loosely at her neck, Judith clad in a Japanese kimono of gorgeous
colours, from under which peeped little wisps of spotless white linen,
and filmy lace.

The King laughed softly to himself, as he recalled that it was he,
and not Judith, who had been shy and embarrassed, that it was he, and
not Judith, who had blushed and stammered--until Judith had come to
his rescue, understanding and accepting his incoherent apologies and
explanations, almost before he had uttered them, and taking absolute
command of him, and of the whole delightfully bizarre situation from
that moment--

The necessity of avoiding a couple of belated country carts, moving
slowly forward towards Covent Garden, at this point, broke abruptly
into the King's reverie. The powerfully engined car was running
smoothly, and at a high speed now, along the level surface of one of
the outer suburban tramway tracks--

It was Judith who had promptly roused old Jevons, the gardener, and
sent him off, post haste, to take charge of the derelict car. It was
Judith who, greatly daring, had penetrated into the jealously guarded,
literary night seclusion of Uncle Bond, on the upper floor of the
silent, darkened house, and had compelled the little man to leave his
latest business girl heroine, in the middle of the next instalment
of his new serial, although that instalment was, as usual, already
overdue, and come downstairs, urbane and chuckling, his round,
double-chinned, and spectacled face wreathed in smiles, to entertain an
unknown, and youthful stranger, as if his midnight intrusion was the
most natural thing in the world.

It was Judith, familiar with the way that they have in the Navy, who
had understood, from the first, the vital necessity of his rejoining
his ship in time. It was Judith who had routed out time-tables, and
looked up trains, while he and Uncle Bond had smoked and discussed the
situation at large, and had discovered that he still might be able to
catch the Scottish Mail, at some railway junction in the Midlands, of
which he had never heard.

It was Judith who had packed off the at once enthusiastic Uncle Bond
to the garage to turn out his own brand new Daimler. It was Judith who
had insisted that they must make a hurried, and informal, but wholly
delightful picnic meal. It was Judith who had slipped out, while Uncle
Bond and he ate and drank, and put his kit, which the careful Jevons
had brought from the broken down car to the house for safe custody,
into the Daimler. Finally, it was Judith who had given them their
marching orders, and their route, and had stood on the verandah, and
waved her hand to them, in friendly farewell, when Uncle Bond had
started the Daimler, and the huge car had swept down the drive, out
into the sleeping countryside.

Of the wild drive that had followed, half way across England, through
the wonderful summer night, the King had now, as he had had at the
time, only a hazy, confused impression--a hazy, confused impression
of Uncle Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering wheel of the
huge Daimler, driving with a reckless audacity more suited to the
commander of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a mere retailer
of grotesquely improbable tales, of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as
he drove, and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free rein to the
fantastic flights of his characteristically extravagant humour.

Where, and when, he had caught the night mail, the King had still no
clear idea. A blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his side, down a
long, dimly lit railway platform, and throwing his last portmanteau in,
after him, through the window of the already moving train, was all that
remained with him, of the scene at the station.

And then the train had thundered on, through the sleeping countryside,
and he had been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the darkness in
which, for hours, he had seen only Judith's beautiful, vivid face,
while the train had thundered in his ears, only Judith's name--

By this time, the powerfully engined car had run clear of the outer
suburban tramway track, and was rushing through the semi-rural area
of market gardens, and scattered villas, where the town first meets,
and mingles with, the country, on the north side of London. Coronation
illuminations had now been left far behind. Soon even the last of the
long chain of lamps provided by the public lighting system was passed.
It was by the light thrown on to the road, by the glaring headlights on
the throbbing car, and by the softer light of the moon, that the King
had now to do his driving--

From the first he had known that Judith, and Uncle Bond, could never
be as other people to him. It was this knowledge which had warned him
not to betray his real identity. From the first, it had seemed of
vital importance to him, that no shadow of his Royal rank should be
allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of his intercourse with these
charming, unconventional people, who, looking upon him as merely a
young, naval officer in trouble, had at once placed all their resources
at his disposal, as if he had been an old and intimate friend. It was
this knowledge which had prompted him, when he came to telegraph to
Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoining of his ship, to sign the
telegram with his favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That he should
have been in a position to telegraph to Uncle Bond was only one of the
many lesser miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At some point
in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had slipped his visiting card into
his hand, and had contrived to make him understand, in spite of his
dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was known to his admiring public
as "Cynthia St. Claire," the notorious serial writer, he was known to
his friends as plain James Bond, and that he, and his niece Judith,
would be glad to hear that he had escaped a court-martial.

Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder that never failed him
when he thought of Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles
of that first memorable night, twelve months ago, had merely been
the prelude to a whole sequence of other, and far greater, miracles.
When leave came his way once again, it had seemed only natural to him
that he should run out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank them
for their kindness which had included the salving, and the temporary
storing of the derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond should have
welcomed him so warmly, and pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever
he happened to be passing through town, that had been--a miracle!
Again, it was only natural that he should have taken advantage of their
invitation, and that he should have fallen into the habit of running
out to see them, whenever he could snatch a few brief hours from the
exacting demands of his semi-official life. But that Judith, and Uncle
Bond, should have thrown open their house to him, so soon, without
question, and made their home, his home, that had been--a miracle!
That he should have been able to keep his frequent visits to, and his
increasing intimacy with, Judith and Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly
twelve months, was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith and Uncle
Bond should never have suspected his real identity, never penetrated
his incognito, was a greater miracle. But that his friendship with
Judith should have remained unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest
miracle of all.

It was Judith who had wrought this last, greatest miracle of all. It
was Judith who had made their friendship what it was. Somehow, from
the first, she seemed to have been able to shut out, or, at the worst,
to ward off, from their intimacy, all dangerous provocations. It was
as if she had drawn a white line round herself, even in her thoughts,
past which neither he, nor she, could enter. Uncle Bond, most wise and
tactful of hosts, had helped. And the Imps, Judith's boys, had helped
too.

Somehow, Judith and the Imps, Button, so called because of his button
mouth, and Bill, cherubic and chubby, had always been inseparably
associated in his mind. Almost from the first, he must have known that
Judith, young as she was, was a widow. But it was only lately that he
had learnt that her husband had been a sailor like himself, a sailor
who had served with distinction, and lost his life, in the Pacific War,
the war which he had missed himself, to his own everlasting regret, by
a few bare weeks of juniority--

By this time, the throbbing car was sweeping down the opening stretch
of the Great North Road, out into the real country. More as a matter
of custom, than of conscious thought, the King slowed down the car. It
had become his habit on these occasions, that he should slacken his
speed, when he had at last successfully escaped from the town, so that
he could attune his mind to his surroundings, and savour to the full
his eager anticipation of Judith's joyous welcome.

Suddenly, the ghostly, white painted figure of a signpost, for which he
always kept an eye open, flashed into his view, on the left of the road.

Once, on a winter evening of fog-thickened darkness, when he had been
driving out to see Judith, as he was driving now, the King had grown
uncertain of his route. Coming to this signpost, he had been glad to
halt, to verify his position. Clambering up the post, with the ready
agility of the sailor, he had struck a match, to discover that the
signpost had been used, by some unknown humorist, to perpetrate a jest,
with which he had found himself in instant, serious, and wholehearted
sympathy. The ordinary place names had been obliterated on the signpost
fingers. In lieu of them had been painted, in rude, black letters, on
the finger pointing to London, "To Hades," and, on the opposite finger,
pointing north, out into the open country, "To Paradise."

The King headed the car now "To Paradise," with an uplifting of the
heart, which never failed him, on this portion of the road.

A little later, he became aware that he was passing the site of his
former breakdown, the breakdown which had first led him, a year ago, to
Judith.

He knew then that he had run out of Middlesex into Hertfordshire.

Soon the familiar turning of the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the
left of the road, came into view. Swinging the car into the lane, the
King, once again, slackened his speed. He drove now with special care.
It had become part of a charming game, that he and Judith played, that
he should try to drive down the lane, and up to the house, without her
hearing his approach. Somehow, he hardly ever won. Somehow, Judith was
always on the alert, always expecting him.

But tonight, it almost seemed, in view of the unusual lateness of his
arrival, as if he might score one of his rare successes. The car ran
smoothly, and all but silently, down the narrow lane. At the bottom, at
the house, the carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open. In the moonlit
drive, the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full
blossom, just as they had been on that memorable first night, a year
ago. The King drove straight up the drive, and round the side of the
silent, darkened house, to the garage beyond. The garage door, like the
carriage gate, stood wide open. Here, in Paradise, apparently, there
was no need to guard against motor thieves.

The King turned the car, and backed it into the garage, beside Uncle
Bond's huge Daimler. The silence which followed his shutting off of
the engine, was profound, the essential night silence of the country.
Flinging off his thick, leather motor coat, his hat, and his goggles,
he tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he left the
garage, and moved quickly back round the side of the house, treading,
whenever possible, on the grassy borders of the garden flower beds,
lest the sound of his footsteps should reach Judith, and so warn her of
his approach.




CHAPTER IV


In a bush, close up to the house, a nightingale was in full song.
Further away, from one of the trees beyond the shadowy garden lawn,
another nightingale replied. It was as if the two birds were singing
against each other for mastery, pouring out, in a wild, throbbing
ecstasy, the one after the other, twin cascades of lovely, liquid,
matchless notes.

Judith was sitting on the moonlit verandah.

The King laughed softly to himself, when he saw her.

As usual, he had lost!

She rose to her feet, to receive him, as he approached, and so stood,
tall and slender, just as she had stood on that first, memorable night,
a year ago, framed in the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis
creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail. She was wearing
an evening gown of some material in white satin which had a glossy
sheen that shone almost as brightly as the moonlight against the dark
background of the silent house. She was bareheaded, and the light,
night breeze had ruffled one or two tresses of her luxuriant jet black
hair. Her beautiful, vivid face was flushed. Her deep, dark, mysterious
eyes were aglow. Her lips were parted in a little smile of mingled
humour and triumph.

"I _knew_ that you would come tonight," she said.

The King stepped up on to the verandah, to her side.

"I had to come," he confessed.

"It is a long time, a week, ten days, since you were here."

"I am not my own master. I have been--very busy. They have given
me--promotion!"

"The Service! Always the Service!" Judith cried.

"It is the King's Service," the King replied.

"I know! I would not have it otherwise, even if I could," Judith
murmured. "I am glad, and proud, that you have been very busy; that
they have given you--promotion; that you serve--the King! And, tonight,
you are wearing his colours?"

As she spoke, she put out her hand, and deftly rearranged the long
ribbons of the red, white, and blue rosette, which the audacious Doris
had pinned to his coat, earlier in the night.

"And, tonight, I am wearing his colours," the King replied. "When the
storm, that they say is coming, really breaks, the King will need all
his friends."

With a quick, abrupt movement, which seemed to indicate a sudden change
of mood, Judith laid her hands on his shoulders, and turned him a
little to the right, so that the moonlight fell full upon his face.

"Yes. You have changed. Your--promotion--has made a difference," she
murmured. "You speak gravely. You look older. You are more serious. And
there are little lines, and wrinkles, and a frown there, that was never
there before."

The King drew in his breath sharply.

The light pressure of Judith's hands on his shoulders, and the sudden
acute sense of her nearness which it brought him, disturbed him
strangely.

This was a mistake. This was dangerous. And it was unlike Judith. It
was not Judith's way.

All at once Judith seemed to divine his distress.

She turned from him quickly.

"Come and see the Imps," she said, "I was just going in, to look at
them, when you arrived."

Light of foot, and slender, and tall, she moved off then, on tiptoe,
without waiting for him, along the shadowy verandah, towards the open
window-door of the night nursery near by.

Conscious of a relief, of which he was somehow ashamed, the King
followed her, obediently, on tiptoe in turn.

In the night nursery, the nightlight, which protected Button and Bill
from the evil machinations of ghosts and goblins, was burning dimly,
in its saucer, on the mantelpiece, but a shaft of bright moonlight
revealed the two cots, at the far end of the room, in which the
children lay, fast asleep, side by side. Judith was already bending
over the foot of the cots, when the King entered the room. She looked
round at him, finger on lip, as he approached. Button, flushed and
rosy, stirred in his sleep, and flung one small arm out of bed, across
the snow-white counterpane. Bill, cherubic and chubby, heroically lying
on, lest he should suck, his thumb, never moved.

"They have had a wonderful day," Judith whispered. "We ran our flag
up, this morning, in honour of the King, and I tried to make them
understand about the Coronation. Bill wanted to know if Uncle Alfred
would be in the procession! They would do nothing else for the rest of
the day, but play at being King. You see, they took their crowns to bed
with them."

She pointed to two crowns, crude, homemade, cardboard toys, covered
with gilt and silver paper, which lay, one on each pillow, beside the
sleeping children.

A strange thrill, a chill of presentiment, a sense of some impending
crisis, which, it seemed, he was powerless to prevent, which he must
make no attempt to prevent, ran through the King. He shivered. Then
he leant over the cots, and, very carefully, lest he should wake him,
picked up the crown which lay on Button's pillow.

The crude, grotesque, cardboard toy made a poignant appeal to him.

Inevitably this toy cardboard crown reminded the King of that other
Crown, from which, even here in Paradise, it seemed, he could not
escape, that other Crown which had been placed on his head at the
climax of the long and exhausting Coronation ceremony, not many hours
back. That other Crown had been heavy. This was light. That other
Crown had been fashioned by cunning artists in metal, out of the
enduring materials judged most precious by man. This crown had been
laboriously patched together by the untried fingers of a child, out
of the flimsy, worthless materials furnished by a nursery cupboard.
And yet, of the two crowns, was the one more valuable, more worth
possessing, than the other? Both were symbols. That other Crown was the
symbol of a heavy burden, of a great responsibility. This toy crown
was the symbol of a child's fertile imagination, and happy play. Both
were pageantry. The one was the pageantry of a lifetime's isolation,
and labour. The other was the pageantry of a child's happy play, for a
single summer day.

The irony of the contrast, the irony of his own position, gripped the
King, with a thrill of something akin to physical pain.

With the absurd, toy cardboard crown still in his hand, he turned, and
looked at Judith.

A dimly realized, instinctive rather than conscious, desire for
sympathy prompted his look.

And Judith failed him.

It was not what she did. It was not what she said. She did nothing. She
said nothing. And yet, in one of those strange flashes of intuition,
which come, at times, to the least sensitive of men, the King was aware
that Judith was not herself; that the accord which had hitherto always
existed between them was broken; and that he and she had suddenly
become--antagonistic.

Judith stood with her hands resting lightly on the brass rail at the
foot of Button's cot. Outwardly her attitude was wholly passive. None
the less, as he gazed at her, the King's intuitive conviction of their
new antagonism deepened.

An odd, tense, little pause ensued.

Then, suddenly, Judith turned, and looked at him.

A wonderful look. A look which amazed, and dumbfounded the King.
A look, not of antagonism, as he had anticipated, but, welling up
from the depths of her dark, mysterious eyes, a look which spoke,
unmistakably, of a woman's tenderness, sympathy, surrender, love.

For a breathless moment or two, they stood thus, facing each other.

Then Judith bent down, hurriedly, over the cots once again.

"If you will go out on to the verandah, Alfred, I will join you there,
in a minute or two," she said.

Her voice was husky, tremulous, low.

Mechanically, the King replaced the absurd toy cardboard crown, which
he was still holding in his hand, on Button's pillow. Then, dazed, and
like a man in a dream, he swung slowly round on his heel, and passed
back, through the room, out to the verandah again.

The nightingales were still singing in the garden. The air was heavy
with the rich scent of some night-blossoming stock, set in one of the
flowerbeds immediately below the verandah rail. The moon was afloat in
a little sea of luminous, billowy, drifting clouds.

The King sat down in one of the large, wicker work chairs, which always
stood on the verandah.

He was glad to sit down.

He was trembling from head to foot--

It was for rest, and quiet, and peace, that he had run out to see
Judith, and between them, all in a moment, they had blundered,
together, into the thick of an emotional crisis.

How? Why?

It was all an inexplicable mystery to him.

Where was the white line Judith had always drawn round herself?
Where was the barrier of physical reserve she had always maintained
inviolable between them? From the first moment of his arrival, he
realized now, in some odd way, almost in spite of herself as it were,
she had been--alluring!

A strange, new Judith!

A sudden, queer feeling of resentment stirred within the King.

He had been so sure of Judith!

She had placed him in an impossible, an intolerable position.

No. That was unfair, unjust. Judith was not to blame. Judith did not
know--how could she know?--the peculiar difficulties, the inexorable
limitations, imposed upon him by his Royal rank. She did not know--how
could she know?--that friendship was all he could accept from, all he
could offer, to, any woman. To Judith, he was merely a young naval
officer, whose frequent visits, whose unmistakable delight in her
society, could have only one meaning.

He alone was to blame. By his own act, by his own deliberate
concealment of his real identity, he had made this crisis inevitable
from the first.

What attitude was he to adopt towards Judith now? Could he ignore
what had happened? Could he hope that Judith would allow him to ignore
what had happened? Or had the time come when he must reveal his real
identity to Judith at last? Would she believe him? If she believed him,
would she be able to forgive his deception? And, even if she forgave
him, would not the shadow thrown by his Royal rank irretrievably injure
his intimacy with her, with the Imps, and with Uncle Bond? All the
spontaneity, the ease, and the naturalness of their relationship would
be at an end.

No. Whatever happened he could not risk that.

Judith and Uncle Bond, were the only people he had ever known who had
received him, who had accepted him, for what he was himself, the man
who remained when all the adventitious trappings of Royalty had been
discarded. Judith and Uncle Bond, were the only people he ever met,
who treated him as an equal. As an equal? Judith, and Uncle Bond,
quite rightly, often treated him as their inferior, their inferior in
knowledge, in experience, in wisdom.

The King leant back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly
very weary. The reaction following all that he had been through the
last twenty-four hours was heavy upon him. Difficult and dangerous
moments, he realized, lay immediately in front of him. And he was in no
condition to meet either difficulty or danger. What he wanted now was
rest--

It was some little time before Judith reappeared on the verandah. When
she did reappear she brought with her a tray on which stood decanters,
and glasses, and biscuits, and fruit. A picnic meal, like the one which
he had enjoyed on that first memorable night twelve months ago, had
become, whenever possible, a feature of the ordinary routine of the
King's visits.

Judith set down her tray on a wicker work table which stood beside the
King.

The King did not look round. He could not, he dare not, face Judith.

Judith slipped behind his chair.

"I am sorry, Alfred," she said. "I blame myself. It was my fault. It
ought not to have happened, tonight, of all nights. You were absolutely
worn out, already, weren't you? I might, I ought to, have remembered
that. I want you to forget all about it, if you can. Now, how long can
you stay?"

A great wave of relief swept over the King.

Judith was herself again.

This was the old Judith.

"I shall have to leave at seven o'clock in the morning, as usual. I
must be back in town by eight o'clock at the latest," he said.

"Then you must have a drink, and something to eat, at once," Judith,
the old Judith, announced taking absolute command of him again, from
that moment, as was her wont. "We'll stay out here, and listen to the
nightingales, for half an hour, if you like. I am glad they are singing
for you, tonight. And then, and then you will go straight to bed."

Drawing another chair up to the table, as she spoke, she sat down. Then
she proceeded to wait upon him with the easy, unembarrassed grace which
gave such an intimate charm to all her hospitality.

"Whisky and soda? And a biscuit? Or will you smoke?" she asked.

"I am too tired to smoke. I am almost too tired to drink, I think," the
King murmured.

Judith looked at him keenly.

"What you want is sleep, Alfred," she said. "Drink this! It will do you
good. Don't bother to talk. I'll do the talking."

The King took the glass which Judith held out to him, and drank, as he
was told.

Then he leant further back still in his chair.

He had reached a point, he was suddenly conscious now, not far removed
from complete exhaustion.

In a little while, Judith, as she had promised, began to talk.

"You will see Uncle Bond, in the morning, of course," she remarked.
"You will do him good. He is in rather a bad way, just at present,
poor old dear. The new serial seems to be giving him a lot of trouble.
'Cynthia St. Claire' isn't functioning properly, at the moment. He's
locked himself up, for several nights now, without any result. He says
it doesn't seem to matter how many candles he lights. 'Cynthia' still
eludes him. It really is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde business with him,
you know. If he is to do any work, he has to be 'Cynthia St. Claire,'
and not James Bond. It is plain James Bond we prefer, of course. But it
is 'Cynthia' who makes all the money, you know.

"The worst of it is, in spite of what Uncle Bond says, I am afraid it
isn't all 'Cynthia's' fault this time. He's been running up to town,
and knocking about the clubs, a good deal lately. That is nearly always
a sign that he is trying to dodge 'Cynthia.' It is almost as if he had
got something on his mind. Seeing you will do him good. He always gets
what he calls a flow on, when you have been over. He wants it badly
now. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already.
Part of his trouble, I think, is that he is working on a plain heroine.
He does them alternately, you know. One Plain. The next Ringlets. This
one, I understand, is very plain. He misses the chance, I believe, of
filling in with purple passages of personal description. You have read
some of Uncle Bond's stuff, haven't you? Officially, I am not allowed
to. Unofficially, of course, I read every word of it I can get hold of.
It's wonderful how he keeps it up, isn't it? And, every now and then,
in spite of 'Cynthia,' he slips in something, without knowing it, which
only James Bond could have written. All sorts of unexpected people read
him, you know. He says it is the name, and not the stuff, that does the
trick. I think that it is the stuff. People like romance. Uncle Bond
gives it to them."

At that moment, the sleep, of which the King stood in such dire need,
long overdue as it was, touched his eyelids.

Judith shot out her arm, and skilfully retrieved the half empty glass,
which all but fell from his hand.

A little later, when he awoke with a start, conscious of the strange
refreshment which even a moment's sleep brings, he found that Judith's
hand was in his.

"It has been a wonderful summer," Judith murmured. "If the sun did not
shine again, for months, we should have no right to complain. First
the lilac, and the chestnuts, and the hawthorn; then the laburnum and
the rhododendrons; and now the wild roses are beginning to show in the
hedges. The skylarks singing at dawn; the cuckoo calling all day; the
thrushes and the blackbirds whistling in the hot afternoon; and the
nightingales, singing at night, as they are singing now! The bright sun
in the morning, the blue sky, and the green of the trees. The haymakers
at work in the fields. The whir of the haycutting machine. The Imps
tumbling over each other in the hay, and calling to me. Diana's foal
in the paddock, all long legs, and short tail. The wren's nest in
the garden, with six little wrens in it for Jenny Wren to feed. The
afternoon sunlight on the trees; Uncle Bond in the garden, chuckling
over his roses; the sunset; the young rabbits, with their white
bob-tails, scuttling in and out of the hedges; a patter of rain on the
leaves; the breeze in the trees; the twilight; the cool of the evening;
and then the blue of the night sky, the stars, and the golden moon,
in a bed of billowy, drifting clouds. The scent of the hayfields, the
scent of the flowers; and the nightingales singing, in the garden, as
they are singing now!

"The nightingales are singing about it all. Can you hear what they say?
I have been trying to put the nightingales' song into words. Listen!
Those long, liquid notes--"

The night air was heavy with the scent of the night-blossoming stock,
in the flowerbed, immediately below the verandah rail. The nightingales
sang as if at the climax of their rivalry for mastery. A huge owl
lumbered, rather than flew, across the shadowy garden.

For a moment, it seemed to the King, as if the verandah, the house, the
garden, and even the night sky, stood away from them, receded, and that
he and Judith were alone, together, in infinite space.

The moment passed.

Judith stood up.

"Bed!" she said, speaking with the note of smiling, kindly discipline,
with which she ruled the Imps, and, when she chose, even Uncle Bond
and himself. "You will be able to sleep now, Alfred."

The King rose obediently to his feet to find, with a certain dull,
dazed surprise, that he was stiff and sore, and hardly able to stand.

Dazed as he was, he did not fail to see the look of sharp anxiety which
shone, for a moment, in Judith's eyes.

"Lean on me, old man!" she exclaimed. "You are done up. I'll see you
to your room. They have been working you too hard. Do they never think
of--the man--in your Service?"

She put out her arm, as she spoke, and slipped it skilfully round his
shoulders.

And so, glad of Judith's support, and only restfully conscious of her
nearness now, the King moved off slowly along the verandah towards the
room, at the far end of the silent, darkened house, which had come
to be regarded as his room, and, as such, was strictly reserved, "in
perpetuity," for his use alone.

"Here you are!" Judith announced, at last, halting at the open window
door of the room. "You will be able to manage by yourself now, won't
you? You must sleep now, Alfred. Dreamless sleep! Every minute of it!
The Imps will call you, as usual, in the morning. Good-night."

A minute or two later, the King found himself alone, inside the room,
sitting on the edge of the bed, with an urgent desire for sleep rising
within him.

The fresh, fragrant night air blew softly into the room, through the
open window door, beyond which he could see, as he sat on the edge of
the bed, the gently swaying branches of the garden trees, silhouetted
against the dark blue background of the moonlit sky.

The nightingales were still singing in the garden.

Yes. He could sleep here.

The room itself invited rest, induced sleep. Plainly, although
comfortably furnished, and decorated throughout in a soothing tint
of grey, the room had a spaciousness, even an emptiness, which was
far more to the King's taste, than the ornate fittings of that other
bedroom of his in the palace, where sleep so often eluded him. Beyond
the absolutely necessary furniture, there was nothing in the room, save
the few essential toilet trifles which he kept there. Nothing was ever
altered in, nothing was ever moved from, this room, in his absence. It
had all become congenial, friendly, familiar.

The King undressed, mechanically, in the moonlight, and put on the
sleeping suit which lay ready to his hand, on the bed, at his side.

Then he got into bed.

His last thought was one of gratitude to, and renewed confidence in,
Judith. How she had humoured, how she had managed him, coaxing and
cajoling him, as if he had been a sick child, along the shadowy road to
sleep. The emotional crisis which had arisen so inexplicably between
them had, as inexplicably spent its force harmlessly. Their friendship
was unimpaired. Nothing was altered between them. Nothing was to be
altered. Judith had emphasized that. The Imps were to wake him, in the
morning, as usual. He was to see Uncle Bond. All was to be as it had
always been. He was glad. He had no wish for, he shrank instinctively
from the thought of, any changes, here, in Paradise.

But now he must sleep. Dreamless sleep.

And so, he fell asleep.

He slept, at once, so soundly, that he never stirred, when, in a little
while, Judith slipped noiselessly into the room. Crossing to the bed,
she stood, for a moment or two, looking down at him, with all the
unfathomable tenderness in her dark, mysterious eyes, which she had
asked him to forget, which she had made him forget.

Suddenly, she leant over the bed, and kissed him lightly on the
forehead.

Then she slipped quickly out of the room, once again.




CHAPTER V


It was to the sound of the patter of bare feet, on the polished floor
of his bedroom, followed by suppressed gurgles of joyous laughter, that
the King awoke, in the morning. Bright sunshine was streaming into
the room, through the still open window door. Button and Bill, their
faces rosy with health and sleep, and their hair still tousled, as it
had come from their pillows, engagingly droll little figures in their
diminutive sleeping suits, stood at his bedside, watching him with
shining, mischievous eyes. As he sat up in bed, they flung themselves
at him, with triumphant shouts, wriggling and swarming all over him, as
they essayed to smother him, under his own bedclothes and pillows.

At the end of two or three hilarious, and vivid moments of mimic
fight, the King brought the heavy artillery of his bolster to bear
on his enemies, smiting them cunningly in the "safe places" of their
wriggling, deliciously fresh little bodies, and so driving them, inch
by inch, down to the foot of the bed, where, still laughing and
gurgling gloriously, they rolled themselves up, to evade his blows,
like a couple of young hedgehogs.

Then the King flung his bolster on to the floor, and, reaching out
his arms, took his enemies captive, tucking them, one under each arm,
and holding them there, kicking and protesting, but wholly willing
prisoners.

Button, at this point, although suspended under the King's left arm,
more or less in mid-air, contrived to wriggle his right hand free, and
held it out gravely, to be shaken. On the strength of his seven years,
Button had lately given up kissing in public, and begun to affect the
formal manner of the man of the world, in matters of courtesy, as
shrewdly observed in Uncle Bond.

"Good morning, my boy," he remarked, in Uncle Bond's blandest manner.

In order to shake Button's hand, the King was compelled to release Bill
from his prison, under his right arm. Bill, whose happy fate it was
to be still only five, the true golden age, had no man of the world
pretensions, no sense of shame in his affections. Breaking ruthlessly
into Button's formal greeting, he flung both his chubby arms round
the King's neck, pulled his head down to be kissed, and then hugged
him, with all the force in his lithe little body, chanting in a voice
absurdly like Judith's the while--

"Diana's got a foal, all legs and stumpy tail, and a white star on its
face. We're making the hay. There's a wren's nest in the garden. It's
past six o'clock, and it's a lovely summer morning, and you've got to
get up, Uncle Alfred."

From some dusty pigeonhole in his memory, where it had lain since his
own far-away childhood, there floated out into the King's mind, a
phrase, a sentence--

 "And I said I will not put forth mine hand to touch my King, for he is
 the Lord's Anointed."

It was a phrase, a sentence, which he could trace back to the Bible
lessons, which had been as faithfully and remorselessly delivered, on
Sunday afternoons, in the Royal nursery, as in any other nursery of the
period, when the strict discipline in such matters, derived originally
from the now well-nigh forgotten Victorian era, had not been altogether
relaxed. It was a phrase, a sentence, which had impressed itself upon
his childish imagination, and had, for years, stood between him, and
his father, the King. His father had been the Lord's Anointed. As a
child he had not dared to put forth his hand to touch him! For years,
he had lived in awe, almost in fear, of his own father. Perhaps this
was why, even down to the day of his death, the King had always seemed
to him to be a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote. Perhaps this
was partly why, he himself, now that he was King, was so constantly
conscious of his own intolerable isolation.

 "And I said I will not put forth mine hand to touch my King, for he is
 the Lord's Anointed."

If Button and Bill, particularly Bill, whose chubby arms were, even
now, tightening around him, knew his real identity, knew that he was
the King, "the Lord's Anointed," not a fairy tale King, not a King
of their own childish play, but _the_ King, in whose procession they
had thought Uncle Alfred might have a place, would not they live in
awe of him, would not they fear him, would not the present delightful
spontaneity, the fearlessness, the frank embraces, of their intercourse
with him, be irreparably injured?

Yes. His decision of the night before must stand.

Button and Bill must never know, Judith and Uncle Bond must never
know, his real identity.

At that moment, Judith knocked at the bedroom door.

"Good morning, Alfred. The bathroom is yours, and the Imps, if you
don't mind having them with you, and letting them have a splash," she
called out cheerily. "But no flood in the passage, this morning, mind!
Breakfast in half an hour, on the verandah. We shall be by ourselves.
Uncle Bond has had another bad night. 'Cynthia' has failed him again.
He daren't face eggs and bacon in public, he says. Hurry up, Imps. Big
sponge, floating soap, and bath towels, at the double."

"I'm first!" Button shrieked, making a wild dive for the door.

"I'd rather be last!" Bill explained, quite unconcerned, lingering to
give the King a final hug.

"If I'm last, I shall be able to float 'Ironclad Willie,' and
'Snuffles,' shan't I? They haven't had a swim--for _ever_ so long--poor
dears."

'Ironclad Willie,' and 'Snuffles,' were a large china fish, and a small
china duck, which Bill sometimes forgot, and sometimes remembered at
bath time.

A hilarious, crowded, half hour followed. It was a half hour lit up,
for the King, by the blended innocence and mischief which shone in the
Imps' eyes, a half hour set to music for him by the Imps' gurgling
chuckles, and radiant, childish laughter. First came the bathroom,
where the Imps splashed and twisted in the bath, their brown, wriggling
little bodies as lithe and supple as those of young eels; where Bill,
lost in a huge bath towel, demanded assistance in drying all the back
places and corners; where Button solemnly lathered his chin, just
as Uncle Alfred lathered his chin; where Bill was, for one terrible
moment, in imminent peril of his life, as he grabbed at the case of
shining razors. Then came the bedroom again, where odd, queer-shaped
little garments had to be turned right side out, and buttons and
strings had to be fastened, and tied. Innocency, fearlessness, trust,
mischief, and laughter were inextricably mingled in it all, with
laughter predominating, the radiant laughter of the happy child,
ignorant of evil.

All this was all as it had always been, and, for that reason, it all
made a more poignant appeal, than ever before, this morning, to the
King.

Breakfast was served, as Judith had promised, out on the sunlit
verandah.

One glance at Judith, as he approached the breakfast table, assured the
King that it was the old Judith with whom he had to deal.

Dressed in white, and as fresh and cool as the morning, Judith was
already in her place, at the head of the table, hospitably entrenched
behind the coffee pot.

She looked up at the King, with her customary little nod, and friendly
smile.

"You slept? You are rested? It was dreamless sleep? Good boy!" she said.

And she poured out his coffee.

From that moment, they fell, easily and naturally, into their usual
routine.

Intimate conversation, with the Imps at the table, was out of the
question. An occasional glance, a sympathetic smile, was all that
could pass between them. The King was well content to have it so. He
was pleasantly conscious that the accord between them, which had been
so inexplicably broken, for a time, the night before, was completely
restored. Their friendship was unimpaired. Nothing else mattered.
Looking at Judith, cool, competent, and self-contained, as she was, he
found himself almost doubting the actuality of the emotional crisis of
the night before. Had that scene in the night nursery been a dream? A
mere figment of his own fevered, disordered imagination?

The birds whistled, and called cheerily from the sunlit greenness of
the garden.

The Imps chattered like magpies as they attacked their porridge.

It was a merry, informal, delightfully domestic meal.

This, it seemed to the King, was his only real life. That other life
of his in the palace, guarded, night and day, by the soldiery, and the
police, was the illusion, was the dream.

But the meal was, inevitably, a hurried one, and it ended, abruptly,
and all too soon, when Judith rose suddenly to her feet, and drove the
Imps before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to Diana's
foal in the paddock.

No word of farewell was spoken.

It had become an understood thing, part of the usual routine, that the
King should never say good-bye.

Left alone, the King leant back in his chair, and filled, and lit, his
pipe. He always lingered for awhile, beside the disordered breakfast
table, on these occasions, so that he could savour to the full, the
peace, the quietness, and the beauty of his surroundings. He had learnt
to store up such impressions in his memory, so that he could invoke
them, for his own encouragement, in his darker hours. And, it was more
than probable, that if he waited a few minutes, Uncle Bond would come
out to speak to him. A sentence or two, from Judith's talk the night
before, recurred to him now. Uncle Bond, really worried, was a new, and
strange, phenomenon. If he could cheer the little man up, as Judith had
suggested, he would be glad. He owed a great deal to Uncle Bond.

A thrush, perched at the top of a tall fir tree, near the house,
whistled blithely.

The minutes passed.

Uncle Bond did not come.

At last, the King glanced reluctantly at his watch. It was seven
o'clock. It was time for him to go. He must be back in the palace by
eight o'clock, at the latest. He stood up. Then, conscious of a keen
sense of disappointment at not seeing Uncle Bond, over and above the
depression which he always felt when the moment came for him to leave
Paradise, he stepped down off the verandah, and moved slowly round the
side of the house, through the sunlit garden, towards the garage.

He had no hope of seeing Judith, or even the Imps, again. They would
stay in the paddock, or in the hayfields beyond, until he had driven
away, clear of the house, and the garden.




CHAPTER VI


Uncle Bond, as it proved, had been waiting for him, all the time, at
the garage.

The little man had run the King's car, out of the garage, into the
drive. Already seated himself in the car, he looked up, as the King
approached, with a mischievous twinkle in his spectacled eyes, and a
droll smile puckering his round, double-chinned, clean-shaven face.

"Good morning, my boy, I'm going to see you along the main road, for
a mile or two," he announced. "I shall have to walk back. That will
be good for me. Judith says I'm getting fat! Thought I was cutting
you, didn't you? I thought that I'd stage a little surprise for you.
Astonishment is good for the young. It is the only means we old fogies
have left, nowadays, of keeping you youngsters properly humble. The
Imps have taught me that! Jump in! I want to talk to you."

The King looked at the corpulent little man, and laughed.

"I was feeling absurdly disappointed, because I hadn't seen you, Uncle
Bond," he confessed.

Putting on his thick leather motor coat, and adjusting his goggles,
which the little man had placed in readiness for him, on the vacant
seat at the steering wheel, the King got into the car, and started the
engine.

"The first mile in silence!" Uncle Bond directed. "If possible I have
got to assume an unaccustomed air of gravity. And drive slowly. The
subtlety of that suggestion probably escapes you. A bar or two of slow
music and--enter emotion! When I chuckle again, you can change your
gear."

Away from the house, down the short, sunlit drive, and out into, and
up, the narrow tree-shadowed lane beyond, the King drove slowly, and in
silence, as the little man had directed.

All but buried under the big, black sombrero-like felt hat, which it
was his whim to affect, in grotesque contrast with the light, loosely
cut shooting clothes which were his habitual wear, Uncle Bond sat
low down in his seat in the car, on the King's left. In spite of
his invocation of gravity, gravity remained far from him. Nothing
could altogether efface the mischievous twinkle which lurked in his
spectacled eyes, or blot out, for long, the mocking smile which
puckered his mobile lips. But the King knew Uncle Bond well enough to
realize that he was unusually thoughtful. What was it Judith had said?
It was almost as if Uncle Bond had something on his mind. Judith was
right. The little man, clearly, at any rate, had something that he
wanted to say.

It was not until the car had swung out of the lane, and headed for
London, was sweeping down the broad, and, at this comparatively early
hour of the morning, empty, Great North Road, that Uncle Bond spoke.

"We have not seen very much of you, lately, my boy," he remarked.
"You have been busy, no doubt. In the Service, you young men are not
your own masters, of course. And Judith tells me that they have even
made the mistake of giving you--promotion. I have been wondering if
that--promotion--is likely to make your visits to us more difficult,
and so rarer? The increasing responsibility, the increasing demands on
your energy, and on your time, which your--promotion--has, no doubt,
brought with it, will, perhaps, interfere with your visits to us?
Perhaps you will have to discontinue your visits to us, altogether, for
a time?"

Although his own eyes were, of necessity, fixed on the stretch of the
broad, empty, sunlit road, immediately in front of the throbbing car,
the King was uncomfortably aware that Uncle Bond was watching him
narrowly as he spoke. This, then, was the something that the little
man had on his mind. Suspicion? Doubt? Doubt of him? Doubt of his
loyalty to his friends? In spite of the little man's suave manner, and
carefully chosen phrases, it seemed to the King that the inference was
unmistakable. It was an astonishing inference to come from Uncle Bond.
Discontinue his visits? This, when he had just been congratulating
himself on the unchanged nature of his intimacy with Judith, and with
the Imps, so unexpectedly, and seriously, threatened, the night before,
but so thoroughly and happily, re-established, that morning. Had he not
made up his mind that all was to be as it had always been? But Uncle
Bond knew nothing about that, of course.

"My--promotion--will not interfere with my visits to you, and to
Judith, Uncle Bond," he declared.

"You are sure of that?" Uncle Bond persisted.

"Absolutely certain," the King exclaimed, and in spite of his efforts
to suppress it, a note of rising irritation sounded in his voice.

There was a momentary pause.

Then Uncle Bond chuckled.

"Change your gear, my boy. I chuckled! Change your gear," he crowed. "A
mile or two of real speed will do neither you nor me, any harm, now.
Did I not say--'Enter emotion!' But I did not say that it would be my
emotion, did I? You are the hero of this piece. It is for you the slow
music has to be played. I am only the knockabout comedian, useful for
filling in the drop scenes. Or am I the heavy father? 'Pon my soul,
when I come to think of it, it seems to me that I am destined to double
the two parts."

He laid his hand on the King's arm.

"I like your answer, my boy. It is the answer I expected you to make.
But I could not be sure. Human nature being the unaccountable thing
that it is, I could not be sure. And now, I have another question to
ask you. And I am the heavy father now. If only I could be grave! If
your visits to us are to continue, don't you think it will be, perhaps,
as well for you to be a little more careful about--the conventions,
shall I say? You arrived very late, last night. Judith was alone to
receive you. Such circumstances are liable to be misunderstood, don't
you think? And, although we are all apt to overlook the fact, we are
all--human. A wise man avoids, for his own sake, and for the sake of
others--certain provocations. 'The prudent man forseeth the evil'--but
the quotation would be lost on you. A text for my sermon!"

The King had, automatically, let out the car, in response to Uncle
Bond's direction. He applied all his brakes, and slowed the car down
again now, on his own behalf. He wanted to be able to breathe, to think.

This was the first time Uncle Bond had ever spoken to him in this
way. The wonder, of course, was that he had never spoken to him, in
this way, before. Did the little man know what had happened the night
before? No. That was impossible. Judith would not, Judith could not,
have disclosed what had happened to him. It must be his own unerring
instinct, his own sure knowledge of human nature, which had prompted
the little man to deliver this sermon. This sermon? This generous,
kindly, tactful, whimsical reproof. How well deserved the reproof was,
the events of the night before had shown.

"I am sorry, Uncle Bond. I have been very thoughtless," he said. "It
will not happen again."

"Judith and I appreciate your visits, my boy," Uncle Bond continued.
"It would be a matter of very great regret to--both of us--if we found
that we had--to limit, in any way--the hospitality, which we have been
so glad to offer you. We wish, we both wish, to maintain our present,
pleasant relationship, unchanged. That is your wish, too, I think?"

The King let out the car once again. His emotions, his thoughts
required, now, the relief of speed.

"Somehow, I can never bear to think of any change, where you, and
Judith, and the Imps are concerned, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed.
"Somehow, I can never think of you, except all together, in the
surroundings you have made your own. And that is strange, you know! We
are all, as you say--human. Judith--Judith is the superior of every
woman I have ever met. Her place is, her place ought to be, by right,
at the head of the procession. And yet, somehow, I can never see her
there!"

Uncle Bond sat very still.

"At the head of the procession?" he murmured. "Is that so enviable a
position, my boy? Ask the man, ask the men, you find there!"

He chuckled then unaccountably.

The King winced. It was only one of the chance flashes of cynicism,
with which Uncle Bond salted his talk, of course. But how true, and
apposite, to his own position, and experience, the remark was!

"And, if the head of the procession is no enviable place for a man,
what would it be for a woman, for a woman with a heart?" Uncle Bond
proceeded. "'Pon my soul, I am talking pure 'Cynthia'!" he exclaimed.
"'Cynthia' has begun to function, at last! That last sentence was in
the lazy minx's best style. Judith will have told you that 'Cynthia'
has been giving me a lot of trouble lately? You have lured her back,
my boy. I thank you! You always attract her. She has a weakness for
handsome young men. Her heroes are always Apollos."

He half turned, in his seat, towards the King.

"My boy, I will offer you another piece of advice," he remarked. "It
is a mistake I do not often make." His habits of speech were too much
for him. Even now, when he was patently in earnest, the little man
could not be grave. "My advice is this--never attempt to put, never
think, even in your own mind, of putting Judith, at the head of any
procession. It is not Judith's place. Her place is in the background,
the best place, the place that the best women always choose, in life.
'Cynthia' again! Pure 'Cynthia'! Welcome, you minx! If you ever
attempt to take Judith out of the background, out of the background
which she has chosen for herself, you will encounter inevitable
disappointment, and cause yourself, and so her, pain. And you will
spoil the--friendship--between you and Judith, which I have found so
much--pleasure in watching. That is not 'Cynthia.' It is myself, plain
James Bond. My advice, you see, like everybody else's, is, by no means,
disinterested."

The King smiled at the little man, almost in spite of himself. This was
the true Uncle Bond. This was Uncle Bond's way.

"I wonder if you are right, Uncle Bond? I am afraid, my own feeling
suggests, that you are," he murmured. "And yet, somehow, I am not
sure--"

Unconsciously, he slowed down the car, yet once again, as he spoke.
The little man had stirred thoughts in him which required deliberate,
and careful, expression.

"I have not thought very much about the procession, myself, until just
lately," he said. "But it seems to me, you know, that we none of us,
men and women alike, have very much to do with our place in the files.
I have never believed in chance. And I am not, I think, a fatalist. And
yet, you know, it seems to me that the procession catches us up, and
sweeps us along, at the head or the tail, as the case may be, whether
we will or no. A man may be caught up, suddenly, into the procession,
and swept along with it, into some position, which he never expected to
fill, which he would rather not fill, but from which he seems to have
no chance of escape. Has he any chance of escape? It is the procession
that controls us, I think, not we who control the procession. What do
you think? Can a man escape? Can any of us ever really choose our place
in the files?"

Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.

"Judith told me that they had been overworking you, my boy. Judith,
as usual, was right," he remarked. "You appear to me to be in grave
danger of becoming most satisfactorily morbid. Liver! Almost certainly
liver! But about this procession of yours. 'Pon my soul, the figure,
the fancy, is not unworthy of 'Cynthia' herself. It would make a
useful purple passage. Not for serial publication, of course. We cut
them out there. But we put them in again, when the time comes for the
stuff to go into book form. The procession of life! Yes. The idea is
quite sufficiently threadbare. The one essential, for the successful
production of money-making fiction is, of course, to be threadbare.
Give the public what they have had before! But you are interested in
the procession, not in the literary market. Can a man, or a woman,
choose their place in the files? I say 'yes!'

"Once or twice, in the life of every man and woman, I believe, come
moments, when they must choose their place in the files, moments when
they have to decide whether they will stay where they are, whether they
will fight to hold the place they have, whether they will shoulder
their way forward, or whether they will fall out, to one side, or to
the rear. All my life, I have been watching the procession, my boy.
That is why I have grown so fat! It is many years, now, since I decided
to step out of the procession, to one side, and I have been watching
it sweep past, ever since. A brave show! But we have been talking
glibly of the head and the tail of the procession. Where are they? I
have never found them. I have never seen them. All I have ever seen is
that the procession is there, and that it moves. But, no doubt, the
band is playing--somewhere--

"But you are young, and they have just given you--promotion! You are
in the procession, sweeping through the market-place, with all the
flags flying, and the band, as I say, playing--somewhere. But I, and
Judith, we are a little to one side, in the background, watching you,
in the procession, from one of the windows of the quiet, old-fashioned
inn, at the corner of the market-place, the quiet, old-fashioned inn
on the signboard of which is written, in letters of gold, 'Content.'
Your instinct will probably, and very properly, prompt you to fight
for your place in the files, when the other fellows tread too hard on
your heels. But, whether you fight for your place or not, whether you
come out at the head or the tail of the procession, wherever the head
and tail may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether,
whatever happens to you, my boy, Judith and I will always be glad
to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our
window. You will remember that?

"And what do you think of that, as a purple passage, my boy? 'Pon my
soul, it seems to me, now, that 'Cynthia' is functioning, she is in
quite her best vein. I must get back home with her, at once. Pull up on
this side of the signpost. I must not advance a foot into Hades, this
morning, or I shall lose touch with the minx. She ought to be good for
five or six thousand words today. And they are badly needed. The new
story is three instalments behind the time-table already. It is the
villain of the new piece, who is giving us trouble. Even 'Cynthia,'
herself, is tired of him, I believe. He is a sallow person, with a
pair of black, bushy eyebrows, which run up and down his forehead,
with a regularity which is depressing. Two or three times, in each
instalment, the confounded things go up and down, like sky-rockets. He
lives in a mysterious house, in one of the mean streets, in the new
artistic quarter, in Brixton. The house is full of Eastern furniture,
and glamour. That is threadbare enough, isn't it? And I am using back
numbers of 'Punch,' for humour."

Once again, the King let out the car. He knew Uncle Bond well enough
to recognize that the little man was talking extravagantly now, to hide
the note of sincere personal feeling, which had sounded unmistakably
in his talk of the procession, although he had been so careful to
attribute it all to 'Cynthia.' It was on occasions such as this, after
one of his sudden flashes of sincerity, that Uncle Bond became most
outrageously flippant. Nothing but burlesque humour, and grotesque,
extravagant nonsense was to be expected from him now.

At the moment, flippancy jarred on the King. His attention had been
riveted by the little man's vivid, figurative talk of the procession,
so peculiarly apposite, as it was, to his own position, and the
assurance of unchanging friendship, with which it had ended, had moved,
and humbled him. He did not deserve, in view of his concealment of his
real identity, he had no right to accept, such friendship.

But Uncle Bond never did the expected thing!

Now, as the throbbing car leapt forward, and swept along the broad,
sunlit road at its highest speed, the little man became suddenly
silent. A new mood of abstraction seemed to fall upon him. It was
almost as if he had still something on his mind, as if there was still
something which he wanted to say.

Soon the Paradise-Hades signpost, to which the King himself had
introduced the little man, flashed into view, on the right of the road.

The King at once pulled up the car, well on the Paradise side of the
post.

Uncle Bond threw off his unusual abstraction, in a moment, and
scrambled, nimbly enough, out of the car.

The little man tested the car door carefully, to make sure that he had
fastened it securely behind him.

Then he looked up at the King, with an odd, provocative twinkle in his
mischievous, spectacled eyes.

"If I were you, Alfred, I should fight for my place in the procession,
if necessary," he remarked. "Fight for your place, if necessary, my
boy! After all, you are young, and they have just given you--promotion.
I have a shrewd suspicion that you would not be satisfied, for long,
by the view from our window, in the quiet, old-fashioned, inn of
'Content.' You would soon want to alter the signboard inscription,
I fancy. An occasional glance through the window is all very well.
It is restful. It serves its purpose. But a taste for the stir,
the bustle, the jostling, and the dust and the clamour, in the
market-place, is pretty deeply implanted in all of us. To be in the
movement! It is, almost, the universal disease. A man, who is a man,
a young man, wants to be in the thick of things, in the hurly-burly,
in the street below. What is there for him in a window view? Fight for
your place, if necessary, my boy! And, if you decide to fight, fight
with a good grace, and with all your heart. It is the half-hearted
men, it is the half-hearted women, who fail. The best places in the
procession--whether they are at the head or the tail, and where the
head and the tail are, who knows?--like the best seats at the inn
windows, in the background, fall to the men, fall to the women, who
know what they want, who know their own mind.

"But, now, I must walk!"

And with that, and with no other leave-taking, Uncle Bond swung round
abruptly, and set off, with surprising swiftness, for so small, and so
corpulent a man, straight back along the road.

Automatically, the King restarted the car.

Then he turned in his seat, to wave his hand, in farewell, to Uncle
Bond.

But Uncle Bond did not look round.

The King glanced at his watch. It was already half past seven. He had
a good deal of time to make up. But he could do it. He opened out the
car, now, to its fullest extent. The powerful engine responded, at
once, to his touch, and the car shot forward--out of Paradise into
Hades!

For once the King was unconscious of this transition. He was thinking
of the procession, of Uncle Bond, of Judith, and of himself; their
seats at the inn window; his place in the files. Must the whole width
of the market-place always lie between them? Must it always be only
occasionally, and with some risk--the risk he was running now--that he
stepped out of the procession, and slipped, secretly, into the quiet
"inn of Content," to look through their window, to stand, for a few
moments, at their side? They were in the background. He was at the head
of the procession. At the head? Who knew, who could say, where the head
or the tail was? Was the band playing--somewhere? He had never heard
it. Would he tire of the window view--soon? Was he not tired already,
of his place in the files?

Fight for his place? Must he fight? A fight was something. The other
fellows were treading very hard on his heels. But was his place worth
fighting for? Did he want it? He had not chosen it. It had been thrust
upon him. The moments of decision, when a man had to choose his place
in the files, about which Uncle Bond had spoken so confidently, had
never come to him. Moments of decision? What could he, what did he,
ever decide? In the very fight for his place, which was impending,
he would not be allowed to commit himself. The fight would be fought
for him, all around him, and he, the man most concerned, was the one
man who could not, who would not be allowed, to take a side. It was
all arranged for him. The old Duke of Northborough, the lightning
conductor, would take the shock! And the result? Did he know what he
wanted? Did he know his own mind? A half-hearted man! What a faculty
Uncle Bond had for hitting on a phrase, a sentence, that stuck, that
recurred. It described him. A half-hearted King. A half-hearted friend.
A half-hearted--lover.

But was it altogether his fault? Was it not his position, his
intolerable isolation, his responsibility, which, by a bitter paradox,
was without responsibility, that had thrown his whole life out of gear,
and paralysed his will? As a sailor, in his own chosen profession,
with responsibility, with the command of men, he had held his own, more
than held his own, with his peers. He had had his place, an honourable
place, amongst men of the same seniority as himself, and the Navy took
the best men, the pick of the country. Yes. He knew what he wanted
now. A moment of decision. A moment in which he could be himself. A
moment in which he could assert himself, assert his own individuality,
recklessly, violently, prove that he was not a half-hearted man, not an
automaton, not an overdressed popinjay--

At this point, the appearance of a certain amount of traffic on the
road, as the car swept into the fringe of the outer suburbs, and
the more careful driving which it entailed, broke the thread of the
King's thoughts. The inevitable lowering of the speed of the car which
followed, served to remind him anew that he still had a good deal of
time to make up, thanks to his loitering with Uncle Bond, if he was
to be successful in effecting his return to the palace unobserved.
His rising anxiety about this now all important matter led him
thenceforward to concentrate the whole of his attention on his handling
of the car.




CHAPTER VII


In the outer suburbs, milkmen, postmen, and boys delivering newspapers,
were moving from door to door, in the quiet streets of villas. The
tramcars, and later the buses, which the car caught up, and passed,
were crowded with workmen, being carried at "Workmen's Fares." The shop
fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early morning sunlight, with
their Coronation flags and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a
thin trickle of men and women in the streets, moving in the direction
of the railway stations, gave promise already of the impending rush
of the business crowd. Coronation Day had come, and gone. The public
holiday was over. Now there was work toward.

At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by which broad thoroughfare he
approached, as he had escaped from, the town, the King deliberately
varied the route which he had followed the night before. Heading the
car straight on down Charing Cross Road, through Trafalgar Square,
and so into Whitehall, he turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It
was by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria Station, that he
ultimately approached the palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor
Place. He did this to avoid the neighbourhood of the parks, and
possible recognition by early morning riders, on their way to and from
Rotten Row.

Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, deserted. In the secluded,
shut-in mews, behind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. In
a very few minutes, the King had successfully garaged the car. Then he
slipped hurriedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road was happily
still empty, and he reached the small, green, wooden door in the palace
garden wall, without encountering anything more formidable than a stray
black cat. A black cat which shared his taste for night walking. A
purring black cat, which rubbed its head against his legs. A black cat
for luck!

Unlocking, and opening, the door, the King slipped into the palace
garden.

The door swung to behind him.

All need for anxiety, for haste, and for precaution was now at an end.

It was only just eight o'clock.

Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the King reached the palace
without meeting any one, on the way. Sometimes, on these occasions, he
ran into gardeners, early at work, a policeman, patrolling the walks,
or some member of the household staff; but such encounters never caused
him any anxiety. Why should not the King take a stroll in the garden,
before breakfast? Had he not been known to dive into the garden lake
for an early morning swim, and had not the fact been duly recorded in
all the newspapers?

He entered the palace by the door through which he had escaped the
night before, and so, mounting the private staircase, which led up to
his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing room, unchallenged.

The creation of a certain amount of necessary disorder in his bedroom,
and a partial undressing, were the work of only a few minutes.

Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the
palace servants would be, already anxiously listening.

It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who
answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day.

"Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered.
"See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath
ready, and lay out the clothes."

Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the
excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey,
lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the
half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing
room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit
garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast.

The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green
shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously
clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they
soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life,
traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively
easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which
the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal.

A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of
his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the
Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the
breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark,
and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who
was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With
a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased
the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on
his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too
shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King.
He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to
grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of
genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for
his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast
to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon
him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed
likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman.
She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.

What would the future bring to this fresh, unspoilt, sister of his? "A
woman, a woman with a heart, at the head of the procession." Another
of Uncle Bond's phrases! What an insight the little man had into the
possibilities of positions, and situations, which he could only
have known in imagination, in the imagination which he wasted on the
construction of his grotesquely improbable tales! He must do what he
could for this fresh, unspoilt sister of his. That would be little
enough in all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to her, and thank
her for her letter. That was an attention which would please her.

Producing a small, morocco bound, memorandum tablet, which he always
carried about with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King made a note
to remind him to write to the Princess, in one of the intervals of his
busy official day.

"Write to Betty."

Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and bacon, and coffee. He did
not notice that they were cold. This letter of his sister's had turned
his thoughts to--the Family!

He was the Head of the Family now. Somehow, he had hardly realized the
fact before. In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it would be
absolutely necessary for him, to try to get to know something about the
various members of the Family. His early distaste for Court life, his
absorption in his own chosen profession, his frequent absences at sea,
had made him, of course, little better than a stranger to the rest
of the Family. And, if they knew little or nothing about him, he knew
less than nothing about them. The Prince had been the only member of
the Family with whom he had had any real intimacy, since the far off
nursery days they had all shared together, the only link between him
and the others. And now the Prince was dead.

This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would probably be worth knowing.
Any girl, who recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. And there
was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, and was likely to remain, Heir
Apparent. And William? William had looked a very bright, and engaging
youngster, in his naval cadet's uniform, the day before. The others?
The others did not matter. But Lancaster, and William, and Betty, he
must get to know. And now, at the outset of their new relationship, he
had a favourable opportunity to take steps in the matter, which would
not recur. He could let them know that he was their brother, as well
as--the King! No doubt, they had their problems, and difficulties, just
as he had his. He would do what he could, to make life easy for them.
After all, it was quite enough that one member of the Family, at a
time, should be condemned to the intolerable isolation, and the dreary,
treadmill round of the palace.

Might he not usefully begin, at once, with Lancaster? He could send a
message to Lancaster, asking him to join him, at his informal lunch,
at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had always seemed, to him, a dull,
rather heavy, conventional, commonplace person; but there might be
something human in him, after all. Perhaps, at an informal intimate
encounter, he might be able to establish some contact with him, and
get him to talk a little about himself. That would be interesting, and
useful. Yes. Lancaster should provide his first experiment in Family
research.

Picking up his memorandum tablet again, from where he had dropped it on
the breakfast table, the King made another note, to remind him to send
the necessary message to Lancaster during the morning.

"Send message to Lancaster."

The fact that he was not sure whether Lancaster, or even William, would
still be in town, emphasized, in his own mind, his ignorance of the
Family.

At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen approached the table. One
of them removed the used dishes and plates. The other placed a stand of
fresh fruit in front of the King.

The King selected an apple, and proceeded to munch it like any
schoolboy.

It was a good apple.

After all, life had its compensations!

And, he suddenly realized now, he was beginning to take hold of his
job, at last. This decision of his to tackle the Family, to get to
know them personally, was his own decision. It was an expression of
his own individuality, the exercise of his own will. The thought gave
him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. Perhaps, after all, there
was going to be some scope, some freedom, for his own personality,
in his place in the procession, more scope, more freedom than he had
been inclined to think. His own shoulders, directed by his own brain,
might make a difference in the jostling in the market-place. If the
opportunity arose, he would put his weight into the scrimmage.

The King finished his apple, and then filled and lit his pipe.

The footmen cleared away the breakfast things.

Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the bright morning sunlight, the
King leant back in his chair.

It was another wonderful summer day. Overhead the sky was a luminous,
cloudless blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green of the trees,
and on the more vivid green of the lawn. The garden flower beds were
gay with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One or two birds whistled
pleasantly from the neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling
strutted about the lawn, digging for worms.

A sense of general well-being stirred in the King, a sense of
well-being which surprised him, for a moment, but only for a moment.
It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, with Judith. Always he
returned to the palace refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest
for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of mere living. Somehow, he
must see to it, that his--promotion--did not interfere with his visits
to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must see to it--in the interest of the
State! He smiled as the words occurred to him. In the interest of the
State? What would his fellow victims of the State, of the people, the
old Duke of Northborough, for example, say to that, if they knew? But
the words were justified. It was to the interest of the State that
he, the King, should obtain, from time to time, the refreshment, the
renewed strength, the zest, the sense of general well-being, of which
he was so pleasantly conscious now.

But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, he must not, he could
not afford to, waste any more of these golden, summer morning moments,
idling here in the garden. The avalanche of correspondence in the
post bags, and the official documents, and dispatches, which had
accumulated, during the last day or two, owing to the special demands
on his time made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in the palace.
Long hours of desk work lay before him. The thought did not displease
him. He was in the mood for work. Here was something he could put
his weight into. Here was an opportunity for individual action, and
self-expression, an opportunity for the exercise of his own judgment,
driving power, decision.

Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up abruptly.

Then, whistling gaily, an indication of cheerfulness which had grown
very rare with him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re-entered the
palace, on his way back to duty.




CHAPTER VIII


It was in the palace library, a large and lofty room on the ground
floor, with a row of tall windows overlooking the garden, that the
King spent his office hours. The library was strictly reserved for
his use alone. The secretaries, who served his personal needs, were
accommodated in a smaller room adjoining, which communicated with
the library by folding doors. Although he was compelled to maintain,
in this way, the isolation which was so little to his taste, it
was characteristic of the King, in his dealings with his immediate
subordinates, that he should take some pains not to appear too patently
the man apart. This was the way they had taught him in the Navy. On
more than one "happy ship," on which he had served, the King had learnt
that, to get good work out of subordinates, it was expedient to treat
them as fellow workers, and equals, as men, although graded differently
in rank, for the purposes of discipline, and pay. It was in more or
less mechanical application of this principle, that, still whistling
gaily, he chose now, to enter the library, not directly, but through
the secretaries' room adjoining.

In the airy, sunny, secretaries' room, the low murmur of talk, and the
clatter of typewriters, which seem inseparable from office work, ceased
abruptly. There was a general, hurried, pushing back of chairs. Then
the half dozen men and women in the room rose, hastily, to their feet.
They had not expected to see the King so early. After the exhausting
Coronation ceremony of the day before, and the heavy demands on his
strength, which the day, as a whole, had made, they had expected him
to rest. And here he was, a little before his usual time, if anything,
buoyant, and vigorous, and laughing goodhumouredly at their surprise
and confusion, ready apparently to attack the accumulation of papers
which they had waiting for him.

With a genial nod, which seemed to be directed to each man and woman
present, individually, the King passed quickly through the room, into
the library beyond, opening and shutting the intervening folding doors
for himself, with a sailor's energy.

The secretaries, men and women alike, turned, and looked at each other,
and smiled.

Although he was, of necessity, ignorant of the fact, the King had left
interested, and very willing fellow workers behind him.

The library was almost too large, and too lofty a room to be
comfortably habitable. Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and
its row of tall windows, the eight or nine thousand volumes, which
filled the wire fronted bookcases, which ran round two sides of the
room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a dead and musty air. These
books were for show, not for use. No one ever took them down from the
shelves. No one ever read them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace
librarian, himself, was more concerned with the rarities amongst them,
and with his catalogue, than with their contents. But the books, musty
monuments of dead men's brains, as he regarded them, were not the
King's chief complaint. A number of Family portraits, which usurped the
place of the bookcases, here and there, on the lofty walls, were his
real grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism had grown up between him
and these portraits. They always seemed to be watching him, watching
him, and disapproving of him. The mere thought of them sufficed to
check his good spirits, now, as he entered the library. As he sat down
at his writing table, he turned, and looked round at them defiantly.

The writing table stood as close up to the row of tall windows, on
the south side of the library, as was possible. The windows, with
their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of the garden, were on the
King's left, as he sat at the table. Straight in front of him were the
undecorated, black oak panels of the folding doors which led into the
secretaries' room. On his right on the north wall of the library, were
many of the books, and three of the portraits.

First of all, there, in the corner by the folding doors, was a portrait
of his grandfather, in the Coronation robes, and full regalia, which he
himself had been compelled to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded
man, with a masterful mouth, which was not hidden by his beard. A
King. Further along, on the right, past several square yards of books,
hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, marble mantelpiece, in
the centre of the north wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field
Marshal's uniform, with his breast covered with decorations; a man
apart, isolated, lonely, remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A
King, too. Then, past more books, in the furthest corner of the room,
by the door, came the portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding
figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, marvellously painted. A
Queen. And a hard woman, hard with her children, and harder still with
herself, where what she had held to be a matter of Family duty had been
concerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet more books, on the
east wall, behind him, was the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince
of Wales, a more human portrait this, to see which, as he sat at the
writing table, he had to swing right round in his revolving chair; the
Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding breeches, and top boots, of
the hunting field, which had been his favourite recreation, leaning a
little forward, it seemed, and smiling out of the canvas with the smile
which had won him so much, and such well deserved popularity.

All these had borne the Family burden, without complaint. All these had
accepted the great responsibility of their position, without question,
and even with a certain Royal pride. They had made innumerable, never
ending sacrifices.

And he? An unwilling King? A half-hearted King?

No wonder they disapproved of him!

The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing
table again.

An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate,
he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could
show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the
Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had
individuality, force of character, driving power, decision--

Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been
arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a
carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the
right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one
or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's
Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the
table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out"
boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning
sunlight, emptier than emptiness.

An almost bewildering array of labour saving devices, stamping,
sealing, and filing machines, completed the furnishing of the table.
These, the King swept, at once, contemptuously to one side. The
telephone instrument, which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was
the only labour saving device he ever used. A plain, and rather shabby
fountain pen, and two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were the
instruments with which he did his work. It was not until he had found
these favourite weapons of attack, and placed them ready to his hand,
on his right, that he set himself to deal with the accumulation of
papers in front of him.

The letters in the "In" boxes were his first concern. These he had
merely to approve, by transferring them to the "Out" boxes, ready for
posting. It was a transfer which he could safely have made, which he
very often did make, without reading a single letter. His personal
correspondence was in the capable hands of Lord Blaine, who had served
his father, as private secretary, for many years before him. But
this morning, in his new determination to find an outlet for his own
individuality, the King elected to read each of the letters through
carefully. Lord Blaine had acquired a happy tact, in the course of
his long experience, in answering the letters, from all sorts and
conditions of people, which found their way into the Royal post bags,
which was commonly considered beyond criticism.

None the less, now, as he read the letters, a conviction grew upon the
King that not a few of the courtly old nobleman's phrases had become
altogether stereotyped.

One letter, in particular, addressed to some humble old woman, in
a provincial almshouse, congratulating her on her attainment of a
centenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. The old woman had
written a quaint, and wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting
to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of blue pencil, he added, on
the spur of the moment, two or three unconventional sentences of his
own, to Lord Blaine's colourless reply--

 "I am writing this myself. I don't write as well as you do, do I? But
 I thought you might like to have my autograph as one of your hundredth
 birthday presents. This is how I write it--

 "ALFRED. R.I."

Laughing softly to himself the King tossed the letter, thus amended,
into one of the "Out" boxes.

The little incident served to revive his previous good spirits.

Lord Blaine would probably disapprove.

But the old woman would be pleased!

From the correspondence boxes, he turned, in due course, to the
portfolios and files on the left of the table. These contained reports,
and routine summaries from the various Government departments, copies
of official correspondence, one or two Government publications, and
certain minor Cabinet papers, and they required more concentrated
attention. He had to make himself familiar with the contents of the
various documents, and this involved careful reading. An abstract, or
a skilful précis, prepared by his secretaries, and attached to the
papers, occasionally saved his time and labour; but even these had to
be read, and the reading took time. Happily, here, as before, little or
no writing, on his part, was necessary. An initial, and a date, to show
that he had seen the document in question, a few words of comment, or
a curt request for more information, were the only demands made on his
blue pencil.

Documents, and copies of correspondence, from the Foreign and Dominion
Offices, held the King's attention longest. To him these were not
"duty" papers, as were so many of the others. The place names, the
names of the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion statesmen, and
administrators, which occurred in these papers, were familiar to him,
thanks to the many ports, and countries, the many men and cities, he
had seen in his varied naval service. Here and there, in these papers,
a single word would shine out, at times, from the typewritten page
in front of him, which conjured up, a vision, perhaps, of one of the
world's most beautiful roadsteads, or a mental picture of the strong
and rugged features of some man, who was a power, a living force,
amongst his fellows, in the wilder places of the earth, or a vivid
memory of the cool and spacious rooms of some Eastern club house where
men, who lived close to the elemental facts of life, gathered to make
merry, and to show unstinted hospitality to the stranger. Here he was
on sure ground. Here, he knew, his comments were often of real value.
He had seen the country. He had met, and talked with, the men on the
spot. Frequently, his knowledge of the questions raised in these papers
was quite as comprehensive, and as intimate, as that of the oldest
permanent officials in Whitehall.

At the end of an hour and a half of hard and methodical work, the King
became suddenly aware that he had made considerable progress in his
attack on the accumulation of papers in front of him.

Leaning back in his chair he touched a bell which stood on the table
beside him.

The folding doors, leading into the secretaries' room, were immediately
opened, and a tall, fair, good looking young man, who was chiefly
remarkable for the extreme nicety of his immaculate morning dress,
entered the library, in answer to the summons.

The King indicated the now full "Out" boxes, with a gesture, which
betrayed his satisfaction, and even suggested a certain boyish pride,
in the visible result of his labour.

"Anything more coming in?" he enquired.

"Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Government Circulations are
all unusually late this morning, sir," the tall young man replied,
approaching the table, and picking up the "Out" boxes for removal to
the secretaries' room.

The King was filling his pipe now. He felt that he had earned a smoke.

"Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?" he enquired, with a merry twinkle in
his eyes.

He had suddenly realized that this was Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal
tenant of the garage in Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal
purchaser of the car housed there.

Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, as he became conscious of the
liberty into which the King had betrayed him.

"We must organize one of our little incognito excursions, in the near
future, Blunt, I think," the King murmured, looking out through the
tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning glory of the garden.
"We will run out into the country."

At the moment, his thoughts were in Paradise. Judith and the Imps, in
all probability, would be in the hayfields--

"You must be ready for a holiday, sir," Geoffrey Blunt ventured
to remark. "You took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. After
yesterday, we did not expect to see you, so early, this morning, sir."

"No. And that reminds me of something I wanted to say," the King
replied, looking round from the windows, and speaking with a sudden,
marked change of manner. "I can see by the papers which you had waiting
for me, this morning, that you people have all been keeping hard at it
during the last day or two. I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in
the next room, that I expressed my appreciation. That is all now. Let
me see today's Circulations, when they do arrive. I do not want to be
faced with an accumulation of papers, like this morning's, again."

Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geoffrey Blunt bowed, and
withdrew, taking the "Out" boxes with him.

The King smiled to himself as he lit his pipe.

"But who is there to praise me?" he muttered.

Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or two, he gave himself up to
the luxury of the true smoker's idleness.

But had there not been something that he had meant to do, in any
interval of rest, like this, which might occur during the morning?

The morocco bound memorandum tablet, which he produced from his
waistcoat pocket, answered the question--

"Write to Betty."

"Send message to Lancaster."

It was too late to send any message to Lancaster now. A couple of hours
was not sufficient notice to give him of an invitation to lunch. He was
not intimate enough with Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner.
It would be an abuse of his new position, a tactical mistake. The lunch
must be arranged for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, he
scribbled another--

 Lancaster to lunch tomorrow. See him, personally, this afternoon, or
 this evening.

But he could write to Betty!

Clearing a space on the writing table, by pushing to one side the less
urgent documents and papers, which he had retained for subsequent
attention, he picked up his fountain pen; then, when he had found,
after some search, a sheet of note paper sufficiently plain and
unostentatious, to suit his taste, he began to write--

 _Dear Betty_,

 Your letter this morning gave me great pleasure. I do not know that
 there is very much pleasure in this business of being King--

But he got no further.

The folding doors facing him were suddenly reopened.

Then there entered, not Geoffrey Blunt, nor any other member of the
secretarial staff, but--the old Duke of Northborough.

The King looked up with a surprise which at once gave place to a smile
of welcome. This was contrary to all etiquette. But he was glad to
see the old Duke. And it was in deference to his own repeated requests
on the subject that the veteran Prime Minister had lately consented
to make his visits to the palace, in working hours, as informal as
possible.

Putting down his pipe, and his pen, the King stood up to receive the
old statesman.

The Duke, as if to atone for the abruptness of his entry, paused for a
moment on the threshold of the large and lofty room, and bowed, with a
slightly accentuated formality.

The folding doors behind him were closed by unseen hands.

Then he advanced, into the room, towards the King.




CHAPTER IX


An unusually tall man, and a big man, with a breadth of chest, and a
pair of shoulders, which had made him conspicuous, in every assembly,
from his youth up, the Duke still held himself erect, and moved in a
big way. Now, as he advanced into the large and lofty room, the thought
came to the King, that here was a man for whom the room was neither
too large, nor too lofty. While he himself was apt to feel lost in the
library, overpowered by its size, and oppressed by the weight of its
inanimate objects, the Duke moved as if in his natural and fitting
surroundings. The force, the vigour, of the wonderful old man at once
relegated the huge room to its proper place in the background. The
effect was very much as if the library had been a stage scene, in which
the scenery had predominated, until this, the moment when a great actor
entered, and drew all eyes.

It was characteristic of the Duke that he should be dressed with
a carelessness bordering on deliberate eccentricity. The roomy,
comfortable, sombre black office suit, which he was wearing, looked
undeniably shabby, and hung loosely on his giant frame. His head
was large. His hair, which he wore a little longer than most men,
snow-white now but still abundant, was brushed back from his broad
forehead in a crescent wave. His features were massive, and strongly
moulded. His nose was salient, formidable, pugnacious. His mouth
was wide. His lips had even more than the usual fulness common to
most public speakers. But his eyes were the dominant feature of his
face. His eyebrows were still black, thick, and aggressively bushy.
Underneath them, his eyes shone out, luminous and a clear blue, with
the peculiar, piercing, penetrative quality, which seems to endow its
possessor with the power to read the secret, unspoken, thoughts of
other men.

"Enter--the Duke!" the King exclaimed, with an engagingly boyish smile,
as the veteran Prime Minister approached the writing table. "The Duke
could not have entered at a more opportune moment. I was just taking an
'easy.' Shall we stay here, or go out into the garden, or up on to the
roof?"

"We will stay here, I think, if the decision is to rest with me, sir,"
the Duke replied, in his sonorous, deep, and yet attractively mellow
voice. "I bring news, sir. As usual, I have come to talk!"

"Good," the King exclaimed. "Allow me--"

Placing his own revolving chair in position for the Duke, a little way
back from the writing table, as he spoke, he invited him to be seated,
with a gesture.

Then he perched himself on the writing table, facing the old statesman.

The Duke settled himself, deliberately, in the revolving chair,
swinging it round to the right, so that he could escape the brilliant,
summer sunshine, which was streaming into the room, through the row
of tall windows, on his left. His side face, as it was revealed now
to the King, wrinkled and lined by age as it was, had the compelling,
masterful appeal, the conspicuous, uncompromising strength, of an
antique Roman bust.

"I had just begun a letter to my sister, the Princess Elizabeth, when
you came in," the King remarked, maintaining the boyish attitude, which
he could never avoid, which, somehow, he never wished to avoid, in the
Duke's presence. "It suddenly occurred to me, this morning, that I am
the Head of the Family now. I am a poor substitute for my immediate
predecessors, I am afraid." He looked up, as he spoke, at the portraits
on the opposite side of the room. "But I have decided that I must do my
best in my new command."

The Duke looked up in turn. Following the King's glance, his luminous,
piercing eyes rested, for a moment or two, on the portraits.

"None of your immediate predecessors were ever called upon to play so
difficult a part, as you have to play, sir," he said.

Something in the Duke's manner, a note of unexpected vehemence in his
sonorous voice, arrested the King's wandering attention.

His boyishness fell from him.

"What is it?" he asked. "I remember, now, you said you brought news. Is
it--bad news?"

"No. It is good news, sir. I could not bring you better news," the Duke
replied. "But, I am afraid, in spite of all my warnings, you are not
prepared for the announcement which I have to make."

He paused there, for a moment, and looked away from the King.

"The storm, which we have been expecting, for so long, sir," he added,
slowly, dwelling on each word, "is about to break."

The King started, and winced, as if he had been struck.

"The storm?" he exclaimed.

"Is about to break, sir," the Duke repeated.

There was a long, tense pause.

Then, suddenly, the King laughed, a bitter, ironic laugh.

"I have been a fool," he exclaimed. "In my mind, the glass was 'Set
Fair.' I had--forgotten--the storm! I was going to take hold of my job.
I was going to put my full weight into my work. I was even going to
cultivate the Family, as I was telling you--"

He checked himself abruptly.

"What is going to happen?" he asked.

The Duke drew out his watch, an old-fashioned, gold-cased, half hunter,
and looked at it judicially.

"It is now nearly eleven o'clock. In an hour's time, at twelve noon
precisely, a universal, lightning strike will take effect, throughout
the length and breadth of the country, sir," he replied. "All the
public services will cease to run. The individual workman, no matter
where, or how, he is employed, as the clock strikes twelve, will lay
down his tools, put on his coat, and leave his work. Such a strike
is no new thing, you will say. But this is no ordinary strike, sir.
Although whole sections of trades unionists, up and down the country,
we have good ground to believe, have no very clear idea, why they are
striking, although many of their local leaders appear to have been
deceived into the belief that the strike has been called for purely
industrial reasons, we have indubitable evidence that it is designed
as a first step in the long delayed conspiracy to secure the political
ascendency of the proletariat. A little company of revolutionary
extremists have, at last, captured the labour machine, sir. It is they
who are behind this strike. Behind them, I need hardly tell you, are
the Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent, ready,
and eager, to supply arms, ammunition, and money, if the opportunity
arises, on a lavish scale.

"Although we have been expecting the storm for so long, this strike
form, which it has taken, I may confess to you, sir, has come to
us as something of a surprise. The strike leaders, I surmise, are
relying, very largely, on that surprise effect, for their success.
They imagine, they hope, no doubt, that they will find the Government,
elated and thrown off their guard by the success of the Coronation,
unprepared; that, in the chaos, which they believe must ensue, the
whole nation will be at their mercy; that, having demonstrated their
power, they will be able to dictate their own terms. What those terms
would be, sir, there can be no question. Internationalism. Communism. A
Republic. That persistent delusion of the fanatic, and the unpractical
idealist--the Perfect State. Armed revolt was their original plan, sir.
Thanks to the vigilance of our Secret Service Agents, that contingency
has, I believe, been obviated. But the Red Flag is still their symbol,
sir. In the absence of arms, a bloodless revolution appears now to be
their final, desperate dream. They will have a rude awakening, sir. In
less than twenty-four hours they will be--crushed!

"You will remember the alternative, protective schemes, for use in
the event of a national emergency, which I had the honour to lay
before you, for your consideration, a few weeks ago, sir? One of those
schemes, the 'Gamma' scheme, is already in force. At a full meeting of
the Cabinet, held in Downing Street, this morning, sir, the immediate
operation of the 'Gamma' scheme, and the declaration of Martial Law,
on which it is based, were unanimously approved. The military, and
the naval authorities are already making their dispositions. By
this time, the Atlantic, the North Sea, and the Channel Fleets, will
be concentrating. The closing of all the ports, and the blockade
of the whole coast line, provided for in the scheme, will follow
automatically. The military authorities, you will remember, are to take
over the control of the railways, aviation centres, and telegraphic and
wireless stations, and support, and reinforce, the police, as required.
The Home Secretary assures me that the police can be relied upon
implicitly to do their duty. The Chief of the General Staff declares
that the Army, regrettably small as it is, is sufficient to meet all
the demands which are likely to be made upon it. Of the Navy, there
is no need for me to speak to you, sir. In the circumstances, I feel
justified in assuring you, that we have the situation well in hand."

The Duke stood up. To him, the orator, the practised debater, speech
always came more easily, and naturally, when he was on his feet. He
turned now, and faced the King, towering head and shoulders above him,
a formidable, and dominating figure. When he spoke again, there was an
abrupt, compelling, personal note in his sonorous voice.

"I want you to leave the palace, sir. I want you to remove the Court,
at once, into the country," he said. "Do not misunderstand me, sir. I
do not believe that your person is in any danger. I do not anticipate,
as I have already indicated, that we shall be called upon to meet armed
revolt. In any case, Londoners are proverbially loyal. But there will
be rioting, and window smashing, in places, no doubt. Something of the
sort may be attempted, here, at the palace. In the circumstances, it
will be as well, that you should be elsewhere.

"In urging you to leave the palace, and to remove the Court into the
country, I have, too, another, and a more important motive, sir," he
continued. "It is, of course, a fundamental condition, a constitutional
truism, of our democratic monarchy, that the King must take no side.
How far that consideration must govern the King's actions, when his own
position is directly attacked, is a question which, I imagine, very
few of our leading jurists would care to be called upon to decide!
But I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your
absolute neutrality, in the present crisis, sir. When the impending
storm has spent its force, and the danger, such as it is, has subsided,
there will be a considerable body of people, up and down the country,
who will contend that the Government have acted precipitately,
unconstitutionally, and with wholly unnecessary violence. In meeting
such criticism, I wish to be able to emphasize the fact that the
Government have acted throughout on their own responsibility, on my
responsibility, without any reference to you at all, sir. I do not
propose to advance, on your behalf, the time-honoured excuse that His
Majesty accepted the advice tendered to him by his advisers. I propose
to emphasize the fact that you at once removed the Court into the
country, and took no part whatever in the suppression of the rebellion.
In the result, your position will be maintained inviolate, but you will
not share in the unpopularity, and the odium, which a demonstration
of strength inevitably, and invariably, evokes. This is why I said
that you have a more difficult part to play than any of your immediate
predecessors were ever called upon to play, sir. Although the battle is
joined, and you are so intimately concerned with its result, you will
have to stand on one side, and take no part in the conflict. And you
are a young man, and a high spirited young man. You will resent your
neutrality.

"But I am the lightning conductor, sir! It is my duty, as I see it,
and I regard it as the honour of my life, to take the full shock of the
lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your head unshaken.
And the Crown will not only remain on your head unshaken. It will be
more firmly fixed there than before. In twenty-four, or forty-eight,
hours, at the most, sir, you will be more surely established on the
throne than any of your immediate predecessors.

"That is why I said, at the outset, that this is good news which I have
brought you, sir; that I could not bring you better news. This is good
news, sir. Never have I dared to hope that the battle, which we have
been expecting so long, would be joined, at a time, and on ground, so
wholly favourable to the forces of law and order. I have no doubt of
the adequacy, and the smooth working of the 'Gamma' scheme, in the
existing crisis, sir. It will be many years, probably the whole of your
reign, perhaps a generation, before the revolutionary extremists in
this country recover from the overwhelming disaster towards which they
are rushing at this moment."

It was then, and not until then, that the King slipped down from his
perch on the writing table to his feet.

Instinctively, he turned to the row of tall windows, on his right.

He wanted light. He wanted air.

Outside, in the palace garden, the brilliant morning sunshine lay
golden on the green of the grass, and on the darker green of the trees.

The whistling of a thrush, perched on a tree near the windows, seemed
stridently audible.

Behind him, beside the writing table, the Duke stood, motionless,
silent, expectant.

The magnetism for which the veteran Prime Minister was notorious, the
magnetism which he seemed to be able to invoke at will, had not failed
him, whilst he talked. For the time being, he had completely dominated
the King. But now, the King's own personality reasserted itself, with
all the force of a recoil.

A bitter realization of his own impotence, of his own insignificance,
was the King's first personal thought.

It was to be as he had feared, as he had always known, it would be.

The battle was joined, the fight for his place in the procession was
about to begin, in the market-place, and he, the man most concerned,
was the one man who could not take a side.

The Duke had gone out of his way to emphasize that fact.

"I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your
absolute neutrality in the present crisis, sir."

Neutrality! The most contemptible part a live man could play.

"Fight for your place in the procession, Alfred."

He was not to be allowed to fight.

The decision whether he should fight for his place, step to one side,
or fall out, altogether, to the rear, had been taken out of his hands.

The desire for self-assertion, for self-expression, which he had felt,
so strongly, only an hour or two previously, flamed up, hotly, anew,
within the King. An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be;
but to be a nonentity, a man of no account--

The very workman, the individual workman, who--in less than an hour
now--as the clock struck twelve, would lay down his tools, put on his
coat, and leave his work, was of more account than he was!

Ignorant, and deceived, as he might be, the individual workman, in
striking, would be asserting himself, expressing himself.

And he?

He could not even strike!

If only he could have gone on strike!

The fantastic idea caught the King's fevered fancy. It was in tune with
the bitter, wilful, rebellious mood which had swept over him. He could
not resist the temptation of giving it ironic expression.

"It seems to me, if there is one man, in the whole country, who would
be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I am that man!" he
exclaimed. "I never wanted, I never expected to have to fill--my
present command. To be 'a sailor, not a Prince,' was always my idea. Do
people, do these people, who are coming out on strike, and hope to run
up the Red Flag, imagine that I get any pleasure, that I get anything
but weariness, out of--my place in the procession? If I followed my own
wishes now--I should strike, too! I should be the reddest revolutionary
of them all. Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity is their war cry, isn't
it? Those are the very things I want!"

The Duke smiled grimly.

"Where will you remove the Court, sir?" he asked. "To Windsor? Or to
Sandringham?"

The King began to drum, impatiently, with his fingers, on the window
pane.

The Duke's pointed impenetrability, his persistence, irritated him, at
the moment, almost beyond his endurance.

Of course he would have to do as the Duke wished. The Duke was
the lightning conductor. He would have to fall in with the Duke's
suggestions. His suggestions? His orders! And yet--

Windsor? Sandringham?

Windsor and Sandringham were merely alternative cells in the same
intolerable prison house!

Perhaps it was the blithe whistling of the thrush perched on the
tree near the windows; perhaps it was the sunlit peace of the
palace garden--whatever the cause, the King thought, suddenly, and
irrelevantly, of Paradise.

And then the irrelevance of his thought disappeared.

A man was talking beside him.

It was not the Duke.

It was Uncle Bond.

"Whether you fight for your place or not, whether you come out at the
head, or the tail, of the procession, wherever the head and the tail
may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether, whatever
happens to you, my boy, Judith and I, will always be glad to welcome
you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our window. You
will remember that!"

A thrill of exultation ran through the King.

Here, surely, was an opening, an opportunity, for the self-assertion,
the self-expression, which he so ardently desired!

Where should he go, now that the time had come for him to step out of
the procession, but into Paradise, to Judith and to Uncle Bond, to
stand beside them, at their window, in the old inn, at the corner of
the market-place, the old inn, on the signboard of which was written in
letters of gold "Content"?

If he must seek a rural retreat, an asylum, a city of refuge, what
better retreat could he have than Judith's and Uncle Bond's oasis, in
Paradise, where no strangers ever came?

In this matter, at any rate, he could assert himself.

In this matter, at any rate, he would have his own way.

Swinging round from the windows, he fronted the Duke, flushed with
excitement wholly defiant.

"I will leave the palace, at once, as you wish," he announced. "I have
no alternative, of course. I recognize that. But I shall leave the
Court behind, too! Neither Windsor, nor Sandringham, attract me. I
begin to feel the need of--a holiday. I shall run out into the country.
I have--friends in the country."

He laughed recklessly.

"This is my way of going on strike!"

An odd, dancing light, which almost suggested a suddenly awakened sense
of humour, shone, for a moment, in the Duke's luminous, piercing eyes.

But he pursed up his lips doubtfully, "It is a private, incognito
visit, that you are suggesting, I take it, sir?" he remarked. "In
the present crisis, such a visit would involve--serious risks. But,
I am bound to confess, that it would not be without--compensating
advantages!" His grim smile returned. "No one would know where you
were. And your departure from the palace, which must not be delayed,
would attract little or no attention. If you left the Court behind
you, as you propose, you would merely take one or two members of the
household staff with you, I presume?"

"I shall take nobody with me. I shall go by myself," the King declared.

Yes. In this matter, at any rate, he would have his own way.

The Duke shot one of his keen, searching glances at the King. Then he
swung round on his heel, and paced slowly down the whole length of the
library.

The King watched him, fascinated, curious, exalted.

At the far end of the room, the Duke paused, turned, and retraced his
steps.

His first words, as he halted, once again, beside the writing table
absolutely took the King's breath away.

"I shall offer no opposition whatever to your reckless little
excursion, sir," he said. "I surprise you, sir? I hoped to surprise
you! But this is no time, there is no time, for--explanations. Reckless
as your proposal is, the more I think about it, the more conscious
I become of its many advantages. But, with your permission, sir, I
will attach two conditions to your--holiday." Again he smiled grimly.
"In the first place, I must know where you are going, so that I can
communicate with you, at once, when the need arises. In the second
place I will ask you to honour me with an undertaking that you will
remain in your rural retreat, until I have communicated with you."

The King could hardly believe his own ears. That the Duke should
accept, should even express a guarded approval of his rebellion--that
was what his reckless proposal amounted to!--was wholly unbelievable.
It could not be true!

A sudden sense of unreality, the consciousness, which had been so
frequently with him, of late, here in the palace, that he was living in
a dream, a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream, swept over the King.

Of all the unreal scenes in his dream, this surely, was the most unreal!

He had expected opposition, and argument. What he had wanted, he
realized now, was opposition and argument--

But he had gone too far to withdraw. And he had no wish to withdraw. At
any rate he would see Judith. He would see Uncle Bond. He would be--in
Paradise--

Without speaking, words at the moment, were quite beyond him, the King
drew up his revolving chair to the writing table, once again, and sat
down. Picking up the sheet of note-paper on which he had begun to write
to his sister--how long ago that seemed!--he tore off the unused half
of the paper, crumpling the other half up in his hand. Then he found
his pen, and wrote--

 "James Bond Esq.,
   Mymm's Manor,
     Mymm's Valley,
       Mymms,
         Hertfordshire."

Turning in his chair, he handed the half sheet of paper to the Duke.

"That will be my address. I shall stay there," he said.

The Duke glanced at the paper, and then folded it up neatly, and
slipped it into his pocket.

"You have no time to lose, sir," he said. "It is already nearly half
past eleven. Within half an hour, just before noon, all civilian
traffic, in and out of London, will cease. The police, and the military
will be in control in the streets. Barriers will be erected on all the
roads. Only Government traffic will be allowed to pass. You have time
to get away, but only just time."

The King sprang up to his feet, and darted across the room. He was, all
at once, wild to get away, wild to get away from the Duke, from the
palace, from himself, from this unreal, grotesque, nightmare life of
his--

But, half way across the room, he paused, and swung round, and faced
the Duke yet once again.

A sudden, belated twinge of compunction, a whisper of the conscience
which he had all this time been defying, had impelled him to think of
the Duke.

"Am I letting you down, Duke?" he exclaimed impulsively. "After--all
you have done for me--I wouldn't let you down for worlds!"

A smile, in which there was no trace of grimness, lit up the old Duke's
rugged, massive features.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "You are not letting me down, sir. You can
enjoy your--reckless little excursion--with an easy mind. But I did not
like, and I do not like, your use of that ill-omened word 'strike,'
sir,--even in jest! Remembering the language of the Service, in which,
like you, I had the honour to be trained, I prefer to say that you
are--proceeding on short leave of absence, shall we say, sir? It will
only be a short leave of absence, sir. Twenty-four, or forty-eight,
hours, at the most. You will do well, I think, sir, to remember that!"

Incredible as the whole scene was, there could be no doubt about the
old statesman's entire sincerity. The King's last fear, his last
scruple fell from him. In his relief he laughed aloud, lightheartedly.

"Call it whatever you like, Duke," he exclaimed. "But, for me, it
is--my way of going on strike!"

And with that, he turned, and darted out of the room.

Left alone, the Duke remained motionless, for a minute or two. The
smile, which the King's impulsive ingenuousness had evoked, still
lingered on his lips; but his piercing eyes were clouded now, and heavy
with thought.

Suddenly he turned to the writing table, and, picking up the telephone
instrument, took down the receiver.

The whole manner of the man changed with this decisive little action.

There was a curt, commanding, masterful ring in his sonorous voice, as
he gave his directions to the operator at the palace exchange.

"The Duke of Northborough is speaking. I want Scotland Yard, and the
War Office, at once, in that order. You will give me 'priority.' Shut
out all other calls."




CHAPTER X


A feeling of light-hearted holiday irresponsibility, such as he had not
known for months, for years as it seemed to him, was with the King as
he darted out of the library. He raced along the palace corridors like
a schoolboy released from school. The palm and orange tree decorated
lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, from which ran the
private staircase leading up to his own suite of rooms, was his first
objective. He had intended to make a wild dash up to his rooms to
secure some sort of hat, and the dust coat, in which he usually escaped
from the palace. Happily, now, as he entered the lounge, his eyes were
caught by a tweed cap, which he wore sometimes in the garden, which
was lying on a side table, where he had tossed it, a day or two ago.
Laughing triumphantly, he picked up this cap, and crammed it down on
to his head. Then he darted out of the lounge, through the open glass
door, into the garden.

In the garden, the air was heavy with the rich scents of the blossoming
shrubs and flowers. The brilliant morning sunshine struck the King,
as he hurried along the paths, with almost a tropical force. In spite
of the heat, as soon as he was sure that he was securely screened
by the shrubberies, he broke, once again, into a run. Lighthearted,
and irresponsible, as his mood was, he was conscious of the need for
haste. His running soon brought him, flushed, and panting a little,
but in no real distress, to the small, green painted, wooden door, in
the boundary wall, at the far end of the garden. Hurriedly producing
his keys, he unlocked the door, and swung it open. A moment later, as
the door, operated by its spring, closed behind him, he stood on the
pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.

Lower Grosvenor Place, as usual, was almost deserted. One or two chance
pedestrians were moving along the pavement. Immersed in their own
dreams and cares, they paid no attention whatever to the King. Higher
up the sunlit street, a grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman,
in tawdry Highland costume, was producing a dismal, droning wail on
bagpipes, in front of one of the largest of the tall houses, in the
hope, no doubt, that he would be given "hush money," and sent away,
before the arrival of life's inevitable policeman.

After a quick glance up, and then down, the street, the King darted
across the road, turned into the familiar cul-de-sac on the other side,
and so passed into the secluded, shut-in mews at the back of the tall
houses.

No one was visible in the mews, as the King unlocked, and opened, the
doors of Geoffrey Blunt's garage. A minute or two sufficed for him to
run out the car. Flinging on the thick, leather coat, and adjusting the
goggles, which lay ready to his hand, where he had tossed them that
morning, he re-locked the garage doors. Then he sprang up into his seat
at the steering wheel of the car, and started the engine.

For one anxious moment, he feared that the engine was going to fail
him; but, next moment, it settled sweetly to its work, and the car shot
forward, out of the secluded mews, up the quiet, side street beyond,
and so into Grosvenor Place.

In Grosvenor Place, the chance pedestrians who had been moving along
the sunlit pavement had passed on, out of sight, still immersed, no
doubt, in their own dreams and cares. The grizzled, battered looking
old Scotchman, in Highland costume, had just succeeded, apparently,
in extorting his "hush money." With his bagpipes tucked under his arm,
he was swaggering along now, in the centre of the road, his ruddy,
weatherbeaten, wrinkled face wreathed in smiles.

The car caught up, and passed the triumphant old blackmailer in a cloud
of dust.

A moment later, as he approached Hyde Park Corner, the King decided to
vary the route which he usually followed. With this end in view, he
swung the car sharply to the right, down Constitution Hill. At this
hour of the day, it occurred to him, Park Lane and Oxford Street,
his usual route, would be crowded with traffic. By running down
Constitution Hill, and out into, and along, the Mall he would probably
secure an open road, and so save several minutes. And every minute he
could save now, might be of vital importance later.

The car had a clear run down Constitution Hill. In the Mall, the
Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay in the sunlight. The
stands, on either side of the road, from which the guests of the
Government had viewed the Coronation procession, the day before, were,
too, still in position. The Office of Works, at the moment, no doubt,
had far more important, and urgent enterprises on hand, than the
removal of flags, and the dismantling of stands.

Sweeping along the Mall, and under the lavishly decorated Admiralty
Arch, the car ran out into Trafalgar Square, without a check. But here,
almost at once, the King had to pull up abruptly. The policeman, on
point duty, at the top of Whitehall, had his arm held out against all
eastbound traffic. Irritated by, and chafing under, the delay, the King
was compelled to apply his brakes, and run the car into position, in
the long queue of waiting vehicles, which had already gathered behind
the policeman's all powerful arm.

A moment later, looking up from his brakes, as the car came to a
standstill, he became aware that he had pulled up immediately beneath
the equestrian statue of Charles the First.

Here was an odd, an amusing--a superstitious man might even have said
an ominous--coincidence.

Had not the storm which was about to break, broken before, long ago, in
this man's reign?

And had not this man been engulfed by the storm?

The King looked up at the statue with a sudden flash of quickened,
sober interest.

Had not this man, alone, amongst all his predecessors been compelled to
drain the poisonous cup of revolution to the very dregs?

There had been no lightning conductor, no Duke of Northborough, no
strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose, ready, and eager, to
take the full shock of the lightning flash, in this man's day.

But there had been. The Earl of Strafford. And Charles--Charles the
Martyr, did not some people still call him?--had torn his lightning
conductor down with his own hands. He had failed Strafford. He had
abandoned him to his enemies. With his own hand, he had signed
Strafford's, and so, in a sense, his own, death warrant.

And he, himself--if this was an omen?

He had not failed the Duke anyway. The Duke had assured him that he was
not letting him down. If he believed, for a moment, that he was failing
the Duke, he would turn round, even now, and go straight back to the
palace.

But the Duke needed no man's support.

There, at any rate, this man, fixed there, high above him, on
horseback, in imperishable bronze, against the clear blue of the
summer sky, had been more fortunate than he was. This man had never
known the bitterness of neutrality, of personal impotence, of personal
insignificance. This man had had a part to play, and he had played it,
not unhandsomely, at the last, they said. There was a jingle of some
sort about it--

 "He nothing common did or mean
 Upon that memorable scene."

Nothing common or mean? Not at the last, perhaps. But, before the last,
in his failure of Strafford?

Still, limited, narrow, and bigoted, as he was, this man had lived, and
died, for the faith that was in him.

It had never occurred to him that he could go on strike.

He had stood for, he had fought for, he had died for--the Divine Right
of Kings!

The Divine Right of Kings?

How grotesquely absurd the phrase sounded now!

But was it any more grotesquely absurd than the opposition, the
counter-phrases, in praise of democracy, of the mob?

The voice of the people is the voice of God.

The same grotesque bigotry, the same fanatical intolerance, spoke there.

Happily people were growing chary of using such phrases. They had been
too often used as a cloak to hide personal prejudices and passions, to
be trusted much longer.

Still, perhaps, the band _was_ playing--somewhere--

At that moment, the King suddenly realized that the driver of the
taxi-cab, immediately behind him, in the queue of waiting traffic, was
performing a strident obligato on his motor horn, which indicated,
unmistakably, the violence of despair. Looking down with a start, he
became aware, that unnoticed by him in his reverie, the block in the
traffic had cleared, that the road lay open before him, and that he
was holding up the long line of vehicles behind him, by his absence of
mind, and consequent delay.

The policeman on point duty smiled at him, reproachfully, as he
succeeded, at last, in catching his eye, and then waved him forward.

Flushing with momentary annoyance, at the absurdity of his position,
the King hastily let out the car once again.

The car leapt forward, swept round the square, and so passed into, and
up, Charing Cross Road, into Tottenham Court Road beyond--

The car was heading due north now, due north for Paradise--

The King's thoughts turned naturally and inevitably to Judith, and to
Uncle Bond.

A difficult, and delicate problem, at once faced him.

What was he to say to Judith, and to Uncle Bond? How was he to explain
to them his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate, return to
their quiet haven?

But that, he suddenly realized, with a shock, only touched the fringe
of his problem!

Sooner or later, even in their peaceful retreat, Judith and Uncle Bond
would hear that the storm had broken. They would hear that Martial Law
had been proclaimed. Knowing that, they would know, Judith with her
knowledge of the Navy would know, that his place, as a sailor, was with
his ship. And that was not all. Had he not given their address to the
Duke? The Duke would be communicating with him--

His real identity would be revealed to Judith, and to Uncle Bond, at
last!

His incognito would no longer serve him!

Somehow, it had never occurred to him, at the time, what his giving of
their address to the Duke involved. Not only would his real identity be
revealed at last. His intimacy with Judith, and Uncle Bond would be no
longer a secret. The Duke had Uncle Bond's address. The Duke would soon
know all that there was to be known about Uncle Bond--about Judith--

Yes. He would have to tell Judith, and Uncle Bond, who he was, at once,
before they learnt who he was, from other lips than his.

Without knowing it, he had burnt his boats; unwittingly, he had forced
his own hand.

Would Judith and Uncle Bond believe him? Would they resent his
deception? Would the shadow thrown by his Royal rank mar the delightful
spontaneity of their intercourse, as he had always feared it would? It
could not be helped now, if it did! But, it seemed to him, that it need
not, that it should not. The unwavering friendship, of which Uncle Bond
had assured him, only that morning, would surely bear the strain? He
would take Uncle Bond at his word.

"I have stepped out of my place in the procession, and come to join
you at your window, here in the quiet old inn of 'Content.' I want to
forget the fight in the market-place. Help me to forget it! Let us
forget the past, avoid looking at the future--what the future will
bring who can say?--and live, for the time being, in the present."

Uncle Bond, and Judith--their astonishment at his real identity once
over, and their astonishment would be amusing!--would not refuse such
an appeal.

After all, had it not always been their way, in Paradise, to live in
the present?

Judith and he, at any rate, had always lived in the present.

Judith! What would she think? What would she say? She would understand
his hesitation, his backwardness, his--apparent halfheartedness--now!
She would be generous. Judith? Judith would not fail him--

By this time, the car was running through one of the more popular
shopping districts in the inner suburbs. The shops on either side
of the sunlit road, were still gaily decorated. The pavements were
crowded. In the road, there was a good deal of traffic about, and the
King had to drive, for the time being, more circumspectly. The stalls
of an open air market provided an exasperating obstruction. Ultimately
he had to pull up, and wait for an opening. This necessity served to
recall him completely to his immediate surroundings. It was then,
while he waited, chafing with impatience at the delay, that he first
became aware that the police were abroad in unusual numbers.

Impassive, and motionless, the police stood, in little groups, here
and there, in the crowd. The distance between one group, and the next
group, of the burly, blue uniformed men seemed to have been carefully
regulated.

A sudden thrill of fear, which was not far removed from panic, ran
through the King.

Were the police concentrating already in accordance with their secret
orders?

It looked very much like it.

He glanced hastily at his watch.

It was nearly a quarter to twelve.

Where were the barriers, of which the old Duke had spoken, likely to be?

Here, or, perhaps, even further out, on the outskirts of the town,
almost certainly.

And he had still to make good his escape!

Hitherto he had never doubted that he would make good his escape. Now,
with the police already concentrating, and taking up their position in
the streets, he could be no longer sure that he would get away, in time.

Fortunately, at that moment, the road, at last, cleared. The King
hastily let out the car once again. Then he opened out the engine,
recklessly, to its fullest extent. This was no time for careful
driving. The powerfully engined car did not fail him at his need.
Sweeping clear of the traffic immediately in front, it was soon rushing
along the level surface of the tramway track which led on, out into the
outer suburbs.

In the outer suburbs, the traffic was lighter, and the police were much
less in evidence. But a convoy of motor lorries, which he rushed past,
in which he caught a glimpse of soldiers in khaki service dress, added
fuel sufficient to the already flaming fire of the King's anxiety. At
any moment, it seemed to him now, he might be called upon to halt, and
compelled to return, if he was allowed to return, ignominiously, to the
palace.

But the barrier, drawn right across the road, with its little groups
of attendant police, and military, which he could see, so vividly, in
his imagination, did not materialize. The throbbing car rushed on,
through the outer suburbs, on past the last clusters of decorous,
red-tiled villas, on through the area of market gardens, where the
town first meets, and mingles with the country, on the north side of
London, and so out, at last, on to the Great North Road, unchecked,
and unchallenged.

The broad high road stretched ahead, empty and deserted, in the
brilliant noon sunshine, as far as eye could see.

The car leapt at the road like a live thing--

At last, the familiar, white-painted signpost, the Paradise-Hades post,
flashed into view on the left of the road.

It was then, and not until then, that the King slowed down the car.

A great wave of relief, which told him how tense his anxiety had been,
swept over him.

He looked at his watch.

It was some minutes past noon now.

Already, behind him, in the town, the storm had broken. Already the
blow had fallen.

But this was Paradise.

He had escaped.

He was safe.

He was free.

All about him lay the sunlit, peaceful countryside. The hedges, on
either side of the broad, winding road, were white with the blossoms of
the wild rose. Beyond the hedges, stretched the open fields, a vivid,
but restful, green in the bright noon light, broken, here and there,
by clumps of tall trees, and rising, in a gradual, gracious curve to
thickly wooded heights on the skyline.

A few cattle lay, motionless, on the grass, in the shade of the trees.

A young foal, startled by the passing of the car, scrambled up on to
his long legs, and fled, across the fields, followed, more sedately, by
his heavy, clumsy, patient mother.

One or two rabbits scuttled into the hedge, with a flash of their white
bob-tails.

High up, clear cut against the cloudless blue of the sky, a kestrel
hovered.

Yes. This was Paradise, unchanged, unchanging--

Soon the familiar turning into the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the
left of the road came into view. Swinging into the lane, the King
slowed down the car yet once again, partly from habit, and partly
because of his enjoyment of the summer beauty all about him.

He had plenty of time now.

He laughed recklessly at the thought.

He had all the time there was!

Was he not--on strike--taking a holiday?

At the house, at the bottom of the lane, the carriage gate, as usual,
stood wide open.

The King drove straight up the drive, where the rhododendron bushes,
and the laburnum trees were ablaze with colour, and, round the side of
the house, into the garage.

No one was visible in the garden, about the house, or in the
outbuildings beyond.

In the silence which followed his shutting off of the engine of the
car, he heard the whir of haycutting machines.

They were haymaking, of course.

Judith herself, who, far more than Uncle Bond, was really responsible
for the management of the Home Farm, would be at work in the fields,
holding her own with the best of them, in spite of the clamorous
demands of the Imps for play.

If Judith, and the Imps had been in the house, they would have run out
to welcome him by now.

Flinging off his leather coat, his cap, and his goggles, the King
tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he sauntered round
the side of the house, to the front door.

All the doors, and windows in the house stood wide open.

No one appeared to receive him.

For a moment or two the King lingered, irresolutely, on the verandah
beside the front door.

What should he do? In all probability, the whole household were at work
in the hayfields. Should he go and find them there? No. Judith would
be astonished to see him. She might betray her astonishment. In the
circumstances it would be as well that his meeting with Judith should
have as few eye-witnesses as possible.

But Uncle Bond would be in. Had he not declared that "Cynthia" would be
good for five or six thousand words that day? The little man would be
upstairs, hard at work, in his big, many-windowed writing room. Dare he
break in upon Uncle Bond's jealously guarded literary seclusion? It was
a thing which he had never ventured to do. It was a thing which Judith
herself rarely cared to do. But, after all, this was an exceptional
day, if ever there was an exceptional day! Now that he came to think
about it, it would be a good thing if he could see Uncle Bond, in his
capacity of "heavy father," before he saw Judith. Strictly speaking was
it not to Uncle Bond, as his host, that his announcement of his real
identity, and his explanations, and his apologies were first due?

With a sudden flash of determination, in which a semi-humorous, boyish
desire to face the music, and get it over, played a large part, the
King entered the house.




CHAPTER XI


Within the sunny, airy house there was absolute silence, and perfect
stillness. The King crossed the broad, square hall, a pleasant retreat,
with its gaily coloured chintz covered chairs, and ottoman, its piano,
its bookcases, and its big blue bowls, full of roses, and passed
straight up the glistening white staircase, which led to Uncle Bond's
quarters on the upper floor. At the head of the staircase, he turned
to his left, down a short corridor, in which stood the door of Uncle
Bond's writing room. On reaching the door, he paused, for a moment or
two, very much as a swimmer pauses, on the high diving board, before he
plunges into the deep end of the swimming bath. Then, smiling a little
at his own nervous tremors, he knocked at the door, and, opening it
without waiting for any reply, entered the room.

The writing room in which Uncle Bond spent his working hours extended
along the whole breadth of the house. One side of the room, the side
directly opposite to the door, was almost entirely made up of windows,
which commanded an uninterrupted view of the garden, and beyond the
garden, of a superb sweep of the surrounding, thickly wooded, park-like
country. The three other sides of the room were covered with a plain,
grey paper, and were bare of all ornament. No pictures, no bookcases,
and no pieces of bric-à-brac were displayed in the room. This complete
absence of decoration gave a conspicuous, and most unusual, suggestion
of emptiness to the whole interior. None the less, with many of the
windows wide open, and with the brilliant, summer sunshine streaming in
through them, the room had a charm, as well as a character of its own.
Above all else, it was a man's room. There was space in which to move
about. There was light. And there was air.

Uncle Bond was seated, at the moment the King entered, at a large
writing table, which stood in the centre of the room, with his back to
the door, busy writing.

The King closed the door quietly behind him, and then halted, just
inside the room, and waited, as he had seen Judith do in similar
circumstances.

Uncle Bond did not look round but went on writing.

Clearly a sentence, or a paragraph, had to be finished.

Uncle Bond's writing table was bare and empty like the room in which
it stood. The blotting pad on which the little man was writing, a neat
pile of completed manuscript on his left, and a packet, from which he
drew a fresh supply of paper as he required it, which lay on his right,
were the only objects visible on the table. No paraphernalia of pen and
ink was in evidence. Uncle Bond worked in pencil. No inkstand, or pen,
invented by the wit of man, could satisfy him.

A small table, in the far corner of the room, on the right, on which
stood a typewriter, an instrument of torture which the little man
loathed, and rarely used, a large sofa, placed under, and parallel
with, the windows, and another table, on the left, which appeared to
be laid for a meal, with two or three uncompromisingly straight backed
chairs, completed the furnishing of the room.

This was a workshop: a workshop from which all the machinery and tools
had been removed.

Uncle Bond wrote swiftly. He had a trick of stabbing at the paper in
front of him, with his pencil, periodically, which puzzled the King.
Ultimately it dawned upon him that this was probably merely Uncle
Bond's method of dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and putting in his
stops. This supposition appeared to be confirmed, presently, when, with
a more energetic stab than usual which marked, no doubt, a final full
stop, the little man finished writing.

Uncle Bond wore, when at work, a pair of large, tortoiseshell framed
spectacles, which gave a grotesque air of gravity to his round, double
chinned, clean-shaven face. He turned now in his chair, and looked at
the King, for a moment, over the rims of these spectacles. Then he
sprang up to his feet, snatched off his spectacles, and darted across
the room to the table on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal.

"A whole chicken--cold! A salad. A sweet, indescribable, but
glutinous, pink, and iced. We shall manage," the little man crowed,
as he uncovered a number of dishes on the table, and peered at their
contents. "My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. For the last half
hour, I have been thinking about lunch, but I disliked the idea of
feeding alone. I am, as you have probably already discovered, by
myself in the house. Judith and the Imps are picnicking in the hay
fields. The servants are all in the fields. Judith hopes to cut, and
cart, the Valley fields today. 'Cynthia' and I have had the house to
ourselves all morning. We have achieved wonders. I told you 'Cynthia'
would function today, didn't I? She is at the top of her form. We are
already level with the time-table, and she is still in play. But we
shall need some more knives and forks, a plate or two, and a bottle--a
bottle decidedly! A light, sparkling, golden wine. A long necked bottle
with the right label. I will go downstairs, and forage. You haven't had
lunch, I suppose?"

The King smiled, in spite of himself.

This was not the reception that he had anticipated.

"No. I have not had lunch, Uncle Bond," he admitted.

"Good!" the little man chuckled. "You must be hungry. I am. And you
look tired. You can pull the table out, and find a couple of chairs,
while I am away, if you like. Glasses--and a corkscrew!"

He moved, as he spoke, towards the door.

But, by the door, he paused.

"By the way, Alfred, there is a book on the window sill, beside the
sofa, which may interest you," he remarked.

Then he darted out of the room--

Mechanically, the King crossed the room to the luncheon table.

The table was most attractively arranged. No doubt Judith herself had
seen to Uncle Bond's meal, before she had left the house, with the
Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle Bond's favourite roses, in the
centre of the table, seemed to speak of Judith's thoughtfulness, and
taste. No servant would have laid the table quite like this.

Beyond pulling the table out into the room, nearer to the windows, and
placing a couple of chairs in position beside it, there was really
nothing that he could do in preparation for the meal, pending Uncle
Bond's return with the additional knives and forks, and plates which
would be necessary.

A minute or two sufficed for this readjustment of the furniture.

Then the King turned to the windows, attracted by the sunlight, and the
fresh air.

How easily, and naturally things--happened--here in Paradise!

Uncle Bond had accepted his unprecedentedly early, his almost
immediate return, without question, or comment.

Uncle Bond, and Judith, always accepted him like that, of course.

But, today, it seemed strange!

The scene which he had visualized between Uncle Bond and himself had
not opened like this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle Bond, at
the outset, by his disclosure of his real identity. He had looked
forward to astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in spite of his
nervous tremors, with real enjoyment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond,
who was to have dominated this scene. He was like an actor whose big
scene had failed. Somehow he had missed his cue.

One thing was certain. His announcement, his disclosure, of his real
identity must be no longer delayed. Somehow he could not bear to think
of accepting Uncle Bond's joyous hospitality, of eating his salt,
without first confessing his past deception, and receiving the little
man's forgiveness and absolution. It was odd that his conscience should
have become suddenly so sensitive in the matter. His feeling was quite
irrational, of course--

But how was he to make his announcement? It was not the sort of thing
that could be blurted out anyhow. He would have to lead up to it
somehow.

"I am, or rather I was, until twelve noon, today--the King! Now I
am--on strike--taking a holiday!"

How wildly absurd it sounded!

Such an announcement, however skilfully he led up to it, would carry
no conviction with it. Uncle Bond would not, could not be expected to
believe him.

Somehow, here in Paradise, he hardly believed in it himself!

The fact was his dual life, the two distinct parts which he had played
for so long, had become too much for him. Hitherto, he had been able
to keep the two parts, more or less distinct. Now he was trying to
play both parts at once. It was a mental, it was almost a physical,
impossibility.

"Alfred," "my boy," the sailor who had just been given promotion, the
sailor who served the King, never had been, and never could be--the
King.

He was a real man, alive, breathing, and thinking, at the moment, here,
in the sunlight, by the windows.

The King whom the old Duke of Northborough addressed as "Sir," the King
who lived in the palace, guarded night and day by the soldiery and the
police, the King who had, at last, asserted himself recklessly, gone on
strike, taken a holiday--he was a mere delusion, a dream.

But the real part, the better part, had now to be dropped.

Fate, chance, circumstances over which he had had no control, had
decided that.

Yes. "Alfred," "my boy," was gasping for life, taking a last look at
the green beauty of the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the windows--

The King shook himself, impatiently, and turned from the windows.

His position was trying enough, as it was, without his indulging in
imaginary morbidity!

As he turned, his eyes were caught by an open book, which lay on the
window sill, beside the sofa, on his right.

Had not Uncle Bond said something about a book, a book on the window
sill, beside the sofa, a book that might interest him? An uncommon book
that! He was no reading man, as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a
copy of the little man's latest shocker--

Welcoming the distraction, the King advanced to the sofa, and picked up
the book.

In the centre of the right-hand page of the open volume a couple of
sentences had been heavily scored in pencil.

The King read these words--

 "Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has
 been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried
 it; and they cut the rope."

It was a moment or two before the King's brain registered the sense of
the words.

He read the sentences a second time.

Then he turned, mechanically, to the title page of the book--

 "The French Revolution, a History.
 "by Thomas Carlyle."

Suddenly, with the open book still in his hand, the King sank down on
to the sofa.

This could not be chance. This was not a coincidence. This was no
accident.

Uncle Bond had called his attention to the book--a book which might
interest him! It was Uncle Bond's pencil which had scored these
sentences, so apposite to his own position, so heavily. Uncle Bond
must have left the book, open at this page, on the window sill,
deliberately.

The inference was unmistakable.

Uncle Bond knew who he was!

And that was not all.

Uncle Bond must know something, at least, about the existing crisis!

A storm of clamorous questions jostled each other in the King's brain.

How did Uncle Bond know? How long had he known? And Judith--did Judith
know, too? Why had Uncle Bond chosen this particular moment, and this
particular way, to reveal his knowledge? Had the little man's uncanny,
unerring instinct told him that he himself was about to reveal his real
identity, at last?

No. That was impossible.

Uncle Bond had marked the sentences, and placed the book on the window
sill, before he himself had entered the room.

And he had had twinges of compunction, nervous tremors, about the
deception which he had practised.

He laughed contemptuously at himself.

Clearly, it was he himself, and not Uncle Bond, not Judith, who had
been deceived--

At that moment, Uncle Bond's returning footsteps, in the corridor,
outside the room, became audible.

Uncle Bond entered the room carrying a tray which was loaded with
silver, and cutlery, glasses and plates, and the longnecked bottle
which he had promised. He shot a shrewd glance at the King, as he
crossed the room to the luncheon table; but he set down his tray, on
the table, without speaking.

For a moment, the King hesitated. Then he sprang up, impulsively, to
his feet, and advanced to the table. Holding out the open book, which
he had retained in his left hand, towards Uncle Bond, he tapped it with
his right forefinger.

"You know who I am, Uncle Bond?" he challenged.

Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.

"I do," he acknowledged. "Get the cork out of that bottle, my boy. I've
got to carve the chicken."




CHAPTER XII


"A climax is always a difficult business to handle," Uncle Bond
continued, sitting down at the table and beginning his attack on
the cold chicken. "It is easy enough to work up to. 'Cynthia' never
has any trouble in getting in the necessary punch at the end of
her instalments. But to carry on, after the punch, to get the next
instalment going--that is a very different affair. In nine cases out
of ten, that gives even 'Cynthia' herself a lot of trouble. My dear
boy, put down that admirable volume--it is in your left hand!--and, I
repeat myself, get the cork out of that bottle! I know you are quite
unconscious of the fact, but your attitude, at the moment, is most
distressingly wooden."

The King came to himself with a start.

"I beg your pardon, Uncle Bond," he stammered, blushing like a
schoolboy.

Laying "The French Revolution, A History, by Thomas Carlyle," down
on the table, he picked up the longnecked bottle, and got to work,
hurriedly, with the corkscrew.

He was, suddenly, very glad to have something to do.

"Fortunately for us, my boy, you and I can control the development of
this scheme," Uncle Bond went on, busy with the carving knife and fork.
"It occurs to me, by the way, that I am destined to play the part of
general utility man in our--comedy. I can see no immediate opening for
the knockabout comedian. A touch of the heavy father may be possible
later on. But, meanwhile, explanations are necessary. Obviously that
involves the general utility man in the part of 'Chorus.' Strictly
speaking, I suppose I ought to address you in blank verse. I will spare
you that. One of the old dramatic conventions about the 'Chorus' it
seems to me, however, is likely to suit you. 'Chorus' enters solus. You
can leave the stage to me--"

At that moment, the cork in the longnecked bottle came away,
unexpectedly, as is the habit of corks.

The King filled the glasses on the table with the light, sparkling,
golden wine.

"Good!" Uncle Bond crowed. "Now you can sit down, and--sink out into
the back-cloth. On the other hand, if you prefer to remain on the
stage, a glass of wine is useful stage business."

The King sat down at the table opposite to Uncle Bond.

At the moment, bewildered and almost dazed as he was, he felt very much
like a theatrical super, assisting at a stage meal.

"I am giving you a wing, Alfred. No breast!" Uncle Bond continued,
proceeding to portion out the dismembered chicken. "My action is
symbolical. This is between ourselves, and outside our stage play!
There are not many places where they give you the wing of the chicken,
are there? You will continue to be given the wing of the chicken
here. You will continue to be received here, as you are received
nowhere else. Our friend Alfred will find no change, in his reception
here--whatever happens. You are reassured, I hope? Your worst fears
are stilled? Good! Help yourself to salad. And try the wine. I can
recommend it!"

The King took the plate of chicken which the little man held out to
him, and helped himself to salad, mechanically. This commonplace
routine of the meal served to steady him. In some measure reassured
by Uncle Bond's whimsical symbolism, he was relieved to find that he
could eat.

Uncle Bond helped himself from the salad bowl in turn, tried the wine,
and then settled down, happily, to the meal, which he had been so
unwilling to essay alone. But the play of his knife and fork, energetic
as it was, did not interfere, for long, with his talk.

"And now to resume our comedy!" he chuckled, in a minute or two.
"Between ourselves, my boy, I am enjoying the present situation
enormously. But 'Chorus' explanations are necessary, and cannot wait.
Therefore-- 'Enter Chorus!'

"I have known who you were almost, if not quite, from the first,
Alfred. Judith knew you first, of course. Judith recognized you at
sight. My dear boy, how could you imagine that it could be otherwise?
Have you ever considered the possibilities of the case?

"Judith was born in the Navy. For years she lived in the Navy. She
married into the Navy. Of course, she knew 'Our Sailor Prince.' As
likely as not his photograph has adorned her mantelpiece ever since the
far-away days when she was a romantic schoolgirl. 'Cynthia's' romantic
schoolgirls, at any rate, are always like that!

"And I myself? Am I not a member of many clubs? 'Alfred York' was
hardly likely to be an impenetrable incognito with me, was it? Wherever
you go, too, although you are so strangely unconscious of the fact, you
carry about with you a historic face!

"But, even if Judith and I had had no special knowledge, even if we had
been lacking in penetration, it seems to me that we must, infallibly,
have recognized you, sooner or later. Have you not been, in recent
months at least, the most bephotographed young man in Europe? I do not
suggest that the picture papers are Judith's, or my, favourite reading.
But we have a cook. Do you think that we could keep a cook, who can
cook, here, in the country, if we did not supply her with her daily
copy of the 'Looking-Glass'? Sooner or later, it seems to me, Judith
or I must have taken a surreptitious peep into the kitchen copy of the
'Looking-Glass,' and so seen, and recognized, our friend Alfred in the
pictured news of the day."

At this point, the turmoil within the King, surprise, bewilderment, and
self-contempt, the latter predominating, became altogether too much for
him. He quite forgot the necessary silence of the stage super.

"I feel a most unmitigated fool, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed.

"Exit, Chorus!" Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly. "Slow music-- Enter
the Hero of the Piece! You were about to say?"

"I don't know what I was going to say," the King muttered
uncomfortably, with his eyes on his plate. "I know what I was going to
say before you--took the wind out of my sails. I was all ready with a
speech. I had two speeches ready."

"It is a pity that they should be wasted," Uncle Bond remarked. "Get
them off your chest, my boy. They will probably serve more than one
useful purpose. Apart from anything else, they will give me a chance to
get on with my lunch. You have got rather ahead of me, I observe. Take
which ever comes first. The slow music dies away--the Hero of the Piece
speaks--"

The King fingered his wineglass nervously. He wanted to put himself
right with Uncle Bond. He wanted to tell him that he had meant to
reveal his real identity himself, that he had meant to apologize for
the deception he had practised. He wanted to rehabilitate himself in
his own eyes.

"I was going to tell you--who I am, myself, Uncle Bond," he began
lamely. "I was going to reveal my real identity at last. I was going to
apologize to you for my deception, and ask for your--absolution.

"'I am, or rather was, until twelve noon today--the King! Now I am--on
strike--taking a holiday--' That was to have been my first speech!"

Uncle Bond started, and shot a surprised glance at the King.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, and still fingering his wineglass
nervously, the King did not notice the little man's movement.

"I hardly expected you to believe me. I did not see how you could
possibly believe me," he went on. "I counted on astonishing
you--astonishing you!--and Judith. I looked forward to astonishing
you." He laughed contemptuously at himself. "I thought that your
astonishment would be amusing. This was to have been my scene, not
yours. That is partly why--I feel such a fool!"

He was silent for a moment or two.

Uncle Bond made no comment, but plied his knife and fork vigorously.

"When you believed me, when you had recovered from your astonishment,
and had forgiven my deception--I knew you--and Judith--would forgive
me," the King continued, "I was going to make my second speech. You
remember our talk, this morning, about the procession? That seems years
ago, now, somehow, doesn't it? In my second speech, I was going to take
you at your word about--the procession.

"'I have stepped out of my place in the procession, and come to join
you at your window, here, in the quiet old inn of "Content." I want
to forget the fight in the market-place. Help me to forget it! Let us
forget the past, avoid looking at the future--what the future will
bring, who can say?--and live for the time being in the present!' That
is what I was going to say. It seemed to me that you--and Judith--would
not be able to resist an appeal like that. Here, in Paradise, we have
always lived in the present, haven't we?"

Uncle Bond put down his knife and fork.

"Very pretty!" he chuckled. "I can understand your disappointment, my
boy. There was good stuff in your scene. I am glad we have contrived to
work in--both your speeches. They are--illuminating. More chicken? A
slice of the breast--now? No. Then advance the sweet. And refill the
glasses. You approve the wine? Good! Once again I resume my part of
'Chorus.'

"As 'Chorus' allow me to recall your attention to Thomas Carlyle, my
boy," he went on, proceeding to serve the sweet. "I am rather proud of
that little bit of stage business. 'Cynthia' herself, I flatter myself,
could hardly have hit anything neater. How does the quotation run?

"'Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has
been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried
it; and they cut the rope.'

"It got you--that quotation, my boy,--didn't it? It was meant to get
you. I knew your announcement, your confession, would give you trouble.
Out of pure good nature--or was it malice?--I anticipated it."

"But how did you know I was going to make my confession?" the King
exclaimed, suddenly remembering his previous bewilderment on the
subject.

"Thank you, my boy," Uncle Bond chuckled. "I manœuvred, clumsily I
fear, for that very question. There is, perhaps, something inherently
clumsy in this device of the 'Chorus.' Hence, no doubt, its banishment
from the modern stage. I did not know, I could not know, for certain,
that you would make your confession. But your confession seemed to me
to be inevitable. Or, if not inevitable, necessary. Perhaps I wished
to make sure of, as well as help you to, your confession. I must warn
you that I have another little surprise saved up for you, my boy. But I
will hurry to the end of my explanations. I do so the more readily as I
am eager to demand an explanation from you, in turn.

"Paradise, although personally I am careful to suppress the fact as
much as possible, is on the telephone. Judith finds it necessary to
talk to the Stores! This morning, while 'Cynthia' and I were hard at
it, the telephone bell rang violently. The instrument, by the way, is
in the pantry. I ignored the summons. I hoped the girl at the Exchange
would soon grow weary. She persisted. In the end, 'Cynthia' retired
hurt, and I descended the staircase.

"A wonderful instrument! Not the telephone. The human voice. There are
voices which rivet the attention at once--even on the telephone. This
was one of them--

"'Northborough is speaking. Is that you Bond? Alfred York is
motoring down to see you. He is on his way now. You can put him up
for twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, I suppose? If you get the
opportunity, you can tell him, when he arrives, that everything is
proceeding in accordance with plan.'"

"You know the Duke of Northborough?" the King gasped.

"Thanks to you, my boy, yes," Uncle Bond chuckled. "Note in passing,
that I--with the assistance of Thomas Carlyle--have created an
opportunity to tell you that--'everything is proceeding in accordance
with plan!' But we must really finish this sweet. No more for you?
Another glass of wine, then? You will find that the bottle will run to
it, although those long necks are deceptive."

Mechanically, the King filled the wineglasses once again.

For a minute or two, there was silence while Uncle Bond made short work
of the remnant of the sweet which the King had refused to share.

This accomplished the little man leant back in his chair.

"When Alfred York, the young and reckless sailor, whose friendship
Judith and I have learnt to value so highly in recent months, first
showed an unmistakable desire to establish an intimacy with us, I saw
no reason why I should--discourage his visits," Uncle Bond resumed
with a mischievous chuckle. "Who, and what, our friend Alfred might be
elsewhere, how he might fill in his--spare time--elsewhere, it seemed
to me--need be--no concern of ours. These were matters to which he
never referred. Judith and I might have our own ideas on the subject,
we might even have knowledge which he never suspected; but until he
spoke, it seemed to me, that there was--no necessity--for us to speak.
Our friend Alfred obviously valued the hospitality which we were so
glad to offer him. That was enough for us.

"But things happen. The curse, and the charm, of human life in two
words--things happen!

"When our friend Alfred suddenly became earmarked for--promotion--high
promotion--I had to admit to myself that the situation was, at once,
materially changed. So long as our friend Alfred was a person of
only--minor importance--his visits to us might, it seemed to me, fairly
be considered--merely his own affair, and ours. But when he became a
person of--the first importance--of the first importance in greater
issues than he appears, as yet, to have realized, his frequent visits
here involved me--in a grave responsibility, to which I could not shut
my eyes. A reckless young man, our friend Alfred. He did incredible
things. He took amazing risks. I had to reconsider the whole position.
I will not trouble you with an analysis of my conflicting motives.
Ultimately I took action. I wrote a letter.

"It was plain James Bond who wrote that letter--just as it is plain
James Bond who is speaking at this moment. Somehow, he seems to have
lost sight of his part of 'Chorus'! 'Cynthia' did not contribute a
single phrase to the letter. It must have been a good letter, I think.
It had an immediate result. Within less than twenty-four hours it
brought a very busy, and distinguished man from town down here into our
quiet backwater to see us."

"The Duke?" the King exclaimed.

"The Duke," Uncle Bond acknowledged. "Let there be no mistake about my
position, at the outset, my boy. I am a partisan of the Duke!

"The Duke and I had some talk, but he spent most of his time with
Judith, and the Imps. Judith--liked him. The Imps--took to him. We
gave him tea. When he left he was good enough to say that I had given
him a pleasure extremely rare in the experience of an old man. I had
introduced him to four new friends! He said other agreeable things.
But the most important thing he said, perhaps, was that, with certain
precautionary measures taken, which he himself would arrange, he saw no
reason why--the gates of Paradise should be shut on a younger, and more
fortunate visitor than himself.

"My dear boy, I have always liked your reckless audacity. I sympathize
heartily with you in your distaste for police surveillance. But that
you should consistently give the police the slip, and career about
here, alone in your car, when the men responsible for your safety
believed that you were fast asleep, in bed, in town--in the present
state of the country, the risks, for you, for us, were altogether too
great. Think what our position would have been if anything had happened
to you! But for some time past, from the day of the Duke's visit to
us, those risks have been avoided. Scotland Yard have been on their
mettle. They have never lost sight of you. When I went downstairs, just
before lunch, I found half a dozen plain clothes men making themselves
comfortable in the kitchen. They have grown quite at home with us. And
today, they tell me, special precautions are being taken. A battalion
of the Guards, I understand, is to put a picket line round the house.
My dear boy, restrain your impatience! You will not see them. The
police have strict orders never to intrude their presence upon you. The
military, I have no doubt, will have similar orders. From the first,
the Duke has been as anxious--as any of us--that you should continue to
enjoy the full benefits of your incognito, here, in Paradise.

"And that brings me, having finished my own explanations, to the
explanation which I am so eager to demand from you, in turn, my
boy. How did the Duke contrive that you should come here, in the
present crisis--they told me downstairs that Martial Law has been
proclaimed!--without betraying the fact that he had been here himself?"

All the King's senses had been numbed by the rapid succession of
surprises with which Uncle Bond had attacked him. His capacity for
wonder had long since been exhausted. It seemed to him now that
nothing would ever surprise him again. A feeling of utter helplessness
oppressed him. It seemed to him that he was in the grip, that he had
been made the plaything, of an implacable, an irresistible power. But
Uncle Bond's question served to arouse a momentary flash of his old
self-assertion within him. He had been deceived, he had been managed,
he had been fooled to the top of his bent--but, in this matter, at any
rate, he had asserted himself; in this matter, at any rate, he had had
his own way.

"The Duke did not contrive that I should come here," he exclaimed. "I
chose to come here. It was--my way of going on strike."

"You startled me by saying something like that before, my boy," Uncle
Bond remarked. "What do you mean, precisely, by--your way of going on
strike?"

"The whole trouble is a strike. The Labour people have called a
universal, lightning strike from twelve noon, today," the King
explained impatiently. "The Duke says a little company of revolutionary
extremists are behind it all. They want to run up the Red Flag. I
told the Duke that if there was one man in the whole country who was
justified in striking, in leaving his work, it seemed to me, I was that
man. And I said I would come here. Coming here was my way of going on
strike."

Uncle Bond leant forward in his chair.

"Are you quite sure that the Duke did not contrive that you should come
here, my boy?" he persisted.

A doubt was at once born in the King's mind. The Duke had offered no
opposition whatever to his reckless excursion. The Duke had accepted
his rebellion. The Duke had encouraged him to leave the palace--

"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, in the first
place, I think. But--I daresay he was quite willing that I should come
here," he muttered.

"In the circumstances, you could hardly have a quieter, a more
unexpected, and so, a safer, retreat," Uncle Bond remarked.

Then he chuckled delightedly.

"My Carlyle quotation was even more apposite than I realized, my
boy," he crowed. "It seems to me that you have done your best--to
commit suicide! But your experience will be similar to that of Fritz
the First, of Prussia. They will cut the rope. The Duke must be busy
cutting the rope now--

"This strike will collapse, of course--quickly. It must have been an
unexpected move; a last desperate throw by the foreign agitators who
have failed to produce more serious trouble. Everybody, who is anybody,
has known, for months, that there was trouble brewing. All sorts of
wild rumours from the Continent have been current in the Clubs. But
an attempt at armed rebellion was the common idea. It has been talked
about so much that most people, I daresay, have ceased to take it too
seriously. They will be surprised. But the Duke would not be surprised.
Everything is proceeding in accordance with plan! Things have a way of
proceeding in accordance with plan, with the Duke--

"What a story 'Cynthia' could make out of it all! 'The King Who Went
on Strike!' A good title for the bookstalls! But the best stories can
never be written--"

Leaning back in his chair as he spoke, the little man turned away from
the luncheon table, and looked out through the open windows, on his
left, at the sunlit wooded landscape, beyond the garden.

"It is strange, when you come to think of it, that you and I should be
sitting here, in peace and quietness, my boy, when there is uproar and
tumult, perhaps, when great events are shaping themselves, perhaps,
over there, beyond our wooded skyline," he murmured. "Does it not seem
strange--to you?"

Mechanically the King swung round in his chair, and looked out,
through the windows, in turn--

But the wooded skyline was not destined to hold his attention for long.

Almost at once, his eyes were drawn away, to the sunlit garden below,
by a charming little interlude which was enacted there.

Bareheaded, and dressed in white, suddenly, round the side of the
house, came Judith, slender and tall, her beautiful vivid face rosy
with the touch of the harvest sun. On her shoulder, skilfully supported
in her upstretched arms, sat Bill, with his eyes closed, nodding his
cherub's head, heavy with sleep. Beside her trotted Button, animated,
vivacious.

Judith was smiling happily, as she crooned in a low, sweet voice some
lullaby.

Button sang, too, more loudly.

In Button's clear, young voice, the words of the song became audible in
the room--

 "And does it not seem hard to you,
 "When all the sky is clear and blue,
 "And I should like so much to play,
 "To have to go bed by day?"

A moment later, tightening her hold on Bill, Judith stepped up on to
the verandah and, followed by Button, disappeared from view, into the
house.

The King sprang up, and advanced to the windows.

In a little while Judith reappeared, alone, in the garden.

Somehow the King had known that she would reappear.

The Imps had had to go to bed by day!

Sauntering across the lawn, Judith headed for the belt of trees at the
far end of the garden.

The King knew where she was going.

Beyond the trees, in the furthest corner of the garden, stood a small
summer house, which commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding
landscape. For the sake of this view, the summer house was a favourite
retreat of Judith's.

Judith disappeared, with a final flicker of her white dress, behind the
trees, at the far end of the garden.

The King turned abruptly from the windows.

He was going to Judith--

And then--he remembered Uncle Bond.

Uncle Bond had risen to his feet, and had thrown a white cloth over the
luncheon table. He crossed the room now to his writing table, sat down
deliberately, and picked up his pencil.

"You are going to join Judith, in the garden, my boy?" he remarked.
"That is right. Judith will be surprised--and glad--to see you. I
am about to revert to 'Cynthia.' I have only one thing more to say
to you--now. Thomas Carlyle! Do not forget in Judith's, or in your
own excitement, that they will--'cut the rope!' That is certain. You
cannot afford to forget that fact, in your dealings with any of us, my
boy--least of all can you afford to forget it, in your dealings with
Judith."

The little man began to write.

The King opened his lips to speak; thought better of it, and closed
them again; and then--hurried out of the room.




CHAPTER XIII


It was an urgent, blind necessity that was laid upon him, rather
than any action of his own will, which had hurried the King out of
Uncle Bond's writing room. None the less, now, as he descended the
staircase in the silent house, crossed the hall, and so passed out into
the bright afternoon sunshine in the garden, he was not altogether
unconscious of the motives which were driving him, in this strange way,
to Judith. He wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk to her. He
wanted to explain things to her. And, most of all, he wanted Judith to
explain--things which only she could explain--to him--

A few minutes of rapid walking led him across the lawn, in amongst the
trees, at the far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, through the
trees, to the little clearing beyond, in which the summer house stood.
He followed this path.

The green shade of the trees was welcome after the glare of the
sunlight on the lawn. A breeze rustled amongst the overhanging leaves.
Hidden away, somewhere, high up amongst the tree tops, a couple of jays
chattered raucously in the sultry stillness.

In a minute or two, the King caught a glimpse, through the trees, of
the picturesque, crudely thatched roof of the summer house.

A moment later, he saw Judith.

Judith was sitting in a wicker work chair, at the entrance to the
summer house, with her hands lying idle, for once, on her lap, gazing
at the superb panorama of green fields, and wooded heights, which lay
spread out before her in the sunshine.

So intent was her gaze, she did not hear the King's approach.

The King halted, abruptly, on the edge of the clearing, and watched her.

A smile flickered about Judith's lips. The play of thought across her
beautiful, vivid face reminded the King of the play of light and shade
across some sunny hillside. He had never seen Judith alone with her own
thoughts, like this, before. A kind of awe stole over him as he watched
her. And yet, he soon grew impatient, and jealous, of these thoughts of
Judith's, which he could not share.

Stepping back, in under the trees, he trod, with intention, on a
broken branch which lay on the paths at his feet.

The snapping of the branch served to recall Judith to her immediate
surroundings.

She did not start. She turned her head, slowly; and saw him.

The rosy flush which the harvest sun had put into her cheeks deepened.
Her dark, mysterious eyes lit up marvellously.

"Alfred--you!" she cried. "I was just thinking about you. And I had no
idea you were so near!"

A feeling of guilt oppressed the King. The shining happiness, the
radiant trust, of Judith's face smote him like a rebuke.

Slowly, he advanced across the clearing, and halted beside her chair.

What was it he wanted to say? What could he say?

Then, suddenly, words came to him.

"You know--who I am," he said.

Quite unconsciously, he used the same words which he had used with
Uncle Bond; but he used them now with a difference. With Uncle Bond the
words had been a challenge. To Judith, he offered them as an apology.

A shadow obscured the radiance of Judith's face; but her glance did
not waver. It was as if she were meeting something for which she had
long been prepared.

"I have always known," she acknowledged.

A constraint that had no parallel in his experience held the King
silent for a long minute or two.

At last he forced himself to speak.

"I have been here--sometime," he began desperately. "I have
been--upstairs with Uncle Bond. I have just had lunch with him in his
room. Uncle Bond has explained--a good many things to me. I saw you
come here from the window. I followed you at once. I had to follow you.
I hardly know why. Was it because there are--things between us which
only you can explain?"

He broke off there abruptly.

Judith knew nothing of all that had happened, of course. Until she
knew--something of all that had happened--of what use was his talk? If
only he could tell her--something of what had happened--she might be
able to begin to understand the bewilderment, and turmoil, within his
overwrought, fevered brain. That she should be able to understand, that
she should be able to sympathize with him, had become, at the moment,
his paramount need.

"Things have happened," he resumed desperately. "Things have happened
that you know nothing about, I think. Queer things are happening, over
there, at this moment!"

He half turned from her, as he spoke, and pointed across the sunlit
landscape, at the distant, wooded horizon.

"Martial Law has been proclaimed. The Labour people are making trouble.
They have called a universal strike. A few of them want to get rid of
me, and run up the Red Flag. They haven't a chance, of course. The Duke
is there. I know that you know the Duke! He was ready for them. He will
be glad, I think, that they have given him this chance to crush them.
Uncle Bond had a message from the Duke, waiting for me, when I arrived,
to say that everything was--'proceeding in accordance with plan.' His
plan!

"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, to be out of
the way of possible trouble. I said I'd come here. I told him, that
it seemed to me, that if there was one man, in the whole country, who
would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I was that man.
I told him that I'd go on strike too. Coming here was my way of going
on strike. I thought that I was asserting myself. I thought that I
was showing that I was a man. All the time I was simply playing into
the Duke's hands, of course. The Duke would be quite content that I
should come here, I think. He knows that I can't get into any mischief
here. He has seen to that! Uncle Bond tells me that there are half a
dozen plain clothes men in the kitchen. Did you know that? A battalion
of the Guards is to put a picket line round the house, too. At first
I--resented the Duke's arrangements. Now, somehow, I don't seem to
care--

"So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I have been
through so much, I don't seem to have any will, any feeling, any
personality left. My own thoughts, my own words, my own actions seem
to me, now--like the disjointed pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, which
I shall never be able to put together again. I don't know--where I
am. I don't know--where I stand. I am all at sea. The bottom seems,
suddenly, to have dropped out of everything. I have been humoured,
managed, controlled, all through. I can see that. Now, I am--just like
a derelict ship. The rudder has gone. The charts are lost. I am being
driven, this way and that, at the mercy of--everybody's will, but my
own--

"Somehow, you are my only hope. Somehow, I feel that you will
understand me--better than I understand myself. I suppose that that
means that I love you. You know that. And I know that you love me.
There can be no doubt about that, after last night. And yet, somehow,
even that doesn't excite me now. It doesn't seem to mean--what I
suppose it ought to mean--to me. Why doesn't it mean--more to me? I
am trying to tell you the truth, so far as I can see it. I am sick of
mystery. I am utterly weary of deceit. It seems to me, that--our only
hope is--plain speaking--"

All this time, Judith had remained motionless, and quiescent, in her
chair. She turned, now, a little towards the King. Her expression was
grave, but friendly.

"I want you to sit down, Alfred," she said quietly. "Find another
chair, and bring it out here. When you sit down, I will talk to you. I
want to talk to you."

The King swung round into the summer house, and brought out another
chair. Placing it beside Judith's, he sat down. Then he fixed his eyes
upon her face.

"I am glad that you have said, what you have said, Alfred," Judith
began. "I have wanted you to give me your confidence, the whole of
your confidence, for so long. I have always understood, I think, why
you have been silent--about so many things. But I wanted you--to trust
me. Now--you have trusted me--

"I agree with you that the time has come for plain speaking. I am glad
that it has come. I will speak as plainly as I can."

"First of all, you are not a derelict, Alfred. You are more like--a
ship that has not found herself. You know what happens on a trial trip?
The ship has not found herself. The Captain, and the crew, have got
to get to know her. She ships the sea. Bolts and plates stretch and
strain. Queer things happen in the engine room. And then, suddenly, all
in a moment, the ship finds herself, rights herself. You will be--like
that. Your trial trip has been run in a storm. You have been plunged,
at the start into hurricane weather. But you will find yourself, right
yourself. And, when your moment comes, you will sail the seas with any
craft afloat.

"But that is--politics! And you, and I, are not really greatly
interested in politics, are we? What we are really interested in
is--ourselves--our own intimacy, our own relationship. When you say
that you don't know where you are, where you stand, what you mean, at
the back of your mind, is that you don't know where _we_ are, and where
_we_ stand. I will tell you where I stand. If I tell you where I stand,
you will be able to see--your own position. I will speak, as plainly as
I can, about myself--"

Judith paused there, as if she wished to marshal her thoughts, and fit
them with words.

The King kept his eyes fixed upon her face. His instinct had been
right. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself.
Already, he was conscious that the tumult within him was subsiding.
Judith, with her clear eyes, and sure touch, would disentangle the
mingled threads of their strange destiny, rearrange them, and put them
straight.

"First of all, I want you to understand that I know that there can be
no change in, no development, no outcome of--our friendship," Judith
resumed slowly. "And I want you to know that I am--content that it
should be so. My life has been full of--much that many women miss.
I had Jack, my husband. I have the Imps. I have Uncle Bond. And I
have--you.

"Your--friendship--has become very precious to me, Alfred. When you
first came here, I liked you, I think, because you reminded me of Jack.
It was the sea, and the Navy, of course. The sea, and the Navy, mark a
man, don't they? They give him a certain style, and stamp. But that was
only a superficial, surface resemblance, of course. I had not known you
very long before I realized that you were quite unlike Jack.

"Jack was simple, a boy, a dear. He was a splendid man, physically. At
sea, he could sail anything that would float. He had no idea of fear.
He did his duty. He obeyed orders. He never questioned anything. Life
to him was always plain and straightforward. He always saw his way,
like the course of his ship, clear before him. He never had a real
trouble, or doubt. He was happy, even in his death. You know how he led
the destroyers into action, and sank an enemy ship, before he went down
himself? I--loved him. But I loved him, as I love the Imps. When he was
at home, on shore, with me, I used to feel that I had three boys to
look after--

"You are different. Your mind works all the time. You doubt, you
question, everything. You see all round things to which Jack would
never have given a thought. Your brain is always active--too active.
Life to you is always complex, puzzling. You live more, and harder, in
a day, in your brain, than Jack did in a year. It was when I began to
understand what was going on in the brain, behind your tired blue eyes,
that I learnt--to love you. Jack had no imagination. You have--too much
imagination. I loved Jack. But you--you could carry me off my feet--

"That is just what happened last night. I want you to understand about
last night, Alfred. It is important that you should understand about
last night, I think. A good deal of your trouble, of your bewilderment,
and uncertainty, today, is because of last night, I believe. And it
may--happen again.

"I have always been very careful with you--until last night. I know
that I--attract you. At one time, I was afraid that that might
interfere with, that it might spoil, our friendship. But, as I came to
know you better, as I came to understand the hold, the control, you
have over yourself, I began to realize that it was not you, but myself,
that I had to fear. I was very careful. I watched myself. And then,
last night, after all, I failed you--

"But you had just been Crowned! And, after your Coronation, after all
that you had been through, you got away, as soon as you could, to come
and see me! That in itself was--a tribute--which no woman could have
resisted, I think. And you were different. Your Coronation has made
a difference, Alfred. And you were wearing the King's colours. You
remember that? And you talked about the King needing all his friends.
And, somehow, just for the moment, I wanted you to trust me, to give me
the whole of your confidence. I have always wanted your confidence. And
then--I was afraid. And I took you in to the Imps for safety. And their
crowns were there. And I couldn't resist playing with fire. And you
picked up Button's crown. And I felt all your thought--bitter, ironic,
painful thoughts. I am much more responsive to your moods than you
realize, I think. And I wanted to comfort you. And I looked at you. And
you saw what I felt--

"It was just as if I had said, all the things which we have always left
unsaid, wasn't it? It was just as if I had shouted aloud, all the
things which we have always been so careful to ignore. It--troubled
you--then. It troubles you still. It will be a long time, before I
shall be able to forgive myself, for what happened last night--

"I have always wanted to help you, to serve you, to make things easier
for you, you see--not to add to your difficulties. But we have helped
you, Uncle Bond, and I, and the Imps, haven't we! It has been good
for you to come here, to us, in Paradise, for rest, and quiet, and
peace, hasn't it? There is an old fairy story about a man who was
haunted by his shadow, that the Imps are very fond of, that I have
always connected with you, in my own mind. You are haunted by your
shadow, aren't you? You are haunted by the shadow of your rank, of
your position, of your responsibility. But you have always been able
to forget your shadow here with us--until last night--haven't you? It
has always been waiting for you, when you went away in the morning, you
picked it up again in the lane, on your way back to town, I know. But,
while you were here, you never saw your shadow, until last night, did
you?"

"It has always been just like that," the King murmured. "With you, I
have always been able to live, in the present moment--"

"It always _shall be_ just like that," Judith declared.

Then she stood up abruptly.

"But I am not going to talk any more now," she said. "I must go in.
The Imps will be awake by now. But I shan't bring them out here. I
want you to rest. I promised the Duke, that I would see that you got
as much rest as possible, whenever you came here. I--like the Duke.
He--cares more for you--than you realize, Alfred, I think. You will
try to rest now, won't you? How much sleep have you had in the last
twenty-four hours? Three hours, last night? You are too reckless. I am
not surprised the King's physician is turning grey. The Duke told me
that. You can't stay up on the bridge indefinitely. You will find that
you will be able to sleep now--after all my plain speaking! Are you
comfortable in that chair? Let me give you this cushion--"

She lingered beside him, seeking to make him comfortable, as a woman
will.

"I treat you, just as if you were one of my boys, don't I?" she said.
"I know you like it. But I do it--in self-defence."

The King submitted, passively, to her ministrations.

Then he caught her hand, and raised it to his lips.

His action, like so many of his actions, was quite impulsive. But he
did not regret it.

In what other way could he have expressed so well, his admiration, his
gratitude, his renewed trust?

Judith blushed charmingly.

Then, suddenly, she leant down over him, and kissed him, lightly, on
the forehead.

"I kissed you like that, last night, when you were asleep," she said,
with an odd, breathless, little catch in her voice.

Then she turned, and hurried away, through the trees, back to the
house,--

A great drowsiness took possession of the King. He did not resist it.
He gave himself up to it gladly--

His instinct had served him well. Judith understood him, better than he
understood himself. Judith was right. She was always right. The larger
part of his trouble, it seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his
bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he and she stood. Now that
Judith had defined their position--as plainly as it could be defined
with safety--a great burden seemed to have been lifted from his mind.
Judith understood him. Nothing else mattered. Other things--could not
touch him here in Paradise. Other things--could wait.

His shadow--

Half asleep, as he was already, he sat up abruptly.

The bright, afternoon sun was shining full on to the little clearing,
throwing no shadow--

His shadow was not there--

Leaning back, contentedly, in his chair, he closed his eyes again.

Almost at once, he slept.




CHAPTER XIV


A light, butterfly touch on his cheek awoke the King.

He had slept so deeply, and so long, it was a minute or two, before he
fully regained consciousness.

Then he found himself gazing at Bill's gleeful, cherubic face.

"Lazy, lazy, slug-a-bed, Uncle Alfred," Bill chanted. "'Bed by daytime'
was over--ever so long ago. We've been making the hay, the whole
afternoon. And you've been asleep all the time, you poor, tired dear.
But mother said we could wake you now."

A sudden tenderness, for the shining innocence of the little fellow's
smiling face, gripped the King.

Catching him up in his arms, he shook him, playfully, in mid air.

Then he set him down on his feet again, and turning--saw Button, on the
other side of his chair.

"Wonderful harvest weather, this we're having," Button remarked. "But,
if it's good for the hay, it's bad for the roots. We want rain for the
roots, there's no denying."

It was an extremely elderly Button who spoke.

The King recognized one of the youngster's habitual quotations.

It sounded like the weather lore of old Jevons, the gardener.

"It's Coronation weather, you see, Button," he said absently.

Button became all boy, seven-year-old boy, at once.

"Were you in the procession, Uncle Alfred?" he cried. "Mother told us
about it. Did you see the King? Did you wear your sword? Did the people
cheer?"

"Tell us about the flags, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks,"
Bill demanded, joining in, in the little hurricane of questions.
"Mother says the King rode in his coach. Why didn't he ride on one of
his horses? Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his crown heavy?"

"Mother says the King is quite young. That is funny, isn't it?" Button
predominated. "All the Kings in the fairy stories are old, old men,
with long, white beards. Do you think he likes being King? Mother
says he has to work very hard, that he can't do just what he likes,
and please himself, that he always has to think--first of England, and
never of himself. That doesn't sound as if he had much fun, does it?"

"Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?" Bill enquired.

By this time, the King's dormant ironic sense had been most effectively
aroused. He was amused? Yes. But more than one of the youngsters'
innocent shafts had reached home.

And Judith was not greatly interested in politics!

"First of England, and never of himself?"

Had he not always thought--first of himself?

"Mother says the King was in the Navy, like you and our daddy, until
they told him that he had to be King," Button continued. "Daddy died in
battle, you know. But it isn't sad. Mother has his medals. When I grow
up, I'm to have his sword, and go into the Navy, too. Mother says it's
the King's Service. When Bill is big enough, mother says he'll be as
big as I am some day, he's going into the Navy, too. He'll be in the
King's Service, too. But I'm to have daddy's sword, because I'm the
eldest."

Bill scrambled up on to the King's knees.

"You will tell us all about the King, and his procession, and the
'luminations, and the fireworks, won't you, dear?" he coaxed.

"Some day--perhaps I will," the King said. "But it is a long, and a
difficult story, and it--isn't finished yet. I don't think the King
likes being King, very much, though. Mother is right. He--can't do just
what he likes. He hasn't been King very long--but he has learnt that,
already. Perhaps, I don't know, he may learn, if he has the chance,
in time, to think--first of England, and never of himself. He doesn't
have much fun. I know that. His crown is--heavier than he likes. He was
very tired of it all, yesterday, I know. He didn't see--much of his own
procession. He saw the flags, and the crowds, and he heard the cheers.
Yes. The people cheered! And he bowed, and smiled, and played his part.
But I don't think he enjoyed it very much. I think he was--rather
afraid of it all, in his own heart. He didn't wear his sword. They
won't let the King fight, nowadays, you see. He has to let other
men--brave men like your daddy--fight for him. He--doesn't like that!
That is why it is better to be in the King's Service, in the Navy, as
you are going to be, when you grow tall enough, than to be--the King--"

"Didn't they let him sit up to see the 'luminations, and the
fireworks?" Bill asked, surprised, and puzzled.

"Yes. They let him sit up to see them," the King acknowledged hastily.
"And there were illuminated aeroplanes over the palace. And "God Save
the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second," in letters of fire,
on all the houses--"

"Here's mother," Button announced.

Judith appeared, advancing through the trees.

Button ran to meet her.

Bill remained faithful to the King's knee.

The King frowned. He understood, suddenly, he thought, why Judith had
sent the Imps to wake him. The Imps were protection, safety. Judith
was right, of course. It was wise of her to take such precautions--in
self-defence. And yet, somehow, at the moment, he resented her wisdom.

"You have had a good sleep, Alfred," Judith said, smiling pleasantly,
as she halted beside him. "It is nearly six o'clock now. We came, and
looked at you, at tea-time, but you were so fast asleep, it seemed a
shame to wake you."

The King's resentment fell from him. He felt ashamed of himself. It was
of him, and not of herself--did she ever think of herself?--that Judith
had been thinking.

"I feel very much better, thank you. The rest has done me good," he
said.

"Uncle Alfred has been telling us about the King, mother," Button
explained. "He says he doesn't think the King likes being King very
much. He can't do what he likes, just as you said. They won't let him
wear his sword even, and he can't fight for himself. He has to let
other people fight for him. I'm glad I'm not King. I'd rather be a
sailor, and wear daddy's sword."

The King put Bill down off his knee, and stood up hastily, glad to
avoid, in this way, meeting Judith's glance--

"Picaback! Picaback!" Bill cried.

"A race!" Button shouted.

It was the Imps' hour for play.

Always, in the evening, between tea and dinner, Judith joined them, in
the garden, in a riotous frolic.

This evening the King, too, was inevitably, pressed into their service.

The King mounted Bill on his shoulders, willingly enough.

Button claimed Judith as his mettlesome charger.

The race, it was decided, should be to the house.

And so, with Button urging Judith forward, and Bill spurring the King
on, remorselessly, with his heels, the race began.

The result was, for some time, in doubt.

Ultimately, going all out across the lawn, Bill, on the King, won by a
short length.

Whether Bill, or the King, was the more delighted at this success, it
would have taken a very acute observer to judge.

In the ensuing hour, the King found himself called upon to play a
variety of parts, which would have made exhaustive demands upon the
resources of the most experienced quick-change artist.

A Wild Beast in the trees, Man Friday, a Red Indian, a Cannibal King,
and a Policeman, were amongst his more prominent rôles. Flinging
himself into the spirit of the play, with a gusto which he caught, in
part, from Judith, he entirely forgot himself.

The Imps' laughter rang out, blithe and free, through the garden, and
about the house. Whenever their interest, or their energy failed,
Judith was quick with some delectable proposal, unlimited in resource.
With all their unspoilt imagination, Button and Bill were hard put to
it, at times, to keep pace with the whims of their radiant, laughing
mother. Judith played with all the abandon of a child, directed by the
intellect of an adult. To the King this combination was irresistible.
He had no thought now apart from the present moment.

Once only, were he and Judith alone together. It was in the course of
a wild game of hide and seek with which the play ended. It was their
turn to hide. Quite by chance, they sought the same cover--a large
rhododendron bush in the drive. They crouched together, behind the
bush, side by side.

Judith was flushed, panting a little, and a trifle dishevelled.

"Isn't this fun?" she whispered, turning to him with shining eyes.

"I am ten years old--for the first time," the King replied.

Judith's face clouded.

"When you were a boy--was the shadow there already?" she asked.

"I think that it must have been, although I didn't know it," the King
muttered. "I expect it was my own fault--but I was lonely. I knew,
I think we all knew--that we were not like other children. It wasn't
until I went to sea that--I was able to forget that I was a Prince!"

"Poor, lonely, little Prince!" Judith murmured. "But when he went to
sea, he was happy?"

"The sea knocked a lot of nonsense out of me," the King replied. "At
sea, a man is a man, and nothing else. When I had learnt that, I was
happy."

Then the Imps burst in upon them, and the play was at an end.

Judith drove the Imps before her, into the house.

For them--a light supper, and then, an early bedtime.

The King made his way into the house in turn.

It was time to dress for dinner.

A rich content, a sense of absolute well-being, was with the King now.
Was it not always so, when he had been with Judith, and the Imps? The
bewilderment, the turmoil, and the fever, which had raged within him,
only a few hours ago, seemed very far away.

Here, in Paradise, the present moment was good!

Insensibly--had Judith contrived it?--he had stepped into the quiet old
inn of "Content," on the corner of the market-place. He had turned his
back on--the procession--on the fight in the market-place. He would
keep his back turned to them. He would not even risk the window view.

Alfred, the sailor, was not dead!

It was Alfred, the sailor, who entered the house.

It was Alfred, the sailor, who passed into his own room.

Here, a surprise awaited him. Laid out in the room were evening
clothes. On the dressing-table were familiar toilet trifles from the
palace.

Alfred, the sailor, fled.

It was the King, who halted, in the middle of the room, and looked
about him.

This, he realized, must have been the outcome of the old Duke's
thoughtfulness. The Duke alone could have given the orders which had
made this possible. That the Duke should have found time to attend to
so trivial a matter, time to give orders to a valet to pack a bag, when
he was giving orders to maintain a throne--it was almost ludicrous!

And yet, it was like the Duke.

It was like the Duke, to remind him, to assure him, in this way, that
he, the King, was of importance, that he was being served, well served,
in small matters, as well as in great. Something of the sort must
have been in the old Duke's mind, when he gave the orders, which had
provided him, the King, with a dress shirt--and studs!--now, when he
wanted them--

No doubt, some member of the palace household staff, Smith perhaps, had
been sent down, specially, from the palace, with these things, during
the afternoon. Like the police, and the military, he would have been
given orders to remain invisible. That was as it should be. A valet
would have been out of place in Paradise. Alfred, the sailor, would be
entitled to a servant, of course. But he would hardly accompany him
on--"a short leave of absence"--

The King was glad to change.

He was glad to think, as he dressed leisurely, that he would appear
suitably clad at Judith's table.

There is a stimulation in clothes which he was young enough to feel.

He was still struggling with his dress tie, when the dinner gong
sounded.




CHAPTER XV


A small, panelled room, on the left of the hall, and on the west side
of the house, the dining room was bright with the light of the setting
sun, as the King entered. Late as he was himself, he was surprised to
find that only Judith was there to receive him. She was standing at the
window doors, which opened out of the room onto the verandah, gazing at
the flaming glory of the sunset sky. Wearing a silver gown, that had a
metallic glitter, which gave her something of a barbaric splendour, she
seemed, at the moment, almost a stranger to the King. But she turned to
welcome him with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.

"It will be no use our waiting for Uncle Bond," she announced. "He may
be here, in a minute or two. Or he may not come for half an hour, or
more. 'Cynthia' may have got a firm grip on him, you see. Uncle Bond,
or perhaps I ought to say 'Cynthia,' hates being interrupted for meals.
I never wait for him."

Sitting down at the foot of the dinner table, as she spoke, she waved
the King into his place, on her right, facing the open window doors,
and the view of the garden, and of the wooded landscape beyond, which
they framed.

"I hope 'Cynthia' _has_ got a firm grip on Uncle Bond," she went on. "I
shall have you all to myself, then. You ought to have said that, you
know. But you never make pretty speeches. That is why I said it for
you."

The King sat down at the dinner table, and picked up his napkin,
mechanically.

"Are pretty speeches allowed--between us?" he asked.

"Why not? Just for once?" Judith replied. "Why shouldn't we play at
them, like a game with the Imps? Shall I begin? I will give you an
opening. Do you like my dress? And my hair? I dressed for you. I know
you like me, of course. But there are times, when a woman likes to be
told--what she knows!"

The King was surprised, and not a little embarrassed. This was not the
Judith he had expected. This was not the Judith of the afternoon. This
was that other strange, dangerous Judith, of the night before. She had
warned him that--it might happen again. True. But he had never imagined
that it would happen again, so soon--

The entrance of the light-footed parlour-maid, in neat black, who was
responsible for the service of the meal, at that moment, covered the
King's silent confusion.

So long as the maid was in the room only trivial surface conversation
was possible.

The King compelled himself to play his necessary, outward social
part. But he was uneasily aware, all the time, inwardly, that Judith
had noticed his embarrassment and that she was likely to resume her
unexpected attack at the first opportunity. His intuition proved
correct; but only partially correct. Judith was quick to take advantage
of the first of the maid's temporary absences from the room to return
to more intimate talk. But she struck, at once, a quieter, graver note.

"What is it, Alfred?" she asked. "Do I trouble you? I am sorry. It was
selfish of me. I knew that I was playing with fire, of course. But--a
woman grows tired of leaving everything unsaid."

Her implied appeal, and her insistence on her feminine weakness--a
thing unprecedented in her!--moved the King. He felt ashamed of his own
caution.

"If I had the right to make pretty speeches--" he began.

Then he checked himself abruptly.

What was the use of evasion? Had not Judith and he agreed that plain
speaking was their only hope? Judith had spoken plainly enough. The
least he could do was to speak plainly, too. And, suddenly, at the
back of his mind, now, were thoughts, which he had never suspected in
himself, clamouring for expression,--

"But I haven't the right!" he exclaimed. "I haven't any right to be
here, really. I see that now. I am in an utterly false position. I
ought not to be here. I ought not to have come here, as I have done. It
was not fair--to either of us. It was asking too much of--both of us.
Why haven't I seen that before? I shut my eyes to it, deliberately, I
am afraid. It was a mistake. It has been a mistake all through. I have
been absolutely selfish. I have thought only of myself. It is only
right that I should have to pay for my mistake. But the payment is all
on your side. It has been give, give, give, all the time, on your side.
And take, take, take, all the time, on mine. And I can make no return--"

"The giving all on our side! You have made no return!" Judith cried.
"It isn't true, Alfred. You know it isn't true! But, even if it were
true--a woman loves a man who allows her to give to him."

"Isn't that just the trouble?" the King exclaimed, exasperated by the
conflict of feeling within him into a flash of unusual insight.

Then the parlour-maid re-entered the room.

Hard on the heels of the parlour-maid, Uncle Bond made his appearance.

The little man had not dressed for dinner. He was still wearing his
usual, loose-fitting shooting clothes.

"You will excuse my clothes, I know, my boy," he remarked as he slipped
into his place, at the head of the table. "It has taken me all my
time to get here at all. I have just had a violent quarrel, upstairs,
with 'Cynthia.' I told her that you were here to dinner today, that
you were an honoured guest, and that I wished to show you proper
attention. She told me to get on with my work. I told her that I would
not be hag-ridden--that caught her on the raw!--that she was merely my
familiar spirit, not my master. Then I slammed the door on her. And
here we are!"

It was difficult to resist Uncle Bond's chuckling good-humour. The King
found himself smiling at the little man's characteristic nonsense,
almost in spite of himself.

Judith proved more obdurate.

Judith appeared to be really piqued by Uncle Bond's entrance. As the
meal proceeded, she became increasingly silent. An obtuser man than
Uncle Bond must have become quickly conscious that something was wrong.
From the mischievous twinkle which shone in the little man's sparkling
eyes, the King judged that Uncle Bond was only too well aware of the
tension that had sprung up, so unexpectedly, between Judith and himself.

Oddly enough, Uncle Bond did nothing to relieve the situation. The
little man was, or affected to be, very hungry. Setting himself, ably
seconded by the parlour-maid, to make good the courses which had
already been served, he confined his attention, almost entirely to his
plate.

The meal went forward, for some time, in these circumstances, with a
minimum of talk, which was not far removed from dumb show.

The broad rays of the setting sun were shining full into the room now
through the open window doors immediately facing the King. In the
awkward, recurring silences at the table, his eyes turned, again and
again, to the window doors, and the superb landscape which they framed.

Field and wood, winding road, and blossoming hedgerow, cottage and
farm, lay, peaceful and serene, spread out there, before him, in the
bright, evening light.

And beyond, beyond it all, lay London.

What was happening there?

The question startled the King.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, absorbed by his own emotions, he had
entirely forgotten the crisis.

Was everything still proceeding in accordance with plan? Why had
he not heard from the Duke? Had not the Duke said that he would be
communicating with him?

A sudden impatience with, a new contempt for, himself, swept over the
King.

What right had he to be sitting there, in peace and quietness, when
there was uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events were shaping
themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond the wooded skyline?

The Duke had urged him to leave the palace. The Duke had urged him to
seek a retreat, an asylum, out of the way of possible trouble.

All that was true.

And yet, here again, by his own act, had he not placed himself--in an
utterly false position?

This was not his place!

It seemed to be his fate, that he should always do the wrong thing!

His worst enemy was, indeed--himself!

The meal dragged on, drearily, and interminably, it seemed now, to the
King.

Would it never end?

At last, the parlour-maid put the decanters on the table, and withdrew,
finally, from the room.

A moment later, Uncle Bond stood up, glass in hand.

"I see no reason why we should not drink our usual toast, Judith," he
said. "On the contrary, I think there is every reason why we should
drink it, tonight--

"The King!"

Judith sprang up, and raised her glass in turn.

"The King--God bless him!" she said.

The King had picked up his own glass, mechanically, and half risen to
his feet.

He set his glass down again on the table, now with a shaking hand, and
sank back into his chair. Then, hardly conscious of what he was doing,
he bowed, first to Judith, and then to Uncle Bond. He could not see
their faces. There was a mist before his eyes--

"The King!"

Their usual toast. They drank it nightly, then, thinking of him. For
them it had a special, personal meaning. With them it was not only a
pledge of loyalty. With them it was a pledge of affection, too.

The King was profoundly moved.

Then, suddenly, his brain raced furiously.

"The King!"

Judith and Uncle Bond would not be alone in drinking the toast that
evening. All over the world, wherever men and women, of the true
English stock, were gathered together, would not the toast be drunk,
that evening, with a special enthusiasm, a special meaning? Not with
the special, personal meaning, the special, personal affection,
with which Judith and Uncle Bond had drunk it. That was outside the
question. The toast was a bigger thing than any personal affection,
than any personal feeling. It was a bigger thing than--any King--

"The King!"

Had not his own pulse quickened, had not his blood flowed more quickly
through his veins, at the words? They had acted upon him like the call
of a trumpet. To what?

"The King!"

What did the words stand for? For the biggest things. For England,
loyalty, patriotism, for ideals of service, personal, and national. No
man or woman drinking the toast thought and felt precisely as any other
man or woman standing beside them. But they were all united, all their
varied thoughts, and ideals, and emotions were linked together by the
words.

And he--the King--was the recognized, the accredited, figurehead, of
all their varied thoughts, ideals, emotions.

Was not this the reason, that he might serve as a link between the
varied ideals of all his people, that the King, his father, had been
content to live a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote? Was it not for
this that his brother, the Prince, had prepared himself, sacrificing
himself, never sparing himself?

And he had followed them unwillingly--

A new resolve, or something as near akin to a new resolve as he dare
venture upon, in his new distrust, his new contempt, for himself, was
registered by the King, at that moment.

If the old Duke "cut the rope"--and the old Duke would, he must
"cut the rope"--he, the King, would shape the course of his life,
differently--

It was not, he realized, that these were new thoughts with him. They
were, rather, thoughts which had lurked, until now, at the back of his
mind, overlaid by that preoccupation with himself, by that thinking
first of himself, which given the chance, given the time, it would be
his business, now, to alter--

The shutting of the door, behind him, at this point, startled the King
out of his reverie.

Looking round, he found that Judith had left the table, and slipped
quietly out of the room.

He turned to his right--and met Uncle Bond's curious glance.

Uncle Bond pushed a cigar box across the table, towards him.

The King chose a cigar absently.

Uncle Bond selected a long, and formidable looking cheroot, lit it, and
then leaning back in his chair, began to talk.

"I would give a good deal to be able to read your thoughts, my boy,"
he remarked. "Perhaps I can read--some of them! If it were not for the
bond of friendship between us, I should be tempted to regard you as a
most fascinating psychological study. Your position, the circumstances
in which you find yourself, at the moment are--unique. And you are
becoming conscious of that, and of many other things, unless I am
much mistaken. Our little comedy is drawing to its close, I fancy.
Meanwhile, shall we share our thoughts? Or do you feel that silence is
as essential, as it is said to be golden?"

The King hesitated, for a moment. His recent thoughts could be shared
with no one--not even with Uncle Bond, not even with Judith--

Then, as he looked up, in his perplexity, his eyes were caught by
the landscape, framed in the open window doors, in front of him.
Instinctively, he fell back upon his earlier thoughts, of what was
happening over there, beyond the wooded skyline, of why he had not
heard from the Duke.

"I have been wondering what is happening over there," he said,
indicating the far horizon with a gesture. "I begin to want to know
what is happening. The Duke said he would be communicating with me, you
know. I suppose you haven't heard from the Duke again?"

"No. I have not heard from the Duke," Uncle Bond replied. "But no news
is good news, in this case, my boy, I am certain. My own idea is that
the Duke will send no message until--everything has proceeded 'in
accordance with plan'--until he has, definitely, 'cut the rope.' Then,
and not until then, I think we may expect to see him here, in person."

The King was silent. He was conscious that he would be ready for, that
he would be glad to see, the Duke, when he came.

Uncle Bond, with his uncanny, unerring instinct, seemed to read his
thoughts.

"Our intimacy is, I think, nearing its end. Or, if it is not nearing
its end, it is approaching a time when it will be, inevitably,
changed," he remarked. "Ours has been a strange association, my boy.
But I am glad to think that it has been as pleasant, as it has been
strange. It has been so to Judith, and to myself. And to you? You have
enjoyed the hospitality which we have been so glad to offer you. And we
have been able to do you some service--a greater service, perhaps, than
we ever intended, a greater service, perhaps, than you, as yet, realize.

"We shall not see as much of you, in the near future, I fancy, as we
have done, in the past. Probably, we shall see less of you. Probably,
a time will come when your very welcome visits here will cease
altogether. But, I am glad to think, you will not be able to forget
us. We shall always have a place in your memory--a place of our own--a
place like no one else's. As the years go by, you will fill a more and
more important, a more and more distinguished position. But you will
not forget us. You will think of us gratefully.

"I want, Judith and I both want, your memory of us to be without
regret, to be a wholly pleasant memory. A mental oasis, perhaps, of
a kind useful to a man who is condemned to fill a conspicuous, and
responsible position--in the procession. There has been nothing in our
association which you, or we, can regret, thus far. Be on your guard,
my boy. See to it, that nothing occurs, that any of us need regret, in
retrospect--

"I have fallen into a bad habit of gravity with you, I observe. I seem
to have taken to obtruding my advice upon you. The Heavy Father! This
afternoon. And now, again, tonight. I apologize!

"And now I must revert to 'Cynthia'! We have had a wonderful day.
You always bring me luck. But 'Cynthia,' when she once gets going is
insatiable. I shall have to put in two or three more hours, with her,
upstairs, tonight. We are thousands of words ahead of the time-table
already. I shall be able to be idle for weeks after today. But there is
a climax in the offing--a climax, a couple of pages ahead, which cannot
wait. I must let it take its own course, shape itself, and get it down
on to paper. It never pays to let a climax wait!"

The little man stood up, and leaving the table, crossed the room to the
door. But, by the door, he paused.

"Judith, I see, is waiting for you, in the hall, my boy," he announced.
"She will give you some music, I dare say. If you should happen to want
me--I am upstairs."

Then he disappeared.

In spite of Uncle Bond's announcement that Judith was waiting for him,
the King lingered at the dinner table. Somehow, he did not wish--to
be alone with Judith again. Was he afraid of her? Or of himself? He
hardly knew. But he shrank instinctively from the ordeal. It would be
an ordeal. The consequences, the inevitable consequences, of his false
position, of his reckless self-indulgence, were closing about him--

Suddenly, the soft notes of the piano, in the hall, reached his ears.

Judith had begun her music, without waiting for him.

The King had no cultivated taste in music. The rattling melodies of the
wardroom piano, or gramophone, were his greatest pleasure. Like most
people, where music was concerned, he was merely an animal, soothed or
irritated, by noise.

Judith's music was soft and low.

It soothed him.

Well, the ordeal had to be faced!

Finishing his glass of port, he stood up.

Then he passed, reluctantly, out of the dining room, into the hall.

In the hall, the shadows of the twilight were gathering fast. Judith's
silver dress shone, obscurely luminous, in the far corner, where she
was seated at the piano. She turned, and welcomed him with her friendly
little nod, and went on playing.

The King sat down on the ottoman, at the foot of the staircase. It was
the furthest distance that he could keep from Judith.

Judith played on, passing from one melody to another, playing
throughout from memory, odd movements, and the music of songs, all soft
and low, and all, it seemed, now, to the King, plaintive, sad.

The twilight deepened in the hall.

Neither the twilight, nor the music, brought peace to the King.

A sense of fatality, a feeling of impending crisis, was with him.

And he was afraid, now--of himself.

At last, the music ceased.

Judith stood up.

The King rose to his feet, in turn.

And then, suddenly, blind instinct came to his aid, counselling flight.

Without a word, with the briefest possible glance in Judith's
direction, he turned sharply round on his heel, and passed quickly up
the staircase, to Uncle Bond's quarters.

He flung open the door of Uncle Bond's writing room, without knocking--

"I have come--to place myself under arrest, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed.
"I have come--to put myself into safe custody. I can't--trust myself."

Uncle Bond, busy at his writing table, laid down his pencil, and turned
in his chair.

"Shut the door, my boy," he said. "I accept the responsibility you
have offered me. It is a responsibility which I would have accepted
before--but I did not care to interfere, between you and Judith, until
it was offered to me."

The King shut the door.

"Fortunately, 'Cynthia' and I have just finished our climax," Uncle
Bond chuckled. "I can blow out the candles, and devote myself to you."

He blew out the candles on the writing table, the only light in the
room.

"Sit down, my boy," he said. "Can you feel your way to the sofa? The
moon rises late tonight. In this dubious, half light, we may be able to
talk--at our ease."

The King found his way to the sofa, under the windows, without any
difficulty, and sat down.

A dusky veil, which was not darkness, had been drawn over the room,
when Uncle Bond blew out the candles. Outside the windows, there was
still a luminous glow in the sky, where one or two stars shone palely.
A couple of bats fluttered, to and fro, across the length of the
windows. Some martins, settling down for the night, in their nests,
under the eaves of the house, twittered excitedly--

"Shall we talk?" Uncle Bond asked suddenly. "I am ready to talk. And
yet--I have no great faith in words. 'Cynthia' uses them. But plain
James Bond has learnt their danger. After all, when an action speaks
for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."

"I do not think that I want to talk, Uncle Bond," the King said slowly.

It seemed to him, now, that he had already said enough, perhaps too
much, when he had entered the room.

"I am content," Uncle Bond said. "I am not afraid of silence."

Silence, at the moment, was welcome to the King--

It was a soothing, sedative silence, which brought with it the first
hush of night.

The King settled himself, more comfortably, at full length, on the sofa.

Uncle Bond neither moved, nor spoke.

Some time passed.

At last, Uncle Bond stood up, and crossed quietly to the sofa.

The King was asleep.

The little man drew out two or three blankets, from under the sofa, and
threw them over the King.

Then he returned to the writing table, and sat down. But he did not
relight his candles, and resume his work. He leant back in his chair,
in an attitude of expectancy, as if he were waiting for somebody.

He had not long to wait.

In a minute or two, the door behind him was opened, quietly, and Judith
slipped into the room.

Judith halted behind the little man, and stood there, for some time
in silence, gazing at the King's face, which was dimly visible in the
light from the windows.

At last, she spoke.

"He is asleep?" she whispered.

"Yes," Uncle Bond said. "When you remember the strain under which he
has been running, you can hardly be surprised."

There was a short silence. Then Judith laid her hand on the little
man's shoulder.

"It was--my fault, Uncle Bond," she whispered. "I--failed him. It has
happened twice now. Last night was the first time. And tonight--he knew
that it was going to happen again. I don't know--how it happened. It
ought not to have happened--"

"It had to happen. It is a good thing that it has happened," Uncle Bond
said quietly. "It was--the necessary climax. I have been expecting it.
And now--it is over--

"It was a risk. It was a great risk. It was _the_ risk," the little man
went on, in a low, meditative tone. "But I trusted--_him_. It seemed to
me that he could not fail. He comes of a good stock. The long line of
men and women who lived, so that he might live, did not live in vain.
Think of their restraint, their self-repression, their self-sacrifice--

"And we have been able to do him a service, a great service, a
greater service than he realizes as yet. We have helped him through
a difficult, and dangerous, period in his life. And you have shown
him--of what stuff he is made. Instincts, and impulses, which, in him,
have necessarily been insulated, and sternly suppressed, for years,
have been brought into play. He knows now--of what stuff he is made.

"The future will be easier. I was telling him, tonight, that I do
not think that we shall see so much of him, in the future. The time
is coming when we shall see very little of him, I think. But he will
not forget us. He will think of us with gratitude, with deepening
gratitude, as the years go by. We shall have a place of our own in his
memory. And there will be nothing in his memory, that he, or we, need
regret--

"We shall miss him. He has come to fill a large place in all our lives.
It has been a strange episode. That he should have wandered, by chance,
into our quiet backwater; that we should have become implicated,
through him, in great issues--that is strange. But it is only an
episode. And it is nearly over now. And we--and you--would not have it
otherwise?"

"I would not have it otherwise," Judith whispered.

Then she drew in her breath, sharply, as if in pain.

"But I have so much, and he has so little," she said.

"He has--England," Uncle Bond said gravely.

"And I have the Imps, and you," Judith replied.

Then she stooped down, suddenly, and kissed the little man.

"Good night," she said. "I am going straight to bed. I am very tired."

And she turned, and hurried out of the room--

For some time, Uncle Bond remained motionless at the writing table.

The night was very still. An owl called, eerily, from the garden. A
dog barked in some distant farmyard.

At last, the little man rose to his feet, crossed to the sofa again,
and stood looking down at the King's face which showed pallid, drawn,
and, somehow, it seemed to him now, old, in the dim, half light.

"The band, I think, _must be_ playing--somewhere--" he muttered.




CHAPTER XVI


It was a night of strange dreams with the King.

For endless ages, as it seemed to him, watched all the time by a
thousand flushed, curious faces, by a thousand eyes, he fled, down
interminable corridors, across dark and desolate waste places, pursued,
now by the old Duke of Northborough, now by Uncle Bond, and now by
Judith. His feet were of lead. Time and again, he stumbled, and all
but fell. His breath came in panting gusts. He reeled. His brain was
on fire. And yet the chase continued, across continents, through dark,
dank caves, along a dreary coast line, on the edge of precipices, by
the side of angry seas--

The horror of it all was heightened by his knowledge that he was being
pursued in error. Some inexplicable, mysterious misunderstanding
between him, and his pursuers, accounted for the chase. They were
pursuing him, hunting him down, mistakenly, full of a desire to serve
him, to save him. He could not, he dare not, stop to explain their
error to them. To stop was death. And Judith was the most persistent,
the most relentless of his pursuers--

At last the darkness, through which he fled, was pierced by a blinding
light, which played full upon his face, dazzling his eyes. They had
turned a searchlight upon him, to aid them in hunting him down. All the
world would see his fall. He twisted, this way and that, to avoid the
light. But his frenzied efforts were all in vain. The light turned with
him always, shining full upon his face. Then he fell--

Bright morning sunshine was streaming in through the open windows of
the writing room, full upon the King's face, as he awoke. As he turned
his head to avoid its blinding glare, he saw Uncle Bond's writing
table, bare and empty, save for the candlesticks, in which mere stumps
of candles remained. Slowly he became conscious of his surroundings.
First he recognized the writing table, than the bare walls, then
the room. Then he realized that he was lying on the sofa, under the
windows. The blankets which covered him puzzled him for awhile. The
fact that he was fully dressed in evening clothes puzzled him still
more. Then memory was achieved, and he knew--who he was, where he was.
Throwing off the blankets he sprang up on to his feet, and stretched
himself with a sudden access of immense relief.

It was good to awake from so terrifying a dream--

A burst of radiant, childish laughter, outside the room, down below in
the garden, drew him to the windows.

Old Jevons, the gardener, was on the lawn, with Joshua, the equally
elderly garden donkey, harnessed to the lawn mower. Bill was perched
on Joshua's unwilling back. Button was pulling at Joshua's obstinate
mouth. And Joshua would not move. Joshua was a capricious animal, with
a temper of his own. To the laughing Imps, his recurring mutinies were
a never failing joy.

In the bright morning light, against the green background of the garden
trees, the animated little scene had a charm which was not lost upon
the King.

"If I had a donkey, what wouldn't go," Bill chanted.

"Wouldn't I wollop him? No! No! No!" Button carolled gleefully,
abandoning Joshua's mouth, and converting the nursery rhyme into an
action song of considerable vigour.

Suddenly, Joshua succumbed. Lowering his head before the storm, he
moved forward.

Old Jevons, who had been waiting patiently for this capitulation,
guided the machine.

"It's a hard world for donkeys!" the King moralized at the window.
"But, once harnessed, I suppose--one has to pull the machine."

It was of himself that he was thinking!

Then Judith appeared in the garden, stepping down from the verandah,
and sauntering across the lawn.

The King withdrew hastily, from the windows.

He hardly knew why.

But he did know! His clothes, his dishevelled appearance, made him feel
foolish. The sooner he could get a bath, and a change, the better. It
must be late. It must be nearly breakfast time. Now, while Judith and
the Imps were out in the garden, he would probably be able to slip
down to his bedroom, unobserved. The servants would be busy preparing
breakfast. It must be eight o'clock at least. He must hurry--

Darting out of the writing room, he passed quickly down the staircase,
and through the hall, without meeting anybody on the way. As he
raced along the corridor which led to his bedroom, he noticed, with
considerable satisfaction, that the bathroom was empty. Diving into
his bedroom, he snatched up some towels, and his dressing case. Then
he hurried back to the bathroom. It was with a feeling not far removed
from triumph that he shut the bathroom door.

The cold water of the bath was stimulating, invigorating. A shave
restored his self-respect. The last vestiges of his troubled sleep
fell from him. He was rested, although his sleep had been troubled.
He had needed rest. This morning, he was himself again. He was ready
to face--whatever had to be faced. But not a moment sooner than was
necessary. For the time being, he put thought from him, deliberately--

Back in his bedroom, he found that the grey lounge suit, which he had
been wearing the day before, had been carefully brushed, and laid out
ready for him. The invisible valet had been at work again. He dressed
quickly. While he was knotting his tie, a point in his toilet that he
was particular about, even this morning, from mere force of habit, the
gong in the hall sounded. He looked at his watch. He had not been far
out in his estimate of the time. It was just on half past eight. Did
they know he was up? Of course they would know. No doubt, even here in
his bedroom, he was being carefully, if unostentatiously, shadowed--

A sound of footsteps outside on the verandah told him that it was
there, as usual, that breakfast was being served.

Well, he had to face them!

And Uncle Bond, if he was there, if he was equal to breakfasting in
public for once, might have news--

The King stepped out of the bedroom, through the open window doors, on
to the verandah.

The breakfast table had been placed at the far end of the verandah.

Uncle Bond was there.

Judith was there.

The Imps were there.

And so was--the Duke.

A momentary silence followed the King's appearance on the verandah.

Then the Imps ran forward to greet him.

"We are all to have breakfast together, Uncle Alfred," Button
announced.

"And we've been waiting for you--for ever so long," Bill complained.

The King caught them up, in turn, and shook them, in mid-air, as was
his wont.

"We all like your friend very much," Bill whispered. "He's been here a
long, long time--quite twenty minutes!"

"He came in a big car, bigger than Uncle's," Button supplemented.

The King looked at his "friend"--the Duke.

With his broad shoulders, and great height, the Duke dominated the
little group, at the breakfast table, as he dominated every group,
wherever he stood. He was still wearing the rather shabby black office
suit which he had been wearing the day before. Whatever his experience
had been, within the last twenty-four hours, it had not changed him.
The formidable, massive features, under their crown of silver hair, the
luminous, piercing, blue eyes, showed no sign of weariness, no hint
even of anxiety. The force, the vigour, the look, of the wonderful
old man were all unimpaired. He was still, as he had always been, the
strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose.

A sudden, irresistible thrill of relief ran through the King.

From that moment, he knew, for certain, that the Duke had brought good
news; that the Duke had "cut the rope"--

The lightning conductor had not failed.

This man could not fail.

There was an awkward little silence, as the King approached the
breakfast table.

It was not that the Duke was at a loss. The Duke could never be at
a loss. The King recognized that. Nor was it that Uncle Bond was
embarrassed. The King was conscious that the little man was watching
him with shining, mischievous eyes. Rather it was that the Duke, and
Uncle Bond, deferred to him, in this silence, tacitly recognizing that
it was for him to indicate how he wished to be met, whether as their
friend, or as--the King.

Oddly enough, it was Judith who settled the question.

Slipping into her place behind the coffee pot she turned to the King
with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.

"You have had a good night? You slept?" she said. "The Imps were very
anxious to wake you as usual. But I thought you would like to sleep on
this morning. No, Bill. This is Uncle Alfred's coffee. That is right,
Button. That is Uncle Alfred's chair."

It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat down in his usual place at
the breakfast table, with his back to the house, facing the garden.

His friend, the Duke, sat down opposite to him.

The Imps scrambled up on to their chairs, on Judith's right and left.

Uncle Bond presided at the head of the table.

The meal began.

It was a strange meal, the strangest of the many strange meals which
the King had known. The two parts which he had kept distinct for so
long seemed now, somehow, suddenly to blend, to mingle, without any
difficulty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And yet, he was--the
King--

With the Imps at the table, there was no lack of conversation.

Once they had finished their porridge, the Imps were free to talk.
They talked. To each other. To themselves. To anybody. To nobody in
particular.

A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a wholly invisible small boy
called John, who had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grabbing his
food, seemed to appeal, in particular, to the Duke, who entered into
the play, with an imaginative readiness which the King had somehow
never suspected.

The birds called cheerily from the garden. The whir of the haycutting
machines was audible once again; but they were not so near the house,
as on the previous day. Clearly the harvest was being gathered in the
more distant fields. The sunshine lay pure gold everywhere--

The King found himself noticing these things, and registering them in
his mind, as if this was to be the last time that he was to sit there,
in Paradise, enjoying them.

The last time?

It might be--

At last the meal ended.

First of all, Judith rose to her feet, and drove the Imps, armed with
lumps of sugar, before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to
Diana's foal in the paddock.

Then, a minute or two later, Uncle Bond slipped away, unostentatiously,
into the house.

The King, and his friend, the Duke, were thus left alone, at the table,
facing each other.

A sudden, odd desire to postpone what was coming, whatever was coming,
beset the King. Producing his tobacco pouch and pipe, he filled his
pipe leisurely.

The Duke betrayed no sign of impatience. A certain large patience,
it occurred to the King, was, perhaps, the Duke's most pronounced
characteristic.

The King lit his pipe.

Then he looked at the Duke.

The Duke smiled.

"Your little holiday is over. Your short leave of absence is at an end,
sir," he said. "I told you, you may remember, sir, that it would only
be a short leave of absence."

"You have come--for me?" the King asked.

"Yes."

"I am ready to go with you--back to duty," the King said slowly. "There
is nothing, I think, to keep me here."

Then he stood up, abruptly.

"But we can't talk here," he exclaimed. "Shall we walk?"

The Duke stood up in turn.

Together, they stepped down from the verandah.

The King led the way on to the lawn.

At the moment, his desire for movement was paramount.

They crossed to the far end of the lawn, and turned, in silence. Then
the King took the Duke's arm.

"I am ready to hear what you have to say," he said.

The Duke shortened his long stride, and fell into step with the King.

"I am here to ask you to return to the palace, sir," he said. "The
crisis is over. The strike has failed. The success of the protective
measures which we judged necessary has been overwhelming. Within an
hour of the declaration of Martial Law and the operation of the 'Gamma'
scheme, all the revolutionary leaders of the strike conspiracy were in
custody. They are now at sea, on board the _Iron Duke_. I could not
resist that little pleasantry. The _Iron Duke_ sailed under sealed
orders--for Bermuda, sir. The strike leaders will be interned there.

"The police have carried out their orders throughout with a skill, and
a discretion, worthy of the highest praise. The military have been
welcomed, with open arms everywhere. So far as we are aware, up to the
present, law and order have been maintained with hardly a casualty.
It has, in fact, been not so much a battle of the police and of the
military, as of propaganda, sir. Our control of communications has been
the foundation of our success. From the first, by a series of official
bulletins, we have been able to put the facts of the situation before
the whole nation, with a minimum of delay.

"There can no longer be any doubt, sir, that we were correct in our
assumption that the great majority of trades unionists, up and down
the country, had been deceived into the belief that the strike had
been called for purely industrial reasons. Once we had succeeded in
convincing them, by our bulletins, that they had been betrayed into
the hands of a little group of foreign, revolutionary extremists, the
strike was doomed. The anger of the deceived trades unionists has,
ironically enough, been one of our few embarrassments. In many parts
of the country, the military have had to protect the local trades
union leaders, many of whom appear to have been as grossly deceived as
anybody else, from the loyal fury of their followers.

"Mark that word loyal, sir! A great outburst of loyalty to you
personally, sir, has been the outcome of the crisis. That you should
have been subjected to such a crisis, before you had been given any
opportunity to show your worth, has outraged the whole nation's sense
of fair play. From all sections of the community, both here at home,
and in the Dominions, messages of the most fervent loyalty have been
pouring into Downing Street, during the last twenty-four hours. At the
moment, you are the most popular man in the Empire, sir. The fact that,
as soon as I had assured you that law and order would be maintained,
you left the palace, and withdrew at once into the country, rather
than take any part in the conflict, has greatly strengthened your hold
on the people, sir. You left the palace, and withdrew to an unknown
address, in the country, yesterday, sir, until the will of the people
should be made known. You will return to the palace, today, sir, on the
crest of a wave of enthusiasm, unparalleled, I think, in our history."

"You want me to return to the palace, with you, at once?" the King
asked.

"I have no wish to hurry you, sir," the Duke replied. "But the sooner
you return to the palace, and the Royal Standard is run up again on
the palace flagstaff, the sooner will the existing state of a national
emergency be at an end."

"I will come with you at once," the King said. "But first of all--I
must take leave of my friends."

His eyes were fixed, as he spoke, on Judith, who had just reappeared,
alone, on the verandah.

The Duke followed the King's glance. Then he fell back, two or three
paces, and bowed with the hint of formality by which he was in the
habit of suggesting, so subtly, and yet so unmistakably, that he was
dealing with--the King.

The King moved straight across the lawn to Judith.

Judith stepped down from the verandah, and came slowly forward towards
him.

They met on the edge of the lawn.

"I am going back to town, at once, with the Duke," the King announced.
"The Duke has come to fetch me. The crisis is over. The strike has
failed. But you know that, of course--"

He paused there, for a moment, suddenly conscious of the utter
ineptitude of what he was saying--

And then words came to him, fitting words, words to which, up to then,
he had given no thought, but in which all his feelings for, all his
thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, seemed, suddenly, to
crystallize, and find inevitable expression--

"If thanks were necessary between us, I would thank you for all that
you have done for me," he said. "But thanks are not necessary between
us, are they? Where there is--friendship--there is no need for thanks.
You said, yesterday, that you knew that there could be no change in
our friendship, and that you were content that it should be so. You
were right, of course. You are always right. You said what you did
to reassure me, to relieve my anxiety, to remove the uncertainty
about--our position--which was troubling me, although I was hardly
aware that that was my trouble. What you said did reassure me. It did
relieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say something, as plainly as I
can, to you. It seems to me that what I have to say is--due to you--

"If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our friendship, I should stay
here, now, with you. I should stay with you always. I should ask you
to join your life to mine. I should ask you to make--Paradise--for
me, wherever we were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you would
say--yes--gladly--

"But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I am--the King. Alfred, the
sailor is--dead. Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I--the
King--am going--back to duty. I am going back to try to take hold of my
job--in a new way. I am going back, to try to think--first of England,
and never of myself. I am trying to do that now--

"But, before I go, I want to make you a promise. I want to--pledge
myself--to you, as far as I can. It will give me--a certain
satisfaction--to bind myself to you, as far as I can.

"I will never marry--"

Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while he spoke. Her beautiful
vivid face was pale for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as if
with painful thought. But she met his glance without flinching, and her
voice, when she spoke, was firm, if low.

"I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred," she said. "But I am glad,
and proud, that you have said what you have. It was--like you, to say
it. It is--an acknowledgment--that I shall never forget, as long as I
live--

"I will give you--a pledge--in return. Whatever happens, you will
always be welcome here. Whatever happens, you will always find the same
welcome here. You will never find--any changes here. I don't think
Alfred, the sailor, is dead. I don't think he will ever die--as long
as you live! For us, here, at any rate, you will always be--our friend
Alfred!"

Once again, the King was conscious that Judith understood him better
than he understood himself. Once again--was it for the last time?--it
seemed to him that she had explained him to himself. What did all his
talk amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, of the claim, that
Judith had established upon him--that was all.

That was all--he could offer to her. That was all--she could accept--

As unaccountably, and as suddenly then as they had come to him, before,
words failed him.

Abruptly, he turned from Judith, and hurried away from her, round the
side of the house--

On the verandah, beside the front door, the Duke and Uncle Bond were
standing together deep in talk. Uncle Bond was holding the King's coat,
and cap.

As the King approached, the Duke shook hands very cordially with Uncle
Bond, and then stepped down from the verandah, and crossed to a large
closed motor car, which was drawn up in the drive near by, with the
uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly to attention at its open door.

For a moment, the King thought of passing Uncle Bond without speaking.
But that, of course, was impossible. And yet--what could he say?

He need not have troubled himself.

Uncle Bond might distrust, but he never had any difficulty in finding
words.

The little man handed the King his coat, and his cap.

Then he spoke.

"This," he said, with a sweeping gesture which seemed to include the
sunlit garden, the wooded landscape beyond, the house, and even Judith
and himself, "has all been a dream, my boy. But it is now high time
that you should awake out of sleep. Your real life is beginning now."

The King wrung the little man's hand in silence, and then followed the
Duke to the waiting car.

The Duke was already seated inside the car.

The King got into the car, and sat down beside him.

The uniformed chauffeur, whose keen, clean-shaven face was motionless,
impassive, a mask, shut the door, and hurried round to the front of
the car, and started the engine.

A moment later, the car leapt forward and swept down the drive out
into, and up, the narrow, tree-shadowed lane beyond.




CHAPTER XVII


At the top of the lane, a little group of Army officers in khaki
service dress, who were standing on a strip of grass beside the hedge
on the right, sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the car
swept past them.

Mechanically, the King raised his hand to his cap.

A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he
realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it,
marked, definitely, his return to duty.

Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead.

It was--the King--who had raised his hand to his cap.

Instinctively, he had resumed his place in the procession.

It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal
rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him--

"That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney
Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been
responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir."

The King nodded; but made no other reply.

The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then
the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously
upholstered car. He did not speak again.

The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready
understanding of his mood which that silence implied.

"When an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be
the wrong words."

That was Uncle Bond!

He was going back to duty. That was quite enough at the moment. He did
not want to talk about it--

The car rushed on up the broad, empty, sunlit road.

Although it was still so early in the day, the cattle were already
lying under the green shade of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on
either side of the road were white with the blossoms of the wild rose.
Overhead the sky was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud--

This was Paradise that he was rushing through. This was Paradise that
he was leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he would. But never with
his old recklessness, never with his old lightness of heart. So much
had happened. He had been through so much. He had changed. There was a
heaviness of thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, now, which he
had never known before. It was as if he had lost something, lost some
part of himself, which he would never be able to recover. Was it his
youth?

The car swept on, smoothly, inexorably, without a check, at a high
speed--

Was his real life beginning now? Uncle Bond again! Had he been living
in a dream? Had he not often felt that he was living in a dream? a
wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? But that had always been at the
palace. Here, in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was in touch
with reality. And now, Paradise itself, and all that had happened
there, seemed a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? He would be
glad to awake. He would be glad to touch the real. But would he ever
awake?

The rushing, throbbing car, the motionless figure of the Duke at his
side, the broad, winding road, the sunlit, peaceful, countryside,
his own thoughts--all these things were the very stuff of dreams,
fantastic, unbelievable, unreal. His deadness of feeling, his heaviness
of thought, were dream. His lost youth was dream. This silence? No one
ever spoke in dreams--

At last the throbbing car slowed down suddenly; then stopped.

The Duke was up, and out of the car, in a moment.

The King followed the old statesman out on to the road more leisurely.

An odd, unexpected turn, this, in the dream, but dream, assuredly still
dream--

It was a vivid little dream scene which followed.

The car had pulled up at the Paradise-Hades signpost of all places.
That could only have happened in dream--

A little group of saluting soldiers, and bareheaded civilian officials,
stood under the familiar signpost.

Half a dozen cars were parked in the side road, behind them.

In the centre of the main road stood an open state carriage, with a
team of six grey horses, in the charge of postillions and out-riders,
who were wearing the scarlet coats, and white breeches of the Royal
livery.

A bodyguard of Household Cavalry, whose swords, breastplates and plumed
helmets glittered in the sun, were drawn up near by.

The King turned to the Duke.

The veteran Prime Minister smiled.

"This is where you begin your triumphant return to your capital, sir,"
he said. "A great welcome awaits you, between here and the palace. The
Cabinet were making the necessary arrangements when I left town this
morning. You will permit me to follow you to the carriage, sir?"

People did speak in dreams, then--sometimes--

Mechanically, the King moved slowly along the sunlit road, towards the
carriage, followed by the Duke at a distance of some half dozen paces.

An extraordinary dream this, amazingly vivid and minute in its detail;
but dream, certainly dream. If only he could awake! Where would he
awake? In the palace? In Paradise? He must awake soon--

The King got into the state carriage, and sat down.

The scarlet coated footman, who had held open the carriage door, was
about to shut it again--when the King missed the Duke from his side--

A terrifying thrill of loneliness, a horror of his sudden isolation,
ran through the King.

He turned hastily.

The Duke was standing, drawn up to his full height, with bared head, a
magnificent, a real, a vital figure, in this sunlit world of phantom
shadows, some yards away from the carriage.

The King beckoned to him desperately.

The Duke was at his side in a moment.

"You must not leave me. You must come with me. I cannot face
this--nightmare--alone," the King said in an urgent whisper. "I
shall--lose my reason--if you leave me. I am not sure now, at this
moment, whether I am asleep or awake. Do people talk in dreams? You
seem real. All the rest, everything else is--the stuff of dreams. You
cannot leave me."

The Duke waved the scarlet coated footman to one side, and got into the
carriage, and sat down beside the King. His mere physical presence,
his vitality, his energy, at once steadied the King. For one terrible
moment, it had seemed to him that he was falling through infinite
space--

A couple of the cars parked in the side road, beyond the signpost, shot
forward, and swept on ahead up the main road.

A momentary bustle, a general movement, at the cross road, followed.

A curt word of command rang out, and the Household Cavalry wheeled,
with the precision of clockwork, into position, in front of, and
behind, the state carriage.

The scarlet coated footmen sprang up on to their stand, at the back
of the carriage. The out-riders swung clear into their places. The
postillions whipped up their horses--

The carriage moved forward.

As the carriage moved forward, the Duke dropped his left hand on to the
seat, between the King and himself.

"Take my hand. Grip it, sir!" he said. "I am real! Do not hesitate,
sir. We are quite unobserved. A time comes in most men's lives when
they need--the grip of the hand of a friend. I am an old man, sir;
old enough to be your father. When you take my hand, it is as if you
reached out and gripped your father's hand--

"I would have spared you all this, I would have spared you the ordeal
of the wild enthusiasm which awaits you, a little further on, if it
had been possible, sir. But it was not possible. I realized the risks
involved--all the risks, and they are considerable. I counted the
cost--to you. But the end to be attained far outweighs the price to
be paid. The spectacular, the triumphant, return to the palace, which
you are just beginning, sir, will do more to consolidate your hold on
the people than anything else could have done. The psychology of the
mob is, and must always remain, an incalculable force; but, with a
little skill, with a little courage, with a little patience, it can be
controlled, it can be used."

The King hardly heard what the Duke said. But the grip of the old man's
hand on his was as a rock to cling to. This was what he had wanted;
something tangible, actual, real to hold on to, in this dream world of
sunlit phantoms which enveloped him. He was no longer alone. With the
Duke like this at his side, he could face whatever twists and turns
their dream might take. It was _their_ dream, now--

The carriage moved slowly forward, but, slowly as it moved, it soon
entered--the outskirts of Hades--

In the outer suburbs, all the scattered, decorous, red-tiled villas
were gay with flags, gayer than they had been in that other life, ages
ago, on the Coronation Day. At various points on the road now stood
little groups of people, the vanguard of the thousand, flushed, curious
faces, the thousand eyes--

With these people, the cheering began, the waving of flags, the wild
frenzy.

The King felt the Duke's hand tighten on his--

The crowd thickened. The little groups became two continuous lines
of people, on either side of the road, people closely packed in deep
ranks, behind cordons of policemen.

The cheering grew in volume, took on a deeper note, became a continuous
roar--

At first, the King smiled, and bowed, mechanically, to the left, and to
the right, as he sat in the carriage.

Soon he found himself standing up, bareheaded, in the carriage, so that
all the people could see him.

The Duke, who had sunk far back into the carriage, supported him from
behind against his knees.

Yes. The Duke was there--

Always the crowd grew, and the cheering increased in volume.

In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker than ever. Every window
was open, and full of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of the
roofs of the shops and houses were black with people. Down below, in
the road, as the carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd swayed to
and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Flowers fell, thick and fast, in
a multi-coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here and there, at
conspicuous street corners, men in working dress tore, or trampled
upon, or burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary--

It was a universal outpouring of pent-up feeling, a delirium of
enthusiasm, without parallel--

The King himself could not remain, for long, unaffected. In spite
of himself, in spite of his determination not to be deceived by the
chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he was caught up on, he
was thrilled by, the wild enthusiasm which surged about him. His pulse
quickened. He trembled where he stood in the carriage--

And then, suddenly, a strange thing happened to him.

It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he could see. It was as
if some weight that had been pressing upon his brain was lifted, and
he could think clearly, sanely. He had been not far from the verge of
madness. Now he was himself again--

This was no dream. These people at whom he was smiling, these people to
whom he was bowing, mechanically, right and left, were actual, real.
This roar of cheers meant something. It rang true. It was genuine. It
was sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over again, never ending,
had a new, deep, unmistakable personal note, which he had never heard
before. This was no half-hearted, perfunctory enthusiasm. These people
were glad to see him. They were cheering--him. And they meant it! They
were--his people. And he was--their King--

A thrill of triumph, an exultation which shook him, from head to foot,
as he stood in the carriage, ran through the King.

And then it left him, and, in its place, came a sickening chill.

But these people, his people, did not know what had happened, what he
had done, how lightly he had held them. If they knew the true, the
inner, history of the last twenty-four hours, would they cheer him
like this?

All his former impatience with, his contempt for, himself, at that
moment, returned to the King.

What right had he to be standing there, smiling and bowing in
acknowledgment of this wild, this fervent, enthusiasm? He had done
nothing to earn it. He had forfeited all right to it--

It was the old statesman behind him, sitting far back in the carriage,
who ought to be standing there, in his place--in the place of
honour--in the forefront of--this procession--

Swinging round in the carriage, the King beckoned, impetuously, to the
Duke, to stand up beside him.

For a moment, the veteran Prime Minister hesitated.

Then he stood up beside the King, in the carriage, towering head and
shoulders above him.

The King took the Duke's arm.

The cheering redoubled--

And so, with the Duke in as prominent a place as the King could give
him, as prominent a place as his own, the carriage moved on, through
the dust and the clamour, and the wild cheering, into the heart of the
town--

By this time, the heat, the glitter and the glare, and the frenzied
enthusiasm which surged all about him, had begun to tell upon the King.
The physical strain of it all became almost unendurable, deadening the
impressions which for some few minutes had been so vivid, so clear.
The thousand, flushed, smiling faces, the thousand eyes troubled
him no more. The crowd became a mere blurred, dark, clamorous mass,
swaying to and fro, on either side of him. Only the Duke remained
distinct, individual, standing bolt upright beside him in the carriage,
impassive, immovable, a rock to lean upon, physically, and morally, as
he smiled and bowed, this way and that, with unseeing eyes--

How long the torture of this later stage of their journey lasted, the
King never knew. It had become torture now. All sense of time, and
distance, and place left him. He had no clear idea of the route which
the carriage followed. His body ached from head to foot. The roaring
of the crowd was a mere whisper to the roaring within his own ears. He
leant more and more heavily upon the Duke--

At last, at the end of an eternity of effort, an eternity of strained
endurance, the carriage swung through Trafalgar Square, and so passed,
under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, into the Mall.

The white front of the palace, at the far end of the Mall, was now in
sight.

This sudden, abrupt glimpse of the palace, and the promise of ultimate
release and rest it afforded, served to arouse the King, and revived
his interest, momentarily, in his immediate surroundings.

In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay, in the
sunlight. On either side of the road, the stands from which the guests
of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession were once again
crowded with people, whose enthusiasm was as wild, and whose cheering
was as loud, as the carriage moved slowly past them, as that at any
other point along the whole route.

One detail in the riot of colour, and the tumult, about him, caught the
King's attention.

The road was no longer lined by the police, and the military. In their
place stood men in every variety of civilian dress, alike alone in
this, that every one of them was wearing war medals proudly displayed,
in the majority of cases on very threadbare coats.

The King turned abruptly to the Duke.

"Who are these men with medals?" he asked.

"The Legion of Veterans, sir," the Duke replied. "Their old
Commander-in-Chief raised his hand, and thousands of them fell in,
at once, all over the country. They reinforced the police and the
military. There was no need for us to enrol special constables. The
Field Marshal asked that they might be given some post of honour today
in recognition of their services. It was decided that they should line
the Mall here, and provide an auxiliary guard at the palace."

And so, guarded now by men whose loyalty had been tried and tested
on a dozen battlefields, the carriage passed up the Mall, and swung,
at last, through the great central, wrought iron gates, into the
quadrangle, in front of the palace--

The Duke was down, and out of the carriage, in a moment.

The King stepped out of the carriage, after him.

The Duke fell back, half a dozen paces behind the King, and a little to
one side--

A massed band of the Guards, drawn up in the centre of the quadrangle
began to play the National Anthem.

High up, on the flagstaff above the palace roof, the Royal Standard
rose, and, caught by the wind, shook out, at once, every inch of its
silken folds.

Above the flagstaff a score, or more, of decorated aeroplanes swerved,
and dived, firing red, white, and blue rockets, a signal seen all over
London.

The bells of Westminster rang out joyously, followed by the bells of
all the city churches.

From the Green Park, on the right, came the sudden thunder of the guns
of a Royal salute.

But louder than the guns, drowning their thunder, the joyous music of
the bells, and the music of the band, rose the cheers of the people,
near and far, a deep, rhythmical, continuous roar--

For a moment or two, the King remained motionless, rigid, in
acknowledgment of the salute.

Then he turned sharply to his right, and moved across the quadrangle,
followed by the Duke at a distance of some paces, to the main entrance
door of the palace.

On either side of the palace steps, within the doorway, and in the
hall beyond, were ranged Cabinet Ministers, military and naval
representatives, and high officials of the Court, and the household
staff.

The King passed them by only vaguely conscious of their presence, and
made straight for the great central, main staircase in the palace.

He knew, now, by instinct, rather than by conscious thought, what he
had to do.

His concern was with the immense crowd round the palace, whose wild
cheering he could still hear, even here as he ascended the staircase.

He must show himself to the people--

At the head of the staircase, followed more closely now by the Duke,
the King turned into the little withdrawing room, from which the huge
windows, above the main entrance of the palace, opened.

The windows had been flung wide open.

The King crossed the room, and stepped through the windows out on to
the stone balcony, above the main entrance.

A great roar of cheers, a wild waving of flags and hands, from which he
all but recoiled, greeted his appearance.

The Duke halted, behind him, out of sight, just inside the windows--

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, save for brief rests in a chair,
placed in readiness for him in the little withdrawing room behind
him, the King was out on the balcony, bareheaded, in the blazing noon
sunshine, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of the wild enthusiasm
of the crowd.

The people were insatiable.

Over and over again, when he sought to prolong his all too short rests
in the little room behind him, he was compelled to return to the
balcony, in response to the insistent, the tumultuous demands of the
crowd.

Once or twice, he made the Duke appear on the balcony, at his side. But
the people clearly preferred his solitary appearances--

The little room behind him gradually filled. A number of the more
important Court officials, and certain privileged members of the
household staff, gathered there, and stood in little groups, well back
from the windows.

Once, as he threw himself into his chair, a tall, distinguished
looking, grey-haired man, whom he recognized dully as his physician,
detached himself from one of these little groups, approached him,
held his pulse for a moment, and then, without speaking, handed him a
glassful of some colourless stimulant which he drank, although it made
no impression whatever on his palate.

Later, back in the glaring sunlight on the balcony once again, he was
conscious of the help of the physician's draught. His senses were
quickened. He felt less fatigued. But he knew, as the roar of the
seething crowd round the palace came up to him once more, that this
would have to be one of the last of his appearances. For a little
longer, he could hold out, using the factitious energy with which the
stimulant had temporarily endowed him. Then must come collapse--

At that moment, there was a sudden movement down below in the
quadrangle.

A man, who seemed to dart out from amongst a little knot of men in
civilian dress, on the left, just inside the quadrangle railings, a
man on whose breast war medals glittered in the sun, dashed across the
quadrangle, towards the main entrance of the palace.

The King watched him idly, curiously--

Suddenly, the man's right arm swung up, once, twice--

Then the King felt himself caught up, violently, from behind.

Flung, bodily, back from the balcony, through the huge open windows, he
fell, heavily, on the floor of the little room within.

The windows were blocked now by a familiar tall figure, by a pair of
familiar, broad shoulders--

A moment later there were two, short, sharp explosions. Bombs. Then a
great clatter of falling glass--

The King was up on his feet, in a moment.

A great cry of horror went up from the immense crowd round the palace.

The King took a step forward.

Immediately half a dozen strong hands were laid upon him to hold him
back.

There, on the balcony, immediately in front of him, in the litter of
broken glass from the huge windows, lay the Duke, motionless, at full
length, bleeding from a dozen jagged wounds.

A madness, a fury, which culminated in a passionate resentment of the
hands that were holding him back, took possession of the King.

Hardly knowing what he did, he struck out, right and left, savagely,
viciously, with all his force.

In a moment he was free--

He stepped out on to the balcony.

Led by the tall, grey-haired physician, four or five of the Court
officials followed him, hard on his heels, picked up the Duke, and
carried him back into the safety of the little room within--

Down below in the quadrangle, another limp, huddled figure was being
borne, hurriedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated soldiers, whose
fixed bayonets caught the sun, in the direction of the guardroom, on
the right. There was no life in that figure--

Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, infuriated crowd swayed
to and fro in great billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamorous,
tumultuous passion, striving to break its bounds, to the accompaniment
of animal cries of anger, and the confused shouting of a thousand
voices.

The King took it all in at a glance. A sudden, strange calm, a sure,
quiet confidence were with him now.

The anger of the crowd was hideous, menacing. The line of the military,
and the police, between the crowd and the palace tossed up and down,
like a line of corks on a wild, tempestuous sea. At any moment, that
line might break, and the infuriated mob would be let loose, with its
madness, its lust for blood, its wild shouting for lynch law.

Anything might happen, at any moment, unless something was done, and
done quickly.

And he was the man who must take action--

Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the King climbed on to the stone
parapet of the balcony.

Then he drew himself up to his full height, and held up his hand--

He had no fear. He knew no doubt. He had no anxiety.

He knew what he had to do.

This was his moment.

He had found himself.

Never again, it seemed to him, at the moment, would he know doubt,
anxiety or fear--

For some time, the wild frenzy of the crowd, down below, beyond the
palace railings continued unabated. Then some of the people caught
sight of the bareheaded, slim, incredibly boyish figure, in the
inconspicuous grey lounge suit, standing on his precarious, windswept
perch, on the parapet of the balcony. Then others saw him. Slowly, the
surge of the crowd slackened. Slowly, the pandemonium died down. At
last, the tumult and the uproar gave place to a universal, joyous cry--

"The King! The King!"

Then a great silence fell.

The King dropped his hand to his side, and spoke. His voice rang out
loud and clear, the voice of a sailor, trained to pitch his voice,
instinctively, to carry as far as possible in the open air.

"My people"--the words rose simply and naturally to his lips, thrilling
him as he used them--"this was to have been a day of great national
rejoicing. It has been turned, in a moment, into a day of great
national mourning. I am unhurt, untouched. But a greater man than I,
the Duke of Northborough, lies dying in the room behind me. He gave his
life for mine." His voice shook a little. "From this moment, I hold my
life, a sacred trust, at his hands.

"I will say nothing, now, of the madman, whose madness has been used
as the instrument to strike down an old man, whose long and noble life
has been devoted wholly to the best interests of our country. Death has
already closed that madman's account. Nor will I speak, now, of the
men, whose wild and reckless talk makes such madness possible. Such men
turn, naturally, to assassination and murder, in defeat.

"I ask you, now, not to disturb the last moments of the great man, who
has just crowned his long and noble life with the 'greater love,'
before which we all bare and bow our heads, by any retaliation, by any
outburst, by any demonstration, of the wilder passions against which
he always set his face like flint. I ask you, now, to disperse, as
quietly, and as quickly, as you can, and return to your own homes, the
homes which the great man we mourn, within the last twenty-four hours,
has guarded from the anarchy of revolution, and maintained in peace.

"I know I shall not ask in vain."

A low murmur rose from the crowd, while the King spoke. The people, on
the edge of the crowd nearest to the palace, repeated what he said,
to those behind them. They repeated it again. And so, in this almost
miraculous way, something of what he said reached to the furthest
limits of the immense crowd, and even spread beyond, through the
thronged streets of the city.

There was a tense, breathless pause, when the King had finished
speaking--

Then the bandmaster, down below in the palace quadrangle, had an
inspiration.

He raised his baton.

A moment later the massed band of the Guards began to play "God Save
the King."

For a time, the huge crowd still hesitated. Then some one began to
sing. Next moment the whole crowd was singing, with a deep volume of
sound, like the sound of many waters--

"Long to reign over us:

"God save the King"--

Over and over again, the band played the national melody. Over and over
again, the crowd sang the familiar words, finding in them, at last, an
outlet for all their pent-up passions--

And then, suddenly, still singing with undiminished fervour, slowly,
and quietly, in marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers on
parade, the people began to move away.

The King climbed down from his perilous, windswept perch on the
parapet, on to the balcony again.

Then he turned, and passed through the shattered windows into the
little room behind him--

They had laid the Duke on the floor of the room. The tall, grey-haired
physician stood at the dying statesman's head. All that medical skill
could do to ease his passing had been done. Already he was far beyond
the reach of any human aid.

The brilliant summer sunshine shone full on the familiar, formidable,
massive features, deathly white, now.

The eyes were closed.

The King knelt down at the old statesman's side.

Some obscure instinct prompted him to take the old man's hand--the
hand which had done so much for him, the hand which had never failed
him,--the hand which had saved him, from himself--

The Duke responded to his touch. Feebly he returned his pressure.

Then, slowly, he opened his eyes, luminous and clear even in death.

He recognized the King.

Faintly he smiled.

Then his lips moved as if in speech.

The King bent down over him.

"God--save--the King," the Duke muttered.

No doubt, the singing of the crowd outside the palace had reached the
dying man's ears--

The King did not speak. It seemed to him that there was no need for
words. He felt that the Duke knew all his thoughts. He knew that the
Duke was glad to have him, now, at the last, at his side.

It was a strange moment of deep, and intimate communion between them--

Strangest of all, there was no sadness in it, now, for the King.

This man had done his work. This man had rounded off his life's work,
with a completeness, which it is given to few men to achieve.

The lightning conductor had taken the full shock of the lightning
flash, and then fallen.

For the future, he--the King--would be alone.

But that was a small matter, now--

In the presence of this great man's triumphant self-sacrifice, any
thought of self seemed irreverence--

Some minutes passed.

Then the Duke's lips moved again--

"We shall not all sleep--but we shall all be changed--in a moment, in
the twinkling of an eye--for the trumpet shall sound--and we shall be
changed--"

The King bowed his head--

For this man, surely, all the trumpets would sound on the other side.
For this man--they would crowd the battlements of Heaven to see him
enter--

A little later, the physician touched the King on the shoulder.

The King stood up.

The physician bent down, and straightened the Duke's arms.

Then he turned, and faced the King.

"It is finished, sir," he said.



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