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
feelingof 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 meanUpon 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 bandwasplaying—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
ithinthe 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."
"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
climaxis 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.