"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
twas 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 whereweare, and wherewestand. 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 alwaysshall bejust 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
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
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'hasgot 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 wastherisk," 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 beplaying—somewhere—" he muttered.
CHAPTER XVI
twas 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.