The King withdrew hastily, from the windows.
He hardly knew why.
But he did know! His clothes, his dishevelled appearance, made him feel foolish. The sooner he could get a bath, and a change, the better. It must be late. It must be nearly breakfast time. Now, while Judith and the Imps were out in the garden, he would probably be able to slip down to his bedroom, unobserved. The servants would be busy preparing breakfast. It must be eight o'clock at least. He must hurry—
Darting out of the writing room, he passed quickly down the staircase, and through the hall, without meeting anybody on the way. As he raced along the corridor which led to his bedroom, he noticed, with considerable satisfaction, that the bathroom was empty. Diving into his bedroom, he snatched up some towels, and his dressing case. Then he hurried back to the bathroom. It was with a feeling not far removed from triumph that he shut the bathroom door.
The cold water of the bath was stimulating, invigorating. A shave restored his self-respect. The last vestiges of his troubled sleep fell from him. He was rested, although his sleep had been troubled. He had needed rest. This morning, he was himself again. He was ready to face—whatever had to be faced. But not a moment sooner than was necessary. For the time being, he put thought from him, deliberately—
Back in his bedroom, he found that the grey lounge suit, which he had been wearing the day before, had been carefully brushed, and laid out ready for him. The invisible valet had been at work again. He dressed quickly. While he was knotting his tie, a point in his toilet that he was particular about, even this morning, from mere force of habit, the gong in the hall sounded. He looked at his watch. He had not been far out in his estimate of the time. It was just on half past eight. Did they know he was up? Of course they would know. No doubt, even here in his bedroom, he was being carefully, if unostentatiously, shadowed—
A sound of footsteps outside on the verandah told him that it was there, as usual, that breakfast was being served.
Well, he had to face them!
And Uncle Bond, if he was there, if he was equal to breakfasting in public for once, might have news—
The King stepped out of the bedroom, through the open window doors, on to the verandah.
The breakfast table had been placed at the far end of the verandah.
Uncle Bond was there.
Judith was there.
The Imps were there.
And so was—the Duke.
A momentary silence followed the King's appearance on the verandah.
Then the Imps ran forward to greet him.
"We are all to have breakfast together, Uncle Alfred," Button announced.
"And we've been waiting for you—for ever so long," Bill complained.
The King caught them up, in turn, and shook them, in mid-air, as was his wont.
"We all like your friend very much," Bill whispered. "He's been here a long, long time—quite twenty minutes!"
"He came in a big car, bigger than Uncle's," Button supplemented.
The King looked at his "friend"—the Duke.
With his broad shoulders, and great height, the Duke dominated the little group, at the breakfast table, as he dominated every group, wherever he stood. He was still wearing the rather shabby black office suit which he had been wearing the day before. Whatever his experience had been, within the last twenty-four hours, it had not changed him. The formidable, massive features, under their crown of silver hair, the luminous, piercing, blue eyes, showed no sign of weariness, no hint even of anxiety. The force, the vigour, the look, of the wonderful old man were all unimpaired. He was still, as he had always been, the strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose.
A sudden, irresistible thrill of relief ran through the King.
From that moment, he knew, for certain, that the Duke had brought good news; that the Duke had "cut the rope"—
The lightning conductor had not failed.
This man could not fail.
There was an awkward little silence, as the King approached the breakfast table.
It was not that the Duke was at a loss. The Duke could never be at a loss. The King recognized that. Nor was it that Uncle Bond was embarrassed. The King was conscious that the little man was watching him with shining, mischievous eyes. Rather it was that the Duke, and Uncle Bond, deferred to him, in this silence, tacitly recognizing that it was for him to indicate how he wished to be met, whether as their friend, or as—the King.
Oddly enough, it was Judith who settled the question.
Slipping into her place behind the coffee pot she turned to the King with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.
"You have had a good night? You slept?" she said. "The Imps were very anxious to wake you as usual. But I thought you would like to sleep on this morning. No, Bill. This is Uncle Alfred's coffee. That is right, Button. That is Uncle Alfred's chair."
It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat down in his usual place at the breakfast table, with his back to the house, facing the garden.
His friend, the Duke, sat down opposite to him.
The Imps scrambled up on to their chairs, on Judith's right and left.
Uncle Bond presided at the head of the table.
The meal began.
It was a strange meal, the strangest of the many strange meals which the King had known. The two parts which he had kept distinct for so long seemed now, somehow, suddenly to blend, to mingle, without any difficulty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And yet, he was—the King—
With the Imps at the table, there was no lack of conversation.
Once they had finished their porridge, the Imps were free to talk. They talked. To each other. To themselves. To anybody. To nobody in particular.
A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a wholly invisible small boy called John, who had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grabbing his food, seemed to appeal, in particular, to the Duke, who entered into the play, with an imaginative readiness which the King had somehow never suspected.
The birds called cheerily from the garden. The whir of the haycutting machines was audible once again; but they were not so near the house, as on the previous day. Clearly the harvest was being gathered in the more distant fields. The sunshine lay pure gold everywhere—
The King found himself noticing these things, and registering them in his mind, as if this was to be the last time that he was to sit there, in Paradise, enjoying them.
The last time?
It might be—
At last the meal ended.
First of all, Judith rose to her feet, and drove the Imps, armed with lumps of sugar, before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to Diana's foal in the paddock.
Then, a minute or two later, Uncle Bond slipped away, unostentatiously, into the house.
The King, and his friend, the Duke, were thus left alone, at the table, facing each other.
A sudden, odd desire to postpone what was coming, whatever was coming, beset the King. Producing his tobacco pouch and pipe, he filled his pipe leisurely.
The Duke betrayed no sign of impatience. A certain large patience, it occurred to the King, was, perhaps, the Duke's most pronounced characteristic.
The King lit his pipe.
Then he looked at the Duke.
The Duke smiled.
"Your little holiday is over. Your short leave of absence is at an end, sir," he said. "I told you, you may remember, sir, that it would only be a short leave of absence."
"You have come—for me?" the King asked.
"Yes."
"I am ready to go with you—back to duty," the King said slowly. "There is nothing, I think, to keep me here."
Then he stood up, abruptly.
"But we can't talk here," he exclaimed. "Shall we walk?"
The Duke stood up in turn.
Together, they stepped down from the verandah.
The King led the way on to the lawn.
At the moment, his desire for movement was paramount.
They crossed to the far end of the lawn, and turned, in silence. Then the King took the Duke's arm.
"I am ready to hear what you have to say," he said.
The Duke shortened his long stride, and fell into step with the King.
"I am here to ask you to return to the palace, sir," he said. "The crisis is over. The strike has failed. The success of the protective measures which we judged necessary has been overwhelming. Within an hour of the declaration of Martial Law and the operation of the 'Gamma' scheme, all the revolutionary leaders of the strike conspiracy were in custody. They are now at sea, on board theIron Duke. I could not resist that little pleasantry. TheIron Dukesailed under sealed orders—for Bermuda, sir. The strike leaders will be interned there.
"The police have carried out their orders throughout with a skill, and a discretion, worthy of the highest praise. The military have been welcomed, with open arms everywhere. So far as we are aware, up to the present, law and order have been maintained with hardly a casualty. It has, in fact, been not so much a battle of the police and of the military, as of propaganda, sir. Our control of communications has been the foundation of our success. From the first, by a series of official bulletins, we have been able to put the facts of the situation before the whole nation, with a minimum of delay.
"There can no longer be any doubt, sir, that we were correct in our assumption that the great majority of trades unionists, up and down the country, had been deceived into the belief that the strike had been called for purely industrial reasons. Once we had succeeded in convincing them, by our bulletins, that they had been betrayed into the hands of a little group of foreign, revolutionary extremists, the strike was doomed. The anger of the deceived trades unionists has, ironically enough, been one of our few embarrassments. In many parts of the country, the military have had to protect the local trades union leaders, many of whom appear to have been as grossly deceived as anybody else, from the loyal fury of their followers.
"Mark that word loyal, sir! A great outburst of loyalty to you personally, sir, has been the outcome of the crisis. That you should have been subjected to such a crisis, before you had been given any opportunity to show your worth, has outraged the whole nation's sense of fair play. From all sections of the community, both here at home, and in the Dominions, messages of the most fervent loyalty have been pouring into Downing Street, during the last twenty-four hours. At the moment, you are the most popular man in the Empire, sir. The fact that, as soon as I had assured you that law and order would be maintained, you left the palace, and withdrew at once into the country, rather than take any part in the conflict, has greatly strengthened your hold on the people, sir. You left the palace, and withdrew to an unknown address, in the country, yesterday, sir, until the will of the people should be made known. You will return to the palace, today, sir, on the crest of a wave of enthusiasm, unparalleled, I think, in our history."
"You want me to return to the palace, with you, at once?" the King asked.
"I have no wish to hurry you, sir," the Duke replied. "But the sooner you return to the palace, and the Royal Standard is run up again on the palace flagstaff, the sooner will the existing state of a national emergency be at an end."
"I will come with you at once," the King said. "But first of all—I must take leave of my friends."
His eyes were fixed, as he spoke, on Judith, who had just reappeared, alone, on the verandah.
The Duke followed the King's glance. Then he fell back, two or three paces, and bowed with the hint of formality by which he was in the habit of suggesting, so subtly, and yet so unmistakably, that he was dealing with—the King.
The King moved straight across the lawn to Judith.
Judith stepped down from the verandah, and came slowly forward towards him.
They met on the edge of the lawn.
"I am going back to town, at once, with the Duke," the King announced. "The Duke has come to fetch me. The crisis is over. The strike has failed. But you know that, of course—"
He paused there, for a moment, suddenly conscious of the utter ineptitude of what he was saying—
And then words came to him, fitting words, words to which, up to then, he had given no thought, but in which all his feelings for, all his thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, seemed, suddenly, to crystallize, and find inevitable expression—
"If thanks were necessary between us, I would thank you for all that you have done for me," he said. "But thanks are not necessary between us, are they? Where there is—friendship—there is no need for thanks. You said, yesterday, that you knew that there could be no change in our friendship, and that you were content that it should be so. You were right, of course. You are always right. You said what you did to reassure me, to relieve my anxiety, to remove the uncertainty about—our position—which was troubling me, although I was hardly aware that that was my trouble. What you said did reassure me. It did relieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say something, as plainly as I can, to you. It seems to me that what I have to say is—due to you—
"If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our friendship, I should stay here, now, with you. I should stay with you always. I should ask you to join your life to mine. I should ask you to make—Paradise—for me, wherever we were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you would say—yes—gladly—
"But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I am—the King. Alfred, the sailor is—dead. Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I—the King—am going—back to duty. I am going back to try to take hold of my job—in a new way. I am going back, to try to think—first of England, and never of myself. I am trying to do that now—
"But, before I go, I want to make you a promise. I want to—pledge myself—to you, as far as I can. It will give me—a certain satisfaction—to bind myself to you, as far as I can.
"I will never marry—"
Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while he spoke. Her beautiful vivid face was pale for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as if with painful thought. But she met his glance without flinching, and her voice, when she spoke, was firm, if low.
"I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred," she said. "But I am glad, and proud, that you have said what you have. It was—like you, to say it. It is—an acknowledgment—that I shall never forget, as long as I live—
"I will give you—a pledge—in return. Whatever happens, you will always be welcome here. Whatever happens, you will always find the same welcome here. You will never find—any changes here. I don't think Alfred, the sailor, is dead. I don't think he will ever die—as long as you live! For us, here, at any rate, you will always be—our friend Alfred!"
Once again, the King was conscious that Judith understood him better than he understood himself. Once again—was it for the last time?—it seemed to him that she had explained him to himself. What did all his talk amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, of the claim, that Judith had established upon him—that was all.
That was all—he could offer to her. That was all—she could accept—
As unaccountably, and as suddenly then as they had come to him, before, words failed him.
Abruptly, he turned from Judith, and hurried away from her, round the side of the house—
On the verandah, beside the front door, the Duke and Uncle Bond were standing together deep in talk. Uncle Bond was holding the King's coat, and cap.
As the King approached, the Duke shook hands very cordially with Uncle Bond, and then stepped down from the verandah, and crossed to a large closed motor car, which was drawn up in the drive near by, with the uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly to attention at its open door.
For a moment, the King thought of passing Uncle Bond without speaking. But that, of course, was impossible. And yet—what could he say?
He need not have troubled himself.
Uncle Bond might distrust, but he never had any difficulty in finding words.
The little man handed the King his coat, and his cap.
Then he spoke.
"This," he said, with a sweeping gesture which seemed to include the sunlit garden, the wooded landscape beyond, the house, and even Judith and himself, "has all been a dream, my boy. But it is now high time that you should awake out of sleep. Your real life is beginning now."
The King wrung the little man's hand in silence, and then followed the Duke to the waiting car.
The Duke was already seated inside the car.
The King got into the car, and sat down beside him.
The uniformed chauffeur, whose keen, clean-shaven face was motionless, impassive, a mask, shut the door, and hurried round to the front of the car, and started the engine.
A moment later, the car leapt forward and swept down the drive out into, and up, the narrow, tree-shadowed lane beyond.
CHAPTER XVII
tthe top of the lane, a little group of Army officers in khaki service dress, who were standing on a strip of grass beside the hedge on the right, sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the car swept past them.
Mechanically, the King raised his hand to his cap.
A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty.
Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead.
It was—the King—who had raised his hand to his cap.
Instinctively, he had resumed his place in the procession.
It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him—
"That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir."
The King nodded; but made no other reply.
The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously upholstered car. He did not speak again.
The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready understanding of his mood which that silence implied.
"When an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."
That was Uncle Bond!
He was going back to duty. That was quite enough at the moment. He did not want to talk about it—
The car rushed on up the broad, empty, sunlit road.
Although it was still so early in the day, the cattle were already lying under the green shade of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on either side of the road were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Overhead the sky was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud—
This was Paradise that he was rushing through. This was Paradise that he was leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he would. But never with his old recklessness, never with his old lightness of heart. So much had happened. He had been through so much. He had changed. There was a heaviness of thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, now, which he had never known before. It was as if he had lost something, lost some part of himself, which he would never be able to recover. Was it his youth?
The car swept on, smoothly, inexorably, without a check, at a high speed—
Was his real life beginning now? Uncle Bond again! Had he been living in a dream? Had he not often felt that he was living in a dream? a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? But that had always been at the palace. Here, in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was in touch with reality. And now, Paradise itself, and all that had happened there, seemed a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? He would be glad to awake. He would be glad to touch the real. But would he ever awake?
The rushing, throbbing car, the motionless figure of the Duke at his side, the broad, winding road, the sunlit, peaceful, countryside, his own thoughts—all these things were the very stuff of dreams, fantastic, unbelievable, unreal. His deadness of feeling, his heaviness of thought, were dream. His lost youth was dream. This silence? No one ever spoke in dreams—
At last the throbbing car slowed down suddenly; then stopped.
The Duke was up, and out of the car, in a moment.
The King followed the old statesman out on to the road more leisurely.
An odd, unexpected turn, this, in the dream, but dream, assuredly still dream—
It was a vivid little dream scene which followed.
The car had pulled up at the Paradise-Hades signpost of all places. That could only have happened in dream—
A little group of saluting soldiers, and bareheaded civilian officials, stood under the familiar signpost.
Half a dozen cars were parked in the side road, behind them.
In the centre of the main road stood an open state carriage, with a team of six grey horses, in the charge of postillions and out-riders, who were wearing the scarlet coats, and white breeches of the Royal livery.
A bodyguard of Household Cavalry, whose swords, breastplates and plumed helmets glittered in the sun, were drawn up near by.
The King turned to the Duke.
The veteran Prime Minister smiled.
"This is where you begin your triumphant return to your capital, sir," he said. "A great welcome awaits you, between here and the palace. The Cabinet were making the necessary arrangements when I left town this morning. You will permit me to follow you to the carriage, sir?"
People did speak in dreams, then—sometimes—
Mechanically, the King moved slowly along the sunlit road, towards the carriage, followed by the Duke at a distance of some half dozen paces.
An extraordinary dream this, amazingly vivid and minute in its detail; but dream, certainly dream. If only he could awake! Where would he awake? In the palace? In Paradise? He must awake soon—
The King got into the state carriage, and sat down.
The scarlet coated footman, who had held open the carriage door, was about to shut it again—when the King missed the Duke from his side—
A terrifying thrill of loneliness, a horror of his sudden isolation, ran through the King.
He turned hastily.
The Duke was standing, drawn up to his full height, with bared head, a magnificent, a real, a vital figure, in this sunlit world of phantom shadows, some yards away from the carriage.
The King beckoned to him desperately.
The Duke was at his side in a moment.
"You must not leave me. You must come with me. I cannot face this—nightmare—alone," the King said in an urgent whisper. "I shall—lose my reason—if you leave me. I am not sure now, at this moment, whether I am asleep or awake. Do people talk in dreams? You seem real. All the rest, everything else is—the stuff of dreams. You cannot leave me."
The Duke waved the scarlet coated footman to one side, and got into the carriage, and sat down beside the King. His mere physical presence, his vitality, his energy, at once steadied the King. For one terrible moment, it had seemed to him that he was falling through infinite space—
A couple of the cars parked in the side road, beyond the signpost, shot forward, and swept on ahead up the main road.
A momentary bustle, a general movement, at the cross road, followed.
A curt word of command rang out, and the Household Cavalry wheeled, with the precision of clockwork, into position, in front of, and behind, the state carriage.
The scarlet coated footmen sprang up on to their stand, at the back of the carriage. The out-riders swung clear into their places. The postillions whipped up their horses—
The carriage moved forward.
As the carriage moved forward, the Duke dropped his left hand on to the seat, between the King and himself.
"Take my hand. Grip it, sir!" he said. "I am real! Do not hesitate, sir. We are quite unobserved. A time comes in most men's lives when they need—the grip of the hand of a friend. I am an old man, sir; old enough to be your father. When you take my hand, it is as if you reached out and gripped your father's hand—
"I would have spared you all this, I would have spared you the ordeal of the wild enthusiasm which awaits you, a little further on, if it had been possible, sir. But it was not possible. I realized the risks involved—all the risks, and they are considerable. I counted the cost—to you. But the end to be attained far outweighs the price to be paid. The spectacular, the triumphant, return to the palace, which you are just beginning, sir, will do more to consolidate your hold on the people than anything else could have done. The psychology of the mob is, and must always remain, an incalculable force; but, with a little skill, with a little courage, with a little patience, it can be controlled, it can be used."
The King hardly heard what the Duke said. But the grip of the old man's hand on his was as a rock to cling to. This was what he had wanted; something tangible, actual, real to hold on to, in this dream world of sunlit phantoms which enveloped him. He was no longer alone. With the Duke like this at his side, he could face whatever twists and turns their dream might take. It wastheirdream, now—
The carriage moved slowly forward, but, slowly as it moved, it soon entered—the outskirts of Hades—
In the outer suburbs, all the scattered, decorous, red-tiled villas were gay with flags, gayer than they had been in that other life, ages ago, on the Coronation Day. At various points on the road now stood little groups of people, the vanguard of the thousand, flushed, curious faces, the thousand eyes—
With these people, the cheering began, the waving of flags, the wild frenzy.
The King felt the Duke's hand tighten on his—
The crowd thickened. The little groups became two continuous lines of people, on either side of the road, people closely packed in deep ranks, behind cordons of policemen.
The cheering grew in volume, took on a deeper note, became a continuous roar—
At first, the King smiled, and bowed, mechanically, to the left, and to the right, as he sat in the carriage.
Soon he found himself standing up, bareheaded, in the carriage, so that all the people could see him.
The Duke, who had sunk far back into the carriage, supported him from behind against his knees.
Yes. The Duke was there—
Always the crowd grew, and the cheering increased in volume.
In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker than ever. Every window was open, and full of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of the roofs of the shops and houses were black with people. Down below, in the road, as the carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd swayed to and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Flowers fell, thick and fast, in a multi-coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here and there, at conspicuous street corners, men in working dress tore, or trampled upon, or burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary—
It was a universal outpouring of pent-up feeling, a delirium of enthusiasm, without parallel—
The King himself could not remain, for long, unaffected. In spite of himself, in spite of his determination not to be deceived by the chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he was caught up on, he was thrilled by, the wild enthusiasm which surged about him. His pulse quickened. He trembled where he stood in the carriage—
And then, suddenly, a strange thing happened to him.
It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he could see. It was as if some weight that had been pressing upon his brain was lifted, and he could think clearly, sanely. He had been not far from the verge of madness. Now he was himself again—
This was no dream. These people at whom he was smiling, these people to whom he was bowing, mechanically, right and left, were actual, real. This roar of cheers meant something. It rang true. It was genuine. It was sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over again, never ending, had a new, deep, unmistakable personal note, which he had never heard before. This was no half-hearted, perfunctory enthusiasm. These people were glad to see him. They were cheering—him. And they meant it! They were—his people. And he was—their King—
A thrill of triumph, an exultation which shook him, from head to foot, as he stood in the carriage, ran through the King.
And then it left him, and, in its place, came a sickening chill.
But these people, his people, did not know what had happened, what he had done, how lightly he had held them. If they knew the true, the inner, history of the last twenty-four hours, would they cheer him like this?
All his former impatience with, his contempt for, himself, at that moment, returned to the King.
What right had he to be standing there, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of this wild, this fervent, enthusiasm? He had done nothing to earn it. He had forfeited all right to it—
It was the old statesman behind him, sitting far back in the carriage, who ought to be standing there, in his place—in the place of honour—in the forefront of—this procession—
Swinging round in the carriage, the King beckoned, impetuously, to the Duke, to stand up beside him.
For a moment, the veteran Prime Minister hesitated.
Then he stood up beside the King, in the carriage, towering head and shoulders above him.
The King took the Duke's arm.
The cheering redoubled—
And so, with the Duke in as prominent a place as the King could give him, as prominent a place as his own, the carriage moved on, through the dust and the clamour, and the wild cheering, into the heart of the town—
By this time, the heat, the glitter and the glare, and the frenzied enthusiasm which surged all about him, had begun to tell upon the King. The physical strain of it all became almost unendurable, deadening the impressions which for some few minutes had been so vivid, so clear. The thousand, flushed, smiling faces, the thousand eyes troubled him no more. The crowd became a mere blurred, dark, clamorous mass, swaying to and fro, on either side of him. Only the Duke remained distinct, individual, standing bolt upright beside him in the carriage, impassive, immovable, a rock to lean upon, physically, and morally, as he smiled and bowed, this way and that, with unseeing eyes—
How long the torture of this later stage of their journey lasted, the King never knew. It had become torture now. All sense of time, and distance, and place left him. He had no clear idea of the route which the carriage followed. His body ached from head to foot. The roaring of the crowd was a mere whisper to the roaring within his own ears. He leant more and more heavily upon the Duke—
At last, at the end of an eternity of effort, an eternity of strained endurance, the carriage swung through Trafalgar Square, and so passed, under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, into the Mall.
The white front of the palace, at the far end of the Mall, was now in sight.
This sudden, abrupt glimpse of the palace, and the promise of ultimate release and rest it afforded, served to arouse the King, and revived his interest, momentarily, in his immediate surroundings.
In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay, in the sunlight. On either side of the road, the stands from which the guests of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession were once again crowded with people, whose enthusiasm was as wild, and whose cheering was as loud, as the carriage moved slowly past them, as that at any other point along the whole route.
One detail in the riot of colour, and the tumult, about him, caught the King's attention.
The road was no longer lined by the police, and the military. In their place stood men in every variety of civilian dress, alike alone in this, that every one of them was wearing war medals proudly displayed, in the majority of cases on very threadbare coats.
The King turned abruptly to the Duke.
"Who are these men with medals?" he asked.
"The Legion of Veterans, sir," the Duke replied. "Their old Commander-in-Chief raised his hand, and thousands of them fell in, at once, all over the country. They reinforced the police and the military. There was no need for us to enrol special constables. The Field Marshal asked that they might be given some post of honour today in recognition of their services. It was decided that they should line the Mall here, and provide an auxiliary guard at the palace."
And so, guarded now by men whose loyalty had been tried and tested on a dozen battlefields, the carriage passed up the Mall, and swung, at last, through the great central, wrought iron gates, into the quadrangle, in front of the palace—
The Duke was down, and out of the carriage, in a moment.
The King stepped out of the carriage, after him.
The Duke fell back, half a dozen paces behind the King, and a little to one side—
A massed band of the Guards, drawn up in the centre of the quadrangle began to play the National Anthem.
High up, on the flagstaff above the palace roof, the Royal Standard rose, and, caught by the wind, shook out, at once, every inch of its silken folds.
Above the flagstaff a score, or more, of decorated aeroplanes swerved, and dived, firing red, white, and blue rockets, a signal seen all over London.
The bells of Westminster rang out joyously, followed by the bells of all the city churches.
From the Green Park, on the right, came the sudden thunder of the guns of a Royal salute.
But louder than the guns, drowning their thunder, the joyous music of the bells, and the music of the band, rose the cheers of the people, near and far, a deep, rhythmical, continuous roar—
For a moment or two, the King remained motionless, rigid, in acknowledgment of the salute.
Then he turned sharply to his right, and moved across the quadrangle, followed by the Duke at a distance of some paces, to the main entrance door of the palace.
On either side of the palace steps, within the doorway, and in the hall beyond, were ranged Cabinet Ministers, military and naval representatives, and high officials of the Court, and the household staff.
The King passed them by only vaguely conscious of their presence, and made straight for the great central, main staircase in the palace.
He knew, now, by instinct, rather than by conscious thought, what he had to do.
His concern was with the immense crowd round the palace, whose wild cheering he could still hear, even here as he ascended the staircase.
He must show himself to the people—
At the head of the staircase, followed more closely now by the Duke, the King turned into the little withdrawing room, from which the huge windows, above the main entrance of the palace, opened.
The windows had been flung wide open.
The King crossed the room, and stepped through the windows out on to the stone balcony, above the main entrance.
A great roar of cheers, a wild waving of flags and hands, from which he all but recoiled, greeted his appearance.
The Duke halted, behind him, out of sight, just inside the windows—
For the next twenty or thirty minutes, save for brief rests in a chair, placed in readiness for him in the little withdrawing room behind him, the King was out on the balcony, bareheaded, in the blazing noon sunshine, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of the wild enthusiasm of the crowd.
The people were insatiable.
Over and over again, when he sought to prolong his all too short rests in the little room behind him, he was compelled to return to the balcony, in response to the insistent, the tumultuous demands of the crowd.
Once or twice, he made the Duke appear on the balcony, at his side. But the people clearly preferred his solitary appearances—
The little room behind him gradually filled. A number of the more important Court officials, and certain privileged members of the household staff, gathered there, and stood in little groups, well back from the windows.
Once, as he threw himself into his chair, a tall, distinguished looking, grey-haired man, whom he recognized dully as his physician, detached himself from one of these little groups, approached him, held his pulse for a moment, and then, without speaking, handed him a glassful of some colourless stimulant which he drank, although it made no impression whatever on his palate.
Later, back in the glaring sunlight on the balcony once again, he was conscious of the help of the physician's draught. His senses were quickened. He felt less fatigued. But he knew, as the roar of the seething crowd round the palace came up to him once more, that this would have to be one of the last of his appearances. For a little longer, he could hold out, using the factitious energy with which the stimulant had temporarily endowed him. Then must come collapse—
At that moment, there was a sudden movement down below in the quadrangle.
A man, who seemed to dart out from amongst a little knot of men in civilian dress, on the left, just inside the quadrangle railings, a man on whose breast war medals glittered in the sun, dashed across the quadrangle, towards the main entrance of the palace.
The King watched him idly, curiously—
Suddenly, the man's right arm swung up, once, twice—
Then the King felt himself caught up, violently, from behind.
Flung, bodily, back from the balcony, through the huge open windows, he fell, heavily, on the floor of the little room within.
The windows were blocked now by a familiar tall figure, by a pair of familiar, broad shoulders—
A moment later there were two, short, sharp explosions. Bombs. Then a great clatter of falling glass—
The King was up on his feet, in a moment.
A great cry of horror went up from the immense crowd round the palace.
The King took a step forward.
Immediately half a dozen strong hands were laid upon him to hold him back.
There, on the balcony, immediately in front of him, in the litter of broken glass from the huge windows, lay the Duke, motionless, at full length, bleeding from a dozen jagged wounds.
A madness, a fury, which culminated in a passionate resentment of the hands that were holding him back, took possession of the King.
Hardly knowing what he did, he struck out, right and left, savagely, viciously, with all his force.
In a moment he was free—
He stepped out on to the balcony.
Led by the tall, grey-haired physician, four or five of the Court officials followed him, hard on his heels, picked up the Duke, and carried him back into the safety of the little room within—
Down below in the quadrangle, another limp, huddled figure was being borne, hurriedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated soldiers, whose fixed bayonets caught the sun, in the direction of the guardroom, on the right. There was no life in that figure—
Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, infuriated crowd swayed to and fro in great billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamorous, tumultuous passion, striving to break its bounds, to the accompaniment of animal cries of anger, and the confused shouting of a thousand voices.
The King took it all in at a glance. A sudden, strange calm, a sure, quiet confidence were with him now.
The anger of the crowd was hideous, menacing. The line of the military, and the police, between the crowd and the palace tossed up and down, like a line of corks on a wild, tempestuous sea. At any moment, that line might break, and the infuriated mob would be let loose, with its madness, its lust for blood, its wild shouting for lynch law.
Anything might happen, at any moment, unless something was done, and done quickly.
And he was the man who must take action—
Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the King climbed on to the stone parapet of the balcony.
Then he drew himself up to his full height, and held up his hand—
He had no fear. He knew no doubt. He had no anxiety.
He knew what he had to do.
This was his moment.
He had found himself.
Never again, it seemed to him, at the moment, would he know doubt, anxiety or fear—
For some time, the wild frenzy of the crowd, down below, beyond the palace railings continued unabated. Then some of the people caught sight of the bareheaded, slim, incredibly boyish figure, in the inconspicuous grey lounge suit, standing on his precarious, windswept perch, on the parapet of the balcony. Then others saw him. Slowly, the surge of the crowd slackened. Slowly, the pandemonium died down. At last, the tumult and the uproar gave place to a universal, joyous cry—
"The King! The King!"
Then a great silence fell.
The King dropped his hand to his side, and spoke. His voice rang out loud and clear, the voice of a sailor, trained to pitch his voice, instinctively, to carry as far as possible in the open air.
"My people"—the words rose simply and naturally to his lips, thrilling him as he used them—"this was to have been a day of great national rejoicing. It has been turned, in a moment, into a day of great national mourning. I am unhurt, untouched. But a greater man than I, the Duke of Northborough, lies dying in the room behind me. He gave his life for mine." His voice shook a little. "From this moment, I hold my life, a sacred trust, at his hands.
"I will say nothing, now, of the madman, whose madness has been used as the instrument to strike down an old man, whose long and noble life has been devoted wholly to the best interests of our country. Death has already closed that madman's account. Nor will I speak, now, of the men, whose wild and reckless talk makes such madness possible. Such men turn, naturally, to assassination and murder, in defeat.
"I ask you, now, not to disturb the last moments of the great man, who has just crowned his long and noble life with the 'greater love,' before which we all bare and bow our heads, by any retaliation, by any outburst, by any demonstration, of the wilder passions against which he always set his face like flint. I ask you, now, to disperse, as quietly, and as quickly, as you can, and return to your own homes, the homes which the great man we mourn, within the last twenty-four hours, has guarded from the anarchy of revolution, and maintained in peace.
"I know I shall not ask in vain."
A low murmur rose from the crowd, while the King spoke. The people, on the edge of the crowd nearest to the palace, repeated what he said, to those behind them. They repeated it again. And so, in this almost miraculous way, something of what he said reached to the furthest limits of the immense crowd, and even spread beyond, through the thronged streets of the city.
There was a tense, breathless pause, when the King had finished speaking—
Then the bandmaster, down below in the palace quadrangle, had an inspiration.
He raised his baton.
A moment later the massed band of the Guards began to play "God Save the King."
For a time, the huge crowd still hesitated. Then some one began to sing. Next moment the whole crowd was singing, with a deep volume of sound, like the sound of many waters—
"Long to reign over us:
"God save the King"—
Over and over again, the band played the national melody. Over and over again, the crowd sang the familiar words, finding in them, at last, an outlet for all their pent-up passions—
And then, suddenly, still singing with undiminished fervour, slowly, and quietly, in marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers on parade, the people began to move away.
The King climbed down from his perilous, windswept perch on the parapet, on to the balcony again.
Then he turned, and passed through the shattered windows into the little room behind him—
They had laid the Duke on the floor of the room. The tall, grey-haired physician stood at the dying statesman's head. All that medical skill could do to ease his passing had been done. Already he was far beyond the reach of any human aid.
The brilliant summer sunshine shone full on the familiar, formidable, massive features, deathly white, now.
The eyes were closed.
The King knelt down at the old statesman's side.
Some obscure instinct prompted him to take the old man's hand—the hand which had done so much for him, the hand which had never failed him,—the hand which had saved him, from himself—
The Duke responded to his touch. Feebly he returned his pressure.
Then, slowly, he opened his eyes, luminous and clear even in death.
He recognized the King.
Faintly he smiled.
Then his lips moved as if in speech.
The King bent down over him.
"God—save—the King," the Duke muttered.
No doubt, the singing of the crowd outside the palace had reached the dying man's ears—
The King did not speak. It seemed to him that there was no need for words. He felt that the Duke knew all his thoughts. He knew that the Duke was glad to have him, now, at the last, at his side.
It was a strange moment of deep, and intimate communion between them—
Strangest of all, there was no sadness in it, now, for the King.
This man had done his work. This man had rounded off his life's work, with a completeness, which it is given to few men to achieve.
The lightning conductor had taken the full shock of the lightning flash, and then fallen.
For the future, he—the King—would be alone.
But that was a small matter, now—
In the presence of this great man's triumphant self-sacrifice, any thought of self seemed irreverence—
Some minutes passed.
Then the Duke's lips moved again—
"We shall not all sleep—but we shall all be changed—in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye—for the trumpet shall sound—and we shall be changed—"
The King bowed his head—
For this man, surely, all the trumpets would sound on the other side. For this man—they would crowd the battlements of Heaven to see him enter—
A little later, the physician touched the King on the shoulder.
The King stood up.
The physician bent down, and straightened the Duke's arms.
Then he turned, and faced the King.
"It is finished, sir," he said.