THE KING WHO WENT ON STRIKE

 THE KING WHO
 WENT ON STRIKE

 BY

 PEARSON CHOATE

 Author of "Men Limited: An Impertinence"

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

 Puck

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

 NEW YORK
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
 1924

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

 PRINTED IN U.S.A.

 VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.
 BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

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

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

THE KING WHO WENT ON STRIKE

CHAPTER I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their irony was his second thought.

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

And, if they did know, would they care?

Save him from his enemies?

Perhaps. Almost certainly.

But from himself--an unwilling King?

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

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

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

The lightning conductor had been left in position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An hour later, the Prince lay dead.

The King flung up his head.

The Duke had not failed him.

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

The King was not ungrateful.

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

Yes. The lightning conductor was in position.

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

He must not fail the Duke.

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

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

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

"Judith!"

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

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

He must go to Judith.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II

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

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

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

Left alone, the King glanced round the dressing room.

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

A masculine doll. A male mannequin. A popinjay.

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

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

At last he found the suit he sought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock worked smoothly.

The door opened inwards.

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, his progress was arrested altogether.

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

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

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

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

The King laughed merrily.

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

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

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

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

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

The King pulled himself together with an effort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A short pause had ensued, a period of waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV

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

Judith was sitting on the moonlit verandah.

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

As usual, he had lost!

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

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

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

"I had to come," he confessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The King drew in his breath sharply.

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

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

All at once Judith seemed to divine his distress.

She turned from him quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Judith failed him.

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

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

An odd, tense, little pause ensued.

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice was husky, tremulous, low.

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

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

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

He was glad to sit down.

He was trembling from head to foot--

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

How? Why?

It was all an inexplicable mystery to him.

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

A strange, new Judith!

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

He had been so sure of Judith!

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

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

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

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

No. Whatever happened he could not risk that.

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

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

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

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

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

Judith slipped behind his chair.

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

A great wave of relief swept over the King.

Judith was herself again.

This was the old Judith.

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

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

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

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

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

Judith looked at him keenly.

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

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

Then he leant further back still in his chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment passed.

Judith stood up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nightingales were still singing in the garden.

Yes. He could sleep here.

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

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

Then he got into bed.

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

But now he must sleep. Dreamless sleep.

And so, he fell asleep.

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. His decision of the night before must stand.

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

At that moment, Judith knocked at the bedroom door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she poured out his coffee.

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

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

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

The Imps chattered like magpies as they attacked their porridge.

It was a merry, informal, delightfully domestic meal.

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

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

No word of farewell was spoken.

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

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

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

The minutes passed.

Uncle Bond did not come.

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

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

CHAPTER VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a momentary pause.

Then Uncle Bond chuckled.

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

He laid his hand on the King's arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle Bond sat very still.

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

He chuckled then unaccountably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Uncle Bond never did the expected thing!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, now, I must walk!"

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

Automatically, the King restarted the car.

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

But Uncle Bond did not look round.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

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

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

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

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

The door swung to behind him.

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

It was only just eight o'clock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Write to Betty."

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

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

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

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

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

"Send message to Lancaster."

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

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

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

It was a good apple.

After all, life had its compensations!

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

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

The footmen cleared away the breakfast things.

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

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

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

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

Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up abruptly.

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

CHAPTER VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder they disapproved of him!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "ALFRED. R.I."

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

The little incident served to revive his previous good spirits.

Lord Blaine would probably disapprove.

But the old woman would be pleased!

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

Documents, and copies of correspondence, from the Foreign and Dominion
Offices, held the King's attention longest. To him these were not
"duty" papers, as were so many of the others. The place names, the
names of the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion statesmen, and
administrators, which occurred in these papers, were familiar to him,
thanks to the many ports, and countries, the many men and cities, he
had seen in his varied naval service. Here and there, in these papers,
a single word would shine out, at times, from the typewritten page