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.