It was an urgent, blind necessity that was laid upon him, rather
than any action of his own will, which had hurried the King out of
Uncle Bond's writing room. None the less, now, as he descended the
staircase in the silent house, crossed the hall, and so passed out into
the bright afternoon sunshine in the garden, he was not altogether
unconscious of the motives which were driving him, in this strange way,
to Judith. He wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk to her. He
wanted to explain things to her. And, most of all, he wanted Judith to
explain--things which only she could explain--to him--
A few minutes of rapid walking led him across the lawn, in amongst the
trees, at the far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, through the
trees, to the little clearing beyond, in which the summer house stood.
He followed this path.
The green shade of the trees was welcome after the glare of the
sunlight on the lawn. A breeze rustled amongst the overhanging leaves.
Hidden away, somewhere, high up amongst the tree tops, a couple of jays
chattered raucously in the sultry stillness.
In a minute or two, the King caught a glimpse, through the trees, of
the picturesque, crudely thatched roof of the summer house.
A moment later, he saw Judith.
Judith was sitting in a wicker work chair, at the entrance to the
summer house, with her hands lying idle, for once, on her lap, gazing
at the superb panorama of green fields, and wooded heights, which lay
spread out before her in the sunshine.
So intent was her gaze, she did not hear the King's approach.
The King halted, abruptly, on the edge of the clearing, and watched her.
A smile flickered about Judith's lips. The play of thought across her
beautiful, vivid face reminded the King of the play of light and shade
across some sunny hillside. He had never seen Judith alone with her own
thoughts, like this, before. A kind of awe stole over him as he watched
her. And yet, he soon grew impatient, and jealous, of these thoughts of
Judith's, which he could not share.
Stepping back, in under the trees, he trod, with intention, on a
broken branch which lay on the paths at his feet.
The snapping of the branch served to recall Judith to her immediate
surroundings.
She did not start. She turned her head, slowly; and saw him.
The rosy flush which the harvest sun had put into her cheeks deepened.
Her dark, mysterious eyes lit up marvellously.
"Alfred--you!" she cried. "I was just thinking about you. And I had no
idea you were so near!"
A feeling of guilt oppressed the King. The shining happiness, the
radiant trust, of Judith's face smote him like a rebuke.
Slowly, he advanced across the clearing, and halted beside her chair.
What was it he wanted to say? What could he say?
Then, suddenly, words came to him.
"You know--who I am," he said.
Quite unconsciously, he used the same words which he had used with
Uncle Bond; but he used them now with a difference. With Uncle Bond the
words had been a challenge. To Judith, he offered them as an apology.
A shadow obscured the radiance of Judith's face; but her glance did
not waver. It was as if she were meeting something for which she had
long been prepared.
"I have always known," she acknowledged.
A constraint that had no parallel in his experience held the King
silent for a long minute or two.
At last he forced himself to speak.
"I have been here--sometime," he began desperately. "I have
been--upstairs with Uncle Bond. I have just had lunch with him in his
room. Uncle Bond has explained--a good many things to me. I saw you
come here from the window. I followed you at once. I had to follow you.
I hardly know why. Was it because there are--things between us which
only you can explain?"
He broke off there abruptly.
Judith knew nothing of all that had happened, of course. Until she
knew--something of all that had happened--of what use was his talk? If
only he could tell her--something of what had happened--she might be
able to begin to understand the bewilderment, and turmoil, within his
overwrought, fevered brain. That she should be able to understand, that
she should be able to sympathize with him, had become, at the moment,
his paramount need.
"Things have happened," he resumed desperately. "Things have happened
that you know nothing about, I think. Queer things are happening, over
there, at this moment!"
He half turned from her, as he spoke, and pointed across the sunlit
landscape, at the distant, wooded horizon.
"Martial Law has been proclaimed. The Labour people are making trouble.
They have called a universal strike. A few of them want to get rid of
me, and run up the Red Flag. They haven't a chance, of course. The Duke
is there. I know that you know the Duke! He was ready for them. He will
be glad, I think, that they have given him this chance to crush them.
Uncle Bond had a message from the Duke, waiting for me, when I arrived,
to say that everything was--'proceeding in accordance with plan.' His
plan!
"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, to be out of
the way of possible trouble. I said I'd come here. I told him, that
it seemed to me, that if there was one man, in the whole country, who
would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I was that man.
I told him that I'd go on strike too. Coming here was my way of going
on strike. I thought that I was asserting myself. I thought that I
was showing that I was a man. All the time I was simply playing into
the Duke's hands, of course. The Duke would be quite content that I
should come here, I think. He knows that I can't get into any mischief
here. He has seen to that! Uncle Bond tells me that there are half a
dozen plain clothes men in the kitchen. Did you know that? A battalion
of the Guards is to put a picket line round the house, too. At first
I--resented the Duke's arrangements. Now, somehow, I don't seem to
care--
"So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I have been
through so much, I don't seem to have any will, any feeling, any
personality left. My own thoughts, my own words, my own actions seem
to me, now--like the disjointed pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, which
I shall never be able to put together again. I don't know--where I
am. I don't know--where I stand. I am all at sea. The bottom seems,
suddenly, to have dropped out of everything. I have been humoured,
managed, controlled, all through. I can see that. Now, I am--just like
a derelict ship. The rudder has gone. The charts are lost. I am being
driven, this way and that, at the mercy of--everybody's will, but my
own--
"Somehow, you are my only hope. Somehow, I feel that you will
understand me--better than I understand myself. I suppose that that
means that I love you. You know that. And I know that you love me.
There can be no doubt about that, after last night. And yet, somehow,
even that doesn't excite me now. It doesn't seem to mean--what I
suppose it ought to mean--to me. Why doesn't it mean--more to me? I
am trying to tell you the truth, so far as I can see it. I am sick of
mystery. I am utterly weary of deceit. It seems to me, that--our only
hope is--plain speaking--"
All this time, Judith had remained motionless, and quiescent, in her
chair. She turned, now, a little towards the King. Her expression was
grave, but friendly.
"I want you to sit down, Alfred," she said quietly. "Find another
chair, and bring it out here. When you sit down, I will talk to you. I
want to talk to you."
The King swung round into the summer house, and brought out another
chair. Placing it beside Judith's, he sat down. Then he fixed his eyes
upon her face.
"I am glad that you have said, what you have said, Alfred," Judith
began. "I have wanted you to give me your confidence, the whole of
your confidence, for so long. I have always understood, I think, why
you have been silent--about so many things. But I wanted you--to trust
me. Now--you have trusted me--
"I agree with you that the time has come for plain speaking. I am glad
that it has come. I will speak as plainly as I can."
"First of all, you are not a derelict, Alfred. You are more like--a
ship that has not found herself. You know what happens on a trial trip?
The ship has not found herself. The Captain, and the crew, have got
to get to know her. She ships the sea. Bolts and plates stretch and
strain. Queer things happen in the engine room. And then, suddenly, all
in a moment, the ship finds herself, rights herself. You will be--like
that. Your trial trip has been run in a storm. You have been plunged,
at the start into hurricane weather. But you will find yourself, right
yourself. And, when your moment comes, you will sail the seas with any
craft afloat.
"But that is--politics! And you, and I, are not really greatly
interested in politics, are we? What we are really interested in
is--ourselves--our own intimacy, our own relationship. When you say
that you don't know where you are, where you stand, what you mean, at
the back of your mind, is that you don't know where _we_ are, and where
_we_ stand. I will tell you where I stand. If I tell you where I stand,
you will be able to see--your own position. I will speak, as plainly as
I can, about myself--"
Judith paused there, as if she wished to marshal her thoughts, and fit
them with words.
The King kept his eyes fixed upon her face. His instinct had been
right. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself.
Already, he was conscious that the tumult within him was subsiding.
Judith, with her clear eyes, and sure touch, would disentangle the
mingled threads of their strange destiny, rearrange them, and put them
straight.
"First of all, I want you to understand that I know that there can be
no change in, no development, no outcome of--our friendship," Judith
resumed slowly. "And I want you to know that I am--content that it
should be so. My life has been full of--much that many women miss.
I had Jack, my husband. I have the Imps. I have Uncle Bond. And I
have--you.
"Your--friendship--has become very precious to me, Alfred. When you
first came here, I liked you, I think, because you reminded me of Jack.
It was the sea, and the Navy, of course. The sea, and the Navy, mark a
man, don't they? They give him a certain style, and stamp. But that was
only a superficial, surface resemblance, of course. I had not known you
very long before I realized that you were quite unlike Jack.
"Jack was simple, a boy, a dear. He was a splendid man, physically. At
sea, he could sail anything that would float. He had no idea of fear.
He did his duty. He obeyed orders. He never questioned anything. Life
to him was always plain and straightforward. He always saw his way,
like the course of his ship, clear before him. He never had a real
trouble, or doubt. He was happy, even in his death. You know how he led
the destroyers into action, and sank an enemy ship, before he went down
himself? I--loved him. But I loved him, as I love the Imps. When he was
at home, on shore, with me, I used to feel that I had three boys to
look after--
"You are different. Your mind works all the time. You doubt, you
question, everything. You see all round things to which Jack would
never have given a thought. Your brain is always active--too active.
Life to you is always complex, puzzling. You live more, and harder, in
a day, in your brain, than Jack did in a year. It was when I began to
understand what was going on in the brain, behind your tired blue eyes,
that I learnt--to love you. Jack had no imagination. You have--too much
imagination. I loved Jack. But you--you could carry me off my feet--
"That is just what happened last night. I want you to understand about
last night, Alfred. It is important that you should understand about
last night, I think. A good deal of your trouble, of your bewilderment,
and uncertainty, today, is because of last night, I believe. And it
may--happen again.
"I have always been very careful with you--until last night. I know
that I--attract you. At one time, I was afraid that that might
interfere with, that it might spoil, our friendship. But, as I came to
know you better, as I came to understand the hold, the control, you
have over yourself, I began to realize that it was not you, but myself,
that I had to fear. I was very careful. I watched myself. And then,
last night, after all, I failed you--
"But you had just been Crowned! And, after your Coronation, after all
that you had been through, you got away, as soon as you could, to come
and see me! That in itself was--a tribute--which no woman could have
resisted, I think. And you were different. Your Coronation has made
a difference, Alfred. And you were wearing the King's colours. You
remember that? And you talked about the King needing all his friends.
And, somehow, just for the moment, I wanted you to trust me, to give me
the whole of your confidence. I have always wanted your confidence. And
then--I was afraid. And I took you in to the Imps for safety. And their
crowns were there. And I couldn't resist playing with fire. And you
picked up Button's crown. And I felt all your thought--bitter, ironic,
painful thoughts. I am much more responsive to your moods than you
realize, I think. And I wanted to comfort you. And I looked at you. And
you saw what I felt--
"It was just as if I had said, all the things which we have always left
unsaid, wasn't it? It was just as if I had shouted aloud, all the
things which we have always been so careful to ignore. It--troubled
you--then. It troubles you still. It will be a long time, before I
shall be able to forgive myself, for what happened last night--
"I have always wanted to help you, to serve you, to make things easier
for you, you see--not to add to your difficulties. But we have helped
you, Uncle Bond, and I, and the Imps, haven't we! It has been good
for you to come here, to us, in Paradise, for rest, and quiet, and
peace, hasn't it? There is an old fairy story about a man who was
haunted by his shadow, that the Imps are very fond of, that I have
always connected with you, in my own mind. You are haunted by your
shadow, aren't you? You are haunted by the shadow of your rank, of
your position, of your responsibility. But you have always been able
to forget your shadow here with us--until last night--haven't you? It
has always been waiting for you, when you went away in the morning, you
picked it up again in the lane, on your way back to town, I know. But,
while you were here, you never saw your shadow, until last night, did
you?"
"It has always been just like that," the King murmured. "With you, I
have always been able to live, in the present moment--"
"It always _shall be_ just like that," Judith declared.
Then she stood up abruptly.
"But I am not going to talk any more now," she said. "I must go in.
The Imps will be awake by now. But I shan't bring them out here. I
want you to rest. I promised the Duke, that I would see that you got
as much rest as possible, whenever you came here. I--like the Duke.
He--cares more for you--than you realize, Alfred, I think. You will
try to rest now, won't you? How much sleep have you had in the last
twenty-four hours? Three hours, last night? You are too reckless. I am
not surprised the King's physician is turning grey. The Duke told me
that. You can't stay up on the bridge indefinitely. You will find that
you will be able to sleep now--after all my plain speaking! Are you
comfortable in that chair? Let me give you this cushion--"
She lingered beside him, seeking to make him comfortable, as a woman
will.
"I treat you, just as if you were one of my boys, don't I?" she said.
"I know you like it. But I do it--in self-defence."
The King submitted, passively, to her ministrations.
Then he caught her hand, and raised it to his lips.
His action, like so many of his actions, was quite impulsive. But he
did not regret it.
In what other way could he have expressed so well, his admiration, his
gratitude, his renewed trust?
Judith blushed charmingly.
Then, suddenly, she leant down over him, and kissed him, lightly, on
the forehead.
"I kissed you like that, last night, when you were asleep," she said,
with an odd, breathless, little catch in her voice.
Then she turned, and hurried away, through the trees, back to the
house,--
A great drowsiness took possession of the King. He did not resist it.
He gave himself up to it gladly--
His instinct had served him well. Judith understood him, better than he
understood himself. Judith was right. She was always right. The larger
part of his trouble, it seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his
bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he and she stood. Now that
Judith had defined their position--as plainly as it could be defined
with safety--a great burden seemed to have been lifted from his mind.
Judith understood him. Nothing else mattered. Other things--could not
touch him here in Paradise. Other things--could wait.
His shadow--
Half asleep, as he was already, he sat up abruptly.
The bright, afternoon sun was shining full on to the little clearing,
throwing no shadow--
His shadow was not there--
Leaning back, contentedly, in his chair, he closed his eyes again.
Almost at once, he slept.