A light, butterfly touch on his cheek awoke the King.
He had slept so deeply, and so long, it was a minute or two, before he
fully regained consciousness.
Then he found himself gazing at Bill's gleeful, cherubic face.
"Lazy, lazy, slug-a-bed, Uncle Alfred," Bill chanted. "'Bed by daytime'
was over--ever so long ago. We've been making the hay, the whole
afternoon. And you've been asleep all the time, you poor, tired dear.
But mother said we could wake you now."
A sudden tenderness, for the shining innocence of the little fellow's
smiling face, gripped the King.
Catching him up in his arms, he shook him, playfully, in mid air.
Then he set him down on his feet again, and turning--saw Button, on the
other side of his chair.
"Wonderful harvest weather, this we're having," Button remarked. "But,
if it's good for the hay, it's bad for the roots. We want rain for the
roots, there's no denying."
It was an extremely elderly Button who spoke.
The King recognized one of the youngster's habitual quotations.
It sounded like the weather lore of old Jevons, the gardener.
"It's Coronation weather, you see, Button," he said absently.
Button became all boy, seven-year-old boy, at once.
"Were you in the procession, Uncle Alfred?" he cried. "Mother told us
about it. Did you see the King? Did you wear your sword? Did the people
cheer?"
"Tell us about the flags, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks,"
Bill demanded, joining in, in the little hurricane of questions.
"Mother says the King rode in his coach. Why didn't he ride on one of
his horses? Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his crown heavy?"
"Mother says the King is quite young. That is funny, isn't it?" Button
predominated. "All the Kings in the fairy stories are old, old men,
with long, white beards. Do you think he likes being King? Mother
says he has to work very hard, that he can't do just what he likes,
and please himself, that he always has to think--first of England, and
never of himself. That doesn't sound as if he had much fun, does it?"
"Do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?" Bill enquired.
By this time, the King's dormant ironic sense had been most effectively
aroused. He was amused? Yes. But more than one of the youngsters'
innocent shafts had reached home.
And Judith was not greatly interested in politics!
"First of England, and never of himself?"
Had he not always thought--first of himself?
"Mother says the King was in the Navy, like you and our daddy, until
they told him that he had to be King," Button continued. "Daddy died in
battle, you know. But it isn't sad. Mother has his medals. When I grow
up, I'm to have his sword, and go into the Navy, too. Mother says it's
the King's Service. When Bill is big enough, mother says he'll be as
big as I am some day, he's going into the Navy, too. He'll be in the
King's Service, too. But I'm to have daddy's sword, because I'm the
eldest."
Bill scrambled up on to the King's knees.
"You will tell us all about the King, and his procession, and the
'luminations, and the fireworks, won't you, dear?" he coaxed.
"Some day--perhaps I will," the King said. "But it is a long, and a
difficult story, and it--isn't finished yet. I don't think the King
likes being King, very much, though. Mother is right. He--can't do just
what he likes. He hasn't been King very long--but he has learnt that,
already. Perhaps, I don't know, he may learn, if he has the chance,
in time, to think--first of England, and never of himself. He doesn't
have much fun. I know that. His crown is--heavier than he likes. He was
very tired of it all, yesterday, I know. He didn't see--much of his own
procession. He saw the flags, and the crowds, and he heard the cheers.
Yes. The people cheered! And he bowed, and smiled, and played his part.
But I don't think he enjoyed it very much. I think he was--rather
afraid of it all, in his own heart. He didn't wear his sword. They
won't let the King fight, nowadays, you see. He has to let other
men--brave men like your daddy--fight for him. He--doesn't like that!
That is why it is better to be in the King's Service, in the Navy, as
you are going to be, when you grow tall enough, than to be--the King--"
"Didn't they let him sit up to see the 'luminations, and the
fireworks?" Bill asked, surprised, and puzzled.
"Yes. They let him sit up to see them," the King acknowledged hastily.
"And there were illuminated aeroplanes over the palace. And "God Save
the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second," in letters of fire,
on all the houses--"
"Here's mother," Button announced.
Judith appeared, advancing through the trees.
Button ran to meet her.
Bill remained faithful to the King's knee.
The King frowned. He understood, suddenly, he thought, why Judith had
sent the Imps to wake him. The Imps were protection, safety. Judith
was right, of course. It was wise of her to take such precautions--in
self-defence. And yet, somehow, at the moment, he resented her wisdom.
"You have had a good sleep, Alfred," Judith said, smiling pleasantly,
as she halted beside him. "It is nearly six o'clock now. We came, and
looked at you, at tea-time, but you were so fast asleep, it seemed a
shame to wake you."
The King's resentment fell from him. He felt ashamed of himself. It was
of him, and not of herself--did she ever think of herself?--that Judith
had been thinking.
"I feel very much better, thank you. The rest has done me good," he
said.
"Uncle Alfred has been telling us about the King, mother," Button
explained. "He says he doesn't think the King likes being King very
much. He can't do what he likes, just as you said. They won't let him
wear his sword even, and he can't fight for himself. He has to let
other people fight for him. I'm glad I'm not King. I'd rather be a
sailor, and wear daddy's sword."
The King put Bill down off his knee, and stood up hastily, glad to
avoid, in this way, meeting Judith's glance--
"Picaback! Picaback!" Bill cried.
"A race!" Button shouted.
It was the Imps' hour for play.
Always, in the evening, between tea and dinner, Judith joined them, in
the garden, in a riotous frolic.
This evening the King, too, was inevitably, pressed into their service.
The King mounted Bill on his shoulders, willingly enough.
Button claimed Judith as his mettlesome charger.
The race, it was decided, should be to the house.
And so, with Button urging Judith forward, and Bill spurring the King
on, remorselessly, with his heels, the race began.
The result was, for some time, in doubt.
Ultimately, going all out across the lawn, Bill, on the King, won by a
short length.
Whether Bill, or the King, was the more delighted at this success, it
would have taken a very acute observer to judge.
In the ensuing hour, the King found himself called upon to play a
variety of parts, which would have made exhaustive demands upon the
resources of the most experienced quick-change artist.
A Wild Beast in the trees, Man Friday, a Red Indian, a Cannibal King,
and a Policeman, were amongst his more prominent rôles. Flinging
himself into the spirit of the play, with a gusto which he caught, in
part, from Judith, he entirely forgot himself.
The Imps' laughter rang out, blithe and free, through the garden, and
about the house. Whenever their interest, or their energy failed,
Judith was quick with some delectable proposal, unlimited in resource.
With all their unspoilt imagination, Button and Bill were hard put to
it, at times, to keep pace with the whims of their radiant, laughing
mother. Judith played with all the abandon of a child, directed by the
intellect of an adult. To the King this combination was irresistible.
He had no thought now apart from the present moment.
Once only, were he and Judith alone together. It was in the course of
a wild game of hide and seek with which the play ended. It was their
turn to hide. Quite by chance, they sought the same cover--a large
rhododendron bush in the drive. They crouched together, behind the
bush, side by side.
Judith was flushed, panting a little, and a trifle dishevelled.
"Isn't this fun?" she whispered, turning to him with shining eyes.
"I am ten years old--for the first time," the King replied.
Judith's face clouded.
"When you were a boy--was the shadow there already?" she asked.
"I think that it must have been, although I didn't know it," the King
muttered. "I expect it was my own fault--but I was lonely. I knew,
I think we all knew--that we were not like other children. It wasn't
until I went to sea that--I was able to forget that I was a Prince!"
"Poor, lonely, little Prince!" Judith murmured. "But when he went to
sea, he was happy?"
"The sea knocked a lot of nonsense out of me," the King replied. "At
sea, a man is a man, and nothing else. When I had learnt that, I was
happy."
Then the Imps burst in upon them, and the play was at an end.
Judith drove the Imps before her, into the house.
For them--a light supper, and then, an early bedtime.
The King made his way into the house in turn.
It was time to dress for dinner.
A rich content, a sense of absolute well-being, was with the King now.
Was it not always so, when he had been with Judith, and the Imps? The
bewilderment, the turmoil, and the fever, which had raged within him,
only a few hours ago, seemed very far away.
Here, in Paradise, the present moment was good!
Insensibly--had Judith contrived it?--he had stepped into the quiet old
inn of "Content," on the corner of the market-place. He had turned his
back on--the procession--on the fight in the market-place. He would
keep his back turned to them. He would not even risk the window view.
Alfred, the sailor, was not dead!
It was Alfred, the sailor, who entered the house.
It was Alfred, the sailor, who passed into his own room.
Here, a surprise awaited him. Laid out in the room were evening
clothes. On the dressing-table were familiar toilet trifles from the
palace.
Alfred, the sailor, fled.
It was the King, who halted, in the middle of the room, and looked
about him.
This, he realized, must have been the outcome of the old Duke's
thoughtfulness. The Duke alone could have given the orders which had
made this possible. That the Duke should have found time to attend to
so trivial a matter, time to give orders to a valet to pack a bag, when
he was giving orders to maintain a throne--it was almost ludicrous!
And yet, it was like the Duke.
It was like the Duke, to remind him, to assure him, in this way, that
he, the King, was of importance, that he was being served, well served,
in small matters, as well as in great. Something of the sort must
have been in the old Duke's mind, when he gave the orders, which had
provided him, the King, with a dress shirt--and studs!--now, when he
wanted them--
No doubt, some member of the palace household staff, Smith perhaps, had
been sent down, specially, from the palace, with these things, during
the afternoon. Like the police, and the military, he would have been
given orders to remain invisible. That was as it should be. A valet
would have been out of place in Paradise. Alfred, the sailor, would be
entitled to a servant, of course. But he would hardly accompany him
on--"a short leave of absence"--
The King was glad to change.
He was glad to think, as he dressed leisurely, that he would appear
suitably clad at Judith's table.
There is a stimulation in clothes which he was young enough to feel.
He was still struggling with his dress tie, when the dinner gong
sounded.