A small, panelled room, on the left of the hall, and on the west side
of the house, the dining room was bright with the light of the setting
sun, as the King entered. Late as he was himself, he was surprised to
find that only Judith was there to receive him. She was standing at the
window doors, which opened out of the room onto the verandah, gazing at
the flaming glory of the sunset sky. Wearing a silver gown, that had a
metallic glitter, which gave her something of a barbaric splendour, she
seemed, at the moment, almost a stranger to the King. But she turned to
welcome him with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.
"It will be no use our waiting for Uncle Bond," she announced. "He may
be here, in a minute or two. Or he may not come for half an hour, or
more. 'Cynthia' may have got a firm grip on him, you see. Uncle Bond,
or perhaps I ought to say 'Cynthia,' hates being interrupted for meals.
I never wait for him."
Sitting down at the foot of the dinner table, as she spoke, she waved
the King into his place, on her right, facing the open window doors,
and the view of the garden, and of the wooded landscape beyond, which
they framed.
"I hope 'Cynthia' _has_ got a firm grip on Uncle Bond," she went on. "I
shall have you all to myself, then. You ought to have said that, you
know. But you never make pretty speeches. That is why I said it for
you."
The King sat down at the dinner table, and picked up his napkin,
mechanically.
"Are pretty speeches allowed--between us?" he asked.
"Why not? Just for once?" Judith replied. "Why shouldn't we play at
them, like a game with the Imps? Shall I begin? I will give you an
opening. Do you like my dress? And my hair? I dressed for you. I know
you like me, of course. But there are times, when a woman likes to be
told--what she knows!"
The King was surprised, and not a little embarrassed. This was not the
Judith he had expected. This was not the Judith of the afternoon. This
was that other strange, dangerous Judith, of the night before. She had
warned him that--it might happen again. True. But he had never imagined
that it would happen again, so soon--
The entrance of the light-footed parlour-maid, in neat black, who was
responsible for the service of the meal, at that moment, covered the
King's silent confusion.
So long as the maid was in the room only trivial surface conversation
was possible.
The King compelled himself to play his necessary, outward social
part. But he was uneasily aware, all the time, inwardly, that Judith
had noticed his embarrassment and that she was likely to resume her
unexpected attack at the first opportunity. His intuition proved
correct; but only partially correct. Judith was quick to take advantage
of the first of the maid's temporary absences from the room to return
to more intimate talk. But she struck, at once, a quieter, graver note.
"What is it, Alfred?" she asked. "Do I trouble you? I am sorry. It was
selfish of me. I knew that I was playing with fire, of course. But--a
woman grows tired of leaving everything unsaid."
Her implied appeal, and her insistence on her feminine weakness--a
thing unprecedented in her!--moved the King. He felt ashamed of his own
caution.
"If I had the right to make pretty speeches--" he began.
Then he checked himself abruptly.
What was the use of evasion? Had not Judith and he agreed that plain
speaking was their only hope? Judith had spoken plainly enough. The
least he could do was to speak plainly, too. And, suddenly, at the
back of his mind, now, were thoughts, which he had never suspected in
himself, clamouring for expression,--
"But I haven't the right!" he exclaimed. "I haven't any right to be
here, really. I see that now. I am in an utterly false position. I
ought not to be here. I ought not to have come here, as I have done. It
was not fair--to either of us. It was asking too much of--both of us.
Why haven't I seen that before? I shut my eyes to it, deliberately, I
am afraid. It was a mistake. It has been a mistake all through. I have
been absolutely selfish. I have thought only of myself. It is only
right that I should have to pay for my mistake. But the payment is all
on your side. It has been give, give, give, all the time, on your side.
And take, take, take, all the time, on mine. And I can make no return--"
"The giving all on our side! You have made no return!" Judith cried.
"It isn't true, Alfred. You know it isn't true! But, even if it were
true--a woman loves a man who allows her to give to him."
"Isn't that just the trouble?" the King exclaimed, exasperated by the
conflict of feeling within him into a flash of unusual insight.
Then the parlour-maid re-entered the room.
Hard on the heels of the parlour-maid, Uncle Bond made his appearance.
The little man had not dressed for dinner. He was still wearing his
usual, loose-fitting shooting clothes.
"You will excuse my clothes, I know, my boy," he remarked as he slipped
into his place, at the head of the table. "It has taken me all my
time to get here at all. I have just had a violent quarrel, upstairs,
with 'Cynthia.' I told her that you were here to dinner today, that
you were an honoured guest, and that I wished to show you proper
attention. She told me to get on with my work. I told her that I would
not be hag-ridden--that caught her on the raw!--that she was merely my
familiar spirit, not my master. Then I slammed the door on her. And
here we are!"
It was difficult to resist Uncle Bond's chuckling good-humour. The King
found himself smiling at the little man's characteristic nonsense,
almost in spite of himself.
Judith proved more obdurate.
Judith appeared to be really piqued by Uncle Bond's entrance. As the
meal proceeded, she became increasingly silent. An obtuser man than
Uncle Bond must have become quickly conscious that something was wrong.
From the mischievous twinkle which shone in the little man's sparkling
eyes, the King judged that Uncle Bond was only too well aware of the
tension that had sprung up, so unexpectedly, between Judith and himself.
Oddly enough, Uncle Bond did nothing to relieve the situation. The
little man was, or affected to be, very hungry. Setting himself, ably
seconded by the parlour-maid, to make good the courses which had
already been served, he confined his attention, almost entirely to his
plate.
The meal went forward, for some time, in these circumstances, with a
minimum of talk, which was not far removed from dumb show.
The broad rays of the setting sun were shining full into the room now
through the open window doors immediately facing the King. In the
awkward, recurring silences at the table, his eyes turned, again and
again, to the window doors, and the superb landscape which they framed.
Field and wood, winding road, and blossoming hedgerow, cottage and
farm, lay, peaceful and serene, spread out there, before him, in the
bright, evening light.
And beyond, beyond it all, lay London.
What was happening there?
The question startled the King.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, absorbed by his own emotions, he had
entirely forgotten the crisis.
Was everything still proceeding in accordance with plan? Why had
he not heard from the Duke? Had not the Duke said that he would be
communicating with him?
A sudden impatience with, a new contempt for, himself, swept over the
King.
What right had he to be sitting there, in peace and quietness, when
there was uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events were shaping
themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond the wooded skyline?
The Duke had urged him to leave the palace. The Duke had urged him to
seek a retreat, an asylum, out of the way of possible trouble.
All that was true.
And yet, here again, by his own act, had he not placed himself--in an
utterly false position?
This was not his place!
It seemed to be his fate, that he should always do the wrong thing!
His worst enemy was, indeed--himself!
The meal dragged on, drearily, and interminably, it seemed now, to the
King.
Would it never end?
At last, the parlour-maid put the decanters on the table, and withdrew,
finally, from the room.
A moment later, Uncle Bond stood up, glass in hand.
"I see no reason why we should not drink our usual toast, Judith," he
said. "On the contrary, I think there is every reason why we should
drink it, tonight--
"The King!"
Judith sprang up, and raised her glass in turn.
"The King--God bless him!" she said.
The King had picked up his own glass, mechanically, and half risen to
his feet.
He set his glass down again on the table, now with a shaking hand, and
sank back into his chair. Then, hardly conscious of what he was doing,
he bowed, first to Judith, and then to Uncle Bond. He could not see
their faces. There was a mist before his eyes--
"The King!"
Their usual toast. They drank it nightly, then, thinking of him. For
them it had a special, personal meaning. With them it was not only a
pledge of loyalty. With them it was a pledge of affection, too.
The King was profoundly moved.
Then, suddenly, his brain raced furiously.
"The King!"
Judith and Uncle Bond would not be alone in drinking the toast that
evening. All over the world, wherever men and women, of the true
English stock, were gathered together, would not the toast be drunk,
that evening, with a special enthusiasm, a special meaning? Not with
the special, personal meaning, the special, personal affection,
with which Judith and Uncle Bond had drunk it. That was outside the
question. The toast was a bigger thing than any personal affection,
than any personal feeling. It was a bigger thing than--any King--
"The King!"
Had not his own pulse quickened, had not his blood flowed more quickly
through his veins, at the words? They had acted upon him like the call
of a trumpet. To what?
"The King!"
What did the words stand for? For the biggest things. For England,
loyalty, patriotism, for ideals of service, personal, and national. No
man or woman drinking the toast thought and felt precisely as any other
man or woman standing beside them. But they were all united, all their
varied thoughts, and ideals, and emotions were linked together by the
words.
And he--the King--was the recognized, the accredited, figurehead, of
all their varied thoughts, ideals, emotions.
Was not this the reason, that he might serve as a link between the
varied ideals of all his people, that the King, his father, had been
content to live a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote? Was it not for
this that his brother, the Prince, had prepared himself, sacrificing
himself, never sparing himself?
And he had followed them unwillingly--
A new resolve, or something as near akin to a new resolve as he dare
venture upon, in his new distrust, his new contempt, for himself, was
registered by the King, at that moment.
If the old Duke "cut the rope"--and the old Duke would, he must
"cut the rope"--he, the King, would shape the course of his life,
differently--
It was not, he realized, that these were new thoughts with him. They
were, rather, thoughts which had lurked, until now, at the back of his
mind, overlaid by that preoccupation with himself, by that thinking
first of himself, which given the chance, given the time, it would be
his business, now, to alter--
The shutting of the door, behind him, at this point, startled the King
out of his reverie.
Looking round, he found that Judith had left the table, and slipped
quietly out of the room.
He turned to his right--and met Uncle Bond's curious glance.
Uncle Bond pushed a cigar box across the table, towards him.
The King chose a cigar absently.
Uncle Bond selected a long, and formidable looking cheroot, lit it, and
then leaning back in his chair, began to talk.
"I would give a good deal to be able to read your thoughts, my boy,"
he remarked. "Perhaps I can read--some of them! If it were not for the
bond of friendship between us, I should be tempted to regard you as a
most fascinating psychological study. Your position, the circumstances
in which you find yourself, at the moment are--unique. And you are
becoming conscious of that, and of many other things, unless I am
much mistaken. Our little comedy is drawing to its close, I fancy.
Meanwhile, shall we share our thoughts? Or do you feel that silence is
as essential, as it is said to be golden?"
The King hesitated, for a moment. His recent thoughts could be shared
with no one--not even with Uncle Bond, not even with Judith--
Then, as he looked up, in his perplexity, his eyes were caught by
the landscape, framed in the open window doors, in front of him.
Instinctively, he fell back upon his earlier thoughts, of what was
happening over there, beyond the wooded skyline, of why he had not
heard from the Duke.
"I have been wondering what is happening over there," he said,
indicating the far horizon with a gesture. "I begin to want to know
what is happening. The Duke said he would be communicating with me, you
know. I suppose you haven't heard from the Duke again?"
"No. I have not heard from the Duke," Uncle Bond replied. "But no news
is good news, in this case, my boy, I am certain. My own idea is that
the Duke will send no message until--everything has proceeded 'in
accordance with plan'--until he has, definitely, 'cut the rope.' Then,
and not until then, I think we may expect to see him here, in person."
The King was silent. He was conscious that he would be ready for, that
he would be glad to see, the Duke, when he came.
Uncle Bond, with his uncanny, unerring instinct, seemed to read his
thoughts.
"Our intimacy is, I think, nearing its end. Or, if it is not nearing
its end, it is approaching a time when it will be, inevitably,
changed," he remarked. "Ours has been a strange association, my boy.
But I am glad to think that it has been as pleasant, as it has been
strange. It has been so to Judith, and to myself. And to you? You have
enjoyed the hospitality which we have been so glad to offer you. And we
have been able to do you some service--a greater service, perhaps, than
we ever intended, a greater service, perhaps, than you, as yet, realize.
"We shall not see as much of you, in the near future, I fancy, as we
have done, in the past. Probably, we shall see less of you. Probably,
a time will come when your very welcome visits here will cease
altogether. But, I am glad to think, you will not be able to forget
us. We shall always have a place in your memory--a place of our own--a
place like no one else's. As the years go by, you will fill a more and
more important, a more and more distinguished position. But you will
not forget us. You will think of us gratefully.
"I want, Judith and I both want, your memory of us to be without
regret, to be a wholly pleasant memory. A mental oasis, perhaps, of
a kind useful to a man who is condemned to fill a conspicuous, and
responsible position--in the procession. There has been nothing in our
association which you, or we, can regret, thus far. Be on your guard,
my boy. See to it, that nothing occurs, that any of us need regret, in
retrospect--
"I have fallen into a bad habit of gravity with you, I observe. I seem
to have taken to obtruding my advice upon you. The Heavy Father! This
afternoon. And now, again, tonight. I apologize!
"And now I must revert to 'Cynthia'! We have had a wonderful day.
You always bring me luck. But 'Cynthia,' when she once gets going is
insatiable. I shall have to put in two or three more hours, with her,
upstairs, tonight. We are thousands of words ahead of the time-table
already. I shall be able to be idle for weeks after today. But there is
a climax in the offing--a climax, a couple of pages ahead, which cannot
wait. I must let it take its own course, shape itself, and get it down
on to paper. It never pays to let a climax wait!"
The little man stood up, and leaving the table, crossed the room to the
door. But, by the door, he paused.
"Judith, I see, is waiting for you, in the hall, my boy," he announced.
"She will give you some music, I dare say. If you should happen to want
me--I am upstairs."
Then he disappeared.
In spite of Uncle Bond's announcement that Judith was waiting for him,
the King lingered at the dinner table. Somehow, he did not wish--to
be alone with Judith again. Was he afraid of her? Or of himself? He
hardly knew. But he shrank instinctively from the ordeal. It would be
an ordeal. The consequences, the inevitable consequences, of his false
position, of his reckless self-indulgence, were closing about him--
Suddenly, the soft notes of the piano, in the hall, reached his ears.
Judith had begun her music, without waiting for him.
The King had no cultivated taste in music. The rattling melodies of the
wardroom piano, or gramophone, were his greatest pleasure. Like most
people, where music was concerned, he was merely an animal, soothed or
irritated, by noise.
Judith's music was soft and low.
It soothed him.
Well, the ordeal had to be faced!
Finishing his glass of port, he stood up.
Then he passed, reluctantly, out of the dining room, into the hall.
In the hall, the shadows of the twilight were gathering fast. Judith's
silver dress shone, obscurely luminous, in the far corner, where she
was seated at the piano. She turned, and welcomed him with her friendly
little nod, and went on playing.
The King sat down on the ottoman, at the foot of the staircase. It was
the furthest distance that he could keep from Judith.
Judith played on, passing from one melody to another, playing
throughout from memory, odd movements, and the music of songs, all soft
and low, and all, it seemed, now, to the King, plaintive, sad.
The twilight deepened in the hall.
Neither the twilight, nor the music, brought peace to the King.
A sense of fatality, a feeling of impending crisis, was with him.
And he was afraid, now--of himself.
At last, the music ceased.
Judith stood up.
The King rose to his feet, in turn.
And then, suddenly, blind instinct came to his aid, counselling flight.
Without a word, with the briefest possible glance in Judith's
direction, he turned sharply round on his heel, and passed quickly up
the staircase, to Uncle Bond's quarters.
He flung open the door of Uncle Bond's writing room, without knocking--
"I have come--to place myself under arrest, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed.
"I have come--to put myself into safe custody. I can't--trust myself."
Uncle Bond, busy at his writing table, laid down his pencil, and turned
in his chair.
"Shut the door, my boy," he said. "I accept the responsibility you
have offered me. It is a responsibility which I would have accepted
before--but I did not care to interfere, between you and Judith, until
it was offered to me."
The King shut the door.
"Fortunately, 'Cynthia' and I have just finished our climax," Uncle
Bond chuckled. "I can blow out the candles, and devote myself to you."
He blew out the candles on the writing table, the only light in the
room.
"Sit down, my boy," he said. "Can you feel your way to the sofa? The
moon rises late tonight. In this dubious, half light, we may be able to
talk--at our ease."
The King found his way to the sofa, under the windows, without any
difficulty, and sat down.
A dusky veil, which was not darkness, had been drawn over the room,
when Uncle Bond blew out the candles. Outside the windows, there was
still a luminous glow in the sky, where one or two stars shone palely.
A couple of bats fluttered, to and fro, across the length of the
windows. Some martins, settling down for the night, in their nests,
under the eaves of the house, twittered excitedly--
"Shall we talk?" Uncle Bond asked suddenly. "I am ready to talk. And
yet--I have no great faith in words. 'Cynthia' uses them. But plain
James Bond has learnt their danger. After all, when an action speaks
for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."
"I do not think that I want to talk, Uncle Bond," the King said slowly.
It seemed to him, now, that he had already said enough, perhaps too
much, when he had entered the room.
"I am content," Uncle Bond said. "I am not afraid of silence."
Silence, at the moment, was welcome to the King--
It was a soothing, sedative silence, which brought with it the first
hush of night.
The King settled himself, more comfortably, at full length, on the sofa.
Uncle Bond neither moved, nor spoke.
Some time passed.
At last, Uncle Bond stood up, and crossed quietly to the sofa.
The King was asleep.
The little man drew out two or three blankets, from under the sofa, and
threw them over the King.
Then he returned to the writing table, and sat down. But he did not
relight his candles, and resume his work. He leant back in his chair,
in an attitude of expectancy, as if he were waiting for somebody.
He had not long to wait.
In a minute or two, the door behind him was opened, quietly, and Judith
slipped into the room.
Judith halted behind the little man, and stood there, for some time
in silence, gazing at the King's face, which was dimly visible in the
light from the windows.
At last, she spoke.
"He is asleep?" she whispered.
"Yes," Uncle Bond said. "When you remember the strain under which he
has been running, you can hardly be surprised."
There was a short silence. Then Judith laid her hand on the little
man's shoulder.
"It was--my fault, Uncle Bond," she whispered. "I--failed him. It has
happened twice now. Last night was the first time. And tonight--he knew
that it was going to happen again. I don't know--how it happened. It
ought not to have happened--"
"It had to happen. It is a good thing that it has happened," Uncle Bond
said quietly. "It was--the necessary climax. I have been expecting it.
And now--it is over--
"It was a risk. It was a great risk. It was _the_ risk," the little man
went on, in a low, meditative tone. "But I trusted--_him_. It seemed to
me that he could not fail. He comes of a good stock. The long line of
men and women who lived, so that he might live, did not live in vain.
Think of their restraint, their self-repression, their self-sacrifice--
"And we have been able to do him a service, a great service, a
greater service than he realizes as yet. We have helped him through
a difficult, and dangerous, period in his life. And you have shown
him--of what stuff he is made. Instincts, and impulses, which, in him,
have necessarily been insulated, and sternly suppressed, for years,
have been brought into play. He knows now--of what stuff he is made.
"The future will be easier. I was telling him, tonight, that I do
not think that we shall see so much of him, in the future. The time
is coming when we shall see very little of him, I think. But he will
not forget us. He will think of us with gratitude, with deepening
gratitude, as the years go by. We shall have a place of our own in his
memory. And there will be nothing in his memory, that he, or we, need
regret--
"We shall miss him. He has come to fill a large place in all our lives.
It has been a strange episode. That he should have wandered, by chance,
into our quiet backwater; that we should have become implicated,
through him, in great issues--that is strange. But it is only an
episode. And it is nearly over now. And we--and you--would not have it
otherwise?"
"I would not have it otherwise," Judith whispered.
Then she drew in her breath, sharply, as if in pain.
"But I have so much, and he has so little," she said.
"He has--England," Uncle Bond said gravely.
"And I have the Imps, and you," Judith replied.
Then she stooped down, suddenly, and kissed the little man.
"Good night," she said. "I am going straight to bed. I am very tired."
And she turned, and hurried out of the room--
For some time, Uncle Bond remained motionless at the writing table.
The night was very still. An owl called, eerily, from the garden. A
dog barked in some distant farmyard.
At last, the little man rose to his feet, crossed to the sofa again,
and stood looking down at the King's face which showed pallid, drawn,
and, somehow, it seemed to him now, old, in the dim, half light.
"The band, I think, _must be_ playing--somewhere--" he muttered.