It was a night of strange dreams with the King.
For endless ages, as it seemed to him, watched all the time by a
thousand flushed, curious faces, by a thousand eyes, he fled, down
interminable corridors, across dark and desolate waste places, pursued,
now by the old Duke of Northborough, now by Uncle Bond, and now by
Judith. His feet were of lead. Time and again, he stumbled, and all
but fell. His breath came in panting gusts. He reeled. His brain was
on fire. And yet the chase continued, across continents, through dark,
dank caves, along a dreary coast line, on the edge of precipices, by
the side of angry seas--
The horror of it all was heightened by his knowledge that he was being
pursued in error. Some inexplicable, mysterious misunderstanding
between him, and his pursuers, accounted for the chase. They were
pursuing him, hunting him down, mistakenly, full of a desire to serve
him, to save him. He could not, he dare not, stop to explain their
error to them. To stop was death. And Judith was the most persistent,
the most relentless of his pursuers--
At last the darkness, through which he fled, was pierced by a blinding
light, which played full upon his face, dazzling his eyes. They had
turned a searchlight upon him, to aid them in hunting him down. All the
world would see his fall. He twisted, this way and that, to avoid the
light. But his frenzied efforts were all in vain. The light turned with
him always, shining full upon his face. Then he fell--
Bright morning sunshine was streaming in through the open windows of
the writing room, full upon the King's face, as he awoke. As he turned
his head to avoid its blinding glare, he saw Uncle Bond's writing
table, bare and empty, save for the candlesticks, in which mere stumps
of candles remained. Slowly he became conscious of his surroundings.
First he recognized the writing table, than the bare walls, then
the room. Then he realized that he was lying on the sofa, under the
windows. The blankets which covered him puzzled him for awhile. The
fact that he was fully dressed in evening clothes puzzled him still
more. Then memory was achieved, and he knew--who he was, where he was.
Throwing off the blankets he sprang up on to his feet, and stretched
himself with a sudden access of immense relief.
It was good to awake from so terrifying a dream--
A burst of radiant, childish laughter, outside the room, down below in
the garden, drew him to the windows.
Old Jevons, the gardener, was on the lawn, with Joshua, the equally
elderly garden donkey, harnessed to the lawn mower. Bill was perched
on Joshua's unwilling back. Button was pulling at Joshua's obstinate
mouth. And Joshua would not move. Joshua was a capricious animal, with
a temper of his own. To the laughing Imps, his recurring mutinies were
a never failing joy.
In the bright morning light, against the green background of the garden
trees, the animated little scene had a charm which was not lost upon
the King.
"If I had a donkey, what wouldn't go," Bill chanted.
"Wouldn't I wollop him? No! No! No!" Button carolled gleefully,
abandoning Joshua's mouth, and converting the nursery rhyme into an
action song of considerable vigour.
Suddenly, Joshua succumbed. Lowering his head before the storm, he
moved forward.
Old Jevons, who had been waiting patiently for this capitulation,
guided the machine.
"It's a hard world for donkeys!" the King moralized at the window.
"But, once harnessed, I suppose--one has to pull the machine."
It was of himself that he was thinking!
Then Judith appeared in the garden, stepping down from the verandah,
and sauntering across the lawn.
The King withdrew hastily, from the windows.
He hardly knew why.
But he did know! His clothes, his dishevelled appearance, made him feel
foolish. The sooner he could get a bath, and a change, the better. It
must be late. It must be nearly breakfast time. Now, while Judith and
the Imps were out in the garden, he would probably be able to slip
down to his bedroom, unobserved. The servants would be busy preparing
breakfast. It must be eight o'clock at least. He must hurry--
Darting out of the writing room, he passed quickly down the staircase,
and through the hall, without meeting anybody on the way. As he
raced along the corridor which led to his bedroom, he noticed, with
considerable satisfaction, that the bathroom was empty. Diving into
his bedroom, he snatched up some towels, and his dressing case. Then
he hurried back to the bathroom. It was with a feeling not far removed
from triumph that he shut the bathroom door.
The cold water of the bath was stimulating, invigorating. A shave
restored his self-respect. The last vestiges of his troubled sleep
fell from him. He was rested, although his sleep had been troubled.
He had needed rest. This morning, he was himself again. He was ready
to face--whatever had to be faced. But not a moment sooner than was
necessary. For the time being, he put thought from him, deliberately--
Back in his bedroom, he found that the grey lounge suit, which he had
been wearing the day before, had been carefully brushed, and laid out
ready for him. The invisible valet had been at work again. He dressed
quickly. While he was knotting his tie, a point in his toilet that he
was particular about, even this morning, from mere force of habit, the
gong in the hall sounded. He looked at his watch. He had not been far
out in his estimate of the time. It was just on half past eight. Did
they know he was up? Of course they would know. No doubt, even here in
his bedroom, he was being carefully, if unostentatiously, shadowed--
A sound of footsteps outside on the verandah told him that it was
there, as usual, that breakfast was being served.
Well, he had to face them!
And Uncle Bond, if he was there, if he was equal to breakfasting in
public for once, might have news--
The King stepped out of the bedroom, through the open window doors, on
to the verandah.
The breakfast table had been placed at the far end of the verandah.
Uncle Bond was there.
Judith was there.
The Imps were there.
And so was--the Duke.
A momentary silence followed the King's appearance on the verandah.
Then the Imps ran forward to greet him.
"We are all to have breakfast together, Uncle Alfred," Button
announced.
"And we've been waiting for you--for ever so long," Bill complained.
The King caught them up, in turn, and shook them, in mid-air, as was
his wont.
"We all like your friend very much," Bill whispered. "He's been here a
long, long time--quite twenty minutes!"
"He came in a big car, bigger than Uncle's," Button supplemented.
The King looked at his "friend"--the Duke.
With his broad shoulders, and great height, the Duke dominated the
little group, at the breakfast table, as he dominated every group,
wherever he stood. He was still wearing the rather shabby black office
suit which he had been wearing the day before. Whatever his experience
had been, within the last twenty-four hours, it had not changed him.
The formidable, massive features, under their crown of silver hair, the
luminous, piercing, blue eyes, showed no sign of weariness, no hint
even of anxiety. The force, the vigour, the look, of the wonderful
old man were all unimpaired. He was still, as he had always been, the
strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose.
A sudden, irresistible thrill of relief ran through the King.
From that moment, he knew, for certain, that the Duke had brought good
news; that the Duke had "cut the rope"--
The lightning conductor had not failed.
This man could not fail.
There was an awkward little silence, as the King approached the
breakfast table.
It was not that the Duke was at a loss. The Duke could never be at
a loss. The King recognized that. Nor was it that Uncle Bond was
embarrassed. The King was conscious that the little man was watching
him with shining, mischievous eyes. Rather it was that the Duke, and
Uncle Bond, deferred to him, in this silence, tacitly recognizing that
it was for him to indicate how he wished to be met, whether as their
friend, or as--the King.
Oddly enough, it was Judith who settled the question.
Slipping into her place behind the coffee pot she turned to the King
with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.
"You have had a good night? You slept?" she said. "The Imps were very
anxious to wake you as usual. But I thought you would like to sleep on
this morning. No, Bill. This is Uncle Alfred's coffee. That is right,
Button. That is Uncle Alfred's chair."
It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat down in his usual place at
the breakfast table, with his back to the house, facing the garden.
His friend, the Duke, sat down opposite to him.
The Imps scrambled up on to their chairs, on Judith's right and left.
Uncle Bond presided at the head of the table.
The meal began.
It was a strange meal, the strangest of the many strange meals which
the King had known. The two parts which he had kept distinct for so
long seemed now, somehow, suddenly to blend, to mingle, without any
difficulty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And yet, he was--the
King--
With the Imps at the table, there was no lack of conversation.
Once they had finished their porridge, the Imps were free to talk.
They talked. To each other. To themselves. To anybody. To nobody in
particular.
A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a wholly invisible small boy
called John, who had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grabbing his
food, seemed to appeal, in particular, to the Duke, who entered into
the play, with an imaginative readiness which the King had somehow
never suspected.
The birds called cheerily from the garden. The whir of the haycutting
machines was audible once again; but they were not so near the house,
as on the previous day. Clearly the harvest was being gathered in the
more distant fields. The sunshine lay pure gold everywhere--
The King found himself noticing these things, and registering them in
his mind, as if this was to be the last time that he was to sit there,
in Paradise, enjoying them.
The last time?
It might be--
At last the meal ended.
First of all, Judith rose to her feet, and drove the Imps, armed with
lumps of sugar, before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to
Diana's foal in the paddock.
Then, a minute or two later, Uncle Bond slipped away, unostentatiously,
into the house.
The King, and his friend, the Duke, were thus left alone, at the table,
facing each other.
A sudden, odd desire to postpone what was coming, whatever was coming,
beset the King. Producing his tobacco pouch and pipe, he filled his
pipe leisurely.
The Duke betrayed no sign of impatience. A certain large patience,
it occurred to the King, was, perhaps, the Duke's most pronounced
characteristic.
The King lit his pipe.
Then he looked at the Duke.
The Duke smiled.
"Your little holiday is over. Your short leave of absence is at an end,
sir," he said. "I told you, you may remember, sir, that it would only
be a short leave of absence."
"You have come--for me?" the King asked.
"Yes."
"I am ready to go with you--back to duty," the King said slowly. "There
is nothing, I think, to keep me here."
Then he stood up, abruptly.
"But we can't talk here," he exclaimed. "Shall we walk?"
The Duke stood up in turn.
Together, they stepped down from the verandah.
The King led the way on to the lawn.
At the moment, his desire for movement was paramount.
They crossed to the far end of the lawn, and turned, in silence. Then
the King took the Duke's arm.
"I am ready to hear what you have to say," he said.
The Duke shortened his long stride, and fell into step with the King.
"I am here to ask you to return to the palace, sir," he said. "The
crisis is over. The strike has failed. The success of the protective
measures which we judged necessary has been overwhelming. Within an
hour of the declaration of Martial Law and the operation of the 'Gamma'
scheme, all the revolutionary leaders of the strike conspiracy were in
custody. They are now at sea, on board the _Iron Duke_. I could not
resist that little pleasantry. The _Iron Duke_ sailed under sealed
orders--for Bermuda, sir. The strike leaders will be interned there.
"The police have carried out their orders throughout with a skill, and
a discretion, worthy of the highest praise. The military have been
welcomed, with open arms everywhere. So far as we are aware, up to the
present, law and order have been maintained with hardly a casualty.
It has, in fact, been not so much a battle of the police and of the
military, as of propaganda, sir. Our control of communications has been
the foundation of our success. From the first, by a series of official
bulletins, we have been able to put the facts of the situation before
the whole nation, with a minimum of delay.
"There can no longer be any doubt, sir, that we were correct in our
assumption that the great majority of trades unionists, up and down
the country, had been deceived into the belief that the strike had
been called for purely industrial reasons. Once we had succeeded in
convincing them, by our bulletins, that they had been betrayed into
the hands of a little group of foreign, revolutionary extremists, the
strike was doomed. The anger of the deceived trades unionists has,
ironically enough, been one of our few embarrassments. In many parts
of the country, the military have had to protect the local trades
union leaders, many of whom appear to have been as grossly deceived as
anybody else, from the loyal fury of their followers.
"Mark that word loyal, sir! A great outburst of loyalty to you
personally, sir, has been the outcome of the crisis. That you should
have been subjected to such a crisis, before you had been given any
opportunity to show your worth, has outraged the whole nation's sense
of fair play. From all sections of the community, both here at home,
and in the Dominions, messages of the most fervent loyalty have been
pouring into Downing Street, during the last twenty-four hours. At the
moment, you are the most popular man in the Empire, sir. The fact that,
as soon as I had assured you that law and order would be maintained,
you left the palace, and withdrew at once into the country, rather
than take any part in the conflict, has greatly strengthened your hold
on the people, sir. You left the palace, and withdrew to an unknown
address, in the country, yesterday, sir, until the will of the people
should be made known. You will return to the palace, today, sir, on the
crest of a wave of enthusiasm, unparalleled, I think, in our history."
"You want me to return to the palace, with you, at once?" the King
asked.
"I have no wish to hurry you, sir," the Duke replied. "But the sooner
you return to the palace, and the Royal Standard is run up again on
the palace flagstaff, the sooner will the existing state of a national
emergency be at an end."
"I will come with you at once," the King said. "But first of all--I
must take leave of my friends."
His eyes were fixed, as he spoke, on Judith, who had just reappeared,
alone, on the verandah.
The Duke followed the King's glance. Then he fell back, two or three
paces, and bowed with the hint of formality by which he was in the
habit of suggesting, so subtly, and yet so unmistakably, that he was
dealing with--the King.
The King moved straight across the lawn to Judith.
Judith stepped down from the verandah, and came slowly forward towards
him.
They met on the edge of the lawn.
"I am going back to town, at once, with the Duke," the King announced.
"The Duke has come to fetch me. The crisis is over. The strike has
failed. But you know that, of course--"
He paused there, for a moment, suddenly conscious of the utter
ineptitude of what he was saying--
And then words came to him, fitting words, words to which, up to then,
he had given no thought, but in which all his feelings for, all his
thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, seemed, suddenly, to
crystallize, and find inevitable expression--
"If thanks were necessary between us, I would thank you for all that
you have done for me," he said. "But thanks are not necessary between
us, are they? Where there is--friendship--there is no need for thanks.
You said, yesterday, that you knew that there could be no change in
our friendship, and that you were content that it should be so. You
were right, of course. You are always right. You said what you did
to reassure me, to relieve my anxiety, to remove the uncertainty
about--our position--which was troubling me, although I was hardly
aware that that was my trouble. What you said did reassure me. It did
relieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say something, as plainly as I
can, to you. It seems to me that what I have to say is--due to you--
"If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our friendship, I should stay
here, now, with you. I should stay with you always. I should ask you
to join your life to mine. I should ask you to make--Paradise--for
me, wherever we were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you would
say--yes--gladly--
"But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I am--the King. Alfred, the
sailor is--dead. Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I--the
King--am going--back to duty. I am going back to try to take hold of my
job--in a new way. I am going back, to try to think--first of England,
and never of myself. I am trying to do that now--
"But, before I go, I want to make you a promise. I want to--pledge
myself--to you, as far as I can. It will give me--a certain
satisfaction--to bind myself to you, as far as I can.
"I will never marry--"
Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while he spoke. Her beautiful
vivid face was pale for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as if
with painful thought. But she met his glance without flinching, and her
voice, when she spoke, was firm, if low.
"I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred," she said. "But I am glad,
and proud, that you have said what you have. It was--like you, to say
it. It is--an acknowledgment--that I shall never forget, as long as I
live--
"I will give you--a pledge--in return. Whatever happens, you will
always be welcome here. Whatever happens, you will always find the same
welcome here. You will never find--any changes here. I don't think
Alfred, the sailor, is dead. I don't think he will ever die--as long
as you live! For us, here, at any rate, you will always be--our friend
Alfred!"
Once again, the King was conscious that Judith understood him better
than he understood himself. Once again--was it for the last time?--it
seemed to him that she had explained him to himself. What did all his
talk amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, of the claim, that
Judith had established upon him--that was all.
That was all--he could offer to her. That was all--she could accept--
As unaccountably, and as suddenly then as they had come to him, before,
words failed him.
Abruptly, he turned from Judith, and hurried away from her, round the
side of the house--
On the verandah, beside the front door, the Duke and Uncle Bond were
standing together deep in talk. Uncle Bond was holding the King's coat,
and cap.
As the King approached, the Duke shook hands very cordially with Uncle
Bond, and then stepped down from the verandah, and crossed to a large
closed motor car, which was drawn up in the drive near by, with the
uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly to attention at its open door.
For a moment, the King thought of passing Uncle Bond without speaking.
But that, of course, was impossible. And yet--what could he say?
He need not have troubled himself.
Uncle Bond might distrust, but he never had any difficulty in finding
words.
The little man handed the King his coat, and his cap.
Then he spoke.
"This," he said, with a sweeping gesture which seemed to include the
sunlit garden, the wooded landscape beyond, the house, and even Judith
and himself, "has all been a dream, my boy. But it is now high time
that you should awake out of sleep. Your real life is beginning now."
The King wrung the little man's hand in silence, and then followed the
Duke to the waiting car.
The Duke was already seated inside the car.
The King got into the car, and sat down beside him.
The uniformed chauffeur, whose keen, clean-shaven face was motionless,
impassive, a mask, shut the door, and hurried round to the front of
the car, and started the engine.
A moment later, the car leapt forward and swept down the drive out
into, and up, the narrow, tree-shadowed lane beyond.