Front matter (continued 2)

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.

CHAPTER VII

n the outer suburbs, milkmen, postmen, and boys delivering newspapers, were moving from door to door, in the quiet streets of villas. The tramcars, and later the buses, which the car caught up, and passed, were crowded with workmen, being carried at "Workmen's Fares." The shop fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early morning sunlight, with their Coronation flags and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a thin trickle of men and women in the streets, moving in the direction of the railway stations, gave promise already of the impending rush of the business crowd. Coronation Day had come, and gone. The public holiday was over. Now there was work toward.

At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by which broad thoroughfare he approached, as he had escaped from, the town, the King deliberately varied the route which he had followed the night before. Heading the car straight on down Charing Cross Road, through Trafalgar Square, and so into Whitehall, he turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It was by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria Station, that he ultimately approached the palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor Place. He did this to avoid the neighbourhood of the parks, and possible recognition by early morning riders, on their way to and from Rotten Row.

Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, deserted. In the secluded, shut-in mews, behind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. In a very few minutes, the King had successfully garaged the car. Then he slipped hurriedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road was happily still empty, and he reached the small, green, wooden door in the palace garden wall, without encountering anything more formidable than a stray black cat. A black cat which shared his taste for night walking. A purring black cat, which rubbed its head against his legs. A black cat for luck!

Unlocking, and opening, the door, the King slipped into the palace garden.

The door swung to behind him.

All need for anxiety, for haste, and for precaution was now at an end.

It was only just eight o'clock.

Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the King reached the palace without meeting any one, on the way. Sometimes, on these occasions, he ran into gardeners, early at work, a policeman, patrolling the walks, or some member of the household staff; but such encounters never caused him any anxiety. Why should not the King take a stroll in the garden, before breakfast? Had he not been known to dive into the garden lake for an early morning swim, and had not the fact been duly recorded in all the newspapers?

He entered the palace by the door through which he had escaped the night before, and so, mounting the private staircase, which led up to his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing room, unchallenged.

The creation of a certain amount of necessary disorder in his bedroom, and a partial undressing, were the work of only a few minutes.

Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the palace servants would be, already anxiously listening.

It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day.

"Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered. "See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath ready, and lay out the clothes."

Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey, lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast.

The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life, traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal.

A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark, and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King. He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman. She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.

What would the future bring to this fresh, unspoilt, sister of his? "A woman, a woman with a heart, at the head of the procession." Another of Uncle Bond's phrases! What an insight the little man had into the possibilities of positions, and situations, which he could only have known in imagination, in the imagination which he wasted on the construction of his grotesquely improbable tales! He must do what he could for this fresh, unspoilt sister of his. That would be little enough in all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to her, and thank her for her letter. That was an attention which would please her.

Producing a small, morocco bound, memorandum tablet, which he always carried about with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King made a note to remind him to write to the Princess, in one of the intervals of his busy official day.

"Write to Betty."

Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and bacon, and coffee. He did not notice that they were cold. This letter of his sister's had turned his thoughts to—the Family!

He was the Head of the Family now. Somehow, he had hardly realized the fact before. In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it would be absolutely necessary for him, to try to get to know something about the various members of the Family. His early distaste for Court life, his absorption in his own chosen profession, his frequent absences at sea, had made him, of course, little better than a stranger to the rest of the Family. And, if they knew little or nothing about him, he knew less than nothing about them. The Prince had been the only member of the Family with whom he had had any real intimacy, since the far off nursery days they had all shared together, the only link between him and the others. And now the Prince was dead.

This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would probably be worth knowing. Any girl, who recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. And there was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, and was likely to remain, Heir Apparent. And William? William had looked a very bright, and engaging youngster, in his naval cadet's uniform, the day before. The others? The others did not matter. But Lancaster, and William, and Betty, he must get to know. And now, at the outset of their new relationship, he had a favourable opportunity to take steps in the matter, which would not recur. He could let them know that he was their brother, as well as—the King! No doubt, they had their problems, and difficulties, just as he had his. He would do what he could, to make life easy for them. After all, it was quite enough that one member of the Family, at a time, should be condemned to the intolerable isolation, and the dreary, treadmill round of the palace.

Might he not usefully begin, at once, with Lancaster? He could send a message to Lancaster, asking him to join him, at his informal lunch, at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had always seemed, to him, a dull, rather heavy, conventional, commonplace person; but there might be something human in him, after all. Perhaps, at an informal intimate encounter, he might be able to establish some contact with him, and get him to talk a little about himself. That would be interesting, and useful. Yes. Lancaster should provide his first experiment in Family research.

Picking up his memorandum tablet again, from where he had dropped it on the breakfast table, the King made another note, to remind him to send the necessary message to Lancaster during the morning.

"Send message to Lancaster."

The fact that he was not sure whether Lancaster, or even William, would still be in town, emphasized, in his own mind, his ignorance of the Family.

At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen approached the table. One of them removed the used dishes and plates. The other placed a stand of fresh fruit in front of the King.

The King selected an apple, and proceeded to munch it like any schoolboy.

It was a good apple.

After all, life had its compensations!

And, he suddenly realized now, he was beginning to take hold of his job, at last. This decision of his to tackle the Family, to get to know them personally, was his own decision. It was an expression of his own individuality, the exercise of his own will. The thought gave him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. Perhaps, after all, there was going to be some scope, some freedom, for his own personality, in his place in the procession, more scope, more freedom than he had been inclined to think. His own shoulders, directed by his own brain, might make a difference in the jostling in the market-place. If the opportunity arose, he would put his weight into the scrimmage.

The King finished his apple, and then filled and lit his pipe.

The footmen cleared away the breakfast things.

Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the bright morning sunlight, the King leant back in his chair.

It was another wonderful summer day. Overhead the sky was a luminous, cloudless blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green of the trees, and on the more vivid green of the lawn. The garden flower beds were gay with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One or two birds whistled pleasantly from the neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling strutted about the lawn, digging for worms.

A sense of general well-being stirred in the King, a sense of well-being which surprised him, for a moment, but only for a moment. It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, with Judith. Always he returned to the palace refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of mere living. Somehow, he must see to it, that his—promotion—did not interfere with his visits to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must see to it—in the interest of the State! He smiled as the words occurred to him. In the interest of the State? What would his fellow victims of the State, of the people, the old Duke of Northborough, for example, say to that, if they knew? But the words were justified. It was to the interest of the State that he, the King, should obtain, from time to time, the refreshment, the renewed strength, the zest, the sense of general well-being, of which he was so pleasantly conscious now.

But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, he must not, he could not afford to, waste any more of these golden, summer morning moments, idling here in the garden. The avalanche of correspondence in the post bags, and the official documents, and dispatches, which had accumulated, during the last day or two, owing to the special demands on his time made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in the palace. Long hours of desk work lay before him. The thought did not displease him. He was in the mood for work. Here was something he could put his weight into. Here was an opportunity for individual action, and self-expression, an opportunity for the exercise of his own judgment, driving power, decision.

Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up abruptly.

Then, whistling gaily, an indication of cheerfulness which had grown very rare with him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re-entered the palace, on his way back to duty.

CHAPTER VIII

t was in the palace library, a large and lofty room on the ground floor, with a row of tall windows overlooking the garden, that the King spent his office hours. The library was strictly reserved for his use alone. The secretaries, who served his personal needs, were accommodated in a smaller room adjoining, which communicated with the library by folding doors. Although he was compelled to maintain, in this way, the isolation which was so little to his taste, it was characteristic of the King, in his dealings with his immediate subordinates, that he should take some pains not to appear too patently the man apart. This was the way they had taught him in the Navy. On more than one "happy ship," on which he had served, the King had learnt that, to get good work out of subordinates, it was expedient to treat them as fellow workers, and equals, as men, although graded differently in rank, for the purposes of discipline, and pay. It was in more or less mechanical application of this principle, that, still whistling gaily, he chose now, to enter the library, not directly, but through the secretaries' room adjoining.

In the airy, sunny, secretaries' room, the low murmur of talk, and the clatter of typewriters, which seem inseparable from office work, ceased abruptly. There was a general, hurried, pushing back of chairs. Then the half dozen men and women in the room rose, hastily, to their feet. They had not expected to see the King so early. After the exhausting Coronation ceremony of the day before, and the heavy demands on his strength, which the day, as a whole, had made, they had expected him to rest. And here he was, a little before his usual time, if anything, buoyant, and vigorous, and laughing goodhumouredly at their surprise and confusion, ready apparently to attack the accumulation of papers which they had waiting for him.

With a genial nod, which seemed to be directed to each man and woman present, individually, the King passed quickly through the room, into the library beyond, opening and shutting the intervening folding doors for himself, with a sailor's energy.

The secretaries, men and women alike, turned, and looked at each other, and smiled.

Although he was, of necessity, ignorant of the fact, the King had left interested, and very willing fellow workers behind him.

The library was almost too large, and too lofty a room to be comfortably habitable. Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and its row of tall windows, the eight or nine thousand volumes, which filled the wire fronted bookcases, which ran round two sides of the room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a dead and musty air. These books were for show, not for use. No one ever took them down from the shelves. No one ever read them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace librarian, himself, was more concerned with the rarities amongst them, and with his catalogue, than with their contents. But the books, musty monuments of dead men's brains, as he regarded them, were not the King's chief complaint. A number of Family portraits, which usurped the place of the bookcases, here and there, on the lofty walls, were his real grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism had grown up between him and these portraits. They always seemed to be watching him, watching him, and disapproving of him. The mere thought of them sufficed to check his good spirits, now, as he entered the library. As he sat down at his writing table, he turned, and looked round at them defiantly.

The writing table stood as close up to the row of tall windows, on the south side of the library, as was possible. The windows, with their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of the garden, were on the King's left, as he sat at the table. Straight in front of him were the undecorated, black oak panels of the folding doors which led into the secretaries' room. On his right on the north wall of the library, were many of the books, and three of the portraits.

First of all, there, in the corner by the folding doors, was a portrait of his grandfather, in the Coronation robes, and full regalia, which he himself had been compelled to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded man, with a masterful mouth, which was not hidden by his beard. A King. Further along, on the right, past several square yards of books, hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, marble mantelpiece, in the centre of the north wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field Marshal's uniform, with his breast covered with decorations; a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A King, too. Then, past more books, in the furthest corner of the room, by the door, came the portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, marvellously painted. A Queen. And a hard woman, hard with her children, and harder still with herself, where what she had held to be a matter of Family duty had been concerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet more books, on the east wall, behind him, was the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince of Wales, a more human portrait this, to see which, as he sat at the writing table, he had to swing right round in his revolving chair; the Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding breeches, and top boots, of the hunting field, which had been his favourite recreation, leaning a little forward, it seemed, and smiling out of the canvas with the smile which had won him so much, and such well deserved popularity.

All these had borne the Family burden, without complaint. All these had accepted the great responsibility of their position, without question, and even with a certain Royal pride. They had made innumerable, never ending sacrifices.

And he? An unwilling King? A half-hearted King?

No wonder they disapproved of him!

The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing table again.

An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate, he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had individuality, force of character, driving power, decision—

Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out" boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning sunlight, emptier than emptiness.

An almost bewildering array of labour saving devices, stamping, sealing, and filing machines, completed the furnishing of the table. These, the King swept, at once, contemptuously to one side. The telephone instrument, which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was the only labour saving device he ever used. A plain, and rather shabby fountain pen, and two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were the instruments with which he did his work. It was not until he had found these favourite weapons of attack, and placed them ready to his hand, on his right, that he set himself to deal with the accumulation of papers in front of him.

The letters in the "In" boxes were his first concern. These he had merely to approve, by transferring them to the "Out" boxes, ready for posting. It was a transfer which he could safely have made, which he very often did make, without reading a single letter. His personal correspondence was in the capable hands of Lord Blaine, who had served his father, as private secretary, for many years before him. But this morning, in his new determination to find an outlet for his own individuality, the King elected to read each of the letters through carefully. Lord Blaine had acquired a happy tact, in the course of his long experience, in answering the letters, from all sorts and conditions of people, which found their way into the Royal post bags, which was commonly considered beyond criticism.

None the less, now, as he read the letters, a conviction grew upon the King that not a few of the courtly old nobleman's phrases had become altogether stereotyped.

One letter, in particular, addressed to some humble old woman, in a provincial almshouse, congratulating her on her attainment of a centenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. The old woman had written a quaint, and wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of blue pencil, he added, on the spur of the moment, two or three unconventional sentences of his own, to Lord Blaine's colourless reply—

"I am writing this myself. I don't write as well as you do, do I? But I thought you might like to have my autograph as one of your hundredth birthday presents. This is how I write it—

"Alfred. R.I."

Laughing softly to himself the King tossed the letter, thus amended, into one of the "Out" boxes.

The little incident served to revive his previous good spirits.

Lord Blaine would probably disapprove.

But the old woman would be pleased!

From the correspondence boxes, he turned, in due course, to the portfolios and files on the left of the table. These contained reports, and routine summaries from the various Government departments, copies of official correspondence, one or two Government publications, and certain minor Cabinet papers, and they required more concentrated attention. He had to make himself familiar with the contents of the various documents, and this involved careful reading. An abstract, or a skilful précis, prepared by his secretaries, and attached to the papers, occasionally saved his time and labour; but even these had to be read, and the reading took time. Happily, here, as before, little or no writing, on his part, was necessary. An initial, and a date, to show that he had seen the document in question, a few words of comment, or a curt request for more information, were the only demands made on his blue pencil.

Documents, and copies of correspondence, from the Foreign and Dominion Offices, held the King's attention longest. To him these were not "duty" papers, as were so many of the others. The place names, the names of the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion statesmen, and administrators, which occurred in these papers, were familiar to him, thanks to the many ports, and countries, the many men and cities, he had seen in his varied naval service. Here and there, in these papers, a single word would shine out, at times, from the typewritten page in front of him, which conjured up, a vision, perhaps, of one of the world's most beautiful roadsteads, or a mental picture of the strong and rugged features of some man, who was a power, a living force, amongst his fellows, in the wilder places of the earth, or a vivid memory of the cool and spacious rooms of some Eastern club house where men, who lived close to the elemental facts of life, gathered to make merry, and to show unstinted hospitality to the stranger. Here he was on sure ground. Here, he knew, his comments were often of real value. He had seen the country. He had met, and talked with, the men on the spot. Frequently, his knowledge of the questions raised in these papers was quite as comprehensive, and as intimate, as that of the oldest permanent officials in Whitehall.

At the end of an hour and a half of hard and methodical work, the King became suddenly aware that he had made considerable progress in his attack on the accumulation of papers in front of him.

Leaning back in his chair he touched a bell which stood on the table beside him.

The folding doors, leading into the secretaries' room, were immediately opened, and a tall, fair, good looking young man, who was chiefly remarkable for the extreme nicety of his immaculate morning dress, entered the library, in answer to the summons.

The King indicated the now full "Out" boxes, with a gesture, which betrayed his satisfaction, and even suggested a certain boyish pride, in the visible result of his labour.

"Anything more coming in?" he enquired.

"Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Government Circulations are all unusually late this morning, sir," the tall young man replied, approaching the table, and picking up the "Out" boxes for removal to the secretaries' room.

The King was filling his pipe now. He felt that he had earned a smoke.

"Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?" he enquired, with a merry twinkle in his eyes.

He had suddenly realized that this was Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage in Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal purchaser of the car housed there.

Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, as he became conscious of the liberty into which the King had betrayed him.

"We must organize one of our little incognito excursions, in the near future, Blunt, I think," the King murmured, looking out through the tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning glory of the garden. "We will run out into the country."

At the moment, his thoughts were in Paradise. Judith and the Imps, in all probability, would be in the hayfields—

"You must be ready for a holiday, sir," Geoffrey Blunt ventured to remark. "You took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. After yesterday, we did not expect to see you, so early, this morning, sir."

"No. And that reminds me of something I wanted to say," the King replied, looking round from the windows, and speaking with a sudden, marked change of manner. "I can see by the papers which you had waiting for me, this morning, that you people have all been keeping hard at it during the last day or two. I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in the next room, that I expressed my appreciation. That is all now. Let me see today's Circulations, when they do arrive. I do not want to be faced with an accumulation of papers, like this morning's, again."

Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geoffrey Blunt bowed, and withdrew, taking the "Out" boxes with him.

The King smiled to himself as he lit his pipe.

"But who is there to praise me?" he muttered.

Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or two, he gave himself up to the luxury of the true smoker's idleness.

But had there not been something that he had meant to do, in any interval of rest, like this, which might occur during the morning?

The morocco bound memorandum tablet, which he produced from his waistcoat pocket, answered the question—

"Write to Betty."

"Send message to Lancaster."

It was too late to send any message to Lancaster now. A couple of hours was not sufficient notice to give him of an invitation to lunch. He was not intimate enough with Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner. It would be an abuse of his new position, a tactical mistake. The lunch must be arranged for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, he scribbled another—

Lancaster to lunch tomorrow. See him, personally, this afternoon, or this evening.

But he could write to Betty!

Clearing a space on the writing table, by pushing to one side the less urgent documents and papers, which he had retained for subsequent attention, he picked up his fountain pen; then, when he had found, after some search, a sheet of note paper sufficiently plain and unostentatious, to suit his taste, he began to write—

Dear Betty,

Your letter this morning gave me great pleasure. I do not know that there is very much pleasure in this business of being King—

But he got no further.

The folding doors facing him were suddenly reopened.

Then there entered, not Geoffrey Blunt, nor any other member of the secretarial staff, but—the old Duke of Northborough.

The King looked up with a surprise which at once gave place to a smile of welcome. This was contrary to all etiquette. But he was glad to see the old Duke. And it was in deference to his own repeated requests on the subject that the veteran Prime Minister had lately consented to make his visits to the palace, in working hours, as informal as possible.

Putting down his pipe, and his pen, the King stood up to receive the old statesman.

The Duke, as if to atone for the abruptness of his entry, paused for a moment on the threshold of the large and lofty room, and bowed, with a slightly accentuated formality.

The folding doors behind him were closed by unseen hands.

Then he advanced, into the room, towards the King.

CHAPTER IX

n unusually tall man, and a big man, with a breadth of chest, and a pair of shoulders, which had made him conspicuous, in every assembly, from his youth up, the Duke still held himself erect, and moved in a big way. Now, as he advanced into the large and lofty room, the thought came to the King, that here was a man for whom the room was neither too large, nor too lofty. While he himself was apt to feel lost in the library, overpowered by its size, and oppressed by the weight of its inanimate objects, the Duke moved as if in his natural and fitting surroundings. The force, the vigour, of the wonderful old man at once relegated the huge room to its proper place in the background. The effect was very much as if the library had been a stage scene, in which the scenery had predominated, until this, the moment when a great actor entered, and drew all eyes.

It was characteristic of the Duke that he should be dressed with a carelessness bordering on deliberate eccentricity. The roomy, comfortable, sombre black office suit, which he was wearing, looked undeniably shabby, and hung loosely on his giant frame. His head was large. His hair, which he wore a little longer than most men, snow-white now but still abundant, was brushed back from his broad forehead in a crescent wave. His features were massive, and strongly moulded. His nose was salient, formidable, pugnacious. His mouth was wide. His lips had even more than the usual fulness common to most public speakers. But his eyes were the dominant feature of his face. His eyebrows were still black, thick, and aggressively bushy. Underneath them, his eyes shone out, luminous and a clear blue, with the peculiar, piercing, penetrative quality, which seems to endow its possessor with the power to read the secret, unspoken, thoughts of other men.

"Enter—the Duke!" the King exclaimed, with an engagingly boyish smile, as the veteran Prime Minister approached the writing table. "The Duke could not have entered at a more opportune moment. I was just taking an 'easy.' Shall we stay here, or go out into the garden, or up on to the roof?"

"We will stay here, I think, if the decision is to rest with me, sir," the Duke replied, in his sonorous, deep, and yet attractively mellow voice. "I bring news, sir. As usual, I have come to talk!"

"Good," the King exclaimed. "Allow me—"

Placing his own revolving chair in position for the Duke, a little way back from the writing table, as he spoke, he invited him to be seated, with a gesture.

Then he perched himself on the writing table, facing the old statesman.

The Duke settled himself, deliberately, in the revolving chair, swinging it round to the right, so that he could escape the brilliant, summer sunshine, which was streaming into the room, through the row of tall windows, on his left. His side face, as it was revealed now to the King, wrinkled and lined by age as it was, had the compelling, masterful appeal, the conspicuous, uncompromising strength, of an antique Roman bust.

"I had just begun a letter to my sister, the Princess Elizabeth, when you came in," the King remarked, maintaining the boyish attitude, which he could never avoid, which, somehow, he never wished to avoid, in the Duke's presence. "It suddenly occurred to me, this morning, that I am the Head of the Family now. I am a poor substitute for my immediate predecessors, I am afraid." He looked up, as he spoke, at the portraits on the opposite side of the room. "But I have decided that I must do my best in my new command."

The Duke looked up in turn. Following the King's glance, his luminous, piercing eyes rested, for a moment or two, on the portraits.

"None of your immediate predecessors were ever called upon to play so difficult a part, as you have to play, sir," he said.

Something in the Duke's manner, a note of unexpected vehemence in his sonorous voice, arrested the King's wandering attention.

His boyishness fell from him.

"What is it?" he asked. "I remember, now, you said you brought news. Is it—bad news?"

"No. It is good news, sir. I could not bring you better news," the Duke replied. "But, I am afraid, in spite of all my warnings, you are not prepared for the announcement which I have to make."

He paused there, for a moment, and looked away from the King.

"The storm, which we have been expecting, for so long, sir," he added, slowly, dwelling on each word, "is about to break."

The King started, and winced, as if he had been struck.

"The storm?" he exclaimed.

"Is about to break, sir," the Duke repeated.

There was a long, tense pause.

Then, suddenly, the King laughed, a bitter, ironic laugh.

"I have been a fool," he exclaimed. "In my mind, the glass was 'Set Fair.' I had—forgotten—the storm! I was going to take hold of my job. I was going to put my full weight into my work. I was even going to cultivate the Family, as I was telling you—"

He checked himself abruptly.

"What is going to happen?" he asked.

The Duke drew out his watch, an old-fashioned, gold-cased, half hunter, and looked at it judicially.

"It is now nearly eleven o'clock. In an hour's time, at twelve noon precisely, a universal, lightning strike will take effect, throughout the length and breadth of the country, sir," he replied. "All the public services will cease to run. The individual workman, no matter where, or how, he is employed, as the clock strikes twelve, will lay down his tools, put on his coat, and leave his work. Such a strike is no new thing, you will say. But this is no ordinary strike, sir. Although whole sections of trades unionists, up and down the country, we have good ground to believe, have no very clear idea, why they are striking, although many of their local leaders appear to have been deceived into the belief that the strike has been called for purely industrial reasons, we have indubitable evidence that it is designed as a first step in the long delayed conspiracy to secure the political ascendency of the proletariat. A little company of revolutionary extremists have, at last, captured the labour machine, sir. It is they who are behind this strike. Behind them, I need hardly tell you, are the Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent, ready, and eager, to supply arms, ammunition, and money, if the opportunity arises, on a lavish scale.

"Although we have been expecting the storm for so long, this strike form, which it has taken, I may confess to you, sir, has come to us as something of a surprise. The strike leaders, I surmise, are relying, very largely, on that surprise effect, for their success. They imagine, they hope, no doubt, that they will find the Government, elated and thrown off their guard by the success of the Coronation, unprepared; that, in the chaos, which they believe must ensue, the whole nation will be at their mercy; that, having demonstrated their power, they will be able to dictate their own terms. What those terms would be, sir, there can be no question. Internationalism. Communism. A Republic. That persistent delusion of the fanatic, and the unpractical idealist—the Perfect State. Armed revolt was their original plan, sir. Thanks to the vigilance of our Secret Service Agents, that contingency has, I believe, been obviated. But the Red Flag is still their symbol, sir. In the absence of arms, a bloodless revolution appears now to be their final, desperate dream. They will have a rude awakening, sir. In less than twenty-four hours they will be—crushed!

"You will remember the alternative, protective schemes, for use in the event of a national emergency, which I had the honour to lay before you, for your consideration, a few weeks ago, sir? One of those schemes, the 'Gamma' scheme, is already in force. At a full meeting of the Cabinet, held in Downing Street, this morning, sir, the immediate operation of the 'Gamma' scheme, and the declaration of Martial Law, on which it is based, were unanimously approved. The military, and the naval authorities are already making their dispositions. By this time, the Atlantic, the North Sea, and the Channel Fleets, will be concentrating. The closing of all the ports, and the blockade of the whole coast line, provided for in the scheme, will follow automatically. The military authorities, you will remember, are to take over the control of the railways, aviation centres, and telegraphic and wireless stations, and support, and reinforce, the police, as required. The Home Secretary assures me that the police can be relied upon implicitly to do their duty. The Chief of the General Staff declares that the Army, regrettably small as it is, is sufficient to meet all the demands which are likely to be made upon it. Of the Navy, there is no need for me to speak to you, sir. In the circumstances, I feel justified in assuring you, that we have the situation well in hand."

The Duke stood up. To him, the orator, the practised debater, speech always came more easily, and naturally, when he was on his feet. He turned now, and faced the King, towering head and shoulders above him, a formidable, and dominating figure. When he spoke again, there was an abrupt, compelling, personal note in his sonorous voice.

"I want you to leave the palace, sir. I want you to remove the Court, at once, into the country," he said. "Do not misunderstand me, sir. I do not believe that your person is in any danger. I do not anticipate, as I have already indicated, that we shall be called upon to meet armed revolt. In any case, Londoners are proverbially loyal. But there will be rioting, and window smashing, in places, no doubt. Something of the sort may be attempted, here, at the palace. In the circumstances, it will be as well, that you should be elsewhere.

"In urging you to leave the palace, and to remove the Court into the country, I have, too, another, and a more important motive, sir," he continued. "It is, of course, a fundamental condition, a constitutional truism, of our democratic monarchy, that the King must take no side. How far that consideration must govern the King's actions, when his own position is directly attacked, is a question which, I imagine, very few of our leading jurists would care to be called upon to decide! But I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your absolute neutrality, in the present crisis, sir. When the impending storm has spent its force, and the danger, such as it is, has subsided, there will be a considerable body of people, up and down the country, who will contend that the Government have acted precipitately, unconstitutionally, and with wholly unnecessary violence. In meeting such criticism, I wish to be able to emphasize the fact that the Government have acted throughout on their own responsibility, on my responsibility, without any reference to you at all, sir. I do not propose to advance, on your behalf, the time-honoured excuse that His Majesty accepted the advice tendered to him by his advisers. I propose to emphasize the fact that you at once removed the Court into the country, and took no part whatever in the suppression of the rebellion. In the result, your position will be maintained inviolate, but you will not share in the unpopularity, and the odium, which a demonstration of strength inevitably, and invariably, evokes. This is why I said that you have a more difficult part to play than any of your immediate predecessors were ever called upon to play, sir. Although the battle is joined, and you are so intimately concerned with its result, you will have to stand on one side, and take no part in the conflict. And you are a young man, and a high spirited young man. You will resent your neutrality.

"But I am the lightning conductor, sir! It is my duty, as I see it, and I regard it as the honour of my life, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your head unshaken. And the Crown will not only remain on your head unshaken. It will be more firmly fixed there than before. In twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most, sir, you will be more surely established on the throne than any of your immediate predecessors.

"That is why I said, at the outset, that this is good news which I have brought you, sir; that I could not bring you better news. This is good news, sir. Never have I dared to hope that the battle, which we have been expecting so long, would be joined, at a time, and on ground, so wholly favourable to the forces of law and order. I have no doubt of the adequacy, and the smooth working of the 'Gamma' scheme, in the existing crisis, sir. It will be many years, probably the whole of your reign, perhaps a generation, before the revolutionary extremists in this country recover from the overwhelming disaster towards which they are rushing at this moment."

It was then, and not until then, that the King slipped down from his perch on the writing table to his feet.

Instinctively, he turned to the row of tall windows, on his right.

He wanted light. He wanted air.

Outside, in the palace garden, the brilliant morning sunshine lay golden on the green of the grass, and on the darker green of the trees.

The whistling of a thrush, perched on a tree near the windows, seemed stridently audible.

Behind him, beside the writing table, the Duke stood, motionless, silent, expectant.

The magnetism for which the veteran Prime Minister was notorious, the magnetism which he seemed to be able to invoke at will, had not failed him, whilst he talked. For the time being, he had completely dominated the King. But now, the King's own personality reasserted itself, with all the force of a recoil.

A bitter realization of his own impotence, of his own insignificance, was the King's first personal thought.

It was to be as he had feared, as he had always known, it would be.

The battle was joined, the fight for his place in the procession was about to begin, in the market-place, and he, the man most concerned, was the one man who could not take a side.

The Duke had gone out of his way to emphasize that fact.

"I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your absolute neutrality in the present crisis, sir."

Neutrality! The most contemptible part a live man could play.

"Fight for your place in the procession, Alfred."

He was not to be allowed to fight.

The decision whether he should fight for his place, step to one side, or fall out, altogether, to the rear, had been taken out of his hands.

The desire for self-assertion, for self-expression, which he had felt, so strongly, only an hour or two previously, flamed up, hotly, anew, within the King. An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but to be a nonentity, a man of no account—

The very workman, the individual workman, who—in less than an hour now—as the clock struck twelve, would lay down his tools, put on his coat, and leave his work, was of more account than he was!

Ignorant, and deceived, as he might be, the individual workman, in striking, would be asserting himself, expressing himself.

And he?

He could not even strike!

If only he could have gone on strike!

The fantastic idea caught the King's fevered fancy. It was in tune with the bitter, wilful, rebellious mood which had swept over him. He could not resist the temptation of giving it ironic expression.

"It seems to me, if there is one man, in the whole country, who would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I am that man!" he exclaimed. "I never wanted, I never expected to have to fill—my present command. To be 'a sailor, not a Prince,' was always my idea. Do people, do these people, who are coming out on strike, and hope to run up the Red Flag, imagine that I get any pleasure, that I get anything but weariness, out of—my place in the procession? If I followed my own wishes now—I should strike, too! I should be the reddest revolutionary of them all. Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity is their war cry, isn't it? Those are the very things I want!"

The Duke smiled grimly.

"Where will you remove the Court, sir?" he asked. "To Windsor? Or to Sandringham?"

The King began to drum, impatiently, with his fingers, on the window pane.

The Duke's pointed impenetrability, his persistence, irritated him, at the moment, almost beyond his endurance.

Of course he would have to do as the Duke wished. The Duke was the lightning conductor. He would have to fall in with the Duke's suggestions. His suggestions? His orders! And yet—

Windsor? Sandringham?

Windsor and Sandringham were merely alternative cells in the same intolerable prison house!

Perhaps it was the blithe whistling of the thrush perched on the tree near the windows; perhaps it was the sunlit peace of the palace garden—whatever the cause, the King thought, suddenly, and irrelevantly, of Paradise.

And then the irrelevance of his thought disappeared.

A man was talking beside him.

It was not the Duke.

It was Uncle Bond.

"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 the 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!"

A thrill of exultation ran through the King.

Here, surely, was an opening, an opportunity, for the self-assertion, the self-expression, which he so ardently desired!

Where should he go, now that the time had come for him to step out of the procession, but into Paradise, to Judith and to Uncle Bond, to stand beside them, at their window, in the old inn, at the corner of the market-place, the old inn, on the signboard of which was written in letters of gold "Content"?

If he must seek a rural retreat, an asylum, a city of refuge, what better retreat could he have than Judith's and Uncle Bond's oasis, in Paradise, where no strangers ever came?

In this matter, at any rate, he could assert himself.

In this matter, at any rate, he would have his own way.

Swinging round from the windows, he fronted the Duke, flushed with excitement wholly defiant.

"I will leave the palace, at once, as you wish," he announced. "I have no alternative, of course. I recognize that. But I shall leave the Court behind, too! Neither Windsor, nor Sandringham, attract me. I begin to feel the need of—a holiday. I shall run out into the country. I have—friends in the country."

He laughed recklessly.

"This is my way of going on strike!"

An odd, dancing light, which almost suggested a suddenly awakened sense of humour, shone, for a moment, in the Duke's luminous, piercing eyes.

But he pursed up his lips doubtfully, "It is a private, incognito visit, that you are suggesting, I take it, sir?" he remarked. "In the present crisis, such a visit would involve—serious risks. But, I am bound to confess, that it would not be without—compensating advantages!" His grim smile returned. "No one would know where you were. And your departure from the palace, which must not be delayed, would attract little or no attention. If you left the Court behind you, as you propose, you would merely take one or two members of the household staff with you, I presume?"

"I shall take nobody with me. I shall go by myself," the King declared.

Yes. In this matter, at any rate, he would have his own way.

The Duke shot one of his keen, searching glances at the King. Then he swung round on his heel, and paced slowly down the whole length of the library.

The King watched him, fascinated, curious, exalted.

At the far end of the room, the Duke paused, turned, and retraced his steps.

His first words, as he halted, once again, beside the writing table absolutely took the King's breath away.

"I shall offer no opposition whatever to your reckless little excursion, sir," he said. "I surprise you, sir? I hoped to surprise you! But this is no time, there is no time, for—explanations. Reckless as your proposal is, the more I think about it, the more conscious I become of its many advantages. But, with your permission, sir, I will attach two conditions to your—holiday." Again he smiled grimly. "In the first place, I must know where you are going, so that I can communicate with you, at once, when the need arises. In the second place I will ask you to honour me with an undertaking that you will remain in your rural retreat, until I have communicated with you."

The King could hardly believe his own ears. That the Duke should accept, should even express a guarded approval of his rebellion—that was what his reckless proposal amounted to!—was wholly unbelievable. It could not be true!

A sudden sense of unreality, the consciousness, which had been so frequently with him, of late, here in the palace, that he was living in a dream, a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream, swept over the King.

Of all the unreal scenes in his dream, this surely, was the most unreal!

He had expected opposition, and argument. What he had wanted, he realized now, was opposition and argument—

But he had gone too far to withdraw. And he had no wish to withdraw. At any rate he would see Judith. He would see Uncle Bond. He would be—in Paradise—

Without speaking, words at the moment, were quite beyond him, the King drew up his revolving chair to the writing table, once again, and sat down. Picking up the sheet of note-paper on which he had begun to write to his sister—how long ago that seemed!—he tore off the unused half of the paper, crumpling the other half up in his hand. Then he found his pen, and wrote—

"James Bond Esq., Mymm's Manor, Mymm's Valley, Mymms, Hertfordshire."

Turning in his chair, he handed the half sheet of paper to the Duke.

"That will be my address. I shall stay there," he said.

The Duke glanced at the paper, and then folded it up neatly, and slipped it into his pocket.

"You have no time to lose, sir," he said. "It is already nearly half past eleven. Within half an hour, just before noon, all civilian traffic, in and out of London, will cease. The police, and the military will be in control in the streets. Barriers will be erected on all the roads. Only Government traffic will be allowed to pass. You have time to get away, but only just time."

The King sprang up to his feet, and darted across the room. He was, all at once, wild to get away, wild to get away from the Duke, from the palace, from himself, from this unreal, grotesque, nightmare life of his—

But, half way across the room, he paused, and swung round, and faced the Duke yet once again.

A sudden, belated twinge of compunction, a whisper of the conscience which he had all this time been defying, had impelled him to think of the Duke.

"Am I letting you down, Duke?" he exclaimed impulsively. "After—all you have done for me—I wouldn't let you down for worlds!"

A smile, in which there was no trace of grimness, lit up the old Duke's rugged, massive features.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "You are not letting me down, sir. You can enjoy your—reckless little excursion—with an easy mind. But I did not like, and I do not like, your use of that ill-omened word 'strike,' sir,—even in jest! Remembering the language of the Service, in which, like you, I had the honour to be trained, I prefer to say that you are—proceeding on short leave of absence, shall we say, sir? It will only be a short leave of absence, sir. Twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most. You will do well, I think, sir, to remember that!"

Incredible as the whole scene was, there could be no doubt about the old statesman's entire sincerity. The King's last fear, his last scruple fell from him. In his relief he laughed aloud, lightheartedly.

"Call it whatever you like, Duke," he exclaimed. "But, for me, it is—my way of going on strike!"

And with that, he turned, and darted out of the room.

Left alone, the Duke remained motionless, for a minute or two. The smile, which the King's impulsive ingenuousness had evoked, still lingered on his lips; but his piercing eyes were clouded now, and heavy with thought.

Suddenly he turned to the writing table, and, picking up the telephone instrument, took down the receiver.

The whole manner of the man changed with this decisive little action.

There was a curt, commanding, masterful ring in his sonorous voice, as he gave his directions to the operator at the palace exchange.

"The Duke of Northborough is speaking. I want Scotland Yard, and the War Office, at once, in that order. You will give me 'priority.' Shut out all other calls."

CHAPTER X

feeling of light-hearted holiday irresponsibility, such as he had not known for months, for years as it seemed to him, was with the King as he darted out of the library. He raced along the palace corridors like a schoolboy released from school. The palm and orange tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, from which ran the private staircase leading up to his own suite of rooms, was his first objective. He had intended to make a wild dash up to his rooms to secure some sort of hat, and the dust coat, in which he usually escaped from the palace. Happily, now, as he entered the lounge, his eyes were caught by a tweed cap, which he wore sometimes in the garden, which was lying on a side table, where he had tossed it, a day or two ago. Laughing triumphantly, he picked up this cap, and crammed it down on to his head. Then he darted out of the lounge, through the open glass door, into the garden.

In the garden, the air was heavy with the rich scents of the blossoming shrubs and flowers. The brilliant morning sunshine struck the King, as he hurried along the paths, with almost a tropical force. In spite of the heat, as soon as he was sure that he was securely screened by the shrubberies, he broke, once again, into a run. Lighthearted, and irresponsible, as his mood was, he was conscious of the need for haste. His running soon brought him, flushed, and panting a little, but in no real distress, to the small, green painted, wooden door, in the boundary wall, at the far end of the garden. Hurriedly producing his keys, he unlocked the door, and swung it open. A moment later, as the door, operated by its spring, closed behind him, he stood on the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.

Lower Grosvenor Place, as usual, was almost deserted. One or two chance pedestrians were moving along the pavement. Immersed in their own dreams and cares, they paid no attention whatever to the King. Higher up the sunlit street, a grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman, in tawdry Highland costume, was producing a dismal, droning wail on bagpipes, in front of one of the largest of the tall houses, in the hope, no doubt, that he would be given "hush money," and sent away, before the arrival of life's inevitable policeman.

After a quick glance up, and then down, the street, the King darted across the road, turned into the familiar cul-de-sac on the other side, and so passed into the secluded, shut-in mews at the back of the tall houses.

No one was visible in the mews, as the King unlocked, and opened, the doors of Geoffrey Blunt's garage. A minute or two sufficed for him to run out the car. Flinging on the thick, leather coat, and adjusting the goggles, which lay ready to his hand, where he had tossed them that morning, he re-locked the garage doors. Then he sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel of the car, and started the engine.

For one anxious moment, he feared that the engine was going to fail him; but, next moment, it settled sweetly to its work, and the car shot forward, out of the secluded mews, up the quiet, side street beyond, and so into Grosvenor Place.

In Grosvenor Place, the chance pedestrians who had been moving along the sunlit pavement had passed on, out of sight, still immersed, no doubt, in their own dreams and cares. The grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman, in Highland costume, had just succeeded, apparently, in extorting his "hush money." With his bagpipes tucked under his arm, he was swaggering along now, in the centre of the road, his ruddy, weatherbeaten, wrinkled face wreathed in smiles.

The car caught up, and passed the triumphant old blackmailer in a cloud of dust.

A moment later, as he approached Hyde Park Corner, the King decided to vary the route which he usually followed. With this end in view, he swung the car sharply to the right, down Constitution Hill. At this hour of the day, it occurred to him, Park Lane and Oxford Street, his usual route, would be crowded with traffic. By running down Constitution Hill, and out into, and along, the Mall he would probably secure an open road, and so save several minutes. And every minute he could save now, might be of vital importance later.

The car had a clear run down Constitution Hill. In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay in the sunlight. The stands, on either side of the road, from which the guests of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession, the day before, were, too, still in position. The Office of Works, at the moment, no doubt, had far more important, and urgent enterprises on hand, than the removal of flags, and the dismantling of stands.

Sweeping along the Mall, and under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, the car ran out into Trafalgar Square, without a check. But here, almost at once, the King had to pull up abruptly. The policeman, on point duty, at the top of Whitehall, had his arm held out against all eastbound traffic. Irritated by, and chafing under, the delay, the King was compelled to apply his brakes, and run the car into position, in the long queue of waiting vehicles, which had already gathered behind the policeman's all powerful arm.

A moment later, looking up from his brakes, as the car came to a standstill, he became aware that he had pulled up immediately beneath the equestrian statue of Charles the First.

Here was an odd, an amusing—a superstitious man might even have said an ominous—coincidence.

Had not the storm which was about to break, broken before, long ago, in this man's reign?

And had not this man been engulfed by the storm?

The King looked up at the statue with a sudden flash of quickened, sober interest.

Had not this man, alone, amongst all his predecessors been compelled to drain the poisonous cup of revolution to the very dregs?

There had been no lightning conductor, no Duke of Northborough, no strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose, ready, and eager, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, in this man's day.

But there had been. The Earl of Strafford. And Charles—Charles the Martyr, did not some people still call him?—had torn his lightning conductor down with his own hands. He had failed Strafford. He had abandoned him to his enemies. With his own hand, he had signed Strafford's, and so, in a sense, his own, death warrant.

And he, himself—if this was an omen?

He had not failed the Duke anyway. The Duke had assured him that he was not letting him down. If he believed, for a moment, that he was failing the Duke, he would turn round, even now, and go straight back to the palace.

But the Duke needed no man's support.

There, at any rate, this man, fixed there, high above him, on horseback, in imperishable bronze, against the clear blue of the summer sky, had been more fortunate than he was. This man had never known the bitterness of neutrality, of personal impotence, of personal insignificance. This man had had a part to play, and he had played it, not unhandsomely, at the last, they said. There was a jingle of some sort about it—

"He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene."

Nothing common or mean? Not at the last, perhaps. But, before the last, in his failure of Strafford?

Still, limited, narrow, and bigoted, as he was, this man had lived, and died, for the faith that was in him.

It had never occurred to him that he could go on strike.

He had stood for, he had fought for, he had died for—the Divine Right of Kings!

The Divine Right of Kings?

How grotesquely absurd the phrase sounded now!

But was it any more grotesquely absurd than the opposition, the counter-phrases, in praise of democracy, of the mob?

The voice of the people is the voice of God.

The same grotesque bigotry, the same fanatical intolerance, spoke there.

Happily people were growing chary of using such phrases. They had been too often used as a cloak to hide personal prejudices and passions, to be trusted much longer.

Still, perhaps, the band was playing—somewhere—

At that moment, the King suddenly realized that the driver of the taxi-cab, immediately behind him, in the queue of waiting traffic, was performing a strident obligato on his motor horn, which indicated, unmistakably, the violence of despair. Looking down with a start, he became aware, that unnoticed by him in his reverie, the block in the traffic had cleared, that the road lay open before him, and that he was holding up the long line of vehicles behind him, by his absence of mind, and consequent delay.

The policeman on point duty smiled at him, reproachfully, as he succeeded, at last, in catching his eye, and then waved him forward.

Flushing with momentary annoyance, at the absurdity of his position, the King hastily let out the car once again.

The car leapt forward, swept round the square, and so passed into, and up, Charing Cross Road, into Tottenham Court Road beyond—

The car was heading due north now, due north for Paradise—

The King's thoughts turned naturally and inevitably to Judith, and to Uncle Bond.

A difficult, and delicate problem, at once faced him.

What was he to say to Judith, and to Uncle Bond? How was he to explain to them his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate, return to their quiet haven?

But that, he suddenly realized, with a shock, only touched the fringe of his problem!

Sooner or later, even in their peaceful retreat, Judith and Uncle Bond would hear that the storm had broken. They would hear that Martial Law had been proclaimed. Knowing that, they would know, Judith with her knowledge of the Navy would know, that his place, as a sailor, was with his ship. And that was not all. Had he not given their address to the Duke? The Duke would be communicating with him—

His real identity would be revealed to Judith, and to Uncle Bond, at last!

His incognito would no longer serve him!

Somehow, it had never occurred to him, at the time, what his giving of their address to the Duke involved. Not only would his real identity be revealed at last. His intimacy with Judith, and Uncle Bond would be no longer a secret. The Duke had Uncle Bond's address. The Duke would soon know all that there was to be known about Uncle Bond—about Judith—

Yes. He would have to tell Judith, and Uncle Bond, who he was, at once, before they learnt who he was, from other lips than his.

Without knowing it, he had burnt his boats; unwittingly, he had forced his own hand.

Would Judith and Uncle Bond believe him? Would they resent his deception? Would the shadow thrown by his Royal rank mar the delightful spontaneity of their intercourse, as he had always feared it would? It could not be helped now, if it did! But, it seemed to him, that it need not, that it should not. The unwavering friendship, of which Uncle Bond had assured him, only that morning, would surely bear the strain? He would take Uncle Bond at his word.

"I have stepped out of my place in the procession, and come to join you at your window, here in the quiet old inn of 'Content.' I want to forget the fight in the market-place. Help me to forget it! Let us forget the past, avoid looking at the future—what the future will bring who can say?—and live, for the time being, in the present."

Uncle Bond, and Judith—their astonishment at his real identity once over, and their astonishment would be amusing!—would not refuse such an appeal.

After all, had it not always been their way, in Paradise, to live in the present?

Judith and he, at any rate, had always lived in the present.

Judith! What would she think? What would she say? She would understand his hesitation, his backwardness, his—apparent halfheartedness—now! She would be generous. Judith? Judith would not fail him—

By this time, the car was running through one of the more popular shopping districts in the inner suburbs. The shops on either side of the sunlit road, were still gaily decorated. The pavements were crowded. In the road, there was a good deal of traffic about, and the King had to drive, for the time being, more circumspectly. The stalls of an open air market provided an exasperating obstruction. Ultimately he had to pull up, and wait for an opening. This necessity served to recall him completely to his immediate surroundings. It was then, while he waited, chafing with impatience at the delay, that he first became aware that the police were abroad in unusual numbers.

Impassive, and motionless, the police stood, in little groups, here and there, in the crowd. The distance between one group, and the next group, of the burly, blue uniformed men seemed to have been carefully regulated.

A sudden thrill of fear, which was not far removed from panic, ran through the King.

Were the police concentrating already in accordance with their secret orders?

It looked very much like it.

He glanced hastily at his watch.

It was nearly a quarter to twelve.

Where were the barriers, of which the old Duke had spoken, likely to be?

Here, or, perhaps, even further out, on the outskirts of the town, almost certainly.

And he had still to make good his escape!

Hitherto he had never doubted that he would make good his escape. Now, with the police already concentrating, and taking up their position in the streets, he could be no longer sure that he would get away, in time.

Fortunately, at that moment, the road, at last, cleared. The King hastily let out the car once again. Then he opened out the engine, recklessly, to its fullest extent. This was no time for careful driving. The powerfully engined car did not fail him at his need. Sweeping clear of the traffic immediately in front, it was soon rushing along the level surface of the tramway track which led on, out into the outer suburbs.

In the outer suburbs, the traffic was lighter, and the police were much less in evidence. But a convoy of motor lorries, which he rushed past, in which he caught a glimpse of soldiers in khaki service dress, added fuel sufficient to the already flaming fire of the King's anxiety. At any moment, it seemed to him now, he might be called upon to halt, and compelled to return, if he was allowed to return, ignominiously, to the palace.

But the barrier, drawn right across the road, with its little groups of attendant police, and military, which he could see, so vividly, in his imagination, did not materialize. The throbbing car rushed on, through the outer suburbs, on past the last clusters of decorous, red-tiled villas, on through the area of market gardens, where the town first meets, and mingles with the country, on the north side of London, and so out, at last, on to the Great North Road, unchecked, and unchallenged.

The broad high road stretched ahead, empty and deserted, in the brilliant noon sunshine, as far as eye could see.

The car leapt at the road like a live thing—

At last, the familiar, white-painted signpost, the Paradise-Hades post, flashed into view on the left of the road.

It was then, and not until then, that the King slowed down the car.

A great wave of relief, which told him how tense his anxiety had been, swept over him.

He looked at his watch.

It was some minutes past noon now.

Already, behind him, in the town, the storm had broken. Already the blow had fallen.

But this was Paradise.

He had escaped.

He was safe.

He was free.

All about him lay the sunlit, peaceful countryside. The hedges, on either side of the broad, winding road, were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Beyond the hedges, stretched the open fields, a vivid, but restful, green in the bright noon light, broken, here and there, by clumps of tall trees, and rising, in a gradual, gracious curve to thickly wooded heights on the skyline.

A few cattle lay, motionless, on the grass, in the shade of the trees.

A young foal, startled by the passing of the car, scrambled up on to his long legs, and fled, across the fields, followed, more sedately, by his heavy, clumsy, patient mother.

One or two rabbits scuttled into the hedge, with a flash of their white bob-tails.

High up, clear cut against the cloudless blue of the sky, a kestrel hovered.

Yes. This was Paradise, unchanged, unchanging—

Soon the familiar turning into the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the left of the road came into view. Swinging into the lane, the King slowed down the car yet once again, partly from habit, and partly because of his enjoyment of the summer beauty all about him.

He had plenty of time now.

He laughed recklessly at the thought.

He had all the time there was!

Was he not—on strike—taking a holiday?

At the house, at the bottom of the lane, the carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open.

The King drove straight up the drive, where the rhododendron bushes, and the laburnum trees were ablaze with colour, and, round the side of the house, into the garage.

No one was visible in the garden, about the house, or in the outbuildings beyond.

In the silence which followed his shutting off of the engine of the car, he heard the whir of haycutting machines.

They were haymaking, of course.

Judith herself, who, far more than Uncle Bond, was really responsible for the management of the Home Farm, would be at work in the fields, holding her own with the best of them, in spite of the clamorous demands of the Imps for play.

If Judith, and the Imps had been in the house, they would have run out to welcome him by now.

Flinging off his leather coat, his cap, and his goggles, the King tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he sauntered round the side of the house, to the front door.

All the doors, and windows in the house stood wide open.

No one appeared to receive him.

For a moment or two the King lingered, irresolutely, on the verandah beside the front door.

What should he do? In all probability, the whole household were at work in the hayfields. Should he go and find them there? No. Judith would be astonished to see him. She might betray her astonishment. In the circumstances it would be as well that his meeting with Judith should have as few eye-witnesses as possible.

But Uncle Bond would be in. Had he not declared that "Cynthia" would be good for five or six thousand words that day? The little man would be upstairs, hard at work, in his big, many-windowed writing room. Dare he break in upon Uncle Bond's jealously guarded literary seclusion? It was a thing which he had never ventured to do. It was a thing which Judith herself rarely cared to do. But, after all, this was an exceptional day, if ever there was an exceptional day! Now that he came to think about it, it would be a good thing if he could see Uncle Bond, in his capacity of "heavy father," before he saw Judith. Strictly speaking was it not to Uncle Bond, as his host, that his announcement of his real identity, and his explanations, and his apologies were first due?

With a sudden flash of determination, in which a semi-humorous, boyish desire to face the music, and get it over, played a large part, the King entered the house.

CHAPTER XI

ithin the sunny, airy house there was absolute silence, and perfect stillness. The King crossed the broad, square hall, a pleasant retreat, with its gaily coloured chintz covered chairs, and ottoman, its piano, its bookcases, and its big blue bowls, full of roses, and passed straight up the glistening white staircase, which led to Uncle Bond's quarters on the upper floor. At the head of the staircase, he turned to his left, down a short corridor, in which stood the door of Uncle Bond's writing room. On reaching the door, he paused, for a moment or two, very much as a swimmer pauses, on the high diving board, before he plunges into the deep end of the swimming bath. Then, smiling a little at his own nervous tremors, he knocked at the door, and, opening it without waiting for any reply, entered the room.

The writing room in which Uncle Bond spent his working hours extended along the whole breadth of the house. One side of the room, the side directly opposite to the door, was almost entirely made up of windows, which commanded an uninterrupted view of the garden, and beyond the garden, of a superb sweep of the surrounding, thickly wooded, park-like country. The three other sides of the room were covered with a plain, grey paper, and were bare of all ornament. No pictures, no bookcases, and no pieces of bric-à-brac were displayed in the room. This complete absence of decoration gave a conspicuous, and most unusual, suggestion of emptiness to the whole interior. None the less, with many of the windows wide open, and with the brilliant, summer sunshine streaming in through them, the room had a charm, as well as a character of its own. Above all else, it was a man's room. There was space in which to move about. There was light. And there was air.

Uncle Bond was seated, at the moment the King entered, at a large writing table, which stood in the centre of the room, with his back to the door, busy writing.

The King closed the door quietly behind him, and then halted, just inside the room, and waited, as he had seen Judith do in similar circumstances.

Uncle Bond did not look round but went on writing.

Clearly a sentence, or a paragraph, had to be finished.

Uncle Bond's writing table was bare and empty like the room in which it stood. The blotting pad on which the little man was writing, a neat pile of completed manuscript on his left, and a packet, from which he drew a fresh supply of paper as he required it, which lay on his right, were the only objects visible on the table. No paraphernalia of pen and ink was in evidence. Uncle Bond worked in pencil. No inkstand, or pen, invented by the wit of man, could satisfy him.

A small table, in the far corner of the room, on the right, on which stood a typewriter, an instrument of torture which the little man loathed, and rarely used, a large sofa, placed under, and parallel with, the windows, and another table, on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal, with two or three uncompromisingly straight backed chairs, completed the furnishing of the room.

This was a workshop: a workshop from which all the machinery and tools had been removed.

Uncle Bond wrote swiftly. He had a trick of stabbing at the paper in front of him, with his pencil, periodically, which puzzled the King. Ultimately it dawned upon him that this was probably merely Uncle Bond's method of dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and putting in his stops. This supposition appeared to be confirmed, presently, when, with a more energetic stab than usual which marked, no doubt, a final full stop, the little man finished writing.

Uncle Bond wore, when at work, a pair of large, tortoiseshell framed spectacles, which gave a grotesque air of gravity to his round, double chinned, clean-shaven face. He turned now in his chair, and looked at the King, for a moment, over the rims of these spectacles. Then he sprang up to his feet, snatched off his spectacles, and darted across the room to the table on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal.

"A whole chicken—cold! A salad. A sweet, indescribable, but glutinous, pink, and iced. We shall manage," the little man crowed, as he uncovered a number of dishes on the table, and peered at their contents. "My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. For the last half hour, I have been thinking about lunch, but I disliked the idea of feeding alone. I am, as you have probably already discovered, by myself in the house. Judith and the Imps are picnicking in the hay fields. The servants are all in the fields. Judith hopes to cut, and cart, the Valley fields today. 'Cynthia' and I have had the house to ourselves all morning. We have achieved wonders. I told you 'Cynthia' would function today, didn't I? She is at the top of her form. We are already level with the time-table, and she is still in play. But we shall need some more knives and forks, a plate or two, and a bottle—a bottle decidedly! A light, sparkling, golden wine. A long necked bottle with the right label. I will go downstairs, and forage. You haven't had lunch, I suppose?"