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.