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?"
The King smiled, in spite of himself.
This was not the reception that he had anticipated.
"No. I have not had lunch, Uncle Bond," he admitted.
"Good!" the little man chuckled. "You must be hungry. I am. And you look tired. You can pull the table out, and find a couple of chairs, while I am away, if you like. Glasses—and a corkscrew!"
He moved, as he spoke, towards the door.
But, by the door, he paused.
"By the way, Alfred, there is a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, which may interest you," he remarked.
Then he darted out of the room—
Mechanically, the King crossed the room to the luncheon table.
The table was most attractively arranged. No doubt Judith herself had seen to Uncle Bond's meal, before she had left the house, with the Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle Bond's favourite roses, in the centre of the table, seemed to speak of Judith's thoughtfulness, and taste. No servant would have laid the table quite like this.
Beyond pulling the table out into the room, nearer to the windows, and placing a couple of chairs in position beside it, there was really nothing that he could do in preparation for the meal, pending Uncle Bond's return with the additional knives and forks, and plates which would be necessary.
A minute or two sufficed for this readjustment of the furniture.
Then the King turned to the windows, attracted by the sunlight, and the fresh air.
How easily, and naturally things—happened—here in Paradise!
Uncle Bond had accepted his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate return, without question, or comment.
Uncle Bond, and Judith, always accepted him like that, of course.
But, today, it seemed strange!
The scene which he had visualized between Uncle Bond and himself had not opened like this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle Bond, at the outset, by his disclosure of his real identity. He had looked forward to astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in spite of his nervous tremors, with real enjoyment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond, who was to have dominated this scene. He was like an actor whose big scene had failed. Somehow he had missed his cue.
One thing was certain. His announcement, his disclosure, of his real identity must be no longer delayed. Somehow he could not bear to think of accepting Uncle Bond's joyous hospitality, of eating his salt, without first confessing his past deception, and receiving the little man's forgiveness and absolution. It was odd that his conscience should have become suddenly so sensitive in the matter. His feeling was quite irrational, of course—
But how was he to make his announcement? It was not the sort of thing that could be blurted out anyhow. He would have to lead up to it somehow.
"I am, or rather I was, until twelve noon, today—the King! Now I am—on strike—taking a holiday!"
How wildly absurd it sounded!
Such an announcement, however skilfully he led up to it, would carry no conviction with it. Uncle Bond would not, could not be expected to believe him.
Somehow, here in Paradise, he hardly believed in it himself!
The fact was his dual life, the two distinct parts which he had played for so long, had become too much for him. Hitherto, he had been able to keep the two parts, more or less distinct. Now he was trying to play both parts at once. It was a mental, it was almost a physical, impossibility.
"Alfred," "my boy," the sailor who had just been given promotion, the sailor who served the King, never had been, and never could be—the King.
He was a real man, alive, breathing, and thinking, at the moment, here, in the sunlight, by the windows.
The King whom the old Duke of Northborough addressed as "Sir," the King who lived in the palace, guarded night and day by the soldiery and the police, the King who had, at last, asserted himself recklessly, gone on strike, taken a holiday—he was a mere delusion, a dream.
But the real part, the better part, had now to be dropped.
Fate, chance, circumstances over which he had had no control, had decided that.
Yes. "Alfred," "my boy," was gasping for life, taking a last look at the green beauty of the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the windows—
The King shook himself, impatiently, and turned from the windows.
His position was trying enough, as it was, without his indulging in imaginary morbidity!
As he turned, his eyes were caught by an open book, which lay on the window sill, beside the sofa, on his right.
Had not Uncle Bond said something about a book, a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, a book that might interest him? An uncommon book that! He was no reading man, as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a copy of the little man's latest shocker—
Welcoming the distraction, the King advanced to the sofa, and picked up the book.
In the centre of the right-hand page of the open volume a couple of sentences had been heavily scored in pencil.
The King read these words—
"Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried it; and they cut the rope."
It was a moment or two before the King's brain registered the sense of the words.
He read the sentences a second time.
Then he turned, mechanically, to the title page of the book—
"The French Revolution, a History.
"by Thomas Carlyle."
Suddenly, with the open book still in his hand, the King sank down on to the sofa.
This could not be chance. This was not a coincidence. This was no accident.
Uncle Bond had called his attention to the book—a book which might interest him! It was Uncle Bond's pencil which had scored these sentences, so apposite to his own position, so heavily. Uncle Bond must have left the book, open at this page, on the window sill, deliberately.
The inference was unmistakable.
Uncle Bond knew who he was!
And that was not all.
Uncle Bond must know something, at least, about the existing crisis!
A storm of clamorous questions jostled each other in the King's brain.
How did Uncle Bond know? How long had he known? And Judith—did Judith know, too? Why had Uncle Bond chosen this particular moment, and this particular way, to reveal his knowledge? Had the little man's uncanny, unerring instinct told him that he himself was about to reveal his real identity, at last?
No. That was impossible.
Uncle Bond had marked the sentences, and placed the book on the window sill, before he himself had entered the room.
And he had had twinges of compunction, nervous tremors, about the deception which he had practised.
He laughed contemptuously at himself.
Clearly, it was he himself, and not Uncle Bond, not Judith, who had been deceived—
At that moment, Uncle Bond's returning footsteps, in the corridor, outside the room, became audible.
Uncle Bond entered the room carrying a tray which was loaded with silver, and cutlery, glasses and plates, and the longnecked bottle which he had promised. He shot a shrewd glance at the King, as he crossed the room to the luncheon table; but he set down his tray, on the table, without speaking.
For a moment, the King hesitated. Then he sprang up, impulsively, to his feet, and advanced to the table. Holding out the open book, which he had retained in his left hand, towards Uncle Bond, he tapped it with his right forefinger.
"You know who I am, Uncle Bond?" he challenged.
Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.
"I do," he acknowledged. "Get the cork out of that bottle, my boy. I've got to carve the chicken."