CHAPTER XII
CLIMAX is always a difficult business to handle," Uncle Bond continued, sitting down at the table and beginning his attack on the cold chicken. "It is easy enough to work up to. 'Cynthia' never has any trouble in getting in the necessary punch at the end of her instalments. But to carry on, after the punch, to get the next instalment going—that is a very different affair. In nine cases out of ten, that gives even 'Cynthia' herself a lot of trouble. My dear boy, put down that admirable volume—it is in your left hand!—and, I repeat myself, get the cork out of that bottle! I know you are quite unconscious of the fact, but your attitude, at the moment, is most distressingly wooden."
The King came to himself with a start.
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Bond," he stammered, blushing like a schoolboy.
Laying "The French Revolution, A History, by Thomas Carlyle," down on the table, he picked up the longnecked bottle, and got to work, hurriedly, with the corkscrew.
He was, suddenly, very glad to have something to do.
"Fortunately for us, my boy, you and I can control the development of this scheme," Uncle Bond went on, busy with the carving knife and fork. "It occurs to me, by the way, that I am destined to play the part of general utility man in our—comedy. I can see no immediate opening for the knockabout comedian. A touch of the heavy father may be possible later on. But, meanwhile, explanations are necessary. Obviously that involves the general utility man in the part of 'Chorus.' Strictly speaking, I suppose I ought to address you in blank verse. I will spare you that. One of the old dramatic conventions about the 'Chorus' it seems to me, however, is likely to suit you. 'Chorus' enters solus. You can leave the stage to me—"
At that moment, the cork in the longnecked bottle came away, unexpectedly, as is the habit of corks.
The King filled the glasses on the table with the light, sparkling, golden wine.
"Good!" Uncle Bond crowed. "Now you can sit down, and—sink out into the back-cloth. On the other hand, if you prefer to remain on the stage, a glass of wine is useful stage business."
The King sat down at the table opposite to Uncle Bond.
At the moment, bewildered and almost dazed as he was, he felt very much like a theatrical super, assisting at a stage meal.
"I am giving you a wing, Alfred. No breast!" Uncle Bond continued, proceeding to portion out the dismembered chicken. "My action is symbolical. This is between ourselves, and outside our stage play! There are not many places where they give you the wing of the chicken, are there? You will continue to be given the wing of the chicken here. You will continue to be received here, as you are received nowhere else. Our friend Alfred will find no change, in his reception here—whatever happens. You are reassured, I hope? Your worst fears are stilled? Good! Help yourself to salad. And try the wine. I can recommend it!"
The King took the plate of chicken which the little man held out to him, and helped himself to salad, mechanically. This commonplace routine of the meal served to steady him. In some measure reassured by Uncle Bond's whimsical symbolism, he was relieved to find that he could eat.
Uncle Bond helped himself from the salad bowl in turn, tried the wine, and then settled down, happily, to the meal, which he had been so unwilling to essay alone. But the play of his knife and fork, energetic as it was, did not interfere, for long, with his talk.
"And now to resume our comedy!" he chuckled, in a minute or two. "Between ourselves, my boy, I am enjoying the present situation enormously. But 'Chorus' explanations are necessary, and cannot wait. Therefore— 'Enter Chorus!'
"I have known who you were almost, if not quite, from the first, Alfred. Judith knew you first, of course. Judith recognized you at sight. My dear boy, how could you imagine that it could be otherwise? Have you ever considered the possibilities of the case?
"Judith was born in the Navy. For years she lived in the Navy. She married into the Navy. Of course, she knew 'Our Sailor Prince.' As likely as not his photograph has adorned her mantelpiece ever since the far-away days when she was a romantic schoolgirl. 'Cynthia's' romantic schoolgirls, at any rate, are always like that!
"And I myself? Am I not a member of many clubs? 'Alfred York' was hardly likely to be an impenetrable incognito with me, was it? Wherever you go, too, although you are so strangely unconscious of the fact, you carry about with you a historic face!
"But, even if Judith and I had had no special knowledge, even if we had been lacking in penetration, it seems to me that we must, infallibly, have recognized you, sooner or later. Have you not been, in recent months at least, the most bephotographed young man in Europe? I do not suggest that the picture papers are Judith's, or my, favourite reading. But we have a cook. Do you think that we could keep a cook, who can cook, here, in the country, if we did not supply her with her daily copy of the 'Looking-Glass'? Sooner or later, it seems to me, Judith or I must have taken a surreptitious peep into the kitchen copy of the 'Looking-Glass,' and so seen, and recognized, our friend Alfred in the pictured news of the day."
At this point, the turmoil within the King, surprise, bewilderment, and self-contempt, the latter predominating, became altogether too much for him. He quite forgot the necessary silence of the stage super.
"I feel a most unmitigated fool, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed.
"Exit, Chorus!" Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly. "Slow music— Enter the Hero of the Piece! You were about to say?"
"I don't know what I was going to say," the King muttered uncomfortably, with his eyes on his plate. "I know what I was going to say before you—took the wind out of my sails. I was all ready with a speech. I had two speeches ready."
"It is a pity that they should be wasted," Uncle Bond remarked. "Get them off your chest, my boy. They will probably serve more than one useful purpose. Apart from anything else, they will give me a chance to get on with my lunch. You have got rather ahead of me, I observe. Take which ever comes first. The slow music dies away—the Hero of the Piece speaks—"
The King fingered his wineglass nervously. He wanted to put himself right with Uncle Bond. He wanted to tell him that he had meant to reveal his real identity himself, that he had meant to apologize for the deception he had practised. He wanted to rehabilitate himself in his own eyes.
"I was going to tell you—who I am, myself, Uncle Bond," he began lamely. "I was going to reveal my real identity at last. I was going to apologize to you for my deception, and ask for your—absolution.
"'I am, or rather was, until twelve noon today—the King! Now I am—on strike—taking a holiday—' That was to have been my first speech!"
Uncle Bond started, and shot a surprised glance at the King.
Engrossed in his own thoughts, and still fingering his wineglass nervously, the King did not notice the little man's movement.
"I hardly expected you to believe me. I did not see how you could possibly believe me," he went on. "I counted on astonishing you—astonishing you!—and Judith. I looked forward to astonishing you." He laughed contemptuously at himself. "I thought that your astonishment would be amusing. This was to have been my scene, not yours. That is partly why—I feel such a fool!"
He was silent for a moment or two.
Uncle Bond made no comment, but plied his knife and fork vigorously.
"When you believed me, when you had recovered from your astonishment, and had forgiven my deception—I knew you—and Judith—would forgive me," the King continued, "I was going to make my second speech. You remember our talk, this morning, about the procession? That seems years ago, now, somehow, doesn't it? In my second speech, I was going to take you at your word about—the procession.
"'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!' That is what I was going to say. It seemed to me that you—and Judith—would not be able to resist an appeal like that. Here, in Paradise, we have always lived in the present, haven't we?"
Uncle Bond put down his knife and fork.
"Very pretty!" he chuckled. "I can understand your disappointment, my boy. There was good stuff in your scene. I am glad we have contrived to work in—both your speeches. They are—illuminating. More chicken? A slice of the breast—now? No. Then advance the sweet. And refill the glasses. You approve the wine? Good! Once again I resume my part of 'Chorus.'
"As 'Chorus' allow me to recall your attention to Thomas Carlyle, my boy," he went on, proceeding to serve the sweet. "I am rather proud of that little bit of stage business. 'Cynthia' herself, I flatter myself, could hardly have hit anything neater. How does the quotation run?
"'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 got you—that quotation, my boy,—didn't it? It was meant to get you. I knew your announcement, your confession, would give you trouble. Out of pure good nature—or was it malice?—I anticipated it."
"But how did you know I was going to make my confession?" the King exclaimed, suddenly remembering his previous bewilderment on the subject.
"Thank you, my boy," Uncle Bond chuckled. "I manœuvred, clumsily I fear, for that very question. There is, perhaps, something inherently clumsy in this device of the 'Chorus.' Hence, no doubt, its banishment from the modern stage. I did not know, I could not know, for certain, that you would make your confession. But your confession seemed to me to be inevitable. Or, if not inevitable, necessary. Perhaps I wished to make sure of, as well as help you to, your confession. I must warn you that I have another little surprise saved up for you, my boy. But I will hurry to the end of my explanations. I do so the more readily as I am eager to demand an explanation from you, in turn.
"Paradise, although personally I am careful to suppress the fact as much as possible, is on the telephone. Judith finds it necessary to talk to the Stores! This morning, while 'Cynthia' and I were hard at it, the telephone bell rang violently. The instrument, by the way, is in the pantry. I ignored the summons. I hoped the girl at the Exchange would soon grow weary. She persisted. In the end, 'Cynthia' retired hurt, and I descended the staircase.
"A wonderful instrument! Not the telephone. The human voice. There are voices which rivet the attention at once—even on the telephone. This was one of them—
"'Northborough is speaking. Is that you Bond? Alfred York is motoring down to see you. He is on his way now. You can put him up for twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, I suppose? If you get the opportunity, you can tell him, when he arrives, that everything is proceeding in accordance with plan.'"
"You know the Duke of Northborough?" the King gasped.
"Thanks to you, my boy, yes," Uncle Bond chuckled. "Note in passing, that I—with the assistance of Thomas Carlyle—have created an opportunity to tell you that—'everything is proceeding in accordance with plan!' But we must really finish this sweet. No more for you? Another glass of wine, then? You will find that the bottle will run to it, although those long necks are deceptive."
Mechanically, the King filled the wineglasses once again.
For a minute or two, there was silence while Uncle Bond made short work of the remnant of the sweet which the King had refused to share.
This accomplished the little man leant back in his chair.
"When Alfred York, the young and reckless sailor, whose friendship Judith and I have learnt to value so highly in recent months, first showed an unmistakable desire to establish an intimacy with us, I saw no reason why I should—discourage his visits," Uncle Bond resumed with a mischievous chuckle. "Who, and what, our friend Alfred might be elsewhere, how he might fill in his—spare time—elsewhere, it seemed to me—need be—no concern of ours. These were matters to which he never referred. Judith and I might have our own ideas on the subject, we might even have knowledge which he never suspected; but until he spoke, it seemed to me, that there was—no necessity—for us to speak. Our friend Alfred obviously valued the hospitality which we were so glad to offer him. That was enough for us.
"But things happen. The curse, and the charm, of human life in two words—things happen!
"When our friend Alfred suddenly became earmarked for—promotion—high promotion—I had to admit to myself that the situation was, at once, materially changed. So long as our friend Alfred was a person of only—minor importance—his visits to us might, it seemed to me, fairly be considered—merely his own affair, and ours. But when he became a person of—the first importance—of the first importance in greater issues than he appears, as yet, to have realized, his frequent visits here involved me—in a grave responsibility, to which I could not shut my eyes. A reckless young man, our friend Alfred. He did incredible things. He took amazing risks. I had to reconsider the whole position. I will not trouble you with an analysis of my conflicting motives. Ultimately I took action. I wrote a letter.
"It was plain James Bond who wrote that letter—just as it is plain James Bond who is speaking at this moment. Somehow, he seems to have lost sight of his part of 'Chorus'! 'Cynthia' did not contribute a single phrase to the letter. It must have been a good letter, I think. It had an immediate result. Within less than twenty-four hours it brought a very busy, and distinguished man from town down here into our quiet backwater to see us."
"The Duke?" the King exclaimed.
"The Duke," Uncle Bond acknowledged. "Let there be no mistake about my position, at the outset, my boy. I am a partisan of the Duke!
"The Duke and I had some talk, but he spent most of his time with Judith, and the Imps. Judith—liked him. The Imps—took to him. We gave him tea. When he left he was good enough to say that I had given him a pleasure extremely rare in the experience of an old man. I had introduced him to four new friends! He said other agreeable things. But the most important thing he said, perhaps, was that, with certain precautionary measures taken, which he himself would arrange, he saw no reason why—the gates of Paradise should be shut on a younger, and more fortunate visitor than himself.
"My dear boy, I have always liked your reckless audacity. I sympathize heartily with you in your distaste for police surveillance. But that you should consistently give the police the slip, and career about here, alone in your car, when the men responsible for your safety believed that you were fast asleep, in bed, in town—in the present state of the country, the risks, for you, for us, were altogether too great. Think what our position would have been if anything had happened to you! But for some time past, from the day of the Duke's visit to us, those risks have been avoided. Scotland Yard have been on their mettle. They have never lost sight of you. When I went downstairs, just before lunch, I found half a dozen plain clothes men making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. They have grown quite at home with us. And today they tell me, special precautions are being taken. A battalion of the Guards, I understand, is to put a picket line round the house. My dear boy, restrain your impatience! You will not see them. The police have strict orders never to intrude their presence upon you. The military, I have no doubt, will have similar orders. From the first, the Duke has been as anxious—as any of us—that you should continue to enjoy the full benefits of your incognito, here, in Paradise.
"And that brings me, having finished my own explanations, to the explanation which I am so eager to demand from you, in turn, my boy. How did the Duke contrive that you should come here, in the present crisis—they told me downstairs that Martial Law has been proclaimed!—without betraying the fact that he had been here himself?"
All the King's senses had been numbed by the rapid succession of surprises with which Uncle Bond had attacked him. His capacity for wonder had long since been exhausted. It seemed to him now that nothing would ever surprise him again. A feeling of utter helplessness oppressed him. It seemed to him that he was in the grip, that he had been made the plaything, of an implacable, an irresistible power. But Uncle Bond's question served to arouse a momentary flash of his old self-assertion within him. He had been deceived, he had been managed, he had been fooled to the top of his bent—but, in this matter, at any rate, he had asserted himself; in this matter, at any rate, he had had his own way.
"The Duke did not contrive that I should come here," he exclaimed. "I chose to come here. It was—my way of going on strike."
"You startled me by saying something like that before, my boy," Uncle Bond remarked. "What do you mean, precisely, by—your way of going on strike?"
"The whole trouble is a strike. The Labour people have called a universal, lightning strike from twelve noon, today," the King explained impatiently. "The Duke says a little company of revolutionary extremists are behind it all. They want to run up the Red Flag. I told the Duke that if there was one man in the whole country who was justified in striking, in leaving his work, it seemed to me, I was that man. And I said I would come here. Coming here was my way of going on strike."
Uncle Bond leant forward in his chair.
"Are you quite sure that the Duke did not contrive that you should come here, my boy?" he persisted.
A doubt was at once born in the King's mind. The Duke had offered no opposition whatever to his reckless excursion. The Duke had accepted his rebellion. The Duke had encouraged him to leave the palace—
"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, in the first place, I think. But—I daresay he was quite willing that I should come here," he muttered.
"In the circumstances, you could hardly have a quieter, a more unexpected, and so, a safer, retreat," Uncle Bond remarked.
Then he chuckled delightedly.
"My Carlyle quotation was even more apposite than I realized, my boy," he crowed. "It seems to me that you have done your best—to commit suicide! But your experience will be similar to that of Fritz the First, of Prussia. They will cut the rope. The Duke must be busy cutting the rope now—
"This strike will collapse, of course—quickly. It must have been an unexpected move; a last desperate throw by the foreign agitators who have failed to produce more serious trouble. Everybody, who is anybody, has known, for months, that there was trouble brewing. All sorts of wild rumours from the Continent have been current in the Clubs. But an attempt at armed rebellion was the common idea. It has been talked about so much that most people, I daresay, have ceased to take it too seriously. They will be surprised. But the Duke would not be surprised. Everything is proceeding in accordance with plan! Things have a way of proceeding in accordance with plan, with the Duke—
"What a story 'Cynthia' could make out of it all! 'The King Who Went on Strike!' A good title for the bookstalls! But the best stories can never be written—"
Leaning back in his chair as he spoke, the little man turned away from the luncheon table, and looked out through the open windows, on his left, at the sunlit wooded landscape, beyond the garden.
"It is strange, when you come to think of it, that you and I should be sitting here, in peace and quietness, my boy, when there is uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events are shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond our wooded skyline," he murmured. "Does it not seem strange—to you?"
Mechanically the King swung round in his chair, and looked out, through the windows, in turn—
But the wooded skyline was not destined to hold his attention for long.
Almost at once, his eyes were drawn away, to the sunlit garden below, by a charming little interlude which was enacted there.
Bareheaded, and dressed in white, suddenly, round the side of the house, came Judith, slender and tall, her beautiful vivid face rosy with the touch of the harvest sun. On her shoulder, skilfully supported in her upstretched arms, sat Bill, with his eyes closed, nodding his cherub's head, heavy with sleep. Beside her trotted Button, animated, vivacious.
Judith was smiling happily, as she crooned in a low, sweet voice some lullaby.
Button sang, too, more loudly.
In Button's clear, young voice, the words of the song became audible in the room—
"And does it not seem hard to you,
"When all the sky is clear and blue,
"And I should like so much to play,
"To have to go bed by day?"
A moment later, tightening her hold on Bill, Judith stepped up on to the verandah and, followed by Button, disappeared from view, into the house.
The King sprang up, and advanced to the windows.
In a little while Judith reappeared, alone, in the garden.
Somehow the King had known that she would reappear.
The Imps had had to go to bed by day!
Sauntering across the lawn, Judith headed for the belt of trees at the far end of the garden.
The King knew where she was going.
Beyond the trees, in the furthest corner of the garden, stood a small summer house, which commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding landscape. For the sake of this view, the summer house was a favourite retreat of Judith's.
Judith disappeared, with a final flicker of her white dress, behind the trees, at the far end of the garden.
The King turned abruptly from the windows.
He was going to Judith—
And then—he remembered Uncle Bond.
Uncle Bond had risen to his feet, and had thrown a white cloth over the luncheon table. He crossed the room now to his writing table, sat down deliberately, and picked up his pencil.
"You are going to join Judith, in the garden, my boy?" he remarked. "That is right. Judith will be surprised—and glad—to see you. I am about to revert to 'Cynthia.' I have only one thing more to say to you—now. Thomas Carlyle! Do not forget in Judith's, or in your own excitement, that they will—'cut the rope!' That is certain. You cannot afford to forget that fact, in your dealings with any of us, my boy—least of all can you afford to forget it, in your dealings with Judith."
The little man began to write.
The King opened his lips to speak; thought better of it, and closed them again; and then—hurried out of the room.