CHAPTER XIII
T was an urgent, blind necessity that was laid upon him, rather than any action of his own will, which had hurried the King out of Uncle Bond's writing room. None the less, now, as he descended the staircase in the silent house, crossed the hall, and so passed out into the bright afternoon sunshine in the garden, he was not altogether unconscious of the motives which were driving him, in this strange way, to Judith. He wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to explain things to her. And, most of all, he wanted Judith to explain—things which only she could explain—to him—
A few minutes of rapid walking led him across the lawn, in amongst the trees, at the far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, through the trees, to the little clearing beyond, in which the summer house stood. He followed this path.
The green shade of the trees was welcome after the glare of the sunlight on the lawn. A breeze rustled amongst the overhanging leaves. Hidden away, somewhere, high up amongst the tree tops, a couple of jays chattered raucously in the sultry stillness.
In a minute or two, the King caught a glimpse, through the trees, of the picturesque, crudely thatched roof of the summer house.
A moment later, he saw Judith.
Judith was sitting in a wicker work chair, at the entrance to the summer house, with her hands lying idle, for once, on her lap, gazing at the superb panorama of green fields, and wooded heights, which lay spread out before her in the sunshine.
So intent was her gaze, she did not hear the King's approach.
The King halted, abruptly, on the edge of the clearing, and watched her.
A smile flickered about Judith's lips. The play of thought across her beautiful, vivid face reminded the King of the play of light and shade across some sunny hillside. He had never seen Judith alone with her own thoughts, like this, before. A kind of awe stole over him as he watched her. And yet, he soon grew impatient, and jealous, of these thoughts of Judith's, which he could not share.
Stepping back, in under the trees, he trod, with intention, on a broken branch which lay on the paths at his feet.
The snapping of the branch served to recall Judith to her immediate surroundings.
She did not start. She turned her head, slowly; and saw him.
The rosy flush which the harvest sun had put into her cheeks deepened. Her dark, mysterious eyes lit up marvellously.
"Alfred—you!" she cried. "I was just thinking about you. And I had no idea you were so near!"
A feeling of guilt oppressed the King. The shining happiness, the radiant trust, of Judith's face smote him like a rebuke.
Slowly, he advanced across the clearing, and halted beside her chair.
What was it he wanted to say? What could he say?
Then, suddenly, words came to him.
"You know—who I am," he said.
Quite unconsciously, he used the same words which he had used with Uncle Bond; but he used them now with a difference. With Uncle Bond the words had been a challenge. To Judith, he offered them as an apology.
A shadow obscured the radiance of Judith's face; but her glance did not waver. It was as if she were meeting something for which she had long been prepared.
"I have always known," she acknowledged.
A constraint that had no parallel in his experience held the King silent for a long minute or two.
At last he forced himself to speak.
"I have been here—sometime," he began desperately. "I have been—upstairs with Uncle Bond. I have just had lunch with him in his room. Uncle Bond has explained—a good many things to me. I saw you come here from the window. I followed you at once. I had to follow you. I hardly know why. Was it because there are—things between us which only you can explain?"
He broke off there abruptly.
Judith knew nothing of all that had happened, of course. Until she knew—something of all that had happened—of what use was his talk? If only he could tell her—something of what had happened—she might be able to begin to understand the bewilderment, and turmoil, within his overwrought, fevered brain. That she should be able to understand, that she should be able to sympathize with him, had become, at the moment, his paramount need.
"Things have happened," he resumed desperately. "Things have happened that you know nothing about, I think. Queer things are happening, over there, at this moment!"
He half turned from her, as he spoke, and pointed across the sunlit landscape, at the distant, wooded horizon.
"Martial Law has been proclaimed. The Labour people are making trouble. They have called a universal strike. A few of them want to get rid of me, and run up the Red Flag. They haven't a chance, of course. The Duke is there. I know that you know the Duke! He was ready for them. He will be glad, I think, that they have given him this chance to crush them. Uncle Bond had a message from the Duke, waiting for me, when I arrived, to say that everything was—'proceeding in accordance with plan.' His plan!
"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, to be out of the way of possible trouble. I said I'd come here. I told him, that it seemed to me, that if there was one man, in the whole country, who would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I was that man. I told him that I'd go on strike too. Coming here was my way of going on strike. I thought that I was asserting myself. I thought that I was showing that I was a man. All the time I was simply playing into the Duke's hands, of course. The Duke would be quite content that I should come here, I think. He knows that I can't get into any mischief here. He has seen to that! Uncle Bond tells me that there are half a dozen plain clothes men in the kitchen. Did you know that? A battalion of the Guards is to put a picket line round the house, too. At first I—resented the Duke's arrangements. Now, somehow, I don't seem to care—
"So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I have been through so much, I don't seem to have any will, any feeling, any personality left. My own thoughts, my own words, my own actions seem to me, now—like the disjointed pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, which I shall never be able to put together again. I don't know—where I am. I don't know—where I stand. I am all at sea. The bottom seems, suddenly, to have dropped out of everything. I have been humoured, managed, controlled, all through. I can see that. Now, I am—just like a derelict ship. The rudder has gone. The charts are lost. I am being driven, this way and that, at the mercy of—everybody's will, but my own—
"Somehow, you are my only hope. Somehow, I feel that you will understand me—better than I understand myself. I suppose that that means that I love you. You know that. And I know that you love me. There can be no doubt about that, after last night. And yet, somehow, even that doesn't excite me now. It doesn't seem to mean—what I suppose it ought to mean—to me. Why doesn't it mean—more to me? I am trying to tell you the truth, so far as I can see it. I am sick of mystery. I am utterly weary of deceit. It seems to me, that—our only hope is—plain speaking—"
All this time, Judith had remained motionless, and quiescent, in her chair. She turned, now, a little towards the King. Her expression was grave, but friendly.
"I want you to sit down, Alfred," she said quietly. "Find another chair, and bring it out here. When you sit down, I will talk to you. I want to talk to you."
The King swung round into the summer house, and brought out another chair. Placing it beside Judith's, he sat down. Then he fixed his eyes upon her face.
"I am glad that you have said, what you have said, Alfred," Judith began. "I have wanted you to give me your confidence, the whole of your confidence, for so long. I have always understood, I think, why you have been silent—about so many things. But I wanted you—to trust me. Now—you have trusted me—
"I agree with you that the time has come for plain speaking. I am glad that it has come. I will speak as plainly as I can."
"First of all, you are not a derelict, Alfred. You are more like—a ship that has not found herself. You know what happens on a trial trip? The ship has not found herself. The Captain, and the crew, have got to get to know her. She ships the sea. Bolts and plates stretch and strain. Queer things happen in the engine room. And then, suddenly, all in a moment, the ship finds herself, rights herself. You will be—like that. Your trial trip has been run in a storm. You have been plunged, at the start into hurricane weather. But you will find yourself, right yourself. And, when your moment comes, you will sail the seas with any craft afloat.
"But that is—politics! And you, and I, are not really greatly interested in politics, are we? What we are really interested in is—ourselves—our own intimacy, our own relationship. When you say that you don't know where you are, where you stand, what you mean, at the back of your mind, is that you don't know where we are, and where we stand. I will tell you where I stand. If I tell you where I stand, you will be able to see—your own position. I will speak, as plainly as I can, about myself—"
Judith paused there, as if she wished to marshal her thoughts, and fit them with words.
The King kept his eyes fixed upon her face. His instinct had been right. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself. Already, he was conscious that the tumult within him was subsiding. Judith, with her clear eyes, and sure touch, would disentangle the mingled threads of their strange destiny, rearrange them, and put them straight.
"First of all, I want you to understand that I know that there can be no change in, no development, no outcome of—our friendship," Judith resumed slowly. "And I want you to know that I am—content that it should be so. My life has been full of—much that many women miss. I had Jack, my husband. I have the Imps. I have Uncle Bond. And I have—you.
"Your—friendship—has become very precious to me, Alfred. When you first came here, I liked you, I think, because you reminded me of Jack. It was the sea, and the Navy, of course. The sea, and the Navy, mark a man, don't they? They give him a certain style, and stamp. But that was only a superficial, surface resemblance, of course. I had not known you very long before I realized that you were quite unlike Jack.
"Jack was simple, a boy, a dear. He was a splendid man, physically. At sea, he could sail anything that would float. He had no idea of fear. He did his duty. He obeyed orders. He never questioned anything. Life to him was always plain and straightforward. He always saw his way, like the course of his ship, clear before him. He never had a real trouble, or doubt. He was happy, even in his death. You know how he led the destroyers into action, and sank an enemy ship, before he went down himself? I—loved him. But I loved him, as I love the Imps. When he was at home, on shore, with me, I used to feel that I had three boys to look after—
"You are different. Your mind works all the time. You doubt, you question, everything. You see all round things to which Jack would never have given a thought. Your brain is always active—too active. Life to you is always complex, puzzling. You live more, and harder, in a day, in your brain, than Jack did in a year. It was when I began to understand what was going on in the brain, behind your tired blue eyes, that I learnt—to love you. Jack had no imagination. You have—too much imagination. I loved Jack. But you—you could carry me off my feet—
"That is just what happened last night. I want you to understand about last night, Alfred. It is important that you should understand about last night, I think. A good deal of your trouble, of your bewilderment, and uncertainty, today, is because of last night, I believe. And it may—happen again.
"I have always been very careful with you—until last night. I know that I—attract you. At one time, I was afraid that that might interfere with, that it might spoil, our friendship. But, as I came to know you better, as I came to understand the hold, the control, you have over yourself, I began to realize that it was not you, but myself, that I had to fear. I was very careful. I watched myself. And then, last night, after all, I failed you—
"But you had just been Crowned! And, after your Coronation, after all that you had been through, you got away, as soon as you could, to come and see me! That in itself was—a tribute—which no woman could have resisted, I think. And you were different. Your Coronation has made a difference, Alfred. And you were wearing the King's colours. You remember that? And you talked about the King needing all his friends. And, somehow, just for the moment, I wanted you to trust me, to give me the whole of your confidence. I have always wanted your confidence. And then—I was afraid. And I took you in to the Imps for safety. And their crowns were there. And I couldn't resist playing with fire. And you picked up Button's crown. And I felt all your thought—bitter, ironic, painful thoughts. I am much more responsive to your moods than you realize, I think. And I wanted to comfort you. And I looked at you. And you saw what I felt—
"It was just as if I had said, all the things which we have always left unsaid, wasn't it? It was just as if I had shouted aloud, all the things which we have always been so careful to ignore. It—troubled you—then. It troubles you still. It will be a long time, before I shall be able to forgive myself, for what happened last night—
"I have always wanted to help you, to serve you, to make things easier for you, you see—not to add to your difficulties. But we have helped you, Uncle Bond, and I, and the Imps, haven't we! It has been good for you to come here, to us, in Paradise, for rest, and quiet, and peace, hasn't it? There is an old fairy story about a man who was haunted by his shadow, that the Imps are very fond of, that I have always connected with you, in my own mind. You are haunted by your shadow, aren't you? You are haunted by the shadow of your rank, of your position, of your responsibility. But you have always been able to forget your shadow here with us—until last night—haven't you? It has always been waiting for you, when you went away in the morning, you picked it up again in the lane, on your way back to town, I know. But, while you were here, you never saw your shadow, until last night, did you?"
"It has always been just like that," the King murmured. "With you, I have always been able to live, in the present moment—"
"It always shall be just like that," Judith declared.
Then she stood up abruptly.
"But I am not going to talk any more now," she said. "I must go in. The Imps will be awake by now. But I shan't bring them out here. I want you to rest. I promised the Duke, that I would see that you got as much rest as possible, whenever you came here. I—like the Duke. He—cares more for you—than you realize, Alfred, I think. You will try to rest now, won't you? How much sleep have you had in the last twenty-four hours? Three hours, last night? You are too reckless. I am not surprised the King's physician is turning grey. The Duke told me that. You can't stay up on the bridge indefinitely. You will find that you will be able to sleep now—after all my plain speaking! Are you comfortable in that chair? Let me give you this cushion—"
She lingered beside him, seeking to make him comfortable, as a woman will.
"I treat you, just as if you were one of my boys, don't I?" she said. "I know you like it. But I do it—in self-defence."
The King submitted, passively, to her ministrations.
Then he caught her hand, and raised it to his lips.
His action, like so many of his actions, was quite impulsive. But he did not regret it.
In what other way could he have expressed so well, his admiration, his gratitude, his renewed trust?
Judith blushed charmingly.
Then, suddenly, she leant down over him, and kissed him, lightly, on the forehead.
"I kissed you like that, last night, when you were asleep," she said, with an odd, breathless, little catch in her voice.
Then she turned, and hurried away, through the trees, back to the house,—
A great drowsiness took possession of the King. He did not resist it. He gave himself up to it gladly—
His instinct had served him well. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself. Judith was right. She was always right. The larger part of his trouble, it seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he and she stood. Now that Judith had defined their position—as plainly as it could be defined with safety—a great burden seemed to have been lifted from his mind. Judith understood him. Nothing else mattered. Other things—could not touch him here in Paradise. Other things—could wait.
His shadow—
Half asleep, as he was already, he sat up abruptly.
The bright, afternoon sun was shining full on to the little clearing, throwing no shadow—
His shadow was not there—
Leaning back, contentedly, in his chair, he closed his eyes again.
Almost at once, he slept.