CHAPTER II
N the anteroom to his own newly decorated suite of rooms, the King found two of his valets still on duty. One of them was Smith, the rubicund, grizzled old sailor, who had been his servant in the Navy. Dismissing the other man with a gesture, the King beckoned to Smith, and entered his dressing room.
"I do not want to be disturbed, in the morning, until I ring my bell, Smith," he announced. "I shall probably go out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, last thing. See that the door into the garden is left open. That is all now. Good-night."
Smith withdrew, at once, with the bob of his bullet-shaped head, which was the nearest approach he could make to the bow required by etiquette.
Left alone, the King glanced round the dressing room.
Of all the rooms in the palace which he used habitually, this room had become the most distasteful to the King. The massive, old-fashioned, mahogany furniture, the heavy curtains drawn right across the windows, the thick-piled carpet, and the softly shaded lights, in the room, oppressed him, not so much because of what they were in themselves, as because of what they were associated with, already, in his own mind. It was here that he dressed for Court functions. It was here that he dressed, three or four times a day, not for his own pleasure and convenience, but "suitably for the occasion."
A masculine doll. A male mannequin. A popinjay.
But he was going to dress to please himself, now, anyway.
Moving swiftly about the room, he proceeded to ransack drawers, and to fling open wardrobe doors, as he searched for a particular blue serge suit, of which the Royal staff of valets strongly disapproved.
At last he found the suit he sought.
A few minutes later, he had effected, unaided, a complete change of toilet.
The blue serge suit, instinct with the Navy style that was so much to his mind, together with the grey felt hat, and the light dust coat, which he selected, made an odd, and subtle, difference in his appearance. Before, even in the easy undress of his smoking jacket, he had been—the King. Now he was, in every detail, merely a young naval officer in mufti, rejoicing in shore leave.
Looking at himself in the huge, full-length mirror which stood immediately in front of the heavily curtained windows, the King approved this result.
The young naval officer in mufti, who looked back at the King out of the cunningly lighted mirror, tall, fair, and clean-shaven, had retained much of the unconscious pride of youth. The face was, as yet, only lightly marked by the lines, the thoughtful frown, and the dark shadows, which are the insignia of a heavier burden, of a greater responsibility, and of a more constant anxiety, and care, than any known at sea. The mouth and chin were pronounced and firm, moulded by the habit of command. The lips were a trifle full, and not untouched by passion. A student of that facial character, which all men, princes and peasants alike, must carry about with them, wherever they go, would have said that this young man had a will of his own, which might be expressed by rash and impetuous action. The brow was broad and high. This was a young man capable of thought, and of emotion. Something of the healthy tan, which long exposure to wind and weather leaves, still lingered on the cheeks, but a slight puffiness under the tired blue eyes, told of weariness, and of flagging physical condition.
"A breath of Judith's country air will certainly do me good. It will freshen me up," the King muttered.
Swinging round from the mirror, he crossed the room, to the door, and switched off all the lights. Then he opened the door. The long corridor outside, which led from his suite of rooms to the central landing, and so to the main staircase in the palace, was still brilliantly lit. Closing the dressing room door behind him, the King slipped quickly down the corridor. Avoiding the central landing, and the main staircase, which lay to his right, he turned to the left, up a short passage, which brought him to the head of a private staircase, which was strictly reserved for his personal use. This staircase led down to the ground floor of the palace, and ended in a small, palm and orange tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, which had been a favourite retreat of his father. A glass door opened out of the lounge into the palace garden. This door, as he had directed, had been left open. Quickly descending the staircase, the King passed through the lounge, out by the open door, into the garden.
A sharp glance, first to the right, and then to the left, assured him that he was unobserved. By his order, the posts of the military guard, and the beats of the police, on duty round the palace, had been altered recently, so that he could use this door untrammelled by their compliments. An unmistakable impatience with even necessary observation of his personal movements had already become known as one of the new King's most pronounced characteristics, and the military, and the police authorities, alike, had done their best to meet his wishes in the matter, although his wishes had added greatly to their difficulties.
The palace garden was full of the fragrance of the wonderful summer night. The west breeze blew softly along the paths, and rustled amongst the innumerable leaves of the overhanging trees. A few minutes of brisk walking led the King through the darkness of the shrubberies, across the deserted lawns, and past the shining, light-reflecting water of the lake, to the boundary wall at the far end of the garden.
A small, old, and formerly little used wooden door in this wall was his objective.
Lately, by his order, this door had been repainted, and fitted with a new lock. One or two members of the palace household staff were housed in Lower Grosvenor Place, the thoroughfare on to which the wall abutted. It was, ostensibly, in order that these trustworthy and discreet members of the household staff might be able to pass in and out of the door, unchallenged, and so use the short cut through the garden to the palace, that the King had considerately directed that the lock on the door should be renewed, and that new keys should be distributed.
It was one of these new keys which he now produced from his own pocket, and, after a hurried glance behind him to assure himself that he was still unobserved, fitted into the lock.
The lock worked smoothly.
The door opened inwards.
The King stepped out on to the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.
The door, operated by a spring, closed silently behind him.
Lower Grosvenor Place, normally a quiet and deserted thoroughfare was, tonight, for once, thronged with people. A cheering, singing rollicking crowd, the backwash of the larger crowds, which had been attracted to the palace, and to the display of fireworks in the parks, had taken possession of the roadway. For a moment, the noise of the crowd, and the lights of the street, coming so abruptly after the silence, and the secluded darkness of the garden, disconcerted the King. Next moment, smiling a little at the thought of his own bizarre position, he darted into the crowd, and began to work his way across the road.
Inevitably jostled, and pushed, by the crowd, he made slow progress.
Suddenly, his progress was arrested altogether.
A little company of West End revellers, half a dozen youthful dandies from the clubs, and as many daringly dressed women, who were moving down the centre of the road, with their arms linked, singing at the top of their voices, deliberately intercepted him, and circling swiftly round him, held him prisoner.
"Where are your colours, old man?" one of the women demanded, in an affected, provocative drawl. She was young, and, in spite of her artificial complexion, and dyed eyebrows, she still retained a suggestion of prettiness, and even of freshness. "Here! This is what you want!"
As she spoke, she caught hold of the lapel of the King's coat, and pinned to it a large rosette of red, white, and blue ribbons.
"There! That looks better," she declared. "You don't want people to think you're one of these Communist cads, and in favour of a revolution, do you?"
The King laughed merrily.
That he, the King, should be suspected of being in favour of revolution struck him as irresistibly absurd. Then the second thought which is so often nearer to the truth than the first, supervened. After all, was the idea so absurd? Was he not—an unwilling King? Had he not been increasingly conscious, of late, of a thought lurking at the back of his mind, that he, of all men, had, perhaps, least to lose, and most to gain, in the welter and chaos of revolution? What would he lose? The intolerable burden of his isolation: the responsibility, and the exacting demands of the great position, into which he had been thrust so unexpectedly, and so much against his will. What would he gain? Liberty, Equality, Fraternity! The revolutionary slogan voiced his own personal needs. His laughter died away.
Happily, a precocious, fair-haired youth, who was leaning on the shoulder of the rosette-distributing girl, broke the awkward little silence which ensued.
"Chuck it, Doris! Can't you see he's one of us?" he remarked. "He's got Navy written all over him."
And he nodded to the King, as to a brother officer.
"Mind your own business, Bobbie, and I'll mind mine," Doris drawled, unperturbed. "He's a nice boy, but he'd forgotten his rosette. No man, who isn't wearing the right colours, is going to pass me by, tonight, unchallenged."
The King pulled himself together with an effort.
"But now that I am wearing the right colours, you will let me pass?" he suggested. "I am in rather a hurry."
Bobbie promptly dragged the laughing and protesting Doris to one side, and so left the road clear for the King.
"Pass, friend!" Bobbie announced. "All's well!"
The King dived hastily, once again, into the crowd. A sudden, and curiously belated, fear of recognition, here in the immediate vicinity of the palace, lent wings to his feet. No doubt the reckless audacity of his excursion almost precluded the possibility of recognition. And yet thousands of these people had seen him, at close quarters, only a few hours ago.
So they knew about the impending storm, and they were already taking sides. He looked at the rollicking crowd which surged about him, now, with new interest. Red, white, and blue rosettes, similar to the one which was pinned to his own coat, were being worn everywhere. The right colours appeared to be popular. In the elaborate, secret, protective schemes, lettered for code purposes, in the Greek alphabet, from Alpha to Gamma, which the old Duke of Northborough had laid before him, to demonstrate the Cabinet's readiness for every eventuality, the loyalty of the people had no place. Might not that loyalty render the old Duke's schemes unnecessary? But the old Duke wanted, he seemed almost anxious, to force a fight. And the old Duke was, of course, right.
By this time, the King had succeeded in working his way across the road. He turned now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, side street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but afforded, on the right, an entrance to one of those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and stables, which are to be found all over the West End of London, tucked away behind the great houses, from which they usually take their directory title, with the addition of that admirably significant word, mews. Here, in a small, lock-up garage, which he had contrived to rent in the name of a youthful member of his personal, secretarial staff, the King kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor car. Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage, a light-hearted but discreet, cadet of a good house, had also lent his name for the purchase of the car. In recognition of Blunt's complaisance in the matter, the King had allowed him to accompany him in one or two harmless Caliph Haroun Al Raschid night interludes, in which the car had figured; but Blunt, as Vizier, had no idea that the King, his Caliph, used the car, as now, for solitary excursions.
The police constable on the beat happened to be testing, with his bull's-eye lantern in action, the fastenings of the adjacent coach-houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, when the King arrived at the garage. Recognizing in the King, as he thought, a resident in one of the neighbouring houses, the constable saluted him respectfully, and helped him to open the garage doors, and run out the car.
"You'll find the traffic difficult tonight, sir, I'm thinking," he remarked, with a hint of a London tamed Irish brogue. "They turned the people out of the parks, when the fireworks finished, a full half hour ago, but, bless you, they are in no hurry to go home. Well, it's one night in a lifetime, as you might say, isn't it, sir? And, beyond holding up the traffic, there's no harm in the people—they're just lively, that's all. There'll be a good many of them will lie in late, when they do get to bed, in the morning, I'm thinking. But the tiredest man, in all London, this night, and in the whole Empire, too, if it comes to that, I should think must be the King himself, God bless him! Did you get a good view of him, yourself, sir? I was in duty in Whitehall for the procession, and barring a yard or two, I was as close to him then, as I am, now, to you. As fine, and upstanding a young fellow, as you could wish to see, he is, too, and as like his poor dead brother, the Prince, God rest his soul! as two peas. But he looked tired, I thought. I hope they won't work him too hard, at first. He's only a young man still, and he's got his troubles before him, they say, although to look at the people, tonight, you wouldn't think so, would you? But give him his chance, and he'll do as well as his brother, the Prince, I say, for all that he's a sailor. I'm an old Guardsman, myself, sir, the same as the Prince was, but, after all, it's time you had your turn, in the Senior Service, isn't it, sir?"
Busy putting on the thick leather motor coat, and adjusting the goggles, which he kept stored in the car, the King listened to the constable's garrulous, friendly talk with rich amusement, not untouched by a more serious interest. He almost wished that he could reveal his real identity to the man, and then shake hands with him. Surely the loyalty of the people had been underestimated? This garrulous police constable had a juster appreciation, and a more sympathetic understanding, of the difficulties and the dangers of his position, than he had ever imagined possible.
With the constable's assistance the King closed, and re-locked the garage doors. Then he slipped a handful of loose silver into the man's not too ready palm, and sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel of the car.
"Liquidate that in drinking to the King's health, constable," he directed, as he started the car. "Drink it to the frustration of all the King's enemies."
All the King's enemies? His worst enemy? Himself?
The man's reply was drowned by the throbbing beat of the powerful engine.
A moment later, the car leapt forward, out of the dimly lit mews, swung up the quiet side street, beyond, and so passed into the densely thronged roadway in Lower Grosvenor Place.
The police constable's prediction as to the difficulties of the traffic proved more than justified. In Grosvenor Place, the King found that he could only advance at a snail's pace, sounding his siren continuously. Over and over again, he had hurriedly to apply all his brakes. The crowd, singing, cheering, and rollicking, had taken complete possession of the roadway, and ignored the approach of all vehicles of whatsoever kind. Fellow motorists, in like case with himself, grinned at the King, in friendly, mutual commiseration. For his part, it was with difficulty, that he restrained his impatience, and kept his temper. He was still far too close to the palace for his peace of mind.
At Hyde Park Corner, the police, mounted and on foot, had contrived to maintain a narrow fairway, which made real, although still slow, progress through the locked traffic possible. But in Park Lane, the crowd had it all their own way again, spread out across the road, and indulging in rough horse-play, as nearly out of hand as the London crowd ever permits itself to go. Happily, by the Marble Arch, the road cleared once more. In Oxford Street, in spite of the brilliant illuminations of the famous shops and stores, and the huge crowds which they had attracted there, the King found that he could slightly increase his speed. When he swung, at last, into Tottenham Court Road, and so headed the car directly north, the traffic, by comparison with that through which he had just passed, seemed almost normal. Free now from the necessity of extra vigilance, and only occasionally called upon to sound his siren, or to apply his brakes, he was able to open out the car considerably, and settle himself more comfortably at the steering wheel.