CHAPTER III
T was a wonderful summer night. Here, as the car ran out into the quieter, less crowded, and more humbly illuminated area of the inner suburbs, the night reasserted itself. Rising late, above the roofs and twisted chimney pots, a large, round, golden moon hung low in the dark blue sky. The rush of air, stirred by the throbbing car, was cool and fresh. Naturally, and inevitably, the King's thoughts turned now, once again, to Judith.
It was on just such a wonderful summer night, as this, in early June, a year ago, that he had first seen Judith.
On that memorable night, the King had driven alone, out of London, late at night, just as he was driving now, at the end of a fortnight's leave, which he had spent incognito, in town. Soon after he had run through the fringe of the outer suburbs, which he was even then entering, with four hundred odd miles of road between him and the Naval Base in Scotland, where he was due to rejoin his ship, and with barely time to make them good, the car he was driving had developed engine trouble. A few minutes of frenzied tinkering had set the car going again, but the engine had only served to carry him well clear of the town, out into the sleeping countryside, when it had failed, once more, this time completely, and he had found himself stranded, at the side of the lonely, deserted, country road, the victim of a permanent breakdown.
The King smiled to himself, now, as he recalled his reckless, humorous appreciation of that situation. In those days, "a sailor, not a Prince," he had had a light heart. Nothing had been able to disturb his equanimity for long.
Abandoning the broken down car, almost at once, at the side of the road, he had set out, adventurously, on foot, to look for succour. The night had been, then, as now, cool, fragrant, and moonlit. Soon a narrow, winding, wooded lane, on the left of the road, had attracted him. Turning down this lane, he had followed its twisting, tree-shadowed course, for over a mile or more, until, suddenly, he had come upon the small lodge, and open carriage gate, of an isolated country house, which stood, a little back from the road, surrounded by tall trees.
The short, moonlit drive, where the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full blossom, had led him to the front of the silent, darkened house.
The King remembered vividly the odd sense of impending romance, the little thrill of excitement, and of expectancy, with which he had rung the front door bell.
A short pause had ensued, a period of waiting.
And then he had heard a movement on his right, and he had turned, and he had seen Judith—seen Judith, for the first time.
She had slipped through the open window door, on his right, on to the verandah, which ran all round the shadowy house, and she had stood there, close beside him, tall and slender, surrounded by the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail—Judith with her cheeks delicately flushed, her deep, dark, mysterious eyes aglow, and her wealth of jet black hair knotted loosely at her neck, Judith clad in a Japanese kimono of gorgeous colours, from under which peeped little wisps of spotless white linen, and filmy lace.
The King laughed softly to himself, as he recalled that it was he, and not Judith, who had been shy and embarrassed, that it was he, and not Judith, who had blushed and stammered—until Judith had come to his rescue, understanding and accepting his incoherent apologies and explanations, almost before he had uttered them, and taking absolute command of him, and of the whole delightfully bizarre situation from that moment—
The necessity of avoiding a couple of belated country carts, moving slowly forward towards Covent Garden, at this point, broke abruptly into the King's reverie. The powerfully engined car was running smoothly, and at a high speed now, along the level surface of one of the outer suburban tramway tracks—
It was Judith who had promptly roused old Jevons, the gardener, and sent him off, post haste, to take charge of the derelict car. It was Judith who, greatly daring, had penetrated into the jealously guarded, literary night seclusion of Uncle Bond, on the upper floor of the silent, darkened house, and had compelled the little man to leave his latest business girl heroine, in the middle of the next instalment of his new serial, although that instalment was, as usual, already overdue, and come downstairs, urbane and chuckling, his round, double-chinned, and spectacled face wreathed in smiles, to entertain an unknown, and youthful stranger, as if his midnight intrusion was the most natural thing in the world.
It was Judith, familiar with the way that they have in the Navy, who had understood, from the first, the vital necessity of his rejoining his ship in time. It was Judith who had routed out time-tables, and looked up trains, while he and Uncle Bond had smoked and discussed the situation at large, and had discovered that he still might be able to catch the Scottish Mail, at some railway junction in the Midlands, of which he had never heard.
It was Judith who had packed off the at once enthusiastic Uncle Bond to the garage to turn out his own brand new Daimler. It was Judith who had insisted that they must make a hurried, and informal, but wholly delightful picnic meal. It was Judith who had slipped out, while Uncle Bond and he ate and drank, and put his kit, which the careful Jevons had brought from the broken down car to the house for safe custody, into the Daimler. Finally, it was Judith who had given them their marching orders, and their route, and had stood on the verandah, and waved her hand to them, in friendly farewell, when Uncle Bond had started the Daimler, and the huge car had swept down the drive, out into the sleeping countryside.
Of the wild drive that had followed, half way across England, through the wonderful summer night, the King had now, as he had had at the time, only a hazy, confused impression—a hazy, confused impression of Uncle Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering wheel of the huge Daimler, driving with a reckless audacity more suited to the commander of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a mere retailer of grotesquely improbable tales, of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as he drove, and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free rein to the fantastic flights of his characteristically extravagant humour.
Where, and when, he had caught the night mail, the King had still no clear idea. A blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his side, down a long, dimly lit railway platform, and throwing his last portmanteau in, after him, through the window of the already moving train, was all that remained with him, of the scene at the station.
And then the train had thundered on, through the sleeping countryside, and he had been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the darkness in which, for hours, he had seen only Judith's beautiful, vivid face, while the train had thundered in his ears, only Judith's name—
By this time, the powerfully engined car had run clear of the outer suburban tramway track, and was rushing through the semi-rural area of market gardens, and scattered villas, where the town first meets, and mingles with, the country, on the north side of London. Coronation illuminations had now been left far behind. Soon even the last of the long chain of lamps provided by the public lighting system was passed. It was by the light thrown on to the road, by the glaring headlights on the throbbing car, and by the softer light of the moon, that the King had now to do his driving—
From the first he had known that Judith, and Uncle Bond, could never be as other people to him. It was this knowledge which had warned him not to betray his real identity. From the first, it had seemed of vital importance to him, that no shadow of his Royal rank should be allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of his intercourse with these charming, unconventional people, who, looking upon him as merely a young, naval officer in trouble, had at once placed all their resources at his disposal, as if he had been an old and intimate friend. It was this knowledge which had prompted him, when he came to telegraph to Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoining of his ship, to sign the telegram with his favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That he should have been in a position to telegraph to Uncle Bond was only one of the many lesser miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At some point in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had slipped his visiting card into his hand, and had contrived to make him understand, in spite of his dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was known to his admiring public as "Cynthia St. Claire," the notorious serial writer, he was known to his friends as plain James Bond, and that he, and his niece Judith, would be glad to hear that he had escaped a court-martial.
Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder that never failed him when he thought of Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles of that first memorable night, twelve months ago, had merely been the prelude to a whole sequence of other, and far greater, miracles. When leave came his way once again, it had seemed only natural to him that he should run out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank them for their kindness which had included the salving, and the temporary storing of the derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond should have welcomed him so warmly, and pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever he happened to be passing through town, that had been—a miracle! Again, it was only natural that he should have taken advantage of their invitation, and that he should have fallen into the habit of running out to see them, whenever he could snatch a few brief hours from the exacting demands of his semi-official life. But that Judith, and Uncle Bond, should have thrown open their house to him, so soon, without question, and made their home, his home, that had been—a miracle! That he should have been able to keep his frequent visits to, and his increasing intimacy with, Judith and Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly twelve months, was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith and Uncle Bond should never have suspected his real identity, never penetrated his incognito, was a greater miracle. But that his friendship with Judith should have remained unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest miracle of all.
It was Judith who had wrought this last, greatest miracle of all. It was Judith who had made their friendship what it was. Somehow, from the first, she seemed to have been able to shut out, or, at the worst, to ward off, from their intimacy, all dangerous provocations. It was as if she had drawn a white line round herself, even in her thoughts, past which neither he, nor she, could enter. Uncle Bond, most wise and tactful of hosts, had helped. And the Imps, Judith's boys, had helped too.
Somehow, Judith and the Imps, Button, so called because of his button mouth, and Bill, cherubic and chubby, had always been inseparably associated in his mind. Almost from the first, he must have known that Judith, young as she was, was a widow. But it was only lately that he had learnt that her husband had been a sailor like himself, a sailor who had served with distinction, and lost his life, in the Pacific War, the war which he had missed himself, to his own everlasting regret, by a few bare weeks of juniority—
By this time, the throbbing car was sweeping down the opening stretch of the Great North Road, out into the real country. More as a matter of custom, than of conscious thought, the King slowed down the car. It had become his habit on these occasions, that he should slacken his speed, when he had at last successfully escaped from the town, so that he could attune his mind to his surroundings, and savour to the full his eager anticipation of Judith's joyous welcome.
Suddenly, the ghostly, white painted figure of a signpost, for which he always kept an eye open, flashed into his view, on the left of the road.
Once, on a winter evening of fog-thickened darkness, when he had been driving out to see Judith, as he was driving now, the King had grown uncertain of his route. Coming to this signpost, he had been glad to halt, to verify his position. Clambering up the post, with the ready agility of the sailor, he had struck a match, to discover that the signpost had been used, by some unknown humorist, to perpetrate a jest, with which he had found himself in instant, serious, and wholehearted sympathy. The ordinary place names had been obliterated on the signpost fingers. In lieu of them had been painted, in rude, black letters, on the finger pointing to London, "To Hades," and, on the opposite finger, pointing north, out into the open country, "To Paradise."
The King headed the car now "To Paradise," with an uplifting of the heart, which never failed him, on this portion of the road.
A little later, he became aware that he was passing the site of his former breakdown, the breakdown which had first led him, a year ago, to Judith.
He knew then that he had run out of Middlesex into Hertfordshire.
Soon the familiar turning of the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the left of the road, came into view. Swinging the car into the lane, the King, once again, slackened his speed. He drove now with special care. It had become part of a charming game, that he and Judith played, that he should try to drive down the lane, and up to the house, without her hearing his approach. Somehow, he hardly ever won. Somehow, Judith was always on the alert, always expecting him.
But tonight, it almost seemed, in view of the unusual lateness of his arrival, as if he might score one of his rare successes. The car ran smoothly, and all but silently, down the narrow lane. At the bottom, at the house, the carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open. In the moonlit drive, the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full blossom, just as they had been on that memorable first night, a year ago. The King drove straight up the drive, and round the side of the silent, darkened house, to the garage beyond. The garage door, like the carriage gate, stood wide open. Here, in Paradise, apparently, there was no need to guard against motor thieves.
The King turned the car, and backed it into the garage, beside Uncle Bond's huge Daimler. The silence which followed his shutting off of the engine, was profound, the essential night silence of the country. Flinging off his thick, leather motor coat, his hat, and his goggles, he tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he left the garage, and moved quickly back round the side of the house, treading, whenever possible, on the grassy borders of the garden flower beds, lest the sound of his footsteps should reach Judith, and so warn her of his approach.