CHAPTER VI
NCLE BOND, as it proved, had been waiting for him, all the time, at the garage.
The little man had run the King's car, out of the garage, into the drive. Already seated himself in the car, he looked up, as the King approached, with a mischievous twinkle in his spectacled eyes, and a droll smile puckering his round, double-chinned, clean-shaven face.
"Good morning, my boy, I'm going to see you along the main road, for a mile or two," he announced. "I shall have to walk back. That will be good for me. Judith says I'm getting fat! Thought I was cutting you, didn't you? I thought that I'd stage a little surprise for you. Astonishment is good for the young. It is the only means we old fogies have left, nowadays, of keeping you youngsters properly humble. The Imps have taught me that! Jump in! I want to talk to you."
The King looked at the corpulent little man, and laughed.
"I was feeling absurdly disappointed, because I hadn't seen you, Uncle Bond," he confessed.
Putting on his thick leather motor coat, and adjusting his goggles, which the little man had placed in readiness for him, on the vacant seat at the steering wheel, the King got into the car, and started the engine.
"The first mile in silence!" Uncle Bond directed. "If possible I have got to assume an unaccustomed air of gravity. And drive slowly. The subtlety of that suggestion probably escapes you. A bar or two of slow music and—enter emotion! When I chuckle again, you can change your gear."
Away from the house, down the short, sunlit drive, and out into, and up, the narrow tree-shadowed lane beyond, the King drove slowly, and in silence, as the little man had directed.
All but buried under the big, black sombrero-like felt hat, which it was his whim to affect, in grotesque contrast with the light, loosely cut shooting clothes which were his habitual wear, Uncle Bond sat low down in his seat in the car, on the King's left. In spite of his invocation of gravity, gravity remained far from him. Nothing could altogether efface the mischievous twinkle which lurked in his spectacled eyes, or blot out, for long, the mocking smile which puckered his mobile lips. But the King knew Uncle Bond well enough to realize that he was unusually thoughtful. What was it Judith had said? It was almost as if Uncle Bond had something on his mind. Judith was right. The little man, clearly, at any rate, had something that he wanted to say.
It was not until the car had swung out of the lane, and headed for London, was sweeping down the broad, and, at this comparatively early hour of the morning, empty, Great North Road, that Uncle Bond spoke.
"We have not seen very much of you, lately, my boy," he remarked. "You have been busy, no doubt. In the Service, you young men are not your own masters, of course. And Judith tells me that they have even made the mistake of giving you—promotion. I have been wondering if that—promotion—is likely to make your visits to us more difficult, and so rarer? The increasing responsibility, the increasing demands on your energy, and on your time, which your—promotion—has, no doubt, brought with it, will, perhaps, interfere with your visits to us? Perhaps you will have to discontinue your visits to us, altogether, for a time?"
Although his own eyes were, of necessity, fixed on the stretch of the broad, empty, sunlit road, immediately in front of the throbbing car, the King was uncomfortably aware that Uncle Bond was watching him narrowly as he spoke. This, then, was the something that the little man had on his mind. Suspicion? Doubt? Doubt of him? Doubt of his loyalty to his friends? In spite of the little man's suave manner, and carefully chosen phrases, it seemed to the King that the inference was unmistakable. It was an astonishing inference to come from Uncle Bond. Discontinue his visits? This, when he had just been congratulating himself on the unchanged nature of his intimacy with Judith, and with the Imps, so unexpectedly, and seriously, threatened, the night before, but so thoroughly and happily, re-established, that morning. Had he not made up his mind that all was to be as it had always been? But Uncle Bond knew nothing about that, of course.
"My—promotion—will not interfere with my visits to you, and to Judith, Uncle Bond," he declared.
"You are sure of that?" Uncle Bond persisted.
"Absolutely certain," the King exclaimed, and in spite of his efforts to suppress it, a note of rising irritation sounded in his voice.
There was a momentary pause.
Then Uncle Bond chuckled.
"Change your gear, my boy. I chuckled! Change your gear," he crowed. "A mile or two of real speed will do neither you nor me, any harm, now. Did I not say—'Enter emotion!' But I did not say that it would be my emotion, did I? You are the hero of this piece. It is for you the slow music has to be played. I am only the knockabout comedian, useful for filling in the drop scenes. Or am I the heavy father? 'Pon my soul, when I come to think of it, it seems to me that I am destined to double the two parts."
He laid his hand on the King's arm.
"I like your answer, my boy. It is the answer I expected you to make. But I could not be sure. Human nature being the unaccountable thing that it is, I could not be sure. And now, I have another question to ask you. And I am the heavy father now. If only I could be grave! If your visits to us are to continue, don't you think it will be, perhaps, as well for you to be a little more careful about—the conventions, shall I say? You arrived very late, last night. Judith was alone to receive you. Such circumstances are liable to be misunderstood, don't you think? And, although we are all apt to overlook the fact, we are all—human. A wise man avoids, for his own sake, and for the sake of others—certain provocations. 'The prudent man forseeth the evil'—but the quotation would be lost on you. A text for my sermon!"
The King had, automatically, let out the car, in response to Uncle Bond's direction. He applied all his brakes, and slowed the car down again now, on his own behalf. He wanted to be able to breathe, to think.
This was the first time Uncle Bond had ever spoken to him in this way. The wonder, of course, was that he had never spoken to him, in this way, before. Did the little man know what had happened the night before? No. That was impossible. Judith would not, Judith could not, have disclosed what had happened to him. It must be his own unerring instinct, his own sure knowledge of human nature, which had prompted the little man to deliver this sermon. This sermon? This generous, kindly, tactful, whimsical reproof. How well deserved the reproof was, the events of the night before had shown.
"I am sorry, Uncle Bond. I have been very thoughtless," he said. "It will not happen again."
"Judith and I appreciate your visits, my boy," Uncle Bond continued. "It would be a matter of very great regret to—both of us—if we found that we had—to limit, in any way—the hospitality, which we have been so glad to offer you. We wish, we both wish, to maintain our present, pleasant relationship, unchanged. That is your wish, too, I think?"
The King let out the car once again. His emotions, his thoughts required, now, the relief of speed.
"Somehow, I can never bear to think of any change, where you, and Judith, and the Imps are concerned, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed. "Somehow, I can never think of you, except all together, in the surroundings you have made your own. And that is strange, you know! We are all, as you say—human. Judith—Judith is the superior of every woman I have ever met. Her place is, her place ought to be, by right, at the head of the procession. And yet, somehow, I can never see her there!"
Uncle Bond sat very still.
"At the head of the procession?" he murmured. "Is that so enviable a position, my boy? Ask the man, ask the men, you find there!"
He chuckled then unaccountably.
The King winced. It was only one of the chance flashes of cynicism, with which Uncle Bond salted his talk, of course. But how true, and apposite, to his own position, and experience, the remark was!
"And, if the head of the procession is no enviable place for a man, what would it be for a woman, for a woman with a heart?" Uncle Bond proceeded. "'Pon my soul, I am talking pure 'Cynthia'!" he exclaimed. "'Cynthia' has begun to function, at last! That last sentence was in the lazy minx's best style. Judith will have told you that 'Cynthia' has been giving me a lot of trouble lately? You have lured her back, my boy. I thank you! You always attract her. She has a weakness for handsome young men. Her heroes are always Apollos."
He half turned, in his seat, towards the King.
"My boy, I will offer you another piece of advice," he remarked. "It is a mistake I do not often make." His habits of speech were too much for him. Even now, when he was patently in earnest, the little man could not be grave. "My advice is this—never attempt to put, never think, even in your own mind, of putting Judith, at the head of any procession. It is not Judith's place. Her place is in the background, the best place, the place that the best women always choose, in life. 'Cynthia' again! Pure 'Cynthia'! Welcome, you minx! If you ever attempt to take Judith out of the background, out of the background which she has chosen for herself, you will encounter inevitable disappointment, and cause yourself, and so her, pain. And you will spoil the—friendship—between you and Judith, which I have found so much—pleasure in watching. That is not 'Cynthia.' It is myself, plain James Bond. My advice, you see, like everybody else's, is, by no means, disinterested."
The King smiled at the little man, almost in spite of himself. This was the true Uncle Bond. This was Uncle Bond's way.
"I wonder if you are right, Uncle Bond? I am afraid, my own feeling suggests, that you are," he murmured. "And yet, somehow, I am not sure—"
Unconsciously, he slowed down the car, yet once again, as he spoke. The little man had stirred thoughts in him which required deliberate, and careful, expression.
"I have not thought very much about the procession, myself, until just lately," he said. "But it seems to me, you know, that we none of us, men and women alike, have very much to do with our place in the files. I have never believed in chance. And I am not, I think, a fatalist. And yet, you know, it seems to me that the procession catches us up, and sweeps us along, at the head or the tail, as the case may be, whether we will or no. A man may be caught up, suddenly, into the procession, and swept along with it, into some position, which he never expected to fill, which he would rather not fill, but from which he seems to have no chance of escape. Has he any chance of escape? It is the procession that controls us, I think, not we who control the procession. What do you think? Can a man escape? Can any of us ever really choose our place in the files?"
Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly.
"Judith told me that they had been overworking you, my boy. Judith, as usual, was right," he remarked. "You appear to me to be in grave danger of becoming most satisfactorily morbid. Liver! Almost certainly liver! But about this procession of yours. 'Pon my soul, the figure, the fancy, is not unworthy of 'Cynthia' herself. It would make a useful purple passage. Not for serial publication, of course. We cut them out there. But we put them in again, when the time comes for the stuff to go into book form. The procession of life! Yes. The idea is quite sufficiently threadbare. The one essential, for the successful production of money-making fiction is, of course, to be threadbare. Give the public what they have had before! But you are interested in the procession, not in the literary market. Can a man, or a woman, choose their place in the files? I say 'yes!'
"Once or twice, in the life of every man and woman, I believe, come moments, when they must choose their place in the files, moments when they have to decide whether they will stay where they are, whether they will fight to hold the place they have, whether they will shoulder their way forward, or whether they will fall out, to one side, or to the rear. All my life, I have been watching the procession, my boy. That is why I have grown so fat! It is many years, now, since I decided to step out of the procession, to one side, and I have been watching it sweep past, ever since. A brave show! But we have been talking glibly of the head and the tail of the procession. Where are they? I have never found them. I have never seen them. All I have ever seen is that the procession is there, and that it moves. But, no doubt, the band is playing—somewhere—
"But you are young, and they have just given you—promotion! You are in the procession, sweeping through the market-place, with all the flags flying, and the band, as I say, playing—somewhere. But I, and Judith, we are a little to one side, in the background, watching you, in the procession, from one of the windows of the quiet, old-fashioned inn, at the corner of the market-place, the quiet, old-fashioned inn on the signboard of which is written, in letters of gold, 'Content.' Your instinct will probably, and very properly, prompt you to fight for your place in the files, when the other fellows tread too hard on your heels. But, whether you fight for your place or not, whether you come out at the head or the tail of the procession, wherever the head and tail may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether, whatever happens to you, my boy, Judith and I will always be glad to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our window. You will remember that?
"And what do you think of that, as a purple passage, my boy? 'Pon my soul, it seems to me, now, that 'Cynthia' is functioning, she is in quite her best vein. I must get back home with her, at once. Pull up on this side of the signpost. I must not advance a foot into Hades, this morning, or I shall lose touch with the minx. She ought to be good for five or six thousand words today. And they are badly needed. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already. It is the villain of the new piece, who is giving us trouble. Even 'Cynthia,' herself, is tired of him, I believe. He is a sallow person, with a pair of black, bushy eyebrows, which run up and down his forehead, with a regularity which is depressing. Two or three times, in each instalment, the confounded things go up and down, like sky-rockets. He lives in a mysterious house, in one of the mean streets, in the new artistic quarter, in Brixton. The house is full of Eastern furniture, and glamour. That is threadbare enough, isn't it? And I am using back numbers of 'Punch,' for humour."
Once again, the King let out the car. He knew Uncle Bond well enough to recognize that the little man was talking extravagantly now, to hide the note of sincere personal feeling, which had sounded unmistakably in his talk of the procession, although he had been so careful to attribute it all to 'Cynthia.' It was on occasions such as this, after one of his sudden flashes of sincerity, that Uncle Bond became most outrageously flippant. Nothing but burlesque humour, and grotesque, extravagant nonsense was to be expected from him now.
At the moment, flippancy jarred on the King. His attention had been riveted by the little man's vivid, figurative talk of the procession, so peculiarly apposite, as it was, to his own position, and the assurance of unchanging friendship, with which it had ended, had moved, and humbled him. He did not deserve, in view of his concealment of his real identity, he had no right to accept, such friendship.
But Uncle Bond never did the expected thing!
Now, as the throbbing car leapt forward, and swept along the broad, sunlit road at its highest speed, the little man became suddenly silent. A new mood of abstraction seemed to fall upon him. It was almost as if he had still something on his mind, as if there was still something which he wanted to say.
Soon the Paradise-Hades signpost, to which the King himself had introduced the little man, flashed into view, on the right of the road.
The King at once pulled up the car, well on the Paradise side of the post.
Uncle Bond threw off his unusual abstraction, in a moment, and scrambled, nimbly enough, out of the car.
The little man tested the car door carefully, to make sure that he had fastened it securely behind him.
Then he looked up at the King, with an odd, provocative twinkle in his mischievous, spectacled eyes.
"If I were you, Alfred, I should fight for my place in the procession, if necessary," he remarked. "Fight for your place, if necessary, my boy! After all, you are young, and they have just given you—promotion. I have a shrewd suspicion that you would not be satisfied, for long, by the view from our window, in the quiet, old-fashioned, inn of 'Content.' You would soon want to alter the signboard inscription, I fancy. An occasional glance through the window is all very well. It is restful. It serves its purpose. But a taste for the stir the bustle, the jostling, and the dust and the clamour, in the market-place, is pretty deeply implanted in all of us. To be in the movement! It is, almost, the universal disease. A man, who is a man, a young man, wants to be in the thick of things, in the hurly-burly, in the street below. What is there for him in a window view? Fight for your place, if necessary, my boy! And, if you decide to fight, fight with a good grace, and with all your heart. It is the half-hearted men, it is the half-hearted women, who fail. The best places in the procession—whether they are at the head or the tail, and where the head and the tail are, who knows?—like the best seats at the inn windows, in the background, fall to the men, fall to the women, who know what they want, who know their own mind.
"But, now, I must walk!"
And with that, and with no other leave-taking, Uncle Bond swung round abruptly, and set off, with surprising swiftness, for so small, and so corpulent a man, straight back along the road.
Automatically, the King restarted the car.
Then he turned in his seat, to wave his hand, in farewell, to Uncle Bond.
But Uncle Bond did not look round.
The King glanced at his watch. It was already half past seven. He had a good deal of time to make up. But he could do it. He opened out the car, now, to its fullest extent. The powerful engine responded, at once, to his touch, and the car shot forward—out of Paradise into Hades!
For once the King was unconscious of this transition. He was thinking of the procession, of Uncle Bond, of Judith, and of himself; their seats at the inn window; his place in the files. Must the whole width of the market-place always lie between them? Must it always be only occasionally, and with some risk—the risk he was running now—that he stepped out of the procession, and slipped, secretly, into the quiet "inn of Content," to look through their window, to stand, for a few moments, at their side? They were in the background. He was at the head of the procession. At the head? Who knew, who could say, where the head or the tail was? Was the band playing—somewhere? He had never heard it. Would he tire of the window view—soon? Was he not tired already, of his place in the files?
Fight for his place? Must he fight? A fight was something. The other fellows were treading very hard on his heels. But was his place worth fighting for? Did he want it? He had not chosen it. It had been thrust upon him. The moments of decision, when a man had to choose his place in the files, about which Uncle Bond had spoken so confidently, had never come to him. Moments of decision? What could he, what did he, ever decide? In the very fight for his place, which was impending, he would not be allowed to commit himself. The fight would be fought for him, all around him, and he, the man most concerned, was the one man who could not, who would not be allowed, to take a side. It was all arranged for him. The old Duke of Northborough, the lightning conductor, would take the shock! And the result? Did he know what he wanted? Did he know his own mind? A half-hearted man! What a faculty Uncle Bond had for hitting on a phrase, a sentence, that stuck, that recurred. It described him. A half-hearted King. A half-hearted friend. A half-hearted—lover.
But was it altogether his fault? Was it not his position, his intolerable isolation, his responsibility, which, by a bitter paradox, was without responsibility, that had thrown his whole life out of gear, and paralysed his will? As a sailor, in his own chosen profession, with responsibility, with the command of men, he had held his own, more than held his own, with his peers. He had had his place, an honourable place, amongst men of the same seniority as himself, and the Navy took the best men, the pick of the country. Yes. He knew what he wanted now. A moment of decision. A moment in which he could be himself. A moment in which he could assert himself, assert his own individuality, recklessly, violently, prove that he was not a half-hearted man, not an automaton, not an overdressed popinjay—
At this point, the appearance of a certain amount of traffic on the road, as the car swept into the fringe of the outer suburbs, and the more careful driving which it entailed, broke the thread of the King's thoughts. The inevitable lowering of the speed of the car which followed, served to remind him anew that he still had a good deal of time to make up, thanks to his loitering with Uncle Bond, if he was to be successful in effecting his return to the palace unobserved. His rising anxiety about this now all important matter led him thenceforward to concentrate the whole of his attention on his handling of the car.