Read Ebook: The King Who Went on Strike by Choate Pearson

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Ebook has 1486 lines and 61503 words, and 30 pages

The King was not ungrateful.

Still leaning wearily as he was against the roof balustrade, he turned now, as he thought of the old Duke, and looked across the shadowed darkness of St. James's Park, at the golden glare thrown up by the illuminations in Whitehall. There, in the silent, rather comfortless, and closed in house, in Downing Street, where he had lived, with hardly a break, for so many years, his father's minister, his brother's friend, the old Duke, even now, as likely as not, was hard at work, indomitable, tireless, resourceful, sparing neither himself, nor his subordinates, so that he, the King, "a sailor, not a Prince," might reign.

Yes. The lightning conductor was in position.

He, the man who wore the Crown, must not fail.

He must not fail the Duke.

It was odd, but the thought that he might fail to support the Duke, that he might not come up to the standard which the Duke might set for him, had more weight with him, than any thought of the people, of the nation. It was an instance of the Duke's personal magnetism, of course. His personal magnetism, his dominance, had been talked about for years. Did the Duke dominate him? No. But the Duke was a living, forceful personality, a man, a strong man. The people, the nation--well, they were only phantoms; they were the thousand, flushed, curious faces; the thousand eyes; the cheering crowds, far away down there, in the darkness, in the crowded parks and illuminated streets below.

It was, in a sense, a triumph, or at least, a notable success, for the Duke, that he, the King, had been crowned; that the day had passed without hostile demonstrations, without a single regrettable incident. What reward could he give, what return could he make, to the old statesman, for his ungrudging, tireless service? The Duke was his servant. In intimate, familiar talk, he never failed to call him "sir." The Duke must be his friend. His friend? A King could have no friends. A man apart, isolated, lonely, and remote, as his father had always been, a King was condemned to live alone.

A sudden, unbearable sense of loneliness, a terror of himself, a terror of this new, isolated, remote life, in which he was to be denied even the poor palliative of friendship, swept over the King. He had longed to be alone. He had come up, out here, on to the palace roof, to be alone. He had been eager to escape from the curious faces, from the thousand eyes. But now he longed for human companionship, for human sympathy, for human hands.

"Judith!"

The name rose to the King's lips, unsought, unbidden.

Judith, tall and slender, with her deep, dark, mysterious eyes, and her crown of jet black hair; Judith, with her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her eyes aglow, and her hand stretched out to him in joyous welcome--the King saw, and felt, her bodily presence, as in a vision, and his loneliness, and his terror, his weariness, and his fever, fell from him.

He must go to Judith.

It would be dangerous. It was always dangerous. It would be more dangerous, tonight, than ever before. But he would go. He must go. All day he had smiled, and bowed, and posed, for the multitude, playing his part in the gorgeous, public pageantry, which the multitude loved, an actor playing his part, an actor, the servant of the public. Surely, now, he might wrest a few brief hours, from the night, for himself?

It was a long time, a week or more, since he had seen Judith.

A few brief hours with Judith, a few brief hours of rest, of rural peace, and quiet talk; a romp with the Imps, who would be fast asleep now, tucked up in their cots, each clutching some cherished toy, some strange, woolly animal, or some dearly prized, deadly instrument of mimic war, but who would awake, with their prattle, like the birds, at dawn; a few minutes of Uncle Bond's diverting nonsense, about the next instalment of his forthcoming serial, and the dire distresses he had invented for his latest business girl heroine--a few brief hours, so spent, would bring him back to the palace, refreshed and strengthened, ready to shoulder, once again, the heavy burden of his isolation, the heavy burden which seemed now too heavy to be borne.

Yes. Late as it was, he would go to Judith. A night visit? It would be after one o'clock in the morning, when he arrived. Would Judith mind? Surely not! Judith and he were outside conventions.

With the quick, impulsive movement of the man who puts an end to hesitation, the King swung round from the stone balustrade, crossed the roof, and so passed, without another glance at the blazing Coronation illuminations, or at the night sky, down the broad, wrought-iron staircase which led from the roof into the palace.

In 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.

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."

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