They passed through a short corridor and ascended stairs; a small electric pocket-lamp of the inspector's showing them the way. Three doors he unfastened in turn. Having opened the last he switched on the light, then respectfully drew back, presuming to come no further. "This is where your Majesty's private apartments begin," said he; an indication that his task as conductor was over.

"Ah, yes," replied the King, "now at last I know where I am. Till this moment I felt myself a stranger. I have to thank you, Mr. Inspector, for the kind way in which you have done me the honors of my own house; and," he added, "of the police-station."

"I am very sorry, sir, that any such thing should have happened. I can promise it won't occur again."

"No," said the King, smiling, "I suppose not. But pray do not be sorry! I have seldom spent a more interesting time; or—thanks to you and others—had more things given me to think about."

The inspector did not reply; he stood looking down, pensive and resigned—tired, perhaps, now that the anxieties of the last few hours were over.

"Good-night," said the King.

"Good-night, sir," replied the inspector. He withdrew and the King heard him locking the door after him.

II

The King went into his study, turned on a light, and sat down. He had, as he had told his guide, many things to think about. It was no use going to bed, for he knew that he could not sleep.

These last few hours had been the most wonderful, and the most crowded—yes, quite literally the most crowded—that he had ever experienced. At last he had really taken part in the life of his people, and had come into direct contact with things very diverse and contradictory, representing the popular will. He had talked with street urchins, and visionaries, had rubbed shoulders with men of brutal habit and vile character,—with knaves, cowards, fools; he had been shut up with drunkards and pickpockets, policemen's thumbs had left bruises upon his arms, and all his mind was one great bruise from the bureaucratic police system which had him fast within its grip.

Now at last he knew that he knew nothing; for only now did he realize it. To what was going on outside his ears had been stopped with official lies; morally, intellectually, and physically he was a prisoner, just as much as when, to the cry of "Old Goggles," from a jeering crowd, he had marched captive to the police-station. He knew now that even his private life was watched and spied on—always, of course, with the most benevolent intentions. This was the price he paid for modern kingship; and what was it all worth?

Out of his pocket he drew a small sheet of crumpled paper. In order to get this to him, a poor, timid woman had gone out into a raging crowd, had borne its brutality for hours, and then, a piteous bundle of broken nerves, had by sheer accident accomplished that which hundreds of others, braver, abler, more confident, and more deserving, had tried to do and failed. Morally this small slip of paper had upon it the blood, and the tears, the sweat, the agony, and the despair of all the rest; and only by accident had he ever come to know of it!

Here, almost within a stone's throw of his palace, he had seen something taking place which to-morrow the papers would deride, and of which the official world would deny him all cognizance. Whether these women had truly a grievance, any just and reasonable cause for complaint, he did not know. But he knew now that, with the most desperate earnestness and conviction, that was their belief, and that in getting their petition to his hands they saw the beginning of a remedy.

He spread out the paper before him, and for the first time read the words—

"Humbly showeth that by your Majesty's Ministers law and justice are delayed, and prayeth that your Gracious Majesty will so order and govern that your faithful subjects' grievances may forthwith be sought and inquired into, and remedy granted thereto by Act of Parliament. And your petitioners will ever pray."

That was all. What the grievances might be was not stated. He knew that to hear argument for or against a given case was outside the functions of the Crown; but he knew equally well that to order inquiry to be made lay still within his right, though every minister in the Cabinet except one would seek to deny it to him. And so he sat looking at the crumpled sheet which meant so much to so many thousands of lives; and slowly the night went by.

Long before the first chitter of awakening birds, and before the first hint of light had crept into the east, he heard outside the slow stir of the city's life breaking back from short uneasy slumber. With stiffened limbs he got up from his chair, for the room had grown cold and his body ached with all the strain and exertion it had so recently undergone. Slowly he moved off towards his own sleeping apartment, in case the Queen, when she awoke, should send to inquire after him. And on his way, as a short cut, he crossed the minstrel gallery, which divided one from the other the two state drawing-rooms,—a broad half-story colonnade, with central opening and corners draped into shade.

Halfway across this elevation he paused to look down into the vast chamber below. At some point among its chandeliers burned a small pinhole of light that revealed in a strange dimness various forms of furniture, showing monstrous and uncouth in their night attire. Night-gowns rather than pajamas seemed the general wear; only a few legs were to be seen. In this, its sleeping aspect, the place was certainly more harmonious and more chaste than by day; mirrors and pictures loomed from the white walls with a mystery that would disappear when the lusters contained their light; and the King lingered to take in the pleasant strangeness of it all, and to wonder what was this new quality which so attracted him.

As he did so his ear caught from without a faint reverberation of muffled sound; even and regular in its beat, it drew near.

At the far end a door was thrown open; a flush of light entered the chamber, and there came following it a troop of men wearing felt slippers and long linen aprons, and bearing upon their shoulders brooms, feather-heads, wash-leathers, brushes, dusters, steps, vacuum-cleaners, and other mysterious instruments of an uninterpretable form.

With the regularity and precision of a drilled army, and with no word spoken, they moved forward to the attack. Curtains were drawn, cords pulled, blinds raised, steps mounted. Lusters jingled to the touch of feathers, cornices shed down their minute particles of dust to the Charybdian maw of traveling gramophone. Over the carpet metallic cow-catchers wheezed and groaned with a loud trundling of wheels, and departed processionally to the chamber beyond. Then by a triple process, simultaneously conducted, the furniture-sheets were lifted, drawn off, and folded; a large wicker-table on wheels received and bore them away. A cloud of light skirmishers followed after; and over every cushion and seat and polished surface plied their manicurist skill. Then a storming-party escaladed the gallery from below and the King, to avoid the embarrassment of an encounter with a body of servitors who had not the pleasure of his acquaintance, was at last obliged to retire.

But what a wonderful machine had been here revealed to his gaze—manipulated without a word, marshaled by signs, and composed entirely of strangers! And to think that all this insect-like marvel of industry, so expeditious, and done on so huge a scale, had been going on daily under his own roof, and he had known nothing of it! So this was how his palace was cleaned for him, and why it never showed a sign of wear or the marks of muddy boots? Yet never before had any thought on the matter occurred to him. And what if some fine day those insects, fired by revolutionary zeal, had taken it to heart to rise up in their dozens by those escalading ladders to the first story and rush the private apartments, and murder him in his morning bath or in his bed! What a surprising and unexplained apparition it would have been! But now, and for the future, he would know that daily about this time a large ant-like colony was running about under him, very strong of arm, very active of leg; and what protection, he wondered, from peril of sudden inroad was that search under his bed on the ninth day of every November? Did that really meet and counter modern methods of conspiracy and assassination, or the growing dangers of labor unrest? He very much doubted it.

And so, with his head very full of the wonder, the order, and the underlying disturbance of it all, he passed on to his own inner chamber, and had now something to tell the Queen as to how their immediate domestic affairs were conducted which should entirely put aside all awkward questions as to what he had been doing the evening before and where he had spent the night.

But, as a matter of fact, sleek officialdom had sheltered the Queen from all anxiety, and she had not a notion that the King had been anywhere except to some consultation with ministers, and thence late to bed.

In order that his valet might find him there he got into it, and when, a couple of hours later, he greeted her Majesty he found that sanguine mind looking eagerly ahead and concerning itself very little over things which were past.

"Remember, my dear," she said, looking up from her letters, "that in three days' time the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser comes. I do hope, while he is here, that you will be fairly free."

"Not so free as I thought I should be," said the King, and he sighed heavily.

III

His Majesty had a good many things that day to discuss with the Prime Minister when at a later hour they met. He began on the matter which was most regular and formal; had he been at all likely to forget it the Queen's observation would have reminded him.

"By the way, Mr. Premier," he said, "as you already know, the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser arrives in a day or two; and there are certain possible eventualities arising out of his visit which we must be prepared for. Hitherto the Princess Charlotte has had no definite grant made to her. While she was still living with us, without an establishment of her own, I preferred to let the matter stand over. But now—well, now a change may be necessary."

The Prime Minister's face beamed with congratulatory smiles. "Your Majesty may be sure that the matter shall have immediate attention."

"There will be no difficulty?"

"Oh, none whatever."

"I will leave all question of the amount to be discussed later. I believe that it is etiquette, in the case of a reigning Prince, for him also to be consulted."

"That is so, sir."

"The Prince himself is very wealthy; and I think that you will find him disinterested. Still there is, of course, a certain balance to be observed."

"Oh, quite."

"I leave the matter, then, entirely in your hands."

The Prime Minister bowed.

And then the conversation changed.

"You know what happened to me last night, I suppose," said the King.

"Ah, yes, indeed, sir! You will pardon my silence; I was most horrified. But I thought that perhaps your Majesty did not wish to speak of it."

"On the contrary," replied the King, "I have got a great deal to say." And then, with much detail and particularity, he narrated his experience—all those hours which he had spent in the crowd; and the Prime Minister listened, saying nothing.

"Well," said the King, when he had done, "that is what I have seen; and you cannot tell me it is something that does not matter."

"By no means, sir; I admit that it is very serious."

"I was never told so before."

"We did not wish unnecessarily to trouble your Majesty. This is hardly a case for Cabinet intervention; the Home Office does its duty, takes preventive measures as far as is possible, and puts down the disturbances when they arise."

"Yes, yes," said the King, "but is nothing going to be done?"

The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows, as though asked to reply once more to a question already answered.

"Everything possible is being done, sir."

"Legislatively, I mean."

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the head of Government in a tone of the most deferential protest, "that surely is a matter for the Cabinet."

"Quite so," said the King. "That is why I ask."

So then the Premier explained circumstantially and at great length why, in that sense, nothing whatever could be done. We need not go into it here—those who read Jingalese history will find the Prime Minister's reasons published elsewhere; and it all really came only to this: "It is the duty of a government to keep in power; and if it cannot do justice without endangering its party majority, then justice cannot be done."

You could not have a more satisfactory, a more logical, or a more unanswerable argument than that. And at all events—whether you agree with it or not—it is the argument that all ministers act upon now-a-days, even when, in the House of Legislature which sits subservient to their will, there is a majority ready and waiting which thinks differently of the matter, but fears to act lest it should lose touch with the loaves and fishes. For now it is on the life not of a Parliament but of a Cabinet that losses are counted. And the reason is plain; for every member of a Cabinet has to think of saving for himself some L5,000 a year together with an enormous amount of departmental power and patronage; while an ordinary private member of Parliament has only his few hundreds to think about and his rapidly diminishing right to any independence at all. The life and death struggles of a ministry are bound, therefore, to be more desperate, more unscrupulous, and more pecuniarily corrupt than those of any other branch of the legislature. And, of course, when we put all the leading strings into fingers so buttered with gold, political corruption is the necessary and inevitable result, and such incidental things as mere justice must wait.

But the Prime Minister did not explain matters to the King in such plain and understandable terms as these; and, as a consequence, his explanation being incomplete, his Majesty's mind remained unsatisfied.

"Very well," said he, when the ministerial apologia was concluded; "I will consider what you say, and when I have quite made up my mind I will send a message to Council with recommendations; I still have that right under the Constitution."

The Prime Minister stiffened. Here was conflict in Council cropping up again; it must be put down.

"That right, sir," said he, "has not been exercised for nearly a hundred years."

"I beg your pardon," said the King, "I exercised it only two months ago, when I sent in the message of my abdication."

"Which your Majesty has been wise enough not to act upon."

"Which, nevertheless, you were forced to accept, and would have had to give effect to, ultimately, by Act of Parliament."

That was true.

"By the way," went on the King, "arising out of that withdrawal of my abdication which you say was so wise, there has come a difficulty I had not foreseen. Believing that by now my son would be upon the throne instead of me, I gave my consent to his marriage with the daughter of the Archbishop. Yes, Mr. Premier, you may well start: I am just as much perturbed about it as you; for the Prince now comes to me and claims the fulfilment of my promise."

"Impossible, sir!" exclaimed the Prime Minister.

"That is what I tell him. He does not think so."

"But, your Majesty, this is absolutely unheard of. The whole position would be intolerable!"

"I indorse all your adjectives and your statements," said the King coldly; "but the fact remains."

"Then, sir, I must see the Prince, immediately."

"It is no use, no use whatever," replied his Majesty. "Besides—the matter is still rather at a private stage. You had much better wait till the Prince comes to you; otherwise he may accuse me of having been premature."

"But what does the Archbishop say?" cried the Premier, aghast.

"That is the point; I believe he does not yet know. Technically speaking, the engagement is scarcely a day old. The Prince's note claiming my promise reached me only this morning, and I imagine it is only now that the Archbishop will have to be informed. Hitherto the matter has been in suspension. You will understand it was dependent—on my abdication, I might say."

"In that case, sir, the conditions are not fulfilled."

"I fear they are," said the King; "the Prince has my promise in writing; and abdication is not mentioned. You see, it was the bomb that made all the difference. Very provoking that it should have happened just then; it upset all my plans!"

The Prime Minister began to look very uncomfortable.

"Oh, no," went on the King, observing his change of countenance, "don't think that I am blaming you. What you said was quite true; abdication after that became impossible; I am only saying it as an excuse for the position in which I now find myself. It was not I who made the mistake, it was that poor misguided person who threw the bomb; he ought to have killed me. I am confident that, had the Prince been actually on the throne, the situation would have been radically altered, that he would not have persisted—that he would have seen, as you say, how impossible the position would be. Very unfortunate—very—but there we are!"

"But again I say, sir, that even now, though the Prince is not on the throne—and long may your Majesty be spared!—the whole thing is absolutely and utterly impossible."

"I quite agree," said the King; "but that is the situation. Before now I have found myself in similar ones, and have tried to get out of them; yet I have seldom succeeded."

"But this, sir," persisted the Prime Minister, "is politically impossible. Things could not go on."

"And yet, Mr. Premier, you know that they will have to; that is the very essence of politics."

"I tell your Majesty that rather than admit such a possibility the Ministry would resign."

"Very well—then it must," said the King. "But you will find that the Prince will not regard my inability to secure an alternative Government as any reason why he should not marry the lady of his choice. I may as well tell you, for your information, that he has revolutionary ideas, and this is one of them."

"I am confident," exclaimed the Prime Minister, with a gleam of hope, "that the Archbishop himself will forbid it."

"Very likely," replied his Majesty; "but I am not sure that he will succeed. I wish he could; but from all I hear the lady herself is of a rather determined character. Women are very determined now-a-days."

He thought of Charlotte and sighed; and yet, in his heart, he could not help admiring and envying her.

"We will talk of this all again some other time," he went on, tired of the profitless discussion. "After all the marriage is not going to take place the day after to-morrow."

"Sir," said the Premier, "over a matter of this sort any delay is impossible—the risk is too great. I must see the Prince myself."

"Very well," said the King, "do as you like. After all I ought to be glad that it is with the Prince you will have to discuss the matter, and not with me."

And he smiled to himself, for he very much liked the thought of the Prime Minister tackling Max.



CHAPTER XIX

THE SPIRITUAL POWER



I

But the Prime Minister, though he lost no time, was unable to catch his quarry. Prince Max had gone out; and his secretary could give no information as to his whereabouts. "His Highness told me that he had a very important engagement; he did not say with whom." To apprehensive ears that phrase sounded ominous; and fearing what risks delay might entail the Premier drove down to Sheepcote Precincts, the archiepiscopal residence; and there for three mortal hours he and the Archbishop sat with heads together (yet intellectually very much apart) discussing what was to be done.

It was during those three hours that his Grace of Ebury performed his most brilliant feat of statesmanship, and redeemed that local off-shoot of the Church of Christ over which he ruled from the political slough whereinto it had fallen. To him solely—by means of his daughter, that is to say (but in politics women do not count)—is due the fact that the Church of Jingalo still stands on its old established footing, and that her Bishops have a decisive modicum of political power left to them.

The Archbishop was, in his heart of hearts—that last infirmity of his noble mind—quite as much horrified at the news as the Premier had been. But scarcely were the dread tidings out of the minister's mouth when, perceiving his opportunity, he rose to it as a fish rises to a fly, and pretended with all due solemnity to be rather pleased than otherwise. Though his daughter's elevation to princely rank and to the prospect of future sovereignty would assuredly seal his political doom, he professed presently to see in it a fresh stepping-stone to influence and power, or, as he conscientiously phrased it, to "opportunities for good." His approach to this point, however, was gradual and circuitous.

"Of course it is a great honor," he began, deliberately weighing the proposition in earthly scales, and seeming not wholly to reject it.

"That goes without saying," replied the Prime Minister, "and hardly needs to be discussed. Our sure point of agreement is that it must not be."

His Grace lifted his grizzled eyebrows in courteous interrogation, and beginning delicately to disentangle the gold strings of his pince-nez from the pectoral cross to which like a penitent it clung, said, "Of course I perfectly understand how great a shock this has been to you. To me also it comes as an entire surprise: my daughter has told me nothing, and therefore—in a sense—I can say nothing till I have seen her."

"You have influence with her, I suppose?" said the Premier.

"Oh, undoubtedly."

"I am confident, then, that your Grace will use it to the right end."

"It has never been my habit, I trust, to neglect my parental responsibilities," replied his Grace.

"I was thinking, rather, of your responsibilities to the State."

"Those, too, I shall have in mind. There is also the Church."

The Prime Minister was puzzled.

"This matter does not seem to impress your Grace quite as it does me. I should have thought there could be no two opinions about it."

"That was too much to hope, surely? Our points of view are so very different."

The Premier felt that plain dealing had become necessary. "It would make quite untenable your position as leader of a party," he remarked grimly.

"I was not concerned about myself," replied his Grace with wonderful sweetness. "As for that, I am growing old."

"But surely you agree that the thing is wholly impossible?"

"Impossible is a strong word."

"That it would profoundly alter the constitutional status of the Crown?"

"Possibly. I think not."

This slow weighing of cons in the balance was having a devastating effect upon the minister's nerves; he got upon his feet.

"Does your Grace mean to tell me that this thing is even conceivable?"

"Conceivable? I wish you would state to me, without any fear of offense, the whole body of your objection. I recognize, of course, that the Royal House, in the direct line, has made no such alliance for over two hundred years,—never, in fact, since it ceased to be of pure native extraction. I also admit that for myself as a party politician (if you impose upon me that term) it is inconvenient, destructive even to certain plans which I had formed. But putting myself altogether aside, and allowing that for a precedent we have to go very far back into the past, what real objections have you to urge?"

The Prime Minister was beginning to get thoroughly uncomfortable.

"It is a breach—a fatal breach to my mind," said he, "in that caste distinction which alone makes monarchy possible under modern conditions. I mean no personal disrespect to your Grace: were it a question of my own daughter, I should take the same view. It disturbs a tradition which has worked well and for safety, and has not been broken for hundreds of years. But most destructively of all it threatens that aloofness from all political entanglements—that absolute impartiality between party and party—which to-day constitutes the strength of the Crown."

"I might be quite prepared," said the Archbishop slowly, "in such an event, to withdraw myself from all political action of a party character."

"You cannot so separate yourself from the past," objected the Prime Minister.

"I do not see the difficulty. You yourself, in a long and varied career, have twice changed your party, or deserted it. If that can be done with sincerity, it is equally possible to become of no party at all."

The Prime Minister flushed at this attack on his past record, and struck back—

"Not for an Archbishop," he said, a little sneeringly. "The Church now-a-days has become not merely a part of our political system, but a stereotyped adjunct of party, and a very one-sided one at that."

"To answer such a charge adequately," replied his Grace, "I should be forced into political debate foreign to our present discussion. What concerns me here and now is that something has taken place—pregnant for good or ill—which you regard as impossible, and which I do not. In either case—whatever conclusion is reached—I am called upon to make a sacrifice. Of that I do not complain, but what I am bound to consider, even before the interests of the State (upon which we take different views), are the interests of the Church. When we last met you were preparing to do those interests something of an injustice: and your more recent proposals do not induce me to think that you have changed your mind. If the Church is to lose the ground she now holds in the State she must seek to recover it elsewhere. I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that, in the high position now offered to her, my daughter will be able to do a great work—for the Church."

"I believed that you had no sympathy with the intrusion of women into the domain of politics."

"Not into politics, no; but the Church is different. We have in our Saints' Calendar women—queens some of them—who were ready to lay down their lives for the Church, and to secure her recognition by heathen peoples and kings. Why should not my daughter be one?"

He spoke with an exalted air, his hand resting upon his cross.

"Your Grace," said the Prime Minister in a changed tone, "may I put one very crucial question? Have you a complete influence over your daughter?"

"That I can hardly answer; I will only say that she is dutiful. Never, so far as I am aware, has she questioned my authority, nor has she combated my judgment in any matter where it was my duty to decide for her what was right."

On this showing she seemed a very estimable and trustworthy young person; and with a sense of encouragement the Prime Minister went on—

"Then upon this question of her marriage with the Prince, would she, do you think, be guided by you?"

"She would not marry him without my consent."

"And your consent might be forthcoming?"

"Under certain circumstances, I think—yes."

"And as the circumstances stand now at this moment?"

The Archbishop paused, and looked long at the Prime Minister before answering.

"How do they stand?" he inquired.

II

That evening when Jenifer returned home the Archbishop was waiting her arrival. The door of his private library stood ajar. "Come in, my dear," he called, hearing her step in the corridor, "come in; I wish to speak to you."

She entered with a flushed face. "I wanted to speak to you, father," she said.

He saw that she was come charged for the delivery of her soul, and perceiving what a strategic advantage it would give him to hear the story first from her own lips, he waived his prior claim. "Very well, my dear," he replied, "for the next hour I am free, and at your disposal."

"It may take longer than that," she warned him; "I have something to tell you that seems to me almost terrible."

"Anything wrong?"

"Oh, no, but so tremendous I hardly know how to begin." Her breast labored with the burden of its message, but in her face was a look of dawn.

"Has it to do with yourself?"

"Yes, papa. I am engaged to marry Prince Max."

The Archbishop paused for a moment, thinking how best to avoid any appearance of foreknowledge.

"My child," he said, "what Prince Max do you mean?"

"The only one that I know of," she answered.

"You mean the heir to the throne?"

"Yes, papa."

"You say you are engaged to him?"

"Yes."

"With whose knowledge, may I ask?"

"The King knows; he has just given his consent. That is why I am telling you now."

"Why only now?" There was reproach in his tone.

"Until we had his consent we were not engaged."

"And now—being engaged—you come for mine?"

"No, papa; only to let you know." She paused. "Of course I should be glad of your approval."

The Archbishop sat silent for a while. "How long have you known Prince Max?" he inquired at last.

"About six months."

"Is not that rather a short time?"

"Yes."

"For so important a decision, I mean."

"Yes; it is, I know."

"For learning a man's character, shall I say?"

"Some characters one learns more quickly than others. I know him, papa, better than I do you."

"That may well be, youth does not easily understand age. And so my question remains: Do you know him well enough to marry him?"

"I want to marry him," she said.

"You know there are objections?"

"Oh, yes."

"Very serious ones."

"Yes, I told him; I said it was quite impossible. He said he could get the King's consent. I did not think so: I felt sure, indeed, that he could not. But to-day he came and showed it to me in writing—a promise made conditionally more than two months ago."

"Conditionally?"

"Yes; it named a date. That is why until to-day there was nothing that I could tell you."

"Not even the fact that he had asked you to marry him?"

"I could not wish that to be known, if nothing was to come if it—not by any one."

"It would have been better, my child."

"No, papa; why should you, or any one, know what I had had to give up?"

"Of course, it would have been painful; that I can understand."

"I can smile at it now," she said; "but at the time it was terrible! For I found, then, how much I loved him."

The Archbishop withheld all speech for a moment, then said tenderly—

"I am very sorry for you, my child."

"Ah, but there is no need to be now!" she cried joyfully.

Once more he paused; then he repeated the words.

There was quick attention then in her look, but she showed no fear; and he shifted to easier ground.

"Tell me," he said gently, "how all this came about. How did you come to know the Prince?"

"Only by seeing him at the Court; then I recognized that we had met often before, when I had not known who he was."

"Why should he have concealed it?"

"He did not; one day he told me, and I would not believe him, it seemed so unlikely. Neither did he believe me when I told him who I was; he said that the facts were incompatible, and that mine was the more unlikely story of the two."

"Did you—did you begin liking him very soon?"

"I began by almost hating him. He used to scoff at everything, he seemed not to believe in anything that was good. Almost the first time that we met he told me that the dress I wore was 'provocative'—'a lure of Satan's devising' he called it, and said that nothing tempted men more than for women to wear what he described as 'the uniform of virginity.' He declared that it was because of my dress that he got lost following me through the slums."

"Did not that warn you what sort of man he was?"

"No; for it was not true. We just happened to meet, and he helped me when I was single-handed. He confessed afterwards that he had said everything he could to shock me—to put me to the test. He has grown up distrusting all religious professions."

"A scoffer? Did not even that warn you?"

"No; under the circumstances it seemed the most natural thing; it showed me that he was honest."

These sounded dreadful words to the Archbishop, coming from his daughter's lips; he felt that, in passing from theory to practice she had become shockingly latitudinarian in her views; and again, cautious and circumspect, he shifted his ground.

"My dear," he said, "you do realize, I suppose, that from a worldly point of view the Prince has committed a very grave indiscretion."

She smiled. "He tells me so himself; it rather pleases him. But now the King has given his consent."

"Yes, nominally he has," replied the Archbishop. "But in that there is a good deal more than meets the eye. When his Majesty first gave that promise he never intended that it should take effect."

She paled slightly at his words, and he saw that only now had he scored a point.

"Why do you think that?"

"I do not think it, I know; but I am not at liberty to reveal secrets of State. Let us put that aside, I cannot give you proof; if you wish to disbelieve it, do. But now I come to my main point. There is a side to this question about which you know nothing, but you know that in the State to-day the Church has her enemies. This indiscretion on the part of the Prince, supported by a promise from which the King cannot in honor withdraw, has suddenly put into my hands a great opportunity which must not be missed."

"Into your hands, papa?"

"Under Providence, yes; I say it reverently. You are my daughter, and in service and loyalty to the Church you and I are as one."

She looked at him steadfastly, but did not respond in words.

"A great opportunity," he said again; "a great power for righteousness, to save the Church in her dire need. That is a great thing to be able to do—worth more than anything else that life can offer. To you, my daughter, that call has come; how will you answer it?"

Her face had grown white, but was still hard to his appeal; he had not won her yet.

"Yes," she said, "I do partly understand. I will do all for you that I can."

"Then you will release the Prince from his bond."

"He does not ask to be released."

"That may be."

Then there was silence.

"My dear child," murmured the Archbishop; there was emotion in his voice, and putting out his hand he laid it upon hers.

She drew herself gently from the contact.

"Only if he wishes it," she said.

"He will not wish it."

"Then he has my word."

"Your life contains other and holier vows than that, my child."

She did not seem to think so. "Father," she said, "this is the man I love!"

"That I realize," he replied gravely. "The question is which do you love best,—him or the Church?"

Jenifer opened her eyes in a limpid and childlike wonderment. How could he ask a question the answer to which was so obvious? "Why, him!" she cried; "there is no possible comparison!"

The Archbishop was deeply shocked as well as nonplussed at such an answer coming from his daughter; and meanwhile with clear sincerity of speech she went on—

"You mean the Church of Jingalo—do you not, papa?"

Of course it was the Church of Jingalo that he meant, but it would not do at this juncture to say so. His daughter might be one of those dreadful people who believed that the Church would get value out of disestablishment.

"I meant the Church of our fathers," said he, "the faith into which you were baptized,—the spiritual health and welfare of the whole nation."

"I do not think that by marrying the Prince I shall do it any harm. I am sure that he means none."

Her idea of the power of Princes struck him as curiously feminine; how little she understood of politics!

"It is rather a case," said he, "of harm that you cannot prevent, except in one way. What have you in your mind? Is it the wish to sit upon a throne?"

"Oh, no!" she said; "I shall never like being queen." Then, after a pause, she added honestly, "All the same, I could do things, then—things which I have longed to do; and I know that he would let me."

Her face glowed at the prospect; and suddenly she turned upon him a full look of self-confidence and courage, and there was challenge in her tone.

"I know far more about the poor than you do, father," she said, "and much more of their needs. If I were queen I would have a house down among the slums; and I would never spend Christmas, or Easter, or Good Friday in any other place." Her voice broke. "I would try—I would try," she said, "to set up Christianity in high places. That has been my dream."

"Have you told your dream to the Prince?"

She smiled tenderly, and with confidence. "He is already helping to make it come true. I asked him to be upon the Commission. That is why he is there."

"You?"

The Archbishop was now realizing that he knew very little about his daughter, and she not only amazed him, she frightened him. For the first time he feared that he might lose the great stakes for which he was playing; and one thing was essential—this woman, this domestic pawn which he held in his hand, must never be allowed to become queen.

And so with great pain he forced himself, and spoke on. How right he had been when he told the Prime Minister that in one way or another sacrifice would be required of him! For now he was going to sacrifice his most sacred conventions, his ideal of how an unmarried woman should be trained.

"My child," he said, "do you think that you know this man?"

"Yes; I know him better than any one else in the world."

"Do you also know his life?"

Jenifer's look turned on him a little curiously.

"I know," she said, "that he is not really a Christian."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, in a sort of joy, decorously flavored with grief, "that I did not know! Of course that explains everything. The rest inevitably follows."

"What follows?"

"No man who is not a Christian leads a life that will stand looking into." And then, avoiding her eyes, he spoke of things which he knew; some of them in certain quarters were almost common property; of others he had only recently become informed.

And as he spoke he felt, with a strange oppression, the heart beside him grow dumb. For this woman, with her clear and gracious understanding of so many human ills and weaknesses, had been kept in one matter, the most important of all, with the mind of an undeveloped child. Evil things she knew of—they had an existence, a place, and a name—but for her no reality except in their awful results. All that she had hitherto seen of "irregular living" bore the stamp of betrayal and disease, a thing more grossly criminal than anything else in the social body. She did not know how that body was permeated, and how no class and no ordinary standard of morality was free from the taint.

And now she heard that the man she loved had been keeping that thing called "a mistress"—housing her in luxury, visiting her day after day, not very greatly troubling himself whether the fact remained secret or became known. Then dates were mentioned; and she was given to know how those visits had still gone on while her lover had been offering her the devotion of his heart. It was there, after his recent accident, that he had gone to be nursed.

The Archbishop was extremely well informed, and he told nothing which he did not absolutely believe to be true. And now at last all the advantage was on his side, for ignorance left her almost without defense; with no sense of proportion she stood looking out into a non-dimensional world.

Dimly her mind made a struggle to escape.

"But what, what does it mean?" she asked. "There must be some reason for it. Is it a kind of disease?"

"A corrupt nature," said her father solemnly; "these are what the Church calls in her teaching 'the sins of the flesh.'"

She shuddered, for to her by religious training "flesh" had come to have a dreadful sound. In her spiritual world she pictured it as a shop hung with butcher's meat; yet why it was dreadful she did not know.

"Tell me," she murmured with pained speech, still trying for a way out, "it isn't—natural, is it?"

"That doctrine is preached by some," said her father; "Christianity forbids any such view."

"He said," she went on, "he said this, when he first asked me to marry him: 'I have done some natural things which you would hold to be wrong. I have loved,' he said, 'for mere comfort, not for honor or life.' He asked me if I understood; I said 'Yes.' 'That is my confession,' he said. 'I have been,' he said, 'no better than others; I hope not worse.' And that was all. I thought he meant that he had been selfish and worldly. Is that other thing what he really meant?"

"No doubt."

"But he told me," she said, and looked at him with a forlorn hope.

"It was the best thing that he could do for himself; no doubt he guessed that eventually you would come to know."

She stood thinking back into the past.

"After he had told, he kissed me," she said; "he had never done that before." Her lips trembled and the tears ran down her face.

"You know enough now, my dear. That will not happen again."

"I still love him," she said, as though confessing to shame.

The Archbishop had sufficient wisdom to accept the statement without protest. "It would be hard for you to do otherwise," he said. "The heart cannot change all at once."

"I believed that with him I could do good."

"Can you believe that now?"

"I don't know."

"That sort of life enters the blood," said her father, "taints it, makes evil that which would otherwise be holy."

"You mean——?"

"I speak of marriage; the drawing together of two into one."

"It still is marriage."

"Its mystery has been profaned. Marriage then, coming after, may be only a reminiscence of sin."

She stood looking at him, her face very pale.

"I shall still have to ask him if it is true."

The Archbishop resigned himself to what he could not avoid. "If you must," he said. And then, thinking forward to what might possibly happen, he added: "It was my duty to tell you everything."

"Yes," she replied, "but you did not mean to tell me at first."

"I hoped that I might spare you," he explained. "These are not things that one speaks of willingly; if they can be avoided it is better that they should not be known."

She gave a gesture of impatience, pressing her hands against her eyes.

"Do not say anything more to me," she said, and her voice sounded hopeless and dead. "Not now."

And then, very slowly, she turned and went out of the room.

The Archbishop told himself that he had done his duty. Personal aggrandizement, great opportunities of power and social position he had put away, he had done a true and holy thing. And so he sat down and wrote to the Prime Minister.



CHAPTER XX

THE THORN AND THE FLESH



I

The next day Prince Max received a letter written by the hand which had become for him the dearest in the world. It was very simple and straightforward and methodical: it began with the word "Beloved" and asked whether certain things were true. It seemed, then, that for the first time his confession was understood. Not a single one of the questions put to him contained anything that was untrue, but they did not go much into detail, and no commentary was made upon the facts indicated.

Max sat down and wrote a very beautiful letter in reply, and got no answer.

For three days he put up with this rebuff to his honesty of character and his literary ability; then not finding his lady where he expected her to be, he went and called upon her father.

The Archbishop was out; but Max, not to be denied, sat down and waited for his return. He waited for over two hours. It was getting towards dusk when his Grace entered, a reverend, high-shouldered figure, showing a stoop and beginning now to look old.

The Archbishop's very formal greeting told Max that here was the enemy. This did not at all dismay him; at that time, indeed, he was full of confidence. The temporary separation between himself and his beloved, brought about in a conventional way which he thoroughly despised, was for the moment a hindrance; but it had not yet taken to itself the colors of doom. He knew that Jenifer's heart was entirely his, and that they, with their common honesty, had only to meet again to be made one. What he wanted to know, therefore, was not so much the opinion of Jenifer's father about himself and the engagement, as to find out her present whereabouts. From the first moment of their meeting he knew that he did not stand in the Archbishop's good graces; but that hardly concerned him; and so it was almost without circumlocution that he asked for Jenifer's address.

The Archbishop, by a simultaneous depression of the head and raising of the eyebrows, managed to convey his just sense of the honor which was being done him and the liberty that was being taken.

"I wrote the other day," explained Max, "asking her to arrange a time when I might come and see you. In strict etiquette I believe that your Grace ought first to call upon me; but we have so few precedents to go by. She has, I trust, done me the honor to tell you that we are engaged?"

"I have been informed of the circumstance," replied the Archbishop with stately formality.

The Prince took the matter boldly in hand. "From your manner I have to presume that we have not the happiness of your consent?"

"My consent was not asked."

"Had it been?"

"I could not have given it."

"That I think," said the Prince, "would have been the perfectly correct attitude until such time as the King gave his. It is for that we have been waiting; had it not been so I should have come to you earlier."

"Early or late, my answer to your Highness would always be the same."

"May I ask upon what grounds?"

"I would ask, sir, in return, upon what grounds is it suitable that you should marry my daughter?"

"It so happens," replied Max, "that I am in love with her."

"What precisely, sir, to your mind does the phrase 'being in love' convey?"

The Prince saw that the tussle was coming; he gathered his thoughts together, then said, "An intense personal desire to endow a certain woman with motherhood."

The Archbishop flushed: sharp enmity showed itself in his eyes; he made a gesture of repulsion.

"Ah!" cried Max, "does that shock the Church?"

The challenge went unanswered; instead came question.

"Have you not had this desire before—in other directions?"

"Never!" exclaimed Max. "No, never!"

The Archbishop eyed him keenly. "You have had experience."

"I have lived my life openly," said the Prince.

"I was aware of that," returned his Grace. "Need I trouble your Highness with any further grounds for my refusal? Not with my consent shall my daughter marry a libertine."

"Great Judge of Heaven!" cried Max, springing to his feet. "Hark to this old man!"

"Don't shout," said the Archbishop; "He hears you."

Max's scorn dropped back like a rocket to earth.

"Yes," he retorted, "no doubt! The question is, are you capable of hearing Him?"

"I am always ready to be instructed," replied his Grace sarcastically.

"I must remind you," said the Prince, "that as a Doctor of Divinity I have some claim. Yes," he went on in answer to the Archbishop's look of astonishment, "though you have forgotten the circumstance, you yourself dubbed me Theologian by hitting me over the head with a Greek Testament."

The Archbishop accepted the reminiscence.

"In that case," said he, "I bow to your Highness's authority."

"Yes: you were a shepherd of that fold, yet you let me in? I was the clever one of my family; and the title was given me when, with three lives standing between, there was little likelihood of my becoming Head of the Church. Was I to wear it, then, as an ornament, or as an amulet to guide me into right doctrine? Whatever faith I still hold, I fear me that miracle has not been wrought."

"In these days," said the Archbishop, "faith itself is the great miracle."

"That people should have any faith in the Church is indeed a miracle," said Max. "Yet I suppose it is but another instance of how easily the world accepts what it finds. I myself remain outwardly a Churchman; merely because it seems to me hardly to matter, and because any overt act on my part would hurt those whom I love. And what spiritual experience have I acquired as the result of my outward conformity? I have found the pulpit the most polished of all social institutions: and never once have I heard from it any word troublesome to a conscience which has still, I can assure you, its waking moments. The eloquence that flows from it never trespasses beyond the bounds of polite conversation; and as regards 'unpleasant subjects' it deals faithfully only with the lives of those who do not form the bulk of its congregations. If it dealt faithfully with them, those polite congregations would get up and walk out."

"I do not think, sir, that your experience puts you in a position to know how the Church deals with the consciences of the faithful."

"You mean," said Max, "that in the ears of royalty uncomfortable subjects are avoided? That merely indicates the system. As the snail withdraws first his horns into his head, then his body into his shell, so your Church adapts itself to its surroundings. Let me give you a case in point—it touches on our present discussion. I have heard often enough the cheaper forms of prostitution decorously alluded to; but when did I ever hear dealt with, either for approval or reprobation, the established practice among the unmarried youth of our aristocracy of keeping mistresses?"

"I think, sir, that you must have been often inattentive. The virtue of purity is, I am sure, constantly inculcated by our clergy."

"In such a form," replied the Prince, "that we need not apply it to ourselves. The betrayal of innocency, yes, I have heard of that, for that only touches a small minority. But these mistresses whom most of us keep are no more innocent than ourselves, nor are we more innocent than they. And yet, while to them all social entrances are barred, we men are allowed to go in free."

"Society cannot act on mere rumor and suspicion," said the Archbishop.

"In the woman's case it does," replied the Prince. "And I wonder whether it has ever occurred to any one to connect that fact with the cheapening of our modern definition of chivalry. Are you ever chivalrous; am I?"

"Charity is a greater thing than chivalry."

"I am not so sure of that," said the Prince. "You had forgotten just now that I was a Doctor of Divinity; have you also forgotten that we share the honors of one of the most ancient knighthoods in the world?"

"Will your Highness be so good as to explain?"

"Your Grace will perhaps remember—since you officiated upon the occasion as prelate of the Order—my investiture rather more than two years ago as a Knight of the Holy Thorn?"

The Archbishop bowed assent.

"Your discourse upon that occasion was both learned and eloquent; but it did not really touch the subject that had brought us together."

"How would you define the subject?" inquired his Grace.

"The subject on which I hoped to be instructed," said the Prince, "was the real meaning of Chivalry as expressed in the Order of the Thorn, and the reason why I was deemed worthy to be made a knight of it. There had already been some comment owing to the fact that the honor was not conferred immediately on the attainment of my majority. Perhaps my shortened career at college had something to do with it—perhaps the fact that I had brothers who were older and worthier than myself. I am not in the least blaming my father for the delay; rather am I now inclined to be grateful. But that year the death of my two brothers created more than a vacancy: and any further postponement would, I suppose, have made the omission too pointed. I stepped into those dead shoes."

"What a talker the man is!" said the Archbishop to himself. But etiquette held him bound, and there he was obliged to sit, looking interested and attentive, while Max went on.

II

"For some reason or another—perhaps because it was the one thing for which, in spite of legitimate expectations, I had been kept waiting—I conceived for the honor, when it was bestowed on me, a sentimental regard which I did not experience toward my other titles. They had all dropped upon me without any merit on my part; for this one honor I felt in some curious way that I was not worthy. It may have been that feeling of unworthiness which made me, before the date of my investiture, study the history of the Order and the legend of its origin. I had hoped that you would touch upon that legend, and give it some modern application. I wonder now whether your Grace is aware of the legend; or whether I, indeed, am not the only Knight of the Order who has troubled to think anything about it."

"I fancy," said the Archbishop, "that the legend you refer to has a flavor of medieval Romanism that would hardly commend itself to modern ears."

The Prince smiled bitterly. "Your Grace persuades me," he said, "to tell the story myself. At the point where it does not commend itself I shall be glad to hear your criticism.

"The Founder—or ought I not rather to say the first Knight?—of the Order was (if the story be true) a certain ancestor of our royal house who had spent the greater part of his life in wars of unjust aggression. To atone for them—or for other things which weighed more heavily on his conscience—he went late in life on a crusade to the Holy Land; and after being there handsomely trounced by the infidel, was returning in dejection to the sea-coast with the mutinous remnant of his following, when the founding of the Order of the Thorn occurred to him.

"It occurred to him thus: this at all events was his own account of it. He had become separated from his company of knights, darkness was coming on—when, as he spurred his tired steed with little mercy for its exhausted condition, he passed by the roadside a beggar who cried out to him for charity. But the charity asked for was not alms, but only the withdrawal from the mendicant's foot of a thorn which troubled him.

"My ancestor, softened by some accent of gentleness or patience in the suppliant's voice, dismounted to do the service required of him, and in the growing darkness drew out the thorn. But when he had got it free from the flesh it seemed no more a thorn but an iron nail; and the wound out of which he had drawn it shone with celestial radiance. Then was founded the Order. The Mendicant bade him bind the Thorn upon his heel in the place of his spur, so that whenever thereafter he should be tempted to goad or oppress whether man or beast the Thorn should remind him of pity and mercy. I wait for your Grace's criticism of that legend?"

The Archbishop made no reply: with a courteous gesture of the hand he invited the Prince to continue.

"I hoped," said the young man, "to be instructed in the connection between that Founding and the continuance of the Order. You spoke of chivalry and loyalty; but the chivalry which you invited us to emulate was merely the physical daring of our ancestors as proved in war (wherein I am no longer allowed to take part); and the loyalty was to a form of monarchy which modern conditions now threaten with change. And I, looking at all my brother Knights around me, and at myself, wondered by what right we wore that iron thorn upon our heels.

"Among us—I need not mention names—were men whose lives were far more notoriously evil than mine—men whose wealth had been gained for them by the grinding of sweated humanity; men who received enormous rents from houses not fit for human habitation—men who opposed every act of remedial legislation which disturbed their own vested interests, and who did these things with an untroubled conscience because the conditions they fought for were all the outcome of custom or of law.

"And I remembered that some day I should be required to become their Grand Master—the titular head of that dead Order of Chivalry; and I wondered what would happen if I acted honestly upon my conscience and refused."

"Yet you say, sir, that for this Order, of which you now speak so slightingly, you had sentiments of reverence?"

"For the Order—yes; but none for the men—including myself—who make up its membership."

"Surely," said the Archbishop, "your Highness must admit that they are all men of mark; many of them have spent their lives in the public service—leaders of the people in peace and war. You cannot regard these things as nothing."

"For these things they already have their titles," said the Prince, "their state-pensions, or the wealth personally acquired on which their power and influence are based. Has the Order of the Thorn ever once in its history been given to a man because he was conspicuously good, or gentle, or forbearing, or unselfishly thoughtful for others? Has it ever once been given to a successful philanthropist who was not also of high lineage and title? I have looked through the lists; I can find none. Your Grace is the only one among us whose profession is to serve God rather than to be served by men."

The Archbishop glanced uneasily at the Prince; but there was no sarcasm in his look or tone. Max was never more of an artist than in his adaption of manner to theme. Sadly, almost dejectedly he went on.

"And now let us come to myself. It seems that I am not accounted worthy to receive your daughter's hand in marriage. In a certain sense I admit it. That he is unworthy seems true to every man who ever loved a woman well; and perhaps the woman feels the same of herself. But I do not admit that the reasons for your judgment are just. You deny me my claim because, during my early manhood, I have had illicit connection with one woman. Tell me—do you propose that your daughter shall ever marry at all?"

The Archbishop looked at the Prince with a half-pitying surmise and drew himself up as though he had some statement to make. Then putting the inclination aside he said: "That is for her to choose."

"From her own rank in life?" persisted Max,—"not limited, I mean, to the clerical profession?"

"I impose no limits on my daughter's freedom," said the Archbishop.

"And do you mean to tell me," inquired the Prince, "that of every suitor for your daughter's hand—lawyer, soldier, politician, man of letters—you will make it your business to inquire—and will expect to be told the truth—whether they have not at some period of their career had illicit connection with women?"

"I could recommend no suitor," said the Archbishop, "who had been at so little pains as your Highness to avoid the setting of a bad example to others."

"Is it, then, merely secrecy that you advocate?"

"A respect for moral observances is in itself a ground of recommendation," answered his Grace; "though at times a man may fall short of what he knows to be right."

"You mean," said the Prince, "that I have flagrantly committed myself in the upkeep of an establishment, where others have only paid an extravagant price for a night's lodging?"

"Your Highness puts the matter in a way that makes it impossible for me to discuss."

"I beg your pardon; I really was trying to be delicately indirect. But that you should beg off discussion because my way of putting things seems to you indelicate is yet another count in my quarrel with your established ministry. You seem to me to be amateurs where you ought to be professionals. How can you possibly deal with poor weak humanity in kid gloves? Like the surgeon before he can hope to bring healing in his wings, you too must be anatomical in your researches. It is the anatomical your civil churchmen fight shy of. Well, I will endeavor to get at the matter from another and a more accessible side. Your Grace is, I take it, a man of the world?"

The Archbishop was inclined to demur; humbly but firmly he deprecated the imputation.

"But surely!" protested the Prince, "had you not been, you would not now be in the place which you occupy; every one knows that an Archbishop's appointment is political. I ask you then, as a man of the world, how—short of a miracle—could you expect a man in my position and circumstances to have kept a technically unblemished record? Surrounded with luxuries from my birth, disciplined by no real hardship, having to make no struggle for my existence; brought up to eat meat and drink wine; athletic, but without any reason or opportunity for leading a strenuously athletic life; with brains, but with no compulsion to use them; passed, for the perfecting of my education, from one privileged grade to another; from the University to the Army, and from thence to sport and the race-course; from where on God's earth, in this modern curriculum for kings, was the idea to have occurred to me that I should do this thing, in attempting to do which your early hermits went hullabalooing to the desert?

"I am now nearly twenty-six. My father, for reasons of State, married at twenty-one: I, for similar reasons, have been kept unmarried, no sufficiently eligible partner could be found for me. And I solved the time of waiting by contracting a non-legal conjugal relationship with a woman for whom I had a very real affection, who was considerably my senior in years, and who knew quite well that the arrangement could only be temporary. My Lord Archbishop, I ask you—could you in my circumstances have shown a better, a more blameless record? I was even punctilious enough to tell your daughter—an excessive scruple, I think,—she did not understand."

"She understands now," said the Archbishop.

"And who is it," inquired the Prince sharply, "who has thus played bo-peep with her intelligence—first shutting and now opening her eyes?"

"When evil is encountered," said his Grace, "instruction has to be extended."

"And still you have stopped halfway, just at the point where it serves you best. What does her pure soul know of these problems which to her are only a few hours old?"

"She is a daughter of the Church; and she knows what the Church's answer has always been."

"She knows, then," said Max, "what no school of historians has yet been able to decide! See over in England to-day how the Church, clinging to its establishment, has to dodge and shuffle over the changes in the moral law arising out of national habit. Is the Church of Jingalo so greatly superior, think you, that it can boast?"

At that moment a clock upon the chimney-piece intoned the hour; and the Archbishop, reduced to extremity in order to get rid of his distinguished but unwelcome visitor, permitted himself to throw an involuntary glance in the direction of the sound.

The Prince, perceiving the indication, rose at once to his feet.

"Pardon me," he said, "for having kept you so long."

"Pardon me," returned his Grace; "unfortunately I have to dine."

"Of course. I ought not to have forgotten."

"I mean that I have guests."

"They shall not be kept waiting by me," said the Prince. He moved to the door. Then he stopped.

"Your Grace," he said, "I know that we cannot be friends, still——"

He paused; and there was silence.

"I greatly wish to see your daughter. Surely you cannot deny me that right."

"I cannot," said the Archbishop. "She does."

This pulled Max up with a jerk: not that he yet believed it, however.

"Where is she now?" he inquired.

"She has joined the Sisterhood of Poverty. To-day she entered her profession."

The Prince choked.

"That is horrible!" he said. "You mean she has taken vows?"

The Archbishop of Ebury bowed his head. "For the remainder of my life at all events," he said in a stricken tone. "She will not return here. My house is left desolate to me—because of you."

"You still have guests," said the Prince.

"That is an unworthy gibe," retorted his Grace. "My work has still to go on."

"I beg your pardon," said Max.

"I have written to her," he added after a pause; "and she has not answered. Will your Grace be good enough——"

"I do not think she will. She prays for you. If you came, I was to tell you that."

Again there was silence for a time.

"When I was a child," said the Prince, "I had an old nurse, who whenever I did anything wrong—as whipping was not allowed—used to go down on her knees and pray for me; and she always did it against a blank wall. I suppose it helped her. That has always remained my vision of prayer. And now I shall always think of your daughter with her dear face turned to a blank wall, praying for you and me—her murderers."

He went out.

"Upon my word!" thought the Archbishop, "that is a dangerous man to be heir to a throne."



CHAPTER XXI

NIGHT-LIGHT



I

And meanwhile the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser had arrived; and Max, instead of pursuing his own love-affair, ought to have been busy entertaining him.

The first meeting between Charlotte and her suitor had been tactfully arranged; they had met riding to a review of troops in the great Field of Mars which occupied a central space in the largest of the royal parks. The Princess had a healthy taste for riding in thoroughly cold weather; she also particularly disliked to be in a carriage when those round her were on horseback; and so, by following her own taste, when the Prince met her she was looking her very best. Down a white-frosted avenue of lindens she and her escort came trotting to the saluting-point; and there, once more in his sky-blue with its sable and silver trimmings, the Prince was presented, and opening upon her mild blue eyes that looked curiously light in his bronzed and ruddy countenance, with dutiful promptness he fell in love with her.

By a little quiet maneuvering and attendance to other matters the King left them side by side for a while. Troops stood massed in the distance waiting the signal to advance.

"Do you like soldiers?" inquired the Prince.

"It rather depends upon the uniform," replied Charlotte.

"Oh! Do you like mine?"

She looked at it, and smiled; for there were no sky-blue tunics in Jingalo; and such cerulean tones on a man were to her eyes a little incongruous.

"It would be rather trying to some complexions," she observed. "But you look very well in it."

"Ah! I have been abroad," he explained. "That has given me the colors of a Red Indian."

"You look just as if you had dropped from the sky," she said, smiling still at him.

"Oh, no, not this sky!" and he cast up a grudging glance at the opaque grayness overhead. "Here you seem to have a sun that looks only the other way."

She threw back a light remark, while her eye strayed over the field. Presently he returned to the subject.

"So you only like soldiers because of their uniforms?"

"And when they ride well. I like drums too," she added.

"Ah! good! I can play on the drum. It is my one instrument."

"Does it require much practice?"

"Oh, yes; it is very difficult—to play well. But it has been very useful to me. I took a drum with me to South America. That is music that the natives can understand, it can make them afraid; and when one is all by oneself in the forest, then it helps that one shall not feel lonely. One night when I had no fire left, I was saved my life from wild beasts just by beating at them with my drum. It is funny that you should like drums."

"I like something with them as well," said Charlotte.

"Ah," grunted the Prince, "that depends. There is some music in the world that ought never to be allowed."

"Well, there is some of ours," said the Princess, as the massed bands of three regiments sent forth their blast. "How does that strike you?"

The Prince listened with the ear of a connoisseur. "For you here, that is good," he said judicially; "but you are not a musical nation. And there is a man there that is playing his drum as it ought not to be played."

And then his formal duties called him away. This was their first exchange of compliments. Old Uncle Nostrum, who had kept within ear-shot, reported to the King that things had gone sufficiently well. There was no secrecy about the intended affair in the royal circle now; everybody knew of it.

And that evening, at a State ball given in the Prince's honor, the destined pair met again.

Nothing very much happened at the ball. The Prince danced once with Charlotte and once with the Queen, and with nobody else; while Charlotte danced nearly the whole evening; and Max, moving about with a pensive and preoccupied air, danced with nobody. But the only reason why this ball has to be mentioned is because of something that happened immediately after, quite unconnected either with the about-to-be-linked or the about-to-be-separated lovers—something which takes us back to those underground workings of the body politic which his Majesty was only now beginning fully to apprehend.

State balls end punctually, and as it were upon the stroke; as soon as the royal countenance is withdrawn they come to an end. And so within half-an-hour of the retirement of the royal party all the great suite of chambers was empty, and in less than an hour light and movement had ceased in all that part of the palace wherein the royal family resided.

But the King, hindered during the day by constant attendance upon his guest, had some papers to look through before his next meeting with the Prime Minister. He went into his study, switched on the light, and for an hour sat at work. Outside traffic died away; the sense of silence grew deep; the whole palace became permeated by it. Wearying for bed, having got through his last batch of papers, the King looked at the clock; it was half-past one.

Just as he was getting up from his seat the mere ghost of a sound caught his ear. The door, silent on its hinges, had softly opened; and within its frame stood a figure in dark civil uniform who gave the military salute.

II

"Mr. Inspector!" cried the King in surprise, recognizing the face.

"I beg your Majesty's pardon."

"Ah! You came to see that everything was safe? This time you were a little too early. Still, as you are here, I should rather like to know how far those keys do allow you to penetrate?"

"Everywhere, your Majesty."

"You mean, even to the private apartments?"

Apparently he did.

"Do you often have occasion to use them?"

"Not after to-night, your Majesty—never again."

"Oh, do not suppose that I am objecting, if it is really necessary."

"I give these keys up to-morrow, sir," said the man. "I ought to have given them up to-day; but I wanted to see your Majesty."

The King drew himself up; this seemed an intrusion.

"You could have asked for an interview," he said.

"I could have asked to the day of my death, sir; you would never have heard of it."

"You could have written."

"Does your Majesty think that all letters personally addressed are even reported to your Majesty?"

"I suppose not all of them," said the King after considering the matter.

"Not one in a hundred, sir."

"Still, any that are important I hear of."

"Mine, sir, would not have been reckoned important," said the man bitterly.

The King looked hard at him, not with any real suspicion, for his straightforward bearing inspired liking as well as confidence. But here was a man whose measure must be carefully taken, for he was certainly doing a very extraordinary thing.

"And have you something really important to tell me?"

Their eyes met on a pause that spoke better than words.

"Yes," said the man. Quietly he shut the door.

"Won't you come nearer?" said the King, for the depth of a large chamber divided them. But the disciplined figure kept its place. Slowly but without hesitation he gave what he had to say.

"I am dismissed the force," he began; "but that's not important—at least only to me—though I suppose that's partly why I'm here, for a man must fight when his living is taken from him. I am dismissed because your Majesty got out of the palace the other night without my hearing of it."

The King breathed his astonishment, but said nothing.

"I admit I ought to have known, but the man we had on duty at that door didn't know your Majesty—at least not so as to be sure. I asked him yesterday who it was went out, and he said—well, sir, he thought it was one of the palace stewards. They use that door a good deal at night, so I'm told."

"That he did not recognize me was, of course, my own doing," said the King.

"I know that, sir," replied the man, "but in the detective force we can't afford to make those sort of allowances. The consequence is—I'm out of it."

"I'm sorry, Inspector. What do you want me to do?"

"Well, sir, I'm here because I know something that I can't tell to another soul on earth. If I could have gone to them with it, I needn't have troubled your Majesty. But, so happens, I haven't got the proof."

"Are you going to ask me to believe you without proof?"

"Your Majesty can get the proof—or see it anyway. It's there at Dean's Court."

"Dean's Court? What is that?"

"Where the police museum is, sir. The proof of what I'm going to tell your Majesty lies there."

This was getting interesting. "Pray go on," said the King.

"That bomb," said the man, "the one that was thrown at your Majesty the other day—all the pieces of it are in the museum now."

He paused, then added—

"They have gone back to the place they came from."

It was evident then, from the man's tone, that to his own mind he had stated the essential part of his case.

But the King, his brain working on unfamiliar ground, missed the connection.

"I do not quite understand," he said.

"No, sir? Well, then, it's like this. After the bomb was thrown, we were put on to the ground, and the public were kept off. All the pieces picked up were brought to me. It must have been a very mild sort of charge, sir, nothing much besides gunpowder I should say; no slugs nor anything. Most of the shell I was able to put together again. It was blackened all over, partly by fire, partly new painted I think, but, under the black, I found lettering and numbers, all quite faint. I've got them here." (He drew out a pocket-book as he spoke.) "D.C.M. 5537."

He closed the book with a snap as though clinching an argument.

"The bomb that had that number on it," said he, "came from Dean's Court Museum; it's been there fifteen years. I've been in to look; that number is missing now. You'd have thought, sir, they might have been more careful than that!" He spoke with professional contempt for a job that had been bungled.

The solemnity of the man's manner, and the queer mystery of it all sent a cold sensation through the King's blood; he felt now that he was up against something dangerous and sinister.

"What do you mean me to understand from all this?" he asked?

"Well, sir," said the man, "it doesn't need me to tell your Majesty that when anarchists or any of that sort want to do a bit of bomb-throwing they don't go to our police museum for their materials. But that's not all. They found out, down at head office—after it was over, only then—that the local authorities had given permit for a cinematograph record to be taken from a stand just opposite, overlooking the new buildings, so as to get the procession as it came along under the arch. And so, as it happened, those films had got the whole thing recorded. We only heard of it when they were announced to be shown at the theater that night. I was sent down to get hold of them, and I brought them back with me.

"I've been through every one; most people wouldn't see anything. The point where the bomb went off was about fifty yards away; and those films give a view that just takes in a bit of the palisade. At number 139 you see an arm come up, and a face just behind it, very small, under the scaffolding; you'd hardly know it was there. But if that were put under a good microscope I shouldn't be surprised but what it could be recognized."

By this time the King's understanding had become clear; he saw where the argument was leading.

"Before I could do that," the man went on, "they were locked away. I didn't say anything about it—didn't point it out to them, I mean—for I'd begun to have a feeling that things weren't all right; and I daresay they haven't noticed what I noticed. If they have, number 139 and the ten plates following will be gone. Whether they have or not—that's my proof."

The King was now following the man's narrative with tense interest; every moment its import grew more clear; yes, clearer than day, sharp and bright as a rocket shot up against the blackness of a midnight sky.

The inspector paused for a moment and wiped his hand over dry lips; in the telling of that tale his face had grown white.

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?" inquired the King.

The man hesitated. "Well, your Majesty, I'd rather not say."

"I ought to know."

"Oh, yes, sir, I can't deny that! But, there, I've got no proof—so it's not the same thing. But I do say this, your Majesty, that to be able to lay hands on those things in the first place, and now to keep them locked away, needs somebody higher up in the department than I'd like to name. If I may leave it at that?"

"That will do," said the King.

"Your Majesty sees I couldn't safely go to anybody else with that proof; either it would be somebody who couldn't get at it before it was destroyed, or it would be those who had the whole thing in their own hands."

"I quite see that," said the King.

"That's all I had to say, then, sir."

"I am very much in your debt; I shall not forget what I owe you. There is one question I want to ask—you say that the charge must have been a very feeble one?"

"Yes, sir, much less than an ordinary shell."

"What do you deduce from that fact?"

"Well, your Majesty, I should say that killing had never been intended."

"That it was only done to frighten some one?"

"That is about it, your Majesty."

"Thank you; that is what I wanted to know. And if you will leave me your name, I think I can promise that you shall be at no disadvantage after I have gone into the matter."

"I am much obliged, your Majesty." The inspector came forward, drew out a card, and respectfully presenting it, retired again.

"Then, for the present, that is all," said the King. "It is now nearly two o'clock. You can, I believe, let yourself out?"

And in the light of a gentle, half-quizzical smile from the royal countenance, the inspector withdrew.

"What an amazing thing!" said the King to himself. "And oh! if it is true!"

III

He knew that it was true; for in a flash he had seen the meaning of it. And instead of angering him, it filled him with an almost intoxicating sense of power. For it meant that the Prime Minister, or the Government, could not do without him, he had been necessary to their plans.

He could not distinctly see why, whether it were a fear of Max succeeding to the throne at such a juncture or of popular resentment at the sovereign being driven to so desperate a remedy for his griefs, or fear merely of the damage that might be done to the monarchical system while bureaucracy was still depending upon it as a cloak for constitutional encroachments—whether one or all of these fears impelled his minister, the King did not know; but he saw clearly enough that to force him into withdrawal of his abdication the Prime Minister had adopted a desperate and almost heroical remedy.

He bore the man no grudge; the more he envisaged the risks, the more he admired and respected him. Feebly though the bomb had been charged, carefully though directed by slow underhand bowling only at the legs of horses, at a moment when the royal carriage had actually passed, still a bomb is an incalculable weapon—pieces of it fly in the most unexpected directions; and it was evident that for the execution of this ministerial veto on the Crown's action it had been necessary to risk the lives not merely of a picked body of troops, but of several high court officials and staff-officers riding in close attendance upon the royal coach. And a child in politics could see that if all this risk had been run to make abdication impossible, then abdication had been the right card to play.

And now that game was over, and another had begun, and if, in a certain sense, the leading cards had reverted to the ministerial hand, the King had the advantage of knowing what they were; and by leading off in another suit he might prevent the Ministry from playing them till too late for effect.

It was necessary, however, first to get his proofs. They lay at Dean's Court under official lock and key; and the hand which held that key was, for all he knew, the same which had thrown the bomb in order to frighten him. How, then, was he to get at it?

A brilliant idea occurred to him; so simple and easy that without worrying himself further he went to bed and slept upon it. And next morning, at their first meeting, he said to the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser, "Would you not like to come and see our police museum? Just now it contains some rather interesting exhibits—especially for us personally—that bomb, you know." And he proceeded to give details. "The actual pieces are all there, and a whole set of photographs, showing how the explosion took place."

Her Majesty, hearing of the project, backed it warmly.

"You will find it quite an intellectual treat," said she, "our police are such intelligent creatures. I went all over the museum myself once; and it felt exactly like being in a kaleidoscope—everything so wonderfully arranged."

"Ah, yes," said the Prince, "that should be very interesting."

And so, though it was not in the day's program, quite at an early hour the King and his guest drove down together to the Prefecture.

The Prefect himself had not arrived, but they saw one of the high permanent officials; and stating the purpose of their visit were formally handed over to the Superintendent of detectives. The department was his.

"Mr. Superintendent," said the King, "we come upon you by surprise; are you sufficiently prepared for us?"

The Superintendent declared that his department was ready at all hours.

"I wanted to show the Prince some of your relics," his Majesty went on, "particularly those connected with the recent outrage."

Of course the Superintendent was delighted; he led the way into the museum; and before long the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser became very much interested in all the things that were shown him.

Case after case was opened; and the King, seeing how smoothly matters were shaping, made no hurry toward the attainment of his goal.

Presently, pointing toward a case that stood in a window recess, the official remarked with a smile, "There lies your Majesty's death-warrant—what is left of it."

The case was opened; the King took up the fragments.

"Very interesting," he said. "There are also some photographs showing the actual event, are there not?"

"They are here, your Majesty." The Superintendent produced a small box with numbered slides.

"Very interesting," murmured the King again as he continued to handle the shards.

Presently he detected in one of these a faint trace of figures and lettering; he laid it to one side, took up the films, and began to examine them. Film after film he held up to the light; the scale was very small. Unable to decipher them in detail he sought only for the identifying numbers under which they stood catalogued.

After a while he came to the one he was in search of; that and the other two or three which immediately followed it he selected for closer scrutiny. Two of them he handed to the Prince. "This is just before," he said by way of explanation. "It was from behind those palisades that the bomb was thrown after our coach had passed."

"Here your Highness can see the actual explosion taking place," said their guide.

"Ah, very good! Very interesting!" murmured the Prince, with cordial appreciation. "That seems to have gone off quite well."

The King meanwhile had re-collected the four innocuous-looking films and set them apart from the rest. "And have you been quite unable," he inquired, "to trace the bomb to its origin, or to discover anything as to who threw it?"

"No trace at all, sir. The whole thing is a perfect mystery."

"Remarkable!" said the King.

And then with the leisurely air of a collector of curios he took up again the four films and the shard bearing the faint trace of figures, and before the astonished eyes of the Superintendent put them into his breast-pocket.

"I will keep these as a souvenir," he observed. "They will always be of great interest to me."

"I ask pardon, your Majesty," replied the official a little stiffly, "but it is against all regulations for anything to go out of this museum when it has once been catalogued."

"Ah, yes," retorted the King, smiling pleasantly, "but then it is against all regulations for bombs to be thrown at the royal coach when I am in it; so you must allow, for once, this small breach that I make in your chain of evidence. There is plenty of material for conviction still left, should you ever discover the criminal."

"I am afraid, sir," said the Superintendent, speaking gravely, "that this will get me into trouble with the Prefect. May I express a hope that your Majesty will reconsider the matter?"

"Oh, no, not at all!" said the King. "Tell the Prefect that the responsibility rests with me. The Prince here is witness that I robbed you and that you were helpless. Lay all the blame upon me without any scruple! And if it is a very grave breach of the regulations—well—you can inform the Prime Minister; and then, no doubt I shall hear of it."

The Superintendent stood mute; he had made his protest, and he could not pretend that he was satisfied.

"By the way," went on the King, "I have a very particular request to make which I think concerns your department. In connection with a certain incident that took place the other night—and which shall be nameless—one of your special inspectors has been dismissed, I hear?"

"That is so, your Majesty."

"Well, I do not wish to interfere in anything that makes for efficiency; but I have to request—will you please to make a particular note of it—that he shall be retired on a full pension."

For a moment the official hesitated. "May I ask why, sir?"

"Because practically I have promised it. It is either that or I re-engage him for my own personal service. He is a man whom I have trusted in matters of an exceedingly confidential character. Pray see to it."

The head of the department could hold out no longer. "It shall be as your Majesty wishes," said he.

"Very well," said the King. "Please report when you have seen the matter through. And now, Prince, I think that we have exhausted everything—including, I fear, your patience, Mr. Superintendent. What a very criminal part of society you have to deal with! I hope that the influences of the place are not catching."

"As to that, sir, I can hardly say," replied the other with a wry smile. "Your Majesty has just committed a robbery which I shall have to report; the first that has ever taken place in this department."

"Oh, surely not quite the first!" protested the King.

Then he checked himself. "Well, if that is so, you can but take out an order for my arrest. And you will find," he added slyly, "that I am already well known to the police."

And so saying, he and the Prince took their departure.

IV

But if the King was satisfied with his morning's exploit—a raid so successfully conducted—he had harassment to face before the day was over. His message to Council, on the matter of the Women Chartists and their grievances, was received by the Prime Minister not only with disfavor but with a clear though respectful intimation that it would not be allowed to effect the ministerial program.

"I must remind you, Mr. Prime Minister," said his Majesty, "that the Constitution gives me this right."

"That, sir, I do not question. But it gives to us also a discretion as to when time can be found for attending to it."

"Well," said the King, "you may fix your own date within reason."

"I can fix no date, your Majesty."

That was flat, and the monarch could not help showing his annoyance.

"If you think that that answer satisfies me," he said, "you are mistaken."

"I fear," replied the Prime Minister, "that it is often my duty to give your Majesty dissatisfaction."

"Well, well," said the King, "we shall see!"

He had drawn out of his pocket a small shard and was toying with it as he spoke.

"By the way," he said, considerately changing the subject, "I was at the Prefecture this morning; I took the Prince to see the museum."

"So I was informed, sir."

The Prime Minister showed no discomposure; his demeanor was wholly urbane and conciliatory.

"I brought away with me a small memento," went on the King.

"I was told of that too, sir," replied the Premier, smiling. "It was a little irregular; but if your Majesty wishes for it I do not think there can be any real objection."

"Really," thought the King to himself, "is he going to pretend that he knows nothing about it?" Yet the good face which his minister put upon the matter did not fail to win the King's admiration; he respected the man's courage and ability to brazen the thing out. The Superintendent, he judged, was not actually in the secret; but of the Premier he was now quite sure. That air of calm was just a little bit overdone. "I suppose he thinks that I can't do anything," mused the King. "Well, well, we shall see."

And then he inquired whether the Prime Minister had interviewed Prince Max.

"I have not, sir; but I have seen the Archbishop."

"You have been talking to the Archbishop about it?" cried the King sharply.

"At great length, sir," replied the Prime Minister.

"Then I must say that you have taken a most unwarranted liberty! You have gone entirely beyond and behind my authority. No, it is no use for you to protest, Mr. Premier; I did consent that you should speak to the Prince; but beyond that—until it had been thoroughly discussed with him—what I communicated to you was entirely confidential and private."

"An affair of such importance, sir, cannot possibly be private."

"It can have its private preliminaries—otherwise where would be diplomacy?"

"The Prince might any day have taken overt action—he might even have announced the engagement."

"He might, but he did not! And without even seeing him you have been behind his back and discussed it with the Archbishop! And pray, with what result?"

"At present, sir, I am not in a position to say, but I have good hopes. We are still in correspondence. I assure your Majesty that my conscience is clear in the matter."

"Your conscience, Mr. Prime Minister, has an easy way of clearing itself; you lay the burden of it on me! Yes, this is the second bomb that has been dropped upon me from Government back premises, and I am tired of it; I am not going to stand it any longer! In this matter of the Prince's engagement you and I were in entire agreement; but now you have so acted that you have endangered the relations—the very friendly and affectionate relations—between the Prince and myself. I hardly know how I shall be able to look him in the face. I give him my consent; and then I suddenly turn round and I work against him; I go behind his back, yes, I steal a march upon him—that is how it will appear. And if he so accuses me, what am I to say?"

"I appreciate your Majesty's feelings; but I say, sir, that any sacrifice was necessary to prevent so dangerous a proposal from going further."

"No!" cried the King, "no! not of straightforward dealing and of honor! That is what comes of being mixed up in politics. People forget what honor means, their sense of it becomes blunted. Unfortunately mine does not! Mr. Premier, you have profoundly distressed me; you have made my position extremely difficult. And I do not think that you had any excuse for it."

The Prime Minister had never seen the King so disturbed and agitated. He moved quickly up and down the room beating the air with his hands; and when his minister endeavored to put in a word he threw him off impatiently, almost refusing to hear him.

"No," he said, "no, you had better leave me! With the Prince I must make my peace as best I can. With you I no longer intend peace; it has become impossible! I have my material; and now my mind is made up, and I mean to use it! Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, you can go!"

And thereupon they parted.

V

Max was far gentler to his father than the King could have hoped. They did not meet till the next day; and for the first time in his life the King found him utterly cast down and dejected.

"Oh, do not blame yourself," he said in answer to his parent's explanations and apologies; "I do not suppose that what you have done makes any real difference. I have spent my life despising convention, occasionally defying it, and now it has overthrown me. Yes, sir, that is the true solvent of the situation; my morals have been weighed in the balance and found wanting."

"Dear me," said his father, "is that so? Well, well!" and he sighed.

"Of course, sir, I cannot expect you to be sorry about it."

"I am sorry, my dear boy—very sorry. Don't think because I have still to be King that I have not the feelings of a father. Ah, if you only knew how hard I have tried to get out of it all, you would believe what I say."

"Out of what?"

"Being King at all. Yes, Max, I have yet another confession to make; I meant to conceal it from you, but now I would rather that you knew. Perhaps you will think it wasn't quite fair; I intended to leave the responsibility of all this to you; and—well, it so happens that when you asked me I had determined to abdicate."

Max opened his eyes.

"I actually did abdicate. And then the bomb came, and that made it impossible. And so—here I still am; and that is how you got my consent!"

"You abdicated?"

"Yes, my boy, I really did. And if that bomb had not happened I should have been off the throne and you would have been on it. So now, Max, I am going to tell you everything." And he did, from beginning to end.

And when it came to giving Max the actual proof, he got up and unlocked a drawer, and handed out of it the shard and the four films for him to look at.

"Take a magnifying-glass," said the King. "The face and the raised arm are behind the palisade to the right."

"I can't see them," said Max.

"Very small," said the King; "a man with a dark beard."

Max continued to look without result. "I can't find it," he said.

"Well, look at the figures and lettering on the shard; you can see those."

"No," said Max, "I can't."

The King came impatiently across and took them off him. Then, as he examined them, he saw that the shard and the four films had been changed.

He had his souvenir; but the incriminating evidence was gone.



CHAPTER XXII

A MAN OF BUSINESS



I

While these events of political moment were going on, Prince Hans Fritz Otto of Schnapps-Wasser had been busy planting himself in the good graces of the Princess Charlotte. They rode, they skated, they lunched, they played billiards together; and so easy did their relations to each other become that the Queen ceased to have any anxiety as to the future, and left the entire conduct of the affair to Providence.