King John of Jingalo Part 66

The joy-bells that rang for a King's recovery, rang also for the public announcement of a royal betrothal. Prince Fritz had returned to the enchantment of his Charlotte's society at the earliest possible moment, and was in consequence one of the royal family group which went in state to the Cathedral to return thanks for the sovereign's restoration to health.

Across that bright scene we have to note the pa.s.sing of one shadow which, though not of impenetrable gloom, should not fail to enlist the equable sympathy of kindly hearts. Max still moved upon the public stage with a pensive and a chastened air. In the last month he had matured visibly, yet he did not mourn as one without hope, for he remembered that in the Church of Jingalo virginity could only vow itself for a limited number of years, and he knew that time could bring wisdom to inexperience, and make conspicuous the virtue of a heart that would not take "no." Also he had certain fireworks up his sleeve whose brightness, when they were let off, would penetrate even to the most cloistral abode--he had, that is to say, his Royal Commission to work on, and the preparation of a minority report which could not fail, when it was divulged, to startle the world. He was even beginning to have hopes that three or four others would sign it; for to be in a minority with royalty has its charm.

But though he still believed in the future he was for the moment in very solitary plight. His Countess, to whom alone he could go for comfort in his grief, had cried over him and kissed him with all the motherly kindness imaginable; and then, disturbed by the very depth of her pity and afraid of what might come of it--her heart being but tender clay--had suddenly packed up her traps and flown, leaving, if you would like to know, most of her jewels behind her. And Max, sending after her with his own hands those souvenirs of the past, had added a few tender words of regret and thanks which to her dying day that good woman cherished and said her prayers over.

III

The Thanksgiving was a very splendid affair; but the people who liked it least were the piebald ponies. Never in their lives did they so narrowly escape a hugging at the hands of the great unwashed; and this unwelcome demonstration as directed against them was quite without reason or excuse. They had not had brain-fever, or bones put back into place, or made miraculous recoveries from anything; and they practically said as much when resenting the liberties that were taken with them. All they knew was that they were doing rather more than their usual tale of work; and in consequence they were a little cross. Nothing serious happened, however, and while waiting at the Cathedral doors they were given sugar which quieted them down wonderfully.

Inside the Cathedral all that was great and good and n.o.ble in Jingalo had a.s.sembled to celebrate the occasion; and in its midst, still looking rather frail and delicate after his illness, sat the King with the Royal Family. To right and left of him sat judges, bishops, lords, ladies, members of the House of Laity, staff officers, diplomatists, mayors, and corporations, heads of public departments, all very gorgeously arrayed in their official uniforms; and there amongst the rest sat a compact bunch of prominent Free Churchmen in black gowns--their chances of episcopal preferment flown.

With triumphant suavity the Archbishop of Ebury conducted the service, a.s.sisted by deans, chapters, bishops, and a dozen cathedral choirs.

Something in G was being intoned; the Archbishop was in splendid voice.

He asked that the King might be saved; and, man and boy, the twelve choirs were with him.

He asked a blessing on the Church; and his prayer was seconded.

He implored wisdom for Cabinet ministers; that, it was agreed, would add to the national satisfaction.

"In our time, O Lord, give peace!"

Peace: the echoes of that blessed word thrilled down the vaulted aisles of the Cathedral.

Put into another form that might mean, "After our time, the deluge." But the better word had been chosen: "Peace."

To the King's ear it came with all the softness of a caress; he welcomed it, for it meant much to him. And thinking of all that was now happily past he rubbed his hands.

The watchful reporters in the press-gallery above took notes of that; to them, whose duty that day was to interpret all things on a high and spiritual plane, it betokened the stress of a fine emotion, and in their grandiloquent reports of that solemn ceremony they set it down so and published it.

Yet as a matter of fact, the King had only rubbed his hands. And, truly interpreted, his thoughts ran thus--"Peace? Well, yes, I think that now I have earned it! Here am I, still King of Jingalo, alive and in my right mind. During the last few months I have abdicated--put myself off the throne, and been blown on to it again by a bomb engineered by my own Prime Minister; I have been arrested, I have been locked up in a police cell, I have committed robbery, and in my own palace been robbed again.

My daughter has been in prison for ten days as a common criminal; my son seriously a.s.saulted by the police, and for about four months surrept.i.tiously engaged to the daughter of an Archbishop; while a revolutionary and seditious book written by him as a direct attack on the Const.i.tution and on society has been providentially burned to the ground--that also, probably, at the instigation of my ministers. And though all this has been going on in their midst, making history, bringing changes to pa.s.s or preventing them, the people of Jingalo know nothing whatever about it. What a wonderful country is the country of Jingalo!"

And at that happy conclusion of the whole matter the King had rubbed his hands.

THE END