HEADS OR TAILS

I

It is no use pretending that all history is equally interesting, even though the facts which it contains are necessary for an understanding of what follows. And I am well aware that much of this history so far has been very dull. We have been exploring interiors, moldy institutions, cast-iron conventions, and one poor human mind,—with a tap on the back of its head as an incentive—wriggling to find a way out. But from this point on you see him wriggling no more; the slow wave of his resolve has crept to its crest and now breaks into foam.

A month has now passed by; and four weeks hence the enamored Max will be coming for his answer—Max asking for the impossible thing. Like the man who set fire to the tail of his night-shirt in order to stop the hiccoughs, so now John of Jingalo had at his heels that terror of his own planting driving him on. Perhaps nothing else would have given him the courage.

The day for the last Council meeting had arrived, the last before the closing of that long session of Parliament which, beginning in February, had run on at intervals into November. Then only a brief month, and the winter session with the new Government program would open.

It was to this Council that the Cabinet's latest scheme for squeezing the Bishops out of the Constitution was to be presented; and for that to be possible, since he was so great a stickler for constitutional propriety, the King's consent had been necessary. A few days before, therefore, the Prime Minister had once more formally submitted the question; and the King had given his leave. "Produce what you like, Mr. Premier; I will no longer stand in your way."

The brief autumn session was closing with a clangor of agitation which had not been heard in Jingalo for half a century at least. Everybody outside the machinery of party was profoundly dissatisfied with the parliamentary system and with all its doings and undoings; and this general dissatisfaction was being quaintly expressed by a refusal to let Parliament rise. The Women Chartists were battering at its closed doors; and from peep-holes and other points of vantage within, smiling and indifferent legislators saw those bruised bodies, those strangely obsessed minds, those indomitable spirits carried off to magisterial lack of judgment and to prison.

With a good deal more concern they saw strikes breaking out in their own constituencies, and riot becoming the normal accompaniment of the industrial demand for better conditions. Three strike leaders were in prison under sentence of death for having killed by purposeful accident a few over-zealous policemen; and from great working centers over a hundred miles away thousands of men were marching to demand remittance of the death penalty.

The Government was, in consequence, in a great hurry to get the session closed. It was an undignified scramble of the red-tape worms of various departments to be well out of the way before those slow, heavily shod feet of labor arrived upon the scene. At every town they came to they stopped, made inflammatory speeches, gathered funds and adherents, and then, a swelled body of discontent, marched stolidly on toward the capital; and this not from one point alone but from half-a-dozen at once. If there was not to be conflict between the police and these converging forces, appeasement of some sort must be devised, or official vacuum must be there to meet them.

And behind all this was the ministerial fear that, if they were not quick about it, it would be impossible to close Parliament with due ceremony. The Lord High Functionary had put it bluntly to the Prime Minister. "If those men get here we can't have out the piebald ponies and the state coach; they wouldn't stand it."

And as the piebald ponies and the state coach were necessary for the prestige of the Government and for proof that the King and his ministers were working amicably together, therefore the red-tape worms were all wriggling their level best under pressure from above, and in the small hours every morning millions of public money were being voted into the hands of the Government by an obedient majority of sleepy legislators, bound by party loyalty neither to criticise nor to control.

It was in the midst of affairs thus disarranged that on a morning three days before the rising of Parliament the Royal Council met, and awaited with official calm the advent of its titular head.

Since his outbreak of a few months ago the King had once more become amenable to that deferential guidance which was his due; and now word had gone round that all further opposition was to be withdrawn, and the Ministry to have its way.

And so the pièce de résistance is at last in full brew and we see the twenty cooks of the national broth waiting without any trepidation of spirit for the royal flavoring to arrive. And they talk among themselves in carefully modulated tones; for it is not etiquette, when the doors are thrown open to the royal presence, that the King should hear conversation going on.

The Prime Minister enters a little later than the rest, carrying his brief, and moves to his place near the head of the board through a circle of congratulatory looks and smiles. For all know that in this long bout with titular kingship, obstinate for the preservation of its rights, the representative of Cabinet control has won, and that a new and very comfortable stage in the subservience of monarchy to ministerial ends has been attained.

And how quietly this important little bit of constitutional revolution has been carried through!—without any passing of laws or petition of rights, merely by internal pressure judiciously applied. And Jingalo, that well-represented State governed by the popular will, knows nothing of what has been done; like a body in absolute health it is unconscious of the working of those vital functions so necessary for its constitutional development. Oh, admirable popular will! in searching for your whereabouts and to come into touch with you, old monarchy has had yet another tumble—and at the right and preconcerted time will reach the ground without any outward revolution at all.

If these or suchlike thoughts were in the mind of the Cabinet, just then they were diverted by the sound of opening doors; and there entered, not the King himself, but a Court functionary in full dress attended by two others, and bearing before him on a crimson cushion a sealed document.

A few eyebrows went up; what revival of old forms was this? The functionary advanced and with a low bow presented the document not to the Prime Minister, but to the Lord President of the Council. "By his Majesty's gracious command," said he, "a message from his Majesty the King to his faithful people."

Then, with another bow, the Court functionary withdrew.

The Lord President looked at the seal in some embarrassment, for he did not quite know how to break it; it was very large, some three inches across, and was composed of a wax of specially resistant quality.

"Cut it!" said the Prime Minister, and to that end he presented his pocket-knife.

The document was opened; and the Lord President and Prime Minister, glancing together at its contents, suddenly went white.

"Gentlemen," said the Lord President (his voice and hands trembled as he spoke), "his Majesty the King abdicates!"

II

Around that ministerial board it would have been amusing to an impartial onlooker to see how many mouths of grave and reverend Councilors did actually open and drop chins of dismay. A gust of horror and astonishment blew round the assembly; it was a word unknown in the Jingalese Constitution; no place had been there provided for it,—it had never been done. Strictly speaking—legally speaking, that is to say—it could not be done. Kings had been deposed, exiled, their heads cut off—all without their own consent—but never without the consent of Parliament, or of some portion of it at all events. Yet nothing whatever could prevent it; for clearly on this point the King could insist; but, if he did, the Constitution would be in the melting-pot, and the consequences could not be foreseen. What right had this pelican in piety to go pecking his own breast and shedding the blood of his ancestors? Viewed in any constitutional light it was a revolutionary and bloody deed.

The Prime Minister was not slow to see its bearing on the whole political situation and on the fortunes of his ministry.

"Gentlemen," said he, "if this abdication is allowed to take effect, our plans are defeated and the Government must go."

"You mean we shall have to resign?"

"We cannot even do that; we are forestalled. Though not yet publicly announced this is an absolute abdication here and now." And then that all might hear, the Lord President proceeded to read out the terms.

"WE, John, by the Grace of God, King of Jingalo, Suzerain of Rome, Leader of the Forlorn Hope, and Crowned Head of Jerusalem, do hereby solemnly declare, avow, render, and deliver by this as Our own act, freely undertaken and accomplished for the good, welfare, comfort, and succor of the Realm of Jingalo and of its People, that now and from this day henceforward. We do utterly renounce, relinquish, and abjure all claim to rank, titles, honors, emoluments, and privileges holden by Us in virtue of Our inheritance and succession as true and rightful Sovereign Lord of the said Realm of Jingalo. And for the satisfying of Our Royal Conscience and the better safety and security of those things aforetime committed to Our trust and keeping, under the Constitution of the said Realm of Jingalo; to the preservation whereof We are bound by oath, therefore We do now pronounce, publish, and set forth, that it may be known to all, this Our Abdication, made in the 25th year of Our reign and given under Our hand and signet——"

Then came date and signature; and following these the old form of mixed German and Latin, without which no State document was complete—"Der Rex das vult."

When the reading ended there was a short pause. Here at all events, in their very ears, history was being incredibly made.

"Remarkably well drawn," observed Professor Teller, admiringly: "copied, you may be interested to learn, from the actual instrument wrung by Parliament out of King Oliver the Second under threat of torture four hundred years ago. As legal and regular a form, therefore, as it would be possible to devise."

"You mean we shall have to recognize it?"

"If we recognize anything at all."

"Gentlemen," said the Prime Minister, "it must not be recognized; it would mean for us not merely defeat but disaster. As against the Bishops we have a certain amount of popular opinion to back us; but if once it appears that dislike for our policy has driven the King into abdication, then our ruin will be immediate and irremediable. We have to recognize that during the past year his popularity has greatly increased, while our own, to say the most, is stationary."

"Yes, and he knows it!" said the Minister of the Interior, bitterly.

"I call it a treacherous and a cowardly act!" exclaimed the Secretary for War.

"He is trying to bully us!" said the Commissioner-General.

"I should say that he is succeeding," remarked Professor Teller in a dry tone. "Had we not better recognize, gentlemen, that his Majesty has made a very shrewd hit? Can we not—compromise?"

"Impossible!" asseverated the Prime Minister. "It is too late."

Professor Teller leaned back in his chair and let the discussion flow on. His attitude was noticeable; he was the only minister who was taking it sitting down.

"When does this abdication take effect?" asked one. "I mean, how long can it be kept from the press?"

"Who knows? If his Majesty has done one mad thing he may have done another."

"I must see him at once," said the Premier, "this cannot be allowed to go on."

"You will have to take a very firm tone."

"I would suggest that we all send in our portfolios."

"We have tried that once; he would not accept them now, and we have no power to make him."

"No; that is the damnable thing! That is what makes his position so strong."

"Do you think he knows?"

"Of course; why else has he done it? It's really clever; that's what I can't get over, he has done a clever thing!"

"Who can have put it into his head?"

"It is the most unjustifiable stretch of the royal prerogative that ever I heard of."

"There's no prerogative about it; it's sheer revolution and rebellion."

"An attack on the Constitution, I call it."

Thus they talked.

"Strange!" murmured Professor Teller, irritating them with his philosophic tone and his detached air,—"strange that when it threatens itself with extinction monarchy becomes powerful."

"It is no question of extinction," said the Prime Minister tetchily; "we should still have his successor to deal with; and Prince Max, I can tell you, gentlemen, is a very dark horse. You all know what happened three months ago; and now, within the last week, we have learned that he is publishing a book—a revolutionary book with his own name to it. You may take it from me that if he comes to the throne our present scheme for the evolution of the Cabinet system will be over. Anything may happen! Read his book and you will understand."

"Has any one yet seen it?"

"A privately procured copy has been shown me; it was by the merest chance we heard of it. I could only read it very hurriedly in the small hours; it had to go back where it came from."

"Is it a serious matter?"

"Perfectly appalling."

"And are you going to allow it to be published?"

"How can we prevent? It is being printed abroad."

And then spoke the Prefect of the Police, holding technical place upon the Council as Minister of Secret Service.

"Over the present edition, gentlemen, you may make your minds quite easy. I have received intelligence that last night the establishment at which it was being printed was burned to the ground."

The Premier cast a keen and confidential glance at his colleague.

"How much does that involve?" he asked.

"Only the insurance company, I should suppose."

"I meant of the book?"

"Oh! everything except the manuscript. There will be no publication this year at any rate."

"I make you my compliments," said the Prime Minister, "on the particularity and speed with which your department has become informed. That at all events gives us time."

"And meanwhile?"

"I must see the King immediately. It is no use our remaining here to discuss a situation that is not yet explained. The first thing to find out is whether this has gone any further; but I do not think his Majesty really means it as anything more than a threat."

"Had you no hint that it was coming?" inquired the Commissioner-General.

The Prime Minister was on his way to the door. "No," he said; "not a word." And then he paused, as the particular meaning of a certain carefully chosen and repeated phrase flashed on him for the first time. "He said to me yesterday—repeating what he said four months ago when we tendered our resignations—'I will no longer stand in your way.' And now I suppose we have it."

"Good Heavens!" cried the Minister of the Interior, "does he call this not standing in our way?"

The Prime Minister cast an expressive glance at his chagrined and embarrassed following—a glance of self-confidence and determination, one which still said "Depend upon me!"

But only from one of his colleagues was there any look of answering confidence, or speech confirming it.

"When you are disengaged, Chief, may I have a few moments?"

It was the Prefect who spoke, a man of few words.

Eye to eye they looked at each other for a brief spell.

The Prime Minister nodded. "Come to me in two hours' time," he said. "We shall know then where we are." And so saying he left the room.

III

In the next two days a good many things happened; but carried through in so underground and secret a fashion that it is only afterwards we shall hear of them. And so we come to the last day of all; for on the morrow Parliament closes and when that is done the King's abdication is to become an acknowledged and an accomplished fact.

It was evening. His Majesty had just given a final audience to the Prime Minister; the interview had been a painful one, and still the ground of contention remained the same. But the demeanor of the head of the Government had altered; he had tried bullying and it had failed; now in profound agitation he had implored the King for the last time to withdraw his abdication, and his Majesty had refused.

"I will close Parliament for you," he said, "since you wish it; it will be a fitting act for the conclusion of my reign. But my conscience forbids any furthering on my part of your present line of policy; and as I cannot prevent that obstacle from existing, in accordance with my promise I remove it altogether from the scene."

"But your Majesty's abdication is the greatest obstacle of all, it is a profound upheaval of the whole constitutional system; and its acceptance will involve a far, far greater expenditure of time than we are able to contemplate or to provide for. I am bound, therefore, to appeal from the letter of your Majesty's promise (which no doubt you have observed) to the spirit in which as I conceive it was made."

"When I made it, Mr. Prime Minister, I had no spirit left. Nothing remained to me but the letter of my authority, and even that was dead. I told you that I would no longer stand in your way, and I will keep my word."

"By throwing us into revolution!"

"By throwing you upon your own resources. You have been working very assiduously for single chamber government, you may now secure it in your own way."

"Your Majesty takes a course entirely without precedent."

"What?—Abdication?"

"Against the wish or consent of Parliament."

"Ah, yes," said the King, "that is precisely the difference. Abdications have, like ministerial resignations, been forced upon us—I mean on kings in the past—at very unseasonable times and in most inconsiderate ways; and we kings have had to put up with it. Mr. Prime Minister, it is your turn now; and I only hope that you may find as clean a way out of your difficulty as I had to find when four months ago you threatened me with a resignation which you knew I could not accept."

The Prime Minister's face became drawn with passion; but there was no more to be said after that. "Is that your Majesty's final word?" he inquired.

"I hope so," said the King, rising and making a formal offer of his hand.

And so the interview ended.

Left alone the King felt badly in need of comfort, for now in the hour of triumph depression had begun to enter his soul. He did not like hurting people even when he was not fond of them; and on the Prime Minister's face as he went out he had seen something like tragedy. "Is he going to cut his throat?" he wondered; but, no, it was not the look of a beaten man—rather that of a gambler prepared to make his last throw.

The King had already made his own—he had nothing more to do; and now he wanted companionship, some one to humor him with more understanding and sympathy than his own wife could supply. And it so happened that just then his only two possible comforters were away. Max had gone to the Riviera to recruit before the regular sittings of the Commission began, and Charlotte three days ago had taken that leave of absence which had been promised her; for in less than a month's time the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser would be paying his promised visit.

As he could not have the society he craved he chose solitude, and wandered out into the deepening dusk of the November garden; and there, gazing up through its now thinned foliage at the quiet and misty heavens above him, thought of steeplejacks and the death of kings, and how at the root of every great downfall in history there had probably been some poor human heart like his own, conscious of failure, longing for the kindred touch which pride of place makes so impossible. And yet he knew that he had brought himself to a better end than, with all the defects of his qualities, he could ordinarily have hoped to secure; perhaps this dramatic taking of himself off (which he felt in a way to be so out of character) would help Max to make something out of the situation startling and unexpected. But Max would have to give up the idea of marrying the Archbishop's daughter.

The quiet, dusky paths had led him to a point where high walls carefully shrouded in creepers shut off the royal stables from view. Through circular barred grilles he could hear the noise of horses champing in their stalls; and the comfortable sound drew him round to the entrance. Opening a wicket, he stood in a dimly lighted court, but the buildings surrounding it contained plenty of light, and in the harness rooms a brisk sound of furbishing went on.

Turning to the left he passed into the largest stable of all, a spacious and well-aired chamber of corridor-like proportions divided up into stalls. To right and left of him stood the famous piebald ponies, lazily munching fodder and settling down to their last sleep before the unusual exertions which would be required of them on the morrow.

But these pampered minions did not know as he did what the morrow had in store: how, for the sake of effect, they would be harnessed to a huge obsolete coach weighing a couple of tons, each clad in an elaborate costume of crimson and gold weighing by itself considerably more than a full-grown rider. To the King this presumed ignorance of theirs was a matter for envy; he knew his own part in the affair well enough; the thought of it oppressed him.

He walked down the double line—twelve in all—pausing now and then to take a closer look and judge of their condition, but keeping always at a respectful distance, for he was aware that almost without exception they were an ill-tempered crew. Contemplating the astonishing rotundity of their well-filled bodies, the spacious ease of their accommodation, the outward dignity of circumstances, and the absolute lack of freedom which conditioned their whole existence, he was struck with the resemblance between himself and them; and recalling how, with a similar sense of kinship, St. Francis had preached to the lower forms of life he too became imbued with the spirit of homily and prophecy, though it did not actually find its way into words.

"You and I, little brothers"—so might we loosely interpret the meditations of his heart—"you and I are much of a muchness, and can sing our 'Te Deum' or our 'Nunc Dimittis' in almost the same words. We are both of a carefully selected breed and of a diminished usefulness. But because of our high position we are fed and housed not merely in comfort but in luxury; and wherever we go crowds stand to gape at us and applaud when we nod our heads at them. We live always in the purlieus of palaces, and never have we known what it is to throw up our heels in a green pasture, nor in our old age are we turned out comfortably to grass—only to Nebuchadnezzar by accident came that thing, and he did not appreciate it as he should have done. Never shall we go into battle to prove that we are worth our salt, and to say 'Ha, Ha' to the fighting and the captains; nor is it allowed to us to devour the ground with our speed: whenever we attempt such a thing it is cut from under us. Little brothers, it is before all things necessary that we should behave; for being once harnessed to the royal coach, if any one of us struck work or threw out our heels we should upset many apple-carts and the machinery of the State would be dislocated. Let us thank God, therefore, that long habit and training have made us docile, and that our backs are strong enough to bear the load that is put upon them, and that if one of us goes another immediately fills his place so that he is not missed."

In a vague, unformulated way this was the homily which arose from his meditations; and if he thought at all specially of himself and present circumstances, it was merely as an insignificant exception which proved the general rule.

As he strolled back again he stopped at the door and spoke to the man in charge.

"They all seem very fit, Jacobs," said he. "They do you credit, I must say."

"Fit they are, your Majesty!" said the man, beaming with satisfied pride; "and so they ought to be, considering the trouble we've took with 'em. We've been polishing them like old pewter for days. Ah! they know what's coming; and you can see 'em just longing for it."

"Oh, they like it, do they?"

"Believe me, your Majesty, they couldn't live without it. It's in the blood—been in 'em from father to son. Why, if we didn't take 'em out to help us open and shut Parliament and things of that sort, they'd think we was mad."

This was a new point of view; the King listened to it with respectful interest, and then a fresh thought occurred to him.

"Jacobs," he said, "did one of them ever refuse to go?—on a public occasion, I mean."

"Well, yes, your Majesty, it did once happen; before my time, though. One of 'em—ah, it was at a funeral, too—he stuck his heels into the ground and couldn't be got to start, not for love or money."

"Which did they offer him?"

"Ask pardon, your Majesty?—Oh, just my manner of speaking, that was. Wouldn't go except on his own terms."

"And what were they?"

"Well, your Majesty, he was a clever one, you see, he was; they aren't generally. But he, he'd got a taste for his own set of harness—knew it by the smell, I suppose, and when they come to put it on him a bit of it broke, and he wouldn't wear anything else. That's how it all come about."

"They tried, I suppose?"

"Oh, they got it on him; and they got him out, before all the crowd, with the guns going and the handkerchiefs a-waving—Ah, no; but that was a funeral though—there weren't no handkerchiefs that day. Well, there he was; and when he felt they was all looking at him, and the perishables kept waiting behind——"

"The perishables?"

"The corpse, sir;—then he wouldn't move."

"Very embarrassing, I must say."

"You see, your Majesty, they couldn't beat him in public—not as he deserved; 'twouldn't have been respectful to what was there. They had to do that afterwards. But, believe me, he stopped the whole show for twenty minutes and more; and they never used him again."

"What became of him?"

"Oh, he was just kept, in case; but he weren't never used—he was reckoned too risky after that. Oh, and he felt it too; I haven't a doubt but he did. They don't like only to be one of the extras, they don't."

"What does that mean?"

"Why, you see, sir, there's always four extras here, in case of accident; and believe me, your Majesty, when the four extras to-morrow find 'emselves left out they'll squeal for hours, and it won't be safe to go near 'em, not for days. Blood's a wonderful thing, sir, wonderful! And they know, just as well as you or me."

"And what becomes of them when they grow old?"

"Well, sir, they make saddle-cloths of 'em for the band of the forty-ninth Hussars. Your Majesty may have reckonized 'em; most people think it's giraffe skin, but it's really our old ponies."

"So they come in useful even at the last?"

"Oh, yes, sir, they ends well, one can't deny that; and they have to be in pretty good condition too. So they aren't none of 'em what you might call really old."

"Very interesting," said the King. "What a great deal there is in the world that one doesn't know till one comes to inquire."

"About horses? Your Majesty's right there!" said the man; and his tone spoke volumes of the things which would never be written, but which those who had the care of horses knew.

As the King moved away from that brief colloquy, one phrase in particular stuck in his mind. "He was reckoned too risky after that." Was that, he wondered, what the Prime Minister was thinking about him now; had he, indeed, proved himself too risky for future use? If so there would be no yielding at the eleventh hour; and perhaps it was as well that to-morrow would see him harnessed to the royal coach for the last time.

A DEED WITHOUT A NAME

I

The King and Queen sat in their state coach responding with low bows to the plaudits of the crowd. Their velvets and ermines lay heavy upon them, for although it was now November, the day was close and warm, and there seemed to be thunder in the air.

The King, in this his Jubilee year, had resumed wearing his crown on great State occasions, for he found that the people liked it. He had worn it at the Foot-washing; and every one then admitted that it gave the true symbolic touch to the whole ceremony. And now for the last time he was wearing it again.

Artistically he was right; a cocked hat, of nineteenth-century pattern, does not accord well with robes in the style of the sixteenth. In some countries that mistake is made by royalty out of compliment to the army; but if on these State occasions sartorial compliments are to be paid irrespective of the general effect, then surely your monarch should wear a wig as representative of the law, lawn-sleeves in honor of the Church, and divide the rest of his person impartially between the army, the navy, and the doctors. Thus all the great professions would receive their due recognition, and we should presently find so symbolical a combination just as harmonious and dignified, and as pregnant with meaning, as we do the heraldic quarterings by which the mixed blood of ancestry is so proudly displayed. We can get accustomed to anything if there is a good reason for it; but when we cease to be reasonable, beauty should be our only guide. In this case reason as well as beauty had induced King John of Jingalo to reject the cocked hat and to resume the crown.

The royal coach had already borne its occupants along two miles of the route; and continued exercise was making them warm.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the King, "it's very stuffy in here; I feel as if I were in a furnace. Why did you ask to have the windows closed, my dear?"

"It makes one feel so much safer," said the Queen, keeping her stereotyped smile, and sweeping a bow as she spoke.

"Safer from what?" Here his Majesty responded to a fresh burst of cheers.

"Accidents," replied his consort; "one never knows."

"Glass, my dear, does not protect one from the accidents of Kings. Glass can't stop bullets, you know."

"I didn't mean that sort of accident; and I wish you wouldn't talk about them just now."

"You always take out an umbrella when you don't want it to rain; and if one talks about accidents then they don't happen. At least that has always been my experience. What sort of accident do you mean?"

"Dust, and microbes, and infection, and all that sort of thing. There must be a lot of it about in so large a crowd; I wonder how many people with measles."

"What an idea!" exclaimed the King: "people with measles don't come out to see shows."

"Oh, yes, they do,—nursemaids especially. They all catch it from each other in the public parks; at least so I've been told. And whenever I see a perambulator now, I think of it."

"There are no perambulators here to-day," said the King, "so you needn't think about measles. Smallpox if you like; though it strikes me that all I have yet seen are remarkably healthy specimens—considering how many of them there are." And he bowed to the healthy specimens as he spoke.

"Very enthusiastic," murmured the Queen appreciatively.

"Yes; I wonder if presently they will be as enthusiastic about Max."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. I was only thinking ahead, in quite a general sort of way. We seem lately to have become quite popular."

"I think we have always been."

"Yes, you have, my dear; about myself I was not so sure. Well, it's very gratifying to come upon it just now."

His Majesty felt a little guilty, for he had not yet told the Queen of what lay ahead; it was so much better that she should not know beforehand what she would never be able to understand.

Then for a while they relapsed into silence, each attending to what Charlotte would have described as their "business"—a carefully regulated succession of bows accompanied by a smile which never quite left off.

Presently the King spoke again. "By the way, where has Charlotte gone to?"

"Well, I hardly know," said the Queen. "She wrote to me from her first address—that college place; but said she was going on elsewhere, and I thought you settled that we were to leave her alone."

"I think she ought to have waited till to-morrow. As Max is away, she at least should have been here."

"So I told her; but she said she had a very particular engagement which she must keep; and I could see that, relying upon your promise, she meant to have her own way, so I said nothing."

"I hope they are going to like each other," said the King, his thoughts carrying on to the meeting which was now near.

"She and the Prince? Oh, yes, I think there's no doubt about it. Strange, wasn't it, that her running away actually pleased him?"

"I suppose it was so very unusual. We don't as a rule get people to run away from us. It's generally all the other way. Look at this crowd! I wonder how the police manage to keep them back."

Smiling and bowing, the Queen replied: "They are so well behaved; and see, how patient. Many, I daresay, have been here for hours. Doesn't that show loyalty?"

"It isn't all loyalty, my dear; they like the whole spectacle, the troops, the coach, the piebald ponies. Last night I went to look at them; four of them have been left out."

"What a strange thing to do."

"But some have to be."

"No; going to see them, I mean."

"Well, I don't know; they play a very important part in the proceedings, and in a way they are heroes, for wherever they go with us they share our danger. I heard quite a lot of interesting things about them."

At this moment they were approaching a part of the route which separated them for a while from the popular plaudits. In the forefront was a deep archway, and beyond it was a brief stretch of road shut in by hoardings and dominated by high masts of scaffolding, behind which new Government buildings were in process of erection. Across each front to left and right a few strings of bunting fluttered to give festive relief; for here there were no stands filled with spectators, no pavements lined with shouting crowds; and behind the palisades work had been knocked off for the day. The cry of the populace lulled down to a mere murmur, and the trampling of the hoofs echoed strangely as they passed under the vaulted arch and along the walled-in track with its huge baulks of timber on both sides supporting the growth of stone walls.

Ahead stood a wide gateway opening by a sharp turn into Regency Row, whose broad thoroughfare of cream-tinted façades, now bright with flags, formed an ideal rallying-ground for the sightseeing multitude.

"Now there," said the King, pointing ahead to a high triangular building facing the gates through which they were about to emerge, "there is the place that I always think a bomb might be thrown from with much certainty and effect, plump into the middle of us, just as we are turning the corner."

"I do wish you would leave off talking about such things," said the Queen reproachfully, "or wait till we are safe home again. How can I keep on smiling, if you go putting bombs into my head?"

"I was only saying, my dear——"

Suddenly, from behind, an amazing detonation seemed to strike at the smalls of their backs, throwing them half out of their seats. The glass slide upon the Queen's side of the coach ran down with a crash, and one of the large gilt baubles from its roof toppled and fell into the road. At the same instant a great blast and swirl of smoke blew by, shutting for a moment the outer world from view. Then loud cries, hullabalooings, shoutings—a scramble and clatter of hoofs as though three or four horses had gone down and were up again—a capering flash of pink silk calves—as the six footmen exploded upon from the rear sought safety in front where the eight piebald ponies were all standing on end with men hanging on to their noses. And then further disorder of a less violent kind, runnings to and fro, and from the crowd waiting ahead a vast and tumultuous cry rather jovial in its sound.

The King had risen from his seat, and trying to look out and see what was going on behind had put his head through the glass, his crown acting as a safe and effective battering ram.

"I do believe there has been an attempt," he said, drawing his head in again. "That certainly sounded like a bomb; not that I have had much experience of such things."

Then he did what he should have done at first, and let down the glass.

"I am going to faint," sighed the Queen, sinking back in her seat.

"Nonsense!" said the King sharply. "Pull yourself together, Alicia! You are not hurt."

"I think I am," she said. But the sharp tone acted as a tonic, and she settled herself comfortably in her corner and began quietly to cry.

There was still plenty of confusion going on. The piebald ponies had been brought to a standstill, and some of them were now showing temper. A voluble and excited crowd was trying to break through the police lines and grasp the whole situation at a run. Troops were coming to the rescue; horsemen from the rear dashed by. Then a staff officer galloped up to the coach window, and reining a jiggetty steed saluted with agitated air and a rather white face.

"The danger is over, your Majesty," he gasped, a little out of breath, "only a few horses are down; no one is killed."

The King nodded acceptance of the news; and as he did so noticed a tiny fleck of blood upon the officer's cheek—no more than if he had cut himself in shaving. It seemed to give the correct measure of the catastrophe, and to assure him more than words could have done that the damage was really small.

Except for that one moment when he had impulsively put his head through glass, the King had kept his wits and remained calm; and now his royal instinct told him the right thing to be done.

"If you want to manage that crowd," he said, "we had much better drive on. Until we do they may think that anything has happened. Tell them to start, and not to drive fast."

The officer went forward bearing the royal order.

"Alicia," said the King, "there really is nothing to cry about; the most important thing is to show the people that we are not hurt. Pull yourself together, my dear. There! now we are starting again. And if you think you can manage it, stand right up at your window and I will stand at mine; then nobody can have any doubt at all."

He removed some shattered glass from her lap as he spoke, and gave an encouraging squeeze to her hand; and as the coach moved forward they stood up and confidently presented themselves to the public gaze.

Sure enough that sight had a magical effect equal to the controlling force of a thousand police. The crowd recovered its wits and allowed itself to be shoved back into place. Out through the gates sallied the piebald ponies; and from end to end all Regency Row broke into a roar. Ahead went the troops and the police, pressing back the once more amenable crowd; men and women were weeping, moist handkerchiefs were ecstatically waved, quite new and reputable hats were thrown up into air, and allowed to fall unreclaimed and unregarded. And truly it was a sight well calculated to stir the blood, for there, emerging unhurt from dust and smoke, from rumor and sound of terror, came the monarch and his Queen standing upon their feet and bowing undaunted to a furore of cries.

Through all that vast multitude word of the outrage had sped, like a black raven flapping its wings, charged ominously with tidings of death; and as confusion had spread wide nothing more could be heard, till once more a resumption of the processional movement was seen. Then came white-faced footmen quaking at the knees; after them eight piebald ponies rather badly behaved and requiring a good deal of holding in; and then Royalty, itself smiling and quite unharmed. And straightway the ordinary loyalty of a sightseeing Jingalese crowd was merged in a passionate and tumultuous cry of jubilant humanity; and the royal procession became a triumphal progress.

II

The Queen was still crying a little when they reached their destination; but she was very happy all the same, for she felt that between them they had risen to the occasion and had passed exceedingly well through an ordeal that falls only to few.

And now at the House of Legislature itself a strangely informal reception awaited them. Word of what had happened had gone in to the two Chambers, and human nature proving too strong, rules and regulations of ceremony had been dispensed with, and out had streamed judges, prelates, and laity in full force, to attend upon their own front door-step the belated arrival of their mercifully preserved Sovereign and his Queen.

And when they did arrive, the whole House of Laity there assembled broke into cheers; and not to be behindhand in demonstrations of loyalty, the Judges and the Bishops cheered too—a thing that none of them had done individually for years; and in their official and corporate capacity, judicial and ecclesiastical, never in their lives before.

Then as spokesmen for their respective parties, for Ministerialists and for Opposition, came the Prime Minister and the Archbishop, giving voice to the thankfulness that was felt by all.

The Archbishop performed his part the better of the two; for between him and his sovereign there were no strained relations; he was also on closer terms of reference to the Powers above; and so, while giving earthly circumstances their due, he rendered grateful thanks to a Beneficence which had guided and directed all. The Prime Minister did not.

The King, in recalling afterwards the happy impromptus of that scene when Prelates and Laity were vying with each other in the expression of their relief, remembered how once or twice the Prime Minister had halted and gone back to the repetition of a former phrase, like one who having learned a lesson had momentarily lost the hang of it.

The circumstance did not greatly impress him at the time, he was ready to make allowances, for between him and his minister the situation was somewhat embarrassing. They had parted with unreconciled views, and by no stretch of terms could their relationship any longer be regarded as friendly. All the same, on such an occasion it was incumbent upon the Prime Minister to say the correct thing, and he had said it: he had described the outrage as "a dastardly attempt," and the immunity of his sovereign as "a happy and almost miraculous escape" for which none had more reason to be thankful than himself and his colleagues; he had also said that the passionate attachment of the people of Jingalo to the person of their ruler had now been made abundantly evident, and he trusted might ever so continue.

Later in the day, when the short ceremony of Parliament's closing was over (for it was impossible under the circumstances to return to stiff formality, no one being in the mood for it), later in the day, he again presented himself, and besought a private audience. And then—while once more repeating what he had said previously, almost in the same words,—he showed that he had something very serious of which to deliver himself.

He began with a great parade of leaving the matter to the King's decision only; his duty was merely to state the case as it would strike the world.

"We are in your Majesty's hands," he said, "and I have no wish to revive a discussion in which your Majesty has by right the last word. I have only to ask whether the circumstances of the last few hours have in any way affected your Majesty's decision."

As usual this formal insistence upon his "majesty" aroused the King's distrust; with his ministers in privacy he always disliked it. But all he said was: "Why should it?"

The Prime Minister pursed his lips and elaborately paused, as though finding it difficult to express himself. Then he said—

"After an attempted assassination so nearly successful, abdication would have a different effect to what your Majesty presumably intended."

"How?" inquired the King. But though he asked he already knew; and mentally his jaw dropped, as a new apparition of failure rose up and confronted him.

"It might seem to reflect upon your Majesty's personal courage: about which, I need hardly say, I myself have no doubt whatever."

"I see," said the King. His voice sounded the depression which had again begun to overwhelm him.

"I have no wish to press your Majesty," the Premier went on; "but at the present moment we are still under orders that to-morrow the definite and irrevocable announcement is to be made public."

Again he paused; and the King did not answer him.

"I wish to ask, therefore, whether it is your Majesty's wish that the announcement of the abdication shall be postponed?"

"Yes," said the King, and his words came slow, "I suppose that it must be—as you say—postponed."

"Does your Majesty wish to suggest any later date?"

The King thought for a while before answering.

"Is there any reason that I should?" But though he thus spoke to temporize over the position in which he now found himself, he knew that his opportunity was gone never to recur.

"Merely for our own guidance," explained the Prime Minister. "There is to be a special Cabinet meeting to-night."

"What are you going to discuss?"

"Should your Majesty remain, it will be our duty to present an address of loyal congratulation immediately on the reassembling of Parliament; and that, under the new circumstances, must take place almost at once. In any event some address will, of course, have to be moved; but if what has happened to-day is followed by an abdication, then regrets and deep gratitude for all the gracious benefits of the past would have to be added, and the whole form of it most carefully weighed and considered. I may say, therefore, that we are even now awaiting your Majesty's instructions."

"And you can do nothing till I decide?"

"Nothing practical, sir."

Their eyes met with a lurking watchfulness; and it was not difficult for each to read something of the other's thought. The King knew that behind all that aspect of deference and humility lay a sense of triumph, almost malignant in its intensity. He knew that circumstances had beaten him; and that the bomb of some wretched assassin had made his abdication impossible. The Prime Minister had said that he had no wish to press him; but what a pretense and hypocrisy that was, when that very night the Cabinet would have to meet and register its decision in one of two alternative forms totally distinct. Yes; the Ministry had him now in a cleft stick; and no pressure was to be put upon him only because there was no possibility for his decision to be delayed.

Defeat, following upon the terrific events of the day, filled his brain with weariness. At the moment when he had hoped to be free of his persecutors he had come once again to a blank wall. Further progress was barred, further thinking had become useless, events must take their course; once more he felt himself the sport of fate—a mere chip floating with the stream.

"Very well, Mr. Prime Minister," he said with resignation, "the Abdication is withdrawn."

He sighed deeply; and then (when left alone to his cogitations), for such weak comfort as the mere saving of his face could lend, this thought occurred to him,—"What a good thing that I told nobody about it." Even Max did not know.

And so in the year of his Jubilee, and the plenitude of his popularity, John of Jingalo continued to reign; and was, in consequence, the most saddened and humiliated monarch who ever bowed his head under a crown and resigned his freedom to a mixed sense of duty and a fear of what people might say.

CONCEALMENT AND DISCOVERY

I

There was plenty of hue and cry to discover the perpetrator of the outrage, but nothing came of it. From somewhere in that labyrinth of unfinished building and scaffolding fenced in by high hoardings a bomb had been thrown of insufficient power to do much damage to anybody. The Prefect of Police, riding in close attendance on the royal carriage, had himself vaulted the barrier, on the side whence it had seemed to come, and reported that he had found no trace of any one. Pieces of the shell had been collected upon the spot, they had not flown very far, nor were they much broken; and experts of the detective department had been busy putting together the bits.

The whole performance turned out on investigation to have been so feeble and amateurish that suspicion rapidly descended from the more experienced practitioners of anarchy, imported from other countries, to home-products of later growth—strikers made desperate and savage by the recent sentences upon their leaders, or, as some would have it, the Women Chartists, hoping by an attack upon royalty to bring a neglectful ministry to its senses. As there were no real clues except those which industriously led nowhere and which the police seemed delightedly to follow, everybody was free to lay the charge against any agitating section of the community which they happened to regard with special disfavor; and for that reason the Women Chartists did, in fact, get most of the blame.

But in the process they also reaped a certain advantage; the mere suspicion, though malice directed it, was good for them. Had it been possible to convict them, their cause would have gone down for another generation; but there was really nothing to catch hold of, and the power of any organization to commit such an outrage without being detected—to break the glass of the King's coach and make the eight piebald ponies rise up on end in horror—was a power which raised them greatly in the eyes of all law-abiding people; it suggested an unknown potency for mischief far more ominous than had discovery and conviction followed. And so, while squibs and crackers were being thrown at them and sham bombs hurled into their meetings to show how greatly the law-abiding people of Jingalo disapproved of them for incurring such suspicion—politically, the unjustly suspected ones moved a little nearer to their goal.

As for the King and Queen, they were simply inundated with telegrams and letters of congratulation. In many instances the loyalty shown was extraordinarily touching: one instance will suffice. Every schoolboy in every public school in Jingalo contributed a penny from his pocket money to a congratulatory telegram sent in the name of the school; and when, as sometimes happened, the school numbered over six hundred boys the telegram had necessarily to be lengthy, and proved a severe tax upon the literary ability of its senders.

Amid all this influx—this passionate outpouring of loyalty to a King who had stood only a few days before within an ace of abdication, there were of course messages of a more intimate and personal kind. Every crowned head in Europe had written with that fellow-feeling which on such occasions royalty is bound to express. "I know what it is like myself," wrote one who had had six attempts made on him; "but I have never had it done to me from behind. How very devastating to the nerves that must be!" The Prince of Schnapps-Wasser wired that he could find no language to express himself, but hoped in a few weeks' time to come and show all that he felt. Max after a brief wire had flown back to town; and his obvious perturbation and demonstrative affection had made it a happy meeting.

But, while all these messages flowed, there was one inexplicable silence. Charlotte neither wrote nor telegraphed; nor did she return home. That portent dawned upon their Majesties as they breakfasted late the next morning with correspondence and telegrams piled up beside them.

"What can have become of Charlotte?" cried the Queen. "She must know!"

"If she knew, she would be here," said the King, confident in his daughter's affection.

They stared at each other in a surmise which turned gradually to dismay. This unfilial silence upon their escape from the bomb of the assassin told them with staggering certainty that Charlotte was missing.

"She has run away!" cried the Queen.

"But she must be somewhere," objected the King; "and wherever she is she would surely have heard the news."

"She may be quite out in the country," suggested the Queen, picking up hope.

"Still she has friends who must know where she has gone."

"It's incredible!" cried her Majesty; "heartless, I call it."

"No, no, she simply doesn't know!" said the King; of that he was quite certain. "We are sure to hear from her in the course of the day," he continued reassuringly, "meanwhile we shall have to make inquiries."

But the day went on, and no sign from Charlotte; nor did inquiries bring definite news up to date. She had arrived with her expectant hostess on the day appointed; but after staying only one night had gone elsewhere, and from that point in place and time no trace of her was to be found.

Before the day was over the King and Queen had become terribly anxious, and by the end of the week they were almost at their wits' end.

And here we get yet another instance of the drawbacks and dangers which attend upon royalty. Had Charlotte belonged to any ordinary rank of life, it could have been announced that she was missing; her description could have been issued to the press, and search for her made reasonably effective. But, as things were, this could not be done, Charlotte was impulsive and did indiscreet things; and until one knew exactly what it portended, to publish her disappearance to all the world would have been too rash and sudden a proceeding. Once that was done there could be no hushing up of the matter; all Jingalo, nay, all Europe, would have to hear of it, including, of course, the Prince of Schnapps-Wasser; and so, at all costs of private strain and anxiety, it was necessary to conceal as long as possible that the Princess was not where she ought to be, and was perhaps where she ought not to be.

Now please, do not let my readers at this point think that it was Charlotte who had thrown the bomb. Even for the sake of literary effect, I would not for one moment deceive them. It was not Charlotte; Charlotte had nothing to do with it, and did not even know of it. And yet—I will give them for a while this small problem to grapple with—Charlotte was quite well, was in possession of all her senses, was thoroughly enjoying herself, and was not outside the land of her inheritance. Most emphatically she had not run away.

And there for the moment we will leave the matter, and attend to things more important.

II

The King had caught sight in the newspaper of something which annoyed him very much; annoyed him all the more because it seemed to betoken that the moment his abdication was withdrawn the old ministerial encroachments on the royal prerogative had begun again.

"We are officially informed," so ran the paragraph, "that the Minister of the Interior has advised his Majesty to grant a reprieve to the three strike leaders now lying under sentence of death for their part in the recent riots and police murders. It is understood that the sentences will be commuted to penal servitude for life."

And this was the first the King had heard of it!

He sent at once for the Home Minister; and within an hour that great official stood before him.

"Mr. Secretary," said the King sharply, as he laid the offending paragraph before him, "since when, may I ask, has the Crown's prerogative of mercy become the perquisite of the Home Office?"

"I do not think, sir," submitted the Secretary with all outward humility, "that any such change has come about. In this case the circumstances were special and very urgent."

"Why, then, was I not consulted?"

"There was hardly time, your Majesty."

"I was here."

"I apprehended that the recent event—so very upsetting to your Majesty——"

"Come, come," interjected the King, "if I was able to read my speech immediately after it—as I did—I was quite able to attend to other business as well; and you ought to have known it."

The King did not thus usually speak to one of his ministers; but, having just had to face so heavy a defeat of his plans for honorable retirement, he was the more bent on asserting himself.

"Your Majesty will pardon me, it had to be issued to the press without a moment's delay. We had received information which made the matter of great urgency."

"I will hear your explanation," said the King coldly; and the Secretary went on.

"You are doubtless aware, sir, that about these sentences there has been a very considerable agitation among the workers; and the utter failure of the strike has not improved matters."

"I am aware of that," said the King.

"It had always been my intention, as soon as the march of strikers had been dispersed in an orderly manner, to recommend the exercise of the royal clemency. It was in fact merely a matter of hours, when circumstances forestalled us. The session closed before any of the strike marchers could arrive upon the scene; and then came the event which diverted popular attention. It was for that reason, I presume, that only yesterday certain of the men's leaders made very inflammatory speeches—of a kind which it would be extremely difficult for the authorities to overlook or make any appearance of yielding to. One speech in particular, calling upon the hangman to refuse to perform his duty and threatening his life if he did so, was of a peculiarly seditious character; for I need hardly point out that if that functionary is not protected in the fulfilment of his official duties the downfall of law and order has begun. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to forestall any reports of that speech in the metropolitan press. For a few hours we were able to keep back the news; your Majesty's clemency was announced in the late issues of all the evening papers, and the 'Don't Hang' speech was not reported till this morning; and thus, coming after the event, has fallen comparatively flat. I think that now your Majesty will understand the position."

The Secretary had finished.

"And that is your explanation?" queried the King.

The minister bowed.

"I have to say that it does not satisfy me."

The minister lifted sad eyebrows, but did not speak.

"You tell me that for many days this recommendation of mercy has been your fixed intention. Why, then, did you not consult me? Why did you assume that, at a moment's notice, I should be able to fall in with your suggestion; why, even, that I should think the dispersal of certain riotous assemblies a convenient signal for the exercise of the royal prerogative?"

"I have merely followed, sir, the ordinary course of procedure observed in my department."

"Until, being unexpectedly pressed for time, you departed from it. After all the telephone was between us; I was here. I might not have agreed: but at least I should have been consulted!"

The minister pursed his lips; to this sort of hectoring he had really nothing to say. It did not comport with his official dignity.

The King rose. "Mr. Secretary, as I have already said, your explanation does not satisfy me. I shall communicate my sentiments to the Prime Minister."

His Majesty did not extend his hand; but by a motion of the head showed that the interview was over; and there was nothing left for the Minister of the Interior to do but retire from the room.

And the next day he retired from office; for though the Prime Minister urged many things in his defense, and more particularly the misapprehension which his present retirement might cause, the King remained obdurate; he was bent upon making an example. In the great political game he had miscalculated and lamentably failed, but red-tape was still his cherished possession; and you can do a good deal with red-tape when you have an unquestioned authority to fall back upon. Professor Teller's volumes of Constitutional History still lay upon a retired shelf in the royal library (indeed it was from one of them that he had extracted with slight changes his formal pronouncement of abdication); and if he could not get anything else out of his ministers he was determined to secure official correctness. Though they slighted his opinion, they should recognize his authority; punctiliousness at least they should render him as his one remaining due.

And so when the Prime Minister urged how small and accidental was the omission, his Majesty remarked that it was one of many; and when he argued how any delay might have proved dangerous, the point at which delay had begun was again icily indicated. More pressingly still did he invite the King to consider in what light, if unexplained, this resignation would be popularly regarded; would it not be taken as an admission of blame by the head of the Home Department for the occurrence of the late outrage?

"Very likely," assented the King; "after all it took place on Government premises." Whereat the Prime Minister, looking somewhat startled and distressed, inquired whether any such imputation of blame had been his Majesty's ulterior motive for his present action.

"I have no motives left," said the King wearily; "I am merely doing my duty."

In which aspect he was proving himself a very difficult person to deal with. "I am not arguing, I am only telling you," was an attitude which put him in a much stronger position with his intellectual superiors than any attempt at converting them to his views. From this day on he stood forth to his ministers as a rigid constitutional reminder; and with six volumes of the minutiæ of constitutional usage at his fingers' ends the amount of time he was able to waste and the amount of trouble he was able to give were simply amazing.

The Prime Minister had been quite right; the resignation of the Home Secretary caused just that flutter of unfavorable suspicion which he had expected. For some reason or another he was extremely distressed by it, and begged from his Majesty the grant of a full State pension to the retired minister. But the King would not hear of it. "It is not my duty," he said, "to grant full pensions to those who fail in their official obligations. Where I am more personally concerned I have not pressed you; I have not asked for the resignation of the Prefect of Police, though I think I might have some reason to show for it. He prevented nothing, and he has discovered nothing. Do you expect me to open Parliament for you again next week, with the same ceremony, along the same route, and at the same risk?"

He was assured that every precaution would be taken.

"I hope so," he said in the tone of one who very much doubted whether the ministerial word was now worth anything.

Under this harassing and unhandsome treatment the Prime Minister was beginning to show age; and the coming session gave no promise that his cares in other respects would be less heavy than before; the Women Chartists were threatening a bigger outbreak in the near future, and Labor was now claiming to be freely supported from the rates either when out of work or when on strike. And when the Address to the Throne was being moved Labor and the Women Chartists would be in renewed agitation, asking for things which would make party politics quite impossible, and which it was therefore quite impossible for party politics to grant. If the Government had not still got that thoroughly unpopular House of Bishops to sit upon and coerce, things would be looking very black indeed.