IV
Max had given up the quest, but he had not given up hope. Though love had humbled him, he yet believed in his star, and reminded himself that the world was small.
In the late spring the Jubilee celebrations took up some of his time; maneuvers followed. He went and played at soldiering for the public satisfaction; then returned to his more private and serious avocations, put the finishing touches to his book, and began to receive proofs from the foreign printing-house to which through the Countess's hands he had entrusted it. She herself with kind, charitable intent stayed on; more than ever now he needed some one to talk to and—he did not worry her. Others were trying to worry him. The Queen, after voluminous correspondence, had found and offered him choice of two German princesses whose photographs said flattering things of them; and, when he declined both propositions, had looked at him very sadly indeed—had almost broached the unmentionable subject. "Oh, Max, what are we to do with you?" she sighed; for she was still keeping herself badly informed of his goings-on. "That woman is back again," she informed her husband; "I really think we ought to consult the Archbishop."
The King saw no hope in that. "You must leave Max to take his own time," he said. He did not just then want to worry about Max, since he was preparing to plunge on his own account. "Alone I did it," was to be his boast, and he knew that if once he resumed fathering Max, Max would be fathering him, and his small spurt of initiative would be over.
But all that must be kept for another chapter. This one belongs to Max and his love affairs, past, present, and future; and it is still Max and his fortunes that we are following as we step back into the limelight of publicity.
At the first Court following on the Jubilee celebrations the Bishops appeared in force. It was their final demonstration of loyalty to the throne before the political battle joined, for they were now preparing to reject, just as a last fling, the whole of the Government's program, and then to see what the country thought of it.
As a bilious man sticks out his tongue toward the glass in order to know whether he looks as he feels, so the Bishops were sticking out their tongues toward the country in the hopes of looking as brave as they were pretending to be. And they came to Court that they might advertise their attitude.
They came in silken court-cassocks, preceded by their croziers and followed by their women-folk, a nice expression of that ecclesiastical and domestic blend on which the Church of Jingalo prided itself. These Church ladies were moral emblems in another respect as well: they had the privilege of appearing at Court functions more highly dressed—that is to say, less denuded—than others of a more aristocratic connection. The sacred and unfleshly calling of a bishop threw a protecting mantle over the modest shoulders of his wife and daughters; and these did not go unclad. In accordance with Pauline teaching they were covered in the assembly, expressing in their own persons that "moderation in all things" which was the accepted motto and policy of the Church.
The Archbishop of Ebury was there also; his crozier was different in shape from the rest, and as an addition to his silken cassock he wore a train. He was accompanied by his daughter. Daring in her assertion of the vocation which had withdrawn her from the gaieties of life she wore the gray robe of a little lay-sister of Poverty.
"His Grace the Archbishop of Ebury, Prince Palatine of the Southern Sees, Archdeacon of Rome, Vicar of Jerusalem, and Primate of all the Churches," so, upon entry to the Presence, his full and canonical titles were proclaimed by an usher of the Court.