And then words came to him, fitting words, words to which, up to then, he had given no thought, but in which all his feelings for, all his thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, seemed, suddenly, to crystallize, and find inevitable expression—
"If thanks were necessary between us, I would thank you for all that you have done for me," he said. "But thanks are not necessary between us, are they? Where there is—friendship—there is no need for thanks. You said, yesterday, that you knew that there could be no change in our friendship, and that you were content that it should be so. You were right, of course. You are always right. You said what you did to reassure me, to relieve my anxiety, to remove the uncertainty about—our position—which was troubling me, although I was hardly aware that that was my trouble. What you said did reassure me. It did relieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say something, as plainly as I can, to you. It seems to me that what I have to say is—due to you—
"If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our friendship, I should stay here, now, with you. I should stay with you always. I should ask you to join your life to mine. I should ask you to make—Paradise—for me, wherever we were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you would say—yes—gladly—
"But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I am—the King. Alfred, the sailor is—dead. Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I—the King—am going—back to duty. I am going back to try to take hold of my job—in a new way. I am going back, to try to think—first of England, and never of myself. I am trying to do that now—
"But, before I go, I want to make you a promise. I want to—pledge myself—to you, as far as I can. It will give me—a certain satisfaction—to bind myself to you, as far as I can.
"I will never marry—"
Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while he spoke. Her beautiful vivid face was pale for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as if with painful thought. But she met his glance without flinching, and her voice, when she spoke, was firm, if low.
"I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred," she said. "But I am glad, and proud, that you have said what you have. It was—like you, to say it. It is—an acknowledgment—that I shall never forget, as long as I live—
"I will give you—a pledge—in return. Whatever happens, you will always be welcome here. Whatever happens, you will always find the same welcome here. You will never find—any changes here. I don't think Alfred, the sailor, is dead. I don't think he will ever die—as long as you live! For us, here, at any rate, you will always be—our friend Alfred!"
Once again, the King was conscious that Judith understood him better than he understood himself. Once again—was it for the last time?—it seemed to him that she had explained him to himself. What did all his talk amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, of the claim, that Judith had established upon him—that was all.