Of the wild drive that had followed, half way across England, through the wonderful summer night, the King had now, as he had had at the time, only a hazy, confused impression—a hazy, confused impression of Uncle Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering wheel of the huge Daimler, driving with a reckless audacity more suited to the commander of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a mere retailer of grotesquely improbable tales, of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as he drove, and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free rein to the fantastic flights of his characteristically extravagant humour.
Where, and when, he had caught the night mail, the King had still no clear idea. A blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his side, down a long, dimly lit railway platform, and throwing his last portmanteau in, after him, through the window of the already moving train, was all that remained with him, of the scene at the station.
And then the train had thundered on, through the sleeping countryside, and he had been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the darkness in which, for hours, he had seen only Judith's beautiful, vivid face, while the train had thundered in his ears, only Judith's name—
By this time, the powerfully engined car had run clear of the outer suburban tramway track, and was rushing through the semi-rural area of market gardens, and scattered villas, where the town first meets, and mingles with, the country, on the north side of London. Coronation illuminations had now been left far behind. Soon even the last of the long chain of lamps provided by the public lighting system was passed. It was by the light thrown on to the road, by the glaring headlights on the throbbing car, and by the softer light of the moon, that the King had now to do his driving—
From the first he had known that Judith, and Uncle Bond, could never be as other people to him. It was this knowledge which had warned him not to betray his real identity. From the first, it had seemed of vital importance to him, that no shadow of his Royal rank should be allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of his intercourse with these charming, unconventional people, who, looking upon him as merely a young, naval officer in trouble, had at once placed all their resources at his disposal, as if he had been an old and intimate friend. It was this knowledge which had prompted him, when he came to telegraph to Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoining of his ship, to sign the telegram with his favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That he should have been in a position to telegraph to Uncle Bond was only one of the many lesser miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At some point in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had slipped his visiting card into his hand, and had contrived to make him understand, in spite of his dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was known to his admiring public as "Cynthia St. Claire," the notorious serial writer, he was known to his friends as plain James Bond, and that he, and his niece Judith, would be glad to hear that he had escaped a court-martial.
Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder that never failed him when he thought of Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles of that first memorable night, twelve months ago, had merely been the prelude to a whole sequence of other, and far greater, miracles. When leave came his way once again, it had seemed only natural to him that he should run out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank them for their kindness which had included the salving, and the temporary storing of the derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond should have welcomed him so warmly, and pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever he happened to be passing through town, that had been—a miracle! Again, it was only natural that he should have taken advantage of their invitation, and that he should have fallen into the habit of running out to see them, whenever he could snatch a few brief hours from the exacting demands of his semi-official life. But that Judith, and Uncle Bond, should have thrown open their house to him, so soon, without question, and made their home, his home, that had been—a miracle! That he should have been able to keep his frequent visits to, and his increasing intimacy with, Judith and Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly twelve months, was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith and Uncle Bond should never have suspected his real identity, never penetrated his incognito, was a greater miracle. But that his friendship with Judith should have remained unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest miracle of all.
It was Judith who had wrought this last, greatest miracle of all. It was Judith who had made their friendship what it was. Somehow, from the first, she seemed to have been able to shut out, or, at the worst, to ward off, from their intimacy, all dangerous provocations. It was as if she had drawn a white line round herself, even in her thoughts, past which neither he, nor she, could enter. Uncle Bond, most wise and tactful of hosts, had helped. And the Imps, Judith's boys, had helped too.
Somehow, Judith and the Imps, Button, so called because of his button mouth, and Bill, cherubic and chubby, had always been inseparably associated in his mind. Almost from the first, he must have known that Judith, young as she was, was a widow. But it was only lately that he had learnt that her husband had been a sailor like himself, a sailor who had served with distinction, and lost his life, in the Pacific War, the war which he had missed himself, to his own everlasting regret, by a few bare weeks of juniority—
By this time, the throbbing car was sweeping down the opening stretch of the Great North Road, out into the real country. More as a matter of custom, than of conscious thought, the King slowed down the car. It had become his habit on these occasions, that he should slacken his speed, when he had at last successfully escaped from the town, so that he could attune his mind to his surroundings, and savour to the full his eager anticipation of Judith's joyous welcome.
Suddenly, the ghostly, white painted figure of a signpost, for which he always kept an eye open, flashed into his view, on the left of the road.