TWO CARDS PLAYED.
The morning following the scene with Ripon, his Majesty was in an ill-temper. The events of the evening were not pleasant to remember; then the King had lost largely at poker, and had passed a sleepless night. Mrs. Carey had sent word that she had not recovered from her fainting fit, and was not yet visible. Old Bugbee's promised remittance had not arrived. And the entire court joined in what seemed a deliberate effort to make things generally disagreeable. The pages who were on duty at the royal toilet came in for some bad moments; and young Lord Gladstone Churchill privately confided to Paran Paget that he had never seen the old man in such a devil of a wax.
It seemed to the King that times had sadly changed from the regency of his grandfather. Nobody had ever ventured to argue with him about the desirability of the company he chose to keep. But now Wellington, the Lord Chamberlain, and the Archbishop of Canterbury had as much as told King George that he must break with Mrs. Carey. It was hard if he couldn't have his own way even in the little court at the South End. True, the papers had been full of Mrs. Carey these three months—the last Sunday Globe had contained a grand plan of her own and the royal apartments, and the Advertiser of the following day had printed, without apparent reason, an editorial upon Mademoiselle de la Vallière. But the King considered it highly impertinent of American journals to make any personal comment whatever upon majesty, and had almost burst a blood-vessel when approached soon after his arrival by an interviewer from the New York Herald.
Still, there was one ugly fact remaining—Mrs. Carey's fainting fit. What could have frightened her into that? Not Lord Brompton, with all his rhodomontade—the King liked to call it rhodomontade; it soothed a certain uneasy feeling he had had at times about his own part in the affair. Brompton was ardent enough, but he was not well balanced; he was impracticable; he did not properly sense the feeling of the times, but was eager to force an opportunity. Well, well—where was Mrs. Carey? It was audience time, and he meant to have her receive, with the ladies in waiting. He rang the bell, and a page entered with a card. The King looked at it, surprised; the card was something between an ordinary visiting card and a tradesman's circular:
| [COAT OF ARMS.] JARLEY JAWKINS, Master of Social Ceremonies and Purveyor of Guests To His Majesty the King. |
The King threw himself upon the throne—it was a fine old carved oak chair, one which had come over in the Mayflower—and waited.
Jawkins entered, bowing low. It was the first time he had ever met his Majesty face to face. As he slowly approached the throne his knees bent at their hinges, until with the last step they touched the floor with a heavy thud (Jawkins was a portly little man) as he kissed the royal hand that was kindly extended. When he rose, which was with considerable difficulty, he backed slowly away. As he saw no chair and did not dare to turn around, there was nothing for it but to continue backing; which he did, until he brought up with a crash against a large photograph of Niagara that was hanging on the wall of the chamber. Here he stood looking at the King, but hardly within speaking distance.
"Mr. Jawkins, I believe?"
"Sir, yes," said Jawkins, who did not like to say "Yes, sir," as being too colloquial.
"We have often heard of you, Jawkins, and favorably," the monarch went on. "I understand that several of our poorer gentlemen are indebted to your exertions for their—ahem—pocket money."