“That is a terrible thing for your Majesty to say,” pronounced his minister severely.
“All true things are terrible—especially beautiful true things. Milords, I will announce my decision at the State banquet to-morrow night. It is, as you know, His Royal Highness’ birthday to-morrow—his eighteenth birthday. Yes, yes, you all are right, he is getting to be a man. A man!—or rather a king. Between the two words, milords, a tremendous gulf is fixed. But I will detain you no longer, gentlemen; I desire an hour or two alone before retiring. Sir Estes, pray send my Fool into the garden—er, not now, you understand, but in half an hour. Yes, thank you, that will be quite soon enough.” And the royal mannequin watched his courtiers disappear into the Palace, always with that gentle, commiserating smile upon his lips.
Then, with a brief sigh that might have meant almost anything, or nothing, he sank down on to the old garden seat, and lit his strange long pipe. The garden was very still, in the pale mystery of the moonlight, very still, and very empty. The King from his shadowy corner gazed past its loveliness at the great palace unbelievingly: it was not a real Palace, there was no real Court inside. Only the exquisite soft arches of the cloister were real, and the long sweep of the old steps, down which he had stolen to meet—he drew in his breath sharply. Yes, the steps, and the grand towering oaks, and the beckoning green vistas, luring one into their ever-vanishing embrace, promising one at the end surely some sweet, half-forgotten memory of childhood. Why, one’s first kite had flirted away down that leafy winding lane; and, yes! at the end of this, that wretched pony had tumbled one’s enraged manhood off its seat—at the resentful age of four. Then that other: it was there as far as the bend in the trees that one’s mother had walked with one, that day of departure for the University. A Queen she was, to be sure, but—marvelously!—one’s wonderful mother as well. And “I’m so glad you don’t have to succeed, Dick,” she had whispered against his cheek, starting guiltily at her own words: “I—I want you to be just a man, you know. A man, with all a man’s pleasures, and burdens, and hobbies, and—and loves, dear. You don’t have to be superb, thank God! you can be just a commonplace man. Ah, Dick, that’s the greatest privilege in the world!”
The King flung his pipe away abruptly. She was dead now. And he——“She was right,” he muttered harshly, beginning to stride up and down, “that’s the greatest privilege in the world. But I——”
“You are alone out here, my dear?” The voice that came to him from a balcony above was as coldly sweet as the moon’s own rays.
“I am alone,” he answered mechanically.
A stately figure trailed down the winding stair and joined him, directing his steps to that corner of the garden that was farthest from the Palace. “Some one has told me that our son—that John will soon come to you with a most unreasonable request. I beg of you, Richard, do not grant it. It has to do with the announcement to be made to-morrow night.”
“The announcement? Why I——”
“You understand me, I am sure.” The cold voice lowered cautiously. “It is imperative that nothing shall be done to mar my plan for adjusting our relations with Franconia; I am only more and more regretful that you have kept the matter of John’s alliance with the Princess Royal pending for so long a time.”
“I have not yet consented——”