“Jack.” Some one was calling softly. “Jack, are you there?” The moon had gone down; it was very dark in the vast old garden. But through the blackness one could see a dainty figure, like an adorable phantom image, poised uncertainly, just at the top of the steps. “It’s so dark, I can’t see you, Jack”—the little laugh held a note of the piteous. “And I daresay it’s the last time I shall see you, isn’t it? For of course he wouldn’t listen to you. He—he’s such a real king, isn’t he?” For a moment longer she stood there, the beseeching, fairy thing; then with a quick sob of disappointment, she fled.
But the half-concealed impatience of her last speech had told the King that it was the little Maid of Honor, Ermyntrude. Ah—he remembered: she had come to Court not so long ago, just a month—after her father died. Her father was—why should it seem suddenly so significant?—a professor at the University; a very learned man. Her mother, a Princess, had broken rank to marry him. Women did those things.
A professor at the University! And “It’s the last time I shall see you, isn’t it?” Who was it standing there at the top of the steps? Standing there for the last time, piteously brave, with that heartbreaking little laugh in her voice. The King dashed his hand across his eyes. “Rosemary!” he called yearningly; and fled after her up the steps.
The great banquet hall was hushed. The minstrels had put away their songs, and the Court sat quiet. Only the Fool played with his gardenia: he whispered to some one that nothing gave him confidence like appearing trivial.
“Milords, Ladies of the Court, and our distinguished guests”—as the King raised his handsome face to the colonial Princes, one saw that it was very pale—as pale as that of the Crown Prince, who sat at his right.
“The King is but just beginning to be alive to the privileges of his position. You know how in olden times, and in these modern reckless days as well, monarchs have sacrificed thousands—lives, ducats, principalities even, for the sake of some passing fancy—some hobby, perhaps, that wanted gratifying. And no one has dared to say them nay. Milords, I have been up to this time a very lenient sovereign” (the Queen was tapping her slipper nervously); “I have been content to be just an ordinary King!” He looked from one to the other of the company whimsically. “Emperors have given away continents; great lords have sold their every slave—all for the sake of a whim. And so now, milords, I intend to gratify a little notion of my own. It has long been the custom to betroth the Crown Prince on His Highness’ birthday. His Highness grows to manhood, he attains his majority, and voila! One picks him a bride! Quite suitable; quite suitable.” (The Queen was breathing more freely. The Crown Prince sat with his young face half shaded. The whole Court held its breath with attention; particularly the Fool, who was watching his master with a new concentration.)
“Very good. The King has taken the fancy—oh, a very flighty fancy no doubt, milords—to present the Crown Prince and his affections to er—some one quite unexpected—some one whom the King shall choose on the ah—spur of the moment, you understand. It lends more excitement to a game, to cast the die quite on the spur of the moment, eh?” (By this time the Queen was beside herself; while the Prince had half risen, in his indignation.)
“So—let me see—I assure you, milords”—and the King’s voice had never been so lightly gay, his face so gravely sweet—“I assure you this moment is worth all the monotony of Kingship, yes, though that monotony had lasted a thousand dreary years!—this moment on which one stakes his all: his destiny, his country, his lands beyond the seas—for the sake of one glorious, mad whim! I bestow the hand of Prince John upon which one? Let us say the littlest—she who sits yonder in the corner—what, not crying? There’ll be plenty of time for that when you’re Queen, my dear. Come bring her forward, your Highness, and let all men see whom the King has chosen to carry out his one wild madness. Your name is——? Ermyntrude! Milords, I pledge you Ermyntrude, your future Queen, the daughter of a Princess, and” (for the first time the King’s voice faltered) “of a professor at the University. Ermyntrude!”
“And so he’s no more than a King?” The Fool was asking the Maid of Honor a moment later—and for a Fool, his voice was beautiful.
The Maid of Honor’s lovely, vivid little face was like a drenched spring flower—all the more radiant for its tears. “No—no more than a King? Oh!” she caught the velvet sleeve impetuously. “Oh, Fool, you’re his best friend—you’re his Fool, so you know him best—could any one, I ask you could any one be more than the King!”