The Bellefontaine Republican

THE RIGHTFUL KING
He Was a Mental Wreck, but He
Gave His Life For Another.

Not even the hideous pile of red
brick could spoil the beauty of the asy-
lum gardens upon an evening in June.
The huge house stood on a hillside
in one of the fairest spots that ever
man helped nature to make. Roses
were opening on all sides, and here
and there a late daffodil still lingered
to make the red roses jealous with its
simpler beauty.

Among the trumpets of the convolvu-
lus sat the rightful king. He was not
in state robes, nor did he wear any
outward insignia of royalty. Indeed
he wore a suit of decent and servicea-
ble corduroys and a soft felt hat, which
he found more comfortable than a
crown. On the bench by his side was
a pile of parchment deeds and legal
looking papers.

The rightful king sat with his hands
hanging loosely and a vacant, soulless
stare in his watery old eyes. His low-
er lip had dropped, and his whole face
was absolutely destitute of intelli-
gence.

For the moment one saw a
mere statue of flesh and no more.

Suddenly footsteps were heard ap-
proaching, and there was a tinkle of
feminine laughter coming through the
flowers. A light began to flicker back
into the lunatic's face, making it weak
indeed, but not mere brute, as it had
been before.

Two young ladies, in
cool summer
frocks, accompanied by
a tall young man in tweeds and with
the ribbon of an Oxford college on his
hat, came walking down the gravel
path, laughing as they came.

The rightful king became violently
agitated. He shook with eagerness,
and a yearning came into his eyes like
the pleading look of an unfondled dog.
Would Miss Bremmil notice him?
That was the great question. His posi-
tion as rightful king was, he well
knew, one which was not well estab-
lisbed.

Many of the other inmates of the
asylum resented it and wished to at-
tract notice for themselves and their
foolish whims by minimizing his im-
portance.

The visitors came up,
"This, Lucy,
said Miss Bremmil, the chaplain's
daughter, to her friend, "this, Lucy, is
the rightful king of England."

"If I had my rights, miss," said the
old man, "I should be a-sitting on
Queen Victoria's throne now."

"Incidentally," said the young man
from Oxford, "he fills up his time doing
a little gardening. Your majesty is
fond of flowers?"

"That I be, sir," said the rightful
king, touching his hat, forgetting his
dignity or perhaps finding the habits
of his former life in the world without
the walls too strong for him.

"When I comes into my own, miss,"
he went on, "you shall have all the diamonds out of the Tower of London. I
shan't want 'em!"

His voice sank a little and grew thin.
The momentary animation died away
from the foolish face. He could not
think of anything more to say. He be-
gan to whistle.

The three young people looked at him
pityingly, and then, with a word of
farewell, passed on their way.

"I am coming as far as the end of
the gardens, dear," said the chaplain's
daughter to her guest. "I've no doubt
Mr. Fraser
will see you
over
the
fields."

The young man gave her a look of
deep gratitude. "Wonderful tact," he
thought to himself.

"I hope you've not been made miserable by going over the asylum," said
Miss Bremmil. "Of course, I am quite
used to it, and it doesn't affect me as it
must affect others.

"It is rather depressing," said the
Girton girl.

"I dare say you'll think
me unfeeling and horrible, but if per-
sons become hopelessly insane—really
hopelessly, you know—I can't help feel-
ing it would be better for them and for
everybody else if they were painlessly
put out of the way."

"You haven't lived among mad people, as I have,"
said the chaplain's
daughter quietly.

"You'd be surprised
how sensible many of them are and
how good also. I don't suppose that
poor old rightful king ever had an un-
kind thought in his life. He's a dear
old thing and is always bringing me
flowers. He's devoted to me."

"Aren't any of the lunatics violent
sometimes?" inquired the young man.

"Oh, none on this side of the building.
They are harmless. Dangerous
cases are kept in a separate wing. You
can just see the roof over the trees.
Of course I'm
never allowed to go
there."

"How terrible it all seems!" the Gir-
ton girl said as they entered the last
long avenue, which led them to the
hillside beyond.

The sun began to make ready to slip
behind the hill, and it was now what
the Tennyson student called "Blow,
bugle, blow," time. They arrived at
the stile. They turned to look back
down the long and leafy avenue
through which they had come. It was
all irradiated with the long, level glow
of the sunset. A tiny black figure at
the far end, which seemed to be moving toward them, gave the scene just
that little necessary note of human
contrast which made it perfect.

They said good night, and the Girton
girl strolled away into the purpling
shadows, where she was destined to
hear what she had never suspected—
that love is, after all, the only higher
mathematics worth the attention of a
girl with soft hands and wavy hair.

Miss Bremmil walked slowly back
thinking placidly of their little ro-
mance. Suddenly she heard footsteps
at her side. Some one had come out
from the trees and was pacing with
her. She turned hurriedly toward the
sound. A man was walking by her
with a peculiarly gliding, springy step.
He was very tall, with a dark and rather sinister face. He was dressed in
the uniform of the asylum, only with
one difference—on his head he wore a
yellow cap and round his arm was a
broad band of yellow cloth.

She shrank back with a sick terror
flowing round and round her heart like
icy water. The man was one of the
"dangerous" cases, and she was alone
with him at nightfall, too far away to
scream for aid. She was paralyzed
with fear. Suddenly he turned on her
with a swift snarl, like a treacherous
animal. He caught her by the arms
and carried her to the nearest tree,
leaning her against it.

"I've wanted something like this for
a long time," he said. She observed he
had the voice and accents of a gentle-
man. He took a long strip of cloth
from his pocket and made her fast to
the trunk of the fir tree with it.

He drew a table knife from his pocket. The avenue was now almost dark.
As he came up to her a sound of
singing came from among the trees,
foolish, wayward singing, in a broad
Gloucestershire accent. They distin-
guished the words:

"I be the rightful king
Of England, merry England."

Early in the afternoon the rightful
king had been digging in a plantation
of larches. He had left his spade and
was now coming to fetch it.

Miss Bremmil heard the voice and
gave one cry for help. The knife was
dangerously near her. The rightful
king came shambling up. He saw the
girl tied to the tree and the man with
the knife. He flung himself upon the
madman with a great cry of pity and
anger.

They rolled over and over on the
ground, struggling fiercely, but at last
the old man was mastered. He was no
match for the other's demoniac
strength. The girl saw the knife rise
and fall, and then the air was suddenly
full of whistles and red dancing lights.
There were crowds of people pressing
round her, and she fainted in her fa-
ther's arms.

The body of the rightful king lay
upon the sward. There was nothing
poetic about it. In death it was even
more foolish than in life.

"Poor old rightful king!" said one of
the keepers.

"He died for missy.
Who'd have thought it? He's gone
from his kingdom now."

"This is his coronation day," said the
chaplain gently.—Mainly About People.