CHAPTER VIITHE SHADOWMr. Matthew Prior, Private Secretary to the Earl of Portland, was enjoying the winter sunshine in the gardens of Hampton Court Palace.It was the year 1694, and near Christmas. Many vast events had taken place since the young poet had been first introduced to the Court by my Lord Dorset—plots, counter-plots, change of ministers, of parliaments, the defeat of Landen and Steinkirk, the great victory at La Hogue, the loss of the Smyrna Fleet, four bloody campaigns, four winters of gloom, depression, and internal convulsion, and still, as by a kind of miracle, the two lonely princes ruling England maintained their station and kept their faces calmly to their enemies.Mr. Prior was a grateful soul; he adored the King and worshipped the Queen; he had berhymed both copiously, and was ever ready to use his sword or his wit in their behalf. The last of the King's unending differences with the Parliament was on the matter of the Triennial Bill, and Mr. Prior had his tablets on his knee and his pencil in his hand.He was engaged in composing a pamphlet in defence of His Majesty's action in firmly refusing to curtail the regal authority by passing an Act that permitted no parliament to sit longer than three years.But it was cold, and the neat little secretary found his fingers too stiff to write. He returned his papers to his pocket, rose, and walked on briskly.Both palace and grounds were now very noble, being designed closely after the King's house at Loo: trees, thirty-five years old, had been transplanted either side of a wide canal that had been cut opposite the Palace; beds were shaped, walks laid down, shrubs cut after the Dutch style; every endeavour had been used to make the place as much like Holland as possible. Even now, in mid-winter, topiary art had preserved monstrous box hedges and bushes in the shape of windmills, birds, and animals.The day was cloudy, but the sun streamed through in a fine gold light on the splendid front of the Palace, still unfinished but very imposing.Mr. Prior turned to the left, where was the privy garden directly beneath the royal apartments, and the covered walk where the Queen would sit in summer with her ladies, sewing and reading. There, too, was a small sunk Dutch garden, with a fountain in the centre and tiled paths, bare now of everything save a few evergreens, but in the spring a mass of blooms from Holland.Here walked two ladies and a gentleman, all muffled in furs, and talking together with some earnestness.Mr. Prior took off his hat; he recognized the Queen, his patron, the Earl of Portland, and Lady Temple. He was passing respectfully on when Mary called to him.He came up to her, and she paused to speak to him."My lord tells me you are just returned from The Hague?" questioned Mary."Yes, Madam.""I envy you," said the Queen wistfully; "it is, Mr. Prior, such a dream with me to see The Hague again."The ardent little poet thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. There was an almost unnatural lustre in her eyes, an almost unnatural brightness on her lip and cheek; the fresh wind had stirred the auburn hair from her brow, and the fitful sunlight touched it to sparkles of red gold."The Hague liveth only in hopes of one day seeing Your Majesty," he answered. "You are most extraordinarily beloved there, Madam.""They were always very good to me," said Mary simply. "I still feel an exile here—but you must not breathe that, Mr. Prior," she added almost instantly."Are you returning to Holland?""Very soon, Madam.""Well," smiled Mary, "I hope that when next I see you it may be at my house in The Hague—for I have good hopes that I may be free to go there soon. Let me at least flatter myself so."She dismissed him kindly and continued her walk, keeping her gloved hand affectionately on Lady Temple's arm."What is this of the Duke of Leeds?" she asked Portland."They say he is to be impeached in the new Parliament, Madam, for taking money from the East India Company."Mary frowned."That is a hit at me," added Portland calmly."And at the King," she said proudly. "There is no end to the spite of these people. Heard you also that Sir John Dalrymple must go for the Glencoe affair?""If the Parliament had their way, it would be his head and not his place he lost.""It seemeth to have been a cruel thing," said Mary, "if it is true? But I am sorry for the Duke of Leeds (Danby he always is to me) for he has been a faithful servant.""The King would like to employ Sunderland, who lieth quiet at Althorp," said Portland, with some bitterness. "A villain if there ever was one!"Mary glanced at him anxiously."The King doth not love Sunderland," she said, "but might find him useful.""Will he persuade His Majesty to pass the Triennial Bill?" asked Lady Temple."No man can do that," answered the Queen. "If any could have done it, it would have been your lord, a year ago—but nothing will move the King once his mind is resolved." She laughed, and added, "You both have known him longer than I have—tell me if you ever knew him change his decision?""Never," said Portland. "When he was a child he was immovable.""Sir William hath wasted eloquence on him more than once," smiled Lady Temple.The sun had suddenly gone in, and a greyness overspread the gardens."Let us go in," said Mary.They entered the Palace by the private door that led to the King's apartments. Portland prepared to leave for Whitehall, where His Majesty stayed to open the Parliament, and the two ladies went to the Queen's great gallery, that was fine and beautifully furnished, though but ill heated by the one fireplace where the pine logs blazed.They joined the little company gathered about the fire and protected by tall lacquer and silk screens.Mary took off her furs and drew close to the flames. She was shivering violently."The room is too large," she said, "but a noble apartment, is it not?"She had taken great pride in furnishing Hampton Court and Kensington House, and in introducing and making fashionable the arts and crafts of Holland—the pottery, the brass-ware, the painted wood, and wrought silver.The ladies answered in eager praises. The Queen's modest court now consisted of a set of gentle ladies, Dutch and English, who were her constant companions; their piety, their charity, their blameless lives, their industry with the needle, made them utterly different to the ladies of the two last reigns, and set an example which had made soberness fashionable, at least in many homes; for Mary had won England as, many years before, she had won her husband, and was now nearly as beloved in London as at The Hague—at least among the common people.One fashion she set was a rage through the country—this was the collecting of strange and monstrous pieces of old china.Above the yellow brocade chair where she now sat was a shelf laden with vases and figures of extraordinary shapes and violent colours. Mary loved them all; she looked up at them with a little smile, then took up the book from which she had been reading to her ladies, but dropped it on to her lap, and sat with an air of lassitude, gazing into the flames."The truth is," she said, "I have a great headache, and have had one this three days past.""It is the wind," answered Lady Nottingham.Mary shivered."I have taken cold, I think," she remarked. She laughed; she was more than usual gay.She was expecting the King in a few days, and, for the moment, the troubles and difficulties had a little cleared from his path. For the first time since the war began the last campaign had decided in favour of the allies; the weight of England was beginning to tell in the balance. Mary could not forget that; it coloured her days with pleasure."I think the ball will be popular," she continued irrelevantly; "every one seemeth very pleased——""What is the date, Madam?" asked Lady Temple."The twenty-eighth—about a week from now," answered Mary. "I am to have a new dress!" She laughed again; she seemed, for her, to be very excited. "I shall put it on presently, and you must judge of it."She leant back in her chair, and was suddenly silent. The short day was darkening; sullen crimson, presaging rain, burnt fitfully in the west, and a gloomy brightness reflected through the windows of the great gallery, and struck changeful colour from the mother-of-pearl figures on the black china screens.Mary coughed and shivered. She turned to Madame Nienhuys."When is your cousin coming to Court?" she asked."Not yet, Madam. I had a letter from The Hague yesterday from her mother saying she would send her in the spring.""Why not sooner?" asked the Queen."She saith she is frightened by the reports of the plague in London.""They say it is worse this year," assented Mary. "And the smallpox.""And the smallpox, Madam. But it is foolish of my cousin to be so timid.""Yes," said Mary gravely; "since timidity will save no one. God doth His will, despite our fears."She opened the work-table beside her and took out a chair-cover she was working with a design of birds and flowers on a black ground. She made a languid attempt to thread the needle, then dropped the sewing as she had the book."I will try that gown on," she said, "and then we will make tea in the little antechamber—this is so large."The ladies rose with a pretty rustle of skirts, folded up their work, and followed Mary through Sir Christopher's noble apartments to her chamber, which was very exactly furnished but cold.On the canopied bed of blue and yellow damask lay the Queen's new gown, and two sewing-girls sat on low stools and stitched the lace into the sleeves.At Mary's approach they rose silently."How cold it is!" shivered Mary. "Put me down a grumbler, but we had warmer houses at The Hague.""But the dress is beautiful!" cried Lady Nottingham, and the five ladies gathered about the bed with exclamations of admiration.It was of white velvet, embroidered with little wreaths of coloured silk flowers opening over a silver petticoat trimmed with flounces of lace. The sewing-maidens eyed it shyly, and blushed at the compliments bestowed."I must dance in that," smiled Mary. "Dancing used to be one of my prettiest pleasures, as you may remember, my Lady Temple!""Will Your Majesty try it on?" asked Basilea de Marsac."Yes," laughed Mary, "the sewing-girls will help me; get you into the other room and make the tea——"The ladies trooped off, and the two sempstresses timidly helped Mary out of her brown velvet and laced her into the state dress.A fire was burning, and the Queen stood between it and the bed, facing the long glass mirror above the mantelshelf that was crowded with china grotesques. As they pinned, arranged, and draped the rich silk about her, Mary felt a sudden great fatigue; her limbs were heavy beneath her, and she gave a little sigh of weariness.The dress was cut very low, and one sleeve was yet unfinished, so her shoulders and left arm were bare save for her shift, and, as she moved for her skirt to be adjusted, that slipped. The Queen noticed this in the mirror, and put up her right hand to draw it up, when suddenly a deep shiver ran through her. She stepped back, clutching the dress together on her shoulder."It is too dark to see," she said levelly. "There is a silver lamp in my cabinet—will you fetch that?"The sewing-girls looked surprised. The light still held, and there were candles in the room; but they left at once, with respectful courtesies.The instant they had gone the Queen sprang to the door and locked it, then went back to the bed and leant heavily against the post nearest the fire.She felt sick and weak; her head was giddy."Be quiet—be quiet," she said aloud, and pressed her clenched knuckles against her leaping heart.Only for a second did this weakness endure. She returned to the glass and turned her chemise down; there she saw again what had made her send the sewing-girls away—a large purple patch on the white flesh, unmistakable.For an instant she stood gazing, then sat down in the majestic arm-chair beside the bed. There was another test she knew of—she winced from applying it, yet presently rose and took from a side-table near the tall clock a rat-tailed spoon she used for rose-water.She put the bowl of this far back into her mouth, and then withdrew it; the silver was covered with bright blood.Footsteps sounded without. Mary flung the spoon on to the fire and softly unlocked the door.The sempstresses entered with the silver lamp, dutifully lit and placed it on the mantelshelf.Mary stood holding her garments tightly together on her breast."Have you ever had the smallpox?" she asked gently.They both answered together."Yes, Your Majesty; but not the black smallpox, an it please Your Majesty."Mary looked into their fair, undisfigured faces."No," she answered; "the black smallpox is ever fatal, is it not——""They say so, Your Majesty," said the elder girl, pinning up the lace on the silver underskirt. "And there is a deal of it in London now, Your Majesty."Mary made no reply. They finished with the dress and left her, having laced her into the brown velvet.The Queen put out the silver lamp and went into the antechamber where the ladies were chattering over the tea Lady Temple was making in a Burmese silver urn.Mary seated herself near the fire."We will go to Kensington House to-morrow," she said. Then, noticing Lady Temple's look of surprise, she added, with a slight tremor in her voice, "I have a fancy to be near the King."CHAPTER VIIIFEARMy Lord Sunderland was climbing from obscurity, disgrace, and infamy to that great position he had once held—climbing very cautiously, working secretly, biding his time, venturing a little here, a little there, helped always by my lady and some few ancient friends.The King had been obliged to leave him out of the Act of Grace. He was, nevertheless, at this moment waiting for a private audience of His Majesty, who had already visited him in his princely palace at Althorp.The King had gone in state to Parliament; my lord did not care to yet take his seat in the House on great occasions; he preferred to wait in Whitehall and reflect quietly on his policies.He believed that the summit of his ambitions was about to be reached; he had staked on William of Orange twenty years ago, and had never lost faith in him. The King was not a man to be ungrateful. Sunderland saw close within his grasp the moment he had worked for steadily, unscrupulously, so long—the moment when William of Orange and he should rule England together.From his seclusion at Althorp he had watched the King's stormy reign, and known that if he had been at William's right hand half the troubles would have been averted or smoothed over.He was even scheming to make the Court popular; the attitude of the people towards his hero considerably annoyed him.It was undeniable that the irreproachable example of the Court awoke in the English more ridicule than respect or admiration; they regarded with a sneer the sincere efforts of the gentle young Queen to elevate and dignify her position, to improve the tone of a corrupt society. The industrious simplicity of the King, his dislike of blasphemy, evil-speaking, and frivolous amusements, his private tolerance, justice, and modesty were as so many causes of offence to a people regretting former princes so much more suited to their temper. They missed the pageant that had continually entertained them at Whitehall, the money that had been squandered by the Court in a manner so pleasing to the national extravagance, the continual spectacle of the King in the obvious exercise of gracious royalty, even the gay ladies whose histories had diverted a generation. This humour provoked cynical smiles from William and distressed comment from Mary. Sunderland resolved to alter it; he saw the truth; he knew that nothing but genius in the man every one combined to disparage could have kept the nation together, and nothing but the greatest courage and strength on the part of the woman they affected to dismiss as a cipher could have maintained a government during the Irish war.Sunderland largely blamed the ministers. Halifax had failed, Caermarthen (now Leeds) was failing, the others had never been really trusted by the King, who relied mainly on secret advisers, such as Carstairs, Temple, his Dutch friends, and lately Sunderland himself.My lord knew that he could do better than any of these; he had the great advantage of understanding the King; he even believed that he could make him again as beloved in England as he had been in '88.William was no boor, but of noble blood thrice refined; his passionate nature and the constant control he had put it under made him break out fiercely sometimes against the foolish and the vexatious; he never flattered, and he took no trouble to please women. Natural modesty and the languor of ill-health made him refuse to concede to the national love of display; but he was beloved abroad, and Sunderland believed he could be beloved in England. My lord resolved to persuade him to go to Newmarket this year; he flattered himself that he had a considerable influence over William.He became impatient for the King to return; he went to the window and looked at the surging crowd beyond the courtyard waiting for a sight of the Royal coach. It was not likely to be greeted very warmly, for the King was, a second time, going to veto the Triennial Bill, a great popular measure which, from the first, he had set his face against.Sunderland upheld him; to consent to the Bill would be an enormous concession to the people, and my lord had no love for the democracy, but, like William, had a high ideal of the rights of the Crown. He took pleasure now in thinking of the King's firm stand and the disappointment of this crowd when the news of the vetoed Bill was flashed from mouth to mouth.As he watched, standing within the silver-corded curtains, a party of halberdiers suddenly scattered the people to right and left, a company of soldiers drove up, and then the Royal coach came, unusually fast, swinging on its leathers.A deep hum rose from the crowd; some broke into cheering, hats were thrown up, and handkerchiefs waved. Sunderland had never seen the King receive such a cordial reception.He withdrew from the window, surprised, a little puzzled.The satisfied murmur of the crowd continued."Why—is it possible——" cried my lord.He hastened to seek out the King.William was in his dressing-room, disrobing. M. Zulestein was with him, and several other nobles.Gold-embroidered purple, scarlet and ermine, the collar and star of the George lay tossed on one of the gilt walnut chairs; the King, in silk shirt and white satin breeches, sat by a marquetry dressing-table with a letter in his hand.Sunderland entered as one sure of his welcome. William had promised him countenance if he would come to Court."Your Majesty——" he began.The King looked at him blankly; his face, between the dark curls, was of a startling whiteness."Ah, sir," said Sunderland, "do I break in upon Your Majesty?""No," answered William vaguely.My lord looked round the other nobles; they seemed strangely silent."Sir, how went it in Parliament?" he asked, approaching the King.William made a heavy effort to answer."I—well enough—they——" His voice trailed off.Sunderland stood utterly amazed. Was this man going to fail?"Sir, the Triennial Bill?" he questioned half fearfully.The King rose; he seemed utterly unnerved; he whom my lord had ever considered beyond the touch of weakness."I passed it," he said faintly.The colour flashed into Sunderland's face."You did!" he cried. "You made that great concession. By God, if any but Your Majesty had made that statement I should have disbelieved them——"The King did not seem to hear him; he called distractedly for his coat, and walked up and down the splendid little chamber with his head bent.Sunderland, sick at heart, drew M. de Zulestein aside."What is the matter with the King?" he whispered. "I should not have known him——""He hath been all day like a man in a confusion," answered the Master of the Robes."And to give way," muttered Sunderland. "To concede like any weakling!"William mechanically took from one of the lords his coat, sword, and hat, and stood still a moment before the chair on which his orders glittered on his robes, like frozen coloured water gleaming in the winter sunlight."Is the coach ready?" he asked abruptly."Your Majesty," reminded M. de Zulestein, "is to dine in public here to-day——""No," said the King, "I will go at once to Kensington House—hasten the coach——""But there are a number of people already gathered—it will cause grievous offence——"The King stared at him with wild dark eyes."My God, I will not stay an instant."de Zulestein bowed.At this moment Lord Portland entered; they saw him with profound relief, believing that, if any could, he would fathom and combat the King's humour.At sight of him William flushed with animation. Portland crossed to him at once; he seemed himself troubled in his manner.The King caught his hand and pressed it inside his open satin waistcoat, over his heart."Do you feel that?" he asked. "Have you ever known it beat so?—that is fear, William, fear——"He spoke in his own language, and with an extraordinary energy and passion."The letter," asked Portland tenderly, "that was handed you as we started——""From Sir Thomas Millington," said the King; he put it into his friend's hands and sank on to the chair beside the dressing-table; he seemed utterly unconscious of the watchful eyes upon him, of the presence, indeed, of any but Portland.That lord read the letter of Sir Thomas (he was the King's physician) with, it seemed, some relief."Why, he merely saith the Queen is not well."William answered hoarsely—"Lady Temple came to Whitehall this morning when you were abroad ... you knowshehath never had the smallpox." His voice broke; he stared out of the window at the winter sky."God in Heaven!" exclaimed Portland. "You do not think ofthat?""Lady Temple," muttered the King, "said—shehad sent from Kensington—every one, even to the maid-servants—who—had not had the smallpox——""That is but her own sweet kindness," cried Portland—"she cannot know——""I am afraid, afraid," answered the King. "My father, my mother, my uncle ... all dead of that..."He sprang up and turned to the door. Sunderland was in his way, and stayed him gently."Sir—I entreat you do not disappoint the people—stay in Whitehall to dine——"William looked at him fiercely."Do you not hear that the Queen is sick?"Sunderland's face was cold; he was disappointed in the King."What of this Bill for the Calling of Parliaments?" he said. "I would like to hear some good reason for that concession on the part of Your Majesty."William made no answer; he put out his hand and motioned my lord out of his way. Sunderland stepped aside and the King left the room. They heard his high heels going quickly down the corridors.Portland turned to M. de Zulestein."Why, he hath known two days that the Queen was not well.""It was Lady Temple," answered the Master of the Robes. "She told him Her Majesty was worse than she would admit.""But the doctors——""You know the King hath never had any trust in doctors—and certainly it giveth an ill-colour that she hath sent away all that are like to be infected.""Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I have misreckoned on the King."He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after the King. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and the banqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lords ready to serve.The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with no other company but that nobleman.So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from the Palace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people drive away from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries of Leeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hooted lustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hooted or cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thought little about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiar loyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were with that lady whose life meant so much to England.In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more the King, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still round his knee, was by Mary's side in the long Queen's gallery.She was seated close to the fire with Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys—very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a blue scarf about her shoulders.Her extravagant joy at the King's coming was piteous to see."So soon!" she cried, and her whole face changed. "I thought it could not be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine at Whitehall?""No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You—you are no worse?""Oh, I am well again," smiled Mary; "but you will make yourself unpopular if you disappoint the people—yet I am glad you came—I thought I must see you—that is why I came from Hampton yesterday, forgive me—but even the sound of the Tower guns as you went to Parliament was company——"She paused, and seemed rather exhausted by the effort of speaking. William noticed with unutterable anxiety that the hand he held was burning hot and that she shivered continuously, yet she was so joyous, smiling, and lovely he could not trust his own fears.The two ladies had withdrawn to the other end of the gallery. The King took the stool beside Mary."Did you pass the Parliament Bill?" she asked."Yes," he said, never taking his eyes from her face and speaking as if it was a matter of no moment."Ah, why?" she asked, startled."I did not care; what doth it matter? Do not talk of business, Marie.""No," she said softly; "let us forget great affairs for once. I am so weary, dear.""But you are better?" He could scarcely control his voice.She smiled brightly."Oh yes; I was out driving this morning, and afterwards talking to Dr. Burnet, and you know that taketh some energy—I think to have my ball just the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubled the doctors."He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her household that had so shaken him, but could not bring the words to his lips.Mary coughed a little, and sat up."I wanted to ask you something," she said. "I am always begging—am I not?"He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy rings hurt her, but she continued smiling."About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for a hospital——""I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of it before. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it if I have to pawn my furniture.""There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary—"poor and wounded—and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. I used to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging—one could not forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich——""It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shall draw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and that shall be my thankoffering."Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight flooded her figure with gorgeous light; in that moment's stillness both of them thought of love as a terrible thing.Mary suddenly closed her eyes."Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?"He answered under his breath—"Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?""When she died she was no older than I am—I often think how strangely near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would not let one be afraid.""Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You frighten me——""Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland—a limning in little with white violets on the back, and these words, 'J'aime un seul.' That was a pretty thought of hers."She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavy lids."I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully."You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will go together to The Hague, and be free of all of it——""There is the war.""Let Waldeck take the command this campaign—I will stay with you. We have had so little time together all these years."Mary gazed tenderly into his ardent face."The spring seemeth so far off. Hold my hand. I feel as if the world might pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. You will be with me this Christmas-tide?""I shall not leave you," he said hoarsely. "I will nurse you till you are well again. But you are not ill?" he added piteously."No—tired a little." She sat up and put her hands on his shoulders. "You do not regret the day they married you to your poor little cousin?" The soft brown eyes were full of yearning. "She was such a foolish child, so ignorant——"He could not speak, but made a movement of his hands to hers as if to stop her."Let me speak," said Mary sweetly. "I have thought so much about it lately. We learnt everything so late—our mistakes last of all, I think, and I have made many mistakes. Perhaps another woman would have helped you more. But I have done my best—I wanted to say that—I have always done my best."He managed to answer, but almost incoherently."You shame me—utterly shame me—you—know what you have been to me——"Mary dropped her hands; the tears gathered in her eyes."And I am childless," she faltered.He sprang up as if he wrenched himself free from torture."Do not leave me," entreated Mary feebly. "I think I am not very well, after all, and you promised to stay—forgive me—but indeed I think of it and your great kindness."He turned about and leant over her chair. Mary clung to him with hot hands."No one could have loved you more," she said, in great agitation—"too much, for my own peace——"Her fever-flushed face drooped against the lace on his bosom; he put his arm round her, and she gave a great sigh; the tears were on her lashes and running slowly down her face; he kissed her loose hair and the hand on his shoulder."God," he said, in an unsteady whisper, answering his own desperate fears, "could not be so cruel."CHAPTER IXCHRISTMAS EVEKensington House was hushed and dark; in only one room did a light burn, and that was where the Queen of England sat alone in her cabinet with the door locked and two tapers burning on her desk.It was long past midnight on Christmas Eve, and she supposed in bed; the stillness was intense; the ticking of the little brass clock sounded loud and steady—a solitary noise.Mary sat at the desk with her papers spread before her; she had burnt many of them in the candle-flame, and a little pile of ashes lay on the cold hearth.It was four days since she had first sickened, and the doctors said this and that, disagreeing with each other, and constantly changing their opinion; but Mary had never been deceived; she had cheated herself, she had cheated the King, into a belief that she was lately better, but from the moment in her bedchamber at Hampton Court when the thought of her danger had first flashed on her, she had had an absolute premonition that this was the end. All her life had been coloured by the sense she would not live past youth. The first shock over, she did not grieve for herself, but terribly, more terribly than she had conceived she could, for the King.At first a kind of wild joy had possessed her that she would go first; but the agony of leaving him alone was almost as awful as the agony of being left.Because she could not endure to face his anguish she had so far concealed from him both her certainty of her own approaching end and her own belief as to her malady. Dr. Radcliffe alone among the physicians had said smallpox, and been laughed at for his opinion, but the Queen knew that he was right. "Malignant black smallpox," he had said, and she knew he was right in that also.Few recovered from this plague; few lived beyond the week.Alone in the little cabinet, consecrated by so many prayers, meditations, and tears, the young Queen faced her fate."I am going to die," she said to herself. "I am going to die in a few days."She sat back in her chair and caught her breath. The stillness seemed to ache in her ears. So little done, so much unfinished, so many storms, troubles, attempts, poor desperate endeavours, and now—the end.She recalled that when the King had been last on the Continent she had been ill of a sore throat, and been so melancholy on account of the dismal state of public affairs, the ingratitude and malice of the people, that she had wished to die, but checked that thought, believing that she could still be of service to her husband. And now it was no wish or idle fancy, but the very thing itself.And she must leave him.Her deep piety made her think the agony she endured at that thought a punishment for having so deeply loved a human creature. She tried to fix her mind on God, but earthly affection was stronger. The image of heaven became dim beside the image of him to whom her whole heart had been given; the very tenderness that had been provoked in him by her illness made it harder.At last she rose and went over to a little gilt escritoire in the corner; there were locked away all the letters she had ever had from the King, some from her father, a Prayer Book of her mother's before her conversion, some of her own meditations and prayers, her diary, and various little trifles with poignant associations.With the keys in her hand she hesitated, but courage failed her to open any of the drawers; she returned to the large bureau and took up a sheet of paper.She felt ill and cold; her limbs were heavy, her eyes ached, and her head was full of pain. She made a strong effort of will to take up the quill and write; at first the pen shook so there were mere ink-marks on the paper.What she wrote were a few last requests to the King: that her jewels and clothes might be given to her sister Anne, that her servants might be looked after, that he would remember his promise with regard to the hospital at Greenwich, and that if Leeds was disgraced the King would deal mildly with him—"for he hath ever been a good servant to us."She did not trust herself to add words of affection, but wrote beneath, "The Lord have thee in His keeping," folded it up with the ink scarce dry, and rose to unlock the top drawer of the escritoire and place the paper within.That done she relocked it and placed the key in her bosom.All her other papers and letters she had destroyed; her private affairs were in order; she had not a debt nor an obligation in the world. There was nothing more to do.She put her hands before her eyes and endeavoured to settle her thoughts, to dismiss earthly matters and think only of God, but she could not put the King out of her heart. Her thoughts ran past her own death, and saw him lonely amidst his difficulties, without her aid to smooth over little frictions, without her company in his infrequent leisure, without her sympathy in his disappointments; in a thousand little ways he scarcely knew of she had been able to help him, and now there would be no one—no one to watch and notice and understand as she had done; she could not trust even Portland to do what she had done."God forgive me for this weakness," she murmured, in great distress. "God strengthen and make it easy for us both."She rose and went to the window; she could see the black sky pierced here and there by a few stars as the clouds parted—nothing else.On an instant the deep silence was rent by a clamour of sweet sound; the sharp strong pealing of church bells rang out over the sleeping city.Mary knew that it was the village church of Kensington practising for Christmas; she sank into the window-seat and fixed her eyes on those few distant pale cold stars.She could not steady her thoughts. Old memories, pictures of dead days, arose and disturbed her. She saw the sunlight on the red front of the house at Twickenham and the little roses growing over the brick, herself as a child playing in the garden, and the figure of her father standing by the sundial looking at her, as he had stood once on one of his rare visits—very handsome and tall and grave with long tasselled gloves in his hand, she saw the hayfields beyond St. James's and the summer-tanned labourers working there and a little girl in a blue gown asleep on a gathered sheaf and Lady Villiers pointing out the last swallow and how low it flew—so low that the light of the setting sun was over its back and it was like a thing of gold above the rough stubble—she saw pictures of The Hague—that beautiful town, and her own dear house, and the wood...She remembered her presentiment, before William left for England, that they were looking at the wood together for the last time.All over now, mere memory, and memory itself soon to end; she would never see the flowers again either in England or Holland; she had looked her last on blue sky and summer sun; she would never more go down to Chester to welcome the King home from the war; she would never again cut the sweet briar roses to place in the blue bowls at Hampton Court.It frightened her that she thought so of these earthly things, that she could not detach her mind from the world. She endeavoured to fix her attention on the bells, and they seemed to shake into the words of an ancient hymn she had known as a child—"O Lord, let Thou my spirit riseFrom out this Press of turning Strife.Let me look into Thy awful eyesAnd draw from Thee Immortal Life."The bells seemed to change into one of the endless little Dutch carillons that she heard so often in her dreams; she put her hands before her face—"Take, dear Lord, the best of me,And let it, as an Essence pressedLike unto Like, win ImmortalityAbsorbed in Thy unchanging rest."The bells paused and shuddered as if a rude hand had checked them; the melody hesitated, then changed rhythm; a single bell struck out from the rest in clear ringing, then stopped.For a little space the air was full of echoes, then a mournful stillness fell. The Queen remained in the window-seat with her hands before her eyes.When she raised her head one of the candles had guttered out and the other was near its end.She had lost the sense of time, almost of place; it would have given her no surprise to find she was sitting in the garden at The Hague or going down the waterways of Holland in her barge; she did not notice the darkness so ill-dispersed by that one flame burning tall, ragged, and blue in the great silver stick; she began to say over her prayers in a kind of exaltation; she went on her knees and pressed her face against the smooth wood of the window-frame; she was murmuring to herself under her breath as if she tried to lull her own soul to sleep; she got up at last, not knowing what she did, and unlatched the window.She looked out on a ghastly dawn, pallid above the leafless trees, against which a few flakes of snow fell heavily. The Queen stared at this picture. The cold wind entered the chamber and a snowflake lightly drifted in and changed to a crystal drop on the window-seat.She latched the window again and turned into the room; the last candle had been out hours; the wax was hard round the frozen wick; a whole night had passed with the drawing of a breath, and this was Christmas morning.Above the chimney-piece was a mirror in a gold and ebony frame; the Queen stepped up to it and looked at herself; she beheld a woman without colour; her gown was black and her face and throat indistinguishable from her crumpled lace collar; her hair was dark and without a glint in the dead light; the pearls in her ears were ghostly pale; she thought her features were very changed, being hollowed and sunk."They cover the faces of the dead," she thought curiously; "they will soon cover mine." She put her hand delicately under her chin. "Poor face, that will never laugh or blush—or weep again!"
CHAPTER VII
THE SHADOW
Mr. Matthew Prior, Private Secretary to the Earl of Portland, was enjoying the winter sunshine in the gardens of Hampton Court Palace.
It was the year 1694, and near Christmas. Many vast events had taken place since the young poet had been first introduced to the Court by my Lord Dorset—plots, counter-plots, change of ministers, of parliaments, the defeat of Landen and Steinkirk, the great victory at La Hogue, the loss of the Smyrna Fleet, four bloody campaigns, four winters of gloom, depression, and internal convulsion, and still, as by a kind of miracle, the two lonely princes ruling England maintained their station and kept their faces calmly to their enemies.
Mr. Prior was a grateful soul; he adored the King and worshipped the Queen; he had berhymed both copiously, and was ever ready to use his sword or his wit in their behalf. The last of the King's unending differences with the Parliament was on the matter of the Triennial Bill, and Mr. Prior had his tablets on his knee and his pencil in his hand.
He was engaged in composing a pamphlet in defence of His Majesty's action in firmly refusing to curtail the regal authority by passing an Act that permitted no parliament to sit longer than three years.
But it was cold, and the neat little secretary found his fingers too stiff to write. He returned his papers to his pocket, rose, and walked on briskly.
Both palace and grounds were now very noble, being designed closely after the King's house at Loo: trees, thirty-five years old, had been transplanted either side of a wide canal that had been cut opposite the Palace; beds were shaped, walks laid down, shrubs cut after the Dutch style; every endeavour had been used to make the place as much like Holland as possible. Even now, in mid-winter, topiary art had preserved monstrous box hedges and bushes in the shape of windmills, birds, and animals.
The day was cloudy, but the sun streamed through in a fine gold light on the splendid front of the Palace, still unfinished but very imposing.
Mr. Prior turned to the left, where was the privy garden directly beneath the royal apartments, and the covered walk where the Queen would sit in summer with her ladies, sewing and reading. There, too, was a small sunk Dutch garden, with a fountain in the centre and tiled paths, bare now of everything save a few evergreens, but in the spring a mass of blooms from Holland.
Here walked two ladies and a gentleman, all muffled in furs, and talking together with some earnestness.
Mr. Prior took off his hat; he recognized the Queen, his patron, the Earl of Portland, and Lady Temple. He was passing respectfully on when Mary called to him.
He came up to her, and she paused to speak to him.
"My lord tells me you are just returned from The Hague?" questioned Mary.
"Yes, Madam."
"I envy you," said the Queen wistfully; "it is, Mr. Prior, such a dream with me to see The Hague again."
The ardent little poet thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. There was an almost unnatural lustre in her eyes, an almost unnatural brightness on her lip and cheek; the fresh wind had stirred the auburn hair from her brow, and the fitful sunlight touched it to sparkles of red gold.
"The Hague liveth only in hopes of one day seeing Your Majesty," he answered. "You are most extraordinarily beloved there, Madam."
"They were always very good to me," said Mary simply. "I still feel an exile here—but you must not breathe that, Mr. Prior," she added almost instantly.
"Are you returning to Holland?"
"Very soon, Madam."
"Well," smiled Mary, "I hope that when next I see you it may be at my house in The Hague—for I have good hopes that I may be free to go there soon. Let me at least flatter myself so."
She dismissed him kindly and continued her walk, keeping her gloved hand affectionately on Lady Temple's arm.
"What is this of the Duke of Leeds?" she asked Portland.
"They say he is to be impeached in the new Parliament, Madam, for taking money from the East India Company."
Mary frowned.
"That is a hit at me," added Portland calmly.
"And at the King," she said proudly. "There is no end to the spite of these people. Heard you also that Sir John Dalrymple must go for the Glencoe affair?"
"If the Parliament had their way, it would be his head and not his place he lost."
"It seemeth to have been a cruel thing," said Mary, "if it is true? But I am sorry for the Duke of Leeds (Danby he always is to me) for he has been a faithful servant."
"The King would like to employ Sunderland, who lieth quiet at Althorp," said Portland, with some bitterness. "A villain if there ever was one!"
Mary glanced at him anxiously.
"The King doth not love Sunderland," she said, "but might find him useful."
"Will he persuade His Majesty to pass the Triennial Bill?" asked Lady Temple.
"No man can do that," answered the Queen. "If any could have done it, it would have been your lord, a year ago—but nothing will move the King once his mind is resolved." She laughed, and added, "You both have known him longer than I have—tell me if you ever knew him change his decision?"
"Never," said Portland. "When he was a child he was immovable."
"Sir William hath wasted eloquence on him more than once," smiled Lady Temple.
The sun had suddenly gone in, and a greyness overspread the gardens.
"Let us go in," said Mary.
They entered the Palace by the private door that led to the King's apartments. Portland prepared to leave for Whitehall, where His Majesty stayed to open the Parliament, and the two ladies went to the Queen's great gallery, that was fine and beautifully furnished, though but ill heated by the one fireplace where the pine logs blazed.
They joined the little company gathered about the fire and protected by tall lacquer and silk screens.
Mary took off her furs and drew close to the flames. She was shivering violently.
"The room is too large," she said, "but a noble apartment, is it not?"
She had taken great pride in furnishing Hampton Court and Kensington House, and in introducing and making fashionable the arts and crafts of Holland—the pottery, the brass-ware, the painted wood, and wrought silver.
The ladies answered in eager praises. The Queen's modest court now consisted of a set of gentle ladies, Dutch and English, who were her constant companions; their piety, their charity, their blameless lives, their industry with the needle, made them utterly different to the ladies of the two last reigns, and set an example which had made soberness fashionable, at least in many homes; for Mary had won England as, many years before, she had won her husband, and was now nearly as beloved in London as at The Hague—at least among the common people.
One fashion she set was a rage through the country—this was the collecting of strange and monstrous pieces of old china.
Above the yellow brocade chair where she now sat was a shelf laden with vases and figures of extraordinary shapes and violent colours. Mary loved them all; she looked up at them with a little smile, then took up the book from which she had been reading to her ladies, but dropped it on to her lap, and sat with an air of lassitude, gazing into the flames.
"The truth is," she said, "I have a great headache, and have had one this three days past."
"It is the wind," answered Lady Nottingham.
Mary shivered.
"I have taken cold, I think," she remarked. She laughed; she was more than usual gay.
She was expecting the King in a few days, and, for the moment, the troubles and difficulties had a little cleared from his path. For the first time since the war began the last campaign had decided in favour of the allies; the weight of England was beginning to tell in the balance. Mary could not forget that; it coloured her days with pleasure.
"I think the ball will be popular," she continued irrelevantly; "every one seemeth very pleased——"
"What is the date, Madam?" asked Lady Temple.
"The twenty-eighth—about a week from now," answered Mary. "I am to have a new dress!" She laughed again; she seemed, for her, to be very excited. "I shall put it on presently, and you must judge of it."
She leant back in her chair, and was suddenly silent. The short day was darkening; sullen crimson, presaging rain, burnt fitfully in the west, and a gloomy brightness reflected through the windows of the great gallery, and struck changeful colour from the mother-of-pearl figures on the black china screens.
Mary coughed and shivered. She turned to Madame Nienhuys.
"When is your cousin coming to Court?" she asked.
"Not yet, Madam. I had a letter from The Hague yesterday from her mother saying she would send her in the spring."
"Why not sooner?" asked the Queen.
"She saith she is frightened by the reports of the plague in London."
"They say it is worse this year," assented Mary. "And the smallpox."
"And the smallpox, Madam. But it is foolish of my cousin to be so timid."
"Yes," said Mary gravely; "since timidity will save no one. God doth His will, despite our fears."
She opened the work-table beside her and took out a chair-cover she was working with a design of birds and flowers on a black ground. She made a languid attempt to thread the needle, then dropped the sewing as she had the book.
"I will try that gown on," she said, "and then we will make tea in the little antechamber—this is so large."
The ladies rose with a pretty rustle of skirts, folded up their work, and followed Mary through Sir Christopher's noble apartments to her chamber, which was very exactly furnished but cold.
On the canopied bed of blue and yellow damask lay the Queen's new gown, and two sewing-girls sat on low stools and stitched the lace into the sleeves.
At Mary's approach they rose silently.
"How cold it is!" shivered Mary. "Put me down a grumbler, but we had warmer houses at The Hague."
"But the dress is beautiful!" cried Lady Nottingham, and the five ladies gathered about the bed with exclamations of admiration.
It was of white velvet, embroidered with little wreaths of coloured silk flowers opening over a silver petticoat trimmed with flounces of lace. The sewing-maidens eyed it shyly, and blushed at the compliments bestowed.
"I must dance in that," smiled Mary. "Dancing used to be one of my prettiest pleasures, as you may remember, my Lady Temple!"
"Will Your Majesty try it on?" asked Basilea de Marsac.
"Yes," laughed Mary, "the sewing-girls will help me; get you into the other room and make the tea——"
The ladies trooped off, and the two sempstresses timidly helped Mary out of her brown velvet and laced her into the state dress.
A fire was burning, and the Queen stood between it and the bed, facing the long glass mirror above the mantelshelf that was crowded with china grotesques. As they pinned, arranged, and draped the rich silk about her, Mary felt a sudden great fatigue; her limbs were heavy beneath her, and she gave a little sigh of weariness.
The dress was cut very low, and one sleeve was yet unfinished, so her shoulders and left arm were bare save for her shift, and, as she moved for her skirt to be adjusted, that slipped. The Queen noticed this in the mirror, and put up her right hand to draw it up, when suddenly a deep shiver ran through her. She stepped back, clutching the dress together on her shoulder.
"It is too dark to see," she said levelly. "There is a silver lamp in my cabinet—will you fetch that?"
The sewing-girls looked surprised. The light still held, and there were candles in the room; but they left at once, with respectful courtesies.
The instant they had gone the Queen sprang to the door and locked it, then went back to the bed and leant heavily against the post nearest the fire.
She felt sick and weak; her head was giddy.
"Be quiet—be quiet," she said aloud, and pressed her clenched knuckles against her leaping heart.
Only for a second did this weakness endure. She returned to the glass and turned her chemise down; there she saw again what had made her send the sewing-girls away—a large purple patch on the white flesh, unmistakable.
For an instant she stood gazing, then sat down in the majestic arm-chair beside the bed. There was another test she knew of—she winced from applying it, yet presently rose and took from a side-table near the tall clock a rat-tailed spoon she used for rose-water.
She put the bowl of this far back into her mouth, and then withdrew it; the silver was covered with bright blood.
Footsteps sounded without. Mary flung the spoon on to the fire and softly unlocked the door.
The sempstresses entered with the silver lamp, dutifully lit and placed it on the mantelshelf.
Mary stood holding her garments tightly together on her breast.
"Have you ever had the smallpox?" she asked gently.
They both answered together.
"Yes, Your Majesty; but not the black smallpox, an it please Your Majesty."
Mary looked into their fair, undisfigured faces.
"No," she answered; "the black smallpox is ever fatal, is it not——"
"They say so, Your Majesty," said the elder girl, pinning up the lace on the silver underskirt. "And there is a deal of it in London now, Your Majesty."
Mary made no reply. They finished with the dress and left her, having laced her into the brown velvet.
The Queen put out the silver lamp and went into the antechamber where the ladies were chattering over the tea Lady Temple was making in a Burmese silver urn.
Mary seated herself near the fire.
"We will go to Kensington House to-morrow," she said. Then, noticing Lady Temple's look of surprise, she added, with a slight tremor in her voice, "I have a fancy to be near the King."
CHAPTER VIII
FEAR
My Lord Sunderland was climbing from obscurity, disgrace, and infamy to that great position he had once held—climbing very cautiously, working secretly, biding his time, venturing a little here, a little there, helped always by my lady and some few ancient friends.
The King had been obliged to leave him out of the Act of Grace. He was, nevertheless, at this moment waiting for a private audience of His Majesty, who had already visited him in his princely palace at Althorp.
The King had gone in state to Parliament; my lord did not care to yet take his seat in the House on great occasions; he preferred to wait in Whitehall and reflect quietly on his policies.
He believed that the summit of his ambitions was about to be reached; he had staked on William of Orange twenty years ago, and had never lost faith in him. The King was not a man to be ungrateful. Sunderland saw close within his grasp the moment he had worked for steadily, unscrupulously, so long—the moment when William of Orange and he should rule England together.
From his seclusion at Althorp he had watched the King's stormy reign, and known that if he had been at William's right hand half the troubles would have been averted or smoothed over.
He was even scheming to make the Court popular; the attitude of the people towards his hero considerably annoyed him.
It was undeniable that the irreproachable example of the Court awoke in the English more ridicule than respect or admiration; they regarded with a sneer the sincere efforts of the gentle young Queen to elevate and dignify her position, to improve the tone of a corrupt society. The industrious simplicity of the King, his dislike of blasphemy, evil-speaking, and frivolous amusements, his private tolerance, justice, and modesty were as so many causes of offence to a people regretting former princes so much more suited to their temper. They missed the pageant that had continually entertained them at Whitehall, the money that had been squandered by the Court in a manner so pleasing to the national extravagance, the continual spectacle of the King in the obvious exercise of gracious royalty, even the gay ladies whose histories had diverted a generation. This humour provoked cynical smiles from William and distressed comment from Mary. Sunderland resolved to alter it; he saw the truth; he knew that nothing but genius in the man every one combined to disparage could have kept the nation together, and nothing but the greatest courage and strength on the part of the woman they affected to dismiss as a cipher could have maintained a government during the Irish war.
Sunderland largely blamed the ministers. Halifax had failed, Caermarthen (now Leeds) was failing, the others had never been really trusted by the King, who relied mainly on secret advisers, such as Carstairs, Temple, his Dutch friends, and lately Sunderland himself.
My lord knew that he could do better than any of these; he had the great advantage of understanding the King; he even believed that he could make him again as beloved in England as he had been in '88.
William was no boor, but of noble blood thrice refined; his passionate nature and the constant control he had put it under made him break out fiercely sometimes against the foolish and the vexatious; he never flattered, and he took no trouble to please women. Natural modesty and the languor of ill-health made him refuse to concede to the national love of display; but he was beloved abroad, and Sunderland believed he could be beloved in England. My lord resolved to persuade him to go to Newmarket this year; he flattered himself that he had a considerable influence over William.
He became impatient for the King to return; he went to the window and looked at the surging crowd beyond the courtyard waiting for a sight of the Royal coach. It was not likely to be greeted very warmly, for the King was, a second time, going to veto the Triennial Bill, a great popular measure which, from the first, he had set his face against.
Sunderland upheld him; to consent to the Bill would be an enormous concession to the people, and my lord had no love for the democracy, but, like William, had a high ideal of the rights of the Crown. He took pleasure now in thinking of the King's firm stand and the disappointment of this crowd when the news of the vetoed Bill was flashed from mouth to mouth.
As he watched, standing within the silver-corded curtains, a party of halberdiers suddenly scattered the people to right and left, a company of soldiers drove up, and then the Royal coach came, unusually fast, swinging on its leathers.
A deep hum rose from the crowd; some broke into cheering, hats were thrown up, and handkerchiefs waved. Sunderland had never seen the King receive such a cordial reception.
He withdrew from the window, surprised, a little puzzled.
The satisfied murmur of the crowd continued.
"Why—is it possible——" cried my lord.
He hastened to seek out the King.
William was in his dressing-room, disrobing. M. Zulestein was with him, and several other nobles.
Gold-embroidered purple, scarlet and ermine, the collar and star of the George lay tossed on one of the gilt walnut chairs; the King, in silk shirt and white satin breeches, sat by a marquetry dressing-table with a letter in his hand.
Sunderland entered as one sure of his welcome. William had promised him countenance if he would come to Court.
"Your Majesty——" he began.
The King looked at him blankly; his face, between the dark curls, was of a startling whiteness.
"Ah, sir," said Sunderland, "do I break in upon Your Majesty?"
"No," answered William vaguely.
My lord looked round the other nobles; they seemed strangely silent.
"Sir, how went it in Parliament?" he asked, approaching the King.
William made a heavy effort to answer.
"I—well enough—they——" His voice trailed off.
Sunderland stood utterly amazed. Was this man going to fail?
"Sir, the Triennial Bill?" he questioned half fearfully.
The King rose; he seemed utterly unnerved; he whom my lord had ever considered beyond the touch of weakness.
"I passed it," he said faintly.
The colour flashed into Sunderland's face.
"You did!" he cried. "You made that great concession. By God, if any but Your Majesty had made that statement I should have disbelieved them——"
The King did not seem to hear him; he called distractedly for his coat, and walked up and down the splendid little chamber with his head bent.
Sunderland, sick at heart, drew M. de Zulestein aside.
"What is the matter with the King?" he whispered. "I should not have known him——"
"He hath been all day like a man in a confusion," answered the Master of the Robes.
"And to give way," muttered Sunderland. "To concede like any weakling!"
William mechanically took from one of the lords his coat, sword, and hat, and stood still a moment before the chair on which his orders glittered on his robes, like frozen coloured water gleaming in the winter sunlight.
"Is the coach ready?" he asked abruptly.
"Your Majesty," reminded M. de Zulestein, "is to dine in public here to-day——"
"No," said the King, "I will go at once to Kensington House—hasten the coach——"
"But there are a number of people already gathered—it will cause grievous offence——"
The King stared at him with wild dark eyes.
"My God, I will not stay an instant."
de Zulestein bowed.
At this moment Lord Portland entered; they saw him with profound relief, believing that, if any could, he would fathom and combat the King's humour.
At sight of him William flushed with animation. Portland crossed to him at once; he seemed himself troubled in his manner.
The King caught his hand and pressed it inside his open satin waistcoat, over his heart.
"Do you feel that?" he asked. "Have you ever known it beat so?—that is fear, William, fear——"
He spoke in his own language, and with an extraordinary energy and passion.
"The letter," asked Portland tenderly, "that was handed you as we started——"
"From Sir Thomas Millington," said the King; he put it into his friend's hands and sank on to the chair beside the dressing-table; he seemed utterly unconscious of the watchful eyes upon him, of the presence, indeed, of any but Portland.
That lord read the letter of Sir Thomas (he was the King's physician) with, it seemed, some relief.
"Why, he merely saith the Queen is not well."
William answered hoarsely—
"Lady Temple came to Whitehall this morning when you were abroad ... you knowshehath never had the smallpox." His voice broke; he stared out of the window at the winter sky.
"God in Heaven!" exclaimed Portland. "You do not think ofthat?"
"Lady Temple," muttered the King, "said—shehad sent from Kensington—every one, even to the maid-servants—who—had not had the smallpox——"
"That is but her own sweet kindness," cried Portland—"she cannot know——"
"I am afraid, afraid," answered the King. "My father, my mother, my uncle ... all dead of that..."
He sprang up and turned to the door. Sunderland was in his way, and stayed him gently.
"Sir—I entreat you do not disappoint the people—stay in Whitehall to dine——"
William looked at him fiercely.
"Do you not hear that the Queen is sick?"
Sunderland's face was cold; he was disappointed in the King.
"What of this Bill for the Calling of Parliaments?" he said. "I would like to hear some good reason for that concession on the part of Your Majesty."
William made no answer; he put out his hand and motioned my lord out of his way. Sunderland stepped aside and the King left the room. They heard his high heels going quickly down the corridors.
Portland turned to M. de Zulestein.
"Why, he hath known two days that the Queen was not well."
"It was Lady Temple," answered the Master of the Robes. "She told him Her Majesty was worse than she would admit."
"But the doctors——"
"You know the King hath never had any trust in doctors—and certainly it giveth an ill-colour that she hath sent away all that are like to be infected."
"Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I have misreckoned on the King."
He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after the King. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and the banqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lords ready to serve.
The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with no other company but that nobleman.
So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from the Palace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people drive away from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries of Leeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hooted lustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.
Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hooted or cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thought little about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiar loyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were with that lady whose life meant so much to England.
In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more the King, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still round his knee, was by Mary's side in the long Queen's gallery.
She was seated close to the fire with Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys—very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a blue scarf about her shoulders.
Her extravagant joy at the King's coming was piteous to see.
"So soon!" she cried, and her whole face changed. "I thought it could not be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine at Whitehall?"
"No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You—you are no worse?"
"Oh, I am well again," smiled Mary; "but you will make yourself unpopular if you disappoint the people—yet I am glad you came—I thought I must see you—that is why I came from Hampton yesterday, forgive me—but even the sound of the Tower guns as you went to Parliament was company——"
She paused, and seemed rather exhausted by the effort of speaking. William noticed with unutterable anxiety that the hand he held was burning hot and that she shivered continuously, yet she was so joyous, smiling, and lovely he could not trust his own fears.
The two ladies had withdrawn to the other end of the gallery. The King took the stool beside Mary.
"Did you pass the Parliament Bill?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, never taking his eyes from her face and speaking as if it was a matter of no moment.
"Ah, why?" she asked, startled.
"I did not care; what doth it matter? Do not talk of business, Marie."
"No," she said softly; "let us forget great affairs for once. I am so weary, dear."
"But you are better?" He could scarcely control his voice.
She smiled brightly.
"Oh yes; I was out driving this morning, and afterwards talking to Dr. Burnet, and you know that taketh some energy—I think to have my ball just the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubled the doctors."
He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her household that had so shaken him, but could not bring the words to his lips.
Mary coughed a little, and sat up.
"I wanted to ask you something," she said. "I am always begging—am I not?"
He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy rings hurt her, but she continued smiling.
"About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for a hospital——"
"I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of it before. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it if I have to pawn my furniture."
"There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary—"poor and wounded—and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. I used to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging—one could not forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich——"
"It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shall draw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and that shall be my thankoffering."
Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight flooded her figure with gorgeous light; in that moment's stillness both of them thought of love as a terrible thing.
Mary suddenly closed her eyes.
"Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?"
He answered under his breath—
"Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?"
"When she died she was no older than I am—I often think how strangely near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would not let one be afraid."
"Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You frighten me——"
"Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland—a limning in little with white violets on the back, and these words, 'J'aime un seul.' That was a pretty thought of hers."
She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavy lids.
"I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully.
"You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will go together to The Hague, and be free of all of it——"
"There is the war."
"Let Waldeck take the command this campaign—I will stay with you. We have had so little time together all these years."
Mary gazed tenderly into his ardent face.
"The spring seemeth so far off. Hold my hand. I feel as if the world might pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. You will be with me this Christmas-tide?"
"I shall not leave you," he said hoarsely. "I will nurse you till you are well again. But you are not ill?" he added piteously.
"No—tired a little." She sat up and put her hands on his shoulders. "You do not regret the day they married you to your poor little cousin?" The soft brown eyes were full of yearning. "She was such a foolish child, so ignorant——"
He could not speak, but made a movement of his hands to hers as if to stop her.
"Let me speak," said Mary sweetly. "I have thought so much about it lately. We learnt everything so late—our mistakes last of all, I think, and I have made many mistakes. Perhaps another woman would have helped you more. But I have done my best—I wanted to say that—I have always done my best."
He managed to answer, but almost incoherently.
"You shame me—utterly shame me—you—know what you have been to me——"
Mary dropped her hands; the tears gathered in her eyes.
"And I am childless," she faltered.
He sprang up as if he wrenched himself free from torture.
"Do not leave me," entreated Mary feebly. "I think I am not very well, after all, and you promised to stay—forgive me—but indeed I think of it and your great kindness."
He turned about and leant over her chair. Mary clung to him with hot hands.
"No one could have loved you more," she said, in great agitation—"too much, for my own peace——"
Her fever-flushed face drooped against the lace on his bosom; he put his arm round her, and she gave a great sigh; the tears were on her lashes and running slowly down her face; he kissed her loose hair and the hand on his shoulder.
"God," he said, in an unsteady whisper, answering his own desperate fears, "could not be so cruel."
CHAPTER IX
CHRISTMAS EVE
Kensington House was hushed and dark; in only one room did a light burn, and that was where the Queen of England sat alone in her cabinet with the door locked and two tapers burning on her desk.
It was long past midnight on Christmas Eve, and she supposed in bed; the stillness was intense; the ticking of the little brass clock sounded loud and steady—a solitary noise.
Mary sat at the desk with her papers spread before her; she had burnt many of them in the candle-flame, and a little pile of ashes lay on the cold hearth.
It was four days since she had first sickened, and the doctors said this and that, disagreeing with each other, and constantly changing their opinion; but Mary had never been deceived; she had cheated herself, she had cheated the King, into a belief that she was lately better, but from the moment in her bedchamber at Hampton Court when the thought of her danger had first flashed on her, she had had an absolute premonition that this was the end. All her life had been coloured by the sense she would not live past youth. The first shock over, she did not grieve for herself, but terribly, more terribly than she had conceived she could, for the King.
At first a kind of wild joy had possessed her that she would go first; but the agony of leaving him alone was almost as awful as the agony of being left.
Because she could not endure to face his anguish she had so far concealed from him both her certainty of her own approaching end and her own belief as to her malady. Dr. Radcliffe alone among the physicians had said smallpox, and been laughed at for his opinion, but the Queen knew that he was right. "Malignant black smallpox," he had said, and she knew he was right in that also.
Few recovered from this plague; few lived beyond the week.
Alone in the little cabinet, consecrated by so many prayers, meditations, and tears, the young Queen faced her fate.
"I am going to die," she said to herself. "I am going to die in a few days."
She sat back in her chair and caught her breath. The stillness seemed to ache in her ears. So little done, so much unfinished, so many storms, troubles, attempts, poor desperate endeavours, and now—the end.
She recalled that when the King had been last on the Continent she had been ill of a sore throat, and been so melancholy on account of the dismal state of public affairs, the ingratitude and malice of the people, that she had wished to die, but checked that thought, believing that she could still be of service to her husband. And now it was no wish or idle fancy, but the very thing itself.
And she must leave him.
Her deep piety made her think the agony she endured at that thought a punishment for having so deeply loved a human creature. She tried to fix her mind on God, but earthly affection was stronger. The image of heaven became dim beside the image of him to whom her whole heart had been given; the very tenderness that had been provoked in him by her illness made it harder.
At last she rose and went over to a little gilt escritoire in the corner; there were locked away all the letters she had ever had from the King, some from her father, a Prayer Book of her mother's before her conversion, some of her own meditations and prayers, her diary, and various little trifles with poignant associations.
With the keys in her hand she hesitated, but courage failed her to open any of the drawers; she returned to the large bureau and took up a sheet of paper.
She felt ill and cold; her limbs were heavy, her eyes ached, and her head was full of pain. She made a strong effort of will to take up the quill and write; at first the pen shook so there were mere ink-marks on the paper.
What she wrote were a few last requests to the King: that her jewels and clothes might be given to her sister Anne, that her servants might be looked after, that he would remember his promise with regard to the hospital at Greenwich, and that if Leeds was disgraced the King would deal mildly with him—"for he hath ever been a good servant to us."
She did not trust herself to add words of affection, but wrote beneath, "The Lord have thee in His keeping," folded it up with the ink scarce dry, and rose to unlock the top drawer of the escritoire and place the paper within.
That done she relocked it and placed the key in her bosom.
All her other papers and letters she had destroyed; her private affairs were in order; she had not a debt nor an obligation in the world. There was nothing more to do.
She put her hands before her eyes and endeavoured to settle her thoughts, to dismiss earthly matters and think only of God, but she could not put the King out of her heart. Her thoughts ran past her own death, and saw him lonely amidst his difficulties, without her aid to smooth over little frictions, without her company in his infrequent leisure, without her sympathy in his disappointments; in a thousand little ways he scarcely knew of she had been able to help him, and now there would be no one—no one to watch and notice and understand as she had done; she could not trust even Portland to do what she had done.
"God forgive me for this weakness," she murmured, in great distress. "God strengthen and make it easy for us both."
She rose and went to the window; she could see the black sky pierced here and there by a few stars as the clouds parted—nothing else.
On an instant the deep silence was rent by a clamour of sweet sound; the sharp strong pealing of church bells rang out over the sleeping city.
Mary knew that it was the village church of Kensington practising for Christmas; she sank into the window-seat and fixed her eyes on those few distant pale cold stars.
She could not steady her thoughts. Old memories, pictures of dead days, arose and disturbed her. She saw the sunlight on the red front of the house at Twickenham and the little roses growing over the brick, herself as a child playing in the garden, and the figure of her father standing by the sundial looking at her, as he had stood once on one of his rare visits—very handsome and tall and grave with long tasselled gloves in his hand, she saw the hayfields beyond St. James's and the summer-tanned labourers working there and a little girl in a blue gown asleep on a gathered sheaf and Lady Villiers pointing out the last swallow and how low it flew—so low that the light of the setting sun was over its back and it was like a thing of gold above the rough stubble—she saw pictures of The Hague—that beautiful town, and her own dear house, and the wood...
She remembered her presentiment, before William left for England, that they were looking at the wood together for the last time.
All over now, mere memory, and memory itself soon to end; she would never see the flowers again either in England or Holland; she had looked her last on blue sky and summer sun; she would never more go down to Chester to welcome the King home from the war; she would never again cut the sweet briar roses to place in the blue bowls at Hampton Court.
It frightened her that she thought so of these earthly things, that she could not detach her mind from the world. She endeavoured to fix her attention on the bells, and they seemed to shake into the words of an ancient hymn she had known as a child—
"O Lord, let Thou my spirit riseFrom out this Press of turning Strife.Let me look into Thy awful eyesAnd draw from Thee Immortal Life."
"O Lord, let Thou my spirit riseFrom out this Press of turning Strife.Let me look into Thy awful eyesAnd draw from Thee Immortal Life."
"O Lord, let Thou my spirit rise
From out this Press of turning Strife.
Let me look into Thy awful eyes
And draw from Thee Immortal Life."
The bells seemed to change into one of the endless little Dutch carillons that she heard so often in her dreams; she put her hands before her face—
"Take, dear Lord, the best of me,And let it, as an Essence pressedLike unto Like, win ImmortalityAbsorbed in Thy unchanging rest."
"Take, dear Lord, the best of me,And let it, as an Essence pressedLike unto Like, win ImmortalityAbsorbed in Thy unchanging rest."
"Take, dear Lord, the best of me,
And let it, as an Essence pressed
Like unto Like, win Immortality
Absorbed in Thy unchanging rest."
The bells paused and shuddered as if a rude hand had checked them; the melody hesitated, then changed rhythm; a single bell struck out from the rest in clear ringing, then stopped.
For a little space the air was full of echoes, then a mournful stillness fell. The Queen remained in the window-seat with her hands before her eyes.
When she raised her head one of the candles had guttered out and the other was near its end.
She had lost the sense of time, almost of place; it would have given her no surprise to find she was sitting in the garden at The Hague or going down the waterways of Holland in her barge; she did not notice the darkness so ill-dispersed by that one flame burning tall, ragged, and blue in the great silver stick; she began to say over her prayers in a kind of exaltation; she went on her knees and pressed her face against the smooth wood of the window-frame; she was murmuring to herself under her breath as if she tried to lull her own soul to sleep; she got up at last, not knowing what she did, and unlatched the window.
She looked out on a ghastly dawn, pallid above the leafless trees, against which a few flakes of snow fell heavily. The Queen stared at this picture. The cold wind entered the chamber and a snowflake lightly drifted in and changed to a crystal drop on the window-seat.
She latched the window again and turned into the room; the last candle had been out hours; the wax was hard round the frozen wick; a whole night had passed with the drawing of a breath, and this was Christmas morning.
Above the chimney-piece was a mirror in a gold and ebony frame; the Queen stepped up to it and looked at herself; she beheld a woman without colour; her gown was black and her face and throat indistinguishable from her crumpled lace collar; her hair was dark and without a glint in the dead light; the pearls in her ears were ghostly pale; she thought her features were very changed, being hollowed and sunk.
"They cover the faces of the dead," she thought curiously; "they will soon cover mine." She put her hand delicately under her chin. "Poor face, that will never laugh or blush—or weep again!"