CHAPTER XTHE QUEENDr. Burnet was returning from his diocese of Sarum to Kensington Palace, where he had been called by the grave reports of the Queen's sickness.On Christmas Day she had been something better, but towards the evening notably worse; on Wednesday prayers were offered in all the churches, and the new primate, Dr. Tenison, was summoned to join the other prelates in attendance at Kensington.The Bishop of Sarum was joined in London by M. Zulestein, for whom he had a peculiar friendship, and who came to urge haste.The Master of the Robes hoped that the Bishop's presence might have some effect upon the astonishing and immoderate agitation of the King; he confessed he had been glad to escape from the atmosphere of anxiety and grief at Kensington.Soldier and priest made a melancholy journey in M. Zulestein's coach. The Capital was very silent and awed. There could be no doubt now that the Queen was beloved."If she goes," said M. Zulestein bluntly, "he can never hold the throne. His very title to it would be questioned. Without her where are we all?"Dr. Burnet answered unsteadily; he was deeply attached to Mary."Do not speak like that, sir. She must live—even if it be smallpox, is she not young and strong? Did not the King recover?""He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady hath any such will to live.""God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the King's feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support—a prince of an extraordinary goodness.""If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know not how the King will well bear it—he hath hardly slept since her illness—for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom—yet he is never on it—he hath himself nursed her—day and night with such devotion and care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion, "Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him as he is now.""When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr. Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of emotion.""You know him as well as any Englishman—yet you do not know him," said M. Zulestein.The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke again before they reached Kensington House.They found the household in much disorder—the courtyard filled with carriages, the corridors with messengers waiting for the news. M. Zulestein told his companion that the Princess Anne (in open disgrace on account of her championship of my Lord Marlborough, who had been discovered in flagrant treachery) had sent a humble loving message, and that the King had replied warmly, but requested her not to come till there was a turn for the better.Dr. Burnet thought this answer of the King's looked as if the doctors held out hope; he shouldered his way through the crowd to the Queen's private apartments, and rather breathless and without ceremony he and M. Zulestein put aside the ushers and entered the first antechamber of Mary's apartments.It was empty save for a couple of curious, frightened servants; but the door into the next room was open, and the two new-comers beheld an extraordinary scene.A little group with their faces hidden stood before the window; near them at the table was a florid, coarse-featured man, plainly dressed, and cast down before him a gentleman in a violet coat—on his knees with his hands raised in a gesture of abandoned entreaty.The back of this gentleman was towards Dr. Burnet."Dear God!" he muttered, seizing M. Zulestein's arm, "is it—the King?"M. Zulestein, utterly pale, made a gesture of assent, and hastened forward. The man before whom the King knelt stepped back in a kind of desperation, and cried—"If Your Majesty were to offer me your three kingdoms I could give you no other answer!"At this the King fell forward on his face, and he was lying so, prone, when the Bishop and M. Zulestein entered.Dr. Radcliffe wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and looked round half-defiantly."Gentlemen," he said hoarsely, "I take you to witness I have done my duty. His Majesty asked the truth. It is smallpox, and Her Majesty is sinking rapidly. I was not called in until it was too late."Portland had come from the window, and was raising the King."You have some courage, sir," he said grimly.Dr. Radcliffe retorted in self-defence—"I did not undertake this for pleasure, your lordship; there was no one else would dare tell His Majesty."Portland got the King to his feet; the others stood awkward and still; William looked round and saw Dr. Burnet."Did you hear?" he asked, under his breath—"did you hear?"He sank into the chair by the table. The Bishop approached with some faltering words of comfort, but the King cut him short."They say there is no hope of the Queen!" he broke out. "No hope! I was the most happy creature upon earth, and now shall be the most miserable! There was no fault in her, not one—you know her as well as any, but you could not know her as I did—there was a worth in her none could know but I!"With that he burst into a passion of tears, and hid his face on the table in an abandonment of agony which amazed those about him, who knew neither what to say nor do in face of this overthrow of the Master whom they had always regarded as one who would preserve a decent control in the face of any sorrow, since he was a soldier and a statesman, and had kept his countenance in many a bitter crisis, and always shown a singular pride in controlling his passions—so much so, as to be stately and cold even to those he loved; yet here he wept before the very staring servants and gave no heed. Lord Portland thought there was something womanish and unworthy in this desperate grief; he went up to the King and spoke with a kind of heat."Will you give way thus? Where is your trust in God?"He was speaking not to the King of England, but to William of Nassau, at whose side he had faced so many years of danger, his companion in arms, his truest friend."She will go to everlasting peace," he said, with energy. "You, who have faced so much, can face the loss of her—for her sake, for her eternal good."If the King heard these words they did not touch him; he raised his head a little, and broke into incoherent lamentation in a misery of tears.Portland spoke to Dr. Radcliffe."How long," he asked, "will it be?""She may," answered the doctor, in a lowered voice, "live another day, my lord, no more; the smallpox are now so sunk there is no hope of raising them.""Should she not be warned of her danger?""That is as the King wishes.""The King!" echoed Portland, in a tone of despair. He turned again to his master. "Sire," he said gently, "will you have the Queen told?"William looked up; the tears were streaming down his face for any one to see; he continually shuddered violently, and spoke so hoarsely Portland could with difficulty catch the words."I'll not believe it yet—I cannot—these doctors—must save her——""Dr. Tenison," answered Portland, "is with her now—it were best that he should tell her of her condition——"The King broke out into ejaculations of anguish."There was none like her in all the world—none! No one could know her great goodness. O God, my God, this is more than I can bear!"Portland turned his eyes away, broken himself."I am amazed," whispered Dr. Burnet; "for surely I never thought him capable of such emotion."Dr. Radcliffe touched Portland on the arm."Look to His Majesty," he said. "I think this will prove beyond his endurance—I will to the Queen."He took his leave softly. The King lifted his head and looked after him."He said there was no hope!" he cried. "No hope!""God is your hope," answered Portland strongly."Talk not of God, for this is death and damnation to me—if she leaves me nothing matters on earth or in heaven—what have I done—what have I done that the Devil is let loose on me?" He cast his eyes round wildly, and staggered to his feet. "She was all I had—all—I should have died first—I might have died happy—I have not lived so wickedly I should be punished thus—but they mistake, these doctors—she cannot die—no, it is not possible."They were all silent. The scene was painful almost past bearing. The King's agonies went beyond all bounds. None of them, though they were all men who had known him most of his life, had believed that his temper was capable of such passion. Dr. Burnet's fluent self-assurance was checked—he stood dumb and staring; the Dutch nobles gazed in horror and dismay at this spectacle of a proud man's utter overthrow. Portland remained beside him, and the King supported himself by holding heavily on to his arm."Doctors mistake, do they not?" he cried, between the long shudders that shook him. "How often have they not said—I should die—but I lived.""Alas," answered Portland unsteadily, "I would not have you deceive yourself—Radcliffe was very certain. But you will command yourself——""I—I have no strength," gasped the King; "my soul is broken within me. O God!" he sobbed, "save her or let me go!"He turned about and threw out his hand like a blind man feeling his way, then fell back into Portland's arms."Fainted," said my lord laconically. With the help of M. Zulestein he laid him on the stiff couch between the windows. One of the servants hurried for a doctor, and in the moment's confusion my Lord Leeds entered unnoticed.Portland, as he moved from the King's couch, was the first to see him."Ah, my lord," he said sorrowfully, "what is to become of us all?""The King," murmured Portland, much moved, "is incapable of anything—do you take the direction of affairs.""Nay, you, my lord," answered Leeds. "You are His Majesty's nearer friend.""And your Grace is English—it will be more politic should you take this office—what of the Queen?""I have just come from her antechamber—even the pages and serving-maids are in tears—this is a heavy business." He himself seemed like a man utterly overcome. "She is certainly sinking—she is in private discourse now with the Archbishop.""Doth she know?"Leeds shook his head."Dr. Tenison waiteth the King's commands to tell her—but I think she hath an inner knowledge."M. Auverqueverque came from the group by the window and whispered Portland that the King was conscious.At this Leeds, ever warm-hearted and impulsive, went on his knees beside the couch and pressed the King's cold hand affectionately to his lips.William sat up with his head drooping; his back was to the light, and his thick curls almost concealed his face; he held his handkerchief to his lips and shivered continually."The Queen," said Leeds, very low, "hath asked for Your Majesty."The King murmured something incoherent."And the Archbishop," continued Leeds, with a grave gentleness, "thinketh she should be told of her danger.""I would not have her deceived—in so important a matter," whispered the King—"tell him so." He leant forward and took Leeds by the shoulders. "Is it not an awful thing that she should die—she—to die—you ever loved her—God bless you for that, my lord—she had a sad life"—his voice became very indistinct—"she will not be sorry—but as for me——"His hands loosened on the Duke's shoulders, and with a little moan he fell into another fainting fit, so long and deathlike that they feared for his reason or his life; it seemed, indeed, as if he would scarcely survive her whose danger caused his despair.CHAPTER XITHE BITTER PARTINGThe Queen's bed stood out into the room, facing the long windows which looked on to the winter twilight; it was hung with four curtains of gold and blue damask sewn with many-coloured wreaths of flowers that Mary and her maids had worked when seated under the alley of wych-elm at Hampton Court.The coverlet was of crimson satin embroidered with great roses of England and fringed with bullion. The Queen lay so still that the heavy folds were scarcely disturbed about her limbs. The curtains round the head of the bed had been drawn forward, and the pillows and the face of the Queen were in shadow.She wore a lace cap with long lappets fastened beneath her chin and a little jacket of blue silk over her muslin nightgown. She was not disfigured, it being the most deadly symptom of her disease that there was no sign of it beyond the deep purple marks that had told Dr. Radcliffe—black smallpox—from the first, and the constant internal bleeding of her throat that had so exhausted her; that had stopped now, and she lay quite free from pain quiet for several hours; not sleeping; sleep, she said, gave her no ease.To the right of the bed the King knelt with his face hidden in the quilt. There were several prelates and doctors in the room, and by the head of the bed Lady Temple, Madame Nienhuys, Basilea de Marsac, and Lady Portland, the Earl's second wife and Lady Temple's daughter.At a whispered word from Dr. Radcliffe, Tenison, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, successor to the saintly Tillotson, so beloved by the King and Queen, approached the bed.As his footfall broke the tense silence Mary lifted her languid eyes; he came round to her left, and stood, in a sorrowful attitude, looking down on her."Be seated, my lord," she faltered.But out of respect to her and the presence of the King he remained standing.Mary made a feeble motion with her right hand, which lay outside the coverlet, and sweetly stammered her repeated commands that he should sit.Dr. Tenison obeyed, and with a heavy heart. Her gentle patience made his duty the harder. Dr. Radcliffe had just told him that since she now seemed tranquil and in full consciousness he might tell her of her approaching end.The Bishop, a good heavy man, set about his task with pain and tenderness."Your Majesty will forgive me plain speaking, but I am entrusted by the King——"She lay with her face towards him, and her brown eyes narrowed. He hesitated, fearing to greatly agitate her, and sought for a form of words in which to cast his speech."I am greatly grieved to see that Your Majesty is no better," he said. "Your consolation will come from heaven, not earth."She instantly perceived his drift."You are come to tell me that I am dying?" she asked faintly.He was startled that she had so instantly understood, and could not, for the moment, speak."I thank my God," continued the Queen, "that I have had this in my thoughts from the first. And there is nothing to be done. Search for a little escritoire in my cabinet and give it to the King. That is the end of earthly matters."She closed her eyes and gave a little sigh."Will it please Your Majesty receive the Sacrament?" asked the Archbishop."Yes," she said at once. "Yes."He left her, and she turned her head languidly and gazed before her at the window.Lady Temple came forward lovingly, and looked down at her with sorrowful eyes."Before you light the candles," whispered Mary, "will you draw the curtains a little that I may see the sky?"Lady Portland crossed the floor delicately and pulled back the heavy gold thread and scarlet damask from the December twilight.A pale glow of colourless light fell across the glittering bed, the wan face of the Queen, and the motionless kneeling figure of her husband.She could see loose grey clouds, an indistinct trail of yellow fire low behind the leafless trees which tossed slowly in a feeble wind.She gave another little sigh and again closed her eyes. Lady Portland, weeping, drew the curtains. Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys lit the candles on the mantelshelf, on the table between the windows, and the crystal lamp ornamented with the rose, the shamrock, and thistle in silver that hung from the centre of the ceiling.The Queen lay still all this while; she did not speak till Dr. Tenison approached her bed again, and all the prelates in the chamber went on their knees."I doubt if I can swallow the bread," she murmured anxiously.The bishops in the room took the Sacrament with her; they were all heavy with grief, and the Primate faltered in his ministrations, but she was utterly calm; she followed the holy office clearly with no hesitation. Despite her fears, she swallowed the bread without difficulty, and thanked Dr. Tenison sweetly when he had done, and lay for awhile, praying it seemed. She was so resigned that it seemed she rather desired to die than live.Presently she whispered, "I would speak to the King."They all withdrew from the bed to the far end of the room and the antechamber. Mary put out a trembling hand and touched the bent dark head that rested on her quilt."Ah, love!" she said.He raised his face, moving for the first time since she had fallen asleep, two hours ago."They have told me," whispered Mary, "that I must say farewell—I always knew—forgive me that I had not the courage to tell you." She smiled. "I am so tired, and I have so much to say."With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gown and gave it him."The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give it you—only a few trifles—but you will understand."He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; he did not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death, it seemed, as hers."I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time, and it was difficult—indeed difficult. God will know I did my poor best. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but I have done nothing, and I meant to do so much——"The King forced his voice."You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered. "You—you—oh, Marie!"He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on her fingers."Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you to do——""No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now—I shall never do anything again—never——"Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into her cheeks."You are rebelling against God," she said, between agitated breaths. "You must go on—your work is not finished; but the prospects are so splendid——""What is that to me?" he answered, in bitter despair. "I am a poor weak creature—I can do nothing—it was always you, your hope, your faith—I am no better than a thing of nought; in taking you God mocks me——""No—no," cried Mary, with a desperate strength. "You are going on—you will conquer—do not make it hard for me to die——"She sank on to her pillows, coughing a little."I have prayed God not to let you despair—I have asked Him to comfort you——""There is no more comfort for me," he answered. "I want you—nothing but you on earth or in heaven——"Mary turned her face towards him; the dark auburn hair, beneath the fine veiling of lace, hung over the edge of the tumbled pillow and touched his hand."Oh, my husband," she said faintly; "I have loved you with a passion that cannot end with death. You cannot—ever be alone again—I shall be there——"Her voice sank and died; she made an effort to lean towards him. He caught her to his bosom and kissed her cold forehead with lips as cold."Go on," she stammered, "do not give up—the goal is nearly won——"She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose.She was smiling up at him, but there was an awful change in her face.He put his hand before his eyes, and fell down beside her bed, motionless, along the shining floor.Mary clasped her hands on her bosom, and her head drooped to one side; she continually coughed, and her lids closed heavily.Lady Temple had run forward as the King fell; Portland and Leeds raised and carried him, easily enough, into the antechamber.Dr. Radcliffe gave the Queen a cordial; she thanked him, and seemed a little revived."Let me sit up," she whispered. Her ladies raised her against the piled-up cushions. "The King"—she added—"the King?—my eyes are weak—I thought—he left me——""Dear Lady," answered Dorothy Temple, commanding her own tears, "he is in the next chamber——"She knew while she spoke that he had fallen into a succession of fits so terrible that not one doctor there thought he could live."Perhaps," gasped Mary, "it were better if we—were spared—a final farewell—I could not well bear it——"She leant against Lady Temple's shoulder, and her lips moved in prayer. Her face was very troubled, and she continually sighed."Madam, are you at peace?" asked Lady Temple."I am not sorry to go to God," she answered; "but I am weak about the King—I would I might have been spared a little longer with him."Presently she fell asleep, peacefully it seemed, and still with prayers on her lips.Lady Temple crept from the bed where Lady Portland pulled the curtains to shield the Queen from the light, and asked Dr. Radcliffe how long it might be now?He shook his head sadly."A few hours, my lady."Dorothy Temple burst out into subdued grief."We have the greatest loss in this lady! I have known her since she was a child, and she had never a fault—this is a bitter thing for all of us, and for England."The doctor answered grimly—"A more bitter thing even than you imagine, my lady. I do not think the King will live."She looked at him in utter terror, and at that moment Portland came out of the antechamber."Will you go to His Majesty, doctor?" he said, in a shaking voice. "Millington doth not know what to do."Radcliffe left them, and Lady Temple desperately seized hold of Portland's arm."Oh, William," she whispered; "how is the King?""Sorely stricken," he answered. "Is this to be the end?—that he should die for a woman!"Lady Portland came softly from the bed to her mother and her husband."Doth it not seem cruel that the Queen should die?" she murmured. "They say there is no hope——""The Queen!" echoed Portland. "I think of the King——""Can you not," urged his wife anxiously, "rouse him and bring him back to her? When she wakes she will surely ask for him——"Portland, with a little sigh of despair and weariness, went into the antechamber.It was well lit and full of people. The King was seated on his camp-bed—a dishevelled, pitiful figure—lamenting to himself with a violence and boundless passion that had the force and incoherence of insanity.The only one of the company who had the courage to approach him was a new-comer, my Lord Sunderland; pale, quiet, elegantly dressed, he stood between the King and the wall, and gazed down on his master with an extraordinary expression of resolution and consideration.Portland went up to him, not without a sense of jealousy for the King's dignity, that was so shattered before these foreigners and a man like Sunderland."Sire," he said firmly. "Sire!"William did not even look up; he was twisting his hands together and staring at the floor, breaking out into the bitter protests of a mind deranged.Sunderland looked sharply at Portland."What do you want of him, my lord?" he asked,"I would recall him to himself that he may take farewell of the Queen," answered Portland sternly. "But he, it seemeth, is no longer William of Nassau."Sunderland made no answer to this; he laid his hand lightly on the King's shoulder."Your Highness!" he said.The ancient title struck some chord of memory. The King raised his head; Sunderland was certainly startled at his face."Who spoke to me?" asked William thickly."The Prince of Orange," answered the Earl, "cannot fail before anything—the King of England must not——""Fail?" muttered the King. "Fail? Have I failed? They put too much upon me. Did they tell you of the Queen? My enemies may be satisfied now, for I shall never lift my head again——""The Queen," said Sunderland, "will not depart in peace unless she leaveth you calm. Sire, for her sake will you not recall your ancient courage?"The King shook his head in a faint, exhausted fashion."You would not have thought that she would die so young," he murmured, "would you—she was gay, too—there was to have been a ball to-night—and she cannot live till morning——"Lady Temple came from the Queen's room and whispered something to Lord Portland, who instantly addressed the King."Sire, the Queen is awake."William rose; his cravat and waistcoat were undone over his shirt, his eyes bloodshot and dim, his hair dishevelled and damp on his forehead; he seemed to be making a tremendous effort for control; he noticed his disordered clothes."I would not frighten her"—it was Sunderland and not Portland to whom he spoke. The Dutchman drew back a pace. It was ironical that at such a moment the King should turn to such a man; but William had first roused at Sunderland's address, and seemed to look to him for guidance as he had looked, almost unconsciously, to him for support fifteen years ago, in the bitter days before his marriage.The proud, stern, lonely, and scorned young Prince had then opened his heart to the dishonest, worldly, and cynical minister, and the bond of sympathy that must have been between them then showed now, when the King, fainting with mental agony, clung blindly to Sunderland's unmoved, gentle strength.Portland marked it then and marked it now; he felt his own love useless in the face of my lord's charm. William had not even noticed his presence. He left him in the arms of Sunderland and returned to the Queen's chamber.Dr. Tenison had been reading the Scriptures to her, and stood now by her bed with the Bible in his hand.Lady Temple and her daughter were behind him. The younger woman was crying sadly.Portland went up to the other side of the Queen's bed.Mary raised her deep brown eyes and looked at him earnestly."My lord," she whispered—he bent over her and she caught his stiff cuff with feverish fingers—"do not let the King despair ... do not let him give up ... I shall have indeed lived in vain if he gives up ... so near too..." She paused to gather strength, and he was too moved to answer. "At first I was so afraid of you," she added wistfully, "so fearful of intruding on you and him—you were his friend before ever I came, and will be when I am gone—but of late you have tolerated me—only a woman, but I have not hindered his destiny—I let nothing stand in the way of his service—indeed, if I have ever vexed you, forgive me——""Madam," responded Portland tenderly, "you have been the great comfort of all of us, and we shall be utterly undone without you."She shook her head on the tumbled pillow."I was only a foreigner—a stranger; you were ever extraordinarily kind to me—do not let the King stop—for this."She fell on to silence, being greatly weakened by this effort of speech, and Portland withdrew to the end of the bed to allow Dr. Radcliffe to approach.The Queen's words had roused curious memories in the mind of William Bentinck. It did not seem so many years ago since the fair, thoughtless, timid English girl had come, as she said, a foreigner—a stranger—to The Hague, unwanted, mistrusted, despised for her youth and her kinsman's treachery, regarded by her husband as an interruption—a vexation—the mere burden of a marriage of convenience that had been a political failure; and now she had grown to be the support of all his designs, and he was brought to a madness of despair because she lay dying, and those same aims and endeavours which her coming had intruded upon, to his anger, were now nothing to him if she should no longer be there to share them.It was now past midnight. The Queen, having swallowed Dr. Radcliffe's cordial, spoke again, and took farewell of her ladies."This was to have been our dance to-night," she murmured. "I am sorry to have spoilt your pleasure——""There will never be any more pleasure for me," answered Dorothy Temple, who loved her exceedingly, "until I meet Your Majesty in Heaven——"Mary was silent, lying very still. There was a little stir in the chamber as the King entered, followed by Lord Sunderland, who kept his eyes on him keenly.The King went straight to his wife's side, and lifted the glittering curtain up.The silence was heavy as these two looked at each other."Tell me," he said, "what to do—what you would have me do——"The Queen tried to answer; but speech was beyond her power; and when she found that she could no more speak to him, for the might of death on her tongue, two tears rolled down her hollow cheeks, and, by the size of them, it was seen that she was dying indeed, for they were large as the grey pearls in her ears."Give me one word," said the King, and he bent low over her. She made a second attempt, but in vain. A long shudder shook her, blood came to her lips, and the tears on her face rolled off on to the pillow."She cannot speak!" exclaimed the King; he fell along the bed and laid his face against her hand. Sunderland touched him. He gave a sighing sob like a woman, and fainted.My Lord Leeds helped lift and carry him to the back of the chamber; the others remained about the Queen, who was sinking so rapidly that they feared she would go before the King recovered his senses.She put up her hands in the attitude of praying, then dropped them and turned her head about on the pillow as if she looked for the King; not seeing him, she moaned and fell into a little swoon, breathing heavily.The watchers held painful vigil thus for near an hour, when she opened her eyes suddenly and began to speak, in a distinct though low voice; but the words she used showed that her thoughts began to break."We have such a short time," she said, "what can any of us do?—I hope this will show you cannot expose yourself with impunity—I shall give God thanks as long as I live for having preserved you—think of me a little and be more careful—Lord Nottingham saw my tears, I could not restrain—my father, my father, there is such a great light here, like the sun at Twickenham, no, The Hague—a letter at last—he loves, after all——"She moved and half sat up; the lace had fallen from her head, and her hair hung in a dark mass over her shoulders; an extraordinary look of ecstasy overspread her wan face."Give me the child," she whispered, and held out her arms; then she coughed a little and dropped back.A slight convulsion shook her; her breath clove her lips apart, and her lids fluttered over her eyes.The clergymen were on their knees reading the prayer for the dying. As they finished, Dr. Radcliffe put out the candle, on the table by the bed, that shone over the Queen's face."It is over," he said; "Her Majesty is dead."The Palace clock struck the four quarters, and then the hour of one.The King opened his eyes and looked about him on the hushed kneeling figures. Portland endeavoured to restrain him, but he rose from the couch and moved slowly and languidly towards the bed.No one dared speak or move.When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the white hand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand to his breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then his senses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feet of the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees.As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and, when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly and slowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom.PART IIITHE KING"Man is God's masterpiece."FRANCIS QUARLES.CHAPTER IVITA SINE AMOR MORS ESTHenry Sidney, Lord Romney, and the Earl of Portland were walking up and down the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. It was the end of April—a bitter spring following a severe winter; constant clouds blotted out the sun, and sudden falls of snow had left the square of grass in the centre of the cloisters wet and white.The Earl, muffled to the chin in a red mantle, and carrying a great muff of brown fur, was talking earnestly to Lord Romney, who, though a feather-head and useless in politics, was more loved by the King than any Englishman, and of unimpeachable loyalty to the throne."This," said Portland, with energy, "is death or madness—nay, worse than either, for he is but a figure of himself that deceiveth us into thinking we have a King.""God knoweth," returned Romney, who looked old and worn, sad and dejected, "never have we so needed his wisdom and his courage. Whom can we trust since the death of Her Majesty? Not even my Lord Nottingham.""Sunderland," said the Earl, "is creeping back to favour—the knave of two reigns, who would get a third King in his clutches—and the Lord Keeper is very active in the House. Now I have done what I can to transact necessary business since the Queen's death—but I cannot do much, for the malice against foreigners is incredible——""No one but the King can do anything!" broke out Romney."I at least can do no more," admitted Portland. "And certainly my heart misgiveth me that this is going to be the end—in miserable failure.""Why—not failure," protested the Englishman.Portland paused by the clustered pillars which divided the open windows; a few ghastly flakes of snow were falling from a disturbed sky against the worn, crumbling, and grey masonry."Miserable failure," repeated the Earl; his fine fair face was pale and stern in the colourless shadows of the heavy arches. "Parliament needeth a leader, the Republic needeth her magistrate, the allies their commander—there is very much to do—with every day, more—and the man who should do it is as useless as a sick girl.""I think," said Romney, with some gentleness, "that his heart is broken.""A man," flashed Portland, "hath no right to a broken heart. Good God, could we not all discover broken hearts if we took time to probe them? I know the Queen's worth, what she was to him, and all of us—but is she served by this weakness of grief? He would best commemorate her by making no pause in his task.""That is a hard doctrine," answered the Englishman half sadly."It is a hard fate to be a great man, my lord—the destinies of nations are not made easily nor cheaply. When the King began his task he was prepared for the price—he should not now shirk the paying of it——""It is higher than he thought would be exacted, my lord."Portland answered sternly—"You surely do not understand. What was she, after all, but an incident? He had been ten years at his work before she came."The snow fell suddenly, and, caught and whirled by a powerful wind, filled the air with a thick whiteness like spreading smoke; it blew against the two gentlemen, and in a second covered their mantles with glittering crystals.Romney stepped back and shook it from him."Shall we not go into the church," he said, with a shiver, "and persuade the King return?""It doth not matter if he be at her grave or in his cabinet," answered Portland gloomily, "since his temper is the same wherever he be."Romney turned towards the low door that led into the Abbey."Did you mark," he said irrelevantly, "that the robin was still on her gravestone?""Yes," replied Portland; "it hath been singing there since she was buried."They entered the large, mysterious church. The snowstorm had so obscured the light from the tall, high windows that the columns, roof, and tombs were alike enveloped in a deep shade; it was very cold and the air hung misty and heavy.Above the altar, to their right, swung a red burning lamp that gave no light, but showed as a sudden gleam of crimson.On the altar itself burnt four tall candles that gleamed on the polished gold sacred vessels and faintly showed the sweep of marble and the violet-hued carpet beyond the brass rails which divided the altar from the steps.There was only one person visible in this large, cold, dark church, and that was a man in the front pew, entirely in black, who neither sat nor knelt, but drooped languidly against the wooden rest in front of him, with his face hidden in his right hand.Portland and Romney took off their hats and approached the altar; they had nearly reached it before they noticed the King, whom they had left at his wife's grave.Their footsteps were very noticeable in the sombre stillness. The King looked up and rose, holding heavily to the arm of the pew.Romney hesitated, but Portland stepped up to William."We had best return, sire."The King was silent, his eyes fixed on the altar and the fluttering gold light that dwelt there—a radiance in the gloom.Portland touched his arm and he moved then, with no sign of animation, towards the Abbey door; his two friends followed shivering in the great spaces of the church that were more bitterly cold than the outer air.The King's eyes turned to the shadowed dark aisles which led to the chapel of the seventh Henry and the spot where the Queen, a few months ago young, and beautiful, and gay, now lay among her royal kinsmen, dust with dust.The King opened the heavy door and stepped out into the bitter light of the snowstorm which hid sky and houses, whitened the coach waiting and the liveries of the impatient footmen who walked about in the endeavour to keep warm. The King himself was in an instant covered from head to foot; he gave a lifeless shudder as one so sick with life that sun and snow were alike to him.He entered the coach and the two lords followed him; there was no word spoken; his friends had lost heart in the fruitless endeavour of comfort; he had scarcely spoken since the Queen's death, scarcely raised his eyes; for six weeks he had remained in his chamber, and now he came abroad it was to no purpose, for he took no interest in anything in life.He gave himself much to religious observances, and was often closeted with the Archbishop; he uttered no word of complaint, never even had mentioned his wife's name, which was the more remarkable after the first frantic passion of his grief; he would attend to no business and see no one; he replied to the addresses of the Houses only by a few incoherent words; his answers as they appeared in theGazettewere written by Portland.He fainted often, and his spirits sunk so low that the doctors feared he would die of mere apathy, for all their devices were useless to rouse him to any desire to live.Portland could do nothing. M. Heinsius, Grand Pensionary of Holland, wrote in vain from The Hague; that long, intimate, and important correspondence was broken by the King for the first time since his accession; the allies clamoured in vain for him whose guidance alone kept the coalition together; factions raged in parliament with no authority to check them; the Jacobites raised their heads again, and, the moment the breath was out of the Queen, began their plots for a French invasion and the assassination of the one frail life that stood for the forces of Protestantism; this was generally known, though not proved, but the King cared for none of it.The home government, since the retirement of Leeds after the East India scandal, was in many hands, mostly incompetent; foreign affairs fared worse, for these the King had always kept almost entirely in his own control, and had scarcely even partially trusted any of his English ministers on these matters, that, as he was well aware, neither their knowledge nor their characters fitted them to deal with. Portland held many of the clues to the King's immense and intricate international policy, and he had done what he could with matters that could not wait, but he could not do everything, nor do anything for long, and what he could not do was left undone.As the Royal coach swung into Whitehall courtyard the sudden snowstorm had ceased and a pale, cold ray of sun pierced the disturbed clouds.The King had lately taken a kind of horror to his villa at Kensington, and resided at Whitehall, though he had always detested this palace, and the foul air of London was perilous to his health.There was, however, no pretence even of a Court. The ladies, with their music, their sewing, their cards and tea drinking, had vanished; the Princess Anne, nominally reconciled to the King, lived at St. James's, and no woman came to Court now; the great galleries, chambers, and corridors were empty save for a few Dutch sentries and ushers and an occasional great lord or foreign envoy waiting to ask my Lord Portland when His Majesty would be fit to do business.Without a word or a look to any the King passed through the antechamber to his private apartments. Portland stopped to speak to Lord Sunderland, who was talking to the Lord Keeper, Sir John Somers, the Whig lawyer, as industrious, as honest, and as charming as any man in England, and an extraordinary contrast to Sunderland in character. The two were, however, for a moment in league, and had together brought about that reconciliation of the King and the Princess Anne that set the throne on a firmer basis, though neither had as yet dared to bring forward my Lord Marlborough.Romney, who disliked the everyday virtues of the middle-class Lord Keeper, would have preferred to follow the King, but William gave him no invitation, but entered his apartments and closed the door, so he had to join the little group of three.Their talk was for a while of general matters—of the heats in parliament and the prospects of the campaign of the allies under Waldeck and Vaudemont; each was silent about the matter uppermost in his mind—the recovery of the King. Portland, the lifelong friend, upright, noble, stern; Romney, gay, impulsive, shallow, but loyal and honest; Somers, worthy, tireless, a Whig, and of the people; Sunderland, aristocrat and twice told a traitor, shameless, secretive, and fascinating, by far the finest statesman of the four—all these had one object in common, to rouse the man on whom depended the whole machinery of the English government and the whole fate of the huge coalition against France, which had taken twenty years to form.Sunderland, heartily disliked by the other three, yet master of all of them, suddenly, with delicate precision, came to the heart of the matter."Unless all Europe is to slip back into the hands of France," he said, "the Kingmusttake up his duties.""This temper of his is making him most unpopular," remarked Somers, who, honestly grateful to his master, had always endeavoured to turn people and parliament to an affection for the King. "Though the Queen was greatly beloved they resent this long mourning.""She held the King and country together," answered Sunderland. "Her English birth, her tactful, pretty ways did His Majesty more service here than a deal of statecraft—the Jacks know that; the country is swarming with them, and unless it is all to end in disaster—the Kingmustact his old part."Portland flushed."You say so, my lord, but who is to rouse a man utterly prostrate? Nothing availeth to draw him from his sloth.""He is neither dead nor mad," said Sunderland calmly. "And grief is a thing that may be mastered. He should go to Flanders in May and take command of the allies.""It is impossible!" broke out Sidney. "Did you mark him but now? He hardly lifts his eyes from the floor, and I have not heard him speak one word these ten days."Sunderland answered quietly—"A man who hath done what he hath cannot utterly sink into apathy—there is a spirit in him which must respond, if it be but rightly called upon.""Willyouassay to rouse His Majesty?" asked Portland haughtily.Sunderland's long eyes narrowed."I am bold to try where your lordship hath failed," he said, with a deference that was like insolence; "but it is a question of great matters, and I will make the trial.""You will make it in vain, my lord," answered Romney. "The King is beyond even your arts."Sunderland delicately lifted his shoulders."We can but see." He looked rather cynically round the other three men. "If the King is out of the reach of reason it is as well we should know it, my lords."Portland did not reply. He bitterly resented that this man, whom he scorned and despised, should gain this intimacy with the King's weakness; but he led the way to William's apartments. He had practically control of affairs since the King's collapse, and no one questioned his coming or going.They found William in his cabinet that overlooked the privy gardens, at the bottom of which the river rolled black and dismal in contrast to the glitter of the snow on the paths and flowerbeds.The King sat by the window, gazing out on this prospect, his head sunk on his breast and his left arm along the sill of the window. The crimson cut crystal bracelet round his wrist was the only light or colour on his person, for he wore no sword, and his heavy black clothes were unbraided and plain; the considerable change in his appearance was largely heightened by this complete mourning, for he had seldom before worn black, having, indeed, a curious distaste to it. He had been born in a room hung with funeral trappings and lit only with candles, and for the first months of his life never left this black chamber, which had caused, perhaps, a certain revulsion in him to the sables of mourning, which he had worn only once before, when, a pale child of ten, he had been dressed in black for his young mother, that other Mary Stewart whose coffin lay in Westminster within a few feet of that of his wife.He did not seem to notice that any had entered upon his privacy. Portland glanced back at Romney and the Lord Keeper with a look that seemed to convey that he felt hopeless of my Lord Sunderland doing what he had boasted; but that lord went forward with his usual quiet carriage.A large fire filled the room with cheerful light that glowed on the polished Dutch pottery and rich Dutch pictures on the mantelshelf and walls. On a marquetry bureau, with glittering brass fuchsia-shaped handles, was a pile of unopened letters, and amid them a blue-glazed earthenware dragon that used to stand in the Queen's withdrawing-room at Hampton Court.Sunderland paused, looking at the King. The three other men remained inside the door, watching with painful attention."Sire," said the Earl, "there is news from France. M. de Luxembourg, who was your greatest enemy, is dead."The King did not move."It is a great loss to King Louis," added Sunderland. "They say M. de Villeroy is to have the command."William slowly turned his head and looked at the speaker, but without interest or animation, almost, it seemed, without recognition.Sunderland came nearer. A book was lying on the window-seat, he glanced at it—it was Dr. Tenison's sermon on the text, "I have sworn and am steadfastly purposed to keep thy righteous judgments," which had been preached after the Queen's death, and printed by the King's command.Sunderland spoke again."The Whigs have ousted my Lord Leeds and his friend Trevor—and continue to press heavily upon him."Again it was doubtful if the King heard; he fixed his large mournful eyes steadily upon the Earl, and made no sign nor answer.Sunderland, finding neither of these matters touched the King, drew from the bosom of his grey satin waistcoat a roll of papers."Sir Christopher Wren showed me these this morning," he said, "and doubted if he dared bring them to Your Majesty. They are those plans for the turning of Greenwich Palace into a hospital that Her Majesty had ever at heart."The three men watching caught their breath at the delicate bluntness of my lord. This time there could be no doubt that the King had heard; he made some incoherent answer and held out his hand for the plans, which he unrolled and gazed at."It should be a noble monument," said the Earl softly, "to Her Majesty and those who fell at La Hogue fight. Sir Christopher would have an inscription along the river frontage saying she built it, and a statue of her—looking along the Thames to London."The King answered in a low voice—"Let it be put in hand at once.""Will Your Majesty see Sir Christopher?"William lifted his eyes from the drawings."No—let him get to work," he murmured; then, after a second, "Do you not think it will be a worthy monument?""So fine that I can but think of one more worthy," answered Sunderland.A languid colour touched the King's hollow cheek."What is that?""The completion of Your Majesty's life-work."There was silence. The King paled again and looked out of the window."I cannot talk of business," he said hoarsely, after a while."I speak of the Queen—her wishes," answered Sunderland. "She greatly desired the building of Greenwich Hospital, but she still more desired the preservation of this realm—and of the Republic."At this last word the King gave a little shiver."The Republic," repeated Sunderland, "needeth Your Majesty."William looked round again—his face was troubled."You speak to a dead man," he said, in a hurried whisper. "I have finished.""If that be so," replied the Earl, "we and the United Provinces are lost, and King Louis will triumph after all, yea, after all the toil, and loss, and patience, and endeavour, France will triumph over Europe. Your Majesty had better not have flung the gauntlet in '72—better to have bowed to France then than submit now."The King seemed disturbed; he laid the plans of Greenwich down and moved his hands restlessly."I am not fit for—anything," he muttered. "I am not capable of military command—there are others—I have been at this work twenty years—let some other take it up——""There is no other," said Sunderland. "This is Your Majesty's task, and no one else can undertake it."The King looked round in a desperate fashion; he saw the three men at the other end of the room."Why do you come bating me?" he asked. "I tell you there is nothing more in me"—he laid his hand on his heart—"all is dead—here."A sudden violent cough shook him; he gasped with pain."In a few months I shall be with her," he added, and his voice was so weak and shaken that Sunderland could scarcely catch the words."Doth not Your Majesty believe in predestination?"William was silent."Doth not Your Majesty believe that God hath some further use for you?"The King answered simply and with infinite sadness—"I think He hath had from me all the work I am capable of.""No," said Sunderland. "Your greatest tasks, your greatest victories lie before you. William of Nassau will not die while the battle rageth. God, who put you in the vanguard of the world, will not let you fall out with the deserters."The King drew a sharp breath; he seemed considerably moved and agitated; his dark eyes turned to Sunderland."What is it to you whether I fail or no?" he asked wildly.The Earl smiled."I stand for England, sire. Besides that, I always believed in you, and you are the only man in Europe worth serving."William flushed."You speak very boldly.""I spoke boldly to Your Majesty in '77. I said to you then, you are the Prince for England—your moment will come. The little things, sir, often clog, and hamper, and bewilder, but in the end the big things win—as Your Majesty will win, though through wearisome ways. Sir, kingdoms are large stakes. Sir, to be a champion of a creed is a great responsibility, and he who taketh it up must forgo the grief of common men, for surely his tears are demanded as well as his blood."William sat motionless, with his hand to his side."You think I can take it all up again?" he asked, in his hoarse, strained voice. "My God! I think it is too late."Sunderland turned and whispered something to Somers, who left the room; to the King he said—"I entreat Your Majesty see a young officer new come from Flanders."
CHAPTER X
THE QUEEN
Dr. Burnet was returning from his diocese of Sarum to Kensington Palace, where he had been called by the grave reports of the Queen's sickness.
On Christmas Day she had been something better, but towards the evening notably worse; on Wednesday prayers were offered in all the churches, and the new primate, Dr. Tenison, was summoned to join the other prelates in attendance at Kensington.
The Bishop of Sarum was joined in London by M. Zulestein, for whom he had a peculiar friendship, and who came to urge haste.
The Master of the Robes hoped that the Bishop's presence might have some effect upon the astonishing and immoderate agitation of the King; he confessed he had been glad to escape from the atmosphere of anxiety and grief at Kensington.
Soldier and priest made a melancholy journey in M. Zulestein's coach. The Capital was very silent and awed. There could be no doubt now that the Queen was beloved.
"If she goes," said M. Zulestein bluntly, "he can never hold the throne. His very title to it would be questioned. Without her where are we all?"
Dr. Burnet answered unsteadily; he was deeply attached to Mary.
"Do not speak like that, sir. She must live—even if it be smallpox, is she not young and strong? Did not the King recover?"
"He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady hath any such will to live."
"God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the King's feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support—a prince of an extraordinary goodness."
"If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know not how the King will well bear it—he hath hardly slept since her illness—for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom—yet he is never on it—he hath himself nursed her—day and night with such devotion and care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion, "Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him as he is now."
"When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr. Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of emotion."
"You know him as well as any Englishman—yet you do not know him," said M. Zulestein.
The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke again before they reached Kensington House.
They found the household in much disorder—the courtyard filled with carriages, the corridors with messengers waiting for the news. M. Zulestein told his companion that the Princess Anne (in open disgrace on account of her championship of my Lord Marlborough, who had been discovered in flagrant treachery) had sent a humble loving message, and that the King had replied warmly, but requested her not to come till there was a turn for the better.
Dr. Burnet thought this answer of the King's looked as if the doctors held out hope; he shouldered his way through the crowd to the Queen's private apartments, and rather breathless and without ceremony he and M. Zulestein put aside the ushers and entered the first antechamber of Mary's apartments.
It was empty save for a couple of curious, frightened servants; but the door into the next room was open, and the two new-comers beheld an extraordinary scene.
A little group with their faces hidden stood before the window; near them at the table was a florid, coarse-featured man, plainly dressed, and cast down before him a gentleman in a violet coat—on his knees with his hands raised in a gesture of abandoned entreaty.
The back of this gentleman was towards Dr. Burnet.
"Dear God!" he muttered, seizing M. Zulestein's arm, "is it—the King?"
M. Zulestein, utterly pale, made a gesture of assent, and hastened forward. The man before whom the King knelt stepped back in a kind of desperation, and cried—
"If Your Majesty were to offer me your three kingdoms I could give you no other answer!"
At this the King fell forward on his face, and he was lying so, prone, when the Bishop and M. Zulestein entered.
Dr. Radcliffe wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and looked round half-defiantly.
"Gentlemen," he said hoarsely, "I take you to witness I have done my duty. His Majesty asked the truth. It is smallpox, and Her Majesty is sinking rapidly. I was not called in until it was too late."
Portland had come from the window, and was raising the King.
"You have some courage, sir," he said grimly.
Dr. Radcliffe retorted in self-defence—
"I did not undertake this for pleasure, your lordship; there was no one else would dare tell His Majesty."
Portland got the King to his feet; the others stood awkward and still; William looked round and saw Dr. Burnet.
"Did you hear?" he asked, under his breath—"did you hear?"
He sank into the chair by the table. The Bishop approached with some faltering words of comfort, but the King cut him short.
"They say there is no hope of the Queen!" he broke out. "No hope! I was the most happy creature upon earth, and now shall be the most miserable! There was no fault in her, not one—you know her as well as any, but you could not know her as I did—there was a worth in her none could know but I!"
With that he burst into a passion of tears, and hid his face on the table in an abandonment of agony which amazed those about him, who knew neither what to say nor do in face of this overthrow of the Master whom they had always regarded as one who would preserve a decent control in the face of any sorrow, since he was a soldier and a statesman, and had kept his countenance in many a bitter crisis, and always shown a singular pride in controlling his passions—so much so, as to be stately and cold even to those he loved; yet here he wept before the very staring servants and gave no heed. Lord Portland thought there was something womanish and unworthy in this desperate grief; he went up to the King and spoke with a kind of heat.
"Will you give way thus? Where is your trust in God?"
He was speaking not to the King of England, but to William of Nassau, at whose side he had faced so many years of danger, his companion in arms, his truest friend.
"She will go to everlasting peace," he said, with energy. "You, who have faced so much, can face the loss of her—for her sake, for her eternal good."
If the King heard these words they did not touch him; he raised his head a little, and broke into incoherent lamentation in a misery of tears.
Portland spoke to Dr. Radcliffe.
"How long," he asked, "will it be?"
"She may," answered the doctor, in a lowered voice, "live another day, my lord, no more; the smallpox are now so sunk there is no hope of raising them."
"Should she not be warned of her danger?"
"That is as the King wishes."
"The King!" echoed Portland, in a tone of despair. He turned again to his master. "Sire," he said gently, "will you have the Queen told?"
William looked up; the tears were streaming down his face for any one to see; he continually shuddered violently, and spoke so hoarsely Portland could with difficulty catch the words.
"I'll not believe it yet—I cannot—these doctors—must save her——"
"Dr. Tenison," answered Portland, "is with her now—it were best that he should tell her of her condition——"
The King broke out into ejaculations of anguish.
"There was none like her in all the world—none! No one could know her great goodness. O God, my God, this is more than I can bear!"
Portland turned his eyes away, broken himself.
"I am amazed," whispered Dr. Burnet; "for surely I never thought him capable of such emotion."
Dr. Radcliffe touched Portland on the arm.
"Look to His Majesty," he said. "I think this will prove beyond his endurance—I will to the Queen."
He took his leave softly. The King lifted his head and looked after him.
"He said there was no hope!" he cried. "No hope!"
"God is your hope," answered Portland strongly.
"Talk not of God, for this is death and damnation to me—if she leaves me nothing matters on earth or in heaven—what have I done—what have I done that the Devil is let loose on me?" He cast his eyes round wildly, and staggered to his feet. "She was all I had—all—I should have died first—I might have died happy—I have not lived so wickedly I should be punished thus—but they mistake, these doctors—she cannot die—no, it is not possible."
They were all silent. The scene was painful almost past bearing. The King's agonies went beyond all bounds. None of them, though they were all men who had known him most of his life, had believed that his temper was capable of such passion. Dr. Burnet's fluent self-assurance was checked—he stood dumb and staring; the Dutch nobles gazed in horror and dismay at this spectacle of a proud man's utter overthrow. Portland remained beside him, and the King supported himself by holding heavily on to his arm.
"Doctors mistake, do they not?" he cried, between the long shudders that shook him. "How often have they not said—I should die—but I lived."
"Alas," answered Portland unsteadily, "I would not have you deceive yourself—Radcliffe was very certain. But you will command yourself——"
"I—I have no strength," gasped the King; "my soul is broken within me. O God!" he sobbed, "save her or let me go!"
He turned about and threw out his hand like a blind man feeling his way, then fell back into Portland's arms.
"Fainted," said my lord laconically. With the help of M. Zulestein he laid him on the stiff couch between the windows. One of the servants hurried for a doctor, and in the moment's confusion my Lord Leeds entered unnoticed.
Portland, as he moved from the King's couch, was the first to see him.
"Ah, my lord," he said sorrowfully, "what is to become of us all?"
"The King," murmured Portland, much moved, "is incapable of anything—do you take the direction of affairs."
"Nay, you, my lord," answered Leeds. "You are His Majesty's nearer friend."
"And your Grace is English—it will be more politic should you take this office—what of the Queen?"
"I have just come from her antechamber—even the pages and serving-maids are in tears—this is a heavy business." He himself seemed like a man utterly overcome. "She is certainly sinking—she is in private discourse now with the Archbishop."
"Doth she know?"
Leeds shook his head.
"Dr. Tenison waiteth the King's commands to tell her—but I think she hath an inner knowledge."
M. Auverqueverque came from the group by the window and whispered Portland that the King was conscious.
At this Leeds, ever warm-hearted and impulsive, went on his knees beside the couch and pressed the King's cold hand affectionately to his lips.
William sat up with his head drooping; his back was to the light, and his thick curls almost concealed his face; he held his handkerchief to his lips and shivered continually.
"The Queen," said Leeds, very low, "hath asked for Your Majesty."
The King murmured something incoherent.
"And the Archbishop," continued Leeds, with a grave gentleness, "thinketh she should be told of her danger."
"I would not have her deceived—in so important a matter," whispered the King—"tell him so." He leant forward and took Leeds by the shoulders. "Is it not an awful thing that she should die—she—to die—you ever loved her—God bless you for that, my lord—she had a sad life"—his voice became very indistinct—"she will not be sorry—but as for me——"
His hands loosened on the Duke's shoulders, and with a little moan he fell into another fainting fit, so long and deathlike that they feared for his reason or his life; it seemed, indeed, as if he would scarcely survive her whose danger caused his despair.
CHAPTER XI
THE BITTER PARTING
The Queen's bed stood out into the room, facing the long windows which looked on to the winter twilight; it was hung with four curtains of gold and blue damask sewn with many-coloured wreaths of flowers that Mary and her maids had worked when seated under the alley of wych-elm at Hampton Court.
The coverlet was of crimson satin embroidered with great roses of England and fringed with bullion. The Queen lay so still that the heavy folds were scarcely disturbed about her limbs. The curtains round the head of the bed had been drawn forward, and the pillows and the face of the Queen were in shadow.
She wore a lace cap with long lappets fastened beneath her chin and a little jacket of blue silk over her muslin nightgown. She was not disfigured, it being the most deadly symptom of her disease that there was no sign of it beyond the deep purple marks that had told Dr. Radcliffe—black smallpox—from the first, and the constant internal bleeding of her throat that had so exhausted her; that had stopped now, and she lay quite free from pain quiet for several hours; not sleeping; sleep, she said, gave her no ease.
To the right of the bed the King knelt with his face hidden in the quilt. There were several prelates and doctors in the room, and by the head of the bed Lady Temple, Madame Nienhuys, Basilea de Marsac, and Lady Portland, the Earl's second wife and Lady Temple's daughter.
At a whispered word from Dr. Radcliffe, Tenison, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, successor to the saintly Tillotson, so beloved by the King and Queen, approached the bed.
As his footfall broke the tense silence Mary lifted her languid eyes; he came round to her left, and stood, in a sorrowful attitude, looking down on her.
"Be seated, my lord," she faltered.
But out of respect to her and the presence of the King he remained standing.
Mary made a feeble motion with her right hand, which lay outside the coverlet, and sweetly stammered her repeated commands that he should sit.
Dr. Tenison obeyed, and with a heavy heart. Her gentle patience made his duty the harder. Dr. Radcliffe had just told him that since she now seemed tranquil and in full consciousness he might tell her of her approaching end.
The Bishop, a good heavy man, set about his task with pain and tenderness.
"Your Majesty will forgive me plain speaking, but I am entrusted by the King——"
She lay with her face towards him, and her brown eyes narrowed. He hesitated, fearing to greatly agitate her, and sought for a form of words in which to cast his speech.
"I am greatly grieved to see that Your Majesty is no better," he said. "Your consolation will come from heaven, not earth."
She instantly perceived his drift.
"You are come to tell me that I am dying?" she asked faintly.
He was startled that she had so instantly understood, and could not, for the moment, speak.
"I thank my God," continued the Queen, "that I have had this in my thoughts from the first. And there is nothing to be done. Search for a little escritoire in my cabinet and give it to the King. That is the end of earthly matters."
She closed her eyes and gave a little sigh.
"Will it please Your Majesty receive the Sacrament?" asked the Archbishop.
"Yes," she said at once. "Yes."
He left her, and she turned her head languidly and gazed before her at the window.
Lady Temple came forward lovingly, and looked down at her with sorrowful eyes.
"Before you light the candles," whispered Mary, "will you draw the curtains a little that I may see the sky?"
Lady Portland crossed the floor delicately and pulled back the heavy gold thread and scarlet damask from the December twilight.
A pale glow of colourless light fell across the glittering bed, the wan face of the Queen, and the motionless kneeling figure of her husband.
She could see loose grey clouds, an indistinct trail of yellow fire low behind the leafless trees which tossed slowly in a feeble wind.
She gave another little sigh and again closed her eyes. Lady Portland, weeping, drew the curtains. Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys lit the candles on the mantelshelf, on the table between the windows, and the crystal lamp ornamented with the rose, the shamrock, and thistle in silver that hung from the centre of the ceiling.
The Queen lay still all this while; she did not speak till Dr. Tenison approached her bed again, and all the prelates in the chamber went on their knees.
"I doubt if I can swallow the bread," she murmured anxiously.
The bishops in the room took the Sacrament with her; they were all heavy with grief, and the Primate faltered in his ministrations, but she was utterly calm; she followed the holy office clearly with no hesitation. Despite her fears, she swallowed the bread without difficulty, and thanked Dr. Tenison sweetly when he had done, and lay for awhile, praying it seemed. She was so resigned that it seemed she rather desired to die than live.
Presently she whispered, "I would speak to the King."
They all withdrew from the bed to the far end of the room and the antechamber. Mary put out a trembling hand and touched the bent dark head that rested on her quilt.
"Ah, love!" she said.
He raised his face, moving for the first time since she had fallen asleep, two hours ago.
"They have told me," whispered Mary, "that I must say farewell—I always knew—forgive me that I had not the courage to tell you." She smiled. "I am so tired, and I have so much to say."
With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gown and gave it him.
"The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give it you—only a few trifles—but you will understand."
He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; he did not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death, it seemed, as hers.
"I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time, and it was difficult—indeed difficult. God will know I did my poor best. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but I have done nothing, and I meant to do so much——"
The King forced his voice.
"You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered. "You—you—oh, Marie!"
He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on her fingers.
"Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you to do——"
"No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now—I shall never do anything again—never——"
Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into her cheeks.
"You are rebelling against God," she said, between agitated breaths. "You must go on—your work is not finished; but the prospects are so splendid——"
"What is that to me?" he answered, in bitter despair. "I am a poor weak creature—I can do nothing—it was always you, your hope, your faith—I am no better than a thing of nought; in taking you God mocks me——"
"No—no," cried Mary, with a desperate strength. "You are going on—you will conquer—do not make it hard for me to die——"
She sank on to her pillows, coughing a little.
"I have prayed God not to let you despair—I have asked Him to comfort you——"
"There is no more comfort for me," he answered. "I want you—nothing but you on earth or in heaven——"
Mary turned her face towards him; the dark auburn hair, beneath the fine veiling of lace, hung over the edge of the tumbled pillow and touched his hand.
"Oh, my husband," she said faintly; "I have loved you with a passion that cannot end with death. You cannot—ever be alone again—I shall be there——"
Her voice sank and died; she made an effort to lean towards him. He caught her to his bosom and kissed her cold forehead with lips as cold.
"Go on," she stammered, "do not give up—the goal is nearly won——"
She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose.
She was smiling up at him, but there was an awful change in her face.
He put his hand before his eyes, and fell down beside her bed, motionless, along the shining floor.
Mary clasped her hands on her bosom, and her head drooped to one side; she continually coughed, and her lids closed heavily.
Lady Temple had run forward as the King fell; Portland and Leeds raised and carried him, easily enough, into the antechamber.
Dr. Radcliffe gave the Queen a cordial; she thanked him, and seemed a little revived.
"Let me sit up," she whispered. Her ladies raised her against the piled-up cushions. "The King"—she added—"the King?—my eyes are weak—I thought—he left me——"
"Dear Lady," answered Dorothy Temple, commanding her own tears, "he is in the next chamber——"
She knew while she spoke that he had fallen into a succession of fits so terrible that not one doctor there thought he could live.
"Perhaps," gasped Mary, "it were better if we—were spared—a final farewell—I could not well bear it——"
She leant against Lady Temple's shoulder, and her lips moved in prayer. Her face was very troubled, and she continually sighed.
"Madam, are you at peace?" asked Lady Temple.
"I am not sorry to go to God," she answered; "but I am weak about the King—I would I might have been spared a little longer with him."
Presently she fell asleep, peacefully it seemed, and still with prayers on her lips.
Lady Temple crept from the bed where Lady Portland pulled the curtains to shield the Queen from the light, and asked Dr. Radcliffe how long it might be now?
He shook his head sadly.
"A few hours, my lady."
Dorothy Temple burst out into subdued grief.
"We have the greatest loss in this lady! I have known her since she was a child, and she had never a fault—this is a bitter thing for all of us, and for England."
The doctor answered grimly—
"A more bitter thing even than you imagine, my lady. I do not think the King will live."
She looked at him in utter terror, and at that moment Portland came out of the antechamber.
"Will you go to His Majesty, doctor?" he said, in a shaking voice. "Millington doth not know what to do."
Radcliffe left them, and Lady Temple desperately seized hold of Portland's arm.
"Oh, William," she whispered; "how is the King?"
"Sorely stricken," he answered. "Is this to be the end?—that he should die for a woman!"
Lady Portland came softly from the bed to her mother and her husband.
"Doth it not seem cruel that the Queen should die?" she murmured. "They say there is no hope——"
"The Queen!" echoed Portland. "I think of the King——"
"Can you not," urged his wife anxiously, "rouse him and bring him back to her? When she wakes she will surely ask for him——"
Portland, with a little sigh of despair and weariness, went into the antechamber.
It was well lit and full of people. The King was seated on his camp-bed—a dishevelled, pitiful figure—lamenting to himself with a violence and boundless passion that had the force and incoherence of insanity.
The only one of the company who had the courage to approach him was a new-comer, my Lord Sunderland; pale, quiet, elegantly dressed, he stood between the King and the wall, and gazed down on his master with an extraordinary expression of resolution and consideration.
Portland went up to him, not without a sense of jealousy for the King's dignity, that was so shattered before these foreigners and a man like Sunderland.
"Sire," he said firmly. "Sire!"
William did not even look up; he was twisting his hands together and staring at the floor, breaking out into the bitter protests of a mind deranged.
Sunderland looked sharply at Portland.
"What do you want of him, my lord?" he asked,
"I would recall him to himself that he may take farewell of the Queen," answered Portland sternly. "But he, it seemeth, is no longer William of Nassau."
Sunderland made no answer to this; he laid his hand lightly on the King's shoulder.
"Your Highness!" he said.
The ancient title struck some chord of memory. The King raised his head; Sunderland was certainly startled at his face.
"Who spoke to me?" asked William thickly.
"The Prince of Orange," answered the Earl, "cannot fail before anything—the King of England must not——"
"Fail?" muttered the King. "Fail? Have I failed? They put too much upon me. Did they tell you of the Queen? My enemies may be satisfied now, for I shall never lift my head again——"
"The Queen," said Sunderland, "will not depart in peace unless she leaveth you calm. Sire, for her sake will you not recall your ancient courage?"
The King shook his head in a faint, exhausted fashion.
"You would not have thought that she would die so young," he murmured, "would you—she was gay, too—there was to have been a ball to-night—and she cannot live till morning——"
Lady Temple came from the Queen's room and whispered something to Lord Portland, who instantly addressed the King.
"Sire, the Queen is awake."
William rose; his cravat and waistcoat were undone over his shirt, his eyes bloodshot and dim, his hair dishevelled and damp on his forehead; he seemed to be making a tremendous effort for control; he noticed his disordered clothes.
"I would not frighten her"—it was Sunderland and not Portland to whom he spoke. The Dutchman drew back a pace. It was ironical that at such a moment the King should turn to such a man; but William had first roused at Sunderland's address, and seemed to look to him for guidance as he had looked, almost unconsciously, to him for support fifteen years ago, in the bitter days before his marriage.
The proud, stern, lonely, and scorned young Prince had then opened his heart to the dishonest, worldly, and cynical minister, and the bond of sympathy that must have been between them then showed now, when the King, fainting with mental agony, clung blindly to Sunderland's unmoved, gentle strength.
Portland marked it then and marked it now; he felt his own love useless in the face of my lord's charm. William had not even noticed his presence. He left him in the arms of Sunderland and returned to the Queen's chamber.
Dr. Tenison had been reading the Scriptures to her, and stood now by her bed with the Bible in his hand.
Lady Temple and her daughter were behind him. The younger woman was crying sadly.
Portland went up to the other side of the Queen's bed.
Mary raised her deep brown eyes and looked at him earnestly.
"My lord," she whispered—he bent over her and she caught his stiff cuff with feverish fingers—"do not let the King despair ... do not let him give up ... I shall have indeed lived in vain if he gives up ... so near too..." She paused to gather strength, and he was too moved to answer. "At first I was so afraid of you," she added wistfully, "so fearful of intruding on you and him—you were his friend before ever I came, and will be when I am gone—but of late you have tolerated me—only a woman, but I have not hindered his destiny—I let nothing stand in the way of his service—indeed, if I have ever vexed you, forgive me——"
"Madam," responded Portland tenderly, "you have been the great comfort of all of us, and we shall be utterly undone without you."
She shook her head on the tumbled pillow.
"I was only a foreigner—a stranger; you were ever extraordinarily kind to me—do not let the King stop—for this."
She fell on to silence, being greatly weakened by this effort of speech, and Portland withdrew to the end of the bed to allow Dr. Radcliffe to approach.
The Queen's words had roused curious memories in the mind of William Bentinck. It did not seem so many years ago since the fair, thoughtless, timid English girl had come, as she said, a foreigner—a stranger—to The Hague, unwanted, mistrusted, despised for her youth and her kinsman's treachery, regarded by her husband as an interruption—a vexation—the mere burden of a marriage of convenience that had been a political failure; and now she had grown to be the support of all his designs, and he was brought to a madness of despair because she lay dying, and those same aims and endeavours which her coming had intruded upon, to his anger, were now nothing to him if she should no longer be there to share them.
It was now past midnight. The Queen, having swallowed Dr. Radcliffe's cordial, spoke again, and took farewell of her ladies.
"This was to have been our dance to-night," she murmured. "I am sorry to have spoilt your pleasure——"
"There will never be any more pleasure for me," answered Dorothy Temple, who loved her exceedingly, "until I meet Your Majesty in Heaven——"
Mary was silent, lying very still. There was a little stir in the chamber as the King entered, followed by Lord Sunderland, who kept his eyes on him keenly.
The King went straight to his wife's side, and lifted the glittering curtain up.
The silence was heavy as these two looked at each other.
"Tell me," he said, "what to do—what you would have me do——"
The Queen tried to answer; but speech was beyond her power; and when she found that she could no more speak to him, for the might of death on her tongue, two tears rolled down her hollow cheeks, and, by the size of them, it was seen that she was dying indeed, for they were large as the grey pearls in her ears.
"Give me one word," said the King, and he bent low over her. She made a second attempt, but in vain. A long shudder shook her, blood came to her lips, and the tears on her face rolled off on to the pillow.
"She cannot speak!" exclaimed the King; he fell along the bed and laid his face against her hand. Sunderland touched him. He gave a sighing sob like a woman, and fainted.
My Lord Leeds helped lift and carry him to the back of the chamber; the others remained about the Queen, who was sinking so rapidly that they feared she would go before the King recovered his senses.
She put up her hands in the attitude of praying, then dropped them and turned her head about on the pillow as if she looked for the King; not seeing him, she moaned and fell into a little swoon, breathing heavily.
The watchers held painful vigil thus for near an hour, when she opened her eyes suddenly and began to speak, in a distinct though low voice; but the words she used showed that her thoughts began to break.
"We have such a short time," she said, "what can any of us do?—I hope this will show you cannot expose yourself with impunity—I shall give God thanks as long as I live for having preserved you—think of me a little and be more careful—Lord Nottingham saw my tears, I could not restrain—my father, my father, there is such a great light here, like the sun at Twickenham, no, The Hague—a letter at last—he loves, after all——"
She moved and half sat up; the lace had fallen from her head, and her hair hung in a dark mass over her shoulders; an extraordinary look of ecstasy overspread her wan face.
"Give me the child," she whispered, and held out her arms; then she coughed a little and dropped back.
A slight convulsion shook her; her breath clove her lips apart, and her lids fluttered over her eyes.
The clergymen were on their knees reading the prayer for the dying. As they finished, Dr. Radcliffe put out the candle, on the table by the bed, that shone over the Queen's face.
"It is over," he said; "Her Majesty is dead."
The Palace clock struck the four quarters, and then the hour of one.
The King opened his eyes and looked about him on the hushed kneeling figures. Portland endeavoured to restrain him, but he rose from the couch and moved slowly and languidly towards the bed.
No one dared speak or move.
When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the white hand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand to his breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then his senses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feet of the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees.
As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and, when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly and slowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom.
PART III
THE KING
"Man is God's masterpiece."FRANCIS QUARLES.
"Man is God's masterpiece."FRANCIS QUARLES.
"Man is God's masterpiece."
FRANCIS QUARLES.
FRANCIS QUARLES.
CHAPTER I
VITA SINE AMOR MORS EST
Henry Sidney, Lord Romney, and the Earl of Portland were walking up and down the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. It was the end of April—a bitter spring following a severe winter; constant clouds blotted out the sun, and sudden falls of snow had left the square of grass in the centre of the cloisters wet and white.
The Earl, muffled to the chin in a red mantle, and carrying a great muff of brown fur, was talking earnestly to Lord Romney, who, though a feather-head and useless in politics, was more loved by the King than any Englishman, and of unimpeachable loyalty to the throne.
"This," said Portland, with energy, "is death or madness—nay, worse than either, for he is but a figure of himself that deceiveth us into thinking we have a King."
"God knoweth," returned Romney, who looked old and worn, sad and dejected, "never have we so needed his wisdom and his courage. Whom can we trust since the death of Her Majesty? Not even my Lord Nottingham."
"Sunderland," said the Earl, "is creeping back to favour—the knave of two reigns, who would get a third King in his clutches—and the Lord Keeper is very active in the House. Now I have done what I can to transact necessary business since the Queen's death—but I cannot do much, for the malice against foreigners is incredible——"
"No one but the King can do anything!" broke out Romney.
"I at least can do no more," admitted Portland. "And certainly my heart misgiveth me that this is going to be the end—in miserable failure."
"Why—not failure," protested the Englishman.
Portland paused by the clustered pillars which divided the open windows; a few ghastly flakes of snow were falling from a disturbed sky against the worn, crumbling, and grey masonry.
"Miserable failure," repeated the Earl; his fine fair face was pale and stern in the colourless shadows of the heavy arches. "Parliament needeth a leader, the Republic needeth her magistrate, the allies their commander—there is very much to do—with every day, more—and the man who should do it is as useless as a sick girl."
"I think," said Romney, with some gentleness, "that his heart is broken."
"A man," flashed Portland, "hath no right to a broken heart. Good God, could we not all discover broken hearts if we took time to probe them? I know the Queen's worth, what she was to him, and all of us—but is she served by this weakness of grief? He would best commemorate her by making no pause in his task."
"That is a hard doctrine," answered the Englishman half sadly.
"It is a hard fate to be a great man, my lord—the destinies of nations are not made easily nor cheaply. When the King began his task he was prepared for the price—he should not now shirk the paying of it——"
"It is higher than he thought would be exacted, my lord."
Portland answered sternly—
"You surely do not understand. What was she, after all, but an incident? He had been ten years at his work before she came."
The snow fell suddenly, and, caught and whirled by a powerful wind, filled the air with a thick whiteness like spreading smoke; it blew against the two gentlemen, and in a second covered their mantles with glittering crystals.
Romney stepped back and shook it from him.
"Shall we not go into the church," he said, with a shiver, "and persuade the King return?"
"It doth not matter if he be at her grave or in his cabinet," answered Portland gloomily, "since his temper is the same wherever he be."
Romney turned towards the low door that led into the Abbey.
"Did you mark," he said irrelevantly, "that the robin was still on her gravestone?"
"Yes," replied Portland; "it hath been singing there since she was buried."
They entered the large, mysterious church. The snowstorm had so obscured the light from the tall, high windows that the columns, roof, and tombs were alike enveloped in a deep shade; it was very cold and the air hung misty and heavy.
Above the altar, to their right, swung a red burning lamp that gave no light, but showed as a sudden gleam of crimson.
On the altar itself burnt four tall candles that gleamed on the polished gold sacred vessels and faintly showed the sweep of marble and the violet-hued carpet beyond the brass rails which divided the altar from the steps.
There was only one person visible in this large, cold, dark church, and that was a man in the front pew, entirely in black, who neither sat nor knelt, but drooped languidly against the wooden rest in front of him, with his face hidden in his right hand.
Portland and Romney took off their hats and approached the altar; they had nearly reached it before they noticed the King, whom they had left at his wife's grave.
Their footsteps were very noticeable in the sombre stillness. The King looked up and rose, holding heavily to the arm of the pew.
Romney hesitated, but Portland stepped up to William.
"We had best return, sire."
The King was silent, his eyes fixed on the altar and the fluttering gold light that dwelt there—a radiance in the gloom.
Portland touched his arm and he moved then, with no sign of animation, towards the Abbey door; his two friends followed shivering in the great spaces of the church that were more bitterly cold than the outer air.
The King's eyes turned to the shadowed dark aisles which led to the chapel of the seventh Henry and the spot where the Queen, a few months ago young, and beautiful, and gay, now lay among her royal kinsmen, dust with dust.
The King opened the heavy door and stepped out into the bitter light of the snowstorm which hid sky and houses, whitened the coach waiting and the liveries of the impatient footmen who walked about in the endeavour to keep warm. The King himself was in an instant covered from head to foot; he gave a lifeless shudder as one so sick with life that sun and snow were alike to him.
He entered the coach and the two lords followed him; there was no word spoken; his friends had lost heart in the fruitless endeavour of comfort; he had scarcely spoken since the Queen's death, scarcely raised his eyes; for six weeks he had remained in his chamber, and now he came abroad it was to no purpose, for he took no interest in anything in life.
He gave himself much to religious observances, and was often closeted with the Archbishop; he uttered no word of complaint, never even had mentioned his wife's name, which was the more remarkable after the first frantic passion of his grief; he would attend to no business and see no one; he replied to the addresses of the Houses only by a few incoherent words; his answers as they appeared in theGazettewere written by Portland.
He fainted often, and his spirits sunk so low that the doctors feared he would die of mere apathy, for all their devices were useless to rouse him to any desire to live.
Portland could do nothing. M. Heinsius, Grand Pensionary of Holland, wrote in vain from The Hague; that long, intimate, and important correspondence was broken by the King for the first time since his accession; the allies clamoured in vain for him whose guidance alone kept the coalition together; factions raged in parliament with no authority to check them; the Jacobites raised their heads again, and, the moment the breath was out of the Queen, began their plots for a French invasion and the assassination of the one frail life that stood for the forces of Protestantism; this was generally known, though not proved, but the King cared for none of it.
The home government, since the retirement of Leeds after the East India scandal, was in many hands, mostly incompetent; foreign affairs fared worse, for these the King had always kept almost entirely in his own control, and had scarcely even partially trusted any of his English ministers on these matters, that, as he was well aware, neither their knowledge nor their characters fitted them to deal with. Portland held many of the clues to the King's immense and intricate international policy, and he had done what he could with matters that could not wait, but he could not do everything, nor do anything for long, and what he could not do was left undone.
As the Royal coach swung into Whitehall courtyard the sudden snowstorm had ceased and a pale, cold ray of sun pierced the disturbed clouds.
The King had lately taken a kind of horror to his villa at Kensington, and resided at Whitehall, though he had always detested this palace, and the foul air of London was perilous to his health.
There was, however, no pretence even of a Court. The ladies, with their music, their sewing, their cards and tea drinking, had vanished; the Princess Anne, nominally reconciled to the King, lived at St. James's, and no woman came to Court now; the great galleries, chambers, and corridors were empty save for a few Dutch sentries and ushers and an occasional great lord or foreign envoy waiting to ask my Lord Portland when His Majesty would be fit to do business.
Without a word or a look to any the King passed through the antechamber to his private apartments. Portland stopped to speak to Lord Sunderland, who was talking to the Lord Keeper, Sir John Somers, the Whig lawyer, as industrious, as honest, and as charming as any man in England, and an extraordinary contrast to Sunderland in character. The two were, however, for a moment in league, and had together brought about that reconciliation of the King and the Princess Anne that set the throne on a firmer basis, though neither had as yet dared to bring forward my Lord Marlborough.
Romney, who disliked the everyday virtues of the middle-class Lord Keeper, would have preferred to follow the King, but William gave him no invitation, but entered his apartments and closed the door, so he had to join the little group of three.
Their talk was for a while of general matters—of the heats in parliament and the prospects of the campaign of the allies under Waldeck and Vaudemont; each was silent about the matter uppermost in his mind—the recovery of the King. Portland, the lifelong friend, upright, noble, stern; Romney, gay, impulsive, shallow, but loyal and honest; Somers, worthy, tireless, a Whig, and of the people; Sunderland, aristocrat and twice told a traitor, shameless, secretive, and fascinating, by far the finest statesman of the four—all these had one object in common, to rouse the man on whom depended the whole machinery of the English government and the whole fate of the huge coalition against France, which had taken twenty years to form.
Sunderland, heartily disliked by the other three, yet master of all of them, suddenly, with delicate precision, came to the heart of the matter.
"Unless all Europe is to slip back into the hands of France," he said, "the Kingmusttake up his duties."
"This temper of his is making him most unpopular," remarked Somers, who, honestly grateful to his master, had always endeavoured to turn people and parliament to an affection for the King. "Though the Queen was greatly beloved they resent this long mourning."
"She held the King and country together," answered Sunderland. "Her English birth, her tactful, pretty ways did His Majesty more service here than a deal of statecraft—the Jacks know that; the country is swarming with them, and unless it is all to end in disaster—the Kingmustact his old part."
Portland flushed.
"You say so, my lord, but who is to rouse a man utterly prostrate? Nothing availeth to draw him from his sloth."
"He is neither dead nor mad," said Sunderland calmly. "And grief is a thing that may be mastered. He should go to Flanders in May and take command of the allies."
"It is impossible!" broke out Sidney. "Did you mark him but now? He hardly lifts his eyes from the floor, and I have not heard him speak one word these ten days."
Sunderland answered quietly—
"A man who hath done what he hath cannot utterly sink into apathy—there is a spirit in him which must respond, if it be but rightly called upon."
"Willyouassay to rouse His Majesty?" asked Portland haughtily.
Sunderland's long eyes narrowed.
"I am bold to try where your lordship hath failed," he said, with a deference that was like insolence; "but it is a question of great matters, and I will make the trial."
"You will make it in vain, my lord," answered Romney. "The King is beyond even your arts."
Sunderland delicately lifted his shoulders.
"We can but see." He looked rather cynically round the other three men. "If the King is out of the reach of reason it is as well we should know it, my lords."
Portland did not reply. He bitterly resented that this man, whom he scorned and despised, should gain this intimacy with the King's weakness; but he led the way to William's apartments. He had practically control of affairs since the King's collapse, and no one questioned his coming or going.
They found William in his cabinet that overlooked the privy gardens, at the bottom of which the river rolled black and dismal in contrast to the glitter of the snow on the paths and flowerbeds.
The King sat by the window, gazing out on this prospect, his head sunk on his breast and his left arm along the sill of the window. The crimson cut crystal bracelet round his wrist was the only light or colour on his person, for he wore no sword, and his heavy black clothes were unbraided and plain; the considerable change in his appearance was largely heightened by this complete mourning, for he had seldom before worn black, having, indeed, a curious distaste to it. He had been born in a room hung with funeral trappings and lit only with candles, and for the first months of his life never left this black chamber, which had caused, perhaps, a certain revulsion in him to the sables of mourning, which he had worn only once before, when, a pale child of ten, he had been dressed in black for his young mother, that other Mary Stewart whose coffin lay in Westminster within a few feet of that of his wife.
He did not seem to notice that any had entered upon his privacy. Portland glanced back at Romney and the Lord Keeper with a look that seemed to convey that he felt hopeless of my Lord Sunderland doing what he had boasted; but that lord went forward with his usual quiet carriage.
A large fire filled the room with cheerful light that glowed on the polished Dutch pottery and rich Dutch pictures on the mantelshelf and walls. On a marquetry bureau, with glittering brass fuchsia-shaped handles, was a pile of unopened letters, and amid them a blue-glazed earthenware dragon that used to stand in the Queen's withdrawing-room at Hampton Court.
Sunderland paused, looking at the King. The three other men remained inside the door, watching with painful attention.
"Sire," said the Earl, "there is news from France. M. de Luxembourg, who was your greatest enemy, is dead."
The King did not move.
"It is a great loss to King Louis," added Sunderland. "They say M. de Villeroy is to have the command."
William slowly turned his head and looked at the speaker, but without interest or animation, almost, it seemed, without recognition.
Sunderland came nearer. A book was lying on the window-seat, he glanced at it—it was Dr. Tenison's sermon on the text, "I have sworn and am steadfastly purposed to keep thy righteous judgments," which had been preached after the Queen's death, and printed by the King's command.
Sunderland spoke again.
"The Whigs have ousted my Lord Leeds and his friend Trevor—and continue to press heavily upon him."
Again it was doubtful if the King heard; he fixed his large mournful eyes steadily upon the Earl, and made no sign nor answer.
Sunderland, finding neither of these matters touched the King, drew from the bosom of his grey satin waistcoat a roll of papers.
"Sir Christopher Wren showed me these this morning," he said, "and doubted if he dared bring them to Your Majesty. They are those plans for the turning of Greenwich Palace into a hospital that Her Majesty had ever at heart."
The three men watching caught their breath at the delicate bluntness of my lord. This time there could be no doubt that the King had heard; he made some incoherent answer and held out his hand for the plans, which he unrolled and gazed at.
"It should be a noble monument," said the Earl softly, "to Her Majesty and those who fell at La Hogue fight. Sir Christopher would have an inscription along the river frontage saying she built it, and a statue of her—looking along the Thames to London."
The King answered in a low voice—
"Let it be put in hand at once."
"Will Your Majesty see Sir Christopher?"
William lifted his eyes from the drawings.
"No—let him get to work," he murmured; then, after a second, "Do you not think it will be a worthy monument?"
"So fine that I can but think of one more worthy," answered Sunderland.
A languid colour touched the King's hollow cheek.
"What is that?"
"The completion of Your Majesty's life-work."
There was silence. The King paled again and looked out of the window.
"I cannot talk of business," he said hoarsely, after a while.
"I speak of the Queen—her wishes," answered Sunderland. "She greatly desired the building of Greenwich Hospital, but she still more desired the preservation of this realm—and of the Republic."
At this last word the King gave a little shiver.
"The Republic," repeated Sunderland, "needeth Your Majesty."
William looked round again—his face was troubled.
"You speak to a dead man," he said, in a hurried whisper. "I have finished."
"If that be so," replied the Earl, "we and the United Provinces are lost, and King Louis will triumph after all, yea, after all the toil, and loss, and patience, and endeavour, France will triumph over Europe. Your Majesty had better not have flung the gauntlet in '72—better to have bowed to France then than submit now."
The King seemed disturbed; he laid the plans of Greenwich down and moved his hands restlessly.
"I am not fit for—anything," he muttered. "I am not capable of military command—there are others—I have been at this work twenty years—let some other take it up——"
"There is no other," said Sunderland. "This is Your Majesty's task, and no one else can undertake it."
The King looked round in a desperate fashion; he saw the three men at the other end of the room.
"Why do you come bating me?" he asked. "I tell you there is nothing more in me"—he laid his hand on his heart—"all is dead—here."
A sudden violent cough shook him; he gasped with pain.
"In a few months I shall be with her," he added, and his voice was so weak and shaken that Sunderland could scarcely catch the words.
"Doth not Your Majesty believe in predestination?"
William was silent.
"Doth not Your Majesty believe that God hath some further use for you?"
The King answered simply and with infinite sadness—
"I think He hath had from me all the work I am capable of."
"No," said Sunderland. "Your greatest tasks, your greatest victories lie before you. William of Nassau will not die while the battle rageth. God, who put you in the vanguard of the world, will not let you fall out with the deserters."
The King drew a sharp breath; he seemed considerably moved and agitated; his dark eyes turned to Sunderland.
"What is it to you whether I fail or no?" he asked wildly.
The Earl smiled.
"I stand for England, sire. Besides that, I always believed in you, and you are the only man in Europe worth serving."
William flushed.
"You speak very boldly."
"I spoke boldly to Your Majesty in '77. I said to you then, you are the Prince for England—your moment will come. The little things, sir, often clog, and hamper, and bewilder, but in the end the big things win—as Your Majesty will win, though through wearisome ways. Sir, kingdoms are large stakes. Sir, to be a champion of a creed is a great responsibility, and he who taketh it up must forgo the grief of common men, for surely his tears are demanded as well as his blood."
William sat motionless, with his hand to his side.
"You think I can take it all up again?" he asked, in his hoarse, strained voice. "My God! I think it is too late."
Sunderland turned and whispered something to Somers, who left the room; to the King he said—
"I entreat Your Majesty see a young officer new come from Flanders."