CHAPTER VA LEADER OF NATIONSWhen the late evening fell it was obvious that nothing could save Namur, the allies had advanced a mile on the outworks of the castle. M. de Boufflers sent to request a two days' truce that he might bury the dead who filled fosse and ditch. The King granted it. Before the time expired the Maréchal offered to surrender if he was not relieved in ten days. William at once refused. His terms were instant surrender or instant attack. M. de Boufflers capitulated, terms were speedily agreed upon, the garrison was to go free, the citadel, stores, and arms to be left in possession of the allies.On the 6th September, under a blazing sun, a maréchal de France, for the first time since France had been a kingdom, delivered up a powerful castle to the enemy. It was the first obvious sign of that tide of fortune that had been steadily setting against France since '88. It meant more even than the conquest of the strongest fortress in the world—it meant that the arms of Louis were no longer invincible.The garrison, reduced to five thousand, less than half their original number, marched out through the breach made by the guns of the confederate army, which was drawn up in lines of foot and horse that reached to the banks of the glittering Meuse.The French came with full honours, with the beat of drums and the ensigns erect, but their spirits were heavy with a bitter humiliation. Their reverse was as unexpected as it was tremendous.M. de Boufflers and his staff came last of the garrison, the Maréchal decked with all the pomp of war, gold encrusted cuirass, silk scarf, orders, a splendid white horse trapped in gilt and crimson, and a blue saddle clothseméwith lilies.He held his bare sword erect and his face was set sternly. He was exceedingly troubled by the ceremony in which he was about to take part. He would not, and could not, as a subject of King Louis, acknowledge the Prince of Orange as King of England, but it was difficult to treat a victorious general (and certainly a Kingde facto) with less than respect and retain his own dignity, especially as the astute Frenchman was perfectly well aware that William was King of England and would never be shaken from his throne now in favour of the old man who was wearing Louis' patience thin with his complaints and demands. Moreover Portland had insinuated that the allies would take any slight to William very ill indeed; so, between mortification at his position, his duty to his master, his desire to avoid the ridiculous and not offend the conventions of martial courtesy, the Maréchal was in a perturbed temper indeed. But as he neared the spot where the allied sovereign awaited him, even his dilemma was forgotten in his curiosity to see the man who filled so tremendous a part in the world, who for twenty years had withstood France, who had risen to absolute power in his own country, who had gained two kingdoms by diplomacy and a third by conquest, who was the soul of a huge coalition and one of the greatest soldiers in Europe, the man who was always spoken of in Paris with hatred and some fear, as an upstart, a usurper, a heretic, one who had broken through sacred family ties for the sake of personal ambition, and stirred Europe into a turmoil to obtain a crown.This feeling was shared by every officer behind him. They were all eager to see the Prince whom they had learnt from King James to regard as a pitiless, cold self-seeker, and from Louis as a royal adventurer unscrupulous and impudent.Not far from the castle the commanders of the allied forces were drawn up, the German Princes, the representatives of Spain and the Northern States and the United Provinces on horseback, and near them, in a calash, or light open travelling coach, the King of England.M. de Boufflers reined up his horse a few paces away; a handsome young gentleman with a very proud carriage, wearing a scarlet cloak, was the foremost of the group. M. de Boufflers knew him for Maximilien of Bavaria.The garrison came on slowly past the four black coach horses held by footmen wearing the livery of England, until the Maréchal found himself face to face with the occupant of the coach and the Elector who sat his horse immediately beside the door.There was a pause of silence; M. de Boufflers went pale under the eyes, and looked with the irresistible attraction of great curiosity at the man in the coach, who was surrounded by these brilliant and immovable escorts of princely horsemen.He had heard the person of this Prince often described, and common report had drawn a picture of him familiar to the minds of men, but he found the original totally different, though there were the salient characteristics, the frail stature, the strongly marked features, the brilliant eyes, so well known throughout Europe.But the swift and general impression he made was entirely other to what the Frenchman had expected. He saw a gentleman with an extraordinary air of stillness and repose, dressed richly and rather heavily in black and gold, wearing the George and the Ribbon of the Garter, but no other decoration, and a hat with black feathers cocked back from his face; he wore a long neck-cloth of Flanders lace, the ends of which were drawn through the buttonholes of his brocade waistcoat, after the English fashion. He sat leaning a little towards M. de Bavaria, and held in his right hand a cane with a gold top.There was something in his expression, his bearing, wholly unlooked for by M. de Boufflers, who could put no name to it, but thought, in a confused way, that he had never seen a man whose principal occupation was war appear less of a soldier.The King, without moving, fixed his dark, flashing eyes on the Frenchman, and smiled, almost imperceptibly.M. de Boufflers performed the salute of the sword; he lowered his weapon, not directly at the King, but it was too high an honour for the Elector, and William alone bent his head in acknowledgment.The silence was profound as the gleaming weapon was returned to its sheath. M. de Boufflers drew his breath unsteadily. He would go no further; he spoke to the Prince to avoid the royal terms of address."Your Highness, I must congratulate you upon your good fortune though it is my own ill luck—but I must console myself that I have held even Namur three months against such an army and such generals."The Elector uncovered and, turning to the King, repeated with profound respect what the Maréchal had said.William touched his hat in a formal salute silently. M. de Boufflers coloured with vexation. The deference of the Elector, so much his own superior, made his own attitude, he thought, appear ridiculous, but he haughtily maintained it."I surrender to Your Highness the keys of the Castle of Namur," he said, and handed them with a bow to the Elector, who at once presented them to the King."Sire," said M. de Bavaria, very lowly, "M. de Boufflers has the honour to request me to present to Your Majesty the keys of Namur."William took them and again saluted."I, with Your Majesty's permission, will inform M. de Boufflers that Your Majesty is satisfied that the terms of the capitulation are fulfilled?""Yes, Highness," answered William gravely, but still (as M. de Boufflers was supremely conscious), with that slight smile."His Majesty," said the Elector, "is pleased to compliment you, monsieur, upon your gallant defence of the citadel.""I thank Your Highness," answered the Maréchal, colouring deeply. Neither he nor his officers could altogether conceal their astonishment and vexation at seeing the proudest Princes of Germany treat William of Orange with as great a deference as his meanest courtiers used to their own master."We need not detain you, monsieur," said the Electoral Prince.M. de Boufflers bowed over his saddle and passed on, his staff officers behind him, all riding at the salute as they passed the allied Sovereigns.When the last had gone, William, who had never taken his eyes from the cavalcade, spoke to M. Dyckfelt who rode close to the carriage."Mynheer," he said, "you will inform M. de Boufflers that he is our prisoner until the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse are released."M. Dyckfelt departed with a body of Dutch cavalry, and, as the King drove off, he could hear the indignant exclamations of the French officers as the Maréchal was asked to deliver up his sword. The King drove to his tent across the town of Namur, which was like a barracks and a battlefield for soldiers and wounded. His bodyguard of princes raised a fine cloud of white dust from the dry roads, the air was still foul with the smell of powder and burning buildings, the sun burnt in the acrid heavens with a sheer cloudless heat that seemed to draw all freshness and moisture out of the earth, even the two great rivers had a hard, molten look in the glare as if they were lead, not water.The commanders of the confederacy dined with the King; the tent was hot, but shaded from the intolerable glare by three poor scorched chestnut trees that cast a meagre shadow over the canvas.The Electoral Prince sat at the King's right, the Earl of Portland at his left, and, for the first time, Joost van Keppel was at the King's table, an honour that was not grudged by any of the potentates, for the young soldier was exceedingly popular, being amiable, generous, sweet tempered, and deferential, but Portland marked it with a bitter heart.William, seated in a vermeil armchair, wearing his hat, and treated by the others as if they were no more than his subjects, gave the toast—"The allied army"—in a whisper to the Elector, who passed it round the table. It was drunk in silence, and the long meal, served on gold and crystal, began.The King spoke hardly at all, save to utter a few sentences to Portland, who received them coldly, and the others were, out of deference, silent, all being, indeed, too elated with their recent great success (the greatest they had achieved during the war), and too occupied in their own thoughts with what this would mean to their several interests, to care for speech.When the meal was nearly over, M. Dyckfelt came to say that M. de Boufflers, after protesting violently, had delivered up his sword and returned to Namur as a prisoner of the allies."We will send him to Huy until we receive the two garrisons," said William languidly, "though I doubt that we put too high a price on M. de Boufflers.""His Master," remarked M. de Vaudemont, "must redeem him even at a higher rate.""Ah, cousin," answered the King, "His Majesty will return the men for pride's sake.""And there is the English post in," said M. Dyckfelt, "all in a reek from skirting Villeroy's forces.""Why must you remind me of England?" asked William.Portland interposed quickly—"Surely you will return almost immediately? Is this not a good juncture to call a parliament?""This is not a good season to discuss politics." The King administered his reproof in the gentlest manner, but Portland, with a curt bow, instantly set down his glass, rose, and left the tent. William flushed, and a kind of tremor ran through the company. They thought that the King would not take this even from Portland.But, after a second, he turned to the Prince de Vaudemont."My cousin," he said quietly, "will you go after my lord and persuade him that he is unreasonable?"The princes glanced at each other covertly as M. de Vaudemont obeyed. M. van Keppel coloured violently; he knew perfectly well who Portland's wrath was directed against, but his anger was not personal but for his master thus openly slighted.The King sat silent, drinking slowly and looking down at the damask cloth. In a few moments M. de Vaudemont returned alone.It seemed almost incredible that Portland should refuse to return when sent for by the King and by such a messenger; William looked up."Sire," said M. de Vaudemont, "M. de Portland asks your Majesty to excuse his attendance."The King made no answer; he was outwardly composed, but the Elector, glancing at his face, guessed that his triumph was as nothing to him compared to the coldness of his friend. M. de Hesse broke the silence."M. de Kohorn lost his bet after all!" he remarked; "until this moment I had forgotten it.""I am a hundred pistoles the richer," answered the Elector, glad of the discussion, "and yet I thought to lose—it was the victory of a few hours only."William suddenly laughed."Gentlemen," he said, slightly raising his glass, "I give you the loser of that wager and the man who took Namur—Baron Menno Kohorn."CHAPTER VITHE KING'S AGENTIn a fine dark room of a mansion in London, three men sat in attitudes of bewildered trouble and despair, and a fourth, standing by a table of highly polished walnut wood, looked at them with a white, bitter face.It was August of 1696, and exactly a year since the fall of Namur had induced France to consent to open negotiations for a peace. A Congress sat now at Ryswick, but with at present little hope of immediate success. The King was again with the troops in Flanders, and England was face to face with the most momentous crisis in her history. There was, literally, not enough money to carry on the Government.When the King had returned from the last campaign, he had supported Somers and Montague in the recoinage scheme, by which the mutilated and clipped money of the realm was to be reminted; the plan was so daring as to frighten most of the King's advisers, but Montague, having secured a certain Isaac Newton as master of the Mint, proceeded to put his plans into execution with skill and address. He was also largely responsible for the scheme of the Bank of England, which, after paying a million and a half for its charter, had enjoyed the confidence of the Government until Robert Harley and Foley revived Chamberlayne's wild project of a Land Bank. The King, anxious for money to commence the campaign and carry on the government during his absence, had passed an Act before he prorogued Parliament, establishing the Land Bank, which was to advance him two and a half millions at seven per cent.The Tories declared that their scheme would soon ruin the earlier bank; Charles Montague thought so too, though he and most other thoughtful observers were certain that the Land Bank was an unpractical conception, a mere delusion. But the country was not with them; the country gentlemen, Whig and Tory, believed they saw an infallible way of obtaining riches, the King wanted the money too much to inquire into the means that produced it, and the Land Bank appeared to flourish while the Bank of England tottered and showed every sign of ultimate failure.The Directors found it impossible to redeem the paper money that they had put in circulation, and that malice or necessity demanded the payment of. There was scarcely any money to be had; the mint worked day and night to turn out the new milled coin, but the moment it appeared it was hoarded by the panic-stricken public. The paper money fluctuated in value so as to be almost useless, stock jobbers caused constant scares on the Exchange, credit was paralysed, and the country was only held together by Montague's device of exchequer bills bearing a small rate of interest.The discovery of the assassination plot and the Jacobite schemes of invasion had strengthened the King's position at home and made him as popular as he had been in '88, but it had resulted in the recall of the fleet from the Mediterranean, the renewed supremacy of the French in those waters, and the instant defection of the Duke of Savoy, thus causing the first rift in the coalition that William's unwearied skill had maintained against the arts of Louis for seven years.He was now powerless to bribe or threaten. Early in the war Kohorn and Athlone had burnt the huge stores that Louis had built with vast expense at Givet, and France had staggered under the blow, but William was helpless to take advantage of it. The treachery of the Duke of Savoy, the state of the English finances, the general exhaustion of the allies, caused M. de Caillières, the French representative at Ryswick, to change his tone, go back from the pledge he had given that William should be recognised by Louis, and propound arrogant terms.Meanwhile the letters from the King became desperate; only his personal influence kept the army, which was literally starving, together. He had pledged his private fortune and strained his private credit in the United Provinces as far as he could.And the subscription list of the Land Bank at Exeter 'Change remained blank; only a few hundreds had been added to the five thousand contributed by the King as an example.William even authorized the summoning of Parliament during his absence; but the ministers dare not risk this expedient. He then sent Portland to London to represent to the Council of Regency that something must be devised to raise money, or, in his own words to Shrewsbury, "All is lost, and I must go to the Indies."It was Portland who now faced the three ministers in Shrewsbury's rich withdrawing-room.These three were the Lord Keeper, Godolphin, the one Tory in the Council, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, and Shrewsbury himself, now again Secretary of State, and as devoted to the Government as if he had never, in an hour of weakness, tampered with St. Germains; he was, perhaps, of the seven Lords Justices now governing England, the one most liked and trusted by the King.Portland's usual slowness of speech and manner had given way to an animated vigour."The King must have money," he said, "at any cost—from anywhere; those were my last instructions, and, gentlemen, there is more than even the army at stake; it is the whole reputation, the whole credit, nay, the whole existence of England."Even the lofty-minded Somers, whose courage had dared the Recoinage Bill, was silenced; his lined, haggard, and bloodless face was frowning with anxiety.Godolphin, even at this crisis contained and self-effacing, though looking downcast and sombre, fixed his eyes on Portland blankly.Shrewsbury, emotional, overstrung, and harassed, broke into speech, flushing painfully from red to white as he spoke, the Colberteen lace on his bosom rising and falling with his unsteady breath."We can only obtain forty thousand pounds from the Land Bank subscriptions, and then under pressure and on hard terms," he cried.All the company knew this, but my lord was apt to waste words. Portland looked at him in some disgust."Forty pence would be as useful," he said dryly. "Come, my lords, this Land Bank scheme has ended in failure; but is there no alternative to declaring England bankrupt?""By Heaven, I can see nothing else to do," returned Shrewsbury; "but, since anything is better than lying down under misfortune, I have put some hopes on to these negotiations with the Bank of England."But it might be read from his tone that these hopes of succour from that almost defunct institution were faint indeed.Portland began walking up and down the room; he was resolved, if it was within the bounds of possibility, to obtain this money; he had spent many weary hours trying to screw out of Harley and Foley even half the sum they had talked of raising, and it had been so much waste time. The commission had expired a week ago, the offices in Exeter 'Change were closed, and Portland was no nearer the object of his journey. There remained now only the Bank of England, which had only been saved from bankruptcy by a call of twenty per cent. on its shareholders, and Portland could see no bright prospects from an institution, half ruined, whose directors were in an ill humour against the Government, and barely able to hold their own in the present crisis.He stopped at last before Shrewsbury, and clasped the back of the chair beside him; his fair face was set, his blue eyes hard and bright. Perhaps he was the more resolute to do the King this service since he was deeply offended with him personally on account of Joost van Keppel's rise to favour, and their long and deep friendship had reached a crisis that could scarcely end in anything but a final severance of their affection."I will not return to Flanders without the money," he declared sombrely; "it must be found; if this Bank faileth Parliament must be called."Shrewsbury answered in desperate peevishness—"I have done all I could—I have been almost on my knees to the dictators—I am baited out of my life! By God, I would sooner be a hangman or a butcher than a statesman!"A silence of despair fell over the little company. Godolphin wiped his lips, and looked out of the window at the sun-baked street; he was wondering, with a sick sense of personal failure, what would happen to him if king, government, and country crashed on ruin. Somers was equally silent, but his thoughts were far different; he would have made any sacrifice in his power to save the kingdom from disaster.They were interrupted by an usher announcing, "Mr. Charles Montague." A little movement of interest animated them all. Portland turned wide, expectant eyes on the new-comer; his plain common sense was quick to discern genius; he had recognized it of late in the Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had recognized it years ago in his master.Mr. Montague advanced slowly, and seemed to enjoy the stir his coming made; it was obvious that he considered the brilliant success of his career entirely due to his own gifts—an opinion his colleagues considered as unamiable as it was correct.He was a little man, and walked with a strutting air; his clothes were of the utmost extravagance of fashion, and glistened with gold and silver thread; his peruke was curled and powdered elaborately; and in the hat he held in his hand was a small flashing mirror among the feathers—the last whim of the mode; but there was a pride and containment in his sharp features, a power and purpose in his keen eyes, that overshadowed any fopperies of dress.He began speaking at once, and abruptly, but with much grace in the delivery."My lords, I am just come from the directors of the Bank. I have been closeted with them all day, and they have promised me they will do what they can. I asked for two hundred thousand pounds. I told them it was the very least there was any use in offering to His Majesty. And I told them it must be in gold or silver"—he waved his hand—"no paper, I said, for Flanders."He seated himself, with another flourishing gesture, on the chair near Portland. Under all his affectations was noticeable a deep pride and satisfaction; the Bank on which everything now depended was his scheme; that of his rival, Harley, had ended in dismal failure. He felt that his brilliant career would be more brilliant still if his project saved the Government now."Two hundred thousand!" said Shrewsbury forlornly. The Land Bank had promised two and a half million, and the King's last entreaty had been for eight hundred thousand; but Portland caught even at this."It would be something," he said; "it would cover His Majesty's most pressing wants——""It is all," answered Mr. Montague, "that I dare ask for—in hard money—at such a time.""We are fortunate if we obtain it," remarked Somers. "Is it promised?""No, Sir John," admitted the Chancellor; "for they cannot do it without another call of twenty per cent. on their subscribers, and they may not decide that themselves, but must submit it to the vote in a general court——""Why," interrupted the Duke, "there must be six hundred with a right to vote at such a meeting!""About that number, I think, your Grace," said Mr. Montague."Why, good-bye then to our hopes of even this beggarly sum!" cried Shrewsbury. "Are six hundred likely to agree to lending even sixpence to the Government?""Beggarly sum!" repeated Mr. Montague. "My Lord Portland here can tell you what long debate and diplomacy it took to secure even the promise of that amount——""Yes, I know, Mr. Montague," answered the Earl grimly; "and I think the sum worth any sacrifice. Wemusthave it. Could you have seen His Majesty, gentlemen, as I left him at Attere, surrounded by starving troops on the verge of mutiny, sending off agents to endeavour to raise a few thousands on his word in Amsterdam, you would not consider two hundred thousand paltry."He spoke with a personal emotion that surprised the Englishmen, who believed that his relations with the King were painfully strained. They respected him for his loyalty, though none of them had ever liked him, and Somers at least gave him a quiet look of sympathy.Shrewsbury broke out into half-hysterical petulance."Why are we doing it all? What use is there in any of it? We might as well give it up now as afterwards. I confess that I have not the health or spirit to endure more of it."Mr. Montague smiled; he knew perfectly well the motive behind every action he undertook, and what was the object of his labours. The younger son of a younger son, and ten years ago a Poor Scholar at Cambridge, he was now one of the greatest men in the Three Kingdoms, and able to confer benefits on the Crown."There is no living in the world on any other terms than endurance," he remarked complacently, "and a financier, your Grace, must learn to face a crisis.""The good God knoweth I am not one," returned the Duke gloomily."When is the general court to be held?" asked Portland; his one thought to get the money from these men somehow, and return with it to the desperate King."On the fifteenth," said the Chancellor, "and I have sufficient faith in the patriotism of the shareholders to believe they will stand by His Majesty."Godolphin, who had been so silent hitherto that his presence was scarcely noticed, spoke now from the window-seat."You have done us a great service, Mr. Montague. I think we should all be very grateful."This came gracefully from a member of that Tory party that had supported Harley's bank. Mr. Montague bowed, very gratified; my lord had that soft way of conciliating possible enemies with outspoken courtesy.Portland made no such speeches; he considered it only the bare duty of the English to adequately support the King, whose life, ever since his accession, had been one struggle to obtain money from the English Parliament.He took up his hat and saluted the company."I must endure with what patience I may till the fifteenth," he said, and left them gravely.He went out into the sunny streets of London, and turned towards the Mall. There was no coach waiting for him; he was frugal in his habits to a fault, and uninterested in any kind of display. No one would have taken him for anything but a soldier home from Flanders, tanned at the wars—an obvious foreigner with a stiff military carriage.The town was very empty. The state of anxiety, suspense, and danger the country was passing through was not to be guessed at from the well-kept houses, the few leisurely passers-by, and the prosperous shops with their wares displayed behind neat diamond panes.Portland, passing the pillared façade of Northumberland House and the bronze statue of Charles I. on horseback, came into the Mall, past the tennis-court and archery butts, where several people were practising, to the pond covered with wild fowl and overshaded with elm and chestnut that gave a thick green colour to the water. To his right was a row of handsome houses looking on to the avenue of trees in the Mall, and at most of the windows people were seated; for it was near the turn of the afternoon, and a pleasant coolness began to temper the heat of the day.Portland looked at these people: fashionably dressed women, with lap dogs or embroidery, drinking tea or talking; easy-looking men smoking or reading one of the new sheets which had flooded the country since the lapse of the censorship of the press—all comfortable, well-to-do, self-satisfied, and rather insolent in their enjoyment of the sunshine, and the shadow of the trees, and their own comfortable homes.William Bentinck seated himself on a bench under one of the great elms; he felt bitter towards these people—towards England; he came near to hating the country even as they hated him; he had a swift impression that these lazy, prosperous citizens were the real masters, and he, and his friends, and the King, little better than slaves.He looked at the women and recalled the poor Queen, who had had scarce half an hour's ease since she had set foot on the quay by the Tower; who had toiled and kept a brave face and a high heart, and done everything that duty demanded of her—and for what reward?—to be reviled, abused, slighted and, finally, to die of one of the hideous diseases the great city engendered, and be forgotten in the changeable factions that continued their quarrels even before she was in her grave.He looked at the men, and thought of the last letter from the King he carried in his pocket; he saw some of the lines in it as if the paper was spread before him—"I am in greater distress for money than can well be imagined. I hope God will help instead of abandoning me; but indeed it is hard not to lose all courage." It seemed to Portland that Shrewsbury was right. What was the use of any of it?—what goad kept them all at their tasks? What was the aim of all this incredible labour, endeavour, fatigue, courage, and patience?Did the King endure what he was enduring that these people might make knots, and drink tea, and sun themselves on the Mall in peace?Did he, William Bentinck, who was fond of gardening, and a quiet life, and his own country, spend his life between war and exile, conflict and distasteful company, that the boys in the tennis-courts might play their games and laugh and shout as much as they wished?If it were so, the objects seemed miserable compared to the labour.But there was something more behind it all; Portland could not put a name to it; he supposed that one day God would explain.CHAPTER VIITHE BANK OF ENGLANDThe Lord Justices who formed the Council of Regency were, with the exception of my Lord of Canterbury, waiting, on this momentous 15th of August, in the long gallery leading out of the Council Chamber in Whitehall.Several other great men were there also; Sunderland, Romney, Wharton, the Duke of Leeds—still, by the King's clemency, nominally Lord President, though he had, since his disgrace over the East India scandal, none of the honours or powers of that position, and was indeed no more than a cipher where he had once been all-powerful—Marlborough—who, since the Queen's death, vigorously supported Government, while he waited with serene patience for the death of William and the accession of the Princess his mistress—Admiral Russell, and Portland, all filled by that anxiety that so nearly touched every one of them—would the Bank of England raise the money to carry on the government until Parliament met on the King's return?There were two women present—Lady Sunderland, who was talking to Lord Romney, and Elizabeth Villiers, now Lady Orkney, conversing with much animation with Lord Sunderland. Portland observed her with very strong dislike. Though she was his first wife's sister he had never been in the least intimate with her; he could not forgive her the influence she had gained and exerted over William, who had taken her advice and consulted her opinion often enough when she had first come with Mary to The Hague. The usual tale-bearing, back-biting, mischief-making, and scandal had stopped this friendship, but not before her wit and intelligence had proved of great service to the Stadtholder, who, as Portland knew, had continued to employ her in delicate negotiations, even after he became King; and though she and William had scarcely seen each other for many years, Portland believed that she still used an oblique influence through Sunderland, with whom she had formed a close friendship, which Portland considered very typical of Elizabeth Villiers.He suspected her of being in some deep intrigue to supplant him by Joost van Keppel, towards whom his feelings were now near hatred. He knew that she had never liked him, and she was quite well aware that he had again and again told the King it was undignified to employ a woman in his affairs, and had even opposed the title and estates given to her husband on her marriage. Portland heard the tales this gave rise to if the King did not; Portland was vexed by the revival of old scandals if Lady Villiers was not; he loathed the woman and resented her presence here to-day.As he continued to stare at her across the splendid gallery, she suddenly looked round at him, gave Sunderland a quick sentence, and to Portland's equal surprise and vexation crossed over to him."It is a long time since we have met," she said, and gave one of her straight smiles.She was dressed in violet and silver, and wore a great Indian scarf about her shoulders as if it were cold, instead of August."I have been too employed to wait on your ladyship," answered Portland.She took no notice of that, but said abruptly—"How did you leave the King?""As much at ease as a man in his position could be," said the Earl grimly.Lady Orkney did not look at Portland, but rather absently down the room."He must be fairly weary of it all," she replied. "Do you think," she added rather sharply, "he hath recovered from the death of the Queen?""No, madam, nor will he ever," said my lord sternly."How you dislike me!" cried Lady Orkney softly. "And I would have been a good friend to you if you would have let me—believe me"—she looked at him full now—"I would never do an ill turn to one of the King's friends.""What is this, madam?" he asked haughtily."Oh, you understand," she answered. "You know that M. van Keppel is a friend of mine, and you have tried to do him ill offices—I tell you that you have no cause—Joost van Keppel will harm nobody. Let him be."Portland was silent in sheer disdain. Elizabeth Villiers fixed him with her queer eyes; her pronounced cast was very noticeable."You should not dislike me," she said, "because I sometimes help the King—Joost van Keppel will help him too, even in such follies as courtesy and an obliging temper—a sweet reverence might mean much to a broken man—consider that, my lord."He answered brusquely."I consider that Joost van Keppel is a worthless young rake-hell, and that those who push him into His Majesty's favour can have only mean motives.""You certainly do not understand," she said quietly.A sudden thought flashed to Portland."Was it you, my lady," he asked, "who put Sunderland to bring van Keppel forward with his tale of Namur when the King was sick?""Have you only just guessed it?" she answered."I might have known it was a woman's trick," he said bitterly. "What made you think of such a device?"She smiled and made no answer."And why did you employ M. van Keppel?" added Portland."Because," said Lady Orkney, "he was of the age the King's son might have been."Portland stared."A woman's trick, you see." She smiled. "Women think of these things—do not consider me as a vulgar intriguer, even if you cannot understand, and let M. van Keppel be—I think he will console the King a little.""I, at least, am above your devices and those of my Lord Sunderland," he answered roughly.Lady Orkney replied, still smiling, but with infinite sadness—"Could you see into my heart you would know that I am not so happy but that you might spare me."She gave a little courtsey and left him. He watched her return to the window and look out at the alleys and parterres of the privy garden.He had been a little confused, but in no way appeased by her conversation. She had confessed that she and Sunderland were behind van Keppel, towards whom his thoughts turned with added dislike; then he tried to banish consideration of all three of them, and to fix his mind on the money he must obtain for the King.Devonshire (the Lord Steward), Pembroke (Keeper of the Privy Seal), and Dorset (the Lord Chamberlain), were talking apart, and Portland joined them.Pembroke informed him that Montague had gone down to the General Meeting of the Bank of England and had promised to return immediately with the news of the result of the Directors' proposition to the Company."If these hopes vanish," said Devonshire gloomily, "what are we to turn to next?""A Parliament and taxes," answered Dorset concisely."Oh, my lord," cried Pembroke, "Mr. Locke will tell you that is bad finance.""Mr. Locke is a philosopher," remarked Dorset good-humouredly."Good God, we get choked with 'em," remarked the magnificent Devonshire. "Now Montague hath brought Mr. Newton into the Mint and Somers is always deep with Mr. Locke——""And my Lord Portland," cried Dorset, with the irrepressible levity of his class and nation, "deep with a poet for his secretary.""As for that same poet," said Portland gravely, "I tell you, my lord, that he now goeth to Church, and will not write profane verses on a Sabbath.""A triumph indeed for the godliness of your lordship," said Devonshire demurely."Is this poor Matt Prior?" asked Dorset. "His verses on the taking of Namur were very neat.""I did not read them," answered Portland dryly. "I never could endure poetry or play-acting—the King is plagued with enough to paper London.""I remember in The Hague," smiled Devonshire, "when His Majesty was expecting a promise of money from Amsterdam by every post, and I took in a letter which I thought was it—but which proved to be a copy of verses on his safe crossing from England, with a fresh heathen god in every line—His Majesty's curses were powerful for a Christian Prince—and he declared it had given him a distaste for the very sight of poetry."Dorset laughed; he remembered the occasion also as the only one on which he had heard violent language from the austere King. Portland was disgusted that they could amuse themselves with these recollections during such anxious moments; it was only another proof, he thought, of the shallowness of the English politicians. And even these anecdotes turned on the King's lack of money; it must be six years since Devonshire was at The Hague, and William was still in the same straits. Portland wondered if the time would ever come when he would be free of these burdens, and doubted it.The Chancellor of the Exchequer entered the gallery, and instantly everybody formed a little group about him, including the two ladies, to whom he gave a flourishing and gallant greeting."I must tell you," he said, in a voice and with a manner that strove to be indifferent, yet with a face flushed with pride, "that the money hath been subscribed to His Majesty."Portland drew a great breath of relief."Promised," continued Montague, "in gold and silver, which will be ready to be packed up and taken to Flanders to-morrow.""How was this accomplished?" asked Devonshire. "I hardly thought, this cruel year, they could do it.""Thank God they have," murmured Shrewsbury; "for if this had failed I know not what we should have done.""Your Grace," answered Mr. Montague, "when I lent my support to this Bank I did not think it was likely to be a failure. Yet I must confess that I had some misgivings to-day when I entered the General Court—there was my Lord Mayor in the chair, looking as gloomy as need be, and six hundred or more of the company, all thrifty merchants. Sir John got up and read the speech composed by the Directors and sat down again in none too easy a frame of mind, it seemed, and a great hum went up from the subscribers, and you might see them turning to each other and whispering, but making no kind of public response; then up sprang Sir John again, and implored them stand by the King—at which one rose and said, 'We desire nothing more than to oblige His Majesty, but it is a hard thing to ask for gold these times, and our notes of hand should be good enough.' 'Nothing but gold is any use to His Majesty in Flanders,' declared Sir John. 'I am asking you for this sacrifice for nothing less than the preservation of the kingdoms, otherwise I could not in conscience do it.' At last, after some murmuring, it was put to the vote, and all held up their hands for sending the money, and Sir John came to me all in a tremble, and hoped I would remember that the Bank had saved the Government—he said it had been as anxious an hour as he was ever like to have in his life. At hearing the resolution of the Bank, several gentlemen, who had been waiting without, came in to buy shares, and several thousand pounds' worth were subscribed before I left."At the conclusion of this speech Mr. Montague looked round his company with an air of conscious satisfaction. Portland had gone to write this news off to the King, caring indeed for nothing but the sheer fact that he could return to Attere immediately with the money, but the others, including even the feeble, disgraced Leeds, had listened with eager interest."Well done," cried Lady Orkney. "Mr. Montague, you are a miracle of wit—and I am going to follow the example of these same gentlemen and purchase stock in this Bank of yours.""So am I," declared Devonshire. "I will send my agent down there to-night, sir, the service it hath done cannot be overestimated."In a breath every Minister in the room had promised to show the same instance of attachment to the institution that had saved the Government, and when the energetic young Chancellor left Whitehall the congratulations of the whole Council of Regency were ringing in his ears.He entered his smart coach and drove straight to the Mint, where men were working day and night at the milled money which he and his friend Mr. Newton were turning out at the rate of a hundred and twenty thousand a week. Fifteen thousand was the highest amount the former master of the Mint had declared it was possible to produce in that time, but Mr. Newton had done the incredible in reforming the Mint. It was to his apartments Charles Montague went now, twirling his cane and fluttering his laces.The Warden of His Majesty's Mint and Exchanges and Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge was a gentleman a little past middle life, of a very refined aristocratic appearance, with an air of extraordinary calm and stillness.He wore a murrey-coloured coat, a small grey peruke, and a little brooch of rubies in a plain lace cravat. When Mr. Montague entered he was seated at a table covered with a multitude of papers. He looked up instantly; his delicate features expressed a very winning composed dignity."I wished to speak to you about the new Mint at Chester, Mr. Newton," said the Chancellor; his manner was totally different from that he had used to the Ministers at Whitehall."Another Mint, yes, Mr. Montague," answered the Warden, in the same grave tone. "Those at York and Norwich have been very popular, but I fear we have not enough trained men to spare yet—though I am having them taught as fast as may be.""I want more than will suffice for Chester," said the Chancellor briskly. "I thought of York and Exeter as likely stations."He seated himself by the window and looked out on the pleasant prospect of the sunny river and glistening roofs."The people take it very well," he added. "One could not have hoped to pass through the crisis better; there is a good temper and a good sense shown very gratifying.""Why, yes," said Mr. Newton; "but one may always look for both from the English."A servant entered with a letter, which he glanced at and laid down with a gentle little sound of displeasure."What is that?" asked Mr. Montague."Oh, 'tis from Flamsteed; he is ever dunning me to go see his observatory at Greenwich—he cannot believe that there is anything in the world more important than stars, nor that I do not love to be teased with mathematical things when I am about the King's business."Mr. Montague glanced at the astronomer's sealed letter."Speaking of the King's business," he remarked, "the Bank of England hath promised to advance the two hundred thousand for the troops in Flanders."Mr. Newton looked up quickly."Why, I am glad of that. Sir, this is a great thing—it will greatly raise the credit of the Bank.""I think," replied the young Chancellor, "without vanity, that the Bank of England is an institution that will live."
CHAPTER V
A LEADER OF NATIONS
When the late evening fell it was obvious that nothing could save Namur, the allies had advanced a mile on the outworks of the castle. M. de Boufflers sent to request a two days' truce that he might bury the dead who filled fosse and ditch. The King granted it. Before the time expired the Maréchal offered to surrender if he was not relieved in ten days. William at once refused. His terms were instant surrender or instant attack. M. de Boufflers capitulated, terms were speedily agreed upon, the garrison was to go free, the citadel, stores, and arms to be left in possession of the allies.
On the 6th September, under a blazing sun, a maréchal de France, for the first time since France had been a kingdom, delivered up a powerful castle to the enemy. It was the first obvious sign of that tide of fortune that had been steadily setting against France since '88. It meant more even than the conquest of the strongest fortress in the world—it meant that the arms of Louis were no longer invincible.
The garrison, reduced to five thousand, less than half their original number, marched out through the breach made by the guns of the confederate army, which was drawn up in lines of foot and horse that reached to the banks of the glittering Meuse.
The French came with full honours, with the beat of drums and the ensigns erect, but their spirits were heavy with a bitter humiliation. Their reverse was as unexpected as it was tremendous.
M. de Boufflers and his staff came last of the garrison, the Maréchal decked with all the pomp of war, gold encrusted cuirass, silk scarf, orders, a splendid white horse trapped in gilt and crimson, and a blue saddle clothseméwith lilies.
He held his bare sword erect and his face was set sternly. He was exceedingly troubled by the ceremony in which he was about to take part. He would not, and could not, as a subject of King Louis, acknowledge the Prince of Orange as King of England, but it was difficult to treat a victorious general (and certainly a Kingde facto) with less than respect and retain his own dignity, especially as the astute Frenchman was perfectly well aware that William was King of England and would never be shaken from his throne now in favour of the old man who was wearing Louis' patience thin with his complaints and demands. Moreover Portland had insinuated that the allies would take any slight to William very ill indeed; so, between mortification at his position, his duty to his master, his desire to avoid the ridiculous and not offend the conventions of martial courtesy, the Maréchal was in a perturbed temper indeed. But as he neared the spot where the allied sovereign awaited him, even his dilemma was forgotten in his curiosity to see the man who filled so tremendous a part in the world, who for twenty years had withstood France, who had risen to absolute power in his own country, who had gained two kingdoms by diplomacy and a third by conquest, who was the soul of a huge coalition and one of the greatest soldiers in Europe, the man who was always spoken of in Paris with hatred and some fear, as an upstart, a usurper, a heretic, one who had broken through sacred family ties for the sake of personal ambition, and stirred Europe into a turmoil to obtain a crown.
This feeling was shared by every officer behind him. They were all eager to see the Prince whom they had learnt from King James to regard as a pitiless, cold self-seeker, and from Louis as a royal adventurer unscrupulous and impudent.
Not far from the castle the commanders of the allied forces were drawn up, the German Princes, the representatives of Spain and the Northern States and the United Provinces on horseback, and near them, in a calash, or light open travelling coach, the King of England.
M. de Boufflers reined up his horse a few paces away; a handsome young gentleman with a very proud carriage, wearing a scarlet cloak, was the foremost of the group. M. de Boufflers knew him for Maximilien of Bavaria.
The garrison came on slowly past the four black coach horses held by footmen wearing the livery of England, until the Maréchal found himself face to face with the occupant of the coach and the Elector who sat his horse immediately beside the door.
There was a pause of silence; M. de Boufflers went pale under the eyes, and looked with the irresistible attraction of great curiosity at the man in the coach, who was surrounded by these brilliant and immovable escorts of princely horsemen.
He had heard the person of this Prince often described, and common report had drawn a picture of him familiar to the minds of men, but he found the original totally different, though there were the salient characteristics, the frail stature, the strongly marked features, the brilliant eyes, so well known throughout Europe.
But the swift and general impression he made was entirely other to what the Frenchman had expected. He saw a gentleman with an extraordinary air of stillness and repose, dressed richly and rather heavily in black and gold, wearing the George and the Ribbon of the Garter, but no other decoration, and a hat with black feathers cocked back from his face; he wore a long neck-cloth of Flanders lace, the ends of which were drawn through the buttonholes of his brocade waistcoat, after the English fashion. He sat leaning a little towards M. de Bavaria, and held in his right hand a cane with a gold top.
There was something in his expression, his bearing, wholly unlooked for by M. de Boufflers, who could put no name to it, but thought, in a confused way, that he had never seen a man whose principal occupation was war appear less of a soldier.
The King, without moving, fixed his dark, flashing eyes on the Frenchman, and smiled, almost imperceptibly.
M. de Boufflers performed the salute of the sword; he lowered his weapon, not directly at the King, but it was too high an honour for the Elector, and William alone bent his head in acknowledgment.
The silence was profound as the gleaming weapon was returned to its sheath. M. de Boufflers drew his breath unsteadily. He would go no further; he spoke to the Prince to avoid the royal terms of address.
"Your Highness, I must congratulate you upon your good fortune though it is my own ill luck—but I must console myself that I have held even Namur three months against such an army and such generals."
The Elector uncovered and, turning to the King, repeated with profound respect what the Maréchal had said.
William touched his hat in a formal salute silently. M. de Boufflers coloured with vexation. The deference of the Elector, so much his own superior, made his own attitude, he thought, appear ridiculous, but he haughtily maintained it.
"I surrender to Your Highness the keys of the Castle of Namur," he said, and handed them with a bow to the Elector, who at once presented them to the King.
"Sire," said M. de Bavaria, very lowly, "M. de Boufflers has the honour to request me to present to Your Majesty the keys of Namur."
William took them and again saluted.
"I, with Your Majesty's permission, will inform M. de Boufflers that Your Majesty is satisfied that the terms of the capitulation are fulfilled?"
"Yes, Highness," answered William gravely, but still (as M. de Boufflers was supremely conscious), with that slight smile.
"His Majesty," said the Elector, "is pleased to compliment you, monsieur, upon your gallant defence of the citadel."
"I thank Your Highness," answered the Maréchal, colouring deeply. Neither he nor his officers could altogether conceal their astonishment and vexation at seeing the proudest Princes of Germany treat William of Orange with as great a deference as his meanest courtiers used to their own master.
"We need not detain you, monsieur," said the Electoral Prince.
M. de Boufflers bowed over his saddle and passed on, his staff officers behind him, all riding at the salute as they passed the allied Sovereigns.
When the last had gone, William, who had never taken his eyes from the cavalcade, spoke to M. Dyckfelt who rode close to the carriage.
"Mynheer," he said, "you will inform M. de Boufflers that he is our prisoner until the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse are released."
M. Dyckfelt departed with a body of Dutch cavalry, and, as the King drove off, he could hear the indignant exclamations of the French officers as the Maréchal was asked to deliver up his sword. The King drove to his tent across the town of Namur, which was like a barracks and a battlefield for soldiers and wounded. His bodyguard of princes raised a fine cloud of white dust from the dry roads, the air was still foul with the smell of powder and burning buildings, the sun burnt in the acrid heavens with a sheer cloudless heat that seemed to draw all freshness and moisture out of the earth, even the two great rivers had a hard, molten look in the glare as if they were lead, not water.
The commanders of the confederacy dined with the King; the tent was hot, but shaded from the intolerable glare by three poor scorched chestnut trees that cast a meagre shadow over the canvas.
The Electoral Prince sat at the King's right, the Earl of Portland at his left, and, for the first time, Joost van Keppel was at the King's table, an honour that was not grudged by any of the potentates, for the young soldier was exceedingly popular, being amiable, generous, sweet tempered, and deferential, but Portland marked it with a bitter heart.
William, seated in a vermeil armchair, wearing his hat, and treated by the others as if they were no more than his subjects, gave the toast—"The allied army"—in a whisper to the Elector, who passed it round the table. It was drunk in silence, and the long meal, served on gold and crystal, began.
The King spoke hardly at all, save to utter a few sentences to Portland, who received them coldly, and the others were, out of deference, silent, all being, indeed, too elated with their recent great success (the greatest they had achieved during the war), and too occupied in their own thoughts with what this would mean to their several interests, to care for speech.
When the meal was nearly over, M. Dyckfelt came to say that M. de Boufflers, after protesting violently, had delivered up his sword and returned to Namur as a prisoner of the allies.
"We will send him to Huy until we receive the two garrisons," said William languidly, "though I doubt that we put too high a price on M. de Boufflers."
"His Master," remarked M. de Vaudemont, "must redeem him even at a higher rate."
"Ah, cousin," answered the King, "His Majesty will return the men for pride's sake."
"And there is the English post in," said M. Dyckfelt, "all in a reek from skirting Villeroy's forces."
"Why must you remind me of England?" asked William.
Portland interposed quickly—
"Surely you will return almost immediately? Is this not a good juncture to call a parliament?"
"This is not a good season to discuss politics." The King administered his reproof in the gentlest manner, but Portland, with a curt bow, instantly set down his glass, rose, and left the tent. William flushed, and a kind of tremor ran through the company. They thought that the King would not take this even from Portland.
But, after a second, he turned to the Prince de Vaudemont.
"My cousin," he said quietly, "will you go after my lord and persuade him that he is unreasonable?"
The princes glanced at each other covertly as M. de Vaudemont obeyed. M. van Keppel coloured violently; he knew perfectly well who Portland's wrath was directed against, but his anger was not personal but for his master thus openly slighted.
The King sat silent, drinking slowly and looking down at the damask cloth. In a few moments M. de Vaudemont returned alone.
It seemed almost incredible that Portland should refuse to return when sent for by the King and by such a messenger; William looked up.
"Sire," said M. de Vaudemont, "M. de Portland asks your Majesty to excuse his attendance."
The King made no answer; he was outwardly composed, but the Elector, glancing at his face, guessed that his triumph was as nothing to him compared to the coldness of his friend. M. de Hesse broke the silence.
"M. de Kohorn lost his bet after all!" he remarked; "until this moment I had forgotten it."
"I am a hundred pistoles the richer," answered the Elector, glad of the discussion, "and yet I thought to lose—it was the victory of a few hours only."
William suddenly laughed.
"Gentlemen," he said, slightly raising his glass, "I give you the loser of that wager and the man who took Namur—Baron Menno Kohorn."
CHAPTER VI
THE KING'S AGENT
In a fine dark room of a mansion in London, three men sat in attitudes of bewildered trouble and despair, and a fourth, standing by a table of highly polished walnut wood, looked at them with a white, bitter face.
It was August of 1696, and exactly a year since the fall of Namur had induced France to consent to open negotiations for a peace. A Congress sat now at Ryswick, but with at present little hope of immediate success. The King was again with the troops in Flanders, and England was face to face with the most momentous crisis in her history. There was, literally, not enough money to carry on the Government.
When the King had returned from the last campaign, he had supported Somers and Montague in the recoinage scheme, by which the mutilated and clipped money of the realm was to be reminted; the plan was so daring as to frighten most of the King's advisers, but Montague, having secured a certain Isaac Newton as master of the Mint, proceeded to put his plans into execution with skill and address. He was also largely responsible for the scheme of the Bank of England, which, after paying a million and a half for its charter, had enjoyed the confidence of the Government until Robert Harley and Foley revived Chamberlayne's wild project of a Land Bank. The King, anxious for money to commence the campaign and carry on the government during his absence, had passed an Act before he prorogued Parliament, establishing the Land Bank, which was to advance him two and a half millions at seven per cent.
The Tories declared that their scheme would soon ruin the earlier bank; Charles Montague thought so too, though he and most other thoughtful observers were certain that the Land Bank was an unpractical conception, a mere delusion. But the country was not with them; the country gentlemen, Whig and Tory, believed they saw an infallible way of obtaining riches, the King wanted the money too much to inquire into the means that produced it, and the Land Bank appeared to flourish while the Bank of England tottered and showed every sign of ultimate failure.
The Directors found it impossible to redeem the paper money that they had put in circulation, and that malice or necessity demanded the payment of. There was scarcely any money to be had; the mint worked day and night to turn out the new milled coin, but the moment it appeared it was hoarded by the panic-stricken public. The paper money fluctuated in value so as to be almost useless, stock jobbers caused constant scares on the Exchange, credit was paralysed, and the country was only held together by Montague's device of exchequer bills bearing a small rate of interest.
The discovery of the assassination plot and the Jacobite schemes of invasion had strengthened the King's position at home and made him as popular as he had been in '88, but it had resulted in the recall of the fleet from the Mediterranean, the renewed supremacy of the French in those waters, and the instant defection of the Duke of Savoy, thus causing the first rift in the coalition that William's unwearied skill had maintained against the arts of Louis for seven years.
He was now powerless to bribe or threaten. Early in the war Kohorn and Athlone had burnt the huge stores that Louis had built with vast expense at Givet, and France had staggered under the blow, but William was helpless to take advantage of it. The treachery of the Duke of Savoy, the state of the English finances, the general exhaustion of the allies, caused M. de Caillières, the French representative at Ryswick, to change his tone, go back from the pledge he had given that William should be recognised by Louis, and propound arrogant terms.
Meanwhile the letters from the King became desperate; only his personal influence kept the army, which was literally starving, together. He had pledged his private fortune and strained his private credit in the United Provinces as far as he could.
And the subscription list of the Land Bank at Exeter 'Change remained blank; only a few hundreds had been added to the five thousand contributed by the King as an example.
William even authorized the summoning of Parliament during his absence; but the ministers dare not risk this expedient. He then sent Portland to London to represent to the Council of Regency that something must be devised to raise money, or, in his own words to Shrewsbury, "All is lost, and I must go to the Indies."
It was Portland who now faced the three ministers in Shrewsbury's rich withdrawing-room.
These three were the Lord Keeper, Godolphin, the one Tory in the Council, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, and Shrewsbury himself, now again Secretary of State, and as devoted to the Government as if he had never, in an hour of weakness, tampered with St. Germains; he was, perhaps, of the seven Lords Justices now governing England, the one most liked and trusted by the King.
Portland's usual slowness of speech and manner had given way to an animated vigour.
"The King must have money," he said, "at any cost—from anywhere; those were my last instructions, and, gentlemen, there is more than even the army at stake; it is the whole reputation, the whole credit, nay, the whole existence of England."
Even the lofty-minded Somers, whose courage had dared the Recoinage Bill, was silenced; his lined, haggard, and bloodless face was frowning with anxiety.
Godolphin, even at this crisis contained and self-effacing, though looking downcast and sombre, fixed his eyes on Portland blankly.
Shrewsbury, emotional, overstrung, and harassed, broke into speech, flushing painfully from red to white as he spoke, the Colberteen lace on his bosom rising and falling with his unsteady breath.
"We can only obtain forty thousand pounds from the Land Bank subscriptions, and then under pressure and on hard terms," he cried.
All the company knew this, but my lord was apt to waste words. Portland looked at him in some disgust.
"Forty pence would be as useful," he said dryly. "Come, my lords, this Land Bank scheme has ended in failure; but is there no alternative to declaring England bankrupt?"
"By Heaven, I can see nothing else to do," returned Shrewsbury; "but, since anything is better than lying down under misfortune, I have put some hopes on to these negotiations with the Bank of England."
But it might be read from his tone that these hopes of succour from that almost defunct institution were faint indeed.
Portland began walking up and down the room; he was resolved, if it was within the bounds of possibility, to obtain this money; he had spent many weary hours trying to screw out of Harley and Foley even half the sum they had talked of raising, and it had been so much waste time. The commission had expired a week ago, the offices in Exeter 'Change were closed, and Portland was no nearer the object of his journey. There remained now only the Bank of England, which had only been saved from bankruptcy by a call of twenty per cent. on its shareholders, and Portland could see no bright prospects from an institution, half ruined, whose directors were in an ill humour against the Government, and barely able to hold their own in the present crisis.
He stopped at last before Shrewsbury, and clasped the back of the chair beside him; his fair face was set, his blue eyes hard and bright. Perhaps he was the more resolute to do the King this service since he was deeply offended with him personally on account of Joost van Keppel's rise to favour, and their long and deep friendship had reached a crisis that could scarcely end in anything but a final severance of their affection.
"I will not return to Flanders without the money," he declared sombrely; "it must be found; if this Bank faileth Parliament must be called."
Shrewsbury answered in desperate peevishness—
"I have done all I could—I have been almost on my knees to the dictators—I am baited out of my life! By God, I would sooner be a hangman or a butcher than a statesman!"
A silence of despair fell over the little company. Godolphin wiped his lips, and looked out of the window at the sun-baked street; he was wondering, with a sick sense of personal failure, what would happen to him if king, government, and country crashed on ruin. Somers was equally silent, but his thoughts were far different; he would have made any sacrifice in his power to save the kingdom from disaster.
They were interrupted by an usher announcing, "Mr. Charles Montague." A little movement of interest animated them all. Portland turned wide, expectant eyes on the new-comer; his plain common sense was quick to discern genius; he had recognized it of late in the Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had recognized it years ago in his master.
Mr. Montague advanced slowly, and seemed to enjoy the stir his coming made; it was obvious that he considered the brilliant success of his career entirely due to his own gifts—an opinion his colleagues considered as unamiable as it was correct.
He was a little man, and walked with a strutting air; his clothes were of the utmost extravagance of fashion, and glistened with gold and silver thread; his peruke was curled and powdered elaborately; and in the hat he held in his hand was a small flashing mirror among the feathers—the last whim of the mode; but there was a pride and containment in his sharp features, a power and purpose in his keen eyes, that overshadowed any fopperies of dress.
He began speaking at once, and abruptly, but with much grace in the delivery.
"My lords, I am just come from the directors of the Bank. I have been closeted with them all day, and they have promised me they will do what they can. I asked for two hundred thousand pounds. I told them it was the very least there was any use in offering to His Majesty. And I told them it must be in gold or silver"—he waved his hand—"no paper, I said, for Flanders."
He seated himself, with another flourishing gesture, on the chair near Portland. Under all his affectations was noticeable a deep pride and satisfaction; the Bank on which everything now depended was his scheme; that of his rival, Harley, had ended in dismal failure. He felt that his brilliant career would be more brilliant still if his project saved the Government now.
"Two hundred thousand!" said Shrewsbury forlornly. The Land Bank had promised two and a half million, and the King's last entreaty had been for eight hundred thousand; but Portland caught even at this.
"It would be something," he said; "it would cover His Majesty's most pressing wants——"
"It is all," answered Mr. Montague, "that I dare ask for—in hard money—at such a time."
"We are fortunate if we obtain it," remarked Somers. "Is it promised?"
"No, Sir John," admitted the Chancellor; "for they cannot do it without another call of twenty per cent. on their subscribers, and they may not decide that themselves, but must submit it to the vote in a general court——"
"Why," interrupted the Duke, "there must be six hundred with a right to vote at such a meeting!"
"About that number, I think, your Grace," said Mr. Montague.
"Why, good-bye then to our hopes of even this beggarly sum!" cried Shrewsbury. "Are six hundred likely to agree to lending even sixpence to the Government?"
"Beggarly sum!" repeated Mr. Montague. "My Lord Portland here can tell you what long debate and diplomacy it took to secure even the promise of that amount——"
"Yes, I know, Mr. Montague," answered the Earl grimly; "and I think the sum worth any sacrifice. Wemusthave it. Could you have seen His Majesty, gentlemen, as I left him at Attere, surrounded by starving troops on the verge of mutiny, sending off agents to endeavour to raise a few thousands on his word in Amsterdam, you would not consider two hundred thousand paltry."
He spoke with a personal emotion that surprised the Englishmen, who believed that his relations with the King were painfully strained. They respected him for his loyalty, though none of them had ever liked him, and Somers at least gave him a quiet look of sympathy.
Shrewsbury broke out into half-hysterical petulance.
"Why are we doing it all? What use is there in any of it? We might as well give it up now as afterwards. I confess that I have not the health or spirit to endure more of it."
Mr. Montague smiled; he knew perfectly well the motive behind every action he undertook, and what was the object of his labours. The younger son of a younger son, and ten years ago a Poor Scholar at Cambridge, he was now one of the greatest men in the Three Kingdoms, and able to confer benefits on the Crown.
"There is no living in the world on any other terms than endurance," he remarked complacently, "and a financier, your Grace, must learn to face a crisis."
"The good God knoweth I am not one," returned the Duke gloomily.
"When is the general court to be held?" asked Portland; his one thought to get the money from these men somehow, and return with it to the desperate King.
"On the fifteenth," said the Chancellor, "and I have sufficient faith in the patriotism of the shareholders to believe they will stand by His Majesty."
Godolphin, who had been so silent hitherto that his presence was scarcely noticed, spoke now from the window-seat.
"You have done us a great service, Mr. Montague. I think we should all be very grateful."
This came gracefully from a member of that Tory party that had supported Harley's bank. Mr. Montague bowed, very gratified; my lord had that soft way of conciliating possible enemies with outspoken courtesy.
Portland made no such speeches; he considered it only the bare duty of the English to adequately support the King, whose life, ever since his accession, had been one struggle to obtain money from the English Parliament.
He took up his hat and saluted the company.
"I must endure with what patience I may till the fifteenth," he said, and left them gravely.
He went out into the sunny streets of London, and turned towards the Mall. There was no coach waiting for him; he was frugal in his habits to a fault, and uninterested in any kind of display. No one would have taken him for anything but a soldier home from Flanders, tanned at the wars—an obvious foreigner with a stiff military carriage.
The town was very empty. The state of anxiety, suspense, and danger the country was passing through was not to be guessed at from the well-kept houses, the few leisurely passers-by, and the prosperous shops with their wares displayed behind neat diamond panes.
Portland, passing the pillared façade of Northumberland House and the bronze statue of Charles I. on horseback, came into the Mall, past the tennis-court and archery butts, where several people were practising, to the pond covered with wild fowl and overshaded with elm and chestnut that gave a thick green colour to the water. To his right was a row of handsome houses looking on to the avenue of trees in the Mall, and at most of the windows people were seated; for it was near the turn of the afternoon, and a pleasant coolness began to temper the heat of the day.
Portland looked at these people: fashionably dressed women, with lap dogs or embroidery, drinking tea or talking; easy-looking men smoking or reading one of the new sheets which had flooded the country since the lapse of the censorship of the press—all comfortable, well-to-do, self-satisfied, and rather insolent in their enjoyment of the sunshine, and the shadow of the trees, and their own comfortable homes.
William Bentinck seated himself on a bench under one of the great elms; he felt bitter towards these people—towards England; he came near to hating the country even as they hated him; he had a swift impression that these lazy, prosperous citizens were the real masters, and he, and his friends, and the King, little better than slaves.
He looked at the women and recalled the poor Queen, who had had scarce half an hour's ease since she had set foot on the quay by the Tower; who had toiled and kept a brave face and a high heart, and done everything that duty demanded of her—and for what reward?—to be reviled, abused, slighted and, finally, to die of one of the hideous diseases the great city engendered, and be forgotten in the changeable factions that continued their quarrels even before she was in her grave.
He looked at the men, and thought of the last letter from the King he carried in his pocket; he saw some of the lines in it as if the paper was spread before him—"I am in greater distress for money than can well be imagined. I hope God will help instead of abandoning me; but indeed it is hard not to lose all courage." It seemed to Portland that Shrewsbury was right. What was the use of any of it?—what goad kept them all at their tasks? What was the aim of all this incredible labour, endeavour, fatigue, courage, and patience?
Did the King endure what he was enduring that these people might make knots, and drink tea, and sun themselves on the Mall in peace?
Did he, William Bentinck, who was fond of gardening, and a quiet life, and his own country, spend his life between war and exile, conflict and distasteful company, that the boys in the tennis-courts might play their games and laugh and shout as much as they wished?
If it were so, the objects seemed miserable compared to the labour.
But there was something more behind it all; Portland could not put a name to it; he supposed that one day God would explain.
CHAPTER VII
THE BANK OF ENGLAND
The Lord Justices who formed the Council of Regency were, with the exception of my Lord of Canterbury, waiting, on this momentous 15th of August, in the long gallery leading out of the Council Chamber in Whitehall.
Several other great men were there also; Sunderland, Romney, Wharton, the Duke of Leeds—still, by the King's clemency, nominally Lord President, though he had, since his disgrace over the East India scandal, none of the honours or powers of that position, and was indeed no more than a cipher where he had once been all-powerful—Marlborough—who, since the Queen's death, vigorously supported Government, while he waited with serene patience for the death of William and the accession of the Princess his mistress—Admiral Russell, and Portland, all filled by that anxiety that so nearly touched every one of them—would the Bank of England raise the money to carry on the government until Parliament met on the King's return?
There were two women present—Lady Sunderland, who was talking to Lord Romney, and Elizabeth Villiers, now Lady Orkney, conversing with much animation with Lord Sunderland. Portland observed her with very strong dislike. Though she was his first wife's sister he had never been in the least intimate with her; he could not forgive her the influence she had gained and exerted over William, who had taken her advice and consulted her opinion often enough when she had first come with Mary to The Hague. The usual tale-bearing, back-biting, mischief-making, and scandal had stopped this friendship, but not before her wit and intelligence had proved of great service to the Stadtholder, who, as Portland knew, had continued to employ her in delicate negotiations, even after he became King; and though she and William had scarcely seen each other for many years, Portland believed that she still used an oblique influence through Sunderland, with whom she had formed a close friendship, which Portland considered very typical of Elizabeth Villiers.
He suspected her of being in some deep intrigue to supplant him by Joost van Keppel, towards whom his feelings were now near hatred. He knew that she had never liked him, and she was quite well aware that he had again and again told the King it was undignified to employ a woman in his affairs, and had even opposed the title and estates given to her husband on her marriage. Portland heard the tales this gave rise to if the King did not; Portland was vexed by the revival of old scandals if Lady Villiers was not; he loathed the woman and resented her presence here to-day.
As he continued to stare at her across the splendid gallery, she suddenly looked round at him, gave Sunderland a quick sentence, and to Portland's equal surprise and vexation crossed over to him.
"It is a long time since we have met," she said, and gave one of her straight smiles.
She was dressed in violet and silver, and wore a great Indian scarf about her shoulders as if it were cold, instead of August.
"I have been too employed to wait on your ladyship," answered Portland.
She took no notice of that, but said abruptly—
"How did you leave the King?"
"As much at ease as a man in his position could be," said the Earl grimly.
Lady Orkney did not look at Portland, but rather absently down the room.
"He must be fairly weary of it all," she replied. "Do you think," she added rather sharply, "he hath recovered from the death of the Queen?"
"No, madam, nor will he ever," said my lord sternly.
"How you dislike me!" cried Lady Orkney softly. "And I would have been a good friend to you if you would have let me—believe me"—she looked at him full now—"I would never do an ill turn to one of the King's friends."
"What is this, madam?" he asked haughtily.
"Oh, you understand," she answered. "You know that M. van Keppel is a friend of mine, and you have tried to do him ill offices—I tell you that you have no cause—Joost van Keppel will harm nobody. Let him be."
Portland was silent in sheer disdain. Elizabeth Villiers fixed him with her queer eyes; her pronounced cast was very noticeable.
"You should not dislike me," she said, "because I sometimes help the King—Joost van Keppel will help him too, even in such follies as courtesy and an obliging temper—a sweet reverence might mean much to a broken man—consider that, my lord."
He answered brusquely.
"I consider that Joost van Keppel is a worthless young rake-hell, and that those who push him into His Majesty's favour can have only mean motives."
"You certainly do not understand," she said quietly.
A sudden thought flashed to Portland.
"Was it you, my lady," he asked, "who put Sunderland to bring van Keppel forward with his tale of Namur when the King was sick?"
"Have you only just guessed it?" she answered.
"I might have known it was a woman's trick," he said bitterly. "What made you think of such a device?"
She smiled and made no answer.
"And why did you employ M. van Keppel?" added Portland.
"Because," said Lady Orkney, "he was of the age the King's son might have been."
Portland stared.
"A woman's trick, you see." She smiled. "Women think of these things—do not consider me as a vulgar intriguer, even if you cannot understand, and let M. van Keppel be—I think he will console the King a little."
"I, at least, am above your devices and those of my Lord Sunderland," he answered roughly.
Lady Orkney replied, still smiling, but with infinite sadness—
"Could you see into my heart you would know that I am not so happy but that you might spare me."
She gave a little courtsey and left him. He watched her return to the window and look out at the alleys and parterres of the privy garden.
He had been a little confused, but in no way appeased by her conversation. She had confessed that she and Sunderland were behind van Keppel, towards whom his thoughts turned with added dislike; then he tried to banish consideration of all three of them, and to fix his mind on the money he must obtain for the King.
Devonshire (the Lord Steward), Pembroke (Keeper of the Privy Seal), and Dorset (the Lord Chamberlain), were talking apart, and Portland joined them.
Pembroke informed him that Montague had gone down to the General Meeting of the Bank of England and had promised to return immediately with the news of the result of the Directors' proposition to the Company.
"If these hopes vanish," said Devonshire gloomily, "what are we to turn to next?"
"A Parliament and taxes," answered Dorset concisely.
"Oh, my lord," cried Pembroke, "Mr. Locke will tell you that is bad finance."
"Mr. Locke is a philosopher," remarked Dorset good-humouredly.
"Good God, we get choked with 'em," remarked the magnificent Devonshire. "Now Montague hath brought Mr. Newton into the Mint and Somers is always deep with Mr. Locke——"
"And my Lord Portland," cried Dorset, with the irrepressible levity of his class and nation, "deep with a poet for his secretary."
"As for that same poet," said Portland gravely, "I tell you, my lord, that he now goeth to Church, and will not write profane verses on a Sabbath."
"A triumph indeed for the godliness of your lordship," said Devonshire demurely.
"Is this poor Matt Prior?" asked Dorset. "His verses on the taking of Namur were very neat."
"I did not read them," answered Portland dryly. "I never could endure poetry or play-acting—the King is plagued with enough to paper London."
"I remember in The Hague," smiled Devonshire, "when His Majesty was expecting a promise of money from Amsterdam by every post, and I took in a letter which I thought was it—but which proved to be a copy of verses on his safe crossing from England, with a fresh heathen god in every line—His Majesty's curses were powerful for a Christian Prince—and he declared it had given him a distaste for the very sight of poetry."
Dorset laughed; he remembered the occasion also as the only one on which he had heard violent language from the austere King. Portland was disgusted that they could amuse themselves with these recollections during such anxious moments; it was only another proof, he thought, of the shallowness of the English politicians. And even these anecdotes turned on the King's lack of money; it must be six years since Devonshire was at The Hague, and William was still in the same straits. Portland wondered if the time would ever come when he would be free of these burdens, and doubted it.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer entered the gallery, and instantly everybody formed a little group about him, including the two ladies, to whom he gave a flourishing and gallant greeting.
"I must tell you," he said, in a voice and with a manner that strove to be indifferent, yet with a face flushed with pride, "that the money hath been subscribed to His Majesty."
Portland drew a great breath of relief.
"Promised," continued Montague, "in gold and silver, which will be ready to be packed up and taken to Flanders to-morrow."
"How was this accomplished?" asked Devonshire. "I hardly thought, this cruel year, they could do it."
"Thank God they have," murmured Shrewsbury; "for if this had failed I know not what we should have done."
"Your Grace," answered Mr. Montague, "when I lent my support to this Bank I did not think it was likely to be a failure. Yet I must confess that I had some misgivings to-day when I entered the General Court—there was my Lord Mayor in the chair, looking as gloomy as need be, and six hundred or more of the company, all thrifty merchants. Sir John got up and read the speech composed by the Directors and sat down again in none too easy a frame of mind, it seemed, and a great hum went up from the subscribers, and you might see them turning to each other and whispering, but making no kind of public response; then up sprang Sir John again, and implored them stand by the King—at which one rose and said, 'We desire nothing more than to oblige His Majesty, but it is a hard thing to ask for gold these times, and our notes of hand should be good enough.' 'Nothing but gold is any use to His Majesty in Flanders,' declared Sir John. 'I am asking you for this sacrifice for nothing less than the preservation of the kingdoms, otherwise I could not in conscience do it.' At last, after some murmuring, it was put to the vote, and all held up their hands for sending the money, and Sir John came to me all in a tremble, and hoped I would remember that the Bank had saved the Government—he said it had been as anxious an hour as he was ever like to have in his life. At hearing the resolution of the Bank, several gentlemen, who had been waiting without, came in to buy shares, and several thousand pounds' worth were subscribed before I left."
At the conclusion of this speech Mr. Montague looked round his company with an air of conscious satisfaction. Portland had gone to write this news off to the King, caring indeed for nothing but the sheer fact that he could return to Attere immediately with the money, but the others, including even the feeble, disgraced Leeds, had listened with eager interest.
"Well done," cried Lady Orkney. "Mr. Montague, you are a miracle of wit—and I am going to follow the example of these same gentlemen and purchase stock in this Bank of yours."
"So am I," declared Devonshire. "I will send my agent down there to-night, sir, the service it hath done cannot be overestimated."
In a breath every Minister in the room had promised to show the same instance of attachment to the institution that had saved the Government, and when the energetic young Chancellor left Whitehall the congratulations of the whole Council of Regency were ringing in his ears.
He entered his smart coach and drove straight to the Mint, where men were working day and night at the milled money which he and his friend Mr. Newton were turning out at the rate of a hundred and twenty thousand a week. Fifteen thousand was the highest amount the former master of the Mint had declared it was possible to produce in that time, but Mr. Newton had done the incredible in reforming the Mint. It was to his apartments Charles Montague went now, twirling his cane and fluttering his laces.
The Warden of His Majesty's Mint and Exchanges and Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge was a gentleman a little past middle life, of a very refined aristocratic appearance, with an air of extraordinary calm and stillness.
He wore a murrey-coloured coat, a small grey peruke, and a little brooch of rubies in a plain lace cravat. When Mr. Montague entered he was seated at a table covered with a multitude of papers. He looked up instantly; his delicate features expressed a very winning composed dignity.
"I wished to speak to you about the new Mint at Chester, Mr. Newton," said the Chancellor; his manner was totally different from that he had used to the Ministers at Whitehall.
"Another Mint, yes, Mr. Montague," answered the Warden, in the same grave tone. "Those at York and Norwich have been very popular, but I fear we have not enough trained men to spare yet—though I am having them taught as fast as may be."
"I want more than will suffice for Chester," said the Chancellor briskly. "I thought of York and Exeter as likely stations."
He seated himself by the window and looked out on the pleasant prospect of the sunny river and glistening roofs.
"The people take it very well," he added. "One could not have hoped to pass through the crisis better; there is a good temper and a good sense shown very gratifying."
"Why, yes," said Mr. Newton; "but one may always look for both from the English."
A servant entered with a letter, which he glanced at and laid down with a gentle little sound of displeasure.
"What is that?" asked Mr. Montague.
"Oh, 'tis from Flamsteed; he is ever dunning me to go see his observatory at Greenwich—he cannot believe that there is anything in the world more important than stars, nor that I do not love to be teased with mathematical things when I am about the King's business."
Mr. Montague glanced at the astronomer's sealed letter.
"Speaking of the King's business," he remarked, "the Bank of England hath promised to advance the two hundred thousand for the troops in Flanders."
Mr. Newton looked up quickly.
"Why, I am glad of that. Sir, this is a great thing—it will greatly raise the credit of the Bank."
"I think," replied the young Chancellor, "without vanity, that the Bank of England is an institution that will live."