CHAPTER XIVTHE VANGUARD OF THE WORLDAgain the trees were yellowing in the splendid park at Loo; again the autumn sun fell tenderly over the Palace and the stiff beds of late roses.William of England and Monsieur Heinsius were standing by the sundial, which was the centre of formal walks and exact parterres.They were discussing the progress of that endeavour the King had set himself nearly a year ago, when he learnt of Louis's breaking of the Partition Treaty—a year of toil, of patience, of skill, of tact, of sacrifice on the part of William; and it had met with success. Even the English Parliament had not been able to resist his exquisite management. Meanwhile he was quietly forming the Grand Alliance and feeling his way to hurl the inevitable challenge at France.He was leaning now on a thick polished malacca cane, with a gold and ivory handle, from which swung two heavy crimson tassels, and listening to the Grand Pensionary of Holland, who had been in everything the perfect friend, the perfect servant."We can do no more," M. Heinsius was saying; "the States are in readiness. We must wait for England.""I have been doing that," answered William, "all my life." And he sighed a little, though not with discouragement. There had of late been every sign that the temper of the English was changing. They began to murmur at the Parliament and its constant thwarting of the King. Louis had been, as usual, insolent in his triumph, and British pride began to rise at French insults. William had waited with infinite patience, worked with infinite skill. He still waited and still worked, but with a sure hope of success. Louis, in the infatuation of his success, might easily commit some arrogant action that would inflame the people of England beyond the control of any faction-ridden Commons.William took out his crystal and gold filigree watch and set it by the sundial. The sky, the trees, the walks and groves, the stately lines of the Palace, were all radiant in an amber-coloured light. The breeze was warm as mid-summer, and lifted the leaves with a pleasant sound. The King raised his eyes to the peaceful autumn beauty, and there was a look in them that was never absent when he was in his own country—an unconscious expression of the deep passion he felt for his own land, for the very air of it, the very grass and trees and clouds.Presently he and M. Heinsius went into the house. Some German princes were to dine with the King. All his Dutch friends were there also (save only Portland), and it seemed like the old days again when the Stadtholder would escape for a few days' hunt to Guelders—when he was young and everything was yet to do.Albemarle, lately invested with the garter, and radiant under his splendours and in the satisfaction of great abilities finding scope, had newly come from London, and during the meal William questioned him on the state of parties there. His answers were satisfactory: the men of Kent had lately sent a stern memorial to the Parliament, requesting them to give up their internal quarrels and aid the King in helping his allies in a fitting manner to resist French dominion in Europe.The King spoke affectionately and gratefully to Albemarle; then leant back in his chair, and was, after his habit, silent.His reserve had grown on him more and more of late; he scarcely spoke at all save to his intimates, and saw only those when he was obliged.Towards the end of the long dinner he roused himself, and, leaning towards M. Heinsius, who sat on his right, said a curious thing.It was—"Do you think Monsieur de Witt would be proud of his pupil now?"Heinsius could find no answer."He was about the age I am now when he met his end," continued William, in a quiet tone. "After all, he had a happier life than I have had ... Monsieur de Witt! How long ago it seemeth!"He filled his glass, and lifted it as if he drank a silent toast. He looked down the rich table and the splendid guests and up at the portrait of his wife above the dark chimney-piece.A full ray of dusky sunlight struck across the canvas and gave the painted face something of the glow and bloom of life. The large brown eyes seemed to sparkle, the red lips to move, the white breast to heave. The King was still looking straight at this picture when a messenger entered.At a glance William saw that his dispatches were from England and France. He set the wine down, and broke open that from London.M. Heinsius, intently watching him, saw his countenance change, a violent flush rise to his cheek, and his hands tremble.He pulled his hat over his eyes to cover his emotion, and nervously tore open the French dispatch. M. Heinsius saw that this was in the hand of my Lord Manchester, English Ambassador in Paris.When the King had read it he was composed again, but even paler than usual. He folded both the letters up and placed them in the huge flap pocket of his coat; then he cast his dimmed but still eagle eye round the table."Gentlemen," he said, in a firm voice, "His late Majesty King James is dead at St. Germains."He pushed back his chair a little and drew a quick breath."And King Louis hath shamelessly outraged us by proclaiming his son, the pretended Prince of Wales, as King of Great Britain."For a moment the company could not grasp the import of this news: it was too monstrous."His Christian Majesty hath been foolish before," added William, with grim meaning; "never, I think, as foolish as this.""By God!" cried M. Heinsius, "there will be no further difficulty with England now!"The silence broke into murmurs and exclamations. The King took no notice of them; he was thinking of the meaning of this in Europe. Louis had now broken the Treaty of Ryswyck as he had the Partition Treaties. The result would be instant and inevitable war. Even the peace party in the English Commons could not hang back now...He turned suddenly to Albemarle."Send at once to London that M. Poussin is to leave as quickly as M. Barillon did in '88." He laughed shortly. "This will be the second time I have turned a French Ambassador out of London! And Manchester shall be recalled at once." He rose. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the eager Dutch and Germans, "this meaneth our third war with France; and this time I think it will be conclusive, and we, not France, be left the vanguard of the world."CHAPTER XVTHE EVE OF WARService was being held in the Royal Chapel at Hampton Court.There were not many people there: only the King, the officers of his household, and one or two others, including Mr. Prior, new come from The Hague.William knelt alone in his pew while his chaplain delivered the final and beautiful prayers of the Anglican service; he was not listening to or repeating these prayers.The old austerity of his stern religion had become softened with his vaster knowledge and experiences, nor could his firm conception of a wide tolerance maintain the narrow prejudices of sectarian belief; but the old teaching of the faith that had supported his youth and manhood through so much was still strong in him. It suited his nature and his circumstance; it was the creed of his beloved country, and had ever been under the especial protection of his family. The heart of the King was still as Calvinist as it had been when he learnt his grim theology from Pastor Trigland. Though he knelt in English churches and listened to Anglican services, it pleased him to close his eyes and imagine himself back in the bare whitewashed Groote Kerk, an eager grave boy, a silent anxious man, seated in the stiff pew watching the sunlight fall athwart the massive, tall pillars, and drawing stern comfort and noble inspiration from the pastor's thunderous declamation of the theology of Geneva.This morning the picture came before him with a peculiar and painful vividness. He put his hand over his eyes and thought that he could hear the little stir of Mary's gown beside him, and that if he put out his hand he would touch hers, warm on her Prayer Book ...Long after the prayers had ceased he continued kneeling, and when he at last rose there was a curious expression on his face.When he left the Chapel his words were to know if Albemarle had yet arrived.No, he was told, but my lord might be expected any hour, as the packet from Holland had got in last night.The King had constantly shown a wistful impatience for the return of Albemarle, when he had parted from him with great pain; but my lord was the only person who knew his exact wishes in the matter of the disposal of the troops in the United Provinces and whom he could entrust with his minute instructions to M. Heinsius.He now calculated that my lord, even riding all night, could scarcely be there before midday, and he ordered out his horse and said he would ride in the park awhile. It was a day in February, and mild and fine. Of late, too, he had been unexpectedly better in health, and had even hunted and spent hours on horseback.As the little company left the Chapel, Mr. Prior fell behind to speak with Lord Buckhurst, son of my Lord Dorset, Mr. Prior's former patron."Everything is done, is it not?" he asked eagerly."Everything," said my young lord, with enthusiasm. "We—and the allies—will take the field this spring. God bless His Majesty!""Ay, he did it. I would I could have heard his speech to Parliament. They say, sir, it hath roused Europe like the trumpet-call to charge——""Europe, Mr. Prior, and the Commons of England. I think no nobler words were ever heard in Westminster—he raised them all above themselves—you have read the speech? It is in a dozen different tongues already. England might hold the balance of Europe, he said, if she would exert her ancient vigour and forget her unhappy internal animosities;—and she will, Mr. Prior, she will—thanks to His Majesty."My Lord Buckhurst was only voicing the general sentiment of enthusiasm and loyalty that William had at last succeeded in rousing."Will the King take the campaign this year?" asked Matthew Prior, as they strolled out into the magnificent gardens."I do not think so—it is to be my Lord Marlborough.""A man who was ever detested by the King.""His Majesty saith he is the greatest general and statesman. Next year he might go himself—there seemeth hope that he might be recovered then."They passed the yew hedges and fountains, the famous patterned flower-beds, and came out by King Charles's Long Canal, with the resplendent avenue of trees rising up lofty against the pale spring sky and fading into a fair, hazy distance. Coming now into the park where the fresh grass was pushing up through the dead damp leaves of last autumn, and the little groups of slender deer moved delicately through the open sloping glades, they perceived the King riding with two grooms, and holding his hat in his hand to catch the full strength of the faint sun on his face.He drew up his horse as he saw the two gentlemen, and spoke to them kindly, telling them of the new fine entrance-gates he proposed to make from the Palace grounds to Bushey Park.He looked more animated and cheerful than he had done for a long while. He was mounted on a splendid young sorrel horse, that he managed with all his old skill."A new fellow," he remarked. "The grooms warned me he was spirited, but I could scarcely be afraid of a horse—eh?" He faintly smiled and patted the great creature's glossy neck with his thin, white, ungloved hand.My Lord Buckhurst looked at the frail figure of the King and the great power of the animal, and indeed wondered that he could manage him. He secretly agreed with the grooms that William was perhaps relying too much on his exquisite horsemanship in mounting such an untried brute."I hope," said William, "that I shall find my Lord Albemarle when I return."He touched up the horse and galloped away out of sight down the long avenue, the grooms after him.Lord Buckhurst and Mr. Prior lingered a little in the pleasant dim sun and shade, talking over this great prospect opening out over Europe, and the part the nations of the world would play in the coming struggle—which could not fail to establish for ever the Protestant faith and the liberty of peoples.Presently the sun clouded over, and they were for returning to the Palace, when the distant sound of hoofs on the grass caused them to look round, thinking this might be the King returning.What they saw was a riderless horse—a monstrous sorrel horse—galloping across the glade, with the stirrups flying loose."The King—his horse!" exclaimed Mr. Prior breathlessly. Lord Buckhurst said nothing; he turned and ran swiftly towards where the animal had come from. Cumbered as he was with sword, full extravagant vesture, and a wide-bottomed peruke, youth brought him easily over the ground, and in a few minutes he came to the spot he made for—a little clearing beyond the great trees of the avenue, with Mr. Prior breathless at his heels.They saw there what they had been dreading to see: the King lying on the ground, and the two frightened grooms coming up, one dismounted and in an embarrassment to know what to do with his horse, the other giving doleful exclamations and cries for help.William had raised himself on one elbow, and was holding a handkerchief to his mouth.Buckhurst and Prior rushed up to him."Are you hurt, sire?" cried my lord.The King removed the handkerchief from his lips; it was scarlet with blood."No," he answered. "The brute threw me over that molehill—the first time, my lord, I have been thrown——"He put his hand to the shoulder on which he had fallen."Something broken, I think," he said, in a fainter voice. "They were right—I overestimated my skill—I have not the seat—I—once—had."My lord endeavoured to raise him, tenderly enough; but at the attempt to move the King's face went of an ashy colour, and he fainted with pain."This is the end," murmured my lord. "Take him up, Mr. Prior—dear God, I think this is the end."With the aid of the two servants, who had now left their horses, they carried him back, by easy degrees, into the Palace, and his own apartments.Before the doctor could be called he came to his senses and asked for Albemarle. On being told he had arrived, he bid him rest a little before he delivered his news, and, having sent the message, called M. Zulestein to bring him his yet unfinished letter to M. Heinsius.When it was brought, and quill and ink, he sat up in his great chair with arms, and added painfully these words: "God be praised, all difficulties are overcome," and his name.He bid them, in a broken whisper, send off this letter immediately, and fell back again in his chair, very white and frowning.The alarmed gentlemen were for his seeing the doctor immediately, but he desired to give Albemarle his audience first.My lord came on the instant, spurred and dusty, and all in a reek from travel.He entered, with a breathless air of dread, the throne-room, where they had brought the King.William was seated in a great low chair of red velvet, in front of the blue dais and throne, which bore in silver the Royal arms and the motto of Nassau: "Je Maintaindrai." He still wore his buff hunting-coat with the gold galloon on the wide skirt and the tight doeskin boots with the gilt spurs; his waistcoat was open on his laced shirt, and he held his right hand over his heart.Lord Albemarle fell on his knees and passionately kissed the King's free hand.William looked down at him affectionately, and said, between quick little gasps—"How go matters in Holland?""Well, sire, well—everything is in readiness. The States are willing to everything that Your Majesty wisheth; all the preparations are complete for an early campaign—but you, Your Majesty——""Tell me of Holland," interrupted William faintly.Albemarle looked round the company, and hesitated; but at a sign from M. Zulestein obeyed the King, and spoke of the affairs of the Republic, and of their response to the King's call to arms.William of Orange listened to these words, that told him his lifework was at last accomplished, with such calm that it seemed indifference, or as if he was giving no attention to the matter of the discourse; he never changed his attitude or raised his downcast eyes. It seemed as if even this could not rouse him now.When Albemarle paused at last and waited, half fearfully, William spoke, but so faintly that my lord, kneeling close as he was, could hardly catch the words."I have often wished to die," he murmured; "but now I might wish to live and see this prospect fulfilled; but I draw near my end—the end—the end——"He said the word three times with so many little sighs, and then fainted, dropping his hand from his heart.CHAPTER XVIGOD AND THE KINGMonsieur Heinsius sat in the little room at the Binnenhof, which had belonged to the Grand Pensionnaries of Holland ever since the Republic had been formed. The furniture and the tall clock in the corner were unchanged since the time of the great John de Witt; the window looked on the Vyverberg, where the swans were floating on the grey, shining, and placid water. It was a day in late March, the year 1702, and the clock of the Groote Kerk had just struck four.There was a pause in M. Heinsius's strenuous work; for the moment he had nothing to do, and he was very glad of the rare leisure. He had not been in good health for some time, and to-day felt feverish and heavy in his limbs; he winced at the effort of giving instructions to his secretaries, putting up his papers, and going home, so remained, half dozing in his chair, looking at the peaceful surface of the lake, and the still bare trees, and neat brick houses beyond.Before him, on his old black polished bureau, lay the last letter from the King-Stadtholder, which had given him great pleasure, for alarming reports had been current in The Hague as to the health of His Majesty since his accident at Hampton Court; but in this he said not one word of his illness. The last words were—"I am infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite established. May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good friend, William."True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any danger.Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked.They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest.M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M. Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder.He was very young—little more than a boy—but of a very grave, still carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty years ago—of the time of John de Witt.He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and that was the colour of the Garter.M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and came towards the Grand Pensionary's cabinet, walking stiffly, and holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned rosettes on his square-toed shoes.He came steadily through the sunlight, his glance cast thoughtfully down, and advanced to the desk before which M. Heinsius sat; he moved between the Grand Pensionary and the window, and, leaning forward, put his right hand, which was ringless and beautiful, on the letter of William of Orange.Then he lifted a pair of eyes of singular power and of a marvellous brilliancy, and flashed a smile at M. Heinsius."It is finished," he said, pressing his palm on the letter. "But you will know what to do."Then he turned and looked out of the window with wistful passion, as of one leaving something he loves, and sighed a little. After a moment he moved away, reluctantly it seemed, and went as he had come, slowly and gravely into the outer chamber, with the sunshine all about him.M. Heinsius rose now, and turned to follow him; when he reached the door of the anteroom he found it empty....The Grand Pensionary returned to his seat and hid his face in his hands, telling himself that he had the fever; he tried to think and argue with himself, but it was a useless effort, and he fell presently into a little sleep—or swoon—from which he only roused when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and started up to find the room dark and his secretary standing with a candle and a packet in his hand."From England?" murmured M. Heinsius."Yes, Mynheer."The Grand Pensionary took the letter eagerly, hoping to see the writing of the King; but it was addressed in the hand of my Lord Albemarle."I have been exhausted unto sleep," he said. "Light me the candles—I will read this and go home."The candles, in their pale brass sticks, illumined the dark, simple room, the black shining desk, the pale worn face of M. Heinsius, as he opened the letter from England.It was dated at Kensington House, and this was what the Grand Pensionary read:—"I have to offer you the saddest and most unwelcome news in the world, which indeed I am not yet able to write plainly."My beloved master died yesterday between seven and eight of the evening, which is a loss that we and indeed all Europe cannot be too sensible of."He died with the greatest courage and serenity, speaking not at all during his last days, save to thank us graciously for our services. He had no words even for the priests who came about him, which may cause some scandal here."I believe his thoughts to have been always on the Republic, from some short ejaculations he made, even while the prayers for the dying were being read. I think that even at the very last his sole concern was the United Provinces."He asked for my lord of Portland, who came; but His Majesty was past speech, yet he took my lord's hand very tenderly, and carried it up to his heart, which was then at the last beat, and died in that attitude, after but a short struggle with his breath."They found a locket of the late Queen's hair fastened by a black ribbon to his sword-arm."As he was spared nothing during his life, neither was he at his death; for the doctors say now that he must have been in great and perpetual agony, for his broken collar-bone had pierced his lungs—yet not a single murmur escaped him. His courage was of the most resplendent any man may have—for it was tried in every way."I cannot write a fuller account, for I am struck beyond expression by this event. You will, of course, hear of it from others."There is very little grief here. They talk of a statue—but when shall we see it raised? They are busy praising Queen Anne, who is the silliest creature I know—a strange people, these English; I am out of humour with them, and you will see me at The Hague very soon."I must tell you that the Earl of Sunderland died in retirement at Althorp a few weeks since, despised and neglected by all. But the King remained his friend to the end, and even consulted with him secretly, and he had the faithful attendance of my lady, who is as good a woman as any I ever met, and, God knows, a lonely one now."People here, I think, cannot realize what His Majesty did, nor the task he put through when he was in a manner dying, nor their own ingratitude. But you and I know, and England will come to enjoy the fruits of his work in the years that are coming—and in Holland he can never be forgotten, for he was the greatest of the family of the noblest and most patriotic princes whom the world hath ever seen, and while we are a people we shall revere his name."There is much to tell you; but I cannot write of business now, and think to see you soon.—Mynheer the Grand Pensionary, your affectionate friend, ALBEMARLE."M. Heinsius put down the letter; he felt scarcely sad; a glorious enthusiasm stirred his heart; the room seemed all too confined for his mood; he went to the window, pushed it open, and looked out at the dark water and the dark houses beyond, where the lights were beginning to show in the windows.Now there was no doubting the identity of the young man of his vision, nor what the words meant—"It is finished, but you know what to do."The Grand Pensionary knew; he held in his hands all the clues to the vast policies of his late master; he could guide the Republic though the coming great events of war as the King would have wished.The peaceful evening fell to complete darkness; still Antoon Heinsius stood looking over The Hague. The King hath gone to give his account to God, he thought, and God will say—Not in vain did I make you my captain—not in vain.THE ENDPrinted byMORRISON & GIBB LIMITED,Edinburgh* * * * * * * *METHUEN'S COLONIAL LIBRARYA SERIES OF COPYRIGHT BOOKS BY EMINENT AND POPULAR AUTHORS, PUBLISHED AS FAR AS POSSIBLE SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THEIR APPEARANCE IN ENGLAND. THEY ARE OF VERY HANDSOME APPEARANCE, BEING PRINTED ON ANTIQUE PAPER AND BOUND TASTEFULLY IN CRIMSON PAPER OR IN ATTRACTIVE CLOTH COVERSFICTIONALBANESI, E. MARIASUSANNAH AND ONE OTHERCAPRICIOUS CAROLINELOVE AND LOUISATHE BROWN EYES OF MARYI KNOW A MAIDENTHE INVINCIBLE AMELIATHE BLUNDER OF AN INNOCENTPETER, A PARASITETHE GLAD HEARTANNESLEY, MAUDETHIS DAY'S MADNESSWIND ALONG THE WASTESHADOW-SHAPESBAGOT, RICHARDA ROMAN MYSTERYTHE PASSPORTTEMPTATIONANTHONY CUTHBERTLOVE'S PROXYDONNA DIANACASTING OF NETSTHE HOUSE OF SERRAVALLEBAILEY, H. C.STORM AND TREASURETHE LONELY QUEENBALL, OONA H. (Barbara. 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BELWHY DID HE DO IT?CONFESSIONS OF DIANA PLEASEJAY OF ITALYA ROGUE'S TRAGEDYJEMMY ABERCRAWCAREY, WYMONDLOVE THE JUDGECASTLE, AGNES and EGERTOHFLOWER O' THE ORANGECASTLETON, ROBERTTHE ADVENTURES OF AN ACTORCONRAD, JOSEPHTHE SECRET AGENTA SET OF SIXWESTERN EYESCORELLI, MARIEA ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDSVENDETTATHELMAARDATHTHE SOUL OF LILITHWORMWOODBARABBASTHE SORROWS OF SATANTHE MASTER-CHRISTIANTEMPORAL POWERGOD'S GOOD MANHOLY ORDERSBOYTHE MIGHTY ATOMCAMEOSTHE LIFE EVERLASTINGCROCKETT, S. R.LOCHINVARTHE STANDARD BEARERCROKER, B. M.PEGGY OF THE BARTONSA STATE SECRETANGELJOHANNATHE HAPPY VALLEYTHE OLD CANTONMENTA NINE DAYS' WONDERKATHERINE THE ARROGANTBABES IN THE WOODCROSBIE, MARYKINSMEN'S CLAYDOYLE, SIR A. CONANROUND THE RED LAMPDUNCAN, SARA JEANNETTEA VOYAGE OF CONSOLATIONCOUSIN CINDERELLATHE BURNT OFFERINGELLIOT, ROBERTTHE IMMORTAL CHARLATANFINDLATER, JANE H.THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIETHE LADDER TO THE STARSFINDLATER, MARYTHE ROSE OF JOYA BLIND BIRD'S NESTTHE NARROW WAYOVER THE HILLSFITZSTEPHEN, GERALDGRIFFITH COLGROVE'S WIFEFOOTNER, HULBERTTWO ON THE TRAILFRANCIS, H. E.GALATEA OF THE WHEATFIELDMARGERY O' THE MILLHARDY-ON-THE-HILLSTEPPING WESTWARDFRASER, MRS. HUGHGIANNELLA
CHAPTER XIV
THE VANGUARD OF THE WORLD
Again the trees were yellowing in the splendid park at Loo; again the autumn sun fell tenderly over the Palace and the stiff beds of late roses.
William of England and Monsieur Heinsius were standing by the sundial, which was the centre of formal walks and exact parterres.
They were discussing the progress of that endeavour the King had set himself nearly a year ago, when he learnt of Louis's breaking of the Partition Treaty—a year of toil, of patience, of skill, of tact, of sacrifice on the part of William; and it had met with success. Even the English Parliament had not been able to resist his exquisite management. Meanwhile he was quietly forming the Grand Alliance and feeling his way to hurl the inevitable challenge at France.
He was leaning now on a thick polished malacca cane, with a gold and ivory handle, from which swung two heavy crimson tassels, and listening to the Grand Pensionary of Holland, who had been in everything the perfect friend, the perfect servant.
"We can do no more," M. Heinsius was saying; "the States are in readiness. We must wait for England."
"I have been doing that," answered William, "all my life." And he sighed a little, though not with discouragement. There had of late been every sign that the temper of the English was changing. They began to murmur at the Parliament and its constant thwarting of the King. Louis had been, as usual, insolent in his triumph, and British pride began to rise at French insults. William had waited with infinite patience, worked with infinite skill. He still waited and still worked, but with a sure hope of success. Louis, in the infatuation of his success, might easily commit some arrogant action that would inflame the people of England beyond the control of any faction-ridden Commons.
William took out his crystal and gold filigree watch and set it by the sundial. The sky, the trees, the walks and groves, the stately lines of the Palace, were all radiant in an amber-coloured light. The breeze was warm as mid-summer, and lifted the leaves with a pleasant sound. The King raised his eyes to the peaceful autumn beauty, and there was a look in them that was never absent when he was in his own country—an unconscious expression of the deep passion he felt for his own land, for the very air of it, the very grass and trees and clouds.
Presently he and M. Heinsius went into the house. Some German princes were to dine with the King. All his Dutch friends were there also (save only Portland), and it seemed like the old days again when the Stadtholder would escape for a few days' hunt to Guelders—when he was young and everything was yet to do.
Albemarle, lately invested with the garter, and radiant under his splendours and in the satisfaction of great abilities finding scope, had newly come from London, and during the meal William questioned him on the state of parties there. His answers were satisfactory: the men of Kent had lately sent a stern memorial to the Parliament, requesting them to give up their internal quarrels and aid the King in helping his allies in a fitting manner to resist French dominion in Europe.
The King spoke affectionately and gratefully to Albemarle; then leant back in his chair, and was, after his habit, silent.
His reserve had grown on him more and more of late; he scarcely spoke at all save to his intimates, and saw only those when he was obliged.
Towards the end of the long dinner he roused himself, and, leaning towards M. Heinsius, who sat on his right, said a curious thing.
It was—"Do you think Monsieur de Witt would be proud of his pupil now?"
Heinsius could find no answer.
"He was about the age I am now when he met his end," continued William, in a quiet tone. "After all, he had a happier life than I have had ... Monsieur de Witt! How long ago it seemeth!"
He filled his glass, and lifted it as if he drank a silent toast. He looked down the rich table and the splendid guests and up at the portrait of his wife above the dark chimney-piece.
A full ray of dusky sunlight struck across the canvas and gave the painted face something of the glow and bloom of life. The large brown eyes seemed to sparkle, the red lips to move, the white breast to heave. The King was still looking straight at this picture when a messenger entered.
At a glance William saw that his dispatches were from England and France. He set the wine down, and broke open that from London.
M. Heinsius, intently watching him, saw his countenance change, a violent flush rise to his cheek, and his hands tremble.
He pulled his hat over his eyes to cover his emotion, and nervously tore open the French dispatch. M. Heinsius saw that this was in the hand of my Lord Manchester, English Ambassador in Paris.
When the King had read it he was composed again, but even paler than usual. He folded both the letters up and placed them in the huge flap pocket of his coat; then he cast his dimmed but still eagle eye round the table.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a firm voice, "His late Majesty King James is dead at St. Germains."
He pushed back his chair a little and drew a quick breath.
"And King Louis hath shamelessly outraged us by proclaiming his son, the pretended Prince of Wales, as King of Great Britain."
For a moment the company could not grasp the import of this news: it was too monstrous.
"His Christian Majesty hath been foolish before," added William, with grim meaning; "never, I think, as foolish as this."
"By God!" cried M. Heinsius, "there will be no further difficulty with England now!"
The silence broke into murmurs and exclamations. The King took no notice of them; he was thinking of the meaning of this in Europe. Louis had now broken the Treaty of Ryswyck as he had the Partition Treaties. The result would be instant and inevitable war. Even the peace party in the English Commons could not hang back now...
He turned suddenly to Albemarle.
"Send at once to London that M. Poussin is to leave as quickly as M. Barillon did in '88." He laughed shortly. "This will be the second time I have turned a French Ambassador out of London! And Manchester shall be recalled at once." He rose. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the eager Dutch and Germans, "this meaneth our third war with France; and this time I think it will be conclusive, and we, not France, be left the vanguard of the world."
CHAPTER XV
THE EVE OF WAR
Service was being held in the Royal Chapel at Hampton Court.
There were not many people there: only the King, the officers of his household, and one or two others, including Mr. Prior, new come from The Hague.
William knelt alone in his pew while his chaplain delivered the final and beautiful prayers of the Anglican service; he was not listening to or repeating these prayers.
The old austerity of his stern religion had become softened with his vaster knowledge and experiences, nor could his firm conception of a wide tolerance maintain the narrow prejudices of sectarian belief; but the old teaching of the faith that had supported his youth and manhood through so much was still strong in him. It suited his nature and his circumstance; it was the creed of his beloved country, and had ever been under the especial protection of his family. The heart of the King was still as Calvinist as it had been when he learnt his grim theology from Pastor Trigland. Though he knelt in English churches and listened to Anglican services, it pleased him to close his eyes and imagine himself back in the bare whitewashed Groote Kerk, an eager grave boy, a silent anxious man, seated in the stiff pew watching the sunlight fall athwart the massive, tall pillars, and drawing stern comfort and noble inspiration from the pastor's thunderous declamation of the theology of Geneva.
This morning the picture came before him with a peculiar and painful vividness. He put his hand over his eyes and thought that he could hear the little stir of Mary's gown beside him, and that if he put out his hand he would touch hers, warm on her Prayer Book ...
Long after the prayers had ceased he continued kneeling, and when he at last rose there was a curious expression on his face.
When he left the Chapel his words were to know if Albemarle had yet arrived.
No, he was told, but my lord might be expected any hour, as the packet from Holland had got in last night.
The King had constantly shown a wistful impatience for the return of Albemarle, when he had parted from him with great pain; but my lord was the only person who knew his exact wishes in the matter of the disposal of the troops in the United Provinces and whom he could entrust with his minute instructions to M. Heinsius.
He now calculated that my lord, even riding all night, could scarcely be there before midday, and he ordered out his horse and said he would ride in the park awhile. It was a day in February, and mild and fine. Of late, too, he had been unexpectedly better in health, and had even hunted and spent hours on horseback.
As the little company left the Chapel, Mr. Prior fell behind to speak with Lord Buckhurst, son of my Lord Dorset, Mr. Prior's former patron.
"Everything is done, is it not?" he asked eagerly.
"Everything," said my young lord, with enthusiasm. "We—and the allies—will take the field this spring. God bless His Majesty!"
"Ay, he did it. I would I could have heard his speech to Parliament. They say, sir, it hath roused Europe like the trumpet-call to charge——"
"Europe, Mr. Prior, and the Commons of England. I think no nobler words were ever heard in Westminster—he raised them all above themselves—you have read the speech? It is in a dozen different tongues already. England might hold the balance of Europe, he said, if she would exert her ancient vigour and forget her unhappy internal animosities;—and she will, Mr. Prior, she will—thanks to His Majesty."
My Lord Buckhurst was only voicing the general sentiment of enthusiasm and loyalty that William had at last succeeded in rousing.
"Will the King take the campaign this year?" asked Matthew Prior, as they strolled out into the magnificent gardens.
"I do not think so—it is to be my Lord Marlborough."
"A man who was ever detested by the King."
"His Majesty saith he is the greatest general and statesman. Next year he might go himself—there seemeth hope that he might be recovered then."
They passed the yew hedges and fountains, the famous patterned flower-beds, and came out by King Charles's Long Canal, with the resplendent avenue of trees rising up lofty against the pale spring sky and fading into a fair, hazy distance. Coming now into the park where the fresh grass was pushing up through the dead damp leaves of last autumn, and the little groups of slender deer moved delicately through the open sloping glades, they perceived the King riding with two grooms, and holding his hat in his hand to catch the full strength of the faint sun on his face.
He drew up his horse as he saw the two gentlemen, and spoke to them kindly, telling them of the new fine entrance-gates he proposed to make from the Palace grounds to Bushey Park.
He looked more animated and cheerful than he had done for a long while. He was mounted on a splendid young sorrel horse, that he managed with all his old skill.
"A new fellow," he remarked. "The grooms warned me he was spirited, but I could scarcely be afraid of a horse—eh?" He faintly smiled and patted the great creature's glossy neck with his thin, white, ungloved hand.
My Lord Buckhurst looked at the frail figure of the King and the great power of the animal, and indeed wondered that he could manage him. He secretly agreed with the grooms that William was perhaps relying too much on his exquisite horsemanship in mounting such an untried brute.
"I hope," said William, "that I shall find my Lord Albemarle when I return."
He touched up the horse and galloped away out of sight down the long avenue, the grooms after him.
Lord Buckhurst and Mr. Prior lingered a little in the pleasant dim sun and shade, talking over this great prospect opening out over Europe, and the part the nations of the world would play in the coming struggle—which could not fail to establish for ever the Protestant faith and the liberty of peoples.
Presently the sun clouded over, and they were for returning to the Palace, when the distant sound of hoofs on the grass caused them to look round, thinking this might be the King returning.
What they saw was a riderless horse—a monstrous sorrel horse—galloping across the glade, with the stirrups flying loose.
"The King—his horse!" exclaimed Mr. Prior breathlessly. Lord Buckhurst said nothing; he turned and ran swiftly towards where the animal had come from. Cumbered as he was with sword, full extravagant vesture, and a wide-bottomed peruke, youth brought him easily over the ground, and in a few minutes he came to the spot he made for—a little clearing beyond the great trees of the avenue, with Mr. Prior breathless at his heels.
They saw there what they had been dreading to see: the King lying on the ground, and the two frightened grooms coming up, one dismounted and in an embarrassment to know what to do with his horse, the other giving doleful exclamations and cries for help.
William had raised himself on one elbow, and was holding a handkerchief to his mouth.
Buckhurst and Prior rushed up to him.
"Are you hurt, sire?" cried my lord.
The King removed the handkerchief from his lips; it was scarlet with blood.
"No," he answered. "The brute threw me over that molehill—the first time, my lord, I have been thrown——"
He put his hand to the shoulder on which he had fallen.
"Something broken, I think," he said, in a fainter voice. "They were right—I overestimated my skill—I have not the seat—I—once—had."
My lord endeavoured to raise him, tenderly enough; but at the attempt to move the King's face went of an ashy colour, and he fainted with pain.
"This is the end," murmured my lord. "Take him up, Mr. Prior—dear God, I think this is the end."
With the aid of the two servants, who had now left their horses, they carried him back, by easy degrees, into the Palace, and his own apartments.
Before the doctor could be called he came to his senses and asked for Albemarle. On being told he had arrived, he bid him rest a little before he delivered his news, and, having sent the message, called M. Zulestein to bring him his yet unfinished letter to M. Heinsius.
When it was brought, and quill and ink, he sat up in his great chair with arms, and added painfully these words: "God be praised, all difficulties are overcome," and his name.
He bid them, in a broken whisper, send off this letter immediately, and fell back again in his chair, very white and frowning.
The alarmed gentlemen were for his seeing the doctor immediately, but he desired to give Albemarle his audience first.
My lord came on the instant, spurred and dusty, and all in a reek from travel.
He entered, with a breathless air of dread, the throne-room, where they had brought the King.
William was seated in a great low chair of red velvet, in front of the blue dais and throne, which bore in silver the Royal arms and the motto of Nassau: "Je Maintaindrai." He still wore his buff hunting-coat with the gold galloon on the wide skirt and the tight doeskin boots with the gilt spurs; his waistcoat was open on his laced shirt, and he held his right hand over his heart.
Lord Albemarle fell on his knees and passionately kissed the King's free hand.
William looked down at him affectionately, and said, between quick little gasps—
"How go matters in Holland?"
"Well, sire, well—everything is in readiness. The States are willing to everything that Your Majesty wisheth; all the preparations are complete for an early campaign—but you, Your Majesty——"
"Tell me of Holland," interrupted William faintly.
Albemarle looked round the company, and hesitated; but at a sign from M. Zulestein obeyed the King, and spoke of the affairs of the Republic, and of their response to the King's call to arms.
William of Orange listened to these words, that told him his lifework was at last accomplished, with such calm that it seemed indifference, or as if he was giving no attention to the matter of the discourse; he never changed his attitude or raised his downcast eyes. It seemed as if even this could not rouse him now.
When Albemarle paused at last and waited, half fearfully, William spoke, but so faintly that my lord, kneeling close as he was, could hardly catch the words.
"I have often wished to die," he murmured; "but now I might wish to live and see this prospect fulfilled; but I draw near my end—the end—the end——"
He said the word three times with so many little sighs, and then fainted, dropping his hand from his heart.
CHAPTER XVI
GOD AND THE KING
Monsieur Heinsius sat in the little room at the Binnenhof, which had belonged to the Grand Pensionnaries of Holland ever since the Republic had been formed. The furniture and the tall clock in the corner were unchanged since the time of the great John de Witt; the window looked on the Vyverberg, where the swans were floating on the grey, shining, and placid water. It was a day in late March, the year 1702, and the clock of the Groote Kerk had just struck four.
There was a pause in M. Heinsius's strenuous work; for the moment he had nothing to do, and he was very glad of the rare leisure. He had not been in good health for some time, and to-day felt feverish and heavy in his limbs; he winced at the effort of giving instructions to his secretaries, putting up his papers, and going home, so remained, half dozing in his chair, looking at the peaceful surface of the lake, and the still bare trees, and neat brick houses beyond.
Before him, on his old black polished bureau, lay the last letter from the King-Stadtholder, which had given him great pleasure, for alarming reports had been current in The Hague as to the health of His Majesty since his accident at Hampton Court; but in this he said not one word of his illness. The last words were—"I am infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite established. May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good friend, William."
True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any danger.
Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked.
They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest.
M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M. Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder.
He was very young—little more than a boy—but of a very grave, still carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty years ago—of the time of John de Witt.
He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and that was the colour of the Garter.
M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and came towards the Grand Pensionary's cabinet, walking stiffly, and holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned rosettes on his square-toed shoes.
He came steadily through the sunlight, his glance cast thoughtfully down, and advanced to the desk before which M. Heinsius sat; he moved between the Grand Pensionary and the window, and, leaning forward, put his right hand, which was ringless and beautiful, on the letter of William of Orange.
Then he lifted a pair of eyes of singular power and of a marvellous brilliancy, and flashed a smile at M. Heinsius.
"It is finished," he said, pressing his palm on the letter. "But you will know what to do."
Then he turned and looked out of the window with wistful passion, as of one leaving something he loves, and sighed a little. After a moment he moved away, reluctantly it seemed, and went as he had come, slowly and gravely into the outer chamber, with the sunshine all about him.
M. Heinsius rose now, and turned to follow him; when he reached the door of the anteroom he found it empty....
The Grand Pensionary returned to his seat and hid his face in his hands, telling himself that he had the fever; he tried to think and argue with himself, but it was a useless effort, and he fell presently into a little sleep—or swoon—from which he only roused when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and started up to find the room dark and his secretary standing with a candle and a packet in his hand.
"From England?" murmured M. Heinsius.
"Yes, Mynheer."
The Grand Pensionary took the letter eagerly, hoping to see the writing of the King; but it was addressed in the hand of my Lord Albemarle.
"I have been exhausted unto sleep," he said. "Light me the candles—I will read this and go home."
The candles, in their pale brass sticks, illumined the dark, simple room, the black shining desk, the pale worn face of M. Heinsius, as he opened the letter from England.
It was dated at Kensington House, and this was what the Grand Pensionary read:—
"I have to offer you the saddest and most unwelcome news in the world, which indeed I am not yet able to write plainly.
"My beloved master died yesterday between seven and eight of the evening, which is a loss that we and indeed all Europe cannot be too sensible of.
"He died with the greatest courage and serenity, speaking not at all during his last days, save to thank us graciously for our services. He had no words even for the priests who came about him, which may cause some scandal here.
"I believe his thoughts to have been always on the Republic, from some short ejaculations he made, even while the prayers for the dying were being read. I think that even at the very last his sole concern was the United Provinces.
"He asked for my lord of Portland, who came; but His Majesty was past speech, yet he took my lord's hand very tenderly, and carried it up to his heart, which was then at the last beat, and died in that attitude, after but a short struggle with his breath.
"They found a locket of the late Queen's hair fastened by a black ribbon to his sword-arm.
"As he was spared nothing during his life, neither was he at his death; for the doctors say now that he must have been in great and perpetual agony, for his broken collar-bone had pierced his lungs—yet not a single murmur escaped him. His courage was of the most resplendent any man may have—for it was tried in every way.
"I cannot write a fuller account, for I am struck beyond expression by this event. You will, of course, hear of it from others.
"There is very little grief here. They talk of a statue—but when shall we see it raised? They are busy praising Queen Anne, who is the silliest creature I know—a strange people, these English; I am out of humour with them, and you will see me at The Hague very soon.
"I must tell you that the Earl of Sunderland died in retirement at Althorp a few weeks since, despised and neglected by all. But the King remained his friend to the end, and even consulted with him secretly, and he had the faithful attendance of my lady, who is as good a woman as any I ever met, and, God knows, a lonely one now.
"People here, I think, cannot realize what His Majesty did, nor the task he put through when he was in a manner dying, nor their own ingratitude. But you and I know, and England will come to enjoy the fruits of his work in the years that are coming—and in Holland he can never be forgotten, for he was the greatest of the family of the noblest and most patriotic princes whom the world hath ever seen, and while we are a people we shall revere his name.
"There is much to tell you; but I cannot write of business now, and think to see you soon.—Mynheer the Grand Pensionary, your affectionate friend, ALBEMARLE."
M. Heinsius put down the letter; he felt scarcely sad; a glorious enthusiasm stirred his heart; the room seemed all too confined for his mood; he went to the window, pushed it open, and looked out at the dark water and the dark houses beyond, where the lights were beginning to show in the windows.
Now there was no doubting the identity of the young man of his vision, nor what the words meant—
"It is finished, but you know what to do."
The Grand Pensionary knew; he held in his hands all the clues to the vast policies of his late master; he could guide the Republic though the coming great events of war as the King would have wished.
The peaceful evening fell to complete darkness; still Antoon Heinsius stood looking over The Hague. The King hath gone to give his account to God, he thought, and God will say—Not in vain did I make you my captain—not in vain.
THE END
Printed byMORRISON & GIBB LIMITED,Edinburgh
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