CHAPTER IIITHE NIGHT OF JUNE 30th, 1688Some hours after his parting with Lady Sunderland, Mr. Sidney left a modest house in Greg Street, Soho Fields, in company with a common tarpaulin, whose rough clothes were in strong contrast to the rich appointments of the notable beau he accompanied.It was a fine night, but cloudy. The two men proceeded in silence towards Gerrard Street, the sailor with his hands in his pockets and Mr. Sidney swinging his cane.Every house they passed had the seven candles in the windows, and the sound of bells and shouting was as persistent as it had been in the drawing-room of Sunderland House; the street was empty save for a few wandering link-boys and beggars.As they, walking rapidly and steadily, approached St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the feeble rays of the oil-lamps over every tenth door, that only served to illuminate the signs and cast great shadows from the passers-by, were absorbed in a red glare that touched the brick fronts of the precise houses with a deep glow."A bonfire," remarked Mr. Sidney.The tarpaulin answered in the accents of a gentleman."A pope-burning—had we not best take another way?"As Mr. Sidney hesitated the other added, with a laugh—"After all, is it not a good omen? Let us see this martyrdom," and he pressed into the confines of the crowd gathered round an enormous bonfire, which blazed in front of the church steps.Mr. Sidney followed, and the two found themselves absorbed into the multitude of apprentices, shopkeepers, clerks, and citizens of all descriptions, who were engaged in celebrating the acquittal of the bishops by burning His Holiness in effigy.For awhile they were unnoticed in the general excitement, then Mr. Sidney's appearance was remarked. His plumed hat, his sword, his curling peruke, and the rich velvet mantle that concealed his person instantly told them that he was not of their class. Suspicion was roused that he was a spy of the Court, and they began to rudely jostle him; but the sailor, who kept closely beside him, laughed good-humouredly, and cried—"Gently, my friends. We are good Protestants come to see the burning of the Devil and the Pope.""Sure," came a quick answer, "if you were popish dogs you would scarce be here to-night!"Sidney smiled at the eager young man who spoke."No," he said. "Long live the King, the Church, and the Laws—eh, my friend?""I do not know so much about the first—but all my heart the second and third!"The sailor looked sharply at the speaker, who was a youth of two- or three-and-twenty, very plainly dressed, almost shabby, with a keen, dark face, intelligent, ardent eyes, and a quantity of untidy curly hair. He seemed to be a student or clerk, and was obviously the leading spirit of a band of youths of his own age, who were making most of the noise and clamour.He in his turn closely scrutinized the sailor, then said, in abrupt tones of friendliness—"I'll get you through. You and the gentleman get behind me, and I'll make 'em give away——"With the quick energy that seemed his characteristic he shouldered his way through the press and forced a passage for Mr. Sidney and the sailor, bringing them to the steps of the church, where they had a good view over the crowd, and stood directly behind the bonfire.He paused, a little breathless with fighting through the throng, and with blows given and taken, and asked Mr. Sidney, whose splendour seemed to somewhat overawe him, if he had ever seen a pope-burning before."Never," smiled that gentleman; but the sailor added instantly—"I have, many a time; 'tis the finest fun in the world."The young man looked at him with the sharp suspicious curiosity of youth. He was quick to notice the difference between speech and dress, and his instant's glance further confused him. The strong light of the bonfire showed a resolute-looking man, dressed in the coarse worn clothes of a common sailor, but unmistakeably a gentleman. He seemed amused and interested. A pleasant smile lit his face, and his grey eyes were bright and self-contained."You were like to be clapt up if the watch caught you at this," he said.The youth was gloriously scornful."The watch! Do you think we would disperse for a regiment?""Look out for the regiments then," smiled the sailor. "There are sixteen thousand men on Hounslow Heath.""How many of 'em would take arms against the city?" was the instant retort. "They too are good Protestants.""I perceive that you are something of a Politic," said Mr. Sidney; and then all further remark was cut short by the arrival of the procession carrying the Pope, at sight of which an almost solemn hush fell on the crowd, who stopped supplying the bonfire with squibs, oil, and tar, and drew back in close ranks before the steps of the church.The Pope was a huge figure of straw with a wax face, carried in a chair on the shoulders of four men. He was clothed in an expensive scarlet silk robe, and wore on his head a tiara of painted pasteboard, decorated with sparkling glass; his scornful and saturnine face, which, if meant for the reigning pontiff, was a cruel libel on the most honourable and simple of men, was turned a little to one side in the action of listening to a huge black-horned Devil who was busily whispering in his ear, one stiff hand was raised with two fingers lifted in blessing, and the other (both formed of white gloves stuffed, with glass beads on the backs) hung limply by his side.The young man who had befriended Mr. Sidney and his friend gave some kind of a whistling signal, upon which the greater number of the crowd broke into verses of a doggerel song against popery and the bishops. As each sang different words and tune the result was a mere lusty din, in which not a syllable was distinguishable; nevertheless the hundred voices of hate, derision, scorn, and triumph addressing the dumb grotesque image of a loathed religion had an impressive significance and contained a deep warning.For these were not isolated nor feeble voices—the will and purpose of a great nation echoed in them—nor were they the voices of mere fanaticism, but the cries of protest raised by a jealous people whose liberties had been struck at and broken.In the faces the leaping flames brought into relief against the surrounding darkness might be traced that fearless English spirit that would not for long own a master; in the coarse jeers, hoots, and hisses might be discerned that devotion to the reformed faith that had united Anglican and Dissenter (despite the high bid the King had made for the favour of the latter), in stern and unyielding opposition to the Romanist worship that was in vain being forced on them.Mr. Sidney wondered if James could see these faces and hear these voices it would give him pause; if even his hard bigotry would not learn something of the temper of a strong people roused. It seemed incredible that if the King could see these people now that he could forget Cromwell and his own exiled youth.The dummy Pope was lowered from his seat of mock triumph and pitched forward into the centre of the flames, the Devil clinging to him, at which a savage roar rose as if real flesh and blood had been sacrificed to appease fierce passions.Mr. Sidney a little drew back against the flame-flushed pillars behind him. As the spreading fire scorched his face so the temper of the crowd put a kind of awe into his heart."Who is to manage these?" he murmured. He was no statesman. Then he pulled his companion by the sleeve. "There was a man killed to-day—let us get on——"But the sailor, with his arms folded across his breast, was watching the bonfire, in the heart of which the Pope appeared to be writhing as he shrivelled, while his wax face ran into one great tear, his tiara shrunk and disappeared, and the Devil, a black patch in the redness, emitted horrid fumes of sulphur as he was consumed."'Tis a pretty show," he said briefly."But one not pleasing to the King's Majesty, do you think?" flashed the dark youth who had been their guide."No," smiled the other. "I think it would grieve His Majesty even more than the acquittal of the holy fathers——"The young man laughed; he seemed very excited."See you, sir, if you wait awhile you will see a warming-pan burnt—with the pretended Prince of Wales, that Popish brat, within!"Mr. Sidney interrupted."We have a boat to catch at Gravesend, if you could make a passage for us, my friend——"More than a little flattered at being thus addressed by so fine a gentleman, the youth, by various shouted commands to his companions, elbowings and blows administered in a lively manner, steered Mr. Sidney and the sailor out of the crowd with the same dexterity that he had guided them to the church steps.On the confines of the press, Mr. Sidney, rather breathless, shook out his mantle and adjusted his hat. The glow from the bonfire cast their shadows long and leaping over the grass. In the distance towards the archery fields and the Mall were other crowds and processions to be seen passing in and out of the trees, and another bonfire was burning in front of the mansion of the Protestant Northumberlands. The air was full of the harsh colour of artificial light, the smell of powder and tar, of burning rag and oil, belching smoke and the crack of squib, rocket and bomb, mingled with noisy shouting of anti-Popish songs and hoarse cheers for the bishops, the Dissenters, and the Protestant succession."This must be pleasant music at Whitehall," remarked the sailor, with good-humoured indifference. He was standing now full in the light of the lantern at the corner of the church, and the young man, who had been looking at him with great eagerness, exclaimed softly—"It is Admiral Herbert!"He turned instantly."My name is not for public hearing to-night," he said quickly. "And, God of Heaven, boy, how did you know me?"The young man flushed."You used to come to the 'Rose' in Charing Cross—near here, you remember? My uncle kept it——"Arthur Herbert smiled."Yes—I remember; and who are you?""A scholar at St. John's now," answered the youth, in the same eager, excited way; "that is thanks to my Lord Dorset——""Why, I recall," said Mr. Sidney; "'tis my lord's last genius, sure—he who wrote a satire against the court last year with one Charley Montague—a parody on Mr. Dryden's bombast, which sorely vexed him——""The same, sir," answered the young man, flushing deeper with pleasure. "Lord Dorset is the Mæcenas of the age, as I have truly found——""Well," said the Admiral, "you seem a likely spark—stick to your Pope-burning and you'll find yourself at Court yet—that is good advice. What is your name? I don't read poetry.""I don't write it, sir," retorted the other, with an engaging touch of impudence. "Only verses—a little satire and a little truth."Arthur Herbert laughed."Well, what is your name?""Prior, sir—Matthew Prior.""Good evening, Mr. Prior, and remember that you did not see me to-night—silence, mind, even to your friends the Whigs.""I know enough for that, sir," responded the student simply. He took off a battered hat with a courtly air of respect, and discreetly turned away and slipped back into the crowd.The two gentlemen continued their way."We run some risk, you observe," smiled Mr. Sidney. "Who would have reckoned on that chance?""None but good Protestants are abroad to-night," answered the Admiral; "but I doubt if you will be safe in London much longer——""I will come to The Hague as soon as I dare—tell His Highness so much; but I would not have my going prejudice those who must remain at their posts—it would give a colour to rumours if I was to return to The Hague——""My Lord Sunderland manageth the rumours," smiled Herbert."My Lord Sunderland," repeated Mr. Sidney reflectively, "is difficult stuff to handle. I tell you plainly that I do not know how far he will go.""But he will not betray us?""No—I can go warrant for that."They turned down the Strand and walked along the river, which was lively with water-men and boats of music and great barges."M. Zuylestein will be sending Edward Russell with further news," said Mr. Sidney. "Look out for him, I pray you, at The Hague.""Edward Russell must be weary of running to and fro England and Holland," remarked Herbert. "And how long will the King allow M. Zuylestein to drill parties against him?"Mr. Sidney answered shortly."Mr. Russell hath my reason of hatred to the house of Stewart, and as for M. Zuylestein he is too clever to give His Majesty a chance to interfere."They paused at one of the landing stages, and Herbert shouted to an idle pair of oars that was looking for custom."Now, farewell," he said, "lest you shame my appearance—I shall be at Gravesend to-night and, given fair wind, at Maaslandsluys in a day." He pressed Mr. Sidney's hand, smiled, and hastened down the steps.With a sobbing swish of water the boat drew up; the oars clanked in the rowlocks. Mr. Sidney watched the tall figure in the red breeches of the sailor step in, look back and wave his hand; then the boat joined the others that covered the dark river, and was soon lost to sight in the cross glimmers of lanterns and half-seen shapes.Mr. Sidney remained gazing down the Thames—behind him the great capital rejoicing with their bells and rockets and bonfires, their shouting and singing, behind him the luxurious palace where the King must be enduring a sharp humiliation. Mr. Sidney smiled; he thought with a keenness rare in his soft nature of his brother who had laid down his life on Tower Hill through the intrigues of the Duke of York, now King. It astonished himself how much the memory of that injury rankled. He had not loved his brother to half the measure that he hated the man who had brought him to death. Indolent in mind and temper, he loathed cruelty, and the blood of Algernon Sidney was not the only witness to the cruelty of James Stewart. Mr. Sidney had seen the look on the fair face of Lord Monmouth when he landed at the Tower stairs; he had seen well-born men and women, implicated only indirectly in the late rebellion, shipped off to Virginia as slaves, while the Italian Queen and her women quarrelled over the price of them; he had seen, in this short reign, many acts of an extraordinary tyranny and cruelty, and his thoughts dealt triumphantly on Mr. Herbert, slipping down the river out of the tumult and excitement to the quiet of Gravesend with an important little paper in his seaman's coat pocket.CHAPTER IVTHE MESSENGER FROM ENGLANDMadame de Marsac, one time Miss Basilea Gage and maid of honour to the Queen of England, sat in the window-place of an inn in The Hague and looked down into the street. There was an expression of indifference on her face and of listlessness in her attitude, though a man in black velvet was standing near to her and speaking with an appearance of great energy, and he was M. D'Avaux, minister of King Louis XIV to the States General.Basilea was Romanist, of a family who had held that faith since the days of Queen Mary Tudor; her husband, two years dead, an officer in the French Army, had left her with a small fortune and no regrets, since she was yet undecided as to whether she had liked him or no; though too clever to be unhappy she was miserably idle, and had drifted from Paris back to London, and from London to Amsterdam, where her late lord's people were prominent among the powerful French faction, and still without finding any interest in life.It was M. D'Avaux, with whom she had some former acquaintance, who had urgently requested her to come to The Hague, and she was here, listening to him, but without enthusiasm, being more engaged in watching the great number of well-dressed people who passed up and down the wide, clean street.M. D'Avaux perhaps noticed her inattention, for he broke his discourse with an abrupt question."Would you care to see a revolution in your country—'49 over again with the Prince of Orange in place of Cromwell?"She turned quickly, obviously startled. Though so indifferent to actual happenings, she was tenacious of tradition, and she felt a vast, though passive, admiration for the action of King James in re-establishing in his kingdoms the ancient faith that was hers."Why—you mean——" she began, and paused, searching his face with puzzled dark eyes."I mean, Madame," said M. D'Avaux strongly, "that your King is cutting away the supports that prop his throne—you must know something of the feeling in England.""Yes," she assented; "the trouble with the colleges, the declaration of Indulgence, and some rare malicious talk of the Prince of Wales—but nothing like—a revolution!"The Frenchman smiled."Let me tell you some facts. When Henry Sidney was Envoy here he was in reality the channel of communication between the Opposition in England and His Highness—even since his recall he hath served the same turn—and these last months Edward Russell hath been coming and going with messages between the Prince and those great Protestants whom the King hath put out of office.""If this is known," cried Basilea, "surely it can be prevented—it is treason!""What is treason in England, Madame, is loyalty at The Hague—and do you imagine that I have any influence with the States, who are entirely under the rule of the Prince?""I have noticed," answered Basilea, "a monstrous number of English and French Protestants at The Hague, but thought they came here for a mere refuge.""They come here," said M. D'Avaux drily, "for revenge—since the Edict of Nantes was revoked all the Huguenots look to the Prince, and since he refused his assent to the declaration of Indulgence every Englishman who is not a Romanist looketh to him also."Basilea rose; the sunshine was over her curls and blue dress, and shook a red light from the garnets at her wrist; her eyes narrowed; she was interested by this clear talk of important events."What could the Prince do?" she asked quietly.D'Avaux replied with some passion."This is the tenth year of the uneasy peace forced on His Highness by His Majesty and the late King Charles, and not a month of that time that he hath not been working to be avenged on us for the terms we obtained then—he hath combined powers in secret leagues against us, he hath vexed and defied us at every turn, and he hath never, for one moment, ceased to intrigue for the help of England against us—in some final issue.""But England," said Basilea quickly, "is entirely bound to France——""Yes; and because of that, and because the Prince of Orange knoweth it, King James is in a desperate strait——""Why?""Madame, I know the Prince tolerably well—he never relinquishes any idea that hath a firm hold on his mind, and what he cannot accomplish by diplomacy he will assay by force.""By force!" echoed Basilea, staring at the Ambassador.He came a little nearer to her and lowered his voice."What is the business that keepeth Edward Russell on messenger duty to and fro The Hague and London? What is the business that keepeth the Prince for ever riding from his villa to the States? Why are all the harness makers of the Provinces making bridles, bits, and spurs? Why is the Prince, if there is not some great design afoot, buying up load after load of hay—why are new ships being built, fresh troops being raised?""Surely," answered Basilea, "I have heard it said that the States were making ready in case the dispute between King Louis and the Pope anent Cologne should involve attack on their frontiers.""I do not believe it," said M. D'Avaux. "But King James and Lord Sunderland take your view—they will not be roused, they will not see, and daily they further rouse that loyalty which is their sole support. I am well informed from England that not one man in ten believeth the Prince of Wales to be the King's son, and that they regard the producing of him as a mere fraud to cheat the Princesses of their birthright.""What do you mean, what do you think?" asked Basilea. "It is not possible that the Prince should claim his wife's inheritance by force of arms?""You put it very succinctly," said M. D'Avaux. "That is exactly what I think he will do."Basilea was silent. The, to her, amazing aspect of international politics disclosed in M. D'Avaux's brief and troubled summary filled her with dismay and anger. The domestic government of England did not concern her, since she did not live under it, and her family, being Romanist, were more prosperous under King James than they had ever been. She had not given much thought to the justice or wisdom of the means the King had taken to convert his kingdom, but she approved of the principle. She had no admiration for the Prince of Orange, and no sympathy for the cause he upheld."He would never," she remarked, continuing her thoughts aloud, "dare the scandal of an open rupture betwixt himself and His Majesty, who is both his uncle and his wife's father——""There is nothing but dislike between them since the King recalled Sidney and the Prince refused his assent to the repeal of the Test Act——""But the Princess," interrupted Basilea. "Why, I used to know her, and I dare assure you she is not one to forget her duty——""Her duty!" repeated M. D'Avaux.He looked at her intently."You have touched the reason why I asked you to come to The Hague," he said. "I want you to wait on the Princess and obtain from her some assurance that she would never countenance any menace to her father——""I am sure she would not," answered Basilea at once."I do hope it, for if she will not support her husband his design is as good as hopeless, since it is her claim, not his own, he must put forward."Basilea smiled."She is a Stewart, must be a little ambitious, if nothing else, and hers was not a love-match that she should sacrifice everything to her husband."She glanced quickly at M. D'Avaux, and added—"But you still look doubtful——""Madame," he replied earnestly, "the Princess is a very ardent Protestant——""She was not at Whitehall.""—She hath," he continued, "lived ten years with the Prince——""They say in England that he doth not treat her kindly——""His Majesty hath done his best to put discord between them—when Her Highness discovered that her Chaplain and one of her women, Anne Trelawney, were working on His Majesty's orders to make mischief betwixt the Prince and herself, she dismissed them. I thought that looked ill for us."Basilea shook her head, still smiling."An English princess will not be so soon subdued—I'll undertake to get assurances from Her Highness that she is ignorant of these tales of the designs of the Prince, and that she would never support them if she knew of them."Basilea spoke with some animation; she felt sure of what she said, and was not ill pleased to be of service to her own and her adopted country in this, as she thought it, pleasant fashion.She remembered Mary Stewart as a lively, laughing girl, who had detested and opposed her marriage with much spirit, and she had no fear that she would find that wilful gay Princess difficult to manage.D'Avaux was not so confident."You do not know the Prince," he remarked, and Basilea laughed."He is not so redoubtable where women are concerned, I think," she answered; "at least allow me to try.""I ask it of you," he said gravely; "for more hangs on this than I dare think.""Sure, you need not fear the Prince," she returned, "if he had the most wicked will in the world—the difficulties in his way are unsurmountable.""France," he replied, "must make them so."On that he took his leave, and left Basilea with more busy thoughts than had been hers for some while since.She returned to the window-seat, propped her chin on her palm, and looked down the street. She was a pretty seeming woman, slender, dusky brown in the hair and eyes, of a just height and proportion, and her person was shown to advantage by the plain French style of her gown and ringlets, which had a graceful simplicity wholly wanting in the stiff fashions prevailing in England and the Low Countries.Her window looked upon an end of the Buitenhof, one of the two great squares that formed the centre of The Hague so admired by strangers; it was planted with lime trees, now past their flowering time, but still fragrant and softly green in the gentle air of July.A great number of people of both sexes, finely dressed, were passing up and down, on foot, on horseback, and in little open chariots and sedans. Basilea noticed many unmistakeably English, Scotch, and French of varying degrees of qualities—soldiers, divines, gentlemen, and women mingling with the crowd, hastening past with intent faces or lounging with idle glances at each other in hopes to detect a friend or patron.She opened the window and leaned out so that she could see the Buitenhof with the straight lines and arches of the government buildings of the States, the trees that shaded the great fish-pond called the Vyver, and the open square where the carriages passed on their way to the fashionable promenade of the Voorhout and Toorviveld.Among all the varying figures that caught her glance was that of a tall man in the garb of an English seaman—red breeches, a tarred coat, a cocked hat with his captain's colours, and a heavy sword.She noticed him first because he stopped to ask directions of two passers-by, English also, and because he was, even among so many, of a fine and showy appearance.He turned at first towards the arches that led through to the Binnenhof and the Hall of the Knights, then hesitated, turned back, and retraced his steps until he was just under Basilea's window.Here he paused again, and accosted a stout gentleman in the dress of an Anglican priest, who was dashing through the press with a great air of importance and hurry.On seeing the tarpaulin he greeted him with noisy surprise and pleasure, and drew him a little out of the crowd, and proceeded to converse eagerly with the unction of the inveterate talker.Basilea laughed to herself as she observed the seaman's efforts to escape, and to obtain some answer to a question first.At last he seemed to accomplish both, for he wrenched himself from the powerful presence of the priest, and hastened towards the Stadhuis, while the other called after him in a voice meant to be subdued, but still so resonant that Basilea could hear every word: "The Prince will be back to-morrow evening!"The seaman waved his hat, nodded, and hastened on.Basilea wondered why a common sailor should be concerned as to when His Highness returned to The Hague, and concluded, rather angrily, that here was evidence of one of the manifold intrigues which the Whigs, M. D'Avaux had assured her, carried on almost openly in Holland.CHAPTER VTHE PRINCESS OF ORANGEBasilea de Marsac waited on Her Highness the day after her interview with M. D'Avaux; a curious coincidence had strengthened her desire to see the Princess, and piqued her curiosity as to the sentiments of that lady. One of the fast packets that were constantly plying between the States and England had brought her a letter from Lady Sunderland, who was, to Basilea, a person who of all others must find it her interest and duty to be intensely loyal. My lady wrote a long and involved letter, but the sum of it seemed to be what M. D'Avaux had put much more plainly, namely, that the King's party (among whom was, of course, Lord Sunderland) had become alarmed at the crisis the actions of His Majesty had brought upon the country in attempting to push forward his own religion, and that they feared an active interference on the part of the Prince of Orange, now his wife's claims were indefinitely postponed by the birth of the Prince of Wales, and his hopes of an English alliance against the French for ever shattered by the policy of King James.Lady Sunderland concluded by asking of Basilea what M. D'Avaux had asked—that she should discover the mind of the Princess, and draw some promise from her for the satisfaction of Royalist and Romanist, to the effect that Her Highness would never let her title to the English throne be a handle for her husband's political designs.Basilea was half roused, half amused by the double errand. She was not very well informed about politics, but she felt in her heart an absolute doubt of any revolution in England. All her life there had been talk of it, but it had always ended in a few executions or fights in Scotland, or some such vague conclusions in which she had never been very interested; but she could understand that Lady Sunderland did not feel lukewarm in the matter. Ever since the May of last year, when the Earl had been converted to the Church of Rome (a step which none other of the King's ministers had taken), he had been as detested in England as it was possible for a man to be. The King alone protected him, and if he fell, there was little doubt that his fall also would be swift and terrible.Basilea liked the Countess; she was better pleased to serve her than to serve M. D'Avaux, and she anticipated, with pleasure, being able to write in answer that the Princess was still a Stewart, despite ten years' residence in Holland.It was late afternoon when Basilea had her audience (accorded without difficulty) at the Prince's villa beyond The Hague, called the 'huis ten bosch' by reason of the beautiful wood and deer park in which it stood. This house had been built by the Prince's grandmother, Amalia of Solms, and contained the famous hall which she had decorated in honour of her husband, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry. There was no splendour, however, in the apartments Basilea saw; the appointments were neat and comfortable, but neither lavish nor rich, and she had known English ladies better served as to the quantity and appearance of servants than was the Princess Royal of England.In a room at the back, that overlooked a formal garden filled with roses and box hedges, Basilea found the mistress of the quiet house and the lady whose mind two great kingdoms were anxious to know.It was a chamber panelled in walnut, and furnished by chairs with worked seats and stools with fringed covers, several fine pieces of Eastern furniture, and many shelves on which stood curious and vivid china monsters and vases, and low pots filled with roses.Basilea did not know which of the two young ladies seated by the window was the Princess, so utterly had ten years worked their change.She hesitated after her courtsey, and the taller of the two ladies came forward and took her hand warmly."Are you Basilea Gage with whom I used to play at Twickenham?" she asked. "Why did you not come to see me sooner?"She smiled half wistfully, and turned to her companion."This is Mademoiselle Dyckfelt, and this is Madame de Marsac, Anne, whom I told you was coming to-day."She had a timid way of speaking, as if she was shy, and, to Basilea, something of the formal in her manner, as if she was preoccupied.The Dutch lady was like most of her countrywomen whom Basilea had observed, very fair and pretty, with that glow and robust brightness that gave the women of Holland their reputation for handsomeness. She was plainly dressed in grey branched with silver, and was engaged in working a chair-cover in cross stitch. The vivid green and blue of the wools she used showed off her small, plump white hands—a common beauty among her nation.The Princess began talking of England and the people she remembered there; while Basilea answered she observed Mary, who seemed to her disappointingly strange and indifferent.Still little more than a girl, she was extremely beautiful, uniting her father's aristocratic grace and her mother's soft charm; though dignified and above the common height, she bore herself humbly and with a deprecating sweetness.Basilea was not the only one who at first sight had been impressed with the air of simple purity which heightened and glorified Mary's beauty, for it was impossible to find a fault in her person or manner: she was unconscious of herself, tactful, without affectations or vanities, watchful for others, and charming in address, though with that pretty reserve that Basilea called formality.Her features were not unlike those of her ancestress—another Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland—soft and lovely, childlike in profile, with the gentle curve of contour; but grave and rather sad in the full look, and with the expression of a woman, and a woman who has observed, grieved, and pitied.Her brown eyes were very large, misty, and continually narrowed from weak sight, her hair, of the Stewart red-brown, hung in thick natural curls from a simple knot in her neck.She gained no advantage from her dress, which would not have offended a Puritan: the straight, boned bodice and stiff falling stuff of a dull pink colour held no line of grace, and the prim ruffles to wrist and throat were more decorous than becoming. At the English court her attire would have been considered ugly, if not ridiculous, and Basilea did not find it pleasing. She was not herself of a type that can afford to forego the advantages of adornment, and she reflected that with the Princess's beauty and her own taste she could have made a sumptuous appearance.While thus inwardly admired and criticized, Mary was speaking of England and all her one-time friends there, and Mademoiselle Dyckfelt making comments in pretty broken English, accompanied with a little gasping laugh which Basilea had noticed in many Dutch people.Through all her amiable converse Mary betrayed some slight inner agitation and expectation, as if she feared the visit might have another meaning than mere courtesy; and Basilea guessed that she, whose position was one of such importance in Europe, must be used to oblique attempts to sound her views.With a half-faint amusement she made her own essay—"Highness, I was in good hopes that you would not seem such a stranger to me, because I am instructed to make the venture to speak with you——"Mary looked at her quickly, and interrupted—"By whom instructed?""Lady Sunderland, Madame, for whom your Highness was wont to have some kindness."The Princess flushed, and Basilea wondered why, as her sole answer was—"I think Lady Sunderland a good woman."Basilea smiled."She is also, as Your Highness knoweth, a great politic, which I never was nor could be, and hath set me to ask Your Highness some questions bearing on great affairs.""Great affairs," said Mary under her breath. She rose gravely. "I think we must not plague Mademoiselle Dyckfelt with this talk. Will you, Madame, come into the garden?"The Dutch maiden rose and unlatched the long window, then returned placidly to her sewing.Mary and Basilea descended a few steps into the formal garden, mainly composed of box hedges and clipt rose bushes, with a square pond in the centre bordered with little yellow yew trees in wooden tubs and precise beds of pinks and herbs.The tall and beautiful trees of the deer park in which the villa stood rose up, with the elegant air of loftiness peculiar to the trees of a perfectly flat country where they are the highest things the eye has within range; the air also was characteristic, being of that strangely exhilarating quality of salt freshness that in every part of the United Provinces served as a perpetual reminder of the sea. It was warm to-day, and the sun was golden in the foliage, and lay in scattered flecks of light among the flowers, and on the pond where two waterlilies were slowly closing to the evening."You may speak quite frankly now," said Mary, as they proceeded slowly down the gravel path. "Have you a message from Lady Sunderland?""No, Madame," said Basilea, surprised that the Princess should seem to expect it. "Only—it is difficult to express, Highness—but there are monstrous tales abroad in France, England, and even here——"The Princess looked at her silently."They do say," continued Basilea, "that His Highness meddleth in the affairs of England, and these rumours give disquietude to His Majesty——"Mary broke in, rather breathless—"I know nothing of business—my husband heareth so much of it abroad that he is glad to talk of other matters at home. What doth Lady Sunderland want of me?"Basilea answered directness with directness."She wisheth to know—that the Earl may put it privately before His Majesty—your mind on the matter between His Highness and the King.""What matter is that?" asked Mary.Basilea was at a loss."Your Highness must know better than I: as for these horrible rumours——"Mary paused by a rose bush and asked steadily—"What rumours?""I think it would be unseemly to name them!""I will hold you excused," said the Princess, still gravely."Then, Madame, 'tis said that His Highness is so exasperate with the policy of His Majesty and postponement of your claim by the birth of the Prince, that he might attempt to do what my Lord Monmouth did——"Mary's fine fingers pulled delicately at the rose leaves."My husband and that poor unhappy gentleman are such different characters and in such different situations," she said, "that there can be no comparison. I think the Prince would never do as the Duke did."Basilea looked at her keenly."'Tis asserted, Lady Sunderland saith, that the Prince is in league with all the discontents of England, that he sheltereth many at The Hague——""This country," answered the Princess quietly, "hath always been a refuge for the unfortunate, and it is reasonable that the near connection of my husband to the throne should give him an interest in English business."Basilea was older than the Princess, whose air of extreme gentleness further emboldened her to take, half unconsciously, a masterful tone."I can assure Lady Sunderland that His Highness is innocent of the designs imputed to him."Mary glanced up from the rose bush; she smiled very slightly."Why, you must go to the Prince for that assurance; I know nothing about it."Basilea stirred the gravel with her square-toed red shoe."You must know, Madame," she said slowly, "whether you would hinder or further the Prince his projects?"Mary flushed, and the full brown eyes narrowed."Neither you nor I," she answered, "can discuss His Highness his projects, which ever have been and will be for the good of Europe."Basilea looked at her curiously."I fear Your Highness will think me impertinent, but," she thought of the grave words of M. D'Avaux, and the memory urged her not to be put off by the evasiveness of the Princess—"but there are strange things said in Paris and London——""Madame de Marsac," interrupted Mary gently, "if my father hath cause to complain of me, he must send a direct messenger."Basilea felt herself rebuked."I do not carry His Majesty's complaints, Highness," she answered humbly. "I am but the poor engine of the fears of my Lady Sunderland, who saith that in London the Prince his name is on the lips of all the discontents, and it is feared that they might set him up as a pretender; and since that could not be if you refused your consent, it would be a great comfort to His Majesty and his faithful ministers if you would give that assurance."The Princess took a step forward, then stopped as if by an effort of self-control."I cannot deal with these secret and underground counsels," she said firmly; "and my poor brains are not fit for business.""This is not business, Highness," urged Basilea."Whatever you call it," demanded the Princess, "why did you undertake it?""Because M. D'Avaux——" began Basilea, then stopped vexed; she had not meant to mention that name."M. D'Avaux," repeated Mary, with a heightened colour; "so he hath a mind to know what I shall do if a certain crisis cometh?"Both the tone and the words seemed to betray more interest and knowledge than she had yet disclosed, and Basilea was encouraged."M. D'Avaux is an acquaintance of mine," she said frankly."Ah yes," replied Mary; "you are a Papist, and your husband was a Frenchman. I think that meaneth," she added courteously, "that we cannot see things the same.""Your Highness doth not desire to behold Europe embroiled in another war!"Mary answered earnestly—"There is nothing further from my wishes, and no ambition of mine," she added half wistfully, "would disturb anybody's peace. I bless my God that I know the life I am suited to, and I thank Him that He hath given me the grace to know when I am happy."She put her hand gently on Basilea's sleeve."It is getting too dark to remain here, and you have not even looked at my roses!"Basilea admitted herself defeated. She was a little chagrined at the thought of the lame report she would have to give M. D'Avaux, but she could press no more, especially as she had an uneasy feeling that the Princess thought the less of her for the errand she had come upon.She left talk of politics, and Mary accompanied her with easy courtesy to the front of the villa, where her hired chariot waited with her maid yawning herself to death over an old-fashioned romance by Mademoiselle de Scudery, which she had found in the inn parlour.The sky was paling and flushing behind the great avenue of trees rich in their full leafage, and the rooks were noisy in the branches."This is a pretty spot, Highness," said Basilea, on the impulse of the moment.Mary smiled.Two men were mounting the few wide entrance steps. Basilea noticed them, because one was the red-breeched sailor whom she had seen yesterday beneath her window, the other was a slight gentleman in a circular mantle turned up over one shoulder, wearing riding boats and carrying a whip; Basilea saw his horse being led off by a bareheaded groom.She could not restrain her curiosity at seeing the seaman entering the Prince's villa."Doth Your Highness know that man?" she asked.Mary glanced at the two as she closed the gate in the garden wall."Which?" she asked, smiling."The English sailor——""No; but he hath good credentials, for that is the Prince with him," said Mary quietly.Basilea was further surprised; she endeavoured to gain a closer view of the Stadtholder and his companion, but they had entered the house; she was satisfied, however, that she had something to tell M. D'Avaux."You must not marvel at the companion of His Highness," continued the Princess; "there are many come here who are glad to wear disguises, owing to the rancour of the persecution of the Protestants in France."Basilea courtsied her leave. She was quite convinced that the seaman was not French nor on any message from France, and she was beginning to be convinced, too, that the Princess was marvellously changed and different, and that it would be well for neither Lady Sunderland nor M. D'Avaux to be too sure of her compliance.Mary allowed her to depart without that demonstration of kindness with which she had received her, and Basilea stepped into her chariot feeling disappointed and dissatisfied.Mary, still standing by the garden wall at the side of the house, watched the little coach swing out of sight down the long darkening drive, and when it was lost in the shadows ran lightly up the steps and in through the tall doors: there, in the light painted vestibule, she found the Prince and the English seaman conversing.She paused, flushed, and breathing in pants. The Prince took off his hat, and said—"This is the Princess, sir."The sailor turned quickly, and gave her a sharp look as he bowed."This is Admiral Herbert, Madame," continued the Prince, "who is new come from England."The colour receded from Mary's face. She glanced in a half frightened way at her husband."Oh," she murmured, "I wished to speak to you—but it can wait—for I suppose Admiral Herbert his business is ... important."There was a tenseness of containment among the three of them, as if they were all aware of great events and would not speak of them."If the Princess is informed——" began Arthur Herbert.The Stadtholder interrupted."The Princess knoweth everything, Mr. Herbert."Arthur Herbert betrayed the slightest surprise, covered instantly by a ready turn of speech."Her Highness will understand, then, the importance of my business."He bowed again, very courteous, to Mary, who answered instantly—"I will not hinder you, Mr. Herbert, not for an instant."The Prince looked at her."Send for me when I am free, Madame."With that they both saluted her, and turned into the room at the right of the vestibule.Mary stood motionless in the twilight, staring at the spot where the English messenger had stood, peered at the closed door that concealed him, then went softly and, it seemed, fearfully away.
CHAPTER III
THE NIGHT OF JUNE 30th, 1688
Some hours after his parting with Lady Sunderland, Mr. Sidney left a modest house in Greg Street, Soho Fields, in company with a common tarpaulin, whose rough clothes were in strong contrast to the rich appointments of the notable beau he accompanied.
It was a fine night, but cloudy. The two men proceeded in silence towards Gerrard Street, the sailor with his hands in his pockets and Mr. Sidney swinging his cane.
Every house they passed had the seven candles in the windows, and the sound of bells and shouting was as persistent as it had been in the drawing-room of Sunderland House; the street was empty save for a few wandering link-boys and beggars.
As they, walking rapidly and steadily, approached St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the feeble rays of the oil-lamps over every tenth door, that only served to illuminate the signs and cast great shadows from the passers-by, were absorbed in a red glare that touched the brick fronts of the precise houses with a deep glow.
"A bonfire," remarked Mr. Sidney.
The tarpaulin answered in the accents of a gentleman.
"A pope-burning—had we not best take another way?"
As Mr. Sidney hesitated the other added, with a laugh—
"After all, is it not a good omen? Let us see this martyrdom," and he pressed into the confines of the crowd gathered round an enormous bonfire, which blazed in front of the church steps.
Mr. Sidney followed, and the two found themselves absorbed into the multitude of apprentices, shopkeepers, clerks, and citizens of all descriptions, who were engaged in celebrating the acquittal of the bishops by burning His Holiness in effigy.
For awhile they were unnoticed in the general excitement, then Mr. Sidney's appearance was remarked. His plumed hat, his sword, his curling peruke, and the rich velvet mantle that concealed his person instantly told them that he was not of their class. Suspicion was roused that he was a spy of the Court, and they began to rudely jostle him; but the sailor, who kept closely beside him, laughed good-humouredly, and cried—
"Gently, my friends. We are good Protestants come to see the burning of the Devil and the Pope."
"Sure," came a quick answer, "if you were popish dogs you would scarce be here to-night!"
Sidney smiled at the eager young man who spoke.
"No," he said. "Long live the King, the Church, and the Laws—eh, my friend?"
"I do not know so much about the first—but all my heart the second and third!"
The sailor looked sharply at the speaker, who was a youth of two- or three-and-twenty, very plainly dressed, almost shabby, with a keen, dark face, intelligent, ardent eyes, and a quantity of untidy curly hair. He seemed to be a student or clerk, and was obviously the leading spirit of a band of youths of his own age, who were making most of the noise and clamour.
He in his turn closely scrutinized the sailor, then said, in abrupt tones of friendliness—
"I'll get you through. You and the gentleman get behind me, and I'll make 'em give away——"
With the quick energy that seemed his characteristic he shouldered his way through the press and forced a passage for Mr. Sidney and the sailor, bringing them to the steps of the church, where they had a good view over the crowd, and stood directly behind the bonfire.
He paused, a little breathless with fighting through the throng, and with blows given and taken, and asked Mr. Sidney, whose splendour seemed to somewhat overawe him, if he had ever seen a pope-burning before.
"Never," smiled that gentleman; but the sailor added instantly—
"I have, many a time; 'tis the finest fun in the world."
The young man looked at him with the sharp suspicious curiosity of youth. He was quick to notice the difference between speech and dress, and his instant's glance further confused him. The strong light of the bonfire showed a resolute-looking man, dressed in the coarse worn clothes of a common sailor, but unmistakeably a gentleman. He seemed amused and interested. A pleasant smile lit his face, and his grey eyes were bright and self-contained.
"You were like to be clapt up if the watch caught you at this," he said.
The youth was gloriously scornful.
"The watch! Do you think we would disperse for a regiment?"
"Look out for the regiments then," smiled the sailor. "There are sixteen thousand men on Hounslow Heath."
"How many of 'em would take arms against the city?" was the instant retort. "They too are good Protestants."
"I perceive that you are something of a Politic," said Mr. Sidney; and then all further remark was cut short by the arrival of the procession carrying the Pope, at sight of which an almost solemn hush fell on the crowd, who stopped supplying the bonfire with squibs, oil, and tar, and drew back in close ranks before the steps of the church.
The Pope was a huge figure of straw with a wax face, carried in a chair on the shoulders of four men. He was clothed in an expensive scarlet silk robe, and wore on his head a tiara of painted pasteboard, decorated with sparkling glass; his scornful and saturnine face, which, if meant for the reigning pontiff, was a cruel libel on the most honourable and simple of men, was turned a little to one side in the action of listening to a huge black-horned Devil who was busily whispering in his ear, one stiff hand was raised with two fingers lifted in blessing, and the other (both formed of white gloves stuffed, with glass beads on the backs) hung limply by his side.
The young man who had befriended Mr. Sidney and his friend gave some kind of a whistling signal, upon which the greater number of the crowd broke into verses of a doggerel song against popery and the bishops. As each sang different words and tune the result was a mere lusty din, in which not a syllable was distinguishable; nevertheless the hundred voices of hate, derision, scorn, and triumph addressing the dumb grotesque image of a loathed religion had an impressive significance and contained a deep warning.
For these were not isolated nor feeble voices—the will and purpose of a great nation echoed in them—nor were they the voices of mere fanaticism, but the cries of protest raised by a jealous people whose liberties had been struck at and broken.
In the faces the leaping flames brought into relief against the surrounding darkness might be traced that fearless English spirit that would not for long own a master; in the coarse jeers, hoots, and hisses might be discerned that devotion to the reformed faith that had united Anglican and Dissenter (despite the high bid the King had made for the favour of the latter), in stern and unyielding opposition to the Romanist worship that was in vain being forced on them.
Mr. Sidney wondered if James could see these faces and hear these voices it would give him pause; if even his hard bigotry would not learn something of the temper of a strong people roused. It seemed incredible that if the King could see these people now that he could forget Cromwell and his own exiled youth.
The dummy Pope was lowered from his seat of mock triumph and pitched forward into the centre of the flames, the Devil clinging to him, at which a savage roar rose as if real flesh and blood had been sacrificed to appease fierce passions.
Mr. Sidney a little drew back against the flame-flushed pillars behind him. As the spreading fire scorched his face so the temper of the crowd put a kind of awe into his heart.
"Who is to manage these?" he murmured. He was no statesman. Then he pulled his companion by the sleeve. "There was a man killed to-day—let us get on——"
But the sailor, with his arms folded across his breast, was watching the bonfire, in the heart of which the Pope appeared to be writhing as he shrivelled, while his wax face ran into one great tear, his tiara shrunk and disappeared, and the Devil, a black patch in the redness, emitted horrid fumes of sulphur as he was consumed.
"'Tis a pretty show," he said briefly.
"But one not pleasing to the King's Majesty, do you think?" flashed the dark youth who had been their guide.
"No," smiled the other. "I think it would grieve His Majesty even more than the acquittal of the holy fathers——"
The young man laughed; he seemed very excited.
"See you, sir, if you wait awhile you will see a warming-pan burnt—with the pretended Prince of Wales, that Popish brat, within!"
Mr. Sidney interrupted.
"We have a boat to catch at Gravesend, if you could make a passage for us, my friend——"
More than a little flattered at being thus addressed by so fine a gentleman, the youth, by various shouted commands to his companions, elbowings and blows administered in a lively manner, steered Mr. Sidney and the sailor out of the crowd with the same dexterity that he had guided them to the church steps.
On the confines of the press, Mr. Sidney, rather breathless, shook out his mantle and adjusted his hat. The glow from the bonfire cast their shadows long and leaping over the grass. In the distance towards the archery fields and the Mall were other crowds and processions to be seen passing in and out of the trees, and another bonfire was burning in front of the mansion of the Protestant Northumberlands. The air was full of the harsh colour of artificial light, the smell of powder and tar, of burning rag and oil, belching smoke and the crack of squib, rocket and bomb, mingled with noisy shouting of anti-Popish songs and hoarse cheers for the bishops, the Dissenters, and the Protestant succession.
"This must be pleasant music at Whitehall," remarked the sailor, with good-humoured indifference. He was standing now full in the light of the lantern at the corner of the church, and the young man, who had been looking at him with great eagerness, exclaimed softly—
"It is Admiral Herbert!"
He turned instantly.
"My name is not for public hearing to-night," he said quickly. "And, God of Heaven, boy, how did you know me?"
The young man flushed.
"You used to come to the 'Rose' in Charing Cross—near here, you remember? My uncle kept it——"
Arthur Herbert smiled.
"Yes—I remember; and who are you?"
"A scholar at St. John's now," answered the youth, in the same eager, excited way; "that is thanks to my Lord Dorset——"
"Why, I recall," said Mr. Sidney; "'tis my lord's last genius, sure—he who wrote a satire against the court last year with one Charley Montague—a parody on Mr. Dryden's bombast, which sorely vexed him——"
"The same, sir," answered the young man, flushing deeper with pleasure. "Lord Dorset is the Mæcenas of the age, as I have truly found——"
"Well," said the Admiral, "you seem a likely spark—stick to your Pope-burning and you'll find yourself at Court yet—that is good advice. What is your name? I don't read poetry."
"I don't write it, sir," retorted the other, with an engaging touch of impudence. "Only verses—a little satire and a little truth."
Arthur Herbert laughed.
"Well, what is your name?"
"Prior, sir—Matthew Prior."
"Good evening, Mr. Prior, and remember that you did not see me to-night—silence, mind, even to your friends the Whigs."
"I know enough for that, sir," responded the student simply. He took off a battered hat with a courtly air of respect, and discreetly turned away and slipped back into the crowd.
The two gentlemen continued their way.
"We run some risk, you observe," smiled Mr. Sidney. "Who would have reckoned on that chance?"
"None but good Protestants are abroad to-night," answered the Admiral; "but I doubt if you will be safe in London much longer——"
"I will come to The Hague as soon as I dare—tell His Highness so much; but I would not have my going prejudice those who must remain at their posts—it would give a colour to rumours if I was to return to The Hague——"
"My Lord Sunderland manageth the rumours," smiled Herbert.
"My Lord Sunderland," repeated Mr. Sidney reflectively, "is difficult stuff to handle. I tell you plainly that I do not know how far he will go."
"But he will not betray us?"
"No—I can go warrant for that."
They turned down the Strand and walked along the river, which was lively with water-men and boats of music and great barges.
"M. Zuylestein will be sending Edward Russell with further news," said Mr. Sidney. "Look out for him, I pray you, at The Hague."
"Edward Russell must be weary of running to and fro England and Holland," remarked Herbert. "And how long will the King allow M. Zuylestein to drill parties against him?"
Mr. Sidney answered shortly.
"Mr. Russell hath my reason of hatred to the house of Stewart, and as for M. Zuylestein he is too clever to give His Majesty a chance to interfere."
They paused at one of the landing stages, and Herbert shouted to an idle pair of oars that was looking for custom.
"Now, farewell," he said, "lest you shame my appearance—I shall be at Gravesend to-night and, given fair wind, at Maaslandsluys in a day." He pressed Mr. Sidney's hand, smiled, and hastened down the steps.
With a sobbing swish of water the boat drew up; the oars clanked in the rowlocks. Mr. Sidney watched the tall figure in the red breeches of the sailor step in, look back and wave his hand; then the boat joined the others that covered the dark river, and was soon lost to sight in the cross glimmers of lanterns and half-seen shapes.
Mr. Sidney remained gazing down the Thames—behind him the great capital rejoicing with their bells and rockets and bonfires, their shouting and singing, behind him the luxurious palace where the King must be enduring a sharp humiliation. Mr. Sidney smiled; he thought with a keenness rare in his soft nature of his brother who had laid down his life on Tower Hill through the intrigues of the Duke of York, now King. It astonished himself how much the memory of that injury rankled. He had not loved his brother to half the measure that he hated the man who had brought him to death. Indolent in mind and temper, he loathed cruelty, and the blood of Algernon Sidney was not the only witness to the cruelty of James Stewart. Mr. Sidney had seen the look on the fair face of Lord Monmouth when he landed at the Tower stairs; he had seen well-born men and women, implicated only indirectly in the late rebellion, shipped off to Virginia as slaves, while the Italian Queen and her women quarrelled over the price of them; he had seen, in this short reign, many acts of an extraordinary tyranny and cruelty, and his thoughts dealt triumphantly on Mr. Herbert, slipping down the river out of the tumult and excitement to the quiet of Gravesend with an important little paper in his seaman's coat pocket.
CHAPTER IV
THE MESSENGER FROM ENGLAND
Madame de Marsac, one time Miss Basilea Gage and maid of honour to the Queen of England, sat in the window-place of an inn in The Hague and looked down into the street. There was an expression of indifference on her face and of listlessness in her attitude, though a man in black velvet was standing near to her and speaking with an appearance of great energy, and he was M. D'Avaux, minister of King Louis XIV to the States General.
Basilea was Romanist, of a family who had held that faith since the days of Queen Mary Tudor; her husband, two years dead, an officer in the French Army, had left her with a small fortune and no regrets, since she was yet undecided as to whether she had liked him or no; though too clever to be unhappy she was miserably idle, and had drifted from Paris back to London, and from London to Amsterdam, where her late lord's people were prominent among the powerful French faction, and still without finding any interest in life.
It was M. D'Avaux, with whom she had some former acquaintance, who had urgently requested her to come to The Hague, and she was here, listening to him, but without enthusiasm, being more engaged in watching the great number of well-dressed people who passed up and down the wide, clean street.
M. D'Avaux perhaps noticed her inattention, for he broke his discourse with an abrupt question.
"Would you care to see a revolution in your country—'49 over again with the Prince of Orange in place of Cromwell?"
She turned quickly, obviously startled. Though so indifferent to actual happenings, she was tenacious of tradition, and she felt a vast, though passive, admiration for the action of King James in re-establishing in his kingdoms the ancient faith that was hers.
"Why—you mean——" she began, and paused, searching his face with puzzled dark eyes.
"I mean, Madame," said M. D'Avaux strongly, "that your King is cutting away the supports that prop his throne—you must know something of the feeling in England."
"Yes," she assented; "the trouble with the colleges, the declaration of Indulgence, and some rare malicious talk of the Prince of Wales—but nothing like—a revolution!"
The Frenchman smiled.
"Let me tell you some facts. When Henry Sidney was Envoy here he was in reality the channel of communication between the Opposition in England and His Highness—even since his recall he hath served the same turn—and these last months Edward Russell hath been coming and going with messages between the Prince and those great Protestants whom the King hath put out of office."
"If this is known," cried Basilea, "surely it can be prevented—it is treason!"
"What is treason in England, Madame, is loyalty at The Hague—and do you imagine that I have any influence with the States, who are entirely under the rule of the Prince?"
"I have noticed," answered Basilea, "a monstrous number of English and French Protestants at The Hague, but thought they came here for a mere refuge."
"They come here," said M. D'Avaux drily, "for revenge—since the Edict of Nantes was revoked all the Huguenots look to the Prince, and since he refused his assent to the declaration of Indulgence every Englishman who is not a Romanist looketh to him also."
Basilea rose; the sunshine was over her curls and blue dress, and shook a red light from the garnets at her wrist; her eyes narrowed; she was interested by this clear talk of important events.
"What could the Prince do?" she asked quietly.
D'Avaux replied with some passion.
"This is the tenth year of the uneasy peace forced on His Highness by His Majesty and the late King Charles, and not a month of that time that he hath not been working to be avenged on us for the terms we obtained then—he hath combined powers in secret leagues against us, he hath vexed and defied us at every turn, and he hath never, for one moment, ceased to intrigue for the help of England against us—in some final issue."
"But England," said Basilea quickly, "is entirely bound to France——"
"Yes; and because of that, and because the Prince of Orange knoweth it, King James is in a desperate strait——"
"Why?"
"Madame, I know the Prince tolerably well—he never relinquishes any idea that hath a firm hold on his mind, and what he cannot accomplish by diplomacy he will assay by force."
"By force!" echoed Basilea, staring at the Ambassador.
He came a little nearer to her and lowered his voice.
"What is the business that keepeth Edward Russell on messenger duty to and fro The Hague and London? What is the business that keepeth the Prince for ever riding from his villa to the States? Why are all the harness makers of the Provinces making bridles, bits, and spurs? Why is the Prince, if there is not some great design afoot, buying up load after load of hay—why are new ships being built, fresh troops being raised?"
"Surely," answered Basilea, "I have heard it said that the States were making ready in case the dispute between King Louis and the Pope anent Cologne should involve attack on their frontiers."
"I do not believe it," said M. D'Avaux. "But King James and Lord Sunderland take your view—they will not be roused, they will not see, and daily they further rouse that loyalty which is their sole support. I am well informed from England that not one man in ten believeth the Prince of Wales to be the King's son, and that they regard the producing of him as a mere fraud to cheat the Princesses of their birthright."
"What do you mean, what do you think?" asked Basilea. "It is not possible that the Prince should claim his wife's inheritance by force of arms?"
"You put it very succinctly," said M. D'Avaux. "That is exactly what I think he will do."
Basilea was silent. The, to her, amazing aspect of international politics disclosed in M. D'Avaux's brief and troubled summary filled her with dismay and anger. The domestic government of England did not concern her, since she did not live under it, and her family, being Romanist, were more prosperous under King James than they had ever been. She had not given much thought to the justice or wisdom of the means the King had taken to convert his kingdom, but she approved of the principle. She had no admiration for the Prince of Orange, and no sympathy for the cause he upheld.
"He would never," she remarked, continuing her thoughts aloud, "dare the scandal of an open rupture betwixt himself and His Majesty, who is both his uncle and his wife's father——"
"There is nothing but dislike between them since the King recalled Sidney and the Prince refused his assent to the repeal of the Test Act——"
"But the Princess," interrupted Basilea. "Why, I used to know her, and I dare assure you she is not one to forget her duty——"
"Her duty!" repeated M. D'Avaux.
He looked at her intently.
"You have touched the reason why I asked you to come to The Hague," he said. "I want you to wait on the Princess and obtain from her some assurance that she would never countenance any menace to her father——"
"I am sure she would not," answered Basilea at once.
"I do hope it, for if she will not support her husband his design is as good as hopeless, since it is her claim, not his own, he must put forward."
Basilea smiled.
"She is a Stewart, must be a little ambitious, if nothing else, and hers was not a love-match that she should sacrifice everything to her husband."
She glanced quickly at M. D'Avaux, and added—
"But you still look doubtful——"
"Madame," he replied earnestly, "the Princess is a very ardent Protestant——"
"She was not at Whitehall."
"—She hath," he continued, "lived ten years with the Prince——"
"They say in England that he doth not treat her kindly——"
"His Majesty hath done his best to put discord between them—when Her Highness discovered that her Chaplain and one of her women, Anne Trelawney, were working on His Majesty's orders to make mischief betwixt the Prince and herself, she dismissed them. I thought that looked ill for us."
Basilea shook her head, still smiling.
"An English princess will not be so soon subdued—I'll undertake to get assurances from Her Highness that she is ignorant of these tales of the designs of the Prince, and that she would never support them if she knew of them."
Basilea spoke with some animation; she felt sure of what she said, and was not ill pleased to be of service to her own and her adopted country in this, as she thought it, pleasant fashion.
She remembered Mary Stewart as a lively, laughing girl, who had detested and opposed her marriage with much spirit, and she had no fear that she would find that wilful gay Princess difficult to manage.
D'Avaux was not so confident.
"You do not know the Prince," he remarked, and Basilea laughed.
"He is not so redoubtable where women are concerned, I think," she answered; "at least allow me to try."
"I ask it of you," he said gravely; "for more hangs on this than I dare think."
"Sure, you need not fear the Prince," she returned, "if he had the most wicked will in the world—the difficulties in his way are unsurmountable."
"France," he replied, "must make them so."
On that he took his leave, and left Basilea with more busy thoughts than had been hers for some while since.
She returned to the window-seat, propped her chin on her palm, and looked down the street. She was a pretty seeming woman, slender, dusky brown in the hair and eyes, of a just height and proportion, and her person was shown to advantage by the plain French style of her gown and ringlets, which had a graceful simplicity wholly wanting in the stiff fashions prevailing in England and the Low Countries.
Her window looked upon an end of the Buitenhof, one of the two great squares that formed the centre of The Hague so admired by strangers; it was planted with lime trees, now past their flowering time, but still fragrant and softly green in the gentle air of July.
A great number of people of both sexes, finely dressed, were passing up and down, on foot, on horseback, and in little open chariots and sedans. Basilea noticed many unmistakeably English, Scotch, and French of varying degrees of qualities—soldiers, divines, gentlemen, and women mingling with the crowd, hastening past with intent faces or lounging with idle glances at each other in hopes to detect a friend or patron.
She opened the window and leaned out so that she could see the Buitenhof with the straight lines and arches of the government buildings of the States, the trees that shaded the great fish-pond called the Vyver, and the open square where the carriages passed on their way to the fashionable promenade of the Voorhout and Toorviveld.
Among all the varying figures that caught her glance was that of a tall man in the garb of an English seaman—red breeches, a tarred coat, a cocked hat with his captain's colours, and a heavy sword.
She noticed him first because he stopped to ask directions of two passers-by, English also, and because he was, even among so many, of a fine and showy appearance.
He turned at first towards the arches that led through to the Binnenhof and the Hall of the Knights, then hesitated, turned back, and retraced his steps until he was just under Basilea's window.
Here he paused again, and accosted a stout gentleman in the dress of an Anglican priest, who was dashing through the press with a great air of importance and hurry.
On seeing the tarpaulin he greeted him with noisy surprise and pleasure, and drew him a little out of the crowd, and proceeded to converse eagerly with the unction of the inveterate talker.
Basilea laughed to herself as she observed the seaman's efforts to escape, and to obtain some answer to a question first.
At last he seemed to accomplish both, for he wrenched himself from the powerful presence of the priest, and hastened towards the Stadhuis, while the other called after him in a voice meant to be subdued, but still so resonant that Basilea could hear every word: "The Prince will be back to-morrow evening!"
The seaman waved his hat, nodded, and hastened on.
Basilea wondered why a common sailor should be concerned as to when His Highness returned to The Hague, and concluded, rather angrily, that here was evidence of one of the manifold intrigues which the Whigs, M. D'Avaux had assured her, carried on almost openly in Holland.
CHAPTER V
THE PRINCESS OF ORANGE
Basilea de Marsac waited on Her Highness the day after her interview with M. D'Avaux; a curious coincidence had strengthened her desire to see the Princess, and piqued her curiosity as to the sentiments of that lady. One of the fast packets that were constantly plying between the States and England had brought her a letter from Lady Sunderland, who was, to Basilea, a person who of all others must find it her interest and duty to be intensely loyal. My lady wrote a long and involved letter, but the sum of it seemed to be what M. D'Avaux had put much more plainly, namely, that the King's party (among whom was, of course, Lord Sunderland) had become alarmed at the crisis the actions of His Majesty had brought upon the country in attempting to push forward his own religion, and that they feared an active interference on the part of the Prince of Orange, now his wife's claims were indefinitely postponed by the birth of the Prince of Wales, and his hopes of an English alliance against the French for ever shattered by the policy of King James.
Lady Sunderland concluded by asking of Basilea what M. D'Avaux had asked—that she should discover the mind of the Princess, and draw some promise from her for the satisfaction of Royalist and Romanist, to the effect that Her Highness would never let her title to the English throne be a handle for her husband's political designs.
Basilea was half roused, half amused by the double errand. She was not very well informed about politics, but she felt in her heart an absolute doubt of any revolution in England. All her life there had been talk of it, but it had always ended in a few executions or fights in Scotland, or some such vague conclusions in which she had never been very interested; but she could understand that Lady Sunderland did not feel lukewarm in the matter. Ever since the May of last year, when the Earl had been converted to the Church of Rome (a step which none other of the King's ministers had taken), he had been as detested in England as it was possible for a man to be. The King alone protected him, and if he fell, there was little doubt that his fall also would be swift and terrible.
Basilea liked the Countess; she was better pleased to serve her than to serve M. D'Avaux, and she anticipated, with pleasure, being able to write in answer that the Princess was still a Stewart, despite ten years' residence in Holland.
It was late afternoon when Basilea had her audience (accorded without difficulty) at the Prince's villa beyond The Hague, called the 'huis ten bosch' by reason of the beautiful wood and deer park in which it stood. This house had been built by the Prince's grandmother, Amalia of Solms, and contained the famous hall which she had decorated in honour of her husband, the Stadtholder Frederick Henry. There was no splendour, however, in the apartments Basilea saw; the appointments were neat and comfortable, but neither lavish nor rich, and she had known English ladies better served as to the quantity and appearance of servants than was the Princess Royal of England.
In a room at the back, that overlooked a formal garden filled with roses and box hedges, Basilea found the mistress of the quiet house and the lady whose mind two great kingdoms were anxious to know.
It was a chamber panelled in walnut, and furnished by chairs with worked seats and stools with fringed covers, several fine pieces of Eastern furniture, and many shelves on which stood curious and vivid china monsters and vases, and low pots filled with roses.
Basilea did not know which of the two young ladies seated by the window was the Princess, so utterly had ten years worked their change.
She hesitated after her courtsey, and the taller of the two ladies came forward and took her hand warmly.
"Are you Basilea Gage with whom I used to play at Twickenham?" she asked. "Why did you not come to see me sooner?"
She smiled half wistfully, and turned to her companion.
"This is Mademoiselle Dyckfelt, and this is Madame de Marsac, Anne, whom I told you was coming to-day."
She had a timid way of speaking, as if she was shy, and, to Basilea, something of the formal in her manner, as if she was preoccupied.
The Dutch lady was like most of her countrywomen whom Basilea had observed, very fair and pretty, with that glow and robust brightness that gave the women of Holland their reputation for handsomeness. She was plainly dressed in grey branched with silver, and was engaged in working a chair-cover in cross stitch. The vivid green and blue of the wools she used showed off her small, plump white hands—a common beauty among her nation.
The Princess began talking of England and the people she remembered there; while Basilea answered she observed Mary, who seemed to her disappointingly strange and indifferent.
Still little more than a girl, she was extremely beautiful, uniting her father's aristocratic grace and her mother's soft charm; though dignified and above the common height, she bore herself humbly and with a deprecating sweetness.
Basilea was not the only one who at first sight had been impressed with the air of simple purity which heightened and glorified Mary's beauty, for it was impossible to find a fault in her person or manner: she was unconscious of herself, tactful, without affectations or vanities, watchful for others, and charming in address, though with that pretty reserve that Basilea called formality.
Her features were not unlike those of her ancestress—another Mary Stewart, Queen of Scotland—soft and lovely, childlike in profile, with the gentle curve of contour; but grave and rather sad in the full look, and with the expression of a woman, and a woman who has observed, grieved, and pitied.
Her brown eyes were very large, misty, and continually narrowed from weak sight, her hair, of the Stewart red-brown, hung in thick natural curls from a simple knot in her neck.
She gained no advantage from her dress, which would not have offended a Puritan: the straight, boned bodice and stiff falling stuff of a dull pink colour held no line of grace, and the prim ruffles to wrist and throat were more decorous than becoming. At the English court her attire would have been considered ugly, if not ridiculous, and Basilea did not find it pleasing. She was not herself of a type that can afford to forego the advantages of adornment, and she reflected that with the Princess's beauty and her own taste she could have made a sumptuous appearance.
While thus inwardly admired and criticized, Mary was speaking of England and all her one-time friends there, and Mademoiselle Dyckfelt making comments in pretty broken English, accompanied with a little gasping laugh which Basilea had noticed in many Dutch people.
Through all her amiable converse Mary betrayed some slight inner agitation and expectation, as if she feared the visit might have another meaning than mere courtesy; and Basilea guessed that she, whose position was one of such importance in Europe, must be used to oblique attempts to sound her views.
With a half-faint amusement she made her own essay—
"Highness, I was in good hopes that you would not seem such a stranger to me, because I am instructed to make the venture to speak with you——"
Mary looked at her quickly, and interrupted—
"By whom instructed?"
"Lady Sunderland, Madame, for whom your Highness was wont to have some kindness."
The Princess flushed, and Basilea wondered why, as her sole answer was—
"I think Lady Sunderland a good woman."
Basilea smiled.
"She is also, as Your Highness knoweth, a great politic, which I never was nor could be, and hath set me to ask Your Highness some questions bearing on great affairs."
"Great affairs," said Mary under her breath. She rose gravely. "I think we must not plague Mademoiselle Dyckfelt with this talk. Will you, Madame, come into the garden?"
The Dutch maiden rose and unlatched the long window, then returned placidly to her sewing.
Mary and Basilea descended a few steps into the formal garden, mainly composed of box hedges and clipt rose bushes, with a square pond in the centre bordered with little yellow yew trees in wooden tubs and precise beds of pinks and herbs.
The tall and beautiful trees of the deer park in which the villa stood rose up, with the elegant air of loftiness peculiar to the trees of a perfectly flat country where they are the highest things the eye has within range; the air also was characteristic, being of that strangely exhilarating quality of salt freshness that in every part of the United Provinces served as a perpetual reminder of the sea. It was warm to-day, and the sun was golden in the foliage, and lay in scattered flecks of light among the flowers, and on the pond where two waterlilies were slowly closing to the evening.
"You may speak quite frankly now," said Mary, as they proceeded slowly down the gravel path. "Have you a message from Lady Sunderland?"
"No, Madame," said Basilea, surprised that the Princess should seem to expect it. "Only—it is difficult to express, Highness—but there are monstrous tales abroad in France, England, and even here——"
The Princess looked at her silently.
"They do say," continued Basilea, "that His Highness meddleth in the affairs of England, and these rumours give disquietude to His Majesty——"
Mary broke in, rather breathless—
"I know nothing of business—my husband heareth so much of it abroad that he is glad to talk of other matters at home. What doth Lady Sunderland want of me?"
Basilea answered directness with directness.
"She wisheth to know—that the Earl may put it privately before His Majesty—your mind on the matter between His Highness and the King."
"What matter is that?" asked Mary.
Basilea was at a loss.
"Your Highness must know better than I: as for these horrible rumours——"
Mary paused by a rose bush and asked steadily—
"What rumours?"
"I think it would be unseemly to name them!"
"I will hold you excused," said the Princess, still gravely.
"Then, Madame, 'tis said that His Highness is so exasperate with the policy of His Majesty and postponement of your claim by the birth of the Prince, that he might attempt to do what my Lord Monmouth did——"
Mary's fine fingers pulled delicately at the rose leaves.
"My husband and that poor unhappy gentleman are such different characters and in such different situations," she said, "that there can be no comparison. I think the Prince would never do as the Duke did."
Basilea looked at her keenly.
"'Tis asserted, Lady Sunderland saith, that the Prince is in league with all the discontents of England, that he sheltereth many at The Hague——"
"This country," answered the Princess quietly, "hath always been a refuge for the unfortunate, and it is reasonable that the near connection of my husband to the throne should give him an interest in English business."
Basilea was older than the Princess, whose air of extreme gentleness further emboldened her to take, half unconsciously, a masterful tone.
"I can assure Lady Sunderland that His Highness is innocent of the designs imputed to him."
Mary glanced up from the rose bush; she smiled very slightly.
"Why, you must go to the Prince for that assurance; I know nothing about it."
Basilea stirred the gravel with her square-toed red shoe.
"You must know, Madame," she said slowly, "whether you would hinder or further the Prince his projects?"
Mary flushed, and the full brown eyes narrowed.
"Neither you nor I," she answered, "can discuss His Highness his projects, which ever have been and will be for the good of Europe."
Basilea looked at her curiously.
"I fear Your Highness will think me impertinent, but," she thought of the grave words of M. D'Avaux, and the memory urged her not to be put off by the evasiveness of the Princess—"but there are strange things said in Paris and London——"
"Madame de Marsac," interrupted Mary gently, "if my father hath cause to complain of me, he must send a direct messenger."
Basilea felt herself rebuked.
"I do not carry His Majesty's complaints, Highness," she answered humbly. "I am but the poor engine of the fears of my Lady Sunderland, who saith that in London the Prince his name is on the lips of all the discontents, and it is feared that they might set him up as a pretender; and since that could not be if you refused your consent, it would be a great comfort to His Majesty and his faithful ministers if you would give that assurance."
The Princess took a step forward, then stopped as if by an effort of self-control.
"I cannot deal with these secret and underground counsels," she said firmly; "and my poor brains are not fit for business."
"This is not business, Highness," urged Basilea.
"Whatever you call it," demanded the Princess, "why did you undertake it?"
"Because M. D'Avaux——" began Basilea, then stopped vexed; she had not meant to mention that name.
"M. D'Avaux," repeated Mary, with a heightened colour; "so he hath a mind to know what I shall do if a certain crisis cometh?"
Both the tone and the words seemed to betray more interest and knowledge than she had yet disclosed, and Basilea was encouraged.
"M. D'Avaux is an acquaintance of mine," she said frankly.
"Ah yes," replied Mary; "you are a Papist, and your husband was a Frenchman. I think that meaneth," she added courteously, "that we cannot see things the same."
"Your Highness doth not desire to behold Europe embroiled in another war!"
Mary answered earnestly—
"There is nothing further from my wishes, and no ambition of mine," she added half wistfully, "would disturb anybody's peace. I bless my God that I know the life I am suited to, and I thank Him that He hath given me the grace to know when I am happy."
She put her hand gently on Basilea's sleeve.
"It is getting too dark to remain here, and you have not even looked at my roses!"
Basilea admitted herself defeated. She was a little chagrined at the thought of the lame report she would have to give M. D'Avaux, but she could press no more, especially as she had an uneasy feeling that the Princess thought the less of her for the errand she had come upon.
She left talk of politics, and Mary accompanied her with easy courtesy to the front of the villa, where her hired chariot waited with her maid yawning herself to death over an old-fashioned romance by Mademoiselle de Scudery, which she had found in the inn parlour.
The sky was paling and flushing behind the great avenue of trees rich in their full leafage, and the rooks were noisy in the branches.
"This is a pretty spot, Highness," said Basilea, on the impulse of the moment.
Mary smiled.
Two men were mounting the few wide entrance steps. Basilea noticed them, because one was the red-breeched sailor whom she had seen yesterday beneath her window, the other was a slight gentleman in a circular mantle turned up over one shoulder, wearing riding boats and carrying a whip; Basilea saw his horse being led off by a bareheaded groom.
She could not restrain her curiosity at seeing the seaman entering the Prince's villa.
"Doth Your Highness know that man?" she asked.
Mary glanced at the two as she closed the gate in the garden wall.
"Which?" she asked, smiling.
"The English sailor——"
"No; but he hath good credentials, for that is the Prince with him," said Mary quietly.
Basilea was further surprised; she endeavoured to gain a closer view of the Stadtholder and his companion, but they had entered the house; she was satisfied, however, that she had something to tell M. D'Avaux.
"You must not marvel at the companion of His Highness," continued the Princess; "there are many come here who are glad to wear disguises, owing to the rancour of the persecution of the Protestants in France."
Basilea courtsied her leave. She was quite convinced that the seaman was not French nor on any message from France, and she was beginning to be convinced, too, that the Princess was marvellously changed and different, and that it would be well for neither Lady Sunderland nor M. D'Avaux to be too sure of her compliance.
Mary allowed her to depart without that demonstration of kindness with which she had received her, and Basilea stepped into her chariot feeling disappointed and dissatisfied.
Mary, still standing by the garden wall at the side of the house, watched the little coach swing out of sight down the long darkening drive, and when it was lost in the shadows ran lightly up the steps and in through the tall doors: there, in the light painted vestibule, she found the Prince and the English seaman conversing.
She paused, flushed, and breathing in pants. The Prince took off his hat, and said—
"This is the Princess, sir."
The sailor turned quickly, and gave her a sharp look as he bowed.
"This is Admiral Herbert, Madame," continued the Prince, "who is new come from England."
The colour receded from Mary's face. She glanced in a half frightened way at her husband.
"Oh," she murmured, "I wished to speak to you—but it can wait—for I suppose Admiral Herbert his business is ... important."
There was a tenseness of containment among the three of them, as if they were all aware of great events and would not speak of them.
"If the Princess is informed——" began Arthur Herbert.
The Stadtholder interrupted.
"The Princess knoweth everything, Mr. Herbert."
Arthur Herbert betrayed the slightest surprise, covered instantly by a ready turn of speech.
"Her Highness will understand, then, the importance of my business."
He bowed again, very courteous, to Mary, who answered instantly—
"I will not hinder you, Mr. Herbert, not for an instant."
The Prince looked at her.
"Send for me when I am free, Madame."
With that they both saluted her, and turned into the room at the right of the vestibule.
Mary stood motionless in the twilight, staring at the spot where the English messenger had stood, peered at the closed door that concealed him, then went softly and, it seemed, fearfully away.