CHAPTER XITHREE PAWNSThree English gentlemen were walking slowly round the Vyverburg on the side where stand the spacious courts of the Buitenhof; the ground beneath their feet was thickly covered with dry yellow leaves, and the trees above their heads almost bare, but the sun shone as strong as summer on the placid surface of the water, and gleamed with a red fire in the rows of long windows of the Government buildings; the sky was a great luminous space of blue gold, against which the trees and houses the other side of the lake showed with a tender clarity, like the pictures of that great artist, Ver Meer of Delft.There were swans and ducks on the lake; they, like the water on which they swam, were touched with this universal hue of gold, and seemed to be cleaving a way through glimmering mists of sunshine.The three gentlemen paused by one of the posts protecting the edge of the water; it was near evening, and under the calm was the sense of a little rising wind, salt from the sea. Not a word was spoken between these three who had fallen from much talk to idleness; all had the same subject in their minds, though each coloured it with his own temperament; all of them were remarkable-looking men, and typical of some aspect of the great movement of which they formed a part.The eldest was a man still in his prime, red-haired and tanned to an unnatural darkness, with something stern, sad, and passionate in his face, and an abruptness in his movements; he wore the splendid appointments of a soldier; across his shoulder was twisted a rich oriental scarf of coloured silk and gold threads; his name was Fletcher of Saltoun, a noble Scot, who had returned from the Turkish war to assist in the enterprise of the Stadtholder.The second was a youth of singular sweetness of expression and delicacy of feature, plainly dressed in grey; the charm of his appearance was marred solely by a black silk patch which he wore over his left eye; he was staring at the water with a melancholy air, and now and then sighed; this was Charles Talbot, eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury, dismissed last year from the army and the Lord-Lieutenancy of Staffordshire for refusing to abjure his religion; he had mortgaged his estates for £40,000, which was now at the Bank of Amsterdam at the service of the Prince. He was for the moment but one of the many refugees at The Hague.The third was by far the most remarkable, and bore most signs of greatness: young, though a little older than the Earl, he was not, perhaps, half the height, being hunch-shouldered to a deformity, and thin and meagre in body; his face, livid and lined with disease, wore a sparkling expression of energy, his eyes, large, noble, and ever changing in expression with a kind of restless animation, scorn, impatience, and dare-devilry; even now, when standing still, he thrummed with his fingers on the railing and whistled 'Lillibulero' under his breath.He was that Lord Mordaunt whose fiery, careless courage had urged this expedition on the Prince a year ago.Fretting under the languor and idleness engendered by the beautiful late afternoon and the serene fair prospect, he proceeded to lead his companions out of the silence to which they were so obviously inclined."Where will the Prince land, eh, my lord?" he asked of Shrewsbury. "In the south-west or the north-east?"He knew that my lord could not know what was not yet decided, but the question served to break the pause."Why, 'tis even what they argue about," answered the Earl. "Lord Dunblaine was with His Highness yesterday, and gave as his father's advice that we should choose the north, because 'tis so easy to obtain horses in Yorkshire——""Or because my Lord Danby," sneered Mordaunt, "hath such a pull in that county that he hopeth to get His Highness into his hands.""The Prince is very secret," said Mr. Fletcher."He listeneth to all and agreeth with none," answered my Lord Mordaunt."He might be more open," complained the Earl, who of the three was most in the favour of William; but Mordaunt perhaps understood the Prince better."Dr. Burnet is to draw up the letter to the Church," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I ever disliked him.""He is translating the Prince his Declaration also," said the Earl discontentedly. "I do hope the Prince will not be led by such an extreme Low Churchman——""M. Fagel wrote it," answered Mordaunt. "His Highness said the English were all such party men he would not trust them to prepare it. He is himself writing the letter to the army—you have heard? He is clever with the pen.""He may," broke out Mr. Fletcher, "trust Dr. Burnet as much as he pleaseth; but if he is to put his confidence in my Lord Danby we are as good as lost——""Better my Lord Danby than my Lord Sunderland," interrupted Shrewsbury; "it surpriseth me that he can deal with such a knave."Lord Mordaunt gave an impatient pirouette."Why is there all this delay—delay?" he cried, "Iwould have sailed months ago!"Mr. Fletcher roused at that. He was innocent enough in the matter of politics to have been one of those who accompanied, with hope of success, Lord Monmouth on his fatal expedition, and to consider the Prince's attempt as such another enterprise."You are right," he said gloomily. "The King will get wind of it, and Dartmouth will have his ships spread all round the coast to prevent a landing.""I am sick of The Hague—sick!" exclaimed Mordaunt impetuously. "If His Highness don't leave the cursed place soon, I'll go without him!"Shrewsbury laughed, then Mordaunt himself good-humouredly; Mr. Fletcher stared at the slow-sailing ducks. He did not care much what happened, but he hated inaction, and began to regret the Turks who had provided it."You have heard that Skelton hath been recalled and lodged in the Tower?" asked Mordaunt."Yes," said Shrewsbury; "it was in the letters this morning. It might have been expected after His Majesty's denial of a French alliance and reprimand to M. Barillon.""Sure bad policy," said Mr. Fletcher, but without enthusiasm, "and a good stroke for the Prince."In truth none of these gentlemen guessed what a stroke. James had actually stepped into the trap laid for him, and, seeing how great an advantage the appearance of an alliance between him and France gave the States, had angrily repudiated the suggestion, and haughtily reprimanded M. Barillon for French interference with his affairs. Sunderland, prepared by the Prince, had urged him on to this course, and the letters of M. D'Albeville had served to back the Lord-President's reassurances. The Prince had been triumphant in this encounter, the States and the people were warmer in his cause than ever after this proof, as they took it, of a connection, between France and England, dangerous to themselves. M. D'Avaux, since the disgrace of Skelton, was silent with mortification, and a kind of lull hung over Europe; William was looking with a terrible anxiety towards Flanders, where Louis had his troops threatening the frontiers of the Spanish Lowlands, and so the United Provinces. What would Louis do now the King of England had rejected his warnings and refused his aid? On the answer to that question the fate of Protestant Europe depended.But these three knew and cared little of these matters; their minds were set wholly on the domestic policies of England, and occupied with a vague ideal of liberty for their own faith and their country's laws, not unmingled with some desire for vengeance on the party now upper-most."I saw Sir James Stair to-day," said Mr. Fletcher suddenly; "he hath come from Leyden to join the Prince. I suppose he will take to himself the affairs of Scotland.""Nay," answered the Earl; "the Prince is all for William Carstares, a poor, mean Scottish minister; but, sir, more in the Prince his confidence than any of us——""Carstares," cried Mordaunt, with flashing eyes, "hath been under torture with secrets of M. Fagel in his keeping, and never betrayed them. A brave man!"Shrewsbury shrugged his shoulders delicately."I wish we sailed to-morrow," said Fletcher of Saltoun.The restless Mordaunt moved on, and the others sauntered beside him."The boats are all creeping down to the sea laden with arms," he said excitedly. "They lie thick as pebbles among the reeds of the islands of the Rhine and Meure. Sirs, ye should see them.""I had the Prince his command to stay at The Hague," answered Shrewsbury. "Saw you these boats?""That I did, and pontoons, and transports, and the hay slung in ropes in the ports, and the great trains of artillery..."They were walking towards the Gevangenpoort, the prison gate which rose up by the side of the Vyver. The hazy sky was changing to a tawny colour behind the dark roof lines of the houses, flushed here and there with gold and a stain of purple; little pale, shell-coloured clouds floated away to the uppermost heights of heaven where the clear blue was still untouched, and the water began to glow and burn with the reflected fires of the sky.The clear chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the hour, and the sound of oncoming horsemen caused the few passers-by to pause before entering the narrow way of the prison arch.A cavalcade came into sight from the direction of the Stadhuis, and moved at a swift trot towards the Gevangenpoort—a number of gentlemen, with two riding before the others.As they passed every hat was removed."The Prince returning from Helvoet," said Lord Mordaunt, and the three uncovered as the horsemen approached.The Stadtholder was mounted on a huge grey Flemish horse, and on his right hand rode the Maréchal de Schomberg, still erect and magnificent; the two were talking with a certain stiff courtesy; behind them came the Spanish envoy, M. Zuylestein, M. Zolms, and M. Auverqueverque, together with a number of Dutch and German nobles.The Prince saw the three Englishmen and saluted very graciously; the setting sun was for a moment full on his grave face, then he passed through the prison arch, and the company clattered over the cobbles out of sight."No Englishman with him, mark you," said Mr. Fletcher."Mr. Herbert told me that hecouldnot be open with us," replied Shrewsbury."Yet Herbert is to have the command of the expedition, is he not?""They say so; but he is full of discontent. Admiral Evertgen hath spoken against him to the Prince, methinks."Mr. Fletcher saluted one of his countrymen whom he had recognized, and the three turned back.A steady dusk was descending, extinguishing the colours in the sky, in the water, in the windows of the Binnenhof, and blurring those in the dresses of the people passing to and fro; only the trees and the houses retained their distinctness and sharpness of outline, and they took on a marvellous colour of living silver grey. Long deep shadows blended with the water the beautiful irregular buildings that had been the theatre of so many great events; the swans stood out, a dead white, from hues rapidly darkening and mysterious; their feathers were ruffled by a long breeze that swept chilly from the sea and salt dunes at Scheveningen.A yellow light sprang up in one of the lower windows of the Binnenhof, and cast reflections far beneath it in the water."Did you ever hear the story of John de Witt, the late Grand Pensionary?" asked Shrewsbury, pulling his cloak about him. "M. Bentinck told me, and kept me out of bed with the tale——""Why should you think of that now?" asked Mordaunt curiously."You see that light there—the first to be lit in the Binnenhof?—that was his room, and M. Bentinck said that always when one passed late one would see that candle shine and know that M. de Witt was still waking.""He got a poor reward," said Mr. Fletcher. "He was torn to bits on the Plaats, was he not?""Anyone whose memory goeth back sixteen years will give you an account of it," answered my Lord Mordaunt dryly. "I wish I had been beside M. de Witt that day with a sword in my hand!"The Earl sighed."How cold it bloweth! A severe winter is presaged, do you not think, my lord?" he said. Then abruptly: "Why should good men meet such ends?"Lord Mordaunt laughed."You ask me to explain ingratitude? By Heaven, I have not the wit for the task.""Ingratitude!" frowned Shrewsbury; "but these people love the Prince because he hath done them great services——""But shall we?" interrupted Mordaunt. "Ah, sir, I think the Prince will meet the same spirit as did John de Witt, should he ever rule in England——""Why, God forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Fletcher."What?" demanded Mordaunt sharply—"that we should ever be ungrateful?""No; that His Highness should ever rule in Britain."Lord Mordaunt answered with some intensity—"Are you so simple, sir, as to think we can have a man like that among usnotruling us?"Lord Shrewsbury was doubtfully silent. His timorous nature had been startled by the sudden action into which circumstances had spurred it. A sense of loyalty, a terror of underhand methods, a dread of anything so violent as a revolution made him already secretly regret the part he had so far played so well.Mr. Fletcher answered carelessly and thoughtlessly—"You set too high a value on the little Prince. His life is not worth a year's purchase."Lord Mordaunt flashed an extraordinary look over the fine person of the speaker, and the comely youth of the Earl. His thin hand clutched on to his sword-belt, and his haggard face flushed."You set too high a value on bone and muscle!" he cried, with a passionate sneer. "You are jolly fellows, both of you; but who will remember you when you have been dead a year? But men," he added with a terrible energy, "will talk of the Prince of Orange, and of me."They stared at him, amazed at this outburst, and Shrewsbury, seeing what a frail, deformed creature he was, blushed with a kind of shame."Good God!" said Mr. Fletcher, "I am not working for fame, my lord.""No!" flashed Lord Mordaunt; "creatures of clay—of clay! Prettily coloured, but a breath of the fire that burneth in the little plain vessels would crack you in a day."He gave a flourishing bow, and walked off towards the Stadhuis."An Eccentric," remarked Mr. Fletcher, looking after him."I fear so. He will put himself into a passion at a word; but he would pledge his whole fortune for you if you were in need of it," answered the Earl. "How suddenly dark it is; let us, sir, go home."CHAPTER XIIFRANCE MOVES AGAINIt was mid-October; the Prince's preparations were complete, even to the putting of the horses on board, and yet there was silence from France. A terrible lull of suspense hushed the United Provinces, and of all the anxious hearts there was none so anxious as that of the man who had staked this great wager—the Stadtholder.On this day, the nineteenth of the month, he returned from the camp at Nymwegen, where he had been reviewing the troops long since secretly raised and drilled by him, and now sanctioned by the States, entered The Hague privately, and rode to the Binnenhof, where he was closeted with M. Fagel, who gave him the last assurances that all opposition, even from the Republican or Loeventein party, was extinct.When he left the Grand Pensionary and came out into the still corridors of the Binnenhof, he stood thoughtfully for a moment, at the head of the staircase, thinking of the various threads, all so different in texture, that he had almost succeeded in weaving into the completed pattern of his design.His own country, the German princes, the Empire, Spain, Sweden, England, the Pope—all combined at last with one aim, to answer the aggressions of France.For ten years, ever since the Peace of Nymwegen had been forced on him, he had been working through gloom, disappointment, discouragement, for this end. His answer to the revocation of the Nantz edict and the seizure of Orange had been the League of Augsburg, which was now bearing fruit, and all Europe was directed against France.Toil, energy, courage, patience, and genius were telling. The young disinherited Prince, who had been treated as a mere pawn by Charles and Louis, the general of twenty-two with a miserable army, who had been offered humiliating terms by the French, insolently victorious, had slowly grown to be a power that both Bourbon and Stewart feared, and whose influence was predominant over the larger half of the Continent.His rapid thoughts went back over the years to those black days of blood and despair when he had been put at the head of his country's fortunes and trusted with her sole hopes. Defeat—disappointment had often been his in his struggle to maintain the position of the States in Europe, but even to his own judgment, and he ranked his own achievements low, it seemed that success had waited on all his apparent failures, for his country was not only free but great, and he not only independent but powerful.Slowly he began to descend the stairs, which were full of a misty sunlight. When he reached the first landing-place a man stepped from one of the tall doors, and, seeing the Prince, bowed and stood very respectfully waiting for him to pass.William paused, came to a stop, and regarded this man with a close, keen scrutiny.He stood so still that the object of his gaze lifted surprised eyes, and the two looked at each other.The Prince stood at the bottom of the flight of stairs, one hand resting on the polished newel post. He was in buff military attire and carried over his right arm a heavy dark cloak; he wore a black beaver that shaded his brow, but the rich light was full on his face, which expressed a strong emotion sternly contained.Behind him a blue and green tapestry hung on the dark wall; it showed a sea fight with curious ships and curling waves, and banners rising through smoke; the sun showed every thread in it—every crease, and the latent gold in the heavy chestnut locks of the Prince."M. Heinsius," he said softly."Your Highness?"The Prince did not change his position nor move his brilliant gaze."I think to leave the States very soon, as you know, Mynheer; you know also under what circumstances." He paused a second, then added: "I have your good wishes, Mynheer?"Antoon Heinsius coloured from chin to brow. He had been of the Loeventein party and in favour of France, but his policy had changed lately to an adherence to the Stadtholder; he had not expected this to be remarked by William."Every true heart in Holland," he answered strongly, "must pray for the success of Your Highness."William descended to the landing-place and laid his frail hand, half concealed in embroidered linen ruffles, on the sleeve of M. Heinsius."You are the kind of man I want. M. Fagel is old and in failing health—he needeth help," he said. "You are a patriot; you would, I think, do anything for the States."The words were poor compared to the fire and energy in the Stadtholder's strained but steady voice, and the purpose in the gentle firm touch of his hand on the other man's arm.M. Antoon Heinsius answered instantly, with a deepening of the colour in his fine handsome face—"Your Highness doth me exceeding honour.""I am never better pleased," said William, "than when I can make a man like you my friend.""Your friend—your servant, Highness," murmured M. Heinsius. He was considerably moved by this kindness from one usually so stately and reserved, and one whom he had of late, as he understood his policy better, warmly admired."You know my aims, my plans of government," continued the Stadtholder; "you will know what to do in my absence,—by serving Holland you serve more than Holland."Heinsius answered earnestly—"Before God I will do my best.""Your best is well worth having, Mynheer. I have noticed your career."The two men, but a little time since in opposition, looked with complete understanding into each other's eyes. The Prince had won the fine loyalty of M. Heinsius as he won all whom he set himself to gain, as he won ultimately, indeed, all those who served him and came to know him intimately."The States have acted to the wishes of Your Highness?" asked M. Heinsius."The States have trusted me," answered the Prince. "Even the Loeventein faction are eager for me to depart on this expedition, in the hopes, maybe"—he smiled—"that I shall be slain or affronted. But I have anxieties."He paused and looked at the water of the Vyverberg that lay glinting with autumn gold beneath the window."Mynheer," he added, "a country is a high stake—one's own country. Mynheer," he looked again into the face of the older man, "you have perhaps thought there was some wantonness in this my resolve, you have thought that I may have dared too much in offering to take beyond seas all the defences of the States.""Never!" answered M. Heinsius firmly. "I understand and I applaud the policy of Your Highness.""It is," said the Stadtholder, "on a sure bottom and to be justified. Yet, until I know what France doth, I am no better than a man on the rack.""You think—even now?""Even now—if they were to fall on the frontier! Nought there but the Spaniards! But a little while will show us."He paused again, then said, weighing his words, and with a strange mingling of simplicity and dignity."I am no King in this country, Mynheer, but the servant of the Republic, and you, who are a knowing man and one who hath the common welfare at heart, I would have hold me justified in this I do. I have been believed ambitious, but my ambition is one with the good of the States, and God knoweth that I do not take this tremendous risk from any such paltry motive, but because it is our chance, which if we do not take we are as good as lost.""It is no flattery to say that I agree with Your Highness, who seeth farther and more clearly than most men.""You will hear them," answered William, "talk of England, and what I do to gain England, and how much store I set by that country. Be not deceived; England is but a counter in the game I play, and, if I succeed, will be but one of many allies which we will lead against France. And always with me, Mynheer Heinsius, it is the Republic—always."He spoke with intensity and emotion that were the more moving in contrast to his usual sternness."The deeds of Your Highness have proved your words," answered Antoon Heinsius in an unsteady voice.The Stadtholder sighed."I will not disguise from you that my sufferings are terrible—my disquietude almost unbearable, for it is the Republic at stake," he said.He gave his hand to M. Heinsius, who kissed it very lowly, and left the Binnenhof.He had not so much as a footboy in attendance, and rode rapidly to the 'huis ten bosch' with little regard for the salutes and respectful homage of those he passed. His contemplated enterprise, the very daring of which, owing to his usual caution, was the more awe-inspiring, made him even more than ever an object of admiration and attention at The Hague.Once within the bounds of his own woods he was enwrapped in the gracious loveliness of the trees—the quiet of the frost-bound earth, and had almost reached the house before he met anyone; then, round the turn of the long main avenue came a lady, very gracefully riding a white horse.The Prince gave her a quick glance, touched his beaver, and was passing with no slacking of his pace, but she drew rein and said in a faint voice—"Your Highness——" with a little gesture that seemed to entreat him to stay.He turned his horse instantly."I am leaving The Hague, sir," she said, speaking English, which was obviously her native tongue. "I have the permission of Her Highness to go see my sister who is sadly worse."She was young, very slender, and carried herself with a certain air of fire and pride, a certain poise of dignity and animation charming to behold; her features were ordinary, but vivacious and intelligent; there was a certain set or cast in her brown eyes not unattractive, and her hair, in a hundred gleaming hues of gold, red, and deep honey colour, hung in thick curls on to her riding coat, cut like a man's and thickly embroidered with gold."Madame Bentinck is worse?" repeated William in a quick distress."They did say so. I felt I should go.""I am grieved a thousand times," he added, "and for M. Bentinck"—he spoke with real feeling, but with that touch of constraint (unlike his usual reserve) which marked her manner to him—"and for you, Madam."Miss Villiers hesitated a second, then said abruptly—"I did not think to meet you. I shall not see you again before you sail. Take my poor wishes with you.""I have been so bold as to feel sure of them," he answered gravely. She was silent, but he did not ride on, but sat with slack reins looking at her, half in the thick autumn sunlight, half in the shade of the close tree trunks, for the sun was sinking.They had not spoken to each other alone for years; but when she had first come to The Hague with his wife there had been a swift attraction between them, which, for all her discretion and his reserve, had not failed to be seized upon by the English agents to work discords in the Court of The Hague. It was not so long ago that the Princess's Chaplain, Dr. Covell, and Miss Trelawney, had been dismissed by Mary for inventing and spreading this kind of gossip for the benefit of those spies of the English Court who were ever endeavouring to estrange the Prince from his wife.The Stadtholder was sensitive to these malicious scandals. He rather avoided Miss Villiers, who, on her part, was utterly indifferent to report and, secure in the position the marriage of her sister to M. Bentinck gave her, troubled herself not in the least either about Mary's gentle dislike or her own unpopularity in The Hague. She had great gifts—wit and courage and understanding, enthusiasm and self-control; she was very reserved, no one knew her well, not the Prince now, though once he had had her inspiring friendship, her brilliant advice, her ardent attention; she was still of service to him, but always through the medium of her sister and M. Bentinck. It was strange to both of them to come face to face like this in those woods in which, near ten years ago, they had walked together, and he had told her of his hopes and fears previous, and just after the Peace of Nymwegen.He smiled and she frowned; each wondered how much that friendship had been worth to the other; Miss Villiers thought that she had long been balanced with his wife in his affections; he, that she had never considered him as more than the embodiment of a policy that she admired—both were wrong."Tell me," she said suddenly, "are you still in fears of the French?""The greatest fears. Until I know how they are going to move I consider the whole plan in jeopardy. If they should march on the frontiers——""God forbid!" she exclaimed fervently. "When will you know?""I am utterly in the dark.""I shall not sleep until you have safely sailed," she said. "For what is to become of England if this faileth?""It must not fail," he answered quietly.Miss Villiers looked at him strangely."No," she remarked; "I do not think you will fail—in the end."She lowered her eyes, patted the strong arched neck of her horse, and added—"I have seen my Lord Shrewsbury and my Lord Manchester, and laboured to strengthen them in your cause." She smiled. "They are discontented already.""Does it matter?" asked William."A vast deal. You must, sir, try to please the English more; they do not love you.""Then I cannot make them."She raised her eyes again."Perhaps you do not quite understand us—the English—though you have known a many by now——""I do not even understand you, Madam," he answered, "save that you have done great services to the cause I stand for, and for that," he added earnestly, "you must not think me ungrateful. Some day I may be able to share prosperity with my friends."He said the last sentence with a warmth yet a simplicity wholly charming. Miss Villiers paled and averted her eyes."What use is my advice!" she exclaimed bitterly. "What use am I!"He looked in surprise at this sudden alteration in her even demeanour."It hath been of use to us," he said gravely. "And what you say now is just, and I will remember it——"Miss Villiers suddenly laughed."Yes; you must be very civil, sir, to the English, and—you must never trust them!"She touched up her horse."Sure I will not detain Your Highness——"He took off his hat."I have writ to M. Bentinck," he said earnestly; "but tell him yourself what a great concern I am under as to your sister her health—and that he must send a messenger with news."Elizabeth Villiers bent her head, smiled rather sadly, and they parted; he towards the house at the end of the long avenue, and she through gold-red glittering woods into the hazy autumn distance.When he reached the steps of his villa he saw another woman awaiting him—the Princess, standing in the full last light, with a light cloak about her. As soon as she beheld his approach she came forward, and was at his stirrup before he had dismounted."There is a galloper from Flanders with news," she said; her voice was strained, and she clasped her hands tightly together to steady them.A broken exclamation escaped the Prince."If the French are marching on the frontiers I cannot go!"The grooms came forward and took his great horse; he sprang from the saddle and went with the Princess up the shallow sun-flooded steps."Oh, my dear!" cried Mary under her breath, "if there are ill advices——"He pressed her hand fiercely."I cannot leave the country if they are invading Flanders——"In the simple vestibule was the impatient messenger—a young Spanish officer, who went, very courtly, on one knee when the Prince entered, and handed a packet from M. de Castagnana."News of the French?" demanded William swiftly."I do believe so, Highness."The Stadtholder broke open the dispatch, glanced down the close lines of Spanish, and turned instantly to his pale wife, whose eyes were fixed on him with a piteous intensity."The French have abandoned Flanders!" he cried; "their troops are pouring into Germany—the States are safe, thank God! thank God——"CHAPTER XIIITHE GREAT ENTERPRISEAll difficulties were overcome. Louis, angry at the English King's rejection of his advices, and perhaps hoping that his great enemy would run on disaster in his audacious undertaking, or perhaps believing that it was now too late in the year for any such expedition, had suddenly diverted his troops into Germany, where in a few days he had taken every fort along the Rhine; successes celebrated with great pomp in Paris, but worthless indeed to Louis should William accomplish what he was now free to attempt, and bring England out of her shackles into the alliance against France.The Prince's preparations were complete; his Declaration had been published and circulated in England by the arts of his friends, his ships and troops were ready, even to the embarking of the soldiery, and he himself had to-day taken his farewell audience of the States; for now the south-west wind had changed, and the great fleet gathered at Goree was free to sail.Mary, in the chilly autumn garden of the 'huis ten bosch,' waited his return. Four times a day she went to public prayers, but not all her ardent faith could quell the tumult in her soul; her anxieties were not to be repressed, even at the communion table, which added to her distress, her self-reproach, her uneasiness.She walked up and down the bare alleys, the hard gravel paths, with a quick step, between the newly-turned flower-beds, the late yellowing plants, and stiff evergreens.The violet St. Michael's daisies were brown and withered on their stems, the last roses had fallen, and the carp been removed from the fish basin, where the water lay frost-bound under a thin covering of ice; there was no sun to cast a shadow from the finger of the grey sundial, and the sky was obscured with low, floating, changing clouds; a little wind brought the salt pure air from the sea-coast and stirred Mary's bright locks inside her miniver hood.As she was pacing her most familiar and beloved walk, the little alley at the end of the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees now bare, the sound of a footstep brought her to turn with a glad expectancy.But it was not the Prince, only M. Auverqueverque, a noble who had long been his friend, and who had saved his life amid the bloody steppes of St. Denis, and for this reason always high in Mary's regard."Do you come from the States, sir?" she asked wistfully, speaking in English, for her Dutch was still very indifferent, and she was shy of using it save on a necessity."Yes, Madam, and I left His Highness conversing with M. Fagel and M. Heinsius."The Princess stood still. Her loose velvet coat, of a bright blue colour, served to accentuate the pallor of her face, which was worn and strained in expression; her eyes were reddened with recent weeping, and narrowed with a look of trouble."There was no opposition to him—now, I think," she said, with a sudden smile."Madam—none; there was great enthusiasm and great grief at the going of His Highness," answered M. Auverqueverque warmly. "He alone was unmoved—I would you could have heard his words, Madam—'I have had no thought,' he said, 'since I did undertake this position I hold, save for the good of the States, and I do take God to witness that, if I have erred, it hath been because I am human, and not through lack of affection for, or care of, this country. Now, going to make the endeavour to be of service to our common faith, I do commend to your care and guardianship all that I hold dear—these States and my wife'—and at this they were stirred to tears, Madam, for there was not one who could not remember what he had brought them through."Mary was silent; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips and looked towards the house. M. Auverqueverque regarded her tenderly."The States professed great devotion to Your Highness," he said, "and spoke from their hearts.""I do thank you," she answered, in a very low tone. "Will you not come into the house?"He followed her across the bare garden, and there was nothing said between them, each being deeply engaged with different thoughts on the same subject.As they neared the villa, one of the gentlemen of the Princess's household came to meet them and acquainted Mary that a lady who besought her charity implored her for an immediate audience.The Princess was well used to these applications. Out of her meagre allowance she contrived to greatly assuage the sufferings of the distressed refugees at The Hague, and this liberality of hers being known, she received more petitions than she could at all comply with, which was a source of great distress to her gentle heart."Alas!" she said; "I have already a great list of persons unsatisfied, and worthy cases, too; but it is more than I dare put before His Highness in this present juncture——""This seemeth, Your Highness, a gentlewoman of the better sort, English, and most earnest for speech with you.""I can but see her," answered Mary quickly. "Only I trust she will not raise her hopes of what I can do for her. M. Auverqueverque, forgive me."With a little curtsy to that gentleman she entered the house."Where is this gentlewoman?"In her withdrawing room, she was told, and there Mary proceeded, without ceremony, still wearing her cloak.The small but handsome room held a pleasant sense of comfort in contrast to the dead grey weather without. A great log fire cast a glittering light over the dark furniture, and in the full glow of it stood a tall lady wrapped in a crimson mantle that half disclosed an embroidered sacque, and wearing, twisted round her head and shoulders, a fine Eastern scarf embroidered in many colours; she was much older than Mary, and looked fatigued to illness; her large fair eyes were heavily shadowed and her mouth strained, but her appearance was one of great beauty.When the Princess entered she made a little deprecating, half-expectant movement forward, as if hoping for recognition; but she was utterly strange to Mary, who looked at her in some embarrassment, seeing at once that this was no ordinary supplicant.The strange lady gazed at her sadly."Ten years have changed you to beauty and me to age, Highness," she said, in a voice of singular sweetness. "You have forgotten me. And I should scarcely have known Your Highness.""Indeed," answered Mary, a little bewildered, "I cannot recall you. But I do perceive that you are my countrywoman; perhaps I knew you at Whitehall?""It was there we met, Madam,—and of late we have corresponded——""Why, who are you, Madam?"The elder lady cast herself to her knees before the Princess, and answered with some wildness—"I am the unfortunate wife of my Lord Sunderland!""My Lady Sunderland! Madam, you must not kneel. Oh, what hath passed in England to bring you here?"Mary impetuously raised the Countess, who kissed her hands in a kind of frantic entreaty."Where is the Earl?" cried Mary, with a flush of agitation."He hath fled," whispered Lady Sunderland, "to Amsterdam, where he is in hiding. We have lost everything—everything; his life was in danger; there was no man in all the ministry hated like my lord——"The painful colour burnt in Mary's cheek."His Majesty discovered—the intrigues—with us?" she asked."No—else it had been Tower Hill; but the Catholics undermined him—my lord could not hold his own—he was dismissed all his offices, and when the Prince his Declaration was spread abroad, there rose such a spirit in the nation that we were no longer safe, and while we could, we fled."Mary took a quick step across the room and laid her trembling hand on Lady Sunderland's arm."The King—knoweth?" she asked."The last dispatch of M. D'Albeville told him, and he was struck silent with dismay.""Alas! alas!" was wrung from Mary, "that this should have had to be! It is my father, Madam, and I do a bitter thing against him——"She sank into the great walnut chair by the fire, and the ready tears overbrimmed and ran down her white cheeks."Your Highness hath a patriotic public duty to perform," said Lady Sunderland. "And must not think of this——""No," answered Mary unsteadily, "no;" she stretched out her hand and drew the other woman towards her; "but you—you have taken a strange part, my lady——""My lord," said the Countess earnestly, "hath served His Highness to his own extreme peril, and now I am come to plead a pardon for him from you——""But you yourself," urged Mary; "what have you felt towards these affairs?"She rose, still holding the fluttering hand of Lady Sunderland, and looked steadily into her eyes."I have done as my lord directed," was the answer. "I have served him all my life. I shall serve him—always."Mary dropped her hand. The thought that stirred her was that she could not judge, since that same unquestioning devotion ruled her life too."My lord his services," she said faintly, "are not such as the Prince can with honour reward.""Nor," answered my lady with some pride, "such as he can with honour ignore——""He is apostate," said Mary; "that cannot be forgiven.""It can be pardoned.""What would you, Madam? The Earl is no subject of the Prince.""He is his supplicant—as I am; he might have gone to France, but he hath put himself at the mercy of His Highness.""The Prince is ever generous," answered Mary, "but what he can do here I know not."She drew away a little from the Countess, for in her thoughts were rising the remembrances of all the ignoble parts my lord had played, and the ill reports she had received of him and his wife from her sister, the Princess Anne."You must see the Prince," she said, something coldly.Lady Sunderland was quick to notice this change of manner."I am a woman in bitter trouble," she answered. "I stand before you no better than a beggar. If it were not that I might still be of use to my lord, I would pray to die.""You are very weary," said Mary, with instant kindness. She drew her to seat herself on the long brocade couch—"Poor soul, I doubt that you are very sad!"Lady Sunderland looked at her wildly, then burst into anguished tears."Ah, Madam!" cried Mary, bending over her, "I do beseech you take comfort."The Countess kept her face hidden, and her bowed shoulders heaved."Nothing shall happen to the Earl, I dare swear."Lady Sunderland looked up."Forgive me. I have not wept for so long. My son, my eldest son, is recently dead in Paris in an obscure duel—I hoped so much from him—once. Dead! Indeed I know not what I say."Mary shuddered. She recalled the Lady Sunderland of former days—brilliant, ambitious, superbly happy—a woman she herself had looked up to with a half awe as a personification of all the allurement of that splendid life she had left so early; she thought of all the unscrupulous intrigues, bargains, deceits, buyings and sellings this lady had helped her shameless husband with; the extraordinary double game they had played so long and successfully. But looking at this, the sudden end, penniless, bereaved exile, she felt no scorn, only a great pity; for the Countess had been faithful, and Mary thought that a great virtue in a woman."I did not know that of Lord Spencer," she said gently. "I am very sorry; it is sad for you."The Countess dried her eyes swiftly."I do not know why I should weep for him," she answered half fiercely; "he went near to break my heart. He was what they call worthless."She paused, and Mary stood silent; she was not unaware that the sharpest prick to Lord Sunderland's magnificence had ever been that poor useless rake, his son, nor ignorant of the Countess's long endeavour to make some show before the world in this matter, and now that broken pride opened its heart to her, a stranger, the sadness of it held her mute.Lady Sunderland's wet strained eyes looked past the fireglow to the bare boughs and cloudy heavens framed in the tall window."It is much better that he is gone," she continued. "Yet—last night I went on the deck of the packet and it was all so dark and cold, not a star, and the waves sounding, but not to be seen, and I remembered how little he was once, and how warm in my arms, and then methought he was somewhere crying for me in the chill blackness ... abroad—in a poor lodging with no friend."She wrung her hands together with irrepressible horror."My God!" she cried, "there's a way to die!"Mary caught her arm."You must not think of it like that; there is another side to it—God is very merciful, I know nothing—but in heaven there is great pity for all of us."The Countess turned and stared at her a moment, with her handkerchief to her lips, then said unsteadily—"I never meant to speak like this—but Your Highness is so gentle——"Mary smiled."I must carry you to my Lady Argyll, Lady Balcarres that was, who is here with her daughters——"She turned swiftly, for the door opened, and a familiar voice behind her said eagerly her name—"Marie, Marie——"It was the Prince; as he entered he paused, seeing the Countess, who had instantly risen."Lady Sunderland!" he exclaimed, before Mary could speak, and stood amazed.They had last seen each other on the occasion of the Prince's last visit to England, and though he knew her at once he found her considerably changed."The Earl hath fallen?" he added swiftly.Lady Sunderland was mistress of herself immediately on his appearance. By force of her long training she fell into the same manner she would have used to him at Whitehall or Windsor; she gave him a great courtly curtsy."The Earl is a refugee at Amsterdam, Your Highness," she said, "and I am here beseeching charity.""Ah." William drew a quick breath. "I thought my lord was safe enough—the King discovered him?""No, sir, the Catholics unseated him."The Prince crossed slowly to the fire."So," he said slowly—"well, Madam, the Earl is safe in Amsterdam, and the Princess will make you welcome."A flush of reviving hope kindled the refugee's pale cheek."We are assured of the gracious protection of Your Highness?" she asked ardently."My lord hath done me considerable service," answered William. "But, Madam, he is not loved by those English I have about me now." He smiled dryly. "Yet, if he will lie quiet awhile—I am not ungrateful——""It is all we ask," said Lady Sunderland warmly. "My lord wisheth only to live in quiet obscurity unless he can serve Your Highness—some way——"William gave her a keen look."I hardly think," he answered, "that M. de Sunderland is fitted for quiet obscurity—but perhaps he will endure it a little while. I leave for Helvoetsluys to-morrow.""God bless this noble enterprise Your Highness hath on hand!" cried the Countess fervently. "Could you see the crowds waiting outside Whitehall and a-studying the weather-cock and praying for a Protestant wind you would be heartened further in your daring!"The Prince took a swift look at his wife, who stood with averted face by the window."The King—how took he the news?" he asked."I heard that he was all bewildered (being then deeply engaged in the Cologne dispute and thinking nothing of this, like a man besotted) and would not part with the Declaration of Your Highness, but carried it about with him re-reading it—then he called the bishops to ask if they had put their hands to the invitation, and they gave him no—after which he made all manner of concessions, like one in a panic fear——""Concessions?" interrupted the Prince."Sir, he gave back the charter to the city with due solemnity, and their privileges to the fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and there was held an inquiry into the birth of the Prince of Wales—all of which but wasted the dignity of His Majesty and brought more ridicule than respect—for all are equally eager for Your Highness, and these concessions come too late.""Too late, indeed," said William quietly. "I hope this week to be in England. How came you across, Madam? I have stopped the packet service lest they carry too sure advices of what we do here——"Lady Sunderland smiled sadly."In a little owler, sir, we slipped off from Margate sands, and the weather was so terrible we were like to have been whelmed by the overtopping waves; yet we gained Maaslandsluys, and from there my lord went on to Amsterdam——""He was wise," said the Prince, "not to come to The Hague."Lady Sunderland looked at Mary, who had stood motionless so long."Your Highness—may I not retire? I have taken too much of your time——"The Princess turned about with a little start."Where are you lodging?" she asked."With one Madame de Marsac—known, I think, to Your Highness——""You must stay with me," answered Mary warmly, yet with a curious absent air of distraction. "I will take you to the other English ladies——"She looked at her husband."I shall come back," she said. He gave a little nod which cut short the graceful gratitude of the Countess, and the two ladies left.Now he was alone he seated himself near to the fire with that air of utter fatigue that was like apathy and seemed at times, when he was out of the sight of men, to overwhelm his great spirit.He sat quite still, gazing into the fire from under drooping lids, and when Mary softly returned he did not move.She slipped behind his chair and took the stool the opposite side of the hearth; she had put off her cloak; the firelight touched her brown dress and brown hair to a beautiful ruby warmth and gave a false rosiness to her pale face."I am grieved for Lady Sunderland," she said.The Prince answered absently."Ah yes—I believe she is a knave like him—but they are clever, and he at least hath some root of patriotism in him.""Yet I am sorry that you must use such people."He made no reply, but continued to gaze sadly and sternly into the fire.Mary gave a little shudder."I cannot believe that to-morrow we go to Helvoetsluys——"Her voice broke, and she steadied it hastily."The States are coming also, are they not, to see your departure?""They are paying me that compliment," he answered indifferently."What chance will your poor wife have to speak to you then—amid that pomp——"He sat up and looked at her with instant attention."Have you something that you wish to say to me, Marie?""Yes," she said earnestly. "I do desire to ask you—for your own sake—to see that no harm happeneth to—my father."Now she had spoken she sat very pale and distressed, but fixing him with her soft brown eyes ardently.He flushed, and seemed much moved."That you should need to ask——" he began, then checked himself. "I promise," he said."For your own dear sake," she cried, "forgive me for speaking of this—but let people know you would not have him hurt——"He gazed at her intently."This is hard for you," he replied. "I could not go without your sanction and your help——"He broke off again. Speech, which had always seemed inadequate to him, now seemed to merely travesty his feelings.She too was silent; she had lowered her eyes and seemed to be thinking deeply. The Prince studied her with an almost painful intensity.She was so lovely, so gracious, so sweet, so high souled ... he remembered how he had disliked and despised her, treated her with neglect, then indifference, made no effort to please or win her; and yet she, during the ten years of their marriage, had never from the first failed in obedience, sweetness, self-abnegation, nor once faltered from a passionate devotion to his interests, an unchanging belief in him, and now, for him, she was doing violence to her own heart and setting herself in active opposition against her father, a tremendous thing for such a nature to bring itself to. As he gazed at her fair youth, pale with anxiety for him, he felt she was the greatest triumph of his life, and her love an undeserved miracle.And there came to his mind a certain conversation that he had had with Sir William Temple in a sunny garden at Nymwegen before his marriage. He remembered that the Englishman had smiled at his scornful talk of the Princess, and had said—"Do not despise good women because there are so many of them——"Mary suddenly moved and rose. The sun had parted the loose clouds and a fine ray fell through the tall window and shone in her bright hair and satin skirt. His thoughts were scattered by her movement; he rose also.She smiled at him."How kind you are to me," she said, trembling, and very low."Dear God!" he exclaimed softly, as if he was mocked. "In what way?""In giving me so much more of your company of late," answered Mary simply.The Prince looked at her strangely."Women are wonderful," he said humbly.
CHAPTER XI
THREE PAWNS
Three English gentlemen were walking slowly round the Vyverburg on the side where stand the spacious courts of the Buitenhof; the ground beneath their feet was thickly covered with dry yellow leaves, and the trees above their heads almost bare, but the sun shone as strong as summer on the placid surface of the water, and gleamed with a red fire in the rows of long windows of the Government buildings; the sky was a great luminous space of blue gold, against which the trees and houses the other side of the lake showed with a tender clarity, like the pictures of that great artist, Ver Meer of Delft.
There were swans and ducks on the lake; they, like the water on which they swam, were touched with this universal hue of gold, and seemed to be cleaving a way through glimmering mists of sunshine.
The three gentlemen paused by one of the posts protecting the edge of the water; it was near evening, and under the calm was the sense of a little rising wind, salt from the sea. Not a word was spoken between these three who had fallen from much talk to idleness; all had the same subject in their minds, though each coloured it with his own temperament; all of them were remarkable-looking men, and typical of some aspect of the great movement of which they formed a part.
The eldest was a man still in his prime, red-haired and tanned to an unnatural darkness, with something stern, sad, and passionate in his face, and an abruptness in his movements; he wore the splendid appointments of a soldier; across his shoulder was twisted a rich oriental scarf of coloured silk and gold threads; his name was Fletcher of Saltoun, a noble Scot, who had returned from the Turkish war to assist in the enterprise of the Stadtholder.
The second was a youth of singular sweetness of expression and delicacy of feature, plainly dressed in grey; the charm of his appearance was marred solely by a black silk patch which he wore over his left eye; he was staring at the water with a melancholy air, and now and then sighed; this was Charles Talbot, eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury, dismissed last year from the army and the Lord-Lieutenancy of Staffordshire for refusing to abjure his religion; he had mortgaged his estates for £40,000, which was now at the Bank of Amsterdam at the service of the Prince. He was for the moment but one of the many refugees at The Hague.
The third was by far the most remarkable, and bore most signs of greatness: young, though a little older than the Earl, he was not, perhaps, half the height, being hunch-shouldered to a deformity, and thin and meagre in body; his face, livid and lined with disease, wore a sparkling expression of energy, his eyes, large, noble, and ever changing in expression with a kind of restless animation, scorn, impatience, and dare-devilry; even now, when standing still, he thrummed with his fingers on the railing and whistled 'Lillibulero' under his breath.
He was that Lord Mordaunt whose fiery, careless courage had urged this expedition on the Prince a year ago.
Fretting under the languor and idleness engendered by the beautiful late afternoon and the serene fair prospect, he proceeded to lead his companions out of the silence to which they were so obviously inclined.
"Where will the Prince land, eh, my lord?" he asked of Shrewsbury. "In the south-west or the north-east?"
He knew that my lord could not know what was not yet decided, but the question served to break the pause.
"Why, 'tis even what they argue about," answered the Earl. "Lord Dunblaine was with His Highness yesterday, and gave as his father's advice that we should choose the north, because 'tis so easy to obtain horses in Yorkshire——"
"Or because my Lord Danby," sneered Mordaunt, "hath such a pull in that county that he hopeth to get His Highness into his hands."
"The Prince is very secret," said Mr. Fletcher.
"He listeneth to all and agreeth with none," answered my Lord Mordaunt.
"He might be more open," complained the Earl, who of the three was most in the favour of William; but Mordaunt perhaps understood the Prince better.
"Dr. Burnet is to draw up the letter to the Church," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I ever disliked him."
"He is translating the Prince his Declaration also," said the Earl discontentedly. "I do hope the Prince will not be led by such an extreme Low Churchman——"
"M. Fagel wrote it," answered Mordaunt. "His Highness said the English were all such party men he would not trust them to prepare it. He is himself writing the letter to the army—you have heard? He is clever with the pen."
"He may," broke out Mr. Fletcher, "trust Dr. Burnet as much as he pleaseth; but if he is to put his confidence in my Lord Danby we are as good as lost——"
"Better my Lord Danby than my Lord Sunderland," interrupted Shrewsbury; "it surpriseth me that he can deal with such a knave."
Lord Mordaunt gave an impatient pirouette.
"Why is there all this delay—delay?" he cried, "Iwould have sailed months ago!"
Mr. Fletcher roused at that. He was innocent enough in the matter of politics to have been one of those who accompanied, with hope of success, Lord Monmouth on his fatal expedition, and to consider the Prince's attempt as such another enterprise.
"You are right," he said gloomily. "The King will get wind of it, and Dartmouth will have his ships spread all round the coast to prevent a landing."
"I am sick of The Hague—sick!" exclaimed Mordaunt impetuously. "If His Highness don't leave the cursed place soon, I'll go without him!"
Shrewsbury laughed, then Mordaunt himself good-humouredly; Mr. Fletcher stared at the slow-sailing ducks. He did not care much what happened, but he hated inaction, and began to regret the Turks who had provided it.
"You have heard that Skelton hath been recalled and lodged in the Tower?" asked Mordaunt.
"Yes," said Shrewsbury; "it was in the letters this morning. It might have been expected after His Majesty's denial of a French alliance and reprimand to M. Barillon."
"Sure bad policy," said Mr. Fletcher, but without enthusiasm, "and a good stroke for the Prince."
In truth none of these gentlemen guessed what a stroke. James had actually stepped into the trap laid for him, and, seeing how great an advantage the appearance of an alliance between him and France gave the States, had angrily repudiated the suggestion, and haughtily reprimanded M. Barillon for French interference with his affairs. Sunderland, prepared by the Prince, had urged him on to this course, and the letters of M. D'Albeville had served to back the Lord-President's reassurances. The Prince had been triumphant in this encounter, the States and the people were warmer in his cause than ever after this proof, as they took it, of a connection, between France and England, dangerous to themselves. M. D'Avaux, since the disgrace of Skelton, was silent with mortification, and a kind of lull hung over Europe; William was looking with a terrible anxiety towards Flanders, where Louis had his troops threatening the frontiers of the Spanish Lowlands, and so the United Provinces. What would Louis do now the King of England had rejected his warnings and refused his aid? On the answer to that question the fate of Protestant Europe depended.
But these three knew and cared little of these matters; their minds were set wholly on the domestic policies of England, and occupied with a vague ideal of liberty for their own faith and their country's laws, not unmingled with some desire for vengeance on the party now upper-most.
"I saw Sir James Stair to-day," said Mr. Fletcher suddenly; "he hath come from Leyden to join the Prince. I suppose he will take to himself the affairs of Scotland."
"Nay," answered the Earl; "the Prince is all for William Carstares, a poor, mean Scottish minister; but, sir, more in the Prince his confidence than any of us——"
"Carstares," cried Mordaunt, with flashing eyes, "hath been under torture with secrets of M. Fagel in his keeping, and never betrayed them. A brave man!"
Shrewsbury shrugged his shoulders delicately.
"I wish we sailed to-morrow," said Fletcher of Saltoun.
The restless Mordaunt moved on, and the others sauntered beside him.
"The boats are all creeping down to the sea laden with arms," he said excitedly. "They lie thick as pebbles among the reeds of the islands of the Rhine and Meure. Sirs, ye should see them."
"I had the Prince his command to stay at The Hague," answered Shrewsbury. "Saw you these boats?"
"That I did, and pontoons, and transports, and the hay slung in ropes in the ports, and the great trains of artillery..."
They were walking towards the Gevangenpoort, the prison gate which rose up by the side of the Vyver. The hazy sky was changing to a tawny colour behind the dark roof lines of the houses, flushed here and there with gold and a stain of purple; little pale, shell-coloured clouds floated away to the uppermost heights of heaven where the clear blue was still untouched, and the water began to glow and burn with the reflected fires of the sky.
The clear chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the hour, and the sound of oncoming horsemen caused the few passers-by to pause before entering the narrow way of the prison arch.
A cavalcade came into sight from the direction of the Stadhuis, and moved at a swift trot towards the Gevangenpoort—a number of gentlemen, with two riding before the others.
As they passed every hat was removed.
"The Prince returning from Helvoet," said Lord Mordaunt, and the three uncovered as the horsemen approached.
The Stadtholder was mounted on a huge grey Flemish horse, and on his right hand rode the Maréchal de Schomberg, still erect and magnificent; the two were talking with a certain stiff courtesy; behind them came the Spanish envoy, M. Zuylestein, M. Zolms, and M. Auverqueverque, together with a number of Dutch and German nobles.
The Prince saw the three Englishmen and saluted very graciously; the setting sun was for a moment full on his grave face, then he passed through the prison arch, and the company clattered over the cobbles out of sight.
"No Englishman with him, mark you," said Mr. Fletcher.
"Mr. Herbert told me that hecouldnot be open with us," replied Shrewsbury.
"Yet Herbert is to have the command of the expedition, is he not?"
"They say so; but he is full of discontent. Admiral Evertgen hath spoken against him to the Prince, methinks."
Mr. Fletcher saluted one of his countrymen whom he had recognized, and the three turned back.
A steady dusk was descending, extinguishing the colours in the sky, in the water, in the windows of the Binnenhof, and blurring those in the dresses of the people passing to and fro; only the trees and the houses retained their distinctness and sharpness of outline, and they took on a marvellous colour of living silver grey. Long deep shadows blended with the water the beautiful irregular buildings that had been the theatre of so many great events; the swans stood out, a dead white, from hues rapidly darkening and mysterious; their feathers were ruffled by a long breeze that swept chilly from the sea and salt dunes at Scheveningen.
A yellow light sprang up in one of the lower windows of the Binnenhof, and cast reflections far beneath it in the water.
"Did you ever hear the story of John de Witt, the late Grand Pensionary?" asked Shrewsbury, pulling his cloak about him. "M. Bentinck told me, and kept me out of bed with the tale——"
"Why should you think of that now?" asked Mordaunt curiously.
"You see that light there—the first to be lit in the Binnenhof?—that was his room, and M. Bentinck said that always when one passed late one would see that candle shine and know that M. de Witt was still waking."
"He got a poor reward," said Mr. Fletcher. "He was torn to bits on the Plaats, was he not?"
"Anyone whose memory goeth back sixteen years will give you an account of it," answered my Lord Mordaunt dryly. "I wish I had been beside M. de Witt that day with a sword in my hand!"
The Earl sighed.
"How cold it bloweth! A severe winter is presaged, do you not think, my lord?" he said. Then abruptly: "Why should good men meet such ends?"
Lord Mordaunt laughed.
"You ask me to explain ingratitude? By Heaven, I have not the wit for the task."
"Ingratitude!" frowned Shrewsbury; "but these people love the Prince because he hath done them great services——"
"But shall we?" interrupted Mordaunt. "Ah, sir, I think the Prince will meet the same spirit as did John de Witt, should he ever rule in England——"
"Why, God forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Fletcher.
"What?" demanded Mordaunt sharply—"that we should ever be ungrateful?"
"No; that His Highness should ever rule in Britain."
Lord Mordaunt answered with some intensity—
"Are you so simple, sir, as to think we can have a man like that among usnotruling us?"
Lord Shrewsbury was doubtfully silent. His timorous nature had been startled by the sudden action into which circumstances had spurred it. A sense of loyalty, a terror of underhand methods, a dread of anything so violent as a revolution made him already secretly regret the part he had so far played so well.
Mr. Fletcher answered carelessly and thoughtlessly—
"You set too high a value on the little Prince. His life is not worth a year's purchase."
Lord Mordaunt flashed an extraordinary look over the fine person of the speaker, and the comely youth of the Earl. His thin hand clutched on to his sword-belt, and his haggard face flushed.
"You set too high a value on bone and muscle!" he cried, with a passionate sneer. "You are jolly fellows, both of you; but who will remember you when you have been dead a year? But men," he added with a terrible energy, "will talk of the Prince of Orange, and of me."
They stared at him, amazed at this outburst, and Shrewsbury, seeing what a frail, deformed creature he was, blushed with a kind of shame.
"Good God!" said Mr. Fletcher, "I am not working for fame, my lord."
"No!" flashed Lord Mordaunt; "creatures of clay—of clay! Prettily coloured, but a breath of the fire that burneth in the little plain vessels would crack you in a day."
He gave a flourishing bow, and walked off towards the Stadhuis.
"An Eccentric," remarked Mr. Fletcher, looking after him.
"I fear so. He will put himself into a passion at a word; but he would pledge his whole fortune for you if you were in need of it," answered the Earl. "How suddenly dark it is; let us, sir, go home."
CHAPTER XII
FRANCE MOVES AGAIN
It was mid-October; the Prince's preparations were complete, even to the putting of the horses on board, and yet there was silence from France. A terrible lull of suspense hushed the United Provinces, and of all the anxious hearts there was none so anxious as that of the man who had staked this great wager—the Stadtholder.
On this day, the nineteenth of the month, he returned from the camp at Nymwegen, where he had been reviewing the troops long since secretly raised and drilled by him, and now sanctioned by the States, entered The Hague privately, and rode to the Binnenhof, where he was closeted with M. Fagel, who gave him the last assurances that all opposition, even from the Republican or Loeventein party, was extinct.
When he left the Grand Pensionary and came out into the still corridors of the Binnenhof, he stood thoughtfully for a moment, at the head of the staircase, thinking of the various threads, all so different in texture, that he had almost succeeded in weaving into the completed pattern of his design.
His own country, the German princes, the Empire, Spain, Sweden, England, the Pope—all combined at last with one aim, to answer the aggressions of France.
For ten years, ever since the Peace of Nymwegen had been forced on him, he had been working through gloom, disappointment, discouragement, for this end. His answer to the revocation of the Nantz edict and the seizure of Orange had been the League of Augsburg, which was now bearing fruit, and all Europe was directed against France.
Toil, energy, courage, patience, and genius were telling. The young disinherited Prince, who had been treated as a mere pawn by Charles and Louis, the general of twenty-two with a miserable army, who had been offered humiliating terms by the French, insolently victorious, had slowly grown to be a power that both Bourbon and Stewart feared, and whose influence was predominant over the larger half of the Continent.
His rapid thoughts went back over the years to those black days of blood and despair when he had been put at the head of his country's fortunes and trusted with her sole hopes. Defeat—disappointment had often been his in his struggle to maintain the position of the States in Europe, but even to his own judgment, and he ranked his own achievements low, it seemed that success had waited on all his apparent failures, for his country was not only free but great, and he not only independent but powerful.
Slowly he began to descend the stairs, which were full of a misty sunlight. When he reached the first landing-place a man stepped from one of the tall doors, and, seeing the Prince, bowed and stood very respectfully waiting for him to pass.
William paused, came to a stop, and regarded this man with a close, keen scrutiny.
He stood so still that the object of his gaze lifted surprised eyes, and the two looked at each other.
The Prince stood at the bottom of the flight of stairs, one hand resting on the polished newel post. He was in buff military attire and carried over his right arm a heavy dark cloak; he wore a black beaver that shaded his brow, but the rich light was full on his face, which expressed a strong emotion sternly contained.
Behind him a blue and green tapestry hung on the dark wall; it showed a sea fight with curious ships and curling waves, and banners rising through smoke; the sun showed every thread in it—every crease, and the latent gold in the heavy chestnut locks of the Prince.
"M. Heinsius," he said softly.
"Your Highness?"
The Prince did not change his position nor move his brilliant gaze.
"I think to leave the States very soon, as you know, Mynheer; you know also under what circumstances." He paused a second, then added: "I have your good wishes, Mynheer?"
Antoon Heinsius coloured from chin to brow. He had been of the Loeventein party and in favour of France, but his policy had changed lately to an adherence to the Stadtholder; he had not expected this to be remarked by William.
"Every true heart in Holland," he answered strongly, "must pray for the success of Your Highness."
William descended to the landing-place and laid his frail hand, half concealed in embroidered linen ruffles, on the sleeve of M. Heinsius.
"You are the kind of man I want. M. Fagel is old and in failing health—he needeth help," he said. "You are a patriot; you would, I think, do anything for the States."
The words were poor compared to the fire and energy in the Stadtholder's strained but steady voice, and the purpose in the gentle firm touch of his hand on the other man's arm.
M. Antoon Heinsius answered instantly, with a deepening of the colour in his fine handsome face—
"Your Highness doth me exceeding honour."
"I am never better pleased," said William, "than when I can make a man like you my friend."
"Your friend—your servant, Highness," murmured M. Heinsius. He was considerably moved by this kindness from one usually so stately and reserved, and one whom he had of late, as he understood his policy better, warmly admired.
"You know my aims, my plans of government," continued the Stadtholder; "you will know what to do in my absence,—by serving Holland you serve more than Holland."
Heinsius answered earnestly—
"Before God I will do my best."
"Your best is well worth having, Mynheer. I have noticed your career."
The two men, but a little time since in opposition, looked with complete understanding into each other's eyes. The Prince had won the fine loyalty of M. Heinsius as he won all whom he set himself to gain, as he won ultimately, indeed, all those who served him and came to know him intimately.
"The States have acted to the wishes of Your Highness?" asked M. Heinsius.
"The States have trusted me," answered the Prince. "Even the Loeventein faction are eager for me to depart on this expedition, in the hopes, maybe"—he smiled—"that I shall be slain or affronted. But I have anxieties."
He paused and looked at the water of the Vyverberg that lay glinting with autumn gold beneath the window.
"Mynheer," he added, "a country is a high stake—one's own country. Mynheer," he looked again into the face of the older man, "you have perhaps thought there was some wantonness in this my resolve, you have thought that I may have dared too much in offering to take beyond seas all the defences of the States."
"Never!" answered M. Heinsius firmly. "I understand and I applaud the policy of Your Highness."
"It is," said the Stadtholder, "on a sure bottom and to be justified. Yet, until I know what France doth, I am no better than a man on the rack."
"You think—even now?"
"Even now—if they were to fall on the frontier! Nought there but the Spaniards! But a little while will show us."
He paused again, then said, weighing his words, and with a strange mingling of simplicity and dignity.
"I am no King in this country, Mynheer, but the servant of the Republic, and you, who are a knowing man and one who hath the common welfare at heart, I would have hold me justified in this I do. I have been believed ambitious, but my ambition is one with the good of the States, and God knoweth that I do not take this tremendous risk from any such paltry motive, but because it is our chance, which if we do not take we are as good as lost."
"It is no flattery to say that I agree with Your Highness, who seeth farther and more clearly than most men."
"You will hear them," answered William, "talk of England, and what I do to gain England, and how much store I set by that country. Be not deceived; England is but a counter in the game I play, and, if I succeed, will be but one of many allies which we will lead against France. And always with me, Mynheer Heinsius, it is the Republic—always."
He spoke with intensity and emotion that were the more moving in contrast to his usual sternness.
"The deeds of Your Highness have proved your words," answered Antoon Heinsius in an unsteady voice.
The Stadtholder sighed.
"I will not disguise from you that my sufferings are terrible—my disquietude almost unbearable, for it is the Republic at stake," he said.
He gave his hand to M. Heinsius, who kissed it very lowly, and left the Binnenhof.
He had not so much as a footboy in attendance, and rode rapidly to the 'huis ten bosch' with little regard for the salutes and respectful homage of those he passed. His contemplated enterprise, the very daring of which, owing to his usual caution, was the more awe-inspiring, made him even more than ever an object of admiration and attention at The Hague.
Once within the bounds of his own woods he was enwrapped in the gracious loveliness of the trees—the quiet of the frost-bound earth, and had almost reached the house before he met anyone; then, round the turn of the long main avenue came a lady, very gracefully riding a white horse.
The Prince gave her a quick glance, touched his beaver, and was passing with no slacking of his pace, but she drew rein and said in a faint voice—
"Your Highness——" with a little gesture that seemed to entreat him to stay.
He turned his horse instantly.
"I am leaving The Hague, sir," she said, speaking English, which was obviously her native tongue. "I have the permission of Her Highness to go see my sister who is sadly worse."
She was young, very slender, and carried herself with a certain air of fire and pride, a certain poise of dignity and animation charming to behold; her features were ordinary, but vivacious and intelligent; there was a certain set or cast in her brown eyes not unattractive, and her hair, in a hundred gleaming hues of gold, red, and deep honey colour, hung in thick curls on to her riding coat, cut like a man's and thickly embroidered with gold.
"Madame Bentinck is worse?" repeated William in a quick distress.
"They did say so. I felt I should go."
"I am grieved a thousand times," he added, "and for M. Bentinck"—he spoke with real feeling, but with that touch of constraint (unlike his usual reserve) which marked her manner to him—"and for you, Madam."
Miss Villiers hesitated a second, then said abruptly—
"I did not think to meet you. I shall not see you again before you sail. Take my poor wishes with you."
"I have been so bold as to feel sure of them," he answered gravely. She was silent, but he did not ride on, but sat with slack reins looking at her, half in the thick autumn sunlight, half in the shade of the close tree trunks, for the sun was sinking.
They had not spoken to each other alone for years; but when she had first come to The Hague with his wife there had been a swift attraction between them, which, for all her discretion and his reserve, had not failed to be seized upon by the English agents to work discords in the Court of The Hague. It was not so long ago that the Princess's Chaplain, Dr. Covell, and Miss Trelawney, had been dismissed by Mary for inventing and spreading this kind of gossip for the benefit of those spies of the English Court who were ever endeavouring to estrange the Prince from his wife.
The Stadtholder was sensitive to these malicious scandals. He rather avoided Miss Villiers, who, on her part, was utterly indifferent to report and, secure in the position the marriage of her sister to M. Bentinck gave her, troubled herself not in the least either about Mary's gentle dislike or her own unpopularity in The Hague. She had great gifts—wit and courage and understanding, enthusiasm and self-control; she was very reserved, no one knew her well, not the Prince now, though once he had had her inspiring friendship, her brilliant advice, her ardent attention; she was still of service to him, but always through the medium of her sister and M. Bentinck. It was strange to both of them to come face to face like this in those woods in which, near ten years ago, they had walked together, and he had told her of his hopes and fears previous, and just after the Peace of Nymwegen.
He smiled and she frowned; each wondered how much that friendship had been worth to the other; Miss Villiers thought that she had long been balanced with his wife in his affections; he, that she had never considered him as more than the embodiment of a policy that she admired—both were wrong.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, "are you still in fears of the French?"
"The greatest fears. Until I know how they are going to move I consider the whole plan in jeopardy. If they should march on the frontiers——"
"God forbid!" she exclaimed fervently. "When will you know?"
"I am utterly in the dark."
"I shall not sleep until you have safely sailed," she said. "For what is to become of England if this faileth?"
"It must not fail," he answered quietly.
Miss Villiers looked at him strangely.
"No," she remarked; "I do not think you will fail—in the end."
She lowered her eyes, patted the strong arched neck of her horse, and added—
"I have seen my Lord Shrewsbury and my Lord Manchester, and laboured to strengthen them in your cause." She smiled. "They are discontented already."
"Does it matter?" asked William.
"A vast deal. You must, sir, try to please the English more; they do not love you."
"Then I cannot make them."
She raised her eyes again.
"Perhaps you do not quite understand us—the English—though you have known a many by now——"
"I do not even understand you, Madam," he answered, "save that you have done great services to the cause I stand for, and for that," he added earnestly, "you must not think me ungrateful. Some day I may be able to share prosperity with my friends."
He said the last sentence with a warmth yet a simplicity wholly charming. Miss Villiers paled and averted her eyes.
"What use is my advice!" she exclaimed bitterly. "What use am I!"
He looked in surprise at this sudden alteration in her even demeanour.
"It hath been of use to us," he said gravely. "And what you say now is just, and I will remember it——"
Miss Villiers suddenly laughed.
"Yes; you must be very civil, sir, to the English, and—you must never trust them!"
She touched up her horse.
"Sure I will not detain Your Highness——"
He took off his hat.
"I have writ to M. Bentinck," he said earnestly; "but tell him yourself what a great concern I am under as to your sister her health—and that he must send a messenger with news."
Elizabeth Villiers bent her head, smiled rather sadly, and they parted; he towards the house at the end of the long avenue, and she through gold-red glittering woods into the hazy autumn distance.
When he reached the steps of his villa he saw another woman awaiting him—the Princess, standing in the full last light, with a light cloak about her. As soon as she beheld his approach she came forward, and was at his stirrup before he had dismounted.
"There is a galloper from Flanders with news," she said; her voice was strained, and she clasped her hands tightly together to steady them.
A broken exclamation escaped the Prince.
"If the French are marching on the frontiers I cannot go!"
The grooms came forward and took his great horse; he sprang from the saddle and went with the Princess up the shallow sun-flooded steps.
"Oh, my dear!" cried Mary under her breath, "if there are ill advices——"
He pressed her hand fiercely.
"I cannot leave the country if they are invading Flanders——"
In the simple vestibule was the impatient messenger—a young Spanish officer, who went, very courtly, on one knee when the Prince entered, and handed a packet from M. de Castagnana.
"News of the French?" demanded William swiftly.
"I do believe so, Highness."
The Stadtholder broke open the dispatch, glanced down the close lines of Spanish, and turned instantly to his pale wife, whose eyes were fixed on him with a piteous intensity.
"The French have abandoned Flanders!" he cried; "their troops are pouring into Germany—the States are safe, thank God! thank God——"
CHAPTER XIII
THE GREAT ENTERPRISE
All difficulties were overcome. Louis, angry at the English King's rejection of his advices, and perhaps hoping that his great enemy would run on disaster in his audacious undertaking, or perhaps believing that it was now too late in the year for any such expedition, had suddenly diverted his troops into Germany, where in a few days he had taken every fort along the Rhine; successes celebrated with great pomp in Paris, but worthless indeed to Louis should William accomplish what he was now free to attempt, and bring England out of her shackles into the alliance against France.
The Prince's preparations were complete; his Declaration had been published and circulated in England by the arts of his friends, his ships and troops were ready, even to the embarking of the soldiery, and he himself had to-day taken his farewell audience of the States; for now the south-west wind had changed, and the great fleet gathered at Goree was free to sail.
Mary, in the chilly autumn garden of the 'huis ten bosch,' waited his return. Four times a day she went to public prayers, but not all her ardent faith could quell the tumult in her soul; her anxieties were not to be repressed, even at the communion table, which added to her distress, her self-reproach, her uneasiness.
She walked up and down the bare alleys, the hard gravel paths, with a quick step, between the newly-turned flower-beds, the late yellowing plants, and stiff evergreens.
The violet St. Michael's daisies were brown and withered on their stems, the last roses had fallen, and the carp been removed from the fish basin, where the water lay frost-bound under a thin covering of ice; there was no sun to cast a shadow from the finger of the grey sundial, and the sky was obscured with low, floating, changing clouds; a little wind brought the salt pure air from the sea-coast and stirred Mary's bright locks inside her miniver hood.
As she was pacing her most familiar and beloved walk, the little alley at the end of the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees now bare, the sound of a footstep brought her to turn with a glad expectancy.
But it was not the Prince, only M. Auverqueverque, a noble who had long been his friend, and who had saved his life amid the bloody steppes of St. Denis, and for this reason always high in Mary's regard.
"Do you come from the States, sir?" she asked wistfully, speaking in English, for her Dutch was still very indifferent, and she was shy of using it save on a necessity.
"Yes, Madam, and I left His Highness conversing with M. Fagel and M. Heinsius."
The Princess stood still. Her loose velvet coat, of a bright blue colour, served to accentuate the pallor of her face, which was worn and strained in expression; her eyes were reddened with recent weeping, and narrowed with a look of trouble.
"There was no opposition to him—now, I think," she said, with a sudden smile.
"Madam—none; there was great enthusiasm and great grief at the going of His Highness," answered M. Auverqueverque warmly. "He alone was unmoved—I would you could have heard his words, Madam—'I have had no thought,' he said, 'since I did undertake this position I hold, save for the good of the States, and I do take God to witness that, if I have erred, it hath been because I am human, and not through lack of affection for, or care of, this country. Now, going to make the endeavour to be of service to our common faith, I do commend to your care and guardianship all that I hold dear—these States and my wife'—and at this they were stirred to tears, Madam, for there was not one who could not remember what he had brought them through."
Mary was silent; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips and looked towards the house. M. Auverqueverque regarded her tenderly.
"The States professed great devotion to Your Highness," he said, "and spoke from their hearts."
"I do thank you," she answered, in a very low tone. "Will you not come into the house?"
He followed her across the bare garden, and there was nothing said between them, each being deeply engaged with different thoughts on the same subject.
As they neared the villa, one of the gentlemen of the Princess's household came to meet them and acquainted Mary that a lady who besought her charity implored her for an immediate audience.
The Princess was well used to these applications. Out of her meagre allowance she contrived to greatly assuage the sufferings of the distressed refugees at The Hague, and this liberality of hers being known, she received more petitions than she could at all comply with, which was a source of great distress to her gentle heart.
"Alas!" she said; "I have already a great list of persons unsatisfied, and worthy cases, too; but it is more than I dare put before His Highness in this present juncture——"
"This seemeth, Your Highness, a gentlewoman of the better sort, English, and most earnest for speech with you."
"I can but see her," answered Mary quickly. "Only I trust she will not raise her hopes of what I can do for her. M. Auverqueverque, forgive me."
With a little curtsy to that gentleman she entered the house.
"Where is this gentlewoman?"
In her withdrawing room, she was told, and there Mary proceeded, without ceremony, still wearing her cloak.
The small but handsome room held a pleasant sense of comfort in contrast to the dead grey weather without. A great log fire cast a glittering light over the dark furniture, and in the full glow of it stood a tall lady wrapped in a crimson mantle that half disclosed an embroidered sacque, and wearing, twisted round her head and shoulders, a fine Eastern scarf embroidered in many colours; she was much older than Mary, and looked fatigued to illness; her large fair eyes were heavily shadowed and her mouth strained, but her appearance was one of great beauty.
When the Princess entered she made a little deprecating, half-expectant movement forward, as if hoping for recognition; but she was utterly strange to Mary, who looked at her in some embarrassment, seeing at once that this was no ordinary supplicant.
The strange lady gazed at her sadly.
"Ten years have changed you to beauty and me to age, Highness," she said, in a voice of singular sweetness. "You have forgotten me. And I should scarcely have known Your Highness."
"Indeed," answered Mary, a little bewildered, "I cannot recall you. But I do perceive that you are my countrywoman; perhaps I knew you at Whitehall?"
"It was there we met, Madam,—and of late we have corresponded——"
"Why, who are you, Madam?"
The elder lady cast herself to her knees before the Princess, and answered with some wildness—
"I am the unfortunate wife of my Lord Sunderland!"
"My Lady Sunderland! Madam, you must not kneel. Oh, what hath passed in England to bring you here?"
Mary impetuously raised the Countess, who kissed her hands in a kind of frantic entreaty.
"Where is the Earl?" cried Mary, with a flush of agitation.
"He hath fled," whispered Lady Sunderland, "to Amsterdam, where he is in hiding. We have lost everything—everything; his life was in danger; there was no man in all the ministry hated like my lord——"
The painful colour burnt in Mary's cheek.
"His Majesty discovered—the intrigues—with us?" she asked.
"No—else it had been Tower Hill; but the Catholics undermined him—my lord could not hold his own—he was dismissed all his offices, and when the Prince his Declaration was spread abroad, there rose such a spirit in the nation that we were no longer safe, and while we could, we fled."
Mary took a quick step across the room and laid her trembling hand on Lady Sunderland's arm.
"The King—knoweth?" she asked.
"The last dispatch of M. D'Albeville told him, and he was struck silent with dismay."
"Alas! alas!" was wrung from Mary, "that this should have had to be! It is my father, Madam, and I do a bitter thing against him——"
She sank into the great walnut chair by the fire, and the ready tears overbrimmed and ran down her white cheeks.
"Your Highness hath a patriotic public duty to perform," said Lady Sunderland. "And must not think of this——"
"No," answered Mary unsteadily, "no;" she stretched out her hand and drew the other woman towards her; "but you—you have taken a strange part, my lady——"
"My lord," said the Countess earnestly, "hath served His Highness to his own extreme peril, and now I am come to plead a pardon for him from you——"
"But you yourself," urged Mary; "what have you felt towards these affairs?"
She rose, still holding the fluttering hand of Lady Sunderland, and looked steadily into her eyes.
"I have done as my lord directed," was the answer. "I have served him all my life. I shall serve him—always."
Mary dropped her hand. The thought that stirred her was that she could not judge, since that same unquestioning devotion ruled her life too.
"My lord his services," she said faintly, "are not such as the Prince can with honour reward."
"Nor," answered my lady with some pride, "such as he can with honour ignore——"
"He is apostate," said Mary; "that cannot be forgiven."
"It can be pardoned."
"What would you, Madam? The Earl is no subject of the Prince."
"He is his supplicant—as I am; he might have gone to France, but he hath put himself at the mercy of His Highness."
"The Prince is ever generous," answered Mary, "but what he can do here I know not."
She drew away a little from the Countess, for in her thoughts were rising the remembrances of all the ignoble parts my lord had played, and the ill reports she had received of him and his wife from her sister, the Princess Anne.
"You must see the Prince," she said, something coldly.
Lady Sunderland was quick to notice this change of manner.
"I am a woman in bitter trouble," she answered. "I stand before you no better than a beggar. If it were not that I might still be of use to my lord, I would pray to die."
"You are very weary," said Mary, with instant kindness. She drew her to seat herself on the long brocade couch—"Poor soul, I doubt that you are very sad!"
Lady Sunderland looked at her wildly, then burst into anguished tears.
"Ah, Madam!" cried Mary, bending over her, "I do beseech you take comfort."
The Countess kept her face hidden, and her bowed shoulders heaved.
"Nothing shall happen to the Earl, I dare swear."
Lady Sunderland looked up.
"Forgive me. I have not wept for so long. My son, my eldest son, is recently dead in Paris in an obscure duel—I hoped so much from him—once. Dead! Indeed I know not what I say."
Mary shuddered. She recalled the Lady Sunderland of former days—brilliant, ambitious, superbly happy—a woman she herself had looked up to with a half awe as a personification of all the allurement of that splendid life she had left so early; she thought of all the unscrupulous intrigues, bargains, deceits, buyings and sellings this lady had helped her shameless husband with; the extraordinary double game they had played so long and successfully. But looking at this, the sudden end, penniless, bereaved exile, she felt no scorn, only a great pity; for the Countess had been faithful, and Mary thought that a great virtue in a woman.
"I did not know that of Lord Spencer," she said gently. "I am very sorry; it is sad for you."
The Countess dried her eyes swiftly.
"I do not know why I should weep for him," she answered half fiercely; "he went near to break my heart. He was what they call worthless."
She paused, and Mary stood silent; she was not unaware that the sharpest prick to Lord Sunderland's magnificence had ever been that poor useless rake, his son, nor ignorant of the Countess's long endeavour to make some show before the world in this matter, and now that broken pride opened its heart to her, a stranger, the sadness of it held her mute.
Lady Sunderland's wet strained eyes looked past the fireglow to the bare boughs and cloudy heavens framed in the tall window.
"It is much better that he is gone," she continued. "Yet—last night I went on the deck of the packet and it was all so dark and cold, not a star, and the waves sounding, but not to be seen, and I remembered how little he was once, and how warm in my arms, and then methought he was somewhere crying for me in the chill blackness ... abroad—in a poor lodging with no friend."
She wrung her hands together with irrepressible horror.
"My God!" she cried, "there's a way to die!"
Mary caught her arm.
"You must not think of it like that; there is another side to it—God is very merciful, I know nothing—but in heaven there is great pity for all of us."
The Countess turned and stared at her a moment, with her handkerchief to her lips, then said unsteadily—
"I never meant to speak like this—but Your Highness is so gentle——"
Mary smiled.
"I must carry you to my Lady Argyll, Lady Balcarres that was, who is here with her daughters——"
She turned swiftly, for the door opened, and a familiar voice behind her said eagerly her name—"Marie, Marie——"
It was the Prince; as he entered he paused, seeing the Countess, who had instantly risen.
"Lady Sunderland!" he exclaimed, before Mary could speak, and stood amazed.
They had last seen each other on the occasion of the Prince's last visit to England, and though he knew her at once he found her considerably changed.
"The Earl hath fallen?" he added swiftly.
Lady Sunderland was mistress of herself immediately on his appearance. By force of her long training she fell into the same manner she would have used to him at Whitehall or Windsor; she gave him a great courtly curtsy.
"The Earl is a refugee at Amsterdam, Your Highness," she said, "and I am here beseeching charity."
"Ah." William drew a quick breath. "I thought my lord was safe enough—the King discovered him?"
"No, sir, the Catholics unseated him."
The Prince crossed slowly to the fire.
"So," he said slowly—"well, Madam, the Earl is safe in Amsterdam, and the Princess will make you welcome."
A flush of reviving hope kindled the refugee's pale cheek.
"We are assured of the gracious protection of Your Highness?" she asked ardently.
"My lord hath done me considerable service," answered William. "But, Madam, he is not loved by those English I have about me now." He smiled dryly. "Yet, if he will lie quiet awhile—I am not ungrateful——"
"It is all we ask," said Lady Sunderland warmly. "My lord wisheth only to live in quiet obscurity unless he can serve Your Highness—some way——"
William gave her a keen look.
"I hardly think," he answered, "that M. de Sunderland is fitted for quiet obscurity—but perhaps he will endure it a little while. I leave for Helvoetsluys to-morrow."
"God bless this noble enterprise Your Highness hath on hand!" cried the Countess fervently. "Could you see the crowds waiting outside Whitehall and a-studying the weather-cock and praying for a Protestant wind you would be heartened further in your daring!"
The Prince took a swift look at his wife, who stood with averted face by the window.
"The King—how took he the news?" he asked.
"I heard that he was all bewildered (being then deeply engaged in the Cologne dispute and thinking nothing of this, like a man besotted) and would not part with the Declaration of Your Highness, but carried it about with him re-reading it—then he called the bishops to ask if they had put their hands to the invitation, and they gave him no—after which he made all manner of concessions, like one in a panic fear——"
"Concessions?" interrupted the Prince.
"Sir, he gave back the charter to the city with due solemnity, and their privileges to the fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and there was held an inquiry into the birth of the Prince of Wales—all of which but wasted the dignity of His Majesty and brought more ridicule than respect—for all are equally eager for Your Highness, and these concessions come too late."
"Too late, indeed," said William quietly. "I hope this week to be in England. How came you across, Madam? I have stopped the packet service lest they carry too sure advices of what we do here——"
Lady Sunderland smiled sadly.
"In a little owler, sir, we slipped off from Margate sands, and the weather was so terrible we were like to have been whelmed by the overtopping waves; yet we gained Maaslandsluys, and from there my lord went on to Amsterdam——"
"He was wise," said the Prince, "not to come to The Hague."
Lady Sunderland looked at Mary, who had stood motionless so long.
"Your Highness—may I not retire? I have taken too much of your time——"
The Princess turned about with a little start.
"Where are you lodging?" she asked.
"With one Madame de Marsac—known, I think, to Your Highness——"
"You must stay with me," answered Mary warmly, yet with a curious absent air of distraction. "I will take you to the other English ladies——"
She looked at her husband.
"I shall come back," she said. He gave a little nod which cut short the graceful gratitude of the Countess, and the two ladies left.
Now he was alone he seated himself near to the fire with that air of utter fatigue that was like apathy and seemed at times, when he was out of the sight of men, to overwhelm his great spirit.
He sat quite still, gazing into the fire from under drooping lids, and when Mary softly returned he did not move.
She slipped behind his chair and took the stool the opposite side of the hearth; she had put off her cloak; the firelight touched her brown dress and brown hair to a beautiful ruby warmth and gave a false rosiness to her pale face.
"I am grieved for Lady Sunderland," she said.
The Prince answered absently.
"Ah yes—I believe she is a knave like him—but they are clever, and he at least hath some root of patriotism in him."
"Yet I am sorry that you must use such people."
He made no reply, but continued to gaze sadly and sternly into the fire.
Mary gave a little shudder.
"I cannot believe that to-morrow we go to Helvoetsluys——"
Her voice broke, and she steadied it hastily.
"The States are coming also, are they not, to see your departure?"
"They are paying me that compliment," he answered indifferently.
"What chance will your poor wife have to speak to you then—amid that pomp——"
He sat up and looked at her with instant attention.
"Have you something that you wish to say to me, Marie?"
"Yes," she said earnestly. "I do desire to ask you—for your own sake—to see that no harm happeneth to—my father."
Now she had spoken she sat very pale and distressed, but fixing him with her soft brown eyes ardently.
He flushed, and seemed much moved.
"That you should need to ask——" he began, then checked himself. "I promise," he said.
"For your own dear sake," she cried, "forgive me for speaking of this—but let people know you would not have him hurt——"
He gazed at her intently.
"This is hard for you," he replied. "I could not go without your sanction and your help——"
He broke off again. Speech, which had always seemed inadequate to him, now seemed to merely travesty his feelings.
She too was silent; she had lowered her eyes and seemed to be thinking deeply. The Prince studied her with an almost painful intensity.
She was so lovely, so gracious, so sweet, so high souled ... he remembered how he had disliked and despised her, treated her with neglect, then indifference, made no effort to please or win her; and yet she, during the ten years of their marriage, had never from the first failed in obedience, sweetness, self-abnegation, nor once faltered from a passionate devotion to his interests, an unchanging belief in him, and now, for him, she was doing violence to her own heart and setting herself in active opposition against her father, a tremendous thing for such a nature to bring itself to. As he gazed at her fair youth, pale with anxiety for him, he felt she was the greatest triumph of his life, and her love an undeserved miracle.
And there came to his mind a certain conversation that he had had with Sir William Temple in a sunny garden at Nymwegen before his marriage. He remembered that the Englishman had smiled at his scornful talk of the Princess, and had said—"Do not despise good women because there are so many of them——"
Mary suddenly moved and rose. The sun had parted the loose clouds and a fine ray fell through the tall window and shone in her bright hair and satin skirt. His thoughts were scattered by her movement; he rose also.
She smiled at him.
"How kind you are to me," she said, trembling, and very low.
"Dear God!" he exclaimed softly, as if he was mocked. "In what way?"
"In giving me so much more of your company of late," answered Mary simply.
The Prince looked at her strangely.
"Women are wonderful," he said humbly.