CHAPTER XIVSTORMSThe long sand-dunes about the village of Scheveningen were covered with spectators to the number of several thousands, comprising nearly the entire population of The Hague, several strangers, refugees from other parts of Holland, and many French, German, and English; they were principally women, children, and old men, or those in the sober attire of merchants, clerks, servants, or shopkeepers.One single object seemed to animate these people; they were all utterly silent, and all directed their gaze in one direction—that of the sea.There, covering the entire sweep of water and obscuring the great horizon itself, rode that huge armament which contained the whole strength of the Republic, and on which was staked her hopes and her safety.This fleet had weighed anchor during the stillness of the previous night; a few hours after the wind had turned to the south and so brought all the ships on the north coast, where, for half a day, they had been in full view of The Hague.The weather was still and warm, the sky a sunny blue, and the long stretches of the dunes touched from their usual greyness to a gold look. Towards afternoon a fine mist rose shimmering from the sea and gave a curious unreal flatness to the naval pageantry, as if it was some magnificent vision painted between sea and sky.Without speaking, save in short whispers to each other, without moving, save to change their places by a few steps, the people continued to gaze at the gorgeous spectacle, the like of which no living man had been able to see before.There were no less than sixty-five great ships of wars, splendid vessels rising high above the waves, with much gold on them, seventy vessels of burden in attendance on them and five hundred transports.These ships carried five thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry of the magnificent Dutch army, the six British regiments in the employ of the States, the French Protestants formed into a regiment by the Prince after the Edict of Nantz was revoked, and the whole artillery of every town in the Republic, which had been left stripped of all defences save twelve ships of war and the German troops on the Rhine frontier.The immobile, silent effect of this great and terrible fleet, spreading for miles and representing the entire strength of a vast maritime power, making little progress and waiting for the wind, wrought a kind of exaltation in the hearts of the spectators, all of whom felt their fortunes dependent on the success of this enterprise, and most of whom had friends and relations on board, or in England, whose lives were now at the hazard.But no dread of personal loss or discomfiture, no fear for those dear to them, could equal the grand swell of pride the Dutch felt at beholding the magnificence of the Republic they had built up out of blood and tears, the power of the Religion they had preserved through perils and agonies inconceivable, and which had now grown, from a little feeble spark, to a torch to illume half the world.The dangers to which they were exposed, the chances of attack from a powerful enemy while their defences were abroad courting the fortune of war and the hazard of the winds and sea, the fact that their artillery was gone and their frontier was on one side in the possession of their enemies and on the other but protected by German mercenaries, could not check the sense of glory that stirred them as they watched the changing leagues of ships, so near, yet so silent and beyond communication.The exiles, French and English, gazed with more sullen feelings; but while no national pride was thrilled in their bosoms, the thought of their former wrongs and suffering and the anticipation of their speedy avenging made them no less fiercely wish success to those spreading sails wooing the wind for England. And there was one foreigner, who loved Holland as her own country, and whose heart beat with a pride and a terror as intense as that which inspired any of the Dutch.This was the wife of the Stadtholder, who had yesterday returned from Helvoetsluys. She had been above two hours riding up and down the sands watching the slow passing of the fleet; in her company were the English ladies, the Countesses of Sunderland and Argyll and some of her own attendants; she had been very silent, and, now, as the afternoon was fading, she touched up her beast and galloped away from all of them along the dunes.She reined her black horse at a higher point where some sparse poplar trees, stunted, leafless, and tufts of crackling grass grew out of the dry white sand, and looked round at the great sweep of sea covered with ships and the great curve of shore covered with people.Then her glance returned to the object where it had rested since she first rode down to Scheveningen, the blue flag hanging heavily above the "Brill," the ship in which the Prince sailed.Amid all the crossed lines of mighty masts, intricate cordage, and strained sails she had never failed to distinguish, now in sun, now in shade, sometimes lifted by the breeze, sometimes slack, this standard, though she was very shortsighted, and much clear to the other spectators was a blur to her. When she used her perspective glass she could sometimes read the legend on this flag, which was the motto of the House of Orange with the ellipsis filled in—"I will maintain the liberties of England and the Protestant Religion."Mary rode out farther along the dunes, the crisp sand flying from her horse's feet. She was a fine horsewoman, and had dropped the reins on her saddle to hold her glass. The wind was keen on her face and swept back the long curls from her ears and fluttered the white plume in her beaver. Though she was near so vast a multitude no human sound disturbed the clear stillness; there was only the long beat of the surf on the smooth wet sand and an occasional cry of some pearl-coloured sea-bird as he flashed across the golden grey.In Mary's heart all terror, remorse, sadness had been absorbed by strong pride; the doubts, shames, fears that had tortured her were gone; she did not think of her father, of her danger, of her loneliness, only that she, of all the women there, was the beloved wife of the man who led this—a nation's strength—into war for that cause which to her was the holiest of all causes, the new liberty against the ancient tyranny, tolerance against oppression—all that she symbolized by the word Protestantism.She was so absorbed in this ecstasy of pride and enthusiasm at the sight on which she gazed that she started considerably to hear a voice close beside her say—"Is it not a magnificent spectacle, Madam?" Mary turned quickly and saw a plainly dressed lady on a poor hired beast riding close up to her. Solitude was dear to the Princess, but to rebuke an advance was impossible to her nature."Are you from The Hague?" she asked gently."Yes, Madam, I came there yesterday."She was English, and obviously did not know Mary, who was moved by something pitifully eager and wistful in her worn thin face and stooping figure."You are belike one of the English exiles?" she suggested kindly.The other opened out at once with a glow of gratitude at the interest."My husband was an officer in the Staffordshire, Madam, and we had no money but his pay, so when he refused to abjure there was nothing for us but exile."Mary pointed to the fleet."He—your husband—is there?""Yes—the Prince gave him a pair of colours in one of the English regiments.""You should be proud," smiled Mary.She answered simply—"I am very proud. I pray God to bless the Prince day and night. Where should such as I be but for him? You, I see, Madam, are also English.""Yes."The stranger lady glanced at Mary's gold-braided coat and splendid horse."But not a refugee?" she questioned."No—my home is at The Hague. I am married to a Dutchman."The other was looking out to sea again."Can you tell me how the ships are disposed?" she asked."What is your name, Madam?""Dorothy Marston.""Well, Mrs. Marston, those in the foremost squadron, to the left"—Mary indicated them with her riding-stock—"have on board the English and Scotch, commanded by General Mackay—they sail under the red flag of Admiral Herbert.""Who is given the van out of compliment to the English," remarked Mrs. Marston, with sparkling eyes.Mary drew an excited breath."Those scattered ships, under the white flag, are the Germans, the Prince his guards and Brandenburgers under Count Zolms, and these that bring up the van are the Dutch and the French Huguenots under the Count of Nassau—this squadron is under the orders of Admiral Evertgen.""And where, Madam, is the Prince?""In the centre—you can see his flag with his arms—it is called the 'Brill.'""Thank you, Madam—it is a noble sight, is it not?"Mary laughed softly; she was so secure in her own exaltation, that she felt a kind of pity for the rest of the world."Your husband is aboard the fleet?" asked Mrs. Marston, with friendly curiosity."Yes," said Mary quietly."Well, there is heartache in it as well as pride for us, is not there, Madam?"Mary answered with sparkling animation, her eyes on the blue flag."That is for afterwards."Mrs. Marston sighed."I know—but one storm——""Speak not of storms," answered Mary, "when we have all whom we love on board yonder ships——""Notall."Mary turned her eyes from the fleet that was gradually becoming enveloped in the mists of the darkening afternoon."How—not all?""There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a bright tenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as The Hague is so expensive——"Mary's horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to her bosom. "They are—boys?" she asked, in a changed voice."Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate—but they are too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it."Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards, and the little boats were pitched low on their sides."It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag were sad and wild."A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!"Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude."What is that?""They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low.The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of."It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir.""His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary, with sudden harshness."Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and terrible for a great Prince—for how useless all seemeth with none to inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly——"Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no notice."I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing—I met in Utrecht a Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for ever——"Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and the shade of her hat."Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I—you do not understand—do peopletalkof this? God is hard, it seems—and you have children, and Ipitiedyou. I have been too proud—but humbled enough, I think."Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise."Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."Mary was facing the sea again."No—continue—peopletalkof this?" She was facing the overwhelming bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that affected nations."You must have heard it spoken of if you have lived any time in Holland," answered Mrs. Marston—"ay, or in England either—they say 'tis a pity the Princess cannot do as the Queen did, and smuggle an heir out of a warming-pan—why, see, the ships are moving out of sight!"A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky and drove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse of waves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people were beginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away like vapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in the storm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching to the pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near the horizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; the momentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few careless words.Mrs. Marston spoke again, but Mary did not hear her; she was alone in a world of her own. The rapidly disappearing fleet was blurred to her vision, but she could still see the great light at the prow of the "Brill" as the crowded canvas bent and leapt before the sudden fury of the wind."A storm," she said, aloud—"a storm."Her horse moved along the dunes and she did not check him; against the blue-black clouds was the indistinct figure of Dorothy Marston on her little knock-kneed hack, excitedly waving her handkerchief to the disappearing ships.Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped back towards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants were waiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she could not have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out Lady Sunderland."Let us go home," she said; "it is going to be a stormy night."The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner—the brave calm changed to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned to trembling sorrow."Those ships, Highness," she answered, "can weather very fierce storms.""Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quivering voice—"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet will survive a deep thrust——"She lifted her beautiful face to the failing light; even the lantern on the "Brill" had disappeared now; the dark sea was almost clear of sail, the horizon was obscured in part by the passing of the vanguard, but for the rest was silver white, a line of radiance fast being obscured by the overwhelming threatening clouds.In silence Mary turned and rode back to The Hague; the other ladies whispered together, but she said nothing until they reached the 'huis ten bosch'; then the rain was falling in cold drops and the heavy wind was casting down the snapped branches along the wide bare avenue.They dismounted, and Mary turned impulsively to the little quiet group."You are extraordinarily kind to me," she said, "and I must thank you all."She smiled a little and went from them to her chamber, and then walked straight to the window embrasure and stood listening to the growing sound of the wind that lashed the darkness with spreading fury.She would not come down to supper or even change her clothes, though she was usually very careful not to disturb the routine of her well-ordered life; yet, in this little intimate court where every one was her friend, she felt she might allow herself this solitude.With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the rain dashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the wind was tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it. Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; when they were brought she sent for Lady Sunderland.The Countess came, looking wan and old; she wore no rouge, and the fair, carelessly dressed hair showed the grey locks unconcealed.Mary turned to her dry-eyed."Do you hear the storm?" she said. She was seated on a low red stool by the window and held a Prayer Book in her right hand."My Lady Argyll is weeping downstairs," said Lady Sunderland; "but I perceive that Your Highness hath more constancy."Mary held up the Prayer Book."I have been trying to set my mind on this," she answered, "but the devil is busy about me—and I cannot fix my thoughts on anything but—those ships——"Lady Sunderland, who had made a great clatter with her devotions at Whitehall, with the sole object of covering her husband's apostasy, but who had no real religion, knew not what to say."God," continued the Princess gravely, "must surely protect an enterprise so just, but since His ways are mysterious it might be His will to bring us to disaster, and, humanly speaking, it is a terrible night.""I fear they will be diverted from their course," said the Countess, "since faith cannot still the winds——"Mary rose and handed her the Prayer Book."I think we should pray—will you read?—I have had a course of humours in my eyes, and of late they are so weak——"The Countess took the book with shaking fingers, then laid it down on the blue-and-white chintz-covered chair beside her."I cannot," she said half fiercely. "It is, Madam, no use."Mary looked at her curiously, and a pause of silence fell, during which the triumphant progress of the storm seemed to gather and swell abroad like a trumpet blast without the dark window.Presently Mary said in a moved and barely audible voice—"Madam—about your son—have you ever thought that you would—forgive me—but he was nothing but pain to you——"She paused, and Lady Sunderland answered from a kind of self-absorption—"I did my best. It all seemeth so pointless now we are ruined—I thought of the name, but there is his brother—a cold, hard spirit who hath no kindness for me."Mary was looking at her intently."That must be terrible," she said, breathing quick. "To have children who love one not—do you not think, perhaps, Madam, that it might be better—to—to have none?"Suddenly Lady Sunderland saw what she meant, divined the desperate appeal for comfort disguised in the halting sentence."I do think so, truly, Madam," she answered instantly. "My children have, for all my care, been but discomfort to me.""But there was the time when they were little," said Mary, with a note in her voice that caused Lady Sunderland to turn away her face. "And you must have been glad of them—I—ah, I forgot what I was saying."She was young enough herself to be the Countess's daughter, and that lady felt a great desire to take her in her arms and weep over her, but a certain reserve and majesty about Mary's very simplicity prevented her from even discovering her sympathy."It is very strange to me to think of my husband abroad in this great storm," said the Princess, looking up at the window. "I bless my God that I have the trust to believe that he is safe," she added quietly. "It was as if my heart was torn out when he left me, and since I have been in a kind of numbness.""It is hard on women that they must always sit at home," remarked the Countess; she thought of her own lord lurking in the back streets of Amsterdam; she would rather have been with him than playing her part at The Hague.The wind rose on a great shriek that seemed to rattle every board in the house.Mary winced back from the window, and her face was white even in the candle glow."Let us go to prayers," she said faintly.CHAPTER XVTHE SECOND SAILINGThe next day the Prince of Orange re-entered Helvoetsluys attended by four maimed ships, the rest having been utterly scattered and dispersed by the fearful storm; he then, though giddy and scarce able to stand through seasickness, proceeded, with a serene composure, to go from ship to ship animating his discomfited followers, and refused to be put on shore, lest it should be taken as a sign that he was discouraged in his enterprise and intended to postpone his sailing till the spring.For the next week the great ships of war with tattered sails and broken masts came creeping out of the ports and creeks where they had taken shelter to join the fleet at Helvoetsluys.Many of the horses had been thrown overboard to save the others, and one transport had been lost on the coast of Ireland, but there was no further damage, and the Prince by his great constancy, enthusiasm, spirit, and courage soon had all repaired and made fit, though he caused it to be put in the Dutch Gazette that he was utterly confounded and his forces so broken by the storm that he could not possibly sail before April, and copies of these Gazettes he saw were smuggled into England, where they were read by King James, who was mightily pleased by this news—and said it was no wonder since the Host had been exposed a week, and thereupon he withdrew all the concessions that the reported coming of the Prince had frightened him into, and so showed plainly that fear and not desire had wrung them from him; and both the relaxing and the tightening of his rule were fatally too late for his fortunes, for men had no longer any trust in his word or sincerity, and half the great lords were pledged to the Prince, and the greater number thought there could be no salvation save in his coming, so gave no heed to the actions of the King, but watched the weather-cocks and prayed for a Protestant wind.Within Whitehall was a medley of priests and women, mingled with some honest gentlemen who really were loyal to the Kingship and the House of Stewart, and who were in no way listened to, and silent courtiers who were pledged to William, about the stern foolish King who alternated between weak hesitation and self-confident obstinacy.Sunderland had kept the business of the Kingdom together, and now Sunderland was gone everything fell into bewildering chaos; the King, distracted between the advices of M. Barillon and the fears of Father Petre, the tears of the Italian Queen and the sullen coldness of his nobles, bitterly regretted Sunderland, whose intrigues he had not as yet any glimpse of. There was a fine fleet the King might have relied on, and the Admiral, Lord Dartmouth, was loyal enough, but the Duke of Grafton, son of the late King, and a rude handsome rake, went down privately to Plymouth and extorted a secret promise from most of the Captains that they would not fight for a Catholic King against a Protestant Prince.The Army was gathered on Hounslow Heath with the object of overawing the capital, and the advice of those spirited gentlemen who were truly desirous to see the King retain his dignities was that he should put himself at the head of it and so advance to meet the invader.But the spirit that had inspired James when he was rowed with his flag through the fires of Solebay had long left him; his courage had been the mere flash of youth and noble blood; he was old now, and his soul sank before danger; the terrors of his father's fate, the miseries of his own exiled youth, came upon him with horrible vividness; he let disasters crowd down upon him, and clung to his priests and his faith with the despair of stupidity.Meanwhile the Prince of Orange, having taken a second leave of his wife and the States, sailed with great pomp, the sound of trumpets, the flutter of flags, and the discharge of artillery, from Helvoet, having been but eleven days repairing his ships, replacing his horses, and reassembling his fleet, and having, by the serenity of his behaviour, the unfaltering decision of his actions, the wisdom of his proposals, snatched glory from disappointment, as was ever the way of this Prince.The little advice packets that darted out from the coast of England to watch his movements reported that he was making for the north, in which direction, with a brisk gale in his sails, he indeed steered for twelve hours; but when the night fell and the advice packets had hastened home with news, the Prince signalled to his fleet to tack about, which it did, and, with all the sail it could spread, put before the wind to the westward, and under a fair sky bore for the coasts of Devon.This ruse had its full effect, for Lord Feversham, who commanded the English troops, was bid march northwards, and all the cattle were ordered to be driven from the coasts of Yorkshire.With the next dawn the Dutch van made the Channel, along which it stretched for twenty miles in full view of England and France, the shores of both these countries being covered with spectators who viewed a sight such as had not been seen in these waters since the great Armada crossed these seas, a hundred years before.The magnificence of this procession of mighty ships, which took seven hours to pass, going at their full speed before a strong east wind, the strength and purpose that they symbolized, the power of the Religion, once despised and oppressed, but that now was able to split the world into factions, whose name showed beneath the arms of Orange, that family which of all others had been most distinguished in the defence of liberty, the sheer pomp of war in the great vessels with their guns, flags, and netting, their attendant ships and companies of soldiers on board, the prestige of the man who led this daring expedition, all combined to thrill the hearts of those who watched, whether on the French or English coasts, whether they uttered curses or blessings, prayers for failure or success.About noon, they then being in Calais roads, the Prince gave orders to lay by, both to call a council of war and to strike terror into the two watching nations by displaying his strength in this narrow sea.Accordingly he himself changed to the foremost vessel, taking with him his own standard, and there waited for the rest of the armament to come up, which they presently did, and formed into one body, sixteen ships square, only a league at each side, from either shore, and when they were drawn up, the Prince, from that ship which was nearest the English coast, signalled that the two famous forts of Calais and Dover were to be saluted, which was done at the same moment with great thunder of the deep-mouthed artillery, which was an astonishing spectacle that there should be in Dover Straits a fleet so huge that it could salute these two forts at the same time and be but a league from either. There was something awful in the sound of this warlike courtesy, to the ears of both nations, and some awe and terror mingled with their admiration as the smoke obscured the green dancing waves.From Dover Castle there was no reply, the doubt of England being expressed in this silence; but from Calais came a proud answering salute as from a mighty foe who honours himself by the formalities of respect to his adversary, and the Prince standing on the upper deck amid the slow-clearing gunpowder vapour flushed to hear again the French guns who had last spoken to him among the heights of St. Denis, ten years ago.At the council of war now held it was decided that the disposition of the fleet should be changed, for news had come that the English, who lay at the Gunfleet, were making full endeavours to overtake and fight the Dutch, for though Lord Dartmouth knew that half his officers were pledged to the Prince, and his men very doubtful of engaging in the cause of the King, yet he resolved to use his utmost powers to prevent the landing of His Highness, for he was under personal obligations to James, who had always treated him more as a friend than a subject, and was filled with an honourable desire to serve His Majesty in this crisis.The Prince, knowing this from my Lord Grafton, was eager to avoid a conflict, for however well disposed the English sailors might be to his religion and person, he wisely suspected that a nation so proud, and in particular so jealous of their prestige on the sea, would, when faced in order of battle with those people whom they had so often and so recently fought, forget everything save the desire to achieve a victory over that Republic which alone disputed with them the over-lordship of the ocean.For this reason His Highness had given Admiral Herbert the command of his armament, that the English might salve their arrogance by the thought that an Englishman led this invading force; yet he secretly believed that the names of Herbert and Russell would not prove so potent a motive for peace, as the sight of the foreign flags, jacks, and haughty ships would prove an incentive to rage in the bosoms of the British, who could endure, it seemed, any hardship but the idea of foreign dominion.Therefore it was decided that the Prince and the transports with the troops should continue to lead the van with three ships of war to guard him, and so, sailing down the Channel, make the coast of England, in the west, and that the bulk of the fleet should remain in the van ready to engage the English should they leave their station and venture into the open straits.But this, though it was the thing he most longed to accomplish, Lord Dartmouth found impossible, for that east wind so favourable to the hopes of the Prince was a tyrant to him and held him helpless abreast of the Long Sands, with his yards and topmasts down incapable of purchasing his anchors, while he beheld some of the Dutch vessels pass within his very sight making triumphantly for the coast he was bidden protect while his ships rode at their station useless as a fishing fleet.And this was in some part the fault of my Lord Dartmouth, who cursed the wind in a passion of misery, for he had ignored the advice of His Majesty, who was a knowing man in naval affairs, which was to anchor east of the Gallopper, so that his ships might be free to move which way they pleased, instead of which he acted on his own sense, which was not equal to the King's advice; as was proved, for the scouts, who were left at the Gallopper, captured a Dutch transport, and if they had been greater in strength might have served the whole body of the invader the same.Now in full sight of the shores of these two countries, England and France, the Dutch fleet performed their evolutions, with the pomp of war, the discharge of artillery, the music of trumpets and drums, and the salutes of the entire armament to the ship which carried the Prince and his standard as she made her way to the van; and this all under a blue sky crystal-clear that reflected in the tumbling waves lashed by the strong high English wind a hundred tints of azure and water-green, above which the smoke hung in light vapours.The Prince, under full sail, made for Torbay, which was large enough to contain a great number of the transports, but the Dutch pilot, not being just in his reckoning, went past both that port and the next, which was Dartmouth. The third port was Plymouth, but this being a naval station and a well-fortified place, the Prince was by no means inclined to risk a landing there, since he was not certain of the disposition of the inhabitants towards him, and his great object on land, as on sea, was to avoid a combat, since his sole argument for interfering in the affairs of England was the wish of the English themselves and the invitation of their principal nobles, as he had acknowledged in his Declaration, and it would give a very ill look to this claim of his if his landing was opposed by a bloody fight.Yet to tack about to enter Torbay was attended by almost equal danger, since the wind had changed, and Lord Dartmouth with his entire fleet had left Long Sands and was now under full sail in pursuit.The Prince, distracted by these conflicting considerations, knew not what course to take, and was tortured by the most cruel anxiety, since to either advance or retire might be followed by misfortunes fatal to his whole design.While he was still undecided as to what orders to give and which risks to choose, the wind changed in an instant to the south, which had the effect of bringing the Prince within a few hours into Torbay and forcing the English Admiral back to Long Sands.It being the 4th of November when the Prince saw the cliffs of Devon and the great natural harbour overlooked by the tourelles and towers of Brixham and Torquay, he was anxious to effect a landing there, because it was both his birthday and the anniversary of his marriage, and so he put off in a cock boat with a few of the English nobles and M. Bentinck, and came ashore at Brixham, where there were none but fishermen to receive him, the which stood about staring half in admiration, half in awe, thinking maybe of Monmouth's landing not so far off nor so long ago, and how the county had suffered for it under the executions of my Lord Chief Justice.The Prince called for horses, which were being landed as fast as might be where the water was shallower; yet it was not possible to make the landing effectual till the morrow, and but few of the transports were able to land that night.The Prince, who had well studied the map of England, resolved to march to Exeter and there wait the coming of his English friends; but for this night the wooden tent that he used in war was put up in a neighbouring field, to the great amazement of the country-folk, who had never beheld anything of this nature.The friends and followers of the Prince being gathered about him to congratulate and flatter, among them came his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, expounding in his usual talkative excitement on the marvellous success of the expedition.The Prince was more than ordinarily cheerful, and spared the rebuke with which he usually checked the meddling enthusiast.He gave the Englishman his hand, and looking round the darkening landscape said, with a smile—"Well, doctor, what do you think of predestination now?"CHAPTER XVINEWS FROM ENGLANDThe weeks that followed, so full of great events, passions, movements, and suspenses in Britain, passed with an almost uneventful calm in The Hague, where the Princess, round whose rights half the turmoil had arisen, and the wives of many eminent men engaged in, or affected by, the rapid changing of events, waited for the packets that brought the English letters, and lived in between their coming in a kind of retired anxiety supported by prayers and saddened by tears.The Elector of Brandenburg and his wife came on a visit to Mary, and she entertained them as best she might with her heart aching with other thoughts. They went, and she was alone again and free to go to and from her chapel and wait for her letters and wonder and dread the future through the cold winter days in the quiet town, which seemed, as she was, to be waiting with suspended breath.The progress of affairs in England came brokenly and from various sources, letters arrived slowly, at irregular intervals, delayed by ice-blocked rivers, storms at sea, detained messengers. At first the news was of the Prince's progress to Exeter and the cold reception of that city, the long delay of his friends to join him, the mere wondering apathy of the country-people, who made no movement one way or another, save to make a spectacle of the passing of this foreign army and to petition the Prince that he would, when he could, remove the hearth tax.The next news was that when the Prince was near resolved to return home the spirited English gentry began to rise in his favour, the Lord Wharton and the Lord Colchester marched from Oxford to join him, and my Lord Lovelace broke through the militia, and though arrested once and taken to Gloucester, yet forced out of prison, and with the help of some young gentlemen who had taken up arms for the Prince, drove all the Papists out of that city, and so joined His Highness at Exeter; soon after the Lord Delamere came from Nottingham and took Chester, which, under a Papist, Lord Molineux, held out for the King, and my Lord Danby rose up in the North, and with other persons of quality seized on the city of York and turned out the Papists and clapt up the Mayor, while Colonel Copley, with the aid of some seamen, seized Hull and the powder magazine, and the Earl of Bath took Plymouth from the Earl of Huntingdon and declared for the Prince, as did all the seaport towns in Cornwall.At which, the news ran, the King went to join his army at Salisbury, having sent the Prince of Wales to Portsmouth, but afterwards returned to Windsor upon an alarm of the approach of M. de Schomberg, and so to London, where he found his favourite, Lord Churchill, his son-in-law, Prince George, and his daughter, Anne, had fled to the Prince of Orange, attended by the suspended Bishop of London, who had signed the invitation to His Highness. Then followed news of the skirmish at Wincanton, where some of the Prince's guards under Lieutenant Campbell were put to the rout by the King's men, commanded by that gallant Irishman, Patrick Sarsfield; soon the fleet, growing cold in the service of His Majesty, sent up an address for a free parliament and the army deserted by the regiment.Now the King took out of the Tower Sir Bevil Skelton, late ambassador to Versailles, cast there for the move he had concerted with M. D'Avaux, which if truly followed had saved the King, as he now came to say, and so made Sir Bevil governor of the Tower and Master of the Keys of the Kingdom.After which he went to Hungerford in great despair of mind, where, advised by the Queen and the Jesuits, he sent overtures to the Prince, offering to defer all grievances to the calling of a free parliament, the writs for which the Lord Chancellor Jefferies had already been bid to issue.The Lords Halifax, Nottingham, and Godolphin, having taken this message, brought back an answer which was the best the King could have hoped for, since it made only those demands which were reasonable, such as that the Papists should be removed from office and that Tilbury Fort and the Tower of London should be put into the hands of the Capital.But when they returned with these terms to Whitehall, the commissioners found that the King, either through fearfulness or weakness, or wrought on by the advices of M. Barillon, had taken the extraordinary resolutions—first, of sending his wife and son to France, and secondly, of flying London himself, leaving the government in chaos. Upon which these three lords, perceiving they had been sent on a mock embassy, became for ever incensed against His Majesty. He left a letter for the commander of the army, a Frenchman, Lord Feversham, which that general took to be an order for the disbanding of the forces, which finally put everything into the greatest disorder.The next letters that came to The Hague were full of the Prince's success against the Irish Guards at Twyford Bridge, outside the town of Reading, and the behaviour of the multitude in London, who, as soon as they heard of the departure of the King and the Jesuits, and the near approach of the Prince of Orange, got together and demolished all the new mass chapels and convents; among which was the great monastery of St. John, which had been two years building at a great expense, but was now burnt down and the goods seized as the monks were hurriedly removing, besides all the timber stored in Smithfield for the finishing, which was stacked into a bonfire and burnt at Holborn by the river fleet.Likewise the chapels in Lime Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields, the lodgings of the resident of the Duke of Florence, and Nild House, which was the mansion of the Spanish Ambassador, were spoiled and defaced; yet to the great credit of the English people, in all this heat and excitement, there was not one slain or even hurt.To put a stop to these mischiefs, the lords who were then in London went to the Guildhall and, having demanded the keys of the Tower from Sir Bevil Skelton and delivered them to the Lord Lucas, they took upon themselves the governance of the kingdom for the maintenance of order and the prevention of bloodshed. At first they associated with themselves the magistrates of the city, but on finding that those who are born traders cannot contest with gentlemen in great affairs, they used them not as their colleagues but as their servants, and gave their orders as the King had done.Soon after they invited the Prince, who was now at Windsor, to London, and the same day that he received their address he was presented with another to the same effect from the city of London, which he accepted with more pleasure, and let it be seen that he did; for his titles and encouragements had always come from the people, and his enemies from the nobles, both in his own country and England.To the anxious hearts at The Hague all seemed now clear for a peaceful conclusion, when the news came that the King, having by foul weather been cast upon the coast of Kent, was there stopped and roughly handled by several of the common people who knew him not.When the governing lords heard of this they sent an express begging His Majesty to return to London, which he did after some difficulty, and on Sunday, being the 16th of December, entered the capital, attended by some troops of the Life Guards and Grenadiers; and a set of boys following him with cheers put up his spirits so that he thought he had the people with him again.At this juncture he sent the Lord Feversham to His Highness at Windsor, asking him to come to St. James's and settle matters; but His Highness had by now perceived that no settlement of any difficulty could be arrived at while this obstinate, foolish, and fearful King remained in London, and, having discovered that His Majesty had no courage to resist authority, he took a high hand, arrested the Lord Feversham for travelling without a passport, and sent three lords to Whitehall with a message desiring the King to retire to Ham, having first secured all the posts and avenues about Whitehall by replacing the English guards by Dutch. On receipt of the message the King instantly agreed, only asking that it might be Rochester and not Ham, which desire being communicated to the Prince by messenger (His Highness being then at Zion House), who sent an answer by M. Bentinck that he gave his consent, only adding that he wished His Majesty to leave early that he might not meet him on the road.So the King, having with him the Earl of Arran and a few other gentlemen, went by barge to Gravesend and so overland to Rochester, where he lay in the house of Sir Richard Head.The afternoon of this day on which the King left London for ever, the Prince and his retinue came to St. James's, the whole city shouting and blazing in his honour. But having always hated these displays, and despising the levity that prompted them, he drove by a back way to the Palace, and the people got no sight of him. All the persons of quality in town now flocked to offer their congratulations, and the city sent up a most obliging address which His Highness very cordially received; soon the lords and the city requested the Prince to take the government on himself, which he did, his first act being one which gave him peculiar satisfaction—he ordered M. Barillon to leave the kingdom in twenty-four hours, and had him escorted to the coast by Dutch guards, which was a severe knock to the pride of France.As to the affairs of the kingdom, he ordered writs to be issued for the calling of a Convention, which was to consist of all persons who had sat in parliament during the reign of His Majesty Charles II.All this was great and triumphant news to the States and the Princess. The nobility then at The Hague came to compliment Her Highness, and three deputies were sent from the States-General to congratulate the Prince, and were magnificently received by the English.The Prince then commanded all Papists to depart out of London and Westminster within three days, and to engage the city in his interest he asked them for a loan, and though the security was but his bare word and the sum he asked but a hundred thousand, they subscribed three hundred thousand and paid it in, in so many days.His Majesty being gone to Windsor so as not to prejudice the meeting of the Convention, that body came together on the 22nd of January, and after having humbly thanked His Highness for their deliverance, prayed him to continue to administer the government, and appointed a day of thanksgiving, fell to considering what course they should take.With comparative ease they declared the throne vacant by the flight of the King, but were not so quick in deciding who should fill it. The Prince meanwhile kept silence, observing the same composure that he had maintained during the whole progress of the Revolution, even hunting, staying at private houses, and keeping out of the capital; only sending one brief letter to the Convention, in which he prayed them to come quickly to a decision, as there was the safety of Europe to consider.Despite this withdrawal of himself, this calm that he displayed in the midst of the turmoil, he was the pivot round which all circled, the one authority respected by all, the one defence against anarchy and mischievous confusion.The English, who knew in their hearts that they could not do without him, could by no means make up their minds what to do with him, and soon, after their custom, split into very decided parties, which were most violent against each other and got every day farther from a settlement.At this time the news that reached The Hague was of the most astonishing and unwelcome to the Princess, and this was the manner of her receiving it, one day, very cold, in late January. She was riding in her chariot in the Voorhout, reflecting on this extraordinary revolution in her native country, and thinking of her father (who was now fled to France), when she was accosted by M. D'Avaux, who still remained at The Hague.The Princess was much surprised by this, and was giving a mere formal salute, when M. D'Avaux, with his hat clasped to his bosom, galloped up to her open chariot in such a manner that she could do nothing but desire it to stop."Ah, Madam," said he, smiling, and very courteous, "am I to condole with the daughter of King James or congratulate the wife of the Prince of Orange?"She looked at him, very pale, but with a great majesty."You are to respect a woman in an extraordinary and sad situation, Monsieur," she answered gravely."Extraordinary indeed, Your Highness," said M. D'Avaux. "But scarcely sad to you, I think, who are like to be Queen."It flashed through Mary's mind how near to war they must be with France before he could venture to speak so.She answered instantly—"I take no public reprimand from the Ambassador of France, Monsieur."D'Avaux bowed."More a congratulation, Highness, to the future sovereign of England."Her look of amaze was not to be concealed. His keen eyes, that never left her face, remarked it."Ah, Your Highness hath not heard the last news from England?" he asked quietly."News from England!" repeated Mary, "I hear nothing else——""Then you will have heard that the Convention is for making you Queen, Madam," he answered, "which perhaps is not quite the consummation His Highness desired."Mary gazed at him a second, then made a motion with her gloved hand to the coachman."It is cold to keep the horses waiting," she said, and so drove on.Cold indeed, and the snow beginning to fall in heavy flakes across the straight fronts of the noble houses in the Voorhout; the people of quality gathered there on horseback and on foot began to scatter before the chilly wind and slow darkness. The Princess shuddered inside her fur coat, and drove back to the 'huis ten bosch.'As she passed down the gaunt avenues of bare trees overshadowing frozen water and frozen ground, showing between their dark trunks glimpses of a pale February sunset fast being blotted out by the thick snow clouds, she felt to her very heart the awful desolation of approaching change, the wild regret for a happy period closed, the unnameable loneliness which assailed her when she considered how she was being caught up and hurried into a whirl of events foreign and distasteful.When she reached home she asked for her letters; but evidently the packet that had brought M. D'Avaux his had none for her. She made no comment, but played basset awhile with Lady Sunderland, went early to her prayers, then wept herself to sleep.
CHAPTER XIV
STORMS
The long sand-dunes about the village of Scheveningen were covered with spectators to the number of several thousands, comprising nearly the entire population of The Hague, several strangers, refugees from other parts of Holland, and many French, German, and English; they were principally women, children, and old men, or those in the sober attire of merchants, clerks, servants, or shopkeepers.
One single object seemed to animate these people; they were all utterly silent, and all directed their gaze in one direction—that of the sea.
There, covering the entire sweep of water and obscuring the great horizon itself, rode that huge armament which contained the whole strength of the Republic, and on which was staked her hopes and her safety.
This fleet had weighed anchor during the stillness of the previous night; a few hours after the wind had turned to the south and so brought all the ships on the north coast, where, for half a day, they had been in full view of The Hague.
The weather was still and warm, the sky a sunny blue, and the long stretches of the dunes touched from their usual greyness to a gold look. Towards afternoon a fine mist rose shimmering from the sea and gave a curious unreal flatness to the naval pageantry, as if it was some magnificent vision painted between sea and sky.
Without speaking, save in short whispers to each other, without moving, save to change their places by a few steps, the people continued to gaze at the gorgeous spectacle, the like of which no living man had been able to see before.
There were no less than sixty-five great ships of wars, splendid vessels rising high above the waves, with much gold on them, seventy vessels of burden in attendance on them and five hundred transports.
These ships carried five thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry of the magnificent Dutch army, the six British regiments in the employ of the States, the French Protestants formed into a regiment by the Prince after the Edict of Nantz was revoked, and the whole artillery of every town in the Republic, which had been left stripped of all defences save twelve ships of war and the German troops on the Rhine frontier.
The immobile, silent effect of this great and terrible fleet, spreading for miles and representing the entire strength of a vast maritime power, making little progress and waiting for the wind, wrought a kind of exaltation in the hearts of the spectators, all of whom felt their fortunes dependent on the success of this enterprise, and most of whom had friends and relations on board, or in England, whose lives were now at the hazard.
But no dread of personal loss or discomfiture, no fear for those dear to them, could equal the grand swell of pride the Dutch felt at beholding the magnificence of the Republic they had built up out of blood and tears, the power of the Religion they had preserved through perils and agonies inconceivable, and which had now grown, from a little feeble spark, to a torch to illume half the world.
The dangers to which they were exposed, the chances of attack from a powerful enemy while their defences were abroad courting the fortune of war and the hazard of the winds and sea, the fact that their artillery was gone and their frontier was on one side in the possession of their enemies and on the other but protected by German mercenaries, could not check the sense of glory that stirred them as they watched the changing leagues of ships, so near, yet so silent and beyond communication.
The exiles, French and English, gazed with more sullen feelings; but while no national pride was thrilled in their bosoms, the thought of their former wrongs and suffering and the anticipation of their speedy avenging made them no less fiercely wish success to those spreading sails wooing the wind for England. And there was one foreigner, who loved Holland as her own country, and whose heart beat with a pride and a terror as intense as that which inspired any of the Dutch.
This was the wife of the Stadtholder, who had yesterday returned from Helvoetsluys. She had been above two hours riding up and down the sands watching the slow passing of the fleet; in her company were the English ladies, the Countesses of Sunderland and Argyll and some of her own attendants; she had been very silent, and, now, as the afternoon was fading, she touched up her beast and galloped away from all of them along the dunes.
She reined her black horse at a higher point where some sparse poplar trees, stunted, leafless, and tufts of crackling grass grew out of the dry white sand, and looked round at the great sweep of sea covered with ships and the great curve of shore covered with people.
Then her glance returned to the object where it had rested since she first rode down to Scheveningen, the blue flag hanging heavily above the "Brill," the ship in which the Prince sailed.
Amid all the crossed lines of mighty masts, intricate cordage, and strained sails she had never failed to distinguish, now in sun, now in shade, sometimes lifted by the breeze, sometimes slack, this standard, though she was very shortsighted, and much clear to the other spectators was a blur to her. When she used her perspective glass she could sometimes read the legend on this flag, which was the motto of the House of Orange with the ellipsis filled in—"I will maintain the liberties of England and the Protestant Religion."
Mary rode out farther along the dunes, the crisp sand flying from her horse's feet. She was a fine horsewoman, and had dropped the reins on her saddle to hold her glass. The wind was keen on her face and swept back the long curls from her ears and fluttered the white plume in her beaver. Though she was near so vast a multitude no human sound disturbed the clear stillness; there was only the long beat of the surf on the smooth wet sand and an occasional cry of some pearl-coloured sea-bird as he flashed across the golden grey.
In Mary's heart all terror, remorse, sadness had been absorbed by strong pride; the doubts, shames, fears that had tortured her were gone; she did not think of her father, of her danger, of her loneliness, only that she, of all the women there, was the beloved wife of the man who led this—a nation's strength—into war for that cause which to her was the holiest of all causes, the new liberty against the ancient tyranny, tolerance against oppression—all that she symbolized by the word Protestantism.
She was so absorbed in this ecstasy of pride and enthusiasm at the sight on which she gazed that she started considerably to hear a voice close beside her say—
"Is it not a magnificent spectacle, Madam?" Mary turned quickly and saw a plainly dressed lady on a poor hired beast riding close up to her. Solitude was dear to the Princess, but to rebuke an advance was impossible to her nature.
"Are you from The Hague?" she asked gently.
"Yes, Madam, I came there yesterday."
She was English, and obviously did not know Mary, who was moved by something pitifully eager and wistful in her worn thin face and stooping figure.
"You are belike one of the English exiles?" she suggested kindly.
The other opened out at once with a glow of gratitude at the interest.
"My husband was an officer in the Staffordshire, Madam, and we had no money but his pay, so when he refused to abjure there was nothing for us but exile."
Mary pointed to the fleet.
"He—your husband—is there?"
"Yes—the Prince gave him a pair of colours in one of the English regiments."
"You should be proud," smiled Mary.
She answered simply—
"I am very proud. I pray God to bless the Prince day and night. Where should such as I be but for him? You, I see, Madam, are also English."
"Yes."
The stranger lady glanced at Mary's gold-braided coat and splendid horse.
"But not a refugee?" she questioned.
"No—my home is at The Hague. I am married to a Dutchman."
The other was looking out to sea again.
"Can you tell me how the ships are disposed?" she asked.
"What is your name, Madam?"
"Dorothy Marston."
"Well, Mrs. Marston, those in the foremost squadron, to the left"—Mary indicated them with her riding-stock—"have on board the English and Scotch, commanded by General Mackay—they sail under the red flag of Admiral Herbert."
"Who is given the van out of compliment to the English," remarked Mrs. Marston, with sparkling eyes.
Mary drew an excited breath.
"Those scattered ships, under the white flag, are the Germans, the Prince his guards and Brandenburgers under Count Zolms, and these that bring up the van are the Dutch and the French Huguenots under the Count of Nassau—this squadron is under the orders of Admiral Evertgen."
"And where, Madam, is the Prince?"
"In the centre—you can see his flag with his arms—it is called the 'Brill.'"
"Thank you, Madam—it is a noble sight, is it not?"
Mary laughed softly; she was so secure in her own exaltation, that she felt a kind of pity for the rest of the world.
"Your husband is aboard the fleet?" asked Mrs. Marston, with friendly curiosity.
"Yes," said Mary quietly.
"Well, there is heartache in it as well as pride for us, is not there, Madam?"
Mary answered with sparkling animation, her eyes on the blue flag.
"That is for afterwards."
Mrs. Marston sighed.
"I know—but one storm——"
"Speak not of storms," answered Mary, "when we have all whom we love on board yonder ships——"
"Notall."
Mary turned her eyes from the fleet that was gradually becoming enveloped in the mists of the darkening afternoon.
"How—not all?"
"There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a bright tenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as The Hague is so expensive——"
Mary's horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to her bosom. "They are—boys?" she asked, in a changed voice.
"Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate—but they are too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it."
Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards, and the little boats were pitched low on their sides.
"It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag were sad and wild.
"A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!"
Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude.
"What is that?"
"They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low.
The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of.
"It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir."
"His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary, with sudden harshness.
"Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and terrible for a great Prince—for how useless all seemeth with none to inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly——"
Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no notice.
"I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing—I met in Utrecht a Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for ever——"
Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and the shade of her hat.
"Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I—you do not understand—do peopletalkof this? God is hard, it seems—and you have children, and Ipitiedyou. I have been too proud—but humbled enough, I think."
Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise.
"Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."
Mary was facing the sea again.
"No—continue—peopletalkof this?" She was facing the overwhelming bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that affected nations.
"You must have heard it spoken of if you have lived any time in Holland," answered Mrs. Marston—"ay, or in England either—they say 'tis a pity the Princess cannot do as the Queen did, and smuggle an heir out of a warming-pan—why, see, the ships are moving out of sight!"
A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky and drove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse of waves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people were beginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away like vapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in the storm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching to the pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near the horizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; the momentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few careless words.
Mrs. Marston spoke again, but Mary did not hear her; she was alone in a world of her own. The rapidly disappearing fleet was blurred to her vision, but she could still see the great light at the prow of the "Brill" as the crowded canvas bent and leapt before the sudden fury of the wind.
"A storm," she said, aloud—"a storm."
Her horse moved along the dunes and she did not check him; against the blue-black clouds was the indistinct figure of Dorothy Marston on her little knock-kneed hack, excitedly waving her handkerchief to the disappearing ships.
Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped back towards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants were waiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she could not have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out Lady Sunderland.
"Let us go home," she said; "it is going to be a stormy night."
The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner—the brave calm changed to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned to trembling sorrow.
"Those ships, Highness," she answered, "can weather very fierce storms."
"Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quivering voice—"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet will survive a deep thrust——"
She lifted her beautiful face to the failing light; even the lantern on the "Brill" had disappeared now; the dark sea was almost clear of sail, the horizon was obscured in part by the passing of the vanguard, but for the rest was silver white, a line of radiance fast being obscured by the overwhelming threatening clouds.
In silence Mary turned and rode back to The Hague; the other ladies whispered together, but she said nothing until they reached the 'huis ten bosch'; then the rain was falling in cold drops and the heavy wind was casting down the snapped branches along the wide bare avenue.
They dismounted, and Mary turned impulsively to the little quiet group.
"You are extraordinarily kind to me," she said, "and I must thank you all."
She smiled a little and went from them to her chamber, and then walked straight to the window embrasure and stood listening to the growing sound of the wind that lashed the darkness with spreading fury.
She would not come down to supper or even change her clothes, though she was usually very careful not to disturb the routine of her well-ordered life; yet, in this little intimate court where every one was her friend, she felt she might allow herself this solitude.
With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the rain dashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the wind was tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it. Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; when they were brought she sent for Lady Sunderland.
The Countess came, looking wan and old; she wore no rouge, and the fair, carelessly dressed hair showed the grey locks unconcealed.
Mary turned to her dry-eyed.
"Do you hear the storm?" she said. She was seated on a low red stool by the window and held a Prayer Book in her right hand.
"My Lady Argyll is weeping downstairs," said Lady Sunderland; "but I perceive that Your Highness hath more constancy."
Mary held up the Prayer Book.
"I have been trying to set my mind on this," she answered, "but the devil is busy about me—and I cannot fix my thoughts on anything but—those ships——"
Lady Sunderland, who had made a great clatter with her devotions at Whitehall, with the sole object of covering her husband's apostasy, but who had no real religion, knew not what to say.
"God," continued the Princess gravely, "must surely protect an enterprise so just, but since His ways are mysterious it might be His will to bring us to disaster, and, humanly speaking, it is a terrible night."
"I fear they will be diverted from their course," said the Countess, "since faith cannot still the winds——"
Mary rose and handed her the Prayer Book.
"I think we should pray—will you read?—I have had a course of humours in my eyes, and of late they are so weak——"
The Countess took the book with shaking fingers, then laid it down on the blue-and-white chintz-covered chair beside her.
"I cannot," she said half fiercely. "It is, Madam, no use."
Mary looked at her curiously, and a pause of silence fell, during which the triumphant progress of the storm seemed to gather and swell abroad like a trumpet blast without the dark window.
Presently Mary said in a moved and barely audible voice—
"Madam—about your son—have you ever thought that you would—forgive me—but he was nothing but pain to you——"
She paused, and Lady Sunderland answered from a kind of self-absorption—
"I did my best. It all seemeth so pointless now we are ruined—I thought of the name, but there is his brother—a cold, hard spirit who hath no kindness for me."
Mary was looking at her intently.
"That must be terrible," she said, breathing quick. "To have children who love one not—do you not think, perhaps, Madam, that it might be better—to—to have none?"
Suddenly Lady Sunderland saw what she meant, divined the desperate appeal for comfort disguised in the halting sentence.
"I do think so, truly, Madam," she answered instantly. "My children have, for all my care, been but discomfort to me."
"But there was the time when they were little," said Mary, with a note in her voice that caused Lady Sunderland to turn away her face. "And you must have been glad of them—I—ah, I forgot what I was saying."
She was young enough herself to be the Countess's daughter, and that lady felt a great desire to take her in her arms and weep over her, but a certain reserve and majesty about Mary's very simplicity prevented her from even discovering her sympathy.
"It is very strange to me to think of my husband abroad in this great storm," said the Princess, looking up at the window. "I bless my God that I have the trust to believe that he is safe," she added quietly. "It was as if my heart was torn out when he left me, and since I have been in a kind of numbness."
"It is hard on women that they must always sit at home," remarked the Countess; she thought of her own lord lurking in the back streets of Amsterdam; she would rather have been with him than playing her part at The Hague.
The wind rose on a great shriek that seemed to rattle every board in the house.
Mary winced back from the window, and her face was white even in the candle glow.
"Let us go to prayers," she said faintly.
CHAPTER XV
THE SECOND SAILING
The next day the Prince of Orange re-entered Helvoetsluys attended by four maimed ships, the rest having been utterly scattered and dispersed by the fearful storm; he then, though giddy and scarce able to stand through seasickness, proceeded, with a serene composure, to go from ship to ship animating his discomfited followers, and refused to be put on shore, lest it should be taken as a sign that he was discouraged in his enterprise and intended to postpone his sailing till the spring.
For the next week the great ships of war with tattered sails and broken masts came creeping out of the ports and creeks where they had taken shelter to join the fleet at Helvoetsluys.
Many of the horses had been thrown overboard to save the others, and one transport had been lost on the coast of Ireland, but there was no further damage, and the Prince by his great constancy, enthusiasm, spirit, and courage soon had all repaired and made fit, though he caused it to be put in the Dutch Gazette that he was utterly confounded and his forces so broken by the storm that he could not possibly sail before April, and copies of these Gazettes he saw were smuggled into England, where they were read by King James, who was mightily pleased by this news—and said it was no wonder since the Host had been exposed a week, and thereupon he withdrew all the concessions that the reported coming of the Prince had frightened him into, and so showed plainly that fear and not desire had wrung them from him; and both the relaxing and the tightening of his rule were fatally too late for his fortunes, for men had no longer any trust in his word or sincerity, and half the great lords were pledged to the Prince, and the greater number thought there could be no salvation save in his coming, so gave no heed to the actions of the King, but watched the weather-cocks and prayed for a Protestant wind.
Within Whitehall was a medley of priests and women, mingled with some honest gentlemen who really were loyal to the Kingship and the House of Stewart, and who were in no way listened to, and silent courtiers who were pledged to William, about the stern foolish King who alternated between weak hesitation and self-confident obstinacy.
Sunderland had kept the business of the Kingdom together, and now Sunderland was gone everything fell into bewildering chaos; the King, distracted between the advices of M. Barillon and the fears of Father Petre, the tears of the Italian Queen and the sullen coldness of his nobles, bitterly regretted Sunderland, whose intrigues he had not as yet any glimpse of. There was a fine fleet the King might have relied on, and the Admiral, Lord Dartmouth, was loyal enough, but the Duke of Grafton, son of the late King, and a rude handsome rake, went down privately to Plymouth and extorted a secret promise from most of the Captains that they would not fight for a Catholic King against a Protestant Prince.
The Army was gathered on Hounslow Heath with the object of overawing the capital, and the advice of those spirited gentlemen who were truly desirous to see the King retain his dignities was that he should put himself at the head of it and so advance to meet the invader.
But the spirit that had inspired James when he was rowed with his flag through the fires of Solebay had long left him; his courage had been the mere flash of youth and noble blood; he was old now, and his soul sank before danger; the terrors of his father's fate, the miseries of his own exiled youth, came upon him with horrible vividness; he let disasters crowd down upon him, and clung to his priests and his faith with the despair of stupidity.
Meanwhile the Prince of Orange, having taken a second leave of his wife and the States, sailed with great pomp, the sound of trumpets, the flutter of flags, and the discharge of artillery, from Helvoet, having been but eleven days repairing his ships, replacing his horses, and reassembling his fleet, and having, by the serenity of his behaviour, the unfaltering decision of his actions, the wisdom of his proposals, snatched glory from disappointment, as was ever the way of this Prince.
The little advice packets that darted out from the coast of England to watch his movements reported that he was making for the north, in which direction, with a brisk gale in his sails, he indeed steered for twelve hours; but when the night fell and the advice packets had hastened home with news, the Prince signalled to his fleet to tack about, which it did, and, with all the sail it could spread, put before the wind to the westward, and under a fair sky bore for the coasts of Devon.
This ruse had its full effect, for Lord Feversham, who commanded the English troops, was bid march northwards, and all the cattle were ordered to be driven from the coasts of Yorkshire.
With the next dawn the Dutch van made the Channel, along which it stretched for twenty miles in full view of England and France, the shores of both these countries being covered with spectators who viewed a sight such as had not been seen in these waters since the great Armada crossed these seas, a hundred years before.
The magnificence of this procession of mighty ships, which took seven hours to pass, going at their full speed before a strong east wind, the strength and purpose that they symbolized, the power of the Religion, once despised and oppressed, but that now was able to split the world into factions, whose name showed beneath the arms of Orange, that family which of all others had been most distinguished in the defence of liberty, the sheer pomp of war in the great vessels with their guns, flags, and netting, their attendant ships and companies of soldiers on board, the prestige of the man who led this daring expedition, all combined to thrill the hearts of those who watched, whether on the French or English coasts, whether they uttered curses or blessings, prayers for failure or success.
About noon, they then being in Calais roads, the Prince gave orders to lay by, both to call a council of war and to strike terror into the two watching nations by displaying his strength in this narrow sea.
Accordingly he himself changed to the foremost vessel, taking with him his own standard, and there waited for the rest of the armament to come up, which they presently did, and formed into one body, sixteen ships square, only a league at each side, from either shore, and when they were drawn up, the Prince, from that ship which was nearest the English coast, signalled that the two famous forts of Calais and Dover were to be saluted, which was done at the same moment with great thunder of the deep-mouthed artillery, which was an astonishing spectacle that there should be in Dover Straits a fleet so huge that it could salute these two forts at the same time and be but a league from either. There was something awful in the sound of this warlike courtesy, to the ears of both nations, and some awe and terror mingled with their admiration as the smoke obscured the green dancing waves.
From Dover Castle there was no reply, the doubt of England being expressed in this silence; but from Calais came a proud answering salute as from a mighty foe who honours himself by the formalities of respect to his adversary, and the Prince standing on the upper deck amid the slow-clearing gunpowder vapour flushed to hear again the French guns who had last spoken to him among the heights of St. Denis, ten years ago.
At the council of war now held it was decided that the disposition of the fleet should be changed, for news had come that the English, who lay at the Gunfleet, were making full endeavours to overtake and fight the Dutch, for though Lord Dartmouth knew that half his officers were pledged to the Prince, and his men very doubtful of engaging in the cause of the King, yet he resolved to use his utmost powers to prevent the landing of His Highness, for he was under personal obligations to James, who had always treated him more as a friend than a subject, and was filled with an honourable desire to serve His Majesty in this crisis.
The Prince, knowing this from my Lord Grafton, was eager to avoid a conflict, for however well disposed the English sailors might be to his religion and person, he wisely suspected that a nation so proud, and in particular so jealous of their prestige on the sea, would, when faced in order of battle with those people whom they had so often and so recently fought, forget everything save the desire to achieve a victory over that Republic which alone disputed with them the over-lordship of the ocean.
For this reason His Highness had given Admiral Herbert the command of his armament, that the English might salve their arrogance by the thought that an Englishman led this invading force; yet he secretly believed that the names of Herbert and Russell would not prove so potent a motive for peace, as the sight of the foreign flags, jacks, and haughty ships would prove an incentive to rage in the bosoms of the British, who could endure, it seemed, any hardship but the idea of foreign dominion.
Therefore it was decided that the Prince and the transports with the troops should continue to lead the van with three ships of war to guard him, and so, sailing down the Channel, make the coast of England, in the west, and that the bulk of the fleet should remain in the van ready to engage the English should they leave their station and venture into the open straits.
But this, though it was the thing he most longed to accomplish, Lord Dartmouth found impossible, for that east wind so favourable to the hopes of the Prince was a tyrant to him and held him helpless abreast of the Long Sands, with his yards and topmasts down incapable of purchasing his anchors, while he beheld some of the Dutch vessels pass within his very sight making triumphantly for the coast he was bidden protect while his ships rode at their station useless as a fishing fleet.
And this was in some part the fault of my Lord Dartmouth, who cursed the wind in a passion of misery, for he had ignored the advice of His Majesty, who was a knowing man in naval affairs, which was to anchor east of the Gallopper, so that his ships might be free to move which way they pleased, instead of which he acted on his own sense, which was not equal to the King's advice; as was proved, for the scouts, who were left at the Gallopper, captured a Dutch transport, and if they had been greater in strength might have served the whole body of the invader the same.
Now in full sight of the shores of these two countries, England and France, the Dutch fleet performed their evolutions, with the pomp of war, the discharge of artillery, the music of trumpets and drums, and the salutes of the entire armament to the ship which carried the Prince and his standard as she made her way to the van; and this all under a blue sky crystal-clear that reflected in the tumbling waves lashed by the strong high English wind a hundred tints of azure and water-green, above which the smoke hung in light vapours.
The Prince, under full sail, made for Torbay, which was large enough to contain a great number of the transports, but the Dutch pilot, not being just in his reckoning, went past both that port and the next, which was Dartmouth. The third port was Plymouth, but this being a naval station and a well-fortified place, the Prince was by no means inclined to risk a landing there, since he was not certain of the disposition of the inhabitants towards him, and his great object on land, as on sea, was to avoid a combat, since his sole argument for interfering in the affairs of England was the wish of the English themselves and the invitation of their principal nobles, as he had acknowledged in his Declaration, and it would give a very ill look to this claim of his if his landing was opposed by a bloody fight.
Yet to tack about to enter Torbay was attended by almost equal danger, since the wind had changed, and Lord Dartmouth with his entire fleet had left Long Sands and was now under full sail in pursuit.
The Prince, distracted by these conflicting considerations, knew not what course to take, and was tortured by the most cruel anxiety, since to either advance or retire might be followed by misfortunes fatal to his whole design.
While he was still undecided as to what orders to give and which risks to choose, the wind changed in an instant to the south, which had the effect of bringing the Prince within a few hours into Torbay and forcing the English Admiral back to Long Sands.
It being the 4th of November when the Prince saw the cliffs of Devon and the great natural harbour overlooked by the tourelles and towers of Brixham and Torquay, he was anxious to effect a landing there, because it was both his birthday and the anniversary of his marriage, and so he put off in a cock boat with a few of the English nobles and M. Bentinck, and came ashore at Brixham, where there were none but fishermen to receive him, the which stood about staring half in admiration, half in awe, thinking maybe of Monmouth's landing not so far off nor so long ago, and how the county had suffered for it under the executions of my Lord Chief Justice.
The Prince called for horses, which were being landed as fast as might be where the water was shallower; yet it was not possible to make the landing effectual till the morrow, and but few of the transports were able to land that night.
The Prince, who had well studied the map of England, resolved to march to Exeter and there wait the coming of his English friends; but for this night the wooden tent that he used in war was put up in a neighbouring field, to the great amazement of the country-folk, who had never beheld anything of this nature.
The friends and followers of the Prince being gathered about him to congratulate and flatter, among them came his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, expounding in his usual talkative excitement on the marvellous success of the expedition.
The Prince was more than ordinarily cheerful, and spared the rebuke with which he usually checked the meddling enthusiast.
He gave the Englishman his hand, and looking round the darkening landscape said, with a smile—
"Well, doctor, what do you think of predestination now?"
CHAPTER XVI
NEWS FROM ENGLAND
The weeks that followed, so full of great events, passions, movements, and suspenses in Britain, passed with an almost uneventful calm in The Hague, where the Princess, round whose rights half the turmoil had arisen, and the wives of many eminent men engaged in, or affected by, the rapid changing of events, waited for the packets that brought the English letters, and lived in between their coming in a kind of retired anxiety supported by prayers and saddened by tears.
The Elector of Brandenburg and his wife came on a visit to Mary, and she entertained them as best she might with her heart aching with other thoughts. They went, and she was alone again and free to go to and from her chapel and wait for her letters and wonder and dread the future through the cold winter days in the quiet town, which seemed, as she was, to be waiting with suspended breath.
The progress of affairs in England came brokenly and from various sources, letters arrived slowly, at irregular intervals, delayed by ice-blocked rivers, storms at sea, detained messengers. At first the news was of the Prince's progress to Exeter and the cold reception of that city, the long delay of his friends to join him, the mere wondering apathy of the country-people, who made no movement one way or another, save to make a spectacle of the passing of this foreign army and to petition the Prince that he would, when he could, remove the hearth tax.
The next news was that when the Prince was near resolved to return home the spirited English gentry began to rise in his favour, the Lord Wharton and the Lord Colchester marched from Oxford to join him, and my Lord Lovelace broke through the militia, and though arrested once and taken to Gloucester, yet forced out of prison, and with the help of some young gentlemen who had taken up arms for the Prince, drove all the Papists out of that city, and so joined His Highness at Exeter; soon after the Lord Delamere came from Nottingham and took Chester, which, under a Papist, Lord Molineux, held out for the King, and my Lord Danby rose up in the North, and with other persons of quality seized on the city of York and turned out the Papists and clapt up the Mayor, while Colonel Copley, with the aid of some seamen, seized Hull and the powder magazine, and the Earl of Bath took Plymouth from the Earl of Huntingdon and declared for the Prince, as did all the seaport towns in Cornwall.
At which, the news ran, the King went to join his army at Salisbury, having sent the Prince of Wales to Portsmouth, but afterwards returned to Windsor upon an alarm of the approach of M. de Schomberg, and so to London, where he found his favourite, Lord Churchill, his son-in-law, Prince George, and his daughter, Anne, had fled to the Prince of Orange, attended by the suspended Bishop of London, who had signed the invitation to His Highness. Then followed news of the skirmish at Wincanton, where some of the Prince's guards under Lieutenant Campbell were put to the rout by the King's men, commanded by that gallant Irishman, Patrick Sarsfield; soon the fleet, growing cold in the service of His Majesty, sent up an address for a free parliament and the army deserted by the regiment.
Now the King took out of the Tower Sir Bevil Skelton, late ambassador to Versailles, cast there for the move he had concerted with M. D'Avaux, which if truly followed had saved the King, as he now came to say, and so made Sir Bevil governor of the Tower and Master of the Keys of the Kingdom.
After which he went to Hungerford in great despair of mind, where, advised by the Queen and the Jesuits, he sent overtures to the Prince, offering to defer all grievances to the calling of a free parliament, the writs for which the Lord Chancellor Jefferies had already been bid to issue.
The Lords Halifax, Nottingham, and Godolphin, having taken this message, brought back an answer which was the best the King could have hoped for, since it made only those demands which were reasonable, such as that the Papists should be removed from office and that Tilbury Fort and the Tower of London should be put into the hands of the Capital.
But when they returned with these terms to Whitehall, the commissioners found that the King, either through fearfulness or weakness, or wrought on by the advices of M. Barillon, had taken the extraordinary resolutions—first, of sending his wife and son to France, and secondly, of flying London himself, leaving the government in chaos. Upon which these three lords, perceiving they had been sent on a mock embassy, became for ever incensed against His Majesty. He left a letter for the commander of the army, a Frenchman, Lord Feversham, which that general took to be an order for the disbanding of the forces, which finally put everything into the greatest disorder.
The next letters that came to The Hague were full of the Prince's success against the Irish Guards at Twyford Bridge, outside the town of Reading, and the behaviour of the multitude in London, who, as soon as they heard of the departure of the King and the Jesuits, and the near approach of the Prince of Orange, got together and demolished all the new mass chapels and convents; among which was the great monastery of St. John, which had been two years building at a great expense, but was now burnt down and the goods seized as the monks were hurriedly removing, besides all the timber stored in Smithfield for the finishing, which was stacked into a bonfire and burnt at Holborn by the river fleet.
Likewise the chapels in Lime Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields, the lodgings of the resident of the Duke of Florence, and Nild House, which was the mansion of the Spanish Ambassador, were spoiled and defaced; yet to the great credit of the English people, in all this heat and excitement, there was not one slain or even hurt.
To put a stop to these mischiefs, the lords who were then in London went to the Guildhall and, having demanded the keys of the Tower from Sir Bevil Skelton and delivered them to the Lord Lucas, they took upon themselves the governance of the kingdom for the maintenance of order and the prevention of bloodshed. At first they associated with themselves the magistrates of the city, but on finding that those who are born traders cannot contest with gentlemen in great affairs, they used them not as their colleagues but as their servants, and gave their orders as the King had done.
Soon after they invited the Prince, who was now at Windsor, to London, and the same day that he received their address he was presented with another to the same effect from the city of London, which he accepted with more pleasure, and let it be seen that he did; for his titles and encouragements had always come from the people, and his enemies from the nobles, both in his own country and England.
To the anxious hearts at The Hague all seemed now clear for a peaceful conclusion, when the news came that the King, having by foul weather been cast upon the coast of Kent, was there stopped and roughly handled by several of the common people who knew him not.
When the governing lords heard of this they sent an express begging His Majesty to return to London, which he did after some difficulty, and on Sunday, being the 16th of December, entered the capital, attended by some troops of the Life Guards and Grenadiers; and a set of boys following him with cheers put up his spirits so that he thought he had the people with him again.
At this juncture he sent the Lord Feversham to His Highness at Windsor, asking him to come to St. James's and settle matters; but His Highness had by now perceived that no settlement of any difficulty could be arrived at while this obstinate, foolish, and fearful King remained in London, and, having discovered that His Majesty had no courage to resist authority, he took a high hand, arrested the Lord Feversham for travelling without a passport, and sent three lords to Whitehall with a message desiring the King to retire to Ham, having first secured all the posts and avenues about Whitehall by replacing the English guards by Dutch. On receipt of the message the King instantly agreed, only asking that it might be Rochester and not Ham, which desire being communicated to the Prince by messenger (His Highness being then at Zion House), who sent an answer by M. Bentinck that he gave his consent, only adding that he wished His Majesty to leave early that he might not meet him on the road.
So the King, having with him the Earl of Arran and a few other gentlemen, went by barge to Gravesend and so overland to Rochester, where he lay in the house of Sir Richard Head.
The afternoon of this day on which the King left London for ever, the Prince and his retinue came to St. James's, the whole city shouting and blazing in his honour. But having always hated these displays, and despising the levity that prompted them, he drove by a back way to the Palace, and the people got no sight of him. All the persons of quality in town now flocked to offer their congratulations, and the city sent up a most obliging address which His Highness very cordially received; soon the lords and the city requested the Prince to take the government on himself, which he did, his first act being one which gave him peculiar satisfaction—he ordered M. Barillon to leave the kingdom in twenty-four hours, and had him escorted to the coast by Dutch guards, which was a severe knock to the pride of France.
As to the affairs of the kingdom, he ordered writs to be issued for the calling of a Convention, which was to consist of all persons who had sat in parliament during the reign of His Majesty Charles II.
All this was great and triumphant news to the States and the Princess. The nobility then at The Hague came to compliment Her Highness, and three deputies were sent from the States-General to congratulate the Prince, and were magnificently received by the English.
The Prince then commanded all Papists to depart out of London and Westminster within three days, and to engage the city in his interest he asked them for a loan, and though the security was but his bare word and the sum he asked but a hundred thousand, they subscribed three hundred thousand and paid it in, in so many days.
His Majesty being gone to Windsor so as not to prejudice the meeting of the Convention, that body came together on the 22nd of January, and after having humbly thanked His Highness for their deliverance, prayed him to continue to administer the government, and appointed a day of thanksgiving, fell to considering what course they should take.
With comparative ease they declared the throne vacant by the flight of the King, but were not so quick in deciding who should fill it. The Prince meanwhile kept silence, observing the same composure that he had maintained during the whole progress of the Revolution, even hunting, staying at private houses, and keeping out of the capital; only sending one brief letter to the Convention, in which he prayed them to come quickly to a decision, as there was the safety of Europe to consider.
Despite this withdrawal of himself, this calm that he displayed in the midst of the turmoil, he was the pivot round which all circled, the one authority respected by all, the one defence against anarchy and mischievous confusion.
The English, who knew in their hearts that they could not do without him, could by no means make up their minds what to do with him, and soon, after their custom, split into very decided parties, which were most violent against each other and got every day farther from a settlement.
At this time the news that reached The Hague was of the most astonishing and unwelcome to the Princess, and this was the manner of her receiving it, one day, very cold, in late January. She was riding in her chariot in the Voorhout, reflecting on this extraordinary revolution in her native country, and thinking of her father (who was now fled to France), when she was accosted by M. D'Avaux, who still remained at The Hague.
The Princess was much surprised by this, and was giving a mere formal salute, when M. D'Avaux, with his hat clasped to his bosom, galloped up to her open chariot in such a manner that she could do nothing but desire it to stop.
"Ah, Madam," said he, smiling, and very courteous, "am I to condole with the daughter of King James or congratulate the wife of the Prince of Orange?"
She looked at him, very pale, but with a great majesty.
"You are to respect a woman in an extraordinary and sad situation, Monsieur," she answered gravely.
"Extraordinary indeed, Your Highness," said M. D'Avaux. "But scarcely sad to you, I think, who are like to be Queen."
It flashed through Mary's mind how near to war they must be with France before he could venture to speak so.
She answered instantly—
"I take no public reprimand from the Ambassador of France, Monsieur."
D'Avaux bowed.
"More a congratulation, Highness, to the future sovereign of England."
Her look of amaze was not to be concealed. His keen eyes, that never left her face, remarked it.
"Ah, Your Highness hath not heard the last news from England?" he asked quietly.
"News from England!" repeated Mary, "I hear nothing else——"
"Then you will have heard that the Convention is for making you Queen, Madam," he answered, "which perhaps is not quite the consummation His Highness desired."
Mary gazed at him a second, then made a motion with her gloved hand to the coachman.
"It is cold to keep the horses waiting," she said, and so drove on.
Cold indeed, and the snow beginning to fall in heavy flakes across the straight fronts of the noble houses in the Voorhout; the people of quality gathered there on horseback and on foot began to scatter before the chilly wind and slow darkness. The Princess shuddered inside her fur coat, and drove back to the 'huis ten bosch.'
As she passed down the gaunt avenues of bare trees overshadowing frozen water and frozen ground, showing between their dark trunks glimpses of a pale February sunset fast being blotted out by the thick snow clouds, she felt to her very heart the awful desolation of approaching change, the wild regret for a happy period closed, the unnameable loneliness which assailed her when she considered how she was being caught up and hurried into a whirl of events foreign and distasteful.
When she reached home she asked for her letters; but evidently the packet that had brought M. D'Avaux his had none for her. She made no comment, but played basset awhile with Lady Sunderland, went early to her prayers, then wept herself to sleep.