CHAPTER XVIIFAREWELL TO HOLLANDSoon after the Groote Kerk had struck midnight, one of the Princess's Dutch ladies came to the chamber of her mistress with the news that letters from England had come, it being the command of Mary that she should always be roused, whatever the hour, when the mail arrived.She came out now, in her undress—a muslin nightshift with an overgown of laycock, and with her hair, which was one of her principal beauties, freed from the stiff dressing of the day and hanging about her shoulders—into the little anteroom of her bedchamber, where the candles had been hastily lit and the tiled stove that burnt day and night stirred and replenished.There were two letters. She had no eyes save for that addressed in the large careless hand of the Prince, and tore it open standing under the branched sconce, where the newly-lit candles gave a yet feeble light from hard wax and stiff wick, while the Dutch lady, excited and silent, opened the front of the stove and poked the bright sea coals.The Princess, who had waited long for this letter, owing to the ice-blocked river, was sharply disappointed at the briefness of it; the Prince requested her to make ready to come at once to England, as her presence was desired by the Convention, told her what to say to the States, and remarked that the hunting at Windsor was poor indeed compared to that of Guelders.Mary laid the letter down."I must go to England, Wendela," she said to her lady; then sat silent a little, while the candles burnt up to a steady glow that filled the room with a fluttering light of gold."Is my Lady Sunderland abed?" asked Mary presently."No, Madam; she was playing cards when I came up.""Will you send her to me, Wendela?"The lady left the room and Mary noticed the other letter, which she had completely forgotten. She took it up and observed that the writing was strange; she broke the seals and drew nearer the candles, for her eyes, never strong, were now blurred by recent tears.The first words, after the preamble of compliments, took her with amazement. She glanced quickly to the signature, which was that of Lord Danby, then read the letter word for word, while her colour rose and her breath came sharply.When she had finished, with an involuntary passionate gesture and an involuntary passionate exclamation, she dashed the letter down on the lacquer bureau.Lady Sunderland, at this moment entering, beheld an expression on the face of the Princess which she had never thought to see there—an expression of sparkling anger."Ill news from England, Highness?" she asked swiftly."The worst news in the world for me," answered Mary. Then she cried, "This is what M. D'Avaux meant!"The Countess raised her beautiful eyes. She was very fair in rose-pink silk and lace, her appearance gave no indication of misfortune, but in her heart was always the sharp knowledge that she was an exile playing a game, the stake of which was the greatness, perhaps the life, of her husband."What news, Highness?" she questioned gently.Mary was too inflamed to be reserved, and, despite the vast difference in their natures, a great closeness had sprung up between her and the Countess during these weeks of waiting."They wish to make me Queen," she said, with quivering lips, "to the exclusion of the Prince. My Lord Danby, whom I never liked, is leading a party in the Convention, and he saith will have his way——"Lady Sunderland was startled."What doth His Highness say?""Nothing of that matter—how should he? But he would never take that place that would be dependent on my courtesy—he!" She laughed hysterically. "What doth my lord mean?—what can he think of me? I, Queen, and the Prince overlooked?—am I not his wife? And they know my mind. I told Dr. Burnet, when he meddled in this matter, that I had sworn obedience to the Prince and meant to keep those vows——"She paused, breathless and very angry; her usual vivacity had changed to a blazing passion that reminded Lady Sunderland of those rare occasions when His late Majesty had been roused."My lord meant to serve you," she said."To serve me!" repeated Mary, "when he is endeavouring to stir up this division between me and the Prince—making our interests different——""You are nearer the throne, Highness——"Mary interrupted impatiently—"What is that compared to what the Prince hath done for England? Can they think," she added, with a break in her voice, "that I would have done this—gone against—His Majesty—for a crown—for anything save my duty to my husband? What musthethink of me—these miserable intrigues——"She flung herself into the red brocade chair in front of the cabinet, and caught up the offending letter."Yet," she continued, with a flash of triumph, "this will give me a chance to show them—where my duty lieth——"She took up her pen, and Lady Sunderland came quickly to the desk."What do you mean to do?" she asked curiously."I shall write to my lord, tell him my deep anger, and send his letter and a copy of mine to the Prince."Lady Sunderland laid her hand gently on Mary's shoulder."Think a little——"Mary lifted flashing eyes."Why should I think?""This is a crown you put aside so lightly!"The Princess smiled wistfully."I should be a poor fool to risk what I have for a triple crown!""Still—wait—see," urged the Countess; "'tis the crown of England that my lord offereth——""Do you think that anything to me compared to the regard of the Prince?" asked Mary passionately. "I thought that you would understand. Can you picture him as my pensioner—him! It is laughable, when my whole life hath been one submission to his will. Oh, you must see that he is everything in the world to me ... I have no one else——" She continued speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, as was her fashion when greatly moved. "At first I thought he would never care, but now he doth; but he is not meek, and I might lose it all—all this happiness that hath been so long a-coming. Oh, I will write such a letter to my lord!""You sacrifice a good deal for the Prince," said the Countess half sadly."Why," answered Mary, "this is easier than going against my father, and giving the world cause to scorn me as an unnatural daughter——"Her lips quivered, but she set them proudly."I have talked enough on this matter, God forgive me, but I was angered by this lord's impertinence."The Countess made some movement to speak, but Mary checked her."No more of this, my Lady Sunderland," she said firmly. She took a sheet of paper from the bureau and began to write.Lady Sunderland moved to the stove and watched her intently and with some curiosity. The wife of my late Lord President was tolerably well informed in English politics, and knew that the Tories would rather have the daughter than the nephew of the Stewarts on the throne, and that the great bulk of the general nobility would rather have a woman like the Princess than a man like the Prince to rule them.She did not doubt that Mary, with her nearer claim, her English name and blood, would readily be accepted by the English as Queen, and that the nation would be glad to retain the services of her husband at the price of some title, such as Duke of Gloucester—which had been proposed for him before—and whatever dignity Mary chose to confer on him. She certainly thought that this scheme, pleasing as it might be to Whig and Tory, showed a lack of observation of character on the part of the originator, my Lord Danby; Lord Sunderland had always declared that it was the Prince they needed, not his wife, and that they would never obtain him save for the highest price—the crown.Yet the Countess, standing in this little room, watching Mary writing with the candlelight over her bright hair and white garments, seeing her calmly enclose to the Prince Lord Danby's letter and a copy of her answer, could not help some wonder that this young woman—a Stewart, and born to power and gaiety—should so lightly and scornfully put aside a crown—the crown of England.When Mary had finished her letters and sealed them, she rose and came also to the stove. She looked very grave."The Prince saith not one word of our losses," she remarked—"Madame Bentinck, I mean, and M. Fagel, yet both must have touched him nearly. I am sorry for M. Bentinck, who hath had no time to grieve.""What will happen in England now, Highness?" asked the Countess, thinking of the Earl."I suppose," said Mary, breathing quickly, "they will offer the Prince the throne ... he commandeth my presence in England ... I must leave Holland——""You love the country?""Better than my own. I was not made for great affairs. I love this quiet life—my houses here, the people..."She broke off quickly."What will you do, Madam?"Lady Sunderland indeed wondered."Go join my lord in Amsterdam," she answered half recklessly. "An exile remains an exile.""The Prince," said Mary gravely, "hath some debt to my lord. He never forgetteth his friends—or those who serve him.""I thank you for that much comfort, Madam.""You must return to England—to Althorp," continued the Princess gently; "you have done nothing that you should stay abroad——"Lady Sunderland shook her head."What is Althorp to me, God help me! I think my home is in Amsterdam—I shall go there when Your Highness leaveth for England."Mary put her cool hand over the slim fingers of the Countess that rested on the back of the high walnut chair."Are you going with Basilea de Marsac?""Yes; she is a good soul.""A Catholic," said Mary, with a little frown; "but I like her too—better than I did——""She hath become very devoted to Your Highness; she is very lonely.""What was her husband?"Lady Sunderland smiled."An incident."Mary smiled too, then moved back to the bureau."I must get back to bed; I have a sore throat which I must nurse." She coughed, and moistened her lips. "I am as hoarse as a town-crier." She laughed again unsteadily and rang the silver bell before her. "I never pass a winter without a swelled face or a sore throat."The Dutch waiting lady entered, and Mary gave her the letters."See that they go at the earliest—and, Wendela, you look tired, get to bed immediately."With no more than this she sent off her refusal of three kingdoms. When they were alone again she rose and suddenly embraced Lady Sunderland."Do you think I shall come back to Holland?" she asked under her breath."Why—surely——""Ah, I know not." She loosened her arms and sank on to the stool near the stove. "Sometimes I feel as if the sands were running out of me. You know," she smiled wistfully, "I have an unfortunate name; the last Mary Stewart, the Prince his mother, was not thirty when she died—of smallpox."She was silent, and something in her manner held Lady Sunderland silent too."A terrible thing to die of," added Mary, after a little. "I often think of it; when you are young it must be hard, humanly speaking, but God knoweth best.""I wonder why you think of that now?" asked Lady Sunderland gently."I wonder! We must go to bed ... this is marvellous news we have had to-night ... to know that I must sail when the ice breaketh ... good night, my Lady Sunderland."The Countess took her leave and Mary put out the candles, which left the room only illumed by the steady glow from the white, hot heart of the open stove.Mary drew the curtains from the tall window and looked out.It was a clear frosty night, utterly silent; the motionless branches of the trees crossed and interlaced into a dense blackness, through which the stars glimmered suddenly, and suddenly seemed to disappear.The chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the half-hour, and the echoes dwelt in the silence tremblingly.Mary dropped the curtain and walked about the room a little. Then she went to the still open desk and took up the remaining letter—that of the Prince.With it in her hand she stood thoughtful, thinking of her father in France, of all the extraordinary changes and chances which had brought her to this situation, face to face with a dreaded difference from anything she had known.She went on her knees presently, and rested her head against the stool, worked by her own fingers in a design of beads and wool, and put the letter against her cheek, and desperately tried to pray and forget earthly matters.But ever between her and peace rose the angry, tragic face of her father and the stern face of her husband confronting each other, and a background of other faces—the mocking, jeering faces of the world—scorning her as one who had wronged her father through lust of earthly greatness.CHAPTER XVIIIBY THE GRACE OF GODThe Princess's boat, with her escort of Dutch warships, rode in the Thames at last. The frost had broken, and she arrived not long after her letter to Lord Danby had scattered that statesman's party, and frustrated his hopes of placing her on the throne. The Prince having soon after declared his mind to the lords in council, that he would accept no position dependent on his wife's pleasure or the life of another (for there had been talk of a regency, leaving the King the nominal title), made it clear that if his services were to be retained, if he was not to abandon them to the confusion, strife, and disaster from which his presence alone saved them, he must be King. All parties uniting, then, on what was now proved to be the winning side, the Convention voted the offer of the crown to the Prince and Princess jointly—the sole administration to rest with him.The succession, after naming the direct line, was left vague to please the Prince, who was free to flatter himself that he could choose his own heir.This news had come to Mary before she left The Hague, and she knew that the day after her landing there would be a formal offering and acceptance of the crown of Great Britain. She beheld the prospect with extraordinary sensations as, passing Gravesend, and leaving her vessel and escort at Greenwich, she proceeded in a state barge to the more familiar reaches of the river, Rotherhithe, Wapping, and presently the Tower, rising golden grey in the chill spring sunshine, by the bridge with the deep crazy arches through which the water poured in dangerous rapids. Crowded with houses was this old bridge, and in the centre a little chapel with a bell, now ringing joyfully.Mary remembered it all—the long busy wharves, now taking holiday; the barges, boats, and compact shipping now hung with flags; Galley Key, where the slaves in chains unlade the oranges, silks, and spices from the East; the houses, on the side of Surrey, among which rose the spire of the great church at Southwark; the merchants' houses built down to the water's edge, with pleasant gardens filled with poplar trees and set with the figureheads of ships in which some adventurer had sailed his early travels long ago in the time of Elizabeth Tudor; and the distant prospect of the city itself shimmering now under an early haze of sunshine.All was utterly strange, yet nothing was altered; it looked the same as when, weeping to leave England, she had come down these waters in a barge with her silent husband, ten years ago, and waited at Gravesend for the wind.One difference attracted Mary's eyes. Behind and beyond the Tower a mass of scaffolding rose that dominated the whole city, and through the crossed poles, boards, and ropes, she could discern the majestic outline of the dome of that vast church which had been slowly rising out of the ashes of the old St. Paul's since she was a child.At the Tower Wharf she landed, laughing hysterically, and hardly knowing what she did. They gave her a royal salute of cannon, and she saw all the guards drawn up in squares, with their spears in the midst, and a red way of brocade carpet laid down for her, and a coach with white horses and running footmen, and beyond, a press of noblemen and officers, and the sheriffs and aldermen of the city with the Lord Mayor.She hesitated on the gangway, amidst her ladies, her spirit completely overwhelmed. She looked round desperately for some one to whom to say—"I cannot do it—I cannot put it through. I must die, but I cannot be Queen."The complete incomprehension on the excited faces of these ladies, the strangeness of many of them, recalled her with a shock to herself; she felt as if she had been on the point of betraying her husband. She recalled his last letter, in which he had asked her to show no grief or hesitation in her manner, and, biting her lips fiercely, she stepped firmly on to English soil, and managed somehow to respond to the lowly salutations of the crowd pressing to receive her. The Prince was by the coach door; she noticed that he wore his George and garter, which he had not done perhaps twice before. There were a great many gentlemen behind him, many of them those whom she had already met at The Hague, others strange to her, several of the Dutch officers, and M. Bentinck in mourning for his wife.Mary, still English enough to think her country the finest in the world, was thrilled with pleasure to see how respectfully all these great nobles held themselves to the Prince. She was used to see him receive this homage in his own country and from the magnates of the Empire, but these Englishmen were to her more than any German princes.The Prince took her hand and kissed it, and said very quickly in Dutch—"I would that this had been in Holland."The English gentlemen bowed till their long perukes touched their knees, Mary entered the coach with Lady Argyll and a Dutch lady, the Prince mounted his white horse, and the cavalcade started through the expectant city with all that pomp which the people would not forgo and the Prince to-day could not avoid.All London was eager for a sight of the Princess. The last Queen, foreign, proud Romanist, and hard, had never been a favourite, the Queen Dowager had never counted for anything, and was now a forgotten figure in Somerset House; but Mary was English, Protestant, and her image had long been faithfully cherished in England as that of a native Princess who would some day restore the old faith. Therefore her greeting was such as made her turn pale; she had never before heard such thunders of acclamation, popular as she was in the United Provinces.Every road, every housetop, all the windows, alleys, and turnings were filled with well-dressed, orderly people, who cheered her and cheered the Prince till Mary felt dizzy. She saw in this their true title to the crown; the lords were but obeying the people in setting it on their heads, and she recalled how these same Londoners had besieged the doors of Westminster Hall, while the Convention was sitting, and threatened to use violence if the Prince was not elected King.Her appearance of beautiful youth, her sparkling excitement, her gracious smiles made a favourable impression, and further roused the enthusiasm which the very stiff demeanour of the Prince, to whom this display was hateful, was apt to damp.By the time they reached Whitehall she was more popular than he, and the nobles who rode in the procession thought to themselves that the English wife would serve to keep the foreign husband in the affections of the people.Whitehall was filled with English, Dutch, and Scotch waiting to kiss her hand: Mr. Sidney was there, Mr. Herbert, Mr. Russell, Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Devonshire, Lord Halifax, Lord Godolphin, Lord Danby, and others whom she did not know or had forgotten; their background was that splendid palace, seeming vast and magnificent indeed after her houses in Holland, which she had left so sadly ten years ago. Then she had wept, now she laughed and was very gracious, but in her heart she was as reluctant to enter Whitehall as she had ever been to leave it; the memories the place aroused were poignant, not sweet.It was three hours before she found herself alone with the Prince in that gorgeous little chamber that had once been her father's, and still contained his pictures, statues, his monogram and arms on chairs and carvings.The instant he had closed the door the Prince kissed her in silence, and she burst into speech."Are you satisfied? Are you pleased? Is this another step in your task—they—these people—will they help? How long the time hath seemed!""To me also," said the Prince unsteadily.She stepped back to look at him anxiously: he was extravagantly vestured in embroidered scarlet, lace, jewels, the George and garter conspicuous, and a great star of diamonds on his breast. A close scrutiny showed that he looked more ill and weary than she had ever known him."You are changed," she said quickly. "Oh, my dear, the climate doth not suit you——"He smiled languidly."I would we had met in Holland," he answered. "I am sick for Holland, Marie.""Already?"He seated himself in the deep window-seat that overlooked the privy garden and she took the low stool beside, studying him wistfully for one hint of that enthusiasm and elation which she hoped would be called forth by his splendid success."We could not have asked God for a more happy ending," she said in a trembling voice."They—the English—will declare against France," he answered, but without spirit, and as if it was an effort to speak at all. "If I could get them into the field this spring——" He was interrupted by his cough, which was violent and frequent, and he flung the window open impatiently. "There is no air in this place," he continued, in a gasping voice; "their smoky chimneys and their smells are killing me; I cannot endure London.""We need not live here," said Mary quickly."They think so," he returned; "'tis our post, where we are paid to be——"The scarcely concealed bitterness with which he spoke of England was a matter of amaze and terror to Mary, in whose ears still rang the enthusiastic shouts of the people and the flatteries of the courtiers."But you are popular——" she began."Hosanna to-day, and to-morrow crucify!" he answered. "I shall not long be popular—the great lords have not loved me from the first. They offer me the throne because there is no other to serve their turn, and I take it because it is the only way to secure them against France. But I undertake hard service, Marie.""You mean—the difficulties?""The difficulties! I confess I am overwhelmed by them; everything is confusion—everything! To get the bare Government on a business footing would take a year's hard work, saying every one was honest—and every one is corrupt. I can trust none of them. There is Ireland in a ferment and the Scottish affairs in a tangle; there are a hundred different parties, with indecipherable politics, waiting to fly at each other's throats; the Church is hydra-headed with factions—and a cow might as well be set to catch a hare as I set to put this straight, and I have had the business of Europe to conduct already."Mary's pride and pleasure were utterly dashed. Troubles and difficulties she had been prepared for, but they had been vague and distant; she had not thought to find the Prince already whelmed in them. She reflected swiftly on the anxiety, labour, and anguish that had gone to this expedition, the odium they had both incurred, the violence she had done her own feelings, and she wondered desperately if it had been worth the price.The Prince took her hand, having noticed the paling of her face and the distress in her eyes."We will talk of other things," he said, with an effort over his tired voice. "I am weak to burden you at once with this; you at least will be beloved here——"Mary broke in passionately—"I do not love England—nor want to be Queen. I doubt I can do it—I was made for little things and peace—I hate this palace," she glanced desperately round her father's splendour; "our own homes—where we were so happy—are they not better?"The Prince went very pale."I should not have repined," he said; "it is my task, which I must put through ... the part you have been made to take is the worst for me—the part you may have to take——""If it serveth you I am very content," she answered; "if I can do anything to help I shall be happy——"The tears sprang into the Prince's eyes. He looked away out of the window."Marie—about His late Majesty—I could not help—that he was stopped in Kent ... I would not have had it happen——""Do not fear," she answered wildly, "that I do not in everything hold you justified?"Her voice broke, and she began to weep.The Prince rose and helped her to her feet."We must not show tears here," he said gently, "for we are not at home—but among many enemies——"She dried her eyes and smiled bravely."Do we feel constraint so soon?""We pay something," he said sadly, "that we are, by the grace of God, Monarchs of England."PART IITHE QUEEN"I have really hardly had time to say my prayers, and was feign to run away to Kensington, where I had three hours of quiet, which was more than I had had together since I saw you."That place made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear company; but now—I will say no more, for I shall hurt my own eyes, which I now want more than ever."Adieu! Think of me and love me as much as I shall you, who I love more than my life."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 15*th July* 1690."Every hour maketh me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I hear stir I think bringeth me a letter.... I have stayed till I am almost asleep in hopes; but they are vaine, and I must once more go to bed and wished to be waked with a letter, which I shall at last get, I hope ... adieu! Do but love me and I can bear anything."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM,July1690.—"My poor heart is ready to break every time I think in what perpetual danger you are; I am in greater fears than can be imagined by any who loves less than myself."I count the hours and the moments, and have only reason left to think—as long as I have no letters all is well.... I never do anything without thinking—now, it may be, you are in the greatest dangers, and yet I must see company on my set days; I must play twice a week; nay, I must laugh and talk, tho' never so much against my will. I believe that I dissemble very ill to those who know me; at least it is a great constraint to myself, yet I must endure it. All my movements are so watched, and all I do so observed, that if I eat less, speak less, or look more grave, all is lost in the opinion of the world; so that I have this misery added to that of your absence and my fears for your dear person, that I must grin when my heart is ready to break, and talk when my heart is so oppressed I can scarce breathe.... Besides, I must hear of business, which, being a thing I am so new in and so unfit for, doth but break my brains the more and not ease my heart...."Farewell! Do but continue to love me and forgive the taking up so much of your time to your poor wife, who deserves more pity than ever any creature did, and who loves you a great deal too much for her own ease, tho' it can't be more than you deserve."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 5*th September* 1690.CHAPTER IA DARK DAWNINGIn the King's antechamber at Kensington House my Lord Dorset and one of his pensioners (of which he had a many) awaited an audience of His Majesty.It was a year since the Revolution, a cold-wet autumn, and Kensington House, recently bought from my Lord Nottingham, stood blank and sad among dripping wet trees.Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman, found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court, Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand. Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office of Lord Chamberlain.Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King's Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour.Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he passed—"Good God! we are like to get on the rocks—nothing is right."When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness—"You see—I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had best not press for an audience to-day——"But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came out.He stood for a second in the doorway, looking at the few gentlemen standing about the bare, large room; then his glance fell on Lord Dorset, who moved forward with his splendid air of grace."Is it the wrong moment to present to the notice of Your Majesty the young poet of whom I spoke yesterday?"The King's large open eyes turned to the pale and agitated young man in question, who instantly went on his knees."A poet?" repeated William; the word to him conveyed a mild, but scarcely harmless madness. He thought the patronage of these people an irritating trait in his Lord Chamberlain. "Have we not already poets in our Court?"Lord Dorset smiled."This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did much service in writing of satires——""We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose own country the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turned gravely to the young man—"What is your name?""Matthew Prior, Your Majesty.""You wish a post about the Court, Mr. Prior?"The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes."I have desired all my life to serve Your Majesty," he answered, which was true enough, for he cherished an almost romantical admiration for William."My Lord Dorset," said the King, "is a fine guarantee for any man; we will find some place for you——" He cut short protestations of gratitude by saying, "You must not expect us to read your poems, Mr. Prior.""Your Majesty was ever severe on that art," smiled Lord Dorset."I do not understand it," said William simply; but the Lord Chamberlain had a fine enough perception to discern that there had been more poetry in the actions of the King's life than ever Matthew Prior could get on paper. He took the following silence for dismissal, and withdrew with his grateful pensioner.The King drew out his watch, glanced at it, and called up one of the ushers at the further doors."When Lord Halifax arriveth bid him come at once to us."He hesitated a moment, looking at the sombre prospect of grey and rain to be seen through the long windows, then returned to his private room and closed the door.A wood fire burnt between two brass andirons and filled the plain closet with warmth, above the walnut bureau hung a map of the United Provinces, and on the high mantelshelf stood several ornaments and vases in blue-and-white delft.The King seated himself in the red damask covered chair before the desk, and mechanically took up the quill that lay before him; but presently it fell from his fingers and he leant back in his seat, staring at the map of his country.Since his coronation in April last, nay, since his first assuming the government a year ago, everything had gone wrong, and he had been blamed for it; nothing could exaggerate the difficulties of his position. He had partially expected them, for he was not naturally sanguine, but his worst imaginings had fallen short of the actual happenings.Affairs had now reached a crisis. In England, Scotland, and Ireland was a deadlock, on the Continent imminent peril, and the King, for the first time in his life, doubted his own capacity to deal with such huge obstacles as those which confronted and threatened to overwhelm him.Sitting utterly still, he mentally faced the task before him.He believed that to fail utterly was impossible, since that would be to deny the teaching of his own soul, and so, God; but he might fail partially, and he might, even in winning a small measure of success, forfeit tremendous stakes.The loss of personal ease, of his popularity in England, a complete misunderstanding of his motives, the rancorous, malicious hate of his enemies—these things he had, from the moment of his coronation, been prepared for; but it might be that he would be called upon to make vaster sacrifices—the friendship of many former supporters, even their long-cherished love and loyalty, the trust and confidence of the allies, the admiration of the dissenting churches throughout Europe, even his own peace of soul. Everything in brief, that he valued, save the love of Mary and the friendship of William Bentinck, must be pledged, and might be lost in this forthcoming conflict.He had honestly and justly tried to satisfy the English, but had met with utter failure. They reproached—reviled him, complained, and loudly voiced their dissatisfaction; he had not pleased one of those who had placed him on the throne. The chaotic state of the Government might, to a superficial observer, appear to give some warrant for their discontent; but, as the King cynically observed to himself, they were incapable of even suggesting a remedy for the ills they so decried; he did everything, and Whig and Tory alike agreed in putting all burdens on his shoulders, then in blaming his administration.In the crisis of '88 their action had been oblique. They had shifted the almost intolerable confusion of affairs into his hands, then stood back to watch and criticise, while he, who had already the business of half Europe on his mind, made what order he could out of jarring chaos. His health had broken under the strain; even his friends noticed a new languor in him, which the English were quick to dub sloth. Deprived of his one recreation of hunting—for which he had no time—hardly able to endure the stenches and smoke of London, his reserved temper taxed almost beyond bearing by the incessant, unreasonable, shortsighted quarrelling by which he was surrounded, he felt his strength slipping like water through his hands.His popularity had gone as he had predicted it would. The Jacobites were already a tremendously strong party, and his own ministers were half of them already beginning to traffic with the exiled King—who was now in Ireland with French troops, and of whom it had been said that, would he but change his religion, he could not be kept out of England six weeks.William, reviewing his position, smiled at the shallow taunts that accused him of having thirsted for a crown.He was working like a galley-slave for England—working with insufficient money, false servants, unfriendly onlookers, and an apathetic nation ready to seize on frivolous pretexts to dub him unpopular—and his reward for labours, that perhaps not one of his subjects had any conception of, was the nominal dignity of kingship and the long-fought-for alliance of England with the States.He was certainly paying a bitter price.All the great nobles were dissatisfied. The King had a keen dislike of party, and his ideal of government was a cabinet comprising of the best men of every faction to advise a ruler free to decide the final issue of every question. He had tried this scheme in England, equally honouring Whig and Tory, and taking his ministers from the rival ranks.The plan had been an utter failure; each faction wanted the supreme control. The Whigs wanted the King to become their champion, and avenge them indiscriminately on every Tory; the Tories, who had always been opposed to William, refused to work with the Whigs; Danby, created Marquess of Caermarthen at the Coronation, was furious because he had not the privy seals; Halifax, to whom they had been given, grudged Danby the Marquisate; the two Secretaries, Shrewsbury and Nottingham, were scarcely on speaking terms; Russell, now Lord Orford, and Herbert, now Lord Torrington, quarrelled fiercely over the naval affairs; at the Treasury Board, Lord Mordaunt, now Earl of Monmouth and Lord Delamere, both hot Whigs, did their best to disparage their colleague, Lord Godolphin, who, of all the Government, was the quietest man and the one most esteemed by the King; Clarendon, the Queen's uncle, had refused to take the oaths; and his brother Rochester was suspected of plotting with James. There was, in fact, scarcely one Englishman, even among those who had accompanied William to England, whom he could trust, yet the advancement and favour he showed his Dutch friends was made the matter for perpetual and noisy complaint.On the other hand, the Church of England, which owed its very existence to the Revolution, proved itself unreasonable and ungrateful; it refused stubbornly to grant any concessions to Non-conformists, and wished severe penalties visited on the Papists.Added to this, the home government was rotten to the core, the army and navy in a miserable state, the people overtaxed, business disorganised, the treasury empty, credit low, every one discontented, Ireland in the possession of James, a revolt in Scotland, and, on the Continent, the French making unchecked progress, and the Dutch beginning to complain that they were being neglected for the English.When it is considered that the man who was to face and overcome these difficulties was disliked, distrusted, misunderstood, and betrayed on every hand, it can be no wonder that even his brave soul was drooping.His position was in every way complex. By nature imperious, arrogant, of the proudest blood in Europe, he had a high idea of the kingly prerogative, and by instinct leant to the Tories; but the Whigs claimed him as peculiarly their champion, and it was undoubtedly to their influence that the Revolution was due. As King of England he was head of the Anglican Church and swore to uphold it; but he was a Calvinist himself, and the whole tenor of his life had been towards that broad toleration which the Church regarded with abhorrence. He was avowedly latitudinarian and set his face resolutely against any form of persecution for religious belief, and while this attitude cost him the support of the Church, his refusal to treat the Catholics harshly lost him the alliance of the Dissenters, who regarded him as disappointingly lukewarm in the true cause.A gentle treatment of the Papists was essential to William's foreign policy, since he had promised his Catholic allies—Spain, the Emperor, and the Pope, to protect those of this persuasion—and it was, besides, his own conviction of justice and the general good. He had therefore forced through Parliament the Toleration Act, which was, however, too limited to heal the internecine disorders of religious parties; he had then endeavoured to bridge the schism between Nonconformists and Anglicans by the Comprehension Bill, but the measure was before its time and failed to pass.Many of the bishops and clergy having refused to take the oaths and been obliged to resign, William had been forced to make new appointments, every one of which, including that of his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, to Sarum, caused universal dissatisfaction.There had been a mutiny in the army which had to be repressed by Dutch troops—a further grievance to the English, who began to bitterly resent foreign soldiers in their midst; yet on these troops alone could the King rely.William's lieutenant, the popular and brilliant Schomberg, had proved an expensive failure. He was at present in Ireland, with a huge army dying of fever about him, doing nothing but writing maddening letters of complaint to the King, who had, on the other hand, to listen to the ceaseless goadings of the English Parliament, who wished to know why Ireland was not reduced, and, until that plague spot was attended to, who refused to turn their attention to the Continent, where the great events gathered that were ever next William's heart.Those were the great difficulties, but there were many smaller vexations, such as the party the Princess Anne, under the influence of those adventurers—the Churchills—was forming against the Court; the sulky, unreasonable behaviour of Lord Torrington at the Admiralty Board; the constant necessity the King was under of going to London (the air of which was literally death to him), and of dining in public at Whitehall—a practice he detested; the lack of money for the buildings at Hampton Court and Kensington, which were both in an uncomfortable state of incompletion; his own ignorance on little technical points of administration and costume, which made him dependent on his English advisers—all these were added annoyances and humiliations that went far to unman a nature well inured to strenuous difficulties.The King made a little movement forward in his chair with a short cough, as if he caught his breath, his eyes still fixed on the map of the United Provinces; his haggard face slightly flushed as if he was moved by some intense thought.The latch clicked, and William turned his head quickly.In the doorway was the handsome figure of the tolerant, able, and cynical chief adviser to the Crown, the Lord Privy Seal, my Lord Marquess Halifax.
CHAPTER XVII
FAREWELL TO HOLLAND
Soon after the Groote Kerk had struck midnight, one of the Princess's Dutch ladies came to the chamber of her mistress with the news that letters from England had come, it being the command of Mary that she should always be roused, whatever the hour, when the mail arrived.
She came out now, in her undress—a muslin nightshift with an overgown of laycock, and with her hair, which was one of her principal beauties, freed from the stiff dressing of the day and hanging about her shoulders—into the little anteroom of her bedchamber, where the candles had been hastily lit and the tiled stove that burnt day and night stirred and replenished.
There were two letters. She had no eyes save for that addressed in the large careless hand of the Prince, and tore it open standing under the branched sconce, where the newly-lit candles gave a yet feeble light from hard wax and stiff wick, while the Dutch lady, excited and silent, opened the front of the stove and poked the bright sea coals.
The Princess, who had waited long for this letter, owing to the ice-blocked river, was sharply disappointed at the briefness of it; the Prince requested her to make ready to come at once to England, as her presence was desired by the Convention, told her what to say to the States, and remarked that the hunting at Windsor was poor indeed compared to that of Guelders.
Mary laid the letter down.
"I must go to England, Wendela," she said to her lady; then sat silent a little, while the candles burnt up to a steady glow that filled the room with a fluttering light of gold.
"Is my Lady Sunderland abed?" asked Mary presently.
"No, Madam; she was playing cards when I came up."
"Will you send her to me, Wendela?"
The lady left the room and Mary noticed the other letter, which she had completely forgotten. She took it up and observed that the writing was strange; she broke the seals and drew nearer the candles, for her eyes, never strong, were now blurred by recent tears.
The first words, after the preamble of compliments, took her with amazement. She glanced quickly to the signature, which was that of Lord Danby, then read the letter word for word, while her colour rose and her breath came sharply.
When she had finished, with an involuntary passionate gesture and an involuntary passionate exclamation, she dashed the letter down on the lacquer bureau.
Lady Sunderland, at this moment entering, beheld an expression on the face of the Princess which she had never thought to see there—an expression of sparkling anger.
"Ill news from England, Highness?" she asked swiftly.
"The worst news in the world for me," answered Mary. Then she cried, "This is what M. D'Avaux meant!"
The Countess raised her beautiful eyes. She was very fair in rose-pink silk and lace, her appearance gave no indication of misfortune, but in her heart was always the sharp knowledge that she was an exile playing a game, the stake of which was the greatness, perhaps the life, of her husband.
"What news, Highness?" she questioned gently.
Mary was too inflamed to be reserved, and, despite the vast difference in their natures, a great closeness had sprung up between her and the Countess during these weeks of waiting.
"They wish to make me Queen," she said, with quivering lips, "to the exclusion of the Prince. My Lord Danby, whom I never liked, is leading a party in the Convention, and he saith will have his way——"
Lady Sunderland was startled.
"What doth His Highness say?"
"Nothing of that matter—how should he? But he would never take that place that would be dependent on my courtesy—he!" She laughed hysterically. "What doth my lord mean?—what can he think of me? I, Queen, and the Prince overlooked?—am I not his wife? And they know my mind. I told Dr. Burnet, when he meddled in this matter, that I had sworn obedience to the Prince and meant to keep those vows——"
She paused, breathless and very angry; her usual vivacity had changed to a blazing passion that reminded Lady Sunderland of those rare occasions when His late Majesty had been roused.
"My lord meant to serve you," she said.
"To serve me!" repeated Mary, "when he is endeavouring to stir up this division between me and the Prince—making our interests different——"
"You are nearer the throne, Highness——"
Mary interrupted impatiently—
"What is that compared to what the Prince hath done for England? Can they think," she added, with a break in her voice, "that I would have done this—gone against—His Majesty—for a crown—for anything save my duty to my husband? What musthethink of me—these miserable intrigues——"
She flung herself into the red brocade chair in front of the cabinet, and caught up the offending letter.
"Yet," she continued, with a flash of triumph, "this will give me a chance to show them—where my duty lieth——"
She took up her pen, and Lady Sunderland came quickly to the desk.
"What do you mean to do?" she asked curiously.
"I shall write to my lord, tell him my deep anger, and send his letter and a copy of mine to the Prince."
Lady Sunderland laid her hand gently on Mary's shoulder.
"Think a little——"
Mary lifted flashing eyes.
"Why should I think?"
"This is a crown you put aside so lightly!"
The Princess smiled wistfully.
"I should be a poor fool to risk what I have for a triple crown!"
"Still—wait—see," urged the Countess; "'tis the crown of England that my lord offereth——"
"Do you think that anything to me compared to the regard of the Prince?" asked Mary passionately. "I thought that you would understand. Can you picture him as my pensioner—him! It is laughable, when my whole life hath been one submission to his will. Oh, you must see that he is everything in the world to me ... I have no one else——" She continued speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, as was her fashion when greatly moved. "At first I thought he would never care, but now he doth; but he is not meek, and I might lose it all—all this happiness that hath been so long a-coming. Oh, I will write such a letter to my lord!"
"You sacrifice a good deal for the Prince," said the Countess half sadly.
"Why," answered Mary, "this is easier than going against my father, and giving the world cause to scorn me as an unnatural daughter——"
Her lips quivered, but she set them proudly.
"I have talked enough on this matter, God forgive me, but I was angered by this lord's impertinence."
The Countess made some movement to speak, but Mary checked her.
"No more of this, my Lady Sunderland," she said firmly. She took a sheet of paper from the bureau and began to write.
Lady Sunderland moved to the stove and watched her intently and with some curiosity. The wife of my late Lord President was tolerably well informed in English politics, and knew that the Tories would rather have the daughter than the nephew of the Stewarts on the throne, and that the great bulk of the general nobility would rather have a woman like the Princess than a man like the Prince to rule them.
She did not doubt that Mary, with her nearer claim, her English name and blood, would readily be accepted by the English as Queen, and that the nation would be glad to retain the services of her husband at the price of some title, such as Duke of Gloucester—which had been proposed for him before—and whatever dignity Mary chose to confer on him. She certainly thought that this scheme, pleasing as it might be to Whig and Tory, showed a lack of observation of character on the part of the originator, my Lord Danby; Lord Sunderland had always declared that it was the Prince they needed, not his wife, and that they would never obtain him save for the highest price—the crown.
Yet the Countess, standing in this little room, watching Mary writing with the candlelight over her bright hair and white garments, seeing her calmly enclose to the Prince Lord Danby's letter and a copy of her answer, could not help some wonder that this young woman—a Stewart, and born to power and gaiety—should so lightly and scornfully put aside a crown—the crown of England.
When Mary had finished her letters and sealed them, she rose and came also to the stove. She looked very grave.
"The Prince saith not one word of our losses," she remarked—"Madame Bentinck, I mean, and M. Fagel, yet both must have touched him nearly. I am sorry for M. Bentinck, who hath had no time to grieve."
"What will happen in England now, Highness?" asked the Countess, thinking of the Earl.
"I suppose," said Mary, breathing quickly, "they will offer the Prince the throne ... he commandeth my presence in England ... I must leave Holland——"
"You love the country?"
"Better than my own. I was not made for great affairs. I love this quiet life—my houses here, the people..."
She broke off quickly.
"What will you do, Madam?"
Lady Sunderland indeed wondered.
"Go join my lord in Amsterdam," she answered half recklessly. "An exile remains an exile."
"The Prince," said Mary gravely, "hath some debt to my lord. He never forgetteth his friends—or those who serve him."
"I thank you for that much comfort, Madam."
"You must return to England—to Althorp," continued the Princess gently; "you have done nothing that you should stay abroad——"
Lady Sunderland shook her head.
"What is Althorp to me, God help me! I think my home is in Amsterdam—I shall go there when Your Highness leaveth for England."
Mary put her cool hand over the slim fingers of the Countess that rested on the back of the high walnut chair.
"Are you going with Basilea de Marsac?"
"Yes; she is a good soul."
"A Catholic," said Mary, with a little frown; "but I like her too—better than I did——"
"She hath become very devoted to Your Highness; she is very lonely."
"What was her husband?"
Lady Sunderland smiled.
"An incident."
Mary smiled too, then moved back to the bureau.
"I must get back to bed; I have a sore throat which I must nurse." She coughed, and moistened her lips. "I am as hoarse as a town-crier." She laughed again unsteadily and rang the silver bell before her. "I never pass a winter without a swelled face or a sore throat."
The Dutch waiting lady entered, and Mary gave her the letters.
"See that they go at the earliest—and, Wendela, you look tired, get to bed immediately."
With no more than this she sent off her refusal of three kingdoms. When they were alone again she rose and suddenly embraced Lady Sunderland.
"Do you think I shall come back to Holland?" she asked under her breath.
"Why—surely——"
"Ah, I know not." She loosened her arms and sank on to the stool near the stove. "Sometimes I feel as if the sands were running out of me. You know," she smiled wistfully, "I have an unfortunate name; the last Mary Stewart, the Prince his mother, was not thirty when she died—of smallpox."
She was silent, and something in her manner held Lady Sunderland silent too.
"A terrible thing to die of," added Mary, after a little. "I often think of it; when you are young it must be hard, humanly speaking, but God knoweth best."
"I wonder why you think of that now?" asked Lady Sunderland gently.
"I wonder! We must go to bed ... this is marvellous news we have had to-night ... to know that I must sail when the ice breaketh ... good night, my Lady Sunderland."
The Countess took her leave and Mary put out the candles, which left the room only illumed by the steady glow from the white, hot heart of the open stove.
Mary drew the curtains from the tall window and looked out.
It was a clear frosty night, utterly silent; the motionless branches of the trees crossed and interlaced into a dense blackness, through which the stars glimmered suddenly, and suddenly seemed to disappear.
The chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the half-hour, and the echoes dwelt in the silence tremblingly.
Mary dropped the curtain and walked about the room a little. Then she went to the still open desk and took up the remaining letter—that of the Prince.
With it in her hand she stood thoughtful, thinking of her father in France, of all the extraordinary changes and chances which had brought her to this situation, face to face with a dreaded difference from anything she had known.
She went on her knees presently, and rested her head against the stool, worked by her own fingers in a design of beads and wool, and put the letter against her cheek, and desperately tried to pray and forget earthly matters.
But ever between her and peace rose the angry, tragic face of her father and the stern face of her husband confronting each other, and a background of other faces—the mocking, jeering faces of the world—scorning her as one who had wronged her father through lust of earthly greatness.
CHAPTER XVIII
BY THE GRACE OF GOD
The Princess's boat, with her escort of Dutch warships, rode in the Thames at last. The frost had broken, and she arrived not long after her letter to Lord Danby had scattered that statesman's party, and frustrated his hopes of placing her on the throne. The Prince having soon after declared his mind to the lords in council, that he would accept no position dependent on his wife's pleasure or the life of another (for there had been talk of a regency, leaving the King the nominal title), made it clear that if his services were to be retained, if he was not to abandon them to the confusion, strife, and disaster from which his presence alone saved them, he must be King. All parties uniting, then, on what was now proved to be the winning side, the Convention voted the offer of the crown to the Prince and Princess jointly—the sole administration to rest with him.
The succession, after naming the direct line, was left vague to please the Prince, who was free to flatter himself that he could choose his own heir.
This news had come to Mary before she left The Hague, and she knew that the day after her landing there would be a formal offering and acceptance of the crown of Great Britain. She beheld the prospect with extraordinary sensations as, passing Gravesend, and leaving her vessel and escort at Greenwich, she proceeded in a state barge to the more familiar reaches of the river, Rotherhithe, Wapping, and presently the Tower, rising golden grey in the chill spring sunshine, by the bridge with the deep crazy arches through which the water poured in dangerous rapids. Crowded with houses was this old bridge, and in the centre a little chapel with a bell, now ringing joyfully.
Mary remembered it all—the long busy wharves, now taking holiday; the barges, boats, and compact shipping now hung with flags; Galley Key, where the slaves in chains unlade the oranges, silks, and spices from the East; the houses, on the side of Surrey, among which rose the spire of the great church at Southwark; the merchants' houses built down to the water's edge, with pleasant gardens filled with poplar trees and set with the figureheads of ships in which some adventurer had sailed his early travels long ago in the time of Elizabeth Tudor; and the distant prospect of the city itself shimmering now under an early haze of sunshine.
All was utterly strange, yet nothing was altered; it looked the same as when, weeping to leave England, she had come down these waters in a barge with her silent husband, ten years ago, and waited at Gravesend for the wind.
One difference attracted Mary's eyes. Behind and beyond the Tower a mass of scaffolding rose that dominated the whole city, and through the crossed poles, boards, and ropes, she could discern the majestic outline of the dome of that vast church which had been slowly rising out of the ashes of the old St. Paul's since she was a child.
At the Tower Wharf she landed, laughing hysterically, and hardly knowing what she did. They gave her a royal salute of cannon, and she saw all the guards drawn up in squares, with their spears in the midst, and a red way of brocade carpet laid down for her, and a coach with white horses and running footmen, and beyond, a press of noblemen and officers, and the sheriffs and aldermen of the city with the Lord Mayor.
She hesitated on the gangway, amidst her ladies, her spirit completely overwhelmed. She looked round desperately for some one to whom to say—"I cannot do it—I cannot put it through. I must die, but I cannot be Queen."
The complete incomprehension on the excited faces of these ladies, the strangeness of many of them, recalled her with a shock to herself; she felt as if she had been on the point of betraying her husband. She recalled his last letter, in which he had asked her to show no grief or hesitation in her manner, and, biting her lips fiercely, she stepped firmly on to English soil, and managed somehow to respond to the lowly salutations of the crowd pressing to receive her. The Prince was by the coach door; she noticed that he wore his George and garter, which he had not done perhaps twice before. There were a great many gentlemen behind him, many of them those whom she had already met at The Hague, others strange to her, several of the Dutch officers, and M. Bentinck in mourning for his wife.
Mary, still English enough to think her country the finest in the world, was thrilled with pleasure to see how respectfully all these great nobles held themselves to the Prince. She was used to see him receive this homage in his own country and from the magnates of the Empire, but these Englishmen were to her more than any German princes.
The Prince took her hand and kissed it, and said very quickly in Dutch—
"I would that this had been in Holland."
The English gentlemen bowed till their long perukes touched their knees, Mary entered the coach with Lady Argyll and a Dutch lady, the Prince mounted his white horse, and the cavalcade started through the expectant city with all that pomp which the people would not forgo and the Prince to-day could not avoid.
All London was eager for a sight of the Princess. The last Queen, foreign, proud Romanist, and hard, had never been a favourite, the Queen Dowager had never counted for anything, and was now a forgotten figure in Somerset House; but Mary was English, Protestant, and her image had long been faithfully cherished in England as that of a native Princess who would some day restore the old faith. Therefore her greeting was such as made her turn pale; she had never before heard such thunders of acclamation, popular as she was in the United Provinces.
Every road, every housetop, all the windows, alleys, and turnings were filled with well-dressed, orderly people, who cheered her and cheered the Prince till Mary felt dizzy. She saw in this their true title to the crown; the lords were but obeying the people in setting it on their heads, and she recalled how these same Londoners had besieged the doors of Westminster Hall, while the Convention was sitting, and threatened to use violence if the Prince was not elected King.
Her appearance of beautiful youth, her sparkling excitement, her gracious smiles made a favourable impression, and further roused the enthusiasm which the very stiff demeanour of the Prince, to whom this display was hateful, was apt to damp.
By the time they reached Whitehall she was more popular than he, and the nobles who rode in the procession thought to themselves that the English wife would serve to keep the foreign husband in the affections of the people.
Whitehall was filled with English, Dutch, and Scotch waiting to kiss her hand: Mr. Sidney was there, Mr. Herbert, Mr. Russell, Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Devonshire, Lord Halifax, Lord Godolphin, Lord Danby, and others whom she did not know or had forgotten; their background was that splendid palace, seeming vast and magnificent indeed after her houses in Holland, which she had left so sadly ten years ago. Then she had wept, now she laughed and was very gracious, but in her heart she was as reluctant to enter Whitehall as she had ever been to leave it; the memories the place aroused were poignant, not sweet.
It was three hours before she found herself alone with the Prince in that gorgeous little chamber that had once been her father's, and still contained his pictures, statues, his monogram and arms on chairs and carvings.
The instant he had closed the door the Prince kissed her in silence, and she burst into speech.
"Are you satisfied? Are you pleased? Is this another step in your task—they—these people—will they help? How long the time hath seemed!"
"To me also," said the Prince unsteadily.
She stepped back to look at him anxiously: he was extravagantly vestured in embroidered scarlet, lace, jewels, the George and garter conspicuous, and a great star of diamonds on his breast. A close scrutiny showed that he looked more ill and weary than she had ever known him.
"You are changed," she said quickly. "Oh, my dear, the climate doth not suit you——"
He smiled languidly.
"I would we had met in Holland," he answered. "I am sick for Holland, Marie."
"Already?"
He seated himself in the deep window-seat that overlooked the privy garden and she took the low stool beside, studying him wistfully for one hint of that enthusiasm and elation which she hoped would be called forth by his splendid success.
"We could not have asked God for a more happy ending," she said in a trembling voice.
"They—the English—will declare against France," he answered, but without spirit, and as if it was an effort to speak at all. "If I could get them into the field this spring——" He was interrupted by his cough, which was violent and frequent, and he flung the window open impatiently. "There is no air in this place," he continued, in a gasping voice; "their smoky chimneys and their smells are killing me; I cannot endure London."
"We need not live here," said Mary quickly.
"They think so," he returned; "'tis our post, where we are paid to be——"
The scarcely concealed bitterness with which he spoke of England was a matter of amaze and terror to Mary, in whose ears still rang the enthusiastic shouts of the people and the flatteries of the courtiers.
"But you are popular——" she began.
"Hosanna to-day, and to-morrow crucify!" he answered. "I shall not long be popular—the great lords have not loved me from the first. They offer me the throne because there is no other to serve their turn, and I take it because it is the only way to secure them against France. But I undertake hard service, Marie."
"You mean—the difficulties?"
"The difficulties! I confess I am overwhelmed by them; everything is confusion—everything! To get the bare Government on a business footing would take a year's hard work, saying every one was honest—and every one is corrupt. I can trust none of them. There is Ireland in a ferment and the Scottish affairs in a tangle; there are a hundred different parties, with indecipherable politics, waiting to fly at each other's throats; the Church is hydra-headed with factions—and a cow might as well be set to catch a hare as I set to put this straight, and I have had the business of Europe to conduct already."
Mary's pride and pleasure were utterly dashed. Troubles and difficulties she had been prepared for, but they had been vague and distant; she had not thought to find the Prince already whelmed in them. She reflected swiftly on the anxiety, labour, and anguish that had gone to this expedition, the odium they had both incurred, the violence she had done her own feelings, and she wondered desperately if it had been worth the price.
The Prince took her hand, having noticed the paling of her face and the distress in her eyes.
"We will talk of other things," he said, with an effort over his tired voice. "I am weak to burden you at once with this; you at least will be beloved here——"
Mary broke in passionately—
"I do not love England—nor want to be Queen. I doubt I can do it—I was made for little things and peace—I hate this palace," she glanced desperately round her father's splendour; "our own homes—where we were so happy—are they not better?"
The Prince went very pale.
"I should not have repined," he said; "it is my task, which I must put through ... the part you have been made to take is the worst for me—the part you may have to take——"
"If it serveth you I am very content," she answered; "if I can do anything to help I shall be happy——"
The tears sprang into the Prince's eyes. He looked away out of the window.
"Marie—about His late Majesty—I could not help—that he was stopped in Kent ... I would not have had it happen——"
"Do not fear," she answered wildly, "that I do not in everything hold you justified?"
Her voice broke, and she began to weep.
The Prince rose and helped her to her feet.
"We must not show tears here," he said gently, "for we are not at home—but among many enemies——"
She dried her eyes and smiled bravely.
"Do we feel constraint so soon?"
"We pay something," he said sadly, "that we are, by the grace of God, Monarchs of England."
PART II
THE QUEEN
"I have really hardly had time to say my prayers, and was feign to run away to Kensington, where I had three hours of quiet, which was more than I had had together since I saw you.
"That place made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear company; but now—I will say no more, for I shall hurt my own eyes, which I now want more than ever.
"Adieu! Think of me and love me as much as I shall you, who I love more than my life."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 15*th July* 1690.
"Every hour maketh me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I hear stir I think bringeth me a letter.... I have stayed till I am almost asleep in hopes; but they are vaine, and I must once more go to bed and wished to be waked with a letter, which I shall at last get, I hope ... adieu! Do but love me and I can bear anything."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM,July1690.
—"My poor heart is ready to break every time I think in what perpetual danger you are; I am in greater fears than can be imagined by any who loves less than myself.
"I count the hours and the moments, and have only reason left to think—as long as I have no letters all is well.... I never do anything without thinking—now, it may be, you are in the greatest dangers, and yet I must see company on my set days; I must play twice a week; nay, I must laugh and talk, tho' never so much against my will. I believe that I dissemble very ill to those who know me; at least it is a great constraint to myself, yet I must endure it. All my movements are so watched, and all I do so observed, that if I eat less, speak less, or look more grave, all is lost in the opinion of the world; so that I have this misery added to that of your absence and my fears for your dear person, that I must grin when my heart is ready to break, and talk when my heart is so oppressed I can scarce breathe.... Besides, I must hear of business, which, being a thing I am so new in and so unfit for, doth but break my brains the more and not ease my heart....
"Farewell! Do but continue to love me and forgive the taking up so much of your time to your poor wife, who deserves more pity than ever any creature did, and who loves you a great deal too much for her own ease, tho' it can't be more than you deserve."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 5*th September* 1690.
CHAPTER I
A DARK DAWNING
In the King's antechamber at Kensington House my Lord Dorset and one of his pensioners (of which he had a many) awaited an audience of His Majesty.
It was a year since the Revolution, a cold-wet autumn, and Kensington House, recently bought from my Lord Nottingham, stood blank and sad among dripping wet trees.
Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman, found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court, Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand. Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office of Lord Chamberlain.
Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King's Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour.
Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he passed—
"Good God! we are like to get on the rocks—nothing is right."
When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness—
"You see—I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had best not press for an audience to-day——"
But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came out.
He stood for a second in the doorway, looking at the few gentlemen standing about the bare, large room; then his glance fell on Lord Dorset, who moved forward with his splendid air of grace.
"Is it the wrong moment to present to the notice of Your Majesty the young poet of whom I spoke yesterday?"
The King's large open eyes turned to the pale and agitated young man in question, who instantly went on his knees.
"A poet?" repeated William; the word to him conveyed a mild, but scarcely harmless madness. He thought the patronage of these people an irritating trait in his Lord Chamberlain. "Have we not already poets in our Court?"
Lord Dorset smiled.
"This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did much service in writing of satires——"
"We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose own country the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turned gravely to the young man—
"What is your name?"
"Matthew Prior, Your Majesty."
"You wish a post about the Court, Mr. Prior?"
The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes.
"I have desired all my life to serve Your Majesty," he answered, which was true enough, for he cherished an almost romantical admiration for William.
"My Lord Dorset," said the King, "is a fine guarantee for any man; we will find some place for you——" He cut short protestations of gratitude by saying, "You must not expect us to read your poems, Mr. Prior."
"Your Majesty was ever severe on that art," smiled Lord Dorset.
"I do not understand it," said William simply; but the Lord Chamberlain had a fine enough perception to discern that there had been more poetry in the actions of the King's life than ever Matthew Prior could get on paper. He took the following silence for dismissal, and withdrew with his grateful pensioner.
The King drew out his watch, glanced at it, and called up one of the ushers at the further doors.
"When Lord Halifax arriveth bid him come at once to us."
He hesitated a moment, looking at the sombre prospect of grey and rain to be seen through the long windows, then returned to his private room and closed the door.
A wood fire burnt between two brass andirons and filled the plain closet with warmth, above the walnut bureau hung a map of the United Provinces, and on the high mantelshelf stood several ornaments and vases in blue-and-white delft.
The King seated himself in the red damask covered chair before the desk, and mechanically took up the quill that lay before him; but presently it fell from his fingers and he leant back in his seat, staring at the map of his country.
Since his coronation in April last, nay, since his first assuming the government a year ago, everything had gone wrong, and he had been blamed for it; nothing could exaggerate the difficulties of his position. He had partially expected them, for he was not naturally sanguine, but his worst imaginings had fallen short of the actual happenings.
Affairs had now reached a crisis. In England, Scotland, and Ireland was a deadlock, on the Continent imminent peril, and the King, for the first time in his life, doubted his own capacity to deal with such huge obstacles as those which confronted and threatened to overwhelm him.
Sitting utterly still, he mentally faced the task before him.
He believed that to fail utterly was impossible, since that would be to deny the teaching of his own soul, and so, God; but he might fail partially, and he might, even in winning a small measure of success, forfeit tremendous stakes.
The loss of personal ease, of his popularity in England, a complete misunderstanding of his motives, the rancorous, malicious hate of his enemies—these things he had, from the moment of his coronation, been prepared for; but it might be that he would be called upon to make vaster sacrifices—the friendship of many former supporters, even their long-cherished love and loyalty, the trust and confidence of the allies, the admiration of the dissenting churches throughout Europe, even his own peace of soul. Everything in brief, that he valued, save the love of Mary and the friendship of William Bentinck, must be pledged, and might be lost in this forthcoming conflict.
He had honestly and justly tried to satisfy the English, but had met with utter failure. They reproached—reviled him, complained, and loudly voiced their dissatisfaction; he had not pleased one of those who had placed him on the throne. The chaotic state of the Government might, to a superficial observer, appear to give some warrant for their discontent; but, as the King cynically observed to himself, they were incapable of even suggesting a remedy for the ills they so decried; he did everything, and Whig and Tory alike agreed in putting all burdens on his shoulders, then in blaming his administration.
In the crisis of '88 their action had been oblique. They had shifted the almost intolerable confusion of affairs into his hands, then stood back to watch and criticise, while he, who had already the business of half Europe on his mind, made what order he could out of jarring chaos. His health had broken under the strain; even his friends noticed a new languor in him, which the English were quick to dub sloth. Deprived of his one recreation of hunting—for which he had no time—hardly able to endure the stenches and smoke of London, his reserved temper taxed almost beyond bearing by the incessant, unreasonable, shortsighted quarrelling by which he was surrounded, he felt his strength slipping like water through his hands.
His popularity had gone as he had predicted it would. The Jacobites were already a tremendously strong party, and his own ministers were half of them already beginning to traffic with the exiled King—who was now in Ireland with French troops, and of whom it had been said that, would he but change his religion, he could not be kept out of England six weeks.
William, reviewing his position, smiled at the shallow taunts that accused him of having thirsted for a crown.
He was working like a galley-slave for England—working with insufficient money, false servants, unfriendly onlookers, and an apathetic nation ready to seize on frivolous pretexts to dub him unpopular—and his reward for labours, that perhaps not one of his subjects had any conception of, was the nominal dignity of kingship and the long-fought-for alliance of England with the States.
He was certainly paying a bitter price.
All the great nobles were dissatisfied. The King had a keen dislike of party, and his ideal of government was a cabinet comprising of the best men of every faction to advise a ruler free to decide the final issue of every question. He had tried this scheme in England, equally honouring Whig and Tory, and taking his ministers from the rival ranks.
The plan had been an utter failure; each faction wanted the supreme control. The Whigs wanted the King to become their champion, and avenge them indiscriminately on every Tory; the Tories, who had always been opposed to William, refused to work with the Whigs; Danby, created Marquess of Caermarthen at the Coronation, was furious because he had not the privy seals; Halifax, to whom they had been given, grudged Danby the Marquisate; the two Secretaries, Shrewsbury and Nottingham, were scarcely on speaking terms; Russell, now Lord Orford, and Herbert, now Lord Torrington, quarrelled fiercely over the naval affairs; at the Treasury Board, Lord Mordaunt, now Earl of Monmouth and Lord Delamere, both hot Whigs, did their best to disparage their colleague, Lord Godolphin, who, of all the Government, was the quietest man and the one most esteemed by the King; Clarendon, the Queen's uncle, had refused to take the oaths; and his brother Rochester was suspected of plotting with James. There was, in fact, scarcely one Englishman, even among those who had accompanied William to England, whom he could trust, yet the advancement and favour he showed his Dutch friends was made the matter for perpetual and noisy complaint.
On the other hand, the Church of England, which owed its very existence to the Revolution, proved itself unreasonable and ungrateful; it refused stubbornly to grant any concessions to Non-conformists, and wished severe penalties visited on the Papists.
Added to this, the home government was rotten to the core, the army and navy in a miserable state, the people overtaxed, business disorganised, the treasury empty, credit low, every one discontented, Ireland in the possession of James, a revolt in Scotland, and, on the Continent, the French making unchecked progress, and the Dutch beginning to complain that they were being neglected for the English.
When it is considered that the man who was to face and overcome these difficulties was disliked, distrusted, misunderstood, and betrayed on every hand, it can be no wonder that even his brave soul was drooping.
His position was in every way complex. By nature imperious, arrogant, of the proudest blood in Europe, he had a high idea of the kingly prerogative, and by instinct leant to the Tories; but the Whigs claimed him as peculiarly their champion, and it was undoubtedly to their influence that the Revolution was due. As King of England he was head of the Anglican Church and swore to uphold it; but he was a Calvinist himself, and the whole tenor of his life had been towards that broad toleration which the Church regarded with abhorrence. He was avowedly latitudinarian and set his face resolutely against any form of persecution for religious belief, and while this attitude cost him the support of the Church, his refusal to treat the Catholics harshly lost him the alliance of the Dissenters, who regarded him as disappointingly lukewarm in the true cause.
A gentle treatment of the Papists was essential to William's foreign policy, since he had promised his Catholic allies—Spain, the Emperor, and the Pope, to protect those of this persuasion—and it was, besides, his own conviction of justice and the general good. He had therefore forced through Parliament the Toleration Act, which was, however, too limited to heal the internecine disorders of religious parties; he had then endeavoured to bridge the schism between Nonconformists and Anglicans by the Comprehension Bill, but the measure was before its time and failed to pass.
Many of the bishops and clergy having refused to take the oaths and been obliged to resign, William had been forced to make new appointments, every one of which, including that of his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, to Sarum, caused universal dissatisfaction.
There had been a mutiny in the army which had to be repressed by Dutch troops—a further grievance to the English, who began to bitterly resent foreign soldiers in their midst; yet on these troops alone could the King rely.
William's lieutenant, the popular and brilliant Schomberg, had proved an expensive failure. He was at present in Ireland, with a huge army dying of fever about him, doing nothing but writing maddening letters of complaint to the King, who had, on the other hand, to listen to the ceaseless goadings of the English Parliament, who wished to know why Ireland was not reduced, and, until that plague spot was attended to, who refused to turn their attention to the Continent, where the great events gathered that were ever next William's heart.
Those were the great difficulties, but there were many smaller vexations, such as the party the Princess Anne, under the influence of those adventurers—the Churchills—was forming against the Court; the sulky, unreasonable behaviour of Lord Torrington at the Admiralty Board; the constant necessity the King was under of going to London (the air of which was literally death to him), and of dining in public at Whitehall—a practice he detested; the lack of money for the buildings at Hampton Court and Kensington, which were both in an uncomfortable state of incompletion; his own ignorance on little technical points of administration and costume, which made him dependent on his English advisers—all these were added annoyances and humiliations that went far to unman a nature well inured to strenuous difficulties.
The King made a little movement forward in his chair with a short cough, as if he caught his breath, his eyes still fixed on the map of the United Provinces; his haggard face slightly flushed as if he was moved by some intense thought.
The latch clicked, and William turned his head quickly.
In the doorway was the handsome figure of the tolerant, able, and cynical chief adviser to the Crown, the Lord Privy Seal, my Lord Marquess Halifax.