CHAPTER IITHE KING AT BAYMy Lord Marquess left His Majesty after a dry and formal interview concerned with minor but necessary business, and, leaving the King still sitting before the map of the United Provinces, proceeded to the incomplete and ill-furnished council-chamber, where my lords Shrewsbury, Caermarthen, Nottingham, and Godolphin were gloomily conferring.Halifax was the only man in the assembly not of decided Whig or Tory politics—it was believed that this was the reason that the King had elected him to fill the highest place in his councils. Lord Caermarthen, who, jealous of his elevation, was known to be secretly working his downfall, greeted him with haughty frankness."I hope, my lord," he said, "your interview with His Majesty hath had some smack of satisfaction in it——""Why, none," answered the Lord Privy Seal; "there is no satisfaction anywhere."He seated himself on one of the red damask covered stools by the table, and looked with a kind of cynical amusement at the other ministers, all of whom, he well knew, were, however diverse their several opinions (with the exception of Lord Godolphin), doing their utmost to oust him from the position he held. His mobile, easy, and delicate face was turned towards the meagre but noble figure of Caermarthen, in whom he recognised his chief enemy. Indeed, that statesman, who, as Lord Danby, had himself narrowly escaped the attacks of Jack Howe in the last Parliament, was endeavouring to stir up the present Commons to impeach Halifax."His Majesty," added the Lord Privy Seal, in his pleasant, tolerant voice, "is very discontented with all of us."Shrewsbury—a duke now, and crowded with dignities beyond his years—blushed."What are we to do?" he asked, in a kind of frantic way.The other Secretary, Nottingham, dark as a Spaniard and sour in expression, remarked briefly—"We can do nothing until we see which way the Parliament moveth.""The Parliament," said Caermarthen, "will do nothing until some satisfaction is given for the money voted to Ireland. Schomberg, I doubt, is doited; he hath not moved since he landed——""The King," put in Halifax, "is desperate to go to the Continent, where the allies clamour for him and King Louis gaineth headway every week——"Caermarthen sprang up from the window-seat."By God, he cannot go abroad until Ireland is settled!" he cried; "the country will not stand any war but that——""The King," answered the Lord Privy Seal, "hath such a mind to France one would think he took England but on the way——""France," said Shrewsbury, with feverish anxiety, "is not the question; we have to think of England. War was declared last May, and we are still incapable of putting a single regiment in the field. By Heaven, the Government is too disjointed for us to interfere in foreign affairs!""You should have thought of that, my lord," answered Nottingham dryly, "when you put a foreigner on the throne."A deep colour again flushed Shrewsbury's beautiful face."I judged from His Majesty's reputation that he would have done better," he murmured."His Majesty is a great man," said Halifax placidly.Caermarthen shrugged his shoulders."Is it the kind of greatness that will help England?""Or your party to places, my lord?" retorted the Lord Privy Seal shrewdly.Caermarthen's thin face darkened."His Majesty doth not know his friends," he said."He will not be a party leader," returned Halifax; "but I do doubt whether England will be ever governed save by factions——"Shrewsbury came up to the table and looked round the faces of his colleagues. He was by far the youngest of the company, and his soft good-looks were incongruous to the importance of his position; Lord Godolphin, a quiet, thin man, who so far had not opened his lips or taken any notice of anything, now fixed his eyes on Shrewsbury, and kept them there keenly while the Duke spoke."Sirs, what is to be done? We have very good assurance that the Government cannot hold—nay," he added, with increasing agitation, "if King James were to land to-morrow, who would stay him from the throne?""His Majesty," said Lord Godolphin quietly.Caermarthen caught the words."His Majesty! I have little faith in him now; he is a dying man——""The doctors," added Nottingham gloomily, "give him another year——""No more, I truly think," said Halifax calmly. "The Dutchmen themselves say they hardly know him for the man he was at The Hague——""What then?" cried Shrewsbury, in a desperate frankness. "Are we all to fall into the laps of women and my Lord Marlborough?""The Queen could never hold the throne," answered Halifax; "she is not loved," he smiled; "the people dislike her for her false position——""By God!" interrupted Caermarthen hotly; "what know you of Her Majesty? She would rule better than any Stewart hath done yet——""Maybe, and wed another foreigner," retorted Shrewsbury. "Besides, I think you are wrong. No woman could rule England now——""Nor any man, it seemeth," smiled Halifax sadly. "For my part I am weary of all of it—and so, I think," he added, "is His Majesty. He is greatly angered that the Bill of Indemnity is changed into a Bill of Pains and Penalties, and there are such heats over it——""What course doth he think to take?" asked Shrewsbury abruptly."He said very little to-day," answered Halifax. "Our talk was all of business; he is of an extraordinary industry," this with admiration, "and hath mastered the details of the government already. Were he a stronger man I should have no fear for England——""Talk—antic talk!" cried Caermarthen impatiently; "and are no nearer a solution——"The sound of the opening of the heavy carved door caused them all to pause. Godolphin, who was the only one facing it, rose respectfully; the others turned.It was the King.His bright glance went from face to face. He came slowly to the head of the table, and seated himself in the wand-bottomed chair there; his ministers were on their feet waiting for him to speak. Surprised as they were by this unexpected appearance, their agitation showed in their faces, Shrewsbury in particular was colourless; only Lord Godolphin remained perfectly composed.The King continued to look from one to the other; he wore a heavy brown velvet thickly braided with gold, and held in his right hand a paper written upon, and folded across."Affairs," he said, in his tired voice, with his peculiar short manner of speaking, "have reached a crisis, my lords, and I have come to acquaint you with my resolution."He leant forward a little, and rested his right arm on the table, keeping his dark, powerful eyes fixed on these ministers whom he read so perfectly."My lords," he continued quietly, almost gently, "it is a year since I took up the government of this country, and in that time I have done nothing to please any one of you." He coughed and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. "I have done my best to govern justly," he added proudly, "but I confess I took up a task beyond my powers. My lords, I cannot rule a disaffected country with disaffected ministers. I admit I do not understand you. As I am often reminded, I am a foreigner."The five nobles made a common movement as of painful expectation. The King's plain speaking took all words from them; Shrewsbury was painfully agitated."What doth Your Majesty propose?" asked Halifax anxiously.The King opened out the paper on the dark walnut table, and laid his right hand on it. He wore round this wrist a bracelet of red glass or crystal, cut into facets, that caught and threw back the light; it gleamed now strongly through the thick Bruges lace of his ruffles."I mean," he said, "to resign the crown and return to Holland—where I am needed," he added strongly."My God!" exclaimed Caermarthen; the rest were silent.The King surveyed their changed and utterly amazed faces with a gleam in his eyes."My convoy is in readiness," he said, "and here, my lords, is the speech in which I announce my intention to Parliament"—he glanced at Sidney Godolphin—"my lord," he added with dignity, "will do me a last service and correct my poor English——"Caermarthen broke out passionately—"Sir, you cannot know what you are saying—this is unheard of——""I know very well what I am saying, my Lord Marquess," answered William. "I cannot please you, but I think the Queen can. I believe you would be faithful to her—she is English; but as for me, you can manage your business better without me—and I am needed on the Continent."He rose, and Halifax, rather pale, came up to him."What is to become of England if Your Majesty leaveth us?""The Queen will please you," repeated William."This action on the part of Your Majesty will mean chaos," cried Shrewsbury desperately.The King smiled sternly."No confusion could be worse than what we now endure—perhaps alone ye can put it straight."They looked at each other. In their hearts they all knew that the King, and the King alone held them together and kept them from France; to the Whigs his departure would mean ruin, and among the Tories there was not one man capable of undertaking a tithe of what the King—who had foreign affairs exclusively in his hands—performed."What is Your Majesty's reason for this bitter resolve?" cried Caermarthen."I am needed in Holland," said William. "I have, my lord, my lifework to do. There are certain things put to my hand for me to accomplish, and I have pursued them through too many difficulties to be thwarted now by the disputes of the English Parliament——"He spoke with a sudden force that lashed them."I took this crown," he added, holding his hand to his breast, "that I might, with God His help, put England in her ancient place among nations, not that I might lose myself in heated factions and blind animosities.""If Your Majesty desert us we are all undone," said Caermarthen passionately."Ah, my lords," answered William, "I am not of a nature to be the puppet between your parties. God gave me a disposition different—I cannot mix in these your politics."His cough interrupted him; he gave a little shudder, and sank back into the walnut-backed chair."There are some things beyond a man's strength," he said hoarsely, "and I, hampered as I am, cannot govern England.""I," cried Halifax sincerely, "have tried to help Your Majesty——""And what is your reward?" asked William quickly. "Parliament is so pressing on you, my lord, that I shall have to forego your services—what is any honest man's reward in this country? As angry dogs ye rend each other. My God, will there never be an end to these dissensions?"He crushed the rough draft of his speech up in his hand and flung it on the table."There is my answer to this question," he said, and made to rise again, but Shrewsbury came forward and cast himself on his knees before him."I entreat Your Majesty to consider—to reflect—to spare us, to spare this unhappy country——"The King looked wildly but not unkindly into the fair, agitated young face."I cannot do what you want of me," he answered. "Everything I do displeaseth—I stand for toleration and ye will have no manner of toleration—hath not the Indemnity Bill become a Bill of Pains and Penalties? Is not Parliament busy looking up charges of twenty years ago against men of position? Is not the Church crying out against the Dissenters, and the Dissenters against the Papists?"They were all silent; Shrewsbury on his knees by the King's chair."As to the civil government," continued William, "ye know perfectly well what corruption is there. For the last two reigns every honour in the gift of the Crown hath been put up to sale with women and priests for brokers—I can trust no one save, of course, yourselves, my lords," he added, with a faint sarcasm. "There is neither honesty nor industry nor credit in any department of the administration. I can do no more."Lord Godolphin came forward from the window; he was known to be higher in favour with the King than any there, and the others waited with a silent, anxious curiosity for him to speak."I think Your Majesty will change your resolution," he said, with sudden warmth, "for the sake of Europe.""For the sake of Europe, my lord, I shall persist in it."Sidney Godolphin looked straightly at the King."No—Your Majesty is not the man to shirk difficulties—bear with us a little.""My lord," answered William, "if all were as you I should have no difficulties—rise up, my lord of Shrewsbury; this is not your fault."The Duke got to his feet and retired to the deep window-seat; he appeared utterly overwhelmed."I undertook to serve a King," said Godolphin, deeply moved. "Let me resign that service while you are still my King—if Your Majesty becomes Prince of Orange I become a private gentleman. I pray Your Majesty accept my resignation.""And mine, sir," added Halifax."I hope that you will serve the Queen," replied William; he leant back in his chair and his face was colourless against the red brocade cushion."It was to Your Majesty I swore obedience," said Godolphin firmly."I set you free of those oaths—all of you, my lords—my convoy waiteth at Gravesend. In Holland I can be of service—not here." He, with infinite weariness, sat up and took his speech from the table. "Take this, my lord." He held it out to Lord Godolphin.The minister went on one knee."I cannot be a party to this," he said. "Your Majesty must forgive me—but I cannot——"The blood rushed into the King's thin cheek."What do you want of me?" he cried passionately. "You know I do not shirk labour. I have worked like a government clerk since I have been in London, and I am well used to it—but it is no use."Godolphin answered him with equal passion."Is all this labour to come to nothing, sir? If Your Majesty giveth up, there will be no heart in any of us—everything will fly asunder, and we be unprotected for the French and Irish to overrun. Your presence, your Dutch troops alone keep order. Without you we are lost again, and worse than we were before '88——""Your Majesty cannot—Your Majesty must not," cried Caermarthen.Shrewsbury raised his face; he was trembling, and weeping softly."God in heaven!" he whispered, under his breath.Nottingham looked at him with contempt."Will Your Majesty forsake your friends?" he asked sombrely. "Where do we stand if Your Majesty resigns the position we asked you to accept?""Sir," said Halifax firmly, "the Prince of Orange cannot go back on what he hath undertaken."William leant forward, resting against the table; his eyes filled with tears, and he gave a short cough as if he caught his breath."You ask too much of any man—to rule this country under the disadvantages that whelm me," he said faintly. "I was not made to be cabined in these small factions——""We cannot do without Your Majesty," said Halifax sharply. "Are all your glorious deeds and achievements to end in this, sir?"The King put his hand before his eyes and sobbed heavily."O God," cried Godolphin, in bitter distress, "what pass is here?" He turned on the others. "Is this to what we have brought the Prince who saved us?"The tears were in his own eyes, and his voice was broken.Halifax spoke to Caermarthen."This is like to be the end of us, my lord," he remarked. "Cry 'finis'! for the play is over now."The King continued to weep; his whole frail figure was shaken with his passion. The last cold daylight was over his gold broideries and the crimson bracelet round his wrist. Caermarthen was pacing to and fro in a kind of frenzy."What is to do!" he asked himself. "What is to do!" and he clutched the cambric ruffles on his bosom.Godolphin again dropped on his knees before the King and took William's cold left hand to his lips."Your Majesty will not leave us," he murmured, in a quivering tone.The King lifted his great eyes, blurred, yet bright, with tears."If I stay," he answered, "it is on certain terms—I will not be the puppet of factions." He stopped, exhausted; he composed himself and flushed feverishly; his speech was interrupted by continual and painful coughing. "I will not be a party to persecution." He clenched his thin hand on the smooth curved arm of his chair, and spoke with a force and energy that gripped and almost frightened his listeners. "A measure must be passed to prevent it—and I must go to The Hague next spring.""Ireland——" began Caermarthen.William caught up the word."I will go to Ireland—since ye think so much of that wretched country I will get it——"Even in the midst of their relief that they had moved him the ministers were shaken at this resolution."Your Majesty cannot be spared from London," exclaimed Halifax."I shall prorogue Parliament before I leave," answered William fiercely. "That or nothing, my lords. I do not stay here to be King Log——"They bowed before his terms as they had done in the crisis of '88; only Shrewsbury, who saw the downfall of his party in the prorogation of a Whig Parliament, made a feeble protest."Fever is epidemic in Ireland—the health of Your Majesty——""You fear to lose me, my lord, before I have served your turn!" was struck out of the King; then he amended his contempt, for he was ever fond of Shrewsbury. "It is the only thing to do—if the reduction of Ireland is necessary before the Continental Campaign—I must go." He looked sharply round. "Gentlemen, do you take these terms—will you unite to help me to them?""We have no choice," said Lord Godolphin, and he tore the draft of the King's speech across.CHAPTER IIITHE BEST OF LIFEIt was early May; the King was walking in his park at Kensington, with his friend, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland.It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the Whigs at his speech."I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great tenderness—"the poor Queen!""How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl."Ah, heavily—what have I brought her but affliction?—sometimes I think of that——"He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand."Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William, help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder part.""I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl."There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world like you!""Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive power of his life, but he could not say so.The King again pressed his hand affectionately. They were walking under limes, and hawthorns white with blossom. The sky shone cloudy blue, and the pale English sunshine was over the young grass.William looked round him with the sick eyes of exile; thoughts of Holland tugged so sharply at his heart that he gave a little suppressed sound of pain."What of this Crone and Fuller plot?" asked Portland suddenly."I am sorry to leave that on the Queen her hands," said William quietly; "but I do not think it serious.""Some great men are implicated?""I do not doubt it."Portland hesitated a moment, then said—"Nottingham's spies intercepted letters to St. Germains, he saith—who were they from?""People of no station," answered the King. "Nottingham is over zealous.""And you, sir, are over easy."William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of the limes."That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear lord, let it be——"Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed that any sat there."Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury."I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you.""I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find William at leisure or on foot.The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly."Was it to a second time offer your resignation?" he asked.Shrewsbury went crimson under his powder; he seemed to find it difficult to maintain even a show of composure."Yes, Your Majesty," he answered."Very well," said William quietly. "I am sorry that you will not serve me till my return from Ireland.""Sire, my health," murmured the Duke faintly—"I have had a fall from my horse—I am not fit."Still holding his sword in both hands, the King rose."My lord—is that your sole reason?" he asked gently.The blood ebbed from the young man's soft face; he answered with an effort."My sole reason, Your Majesty."William continued to fix his eyes on him."My lord, when did you last see Roger Fuller?"Shrewsbury shivered; he stammered painfully."I—I—do not know—the fellow——""I take your word, my lord," said William gravely.He dropped his sword, and laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the young man's heaving shoulder."Remember I trust you," he added quietly."Sir," cried Shrewsbury, through pale lips—"what is your meaning—do you think——""I think that you are a man of honour," said William. "You have given me your word, and I trust you. Remember it.""Your Majesty," began the Duke wildly, "I never meant——""Hush," interrupted the King. "I know nothing. Take care of your health, my lord."He touched his hat and moved on. The young Duke looked after him with eyes of agony, then stumbled wretchedly away through the trees.William proceeded slowly to the privy garden, which was full of stocks, pinks, wallflowers, aloes, and early roses.He found the Queen and Lady Nottingham seated in front of a great bush of box clipped into the shape of a peacock. Between them was a length of yellow silk that they were sewing with blue beads in little crosses and stars.At the King's approach Lady Nottingham rose and retired with a courtsey. Mary looked after her kindly."She is a sweet lady—I like her vastly," she said."You find most ladies sweet, do you not?" answered the King; he seated himself beside her on the bench, and took up the end of silk Lady Nottingham had laid down."I have spoilt your work. But I wished to tell you something, Marie."Mary glanced at him anxiously; she was slightly pale, and wore a black scarf wrapped round her head and shoulders; her petticoat was striped red and frilled at the foot, her over-gown dark blue and spread round her in circling folds of glittering silk. For all the sombre heaviness of this stately dressing she looked very young—sad, also, for all the desperate gaiety to which she was continually nerved.The King looked about him to see that they were not overheard, then said, in a low voice—"I have accepted my Lord Shrewsbury his resignation."Mary waited, catching her breath."He," continued William, "hath tampered with His late Majesty."The Queen gave a little sound of distress, and dropped her sewing."Shrewsbury!" she whispered."I have sure proof of it," said the King. "I am sorry for him," he added simply; "and for myself, it something moved me, for I ever liked my lord."Mary flushed and clenched her hands on her lap."How base every one is," she cried, and the angry tears glittered in her eyes."There is not much honour in England, Marie. Have a care of all of them—particularly of that knave"—he spoke with strong force—"that villain, my Lord Marlborough——""Need he be of the Council?" she asked eagerly."Child, he is the best soldier in England, and if I was to leave you a Council of honest men they could not be of this nation—trust none of them.""God help me," said the Queen. "I know not how I shall support myself when you are not here—but how weak I am to talk thus—my part is little compared to yours."She smiled with a pitiful brightness, and the King, looking at her, flushed as if he had been hurt and suppressed the pain."Talk no more of this," he said quickly—"in this little time we have together——"Mary laid her hand on his."How pale the sunshine is—not thick and golden like The Hague—the flowers seem so different too; is not that a silly fancy?" She smiled again, and her voice quivered."You are not happy here, Marie."She answered hastily."Happy wherever I have your dear company—but I confess I am a coward without you—but God is greater than our hopes, our fears, our desires; He knoweth best."When her soft voice ceased the only sounds were those of water running in the lead basin of a fountain hidden somewhere behind the alleys of wych-elm, and the occasional distant blows of a hammer from the workman engaged on the scaffolding of Kensington House.She spoke again at last, her white fingers tightening over his."I wonder if you will ever rest—if achievement will ever come—at last, if you will ever think your work done——""How can I?" he answered. "That is my sole excuse to live—that there is something for me to do—and I am so used to work I think I could not rest——""It hath been hard—hard and long," said Mary. "You must be so weary of it all—the lying, the treachery, the weakness, the opposition, the delays, the disappointments——"The King smiled faintly."Yet I have done something——""So much!" exclaimed Mary proudly. "But I do long for you to have some leisure now ... for both of us ... to be alone, at last——""When the war is over——"She interrupted gently."When the war is over! Alas!" She shook her head. "So long still to wait." She smiled. "I would that you had not been a great man, dear—but just a simple citizen." She laughed charmingly. "And we would live at The Hague always and have a great garden where you should grow 'La Solitaire' for the thousand gulden prize—and I would polish all the furniture myself—and I could call you 'Willem' then before all the world, and we should have long days together ... and you would read of great events in theGazetteand never want to mix in them, and I should laugh at those unhappy kings and queens——"Her husband looked at her in silence."So you see I am a good housewife, no more!" she continued, in a kind of wild gaiety. "Alas, I have no brains for business!""I have thought, too," said William, "that I would like to be a mere gentleman watching events, not guiding them; but these thoughts are beneath us—and idle visions.""Idle visions!" repeated the Queen. "And you must go to the war again—Death's target—and I must stay behind and keep my countenance! I am such a poor weak fool!" she added, in bitter self-reproach.The King raised her head and pressed it against his heart."That kind of fool I could never have done without," he said impetuously. "If I have ever achieved anything, the credit is to you, my dearest, my dearest——"He dropped her hand, and abruptly broke his speech."What more can I want than to hear you say that?" answered Mary. "Only love me and I can bear anything——"The King's brilliant eyes rested on her pale but smiling face; he spoke slowly, and his tired voice was hoarse and unequal."When I was a boy—a youth—I was so proud, so self-confident.... I remember I thought I was capable of anything—I took my inexperience, my handful of soldiers, into the field against France—against Condé! I had been very much alone, and so learnt reserve that I had almost lost the power of expression—I was also very unhappy—I think I had no support in the world but my pride—I thought God had elected me to be his Captain——"He paused, but Mary did not speak. Only the little gurgle of the unseen fountain broke perfect stillness."I remember," continued William, "the first time I went to Middleburg and heard the people shout for me—and saw the Town Council bowing.... I never had felt so lonely. Twenty years ago—and I have greatly changed, but in a fashion I have kept the vows I made then to God—I have not turned back from defending His Faith—but that was before He pleased to humble me by constant defeat. I was so confident, Marie! Ah, could I recapture that exaltation of the morning it would all be so easy—I felt so glad of what I had to do—but now!"He raised his hand lightly and lightly let it fall; his profile was towards the Queen now, and his gaze directed towards the English hawthorns that showed above the box hedge of the privy garden."But though," he added, "it hath all darkened since then, I think God meant me to go on—for He sent you, my wife ... and you are the one thing that hath never failed me."She hid her face in her hands, and sat trembling; the little tray of blue beads fell from her lap, and they were scattered over the gravel path."If I am not good at gratitude," said the King haltingly—"yet believe me—while you are there I can endure anything. After all, there is nothing in the world for me but you and Holland, and while I have both why should I complain of any difficulties?"Mary raised her face."If I could think I made that difference to you!" she said."You have given me the best of life," he answered gravely.CHAPTER IVTHE SECRET ANGUISHIn that ancient palace called Hampton Court, on the banks of the Thames, the Queen of England walked through the rooms that were rebuilding, and tried to subdue her soul to peace.The King was at the war in Ireland, and she, with the aid of the nine councillors—men divided by personal spites and party differences—was ruling England through a bitter and desperate crisis.Mary, a woman and utterly unused to business (though she had always taken an intelligent interest in politics), yet found all these men, on whose wisdom she was supposed to rely, peevish and silly. Marlborough was using her sister to stir up opposition against the Government,—she strongly suspected him, Godolphin, and Russell of having made their peace with King James; Caermarthen she personally disliked; the Crone and Fuller plot had proved to be a widespreading affair, in which there appeared every possibility of her uncles being involved; the country was denuded of troops, and the fleet in disorder; the treasury empty, and the French threatening the Channel.These were the first few moments of leisure the Queen had known since her husband's departure; she was eager to have Hampton Court ready for his return, and so had come eagerly to see the progress of the rebuilding and alterations.Here again she was met with difficulties and humiliations. Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, was in want of money, the workmen were unpaid, the contractors refused to deliver any more Portland stone on credit.Mary had no money, and knew not where to get it; she soothed Sir Christopher as best she could, and desperately resolved that these debts should be paid; the thought of them was an added vexation. She felt there was a kind of meanness in so lacking money, and that the rebuilding of Hampton Court, which had been her one pleasure, was a reproach and a mistake.M. de Ginckle had written to her from Ireland that they were so straitened in the camp that the King had refused to sign for wine for his own table, and was drinking water with the men.Mary thought of this passionately as she surveyed the unfinished building the grumblers declared such an unwarranted luxury, and remembered the noble fortune William had lavished on the public cause.Under some pretence, she slipped away from her ladies and Sir Christopher, and, with a wild longing to be alone, made her way to some of the old deserted Tudor rooms of the palace, opened now for the first time for perhaps fifty years.In the wing in which Mary found herself there were near a hundred chambers, and she, new to the palace, was soon lost in the maze of apartments.She was wildly glad to be alone, to drop, for a moment, the mask of composed gaiety that she ever kept over her anxiety.Door after door she opened, and room after room she traversed, until she reached a little winding stairway that led to a chamber in one of the fine red turrets with the graceful decorated chimney-stacks that Sir Christopher was so calmly destroying.Stairway and chamber were both covered with thick white dust; the bolts on the door were rusty and loose; there was no furniture save an old rotting chest, rudely carved; but the walls were beautifully panelled with oak in a linen pattern, and the low lancet window disclosed a perfect view.Mary went straight to it, leant her sick head against the mullions, and gazed over the fair prospect of unkept garden, field, meadow, and river, all shimmering under a July sun. The Thames showed argent gold between banks of willow and alder; stretches of daisies, buttercups, clover, and poppies reached to distant groves of elm, oak, and beech.In the nearer glades deer wandered in and out of the sweeping shadows, and the air was soft with the whispers of the ringdove.Such a different England this seemed from that England shown in London, so far removed from war and discord, danger and alarm.The lonely young Queen felt her own desolation heightened by the solitude; she became almost afraid of the silence.When she reflected that the person who was everything to her was distant, exposed to many perils, that her father was opposed to him in battle, that the great responsibility of government was intrusted to her, and that she had no one on whom she could rely or even to whom open her heart (for William Bentinck had, after all, been summoned to Holland), she felt a melancholy creep over her spirit that was near despair.The sun was warm on the sill where her hand rested and on her cheek; she leant a little farther out of the narrow window, that had neither glass nor casement, and fixed her eyes on the pulsing flow of the river.A little sound behind her caused her to turn quickly with a nervous start.Before a small worm-eaten inner doorway that she had not noticed stood a comely child of five or six years, gazing at her intently. The colour fluttered into the Queen's face; they stood staring at each other—the woman and the child—as if they were both afraid."What are you doing here?" asked Mary coldly, after a second.The child did not answer; he had as little expected to see this tall young lady in the fine blue gown as she had expected to see him."You have no business here," said Mary, in the same tone; "this is private. Go, find your people."And she turned towards the window again so that she could not see him.He answered now."I have lost my way.""There are the stairs," said Mary, without looking round. "Go down there, and you will find your way."There was silence, and she waited a little; then looked over her shoulder to see him still standing there, staring at her."Why don't you go?" she asked harshly. "You are not allowed here.""Yes, ma'am, I am," he replied. "Father said I could go where I liked.""Who is your father?"The child laid a delicate finger on the smooth carving of the wall."He maketh—these," he explained."A carver," said Mary. "Is he working here?""Yes, ma'am. We come every day; there is another little boy—you are the mother of the other little boy?" he questioned."No," said Mary coldly."He isn't here to-day," remarked the child rather sadly. "When he is we go out, because he is a bigger boy than me. If you had been his mother I thought you might have taken me out.""Your father can take you out.""Father is working with Master Wren. Do you know Master Wren?""Yes.""He goeth up and down in a basket outside the house. Once I went too, and he held me so tight that it hurt. He is too old to play with."He came a little farther into the room, eying Mary wistfully. She was stately as well as tall, and the high lace commode she wore, and the stiff arrangement of her heavy curls, further added to her dignity. The child looked at her in some awe."Are you cross with me?" he asked gravely."No," answered the Queen—"no—but your father will be looking for you—best go and find him.""I have lost my way," he said, subdued by her coldness. "I was asleep in there." He pointed to the little sunny annexe to the turret from which he had come. "I am glad I met you, ma'am.""Why?" asked Mary.The child smiled, in an effort to win her."I get frightened when I am alone," he said. "Don't you, ma'am?""Sometimes," answered the Queen; she bit her lip and fixed her narrowed brown eyes on the boy; he was fair, and rather delicate, and wore a shabby suit of red tabinet.He slowly and reluctantly moved towards the narrow dark stairs."I wish this house was finished," he said plaintively. "It is so large. The King will live here," he added. "I saw the King talking once to Mr. Wren."Mary gave him no encouragement to stay, but he still lingered by the rotting door, that swung back against the wall, and looked at her with wide, puzzled eyes."I am going now," he said at last; his hands went to his cravat, which was sadly knotted. "Would you tie this for me first? Father don't like me to look untidy.""Come here," said Mary.He came at once and stood before her."I don't think I can do it," said the Queen unsteadily.She took hold of the scrap of cambric awkwardly, while he obediently held his head up; but her cold fingers bungled, and the bow was clumsy."I can't do it," she murmured."You are so tall, ma'am!"She looked into his upturned face."Too tall to be so stupid," she answered, and untied the bow. "Have you a mother?" she asked suddenly, holding his shoulder gently."No, ma'am.""Ah, poor soul!"She spoke so sadly that he was distressed."What is the matter, ma'am?""I was thinking of what we both have missed," said Mary gently.His bright eyes were bewildered. The Queen drew him to the old chest, seated herself there, and again tied the cravat."What is your name?" she asked, as she smoothed it."James, ma'am—it was the King his name when I was born," he added proudly.Mary drew a quick breath."But you serve King William.""I know," he answered dutifully. "He is a soldier, father saith. I would like to be a soldier, ma'am."Mary smiled; though she had done with his cravat she still kept her hands lightly on his shoulder."Not a wood-carver?"He shook his head."Father saith, 'Better be a soldier these days—there is no living else,'" he quoted wisely."There is time enough to decide," said Mary softly; her ringed right hand timidly caressed his hair, scarcely touching it. "Have you many toys?""No, ma'am.""Do you care for them?"He considered."Books," he said, with a little frown, "that you can tear the pictures out of—pictures of fights, ma'am—and blackamoor's teeth.""What are they?" asked Mary, gazing earnestly at him; she spoke with a catch in her breath.He put his hand into his pocket and produced several cowrie shells."There, ma'am—they come from far away." His eyes glittered. "It would be good to be a sailor, would it not, ma'am?""You are a grave child," said Mary; she drew him softly nearer to her, and bent her beautiful pale face near to his. "You pray for the King, do you not?""On Sunday, ma'am.""Pray for him whenever you say your prayers—and for the Queen."He nodded."The poor Queen!" he said."Why do you say that?" asked Mary, startled."Master Wren said those words—like that—'the poor Queen!' ma'am."Mary stared at him intently; her arms tightened about him. Suddenly she pressed him up to her bosom, where his little head rested patiently among her thick laces."The poor Queen!" she whispered wildly, and drew him closer, till he was half frightened by the force of her embrace and the beating of her heart beneath his cheek."Oh, ma'am!" he cried, "I have even dropped the blackamoor's teeth."She let him go, and watched him with desperate eyes while he searched and recovered the gleaming white shells from the dusty floor.As he busily sought for one in the shadow of the chest, a soft whistle sounded twice; he sprang to his feet at once."That is my father—I must go now, ma'am."The Queen held out her hands appealingly."Will you not kiss me?"He came obediently and held up his unconscious face.Mary's lips touched his brow in the saddest salute he was ever like to know. He did not offer to return it, but made a little bow, and so left her. She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his unequal footsteps departing; then she stooped and picked up the shell he had abandoned.She fancied that it was still warm and moist from his tight clutch, and as she looked at it the tears veiled her eyes and fell on to her trembling palm."O God!" she cried aloud, with a passion that had slipped her control. "Ye had no right to make childless women!"She flung the shell from her, and buried her face in her hands, while the painful sobs heaved her body.She had not long even the comfort of lonely weeping, for the sound of voices and footsteps coming up the narrow stairs caused her to rise heavily, with a start of self-reproach.It was her secret boast that she had not allowed a tear or a sigh to escape her in public since the King had gone. She dried her poor tired eyes hastily, and bit her lips to steady them, while she thrust her sorrows back into her heart with that placid courage that never failed her. She descended the stairs and faced the people who were, she knew, looking for her.She was not prepared to see Lord Nottingham, whom she had left at Whitehall; the sight of him among her attendants caused her to pause at the foot of the stairs."You, my lord!" she cried faintly.His dark face showed obvious relief at her appearance."I have been searching for Your Majesty," he said, with some reproach. "I have ridden hot after Your Majesty from London——""There must be grave news," said Mary, knowing that otherwise he would not have come himself."There is, Madam—the gravest."Mary raised her head; she was perfectly composed."From—the King?" she asked."No, Madam."Mary smiled superbly."Then it is not the worst." She was colourless to the lips, but bore herself with majesty. "What is it, my lord?"Nottingham was always tragical in his discourse, and now his face and tone were gloomy in the extreme."Madam, M. de Waldeck and the allies have been defeated at Fleurus, M. de Tourville and the French fleet have been spied under full sail for the coast of Devon. There is no relying on our sailors—there is a panic in the city."The Queen's eyes flashed with something of her husband's look when fronted with disaster."We will to London," she said—"there to face these misfortunes."
CHAPTER II
THE KING AT BAY
My Lord Marquess left His Majesty after a dry and formal interview concerned with minor but necessary business, and, leaving the King still sitting before the map of the United Provinces, proceeded to the incomplete and ill-furnished council-chamber, where my lords Shrewsbury, Caermarthen, Nottingham, and Godolphin were gloomily conferring.
Halifax was the only man in the assembly not of decided Whig or Tory politics—it was believed that this was the reason that the King had elected him to fill the highest place in his councils. Lord Caermarthen, who, jealous of his elevation, was known to be secretly working his downfall, greeted him with haughty frankness.
"I hope, my lord," he said, "your interview with His Majesty hath had some smack of satisfaction in it——"
"Why, none," answered the Lord Privy Seal; "there is no satisfaction anywhere."
He seated himself on one of the red damask covered stools by the table, and looked with a kind of cynical amusement at the other ministers, all of whom, he well knew, were, however diverse their several opinions (with the exception of Lord Godolphin), doing their utmost to oust him from the position he held. His mobile, easy, and delicate face was turned towards the meagre but noble figure of Caermarthen, in whom he recognised his chief enemy. Indeed, that statesman, who, as Lord Danby, had himself narrowly escaped the attacks of Jack Howe in the last Parliament, was endeavouring to stir up the present Commons to impeach Halifax.
"His Majesty," added the Lord Privy Seal, in his pleasant, tolerant voice, "is very discontented with all of us."
Shrewsbury—a duke now, and crowded with dignities beyond his years—blushed.
"What are we to do?" he asked, in a kind of frantic way.
The other Secretary, Nottingham, dark as a Spaniard and sour in expression, remarked briefly—
"We can do nothing until we see which way the Parliament moveth."
"The Parliament," said Caermarthen, "will do nothing until some satisfaction is given for the money voted to Ireland. Schomberg, I doubt, is doited; he hath not moved since he landed——"
"The King," put in Halifax, "is desperate to go to the Continent, where the allies clamour for him and King Louis gaineth headway every week——"
Caermarthen sprang up from the window-seat.
"By God, he cannot go abroad until Ireland is settled!" he cried; "the country will not stand any war but that——"
"The King," answered the Lord Privy Seal, "hath such a mind to France one would think he took England but on the way——"
"France," said Shrewsbury, with feverish anxiety, "is not the question; we have to think of England. War was declared last May, and we are still incapable of putting a single regiment in the field. By Heaven, the Government is too disjointed for us to interfere in foreign affairs!"
"You should have thought of that, my lord," answered Nottingham dryly, "when you put a foreigner on the throne."
A deep colour again flushed Shrewsbury's beautiful face.
"I judged from His Majesty's reputation that he would have done better," he murmured.
"His Majesty is a great man," said Halifax placidly.
Caermarthen shrugged his shoulders.
"Is it the kind of greatness that will help England?"
"Or your party to places, my lord?" retorted the Lord Privy Seal shrewdly.
Caermarthen's thin face darkened.
"His Majesty doth not know his friends," he said.
"He will not be a party leader," returned Halifax; "but I do doubt whether England will be ever governed save by factions——"
Shrewsbury came up to the table and looked round the faces of his colleagues. He was by far the youngest of the company, and his soft good-looks were incongruous to the importance of his position; Lord Godolphin, a quiet, thin man, who so far had not opened his lips or taken any notice of anything, now fixed his eyes on Shrewsbury, and kept them there keenly while the Duke spoke.
"Sirs, what is to be done? We have very good assurance that the Government cannot hold—nay," he added, with increasing agitation, "if King James were to land to-morrow, who would stay him from the throne?"
"His Majesty," said Lord Godolphin quietly.
Caermarthen caught the words.
"His Majesty! I have little faith in him now; he is a dying man——"
"The doctors," added Nottingham gloomily, "give him another year——"
"No more, I truly think," said Halifax calmly. "The Dutchmen themselves say they hardly know him for the man he was at The Hague——"
"What then?" cried Shrewsbury, in a desperate frankness. "Are we all to fall into the laps of women and my Lord Marlborough?"
"The Queen could never hold the throne," answered Halifax; "she is not loved," he smiled; "the people dislike her for her false position——"
"By God!" interrupted Caermarthen hotly; "what know you of Her Majesty? She would rule better than any Stewart hath done yet——"
"Maybe, and wed another foreigner," retorted Shrewsbury. "Besides, I think you are wrong. No woman could rule England now——"
"Nor any man, it seemeth," smiled Halifax sadly. "For my part I am weary of all of it—and so, I think," he added, "is His Majesty. He is greatly angered that the Bill of Indemnity is changed into a Bill of Pains and Penalties, and there are such heats over it——"
"What course doth he think to take?" asked Shrewsbury abruptly.
"He said very little to-day," answered Halifax. "Our talk was all of business; he is of an extraordinary industry," this with admiration, "and hath mastered the details of the government already. Were he a stronger man I should have no fear for England——"
"Talk—antic talk!" cried Caermarthen impatiently; "and are no nearer a solution——"
The sound of the opening of the heavy carved door caused them all to pause. Godolphin, who was the only one facing it, rose respectfully; the others turned.
It was the King.
His bright glance went from face to face. He came slowly to the head of the table, and seated himself in the wand-bottomed chair there; his ministers were on their feet waiting for him to speak. Surprised as they were by this unexpected appearance, their agitation showed in their faces, Shrewsbury in particular was colourless; only Lord Godolphin remained perfectly composed.
The King continued to look from one to the other; he wore a heavy brown velvet thickly braided with gold, and held in his right hand a paper written upon, and folded across.
"Affairs," he said, in his tired voice, with his peculiar short manner of speaking, "have reached a crisis, my lords, and I have come to acquaint you with my resolution."
He leant forward a little, and rested his right arm on the table, keeping his dark, powerful eyes fixed on these ministers whom he read so perfectly.
"My lords," he continued quietly, almost gently, "it is a year since I took up the government of this country, and in that time I have done nothing to please any one of you." He coughed and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. "I have done my best to govern justly," he added proudly, "but I confess I took up a task beyond my powers. My lords, I cannot rule a disaffected country with disaffected ministers. I admit I do not understand you. As I am often reminded, I am a foreigner."
The five nobles made a common movement as of painful expectation. The King's plain speaking took all words from them; Shrewsbury was painfully agitated.
"What doth Your Majesty propose?" asked Halifax anxiously.
The King opened out the paper on the dark walnut table, and laid his right hand on it. He wore round this wrist a bracelet of red glass or crystal, cut into facets, that caught and threw back the light; it gleamed now strongly through the thick Bruges lace of his ruffles.
"I mean," he said, "to resign the crown and return to Holland—where I am needed," he added strongly.
"My God!" exclaimed Caermarthen; the rest were silent.
The King surveyed their changed and utterly amazed faces with a gleam in his eyes.
"My convoy is in readiness," he said, "and here, my lords, is the speech in which I announce my intention to Parliament"—he glanced at Sidney Godolphin—"my lord," he added with dignity, "will do me a last service and correct my poor English——"
Caermarthen broke out passionately—
"Sir, you cannot know what you are saying—this is unheard of——"
"I know very well what I am saying, my Lord Marquess," answered William. "I cannot please you, but I think the Queen can. I believe you would be faithful to her—she is English; but as for me, you can manage your business better without me—and I am needed on the Continent."
He rose, and Halifax, rather pale, came up to him.
"What is to become of England if Your Majesty leaveth us?"
"The Queen will please you," repeated William.
"This action on the part of Your Majesty will mean chaos," cried Shrewsbury desperately.
The King smiled sternly.
"No confusion could be worse than what we now endure—perhaps alone ye can put it straight."
They looked at each other. In their hearts they all knew that the King, and the King alone held them together and kept them from France; to the Whigs his departure would mean ruin, and among the Tories there was not one man capable of undertaking a tithe of what the King—who had foreign affairs exclusively in his hands—performed.
"What is Your Majesty's reason for this bitter resolve?" cried Caermarthen.
"I am needed in Holland," said William. "I have, my lord, my lifework to do. There are certain things put to my hand for me to accomplish, and I have pursued them through too many difficulties to be thwarted now by the disputes of the English Parliament——"
He spoke with a sudden force that lashed them.
"I took this crown," he added, holding his hand to his breast, "that I might, with God His help, put England in her ancient place among nations, not that I might lose myself in heated factions and blind animosities."
"If Your Majesty desert us we are all undone," said Caermarthen passionately.
"Ah, my lords," answered William, "I am not of a nature to be the puppet between your parties. God gave me a disposition different—I cannot mix in these your politics."
His cough interrupted him; he gave a little shudder, and sank back into the walnut-backed chair.
"There are some things beyond a man's strength," he said hoarsely, "and I, hampered as I am, cannot govern England."
"I," cried Halifax sincerely, "have tried to help Your Majesty——"
"And what is your reward?" asked William quickly. "Parliament is so pressing on you, my lord, that I shall have to forego your services—what is any honest man's reward in this country? As angry dogs ye rend each other. My God, will there never be an end to these dissensions?"
He crushed the rough draft of his speech up in his hand and flung it on the table.
"There is my answer to this question," he said, and made to rise again, but Shrewsbury came forward and cast himself on his knees before him.
"I entreat Your Majesty to consider—to reflect—to spare us, to spare this unhappy country——"
The King looked wildly but not unkindly into the fair, agitated young face.
"I cannot do what you want of me," he answered. "Everything I do displeaseth—I stand for toleration and ye will have no manner of toleration—hath not the Indemnity Bill become a Bill of Pains and Penalties? Is not Parliament busy looking up charges of twenty years ago against men of position? Is not the Church crying out against the Dissenters, and the Dissenters against the Papists?"
They were all silent; Shrewsbury on his knees by the King's chair.
"As to the civil government," continued William, "ye know perfectly well what corruption is there. For the last two reigns every honour in the gift of the Crown hath been put up to sale with women and priests for brokers—I can trust no one save, of course, yourselves, my lords," he added, with a faint sarcasm. "There is neither honesty nor industry nor credit in any department of the administration. I can do no more."
Lord Godolphin came forward from the window; he was known to be higher in favour with the King than any there, and the others waited with a silent, anxious curiosity for him to speak.
"I think Your Majesty will change your resolution," he said, with sudden warmth, "for the sake of Europe."
"For the sake of Europe, my lord, I shall persist in it."
Sidney Godolphin looked straightly at the King.
"No—Your Majesty is not the man to shirk difficulties—bear with us a little."
"My lord," answered William, "if all were as you I should have no difficulties—rise up, my lord of Shrewsbury; this is not your fault."
The Duke got to his feet and retired to the deep window-seat; he appeared utterly overwhelmed.
"I undertook to serve a King," said Godolphin, deeply moved. "Let me resign that service while you are still my King—if Your Majesty becomes Prince of Orange I become a private gentleman. I pray Your Majesty accept my resignation."
"And mine, sir," added Halifax.
"I hope that you will serve the Queen," replied William; he leant back in his chair and his face was colourless against the red brocade cushion.
"It was to Your Majesty I swore obedience," said Godolphin firmly.
"I set you free of those oaths—all of you, my lords—my convoy waiteth at Gravesend. In Holland I can be of service—not here." He, with infinite weariness, sat up and took his speech from the table. "Take this, my lord." He held it out to Lord Godolphin.
The minister went on one knee.
"I cannot be a party to this," he said. "Your Majesty must forgive me—but I cannot——"
The blood rushed into the King's thin cheek.
"What do you want of me?" he cried passionately. "You know I do not shirk labour. I have worked like a government clerk since I have been in London, and I am well used to it—but it is no use."
Godolphin answered him with equal passion.
"Is all this labour to come to nothing, sir? If Your Majesty giveth up, there will be no heart in any of us—everything will fly asunder, and we be unprotected for the French and Irish to overrun. Your presence, your Dutch troops alone keep order. Without you we are lost again, and worse than we were before '88——"
"Your Majesty cannot—Your Majesty must not," cried Caermarthen.
Shrewsbury raised his face; he was trembling, and weeping softly.
"God in heaven!" he whispered, under his breath.
Nottingham looked at him with contempt.
"Will Your Majesty forsake your friends?" he asked sombrely. "Where do we stand if Your Majesty resigns the position we asked you to accept?"
"Sir," said Halifax firmly, "the Prince of Orange cannot go back on what he hath undertaken."
William leant forward, resting against the table; his eyes filled with tears, and he gave a short cough as if he caught his breath.
"You ask too much of any man—to rule this country under the disadvantages that whelm me," he said faintly. "I was not made to be cabined in these small factions——"
"We cannot do without Your Majesty," said Halifax sharply. "Are all your glorious deeds and achievements to end in this, sir?"
The King put his hand before his eyes and sobbed heavily.
"O God," cried Godolphin, in bitter distress, "what pass is here?" He turned on the others. "Is this to what we have brought the Prince who saved us?"
The tears were in his own eyes, and his voice was broken.
Halifax spoke to Caermarthen.
"This is like to be the end of us, my lord," he remarked. "Cry 'finis'! for the play is over now."
The King continued to weep; his whole frail figure was shaken with his passion. The last cold daylight was over his gold broideries and the crimson bracelet round his wrist. Caermarthen was pacing to and fro in a kind of frenzy.
"What is to do!" he asked himself. "What is to do!" and he clutched the cambric ruffles on his bosom.
Godolphin again dropped on his knees before the King and took William's cold left hand to his lips.
"Your Majesty will not leave us," he murmured, in a quivering tone.
The King lifted his great eyes, blurred, yet bright, with tears.
"If I stay," he answered, "it is on certain terms—I will not be the puppet of factions." He stopped, exhausted; he composed himself and flushed feverishly; his speech was interrupted by continual and painful coughing. "I will not be a party to persecution." He clenched his thin hand on the smooth curved arm of his chair, and spoke with a force and energy that gripped and almost frightened his listeners. "A measure must be passed to prevent it—and I must go to The Hague next spring."
"Ireland——" began Caermarthen.
William caught up the word.
"I will go to Ireland—since ye think so much of that wretched country I will get it——"
Even in the midst of their relief that they had moved him the ministers were shaken at this resolution.
"Your Majesty cannot be spared from London," exclaimed Halifax.
"I shall prorogue Parliament before I leave," answered William fiercely. "That or nothing, my lords. I do not stay here to be King Log——"
They bowed before his terms as they had done in the crisis of '88; only Shrewsbury, who saw the downfall of his party in the prorogation of a Whig Parliament, made a feeble protest.
"Fever is epidemic in Ireland—the health of Your Majesty——"
"You fear to lose me, my lord, before I have served your turn!" was struck out of the King; then he amended his contempt, for he was ever fond of Shrewsbury. "It is the only thing to do—if the reduction of Ireland is necessary before the Continental Campaign—I must go." He looked sharply round. "Gentlemen, do you take these terms—will you unite to help me to them?"
"We have no choice," said Lord Godolphin, and he tore the draft of the King's speech across.
CHAPTER III
THE BEST OF LIFE
It was early May; the King was walking in his park at Kensington, with his friend, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland.
It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the Whigs at his speech.
"I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great tenderness—"the poor Queen!"
"How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl.
"Ah, heavily—what have I brought her but affliction?—sometimes I think of that——"
He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand.
"Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William, help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder part."
"I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl.
"There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world like you!"
"Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."
He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive power of his life, but he could not say so.
The King again pressed his hand affectionately. They were walking under limes, and hawthorns white with blossom. The sky shone cloudy blue, and the pale English sunshine was over the young grass.
William looked round him with the sick eyes of exile; thoughts of Holland tugged so sharply at his heart that he gave a little suppressed sound of pain.
"What of this Crone and Fuller plot?" asked Portland suddenly.
"I am sorry to leave that on the Queen her hands," said William quietly; "but I do not think it serious."
"Some great men are implicated?"
"I do not doubt it."
Portland hesitated a moment, then said—
"Nottingham's spies intercepted letters to St. Germains, he saith—who were they from?"
"People of no station," answered the King. "Nottingham is over zealous."
"And you, sir, are over easy."
William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of the limes.
"That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear lord, let it be——"
Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.
The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed that any sat there.
"Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.
William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury.
"I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you."
"I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."
Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find William at leisure or on foot.
The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly.
"Was it to a second time offer your resignation?" he asked.
Shrewsbury went crimson under his powder; he seemed to find it difficult to maintain even a show of composure.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered.
"Very well," said William quietly. "I am sorry that you will not serve me till my return from Ireland."
"Sire, my health," murmured the Duke faintly—"I have had a fall from my horse—I am not fit."
Still holding his sword in both hands, the King rose.
"My lord—is that your sole reason?" he asked gently.
The blood ebbed from the young man's soft face; he answered with an effort.
"My sole reason, Your Majesty."
William continued to fix his eyes on him.
"My lord, when did you last see Roger Fuller?"
Shrewsbury shivered; he stammered painfully.
"I—I—do not know—the fellow——"
"I take your word, my lord," said William gravely.
He dropped his sword, and laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the young man's heaving shoulder.
"Remember I trust you," he added quietly.
"Sir," cried Shrewsbury, through pale lips—"what is your meaning—do you think——"
"I think that you are a man of honour," said William. "You have given me your word, and I trust you. Remember it."
"Your Majesty," began the Duke wildly, "I never meant——"
"Hush," interrupted the King. "I know nothing. Take care of your health, my lord."
He touched his hat and moved on. The young Duke looked after him with eyes of agony, then stumbled wretchedly away through the trees.
William proceeded slowly to the privy garden, which was full of stocks, pinks, wallflowers, aloes, and early roses.
He found the Queen and Lady Nottingham seated in front of a great bush of box clipped into the shape of a peacock. Between them was a length of yellow silk that they were sewing with blue beads in little crosses and stars.
At the King's approach Lady Nottingham rose and retired with a courtsey. Mary looked after her kindly.
"She is a sweet lady—I like her vastly," she said.
"You find most ladies sweet, do you not?" answered the King; he seated himself beside her on the bench, and took up the end of silk Lady Nottingham had laid down.
"I have spoilt your work. But I wished to tell you something, Marie."
Mary glanced at him anxiously; she was slightly pale, and wore a black scarf wrapped round her head and shoulders; her petticoat was striped red and frilled at the foot, her over-gown dark blue and spread round her in circling folds of glittering silk. For all the sombre heaviness of this stately dressing she looked very young—sad, also, for all the desperate gaiety to which she was continually nerved.
The King looked about him to see that they were not overheard, then said, in a low voice—
"I have accepted my Lord Shrewsbury his resignation."
Mary waited, catching her breath.
"He," continued William, "hath tampered with His late Majesty."
The Queen gave a little sound of distress, and dropped her sewing.
"Shrewsbury!" she whispered.
"I have sure proof of it," said the King. "I am sorry for him," he added simply; "and for myself, it something moved me, for I ever liked my lord."
Mary flushed and clenched her hands on her lap.
"How base every one is," she cried, and the angry tears glittered in her eyes.
"There is not much honour in England, Marie. Have a care of all of them—particularly of that knave"—he spoke with strong force—"that villain, my Lord Marlborough——"
"Need he be of the Council?" she asked eagerly.
"Child, he is the best soldier in England, and if I was to leave you a Council of honest men they could not be of this nation—trust none of them."
"God help me," said the Queen. "I know not how I shall support myself when you are not here—but how weak I am to talk thus—my part is little compared to yours."
She smiled with a pitiful brightness, and the King, looking at her, flushed as if he had been hurt and suppressed the pain.
"Talk no more of this," he said quickly—"in this little time we have together——"
Mary laid her hand on his.
"How pale the sunshine is—not thick and golden like The Hague—the flowers seem so different too; is not that a silly fancy?" She smiled again, and her voice quivered.
"You are not happy here, Marie."
She answered hastily.
"Happy wherever I have your dear company—but I confess I am a coward without you—but God is greater than our hopes, our fears, our desires; He knoweth best."
When her soft voice ceased the only sounds were those of water running in the lead basin of a fountain hidden somewhere behind the alleys of wych-elm, and the occasional distant blows of a hammer from the workman engaged on the scaffolding of Kensington House.
She spoke again at last, her white fingers tightening over his.
"I wonder if you will ever rest—if achievement will ever come—at last, if you will ever think your work done——"
"How can I?" he answered. "That is my sole excuse to live—that there is something for me to do—and I am so used to work I think I could not rest——"
"It hath been hard—hard and long," said Mary. "You must be so weary of it all—the lying, the treachery, the weakness, the opposition, the delays, the disappointments——"
The King smiled faintly.
"Yet I have done something——"
"So much!" exclaimed Mary proudly. "But I do long for you to have some leisure now ... for both of us ... to be alone, at last——"
"When the war is over——"
She interrupted gently.
"When the war is over! Alas!" She shook her head. "So long still to wait." She smiled. "I would that you had not been a great man, dear—but just a simple citizen." She laughed charmingly. "And we would live at The Hague always and have a great garden where you should grow 'La Solitaire' for the thousand gulden prize—and I would polish all the furniture myself—and I could call you 'Willem' then before all the world, and we should have long days together ... and you would read of great events in theGazetteand never want to mix in them, and I should laugh at those unhappy kings and queens——"
Her husband looked at her in silence.
"So you see I am a good housewife, no more!" she continued, in a kind of wild gaiety. "Alas, I have no brains for business!"
"I have thought, too," said William, "that I would like to be a mere gentleman watching events, not guiding them; but these thoughts are beneath us—and idle visions."
"Idle visions!" repeated the Queen. "And you must go to the war again—Death's target—and I must stay behind and keep my countenance! I am such a poor weak fool!" she added, in bitter self-reproach.
The King raised her head and pressed it against his heart.
"That kind of fool I could never have done without," he said impetuously. "If I have ever achieved anything, the credit is to you, my dearest, my dearest——"
He dropped her hand, and abruptly broke his speech.
"What more can I want than to hear you say that?" answered Mary. "Only love me and I can bear anything——"
The King's brilliant eyes rested on her pale but smiling face; he spoke slowly, and his tired voice was hoarse and unequal.
"When I was a boy—a youth—I was so proud, so self-confident.... I remember I thought I was capable of anything—I took my inexperience, my handful of soldiers, into the field against France—against Condé! I had been very much alone, and so learnt reserve that I had almost lost the power of expression—I was also very unhappy—I think I had no support in the world but my pride—I thought God had elected me to be his Captain——"
He paused, but Mary did not speak. Only the little gurgle of the unseen fountain broke perfect stillness.
"I remember," continued William, "the first time I went to Middleburg and heard the people shout for me—and saw the Town Council bowing.... I never had felt so lonely. Twenty years ago—and I have greatly changed, but in a fashion I have kept the vows I made then to God—I have not turned back from defending His Faith—but that was before He pleased to humble me by constant defeat. I was so confident, Marie! Ah, could I recapture that exaltation of the morning it would all be so easy—I felt so glad of what I had to do—but now!"
He raised his hand lightly and lightly let it fall; his profile was towards the Queen now, and his gaze directed towards the English hawthorns that showed above the box hedge of the privy garden.
"But though," he added, "it hath all darkened since then, I think God meant me to go on—for He sent you, my wife ... and you are the one thing that hath never failed me."
She hid her face in her hands, and sat trembling; the little tray of blue beads fell from her lap, and they were scattered over the gravel path.
"If I am not good at gratitude," said the King haltingly—"yet believe me—while you are there I can endure anything. After all, there is nothing in the world for me but you and Holland, and while I have both why should I complain of any difficulties?"
Mary raised her face.
"If I could think I made that difference to you!" she said.
"You have given me the best of life," he answered gravely.
CHAPTER IV
THE SECRET ANGUISH
In that ancient palace called Hampton Court, on the banks of the Thames, the Queen of England walked through the rooms that were rebuilding, and tried to subdue her soul to peace.
The King was at the war in Ireland, and she, with the aid of the nine councillors—men divided by personal spites and party differences—was ruling England through a bitter and desperate crisis.
Mary, a woman and utterly unused to business (though she had always taken an intelligent interest in politics), yet found all these men, on whose wisdom she was supposed to rely, peevish and silly. Marlborough was using her sister to stir up opposition against the Government,—she strongly suspected him, Godolphin, and Russell of having made their peace with King James; Caermarthen she personally disliked; the Crone and Fuller plot had proved to be a widespreading affair, in which there appeared every possibility of her uncles being involved; the country was denuded of troops, and the fleet in disorder; the treasury empty, and the French threatening the Channel.
These were the first few moments of leisure the Queen had known since her husband's departure; she was eager to have Hampton Court ready for his return, and so had come eagerly to see the progress of the rebuilding and alterations.
Here again she was met with difficulties and humiliations. Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, was in want of money, the workmen were unpaid, the contractors refused to deliver any more Portland stone on credit.
Mary had no money, and knew not where to get it; she soothed Sir Christopher as best she could, and desperately resolved that these debts should be paid; the thought of them was an added vexation. She felt there was a kind of meanness in so lacking money, and that the rebuilding of Hampton Court, which had been her one pleasure, was a reproach and a mistake.
M. de Ginckle had written to her from Ireland that they were so straitened in the camp that the King had refused to sign for wine for his own table, and was drinking water with the men.
Mary thought of this passionately as she surveyed the unfinished building the grumblers declared such an unwarranted luxury, and remembered the noble fortune William had lavished on the public cause.
Under some pretence, she slipped away from her ladies and Sir Christopher, and, with a wild longing to be alone, made her way to some of the old deserted Tudor rooms of the palace, opened now for the first time for perhaps fifty years.
In the wing in which Mary found herself there were near a hundred chambers, and she, new to the palace, was soon lost in the maze of apartments.
She was wildly glad to be alone, to drop, for a moment, the mask of composed gaiety that she ever kept over her anxiety.
Door after door she opened, and room after room she traversed, until she reached a little winding stairway that led to a chamber in one of the fine red turrets with the graceful decorated chimney-stacks that Sir Christopher was so calmly destroying.
Stairway and chamber were both covered with thick white dust; the bolts on the door were rusty and loose; there was no furniture save an old rotting chest, rudely carved; but the walls were beautifully panelled with oak in a linen pattern, and the low lancet window disclosed a perfect view.
Mary went straight to it, leant her sick head against the mullions, and gazed over the fair prospect of unkept garden, field, meadow, and river, all shimmering under a July sun. The Thames showed argent gold between banks of willow and alder; stretches of daisies, buttercups, clover, and poppies reached to distant groves of elm, oak, and beech.
In the nearer glades deer wandered in and out of the sweeping shadows, and the air was soft with the whispers of the ringdove.
Such a different England this seemed from that England shown in London, so far removed from war and discord, danger and alarm.
The lonely young Queen felt her own desolation heightened by the solitude; she became almost afraid of the silence.
When she reflected that the person who was everything to her was distant, exposed to many perils, that her father was opposed to him in battle, that the great responsibility of government was intrusted to her, and that she had no one on whom she could rely or even to whom open her heart (for William Bentinck had, after all, been summoned to Holland), she felt a melancholy creep over her spirit that was near despair.
The sun was warm on the sill where her hand rested and on her cheek; she leant a little farther out of the narrow window, that had neither glass nor casement, and fixed her eyes on the pulsing flow of the river.
A little sound behind her caused her to turn quickly with a nervous start.
Before a small worm-eaten inner doorway that she had not noticed stood a comely child of five or six years, gazing at her intently. The colour fluttered into the Queen's face; they stood staring at each other—the woman and the child—as if they were both afraid.
"What are you doing here?" asked Mary coldly, after a second.
The child did not answer; he had as little expected to see this tall young lady in the fine blue gown as she had expected to see him.
"You have no business here," said Mary, in the same tone; "this is private. Go, find your people."
And she turned towards the window again so that she could not see him.
He answered now.
"I have lost my way."
"There are the stairs," said Mary, without looking round. "Go down there, and you will find your way."
There was silence, and she waited a little; then looked over her shoulder to see him still standing there, staring at her.
"Why don't you go?" she asked harshly. "You are not allowed here."
"Yes, ma'am, I am," he replied. "Father said I could go where I liked."
"Who is your father?"
The child laid a delicate finger on the smooth carving of the wall.
"He maketh—these," he explained.
"A carver," said Mary. "Is he working here?"
"Yes, ma'am. We come every day; there is another little boy—you are the mother of the other little boy?" he questioned.
"No," said Mary coldly.
"He isn't here to-day," remarked the child rather sadly. "When he is we go out, because he is a bigger boy than me. If you had been his mother I thought you might have taken me out."
"Your father can take you out."
"Father is working with Master Wren. Do you know Master Wren?"
"Yes."
"He goeth up and down in a basket outside the house. Once I went too, and he held me so tight that it hurt. He is too old to play with."
He came a little farther into the room, eying Mary wistfully. She was stately as well as tall, and the high lace commode she wore, and the stiff arrangement of her heavy curls, further added to her dignity. The child looked at her in some awe.
"Are you cross with me?" he asked gravely.
"No," answered the Queen—"no—but your father will be looking for you—best go and find him."
"I have lost my way," he said, subdued by her coldness. "I was asleep in there." He pointed to the little sunny annexe to the turret from which he had come. "I am glad I met you, ma'am."
"Why?" asked Mary.
The child smiled, in an effort to win her.
"I get frightened when I am alone," he said. "Don't you, ma'am?"
"Sometimes," answered the Queen; she bit her lip and fixed her narrowed brown eyes on the boy; he was fair, and rather delicate, and wore a shabby suit of red tabinet.
He slowly and reluctantly moved towards the narrow dark stairs.
"I wish this house was finished," he said plaintively. "It is so large. The King will live here," he added. "I saw the King talking once to Mr. Wren."
Mary gave him no encouragement to stay, but he still lingered by the rotting door, that swung back against the wall, and looked at her with wide, puzzled eyes.
"I am going now," he said at last; his hands went to his cravat, which was sadly knotted. "Would you tie this for me first? Father don't like me to look untidy."
"Come here," said Mary.
He came at once and stood before her.
"I don't think I can do it," said the Queen unsteadily.
She took hold of the scrap of cambric awkwardly, while he obediently held his head up; but her cold fingers bungled, and the bow was clumsy.
"I can't do it," she murmured.
"You are so tall, ma'am!"
She looked into his upturned face.
"Too tall to be so stupid," she answered, and untied the bow. "Have you a mother?" she asked suddenly, holding his shoulder gently.
"No, ma'am."
"Ah, poor soul!"
She spoke so sadly that he was distressed.
"What is the matter, ma'am?"
"I was thinking of what we both have missed," said Mary gently.
His bright eyes were bewildered. The Queen drew him to the old chest, seated herself there, and again tied the cravat.
"What is your name?" she asked, as she smoothed it.
"James, ma'am—it was the King his name when I was born," he added proudly.
Mary drew a quick breath.
"But you serve King William."
"I know," he answered dutifully. "He is a soldier, father saith. I would like to be a soldier, ma'am."
Mary smiled; though she had done with his cravat she still kept her hands lightly on his shoulder.
"Not a wood-carver?"
He shook his head.
"Father saith, 'Better be a soldier these days—there is no living else,'" he quoted wisely.
"There is time enough to decide," said Mary softly; her ringed right hand timidly caressed his hair, scarcely touching it. "Have you many toys?"
"No, ma'am."
"Do you care for them?"
He considered.
"Books," he said, with a little frown, "that you can tear the pictures out of—pictures of fights, ma'am—and blackamoor's teeth."
"What are they?" asked Mary, gazing earnestly at him; she spoke with a catch in her breath.
He put his hand into his pocket and produced several cowrie shells.
"There, ma'am—they come from far away." His eyes glittered. "It would be good to be a sailor, would it not, ma'am?"
"You are a grave child," said Mary; she drew him softly nearer to her, and bent her beautiful pale face near to his. "You pray for the King, do you not?"
"On Sunday, ma'am."
"Pray for him whenever you say your prayers—and for the Queen."
He nodded.
"The poor Queen!" he said.
"Why do you say that?" asked Mary, startled.
"Master Wren said those words—like that—'the poor Queen!' ma'am."
Mary stared at him intently; her arms tightened about him. Suddenly she pressed him up to her bosom, where his little head rested patiently among her thick laces.
"The poor Queen!" she whispered wildly, and drew him closer, till he was half frightened by the force of her embrace and the beating of her heart beneath his cheek.
"Oh, ma'am!" he cried, "I have even dropped the blackamoor's teeth."
She let him go, and watched him with desperate eyes while he searched and recovered the gleaming white shells from the dusty floor.
As he busily sought for one in the shadow of the chest, a soft whistle sounded twice; he sprang to his feet at once.
"That is my father—I must go now, ma'am."
The Queen held out her hands appealingly.
"Will you not kiss me?"
He came obediently and held up his unconscious face.
Mary's lips touched his brow in the saddest salute he was ever like to know. He did not offer to return it, but made a little bow, and so left her. She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his unequal footsteps departing; then she stooped and picked up the shell he had abandoned.
She fancied that it was still warm and moist from his tight clutch, and as she looked at it the tears veiled her eyes and fell on to her trembling palm.
"O God!" she cried aloud, with a passion that had slipped her control. "Ye had no right to make childless women!"
She flung the shell from her, and buried her face in her hands, while the painful sobs heaved her body.
She had not long even the comfort of lonely weeping, for the sound of voices and footsteps coming up the narrow stairs caused her to rise heavily, with a start of self-reproach.
It was her secret boast that she had not allowed a tear or a sigh to escape her in public since the King had gone. She dried her poor tired eyes hastily, and bit her lips to steady them, while she thrust her sorrows back into her heart with that placid courage that never failed her. She descended the stairs and faced the people who were, she knew, looking for her.
She was not prepared to see Lord Nottingham, whom she had left at Whitehall; the sight of him among her attendants caused her to pause at the foot of the stairs.
"You, my lord!" she cried faintly.
His dark face showed obvious relief at her appearance.
"I have been searching for Your Majesty," he said, with some reproach. "I have ridden hot after Your Majesty from London——"
"There must be grave news," said Mary, knowing that otherwise he would not have come himself.
"There is, Madam—the gravest."
Mary raised her head; she was perfectly composed.
"From—the King?" she asked.
"No, Madam."
Mary smiled superbly.
"Then it is not the worst." She was colourless to the lips, but bore herself with majesty. "What is it, my lord?"
Nottingham was always tragical in his discourse, and now his face and tone were gloomy in the extreme.
"Madam, M. de Waldeck and the allies have been defeated at Fleurus, M. de Tourville and the French fleet have been spied under full sail for the coast of Devon. There is no relying on our sailors—there is a panic in the city."
The Queen's eyes flashed with something of her husband's look when fronted with disaster.
"We will to London," she said—"there to face these misfortunes."