CHAPTER VA WOMAN'S STRENGTHThe council of nine was sitting at Whitehall waiting for news from the English Fleet, which, under command of Lord Torrington, had sailed out from Plymouth to meet the French.The Queen sat at the head of the table, as usual silent and as usual watchful; at her right hand Lord Caermarthen, at her left Lord Devonshire, the others along the table, and at the foot Sir John Lowther.The room was very handsome: the walls of varied-coloured tapestry, the cornices of gilt wood, and the floor covered with rugs from Persia. Through the tall, majestic window might be seen a view of housetops and a little turret with a bell clear against a sky of flaming summer blue.Mary was seated in a heavy chair with crimson cushions; she wore a violet dress of stiff damask satin and a petticoat flounced with lace; her arms were covered to the wrist with ruffles of muslin, and she held a long chicken skin fan with ivory mounts and an emerald in the handle; her shortsighted and narrowed eyes dwelt anxiously and critically on the faces of these men in whose hands she, and England, lay.Facing her, Sir John Lowther, commonplace, courtly, agitated, was stabbing the polished table with a broken quill; to his left sat Edward Russell, impatient, blond, swaggering; to his right, Pembroke, gentle, hesitating, reserved. Godolphin, thin and hectic, was, as ever, mute and self-effacing; his companion was the restless, feverish, and volatile Monmouth, extravagantly dressed and fiery in manner.Opposite him sat the gloomy honourable Nottingham, and another man, an object of peculiar dislike and suspicion both to the King and Queen, John Churchill, recently created Earl of Marlborough.Of all the company he was the most remarkable in appearance—young, tall, of extreme good looks, though florid and flamboyant in type, of a calm, easy, and courtly demeanour, but obviously not an aristocrat nor anything of a great gentleman, but rather of a kind of vulgarity, even in his richly coloured beauty, and in that different to the other ministers, who were all of noble appearance; he was dressed in scarlet silk and wore a very rich sword-belt; he sat opposite the window, and the sunlight made his splendour glitter.My Lord Devonshire was of another and more winning type of handsomeness; his young face was refined and delicate in feature, yet expressed an ardent strength and a proud decision; he looked continually at the Queen, and seemed, with the exception of Caermarthen, to be the only one who had much sympathy or regard for her position."The conspirators——" began Nottingham heavily. He was drawing up a list of the suspected names; he had industrious spies, as the Whigs had found to their cost."Well, my lord?" asked Godolphin imperturbable. He had made his peace with King James himself, but was calm in the knowledge that he had been far too cunning to leave evidence of it in anybody's hands.Nottingham pursed his lips; he added a name to his list, and handed the paper with a significant look to Russell, who shrugged and passed it on to Monmouth."These are people to be put under arrest, are they not?" asked that nobleman."Yes," said Nottingham dryly. "Shall I leave that last name?"The paper was now in Lord Marlborough's hands; he smiled serenely, and put up his glass.Mary spoke, and her woman's voice sounded strangely in the council chamber."What is this name?"Marlborough inclined with great deference towards her."The Earl of Clarendon, Your Majesty."The other councillors were silent; he was the Queen's uncle, and even the most callous of them felt some pity for her dilemma. Devonshire cast an indignant look on Marlborough, whom he hated, but nothing could put that gentleman out of countenance."I will erase the name," muttered Nottingham.The Queen put out her hand in a gesture to stay him."No, my lord. I know," she said, with great dignity, "and you all know, that my Lord Clarendon is far too guilty to be left out.""A wise decision, Your Majesty," remarked Marlborough calmly.She set her lips in disdain of him, and turned to the haggard Lord President on her right. She had never liked Caermarthen, even though she owed her marriage largely to him, but she softened to him now; since the King's departure he had worked incessantly. He was in extreme ill-health, and she believed he was loyal."My lord," she said, "should we not soon have news from Lord Torrington? It is twenty-four hours since he had our orders to fight.""We are better waiting for that news than listening to it, Your Majesty," said Admiral Russell bluntly.Mary knew that he was largely inspired by professional jealousy."Oh, sir," she answered, "we will have more trust in the man on whom the fate of three kingdoms dependeth.""Madam," said Lord Devonshire, "I do not think Lord Torrington a man to be intrusted with the fate of three kingdoms."Mary answered with animation."That censure hath been passed before, my lord—and at the privy council—but since we must trust my lord let us pray God he will not fail us.""He would not like those orders to fight," exclaimed Edward Russell, who had been the main means of sending them. "A cautious man!""One who was not cautious should have been sent to urge him!" cried Monmouth, who was angry that his entreaty to be permitted to join the fleet had been refused.Mary pressed her fan to her lips and sat mute; in truth, the agony she endured was not to be soothed with words. Her whole being was strung for the arrival of the next letters, not only from Torrington, who was now the sole defence of England, but from Ireland, where she knew her father and husband were rapidly approaching face to face."Maybe," said the Lord President, "Torrington never got Your Majesty's dispatch——"Monmouth, who was discussing with Godolphin the details of Fuller's confession (that conspirator having turned informer to save his neck), swung round violently in his seat."Dear Lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean that he may be still idle at St. Helens?""It may be—the advice packets last reported that he had not moved, and that M. de Tourville was beyond the Needles.""Oh, were I on board," cried Monmouth, "there should be a battle—I pledge my life on it!"Mary was perfectly pale; she still held her fan to her lips and sat silent, so motionless that it seemed as if she scarcely breathed."He had positive orders to fight," said Godolphin."Oh, my lord," answered Marlborough sweetly, "is it not believed that this invasion is in concert with these plots among the malcontents?""Do you mean that Lord Torrington is a traitor?" asked Caermarthen bluntly; he gave Marlborough a glance that conveyed he thought him one.The Queen dropped her fan and clenched it tightly in her right hand."Gentlemen, this is no time for these insinuations, with the enemy on the coast. We," she said proudly and courageously—"we trust all those in our service, and have faith in God who hath it all in His keeping."She paused; the effort of speaking had brought the colour into her face, her eyes sparkled, and the western sunlight trembled in her auburn hair. They waited silently, watching her with curiosity and some judgment. She was principally conscious of the malignant smiling eyes of my Lord Marlborough."This is our decision," she continued, with unfaltering voice—"that Admiral Russell and my Lord Monmouth go down to the coast, and there join the fleet, and give our commands to Lord Torrington that, for the honour of England, he fight the French, whom he must now outnumber since his juncture with the Dutch. My lords, the council is over."It was the first time that she had given her commands to her advisers, almost the first time she had announced her opinion on their discussions; but she left them no chance to doubt that she meant what she said; she had the manner of Kings."Let these disloyal subjects," she added, pointing to Lord Nottingham's list, "be at once lodged in the Tower."She rose, gave her hand to Lord Caermarthen, and descended from her high chair with a soft heavy sound of silks."England is Your Majesty's debtor," said Lord Devonshire, bowing low.She answered with her sweet stateliness."I do what a woman can, my lord.""Your Majesty doth what few women would," said Caermarthen warmly; he had for her a real and deep devotion.She turned as if she would have rebuked his compliment, but checked herself at sight of his worn and ghastly face, livid with fatigue and anxiety."I am like your lordship," she answered kindly, "I am fond of my country."He coloured with pleasure, and bent over her fine hand."Now I must go wait for letters." She smiled and left them with her usual little formal salutation.Devonshire looked round at the other councillors."There is more courage in that lady than in most of us," he said gently. "I did mark the tears lying in her eyes even while she smiled.""She will need her courage," answered Caermarthen briefly; "for seldom hath the country been in the pass it is now."Mary had gone no farther than the antechamber with the French tapestries and crystal candelabra when she was met by the news that the Duke of Shrewsbury required an immediate audience.Her face hardened; she could not forgive Shrewsbury either his secret treachery or the vexation he had caused the King by his sudden resignation; she hesitated, then commanded his presence.When he entered she was standing before the great gilt mantelpiece, very cold and contained."What is the reason of your coming, my lord?" she said.His gentle face was flecked with feverish colour in the cheeks, he drew his breath sharply, his riding-suit was dusty; indeed, he was spent with rapid riding."Madam," he answered, "upon this news—that M. de Tourville rode at the Isle of Wight—I am come at once to London to offer Your Majesty my services—my sword——""You, my lord!" exclaimed Mary."Madam," he said, "for the second time all I have is at the service of His Majesty."She looked at him steadily; she could not doubt his sincerity. He was again the man he had been in '88. Danger struck a fine spirit out of him, she thought, and she the more deplored his miserable defection of late."Ah, my lord," she said sadly, "when His Majesty wished for your services you refused them——""Then," cried Shrewsbury, "the French were not on the coasts."She saw in his eagerness a desperate remorseful desire to make atonement, and further softened."I am in such a strait that I can refuse no offers," she said; "but, sir, I have no work for you.""Send me to the Fleet, Madam—put me under my Lord Marlborough with the army. I will serve as a volunteer—as anything——""Had you shown this spirit before His Majesty went to Ireland I had been more grateful," Mary replied gently. "But I am glad to know of your loyalty, my lord.""Madam, this is an urgent crisis—there is almost an open panic—as I rode up from Epsom, the people came running out of their cottages crying that the French were coming; in the country all are looking out their arms——"The Queen interrupted."Some, I fear, with the design of joining the invader.""Why, God forbid!" he cried."I have commanded the Guards down to Devon to seize the arms and houses of suspect persons," said Mary quietly; "and to-night, my lord, all the leaders of this Fuller plot will be in prison—yea, even to my Lord Clarendon.""Ah!" exclaimed Shrewsbury sharply.Mary fixed him with a proud but kind gaze."There are many others whose guilt I know who have not been arrested," she said slowly.The young Duke pressed his hand to the embroidered ruffles over his bosom."Why is Your Majesty thus tender with these—traitors?" he asked, in a trembling voice."It is my policy," she answered quietly. "I am only a woman, and must trust to instinct. My lord, I will ask your advice about this matter.""My advice?" he stammered, very pale."Yes. Supposing a great nobleman who had finely served His Majesty in '88—one whom His Majesty loved and trusted—had, in a moment of weakness, of temptation, betrayed him, and then, being remorseful, I think, left his service—supposing, I say, that this gentleman came forward now, with offers of help, should I not trust him?"Shrewsbury stood mute."I think I should," said Mary softly. "He is an English gentleman, and he would not take advantage of my great difficulties to intrigue against me; he would not take advantage of my confidence to lead his people to join the French—am I not right?"The Duke raised his head; his face was pitifully trembling."Your Majesty's generosity would not be misplaced," he answered hoarsely."I am glad you think so, my lord. I may trust him, then?""I pledge my life you may," said Shrewsbury ardently."Thank you, my lord—I shall find you at your town house?""I shall wait there to receive the commands of Your Majesty."Mary moved a little from the mantelpiece and held out her hand.Shrewsbury went on one knee to kiss the soft fingers."I hope to see you at court once more," she said, with a pretty smile. "I hope you will serve the King again when we are through this difficult pass."He answered from his heart—"I would serve His Majesty with my life."When he had gone Mary went to the window, for the light was beginning to fade, and drew from her waist a crystal watch enamelled with white violets.It was nearly time for her supper. She resided now at Whitehall to please the people, and to please the people dined nearly always in public, a practice the King detested and could scarcely ever be brought to do; that penance was over for to-day, but she had other disagreeable duties to perform.She rang the handbell on an ormolu bureau between the windows, and asked the Dutch usher who came if Lord Feversham was without.He had, it seemed, been long awaiting an audience.The Queen commanded him to be brought to her, and seated herself in the yellow brocade chair to the right of the fireplace.Lord Feversham, a Frenchman, a Catholic, and Chamberlain of the Dowager Queen Catherine's household, entered with a most lowly obeisance.Mary looked at him haughtily."You can guess the matter on which we have sent for you?" she asked, speaking in French."I fear I have again fallen under Your Majesty's displeasure.""Both you and your mistress are very much in our displeasure," answered Mary. "It was our duty to reprimand you three days ago for leaving out the prayers for the success of His Majesty in the services held in Her Majesty's chapel, and we listened for near an hour to your excuses, nor could make much sense of them. And now the offence is repeated.""I entreat Your Majesty to believe that it was an oversight," answered Feversham humbly."Disloyalty and insolence prompts such oversights," flashed the Queen. "We will not take it, my lord; for though we may be meek, yet we stand for His Sovereign Lord the King. Tell Queen Catherine so, and bid her to-night put up prayers for the success of my Lord Torrington against our enemies the French——"Feversham winced, and stole a startled glance at the woman he had believed to be an amiable cipher; the young beauty's demeanour as she sat stately and resolved in her regal gown undeceived him."When we rode abroad in Hyde Park to-day," she continued, "we did note many swarming villains, French and Irish, who gave us impertinent and joyous looks as if they did anticipate a triumph, and maybe Her Majesty thinketh also that she may do as she list now M. de Tourville is in the Channel. But we have no fear of any kind as to the issue of these matters, nor shall we be weak. Some great men will lie in the Tower to-night. Bid your mistress take care."She rose, and her full height, with heels and head-dress, was more than his. He made as if to speak."There is no more to say," she said coldly, and left him discomfited.No news came, but many rumours found their way into the crowded galleries at Whitehall, where the anxious courtiers waited and endeavoured to read the situation in the Queen's face and manner.She baffled them all, both at her supper-table and afterwards, when she sat down to basset as usual in that splendid hall where King Charles had held his festivals. She was gay and gracious and unconcerned—some even thought her unfeeling. She appeared to notice nothing; but her eyes and ears were quick for it all—the whispers, the looks, the ill-concealed fears and hopes.She was, she knew, absolutely alone; not one of the throng about her could she confide in, and very few could she trust. She suspected that many of them were but waiting for a slackening of her courage to call all lost and hasten to make their peace with James; ill news from the Fleet or from Ireland might mean instant rebellion, she was well aware.Meanwhile she played basset and made no mistake in her moves.When it was near ten of the clock Lord Nottingham entered the room. The Queen's eyes at once distinguished him among the crowd.She continued dealing the cards. When he approached her she looked up with a steady smile.Her lips shaped the one word—"News?"He placed a dispatch on the card-table beside her fan and gloves. She saw at once that it was not from Ireland, and she drew a breath between relief and disappointment.Her glance went swiftly round the faces now undisguisedly watching her, and then she broke the seal.While she read her bosom heaved, and those nearest her saw the colour faintly stain her face.She folded up the letter and rose. The ace of spades fell from her lap to the shining floor.There was a pause of silence. Mary's eyes were the eyes of a creature at bay."This is evil news," she said, at length, to Lord Nottingham, and a proud little smile curved her lips.She had just read that Lord Torrington had been utterly defeated off Beachy Head by the French, who were landed at Tynemouth."What will Your Majesty do?" he asked, under his breath. "The courier saith the enemy is in possession of the west——"She crushed up Lord Torrington's letter in a passionate right hand; she saw that his defeat had been inglorious. The Dutch had been in the van all day and were near annihilated; the English, mere spectators, had drawn off to Plymouth almost untouched."The French are landed," she said, "but we English will not let them far advance. I will call upon the city of London. Summon to me the Lord Mayor."CHAPTER VIGOD SAVE THE QUEEN!On the evening of the fourth day after the defeat at Beachy Head, the Queen, who would abate none of her state during this time of anxiety, but rather kept it more splendidly, as a besieged general will hang out all his flags when his garrison becomes scant, so as to defy and deceive the enemy, held court in the most sumptuous gallery of Whitehall.The land was full of panic, of terror, of mistrust, but the spirit of the people had risen to the need. The city of London had responded finely to the Queen's appeal; a hundred thousand pounds had been paid into the treasury, she had to-day reviewed the train-bands in Hyde Park and received an address assuring her of the loyalty of the capital.The spirit she showed made her suddenly popular. The distant King and the Dutch were viewed with more favour. Hatred of the French was an emotion powerful enough to overcome all lesser dislikes, and the whole nation, Whig and Tory, Protestant and Catholic, shook with rage at the part Lord Torrington had made the British navy play.It was apparent to all the world that he, irritated by orders he conceived were devised by his rival Russell, had sacrificed the Dutch, whom he believed were so unpopular that no outcry would be raised at their destruction, to the English.Admiral Evertgen, the admiral of the States, had, with heroic valour, fought his ships all day long against the overwhelming armament of France, while the English fleet looked on, and only came forward at nightfall to tow the disabled Dutch hulks away and destroy them at Plymouth.Popular fury rose high. The London crowd would gladly have torn Torrington limb from limb. Mary sent him to the Tower and dispatched a special envoy to the States with the best and most flattering apology she could devise; her very blood burnt with shame that her husband's people should be thus sacrificed and her own behave so basely; she ordered the wounded Dutch seamen to be tended in the English hospitals, and wrote a letter of compliment to the gallant Evertgen.She had, in every direction, done what she could, and the spirit of England had responded; but the situation was still acute, might yet turn to utter disaster, and though people might shout for her in the street, there was little but enmity, jealousy, and opposition among those by whom she was personally surrounded.Even her own sister was under the influence of the Marlboroughs, her enemy, and the Catholic Queen Dowager had no love for her; it was these two women she was watching as she sat in her lonely weariness beneath a candelabra of fifty coloured candles.Anne, beautiful, but stout and sullen, lacking all vivacity and charm, was making knots near the gilt chair of the little dark Portuguese lady who had been the wife of the second Charles.Catherine very seldom came to court, and would not have been there now, as Mary reflected with a swelling heart, had the last news been of victory instead of defeat.The Princess, who lost no opportunity of vexing her sister, was attired in the free and gorgeous costume of the last two reigns, in defiant contrast to the decorous modes the Queen had made fashionable, and Catherine of Braganza wore a stiff farthingale of brown brocade sewn with pearls.Presently Anne, becoming aware that Mary was watching her, broke into challenging laughter, which rang false enough at this juncture.Mary hung her head; it seemed terrible that the wretched family divisions to which she had been forced to be a party should be increased by this breach between her only sister and herself. On a sudden impulse she sent her new maid of honour, Basilea de Marsac, with a message requesting Anne's company.The Princess tossed her head and came reluctantly; she was at no pains whatever to conceal her rebellious attitude towards the throne.Mary greeted her gently."It would be more fitting if you would give me some of your company, Anne; Queen Catherine's sentiments are well noised abroad—you need not—laugh—with her at such a time."Anne sank down on the other end of the settee; the ladies behind the Queen withdrew, leaving the sisters alone; the musicians were playing a monotonous little march in the gallery."We should display a united front now," continued Mary unsteadily."I don't know what you mean, Madam," answered Anne almost insolently; she never used any manner of respect to the Queen; she considered that she was of as much importance; she never ceased to flaunt that she was the mother of the child who would be the future King of England.Mary gazed at her pouting, overblown comeliness with sad eyes."You will not understand," she answered. "You take a pleasure in doing everything contrary to what I do——"Anne smoothed her grey satin skirt with a plump white hand."Our tastes are different," she said.Mary was silent. Anne kept her languid eyes downcast, then jerked out—"I have writ to the King for the vacant Garter for my Lord Marlborough. I hope Your Majesty will use your influence?"Mary coloured hotly."You have writ to the King in Ireland on such a matter?""And so hath the Prince. It is allowable to write to the King, I hope?""You should have spoken to me first," answered Mary, with trembling lips. "I have no mind that the King should be vexed with these things. I do not think he meaneth the Garter for Lord Marlborough."Anne flung up her head with a force that set her huge pearl earrings quivering."And who better deserveth it, I should like to know? I suppose it is meant for Lord Portland, or some other Dutchman?""Anne, you are infatuate to speak so. The services of my Lord Marlborough have been well rewarded."At that Anne burst out with what had evidently been her secret grievance."He is slighted on every possible occasion—'tis he who should have reviewed the militia this afternoon!"Mary turned angrily."This is my Lady Marlborough her doing; she put this into your head, Anne, and it is too much.""Yes, it is too much," answered Anne, "that Your Majesty should have such a dislike to my friend.""Her insolence," exclaimed Mary, "is beyond all bearing. I have it on good report that she hath spoken of the King with great disrespect.""She ain't the only one if she hath," retorted Anne. "His Majesty ain't so popular——""I command you stop," said Mary, in a cold tone of deep anger.Anne submitted sulkily."La, I meant no harm.""You go too far," answered Mary in a low controlled tone. "His Majesty thinketh it ungenerous to quarrel with a woman, or your behaviour would have been put a stop to before. I, perhaps, shall not be so long enduring. I cannot and will not take the defiance of my Lady Marlborough—no, nor your incivility either, Anne.""I don't suppose Your Majesty would hesitate to clap me up if you dared," said Anne, lashed by the attack on her favourite. "There is one of your relations in the Tower, and where the uncle is the sister may follow; but I warn Your Majesty that I have the Parliament behind me——"Again Mary interrupted."Leave me until you can command yourself."Anne hesitated, but the music that had screened their talk had ceased, and beyond a point Mary always quelled her. She rose, courtsied haughtily, and withdrew to the other end of the gallery, where Lady Marlborough—a gorgeous blonde shrew with a vulgar voice—was playing comet with Prince George for partner.Mary closed her eyes for a second. This sordid quarrel with her sister, mainly based on demands for money, was the last bitterness of her position; she had tried every means of conciliation in vain. Lady Marlborough's hold on her puppet was too firm, and Anne but took advantage of any kindness from the Queen to press for an addition to her already huge allowance.The violins played a gavotte. Mary sat motionless, listening to the subdued volume of talk by which she was surrounded, and thinking of that far-distant day when she had danced with her husband in this very room—a week or so before her marriage.She recalled how she had enjoyed dancing, and wondered to think how dead that passion was."I used to think," she thought, "that a dance measure would lure me from my grave, and now the gayest melody written will not move me."She gazed over her shoulder at her reflection in the tall mirror against the wall to the left; she beheld a fair image, in yellow silk and diamonds, with a very proud carriage. A Queen, young and beautiful—the description sounded like a favoured creature from one of those fairy tales she used to read; she knew the reality—a tired woman, unutterably lonely, estranged from all her family, childless, and forlorn.Queen Catherine came to take her leave."No news yet from Ireland?" she asked, in her awkward English.Mary courteously rose before the woman who had been Queen in Whitehall when she was a child."None, Madam."The Queen Dowager hesitated a moment, then said—"I have not failed of late to put up prayers for His Majesty's good success.""I thank you, Madam."Catherine of Braganza pulled at her curling feather fan and laughed."We are both in a strange position, are we not?""The positions God put us in," said Mary coldly. She wondered why the other woman paused to talk.The Queen Dowager continued to smile over her fan."I think to go back to Portugal.""That must be as Your Majesty pleaseth.""England is no longer the same to me."Mary's hand tightened on the rich back of the settle. She read perfectly well the scorn of the Stewart's wife for the usurper and the Protestant."I find Whitehall a little dull," continued Catherine, with a malicious twist of her lip. "Geneva bands and black coats are a strange sight in these halls——""Certainly they were not seen here in the days of my Lady Portsmouth," flashed Mary.The little Portuguese winced slightly, but ignored the thrust."I do not blame Your Majesty," she said. "You are not so fortunate in your court as I was; the Dutch," she raised her thin shoulders in a shrug, "do not make the best of courtiers——""No," answered Mary impetuously; "but they make good husbands, Madam."Catherine made no attempt to turn this hit. She put her hand to her dark throat, and her large melancholy eyes filled with tears. She answered the thought and not the words."I cared as much as you do, all the same;" she said, "and I shall always be a Jacobite for his—worthless—sake.""Forgive me," murmured Mary instantly. "I had no right. But do you be charitable. I am in great trouble, Madam, and very much alone."Catherine lifted her small olive face with a kind of defiant brightness."We have that loneliness in common, Madam. If you or I had an heir it would have all been different. I shall say a mass for your husband his safety. Good night, Your Majesty."She swept her grave foreign courtsey and retired, followed by her silent duennas. Mary stood pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and felt the whole pageant of people, lights, speech, music, swing past her like reflections on troubled water—broken, scattered without substance or meaning.No news came.She dismissed the Court presently and went to her rooms; it was late, long past ten o'clock, yet she would not go to bed, but sat in her cabinet writing to the King. Sheet after sheet she covered with news, hopes, fears, love, entreaties for God's blessings—all her heart indeed laid out before her one confidant.The candlelight hurt her eyes, weaker of late with work and tears, and at last she folded up the letter unfinished. The express did not go till the morning, and she hoped that by then she might have the long-looked-for news from Ireland.When she rose from her desk she was utterly tired, yet could not rest—there was so much to do.Her letter to Admiral Evertgen, which she had written with great pains in Dutch, had been returned as unintelligible, and now she must write again in English, which language the Admiral understood perfectly, it seemed. There was the question of the command of the Fleet on her mind; Russell and Monmouth had been met at Canterbury by the news of the disaster of Beachy Head, and now were back in London, hot against Torrington; Mary feared that the King would be vexed with her for having let them leave the council, yet she must again send some one to the Fleet, now without a commander. Her choice had fallen on Pembroke, who was an admiral, and Devonshire, whom she could trust, and thereupon Caermarthen had taken umbrage, and it had been a weary work of tact and sweetness to prove to him that he was indispensable in London and could not be spared—yet perhaps she had been wrong, and she should have let him go.All these lesser anxieties crowded on her weary soul, aching with the desire for news from the King, and, as she left her cabinet and came into her bedchamber, a profound melancholy overthrew her gallant spirit.Only two of her ladies were up—Madame de Marsac and Madame Nienhuys. Mary told them to go to bed, and cast herself into the window-seat and pulled the curtains apart from before the windows open on the warm soft night."It is Your Majesty who should go to bed," said Madame Nienhuys firmly.Mary shook her head."I cannot. I cannot sleep until I get a letter.""You neither sleep nor eat," protested the Dutch lady."I am very well," smiled Mary sadly. "Go to bed, like a good creature——""Indeed, Madam, I will not leave you in this state.""Have you been with me so long that you become disobedient? Very well, put out some of the candles—the light hurts my eyes."Basilea de Marsac rose softly and extinguished all the candles, save those on the mantelshelf. The large rich chamber was full of grateful shadow. Mary's yellow gown gleamed secretively like gold through a veil.She took the diamonds from her neck and arms and gave them to Madame Nienhuys. She pulled off her rings slowly, and dropped them into her lap, looking the while out on to the July dark, that seemed to her to be painted with the menacing forces of war, flags, banners hanging bloody to their poles, the hot, smoking mouths of cannon, the glitter of armour through the dust—her husband's army and her father's struggling together to the death.She rose so suddenly that the rings fell and rolled all over the floor."I think I will go to bed after all," she said faintly.They undressed her in silence and left her wide-eyed in the great crimson bed, canopied and plumed and enriched with the arms of England.When they had gone she lay for a while quite still. There was no moon, and she could not distinguish a single object in the room, and only uncertainly the dim spaces of the window.All that had seemed small, petty, and wretched in the daytime seemed a thousand times more mean and unworthy now. She was haunted by the stiff little figure of Queen Catherine, whose personality had suddenly flashed out on her, by the fair sullen image of Anne, and the vulgar enmity of Lady Marlborough. She was tortured by the idea that she had done everything wrong....She sat up in bed and locked her hands over her heart."I must not despair—God will not let me despair," she clung to that word, "God—ah, He knoweth best—He seeth what man cannot see—therefore He did not give me children, knowing I could not have endured this if their safety had been at stake."The Palace clock struck one. Like an echo came the bell of the Abbey Church, then the dead silence again.The Queen rose from her bed and made her way lightly to the dressing-table. After a little fumbling she found the tinderbox and struck a light.The silver table, the enamel, jade, and gold boxes glittered into points of light. In the depths of the mirror she saw her own face lit by the little flame she held.It flared out between her cold fingers. She struck another and lit one of the tall candles in the red copper stands.By the dim wavering light she found her scarlet shoes and a little mantle of fox's fur that she put on over her muslin night-dress. She then took up the candlestick, which was so heavy that it made her wrist shake, and quietly left the room, which opened into the cabinet.Here she paused at the red lac desk, unlocked it with the gold key she wore round her neck, and took out a packet tied with orange ribbon.These were the letters she had received from the King since his departure. She looked at them tenderly, took up her candle again, and passed on through an antechamber to a private door that led straight into the chapel.Her feeble light gave her glimpses of the lofty walls panelled in cedar wood, the majestic altar of white marble gilt, and the great painting brought from Italy—all heavenly blue, and deep crimson, and angelic faces breaking from rosy clouds.Mary went to the altar steps, set the candle on the topmost one, then fell on her knees with her letters pressed to her heart.As she prayed she bent lower and lower till her beautiful head touched the marble, and there it rested while she sobbed out her humble prayers for her husband, her father, for England, for her own poor tired soul.She grew cold as she lay across the altar steps, and peaceful in her heart. She thought God was not so displeased with her; a confidence rose in her bosom that he would not let His cause fail though her weakness....A gentle confusion came over her senses, and she fell into a kind of swoon; when this passed she found that her candle had burnt to the socket and gone out, and that a blue dawn was lighting the glowing arms of England in the painted glass windows.She got to her feet, shivering but calm, and went back stealthily through the vast silent rooms, filled with the early sun, and so reached her bed; and, for the first time for weeks, fell placidly asleep. Next morning when she woke she was very silent; but, as her ladies thought, more at ease.She had hidden her letters under her pillow, and when she was dressed slipped them into her gown.As she left her apartments on the way to the chapel she was met by Lord Nottingham.The news from Ireland at last!"The King is safe, Madam," said my lord, in pity of her face.She stood speechless; those about her were little less moved. The silence hung heavy."His late Majesty is also safe," added my lord delicately.She spoke then."I—I thank you."She tore open her letters, but could not read them."Oh, tell me, sir," she said hoarsely."Madam, the King hath had a great victory at Boyne Water. Ireland is conquered."Even as he spoke the bells broke out from a thousand steeples and the guns of the Tower boomed triumph."The news is just abroad," said Nottingham.Mary flushed into a glorious exaltation."TheKinghath redeemed us all!" she cried, with inexpressible pride. "TheKinghath saved us!""Not the King alone, Madam," answered my lord, with a flush on his shallow face—"listen to these——"From without came the sound of wild joyous murmurs from the crowd that had gathered to hear the news. As it sped from mouth to mouth a frenzy of relief and triumph shook the people. They burst into one shout that drowned the cannon and the bells—"Long live the Queen! God save and bless the Queen!"
CHAPTER V
A WOMAN'S STRENGTH
The council of nine was sitting at Whitehall waiting for news from the English Fleet, which, under command of Lord Torrington, had sailed out from Plymouth to meet the French.
The Queen sat at the head of the table, as usual silent and as usual watchful; at her right hand Lord Caermarthen, at her left Lord Devonshire, the others along the table, and at the foot Sir John Lowther.
The room was very handsome: the walls of varied-coloured tapestry, the cornices of gilt wood, and the floor covered with rugs from Persia. Through the tall, majestic window might be seen a view of housetops and a little turret with a bell clear against a sky of flaming summer blue.
Mary was seated in a heavy chair with crimson cushions; she wore a violet dress of stiff damask satin and a petticoat flounced with lace; her arms were covered to the wrist with ruffles of muslin, and she held a long chicken skin fan with ivory mounts and an emerald in the handle; her shortsighted and narrowed eyes dwelt anxiously and critically on the faces of these men in whose hands she, and England, lay.
Facing her, Sir John Lowther, commonplace, courtly, agitated, was stabbing the polished table with a broken quill; to his left sat Edward Russell, impatient, blond, swaggering; to his right, Pembroke, gentle, hesitating, reserved. Godolphin, thin and hectic, was, as ever, mute and self-effacing; his companion was the restless, feverish, and volatile Monmouth, extravagantly dressed and fiery in manner.
Opposite him sat the gloomy honourable Nottingham, and another man, an object of peculiar dislike and suspicion both to the King and Queen, John Churchill, recently created Earl of Marlborough.
Of all the company he was the most remarkable in appearance—young, tall, of extreme good looks, though florid and flamboyant in type, of a calm, easy, and courtly demeanour, but obviously not an aristocrat nor anything of a great gentleman, but rather of a kind of vulgarity, even in his richly coloured beauty, and in that different to the other ministers, who were all of noble appearance; he was dressed in scarlet silk and wore a very rich sword-belt; he sat opposite the window, and the sunlight made his splendour glitter.
My Lord Devonshire was of another and more winning type of handsomeness; his young face was refined and delicate in feature, yet expressed an ardent strength and a proud decision; he looked continually at the Queen, and seemed, with the exception of Caermarthen, to be the only one who had much sympathy or regard for her position.
"The conspirators——" began Nottingham heavily. He was drawing up a list of the suspected names; he had industrious spies, as the Whigs had found to their cost.
"Well, my lord?" asked Godolphin imperturbable. He had made his peace with King James himself, but was calm in the knowledge that he had been far too cunning to leave evidence of it in anybody's hands.
Nottingham pursed his lips; he added a name to his list, and handed the paper with a significant look to Russell, who shrugged and passed it on to Monmouth.
"These are people to be put under arrest, are they not?" asked that nobleman.
"Yes," said Nottingham dryly. "Shall I leave that last name?"
The paper was now in Lord Marlborough's hands; he smiled serenely, and put up his glass.
Mary spoke, and her woman's voice sounded strangely in the council chamber.
"What is this name?"
Marlborough inclined with great deference towards her.
"The Earl of Clarendon, Your Majesty."
The other councillors were silent; he was the Queen's uncle, and even the most callous of them felt some pity for her dilemma. Devonshire cast an indignant look on Marlborough, whom he hated, but nothing could put that gentleman out of countenance.
"I will erase the name," muttered Nottingham.
The Queen put out her hand in a gesture to stay him.
"No, my lord. I know," she said, with great dignity, "and you all know, that my Lord Clarendon is far too guilty to be left out."
"A wise decision, Your Majesty," remarked Marlborough calmly.
She set her lips in disdain of him, and turned to the haggard Lord President on her right. She had never liked Caermarthen, even though she owed her marriage largely to him, but she softened to him now; since the King's departure he had worked incessantly. He was in extreme ill-health, and she believed he was loyal.
"My lord," she said, "should we not soon have news from Lord Torrington? It is twenty-four hours since he had our orders to fight."
"We are better waiting for that news than listening to it, Your Majesty," said Admiral Russell bluntly.
Mary knew that he was largely inspired by professional jealousy.
"Oh, sir," she answered, "we will have more trust in the man on whom the fate of three kingdoms dependeth."
"Madam," said Lord Devonshire, "I do not think Lord Torrington a man to be intrusted with the fate of three kingdoms."
Mary answered with animation.
"That censure hath been passed before, my lord—and at the privy council—but since we must trust my lord let us pray God he will not fail us."
"He would not like those orders to fight," exclaimed Edward Russell, who had been the main means of sending them. "A cautious man!"
"One who was not cautious should have been sent to urge him!" cried Monmouth, who was angry that his entreaty to be permitted to join the fleet had been refused.
Mary pressed her fan to her lips and sat mute; in truth, the agony she endured was not to be soothed with words. Her whole being was strung for the arrival of the next letters, not only from Torrington, who was now the sole defence of England, but from Ireland, where she knew her father and husband were rapidly approaching face to face.
"Maybe," said the Lord President, "Torrington never got Your Majesty's dispatch——"
Monmouth, who was discussing with Godolphin the details of Fuller's confession (that conspirator having turned informer to save his neck), swung round violently in his seat.
"Dear Lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean that he may be still idle at St. Helens?"
"It may be—the advice packets last reported that he had not moved, and that M. de Tourville was beyond the Needles."
"Oh, were I on board," cried Monmouth, "there should be a battle—I pledge my life on it!"
Mary was perfectly pale; she still held her fan to her lips and sat silent, so motionless that it seemed as if she scarcely breathed.
"He had positive orders to fight," said Godolphin.
"Oh, my lord," answered Marlborough sweetly, "is it not believed that this invasion is in concert with these plots among the malcontents?"
"Do you mean that Lord Torrington is a traitor?" asked Caermarthen bluntly; he gave Marlborough a glance that conveyed he thought him one.
The Queen dropped her fan and clenched it tightly in her right hand.
"Gentlemen, this is no time for these insinuations, with the enemy on the coast. We," she said proudly and courageously—"we trust all those in our service, and have faith in God who hath it all in His keeping."
She paused; the effort of speaking had brought the colour into her face, her eyes sparkled, and the western sunlight trembled in her auburn hair. They waited silently, watching her with curiosity and some judgment. She was principally conscious of the malignant smiling eyes of my Lord Marlborough.
"This is our decision," she continued, with unfaltering voice—"that Admiral Russell and my Lord Monmouth go down to the coast, and there join the fleet, and give our commands to Lord Torrington that, for the honour of England, he fight the French, whom he must now outnumber since his juncture with the Dutch. My lords, the council is over."
It was the first time that she had given her commands to her advisers, almost the first time she had announced her opinion on their discussions; but she left them no chance to doubt that she meant what she said; she had the manner of Kings.
"Let these disloyal subjects," she added, pointing to Lord Nottingham's list, "be at once lodged in the Tower."
She rose, gave her hand to Lord Caermarthen, and descended from her high chair with a soft heavy sound of silks.
"England is Your Majesty's debtor," said Lord Devonshire, bowing low.
She answered with her sweet stateliness.
"I do what a woman can, my lord."
"Your Majesty doth what few women would," said Caermarthen warmly; he had for her a real and deep devotion.
She turned as if she would have rebuked his compliment, but checked herself at sight of his worn and ghastly face, livid with fatigue and anxiety.
"I am like your lordship," she answered kindly, "I am fond of my country."
He coloured with pleasure, and bent over her fine hand.
"Now I must go wait for letters." She smiled and left them with her usual little formal salutation.
Devonshire looked round at the other councillors.
"There is more courage in that lady than in most of us," he said gently. "I did mark the tears lying in her eyes even while she smiled."
"She will need her courage," answered Caermarthen briefly; "for seldom hath the country been in the pass it is now."
Mary had gone no farther than the antechamber with the French tapestries and crystal candelabra when she was met by the news that the Duke of Shrewsbury required an immediate audience.
Her face hardened; she could not forgive Shrewsbury either his secret treachery or the vexation he had caused the King by his sudden resignation; she hesitated, then commanded his presence.
When he entered she was standing before the great gilt mantelpiece, very cold and contained.
"What is the reason of your coming, my lord?" she said.
His gentle face was flecked with feverish colour in the cheeks, he drew his breath sharply, his riding-suit was dusty; indeed, he was spent with rapid riding.
"Madam," he answered, "upon this news—that M. de Tourville rode at the Isle of Wight—I am come at once to London to offer Your Majesty my services—my sword——"
"You, my lord!" exclaimed Mary.
"Madam," he said, "for the second time all I have is at the service of His Majesty."
She looked at him steadily; she could not doubt his sincerity. He was again the man he had been in '88. Danger struck a fine spirit out of him, she thought, and she the more deplored his miserable defection of late.
"Ah, my lord," she said sadly, "when His Majesty wished for your services you refused them——"
"Then," cried Shrewsbury, "the French were not on the coasts."
She saw in his eagerness a desperate remorseful desire to make atonement, and further softened.
"I am in such a strait that I can refuse no offers," she said; "but, sir, I have no work for you."
"Send me to the Fleet, Madam—put me under my Lord Marlborough with the army. I will serve as a volunteer—as anything——"
"Had you shown this spirit before His Majesty went to Ireland I had been more grateful," Mary replied gently. "But I am glad to know of your loyalty, my lord."
"Madam, this is an urgent crisis—there is almost an open panic—as I rode up from Epsom, the people came running out of their cottages crying that the French were coming; in the country all are looking out their arms——"
The Queen interrupted.
"Some, I fear, with the design of joining the invader."
"Why, God forbid!" he cried.
"I have commanded the Guards down to Devon to seize the arms and houses of suspect persons," said Mary quietly; "and to-night, my lord, all the leaders of this Fuller plot will be in prison—yea, even to my Lord Clarendon."
"Ah!" exclaimed Shrewsbury sharply.
Mary fixed him with a proud but kind gaze.
"There are many others whose guilt I know who have not been arrested," she said slowly.
The young Duke pressed his hand to the embroidered ruffles over his bosom.
"Why is Your Majesty thus tender with these—traitors?" he asked, in a trembling voice.
"It is my policy," she answered quietly. "I am only a woman, and must trust to instinct. My lord, I will ask your advice about this matter."
"My advice?" he stammered, very pale.
"Yes. Supposing a great nobleman who had finely served His Majesty in '88—one whom His Majesty loved and trusted—had, in a moment of weakness, of temptation, betrayed him, and then, being remorseful, I think, left his service—supposing, I say, that this gentleman came forward now, with offers of help, should I not trust him?"
Shrewsbury stood mute.
"I think I should," said Mary softly. "He is an English gentleman, and he would not take advantage of my great difficulties to intrigue against me; he would not take advantage of my confidence to lead his people to join the French—am I not right?"
The Duke raised his head; his face was pitifully trembling.
"Your Majesty's generosity would not be misplaced," he answered hoarsely.
"I am glad you think so, my lord. I may trust him, then?"
"I pledge my life you may," said Shrewsbury ardently.
"Thank you, my lord—I shall find you at your town house?"
"I shall wait there to receive the commands of Your Majesty."
Mary moved a little from the mantelpiece and held out her hand.
Shrewsbury went on one knee to kiss the soft fingers.
"I hope to see you at court once more," she said, with a pretty smile. "I hope you will serve the King again when we are through this difficult pass."
He answered from his heart—
"I would serve His Majesty with my life."
When he had gone Mary went to the window, for the light was beginning to fade, and drew from her waist a crystal watch enamelled with white violets.
It was nearly time for her supper. She resided now at Whitehall to please the people, and to please the people dined nearly always in public, a practice the King detested and could scarcely ever be brought to do; that penance was over for to-day, but she had other disagreeable duties to perform.
She rang the handbell on an ormolu bureau between the windows, and asked the Dutch usher who came if Lord Feversham was without.
He had, it seemed, been long awaiting an audience.
The Queen commanded him to be brought to her, and seated herself in the yellow brocade chair to the right of the fireplace.
Lord Feversham, a Frenchman, a Catholic, and Chamberlain of the Dowager Queen Catherine's household, entered with a most lowly obeisance.
Mary looked at him haughtily.
"You can guess the matter on which we have sent for you?" she asked, speaking in French.
"I fear I have again fallen under Your Majesty's displeasure."
"Both you and your mistress are very much in our displeasure," answered Mary. "It was our duty to reprimand you three days ago for leaving out the prayers for the success of His Majesty in the services held in Her Majesty's chapel, and we listened for near an hour to your excuses, nor could make much sense of them. And now the offence is repeated."
"I entreat Your Majesty to believe that it was an oversight," answered Feversham humbly.
"Disloyalty and insolence prompts such oversights," flashed the Queen. "We will not take it, my lord; for though we may be meek, yet we stand for His Sovereign Lord the King. Tell Queen Catherine so, and bid her to-night put up prayers for the success of my Lord Torrington against our enemies the French——"
Feversham winced, and stole a startled glance at the woman he had believed to be an amiable cipher; the young beauty's demeanour as she sat stately and resolved in her regal gown undeceived him.
"When we rode abroad in Hyde Park to-day," she continued, "we did note many swarming villains, French and Irish, who gave us impertinent and joyous looks as if they did anticipate a triumph, and maybe Her Majesty thinketh also that she may do as she list now M. de Tourville is in the Channel. But we have no fear of any kind as to the issue of these matters, nor shall we be weak. Some great men will lie in the Tower to-night. Bid your mistress take care."
She rose, and her full height, with heels and head-dress, was more than his. He made as if to speak.
"There is no more to say," she said coldly, and left him discomfited.
No news came, but many rumours found their way into the crowded galleries at Whitehall, where the anxious courtiers waited and endeavoured to read the situation in the Queen's face and manner.
She baffled them all, both at her supper-table and afterwards, when she sat down to basset as usual in that splendid hall where King Charles had held his festivals. She was gay and gracious and unconcerned—some even thought her unfeeling. She appeared to notice nothing; but her eyes and ears were quick for it all—the whispers, the looks, the ill-concealed fears and hopes.
She was, she knew, absolutely alone; not one of the throng about her could she confide in, and very few could she trust. She suspected that many of them were but waiting for a slackening of her courage to call all lost and hasten to make their peace with James; ill news from the Fleet or from Ireland might mean instant rebellion, she was well aware.
Meanwhile she played basset and made no mistake in her moves.
When it was near ten of the clock Lord Nottingham entered the room. The Queen's eyes at once distinguished him among the crowd.
She continued dealing the cards. When he approached her she looked up with a steady smile.
Her lips shaped the one word—
"News?"
He placed a dispatch on the card-table beside her fan and gloves. She saw at once that it was not from Ireland, and she drew a breath between relief and disappointment.
Her glance went swiftly round the faces now undisguisedly watching her, and then she broke the seal.
While she read her bosom heaved, and those nearest her saw the colour faintly stain her face.
She folded up the letter and rose. The ace of spades fell from her lap to the shining floor.
There was a pause of silence. Mary's eyes were the eyes of a creature at bay.
"This is evil news," she said, at length, to Lord Nottingham, and a proud little smile curved her lips.
She had just read that Lord Torrington had been utterly defeated off Beachy Head by the French, who were landed at Tynemouth.
"What will Your Majesty do?" he asked, under his breath. "The courier saith the enemy is in possession of the west——"
She crushed up Lord Torrington's letter in a passionate right hand; she saw that his defeat had been inglorious. The Dutch had been in the van all day and were near annihilated; the English, mere spectators, had drawn off to Plymouth almost untouched.
"The French are landed," she said, "but we English will not let them far advance. I will call upon the city of London. Summon to me the Lord Mayor."
CHAPTER VI
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!
On the evening of the fourth day after the defeat at Beachy Head, the Queen, who would abate none of her state during this time of anxiety, but rather kept it more splendidly, as a besieged general will hang out all his flags when his garrison becomes scant, so as to defy and deceive the enemy, held court in the most sumptuous gallery of Whitehall.
The land was full of panic, of terror, of mistrust, but the spirit of the people had risen to the need. The city of London had responded finely to the Queen's appeal; a hundred thousand pounds had been paid into the treasury, she had to-day reviewed the train-bands in Hyde Park and received an address assuring her of the loyalty of the capital.
The spirit she showed made her suddenly popular. The distant King and the Dutch were viewed with more favour. Hatred of the French was an emotion powerful enough to overcome all lesser dislikes, and the whole nation, Whig and Tory, Protestant and Catholic, shook with rage at the part Lord Torrington had made the British navy play.
It was apparent to all the world that he, irritated by orders he conceived were devised by his rival Russell, had sacrificed the Dutch, whom he believed were so unpopular that no outcry would be raised at their destruction, to the English.
Admiral Evertgen, the admiral of the States, had, with heroic valour, fought his ships all day long against the overwhelming armament of France, while the English fleet looked on, and only came forward at nightfall to tow the disabled Dutch hulks away and destroy them at Plymouth.
Popular fury rose high. The London crowd would gladly have torn Torrington limb from limb. Mary sent him to the Tower and dispatched a special envoy to the States with the best and most flattering apology she could devise; her very blood burnt with shame that her husband's people should be thus sacrificed and her own behave so basely; she ordered the wounded Dutch seamen to be tended in the English hospitals, and wrote a letter of compliment to the gallant Evertgen.
She had, in every direction, done what she could, and the spirit of England had responded; but the situation was still acute, might yet turn to utter disaster, and though people might shout for her in the street, there was little but enmity, jealousy, and opposition among those by whom she was personally surrounded.
Even her own sister was under the influence of the Marlboroughs, her enemy, and the Catholic Queen Dowager had no love for her; it was these two women she was watching as she sat in her lonely weariness beneath a candelabra of fifty coloured candles.
Anne, beautiful, but stout and sullen, lacking all vivacity and charm, was making knots near the gilt chair of the little dark Portuguese lady who had been the wife of the second Charles.
Catherine very seldom came to court, and would not have been there now, as Mary reflected with a swelling heart, had the last news been of victory instead of defeat.
The Princess, who lost no opportunity of vexing her sister, was attired in the free and gorgeous costume of the last two reigns, in defiant contrast to the decorous modes the Queen had made fashionable, and Catherine of Braganza wore a stiff farthingale of brown brocade sewn with pearls.
Presently Anne, becoming aware that Mary was watching her, broke into challenging laughter, which rang false enough at this juncture.
Mary hung her head; it seemed terrible that the wretched family divisions to which she had been forced to be a party should be increased by this breach between her only sister and herself. On a sudden impulse she sent her new maid of honour, Basilea de Marsac, with a message requesting Anne's company.
The Princess tossed her head and came reluctantly; she was at no pains whatever to conceal her rebellious attitude towards the throne.
Mary greeted her gently.
"It would be more fitting if you would give me some of your company, Anne; Queen Catherine's sentiments are well noised abroad—you need not—laugh—with her at such a time."
Anne sank down on the other end of the settee; the ladies behind the Queen withdrew, leaving the sisters alone; the musicians were playing a monotonous little march in the gallery.
"We should display a united front now," continued Mary unsteadily.
"I don't know what you mean, Madam," answered Anne almost insolently; she never used any manner of respect to the Queen; she considered that she was of as much importance; she never ceased to flaunt that she was the mother of the child who would be the future King of England.
Mary gazed at her pouting, overblown comeliness with sad eyes.
"You will not understand," she answered. "You take a pleasure in doing everything contrary to what I do——"
Anne smoothed her grey satin skirt with a plump white hand.
"Our tastes are different," she said.
Mary was silent. Anne kept her languid eyes downcast, then jerked out—
"I have writ to the King for the vacant Garter for my Lord Marlborough. I hope Your Majesty will use your influence?"
Mary coloured hotly.
"You have writ to the King in Ireland on such a matter?"
"And so hath the Prince. It is allowable to write to the King, I hope?"
"You should have spoken to me first," answered Mary, with trembling lips. "I have no mind that the King should be vexed with these things. I do not think he meaneth the Garter for Lord Marlborough."
Anne flung up her head with a force that set her huge pearl earrings quivering.
"And who better deserveth it, I should like to know? I suppose it is meant for Lord Portland, or some other Dutchman?"
"Anne, you are infatuate to speak so. The services of my Lord Marlborough have been well rewarded."
At that Anne burst out with what had evidently been her secret grievance.
"He is slighted on every possible occasion—'tis he who should have reviewed the militia this afternoon!"
Mary turned angrily.
"This is my Lady Marlborough her doing; she put this into your head, Anne, and it is too much."
"Yes, it is too much," answered Anne, "that Your Majesty should have such a dislike to my friend."
"Her insolence," exclaimed Mary, "is beyond all bearing. I have it on good report that she hath spoken of the King with great disrespect."
"She ain't the only one if she hath," retorted Anne. "His Majesty ain't so popular——"
"I command you stop," said Mary, in a cold tone of deep anger.
Anne submitted sulkily.
"La, I meant no harm."
"You go too far," answered Mary in a low controlled tone. "His Majesty thinketh it ungenerous to quarrel with a woman, or your behaviour would have been put a stop to before. I, perhaps, shall not be so long enduring. I cannot and will not take the defiance of my Lady Marlborough—no, nor your incivility either, Anne."
"I don't suppose Your Majesty would hesitate to clap me up if you dared," said Anne, lashed by the attack on her favourite. "There is one of your relations in the Tower, and where the uncle is the sister may follow; but I warn Your Majesty that I have the Parliament behind me——"
Again Mary interrupted.
"Leave me until you can command yourself."
Anne hesitated, but the music that had screened their talk had ceased, and beyond a point Mary always quelled her. She rose, courtsied haughtily, and withdrew to the other end of the gallery, where Lady Marlborough—a gorgeous blonde shrew with a vulgar voice—was playing comet with Prince George for partner.
Mary closed her eyes for a second. This sordid quarrel with her sister, mainly based on demands for money, was the last bitterness of her position; she had tried every means of conciliation in vain. Lady Marlborough's hold on her puppet was too firm, and Anne but took advantage of any kindness from the Queen to press for an addition to her already huge allowance.
The violins played a gavotte. Mary sat motionless, listening to the subdued volume of talk by which she was surrounded, and thinking of that far-distant day when she had danced with her husband in this very room—a week or so before her marriage.
She recalled how she had enjoyed dancing, and wondered to think how dead that passion was.
"I used to think," she thought, "that a dance measure would lure me from my grave, and now the gayest melody written will not move me."
She gazed over her shoulder at her reflection in the tall mirror against the wall to the left; she beheld a fair image, in yellow silk and diamonds, with a very proud carriage. A Queen, young and beautiful—the description sounded like a favoured creature from one of those fairy tales she used to read; she knew the reality—a tired woman, unutterably lonely, estranged from all her family, childless, and forlorn.
Queen Catherine came to take her leave.
"No news yet from Ireland?" she asked, in her awkward English.
Mary courteously rose before the woman who had been Queen in Whitehall when she was a child.
"None, Madam."
The Queen Dowager hesitated a moment, then said—
"I have not failed of late to put up prayers for His Majesty's good success."
"I thank you, Madam."
Catherine of Braganza pulled at her curling feather fan and laughed.
"We are both in a strange position, are we not?"
"The positions God put us in," said Mary coldly. She wondered why the other woman paused to talk.
The Queen Dowager continued to smile over her fan.
"I think to go back to Portugal."
"That must be as Your Majesty pleaseth."
"England is no longer the same to me."
Mary's hand tightened on the rich back of the settle. She read perfectly well the scorn of the Stewart's wife for the usurper and the Protestant.
"I find Whitehall a little dull," continued Catherine, with a malicious twist of her lip. "Geneva bands and black coats are a strange sight in these halls——"
"Certainly they were not seen here in the days of my Lady Portsmouth," flashed Mary.
The little Portuguese winced slightly, but ignored the thrust.
"I do not blame Your Majesty," she said. "You are not so fortunate in your court as I was; the Dutch," she raised her thin shoulders in a shrug, "do not make the best of courtiers——"
"No," answered Mary impetuously; "but they make good husbands, Madam."
Catherine made no attempt to turn this hit. She put her hand to her dark throat, and her large melancholy eyes filled with tears. She answered the thought and not the words.
"I cared as much as you do, all the same;" she said, "and I shall always be a Jacobite for his—worthless—sake."
"Forgive me," murmured Mary instantly. "I had no right. But do you be charitable. I am in great trouble, Madam, and very much alone."
Catherine lifted her small olive face with a kind of defiant brightness.
"We have that loneliness in common, Madam. If you or I had an heir it would have all been different. I shall say a mass for your husband his safety. Good night, Your Majesty."
She swept her grave foreign courtsey and retired, followed by her silent duennas. Mary stood pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and felt the whole pageant of people, lights, speech, music, swing past her like reflections on troubled water—broken, scattered without substance or meaning.
No news came.
She dismissed the Court presently and went to her rooms; it was late, long past ten o'clock, yet she would not go to bed, but sat in her cabinet writing to the King. Sheet after sheet she covered with news, hopes, fears, love, entreaties for God's blessings—all her heart indeed laid out before her one confidant.
The candlelight hurt her eyes, weaker of late with work and tears, and at last she folded up the letter unfinished. The express did not go till the morning, and she hoped that by then she might have the long-looked-for news from Ireland.
When she rose from her desk she was utterly tired, yet could not rest—there was so much to do.
Her letter to Admiral Evertgen, which she had written with great pains in Dutch, had been returned as unintelligible, and now she must write again in English, which language the Admiral understood perfectly, it seemed. There was the question of the command of the Fleet on her mind; Russell and Monmouth had been met at Canterbury by the news of the disaster of Beachy Head, and now were back in London, hot against Torrington; Mary feared that the King would be vexed with her for having let them leave the council, yet she must again send some one to the Fleet, now without a commander. Her choice had fallen on Pembroke, who was an admiral, and Devonshire, whom she could trust, and thereupon Caermarthen had taken umbrage, and it had been a weary work of tact and sweetness to prove to him that he was indispensable in London and could not be spared—yet perhaps she had been wrong, and she should have let him go.
All these lesser anxieties crowded on her weary soul, aching with the desire for news from the King, and, as she left her cabinet and came into her bedchamber, a profound melancholy overthrew her gallant spirit.
Only two of her ladies were up—Madame de Marsac and Madame Nienhuys. Mary told them to go to bed, and cast herself into the window-seat and pulled the curtains apart from before the windows open on the warm soft night.
"It is Your Majesty who should go to bed," said Madame Nienhuys firmly.
Mary shook her head.
"I cannot. I cannot sleep until I get a letter."
"You neither sleep nor eat," protested the Dutch lady.
"I am very well," smiled Mary sadly. "Go to bed, like a good creature——"
"Indeed, Madam, I will not leave you in this state."
"Have you been with me so long that you become disobedient? Very well, put out some of the candles—the light hurts my eyes."
Basilea de Marsac rose softly and extinguished all the candles, save those on the mantelshelf. The large rich chamber was full of grateful shadow. Mary's yellow gown gleamed secretively like gold through a veil.
She took the diamonds from her neck and arms and gave them to Madame Nienhuys. She pulled off her rings slowly, and dropped them into her lap, looking the while out on to the July dark, that seemed to her to be painted with the menacing forces of war, flags, banners hanging bloody to their poles, the hot, smoking mouths of cannon, the glitter of armour through the dust—her husband's army and her father's struggling together to the death.
She rose so suddenly that the rings fell and rolled all over the floor.
"I think I will go to bed after all," she said faintly.
They undressed her in silence and left her wide-eyed in the great crimson bed, canopied and plumed and enriched with the arms of England.
When they had gone she lay for a while quite still. There was no moon, and she could not distinguish a single object in the room, and only uncertainly the dim spaces of the window.
All that had seemed small, petty, and wretched in the daytime seemed a thousand times more mean and unworthy now. She was haunted by the stiff little figure of Queen Catherine, whose personality had suddenly flashed out on her, by the fair sullen image of Anne, and the vulgar enmity of Lady Marlborough. She was tortured by the idea that she had done everything wrong....
She sat up in bed and locked her hands over her heart.
"I must not despair—God will not let me despair," she clung to that word, "God—ah, He knoweth best—He seeth what man cannot see—therefore He did not give me children, knowing I could not have endured this if their safety had been at stake."
The Palace clock struck one. Like an echo came the bell of the Abbey Church, then the dead silence again.
The Queen rose from her bed and made her way lightly to the dressing-table. After a little fumbling she found the tinderbox and struck a light.
The silver table, the enamel, jade, and gold boxes glittered into points of light. In the depths of the mirror she saw her own face lit by the little flame she held.
It flared out between her cold fingers. She struck another and lit one of the tall candles in the red copper stands.
By the dim wavering light she found her scarlet shoes and a little mantle of fox's fur that she put on over her muslin night-dress. She then took up the candlestick, which was so heavy that it made her wrist shake, and quietly left the room, which opened into the cabinet.
Here she paused at the red lac desk, unlocked it with the gold key she wore round her neck, and took out a packet tied with orange ribbon.
These were the letters she had received from the King since his departure. She looked at them tenderly, took up her candle again, and passed on through an antechamber to a private door that led straight into the chapel.
Her feeble light gave her glimpses of the lofty walls panelled in cedar wood, the majestic altar of white marble gilt, and the great painting brought from Italy—all heavenly blue, and deep crimson, and angelic faces breaking from rosy clouds.
Mary went to the altar steps, set the candle on the topmost one, then fell on her knees with her letters pressed to her heart.
As she prayed she bent lower and lower till her beautiful head touched the marble, and there it rested while she sobbed out her humble prayers for her husband, her father, for England, for her own poor tired soul.
She grew cold as she lay across the altar steps, and peaceful in her heart. She thought God was not so displeased with her; a confidence rose in her bosom that he would not let His cause fail though her weakness....
A gentle confusion came over her senses, and she fell into a kind of swoon; when this passed she found that her candle had burnt to the socket and gone out, and that a blue dawn was lighting the glowing arms of England in the painted glass windows.
She got to her feet, shivering but calm, and went back stealthily through the vast silent rooms, filled with the early sun, and so reached her bed; and, for the first time for weeks, fell placidly asleep. Next morning when she woke she was very silent; but, as her ladies thought, more at ease.
She had hidden her letters under her pillow, and when she was dressed slipped them into her gown.
As she left her apartments on the way to the chapel she was met by Lord Nottingham.
The news from Ireland at last!
"The King is safe, Madam," said my lord, in pity of her face.
She stood speechless; those about her were little less moved. The silence hung heavy.
"His late Majesty is also safe," added my lord delicately.
She spoke then.
"I—I thank you."
She tore open her letters, but could not read them.
"Oh, tell me, sir," she said hoarsely.
"Madam, the King hath had a great victory at Boyne Water. Ireland is conquered."
Even as he spoke the bells broke out from a thousand steeples and the guns of the Tower boomed triumph.
"The news is just abroad," said Nottingham.
Mary flushed into a glorious exaltation.
"TheKinghath redeemed us all!" she cried, with inexpressible pride. "TheKinghath saved us!"
"Not the King alone, Madam," answered my lord, with a flush on his shallow face—"listen to these——"
From without came the sound of wild joyous murmurs from the crowd that had gathered to hear the news. As it sped from mouth to mouth a frenzy of relief and triumph shook the people. They burst into one shout that drowned the cannon and the bells—
"Long live the Queen! God save and bless the Queen!"