WILLIAM OF ORANGE
Jerome Caryl was informed that he was to be examined. It was the day
after his arrest, he had been followed to his lodging, taken quietly
and conveyed to the guard-house at Kensington. No chance was his to
pass on warning to any save Berwick, and it was doubtful whether he now
would be able to leave the country. The government was on the alert.
Jerome Caryl had no thought for company save of failure; he had played
for a high stake and the price for losing it was heavy. Personally he
looked ahead with calm eyes; the prospect for him was utterly hopeless:
Tyburn as soon as they could hurry his trial through; his guilt was
obvious, beyond dispute. And when those papers were opened at
Kensington the thousands who had been prompted by his persuasions and
their own rashness to sign them would be sent in his footsteps to glut
the government revenge.
At this reflection Jerome Caryl did flinch, at the bloodshed there
would be; the sneer of the French at his clumsiness, and King James’s
bewail that he was so badly served. He knew that his wholesale failure
could not be judged lightly at St. Germains, even though he hanged for
it.
He had been fooled; that unforgivable thing that carried the scorn of
his enemies and the curses of his friends: he had fallen headlong to
his own destruction and dragged after him those who had trusted him; a
bitter reflection for his solitude.
Of his dead friend’s sister, Caryl could not trust himself to think. He
could not know if she had heard of his arrest, but he did know that
whether warned in time or not, she would stay and share the common fate.
Some might try and fly to France, but not Delia Featherstonehaugh.
But these thoughts he thrust from him as he was conducted from his
solitude along the quiet rooms of the palace. His face grew disdainful
as he reflected the examination he must be put to was a mere flourish.
They knew everything. Did they want him to betray secrets in their
possession already? The government held in its hand the plot and all
concerned in it. Jerome Caryl felt contemptuous of this slow dealing.
Why did they not strike and have done? The power was theirs.
Added to this, the soldier conducting him, a Dutchman, who seemed to
have no English, roused Jerome’s ire curiously; the prisoner noticed
how the fellow’s uniform sat in creases on his fat figure, how he
wheezed and moaned to himself as he mounted the stairs, and how he eyed
his charge from time to time with a glance of heavy aversion. At every
doorway a sentinel was posted, and with him the fat Dutchman exchanged
slow speech in his own language, while Jerome waited his pleasure,
swordless, helpless, in a cold wrath at these lumpish foreign intruders.
“Have you, sir, no English here?” he demanded at last. “Or is
Kensington entirely filled with your countrymen?”
The Dutchman looked at him insolently and made no answer; it was
doubtful if he understood.
They had reached now a small ante-chamber at the end of a long gallery;
it was very ill-lit; the soldier’s blue uniform showed dimly through
the gloom; a high-nosed, pale-faced young man was engaged in tying up
papers at a side table. He came forward and spoke in a suppressed
manner to the soldier, who, Jerome gathered from the address, was Count
Solmes of the famous “Blues.”
The Englishman looked on in disinterested curiosity; the whole
surroundings were as unpretentious as might be the back parlor of a
small merchant’s shop: the officials all seemed affected with the same
taciturn manner and somber clothing. Dutch appeared the only language
spoken.
His gossip over, Count Solmes disappeared through an inner door, and
the pale usher turned gloomy eyes on Jerome, who, thinking of the court
of the Second Charles, inwardly smiled and sighed alike.
The Count, returning, was accompanied by another Dutch gentleman who,
remaining on the threshold, beckoned Jerome into the inner room.
This was more cheerful of aspect, being lit by two long windows that
looked on the garden, and so small that the firelight filled it from
end to end.
The two Dutchmen talked together with no heed of the fourth occupant of
the room, a lean man in the prim gown and wig of a Scottish clergyman,
who sat by the window, evidently waiting.
Jerome Caryl knew him at once for Carstairs, chaplain to their
Majesties for Scotland, and confidential adviser to the King. “A
drab-hued court,” he smiled to himself, and while Count Solmes talked
to his friend and the Rev. William Carstairs gazed out of the window at
the bare trees, the Jacobite prisoner idly noted what manner of room he
was in.
Floor, walls and ceiling were paneled in highly polished wood; a bureau
stood between the two windows, and before it a chair; a second chair
and a stool similar to that on which Carstairs sat, completed the
furniture, all of the same stiff pattern and absolutely plain.
On the wooden chimneypiece stood two heavy brass candlesticks, polished
till they shone like gold; above hung a dark portrait in a gilt frame
of a fashionably dressed lady, who smiled aimlessly; she was flanked by
two smaller pictures of vases of fruit, stiff but rich in coloring.
Close behind Jerome, on a shelf that appeared to have been affixed on
purpose, stood a curious tall vase of blue and white Delft; from each
of the ten spouts breaking the side, showed the tips of a tulip bulb
with the first points of green; in the opening of the vase itself lay
another larger and ready to burst into flower.
The Dutchmen broke off their converse at last and left the room. Jerome
turned to the silent figure by the window.
“Sir,” he said evenly, “can you tell me what is intended toward me: on
what I wait?”
Carstairs showed a solemn face.
“Young man,” he replied, “albeit I am not here to answer thy
questioning, yet out of charity will I inform thee, that thou art
shortly to be examined for thy manifold offenses.”
Jerome smiled. It was familiar phraseology.
“By whom, sir?”
“By those whom thou hast offended,” was the answer. As he spoke
Carstairs rose and his spare figure looked unnaturally tall.
“God turn thee, young man, from the heathenish worship of idols that
has led thee into these errors,” he said gravely. “Thou art one of the
Magliants who distract this land yet, although the Lord has seen fit to
remove them from their high places and set up his lowly servants.”
He put out his hand in a gesture of proud humility, and Jerome saw that
his thumb was a mere shriveled stump of bone.
“Maybe there is but a little time left to thee, therefore repent
swiftly lest thou lose the world everlasting as thou hast the world of
the flesh.”
With this he turned slowly and left the room.
Jerome leaned against the wall and waited, his feeling a curious one of
disinterest and indifference; a man hopelessly in the hands of his
enemies, a man who has failed and is at the mercy of those whom he
hates and has striven to overthrow, has no chance save to stand silent,
contemptuous of himself.
After a few moments a gentleman entered, and Jerome looked up.
The new-comer wore his hat and passed at once to the chair by the
bureau, where he sat down, and with no heed of Jerome began opening
some letters that lay there.
He wore a black velvet riding-suit, heavily gallooned with gold; a
diamond fastened the long feather in his gray beaver. There was a
quantity of fine lace on his cravat and at his wrists, the gold handle
of his sword was of most beautiful workmanship. He glanced over the
letters, then pulling off his gloves looked up at Jerome. His eyes, of
that hazel that is almost green, were large and very brilliant, his
features aristocratic, clear-cut, composed, and shaded by heavy auburn
curls.
Jerome Caryl knew him at once, and flushed deeply in the suddenness and
unexpectedness of the encounter.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Caryl,” said William of Orange with a little nod.
“Will you sit down? The stool is ’ard, but you save there a chair more
comfortable.”
Jerome Caryl bowed.
“I do not look for ease in Kensington, your Highness,” he answered, and
remained standing.
The King took a packet from the bureau drawer, and placed it beside his
hand. At sight of it the color came anew into Jerome Caryl’s face. He
recognized the familiar leathern case.
“Milor’ Stair,” said William, “send this me—it is yours—you know
it—_n’est pas?_”
“It is mine,” replied Jerome coldly. “It was stolen from me by one of
your Highness’ ministers.”
The King looked at him steadily.
“Yes, it is so,” he said. “You ’ave been outwit’. Mon Dieu! sometime it
is to be expect’! Sir John ’ave not a ’ead for plot—but you—you ’ave
behave’—like the fools.”
With the same perfect composure and unmoved face, he opened the case
and took out the papers. Jerome noticed that the seals were not yet
broken.
“We are prepared to pay for being fools, your Highness,” he said coldly.
“It is to be hope’,” remarked William dryly. “You can all do that—you
foreigners—when you ’ave play’ the fool you can pay for it.”
His eyes flashed for a moment to Jerome Caryl’s steady presence, then
fell to the letter he held.
“This,” he said, “is a letter for my uncle at St. Germains. I believe
’e get many such—_pourquoi non?_”
He took up the next paper, then put it down and laid his small,
high-bred hand over it; the upper part of his face was hidden in the
shadow of his hat, but Jerome fancied he detected a faint smile on the
thin lips, and it fired his blood.
“Sir,” he demanded, “may I ask what you want of me? Where this leads? I
deny nothing.”
“It would be mos’ foolish,” interrupted William. “It is prove’.”
“Will your Highness then make an end?”
“That is not the way in this mos’ advance’ country,” answered William,
and now there was no mistaking the smile. “My cousin in France ’as the
_lettres de cachet_—but ’ere we ’ave the trial, the witness, the
lawyer—all mos’ fair.”
He leaned back on his chair and his smile deepened.
“It is amusin’ ’ow you plot for the King you yoursel’ throw out. This
is a list for my cousin (or Monsieur de Louvois) signe’ by all you
could persuade—_n’est pas?_”
He sat up with a rattle of his sword-hilt against the chair.
“Who of my courtiers ’ave their names there?” he said, tapping the
sealed paper. “It is mos’ amusin’, but, monsieur, it is not new to me.
Per’aps you think I am thick head, and do not know who betray me—Mon
Dieu! I think I tell you almos’ all the names there.”
“Your Highness employs many of the men whose names you will find
there,” said Jerome, “and there are many more whom your Highness has
never heard of, country gentlemen, honest small folk all over England
whom you can ruin at once—you can be revenged on your servants and
these others, your Highness, by merely opening that paper.”
“You, monsieur, speak like a enemy of me,” said William calmly. “You
think it is my pleasure to shed blood—you are of those who write that
when I was outside Bruxelles I burn alive my wounded soldiers, and that
I poisone’ my Uncle Charles—I ’ave read these things in your leaflets.”
Jerome flushed.
“I have had no hand in those,” he answered. “I find my cause too good
an one to need lies to support it. I deny that you are King of England,
your Highness,—I am not blind to your qualities.”
“Yet, Mr. Caryl, you speak to me of being revenge’—which is a thing for
men like Milor’ Mordaunt. This is not, Mon Dieu, the firs’ plot I ’ave
discover’ since I was child. I ’ave learn’ to take insult and betrayal.”
He rose and came into the room, the paper in his hand.
“The nobles, I know,” he said. “An’ they serve me so they stay—if I
send to the Tower all who write to St. Germains—who ’ave I left? And I
will spare them my forgiveness.”
“And we pay for your clemency, sir,” replied Jerome Caryl bitterly. “We
humbler plotters.”
William turned and looked at him. They were standing very near each
other. The King took his hat off and flung it down on the chair beside
him.
“Mr. Caryl,” he said, “you are _gentilhomme_—cannot you see that I will
not do something? I will not ’unt down these bourgeois—what are they? I
will not know their name’.”
He held the papers out to the Jacobite.
“I am tire’ of your plot,” he finished. “Put that in the fire and let
me ’ear no more of it.”
Jerome Caryl stared at him, utterly bewildered and confused; the sense
of what this meant rushed over him, making him giddy.
“Put these in the fire,” repeated the King. “I ’ave no more time.”
The Jacobite took the papers; with a great rush of crimson to his face,
he thought of Delia and the hundreds to whom this would mean salvation.
“Your Highness is magnanimous,” he said unsteadily. “Your generosity
disarms me.”
“You ’ave mistake’ me,” answered William coldly. “Wherefore did you
think I would wish to be revenge’? Sir John think to serve me with this
an’ I am indebt’ to ’im that he preserve peace, but I do not stoop, Mr.
Caryl, to revenge.”
He went back to his seat at the bureau; there was a pause, a silence,
then Jerome Caryl put the papers into the fire; the great flare they
made lit up the pale face of William of Orange and the beautiful
flushed countenance of the Jacobite.
Across the narrow bright room the eyes of the two men met, as if they
measured each other; then the King dropped his glance to the letters
before him.
“You ’ave nothing more to say?” he asked coldly. “Then you may depar’.”
“I shall not soon forget your Highness’ generosity,” said Jerome Caryl
unsteadily, and the sincerity of his voice made amends for the
conventional wording.
“Call it my policy,” answered William with a slight lift of his green
eyes. “And so, Mr. Caryl, you will be spare’ an obligation.”
Jerome Caryl waited for him to demand some oath or promise, to attach
some condition to this cold magnanimity; he felt more utterly at this
man’s mercy than when those papers lay under his hand.
Suddenly the King looked up.
“For what do you wait?” he demanded. “You are free—go back—to your plot
if you will, only I give you this advice—take care ’ow you sign
paper’—it is dangerous—_n’est pas?_”
Jerome colored painfully.
“My duty to my King,” he said, “must make me appear ungrateful, but
without disloyalty to my cause I can assure your Highness that I will
follow no unworthy means of serving your enemies.”
“Such as Monsieur Grandval use’?” answered William, with a half-smile.
“By Heaven, no,” cried Jerome vehemently, “I have never been of that
kind.”
William slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“My cousin of France is _gentilhomme_,” he said, “but ’e and my uncle
send Monsieur Grandval to—what would you say?—murder me—_voila tout_.”
Jerome Caryl stood silent; mention of the Grandval affair was painful
to any follower of the Stuart cause; the King touched the bell on his
desk, and the high-nosed young man entered. William addressed him in
his fluent French.
“Show out this gentleman,” he said, “and if Sir John be here send him
in.”
He inclined his head gravely toward Caryl, who bowed slightly, not
knowing what to do, for a strange bewilderment that possessed him, and
without another word on either side they parted.
The King looked after him with a contained face, then gave a glance of
distaste at his pile of unopened letters and pushed his chair back so
that his head rested against the wall; the room was full of pleasant
warm shadows that flickered up and down the shining polished walls; the
candlesticks and the fireirons winked and glittered and the views from
the two windows showed like two pictures in cold grays and blues in
great contrast to the warm light within.
The palace clock struck half past-five. William drew out his watch, a
sapphire in the back glittered as he moved it; it was correct; he put
it back in his pocket.
The door was opened noiselessly by the usher and Sir John Dalrymple
entered with the ease of a man familiar and welcomed. William, still
with his fingers in his watch chain, spoke without moving.
“I ’ave seen your Jacobite, Sir John.”
“I was surprised, sir, to meet him leaving Kensington a free man.”
The Master of Stair crossed to the hearth and stood there; his face was
set and his manner troubled.
“Your Majesty has received the evidence of this plot from my father?”
he said.
“And I ’ave destroye’ it, Sir John,” answered William. “This man jus’
now, ’e burnt it.”
“Burnt it!” echoed the Master. “Did your Majesty read it?”
“No,” said the King. “For what use? For what end should I wish to know
these people? I am tire’ of your plot; but they are mos’ ’armless—let
them go.”
Sir John stood silent. So the King had done what Delia
Featherstonehaugh had asked him to do; the mercy he had refused had
been granted by another; the Jacobites would go unscathed and yet he
must bear the odium of having broken his word; in the mind of that girl
he would get no credit for this; she would know from Jerome Caryl that
he was not to be thanked, yet he would have gained nothing by his
seeming perjury; the lords whose names were on that list would continue
to flaunt with their heads high; his labor had gone for nothing.
These thoughts rushed upon him and his blue eyes lit dangerously.
“Sir, your Majesty is too careless,” he said. “This was a far-reaching
conspiracy that with infinite trouble I fathomed—plot within
plot—circle within circle.”
“They can do nothing, Sir John, now they are discover’,” answered the
King calmly. “They will take warning—if not, Mon Dieu! What good are
they without France? And France—will she move till she get those papers
I burn jus’ now?”
“Berwick is in London,” cried Sir John.
“I am not afraid of ’im,” replied William.
As he thought of the vast shoal escaping the net he had been at such
pains to lay for them, Sir John’s rage rose higher.
“There are more in this than you imagine, sir,” he said hotly.
“I know mos’ of them,” answered William with the same unmoved demeanor.
“Every one about the Court I think excep’ Milor’ Somers, and Milor’
Nottingham—and per’aps pretty little Shrewsbury or Devonshire—but I say
that I am tire’ sir, of this subject.”
“They plot still,” persisted the Master of Stair, “and they plot
assassination.”
“Is it not al-way’ so?”
“Your Majesty,” cried Sir John, “I say again you are too careless; for
a certainty my Lord Marlborough is in this, and Marlborough is the
army; Russell is in it, and Russell is the navy. I think Breadalbane
has meddled, though darkly.”
“All this is mos’ true, Sir John,” returned the King, “but it is al-so
true that while I am at St. Jame’ and my uncle at St. Germains they
will do nothing.”
“I have said that they plot assassination, and now that you have
destroyed all proof, all evidence, your Majesty’s life is not safe. How
can you tell who is in this conspiracy; how judge of the loyalty of the
men about you? Any one of them may be in Berwick’s pay to murder your
Majesty!”
William sat up and leaned across the table.
“Sir John,” he said, “I am surprise’ that a man of your—_esprit_ bring
me these child tale’—I do not think I shall be murder’, but I will take
the risk of it—and now we will speak of Scotlan’.”
His cold voice was a dismissal of the subject.
The Master of Stair caught his breath in an effort at self-control; he
had served the King at infinite labor and some risk; he had gathered
all the threads of this conspiracy into his hands at the price of two
men’s lives, and it had been for nothing. If he could not crush the
Jacobites he wanted at least the glory of sparing them; and he had
neither the satisfaction of one nor the other; his wrath rose against
the King, he did not comprehend his motives. His own impulse was to
sweep the country clear of Jacobites by fire and sword or, if it must
be mercy, to confront them with proofs of their guilt and then forgive
them grandly before all the world.
His passion at this dismal end to his intrigues grew beyond bearing; he
looked up with lowering brows.
“I say it to your face, sir,” he said thickly, “that you play a
foolish—and a dangerous game.”
William of Orange rose and came round to the other side of the bureau,
where he leaned and looked at the Master of Stair.
“Whatever game I play,” he said, “it is not that of being your puppet,
Sir John. I ’ave my own motive’—if you cannot understan’ them—very
will—it make’ no difference.”
His green eyes narrowed a little as he watched the furious face
opposite; he picked up the riding-whip from the table and flicked it
gently to and fro across his high boots.
“I think I am the master,” he said, and his tone brought the hot blood
into Sir John’s face.
“You are the King,” he answered in a constrained voice. “But I am not
one of those who believe, sir, that the King can do no wrong.”
“No,” said William quietly, “you think the King can be pull’ by
strings—per’aps if you ’ave a Stuart or a Bourbon—but I—I ’ave rule’
before I am King—I do not need your title. I am Nassau. I will not be
question’—you understan’?”
Sir John put his hand to his cravat and dragged at it; he was face to
face with a character that he could not understand, and a spirit every
whit as masterful as his own. Rage at his own inferior position, the
fret of the lost chance of glorification, the bitterness of being
overruled, put him into a passion that flushed his face and made his
voice shake.
“Sir—if your generosity to your friends equaled the generosity you show
your enemies, I should have had at least some thanks for my service—you
are as ungrateful, sire, as you—”
Abruptly the King interrupted:
“I’ll take no more, Sir John,” he cried; he eyes half-shut in a
sinister manner and the whip tapped faster on his boot. “You ’ave
forgotten you are not in your Parliament ’ouse.”
The Master of Stair felt he had gone far enough; he acknowledged
himself over-matched, though with no good grace; he turned under the
hard gaze of the King and muttered some words of apology, but only as
if William’s cold glance forced him to them against his will; in his
heart he hated the man who overbore him.
Suddenly the King laughed.
“You ’ave not a courteous temperament,” he said. “You are too stiff,
Sir John, and too fiery.”
The Master of Stair bowed and bit his lip.
The King crossed to the chair by the fire and sank into it with an air
of weariness.
“About Scotlan’,” he said disinterestedly. “These ’ighlander’ ’ave all
come in?”
He was not looking at the Master, and did not see the glance Sir John
gave him. He answered in a voice unnaturally controlled:
“All save the Macdonalds of Glencoe, your Majesty.”
“Ah?” said the King indifferently. “Will you, sir, ring the bell for
the candle?”
Sir John obeyed. His face was hard, his lips set into a curious smile.
He glanced again at the man by the fire and his eyes wore an unpleasant
expression.
There was silence till the entry of the usher, then William turned in
his chair.
“You will find there,” he said to him, in French, “letters to Heinsius
and Waldeck—see that they are sent to-night.”
Again a pause. A somber servant entered and lit the candles, drew the
curtains; the little room grew golden from end to end. By the table
stood the Master of Stair, motionless; he had drawn a paper from his
pocket and held it down by his side, his handsome face now its usual
pallor and the strange drag about the mouth, a distortion that gave a
certain terror to his expression.
William leaned back in his chair, his profile, with the high nose,
arched brows and sunken cheek, was clearly revealed in the
candle-light; his hands showed startlingly white against his black
dress, and a diamond on his first finger glittered with many colors.
The usher took up the papers and left, the door closed softly behind
him.
Sir John Dalrymple turned slowly to the King.
“I have a paper here for your Majesty’s signature,” he said quietly.
“Of no importance—merely a letter to the Commander of the Forces in
Scotland, relative to the preserving of the peace.”
“And is that all the business you ’ave for me?”
“It is, your Majesty,” Sir John spoke with lowered lids.
William sat up in his chair.
“Well, ’and it me,” he said. “Bring the pen.”
Sir John brought a pen and the paper.
“It is nothing of importance?” asked William, looking at the folded
sheet.
“Of none whatever, sir.”
The King affixed his great scrawling signature.
“Take it to Milor’ Nottingham for the countersign, Sir John.”
“Sir, Lord Nottingham is not at the palace to-night, and it is
desirable that this go immediately.”
William took the letter, opened it, laid it on his knee, signed it
again at the top, and handed it back to Sir John.
“I thank your Majesty,” said the Master of Stair with a little smile.
The King lay back in his chair.
“There is nothing more to-night, I think, Sir John.”
“Sire, I take my leave.”
“You will come with me to the continent in a few days, _n’est pas_?
Good-evenin’, Sir John.”
The Master of Stair bowed.
“Take care of the tulip, Sir John—the other day Milor’ Devonshire ’e
knock the tips off.”
William looked toward the bulbs with the interest of the born gardener;
in the warmth they gave out a faint sickly fragrance, a sense of young
green. “They are very well,” remarked the King with satisfaction. “If I
’ad keep them in water they would not smell so—is it not charming? Like
it come through the window at Saint Loo.”
He smiled on Sir John, who bowed without a word and left the room.
As he passed down the long gallery, he met Argyll.
“Ye look miserable, my lord,” he cried with a hard laugh. “Read this.”
He held out the letter the King had just signed.
“Weel,” said the Earl peevishly. “What may this be?”
Sir John lowered his voice.
“The authority—the warrant you asked for, my lord. The King saith he is
no man’s puppet—but he has served my turn now—he signed and did not
read this—look here—my Lord Argyll.” He pointed out a clause in the
letter; it ran:
“As for Makian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they can well be
distinguished from the other Highlanders, it will be proper for the
vindication of public justice to extirpate that set of thieves.”