Apprised by what I heard, not only that I stood in the Gallery of
Kensington Court--a mansion which His Majesty had lately bought from
Lord Nottingham, and made his favourite residence--but that the
gentleman in black whom I had found so simply employed was no other
than the King himself, I ask you to imagine with what interest I
looked upon him. He whom the old King of France had dubbed in bitter
derision, the "Little Squire of ----," and whom two revolutions had
successfully created Stadtholder of Holland and Sovereign of these
Isles, was at this time forty-six years old, already prematurely bent,
and a prey to the asthma which afflicted his later life. Reserved in
manner, and sombre, not to say melancholy, in aspect, hiding strong
passions behind a pale mask of stoicism as chilling to his friends as
it was baffling to his enemies, he was such as a youth spent under the
eyes of watchful foes, and a manhood in the prosecution of weighty and
secret designs, made him. Descended on the one side from William the
Silent, on the other from the great Henry of France, he was thought to
exhibit, in more moderate degree, the virtues and failings which
marked those famous princes, and to represent, not in blood only, but
in his fortunes, the two soldiers of the sixteenth century whose
courage in disaster and skill in defeat still passed for a proverb;
who, frequently beaten in the field, not seldom garnered the fruits of
the campaign, and rose, Antaeus-like, the stronger from every fall.
That, in all stations, as a private person, a Stadtholder and a King,
his late Majesty remembered the noble sources whence he sprang, was
proved, I think, not only by the exactness with which his life was
wrought to the pattern of those old mottoes of his house, _S[oe]vus
tranquillus in Undis_, and _Tandem fit Surculus arbor_, whereof the
former was borne, I have read, by the Taciturn, and the latter by
Maurice of Nassau--but of two other particulars of which I beg leave
to mention. The first was that _more majorum_ he took naturally and
from the first the lead as the champion of the Protestant religion in
Europe; the second, that though he had his birth in a republic, and
was called to be King by election (so that it was no uncommon thing
for some of his subjects to put slights upon him as little more than
their equal--ay, and though he had to bear such affronts in silence),
he had the true spirit and pride of a King born in the purple, and by
right divine. Insomuch that many attributed to this the gloom and
reserve of his manners; maintaining that these were assumed less as a
shield against the malice of his enemies, than as a cloak to abate the
familiarity of his friends.
And certainly some in speaking of him of late years belittle his birth
no less than his exploits, when they call him Dutch William, and the
like; speaking in terms unworthy of a sovereign, and as if he had
drawn his blood from that merchant race, instead of--as the fact
was--from the princely houses of Stuart, Bourbon, Nassau, and Medici;
and from such ancestors as the noble Coligny and King Charles the
Martyr. But of his birth, enough.
For the rest, having a story to tell, and not history to write, I
refrain from recalling how great he was as a statesman, how
resourceful as a strategist, how indomitable as a commander, how
valiant when occasion required in the pitched field. Nor is it
necessary, seeing that before the rise of my Lord Marlborough (who
still survives, but alas, _quantum mutatus ab illo!_) he had no rival
in any of these capacities, nor in the first will ever be excelled.
Nor, as a fact, looking on him in the flesh as I then did for the
first time, can I say that I saw anything to betoken greatness, or the
least outside evidence of the fiery spirit that twice in two great
wars stayed all the power of Louis and of France; that saved Holland;
that united all Europe in three great leagues; finally, that leaping
the bounds of the probable, won a kingdom, only to hold it cheap, and
a means to farther ends. I say I saw in him not the least trace of
this, but only a plain, thin, grave, and rather peevish gentleman, in
black and a large wig, who coughed much between his words, spoke with
a foreign accent, and often lapsed into French or some strange tongue.
He waited until the door had fallen to behind the child, and the long
gallery lay silent, and then bade my lord speak. "I breathe better
here," he said. "I hate small rooms. What is the news you have
brought?"
"No good news, sir," my patron answered. "And yet I can scarcely call
it bad. In the country it will have a good effect."
"_Bien!_ But what is it?"
"I have seen Ferguson, sir."
"Then you have seen a d----d scoundrel!" the King exclaimed, with an
energy I had not expected from him; and, indeed, such outbreaks were
rare with him. "He is arrested, then?"
"No, sir," the Duke answered. "I trust, however, that he will be
before night."
"But if he be free, how came you in his company?" the King asked,
somewhat sharply.
My lord hesitated, and seemed for a moment at a loss how to answer.
Being behind him, I could not see his face, but I fancied that he grew
red, and that the fourth person present, a stout, burly gentleman,
marked with the small-pox, who had advanced and now stood near the
King, was hard put to it not to smile. At last, "I received a letter,
sir," my lord said, speaking stiffly and with constraint, "purporting
to come from a third person----"
"Ah!" said the King, drawling the word, and nodding dry comprehension.
"On the faith of which, believing it to be from that other--if you
understand, sir----"
"I understand perfectly," said the King, and coughed.
"I was induced," my lord said doggedly, "to give the villain a
meeting. And learned, sir, partly from him, and partly from this man
here"--this more freely--"enough to corroborate the main particulars
of Mr. Prendergast's story."
"Ah?" said the King. "Good. And the particulars?"
"That Sir George Barclay, the person mentioned by Mr. Prendergast, is
giving nightly rendezvous in Covent Garden to persons mainly from
France, who are being formed by him into a band; the design, as stated
by Prendergast, to fall on your Majesty's person in the lane between
Fulham Green and the river on your returning from hunting."
"Does he agree as to the names?" the King asked, looking at me.
"He knows no names, sir," the Duke answered, "but he saw a number of
the conspirators at the Seven Stars in Covent Garden last night, and
heard them speak openly of a hunting party; with other things pointing
the same way."
"Was Barclay there?"
"He can speak to a person who I think can be identified as Barclay,"
my lord answered. "He cannot speak to Charnock----"
"That is the Oxford man?"
"Yes, sir--or Porter, or King; or the others by those names. But he
can speak to two of them under the names by which Prendergast said
that they were passing."
"_C'est tout!_ Well, it does not seem to me to be so simple!" the King
said with a touch of impatience. "What is this person's name, and who
is he?"
The Duke told him that I had been Ferguson's tool.
"That rogue is in it then?"
"He is privy to it," the Duke answered.
His Majesty shrugged his shoulders, as if the answer annoyed him. "You
English draw fine distinctions," he said. "Whatever you do, however,
let us have no repetition of the Lancashire fiasco. You will bear that
in mind, my lord, if you please. Another of Taafe's pseudo plots would
do us more harm in the country than the loss of a battle in Flanders.
Faugh! we have knaves at home, but you have a breed here--your Oates's
and your Taafes and your Fullers--for whom breaking on the wheel is
too good!"
"There are rogues, sir, in all countries," my lord answered somewhat
tartly. "I do not know that we have a monopoly of them."
"The Duke of Shrewsbury is right there, sir," the gentleman behind the
King who had not yet spoken, struck in, in a good-natured tone. "They
are things of which there is no scarcity anywhere. I remember----"
"_Taisez! Taisez!_" cried the King brusquely, cutting short his
reminiscences--whereat the gentleman, smiling imperturbably, took
snuff. "Tell me this. Is Sir John Fenwick implicated?"
"There may be evidence against him," my lord answered cautiously.
The King sneered openly. "Yes," he said. "I see Porter and Goodman and
Charnock are guilty! But when it touches one of yourselves, my lord,
then 'There is evidence against him,' or 'It is a case of suspicion,'
or--oh, you all hang together!" And pursing up his lips he looked
sourly at us. "You all hang together!" he repeated. "I stand to be
shot at--_c'est dommage_. But touch a noble, and _Gare la Noblesse!_"
"You do us an injustice, sir," my lord cried warmly. "I will answer
for it----"
"Oh, I do you an injustice, do I?" the King said, disregarding his
last words. "Of course I do! Of course you are all faithful, most
faithful. You have all taken the oath. But I tell you, my Lord
Shrewsbury, the King to whom you swore allegiance, the King crowned in
'89 was not William the Third, but Noblesse the first! _La Noblesse!_
Yes, my lord, you may look at me, and as angrily as you like; but it
was so. _Par dieu et diable_, you tie my hands! You tie my hands, you
cling to my sword, you choke my purse! I had as much power in Holland
as I have here. And more! And more!"
He would have gone farther, and with the same candour I think; but at
that the gentleman who had interrupted him before, struck in again,
addressing him rapidly in what I took to be Dutch, and doubtless
pointing out the danger of too great openness. At any rate I took that
to be the gist of his words, not only from his manner, but from the
fact that when he had done--the King looking gloomy and answering
nothing--he turned to my lord.
"The King trusts your Grace," he said bluntly. "He has never said as
much to an Englishman before. I am sure that the trust is well placed
and that his Majesty's feelings will go no farther."
The Duke bowed. "Your Majesty authorises me to take the necessary
steps then," he said, speaking somewhat drily, but otherwise ignoring
what had passed. "To secure your safety, sir, as well as to arrest the
guilty, no time should be lost. Warrants should be issued immediately,
and these persons taken up."
"Before Ferguson can warn them," the King said in his ordinary tone.
"Yes, see to it, my lord; and let the Council be recalled. The guards,
too, should be doubled, and the regiment Prendergast mentioned
displaced. Cutts must look to that, and do you, my lord," he continued
rapidly, addressing the gentleman beside him, whom I now conjectured
to be Lord Portland, "fetch him hither and lose no time. Take one of
my coaches. It is a plot, if all be true, should do us good in the
country. And that, I think, is your Grace's opinion."
"It should, sir. Doubtless, sir, we English have our faults; but we
are not fond of assassins."
"And you are confident that tins is no bubble?" the King said
thoughtfully.
"Yes, sir, I am."
By this time Lord Portland had withdrawn through a door at the farther
end of the gallery. The King, taking a turn this way and that, with
his hands clasped behind him, and his head bent low, so that his great
wig almost hid his features, seemed to be lost in thought. After
waiting a moment the Duke coughed, and this failing to attract the
King's attention, he ventured to address him. "There is another matter
I have to mention to you, sir," he said, with a touch of constraint in
his tone.
The King paused in his walk, and looked sharply at him. "Ah, of
course," he said, nodding. "Did you see Lord Middleton."
The Duke could not hide a start. "Lord Middleton, sir?" he faltered.
The King smiled coldly. "The letter," he said, "was from him, I
suppose?"
My lord rallied himself. "No, sir, it was not," he answered, with a
flash of spirit. "It purported to be from him."
"Yet you went--wherever you went--thinking to see him?" his Majesty
continued, smiling rather disagreeably.
"I did," my lord answered, his tone betraying his agitation. "But to
do nothing to the prejudice of your service, sir, and what I could to
further your interests--short of giving him up. He is my relative."
The King shrugged his shoulders.
"And for years," my lord cried warmly, "was my intimate friend."
The King shrugged his shoulders again. "We have fought that out
before," he said, with a sigh of weariness. "And more than once. For
the rest in that connection and whatever others may say, Lord
Shrewsbury has no ground to complain of me."
"I have cause, sir, to do far otherwise!" the Duke answered in a tone
suddenly changed and so full of emotion that it was not difficult to
discern that he had forgotten my presence; which was not wonderful, as
I stood behind him in the shadow of the doorway, whither out of
modesty I had retreated. "God knows I remember it!" he continued.
"Were it not for that, if I were not bound to your Majesty by more
than common ties of gratitude, I should not be to-day in a service
which--for which I am unfit! The daily duties of which, performed by
other men with indifference or appetite, fill me with pity and
distaste! the risks attending which--I speak without ceremony,
sir--make me play the coward with myself a hundred times a day!"
"Caesar," the King said quietly, "lets none but Caesar call him coward."
Kindly as the words were uttered, and in a tone differing much from
that which the King had hitherto used, the Duke took no heed of them.
"Others wish for my place; God knows I wish they had it!" he cried,
his agitation growing rather than decreasing. "Every hour, sir, I pray
to be quit of the faction and perjury in which I live! Every hour I
loathe more deeply the work I have to do and the people with whom I
have to do it. I never go to my office but my gorge rises; nor leave
it but I see the end. And yet I must stay in it! I must stay in it! I
tell you, sir," he continued impetuously, "on the day that you burned
those letters you but freed me from one slavery to fling me into
another!"
"Yet an honest one!" said the King in a peculiar tone.
My lord threw up his hands. "You have a right to say that, sir. But if
anyone else--or, no I--I forget myself."
"Something has disturbed you," said the King intervening with much
kindness. "Take time! And in the meanwhile, listen to me. As to the
general distaste you express for my service, I will not, and I do not,
do you the injustice to attribute it--whatever you say yourself--to
your fears of what may happen in a possible event; I mean, _l'ancien
regime restitue_. If such fears weighed so heavily with you, you would
neither have signed the Invitation to me, nor come to me eight years
ago. But I take it with perhaps some apprehensions of this kind, you
have--and this is the real gist of the matter--a natural distaste for
affairs, and a natural proneness to be on good terms with all, rogues
as well as good men. It irks you to sign a death-warrant, to send one
to Newgate, and another to--bah, I forget the names of your prisons;
to know that your friends abroad are not as well placed at St.
Germain's as they were at St. James's! You have no care to push an
advantage, no anxiety to ruin a rival; you would rather trust a man
than bind him. In a word, my lord, you have no taste for public life
in dangerous and troubled times such as these; although perforce you
have played a high part in it."
"Sir!" the Duke cried, with an anxiety and eagerness that touched me,
"you know me better than I know myself. You see my failings, my
unfitness; and surely, seeing them so clearly, you will not refuse
to----"
"Release you?" the King said smiling. "That does not follow. For
consider, my lord, you are not the only one in the world who pursues
perforce a path for which he has little taste. To be King of England
has a higher sound than to be Stadtholder of Holland. But to be a King
and no King; to see your way clearly and be thwarted by those who see
no fool of the field; to have France by the throat and be baffled for
the lack of ten thousand men or a million guilders; above all, to be
served by men who have made use of you--who have one foot on either
shore, and having betrayed their old Master to gain their ends, would
now betray you to save their necks. This, too, forms no bed of roses!
But I lie on it! I lie on it!" he concluded phlegmatically; and as he
spoke he took a pinch of snuff. "In fine, my lord," he continued, "to
be high, or what the world calls high, is to be unhappy."
The Duke sighed. "You, sir, have those qualities which fit you for
your part," he said sadly. "I have not."
"Have I?"
The King said no more, but the gesture with which he held out his
hands, as if he bade the other mark his feebleness, his short breath,
his hacking cough, his pallor, had more meaning than many words. "No,
my lord," he continued after a pause, "I cannot release you. I cannot
afford to release you, because I cannot afford to release the one man
who does not day by day betray me, and who never has betrayed me!"
"I would to heaven that you could say that!" the Duke cried, much
moved.
"I can, my friend," the King answered, with a gesture of kindness. "It
was nothing, and it is forgotten. I have long ceased to think of it.
But, _c'est vrai!_ I remember when I say I can trust no one else. I do
my good Somers an injustice. He is a dry man, however, like myself,
and poor company, and does not count for much."
My lord, contending with his feelings, did not answer, and the King
who, while speaking, had seated himself in a high-backed chair, in
which he looked frailer and more feeble than when on his legs, let a
minute elapse before he resumed in a different and brisker tone, "And
now tell me what has troubled our good Secretary to-day?"
"The Duke of Berwick, sir, is in London."
To my astonishment, and I have no doubt to the Duke's, the King merely
nodded. "Ah!" he said. "Is he in this pretty plot, then?"
"I think not," the Duke answered. "But I should suppose----
"That he is here to take advantage of it," the King said. "Well, he is
his uncle's own nephew. I suppose Ferguson sold him--as he has sold
every one all his life?"
"Yes, sir. But not, I think, with the intention that I should carry
out the bargain."
"Eh?"
"It is a long tale, sir," the Duke said rather wearily. "And having
given your Majesty the information----"
"You need not tell the tale? Well, no, for I can guess it!" the King
answered. "The old rogue, I suppose, was for ruining you with me if
you hid the news; and for damning you with King James if you informed:
which latter he did not think likely, but that instead he would have a
hold on you."
The Duke in a tone of much surprise acknowledged that he had guessed
rightly.
"Well, it was a pretty dilemma," said the King with a sort of gusto.
"And where is M. FitzJames in hiding?"
"At Dr. Lloyd's in Hogsden Gardens," my lord answered. But he could
not conceal his gloom.
"He must be arrested," said the King. "A warrant must be issued. Will
you see to it with the others?"
My lord assented; but with such a sigh that it required no wizard to
discern both the cloud that hung over him, and also that now he had
done what Ferguson had dared him to do, the consequences lay heavy on
him. The King, after considering him a moment with a singular
expression, between amusement and reproach, broke the silence.
"See here, my lord," he said with good nature. "I will tell you what
to do. Sit down now, and here, and write a line to Monsieur, bidding
him begone; and send it by a private hand, and the warrant by a
messenger an hour later."
The Duke stared at the King in astonishment. "But he will escape,
sir," he faltered.
"So much the better," the King answered indifferently. "If we take him
what are we to do with him? Besides, to tell you the truth, my lord,
he did me a great service eight years ago."
"He, sir?"
"Yes," said the King smiling. "He induced his father to fly the
country, when, if he had stayed--but you know that story. So do you
warn him, and the sooner he is beyond La Manche the better."
The Duke looked unhappy. "I dare not do it, sir," he said at last,
after a pause.
"Dare not do it? When I authorise it? Why not?"
"No, sir. Because if I were impeached by the Commons----"
The King shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, these safeguards!" he muttered. "These town councils, and
provincial councils, and States-General! And now these Commons and
Lords! Shall I ever be quit of them? Well, there is but one way then.
I must do it. If they impeach me, I go back to Loo; and they may stew
in their own juice!"
He rose with that, and moving stiffly to the table at which Lord
Portland had been writing when we entered, he sought for and found a
pen. Then sitting in the chair which the Groom of the Stole had left
vacant, he tore a slip of paper from a folio before him and, writing
some lines on it--about six, as far as I could judge--handed the paper
to the Duke, who had remained standing at a formal distance.
"Voila, Monsieur," he said. "Will that suit your lordship?"
The Duke took it respectfully and looked at it. "But, sir, it is in my
name!" he cried, aghast. "And bears my signature."
"_Eh, bien_, why not?" his Majesty answered lightly. "The name is the
name of Jacob, but the hand is the hand of Esau. Take it and send it
by a trusty messenger. Perhaps the man who came with you, and
who--pheugh, my lord! I had forgotten that this person was here! We
have spoken too freely."
The oath which the Duke let fall as he turned, and the face of dismay
and anger with which he gazed on me, were proof enough that he shared
the King's opinion, as he had shared his mistake. For a moment, the
two glaring at me with equal disgust and vexation, I thought I should
sink into the floor. Then the King beckoned me to come forward, and I
obeyed him.