THE GREAT ENTERPRISE
All difficulties were overcome. Louis, angry at the English King's
rejection of his advices, and perhaps hoping that his great enemy would
run on disaster in his audacious undertaking, or perhaps believing that
it was now too late in the year for any such expedition, had suddenly
diverted his troops into Germany, where in a few days he had taken every
fort along the Rhine; successes celebrated with great pomp in Paris, but
worthless indeed to Louis should William accomplish what he was now free
to attempt, and bring England out of her shackles into the alliance
against France.
The Prince's preparations were complete; his Declaration had been
published and circulated in England by the arts of his friends, his
ships and troops were ready, even to the embarking of the soldiery, and
he himself had to-day taken his farewell audience of the States; for now
the south-west wind had changed, and the great fleet gathered at Goree
was free to sail.
Mary, in the chilly autumn garden of the 'huis ten bosch,' waited his
return. Four times a day she went to public prayers, but not all her
ardent faith could quell the tumult in her soul; her anxieties were not
to be repressed, even at the communion table, which added to her
distress, her self-reproach, her uneasiness.
She walked up and down the bare alleys, the hard gravel paths, with a
quick step, between the newly-turned flower-beds, the late yellowing
plants, and stiff evergreens.
The violet St. Michael's daisies were brown and withered on their stems,
the last roses had fallen, and the carp been removed from the fish
basin, where the water lay frost-bound under a thin covering of ice;
there was no sun to cast a shadow from the finger of the grey sundial,
and the sky was obscured with low, floating, changing clouds; a little
wind brought the salt pure air from the sea-coast and stirred Mary's
bright locks inside her miniver hood.
As she was pacing her most familiar and beloved walk, the little alley
at the end of the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees now bare, the
sound of a footstep brought her to turn with a glad expectancy.
But it was not the Prince, only M. Auverqueverque, a noble who had long
been his friend, and who had saved his life amid the bloody steppes of
St. Denis, and for this reason always high in Mary's regard.
"Do you come from the States, sir?" she asked wistfully, speaking in
English, for her Dutch was still very indifferent, and she was shy of
using it save on a necessity.
"Yes, Madam, and I left His Highness conversing with M. Fagel and M.
Heinsius."
The Princess stood still. Her loose velvet coat, of a bright blue
colour, served to accentuate the pallor of her face, which was worn and
strained in expression; her eyes were reddened with recent weeping, and
narrowed with a look of trouble.
"There was no opposition to him--now, I think," she said, with a sudden
smile.
"Madam--none; there was great enthusiasm and great grief at the going of
His Highness," answered M. Auverqueverque warmly. "He alone was
unmoved--I would you could have heard his words, Madam--'I have had no
thought,' he said, 'since I did undertake this position I hold, save for
the good of the States, and I do take God to witness that, if I have
erred, it hath been because I am human, and not through lack of
affection for, or care of, this country. Now, going to make the
endeavour to be of service to our common faith, I do commend to your
care and guardianship all that I hold dear--these States and my
wife'--and at this they were stirred to tears, Madam, for there was not
one who could not remember what he had brought them through."
Mary was silent; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips and looked
towards the house. M. Auverqueverque regarded her tenderly.
"The States professed great devotion to Your Highness," he said, "and
spoke from their hearts."
"I do thank you," she answered, in a very low tone. "Will you not come
into the house?"
He followed her across the bare garden, and there was nothing said
between them, each being deeply engaged with different thoughts on the
same subject.
As they neared the villa, one of the gentlemen of the Princess's
household came to meet them and acquainted Mary that a lady who besought
her charity implored her for an immediate audience.
The Princess was well used to these applications. Out of her meagre
allowance she contrived to greatly assuage the sufferings of the
distressed refugees at The Hague, and this liberality of hers being
known, she received more petitions than she could at all comply with,
which was a source of great distress to her gentle heart.
"Alas!" she said; "I have already a great list of persons unsatisfied,
and worthy cases, too; but it is more than I dare put before His
Highness in this present juncture----"
"This seemeth, Your Highness, a gentlewoman of the better sort, English,
and most earnest for speech with you."
"I can but see her," answered Mary quickly. "Only I trust she will not
raise her hopes of what I can do for her. M. Auverqueverque, forgive
me."
With a little curtsy to that gentleman she entered the house.
"Where is this gentlewoman?"
In her withdrawing room, she was told, and there Mary proceeded, without
ceremony, still wearing her cloak.
The small but handsome room held a pleasant sense of comfort in contrast
to the dead grey weather without. A great log fire cast a glittering
light over the dark furniture, and in the full glow of it stood a tall
lady wrapped in a crimson mantle that half disclosed an embroidered
sacque, and wearing, twisted round her head and shoulders, a fine
Eastern scarf embroidered in many colours; she was much older than Mary,
and looked fatigued to illness; her large fair eyes were heavily
shadowed and her mouth strained, but her appearance was one of great
beauty.
When the Princess entered she made a little deprecating, half-expectant
movement forward, as if hoping for recognition; but she was utterly
strange to Mary, who looked at her in some embarrassment, seeing at once
that this was no ordinary supplicant.
The strange lady gazed at her sadly.
"Ten years have changed you to beauty and me to age, Highness," she
said, in a voice of singular sweetness. "You have forgotten me. And I
should scarcely have known Your Highness."
"Indeed," answered Mary, a little bewildered, "I cannot recall you. But
I do perceive that you are my countrywoman; perhaps I knew you at
Whitehall?"
"It was there we met, Madam,--and of late we have corresponded----"
"Why, who are you, Madam?"
The elder lady cast herself to her knees before the Princess, and
answered with some wildness--
"I am the unfortunate wife of my Lord Sunderland!"
"My Lady Sunderland! Madam, you must not kneel. Oh, what hath passed
in England to bring you here?"
Mary impetuously raised the Countess, who kissed her hands in a kind of
frantic entreaty.
"Where is the Earl?" cried Mary, with a flush of agitation.
"He hath fled," whispered Lady Sunderland, "to Amsterdam, where he is in
hiding. We have lost everything--everything; his life was in danger;
there was no man in all the ministry hated like my lord----"
The painful colour burnt in Mary's cheek.
"His Majesty discovered--the intrigues--with us?" she asked.
"No--else it had been Tower Hill; but the Catholics undermined him--my
lord could not hold his own--he was dismissed all his offices, and when
the Prince his Declaration was spread abroad, there rose such a spirit
in the nation that we were no longer safe, and while we could, we fled."
Mary took a quick step across the room and laid her trembling hand on
Lady Sunderland's arm.
"The King--knoweth?" she asked.
"The last dispatch of M. D'Albeville told him, and he was struck silent
with dismay."
"Alas! alas!" was wrung from Mary, "that this should have had to be! It
is my father, Madam, and I do a bitter thing against him----"
She sank into the great walnut chair by the fire, and the ready tears
overbrimmed and ran down her white cheeks.
"Your Highness hath a patriotic public duty to perform," said Lady
Sunderland. "And must not think of this----"
"No," answered Mary unsteadily, "no;" she stretched out her hand and
drew the other woman towards her; "but you--you have taken a strange
part, my lady----"
"My lord," said the Countess earnestly, "hath served His Highness to his
own extreme peril, and now I am come to plead a pardon for him from
you----"
"But you yourself," urged Mary; "what have you felt towards these
affairs?"
She rose, still holding the fluttering hand of Lady Sunderland, and
looked steadily into her eyes.
"I have done as my lord directed," was the answer. "I have served him
all my life. I shall serve him--always."
Mary dropped her hand. The thought that stirred her was that she could
not judge, since that same unquestioning devotion ruled her life too.
"My lord his services," she said faintly, "are not such as the Prince
can with honour reward."
"Nor," answered my lady with some pride, "such as he can with honour
ignore----"
"He is apostate," said Mary; "that cannot be forgiven."
"It can be pardoned."
"What would you, Madam? The Earl is no subject of the Prince."
"He is his supplicant--as I am; he might have gone to France, but he
hath put himself at the mercy of His Highness."
"The Prince is ever generous," answered Mary, "but what he can do here I
know not."
She drew away a little from the Countess, for in her thoughts were
rising the remembrances of all the ignoble parts my lord had played, and
the ill reports she had received of him and his wife from her sister,
the Princess Anne.
"You must see the Prince," she said, something coldly.
Lady Sunderland was quick to notice this change of manner.
"I am a woman in bitter trouble," she answered. "I stand before you no
better than a beggar. If it were not that I might still be of use to my
lord, I would pray to die."
"You are very weary," said Mary, with instant kindness. She drew her to
seat herself on the long brocade couch--"Poor soul, I doubt that you are
very sad!"
Lady Sunderland looked at her wildly, then burst into anguished tears.
"Ah, Madam!" cried Mary, bending over her, "I do beseech you take
comfort."
The Countess kept her face hidden, and her bowed shoulders heaved.
"Nothing shall happen to the Earl, I dare swear."
Lady Sunderland looked up.
"Forgive me. I have not wept for so long. My son, my eldest son, is
recently dead in Paris in an obscure duel--I hoped so much from
him--once. Dead! Indeed I know not what I say."
Mary shuddered. She recalled the Lady Sunderland of former
days--brilliant, ambitious, superbly happy--a woman she herself had
looked up to with a half awe as a personification of all the allurement
of that splendid life she had left so early; she thought of all the
unscrupulous intrigues, bargains, deceits, buyings and sellings this
lady had helped her shameless husband with; the extraordinary double
game they had played so long and successfully. But looking at this, the
sudden end, penniless, bereaved exile, she felt no scorn, only a great
pity; for the Countess had been faithful, and Mary thought that a great
virtue in a woman.
"I did not know that of Lord Spencer," she said gently. "I am very
sorry; it is sad for you."
The Countess dried her eyes swiftly.
"I do not know why I should weep for him," she answered half fiercely;
"he went near to break my heart. He was what they call worthless."
She paused, and Mary stood silent; she was not unaware that the sharpest
prick to Lord Sunderland's magnificence had ever been that poor useless
rake, his son, nor ignorant of the Countess's long endeavour to make
some show before the world in this matter, and now that broken pride
opened its heart to her, a stranger, the sadness of it held her mute.
Lady Sunderland's wet strained eyes looked past the fireglow to the bare
boughs and cloudy heavens framed in the tall window.
"It is much better that he is gone," she continued. "Yet--last night I
went on the deck of the packet and it was all so dark and cold, not a
star, and the waves sounding, but not to be seen, and I remembered how
little he was once, and how warm in my arms, and then methought he was
somewhere crying for me in the chill blackness ... abroad--in a poor
lodging with no friend."
She wrung her hands together with irrepressible horror.
"My God!" she cried, "there's a way to die!"
Mary caught her arm.
"You must not think of it like that; there is another side to it--God is
very merciful, I know nothing--but in heaven there is great pity for all
of us."
The Countess turned and stared at her a moment, with her handkerchief to
her lips, then said unsteadily--
"I never meant to speak like this--but Your Highness is so gentle----"
Mary smiled.
"I must carry you to my Lady Argyll, Lady Balcarres that was, who is
here with her daughters----"
She turned swiftly, for the door opened, and a familiar voice behind her
said eagerly her name--"Marie, Marie----"
It was the Prince; as he entered he paused, seeing the Countess, who had
instantly risen.
"Lady Sunderland!" he exclaimed, before Mary could speak, and stood
amazed.
They had last seen each other on the occasion of the Prince's last visit
to England, and though he knew her at once he found her considerably
changed.
"The Earl hath fallen?" he added swiftly.
Lady Sunderland was mistress of herself immediately on his appearance.
By force of her long training she fell into the same manner she would
have used to him at Whitehall or Windsor; she gave him a great courtly
curtsy.
"The Earl is a refugee at Amsterdam, Your Highness," she said, "and I am
here beseeching charity."
"Ah." William drew a quick breath. "I thought my lord was safe
enough--the King discovered him?"
"No, sir, the Catholics unseated him."
The Prince crossed slowly to the fire.
"So," he said slowly--"well, Madam, the Earl is safe in Amsterdam, and
the Princess will make you welcome."
A flush of reviving hope kindled the refugee's pale cheek.
"We are assured of the gracious protection of Your Highness?" she asked
ardently.
"My lord hath done me considerable service," answered William. "But,
Madam, he is not loved by those English I have about me now." He smiled
dryly. "Yet, if he will lie quiet awhile--I am not ungrateful----"
"It is all we ask," said Lady Sunderland warmly. "My lord wisheth only
to live in quiet obscurity unless he can serve Your Highness--some
way----"
William gave her a keen look.
"I hardly think," he answered, "that M. de Sunderland is fitted for
quiet obscurity--but perhaps he will endure it a little while. I leave
for Helvoetsluys to-morrow."
"God bless this noble enterprise Your Highness hath on hand!" cried the
Countess fervently. "Could you see the crowds waiting outside Whitehall
and a-studying the weather-cock and praying for a Protestant wind you
would be heartened further in your daring!"
The Prince took a swift look at his wife, who stood with averted face by
the window.
"The King--how took he the news?" he asked.
"I heard that he was all bewildered (being then deeply engaged in the
Cologne dispute and thinking nothing of this, like a man besotted) and
would not part with the Declaration of Your Highness, but carried it
about with him re-reading it--then he called the bishops to ask if they
had put their hands to the invitation, and they gave him no--after which
he made all manner of concessions, like one in a panic fear----"
"Concessions?" interrupted the Prince.
"Sir, he gave back the charter to the city with due solemnity, and their
privileges to the fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and there was held an
inquiry into the birth of the Prince of Wales--all of which but wasted
the dignity of His Majesty and brought more ridicule than respect--for
all are equally eager for Your Highness, and these concessions come too
late."
"Too late, indeed," said William quietly. "I hope this week to be in
England. How came you across, Madam? I have stopped the packet service
lest they carry too sure advices of what we do here----"
Lady Sunderland smiled sadly.
"In a little owler, sir, we slipped off from Margate sands, and the
weather was so terrible we were like to have been whelmed by the
overtopping waves; yet we gained Maaslandsluys, and from there my lord
went on to Amsterdam----"
"He was wise," said the Prince, "not to come to The Hague."
Lady Sunderland looked at Mary, who had stood motionless so long.
"Your Highness--may I not retire? I have taken too much of your
time----"
The Princess turned about with a little start.
"Where are you lodging?" she asked.
"With one Madame de Marsac--known, I think, to Your Highness----"
"You must stay with me," answered Mary warmly, yet with a curious absent
air of distraction. "I will take you to the other English ladies----"
She looked at her husband.
"I shall come back," she said. He gave a little nod which cut short the
graceful gratitude of the Countess, and the two ladies left.
Now he was alone he seated himself near to the fire with that air of
utter fatigue that was like apathy and seemed at times, when he was out
of the sight of men, to overwhelm his great spirit.
He sat quite still, gazing into the fire from under drooping lids, and
when Mary softly returned he did not move.
She slipped behind his chair and took the stool the opposite side of the
hearth; she had put off her cloak; the firelight touched her brown dress
and brown hair to a beautiful ruby warmth and gave a false rosiness to
her pale face.
"I am grieved for Lady Sunderland," she said.
The Prince answered absently.
"Ah yes--I believe she is a knave like him--but they are clever, and he
at least hath some root of patriotism in him."
"Yet I am sorry that you must use such people."
He made no reply, but continued to gaze sadly and sternly into the fire.
Mary gave a little shudder.
"I cannot believe that to-morrow we go to Helvoetsluys----"
Her voice broke, and she steadied it hastily.
"The States are coming also, are they not, to see your departure?"
"They are paying me that compliment," he answered indifferently.
"What chance will your poor wife have to speak to you then--amid that
pomp----"
He sat up and looked at her with instant attention.
"Have you something that you wish to say to me, Marie?"
"Yes," she said earnestly. "I do desire to ask you--for your own
sake--to see that no harm happeneth to--my father."
Now she had spoken she sat very pale and distressed, but fixing him with
her soft brown eyes ardently.
He flushed, and seemed much moved.
"That you should need to ask----" he began, then checked himself. "I
promise," he said.
"For your own dear sake," she cried, "forgive me for speaking of
this--but let people know you would not have him hurt----"
He gazed at her intently.
"This is hard for you," he replied. "I could not go without your
sanction and your help----"
He broke off again. Speech, which had always seemed inadequate to him,
now seemed to merely travesty his feelings.
She too was silent; she had lowered her eyes and seemed to be thinking
deeply. The Prince studied her with an almost painful intensity.
She was so lovely, so gracious, so sweet, so high souled ... he
remembered how he had disliked and despised her, treated her with
neglect, then indifference, made no effort to please or win her; and yet
she, during the ten years of their marriage, had never from the first
failed in obedience, sweetness, self-abnegation, nor once faltered from
a passionate devotion to his interests, an unchanging belief in him, and
now, for him, she was doing violence to her own heart and setting
herself in active opposition against her father, a tremendous thing for
such a nature to bring itself to. As he gazed at her fair youth, pale
with anxiety for him, he felt she was the greatest triumph of his life,
and her love an undeserved miracle.
And there came to his mind a certain conversation that he had had with
Sir William Temple in a sunny garden at Nymwegen before his marriage.
He remembered that the Englishman had smiled at his scornful talk of the
Princess, and had said--"Do not despise good women because there are so
many of them----"
Mary suddenly moved and rose. The sun had parted the loose clouds and a
fine ray fell through the tall window and shone in her bright hair and
satin skirt. His thoughts were scattered by her movement; he rose also.
She smiled at him.
"How kind you are to me," she said, trembling, and very low.
"Dear God!" he exclaimed softly, as if he was mocked. "In what way?"
"In giving me so much more of your company of late," answered Mary
simply.
The Prince looked at her strangely.
"Women are wonderful," he said humbly.