STORMS
The long sand-dunes about the village of Scheveningen were covered with
spectators to the number of several thousands, comprising nearly the
entire population of The Hague, several strangers, refugees from other
parts of Holland, and many French, German, and English; they were
principally women, children, and old men, or those in the sober attire
of merchants, clerks, servants, or shopkeepers.
One single object seemed to animate these people; they were all utterly
silent, and all directed their gaze in one direction--that of the sea.
There, covering the entire sweep of water and obscuring the great
horizon itself, rode that huge armament which contained the whole
strength of the Republic, and on which was staked her hopes and her
safety.
This fleet had weighed anchor during the stillness of the previous
night; a few hours after the wind had turned to the south and so brought
all the ships on the north coast, where, for half a day, they had been
in full view of The Hague.
The weather was still and warm, the sky a sunny blue, and the long
stretches of the dunes touched from their usual greyness to a gold look.
Towards afternoon a fine mist rose shimmering from the sea and gave a
curious unreal flatness to the naval pageantry, as if it was some
magnificent vision painted between sea and sky.
Without speaking, save in short whispers to each other, without moving,
save to change their places by a few steps, the people continued to gaze
at the gorgeous spectacle, the like of which no living man had been able
to see before.
There were no less than sixty-five great ships of wars, splendid vessels
rising high above the waves, with much gold on them, seventy vessels of
burden in attendance on them and five hundred transports.
These ships carried five thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry of
the magnificent Dutch army, the six British regiments in the employ of
the States, the French Protestants formed into a regiment by the Prince
after the Edict of Nantz was revoked, and the whole artillery of every
town in the Republic, which had been left stripped of all defences save
twelve ships of war and the German troops on the Rhine frontier.
The immobile, silent effect of this great and terrible fleet, spreading
for miles and representing the entire strength of a vast maritime power,
making little progress and waiting for the wind, wrought a kind of
exaltation in the hearts of the spectators, all of whom felt their
fortunes dependent on the success of this enterprise, and most of whom
had friends and relations on board, or in England, whose lives were now
at the hazard.
But no dread of personal loss or discomfiture, no fear for those dear to
them, could equal the grand swell of pride the Dutch felt at beholding
the magnificence of the Republic they had built up out of blood and
tears, the power of the Religion they had preserved through perils and
agonies inconceivable, and which had now grown, from a little feeble
spark, to a torch to illume half the world.
The dangers to which they were exposed, the chances of attack from a
powerful enemy while their defences were abroad courting the fortune of
war and the hazard of the winds and sea, the fact that their artillery
was gone and their frontier was on one side in the possession of their
enemies and on the other but protected by German mercenaries, could not
check the sense of glory that stirred them as they watched the changing
leagues of ships, so near, yet so silent and beyond communication.
The exiles, French and English, gazed with more sullen feelings; but
while no national pride was thrilled in their bosoms, the thought of
their former wrongs and suffering and the anticipation of their speedy
avenging made them no less fiercely wish success to those spreading
sails wooing the wind for England. And there was one foreigner, who
loved Holland as her own country, and whose heart beat with a pride and
a terror as intense as that which inspired any of the Dutch.
This was the wife of the Stadtholder, who had yesterday returned from
Helvoetsluys. She had been above two hours riding up and down the sands
watching the slow passing of the fleet; in her company were the English
ladies, the Countesses of Sunderland and Argyll and some of her own
attendants; she had been very silent, and, now, as the afternoon was
fading, she touched up her beast and galloped away from all of them
along the dunes.
She reined her black horse at a higher point where some sparse poplar
trees, stunted, leafless, and tufts of crackling grass grew out of the
dry white sand, and looked round at the great sweep of sea covered with
ships and the great curve of shore covered with people.
Then her glance returned to the object where it had rested since she
first rode down to Scheveningen, the blue flag hanging heavily above the
"Brill," the ship in which the Prince sailed.
Amid all the crossed lines of mighty masts, intricate cordage, and
strained sails she had never failed to distinguish, now in sun, now in
shade, sometimes lifted by the breeze, sometimes slack, this standard,
though she was very shortsighted, and much clear to the other spectators
was a blur to her. When she used her perspective glass she could
sometimes read the legend on this flag, which was the motto of the House
of Orange with the ellipsis filled in--"I will maintain the liberties of
England and the Protestant Religion."
Mary rode out farther along the dunes, the crisp sand flying from her
horse's feet. She was a fine horsewoman, and had dropped the reins on
her saddle to hold her glass. The wind was keen on her face and swept
back the long curls from her ears and fluttered the white plume in her
beaver. Though she was near so vast a multitude no human sound
disturbed the clear stillness; there was only the long beat of the surf
on the smooth wet sand and an occasional cry of some pearl-coloured
sea-bird as he flashed across the golden grey.
In Mary's heart all terror, remorse, sadness had been absorbed by strong
pride; the doubts, shames, fears that had tortured her were gone; she
did not think of her father, of her danger, of her loneliness, only that
she, of all the women there, was the beloved wife of the man who led
this--a nation's strength--into war for that cause which to her was the
holiest of all causes, the new liberty against the ancient tyranny,
tolerance against oppression--all that she symbolized by the word
Protestantism.
She was so absorbed in this ecstasy of pride and enthusiasm at the sight
on which she gazed that she started considerably to hear a voice close
beside her say--
"Is it not a magnificent spectacle, Madam?" Mary turned quickly and saw
a plainly dressed lady on a poor hired beast riding close up to her.
Solitude was dear to the Princess, but to rebuke an advance was
impossible to her nature.
"Are you from The Hague?" she asked gently.
"Yes, Madam, I came there yesterday."
She was English, and obviously did not know Mary, who was moved by
something pitifully eager and wistful in her worn thin face and stooping
figure.
"You are belike one of the English exiles?" she suggested kindly.
The other opened out at once with a glow of gratitude at the interest.
"My husband was an officer in the Staffordshire, Madam, and we had no
money but his pay, so when he refused to abjure there was nothing for us
but exile."
Mary pointed to the fleet.
"He--your husband--is there?"
"Yes--the Prince gave him a pair of colours in one of the English
regiments."
"You should be proud," smiled Mary.
She answered simply--
"I am very proud. I pray God to bless the Prince day and night. Where
should such as I be but for him? You, I see, Madam, are also English."
"Yes."
The stranger lady glanced at Mary's gold-braided coat and splendid
horse.
"But not a refugee?" she questioned.
"No--my home is at The Hague. I am married to a Dutchman."
The other was looking out to sea again.
"Can you tell me how the ships are disposed?" she asked.
"What is your name, Madam?"
"Dorothy Marston."
"Well, Mrs. Marston, those in the foremost squadron, to the left"--Mary
indicated them with her riding-stock--"have on board the English and
Scotch, commanded by General Mackay--they sail under the red flag of
Admiral Herbert."
"Who is given the van out of compliment to the English," remarked Mrs.
Marston, with sparkling eyes.
Mary drew an excited breath.
"Those scattered ships, under the white flag, are the Germans, the
Prince his guards and Brandenburgers under Count Zolms, and these that
bring up the van are the Dutch and the French Huguenots under the Count
of Nassau--this squadron is under the orders of Admiral Evertgen."
"And where, Madam, is the Prince?"
"In the centre--you can see his flag with his arms--it is called the
'Brill.'"
"Thank you, Madam--it is a noble sight, is it not?"
Mary laughed softly; she was so secure in her own exaltation, that she
felt a kind of pity for the rest of the world.
"Your husband is aboard the fleet?" asked Mrs. Marston, with friendly
curiosity.
"Yes," said Mary quietly.
"Well, there is heartache in it as well as pride for us, is not there,
Madam?"
Mary answered with sparkling animation, her eyes on the blue flag.
"That is for afterwards."
Mrs. Marston sighed.
"I know--but one storm----"
"Speak not of storms," answered Mary, "when we have all whom we love on
board yonder ships----"
"Not _all_."
Mary turned her eyes from the fleet that was gradually becoming
enveloped in the mists of the darkening afternoon.
"How--not all?"
"There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a bright
tenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as The
Hague is so expensive----"
Mary's horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to
her bosom. "They are--boys?" she asked, in a changed voice.
"Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate--but they are
too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it."
Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds
hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a
longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war
could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards,
and the little boats were pitched low on their sides.
"It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her
pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag
were sad and wild.
"A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!"
Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude.
"What is that?"
"They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low.
The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the
masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her
thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of.
"It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir."
"His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary,
with sudden harshness.
"Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and
terrible for a great Prince--for how useless all seemeth with none to
inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly----"
Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no
notice.
"I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a
crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing--I met in Utrecht a
Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor
lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for
ever----"
Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and
the shade of her hat.
"Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I--you do not understand--do
people _talk_ of this? God is hard, it seems--and you have children,
and I _pitied_ you. I have been too proud--but humbled enough, I
think."
Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make
no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise.
"Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."
Mary was facing the sea again.
"No--continue--people _talk_ of this?" She was facing the overwhelming
bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too
sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an
extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored
before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known
that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that
affected nations.
"You must have heard it spoken of if you have lived any time in
Holland," answered Mrs. Marston--"ay, or in England either--they say
'tis a pity the Princess cannot do as the Queen did, and smuggle an heir
out of a warming-pan--why, see, the ships are moving out of sight!"
A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky and
drove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse of
waves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people were
beginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away like
vapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in the
storm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching to
the pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near the
horizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; the
momentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few careless
words.
Mrs. Marston spoke again, but Mary did not hear her; she was alone in a
world of her own. The rapidly disappearing fleet was blurred to her
vision, but she could still see the great light at the prow of the
"Brill" as the crowded canvas bent and leapt before the sudden fury of
the wind.
"A storm," she said, aloud--"a storm."
Her horse moved along the dunes and she did not check him; against the
blue-black clouds was the indistinct figure of Dorothy Marston on her
little knock-kneed hack, excitedly waving her handkerchief to the
disappearing ships.
Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped back
towards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants were
waiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she could
not have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out Lady
Sunderland.
"Let us go home," she said; "it is going to be a stormy night."
The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner--the brave calm
changed to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned to
trembling sorrow.
"Those ships, Highness," she answered, "can weather very fierce storms."
"Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quivering
voice--"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet will
survive a deep thrust----"
She lifted her beautiful face to the failing light; even the lantern on
the "Brill" had disappeared now; the dark sea was almost clear of sail,
the horizon was obscured in part by the passing of the vanguard, but for
the rest was silver white, a line of radiance fast being obscured by the
overwhelming threatening clouds.
In silence Mary turned and rode back to The Hague; the other ladies
whispered together, but she said nothing until they reached the 'huis
ten bosch'; then the rain was falling in cold drops and the heavy wind
was casting down the snapped branches along the wide bare avenue.
They dismounted, and Mary turned impulsively to the little quiet group.
"You are extraordinarily kind to me," she said, "and I must thank you
all."
She smiled a little and went from them to her chamber, and then walked
straight to the window embrasure and stood listening to the growing
sound of the wind that lashed the darkness with spreading fury.
She would not come down to supper or even change her clothes, though she
was usually very careful not to disturb the routine of her well-ordered
life; yet, in this little intimate court where every one was her friend,
she felt she might allow herself this solitude.
With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the rain
dashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the wind
was tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it.
Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; when they were
brought she sent for Lady Sunderland.
The Countess came, looking wan and old; she wore no rouge, and the fair,
carelessly dressed hair showed the grey locks unconcealed.
Mary turned to her dry-eyed.
"Do you hear the storm?" she said. She was seated on a low red stool by
the window and held a Prayer Book in her right hand.
"My Lady Argyll is weeping downstairs," said Lady Sunderland; "but I
perceive that Your Highness hath more constancy."
Mary held up the Prayer Book.
"I have been trying to set my mind on this," she answered, "but the
devil is busy about me--and I cannot fix my thoughts on anything
but--those ships----"
Lady Sunderland, who had made a great clatter with her devotions at
Whitehall, with the sole object of covering her husband's apostasy, but
who had no real religion, knew not what to say.
"God," continued the Princess gravely, "must surely protect an
enterprise so just, but since His ways are mysterious it might be His
will to bring us to disaster, and, humanly speaking, it is a terrible
night."
"I fear they will be diverted from their course," said the Countess,
"since faith cannot still the winds----"
Mary rose and handed her the Prayer Book.
"I think we should pray--will you read?--I have had a course of humours
in my eyes, and of late they are so weak----"
The Countess took the book with shaking fingers, then laid it down on
the blue-and-white chintz-covered chair beside her.
"I cannot," she said half fiercely. "It is, Madam, no use."
Mary looked at her curiously, and a pause of silence fell, during which
the triumphant progress of the storm seemed to gather and swell abroad
like a trumpet blast without the dark window.
Presently Mary said in a moved and barely audible voice--
"Madam--about your son--have you ever thought that you would--forgive
me--but he was nothing but pain to you----"
She paused, and Lady Sunderland answered from a kind of
self-absorption--
"I did my best. It all seemeth so pointless now we are ruined--I
thought of the name, but there is his brother--a cold, hard spirit who
hath no kindness for me."
Mary was looking at her intently.
"That must be terrible," she said, breathing quick. "To have children
who love one not--do you not think, perhaps, Madam, that it might be
better--to--to have none?"
Suddenly Lady Sunderland saw what she meant, divined the desperate
appeal for comfort disguised in the halting sentence.
"I do think so, truly, Madam," she answered instantly. "My children
have, for all my care, been but discomfort to me."
"But there was the time when they were little," said Mary, with a note
in her voice that caused Lady Sunderland to turn away her face. "And
you must have been glad of them--I--ah, I forgot what I was saying."
She was young enough herself to be the Countess's daughter, and that
lady felt a great desire to take her in her arms and weep over her, but
a certain reserve and majesty about Mary's very simplicity prevented her
from even discovering her sympathy.
"It is very strange to me to think of my husband abroad in this great
storm," said the Princess, looking up at the window. "I bless my God
that I have the trust to believe that he is safe," she added quietly.
"It was as if my heart was torn out when he left me, and since I have
been in a kind of numbness."
"It is hard on women that they must always sit at home," remarked the
Countess; she thought of her own lord lurking in the back streets of
Amsterdam; she would rather have been with him than playing her part at
The Hague.
The wind rose on a great shriek that seemed to rattle every board in the
house.
Mary winced back from the window, and her face was white even in the
candle glow.
"Let us go to prayers," she said faintly.