BY THE GRACE OF GOD
The Princess's boat, with her escort of Dutch warships, rode in the
Thames at last. The frost had broken, and she arrived not long after
her letter to Lord Danby had scattered that statesman's party, and
frustrated his hopes of placing her on the throne. The Prince having
soon after declared his mind to the lords in council, that he would
accept no position dependent on his wife's pleasure or the life of
another (for there had been talk of a regency, leaving the King the
nominal title), made it clear that if his services were to be retained,
if he was not to abandon them to the confusion, strife, and disaster
from which his presence alone saved them, he must be King. All parties
uniting, then, on what was now proved to be the winning side, the
Convention voted the offer of the crown to the Prince and Princess
jointly--the sole administration to rest with him.
The succession, after naming the direct line, was left vague to please
the Prince, who was free to flatter himself that he could choose his own
heir.
This news had come to Mary before she left The Hague, and she knew that
the day after her landing there would be a formal offering and
acceptance of the crown of Great Britain. She beheld the prospect with
extraordinary sensations as, passing Gravesend, and leaving her vessel
and escort at Greenwich, she proceeded in a state barge to the more
familiar reaches of the river, Rotherhithe, Wapping, and presently the
Tower, rising golden grey in the chill spring sunshine, by the bridge
with the deep crazy arches through which the water poured in dangerous
rapids. Crowded with houses was this old bridge, and in the centre a
little chapel with a bell, now ringing joyfully.
Mary remembered it all--the long busy wharves, now taking holiday; the
barges, boats, and compact shipping now hung with flags; Galley Key,
where the slaves in chains unlade the oranges, silks, and spices from
the East; the houses, on the side of Surrey, among which rose the spire
of the great church at Southwark; the merchants' houses built down to
the water's edge, with pleasant gardens filled with poplar trees and set
with the figureheads of ships in which some adventurer had sailed his
early travels long ago in the time of Elizabeth Tudor; and the distant
prospect of the city itself shimmering now under an early haze of
sunshine.
All was utterly strange, yet nothing was altered; it looked the same as
when, weeping to leave England, she had come down these waters in a
barge with her silent husband, ten years ago, and waited at Gravesend
for the wind.
One difference attracted Mary's eyes. Behind and beyond the Tower a
mass of scaffolding rose that dominated the whole city, and through the
crossed poles, boards, and ropes, she could discern the majestic outline
of the dome of that vast church which had been slowly rising out of the
ashes of the old St. Paul's since she was a child.
At the Tower Wharf she landed, laughing hysterically, and hardly knowing
what she did. They gave her a royal salute of cannon, and she saw all
the guards drawn up in squares, with their spears in the midst, and a
red way of brocade carpet laid down for her, and a coach with white
horses and running footmen, and beyond, a press of noblemen and
officers, and the sheriffs and aldermen of the city with the Lord Mayor.
She hesitated on the gangway, amidst her ladies, her spirit completely
overwhelmed. She looked round desperately for some one to whom to
say--"I cannot do it--I cannot put it through. I must die, but I cannot
be Queen."
The complete incomprehension on the excited faces of these ladies, the
strangeness of many of them, recalled her with a shock to herself; she
felt as if she had been on the point of betraying her husband. She
recalled his last letter, in which he had asked her to show no grief or
hesitation in her manner, and, biting her lips fiercely, she stepped
firmly on to English soil, and managed somehow to respond to the lowly
salutations of the crowd pressing to receive her. The Prince was by the
coach door; she noticed that he wore his George and garter, which he had
not done perhaps twice before. There were a great many gentlemen behind
him, many of them those whom she had already met at The Hague, others
strange to her, several of the Dutch officers, and M. Bentinck in
mourning for his wife.
Mary, still English enough to think her country the finest in the world,
was thrilled with pleasure to see how respectfully all these great
nobles held themselves to the Prince. She was used to see him receive
this homage in his own country and from the magnates of the Empire, but
these Englishmen were to her more than any German princes.
The Prince took her hand and kissed it, and said very quickly in Dutch--
"I would that this had been in Holland."
The English gentlemen bowed till their long perukes touched their knees,
Mary entered the coach with Lady Argyll and a Dutch lady, the Prince
mounted his white horse, and the cavalcade started through the expectant
city with all that pomp which the people would not forgo and the Prince
to-day could not avoid.
All London was eager for a sight of the Princess. The last Queen,
foreign, proud Romanist, and hard, had never been a favourite, the Queen
Dowager had never counted for anything, and was now a forgotten figure
in Somerset House; but Mary was English, Protestant, and her image had
long been faithfully cherished in England as that of a native Princess
who would some day restore the old faith. Therefore her greeting was
such as made her turn pale; she had never before heard such thunders of
acclamation, popular as she was in the United Provinces.
Every road, every housetop, all the windows, alleys, and turnings were
filled with well-dressed, orderly people, who cheered her and cheered
the Prince till Mary felt dizzy. She saw in this their true title to
the crown; the lords were but obeying the people in setting it on their
heads, and she recalled how these same Londoners had besieged the doors
of Westminster Hall, while the Convention was sitting, and threatened to
use violence if the Prince was not elected King.
Her appearance of beautiful youth, her sparkling excitement, her
gracious smiles made a favourable impression, and further roused the
enthusiasm which the very stiff demeanour of the Prince, to whom this
display was hateful, was apt to damp.
By the time they reached Whitehall she was more popular than he, and the
nobles who rode in the procession thought to themselves that the English
wife would serve to keep the foreign husband in the affections of the
people.
Whitehall was filled with English, Dutch, and Scotch waiting to kiss her
hand: Mr. Sidney was there, Mr. Herbert, Mr. Russell, Lord Shrewsbury,
Lord Devonshire, Lord Halifax, Lord Godolphin, Lord Danby, and others
whom she did not know or had forgotten; their background was that
splendid palace, seeming vast and magnificent indeed after her houses in
Holland, which she had left so sadly ten years ago. Then she had wept,
now she laughed and was very gracious, but in her heart she was as
reluctant to enter Whitehall as she had ever been to leave it; the
memories the place aroused were poignant, not sweet.
It was three hours before she found herself alone with the Prince in
that gorgeous little chamber that had once been her father's, and still
contained his pictures, statues, his monogram and arms on chairs and
carvings.
The instant he had closed the door the Prince kissed her in silence, and
she burst into speech.
"Are you satisfied? Are you pleased? Is this another step in your
task--they--these people--will they help? How long the time hath
seemed!"
"To me also," said the Prince unsteadily.
She stepped back to look at him anxiously: he was extravagantly vestured
in embroidered scarlet, lace, jewels, the George and garter conspicuous,
and a great star of diamonds on his breast. A close scrutiny showed
that he looked more ill and weary than she had ever known him.
"You are changed," she said quickly. "Oh, my dear, the climate doth not
suit you----"
He smiled languidly.
"I would we had met in Holland," he answered. "I am sick for Holland,
Marie."
"Already?"
He seated himself in the deep window-seat that overlooked the privy
garden and she took the low stool beside, studying him wistfully for one
hint of that enthusiasm and elation which she hoped would be called
forth by his splendid success.
"We could not have asked God for a more happy ending," she said in a
trembling voice.
"They--the English--will declare against France," he answered, but
without spirit, and as if it was an effort to speak at all. "If I could
get them into the field this spring----" He was interrupted by his
cough, which was violent and frequent, and he flung the window open
impatiently. "There is no air in this place," he continued, in a
gasping voice; "their smoky chimneys and their smells are killing me; I
cannot endure London."
"We need not live here," said Mary quickly.
"They think so," he returned; "'tis our post, where we are paid to
be----"
The scarcely concealed bitterness with which he spoke of England was a
matter of amaze and terror to Mary, in whose ears still rang the
enthusiastic shouts of the people and the flatteries of the courtiers.
"But you are popular----" she began.
"Hosanna to-day, and to-morrow crucify!" he answered. "I shall not long
be popular--the great lords have not loved me from the first. They
offer me the throne because there is no other to serve their turn, and I
take it because it is the only way to secure them against France. But I
undertake hard service, Marie."
"You mean--the difficulties?"
"The difficulties! I confess I am overwhelmed by them; everything is
confusion--everything! To get the bare Government on a business footing
would take a year's hard work, saying every one was honest--and every
one is corrupt. I can trust none of them. There is Ireland in a
ferment and the Scottish affairs in a tangle; there are a hundred
different parties, with indecipherable politics, waiting to fly at each
other's throats; the Church is hydra-headed with factions--and a cow
might as well be set to catch a hare as I set to put this straight, and
I have had the business of Europe to conduct already."
Mary's pride and pleasure were utterly dashed. Troubles and
difficulties she had been prepared for, but they had been vague and
distant; she had not thought to find the Prince already whelmed in them.
She reflected swiftly on the anxiety, labour, and anguish that had gone
to this expedition, the odium they had both incurred, the violence she
had done her own feelings, and she wondered desperately if it had been
worth the price.
The Prince took her hand, having noticed the paling of her face and the
distress in her eyes.
"We will talk of other things," he said, with an effort over his tired
voice. "I am weak to burden you at once with this; you at least will be
beloved here----"
Mary broke in passionately--
"I do not love England--nor want to be Queen. I doubt I can do it--I
was made for little things and peace--I hate this palace," she glanced
desperately round her father's splendour; "our own homes--where we were
so happy--are they not better?"
The Prince went very pale.
"I should not have repined," he said; "it is my task, which I must put
through ... the part you have been made to take is the worst for me--the
part you may have to take----"
"If it serveth you I am very content," she answered; "if I can do
anything to help I shall be happy----"
The tears sprang into the Prince's eyes. He looked away out of the
window.
"Marie--about His late Majesty--I could not help--that he was stopped in
Kent ... I would not have had it happen----"
"Do not fear," she answered wildly, "that I do not in everything hold
you justified?"
Her voice broke, and she began to weep.
The Prince rose and helped her to her feet.
"We must not show tears here," he said gently, "for we are not at
home--but among many enemies----"
She dried her eyes and smiled bravely.
"Do we feel constraint so soon?"
"We pay something," he said sadly, "that we are, by the grace of God,
Monarchs of England."
PART II
THE QUEEN
"I have really hardly had time to say my prayers, and was feign to run
away to Kensington, where I had three hours of quiet, which was more
than I had had together since I saw you.
"That place made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear
company; but now--I will say no more, for I shall hurt my own eyes,
which I now want more than ever.
"Adieu! Think of me and love me as much as I shall you, who I love more
than my life."--QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 15*th July* 1690.
"Every hour maketh me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I
hear stir I think bringeth me a letter.... I have stayed till I am
almost asleep in hopes; but they are vaine, and I must once more go to
bed and wished to be waked with a letter, which I shall at last get, I
hope ... adieu! Do but love me and I can bear anything."--QUEEN MARY TO
KING WILLIAM, _July_ 1690.
--"My poor heart is ready to break every time I think in what perpetual
danger you are; I am in greater fears than can be imagined by any who
loves less than myself.
"I count the hours and the moments, and have only reason left to
think--as long as I have no letters all is well.... I never do anything
without thinking--now, it may be, you are in the greatest dangers, and
yet I must see company on my set days; I must play twice a week; nay, I
must laugh and talk, tho' never so much against my will. I believe that
I dissemble very ill to those who know me; at least it is a great
constraint to myself, yet I must endure it. All my movements are so
watched, and all I do so observed, that if I eat less, speak less, or
look more grave, all is lost in the opinion of the world; so that I have
this misery added to that of your absence and my fears for your dear
person, that I must grin when my heart is ready to break, and talk when
my heart is so oppressed I can scarce breathe.... Besides, I must hear
of business, which, being a thing I am so new in and so unfit for, doth
but break my brains the more and not ease my heart....
"Farewell! Do but continue to love me and forgive the taking up so much
of your time to your poor wife, who deserves more pity than ever any
creature did, and who loves you a great deal too much for her own ease,
tho' it can't be more than you deserve."--QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM,
5*th September* 1690.
CHAPTER I
A DARK DAWNING
In the King's antechamber at Kensington House my Lord Dorset and one of
his pensioners (of which he had a many) awaited an audience of His
Majesty.
It was a year since the Revolution, a cold-wet autumn, and Kensington
House, recently bought from my Lord Nottingham, stood blank and sad
among dripping wet trees.
Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park
spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman,
found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the
King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court,
Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with
the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand.
Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more
interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord
Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office
of Lord Chamberlain.
Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King's
Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour.
Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he
passed--
"Good God! we are like to get on the rocks--nothing is right."
When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to
his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness--
"You see--I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had
best not press for an audience to-day----"
But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came
out.
He stood for a second in the doorway, looking at the few gentlemen
standing about the bare, large room; then his glance fell on Lord
Dorset, who moved forward with his splendid air of grace.
"Is it the wrong moment to present to the notice of Your Majesty the
young poet of whom I spoke yesterday?"
The King's large open eyes turned to the pale and agitated young man in
question, who instantly went on his knees.
"A poet?" repeated William; the word to him conveyed a mild, but
scarcely harmless madness. He thought the patronage of these people an
irritating trait in his Lord Chamberlain. "Have we not already poets in
our Court?"
Lord Dorset smiled.
"This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did much
service in writing of satires----"
"We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose own
country the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turned
gravely to the young man--
"What is your name?"
"Matthew Prior, Your Majesty."
"You wish a post about the Court, Mr. Prior?"
The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes.
"I have desired all my life to serve Your Majesty," he answered, which
was true enough, for he cherished an almost romantical admiration for
William.
"My Lord Dorset," said the King, "is a fine guarantee for any man; we
will find some place for you----" He cut short protestations of
gratitude by saying, "You must not expect us to read your poems, Mr.
Prior."
"Your Majesty was ever severe on that art," smiled Lord Dorset.
"I do not understand it," said William simply; but the Lord Chamberlain
had a fine enough perception to discern that there had been more poetry
in the actions of the King's life than ever Matthew Prior could get on
paper. He took the following silence for dismissal, and withdrew with
his grateful pensioner.
The King drew out his watch, glanced at it, and called up one of the
ushers at the further doors.
"When Lord Halifax arriveth bid him come at once to us."
He hesitated a moment, looking at the sombre prospect of grey and rain
to be seen through the long windows, then returned to his private room
and closed the door.
A wood fire burnt between two brass andirons and filled the plain closet
with warmth, above the walnut bureau hung a map of the United Provinces,
and on the high mantelshelf stood several ornaments and vases in
blue-and-white delft.
The King seated himself in the red damask covered chair before the desk,
and mechanically took up the quill that lay before him; but presently it
fell from his fingers and he leant back in his seat, staring at the map
of his country.
Since his coronation in April last, nay, since his first assuming the
government a year ago, everything had gone wrong, and he had been blamed
for it; nothing could exaggerate the difficulties of his position. He
had partially expected them, for he was not naturally sanguine, but his
worst imaginings had fallen short of the actual happenings.
Affairs had now reached a crisis. In England, Scotland, and Ireland was
a deadlock, on the Continent imminent peril, and the King, for the first
time in his life, doubted his own capacity to deal with such huge
obstacles as those which confronted and threatened to overwhelm him.
Sitting utterly still, he mentally faced the task before him.
He believed that to fail utterly was impossible, since that would be to
deny the teaching of his own soul, and so, God; but he might fail
partially, and he might, even in winning a small measure of success,
forfeit tremendous stakes.
The loss of personal ease, of his popularity in England, a complete
misunderstanding of his motives, the rancorous, malicious hate of his
enemies--these things he had, from the moment of his coronation, been
prepared for; but it might be that he would be called upon to make
vaster sacrifices--the friendship of many former supporters, even their
long-cherished love and loyalty, the trust and confidence of the allies,
the admiration of the dissenting churches throughout Europe, even his
own peace of soul. Everything in brief, that he valued, save the love
of Mary and the friendship of William Bentinck, must be pledged, and
might be lost in this forthcoming conflict.
He had honestly and justly tried to satisfy the English, but had met
with utter failure. They reproached--reviled him, complained, and
loudly voiced their dissatisfaction; he had not pleased one of those who
had placed him on the throne. The chaotic state of the Government
might, to a superficial observer, appear to give some warrant for their
discontent; but, as the King cynically observed to himself, they were
incapable of even suggesting a remedy for the ills they so decried; he
did everything, and Whig and Tory alike agreed in putting all burdens on
his shoulders, then in blaming his administration.
In the crisis of '88 their action had been oblique. They had shifted
the almost intolerable confusion of affairs into his hands, then stood
back to watch and criticise, while he, who had already the business of
half Europe on his mind, made what order he could out of jarring chaos.
His health had broken under the strain; even his friends noticed a new
languor in him, which the English were quick to dub sloth. Deprived of
his one recreation of hunting--for which he had no time--hardly able to
endure the stenches and smoke of London, his reserved temper taxed
almost beyond bearing by the incessant, unreasonable, shortsighted
quarrelling by which he was surrounded, he felt his strength slipping
like water through his hands.
His popularity had gone as he had predicted it would. The Jacobites
were already a tremendously strong party, and his own ministers were
half of them already beginning to traffic with the exiled King--who was
now in Ireland with French troops, and of whom it had been said that,
would he but change his religion, he could not be kept out of England
six weeks.
William, reviewing his position, smiled at the shallow taunts that
accused him of having thirsted for a crown.
He was working like a galley-slave for England--working with
insufficient money, false servants, unfriendly onlookers, and an
apathetic nation ready to seize on frivolous pretexts to dub him
unpopular--and his reward for labours, that perhaps not one of his
subjects had any conception of, was the nominal dignity of kingship and
the long-fought-for alliance of England with the States.
He was certainly paying a bitter price.
All the great nobles were dissatisfied. The King had a keen dislike of
party, and his ideal of government was a cabinet comprising of the best
men of every faction to advise a ruler free to decide the final issue of
every question. He had tried this scheme in England, equally honouring
Whig and Tory, and taking his ministers from the rival ranks.
The plan had been an utter failure; each faction wanted the supreme
control. The Whigs wanted the King to become their champion, and avenge
them indiscriminately on every Tory; the Tories, who had always been
opposed to William, refused to work with the Whigs; Danby, created
Marquess of Caermarthen at the Coronation, was furious because he had
not the privy seals; Halifax, to whom they had been given, grudged Danby
the Marquisate; the two Secretaries, Shrewsbury and Nottingham, were
scarcely on speaking terms; Russell, now Lord Orford, and Herbert, now
Lord Torrington, quarrelled fiercely over the naval affairs; at the
Treasury Board, Lord Mordaunt, now Earl of Monmouth and Lord Delamere,
both hot Whigs, did their best to disparage their colleague, Lord
Godolphin, who, of all the Government, was the quietest man and the one
most esteemed by the King; Clarendon, the Queen's uncle, had refused to
take the oaths; and his brother Rochester was suspected of plotting with
James. There was, in fact, scarcely one Englishman, even among those
who had accompanied William to England, whom he could trust, yet the
advancement and favour he showed his Dutch friends was made the matter
for perpetual and noisy complaint.
On the other hand, the Church of England, which owed its very existence
to the Revolution, proved itself unreasonable and ungrateful; it refused
stubbornly to grant any concessions to Non-conformists, and wished
severe penalties visited on the Papists.
Added to this, the home government was rotten to the core, the army and
navy in a miserable state, the people overtaxed, business disorganised,
the treasury empty, credit low, every one discontented, Ireland in the
possession of James, a revolt in Scotland, and, on the Continent, the
French making unchecked progress, and the Dutch beginning to complain
that they were being neglected for the English.
When it is considered that the man who was to face and overcome these
difficulties was disliked, distrusted, misunderstood, and betrayed on
every hand, it can be no wonder that even his brave soul was drooping.
His position was in every way complex. By nature imperious, arrogant,
of the proudest blood in Europe, he had a high idea of the kingly
prerogative, and by instinct leant to the Tories; but the Whigs claimed
him as peculiarly their champion, and it was undoubtedly to their
influence that the Revolution was due. As King of England he was head
of the Anglican Church and swore to uphold it; but he was a Calvinist
himself, and the whole tenor of his life had been towards that broad
toleration which the Church regarded with abhorrence. He was avowedly
latitudinarian and set his face resolutely against any form of
persecution for religious belief, and while this attitude cost him the
support of the Church, his refusal to treat the Catholics harshly lost
him the alliance of the Dissenters, who regarded him as disappointingly
lukewarm in the true cause.
A gentle treatment of the Papists was essential to William's foreign
policy, since he had promised his Catholic allies--Spain, the Emperor,
and the Pope, to protect those of this persuasion--and it was, besides,
his own conviction of justice and the general good. He had therefore
forced through Parliament the Toleration Act, which was, however, too
limited to heal the internecine disorders of religious parties; he had
then endeavoured to bridge the schism between Nonconformists and
Anglicans by the Comprehension Bill, but the measure was before its time
and failed to pass.
Many of the bishops and clergy having refused to take the oaths and been
obliged to resign, William had been forced to make new appointments,
every one of which, including that of his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, to
Sarum, caused universal dissatisfaction.
There had been a mutiny in the army which had to be repressed by Dutch
troops--a further grievance to the English, who began to bitterly resent
foreign soldiers in their midst; yet on these troops alone could the
King rely.
William's lieutenant, the popular and brilliant Schomberg, had proved an
expensive failure. He was at present in Ireland, with a huge army dying
of fever about him, doing nothing but writing maddening letters of
complaint to the King, who had, on the other hand, to listen to the
ceaseless goadings of the English Parliament, who wished to know why
Ireland was not reduced, and, until that plague spot was attended to,
who refused to turn their attention to the Continent, where the great
events gathered that were ever next William's heart.
Those were the great difficulties, but there were many smaller
vexations, such as the party the Princess Anne, under the influence of
those adventurers--the Churchills--was forming against the Court; the
sulky, unreasonable behaviour of Lord Torrington at the Admiralty Board;
the constant necessity the King was under of going to London (the air of
which was literally death to him), and of dining in public at
Whitehall--a practice he detested; the lack of money for the buildings
at Hampton Court and Kensington, which were both in an uncomfortable
state of incompletion; his own ignorance on little technical points of
administration and costume, which made him dependent on his English
advisers--all these were added annoyances and humiliations that went far
to unman a nature well inured to strenuous difficulties.
The King made a little movement forward in his chair with a short cough,
as if he caught his breath, his eyes still fixed on the map of the
United Provinces; his haggard face slightly flushed as if he was moved
by some intense thought.
The latch clicked, and William turned his head quickly.
In the doorway was the handsome figure of the tolerant, able, and
cynical chief adviser to the Crown, the Lord Privy Seal, my Lord
Marquess Halifax.
CHAPTER II
THE KING AT BAY
My Lord Marquess left His Majesty after a dry and formal interview
concerned with minor but necessary business, and, leaving the King still
sitting before the map of the United Provinces, proceeded to the
incomplete and ill-furnished council-chamber, where my lords Shrewsbury,
Caermarthen, Nottingham, and Godolphin were gloomily conferring.
Halifax was the only man in the assembly not of decided Whig or Tory
politics--it was believed that this was the reason that the King had
elected him to fill the highest place in his councils. Lord
Caermarthen, who, jealous of his elevation, was known to be secretly
working his downfall, greeted him with haughty frankness.
"I hope, my lord," he said, "your interview with His Majesty hath had
some smack of satisfaction in it----"
"Why, none," answered the Lord Privy Seal; "there is no satisfaction
anywhere."
He seated himself on one of the red damask covered stools by the table,
and looked with a kind of cynical amusement at the other ministers, all
of whom, he well knew, were, however diverse their several opinions
(with the exception of Lord Godolphin), doing their utmost to oust him
from the position he held. His mobile, easy, and delicate face was
turned towards the meagre but noble figure of Caermarthen, in whom he
recognised his chief enemy. Indeed, that statesman, who, as Lord Danby,
had himself narrowly escaped the attacks of Jack Howe in the last
Parliament, was endeavouring to stir up the present Commons to impeach
Halifax.
"His Majesty," added the Lord Privy Seal, in his pleasant, tolerant
voice, "is very discontented with all of us."
Shrewsbury--a duke now, and crowded with dignities beyond his
years--blushed.
"What are we to do?" he asked, in a kind of frantic way.
The other Secretary, Nottingham, dark as a Spaniard and sour in
expression, remarked briefly--
"We can do nothing until we see which way the Parliament moveth."
"The Parliament," said Caermarthen, "will do nothing until some
satisfaction is given for the money voted to Ireland. Schomberg, I
doubt, is doited; he hath not moved since he landed----"
"The King," put in Halifax, "is desperate to go to the Continent, where
the allies clamour for him and King Louis gaineth headway every
week----"
Caermarthen sprang up from the window-seat.
"By God, he cannot go abroad until Ireland is settled!" he cried; "the
country will not stand any war but that----"
"The King," answered the Lord Privy Seal, "hath such a mind to France
one would think he took England but on the way----"
"France," said Shrewsbury, with feverish anxiety, "is not the question;
we have to think of England. War was declared last May, and we are
still incapable of putting a single regiment in the field. By Heaven,
the Government is too disjointed for us to interfere in foreign
affairs!"
"You should have thought of that, my lord," answered Nottingham dryly,
"when you put a foreigner on the throne."
A deep colour again flushed Shrewsbury's beautiful face.
"I judged from His Majesty's reputation that he would have done better,"
he murmured.
"His Majesty is a great man," said Halifax placidly.
Caermarthen shrugged his shoulders.
"Is it the kind of greatness that will help England?"
"Or your party to places, my lord?" retorted the Lord Privy Seal
shrewdly.
Caermarthen's thin face darkened.
"His Majesty doth not know his friends," he said.
"He will not be a party leader," returned Halifax; "but I do doubt
whether England will be ever governed save by factions----"
Shrewsbury came up to the table and looked round the faces of his
colleagues. He was by far the youngest of the company, and his soft
good-looks were incongruous to the importance of his position; Lord
Godolphin, a quiet, thin man, who so far had not opened his lips or
taken any notice of anything, now fixed his eyes on Shrewsbury, and kept
them there keenly while the Duke spoke.
"Sirs, what is to be done? We have very good assurance that the
Government cannot hold--nay," he added, with increasing agitation, "if
King James were to land to-morrow, who would stay him from the throne?"
"His Majesty," said Lord Godolphin quietly.
Caermarthen caught the words.
"His Majesty! I have little faith in him now; he is a dying man----"
"The doctors," added Nottingham gloomily, "give him another year----"
"No more, I truly think," said Halifax calmly. "The Dutchmen themselves
say they hardly know him for the man he was at The Hague----"
"What then?" cried Shrewsbury, in a desperate frankness. "Are we all to
fall into the laps of women and my Lord Marlborough?"
"The Queen could never hold the throne," answered Halifax; "she is not
loved," he smiled; "the people dislike her for her false position----"
"By God!" interrupted Caermarthen hotly; "what know you of Her Majesty?
She would rule better than any Stewart hath done yet----"
"Maybe, and wed another foreigner," retorted Shrewsbury. "Besides, I
think you are wrong. No woman could rule England now----"
"Nor any man, it seemeth," smiled Halifax sadly. "For my part I am
weary of all of it--and so, I think," he added, "is His Majesty. He is
greatly angered that the Bill of Indemnity is changed into a Bill of
Pains and Penalties, and there are such heats over it----"
"What course doth he think to take?" asked Shrewsbury abruptly.
"He said very little to-day," answered Halifax. "Our talk was all of
business; he is of an extraordinary industry," this with admiration,
"and hath mastered the details of the government already. Were he a
stronger man I should have no fear for England----"
"Talk--antic talk!" cried Caermarthen impatiently; "and are no nearer a
solution----"
The sound of the opening of the heavy carved door caused them all to
pause. Godolphin, who was the only one facing it, rose respectfully;
the others turned.
It was the King.
His bright glance went from face to face. He came slowly to the head of
the table, and seated himself in the wand-bottomed chair there; his
ministers were on their feet waiting for him to speak. Surprised as
they were by this unexpected appearance, their agitation showed in their
faces, Shrewsbury in particular was colourless; only Lord Godolphin
remained perfectly composed.
The King continued to look from one to the other; he wore a heavy brown
velvet thickly braided with gold, and held in his right hand a paper
written upon, and folded across.
"Affairs," he said, in his tired voice, with his peculiar short manner
of speaking, "have reached a crisis, my lords, and I have come to
acquaint you with my resolution."
He leant forward a little, and rested his right arm on the table,
keeping his dark, powerful eyes fixed on these ministers whom he read so
perfectly.
"My lords," he continued quietly, almost gently, "it is a year since I
took up the government of this country, and in that time I have done
nothing to please any one of you." He coughed and pressed his
handkerchief to his lips. "I have done my best to govern justly," he
added proudly, "but I confess I took up a task beyond my powers. My
lords, I cannot rule a disaffected country with disaffected ministers.
I admit I do not understand you. As I am often reminded, I am a
foreigner."
The five nobles made a common movement as of painful expectation. The
King's plain speaking took all words from them; Shrewsbury was painfully
agitated.
"What doth Your Majesty propose?" asked Halifax anxiously.
The King opened out the paper on the dark walnut table, and laid his
right hand on it. He wore round this wrist a bracelet of red glass or
crystal, cut into facets, that caught and threw back the light; it
gleamed now strongly through the thick Bruges lace of his ruffles.
"I mean," he said, "to resign the crown and return to Holland--where I
am needed," he added strongly.
"My God!" exclaimed Caermarthen; the rest were silent.
The King surveyed their changed and utterly amazed faces with a gleam in
his eyes.
"My convoy is in readiness," he said, "and here, my lords, is the speech
in which I announce my intention to Parliament"--he glanced at Sidney
Godolphin--"my lord," he added with dignity, "will do me a last service
and correct my poor English----"
Caermarthen broke out passionately--
"Sir, you cannot know what you are saying--this is unheard of----"
"I know very well what I am saying, my Lord Marquess," answered William.
"I cannot please you, but I think the Queen can. I believe you would be
faithful to her--she is English; but as for me, you can manage your
business better without me--and I am needed on the Continent."
He rose, and Halifax, rather pale, came up to him.
"What is to become of England if Your Majesty leaveth us?"
"The Queen will please you," repeated William.
"This action on the part of Your Majesty will mean chaos," cried
Shrewsbury desperately.
The King smiled sternly.
"No confusion could be worse than what we now endure--perhaps alone ye
can put it straight."
They looked at each other. In their hearts they all knew that the King,
and the King alone held them together and kept them from France; to the
Whigs his departure would mean ruin, and among the Tories there was not
one man capable of undertaking a tithe of what the King--who had foreign
affairs exclusively in his hands--performed.
"What is Your Majesty's reason for this bitter resolve?" cried
Caermarthen.
"I am needed in Holland," said William. "I have, my lord, my lifework
to do. There are certain things put to my hand for me to accomplish,
and I have pursued them through too many difficulties to be thwarted now
by the disputes of the English Parliament----"
He spoke with a sudden force that lashed them.
"I took this crown," he added, holding his hand to his breast, "that I
might, with God His help, put England in her ancient place among
nations, not that I might lose myself in heated factions and blind
animosities."
"If Your Majesty desert us we are all undone," said Caermarthen
passionately.
"Ah, my lords," answered William, "I am not of a nature to be the puppet
between your parties. God gave me a disposition different--I cannot mix
in these your politics."
His cough interrupted him; he gave a little shudder, and sank back into
the walnut-backed chair.
"There are some things beyond a man's strength," he said hoarsely, "and
I, hampered as I am, cannot govern England."
"I," cried Halifax sincerely, "have tried to help Your Majesty----"
"And what is your reward?" asked William quickly. "Parliament is so
pressing on you, my lord, that I shall have to forego your
services--what is any honest man's reward in this country? As angry
dogs ye rend each other. My God, will there never be an end to these
dissensions?"
He crushed the rough draft of his speech up in his hand and flung it on
the table.
"There is my answer to this question," he said, and made to rise again,
but Shrewsbury came forward and cast himself on his knees before him.
"I entreat Your Majesty to consider--to reflect--to spare us, to spare
this unhappy country----"
The King looked wildly but not unkindly into the fair, agitated young
face.
"I cannot do what you want of me," he answered. "Everything I do
displeaseth--I stand for toleration and ye will have no manner of
toleration--hath not the Indemnity Bill become a Bill of Pains and
Penalties? Is not Parliament busy looking up charges of twenty years
ago against men of position? Is not the Church crying out against the
Dissenters, and the Dissenters against the Papists?"
They were all silent; Shrewsbury on his knees by the King's chair.
"As to the civil government," continued William, "ye know perfectly well
what corruption is there. For the last two reigns every honour in the
gift of the Crown hath been put up to sale with women and priests for
brokers--I can trust no one save, of course, yourselves, my lords," he
added, with a faint sarcasm. "There is neither honesty nor industry nor
credit in any department of the administration. I can do no more."
Lord Godolphin came forward from the window; he was known to be higher
in favour with the King than any there, and the others waited with a
silent, anxious curiosity for him to speak.
"I think Your Majesty will change your resolution," he said, with sudden
warmth, "for the sake of Europe."
"For the sake of Europe, my lord, I shall persist in it."
Sidney Godolphin looked straightly at the King.
"No--Your Majesty is not the man to shirk difficulties--bear with us a
little."
"My lord," answered William, "if all were as you I should have no
difficulties--rise up, my lord of Shrewsbury; this is not your fault."
The Duke got to his feet and retired to the deep window-seat; he
appeared utterly overwhelmed.
"I undertook to serve a King," said Godolphin, deeply moved. "Let me
resign that service while you are still my King--if Your Majesty becomes
Prince of Orange I become a private gentleman. I pray Your Majesty
accept my resignation."
"And mine, sir," added Halifax.
"I hope that you will serve the Queen," replied William; he leant back
in his chair and his face was colourless against the red brocade
cushion.
"It was to Your Majesty I swore obedience," said Godolphin firmly.
"I set you free of those oaths--all of you, my lords--my convoy waiteth
at Gravesend. In Holland I can be of service--not here." He, with
infinite weariness, sat up and took his speech from the table. "Take
this, my lord." He held it out to Lord Godolphin.
The minister went on one knee.
"I cannot be a party to this," he said. "Your Majesty must forgive
me--but I cannot----"
The blood rushed into the King's thin cheek.
"What do you want of me?" he cried passionately. "You know I do not
shirk labour. I have worked like a government clerk since I have been
in London, and I am well used to it--but it is no use."
Godolphin answered him with equal passion.
"Is all this labour to come to nothing, sir? If Your Majesty giveth up,
there will be no heart in any of us--everything will fly asunder, and we
be unprotected for the French and Irish to overrun. Your presence, your
Dutch troops alone keep order. Without you we are lost again, and worse
than we were before '88----"
"Your Majesty cannot--Your Majesty must not," cried Caermarthen.
Shrewsbury raised his face; he was trembling, and weeping softly.
"God in heaven!" he whispered, under his breath.
Nottingham looked at him with contempt.
"Will Your Majesty forsake your friends?" he asked sombrely. "Where do
we stand if Your Majesty resigns the position we asked you to accept?"
"Sir," said Halifax firmly, "the Prince of Orange cannot go back on what
he hath undertaken."
William leant forward, resting against the table; his eyes filled with
tears, and he gave a short cough as if he caught his breath.
"You ask too much of any man--to rule this country under the
disadvantages that whelm me," he said faintly. "I was not made to be
cabined in these small factions----"
"We cannot do without Your Majesty," said Halifax sharply. "Are all your
glorious deeds and achievements to end in this, sir?"
The King put his hand before his eyes and sobbed heavily.
"O God," cried Godolphin, in bitter distress, "what pass is here?" He
turned on the others. "Is this to what we have brought the Prince who
saved us?"
The tears were in his own eyes, and his voice was broken.
Halifax spoke to Caermarthen.
"This is like to be the end of us, my lord," he remarked. "Cry 'finis'!
for the play is over now."
The King continued to weep; his whole frail figure was shaken with his
passion. The last cold daylight was over his gold broideries and the
crimson bracelet round his wrist. Caermarthen was pacing to and fro in a
kind of frenzy.
"What is to do!" he asked himself. "What is to do!" and he clutched the
cambric ruffles on his bosom.
Godolphin again dropped on his knees before the King and took William's
cold left hand to his lips.
"Your Majesty will not leave us," he murmured, in a quivering tone.
The King lifted his great eyes, blurred, yet bright, with tears.
"If I stay," he answered, "it is on certain terms--I will not be the
puppet of factions." He stopped, exhausted; he composed himself and
flushed feverishly; his speech was interrupted by continual and painful
coughing. "I will not be a party to persecution." He clenched his thin
hand on the smooth curved arm of his chair, and spoke with a force and
energy that gripped and almost frightened his listeners. "A measure
must be passed to prevent it--and I must go to The Hague next spring."
"Ireland----" began Caermarthen.
William caught up the word.
"I will go to Ireland--since ye think so much of that wretched country I
will get it----"
Even in the midst of their relief that they had moved him the ministers
were shaken at this resolution.
"Your Majesty cannot be spared from London," exclaimed Halifax.
"I shall prorogue Parliament before I leave," answered William fiercely.
"That or nothing, my lords. I do not stay here to be King Log----"
They bowed before his terms as they had done in the crisis of '88; only
Shrewsbury, who saw the downfall of his party in the prorogation of a
Whig Parliament, made a feeble protest.
"Fever is epidemic in Ireland--the health of Your Majesty----"
"You fear to lose me, my lord, before I have served your turn!" was
struck out of the King; then he amended his contempt, for he was ever
fond of Shrewsbury. "It is the only thing to do--if the reduction of
Ireland is necessary before the Continental Campaign--I must go." He
looked sharply round. "Gentlemen, do you take these terms--will you
unite to help me to them?"
"We have no choice," said Lord Godolphin, and he tore the draft of the
King's speech across.
CHAPTER III
THE BEST OF LIFE
It was early May; the King was walking in his park at Kensington, with
his friend, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland.
It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued
Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the
Whigs at his speech.
"I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it
will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great
tenderness--"the poor Queen!"
"How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl.
"Ah, heavily--what have I brought her but affliction?--sometimes I think
of that----"
He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand.
"Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William,
help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder
part."
"I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl.
"There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He
added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world
like you!"
"Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."
He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William
could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not
possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive
power of his life, but he could not say so.
The King again pressed his hand affectionately. They were walking under
limes, and hawthorns white with blossom. The sky shone cloudy blue, and
the pale English sunshine was over the young grass.
William looked round him with the sick eyes of exile; thoughts of
Holland tugged so sharply at his heart that he gave a little suppressed
sound of pain.
"What of this Crone and Fuller plot?" asked Portland suddenly.
"I am sorry to leave that on the Queen her hands," said William quietly;
"but I do not think it serious."
"Some great men are implicated?"
"I do not doubt it."
Portland hesitated a moment, then said--
"Nottingham's spies intercepted letters to St. Germains, he saith--who
were they from?"
"People of no station," answered the King. "Nottingham is over
zealous."
"And you, sir, are over easy."
William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of
the limes.
"That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear
lord, let it be----"
Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among
the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a
little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.
The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he
hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so
that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of
the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and
plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of
white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the
deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a
young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed
that any sat there.
"Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.
William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury.
"I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you."
"I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."
Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden
meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find
William at leisure or on foot.
The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly.
"Was it to a second time offer your resignation?" he asked.
Shrewsbury went crimson under his powder; he seemed to find it difficult
to maintain even a show of composure.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered.
"Very well," said William quietly. "I am sorry that you will not serve
me till my return from Ireland."
"Sire, my health," murmured the Duke faintly--"I have had a fall from my
horse--I am not fit."
Still holding his sword in both hands, the King rose.
"My lord--is that your sole reason?" he asked gently.
The blood ebbed from the young man's soft face; he answered with an
effort.
"My sole reason, Your Majesty."
William continued to fix his eyes on him.
"My lord, when did you last see Roger Fuller?"
Shrewsbury shivered; he stammered painfully.
"I--I--do not know--the fellow----"
"I take your word, my lord," said William gravely.
He dropped his sword, and laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the
young man's heaving shoulder.
"Remember I trust you," he added quietly.
"Sir," cried Shrewsbury, through pale lips--"what is your meaning--do
you think----"
"I think that you are a man of honour," said William. "You have given me
your word, and I trust you. Remember it."
"Your Majesty," began the Duke wildly, "I never meant----"
"Hush," interrupted the King. "I know nothing. Take care of your
health, my lord."
He touched his hat and moved on. The young Duke looked after him with
eyes of agony, then stumbled wretchedly away through the trees.
William proceeded slowly to the privy garden, which was full of stocks,
pinks, wallflowers, aloes, and early roses.
He found the Queen and Lady Nottingham seated in front of a great bush
of box clipped into the shape of a peacock. Between them was a length of
yellow silk that they were sewing with blue beads in little crosses and
stars.
At the King's approach Lady Nottingham rose and retired with a courtsey.
Mary looked after her kindly.
"She is a sweet lady--I like her vastly," she said.
"You find most ladies sweet, do you not?" answered the King; he seated
himself beside her on the bench, and took up the end of silk Lady
Nottingham had laid down.
"I have spoilt your work. But I wished to tell you something, Marie."
Mary glanced at him anxiously; she was slightly pale, and wore a black
scarf wrapped round her head and shoulders; her petticoat was striped
red and frilled at the foot, her over-gown dark blue and spread round
her in circling folds of glittering silk. For all the sombre heaviness
of this stately dressing she looked very young--sad, also, for all the
desperate gaiety to which she was continually nerved.
The King looked about him to see that they were not overheard, then
said, in a low voice--
"I have accepted my Lord Shrewsbury his resignation."
Mary waited, catching her breath.
"He," continued William, "hath tampered with His late Majesty."
The Queen gave a little sound of distress, and dropped her sewing.
"Shrewsbury!" she whispered.
"I have sure proof of it," said the King. "I am sorry for him," he
added simply; "and for myself, it something moved me, for I ever liked
my lord."
Mary flushed and clenched her hands on her lap.
"How base every one is," she cried, and the angry tears glittered in her
eyes.
"There is not much honour in England, Marie. Have a care of all of
them--particularly of that knave"--he spoke with strong force--"that
villain, my Lord Marlborough----"
"Need he be of the Council?" she asked eagerly.
"Child, he is the best soldier in England, and if I was to leave you a
Council of honest men they could not be of this nation--trust none of
them."
"God help me," said the Queen. "I know not how I shall support myself
when you are not here--but how weak I am to talk thus--my part is little
compared to yours."
She smiled with a pitiful brightness, and the King, looking at her,
flushed as if he had been hurt and suppressed the pain.
"Talk no more of this," he said quickly--"in this little time we have
together----"
Mary laid her hand on his.
"How pale the sunshine is--not thick and golden like The Hague--the
flowers seem so different too; is not that a silly fancy?" She smiled
again, and her voice quivered.
"You are not happy here, Marie."
She answered hastily.
"Happy wherever I have your dear company--but I confess I am a coward
without you--but God is greater than our hopes, our fears, our desires;
He knoweth best."
When her soft voice ceased the only sounds were those of water running
in the lead basin of a fountain hidden somewhere behind the alleys of
wych-elm, and the occasional distant blows of a hammer from the workman
engaged on the scaffolding of Kensington House.
She spoke again at last, her white fingers tightening over his.
"I wonder if you will ever rest--if achievement will ever come--at last,
if you will ever think your work done----"
"How can I?" he answered. "That is my sole excuse to live--that there
is something for me to do--and I am so used to work I think I could not
rest----"
"It hath been hard--hard and long," said Mary. "You must be so weary of
it all--the lying, the treachery, the weakness, the opposition, the
delays, the disappointments----"
The King smiled faintly.
"Yet I have done something----"
"So much!" exclaimed Mary proudly. "But I do long for you to have some
leisure now ... for both of us ... to be alone, at last----"
"When the war is over----"
She interrupted gently.
"When the war is over! Alas!" She shook her head. "So long still to
wait." She smiled. "I would that you had not been a great man,
dear--but just a simple citizen." She laughed charmingly. "And we
would live at The Hague always and have a great garden where you should
grow 'La Solitaire' for the thousand gulden prize--and I would polish
all the furniture myself--and I could call you 'Willem' then before all
the world, and we should have long days together ... and you would read
of great events in the _Gazette_ and never want to mix in them, and I
should laugh at those unhappy kings and queens----"
Her husband looked at her in silence.
"So you see I am a good housewife, no more!" she continued, in a kind of
wild gaiety. "Alas, I have no brains for business!"
"I have thought, too," said William, "that I would like to be a mere
gentleman watching events, not guiding them; but these thoughts are
beneath us--and idle visions."
"Idle visions!" repeated the Queen. "And you must go to the war
again--Death's target--and I must stay behind and keep my countenance!
I am such a poor weak fool!" she added, in bitter self-reproach.
The King raised her head and pressed it against his heart.
"That kind of fool I could never have done without," he said
impetuously. "If I have ever achieved anything, the credit is to you,
my dearest, my dearest----"
He dropped her hand, and abruptly broke his speech.
"What more can I want than to hear you say that?" answered Mary. "Only
love me and I can bear anything----"
The King's brilliant eyes rested on her pale but smiling face; he spoke
slowly, and his tired voice was hoarse and unequal.
"When I was a boy--a youth--I was so proud, so self-confident.... I
remember I thought I was capable of anything--I took my inexperience, my
handful of soldiers, into the field against France--against Conde! I
had been very much alone, and so learnt reserve that I had almost lost
the power of expression--I was also very unhappy--I think I had no
support in the world but my pride--I thought God had elected me to be
his Captain----"
He paused, but Mary did not speak. Only the little gurgle of the unseen
fountain broke perfect stillness.
"I remember," continued William, "the first time I went to Middleburg
and heard the people shout for me--and saw the Town Council bowing....
I never had felt so lonely. Twenty years ago--and I have greatly
changed, but in a fashion I have kept the vows I made then to God--I
have not turned back from defending His Faith--but that was before He
pleased to humble me by constant defeat. I was so confident, Marie!
Ah, could I recapture that exaltation of the morning it would all be so
easy--I felt so glad of what I had to do--but now!"
He raised his hand lightly and lightly let it fall; his profile was
towards the Queen now, and his gaze directed towards the English
hawthorns that showed above the box hedge of the privy garden.
"But though," he added, "it hath all darkened since then, I think God
meant me to go on--for He sent you, my wife ... and you are the one
thing that hath never failed me."
She hid her face in her hands, and sat trembling; the little tray of
blue beads fell from her lap, and they were scattered over the gravel
path.
"If I am not good at gratitude," said the King haltingly--"yet believe
me--while you are there I can endure anything. After all, there is
nothing in the world for me but you and Holland, and while I have both
why should I complain of any difficulties?"
Mary raised her face.
"If I could think I made that difference to you!" she said.
"You have given me the best of life," he answered gravely.
CHAPTER IV
THE SECRET ANGUISH
In that ancient palace called Hampton Court, on the banks of the Thames,
the Queen of England walked through the rooms that were rebuilding, and
tried to subdue her soul to peace.
The King was at the war in Ireland, and she, with the aid of the nine
councillors--men divided by personal spites and party differences--was
ruling England through a bitter and desperate crisis.
Mary, a woman and utterly unused to business (though she had always
taken an intelligent interest in politics), yet found all these men, on
whose wisdom she was supposed to rely, peevish and silly. Marlborough
was using her sister to stir up opposition against the Government,--she
strongly suspected him, Godolphin, and Russell of having made their
peace with King James; Caermarthen she personally disliked; the Crone
and Fuller plot had proved to be a widespreading affair, in which there
appeared every possibility of her uncles being involved; the country was
denuded of troops, and the fleet in disorder; the treasury empty, and
the French threatening the Channel.
These were the first few moments of leisure the Queen had known since
her husband's departure; she was eager to have Hampton Court ready for
his return, and so had come eagerly to see the progress of the
rebuilding and alterations.
Here again she was met with difficulties and humiliations. Sir
Christopher Wren, the architect, was in want of money, the workmen were
unpaid, the contractors refused to deliver any more Portland stone on
credit.
Mary had no money, and knew not where to get it; she soothed Sir
Christopher as best she could, and desperately resolved that these debts
should be paid; the thought of them was an added vexation. She felt
there was a kind of meanness in so lacking money, and that the
rebuilding of Hampton Court, which had been her one pleasure, was a
reproach and a mistake.
M. de Ginckle had written to her from Ireland that they were so
straitened in the camp that the King had refused to sign for wine for
his own table, and was drinking water with the men.
Mary thought of this passionately as she surveyed the unfinished
building the grumblers declared such an unwarranted luxury, and
remembered the noble fortune William had lavished on the public cause.
Under some pretence, she slipped away from her ladies and Sir
Christopher, and, with a wild longing to be alone, made her way to some
of the old deserted Tudor rooms of the palace, opened now for the first
time for perhaps fifty years.
In the wing in which Mary found herself there were near a hundred
chambers, and she, new to the palace, was soon lost in the maze of
apartments.
She was wildly glad to be alone, to drop, for a moment, the mask of
composed gaiety that she ever kept over her anxiety.
Door after door she opened, and room after room she traversed, until she
reached a little winding stairway that led to a chamber in one of the
fine red turrets with the graceful decorated chimney-stacks that Sir
Christopher was so calmly destroying.
Stairway and chamber were both covered with thick white dust; the bolts
on the door were rusty and loose; there was no furniture save an old
rotting chest, rudely carved; but the walls were beautifully panelled
with oak in a linen pattern, and the low lancet window disclosed a
perfect view.
Mary went straight to it, leant her sick head against the mullions, and
gazed over the fair prospect of unkept garden, field, meadow, and river,
all shimmering under a July sun. The Thames showed argent gold between
banks of willow and alder; stretches of daisies, buttercups, clover, and
poppies reached to distant groves of elm, oak, and beech.
In the nearer glades deer wandered in and out of the sweeping shadows,
and the air was soft with the whispers of the ringdove.
Such a different England this seemed from that England shown in London,
so far removed from war and discord, danger and alarm.
The lonely young Queen felt her own desolation heightened by the
solitude; she became almost afraid of the silence.
When she reflected that the person who was everything to her was
distant, exposed to many perils, that her father was opposed to him in
battle, that the great responsibility of government was intrusted to
her, and that she had no one on whom she could rely or even to whom open
her heart (for William Bentinck had, after all, been summoned to
Holland), she felt a melancholy creep over her spirit that was near
despair.
The sun was warm on the sill where her hand rested and on her cheek; she
leant a little farther out of the narrow window, that had neither glass
nor casement, and fixed her eyes on the pulsing flow of the river.
A little sound behind her caused her to turn quickly with a nervous
start.
Before a small worm-eaten inner doorway that she had not noticed stood a
comely child of five or six years, gazing at her intently. The colour
fluttered into the Queen's face; they stood staring at each other--the
woman and the child--as if they were both afraid.
"What are you doing here?" asked Mary coldly, after a second.
The child did not answer; he had as little expected to see this tall
young lady in the fine blue gown as she had expected to see him.
"You have no business here," said Mary, in the same tone; "this is
private. Go, find your people."
And she turned towards the window again so that she could not see him.
He answered now.
"I have lost my way."
"There are the stairs," said Mary, without looking round. "Go down
there, and you will find your way."
There was silence, and she waited a little; then looked over her
shoulder to see him still standing there, staring at her.
"Why don't you go?" she asked harshly. "You are not allowed here."
"Yes, ma'am, I am," he replied. "Father said I could go where I liked."
"Who is your father?"
The child laid a delicate finger on the smooth carving of the wall.
"He maketh--these," he explained.
"A carver," said Mary. "Is he working here?"
"Yes, ma'am. We come every day; there is another little boy--you are
the mother of the other little boy?" he questioned.
"No," said Mary coldly.
"He isn't here to-day," remarked the child rather sadly. "When he is we
go out, because he is a bigger boy than me. If you had been his mother I
thought you might have taken me out."
"Your father can take you out."
"Father is working with Master Wren. Do you know Master Wren?"
"Yes."
"He goeth up and down in a basket outside the house. Once I went too,
and he held me so tight that it hurt. He is too old to play with."
He came a little farther into the room, eying Mary wistfully. She was
stately as well as tall, and the high lace commode she wore, and the
stiff arrangement of her heavy curls, further added to her dignity. The
child looked at her in some awe.
"Are you cross with me?" he asked gravely.
"No," answered the Queen--"no--but your father will be looking for
you--best go and find him."
"I have lost my way," he said, subdued by her coldness. "I was asleep in
there." He pointed to the little sunny annexe to the turret from which
he had come. "I am glad I met you, ma'am."
"Why?" asked Mary.
The child smiled, in an effort to win her.
"I get frightened when I am alone," he said. "Don't you, ma'am?"
"Sometimes," answered the Queen; she bit her lip and fixed her narrowed
brown eyes on the boy; he was fair, and rather delicate, and wore a
shabby suit of red tabinet.
He slowly and reluctantly moved towards the narrow dark stairs.
"I wish this house was finished," he said plaintively. "It is so large.
The King will live here," he added. "I saw the King talking once to Mr.
Wren."
Mary gave him no encouragement to stay, but he still lingered by the
rotting door, that swung back against the wall, and looked at her with
wide, puzzled eyes.
"I am going now," he said at last; his hands went to his cravat, which
was sadly knotted. "Would you tie this for me first? Father don't like
me to look untidy."
"Come here," said Mary.
He came at once and stood before her.
"I don't think I can do it," said the Queen unsteadily.
She took hold of the scrap of cambric awkwardly, while he obediently
held his head up; but her cold fingers bungled, and the bow was clumsy.
"I can't do it," she murmured.
"You are so tall, ma'am!"
She looked into his upturned face.
"Too tall to be so stupid," she answered, and untied the bow. "Have you
a mother?" she asked suddenly, holding his shoulder gently.
"No, ma'am."
"Ah, poor soul!"
She spoke so sadly that he was distressed.
"What is the matter, ma'am?"
"I was thinking of what we both have missed," said Mary gently.
His bright eyes were bewildered. The Queen drew him to the old chest,
seated herself there, and again tied the cravat.
"What is your name?" she asked, as she smoothed it.
"James, ma'am--it was the King his name when I was born," he added
proudly.
Mary drew a quick breath.
"But you serve King William."
"I know," he answered dutifully. "He is a soldier, father saith. I
would like to be a soldier, ma'am."
Mary smiled; though she had done with his cravat she still kept her
hands lightly on his shoulder.
"Not a wood-carver?"
He shook his head.
"Father saith, 'Better be a soldier these days--there is no living
else,'" he quoted wisely.
"There is time enough to decide," said Mary softly; her ringed right
hand timidly caressed his hair, scarcely touching it. "Have you many
toys?"
"No, ma'am."
"Do you care for them?"
He considered.
"Books," he said, with a little frown, "that you can tear the pictures
out of--pictures of fights, ma'am--and blackamoor's teeth."
"What are they?" asked Mary, gazing earnestly at him; she spoke with a
catch in her breath.
He put his hand into his pocket and produced several cowrie shells.
"There, ma'am--they come from far away." His eyes glittered. "It would
be good to be a sailor, would it not, ma'am?"
"You are a grave child," said Mary; she drew him softly nearer to her,
and bent her beautiful pale face near to his. "You pray for the King,
do you not?"
"On Sunday, ma'am."
"Pray for him whenever you say your prayers--and for the Queen."
He nodded.
"The poor Queen!" he said.
"Why do you say that?" asked Mary, startled.
"Master Wren said those words--like that--'the poor Queen!' ma'am."
Mary stared at him intently; her arms tightened about him. Suddenly she
pressed him up to her bosom, where his little head rested patiently
among her thick laces.
"The poor Queen!" she whispered wildly, and drew him closer, till he was
half frightened by the force of her embrace and the beating of her heart
beneath his cheek.
"Oh, ma'am!" he cried, "I have even dropped the blackamoor's teeth."
She let him go, and watched him with desperate eyes while he searched
and recovered the gleaming white shells from the dusty floor.
As he busily sought for one in the shadow of the chest, a soft whistle
sounded twice; he sprang to his feet at once.
"That is my father--I must go now, ma'am."
The Queen held out her hands appealingly.
"Will you not kiss me?"
He came obediently and held up his unconscious face.
Mary's lips touched his brow in the saddest salute he was ever like to
know. He did not offer to return it, but made a little bow, and so left
her. She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his unequal
footsteps departing; then she stooped and picked up the shell he had
abandoned.
She fancied that it was still warm and moist from his tight clutch, and
as she looked at it the tears veiled her eyes and fell on to her
trembling palm.
"O God!" she cried aloud, with a passion that had slipped her control.
"Ye had no right to make childless women!"
She flung the shell from her, and buried her face in her hands, while
the painful sobs heaved her body.
She had not long even the comfort of lonely weeping, for the sound of
voices and footsteps coming up the narrow stairs caused her to rise
heavily, with a start of self-reproach.
It was her secret boast that she had not allowed a tear or a sigh to
escape her in public since the King had gone. She dried her poor tired
eyes hastily, and bit her lips to steady them, while she thrust her
sorrows back into her heart with that placid courage that never failed
her. She descended the stairs and faced the people who were, she knew,
looking for her.
She was not prepared to see Lord Nottingham, whom she had left at
Whitehall; the sight of him among her attendants caused her to pause at
the foot of the stairs.
"You, my lord!" she cried faintly.
His dark face showed obvious relief at her appearance.
"I have been searching for Your Majesty," he said, with some reproach.
"I have ridden hot after Your Majesty from London----"
"There must be grave news," said Mary, knowing that otherwise he would
not have come himself.
"There is, Madam--the gravest."
Mary raised her head; she was perfectly composed.
"From--the King?" she asked.
"No, Madam."
Mary smiled superbly.
"Then it is not the worst." She was colourless to the lips, but bore
herself with majesty. "What is it, my lord?"
Nottingham was always tragical in his discourse, and now his face and
tone were gloomy in the extreme.
"Madam, M. de Waldeck and the allies have been defeated at Fleurus, M.
de Tourville and the French fleet have been spied under full sail for
the coast of Devon. There is no relying on our sailors--there is a
panic in the city."
The Queen's eyes flashed with something of her husband's look when
fronted with disaster.
"We will to London," she said--"there to face these misfortunes."
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.