The silver table, the enamel, jade, and gold boxes glittered into points

of light. In the depths of the mirror she saw her own face lit by the

little flame she held.

It flared out between her cold fingers. She struck another and lit one

of the tall candles in the red copper stands.

By the dim wavering light she found her scarlet shoes and a little

mantle of fox's fur that she put on over her muslin night-dress. She

then took up the candlestick, which was so heavy that it made her wrist

shake, and quietly left the room, which opened into the cabinet.

Here she paused at the red lac desk, unlocked it with the gold key she

wore round her neck, and took out a packet tied with orange ribbon.

These were the letters she had received from the King since his

departure. She looked at them tenderly, took up her candle again, and

passed on through an antechamber to a private door that led straight

into the chapel.

Her feeble light gave her glimpses of the lofty walls panelled in cedar

wood, the majestic altar of white marble gilt, and the great painting

brought from Italy--all heavenly blue, and deep crimson, and angelic

faces breaking from rosy clouds.

Mary went to the altar steps, set the candle on the topmost one, then

fell on her knees with her letters pressed to her heart.

As she prayed she bent lower and lower till her beautiful head touched

the marble, and there it rested while she sobbed out her humble prayers

for her husband, her father, for England, for her own poor tired soul.

She grew cold as she lay across the altar steps, and peaceful in her

heart. She thought God was not so displeased with her; a confidence

rose in her bosom that he would not let His cause fail though her

weakness....

A gentle confusion came over her senses, and she fell into a kind of

swoon; when this passed she found that her candle had burnt to the

socket and gone out, and that a blue dawn was lighting the glowing arms

of England in the painted glass windows.

She got to her feet, shivering but calm, and went back stealthily

through the vast silent rooms, filled with the early sun, and so reached

her bed; and, for the first time for weeks, fell placidly asleep. Next

morning when she woke she was very silent; but, as her ladies thought,

more at ease.

She had hidden her letters under her pillow, and when she was dressed

slipped them into her gown.

As she left her apartments on the way to the chapel she was met by Lord

Nottingham.

The news from Ireland at last!

"The King is safe, Madam," said my lord, in pity of her face.

She stood speechless; those about her were little less moved. The

silence hung heavy.

"His late Majesty is also safe," added my lord delicately.

She spoke then.

"I--I thank you."

She tore open her letters, but could not read them.

"Oh, tell me, sir," she said hoarsely.

"Madam, the King hath had a great victory at Boyne Water. Ireland is

conquered."

Even as he spoke the bells broke out from a thousand steeples and the

guns of the Tower boomed triumph.

"The news is just abroad," said Nottingham.

Mary flushed into a glorious exaltation.

"The _King_ hath redeemed us all!" she cried, with inexpressible pride.

"The _King_ hath saved us!"

"Not the King alone, Madam," answered my lord, with a flush on his

shallow face--"listen to these----"

From without came the sound of wild joyous murmurs from the crowd that

had gathered to hear the news. As it sped from mouth to mouth a frenzy

of relief and triumph shook the people. They burst into one shout that

drowned the cannon and the bells--

"Long live the Queen! God save and bless the Queen!"

CHAPTER VII

THE SHADOW

Mr. Matthew Prior, Private Secretary to the Earl of Portland, was

enjoying the winter sunshine in the gardens of Hampton Court Palace.

It was the year 1694, and near Christmas. Many vast events had taken

place since the young poet had been first introduced to the Court by my

Lord Dorset--plots, counter-plots, change of ministers, of parliaments,

the defeat of Landen and Steinkirk, the great victory at La Hogue, the

loss of the Smyrna Fleet, four bloody campaigns, four winters of gloom,

depression, and internal convulsion, and still, as by a kind of miracle,

the two lonely princes ruling England maintained their station and kept

their faces calmly to their enemies.

Mr. Prior was a grateful soul; he adored the King and worshipped the

Queen; he had berhymed both copiously, and was ever ready to use his

sword or his wit in their behalf. The last of the King's unending

differences with the Parliament was on the matter of the Triennial Bill,

and Mr. Prior had his tablets on his knee and his pencil in his hand.

He was engaged in composing a pamphlet in defence of His Majesty's

action in firmly refusing to curtail the regal authority by passing an

Act that permitted no parliament to sit longer than three years.

But it was cold, and the neat little secretary found his fingers too

stiff to write. He returned his papers to his pocket, rose, and walked

on briskly.

Both palace and grounds were now very noble, being designed closely

after the King's house at Loo: trees, thirty-five years old, had been

transplanted either side of a wide canal that had been cut opposite the

Palace; beds were shaped, walks laid down, shrubs cut after the Dutch

style; every endeavour had been used to make the place as much like

Holland as possible. Even now, in mid-winter, topiary art had preserved

monstrous box hedges and bushes in the shape of windmills, birds, and

animals.

The day was cloudy, but the sun streamed through in a fine gold light on

the splendid front of the Palace, still unfinished but very imposing.

Mr. Prior turned to the left, where was the privy garden directly

beneath the royal apartments, and the covered walk where the Queen would

sit in summer with her ladies, sewing and reading. There, too, was a

small sunk Dutch garden, with a fountain in the centre and tiled paths,

bare now of everything save a few evergreens, but in the spring a mass

of blooms from Holland.

Here walked two ladies and a gentleman, all muffled in furs, and talking

together with some earnestness.

Mr. Prior took off his hat; he recognized the Queen, his patron, the

Earl of Portland, and Lady Temple. He was passing respectfully on when

Mary called to him.

He came up to her, and she paused to speak to him.

"My lord tells me you are just returned from The Hague?" questioned

Mary.

"Yes, Madam."

"I envy you," said the Queen wistfully; "it is, Mr. Prior, such a dream

with me to see The Hague again."

The ardent little poet thought he had never seen her look so beautiful.

There was an almost unnatural lustre in her eyes, an almost unnatural

brightness on her lip and cheek; the fresh wind had stirred the auburn

hair from her brow, and the fitful sunlight touched it to sparkles of

red gold.

"The Hague liveth only in hopes of one day seeing Your Majesty," he

answered. "You are most extraordinarily beloved there, Madam."

"They were always very good to me," said Mary simply. "I still feel an

exile here--but you must not breathe that, Mr. Prior," she added almost

instantly.

"Are you returning to Holland?"

"Very soon, Madam."

"Well," smiled Mary, "I hope that when next I see you it may be at my

house in The Hague--for I have good hopes that I may be free to go there

soon. Let me at least flatter myself so."

She dismissed him kindly and continued her walk, keeping her gloved hand

affectionately on Lady Temple's arm.

"What is this of the Duke of Leeds?" she asked Portland.

"They say he is to be impeached in the new Parliament, Madam, for taking

money from the East India Company."

Mary frowned.

"That is a hit at me," added Portland calmly.

"And at the King," she said proudly. "There is no end to the spite of

these people. Heard you also that Sir John Dalrymple must go for the

Glencoe affair?"

"If the Parliament had their way, it would be his head and not his place

he lost."

"It seemeth to have been a cruel thing," said Mary, "if it is true? But

I am sorry for the Duke of Leeds (Danby he always is to me) for he has

been a faithful servant."

"The King would like to employ Sunderland, who lieth quiet at Althorp,"

said Portland, with some bitterness. "A villain if there ever was one!"

Mary glanced at him anxiously.

"The King doth not love Sunderland," she said, "but might find him

useful."

"Will he persuade His Majesty to pass the Triennial Bill?" asked Lady

Temple.

"No man can do that," answered the Queen. "If any could have done it,

it would have been your lord, a year ago--but nothing will move the King

once his mind is resolved." She laughed, and added, "You both have

known him longer than I have--tell me if you ever knew him change his

decision?"

"Never," said Portland. "When he was a child he was immovable."

"Sir William hath wasted eloquence on him more than once," smiled Lady

Temple.

The sun had suddenly gone in, and a greyness overspread the gardens.

"Let us go in," said Mary.

They entered the Palace by the private door that led to the King's

apartments. Portland prepared to leave for Whitehall, where His Majesty

stayed to open the Parliament, and the two ladies went to the Queen's

great gallery, that was fine and beautifully furnished, though but ill

heated by the one fireplace where the pine logs blazed.

They joined the little company gathered about the fire and protected by

tall lacquer and silk screens.

Mary took off her furs and drew close to the flames. She was shivering

violently.

"The room is too large," she said, "but a noble apartment, is it not?"

She had taken great pride in furnishing Hampton Court and Kensington

House, and in introducing and making fashionable the arts and crafts of

Holland--the pottery, the brass-ware, the painted wood, and wrought

silver.

The ladies answered in eager praises. The Queen's modest court now

consisted of a set of gentle ladies, Dutch and English, who were her

constant companions; their piety, their charity, their blameless lives,

their industry with the needle, made them utterly different to the

ladies of the two last reigns, and set an example which had made

soberness fashionable, at least in many homes; for Mary had won England

as, many years before, she had won her husband, and was now nearly as

beloved in London as at The Hague--at least among the common people.

One fashion she set was a rage through the country--this was the

collecting of strange and monstrous pieces of old china.

Above the yellow brocade chair where she now sat was a shelf laden with

vases and figures of extraordinary shapes and violent colours. Mary

loved them all; she looked up at them with a little smile, then took up

the book from which she had been reading to her ladies, but dropped it

on to her lap, and sat with an air of lassitude, gazing into the flames.

"The truth is," she said, "I have a great headache, and have had one

this three days past."

"It is the wind," answered Lady Nottingham.

Mary shivered.

"I have taken cold, I think," she remarked. She laughed; she was more

than usual gay.

She was expecting the King in a few days, and, for the moment, the

troubles and difficulties had a little cleared from his path. For the

first time since the war began the last campaign had decided in favour

of the allies; the weight of England was beginning to tell in the

balance. Mary could not forget that; it coloured her days with

pleasure.

"I think the ball will be popular," she continued irrelevantly; "every

one seemeth very pleased----"

"What is the date, Madam?" asked Lady Temple.

"The twenty-eighth--about a week from now," answered Mary. "I am to

have a new dress!" She laughed again; she seemed, for her, to be very

excited. "I shall put it on presently, and you must judge of it."

She leant back in her chair, and was suddenly silent. The short day was

darkening; sullen crimson, presaging rain, burnt fitfully in the west,

and a gloomy brightness reflected through the windows of the great

gallery, and struck changeful colour from the mother-of-pearl figures on

the black china screens.

Mary coughed and shivered. She turned to Madame Nienhuys.

"When is your cousin coming to Court?" she asked.

"Not yet, Madam. I had a letter from The Hague yesterday from her

mother saying she would send her in the spring."

"Why not sooner?" asked the Queen.

"She saith she is frightened by the reports of the plague in London."

"They say it is worse this year," assented Mary. "And the smallpox."

"And the smallpox, Madam. But it is foolish of my cousin to be so

timid."

"Yes," said Mary gravely; "since timidity will save no one. God doth His

will, despite our fears."

She opened the work-table beside her and took out a chair-cover she was

working with a design of birds and flowers on a black ground. She made

a languid attempt to thread the needle, then dropped the sewing as she

had the book.

"I will try that gown on," she said, "and then we will make tea in the

little antechamber--this is so large."

The ladies rose with a pretty rustle of skirts, folded up their work,

and followed Mary through Sir Christopher's noble apartments to her

chamber, which was very exactly furnished but cold.

On the canopied bed of blue and yellow damask lay the Queen's new gown,

and two sewing-girls sat on low stools and stitched the lace into the

sleeves.

At Mary's approach they rose silently.

"How cold it is!" shivered Mary. "Put me down a grumbler, but we had

warmer houses at The Hague."

"But the dress is beautiful!" cried Lady Nottingham, and the five ladies

gathered about the bed with exclamations of admiration.

It was of white velvet, embroidered with little wreaths of coloured silk

flowers opening over a silver petticoat trimmed with flounces of lace.

The sewing-maidens eyed it shyly, and blushed at the compliments

bestowed.

"I must dance in that," smiled Mary. "Dancing used to be one of my

prettiest pleasures, as you may remember, my Lady Temple!"

"Will Your Majesty try it on?" asked Basilea de Marsac.

"Yes," laughed Mary, "the sewing-girls will help me; get you into the

other room and make the tea----"

The ladies trooped off, and the two sempstresses timidly helped Mary out

of her brown velvet and laced her into the state dress.

A fire was burning, and the Queen stood between it and the bed, facing

the long glass mirror above the mantelshelf that was crowded with china

grotesques. As they pinned, arranged, and draped the rich silk about

her, Mary felt a sudden great fatigue; her limbs were heavy beneath her,

and she gave a little sigh of weariness.

The dress was cut very low, and one sleeve was yet unfinished, so her

shoulders and left arm were bare save for her shift, and, as she moved

for her skirt to be adjusted, that slipped. The Queen noticed this in

the mirror, and put up her right hand to draw it up, when suddenly a

deep shiver ran through her. She stepped back, clutching the dress

together on her shoulder.

"It is too dark to see," she said levelly. "There is a silver lamp in

my cabinet--will you fetch that?"

The sewing-girls looked surprised. The light still held, and there were

candles in the room; but they left at once, with respectful courtesies.

The instant they had gone the Queen sprang to the door and locked it,

then went back to the bed and leant heavily against the post nearest the

fire.

She felt sick and weak; her head was giddy.

"Be quiet--be quiet," she said aloud, and pressed her clenched knuckles

against her leaping heart.

Only for a second did this weakness endure. She returned to the glass

and turned her chemise down; there she saw again what had made her send

the sewing-girls away--a large purple patch on the white flesh,

unmistakable.

For an instant she stood gazing, then sat down in the majestic arm-chair

beside the bed. There was another test she knew of--she winced from

applying it, yet presently rose and took from a side-table near the tall

clock a rat-tailed spoon she used for rose-water.

She put the bowl of this far back into her mouth, and then withdrew it;

the silver was covered with bright blood.

Footsteps sounded without. Mary flung the spoon on to the fire and

softly unlocked the door.

The sempstresses entered with the silver lamp, dutifully lit and placed

it on the mantelshelf.

Mary stood holding her garments tightly together on her breast.

"Have you ever had the smallpox?" she asked gently.

They both answered together.

"Yes, Your Majesty; but not the black smallpox, an it please Your

Majesty."

Mary looked into their fair, undisfigured faces.

"No," she answered; "the black smallpox is ever fatal, is it not----"

"They say so, Your Majesty," said the elder girl, pinning up the lace on

the silver underskirt. "And there is a deal of it in London now, Your

Majesty."

Mary made no reply. They finished with the dress and left her, having

laced her into the brown velvet.

The Queen put out the silver lamp and went into the antechamber where

the ladies were chattering over the tea Lady Temple was making in a

Burmese silver urn.

Mary seated herself near the fire.

"We will go to Kensington House to-morrow," she said. Then, noticing

Lady Temple's look of surprise, she added, with a slight tremor in her

voice, "I have a fancy to be near the King."

CHAPTER VIII

FEAR

My Lord Sunderland was climbing from obscurity, disgrace, and infamy to

that great position he had once held--climbing very cautiously, working

secretly, biding his time, venturing a little here, a little there,

helped always by my lady and some few ancient friends.

The King had been obliged to leave him out of the Act of Grace. He was,

nevertheless, at this moment waiting for a private audience of His

Majesty, who had already visited him in his princely palace at Althorp.

The King had gone in state to Parliament; my lord did not care to yet

take his seat in the House on great occasions; he preferred to wait in

Whitehall and reflect quietly on his policies.

He believed that the summit of his ambitions was about to be reached; he

had staked on William of Orange twenty years ago, and had never lost

faith in him. The King was not a man to be ungrateful. Sunderland saw

close within his grasp the moment he had worked for steadily,

unscrupulously, so long--the moment when William of Orange and he should

rule England together.

From his seclusion at Althorp he had watched the King's stormy reign,

and known that if he had been at William's right hand half the troubles

would have been averted or smoothed over.

He was even scheming to make the Court popular; the attitude of the

people towards his hero considerably annoyed him.

It was undeniable that the irreproachable example of the Court awoke in

the English more ridicule than respect or admiration; they regarded with

a sneer the sincere efforts of the gentle young Queen to elevate and

dignify her position, to improve the tone of a corrupt society. The

industrious simplicity of the King, his dislike of blasphemy,

evil-speaking, and frivolous amusements, his private tolerance, justice,

and modesty were as so many causes of offence to a people regretting

former princes so much more suited to their temper. They missed the

pageant that had continually entertained them at Whitehall, the money

that had been squandered by the Court in a manner so pleasing to the

national extravagance, the continual spectacle of the King in the

obvious exercise of gracious royalty, even the gay ladies whose

histories had diverted a generation. This humour provoked cynical

smiles from William and distressed comment from Mary. Sunderland

resolved to alter it; he saw the truth; he knew that nothing but genius

in the man every one combined to disparage could have kept the nation

together, and nothing but the greatest courage and strength on the part

of the woman they affected to dismiss as a cipher could have maintained

a government during the Irish war.

Sunderland largely blamed the ministers. Halifax had failed,

Caermarthen (now Leeds) was failing, the others had never been really

trusted by the King, who relied mainly on secret advisers, such as

Carstairs, Temple, his Dutch friends, and lately Sunderland himself.

My lord knew that he could do better than any of these; he had the great

advantage of understanding the King; he even believed that he could make

him again as beloved in England as he had been in '88.

William was no boor, but of noble blood thrice refined; his passionate

nature and the constant control he had put it under made him break out

fiercely sometimes against the foolish and the vexatious; he never

flattered, and he took no trouble to please women. Natural modesty and

the languor of ill-health made him refuse to concede to the national

love of display; but he was beloved abroad, and Sunderland believed he

could be beloved in England. My lord resolved to persuade him to go to

Newmarket this year; he flattered himself that he had a considerable

influence over William.

He became impatient for the King to return; he went to the window and

looked at the surging crowd beyond the courtyard waiting for a sight of

the Royal coach. It was not likely to be greeted very warmly, for the

King was, a second time, going to veto the Triennial Bill, a great

popular measure which, from the first, he had set his face against.

Sunderland upheld him; to consent to the Bill would be an enormous

concession to the people, and my lord had no love for the democracy,

but, like William, had a high ideal of the rights of the Crown. He took

pleasure now in thinking of the King's firm stand and the disappointment

of this crowd when the news of the vetoed Bill was flashed from mouth to

mouth.

As he watched, standing within the silver-corded curtains, a party of

halberdiers suddenly scattered the people to right and left, a company

of soldiers drove up, and then the Royal coach came, unusually fast,

swinging on its leathers.

A deep hum rose from the crowd; some broke into cheering, hats were

thrown up, and handkerchiefs waved. Sunderland had never seen the King

receive such a cordial reception.

He withdrew from the window, surprised, a little puzzled.

The satisfied murmur of the crowd continued.

"Why--is it possible----" cried my lord.

He hastened to seek out the King.

William was in his dressing-room, disrobing. M. Zulestein was with him,

and several other nobles.

Gold-embroidered purple, scarlet and ermine, the collar and star of the

George lay tossed on one of the gilt walnut chairs; the King, in silk

shirt and white satin breeches, sat by a marquetry dressing-table with a

letter in his hand.

Sunderland entered as one sure of his welcome. William had promised him

countenance if he would come to Court.

"Your Majesty----" he began.

The King looked at him blankly; his face, between the dark curls, was of

a startling whiteness.

"Ah, sir," said Sunderland, "do I break in upon Your Majesty?"

"No," answered William vaguely.

My lord looked round the other nobles; they seemed strangely silent.

"Sir, how went it in Parliament?" he asked, approaching the King.

William made a heavy effort to answer.

"I--well enough--they----" His voice trailed off.

Sunderland stood utterly amazed. Was this man going to fail?

"Sir, the Triennial Bill?" he questioned half fearfully.

The King rose; he seemed utterly unnerved; he whom my lord had ever

considered beyond the touch of weakness.

"I passed it," he said faintly.

The colour flashed into Sunderland's face.

"You did!" he cried. "You made that great concession. By God, if any

but Your Majesty had made that statement I should have disbelieved

them----"

The King did not seem to hear him; he called distractedly for his coat,

and walked up and down the splendid little chamber with his head bent.

Sunderland, sick at heart, drew M. de Zulestein aside.

"What is the matter with the King?" he whispered. "I should not have

known him----"

"He hath been all day like a man in a confusion," answered the Master of

the Robes.

"And to give way," muttered Sunderland. "To concede like any weakling!"

William mechanically took from one of the lords his coat, sword, and

hat, and stood still a moment before the chair on which his orders

glittered on his robes, like frozen coloured water gleaming in the

winter sunlight.

"Is the coach ready?" he asked abruptly.

"Your Majesty," reminded M. de Zulestein, "is to dine in public here

to-day----"

"No," said the King, "I will go at once to Kensington House--hasten the

coach----"

"But there are a number of people already gathered--it will cause

grievous offence----"

The King stared at him with wild dark eyes.

"My God, I will not stay an instant."

M. de Zulestein bowed.

At this moment Lord Portland entered; they saw him with profound relief,

believing that, if any could, he would fathom and combat the King's

humour.

At sight of him William flushed with animation. Portland crossed to him

at once; he seemed himself troubled in his manner.

The King caught his hand and pressed it inside his open satin waistcoat,

over his heart.

"Do you feel that?" he asked. "Have you ever known it beat so?--that is

fear, William, fear----"

He spoke in his own language, and with an extraordinary energy and

passion.

"The letter," asked Portland tenderly, "that was handed you as we

started----"

"From Sir Thomas Millington," said the King; he put it into his friend's

hands and sank on to the chair beside the dressing-table; he seemed

utterly unconscious of the watchful eyes upon him, of the presence,

indeed, of any but Portland.

That lord read the letter of Sir Thomas (he was the King's physician)

with, it seemed, some relief.

"Why, he merely saith the Queen is not well."

William answered hoarsely--

"Lady Temple came to Whitehall this morning when you were abroad ... you

know _she_ hath never had the smallpox." His voice broke; he stared out

of the window at the winter sky.

"God in Heaven!" exclaimed Portland. "You do not think of _that_?"

"Lady Temple," muttered the King, "said--_she_ had sent from

Kensington--every one, even to the maid-servants--who--had not had the

smallpox----"

"That is but her own sweet kindness," cried Portland--"she cannot

know----"

"I am afraid, afraid," answered the King. "My father, my mother, my

uncle ... all dead of that..."

He sprang up and turned to the door. Sunderland was in his way, and

stayed him gently.

"Sir--I entreat you do not disappoint the people--stay in Whitehall to

dine----"

William looked at him fiercely.

"Do you not hear that the Queen is sick?"

Sunderland's face was cold; he was disappointed in the King.

"What of this Bill for the Calling of Parliaments?" he said. "I would

like to hear some good reason for that concession on the part of Your

Majesty."

William made no answer; he put out his hand and motioned my lord out of

his way. Sunderland stepped aside and the King left the room. They

heard his high heels going quickly down the corridors.

Portland turned to M. de Zulestein.

"Why, he hath known two days that the Queen was not well."

"It was Lady Temple," answered the Master of the Robes. "She told him

Her Majesty was worse than she would admit."

"But the doctors----"

"You know the King hath never had any trust in doctors--and certainly it

giveth an ill-colour that she hath sent away all that are like to be

infected."

"Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I have

misreckoned on the King."

He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after the

King. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and the

banqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lords

ready to serve.

The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with no

other company but that nobleman.

So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from the

Palace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people drive

away from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries of

Leeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hooted

lustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.

Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hooted

or cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thought

little about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiar

loyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were with

that lady whose life meant so much to England.

In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more the

King, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still round

his knee, was by Mary's side in the long Queen's gallery.

She was seated close to the fire with Basilea de Marsac and Madame de

Nienhuys--very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a blue

scarf about her shoulders.

Her extravagant joy at the King's coming was piteous to see.

"So soon!" she cried, and her whole face changed. "I thought it could

not be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine at

Whitehall?"

"No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You--you are no

worse?"

"Oh, I am well again," smiled Mary; "but you will make yourself

unpopular if you disappoint the people--yet I am glad you came--I

thought I must see you--that is why I came from Hampton yesterday,

forgive me--but even the sound of the Tower guns as you went to

Parliament was company----"

She paused, and seemed rather exhausted by the effort of speaking.

William noticed with unutterable anxiety that the hand he held was

burning hot and that she shivered continuously, yet she was so joyous,

smiling, and lovely he could not trust his own fears.

The two ladies had withdrawn to the other end of the gallery. The King

took the stool beside Mary.

"Did you pass the Parliament Bill?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, never taking his eyes from her face and speaking as if

it was a matter of no moment.

"Ah, why?" she asked, startled.

"I did not care; what doth it matter? Do not talk of business, Marie."

"No," she said softly; "let us forget great affairs for once. I am so

weary, dear."

"But you are better?" He could scarcely control his voice.

She smiled brightly.

"Oh yes; I was out driving this morning, and afterwards talking to Dr.

Burnet, and you know that taketh some energy--I think to have my ball

just the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubled

the doctors."

He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her household

that had so shaken him, but could not bring the words to his lips.

Mary coughed a little, and sat up.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said. "I am always begging--am I

not?"

He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy rings

hurt her, but she continued smiling.

"About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for a

hospital----"

"I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of it

before. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it if

I have to pawn my furniture."

"There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary--"poor and

wounded--and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. I

used to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging--one could

not forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich----"

"It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shall

draw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and that

shall be my thankoffering."

Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight flooded

her figure with gorgeous light; in that moment's stillness both of them

thought of love as a terrible thing.

Mary suddenly closed her eyes.

"Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?"

He answered under his breath--

"Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?"

"When she died she was no older than I am--I often think how strangely

near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But

if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would

not let one be afraid."

"Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You

frighten me----"

"Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle

to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of

your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland--a

limning in little with white violets on the back, and these words,

'J'aime un seul.' That was a pretty thought of hers."

She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavy

lids.

"I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully.

"You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will

go together to The Hague, and be free of all of it----"

"There is the war."

"Let Waldeck take the command this campaign--I will stay with you. We

have had so little time together all these years."

Mary gazed tenderly into his ardent face.

"The spring seemeth so far off. Hold my hand. I feel as if the world

might pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. You

will be with me this Christmas-tide?"

"I shall not leave you," he said hoarsely. "I will nurse you till you

are well again. But you are not ill?" he added piteously.

"No--tired a little." She sat up and put her hands on his shoulders.

"You do not regret the day they married you to your poor little cousin?"

The soft brown eyes were full of yearning. "She was such a foolish

child, so ignorant----"

He could not speak, but made a movement of his hands to hers as if to

stop her.

"Let me speak," said Mary sweetly. "I have thought so much about it

lately. We learnt everything so late--our mistakes last of all, I

think, and I have made many mistakes. Perhaps another woman would have

helped you more. But I have done my best--I wanted to say that--I have

always done my best."

He managed to answer, but almost incoherently.

"You shame me--utterly shame me--you--know what you have been to me----"

Mary dropped her hands; the tears gathered in her eyes.

"And I am childless," she faltered.

He sprang up as if he wrenched himself free from torture.

"Do not leave me," entreated Mary feebly. "I think I am not very well,

after all, and you promised to stay--forgive me--but indeed I think of

it and your great kindness."

He turned about and leant over her chair. Mary clung to him with hot

hands.

"No one could have loved you more," she said, in great agitation--"too

much, for my own peace----"

Her fever-flushed face drooped against the lace on his bosom; he put his

arm round her, and she gave a great sigh; the tears were on her lashes

and running slowly down her face; he kissed her loose hair and the hand

on his shoulder.

"God," he said, in an unsteady whisper, answering his own desperate

fears, "could not be so cruel."

CHAPTER IX

CHRISTMAS EVE

Kensington House was hushed and dark; in only one room did a light burn,

and that was where the Queen of England sat alone in her cabinet with

the door locked and two tapers burning on her desk.

It was long past midnight on Christmas Eve, and she supposed in bed; the

stillness was intense; the ticking of the little brass clock sounded

loud and steady--a solitary noise.

Mary sat at the desk with her papers spread before her; she had burnt

many of them in the candle-flame, and a little pile of ashes lay on the

cold hearth.

It was four days since she had first sickened, and the doctors said this

and that, disagreeing with each other, and constantly changing their

opinion; but Mary had never been deceived; she had cheated herself, she

had cheated the King, into a belief that she was lately better, but from

the moment in her bedchamber at Hampton Court when the thought of her

danger had first flashed on her, she had had an absolute premonition

that this was the end. All her life had been coloured by the sense she

would not live past youth. The first shock over, she did not grieve for

herself, but terribly, more terribly than she had conceived she could,

for the King.

At first a kind of wild joy had possessed her that she would go first;

but the agony of leaving him alone was almost as awful as the agony of

being left.

Because she could not endure to face his anguish she had so far

concealed from him both her certainty of her own approaching end and her

own belief as to her malady. Dr. Radcliffe alone among the physicians

had said smallpox, and been laughed at for his opinion, but the Queen

knew that he was right. "Malignant black smallpox," he had said, and she

knew he was right in that also.

Few recovered from this plague; few lived beyond the week.

Alone in the little cabinet, consecrated by so many prayers,

meditations, and tears, the young Queen faced her fate.

"I am going to die," she said to herself. "I am going to die in a few

days."

She sat back in her chair and caught her breath. The stillness seemed

to ache in her ears. So little done, so much unfinished, so many

storms, troubles, attempts, poor desperate endeavours, and now--the end.

She recalled that when the King had been last on the Continent she had

been ill of a sore throat, and been so melancholy on account of the

dismal state of public affairs, the ingratitude and malice of the

people, that she had wished to die, but checked that thought, believing

that she could still be of service to her husband. And now it was no

wish or idle fancy, but the very thing itself.

And she must leave him.

Her deep piety made her think the agony she endured at that thought a

punishment for having so deeply loved a human creature. She tried to

fix her mind on God, but earthly affection was stronger. The image of

heaven became dim beside the image of him to whom her whole heart had

been given; the very tenderness that had been provoked in him by her

illness made it harder.

At last she rose and went over to a little gilt escritoire in the

corner; there were locked away all the letters she had ever had from the

King, some from her father, a Prayer Book of her mother's before her

conversion, some of her own meditations and prayers, her diary, and

various little trifles with poignant associations.

With the keys in her hand she hesitated, but courage failed her to open

any of the drawers; she returned to the large bureau and took up a sheet

of paper.

She felt ill and cold; her limbs were heavy, her eyes ached, and her

head was full of pain. She made a strong effort of will to take up the

quill and write; at first the pen shook so there were mere ink-marks on

the paper.

What she wrote were a few last requests to the King: that her jewels and

clothes might be given to her sister Anne, that her servants might be

looked after, that he would remember his promise with regard to the

hospital at Greenwich, and that if Leeds was disgraced the King would

deal mildly with him--"for he hath ever been a good servant to us."

She did not trust herself to add words of affection, but wrote beneath,

"The Lord have thee in His keeping," folded it up with the ink scarce

dry, and rose to unlock the top drawer of the escritoire and place the

paper within.

That done she relocked it and placed the key in her bosom.

All her other papers and letters she had destroyed; her private affairs

were in order; she had not a debt nor an obligation in the world. There

was nothing more to do.

She put her hands before her eyes and endeavoured to settle her

thoughts, to dismiss earthly matters and think only of God, but she

could not put the King out of her heart. Her thoughts ran past her own

death, and saw him lonely amidst his difficulties, without her aid to

smooth over little frictions, without her company in his infrequent

leisure, without her sympathy in his disappointments; in a thousand

little ways he scarcely knew of she had been able to help him, and now

there would be no one--no one to watch and notice and understand as she

had done; she could not trust even Portland to do what she had done.

"God forgive me for this weakness," she murmured, in great distress.

"God strengthen and make it easy for us both."

She rose and went to the window; she could see the black sky pierced

here and there by a few stars as the clouds parted--nothing else.

On an instant the deep silence was rent by a clamour of sweet sound; the

sharp strong pealing of church bells rang out over the sleeping city.

Mary knew that it was the village church of Kensington practising for

Christmas; she sank into the window-seat and fixed her eyes on those few

distant pale cold stars.

She could not steady her thoughts. Old memories, pictures of dead days,

arose and disturbed her. She saw the sunlight on the red front of the

house at Twickenham and the little roses growing over the brick, herself

as a child playing in the garden, and the figure of her father standing

by the sundial looking at her, as he had stood once on one of his rare

visits--very handsome and tall and grave with long tasselled gloves in

his hand, she saw the hayfields beyond St. James's and the summer-tanned

labourers working there and a little girl in a blue gown asleep on a

gathered sheaf and Lady Villiers pointing out the last swallow and how

low it flew--so low that the light of the setting sun was over its back

and it was like a thing of gold above the rough stubble--she saw

pictures of The Hague--that beautiful town, and her own dear house, and

the wood...

She remembered her presentiment, before William left for England, that

they were looking at the wood together for the last time.

All over now, mere memory, and memory itself soon to end; she would

never see the flowers again either in England or Holland; she had looked

her last on blue sky and summer sun; she would never more go down to

Chester to welcome the King home from the war; she would never again cut

the sweet briar roses to place in the blue bowls at Hampton Court.

It frightened her that she thought so of these earthly things, that she

could not detach her mind from the world. She endeavoured to fix her

attention on the bells, and they seemed to shake into the words of an

ancient hymn she had known as a child--

"O Lord, let Thou my spirit rise

From out this Press of turning Strife.

Let me look into Thy awful eyes

And draw from Thee Immortal Life."

The bells seemed to change into one of the endless little Dutch

carillons that she heard so often in her dreams; she put her hands

before her face--

"Take, dear Lord, the best of me,

And let it, as an Essence pressed

Like unto Like, win Immortality

Absorbed in Thy unchanging rest."

The bells paused and shuddered as if a rude hand had checked them; the

melody hesitated, then changed rhythm; a single bell struck out from the

rest in clear ringing, then stopped.

For a little space the air was full of echoes, then a mournful stillness

fell. The Queen remained in the window-seat with her hands before her

eyes.

When she raised her head one of the candles had guttered out and the

other was near its end.

She had lost the sense of time, almost of place; it would have given her

no surprise to find she was sitting in the garden at The Hague or going

down the waterways of Holland in her barge; she did not notice the

darkness so ill-dispersed by that one flame burning tall, ragged, and

blue in the great silver stick; she began to say over her prayers in a

kind of exaltation; she went on her knees and pressed her face against

the smooth wood of the window-frame; she was murmuring to herself under

her breath as if she tried to lull her own soul to sleep; she got up at

last, not knowing what she did, and unlatched the window.

She looked out on a ghastly dawn, pallid above the leafless trees,

against which a few flakes of snow fell heavily. The Queen stared at

this picture. The cold wind entered the chamber and a snowflake lightly

drifted in and changed to a crystal drop on the window-seat.

She latched the window again and turned into the room; the last candle

had been out hours; the wax was hard round the frozen wick; a whole

night had passed with the drawing of a breath, and this was Christmas

morning.

Above the chimney-piece was a mirror in a gold and ebony frame; the

Queen stepped up to it and looked at herself; she beheld a woman without

colour; her gown was black and her face and throat indistinguishable

from her crumpled lace collar; her hair was dark and without a glint in

the dead light; the pearls in her ears were ghostly pale; she thought

her features were very changed, being hollowed and sunk.

"They cover the faces of the dead," she thought curiously; "they will

soon cover mine." She put her hand delicately under her chin. "Poor

face, that will never laugh or blush--or weep again!"

CHAPTER X

THE QUEEN

Dr. Burnet was returning from his diocese of Sarum to Kensington Palace,

where he had been called by the grave reports of the Queen's sickness.

On Christmas Day she had been something better, but towards the evening

notably worse; on Wednesday prayers were offered in all the churches,

and the new primate, Dr. Tenison, was summoned to join the other

prelates in attendance at Kensington.

The Bishop of Sarum was joined in London by M. Zulestein, for whom he

had a peculiar friendship, and who came to urge haste.

The Master of the Robes hoped that the Bishop's presence might have some

effect upon the astonishing and immoderate agitation of the King; he

confessed he had been glad to escape from the atmosphere of anxiety and

grief at Kensington.

Soldier and priest made a melancholy journey in M. Zulestein's coach.

The Capital was very silent and awed. There could be no doubt now that

the Queen was beloved.

"If she goes," said M. Zulestein bluntly, "he can never hold the throne.

His very title to it would be questioned. Without her where are we all?"

Dr. Burnet answered unsteadily; he was deeply attached to Mary.

"Do not speak like that, sir. She must live--even if it be smallpox, is

she not young and strong? Did not the King recover?"

"He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the

army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and

the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady

hath any such will to live."

"God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the

King's feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his

head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support--a prince of

an extraordinary goodness."

"If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know

not how the King will well bear it--he hath hardly slept since her

illness--for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her

chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom--yet he is never on

it--he hath himself nursed her--day and night with such devotion and

care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion,

"Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and

troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that

he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him

as he is now."

"When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr.

Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of

emotion."

"You know him as well as any Englishman--yet you do not know him," said

M. Zulestein.

The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let

it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke

again before they reached Kensington House.

They found the household in much disorder--the courtyard filled with

carriages, the corridors with messengers waiting for the news. M.

Zulestein told his companion that the Princess Anne (in open disgrace on

account of her championship of my Lord Marlborough, who had been

discovered in flagrant treachery) had sent a humble loving message, and

that the King had replied warmly, but requested her not to come till

there was a turn for the better.

Dr. Burnet thought this answer of the King's looked as if the doctors

held out hope; he shouldered his way through the crowd to the Queen's

private apartments, and rather breathless and without ceremony he and M.

Zulestein put aside the ushers and entered the first antechamber of

Mary's apartments.

It was empty save for a couple of curious, frightened servants; but the

door into the next room was open, and the two new-comers beheld an

extraordinary scene.

A little group with their faces hidden stood before the window; near

them at the table was a florid, coarse-featured man, plainly dressed,

and cast down before him a gentleman in a violet coat--on his knees with

his hands raised in a gesture of abandoned entreaty.

The back of this gentleman was towards Dr. Burnet.

"Dear God!" he muttered, seizing M. Zulestein's arm, "is it--the King?"

M. Zulestein, utterly pale, made a gesture of assent, and hastened

forward. The man before whom the King knelt stepped back in a kind of

desperation, and cried--

"If Your Majesty were to offer me your three kingdoms I could give you

no other answer!"

At this the King fell forward on his face, and he was lying so, prone,

when the Bishop and M. Zulestein entered.

Dr. Radcliffe wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and looked round

half-defiantly.

"Gentlemen," he said hoarsely, "I take you to witness I have done my

duty. His Majesty asked the truth. It is smallpox, and Her Majesty is

sinking rapidly. I was not called in until it was too late."

Portland had come from the window, and was raising the King.

"You have some courage, sir," he said grimly.

Dr. Radcliffe retorted in self-defence--

"I did not undertake this for pleasure, your lordship; there was no one

else would dare tell His Majesty."

Portland got the King to his feet; the others stood awkward and still;

William looked round and saw Dr. Burnet.

"Did you hear?" he asked, under his breath--"did you hear?"

He sank into the chair by the table. The Bishop approached with some

faltering words of comfort, but the King cut him short.

"They say there is no hope of the Queen!" he broke out. "No hope! I was

the most happy creature upon earth, and now shall be the most miserable!

There was no fault in her, not one--you know her as well as any, but you

could not know her as I did--there was a worth in her none could know

but I!"

With that he burst into a passion of tears, and hid his face on the

table in an abandonment of agony which amazed those about him, who knew

neither what to say nor do in face of this overthrow of the Master whom

they had always regarded as one who would preserve a decent control in

the face of any sorrow, since he was a soldier and a statesman, and had

kept his countenance in many a bitter crisis, and always shown a

singular pride in controlling his passions--so much so, as to be stately

and cold even to those he loved; yet here he wept before the very

staring servants and gave no heed. Lord Portland thought there was

something womanish and unworthy in this desperate grief; he went up to

the King and spoke with a kind of heat.

"Will you give way thus? Where is your trust in God?"

He was speaking not to the King of England, but to William of Nassau, at

whose side he had faced so many years of danger, his companion in arms,

his truest friend.

"She will go to everlasting peace," he said, with energy. "You, who have

faced so much, can face the loss of her--for her sake, for her eternal

good."

If the King heard these words they did not touch him; he raised his head

a little, and broke into incoherent lamentation in a misery of tears.

Portland spoke to Dr. Radcliffe.

"How long," he asked, "will it be?"

"She may," answered the doctor, in a lowered voice, "live another day,

my lord, no more; the smallpox are now so sunk there is no hope of

raising them."

"Should she not be warned of her danger?"

"That is as the King wishes."

"The King!" echoed Portland, in a tone of despair. He turned again to

his master. "Sire," he said gently, "will you have the Queen told?"

William looked up; the tears were streaming down his face for any one to

see; he continually shuddered violently, and spoke so hoarsely Portland

could with difficulty catch the words.

"I'll not believe it yet--I cannot--these doctors--must save her----"

"Dr. Tenison," answered Portland, "is with her now--it were best that he

should tell her of her condition----"

The King broke out into ejaculations of anguish.

"There was none like her in all the world--none! No one could know her

great goodness. O God, my God, this is more than I can bear!"

Portland turned his eyes away, broken himself.

"I am amazed," whispered Dr. Burnet; "for surely I never thought him

capable of such emotion."

Dr. Radcliffe touched Portland on the arm.

"Look to His Majesty," he said. "I think this will prove beyond his

endurance--I will to the Queen."

He took his leave softly. The King lifted his head and looked after

him.

"He said there was no hope!" he cried. "No hope!"

"God is your hope," answered Portland strongly.

"Talk not of God, for this is death and damnation to me--if she leaves

me nothing matters on earth or in heaven--what have I done--what have I

done that the Devil is let loose on me?" He cast his eyes round wildly,

and staggered to his feet. "She was all I had--all--I should have died

first--I might have died happy--I have not lived so wickedly I should be

punished thus--but they mistake, these doctors--she cannot die--no, it

is not possible."

They were all silent. The scene was painful almost past bearing. The

King's agonies went beyond all bounds. None of them, though they were

all men who had known him most of his life, had believed that his temper

was capable of such passion. Dr. Burnet's fluent self-assurance was

checked--he stood dumb and staring; the Dutch nobles gazed in horror and

dismay at this spectacle of a proud man's utter overthrow. Portland

remained beside him, and the King supported himself by holding heavily

on to his arm.

"Doctors mistake, do they not?" he cried, between the long shudders that

shook him. "How often have they not said--I should die--but I lived."

"Alas," answered Portland unsteadily, "I would not have you deceive

yourself--Radcliffe was very certain. But you will command

yourself----"

"I--I have no strength," gasped the King; "my soul is broken within me.

O God!" he sobbed, "save her or let me go!"

He turned about and threw out his hand like a blind man feeling his way,

then fell back into Portland's arms.

"Fainted," said my lord laconically. With the help of M. Zulestein he

laid him on the stiff couch between the windows. One of the servants

hurried for a doctor, and in the moment's confusion my Lord Leeds

entered unnoticed.

Portland, as he moved from the King's couch, was the first to see him.

"Ah, my lord," he said sorrowfully, "what is to become of us all?"

"The King," murmured Portland, much moved, "is incapable of anything--do

you take the direction of affairs."

"Nay, you, my lord," answered Leeds. "You are His Majesty's nearer

friend."

"And your Grace is English--it will be more politic should you take this

office--what of the Queen?"

"I have just come from her antechamber--even the pages and serving-maids

are in tears--this is a heavy business." He himself seemed like a man

utterly overcome. "She is certainly sinking--she is in private

discourse now with the Archbishop."

"Doth she know?"

Leeds shook his head.

"Dr. Tenison waiteth the King's commands to tell her--but I think she

hath an inner knowledge."

M. Auverqueverque came from the group by the window and whispered

Portland that the King was conscious.

At this Leeds, ever warm-hearted and impulsive, went on his knees beside

the couch and pressed the King's cold hand affectionately to his lips.

William sat up with his head drooping; his back was to the light, and

his thick curls almost concealed his face; he held his handkerchief to

his lips and shivered continually.

"The Queen," said Leeds, very low, "hath asked for Your Majesty."

The King murmured something incoherent.

"And the Archbishop," continued Leeds, with a grave gentleness,

"thinketh she should be told of her danger."

"I would not have her deceived--in so important a matter," whispered the

King--"tell him so." He leant forward and took Leeds by the shoulders.

"Is it not an awful thing that she should die--she--to die--you ever

loved her--God bless you for that, my lord--she had a sad life"--his

voice became very indistinct--"she will not be sorry--but as for me----"

His hands loosened on the Duke's shoulders, and with a little moan he

fell into another fainting fit, so long and deathlike that they feared

for his reason or his life; it seemed, indeed, as if he would scarcely

survive her whose danger caused his despair.

CHAPTER XI

THE BITTER PARTING

The Queen's bed stood out into the room, facing the long windows which

looked on to the winter twilight; it was hung with four curtains of gold

and blue damask sewn with many-coloured wreaths of flowers that Mary and

her maids had worked when seated under the alley of wych-elm at Hampton

Court.

The coverlet was of crimson satin embroidered with great roses of

England and fringed with bullion. The Queen lay so still that the heavy

folds were scarcely disturbed about her limbs. The curtains round the

head of the bed had been drawn forward, and the pillows and the face of

the Queen were in shadow.

She wore a lace cap with long lappets fastened beneath her chin and a

little jacket of blue silk over her muslin nightgown. She was not

disfigured, it being the most deadly symptom of her disease that there

was no sign of it beyond the deep purple marks that had told Dr.

Radcliffe--black smallpox--from the first, and the constant internal

bleeding of her throat that had so exhausted her; that had stopped now,

and she lay quite free from pain quiet for several hours; not sleeping;

sleep, she said, gave her no ease.

To the right of the bed the King knelt with his face hidden in the

quilt. There were several prelates and doctors in the room, and by the

head of the bed Lady Temple, Madame Nienhuys, Basilea de Marsac, and

Lady Portland, the Earl's second wife and Lady Temple's daughter.

At a whispered word from Dr. Radcliffe, Tenison, the new Archbishop of

Canterbury, successor to the saintly Tillotson, so beloved by the King

and Queen, approached the bed.

As his footfall broke the tense silence Mary lifted her languid eyes; he

came round to her left, and stood, in a sorrowful attitude, looking down

on her.

"Be seated, my lord," she faltered.

But out of respect to her and the presence of the King he remained

standing.

Mary made a feeble motion with her right hand, which lay outside the

coverlet, and sweetly stammered her repeated commands that he should

sit.

Dr. Tenison obeyed, and with a heavy heart. Her gentle patience made

his duty the harder. Dr. Radcliffe had just told him that since she now

seemed tranquil and in full consciousness he might tell her of her

approaching end.

The Bishop, a good heavy man, set about his task with pain and

tenderness.

"Your Majesty will forgive me plain speaking, but I am entrusted by the

King----"

She lay with her face towards him, and her brown eyes narrowed. He

hesitated, fearing to greatly agitate her, and sought for a form of

words in which to cast his speech.

"I am greatly grieved to see that Your Majesty is no better," he said.

"Your consolation will come from heaven, not earth."

She instantly perceived his drift.

"You are come to tell me that I am dying?" she asked faintly.

He was startled that she had so instantly understood, and could not, for

the moment, speak.

"I thank my God," continued the Queen, "that I have had this in my

thoughts from the first. And there is nothing to be done. Search for a

little escritoire in my cabinet and give it to the King. That is the

end of earthly matters."

She closed her eyes and gave a little sigh.

"Will it please Your Majesty receive the Sacrament?" asked the

Archbishop.

"Yes," she said at once. "Yes."

He left her, and she turned her head languidly and gazed before her at

the window.

Lady Temple came forward lovingly, and looked down at her with sorrowful

eyes.

"Before you light the candles," whispered Mary, "will you draw the

curtains a little that I may see the sky?"

Lady Portland crossed the floor delicately and pulled back the heavy

gold thread and scarlet damask from the December twilight.

A pale glow of colourless light fell across the glittering bed, the wan

face of the Queen, and the motionless kneeling figure of her husband.

She could see loose grey clouds, an indistinct trail of yellow fire low

behind the leafless trees which tossed slowly in a feeble wind.

She gave another little sigh and again closed her eyes. Lady Portland,

weeping, drew the curtains. Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuys

lit the candles on the mantelshelf, on the table between the windows,

and the crystal lamp ornamented with the rose, the shamrock, and thistle

in silver that hung from the centre of the ceiling.

The Queen lay still all this while; she did not speak till Dr. Tenison

approached her bed again, and all the prelates in the chamber went on

their knees.

"I doubt if I can swallow the bread," she murmured anxiously.

The bishops in the room took the Sacrament with her; they were all heavy

with grief, and the Primate faltered in his ministrations, but she was

utterly calm; she followed the holy office clearly with no hesitation.

Despite her fears, she swallowed the bread without difficulty, and

thanked Dr. Tenison sweetly when he had done, and lay for awhile,

praying it seemed. She was so resigned that it seemed she rather

desired to die than live.

Presently she whispered, "I would speak to the King."

They all withdrew from the bed to the far end of the room and the

antechamber. Mary put out a trembling hand and touched the bent dark

head that rested on her quilt.

"Ah, love!" she said.

He raised his face, moving for the first time since she had fallen

asleep, two hours ago.

"They have told me," whispered Mary, "that I must say farewell--I always

knew--forgive me that I had not the courage to tell you." She smiled.

"I am so tired, and I have so much to say."

With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gown

and gave it him.

"The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give it

you--only a few trifles--but you will understand."

He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; he

did not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death,

it seemed, as hers.

"I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time,

and it was difficult--indeed difficult. God will know I did my poor

best. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but I

have done nothing, and I meant to do so much----"

The King forced his voice.

"You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered.

"You--you--oh, Marie!"

He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on her

fingers.

"Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you to

do----"

"No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now--I shall never do

anything again--never----"

Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into her

cheeks.

"You are rebelling against God," she said, between agitated breaths.

"You must go on--your work is not finished; but the prospects are so

splendid----"

"What is that to me?" he answered, in bitter despair. "I am a poor weak

creature--I can do nothing--it was always you, your hope, your faith--I

am no better than a thing of nought; in taking you God mocks me----"

"No--no," cried Mary, with a desperate strength. "You are going on--you

will conquer--do not make it hard for me to die----"

She sank on to her pillows, coughing a little.

"I have prayed God not to let you despair--I have asked Him to comfort

you----"

"There is no more comfort for me," he answered. "I want you--nothing

but you on earth or in heaven----"

Mary turned her face towards him; the dark auburn hair, beneath the fine

veiling of lace, hung over the edge of the tumbled pillow and touched

his hand.

"Oh, my husband," she said faintly; "I have loved you with a passion

that cannot end with death. You cannot--ever be alone again--I shall be

there----"

Her voice sank and died; she made an effort to lean towards him. He

caught her to his bosom and kissed her cold forehead with lips as cold.

"Go on," she stammered, "do not give up--the goal is nearly won----"

She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose.

She was smiling up at him, but there was an awful change in her face.

He put his hand before his eyes, and fell down beside her bed,

motionless, along the shining floor.

Mary clasped her hands on her bosom, and her head drooped to one side;

she continually coughed, and her lids closed heavily.

Lady Temple had run forward as the King fell; Portland and Leeds raised

and carried him, easily enough, into the antechamber.

Dr. Radcliffe gave the Queen a cordial; she thanked him, and seemed a

little revived.

"Let me sit up," she whispered. Her ladies raised her against the

piled-up cushions. "The King"--she added--"the King?--my eyes are

weak--I thought--he left me----"

"Dear Lady," answered Dorothy Temple, commanding her own tears, "he is

in the next chamber----"

She knew while she spoke that he had fallen into a succession of fits so

terrible that not one doctor there thought he could live.

"Perhaps," gasped Mary, "it were better if we--were spared--a final

farewell--I could not well bear it----"

She leant against Lady Temple's shoulder, and her lips moved in prayer.

Her face was very troubled, and she continually sighed.

"Madam, are you at peace?" asked Lady Temple.

"I am not sorry to go to God," she answered; "but I am weak about the

King--I would I might have been spared a little longer with him."

Presently she fell asleep, peacefully it seemed, and still with prayers

on her lips.

Lady Temple crept from the bed where Lady Portland pulled the curtains

to shield the Queen from the light, and asked Dr. Radcliffe how long it

might be now?

He shook his head sadly.

"A few hours, my lady."

Dorothy Temple burst out into subdued grief.

"We have the greatest loss in this lady! I have known her since she was

a child, and she had never a fault--this is a bitter thing for all of

us, and for England."

The doctor answered grimly--

"A more bitter thing even than you imagine, my lady. I do not think the

King will live."

She looked at him in utter terror, and at that moment Portland came out

of the antechamber.

"Will you go to His Majesty, doctor?" he said, in a shaking voice.

"Millington doth not know what to do."

Radcliffe left them, and Lady Temple desperately seized hold of

Portland's arm.

"Oh, William," she whispered; "how is the King?"

"Sorely stricken," he answered. "Is this to be the end?--that he should

die for a woman!"

Lady Portland came softly from the bed to her mother and her husband.

"Doth it not seem cruel that the Queen should die?" she murmured. "They

say there is no hope----"

"The Queen!" echoed Portland. "I think of the King----"

"Can you not," urged his wife anxiously, "rouse him and bring him back

to her? When she wakes she will surely ask for him----"

Portland, with a little sigh of despair and weariness, went into the

antechamber.

It was well lit and full of people. The King was seated on his

camp-bed--a dishevelled, pitiful figure--lamenting to himself with a

violence and boundless passion that had the force and incoherence of

insanity.

The only one of the company who had the courage to approach him was a

new-comer, my Lord Sunderland; pale, quiet, elegantly dressed, he stood

between the King and the wall, and gazed down on his master with an

extraordinary expression of resolution and consideration.

Portland went up to him, not without a sense of jealousy for the King's

dignity, that was so shattered before these foreigners and a man like

Sunderland.

"Sire," he said firmly. "Sire!"

William did not even look up; he was twisting his hands together and

staring at the floor, breaking out into the bitter protests of a mind

deranged.

Sunderland looked sharply at Portland.

"What do you want of him, my lord?" he asked,

"I would recall him to himself that he may take farewell of the Queen,"

answered Portland sternly. "But he, it seemeth, is no longer William of

Nassau."

Sunderland made no answer to this; he laid his hand lightly on the

King's shoulder.

"Your Highness!" he said.

The ancient title struck some chord of memory. The King raised his

head; Sunderland was certainly startled at his face.

"Who spoke to me?" asked William thickly.

"The Prince of Orange," answered the Earl, "cannot fail before

anything--the King of England must not----"

"Fail?" muttered the King. "Fail? Have I failed? They put too much

upon me. Did they tell you of the Queen? My enemies may be satisfied

now, for I shall never lift my head again----"

"The Queen," said Sunderland, "will not depart in peace unless she

leaveth you calm. Sire, for her sake will you not recall your ancient

courage?"

The King shook his head in a faint, exhausted fashion.

"You would not have thought that she would die so young," he murmured,

"would you--she was gay, too--there was to have been a ball

to-night--and she cannot live till morning----"

Lady Temple came from the Queen's room and whispered something to Lord

Portland, who instantly addressed the King.

"Sire, the Queen is awake."

William rose; his cravat and waistcoat were undone over his shirt, his

eyes bloodshot and dim, his hair dishevelled and damp on his forehead;

he seemed to be making a tremendous effort for control; he noticed his

disordered clothes.

"I would not frighten her"--it was Sunderland and not Portland to whom

he spoke. The Dutchman drew back a pace. It was ironical that at such a

moment the King should turn to such a man; but William had first roused

at Sunderland's address, and seemed to look to him for guidance as he

had looked, almost unconsciously, to him for support fifteen years ago,

in the bitter days before his marriage.

The proud, stern, lonely, and scorned young Prince had then opened his

heart to the dishonest, worldly, and cynical minister, and the bond of

sympathy that must have been between them then showed now, when the

King, fainting with mental agony, clung blindly to Sunderland's unmoved,

gentle strength.

Portland marked it then and marked it now; he felt his own love useless

in the face of my lord's charm. William had not even noticed his

presence. He left him in the arms of Sunderland and returned to the

Queen's chamber.

Dr. Tenison had been reading the Scriptures to her, and stood now by her

bed with the Bible in his hand.

Lady Temple and her daughter were behind him. The younger woman was

crying sadly.

Portland went up to the other side of the Queen's bed.

Mary raised her deep brown eyes and looked at him earnestly.

"My lord," she whispered--he bent over her and she caught his stiff cuff

with feverish fingers--"do not let the King despair ... do not let him

give up ... I shall have indeed lived in vain if he gives up ... so near

too..." She paused to gather strength, and he was too moved to answer.

"At first I was so afraid of you," she added wistfully, "so fearful of

intruding on you and him--you were his friend before ever I came, and

will be when I am gone--but of late you have tolerated me--only a woman,

but I have not hindered his destiny--I let nothing stand in the way of

his service--indeed, if I have ever vexed you, forgive me----"

"Madam," responded Portland tenderly, "you have been the great comfort

of all of us, and we shall be utterly undone without you."

She shook her head on the tumbled pillow.

"I was only a foreigner--a stranger; you were ever extraordinarily kind

to me--do not let the King stop--for this."

She fell on to silence, being greatly weakened by this effort of speech,

and Portland withdrew to the end of the bed to allow Dr. Radcliffe to

approach.

The Queen's words had roused curious memories in the mind of William

Bentinck. It did not seem so many years ago since the fair,

thoughtless, timid English girl had come, as she said, a foreigner--a

stranger--to The Hague, unwanted, mistrusted, despised for her youth and

her kinsman's treachery, regarded by her husband as an interruption--a

vexation--the mere burden of a marriage of convenience that had been a

political failure; and now she had grown to be the support of all his

designs, and he was brought to a madness of despair because she lay

dying, and those same aims and endeavours which her coming had intruded

upon, to his anger, were now nothing to him if she should no longer be

there to share them.

It was now past midnight. The Queen, having swallowed Dr. Radcliffe's

cordial, spoke again, and took farewell of her ladies.

"This was to have been our dance to-night," she murmured. "I am sorry to

have spoilt your pleasure----"

"There will never be any more pleasure for me," answered Dorothy Temple,

who loved her exceedingly, "until I meet Your Majesty in Heaven----"

Mary was silent, lying very still. There was a little stir in the

chamber as the King entered, followed by Lord Sunderland, who kept his

eyes on him keenly.

The King went straight to his wife's side, and lifted the glittering

curtain up.

The silence was heavy as these two looked at each other.

"Tell me," he said, "what to do--what you would have me do----"

The Queen tried to answer; but speech was beyond her power; and when she

found that she could no more speak to him, for the might of death on her

tongue, two tears rolled down her hollow cheeks, and, by the size of

them, it was seen that she was dying indeed, for they were large as the

grey pearls in her ears.

"Give me one word," said the King, and he bent low over her. She made a

second attempt, but in vain. A long shudder shook her, blood came to

her lips, and the tears on her face rolled off on to the pillow.

"She cannot speak!" exclaimed the King; he fell along the bed and laid

his face against her hand. Sunderland touched him. He gave a sighing

sob like a woman, and fainted.

My Lord Leeds helped lift and carry him to the back of the chamber; the

others remained about the Queen, who was sinking so rapidly that they

feared she would go before the King recovered his senses.

She put up her hands in the attitude of praying, then dropped them and

turned her head about on the pillow as if she looked for the King; not

seeing him, she moaned and fell into a little swoon, breathing heavily.

The watchers held painful vigil thus for near an hour, when she opened

her eyes suddenly and began to speak, in a distinct though low voice;

but the words she used showed that her thoughts began to break.

"We have such a short time," she said, "what can any of us do?--I hope

this will show you cannot expose yourself with impunity--I shall give

God thanks as long as I live for having preserved you--think of me a

little and be more careful--Lord Nottingham saw my tears, I could not

restrain--my father, my father, there is such a great light here, like

the sun at Twickenham, no, The Hague--a letter at last--he loves, after

all----"

She moved and half sat up; the lace had fallen from her head, and her

hair hung in a dark mass over her shoulders; an extraordinary look of

ecstasy overspread her wan face.

"Give me the child," she whispered, and held out her arms; then she

coughed a little and dropped back.

A slight convulsion shook her; her breath clove her lips apart, and her

lids fluttered over her eyes.

The clergymen were on their knees reading the prayer for the dying. As

they finished, Dr. Radcliffe put out the candle, on the table by the

bed, that shone over the Queen's face.

"It is over," he said; "Her Majesty is dead."

The Palace clock struck the four quarters, and then the hour of one.

The King opened his eyes and looked about him on the hushed kneeling

figures. Portland endeavoured to restrain him, but he rose from the

couch and moved slowly and languidly towards the bed.

No one dared speak or move.

When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the white

hand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand to

his breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then his

senses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feet

of the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees.

As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and,

when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly and

slowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom.

PART III

THE KING

"Man is God's masterpiece."

FRANCIS QUARLES.

CHAPTER I

VITA SINE AMOR MORS EST

Henry Sidney, Lord Romney, and the Earl of Portland were walking up and

down the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. It was the end of April--a

bitter spring following a severe winter; constant clouds blotted out the

sun, and sudden falls of snow had left the square of grass in the centre

of the cloisters wet and white.

The Earl, muffled to the chin in a red mantle, and carrying a great muff

of brown fur, was talking earnestly to Lord Romney, who, though a

feather-head and useless in politics, was more loved by the King than

any Englishman, and of unimpeachable loyalty to the throne.

"This," said Portland, with energy, "is death or madness--nay, worse

than either, for he is but a figure of himself that deceiveth us into

thinking we have a King."

"God knoweth," returned Romney, who looked old and worn, sad and

dejected, "never have we so needed his wisdom and his courage. Whom can

we trust since the death of Her Majesty? Not even my Lord Nottingham."

"Sunderland," said the Earl, "is creeping back to favour--the knave of

two reigns, who would get a third King in his clutches--and the Lord

Keeper is very active in the House. Now I have done what I can to

transact necessary business since the Queen's death--but I cannot do

much, for the malice against foreigners is incredible----"

"No one but the King can do anything!" broke out Romney.

"I at least can do no more," admitted Portland. "And certainly my heart

misgiveth me that this is going to be the end--in miserable failure."

"Why--not failure," protested the Englishman.

Portland paused by the clustered pillars which divided the open windows;

a few ghastly flakes of snow were falling from a disturbed sky against

the worn, crumbling, and grey masonry.

"Miserable failure," repeated the Earl; his fine fair face was pale and

stern in the colourless shadows of the heavy arches. "Parliament needeth

a leader, the Republic needeth her magistrate, the allies their

commander--there is very much to do--with every day, more--and the man

who should do it is as useless as a sick girl."

"I think," said Romney, with some gentleness, "that his heart is

broken."

"A man," flashed Portland, "hath no right to a broken heart. Good God,

could we not all discover broken hearts if we took time to probe them?

I know the Queen's worth, what she was to him, and all of us--but is she

served by this weakness of grief? He would best commemorate her by

making no pause in his task."

"That is a hard doctrine," answered the Englishman half sadly.

"It is a hard fate to be a great man, my lord--the destinies of nations

are not made easily nor cheaply. When the King began his task he was

prepared for the price--he should not now shirk the paying of it----"

"It is higher than he thought would be exacted, my lord."

Portland answered sternly--

"You surely do not understand. What was she, after all, but an

incident? He had been ten years at his work before she came."

The snow fell suddenly, and, caught and whirled by a powerful wind,

filled the air with a thick whiteness like spreading smoke; it blew

against the two gentlemen, and in a second covered their mantles with

glittering crystals.

Romney stepped back and shook it from him.

"Shall we not go into the church," he said, with a shiver, "and persuade

the King return?"

"It doth not matter if he be at her grave or in his cabinet," answered

Portland gloomily, "since his temper is the same wherever he be."

Romney turned towards the low door that led into the Abbey.

"Did you mark," he said irrelevantly, "that the robin was still on her

gravestone?"

"Yes," replied Portland; "it hath been singing there since she was

buried."

They entered the large, mysterious church. The snowstorm had so

obscured the light from the tall, high windows that the columns, roof,

and tombs were alike enveloped in a deep shade; it was very cold and the

air hung misty and heavy.

Above the altar, to their right, swung a red burning lamp that gave no

light, but showed as a sudden gleam of crimson.

On the altar itself burnt four tall candles that gleamed on the polished

gold sacred vessels and faintly showed the sweep of marble and the

violet-hued carpet beyond the brass rails which divided the altar from

the steps.

There was only one person visible in this large, cold, dark church, and

that was a man in the front pew, entirely in black, who neither sat nor

knelt, but drooped languidly against the wooden rest in front of him,

with his face hidden in his right hand.

Portland and Romney took off their hats and approached the altar; they

had nearly reached it before they noticed the King, whom they had left

at his wife's grave.

Their footsteps were very noticeable in the sombre stillness. The King

looked up and rose, holding heavily to the arm of the pew.

Romney hesitated, but Portland stepped up to William.

"We had best return, sire."

The King was silent, his eyes fixed on the altar and the fluttering gold

light that dwelt there--a radiance in the gloom.

Portland touched his arm and he moved then, with no sign of animation,

towards the Abbey door; his two friends followed shivering in the great

spaces of the church that were more bitterly cold than the outer air.

The King's eyes turned to the shadowed dark aisles which led to the

chapel of the seventh Henry and the spot where the Queen, a few months

ago young, and beautiful, and gay, now lay among her royal kinsmen, dust

with dust.

The King opened the heavy door and stepped out into the bitter light of

the snowstorm which hid sky and houses, whitened the coach waiting and

the liveries of the impatient footmen who walked about in the endeavour

to keep warm. The King himself was in an instant covered from head to

foot; he gave a lifeless shudder as one so sick with life that sun and

snow were alike to him.

He entered the coach and the two lords followed him; there was no word

spoken; his friends had lost heart in the fruitless endeavour of

comfort; he had scarcely spoken since the Queen's death, scarcely raised

his eyes; for six weeks he had remained in his chamber, and now he came

abroad it was to no purpose, for he took no interest in anything in

life.

He gave himself much to religious observances, and was often closeted

with the Archbishop; he uttered no word of complaint, never even had

mentioned his wife's name, which was the more remarkable after the first

frantic passion of his grief; he would attend to no business and see no

one; he replied to the addresses of the Houses only by a few incoherent

words; his answers as they appeared in the _Gazette_ were written by

Portland.

He fainted often, and his spirits sunk so low that the doctors feared he

would die of mere apathy, for all their devices were useless to rouse

him to any desire to live.

Portland could do nothing. M. Heinsius, Grand Pensionary of Holland,

wrote in vain from The Hague; that long, intimate, and important

correspondence was broken by the King for the first time since his

accession; the allies clamoured in vain for him whose guidance alone

kept the coalition together; factions raged in parliament with no

authority to check them; the Jacobites raised their heads again, and,

the moment the breath was out of the Queen, began their plots for a

French invasion and the assassination of the one frail life that stood

for the forces of Protestantism; this was generally known, though not

proved, but the King cared for none of it.

The home government, since the retirement of Leeds after the East India

scandal, was in many hands, mostly incompetent; foreign affairs fared

worse, for these the King had always kept almost entirely in his own

control, and had scarcely even partially trusted any of his English

ministers on these matters, that, as he was well aware, neither their

knowledge nor their characters fitted them to deal with. Portland held

many of the clues to the King's immense and intricate international

policy, and he had done what he could with matters that could not wait,

but he could not do everything, nor do anything for long, and what he

could not do was left undone.

As the Royal coach swung into Whitehall courtyard the sudden snowstorm

had ceased and a pale, cold ray of sun pierced the disturbed clouds.

The King had lately taken a kind of horror to his villa at Kensington,

and resided at Whitehall, though he had always detested this palace, and

the foul air of London was perilous to his health.

There was, however, no pretence even of a Court. The ladies, with their

music, their sewing, their cards and tea drinking, had vanished; the

Princess Anne, nominally reconciled to the King, lived at St. James's,

and no woman came to Court now; the great galleries, chambers, and

corridors were empty save for a few Dutch sentries and ushers and an

occasional great lord or foreign envoy waiting to ask my Lord Portland

when His Majesty would be fit to do business.

Without a word or a look to any the King passed through the antechamber

to his private apartments. Portland stopped to speak to Lord

Sunderland, who was talking to the Lord Keeper, Sir John Somers, the

Whig lawyer, as industrious, as honest, and as charming as any man in

England, and an extraordinary contrast to Sunderland in character. The

two were, however, for a moment in league, and had together brought

about that reconciliation of the King and the Princess Anne that set the

throne on a firmer basis, though neither had as yet dared to bring

forward my Lord Marlborough.

Romney, who disliked the everyday virtues of the middle-class Lord

Keeper, would have preferred to follow the King, but William gave him no

invitation, but entered his apartments and closed the door, so he had to

join the little group of three.

Their talk was for a while of general matters--of the heats in

parliament and the prospects of the campaign of the allies under Waldeck

and Vaudemont; each was silent about the matter uppermost in his

mind--the recovery of the King. Portland, the lifelong friend, upright,

noble, stern; Romney, gay, impulsive, shallow, but loyal and honest;

Somers, worthy, tireless, a Whig, and of the people; Sunderland,

aristocrat and twice told a traitor, shameless, secretive, and

fascinating, by far the finest statesman of the four--all these had one

object in common, to rouse the man on whom depended the whole machinery

of the English government and the whole fate of the huge coalition

against France, which had taken twenty years to form.

Sunderland, heartily disliked by the other three, yet master of all of

them, suddenly, with delicate precision, came to the heart of the

matter.

"Unless all Europe is to slip back into the hands of France," he said,

"the King _must_ take up his duties."

"This temper of his is making him most unpopular," remarked Somers, who,

honestly grateful to his master, had always endeavoured to turn people

and parliament to an affection for the King. "Though the Queen was

greatly beloved they resent this long mourning."

"She held the King and country together," answered Sunderland. "Her

English birth, her tactful, pretty ways did His Majesty more service

here than a deal of statecraft--the Jacks know that; the country is

swarming with them, and unless it is all to end in disaster--the King

_must_ act his old part."

Portland flushed.

"You say so, my lord, but who is to rouse a man utterly prostrate?

Nothing availeth to draw him from his sloth."

"He is neither dead nor mad," said Sunderland calmly. "And grief is a

thing that may be mastered. He should go to Flanders in May and take

command of the allies."

"It is impossible!" broke out Sidney. "Did you mark him but now? He

hardly lifts his eyes from the floor, and I have not heard him speak one

word these ten days."

Sunderland answered quietly--

"A man who hath done what he hath cannot utterly sink into apathy--there

is a spirit in him which must respond, if it be but rightly called

upon."

"Will _you_ assay to rouse His Majesty?" asked Portland haughtily.

Sunderland's long eyes narrowed.

"I am bold to try where your lordship hath failed," he said, with a

deference that was like insolence; "but it is a question of great

matters, and I will make the trial."

"You will make it in vain, my lord," answered Romney. "The King is

beyond even your arts."

Sunderland delicately lifted his shoulders.

"We can but see." He looked rather cynically round the other three men.

"If the King is out of the reach of reason it is as well we should know

it, my lords."

Portland did not reply. He bitterly resented that this man, whom he

scorned and despised, should gain this intimacy with the King's

weakness; but he led the way to William's apartments. He had practically

control of affairs since the King's collapse, and no one questioned his

coming or going.

They found William in his cabinet that overlooked the privy gardens, at

the bottom of which the river rolled black and dismal in contrast to the

glitter of the snow on the paths and flowerbeds.

The King sat by the window, gazing out on this prospect, his head sunk

on his breast and his left arm along the sill of the window. The

crimson cut crystal bracelet round his wrist was the only light or

colour on his person, for he wore no sword, and his heavy black clothes

were unbraided and plain; the considerable change in his appearance was

largely heightened by this complete mourning, for he had seldom before

worn black, having, indeed, a curious distaste to it. He had been born

in a room hung with funeral trappings and lit only with candles, and for

the first months of his life never left this black chamber, which had

caused, perhaps, a certain revulsion in him to the sables of mourning,

which he had worn only once before, when, a pale child of ten, he had

been dressed in black for his young mother, that other Mary Stewart

whose coffin lay in Westminster within a few feet of that of his wife.

He did not seem to notice that any had entered upon his privacy.

Portland glanced back at Romney and the Lord Keeper with a look that

seemed to convey that he felt hopeless of my Lord Sunderland doing what

he had boasted; but that lord went forward with his usual quiet

carriage.

A large fire filled the room with cheerful light that glowed on the

polished Dutch pottery and rich Dutch pictures on the mantelshelf and

walls. On a marquetry bureau, with glittering brass fuchsia-shaped

handles, was a pile of unopened letters, and amid them a blue-glazed

earthenware dragon that used to stand in the Queen's withdrawing-room at

Hampton Court.

Sunderland paused, looking at the King. The three other men remained

inside the door, watching with painful attention.

"Sire," said the Earl, "there is news from France. M. de Luxembourg,

who was your greatest enemy, is dead."

The King did not move.

"It is a great loss to King Louis," added Sunderland. "They say M. de

Villeroy is to have the command."

William slowly turned his head and looked at the speaker, but without

interest or animation, almost, it seemed, without recognition.

Sunderland came nearer. A book was lying on the window-seat, he glanced

at it--it was Dr. Tenison's sermon on the text, "I have sworn and am

steadfastly purposed to keep thy righteous judgments," which had been

preached after the Queen's death, and printed by the King's command.

Sunderland spoke again.

"The Whigs have ousted my Lord Leeds and his friend Trevor--and continue

to press heavily upon him."

Again it was doubtful if the King heard; he fixed his large mournful

eyes steadily upon the Earl, and made no sign nor answer.

Sunderland, finding neither of these matters touched the King, drew from

the bosom of his grey satin waistcoat a roll of papers.

"Sir Christopher Wren showed me these this morning," he said, "and

doubted if he dared bring them to Your Majesty. They are those plans for

the turning of Greenwich Palace into a hospital that Her Majesty had

ever at heart."

The three men watching caught their breath at the delicate bluntness of

my lord. This time there could be no doubt that the King had heard; he

made some incoherent answer and held out his hand for the plans, which

he unrolled and gazed at.

"It should be a noble monument," said the Earl softly, "to Her Majesty

and those who fell at La Hogue fight. Sir Christopher would have an

inscription along the river frontage saying she built it, and a statue

of her--looking along the Thames to London."

The King answered in a low voice--

"Let it be put in hand at once."

"Will Your Majesty see Sir Christopher?"

William lifted his eyes from the drawings.

"No--let him get to work," he murmured; then, after a second, "Do you

not think it will be a worthy monument?"

"So fine that I can but think of one more worthy," answered Sunderland.

A languid colour touched the King's hollow cheek.

"What is that?"

"The completion of Your Majesty's life-work."

There was silence. The King paled again and looked out of the window.

"I cannot talk of business," he said hoarsely, after a while.

"I speak of the Queen--her wishes," answered Sunderland. "She greatly

desired the building of Greenwich Hospital, but she still more desired

the preservation of this realm--and of the Republic."

At this last word the King gave a little shiver.

"The Republic," repeated Sunderland, "needeth Your Majesty."

William looked round again--his face was troubled.

"You speak to a dead man," he said, in a hurried whisper. "I have

finished."

"If that be so," replied the Earl, "we and the United Provinces are

lost, and King Louis will triumph after all, yea, after all the toil,

and loss, and patience, and endeavour, France will triumph over Europe.

Your Majesty had better not have flung the gauntlet in '72--better to

have bowed to France then than submit now."

The King seemed disturbed; he laid the plans of Greenwich down and moved

his hands restlessly.

"I am not fit for--anything," he muttered. "I am not capable of

military command--there are others--I have been at this work twenty

years--let some other take it up----"

"There is no other," said Sunderland. "This is Your Majesty's task, and

no one else can undertake it."

The King looked round in a desperate fashion; he saw the three men at

the other end of the room.

"Why do you come bating me?" he asked. "I tell you there is nothing

more in me"--he laid his hand on his heart--"all is dead--here."

A sudden violent cough shook him; he gasped with pain.

"In a few months I shall be with her," he added, and his voice was so

weak and shaken that Sunderland could scarcely catch the words.

"Doth not Your Majesty believe in predestination?"

William was silent.

"Doth not Your Majesty believe that God hath some further use for you?"

The King answered simply and with infinite sadness--

"I think He hath had from me all the work I am capable of."

"No," said Sunderland. "Your greatest tasks, your greatest victories

lie before you. William of Nassau will not die while the battle rageth.

God, who put you in the vanguard of the world, will not let you fall out

with the deserters."

The King drew a sharp breath; he seemed considerably moved and agitated;

his dark eyes turned to Sunderland.

"What is it to you whether I fail or no?" he asked wildly.

The Earl smiled.

"I stand for England, sire. Besides that, I always believed in you, and

you are the only man in Europe worth serving."

William flushed.

"You speak very boldly."

"I spoke boldly to Your Majesty in '77. I said to you then, you are the

Prince for England--your moment will come. The little things, sir,

often clog, and hamper, and bewilder, but in the end the big things

win--as Your Majesty will win, though through wearisome ways. Sir,

kingdoms are large stakes. Sir, to be a champion of a creed is a great

responsibility, and he who taketh it up must forgo the grief of common

men, for surely his tears are demanded as well as his blood."

William sat motionless, with his hand to his side.

"You think I can take it all up again?" he asked, in his hoarse,

strained voice. "My God! I think it is too late."

Sunderland turned and whispered something to Somers, who left the room;

to the King he said--

"I entreat Your Majesty see a young officer new come from Flanders."

CHAPTER II

THE KING IS NEEDED

Sunderland remained by the silent King, on whom he kept his clear,

strong glance; Portland and the beautiful Romney went into the

antechamber, where they could speak freely.

"What charlatan's trick is this?" said the Earl, in a low, angry voice.

"Who is this officer from Flanders? It is strange to hear my Lord

Sunderland mouth these godly sentiments--he, a man merely fighting for a

place----"

"Yet he spoke," admitted Romney, "and we were silent. And he roused the

King. If it be mere self-interest it had the effect of sincerity."

Portland made no answer; he knew that he could not have spoken to

William with the quiet tact and insinuating boldness that Sunderland

had, but he knew also that he had served and loved the King in a way

Sunderland could probably not even understand, and his heart swelled at

what he considered calculated tricks to goad the King into filling a

position where he might be useful to my lord; in this Portland's rigid

honesty was unfair to Sunderland, who, though he was knavish sometimes

in his means, was seldom knavish in his ends, and perhaps strove for as

high an ideal as William Bentinck, though by different ways.

Lord Romney spoke again.

"After all, what doth it matter--if the King could be drawn out of his

sloth?"

Portland's fair face was still dark and sombre; he rather despised the

Englishman; he rather regretted the day when he had come to England to

take up these perilous honours among a people who detested him. Romney

glanced at him, gave a little shrug, and returned to the King's room;

his love for William was of a different quality, his code was easier; he

was thankful that the King should, under any circumstances, recover his

balance, and he, Henry Sidney, could see no great dishonour in the

public actions of my Lord Sunderland, and regarded him from no such

stern standpoint as did William Bentinck.

He found the King had moved and now sat beside the bureau piled with the

untouched correspondence. Sunderland was still at the window looking

out at the inky line of the river between the white banks and the slow

progress of a barge with dull yellow sails that struggled with a

sluggish wind past Whitehall stairs.

Romney went over to him.

"You have done much, my lord," he whispered warmly; "we must all be

grateful."

Sunderland turned his faded, powdered face from the window.

"He will finish the campaign yet, I think," he answered.

The Lord Keeper and Lord Portland re-entered the room, and with them was

a third gentleman, who went at once to Lord Sunderland, like one waiting

for directions; that nobleman took him gently by the arm and drew him

towards the King, who had not yet looked up.

"Sire," he said, "Your Majesty knoweth M. van Keppel, who hath been some

years in your service."

The King raised his eyes and saw the splendid figure of a young Dutch

officer standing before him with great humility and respect.

"Yes, I remember you, Mynheer," he murmured, with a faint animation, and

speaking his own language.

Sunderland stepped back and the young soldier went on one knee.

"Are you come from Flanders?" asked William.

"Yes, sire."

"From my Cousin Vaudemont's force?"

"Yes, sire."

"What is your business with us?" asked the King faintly.

Joost van Keppel rose.

"My business is more than I dare broach," he said humbly.

The King looked at him kindly.

"I shall not be angry." He exerted himself to graciousness, and his

glance seemed to rest with a wistful kind of pleasure on the youth.

Certainly Joost van Keppel had an appearance well calculated to win the

hearts of those who looked upon him, for a mingled sweetness and ardour

made a kind of radiance in his face, as if he gave forth the light of

hope and courage. He was tall and robust, of a bright fairness, with

dark brown eyes of an extraordinary power and gentleness, a smiling,

strong mouth, and a fine carriage of nobility in his port; his

rich-coloured brown hair hung in full curls over his gay and vivid

uniform; there was a great quantity of gold on his sword belt and in his

shoulder knots; in the firelight he glittered from head to foot with a

changing light of gold; but despite his youthful strength and the

magnificence of his appointments the prevailing impression of his person

was that of a gentle, soft, and winning sweetness that sat very

graciously on the unconscious demeanour of a noble soldier.

"Were you not a page to us?" asked the King.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I was with those who had the honour to come to

England with Your Majesty," answered M. van Keppel. "Your Majesty showed

me great kindness in promoting me."

He had a gentle and charming address, an eager air of deference wholly

pleasing.

"I had forgotten," said the King. "So you have come from Flanders?"

He gave a little sigh.

"Oh, sire!" cried Joost van Keppel, "I am come to tell Your Majesty that

we need you!"

The King sat up and looked at Portland and the Englishmen.

"Ah!" he said, in an angry, broken voice. "What device is this you put

upon me? No use, my lords, no use; this back will bear no more

burdens."

"Absolve me," cried Portland. "I know nothing of this----"

"A trick," continued the King--"a trick to spur me. What are you,

Mynheer, to come and tell me of my duty?"

M. van Keppel threw himself again on his knees.

"The King is needed," he repeated, with great passion. "I love Your

Majesty enough to dare tell you so. Sire, the Republic crieth out to

Your Majesty!"

"Who told you to speak thus?" asked William bitterly.

"M. Heinsius," answered the young soldier instantly.

At that name the King changed countenance.

"M. Heinsius," he muttered; then he fixed M. van Keppel with a keen look

and added--"Why did he choose you?"

"Because Your Majesty used to have some kindness for me," was the reply,

given with a frank modesty; "because no man living could revere Your

Majesty more than I do."

"I am not used to be so courted," said William sternly. "You have too

ready a tongue. M. Heinsius may find another messenger."

He rose and would have turned away, but the young man, still on his

knees, caught the King's stiff silk coat skirts.

"Will the Prince of Orange ever refuse to listen to the appeal of the

United Provinces?" he asked, with singular sweetness and force.

William looked down at him, hesitated, then said faintly--

"Rise, Mynheer. I am not your King. As for the Republic"--he sank into

the great wand-bottomed chair again and said abruptly--"how think they

the campaign will go?"

M. van Keppel got to his feet and stood his full splendid height.

"M. de Vaudemont saith, sire, that if Your Majesty would come to lead us

there is no question that the allies might do more than they have ever

done." He paused a moment, then continued, "M. de Boufflers is guarding

the banks of the Sambre; a great army is collected from the Lys to the

Scheldt. M. de Villeroy, they say, is to fix his headquarters at

Tournay; but the allies are ready to take the field--operations could

begin next month. M. de Vaudemont and M. Heinsius have written so to

Your Majesty."

William glanced at the pile of unopened correspondence; he flushed and

looked again at M. van Keppel.

"Sire," said the young soldier proudly, "there is Fleurus, Steinkirk,

and Landen to avenge. I rode past Namur a week ago and saw the Bourbon

lilies flying above the keep."

"Namur!" repeated William, and his eyes widened.

The loss of Namur had been the worst disaster of all the disasters of

the war. William had perhaps never known such humiliation as when the

great fortress fell before his eyes.

"M. de Vauban," continued Joost van Keppel, "hath added to the

fortifications of M. Kohorn and declared the town impregnable; they have

fixed a vaunting notice over the gate defying us to retake it--but,

sire, it could be done."

"There spoke a soldier!" flashed the King. "That spirit in my men

wrested back the three Provinces in '74."

"That spirit is alive still, sire--they who drove back the French then

could take Namur now."

William looked at Sunderland.

"Would your English be pleased," he asked, "if we took Namur?"

"There is nothing would so delight the people as a great victory in the

Low Countries," answered that nobleman.

"So they defy us," said the King. "And Namur is even more important

than it was; it must be the strongest fortress in Europe. Certainly it

is a prize worth while."

M. van Keppel spoke again.

"M. de Maine is to be sent with M. de Villeroy."

"So they send M. de Maine to fight us, do they?" exclaimed the King.

"We should be the equal of M. de Maine."

He looked kindly and steadily at M. van Keppel.

"My child," he said, "you are a good patriot, and that is the best thing

in the world to be. We must give you a regiment. We hope to see you in

Flanders."