He was well aware that Albemarle was popular, and that he was not; that

he had few supporters in his point of view, and that Albemarle had a

great following gained by his universal sweetness, good sense, and

humility.

He was well aware, too, that the King had never more needed his

friendship than now; for the present session of Parliament had inflicted

one cruel humiliation on him, and was about to inflict another.

The King's grants of lands in Ireland had been looked into and

revoked--even such as he had given to the noble Ginckel, who had done

such service, and Meinhard de Schomberg, son of the soldier who had died

for England on the banks of Boyne Water.

William, who had disappointed his enemies by preserving a serene

composure when he had been forced to consent to the disbanding of the

troops, had scarcely been able to conceal his mortification at this

malice on the part of the Tories, and was still further moved by the

agitation rising in the Commons to turn all foreign soldiers out of the

kingdom, including the famous Dutch Guards and the refugee French

Huguenots whom William had long had in his service.

But none of this shook William Bentinck's stern resolution to leave the

Court.

He folded the letter, put it into his pocket, glanced at the brass

bracket-clock in one corner of the room, and went, for the last time, to

accompany the King on his way to the Cabinet meeting at Whitehall, which

William had summoned with the desperate intention of urging his

ministers to try some expedient with the Parliament to enable him to

keep the Dutch Guards.

Portland descended heavily into the courtyard where the coaches waited.

It was a sunny afternoon, and half the soft-coloured brick of the Palace

was in a tender light. Some pigeons were gathered round the clock,

which was on the point of striking four.

Monsieur Zulestein was there, Sunderland, Devonshire, and Monsieur

Auverquerque. Portland kept apart from all of them, and drew the point

of his cane up and down the cobbles; his eyes were fixed on the door

which led to the staircase to the King's apartments.

As the clock struck the hour William appeared in this doorway, and

paused at the head of the steps and looked round the courtyard with

narrowed eyes.

He wore black and a star, his hollow cheeks were flushed--unusual for

him--and he was breathing with obvious difficulty.

He saw Portland, and his whole face changed; he smiled, and his eyes

widened with an indescribable look.

Portland met that glance, and a quick pang gripped his heart; he

remembered days of long ago, in camp and cabinet, a frail young man

facing the French outside Utrecht, speaking to the Senate at The Hague,

firing the people, encouraging a fainting country, leading the mad

charge at St. Nelf, fainting over his work during tedious days and

nights....

Portland made a step forward; then he saw, behind the King, the ardent,

youthful face of my Lord Albemarle, and he fell back.

William slowly descended the steps. The lackeys opened the coach door,

and the gentleman came round.

The King looked to Portland, who still stood apart.

"Will you accompany me, my lord?" he said gently.

The seat in his coach was an honour to which his brother-in-law, Prince

George, had aspired in vain. Of late Portland had frequently refused

it, and in terms so curt as to excite the horror of those who heard.

Now the King was making a last appeal--his brilliant eyes, his moved

voice were reminding William Bentinck of his letter and of the long

friendship which the 'G' that signed it was a symbol of.

There fell the slightest pause; then Portland answered with a harshness

that would have been discourteous to an equal--

"I pray you excuse me. I keep my own company to-day."

At this, which was little less than a public insult, the King flushed a

dark red, and those about him knew not where to look.

"My Lord Sunderland," commanded William, "you will accompany us."

He entered the coach, the Lord Chamberlain followed, and Portland, very

white but unshaken, mounted his own vehicle.

The Royal coach started. Sunderland said not a word and made not a

movement, but sat erect, opposite the King, as they drove out under the

early budding trees.

William broke out into a sudden, deep passion.

"Is this the Prince of Orange"--he cried, striking his breast--"who was

something in Europe? Is this he, the sport of such as Harley, and

insulted by those who loved him once?"

"My lord must be out of his wits," replied Sunderland. "I could have

struck him."

"This is too much--this is indeed the end," said the King. "He leaves

the Court. By God, I was Nassau once, if I am only King of England

now!"

"He must still love Your Majesty----" urged the Lord Chamberlain.

"Love!" echoed William. "Doth love inspire such cruelty?" His speech

was broken by a violent fit of coughing, which caused the tears to run

down his face. Sunderland looked at him in weary despair, and wondered

if he could survive his present griefs.

"The Guards," gasped the King, leaning back in his corner--"I must keep

those Guards--and the French for whom I promised to provide--Ginckle and

Schomberg too----" His hoarse voice became incoherent, he pressed his

handkerchief to his lips and stared out at the groves of Kensington Park

with hunted eyes.

"We will do all we may, sire," replied Sunderland; but he felt not half

the conviction he endeavoured to put into his voice. The party in power

now hated the King and hated the Dutch; they were not likely to be

merciful in their triumph.

Sunderland could not understand this blind fury against the foreigner.

It might have been thought that two nations, both manly and given to a

plain religion, both engaged in trade and eager for liberty, could have

had much in common, especially when only divided by a strip of narrow

sea, and considering that there was no rancour of ancient dispute

between them. But at the bottom of each was a fatal difference--a

levity, an extravagance, and a narrow arrogance in the English; a

prudence, a seriousness, a reserve in the Dutch--that prevented any real

friendliness despite the specious complexion of a common cause, and had

been gradually fanned by jealousy and party spirit into an obstinate

temper, against which the arts of Sunderland were of no avail.

"They must not go," repeated the King in great agitation; "if they do, I

go with them--I have told Somers so. I am a foreigner also." He

paused; then added, with intense feeling, "I have been too great to

become the pensioner of a handful of commoners, the butt of your Harleys

and Jack Howes.... I will not take this humiliation."

"Your Majesty must think of the United Provinces," said Sunderland. "If

you were to resign the crown, what of the English alliance?"

This simple question had more weight with William than all the

protestations of Lord Somers. He went very pale, and half closed his

eyes. In the inevitable, in the nearing contention over the Spanish

succession, the dear bought alliance of England would be more necessary

than ever to the Republic; but the King's imperious pride, so long

controlled, outweighed almost his deep love of his country.

"Let Anne and Maryborough rule you," he said, in a low, passionate

voice. "A fool and a villain would maybe please you better. If my

soldiers go I cannot in honour stay."

"You must, sire," answered Sunderland. He looked out of the coach

window at the white, dusty sweep of Kensington High Street, the cottages

with the early flowers before them and the orchard trees covered with

their first green. "Your Majesty must remain," repeated Sunderland

heavily. "England needeth you."

William gave a cynical laugh.

"England hath had some work out of me--I have laboured for my pay. I am

not a young man now, and old for my years. I should wish to die in

Holland."

The Earl looked quickly at his master.

"Sire, you must not speak of death."

"I am a dying man," said the King quietly. "A few months--no more, I

think."

Sunderland could not gainsay him. In his own heart he felt a curious

chill of apathy, as if it was nearing the end; the very sunshine

without, falling so placidly on thatch and flowering tree, looked

strangely remote. It seemed a long time to Robert Spencer since he had

been at leisure to notice the mysterious light of spring. He laughed

also, but with a softer note than the King had used.

"Rest is good after labour," he said irrelevantly.

William was also looking out of the window at fields and clouds.

"God alone knoweth if I am damned or saved," he remarked strongly; "but

I have done His will as it was revealed to me."

Sunderland glanced at the Calvinist, who in those words had declared his

religion. His own creeds were very different; but both men, now at the

end, found themselves on much the same level.

Neither spoke again till they reached the courtyard of Whitehall, when

the King remarked, with an air of disgust, on the fog of smoke that

overhung the city.

As he dismounted from the coach he paused and glanced round the

gentlemen; for the first time in his life he ignored my Lord Portland,

but, with a delicacy that Sunderland was quick to notice, he equally

ignored Albemarle, and passed into the palace leaning on the arm of

Monsieur de Zulestein.

CHAPTER XI

THE KING'S HUMILIATION

Everything had been in vain. Harley pressed his narrow triumph, and the

King, after a bitter struggle, consented to let the Dutch soldiers go

and to retain the kingship, though he had drawn up a passionate farewell

speech to the ungrateful parliament, and shown it to Somers, Sunderland,

and Marlborough, now the governor of the little Duke of Gloucester, the

heir to the throne.

It was my Lord Chamberlain, fast feeling himself falling before the

wolves of faction, who urged the King to sacrifice even this to those

great designs to which he had given his life--it was Sunderland who put

the needs of Republic before him as he had after the Queen's death; and

William had again responded, even out of the depths of agony.

But as the day approached for the departure of those Guards who had been

with him since he had first marched out of The Hague against the French,

whom he had led again and again in battle, who kept watch every night

while he slept, who were devoted to him--not as the King of England, but

as William of Orange--as the time drew near for him to say farewell to

his friend de Ginckle and Monsieur de Schomberg, as he received daily

the petitions of the poor French who had fought for him loyally, and to

whom he had promised his protection, his spirit gave way. He made the

last sacrifice of his pride, and he who had dealt haughtily with kings

wrote a request in his own hand humbly asking the Parliament, as a

personal favour to himself, to allow him to retain the Dutch Guards.

He sent the message down to the House by Lord Ranelagh, his Master of

the Horse; and now, in his little cabinet at Kensington that had seen so

many vigils of toil and sorrow, awaited the answer of the Commons.

Before him lay the draft of the message he had sent--

"His Majesty is pleased to let the House know that the necessary

preparations are made for transporting the Guards who came with him into

England, unless, out of consideration to him, the House is disposed to

find some way of continuing them longer in his service, which His

Majesty would take very kindly."

To this humility had William of Orange stooped; beneath this paper was

another, half hidden by it--the farewell speech he had drawn up. His

own words flashed up at him in his own impetuous handwriting: "Feeling

that you have so little regard to my advice, that you take no manner of

care of your own security, and that you expose yourselves to evident

ruin by divesting yourselves of the only means of defence, it would not

be just or reasonable that I should be witness of your ruin."

If he could but go down to the House and cast that at them--leave

England, and die peacefully in Holland!

But Sunderland was right; he must endure even this for the sake of the

Republic--and surely, even such as Harley could not refuse his personal

appeal.

In his agitation and impatience he began pacing up and down the narrow

room. He was in wretched health; night after night he could not sleep

for grief and mortification; his headaches, his fainting-fits were

frequent and terrible; even this gentle walking to and fro soon

exhausted him; he sank into the window-seat coughing and holding his

side, where his heart was beating with a dragging pain.

Soon inaction became intolerable; he rose, nearly struck the bell to

summon M. Zulestein or M. Auverquerque, hesitated, did not, left the

cabinet and his own apartments, and came out into the sunny quiet

galleries of the palace.

Deep in thought, he walked slowly, with bent head and his hands clasped

behind him under the full skirts of his brocade coat, when a sudden

sound of voices caused him to look up.

He was in the empty antechamber leading to the King's gallery, the door

of which was half open; it was from behind it that the voices came; one

of them, very clear, serene, and beautiful in tone, was speaking as the

King paused; the words came very levelly and distinctly--

"He actually asked it as a favour, you say? And of course they will

refuse. I should have thought that the little upstart would have known

by now that we ain't to be lorded by foreigners."

The King stepped back with an instinctive shock, as if he had put his

foot on a sword. He knew the voice to be that of the man whom he most

despised and loathed--John Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough. Though he

was very well aware how he was traduced, lampooned, slandered, and

abused behind his back, he had never heard himself referred to in these

cool terms of contempt; though he knew these things were said, he had

never actually figured what it would be to overhear them.

The blood rushed to his heart and lay there like a weight. He was of a

family that had given an Emperor to the West five hundred years ago, and

John Churchill was scarce of gentle blood and had climbed on infamy.

The King's right hand crossed over to his sword hilt. The beautiful,

insolent voice began again. William instantly pushed open the door and

entered the long gallery.

At once silence fell. There were two men, Marlborough and Torrington,

near the first window, and a small, weary, anxious-eyed and

forlorn-looking child seated near them on a purple stool, making paper

boats.

Torrington went scarlet at sight of the King, but Marlborough swept a

graceful bow, without the least change in his composure. William looked

at him steadily. He could have sent him to the block--not once, but

many times, yet he had spared him even the humiliation of a pardon in

affecting to ignore his treasons. It was curious to him to look at this

man--young, splendid in towering strength and opulent beauty, rich,

prosperous, advancing from power to power, infamous, heartless,

conscienceless, the man who would be ruling England very shortly now,

and in whose hands would rest the completion or the ruin of the task to

which he, the King, had given his life.

Torrington, fearful lest William had overheard, made some stumbling

remark about their presence. The King seated himself on the window-seat

and coughed.

"Ah yes, I forgot that I was to have a visit from His Highness," he

said. He looked languidly at the little Duke of Gloucester, Anne's sole

child and heir of England. "Come here, sir," he added kindly, "and tell

us of your studies."

The child came obediently and stood by the King's knee, gazing at him

with very large eyes that shone as if they had a light behind them and

were themselves of crystal. He was about ten, remarkably thin and as

pale as wax to his very lips, which were compressed with a painful

expression of control; the blue veins showed across his high temples,

which were shaded by fine, light auburn hair. He wore a very stiff and

heavy suit of crimson and gold, a miniature sword, and the garter under

his knee. My lord his governor eyed him with the same kind of interest

as a trader feels towards some object which, indifferent as it is to

himself, he yet hopes to get a good price for.

William took him gently by the shoulders and drew him closer.

"What are they teaching you, eh?" he asked.

The child answered in a precise, toneless voice--

"I am progressing very well, I thank Your Majesty. The dead languages

and mathematics, history, and the philosophy and errors of the ancients,

the creation of the world and the feudal system; the Gothic Constitution

and the beneficiary law are among my next subjects."

"Doth Your Highness remember all these grave matters?" asked the King,

with a faint smile.

"I remember very well, sir, when I have not a headache."

"What gives you headache, Highness?"

The little Duke answered gravely--

"If it were not blasphemy, Your Majesty, I should say that it was

acquiring religious knowledge and listening to sermons; but Dr. Burnett

says that is a temptation of the devil to induce me to give up my

studies."

"Dr. Burnet is making a scholar of you," answered William; "but you are

to be a king and a soldier--do not forget that."

A pale colour came into the grave little face.

"Oh, I _want_ to be a soldier. I like the riding-school; but things you

like are of the devil, Dr. Burnet saith." He looked anxiously at the

King, as if hoping for a contradiction.

"I think that is beyond Dr. Burnet to decide," replied William. "And

Your Highness must not let any one speak ill of soldiers--there is

nothing better for a man to be. As God hath called you to be a king you

will best serve Him by being what you feel a king should be--before all,

a brave soldier."

The child gave a short sigh.

"I fear it is a very difficult thing to be a king," he said anxiously.

"Perhaps the most difficult thing in the world," answered William. "But

Your Highness will reign in happier times."

"Sometimes," continued the little Duke, frowning painfully, "when my

head aches and I cannot remember, and Dr. Burnet is angry with me, and I

feel so tired, I wish I did not have to be a king--I wish----" He

paused.

"What?" asked William; he put his fine hand delicately over the soft

hair.

"That I was in heaven," said the child simply.

"Already!" cried the King. He went very white; he had seen a sudden

look of Mary in Mary's sister's child.

The Duke nodded.

"But it is wicked to want to go before God calls you," he said, quoting,

obviously, his worthy tutor; "and being tired is a temptation of the

devil."

"A strong one," answered the King shortly, and then was silent; it

seemed terrible to him that this child should begin where he left off,

in utter fatigue and despondency. He put his arm round the fragile

little body.

"Highness," he said, "I will give you a troop of Horse, and you shall

drill them yourself, and you shall have some hours off your studies for

it, and I will come and give you lessons in soldiering."

The little Duke's face flushed and changed in a marvellous fashion; he

caught the King's free hand and kissed it passionately.

"But Dr. Burnet----" he faltered instantly.

"God doth not only speak through Dr. Burnet," replied William. "Men and

horses are more than paper and ink for all that I could ever see; ay,

and dogs and swords more than Greek and Latin. The devil is as likely

to be between the pages of a book as out in the open, with the animals

whom you might love more than men, so faithful they are. My lord!" he

called to Marlborough, who had withdrawn with Torrington, and the

magnificent Earl came instantly, with his winning air of deference.

"This child is too much closeted," said the King. "Look to it, my lord,

that he is more on horseback."

"Dr. Burnet findeth him an apt pupil, sir," responded Marlborough, with

the serenity and courtesy of indifference. "And Her Highness is very

satisfied."

"But we are not," said William quietly. "It is our intention to give

His Highness a troop of Horse." Then he was silent, for he recalled in

a flash that his own beloved companions in arms might be taken from him

with no more regard than Marlborough would show in taking wooden toys

from this child. Perhaps some such thought was in my lord's mind; he

smiled and let his fine eyes rest mildly on the King.

The little Duke clung to the voluminous ruffles on the King's breast;

his face was scarlet with excitement, and had for the moment lost its

premature look of wisdom and anxiety.

"When you next go to Flanders may I come too?" he whispered.

"Why, this is peace, Highness," smiled William.

"But there will be war again, will there not, sir?"

"God forbid," answered the King solemnly, "for we have utterly disarmed

ourselves."

Seeing him so suddenly grave the Duke was silent, and the old look of

wonder and question came back into his eyes.

William turned to him again.

"But you will be a great soldier yet; remember me in your first battle,

Highness."

The child fondled the King's star, and William, with exquisite

tenderness, lifted his long smooth curls of auburn hair, and passed them

round his fingers.

"Stewart locks," he murmured, and his voice trembled with the thought of

what had been, what might have been, and what could now never be; and

another ringlet of this hued hair that lay hidden in his bosom seemed to

turn into a dagger that pierced into his heart.

With a great effort he put the child from him and rose.

"Bring His Highness to see us soon, my lord," he said to Marlborough;

"and see he learns no lackey's tricks such as the vulgar one of speaking

scornfully of your masters in your masters' houses, which faults, like

the vile treasons of mean men, are beneath us to punish; but we would

not have the child ape these manners."

Marlborough's serene face slightly flushed; he could not, for all his

self-command, answer; he bowed very low under the King's straight gaze.

"You will not forget the soldiers, sir?" cried the little Duke

anxiously.

"On my honour, no," answered William. "Tell Her Highness I shall soon

wait on her."

He bent and kissed the smooth auburn head and then the upturned,

grateful, earnest little face.

My lord left with his charge, and Torrington was soon after dismissed;

the King remained in the window-seat. After awhile came my Lords

Devonshire, Somers, and Dorset, straight from Westminster, looking very

gloomy about this business of the breaking of the troops, and after them

Lord Ranelagh, back with his answer from the Commons.

The King came forward a step to meet him, and Ranelagh, felt the blood

leave his own face as he saw the look that sprang into William's haggard

eyes.

He stood silent, and the other lords glanced at each other furtively.

The King put his hand to his heart.

"Why"--he looked round the distressed faces--"why--they have

not--refused?"

Ranelagh dropped to one knee.

"Alas, sire," he began, "'twas from the first hopeless.... Harley hath

such a hold----"

William interrupted.

"The Commons have refused our request?"

Ranelagh dared not make words about it.

"Yes, sire," he answered, in a broken voice.

"Ah!" exclaimed William. He turned away from all of them, and walked up

and down the long shining floor; after a moment or so he paused beside

Dorset, and said, in a very curious tone--

"I must get beyond sea--to--to breathe a little."

None of them ventured to speak, and he moved to the window again; there

on the seat was the little crumpled paper boat William of Gloucester had

been making out of a scrap of his lesson paper.

The King saw it, and a sudden passion kindled in him; he cast his eyes

wildly about him, and exclaimed, with the vehemence of agony--

"Had _I_ a son, by God, these Guards should not leave me!"

CHAPTER XII

APATHY

Matthew Prior, secretary to the English Embassy at The Hague, walked in

the wonderful gardens at Loo, where the King Stadtholder lived in

retreat.

It was early summer of the first year of the new century; there was

peace in Europe, prosperity in England and the United Provinces; the

work of William of Orange seemed finished indeed; he had dismissed the

Parliament that had so insulted and humiliated him without a word, and

as soon as it was up had gone into retirement at Loo; he had lost, it

seemed, all interest in England, and even in the affairs of Europe.

When the death of the infant Electoral Prince had reduced the first

Partition Treaty to wastepaper, William had framed another with the

Archduke Charles as claimant; the discovery of this had provoked great

wrath in England.

Portland, Somers, and Montague had been threatened with impeachment; M.

Canales, the Spanish Ambassador, had delivered an impertinent memorial

to William, who was now regarded as a powerless cipher in a

Parliament-ruled country, and the King had ordered him to be dismissed,

and recalled his ambassador from Madrid. As long as Louis kept to the

second Partition Treaty--and William could not doubt but that he would

keep so grave an undertaking--he cared nothing for what they did in

England; he left the government in the hands of a feeble Tory ministry,

of which the late Queen's uncle, Lord Rochester, was the head, and,

heedless of the complaints and murmurs, remained in retirement at

Guelders.

Matthew Prior thought this a sorry end for his hero. This flinging of

everything to chance, this cynical indifference, this apathetic calm,

seemed a poor conclusion for all that high hope, that serene courage,

that long, splendid, patient endeavour, that continuous, glorious

action.

He thought sorrowfully that it was now too late. The King was no longer

a power in Europe he had been crossed and humbled before all the world,

his army had been taken from him, his private grants revoked, his public

policy abused, his friends, his ministers, attacked, that Spanish

government that in the days of his greatness had humbly offered him the

Spanish Netherlands, now dared to insult him; and he was a dying man.

Matthew Prior sighed gloomily as he walked through the formal grounds

with their exact parterres, flower-beds, groves, and alleys, their twin

fountains and regular groups of trees.

The King had been at dinner when he arrived, and he was waiting his

audience with some sinking of the heart; he had not seen William since

the peace was proclaimed, three years ago.

It was about three of the clock when he was sent for, and conducted into

the large dining-room where the King was still at table.

The Palace, which was one of the most admired in Europe, had been built

by William with lavish magnificence on the site of his favourite

hunting-box. Mr. Prior, who had seen Versailles, was impressed by the

commodious nobility of the apartments through which he passed.

The dining-room was large, lofty, and cool, though filled with the

reflected sunlight that shone in the thick trees that shaded the terrace

on to which the four tall windows opened. The walls were hung with

pictures of the Princes of the House of Orange, wearing armour and

holding the baton of authority; above the deep fireplace was a portrait

of Queen Mary in red and ermine, clasped with emeralds and pearls.

The whole room was full of the sense of afternoon sun, but was in shade

by reason of the trees without; yet here and there the gold light

penetrated and lay in glowing patches on walls, floor, and the white

lace cloth that covered the long table that occupied the centre of the

chamber.

A number of gentlemen sat round this table on velvet-covered stools; the

dishes had been removed; the wineglasses and bottles showed pleasantly

on the white linen.

At the head of the table sat the King, in a low arm-chair; beside him

was a huge white boar-hound, who rested his long head on his master's

knee. William's right arm was round this animal, whom he caressed with

affectionate movements of his fingers.

Mr. Prior glanced round the company; he knew them all by sight: there

was M. Albemarle, seated nearest to the King, N. Ginckel, my Lord

Romney, my Lord Wharton, my Lord Pembroke, M. Zulestein, and M.

Auverquerque; they were all laughing at something that featherbrain Lord

Romney was relating, and most of them were in hunting attire and leant

carelessly on the table.

Matthew Prior looked at the King with searching interest.

William was leaning back in a languid attitude, with his black plumed

hat pulled over his eyes; he wore a full coat of velvet brocade in a

dark purple, with the huge embroidered elbow-cuffs, now fashionable, and

under-sleeves of gold tissue; a great quantity of heavy lace fell over

his scarlet waistcoat and at his wrists; the long, thick, dark curls of

his peruke half concealed the flash of his star.

This extravagant vesture increased the extreme delicacy of his

appearance; he seemed sunk and fainting under the weight of velvet,

silk, and lace. His face was pale and hollow, his eyes heavy-lidded and

deeply shadowed beneath; constant pain had drawn his mobile mouth into

an expression of endurance; his cleft chin, usually carried slightly

raised, was sunk on his bosom.

Mr. Prior, as he came up to make his bow, noticed that His Majesty's

hands were so thin that the diamond ring that he wore on the third

finger of the hand that caressed the dog had slipped round till the rose

was towards the palm.

He looked at the young secretary without interest.

"From The Hague?" he asked, and his voice was broken to a whisper with

his unceasing asthma.

Mr. Prior went on one knee and handed the letter with which he had been

charged. William motioned him to put it on the table by the

wineglasses.

"Nothing of importance, eh?" he said.

"I think not, sire; it was merely to ask instructions as to how matters

were to be arranged with Monsieur Heinsius with regard to the Spanish

questions----"

"Let that wait," returned the King indifferently. He leant forward and

took up his wineglass. "How do you like our house of Loo, Mr. Prior?"

"I think it worthy of Your Majesty."

"The gardens are at their finest," remarked William languidly.

Mr. Prior rose and awaited commands; but the King seemed to quickly

forget his presence, and the other gentlemen took no notice of him at

all; most of them were far gone in wine, and William was drinking

heavily--a new thing, for he had ever been the most moderate of men and

intolerant of excess in others.

The King turned his indifferent gaze on Romney and Wharton, who were

arguing together.

"Discussing a Republic for England, my lords?" he asked.

"Something of the kind, sir," said Wharton.

"Well, I will disappoint you yet," answered William. "I will bring King

James's son over on you and give you another Stewart king----"

"Why, that is as Your Majesty pleaseth," replied Wharton impudently.

"Or there is Tom of Pembroke," continued William; "there is a good block

of wood out of which to chip a king!"

Pembroke raised a heated face at this mention of his name.

"Sir," he cried, leaning down the table towards the King, "my Lord

Albemarle telleth me that I was insolent last night."

"So you were--damned insolent," said the King, in his quiet, tired,

unmoved voice.

"I could not have been in my senses," said Pembroke, in a slightly

maudlin tone.

"Oh, silly," cried the King, "you were drunk as any trooper; but I never

mind what a man saith after his tenth bottle."

Romney laughed.

"You'll get more wisdom out of Tom then than when he is sober, sir!"

"And even more folly out of you, Harry," said His Majesty dryly.

He filled his tall glass, and was raising it when he glanced at

Albemarle, who was looking at him steadily.

William laughed.

"Are you thinking of the doctors?" he asked.

"Your Majesty will ever disregard their advice," replied the young man,

in a moved voice.

The King laughed again, not at all pleasantly or graciously.

"Do you think I would forego even the gratification this affordeth"--he

touched the bottle contemptuously--"for years of life?"

He drank the wine, using all the while his left hand, for his right arm

was round the boar-hound.

"Dr. Ratcliffe aspired to wit this morning," he said. "'I would not

have you cough for your three kingdoms,' he remarked. 'Doctor,' I told

him, ''tis the three kingdoms killing me, not the cough.'" He looked

round and saw Mr. Prior still standing between the table and the

green-gold light of the window.

"Why, Mr. Prior, I play the indifferent host," he murmured. "Join

us--take your place----"

Romney and Wharton good-humouredly made way for the young poet, who drew

another stool modestly to the table. He was surprised at the easy air

of familiarity that reigned; the way these men spoke to the King, and

the way in which he accepted it. The three older Dutchmen, Mr. Prior

noticed, Mr. Zulestein, M. Auverquerque, and my Lord Athlone, were the

gravest of the company; he fancied they were there only out of loyalty

to the King.

Albemarle began talking to Wharton; they entered into a lively

discussion of their separate racing-stables. The King leant back

against the crimson cushions of his chair and turned his head so that he

looked out of the window.

Mr. Prior gazed at him; he seemed absorbed in thought. Mr. Prior knew

that it was the face of a dying man and a heart-broken man; there was

not a line of hope, of peace, or pride in that wan countenance; only the

serenity of grief, the apathy of utter weariness--a man worn out, done

for, awaiting scornfully an inglorious end. And he had done great

things; he had been a light to encourage half the world--a name to rally

nations.

"He should have died outside Namur," thought Mr. Prior, and felt the

tears smarting against his lids.

He was not deceived by the boon companions, the drinking, the careless

talk. He knew that the King cared for none of it, save as a means to

hasten death; indeed, the little poet wondered, what had he to live

for?--the Queen had gone, then Portland, then the army--his task was

finished.

It might have been an hour or more that the King lay back in his chair

looking out on the slow-waving, full-leaved boughs, through which the

changing sunlight moved; while the noisy talk of the others filled the

shadowy spaces of the mellow, lofty room.

Albemarle looked at him often and anxiously, but did not speak.

At last William moved, rousing the sleeping dog.

"I will go into the garden," he said, "before the sun leaves it. I

would see those Turkey pears."

Joost van Keppel rose instantly. The King took his arm and got up

slowly, coughing with the effort of movement. Mr. Prior was shocked to

see that he could not stand alone, but must support himself on

Albemarle's young strength.

The others rose, save my Lord Pembroke, who had been asleep this

half-hour across the table. The King saw him--an unpleasing spectacle

of a stout gentleman with peruke awry and a coarsely red face, breathing

heavily through his open mouth, with a wet stain of wine under his cheek

and over his cravat.

Mr. Prior expected a burst of anger from the King; but, instead, His

Majesty, still holding on to my Lord Albemarle's arm, broke into a long

fit of laughter, in which the others joined for no reason at all save

their vacant humours.

The poet could not force even a smile. William's unusual and immoderate

amusement had a sad sound to him.

Romney and Wharton went to drag Pembroke to his feet, and the King

continued laughing.

He was still laughing when an usher and a courier entered the room.

"From England, sire," said the latter, dropping to one knee.

Albemarle sobered instantly. The King ceased laughing and let go my

lord's arm, holding himself upright by aid of the table edge.

"Well, what of England?" he muttered. "We have no great interest in

England."

"Grave news, Your Majesty," answered the exhausted courier, who had

ridden fast from the Hague.

The King took the dispatch and broke it open; it was from Lord

Rochester, and contained a few lines written in haste: "His Highness the

Duke of Gloucester died suddenly last night of a chill. He desired to

be remembered to Your Majesty."

William's hands trembled; the news was serious in so far as it meant

that the English succession was now absolutely unsettled. But he was not

thinking of that, but of the white, anxious child's face framed in those

auburn curls, and the gallant spirit looking out of troubled eyes that

had faced the miseries of royalty so bravely.

"My Lord of Gloucester is dead," he said briefly, flinging down the

dispatch. "They might have spared their Greek and Latin--poor sweet

wretch!" His voice shook a little. "I am glad he had his troop of

Horse." Then, during the little pause of consternation that held them

all mute, he spoke again: "And I am glad he did not live to be a King."

CHAPTER XIII

FRANCE CHALLENGES

The sentry on duty at the foot of the great staircase in Hampton Court

Palace was nearly asleep.

The palace had been silent for hours; ever since he had relieved the

soldier before him he had not heard a sound. It was now nearly three

o'clock and beginning to be dark on the huge, gloomy stairway, for it

was mid-November and a mist had risen all day from the river.

The sentry yawned and then shivered. Wren's palace was neither very

cheerful nor very well warmed. The sentry preferred Whitehall, with the

noises of the city without and the coming and going of people to the

public galleries.

His Majesty was in residence at Hampton Court, but that made little

difference. He lived so quietly and saw so few people, that he might,

the sentry thought, as well have stayed at Loo. He only came, as was

well known, to open Parliament, and the moment it was up he would be off

again to Holland--a poor compliment to England; and now there was not

the excuse of the campaigns.

The sentry yawned again and stretched himself, after carefully resting

his musketoon against the dark wall; then he looked up the stairs, which

were painted with great, scrambling, heathen figures that swarmed up to

the roof, where they were lost in the fast gathering shadows. He then

walked up and down to keep himself warm, and began to wonder how much

longer now before he was changed; it was difficult to keep count of the

time because he had lost the last chiming of King Henry's great, painted

clock.

Presently the door at the head of the stairs opened, very slowly, but

with a distinct sound in the perfect silence.

The sentry caught up his musketoon, thinking that this was one of the

officers from the guard-room, and peered cautiously up the stairway.

It was, however, a gentleman in private clothes who was slowly closing

the door after him with, it seemed, some difficulty.

The sentry, who knew no one had gone up, wondered who it could be. The

stairs were so dark that he could distinguish no more than a slight

figure, hatless, and wearing a cloak.

There was a moment's pause and silence, then the new-comer began to

descend the wide, shadowed stairs, and the sentry knew who it was--there

was only one person who moved about the palace with that slow and

painful step, and that was the King.

The man drew back, rigid, to his post. He wondered that the King should

be coming down the state staircase unattended and on such an inclement

day. As he stood, stiff at the salute, he watched the frail figure

crawling with dragging pauses through the dusk.

The King had one hand on the heavy balustrade, and, by grasping this,

helped himself along. His head was bowed, and he continually paused to

cough or gasp for breath, his hesitating and unequal steps began to rasp

in the sentry's brain--he wished some one else would come. It seemed an

intolerable length of time as the King made his difficult progress from

step to step, and the cloaked figure with the bent, hidden face and the

one white hand, so thin that every bone in it showed, moving slowly down

the baluster, affected the solitary watcher with a sense almost of

terror.

As the King approached this terror increased, as if some ghostly or

unearthly presence neared. The hall and stairway rapidly darkened, and

the King was but a shadow among shadows when he at length reached the

last step and stood grasping the post with his left hand and holding his

heart with his right.

He stood there so long and so silently that the sentry's sense of

discomfort increased, and he felt a strong desire to turn and fly.

Presently the King moved, with difficult, faltering steps, across the

hall, and unlatched the door that gave on the courtyard. As he did so, a

full ray of ghastly light fell across the obscurity, and the reason of

the sudden darkness was explained, for a thin cloud of snow could be

seen against the grey masonry of the palace.

The sentry, who knew that it was dangerous for the King to go out save

when the weather was very fair, was startled to see him standing there

with the chill wind stirring his cloak and the bitter light of the snow

on his face. He stepped forward instinctively, but the King did not

hear him.

After a few seconds William passed out, and, acting on an irresistible

impulse, the sentry followed him.

The King turned to the left under the covered arcade, and, half resting

himself on the inner wall, made weary progress, the snow drifting in

through the open arches as far as his feet. He was continually so

shaken with his cough that he had to pause, and once the sentry caught a

short ejaculation of pain.

They had made almost the circuit of the courtyard and had come to

another entrance to the palace, when a second sentry crossed their path.

William murmured something, passed him without looking back; the soldier

stared after him, then caught sight of the other following.

"What is this?" he asked, in a quick whisper.

The sentry explained as best he could. Ought the King to go out

alone--to go out this weather at all?--why, he could hardly crawl, and

his cough hurt one to hear.

The second sentry only knew that they were to stay at their posts; he

advised his companion to go back to his lest the captain discovered. As

for the King, it was known that he was not good for long anyhow, and it

was no business of theirs.

The other soldier was not so sure; he thought my Lord Albemarle ought to

know, at least. The King might easily be murdered by the French or the

Jacks, and then they would be blamed.

But by now William had disappeared. The soldiers continued arguing in

subdued voices, when they were interrupted by the approach of a slim

gentleman in furs and velvet, who came with an easy, graceful step along

the arcade. Both the men knew him; he was the great Earl of Sunderland.

His quick eye noticed two soldiers in place of one, and that they were

talking. His suspicions, that never lay very deep, were instantly

roused, he clapt his hand to his sword and paused.

The man who had followed the King found courage to speak.

"My lord, I humbly ask the pardon of your lordship, but His Majesty hath

gone out unattended in this foul weather, and I was bold enough to

follow His Majesty, thinking of all the late plots."

"Who are you?" demanded Sunderland.

"May it please your lordship, the sentry at the foot of the state

staircase."

My lord narrowed his eyes on the man.

"You were on guard once outside Whitehall on the day the bishops were

acquitted. I spoke to you--'God and the King'--you recall, fellow?"

The soldier was silent with astonishment at the memory of my lord; for

himself, he recollected very well, but it was marvellous that a great

nobleman should remember such an incident during so many years.

Sunderland gave him no time to speak.

"Where did His Majesty go?"

The soldier humbly pointed out the way, and my lord turned on his heel

and went rapidly across the dark, snowy courtyard. He had reached the

farther court, untouched by Sir Christopher and still of the fashion of

the great cardinal and Harry Tudor, before he saw the King ahead of him,

a solitary figure in the grey afternoon.

My lord was instantly beside him.

"Sire, I must speak with you, and at once."

William looked round calmly.

"Come to the river--I had a mind to see the river."

Sunderland, standing uncovered, answered with energy and decision--

"Sire, if you have no regard for your own health, consider mine. This

weather is death."

William took his arm.

"No, Robert, 'tis the fireside that is death to me--to sit and doze like

a sick woman in shawls; but come into the great Hall, where we may be

undisturbed. Dr. Burnet is in my apartments with a packet of sermons."

He paused to cough, and then added: "As for your news--you are going to

offer me your resignation."

"That," said Sunderland, "and something else."

"Important?"

"Of the greatest importance."

They turned back across the courtyard, came to a dark archway, and

mounted a few steps to the left of it that led straight into the great

banqueting hall of Cardinal Wolsey, that, all dismantled and unfurnished

as it was, had the air of a vast, deserted church. It was even colder

than the outer air, and only an obscure light filtered through the tall

stained-glass windows.

But William liked the place for its very sombreness. He led the way to

the room beyond, that was hung with old arras and suits of armour, and

lit by an oriel window, brilliant, even now, with coats and

emblazonments.

A circular seat ran round this window, and in front of it was a table.

Here the King and his minister seated themselves. William leant back

against the stained-glass, he was wrapped in his cloak to the chin, and

his face was quite colourless; only his eyes fixed Sunderland with a

look clear, vivid, and penetrating as ever.

"So even you are leaving me?" he said.

My lord laid his hat on the table and began to pull off his gloves.

"As to that," he answered, "I am assured that there are a hundred and

sixty voices in the House for my impeachment. My friends could not face

that. And I am too old, sire, and too tired to brave what I once would

have braved."

William nodded.

"I would not ask it of you."

Sunderland detached the Lord Chamberlain's gold key from his crimson

waistcoat and placed it on the pale oak table.

"I shall be always at your service--just the same," he said; "but I

shall never climb again." He smiled. "This is the sum of it, sire--I

have no title that I was not born to, I shall have an impaired estate, a

detested memory--but I have lived my life, and I have no regrets--none."

"You take with you my deep thanks and gratitude," responded William,

with animation. "I could never have done what I have done but for you.

You will remain my friend, if not my minister. What is your other news?"

"Of far greater importance, sire. Of terrible meaning to Your Majesty."

William's eyes flashed. He leant forward.

"To do--with France?" he breathed.

"Yes, sire. The courier from Paris will be here to-night, but the news

is all abroad in London now."

The King's hollow cheek flushed.

"Tell me," he commanded.

Sunderland hesitated; it was not easy to tell a great statesman that he

had been duped, that his laborious schemes had ended in humiliating

failure. It was not easy to tell a dying man that his life-work was all

to do again.

"Well?" urged the King imperiously.

"Sire, when the King of Spain died and left his crown to Philippe

D'Anjou, Your Majesty was not disturbed?"

"No--because of the Partition Treaties."

Sunderland looked away, and said in a low voice--

"King Louis hath flung over the Partition Treaties, accepted the will,

and published a memorial justifying his action."

On hearing that he had been so cheated, deceived, betrayed, that, for

the first time in his life, he had made a huge political mistake, a

blunder, in trusting France, and that France had been all this time

laughing at him, that he had been King Louis' dupe, that he was despised

and challenged by the court he had once humbled, William gave a little

gasp like a sob, and sat very still.

"Louis," continued Sunderland, "defies you, the Republic, and the

Emperor, and thinks of nothing but seating his grandson on the throne of

Spain."

William sprang up with the energy of a strong man.

"My God!" he cried, "I was a fool to trust France. I should have known!

I should have known!"

A colour was in his face, his eyes were brilliant, his breast heaved.

"Their effrontery!" he cried again; "their shameful effrontery! I did

not think even they would have broken a solemn treaty made in the face

of the whole world! I must confess I am a dupe," he added proudly, "but

if faith and honour are to be disregarded 'tis easy to cheat any man."

He sank back on the window-seat and pressed his hand to his forehead.

"They think I am a cipher now--a King without an army--a dying man, but

I am he who met them single-handed once and could again." His voice,

broken and weak as it was, expressed an extraordinary enthusiasm and

resolution. "France shall pay for this. I will commit Europe to demand

payment, even if I do not live to see it given. Dear Lord! doth Louis

think that while I draw a breath a Bourbon shall rule over Spain, the

Netherlands, Milan, Sicily--the Indies?"

He rose and began to walk about; his eyes had flashed no brighter in his

youth. He clasped his sword-hilt and half drew it from the scabbard.

"The sword, the sword!" he said, "no way but that. Did I not ever say

so? The sword shall bring them to their knees yet; that is the only way

to deal with France."

Sunderland sat silent. He was appalled at the thought of the task

before the King if he would resist the aggressions of Louis; for the

English were in no humour for another war, and had been from the first

inclined to the King of Spain's will, not the Partition

Treaty--principally, perhaps, because William had framed the latter.

My lord ventured to hint some of this.

"I know," answered William quietly. "The blindness here is

incredible--the ignorance, the malice, astonishing. It is the utmost

mortification to me that I cannot at once act with the rigour I should,

but I have performed some hard tasks before. _I must bring England into

this_. And there is the Republic--when did she fail? She is with me

always."

He came and sat by Sunderland again, rested his elbows on the table and

looked down at the floor, supporting his head on his left hand.

He was face to face with, and had instantly and deliberately undertaken,

a task more difficult and tremendous than those he had carried through

in '72 and '88. It would be the greatest action of his life--and he had

perhaps a few months, at most a few years, to live. There were as many

odds against him as there had ever been; so many, so continuous, had

been his humiliations and sorrows, that a few moments ago he had not

desired to live another day. Now he found himself called to the supreme

task of all his laborious career--a task which, if successful, would

crown his work with ultimate triumph, however distant, and which, if it

failed, would make his whole life useless indeed.

He looked at his wasted hand lying on the table. Every breath was a

pain to him. He had scarcely the strength to sit upright. He had to be

lifted on to his horse, or into his coach. The doctors gave him dates

beyond which he could not live; but his spirit was unchanged since the

day that it had inspired him to wrest his country from the conqueror,

and it rose now to such a strength of enthusiasm that it actually

laughed at the weakness of the poor body that held it...

William of Orange looked up smiling.

"I shall succeed," he said. "I shall succeed."

CHAPTER XIV

THE VANGUARD OF THE WORLD

Again the trees were yellowing in the splendid park at Loo; again the

autumn sun fell tenderly over the Palace and the stiff beds of late

roses.

William of England and Monsieur Heinsius were standing by the sundial,

which was the centre of formal walks and exact parterres.

They were discussing the progress of that endeavour the King had set

himself nearly a year ago, when he learnt of Louis's breaking of the

Partition Treaty--a year of toil, of patience, of skill, of tact, of

sacrifice on the part of William; and it had met with success. Even the

English Parliament had not been able to resist his exquisite management.

Meanwhile he was quietly forming the Grand Alliance and feeling his way

to hurl the inevitable challenge at France.

He was leaning now on a thick polished malacca cane, with a gold and

ivory handle, from which swung two heavy crimson tassels, and listening

to the Grand Pensionary of Holland, who had been in everything the

perfect friend, the perfect servant.

"We can do no more," M. Heinsius was saying; "the States are in

readiness. We must wait for England."

"I have been doing that," answered William, "all my life." And he

sighed a little, though not with discouragement. There had of late been

every sign that the temper of the English was changing. They began to

murmur at the Parliament and its constant thwarting of the King. Louis

had been, as usual, insolent in his triumph, and British pride began to

rise at French insults. William had waited with infinite patience,

worked with infinite skill. He still waited and still worked, but with

a sure hope of success. Louis, in the infatuation of his success, might

easily commit some arrogant action that would inflame the people of

England beyond the control of any faction-ridden Commons.

William took out his crystal and gold filigree watch and set it by the

sundial. The sky, the trees, the walks and groves, the stately lines of

the Palace, were all radiant in an amber-coloured light. The breeze was

warm as mid-summer, and lifted the leaves with a pleasant sound. The

King raised his eyes to the peaceful autumn beauty, and there was a look

in them that was never absent when he was in his own country--an

unconscious expression of the deep passion he felt for his own land, for

the very air of it, the very grass and trees and clouds.

Presently he and M. Heinsius went into the house. Some German princes

were to dine with the King. All his Dutch friends were there also (save

only Portland), and it seemed like the old days again when the

Stadtholder would escape for a few days' hunt to Guelders--when he was

young and everything was yet to do.

Albemarle, lately invested with the garter, and radiant under his

splendours and in the satisfaction of great abilities finding scope, had

newly come from London, and during the meal William questioned him on

the state of parties there. His answers were satisfactory: the men of

Kent had lately sent a stern memorial to the Parliament, requesting them

to give up their internal quarrels and aid the King in helping his

allies in a fitting manner to resist French dominion in Europe.

The King spoke affectionately and gratefully to Albemarle; then leant

back in his chair, and was, after his habit, silent.

His reserve had grown on him more and more of late; he scarcely spoke at

all save to his intimates, and saw only those when he was obliged.

Towards the end of the long dinner he roused himself, and, leaning

towards M. Heinsius, who sat on his right, said a curious thing.

It was--"Do you think Monsieur de Witt would be proud of his pupil now?"

M. Heinsius could find no answer.

"He was about the age I am now when he met his end," continued William,

in a quiet tone. "After all, he had a happier life than I have had ...

Monsieur de Witt! How long ago it seemeth!"

He filled his glass, and lifted it as if he drank a silent toast. He

looked down the rich table and the splendid guests and up at the

portrait of his wife above the dark chimney-piece.

A full ray of dusky sunlight struck across the canvas and gave the

painted face something of the glow and bloom of life. The large brown

eyes seemed to sparkle, the red lips to move, the white breast to heave.

The King was still looking straight at this picture when a messenger

entered.

At a glance William saw that his dispatches were from England and

France. He set the wine down, and broke open that from London.

M. Heinsius, intently watching him, saw his countenance change, a

violent flush rise to his cheek, and his hands tremble.

He pulled his hat over his eyes to cover his emotion, and nervously tore

open the French dispatch. M. Heinsius saw that this was in the hand of

my Lord Manchester, English Ambassador in Paris.

When the King had read it he was composed again, but even paler than

usual. He folded both the letters up and placed them in the huge flap

pocket of his coat; then he cast his dimmed but still eagle eye round

the table.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a firm voice, "His late Majesty King James is

dead at St. Germains."

He pushed back his chair a little and drew a quick breath.

"And King Louis hath shamelessly outraged us by proclaiming his son, the

pretended Prince of Wales, as King of Great Britain."

For a moment the company could not grasp the import of this news: it was

too monstrous.

"His Christian Majesty hath been foolish before," added William, with

grim meaning; "never, I think, as foolish as this."

"By God!" cried M. Heinsius, "there will be no further difficulty with

England now!"

The silence broke into murmurs and exclamations. The King took no

notice of them; he was thinking of the meaning of this in Europe. Louis

had now broken the Treaty of Ryswyck as he had the Partition Treaties.

The result would be instant and inevitable war. Even the peace party in

the English Commons could not hang back now...

He turned suddenly to Albemarle.

"Send at once to London that M. Poussin is to leave as quickly as M.

Barillon did in '88." He laughed shortly. "This will be the second

time I have turned a French Ambassador out of London! And Manchester

shall be recalled at once." He rose. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing

the eager Dutch and Germans, "this meaneth our third war with France;

and this time I think it will be conclusive, and we, not France, be left

the vanguard of the world."

CHAPTER XV

THE EVE OF WAR

Service was being held in the Royal Chapel at Hampton Court.

There were not many people there: only the King, the officers of his

household, and one or two others, including Mr. Prior, new come from The

Hague.

William knelt alone in his pew while his chaplain delivered the final

and beautiful prayers of the Anglican service; he was not listening to

or repeating these prayers.

The old austerity of his stern religion had become softened with his

vaster knowledge and experiences, nor could his firm conception of a

wide tolerance maintain the narrow prejudices of sectarian belief; but

the old teaching of the faith that had supported his youth and manhood

through so much was still strong in him. It suited his nature and his

circumstance; it was the creed of his beloved country, and had ever been

under the especial protection of his family. The heart of the King was

still as Calvinist as it had been when he learnt his grim theology from

Pastor Trigland. Though he knelt in English churches and listened to

Anglican services, it pleased him to close his eyes and imagine himself

back in the bare whitewashed Groote Kerk, an eager grave boy, a silent

anxious man, seated in the stiff pew watching the sunlight fall athwart

the massive, tall pillars, and drawing stern comfort and noble

inspiration from the pastor's thunderous declamation of the theology of

Geneva.

This morning the picture came before him with a peculiar and painful

vividness. He put his hand over his eyes and thought that he could hear

the little stir of Mary's gown beside him, and that if he put out his

hand he would touch hers, warm on her Prayer Book ...

Long after the prayers had ceased he continued kneeling, and when he at

last rose there was a curious expression on his face.

When he left the Chapel his words were to know if Albemarle had yet

arrived.

No, he was told, but my lord might be expected any hour, as the packet

from Holland had got in last night.

The King had constantly shown a wistful impatience for the return of

Albemarle, when he had parted from him with great pain; but my lord was

the only person who knew his exact wishes in the matter of the disposal

of the troops in the United Provinces and whom he could entrust with his

minute instructions to M. Heinsius.

He now calculated that my lord, even riding all night, could scarcely be

there before midday, and he ordered out his horse and said he would ride

in the park awhile. It was a day in February, and mild and fine. Of

late, too, he had been unexpectedly better in health, and had even

hunted and spent hours on horseback.

As the little company left the Chapel, Mr. Prior fell behind to speak

with Lord Buckhurst, son of my Lord Dorset, Mr. Prior's former patron.

"Everything is done, is it not?" he asked eagerly.

"Everything," said my young lord, with enthusiasm. "We--and the

allies--will take the field this spring. God bless His Majesty!"

"Ay, he did it. I would I could have heard his speech to Parliament.

They say, sir, it hath roused Europe like the trumpet-call to

charge----"

"Europe, Mr. Prior, and the Commons of England. I think no nobler words

were ever heard in Westminster--he raised them all above themselves--you

have read the speech? It is in a dozen different tongues already.

England might hold the balance of Europe, he said, if she would exert

her ancient vigour and forget her unhappy internal animosities;--and she

will, Mr. Prior, she will--thanks to His Majesty."

My Lord Buckhurst was only voicing the general sentiment of enthusiasm

and loyalty that William had at last succeeded in rousing.

"Will the King take the campaign this year?" asked Matthew Prior, as

they strolled out into the magnificent gardens.

"I do not think so--it is to be my Lord Marlborough."

"A man who was ever detested by the King."

"His Majesty saith he is the greatest general and statesman. Next year

he might go himself--there seemeth hope that he might be recovered

then."

They passed the yew hedges and fountains, the famous patterned

flower-beds, and came out by King Charles's Long Canal, with the

resplendent avenue of trees rising up lofty against the pale spring sky

and fading into a fair, hazy distance. Coming now into the park where

the fresh grass was pushing up through the dead damp leaves of last

autumn, and the little groups of slender deer moved delicately through

the open sloping glades, they perceived the King riding with two grooms,

and holding his hat in his hand to catch the full strength of the faint

sun on his face.

He drew up his horse as he saw the two gentlemen, and spoke to them

kindly, telling them of the new fine entrance-gates he proposed to make

from the Palace grounds to Bushey Park.

He looked more animated and cheerful than he had done for a long while.

He was mounted on a splendid young sorrel horse, that he managed with

all his old skill.

"A new fellow," he remarked. "The grooms warned me he was spirited, but

I could scarcely be afraid of a horse--eh?" He faintly smiled and

patted the great creature's glossy neck with his thin, white, ungloved

hand.

My Lord Buckhurst looked at the frail figure of the King and the great

power of the animal, and indeed wondered that he could manage him. He

secretly agreed with the grooms that William was perhaps relying too

much on his exquisite horsemanship in mounting such an untried brute.

"I hope," said William, "that I shall find my Lord Albemarle when I

return."

He touched up the horse and galloped away out of sight down the long

avenue, the grooms after him.

Lord Buckhurst and Mr. Prior lingered a little in the pleasant dim sun

and shade, talking over this great prospect opening out over Europe, and

the part the nations of the world would play in the coming

struggle--which could not fail to establish for ever the Protestant

faith and the liberty of peoples.

Presently the sun clouded over, and they were for returning to the

Palace, when the distant sound of hoofs on the grass caused them to look

round, thinking this might be the King returning.

What they saw was a riderless horse--a monstrous sorrel horse--galloping

across the glade, with the stirrups flying loose.

"The King--his horse!" exclaimed Mr. Prior breathlessly. Lord Buckhurst

said nothing; he turned and ran swiftly towards where the animal had

come from. Cumbered as he was with sword, full extravagant vesture, and

a wide-bottomed peruke, youth brought him easily over the ground, and in

a few minutes he came to the spot he made for--a little clearing beyond

the great trees of the avenue, with Mr. Prior breathless at his heels.

They saw there what they had been dreading to see: the King lying on the

ground, and the two frightened grooms coming up, one dismounted and in

an embarrassment to know what to do with his horse, the other giving

doleful exclamations and cries for help.

William had raised himself on one elbow, and was holding a handkerchief

to his mouth.

Buckhurst and Prior rushed up to him.

"Are you hurt, sire?" cried my lord.

The King removed the handkerchief from his lips; it was scarlet with

blood.

"No," he answered. "The brute threw me over that molehill--the first

time, my lord, I have been thrown----"

He put his hand to the shoulder on which he had fallen.

"Something broken, I think," he said, in a fainter voice. "They were

right--I overestimated my skill--I have not the seat--I--once--had."

My lord endeavoured to raise him, tenderly enough; but at the attempt to

move the King's face went of an ashy colour, and he fainted with pain.

"This is the end," murmured my lord. "Take him up, Mr. Prior--dear God,

I think this is the end."

With the aid of the two servants, who had now left their horses, they

carried him back, by easy degrees, into the Palace, and his own

apartments.

Before the doctor could be called he came to his senses and asked for

Albemarle. On being told he had arrived, he bid him rest a little

before he delivered his news, and, having sent the message, called M.

Zulestein to bring him his yet unfinished letter to M. Heinsius.

When it was brought, and quill and ink, he sat up in his great chair

with arms, and added painfully these words: "God be praised, all

difficulties are overcome," and his name.

He bid them, in a broken whisper, send off this letter immediately, and

fell back again in his chair, very white and frowning.

The alarmed gentlemen were for his seeing the doctor immediately, but he

desired to give Albemarle his audience first.

My lord came on the instant, spurred and dusty, and all in a reek from

travel.

He entered, with a breathless air of dread, the throne-room, where they

had brought the King.

William was seated in a great low chair of red velvet, in front of the

blue dais and throne, which bore in silver the Royal arms and the motto

of Nassau: "Je Maintaindrai." He still wore his buff hunting-coat with

the gold galloon on the wide skirt and the tight doeskin boots with the

gilt spurs; his waistcoat was open on his laced shirt, and he held his

right hand over his heart.

Lord Albemarle fell on his knees and passionately kissed the King's free

hand.

William looked down at him affectionately, and said, between quick

little gasps--

"How go matters in Holland?"

"Well, sire, well--everything is in readiness. The States are willing

to everything that Your Majesty wisheth; all the preparations are

complete for an early campaign--but you, Your Majesty----"

"Tell me of Holland," interrupted William faintly.

Albemarle looked round the company, and hesitated; but at a sign from M.

Zulestein obeyed the King, and spoke of the affairs of the Republic, and

of their response to the King's call to arms.

William of Orange listened to these words, that told him his lifework

was at last accomplished, with such calm that it seemed indifference, or

as if he was giving no attention to the matter of the discourse; he

never changed his attitude or raised his downcast eyes. It seemed as if

even this could not rouse him now.

When Albemarle paused at last and waited, half fearfully, William spoke,

but so faintly that my lord, kneeling close as he was, could hardly

catch the words.

"I have often wished to die," he murmured; "but now I might wish to live

and see this prospect fulfilled; but I draw near my end--the end--the

end----"

He said the word three times with so many little sighs, and then

fainted, dropping his hand from his heart.

CHAPTER XVI

GOD AND THE KING

Monsieur Heinsius sat in the little room at the Binnenhof, which had

belonged to the Grand Pensionnaries of Holland ever since the Republic

had been formed. The furniture and the tall clock in the corner were

unchanged since the time of the great John de Witt; the window looked on

the Vyverberg, where the swans were floating on the grey, shining, and

placid water. It was a day in late March, the year 1702, and the clock

of the Groote Kerk had just struck four.

There was a pause in M. Heinsius's strenuous work; for the moment he had

nothing to do, and he was very glad of the rare leisure. He had not

been in good health for some time, and to-day felt feverish and heavy in

his limbs; he winced at the effort of giving instructions to his

secretaries, putting up his papers, and going home, so remained, half

dozing in his chair, looking at the peaceful surface of the lake, and

the still bare trees, and neat brick houses beyond.

Before him, on his old black polished bureau, lay the last letter from

the King-Stadtholder, which had given him great pleasure, for alarming

reports had been current in The Hague as to the health of His Majesty

since his accident at Hampton Court; but in this he said not one word of

his illness. The last words were--"I am infinitely concerned to learn

that your health is not yet quite established. May God be pleased to

grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good friend,

William."

True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in

the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the

packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he

believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any

danger.

Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning

back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little

fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him

to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next

chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked.

They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed

himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a

young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg

and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest.

M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both

the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M.

Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder.

He was very young--little more than a boy--but of a very grave, still

carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a

cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty

years ago--of the time of John de Witt.

He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and

heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk

face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and

that was the colour of the Garter.

M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and

came towards the Grand Pensionary's cabinet, walking stiffly, and

holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned

rosettes on his square-toed shoes.

He came steadily through the sunlight, his glance cast thoughtfully

down, and advanced to the desk before which M. Heinsius sat; he moved

between the Grand Pensionary and the window, and, leaning forward, put

his right hand, which was ringless and beautiful, on the letter of

William of Orange.

Then he lifted a pair of eyes of singular power and of a marvellous

brilliancy, and flashed a smile at M. Heinsius.

"It is finished," he said, pressing his palm on the letter. "But you

will know what to do."

Then he turned and looked out of the window with wistful passion, as of

one leaving something he loves, and sighed a little. After a moment he

moved away, reluctantly it seemed, and went as he had come, slowly and

gravely into the outer chamber, with the sunshine all about him.

M. Heinsius rose now, and turned to follow him; when he reached the door

of the anteroom he found it empty....

The Grand Pensionary returned to his seat and hid his face in his hands,

telling himself that he had the fever; he tried to think and argue with

himself, but it was a useless effort, and he fell presently into a

little sleep--or swoon--from which he only roused when he felt a touch

on his shoulder, and started up to find the room dark and his secretary

standing with a candle and a packet in his hand.

"From England?" murmured M. Heinsius.

"Yes, Mynheer."

The Grand Pensionary took the letter eagerly, hoping to see the writing

of the King; but it was addressed in the hand of my Lord Albemarle.

"I have been exhausted unto sleep," he said. "Light me the candles--I

will read this and go home."

The candles, in their pale brass sticks, illumined the dark, simple

room, the black shining desk, the pale worn face of M. Heinsius, as he

opened the letter from England.

It was dated at Kensington House, and this was what the Grand Pensionary

read:--

"I have to offer you the saddest and most unwelcome news in the world,

which indeed I am not yet able to write plainly.

"My beloved master died yesterday between seven and eight of the

evening, which is a loss that we and indeed all Europe cannot be too

sensible of.

"He died with the greatest courage and serenity, speaking not at all

during his last days, save to thank us graciously for our services. He

had no words even for the priests who came about him, which may cause

some scandal here.

"I believe his thoughts to have been always on the Republic, from some

short ejaculations he made, even while the prayers for the dying were

being read. I think that even at the very last his sole concern was the

United Provinces.

"He asked for my lord of Portland, who came; but His Majesty was past

speech, yet he took my lord's hand very tenderly, and carried it up to

his heart, which was then at the last beat, and died in that attitude,

after but a short struggle with his breath.

"They found a locket of the late Queen's hair fastened by a black ribbon

to his sword-arm.

"As he was spared nothing during his life, neither was he at his death;

for the doctors say now that he must have been in great and perpetual

agony, for his broken collar-bone had pierced his lungs--yet not a

single murmur escaped him. His courage was of the most resplendent any

man may have--for it was tried in every way.

"I cannot write a fuller account, for I am struck beyond expression by

this event. You will, of course, hear of it from others.

"There is very little grief here. They talk of a statue--but when shall

we see it raised? They are busy praising Queen Anne, who is the

silliest creature I know--a strange people, these English; I am out of

humour with them, and you will see me at The Hague very soon.

"I must tell you that the Earl of Sunderland died in retirement at

Althorp a few weeks since, despised and neglected by all. But the King

remained his friend to the end, and even consulted with him secretly,

and he had the faithful attendance of my lady, who is as good a woman as

any I ever met, and, God knows, a lonely one now.

"People here, I think, cannot realize what His Majesty did, nor the task

he put through when he was in a manner dying, nor their own ingratitude.

But you and I know, and England will come to enjoy the fruits of his

work in the years that are coming--and in Holland he can never be

forgotten, for he was the greatest of the family of the noblest and most

patriotic princes whom the world hath ever seen, and while we are a

people we shall revere his name.

"There is much to tell you; but I cannot write of business now, and

think to see you soon.--Mynheer the Grand Pensionary, your affectionate

friend, ALBEMARLE."

M. Heinsius put down the letter; he felt scarcely sad; a glorious

enthusiasm stirred his heart; the room seemed all too confined for his

mood; he went to the window, pushed it open, and looked out at the dark

water and the dark houses beyond, where the lights were beginning to

show in the windows.

Now there was no doubting the identity of the young man of his vision,

nor what the words meant--

"It is finished, but you know what to do."

The Grand Pensionary knew; he held in his hands all the clues to the

vast policies of his late master; he could guide the Republic though the

coming great events of war as the King would have wished.

The peaceful evening fell to complete darkness; still Antoon Heinsius

stood looking over The Hague. The King hath gone to give his account to

God, he thought, and God will say--Not in vain did I make you my

captain--not in vain.

THE END

_Printed by_ MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, _Edinburgh_

* * * * * * * *

*METHUEN'S COLONIAL LIBRARY*

A SERIES OF COPYRIGHT BOOKS BY EMINENT AND POPULAR AUTHORS, PUBLISHED AS

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FICTION

*ALBANESI, E. MARIA*

SUSANNAH AND ONE OTHER

CAPRICIOUS CAROLINE

LOVE AND LOUISA

THE BROWN EYES OF MARY

I KNOW A MAIDEN

THE INVINCIBLE AMELIA

THE BLUNDER OF AN INNOCENT

PETER, A PARASITE

THE GLAD HEART

*ANNESLEY, MAUDE*

THIS DAY'S MADNESS

WIND ALONG THE WASTE

SHADOW-SHAPES

*BAGOT, RICHARD*

A ROMAN MYSTERY

THE PASSPORT

TEMPTATION

ANTHONY CUTHBERT

LOVE'S PROXY

DONNA DIANA

CASTING OF NETS

THE HOUSE OF SERRAVALLE

*BAILEY, H. C.*

STORM AND TREASURE

THE LONELY QUEEN

*BALL, OONA H. (Barbara. Burke)*

BARBARA GOES TO OXFORD

THEIR OXFORD YEAR

*BARING-GOULD, S.*

IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA

THE QUEEN OF LOVE

KITTY ALONE

NOEMI

THE BROOM-SQUIRE

PABO THE PRIEST

WINEFRED

THE FROBISHERS

CHRIS OF ALL SORTS

*BARR, ROBERT*

IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS

THE MUTABLE MANY

THE COUNTESS TEKLA

*BARRETT, WILSON*

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS

THE NEVER-NEVER LAND

*BELLOC, H.*

A CHANGE IN THE CABINET

*BENNETT, ARNOLD*

CLAYHANGER

THE CARD

HILDA LESSWAYS

*BENSON, E. F.*

DODO

*BIRMINGHAM, G. A.*

THE BAD TIMES

SPANISH GOLD

THE SEARCH PARTY

LALAGE'S LOVERS

*BOWEN, MARJORIE*

I WILL MAINTAIN

DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

GOD AND THE KING

*CAPES, BERNARD*

THE GREAT SKENE MYSTERY

THE LOVE STORY OF ST. BEL

WHY DID HE DO IT?

CONFESSIONS OF DIANA PLEASE

JAY OF ITALY

A ROGUE'S TRAGEDY

JEMMY ABERCRAW

*CAREY, WYMOND*

LOVE THE JUDGE

*CASTLE, AGNES and EGERTOH*

FLOWER O' THE ORANGE

*CASTLETON, ROBERT*

THE ADVENTURES OF AN ACTOR

*CONRAD, JOSEPH*

THE SECRET AGENT

A SET OF SIX

WESTERN EYES

*CORELLI, MARIE*

A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS

VENDETTA

THELMA

ARDATH

THE SOUL OF LILITH

WORMWOOD

BARABBAS

THE SORROWS OF SATAN

THE MASTER-CHRISTIAN

TEMPORAL POWER

GOD'S GOOD MAN

HOLY ORDERS

BOY

THE MIGHTY ATOM

CAMEOS

THE LIFE EVERLASTING

*CROCKETT, S. R.*

LOCHINVAR

THE STANDARD BEARER

*CROKER, B. M.*

PEGGY OF THE BARTONS

A STATE SECRET

ANGEL

JOHANNA

THE HAPPY VALLEY

THE OLD CANTONMENT

A NINE DAYS' WONDER

KATHERINE THE ARROGANT

BABES IN THE WOOD

*CROSBIE, MARY*

KINSMEN'S CLAY

*DOYLE, SIR A. CONAN*

ROUND THE RED LAMP

*DUNCAN, SARA JEANNETTE*

A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION

COUSIN CINDERELLA

THE BURNT OFFERING

*ELLIOT, ROBERT*

THE IMMORTAL CHARLATAN

*FINDLATER, JANE H.*

THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE

THE LADDER TO THE STARS

*FINDLATER, MARY*

THE ROSE OF JOY

A BLIND BIRD'S NEST

THE NARROW WAY

OVER THE HILLS

*FITZSTEPHEN, GERALD*

GRIFFITH COLGROVE'S WIFE

*FOOTNER, HULBERT*

TWO ON THE TRAIL

*FRANCIS, H. E.*

GALATEA OF THE WHEATFIELD

MARGERY O' THE MILL

HARDY-ON-THE-HILL

STEPPING WESTWARD

*FRASER, MRS. HUGH*

GIANNELLA

*FRY, B. and C. B.*

A MOTHER'S SON

*GERARD, DOROTHEA*

THE BRIDGE OF LIFE

THE IMPROBABLE IDYL

*GERARD, LOUISE*

THE GOLDEN CENTIPEDE

THE HYENA OF KALLU

*GIBBON, PERCEVAL*

MARGARET HARDING

*GISSING, GEORGE*

THE CROWN OF LIFE

*HAMILTON, COSMO*

MRS. SKEFFINGTON

*HARRADEN, BEATRICE*

IN VARYING MOODS

THE SCHOLAR'S DAUGHTER

HILDA STRAFFORD

INTERPLAY

*HERBERTSON, A. G.*

DEBORAH

*HICHENS, ROBERT B.*

BYEWAYS

TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE

THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE

FELIX

THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH

THE BLACK SPANIEL

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD

BARBARY SHEEP

THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD

*HILLIERS, ASHTON*

THE MASTER GIRL

*HOLDSWORTH, ANNIE*

THE LITTLE COMPANY OF RUTH

*HOPE, ANTHONY*

A MAN OF MARK

A CHANGE OF AIR

THE GOD IN THE CAR

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO

PHROSO

SIMON DALE

THE KING'S MIRROR

QUISANTE

A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC

TALES OF TWO PEOPLE

THE GREAT MISS DRIVER

MRS. MAXON PROTESTS

*HORNIMAN, ROY*

CAPTIVITY

*HOUGH, EMERSON*

THE WAY OF A MAN

*HUEFFER, FORD MADOX*

MR. APOLLO

AN ENGLISH GIRL

THE PORTRAIT

*HUTTEN, BARONESS VON*

THE HALO

*HYNE, C. J. CUTCLIFFE*

MR. HORROCKS, PURSER

*JACOBS, W. W.*

MANY CARGOES

SEA URCHINS

A MASTER OF CRAFT

LIGHT FREIGHTS

THE SKIPPER'S WOOING

ODD CRAFT

AT SUNWICH PORT

DIALSTONE LANE

THE LADY OF THE BARGE

SALTHAVEN

SAILORS' KNOTS

SHORT CRUISES

*JAMES, HENRY*

THE FINER GRAIN

THE OUTCRY

*LE QUEUX, WILLIAM*

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

BEHIND THE THRONE

THE CROOKED WAY

THE CLOSED BOOK

THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER

*LINDSEY, WILLIAM*

THE SEVERED MANTLE

*LISLE, DAVID*

A PAINTER OF SOULS

*LONDON, JACK*

WHITE FANG

*LUBBOCK, B.*

DEEP SEA WARRIORS

*LUCAS, E. V.*

MR. INGLESIDE

LISTENER'S LURE

OVER BEMERTON'S

*LYALL, EDNA*

DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST

*MAARTENS, MAARTEN*

THE NEW RELIGION

BROTHERS ALL

THE PRICE OF LIS DORIS

HARMEN POLS

*MCCARTHY, JUSTIN HUNTLY*

THE LADY OF LOYALTY HOUSE

THE DUKE'S MOTTO

*MacNAUGHTAN, S.*

THE FORTUNE OF CHRISTINA M'NAB

PETER AND JANE

*MALET, LUCAS*

THE WAGES OF SIN

THE CARISSIMA

THE GATELESS BARRIER

A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION

COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE

SIR RICHARD CALMADY

*MANN, MARY E.*

ROSE AT HONEYPOT

THE HEART SMITER

AVENGING CHILDREN

MEMORIES OF RONALD LOVE

GRANMA'S JANE

MRS. PETER HOWARD

THE EGLAMORE PORTRAITS

A WINTER'S TALE

ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS

OLIVIA'S SUMMER

PARISH OF HILBY

THE PARISH NURSE

ASTRAY IN ARCADY

A WIDOW WOMAN

*MARSH, RICHARD*

THE GIRL AND THE MIRACLE

THE COWARD BEHIND THE CURTAIN

THE SURPRISING HUSBAND

A ROYAL INDISCRETION

LIVE MEN'S SHOES

*MARSHALL, ARCHIBALD*

MANY JUNES

THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER

THE ELDEST SON

*MASON, A. E. W.*

CLEMENTINA

*MATHERS, HELEN*

TALLY HO!

THE FERRYMAN

*MAUD, CONSTANCE ELISABETH*

A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE

*MAUD, P.*

THE EXPIATION OF JOHN COURT

*MAXWELL, W. B.*

VIVIEN

THE RAGGED MESSENGER

THE GUARDED FLAME

ODD LENGTHS

THE COUNTESS OF MAYBURY

HILL RISE

FABULOUS FANCIES

THE REST CURE

*MEADE, L. T.*

DRIFT

VICTORY

RESURGAM

*MERRICK, L.*

ALL THE WORLD WONDERED

*MILNE, A. A.*

THE DAY'S PLAY

*MITFORD, BERTRAM*

THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER

THE RED DERELICT

*MORRISON, ARTHUR*

TALES OF MEAN STREETS

A CHILD OF THE JAGO

TO LONDON TOWN

THE HOLE IN THE WALL

DIVERS VANITIES

*NESBIT, E.*

DORMANT

*HICKLIN, CONSTANCE*

THE HOUR AND THE WOMAN

*NOBLE, EDWARD*

LORDS OF THE SEA

*NORMAN, MRS. GEORGE*

LADY FANNY

DELPHINE CARFREY

*OLLIVANT, ALFRED*

OWD BOB

THE TAMING OF JOHN BLUNT

*ONIONS, OLIVER*

THE EXCEPTION

GOOD BOY SELDOM

*OPPENHEIM, E. PHILLIPS*

MASTER OF MEN

THE MISSING DELORA

*OSBOURNE, LLOYD*

THE KINGDOMS OF THE WORLD

*OXENHAM, JOHN*

A WEAVER OF WEBS

THE GATE OF THE DESERT

PROFIT AND LOSS

THE LONG ROAD

THE SONG OF HYACINTH

MY LADY OF SHADOWS

LAURISTONS

THE COIL OF CARNE

*PAIN, BARRY*

LINDLEY KAYS

THE GIFTED FAMILY

THE EXILES OF FALOO

HERE AND HEREAFTER

*PARKER, GILBERT*

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC

AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE

MRS. FALCHION

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY

THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES

THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG

THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE

NORTHERN LIGHTS

*PATTERSON, J. E.*

WATCHERS BY THE SHORE

*PEMBERTON, MAX*

THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE

I CROWN THEE KING

LOVE THE HARVESTER

THE MYSTERY OF THE GREEN HEART

*PERRIN, ALICE*

THE CHARM

*PHILLPOTTS, EDEN*

SONS OF THE MORNING

CHILDREN OF THE MIST

LYING PROPHETS

THE RIVER

THE HUMAN BOY

THE AMERICAN PRISONER

THE SECRET WOMAN

THE POACHER'S WIFE

THE PORTREEVE

THE STRIKING HOURS

THE FOLK AFIELD

DEMETER'S DAUGHTER

*PICKTHILL, MARMADUKE*

SAID THE FISHERMAN

BRENDLE

THE HOUSE OF ISLAM

*Q.*

THE MAYOR OF TROY

MERRY GARDEN

MAJOR VIGOUREUX

*QUERIDO, ISRAEL*

TOIL OF MEN

*RAWSON, MAUD STEPNEY*

THE ENCHANTED GARDEN

THE EASY GO LUCKIES

HAPPINESS

SPLENDID ZIPPORAH

*RHYS, GRACE*

THE BRIDE

*RIDGE, W. PETT*

A SON OF THE STATE

THE WICKHAMSES

NAME OF GARLAND

SPLENDID BROTHER

ERB

MRS. GALER'S BUSINESS

NINE TO SIX-THIRTY

THANKS TO SANDERSON

*ROBINS, ELIZABETH*

THE CONVERT

*RUSSELL, W. CLARK*

MY DANISH SWEETHEART

HIS ISLAND PRINCESS

ABANDONED

*SHEERING, HERBERT*

GOPI

*SIDGWICK, MRS. ALFRED*

THE KINSMAN

THE SEVERINS

THE LANTERN BEARERS

ANTHEA'S GUEST

*SOMERVILLE, E. OE., & MARTIN ROSS*

DAN RUSSEL THE FOX

*STONE, LOUIS*

JONAH

*SWAYNE, MARTIN*

LORD RICHARD IN THE PANTRY

*THURSTON, E. TEMPLE*

MIRAGE

*VAN VORST, MARIE*

THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMY BULSTRODE

IN AMBUSH

*WAINEMAN, PAUL*

THE WIFE OF NICHOLAS FLEMING

THE SONG OF FOREST

THE BAY OF LILACS

*WATSON, H. B. MARRIOTT*

A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM

THE PRIVATEERS

A POPPY SHOW

THE FLOWER OF THE HEART

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA

TWISTED EGLANTINE

THE HIGH TOBY

ALISE OF ASTRA

AT A VENTURE

*WEBLING, PEGGY*

VIRGINIA PERFECT

A SPIRIT OF MIRTH

*WELLS, H. G.*

THE SEA LADY

*WEYMAN, STANLEY J.*

UNDER THE RED ROBE

*WHITBY, BEATRICE*

THE RESULT OF AN ACCIDENT

ROSAMUND

*WHITE, EDMUND*

THE HEART OF HINDUSTAN

*WHITE, PERCY*

THE PATIENT MAN

LOVE AND THE WISE MEN

THE LOST HALO

*WIGRAM, EIRENE*

THE AFFAIR OF THE ENVELOPE

*WILLIAMSON, Mrs. C. N.*

THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCESS SYLVIA

PAPA

THE WOMAN WHO DARED

THE SEA COULD TELL

THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS

*WILLIAMSON, C. N. and A. M.*

THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR

THE PRINCESS PASSES

MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR

LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER

THE CAR OF DESTINY

THE BOTOR CHAPERON

SCARLET RUNNER

SET IN SILVER

LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA

THE GOLDEN SILENCE

*WYLLARDE, DOLF*

THE PATHWAY OF THE PIONEER

THE UNOFFICIAL HONEYMOON