THE KING
KENSINGTON PALACE was an offence in those days to English eyes. The
burning of Whitehall had furnished William with the opportunity to
escape, not only from the air of London, which aggravated his asthma,
but also from the crowd of sycophants who choked the galleries of the
city palace. Long muddy roads and exorbitant charges for conveyance
made it no easy matter for the spendthrift courtier and the needy
adventurer to torment the king at Kensington. He was as well pleased at
the escape as they were disgruntled; but even here they could pursue
him with annoyances.
The malcontents in Parliament had stripped him of his beloved Dutch
guards, and in their stead the Life Guards saluted at his threshold.
It was through a file of these gay gentlemen that Betty passed with
Lady Russell, and they stared not a little at the lovely face of the
young countess, though they received both with every token of respect
and courtesy. Lady Russell was, indeed, a well-known and honored guest
at the palace, and they were conducted by an officer of the household
to the anteroom of the king’s presence chamber, there to await his
pleasure.
The long room was already filled with visitors of almost every degree,
come upon various errands, and Lady Clancarty found it no light thing
to face the ill-disguised curiosity and admiration that assailed her on
all sides.
Here was a peer, in the splendid dress of the court, glittering with
jewels and gold lace, curled and perfumed and ruffled; here a plainly
dressed shrewd fellow, with a bundle of papers, a clerk from the
foreign office, for the king was his own minister of foreign affairs;
there was a richly dressed magnate of the city, with an eye on the
interests of the East India Company; there an eager applicant for
office; and farther off, a despairing petitioner who glanced in open
sympathy at Lady Clancarty.
A king’s anteroom! How many secret histories are written here; what
comedy, what tragedy!
The low murmur of talk rose and fell; great ladies, powdered and
patched, swept their furbelows through the crowd and swayed their fans,
chattering lightly of a hundred things; great lords bowed and smiled
and took snuff and cursed the king, in their hearts, for keeping them
waiting. A pair of lovers, two young things, were cooing in a window
recess, as indifferent to the public as a pair of turtledoves, and
Betty looked at them with dull eyes. The wait seemed to be for hours,
and the heated atmosphere and the flutter of talk almost suffocated
her. She looked up and saw the door open and her father coming out of
the king’s closet, pleased, smiling, courteous to all, greeting them
right and left, bowing here, extending a hand there. Betty felt that he
saw her, but he averted his face and she stepped back into the window
recess near at hand and opened the sash; she could not breathe. While
she stood there his Grace of Devonshire came up and had a few words
with Lady Russell.
“Is there any hope?” her ladyship asked sadly, with a meaning glance
aside at the young figure in its plain black garb.
His grace shook his head.
“I see none,” he replied, very low; “there has been such a demand for
examples; the people are so tired of these conspiracies, and they are
like to class Clancarty with the worst. You know the king, that reserve
of his betrays nothing, but I think I never saw him less inclined to
mercy.”
Lady Russell’s face became intensely grave.
“I shall do all I can,” she said, “my utmost. Poor young thing, her
heart is breaking!”
The duke cast a look of deep concern toward Lady Clancarty and shook
his head again. The next moment he smiled, as she turned to them,
smiled and kissed her hand as an open sign of his sympathy and support.
She said nothing; she only looked searchingly into his eyes and her
lips quivered. Would it be much longer?
The talk rose and fell; some woman laughed, the shallow cackling laugh
that comes from the empty heart and the empty head; the crackling of
thorns under a pot.
An usher bowed before Lady Russell and she held out her hand to Betty.
The duke smiled again reassuringly; and the two women walked slowly
through the throng, passed in at a low doorway, and in a moment there
was stillness.
They had entered a low-ceiled room, lighted by one large window; it
was plainly but richly furnished and near a table strewn with papers
stood a small, thin man. He was dressed in black velvet, with a ruffled
cravat of Mechlin and a star on his breast; he wore a great curled
periwig. Insignificant in size but with a wonderful majesty of bearing;
the king of three kingdoms and the stadt-holder of Hollander—William
of Orange.
As they entered he turned and stood looking at them. His complexion
was a clear, pale olive; his eagle nose and brilliant eyes immediately
commanding attention, with something, too, in the cold majesty of his
mien and the habitual sadness of his expression. His face, narrow at
the chin, expanded widely at the brows, and his glance was singularly
luminous. His eyes a clear hazel, with a depth to them like the clear
brown of some mountain pool undisturbed by any ripple upon the surface,
deep and transparent; his thin figure was inclined to stoop, and he had
a racking cough, left behind by smallpox.
He greeted Lady Russell and the young countess with perfect courtesy,
but his reserve remained as icy as ever, and like a cloak about him;
warm-hearted Betty shivered, stricken silent.
“Sire, we come to you as humble suppliants,” Lady Russell said, “to
pray you to graciously receive our petition. I need not tell your
majesty that this is Lord Sunderland’s daughter, the unhappy wife of
the Earl of Clancarty.”
“My Lords of Devonshire and Ormond have already told me,” the king
said, coughing a little as he cast a thoughtful look at the young
countess; “I am sorry,” he added, “that it is so.”
“Ah, sire, have mercy on us both,” murmured Lady Betty, finding her
tongue at last; “to you belongs the glory of mercy. Spare him, your
majesty, he came here only to see me—to see his wife.”
The king did not reply, but took the petition from Lady Russell and
laid it on the table.
“Let me plead for her, sire,” said the widow gently, “I need not remind
your majesty that I have suffered as she is suffering. I knelt to plead
for life to King Charles, as she kneels now to King William, and I
knelt in vain. They carried my husband—almost past his own home—to
his death and I—ah, my king, I lived! That is the terror of it, and
the cruelty; you cannot divine it,—’tis martyrdom!” the widow’s voice
was shaken by the agony of recollection and for the moment she could
say no more. “I pray you humbly, if I have ever served your majesty
or deserved well at your hands, to consider our petition. We ask but
life—all else we leave in your hands. Let us remind you, sire, that of
all the qualities that most adorn your gracious character that of mercy
has ever shone conspicuous, has won the hearts of your people—”
William held up his hand with a bitter smile.
“Say no more, madam,” he interrupted ironically; “’tis not often that I
am reminded of my conquest of the hearts of the English people!”
Lady Betty threw herself on her knees before him.
“Sire,” she cried, “I pray for mercy—for life! Ah, think, your
majesty, the day must come when you, too, will look for mercy—and
I am sure your pity for us now will comfort you then. I only ask my
husband’s life—his life!”
Her voice broke pitifully; how little she could say! Agony ties the
tongue; she looked up through her tears and wrung her hands together
with a gesture of despair, an appeal more eloquent than words.
“O gracious sovereign,” she murmured faintly, “life—life! That is my
cry to you—only spare him to me.”
A cough racked the king, and for the moment he was silent. Lady Russell
trembled for the effect of the appeal. He raised the countess kindly.
“My child,” he said, “these matters are not always as much at the
king’s disposal as they seem; you forget my parliament;” a dry smile
flickered across his face; “I can make you no unconditional promise
until I have considered your petition, and those of others in this
matter. Your husband has been a conspicuous offender, but if I can save
him—” he broke off, closing his lips tightly, his face singularly
stern and sad.
Betty thought he had yielded and began to pour out her thanks weeping,
but the king held up his hand coldly.
“I can make no unconditional promise,” he repeated dryly, “reserve your
thanks until there is a certainty—but,” he added, after a moment’s
hesitation, “think not hardly hereafter of your Dutch king.”
Betty turned crimson and William gave Lady Russell a significant
glance.
“Your husband is an old offender, Lady Clancarty,” he added, with his
rasping little cough; “he not only fought in Ireland but he sat in that
parliament at King’s Inns, and there are others who might base a claim
for indemnity upon any clemency that he received. But rest assured,”
he continued, “that the king has as much feeling as any other man—and
heavier sorrows.”
He gently and kindly dismissed them, but Betty having gone half way
across the room ran back, as impulsive as any child, and kneeling on
one knee kissed his hand, and then ran out weeping, as unmindful of
etiquette as a country lass.
On the stairs she looked up through her tears at Lady Russell.
“I understand you now,” she said, deeply moved; “I felt his
greatness—he is a king! But, oh, will he be merciful? Will he spare my
poor husband?”
Lady Russell could not answer; she turned her face aside. She felt
that the king had given them so little hope, that his answer had been
enigmatical. She took Betty’s hand again, but neither of them could
speak; and in silence they went home to the house in Bloomsbury.