Front matter (continued 2)

The Prince pulled off his gloves slowly, the while looking on the floor. He was seated the other side of the table to Herbert, who thought he had found some reluctance or difficulty in speaking, perhaps because he was using English, with which language he was tolerably familiar, but spoke with no kind of grace, but rather a distaste.

"You are sent by Mr. Sidney?" he asked at last.

He had a short, strong way of speaking; his manner was stately to coldness. Arthur Herbert looked in vain for any trace of emotion or curiosity as to the momentous errand he must know that he, Herbert, had come upon, or even, as he reflected rather vexedly, any welcome for himself.

"By Mr. Sidney and some others, sir," he answered.

The Prince put his gloves on the table, and raised his eyes.

"You have, Mr. Herbert, brought some answer to my late request that some powerful English families should give me a written invitation to this expedition to which the Protestant lords have so constantly, and, of late, so insistently urged me."

Admiral Herbert put his hand into the breast of his common coat, and pulled out a sealed packet, which he handed to the Prince.

"This association, Your Highness, of which you have had advices from my Lord Shrewsbury and Mr. Sydney, is at length signed by seven of our great men, and I pray Your Highness to take it as full warrant for interfering in the present miserable estate of England."

After having delivered this speech, Admiral Herbert looked straightly at the Prince, who was slowly breaking the seals. He felt more enthusiasm for the cause than for His Highness, and more warmly for both when he was not in the actual presence of the Prince, whose personal coldness had an ill effect on the Englishman's impatient nature.

"This is Mr. Sidney his hand," remarked the Prince.

Arthur Herbert laid another letter on the dark, shining table.

"There is also a personal letter from that gentleman."

William looked rapidly over the contents of the packet, and his thin cheek flushed.

"This is definite," he said.

"Your Highness asked that it might be."

The Prince took up the other letter, and read it over with great quickness.

"Mr. Sidney saith my Lord Nottingham would not sign," he remarked; "is that timidity?"

"Some manner of prudence, I suppose, sir; but he will not betray our design. He gave us leave to take his life if we thought him capable of it; but I believe he can go to Court and not discover any sign of the concern he is under, so close a man he is."

"Oh, he is honest," said William dryly. He took up the first letter again; it was signed at the bottom by seven numbers, thus: 25, 24, 27, 29, 31, 35, 33; the Prince did not require the code sent him by Henry Sidney to discover the names these numbers stood for; he had the cipher by heart, and knew that the seven who had signed were Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Devonshire, Lord Danby, Lord Lumley, the suspended Compton, Bishop of London, Admiral Russell, and Mr. Sydney himself. They represented a body of opinion that was weighty; if they were not many, they were powerful, and the Prince himself had said that he did not need many names if they were those of great families. Lord Halifax, who had been one of his warmest supporters, had shrunk from the first hint of anything so violent as a revolution, and the Prince had forbidden the design to be opened to him; for the scruples of Lord Nottingham he had also been prepared; therefore the signatures were the utmost that he could have hoped for; but he gave no sign of excitement or satisfaction, but sat thoughtfully looking at the two papers in his hand.

"Mr. Sidney saith that you are well instructed in these affairs, Mr. Herbert," he said at last, raising his great eyes. "This paper is well composed and comprehensive, but it saith nothing of how far the King is suspicious of these gentlemen and their correspondence with me. And that is an important matter."

Admiral Herbert answered instantly.

"The King is kept amused by my Lord Sunderland, sir, who hath his entire confidence."

"My Lord Sunderland hath not openly joined you?"

"No, sir; and in truth his conduct is a mystery, but Mr. Sidney hath a pledge from the Countess that he will not betray us."

"I am tolerably sure of my lord," answered the Prince. "He hath control of the foreign correspondence, hath he not?"

"Yes, Your Highness. We have felt some fears for M. D'Albeville, the King his envoy here, it being generally believed that he is in the pay of M. Barillon."

"He receiveth some kind of pension from him," said the Prince calmly, "and maketh him all manner of promises. But he is better fee'd by me, and I do know that he sendeth beguiling letters home."

"Then I think there is no one likely to open the King his eyes. It all resteth now on the resolution of Your Highness."

The Prince very faintly smiled.

"They suggest any attempt, if any be made, this year, do they not?" he said, instantly grave again.

"At once, sir, is what we should wish."

The Prince rose and crossed to the hearth.

"This winter would be the soonest," he answered quietly. "Tell me more of England—it is the King his purpose to call a packed parliament in the autumn?"

Arthur Herbert replied with a kind of angry energy that betrayed the force that had involved him in these intrigues.

"The charters being taken from the towns, the franchise is in the King his hands, and is only to be granted to those who will swear to return His Majesty his candidate, the Protestant Lord-Lieutenants have been displaced by Catholic, and they have orders to let no one into office who will not consent to the repeal of the Test Act—so we are all officered by Papists, and to be a Protestant is to starve."

"My uncle," said the Prince, with an accent of cold contempt, "would never make a good tyrant; when liberty is conquered 'tis by more subtle ways than this."

Arthur Herbert's eyes sparkled.

"I tell you, sir, that in one place where the electorate hath been reduced to fifteen, even these are so little to be relied upon, the King was told his man had no chance."

"Why, surely," answered William, "the English are not of a spirit to endure this monstrous breakage of the laws."

Arthur Herbert looked at him again with that half admiration, half dislike; in truth there was nothing in common between the two men but enthusiasm for the same cause—in the one transient, impulsive, based on personal interest; in the other strong, unchanging, deep as life itself.

Some weeks ago the Englishman had received a letter from the Prince offering him his protection, and Arthur Herbert could not recognise in the quiet Stadtholder the writer of that warm, firm, courteous, well turned letter, but none too quick as his perceptions were, they perceived that there must be something in this man that he had missed; the fire and ardour might escape him, but it must be there. Meanwhile, gratitude was still his cue; warming with a real sense of the grievous hurts done to the liberties of England, he proceeded to enlarge on the text of the letter, to paint the distracted, exasperated condition of the public mind in England, the common hopes of the Prince, the ardent desire among the most prudent and knowing men of affairs for his active interference before the packed parliament was called to force the repeal of the Test Act, the disbelief in the young heir being a child of the Queen's, and the small chance that either the army or the navy would be loyal to James.

The Prince listened with attention but no sign of feeling; when Mr. Herbert finished William crossed to the window and closed it, the draught was setting the candles guttering.

"M. Zuylestein hath been successful?" he asked, and coughed a little.

"He seemeth a most able man, sir; at his secret house in Greg Street all this hath been considered and performed. We did desire him to remain in England until we had an answer from Your Highness, and, to give a careless air to his staying, he hath gone into the country."

"It is well," answered the Prince, approaching the table. "Mr. Herbert, you shall have your answer very soon. I shall to-night consult with M. Fagel and M. Dyckfelt, who, as you know, were aware of these affairs from the first inception of them; to-morrow I will advise with you again. Meanwhile I will ask you to take your entertainment at my house."

He paused to draw breath, as he always did after any save those very brief sentences he usually employed. The asthma he had had for years was obvious in these painful gasping breaths and constant coughs.

"You have done me a great service," he continued. "I am very much obliged to you; you are a man of spirit."

Admiral Herbert rose.

"I am greatly indebted to the generosity of Your Highness; but there are spies at The Hague, and it might give a colour to reports already too persistent were I discovered to be lodging with Your Highness. Among the fugitives from England in the town I am easily hid."

Again William gave his faint, instantly checked smile.

"I am glad that you are not forgetful of prudence, Mr. Herbert. We cannot be too careful."

Mr. Herbert hesitated, eyed the Prince, then said, with more boldness than he felt—

"I must tell Your Highness that there is one matter, too delicate to commit to writing, that hath been in debate among your friends in London——"

"Ah?" questioned the Prince.

"—'tis the attitude of the Princess, sir."

William seemed to slightly stiffen and straighten.

"What should her attitude be but the same as mine?" he asked.

Mr. Herbert coloured.

"Forgive me, sir, she is King James his daughter——"

The Prince interrupted—

"Also my wife," he said quietly, but with extraordinary force and, it seemed, pride. "You shall hear the lady for yourself, sir."

He touched a heavy bell on the table and a servant instantly appeared.

"Request the presence of Her Highness," he said, then spoke again to Herbert when the man had gone.

"It is only just that in this great issue in which she is so intimately concerned that you should hear her mind from her own lips."

"No one doubteth the loyalty of the Lady Mary to yourself, sir," answered Mr. Herbert, lying cheerfully, for he had been one of the most cynical in discussing this same loyalty in London.

William coughed again, and seated himself by the table with his Frisian lace handkerchief pressed to his lips. Mr. Herbert was suddenly impressed by the fact that he looked not only ill but in pain.

A little pause of silence, and the Princess entered. She had changed her gown, and wore a dress of the same stiff pattern in white brocade, with tinsel and a ribbon of pearls in her hair.

William rose and gave her one look as she closed the door, then lowered his eyes as he spoke.

"Madame, Mr. Herbert cometh from England with an invitation to me from my friends there to go there with a force to protect the laws and the religion——"

"Ah!" exclaimed Mary; she came straight to the table and dazzled in the candlelight. Mr. Herbert looked at her, and noticed only her comeliness; he was not a man to distinguish types or degrees in beauty. If a woman were pretty, to him she was nothing more, and the prettier she was the less he credited her with sense or strength. The Princess's air of dignity and spiritual look did not save her from this judgment; he dismissed her as a pleasing young creature, useful for nothing save to smile and work fantastic finery when she was not saying her prayers. He smiled, therefore, at the Prince's grave way of speaking to her; she seemed, he noticed, much moved, her body quivered, and she fixed her eyes on her husband with a painful intensity.

"You know," he continued, with a certain simplicity that had a curious effect, taken with his great seriousness, "the project that was first suggested to me by Lord Mordaunt a year gone; this hath been repeated by weightier men, and the times are riper——"

He paused rather abruptly.

"Will you tell Mr. Herbert that you would approve of this undertaking?" he finished, and with a palpable effort.

Mary withdrew her eyes to fix them on Mr. Herbert.

"Surely," she said, "you do not require that assurance from me?"

She gave a little weak laugh, and clasped her hands tightly and unclasped them.

"I do not know what words to choose to convince you how utterly I am in the hands of my husband, nor how foolish I am in matters of business." She drew a deep breath, and added, with a blushing earnestness, "If circumstances permit my husband to make this attempt, my will is one with his in the design, which I consider holy as well as just——"

Mr. Herbert bowed, and the bright young beauty added with the gravity that was her manner—

"—but if my husband his design was not just, I fear I should still support him in it!"

Mr. Herbert could do nothing but bow to this outspoken statement; if the words were spontaneous or learnt, lesson fashion, from the Prince, was no matter to him. They set at rest the doubts some of the seven, particularly Lord Danby, had raised concerning her attitude.

He took his leave of the Princess, and she seemed like one amazed, as if she neither saw nor heard him. The Prince went with him into the antechamber, and the last look Herbert had of Mary was the sight of her standing quite still, with her face as pale as the little braid of pearls in her dark hair, and the fingers of her right hand pressed to the tinsel bows on her stiff bodice.

In a few moments the Prince returned, and then she moved abruptly and took the tall-backed walnut chair Mr. Herbert had occupied, pushed it from the table, and gazed up at her husband.

He had still the two letters in his hand. He looked at Mary. With the departure of the Englishman his manner had entirely changed; this was very noticeable, though he said nothing.

"You are fatigued," said Mary in a shaking voice, "so fatigued—I know——"

He cast the letters down between them.

"Oh, silly!" he answered, "that must be always thinking of my fatigues!"

He put his thin hand over hers, that rested on the edge of the table, and gave an excited little laugh.

"Thou hast heard this man, Mary.... I think I am pledged to an extraordinary task."

CHAPTER VII

THE SILENT WOOD

Mary answered simply, but with a dreadful force of emotion—

"You will go?"

He replied to her tone more than to her words.

"Nay, I must." He pressed the fingers lying cold under his. "Do thou forgive me, but I must."

"Oh, God pity me!" cried Mary.

The Prince flushed.

"There is no other way to preserve Christendom," he said; "if I do not take this step there is a life's work wasted, and we are no better than we were in '72."

"I know," she answered hastily. "I know—but—oh, that our duty had lain another way! Yet I will not be weak; if I cannot help I will not hinder."

She bit her lip to keep back tears, it seemed, and smiled valiantly.

"Tell me all that Mr. Herbert said," she asked.

He broke out at that.

"These foreigners! That black-avised stalwart thinketh of nothing but his own interest. He cometh here, in his feeble disguise, like a boy playing at a game, and, by Heaven, 'tis the manner they all take it in——"

"You must not call them foreigners," said Mary, in a quick distress; "your mother's people and mine——"

The Prince lifted his hand from hers, and let it fall impatiently.

"Foreigners to me! Once I may have felt that tie, but now I dislike them when they flatter and when they sneer." He changed abruptly to a tenderer tone. "What had you to say to me?"

"Nothing," she answered, "of importance beside this news; only that an old schoolfellow of mine—a meddling Papist—(God forgive me, but I liked her not) sought to sound me to-day, set on by M. D'Avaux, who must guess something—but what is that beside this?"

She pointed piteously to the letters.

"They have committed themselves now, these gentlemen," remarked William, with a certain grim satisfaction. "They can scarcely go back on their written word, even these weathercocks of Englishmen."

"They want you to go—this year?" She could not keep a certain energy of fear from her tone.

"Before the parliament is called in the autumn," he said concisely.

Mary rose abruptly and crossed to the window. The rustle of her stiff gown made a noticeable sound in the stillness, which was deep and intense—the inner stillness of the house set in the outer stillness of the wood. The glance of the Prince followed her. He stood silent.

"There must be difficulties." She spoke without looking round.

"Difficulties! Ah yes, and these English do not guess one-half of them."

She made no reply. Her head bent and her fingers fumbled at the latch, which she presently undid, and a great breath of cool air, pure, with the perfume of a hundred trees, swept into the room.

The wood was motionless, the boughs dark against a lighter sky; one or two stars pulsed secretively through and above the leafage, for all the summer night they had a cold look, as if they circled in far-off frozen latitudes.

Mary knew and loved the wood so well that she was sensitive to those subtle changes in it which were like moods in a human being; to-night, unseen, shadowed like the thought of coming trouble, it seemed to her sad, mysterious, and lonely, as the image of retreating happiness.

She rested her head against the mullions, and presently put her hands up to her face. Her husband, who had stood without a movement by the table watching her, at this crossed over to her side.

"I would to God," he said with energy, "that this could be helped. I would the scandal of a break with your father could be avoided. But he hath had every chance to be my friend and ally—you must admit, Mary, that he hath had every chance."

The few words conveyed to the Princess his meaning. She knew that he referred to his long uphill struggle, lasting close on twenty years, to induce England to shake off the yoke of France, and, in taking her proper place among nations, restore the balance of power in Europe. Throughout the years of the disgraceful reign of his Uncle Charles, William had never swerved from his policy of endeavouring to detach him from France, for it was very evident that but little headway could be made against Louis while England was in his pay. When James had come to the throne, the Stadtholder, with the utmost patience, had changed his tactics to please the new King, and had, as he said, given him every chance to put himself at the head of the inevitable conflict between France and Europe, which must shortly take place.

Mary knew this; she knew how reluctantly her husband would employ force against so near a kinsman, how unwillingly he would leave Holland, how much long experience had taught him to mistrust the levity of the English, even those most professedly friendly to him, and she was aware that only a tremendous need could force him to this tremendous resolution, which was at once more daring and more necessary than any man could realize save himself.

In her heart she blamed her father most bitterly for forcing on them this hateful expedient; but would not say so, nor open her heart at all on that matter, lest her lips said more than her conscience could approve.

So to this remark that she so perfectly understood she replied nothing, and did not move her hands from her face.

The Prince spoke again rapidly.

"Everything is strained to breaking-point, and he who strikes the first blow will have the advantage. If I go into the fight again without the help of England, I am no better than a man fighting with tied hands——"

He paused, and added with vigour—

"We cannot do it alone. We must have England."

It was what he had said sixteen years ago in '72, and the years had made the need more, not less, imperative. He continued, as if he justified himself to that still figure of his wife, with her hands before her face.

"I am forced to this decision. No consideration of justice, of ambition, nay, even of diplomacy or good sense, can move His Majesty to break off with France; his insults to the liberty of England are incredible. He hath done all he can to thwart, cross, and hamper me. And now is the moment when we must try conclusions."

The Princess's white brocade shivered with her trembling.

"I know," she murmured—"I know."

But she was weeping, and the tears ran down through her fingers.

The Prince was at a loss to know why she was so distressed. She had long been involved with him in the growing rupture with her father, to whom no affection or respect bound her, but the mere name of duty, and lately she had been well aware that the actions of the King were driving the Prince into open opposition.

He looked at her, rather pale, and frowned.

"You think of your father..." he said, ... "your father..."

Mary, who knew that tears vexed him, endeavoured to check her sobbing; but she could not control her voice to speak.

"I am indeed unfortunate," added the Prince rather grimly, "that to do what I must do I am under the necessity of the scandal of a breach in my own family."

She answered faintly, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes—

"God forgive me, I did not think of His Majesty."

"Of what, then?"

There was the slightest pause, and then she answered steadily, still staring out at the dark wood—

"Of—ourselves. Of the great change this will make—success or failure."

The Prince was silent.

"I have been," continued Mary, very low, "so happy here—in the life most suited to me, in this dear country, where every one is so good as to love me a little."

The candlelight glimmered in the little braid of pearls in her hair and flowed in lines of light down her thick satin gown, showed, too, her cheek colourless and glistening with tears.

The Prince, standing close to her, with his back to the window, watched, but neither spoke nor moved.

"It is nigh ten years," she said, "since you went to the war ... and now the peace will be broken again.... And I know not how I can well bear it if you leave me."

The Prince was still silent, and studied her dimly seen face (for her back was to the light) with what was almost a passionate attention.

"I am a poor creature," she added, with a kind of desperate contempt for herself, "to think of my wretched self at such a juncture; what are my own melancholies compared to what you must undergo? Yet, humanly speaking, I have no courage to face this crisis ... that my father should be guilty of such a horrible crime against Church and State, and you bound by your duty to oppose him by force——"

"It had to be," said the Prince sombrely. "This rupture was inevitable from the first, though I tried to deny it to myself. But in my heart I knew, yea, ever since '72, that England would never get herself out of this tangle from within."

"But it is hard," replied Mary; "even though I know the hand of God in it——"

She turned her eyes, tearless now, but moist and misty, on her husband, and added simply—

"If you knew how happy I have been here you would understand how I dread the mere chance of leaving it——"

"I shall return," he answered. "It is not possible nor wishful that I should dethrone the King; but I will get such a handle to English affairs that they will never league with France again; and thou—thou needest not leave The Hague for an hour."

"There is the least of my troubles disposed of," she answered sadly. "For you forget how your poor wife loves you, and how the thoughts of the manifold perils, and your own rash temper that will not regard dangers, will put me into a fright which will come between me and God Himself."

The tears gushed up again, but she checked them, dabbing her eyes with a damp handkerchief, while she exclaimed on the gasp of a trembling laugh—

"If I cry any more I shall be blind for a week!"

The Prince put his hand on her shoulder.

"'Tis a silly to spend tears for me," he said, "who will go into no more dangers than I have ever been used to, and who only taketh the common risk of common men——" He paused a moment, then added abruptly—

"Yet God He knoweth these tears of thine are all I have in the world for my solace, and I was one of Fortune her favourites, child, to have you to my wife."

His hand fell from her white sleeves, and she caught it between hers so that the rings he wore pressed into her palms.

"Only love and pity me a little," she said, "and I can bear anything. For surely I only live to serve you."

A pause fell, more hushed than common silence; they stood side by side looking out on to the wood, now sad and dark, which had surrounded all their united lives.

Mary was in that mood which takes refuge from the real facts in symbol. She did not look back on her life, but on the history of the wood since she had known it; radiant in summer, complaining in the wind, silent in the rain, bare and bright and wonderful amid the snow, flushed with loveliness in the spring. She thought that this pageant had ended for her, that though the wood might bloom and change she would never see it again after these leaves fell; she had been haunted, though not troubled, all her life by the presentiment of an early death, and now this feeling, which she had never imparted to any, became one with the feeling that the wood was passing, ending for her, and that all the thousand little joys and fears associated with the trees, the flowers, the sunshine, and the snow, were fading and perishing to a mere memory.

Her fingers tightened on the Prince's hand.

"'Tis such a beautiful night," she said in a strange voice; "it maketh me feel I must die."

He, who all his life had lived on the verge of death, smiled to hear these words uttered by blooming youth.

"You," he said calmly, "have no need to think of that for many a year. Death and you! Come, you have stared too long into the dark."

Reluctantly she let his hand free, and latched the window with something of a shiver, but smiled too at the same time, in a breathless way.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

The Prince went to the table and snuffed the candles with the shining brass snuffers, and the flames rose up still and pointed.

"I have sent for M. Dyckfelt and M. Fagel," he answered, and seated himself on one of the stiff walnut chairs. His face was bloodless under the tan of his outdoor life. The excitement that had shown when Mr. Herbert left had utterly gone; he was composed, even sombre and melancholy, and his thoughts were not to be guessed by his countenance.

Mary looked at him with an almost terrified longing for him to disclose his mind, to some way speak to her, but he seemed every second to sink deeper into a silence that was beyond her meddling.

She moved about the room softly, picked up her sewing from a cabinet in the corner, and began disentangling the coloured cottons that had been hastily flung together.

The Prince looked round at her suddenly.

"Have you seen Dr. Burnet of late?" he asked.

"Yes—he came yesterday when you were out hunting."

"Well," said William, "not a word of this to him—I would not trust him with anything I would not say before my coachman."

Mary smiled; she shared her husband's dislike to the officious, bustling clergyman who considered himself so indispensable to the Protestant cause, and who was tolerated for the real use he had been to the Prince.

"Can you not trust my discretion?" she asked.

He gave her a brilliant smile.

"Why, I think you are a fair Politic, after all——"

The usher, entering to say that the Grand Pensionary and M. Dyckfelt were without, interrupted him, and the Princess, pale and grave again, said hastily—

"I will go—but I shall be in the withdrawing-room when they have gone——"

She waited till William had dismissed the usher, then added, in a tremble—

"—You will let me know what you have decided? I could not sleep else," she added piteously.

He held out his hand and drew her up to him.

"Child," he said earnestly, "'tis already decided; 'tis only the means to be discussed—and those thou shalt hear at once."

He patted her hand and let her go. With a kind of wild gaiety she caught up her sewing silks. She was laughing, but it was a laughter more desperate than her gravity. She did not look at the Prince again, but hurried from the room, a gleam of satins in the sombre setting.

The Prince looked after her, then picked up the two letters from England.

CHAPTER VIII

THE POLICY OF THE PRINCE

Gaspard Fagel, Grand Pensionary of Holland, and M. Dyckfelt, entered the little room where the Prince awaited them. They were both statesmen who had been trained under the last Grand Pensionary, John de Witt, whose Parliamentary Republic had kept the Prince twenty years out of his hereditary offices, and both retained something of the simplicity and sternness of their early life, especially M. Dyckfelt, who wore the plain falling band of the Republican era and a suit old-fashioned in primness and sombre colour.

He was a cleverer man than M. Fagel, who was utterly and entirely under the dominion of the Stadtholder, and saw too clearly with his master's eyes even to have an opinion of his own. His manner to the Prince was the more humble, but both addressed him with that deep respect which does not preclude perfect openness.

William looked at them both sharply, then down at the letters in his hand.

"I have received the invitation from England for which I have been waiting," he said.

Dyckfelt bowed, and M. Fagel answered—

"May I congratulate Your Highness——"

"Not yet," interrupted William. "Listen first to these letters—they ask almost the impossible."

He made a little gesture to the straight chairs the other side of the table, and the two seated themselves. M. Dyckfelt had flushed with eagerness and excitement, M. Fagel looked tired and ill. They were both considerably older than the Prince, both men of a fine type with honest, shrewd faces.

William drew his chair nearer the table and held the letters under the glow of the flame of the tall wax candles.

"These," he said, looking down at the flowing English writing, "were brought me by Mr. Herbert, whom I suppose you met, M. Dyckfelt, in England, and are written by Mr. Sidney."

He paused with a little cough; neither of the other two men spoke.

"In the preamble," continued William, "they say that they are pleased to learn from M. Zuylestein that I will be of assistance to them, but they fear the difficulties; and though every one is so dissatisfied with the King his government it would not be safe to speak to them beforehand—and though they might venture themselves on my landing they will do nothing now." He smiled unpleasantly, and added, "In brief, they are on the winning side, and I must go with strength enough to defend myself until they can be gotten into some order. For the army, they say the discontent is such that the King could not count on them, and for the navy, they believe not one in ten would do him any service in such a cause."

"Mine own observations confirm this advice," said M. Dyckfelt, with his eyes fixed on the Prince. "And M. Zuylestein hath writ the same."

William made no comment on that.

"Now," he said, "we come to the gist of the business, which is, that these gentlemen fear affairs will be worse next year, both by the officering of the army with Irish Catholics, the calling of a packed Parliament to pass the repeal of the Test Act, and the employment of violent means against the remaining liberties of the Protestants."

He raised his brilliant eyes to the two intent faces opposite.

"Therefore they wish me to undertake this expedition this year."

A soft exclamation broke from Gaspard Fagel.

"Can it be done?"

"If it must be done it can be done," said the Prince firmly; "and I think it is 'nunc aut nunquam,' M. Fagel."

Dyckfelt gave a movement of irrepressible excitement.

"Do they not recognise the difficulties of Your Highness?"

William looked again at the letter.

"These are their words, Mynheer: 'If the circumstances stand so with Your Highness, that you believe you can get here time enough, in a condition to give assistance this year sufficient for a relief under these circumstances which have been so represented, we who subscribe this will not fail to attend Your Highness upon your landing, and to do all that lies in our power to prepare others to be in as much readiness as such an action is capable of, where there is so much danger in communicating an affair of such a nature, till it be near the time of its being made public.' Then follow their difficulties: 'We know not what alarm your preparations for this expedition may give, or what notice it will be necessary for you to give the States beforehand, by either of which means their intelligence or suspicions here may be such as may cause us to be secured before your landing——'"

William laid the paper down.

"That is their main trouble—they doubt whether I can be so secret as not to cause them and all like to support me to be clapt up before I sail—and wish to know my opinion on it—further, they mislike my compliment to the King on the birth of the Prince of Wales, which hath, they say, done me injury among the Protestants, of whom not one in a thousand believeth the child to be the Queen's—and for the rest—dare I, will I, adventure on the attempt?"

He drew a deep breath as he finished this speech, and fixed his eyes on the dark, uncurtained square of the window as if he pictured something in his mind too vast, too confined, for the narrow room, and must imagine it filling the silent night without.

Fagel spoke, very low.

"Your Highness doth not hesitate?"

"I cannot," answered the Prince simply; "for it is the only way to gain England from France."

In those plain words lay the whole policy of his life—to gain England from France, to weigh the balance of Europe against Louis by throwing into the scale against him a nation so powerful, so wealthy, and anciently so glorious as England; for ten years he had been at the hopeless task of gaining England through her King, now he was going to ignore the King and go straight to the people; but confident as he was in his destiny, the difficulties of the project seemed overwhelming.

He turned again to the letter.

"This is signed by seven great lords," he said, "but I do not know that they are any of them great Politics—Mr. Russell and Mr. Sidney are the most knowing in affairs, and the last sendeth me words of no great encouragement——"

He picked up the other letter.

"There is advice here that I should take M. de Schomberg for the second in command, for he is beloved in England."

"Hath he not been too long in the service of France?" asked M. Fagel.

"Yet he resigned all his posts when the Edict of Nantes was revoked," said M. Dyckfelt. "And being so staunch a Protestant, and so famous a captain, it would be well if Your Highness could borrow him, as Mr. Sidney saith."

"He is very knowing in his profession," said William, without enthusiasm; "but I doubt he will be too dear—apart from his age, and, God forgive me, I do not relish a lieutenant of eighty."

He leant forward with one arm resting on the dark table. Behind him was the shadowed mantelshelf and the dark picture of a storm that occupied the whole width of the chimney shaft, obscured in gloom and touched only vaguely now and then with passing glimmers of candlelight. The Prince's face, which wore an extraordinary expression of concentration and resolve, was thrown out clearly against this darkness, for the lights stood directly before him, and the two men watching him, almost with suspended breath, were (though so familiar with his features) powerfully impressed by this intent look of unconscious strength in the mobile mouth and glowing eyes.

There was the same spirit of enthusiastic energy in his words, though his utterance was laboured and his voice husky from so much speaking.

"Those are the difficulties of the English," he said. "Mine, you know,"—he brought his fine hand down lightly on the table,—"after all they are—as always—summed up in one word—France."

The manner in which he stressed that name was almost startling in its bitterness, hatred, and challenge.

"Is it possible," asked M. Fagel, who was always at first afraid of the daring schemes of the Prince, "for you to deceive the French?"

"M. D'Avaux is a clever man," answered William grimly, "but Albeville and Sunderland will lull King James, and even I think M. Barillon. My Lord Sunderland," he added, with some admiration, "is the finest, most bewitching knave I have ever met——"

"Then," said M. Dyckfelt, "there are a many at the Court whose interest it is to keep the King deceived—namely, those nobles whose letters of service I brought to Your Highness—and from what I observed of His Majesty he was so infatuate with his own conceptions of affairs as to give scant hearing to good advice."

"That may be," answered M. Fagel. "But will France be so easily beguiled? M. D'Avaux at The Hague itself must suspect."

"He doth already," said William, in a kind of flashing shortness; "but he cannot prove his suspicions."

"Your Highness," asked M. Fagel, still anxious, "must take an army and a fleet with you——"

"You do not think," answered the Stadtholder, "that I would go with a handful of adventurers, like my poor Lord Monmouth?"

"Then," urged the Grand Pensionary, "what is to become of the States with all their defences beyond the seas and you absent?"

An expression of pain crossed William's face.

"It must be risked," he said, in his hoarse, tired voice. "Do you not suppose I have counted these risks?" he added half fiercely.

Fagel looked at him straightly.

"Will the States permit Your Highness to take these risks?" he asked.

"I must hope to God that the States will trust me as they have done before," answered William, with dignity.

"Your Highness must lay down new ships, raise new companies, and under what pretence?"

"It can be done," said William. "Have not Algerine corsairs shown themselves in the North Sea? There is one excuse."

Dyckfelt spoke now.

"I see other difficulties. I do not think that Your Highness need fear the loyalty of the States, but what of your Romanist allies, the Pope himself?"

"The Pope," said William calmly, "is on the verge of war with Louis over the Cologne affair, and as long as I stand against France I am assured of his secret support—and as for England, I have it from a sure hand that His Holiness was so offended by the sending of Lord Castlemaine as envoy that all King James his compliments to his nuncio have had no effect."

He could not forbear a smile, for in truth the sending of a man who owed his very title to an infamous wife to the court of the saintly Pontiff was one of those almost incredible blunders it is difficult to believe even of a stupid man.

"I have good hopes from that incident," continued the Prince. "The King who made that mistake may make others."

"Ah! Highness," said M. Dyckfelt, "the mistakes of King James will not help you so much as your own wisdom."

William glanced at the speaker. In the faith and trust of such lay his surest strength. These men, incorruptible, clever, industrious, devoted, and patriotic, such as the two now facing him, were the bulwark of the position he had held fifteen years, the instruments of all his projects. These thoughts so moved in his mind that he was constrained to speak warmly.

"Mynheer, neither on my own understanding nor on the mistakes of my enemies do I rely, but on the services of such as you and M. Fagel."

Praise was rare from the Prince they served, and at the sound of it the two grave diplomats coloured.

Dyckfelt answered.

"Where should Your Highness find perfect loyalty if not in us?"

"God be thanked," said William, with a contained passion, "I have no cause to doubt my own people. But here," he added frankly, "we have to deal with foreigners, and those a nation of all others light and changeable in politics, arrogant and wilful. At present every noble out of office for not attending Mass, and every officer removed to give place to an Irish Papist, is for me; every courtier who thinketh the King insecure is my very good friend, and every country gentleman deprived of his vote raileth against King James—it will take some diplomacy, gentlemen, to combine these into a firm support for my design, and at the same time to conciliate the Catholics."

"There is a great body of fanatics very eager to call Your Highness their champion," said M. Dyckfelt.

"The Hague is full of them," replied the Prince; "but as each man spendeth all his energies in advancing his own grievances and his own schemes there is not much use in them. Methinks the Tories are a surer strength, but they love me not—only use me to save their liberties. The Whigs shout for me, but know me not——"

"They are a corrupt and shallow people," said M. Fagel.

M. Dyckfelt, who had spent several months in England marshalling the discontented factions, and putting them under the leadership of the Prince, answered this statement of the Grand Pensionary.

"There are many able, knowing, and patriotic men among them, though, being out of office, they are not so commonly heard of as the knaves who make the ministry."

William spoke with some impatience.

"Heaven help me, I would never trust an Englishman, unless it were Mr. Sidney; for when they are honest they are lazy, as Lord Halifax and Sir William Temple, and too indifferent to business to be stirred; and when they are dishonest, which I ever found the great majority, they are the most shameless creatures in the world."

"Yet in the present instant Your Highness must trust them."

William smiled grimly.

"Their heads are on their secrecy this time, Mynheer. Besides, I think these men are spirited enough if I can use them before their indignation cools."

There was a second's pause of silence, then M. Fagel spoke.

"Your Highness will require a vast deal of money."

"Yes," said the Prince dryly; "but I believe that it can be raised.'

"In England?" inquired M. Dyckfelt.

"—and among the French refugees here—and from my own fortune, Mynheer, which hath ever exceeded my wants—also, Mynheer, I hope the States will help."

"How great a sum would it be, Highness?"

William, who had the whole project already clear in his head, and had made careful calculations as to the cost, answered at once.

"About three hundred thousand pounds."

M. Fagel was silent. His secret thought was, that to raise this money, overcome all opposition, and complete every preparation by the autumn was impossible.

The Prince was quick to divine his doubt.

"You think I cannot do it?" he asked, with that breathlessness that was a sign of his rare excitement.

"No, Highness. I think of France."

"France!" cried William. "I think of France also."

"If they should attack us while you were absent—or even before you were ready——"

William lifted his hand gravely and let it fall lightly on the smooth surface of the table.

"Ah, if—M. Fagel," he said solemnly; "but that is in God His keeping, where all our destinies be—and we can but fulfil them."

He smiled a little as if he thought of other things, and his bright gaze again sought the window, but instantly he recalled himself.

"I need detain you no more to-night—I shall need to see the States separately and the Amsterdamers—everything must be put in train immediately."

All three rose. The two older men were much moved; before the mind of each were pictures of ten years ago when with the same deliberate courage and heroic fatalism the Prince had pitted himself against France and been forced by the treachery of Charles Stewart into the peace of Nymwegen.

Ten years ago, and ever since William had been working for and planning a renewal of the war he had then been forced to conclude; now it seemed that he had accomplished his desire, and that his re-entry into the combat would be in a manner to take the breath of Europe.

Grave men as these two were, and well used to the spectacle of high policies, they felt that extraordinary thrill which shakes those about to watch the curtain draw up on tremendous events.

They knew that in that quiet little room actions were being resolved and put in train that would stir every court in Europe and make all the pomp of Versailles show hollow if successful; and looking on the Prince, they could not think of failure.

When they had taken their leave, William locked the two letters in a Chinese escritoire. Mr. Sidney had requested that they, being in his known hand, might be destroyed, but the Prince considered his desk as safe as the fire, and was always loath to burn papers of importance.

In that same inner drawer where these letters now lay were offers of services from many famous English names, and that correspondence with Henry Sidney which had prepared the way for the invitation received to-night; also all the letters from King James written since the marriage of Mary, which the Prince had carefully kept.

As he turned the little gold key in the smooth lock he thought of his father-in-law and of the personal aspect of his undertaking. Though he would very willingly have avoided the odium and scandal that he must incur by a break with so near a relation, he had no feelings of affection or even respect for King James. They were antagonistic in religion, character, aims, and policy. James had opposed the Prince's marriage, and ever since he had come to power opposed his every wish and desire. The withdrawal of Sidney from The Hague, the sending of Skelton in his stead, the attempt to recall and place at the disposal of France the English troops in the service of the State, his refusal to interfere with Louis' insulting seizure of Orange, his constant spyings in the household of the Princess, his endeavour to convert her to his own faith, had been all so many widenings of a breach that had never been completely closed; and, on the other hand, the Prince knew that the King had never forgiven him three things—the League of Augsburg (which confederacy of the German Princes against France was known to be his work, though his name did not appear in it), the refusal really his, though nominally the State's, to return the English troops or to put Skelton at the head of them, and his refusal to countenance the Declaration of Indulgence, even when accompanied by the tempting bribe of alliance against France.

They were, and always had been, natural enemies, despite the accident of the double tie of blood and marriage, and even the conventional compliments of their rank had long since been worn thin between them. William was indebted to his uncle for nothing. James did not even give his eldest daughter an allowance, while his youngest received a princely income; but the Prince, faithful to his unchanging policy, would have passed all this, would James have but done what Charles had always been pressed to do by his nephew, namely, join the States in an alliance against France. The Prince had, indeed, with this end in view, endeavoured to please the King on his first accession, and would have worked with him loyally as an ally.

But for the last year he had seen clearly, and with mingled wrath and pity, that James was bent on the old dishonest policy of packed parliaments, French money, and corrupt ministers, added to which was an intolerant, almost insane, bigotry which, discountenanced by the Pope himself and displeasing to all moderate Catholics, was an impossible scheme of government, and in William's eyes, all religious considerations apart, the act of a madman or a fool.

And it did not suit his statecraft to have either on the throne of England. He had waited a long time for this country, which he had seen from boyhood was essential to his schemes for the balance of power and the liberty of Europe, and now was his moment.

As he walked up and down the plain little room he vowed that the difficulties should be conquered, and that even if the Bourbon lilies were flying over Brussels he would lead an armament to England that year.

CHAPTER IX

FRANCE MOVES

Midway through September and a beautiful day of pure gold the Prince was riding home through the brown-leaved woods that surrounded his villa. Contrary to his custom, he rode slowly, and constantly checked his fine animal, for he was thinking deeply, and those moments when he rode to and from his house were almost the only time when he was alone and not under the necessity of speaking to some one. He had just come from the last of the private sittings of the States, which had given their formal assent to the gigantic enterprise he meditated. He had now no further difficulty with his own country. The merchants, exasperated by the refusal of King Louis to allow herrings and woven goods from Holland into his country, had stifled opposition to the Prince in Amsterdam. He had always been sure of the rest of the Provinces, who, after the late persecutions of Protestants in France, the refusal to allow the Dutch in that country to retire to Holland, the constant fears they had been under since King James commenced rebuilding his navy and King Louis commenced his aggressions in Cologne, looked to the Prince with that same passionate devotion as they had done in '72, and trusted to him to save them again from dangers little less pressing; for, the last year past, Gaspard Fagel had been encouraging this dread of an armed alliance between France and England which seemed so near consummation and would be fatal to the very existence of the United Provinces.

It was from abroad came the difficulties that, for the last six months, had made the Prince's days almost unbearably anxious; and as the time drew near that anxiety became a lively torture absolutely unguessed at by those who judged the Prince by his calm, almost cold quiet. Certainly the Spartan boy with the ferret under his cloak showed no more heroic fortitude than did the Stadtholder during these weeks of preparation. Of those who surrounded him perhaps only two, his friend William Bentinck and Gaspard Fagel, understood his position, and even these could not share his sufferings, however much they might his disquietude.

From the allies whom, during the last two years, he had been marshalling into a league against Louis, there was little to fear, though it required delicate handling not to offend Catholic potentates such as the Pope and the Emperor; but from France was fearful and pressing danger, and England, where eventually success or failure must lie, was a suspicious quantity to William, who had been tricked and dealt ill with (though never deceived) by English politics all his life.

If the certain news of his expedition reached James and that monarch clapt up the Protestant lords and united with Louis in an attack on the United Provinces, William would have to face another '72 over again, and with but little better chance of success than he had then; if Louis made an attack on the frontiers of Brabant or the Spanish Lowlands before the Prince sailed the States would refuse to allow his departure, and the moment in England would be lost, perhaps for ever; if, most terrible alternative of all, he took all the forces of his country, naval and military, to England, and there met with opposition, delays, even defeat—if James roused and the English bulk were faithful to him and Louis seized the opportunity to pour his troops into defenceless Holland while her ships and men were absent—then the Prince, who loved his country with a deep and intense passion, would have to accuse himself as the author of her ruin.

Certainly he was jeopardizing the utmost any man could—the dearest thing in the world to him, beside which his own life was not even taken into consideration—and yet the only other course was to risk this same beloved liberty of his country, not by violent means, but by inaction and gradual weakening before a stronger power, and this was against all the teaching of his race, all the experience of his life, his own imperious temper, and the settled conviction both of his soul and his intelligence of what was the best, not alone for Holland but for Europe.

As he approached the 'huis ten bosch' he brought his reluctant horse to a slow walk. M. D'Avaux had done what the Prince had long expected, requested a private, informal audience, and William had told him that he should be walking in the garden at the back of his house that afternoon. As the time for this interview approached the Prince felt a weariness unutterable at the thought of meeting his enemy; he knew very well what M. D'Avaux had to say and what his own answers would be, and a smooth passage at arms with the French Ambassador was the last thing suited to his present temper.

Day after day he had to listen to, arbitrate among, encourage, check, guide, and advise the impetuous, arrogant English gathered at The Hague, and lately joined by men of importance such as my Lord Shrewsbury and my Lord Manchester, and this, to one of his reserve, was perhaps the most distasteful side of his task; it left him no leisure even for his one diversion of hunting, since it filled all the little time left from business, and begat in him a fatigue that longed for the relaxation of the unending strain.

He had an almost feverish love of exercise and fresh air, and as he came within sight of the plain front of his house showing at the end of an avenue of magnificent trees he stayed his horse altogether and sat still in the saddle looking about him; three things that he loved dearly, clear sunshine, pure salt air, and intense quiet beguiled him into forgetting for a few seconds his deep anxieties.

The atmosphere had that peculiar mellow quality of soft light found only in the Low Countries; the trees were motionless, and their leaves hung clear cut from the graceful branches in burning hues of crimson, gold, and brown; wreaths and twists of fallen leaves lay in the damp cold grass, and fine brittle twigs scattered over the hard paths where the frost had made little glittering ridges; the sky was blue, but blue hazed in gold; a large piece of water reflected the polished trunks of beeches patched with moss, the twisting red roots of brambles, and the foxy colour of broken ferns; two swans moved slowly along this lake, and the water was in sluggish ripples against their dead white breasts; their feet seemed to stir with difficulty, and they left a clear track behind, which showed that a thin breath of frost had passed over the water, dulling the surface.

The man on the horse noticed this, and it brought him back to what was ever rolling in his thoughts. If this sign of an early and severe winter was made good, he would have the less to fear for the United Provinces, since they were almost impossible to invade in the depth of snow and ice. This was one reason in his choosing this season for his expedition. As he watched the two silent swans and the film of frost they displaced, his whole face changed with the intensity of his thought; he straightened in the saddle and clutched the reins tightly in his thickly gloved hands; before the frosts had ceased and the waters were running free in spring he would deal with France on equal terms or be dead in the endeavour.

Heated by the wave of inner exaltation that shook him he lightly touched his great grey horse and took the avenue at a gallop, drew rein at the villa steps, and blew a little whistle he carried. When the groom came he dismounted, and entering the private garden by the door in the wall to the right of the house walked slowly to the covered alley where he had promised to meet M. D'Avaux.

The garden had the same stillness as the wood; the late chilled roses hung motionless on their stems, the curious agave plants and Italian laurels were stiff against the wall, a deep border of St. Michael's daisies showed a hard colour of purple about the three steps of the sundial and the flat basin where the fat carp shook golden gleams under the curling withering water-lily leaves.

As the Prince turned into the walk at the end of the garden, shaded overhead with ilex trees and edged with a glossy border of box, he saw the Frenchman pacing the sunless path.

William touched his hat and the Ambassador bowed. The Prince's sharp glance detected that he was something out of countenance.

"I wonder, M. D'Avaux, what you can have to say to me."

"Yet Your Highness is well able to guess," de Avaux answered, with the air of a compliment.

William looked at him again; he detested all Frenchmen, and since the day when, a grave child of eleven and a state prisoner, he had sat sternly in his coach in the Voorhout, and refused to yield precedence to M. D'Èstrees, he had especially hated the French envoys to the States, who had always been, in the truest sense, his enemies; the only thing that softened him to M. D'Avaux was that diplomat's cleverness. The Prince, who loved a worthy antagonist, admired him for his real wit and skill in the long and bitter game that had been played between them; nevertheless, there was, in the full bright glance he cast on him, a quality that his antagonist did not mistake.

"I fear," added the Ambassador, "that I do not find Your Highness very well disposed towards me."

"This is matter of business, is it not, Monsieur?" answered the Prince. "When you have opened your subject I will discover my disposition to it."

They were walking up and down the long walk; the thick gold sunshine slipped through the ilex branches and flickered on the Frenchman's black satins and the Prince's heavy fur-edged cloak. M. D'Avaux held his hat in his hand, but the Prince still wore his brown beaver.

"I am very sorry," said the Frenchman, in his quiet, pleasant manner, but with obvious indication of the concern he was under, "that I have had so few opportunities of assuring you in what esteem my master holdeth Your Highness——"

William made no reply.

"These are no idle words," continued M. D'Avaux, fingering the black curls of his peruke on his breast. "Despite all unfortunate differences, His Majesty hath, as all Europe, a great admiration for the courage, wisdom, and address of Your Highness——"

"Is it not rather late for these compliments, M. D'Avaux?"

"There is an object in them, Monseigneur," answered the Ambassador; "for in consequence of the feeling of His Majesty to Your Highness I am speaking to you now instead of to the States."

"Ah," said William. He switched at the box hedge with his short riding-whip. "Do you not, Monsieur, consider myself and the States as one?"

"History, Monseigneur, showeth that the House of Orange and the United Provinces have not always been of the same sentiments and design."

"They are so, however, now, Monsieur," answered the Prince dryly; "and whatever your business, you may put it before myself or the States, whichever you choose."

M. D'Avaux bit his lip; he read in William's curt words a reminder that he was absolute with the States and more confident than ever of his power over them; he was nettled into a colder tone.

"Yet I think that Your Highness would rather hear me than let me take my message to Their High Mightinesses."

William coughed. His cloak was fur-lined, but he constantly shivered; the shade, even of a September day, was hateful to him.

"Come into the sun," he said, and turned out of the alley into the clear-lit garden. They walked slowly towards the sundial and the carp basin, M. D'Avaux prodding the hard gravel with his cane and the Prince with his switch under his arm.

"Well, your business," said William calmly.

"Monseigneur," replied M. D'Avaux, with sincerity and some earnestness, "I think that you are embarked on a dangerous enterprise."

"The French say so," answered the Prince. "I have been told of the most extraordinary reports in your gazettes and pamphlets."

"I do not obtain my information from gazettes and pamphlets, Your Highness," answered the Ambassador firmly, "but from more reliable sources."

William paused by the carp pond and the bed of violet daisies.

"What is your information?" he asked.

"The last which Your Highness would wish in the hands of France."

"You seem to think, Monsieur," said William, with the shadow of a smile, "that I am an enemy of His Majesty."

He was not looking at the Frenchman, but down at the bed of daisies that he stirred gently with his whip as he spoke. M. D'Avaux looked sharply at his haughty aquiline profile, and answered with a quickening of the breath—

"His Majesty cannot forget what you said at your table a year ago, Monseigneur. You said, Your Highness, when you heard that His Majesty had seized and dismantled Orange on the claim of the House of Longueville, that you would teach him what it was to insult a Prince of Orange, and you refused to retract or explain the words."

"His Majesty," replied William, "hath neither retracted nor explained the deed."

"Your Highness has often repeated those words."

The Prince lifted his brilliant eyes.

"I shall repeat them again, Monsieur," he said, in his strained low voice, "and again until I obtain satisfaction."

He saw that M. D'Avaux had made the allusion to humiliate him, and though there was no sign of it in his countenance the shaft had told, for the insulting seizure of his personal princely apanage, for which he had been powerless to avenge himself, had been the hardest to bear of all the insolences of France, and the revenues had been a real loss.

"You see," bowed M. D'Avaux, "that we have some reason to believe Your Highness the enemy of France."

The Prince continued to look at him steadily.

"His Christian Majesty is very interested in my affairs," he said.

"It is the affairs of King James," returned the Frenchman, with some grandeur, "that my master is interested in——"

"How doth that touch the States?"

"It toucheth Your Highness, for we believe that you make preparations to lead an armament against His Britannic Majesty."

William lowered his eyes almost disdainfully.

"I perceive," he said, "that you do get your information from the gazettes after all——"

"No," answered M. D'Avaux softly. "I will tell Your Highness where I get my information. You know of one Verace, of Geneva?"

The Prince's whip still stirred leisurely among the daisies.

"He was steward once to the Princess and dismissed."

"As early as August, Monseigneur, this Verace wrote to M. Skelton giving information of the intrigues of Your Highness, the Princess, and M. Bentinck."

He watched the effect of his shaft, but the Prince was unmoved.

"You might as well quote the gazettes, Monsieur," he said.

"These letters, Your Highness, were sent by M. Skelton to my Lord Sunderland," replied M. D'Avaux, "and he took no heed of them—we have reason to believe that they never reached the King."

William answered dryly—

"None of this is very interesting, Monsieur. You have had the assurances of M. Van Citters in London, of M. Castagnana, King James himself is content, M. D'Albeville is content, and it is not for France to take this part of interfering on the information of cast-off servants."

"I have had other news from Rome," said M. D'Avaux coldly, "of the intrigues of Your Highness with the Vatican. Your Highness, methinks, knoweth something of some letters which went in to the Pope in a basket of wax fruit."

William gave him a quick glance.

"Take these advices to the court of England, which they concern, Monsieur."

"Your Highness is very well aware that all the foreign intelligence that goeth to England is under the control of M. de Sunderland—who is your very good friend."

The Prince faintly smiled.

"I thought M. de Sunderland was believed the very good friend of France."

"He may," said M. D'Avaux, rather hotly, "deceive M. Barillon, but he doth not deceive me."

"It is unfortunate," remarked the Prince, "that you are not Ambassador to London. I think your abilities wasted here, Monsieur."

"I thank Your Highness." He bowed grandly. "Such as my talents are, I find scope for them at The Hague—I only regret that my confrère is no longer M. Skelton."

He said this knowing that Mr. Skelton was detested by the Prince, who had made his residence in Holland unendurable to him. The dislike was returned by the Englishman, who was the close ally of M. D'Avaux in the attempt to expose and ruin the plans of William. William, however, had triumphed in ousting Skelton from The Hague, and his successor, D'Albeville, was, as M. D'Avaux knew to his vexation, a mean creature that no one could long depend on.

"Mr. Skelton," said the Prince, "is no doubt extremely useful in Paris. And I must ask you, Monsieur, to let me know the true object of this audience, which was not, I think, to discuss these puerile rumours."

The Frenchman flushed; he had always found the Prince difficult to come to conclusions with. William had a short, flashing way of scorn, an inscrutable calm, that even now, when, in his certain knowledge of the Prince's intended enterprise, M. D'Avaux felt he had the upper hand, was difficult to face.

M. D'Avaux felt himself, as always, confused and heated; he believed that the Prince was laughing at him and at France, and a wave of anger shook him both against the supine James who would not be roused, and his own government who would not credit half the information he sent home. He tried that dry directness which his opponent employed with such effect.

"Your Highness will scarcely deny that you intend a descent on England?"

"I should," answered William, "be a fool if I did not deny it when asked by you, Monsieur."

M. D'Avaux thrust his cane into the crevices of the stone pedestal of the sundial.

"Whatever Your Highness may say—I know."

"Ah!" answered William, "but can you prove?"

"To the satisfaction of my own intelligence, Monseigneur," said M. D'Avaux vigorously. "You cannot suppose that I have been unobservant as to your measures since the beginning of the year."

William kept his eyes fixed on the carp sluggishly moving round the fountain basin.

"It would interest me, M. D'Avaux," he said, "to hear what you have discovered of these measures of mine."

"You shall hear, Monseigneur." The Frenchman spoke as one spurred and goaded. "For one thing, I know that you obtained four million guilden from the States for repairing the fortifications of Brabant—that this money was to be payable in four years, and you have raised it in one. Your Highness hath the money, and the forts are untouched."

William was silent.

"Another public fund of equal value you have diverted from its proper use; you have farmed out the revenues of the Admiralty, and this, with your own great fortune, maketh Your Highness master of a huge treasure—apart from the money you are constantly raising among the French and English refugees. For what purpose is all this wealth intended?"

"You say you know," replied William, without looking up. "And, my faith, what kind of an answer can you expect from me?"

"Your Highness can give no good reason."

"None of any sort, to you, on any part of my conduct," said the Prince coldly. "You already overstep your province."

Pale, but firm, M. D'Avaux stood his ground.

"I do not overstep my duty to my master if I ask why Your Highness persuaded the States to build forty new ships of war, and secretly added twelve by your own authority—why these ships were sent publicly to remote stations and secretly brought back—why a great army is encamped at Nymwegen—why M. Bentinck is so continually closeted with the Elector and Your Highness with the States, the German Princes, the Landgrave of Hesse and M. Castagnana—why seven thousand Swedish mercenaries have been hired, and a huge number of Dutch soldiers and sailors secretly raised and privately drilled?"

The Prince turned his back to the sundial, so that he faced the Ambassador; his hands, clasped behind him, held his riding-whip; his face was inscrutable.

"Well, what else?" he asked dryly.

"Only this, that Your Highness and your creatures may deceive the King of England into thinking it is against Denmark and the Corsairs that all these preparations are being made, but you cannot so deceive the King of France."

"And yet," returned the Prince, "I thought His Majesty gave but a cold attention to your alarms."

This, accompanied by a pointed smile, told M. D'Avaux that William was quite well aware that it had not been so easy to rouse Louis to a sense of his danger. The Frenchman bit his lip; he had a master-stroke in reserve.

"Your Highness is a very able Prince," he said, on an oblique line of attack, "but my master pays well and is well served. I know who, under so many different names and pretences, purchaseth and hireth transport boats in so many different ports; I know who ordereth the bakers of Amsterdam to make biscuit, the saddlers to make bridles and saddles—why all the artillery is leaving the towns and coming down to the coasts—why magazines of hay are waiting in all the seaports, and why English noblemen are living furtively at The Hague."

He paused and looked narrowly at the Stadtholder, who, he was confident, must be taken aback at this knowledge of his plans; but the Prince was so immovable that the wild thought occurred to M. D'Avaux—is it really Denmark or his own country, as King James contends?

"I cannot conceive why you come to me with this," said William.

"To warn you, Monseigneur."

"Of what?" flashed the Prince.

"Of France," answered M. D'Avaux impressively.

William drew a deep breath.

"You should know better than to seek to frighten me, M. D'Avaux. I am not by nature timorous."

"I warn Your Highness," repeated the Ambassador. "I remind you that you are not a sovereign Prince."

"I rule a sovereign state, Monsieur."

"The first magistrate of a republic, Monseigneur, cannot behave as a king. Since Your Highness will give me no satisfaction, I shall go to the States."

"You will do as you wish," answered William; "but you are, nevertheless, perfectly well aware that I rule the States."

D'Avaux bowed.

"Give me credit for that discernment—the card I play is not an appeal from Your Highness to the States——"

"What then?"

The Frenchman moved a little farther back, still in a courtier's attitude, with his hat in his hand, looking intently at the Prince, who stood on the steps of the sundial with the violet daisies brushing his cloak and boots.

"Mr. Skelton hath prevailed on M. de Louvois to command me to say to the States that there is such friendship between His Majesty and King James that any attack on Britain would be regarded in the same light as an attack on France. That," added M. D'Avaux softly, "may make the States see their interests as different from those of Your Highness."

William gave not the least sign of surprise or confusion.

"So it is Mr. Skelton's advice to endeavour to frighten the States?" he remarked.

"I shall deliver my message to-morrow," said M. D'Avaux, "and then Your Highness will see if the States are prepared for an attack—an instant attack on their frontiers—if they are prepared to allow you and their whole strength to leave a country which France is menacing. You saved the Provinces in '72—without you they could not save themselves now——"

"You must follow out your instructions, Monsieur," said the Prince.

He stepped down from the sundial and looked narrowly at the Ambassador.

"You have nothing more to say?" he added.

"Nothing, Monseigneur, unless Your Highness can give me the assurances I was bid to ask——"

"What would be the use of that, Monsieur, when you know, as you say," returned the Stadtholder.

M. D'Avaux was slightly baffled; he thought that the Prince must betray more concern unless he had some counter-stroke to this of the threat to the States.

He answered with dignity—

"Then I need trouble Your Highness no further."

"Very well," answered William. "I am sorry that you have wasted your time, Monsieur; but I always was of a tolerably positive disposition, and difficult to turn."

"All Europe knoweth that," answered M. D'Avaux, with a little flush; for the Prince's words were an obvious assertion of the fact that he would not alter his plans for any French threats—an obvious challenge.

They walked down the hard gravel path between the beds of late roses. At the garden gate the Prince parted from M. D'Avaux with that simplicity which was his natural manner, but generally credited to him for guile.

"I am obliged to you for this courtesy," he said. "Au revoir, Monsieur."

"I thank Your Highness," answered M. D'Avaux, with a grand bow.

The Prince closed the gate on him, and went instantly into the house by the back entrance. And so straight to his private room, where a little company, consisting of M. Fagel, M. Bentinck, M. Dyckfelt, the envoy of M. Castagnana, Governor of the Spanish Netherlands, the envoy of the Elector of Hanover, a Prince of Lunenburgh, and the Landgrave of Hesse were awaiting him.

They all rose at his entrance. He came swiftly and breathlessly to the table, flung off his hat, and said—

"Gentlemen, M. D'Avaux knoweth everything—that villain D'Albeville hath betrayed us. There is a bomb to be dropped to-morrow that is like to blast us all."

CHAPTER X

THE ENGLISH AMBASSADOR

"M. D'Albeville?" echoed the Landgrave.

"It can be none other, Highness," answered William, with energy. "No one else was privy to my Lord Sunderland his part——"

Fagel gave a quick exclamation.

"He knoweth that?"

"Yes—he scenteth it," said the Stadtholder grimly. "And he hath a pretty idea of the preparations, only he doth not guess either their magnitude nor their forwardness."

He seated himself, and the others took their places again. There was, in the whole assembly, a breathless air of expectation and excitement. The room was full of steady mellow sunshine, which brought out every detail of the persons of the gentlemen about the walnut table and glimmered in the fair hair of M. de Lunenburgh, who sat facing the window.

The Stadtholder glanced round these intent faces and took off his gloves, unclasped his cloak, and said, in a passionate voice, directly addressing the Grand Pensionary—

"M. Fagel, the design is to frighten the States, by declaring that any design against England will at once provoke France into an attack on the Provinces."

M. Fagel was silent. This stroke was unexpected and tremendous. If Louis fell on the frontiers of the States, Their High Mightinesses would certainly not permit the Prince and the army to sail for England.

"You know my opinion," continued William, looking at the Spaniard, "that if M. de Castagnana can but keep Ostend, Mons, and Namur till the spring, I shall then have settled this English business, and be able to return with a sufficient force to drive the French out of Flanders."

"I think," said M. Fagel, "that the States would not take the risks, and this threat from France will have a very ill effect among the common people."

"And," added M. Dyckfelt, who had primary charge of English affairs, "if M. D'Avaux and M. Skelton succeed in undeceiving King James as to the true design of M. de Sunderland that would be a shrewd blow——"

"One which shall not be delivered," said the Prince firmly. "M. de Sunderland is the one man who can keep the foreign intelligence from the King, and he stayeth in office. M. D'Albeville is a dirty tool, but there is more use to be got out of him——"

"But he, Your Highness, you say hath betrayed us?" questioned M. de Hesse.

"And now he can betray them," said William. "By Heaven, Highness, do you think we, at this stage of our endeavours, shall trip over an insect like this D'Albeville?"

He finished his sentence with a smile at M. de Hesse. He was himself of a German House, a German Prince and a Grandee of the Holy Empire, and had alway an affection for and a powerful influence over the Landgraves, Electors, and Princes who made up the German confederacy.

de Hesse responded—

"We are, as ever, ready to do what Your Highness thinketh fit in this juncture."

"Ah!" answered William warmly. "I should do ill to fail with such friends——"

"Should we not," asked M. Bentinck, "consult with some of the English at The Hague?"

"No," said the Stadtholder firmly. "They have none of them any conception of continental affairs, and at present are engaged in disputing over the form of the Declaration, for they seem already to be split into very decided parties."

M. Fagel and M. Dyckfelt both considered it a mistake not to more fully trust the English nobles, but both were aware that the Prince's distrust of that nation (but too well founded on experience) was not to be shaken.

The German Princes and Ministers were willing enough to keep the threads of the coalition as much as possible in their own hands, and none of them could believe that a youth like Lord Shrewsbury and an eccentric rake like Lord Mordaunt could be of use in serious counsels.

The envoy of the Elector of Hanover proceeded to lay before William the plans for the fortifications of the Rhine which the Germans had agreed to defend with troops, replacing those withdrawn by the States, in the same way as M. de Castagnana had engaged to fortify the frontier of Brabant on the side of Flanders.

William surveyed the plans and listened to the explanations, in which the Landgrave and M. de Lunenburgh eagerly joined, with an elated satisfaction which even the stroke about to be dealt by M. D'Avaux could not destroy. His spirits, as ever, rose with increasing difficulties and dangers, and after having to listen to the thousand, to him, paltry arguments of the English party leaders, this talk of the real heart of affairs, the hand-to-hand grips with France, had a ringing pleasure for his ears.

M. Fagel, withdrawn into the window embrasure, was speaking with William Bentinck, a tall, fair, and handsome man, of a quiet dignity, a few years older than the Stadtholder, and that Prince's closest friend, of the probable effect of this move planned by the wit and watchfulness of Mr. Skelton and M. D'Avaux, when an usher entered to inform His Highness that the English Ambassador requested an immediate audience.

William was roused at once from his maps and papers, and a movement of excitement silenced the low, serious voices.

"M. D'Albeville!" exclaimed the Stadtholder. His eyes flashed, and he rose. "Conduct him here."

As the usher left, all looked at the Prince.

"Why should he come?" asked M. de Lunenburgh.

William laid his hand affectionately on the German's brown velvet sleeve.

"My child," he said softly, "whatever he hath come for, we will turn him to our own uses."

At this moment the English Ambassador entered, amid an absolute silence; he paused on the threshold and glanced at the men before him: the Stadtholder between M. de Lunenburgh, the Landgrave and the Hanoverian envoy at the opposite side of the dark circular walnut table; the Spaniard, very splendid in gold brocade that caught the sun, standing with his back to the hearth, and opposite him in the dazzling length of the window M. Bentinck with the two Dutch ministers.

So were gathered in this small, plain room representatives of the most of the members of the huge coalition which the formidable Stadtholder had laboured so long to combine against France; and M. D'Albeville, standing for England, equally precious both to these allies and to Louis, instinctively drew back a little, as one who has stepped among silent enemies.

He was a slight Irishman, and had been handsome, but dissipation, poverty, and meanness had given him a haggard and livid appearance; he wore gaudy, but tarnished, finery, and a huge red-brown peruke that hung in knots of heavy curls either side his sharp face.

"I desired a private audience, Highness," he said, speaking in perfect French.

"We are private here, M. le Marquis," answered William, handing the packet of papers back to M. de Hesse. "And we are glad that you have come, for we had business to discuss with you."

He seated himself at that, and M. D'Albeville came to the opposite side of the table, so directly facing him; the others remained standing.

"You," said William, with energy, "have been trying to fool me, M. le Marquis. You have seen fit to convey warnings to the court of England and to M. D'Avaux."

The look of fear that was never quite absent from the Irishman's face deepened; he seemed to shrink into his stiff buckram and brocade clothes.

"So God help me——" he began.

"Oh, enough of your oaths!" cried the Prince, in a sudden burst of fury. "Do you think I have time to listen to your cursed excuses? How much have you told that damned Frenchman?"

So direct, terrible, and sincere was his passion that the object of it retreated towards the door, and even the spectators were awed.

"I protest," answered the Ambassador, dry-lipped, "I have told nothing. I have sent reassuring messages to His Majesty, as Your Highness knoweth——"

"Were you not well enough paid for them," demanded William fiercely, "that you must go cry your wares in the French market?"

"Monseigneur, you are misinformed——"

The Prince cut him short.

"M. D'Avaux hath been told of M. de Sunderland's part—you told him. Hath King James been warned also?"

"I came to tell Your Highness so," stammered M. D'Albeville. "Not by me, God knoweth; but I had this morning a message——"

"From whom?"

"Not from my Lord Sunderland—direct from His Majesty bidding me ask the States the reason of the preparations of Your Highness——"

The Stadtholder glanced at his friends; he was still taut with passion. Dealing with mean creatures such as this roused that rare fury in him that brought him out of himself.

"So now you are afraid, eh?" he asked. "You are not quite so sure which is the winning side, M. le Marquis——"

M. D'Albeville came nearer the table. Another fear conquered his fear of the terrible Prince.

"I cannot go on," he said feverishly. "I dare not. I can help you no more, Monsieur. I must deliver that message, and I must tell the King everything——"

"You will deliver the message," interrupted William grimly; "but you will not open the eyes of His Majesty until I bid you."

The Irishman clutched his hand on his breast, with a contortion of terror and despair on his face. He had been playing fast and loose between France and Holland so long that he scarcely knew how far he had betrayed one to the other, only that of late he had kept the greater faith with the Prince, who terrorized him, as did all the English envoys, except those he won by friendship, such as Temple and Sidney.

M. D'Albeville was now convinced that, in view of the coming French action, the Prince could not succeed, and he wished fervently that he was before James or Louis that he might gain a good price by telling what he knew of William's plans. He already regretted having come before His Highness, yet he had not dared act without warning him, and had been in some hopes of persuading him of his own faith and use.

Disappointed in this, he groaned aloud, began a feeble sentence that died on his lips, and cast a furtive glance for a way of escape.

This did not fail of notice by the Prince.

"Bentinck," he said, "look to the door."

That nobleman stepped quietly in front of it, and the wretched Ambassador shrilled a protest.

"Doth Your Highness intend violence?"

"I intend to make use of you, Monsieur!" cried the Prince. "We are men in earnest. Do you think that we should allow you to in any way incommode us?"

"It will be Tower Hill for me!" cried M. D'Albeville. "I dare keep silent no longer—if my Lord President goeth, what protection have I got?"

"M. de Sunderland shall not go until I have sailed from Helvoetsluys," said William. "How much hath M. D'Avaux promised you for telling everything to the Court of St. James?"

M. D'Albeville shrugged, but obviously brightened as the talk changed to money.

"You are quite mistaken, Your Highness——"

"How much was it?" interrupted William.

"Naturally, if I could help M. D'Avaux—I should expect some consideration for the trouble——"

The Prince for a moment took his great eyes from the Irishman and addressed a rapid sentence in Dutch to M. Dyckfelt, who at once went to the Chinese bureau at the side of the fireplace and unlocked a drawer.

"I must deliver the message to the States," said M. D'Albeville, between cringing and defiance. He was really afraid of what might have happened in England—Sunderland might be in disgrace, and the whole intrigue discovered by James, for all he knew.

"It is my wish that you should," answered William. "It will come very pat with M. D'Avaux his message."

M. Dyckfelt put on the table a gold standish, a sheet of paper, and a casket, which last the Prince kept before himself.

"M. le Marquis," he said, "you will do me one more service—you will write to His Majesty that his suspicions are quite unfounded, that my preparations, you are assured, are against Denmark, and that no credit is to be given to the tales of M. Skelton and M. D'Avaux about M. de Sunderland."

The Ambassador's face became absolutely blanched; he moistened his lips, and murmured, "I dare not—I dare not," between dry breaths.

"You dare not refuse," answered William. "I could so expose you that not a court in Europe would employ you. Besides, it is enough that I command you. Sit down and write."

D'Albeville came slowly nearer the table.

"I would do anything to serve Your Highness, but not this—it is too late—it has gone too far——"

"Write," said the Stadtholder briefly. "I pay well, you know that."

M. D'Albeville sat down in the chair opposite the paper and standish.

"But His Majesty will learn from others, and I shall be recalled and" ... he complained miserably ... "death ... treason is death. Oh, my God, I cannot do——"

"M. le Marquis," interrupted William, "His Majesty is simple enough to trust you, and for the rest I protect those whom I use."

M. D'Albeville shivered and took up the pen. He had, and knew it, no chance with the Prince, whose potent personality always completely mastered his. He dared not, from some sheer unnameable fear, refuse or resist, but the damp stood on his brow and his heart was cramped at the thought of the possible vengeance of the master whom he was betraying.

"You know what to write," said William. "Put it in your own hand and your own style—you do not, I think, use cipher——"

Tears of terror, rage, and mortification stood in the Irishman's eyes. He had come to excuse himself from a service that had become too dangerous, and found himself overpowered into going still greater lengths. He could not bring himself to write the letter which would eventually cut him off from all hope of pardon from England.

"He shall write," said the Prince, in a low tone, to M. de Hesse, "if I have to hold a pistol to his head the while."

And he came softly round behind the Ambassador's chair.

"Gentlemen," complained M. D'Albeville, "is this a way to treat the representative of His Britannic Majesty?"

The Landgrave and M. de Lunenburgh closed nearer round him.

M. D'Albeville looked up at the grave faces bent on him, and began to write.

"Make haste," said the Prince, drawing a round filigree watch from his pocket and glancing at the time.

The Ambassador groaned and drove his pen the faster; in a few moments the sheet of paper was covered, sanded, and signed.

"There is my ruin, Highness," said M. D'Albeville dramatically, handing it with shaking fingers.

"Men like you are never ruined," returned the Prince. He glanced over the letter, ill spelt, ill expressed, but all that Sunderland would need to quiet the fears of his master.

The Prince folded it across, and M. D'Albeville held out his hand.

"By your leave, M. le Marquis, I will post this." William opened the casket M. Dyckfelt had brought from the Chinese bureau, and took out a couple of little linen bags, which he slid along the table towards the crumpled figure of the Ambassador; the glint of gold could be seen between the wide meshes. "The audience is over," he added dryly.

M. D'Albeville got to his feet and began to pick up the money and thrust it into the huge flap pockets of his silver-branched coat, making the while little sounds of protest, and shaking his head dismally.

"Listen," said the Prince vigorously. "You will give your message to the States to-morrow, and you will send no letters of any kind to England until I request you to——"

"I am always the servant of Your Highness," said M. D'Albeville with a dreary submission, yet with a kind of satisfaction in the bribe that lay heavy in his pockets; the Prince always paid better than M. D'Avaux, kept short by M. de Louvois, who disliked him.

"All packets leaving our ports are watched," remarked William. "So do not try to send any secret messages to England."

The Ambassador picked up his white-plumed hat, that had fallen to the floor, then came towards the Prince with a humble gesture, as if he would have kissed his hand; but William drew back with a haughty disgust that brought a blush even to M. D'Albeville's brazen cheek. He withdrew backwards, M. Bentinck opened the door for him, and closed it after he had departed, bowing.

"By Heaven!" burst out the Landgrave, "to think that a great nation should send as representative such a rascal!"

"His Majesty hath always been unlucky, Highness," answered William, "in the gentlemen he sendeth to The Hague. To use such tools!" he added impatiently; "but I think we have checkmated M. D'Avaux.—M. Fagel," he turned swiftly to the Grand Pensionary, "you see your part? The two messages will come the same day, and you are to protest that there must be some secret alliance between France and England that the States have been kept in the dark about, and that we can give no answer till that is explained; you must feign alarm which will further inflame the people against France and her designs, and so we may provoke King James into repudiating the French alliance and offending His Christian Majesty."

Having thus indicated the policy that his genius had instantly conceived, he paused with a little cough, then laughed, which he seldom did save when he had discomfited some one. He laughed now, thinking of M. D'Avaux, and there was a malicious note in it that would not have pleased that diplomat to hear.

The German princes laughed also, in a more good-natured fashion, and the whole company moved from their places with a sense that a final resolve had been reached.

"Come, gentlemen," said the Prince in his tired voice, "I think we have earned our dinner."

He handed to M. Fagel the letter written by M. D'Albeville.

CHAPTER XI

THREE PAWNS

Three English gentlemen were walking slowly round the Vyverburg on the side where stand the spacious courts of the Buitenhof; the ground beneath their feet was thickly covered with dry yellow leaves, and the trees above their heads almost bare, but the sun shone as strong as summer on the placid surface of the water, and gleamed with a red fire in the rows of long windows of the Government buildings; the sky was a great luminous space of blue gold, against which the trees and houses the other side of the lake showed with a tender clarity, like the pictures of that great artist, Ver Meer of Delft.