Front matter (continued 3)

There were swans and ducks on the lake; they, like the water on which they swam, were touched with this universal hue of gold, and seemed to be cleaving a way through glimmering mists of sunshine.

The three gentlemen paused by one of the posts protecting the edge of the water; it was near evening, and under the calm was the sense of a little rising wind, salt from the sea. Not a word was spoken between these three who had fallen from much talk to idleness; all had the same subject in their minds, though each coloured it with his own temperament; all of them were remarkable-looking men, and typical of some aspect of the great movement of which they formed a part.

The eldest was a man still in his prime, red-haired and tanned to an unnatural darkness, with something stern, sad, and passionate in his face, and an abruptness in his movements; he wore the splendid appointments of a soldier; across his shoulder was twisted a rich oriental scarf of coloured silk and gold threads; his name was Fletcher of Saltoun, a noble Scot, who had returned from the Turkish war to assist in the enterprise of the Stadtholder.

The second was a youth of singular sweetness of expression and delicacy of feature, plainly dressed in grey; the charm of his appearance was marred solely by a black silk patch which he wore over his left eye; he was staring at the water with a melancholy air, and now and then sighed; this was Charles Talbot, eleventh Earl of Shrewsbury, dismissed last year from the army and the Lord-Lieutenancy of Staffordshire for refusing to abjure his religion; he had mortgaged his estates for £40,000, which was now at the Bank of Amsterdam at the service of the Prince. He was for the moment but one of the many refugees at The Hague.

The third was by far the most remarkable, and bore most signs of greatness: young, though a little older than the Earl, he was not, perhaps, half the height, being hunch-shouldered to a deformity, and thin and meagre in body; his face, livid and lined with disease, wore a sparkling expression of energy, his eyes, large, noble, and ever changing in expression with a kind of restless animation, scorn, impatience, and dare-devilry; even now, when standing still, he thrummed with his fingers on the railing and whistled 'Lillibulero' under his breath.

He was that Lord Mordaunt whose fiery, careless courage had urged this expedition on the Prince a year ago.

Fretting under the languor and idleness engendered by the beautiful late afternoon and the serene fair prospect, he proceeded to lead his companions out of the silence to which they were so obviously inclined.

"Where will the Prince land, eh, my lord?" he asked of Shrewsbury. "In the south-west or the north-east?"

He knew that my lord could not know what was not yet decided, but the question served to break the pause.

"Why, 'tis even what they argue about," answered the Earl. "Lord Dunblaine was with His Highness yesterday, and gave as his father's advice that we should choose the north, because 'tis so easy to obtain horses in Yorkshire——"

"Or because my Lord Danby," sneered Mordaunt, "hath such a pull in that county that he hopeth to get His Highness into his hands."

"The Prince is very secret," said Mr. Fletcher.

"He listeneth to all and agreeth with none," answered my Lord Mordaunt.

"He might be more open," complained the Earl, who of the three was most in the favour of William; but Mordaunt perhaps understood the Prince better.

"Dr. Burnet is to draw up the letter to the Church," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I ever disliked him."

"He is translating the Prince his Declaration also," said the Earl discontentedly. "I do hope the Prince will not be led by such an extreme Low Churchman——"

"M. Fagel wrote it," answered Mordaunt. "His Highness said the English were all such party men he would not trust them to prepare it. He is himself writing the letter to the army—you have heard? He is clever with the pen."

"He may," broke out Mr. Fletcher, "trust Dr. Burnet as much as he pleaseth; but if he is to put his confidence in my Lord Danby we are as good as lost——"

"Better my Lord Danby than my Lord Sunderland," interrupted Shrewsbury; "it surpriseth me that he can deal with such a knave."

Lord Mordaunt gave an impatient pirouette.

"Why is there all this delay—delay?" he cried, "I would have sailed months ago!"

Mr. Fletcher roused at that. He was innocent enough in the matter of politics to have been one of those who accompanied, with hope of success, Lord Monmouth on his fatal expedition, and to consider the Prince's attempt as such another enterprise.

"You are right," he said gloomily. "The King will get wind of it, and Dartmouth will have his ships spread all round the coast to prevent a landing."

"I am sick of The Hague—sick!" exclaimed Mordaunt impetuously. "If His Highness don't leave the cursed place soon, I'll go without him!"

Shrewsbury laughed, then Mordaunt himself good-humouredly; Mr. Fletcher stared at the slow-sailing ducks. He did not care much what happened, but he hated inaction, and began to regret the Turks who had provided it.

"You have heard that Skelton hath been recalled and lodged in the Tower?" asked Mordaunt.

"Yes," said Shrewsbury; "it was in the letters this morning. It might have been expected after His Majesty's denial of a French alliance and reprimand to M. Barillon."

"Sure bad policy," said Mr. Fletcher, but without enthusiasm, "and a good stroke for the Prince."

In truth none of these gentlemen guessed what a stroke. James had actually stepped into the trap laid for him, and, seeing how great an advantage the appearance of an alliance between him and France gave the States, had angrily repudiated the suggestion, and haughtily reprimanded M. Barillon for French interference with his affairs. Sunderland, prepared by the Prince, had urged him on to this course, and the letters of M. D'Albeville had served to back the Lord-President's reassurances. The Prince had been triumphant in this encounter, the States and the people were warmer in his cause than ever after this proof, as they took it, of a connection, between France and England, dangerous to themselves. M. D'Avaux, since the disgrace of Skelton, was silent with mortification, and a kind of lull hung over Europe; William was looking with a terrible anxiety towards Flanders, where Louis had his troops threatening the frontiers of the Spanish Lowlands, and so the United Provinces. What would Louis do now the King of England had rejected his warnings and refused his aid? On the answer to that question the fate of Protestant Europe depended.

But these three knew and cared little of these matters; their minds were set wholly on the domestic policies of England, and occupied with a vague ideal of liberty for their own faith and their country's laws, not unmingled with some desire for vengeance on the party now upper-most.

"I saw Sir James Stair to-day," said Mr. Fletcher suddenly; "he hath come from Leyden to join the Prince. I suppose he will take to himself the affairs of Scotland."

"Nay," answered the Earl; "the Prince is all for William Carstares, a poor, mean Scottish minister; but, sir, more in the Prince his confidence than any of us——"

"Carstares," cried Mordaunt, with flashing eyes, "hath been under torture with secrets of M. Fagel in his keeping, and never betrayed them. A brave man!"

Shrewsbury shrugged his shoulders delicately.

"I wish we sailed to-morrow," said Fletcher of Saltoun.

The restless Mordaunt moved on, and the others sauntered beside him.

"The boats are all creeping down to the sea laden with arms," he said excitedly. "They lie thick as pebbles among the reeds of the islands of the Rhine and Meure. Sirs, ye should see them."

"I had the Prince his command to stay at The Hague," answered Shrewsbury. "Saw you these boats?"

"That I did, and pontoons, and transports, and the hay slung in ropes in the ports, and the great trains of artillery..."

They were walking towards the Gevangenpoort, the prison gate which rose up by the side of the Vyver. The hazy sky was changing to a tawny colour behind the dark roof lines of the houses, flushed here and there with gold and a stain of purple; little pale, shell-coloured clouds floated away to the uppermost heights of heaven where the clear blue was still untouched, and the water began to glow and burn with the reflected fires of the sky.

The clear chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the hour, and the sound of oncoming horsemen caused the few passers-by to pause before entering the narrow way of the prison arch.

A cavalcade came into sight from the direction of the Stadhuis, and moved at a swift trot towards the Gevangenpoort—a number of gentlemen, with two riding before the others.

As they passed every hat was removed.

"The Prince returning from Helvoet," said Lord Mordaunt, and the three uncovered as the horsemen approached.

The Stadtholder was mounted on a huge grey Flemish horse, and on his right hand rode the Maréchal de Schomberg, still erect and magnificent; the two were talking with a certain stiff courtesy; behind them came the Spanish envoy, M. Zuylestein, M. Zolms, and M. Auverqueverque, together with a number of Dutch and German nobles.

The Prince saw the three Englishmen and saluted very graciously; the setting sun was for a moment full on his grave face, then he passed through the prison arch, and the company clattered over the cobbles out of sight.

"No Englishman with him, mark you," said Mr. Fletcher.

"Mr. Herbert told me that he could not be open with us," replied Shrewsbury.

"Yet Herbert is to have the command of the expedition, is he not?"

"They say so; but he is full of discontent. Admiral Evertgen hath spoken against him to the Prince, methinks."

Mr. Fletcher saluted one of his countrymen whom he had recognized, and the three turned back.

A steady dusk was descending, extinguishing the colours in the sky, in the water, in the windows of the Binnenhof, and blurring those in the dresses of the people passing to and fro; only the trees and the houses retained their distinctness and sharpness of outline, and they took on a marvellous colour of living silver grey. Long deep shadows blended with the water the beautiful irregular buildings that had been the theatre of so many great events; the swans stood out, a dead white, from hues rapidly darkening and mysterious; their feathers were ruffled by a long breeze that swept chilly from the sea and salt dunes at Scheveningen.

A yellow light sprang up in one of the lower windows of the Binnenhof, and cast reflections far beneath it in the water.

"Did you ever hear the story of John de Witt, the late Grand Pensionary?" asked Shrewsbury, pulling his cloak about him. "M. Bentinck told me, and kept me out of bed with the tale——"

"Why should you think of that now?" asked Mordaunt curiously.

"You see that light there—the first to be lit in the Binnenhof?—that was his room, and M. Bentinck said that always when one passed late one would see that candle shine and know that M. de Witt was still waking."

"He got a poor reward," said Mr. Fletcher. "He was torn to bits on the Plaats, was he not?"

"Anyone whose memory goeth back sixteen years will give you an account of it," answered my Lord Mordaunt dryly. "I wish I had been beside M. de Witt that day with a sword in my hand!"

The Earl sighed.

"How cold it bloweth! A severe winter is presaged, do you not think, my lord?" he said. Then abruptly: "Why should good men meet such ends?"

Lord Mordaunt laughed.

"You ask me to explain ingratitude? By Heaven, I have not the wit for the task."

"Ingratitude!" frowned Shrewsbury; "but these people love the Prince because he hath done them great services——"

"But shall we?" interrupted Mordaunt. "Ah, sir, I think the Prince will meet the same spirit as did John de Witt, should he ever rule in England——"

"Why, God forbid!" exclaimed Mr. Fletcher.

"What?" demanded Mordaunt sharply—"that we should ever be ungrateful?"

"No; that His Highness should ever rule in Britain."

Lord Mordaunt answered with some intensity—

"Are you so simple, sir, as to think we can have a man like that among us not ruling us?"

Lord Shrewsbury was doubtfully silent. His timorous nature had been startled by the sudden action into which circumstances had spurred it. A sense of loyalty, a terror of underhand methods, a dread of anything so violent as a revolution made him already secretly regret the part he had so far played so well.

Mr. Fletcher answered carelessly and thoughtlessly—

"You set too high a value on the little Prince. His life is not worth a year's purchase."

Lord Mordaunt flashed an extraordinary look over the fine person of the speaker, and the comely youth of the Earl. His thin hand clutched on to his sword-belt, and his haggard face flushed.

"You set too high a value on bone and muscle!" he cried, with a passionate sneer. "You are jolly fellows, both of you; but who will remember you when you have been dead a year? But men," he added with a terrible energy, "will talk of the Prince of Orange, and of me."

They stared at him, amazed at this outburst, and Shrewsbury, seeing what a frail, deformed creature he was, blushed with a kind of shame.

"Good God!" said Mr. Fletcher, "I am not working for fame, my lord."

"No!" flashed Lord Mordaunt; "creatures of clay—of clay! Prettily coloured, but a breath of the fire that burneth in the little plain vessels would crack you in a day."

He gave a flourishing bow, and walked off towards the Stadhuis.

"An Eccentric," remarked Mr. Fletcher, looking after him.

"I fear so. He will put himself into a passion at a word; but he would pledge his whole fortune for you if you were in need of it," answered the Earl. "How suddenly dark it is; let us, sir, go home."

CHAPTER XII

FRANCE MOVES AGAIN

It was mid-October; the Prince's preparations were complete, even to the putting of the horses on board, and yet there was silence from France. A terrible lull of suspense hushed the United Provinces, and of all the anxious hearts there was none so anxious as that of the man who had staked this great wager—the Stadtholder.

On this day, the nineteenth of the month, he returned from the camp at Nymwegen, where he had been reviewing the troops long since secretly raised and drilled by him, and now sanctioned by the States, entered The Hague privately, and rode to the Binnenhof, where he was closeted with M. Fagel, who gave him the last assurances that all opposition, even from the Republican or Loeventein party, was extinct.

When he left the Grand Pensionary and came out into the still corridors of the Binnenhof, he stood thoughtfully for a moment, at the head of the staircase, thinking of the various threads, all so different in texture, that he had almost succeeded in weaving into the completed pattern of his design.

His own country, the German princes, the Empire, Spain, Sweden, England, the Pope—all combined at last with one aim, to answer the aggressions of France.

For ten years, ever since the Peace of Nymwegen had been forced on him, he had been working through gloom, disappointment, discouragement, for this end. His answer to the revocation of the Nantz edict and the seizure of Orange had been the League of Augsburg, which was now bearing fruit, and all Europe was directed against France.

Toil, energy, courage, patience, and genius were telling. The young disinherited Prince, who had been treated as a mere pawn by Charles and Louis, the general of twenty-two with a miserable army, who had been offered humiliating terms by the French, insolently victorious, had slowly grown to be a power that both Bourbon and Stewart feared, and whose influence was predominant over the larger half of the Continent.

His rapid thoughts went back over the years to those black days of blood and despair when he had been put at the head of his country's fortunes and trusted with her sole hopes. Defeat—disappointment had often been his in his struggle to maintain the position of the States in Europe, but even to his own judgment, and he ranked his own achievements low, it seemed that success had waited on all his apparent failures, for his country was not only free but great, and he not only independent but powerful.

Slowly he began to descend the stairs, which were full of a misty sunlight. When he reached the first landing-place a man stepped from one of the tall doors, and, seeing the Prince, bowed and stood very respectfully waiting for him to pass.

William paused, came to a stop, and regarded this man with a close, keen scrutiny.

He stood so still that the object of his gaze lifted surprised eyes, and the two looked at each other.

The Prince stood at the bottom of the flight of stairs, one hand resting on the polished newel post. He was in buff military attire and carried over his right arm a heavy dark cloak; he wore a black beaver that shaded his brow, but the rich light was full on his face, which expressed a strong emotion sternly contained.

Behind him a blue and green tapestry hung on the dark wall; it showed a sea fight with curious ships and curling waves, and banners rising through smoke; the sun showed every thread in it—every crease, and the latent gold in the heavy chestnut locks of the Prince.

"M. Heinsius," he said softly.

"Your Highness?"

The Prince did not change his position nor move his brilliant gaze.

"I think to leave the States very soon, as you know, Mynheer; you know also under what circumstances." He paused a second, then added: "I have your good wishes, Mynheer?"

Antoon Heinsius coloured from chin to brow. He had been of the Loeventein party and in favour of France, but his policy had changed lately to an adherence to the Stadtholder; he had not expected this to be remarked by William.

"Every true heart in Holland," he answered strongly, "must pray for the success of Your Highness."

William descended to the landing-place and laid his frail hand, half concealed in embroidered linen ruffles, on the sleeve of M. Heinsius.

"You are the kind of man I want. M. Fagel is old and in failing health—he needeth help," he said. "You are a patriot; you would, I think, do anything for the States."

The words were poor compared to the fire and energy in the Stadtholder's strained but steady voice, and the purpose in the gentle firm touch of his hand on the other man's arm.

M. Antoon Heinsius answered instantly, with a deepening of the colour in his fine handsome face—

"Your Highness doth me exceeding honour."

"I am never better pleased," said William, "than when I can make a man like you my friend."

"Your friend—your servant, Highness," murmured M. Heinsius. He was considerably moved by this kindness from one usually so stately and reserved, and one whom he had of late, as he understood his policy better, warmly admired.

"You know my aims, my plans of government," continued the Stadtholder; "you will know what to do in my absence,—by serving Holland you serve more than Holland."

Heinsius answered earnestly—

"Before God I will do my best."

"Your best is well worth having, Mynheer. I have noticed your career."

The two men, but a little time since in opposition, looked with complete understanding into each other's eyes. The Prince had won the fine loyalty of M. Heinsius as he won all whom he set himself to gain, as he won ultimately, indeed, all those who served him and came to know him intimately.

"The States have acted to the wishes of Your Highness?" asked M. Heinsius.

"The States have trusted me," answered the Prince. "Even the Loeventein faction are eager for me to depart on this expedition, in the hopes, maybe"—he smiled—"that I shall be slain or affronted. But I have anxieties."

He paused and looked at the water of the Vyverberg that lay glinting with autumn gold beneath the window.

"Mynheer," he added, "a country is a high stake—one's own country. Mynheer," he looked again into the face of the older man, "you have perhaps thought there was some wantonness in this my resolve, you have thought that I may have dared too much in offering to take beyond seas all the defences of the States."

"Never!" answered M. Heinsius firmly. "I understand and I applaud the policy of Your Highness."

"It is," said the Stadtholder, "on a sure bottom and to be justified. Yet, until I know what France doth, I am no better than a man on the rack."

"You think—even now?"

"Even now—if they were to fall on the frontier! Nought there but the Spaniards! But a little while will show us."

He paused again, then said, weighing his words, and with a strange mingling of simplicity and dignity.

"I am no King in this country, Mynheer, but the servant of the Republic, and you, who are a knowing man and one who hath the common welfare at heart, I would have hold me justified in this I do. I have been believed ambitious, but my ambition is one with the good of the States, and God knoweth that I do not take this tremendous risk from any such paltry motive, but because it is our chance, which if we do not take we are as good as lost."

"It is no flattery to say that I agree with Your Highness, who seeth farther and more clearly than most men."

"You will hear them," answered William, "talk of England, and what I do to gain England, and how much store I set by that country. Be not deceived; England is but a counter in the game I play, and, if I succeed, will be but one of many allies which we will lead against France. And always with me, Mynheer Heinsius, it is the Republic—always."

He spoke with intensity and emotion that were the more moving in contrast to his usual sternness.

"The deeds of Your Highness have proved your words," answered Antoon Heinsius in an unsteady voice.

The Stadtholder sighed.

"I will not disguise from you that my sufferings are terrible—my disquietude almost unbearable, for it is the Republic at stake," he said.

He gave his hand to M. Heinsius, who kissed it very lowly, and left the Binnenhof.

He had not so much as a footboy in attendance, and rode rapidly to the 'huis ten bosch' with little regard for the salutes and respectful homage of those he passed. His contemplated enterprise, the very daring of which, owing to his usual caution, was the more awe-inspiring, made him even more than ever an object of admiration and attention at The Hague.

Once within the bounds of his own woods he was enwrapped in the gracious loveliness of the trees—the quiet of the frost-bound earth, and had almost reached the house before he met anyone; then, round the turn of the long main avenue came a lady, very gracefully riding a white horse.

The Prince gave her a quick glance, touched his beaver, and was passing with no slacking of his pace, but she drew rein and said in a faint voice—

"Your Highness——" with a little gesture that seemed to entreat him to stay.

He turned his horse instantly.

"I am leaving The Hague, sir," she said, speaking English, which was obviously her native tongue. "I have the permission of Her Highness to go see my sister who is sadly worse."

She was young, very slender, and carried herself with a certain air of fire and pride, a certain poise of dignity and animation charming to behold; her features were ordinary, but vivacious and intelligent; there was a certain set or cast in her brown eyes not unattractive, and her hair, in a hundred gleaming hues of gold, red, and deep honey colour, hung in thick curls on to her riding coat, cut like a man's and thickly embroidered with gold.

"Madame Bentinck is worse?" repeated William in a quick distress.

"They did say so. I felt I should go."

"I am grieved a thousand times," he added, "and for M. Bentinck"—he spoke with real feeling, but with that touch of constraint (unlike his usual reserve) which marked her manner to him—"and for you, Madam."

Miss Villiers hesitated a second, then said abruptly—

"I did not think to meet you. I shall not see you again before you sail. Take my poor wishes with you."

"I have been so bold as to feel sure of them," he answered gravely. She was silent, but he did not ride on, but sat with slack reins looking at her, half in the thick autumn sunlight, half in the shade of the close tree trunks, for the sun was sinking.

They had not spoken to each other alone for years; but when she had first come to The Hague with his wife there had been a swift attraction between them, which, for all her discretion and his reserve, had not failed to be seized upon by the English agents to work discords in the Court of The Hague. It was not so long ago that the Princess's Chaplain, Dr. Covell, and Miss Trelawney, had been dismissed by Mary for inventing and spreading this kind of gossip for the benefit of those spies of the English Court who were ever endeavouring to estrange the Prince from his wife.

The Stadtholder was sensitive to these malicious scandals. He rather avoided Miss Villiers, who, on her part, was utterly indifferent to report and, secure in the position the marriage of her sister to M. Bentinck gave her, troubled herself not in the least either about Mary's gentle dislike or her own unpopularity in The Hague. She had great gifts—wit and courage and understanding, enthusiasm and self-control; she was very reserved, no one knew her well, not the Prince now, though once he had had her inspiring friendship, her brilliant advice, her ardent attention; she was still of service to him, but always through the medium of her sister and M. Bentinck. It was strange to both of them to come face to face like this in those woods in which, near ten years ago, they had walked together, and he had told her of his hopes and fears previous, and just after the Peace of Nymwegen.

He smiled and she frowned; each wondered how much that friendship had been worth to the other; Miss Villiers thought that she had long been balanced with his wife in his affections; he, that she had never considered him as more than the embodiment of a policy that she admired—both were wrong.

"Tell me," she said suddenly, "are you still in fears of the French?"

"The greatest fears. Until I know how they are going to move I consider the whole plan in jeopardy. If they should march on the frontiers——"

"God forbid!" she exclaimed fervently. "When will you know?"

"I am utterly in the dark."

"I shall not sleep until you have safely sailed," she said. "For what is to become of England if this faileth?"

"It must not fail," he answered quietly.

Miss Villiers looked at him strangely.

"No," she remarked; "I do not think you will fail—in the end."

She lowered her eyes, patted the strong arched neck of her horse, and added—

"I have seen my Lord Shrewsbury and my Lord Manchester, and laboured to strengthen them in your cause." She smiled. "They are discontented already."

"Does it matter?" asked William.

"A vast deal. You must, sir, try to please the English more; they do not love you."

"Then I cannot make them."

She raised her eyes again.

"Perhaps you do not quite understand us—the English—though you have known a many by now——"

"I do not even understand you, Madam," he answered, "save that you have done great services to the cause I stand for, and for that," he added earnestly, "you must not think me ungrateful. Some day I may be able to share prosperity with my friends."

He said the last sentence with a warmth yet a simplicity wholly charming. Miss Villiers paled and averted her eyes.

"What use is my advice!" she exclaimed bitterly. "What use am I!"

He looked in surprise at this sudden alteration in her even demeanour.

"It hath been of use to us," he said gravely. "And what you say now is just, and I will remember it——"

Miss Villiers suddenly laughed.

"Yes; you must be very civil, sir, to the English, and—you must never trust them!"

She touched up her horse.

"Sure I will not detain Your Highness——"

He took off his hat.

"I have writ to M. Bentinck," he said earnestly; "but tell him yourself what a great concern I am under as to your sister her health—and that he must send a messenger with news."

Elizabeth Villiers bent her head, smiled rather sadly, and they parted; he towards the house at the end of the long avenue, and she through gold-red glittering woods into the hazy autumn distance.

When he reached the steps of his villa he saw another woman awaiting him—the Princess, standing in the full last light, with a light cloak about her. As soon as she beheld his approach she came forward, and was at his stirrup before he had dismounted.

"There is a galloper from Flanders with news," she said; her voice was strained, and she clasped her hands tightly together to steady them.

A broken exclamation escaped the Prince.

"If the French are marching on the frontiers I cannot go!"

The grooms came forward and took his great horse; he sprang from the saddle and went with the Princess up the shallow sun-flooded steps.

"Oh, my dear!" cried Mary under her breath, "if there are ill advices——"

He pressed her hand fiercely.

"I cannot leave the country if they are invading Flanders——"

In the simple vestibule was the impatient messenger—a young Spanish officer, who went, very courtly, on one knee when the Prince entered, and handed a packet from M. de Castagnana.

"News of the French?" demanded William swiftly.

"I do believe so, Highness."

The Stadtholder broke open the dispatch, glanced down the close lines of Spanish, and turned instantly to his pale wife, whose eyes were fixed on him with a piteous intensity.

"The French have abandoned Flanders!" he cried; "their troops are pouring into Germany—the States are safe, thank God! thank God——"

CHAPTER XIII

THE GREAT ENTERPRISE

All difficulties were overcome. Louis, angry at the English King's rejection of his advices, and perhaps hoping that his great enemy would run on disaster in his audacious undertaking, or perhaps believing that it was now too late in the year for any such expedition, had suddenly diverted his troops into Germany, where in a few days he had taken every fort along the Rhine; successes celebrated with great pomp in Paris, but worthless indeed to Louis should William accomplish what he was now free to attempt, and bring England out of her shackles into the alliance against France.

The Prince's preparations were complete; his Declaration had been published and circulated in England by the arts of his friends, his ships and troops were ready, even to the embarking of the soldiery, and he himself had to-day taken his farewell audience of the States; for now the south-west wind had changed, and the great fleet gathered at Goree was free to sail.

Mary, in the chilly autumn garden of the 'huis ten bosch,' waited his return. Four times a day she went to public prayers, but not all her ardent faith could quell the tumult in her soul; her anxieties were not to be repressed, even at the communion table, which added to her distress, her self-reproach, her uneasiness.

She walked up and down the bare alleys, the hard gravel paths, with a quick step, between the newly-turned flower-beds, the late yellowing plants, and stiff evergreens.

The violet St. Michael's daisies were brown and withered on their stems, the last roses had fallen, and the carp been removed from the fish basin, where the water lay frost-bound under a thin covering of ice; there was no sun to cast a shadow from the finger of the grey sundial, and the sky was obscured with low, floating, changing clouds; a little wind brought the salt pure air from the sea-coast and stirred Mary's bright locks inside her miniver hood.

As she was pacing her most familiar and beloved walk, the little alley at the end of the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees now bare, the sound of a footstep brought her to turn with a glad expectancy.

But it was not the Prince, only M. Auverqueverque, a noble who had long been his friend, and who had saved his life amid the bloody steppes of St. Denis, and for this reason always high in Mary's regard.

"Do you come from the States, sir?" she asked wistfully, speaking in English, for her Dutch was still very indifferent, and she was shy of using it save on a necessity.

"Yes, Madam, and I left His Highness conversing with M. Fagel and M. Heinsius."

The Princess stood still. Her loose velvet coat, of a bright blue colour, served to accentuate the pallor of her face, which was worn and strained in expression; her eyes were reddened with recent weeping, and narrowed with a look of trouble.

"There was no opposition to him—now, I think," she said, with a sudden smile.

"Madam—none; there was great enthusiasm and great grief at the going of His Highness," answered M. Auverqueverque warmly. "He alone was unmoved—I would you could have heard his words, Madam—'I have had no thought,' he said, 'since I did undertake this position I hold, save for the good of the States, and I do take God to witness that, if I have erred, it hath been because I am human, and not through lack of affection for, or care of, this country. Now, going to make the endeavour to be of service to our common faith, I do commend to your care and guardianship all that I hold dear—these States and my wife'—and at this they were stirred to tears, Madam, for there was not one who could not remember what he had brought them through."

Mary was silent; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips and looked towards the house. M. Auverqueverque regarded her tenderly.

"The States professed great devotion to Your Highness," he said, "and spoke from their hearts."

"I do thank you," she answered, in a very low tone. "Will you not come into the house?"

He followed her across the bare garden, and there was nothing said between them, each being deeply engaged with different thoughts on the same subject.

As they neared the villa, one of the gentlemen of the Princess's household came to meet them and acquainted Mary that a lady who besought her charity implored her for an immediate audience.

The Princess was well used to these applications. Out of her meagre allowance she contrived to greatly assuage the sufferings of the distressed refugees at The Hague, and this liberality of hers being known, she received more petitions than she could at all comply with, which was a source of great distress to her gentle heart.

"Alas!" she said; "I have already a great list of persons unsatisfied, and worthy cases, too; but it is more than I dare put before His Highness in this present juncture——"

"This seemeth, Your Highness, a gentlewoman of the better sort, English, and most earnest for speech with you."

"I can but see her," answered Mary quickly. "Only I trust she will not raise her hopes of what I can do for her. M. Auverqueverque, forgive me."

With a little curtsy to that gentleman she entered the house.

"Where is this gentlewoman?"

In her withdrawing room, she was told, and there Mary proceeded, without ceremony, still wearing her cloak.

The small but handsome room held a pleasant sense of comfort in contrast to the dead grey weather without. A great log fire cast a glittering light over the dark furniture, and in the full glow of it stood a tall lady wrapped in a crimson mantle that half disclosed an embroidered sacque, and wearing, twisted round her head and shoulders, a fine Eastern scarf embroidered in many colours; she was much older than Mary, and looked fatigued to illness; her large fair eyes were heavily shadowed and her mouth strained, but her appearance was one of great beauty.

When the Princess entered she made a little deprecating, half-expectant movement forward, as if hoping for recognition; but she was utterly strange to Mary, who looked at her in some embarrassment, seeing at once that this was no ordinary supplicant.

The strange lady gazed at her sadly.

"Ten years have changed you to beauty and me to age, Highness," she said, in a voice of singular sweetness. "You have forgotten me. And I should scarcely have known Your Highness."

"Indeed," answered Mary, a little bewildered, "I cannot recall you. But I do perceive that you are my countrywoman; perhaps I knew you at Whitehall?"

"It was there we met, Madam,—and of late we have corresponded——"

"Why, who are you, Madam?"

The elder lady cast herself to her knees before the Princess, and answered with some wildness—

"I am the unfortunate wife of my Lord Sunderland!"

"My Lady Sunderland! Madam, you must not kneel. Oh, what hath passed in England to bring you here?"

Mary impetuously raised the Countess, who kissed her hands in a kind of frantic entreaty.

"Where is the Earl?" cried Mary, with a flush of agitation.

"He hath fled," whispered Lady Sunderland, "to Amsterdam, where he is in hiding. We have lost everything—everything; his life was in danger; there was no man in all the ministry hated like my lord——"

The painful colour burnt in Mary's cheek.

"His Majesty discovered—the intrigues—with us?" she asked.

"No—else it had been Tower Hill; but the Catholics undermined him—my lord could not hold his own—he was dismissed all his offices, and when the Prince his Declaration was spread abroad, there rose such a spirit in the nation that we were no longer safe, and while we could, we fled."

Mary took a quick step across the room and laid her trembling hand on Lady Sunderland's arm.

"The King—knoweth?" she asked.

"The last dispatch of M. D'Albeville told him, and he was struck silent with dismay."

"Alas! alas!" was wrung from Mary, "that this should have had to be! It is my father, Madam, and I do a bitter thing against him——"

She sank into the great walnut chair by the fire, and the ready tears overbrimmed and ran down her white cheeks.

"Your Highness hath a patriotic public duty to perform," said Lady Sunderland. "And must not think of this——"

"No," answered Mary unsteadily, "no;" she stretched out her hand and drew the other woman towards her; "but you—you have taken a strange part, my lady——"

"My lord," said the Countess earnestly, "hath served His Highness to his own extreme peril, and now I am come to plead a pardon for him from you——"

"But you yourself," urged Mary; "what have you felt towards these affairs?"

She rose, still holding the fluttering hand of Lady Sunderland, and looked steadily into her eyes.

"I have done as my lord directed," was the answer. "I have served him all my life. I shall serve him—always."

Mary dropped her hand. The thought that stirred her was that she could not judge, since that same unquestioning devotion ruled her life too.

"My lord his services," she said faintly, "are not such as the Prince can with honour reward."

"Nor," answered my lady with some pride, "such as he can with honour ignore——"

"He is apostate," said Mary; "that cannot be forgiven."

"It can be pardoned."

"What would you, Madam? The Earl is no subject of the Prince."

"He is his supplicant—as I am; he might have gone to France, but he hath put himself at the mercy of His Highness."

"The Prince is ever generous," answered Mary, "but what he can do here I know not."

She drew away a little from the Countess, for in her thoughts were rising the remembrances of all the ignoble parts my lord had played, and the ill reports she had received of him and his wife from her sister, the Princess Anne.

"You must see the Prince," she said, something coldly.

Lady Sunderland was quick to notice this change of manner.

"I am a woman in bitter trouble," she answered. "I stand before you no better than a beggar. If it were not that I might still be of use to my lord, I would pray to die."

"You are very weary," said Mary, with instant kindness. She drew her to seat herself on the long brocade couch—"Poor soul, I doubt that you are very sad!"

Lady Sunderland looked at her wildly, then burst into anguished tears.

"Ah, Madam!" cried Mary, bending over her, "I do beseech you take comfort."

The Countess kept her face hidden, and her bowed shoulders heaved.

"Nothing shall happen to the Earl, I dare swear."

Lady Sunderland looked up.

"Forgive me. I have not wept for so long. My son, my eldest son, is recently dead in Paris in an obscure duel—I hoped so much from him—once. Dead! Indeed I know not what I say."

Mary shuddered. She recalled the Lady Sunderland of former days—brilliant, ambitious, superbly happy—a woman she herself had looked up to with a half awe as a personification of all the allurement of that splendid life she had left so early; she thought of all the unscrupulous intrigues, bargains, deceits, buyings and sellings this lady had helped her shameless husband with; the extraordinary double game they had played so long and successfully. But looking at this, the sudden end, penniless, bereaved exile, she felt no scorn, only a great pity; for the Countess had been faithful, and Mary thought that a great virtue in a woman.

"I did not know that of Lord Spencer," she said gently. "I am very sorry; it is sad for you."

The Countess dried her eyes swiftly.

"I do not know why I should weep for him," she answered half fiercely; "he went near to break my heart. He was what they call worthless."

She paused, and Mary stood silent; she was not unaware that the sharpest prick to Lord Sunderland's magnificence had ever been that poor useless rake, his son, nor ignorant of the Countess's long endeavour to make some show before the world in this matter, and now that broken pride opened its heart to her, a stranger, the sadness of it held her mute.

Lady Sunderland's wet strained eyes looked past the fireglow to the bare boughs and cloudy heavens framed in the tall window.

"It is much better that he is gone," she continued. "Yet—last night I went on the deck of the packet and it was all so dark and cold, not a star, and the waves sounding, but not to be seen, and I remembered how little he was once, and how warm in my arms, and then methought he was somewhere crying for me in the chill blackness ... abroad—in a poor lodging with no friend."

She wrung her hands together with irrepressible horror.

"My God!" she cried, "there's a way to die!"

Mary caught her arm.

"You must not think of it like that; there is another side to it—God is very merciful, I know nothing—but in heaven there is great pity for all of us."

The Countess turned and stared at her a moment, with her handkerchief to her lips, then said unsteadily—

"I never meant to speak like this—but Your Highness is so gentle——"

Mary smiled.

"I must carry you to my Lady Argyll, Lady Balcarres that was, who is here with her daughters——"

She turned swiftly, for the door opened, and a familiar voice behind her said eagerly her name—"Marie, Marie——"

It was the Prince; as he entered he paused, seeing the Countess, who had instantly risen.

"Lady Sunderland!" he exclaimed, before Mary could speak, and stood amazed.

They had last seen each other on the occasion of the Prince's last visit to England, and though he knew her at once he found her considerably changed.

"The Earl hath fallen?" he added swiftly.

Lady Sunderland was mistress of herself immediately on his appearance. By force of her long training she fell into the same manner she would have used to him at Whitehall or Windsor; she gave him a great courtly curtsy.

"The Earl is a refugee at Amsterdam, Your Highness," she said, "and I am here beseeching charity."

"Ah." William drew a quick breath. "I thought my lord was safe enough—the King discovered him?"

"No, sir, the Catholics unseated him."

The Prince crossed slowly to the fire.

"So," he said slowly—"well, Madam, the Earl is safe in Amsterdam, and the Princess will make you welcome."

A flush of reviving hope kindled the refugee's pale cheek.

"We are assured of the gracious protection of Your Highness?" she asked ardently.

"My lord hath done me considerable service," answered William. "But, Madam, he is not loved by those English I have about me now." He smiled dryly. "Yet, if he will lie quiet awhile—I am not ungrateful——"

"It is all we ask," said Lady Sunderland warmly. "My lord wisheth only to live in quiet obscurity unless he can serve Your Highness—some way——"

William gave her a keen look.

"I hardly think," he answered, "that M. de Sunderland is fitted for quiet obscurity—but perhaps he will endure it a little while. I leave for Helvoetsluys to-morrow."

"God bless this noble enterprise Your Highness hath on hand!" cried the Countess fervently. "Could you see the crowds waiting outside Whitehall and a-studying the weather-cock and praying for a Protestant wind you would be heartened further in your daring!"

The Prince took a swift look at his wife, who stood with averted face by the window.

"The King—how took he the news?" he asked.

"I heard that he was all bewildered (being then deeply engaged in the Cologne dispute and thinking nothing of this, like a man besotted) and would not part with the Declaration of Your Highness, but carried it about with him re-reading it—then he called the bishops to ask if they had put their hands to the invitation, and they gave him no—after which he made all manner of concessions, like one in a panic fear——"

"Concessions?" interrupted the Prince.

"Sir, he gave back the charter to the city with due solemnity, and their privileges to the fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and there was held an inquiry into the birth of the Prince of Wales—all of which but wasted the dignity of His Majesty and brought more ridicule than respect—for all are equally eager for Your Highness, and these concessions come too late."

"Too late, indeed," said William quietly. "I hope this week to be in England. How came you across, Madam? I have stopped the packet service lest they carry too sure advices of what we do here——"

Lady Sunderland smiled sadly.

"In a little owler, sir, we slipped off from Margate sands, and the weather was so terrible we were like to have been whelmed by the overtopping waves; yet we gained Maaslandsluys, and from there my lord went on to Amsterdam——"

"He was wise," said the Prince, "not to come to The Hague."

Lady Sunderland looked at Mary, who had stood motionless so long.

"Your Highness—may I not retire? I have taken too much of your time——"

The Princess turned about with a little start.

"Where are you lodging?" she asked.

"With one Madame de Marsac—known, I think, to Your Highness——"

"You must stay with me," answered Mary warmly, yet with a curious absent air of distraction. "I will take you to the other English ladies——"

She looked at her husband.

"I shall come back," she said. He gave a little nod which cut short the graceful gratitude of the Countess, and the two ladies left.

Now he was alone he seated himself near to the fire with that air of utter fatigue that was like apathy and seemed at times, when he was out of the sight of men, to overwhelm his great spirit.

He sat quite still, gazing into the fire from under drooping lids, and when Mary softly returned he did not move.

She slipped behind his chair and took the stool the opposite side of the hearth; she had put off her cloak; the firelight touched her brown dress and brown hair to a beautiful ruby warmth and gave a false rosiness to her pale face.

"I am grieved for Lady Sunderland," she said.

The Prince answered absently.

"Ah yes—I believe she is a knave like him—but they are clever, and he at least hath some root of patriotism in him."

"Yet I am sorry that you must use such people."

He made no reply, but continued to gaze sadly and sternly into the fire.

Mary gave a little shudder.

"I cannot believe that to-morrow we go to Helvoetsluys——"

Her voice broke, and she steadied it hastily.

"The States are coming also, are they not, to see your departure?"

"They are paying me that compliment," he answered indifferently.

"What chance will your poor wife have to speak to you then—amid that pomp——"

He sat up and looked at her with instant attention.

"Have you something that you wish to say to me, Marie?"

"Yes," she said earnestly. "I do desire to ask you—for your own sake—to see that no harm happeneth to—my father."

Now she had spoken she sat very pale and distressed, but fixing him with her soft brown eyes ardently.

He flushed, and seemed much moved.

"That you should need to ask——" he began, then checked himself. "I promise," he said.

"For your own dear sake," she cried, "forgive me for speaking of this—but let people know you would not have him hurt——"

He gazed at her intently.

"This is hard for you," he replied. "I could not go without your sanction and your help——"

He broke off again. Speech, which had always seemed inadequate to him, now seemed to merely travesty his feelings.

She too was silent; she had lowered her eyes and seemed to be thinking deeply. The Prince studied her with an almost painful intensity.

She was so lovely, so gracious, so sweet, so high souled ... he remembered how he had disliked and despised her, treated her with neglect, then indifference, made no effort to please or win her; and yet she, during the ten years of their marriage, had never from the first failed in obedience, sweetness, self-abnegation, nor once faltered from a passionate devotion to his interests, an unchanging belief in him, and now, for him, she was doing violence to her own heart and setting herself in active opposition against her father, a tremendous thing for such a nature to bring itself to. As he gazed at her fair youth, pale with anxiety for him, he felt she was the greatest triumph of his life, and her love an undeserved miracle.

And there came to his mind a certain conversation that he had had with Sir William Temple in a sunny garden at Nymwegen before his marriage. He remembered that the Englishman had smiled at his scornful talk of the Princess, and had said—"Do not despise good women because there are so many of them——"

Mary suddenly moved and rose. The sun had parted the loose clouds and a fine ray fell through the tall window and shone in her bright hair and satin skirt. His thoughts were scattered by her movement; he rose also.

She smiled at him.

"How kind you are to me," she said, trembling, and very low.

"Dear God!" he exclaimed softly, as if he was mocked. "In what way?"

"In giving me so much more of your company of late," answered Mary simply.

The Prince looked at her strangely.

"Women are wonderful," he said humbly.

CHAPTER XIV

STORMS

The long sand-dunes about the village of Scheveningen were covered with spectators to the number of several thousands, comprising nearly the entire population of The Hague, several strangers, refugees from other parts of Holland, and many French, German, and English; they were principally women, children, and old men, or those in the sober attire of merchants, clerks, servants, or shopkeepers.

One single object seemed to animate these people; they were all utterly silent, and all directed their gaze in one direction—that of the sea.

There, covering the entire sweep of water and obscuring the great horizon itself, rode that huge armament which contained the whole strength of the Republic, and on which was staked her hopes and her safety.

This fleet had weighed anchor during the stillness of the previous night; a few hours after the wind had turned to the south and so brought all the ships on the north coast, where, for half a day, they had been in full view of The Hague.

The weather was still and warm, the sky a sunny blue, and the long stretches of the dunes touched from their usual greyness to a gold look. Towards afternoon a fine mist rose shimmering from the sea and gave a curious unreal flatness to the naval pageantry, as if it was some magnificent vision painted between sea and sky.

Without speaking, save in short whispers to each other, without moving, save to change their places by a few steps, the people continued to gaze at the gorgeous spectacle, the like of which no living man had been able to see before.

There were no less than sixty-five great ships of wars, splendid vessels rising high above the waves, with much gold on them, seventy vessels of burden in attendance on them and five hundred transports.

These ships carried five thousand cavalry and ten thousand infantry of the magnificent Dutch army, the six British regiments in the employ of the States, the French Protestants formed into a regiment by the Prince after the Edict of Nantz was revoked, and the whole artillery of every town in the Republic, which had been left stripped of all defences save twelve ships of war and the German troops on the Rhine frontier.

The immobile, silent effect of this great and terrible fleet, spreading for miles and representing the entire strength of a vast maritime power, making little progress and waiting for the wind, wrought a kind of exaltation in the hearts of the spectators, all of whom felt their fortunes dependent on the success of this enterprise, and most of whom had friends and relations on board, or in England, whose lives were now at the hazard.

But no dread of personal loss or discomfiture, no fear for those dear to them, could equal the grand swell of pride the Dutch felt at beholding the magnificence of the Republic they had built up out of blood and tears, the power of the Religion they had preserved through perils and agonies inconceivable, and which had now grown, from a little feeble spark, to a torch to illume half the world.

The dangers to which they were exposed, the chances of attack from a powerful enemy while their defences were abroad courting the fortune of war and the hazard of the winds and sea, the fact that their artillery was gone and their frontier was on one side in the possession of their enemies and on the other but protected by German mercenaries, could not check the sense of glory that stirred them as they watched the changing leagues of ships, so near, yet so silent and beyond communication.

The exiles, French and English, gazed with more sullen feelings; but while no national pride was thrilled in their bosoms, the thought of their former wrongs and suffering and the anticipation of their speedy avenging made them no less fiercely wish success to those spreading sails wooing the wind for England. And there was one foreigner, who loved Holland as her own country, and whose heart beat with a pride and a terror as intense as that which inspired any of the Dutch.

This was the wife of the Stadtholder, who had yesterday returned from Helvoetsluys. She had been above two hours riding up and down the sands watching the slow passing of the fleet; in her company were the English ladies, the Countesses of Sunderland and Argyll and some of her own attendants; she had been very silent, and, now, as the afternoon was fading, she touched up her beast and galloped away from all of them along the dunes.

She reined her black horse at a higher point where some sparse poplar trees, stunted, leafless, and tufts of crackling grass grew out of the dry white sand, and looked round at the great sweep of sea covered with ships and the great curve of shore covered with people.

Then her glance returned to the object where it had rested since she first rode down to Scheveningen, the blue flag hanging heavily above the "Brill," the ship in which the Prince sailed.

Amid all the crossed lines of mighty masts, intricate cordage, and strained sails she had never failed to distinguish, now in sun, now in shade, sometimes lifted by the breeze, sometimes slack, this standard, though she was very shortsighted, and much clear to the other spectators was a blur to her. When she used her perspective glass she could sometimes read the legend on this flag, which was the motto of the House of Orange with the ellipsis filled in—"I will maintain the liberties of England and the Protestant Religion."

Mary rode out farther along the dunes, the crisp sand flying from her horse's feet. She was a fine horsewoman, and had dropped the reins on her saddle to hold her glass. The wind was keen on her face and swept back the long curls from her ears and fluttered the white plume in her beaver. Though she was near so vast a multitude no human sound disturbed the clear stillness; there was only the long beat of the surf on the smooth wet sand and an occasional cry of some pearl-coloured sea-bird as he flashed across the golden grey.

In Mary's heart all terror, remorse, sadness had been absorbed by strong pride; the doubts, shames, fears that had tortured her were gone; she did not think of her father, of her danger, of her loneliness, only that she, of all the women there, was the beloved wife of the man who led this—a nation's strength—into war for that cause which to her was the holiest of all causes, the new liberty against the ancient tyranny, tolerance against oppression—all that she symbolized by the word Protestantism.

She was so absorbed in this ecstasy of pride and enthusiasm at the sight on which she gazed that she started considerably to hear a voice close beside her say—

"Is it not a magnificent spectacle, Madam?" Mary turned quickly and saw a plainly dressed lady on a poor hired beast riding close up to her. Solitude was dear to the Princess, but to rebuke an advance was impossible to her nature.

"Are you from The Hague?" she asked gently.

"Yes, Madam, I came there yesterday."

She was English, and obviously did not know Mary, who was moved by something pitifully eager and wistful in her worn thin face and stooping figure.

"You are belike one of the English exiles?" she suggested kindly.

The other opened out at once with a glow of gratitude at the interest.

"My husband was an officer in the Staffordshire, Madam, and we had no money but his pay, so when he refused to abjure there was nothing for us but exile."

Mary pointed to the fleet.

"He—your husband—is there?"

"Yes—the Prince gave him a pair of colours in one of the English regiments."

"You should be proud," smiled Mary.

She answered simply—

"I am very proud. I pray God to bless the Prince day and night. Where should such as I be but for him? You, I see, Madam, are also English."

"Yes."

The stranger lady glanced at Mary's gold-braided coat and splendid horse.

"But not a refugee?" she questioned.

"No—my home is at The Hague. I am married to a Dutchman."

The other was looking out to sea again.

"Can you tell me how the ships are disposed?" she asked.

"What is your name, Madam?"

"Dorothy Marston."

"Well, Mrs. Marston, those in the foremost squadron, to the left"—Mary indicated them with her riding-stock—"have on board the English and Scotch, commanded by General Mackay—they sail under the red flag of Admiral Herbert."

"Who is given the van out of compliment to the English," remarked Mrs. Marston, with sparkling eyes.

Mary drew an excited breath.

"Those scattered ships, under the white flag, are the Germans, the Prince his guards and Brandenburgers under Count Zolms, and these that bring up the van are the Dutch and the French Huguenots under the Count of Nassau—this squadron is under the orders of Admiral Evertgen."

"And where, Madam, is the Prince?"

"In the centre—you can see his flag with his arms—it is called the 'Brill.'"

"Thank you, Madam—it is a noble sight, is it not?"

Mary laughed softly; she was so secure in her own exaltation, that she felt a kind of pity for the rest of the world.

"Your husband is aboard the fleet?" asked Mrs. Marston, with friendly curiosity.

"Yes," said Mary quietly.

"Well, there is heartache in it as well as pride for us, is not there, Madam?"

Mary answered with sparkling animation, her eyes on the blue flag.

"That is for afterwards."

Mrs. Marston sighed.

"I know—but one storm——"

"Speak not of storms," answered Mary, "when we have all whom we love on board yonder ships——"

"Not all."

Mary turned her eyes from the fleet that was gradually becoming enveloped in the mists of the darkening afternoon.

"How—not all?"

"There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a bright tenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as The Hague is so expensive——"

Mary's horse started, and she caught up the reins and clutched them to her bosom. "They are—boys?" she asked, in a changed voice.

"Two, Madam. If they had gone I should indeed be desolate—but they are too young, and I am selfish enough to be glad of it."

Mary sat motionless. The whole sky was darkening, and hurrying clouds hastened the twilight. The waves were growing in size and making a longer roar as they curled over on to the land; the great ships of war could be seen tossing as their wind-filled sails drove them forwards, and the little boats were pitched low on their sides.

"It indeed seemeth like a storm," said Mary faintly; her courage, her pride, had utterly gone; the eyes she strained to fix on the blue flag were sad and wild.

"A storm?" echoed Mrs. Marston. "O God, protect us!"

Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude.

"What is that?"

"They have lit the lantern on the Prince his ship," said Mary, very low.

The English exile thrilled to see the great clear light hoisted amid the masts and cordage, sparkling, a beacon through the stormy dusk; her thoughts travelled from her children, whom so lately she had spoken of.

"It is sad," she remarked, "that the Prince hath no heir."

"His cousin, the Stadtholder of Friseland, is his heir," answered Mary, with sudden harshness.

"Ah yes; I meant no child. My husband saith it is cruel for any man and terrible for a great Prince—for how useless all seemeth with none to inherit! And such an ancient family to end so suddenly——"

Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took no notice.

"I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of a crown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing—I met in Utrecht a Scotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poor lady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and for ever——"

Mary put out her hand; her face was concealed by the deeping dusk and the shade of her hat.

"Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I—you do not understand—do people talk of this? God is hard, it seems—and you have children, and I pitied you. I have been too proud—but humbled enough, I think."

Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could make no sense of it; she stared at her in surprise.

"Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."

Mary was facing the sea again.

"No—continue—people talk of this?" She was facing the overwhelming bitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been too sacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was an extraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignored before her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have known that it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter that affected nations.

"You must have heard it spoken of if you have lived any time in Holland," answered Mrs. Marston—"ay, or in England either—they say 'tis a pity the Princess cannot do as the Queen did, and smuggle an heir out of a warming-pan—why, see, the ships are moving out of sight!"

A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky and drove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse of waves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people were beginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away like vapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in the storm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching to the pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near the horizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; the momentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few careless words.

Mrs. Marston spoke again, but Mary did not hear her; she was alone in a world of her own. The rapidly disappearing fleet was blurred to her vision, but she could still see the great light at the prow of the "Brill" as the crowded canvas bent and leapt before the sudden fury of the wind.

"A storm," she said, aloud—"a storm."

Her horse moved along the dunes and she did not check him; against the blue-black clouds was the indistinct figure of Dorothy Marston on her little knock-kneed hack, excitedly waving her handkerchief to the disappearing ships.

Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped back towards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants were waiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she could not have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out Lady Sunderland.

"Let us go home," she said; "it is going to be a stormy night."

The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner—the brave calm changed to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned to trembling sorrow.

"Those ships, Highness," she answered, "can weather very fierce storms."

"Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quivering voice—"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet will survive a deep thrust——"

She lifted her beautiful face to the failing light; even the lantern on the "Brill" had disappeared now; the dark sea was almost clear of sail, the horizon was obscured in part by the passing of the vanguard, but for the rest was silver white, a line of radiance fast being obscured by the overwhelming threatening clouds.

In silence Mary turned and rode back to The Hague; the other ladies whispered together, but she said nothing until they reached the 'huis ten bosch'; then the rain was falling in cold drops and the heavy wind was casting down the snapped branches along the wide bare avenue.

They dismounted, and Mary turned impulsively to the little quiet group.

"You are extraordinarily kind to me," she said, "and I must thank you all."

She smiled a little and went from them to her chamber, and then walked straight to the window embrasure and stood listening to the growing sound of the wind that lashed the darkness with spreading fury.

She would not come down to supper or even change her clothes, though she was usually very careful not to disturb the routine of her well-ordered life; yet, in this little intimate court where every one was her friend, she felt she might allow herself this solitude.

With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the rain dashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the wind was tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it. Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; when they were brought she sent for Lady Sunderland.

The Countess came, looking wan and old; she wore no rouge, and the fair, carelessly dressed hair showed the grey locks unconcealed.

Mary turned to her dry-eyed.

"Do you hear the storm?" she said. She was seated on a low red stool by the window and held a Prayer Book in her right hand.

"My Lady Argyll is weeping downstairs," said Lady Sunderland; "but I perceive that Your Highness hath more constancy."

Mary held up the Prayer Book.

"I have been trying to set my mind on this," she answered, "but the devil is busy about me—and I cannot fix my thoughts on anything but—those ships——"

Lady Sunderland, who had made a great clatter with her devotions at Whitehall, with the sole object of covering her husband's apostasy, but who had no real religion, knew not what to say.

"God," continued the Princess gravely, "must surely protect an enterprise so just, but since His ways are mysterious it might be His will to bring us to disaster, and, humanly speaking, it is a terrible night."

"I fear they will be diverted from their course," said the Countess, "since faith cannot still the winds——"

Mary rose and handed her the Prayer Book.

"I think we should pray—will you read?—I have had a course of humours in my eyes, and of late they are so weak——"

The Countess took the book with shaking fingers, then laid it down on the blue-and-white chintz-covered chair beside her.

"I cannot," she said half fiercely. "It is, Madam, no use."

Mary looked at her curiously, and a pause of silence fell, during which the triumphant progress of the storm seemed to gather and swell abroad like a trumpet blast without the dark window.

Presently Mary said in a moved and barely audible voice—

"Madam—about your son—have you ever thought that you would—forgive me—but he was nothing but pain to you——"

She paused, and Lady Sunderland answered from a kind of self-absorption—

"I did my best. It all seemeth so pointless now we are ruined—I thought of the name, but there is his brother—a cold, hard spirit who hath no kindness for me."

Mary was looking at her intently.

"That must be terrible," she said, breathing quick. "To have children who love one not—do you not think, perhaps, Madam, that it might be better—to—to have none?"

Suddenly Lady Sunderland saw what she meant, divined the desperate appeal for comfort disguised in the halting sentence.

"I do think so, truly, Madam," she answered instantly. "My children have, for all my care, been but discomfort to me."

"But there was the time when they were little," said Mary, with a note in her voice that caused Lady Sunderland to turn away her face. "And you must have been glad of them—I—ah, I forgot what I was saying."

She was young enough herself to be the Countess's daughter, and that lady felt a great desire to take her in her arms and weep over her, but a certain reserve and majesty about Mary's very simplicity prevented her from even discovering her sympathy.

"It is very strange to me to think of my husband abroad in this great storm," said the Princess, looking up at the window. "I bless my God that I have the trust to believe that he is safe," she added quietly. "It was as if my heart was torn out when he left me, and since I have been in a kind of numbness."

"It is hard on women that they must always sit at home," remarked the Countess; she thought of her own lord lurking in the back streets of Amsterdam; she would rather have been with him than playing her part at The Hague.

The wind rose on a great shriek that seemed to rattle every board in the house.

Mary winced back from the window, and her face was white even in the candle glow.

"Let us go to prayers," she said faintly.

CHAPTER XV

THE SECOND SAILING

The next day the Prince of Orange re-entered Helvoetsluys attended by four maimed ships, the rest having been utterly scattered and dispersed by the fearful storm; he then, though giddy and scarce able to stand through seasickness, proceeded, with a serene composure, to go from ship to ship animating his discomfited followers, and refused to be put on shore, lest it should be taken as a sign that he was discouraged in his enterprise and intended to postpone his sailing till the spring.

For the next week the great ships of war with tattered sails and broken masts came creeping out of the ports and creeks where they had taken shelter to join the fleet at Helvoetsluys.

Many of the horses had been thrown overboard to save the others, and one transport had been lost on the coast of Ireland, but there was no further damage, and the Prince by his great constancy, enthusiasm, spirit, and courage soon had all repaired and made fit, though he caused it to be put in the Dutch Gazette that he was utterly confounded and his forces so broken by the storm that he could not possibly sail before April, and copies of these Gazettes he saw were smuggled into England, where they were read by King James, who was mightily pleased by this news—and said it was no wonder since the Host had been exposed a week, and thereupon he withdrew all the concessions that the reported coming of the Prince had frightened him into, and so showed plainly that fear and not desire had wrung them from him; and both the relaxing and the tightening of his rule were fatally too late for his fortunes, for men had no longer any trust in his word or sincerity, and half the great lords were pledged to the Prince, and the greater number thought there could be no salvation save in his coming, so gave no heed to the actions of the King, but watched the weather-cocks and prayed for a Protestant wind.

Within Whitehall was a medley of priests and women, mingled with some honest gentlemen who really were loyal to the Kingship and the House of Stewart, and who were in no way listened to, and silent courtiers who were pledged to William, about the stern foolish King who alternated between weak hesitation and self-confident obstinacy.

Sunderland had kept the business of the Kingdom together, and now Sunderland was gone everything fell into bewildering chaos; the King, distracted between the advices of M. Barillon and the fears of Father Petre, the tears of the Italian Queen and the sullen coldness of his nobles, bitterly regretted Sunderland, whose intrigues he had not as yet any glimpse of. There was a fine fleet the King might have relied on, and the Admiral, Lord Dartmouth, was loyal enough, but the Duke of Grafton, son of the late King, and a rude handsome rake, went down privately to Plymouth and extorted a secret promise from most of the Captains that they would not fight for a Catholic King against a Protestant Prince.

The Army was gathered on Hounslow Heath with the object of overawing the capital, and the advice of those spirited gentlemen who were truly desirous to see the King retain his dignities was that he should put himself at the head of it and so advance to meet the invader.

But the spirit that had inspired James when he was rowed with his flag through the fires of Solebay had long left him; his courage had been the mere flash of youth and noble blood; he was old now, and his soul sank before danger; the terrors of his father's fate, the miseries of his own exiled youth, came upon him with horrible vividness; he let disasters crowd down upon him, and clung to his priests and his faith with the despair of stupidity.

Meanwhile the Prince of Orange, having taken a second leave of his wife and the States, sailed with great pomp, the sound of trumpets, the flutter of flags, and the discharge of artillery, from Helvoet, having been but eleven days repairing his ships, replacing his horses, and reassembling his fleet, and having, by the serenity of his behaviour, the unfaltering decision of his actions, the wisdom of his proposals, snatched glory from disappointment, as was ever the way of this Prince.

The little advice packets that darted out from the coast of England to watch his movements reported that he was making for the north, in which direction, with a brisk gale in his sails, he indeed steered for twelve hours; but when the night fell and the advice packets had hastened home with news, the Prince signalled to his fleet to tack about, which it did, and, with all the sail it could spread, put before the wind to the westward, and under a fair sky bore for the coasts of Devon.

This ruse had its full effect, for Lord Feversham, who commanded the English troops, was bid march northwards, and all the cattle were ordered to be driven from the coasts of Yorkshire.

With the next dawn the Dutch van made the Channel, along which it stretched for twenty miles in full view of England and France, the shores of both these countries being covered with spectators who viewed a sight such as had not been seen in these waters since the great Armada crossed these seas, a hundred years before.

The magnificence of this procession of mighty ships, which took seven hours to pass, going at their full speed before a strong east wind, the strength and purpose that they symbolized, the power of the Religion, once despised and oppressed, but that now was able to split the world into factions, whose name showed beneath the arms of Orange, that family which of all others had been most distinguished in the defence of liberty, the sheer pomp of war in the great vessels with their guns, flags, and netting, their attendant ships and companies of soldiers on board, the prestige of the man who led this daring expedition, all combined to thrill the hearts of those who watched, whether on the French or English coasts, whether they uttered curses or blessings, prayers for failure or success.

About noon, they then being in Calais roads, the Prince gave orders to lay by, both to call a council of war and to strike terror into the two watching nations by displaying his strength in this narrow sea.

Accordingly he himself changed to the foremost vessel, taking with him his own standard, and there waited for the rest of the armament to come up, which they presently did, and formed into one body, sixteen ships square, only a league at each side, from either shore, and when they were drawn up, the Prince, from that ship which was nearest the English coast, signalled that the two famous forts of Calais and Dover were to be saluted, which was done at the same moment with great thunder of the deep-mouthed artillery, which was an astonishing spectacle that there should be in Dover Straits a fleet so huge that it could salute these two forts at the same time and be but a league from either. There was something awful in the sound of this warlike courtesy, to the ears of both nations, and some awe and terror mingled with their admiration as the smoke obscured the green dancing waves.

From Dover Castle there was no reply, the doubt of England being expressed in this silence; but from Calais came a proud answering salute as from a mighty foe who honours himself by the formalities of respect to his adversary, and the Prince standing on the upper deck amid the slow-clearing gunpowder vapour flushed to hear again the French guns who had last spoken to him among the heights of St. Denis, ten years ago.

At the council of war now held it was decided that the disposition of the fleet should be changed, for news had come that the English, who lay at the Gunfleet, were making full endeavours to overtake and fight the Dutch, for though Lord Dartmouth knew that half his officers were pledged to the Prince, and his men very doubtful of engaging in the cause of the King, yet he resolved to use his utmost powers to prevent the landing of His Highness, for he was under personal obligations to James, who had always treated him more as a friend than a subject, and was filled with an honourable desire to serve His Majesty in this crisis.

The Prince, knowing this from my Lord Grafton, was eager to avoid a conflict, for however well disposed the English sailors might be to his religion and person, he wisely suspected that a nation so proud, and in particular so jealous of their prestige on the sea, would, when faced in order of battle with those people whom they had so often and so recently fought, forget everything save the desire to achieve a victory over that Republic which alone disputed with them the over-lordship of the ocean.

For this reason His Highness had given Admiral Herbert the command of his armament, that the English might salve their arrogance by the thought that an Englishman led this invading force; yet he secretly believed that the names of Herbert and Russell would not prove so potent a motive for peace, as the sight of the foreign flags, jacks, and haughty ships would prove an incentive to rage in the bosoms of the British, who could endure, it seemed, any hardship but the idea of foreign dominion.

Therefore it was decided that the Prince and the transports with the troops should continue to lead the van with three ships of war to guard him, and so, sailing down the Channel, make the coast of England, in the west, and that the bulk of the fleet should remain in the van ready to engage the English should they leave their station and venture into the open straits.

But this, though it was the thing he most longed to accomplish, Lord Dartmouth found impossible, for that east wind so favourable to the hopes of the Prince was a tyrant to him and held him helpless abreast of the Long Sands, with his yards and topmasts down incapable of purchasing his anchors, while he beheld some of the Dutch vessels pass within his very sight making triumphantly for the coast he was bidden protect while his ships rode at their station useless as a fishing fleet.

And this was in some part the fault of my Lord Dartmouth, who cursed the wind in a passion of misery, for he had ignored the advice of His Majesty, who was a knowing man in naval affairs, which was to anchor east of the Gallopper, so that his ships might be free to move which way they pleased, instead of which he acted on his own sense, which was not equal to the King's advice; as was proved, for the scouts, who were left at the Gallopper, captured a Dutch transport, and if they had been greater in strength might have served the whole body of the invader the same.

Now in full sight of the shores of these two countries, England and France, the Dutch fleet performed their evolutions, with the pomp of war, the discharge of artillery, the music of trumpets and drums, and the salutes of the entire armament to the ship which carried the Prince and his standard as she made her way to the van; and this all under a blue sky crystal-clear that reflected in the tumbling waves lashed by the strong high English wind a hundred tints of azure and water-green, above which the smoke hung in light vapours.

The Prince, under full sail, made for Torbay, which was large enough to contain a great number of the transports, but the Dutch pilot, not being just in his reckoning, went past both that port and the next, which was Dartmouth. The third port was Plymouth, but this being a naval station and a well-fortified place, the Prince was by no means inclined to risk a landing there, since he was not certain of the disposition of the inhabitants towards him, and his great object on land, as on sea, was to avoid a combat, since his sole argument for interfering in the affairs of England was the wish of the English themselves and the invitation of their principal nobles, as he had acknowledged in his Declaration, and it would give a very ill look to this claim of his if his landing was opposed by a bloody fight.

Yet to tack about to enter Torbay was attended by almost equal danger, since the wind had changed, and Lord Dartmouth with his entire fleet had left Long Sands and was now under full sail in pursuit.

The Prince, distracted by these conflicting considerations, knew not what course to take, and was tortured by the most cruel anxiety, since to either advance or retire might be followed by misfortunes fatal to his whole design.

While he was still undecided as to what orders to give and which risks to choose, the wind changed in an instant to the south, which had the effect of bringing the Prince within a few hours into Torbay and forcing the English Admiral back to Long Sands.

It being the 4th of November when the Prince saw the cliffs of Devon and the great natural harbour overlooked by the tourelles and towers of Brixham and Torquay, he was anxious to effect a landing there, because it was both his birthday and the anniversary of his marriage, and so he put off in a cock boat with a few of the English nobles and M. Bentinck, and came ashore at Brixham, where there were none but fishermen to receive him, the which stood about staring half in admiration, half in awe, thinking maybe of Monmouth's landing not so far off nor so long ago, and how the county had suffered for it under the executions of my Lord Chief Justice.

The Prince called for horses, which were being landed as fast as might be where the water was shallower; yet it was not possible to make the landing effectual till the morrow, and but few of the transports were able to land that night.

The Prince, who had well studied the map of England, resolved to march to Exeter and there wait the coming of his English friends; but for this night the wooden tent that he used in war was put up in a neighbouring field, to the great amazement of the country-folk, who had never beheld anything of this nature.

The friends and followers of the Prince being gathered about him to congratulate and flatter, among them came his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, expounding in his usual talkative excitement on the marvellous success of the expedition.

The Prince was more than ordinarily cheerful, and spared the rebuke with which he usually checked the meddling enthusiast.

He gave the Englishman his hand, and looking round the darkening landscape said, with a smile—

"Well, doctor, what do you think of predestination now?"

CHAPTER XVI

NEWS FROM ENGLAND

The weeks that followed, so full of great events, passions, movements, and suspenses in Britain, passed with an almost uneventful calm in The Hague, where the Princess, round whose rights half the turmoil had arisen, and the wives of many eminent men engaged in, or affected by, the rapid changing of events, waited for the packets that brought the English letters, and lived in between their coming in a kind of retired anxiety supported by prayers and saddened by tears.

The Elector of Brandenburg and his wife came on a visit to Mary, and she entertained them as best she might with her heart aching with other thoughts. They went, and she was alone again and free to go to and from her chapel and wait for her letters and wonder and dread the future through the cold winter days in the quiet town, which seemed, as she was, to be waiting with suspended breath.

The progress of affairs in England came brokenly and from various sources, letters arrived slowly, at irregular intervals, delayed by ice-blocked rivers, storms at sea, detained messengers. At first the news was of the Prince's progress to Exeter and the cold reception of that city, the long delay of his friends to join him, the mere wondering apathy of the country-people, who made no movement one way or another, save to make a spectacle of the passing of this foreign army and to petition the Prince that he would, when he could, remove the hearth tax.

The next news was that when the Prince was near resolved to return home the spirited English gentry began to rise in his favour, the Lord Wharton and the Lord Colchester marched from Oxford to join him, and my Lord Lovelace broke through the militia, and though arrested once and taken to Gloucester, yet forced out of prison, and with the help of some young gentlemen who had taken up arms for the Prince, drove all the Papists out of that city, and so joined His Highness at Exeter; soon after the Lord Delamere came from Nottingham and took Chester, which, under a Papist, Lord Molineux, held out for the King, and my Lord Danby rose up in the North, and with other persons of quality seized on the city of York and turned out the Papists and clapt up the Mayor, while Colonel Copley, with the aid of some seamen, seized Hull and the powder magazine, and the Earl of Bath took Plymouth from the Earl of Huntingdon and declared for the Prince, as did all the seaport towns in Cornwall.

At which, the news ran, the King went to join his army at Salisbury, having sent the Prince of Wales to Portsmouth, but afterwards returned to Windsor upon an alarm of the approach of M. de Schomberg, and so to London, where he found his favourite, Lord Churchill, his son-in-law, Prince George, and his daughter, Anne, had fled to the Prince of Orange, attended by the suspended Bishop of London, who had signed the invitation to His Highness. Then followed news of the skirmish at Wincanton, where some of the Prince's guards under Lieutenant Campbell were put to the rout by the King's men, commanded by that gallant Irishman, Patrick Sarsfield; soon the fleet, growing cold in the service of His Majesty, sent up an address for a free parliament and the army deserted by the regiment.

Now the King took out of the Tower Sir Bevil Skelton, late ambassador to Versailles, cast there for the move he had concerted with M. D'Avaux, which if truly followed had saved the King, as he now came to say, and so made Sir Bevil governor of the Tower and Master of the Keys of the Kingdom.

After which he went to Hungerford in great despair of mind, where, advised by the Queen and the Jesuits, he sent overtures to the Prince, offering to defer all grievances to the calling of a free parliament, the writs for which the Lord Chancellor Jefferies had already been bid to issue.

The Lords Halifax, Nottingham, and Godolphin, having taken this message, brought back an answer which was the best the King could have hoped for, since it made only those demands which were reasonable, such as that the Papists should be removed from office and that Tilbury Fort and the Tower of London should be put into the hands of the Capital.

But when they returned with these terms to Whitehall, the commissioners found that the King, either through fearfulness or weakness, or wrought on by the advices of M. Barillon, had taken the extraordinary resolutions—first, of sending his wife and son to France, and secondly, of flying London himself, leaving the government in chaos. Upon which these three lords, perceiving they had been sent on a mock embassy, became for ever incensed against His Majesty. He left a letter for the commander of the army, a Frenchman, Lord Feversham, which that general took to be an order for the disbanding of the forces, which finally put everything into the greatest disorder.

The next letters that came to The Hague were full of the Prince's success against the Irish Guards at Twyford Bridge, outside the town of Reading, and the behaviour of the multitude in London, who, as soon as they heard of the departure of the King and the Jesuits, and the near approach of the Prince of Orange, got together and demolished all the new mass chapels and convents; among which was the great monastery of St. John, which had been two years building at a great expense, but was now burnt down and the goods seized as the monks were hurriedly removing, besides all the timber stored in Smithfield for the finishing, which was stacked into a bonfire and burnt at Holborn by the river fleet.

Likewise the chapels in Lime Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields, the lodgings of the resident of the Duke of Florence, and Nild House, which was the mansion of the Spanish Ambassador, were spoiled and defaced; yet to the great credit of the English people, in all this heat and excitement, there was not one slain or even hurt.

To put a stop to these mischiefs, the lords who were then in London went to the Guildhall and, having demanded the keys of the Tower from Sir Bevil Skelton and delivered them to the Lord Lucas, they took upon themselves the governance of the kingdom for the maintenance of order and the prevention of bloodshed. At first they associated with themselves the magistrates of the city, but on finding that those who are born traders cannot contest with gentlemen in great affairs, they used them not as their colleagues but as their servants, and gave their orders as the King had done.