Front matter (continued 4)

Soon after they invited the Prince, who was now at Windsor, to London, and the same day that he received their address he was presented with another to the same effect from the city of London, which he accepted with more pleasure, and let it be seen that he did; for his titles and encouragements had always come from the people, and his enemies from the nobles, both in his own country and England.

To the anxious hearts at The Hague all seemed now clear for a peaceful conclusion, when the news came that the King, having by foul weather been cast upon the coast of Kent, was there stopped and roughly handled by several of the common people who knew him not.

When the governing lords heard of this they sent an express begging His Majesty to return to London, which he did after some difficulty, and on Sunday, being the 16th of December, entered the capital, attended by some troops of the Life Guards and Grenadiers; and a set of boys following him with cheers put up his spirits so that he thought he had the people with him again.

At this juncture he sent the Lord Feversham to His Highness at Windsor, asking him to come to St. James's and settle matters; but His Highness had by now perceived that no settlement of any difficulty could be arrived at while this obstinate, foolish, and fearful King remained in London, and, having discovered that His Majesty had no courage to resist authority, he took a high hand, arrested the Lord Feversham for travelling without a passport, and sent three lords to Whitehall with a message desiring the King to retire to Ham, having first secured all the posts and avenues about Whitehall by replacing the English guards by Dutch. On receipt of the message the King instantly agreed, only asking that it might be Rochester and not Ham, which desire being communicated to the Prince by messenger (His Highness being then at Zion House), who sent an answer by M. Bentinck that he gave his consent, only adding that he wished His Majesty to leave early that he might not meet him on the road.

So the King, having with him the Earl of Arran and a few other gentlemen, went by barge to Gravesend and so overland to Rochester, where he lay in the house of Sir Richard Head.

The afternoon of this day on which the King left London for ever, the Prince and his retinue came to St. James's, the whole city shouting and blazing in his honour. But having always hated these displays, and despising the levity that prompted them, he drove by a back way to the Palace, and the people got no sight of him. All the persons of quality in town now flocked to offer their congratulations, and the city sent up a most obliging address which His Highness very cordially received; soon the lords and the city requested the Prince to take the government on himself, which he did, his first act being one which gave him peculiar satisfaction—he ordered M. Barillon to leave the kingdom in twenty-four hours, and had him escorted to the coast by Dutch guards, which was a severe knock to the pride of France.

As to the affairs of the kingdom, he ordered writs to be issued for the calling of a Convention, which was to consist of all persons who had sat in parliament during the reign of His Majesty Charles II.

All this was great and triumphant news to the States and the Princess. The nobility then at The Hague came to compliment Her Highness, and three deputies were sent from the States-General to congratulate the Prince, and were magnificently received by the English.

The Prince then commanded all Papists to depart out of London and Westminster within three days, and to engage the city in his interest he asked them for a loan, and though the security was but his bare word and the sum he asked but a hundred thousand, they subscribed three hundred thousand and paid it in, in so many days.

His Majesty being gone to Windsor so as not to prejudice the meeting of the Convention, that body came together on the 22nd of January, and after having humbly thanked His Highness for their deliverance, prayed him to continue to administer the government, and appointed a day of thanksgiving, fell to considering what course they should take.

With comparative ease they declared the throne vacant by the flight of the King, but were not so quick in deciding who should fill it. The Prince meanwhile kept silence, observing the same composure that he had maintained during the whole progress of the Revolution, even hunting, staying at private houses, and keeping out of the capital; only sending one brief letter to the Convention, in which he prayed them to come quickly to a decision, as there was the safety of Europe to consider.

Despite this withdrawal of himself, this calm that he displayed in the midst of the turmoil, he was the pivot round which all circled, the one authority respected by all, the one defence against anarchy and mischievous confusion.

The English, who knew in their hearts that they could not do without him, could by no means make up their minds what to do with him, and soon, after their custom, split into very decided parties, which were most violent against each other and got every day farther from a settlement.

At this time the news that reached The Hague was of the most astonishing and unwelcome to the Princess, and this was the manner of her receiving it, one day, very cold, in late January. She was riding in her chariot in the Voorhout, reflecting on this extraordinary revolution in her native country, and thinking of her father (who was now fled to France), when she was accosted by M. D'Avaux, who still remained at The Hague.

The Princess was much surprised by this, and was giving a mere formal salute, when M. D'Avaux, with his hat clasped to his bosom, galloped up to her open chariot in such a manner that she could do nothing but desire it to stop.

"Ah, Madam," said he, smiling, and very courteous, "am I to condole with the daughter of King James or congratulate the wife of the Prince of Orange?"

She looked at him, very pale, but with a great majesty.

"You are to respect a woman in an extraordinary and sad situation, Monsieur," she answered gravely.

"Extraordinary indeed, Your Highness," said M. D'Avaux. "But scarcely sad to you, I think, who are like to be Queen."

It flashed through Mary's mind how near to war they must be with France before he could venture to speak so.

She answered instantly—

"I take no public reprimand from the Ambassador of France, Monsieur."

D'Avaux bowed.

"More a congratulation, Highness, to the future sovereign of England."

Her look of amaze was not to be concealed. His keen eyes, that never left her face, remarked it.

"Ah, Your Highness hath not heard the last news from England?" he asked quietly.

"News from England!" repeated Mary, "I hear nothing else——"

"Then you will have heard that the Convention is for making you Queen, Madam," he answered, "which perhaps is not quite the consummation His Highness desired."

Mary gazed at him a second, then made a motion with her gloved hand to the coachman.

"It is cold to keep the horses waiting," she said, and so drove on.

Cold indeed, and the snow beginning to fall in heavy flakes across the straight fronts of the noble houses in the Voorhout; the people of quality gathered there on horseback and on foot began to scatter before the chilly wind and slow darkness. The Princess shuddered inside her fur coat, and drove back to the 'huis ten bosch.'

As she passed down the gaunt avenues of bare trees overshadowing frozen water and frozen ground, showing between their dark trunks glimpses of a pale February sunset fast being blotted out by the thick snow clouds, she felt to her very heart the awful desolation of approaching change, the wild regret for a happy period closed, the unnameable loneliness which assailed her when she considered how she was being caught up and hurried into a whirl of events foreign and distasteful.

When she reached home she asked for her letters; but evidently the packet that had brought M. D'Avaux his had none for her. She made no comment, but played basset awhile with Lady Sunderland, went early to her prayers, then wept herself to sleep.

CHAPTER XVII

FAREWELL TO HOLLAND

Soon after the Groote Kerk had struck midnight, one of the Princess's Dutch ladies came to the chamber of her mistress with the news that letters from England had come, it being the command of Mary that she should always be roused, whatever the hour, when the mail arrived.

She came out now, in her undress—a muslin nightshift with an overgown of laycock, and with her hair, which was one of her principal beauties, freed from the stiff dressing of the day and hanging about her shoulders—into the little anteroom of her bedchamber, where the candles had been hastily lit and the tiled stove that burnt day and night stirred and replenished.

There were two letters. She had no eyes save for that addressed in the large careless hand of the Prince, and tore it open standing under the branched sconce, where the newly-lit candles gave a yet feeble light from hard wax and stiff wick, while the Dutch lady, excited and silent, opened the front of the stove and poked the bright sea coals.

The Princess, who had waited long for this letter, owing to the ice-blocked river, was sharply disappointed at the briefness of it; the Prince requested her to make ready to come at once to England, as her presence was desired by the Convention, told her what to say to the States, and remarked that the hunting at Windsor was poor indeed compared to that of Guelders.

Mary laid the letter down.

"I must go to England, Wendela," she said to her lady; then sat silent a little, while the candles burnt up to a steady glow that filled the room with a fluttering light of gold.

"Is my Lady Sunderland abed?" asked Mary presently.

"No, Madam; she was playing cards when I came up."

"Will you send her to me, Wendela?"

The lady left the room and Mary noticed the other letter, which she had completely forgotten. She took it up and observed that the writing was strange; she broke the seals and drew nearer the candles, for her eyes, never strong, were now blurred by recent tears.

The first words, after the preamble of compliments, took her with amazement. She glanced quickly to the signature, which was that of Lord Danby, then read the letter word for word, while her colour rose and her breath came sharply.

When she had finished, with an involuntary passionate gesture and an involuntary passionate exclamation, she dashed the letter down on the lacquer bureau.

Lady Sunderland, at this moment entering, beheld an expression on the face of the Princess which she had never thought to see there—an expression of sparkling anger.

"Ill news from England, Highness?" she asked swiftly.

"The worst news in the world for me," answered Mary. Then she cried, "This is what M. D'Avaux meant!"

The Countess raised her beautiful eyes. She was very fair in rose-pink silk and lace, her appearance gave no indication of misfortune, but in her heart was always the sharp knowledge that she was an exile playing a game, the stake of which was the greatness, perhaps the life, of her husband.

"What news, Highness?" she questioned gently.

Mary was too inflamed to be reserved, and, despite the vast difference in their natures, a great closeness had sprung up between her and the Countess during these weeks of waiting.

"They wish to make me Queen," she said, with quivering lips, "to the exclusion of the Prince. My Lord Danby, whom I never liked, is leading a party in the Convention, and he saith will have his way——"

Lady Sunderland was startled.

"What doth His Highness say?"

"Nothing of that matter—how should he? But he would never take that place that would be dependent on my courtesy—he!" She laughed hysterically. "What doth my lord mean?—what can he think of me? I, Queen, and the Prince overlooked?—am I not his wife? And they know my mind. I told Dr. Burnet, when he meddled in this matter, that I had sworn obedience to the Prince and meant to keep those vows——"

She paused, breathless and very angry; her usual vivacity had changed to a blazing passion that reminded Lady Sunderland of those rare occasions when His late Majesty had been roused.

"My lord meant to serve you," she said.

"To serve me!" repeated Mary, "when he is endeavouring to stir up this division between me and the Prince—making our interests different——"

"You are nearer the throne, Highness——"

Mary interrupted impatiently—

"What is that compared to what the Prince hath done for England? Can they think," she added, with a break in her voice, "that I would have done this—gone against—His Majesty—for a crown—for anything save my duty to my husband? What must he think of me—these miserable intrigues——"

She flung herself into the red brocade chair in front of the cabinet, and caught up the offending letter.

"Yet," she continued, with a flash of triumph, "this will give me a chance to show them—where my duty lieth——"

She took up her pen, and Lady Sunderland came quickly to the desk.

"What do you mean to do?" she asked curiously.

"I shall write to my lord, tell him my deep anger, and send his letter and a copy of mine to the Prince."

Lady Sunderland laid her hand gently on Mary's shoulder.

"Think a little——"

Mary lifted flashing eyes.

"Why should I think?"

"This is a crown you put aside so lightly!"

The Princess smiled wistfully.

"I should be a poor fool to risk what I have for a triple crown!"

"Still—wait—see," urged the Countess; "'tis the crown of England that my lord offereth——"

"Do you think that anything to me compared to the regard of the Prince?" asked Mary passionately. "I thought that you would understand. Can you picture him as my pensioner—him! It is laughable, when my whole life hath been one submission to his will. Oh, you must see that he is everything in the world to me ... I have no one else——" She continued speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, as was her fashion when greatly moved. "At first I thought he would never care, but now he doth; but he is not meek, and I might lose it all—all this happiness that hath been so long a-coming. Oh, I will write such a letter to my lord!"

"You sacrifice a good deal for the Prince," said the Countess half sadly.

"Why," answered Mary, "this is easier than going against my father, and giving the world cause to scorn me as an unnatural daughter——"

Her lips quivered, but she set them proudly.

"I have talked enough on this matter, God forgive me, but I was angered by this lord's impertinence."

The Countess made some movement to speak, but Mary checked her.

"No more of this, my Lady Sunderland," she said firmly. She took a sheet of paper from the bureau and began to write.

Lady Sunderland moved to the stove and watched her intently and with some curiosity. The wife of my late Lord President was tolerably well informed in English politics, and knew that the Tories would rather have the daughter than the nephew of the Stewarts on the throne, and that the great bulk of the general nobility would rather have a woman like the Princess than a man like the Prince to rule them.

She did not doubt that Mary, with her nearer claim, her English name and blood, would readily be accepted by the English as Queen, and that the nation would be glad to retain the services of her husband at the price of some title, such as Duke of Gloucester—which had been proposed for him before—and whatever dignity Mary chose to confer on him. She certainly thought that this scheme, pleasing as it might be to Whig and Tory, showed a lack of observation of character on the part of the originator, my Lord Danby; Lord Sunderland had always declared that it was the Prince they needed, not his wife, and that they would never obtain him save for the highest price—the crown.

Yet the Countess, standing in this little room, watching Mary writing with the candlelight over her bright hair and white garments, seeing her calmly enclose to the Prince Lord Danby's letter and a copy of her answer, could not help some wonder that this young woman—a Stewart, and born to power and gaiety—should so lightly and scornfully put aside a crown—the crown of England.

When Mary had finished her letters and sealed them, she rose and came also to the stove. She looked very grave.

"The Prince saith not one word of our losses," she remarked—"Madame Bentinck, I mean, and M. Fagel, yet both must have touched him nearly. I am sorry for M. Bentinck, who hath had no time to grieve."

"What will happen in England now, Highness?" asked the Countess, thinking of the Earl.

"I suppose," said Mary, breathing quickly, "they will offer the Prince the throne ... he commandeth my presence in England ... I must leave Holland——"

"You love the country?"

"Better than my own. I was not made for great affairs. I love this quiet life—my houses here, the people..."

She broke off quickly.

"What will you do, Madam?"

Lady Sunderland indeed wondered.

"Go join my lord in Amsterdam," she answered half recklessly. "An exile remains an exile."

"The Prince," said Mary gravely, "hath some debt to my lord. He never forgetteth his friends—or those who serve him."

"I thank you for that much comfort, Madam."

"You must return to England—to Althorp," continued the Princess gently; "you have done nothing that you should stay abroad——"

Lady Sunderland shook her head.

"What is Althorp to me, God help me! I think my home is in Amsterdam—I shall go there when Your Highness leaveth for England."

Mary put her cool hand over the slim fingers of the Countess that rested on the back of the high walnut chair.

"Are you going with Basilea de Marsac?"

"Yes; she is a good soul."

"A Catholic," said Mary, with a little frown; "but I like her too—better than I did——"

"She hath become very devoted to Your Highness; she is very lonely."

"What was her husband?"

Lady Sunderland smiled.

"An incident."

Mary smiled too, then moved back to the bureau.

"I must get back to bed; I have a sore throat which I must nurse." She coughed, and moistened her lips. "I am as hoarse as a town-crier." She laughed again unsteadily and rang the silver bell before her. "I never pass a winter without a swelled face or a sore throat."

The Dutch waiting lady entered, and Mary gave her the letters.

"See that they go at the earliest—and, Wendela, you look tired, get to bed immediately."

With no more than this she sent off her refusal of three kingdoms. When they were alone again she rose and suddenly embraced Lady Sunderland.

"Do you think I shall come back to Holland?" she asked under her breath.

"Why—surely——"

"Ah, I know not." She loosened her arms and sank on to the stool near the stove. "Sometimes I feel as if the sands were running out of me. You know," she smiled wistfully, "I have an unfortunate name; the last Mary Stewart, the Prince his mother, was not thirty when she died—of smallpox."

She was silent, and something in her manner held Lady Sunderland silent too.

"A terrible thing to die of," added Mary, after a little. "I often think of it; when you are young it must be hard, humanly speaking, but God knoweth best."

"I wonder why you think of that now?" asked Lady Sunderland gently.

"I wonder! We must go to bed ... this is marvellous news we have had to-night ... to know that I must sail when the ice breaketh ... good night, my Lady Sunderland."

The Countess took her leave and Mary put out the candles, which left the room only illumed by the steady glow from the white, hot heart of the open stove.

Mary drew the curtains from the tall window and looked out.

It was a clear frosty night, utterly silent; the motionless branches of the trees crossed and interlaced into a dense blackness, through which the stars glimmered suddenly, and suddenly seemed to disappear.

The chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the half-hour, and the echoes dwelt in the silence tremblingly.

Mary dropped the curtain and walked about the room a little. Then she went to the still open desk and took up the remaining letter—that of the Prince.

With it in her hand she stood thoughtful, thinking of her father in France, of all the extraordinary changes and chances which had brought her to this situation, face to face with a dreaded difference from anything she had known.

She went on her knees presently, and rested her head against the stool, worked by her own fingers in a design of beads and wool, and put the letter against her cheek, and desperately tried to pray and forget earthly matters.

But ever between her and peace rose the angry, tragic face of her father and the stern face of her husband confronting each other, and a background of other faces—the mocking, jeering faces of the world—scorning her as one who had wronged her father through lust of earthly greatness.

CHAPTER XVIII

BY THE GRACE OF GOD

The Princess's boat, with her escort of Dutch warships, rode in the Thames at last. The frost had broken, and she arrived not long after her letter to Lord Danby had scattered that statesman's party, and frustrated his hopes of placing her on the throne. The Prince having soon after declared his mind to the lords in council, that he would accept no position dependent on his wife's pleasure or the life of another (for there had been talk of a regency, leaving the King the nominal title), made it clear that if his services were to be retained, if he was not to abandon them to the confusion, strife, and disaster from which his presence alone saved them, he must be King. All parties uniting, then, on what was now proved to be the winning side, the Convention voted the offer of the crown to the Prince and Princess jointly—the sole administration to rest with him.

The succession, after naming the direct line, was left vague to please the Prince, who was free to flatter himself that he could choose his own heir.

This news had come to Mary before she left The Hague, and she knew that the day after her landing there would be a formal offering and acceptance of the crown of Great Britain. She beheld the prospect with extraordinary sensations as, passing Gravesend, and leaving her vessel and escort at Greenwich, she proceeded in a state barge to the more familiar reaches of the river, Rotherhithe, Wapping, and presently the Tower, rising golden grey in the chill spring sunshine, by the bridge with the deep crazy arches through which the water poured in dangerous rapids. Crowded with houses was this old bridge, and in the centre a little chapel with a bell, now ringing joyfully.

Mary remembered it all—the long busy wharves, now taking holiday; the barges, boats, and compact shipping now hung with flags; Galley Key, where the slaves in chains unlade the oranges, silks, and spices from the East; the houses, on the side of Surrey, among which rose the spire of the great church at Southwark; the merchants' houses built down to the water's edge, with pleasant gardens filled with poplar trees and set with the figureheads of ships in which some adventurer had sailed his early travels long ago in the time of Elizabeth Tudor; and the distant prospect of the city itself shimmering now under an early haze of sunshine.

All was utterly strange, yet nothing was altered; it looked the same as when, weeping to leave England, she had come down these waters in a barge with her silent husband, ten years ago, and waited at Gravesend for the wind.

One difference attracted Mary's eyes. Behind and beyond the Tower a mass of scaffolding rose that dominated the whole city, and through the crossed poles, boards, and ropes, she could discern the majestic outline of the dome of that vast church which had been slowly rising out of the ashes of the old St. Paul's since she was a child.

At the Tower Wharf she landed, laughing hysterically, and hardly knowing what she did. They gave her a royal salute of cannon, and she saw all the guards drawn up in squares, with their spears in the midst, and a red way of brocade carpet laid down for her, and a coach with white horses and running footmen, and beyond, a press of noblemen and officers, and the sheriffs and aldermen of the city with the Lord Mayor.

She hesitated on the gangway, amidst her ladies, her spirit completely overwhelmed. She looked round desperately for some one to whom to say—"I cannot do it—I cannot put it through. I must die, but I cannot be Queen."

The complete incomprehension on the excited faces of these ladies, the strangeness of many of them, recalled her with a shock to herself; she felt as if she had been on the point of betraying her husband. She recalled his last letter, in which he had asked her to show no grief or hesitation in her manner, and, biting her lips fiercely, she stepped firmly on to English soil, and managed somehow to respond to the lowly salutations of the crowd pressing to receive her. The Prince was by the coach door; she noticed that he wore his George and garter, which he had not done perhaps twice before. There were a great many gentlemen behind him, many of them those whom she had already met at The Hague, others strange to her, several of the Dutch officers, and M. Bentinck in mourning for his wife.

Mary, still English enough to think her country the finest in the world, was thrilled with pleasure to see how respectfully all these great nobles held themselves to the Prince. She was used to see him receive this homage in his own country and from the magnates of the Empire, but these Englishmen were to her more than any German princes.

The Prince took her hand and kissed it, and said very quickly in Dutch—

"I would that this had been in Holland."

The English gentlemen bowed till their long perukes touched their knees, Mary entered the coach with Lady Argyll and a Dutch lady, the Prince mounted his white horse, and the cavalcade started through the expectant city with all that pomp which the people would not forgo and the Prince to-day could not avoid.

All London was eager for a sight of the Princess. The last Queen, foreign, proud Romanist, and hard, had never been a favourite, the Queen Dowager had never counted for anything, and was now a forgotten figure in Somerset House; but Mary was English, Protestant, and her image had long been faithfully cherished in England as that of a native Princess who would some day restore the old faith. Therefore her greeting was such as made her turn pale; she had never before heard such thunders of acclamation, popular as she was in the United Provinces.

Every road, every housetop, all the windows, alleys, and turnings were filled with well-dressed, orderly people, who cheered her and cheered the Prince till Mary felt dizzy. She saw in this their true title to the crown; the lords were but obeying the people in setting it on their heads, and she recalled how these same Londoners had besieged the doors of Westminster Hall, while the Convention was sitting, and threatened to use violence if the Prince was not elected King.

Her appearance of beautiful youth, her sparkling excitement, her gracious smiles made a favourable impression, and further roused the enthusiasm which the very stiff demeanour of the Prince, to whom this display was hateful, was apt to damp.

By the time they reached Whitehall she was more popular than he, and the nobles who rode in the procession thought to themselves that the English wife would serve to keep the foreign husband in the affections of the people.

Whitehall was filled with English, Dutch, and Scotch waiting to kiss her hand: Mr. Sidney was there, Mr. Herbert, Mr. Russell, Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Devonshire, Lord Halifax, Lord Godolphin, Lord Danby, and others whom she did not know or had forgotten; their background was that splendid palace, seeming vast and magnificent indeed after her houses in Holland, which she had left so sadly ten years ago. Then she had wept, now she laughed and was very gracious, but in her heart she was as reluctant to enter Whitehall as she had ever been to leave it; the memories the place aroused were poignant, not sweet.

It was three hours before she found herself alone with the Prince in that gorgeous little chamber that had once been her father's, and still contained his pictures, statues, his monogram and arms on chairs and carvings.

The instant he had closed the door the Prince kissed her in silence, and she burst into speech.

"Are you satisfied? Are you pleased? Is this another step in your task—they—these people—will they help? How long the time hath seemed!"

"To me also," said the Prince unsteadily.

She stepped back to look at him anxiously: he was extravagantly vestured in embroidered scarlet, lace, jewels, the George and garter conspicuous, and a great star of diamonds on his breast. A close scrutiny showed that he looked more ill and weary than she had ever known him.

"You are changed," she said quickly. "Oh, my dear, the climate doth not suit you——"

He smiled languidly.

"I would we had met in Holland," he answered. "I am sick for Holland, Marie."

"Already?"

He seated himself in the deep window-seat that overlooked the privy garden and she took the low stool beside, studying him wistfully for one hint of that enthusiasm and elation which she hoped would be called forth by his splendid success.

"We could not have asked God for a more happy ending," she said in a trembling voice.

"They—the English—will declare against France," he answered, but without spirit, and as if it was an effort to speak at all. "If I could get them into the field this spring——" He was interrupted by his cough, which was violent and frequent, and he flung the window open impatiently. "There is no air in this place," he continued, in a gasping voice; "their smoky chimneys and their smells are killing me; I cannot endure London."

"We need not live here," said Mary quickly.

"They think so," he returned; "'tis our post, where we are paid to be——"

The scarcely concealed bitterness with which he spoke of England was a matter of amaze and terror to Mary, in whose ears still rang the enthusiastic shouts of the people and the flatteries of the courtiers.

"But you are popular——" she began.

"Hosanna to-day, and to-morrow crucify!" he answered. "I shall not long be popular—the great lords have not loved me from the first. They offer me the throne because there is no other to serve their turn, and I take it because it is the only way to secure them against France. But I undertake hard service, Marie."

"You mean—the difficulties?"

"The difficulties! I confess I am overwhelmed by them; everything is confusion—everything! To get the bare Government on a business footing would take a year's hard work, saying every one was honest—and every one is corrupt. I can trust none of them. There is Ireland in a ferment and the Scottish affairs in a tangle; there are a hundred different parties, with indecipherable politics, waiting to fly at each other's throats; the Church is hydra-headed with factions—and a cow might as well be set to catch a hare as I set to put this straight, and I have had the business of Europe to conduct already."

Mary's pride and pleasure were utterly dashed. Troubles and difficulties she had been prepared for, but they had been vague and distant; she had not thought to find the Prince already whelmed in them. She reflected swiftly on the anxiety, labour, and anguish that had gone to this expedition, the odium they had both incurred, the violence she had done her own feelings, and she wondered desperately if it had been worth the price.

The Prince took her hand, having noticed the paling of her face and the distress in her eyes.

"We will talk of other things," he said, with an effort over his tired voice. "I am weak to burden you at once with this; you at least will be beloved here——"

Mary broke in passionately—

"I do not love England—nor want to be Queen. I doubt I can do it—I was made for little things and peace—I hate this palace," she glanced desperately round her father's splendour; "our own homes—where we were so happy—are they not better?"

The Prince went very pale.

"I should not have repined," he said; "it is my task, which I must put through ... the part you have been made to take is the worst for me—the part you may have to take——"

"If it serveth you I am very content," she answered; "if I can do anything to help I shall be happy——"

The tears sprang into the Prince's eyes. He looked away out of the window.

"Marie—about His late Majesty—I could not help—that he was stopped in Kent ... I would not have had it happen——"

"Do not fear," she answered wildly, "that I do not in everything hold you justified?"

Her voice broke, and she began to weep.

The Prince rose and helped her to her feet.

"We must not show tears here," he said gently, "for we are not at home—but among many enemies——"

She dried her eyes and smiled bravely.

"Do we feel constraint so soon?"

"We pay something," he said sadly, "that we are, by the grace of God, Monarchs of England."

PART II

THE QUEEN

"I have really hardly had time to say my prayers, and was feign to run away to Kensington, where I had three hours of quiet, which was more than I had had together since I saw you.

"That place made me think how happy I was there when I had your dear company; but now—I will say no more, for I shall hurt my own eyes, which I now want more than ever.

"Adieu! Think of me and love me as much as I shall you, who I love more than my life."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 15*th July* 1690.

"Every hour maketh me more impatient to hear from you, and everything I hear stir I think bringeth me a letter.... I have stayed till I am almost asleep in hopes; but they are vaine, and I must once more go to bed and wished to be waked with a letter, which I shall at last get, I hope ... adieu! Do but love me and I can bear anything."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, July 1690.

—"My poor heart is ready to break every time I think in what perpetual danger you are; I am in greater fears than can be imagined by any who loves less than myself.

"I count the hours and the moments, and have only reason left to think—as long as I have no letters all is well.... I never do anything without thinking—now, it may be, you are in the greatest dangers, and yet I must see company on my set days; I must play twice a week; nay, I must laugh and talk, tho' never so much against my will. I believe that I dissemble very ill to those who know me; at least it is a great constraint to myself, yet I must endure it. All my movements are so watched, and all I do so observed, that if I eat less, speak less, or look more grave, all is lost in the opinion of the world; so that I have this misery added to that of your absence and my fears for your dear person, that I must grin when my heart is ready to break, and talk when my heart is so oppressed I can scarce breathe.... Besides, I must hear of business, which, being a thing I am so new in and so unfit for, doth but break my brains the more and not ease my heart....

"Farewell! Do but continue to love me and forgive the taking up so much of your time to your poor wife, who deserves more pity than ever any creature did, and who loves you a great deal too much for her own ease, tho' it can't be more than you deserve."—QUEEN MARY TO KING WILLIAM, 5*th September* 1690.

CHAPTER I

A DARK DAWNING

In the King's antechamber at Kensington House my Lord Dorset and one of his pensioners (of which he had a many) awaited an audience of His Majesty.

It was a year since the Revolution, a cold-wet autumn, and Kensington House, recently bought from my Lord Nottingham, stood blank and sad among dripping wet trees.

Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman, found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court, Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand. Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office of Lord Chamberlain.

Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King's Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour.

Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he passed—

"Good God! we are like to get on the rocks—nothing is right."

When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness—

"You see—I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had best not press for an audience to-day——"

But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came out.

He stood for a second in the doorway, looking at the few gentlemen standing about the bare, large room; then his glance fell on Lord Dorset, who moved forward with his splendid air of grace.

"Is it the wrong moment to present to the notice of Your Majesty the young poet of whom I spoke yesterday?"

The King's large open eyes turned to the pale and agitated young man in question, who instantly went on his knees.

"A poet?" repeated William; the word to him conveyed a mild, but scarcely harmless madness. He thought the patronage of these people an irritating trait in his Lord Chamberlain. "Have we not already poets in our Court?"

Lord Dorset smiled.

"This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did much service in writing of satires——"

"We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose own country the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turned gravely to the young man—

"What is your name?"

"Matthew Prior, Your Majesty."

"You wish a post about the Court, Mr. Prior?"

The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes.

"I have desired all my life to serve Your Majesty," he answered, which was true enough, for he cherished an almost romantical admiration for William.

"My Lord Dorset," said the King, "is a fine guarantee for any man; we will find some place for you——" He cut short protestations of gratitude by saying, "You must not expect us to read your poems, Mr. Prior."

"Your Majesty was ever severe on that art," smiled Lord Dorset.

"I do not understand it," said William simply; but the Lord Chamberlain had a fine enough perception to discern that there had been more poetry in the actions of the King's life than ever Matthew Prior could get on paper. He took the following silence for dismissal, and withdrew with his grateful pensioner.

The King drew out his watch, glanced at it, and called up one of the ushers at the further doors.

"When Lord Halifax arriveth bid him come at once to us."

He hesitated a moment, looking at the sombre prospect of grey and rain to be seen through the long windows, then returned to his private room and closed the door.

A wood fire burnt between two brass andirons and filled the plain closet with warmth, above the walnut bureau hung a map of the United Provinces, and on the high mantelshelf stood several ornaments and vases in blue-and-white delft.

The King seated himself in the red damask covered chair before the desk, and mechanically took up the quill that lay before him; but presently it fell from his fingers and he leant back in his seat, staring at the map of his country.

Since his coronation in April last, nay, since his first assuming the government a year ago, everything had gone wrong, and he had been blamed for it; nothing could exaggerate the difficulties of his position. He had partially expected them, for he was not naturally sanguine, but his worst imaginings had fallen short of the actual happenings.

Affairs had now reached a crisis. In England, Scotland, and Ireland was a deadlock, on the Continent imminent peril, and the King, for the first time in his life, doubted his own capacity to deal with such huge obstacles as those which confronted and threatened to overwhelm him.

Sitting utterly still, he mentally faced the task before him.

He believed that to fail utterly was impossible, since that would be to deny the teaching of his own soul, and so, God; but he might fail partially, and he might, even in winning a small measure of success, forfeit tremendous stakes.

The loss of personal ease, of his popularity in England, a complete misunderstanding of his motives, the rancorous, malicious hate of his enemies—these things he had, from the moment of his coronation, been prepared for; but it might be that he would be called upon to make vaster sacrifices—the friendship of many former supporters, even their long-cherished love and loyalty, the trust and confidence of the allies, the admiration of the dissenting churches throughout Europe, even his own peace of soul. Everything in brief, that he valued, save the love of Mary and the friendship of William Bentinck, must be pledged, and might be lost in this forthcoming conflict.

He had honestly and justly tried to satisfy the English, but had met with utter failure. They reproached—reviled him, complained, and loudly voiced their dissatisfaction; he had not pleased one of those who had placed him on the throne. The chaotic state of the Government might, to a superficial observer, appear to give some warrant for their discontent; but, as the King cynically observed to himself, they were incapable of even suggesting a remedy for the ills they so decried; he did everything, and Whig and Tory alike agreed in putting all burdens on his shoulders, then in blaming his administration.

In the crisis of '88 their action had been oblique. They had shifted the almost intolerable confusion of affairs into his hands, then stood back to watch and criticise, while he, who had already the business of half Europe on his mind, made what order he could out of jarring chaos. His health had broken under the strain; even his friends noticed a new languor in him, which the English were quick to dub sloth. Deprived of his one recreation of hunting—for which he had no time—hardly able to endure the stenches and smoke of London, his reserved temper taxed almost beyond bearing by the incessant, unreasonable, shortsighted quarrelling by which he was surrounded, he felt his strength slipping like water through his hands.

His popularity had gone as he had predicted it would. The Jacobites were already a tremendously strong party, and his own ministers were half of them already beginning to traffic with the exiled King—who was now in Ireland with French troops, and of whom it had been said that, would he but change his religion, he could not be kept out of England six weeks.

William, reviewing his position, smiled at the shallow taunts that accused him of having thirsted for a crown.

He was working like a galley-slave for England—working with insufficient money, false servants, unfriendly onlookers, and an apathetic nation ready to seize on frivolous pretexts to dub him unpopular—and his reward for labours, that perhaps not one of his subjects had any conception of, was the nominal dignity of kingship and the long-fought-for alliance of England with the States.

He was certainly paying a bitter price.

All the great nobles were dissatisfied. The King had a keen dislike of party, and his ideal of government was a cabinet comprising of the best men of every faction to advise a ruler free to decide the final issue of every question. He had tried this scheme in England, equally honouring Whig and Tory, and taking his ministers from the rival ranks.

The plan had been an utter failure; each faction wanted the supreme control. The Whigs wanted the King to become their champion, and avenge them indiscriminately on every Tory; the Tories, who had always been opposed to William, refused to work with the Whigs; Danby, created Marquess of Caermarthen at the Coronation, was furious because he had not the privy seals; Halifax, to whom they had been given, grudged Danby the Marquisate; the two Secretaries, Shrewsbury and Nottingham, were scarcely on speaking terms; Russell, now Lord Orford, and Herbert, now Lord Torrington, quarrelled fiercely over the naval affairs; at the Treasury Board, Lord Mordaunt, now Earl of Monmouth and Lord Delamere, both hot Whigs, did their best to disparage their colleague, Lord Godolphin, who, of all the Government, was the quietest man and the one most esteemed by the King; Clarendon, the Queen's uncle, had refused to take the oaths; and his brother Rochester was suspected of plotting with James. There was, in fact, scarcely one Englishman, even among those who had accompanied William to England, whom he could trust, yet the advancement and favour he showed his Dutch friends was made the matter for perpetual and noisy complaint.

On the other hand, the Church of England, which owed its very existence to the Revolution, proved itself unreasonable and ungrateful; it refused stubbornly to grant any concessions to Non-conformists, and wished severe penalties visited on the Papists.

Added to this, the home government was rotten to the core, the army and navy in a miserable state, the people overtaxed, business disorganised, the treasury empty, credit low, every one discontented, Ireland in the possession of James, a revolt in Scotland, and, on the Continent, the French making unchecked progress, and the Dutch beginning to complain that they were being neglected for the English.

When it is considered that the man who was to face and overcome these difficulties was disliked, distrusted, misunderstood, and betrayed on every hand, it can be no wonder that even his brave soul was drooping.

His position was in every way complex. By nature imperious, arrogant, of the proudest blood in Europe, he had a high idea of the kingly prerogative, and by instinct leant to the Tories; but the Whigs claimed him as peculiarly their champion, and it was undoubtedly to their influence that the Revolution was due. As King of England he was head of the Anglican Church and swore to uphold it; but he was a Calvinist himself, and the whole tenor of his life had been towards that broad toleration which the Church regarded with abhorrence. He was avowedly latitudinarian and set his face resolutely against any form of persecution for religious belief, and while this attitude cost him the support of the Church, his refusal to treat the Catholics harshly lost him the alliance of the Dissenters, who regarded him as disappointingly lukewarm in the true cause.

A gentle treatment of the Papists was essential to William's foreign policy, since he had promised his Catholic allies—Spain, the Emperor, and the Pope, to protect those of this persuasion—and it was, besides, his own conviction of justice and the general good. He had therefore forced through Parliament the Toleration Act, which was, however, too limited to heal the internecine disorders of religious parties; he had then endeavoured to bridge the schism between Nonconformists and Anglicans by the Comprehension Bill, but the measure was before its time and failed to pass.

Many of the bishops and clergy having refused to take the oaths and been obliged to resign, William had been forced to make new appointments, every one of which, including that of his chaplain, Dr. Burnet, to Sarum, caused universal dissatisfaction.

There had been a mutiny in the army which had to be repressed by Dutch troops—a further grievance to the English, who began to bitterly resent foreign soldiers in their midst; yet on these troops alone could the King rely.

William's lieutenant, the popular and brilliant Schomberg, had proved an expensive failure. He was at present in Ireland, with a huge army dying of fever about him, doing nothing but writing maddening letters of complaint to the King, who had, on the other hand, to listen to the ceaseless goadings of the English Parliament, who wished to know why Ireland was not reduced, and, until that plague spot was attended to, who refused to turn their attention to the Continent, where the great events gathered that were ever next William's heart.

Those were the great difficulties, but there were many smaller vexations, such as the party the Princess Anne, under the influence of those adventurers—the Churchills—was forming against the Court; the sulky, unreasonable behaviour of Lord Torrington at the Admiralty Board; the constant necessity the King was under of going to London (the air of which was literally death to him), and of dining in public at Whitehall—a practice he detested; the lack of money for the buildings at Hampton Court and Kensington, which were both in an uncomfortable state of incompletion; his own ignorance on little technical points of administration and costume, which made him dependent on his English advisers—all these were added annoyances and humiliations that went far to unman a nature well inured to strenuous difficulties.

The King made a little movement forward in his chair with a short cough, as if he caught his breath, his eyes still fixed on the map of the United Provinces; his haggard face slightly flushed as if he was moved by some intense thought.

The latch clicked, and William turned his head quickly.

In the doorway was the handsome figure of the tolerant, able, and cynical chief adviser to the Crown, the Lord Privy Seal, my Lord Marquess Halifax.

CHAPTER II

THE KING AT BAY

My Lord Marquess left His Majesty after a dry and formal interview concerned with minor but necessary business, and, leaving the King still sitting before the map of the United Provinces, proceeded to the incomplete and ill-furnished council-chamber, where my lords Shrewsbury, Caermarthen, Nottingham, and Godolphin were gloomily conferring.

Halifax was the only man in the assembly not of decided Whig or Tory politics—it was believed that this was the reason that the King had elected him to fill the highest place in his councils. Lord Caermarthen, who, jealous of his elevation, was known to be secretly working his downfall, greeted him with haughty frankness.

"I hope, my lord," he said, "your interview with His Majesty hath had some smack of satisfaction in it——"

"Why, none," answered the Lord Privy Seal; "there is no satisfaction anywhere."

He seated himself on one of the red damask covered stools by the table, and looked with a kind of cynical amusement at the other ministers, all of whom, he well knew, were, however diverse their several opinions (with the exception of Lord Godolphin), doing their utmost to oust him from the position he held. His mobile, easy, and delicate face was turned towards the meagre but noble figure of Caermarthen, in whom he recognised his chief enemy. Indeed, that statesman, who, as Lord Danby, had himself narrowly escaped the attacks of Jack Howe in the last Parliament, was endeavouring to stir up the present Commons to impeach Halifax.

"His Majesty," added the Lord Privy Seal, in his pleasant, tolerant voice, "is very discontented with all of us."

Shrewsbury—a duke now, and crowded with dignities beyond his years—blushed.

"What are we to do?" he asked, in a kind of frantic way.

The other Secretary, Nottingham, dark as a Spaniard and sour in expression, remarked briefly—

"We can do nothing until we see which way the Parliament moveth."

"The Parliament," said Caermarthen, "will do nothing until some satisfaction is given for the money voted to Ireland. Schomberg, I doubt, is doited; he hath not moved since he landed——"

"The King," put in Halifax, "is desperate to go to the Continent, where the allies clamour for him and King Louis gaineth headway every week——"

Caermarthen sprang up from the window-seat.

"By God, he cannot go abroad until Ireland is settled!" he cried; "the country will not stand any war but that——"

"The King," answered the Lord Privy Seal, "hath such a mind to France one would think he took England but on the way——"

"France," said Shrewsbury, with feverish anxiety, "is not the question; we have to think of England. War was declared last May, and we are still incapable of putting a single regiment in the field. By Heaven, the Government is too disjointed for us to interfere in foreign affairs!"

"You should have thought of that, my lord," answered Nottingham dryly, "when you put a foreigner on the throne."

A deep colour again flushed Shrewsbury's beautiful face.

"I judged from His Majesty's reputation that he would have done better," he murmured.

"His Majesty is a great man," said Halifax placidly.

Caermarthen shrugged his shoulders.

"Is it the kind of greatness that will help England?"

"Or your party to places, my lord?" retorted the Lord Privy Seal shrewdly.

Caermarthen's thin face darkened.

"His Majesty doth not know his friends," he said.

"He will not be a party leader," returned Halifax; "but I do doubt whether England will be ever governed save by factions——"

Shrewsbury came up to the table and looked round the faces of his colleagues. He was by far the youngest of the company, and his soft good-looks were incongruous to the importance of his position; Lord Godolphin, a quiet, thin man, who so far had not opened his lips or taken any notice of anything, now fixed his eyes on Shrewsbury, and kept them there keenly while the Duke spoke.

"Sirs, what is to be done? We have very good assurance that the Government cannot hold—nay," he added, with increasing agitation, "if King James were to land to-morrow, who would stay him from the throne?"

"His Majesty," said Lord Godolphin quietly.

Caermarthen caught the words.

"His Majesty! I have little faith in him now; he is a dying man——"

"The doctors," added Nottingham gloomily, "give him another year——"

"No more, I truly think," said Halifax calmly. "The Dutchmen themselves say they hardly know him for the man he was at The Hague——"

"What then?" cried Shrewsbury, in a desperate frankness. "Are we all to fall into the laps of women and my Lord Marlborough?"

"The Queen could never hold the throne," answered Halifax; "she is not loved," he smiled; "the people dislike her for her false position——"

"By God!" interrupted Caermarthen hotly; "what know you of Her Majesty? She would rule better than any Stewart hath done yet——"

"Maybe, and wed another foreigner," retorted Shrewsbury. "Besides, I think you are wrong. No woman could rule England now——"

"Nor any man, it seemeth," smiled Halifax sadly. "For my part I am weary of all of it—and so, I think," he added, "is His Majesty. He is greatly angered that the Bill of Indemnity is changed into a Bill of Pains and Penalties, and there are such heats over it——"

"What course doth he think to take?" asked Shrewsbury abruptly.

"He said very little to-day," answered Halifax. "Our talk was all of business; he is of an extraordinary industry," this with admiration, "and hath mastered the details of the government already. Were he a stronger man I should have no fear for England——"

"Talk—antic talk!" cried Caermarthen impatiently; "and are no nearer a solution——"

The sound of the opening of the heavy carved door caused them all to pause. Godolphin, who was the only one facing it, rose respectfully; the others turned.

It was the King.

His bright glance went from face to face. He came slowly to the head of the table, and seated himself in the wand-bottomed chair there; his ministers were on their feet waiting for him to speak. Surprised as they were by this unexpected appearance, their agitation showed in their faces, Shrewsbury in particular was colourless; only Lord Godolphin remained perfectly composed.

The King continued to look from one to the other; he wore a heavy brown velvet thickly braided with gold, and held in his right hand a paper written upon, and folded across.

"Affairs," he said, in his tired voice, with his peculiar short manner of speaking, "have reached a crisis, my lords, and I have come to acquaint you with my resolution."

He leant forward a little, and rested his right arm on the table, keeping his dark, powerful eyes fixed on these ministers whom he read so perfectly.

"My lords," he continued quietly, almost gently, "it is a year since I took up the government of this country, and in that time I have done nothing to please any one of you." He coughed and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. "I have done my best to govern justly," he added proudly, "but I confess I took up a task beyond my powers. My lords, I cannot rule a disaffected country with disaffected ministers. I admit I do not understand you. As I am often reminded, I am a foreigner."

The five nobles made a common movement as of painful expectation. The King's plain speaking took all words from them; Shrewsbury was painfully agitated.

"What doth Your Majesty propose?" asked Halifax anxiously.

The King opened out the paper on the dark walnut table, and laid his right hand on it. He wore round this wrist a bracelet of red glass or crystal, cut into facets, that caught and threw back the light; it gleamed now strongly through the thick Bruges lace of his ruffles.

"I mean," he said, "to resign the crown and return to Holland—where I am needed," he added strongly.

"My God!" exclaimed Caermarthen; the rest were silent.

The King surveyed their changed and utterly amazed faces with a gleam in his eyes.

"My convoy is in readiness," he said, "and here, my lords, is the speech in which I announce my intention to Parliament"—he glanced at Sidney Godolphin—"my lord," he added with dignity, "will do me a last service and correct my poor English——"

Caermarthen broke out passionately—

"Sir, you cannot know what you are saying—this is unheard of——"

"I know very well what I am saying, my Lord Marquess," answered William. "I cannot please you, but I think the Queen can. I believe you would be faithful to her—she is English; but as for me, you can manage your business better without me—and I am needed on the Continent."

He rose, and Halifax, rather pale, came up to him.

"What is to become of England if Your Majesty leaveth us?"

"The Queen will please you," repeated William.

"This action on the part of Your Majesty will mean chaos," cried Shrewsbury desperately.

The King smiled sternly.

"No confusion could be worse than what we now endure—perhaps alone ye can put it straight."

They looked at each other. In their hearts they all knew that the King, and the King alone held them together and kept them from France; to the Whigs his departure would mean ruin, and among the Tories there was not one man capable of undertaking a tithe of what the King—who had foreign affairs exclusively in his hands—performed.

"What is Your Majesty's reason for this bitter resolve?" cried Caermarthen.

"I am needed in Holland," said William. "I have, my lord, my lifework to do. There are certain things put to my hand for me to accomplish, and I have pursued them through too many difficulties to be thwarted now by the disputes of the English Parliament——"

He spoke with a sudden force that lashed them.

"I took this crown," he added, holding his hand to his breast, "that I might, with God His help, put England in her ancient place among nations, not that I might lose myself in heated factions and blind animosities."

"If Your Majesty desert us we are all undone," said Caermarthen passionately.

"Ah, my lords," answered William, "I am not of a nature to be the puppet between your parties. God gave me a disposition different—I cannot mix in these your politics."

His cough interrupted him; he gave a little shudder, and sank back into the walnut-backed chair.

"There are some things beyond a man's strength," he said hoarsely, "and I, hampered as I am, cannot govern England."

"I," cried Halifax sincerely, "have tried to help Your Majesty——"

"And what is your reward?" asked William quickly. "Parliament is so pressing on you, my lord, that I shall have to forego your services—what is any honest man's reward in this country? As angry dogs ye rend each other. My God, will there never be an end to these dissensions?"

He crushed the rough draft of his speech up in his hand and flung it on the table.

"There is my answer to this question," he said, and made to rise again, but Shrewsbury came forward and cast himself on his knees before him.

"I entreat Your Majesty to consider—to reflect—to spare us, to spare this unhappy country——"

The King looked wildly but not unkindly into the fair, agitated young face.

"I cannot do what you want of me," he answered. "Everything I do displeaseth—I stand for toleration and ye will have no manner of toleration—hath not the Indemnity Bill become a Bill of Pains and Penalties? Is not Parliament busy looking up charges of twenty years ago against men of position? Is not the Church crying out against the Dissenters, and the Dissenters against the Papists?"

They were all silent; Shrewsbury on his knees by the King's chair.

"As to the civil government," continued William, "ye know perfectly well what corruption is there. For the last two reigns every honour in the gift of the Crown hath been put up to sale with women and priests for brokers—I can trust no one save, of course, yourselves, my lords," he added, with a faint sarcasm. "There is neither honesty nor industry nor credit in any department of the administration. I can do no more."

Lord Godolphin came forward from the window; he was known to be higher in favour with the King than any there, and the others waited with a silent, anxious curiosity for him to speak.

"I think Your Majesty will change your resolution," he said, with sudden warmth, "for the sake of Europe."

"For the sake of Europe, my lord, I shall persist in it."

Sidney Godolphin looked straightly at the King.

"No—Your Majesty is not the man to shirk difficulties—bear with us a little."

"My lord," answered William, "if all were as you I should have no difficulties—rise up, my lord of Shrewsbury; this is not your fault."

The Duke got to his feet and retired to the deep window-seat; he appeared utterly overwhelmed.

"I undertook to serve a King," said Godolphin, deeply moved. "Let me resign that service while you are still my King—if Your Majesty becomes Prince of Orange I become a private gentleman. I pray Your Majesty accept my resignation."

"And mine, sir," added Halifax.

"I hope that you will serve the Queen," replied William; he leant back in his chair and his face was colourless against the red brocade cushion.

"It was to Your Majesty I swore obedience," said Godolphin firmly.

"I set you free of those oaths—all of you, my lords—my convoy waiteth at Gravesend. In Holland I can be of service—not here." He, with infinite weariness, sat up and took his speech from the table. "Take this, my lord." He held it out to Lord Godolphin.

The minister went on one knee.

"I cannot be a party to this," he said. "Your Majesty must forgive me—but I cannot——"

The blood rushed into the King's thin cheek.

"What do you want of me?" he cried passionately. "You know I do not shirk labour. I have worked like a government clerk since I have been in London, and I am well used to it—but it is no use."

Godolphin answered him with equal passion.

"Is all this labour to come to nothing, sir? If Your Majesty giveth up, there will be no heart in any of us—everything will fly asunder, and we be unprotected for the French and Irish to overrun. Your presence, your Dutch troops alone keep order. Without you we are lost again, and worse than we were before '88——"

"Your Majesty cannot—Your Majesty must not," cried Caermarthen.

Shrewsbury raised his face; he was trembling, and weeping softly.

"God in heaven!" he whispered, under his breath.

Nottingham looked at him with contempt.

"Will Your Majesty forsake your friends?" he asked sombrely. "Where do we stand if Your Majesty resigns the position we asked you to accept?"

"Sir," said Halifax firmly, "the Prince of Orange cannot go back on what he hath undertaken."

William leant forward, resting against the table; his eyes filled with tears, and he gave a short cough as if he caught his breath.

"You ask too much of any man—to rule this country under the disadvantages that whelm me," he said faintly. "I was not made to be cabined in these small factions——"

"We cannot do without Your Majesty," said Halifax sharply. "Are all your glorious deeds and achievements to end in this, sir?"

The King put his hand before his eyes and sobbed heavily.

"O God," cried Godolphin, in bitter distress, "what pass is here?" He turned on the others. "Is this to what we have brought the Prince who saved us?"

The tears were in his own eyes, and his voice was broken.

Halifax spoke to Caermarthen.

"This is like to be the end of us, my lord," he remarked. "Cry 'finis'! for the play is over now."

The King continued to weep; his whole frail figure was shaken with his passion. The last cold daylight was over his gold broideries and the crimson bracelet round his wrist. Caermarthen was pacing to and fro in a kind of frenzy.

"What is to do!" he asked himself. "What is to do!" and he clutched the cambric ruffles on his bosom.

Godolphin again dropped on his knees before the King and took William's cold left hand to his lips.

"Your Majesty will not leave us," he murmured, in a quivering tone.

The King lifted his great eyes, blurred, yet bright, with tears.

"If I stay," he answered, "it is on certain terms—I will not be the puppet of factions." He stopped, exhausted; he composed himself and flushed feverishly; his speech was interrupted by continual and painful coughing. "I will not be a party to persecution." He clenched his thin hand on the smooth curved arm of his chair, and spoke with a force and energy that gripped and almost frightened his listeners. "A measure must be passed to prevent it—and I must go to The Hague next spring."

"Ireland——" began Caermarthen.

William caught up the word.

"I will go to Ireland—since ye think so much of that wretched country I will get it——"

Even in the midst of their relief that they had moved him the ministers were shaken at this resolution.

"Your Majesty cannot be spared from London," exclaimed Halifax.

"I shall prorogue Parliament before I leave," answered William fiercely. "That or nothing, my lords. I do not stay here to be King Log——"

They bowed before his terms as they had done in the crisis of '88; only Shrewsbury, who saw the downfall of his party in the prorogation of a Whig Parliament, made a feeble protest.

"Fever is epidemic in Ireland—the health of Your Majesty——"

"You fear to lose me, my lord, before I have served your turn!" was struck out of the King; then he amended his contempt, for he was ever fond of Shrewsbury. "It is the only thing to do—if the reduction of Ireland is necessary before the Continental Campaign—I must go." He looked sharply round. "Gentlemen, do you take these terms—will you unite to help me to them?"

"We have no choice," said Lord Godolphin, and he tore the draft of the King's speech across.

CHAPTER III

THE BEST OF LIFE

It was early May; the King was walking in his park at Kensington, with his friend, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland.

It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the Whigs at his speech.

"I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great tenderness—"the poor Queen!"

"How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl.

"Ah, heavily—what have I brought her but affliction?—sometimes I think of that——"

He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand.

"Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William, help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder part."

"I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl.

"There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world like you!"

"Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."

He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive power of his life, but he could not say so.

The King again pressed his hand affectionately. They were walking under limes, and hawthorns white with blossom. The sky shone cloudy blue, and the pale English sunshine was over the young grass.

William looked round him with the sick eyes of exile; thoughts of Holland tugged so sharply at his heart that he gave a little suppressed sound of pain.

"What of this Crone and Fuller plot?" asked Portland suddenly.

"I am sorry to leave that on the Queen her hands," said William quietly; "but I do not think it serious."

"Some great men are implicated?"

"I do not doubt it."

Portland hesitated a moment, then said—

"Nottingham's spies intercepted letters to St. Germains, he saith—who were they from?"

"People of no station," answered the King. "Nottingham is over zealous."

"And you, sir, are over easy."

William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of the limes.

"That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear lord, let it be——"

Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.

The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed that any sat there.

"Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.

William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury.

"I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you."

"I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."

Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find William at leisure or on foot.

The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly.

"Was it to a second time offer your resignation?" he asked.

Shrewsbury went crimson under his powder; he seemed to find it difficult to maintain even a show of composure.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered.

"Very well," said William quietly. "I am sorry that you will not serve me till my return from Ireland."

"Sire, my health," murmured the Duke faintly—"I have had a fall from my horse—I am not fit."

Still holding his sword in both hands, the King rose.

"My lord—is that your sole reason?" he asked gently.

The blood ebbed from the young man's soft face; he answered with an effort.

"My sole reason, Your Majesty."

William continued to fix his eyes on him.

"My lord, when did you last see Roger Fuller?"

Shrewsbury shivered; he stammered painfully.

"I—I—do not know—the fellow——"

"I take your word, my lord," said William gravely.

He dropped his sword, and laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the young man's heaving shoulder.

"Remember I trust you," he added quietly.

"Sir," cried Shrewsbury, through pale lips—"what is your meaning—do you think——"

"I think that you are a man of honour," said William. "You have given me your word, and I trust you. Remember it."

"Your Majesty," began the Duke wildly, "I never meant——"

"Hush," interrupted the King. "I know nothing. Take care of your health, my lord."

He touched his hat and moved on. The young Duke looked after him with eyes of agony, then stumbled wretchedly away through the trees.

William proceeded slowly to the privy garden, which was full of stocks, pinks, wallflowers, aloes, and early roses.

He found the Queen and Lady Nottingham seated in front of a great bush of box clipped into the shape of a peacock. Between them was a length of yellow silk that they were sewing with blue beads in little crosses and stars.

At the King's approach Lady Nottingham rose and retired with a courtsey. Mary looked after her kindly.

"She is a sweet lady—I like her vastly," she said.

"You find most ladies sweet, do you not?" answered the King; he seated himself beside her on the bench, and took up the end of silk Lady Nottingham had laid down.

"I have spoilt your work. But I wished to tell you something, Marie."

Mary glanced at him anxiously; she was slightly pale, and wore a black scarf wrapped round her head and shoulders; her petticoat was striped red and frilled at the foot, her over-gown dark blue and spread round her in circling folds of glittering silk. For all the sombre heaviness of this stately dressing she looked very young—sad, also, for all the desperate gaiety to which she was continually nerved.

The King looked about him to see that they were not overheard, then said, in a low voice—

"I have accepted my Lord Shrewsbury his resignation."

Mary waited, catching her breath.

"He," continued William, "hath tampered with His late Majesty."

The Queen gave a little sound of distress, and dropped her sewing.

"Shrewsbury!" she whispered.

"I have sure proof of it," said the King. "I am sorry for him," he added simply; "and for myself, it something moved me, for I ever liked my lord."

Mary flushed and clenched her hands on her lap.

"How base every one is," she cried, and the angry tears glittered in her eyes.

"There is not much honour in England, Marie. Have a care of all of them—particularly of that knave"—he spoke with strong force—"that villain, my Lord Marlborough——"

"Need he be of the Council?" she asked eagerly.

"Child, he is the best soldier in England, and if I was to leave you a Council of honest men they could not be of this nation—trust none of them."

"God help me," said the Queen. "I know not how I shall support myself when you are not here—but how weak I am to talk thus—my part is little compared to yours."

She smiled with a pitiful brightness, and the King, looking at her, flushed as if he had been hurt and suppressed the pain.

"Talk no more of this," he said quickly—"in this little time we have together——"

Mary laid her hand on his.

"How pale the sunshine is—not thick and golden like The Hague—the flowers seem so different too; is not that a silly fancy?" She smiled again, and her voice quivered.

"You are not happy here, Marie."

She answered hastily.

"Happy wherever I have your dear company—but I confess I am a coward without you—but God is greater than our hopes, our fears, our desires; He knoweth best."

When her soft voice ceased the only sounds were those of water running in the lead basin of a fountain hidden somewhere behind the alleys of wych-elm, and the occasional distant blows of a hammer from the workman engaged on the scaffolding of Kensington House.

She spoke again at last, her white fingers tightening over his.

"I wonder if you will ever rest—if achievement will ever come—at last, if you will ever think your work done——"

"How can I?" he answered. "That is my sole excuse to live—that there is something for me to do—and I am so used to work I think I could not rest——"

"It hath been hard—hard and long," said Mary. "You must be so weary of it all—the lying, the treachery, the weakness, the opposition, the delays, the disappointments——"

The King smiled faintly.

"Yet I have done something——"

"So much!" exclaimed Mary proudly. "But I do long for you to have some leisure now ... for both of us ... to be alone, at last——"

"When the war is over——"

She interrupted gently.

"When the war is over! Alas!" She shook her head. "So long still to wait." She smiled. "I would that you had not been a great man, dear—but just a simple citizen." She laughed charmingly. "And we would live at The Hague always and have a great garden where you should grow 'La Solitaire' for the thousand gulden prize—and I would polish all the furniture myself—and I could call you 'Willem' then before all the world, and we should have long days together ... and you would read of great events in the Gazette and never want to mix in them, and I should laugh at those unhappy kings and queens——"

Her husband looked at her in silence.

"So you see I am a good housewife, no more!" she continued, in a kind of wild gaiety. "Alas, I have no brains for business!"

"I have thought, too," said William, "that I would like to be a mere gentleman watching events, not guiding them; but these thoughts are beneath us—and idle visions."

"Idle visions!" repeated the Queen. "And you must go to the war again—Death's target—and I must stay behind and keep my countenance! I am such a poor weak fool!" she added, in bitter self-reproach.

The King raised her head and pressed it against his heart.

"That kind of fool I could never have done without," he said impetuously. "If I have ever achieved anything, the credit is to you, my dearest, my dearest——"

He dropped her hand, and abruptly broke his speech.

"What more can I want than to hear you say that?" answered Mary. "Only love me and I can bear anything——"

The King's brilliant eyes rested on her pale but smiling face; he spoke slowly, and his tired voice was hoarse and unequal.

"When I was a boy—a youth—I was so proud, so self-confident.... I remember I thought I was capable of anything—I took my inexperience, my handful of soldiers, into the field against France—against Condé! I had been very much alone, and so learnt reserve that I had almost lost the power of expression—I was also very unhappy—I think I had no support in the world but my pride—I thought God had elected me to be his Captain——"

He paused, but Mary did not speak. Only the little gurgle of the unseen fountain broke perfect stillness.

"I remember," continued William, "the first time I went to Middleburg and heard the people shout for me—and saw the Town Council bowing.... I never had felt so lonely. Twenty years ago—and I have greatly changed, but in a fashion I have kept the vows I made then to God—I have not turned back from defending His Faith—but that was before He pleased to humble me by constant defeat. I was so confident, Marie! Ah, could I recapture that exaltation of the morning it would all be so easy—I felt so glad of what I had to do—but now!"

He raised his hand lightly and lightly let it fall; his profile was towards the Queen now, and his gaze directed towards the English hawthorns that showed above the box hedge of the privy garden.

"But though," he added, "it hath all darkened since then, I think God meant me to go on—for He sent you, my wife ... and you are the one thing that hath never failed me."

She hid her face in her hands, and sat trembling; the little tray of blue beads fell from her lap, and they were scattered over the gravel path.

"If I am not good at gratitude," said the King haltingly—"yet believe me—while you are there I can endure anything. After all, there is nothing in the world for me but you and Holland, and while I have both why should I complain of any difficulties?"

Mary raised her face.

"If I could think I made that difference to you!" she said.

"You have given me the best of life," he answered gravely.

CHAPTER IV

THE SECRET ANGUISH

In that ancient palace called Hampton Court, on the banks of the Thames, the Queen of England walked through the rooms that were rebuilding, and tried to subdue her soul to peace.

The King was at the war in Ireland, and she, with the aid of the nine councillors—men divided by personal spites and party differences—was ruling England through a bitter and desperate crisis.

Mary, a woman and utterly unused to business (though she had always taken an intelligent interest in politics), yet found all these men, on whose wisdom she was supposed to rely, peevish and silly. Marlborough was using her sister to stir up opposition against the Government,—she strongly suspected him, Godolphin, and Russell of having made their peace with King James; Caermarthen she personally disliked; the Crone and Fuller plot had proved to be a widespreading affair, in which there appeared every possibility of her uncles being involved; the country was denuded of troops, and the fleet in disorder; the treasury empty, and the French threatening the Channel.

These were the first few moments of leisure the Queen had known since her husband's departure; she was eager to have Hampton Court ready for his return, and so had come eagerly to see the progress of the rebuilding and alterations.

Here again she was met with difficulties and humiliations. Sir Christopher Wren, the architect, was in want of money, the workmen were unpaid, the contractors refused to deliver any more Portland stone on credit.

Mary had no money, and knew not where to get it; she soothed Sir Christopher as best she could, and desperately resolved that these debts should be paid; the thought of them was an added vexation. She felt there was a kind of meanness in so lacking money, and that the rebuilding of Hampton Court, which had been her one pleasure, was a reproach and a mistake.

M. de Ginckle had written to her from Ireland that they were so straitened in the camp that the King had refused to sign for wine for his own table, and was drinking water with the men.

Mary thought of this passionately as she surveyed the unfinished building the grumblers declared such an unwarranted luxury, and remembered the noble fortune William had lavished on the public cause.

Under some pretence, she slipped away from her ladies and Sir Christopher, and, with a wild longing to be alone, made her way to some of the old deserted Tudor rooms of the palace, opened now for the first time for perhaps fifty years.

In the wing in which Mary found herself there were near a hundred chambers, and she, new to the palace, was soon lost in the maze of apartments.

She was wildly glad to be alone, to drop, for a moment, the mask of composed gaiety that she ever kept over her anxiety.

Door after door she opened, and room after room she traversed, until she reached a little winding stairway that led to a chamber in one of the fine red turrets with the graceful decorated chimney-stacks that Sir Christopher was so calmly destroying.

Stairway and chamber were both covered with thick white dust; the bolts on the door were rusty and loose; there was no furniture save an old rotting chest, rudely carved; but the walls were beautifully panelled with oak in a linen pattern, and the low lancet window disclosed a perfect view.

Mary went straight to it, leant her sick head against the mullions, and gazed over the fair prospect of unkept garden, field, meadow, and river, all shimmering under a July sun. The Thames showed argent gold between banks of willow and alder; stretches of daisies, buttercups, clover, and poppies reached to distant groves of elm, oak, and beech.

In the nearer glades deer wandered in and out of the sweeping shadows, and the air was soft with the whispers of the ringdove.

Such a different England this seemed from that England shown in London, so far removed from war and discord, danger and alarm.

The lonely young Queen felt her own desolation heightened by the solitude; she became almost afraid of the silence.

When she reflected that the person who was everything to her was distant, exposed to many perils, that her father was opposed to him in battle, that the great responsibility of government was intrusted to her, and that she had no one on whom she could rely or even to whom open her heart (for William Bentinck had, after all, been summoned to Holland), she felt a melancholy creep over her spirit that was near despair.

The sun was warm on the sill where her hand rested and on her cheek; she leant a little farther out of the narrow window, that had neither glass nor casement, and fixed her eyes on the pulsing flow of the river.

A little sound behind her caused her to turn quickly with a nervous start.

Before a small worm-eaten inner doorway that she had not noticed stood a comely child of five or six years, gazing at her intently. The colour fluttered into the Queen's face; they stood staring at each other—the woman and the child—as if they were both afraid.

"What are you doing here?" asked Mary coldly, after a second.

The child did not answer; he had as little expected to see this tall young lady in the fine blue gown as she had expected to see him.

"You have no business here," said Mary, in the same tone; "this is private. Go, find your people."

And she turned towards the window again so that she could not see him.

He answered now.

"I have lost my way."

"There are the stairs," said Mary, without looking round. "Go down there, and you will find your way."

There was silence, and she waited a little; then looked over her shoulder to see him still standing there, staring at her.

"Why don't you go?" she asked harshly. "You are not allowed here."

"Yes, ma'am, I am," he replied. "Father said I could go where I liked."

"Who is your father?"

The child laid a delicate finger on the smooth carving of the wall.

"He maketh—these," he explained.

"A carver," said Mary. "Is he working here?"

"Yes, ma'am. We come every day; there is another little boy—you are the mother of the other little boy?" he questioned.

"No," said Mary coldly.

"He isn't here to-day," remarked the child rather sadly. "When he is we go out, because he is a bigger boy than me. If you had been his mother I thought you might have taken me out."

"Your father can take you out."

"Father is working with Master Wren. Do you know Master Wren?"

"Yes."

"He goeth up and down in a basket outside the house. Once I went too, and he held me so tight that it hurt. He is too old to play with."

He came a little farther into the room, eying Mary wistfully. She was stately as well as tall, and the high lace commode she wore, and the stiff arrangement of her heavy curls, further added to her dignity. The child looked at her in some awe.

"Are you cross with me?" he asked gravely.

"No," answered the Queen—"no—but your father will be looking for you—best go and find him."

"I have lost my way," he said, subdued by her coldness. "I was asleep in there." He pointed to the little sunny annexe to the turret from which he had come. "I am glad I met you, ma'am."

"Why?" asked Mary.

The child smiled, in an effort to win her.

"I get frightened when I am alone," he said. "Don't you, ma'am?"

"Sometimes," answered the Queen; she bit her lip and fixed her narrowed brown eyes on the boy; he was fair, and rather delicate, and wore a shabby suit of red tabinet.

He slowly and reluctantly moved towards the narrow dark stairs.

"I wish this house was finished," he said plaintively. "It is so large. The King will live here," he added. "I saw the King talking once to Mr. Wren."

Mary gave him no encouragement to stay, but he still lingered by the rotting door, that swung back against the wall, and looked at her with wide, puzzled eyes.

"I am going now," he said at last; his hands went to his cravat, which was sadly knotted. "Would you tie this for me first? Father don't like me to look untidy."

"Come here," said Mary.

He came at once and stood before her.

"I don't think I can do it," said the Queen unsteadily.

She took hold of the scrap of cambric awkwardly, while he obediently held his head up; but her cold fingers bungled, and the bow was clumsy.

"I can't do it," she murmured.

"You are so tall, ma'am!"

She looked into his upturned face.

"Too tall to be so stupid," she answered, and untied the bow. "Have you a mother?" she asked suddenly, holding his shoulder gently.

"No, ma'am."

"Ah, poor soul!"

She spoke so sadly that he was distressed.

"What is the matter, ma'am?"

"I was thinking of what we both have missed," said Mary gently.

His bright eyes were bewildered. The Queen drew him to the old chest, seated herself there, and again tied the cravat.

"What is your name?" she asked, as she smoothed it.

"James, ma'am—it was the King his name when I was born," he added proudly.

Mary drew a quick breath.

"But you serve King William."

"I know," he answered dutifully. "He is a soldier, father saith. I would like to be a soldier, ma'am."

Mary smiled; though she had done with his cravat she still kept her hands lightly on his shoulder.

"Not a wood-carver?"

He shook his head.

"Father saith, 'Better be a soldier these days—there is no living else,'" he quoted wisely.

"There is time enough to decide," said Mary softly; her ringed right hand timidly caressed his hair, scarcely touching it. "Have you many toys?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you care for them?"

He considered.

"Books," he said, with a little frown, "that you can tear the pictures out of—pictures of fights, ma'am—and blackamoor's teeth."

"What are they?" asked Mary, gazing earnestly at him; she spoke with a catch in her breath.

He put his hand into his pocket and produced several cowrie shells.

"There, ma'am—they come from far away." His eyes glittered. "It would be good to be a sailor, would it not, ma'am?"

"You are a grave child," said Mary; she drew him softly nearer to her, and bent her beautiful pale face near to his. "You pray for the King, do you not?"

"On Sunday, ma'am."

"Pray for him whenever you say your prayers—and for the Queen."

He nodded.

"The poor Queen!" he said.

"Why do you say that?" asked Mary, startled.

"Master Wren said those words—like that—'the poor Queen!' ma'am."

Mary stared at him intently; her arms tightened about him. Suddenly she pressed him up to her bosom, where his little head rested patiently among her thick laces.

"The poor Queen!" she whispered wildly, and drew him closer, till he was half frightened by the force of her embrace and the beating of her heart beneath his cheek.

"Oh, ma'am!" he cried, "I have even dropped the blackamoor's teeth."

She let him go, and watched him with desperate eyes while he searched and recovered the gleaming white shells from the dusty floor.

As he busily sought for one in the shadow of the chest, a soft whistle sounded twice; he sprang to his feet at once.

"That is my father—I must go now, ma'am."

The Queen held out her hands appealingly.

"Will you not kiss me?"

He came obediently and held up his unconscious face.

Mary's lips touched his brow in the saddest salute he was ever like to know. He did not offer to return it, but made a little bow, and so left her. She sat quite still, listening to the sound of his unequal footsteps departing; then she stooped and picked up the shell he had abandoned.

She fancied that it was still warm and moist from his tight clutch, and as she looked at it the tears veiled her eyes and fell on to her trembling palm.