Front matter (continued 7)

The King watched them as they scaled ditches and trenches and palisade, then made a detour round the fire-swept face of the rock to the point the Dutch had been ordered to attack. Splendid soldiers, splendidly commanded, they had already gained the position and with very little loss; the French gunners lay in torn and mangled heaps behind their pieces, which the Dutch were engaged in turning on the garrison.

William now gave orders that his batteries were to be brought in play from every available position, both on the ramparts gained and from every rock and out-work in the possession of the allies. He himself rode through the broken wall and took up his position inside the French palisades, where his horse could scarcely find a footfall for the dead and dying. The air was so full of powder smoke that the walls and turrets of the castle appeared to hang as in a great fog with no visible foundations; the crack of musketry was incessant, and little threads of flame ran across the dark heavy vapour; fragments of rock and wall rolled continually down the slope—dislodged by bombs bursting or the explosion of barrels of gunpowder. But this was as nothing to the cannonade. When the combined batteries of the allies opened on Namur, the oldest soldier could remember no such fire—it was a bombardment such as had never been known in war. The French gunners dropped one after another before they could put their fuses to their pieces, and were obliged to take refuge in their underground galleries; the roar was unceasing, and the continual flames lit up the rocks, the chasms, the bastions with as steady and awful a glare as if the world was on fire.

A body of Dragoons made a gallant sally out on to the glacis, but were swept down to a man before they had advanced a hundred yards. The Dutch, under cover of the French palisades, picked off with musket shot every Frenchman who appeared within range, portions of the walls and curtains began to fall in, the sacking and wattles, put up to catch the bullets, caught fire and flared up through the smoke.

The King could scarcely see his own staff-officers for the glare and harsh blinding vapour. His ears were filled with the lamentations of the mangled and delirious wretches who lay scattered about the glacis, and the sharp screams of the wounded, riderless horses who galloped in their death agony across the ramparts and hurled themselves from the precipices beneath. The King caressed his own animal; the insensibility of his profession had not overcome his love of horses. He never could look with ease at the sufferings of these gallant creatures; for the rest, he was utterly unmoved. He turned his face towards the fires that made many a veteran wince, and there was not the slightest change in his composure save that he was more than ordinarily cheerful, and showed, perhaps, more animation than he had done since the death of his wife. Having satisfied himself that the Dutch had silenced all the French batteries at this point, he rode to the demi-bastion where the Brandenburghers fought the Dragoons in a terrible battle which was resulting in the French being driven back on to the fire of their own guns. Here he drew up his horse on the edge of a fosse that had a cuvette in the middle of it with a covered way along it, from which the French were still firing from platoons and muskets.

The King thrust his baton through the folds of his scarf and laid his hand on the tasseled pistol in his holster; he guided his horse commonly and by choice with his left hand, for his right arm had been shot through twice, at St. Neff and the Boyne, and was less easily fatigued with the sword than the reins. He now looked about him and perceived that his way to the Brandenburghers was completely barred by some traverses to intercept fire, besides by the fosse from the gazons of which the soldiers were firing, and, on the glacis which slopes before it, several gunners were hauling a battery into place; not far behind them a fierce fire was being maintained from a projecting javelin.

The French, lurking in the cuvette, saw the King, and, recognising him by his great star, proceeded to take deliberate aim. He looked round for his staff, whom his impetuous advance had completely out-distanced, then galloped his horse right along the counter-scarp in full range of the enemy's fire. A dozen muskets were aimed at him; he seemed not to notice them, but set his horse at a little fosse that crossed his path, and leapt over the dead French and bloody gazons that filled it. The ground on the other side was so cut, dissected, and strewn with boulders and fragments of rock, that the quivering horse paused, frightened by the shower of bullets, and, not perceiving a foothold, the King slipped out of the saddle without leaving go of the reins, ran along by the horse's head, guiding him through the debris, and mounted again without touching the saddle, a well-known feat of the riding school. He was now almost up to the Brandenburghers, who raised a great shout as they saw him galloping up through the smoke. He rode along the front of their ranks and glanced up at the French crouching on their earth-works waiting for the assault.

The King drew his sword.

"We must get nearer than this," he said to the officer in command. He set spurs to his horse, and, wheeling round, charged straight at the lines of France, the Brandenburghers after him with an irresistible rush.

An officer of Dragoons rose up from his comrades and struck up with his sword at the figure on the huge grey charger. The King leant out of the saddle, parried the thrust with his weapon. The Frenchman, hit by a bullet in the lungs, rolled over with his face towards the citadel; the last thing he saw on earth was the King of England high on the distant heights of Namur with the column of Brandenburghers behind him and before him, through the glare the tattered banner of the Bourbons waving from the keep.

CHAPTER V

A LEADER OF NATIONS

When the late evening fell it was obvious that nothing could save Namur, the allies had advanced a mile on the outworks of the castle. M. de Boufflers sent to request a two days' truce that he might bury the dead who filled fosse and ditch. The King granted it. Before the time expired the Maréchal offered to surrender if he was not relieved in ten days. William at once refused. His terms were instant surrender or instant attack. M. de Boufflers capitulated, terms were speedily agreed upon, the garrison was to go free, the citadel, stores, and arms to be left in possession of the allies.

On the 6th September, under a blazing sun, a maréchal de France, for the first time since France had been a kingdom, delivered up a powerful castle to the enemy. It was the first obvious sign of that tide of fortune that had been steadily setting against France since '88. It meant more even than the conquest of the strongest fortress in the world—it meant that the arms of Louis were no longer invincible.

The garrison, reduced to five thousand, less than half their original number, marched out through the breach made by the guns of the confederate army, which was drawn up in lines of foot and horse that reached to the banks of the glittering Meuse.

The French came with full honours, with the beat of drums and the ensigns erect, but their spirits were heavy with a bitter humiliation. Their reverse was as unexpected as it was tremendous.

M. de Boufflers and his staff came last of the garrison, the Maréchal decked with all the pomp of war, gold encrusted cuirass, silk scarf, orders, a splendid white horse trapped in gilt and crimson, and a blue saddle cloth semé with lilies.

He held his bare sword erect and his face was set sternly. He was exceedingly troubled by the ceremony in which he was about to take part. He would not, and could not, as a subject of King Louis, acknowledge the Prince of Orange as King of England, but it was difficult to treat a victorious general (and certainly a King de facto) with less than respect and retain his own dignity, especially as the astute Frenchman was perfectly well aware that William was King of England and would never be shaken from his throne now in favour of the old man who was wearing Louis' patience thin with his complaints and demands. Moreover Portland had insinuated that the allies would take any slight to William very ill indeed; so, between mortification at his position, his duty to his master, his desire to avoid the ridiculous and not offend the conventions of martial courtesy, the Maréchal was in a perturbed temper indeed. But as he neared the spot where the allied sovereign awaited him, even his dilemma was forgotten in his curiosity to see the man who filled so tremendous a part in the world, who for twenty years had withstood France, who had risen to absolute power in his own country, who had gained two kingdoms by diplomacy and a third by conquest, who was the soul of a huge coalition and one of the greatest soldiers in Europe, the man who was always spoken of in Paris with hatred and some fear, as an upstart, a usurper, a heretic, one who had broken through sacred family ties for the sake of personal ambition, and stirred Europe into a turmoil to obtain a crown.

This feeling was shared by every officer behind him. They were all eager to see the Prince whom they had learnt from King James to regard as a pitiless, cold self-seeker, and from Louis as a royal adventurer unscrupulous and impudent.

Not far from the castle the commanders of the allied forces were drawn up, the German Princes, the representatives of Spain and the Northern States and the United Provinces on horseback, and near them, in a calash, or light open travelling coach, the King of England.

M. de Boufflers reined up his horse a few paces away; a handsome young gentleman with a very proud carriage, wearing a scarlet cloak, was the foremost of the group. M. de Boufflers knew him for Maximilien of Bavaria.

The garrison came on slowly past the four black coach horses held by footmen wearing the livery of England, until the Maréchal found himself face to face with the occupant of the coach and the Elector who sat his horse immediately beside the door.

There was a pause of silence; M. de Boufflers went pale under the eyes, and looked with the irresistible attraction of great curiosity at the man in the coach, who was surrounded by these brilliant and immovable escorts of princely horsemen.

He had heard the person of this Prince often described, and common report had drawn a picture of him familiar to the minds of men, but he found the original totally different, though there were the salient characteristics, the frail stature, the strongly marked features, the brilliant eyes, so well known throughout Europe.

But the swift and general impression he made was entirely other to what the Frenchman had expected. He saw a gentleman with an extraordinary air of stillness and repose, dressed richly and rather heavily in black and gold, wearing the George and the Ribbon of the Garter, but no other decoration, and a hat with black feathers cocked back from his face; he wore a long neck-cloth of Flanders lace, the ends of which were drawn through the buttonholes of his brocade waistcoat, after the English fashion. He sat leaning a little towards M. de Bavaria, and held in his right hand a cane with a gold top.

There was something in his expression, his bearing, wholly unlooked for by M. de Boufflers, who could put no name to it, but thought, in a confused way, that he had never seen a man whose principal occupation was war appear less of a soldier.

The King, without moving, fixed his dark, flashing eyes on the Frenchman, and smiled, almost imperceptibly.

M. de Boufflers performed the salute of the sword; he lowered his weapon, not directly at the King, but it was too high an honour for the Elector, and William alone bent his head in acknowledgment.

The silence was profound as the gleaming weapon was returned to its sheath. M. de Boufflers drew his breath unsteadily. He would go no further; he spoke to the Prince to avoid the royal terms of address.

"Your Highness, I must congratulate you upon your good fortune though it is my own ill luck—but I must console myself that I have held even Namur three months against such an army and such generals."

The Elector uncovered and, turning to the King, repeated with profound respect what the Maréchal had said.

William touched his hat in a formal salute silently. M. de Boufflers coloured with vexation. The deference of the Elector, so much his own superior, made his own attitude, he thought, appear ridiculous, but he haughtily maintained it.

"I surrender to Your Highness the keys of the Castle of Namur," he said, and handed them with a bow to the Elector, who at once presented them to the King.

"Sire," said M. de Bavaria, very lowly, "M. de Boufflers has the honour to request me to present to Your Majesty the keys of Namur."

William took them and again saluted.

"I, with Your Majesty's permission, will inform M. de Boufflers that Your Majesty is satisfied that the terms of the capitulation are fulfilled?"

"Yes, Highness," answered William gravely, but still (as M. de Boufflers was supremely conscious), with that slight smile.

"His Majesty," said the Elector, "is pleased to compliment you, monsieur, upon your gallant defence of the citadel."

"I thank Your Highness," answered the Maréchal, colouring deeply. Neither he nor his officers could altogether conceal their astonishment and vexation at seeing the proudest Princes of Germany treat William of Orange with as great a deference as his meanest courtiers used to their own master.

"We need not detain you, monsieur," said the Electoral Prince.

M. de Boufflers bowed over his saddle and passed on, his staff officers behind him, all riding at the salute as they passed the allied Sovereigns.

When the last had gone, William, who had never taken his eyes from the cavalcade, spoke to M. Dyckfelt who rode close to the carriage.

"Mynheer," he said, "you will inform M. de Boufflers that he is our prisoner until the garrisons of Dixmuyde and Deynse are released."

M. Dyckfelt departed with a body of Dutch cavalry, and, as the King drove off, he could hear the indignant exclamations of the French officers as the Maréchal was asked to deliver up his sword. The King drove to his tent across the town of Namur, which was like a barracks and a battlefield for soldiers and wounded. His bodyguard of princes raised a fine cloud of white dust from the dry roads, the air was still foul with the smell of powder and burning buildings, the sun burnt in the acrid heavens with a sheer cloudless heat that seemed to draw all freshness and moisture out of the earth, even the two great rivers had a hard, molten look in the glare as if they were lead, not water.

The commanders of the confederacy dined with the King; the tent was hot, but shaded from the intolerable glare by three poor scorched chestnut trees that cast a meagre shadow over the canvas.

The Electoral Prince sat at the King's right, the Earl of Portland at his left, and, for the first time, Joost van Keppel was at the King's table, an honour that was not grudged by any of the potentates, for the young soldier was exceedingly popular, being amiable, generous, sweet tempered, and deferential, but Portland marked it with a bitter heart.

William, seated in a vermeil armchair, wearing his hat, and treated by the others as if they were no more than his subjects, gave the toast—"The allied army"—in a whisper to the Elector, who passed it round the table. It was drunk in silence, and the long meal, served on gold and crystal, began.

The King spoke hardly at all, save to utter a few sentences to Portland, who received them coldly, and the others were, out of deference, silent, all being, indeed, too elated with their recent great success (the greatest they had achieved during the war), and too occupied in their own thoughts with what this would mean to their several interests, to care for speech.

When the meal was nearly over, M. Dyckfelt came to say that M. de Boufflers, after protesting violently, had delivered up his sword and returned to Namur as a prisoner of the allies.

"We will send him to Huy until we receive the two garrisons," said William languidly, "though I doubt that we put too high a price on M. de Boufflers."

"His Master," remarked M. de Vaudemont, "must redeem him even at a higher rate."

"Ah, cousin," answered the King, "His Majesty will return the men for pride's sake."

"And there is the English post in," said M. Dyckfelt, "all in a reek from skirting Villeroy's forces."

"Why must you remind me of England?" asked William.

Portland interposed quickly—

"Surely you will return almost immediately? Is this not a good juncture to call a parliament?"

"This is not a good season to discuss politics." The King administered his reproof in the gentlest manner, but Portland, with a curt bow, instantly set down his glass, rose, and left the tent. William flushed, and a kind of tremor ran through the company. They thought that the King would not take this even from Portland.

But, after a second, he turned to the Prince de Vaudemont.

"My cousin," he said quietly, "will you go after my lord and persuade him that he is unreasonable?"

The princes glanced at each other covertly as M. de Vaudemont obeyed. M. van Keppel coloured violently; he knew perfectly well who Portland's wrath was directed against, but his anger was not personal but for his master thus openly slighted.

The King sat silent, drinking slowly and looking down at the damask cloth. In a few moments M. de Vaudemont returned alone.

It seemed almost incredible that Portland should refuse to return when sent for by the King and by such a messenger; William looked up.

"Sire," said M. de Vaudemont, "M. de Portland asks your Majesty to excuse his attendance."

The King made no answer; he was outwardly composed, but the Elector, glancing at his face, guessed that his triumph was as nothing to him compared to the coldness of his friend. M. de Hesse broke the silence.

"M. de Kohorn lost his bet after all!" he remarked; "until this moment I had forgotten it."

"I am a hundred pistoles the richer," answered the Elector, glad of the discussion, "and yet I thought to lose—it was the victory of a few hours only."

William suddenly laughed.

"Gentlemen," he said, slightly raising his glass, "I give you the loser of that wager and the man who took Namur—Baron Menno Kohorn."

CHAPTER VI

THE KING'S AGENT

In a fine dark room of a mansion in London, three men sat in attitudes of bewildered trouble and despair, and a fourth, standing by a table of highly polished walnut wood, looked at them with a white, bitter face.

It was August of 1696, and exactly a year since the fall of Namur had induced France to consent to open negotiations for a peace. A Congress sat now at Ryswick, but with at present little hope of immediate success. The King was again with the troops in Flanders, and England was face to face with the most momentous crisis in her history. There was, literally, not enough money to carry on the Government.

When the King had returned from the last campaign, he had supported Somers and Montague in the recoinage scheme, by which the mutilated and clipped money of the realm was to be reminted; the plan was so daring as to frighten most of the King's advisers, but Montague, having secured a certain Isaac Newton as master of the Mint, proceeded to put his plans into execution with skill and address. He was also largely responsible for the scheme of the Bank of England, which, after paying a million and a half for its charter, had enjoyed the confidence of the Government until Robert Harley and Foley revived Chamberlayne's wild project of a Land Bank. The King, anxious for money to commence the campaign and carry on the government during his absence, had passed an Act before he prorogued Parliament, establishing the Land Bank, which was to advance him two and a half millions at seven per cent.

The Tories declared that their scheme would soon ruin the earlier bank; Charles Montague thought so too, though he and most other thoughtful observers were certain that the Land Bank was an unpractical conception, a mere delusion. But the country was not with them; the country gentlemen, Whig and Tory, believed they saw an infallible way of obtaining riches, the King wanted the money too much to inquire into the means that produced it, and the Land Bank appeared to flourish while the Bank of England tottered and showed every sign of ultimate failure.

The Directors found it impossible to redeem the paper money that they had put in circulation, and that malice or necessity demanded the payment of. There was scarcely any money to be had; the mint worked day and night to turn out the new milled coin, but the moment it appeared it was hoarded by the panic-stricken public. The paper money fluctuated in value so as to be almost useless, stock jobbers caused constant scares on the Exchange, credit was paralysed, and the country was only held together by Montague's device of exchequer bills bearing a small rate of interest.

The discovery of the assassination plot and the Jacobite schemes of invasion had strengthened the King's position at home and made him as popular as he had been in '88, but it had resulted in the recall of the fleet from the Mediterranean, the renewed supremacy of the French in those waters, and the instant defection of the Duke of Savoy, thus causing the first rift in the coalition that William's unwearied skill had maintained against the arts of Louis for seven years.

He was now powerless to bribe or threaten. Early in the war Kohorn and Athlone had burnt the huge stores that Louis had built with vast expense at Givet, and France had staggered under the blow, but William was helpless to take advantage of it. The treachery of the Duke of Savoy, the state of the English finances, the general exhaustion of the allies, caused M. de Caillières, the French representative at Ryswick, to change his tone, go back from the pledge he had given that William should be recognised by Louis, and propound arrogant terms.

Meanwhile the letters from the King became desperate; only his personal influence kept the army, which was literally starving, together. He had pledged his private fortune and strained his private credit in the United Provinces as far as he could.

And the subscription list of the Land Bank at Exeter 'Change remained blank; only a few hundreds had been added to the five thousand contributed by the King as an example.

William even authorized the summoning of Parliament during his absence; but the ministers dare not risk this expedient. He then sent Portland to London to represent to the Council of Regency that something must be devised to raise money, or, in his own words to Shrewsbury, "All is lost, and I must go to the Indies."

It was Portland who now faced the three ministers in Shrewsbury's rich withdrawing-room.

These three were the Lord Keeper, Godolphin, the one Tory in the Council, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, and Shrewsbury himself, now again Secretary of State, and as devoted to the Government as if he had never, in an hour of weakness, tampered with St. Germains; he was, perhaps, of the seven Lords Justices now governing England, the one most liked and trusted by the King.

Portland's usual slowness of speech and manner had given way to an animated vigour.

"The King must have money," he said, "at any cost—from anywhere; those were my last instructions, and, gentlemen, there is more than even the army at stake; it is the whole reputation, the whole credit, nay, the whole existence of England."

Even the lofty-minded Somers, whose courage had dared the Recoinage Bill, was silenced; his lined, haggard, and bloodless face was frowning with anxiety.

Godolphin, even at this crisis contained and self-effacing, though looking downcast and sombre, fixed his eyes on Portland blankly.

Shrewsbury, emotional, overstrung, and harassed, broke into speech, flushing painfully from red to white as he spoke, the Colberteen lace on his bosom rising and falling with his unsteady breath.

"We can only obtain forty thousand pounds from the Land Bank subscriptions, and then under pressure and on hard terms," he cried.

All the company knew this, but my lord was apt to waste words. Portland looked at him in some disgust.

"Forty pence would be as useful," he said dryly. "Come, my lords, this Land Bank scheme has ended in failure; but is there no alternative to declaring England bankrupt?"

"By Heaven, I can see nothing else to do," returned Shrewsbury; "but, since anything is better than lying down under misfortune, I have put some hopes on to these negotiations with the Bank of England."

But it might be read from his tone that these hopes of succour from that almost defunct institution were faint indeed.

Portland began walking up and down the room; he was resolved, if it was within the bounds of possibility, to obtain this money; he had spent many weary hours trying to screw out of Harley and Foley even half the sum they had talked of raising, and it had been so much waste time. The commission had expired a week ago, the offices in Exeter 'Change were closed, and Portland was no nearer the object of his journey. There remained now only the Bank of England, which had only been saved from bankruptcy by a call of twenty per cent. on its shareholders, and Portland could see no bright prospects from an institution, half ruined, whose directors were in an ill humour against the Government, and barely able to hold their own in the present crisis.

He stopped at last before Shrewsbury, and clasped the back of the chair beside him; his fair face was set, his blue eyes hard and bright. Perhaps he was the more resolute to do the King this service since he was deeply offended with him personally on account of Joost van Keppel's rise to favour, and their long and deep friendship had reached a crisis that could scarcely end in anything but a final severance of their affection.

"I will not return to Flanders without the money," he declared sombrely; "it must be found; if this Bank faileth Parliament must be called."

Shrewsbury answered in desperate peevishness—

"I have done all I could—I have been almost on my knees to the dictators—I am baited out of my life! By God, I would sooner be a hangman or a butcher than a statesman!"

A silence of despair fell over the little company. Godolphin wiped his lips, and looked out of the window at the sun-baked street; he was wondering, with a sick sense of personal failure, what would happen to him if king, government, and country crashed on ruin. Somers was equally silent, but his thoughts were far different; he would have made any sacrifice in his power to save the kingdom from disaster.

They were interrupted by an usher announcing, "Mr. Charles Montague." A little movement of interest animated them all. Portland turned wide, expectant eyes on the new-comer; his plain common sense was quick to discern genius; he had recognized it of late in the Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had recognized it years ago in his master.

Mr. Montague advanced slowly, and seemed to enjoy the stir his coming made; it was obvious that he considered the brilliant success of his career entirely due to his own gifts—an opinion his colleagues considered as unamiable as it was correct.

He was a little man, and walked with a strutting air; his clothes were of the utmost extravagance of fashion, and glistened with gold and silver thread; his peruke was curled and powdered elaborately; and in the hat he held in his hand was a small flashing mirror among the feathers—the last whim of the mode; but there was a pride and containment in his sharp features, a power and purpose in his keen eyes, that overshadowed any fopperies of dress.

He began speaking at once, and abruptly, but with much grace in the delivery.

"My lords, I am just come from the directors of the Bank. I have been closeted with them all day, and they have promised me they will do what they can. I asked for two hundred thousand pounds. I told them it was the very least there was any use in offering to His Majesty. And I told them it must be in gold or silver"—he waved his hand—"no paper, I said, for Flanders."

He seated himself, with another flourishing gesture, on the chair near Portland. Under all his affectations was noticeable a deep pride and satisfaction; the Bank on which everything now depended was his scheme; that of his rival, Harley, had ended in dismal failure. He felt that his brilliant career would be more brilliant still if his project saved the Government now.

"Two hundred thousand!" said Shrewsbury forlornly. The Land Bank had promised two and a half million, and the King's last entreaty had been for eight hundred thousand; but Portland caught even at this.

"It would be something," he said; "it would cover His Majesty's most pressing wants——"

"It is all," answered Mr. Montague, "that I dare ask for—in hard money—at such a time."

"We are fortunate if we obtain it," remarked Somers. "Is it promised?"

"No, Sir John," admitted the Chancellor; "for they cannot do it without another call of twenty per cent. on their subscribers, and they may not decide that themselves, but must submit it to the vote in a general court——"

"Why," interrupted the Duke, "there must be six hundred with a right to vote at such a meeting!"

"About that number, I think, your Grace," said Mr. Montague.

"Why, good-bye then to our hopes of even this beggarly sum!" cried Shrewsbury. "Are six hundred likely to agree to lending even sixpence to the Government?"

"Beggarly sum!" repeated Mr. Montague. "My Lord Portland here can tell you what long debate and diplomacy it took to secure even the promise of that amount——"

"Yes, I know, Mr. Montague," answered the Earl grimly; "and I think the sum worth any sacrifice. We must have it. Could you have seen His Majesty, gentlemen, as I left him at Attere, surrounded by starving troops on the verge of mutiny, sending off agents to endeavour to raise a few thousands on his word in Amsterdam, you would not consider two hundred thousand paltry."

He spoke with a personal emotion that surprised the Englishmen, who believed that his relations with the King were painfully strained. They respected him for his loyalty, though none of them had ever liked him, and Somers at least gave him a quiet look of sympathy.

Shrewsbury broke out into half-hysterical petulance.

"Why are we doing it all? What use is there in any of it? We might as well give it up now as afterwards. I confess that I have not the health or spirit to endure more of it."

Mr. Montague smiled; he knew perfectly well the motive behind every action he undertook, and what was the object of his labours. The younger son of a younger son, and ten years ago a Poor Scholar at Cambridge, he was now one of the greatest men in the Three Kingdoms, and able to confer benefits on the Crown.

"There is no living in the world on any other terms than endurance," he remarked complacently, "and a financier, your Grace, must learn to face a crisis."

"The good God knoweth I am not one," returned the Duke gloomily.

"When is the general court to be held?" asked Portland; his one thought to get the money from these men somehow, and return with it to the desperate King.

"On the fifteenth," said the Chancellor, "and I have sufficient faith in the patriotism of the shareholders to believe they will stand by His Majesty."

Godolphin, who had been so silent hitherto that his presence was scarcely noticed, spoke now from the window-seat.

"You have done us a great service, Mr. Montague. I think we should all be very grateful."

This came gracefully from a member of that Tory party that had supported Harley's bank. Mr. Montague bowed, very gratified; my lord had that soft way of conciliating possible enemies with outspoken courtesy.

Portland made no such speeches; he considered it only the bare duty of the English to adequately support the King, whose life, ever since his accession, had been one struggle to obtain money from the English Parliament.

He took up his hat and saluted the company.

"I must endure with what patience I may till the fifteenth," he said, and left them gravely.

He went out into the sunny streets of London, and turned towards the Mall. There was no coach waiting for him; he was frugal in his habits to a fault, and uninterested in any kind of display. No one would have taken him for anything but a soldier home from Flanders, tanned at the wars—an obvious foreigner with a stiff military carriage.

The town was very empty. The state of anxiety, suspense, and danger the country was passing through was not to be guessed at from the well-kept houses, the few leisurely passers-by, and the prosperous shops with their wares displayed behind neat diamond panes.

Portland, passing the pillared façade of Northumberland House and the bronze statue of Charles I. on horseback, came into the Mall, past the tennis-court and archery butts, where several people were practising, to the pond covered with wild fowl and overshaded with elm and chestnut that gave a thick green colour to the water. To his right was a row of handsome houses looking on to the avenue of trees in the Mall, and at most of the windows people were seated; for it was near the turn of the afternoon, and a pleasant coolness began to temper the heat of the day.

Portland looked at these people: fashionably dressed women, with lap dogs or embroidery, drinking tea or talking; easy-looking men smoking or reading one of the new sheets which had flooded the country since the lapse of the censorship of the press—all comfortable, well-to-do, self-satisfied, and rather insolent in their enjoyment of the sunshine, and the shadow of the trees, and their own comfortable homes.

William Bentinck seated himself on a bench under one of the great elms; he felt bitter towards these people—towards England; he came near to hating the country even as they hated him; he had a swift impression that these lazy, prosperous citizens were the real masters, and he, and his friends, and the King, little better than slaves.

He looked at the women and recalled the poor Queen, who had had scarce half an hour's ease since she had set foot on the quay by the Tower; who had toiled and kept a brave face and a high heart, and done everything that duty demanded of her—and for what reward?—to be reviled, abused, slighted and, finally, to die of one of the hideous diseases the great city engendered, and be forgotten in the changeable factions that continued their quarrels even before she was in her grave.

He looked at the men, and thought of the last letter from the King he carried in his pocket; he saw some of the lines in it as if the paper was spread before him—"I am in greater distress for money than can well be imagined. I hope God will help instead of abandoning me; but indeed it is hard not to lose all courage." It seemed to Portland that Shrewsbury was right. What was the use of any of it?—what goad kept them all at their tasks? What was the aim of all this incredible labour, endeavour, fatigue, courage, and patience?

Did the King endure what he was enduring that these people might make knots, and drink tea, and sun themselves on the Mall in peace?

Did he, William Bentinck, who was fond of gardening, and a quiet life, and his own country, spend his life between war and exile, conflict and distasteful company, that the boys in the tennis-courts might play their games and laugh and shout as much as they wished?

If it were so, the objects seemed miserable compared to the labour.

But there was something more behind it all; Portland could not put a name to it; he supposed that one day God would explain.

CHAPTER VII

THE BANK OF ENGLAND

The Lord Justices who formed the Council of Regency were, with the exception of my Lord of Canterbury, waiting, on this momentous 15th of August, in the long gallery leading out of the Council Chamber in Whitehall.

Several other great men were there also; Sunderland, Romney, Wharton, the Duke of Leeds—still, by the King's clemency, nominally Lord President, though he had, since his disgrace over the East India scandal, none of the honours or powers of that position, and was indeed no more than a cipher where he had once been all-powerful—Marlborough—who, since the Queen's death, vigorously supported Government, while he waited with serene patience for the death of William and the accession of the Princess his mistress—Admiral Russell, and Portland, all filled by that anxiety that so nearly touched every one of them—would the Bank of England raise the money to carry on the government until Parliament met on the King's return?

There were two women present—Lady Sunderland, who was talking to Lord Romney, and Elizabeth Villiers, now Lady Orkney, conversing with much animation with Lord Sunderland. Portland observed her with very strong dislike. Though she was his first wife's sister he had never been in the least intimate with her; he could not forgive her the influence she had gained and exerted over William, who had taken her advice and consulted her opinion often enough when she had first come with Mary to The Hague. The usual tale-bearing, back-biting, mischief-making, and scandal had stopped this friendship, but not before her wit and intelligence had proved of great service to the Stadtholder, who, as Portland knew, had continued to employ her in delicate negotiations, even after he became King; and though she and William had scarcely seen each other for many years, Portland believed that she still used an oblique influence through Sunderland, with whom she had formed a close friendship, which Portland considered very typical of Elizabeth Villiers.

He suspected her of being in some deep intrigue to supplant him by Joost van Keppel, towards whom his feelings were now near hatred. He knew that she had never liked him, and she was quite well aware that he had again and again told the King it was undignified to employ a woman in his affairs, and had even opposed the title and estates given to her husband on her marriage. Portland heard the tales this gave rise to if the King did not; Portland was vexed by the revival of old scandals if Lady Villiers was not; he loathed the woman and resented her presence here to-day.

As he continued to stare at her across the splendid gallery, she suddenly looked round at him, gave Sunderland a quick sentence, and to Portland's equal surprise and vexation crossed over to him.

"It is a long time since we have met," she said, and gave one of her straight smiles.

She was dressed in violet and silver, and wore a great Indian scarf about her shoulders as if it were cold, instead of August.

"I have been too employed to wait on your ladyship," answered Portland.

She took no notice of that, but said abruptly—

"How did you leave the King?"

"As much at ease as a man in his position could be," said the Earl grimly.

Lady Orkney did not look at Portland, but rather absently down the room.

"He must be fairly weary of it all," she replied. "Do you think," she added rather sharply, "he hath recovered from the death of the Queen?"

"No, madam, nor will he ever," said my lord sternly.

"How you dislike me!" cried Lady Orkney softly. "And I would have been a good friend to you if you would have let me—believe me"—she looked at him full now—"I would never do an ill turn to one of the King's friends."

"What is this, madam?" he asked haughtily.

"Oh, you understand," she answered. "You know that M. van Keppel is a friend of mine, and you have tried to do him ill offices—I tell you that you have no cause—Joost van Keppel will harm nobody. Let him be."

Portland was silent in sheer disdain. Elizabeth Villiers fixed him with her queer eyes; her pronounced cast was very noticeable.

"You should not dislike me," she said, "because I sometimes help the King—Joost van Keppel will help him too, even in such follies as courtesy and an obliging temper—a sweet reverence might mean much to a broken man—consider that, my lord."

He answered brusquely.

"I consider that Joost van Keppel is a worthless young rake-hell, and that those who push him into His Majesty's favour can have only mean motives."

"You certainly do not understand," she said quietly.

A sudden thought flashed to Portland.

"Was it you, my lady," he asked, "who put Sunderland to bring van Keppel forward with his tale of Namur when the King was sick?"

"Have you only just guessed it?" she answered.

"I might have known it was a woman's trick," he said bitterly. "What made you think of such a device?"

She smiled and made no answer.

"And why did you employ M. van Keppel?" added Portland.

"Because," said Lady Orkney, "he was of the age the King's son might have been."

Portland stared.

"A woman's trick, you see." She smiled. "Women think of these things—do not consider me as a vulgar intriguer, even if you cannot understand, and let M. van Keppel be—I think he will console the King a little."

"I, at least, am above your devices and those of my Lord Sunderland," he answered roughly.

Lady Orkney replied, still smiling, but with infinite sadness—

"Could you see into my heart you would know that I am not so happy but that you might spare me."

She gave a little courtsey and left him. He watched her return to the window and look out at the alleys and parterres of the privy garden.

He had been a little confused, but in no way appeased by her conversation. She had confessed that she and Sunderland were behind van Keppel, towards whom his thoughts turned with added dislike; then he tried to banish consideration of all three of them, and to fix his mind on the money he must obtain for the King.

Devonshire (the Lord Steward), Pembroke (Keeper of the Privy Seal), and Dorset (the Lord Chamberlain), were talking apart, and Portland joined them.

Pembroke informed him that Montague had gone down to the General Meeting of the Bank of England and had promised to return immediately with the news of the result of the Directors' proposition to the Company.

"If these hopes vanish," said Devonshire gloomily, "what are we to turn to next?"

"A Parliament and taxes," answered Dorset concisely.

"Oh, my lord," cried Pembroke, "Mr. Locke will tell you that is bad finance."

"Mr. Locke is a philosopher," remarked Dorset good-humouredly.

"Good God, we get choked with 'em," remarked the magnificent Devonshire. "Now Montague hath brought Mr. Newton into the Mint and Somers is always deep with Mr. Locke——"

"And my Lord Portland," cried Dorset, with the irrepressible levity of his class and nation, "deep with a poet for his secretary."

"As for that same poet," said Portland gravely, "I tell you, my lord, that he now goeth to Church, and will not write profane verses on a Sabbath."

"A triumph indeed for the godliness of your lordship," said Devonshire demurely.

"Is this poor Matt Prior?" asked Dorset. "His verses on the taking of Namur were very neat."

"I did not read them," answered Portland dryly. "I never could endure poetry or play-acting—the King is plagued with enough to paper London."

"I remember in The Hague," smiled Devonshire, "when His Majesty was expecting a promise of money from Amsterdam by every post, and I took in a letter which I thought was it—but which proved to be a copy of verses on his safe crossing from England, with a fresh heathen god in every line—His Majesty's curses were powerful for a Christian Prince—and he declared it had given him a distaste for the very sight of poetry."

Dorset laughed; he remembered the occasion also as the only one on which he had heard violent language from the austere King. Portland was disgusted that they could amuse themselves with these recollections during such anxious moments; it was only another proof, he thought, of the shallowness of the English politicians. And even these anecdotes turned on the King's lack of money; it must be six years since Devonshire was at The Hague, and William was still in the same straits. Portland wondered if the time would ever come when he would be free of these burdens, and doubted it.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer entered the gallery, and instantly everybody formed a little group about him, including the two ladies, to whom he gave a flourishing and gallant greeting.

"I must tell you," he said, in a voice and with a manner that strove to be indifferent, yet with a face flushed with pride, "that the money hath been subscribed to His Majesty."

Portland drew a great breath of relief.

"Promised," continued Montague, "in gold and silver, which will be ready to be packed up and taken to Flanders to-morrow."

"How was this accomplished?" asked Devonshire. "I hardly thought, this cruel year, they could do it."

"Thank God they have," murmured Shrewsbury; "for if this had failed I know not what we should have done."

"Your Grace," answered Mr. Montague, "when I lent my support to this Bank I did not think it was likely to be a failure. Yet I must confess that I had some misgivings to-day when I entered the General Court—there was my Lord Mayor in the chair, looking as gloomy as need be, and six hundred or more of the company, all thrifty merchants. Sir John got up and read the speech composed by the Directors and sat down again in none too easy a frame of mind, it seemed, and a great hum went up from the subscribers, and you might see them turning to each other and whispering, but making no kind of public response; then up sprang Sir John again, and implored them stand by the King—at which one rose and said, 'We desire nothing more than to oblige His Majesty, but it is a hard thing to ask for gold these times, and our notes of hand should be good enough.' 'Nothing but gold is any use to His Majesty in Flanders,' declared Sir John. 'I am asking you for this sacrifice for nothing less than the preservation of the kingdoms, otherwise I could not in conscience do it.' At last, after some murmuring, it was put to the vote, and all held up their hands for sending the money, and Sir John came to me all in a tremble, and hoped I would remember that the Bank had saved the Government—he said it had been as anxious an hour as he was ever like to have in his life. At hearing the resolution of the Bank, several gentlemen, who had been waiting without, came in to buy shares, and several thousand pounds' worth were subscribed before I left."

At the conclusion of this speech Mr. Montague looked round his company with an air of conscious satisfaction. Portland had gone to write this news off to the King, caring indeed for nothing but the sheer fact that he could return to Attere immediately with the money, but the others, including even the feeble, disgraced Leeds, had listened with eager interest.

"Well done," cried Lady Orkney. "Mr. Montague, you are a miracle of wit—and I am going to follow the example of these same gentlemen and purchase stock in this Bank of yours."

"So am I," declared Devonshire. "I will send my agent down there to-night, sir, the service it hath done cannot be overestimated."

In a breath every Minister in the room had promised to show the same instance of attachment to the institution that had saved the Government, and when the energetic young Chancellor left Whitehall the congratulations of the whole Council of Regency were ringing in his ears.

He entered his smart coach and drove straight to the Mint, where men were working day and night at the milled money which he and his friend Mr. Newton were turning out at the rate of a hundred and twenty thousand a week. Fifteen thousand was the highest amount the former master of the Mint had declared it was possible to produce in that time, but Mr. Newton had done the incredible in reforming the Mint. It was to his apartments Charles Montague went now, twirling his cane and fluttering his laces.

The Warden of His Majesty's Mint and Exchanges and Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge was a gentleman a little past middle life, of a very refined aristocratic appearance, with an air of extraordinary calm and stillness.

He wore a murrey-coloured coat, a small grey peruke, and a little brooch of rubies in a plain lace cravat. When Mr. Montague entered he was seated at a table covered with a multitude of papers. He looked up instantly; his delicate features expressed a very winning composed dignity.

"I wished to speak to you about the new Mint at Chester, Mr. Newton," said the Chancellor; his manner was totally different from that he had used to the Ministers at Whitehall.

"Another Mint, yes, Mr. Montague," answered the Warden, in the same grave tone. "Those at York and Norwich have been very popular, but I fear we have not enough trained men to spare yet—though I am having them taught as fast as may be."

"I want more than will suffice for Chester," said the Chancellor briskly. "I thought of York and Exeter as likely stations."

He seated himself by the window and looked out on the pleasant prospect of the sunny river and glistening roofs.

"The people take it very well," he added. "One could not have hoped to pass through the crisis better; there is a good temper and a good sense shown very gratifying."

"Why, yes," said Mr. Newton; "but one may always look for both from the English."

A servant entered with a letter, which he glanced at and laid down with a gentle little sound of displeasure.

"What is that?" asked Mr. Montague.

"Oh, 'tis from Flamsteed; he is ever dunning me to go see his observatory at Greenwich—he cannot believe that there is anything in the world more important than stars, nor that I do not love to be teased with mathematical things when I am about the King's business."

Mr. Montague glanced at the astronomer's sealed letter.

"Speaking of the King's business," he remarked, "the Bank of England hath promised to advance the two hundred thousand for the troops in Flanders."

Mr. Newton looked up quickly.

"Why, I am glad of that. Sir, this is a great thing—it will greatly raise the credit of the Bank."

"I think," replied the young Chancellor, "without vanity, that the Bank of England is an institution that will live."

CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING FRIENDSHIP

Two men were riding side by side through the forest of Soignies; before and behind them was a great army. It was a May night, with the moon full overhead and casting long shadows from the tall, dark, motionless trees. News had been received at the camp the evening before that the French were threatening Brussels, and the confederate army was marching to save the Capital.

These two men who rode in the centre were alone, though part of such an immense force; for the Dutch guards, who marched before and behind them were several yards distant; they were both wrapped in long military cloaks. One, who was the King-Stadtholder, the commander of the allies, was mounted on a white horse; the other, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland, rode a great brown steed. The King was speaking very earnestly, in a lowered voice suited to the hush of the warm night and the solemnity of the long denies they traversed.

"I must tell you of the dispatch I received from my Lord Devonshire. I had scarcely received it before we broke camp, or I had told you before. This John Fenwick, the Jacobite, hath made a cunning confession, designed to put the Government into a confusion. He accuseth Godolphin, Shrewsbury, Marlborough, and Russell of being deep with St. Germains."

Portland made no answer.

"It was," continued the King, "no news to me, as you know."

"What have you done?" asked the Earl.

"I have done nothing yet. I shall write to Devonshire ordering the trial of this Fenwick to proceed."

"And for these lords?"

"I shall affect to disbelieve this evidence," answered William. "And Shrewsbury, at least, I shall assure of my trust."

"And so traitors flourish!"

There was silence for awhile, only broken by the jingle of the harness, the fall of the horses' feet, and the tramp of the army before and behind. The faces of the two men were hidden from each other; they could only discern outline of horse and figure as the moonlight fell between the elms and oaks.

The King spoke again.

"I have learnt to be tolerant of treason. These men serve me—even Marlborough—instruments all of them! And Shrewsbury I ever liked. I will not have him put out for this."

"You will even let them remain in office?"

"Surely," answered the King, "it would be beneath me to stoop to vengeance? And what else would this be? Both policy and kindness dictate to me this course."

Portland's voice came heavily out of the morning shadows.

"You are too lenient to every sort of fault. These men do not even know you spare them—they think you are fooled. Marlborough will laugh at you."

"What doth that matter if he serveth my turn? He is a villain, but a great man—he should be useful to England."

The King spoke in strained, weary accents, and with, it seemed, but little interest.

"Besides," he added, "I do not believe half of what Fenwick saith."

Portland retorted sharply.

"You did not believe the assassination plot itself until I produced Prendergrass, who had heard them discuss who was to fire the bullet on Turnham Green."

The King answered simply—

"One becometh so well used to these attempts, I should have been dead ten times if assassins could have done it. That was not the way ordained."

"I hope," said Portland dryly, "that your clemency will be rewarded. I, for one, could well wish to see these traitors come to their punishment—yea, and such men as Sunderland——"

William interrupted.

"I hope they will leave me Sunderland—I could ill do without him. But I hear he is likely to be pressed hard in the Commons."

"I cannot wonder," returned Portland, "but only at you who continue to employ such a man."

The King did not answer at once. The moon was sinking and taking on a yellow colour, the shadows were fainter and blended one with another, the trunks, branches, and clustering leaves of the great trees began to show dimly against a paling sky; there was a deep stir of freshness in the still air, the perfume of grass, bracken, and late violets. The steady, unbroken tramp of the great army seemed to grow louder with the first lifting of the night; the men, in ranks of not more than four, could be seen defiling through the yet dark forest.

The King spoke, looking ahead of him.

"Of late I can do nothing to please you," he said in a whisper. "It is not pleasant to me to have this growing coldness."

"Your Majesty hath other friends," answered Portland bitterly.

"You are unreasonable," said the King, in the same sad, broken voice. "I cannot withdraw my favour from M. van Keppel—justice and dignity forbid it. You should understand that, William. I also might have my complaints; it is not easy for me to keep the peace between you and M. van Keppel. Your constant quarrels make my household in a perpetual tumult—and, I must say it, it is not M. van Keppel who is generally the aggressor."

"His presence is an offence," declared Portland hotly; "a creature of my Lord Sunderland, a flattering, smooth-tongued boy—a dissolute rake who hath done nothing for your service!"

The King turned his face towards his friend.

"It cuts me to the heart," he said, with great emotion, "that you should dream—for one second—that he could make me ever forget or undervalue all the services I owe to you. Nothing could alter my affection for you; it is my great grief that you should not feel that as I do."

"You have changed," was all Portland said.

The King lifted his eyes to the sky showing between the trees they rode past, his haggard face was faintly visible in the increasing light.

"Yes, I have changed," he said slowly. "Perhaps even you cannot guess how much. I could not convey to you how utterly indifferent all the world is to me save only my hope to a little more complete the task God put upon me. Your friendship is all that is left to me. Nothing hath been real since—she—died. I only act and think and go through my days because I believe she would have wished it. I only do this and that because I think—she would have done it. I only keep on because she wished that, even at the last. I only endure to live because I dare to hope she may be somewhere—waiting——"

His voice sank so low as to be almost incoherent; Portland could scarcely catch the words. They came to a little hollow beside the path that was filled with spring flowers opening to the dawn, daisies and lilies and tufts of fresh green.

The King spoke again.

"For the rest, all is dead—here," he lightly touched his heart. "You alone have the power to hurt me, and you should use it tenderly."

Portland had meant to resign his position in the King's household, so intolerable had it become to him, but now restrained himself.

"I will serve you till death," he said, with his air of cold, high breeding. "Your Majesty must believe that of me."

William gave a little sigh.

"What of this Congress at Ryswick?" added Portland, "and your suggestion that I should see M. de Boufflers?"

He thought that it would be something of a compromise if he could still continue to serve the King yet get away from the odious van Keppel.

"They will never do anything at Ryswick," answered the King wearily. "They fill their time with ceremonies and vexations, and this time a hundred years might find them still arguing there. And I am resolute for peace now as all my life I have been resolute for war. No need to explain my policy to you. We shall never get better terms than France offereth now, and they must not be lost through the intolerable impertinences of Spain, who hath contributed nothing but rigmaroles to the coalition from the first."

"I think," said Portland, "I could get some satisfaction from M. de Boufflers."

The French Maréchal had formed a friendship with Portland when he had been his prisoner at Huy, after the fall of Namur, and it had recently occurred to William to use this friendship to open negotiations between England and France, regardless of the formal mummeries of the Congress, which seemed to be likely to be as protracted as that held at Nymwegen in '79.

It was William's object to discover if Louis was in earnest. The listlessness of Spain, the ambition of the Emperor must bow if once France, England, and Holland came to terms. What he proposed was daring and unconstitutional. He had not informed a single English politician of his plan, and Portland, whom he thought to employ, was not even an Englishman, but William was never stopped by any fear of responsibility. If he could accomplish an honourable peace (the very best he could obtain he knew would be only a breathing space, for there was the tremendous question of the Spanish Succession ahead), he cared nothing for the temper of the English parliament or the complaints of the allies, and in the United Provinces he was practically absolute. He had before suggested to Portland that he should write and open negotiations with Boufflers, and had mentioned Hal, midway between Brussels and Mons, as a likely place for an interview. He now, on Portland's words, reverted to this and discussed the details of the scheme that was to give peace to Europe in his weary, low, and strained voice, broken by constant coughs.

The forest of Soignies began to break; the trees became thinner and were scattered to right and left like echelons of soldiers, the whole heaven was clear of cloud, and the sun, just rising above the plains of Brabant, filled the air with a steady colour of pearl-blue.

A little wind touched the trees, then was silent; the constant noise of birds accompanied the tramp of the heavy infantry and the distant, unequal rumble of the gun carriages and baggage waggons.

The King loosened his cloak, cast it over his holster, and looked back at the army following him through the wood.

"If we sign peace this year this will be my last campaign," he remarked.

Portland looked at him quickly.

"The Spanish question—there will be war there—and before long."

"But I have so few years to live," answered the King simply; "for with this peace my work would be done. No, I think I shall never lead an army across the Netherlands again."

They rode clear of the trees now, and saw before them the beautiful valley soft and veiled in the mists of morning.

The King fixed his eyes on the spot where Brussels lay. If Villeroy had outmarched him and was bombarding the capital as he had bombarded it last year, the allies had been checkmated and there would be little hope for the prospects of peace.

Scouts were sent out to ascertain the movements of the enemy; no sign of their fires could be discerned. William thought that his activity had saved Brussels and that there were no fears from Villeroy. He pushed on, and, by ten in the morning, after having ridden fifteen hours, reached the still unmolested ramparts of the capital from which the Spanish flag was yet flying.

He instantly took up his position before the walls and proceeded to strongly entrench himself on the very spot from which Villeroy had dropped his shells into Brussels near a year ago when the allies were before Namur.

It appeared that he had saved the magnificent city by a few hours; before midday the French came up, but, finding the confederate army already so strongly fortified, fell back across Brabant without firing a shot.

The King, as he rode about surveying the encampment, sent for Portland.

The Earl came, and the two men looked at each other steadily; the hasty earthworks, the rising canvas, the sights and sounds of the camp were about them, overhead the blazing blue faintly hazed with clouds of heat.

William held out his thin, bare right hand.

"Since I think you are resolute to leave me," he said, "I would have you go to Hal to meet M. de Boufflers." He added with great sweetness, "I put the fate of Europe in your hands, and could put it in none more worthy."

CHAPTER IX

PEACE

The Earl of Sunderiand was again as great as he had been when he held James Stewart infatuate in his power, and as well hated throughout the country as then. The King had long consulted him in private, and now he was recognized as principal adviser to the Crown, and carried the gold key that was the symbol of the office of Lord Chamberlain.

He had no rival. Halifax was dead; Leeds a mere shadow; his intrigues had brought about the resignation of Godolphin, who had been implicated in the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick; Shrewsbury, stricken with remorse at his own treachery and the King's generosity, was but a figure in the background; and the other ministers, even such as Romney, who was William's personal friend, had little influence; Portland's power was not what it had been, and his rival, M. van Keppel, largely owed his fortunes to Sunderiand. The Lord Chamberlain was supreme in this year 1697, the year of the peace framed by Portland and Boufflers in the orchard at Huy and signed by the Congress at the King's palace of Ryswick.

This peace was an honourable close to an honourable conflict. Louis recognised William as King of England, and granted most of the terms desired by the allies, not one of whom complained that they had been forgotten or slighted by the King in the framing of the articles. The delay of Spain and the Emperor to sign, despite William's entreaties, had resulted in the fall of Barcelona and Louis' consequent rise of terms, the principal of which was the retention of Strassburg—a severe blow to Austria. But, on the whole, the peace was favourable to the coalition, and in England and Holland at least was received with unbounded rejoicing. William's return from the Continent was the signal for a display of loyalty as enthusiastic as that which had greeted the exiled Charles in '66.

William, to whose diplomacy the peace was owing, as the war had been owing to his indomitable energy, was at the very zenith of his reputation at home and abroad. He avoided the pageants, processions, triumphal arches, and general laudations, both from a natural modesty and a cynical perception of their hollowness, which was but too well justified, for the first act of the Parliament was to inflict cruel mortification on him by disbanding, at the instance of the Tory agitator, Robert Harley, the army which had done such magnificent service. Sunderland's utmost arts could only retain ten thousand men, including the King's beloved Dutch Guards.

This action was, to William, the worst of policy, besides a personal slight that he could not but feel that he had ill deserved. The peace was to him but an armed truce before the inevitable struggle for the Spanish possessions, and the part that he was to play in that struggle was considerably weakened by the disbanding of the troops which made England, save for her Navy, powerless again in Europe.

The English Parliament, profoundly ignorant of continental affairs, and not in the least understanding the spacious policy of the King, thought only of the power a standing army put in the hands of the Crown, and were not to be moved from their resolve.

William, driven back, as he had so often been, on his own innate statesmanship, endeavoured to accomplish by wit what he was now powerless to accomplish by arms, and secretly framed with Louis the Partition Treaty, by which the vast dominions of the imbecile and dying King of Spain were to be divided between Louis' grandson Phillippe d'Anjou, and William's candidate, the infant son of the Elector of Bavaria, who derived his claim through his dead mother, Maria Antonia.

The King had disdained to consult the English ministers until he had completed this treaty, and then only curtly demanded the necessary signatures; from the nation it was a profound secret.

Sunderland disapproved of this daring policy of the King's. He thought that many of the domestic troubles of the reign might have been avoided if William had been less resolute to keep foreign affairs entirely in his own hands, but the King's well-founded distrust of the levity, treachery, and ignorance of the English, and their personal malice towards him as a foreigner, could not be moved by the most specious of Sunderland's arguments. William refused to put any faith in the crowds who shouted after his coach, in the ringing and the toasts, in the bales of loyal addresses that were laid daily at his feet. He knew perfectly well that at bottom he was neither understood nor liked, and that all this rejoicing was not for the King, but because a peace, pleasing to English pride, had been signed; because bank stock had risen from sixty to ninety, paper money to par, the guinea from eighteen shillings to twenty-one; because the new milled coins were in every hand and an era of prosperity was following the crisis of '96.

Sunderland watched all these things with some misgiving. Under all his honours and greatness was a lurking uneasiness. He began to lose his courage at being so hated; hints of impeachment had risen in the House more than once; he could scarcely show his face abroad without a burst of popular fury. In the opinion of the people he should not have been intrusted with one of the highest offices under the Crown, but have been starving in exile, or dead, long since in the Tower, as his colleague under James—Lord Jefferies. The ministers, too, could ill disguise their dislike of him. He had befriended the Whigs, and they owed him a cold allegiance, but he had no real supporter save the King, whose will alone kept him where he was; and he had more enemies than he could count, including Portland, who hated him exceedingly.

When the King had created Joost van Keppel Earl of Albemarle, Portland had offered to resign his post and retire, and only by the intercession of M. de Vaudemont and the passionate entreaties of his one flatterer, the King, had he been induced to stay another year, which was employed in the gorgeous embassy to France from which he had just returned, to find Sunderland all-powerful and Albemarle in full possession of the King's confidence.

Sunderland saw that his temper was strained to the utmost, and that affairs in the King's household must soon reach a crisis. Although he used Albemarle as a balance against a man who hated him, Sunderland had no ill-will towards Portland, and wished to spare the King the agony he knew he would feel on the earl's retirement. He would have wished Shrewsbury to stay too—the King liked the young duke—but here, as in Portland's case, Sunderland felt matters had gone too far.

He was waiting now, in the King's gallery at Kensington, to intercept and argue with Shrewsbury, whom he knew was about to have an interview with William, and with the object, he suspected, of insisting on his often refused resignation.

He came at last, after his time and slowly, with a languid carriage and an unsteady step that expressed great wretchedness. Sunderland moved out of the embrasure of the window; Shrewsbury paused; and the two noblemen, alike only in birth and country, so totally different in character, intellect, and aim, yet both in the same service, faced one another.

Shrewsbury looked ill, miserable, even slightly dishevelled, his dark clothes were careless and plain, the beauty that had once made him famous as "The King of Hearts" was scarcely to be traced in his strained features, though he was not yet past his first youth. In contrast, Sunderland, though worn and frail, looked less than his years, and was habited very fashionably and gorgeously in black tissue of gold with diamond buttons, his peruke was frizzled and powdered, and he wore a bow of black velvet beneath his chin; his handsome, delicate features wore that expression of watchful, smiling repose which was so seldom from his face that it had come to be one with it, as the faint chiselling on an alabaster bust.

Shrewsbury showed some agitated emotion as the Lord Chamberlain stepped before him.

"I am due with His Majesty," he said.

"I know," answered the earl; "and I think I guess your business with the King."

Shrewsbury paled and said nothing; a defiant look hardened his eyes.

"You," continued the Lord Chamberlain, "are going, my lord, to force your resignation on His Majesty."

"Well—if I am?" Shrewsbury moistened his lips desperately.

"It is, your Grace, a most ill-advised thing to do."

"I have heard many people say that, my lord," answered the young duke, "and I have allowed myself to be too long persuaded. I cannot and I will not stay at Court."

Sunderland gazed at him steadily out of his long, clear eyes.

"You only give colour to the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick, which every one disbelieved. And no one more strongly than His Majesty."

"I bear the taint—the imputation," muttered Shrewsbury. "I cannot and will not endure it. My position is insupportable."

"Marlborough and Russell are in the same position, and find it easy enough to bear," said Sunderland quietly.

The Duke answered with some pride—

"I am not such as they. They act from their standards—I from mine."

He thought, and might have added, that he was not such as the man to whom he spoke. Sunderland was stained with treacheries, disloyalties, corrupt practices, and shameless false-dealing, the very least of which were more than the one lapse that was wearing Shrewsbury to misery with remorse.

The Earl took another tone.

"Think of the King. You call yourself friend to him; he is as harrassed now as he ever was before the war. He hath not too many men to help him—the Tories grow in strength every day. You have been of great service to His Majesty—the greatest in '88. Will you forsake him now—when he needeth you most?"

Shrewsbury put out a trembling hand.

"I have heard these arguments before. Lady Orkney hath been soliciting me to change my resolution—for the same reason that you bring forth. But I am a broken man; I am ill; I must get to the country; I cannot serve His Majesty——"

So speaking, in rapid, disconnected sentences, he gave a wild glance at the Earl's passive face, the fine lines of which had taken on an almost imperceptible expression of contempt and disgust, and passed on to the King's cabinet, which he entered abruptly.

The King was, as usual, at his desk, which was placed between the tall windows which looked on to the beautiful park, now grey and desolate under the afternoon sky of mid-November.

A great fire burnt on the hearth, and the glancing light from it threw into relief the furnishing of the room, every article of which bore evidence to the exile's wistful love of his own country. On the mantelshelf were the tall yellow, white, and blue vases from Delft; the brass fire-irons were Dutch, as were the painted tiles, the black, heavily polished chairs and tables; the exquisite paintings of peaches, carnations, grapes, and butterflies on the wall; and the elaborate china calendar above the King's desk. William was always consistently loyal to the products of his own land; his full cravat, shirt, and wrist-ruffles were now, as generally, of the fine Frisian lawn embroidery, and the buttons of his black silk coat were of the wonderful filigree gold-work for which the States were famous.

He looked up sharply as Shrewsbury entered, and seemed a little disappointed, as if he had been expecting some one else; but instantly commanded himself, and greeted the Duke affectionately.

Shrewsbury looked at him wretchedly, crossed to the hearth irresolutely, then burst out impetuously—

"Sire—I must resign—I can take your wage no longer——"

The King's full bright eyes swept over him in a quick glance of understanding.

"I have told you," he said, with a gentleness that had a note of pity in it, "that I hold you innocent of those scandalous slanders that villain Fenwick flung. I have assured you, my lord, of my affection, of my need and wish for your service."

Shrewsbury bit his lower lip, and stared blindly into the scarlet heart of the fire.

"My health will not permit me——" he began.

"Ah, tush!" interrupted the King, with a little smile. "Your health is good enough."

Compared to his own, it was indeed. Shrewsbury could not, for very shame, argue that plea.

"I think you have another reason, your Grace," added William, kindly and a little sadly. "And I am an old enough friend for you to confide in me——"

Still the Duke could not speak, but trembled and looked into the fire.

"You are a man of honour," said the King. "I have and do trust you. I shall never forget the services you rendered me, when such services were vital indeed; I believe I do not lack gratitude; I should never—I could never—desert a friend."

He exerted himself to speak with courtesy and animation, and there was real feeling behind his words; gratitude was indeed almost a fault with him. Cold as he appeared to outsiders, nothing could turn him when he had once given his affection; he had often, at the expense of his own interests and popularity, defended and upheld his friends.

Shrewsbury clasped the edge of the chimneypiece and tried to speak, but made only some incoherent sound.

"Let me hear no more of resignation, my lord," said William.

The Duke turned and looked at him desperately, then suddenly and utterly broke down.

"I am guilty, sire!" he cried. "I betrayed you, and you know it!"

He fell into the chair beside him, and covered his white face with his quivering hands.

"Your generosity is more than I can endure," he gasped. "I have been a villain, and I have a bitter punishment!"

The King rose and looked at his minister. A heavy silence hung in the brilliantly firelit little chamber. The Duke was sobbing wretchedly.

William went slightly pale.

"Fenwick spoke the truth," cried Shrewsbury; "I have tampered with St. Germains——"

The King crossed over to the young man, and laid his thin, beautiful hand on the bowed shoulders.

"You are my friend," he said simply. "I trust you and wish to keep you with me. Nothing else, my dear lord, is of any matter."

Shrewsbury's answer came hoarsely.

"It is of great matter to me that I have lost my honour——"

The King answered gently.

"While you say that, my lord Duke, you can have lost nothing——"

Shrewsbury would not speak or look up. William returned to his seat at the desk, and began turning over the papers before him. After a few minutes he said, with his eyes still on his letters—

"I have heard nothing—I know nothing—I trust you to continue in my service, my dear lord——"

The Duke sprang up and stood with his back to the fire.

"I cannot—I am not fit," he said desperately, yet with resolution.

William flashed a glance over his shoulder.

"Will you not serve England, then?" he cried, with a deep note in his voice, and waited for the answer, gazing brilliantly at the haggard young man.

"No—no," muttered Shrewsbury. "I am broken—I am not fit——"

There was a little silence. It was the King who spoke first.

"I can say no more," he said quietly. "You have decided. I trust that you will justify your resolution to yourself."

The Duke came heavily to the desk, laid the seals that were the symbol of his office on the desk, and was turning silently away, when the King held out his hand impulsively.

"My lord," he said, with much warmth and kindness, "even if I should never see you again—I should never forget '88."

Shrewsbury seized the frail hand, kissed it with tears, and went violently from the room.

William gave a little sigh, pushed back his chair, and put his hand to his head, coughing.

He was not long alone. Sunderland entered the little cabinet with his cautious light step and an expression that had a little lost its usual composure.

"The little Duke hath resigned," said the King laconically.

A rare ejaculation of impatience and contempt broke from the Lord Chamberlain. "Every one falleth away!" he exclaimed. "There goeth the last link with the Whigs!"

William gave a short laugh.

"I suppose that you will be the next, my lord?" he said shrewdly.

The Earl went rather pale.

"I will hold office as long as I can, Your Majesty," he answered. "But it is a hard thing to maintain my position in the face of all England. But whether I am in office or no, I shall, sir, always serve you."

The King lifted his dark eyes.

"I believe you will, my lord," he said simply; "we are old allies now. Well—we have not either of us much more to do—the people have their peace, and we have our positions, and may grow roses, and build villas, and wait for death."

CHAPTER X

THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP

The Earl of Portland, newly returned from his gorgeous embassy to France, sat in his apartments at Kensington reading and re-reading a letter.

It was written in a large and flowing hand, unequal in parts, as if the writer had been greatly agitated. The contents, which the Earl had now almost by heart, were strange and sad.

"KENSINGTON, April 1699.

"Since I cannot dispute with you, I will say nothing to you on the subject of your retirement; but I cannot refrain from telling you of my extreme sorrow, which is far deeper than you can ever imagine, and assures me that if you felt even the half you would very quickly change your resolution—which may it please the good God to inspire you to do for your own good and my repose. At least I hope that you will not refuse to keep the key of office, for I am content that it should not oblige you to anything, and, besides, I entreat you to let me see you as often as you can, which would be a great consolation to me in the affliction which you have caused me, which cannot prevent me from loving you ever tenderly."

It was written in French and signed with the letter 'G,' which had always been affixed to this long, intimate correspondence which had continued now for thirty-three years—since they had been children—continued through war and peace, trouble, disaster, illness, bereavement, disappointment without cloud or shadow—and this was the end.

William Bentinck had resolved to resign the King's service.

This was the end—in miserable, trivial jealousy. The friendship that had lasted so long, keen and pure, so devoted, had strained and broken. Portland sat, with this sad appeal in his hand, and knew that it was over.

He did not acknowledge that he was unreasonable; he had served William faithfully and devotedly, both as friend and servant, and he had been greatly rewarded; he was one of the wealthiest subjects in Europe; he had an English earldom, and the Garter that foreign kings envied; he was Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Privy Councillor, Groom of the Stole, and Keeper of the King's Gardens; the King had supported him again and again against the Commons, taken his advice, flattered him by an open display of his friendship, entrusted him with the important embassy to France, enriched his son, and, when the breach began to grow, spared nothing to heal it. Few kings could have ever entreated a subject as William had entreated Bentinck.

But he would not dismiss Albemarle; he listened to Sunderland; and everything was nothing to Portland compared to the fact that he should have to share the King's confidence with this young, untried, light-hearted young man.

When he returned from Paris he had found Albemarle in possession of rooms in the Palace that he considered belonged to him in virtue of one of his offices, and the little incident had confirmed his resolution of quitting the Court. He would be second to no one, least of all to a man whom he considered as the tool of a faction that he loathed and despised.

He was well aware that Albemarle was popular, and that he was not; that he had few supporters in his point of view, and that Albemarle had a great following gained by his universal sweetness, good sense, and humility.

He was well aware, too, that the King had never more needed his friendship than now; for the present session of Parliament had inflicted one cruel humiliation on him, and was about to inflict another.

The King's grants of lands in Ireland had been looked into and revoked—even such as he had given to the noble Ginckel, who had done such service, and Meinhard de Schomberg, son of the soldier who had died for England on the banks of Boyne Water.

William, who had disappointed his enemies by preserving a serene composure when he had been forced to consent to the disbanding of the troops, had scarcely been able to conceal his mortification at this malice on the part of the Tories, and was still further moved by the agitation rising in the Commons to turn all foreign soldiers out of the kingdom, including the famous Dutch Guards and the refugee French Huguenots whom William had long had in his service.

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

He folded the letter, put it into his pocket, glanced at the brass bracket-clock in one corner of the room, and went, for the last time, to accompany the King on his way to the Cabinet meeting at Whitehall, which William had summoned with the desperate intention of urging his ministers to try some expedient with the Parliament to enable him to keep the Dutch Guards.

Portland descended heavily into the courtyard where the coaches waited.

It was a sunny afternoon, and half the soft-coloured brick of the Palace was in a tender light. Some pigeons were gathered round the clock, which was on the point of striking four.

Monsieur Zulestein was there, Sunderland, Devonshire, and Monsieur Auverquerque. Portland kept apart from all of them, and drew the point of his cane up and down the cobbles; his eyes were fixed on the door which led to the staircase to the King's apartments.

As the clock struck the hour William appeared in this doorway, and paused at the head of the steps and looked round the courtyard with narrowed eyes.

He wore black and a star, his hollow cheeks were flushed—unusual for him—and he was breathing with obvious difficulty.

He saw Portland, and his whole face changed; he smiled, and his eyes widened with an indescribable look.

Portland met that glance, and a quick pang gripped his heart; he remembered days of long ago, in camp and cabinet, a frail young man facing the French outside Utrecht, speaking to the Senate at The Hague, firing the people, encouraging a fainting country, leading the mad charge at St. Nelf, fainting over his work during tedious days and nights....

Portland made a step forward; then he saw, behind the King, the ardent, youthful face of my Lord Albemarle, and he fell back.

William slowly descended the steps. The lackeys opened the coach door, and the gentleman came round.

The King looked to Portland, who still stood apart.

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

The seat in his coach was an honour to which his brother-in-law, Prince George, had aspired in vain. Of late Portland had frequently refused it, and in terms so curt as to excite the horror of those who heard. Now the King was making a last appeal—his brilliant eyes, his moved voice were reminding William Bentinck of his letter and of the long friendship which the 'G' that signed it was a symbol of.

There fell the slightest pause; then Portland answered with a harshness that would have been discourteous to an equal—

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

At this, which was little less than a public insult, the King flushed a dark red, and those about him knew not where to look.

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

He entered the coach, the Lord Chamberlain followed, and Portland, very white but unshaken, mounted his own vehicle.

The Royal coach started. Sunderland said not a word and made not a movement, but sat erect, opposite the King, as they drove out under the early budding trees.

William broke out into a sudden, deep passion.

"Is this the Prince of Orange"—he cried, striking his breast—"who was something in Europe? Is this he, the sport of such as Harley, and insulted by those who loved him once?"

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

"This is too much—this is indeed the end," said the King. "He leaves the Court. By God, I was Nassau once, if I am only King of England now!"

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

"Love!" echoed William. "Doth love inspire such cruelty?" His speech was broken by a violent fit of coughing, which caused the tears to run down his face. Sunderland looked at him in weary despair, and wondered if he could survive his present griefs.

"The Guards," gasped the King, leaning back in his corner—"I must keep those Guards—and the French for whom I promised to provide—Ginckle and Schomberg too——" His hoarse voice became incoherent, he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and stared out at the groves of Kensington Park with hunted eyes.

"We will do all we may, sire," replied Sunderland; but he felt not half the conviction he endeavoured to put into his voice. The party in power now hated the King and hated the Dutch; they were not likely to be merciful in their triumph.

Sunderland could not understand this blind fury against the foreigner. It might have been thought that two nations, both manly and given to a plain religion, both engaged in trade and eager for liberty, could have had much in common, especially when only divided by a strip of narrow sea, and considering that there was no rancour of ancient dispute between them. But at the bottom of each was a fatal difference—a levity, an extravagance, and a narrow arrogance in the English; a prudence, a seriousness, a reserve in the Dutch—that prevented any real friendliness despite the specious complexion of a common cause, and had been gradually fanned by jealousy and party spirit into an obstinate temper, against which the arts of Sunderland were of no avail.

"They must not go," repeated the King in great agitation; "if they do, I go with them—I have told Somers so. I am a foreigner also." He paused; then added, with intense feeling, "I have been too great to become the pensioner of a handful of commoners, the butt of your Harleys and Jack Howes.... I will not take this humiliation."

"Your Majesty must think of the United Provinces," said Sunderland. "If you were to resign the crown, what of the English alliance?"

This simple question had more weight with William than all the protestations of Lord Somers. He went very pale, and half closed his eyes. In the inevitable, in the nearing contention over the Spanish succession, the dear bought alliance of England would be more necessary than ever to the Republic; but the King's imperious pride, so long controlled, outweighed almost his deep love of his country.

"Let Anne and Maryborough rule you," he said, in a low, passionate voice. "A fool and a villain would maybe please you better. If my soldiers go I cannot in honour stay."

"You must, sire," answered Sunderland. He looked out of the coach window at the white, dusty sweep of Kensington High Street, the cottages with the early flowers before them and the orchard trees covered with their first green. "Your Majesty must remain," repeated Sunderland heavily. "England needeth you."

William gave a cynical laugh.

"England hath had some work out of me—I have laboured for my pay. I am not a young man now, and old for my years. I should wish to die in Holland."

The Earl looked quickly at his master.

"Sire, you must not speak of death."

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

Sunderland could not gainsay him. In his own heart he felt a curious chill of apathy, as if it was nearing the end; the very sunshine without, falling so placidly on thatch and flowering tree, looked strangely remote. It seemed a long time to Robert Spencer since he had been at leisure to notice the mysterious light of spring. He laughed also, but with a softer note than the King had used.

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

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

"God alone knoweth if I am damned or saved," he remarked strongly; "but I have done His will as it was revealed to me."

Sunderland glanced at the Calvinist, who in those words had declared his religion. His own creeds were very different; but both men, now at the end, found themselves on much the same level.

Neither spoke again till they reached the courtyard of Whitehall, when the King remarked, with an air of disgust, on the fog of smoke that overhung the city.

As he dismounted from the coach he paused and glanced round the gentlemen; for the first time in his life he ignored my Lord Portland, but, with a delicacy that Sunderland was quick to notice, he equally ignored Albemarle, and passed into the palace leaning on the arm of Monsieur de Zulestein.

CHAPTER XI

THE KING'S HUMILIATION

Everything had been in vain. Harley pressed his narrow triumph, and the King, after a bitter struggle, consented to let the Dutch soldiers go and to retain the kingship, though he had drawn up a passionate farewell speech to the ungrateful parliament, and shown it to Somers, Sunderland, and Marlborough, now the governor of the little Duke of Gloucester, the heir to the throne.