CHAPTER XIII
THE GREAT ENTERPRISE
All difficulties were overcome. Louis, angry at the English King'srejection of his advices, and perhaps hoping that his great enemy wouldrun on disaster in his audacious undertaking, or perhaps believing thatit was now too late in the year for any such expedition, had suddenlydiverted his troops into Germany, where in a few days he had taken everyfort along the Rhine; successes celebrated with great pomp in Paris, butworthless indeed to Louis should William accomplish what he was now freeto attempt, and bring England out of her shackles into the allianceagainst France.
The Prince's preparations were complete; his Declaration had beenpublished and circulated in England by the arts of his friends, hisships and troops were ready, even to the embarking of the soldiery, andhe himself had to-day taken his farewell audience of the States; for nowthe south-west wind had changed, and the great fleet gathered at Goreewas free to sail.
Mary, in the chilly autumn garden of the 'huis ten bosch,' waited hisreturn. Four times a day she went to public prayers, but not all herardent faith could quell the tumult in her soul; her anxieties were notto be repressed, even at the communion table, which added to herdistress, her self-reproach, her uneasiness.
She walked up and down the bare alleys, the hard gravel paths, with aquick step, between the newly-turned flower-beds, the late yellowingplants, and stiff evergreens.
The violet St. Michael's daisies were brown and withered on their stems,the last roses had fallen, and the carp been removed from the fishbasin, where the water lay frost-bound under a thin covering of ice;there was no sun to cast a shadow from the finger of the grey sundial,and the sky was obscured with low, floating, changing clouds; a littlewind brought the salt pure air from the sea-coast and stirred Mary'sbright locks inside her miniver hood.
As she was pacing her most familiar and beloved walk, the little alleyat the end of the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees now bare, thesound of a footstep brought her to turn with a glad expectancy.
But it was not the Prince, only M. Auverqueverque, a noble who had longbeen his friend, and who had saved his life amid the bloody steppes ofSt. Denis, and for this reason always high in Mary's regard.
"Do you come from the States, sir?" she asked wistfully, speaking inEnglish, for her Dutch was still very indifferent, and she was shy ofusing it save on a necessity.
"Yes, Madam, and I left His Highness conversing with M. Fagel and M.Heinsius."
The Princess stood still. Her loose velvet coat, of a bright bluecolour, served to accentuate the pallor of her face, which was worn andstrained in expression; her eyes were reddened with recent weeping, andnarrowed with a look of trouble.
"There was no opposition to him--now, I think," she said, with a suddensmile.
"Madam--none; there was great enthusiasm and great grief at the going ofHis Highness," answered M. Auverqueverque warmly. "He alone wasunmoved--I would you could have heard his words, Madam--'I have had nothought,' he said, 'since I did undertake this position I hold, save forthe good of the States, and I do take God to witness that, if I haveerred, it hath been because I am human, and not through lack ofaffection for, or care of, this country. Now, going to make theendeavour to be of service to our common faith, I do commend to yourcare and guardianship all that I hold dear--these States and mywife'--and at this they were stirred to tears, Madam, for there was notone who could not remember what he had brought them through."
Mary was silent; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips and lookedtowards the house. M. Auverqueverque regarded her tenderly.
"The States professed great devotion to Your Highness," he said, "andspoke from their hearts."
"I do thank you," she answered, in a very low tone. "Will you not comeinto the house?"
He followed her across the bare garden, and there was nothing saidbetween them, each being deeply engaged with different thoughts on thesame subject.
As they neared the villa, one of the gentlemen of the Princess'shousehold came to meet them and acquainted Mary that a lady who besoughther charity implored her for an immediate audience.
The Princess was well used to these applications. Out of her meagreallowance she contrived to greatly assuage the sufferings of thedistressed refugees at The Hague, and this liberality of hers beingknown, she received more petitions than she could at all comply with,which was a source of great distress to her gentle heart.
"Alas!" she said; "I have already a great list of persons unsatisfied,and worthy cases, too; but it is more than I dare put before HisHighness in this present juncture----"
"This seemeth, Your Highness, a gentlewoman of the better sort, English,and most earnest for speech with you."
"I can but see her," answered Mary quickly. "Only I trust she will notraise her hopes of what I can do for her. M. Auverqueverque, forgiveme."
With a little curtsy to that gentleman she entered the house.
"Where is this gentlewoman?"
In her withdrawing room, she was told, and there Mary proceeded, withoutceremony, still wearing her cloak.
The small but handsome room held a pleasant sense of comfort in contrastto the dead grey weather without. A great log fire cast a glitteringlight over the dark furniture, and in the full glow of it stood a talllady wrapped in a crimson mantle that half disclosed an embroideredsacque, and wearing, twisted round her head and shoulders, a fineEastern scarf embroidered in many colours; she was much older than Mary,and looked fatigued to illness; her large fair eyes were heavilyshadowed and her mouth strained, but her appearance was one of greatbeauty.
When the Princess entered she made a little deprecating, half-expectantmovement forward, as if hoping for recognition; but she was utterlystrange to Mary, who looked at her in some embarrassment, seeing at oncethat this was no ordinary supplicant.
The strange lady gazed at her sadly.
"Ten years have changed you to beauty and me to age, Highness," shesaid, in a voice of singular sweetness. "You have forgotten me. And Ishould scarcely have known Your Highness."
"Indeed," answered Mary, a little bewildered, "I cannot recall you. ButI do perceive that you are my countrywoman; perhaps I knew you atWhitehall?"
"It was there we met, Madam,--and of late we have corresponded----"
"Why, who are you, Madam?"
The elder lady cast herself to her knees before the Princess, andanswered with some wildness--
"I am the unfortunate wife of my Lord Sunderland!"
"My Lady Sunderland! Madam, you must not kneel. Oh, what hath passedin England to bring you here?"
Mary impetuously raised the Countess, who kissed her hands in a kind offrantic entreaty.
"Where is the Earl?" cried Mary, with a flush of agitation.
"He hath fled," whispered Lady Sunderland, "to Amsterdam, where he is inhiding. We have lost everything--everything; his life was in danger;there was no man in all the ministry hated like my lord----"
The painful colour burnt in Mary's cheek.
"His Majesty discovered--the intrigues--with us?" she asked.
"No--else it had been Tower Hill; but the Catholics undermined him--mylord could not hold his own--he was dismissed all his offices, and whenthe Prince his Declaration was spread abroad, there rose such a spiritin the nation that we were no longer safe, and while we could, we fled."
Mary took a quick step across the room and laid her trembling hand onLady Sunderland's arm.
"The King--knoweth?" she asked.
"The last dispatch of M. D'Albeville told him, and he was struck silentwith dismay."
"Alas! alas!" was wrung from Mary, "that this should have had to be! Itis my father, Madam, and I do a bitter thing against him----"
She sank into the great walnut chair by the fire, and the ready tearsoverbrimmed and ran down her white cheeks.
"Your Highness hath a patriotic public duty to perform," said LadySunderland. "And must not think of thi
s----"
"No," answered Mary unsteadily, "no;" she stretched out her hand anddrew the other woman towards her; "but you--you have taken a strangepart, my lady----"
"My lord," said the Countess earnestly, "hath served His Highness to hisown extreme peril, and now I am come to plead a pardon for him fromyou----"
"But you yourself," urged Mary; "what have you felt towards theseaffairs?"
She rose, still holding the fluttering hand of Lady Sunderland, andlooked steadily into her eyes.
"I have done as my lord directed," was the answer. "I have served himall my life. I shall serve him--always."
Mary dropped her hand. The thought that stirred her was that she couldnot judge, since that same unquestioning devotion ruled her life too.
"My lord his services," she said faintly, "are not such as the Princecan with honour reward."
"Nor," answered my lady with some pride, "such as he can with honourignore----"
"He is apostate," said Mary; "that cannot be forgiven."
"It can be pardoned."
"What would you, Madam? The Earl is no subject of the Prince."
"He is his supplicant--as I am; he might have gone to France, but hehath put himself at the mercy of His Highness."
"The Prince is ever generous," answered Mary, "but what he can do here Iknow not."
She drew away a little from the Countess, for in her thoughts wererising the remembrances of all the ignoble parts my lord had played, andthe ill reports she had received of him and his wife from her sister,the Princess Anne.
"You must see the Prince," she said, something coldly.
Lady Sunderland was quick to notice this change of manner.
"I am a woman in bitter trouble," she answered. "I stand before you nobetter than a beggar. If it were not that I might still be of use to mylord, I would pray to die."
"You are very weary," said Mary, with instant kindness. She drew her toseat herself on the long brocade couch--"Poor soul, I doubt that you arevery sad!"
Lady Sunderland looked at her wildly, then burst into anguished tears.
"Ah, Madam!" cried Mary, bending over her, "I do beseech you takecomfort."
The Countess kept her face hidden, and her bowed shoulders heaved.
"Nothing shall happen to the Earl, I dare swear."
Lady Sunderland looked up.
"Forgive me. I have not wept for so long. My son, my eldest son, isrecently dead in Paris in an obscure duel--I hoped so much fromhim--once. Dead! Indeed I know not what I say."
Mary shuddered. She recalled the Lady Sunderland of formerdays--brilliant, ambitious, superbly happy--a woman she herself hadlooked up to with a half awe as a personification of all the allurementof that splendid life she had left so early; she thought of all theunscrupulous intrigues, bargains, deceits, buyings and sellings thislady had helped her shameless husband with; the extraordinary doublegame they had played so long and successfully. But looking at this, thesudden end, penniless, bereaved exile, she felt no scorn, only a greatpity; for the Countess had been faithful, and Mary thought that a greatvirtue in a woman.
"I did not know that of Lord Spencer," she said gently. "I am verysorry; it is sad for you."
The Countess dried her eyes swiftly.
"I do not know why I should weep for him," she answered half fiercely;"he went near to break my heart. He was what they call worthless."
She paused, and Mary stood silent; she was not unaware that the sharpestprick to Lord Sunderland's magnificence had ever been that poor uselessrake, his son, nor ignorant of the Countess's long endeavour to makesome show before the world in this matter, and now that broken prideopened its heart to her, a stranger, the sadness of it held her mute.
Lady Sunderland's wet strained eyes looked past the fireglow to the bareboughs and cloudy heavens framed in the tall window.
"It is much better that he is gone," she continued. "Yet--last night Iwent on the deck of the packet and it was all so dark and cold, not astar, and the waves sounding, but not to be seen, and I remembered howlittle he was once, and how warm in my arms, and then methought he wassomewhere crying for me in the chill blackness ... abroad--in a poorlodging with no friend."
She wrung her hands together with irrepressible horror.
"My God!" she cried, "there's a way to die!"
Mary caught her arm.
"You must not think of it like that; there is another side to it--God isvery merciful, I know nothing--but in heaven there is great pity for allof us."
The Countess turned and stared at her a moment, with her handkerchief toher lips, then said unsteadily--
"I never meant to speak like this--but Your Highness is so gentle----"
Mary smiled.
"I must carry you to my Lady Argyll, Lady Balcarres that was, who ishere with her daughters----"
She turned swiftly, for the door opened, and a familiar voice behind hersaid eagerly her name--"Marie, Marie----"
It was the Prince; as he entered he paused, seeing the Countess, who hadinstantly risen.
"Lady Sunderland!" he exclaimed, before Mary could speak, and stoodamazed.
They had last seen each other on the occasion of the Prince's last visitto England, and though he knew her at once he found her considerablychanged.
"The Earl hath fallen?" he added swiftly.
Lady Sunderland was mistress of herself immediately on his appearance.By force of her long training she fell into the same manner she wouldhave used to him at Whitehall or Windsor; she gave him a great courtlycurtsy.
"The Earl is a refugee at Amsterdam, Your Highness," she said, "and I amhere beseeching charity."
"Ah." William drew a quick breath. "I thought my lord was safeenough--the King discovered him?"
"No, sir, the Catholics unseated him."
The Prince crossed slowly to the fire.
"So," he said slowly--"well, Madam, the Earl is safe in Amsterdam, andthe Princess will make you welcome."
A flush of reviving hope kindled the refugee's pale cheek.
"We are assured of the gracious protection of Your Highness?" she askedardently.
"My lord hath done me considerable service," answered William. "But,Madam, he is not loved by those English I have about me now." He smileddryly. "Yet, if he will lie quiet awhile--I am not ungrateful----"
"It is all we ask," said Lady Sunderland warmly. "My lord wisheth onlyto live in quiet obscurity unless he can serve Your Highness--someway----"
William gave her a keen look.
"I hardly think," he answered, "that M. de Sunderland is fitted forquiet obscurity--but perhaps he will endure it a little while. I leavefor Helvoetsluys to-morrow."
"God bless this noble enterprise Your Highness hath on hand!" cried theCountess fervently. "Could you see the crowds waiting outside Whitehalland a-studying the weather-cock and praying for a Protestant wind youwould be heartened further in your daring!"
The Prince took a swift look at his wife, who stood with averted face bythe window.
"The King--how took he the news?" he asked.
"I heard that he was all bewildered (being then deeply engaged in theCologne dispute and thinking nothing of this, like a man besotted) andwould not part with the Declaration of Your Highness, but carried itabout with him re-reading it--then he called the bishops to ask if theyhad put their hands to the invitation, and they gave him no--after whichhe made all manner of concessions, like one in a panic fear----"
"Concessions?" interrupted the Prince.
"Sir, he gave back the charter to the city with due solemnity, and theirprivileges to the fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and there was held aninquiry into the birth of the Prince of Wales--all of which but wastedthe dignity of His Majesty and brought more ridicule than respect--forall are equally eager for Your Highness, and these concessions come toolate."
"Too late, indeed," said William quietly. "I hope this week to be inEngland. How came you across, Madam? I have stopped the packet servicelest t
hey carry too sure advices of what we do here----"
Lady Sunderland smiled sadly.
"In a little owler, sir, we slipped off from Margate sands, and theweather was so terrible we were like to have been whelmed by theovertopping waves; yet we gained Maaslandsluys, and from there my lordwent on to Amsterdam----"
"He was wise," said the Prince, "not to come to The Hague."
Lady Sunderland looked at Mary, who had stood motionless so long.
"Your Highness--may I not retire? I have taken too much of yourtime----"
The Princess turned about with a little start.
"Where are you lodging?" she asked.
"With one Madame de Marsac--known, I think, to Your Highness----"
"You must stay with me," answered Mary warmly, yet with a curious absentair of distraction. "I will take you to the other English ladies----"
She looked at her husband.
"I shall come back," she said. He gave a little nod which cut short thegraceful gratitude of the Countess, and the two ladies left.
Now he was alone he seated himself near to the fire with that air ofutter fatigue that was like apathy and seemed at times, when he was outof the sight of men, to overwhelm his great spirit.
He sat quite still, gazing into the fire from under drooping lids, andwhen Mary softly returned he did not move.
She slipped behind his chair and took the stool the opposite side of thehearth; she had put off her cloak; the firelight touched her brown dressand brown hair to a beautiful ruby warmth and gave a false rosiness toher pale face.
"I am grieved for Lady Sunderland," she said.
The Prince answered absently.
"Ah yes--I believe she is a knave like him--but they are clever, and heat least hath some root of patriotism in him."
"Yet I am sorry that you must use such people."
He made no reply, but continued to gaze sadly and sternly into the fire.
Mary gave a little shudder.
"I cannot believe that to-morrow we go to Helvoetsluys----"
Her voice broke, and she steadied it hastily.
"The States are coming also, are they not, to see your departure?"
"They are paying me that compliment," he answered indifferently.
"What chance will your poor wife have to speak to you then--amid thatpomp----"
He sat up and looked at her with instant attention.
"Have you something that you wish to say to me, Marie?"
"Yes," she said earnestly. "I do desire to ask you--for your ownsake--to see that no harm happeneth to--my father."
Now she had spoken she sat very pale and distressed, but fixing him withher soft brown eyes ardently.
He flushed, and seemed much moved.
"That you should need to ask----" he began, then checked himself. "Ipromise," he said.
"For your own dear sake," she cried, "forgive me for speaking ofthis--but let people know you would not have him hurt----"
He gazed at her intently.
"This is hard for you," he replied. "I could not go without yoursanction and your help----"
He broke off again. Speech, which had always seemed inadequate to him,now seemed to merely travesty his feelings.
She too was silent; she had lowered her eyes and seemed to be thinkingdeeply. The Prince studied her with an almost painful intensity.
She was so lovely, so gracious, so sweet, so high souled ... heremembered how he had disliked and despised her, treated her withneglect, then indifference, made no effort to please or win her; and yetshe, during the ten years of their marriage, had never from the firstfailed in obedience, sweetness, self-abnegation, nor once faltered froma passionate devotion to his interests, an unchanging belief in him, andnow, for him, she was doing violence to her own heart and settingherself in active opposition against her father, a tremendous thing forsuch a nature to bring itself to. As he gazed at her fair youth, palewith anxiety for him, he felt she was the greatest triumph of his life,and her love an undeserved miracle.
And there came to his mind a certain conversation that he had had withSir William Temple in a sunny garden at Nymwegen before his marriage.He remembered that the Englishman had smiled at his scornful talk of thePrincess, and had said--"Do not despise good women because there are somany of them----"
Mary suddenly moved and rose. The sun had parted the loose clouds and afine ray fell through the tall window and shone in her bright hair andsatin skirt. His thoughts were scattered by her movement; he rose also.
She smiled at him.
"How kind you are to me," she said, trembling, and very low.
"Dear God!" he exclaimed softly, as if he was mocked. "In what way?"
"In giving me so much more of your company of late," answered Marysimply.
The Prince looked at her strangely.
"Women are wonderful," he said humbly.
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