God and the King

by Marjorie Bowen

  CHAPTER XIV

  STORMS

  The long sand-dunes about the village of Scheveningen were covered withspectators to the number of several thousands, comprising nearly theentire population of The Hague, several strangers, refugees from otherparts of Holland, and many French, German, and English; they wereprincipally women, children, and old men, or those in the sober attireof merchants, clerks, servants, or shopkeepers.

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

  There, covering the entire sweep of water and obscuring the greathorizon itself, rode that huge armament which contained the wholestrength of the Republic, and on which was staked her hopes and hersafety.

  This fleet had weighed anchor during the stillness of the previousnight; a few hours after the wind had turned to the south and so broughtall the ships on the north coast, where, for half a day, they had beenin full view of The Hague.

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

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

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

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in the employ ofthe States, the French Protestants formed into a regiment by the Princeafter the Edict of Nantz was revoked, and the whole artillery of everytown in the Republic, which had been left stripped of all defences savetwelve ships of war and the German troops on the Rhine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

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

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

  The dangers to which they were exposed, the chances of attack from apowerful enemy while their defences were abroad courting the fortune ofwar and the hazard of the winds and sea, the fact that their artillerywas gone and their frontier was on one side in the possession of theirenemies and on the other but protected by German mercenaries, could notcheck the sense of glory that stirred them as they watched the changingleagues of ships, so near, yet so silent and beyond communication.

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

  This was the wife of the Stadtholder, who had yesterday returned fromHelvoetsluys. She had been above two hours riding up and down the sandswatching the slow passing of the fleet; in her company were the Englishladies, the Countesses of Sunderland and Argyll and some of her ownattendants; she had been very silent, and, now, as the afternoon wasfading, she touched up her beast and galloped away from all of themalong the dunes.

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

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

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

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

  In Mary's heart all terror, remorse, sadness had been absorbed by strongpride; the doubts, shames, fears that had tortured her were gone; shedid not think of her father, of her danger, of her loneliness, only thatshe, of all the women there, was the beloved wife of the man who ledthis--a nation's strength--into war for that cause which to her was theholiest of all causes, the new liberty against the ancient tyranny,tolerance against oppression--all that she symbolized by the wordProtestantism.

  She was so absorbed in this ecstasy of pride and enthusiasm at the sighton which she gazed that she started considerably to hear a voice closebeside her say--

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

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

  "Yes, Madam, I came there yesterday."

  She was English, and obviously did not know Mary, who was moved bysomething pitifully eager and wistful in her worn thin face and stoopingfigure.

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

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

  "My husband was an officer in the Staffordshire, Madam, and we had nomoney but his pay, so when he refused to abjure there was nothing for usbut exile."

  Mary pointed to the fleet.

  "He--your husband--is there?"

  "Yes--the Prince gave him a pair of colours in one of the Englishregiments."

  "You should be proud," smiled Mary.

  She answered simply--

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

  "Yes."

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

  "But not a refugee?" she questioned.

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

  The other was looking out to sea again.

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

  "What is your name, Madam?"

  "Dorothy Marston."

  "Well, Mrs. Marston, those in the foremost squadron, to the left"--Maryindicated them with her riding-stock--"have on board the English andScotch, commanded by General Mackay--they
sail under the red flag ofAdmiral Herbert."

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

  Mary drew an excited breath.

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

  "And where, Madam, is the Prince?"

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

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

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

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

  "Yes," said Mary quietly.

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

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

  "That is for afterwards."

  Mrs. Marston sighed.

  "I know--but one storm----"

  "Speak not of storms," answered Mary, "when we have all whom we love onboard yonder ships----"

  "Not _all_."

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

  "How--not all?"

  "There are always the children," answered the other lady, with a brighttenderness. "I have three, Madam, whom we keep in Amsterdam, as TheHague is so expensive----"

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

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

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

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

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

  Suddenly a low deep murmur rose from the distant multitude.

  "What is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

  Mary murmured something incoherent, of which Mrs. Marston took nonotice.

  "I would not be the Princess," she continued, "for her chances of acrown, would you, Madam? It is a cruel thing--I met in Utrecht aScotswoman who had been her tirewoman, and she told me that the poorlady was like a maniac after her second hopes were disappointed and forever----"

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

  "Please stop," she said, in a hard voice. "I--you do not understand--dopeople _talk_ of this? God is hard, it seems--and you have children,and I _pitied_ you. I have been too proud--but humbled enough, Ithink."

  Her speech was so confused and broken that the English lady could makeno sense of it; she stared at her in surprise.

  "Why, my speech annoys you, Madam."

  Mary was facing the sea again.

  "No--continue--people _talk_ of this?" She was facing the overwhelmingbitterness of the discovery that her inmost anguish, which had been toosacred to take on her own lips, was matter for common gossip. It was anextraordinary shock, so carefully had the subject always been ignoredbefore her, and yet, she told herself fiercely, she might have knownthat it was discussed in the very streets, for it was a matter thataffected nations.

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

  A great wind had risen which tore the clouds across the paling sky anddrove the ships across the rising sea; already a widening expanse ofwaves showed between the fleet and the sands from which the people werebeginning to depart in silent groups; all mist had gone, swept away likevapour from a mirror, and every tumbling crested wave was clear in thestorm-light. Mary held herself rigid, watching the blue flag lurching tothe pitching of the high vessel; a mere speck it was now, and near thehorizon, and she watched it with no feeling of pride now, that was; themomentary exaltation had passed, been crushed utterly by a few carelesswords.

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

  "A storm," she said, aloud--"a storm."

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

  Mary passed her without speaking, then suddenly turned and galloped backtowards Scheveningen, where, in front of the church, her attendants werewaiting for her; she rode in among them, and, for some reason she couldnot have herself explained, passed her own friends and singled out LadySunderland.

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

  The Countess at once noticed the change in her manner--the brave calmchanged to piteously controlled trouble, the superb pride turned totrembling sorrow.

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

  "Yet a little accident might sink them," returned Mary, in a quiveringvoice--"like hearts, Madam, that are so hurt with little pricks yet willsurvive a deep thrust----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  With the increasing darkness the storm rose to fierce height; the raindashed against the window-pane, making the glass shiver, and the windwas tearing through the wood as if every tree must break before it.Mary took off her hat and cloak and called for candles; w
hen they werebrought she sent for Lady Sunderland.

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

  Mary turned to her dry-eyed.

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

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

  Mary held up the Prayer Book.

  "I have been trying to set my mind on this," she answered, "but thedevil is busy about me--and I cannot fix my thoughts on anythingbut--those ships----"

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

  "God," continued the Princess gravely, "must surely protect anenterprise so just, but since His ways are mysterious it might be Hiswill to bring us to disaster, and, humanly speaking, it is a terriblenight."

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

  Mary rose and handed her the Prayer Book.

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

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

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

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

  Presently Mary said in a moved and barely audible voice--

  "Madam--about your son--have you ever thought that you would--forgiveme--but he was nothing but pain to you----"

  She paused, and Lady Sunderland answered from a kind ofself-absorption--

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

  Mary was looking at her intently.

  "That must be terrible," she said, breathing quick. "To have childrenwho love one not--do you not think, perhaps, Madam, that it might bebetter--to--to have none?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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