God and the King

by Marjorie Bowen

  CHAPTER I

  A DARK DAWNING

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

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

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

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

  Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as hepassed--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lord Dorset smiled.

  "This poet, sir, is also a very good Protestant, and one who did muchservice in writing of satires----"

  "We have always uses for a clever pen," said William, in whose owncountry the printing press was a powerful political engine. He turnedgravely to the young man--

  "What is your name?"

  "Matthew Prior, Your Majesty."

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

  The aspirant lifted sincere and ardent eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The loss of personal ease, of his popularity in England, a completemisunderstanding of his motives, the rancorous, malicious hate of hisenemies--these things he had, from the moment of his coronation, beenprepared for; but it might be that he would be called upon to makevaster sacrifices--the friendship of many former supporters, even theirlong-cherished love and loyalty, the trust and confidence of the allies,the admiration of the dissenting churches throughout Europe, even hisown peace of soul. Everything in brief, that he valued, save the loveof Mary and the friendship of William Bentinck, must be pledged, andmight be lost in this forthcoming conflict.

  He had honestly and justly tried to satisfy the English, but had metwith utter failure. They reproached--reviled him, complained, andloudly voiced their dissatisfaction; he had not pleased one of those whohad placed him on the throne. The chaotic state of the Governmentmight, to a superficial observer, appear to give some warrant for theirdiscontent; but, as the King cynically observed to himself, they wereincapable of even suggesting a remedy for the ills they so decried; hedid everything, and Whig and Tory alike agreed in putting all burdens onhis shoulders, then in blaming his administration.

  In the crisis of '88 their action had been oblique. They had shiftedthe almost intolerable confusion of affairs into his hands, then stoodback to watch and criticise, while he, who had already the business ofhalf Europe on his mind, made what order he could out of jarring chaos.His health had broken under the strain; even his friends noticed a newlanguor in him, which the English were quick to dub sloth. Deprived ofhis one recreation of hunting--for which he had no time--hardly able toendure the stenches and smoke of London, his reserved temper taxedalmost beyond bearing by the incessant, unreasonable, shortsightedquarrelling by which he was surrounded, he felt his strength slippinglike water through his hands.

  His popularity had gone as he had predicted it would. The Jacobiteswere already a tremendously strong party, and his own ministers werehalf of them already beginning to traffic with the exiled King--who wasnow in Ireland with French troops, and of whom it had been said that,would he but change his religion, he could not be kept out of Englandsix weeks.

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

  He was working like a galley-slave for England--working withinsufficient money, false servants, unfriendly onlookers, and anapathetic nation ready to seize on frivolous pretexts to dub himunpopular--and his reward for labours, that perhaps not one of hissubjects had any conception of, was the nominal dignity of kingship andthe long-fought-for alliance of England with the States.

  He was certainly paying a bitter price.

  All the great nobles were dissatisfied. The King had a keen dislike ofparty, and his ideal of government was a cabinet comprising of the bestmen of every faction to advise a ruler free to decide the final issue ofevery q
uestion. He had tried this scheme in England, equally honouringWhig and Tory, and taking his ministers from the rival ranks.

  The plan had been an utter failure; each faction wanted the supremecontrol. The Whigs wanted the King to become their champion, and avengethem indiscriminately on every Tory; the Tories, who had always beenopposed to William, refused to work with the Whigs; Danby, createdMarquess of Caermarthen at the Coronation, was furious because he hadnot the privy seals; Halifax, to whom they had been given, grudged Danbythe Marquisate; the two Secretaries, Shrewsbury and Nottingham, werescarcely on speaking terms; Russell, now Lord Orford, and Herbert, nowLord Torrington, quarrelled fiercely over the naval affairs; at theTreasury Board, Lord Mordaunt, now Earl of Monmouth and Lord Delamere,both hot Whigs, did their best to disparage their colleague, LordGodolphin, who, of all the Government, was the quietest man and the onemost esteemed by the King; Clarendon, the Queen's uncle, had refused totake the oaths; and his brother Rochester was suspected of plotting withJames. There was, in fact, scarcely one Englishman, even among thosewho had accompanied William to England, whom he could trust, yet theadvancement and favour he showed his Dutch friends was made the matterfor perpetual and noisy complaint.

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

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

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

  His position was in every way complex. By nature imperious, arrogant,of the proudest blood in Europe, he had a high idea of the kinglyprerogative, and by instinct leant to the Tories; but the Whigs claimedhim as peculiarly their champion, and it was undoubtedly to theirinfluence that the Revolution was due. As King of England he was headof the Anglican Church and swore to uphold it; but he was a Calvinisthimself, and the whole tenor of his life had been towards that broadtoleration which the Church regarded with abhorrence. He was avowedlylatitudinarian and set his face resolutely against any form ofpersecution for religious belief, and while this attitude cost him thesupport of the Church, his refusal to treat the Catholics harshly losthim the alliance of the Dissenters, who regarded him as disappointinglylukewarm in the true cause.

  A gentle treatment of the Papists was essential to William's foreignpolicy, since he had promised his Catholic allies--Spain, the Emperor,and the Pope, to protect those of this persuasion--and it was, besides,his own conviction of justice and the general good. He had thereforeforced through Parliament the Toleration Act, which was, however, toolimited to heal the internecine disorders of religious parties; he hadthen endeavoured to bridge the schism between Nonconformists andAnglicans by the Comprehension Bill, but the measure was before its timeand failed to pass.

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

  There had been a mutiny in the army which had to be repressed by Dutchtroops--a further grievance to the English, who began to bitterly resentforeign soldiers in their midst; yet on these troops alone could theKing rely.

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

  Those were the great difficulties, but there were many smallervexations, such as the party the Princess Anne, under the influence ofthose adventurers--the Churchills--was forming against the Court; thesulky, unreasonable behaviour of Lord Torrington at the Admiralty Board;the constant necessity the King was under of going to London (the air ofwhich was literally death to him), and of dining in public atWhitehall--a practice he detested; the lack of money for the buildingsat Hampton Court and Kensington, which were both in an uncomfortablestate of incompletion; his own ignorance on little technical points ofadministration and costume, which made him dependent on his Englishadvisers--all these were added annoyances and humiliations that went farto unman a nature well inured to strenuous difficulties.

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

  The latch clicked, and William turned his head quickly.

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