CHAPTER VIII
FEAR
My Lord Sunderland was climbing from obscurity, disgrace, and infamy tothat great position he had once held--climbing very cautiously, workingsecretly, biding his time, venturing a little here, a little there,helped always by my lady and some few ancient friends.
The King had been obliged to leave him out of the Act of Grace. He was,nevertheless, at this moment waiting for a private audience of HisMajesty, who had already visited him in his princely palace at Althorp.
The King had gone in state to Parliament; my lord did not care to yettake his seat in the House on great occasions; he preferred to wait inWhitehall and reflect quietly on his policies.
He believed that the summit of his ambitions was about to be reached; hehad staked on William of Orange twenty years ago, and had never lostfaith in him. The King was not a man to be ungrateful. Sunderland sawclose within his grasp the moment he had worked for steadily,unscrupulously, so long--the moment when William of Orange and he shouldrule England together.
From his seclusion at Althorp he had watched the King's stormy reign,and known that if he had been at William's right hand half the troubleswould have been averted or smoothed over.
He was even scheming to make the Court popular; the attitude of thepeople towards his hero considerably annoyed him.
It was undeniable that the irreproachable example of the Court awoke inthe English more ridicule than respect or admiration; they regarded witha sneer the sincere efforts of the gentle young Queen to elevate anddignify her position, to improve the tone of a corrupt society. Theindustrious simplicity of the King, his dislike of blasphemy,evil-speaking, and frivolous amusements, his private tolerance, justice,and modesty were as so many causes of offence to a people regrettingformer princes so much more suited to their temper. They missed thepageant that had continually entertained them at Whitehall, the moneythat had been squandered by the Court in a manner so pleasing to thenational extravagance, the continual spectacle of the King in theobvious exercise of gracious royalty, even the gay ladies whosehistories had diverted a generation. This humour provoked cynicalsmiles from William and distressed comment from Mary. Sunderlandresolved to alter it; he saw the truth; he knew that nothing but geniusin the man every one combined to disparage could have kept the nationtogether, and nothing but the greatest courage and strength on the partof the woman they affected to dismiss as a cipher could have maintaineda government during the Irish war.
Sunderland largely blamed the ministers. Halifax had failed,Caermarthen (now Leeds) was failing, the others had never been reallytrusted by the King, who relied mainly on secret advisers, such asCarstairs, Temple, his Dutch friends, and lately Sunderland himself.
My lord knew that he could do better than any of these; he had the greatadvantage of understanding the King; he even believed that he could makehim again as beloved in England as he had been in '88.
William was no boor, but of noble blood thrice refined; his passionatenature and the constant control he had put it under made him break outfiercely sometimes against the foolish and the vexatious; he neverflattered, and he took no trouble to please women. Natural modesty andthe languor of ill-health made him refuse to concede to the nationallove of display; but he was beloved abroad, and Sunderland believed hecould be beloved in England. My lord resolved to persuade him to go toNewmarket this year; he flattered himself that he had a considerableinfluence over William.
He became impatient for the King to return; he went to the window andlooked at the surging crowd beyond the courtyard waiting for a sight ofthe Royal coach. It was not likely to be greeted very warmly, for theKing was, a second time, going to veto the Triennial Bill, a greatpopular measure which, from the first, he had set his face against.
Sunderland upheld him; to consent to the Bill would be an enormousconcession to the people, and my lord had no love for the democracy,but, like William, had a high ideal of the rights of the Crown. He tookpleasure now in thinking of the King's firm stand and the disappointmentof this crowd when the news of the vetoed Bill was flashed from mouth tomouth.
As he watched, standing within the silver-corded curtains, a party ofhalberdiers suddenly scattered the people to right and left, a companyof soldiers drove up, and then the Royal coach came, unusually fast,swinging on its leathers.
A deep hum rose from the crowd; some broke into cheering, hats werethrown up, and handkerchiefs waved. Sunderland had never seen the Kingreceive such a cordial reception.
He withdrew from the window, surprised, a little puzzled.
The satisfied murmur of the crowd continued.
"Why--is it possible----" cried my lord.
He hastened to seek out the King.
William was in his dressing-room, disrobing. M. Zulestein was with him,and several other nobles.
Gold-embroidered purple, scarlet and ermine, the collar and star of theGeorge lay tossed on one of the gilt walnut chairs; the King, in silkshirt and white satin breeches, sat by a marquetry dressing-table with aletter in his hand.
Sunderland entered as one sure of his welcome. William had promised himcountenance if he would come to Court.
"Your Majesty----" he began.
The King looked at him blankly; his face, between the dark curls, was ofa startling whiteness.
"Ah, sir," said Sunderland, "do I break in upon Your Majesty?"
"No," answered William vaguely.
My lord looked round the other nobles; they seemed strangely silent.
"Sir, how went it in Parliament?" he asked, approaching the King.
William made a heavy effort to answer.
"I--well enough--they----" His voice trailed off.
Sunderland stood utterly amazed. Was this man going to fail?
"Sir, the Triennial Bill?" he questioned half fearfully.
The King rose; he seemed utterly unnerved; he whom my lord had everconsidered beyond the touch of weakness.
"I passed it," he said faintly.
The colour flashed into Sunderland's face.
"You did!" he cried. "You made that great concession. By God, if anybut Your Majesty had made that statement I should have disbelievedthem----"
The King did not seem to hear him; he called distractedly for his coat,and walked up and down the splendid little chamber with his head bent.
Sunderland, sick at heart, drew M. de Zulestein aside.
"What is the matter with the King?" he whispered. "I should not haveknown him----"
"He hath been all day like a man in a confusion," answered the Master ofthe Robes.
"And to give way," muttered Sunderland. "To concede like any weakling!"
William mechanically took from one of the lords his coat, sword, andhat, and stood still a moment before the chair on which his ordersglittered on his robes, like frozen coloured water gleaming in thewinter sunlight.
"Is the coach ready?" he asked abruptly.
"Your Majesty," reminded M. de Zulestein, "is to dine in public hereto-day----"
"No," said the King, "I will go at once to Kensington House--hasten thecoach----"
"But there are a number of people already gathered--it will causegrievous offence----"
The King stared at him with wild dark eyes.
"My God, I will not stay an instant."
M. de Zulestein bowed.
At this moment Lord Portland entered; they saw him with profound relief,believing that, if any could, he would fathom and combat the King'shumour.
At sight of him William flushed with animation. Portland crossed to himat once; he seemed himself troubled in his manner.
The King caught his hand and pressed it inside his open satin waistcoat,over his heart.
"Do you feel that?" he asked. "Have you ever known it beat so?--that isfear, William, fear----"
He spoke in his own language, and with an extraordinary energy andpassion.
"The letter," asked Portlan
d tenderly, "that was handed you as westarted----"
"From Sir Thomas Millington," said the King; he put it into his friend'shands and sank on to the chair beside the dressing-table; he seemedutterly unconscious of the watchful eyes upon him, of the presence,indeed, of any but Portland.
That lord read the letter of Sir Thomas (he was the King's physician)with, it seemed, some relief.
"Why, he merely saith the Queen is not well."
William answered hoarsely--
"Lady Temple came to Whitehall this morning when you were abroad ... youknow _she_ hath never had the smallpox." His voice broke; he stared outof the window at the winter sky.
"God in Heaven!" exclaimed Portland. "You do not think of _that_?"
"Lady Temple," muttered the King, "said--_she_ had sent fromKensington--every one, even to the maid-servants--who--had not had thesmallpox----"
"That is but her own sweet kindness," cried Portland--"she cannotknow----"
"I am afraid, afraid," answered the King. "My father, my mother, myuncle ... all dead of that..."
He sprang up and turned to the door. Sunderland was in his way, andstayed him gently.
"Sir--I entreat you do not disappoint the people--stay in Whitehall todine----"
William looked at him fiercely.
"Do you not hear that the Queen is sick?"
Sunderland's face was cold; he was disappointed in the King.
"What of this Bill for the Calling of Parliaments?" he said. "I wouldlike to hear some good reason for that concession on the part of YourMajesty."
William made no answer; he put out his hand and motioned my lord out ofhis way. Sunderland stepped aside and the King left the room. Theyheard his high heels going quickly down the corridors.
Portland turned to M. de Zulestein.
"Why, he hath known two days that the Queen was not well."
"It was Lady Temple," answered the Master of the Robes. "She told himHer Majesty was worse than she would admit."
"But the doctors----"
"You know the King hath never had any trust in doctors--and certainly itgiveth an ill-colour that she hath sent away all that are like to beinfected."
"Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I havemisreckoned on the King."
He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after theKing. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and thebanqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lordsready to serve.
The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with noother company but that nobleman.
So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from thePalace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people driveaway from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries ofLeeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hootedlustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.
Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hootedor cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thoughtlittle about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiarloyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were withthat lady whose life meant so much to England.
In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more theKing, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still roundhis knee, was by Mary's side in the long Queen's gallery.
She was seated close to the fire with Basilea de Marsac and Madame deNienhuys--very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a bluescarf about her shoulders.
Her extravagant joy at the King's coming was piteous to see.
"So soon!" she cried, and her whole face changed. "I thought it couldnot be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine atWhitehall?"
"No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You--you are noworse?"
"Oh, I am well again," smiled Mary; "but you will make yourselfunpopular if you disappoint the people--yet I am glad you came--Ithought I must see you--that is why I came from Hampton yesterday,forgive me--but even the sound of the Tower guns as you went toParliament was company----"
She paused, and seemed rather exhausted by the effort of speaking.William noticed with unutterable anxiety that the hand he held wasburning hot and that she shivered continuously, yet she was so joyous,smiling, and lovely he could not trust his own fears.
The two ladies had withdrawn to the other end of the gallery. The Kingtook the stool beside Mary.
"Did you pass the Parliament Bill?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, never taking his eyes from her face and speaking as ifit was a matter of no moment.
"Ah, why?" she asked, startled.
"I did not care; what doth it matter? Do not talk of business, Marie."
"No," she said softly; "let us forget great affairs for once. I am soweary, dear."
"But you are better?" He could scarcely control his voice.
She smiled brightly.
"Oh yes; I was out driving this morning, and afterwards talking to Dr.Burnet, and you know that taketh some energy--I think to have my balljust the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubledthe doctors."
He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her householdthat had so shaken him, but could not bring the words to his lips.
Mary coughed a little, and sat up.
"I wanted to ask you something," she said. "I am always begging--am Inot?"
He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy ringshurt her, but she continued smiling.
"About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for ahospital----"
"I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of itbefore. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it ifI have to pawn my furniture."
"There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary--"poor andwounded--and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. Iused to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging--one couldnot forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich----"
"It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shalldraw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and thatshall be my thankoffering."
Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight floodedher figure with gorgeous light; in that moment's stillness both of themthought of love as a terrible thing.
Mary suddenly closed her eyes.
"Your mother," she said softly, "do you remember her?"
He answered under his breath--
"Yes. Your name, my dear, your family, should I not remember her?"
"When she died she was no older than I am--I often think how strangelynear her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. Butif we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God wouldnot let one be afraid."
"Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "Youfrighten me----"
"Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idleto-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait ofyour mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland--alimning in little with white violets on the back, and these words,'J'aime un seul.' That was a pretty thought of hers."
She moved her head restlessly on the red cushions and lifted her heavylids.
"I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully.
"You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we willgo together to The Hague, and be free of all of it----"
"There is the war."
"Let Waldeck take the command this campaign--I will stay with you. Wehave had so little time together all these years."
Mary gazed tenderly into his ardent face.
"The spring seemeth so far off. Hold my hand. I feel as if the worldmight pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. Youwill be with me this Christmas-tide?"
"I shall not le
ave you," he said hoarsely. "I will nurse you till youare well again. But you are not ill?" he added piteously.
"No--tired a little." She sat up and put her hands on his shoulders."You do not regret the day they married you to your poor little cousin?"The soft brown eyes were full of yearning. "She was such a foolishchild, so ignorant----"
He could not speak, but made a movement of his hands to hers as if tostop her.
"Let me speak," said Mary sweetly. "I have thought so much about itlately. We learnt everything so late--our mistakes last of all, Ithink, and I have made many mistakes. Perhaps another woman would havehelped you more. But I have done my best--I wanted to say that--I havealways done my best."
He managed to answer, but almost incoherently.
"You shame me--utterly shame me--you--know what you have been to me----"
Mary dropped her hands; the tears gathered in her eyes.
"And I am childless," she faltered.
He sprang up as if he wrenched himself free from torture.
"Do not leave me," entreated Mary feebly. "I think I am not very well,after all, and you promised to stay--forgive me--but indeed I think ofit and your great kindness."
He turned about and leant over her chair. Mary clung to him with hothands.
"No one could have loved you more," she said, in great agitation--"toomuch, for my own peace----"
Her fever-flushed face drooped against the lace on his bosom; he put hisarm round her, and she gave a great sigh; the tears were on her lashesand running slowly down her face; he kissed her loose hair and the handon his shoulder.
"God," he said, in an unsteady whisper, answering his own desperatefears, "could not be so cruel."
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