CHAPTER III

THE BEST OF LIFE

It was early May; the King was walking in his park at Kensington, with his friend, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland.

It was the eve of his departure for Ireland; he had yesterday prorogued Parliament, and laughed a little as he related the discomfiture of the Whigs at his speech.

"I shall be glad to be under canvas again," he added. "For myself it will be a holiday, but I pity the poor Queen." He repeated with great tenderness--"the poor Queen!"

"How doth she take your going?" asked the Earl.

"Ah, heavily--what have I brought her but affliction?--sometimes I think of that----"

He spoke sadly, and pressed Bentinck's hand.

"Be good to the Queen," he said wistfully. "As you love me, William, help the Queen when I am not here.... I think women have the harder part."

"I have great faith in her courage and wisdom, sir," said the Earl.

"There is no woman like her," answered the King, under his breath. He added aloud, with a flashing smile, "As there is no friend in the world like you!"

"Ah, sir," cried Portland, much moved, "you ever flattered me."

He was not so reserved as the King nor yet so demonstrative. William could express by word and letter, strong passion, but this was not possible to William Bentinck. Devotion to his master was the motive power of his life, but he could not say so.

The King again pressed his hand affectionately. They were walking under limes, and hawthorns white with blossom. The sky shone cloudy blue, and the pale English sunshine was over the young grass.

William looked round him with the sick eyes of exile; thoughts of Holland tugged so sharply at his heart that he gave a little suppressed sound of pain.

"What of this Crone and Fuller plot?" asked Portland suddenly.

"I am sorry to leave that on the Queen her hands," said William quietly; "but I do not think it serious."

"Some great men are implicated?"

"I do not doubt it."

Portland hesitated a moment, then said--

"Nottingham's spies intercepted letters to St. Germains, he saith--who were they from?"

"People of no station," answered the King. "Nottingham is over zealous."

"And you, sir, are over easy."

William smiled at him, and seated himself on a wooden bench under one of the limes.

"That is an old complaint between us, is it not?" he said kindly. "Dear lord, let it be----"

Portland smiled also; he was not satisfied; he stirred his cane among the scattered hawthorn flowers and his fair face hardened. After a little he asked his dismissal, and turned towards Kensington House.

The King remained alone in the park, sitting a little droopingly; he hardly ever held himself erect now; he had shifted his sword-belt so that the weapon was across his knees, and he held pommel and point of the scabbard with his bare, delicate hands; his clothes were dark and plain; he wore high riding-boots and a beaver with a great plume of white feathers. So still he sat, and so shaded was his figure in the deep glowing shadow cast by the lime boughs of budding foliage, that a young man coming moodily along the path was upon him before he noticed that any sat there.

"Ah, sire!" he exclaimed, in confusion, and pulled off his hat.

William looked up at him; it was the Duke of Shrewsbury.

"I am glad to see you, my lord. I wished to speak to you."

"I was about to seek an audience of Your Majesty."

Shrewsbury was in a painful agitation, further increased by this sudden meeting with the King, utterly unlooked for. It was rare to find William at leisure or on foot.

The King's deep eyes regarded him sadly and kindly.

"Was it to a second time offer your resignation?" he asked.

Shrewsbury went crimson under his powder; he seemed to find it difficult to maintain even a show of composure.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered.

"Very well," said William quietly. "I am sorry that you will not serve me till my return from Ireland."

"Sire, my health," murmured the Duke faintly--"I have had a fall from my horse--I am not fit."

Still holding his sword in both hands, the King rose.

"My lord--is that your sole reason?" he asked gently.

The blood ebbed from the young man's soft face; he answered with an effort.

"My sole reason, Your Majesty."

William continued to fix his eyes on him.

"My lord, when did you last see Roger Fuller?"

Shrewsbury shivered; he stammered painfully.

"I--I--do not know--the fellow----"

"I take your word, my lord," said William gravely.

He dropped his sword, and laid his hand with a gentle dignity on the young man's heaving shoulder.

"Remember I trust you," he added quietly.

"Sir," cried Shrewsbury, through pale lips--"what is your meaning--do you think----"

"I think that you are a man of honour," said William. "You have given me your word, and I trust you. Remember it."

"Your Majesty," began the Duke wildly, "I never meant----"

"Hush," interrupted the King. "I know nothing. Take care of your health, my lord."

He touched his hat and moved on. The young Duke looked after him with eyes of agony, then stumbled wretchedly away through the trees.

William proceeded slowly to the privy garden, which was full of stocks, pinks, wallflowers, aloes, and early roses.

He found the Queen and Lady Nottingham seated in front of a great bush of box clipped into the shape of a peacock. Between them was a length of yellow silk that they were sewing with blue beads in little crosses and stars.

At the King's approach Lady Nottingham rose and retired with a courtsey. Mary looked after her kindly.

"She is a sweet lady--I like her vastly," she said.

"You find most ladies sweet, do you not?" answered the King; he seated himself beside her on the bench, and took up the end of silk Lady Nottingham had laid down.

"I have spoilt your work. But I wished to tell you something, Marie."

Mary glanced at him anxiously; she was slightly pale, and wore a black scarf wrapped round her head and shoulders; her petticoat was striped red and frilled at the foot, her over-gown dark blue and spread round her in circling folds of glittering silk. For all the sombre heaviness of this stately dressing she looked very young--sad, also, for all the desperate gaiety to which she was continually nerved.

The King looked about him to see that they were not overheard, then said, in a low voice--

"I have accepted my Lord Shrewsbury his resignation."

Mary waited, catching her breath.

"He," continued William, "hath tampered with His late Majesty."

The Queen gave a little sound of distress, and dropped her sewing.

"Shrewsbury!" she whispered.

"I have sure proof of it," said the King. "I am sorry for him," he added simply; "and for myself, it something moved me, for I ever liked my lord."

Mary flushed and clenched her hands on her lap.

"How base every one is," she cried, and the angry tears glittered in her eyes.

"There is not much honour in England, Marie. Have a care of all of them--particularly of that knave"--he spoke with strong force--"that villain, my Lord Marlborough----"

"Need he be of the Council?" she asked eagerly.

"Child, he is the best soldier in England, and if I was to leave you a Council of honest men they could not be of this nation--trust none of them."

"God help me," said the Queen. "I know not how I shall support myself when you are not here--but how weak I am to talk thus--my part is little compared to yours."

She smiled with a pitiful brightness, and the King, looking at her, flushed as if he had been hurt and suppressed the pain.

"Talk no more of this," he said quickly--"in this little time we have together----"

Mary laid her hand on his.

"How pale the sunshine is--not thick and golden like The Hague--the flowers seem so different too; is not that a silly fancy?" She smiled again, and her voice quivered.

"You are not happy here, Marie."

She answered hastily.

"Happy wherever I have your dear company--but I confess I am a coward without you--but God is greater than our hopes, our fears, our desires; He knoweth best."

When her soft voice ceased the only sounds were those of water running in the lead basin of a fountain hidden somewhere behind the alleys of wych-elm, and the occasional distant blows of a hammer from the workman engaged on the scaffolding of Kensington House.

She spoke again at last, her white fingers tightening over his.

"I wonder if you will ever rest--if achievement will ever come--at last, if you will ever think your work done----"

"How can I?" he answered. "That is my sole excuse to live--that there is something for me to do--and I am so used to work I think I could not rest----"

"It hath been hard--hard and long," said Mary. "You must be so weary of it all--the lying, the treachery, the weakness, the opposition, the delays, the disappointments----"

The King smiled faintly.

"Yet I have done something----"

"So much!" exclaimed Mary proudly. "But I do long for you to have some leisure now ... for both of us ... to be alone, at last----"

"When the war is over----"

She interrupted gently.

"When the war is over! Alas!" She shook her head. "So long still to wait." She smiled. "I would that you had not been a great man, dear--but just a simple citizen." She laughed charmingly. "And we would live at The Hague always and have a great garden where you should grow 'La Solitaire' for the thousand gulden prize--and I would polish all the furniture myself--and I could call you 'Willem' then before all the world, and we should have long days together ... and you would read of great events in the _Gazette_ and never want to mix in them, and I should laugh at those unhappy kings and queens----"

Her husband looked at her in silence.

"So you see I am a good housewife, no more!" she continued, in a kind of wild gaiety. "Alas, I have no brains for business!"

"I have thought, too," said William, "that I would like to be a mere gentleman watching events, not guiding them; but these thoughts are beneath us--and idle visions."

"Idle visions!" repeated the Queen. "And you must go to the war again--Death's target--and I must stay behind and keep my countenance! I am such a poor weak fool!" she added, in bitter self-reproach.

The King raised her head and pressed it against his heart.

"That kind of fool I could never have done without," he said impetuously. "If I have ever achieved anything, the credit is to you, my dearest, my dearest----"

He dropped her hand, and abruptly broke his speech.

"What more can I want than to hear you say that?" answered Mary. "Only love me and I can bear anything----"

The King's brilliant eyes rested on her pale but smiling face; he spoke slowly, and his tired voice was hoarse and unequal.

"When I was a boy--a youth--I was so proud, so self-confident.... I remember I thought I was capable of anything--I took my inexperience, my handful of soldiers, into the field against France--against Conde! I had been very much alone, and so learnt reserve that I had almost lost the power of expression--I was also very unhappy--I think I had no support in the world but my pride--I thought God had elected me to be his Captain----"

He paused, but Mary did not speak. Only the little gurgle of the unseen fountain broke perfect stillness.

"I remember," continued William, "the first time I went to Middleburg and heard the people shout for me--and saw the Town Council bowing.... I never had felt so lonely. Twenty years ago--and I have greatly changed, but in a fashion I have kept the vows I made then to God--I have not turned back from defending His Faith--but that was before He pleased to humble me by constant defeat. I was so confident, Marie! Ah, could I recapture that exaltation of the morning it would all be so easy--I felt so glad of what I had to do--but now!"

He raised his hand lightly and lightly let it fall; his profile was towards the Queen now, and his gaze directed towards the English hawthorns that showed above the box hedge of the privy garden.

"But though," he added, "it hath all darkened since then, I think God meant me to go on--for He sent you, my wife ... and you are the one thing that hath never failed me."

She hid her face in her hands, and sat trembling; the little tray of blue beads fell from her lap, and they were scattered over the gravel path.

"If I am not good at gratitude," said the King haltingly--"yet believe me--while you are there I can endure anything. After all, there is nothing in the world for me but you and Holland, and while I have both why should I complain of any difficulties?"

Mary raised her face.

"If I could think I made that difference to you!" she said.

"You have given me the best of life," he answered gravely.