CHAPTER VIII

FEAR

My Lord Sunderland was climbing from obscurity, disgrace, and infamy to that great position he had once held--climbing very cautiously, working secretly, 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 His Majesty, 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 yet take his seat in the House on great occasions; he preferred to wait in Whitehall and reflect quietly on his policies.

He believed that the summit of his ambitions was about to be reached; he had staked on William of Orange twenty years ago, and had never lost faith in him. The King was not a man to be ungrateful. Sunderland saw close within his grasp the moment he had worked for steadily, unscrupulously, so long--the moment when William of Orange and he should rule 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 troubles would have been averted or smoothed over.

He was even scheming to make the Court popular; the attitude of the people towards his hero considerably annoyed him.

It was undeniable that the irreproachable example of the Court awoke in the English more ridicule than respect or admiration; they regarded with a sneer the sincere efforts of the gentle young Queen to elevate and dignify her position, to improve the tone of a corrupt society. The industrious 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 regretting former princes so much more suited to their temper. They missed the pageant that had continually entertained them at Whitehall, the money that had been squandered by the Court in a manner so pleasing to the national extravagance, the continual spectacle of the King in the obvious exercise of gracious royalty, even the gay ladies whose histories had diverted a generation. This humour provoked cynical smiles from William and distressed comment from Mary. Sunderland resolved to alter it; he saw the truth; he knew that nothing but genius in the man every one combined to disparage could have kept the nation together, and nothing but the greatest courage and strength on the part of the woman they affected to dismiss as a cipher could have maintained a government during the Irish war.

Sunderland largely blamed the ministers. Halifax had failed, Caermarthen (now Leeds) was failing, the others had never been really trusted by the King, who relied mainly on secret advisers, such as Carstairs, Temple, his Dutch friends, and lately Sunderland himself.

My lord knew that he could do better than any of these; he had the great advantage of understanding the King; he even believed that he could make him again as beloved in England as he had been in '88.

William was no boor, but of noble blood thrice refined; his passionate nature and the constant control he had put it under made him break out fiercely sometimes against the foolish and the vexatious; he never flattered, and he took no trouble to please women. Natural modesty and the languor of ill-health made him refuse to concede to the national love of display; but he was beloved abroad, and Sunderland believed he could be beloved in England. My lord resolved to persuade him to go to Newmarket this year; he flattered himself that he had a considerable influence over William.

He became impatient for the King to return; he went to the window and looked at the surging crowd beyond the courtyard waiting for a sight of the Royal coach. It was not likely to be greeted very warmly, for the King was, a second time, going to veto the Triennial Bill, a great popular measure which, from the first, he had set his face against.

Sunderland upheld him; to consent to the Bill would be an enormous concession 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 took pleasure now in thinking of the King's firm stand and the disappointment of this crowd when the news of the vetoed Bill was flashed from mouth to mouth.

As he watched, standing within the silver-corded curtains, a party of halberdiers suddenly scattered the people to right and left, a company of 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 were thrown up, and handkerchiefs waved. Sunderland had never seen the King receive 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 the George lay tossed on one of the gilt walnut chairs; the King, in silk shirt and white satin breeches, sat by a marquetry dressing-table with a letter in his hand.

Sunderland entered as one sure of his welcome. William had promised him countenance if he would come to Court.

"Your Majesty----" he began.

The King looked at him blankly; his face, between the dark curls, was of a 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 ever considered 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 any but Your Majesty had made that statement I should have disbelieved them----"

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 have known him----"

"He hath been all day like a man in a confusion," answered the Master of the Robes.

"And to give way," muttered Sunderland. "To concede like any weakling!"

William mechanically took from one of the lords his coat, sword, and hat, and stood still a moment before the chair on which his orders glittered on his robes, like frozen coloured water gleaming in the winter sunlight.

"Is the coach ready?" he asked abruptly.

"Your Majesty," reminded M. de Zulestein, "is to dine in public here to-day----"

"No," said the King, "I will go at once to Kensington House--hasten the coach----"

"But there are a number of people already gathered--it will cause grievous 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's humour.

At sight of him William flushed with animation. Portland crossed to him at 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 is fear, William, fear----"

He spoke in his own language, and with an extraordinary energy and passion.

"The letter," asked Portland tenderly, "that was handed you as we started----"

"From Sir Thomas Millington," said the King; he put it into his friend's hands and sank on to the chair beside the dressing-table; he seemed utterly 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 ... you know _she_ hath never had the smallpox." His voice broke; he stared out of 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 from Kensington--every one, even to the maid-servants--who--had not had the smallpox----"

"That is but her own sweet kindness," cried Portland--"she cannot know----"

"I am afraid, afraid," answered the King. "My father, my mother, my uncle ... all dead of that..."

He sprang up and turned to the door. Sunderland was in his way, and stayed him gently.

"Sir--I entreat you do not disappoint the people--stay in Whitehall to dine----"

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 would like to hear some good reason for that concession on the part of Your Majesty."

William made no answer; he put out his hand and motioned my lord out of his way. Sunderland stepped aside and the King left the room. They heard 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 him Her Majesty was worse than she would admit."

"But the doctors----"

"You know the King hath never had any trust in doctors--and certainly it giveth an ill-colour that she hath sent away all that are like to be infected."

"Meanwhile the Bill is passed," said Sunderland. "And I have misreckoned on the King."

He took his leave haughtily of the Dutch nobles, and they went after the King. An excited and disturbed crowd filled the galleries and the banqueting hall where the dishes were already on the table and the lords ready to serve.

The King had already left Whitehall in the Duke of Leeds' coach, with no other company but that nobleman.

So completely deceived were the spectators who lined the way from the Palace to the post office in Charing Cross to see the great people drive away from Parliament that they, recognizing the arms and liveries of Leeds (now unpopular by reason of the East India scandals), hooted lustily, with no conception that the King was beside my lord.

Nor did either King or minister care one whit whether the crowd hooted or cheered. Leeds was on the verge of ruin, and knew it, yet thought little about that; he had a peculiar regard for the Queen, a peculiar loyalty towards the King; his thoughts, like his master's, were with that lady whose life meant so much to England.

In half an hour they were at Kensington House; in a few minutes more the King, the Duke's mantle over his white satins and the garter still round his 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 de Nienhuys--very languidly seated, with her hands in her lap and a blue scarf 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 could not be till this evening ... but were they not expecting you to dine at Whitehall?"

"No matter for that," he answered breathlessly. "You--you are no worse?"

"Oh, I am well again," smiled Mary; "but you will make yourself unpopular if you disappoint the people--yet I am glad you came--I thought 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 to Parliament was company----"

She paused, and seemed rather exhausted by the effort of speaking. William noticed with unutterable anxiety that the hand he held was burning 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 King took 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 if it 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 so weary, 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 ball just the same next Saturday. I have remedied myself and not troubled the doctors."

He wished to ask her why she had given the orders about her household that 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 I not?"

He pressed the hand he held between his so fiercely that his heavy rings hurt her, but she continued smiling.

"About Greenwich Palace," she added rather faintly. "I want it for a hospital----"

"I know, I know," he answered remorsefully. "You have spoken of it before. It hath always been the cursed money, but you shall have it if I have to pawn my furniture."

"There are so many old seamen about," murmured Mary--"poor and wounded--and many of them were at La Hogue and helped save us all. I used to see them when I took my airing in Hyde Park, begging--one could not forbear tears. And the hospitals are full. But Greenwich----"

"It shall be," said William. "Give that no more thought. Wren shall draw plans. It shall be as you wish, only get well again, and that shall be my thankoffering."

Looking and smiling at him she sat silent while the firelight flooded her figure with gorgeous light; in that moment's stillness both of them thought 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 strangely near her grave is. I think that Chapel in Westminster a sad spot. But if we live with our thoughts on Death how can we be afraid? God would not let one be afraid."

"Why do you speak of death?" asked the King, in a trembling voice. "You frighten me----"

"Ah no," whispered Mary. "Death is not fearful. I have been idle to-day, and thought of many strange things. I recalled a portrait of your mother I found in a desk of yours when I first came to Holland--a limning 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 heavy lids.

"I would we were at The Hague again," she said wistfully.

"You shall go," he replied impetuously. "When the spring cometh we will go 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. We have 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 world might pass from beneath us if we could sit thus and I not notice. You will be with me this Christmas-tide?"

"I shall not leave you," he said hoarsely. "I will nurse you till you are 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 foolish child, so ignorant----"

He could not speak, but made a movement of his hands to hers as if to stop her.

"Let me speak," said Mary sweetly. "I have thought so much about it lately. We learnt everything so late--our mistakes last of all, I think, and I have made many mistakes. Perhaps another woman would have helped you more. But I have done my best--I wanted to say that--I have always 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 of it and your great kindness."

He turned about and leant over her chair. Mary clung to him with hot hands.

"No one could have loved you more," she said, in great agitation--"too much, for my own peace----"

Her fever-flushed face drooped against the lace on his bosom; he put his arm round her, and she gave a great sigh; the tears were on her lashes and running slowly down her face; he kissed her loose hair and the hand on his shoulder.

"God," he said, in an unsteady whisper, answering his own desperate fears, "could not be so cruel."