CHAPTER X

THE QUEEN

Dr. Burnet was returning from his diocese of Sarum to Kensington Palace, where he had been called by the grave reports of the Queen's sickness.

On Christmas Day she had been something better, but towards the evening notably worse; on Wednesday prayers were offered in all the churches, and the new primate, Dr. Tenison, was summoned to join the other prelates in attendance at Kensington.

The Bishop of Sarum was joined in London by M. Zulestein, for whom he had a peculiar friendship, and who came to urge haste.

The Master of the Robes hoped that the Bishop's presence might have some effect upon the astonishing and immoderate agitation of the King; he confessed he had been glad to escape from the atmosphere of anxiety and grief at Kensington.

Soldier and priest made a melancholy journey in M. Zulestein's coach. The Capital was very silent and awed. There could be no doubt now that the Queen was beloved.

"If she goes," said M. Zulestein bluntly, "he can never hold the throne. His very title to it would be questioned. Without her where are we all?"

Dr. Burnet answered unsteadily; he was deeply attached to Mary.

"Do not speak like that, sir. She must live--even if it be smallpox, is she not young and strong? Did not the King recover?"

"He had it but slightly," answered M. Zulestein. "He was back at the army in twenty days. They say it was his own resolution not to die and the services of M. Portland that saved him, but I do not think this lady hath any such will to live."

"God bless us," cried the Bishop, "who would have thought a man of the King's feeble constitution would have survived the Queen!" He shook his head sorrowfully. "She was our principal hope, our support--a prince of an extraordinary goodness."

"If she dieth she hath the better part," answered the Dutchman. "I know not how the King will well bear it--he hath hardly slept since her illness--for fear of his cough disturbing her he will not lie in her chamber, but hath his camp-bed in the anteroom--yet he is never on it--he hath himself nursed her--day and night with such devotion and care as moveth the heart." He paused, and added, with great emotion, "Had you seen him as I have, in all manner of dangers and fatigues and troubles, always master of himself, and of such an heroical courage that he inflamed those about him, you would find it, sir, terrible to see him as he is now."

"When I last saw him he was struck beyond expression," answered Dr. Burnet. "But I never thought his temper would bear an open display of emotion."

"You know him as well as any Englishman--yet you do not know him," said M. Zulestein.

The pompous self-love of the Bishop was rather hit at this, but he let it pass (as he would not have done at any other time), and neither spoke again before they reached Kensington House.

They found the household in much disorder--the courtyard filled with carriages, the corridors with messengers waiting for the news. M. Zulestein told his companion that the Princess Anne (in open disgrace on account of her championship of my Lord Marlborough, who had been discovered in flagrant treachery) had sent a humble loving message, and that the King had replied warmly, but requested her not to come till there was a turn for the better.

Dr. Burnet thought this answer of the King's looked as if the doctors held out hope; he shouldered his way through the crowd to the Queen's private apartments, and rather breathless and without ceremony he and M. Zulestein put aside the ushers and entered the first antechamber of Mary's apartments.

It was empty save for a couple of curious, frightened servants; but the door into the next room was open, and the two new-comers beheld an extraordinary scene.

A little group with their faces hidden stood before the window; near them at the table was a florid, coarse-featured man, plainly dressed, and cast down before him a gentleman in a violet coat--on his knees with his hands raised in a gesture of abandoned entreaty.

The back of this gentleman was towards Dr. Burnet.

"Dear God!" he muttered, seizing M. Zulestein's arm, "is it--the King?"

M. Zulestein, utterly pale, made a gesture of assent, and hastened forward. The man before whom the King knelt stepped back in a kind of desperation, and cried--

"If Your Majesty were to offer me your three kingdoms I could give you no other answer!"

At this the King fell forward on his face, and he was lying so, prone, when the Bishop and M. Zulestein entered.

Dr. Radcliffe wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and looked round half-defiantly.

"Gentlemen," he said hoarsely, "I take you to witness I have done my duty. His Majesty asked the truth. It is smallpox, and Her Majesty is sinking rapidly. I was not called in until it was too late."

Portland had come from the window, and was raising the King.

"You have some courage, sir," he said grimly.

Dr. Radcliffe retorted in self-defence--

"I did not undertake this for pleasure, your lordship; there was no one else would dare tell His Majesty."

Portland got the King to his feet; the others stood awkward and still; William looked round and saw Dr. Burnet.

"Did you hear?" he asked, under his breath--"did you hear?"

He sank into the chair by the table. The Bishop approached with some faltering words of comfort, but the King cut him short.

"They say there is no hope of the Queen!" he broke out. "No hope! I was the most happy creature upon earth, and now shall be the most miserable! There was no fault in her, not one--you know her as well as any, but you could not know her as I did--there was a worth in her none could know but I!"

With that he burst into a passion of tears, and hid his face on the table in an abandonment of agony which amazed those about him, who knew neither what to say nor do in face of this overthrow of the Master whom they had always regarded as one who would preserve a decent control in the face of any sorrow, since he was a soldier and a statesman, and had kept his countenance in many a bitter crisis, and always shown a singular pride in controlling his passions--so much so, as to be stately and cold even to those he loved; yet here he wept before the very staring servants and gave no heed. Lord Portland thought there was something womanish and unworthy in this desperate grief; he went up to the King and spoke with a kind of heat.

"Will you give way thus? Where is your trust in God?"

He was speaking not to the King of England, but to William of Nassau, at whose side he had faced so many years of danger, his companion in arms, his truest friend.

"She will go to everlasting peace," he said, with energy. "You, who have faced so much, can face the loss of her--for her sake, for her eternal good."

If the King heard these words they did not touch him; he raised his head a little, and broke into incoherent lamentation in a misery of tears.

Portland spoke to Dr. Radcliffe.

"How long," he asked, "will it be?"

"She may," answered the doctor, in a lowered voice, "live another day, my lord, no more; the smallpox are now so sunk there is no hope of raising them."

"Should she not be warned of her danger?"

"That is as the King wishes."

"The King!" echoed Portland, in a tone of despair. He turned again to his master. "Sire," he said gently, "will you have the Queen told?"

William looked up; the tears were streaming down his face for any one to see; he continually shuddered violently, and spoke so hoarsely Portland could with difficulty catch the words.

"I'll not believe it yet--I cannot--these doctors--must save her----"

"Dr. Tenison," answered Portland, "is with her now--it were best that he should tell her of her condition----"

The King broke out into ejaculations of anguish.

"There was none like her in all the world--none! No one could know her great goodness. O God, my God, this is more than I can bear!"

Portland turned his eyes away, broken himself.

"I am amazed," whispered Dr. Burnet; "for surely I never thought him capable of such emotion."

Dr. Radcliffe touched Portland on the arm.

"Look to His Majesty," he said. "I think this will prove beyond his endurance--I will to the Queen."

He took his leave softly. The King lifted his head and looked after him.

"He said there was no hope!" he cried. "No hope!"

"God is your hope," answered Portland strongly.

"Talk not of God, for this is death and damnation to me--if she leaves me nothing matters on earth or in heaven--what have I done--what have I done that the Devil is let loose on me?" He cast his eyes round wildly, and staggered to his feet. "She was all I had--all--I should have died first--I might have died happy--I have not lived so wickedly I should be punished thus--but they mistake, these doctors--she cannot die--no, it is not possible."

They were all silent. The scene was painful almost past bearing. The King's agonies went beyond all bounds. None of them, though they were all men who had known him most of his life, had believed that his temper was capable of such passion. Dr. Burnet's fluent self-assurance was checked--he stood dumb and staring; the Dutch nobles gazed in horror and dismay at this spectacle of a proud man's utter overthrow. Portland remained beside him, and the King supported himself by holding heavily on to his arm.

"Doctors mistake, do they not?" he cried, between the long shudders that shook him. "How often have they not said--I should die--but I lived."

"Alas," answered Portland unsteadily, "I would not have you deceive yourself--Radcliffe was very certain. But you will command yourself----"

"I--I have no strength," gasped the King; "my soul is broken within me. O God!" he sobbed, "save her or let me go!"

He turned about and threw out his hand like a blind man feeling his way, then fell back into Portland's arms.

"Fainted," said my lord laconically. With the help of M. Zulestein he laid him on the stiff couch between the windows. One of the servants hurried for a doctor, and in the moment's confusion my Lord Leeds entered unnoticed.

Portland, as he moved from the King's couch, was the first to see him.

"Ah, my lord," he said sorrowfully, "what is to become of us all?"

"The King," murmured Portland, much moved, "is incapable of anything--do you take the direction of affairs."

"Nay, you, my lord," answered Leeds. "You are His Majesty's nearer friend."

"And your Grace is English--it will be more politic should you take this office--what of the Queen?"

"I have just come from her antechamber--even the pages and serving-maids are in tears--this is a heavy business." He himself seemed like a man utterly overcome. "She is certainly sinking--she is in private discourse now with the Archbishop."

"Doth she know?"

Leeds shook his head.

"Dr. Tenison waiteth the King's commands to tell her--but I think she hath an inner knowledge."

M. Auverqueverque came from the group by the window and whispered Portland that the King was conscious.

At this Leeds, ever warm-hearted and impulsive, went on his knees beside the couch and pressed the King's cold hand affectionately to his lips.

William sat up with his head drooping; his back was to the light, and his thick curls almost concealed his face; he held his handkerchief to his lips and shivered continually.

"The Queen," said Leeds, very low, "hath asked for Your Majesty."

The King murmured something incoherent.

"And the Archbishop," continued Leeds, with a grave gentleness, "thinketh she should be told of her danger."

"I would not have her deceived--in so important a matter," whispered the King--"tell him so." He leant forward and took Leeds by the shoulders. "Is it not an awful thing that she should die--she--to die--you ever loved her--God bless you for that, my lord--she had a sad life"--his voice became very indistinct--"she will not be sorry--but as for me----"

His hands loosened on the Duke's shoulders, and with a little moan he fell into another fainting fit, so long and deathlike that they feared for his reason or his life; it seemed, indeed, as if he would scarcely survive her whose danger caused his despair.