CHAPTER II

THE KING IS NEEDED

Sunderland remained by the silent King, on whom he kept his clear, strong glance; Portland and the beautiful Romney went into the antechamber, where they could speak freely.

"What charlatan's trick is this?" said the Earl, in a low, angry voice. "Who is this officer from Flanders? It is strange to hear my Lord Sunderland mouth these godly sentiments--he, a man merely fighting for a place----"

"Yet he spoke," admitted Romney, "and we were silent. And he roused the King. If it be mere self-interest it had the effect of sincerity."

Portland made no answer; he knew that he could not have spoken to William with the quiet tact and insinuating boldness that Sunderland had, but he knew also that he had served and loved the King in a way Sunderland could probably not even understand, and his heart swelled at what he considered calculated tricks to goad the King into filling a position where he might be useful to my lord; in this Portland's rigid honesty was unfair to Sunderland, who, though he was knavish sometimes in his means, was seldom knavish in his ends, and perhaps strove for as high an ideal as William Bentinck, though by different ways.

Lord Romney spoke again.

"After all, what doth it matter--if the King could be drawn out of his sloth?"

Portland's fair face was still dark and sombre; he rather despised the Englishman; he rather regretted the day when he had come to England to take up these perilous honours among a people who detested him. Romney glanced at him, gave a little shrug, and returned to the King's room; his love for William was of a different quality, his code was easier; he was thankful that the King should, under any circumstances, recover his balance, and he, Henry Sidney, could see no great dishonour in the public actions of my Lord Sunderland, and regarded him from no such stern standpoint as did William Bentinck.

He found the King had moved and now sat beside the bureau piled with the untouched correspondence. Sunderland was still at the window looking out at the inky line of the river between the white banks and the slow progress of a barge with dull yellow sails that struggled with a sluggish wind past Whitehall stairs.

Romney went over to him.

"You have done much, my lord," he whispered warmly; "we must all be grateful."

Sunderland turned his faded, powdered face from the window.

"He will finish the campaign yet, I think," he answered.

The Lord Keeper and Lord Portland re-entered the room, and with them was a third gentleman, who went at once to Lord Sunderland, like one waiting for directions; that nobleman took him gently by the arm and drew him towards the King, who had not yet looked up.

"Sire," he said, "Your Majesty knoweth M. van Keppel, who hath been some years in your service."

The King raised his eyes and saw the splendid figure of a young Dutch officer standing before him with great humility and respect.

"Yes, I remember you, Mynheer," he murmured, with a faint animation, and speaking his own language.

Sunderland stepped back and the young soldier went on one knee.

"Are you come from Flanders?" asked William.

"Yes, sire."

"From my Cousin Vaudemont's force?"

"Yes, sire."

"What is your business with us?" asked the King faintly.

Joost van Keppel rose.

"My business is more than I dare broach," he said humbly.

The King looked at him kindly.

"I shall not be angry." He exerted himself to graciousness, and his glance seemed to rest with a wistful kind of pleasure on the youth.

Certainly Joost van Keppel had an appearance well calculated to win the hearts of those who looked upon him, for a mingled sweetness and ardour made a kind of radiance in his face, as if he gave forth the light of hope and courage. He was tall and robust, of a bright fairness, with dark brown eyes of an extraordinary power and gentleness, a smiling, strong mouth, and a fine carriage of nobility in his port; his rich-coloured brown hair hung in full curls over his gay and vivid uniform; there was a great quantity of gold on his sword belt and in his shoulder knots; in the firelight he glittered from head to foot with a changing light of gold; but despite his youthful strength and the magnificence of his appointments the prevailing impression of his person was that of a gentle, soft, and winning sweetness that sat very graciously on the unconscious demeanour of a noble soldier.

"Were you not a page to us?" asked the King.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I was with those who had the honour to come to England with Your Majesty," answered M. van Keppel. "Your Majesty showed me great kindness in promoting me."

He had a gentle and charming address, an eager air of deference wholly pleasing.

"I had forgotten," said the King. "So you have come from Flanders?"

He gave a little sigh.

"Oh, sire!" cried Joost van Keppel, "I am come to tell Your Majesty that we need you!"

The King sat up and looked at Portland and the Englishmen.

"Ah!" he said, in an angry, broken voice. "What device is this you put upon me? No use, my lords, no use; this back will bear no more burdens."

"Absolve me," cried Portland. "I know nothing of this----"

"A trick," continued the King--"a trick to spur me. What are you, Mynheer, to come and tell me of my duty?"

M. van Keppel threw himself again on his knees.

"The King is needed," he repeated, with great passion. "I love Your Majesty enough to dare tell you so. Sire, the Republic crieth out to Your Majesty!"

"Who told you to speak thus?" asked William bitterly.

"M. Heinsius," answered the young soldier instantly.

At that name the King changed countenance.

"M. Heinsius," he muttered; then he fixed M. van Keppel with a keen look and added--"Why did he choose you?"

"Because Your Majesty used to have some kindness for me," was the reply, given with a frank modesty; "because no man living could revere Your Majesty more than I do."

"I am not used to be so courted," said William sternly. "You have too ready a tongue. M. Heinsius may find another messenger."

He rose and would have turned away, but the young man, still on his knees, caught the King's stiff silk coat skirts.

"Will the Prince of Orange ever refuse to listen to the appeal of the United Provinces?" he asked, with singular sweetness and force.

William looked down at him, hesitated, then said faintly--

"Rise, Mynheer. I am not your King. As for the Republic"--he sank into the great wand-bottomed chair again and said abruptly--"how think they the campaign will go?"

M. van Keppel got to his feet and stood his full splendid height.

"M. de Vaudemont saith, sire, that if Your Majesty would come to lead us there is no question that the allies might do more than they have ever done." He paused a moment, then continued, "M. de Boufflers is guarding the banks of the Sambre; a great army is collected from the Lys to the Scheldt. M. de Villeroy, they say, is to fix his headquarters at Tournay; but the allies are ready to take the field--operations could begin next month. M. de Vaudemont and M. Heinsius have written so to Your Majesty."

William glanced at the pile of unopened correspondence; he flushed and looked again at M. van Keppel.

"Sire," said the young soldier proudly, "there is Fleurus, Steinkirk, and Landen to avenge. I rode past Namur a week ago and saw the Bourbon lilies flying above the keep."

"Namur!" repeated William, and his eyes widened.

The loss of Namur had been the worst disaster of all the disasters of the war. William had perhaps never known such humiliation as when the great fortress fell before his eyes.

"M. de Vauban," continued Joost van Keppel, "hath added to the fortifications of M. Kohorn and declared the town impregnable; they have fixed a vaunting notice over the gate defying us to retake it--but, sire, it could be done."

"There spoke a soldier!" flashed the King. "That spirit in my men wrested back the three Provinces in '74."

"That spirit is alive still, sire--they who drove back the French then could take Namur now."

William looked at Sunderland.

"Would your English be pleased," he asked, "if we took Namur?"

"There is nothing would so delight the people as a great victory in the Low Countries," answered that nobleman.

"So they defy us," said the King. "And Namur is even more important than it was; it must be the strongest fortress in Europe. Certainly it is a prize worth while."

M. van Keppel spoke again.

"M. de Maine is to be sent with M. de Villeroy."

"So they send M. de Maine to fight us, do they?" exclaimed the King. "We should be the equal of M. de Maine."

He looked kindly and steadily at M. van Keppel.

"My child," he said, "you are a good patriot, and that is the best thing in the world to be. We must give you a regiment. We hope to see you in Flanders."

He smiled, and the young soldier, who had been taught all his life to regard him as the first of living men, bowed, overwhelmed, with tears of pleasure in his eyes.

William gave him his hand and Joost van Keppel kissed it reverently, then, at a delicate sign from Sunderland, retired, followed by the Lord Keeper.

The King sat very quiet, looking into the fire. Portland came and stood behind his chair.

"Will you go out to the war?" he asked.

"Yes," said William simply.

Sunderland darted a sideway look at Portland, who flushed.

"I am indeed glad of that," he said sternly.

"That is a gallant youngster," said the King. "I ever liked him. I will keep him about me; he is a pleasant creature."

"He is," replied Portland; "a rakehelly good-for-nought, as every one knows."

William smiled faintly; he was the most tolerant of men, and had no interest in those faults that did not cross his designs.

"I have loved rakes before," he said, and looked at my Lord Romney.

The two Englishmen laughed a little, but Portland answered, with some anger--

"He is a young prodigal with more debts than wits; you should not have given him your hand."

The King did not resent his friend's brusque address, he answered quietly, in his weak voice--

"It would give me pleasure to pay some of those debts."

Sunderland softly put in a remark.

"M. van Keppel is the most obliging, sweet-tempered gentleman in the world, and one most devoted to Your Majesty."

"And a great friend of your lordship," said Portland, with a cold haughtiness. He perceived, as he thought, a design on the part of Sunderland and Somers, with perhaps Marlborough behind them, to put up a rival to share with him the King's affections, which had been wholly his for near their joint lives, and he could not contain his scorn and resentment, nor was he assuaged by the obvious unconsciousness of the King.

Romney made some attempt to shift the subject; he came forward in the easy gracious way habitual to him.

"Your Majesty will be soon for Flanders, then?" he asked. "It is a noble resolution."

William rose.

"I think it is my duty," he answered. He took up the plans of Greenwich Palace from the window-sill. "I think it is all there is for me to do. I thank you, my lords," he added, with dignity, "for having so long borne with me."

He gave a little bow and left them to enter the inner room. As the door closed on him Sunderland smiled at the other two.

"Have I not succeeded?" he demanded. "He is roused, he will go out to the war, I even think that he will take Namur."

"You are very clever, my lord," admitted Romney, "and surely you have done the King a great service."

Portland broke in hotly--

"You pulled the strings of your puppet very skilfully; you know how to deal with the weaknesses of men, but those who are the King his friends do not love to see him practised on for party purposes."

"I stand for more than party purposes," answered Sunderland, with sudden haughtiness. "My cause is the King his cause--that is sufficient--and for the rest, my deeds are not answerable at the tribunal of your virtues, my lord."

Portland came a step nearer to him.

"You scarce believe in God--you are little better than an atheist--yet all these terms are glib upon your tongue, and your tool, a shallow popinjay, can prate very nicely of sacred things. You are not sincere--you care for nothing--for no one."

Romney made a little movement as if he would have stepped between the two earls, but Sunderland answered unmoved--

"I have my policy too much at heart to jeopardize it by expounding it myself. I fear that my principles would suffer by my lack of eloquence."

"Your principles!" cried Portland. "Your policy--what is it?"

"Too precious a thing for me to risk on a turn of the tongue, I repeat, my lord. I speak in actions. Watch them and know my answer."