CHAPTER VIII

THE BREAKING FRIENDSHIP

Two men were riding side by side through the forest of Soignies; before and behind them was a great army. It was a May night, with the moon full overhead and casting long shadows from the tall, dark, motionless trees. News had been received at the camp the evening before that the French were threatening Brussels, and the confederate army was marching to save the Capital.

These two men who rode in the centre were alone, though part of such an immense force; for the Dutch guards, who marched before and behind them were several yards distant; they were both wrapped in long military cloaks. One, who was the King-Stadtholder, the commander of the allies, was mounted on a white horse; the other, William Bentinck, Earl of Portland, rode a great brown steed. The King was speaking very earnestly, in a lowered voice suited to the hush of the warm night and the solemnity of the long denies they traversed.

"I must tell you of the dispatch I received from my Lord Devonshire. I had scarcely received it before we broke camp, or I had told you before. This John Fenwick, the Jacobite, hath made a cunning confession, designed to put the Government into a confusion. He accuseth Godolphin, Shrewsbury, Marlborough, and Russell of being deep with St. Germains."

Portland made no answer.

"It was," continued the King, "no news to me, as you know."

"What have you done?" asked the Earl.

"I have done nothing yet. I shall write to Devonshire ordering the trial of this Fenwick to proceed."

"And for these lords?"

"I shall affect to disbelieve this evidence," answered William. "And Shrewsbury, at least, I shall assure of my trust."

"And so traitors flourish!"

There was silence for awhile, only broken by the jingle of the harness, the fall of the horses' feet, and the tramp of the army before and behind. The faces of the two men were hidden from each other; they could only discern outline of horse and figure as the moonlight fell between the elms and oaks.

The King spoke again.

"I have learnt to be tolerant of treason. These men serve me--even Marlborough--instruments all of them! And Shrewsbury I ever liked. I will not have him put out for this."

"You will even let them remain in office?"

"Surely," answered the King, "it would be beneath me to stoop to vengeance? And what else would this be? Both policy and kindness dictate to me this course."

Portland's voice came heavily out of the morning shadows.

"You are too lenient to every sort of fault. These men do not even know you spare them--they think you are fooled. Marlborough will laugh at you."

"What doth that matter if he serveth my turn? He is a villain, but a great man--he should be useful to England."

The King spoke in strained, weary accents, and with, it seemed, but little interest.

"Besides," he added, "I do not believe half of what Fenwick saith."

Portland retorted sharply.

"You did not believe the assassination plot itself until I produced Prendergrass, who had heard them discuss who was to fire the bullet on Turnham Green."

The King answered simply--

"One becometh so well used to these attempts, I should have been dead ten times if assassins could have done it. That was not the way ordained."

"I hope," said Portland dryly, "that your clemency will be rewarded. I, for one, could well wish to see these traitors come to their punishment--yea, and such men as Sunderland----"

William interrupted.

"I hope they will leave me Sunderland--I could ill do without him. But I hear he is likely to be pressed hard in the Commons."

"I cannot wonder," returned Portland, "but only at you who continue to employ such a man."

The King did not answer at once. The moon was sinking and taking on a yellow colour, the shadows were fainter and blended one with another, the trunks, branches, and clustering leaves of the great trees began to show dimly against a paling sky; there was a deep stir of freshness in the still air, the perfume of grass, bracken, and late violets. The steady, unbroken tramp of the great army seemed to grow louder with the first lifting of the night; the men, in ranks of not more than four, could be seen defiling through the yet dark forest.

The King spoke, looking ahead of him.

"Of late I can do nothing to please you," he said in a whisper. "It is not pleasant to me to have this growing coldness."

"Your Majesty hath other friends," answered Portland bitterly.

"You are unreasonable," said the King, in the same sad, broken voice. "I cannot withdraw my favour from M. van Keppel--justice and dignity forbid it. You should understand that, William. I also might have my complaints; it is not easy for me to keep the peace between you and M. van Keppel. Your constant quarrels make my household in a perpetual tumult--and, I must say it, it is not M. van Keppel who is generally the aggressor."

"His presence is an offence," declared Portland hotly; "a creature of my Lord Sunderland, a flattering, smooth-tongued boy--a dissolute rake who hath done nothing for your service!"

The King turned his face towards his friend.

"It cuts me to the heart," he said, with great emotion, "that you should dream--for one second--that he could make me ever forget or undervalue all the services I owe to you. Nothing could alter my affection for you; it is my great grief that you should not feel that as I do."

"You have changed," was all Portland said.

The King lifted his eyes to the sky showing between the trees they rode past, his haggard face was faintly visible in the increasing light.

"Yes, I have changed," he said slowly. "Perhaps even you cannot guess how much. I could not convey to you how utterly indifferent all the world is to me save only my hope to a little more complete the task God put upon me. Your friendship is all that is left to me. Nothing hath been real since--she--died. I only act and think and go through my days because I believe she would have wished it. I only do this and that because I think--she would have done it. I only keep on because she wished that, even at the last. I only endure to live because I dare to hope she may be somewhere--waiting----"

His voice sank so low as to be almost incoherent; Portland could scarcely catch the words. They came to a little hollow beside the path that was filled with spring flowers opening to the dawn, daisies and lilies and tufts of fresh green.

The King spoke again.

"For the rest, all is dead--here," he lightly touched his heart. "You alone have the power to hurt me, and you should use it tenderly."

Portland had meant to resign his position in the King's household, so intolerable had it become to him, but now restrained himself.

"I will serve you till death," he said, with his air of cold, high breeding. "Your Majesty must believe that of me."

William gave a little sigh.

"What of this Congress at Ryswick?" added Portland, "and your suggestion that I should see M. de Boufflers?"

He thought that it would be something of a compromise if he could still continue to serve the King yet get away from the odious van Keppel.

"They will never do anything at Ryswick," answered the King wearily. "They fill their time with ceremonies and vexations, and this time a hundred years might find them still arguing there. And I am resolute for peace now as all my life I have been resolute for war. No need to explain my policy to you. We shall never get better terms than France offereth now, and they must not be lost through the intolerable impertinences of Spain, who hath contributed nothing but rigmaroles to the coalition from the first."

"I think," said Portland, "I could get some satisfaction from M. de Boufflers."

The French Marechal had formed a friendship with Portland when he had been his prisoner at Huy, after the fall of Namur, and it had recently occurred to William to use this friendship to open negotiations between England and France, regardless of the formal mummeries of the Congress, which seemed to be likely to be as protracted as that held at Nymwegen in '79.

It was William's object to discover if Louis was in earnest. The listlessness of Spain, the ambition of the Emperor must bow if once France, England, and Holland came to terms. What he proposed was daring and unconstitutional. He had not informed a single English politician of his plan, and Portland, whom he thought to employ, was not even an Englishman, but William was never stopped by any fear of responsibility. If he could accomplish an honourable peace (the very best he could obtain he knew would be only a breathing space, for there was the tremendous question of the Spanish Succession ahead), he cared nothing for the temper of the English parliament or the complaints of the allies, and in the United Provinces he was practically absolute. He had before suggested to Portland that he should write and open negotiations with Boufflers, and had mentioned Hal, midway between Brussels and Mons, as a likely place for an interview. He now, on Portland's words, reverted to this and discussed the details of the scheme that was to give peace to Europe in his weary, low, and strained voice, broken by constant coughs.

The forest of Soignies began to break; the trees became thinner and were scattered to right and left like echelons of soldiers, the whole heaven was clear of cloud, and the sun, just rising above the plains of Brabant, filled the air with a steady colour of pearl-blue.

A little wind touched the trees, then was silent; the constant noise of birds accompanied the tramp of the heavy infantry and the distant, unequal rumble of the gun carriages and baggage waggons.

The King loosened his cloak, cast it over his holster, and looked back at the army following him through the wood.

"If we sign peace this year this will be my last campaign," he remarked.

Portland looked at him quickly.

"The Spanish question--there will be war there--and before long."

"But I have so few years to live," answered the King simply; "for with this peace my work would be done. No, I think I shall never lead an army across the Netherlands again."

They rode clear of the trees now, and saw before them the beautiful valley soft and veiled in the mists of morning.

The King fixed his eyes on the spot where Brussels lay. If Villeroy had outmarched him and was bombarding the capital as he had bombarded it last year, the allies had been checkmated and there would be little hope for the prospects of peace.

Scouts were sent out to ascertain the movements of the enemy; no sign of their fires could be discerned. William thought that his activity had saved Brussels and that there were no fears from Villeroy. He pushed on, and, by ten in the morning, after having ridden fifteen hours, reached the still unmolested ramparts of the capital from which the Spanish flag was yet flying.

He instantly took up his position before the walls and proceeded to strongly entrench himself on the very spot from which Villeroy had dropped his shells into Brussels near a year ago when the allies were before Namur.

It appeared that he had saved the magnificent city by a few hours; before midday the French came up, but, finding the confederate army already so strongly fortified, fell back across Brabant without firing a shot.

The King, as he rode about surveying the encampment, sent for Portland.

The Earl came, and the two men looked at each other steadily; the hasty earthworks, the rising canvas, the sights and sounds of the camp were about them, overhead the blazing blue faintly hazed with clouds of heat.

William held out his thin, bare right hand.

"Since I think you are resolute to leave me," he said, "I would have you go to Hal to meet M. de Boufflers." He added with great sweetness, "I put the fate of Europe in your hands, and could put it in none more worthy."