CHAPTER X

THE BROKEN FRIENDSHIP

The Earl of Portland, newly returned from his gorgeous embassy to France, sat in his apartments at Kensington reading and re-reading a letter.

It was written in a large and flowing hand, unequal in parts, as if the writer had been greatly agitated. The contents, which the Earl had now almost by heart, were strange and sad.

"KENSINGTON, _April_ 1699.

"Since I cannot dispute with you, I will say nothing to you on the subject of your retirement; but I cannot refrain from telling you of my extreme sorrow, which is far deeper than you can ever imagine, and assures me that if you felt even the half you would very quickly change your resolution--which may it please the good God to inspire you to do for your own good and my repose. At least I hope that you will not refuse to keep the key of office, for I am content that it should not oblige you to anything, and, besides, I entreat you to let me see you as often as you can, which would be a great consolation to me in the affliction which you have caused me, which cannot prevent me from loving you ever tenderly."

It was written in French and signed with the letter 'G,' which had always been affixed to this long, intimate correspondence which had continued now for thirty-three years--since they had been children--continued through war and peace, trouble, disaster, illness, bereavement, disappointment without cloud or shadow--and this was the end.

William Bentinck had resolved to resign the King's service.

This was the end--in miserable, trivial jealousy. The friendship that had lasted so long, keen and pure, so devoted, had strained and broken. Portland sat, with this sad appeal in his hand, and knew that it was over.

He did not acknowledge that he was unreasonable; he had served William faithfully and devotedly, both as friend and servant, and he had been greatly rewarded; he was one of the wealthiest subjects in Europe; he had an English earldom, and the Garter that foreign kings envied; he was Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Privy Councillor, Groom of the Stole, and Keeper of the King's Gardens; the King had supported him again and again against the Commons, taken his advice, flattered him by an open display of his friendship, entrusted him with the important embassy to France, enriched his son, and, when the breach began to grow, spared nothing to heal it. Few kings could have ever entreated a subject as William had entreated Bentinck.

But he would not dismiss Albemarle; he listened to Sunderland; and everything was nothing to Portland compared to the fact that he should have to share the King's confidence with this young, untried, light-hearted young man.

When he returned from Paris he had found Albemarle in possession of rooms in the Palace that he considered belonged to him in virtue of one of his offices, and the little incident had confirmed his resolution of quitting the Court. He would be second to no one, least of all to a man whom he considered as the tool of a faction that he loathed and despised.

He was well aware that Albemarle was popular, and that he was not; that he had few supporters in his point of view, and that Albemarle had a great following gained by his universal sweetness, good sense, and humility.

He was well aware, too, that the King had never more needed his friendship than now; for the present session of Parliament had inflicted one cruel humiliation on him, and was about to inflict another.

The King's grants of lands in Ireland had been looked into and revoked--even such as he had given to the noble Ginckel, who had done such service, and Meinhard de Schomberg, son of the soldier who had died for England on the banks of Boyne Water.

William, who had disappointed his enemies by preserving a serene composure when he had been forced to consent to the disbanding of the troops, had scarcely been able to conceal his mortification at this malice on the part of the Tories, and was still further moved by the agitation rising in the Commons to turn all foreign soldiers out of the kingdom, including the famous Dutch Guards and the refugee French Huguenots whom William had long had in his service.

But none of this shook William Bentinck's stern resolution to leave the Court.

He folded the letter, put it into his pocket, glanced at the brass bracket-clock in one corner of the room, and went, for the last time, to accompany the King on his way to the Cabinet meeting at Whitehall, which William had summoned with the desperate intention of urging his ministers to try some expedient with the Parliament to enable him to keep the Dutch Guards.

Portland descended heavily into the courtyard where the coaches waited.

It was a sunny afternoon, and half the soft-coloured brick of the Palace was in a tender light. Some pigeons were gathered round the clock, which was on the point of striking four.

Monsieur Zulestein was there, Sunderland, Devonshire, and Monsieur Auverquerque. Portland kept apart from all of them, and drew the point of his cane up and down the cobbles; his eyes were fixed on the door which led to the staircase to the King's apartments.

As the clock struck the hour William appeared in this doorway, and paused at the head of the steps and looked round the courtyard with narrowed eyes.

He wore black and a star, his hollow cheeks were flushed--unusual for him--and he was breathing with obvious difficulty.

He saw Portland, and his whole face changed; he smiled, and his eyes widened with an indescribable look.

Portland met that glance, and a quick pang gripped his heart; he remembered days of long ago, in camp and cabinet, a frail young man facing the French outside Utrecht, speaking to the Senate at The Hague, firing the people, encouraging a fainting country, leading the mad charge at St. Nelf, fainting over his work during tedious days and nights....

Portland made a step forward; then he saw, behind the King, the ardent, youthful face of my Lord Albemarle, and he fell back.

William slowly descended the steps. The lackeys opened the coach door, and the gentleman came round.

The King looked to Portland, who still stood apart.

"Will you accompany me, my lord?" he said gently.

The seat in his coach was an honour to which his brother-in-law, Prince George, had aspired in vain. Of late Portland had frequently refused it, and in terms so curt as to excite the horror of those who heard. Now the King was making a last appeal--his brilliant eyes, his moved voice were reminding William Bentinck of his letter and of the long friendship which the 'G' that signed it was a symbol of.

There fell the slightest pause; then Portland answered with a harshness that would have been discourteous to an equal--

"I pray you excuse me. I keep my own company to-day."

At this, which was little less than a public insult, the King flushed a dark red, and those about him knew not where to look.

"My Lord Sunderland," commanded William, "you will accompany us."

He entered the coach, the Lord Chamberlain followed, and Portland, very white but unshaken, mounted his own vehicle.

The Royal coach started. Sunderland said not a word and made not a movement, but sat erect, opposite the King, as they drove out under the early budding trees.

William broke out into a sudden, deep passion.

"Is this the Prince of Orange"--he cried, striking his breast--"who was something in Europe? Is this he, the sport of such as Harley, and insulted by those who loved him once?"

"My lord must be out of his wits," replied Sunderland. "I could have struck him."

"This is too much--this is indeed the end," said the King. "He leaves the Court. By God, I was Nassau once, if I am only King of England now!"

"He must still love Your Majesty----" urged the Lord Chamberlain.

"Love!" echoed William. "Doth love inspire such cruelty?" His speech was broken by a violent fit of coughing, which caused the tears to run down his face. Sunderland looked at him in weary despair, and wondered if he could survive his present griefs.

"The Guards," gasped the King, leaning back in his corner--"I must keep those Guards--and the French for whom I promised to provide--Ginckle and Schomberg too----" His hoarse voice became incoherent, he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and stared out at the groves of Kensington Park with hunted eyes.

"We will do all we may, sire," replied Sunderland; but he felt not half the conviction he endeavoured to put into his voice. The party in power now hated the King and hated the Dutch; they were not likely to be merciful in their triumph.

Sunderland could not understand this blind fury against the foreigner. It might have been thought that two nations, both manly and given to a plain religion, both engaged in trade and eager for liberty, could have had much in common, especially when only divided by a strip of narrow sea, and considering that there was no rancour of ancient dispute between them. But at the bottom of each was a fatal difference--a levity, an extravagance, and a narrow arrogance in the English; a prudence, a seriousness, a reserve in the Dutch--that prevented any real friendliness despite the specious complexion of a common cause, and had been gradually fanned by jealousy and party spirit into an obstinate temper, against which the arts of Sunderland were of no avail.

"They must not go," repeated the King in great agitation; "if they do, I go with them--I have told Somers so. I am a foreigner also." He paused; then added, with intense feeling, "I have been too great to become the pensioner of a handful of commoners, the butt of your Harleys and Jack Howes.... I will not take this humiliation."

"Your Majesty must think of the United Provinces," said Sunderland. "If you were to resign the crown, what of the English alliance?"

This simple question had more weight with William than all the protestations of Lord Somers. He went very pale, and half closed his eyes. In the inevitable, in the nearing contention over the Spanish succession, the dear bought alliance of England would be more necessary than ever to the Republic; but the King's imperious pride, so long controlled, outweighed almost his deep love of his country.

"Let Anne and Maryborough rule you," he said, in a low, passionate voice. "A fool and a villain would maybe please you better. If my soldiers go I cannot in honour stay."

"You must, sire," answered Sunderland. He looked out of the coach window at the white, dusty sweep of Kensington High Street, the cottages with the early flowers before them and the orchard trees covered with their first green. "Your Majesty must remain," repeated Sunderland heavily. "England needeth you."

William gave a cynical laugh.

"England hath had some work out of me--I have laboured for my pay. I am not a young man now, and old for my years. I should wish to die in Holland."

The Earl looked quickly at his master.

"Sire, you must not speak of death."

"I am a dying man," said the King quietly. "A few months--no more, I think."

Sunderland could not gainsay him. In his own heart he felt a curious chill of apathy, as if it was nearing the end; the very sunshine without, falling so placidly on thatch and flowering tree, looked strangely remote. It seemed a long time to Robert Spencer since he had been at leisure to notice the mysterious light of spring. He laughed also, but with a softer note than the King had used.

"Rest is good after labour," he said irrelevantly.

William was also looking out of the window at fields and clouds.

"God alone knoweth if I am damned or saved," he remarked strongly; "but I have done His will as it was revealed to me."

Sunderland glanced at the Calvinist, who in those words had declared his religion. His own creeds were very different; but both men, now at the end, found themselves on much the same level.

Neither spoke again till they reached the courtyard of Whitehall, when the King remarked, with an air of disgust, on the fog of smoke that overhung the city.

As he dismounted from the coach he paused and glanced round the gentlemen; for the first time in his life he ignored my Lord Portland, but, with a delicacy that Sunderland was quick to notice, he equally ignored Albemarle, and passed into the palace leaning on the arm of Monsieur de Zulestein.