CHAPTER XI

THE KING'S HUMILIATION

Everything had been in vain. Harley pressed his narrow triumph, and the King, after a bitter struggle, consented to let the Dutch soldiers go and to retain the kingship, though he had drawn up a passionate farewell speech to the ungrateful parliament, and shown it to Somers, Sunderland, and Marlborough, now the governor of the little Duke of Gloucester, the heir to the throne.

It was my Lord Chamberlain, fast feeling himself falling before the wolves of faction, who urged the King to sacrifice even this to those great designs to which he had given his life--it was Sunderland who put the needs of Republic before him as he had after the Queen's death; and William had again responded, even out of the depths of agony.

But as the day approached for the departure of those Guards who had been with him since he had first marched out of The Hague against the French, whom he had led again and again in battle, who kept watch every night while he slept, who were devoted to him--not as the King of England, but as William of Orange--as the time drew near for him to say farewell to his friend de Ginckle and Monsieur de Schomberg, as he received daily the petitions of the poor French who had fought for him loyally, and to whom he had promised his protection, his spirit gave way. He made the last sacrifice of his pride, and he who had dealt haughtily with kings wrote a request in his own hand humbly asking the Parliament, as a personal favour to himself, to allow him to retain the Dutch Guards.

He sent the message down to the House by Lord Ranelagh, his Master of the Horse; and now, in his little cabinet at Kensington that had seen so many vigils of toil and sorrow, awaited the answer of the Commons.

Before him lay the draft of the message he had sent--

"His Majesty is pleased to let the House know that the necessary preparations are made for transporting the Guards who came with him into England, unless, out of consideration to him, the House is disposed to find some way of continuing them longer in his service, which His Majesty would take very kindly."

To this humility had William of Orange stooped; beneath this paper was another, half hidden by it--the farewell speech he had drawn up. His own words flashed up at him in his own impetuous handwriting: "Feeling that you have so little regard to my advice, that you take no manner of care of your own security, and that you expose yourselves to evident ruin by divesting yourselves of the only means of defence, it would not be just or reasonable that I should be witness of your ruin."

If he could but go down to the House and cast that at them--leave England, and die peacefully in Holland!

But Sunderland was right; he must endure even this for the sake of the Republic--and surely, even such as Harley could not refuse his personal appeal.

In his agitation and impatience he began pacing up and down the narrow room. He was in wretched health; night after night he could not sleep for grief and mortification; his headaches, his fainting-fits were frequent and terrible; even this gentle walking to and fro soon exhausted him; he sank into the window-seat coughing and holding his side, where his heart was beating with a dragging pain.

Soon inaction became intolerable; he rose, nearly struck the bell to summon M. Zulestein or M. Auverquerque, hesitated, did not, left the cabinet and his own apartments, and came out into the sunny quiet galleries of the palace.

Deep in thought, he walked slowly, with bent head and his hands clasped behind him under the full skirts of his brocade coat, when a sudden sound of voices caused him to look up.

He was in the empty antechamber leading to the King's gallery, the door of which was half open; it was from behind it that the voices came; one of them, very clear, serene, and beautiful in tone, was speaking as the King paused; the words came very levelly and distinctly--

"He actually asked it as a favour, you say? And of course they will refuse. I should have thought that the little upstart would have known by now that we ain't to be lorded by foreigners."

The King stepped back with an instinctive shock, as if he had put his foot on a sword. He knew the voice to be that of the man whom he most despised and loathed--John Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough. Though he was very well aware how he was traduced, lampooned, slandered, and abused behind his back, he had never heard himself referred to in these cool terms of contempt; though he knew these things were said, he had never actually figured what it would be to overhear them.

The blood rushed to his heart and lay there like a weight. He was of a family that had given an Emperor to the West five hundred years ago, and John Churchill was scarce of gentle blood and had climbed on infamy. The King's right hand crossed over to his sword hilt. The beautiful, insolent voice began again. William instantly pushed open the door and entered the long gallery.

At once silence fell. There were two men, Marlborough and Torrington, near the first window, and a small, weary, anxious-eyed and forlorn-looking child seated near them on a purple stool, making paper boats.

Torrington went scarlet at sight of the King, but Marlborough swept a graceful bow, without the least change in his composure. William looked at him steadily. He could have sent him to the block--not once, but many times, yet he had spared him even the humiliation of a pardon in affecting to ignore his treasons. It was curious to him to look at this man--young, splendid in towering strength and opulent beauty, rich, prosperous, advancing from power to power, infamous, heartless, conscienceless, the man who would be ruling England very shortly now, and in whose hands would rest the completion or the ruin of the task to which he, the King, had given his life.

Torrington, fearful lest William had overheard, made some stumbling remark about their presence. The King seated himself on the window-seat and coughed.

"Ah yes, I forgot that I was to have a visit from His Highness," he said. He looked languidly at the little Duke of Gloucester, Anne's sole child and heir of England. "Come here, sir," he added kindly, "and tell us of your studies."

The child came obediently and stood by the King's knee, gazing at him with very large eyes that shone as if they had a light behind them and were themselves of crystal. He was about ten, remarkably thin and as pale as wax to his very lips, which were compressed with a painful expression of control; the blue veins showed across his high temples, which were shaded by fine, light auburn hair. He wore a very stiff and heavy suit of crimson and gold, a miniature sword, and the garter under his knee. My lord his governor eyed him with the same kind of interest as a trader feels towards some object which, indifferent as it is to himself, he yet hopes to get a good price for.

William took him gently by the shoulders and drew him closer.

"What are they teaching you, eh?" he asked.

The child answered in a precise, toneless voice--

"I am progressing very well, I thank Your Majesty. The dead languages and mathematics, history, and the philosophy and errors of the ancients, the creation of the world and the feudal system; the Gothic Constitution and the beneficiary law are among my next subjects."

"Doth Your Highness remember all these grave matters?" asked the King, with a faint smile.

"I remember very well, sir, when I have not a headache."

"What gives you headache, Highness?"

The little Duke answered gravely--

"If it were not blasphemy, Your Majesty, I should say that it was acquiring religious knowledge and listening to sermons; but Dr. Burnett says that is a temptation of the devil to induce me to give up my studies."

"Dr. Burnet is making a scholar of you," answered William; "but you are to be a king and a soldier--do not forget that."

A pale colour came into the grave little face.

"Oh, I _want_ to be a soldier. I like the riding-school; but things you like are of the devil, Dr. Burnet saith." He looked anxiously at the King, as if hoping for a contradiction.

"I think that is beyond Dr. Burnet to decide," replied William. "And Your Highness must not let any one speak ill of soldiers--there is nothing better for a man to be. As God hath called you to be a king you will best serve Him by being what you feel a king should be--before all, a brave soldier."

The child gave a short sigh.

"I fear it is a very difficult thing to be a king," he said anxiously.

"Perhaps the most difficult thing in the world," answered William. "But Your Highness will reign in happier times."

"Sometimes," continued the little Duke, frowning painfully, "when my head aches and I cannot remember, and Dr. Burnet is angry with me, and I feel so tired, I wish I did not have to be a king--I wish----" He paused.

"What?" asked William; he put his fine hand delicately over the soft hair.

"That I was in heaven," said the child simply.

"Already!" cried the King. He went very white; he had seen a sudden look of Mary in Mary's sister's child.

The Duke nodded.

"But it is wicked to want to go before God calls you," he said, quoting, obviously, his worthy tutor; "and being tired is a temptation of the devil."

"A strong one," answered the King shortly, and then was silent; it seemed terrible to him that this child should begin where he left off, in utter fatigue and despondency. He put his arm round the fragile little body.

"Highness," he said, "I will give you a troop of Horse, and you shall drill them yourself, and you shall have some hours off your studies for it, and I will come and give you lessons in soldiering."

The little Duke's face flushed and changed in a marvellous fashion; he caught the King's free hand and kissed it passionately.

"But Dr. Burnet----" he faltered instantly.

"God doth not only speak through Dr. Burnet," replied William. "Men and horses are more than paper and ink for all that I could ever see; ay, and dogs and swords more than Greek and Latin. The devil is as likely to be between the pages of a book as out in the open, with the animals whom you might love more than men, so faithful they are. My lord!" he called to Marlborough, who had withdrawn with Torrington, and the magnificent Earl came instantly, with his winning air of deference. "This child is too much closeted," said the King. "Look to it, my lord, that he is more on horseback."

"Dr. Burnet findeth him an apt pupil, sir," responded Marlborough, with the serenity and courtesy of indifference. "And Her Highness is very satisfied."

"But we are not," said William quietly. "It is our intention to give His Highness a troop of Horse." Then he was silent, for he recalled in a flash that his own beloved companions in arms might be taken from him with no more regard than Marlborough would show in taking wooden toys from this child. Perhaps some such thought was in my lord's mind; he smiled and let his fine eyes rest mildly on the King.

The little Duke clung to the voluminous ruffles on the King's breast; his face was scarlet with excitement, and had for the moment lost its premature look of wisdom and anxiety.

"When you next go to Flanders may I come too?" he whispered.

"Why, this is peace, Highness," smiled William.

"But there will be war again, will there not, sir?"

"God forbid," answered the King solemnly, "for we have utterly disarmed ourselves."

Seeing him so suddenly grave the Duke was silent, and the old look of wonder and question came back into his eyes.

William turned to him again.

"But you will be a great soldier yet; remember me in your first battle, Highness."

The child fondled the King's star, and William, with exquisite tenderness, lifted his long smooth curls of auburn hair, and passed them round his fingers.

"Stewart locks," he murmured, and his voice trembled with the thought of what had been, what might have been, and what could now never be; and another ringlet of this hued hair that lay hidden in his bosom seemed to turn into a dagger that pierced into his heart.

With a great effort he put the child from him and rose.

"Bring His Highness to see us soon, my lord," he said to Marlborough; "and see he learns no lackey's tricks such as the vulgar one of speaking scornfully of your masters in your masters' houses, which faults, like the vile treasons of mean men, are beneath us to punish; but we would not have the child ape these manners."

Marlborough's serene face slightly flushed; he could not, for all his self-command, answer; he bowed very low under the King's straight gaze.

"You will not forget the soldiers, sir?" cried the little Duke anxiously.

"On my honour, no," answered William. "Tell Her Highness I shall soon wait on her."

He bent and kissed the smooth auburn head and then the upturned, grateful, earnest little face.

My lord left with his charge, and Torrington was soon after dismissed; the King remained in the window-seat. After awhile came my Lords Devonshire, Somers, and Dorset, straight from Westminster, looking very gloomy about this business of the breaking of the troops, and after them Lord Ranelagh, back with his answer from the Commons.

The King came forward a step to meet him, and Ranelagh, felt the blood leave his own face as he saw the look that sprang into William's haggard eyes.

He stood silent, and the other lords glanced at each other furtively.

The King put his hand to his heart.

"Why"--he looked round the distressed faces--"why--they have not--refused?"

Ranelagh dropped to one knee.

"Alas, sire," he began, "'twas from the first hopeless.... Harley hath such a hold----"

William interrupted.

"The Commons have refused our request?"

Ranelagh dared not make words about it.

"Yes, sire," he answered, in a broken voice.

"Ah!" exclaimed William. He turned away from all of them, and walked up and down the long shining floor; after a moment or so he paused beside Dorset, and said, in a very curious tone--

"I must get beyond sea--to--to breathe a little."

None of them ventured to speak, and he moved to the window again; there on the seat was the little crumpled paper boat William of Gloucester had been making out of a scrap of his lesson paper.

The King saw it, and a sudden passion kindled in him; he cast his eyes wildly about him, and exclaimed, with the vehemence of agony--

"Had _I_ a son, by God, these Guards should not leave me!"