CHAPTER XII

APATHY

Matthew Prior, secretary to the English Embassy at The Hague, walked in the wonderful gardens at Loo, where the King Stadtholder lived in retreat.

It was early summer of the first year of the new century; there was peace in Europe, prosperity in England and the United Provinces; the work of William of Orange seemed finished indeed; he had dismissed the Parliament that had so insulted and humiliated him without a word, and as soon as it was up had gone into retirement at Loo; he had lost, it seemed, all interest in England, and even in the affairs of Europe. When the death of the infant Electoral Prince had reduced the first Partition Treaty to wastepaper, William had framed another with the Archduke Charles as claimant; the discovery of this had provoked great wrath in England.

Portland, Somers, and Montague had been threatened with impeachment; M. Canales, the Spanish Ambassador, had delivered an impertinent memorial to William, who was now regarded as a powerless cipher in a Parliament-ruled country, and the King had ordered him to be dismissed, and recalled his ambassador from Madrid. As long as Louis kept to the second Partition Treaty--and William could not doubt but that he would keep so grave an undertaking--he cared nothing for what they did in England; he left the government in the hands of a feeble Tory ministry, of which the late Queen's uncle, Lord Rochester, was the head, and, heedless of the complaints and murmurs, remained in retirement at Guelders.

Matthew Prior thought this a sorry end for his hero. This flinging of everything to chance, this cynical indifference, this apathetic calm, seemed a poor conclusion for all that high hope, that serene courage, that long, splendid, patient endeavour, that continuous, glorious action.

He thought sorrowfully that it was now too late. The King was no longer a power in Europe he had been crossed and humbled before all the world, his army had been taken from him, his private grants revoked, his public policy abused, his friends, his ministers, attacked, that Spanish government that in the days of his greatness had humbly offered him the Spanish Netherlands, now dared to insult him; and he was a dying man.

Matthew Prior sighed gloomily as he walked through the formal grounds with their exact parterres, flower-beds, groves, and alleys, their twin fountains and regular groups of trees.

The King had been at dinner when he arrived, and he was waiting his audience with some sinking of the heart; he had not seen William since the peace was proclaimed, three years ago.

It was about three of the clock when he was sent for, and conducted into the large dining-room where the King was still at table.

The Palace, which was one of the most admired in Europe, had been built by William with lavish magnificence on the site of his favourite hunting-box. Mr. Prior, who had seen Versailles, was impressed by the commodious nobility of the apartments through which he passed.

The dining-room was large, lofty, and cool, though filled with the reflected sunlight that shone in the thick trees that shaded the terrace on to which the four tall windows opened. The walls were hung with pictures of the Princes of the House of Orange, wearing armour and holding the baton of authority; above the deep fireplace was a portrait of Queen Mary in red and ermine, clasped with emeralds and pearls.

The whole room was full of the sense of afternoon sun, but was in shade by reason of the trees without; yet here and there the gold light penetrated and lay in glowing patches on walls, floor, and the white lace cloth that covered the long table that occupied the centre of the chamber.

A number of gentlemen sat round this table on velvet-covered stools; the dishes had been removed; the wineglasses and bottles showed pleasantly on the white linen.

At the head of the table sat the King, in a low arm-chair; beside him was a huge white boar-hound, who rested his long head on his master's knee. William's right arm was round this animal, whom he caressed with affectionate movements of his fingers.

Mr. Prior glanced round the company; he knew them all by sight: there was M. Albemarle, seated nearest to the King, N. Ginckel, my Lord Romney, my Lord Wharton, my Lord Pembroke, M. Zulestein, and M. Auverquerque; they were all laughing at something that featherbrain Lord Romney was relating, and most of them were in hunting attire and leant carelessly on the table.

Matthew Prior looked at the King with searching interest.

William was leaning back in a languid attitude, with his black plumed hat pulled over his eyes; he wore a full coat of velvet brocade in a dark purple, with the huge embroidered elbow-cuffs, now fashionable, and under-sleeves of gold tissue; a great quantity of heavy lace fell over his scarlet waistcoat and at his wrists; the long, thick, dark curls of his peruke half concealed the flash of his star.

This extravagant vesture increased the extreme delicacy of his appearance; he seemed sunk and fainting under the weight of velvet, silk, and lace. His face was pale and hollow, his eyes heavy-lidded and deeply shadowed beneath; constant pain had drawn his mobile mouth into an expression of endurance; his cleft chin, usually carried slightly raised, was sunk on his bosom.

Mr. Prior, as he came up to make his bow, noticed that His Majesty's hands were so thin that the diamond ring that he wore on the third finger of the hand that caressed the dog had slipped round till the rose was towards the palm.

He looked at the young secretary without interest.

"From The Hague?" he asked, and his voice was broken to a whisper with his unceasing asthma.

Mr. Prior went on one knee and handed the letter with which he had been charged. William motioned him to put it on the table by the wineglasses.

"Nothing of importance, eh?" he said.

"I think not, sire; it was merely to ask instructions as to how matters were to be arranged with Monsieur Heinsius with regard to the Spanish questions----"

"Let that wait," returned the King indifferently. He leant forward and took up his wineglass. "How do you like our house of Loo, Mr. Prior?"

"I think it worthy of Your Majesty."

"The gardens are at their finest," remarked William languidly.

Mr. Prior rose and awaited commands; but the King seemed to quickly forget his presence, and the other gentlemen took no notice of him at all; most of them were far gone in wine, and William was drinking heavily--a new thing, for he had ever been the most moderate of men and intolerant of excess in others.

The King turned his indifferent gaze on Romney and Wharton, who were arguing together.

"Discussing a Republic for England, my lords?" he asked.

"Something of the kind, sir," said Wharton.

"Well, I will disappoint you yet," answered William. "I will bring King James's son over on you and give you another Stewart king----"

"Why, that is as Your Majesty pleaseth," replied Wharton impudently.

"Or there is Tom of Pembroke," continued William; "there is a good block of wood out of which to chip a king!"

Pembroke raised a heated face at this mention of his name.

"Sir," he cried, leaning down the table towards the King, "my Lord Albemarle telleth me that I was insolent last night."

"So you were--damned insolent," said the King, in his quiet, tired, unmoved voice.

"I could not have been in my senses," said Pembroke, in a slightly maudlin tone.

"Oh, silly," cried the King, "you were drunk as any trooper; but I never mind what a man saith after his tenth bottle."

Romney laughed.

"You'll get more wisdom out of Tom then than when he is sober, sir!"

"And even more folly out of you, Harry," said His Majesty dryly.

He filled his tall glass, and was raising it when he glanced at Albemarle, who was looking at him steadily.

William laughed.

"Are you thinking of the doctors?" he asked.

"Your Majesty will ever disregard their advice," replied the young man, in a moved voice.

The King laughed again, not at all pleasantly or graciously.

"Do you think I would forego even the gratification this affordeth"--he touched the bottle contemptuously--"for years of life?"

He drank the wine, using all the while his left hand, for his right arm was round the boar-hound.

"Dr. Ratcliffe aspired to wit this morning," he said. "'I would not have you cough for your three kingdoms,' he remarked. 'Doctor,' I told him, ''tis the three kingdoms killing me, not the cough.'" He looked round and saw Mr. Prior still standing between the table and the green-gold light of the window.

"Why, Mr. Prior, I play the indifferent host," he murmured. "Join us--take your place----"

Romney and Wharton good-humouredly made way for the young poet, who drew another stool modestly to the table. He was surprised at the easy air of familiarity that reigned; the way these men spoke to the King, and the way in which he accepted it. The three older Dutchmen, Mr. Prior noticed, Mr. Zulestein, M. Auverquerque, and my Lord Athlone, were the gravest of the company; he fancied they were there only out of loyalty to the King.

Albemarle began talking to Wharton; they entered into a lively discussion of their separate racing-stables. The King leant back against the crimson cushions of his chair and turned his head so that he looked out of the window.

Mr. Prior gazed at him; he seemed absorbed in thought. Mr. Prior knew that it was the face of a dying man and a heart-broken man; there was not a line of hope, of peace, or pride in that wan countenance; only the serenity of grief, the apathy of utter weariness--a man worn out, done for, awaiting scornfully an inglorious end. And he had done great things; he had been a light to encourage half the world--a name to rally nations.

"He should have died outside Namur," thought Mr. Prior, and felt the tears smarting against his lids.

He was not deceived by the boon companions, the drinking, the careless talk. He knew that the King cared for none of it, save as a means to hasten death; indeed, the little poet wondered, what had he to live for?--the Queen had gone, then Portland, then the army--his task was finished.

It might have been an hour or more that the King lay back in his chair looking out on the slow-waving, full-leaved boughs, through which the changing sunlight moved; while the noisy talk of the others filled the shadowy spaces of the mellow, lofty room.

Albemarle looked at him often and anxiously, but did not speak.

At last William moved, rousing the sleeping dog.

"I will go into the garden," he said, "before the sun leaves it. I would see those Turkey pears."

Joost van Keppel rose instantly. The King took his arm and got up slowly, coughing with the effort of movement. Mr. Prior was shocked to see that he could not stand alone, but must support himself on Albemarle's young strength.

The others rose, save my Lord Pembroke, who had been asleep this half-hour across the table. The King saw him--an unpleasing spectacle of a stout gentleman with peruke awry and a coarsely red face, breathing heavily through his open mouth, with a wet stain of wine under his cheek and over his cravat.

Mr. Prior expected a burst of anger from the King; but, instead, His Majesty, still holding on to my Lord Albemarle's arm, broke into a long fit of laughter, in which the others joined for no reason at all save their vacant humours.

The poet could not force even a smile. William's unusual and immoderate amusement had a sad sound to him.

Romney and Wharton went to drag Pembroke to his feet, and the King continued laughing.

He was still laughing when an usher and a courier entered the room.

"From England, sire," said the latter, dropping to one knee.

Albemarle sobered instantly. The King ceased laughing and let go my lord's arm, holding himself upright by aid of the table edge.

"Well, what of England?" he muttered. "We have no great interest in England."

"Grave news, Your Majesty," answered the exhausted courier, who had ridden fast from the Hague.

The King took the dispatch and broke it open; it was from Lord Rochester, and contained a few lines written in haste: "His Highness the Duke of Gloucester died suddenly last night of a chill. He desired to be remembered to Your Majesty."

William's hands trembled; the news was serious in so far as it meant that the English succession was now absolutely unsettled. But he was not thinking of that, but of the white, anxious child's face framed in those auburn curls, and the gallant spirit looking out of troubled eyes that had faced the miseries of royalty so bravely.

"My Lord of Gloucester is dead," he said briefly, flinging down the dispatch. "They might have spared their Greek and Latin--poor sweet wretch!" His voice shook a little. "I am glad he had his troop of Horse." Then, during the little pause of consternation that held them all mute, he spoke again: "And I am glad he did not live to be a King."