  Produced by Al Haines. GOD AND THE BY MARJORIE BOWEN AUTHOR OF "I WILL MAINTAIN" 'LUCTOR ET EMERGO MOTTO OF ZEELAND METHUEN & GO. LTD Published in 1911 DEDICATED CONTENTS
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PART I THE REVOLUTION "Un prince profond dans ses vues; habile À former des ligues et À reunir les esprits; plus heureux À exciter les guerres qu'À combattre; plus À craindre encore dans le secret du cabinet, qu'À la tÊte des armÉes; un ennemi que la haine du nom FranÇais avoit rendu capable d'imaginer de grandes chose et de les exÉcuter; un de ces gÉnies qui semblent Être nes pour mouvoir À leur grÉ les peuples et les souverains—un grand homme...."—MASSILLON, Oraison FunÈbre de M. le Dauthin. CHAPTER I THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 30th, 1688 "There is no managing an unreasonable people. By Heaven, my lord, they do not deserve my care." The speaker was standing by an open window that looked on to one of the courts of Whitehall Palace, listening to the unusual and tumultuous noises that filled the sweet summer air—noises of bells, of shouting, the crack of fireworks, and the report of joyous mock artillery. It was late afternoon, and the small apartment was already left by the departing daylight and obscured with a dusky shade, but no candles were lit. There was one other person in the room, a gentleman seated opposite the window at a tall black cabinet decorated with gold lacquer Chinese figures, that showed vivid even in the twilight. He was watching his companion with a gentle expression of judgment, and twirling in his slim fingers a half-blown white rose. An over-richness of furniture, hangings, and appointments distinguished the chamber, which was little more than a cabinet. The flush of rich hues in the Mortlake tapestries, the gold on the China bureau, the marble, gilt, and carving about the mantel, two fine and worldly Italian paintings and crystal sconces, set in silver, combined to give the place an overpowering air of lavishness; noticeable in one corner was a large ebony and enamel crucifix. The persons of these two gentlemen were in keeping with this air of wealth, both being dressed in an opulent style, but in themselves they differed entirely from each other. Neither was young, and both would have been conspicuous in any company for extreme handsomeness, but there was no further likeness. He at the window was by many years the older, and past the prime of life, but the magnificence of his appearance created no impression of age. Unusually tall, finely made and graceful, he carried himself with great dignity; his countenance, which had been of the purest type of aristocratic beauty, was now lined and marred—not so much by years, as by a certain gloom and sourness that had become his permanent expression; his eyes were large, grey, and commanding, his mouth noble, but disfigured by a sneer, his complexion blond and pale, his nose delicately formed and straight; a fair peruke shaded his face and hung on to his shoulders; he was dressed, splendidly but carelessly, in deep blue satins, a quantity of heavy Venice lace, and a great sword belt of embroidered leather. The other gentleman was still in the prime of life, being under fifty, and looking less than his age. Slight in build, above the medium height, and justly proportioned, handsome and refined in feature, dressed with great richness in the utmost extreme of fashion, he appeared the very type of a noble idle courtier, but in his long, straight, heavy-lidded eyes, thin sensitive mouth, and the deeply cut curve of his nostril was an expression of power and intelligence above that of a mere favourite of courts. He wore his own fair hair frizzed and curled out on to his shoulders and brought very low on to his forehead; under his chin was a knot of black satin that accentuated the pale delicacy of his complexion; every detail of his attire showed the same regard to his appearance and the mode. Had it not been for that unconscious look of mastery in the calm face he would have seemed no more than a wealthy man of fashion. In his beautifully formed and white hands he held, as well as the rose, a handkerchief that he now and then pressed to his lips; in great contrast to the other man, who appeared self-absorbed and natural, his movements and his pose were extremely affected. A pause of silence wore out; the man at the window beat his fingers impatiently on the high walnut back of the chair beside him, then suddenly turned a frowning face towards the darkening room. "My lord, what doth this presage?" He asked the question heavily and as if he had much confidence and trust in the man to whom he spoke. My lord answered instantly, in a voice as artificial as the fastidious appointments of his dress. "Nothing that Your Majesty's wisdom and the devotion of your servants cannot control and dispel." James Stewart turned his eyes again to the open casement. "Do you take it so lightly, my lord?" he asked uneasily. "All London shouting for these disloyal prelates—the city against me?" Lord Sunderland replied, his peculiarly soothing tones lowered to a kind of caressing gentleness, while he kept his eyes fixed on the King. "Not the city, sir. Your Majesty heareth but the mobile—the handful that will always rejoice at a set given to authority. The people love Your Majesty and applaud your measures." "But I am not popular as my brother was," said the King, but half satisfied, and with an angry look towards London. The Earl was ready with his softly worded reassurances. "His late Majesty never put his popularity to the test—I think he could not have done what you have, sir—is not the true Faith"—here my lord crossed himself—"predominant in England—hath Your Majesty any Protestant left in office—have you not an Ambassador at the Vatican, is not a holy Jesuit father on the Council board, Mass heard publicly in Whitehall—the papal Nuncio openly received?—and hath not Your Majesty done these great things in three short years?" A glow overspread the King's sombre face; he muttered a few words of a Latin prayer, and bent his head. "I have done a little," he said—"a little——" Sunderland lowered his eyes. "Seeing this is a Protestant nation, Your Majesty hath done a deal." The King was silent a moment, then spoke, gloomy again. "But, save yourself, my lord, and Dover and Salisbury, no person of consequence hath come into the pale of the Church—and how hath my Declaration of Indulgence been received? Discontent, disobedience from the clergy, insolence from the Bishops, and now this,—near to rebellion!" His eyes darkened. "Could you have heard the army on Hounslow Heath, my lord—they shouted as one man to hear these traitors had been acquitted." He began to stride up and down the room, talking sternly, half to himself, half to Sunderland, the speech of an angry, obstinate man. "But I'll not give way. Who is this Jack Somers who defended them? Make a note of him—some Whig cur! The Dissenters too, what is the Anglican Church to them that they must stand by her? Do I not offer them also freedom of conscience? Do not they also benefit by the repeal of the Test Act?" Sunderland made no remark; he sat with his hand over the lower part of his face. By the expression of his eyes it might seem that he was smiling; but the light was fading, and James did not look at his minister. "I'll break the Colleges too. Let them look to it. I'll go on. Am I not strong enough? They are rebels at Oxford—I'll take no rebellion—that was my father's fault; he was not strong enough at first—it must be put down now—now, eh, my Lord Sunderland?" He stopped abruptly before the Earl, who rose with an air of humility. "It is my poor opinion, oft repeated, that Your Majesty must stop for nothing, but take these grumblers with a firm hand and crush them." This counsel, though not new, seemed to please the King. "You have ever given me good advice, my lord." He paused, then added, "Father Petre is always speaking against you, but I do not listen—no, I do not listen." "It is my misfortune to be unpopular with the Catholics, though I have done what might be for their service." "I do not listen," repeated the King hastily; he seated himself in the carved chair beside the bureau. "But I must tell you one thing," he added, after an instant. "M. Barillon thinketh I go too far." Sunderland remained standing. "He hath told me so," he answered quietly. "What doth he mean?" asked James eagerly, and with the air of depending entirely on the other's interpretation. "This," replied the Earl suavely—"that, good friend as His Christian Majesty is to you, it doth not suit his pride that you, sir, should grow great without his help—he would rather have Your Majesty the slave than the master of the people, rather have you dependent on him than a free ally." "I'll not be dictated to," said the King. "My brother was too much the creature of Louis, but I will not have him meddle in my affairs." "M. Barillon doth his duty to his master," answered the Earl. "Your Majesty need pay no attention to his warnings——" "Warnings!" echoed the King, with sullen fire. "I take no warnings from an Ambassador of France." Then he sat forward and added in a quick, half-baffled fashion, "Yet there are dangers——" "What dangers, sire?" "The people are so stubborn——" "They complain but they bow, sire; and soon they will not even complain." "Then M. Barillon mentioned——" The King paused abruptly. "What, sire?" "My nephew, William." As he spoke James glanced quickly at Sunderland, who returned the gaze calmly and mildly. "My nephew, William—what is he plotting?" "Plotting, Your Majesty?" "He hath never been friendly to me," broke out the King fiercely. "Why did he refuse his consent to the Indulgence?—he who hath always stood for toleration?" "As the head of the Protestant interest in Europe he could do no less, sire." "He hath suborned my daughter," continued the King, in the same tone. "Seduced her from her duty—but now"—he crossed himself—"God be thanked, I have an heir. I do not need to so consider these Calvinists"—he gave the word an accent of bitter dislike—"yet I doubt he meaneth mischief——" "I do not think so, sire. His hands are so full in keeping his own country afloat he can scarce have the time to meddle——" The King interrupted. "He doth meddle—his design is to drag me into a war with France—I doubt he hath more intrigues afoot in England than we wot of, my lord. Did M. de Zuylestein come wholly to congratulate us on the birth of the Prince? He is over often closeted with the Whig lords—and so was Dyckfelt—a knowing man." Sunderland answered frankly. "His Highness must have an interest in the kingdom of which his wife was till so lately the heiress, and I doubt not that he would try to foster discontents among the opposition, since he can hardly like the present policy of Your Majesty, having all his life been under the endeavour of persuading England to join his coalition against France—but he hath not the power (nor, I think, the will) to disturb Your Majesty." James smiled reflectively. "I believe he hath his hands full," he admitted. "He is not so steady in the states." His smile deepened as he thought on the critical situation of his son-in-law, then vexation conquered, and he added sharply, "M. Barillon said he but waited a chance to openly interfere—he would not send the English regiments back, which looked ill, and he is very friendly with Mr. Sidney——" The King paused. "Mr. Sidney is your uncle, my lord," he added, after a little, "and a close friend of the Prince of Orange—I was warned of that." "By M. de Barillon?" asked Sunderland gently. "Yes, my lord. But I took no heed of it—yet is it true that my Lady Sunderland wrote often to Mr. Sidney when he was at The Hague, and that you were privy to it?" "There was some little exchange of gallantries, sire, no more. My lady is close friends with Mr. Sidney, and would commission him for horses, plants, candles, and such things as can be bought with advantage at The Hague." "And did she write to the Lady Mary?" Sunderland smiled. "She had that honour once—the subject was a recipe for treacle water." "Well, well," said the King, in a relieved tone of half apology, "I am so hedged about I begin to distrust my best servants. I must be short with M. Barillon; he maketh too much of my friendship with His Majesty." "That is the jealousy of France, sire, that ever desireth a hand in your affairs." James answered testily. "Let them take care. M. Barillon said my envoys abroad had sent me warning of what my nephew designed—that is not true, my lord?" "I have received no such letters, sire, and Your Majesty's foreign correspondence toucheth no hands but mine." The King rose and struck the bell on the black lacquer cabinet; his exceedingly ill-humour was beginning, as always, to be softened by the influence of Lord Sunderland, who had more command over him than even the Jesuit, Father Petre, who was commonly supposed to be his most intimate counsellor. When the summons was answered the King called for candles, and went over to the window again. The dusk was stained with the glow of a hundred bonfires, lit by good Protestants in honour of the acquittal of the seven bishops charged with treason for offering His Majesty a petition against the reading of the Declaration of Indulgence from the pulpits of the Anglican churches; the verdict and the demonstration were alike hateful to the King, and he could scarce restrain his furious chagrin as he saw the triumphant rockets leap into the deep azure sky. He thought bitterly of the murmuring army on Hounslow Heath; had they been steadfastly loyal he would hardly have restrained from setting them on to the defiant capital which they had been gathered together to overawe. The candles were brought, and lit the rich little chamber with a ruddy light that showed the glitter of glass and gilt, lacquer and silver, the moody face of the King, and the calm countenance of his minister. "My nephew would never dare," muttered His Majesty at last, "nor would Mary be so forgetful of her duty——" He turned into the room again. "I think you are right, my lord; he hath too much to do at home. But I am glad I did recall Mr. Sidney—a Republican at heart—who is like his brother." "Of what designs doth Your Majesty suspect the Prince?" asked Sunderland quietly. The King answered hastily. "Nothing—nothing." "Doth M. de Barillon," asked the Earl, "think His Highness might do what Monmouth did?" At this mention of that other unhappy nephew of his who had paid for his brief rebellion on Tower Hill, the King's face cleared of its look of doubt. "If he tried," he answered sombrely, "he would meet with the same reception—by Heaven, he would! No gentleman joined Monmouth, none would join the Prince." "'Tis certain," said Sunderland. "But what causeth Your Majesty to imagine His Highness would attempt so wild a design as an armed descent on England?" "He buildeth a great navy," remarked James. "To protect the States against France. Reason showeth that the suggestion of His Highness' conduct that M. de Barillon hath made is folly. The Prince is the servant of the States; even if he wished, he could not use their forces to further his private ends, and is not the Princess daughter to Your Majesty, and would she help in an act of rebellion against you?" "No," replied the King, "no—I do not think it. If the Dutch do choose to build a few ships am I to be stopped? My Lord Halifax," he added, with eagerness, "advised the giving back of the city charters and the reinstatement of the Fellows of Magdalen—but I will not—I'll break 'em, all the disloyal lot of 'em." A slight smile curved my lord's fine lips. "Halifax is ever for timorous counsels." "A moderate man!" cried James. "I dislike your moderate men—they've damned many a cause and never made one. I'll have none of their sober politics." "The best Your Majesty can do," said Sunderland, "is to gain the Dissenters, call a packed parliament of them and the Catholics in the autumn, pass the repeal of the Test Act, treat French interference firmly, strengthen the army, and bring the Irish to overawe London. There will be no murmurs against your authority this time a year hence." James gave my lord a pleased glance. "Your views suit with mine," he replied. "I'll officer the army with Catholics—and look to those two judges who favoured these bishops. We will remove them from the bench." He was still alternating between ill-humour at the open display of feeling on the occasion of the public cross he had received in the matter of the bishops and the satisfaction my lord's wholly congenial counsel gave his obstinate self-confidence. A certain faith in himself and in the office he held, a still greater trust in the religion to which he was so blindly devoted, a tyrannical belief in firm measures and in the innate loyalty of church and people made this son of Charles I, sitting in the very palace from which his father had stepped on to the scaffold at the command of a plain gentleman from Hampshire, revolve schemes for the subjugation of England more daring than Plantagenet, Tudor, and Stewart had ventured on yet; he desired openly and violently to put England into the somewhat reluctant hands of the Pope, and beside this desire every other consideration was as nothing to His Majesty. "Let 'em shout," he said. "I can afford it." And he thought of his young heir, whose birth secured the Romish succession in England; an event that took the sting even from the acquittal of the stubborn bishops. "Your Majesty is indeed a great and happy Prince," remarked my lord, with that softness that gave his compliments the value of sincere meaning. The King went up to him, smiled at him in his heavy way, and touched him affectionately on the shoulder. "Well, well," he answered, "you give good advice, and I thank you, my lord." He fell into silence again, and the Earl took graceful leave, left the cabinet gently, and gently closed the door. When outside in the corridor he paused like one considering, then went lightly down the wide stairs. In the gallery to which he came at the end of the first flight was a group of splendid gentlemen talking together; my lord would have passed them, but one came forward and stopped him; he raised his eyes; it was M. Barillon. "You have come from His Majesty?" "Yes, sir," answered the Earl. "I do hope you did impress on him the need for a great caution," said M. Barillon quickly, and in a lowered voice, "The temper of the people hath been very clearly shown to-day." "I did my utmost," said my lord ardently. "Advised him to make concessions, warned him that the Prince was dangerous, but his obstinate temper would have none of it——"
"I hope you were earnest with him, my lord; there is no man hath your influence——" My lord's long eyes looked steadily into the Frenchman's face. "Sir," he said, "you must be aware that I have every reason to urge His Majesty caution, since there is none as deep in his most disliked measures than myself, and if the Whigs were to get the upper hand"—he shrugged gracefully—"you know that there would be no mercy for me." The French Ambassador answered hastily— "Not for an instant do I doubt your lordship. Faith, I know His Christian Majesty hath no such friend as yourself in England—but I would impress on you the danger—things reach a crisis, my lord." He bowed and returned to his companions, while the Earl passed through the galleries of Whitehall, filled with courtiers, newsmongers, place seekers, and politicians, and came out into the courtyard where his chair waited. While his servant was fetching the sedan my lord put on his laced hat and lingered on the step. A tall soldier was keeping the guard; my lord regarded him, smiled, and spoke. "Fellow, who is your master?" The man flushed, saluted, and stared awkwardly. "Come," smiled the Earl whimsically. "Whom do you serve?" The startled soldier answered stupidly— "God and the King, your honour." "Ah, very well," answered the Earl slowly; he descended the steps and took a pinch of snuff. "So do we all—it is merely a question of which God and which King." CHAPTER II THE EVENING OF JUNE 30th, 1688 Before entering his sedan, Lord Sunderland gently bade the chairman carry him round the back ways; that strange quantity, the People, that every statesman must use, fear, and obey, was abroad, roused and dangerous to-night, and my lord's diplomacy moved delicately among high places but never came into the street to handle the crowd; he could lead, control, cajole kings and courtiers, deal with continents on paper, but he was powerless before the people, who hated him, and whom he did not trouble to understand; he was aristocrat of aristocrat. He was now the most powerful man in the three kingdoms, and, next to Lord Jefferies, the most detested; he was the only considerable noble (the other converts, Dover and Salisbury, being mean men) who had sacrificed his religion to the bigotry of the King; many courtiers to whom all faiths were alike had rejected open apostasy, but my lord had calmly turned renegade and calmly accepted the scorn and comment cast upon his action; but he did not care to risk recognition by the People bent on celebrating a Protestant triumph. A little before he had gone down to Westminster Hall to give that technical evidence against the bishops, without which they could not have been tried (for he was the only man who had seen Sancroft pass in to the King with the petition, and therefore the only man who could prove "publication in the county of Middlesex"), and it had taken some courage to face the storm that had greeted the King's witness. My lord did not wish for another such reception, and as he proceeded down the quiet dark streets he looked continuously from the window of his chair in anticipation of some noisy band of Londoners who would challenge his appearance. And that pale gentleman who peered out on to the bonfire-lit night had soon been dragged from the shadow of the satin-lined sedan and flung down into the gutter and trampled on and murdered, as was Archbishop Sharp by the Covenanters, had he been seen and recognized by some of the bands of youths and men who marched the streets with straw Popes and cardboard devils to cast to the flames. My lord remarked that in every window, even of the poorest houses, seven candles burned, the tallest in the centre for the Archbishop, the other six for his colleagues; my lord remarked the rockets that leapt above the houses and broke in stars against the deep blue; my lord heard, even as he passed through the quietest alleys, the continuous murmur of the People rejoicing, as one may in a backwater hear the muffled but unsubdued voice of the sea. When he reached his own great mansion and stepped from the chair, he saw that his house also was illuminated, as was every window in the great square. He went upstairs to a little room at the back, panelled in walnut and finely furnished, where a lady sat alone. She was of the same type as my lord—blonde, graceful, worn, and beautiful—younger than he, but looking no less. She was writing letters at a side table, and when he entered rose up instantly, with a little sigh of relief. "'Tis so wild abroad to-night," she said. The Earl laid down on the mantelshelf the overblown white rose he had brought from Whitehall, and looked at his wife. "I see we also rejoice that the bishops are acquitted," he remarked. "The candles, you mean? It had to be—all the windows had been broken else. They needed to call the soldiers out to protect the Chapel in Sardinia Street." He seated himself at the centre table and pulled from his pocket several opened letters that he scattered before him; his wife came and stood opposite, and they looked at each other intently across the candles. "What doth it mean?" she asked. "That the King walketh blindly on to ruin," he answered concisely, with a wicked flashing glance over the correspondence before him. "The People will not take much more?" "No." "Well," said Lady Sunderland restlessly, "we are safe enough." He was turning over the papers, and now lowered his eyes to them. "Some of your letters to my Uncle Sidney have been opened," he remarked. "This is M. Barillon his work—the King taxed me to-day with being privy to the intrigue." "I have thought lately that we were suspected," she answered quickly. "Is this—serious?" "No; I can do anything with the King, and he is bigot, blind, and credulous to a monstrous degree." "Even after to-day!" exclaimed my lady. "He believeth the nation will never turn against him," said the Earl quietly. "He thinketh himself secure in his heir—and in the Tories." "Not half the people will allow the child is the Queen's, though," she answered. "Even the Princess Anne maketh a jest of it with her women, and saith His Highness was smuggled into Whitehall in a warming-pan by a Jesuit father——" "So you have also heard that news?" "Who could help it? 'Tis common talk that 'tis but a device of the King to close the succession to the Princess Mary. And though you and I, my lord, know differently, this tale is as good as another to lead the mobile." The Earl was slowly burning the letters before him by holding them in the flame of the wax-light of a taper-holder, and when they were curled away casting them on the floor and putting his red heel on them. "What are these?" asked the Countess, watching him. "Part of His Majesty's foreign correspondence, my dear, warning him to have an eye to His Highness the Stadtholder." She laughed, half nervously. "It seemeth as if you cut away the ladder on which you stood," she said. "If the King should suspect too soon—or the Prince fail you——" "I take the risks," said Sunderland. "I have been taking risks all my life." "But never one so large as this, my lord." He had burnt the last letter and extinguished the taper; he raised his face, and for all his fine dressing and careful curls he looked haggard and anxious; the gravity of his expression overcame the impression of foppery in his appearance; it was a serious man, and a man with everything at stake on a doubtful issue, who held out his hand to his wife. She put her fingers into his palm and stood leaning against the tall back of his chair, looking down on him with those languishing eyes that had been so praised at the court of the late King, now a little marred and worn, but still brightly tender, and to my lord as lovely as when Lely had painted her beautiful among the beautiful. "You must help me," he said, his court drawl gone, his voice sincere. "Robert," smiled my lady, "I have been helping you ever since I met you." "'Tis admitted," he answered; "but, sweetheart, you must help me again." She touched lightly his thin, powdered cheek with her free hand; her smile was lovely in its tenderness. "What is your difficulty?" Subtle, intricate and oblique as his politics always were, crafty and cunning as were his character and his actions, with this one person whom he trusted Sunderland was succinct and direct. "The difficulty is the Princess Mary," he answered. "Explain," she smiled. He raised his hand and let it fall. "You understand already. Saying this child, this Prince of Wales, will never reign—the Princess is the heiress, and not her husband, and after her is the Princess Anne. Now it is not my design to put a woman on the throne, nor the design of England—we want the Prince, and he is third in succession——" "But he can act for his wife——" "His wife—there is the point. Will she, when she understandeth clearly what is afoot, support her husband, her father, or herself?" The Countess was silent a little, then said— "She hath no reason to love her father; he hath never sent her as much as a present since she went to The Hague, nor shown any manner of love for her." "Yet he counteth on her loyalty as a positive thing—and hath she any cause to love her husband either?" Lady Sunderland's smile deepened. "Ladies will love their husbands whether they have cause or no." The Earl looked gently cynical. "She was a child when she was married, and the match was known to be hateful to her; she is still very young, and a Stewart. Do you not think she is like to be ambitious?" "How can I tell? Doth it make so much difference?" He answered earnestly— "A great difference. If there is a schism between her and the Prince his hands are hopelessly weakened, for there would be a larger party for her pretensions than for his——" "What do you want me to do, dear heart?" "I want a woman to manage a woman," smiled the Earl. "The Princess is seldom in touch with diplomats, and when she is—either by design or simplicity—she is very reserved." "She is no confidante of mine," answered the Countess. "I only remember her as a lively child who wept two days to leave England, and that was ten years ago." "Still," urged my lord, "you can find some engine to do me this great service—to discover the mind of the Princess." Lady Sunderland paused thoughtfully. "Do you remember Basilea Gage?" she asked at length. "One of the maids of honour to Her Majesty when she was Duchess?" "Yes; since married to a Frenchman who died, and now in Amsterdam—she and the Princess Royal were children together—I knew her too. Should I set her on this business?" "Would she be apt and willing?" "She is idle, clever, and serious—but, my dear lord, a Romanist." The Earl laughed at his wife, who laughed back. "Very well," he said. "I think she will be a proper person for this matter." He put the long tips of his fingers together and reflected; he loved, of all things, oblique and crooked methods of working his difficult and secret intrigues. When he spoke it was with clearness and decision. "Tell this lady (what she must know already) that the King's measures in England have forced many malcontents to look abroad to the Princess Royal, the next heir, and her husband to deliver them from an odious rule; say that His Majesty, however, is confident that his daughter would never forget her obedience, and that, if it came to a crisis between her father and her husband, she would hinder the latter from any design on England and refuse her sanction to any attempt on his part to disturb His Majesty—say this requireth confirmation, and that for the ease and peace of the government (alarmed by the late refusal of Her Highness to concur in the Declaration of Indulgence) and the reassurance of the mind of the King, it would be well that we should have private knowledge of the disposition of Her Highness, which, you must say, you trust will be for the advantage of the King and his just measures." The Countess listened attentively; she was seated now close to her husband, a pretty-looking figure in white and lavender, half concealed in the purple satin cushions of the large chair. "I will write by the next packet," she answered simply. "So," smiled the Earl, "we will use the zeal of a Romanist to discover the knowledge we need for Protestant ends——" As he spoke they were interrupted by a servant in the gorgeous liveries that bore witness, like everything else in the noble mansion, both to my lord's extravagance and my lady's good management. "Mr. Sidney was below—would his Lordship see him?" "Go you down to him," said the Earl, looking at his wife. "You can make my excuses." He dismissed the servant; my lady rose. "What am I to say?" she asked, like one waiting for a lesson to be imparted. He patted the slim white hand that rested on the polished table near his. "Find out all you can, Anne, but be cautious—speak of our great respect for His Highness, but make no definite promises—discover how deep they go in their commerce with him." Again they exchanged that look of perfect understanding that was more eloquent of the feeling between them than endearments or soft speeches, and the Countess went down to the lavish withdrawing-room, as fine as the chambers in Whitehall, where Mr. Sidney, uncle of my lord (but no older) waited. They met as long friends, and with that air of gracious compliment and pleasure in each other's company which the fact of one being a beautiful woman and the other a man of famous gallantry had always given to their intercourse; if every jot of my lady's being had not been absorbed in her husband she might have been in love with Mr. Sidney, and if Mr. Sidney had not followed a fresh face every day of the year he might have found leisure to fall in love with my lady; as it was, he was very constant to her friendship, but had not, for that, forgotten the lovely creature she was, and she knew it and was pleased; in their hearts each laughed a little at the other and the situation; but my lady had the more cause to laugh, because while Mr. Sidney always dealt ingenuously with her, she was all the while using him to further her husband's policies, and there was not a pleasant word she gave him that was not paid for in information that she turned to good account. To-day she found him less the composed gallant than usual; he seemed roused, disturbed, excited. "The town to-day!" he exclaimed, after their first greetings. "Here is the temper of the people plainly declared at last!" The Countess seated herself with her back to the candles on the gilt side-table and her face towards Mr. Sidney; he took his place on the wand-bottomed stool by the empty hearth, where the great brass dogs stood glimmering. The windows were open, admitting the pleasant, intangible sense of summer and the distant changing shouts and clamour of the crowd. With a kindly smile Lady Sunderland surveyed Henry Sidney, who without her advantage of the softening shadows showed a countenance finely lined under the thick powder he wore; man of fashion, of pleasure, attractive, mediocre in talents, supreme in manners and tact, owning no deep feelings save hatred to the King, whose intrigues had brought his brother to the block in the last reign, and a certain private loyalty to the laws and faith of England, Henry Sidney betrayed his character in every turn of his handsome face and figure. A man good-humoured, sweet-tempered but lazy, yet sometimes, as now, to be roused to the energy and daring of better men. In person he was noticeable among a court remarkable for handsome men; he had been in youth the most famous beau of his time, and still in middle age maintained that reputation. His political achievements had not been distinguished. Sent as envoy to the States, he had so managed to ingratiate himself with the Prince of Orange as, in spite of the opposition of the English court, to be appointed commander of the English Regiment in the Dutch service, and the mouthpiece of His Highness to the English Whigs. James, who had always disliked him, had recalled him from The Hague despite the protests of the Stadtholder, and he had found himself so out of favour with Whitehall as to deem it wiser to travel in Italy for a year, though he had never relaxed his correspondence either with the Prince or the great Protestant nobles who had been thrown into the opposition by the imprudent actions of the King. He was in London now at some risk, as Lady Sunderland knew, and she waited rather curiously to hear what urgency had brought him back to the centre of intrigue. His acceptance of her graceful excuses for the Earl was as formal as her offering of them; so long ago had it been understood that she was always the intermediary between her astute lord and the powerful Whig opposition of which Mr. Sidney was secretly so active a member. "You and your friends will be glad of this," she said. He looked at her a hesitating half second, then replied with an unusual sincerity in the tones generally so smooth and expressionless. "Every Catholic who showeth his face is insulted, and a beadle hath been killed for endeavouring to defend a Romist chapel—the people are up at last." "I know," she answered calmly. "I feared that my lord would not be safe returning from Whitehall." "If they had seen him, by Heaven, he would not have been!" said Mr. Sidney. He spoke as if he understood the people's point of view. Lax and careless as he was himself, Sunderland's open and shameless apostasy roused in his mind some faint shadow of the universal hatred and scorn that all England poured on the renegade. My lady read him perfectly; she smiled. "How are you going to use this temper in the people?" she asked. "Is it to die out with the flames that consume the straw Popes, or is it to swell to something that may change the face of Europe?" Mr. Sidney rose as if his restless mood could not endure his body to sit still. "It may change the dynasty of England," he said. My lady kept her great eyes fixed on him. "You think so?" she responded softly. His blonde face was strengthened into a look of resolve and triumph. "The King hath gone too far." He spoke in an abrupt manner new to him. "No bribed electorate or packed parliament could force these measures—as we have seen to-day." There was, as he continued, an expression in his eyes that reminded the Countess of his brother Algernon, republican and patriot. "Is it not strange that he hath forgotten his father so soon, and his own early exile?" he said. "His over-confidence playeth into your hands," she answered. He gave a soft laugh, approached her, and said, in his old caressing tones— "Frankly, my lady—how far will the Earl go?" "With whom?" she smiled. "With us—the Prince of Orange and the Whigs, ay—and the honest Tories too." She played with the tassels of the stiff cushion behind her. "My lord hath the greatest affection and duty for His Highness, the greatest admiration for him, the greatest hopes in him——" "Come, Madam," he responded, "we are old friends—I want to know my lord his real mind." "I have told it you," she said, lifting candid eyes, "as far as even I know it——" "You must know that His Highness hath in his desk letters from almost every lord in England, assuring him of admiration and respect—what was M. Dyckfelt over here for—and M. Zuylestein?—we want to know what the Earl will do." "What are the others—doing?" asked the Countess lightly. He saw the snare, and laughed. "My hand is always for you to read, but there are others seated at this game, and I may not disclose the cards." My lady lent forward. "You cannot," she said, in the same almost flippant tone, "expect my lord to declare himself openly a Whig?" "He might, though, declare himself secretly our friend." "Perhaps," she admitted, then was silent. Intimate as he was with the Countess, Mr. Sidney was not close with her lord, and felt more than a little puzzled by that statesman's attitude. Sunderland, he knew, was in receipt of a pension, probably a handsome pension, from France; he was loathed by the Whigs and caressed by the King; as Lord President and First Secretary he held the highest position in the Kingdom; the emoluments of his offices, with what he made by selling places, titles, pardons, and dignities, were known to be enormous; his conversion to the Church of Rome had given him almost unlimited influence over James; and his great experience, real talents, and insinuating manners made him as secure in his honours as any man could hope to be; yet through his wife he had dallied with the Whigs, written, as Sidney knew, to the Prince of Orange, and held out very distinct hopes that he would, at a crisis, help the Protestants. Certainly he had not gone far, and it was important, almost vital, to the opposition that he should go farther, for he had it in his power to render services which no other man could; he only had the ear of James, the control of the foreign correspondence, the entire confidence of M. Barillon, and he alone was fitted to mislead the King and the Ambassador as to the schemes of their enemies, as he alone would be able to open their eyes to the full extent of the ramifications of the Protestant plots. It was the Countess who broke the silence, and her words were what she might have chosen could she have read Mr. Sidney's thoughts. "My lord, who is the greatest man in the kingdom, hath more to stake and lose than you Whigs who are already in disgrace with His Majesty." "I know that very well," he answered; "but if the government fell, remember there are some who would fall with it beyond the hope of ever climbing again. One is my Lord Jefferies, another my Lord Sunderland." She looked at him calmly. "They are both well hated by the people," she said. "I do admit it." She leant forward in her chair. "Do you think it would be worth while for my lord to stake the great post he holdeth for the chance of safety if..." She hesitated, and he supplied the words. —"if there was a revolution," he said. "Do you talk of revolutions!" she exclaimed. His fair face flushed. "Listen," he answered briefly. My lady turned her delicate head towards the window. Beyond her brocade curtains lay the dark shape of London, overhung with a glow of red that stained the summer sky. She sat silent. Mr. Sidney stood close to her, and she could hear his quick breathing; he, as she, was listening to the bells, the shouting, the crack of fireworks, now louder, now fainter, but a continuous volume of sound. "The people——" said Mr. Sidney. "Do they make revolutions?" she asked. "If there is a man to guide them they do——" "Well?" "Before, there was Cromwell." "And now——" "Now there is William of Orange." My lady rose. "His Highness," she said quietly but firmly, "may be assured that he hath a friend, a secret friend in my lord." Mr. Sidney looked anxiously into her eyes. "May I rely on that?" She smiled rather sadly. "You, at least, can trust me." Mr. Sidney bowed over her slender hand. "You are a sweet friend and a clever woman, but——" Lady Sunderland interrupted him. "I am sincere to-night. We see our dangers. You shall hear from me at The Hague." |
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