"This is Lord Falkland's advice," said the Queen, "and I do wonder you should so listen to one who was but lately in the forefront of your enemies and even now is close with them."

"It is the advice of the moderate men," returned Charles, with a sneer on the adjective, "and I must listen to them. Patience, my dear, my beloved. If I could win John Pym it were worth some sacrifice of pride."

"Things run more smoothly in your favour now," retorted Henriette Marie, "and you have no need for these concessions. Was not our welcome to London fair enough? And do not your friends in the Lords grow daily?"

"But the party of John Pym groweth daily also," said the King grimly, "and therefore have I sent for him."

"I do wonder," cried his wife, "that you should stoop to parley with one whom we both hold in hatred!"

"Do not imagine," replied Charles, with intense bitterness, "that I shall ever forgive John Pym, whom I have long resolved to punish fittingly. But if I can make an instrument of him, for his own humiliation and my gain, surely I will."

They were walking in the gardens of Whitehall. It was still winter, but of an extraordinary mildness; a pale and soft blue sky showed between the bare branches, and through the thick carpet of damp brown leaves the fresh little plants and weeds pushed up shoots of green.

Charles and his wife walked slowly along the damp paths; she was wrapped carelessly in a black hood and cloak, and her face was disfigured by a look of annoyance, anxiety, and fatigue.

Her beauty and sweetness seemed to have been lately burnt away by the angry pride and passions the recent troubles had roused in her; she was not one to retain either meekness or gaiety in adversity, and she fretted deeply under what she termed the King's inaction.

Had she been in his place she would have put her fate to the test before now by some act of violence, and instead of making concession after concession, as Charles had done, she would have given the call to arms at the first refusal of the Parliament to do her will or at the first murmur they made against her fiat.

And now, in her eyes, a humiliation deeper than any yet endured was to hand, in the shape of the King's proposed interview with John Pym—a proposal which, as she had guessed, came from Lord Falkland, who was beginning to attach himself to the Court, and who was, as always, working sincerely in the interests of concord, a peaceful settlement, and public security.

As usual, perversity and impatience, frivolity and pride made it impossible for the Queen to grasp the difficulties of her husband's position and how those difficulties had been augmented by the hideous uprisings in Ireland, which continued with all the violence of furious passions loosened after long restraint.

She said no more, however, for she was not the woman to waste words on a matter where she was not likely to prevail.

The King too was silent; his feelings against John Pym were no less bitter than his Queen's hatred of that resolute commoner, and they were tinged with a dreadful shame and an awful remorse which she did not feel, for the thought of Pym brought with it the thought of Strafford.

When they came to a little turn in one of the paths they beheld ahead of them a very pleasant vista of bare but fresh trees, flecked with sun and covered with splashes and tufts of moss, and on a bench beneath a slender beech a group of youths who were engaged in shooting arrows at a target.

Three of the little company were at the first opening of manhood, two were children. All were unusual in their handsomeness and princely poise as in the richness of their appointments, and four of them were distinguished by a darkness of colouring and vividness of expression commonly associated with the French or Italian, and not likely to be the passport to popularity in England; the fifth and youngest was a beautiful, grave child of eight, or so, with bright complexion and golden auburn hair, who, leaning against the tree, handed to the others the arrows out of a quiver of gilded leather.

His dress heightened his look of fairness, for it was light blue, and the sun fell full over him while the others were in shade and darkly though magnificently attired.

The other child was a lad a year or two older, of no particular beauty, but of a nimble and sprightly appearance, whose irregular features were lit by a pair of very handsome, eloquent, black eyes; seated at the end of the bench, he was at the moment practising his skill at archery and was tugging at a great bow that was almost too stubborn for his strength.

The three young men who were gathered round him, directing and instructing, were obviously brothers; all three of a splendid presence and all characterized by an air of recklessness, arrogance, and a certain rude pride, and one was a youth who would have been distinguished in any company for his extreme handsomeness and his animated, flamboyant personality.

It was he who, with the quickness that accompanied all his motions, turned at the first footfall he heard and discerned the King. At the sight of His Majesty the sport ended, and the young men rose, laughing; but the fair child, with a certain prim absorption, busied himself in putting the arrows away, and never looked up from his task.

"The bow is too strong for Charles," said the handsome youth with a strong foreign accent.

"Get thee a smaller one," answered the King, smiling at his eldest son, who had cast the bow down with a good-natured grimace.

"Nay, sire," replied the Prince of Wales, "it is a play that groweth old-fashioned. I will practise the sword."

At this the fair boy glanced up from the quiver he was filling.

"If you will not learn," he said, in a voice serious for his years, "why waste this time in the essay?"

His brother burst out laughing.

"To pass the hours, thou wise man!"

"I love not to pass the time in fooling," replied the little Duke of York crossly. "If I had thought you would not learn, I would not have held the arrows for you."

The young man laughed again, and so did the Queen, but the King said quietly—

"If James hath a mind to be serious—why, it is no ill thing; you, my nephews, might without harm be graver."

The three princes took this reproof in smiling silence; they made a charming picture in the winter sunlight, in their youth and gaiety and self-confidence and all the graceful airs of pride and rank which well became their thoughtless age and high position.

Two of them, the Elector Palatine and Prince Maurice, moved on through the gardens with their two English cousins and the Queen, but Rupert, the handsome, impatient youth, remained where the King stood thoughtfully by the bench, beside the fallen bow and the quiver of arrows little James had flung down in disgust.

"Will Your Majesty see this traitor Pym to-day?" asked Rupert eagerly.

"Yes, here, and soon," replied Charles.

"He should be treading the scaffold planks, not the King's garden!" cried the Prince.

Charles looked at his nephew with mingled affection and doubt. His own nature was so totally different from that of the headstrong, violent, reckless, and rudely arrogant Prince, that he could not altogether love and trust his nephew; at the same time the young man's eager loyalty, his warm if imprudent championship of the King's every action, could not but endear him to Charles, as did his history of misfortune and the fact that he was the son of the King's only sister, Elizabeth, who had met with troubles undeserved and bravely borne.

He answered with the bitterness that often now flavoured his speech.

"You will taste trouble in your time, Rupert, if you do not learn that such words must not be used of those who lead the people."

"I shall never be a king or a ruler," answered Rupert, "and so can keep a freer tongue. A third son hath no hopes, but few fears, so tantivy to these crop-eared churls, and may I one day have the hunting of them!"

He cast up his beaver as he spoke and caught it again with a laugh of sheer light-heartedness.

"A free lance at your service, sire," he cried, and stooping near the root of the beech he pulled up a root of violet which bore several pale and small flowers of an exceeding sweetness of perfume.

With quick brown fingers he fastened it into the button-hole of his dark scarlet doublet.

"Here comes the bold rebel," he said, his loud, deep voice but slightly lowered.

Charles hastily turned his head.

Lord Falkland and John Pym were approaching. The King seated himself and pulled his hat over his eyes as if to conceal the confusion in his countenance when he found himself face to face with the man whom he regarded as his minister's murderer, and Rupert, leaning against the tree, folded his arms on his broad chest in an attitude of contempt and defiance.

The four men made a strange opposition when they came together: the refined sweetness and gentle bearing of the English noble contrasting with the coarse beauty and bold demeanour of the foreign prince, and the severe deportment and graceful figure of the King opposed to the bent form, simple attire, and quiet carriage of the parliamentary leader.

Both men had approached this interview with reluctance and a sense of hopelessness; Pym, because he thought that it would be impossible to force the King to sincerity, and the King, because he thought it would be impossible to bend or break Pym.

Charles gave no immediate answer to Lord Falkland's presentation, and made not the least effort to appear gracious. He and Pym were not strangers to each other; there had been a time, years ago, when it had seemed as if the famous lawyer might be one of those advising and guiding the King.

"Sir," said Charles at length, "I know not why I have chosen to see you here, save that the day is fair and we can talk here under the sky as well as under a ceiling."

"Sir," replied John Pym simply, "I have been mewed up so much of late that I am very glad to be in a pleasant place of green."

"Give us leave, my lord," said Charles, "and you, Rupert, we have to confer with this our faithful subject."

The King's cold sarcasm was not lost on John Pym, whose lips curved into a faint quiet smile, nor on the two young men, one of whom heard with vexation, the other with considerable amusement.

Rupert would, indeed, have liked to have stayed and helped bait and annoy a man whom he regarded as only fit for the branding, the mutilation, the pillory, and the fine which had been the fate of William Prynne a few years earlier, but he bowed to the King's decision and moved away with the Viscount.

Charles looked after the two figures, alike in youth and comeliness, dissimilar in everything else, then turned his stern and weary eyes on John Pym, who stood with his plain hat in his hand, waiting for the King to speak.

"Mr. Pym," he said abruptly, "there is much disaffection in the House."

"Yes, sire."

"And parties are very sharply divided," added Charles, alluding to the continued strength of his partisans in the Commons.

John Pym understood him perfectly.

"We have," he answered, "much to contend against, but God hath given us success."

The King's pale face assumed a look even more hard and bitter than before; he knew Pym referred to the passing of the Great Remonstrance which he had carried through the Commons by a narrow majority.

"We?" he exclaimed. "For whom do you speak when you say 'we,' Mr. Pym?"

"For those whom Your Majesty wished to deal with when you sent for me," answered the commoner calmly.

"Ah!" cried the King sharply. "You think you can boast to my face of your power in the Commons!"

"I can boast to any man's face of the power of the English people," replied Pym, "and I believe it is that power that Your Majesty wisheth to reckon with."

Charles was silent, not being able to master his humiliation and pride sufficiently to speak.

"It is that power Your Majesty must reckon with," added John Pym, without bravado or insult, but with intense firmness.

The blood stained the King's pallor as if it had been called there by a blow.

"You have changed your language since last we spoke together, Mr. Pym!" he cried.

"Much hath changed, sire. There is a broad river with many currents and many whirlpools flowing now through England, and it hath swept away many old landmarks. I do not mean discourtesy, but Your Majesty must have seen for himself the swift changes of the times."

"Yes," replied the King. "I have marked a crop of sedition such as few sovereigns have been called upon to cope with."

"And the advisers of Your Majesty have ordered and permitted an upset of the laws such as few peoples have had to endure, and as it is not in the temper of the English to bear."

A haughty and bitter reply was on Charles' lips, but he remembered that it was his object to in some way gain Pym and Pym's enormous influence, and he summoned his slender stock of tact and patience.

"Mr. Pym," he said, with dignity, "we are not here to discuss old grievances, but rather to prepare balm for present sores and to consider how to avoid opening of future wounds."

John Pym smiled sadly.

"It is all," he said, "in Your Majesty's hands."

"I think," answered the King, "that very little is left in my hands. Civil and religious authority is both assailed, and now you would arrest from me the power of the sword."

"The Parliament should have authority to choose Your Majesty's advisers and to control the army and the militia," said Pym.

"You try to force me into a corner," replied Charles, in a still voice. "But you say it is in my hands," he added, with an effort. "Tell me if there is any means you—and I—may pursue together."

John Pym knew as clearly as if Charles had put it into words that he was appealing for his help; he stood silent, waiting for the King to further reveal himself.

"You have had a long and laborious life, Mr. Pym," continued Charles, fingering the deep lace on his cuffs. "I could give you that ease and honour that bring repose."

"I am sorry Your Majesty said that," returned the commoner. "You must know that I am not a second Strafford to leave my party for royal bribes."

"You dare use that name to me!" blazed Charles, all his wrath and hatred, shame and pain, suddenly laid bare.

"Why not?" returned Pym steadily. "The death of Thomas Wentworth lieth not at my door. I opposed his impeachment. I wished his punishment, not his blood."

"Thou and thou only brought him to the block!" cried Charles.

"Nor I, nor any could have done it if his master had chosen to save him," said John Pym.

"This is too much!" cried Charles, his lips quivering, his eyes reddened and flashing. "By my soul, it is too much! Against my will was this meeting!"

"I also thought it was too late," replied Pym; "but I stand here, ready to serve Your Majesty if Your Majesty will deal sincerely with your people."

Charles' natural duplicity came to his aid and supplied the place of patience; he mastered the wrath and horror caused in him ever by the mention of Strafford, and answered with sudden and unnatural quietness—

"Mr. Pym," he said, looking not at him but at his own square-toed shoes and the white silk roses on them, "I do desire concord and plain dealing, nor do I wish to provoke further strife."

"Your Majesty," replied Pym, "then, should stop this great gathering of ruffling Cavaliers who rally to the palace, and this armed guard who insult the passing crowd."

"What of the Roundhead rabble?" said Charles fiercely, "who tear my bishops' robes from their backs when they endeavour to make their way across Palace Yard—who insult my Queen because she is Romanist?"

"Your Majesty provoked it," answered Pym calmly. "And had the bishops shown more of the meekness proper to their calling they would not now be in the Tower for their foolish proclamation."

He still held himself erect, though he was in feeble health and weary from standing. The King marked his fatigue, natural in one of his age, but his innate courtesy was stifled by his hatred of this man, and neither policy nor kindness moved him to bid John Pym be seated.

"We must discuss these things," he said. "I am willing to be reasonable, and you have the reputation of a moderate. But you have some fanatic fellows of your party, Mr. Pym—Holles, Haselrig, Hampden, and a certain Oliver Cromwell."

"These gentlemen you name," replied John Pym, "are no more nor less fanatic than a hundred others, sire."

"They have stood forth of late as notable in voicing certain daring opinions," said the King, who, though he had himself carefully in hand, was not able to be more than barely civil. "You must not think, Mr. Pym, that I have overlooked them."

"What is the meaning of Your Majesty's reference to these gentlemen?"

"Only this," replied Charles steadily, "that you and I could work together only if you refused your company and counsels to these I have mentioned—and some others, as my Lord Kimbolton, Mr. Strode, and the Earl of Essex."

"They are all," said Mr. Pym, "as well able to advise Your Majesty as myself. And, sire, if you sincerely wish to please your people, you will entertain no prejudice against these men, for they are highly esteemed and trusted by all."

"Enough, enough!" cried the King, in great agitation, hastily rising. "I might consider terms with you, Mr. Pym, but not with every heretic whose voice is loud enough to catch the ear of the vulgar—but do not misunderstand me—you will hear from me again. To-day—to-day the sun sets and it groweth chilly." He looked round the garden, now filled with sunset light, with an abstracted air. "Think of me kindly, Mr. Pym, and tell the Commons their honour and safety is my chiefest care—as I hope theirs will be the welfare of the nation."

"Our talk, then, hath no conclusion?" asked Mr. Pym, who argued little good from this abrupt dismissal.

"Not here," said the King with a smile; "at some further time, sir, you shall know the impression your speech to-day hath made on me. Now I must think a little on what you have said. A good night, Mr. Pym."

The commoner bowed, and the King, blowing a little silver whistle which he carried, brought up an attendant whom he told to conduct Mr. Pym to the gates of the palace.

And so the interview from which Lord Falkland and the moderate royalists had hoped so much ended.

Charles, trembling with emotion, spurned with the light cane he carried the spot of earth on which John Pym had stood.

"Thou damnable Puritan!" he muttered, "must I not only swallow thee but all thy brood of heretics! Too much, by Christ, too much!"