CHAPTER IX
PEACE
The Earl of Sunderiand was again as great as he had been when he heldJames Stewart infatuate in his power, and as well hated throughout thecountry as then. The King had long consulted him in private, and now hewas recognized as principal adviser to the Crown, and carried the goldkey that was the symbol of the office of Lord Chamberlain.
He had no rival. Halifax was dead; Leeds a mere shadow; his intrigueshad brought about the resignation of Godolphin, who had been implicatedin the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick; Shrewsbury, stricken withremorse at his own treachery and the King's generosity, was but a figurein the background; and the other ministers, even such as Romney, who wasWilliam's personal friend, had little influence; Portland's power wasnot what it had been, and his rival, M. van Keppel, largely owed hisfortunes to Sunderiand. The Lord Chamberlain was supreme in this year1697, the year of the peace framed by Portland and Boufflers in theorchard at Huy and signed by the Congress at the King's palace ofRyswick.
This peace was an honourable close to an honourable conflict. Louisrecognised William as King of England, and granted most of the termsdesired by the allies, not one of whom complained that they had beenforgotten or slighted by the King in the framing of the articles. Thedelay of Spain and the Emperor to sign, despite William's entreaties,had resulted in the fall of Barcelona and Louis' consequent rise ofterms, the principal of which was the retention of Strassburg--a severeblow to Austria. But, on the whole, the peace was favourable to thecoalition, and in England and Holland at least was received withunbounded rejoicing. William's return from the Continent was the signalfor a display of loyalty as enthusiastic as that which had greeted theexiled Charles in '66.
William, to whose diplomacy the peace was owing, as the war had beenowing to his indomitable energy, was at the very zenith of hisreputation at home and abroad. He avoided the pageants, processions,triumphal arches, and general laudations, both from a natural modestyand a cynical perception of their hollowness, which was but too welljustified, for the first act of the Parliament was to inflict cruelmortification on him by disbanding, at the instance of the Toryagitator, Robert Harley, the army which had done such magnificentservice. Sunderland's utmost arts could only retain ten thousand men,including the King's beloved Dutch Guards.
This action was, to William, the worst of policy, besides a personalslight that he could not but feel that he had ill deserved. The peacewas to him but an armed truce before the inevitable struggle for theSpanish possessions, and the part that he was to play in that strugglewas considerably weakened by the disbanding of the troops which madeEngland, save for her Navy, powerless again in Europe.
The English Parliament, profoundly ignorant of continental affairs, andnot in the least understanding the spacious policy of the King, thoughtonly of the power a standing army put in the hands of the Crown, andwere not to be moved from their resolve.
William, driven back, as he had so often been, on his own innatestatesmanship, endeavoured to accomplish by wit what he was nowpowerless to accomplish by arms, and secretly framed with Louis thePartition Treaty, by which the vast dominions of the imbecile and dyingKing of Spain were to be divided between Louis' grandson Phillipped'Anjou, and William's candidate, the infant son of the Elector ofBavaria, who derived his claim through his dead mother, Maria Antonia.
The King had disdained to consult the English ministers until he hadcompleted this treaty, and then only curtly demanded the necessarysignatures; from the nation it was a profound secret.
Sunderland disapproved of this daring policy of the King's. He thoughtthat many of the domestic troubles of the reign might have been avoidedif William had been less resolute to keep foreign affairs entirely inhis own hands, but the King's well-founded distrust of the levity,treachery, and ignorance of the English, and their personal malicetowards him as a foreigner, could not be moved by the most specious ofSunderland's arguments. William refused to put any faith in the crowdswho shouted after his coach, in the ringing and the toasts, in the balesof loyal addresses that were laid daily at his feet. He knew perfectlywell that at bottom he was neither understood nor liked, and that allthis rejoicing was not for the King, but because a peace, pleasing toEnglish pride, had been signed; because bank stock had risen from sixtyto ninety, paper money to par, the guinea from eighteen shillings totwenty-one; because the new milled coins were in every hand and an eraof prosperity was following the crisis of '96.
Sunderland watched all these things with some misgiving. Under all hishonours and greatness was a lurking uneasiness. He began to lose hiscourage at being so hated; hints of impeachment had risen in the Housemore than once; he could scarcely show his face abroad without a burstof popular fury. In the opinion of the people he should not have beenintrusted with one of the highest offices under the Crown, but have beenstarving in exile, or dead, long since in the Tower, as his colleagueunder James--Lord Jefferies. The ministers, too, could ill disguisetheir dislike of him. He had befriended the Whigs, and they owed him acold allegiance, but he had no real supporter save the King, whose willalone kept him where he was; and he had more enemies than he couldcount, including Portland, who hated him exceedingly.
When the King had created Joost van Keppel Earl of Albemarle, Portlandhad offered to resign his post and retire, and only by the intercessionof M. de Vaudemont and the passionate entreaties of his one flatterer,the King, had he been induced to stay another year, which was employedin the gorgeous embassy to France from which he had just returned, tofind Sunderland all-powerful and Albemarle in full possession of theKing's confidence.
Sunderland saw that his temper was strained to the utmost, and thataffairs in the King's household must soon reach a crisis. Although heused Albemarle as a balance against a man who hated him, Sunderland hadno ill-will towards Portland, and wished to spare the King the agony heknew he would feel on the earl's retirement. He would have wishedShrewsbury to stay too--the King liked the young duke--but here, as inPortland's case, Sunderland felt matters had gone too far.
He was waiting now, in the King's gallery at Kensington, to interceptand argue with Shrewsbury, whom he knew was about to have an interviewwith William, and with the object, he suspected, of insisting on hisoften refused resignation.
He came at last, after his time and slowly, with a languid carriage andan unsteady step that expressed great wretchedness. Sunderland moved outof the embrasure of the window; Shrewsbury paused; and the two noblemen,alike only in birth and country, so totally different in character,intellect, and aim, yet both in the same service, faced one another.
Shrewsbury looked ill, miserable, even slightly dishevelled, his darkclothes were careless and plain, the beauty that had once made himfamous as "The King of Hearts" was scarcely to be traced in his strainedfeatures, though he was not yet past his first youth. In contrast,Sunderland, though worn and frail, looked less than his years, and washabited very fashionably and gorgeously in black tissue of gold withdiamond buttons, his peruke was frizzled and powdered, and he wore a bowof black velvet beneath his chin; his handsome, delicate features worethat expression of watchful, smiling repose which was so seldom from hisface that it had come to be one with it, as the faint chiselling on analabaster bust.
Shrewsbury showed some agitated emotion as the Lord Chamberlain steppedbefore him.
"I am due with His Majesty," he said.
"I know," answered the earl; "and I think I guess your business with theKing."
Shrewsbury paled and said nothing; a defiant look hardened his eyes.
"You," continued the Lord Chamberlain, "are going, my lord, to forceyour resignation on His Majesty."
"Well--if I am?" Shrewsbury moistened his lips desperately.
"It is, your Grace, a most ill-advised thing to do."
"I have heard many people say that, my lord," answered the young duke,"and I have allowed myself to be too long persuaded. I cannot and Iwill not st
ay at Court."
Sunderland gazed at him steadily out of his long, clear eyes.
"You only give colour to the disclosures of Sir John Fenwick, whichevery one disbelieved. And no one more strongly than His Majesty."
"I bear the taint--the imputation," muttered Shrewsbury. "I cannot andwill not endure it. My position is insupportable."
"Marlborough and Russell are in the same position, and find it easyenough to bear," said Sunderland quietly.
The Duke answered with some pride--
"I am not such as they. They act from their standards--I from mine."
He thought, and might have added, that he was not such as the man towhom he spoke. Sunderland was stained with treacheries, disloyalties,corrupt practices, and shameless false-dealing, the very least of whichwere more than the one lapse that was wearing Shrewsbury to misery withremorse.
The Earl took another tone.
"Think of the King. You call yourself friend to him; he is as harrassednow as he ever was before the war. He hath not too many men to helphim--the Tories grow in strength every day. You have been of greatservice to His Majesty--the greatest in '88. Will you forsake himnow--when he needeth you most?"
Shrewsbury put out a trembling hand.
"I have heard these arguments before. Lady Orkney hath been solicitingme to change my resolution--for the same reason that you bring forth.But I am a broken man; I am ill; I must get to the country; I cannotserve His Majesty----"
So speaking, in rapid, disconnected sentences, he gave a wild glance atthe Earl's passive face, the fine lines of which had taken on an almostimperceptible expression of contempt and disgust, and passed on to theKing's cabinet, which he entered abruptly.
The King was, as usual, at his desk, which was placed between the tallwindows which looked on to the beautiful park, now grey and desolateunder the afternoon sky of mid-November.
A great fire burnt on the hearth, and the glancing light from it threwinto relief the furnishing of the room, every article of which boreevidence to the exile's wistful love of his own country. On themantelshelf were the tall yellow, white, and blue vases from Delft; thebrass fire-irons were Dutch, as were the painted tiles, the black,heavily polished chairs and tables; the exquisite paintings of peaches,carnations, grapes, and butterflies on the wall; and the elaborate chinacalendar above the King's desk. William was always consistently loyal tothe products of his own land; his full cravat, shirt, and wrist-ruffleswere now, as generally, of the fine Frisian lawn embroidery, and thebuttons of his black silk coat were of the wonderful filigree gold-workfor which the States were famous.
He looked up sharply as Shrewsbury entered, and seemed a littledisappointed, as if he had been expecting some one else; but instantlycommanded himself, and greeted the Duke affectionately.
Shrewsbury looked at him wretchedly, crossed to the hearth irresolutely,then burst out impetuously--
"Sire--I must resign--I can take your wage no longer----"
The King's full bright eyes swept over him in a quick glance ofunderstanding.
"I have told you," he said, with a gentleness that had a note of pity init, "that I hold you innocent of those scandalous slanders that villainFenwick flung. I have assured you, my lord, of my affection, of my needand wish for your service."
Shrewsbury bit his lower lip, and stared blindly into the scarlet heartof the fire.
"My health will not permit me----" he began.
"Ah, tush!" interrupted the King, with a little smile. "Your health isgood enough."
Compared to his own, it was indeed. Shrewsbury could not, for veryshame, argue that plea.
"I think you have another reason, your Grace," added William, kindly anda little sadly. "And I am an old enough friend for you to confide inme----"
Still the Duke could not speak, but trembled and looked into the fire.
"You are a man of honour," said the King. "I have and do trust you. Ishall never forget the services you rendered me, when such services werevital indeed; I believe I do not lack gratitude; I should never--I_could_ never--desert a friend."
He exerted himself to speak with courtesy and animation, and there wasreal feeling behind his words; gratitude was indeed almost a fault withhim. Cold as he appeared to outsiders, nothing could turn him when hehad once given his affection; he had often, at the expense of his owninterests and popularity, defended and upheld his friends.
Shrewsbury clasped the edge of the chimneypiece and tried to speak, butmade only some incoherent sound.
"Let me hear no more of resignation, my lord," said William.
The Duke turned and looked at him desperately, then suddenly and utterlybroke down.
"I am guilty, sire!" he cried. "I betrayed you, and you know it!"
He fell into the chair beside him, and covered his white face with hisquivering hands.
"Your generosity is more than I can endure," he gasped. "I have been avillain, and I have a bitter punishment!"
The King rose and looked at his minister. A heavy silence hung in thebrilliantly firelit little chamber. The Duke was sobbing wretchedly.
William went slightly pale.
"Fenwick spoke the truth," cried Shrewsbury; "I have tampered with St.Germains----"
The King crossed over to the young man, and laid his thin, beautifulhand on the bowed shoulders.
"You are my friend," he said simply. "I trust you and wish to keep youwith me. Nothing else, my dear lord, is of any matter."
Shrewsbury's answer came hoarsely.
"It is of great matter to me that I have lost my honour----"
The King answered gently.
"While you say that, my lord Duke, you can have lost nothing----"
Shrewsbury would not speak or look up. William returned to his seat atthe desk, and began turning over the papers before him. After a fewminutes he said, with his eyes still on his letters--
"I have heard nothing--I know nothing--I trust you to continue in myservice, my dear lord----"
The Duke sprang up and stood with his back to the fire.
"I cannot--I am not fit," he said desperately, yet with resolution.
William flashed a glance over his shoulder.
"Will you not serve England, then?" he cried, with a deep note in hisvoice, and waited for the answer, gazing brilliantly at the haggardyoung man.
"No--no," muttered Shrewsbury. "I am broken--I am not fit----"
There was a little silence. It was the King who spoke first.
"I can say no more," he said quietly. "You have decided. I trust thatyou will justify your resolution to yourself."
The Duke came heavily to the desk, laid the seals that were the symbolof his office on the desk, and was turning silently away, when the Kingheld out his hand impulsively.
"My lord," he said, with much warmth and kindness, "even if I shouldnever see you again--I should never forget '88."
Shrewsbury seized the frail hand, kissed it with tears, and wentviolently from the room.
William gave a little sigh, pushed back his chair, and put his hand tohis head, coughing.
He was not long alone. Sunderland entered the little cabinet with hiscautious light step and an expression that had a little lost its usualcomposure.
"The little Duke hath resigned," said the King laconically.
A rare ejaculation of impatience and contempt broke from the LordChamberlain. "Every one falleth away!" he exclaimed. "There goeth thelast link with the Whigs!"
William gave a short laugh.
"I suppose that you will be the next, my lord?" he said shrewdly.
The Earl went rather pale.
"I will hold office as long as I can, Your Majesty," he answered. "Butit is a hard thing to maintain my position in the face of all England.But whether I am in office or no, I shall, sir, always serve you."
The King lifted his dark eyes.
"I believe you will, my lord," he said simply; "we are old allies now.Well--we have not either of us much more to
do--the people have theirpeace, and we have our positions, and may grow roses, and build villas,and wait for death."