“Is this a threat?” asked William.
“I do not use those weapons, Prince.… I have come here because I have had rumour of many things thrust upon me.… I wish to hear from your own lips what you intend to do.”
“What have you heard of me from others?” questioned William. He looked down at the floor.
John de Witt raised his head a little.
“M. Fagel, M. Beverningh, M. Asperon are your friends or followers, their party is powerful in the Assembly; at this time, when we should be most united, they harass and thwart the Government at every turn——”
William glanced up, the sunlight full across his face.
“You can easily silence this faction in the State, Mynheer.”
“Only by concession, Highness.”
The Prince’s fair hand moved slightly on the carved back of his chair.
“You have come to accuse me of causing sedition in the Assembly,” he said calmly. “You always regarded me as troublesome,” he smiled faintly. “However … what I have to say to you touches this same subject, Mynheer.”
“The welfare of the State, Highness?”
“Yes.”
“What has Your Highness to say to me?”
“You know, Mynheer, what question it is that agitates the Assembly—I put it to you three years ago and you refused——”
“Then I refuse it now,” answered John de Witt.
“The times have changed,” remarked William laconically.
“But I have not,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely.
“Still, I will again ask you, Mynheer, to consent to my appointment to the Captain Generalship.”
The Prince picked up his whip from among the papers and looked at it as he spoke.
The angry colour rushed into John de Witt’s worn face.
“My answer is no,” he replied sternly; “and I am surprised at these presumptuous pretensions.”
The whip shook a little in William’s hands.
“Why?” he asked, speaking slowly by reason of the control he was exercising. He kept his eyes still on the whip.
“Because it hath been decreed by law—a law that I have sworn to—that all discussion even of your election to this office be deferred till you are twenty-two.”
“Are you going to stand to that, Mynheer? I am twenty-one.”
“I hold,” answered John de Witt, “to the letter of the law.”
William raised his wonderful eyes.
“And yet you speak of friendship.… You have always opposed me … always,” he pressed his handkerchief to his lips and coughed. “You opposed my election to the Council of State.”
“I should again oppose the election of a Prince of eighteen to the Assembly of the Republic.”
“You opposed my journey to England,” continued the Prince, “because you thought my uncle would seduce me into furthering his designs.” He drew a quick breath and looked away from M. de Witt,—“Is it because you still have such suspicions of me that you withhold the Captain Generalship?”
There was an instant’s pause before the Grand Pensionary answered—
“No—no!” Some agitation showed in his voice. “I would not dishonour myself with such unworthy thoughts, but there is too much at stake.”
“There is everything at stake,” said the Prince. “The very existence of the United Provinces is at stake.”
“You are too young to have this tremendous responsibility—too inexperienced——”
“The Stadtholder Maurice was only eighteen when he took command of the Army,” flashed the Prince.
“You quote an unhappy example, Highness. Prince Maurice took advantage of his position to become the tyrant of the people.”
William looked at him under lowered lids.
“You speak as the admirer of John Van Olden Barnenveldt,” he said slowly.
It was a bold and dangerous allusion, since the Grand Pensionary Barnenveldt had perished on the scaffold for his opposition to the power of the Stadtholder Maurice.
“I do.” John de Witt’s voice was cold.
“And as an enemy of my House.”
“As an enemy of sovereign power in your House, Prince.”
William laid down the whip.
“You, Mynheer, will urge the Assembly to refuse me the Captain Generalship?”
“With all my power.”
The Prince bit his lip, and his lids drooped farther over his brilliant eyes.
“To whom does the Assembly intend to entrust the Army?”
“Your Highness knows—Major General Wurtz, the Prince of Tarentum, the Viscount de Montbas.”
“Those are your men?”
“They are the tried and experienced soldiers to whom I am prepared to entrust our defences—if God refuse us the peace which I still hope for.”
William half turned towards him.
“Peace! You still hope for peace—after the treaty of Dover, after the invasion of Lorraine, of Munster and Cologne; after Downing’s audience of the States, his insolent demands, his frivolous complaints. Peace! You should open the campaign to-morrow, Mynheer.”
John de Witt replied firmly—
“Still do I hope to avert the war——”
“You have been hoping that these last two years, Mynheer.”
“Almighty God helping me I shall succeed in it yet.”
The Prince’s eyes flashed impatiently.
“I would sooner pray Almighty God to help me drive out the French.”
“That is the talk of selfish ambition,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “If once we embark on a war with France and England only a miracle can save us—” he gave a half sigh, and repeated—“can save us.”
“To that end—the end of peace—you make concessions.”
“I have been forced to. I have conceded the supremacy of the seas to England, Downing had his answer to-day——”
William coloured swiftly.
“That acknowledges this country subject to the King of England,” he remarked quickly.
“It gives us, Prince, some chance.”
“Our deliverance lies in the sword,” said William shortly.
“Untried enthusiasm speaks there,” answered John de Witt not unkindly. “We are a people whose prosperity depends on peace. Our commerce is our glory and our wealth. We have shed enough blood in the past to defend it.… Now we are prosperous, rich, free, and powerful … to twenty-five years of peace we owe this.… A war would be disastrous … disastrous.”
“It is, I think, inevitable,” struck in the other.
John de Witt half smiled sadly.
“Does Your Highness question my statesmanship?”
William was silent a moment, evidently considering how he should shape his reply.
The sun had moved, so that it fell across the centre of the floor in a heavy beam of gold, leaving the Prince in shadow.
“I think that, the war budget having been passed a year ago, the country should be in a better condition to resist invasion,” he said at length. “The people are taxed almost beyond endurance; two forced loans have been raised, and both the land and sea forces are wretchedly inadequate. I do not know who is responsible for these things, Mynheer.”
He coughed, and looked sideways at the red tulip.
“You take something on yourself, Highness,” returned John de Witt, “to say this to my face; it is an indictment.”
“I am not in a position to criticise you, Mynheer,” answered the Prince, and the scornful curve to his mouth was now noticeable beyond mistake. “Since I have no share in the government, these things are no affair of mine—but M. Fagel brought me your book——”
M. de Witt was betrayed into hot speech—
“Gaspard Fagel fawns on you.…”
“I think he wishes to serve me,” returned William quietly. “You taught me finance—and some other things—and I have applied your lessons to your practice—for my own instruction, Mynheer.”
John de Witt looked at him curiously.
“I do not quite understand Your Highness.”
“No? There is little need—as you say. What have I to do with the government of the United Provinces?—I asked your influence in the matter of the Captain Generalship——”
The Grand Pensionary interrupted haughtily—
“Prince, I can no longer discuss that subject; under no conditions will I be party to giving you this position. You must serve before you can command; know something of war before you can be put over men like Wurtz and Prince John Maurice, Montbas and the Prince of Tarentum.”
William answered, keeping his glance upon the papers scattered over his desk—
“I know enough to tell you, Mynheer, that if you do not strengthen the frontier the French will cross the Rhine—and once the Rhine is crossed, Utrecht falls … and half the Republic is lost.”
“You speak as if judging me remiss in my duty to the State.”
“I speak from my conviction, Mynheer.”
“It hath not been wholly in my hands,” answered John de Witt, with a stately control. “What hath been done hath been done by much reflection and varied advice. How would Your Highness have it different?”
“It were very idle to talk of what I cannot perform,” said William. “Put me in command of the Army and I will show you what I will do.”
The Grand Pensionary rose with a glimmer of red and gold.
“Never!” he said firmly, “never.…”
The Prince was still standing, his hand resting on the back of his chair and his eyes cast down. His very quiet conveyed a passion and a determination that John de Witt felt meeting his own firm resolve, iron striking iron, the unyielding strength of two opposed natures brought into contest.
“Mynheer,” said William, “there are those desirous of obtaining me this appointment—I have, as you say, some friends in the Assembly——”
Between them fell the gold bar of sunshine, dancing with a million motes. Each saw the other beyond it, in a haze of dusky shadow.
“You intend to push the matter to extremes?” asked John de Witt.
Their eyes met.
“Have you come to request me not to?” returned William, with meaning.
John de Witt coloured at the tone.
“No, Highness,” he answered proudly. “I will request of you nothing.”
“Their High Mightinesses will decide between us,” said William, with a stress of mockery on the title. “I am sorry that you will not help me——”
“And I, Prince, am sorry that you should have asked it of me,” replied the Grand Pensionary with a mournful dignity; “it makes weightier my almost intolerable burdens, my almost crushing duties more difficult, that you, and at this crisis, should distract the State with your pretensions and adopt this position towards me.”
William again lowered his eyes; he seemed to be considering. After a second he smiled.
“I also grieve that you should refuse me, Mynheer.”
His eyes flashed an upward glance.
“Perhaps it is not wise!”
“It is right,” answered M. de Witt. “Your friendship would mean much to me—but I cannot purchase it at any such price——”
“We are both too obstinate,” said William, almost insolently; “there is no need for more talk on the matter.”
M. de Witt gathered up his mantle.
“Good even to Your Highness.”
“Good even, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary regarded him with a touch of wistfulness and hesitated a moment; but William stood motionless, obviously waiting for him to leave, and John de Witt turned away.
Again it was the manner of a sovereign with the subject; the Prince seated himself before the Grand Pensionary had closed the door.
The smile still lingered on his lips, he took a letter from the pocket of his coat and slowly unfolded it.
It was from Fagel.
William re-read the last sentences—
“Your Highness’ affair goes well in the Assembly. M. de Witt hath but little influence now. In a few days you will be Captain General, since both General Wurtz and Prince Charles have promised to refuse should the office be offered to them, and since the clamour of the people is no longer to be withstood.…”
CHAPTER II
AGNETA DE WITT
“Did you see the Prince to-day, my father?”
Agneta de Witt dropped her fine sewing into her lap and looked at the Grand Pensionary.
They were together in the garden, under the new golden foliage of the wych elms and limes. The air was filled with a soft and melancholy sunshine; the trees cast faint and moving shadows over the black-clad figure of John de Witt, who leant back in the rustic seat and, his face resting on his hand, gazed at his daughter.
“I saw him this afternoon, Agneta.”
“I thought, sir, that you had.”
“And why?” The Grand Pensionary smiled.
Agneta fixed her pale blue eyes on him anxiously; her colourless, gentle face looked pure and grave as an infant’s in the precise white cap.
“Forgive me, sir—but it is because you have seemed sad.”
“I am tired,” answered John de Witt quietly. “Very tired, Agneta.”
His daughter turned her face away.
Across the close grass came a couple of pigeons, white on the green, and the two on the seat were so still that the birds strutted to their feet.
“You are always tired now, sir.”
“I can expect nothing else, my dearest.”
She picked up her sewing.
“And you are so seldom here … you have not sat like this with me … for so long, sir.”
“The house is too sombre for you,” answered John de Witt tenderly. “You must return to Dordt——”
“No,” breathed Agneta quickly, looking up into his face. “Oh no! let me stay here, sir.”
“My dearest!”
He laid his fine hand lightly on her shoulder.
“If I could help you …” she said in a low voice.
“There is no help for us save in God,” answered the Grand Pensionary gravely, “and surely He will not forsake us.”
Agneta bowed her head low over her sewing. The white pigeons brushed her long grey skirts with their wings, and the sunshine flickering through the lime leaves caught the pale yellow locks on her smooth brow.
“You are always sad when you have seen the Prince, father. I think he is an ungodly young man.”
John de Witt smiled mournfully.
“You must not dwell on politics, Agneta.”
“I cannot help it.” She kept her lids down that her father should not see her eyes were filled with tears. “I … I hear such horrible things, I see you so occupied, so weary.…”
He answered her with a grave tenderness—
“We are in troublous and bitter times, dearest. Danger to the State, to each and all of us, is very near; dismay unmans many … but I hope to save the Republic, Agneta; you must pray that God will give me strength.”
“I am praying for you, sir, in my heart always,” the tears trembled on her cheeks.
There was a pause.
The pigeons fluttered away, and up through the sunny leaves.
“Will there be war?” Agneta spoke at length, under her breath.
“I think there will be war.”
John de Witt’s gaze went past his daughter, as if it rested on some threatening vision of the future.
She shyly wiped her tears.
“With France—and England, father?”
“I do fear it, Agneta.”
She shuddered. War was a terrible thing to her, but still more terrible was the anxious bearing of her noble father.
“The people riot, sir; is it because of the war?” she asked timidly.
“It is the Prince’s faction,” he answered abstractedly. “He is extraordinarily beloved by the people, Agneta.”
“He hath done nothing,” she said simply. “Why do they riot?”
“He would be Captain General … and it may not be.”
A colour came into her fair face. “I fear and mislike him!”
John de Witt turned his soft gaze on her.
“Nay, Agneta—do not say that, nor think it.”
Once more the white linen she sewed sank into her lap.
“Sir, the other day on the Voorhout there was a man wearing an orange favour—he had others with him—I was with my aunt Johanna, and when they saw us, these men, they called after us insolently—my Aunt Johanna asked one of them ‘Why?’ He said, ‘We are for the Prince and you are John de Witt’s women’—and the crowd were with them, sir.”
John de Witt frowned and coloured.
“You never told me this.”
“No—perhaps I should not have told you now, my father,” her eyes rested anxiously upon his face; “but—the Prince cannot be your friend, sir.”
“He hath no control over the brawling mob,” answered the Grand Pensionary hastily. “He would not wish me to be insulted.… I must make an example of some of these rioters—an example,” he repeated.
Agneta put her little hand timidly on his arm.
“Sir, we are no longer beloved in the Hague nor at Dordt … they say such things of you——”
There she checked herself. They had all agreed to keep from John de Witt what his growing enemies said of him.
“It is not strange,” he answered mournfully; “but it is strange, and cruel, that it should come to thy ears, Agneta.”
A frightened expression stole into her large, pale blue eyes.
“Father, why are these people turning against you?—nay, I must speak of it—M. Fagel is no longer friendly——”
“He hath elected to follow the Prince.”
“And—and there are others.…”
“Dearest, very many forsake me … but God will support me in what I have to do.”
“Will—will my uncle Cornelius have to go with the Fleet?”
“I think so, dearest.”
Agneta reflected a second, then said—
“But we are always victorious on the sea.”
“Cornelius and the others, Agneta, will do their utmost to preserve this dear land’s liberty … and we must trust in God.”
“My uncle Cornelius could never be defeated,” insisted Agneta. “But you are anxious.”
He stroked the little fingers lying on his sleeve.
“About the India fleet—now being convoyed home—de Ruyter hath gone to meet it—but I am anxious, sweet——”
“Would the English attack it?” Her fair brows contracted.
“How wise thou art become!” He smiled down into her upturned face. “Yes, I do fear the English ships.”
“But war is not yet declared, my father.”
“No, and may not be—still there is so much—so much—and I am tired, dear, how tired I only know when I rest—and to think they hate me, Agneta.”
“Ah, no one hates you!” she cried.
His sad smile deepened.
“Did you not say so, yourself, dear heart, but now? The people have neither trust in me nor love—after twenty years of toil—of such toil.… Do you recall, Agneta, how they repaid Olden Barnenveldt?”
“Father!”
“He was a virtuous man, Agneta, and did more for his country than ever I have been able to do.”
She went very pale.
“But—father—it is not possible!”
“What, dearest?”
“M. Olden Barnenveldt was beheaded, father!”
“Sometimes I think of it—to-day when I crossed the Plaats——”
Agneta shuddered.
“Sir, do not speak like that.”
He roused himself from a sad reverie.
“Nay, sweet heart, I must not grieve thee with my foolish thoughts; ’tis not often that thou beguilest me into talking State affairs here—where I am at peace.”
He glanced with a sigh round the quiet garden.
“And I am so seldom at peace now I am a very fool to mar it. We will talk of other things.”
“There is nothing else that interests me, father.”
“That must not be, see how I have distressed thee. Nay, do not spoil my little hour of repose with these tears, dearest.… Why should you weep? Indeed I am well, only tired, a little tired, dear.… Nay, this is weakness, my Agneta.”
She was weeping silently.
“My burdens are not more than I can bear, but it hurts me you should weep.”
She stifled her tears.
“I think of you always, sir. When I was away in Dordt I wearied to be here—and I can be of no use to you … you are lonely.”
“Lonely?” he echoed wistfully.
Agneta trembled closer to him.
“Since my mother died.…”
He took her hands and gazed down into her sad face.
“Thy mother was very gentle and timid, dearest … perhaps she was spared more than she could have borne. Perhaps had she known she would have chosen … to go … and I to let her … they cannot insult her, she died while her name was still respected.… Ah, thou art a beloved child … and hast her eyes.… ‘Blessed be God in happiness and affliction’.… ‘The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away’.…”
He drew her gently towards him and kissed her forehead.
“While we do our duty we cannot be wholly unhappy, Agneta; and while the angels are about us we cannot be lonely—not wholly lonely.”
The sun reddened to its setting, and a full and ruddy light was shed among the quivering leaves and over the spring grass.
The chimes of the Groote Kerk fell on the silence with a swift, clear rise and fall.
Agneta dropped her head on to her father’s breast and sobbed.
“Why—what is the matter?” he asked, distressed.
She sprang up holding her hands before her face, and fled, leaving her white sewing on the grass.
John de Witt sat silent, his form half bowed, his head bent.
Beside Agneta’s place rested a paper-bound book, his own, he saw: On the Value of Life Annuities as Compared with Perpetual Annuities—the book of which the Prince had spoken. It dealt with the enormous difficulty of the war taxation; a monument of learning, of research, of patriotism.
Agneta, who was gravely studying mathematics, had begged a copy from her uncle Vivien and carried it about with her. It touched John de Witt exceedingly to see it there.
Had she been reading it that she might understand his learned talk of the means by which he had saved the finances of the United Provinces?—poor child!…
He sat for a while staring at the humble little volume; hands and brains for once idle, the sunset flushing the garden about him and the tender breeze caressing his face.
When he at length slowly moved at the sound of a step on the gravel path he saw his father, Jacob de Witt, coming towards him with the careful gait of age.
The Grand Pensionary rose smilingly.
Jacob de Witt was still as erect as when he had defied the Stadtholder, William II., in 1650. A fine and sedate gentleman, with soft white hair falling under his black cap; stern, melancholy, and pale.
“Sit down, John, I wish to speak to you.”
The Grand Pensionary obeyed. The elder de Witt, despite his eighty-two years, still held important offices of state and had the manner of authority.
He seated himself beside his son.
“This must be answered,” he said. He held out a paper in his colourless hand.
“Another pamphlet”—John de Witt’s tone was mournful. “Father, they are distributed openly, under my very eyes. What may one do but scorn them?”
A silence followed. The life of John de Witt had been austere and irreproachable beyond that of any man of his time; yet his father knew that the violence of party hatred was holding him up to the contempt of his fellow-citizens under every vile aspect imaginable.
For twenty years of upright dealing, of pure patriotism, of incessant toil; for an unswerving devotion to his friends and a generous and unchanging policy of conciliation towards his enemies, he was now rewarded by the basest ingratitude from the opponents he had always respected, and with the vilest accusations from the people whom he had so nobly served.
These things were in the mind of Jacob de Witt as he looked at his son, and even the stern resignation taught by their common creed hardly sustained him against these bitter calumnies of his belovèd’s name.
John de Witt was the first to speak.
“Why should we trouble about these things?”
He took the pamphlet from his father’s hand gently, and laid it on the seat between them.
The elder de Witt’s voice trembled a little.
“This must be answered, my son—every citizen of the United Provinces is reading it—the charges are most gravely and categorically stated … the vileness of it is almost beyond credit.”
The Grand Pensionary half turned and picked the pamphlet up.
It was entitled: Advice to every Good and Faithful Hollander.
“What do they say?” he asked wearily.
“They say—” Jacob de Witt drew himself erect,—“this libel says that you have purloined money from the Treasury and sent it to a bank in Venice, where you propose to retire after the conquest of the United Provinces.… That you have betrayed your country by leaving it without defence, and that you have appropriated yearly eighty thousand florins of the Secret Service money.…”
John de Witt rested his tired eyes on the gentle trees.
“How can I answer that?” he said simply. “The mere frothings of spite.”
“You must answer it—you must disprove it!” cried his father firmly.
“Disprove that!” He half smiled.
“Ay! A villain may throw mud at a saint,” said Jacob de Witt, answering his son’s meaning of lofty contempt,—“but if it is not removed it leaves a smirch; no saint even may disregard these things. What hath the Republic come to that any should dare what this man hath dared?”
He struck the paper, and his dim eyes flashed fiercely.
The Grand Pensionary put his hand to his brow and pushed back the soft hair.
“My life hath been entirely open.… My money hath been invested entirely in the public funds—with the fortune of Holland, my fortunes fall—every one knows this. Can I stoop to defend myself against party lies?”
“Your silence will not disarm their implacable resentment—you must turn on them.”
“Ah, I have so much else to do, my father, so much.…”
The light had faded from the garden and lingered only in the tops of the trees and on the roof of the modest house. It was quite warm; the pigeons flew up through the golden air, in among the leaves of the limes, and back again to the bright grass.
“I think there will be war,” said John de Witt suddenly, and with a terrible note in his voice. “I would God would let me give my life to avert it—war, in this rich and prosperous country, war against overwhelming odds,” he stared straight before him with narrowed eyes—“war provoked by base tyranny of the French and baser tyranny of the English—what have I to do? For they hate me—how can I serve them when they hate me?”
“There are those who are faithful.” Jacob de Witt grasped his son’s hand.
“I have given Gaspard Fagel the Grand Secretaryship,” answered John de Witt in an absorbed way, “to win him to us … but on every side they fall away from me.… It is strange that I should be so hated——”
“We are in the hands of God, who for His own ends tries us.”
The younger de Witt bent his head.
“I show myself a weakling, I am tired to-night. I saw the Prince this afternoon, and it saddened me—I have been disappointed in him.”
The one-time prisoner of Loevenstein answered sternly—
“He is a worldly, ambitious, and deceitful young man—a danger to the State. Little do I doubt he is in league with Charles Stewart, as little as I doubt he is behind such attacks as these.”
He struck the paper on the seat beside him.
“I believe nor one nor the other,” answered John de Witt. “It must be that he is honourable, and I know him God-fearing.”
“He is even as his father was!”
“The Captain Generalship is his claim now—and he is well supported.”
“If he obtain it—’twill be the first step to the Stadtholdership.”
“If I have any power left, father, he will not obtain it—and if he obtain it in spite of me, he will find that the office is incompatible with the Stadtholdership.” John de Witt set his lips firmly. “I have seen to that.”
“He hath an extraordinary presumption to pretend to such an office!”
The Grand Pensionary answered slowly, almost reluctantly—
“I believe it is the wish of the Army—such is their folly.”
“They are very eager to forge their own chains,” said Jacob de Witt grimly.
“It is a strange thing—I think it is the name hath the glamour—they would take him untried.…”
John de Witt paused a moment, then went on in a low and laboured voice—
“There are so many difficulties … a domestic revolution threatened … a foreign invasion … but if they trusted me I could save them yet … from France and from themselves.”
He straightened himself and put his hand to his breast.
“If they should give this command to the Prince, if they should put into that boy’s hands all our defences … and he should.…”
“Play us false,” finished Jacob de Witt sombrely. “Well, what then?”
“What then?… Ruin!… This land, that we have made one of the greatest in the world, would be a fief of France before the year is out.”
He bent his head for a moment, then rose abruptly.
“Father, I envy Cornelius, who can work with his hands, and pay with his blood; I would I might face the enemy on the high sea, nor stay here to face the factions with weary logic.”
“Your task, being the more difficult, is the more glorious, John.”
The Grand Pensionary pressed his hand to his brow and gazed at the glimpses of fading sky to be seen between the fluttering leaves.
“It is nearly twenty years since I took up this responsibility. … They cannot say that I have served them ill, as far as my abilities went——” He roused and controlled himself. “It is not often that I talk so weakly—let us go into the house, it grows cool here, under the trees.”
Jacob de Witt rose and took his son’s arm.
They were both of a height, tall, upright; dressed alike in black with lace collars, the same in demeanour and expression, the grey locks touching the brown as they walked slowly through the twilight that was gradually falling over the garden.
The birds made a pleasant noise in the upper branches, and above the low brick wall was a vision of sunset clouds, pink, remote and peaceful, floating across the placid sky.
Agneta de Witt stepped out of the long, open windows; a slim and pale figure in the uncertain light.
She came to meet her father.
“Aunt Johanna says that you stay out too late, sir, and that it is yet over soon in the year to be abroad after the sun hath set.”
All traces of tears had vanished; she spoke with a grave air of wisdom.
Jacob de Witt smiled at her.
“Hast a letter there?”
She held it out eagerly.
“Yea, sir, from Anna.”
“From Anna!” repeated John de Witt tenderly. “What does she say?”
“That she is coming home to-morrow, sir.”
“Nay, that cuts her holiday too short.”
“She says she is resolved to come, sir.”
“And what else, dearest?”
“Oh, she says my aunt Maria took her to the fair at Dordt—and that they had a feast of pancakes, and all drank your health twice over.”
She slipped her letter into the Grand Pensionary’s hand. “There is one for you indoors,” she added.
They entered the house by the wide-open windows of the library; at that moment a servant brought in the candles, and the two men paused on the threshold of the room.
At a lacquered Chinese cabinet Maria de Witt, in a prim white dress, sat on a high chair, her feet dangling, laboriously and gravely writing with a huge quill that waved over her shoulder and tangled itself with her yellow curls.
Beside her, tiptoeing that he might see, was her little brother, who supported himself by his hands on the desk.
A child still in skirts sat on the floor near them; he was in red leading-strings fastened to a heavy arm-chair, and appeared to be engaged in working his feet out of his shoes.
Agneta pursed up her mouth.
“Maria cannot write because John spills the ink, he spoilt my letter to Uncle Cornelius this morning.”
The Grand Pensionary caught his breath and turned away quickly to the mantelshelf.
He leant there, looking down into the empty hearth.
“Father,” Maria lifted a flushed face, “how do you spell ‘trouble’?”
John de Witt glanced up and gazed at her.
“What need hast thou for that word, Maria?”
“She is very ignorant,” said her brother scornfully; “I know how to spell it,” and he struggled to wrest the pen from her.
“Thou needest not use the word trouble to thy uncle,” said Jacob de Witt.
“I write—‘There is much trouble at the Hague’; is it not true, father?”
“Yes, dearest,” he answered gently. “Agneta will tell thee how to spell it.”
“I know,” insisted the younger John.
The Grand Pensionary met his father’s glance across the room that was now filled with the pleasant candlelight, then crossed to the child on the floor and stood him up.
“Thou art almost too old for petticoats,” he smiled.
The little Jacob looked at him and smiled back brilliantly. John de Witt dropped on one knee beside him, and Agneta came and stood behind them, uneasy because her brother’s jacket was crumpled, and, to her housewifely eye, untidy.
But the boy’s father did not notice that; he smoothed the fair curls with a gentle hand.
“I think thou hast grown since I saw thee last,” he said yearningly.
With a sudden shyness the child hid his face on the Grand Pensionary’s shoulder.
John de Witt pressed him close.
There was silence in the room save for the scratching of Maria’s quill.
Jacob de Witt seated himself in his usual place by the hearth; his hands clasped in his lap. His silver-bound Bible was on the table by his side.
With dim but resolute eyes he looked on at his son and his son’s children, and in his heart he gave thanks to God for his noble offspring.
John de Witt was such an one as the pure faith might be proud of; one who had followed in the footsteps of the early members of a stern and persecuted faith; one such as Jacob de Witt would have his son, an upright and humble servant of high things.
Very far away seemed the clamour of the factions, the rumours of wars, the jealousies, the ambitions, the heat of politics; very far from this peaceful home of John de Witt.
Neither did it seem possible that hate or malice should enter here, that lies or calumny, or any ignoble passions, should strike at such goodness and such innocence.
The vilest must love John de Witt, the meanest respect him in his simple, bereaved, and united home.
His helpless children were not more spotless, more free of dishonour, than he who for twenty years had guided a great nation through a difficult and perilous way.
And how are they rewarding him? thought Jacob de Witt grimly. How are they rewarding him?
Into the gathered peace and silence came a distant, ominous sound.
The Grand Pensionary listened.
The noise grew.
He put down his little son and rose.
“What is that?”
Agneta shuddered.
“Another riot——”
“Close the window,” said John de Witt; “close the window.”
CHAPTER III
SCHEVENINGEN
The Prince drew rein at the Palace steps.
“Bromley,” he said.
The Englishman came down to his master’s stirrup.
“Is M. Fagel here?”
“Yes, Highness; he is waiting for you.”
“Ah!” William patted his horse’s neck.
“Hath he come from the Assembly?”
“Yes, Highness—Their Noble Mightinesses sat all night.”
“I trust that they have come to a wise decision,” remarked the Prince. “And, Bromley, have you discovered the whereabouts of M. Triglandt?”
“Highness, I wrote to Utrecht——”
“I wrote there,” interrupted William impatiently, “and my letter was returned, as M. Triglandt had left his lodgings.”
“Highness, I have discovered that he fell ill——”
“Ill!” exclaimed the Prince.
“—and was conveyed by relatives to Arnheim——”
“Well, you will write there and give him my commands to return to the Hague.”
William flung the reins to his groom and dismounted.
“You may add,” he continued, “that I take the first occasion to ask his return, and that any friend of mine is honoured in the Hague now.”
He smiled with his eyes and touched Mr. Bromley on the arm with his whip.
“Tell them to keep the horse, as afterwards I am promised at the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”
Then he turned slowly into the house.
M. Gaspard Fagel, a man of talents but a servile spirit, the rival of M. de Witt, and already almost completely under the influence of the Prince, waited in the library, or the chamber that served for such; the room where Van Mander had first seen the Prince, and where William always received such as waited on him.
The Prince entered, booted, spurred, carrying his riding-whip and wearing his hat.
“Ah, M. Fagel.”
He held out his bare right hand, and the Secretary of the Republic kissed it humbly.
William did not uncover, but his manner was gracious. He knew Gaspard Fagel for what he was—able, industrious, cunning, a man who would be a tool.
It was men just such as he that William needed. There were many of them among the servants of the Republic, and very few had resisted the advances of the heir of Nassau.
“I must congratulate you personally on your appointment, M. Fagel,” said the Prince, seating himself in front of the desk, between the windows.
“Your Highness is very good,” and M. Fagel bowed. He was a well-looking man, richly dressed in green and gold, of a far more pompous appearance than William, who wore a plain brown roquelaure and beaver.
“You come from the Assembly, Mynheer?”
“Yes, Highness—to report to you privately the resolution that will be made public to-day.”
“Will you not be seated, Mynheer?”
M. Fagel obeyed, and fixed his small, intelligent eyes keenly and half anxiously on the Prince.
The early morning sunshine was pale and misty in the chamber. William sat with his back to the light, his hat and heavy feather shading his face, so that the astute Secretary could very ill see his countenance.
“There has been a most fierce fight in the Assembly, Highness—M. de Witt exerted every nerve, and the whole power of the Government was brought to bear on the situation.”
“But I believe my friends were in the majority, Mynheer,” answered William.
“It was an almost equal struggle, Highness. M. de Witt spoke for two hours against your appointment; M. Jacob de Witt vehemently seconded him, M. Vivien supported them, and they found allies in the representatives of Amsterdam.”
William bent his whip across his knee; the powerful city had always been the enemy of his House.
M. Fagel wiped his brow and his lips; he had been up all night, and looked excited and fatigued.
“What was the result of this debate?” asked the Prince quietly.
The Secretary crushed his handkerchief up in his nervous right hand.
“It has been decided to offer Your Highness the Captain Generalship——”
“Without restrictions, Mynheer?”
“That was impossible—we had to come to a compromise with M. de Witt.”
The Prince’s grasp tightened on his whip.
“What compromise, Mynheer?”
M. Fagel, whose one object was to obtain the favour of the head of the Orange party, winced at the tone of this question.
“Your Highness must consider——” he began.
William cut him short.
“Tell me straightly, M. Fagel.”
The Secretary bit his lip uneasily.
“We have obtained for Your Highness, on condition that you take the oaths never to attempt the Stadtholdership——”
“M. Van Odyk told me of that precaution of M. de Witt—I have no objection, Mynheer. He who binds can loose.”
“On this condition, and provided war is declared, Their Noble Mightinesses will offer you the Captain Generalship for one campaign, with option to continue the appointment or no at their discretion.”
“For one campaign——” repeated William.
“It was all, Highness, that our utmost endeavours could obtain.” M. Fagel spoke with humility.
William rose abruptly.
“Their Noble Mightinesses may spare themselves this offer, Mynheer,” he said hotly, “for I shall refuse the post.”
“Your Highness!”
The Prince turned on him, the whip clenched in his right hand.
“Unless the appointment is made for life I shall refuse it; and I marvel, Mynheer, that you should come to me with so paltry a compromise.”
“Your Highness will not be wise to reject it—your firmness will only further anger M. de Witt, who was with difficulty brought to this concession.”
“If you permit the Assembly to make this offer it will be declined,” returned William haughtily. “You may tell my friends so—I will not be put on trial nor be satisfied with such a poor honour.”
M. Fagel saw in this a proud indiscretion of youth. The dignity that the Prince despised had been wrung from John de Witt with much labour; to refuse it, M. Fagel, a man of cautious policy, thought unwise and dangerous.
“Your Highness will think of this——”
William interrupted—
“My decision is made, M. Fagel. I shall not depart from it.”
The Secretary ventured to protest—
“The advice of your friends——”
“No one’s advice, Mynheer, would alter my resolution.”
M. Fagel was twice the Prince’s age, and an experienced statesman; but he was dominated by William utterly. John de Witt and some few others were alone in coming in contact with the Prince and escaping his powerful, masterful influence. M. Fagel, a man in every way his inferior, he almost openly despised.
“There is not a man in the United Provinces does not desire my election,” he said. “The people are with me—Their High Mightinesses had better beware. Tell the Assembly no compromise will be accepted—none.”
He was breathing fast and with difficulty; it was obvious that he was unusually angry and unusually near to losing his self-control. He coughed, and took a quick turn about the room holding his hand to his side.
“I am sorry that we have disappointed Your Highness,” said M. Fagel, already stung into regretting that he and his party had been induced into giving way to the opposition of M. de Witt.
“Go back and do better,” answered William, with a flashing glance. “Are you afraid of M. the Grand Pensionary and his supporters? I have the people—you, and John de Witt, had best remember it——”
“I did what I could to serve Your Highness.”
“What you could?—when you bring this to me!”
M. Fagel strove to justify himself. The Prince silenced him haughtily.
“Is this a moment to show timidity—when M. de Witt carries it with a firm front? If you had not given way he had been forced to—I have both General Wurtz and Prince Charles, Prince John Maurice and de Ruyter on my side.”
M. Fagel could not forget that John de Witt was still the head of the Government.
“A compromise——” he began.
His smooth voice and the word he used stung the Prince into a rare exhibition of temper. He turned violently, with dark, fierce eyes and the whip bent double in his hand.
“Be damned to your compromise!” he cried. “John de Witt and the chaffering tradesmen who support him will have the French across the Rhine before the army is under canvas. I’ll have none of your cursed ‘ifs’ or ‘buts’—’tis all—or they save themselves.”
He snatched up his glove from where he had flung it on his entry.
“That is my answer, M. Fagel,” he said passionately, “and any remonstrance on the matter I shall consider an insult.”
The Secretary bowed.
He knew what de Pomponne had discovered, that the Prince was “tolerably firm and tolerably positive, and once he hath taken his resolution to argue with him is waste breath.”
He was aware, also, that what William wished he began to obtain, and that the expression “the country is with me” was no figment of speech.
The United Provinces were behind William of Orange, and to the rising power the prudent statesman made his court.
He already had learnt something of the character of the Prince he intended to serve, already guessed at something of the imperious passion behind the contained exterior.
Now he had proof of it, and it spurred and stimulated him. He bore not the least ill-will to William for his anger. It seemed that the Prince was one of those who are served and beloved without effort on their part. M. Fagel was more eager than ever to please him; in common with many others, the chance of William’s taciturn thanks was more to him than the certainty of M. de Witt’s courteous graciousness.
“We will do our best, Highness,” he said, rising from his chair.
William gave him a not wholly pleasant glance.
“Reflect on what I have said, M. Fagel,” he answered haughtily.
With that he flung open the door and was gone.
Mr. Bromley, waiting in the doorway in case his attendance was required, fell back at once before the sight of his master’s face as the Prince swept out into the sunlight.
The groom brought up the grey horse.
“Shall I accompany Your Highness?” ventured Mr. Bromley.
“No—I am not going to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”
The Prince sprang into the saddle and caught up the reins.
Matthew Bromley, who knew him as well as any man was permitted to, saw that he was in a passionate ill-humour.
“See M. Fagel out of the house—and get out of the way, Bromley.”
The horse, mettlesome and fierce, like all the Prince’s animals, had grown restive with waiting, and tossed his head impatiently. But William held him in with an ease that betrayed a good deal of strength behind his delicate appearance.
“Stand out of the way,” he repeated, addressing Mr. Bromley and the groom.
“Is Your Highness going alone?”
The Prince thrust his whip under his arm and scowled at the speaker in a fashion that warned Mr. Bromley to be silent.
But the Englishman, disturbed at this rare passion on his master’s part, persisted—
“Where are you going, Sir; is there no message?”
William turned in the saddle to look at him.
“I have allowed you too much license,” he said violently, “but, by God! I am master among my own servants.”
Matthew Bromley stepped back and the Prince let the horse go; it sprang forward, and William disappeared through the Palace gates.
Without troubling where he went he turned towards the outskirts of the town, with the one idea of avoiding the people. He was fast becoming a popular hero, but he never loved the crowd save in the abstract. All public display of affection was distasteful to him; and to-day he was too roused and angry to risk the chance of meeting either M. de Witt or any member of the Assembly.
He had been defeated, bitterly disappointed. He was well used to taking both defeat and disappointment, but this time his passion had slipped his control. His bitter indignation against M. de Witt must find some vent … if it were only a fierce gallop out of the Hague.
He found himself on the klinker paved road, edged with a double row of straight trees. It led to Scheveningen, and with a quick memory of the sea he turned towards the coast. The hour was still early, and a frail sunshine quivered in the foliage and over the meadow-land that stretched either side the road.
Through the blue haze of the damp morning rose the tall, dark forms of windmills, with still sails poised against the delicate sky and the clean brickwork of farms, green shuttered and ornamented with lines of white; the black and white cattle, carefully covered with brown coats, were grazing in the long, rich, fresh grass; here and there a villa stood back among the trees with painted shutters open on treasures from the East—a glowing carpet, a Chinese bowl, or a gaudy Macaw chattering in an ebony ring.
The Prince slackened his pace.
Everything about him showed wealth, peace, and complete prosperity … the great dangers looming on land and sea cast no shadow here.…
Here was a country to be given to the conqueror; here was a rich and fertile kingdom for the insolent French to batten on.…
William gazed round with absorbed and resolute eyes as his horse’s hoofs rang out on the klinkers in slackened beat.
There were few people abroad, and the Prince, being unattended and attired like an ordinary gentleman, escaped notice; this fact, and the novel sense of absolute freedom, served to dispel his ill-humour.
He had been solitary of soul all his life, and so used to loneliness that he did not give it a name. But he had always been surrounded by enemies, watched, spied upon, and forced to weigh every word and every look; this sheer liberty of solitude was pleasant as it was new.
He cleared the houses and the trees and came out on to the dunes, low sand hillocks grown with scant poplar shrubs.
Avoiding the village of Scheveningen, the Prince took the winding road that led direct to the sea.
After a while the shrubs ceased and there was no growing thing—only the low, rolling billows of dry white sand pierced with withered and broken reeds. William rode slowly along the diminishing road, and cresting a sandy ridge came in sight of the immense stretch of quiet grey sea breaking in a curling line of foam on the desolate shore.
To his right, only a few yards above high-tide mark, stood a small church with a blue-and-red tiled roof.
The steps were half buried in sand, and up to the very door the gaily painted fishing-boats were drawn.
Behind and beyond were the dunes, broken only by the few houses of Scheveningen to the left.
The Prince drew a deep breath of pleasure at the pure salt air, at the quiet dunes and the misty sea, whose waves broke regularly with a strong, falling sound.
He guided his horse over the shifting sand towards the church, and as he neared it his keen glance perceived an old man seated on the edge of one of the boats mending tawny nets.
A great flight of sea-birds, graceful, chattering, a strong, flashing white in the pale sunshine, rose up as the horseman disturbed their solitude, and flew out across the waveless sea.
The fisher was roused too by the unusual sound of jingling harness.
He looked up, and seeing a gentleman riding slowly across the sand, the while he gazed thoughtfully out to sea, he dropped his net and stared. He was used to gentlefolk from the Hague—but not so early in the year as this.
The horse William rode was magnificent, of a Flemish breed, a stone grey and shining like polished granite; he wore the least possible harness, and his full, intelligent eyes were uncovered; he arched his neck and trod daintily into the sand that shifted under his hoofs.
The fisherman stared stolidly at the horse, then lifted his eyes to the rider.
He beheld a slight young man in a brown greatcoat and a rough beaver with a black feather, black velvet breeches and waistcoat, top-boots, and a plain cravat of Frisian needlework.
His face was turned towards the sea, and only his heavy auburn hair was visible under his broad-leaved hat.
The fisherman turned his attention again to the horse, as the more interesting of the two.
Then suddenly the Prince turned and looked at him.
The fisherman doffed his cap.
“Good morning, Mynheer.”
“Good morning,” answered the Prince, and swerved the horse towards the fishing-boats and the church.
“We have no wind to-day,” said the fisherman, picking up his net.
“No.” William was observing him.
He was a stout, red-faced man, clad in huge dark blue breeches, a striped turquoise coloured shirt, woollen hose, heavy wooden sabots, and a round red cap.
His throat was covered by an emerald green scarf; he held a thick pipe between his lips, and on a finger of his left hand shone a large gold ring.
He surveyed the Prince with a calm curiosity.
“We do not see many strangers at Scheveningen,” he remarked, “as early as this.”
“No,” the Prince assented. “Yet it is very pleasant here.”
“Have you come from the town, Mynheer?” He indicated the Hague by a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.
“Even so.”
“I was up there—last Sunday.”
William said nothing, but he did not look forbidding.
“There was a riot,” continued the fisherman, with a kind of reserved interest.
“There often is.”
“It was outside the Stadhuis.”
“I heard of it.”
“The people were shouting against M. de Witt.”
“It is not uncommon.”
The fisherman looked up from his net.
“Are you a soldier, Mynheer?”
“At present I am merely a private citizen; but I think I shall some day be a soldier.”
The man shifted his pipe between his teeth.
“If there is war, Mynheer?”
“Yes, if there is war.”
The fisherman nodded approvingly.
“We shall all need to be soldiers if we want to keep the French out, Mynheer.”
William delicately guided his horse a little nearer.
“I should like to go into the church.”
“Well, it is open, Mynheer.”
At this the Prince dismounted.
“Where can I secure my horse?” he asked.
“There is a house behind the church——”
“Deserted, it seems.”
“He was killed under de Ruyter, and his wife died last year”—the fisherman gave slow information. “A youngster from the Hague has it now, but you can fasten up your horse to the door-post.”
William gave grave thanks, and led the horse across the sloping sand hillocks and secured him carefully to one of the stakes comprising the broken fencing that surrounded the closed house.
When he returned the fisherman had bent over his work as if he had forgotten him.
But the Prince did not enter the church; he came and stood with one hand resting on the long fishing-boat, his eyes fixed on the sea.
The early sunlight had already faded.
A pale mist blew off the water and hurried across the land; the great expanse was bounded by the curtain of vapour and the little village blotted out of sight.
Shore and ocean were grey together, divided only by the white, breaking line of the surf murmuring on the beach.
Vague and endless the sand dunes stretched against the sky pierced with the straight clusters of reeds, dry and gaunt.
The large, white sea-birds flew out of the curling fog and settled along the wet line of shining sand the retreating foam left bare.
The fisherman turned a heavy gaze on the motionless figure of the stranger.
“You are new to the Hague?”
“No, I have lived there all my life.”
“What brings you to Scheveningen, Mynheer?”
The man spoke sullenly, almost as if he resented the intrusion.
William turned.
“I wished to see—that.”
He pointed to the quiet ocean.