The Netherlander nodded; it was a feeling he could understand.
“Also,” added William, “I was in an ill-humour and came here to be rid of it.”
“It is quiet enough.”
“Yes.”
They were both so used to the mist that they scarcely noticed it.
“Will the boats go abroad to-day?” asked the Prince.
“There is no wind.”
The net gathered in a great heap at the fisherman’s feet as his long needle flew over the meshes; he moved, and the dried seaweed crackled under his sabots.
“I saw de Ruyter’s fleet go past—when I was on my herring boat—two days ago … great ships … I thought the lanterns on the masts were stars.”
“They are under weigh to meet the India fleet,” answered the Prince.
“Ay, they say the English are waiting to drop on us—because of the herring fisheries too. Do you believe that, Mynheer?”
William seated himself on the end of the boat.
“I do,” he answered briefly.
An intent look came into the old man’s face that was cut and seamed like a walnut-shell and the colour of bronze above his vivid scarf.
“You think there will be war?”
“I do,” said William again.
“With France?”
“And England.”
The fisherman’s eyes, that were still a bright blue, narrowed to slits of light.
“De Ruyter beat the English once—I remember it—when they brought home the Royal Charles.”
“That is what they would make us pay for now.”
“M. de Witt is for peace.”
William bent his whip across his knee.
“Nevertheless I think it will be war … the French are on the frontier.”
“Curse M. de Witt!”
The Prince looked at the man sharply.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he would sell us all to the French.”
William smiled scornfully.
“I thought it was the Prince of Orange of whom they said that——”
“The Prince!—it is the Prince of Orange who will save us.”
William slightly flushed.
“You think so?” he asked softly.
“Ay, I know it, Mynheer.”
The answer was given with simple, unconscious confidence, and the Prince’s colour deepened.
“I am not the only one who thinks so either,” continued the fisherman, taking out his pipe; “it is the thought of all the Netherlands.”
“Yet you know nothing of William of Orange.”
“He has had no chance … M. de Witt’s prisoner … but now M. de Witt will go.”
William looked at the ever changing, never ending line of surf. He was now pale, even to the lips, and was so long silent that it seemed suspicious to the other.
“Perhaps you are one of the Grand Pensionary’s men,” he suggested, with an accent of dislike.
“I am no friend to John de Witt.”
The fisherman chuckled, relieved.
“I think he has not many friends left now.”
“The Assembly support him,” answered William slowly.
“And the people support the Prince … let him ask for anything we will give it him.”
William turned his brilliant eyes on the speaker.
“Why are you so devoted to His Highness?” he asked.
The fisherman reflected; he seemed puzzled.
“I know not—he is William of Orange,” he answered at last.
“You would trust him with the Captain Generalship——?”
“With everything—by God, I would! we are tired of M. de Witt.”
The Prince coughed and made no answer.
Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, the fisherman spoke again—
“He has kept the Prince out of his inheritance for twenty years.”
“’Tis so,” said William quietly.
“Well, now he is going to pay for it.”
“You think so?”
“Wait and see, Mynheer.”
William smiled.
“I have been waiting to see—for a long while.”
“Then you are for the Prince too;” the fisherman expressed a stolid satisfaction.
“I am for my country,” replied William evasively, “and that is a bigger question.… It is not the Grand Pensionary or the Prince … but our freedom or our downfall.”
“William of Orange will save us,” repeated the fisherman.
William smiled, half bitterly.
“I wonder.”
The other was roused to argument.
“That has been said to me before—it was by Heinrich Potts—‘Your Prince has never heard a shot nor been under canvas,’ he said—‘and he has no strength to live through one campaign.’”
He paused.
William looked down at him as he methodically refilled his pipe.
“Well?—the first is true—the second well may prove so.”
“I answered nothing to that—but he added—‘Your Prince is in league with his uncle—why not?—and the King of France. If we give him the power, he’ll sell us all to them.’”
“I have heard that before,” said William slowly, looking out to sea.
“Well, Mynheer, I never believed it—but Potts said, ‘Why not?’ … and I emptied his tankard in his face.… He said M. de Witt was a good man.”
“I think he is,” commented William dryly.
“But you are for the Prince?” urged the fisherman. “He will save us from M. de Witt and from the French,” he added.
There was a pause, then the old Netherlander began anew—
“They say the Prince of Tarentum pays court to him, and wants him to marry his daughter. Do you think that is true?”
“M. de Tarentum flies too high; I do not think the Prince will marry a subject.”
“I am glad of it.”
He looked up shrewdly into the young man’s face.
“You are from the Hague, you will know something of affairs——”
He paused.
“Do you know anything of the Prince?” he asked at length.
William turned his head away. “A little.”
The fisherman spread his huge brown hands on his knees.
“What do you think he will do, Mynheer?—in the matter of the war?”
“You believe in him, you say?”
“Ay, I do … to hell with M. de Witt!”
“Then, believing in him, ye know well what he will do.”
“Defy the French?”
William kept his gaze upon the sea.
“That would be madness, they say.”
“Defy them—that is what the Prince will do, I swear to ye, Mynheer!”
With that he tilted his head a little and watched the long wreaths of blue smoke disappear into the misty air.
William was silent, slightly frowning; his expression was thoughtful, as if he considered weighty matters.
The mist seemed to gather and deepen; it broke against the old church and hurried away across the sand dunes, blotting them out.
A little sound like a satisfied sigh, repeated once or twice, came from somewhere near the Prince. He looked round, and saw in the bottom of the boat against which he leaned a large and gaily dressed child, sitting up and rubbing its eyes.
Conscious in a moment of the gaze turned on it, with surprising rapidity it scrambled out of the boat and shook out voluminous skirts.
It wore a tight bodice worked with yellow and red roses, striped sleeves of blue and white, and enormous skirts of a bright green colour that stuck out as if the little person had been thrust through a half apple.
A close lace cap was drawn over its head, and from under it hung long, pale yellow curls, framing a smooth, expressionless face of rosy brown with large china-blue eyes.
The fisherman gave it a stolid nod.
William turned on it the remote but curious gaze of youth surveying infancy.
“Is it a boy?” he asked.
“My grandson, Mynheer.”
The fisherman pointed out in the back of the baby’s cap the coloured button that showed its sex.
“He has been asleep in the boat … he sleeps all day.”
The baby collapsed rather than sat down on the wreaths of dry seaweed and stared stolidly at the Prince.
A couple of screaming sea-birds started up from the mist-drenched land and flew out across the grey depths of shrouded sea.
“The wind is getting up,” remarked the fisherman. “The boats will be able to put out to-night.”
William took no notice, he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.
“Tell me what you think the Prince will do,” urged the fisherman, who was beginning to feel some awe of the stranger. “What kind of a man is he?” he added, jerking the nets across his knee.
The baby staggered to its feet, shaking a coral and silver ornament depending from its waist; it fell at once on its face, with an unchanged expression rose again and clutched at the Prince’s hand to steady itself.
“He wants to get into the boat again,” said William respectfully.
The baby blinked up at him and kept a tight grasp on his glove.
The Prince deferred to the grandfather as to what line of action was to be taken with this novelty.
“Shall I put him into the boat again?” he asked.
“Nay, Mynheer, let him be—he sleeps too much, that is why he is so fat.”
“I like him,” said William gravely. “I have never seen a child so close before.”
The fisherman was not enthusiastic; he returned to his point.
“What can you tell me of the Prince, Mynheer?”
William gave him an intent look.
“What can I tell you of the Prince of Orange?”
His gaze fastened itself once more on the line of surf, ever falling, ever renewed; his manner dropped into an absorption.
“He had an unhappy childhood,” he said—“I think so.… He was a prisoner … and he had high desires … also he was weakly, ill-health made his days a burden to him … he knew always that he could not live at the utmost to more than middle life.… Well, his life had been maimed for him before he was born … and with the loneliness and the humiliation, and the long hours of pain, he was sometimes near despair … but God supported him … I believed, always——… What was I saying?… He believed in predestination … so I think; … that God had set him apart, made him so different from other men, because He had an especial mission for him … the protection of the Church of the Reformed Religion … he believed in that always … and he hated the French and the Romish Faith … and he loved his country.”
The speaker’s voice fell very low.
“I can say this for him … that while he draws his breath—such as these,” he looked down at the little child, “shall not inherit slavery … the Netherlands shall own no second Alva.…”
The fisherman sat silent.
“That is all I know of the Prince of Orange,” added William. “As yet he hath had no chance … no chance to prove himself.”
“Ye know him very well,” said the old man after a weighty pause. “And I am sure that he is even as you say. A second Alva! King Louis would be a second Philip—but we have still a William of Orange.”
The baby had dropped to the sand again, and the Prince rose, turned, and without further word entered the humble church.
For a moment he stood at the door, looking at the whitewashed interior, the stiff wooden pews, the tablets to the memory of sailors, and the little brass models of ships that hung from the rafters; thank-offerings from those who had escaped dire perils at sea.
In his ears was the perpetual roar of the waves, and in his nostrils the salt breeze of the ocean.
After a while he returned to the boats and walked up and down thoughtfully.
“The youngsters will be coming to the farm,” remarked the fisherman. “They have a printing press there.”
“Ah, who are they?” asked the Prince sharply.
“Young men from the Hague—Orangists—they print pamphlets against M. de Witt—I know it—they composed that last, Advice to every Faithful Hollander—they talk big too—Jounker Van der Graef is one—and his father a magistrate!”
The child was crawling round the edge of the boat; it lifted a grave face to the Prince, who stooped and picked it up.
Twenty-five years or so afterwards, when a great king who had broken the power of France, freed England, and formed one of the hugest coalitions the world has known, famous as a statesman, glorious as a soldier, died in a palace very far from Scheveningen—his life-work done, a young fisherman amid the grief of Holland recalled with awe that William of Orange had once held him in his arms.…
William placed him gently in the boat, then turned rather sharply.
“What is that?” he asked.
Through the rise and fall of the surf might be distinctly heard the sound of approaching people, talking, and even laughing, as if they had lost their way in the mist.
“The Jounker Van der Graef and his companions,” said the fisherman.
“They are coming here?”
“As I said, Mynheer.”
The Prince hastened to loosen his horse and to remount, but as he leapt to the saddle several figures emerged out of the fog.
William turned the grey horse away from Scheveningen towards the undulating, obscure lines of the sand dunes.
But they had seen him.
“A stranger!” cried the foremost.
The Prince gave a glance at him over his shoulder.
“Ah!” Jacob Van der Graef caught his breath and fell back a pace.
The Prince put spurs to his horse and galloped away along the dunes; in a moment he was a mere shadowy shape against the sea fog.
Jacob Van der Graef ran down the beach to where the old fisherman sat.
“The Prince of Orange!” he cried excitedly. “What was he doing here?…”
William, riding through the grey loneliness, was thinking of these hot-head conspirators.
“They are fools,” he said. “But there are times when fools may be useful.”
CHAPTER IV
THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITT
Matthew Bromley was summoned to the great, formal audience chamber of the Palace. It was twilight, and the Prince not yet returned.
In the Palace and in the Hague a great excitement loomed and gathered. The Assembly had sat all day; fearful rumours were current as to the safety of the India fleet and the reason of de Ruyter’s silence.
Mr. Bromley carried a copy of The Gazette, as he entered the room where the two gentlemen waited for His Highness.
By the feeble candlelight that but faintly dispelled the lowering shadows he saw them; one Florent Van Mander, the other a fair and handsome gentleman, young, and very elegantly attired in a grey velvet and silver riding suit.
“Ah, Mr. Bromley, have you quite forgotten me?” The newcomer rose and held out his hand.
The Englishman was genuinely pleased.
“M. Bentinck!”
“At last!—returned from exile as you see. Where is His Highness? Abroad they tell me.”
“Abroad certainly—where, I do not know.”
M. Bentinck raised his brows.
“Does no one know?”
Mr. Bromley nodded at Van Mander.
“Sir, M. Fagel came to see His Highness this morning—and afterwards the Prince left the house in a passion.”
“Alone?” M. Bentinck looked considerably surprised.
“Alone.”
“He is no longer under any supervision?”
“None at all now, sir. M. de Witt has had to cede his authority little by little, till he has none left——”
“In all the United Provinces, I think,” smiled M. Bentinck. “Oh, Mynheer, I am tired, I have lain sick a week at Hertogenbosch.”
He seated himself in one of the heavy leather chairs, and his gay face and rich clothes made a brightness in the large and sombre chamber.
“Shall I not order dinner for you?” asked Mr. Bromley.
“No—I thank you, we dined on the road.”
Florent retained his seat by the window, composed and grave, pulling at his hat and feather that he held across his knee; his taciturnity seemed to absolve the others from the unusual in leaving him out of their conversation.
“How goes His Highness’ affair in the Assembly?” asked M. Bentinck.
“It was concerning that M. Fagel came this morning——”
“M. Fagel has turned courtier?”
“As have some others—yes!”
M. Bentinck leant back in his chair. His attractive face was thoughtful; he fingered the ribbon on his velvet cuff.
“We received garbled reports in Brandenburg—what do you think, Mr. Bromley, of the chances of war?”
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.
“De Pomponne hath been withdrawn and no other sent—in spite of M. de Witt’s representations. No concession will pacify King Louis——”
“He cannot forgive the Triple Alliance.”
“No—and some other things—the medal and Van Beuningen’s embassy.”
M. Bentinck lifted his blue eyes—
“And the English?”
Matthew Bromley laughed.
“Well, they say the English are as insolent as the French. Temple was recalled and Sir George Downing sent—to provoke a war, I truly think. You heard of the Treaty of Dover?—well, King Charles protests love to His Highness always, but hates the States.… I am not a soldier nor a diplomat … if war is declared I shall go home.”
“Leave the Prince’s service?”
“I am English,” said Matthew Bromley lightly. He went to the mantelshelf and snuffed the candles.
M. Bentinck frowned.
“The English people—the English Parliament are not friendly to the French.”
Mr. Bromley agreed heartily.
“It is solely Charles Stewart.” Then he laughed again.
“Did you hear of the Merlin?”
“Sir William’s yacht, was it not?”
“Yes; taking Lady Temple home the yacht passed through your fleet and demanded the salute—fired on your flag—captain told to, of course; is in the Tower now for not doing more—what does that look like but war?”
“The pretexts are utterly wanton and frivolous,” remarked M. Bentinck.
“M. de Witt hath ceded the salute of the flag.”
The young Dutch noble flushed swiftly.
“Doth he still hope to obtain peace?”
Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders.
“Downing made some impossible demands—he is a ruffler sent to cause friction, of course. I should say his secret orders were to provoke a war by any means.”
He paused, then added with meaning—
“But both the Kings protest friendship to His Highness—his uncle saith one of his grievances against the Republic is that the Prince hath been kept so long out of his offices.”
M. Bentinck rose.
“You think His Highness and his friends are safe enough,” he said quietly.
“Yes—but I would not give much for the safety of M. de Witt.”
As he spoke the door was flung wide and the Prince entered with an unusual impetuosity.
Van Mander, unnoticed by all, rose to his feet in the shadows of the window.
“Bentinck!” exclaimed William; he dashed his hat down on a chair inside the door. “Bentinck!”
“Your Highness!”
The young man sank to one knee and kissed the Prince’s hands.
William raised him.
“You are well?—you have recovered?” he asked eagerly.
“Completely—to see the Hague and you again, Highness, would have cured me had I been far sicker.”
William gazed intently into the fair, ardent face.
“You must come upstairs with me—how dark and cold it is here——”
He looked round and saw Matthew Bromley standing by the mantelshelf.
At once he crossed over to him.
“Bromley, I spoke violently to you this morning,” he said, “and I am sorry—will you forgive me?”
It was William’s habit to make instant reparation for his rare outbursts of passion, but Mr. Bromley had not expected he would ask pardon of his own gentleman.
“M. Fagel vexed me,” continued the Prince. “I had no fault to find with you.”
Mr. Bromley coloured and stood in a foolish confusion.
William offered his hand with the graceful courtesy he knew so well how to use.
Mr. Bromley flushed more deeply with gratification and pleasure.
“It was nothing—Your Highness,” he protested, and the Prince had secured a lifelong devotion.
It did not occur to Mr. Bromley to call his master’s graciousness policy, the obvious sincerity of William’s rare advances was what gave them their value.
He was above any arts, making no efforts to gain supporters. There were already men who would have died for his praise and performed heroic feats to avoid his blame.
He smiled at Mr. Bromley and caught M. Bentinck by the arm.
“Highness, I return in the midst of great events.”
William turned the smile on him and drew him from the room.
M. Bentinck adored the Prince, not more so than many, not more so perhaps than Florent Van Mander, standing unnoticed, unthought of, but William had chosen to bestow on him his friendship.
William Bentinck was intelligent; he had always been blindly loyal to the House of Nassau. He was of a rare good looks and attractiveness, and had been the Prince’s page when they were children. William admitted him to his closest confidence, and was more open with him than with any; none knowing better, however, than William Bentinck, that in any serious matter he had not the slightest influence with his master.
The Prince would do anything to please him in trivial affairs; but he was his own counsellor, those associated with him were no more than the lieutenants of his will.
Without words this was understood between them. Bentinck offered neither advice nor criticism.
His first words when they were alone were characteristic—
“What are you going to do, Highness? In what way can I help you?” he asked eagerly.
William looked at him as if the sight of his glowing handsomeness was a pleasure.
The smile was still on his lips; it seemed as if he would not be drawn into serious questions. His attitude was rather like that of a man to a woman whom he loves but must always with a half laugh condescend to when it concerns the discussion of large issues.
“Tell me of your journey—and sickness,” he said. “You have changed very little,” he added, with a deepening of his smile.
“And you have changed a great deal,” replied Bentinck, gazing at him eagerly.
“Do you think so?”
They had reached the quiet library; the Prince sat beside his friend on an oak settle that stood against the wall.
The room was golden from end to end with the light of candles and a silver lamp placed on the desk, where it cast a strong glow over a bowl of orange and purple tulips. The curtains were not drawn, and each of the long windows framed a picture of blue twilight, trees, and sky.
“What of M. de Witt?” asked Bentinck. “It seems to me he cannot long keep the power—every village I rode through seethed with discontent.”
“Tell me of yourself, my lord,” urged William affectionately. “I have been without friends so long.”
“Of myself! You jest, Highness—I, an exile, newly returned to the theatre of great events!”
William sighed.
“There is very little to tell you … there will be war, of course.”
“And the Captain Generalship?”
“M. Fagel was here this morning to offer it to me—for one campaign.”
“And you?”
William smiled anew into the young man’s comely, ardent face; now with a half mournful air.
“I refused.”
“Unconditionally?”
“Yes.”
“My faith!” cried M. Bentinck, “that was a bold move, Highness.”
“I think it will prove a successful one.”
William spoke as if he explained himself from a pure effort of friendship, and would have preferred to talk of other things.
“M. de Witt was at the back of that.”
“Of course.”
“Who are his men?”
“Prince John Maurice, Prince Charles, Major-General Wurtz—and M. de Montbas.”
“None of them his friends—save the last.”
“No. I have their promise not to accept the post, if it be offered them—the promise of the first three, I mean.”
“And Prince Charles’ daughter?”
William looked at him keenly.
“Who told you that?”
“The Elector spoke to me of it—said Prince Charles would be pleased to make an alliance on those terms.”
“They are too high,” answered the Prince. “Think no more of it—I have refused.”
“And the French match?”
William unexpectedly coloured.
“King Louis wished a French Princess to seal his friendship—did he not?” continued M. Bentinck.
The Prince rose, coughing a little, and crossed to the hearth.
“The French Ambassador at Berlin told me so much——”
William answered sternly—
“No doubt my cousin Louis thought it a great honour.… I told M. de Pomponne that my House was used to contract alliances with royalty—I do not wish to quarter the bend sinister with my coat.”
“King Louis will never forgive that.”
“He protests he is my very good friend … he thinks he may have use for me.… This war, if it please you, is largely on my behalf … to punish the ingratitude of the Republic.”
William walked up and down the hearth. He still wore his roquelaure, and clasped his hands behind him under the full skirts.
“Whatever he may say he will never forgive that,” repeated M. Bentinck.
“It is I who will never forgive,” said William, “that he should so have mistaken how I rate myself.”
“Well, and there will be war?” flashed the other, leaning forward.
“This spring, I think.… The pretexts are utterly wanton—you heard of the Merlin incident?”
“Some account, yes.”
“And my uncle Charles has sent one Downing over, an insupportable swashbuckler. Temple was a good fellow, and friendly, therefore he was removed.”
“It will be England too, you think?”
“Yes; but I have hopes of my uncle Charles.”
Then William turned to face his companion.
“Did you hear of their complaints?” he asked in an amused tone. “My uncle protests that the Royal Charles, decked with English flags, was shown for a penny a head to gaping boors, thereupon M. de Witt sends the flags back and withdraws the ship——”
“A poor-spirited move!” cried M. Bentinck.
“As if my uncle was a man to care for his country’s prestige! Then it was His Christian Majesty—he complains that Van Beuningen after his return from the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle was presented with a medal making mock of His Majesty.”
William, never devoid of humour, laughed outright, showing his white teeth in genuine amusement.
“The noble city of Amsterdam was accused of this—‘Nec pluribus impar’ is His Majesty’s motto, and they had a presentment of King Sun with his rays clipped, and this inscription, ‘In conspectu meo stelit sol.’ There were other offences too; pamphlets printed at the Hague insulting the omnipotent. Poor M. de Witt and Van Beuningen have been rushing to and fro trying to appease the offended deity.”
He added in a graver tone—
“But of course Louvois is behind it—he is jealous of our commerce.”
“M. de Witt, I take it, still hopes for peace?”
“Even M. de Witt,” answered William, “will not be able to indulge that hope much longer, I think.”
He rested his elbow against the mantelshelf and took his face in his hand; the candlelight fell softly on his thick bright hair and sparkled in the green ring on his little finger.
M. Bentinck sat silent, gazing at his master. He could not quite understand the Prince’s attitude.
He had never considered William as one with the United Provinces, but rather as their enemy.
What, therefore, would be his attitude in the forthcoming war?
It was against the Republic the furies of France were directed, not against William of Orange.
In the invasion of his country he might find his own advantage. He was in no way bound to the service of a State that had never placed any confidence in him but had treated him as a prisoner all his life.
His obvious policy lay in a compact with France, but so far he appeared to have rejected such overtures as had been made to him.
“I cannot see clearly how you stand, Highness,” said M. Bentinck at last, puzzled.
“No?” In no man’s company did the Prince smile so much. “My attitude is rather difficult to define, is it not, my child?”
William was three or four years younger than M. Bentinck, and half a head shorter, but the expression did not sound foolish on his lips.
“How will war help you?” asked M. Bentinck thoughtfully.
The Prince did not seem inclined to answer this.
“I have had a whole day of idleness,” he said. “For the first time since—I cannot remember when—I went to Scheveningen—idle but not useless. I encountered an old man there—and a child—his confidence!”
William turned towards the settee.
“They all look to me to save them—does not that seem curious—after all M. de Witt has done?”
M. Bentinck caressed the fine lace at his wrist.
“It is certainly strange M. de Witt should be so disliked,” he answered.
“It is his peace policy. Confess, is it not stranger that I should be beloved?”
M. Bentinck smiled.
“I cannot think so, Highness.”
“They know nothing of me—they give me the credit of my name.”
The Prince turned to the window now and looked out on to the darkening prospect of trees and sky.
“M. de Witt hath opposed me most bitterly in the Assembly,” he said. “I think he called me some hard names—an inexperienced boy. Ah! what I have taken from that man, William. M. Jacob de Witt does not forget Loevenstein—nor do I——”
He coughed and abruptly changed the subject.
“Do you remember what they did to the children when Alva had rule here, William?… I saw a child to-day, on the sands … do you think the French would be more merciful than the Spanish?—their Romish faith!… King Louis hopes to celebrate Mass at the Hague.…”
“If the peace negotiations fail what could one do?” asked M. Bentinck. “We have de Ruyter, but there is no captain to hold the French back on the land.”
“One might arise,” answered the Prince.
“You think——?”
William cut him short.
“We talk too weightily. I have had no dinner, you must dine again to keep me company. How are my uncle the Elector and my cousin Charlotte?”
M. Bentinck rose.
“It could be a match there, if you wished, Highness. You see there are many courting your alliance.”
“I am already adept in the art of saying ‘no,’” answered the Prince.
“It would please the Elector and the Princess Dowager—I do not think the lady herself would be averse——”
William frowned.
“It is not even to be considered—my fortunes are too unsettled for me to think of a wife. Ah, here is Bromley.”
He turned quickly at his gentleman’s entrance.
“A message from the Assembly, Bromley?”
“Yes, Highness.”
The Prince took the letter that was offered him and flashed a look at M. Bentinck.
“M. Fagel come to his senses, I believe,” he said, and tore the seal.
Mr. Bromley explained.
“The Assembly has just risen, Highness; the messenger came here at once he said—from M. Zuylestein.”
A swift colour had come into the Prince’s thin cheeks.
“Yes, it is from M. Zuylestein.”
He glanced over the letter, then handed it to M. Bentinck.
“Read it, William; it is as I thought it must be.”
M. Bentinck cast his eyes over the writing; the ink of it barely dry, the sweeps of the quill blotted in the writer’s haste.
“The Binnenhof, Feb. 20, 1672
“Your Highness,—We have news from de Ruyter that the India fleet was attacked by the English, but by God his grace saved—war is inevitable. Their Noble Mightinesses have appointed you Captain General of the land and sea forces for life. Accept my humble congratulations on this success. I write in haste. Your servant,
“Frederick of Nassau.”
“Then it is done!” cried M. Bentinck. “Highness, I am beyond measure pleased—this is the more a triumph that it hath not been undisputed——”
“It is the attempt on the India fleet hath decided them,” returned the Prince. “Only this morning they offered a compromise——”
Then he looked straightly and keenly at Mr. Bromley.
“Your King has attacked M. de Ruyter,” he said. “England will declare war on the United Provinces … perhaps you would wish to leave my service?”
Matthew Bromley laughed and coloured in a half confusion.
“’Tis a long while since I was home, sir.”
“But you are English.”
“I am not a Romanist, sir.”
“Still an Anglican,” said the Prince, as if he considered the one creed almost as offensive as the other, but his eyes were kindly.
Mr. Bromley bowed.
“I serve Your Highness, not the United Provinces,” he said, with the air of one who has cut a Gordian knot.
William folded up his uncle’s letter.
“The United Provinces have made me Captain General, Bromley—I am in their service now.”
“I will stay if Your Highness will have me,” was the Englishman’s answer. He smiled a little humorously. “England is probably in the wrong,” he said; his thought was that William was right—right for ever in Mr. Bromley’s eyes after those words to him that evening.
The Prince smiled.
“I am glad to keep you.”
“May I give Your Highness my congratulations and good wishes?”
“Thank you, Bromley.”
The Englishman withdrew.
“This is something to have wrung from M. de Witt,” cried M. Bentinck excitedly. “’Tis a violation of the terms of the Act of Harmony.”
“He would have been wiser to have given it,” said William slowly. “I begged him to—I was certain of it from the first.”
With a little cough he moved to the mantelshelf again. He seemed in no way elated or moved, weary rather. He fell again into the reserved silence M. Bentinck’s home-coming had dispelled, and looked in an absorbed and thoughtful manner on the ground.
His friend could not quite understand. A thousand ardours clutched at his heart that he could not express; he saw in the Captain Generalship a step to the Stadtholdership—but what of the war?
“War is inevitable, M. de Zuylestein says——”
“It has been so ever since M. de Pomponne was recalled—De Courtin’s nomination was a mere farce—M. de Witt would never see it,” answered the Prince.
“You speak of France?”
“Meaning England also—what hath she become but King Louis’ tool?” He put his hand to his brow. “Come to dinner, William, and speak of other things.”