He returned to the table and spoke to Bentinck—
“I have heard from Sir Gabriel.”
“Favourable news, Sir?”
“King Louis is resolved to ruin the States, but is wholly friendly to me. M. de Louvois said the English asked too much, and were not in a condition to put forward such terms as his master—so they quarrel already over the plunder.” He coughed, and seated himself at the table. “I have other news,” he said in the same even tones, laying his letters down. “Nymwegen has fallen.”
“Sir!”
“Yesterday,” continued William.
“We have come to a bitter pass!”
“M. Fagel writes there is fierce dissension at the Hague.… We will see what these English have to say.”
“They are in the camp now!”
“Count Struym conducts them here,” answered William.
He took off his mantle and leant back in his chair. He looked ill, and coughed continually.
M. Bentinck regarded him curiously. He rather wondered what the Prince was going to say to these English.
The situation was so desperate that any terms offered were almost bound to be accepted, but William Bentinck could not think of the Prince as submitting to either England or France.
Suddenly William broke out—
“Did you hear the terms M. de Groot obtained? Outrageous insolence! Does he think we will be content to be slaves? But they brought it on themselves by sending a crawling embassy of submission.”
“Do you imagine the English will be more reasonable, Highness?”
“I think they come to confirm their alliance with France—not to obtain justice for us.”
“Will you see them alone, Highness?”
“No—you remain, William.”
The Prince spoke in a gasping way, and held his hand to his side.
The room was full of hot air from the camp-fires, and the smell of the cooking. William rose and closed the window again, and as he was returning to his chair the English envoys entered, preceded by Count Struym.
There was a second’s pause of curiosity on either side.
William saw two splendidly dressed gentlemen, who carried themselves with an air of pride and grandeur, both tall, handsome, and decked out in the extreme of fashion.
Their persons he remembered perfectly well. The Earl of Arlington, quiet in manner, of a placid countenance, dark ringlets and moustaches, his carriage fine, but rather stout; richly habited now in black velvet and gold brocade, scarlet feathers in his hat, and wearing a collar of jewels. My lord Buckingham, once “the most beautiful person that ever graced a European Court,” but now over florid and heavy, his face suffused and lined, but still with the manner of his youth, and gorgeously attired in white cut velvet, his blonde hair elaborately curled, his blue mantle starred with silver, every detail of his attire sumptuous and costly.
On their part the Englishmen beheld a slight youth of the middle height, with a thin face, an arched nose, curved lips set disdainfully, and deep and powerful eyes, wearing plain armour and top-boots, leather gloves, and a linen cravat.
The envoys swept off their hats and bowed very low; then Buckingham held his beaver against his breast and looked at his companion over the curling feathers.
“I must receive you very simply, my lords,” said the Prince in English, as Count Struym withdrew. “I think that we have chairs—though little else.”
“I am sorry,” answered my lord Arlington, “to meet Your Highness again in this pass.”
“And I,” said the Duke, seating himself grandly, “am pleased to see Your Highness again under any circumstances.”
William gave him a quick look, then addressed himself to the Earl—
“This is my lord Bentinck—he is entirely in my confidence.”
The two noblemen bowed. M. Bentinck knew some English, but did not trust himself to speak it.
The Prince seated himself. He still wore his hat, that shaded his pale face and heavy brown hair.
The Duke, filling the room with perfume, splendour, and dazzlement, sat erect, his right hand on his gold cane, the hazy sunlight winking in his jewels.
William glanced keenly from one to the other.
“My lord Halifax?” he questioned.
“Is following, Your Highness—he was too late to accompany us.”
Of the three it was Lord Halifax whom William preferred.
“Your Highness,” continued Arlington, “we have to put before you the terms of the King, our master.”
“And I, my lord, have some reproaches to make on the manner in which His Majesty has forsaken the Triple Alliance.”
“It is to satisfy Your Highness on that matter that we are now here——”
The Duke interrupted—
“Shall we to business?”
“If you please, my lord,” answered William, not looking at him.
“Your Highness is not too fatigued?” asked Buckingham, who would sooner have gone to his supper first.
“An it please you I will hear you now,” replied the Prince.
The Earl was drawing off his gloves.
“You must not confuse the King’s action against the States with his feelings towards yourself, Highness,” he said.
“Yet I must exclaim against my uncle for this war.”
“Sir, I assure you he would never have undertaken it had he not seen your account very clear.”
The young General lowered his eyes.
“In the war, my lord?”
“Yes; it was always His Majesty’s intention to avenge the ill-treatment of Your Highness by the States,” replied Arlington. “And this war may be much to your advantage.”
William looked up.
“My lord, I cannot discuss the matter from that standpoint.… I speak as the General of the forces of the United Provinces.”
Buckingham smiled.
“It is an army almost non-existent, Your Highness,” he said.
The Prince slightly flushed.
“My lord, I do not admit that—I am expecting help from Brandenburg and Spain.”
“I trust that they will not be needed, Highness,” replied Arlington. “Peace, we hope, will render them unnecessary.”
“I do hope, my lord, an honourable peace may be come by, but the terms the King of France offers are not to be considered——”
“Yet those in desperate straits can scarce be choosers,” answered Buckingham.
“We have not come to desperation, my lord; the Emperor alone is sending me fifteen thousand men.”
The Duke shrugged his shoulders.
“Your Highness has heard of the fall of Nymwegen?”
“Yes, my lord,” answered William composedly, “but we have not the losses of the campaign under discussion—but the exorbitance of the demands of France.”
“The second is the result of the first, Highness—the King of France is in a position to make these demands.”
“And we,” returned the Prince, “are in a condition to refuse them.”
“Your Highness speaks confidently.”
“I would not have my words bolder than my actions—I am prepared to stand by what I say.”
Buckingham answered—
“Sir, what terms do you object to?”
William fixed his eyes on him.
“My lord, to all of them.… M. de Groot offered the King of France Maestricht and the towns on the border, such as Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom, and Hertogenbosch—and in this I think he exceeded his commission.”
“His Majesty rejected these terms haughtily,” commented Arlington.
The Prince glanced at him gravely.
“The King of France’s demands are these—that the frontiers of the Republic be withdrawn to the river Leek, leaving in his hands Guelders, Overyssel, Utrecht and Brabant, Delfzyl and its dependencies, which are, my lords, the keys of Groningen; the free exercise of the Romish faith in the States; the revocation of all edicts detrimental to French commerce; the rights of our East India Company waived in favour of his; a tribute of 12,000,000 florins; and lastly, sir, to complete the humiliation of the States he demands that a formal embassy be sent every year to do homage to him and thank him for having left us so much.”
“Well,” answered Buckingham, “the terms of a conqueror, Your Highness—and what avails it to complain when there is no alternative?”
Arlington replied more gently—
“We will endeavour, Sir, to soften these terms.”
William looked from one to another.
“I think these terms are of M. de Louvois’ suggestion—they will prove the worst piece of policy he ever set his hand to. If he had taken M. de Groot’s terms he had had a great advantage; but now he will obtain nothing.”
The two envoys exchanged a glance.
“Sir,” said the Earl, “you confuse yourself with the States—this does not ruin you.”
William coughed and drew a painful breath.
“What does my uncle desire of the States?” he asked quietly.
“I have the heads of His Majesty’s demands in my mind, Highness,” answered Arlington. “Firstly, the right of the flag, and a yearly rent for the herring fisheries, £100,000 a year or less; secondly, the expenses of the war, fixed at £500,000, to be paid in next October; thirdly, three or four towns as hostages—Flushing, Sluys, the Brill, or such.”
“The States will never agree to those terms, nor could I in conscience advise them to,” answered William firmly.
Arlington was suave.
“They might be moderated——”
Buckingham interrupted—
“Why, by God?… Is France to get all and England nothing?”
The Prince bit his lip with the effort to keep back a violent answer.
“My lords,” he said in a low voice, “I have no power to treat with you save as General of the States, and with the object to detach you from the French alliance. I do not think it would be to the advantage of England to see the Republic in the hands of France, and it is my aim to separate you from your ally.”
Again the envoys looked at each other. Both trained in small dissimulation, neither great enough statesmen to know that candour is often more effective than deception, they regarded this statement as boyish simplicity. It emboldened Arlington to bring out his trump card.
“To return to the terms of France——”
“Sir,” interrupted the Prince, “talk no more of them—we would sooner die a thousand deaths than submit to them.”
“I will take it upon me,” answered the Earl, “to moderate them—so that we find our account in the adjustment; but we must have the cautionary towns.”
“I am confident the States—will never give them,” returned William.
Buckingham rose suddenly and came to the table.
“There is somewhat else to add,” he said, with his air of good-humoured insolence. “You will not lose by this——”
Arlington took it up—
“This in confidence between us: so you cede these terms His Majesty will make you greater than any of your House have been.”
“Is that in your instructions?” asked William quietly.
“It is a point His Majesty made with the King of France,” answered Arlington eagerly. “If you make this peace, not only will the war be removed from your country, but you will be made Sovereign of it, and both the Kings will secure you, at home and abroad. For their Majesties agree to make this a condition of peace with the States, that they take you for King over such of the Low Countries as be left after we have had our partage.”
William kept his eyes lowered, and leant a little sideways over the arm of the chair.
“Ye were to make this proposal to me?” he asked.
My lord Buckingham put the matter more bluntly.
“We are to offer you the hereditary sovereignty of the United Provinces, Sir, if you will give up to the King of England the towns he demands from the States, forbear to contest the conquests of the French, and place in King Louis’ hands those remaining towns he has not yet taken.”
For the first time since the interview William looked at Bentinck, who stood motionless by the window.
“Sir,” said my lord Arlington, “do you hesitate?—you will be a sovereign Prince.”
“I like better,” replied William, “the condition I am in of Captain General of the United Provinces.”
“It is to your interest,” said Buckingham strongly, “to take this offer.”
William gave him a proud look.
“Maybe, sir,” he replied; “but I believe myself in honour, and in conscience, bound not to prefer my interest before my obligation.”
My lord laughed, half wearily.
“Honour and conscience!” he repeated; “it is strange diplomacy that quotes them.”
“They are things,” answered the Prince, “that I have some regard for——”
My lord Arlington interposed—
“I think you are ambitious. This offer may well rouse your hopes of glory—Louis’ ranks offer many chances—you will be protected by the two most powerful kings in the world.”
William put his hand to his forehead.
“Did you come to bait me with these prospects, my lords, or to treat for an honourable peace?”
“This is a peace wholly advantageous——”
“To me, my lord; not to the States.”
Buckingham was contemptuous.
“The States! do they any longer exist?—a handful of traders—always opposed to Your Highness.”
“I must not remember that now, sir, for I am entrusted with their sole defences.”
“Why, the better for you—since you have your revenge put into your hand.”
The Prince narrowed his eyes on him.
“I am Dutch, my lord.”
Buckingham accepted the rebuke with a shrug.
“You are King Louis’ cousin, Highness, and King Charles’ nephew.”
“But I am neither Stewart nor Bourbon, my lord, but of my father’s House.”
The envoys were silent a while. They had bartered away their own honour so long ago that they had forgotten they had ever had any. They were clever at overcoming scruples, but a firm attitude of cold honesty bewildered them both; it roused, too, my lord Buckingham’s sneers. He let his glance run with a galling look of mockery over the young man who presumed to have a conscience.
“If you refuse these offers what other course have you open to you?” he asked. “In whom will you trust?”
William looked at him straightly—
“In God.”
“God!” echoed my lord, with a jesting accent of sarcasm.
The Prince flushed.
“He is not dead because ye have forgotten Him at Whitehall, my lord.”
“I perceive that Your Highness is a fanatic,” sneered Buckingham.
“I am a Calvinist,” returned the Prince; “and I take such comfort in my faith that no mocks can touch me.”
The Duke smiled at Arlington.
“What have we here?” he asked. “This would sound like Tom o’ Bedlam in London. If Your Highness is to talk like a country parson, I am silenced.”
The Earl spoke—
“I must entreat Your Highness to consult your advisers on what we have said—this matter may not be decided easily.”
William rose and held on to the back of his chair.
“It may be decided in a breath, my lord.” He addressed himself to Arlington, and had his back half turned to the Duke. “But the terms of peace—I will appeal to you to consider those. In the name of wisdom, of generosity, of policy, my lord, offer us terms we can with honour accept.”
Arlington rose.
“Sir, if you prove not tractable in this matter we must go to the French, and I have small hopes of concessions from them.”
“I beseech you to try your best, my lord.”
“I shall always be mindful of Your Highness’ interests.”
“If Your Highness is mindful of them yourself,” added Buckingham.
William took no heed of him.
“My lord,” he continued to Arlington, “I should wish you to see some of the States; M. Beuningen is with me—we will approach this matter after supper.”
“Highness,” answered the Earl, “I would warn you—at the present juncture—to make no mention to the States of the offer of the sovereignty of the Provinces.”
“I will make no promise,” said William, who, being jealous of his word, was always loath to bind himself. “I must say what I think fit, my lord.”
“It is for your own good we give the caution,” advised Buckingham arrogantly.
Again the Prince ignored him.
“Count Struym has found accommodation for you, my lord,” he told Arlington. “I will see you at supper.… It were better, perhaps, we considered privately before we said anything further in this matter.”
The English deputies departed, leaving the Prince very pale, very composed, standing by his chair in the modest room, and William Bentinck silent against the window-frame.
“Here’s a proud piece,” said Buckingham, as he flaunted out into the twilight. “Here’s a to do over a few miles of marsh!”
He was, in truth, deeply mortified by the Prince’s cold reception.
“Wait until he has seen his advisers—he will subscribe to our proposals yet,” answered Arlington, himself disappointed. “What prince of one-and-twenty ever preferred his country to his interests?—besides——”
“Besides he hath no alternative,” added Buckingham, “and must know it. This is but playing with us to enhance his own value. Wait till to-night, my lord, you will see me prove myself a pretty politician.”
CHAPTER III
THE ANSWER
William Bentinck, carrying a candle, went up the narrow, polished stairs to the Prince’s apartment.
It was between four and five of the morning, within the house still quite dark and silent at last.
The conference with the English commissioners had been opened again after supper and continued till long past midnight.
M. Van Beuningen had talked on the folly of the Anglo-French Alliance, adorning his speech with scriptural quotations, illustrations drawn from his vast learning, and a copiousness of logic, until Arlington had grown restive and Buckingham blasphemous.
But his arguments were not without effect. The Duke, who had drunk heavily, swore at last he was in the right, and had almost offered to sign a treaty with the States when my lord Arlington, who was a moderate man at table, restrained him.
M. Beverningh, who had taken at least enough wine for volubility, declaimed loudly against the injustice of the demands made by Charles and Louis. Buckingham became noisy, offending the Prince with his swearing and profanity, and refused to abate his terms, repeating that France should not have everything and England nothing.
Arlington, grave, good-natured, but weak and unscrupulous, was more reasonable. He promised, though not very confidently, to endeavour to moderate Louis’ preposterous demands; he insisted, however, on the cautionary towns, as he termed them, for Charles.
On this point the Dutch deputies were firm: they would not place an inch of their territory in the hands of France or England, beyond the border towns, such as Maestricht, with which William had already asked the Allies to content themselves.
Buckingham, speaking violently, argued that it was absurd to offer a king a few towns in exchange for three provinces he had already conquered, and three more that he was prepared to conquer; and hinted that the Dutch were in no condition to argue about terms at all, but must take thankfully what was given them—and this in face of it that a while before he had been offering to sign an alliance with them.
So, veering and unstable, he embarrassed the discussion with constant changes of opinion and capricious arguments based upon neither justice nor reason.
For his part, the Prince appealed to England’s ancient friendship, to the principles of the Triple Alliance, to his uncle’s protestations, to the unwisdom of allowing the French to upset the balance of power in Europe, and to the one religion common to England and the United Provinces, threatened by the encroachments of Louis.
But this policy was too far-seeing, too slow, and too lofty to appeal to men eager for immediate gain and applause, indifferent to their country’s ultimate good, only vaguely concerned even for her present glory, and absorbed purely in their own selfish interests, that lay entirely with France.
Arranging for another private interview with the Prince in the morning, the commissioners and the deputies separated. After hours of talk, nothing had been conceded one side or the other, the English refusing to abate their terms and the Dutch resolved not to accept them.
William Bentinck, who had listened eagerly, but said very little, had decided privately that the Prince could and must do no other than come separately to terms with the envoys, on the basis of a secret arrangement such as they had themselves offered and urged.
Excited, and unable to sleep on the hard settle that was his only bed (since an English gentleman had his room), Bentinck determined to consult with the Prince. William had desired to be roused early, to allow himself time before his final interview with the English commissioners.
But Bentinck discovered that he had not been to bed at all, but was sitting fully dressed by the open window.
“Ah, you,” he said affectionately. “I am glad to see you.”
M. Bentinck placed the candle beside the one already on the mantelshelf.
“And I am sorry you have not been asleep, Sir.”
“Have you?” smiled the Prince.
“No—but it was not my fault.”
“Whose then?”
“The hardness and narrowness of the settle, Highness, which was as unyielding as the English demands.”
The Prince rose.
“You had been welcome to mine. Bentinck, I could not sleep to-night.”
“The arguments of M. Buckingham and M. Beuningen buzz too much in your ears?”
“M. Beuningen is an immoderate talker,” answered William. “I think he spoke too long to-night.”
“M. Buckingham thought so too.”
“Oh, he!” said the Prince impatiently; “half the time he was not sober.”
“None the easier to deal with for that.”
“M. Beverningh, also,” added William, with an air of disgust, “hath the vice of drinking too much.”
M. Bentinck smiled.
“It makes him eloquent.”
The Prince stood at the window in a weary attitude.
“What hour is it?”
“Not yet five, Highness.”
William spoke abruptly.
“Bentinck—they are going to repeat their offer to me.”
His friend looked at him.
“I think so, Highness.”
“They advised me to consult some one that I had trust in.”
“You have spoken to M. Beuningen? My faith!” exclaimed M. Bentinck, “there is little to consult about.”
For a moment William was silent; then he said, looking out of the window—
“M. Fagel writes to me that I alone keep the people from despair.… My name, Bentinck.”
“They begin to repent their ingratitude, Highness.”
“The country is without a head since the illness of M. de Witt … if they should turn to me——”
“I think they may——”
“—and offer me the Stadtholdership——”
“Now that it is worthless.”
“Not worthless,” said William.
“At least not what the French and English can offer you.”
The Prince gave him a strange, almost a wistful, glance.
“Oh, this is a little age,” he said wearily. “Of such little men … I … but, no.…”
He turned his gaze over his camp, spread beneath the gold and silver dawn.
“Perhaps some men could have done better,” he said. “I would I could have served one campaign under Condé before I had to serve against him … yet against all odds something may be accomplished.”
M. Bentinck stared at him.
“You do not seriously think of resistance, Highness?”
“Would you consider it madness?” asked William.
“The most utter madness!”
M. Bentinck was vehement.
“The country is lost—half conquered, wholly despaired of. Nothing will soften King Louis’ demands—you must see it.”
William turned towards the room and seated himself in the chintz-cushioned chair by the yellow-glazed hearth.
“And if I pitted myself against Louis?” he queried.
“It would be——”
“As if a child should set itself to stem a river with its unaided hands?” finished William grimly.
M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders—
“It would be an impossibility—there is no one in Europe to stand against Louis——”
“One might arise.”
“England is his ally—the Empire afraid—the rest of Europe overawed——”
“One might rouse them.”
“It would be a task—well, I call it impossible.”
William coughed, and fixed his bright eyes on the empty hearth.
“You are weary,” said Bentinck tenderly, coming nearer.
“I am very weary and sick to-night,” answered the Prince faintly; “in body and soul, William, I can get no rest. At times—despair cannot be always held at bay—my head hath a horrible inclination to ache, and I think I have the fever still. Yet, it will pass; I pray you do not notice me.”
“Console yourself, Sir, that your prospects are more hopeful than for some time.”
The Prince made no answer, and M. Bentinck regarded him anxiously.
“I would have you consider well what you say to these envoys,” he added earnestly. “Your terms will never be listened to … Louis is a conqueror.… By making yourself King of Holland, you save it, and revenge yourself on the republicans.”
“I have considered that,” answered the Prince.
“Well,” returned M. Bentinck, “you have always been reserved, even with me, Highness, and you take advice of no man … but I make bold to tell you that only a foolish mind would refuse these offers the French and English make you.”
Again William was silent. His attitude was one of utter exhaustion; he continually coughed and shivered.
“You cannot stand the occupation of war,” said William Bentinck. “If you would not kill yourself you must make peace, Highness.”
The Prince roused himself and sat up.
“Will you wait on the English, Bentinck, presently, and tell them I will receive them here as soon as they wish?”
M. Bentinck understood his dismissal in this and felt offended.
Once more he proved the uselessness of any attempt on his part to offer advice to his master.
He put out the needless candles, for the small room was filled with the glitter of the sun, and left without further speech.
William sat quite still, gazing at the homely tiles with their little rural scenes in blue on a yellow ground—a cow, a milkmaid, a windmill, a barge, a dog, a man and a woman skating.
The languor of fatigue and pain made him sit heavily and droopingly, his head supported in his right hand.
The childhood he had scarcely left behind rose in his memory, one incident after another, back to the early years when his mother had taught him he was of the proudest blood in the world.…
He looked back on the loneliness, the dreariness; the rankling and constant sense of humiliation; the illnesses; the hunts in Guelders; the bitterness of having to part with M. de Zuylestein; the espionage of the republicans; the lofty governorship of M. de Witt; the perpetual feeling of injustice and restraint, the agony of having to take quietly treatment his imperious nature longed to spurn; the overtures from M. de Pomponne, first insinuating to him that he could revenge himself by leaguing with Louis; the visits of Sir William Temple, so different from the others, treating him with homage as a grandchild of England; the long hours of arduous study, followed by blinding headaches; the quiet Sundays with the lengthy sermons in the Groote Kerk,—all his training teaching him to be reserved, self-reliant, cautious, and to conceal his quick passions under an unreadable exterior.
He had never been happy, often utterly dreary, dispirited, and sad.… He remembered his recent entry into Middelburg as the fairest episode; for the rest he shuddered at the recollection of the slights, rebuffs, reprimands, loneliness, disputes, illnesses and neglects that made up the sum of his life.
With a little, broken sigh he moved at last and slowly rose.
His cuirass and his sword lay on the ground beside his bed. He picked up the weapon, buckled it on and went languidly downstairs.
The small farm was full of young Dutch noblemen, and the English forming the train of the envoys.
Avoiding these, he entered the little front room where the previous day he had received the commissioners.
Half an hour later M. Beuningen found him there, breakfasting alone on brown bread, radishes, and cock ale, and making notes on a slip of paper.
“Highness——” began Coenraad Beuningen.
William looked up gravely—
“Ah, have you had breakfast, Mynheer?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, will you share mine?” the Prince drew forward a chair.
M. Beuningen seated himself, murmuring thanks.
He looked agitated and overwrought; his handsome eyes were red, his dress dishevelled.
The Prince folded up his paper and placed it in his pocket. He had changed his suit, and wore a prune-coloured velvet, very plain, and a black sash.
“I have made some notes on the converse of last night,” he remarked.
M. Beuningen poured out the ale from the silver jug.
“Your Highness has to see the envoys again?” he inquired in a humble way.
“This morning, yes,” answered William; “before they leave for Zeyst.”
He leant back and looked full at his companion, with a penetrating and almost smiling glance.
M. Beuningen set his tankard down.
“We have gained little good by this conference,” he said distractedly.
William was silent.
M. Beuningen crumbled his bread on the table.
“Your Highness,” he said desperately, “I have been thinking … all night … this wretched country.… O God! my country.…”
A light flashed into William’s eyes, but still he said nothing.
M. Beuningen pushed back his chair. He could hardly control his features and his voice.
“I must appeal to Your Highness—in the name of the States,” he said thickly, “for we have no hope but in you.…”
“What do you mean, my lord?” asked William softly.
Coenraad Beuningen rose.
“I think these men have made private overtures to Your Highness,” he answered, “and you are free to take them … but … have pity on the country.” He clasped his hand passionately over his heart. “To such wretched straits are we reduced.… Ah, they tempted your ambition I doubt not, but if Your Highness would be truly great, save the United Provinces.”
“Do you believe I could?” asked the Prince breathlessly.
“Before God I believe Your Highness could.”
An extraordinary change came over the Prince’s face; he replied with vivacity—
“M. Van Beuningen, you have been a good republican—I will forgive it you for that.”
“I have been opposed to Your Highness,” said M. Beuningen, “but the time of party is over—I can see only that the country is conquered, ruined … and that our one hope is in the courage and firmness of Your Highness.”
He went restlessly to the window and put his hand before his eyes.
William gazed at him, still with that expression of animation and pleasure.
“You must not despair, Mynheer,” he said gently; “too many despair.”
“I shall not—if Your Highness does not forsake us.”
The Prince rose.
“What of your former rulers?” he asked.
“They can do nothing with the people. M. de Witt is ill—loathed.”
“Mynheer,” answered William, “the States dealt hardly with me—I have been virtually a prisoner all my life—it is strange they should come to me now.”
“It may be, but Your Highness’ voice is the only one that can make itself heard,” said M. Beuningen in a tone of despair. “The people will turn to you.… If in vain … God have mercy upon us.”
“You credit me with great powers.… Do I not hear it said that the man who pits himself against France must be mad?”
Coenraad Beuningen looked round sharply—
“Or a hero,” he said.
“They are rarer than madmen,” answered the Prince.
“Your Highness’ House has been rich in great men.”
William drew back from the suspicion of flattery.
“Leave them, Mynheer,” he said coldly, and picked up a copy of The Gazette that lay on the table.
M. Beuningen turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.
William regarded him covertly and keenly.
“Mynheer,” he said in another tone.
M. Beuningen raised his head, there were tears in his eyes.
Before he could speak M. Heenvliet announced the English envoys, who were accompanied by M. Bentinck.
Coenraad Beuningen gave the Prince a quick look, bowed to the company and left the chamber.
William remained where he was, standing by the breakfast-table, his hand resting on the rail of M. Beuningen’s chair.
The Duke, over-dressed and flamboyant, trailing a purple velvet mantle over one shoulder and carrying his hat with long rose-coloured feathers, seated himself without ado; but Arlington, more respectful, remained on his feet.
“I trust the night has brought wisdom to Your Highness,” said Buckingham, swinging his embroidered gloves by the tassels.
“I can only repeat the proposals I made yesterday,” replied the Prince. “My influence with the States permits me to promise their execution. As to what you propose, my lords, the States will never accede to such terms, nor could I advise them to.”
Arlington answered with great earnestness. The success of his mission lay with this attempt to gain the Prince—
“Sir, forget the States awhile,” he said. “We speak to you—as a Prince of our Royal House—to show the consideration and friendship of His Majesty.… Sir, you must believe that we are sincere.… Cromwell made your exclusion from power a condition of peace with the United Provinces.… King Charles will make your restoration a condition—yea, restoration to a greater position than ever your ancestors possessed.”
William seated himself and looked on the ground.
The Earl continued, in his smooth, pleasant voice—
“These burghers have behaved insolently to you, Your Highness. It hath always been His Majesty’s intention to make them repent their ingratitude to your House. He now proves his entire friendship by this offer—which is, we repeat, the sovereignty of Holland and other lands, in return for your alliance with His Majesty, the cautionary towns, and the delivery of the remaining forts into the hands of His Majesty of France.”
The Prince glanced up.
“My lord, you had my answer last night.”
“I trust Your Highness has considered since then.”
“Reflect,” added Buckingham, “that resistance is useless—by God! you must see it.”
“I see,” returned the Prince, “that you propose to me an infamous thing.”
Arlington slightly coloured, but the Duke laughed.
“Your Highness is very young,” said the Earl. “M. de Witt has filled your head with fantastic notions.”
“M. de Witt is an honest man,” replied William, “and a wise one—I learnt no folly from him.”
“I do not understand Your Highness’ attitude,” urged Arlington. “Our agents and those of M. de Pomponne assured you some time since——”
William interrupted.
“My lord, the French have made advances to me very often—they have always been rejected. I would not owe my elevation in the State to foreign intervention, but to the will of God and the wish of the people.”
Arlington was nonplussed.
“Your Highness has not learnt the language of diplomacy,” he said.
“Your lordship must lay that to the charge of my inexperience—I am new to affairs,” answered the Prince proudly. “Maybe I speak too bluntly—but the meaning is the main thing, is it not, my lord?”
Buckingham spoke now.
“Consider well your meaning before you utter it, Highness—think of the alternative. The terms that you propose we should not dare put before M. de Louvois, I tell you plainly; and there is nothing before you but a continuation of the war—that is, a continuation of the conquest of the Republic—if you refuse us. You and the States go to ruin together, for there is no help for you.”
M. Bentinck came anxiously forward.
William looked straight at the Duke.
“Nevertheless I refuse your offer, my lord.”
Buckingham rose impatiently.
“You do not know what you say. Have you no ambition?—We offer you dominion—power.”
William rose; for the first time some agitation showed through the composure of his manner.
“You offer me what I would not stoop to pick up, my lord,” he answered.
“I thought you a Prince desirous of reigning,” said Arlington.
“Not at the price of my honour, sir.”
Buckingham struck his gloves across his open palm.
“Whatever you do the country is lost,” he sneered.
“If it be I will not connive at it,” replied the Prince. “Nor make my profit out of that misfortune.”
The Duke was contemptuous.
“Your Highness dreams of resistance—a second Hannibal!”
William coloured and breathed deeply.
“I do think I might do even as he did.”
“Press not the parallel too close, Highness. This is our second Punic war, and in a week or so M. de Louvois may say—‘Delenda est Carthago.’”
“Rome fell also,” returned William, “and in a less noble fashion by her own corruption. Go carefully, my lord, that the like fate comes not on England.”
Buckingham affected to laugh.
“We get no nearer the matter.”
“I must ask for Your Highness’ final decision,” added Arlington.
William stood with his back against the table, looking from one to the other with slightly narrowed eyes.
“My lords, for what concerns me privately you have had my answer; for what concerns Their High Mightinesses—you must go to the States.”
William Bentinck murmured impatiently—
“I would as lief that a dozen of the States were hanged, so that the war was taken out of the country and Your Highness king of it.”
“Is that your final decision?” asked Arlington, deeply mortified.
“Yes,” replied the Prince firmly; “and nothing will move me, my lord.”
So curt, unfaltering, and stern were his words that the envoys saw no hope of persuading him. They prepared to leave; but Buckingham was too angry to go in silence.
“If you do not put yourself wholly in the King’s hands you are lost,” he declared. “If you have any wisdom you will consider——”
The Prince cut him short—
“My countrymen,” he said, “have trusted me, and I will never deceive nor betray them for any base ends of my own.”
Buckingham, his hand on the door, answered hotly—
“Think no more of your country, for it no longer exists—do you not see that it is lost? If it survive this campaign it will be a miracle—do you not see that it is lost? There is nothing before you but despair; you must see your country conquered.” And again he repeated, “Do you not see that it is lost?”
William’s calm changed into a passionate emotion.
He answered with an air of exaltation; he was so lifted up, he cared little for any of them—
“My lord, I indeed see that the country is in great danger; but there is one way never to see it lost—and that is to die in the last ditch.”
There was a little pause. Arlington glanced at Buckingham, and after a second the Duke answered—
“Very well, Sir, in a short while you will regret this.… I am sorry you are so intractable.”
“We shall have a different reception at Zeyst,” added the Earl. “I must warn Your Highness that we shall there conclude a closer union between England and France.”
“The rearrangement of the terms is between you and the States,” replied the Prince. “As to what touches me—I have answered.”
He moved away towards the hearth, averting his face from them.
The envoys bowed coldly and withdrew, both angry, and Buckingham, at least, his enemy.
William Bentinck stared at the door that had closed after them.
“They have gone, Highness!” he exclaimed, “and in wrath—you have destroyed your last hope.”
“They are shallow men,” returned William calmly.
He came back to the table, coughing a little.
Bentinck appeared alarmed and troubled.
“You were ill advised!—What have you done?” he cried. “What is to become of us all?”
“This is not the language of a friend,” returned the Prince, who seemed little to heed the other’s exclamations.
“The States may accept the terms,” said M. Bentinck, catching at straws.
“Not if I can prevent them.”
William Bentinck answered angrily—
“Sir, you throw away your own advantage wilfully! M. de Buckingham was right—there is nothing but despair before all of us.”
The Prince sat immovable, composed, with an absent look in his eyes, gazing out of the window at the camp.
M. Bentinck, exasperated, went violently from the room.
William glanced round as the door banged, then sat still, taking his aching head in his hand.
There was a thoughtful, absorbed expression on his pale face, a relaxing of the usual disdainful curve of his lips that gave him an air of gentleness.
He was not long alone.
Count Struym and M. Heenvliet entered with more eagerness than ceremony.
“Sir,” said the first gentleman, “here are two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and others, come from Dordt——”
“Dordt?” repeated the Prince; this town, the residence of the de Witts, had always been considered particularly republican.
“Dordt, Highness—they desire to see you immediately.”
“Why? For what reason?”
“Sir, they are confused with haste and agitation, but I gather the town is in such a tumult none save Your Highness can quell it—and to save their own lives the magistrates have sent for Your Highness.”
William answered rather impatiently—
“It is impossible for me to journey to Dordt.”
“They will not return without you.”
“I must remain at my post.”
“Sir, they are afraid of being torn to bits if they disappoint the people——”
“Ah,” said William sharply, “is it as serious as that?”
“I think it is the signal for a restoration, Highness.”
The Prince rose.
“Is it more than a riot?”
“I think so, Sir.”
“They want me—the people want me?”
“The burgomasters say so. It seems they were fired by the example of Ter Veere—which has proclaimed Your Highness Stadtholder with much enthusiasm.”
William flushed.
“But Ter Veere is my own lordship.”
“You will at least see this deputation from Dordt, sir?”
“Yes—I will see them.”
He had reassumed now his usual composure and reserve; he gave no sign that he was moved, yet it was a triumph. Dordt, the home of the de Witts, had risen in his favour——
“Bring the burghers here, Count,” he said.
CHAPTER IV
THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE
In the frantic state of angry despair to which the United Provinces were reduced, Holland, the proudest, wealthiest State, was the first to take fire at the injuries inflicted on her, and to turn fiercely on the Government that she conceived had betrayed her into ruin.
The mission of M. de Groot had been vastly unpopular. The submission shown in this embassy was looked upon as a sign of degrading, nay, criminal weakness, and the people violently accused their Ministers of selling them to the French.
They reminded each other that Rhynsberg had not had enough powder to defend the counterscarps; that all the saltpetre belonging to the East India Company had been allowed to be sold to the French, even when war appeared inevitable; that the land forces had been greatly reduced of late, that such soldiers as they had were ill-trained and ill-paid; that tedious difficulties had been put in the way of the election of the Prince of Orange to the Captain Generalship, and even now his power was so restricted as to be almost useless.
They flattered themselves that the King of France would not have had such easy success but for complicity on the part of the governors of the country, and all overtures of peace were regarded as a final attempt to deliver them to the enemy.
The idea of peace became one with slavery and disgrace, and the Government was regarded as vile and infamous in even listening to Louis’ terms; and on John de Witt, the head of the Government and the apostle of peace, all rage and hate were poured. All the disasters of the war were imputed to his charge; he was accused of every crime frenzy could find a name for, and blamed bitterly for having so long kept the Prince out of power and for having clipped such authority as he had been obliged to give him.
On the other hand, the idea of war and resistance was associated with the image of the young Captain General, austere, composed, religious, of the old House, the only man who had dared to show firmness in the face of the overwhelming public misfortunes. He became the idol of the people, who ran frantic in his name.
At Dordt they had broken into open revolt. On hearing of the terms offered by France, and that the States were considering them, and a rumour being abroad that their representatives had advocated peace, a company of burghers marched to the town hall and demanded of the councillors if they were prepared to defend the town, or if they already negotiated its delivery into the hands of the enemy?
The magistrates replied that they would resist to the utmost, but did not succeed in pacifying the citizens, who, suspecting their republican sympathies, demanded permission to inspect the arsenals.
The keeper was absent, the keys with him. This gave the signal for a cry of treason that was echoed throughout the town, and the subsequent opening of the magazines did not suffice to restore order.
Angry cries were started against John de Witt and his followers; the Orange flag was paraded through the streets with shouts for the Prince of Orange, the white flag flying contemptuously beneath William’s colour.
The magistrates assembled in agitation, but no concession would quiet the people. The burgomaster, not daring to act without authority from the Government, endeavoured to escape from the town, but was stopped in a side street by a workman armed with a hatchet, who offered to brain him if he resisted the wishes of the populace.
In this fashion conducted back to the town hall, the burgomaster was forced to again summon the councillors to consult on the situation.
It was an ugly one for them. They had sworn to maintain the Perpetual Edict, and would have to answer to the States General if they violated their oath. On the other hand, they were in immediate danger from the violence of the people.
They discovered, as they thought, an expedient to shift the responsibility, and announced, with sound of trumpets, that they would at once send a deputation to the Prince, begging him to come immediately to Dordt.
The town secretary, Orent Muys, two members of the council, two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and two citizens were chosen, and escorted to the gates by the people, shouting—
“Long live His Highness!”
“Death to the bad magistrates!”
“Down with John de Witt!”
“To hell with the friends of France!”
All night long the town seethed. The magistrates trembled when they considered what the outburst of fury would be should the deputation return, the Prince not with them.
As soon as it was light the people were out on the quays, gazing down the flat, grey waters of the Maas and the Merwede, which stretched almost to the horizon where Rotterdam lay, and spread to right and left encircling the town in a belt of water.
The burgher companies were up and armed, patrolling the streets, clattering their blunderbusses under the windows of Cornelius de Witt’s house, where the Ruard lay sick, and shouting in insulting tones for the Prince, so that he could hear them in his bed.
Others amused themselves with breaking into the town hall, destroying the remaining portraits of John and Cornelius de Witt, and savagely tearing out of its frame Baan’s picture of the Victory at Chatham, which was dedicated to the glory of the Ruard.
About ten o’clock the feeling rose to frenzy; it became known that the deputation had returned in company with the young Prince.
The magistrates hastened to receive William, who was landing at the Groothoofd Poort, one of the finest gates of the wealthy city, situate on the junction of the Merwede and the Maas.
The inhabitants formed themselves into a guard of honour, and the Prince was greeted by a shout of pure wild joy.
The councillors, including among them Jacob de Beveren, the brother-in-law of the Grand Pensionary, greeted him humbly, even kissing his hand.
One offered him a coach.
William declined, and to the great satisfaction of the people walked among them on foot to the town hall.
He was plainly dressed, without armour, wore only a light sword and carried a cane.
He kept his hat on, and took no notice in his solemn entry of the people or of the councillors who accompanied him.
The distance was not great between the Groothoofd Poort and the Stadhuis, but William, as he walked slowly down the Wynstraat, had time to observe both that he could do what he pleased with the people and that the magistrates intended to thrust on him all responsibility.
They followed him with heads uncovered, but they made no suggestion.
The enormous crowd gathered as they advanced through the Groenmarkt, and considerably impeded their progress to the fine Gothic Stadhuis. The canals were choked with boats laden with armed citizens, and people came crowding up from the ship-building yards, from the barges and timber-yards, till the streets could hold no more.
On the Stadhuis steps William paused.
“Mynheer Hallingh,” he said to the burgomaster, “I acknowledge my reception—but what object do I serve by entering your town hall?”
The burgomaster bowed very low, for the eyes of thousands were on him.
“We hope Your Highness may do us the extreme favour of taking a seat in our council.”
“To what end, Mynheer?” asked William steadily.
M. Beveren answered, with his eye on the expectant crowd—
“Has Your Highness any proposal to make us?”
The Prince saw clearly by this that they hoped to delude the people by an outward show of deference, managing that the Prince should return without any further concession to their revolutionary wishes.
On William’s part it was not his desire to put himself at the head of a mob, and neither his nature nor his policy to encourage sedition. He was as prudent as the councillors, and as resolute not to commit himself to their intention that if there must be a revolution it should be laid to him.
At the same time he was angry that they should send for him merely to fool the people of Dordt.
He answered with composure—
“Mynheer, I must remind you that I came here at your request—your urgent request—to hear what you had to say to me.”
The councillors refused to be drawn; with many protestations of respect they invited him to inspect the arsenals and fortifications of the town.
William looked at them, at M. Bentinck, at the crowd, and he smiled.
He could not help being amused at the cunning with which these republican magistrates were endeavouring to keep the law and please the people.
“Very well, Mynheer,” he answered gravely. “I shall be pleased to see your fortifications.”
Followed by the eager crowds, the Prince set out for the ramparts and the powder magazines.
M. Beveren, the husband of John de Witt’s sister, galled by the position in which he found himself, ventured to put on his hat.
It was instantly knocked off, with threats that it would be his head next time if he did not treat the Prince with proper respect.
William affected neither to see nor hear. He conversed with M. Bentinck, and occasionally with the burgomaster, his manner showing the same calm as if no mob clamoured at their heels. He passed interested comments on the beautiful architecture of the wealthy town that he had never seen before.
Outside the Latin Grammar School, where John de Witt had studied the history of his country with a joyous and ambitious heart, and not far from the house of Jacob de Witt, where the Grand Pensionary, in the days when he wore a sword and love-locks, had written French verses to Wendela Van Bicker, the people closed round the Prince and his escort and demanded that he should not leave the town until the magistrates had proclaimed him.
M. Van Beveren murmured something about the Perpetual Edict, upon which one, Henry Dibbets, a Calvinist minister, levelled a gun at his head and shouted to the Prince that he would soon have his father’s offices restored to him.
The Prince himself put the musket aside.
“My friends, I am content,” he said gravely.
The burgomaster, thrust up against the wall of the school, shouted lustily—
“Long live the Prince!”
But the magistrates, still resolved not to yield, hastily invited William to a repast at the Peacock Inn.
“In truth,” said the Prince, regarding them with smiling eyes, “I am a little fatigued.”
The angry crowd demanded if he had been proclaimed Stadtholder.
“Thou old, fat villain!” cried Henry Dibbets to the burgomaster. “Thou art deceiving us! Hast thou brought the Prince here to walk him up and down the town?”
He was seconded by furious cries of—
“Knipperdolling!”
“Traitor!”
“Down with the MM. de Witt!”
They swarmed after the Prince to the Peacock Inn, where the frightened landlord, overwhelmed at the honour, prostrated himself before His Highness.
In the fine dining-room on the ground floor a meal was hastily but sumptuously prepared.
William, still wearing his hat, took the head of the table.
The magistrates, white and flustered, seated themselves, giving anxious glances towards the door and the long windows that overlooked the street.
“Your citizens,” said William to the burgomaster, “seem to be of a noisy disposition.”
It was his first allusion to the nature of his reception.
“They are very fond of Your Highness,” answered Van Hallingh fatuously.
“Ah?” The Prince spoke dryly. “It seems as if they might be dangerous, Mynheer, to any they were not fond of.”
And he gave the councillors a sarcastic look.
The magistrates winced; they became every moment more uncomfortable. They had only inflamed the popular feeling by sending for the Prince, who they now perceived was too wise to commit himself by any illegal act; nor were they at all reassured by the shouts and tumults without and the excited faces at door and window.
In truth the landlord had had orders to lay the repast at the back, but that personage could not bear to serve His Highness in the worst parlour, which was not, he declared, large enough nor fine enough for so distinguished a company. In defiance of his orders he had arranged the dinner in the great oak chamber, with its shelves of brass and pottery, its fine pictures, its handsome clock, Indian carpet, and tortoiseshell mirrors that were the pride of his heart.
It was a fine dinner, including such delicacies as spinach tart, stuffed heron, jellied venison, the famous sweet cakes from Deventer, ale thickened with honey, and a variety of gorgeous puddings; but the councillors at least did not enjoy it, even the splendid wines could not raise their spirits.
The Prince, who saw fairly clearly the end of the comedy, and could not but enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies, was composed and gracious.
He commended the fare and praised the wealthy appearance of the prosperous town, but his words could hardly be heard for the clamour in the streets.
“Our friends without make converse difficult,” he remarked.