God and the King

by Marjorie Bowen

  CHAPTER XI

  THE BITTER PARTING

  The Queen's bed stood out into the room, facing the long windows whichlooked on to the winter twilight; it was hung with four curtains of goldand blue damask sewn with many-coloured wreaths of flowers that Mary andher maids had worked when seated under the alley of wych-elm at HamptonCourt.

  The coverlet was of crimson satin embroidered with great roses ofEngland and fringed with bullion. The Queen lay so still that the heavyfolds were scarcely disturbed about her limbs. The curtains round thehead of the bed had been drawn forward, and the pillows and the face ofthe Queen were in shadow.

  She wore a lace cap with long lappets fastened beneath her chin and alittle jacket of blue silk over her muslin nightgown. She was notdisfigured, it being the most deadly symptom of her disease that therewas no sign of it beyond the deep purple marks that had told Dr.Radcliffe--black smallpox--from the first, and the constant internalbleeding of her throat that had so exhausted her; that had stopped now,and she lay quite free from pain quiet for several hours; not sleeping;sleep, she said, gave her no ease.

  To the right of the bed the King knelt with his face hidden in thequilt. There were several prelates and doctors in the room, and by thehead of the bed Lady Temple, Madame Nienhuys, Basilea de Marsac, andLady Portland, the Earl's second wife and Lady Temple's daughter.

  At a whispered word from Dr. Radcliffe, Tenison, the new Archbishop ofCanterbury, successor to the saintly Tillotson, so beloved by the Kingand Queen, approached the bed.

  As his footfall broke the tense silence Mary lifted her languid eyes; hecame round to her left, and stood, in a sorrowful attitude, looking downon her.

  "Be seated, my lord," she faltered.

  But out of respect to her and the presence of the King he remainedstanding.

  Mary made a feeble motion with her right hand, which lay outside thecoverlet, and sweetly stammered her repeated commands that he shouldsit.

  Dr. Tenison obeyed, and with a heavy heart. Her gentle patience madehis duty the harder. Dr. Radcliffe had just told him that since she nowseemed tranquil and in full consciousness he might tell her of herapproaching end.

  The Bishop, a good heavy man, set about his task with pain andtenderness.

  "Your Majesty will forgive me plain speaking, but I am entrusted by theKing----"

  She lay with her face towards him, and her brown eyes narrowed. Hehesitated, fearing to greatly agitate her, and sought for a form ofwords in which to cast his speech.

  "I am greatly grieved to see that Your Majesty is no better," he said."Your consolation will come from heaven, not earth."

  She instantly perceived his drift.

  "You are come to tell me that I am dying?" she asked faintly.

  He was startled that she had so instantly understood, and could not, forthe moment, speak.

  "I thank my God," continued the Queen, "that I have had this in mythoughts from the first. And there is nothing to be done. Search for alittle escritoire in my cabinet and give it to the King. That is theend of earthly matters."

  She closed her eyes and gave a little sigh.

  "Will it please Your Majesty receive the Sacrament?" asked theArchbishop.

  "Yes," she said at once. "Yes."

  He left her, and she turned her head languidly and gazed before her atthe window.

  Lady Temple came forward lovingly, and looked down at her with sorrowfuleyes.

  "Before you light the candles," whispered Mary, "will you draw thecurtains a little that I may see the sky?"

  Lady Portland crossed the floor delicately and pulled back the heavygold thread and scarlet damask from the December twilight.

  A pale glow of colourless light fell across the glittering bed, the wanface of the Queen, and the motionless kneeling figure of her husband.

  She could see loose grey clouds, an indistinct trail of yellow fire lowbehind the leafless trees which tossed slowly in a feeble wind.

  She gave another little sigh and again closed her eyes. Lady Portland,weeping, drew the curtains. Basilea de Marsac and Madame de Nienhuyslit the candles on the mantelshelf, on the table between the windows,and the crystal lamp ornamented with the rose, the shamrock, and thistlein silver that hung from the centre of the ceiling.

  The Queen lay still all this while; she did not speak till Dr. Tenisonapproached her bed again, and all the prelates in the chamber went ontheir knees.

  "I doubt if I can swallow the bread," she murmured anxiously.

  The bishops in the room took the Sacrament with her; they were all heavywith grief, and the Primate faltered in his ministrations, but she wasutterly calm; she followed the holy office clearly with no hesitation.Despite her fears, she swallowed the bread without difficulty, andthanked Dr. Tenison sweetly when he had done, and lay for awhile,praying it seemed. She was so resigned that it seemed she ratherdesired to die than live.

  Presently she whispered, "I would speak to the King."

  They all withdrew from the bed to the far end of the room and theantechamber. Mary put out a trembling hand and touched the bent darkhead that rested on her quilt.

  "Ah, love!" she said.

  He raised his face, moving for the first time since she had fallenasleep, two hours ago.

  "They have told me," whispered Mary, "that I must say farewell--I alwaysknew--forgive me that I had not the courage to tell you." She smiled."I am so tired, and I have so much to say."

  With her right hand she drew a small gold key from the bosom of her gownand gave it him.

  "The little escritoire," she explained. "I asked him to give ityou--only a few trifles--but you will understand."

  He took it with a shudder, her left hand he held between his tightly; hedid not speak; his face was as white, as hallowed, as shadowed by death,it seemed, as hers.

  "I have not done much," she said; "but I have had such a little time,and it was difficult--indeed difficult. God will know I did my poorbest. And I never failed in love, and I tried to do His will, but Ihave done nothing, and I meant to do so much----"

  The King forced his voice.

  "You have been a creature we were none of us fit to touch," he muttered."You--you--oh, Marie!"

  He hid his face upon her hand, and she felt his hot tears on herfingers.

  "Do not grieve," she whispered. "There is still so much for you todo----"

  "No more," he answered passionately; "that is over now--I shall never doanything again--never----"

  Mary half raised herself on the pillows; a feverish colour came into hercheeks.

  "You are rebelling against God," she said, between agitated breaths."You must go on--your work is not finished; but the prospects are sosplendid----"

  "What is that to me?" he answered, in bitter despair. "I am a poor weakcreature--I can do nothing--it was always you, your hope, your faith--Iam no better than a thing of nought; in taking you God mocks me----"

  "No--no," cried Mary, with a desperate strength. "You are going on--youwill conquer--do not make it hard for me to die----"

  She sank on to her pillows, coughing a little.

  "I have prayed God not to let you despair--I have asked Him to comfortyou----"

  "There is no more comfort for me," he answered. "I want you--nothingbut you on earth or in heaven----"

  Mary turned her face towards him; the dark auburn hair, beneath the fineveiling of lace, hung over the edge of the tumbled pillow and touchedhis hand.

  "Oh, my husband," she said faintly; "I have loved you with a passionthat cannot end with death. You cannot--ever be alone again--I shall bethere----"

  Her voice sank and died; she made an effort to lean towards him. Hecaught her to his bosom and kissed her cold forehead with lips as cold.

  "Go on," she stammered, "do not give up--the goal is nearly won----"

  She became slack in his arms; he laid her back on the pillow, and rose.

  She was smiling up at him, but t
here was an awful change in her face.

  He put his hand before his eyes, and fell down beside her bed,motionless, along the shining floor.

  Mary clasped her hands on her bosom, and her head drooped to one side;she continually coughed, and her lids closed heavily.

  Lady Temple had run forward as the King fell; Portland and Leeds raisedand carried him, easily enough, into the antechamber.

  Dr. Radcliffe gave the Queen a cordial; she thanked him, and seemed alittle revived.

  "Let me sit up," she whispered. Her ladies raised her against thepiled-up cushions. "The King"--she added--"the King?--my eyes areweak--I thought--he left me----"

  "Dear Lady," answered Dorothy Temple, commanding her own tears, "he isin the next chamber----"

  She knew while she spoke that he had fallen into a succession of fits soterrible that not one doctor there thought he could live.

  "Perhaps," gasped Mary, "it were better if we--were spared--a finalfarewell--I could not well bear it----"

  She leant against Lady Temple's shoulder, and her lips moved in prayer.Her face was very troubled, and she continually sighed.

  "Madam, are you at peace?" asked Lady Temple.

  "I am not sorry to go to God," she answered; "but I am weak about theKing--I would I might have been spared a little longer with him."

  Presently she fell asleep, peacefully it seemed, and still with prayerson her lips.

  Lady Temple crept from the bed where Lady Portland pulled the curtainsto shield the Queen from the light, and asked Dr. Radcliffe how long itmight be now?

  He shook his head sadly.

  "A few hours, my lady."

  Dorothy Temple burst out into subdued grief.

  "We have the greatest loss in this lady! I have known her since she wasa child, and she had never a fault--this is a bitter thing for all ofus, and for England."

  The doctor answered grimly--

  "A more bitter thing even than you imagine, my lady. I do not think theKing will live."

  She looked at him in utter terror, and at that moment Portland came outof the antechamber.

  "Will you go to His Majesty, doctor?" he said, in a shaking voice."Millington doth not know what to do."

  Radcliffe left them, and Lady Temple desperately seized hold ofPortland's arm.

  "Oh, William," she whispered; "how is the King?"

  "Sorely stricken," he answered. "Is this to be the end?--that he shoulddie for a woman!"

  Lady Portland came softly from the bed to her mother and her husband.

  "Doth it not seem cruel that the Queen should die?" she murmured. "Theysay there is no hope----"

  "The Queen!" echoed Portland. "I think of the King----"

  "Can you not," urged his wife anxiously, "rouse him and bring him backto her? When she wakes she will surely ask for him----"

  Portland, with a little sigh of despair and weariness, went into theantechamber.

  It was well lit and full of people. The King was seated on hiscamp-bed--a dishevelled, pitiful figure--lamenting to himself with aviolence and boundless passion that had the force and incoherence ofinsanity.

  The only one of the company who had the courage to approach him was anew-comer, my Lord Sunderland; pale, quiet, elegantly dressed, he stoodbetween the King and the wall, and gazed down on his master with anextraordinary expression of resolution and consideration.

  Portland went up to him, not without a sense of jealousy for the King'sdignity, that was so shattered before these foreigners and a man likeSunderland.

  "Sire," he said firmly. "Sire!"

  William did not even look up; he was twisting his hands together andstaring at the floor, breaking out into the bitter protests of a mindderanged.

  Sunderland looked sharply at Portland.

  "What do you want of him, my lord?" he asked,

  "I would recall him to himself that he may take farewell of the Queen,"answered Portland sternly. "But he, it seemeth, is no longer William ofNassau."

  Sunderland made no answer to this; he laid his hand lightly on theKing's shoulder.

  "Your Highness!" he said.

  The ancient title struck some chord of memory. The King raised hishead; Sunderland was certainly startled at his face.

  "Who spoke to me?" asked William thickly.

  "The Prince of Orange," answered the Earl, "cannot fail beforeanything--the King of England must not----"

  "Fail?" muttered the King. "Fail? Have I failed? They put too muchupon me. Did they tell you of the Queen? My enemies may be satisfiednow, for I shall never lift my head again----"

  "The Queen," said Sunderland, "will not depart in peace unless sheleaveth you calm. Sire, for her sake will you not recall your ancientcourage?"

  The King shook his head in a faint, exhausted fashion.

  "You would not have thought that she would die so young," he murmured,"would you--she was gay, too--there was to have been a ballto-night--and she cannot live till morning----"

  Lady Temple came from the Queen's room and whispered something to LordPortland, who instantly addressed the King.

  "Sire, the Queen is awake."

  William rose; his cravat and waistcoat were undone over his shirt, hiseyes bloodshot and dim, his hair dishevelled and damp on his forehead;he seemed to be making a tremendous effort for control; he noticed hisdisordered clothes.

  "I would not frighten her"--it was Sunderland and not Portland to whomhe spoke. The Dutchman drew back a pace. It was ironical that at such amoment the King should turn to such a man; but William had first rousedat Sunderland's address, and seemed to look to him for guidance as hehad looked, almost unconsciously, to him for support fifteen years ago,in the bitter days before his marriage.

  The proud, stern, lonely, and scorned young Prince had then opened hisheart to the dishonest, worldly, and cynical minister, and the bond ofsympathy that must have been between them then showed now, when theKing, fainting with mental agony, clung blindly to Sunderland's unmoved,gentle strength.

  Portland marked it then and marked it now; he felt his own love uselessin the face of my lord's charm. William had not even noticed hispresence. He left him in the arms of Sunderland and returned to theQueen's chamber.

  Dr. Tenison had been reading the Scriptures to her, and stood now by herbed with the Bible in his hand.

  Lady Temple and her daughter were behind him. The younger woman wascrying sadly.

  Portland went up to the other side of the Queen's bed.

  Mary raised her deep brown eyes and looked at him earnestly.

  "My lord," she whispered--he bent over her and she caught his stiff cuffwith feverish fingers--"do not let the King despair ... do not let himgive up ... I shall have indeed lived in vain if he gives up ... so neartoo..." She paused to gather strength, and he was too moved to answer."At first I was so afraid of you," she added wistfully, "so fearful ofintruding on you and him--you were his friend before ever I came, andwill be when I am gone--but of late you have tolerated me--only a woman,but I have not hindered his destiny--I let nothing stand in the way ofhis service--indeed, if I have ever vexed you, forgive me----"

  "Madam," responded Portland tenderly, "you have been the great comfortof all of us, and we shall be utterly undone without you."

  She shook her head on the tumbled pillow.

  "I was only a foreigner--a stranger; you were ever extraordinarily kindto me--do not let the King stop--for this."

  She fell on to silence, being greatly weakened by this effort of speech,and Portland withdrew to the end of the bed to allow Dr. Radcliffe toapproach.

  The Queen's words had roused curious memories in the mind of WilliamBentinck. It did not seem so many years ago since the fair,thoughtless, timid English girl had come, as she said, a foreigner--astranger--to The Hague, unwanted, mistrusted, despised for her youth andher kinsman's treachery, regarded by her husband as an interruption--avexation--the mere burden of a marriage of convenience that had been apolitical failure; and now she had grown t
o be the support of all hisdesigns, and he was brought to a madness of despair because she laydying, and those same aims and endeavours which her coming had intrudedupon, to his anger, were now nothing to him if she should no longer bethere to share them.

  It was now past midnight. The Queen, having swallowed Dr. Radcliffe'scordial, spoke again, and took farewell of her ladies.

  "This was to have been our dance to-night," she murmured. "I am sorry tohave spoilt your pleasure----"

  "There will never be any more pleasure for me," answered Dorothy Temple,who loved her exceedingly, "until I meet Your Majesty in Heaven----"

  Mary was silent, lying very still. There was a little stir in thechamber as the King entered, followed by Lord Sunderland, who kept hiseyes on him keenly.

  The King went straight to his wife's side, and lifted the glitteringcurtain up.

  The silence was heavy as these two looked at each other.

  "Tell me," he said, "what to do--what you would have me do----"

  The Queen tried to answer; but speech was beyond her power; and when shefound that she could no more speak to him, for the might of death on hertongue, two tears rolled down her hollow cheeks, and, by the size ofthem, it was seen that she was dying indeed, for they were large as thegrey pearls in her ears.

  "Give me one word," said the King, and he bent low over her. She made asecond attempt, but in vain. A long shudder shook her, blood came toher lips, and the tears on her face rolled off on to the pillow.

  "She cannot speak!" exclaimed the King; he fell along the bed and laidhis face against her hand. Sunderland touched him. He gave a sighingsob like a woman, and fainted.

  My Lord Leeds helped lift and carry him to the back of the chamber; theothers remained about the Queen, who was sinking so rapidly that theyfeared she would go before the King recovered his senses.

  She put up her hands in the attitude of praying, then dropped them andturned her head about on the pillow as if she looked for the King; notseeing him, she moaned and fell into a little swoon, breathing heavily.

  The watchers held painful vigil thus for near an hour, when she openedher eyes suddenly and began to speak, in a distinct though low voice;but the words she used showed that her thoughts began to break.

  "We have such a short time," she said, "what can any of us do?--I hopethis will show you cannot expose yourself with impunity--I shall giveGod thanks as long as I live for having preserved you--think of me alittle and be more careful--Lord Nottingham saw my tears, I could notrestrain--my father, my father, there is such a great light here, likethe sun at Twickenham, no, The Hague--a letter at last--he loves, afterall----"

  She moved and half sat up; the lace had fallen from her head, and herhair hung in a dark mass over her shoulders; an extraordinary look ofecstasy overspread her wan face.

  "Give me the child," she whispered, and held out her arms; then shecoughed a little and dropped back.

  A slight convulsion shook her; her breath clove her lips apart, and herlids fluttered over her eyes.

  The clergymen were on their knees reading the prayer for the dying. Asthey finished, Dr. Radcliffe put out the candle, on the table by thebed, that shone over the Queen's face.

  "It is over," he said; "Her Majesty is dead."

  The Palace clock struck the four quarters, and then the hour of one.

  The King opened his eyes and looked about him on the hushed kneelingfigures. Portland endeavoured to restrain him, but he rose from thecouch and moved slowly and languidly towards the bed.

  No one dared speak or move.

  When he saw the still, disordered coverlet, the shadowed face, the whitehand on which the wedding-ring glowed ghastly bright, he put his hand tohis breast, and stood for a full minute so, gazing at her; then hissenses reeled back to oblivion and he fainted again, falling at the feetof the Archbishop, as that clergyman rose from his knees.

  As he lay along the floor they marked how slight and frail he was, and,when they lifted him, how light his weight, and how reluctantly andslowly the heart that had beaten so high stirred in his bosom.

  PART III

  THE KING

  "Man is God's masterpiece." FRANCIS QUARLES.