Chapter VIII: M. De Witt and His Highness

“Where is the Prince now?” asked Cornelius de Witt.

“At Honsholredyck, once his mother’s house. He will not return directly to the Hague for fear of my authority.”

The Grand Pensionary stood at the window of his residence in the Kneuterdyk Avenue and looked, as he spoke, out at the colourless afternoon.

“But this will bring him,” replied the Ruard grimly. He referred to the skilful measure his brother had taken. On receiving the news from Zeeland, the Grand Pensionary had forced the Assembly to pass a law forbidding individual provinces to reinstate the Stadtholdership without the sanction of the other States, and confirming M. de Montbas in his appointment as Captain General.

“Maybe. He hath discovered a stubborn disposition that makes it difficult to know what he will do. He hath sent his valet to Professor Bornius and M. de Chapuygeau, dispensing with their services.”

“This is impudence,” frowned Cornelius. “He hath no right to dismiss his tutors when he is under your guardianship.”

“He had no right to go to Zeeland,” returned John de Witt, moving from the window; “nor any right to deceive me with intent to rouse dissension in the State,--but since he had the will and the power, what avails our talk of right?”

Cornelius leant forward from his high-backed chair and stared thoughtfully into the fire.

The pleasant glow of the burning logs played over his blunt-featured, well-looking face, his handsome grey silk dress, braided in gold, his embroidered baldric, his high boots and massive sword-hilt. He was a large and weighty man, of a demeanour more passionate and impatient than his brother.

“You must remember I always distrusted this pupil of yours,” he said slowly. “Have we not had enough difficulty, at home and abroad, that you must nurse this viper to sting you on your own hearth?”

John de Witt moved to the other side of the fireplace.

“He is very young.”

The Ruard glanced up.

“Ah, still you make excuses for him.”

“I endeavour to be just, brother,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “This young man hath fooled me, I confess it. I have done all in my power to prevent this mistake of mine proving of danger to the State----”

“Do not imagine that I reproach you,” put in Cornelius quickly.

His brother faintly smiled.

“It may be that I wish to justify myself … a statesman should not be so easily deceived--and by a child. I thought I could rely on those I had placed about him. I did not know he was in communication with M. de Zuylestein.”

“All which shows that he is cleverer than we. Why do you speak of his youth, since he has belied it with his wisdom?” asked Cornelius warmly.

“I thought not of wisdom or cleverness,” replied the Grand Pensionary, half mournfully, “but of what his character might be; what honour, strength, or nobility he may possess. I have taken some pains with his teaching, he hath been educated as a Christian, a Dutchman, a gentleman; I cannot believe my labour has been in vain--not utterly.”

“He seeks his father’s power, and less will not satisfy him,” said the Ruard. “And as every magistrate in Holland hath sworn to the Perpetual Edict of the abdication of his House, what is there before us if he grows in strength?”

“His hopes cannot be so presumptuous,” answered John de Witt sternly. “If they are we must check them. I have regained the Princess Dowager, through her fears and her vanity.”

“She hath no influence with him. He owns no counsellor but his pride--he attended the review of the troops at Breda----”

“Against my will.”

“He went to flaunt us.”

“Still, at the officers’ banquet they placed him below M. de Montbas, and he would not take his seat nor call upon M. de Montbas; so his ambition brings humiliation on him. We gained by that show of firmness.”

“No concessions,” said the Ruard, “no concessions. His party become incredibly bold; we have been driven to order out the train-bands at Dordt to check the mob.”

“It is a marvellous thing that they should clamour for him,” mused John de Witt, turning his dark, sad eyes on his brother. “What can they know of him that they should love him so?”

“The base crowd care not about his qualities,” replied the Ruard, “they but seek an excuse for disorder and lawlessness. Did you hear Vivien in the Assembly to-day?”

“No.”

Cornelius de Witt laughed angrily.

“He was cutting a book with a steel knife. I, sitting next him, asked what he was about. ‘Trying the effect of steel on parchment,’ he said--meaning that once there was a sword in the Prince of Orange’s hand there would be an end of the Perpetual Edict.”

John de Witt was silent, and his brother rose.

“If I am to return to Dordt to-night I must take my leave.”

The Grand Pensionary roused himself from absorbed thoughts; he asked after his brother’s wife and his own children.

“Do you see them often?”

“Almost every day.”

“I have put a Bible for Agneta in your portmantle--it is large print that she may read it while at her spinning-wheel.”

“She is a good girl.”

A radiant look came into John de Witt’s eyes.

“I can hardly bring myself to do without such precious company, but they are better with my sister. This house is too quiet, and I so seldom here.”

Both were silent, thinking of Wendela de Witt. Regrets were not in their religion; believing, they could not repine.

The firelight, showing more strongly as the grey day faded, warmed the sombre, dark room into a more cheerful aspect, glittering redly in the brass fireirons and bellows, the nails in the leather chairs, the Ruard’s embroidered dress and sword-hilt; showing, too, the Grand Pensionary’s tall and stately figure in his quiet black with the plain linen collar tied with silk tassels, and the brown hair falling either side the melancholy, composed face.

There was a great likeness between the two brothers, though Cornelius was of a larger make, a freer carriage, haughtier perhaps and more fiery, but with a glance as dignified and a bearing as noble.

“Since you must go----” John de Witt was saying, when Van Ouvenaller opened the door.

“Mynheer, His Highness the Prince of Orange.”

The brothers exchanged a quick glance.

“He is here?”

“In the library, Mynheer.”

“Alone?”

“He rode up with one of his gentlemen, Mynheer, who remains with the horses.”

John de Witt laid his hand on his brother’s sleeve.

“Desire the Prince to come in here if he wishes to see me, Van Ouvenaller.”

When the secretary had gone, the Ruard spoke.

“You did not know he was at the Hague?”

“No; he must have ridden from Honsholredyck to-day.”

“What does this move mean?”

The Grand Pensionary’s lips were sternly set, his brows slightly frowning.

“I do not know, Cornelius.”

“He hath heard of what passed in the Assembly yesterday.”

“Will you stay?”

“Nay, he would not speak before me--we never loved one another.”

“He must speak before whomsoever I choose to question him since he is still under my tutelage,” answered John de Witt sternly.

“Yet I will not remain, lest your patience and his presumption should anger me.”

M. Van Ouvenaller entered again, announcing the Prince, who followed him.

The secretary withdrew, closing the door, and William of Orange stood facing the brothers. He was in riding costume, and wore over it a dark velvet mantle. His whip was in his boot, he carried his gloves and his hat in his right hand, purposely to cover the fact that he did not offer it to M. de Witt.

There was a colour in his face, and his bright hair was tumbled over his falling lace collar. He had ridden a long way in a keen wind.

“I am glad that Your Highness hath seen fit to return to the Hague,” said M. de Witt. He also did not offer his hand.

“I was ill at Honsholredyck, Mynheer,” answered William. “Good day, Mynheer the Ruard.” And he fixed his eyes with a daring expression of haughty dislike on Cornelius de Witt. He knew perfectly well that in the Grand Pensionary’s brother there was a staunch and fearless republican, an enemy of his House, with distrust of him far keener than John de Witt’s; but more than this, William disliked the Ruard because he felt in him some one who read him better than any other man. Had Cornelius been in his brother’s place, William would never have escaped to Middelburg.

The Ruard returned the Prince’s salute very coldly.

“I hope Your Highness hath recovered your health sufficiently to enable you to resume your duties.”

“What are my duties?” asked William, looking at him under drooping lids. “I thought it was my misfortune to have none, Mynheer.”

“Your duties are your studies,” replied Cornelius sternly, “and obedience to M. de Witt.”

The Prince slightly smiled; his glance flickered from one man to the other. John de Witt not at all, and Cornelius only partially, guessed at the implacable resentment hidden behind his impassive exterior, and neither knew that the Ruard’s remark was one more added to those things the Prince would never forgive.

“It is with M. de Witt I wish to speak,” he said.

“I shall not disturb Your Highness.”

But John de Witt interposed.

“My brother is in the entire confidence of the States, Highness, and you may say what you have come to say before him.”

“Mynheer the Ruard may be in your confidence, M. de Witt,” replied William, still with a slight smile, “but he is not in mine.”

Cornelius took up his plumed hat and bowed proudly to the Prince.

“Good day, Your Highness. Good day, brother.”

William gave him as careless a salute as he dared and turned his back as the Ruard closed the door.

John de Witt’s just indignation was not softened by this haughtiness.

“What is the object of this visit?” he demanded. “After keeping me entirely ignorant of your movements, why do you come to my house in this informal way?”

They both remained standing; the Prince with his hand resting on the little oak table beside him.

“I wrote to you, Mynheer, from Vlaardingen, to tell you that the Princess and the Elector had declared me of age--they have notified this to the Assembly.” William spoke quietly, looking down. “Therefore I do not consider it necessary to give an account of my actions to any one.”

“Neither the Princess nor the Elector are your guardians, but the States,” replied the Grand Pensionary sternly. “And Their High Mightinesses have fixed your majority in another four years; until then, I, representing them, am responsible for your education and your behaviour. It seems, Highness, that you will make my task difficult.”

William moved to the fire and seated himself in the chair the Ruard had occupied. It was not lost on M. de Witt that he did so easily, without invitation, as if in his own house.

“By going to Middelburg you have placed yourself at the head of the Malcontents,” continued M. de Witt, “and taken upon yourself the dangerous and troublesome part of a pretender.”

“Nay, Mynheer,” William glanced up, “I pretend to nothing; I went to Middelburg to enter upon an office mine by right.”

“You had not the sanction of the State.”

“Mynheer--I was within the law--the law of the Republic,” answered the Prince. “The State of Zeeland invited me, and I saw no reason to refuse. If Their High Mightinesses consider Zeeland did amiss--it is a matter for the Assembly.”

The Grand Pensionary seated himself the other side of the hearth and fixed his deep eyes on the Prince’s composed face.

“You did a daring thing, an ill-considered thing, and, I think, a dishonourable thing,” he said.

William blushed hotly at that last epithet, and for once the effort at control showed. He was silent because he did not trust himself to speak.

“I put before you,” continued John de Witt, “the state of the country. I asked you to dissociate yourself from the faction that used your name. You evaded my frankness, you deceived my trust; while you assumed docility you were planning to raise the standard of revolt. While I was teaching you your duty to God and your country you were secretly nursing selfish, ambitious, and dangerous designs. In a word,” he made a disdainful gesture with his hand, “you deceived me.”

The Prince made a movement that tossed his violet mantle back from his shoulders.

“I have never given you my word on any matter on which I have broken it,” he said in a low voice, “nor used fair speeches. My behaviour has been what you might have looked for from a State prisoner. I have said I am grateful to you for your care, M. de Witt; I repeat it, you have my duty and my friendship.”

“What duty or friendship was it that played this stroke?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

William raised his brilliant eyes.

“I was within the law, Mynheer. That I went to claim my father’s private titles has nothing to do with affairs of State.”

“Your visit had a political complexion.”

“Who has so represented it to you? Any lord visiting his fief would receive the welcome Zeeland gave me. I could not imagine that the friendliness of people long devoted to my House could cause uneasiness to the Government.”

Their eyes met, but nothing was expressed in William’s steady glance that M. de Witt could read his words by.

“Not uneasiness to the Government, Highness,” answered the Grand Pensionary quietly, “for that is strong enough to quell whatever dissatisfaction your action may have raised, but uneasiness to me, who have your welfare at heart. I had hoped to accomplish as your friend what I may now have to perform as your adversary.”

The Prince looked into the fire. The lace on his breast was rising and falling quickly with his breathing, and his reddish, arched brows were raised slightly. John de Witt marvelled in his heart at this youth’s control; he was a little baffled by it. His desire was to take William’s manner for sincerity; experience, and the counsels of Cornelius, warned him that it might very well be diplomacy. Himself, he was using the one weapon he had used all his life, a noble, simple honesty of purpose and of speech.

“You have heard what has taken place in the Assembly?” he asked.

“Yes, Mynheer.” William drew out his laced handkerchief and pressed it to his lips. “It is concerning the measures lately passed in the Assembly that I wished to speak to you.”

“They could not please you,” said M. de Witt, half mournfully; “but you forced me.”

The Prince coughed.

“It seems you think me dangerous, Mynheer?”

John de Witt answered him directly--

“I think the position you might assume would be dangerous.”

William lifted suddenly smiling eyes.

“Were not my hopes of dominion effectually foiled by the Perpetual Edict, Mynheer, that you needed other laws to strengthen your power?”

“Not my power,” replied M. de Witt, “but the safety of the Republic.”

William pushed back the hair from his low forehead.

“Ah, you credit me with ambitions--am I not sufficiently helpless? Do you think I should intrigue for the mastery of the Seven Provinces, I--who am heir to nothing?” He gave a little smile, half bitter. “You need not have taken these precautions, M. de Witt.”

“Of what does Your Highness complain?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

William answered with a flash of repressed feeling--

“Their High Mightinesses engaged to give me the Captain Generalship when I came of age … and it has been placed in the hands of M. de Montbas.”

“You are not yet of age, Highness--youth and inexperience must wait and learn. M. de Montbas is a good soldier, and the States have confidence in him.”

The Prince’s hand closed tightly on the arm of his chair.

“And I had your promise, Mynheer, to obtain for me a seat in the Council of State, yet I hear you oppose my election----”

“By your action in Middelburg you have forfeited my favour in this matter,” replied M. de Witt. “And I am sorry.”

William bit his lip.

“You have seen the Princess Dowager,” he said.

“And won her to my views for you.”

“What are your--views, Mynheer?”

“I have told Her Highness that the States will not be forced. By premature intrigues you merely endanger the goodwill of the Republic, on which rest all your hopes.”

The Prince gave him a keen look.

“So--you will oppose me in the Assembly?” he asked, rather breathlessly.

“I shall oppose your election into the Council of State, Highness--at least till you are of age.”

“And your reason, Mynheer?”

“My reason,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely, “is that I am the servant of this Republic and sworn to maintain it in its integrity, therefore I cannot put so much power into the hands of one who has nothing save his birth as a qualification. I am not blind to your abilities, Highness, but you are too young, and have just given proof you may be too ambitious.”

William made a little movement in his chair.

“And the Captain Generalship?” he asked.

“On that point the States are adamant, it remains in the hands of M. de Montbas--until you are of age at least.”

There was a second’s pause while William strove to contain himself, when he spoke it was in a low voice--

“I am sorry to have incurred your enmity, Mynheer.”

“Not my enmity,” returned M. de Witt, with feeling; “there you mistake me, Highness.”

“You yourself assure me of your opposition to my claims,” said the Prince. “You yourself tell me that you have withdrawn your promise in the matter of the Council of State.”

“And I have told you why: because I uphold this Republic, because I must serve what I have sworn to serve, because I cannot, on my conscience, sacrifice the liberty of many to the aggrandisement of one--because I am opposed to princely power. But this does not leave me, Highness, the less your friend.”

William was silent.

The shadows had so encroached on them that they could hardly see each other. M. de Witt himself lit the candles and placed them on the mantelshelf, where they were reflected in the tortoiseshell-framed mirror.

As the steady light filled the chamber the Grand Pensionary looked down at the Prince.

“Do you not understand,” he said, “my position, what I must, and what I shall do?”

“I understand,” answered William, “what I can not do, Mynheer.”

“I have angered you, Highness.” John de Witt spoke gently. “It is against my will--I would serve you any way I could--I would forget the unruly spirit you have shown. Is it not possible there might yet be confidence between us?”

The Prince replied as abruptly as irrelevantly--

“Mynheer, was it by your commands I was slighted at Breda?”

John de Witt’s face hardened.

“I know of no slight, Highness. It was you who treated the officers with contempt when you refused to sit down to table with them.”

“By your desire I was placed below M. de Montbas?”

“Yes, by my desire,” answered M. de Witt firmly. “Why do you refer to this incident, Highness? It was against my wish that you went to the camp, and in the matter of the banquet you behaved foolishly.”

“There was no gentleman there, as there is no gentleman in the United Provinces, above me in rank,” said the Prince, and a barely contained pride was in his eyes and voice.

“M. de Montbas is above you as the representative of the Republic and the head of the Army, Highness.”

Again William bit his lip. With the effort of keeping back the passion in his soul he flushed and quivered, fixing his eyes, that he knew often betrayed him, on the fire.

“Very well, Mynheer, I shall remember your wish, or the desire of the law, whichever I must call it.”

At the slightest touch of submission John de Witt always softened instantly.

He crossed the hearth, came behind William’s chair and laid his hand affectionately on the youth’s shoulder.

“It is difficult to be a prince in a Republic. You have, in many ways, a hard heritage; believe me, I have always understood it. We owe your House too much … of all things I detest ingratitude.… I have seen nobility in you, too. You will be worthy of your name.”

The Prince, whose perfect insight and tact had already assured him that he would obtain no concessions from the Grand Pensionary, controlled himself to a soft answer.

“This further puts me in your debt, M. de Witt,” he said, and rose, holding the mantle on his breast. “You will not find me ungrateful … if I have troubled you … you must forgive me.”

This graceful surrender surprised and touched M. de Witt.

“Indeed I have been ill,” continued William, “or I had written to you--but since I could not with my own hand, I was loath to send you a letter by a clerk.”

“I am sorry for your ill health,” said M. de Witt sincerely, “and glad that you are reasonable.”

“I trust you will never find me otherwise, Mynheer.”

All trace of ill-humour had vanished from the Prince’s manner. He could, when he chose, be charming; very few could resist him when he unbent, certainly not John de Witt.

“We will take up our interrupted studies, Highness, and I will overlook an indiscretion, as you must overlook some necessary harshness,” he smiled.

“Do not recall M. Bornius and M. de Chapuygeau,” pleaded William frankly. “Mynheer, I know all they can teach me. M. Huggens, M. Van Ghent, and yourself are sufficient tutors for me,--nay, you will do me this favour, not to put over me men whom I dislike.”

John de Witt was still smiling.

“You had no right to dismiss them, Highness, but to show my goodwill I shall obtain this favour for you.”

“I am greatly obliged to you, Mynheer.”

William was thanking him, flattering him, with his marvellous eyes, his low voice and grateful carriage.

“Will you honour me with a visit to-morrow, Mynheer?” he asked, with an air of courteous outspokenness that sat charmingly on his youth. “I have left M. Van Odyk in Middelburg to exercise those duties that will be mine when I am out of tutelage--for the rest, I beg you will forgive them.”

“Highness,” answered John de Witt, gravely and sweetly, “it is my mind ever to spend as little time as possible in looking backwards, it will be my very great happiness to forget everything save your good qualities, and to work side by side with you in the future.”

William fixed his smiling eyes on the Grand Pensionary’s face and held out his hand--

“Thank you, Mynheer, my actions shall show me not ungrateful.”

M. de Witt clasped the frail fingers warmly.

“Mr. Bromley will be tired of waiting,” said the Prince, “and I fear I have already trespassed on your kindness.”

He picked up his hat and gloves from the chair by the fire.

“Until to-morrow, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary came to the door with him. The lamps were lit in the Kneuterdyk Avenue, and the invariable autumn mists were blowing coldly from the sea.

“There will be skating soon,” said William, with a little shiver.

Mr. Bromley, walking the horses up and down, stopped before the house at sight of his master.

“Good-night, Highness.”

“Good-night, M. de Witt; and again, thank you.”

The Grand Pensionary closed the door, and the Prince descended the steps. As he turned his back on M. de Witt’s house his eyes narrowed as if he looked at something a long way off.

“Well, Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley, who was rather cold but still good-humoured.

William mounted without touching the stirrup, and gathered up the reins.

“He is iron,” he said; “I could not do anything nor even attempt it. How much longer?” he added in a sombre passion, “how much longer?”

They trotted the horses briskly through the cobbled streets.

“M. de Chapuygeau and M. Bornius are not coming back; I have at least two masters the less,” remarked the Prince, with a gloomy satisfaction.

“I am glad, Highness,” answered Mr. Bromley, who hated these two. “And M. Van Ghent?”

“He stays--I could not speak against him.”

“Did M. de Witt mention his secretary who came to join you at Middelburg?”

“No. I cannot keep him in my service, Bromley--yet he might be useful,” added the Prince, with the statesman’s dislike to waste good material. “Well, we will talk of it to M. de Zuylestein.”

He lapsed into silence, but as they passed the Stadhuis Mr. Bromley roused him.

“Then you are still on bad terms with M. de Witt?” he suggested; wondering what this interview had amounted to, and whether the Prince’s cause had been advanced or no by this flight to Middelburg and its results.

“I am very good friends with M. de Witt,” answered William grimly, from out the depths of his riding-cloak collar, “and he hath forgiven me. But I had to fawn on him--fawn on him, Bromley!… It is a thing not to be forgotten.”