When William of Orange was wedded to the Lady Mary, in November, England rejoiced. On the eve of the wedding-day the streets of London were packed with jubilant citizens who made bonfires, and cheered lustily the King, the Lady Mary, and the Prince of Orange. They even cheered, though faintly, the Duke of York, who having at last consented to the marriage, was now putting a good face upon it. Enthusiasm, therefore, waxed great. Protestant successors were ensured to the throne, and the alliance undoubtedly pointed to a lasting split between Charles and the hated Louis.

Amid the festivities there was one who rejoiced not at all. This one was the French Ambassador, M. Barillon, who had received disquieting tidings from his royal master concerning the marriage, and knew that he was like to receive more. Nor was he mistaken in his conviction, for when my Lord Danby set before Louis tentative proposals for peace with the United Provinces, his Most Christian Majesty rejected them in no mean terms. He was very angry, and he recalled the harassed M. Barillon so soon as my Lord Danby showed signs of taking a firm stand against France.

In his position as secretary to Worth, Christopher was closely in touch with all these proceedings. His interest in them grew steadily. Through bitter experience had he learnt to mistrust the King, and at first he viewed Charles’ patriotic spasm with a sneer. But when supplies were voted for an army to go into Holland against France, some of his mistrust died. When troops were indeed sent to Holland, it faded almost entirely. He threw himself into his work with renewed fervour, feeling that at last he was working for the one incorruptible party.

Then came dissension, and he was puzzled. He was present at many turbulent discussions, and he listened in growing amazement to my Lords Russell and Roberts, who were of a sudden seized by a fear that the troops were being raised, not for war on France, but for the King’s private ends. Hot arguments ensued, some men denying the implication, others defending it, and a few holding themselves neutral. Chaos followed, and the nation, catching the panic which had spread from the Country Party to the Commons, cried aloud to have the army disbanded. It was then that Christopher discovered something that increased tenfold the load on his mind. These men whom he deemed so upright were, unwittingly or not, playing directly into the French King’s hands. Even Lord Russell, patriot that he was, was communicating through Barillon against the throne.

From his position as onlooker, Christopher saw clearly how Louis was fanning the flame of mistrust for Charles in the Country Party. When he realized that Louis and the Country Party were virtually in league against England, he was at first staggered by the shock. That the Country Party did not themselves realize this he fully acknowledged, but the fact that they should descend to communication with an openly enemy country against their own King filled him with sick disgust. Another ideal was shattered and lay in the dust at his feet; once again he had followed a path which he believed to be right, and which had proved to be wrong.

He handed his resignation to Worth; he could not be implicated in such negotiations.

Again he stood by himself, filled with a great loneliness, and an overwhelming sense of his own puniness. Back came the old longings, the old struggle. If only he could return to Roxhythe! Roxhythe, who did not vacillate, who saw clearly, who worked calmly for one end. After all, was not his the better part? The Country Party were no more honest than was he, and they were dishonest not that they might the more successfully serve a definite object. They wavered and played false in their search for what Christopher was gradually coming to think a vague ideal. They were divided against themselves; they knew no set purpose; they were swayed this way and that. But Roxhythe knew no wavering; he was unflurried; he stood firm.

In the face of his present difficulties and uncertainties Christopher’s need of him was greater than ever it had been before. His whole soul was yearning for Roxhythe; only his sense of right prevented him from going back. Then came days and nights of unceasing struggle, of hopeless unhappiness. Until now Christopher’s life had been placid and well ordered, filled with a great love. All this had been torn suddenly from him. Roxhythe had been his anchor; he had leant on him more than he knew. Now the support was gone, and he stood alone. He had thought to find peace with Worth, working for his country. That too was swept away. Life seemed to him a giant discord; a mass of complexities and unhappiness. There was no truth in mankind, only lust for power and money.

Two words thrummed in his brain: my lord. How many times had he repeated them, an ache in his throat, a mist before his eyes! To no purpose. It was all at an end: the happiness, the trust, the blissful years of companionship. Only the love remained, the love that nothing could kill; and the memories, bittersweet. Nothing else was left.⁠ ⁠…

At Court Charles was busy. Since Louis was angry, Louis must be placated. He sent Roxhythe to Paris with assurances of good faith. Roxhythe had a stormy interview with Louis. Louis plainly intimated that he would have no dealings with my lord. He had learnt that Roxhythe was without scruples; he had been informed that my lord had furthered the royal marriage, even taken part in the negotiations; he had trusted that my lord would exert all his influence to prevent it, and to promote France’s interests; he had understood that my lord was working for him in England; he now saw how empty were my lord’s fair words.

His Majesty was most incensed. He strutted in his wrath. Roxhythe remained as imperturbable as ever. He answered Louis smoothly. The marriage was necessary; England’s fears had to be set at rest. To which Louis replied that England’s fears might have been quelled in some other way, less insulting to his Majestic Person. Roxhythe grew more and more bored. His Majesty hardly understood the temper of the English people. Majesty replied that one thing he understood passing well, and that was the fickle temper of his cousin. Roxhythe became patient. He assured Louis of King Charles’ unswerving loyalty to his secret ally. Louis thereupon snapped his august fingers. He, Roxhythe, still worked for a binding treaty with France; it had been beyond his poor might to hinder the marriage negotiations. His Majesty had overrated his influence. But Majesty retorted that he had overrated the weight of his word. Roxhythe had done nothing in England to further the French cause. He had spoken, years ago, of raising dissension in the Commons over a possible marriage between William and Mary. Where had been the dissension? Everything had run as smoothly as it could! Roxhythe alluded gently to many dissensions raised in the past for Louis. Louis flung back at him that he had sought to trick his Most Christian Person into trusting him. He knew now that my lord played into King Charles’ perfidious hands alone. Roxhythe was pained. His Majesty grossly misunderstood his attitude⁠—and his master’s. Louis was a little mollified. He consented to listen to King Charles’ message. But he would give no answer.

Roxhythe went back to England knowing that in France his day was done.

Charles was momentarily cast down by the news that his favourite had not succeeded in his mission, but his cheery optimism soon came to the fore, and once again he set his brains to work. Through Danby he wrote to Louis, demanding a fresh pension in return for his good offices. Yet another secret bargain was sealed. Charles withdrew his troops from Holland on the understanding that Louis would make peace with that country. But no sooner had the English army left the Dutch shores than Louis culled a leaf from his faithless cousin’s book by taking back his peace-offers. Whereat the irrepressible Charles was much amused, and retired into the background to allow the foreign powers to fight out their quarrel alone. He was not at all perturbed by the turn affairs had taken, but rather pleased, as he was left with a large force at his disposal, never having declared war at all.

And so at length the Peace was signed, without English intervention. Mostly it was to Louis’ advantage, but on one point it thwarted him: Holland remained inviolate. William had triumphed, if not wholly, at least partially.

“So the little Orange wins!” said Charles. “That boy!”

“I told you he was a youth of parts, Sir,” answered Roxhythe placidly.

It was at this time that Christopher found a new master. My Lord Shaftesbury came to him, offering him a post as secretary to himself. He was but lately released from the Tower, and was burning with indignation and a fierce hatred for the King.

Christopher entered his service willingly, almost joyfully. Ashley had been his father’s friend; Ashley at least was honest. He settled down to work for him with a quieter mind, feeling that in this patriot he would find a friend as well as a master. His old resentment against Ashley was nearly dead, for all that Ashley had said against Roxhythe was true. Now they never spoke of my lord, for on the one occasion when Ashley had mentioned his name slightingly Christopher was up in arms at once. Not wishing again to alienate the young man from himself, Ashley thereafter eschewed the subject.

For a time all went smoothly. Christopher had much work to do, but in constant occupation he found mental relief, and he never grumbled at the ever-increasing load thrust on to his weary shoulders. Then, like a thunderbolt on the land, came the Titus Oates plot, and England was once more plunged into a ferment. The tale of the coming insurrection of the Catholics was swallowed avidly, although the King treated the whole plot with contumely, and its exposers with stern disapproval. At the best, the evidence brought forward by Oates and his confederates was absurd, and provedly inaccurate. When the interest and incredulity in the plot showed signs of waning, it was fanned to fresh flame by new depositions, made by Oates, more gruesome and improbable than ever.

To Christopher’s surprise, Shaftesbury credited the tale, and went into it thoroughly. Once Christopher expostulated with him, asking if it could be possible that Ashley believed Oates’ lies. Ashley shot him a sidelong glance and answered that it was indeed possible. Then he broke into an impassioned harangue against the Duke of York, who, he was convinced, was at the head of the plot. Christopher, knowing that his constant ill-health made Shaftesbury nervous and uncontrolled, thought little of this outburst. He was sorry that his master should be so led astray, but he trusted that in time he would return to his senses. But soon it was forcibly brought home to him that Shaftesbury was behind all the atrocities wreaked on the Catholics, and that it was Shaftesbury who encouraged the mob’s lust for blood. His last doubts were dispelled when he was set to work on a bill of Shaftesbury’s own making, excluding all Catholics from a seat in either House. Dimly he felt that this was but a stepping-stone to the exclusion of the Duke of York from the throne, and although he himself dreaded a Papist King he could not but feel aghast at Shaftesbury’s action in using such a means to procure the exclusion. He began, slowly, to realize that Shaftesbury believed in the truth of the plot no more than he did himself, but was merely feigning belief the better to attain his own ends. Day after day Catholic priests were infamously tried, and executed; every gaol was full of so-called suspects. And the King moved neither one way nor the other.

Shaftesbury’s bill passed both Houses, but in its chief object it failed, as it exempted the Duke of York. Interest in the plot died down again, and again Shaftesbury aroused it, this time by bringing forward a fresh accomplice of Oates, who embellished the original tale with new details, and even accused the Queen of being privy to the whole affair.

Charles was disdainful, but the Commons seized on the evidence eagerly. Every Catholic in the realm was ordered to be arrested, and Father Coleman, agent to the Duke of York, was executed.

Once more Christopher handed in his resignation. He gave my Lord Shaftesbury very definite reasons. He realised that my lord was using the plot as a furtherance for his own ends. He could not and would not remain in the service of one who allowed, nay, encouraged the murder of innocent men. He left Shaftesbury in heat.

There followed a series of executions that drove the blood cold in Christopher’s veins.

In vain did the Jesuit Fathers plead innocence and total ignorance of the plot. Their protestations were overruled, jibed at.

One Hill, employed at Somerset House, was tried, and in spite of all evidence in his favour, condemned to death. Christopher had much to do with this man when he had been in Roxhythe’s service. He had transacted various small businesses for Christopher, and when he had been ill one winter, Christopher had helped him pecuniarily. When the news of his sentence reached Christopher he went at once to Bevan House.

Roxhythe chanced to be in, and Christopher was shown into the library.

My lord rose and held out his hands.

“Dear Chris!”

Christopher clasped them tightly.

“My lord, I have come on very urgent business!”

“So?” Roxhythe pressed him into a chair. “What is it?”

“Sir, do you remember Hill?”

“No,” said Roxhythe. “You’ll take some wine, Chris?”

“No, thank you, sir. Please listen to me! I mean the Hill who was yesterday condemned to death.”

“Oh? Was there a Hill tried yesterday?”

“You must know, sir!”

“My dear boy, I do not interest myself in every little bourgeois who is indiscreet.”

“Yet I beg you will interest yourself in this! Perhaps you remember that silver filigree box that we procured with some difficulty?”

“Yes, I remember that. It was a remarkably fine box. I desired it for His Majesty.”

“I thought you would remember. It was I who found it through the agency of this Hill. Harcourt told me of him, and he got me the box from the wretched Prance who has been questioned lately. Sir, it is this same Hill who is to die. I would swear to his innocence! He was a poor meek creature, not one who would murder a magistrate! This miserable Prance has accused him of that. Will you not intervene on his behalf?”

“My dear Chris!” expostulated Roxhythe. “Do you expect me to meddle in these low matters?”

“It is in the cause of justice, sir! of right! If you would speak to His Majesty you could save him.”

“Maybe. But I certainly shall not worry the King.”

“My lord, my lord! Is it possible that you can see all these innocent men foully done to death and not raise one finger to help?”

“Chris, Chris, you are mad! Why this sudden interest in Hill?”

“It is not so much the individual as the cause! Enough innocent men have been murdered already! Why does the King allow it?”

“The King is not omnipotent, Chris. The public will not be content unless some blood is shed. If he interferes they will turn on him. His position is precarious.”

“So he allows these poor creatures to die without question!”

“What matter a few bourgeois?”

“My lord, don’t speak so! It⁠—it is dreadful! That the King should act thus!”

“My dear boy, the King dare not interfere. You must not think that he does not look on all this bloodshed with horror. But he can do naught.”

“Then can you not exert your influence? It is so dastardly!”

“No doubt I could, but I certainly shall not. It is unwise to tamper with the people’s will at this point.”

Christopher sprang up.

“You believe in these men’s innocence?”

“I have hardly noticed them. I daresay.”

“Then you are acting as I never thought it possible for you to act. Timorously! Cruelly!”

“Did you come here to quarrel with me?” asked Roxhythe. “Sit down, and talk of something else.”

“I came to implore you to help in the cause of right! I see I might as well talk to a stone!”

“My good child, you excite yourself over nothing.”

“Was it nothing that Father Coleman was murdered? That good man!”

“It was necessary. The King deplored it, but the people would have it.”

“I suppose you advocated it?” said Christopher bitterly.

“Certainly. I thought you knew that nothing counts with me save His Majesty’s safety and peace?”

“I⁠—I cannot answer you, sir. Oh⁠—oh, heaven, how I wish that I had never set eyes on you!”

Roxhythe stretched out his hand.

“Chris, dear boy, you are demented. Calm yourself.”

Christopher ignored his hand.

“Then ’tis you have driven me so! You did your best to break my heart⁠—and now you reveal yourself to me⁠—callous, ruthless! It⁠—hurts damnably, my lord.”

Roxhythe turned away. He said nothing.

“I⁠—I can’t rest! I⁠—oh, there’s no truth anywhere! no honour! I thought Russell and Worth were irreproachable; I thought Shaftesbury above suspicion! I was wrong, wrong, wrong! I’ve done with Englishmen! Each works for his own ends and cares not what means he employs to obtain them. Even you, my lord!”

“I suppose I should be grateful for the ‘even,’ ” said Roxhythe wearily.

Christopher went quickly to his side.

“Ah, no, sir! I⁠—didn’t mean it! I am distraught⁠—I⁠—never meant to say those things⁠—to you. Forgive me!”

Roxhythe laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Chris, you are distraught because you are rudderless. Come back to me!”

“No⁠—no! I cannot! Less than ever now. I⁠—I think I shall go out of my mind soon!”

“Chris, you were happy with me. Come back!”

“Ah, so happy! It could never be the same again. I must go⁠—right away, where I shall not see you.”

“Even though I beg you to stay?”

“Yes⁠—even then, my lord. Don’t try to persuade me! It is hard enough as it is.”

“So you’ll go away? Where?”

“Holland, sir. To join my brother, I think.”

“Orange,” said Roxhythe quietly. “That will be the end, Chris.”

“Yes, sir⁠—the⁠—end.”

“And all in search of⁠—what?”

“In search of honesty and truth. I will not sacrifice my honour for love of man.”

“So instead you’ll sacrifice your happiness for that vague thing called patriotism?”

“I’ll find happiness in my patriotism!”

“You are like to be disappointed,” said Roxhythe.