When William at length left England he had extracted a promise from the King that he would call a new Parliament if Louis again invaded the Low Countries.
“Sir,” said Bentinck. “Does Your Highness trust His Majesty at last?”
“I trust no Englishman,” answered William shortly. “But I think to see upheavals in England.” More he would not vouchsafe.
“Sir,” said Roxhythe. “What of Louis?”
“Dear David,” replied Charles. “Am I a fool? I have placated M. Barillon. Louis plans to attack Luxembourg.”
“Ah! And you?”
“I believe I shall be blind to it,” answered Charles placidly.
“I see,” said Roxhythe. “To what figure does he go?”
“He is very mean. Only a million livres,” sighed Charles. “I must recall James once more. He grows a thought too violent in Scotland.”
Meanwhile Roxhythe was sowing hesitancy in Monmouth’s mind. The Young Duke was planning a rising all over the country, but Roxhythe, by some miraculous means or other, kept him uncertain, not daring to move boldly in any one direction, ever procrastinating, and ploughing through what seemed to him a bog of insurmountable difficulties.
Shaftesbury, already desperate, and fearing to be betrayed by the Duke’s wavering spirit, found that his brave London citizens were not to be relied on, and gave up the struggle, broken. He had reason to think that he would be arrested again, and, this time, not released. He feared Roxhythe, although he had no proof of my lord’s duplicity. Ill bodily, and more ill in spirit, he left London hurriedly and arrived in Holland in the middle of November, 1682.
He was suffering from an internal disease, and that, coupled with the many worries gathered about his head, hastened on his end. Some few weeks after his arrival in Amsterdam he died, brokenhearted, conscious of utter failure.
“So I win,” remarked the King.
“I told you, Sir, that you should give him rope,” replied Roxhythe.
“I had not dared without you, Davy.”
“Oh, I think you would!” smiled my lord. “We can now almost touch the end.”
“It is ended,” said Charles.
“Not while Russell and Essex are at large, Sir,” replied the favourite. “Wait!”
V
Plots
“David, ye are a rogue! We see you less and less at Whitehall!” said Charles.
Roxhythe smiled.
“I crave your pardon, Sir. In truth, I am busied with Your Majesty’s affairs.”
“Let be! They are very well.”
“Sir, they may be well for the moment, but as long as Russell and Essex and Sydney are at large trouble will continue to brew.”
Charles waved his hand impatiently.
“How can you prevent their being at large? Let be!”
“Sire, one word I seem to have repeated a number of times: wait! I am deep in plots.”
“I am tired of plots and plotters.”
“Why, so am I. So I seek to make an end.”
“Ye are very mysterious, Davy! Are you playing some deep game, I wonder?”
“I am amusing myself, Sir.”
“That means that you will say no more. Well, well!”
My Lord Roxhythe accompanied His Majesty to Newmarket Races, as was his wont. Five days before the appointed day of departure he had speech with Charles.
“Sire, will you be advised by me?”
Charles, lolling on a couch, stretched out his long legs, yawning.
“Roxhythe, you have become as secret as the grave! What now?”
“I ask you to return to London in two days’ time.”
The sleepy eyes opened.
“Oho! More plots?”
“The strings of which I am gathering into my hands.”
“And you’ll tell me naught?”
“Not yet, Sir. I must first enmesh my victims.”
Charles yawned again.
“I am sick of plots.”
“So I shall not worry you with this. But return to London the day after tomorrow, taking the Duke of York with you.”
“Very well, David. As you please.”
Thus it came about that the King and his brother drove quietly past Mr. Rumbald’s house at Hoddesdon two days before the appointed time. And Mr. Rumbald, who had arranged with one Goodenough and various others, to lie in ambush till the coach passed and then to stop it, and to murder the occupants, was justly incensed. He saw the coach go by, but he was alone in the house, awaiting his fellow-conspirators who were to arrive on the morrow, and he dared not attempt the deed.
Meanwhile, my Lord Roxhythe visited His Grace of Monmouth who was living in seclusion.
Monmouth greeted him effusively.
“Dear Roxhythe! I have been expecting you.”
My lord disengaged himself.
“I have been at Newmarket, Sir, and could not come before.”
Monmouth drew him to a chair.
“Sit down, my lord! sit down! I think you know Mr. Ferguson?”
Roxhythe turned to look at the grim Scotsman.
“I have that honour,” he bowed.
“Yes, I have met his lordship,” said the pamphleteer harshly.
Roxhythe glanced round the room.
“I do not see Lord Russell?”
“He is away from town,” answered Grey, one of Monmouth’s staunchest adherents. “He works to raise the West Country.”
“He is too finicking,” said Mr. Sydney suddenly. “Too cautious.”
Sydney was a very thorough Whig. In the past he had fought under Cromwell.
“Oh!” protested Monmouth. “We have surely need of caution!”
Mr. Trenchard, rough and ready, uplifted his voice.
“He makes no progress. Taunton will rise at my call.”
Monmouth smiled.
“We are indeed pleased with you, Mr. Trenchard.”
Roxhythe bit back a smile.
“It seems we make very little progress in any way,” grumbled Sydney. “We cannot rely on any part of the country to rise.”
“We must have patience,” said Monmouth vaguely.
“Patience will avail us naught! The longer we wait the more we lose!”
Someone argued this hotly. Others joined in.
“Peace, peace!” cried Armstrong. “Do ye quarrel in his Highness’ presence?”
“Ay,” nodded Monmouth. “I cannot have this babel.”
“Highness, all this dillydallying is a weakness!”
“Lord Grey is right!” Ferguson sat up. “We have to strike at the head!”
“That is right,” struck in Mr. Sydney. “The Duke should die.”
“How?” interposed Roxhythe. His soft voice easily made itself heard above the bickering at one end of the room.
Ferguson glowered at him.
“There are many ways.”
“Yet one should be decided on.”
“He might be intercepted as he returns from
