Anne took his arm, hoping that he had, as she heard, reformed his ways. It was true he was no longer a young man; he had been a great favorite of King Charles, for in his youth he had been one of the wits of the Court; he had taken part in many disgraceful scenes which some members of Charles’s Court had seen fit to call frolics, but that was long ago in his wild youth and he must be fifty now. James had always disliked him and Dorset was not one to curb his exuberance to seek favor; he had written satires about Catherine Sedley; and when the Bishops had been imprisoned had openly declared his sympathy with them. This had necessitated his retirement from Court. So both Compton and Dorset were her father’s enemies.

More than ever Anne wanted to get away; she was afraid now that their flight would be discovered and they be brought back. “Yes,” she said, “and let us hurry.”

The rain which had been falling all day had turned the soft soil of the park to mud, and Anne was not equipped for walking—a pastime in which she never indulged if she could help it.

On Dorset’s arm with Sarah and Lady Fitzharding beside her they started across the park; but they had not gone far when Anne gave a cry of dismay; her high heeled shoe had slipped off, and she was up to her ankles in mud.

“Where is Her Highness’s shoe?” asked Sarah imperiously.

They all peered down into the mud for the delicate slipper, but the night was dark and they could not see it.

“I can only hop,” Anne suggested.

But Dorset had taken off his long leather gauntlet and begged leave to slip it on the Princess’s foot.

This was done and Anne was half carried by Dorset across the park to where Henry Compton was waiting for them as arranged.

“Now,” cried Compton, “to my house by St. Paul’s.” He turned to his old pupil who laughingly showed him her foot encased in Dorset’s gauntlet.

“We will take a little refreshment at my house,” said Compton, “and find shoes for Your Highness. But before dawn we must be away.”

Before dawn the party set off for Copt Hall, Dorset’s house at Waltham, but on his advice and that of the Bishop they did not rest there long. Nottingham was their goal; and there they were received by Compton’s brother, the Earl of Northampton.

In Nottingham, Compton dressed himself in a military uniform and riding through the town carried with him a banner.

He cried out: “All people who would preserve the laws and liberties of England, rally to the Princess Anne, the Protestant heiress to the throne.”

The people ran out of their houses; they stood in the streets and cheered.

“No popery!” they cried. “A Protestant Sovereign for a Protestant people.”

On the morning after Anne had made her way through the rain and mud from the Cockpit to the waiting hackney coach, Mrs. Danvers went to awaken her mistress.

She knocked at the door and, receiving no command to enter, was bewildered.

She went to call Mrs. Buss.

“Her Highness does not answer me,” she explained.

“She is fast asleep,” said Mrs. Buss. “Open the door and go in. I will come with you.”

But when they tried to open the door they found it locked.

“Locked!” cried Mrs. Buss. “I never heard the like of this. Anything might have happened to Her Highness. We must force the door.”

“Wait a moment,” cautioned Mrs. Danvers and called out: “Your Highness. Are you there?”

There was no answer. “I am going to force the door,” said Mrs. Buss. “I take full responsibility.”

With that she threw her weight against the door and with Mrs. Danvers to help her they soon had the door open. Dashing in they saw that the Princess’s bed was empty.

“She has been abducted,” cried Mrs. Danvers.

“Murdered more like.” Mrs. Buss began to tremble. “The Queen’s priests have done this. We must not delay. Go and tell my Lord Clarendon. He was her friend. Go and tell him at once.”

Mrs. Danvers ran to do her bidding; but Mrs. Buss, who looked upon the Princess as her baby, ran out of the Cockpit to Whitehall.

When the guards asked her business she cried: “I want the Princess Anne.” And they, astonished, stood aside and allowed her to force her way into the Queen’s apartments.

Mary Beatrice, who was living in hourly fear of what would happen next, could only stare at the distracted woman.

“Give me the Princess Anne,” demanded Mrs. Buss. “You have brought her here against her will.”

“The woman is mad,” said the Queen. “Pray take her away.”

Guards seized Mrs. Buss who shouted: “I tell you the Princess has been abducted. You will find her hidden here. Release me, if you value your lives. If you are for the Princess Anne, release me.”

“Take here away,” ordered the Queen distastefully. “Send her back where she came from.”

When she was ejected from the Palace Mrs. Buss began to shout: “You have taken the Princess Anne. What are you doing to her?”

And very soon a crowd had collected.

“The Queen has made a prisoner of the Princess!” was the comment.

“For what reason?”

“Because she is a wicked Catholic and knows the Princess is a good Protestant.”

“Shall we stand aside and allow this Italian to harm our English Princess?”

“By God no! We’ll pull Whitehall to pieces to find where she is hidden!”

The news spread through the City and soon people were verging on Whitehall from all quarters. The foreigner would have to be shown that she could not harm their Princess.

It was Mrs. Danvers who found the letter on Anne’s table. It was addressed to her stepmother and said:

Madam,

I beg your pardon if I am so deeply affected with the surprising news of my husband’s being gone, as not to be able to see you, but to leave this paper to express my humble duty to the King and yourself and to let you know that I am gone to absent myself to avoid the King’s displeasure, which I am not able to bear, either against the Prince or myself, and I shall stay at so great a distance as not to return until I hear the happy news of a reconcilement; and as I am confident that the Prince did not leave the King with any other design than to use all possible means for his preservation, so I hope you will do me the justice to believe that I am incapable of following him for any other end. Never was anyone in such an unhappy condition, so divided between duty to a father and to a husband, and therefore I know not what I must do but to follow one to preserve the other. I see the general falling off of the nobility and gentry who avow to have no other end than to prevail with the King to secure their religion, which they saw so much in danger from the violent councils of the priests, who, to promote their own religion, did not care to what dangers they exposed the King. I am fully persuaded that the Prince of Orange designs the King’s safety and preservation and hope all things may be composed without bloodshed by the calling of a Parliament.

God grant a happy end to these troubles and that the King’s reign may be prosperous and that I may shortly meet you in perfect peace and safety till when, let me beg of you to continue the same favorable opinion that you have hitherto had of your most obedient daughter and servant.

Anne.

This letter was immediately published that riots might be averted.

It was a letter, said the people, of a dutiful daughter and a devoted wife. How good was the Princess when compared with her dissolute father!

The mob dispersed. The Queen should not be molested.

But the people were more firmly than ever behind Protestant William, Mary and Anne.

James, a sick and disappointed man, came back to London. It had been necessary to bleed him in Salisbury and he felt not only sick at heart but in body. He was thinking of that dismal supper when the news had come to him that one by one his generals were deserting him. Churchill gone—Churchill whom he had believed was his man, Churchill whom he had favored because he had loved his sister Arabella; then George—not that he had a high opinion of George or that he considered him a great loss—but his own son-in-law! Anne’s husband!

Anne! His beloved daughter. She was the only one to whom he could turn for comfort. At least he had his younger daughter. He had been deeply wounded by Mary’s coolness; but he told himself it was understandable. She had been away from home for so long and was completely under her husband’s influence; her choice had been between husband and father and she had chosen her husband. Yet once she had been his favorite child.

But there was still Anne. He smiled lovingly. She would always remember the closeness of their relationship. To whom had she come when she needed help? Always to her father because she knew that there she would find it.

Her husband had deserted him—but he was a weak fellow and never of much account. It would be different with Anne. When he was with his daughter he would be rejuvenated; together they would stand against his enemies.

As he came near to London he said: “I shall go first to the Queen and then to the Cockpit.”

He found Mary Beatrice in a state of great anxiety and terror that the mob would rise against her as they had when they believed she had abducted the Princess.

Unceremoniously she threw herself into her husband’s arms and wept while she embraced him and told him how happy she was to see him alive.

“We are surrounded by traitors,” she informed him.

“All will be well,” he replied. “I am going to see Anne and we will talk of this together.”

“Anne!” cried Mary Beatrice. “Did you not know then?”

“Know?” The fear was obvious in his voice and eyes.

“She has gone, like all the others,” said Mary Beatrice passionately. “She like all the others is against you.” He stared at her and she went on passionately: “You don’t believe it. You have blinded yourself. She and Sarah Churchill have long been your enemies. They are for Mary and Orange. She has forgotten her father because she does not want my son to have the crown which she hopes one day will be hers.”

“It cannot be true,” whispered James.

“Is it not? She has flown from the Cockpit. She has gone to join her husband, she says. She has gone to join them. She is against us as Mary is … as William is.”

James sank on to a stool and looked at his boots; then slowly the tears began to form in his eyes.

“God help me,” he said, “my own children have forsaken me.”

The conflict was over; it had been a bloodless revolution. A victory for Protestant England against the intrusion of Catholicism.

William of Orange had ridden to St. James’s Palace in a closed carriage. It was true it was raining but crowds had gathered expecting a little display; and there was William, with his long twisted nose, his great periwig that seemed too big for his little body, his stooping shoulders, his pale cold face. Not a King to please the English. How different from his merry Uncle Charles who on his Restoration had seemed all that a merry monarch of a merry country should be. But William was a Protestant and religion was more important than merrymaking; and in any case it was his wife Mary who was to be their Queen.

Mary Beatrice had escaped to France with the little boy who was called the Prince of Wales by James’s supporters, known as the “Jacks,” or Jacobites; but there were many who preferred to believe that the child had been introduced into the Queen’s bed by means of a warming-pan.

Anne had joined Prince George in Oxford where the people made much of them and called Anne the heiress to the throne. James had left Whitehall by means of a secret passage and had made his way to Sheerness where he intended to take a boat to France and join his wife and son; but he was captured and brought back to Whitehall.

The position was a delicate one. James had friends in London and even those who had been against him were moved to pity because his daughters had deserted him. He was a prisoner but on the orders of Orange, who was eager to avoid direct conflict, many opportunities were given him to escape.

James took advantage of this.

Only when James was sent out of London did Anne return with Sarah and Prince George.

The people came out into the streets to welcome the Princess who was so much more to their liking than grim William. Having no idea of the intrigues which had gone on at the Cockpit they declared their pity for her—poor lady to be torn between her duty to her father and to her religion. She had chosen rightly though and they were glad of it. This was the end of James; and the fear of Catholicism was over.

James meanwhile had been taken to Rochester, but his guards had had secret instructions to allow him to escape if possible. His wife and son were in France; William of Orange would be pleased if he were to join them there because he foresaw awkward complications if James stayed in England.

James acted as William had believed he would; he left Rochester under cover of darkness and a few days later landed safely in France where Louis XIV, implacable enemy of William of Orange, was delighted to give him sanctuary.

Sarah stood beside her mistress and they gazed at their reflections in the mirror. Sarah looked handsome, her lovely golden hair, her best feature, was decked with orange ribbons.

“Now, Mrs. Morley,” she said, “I shall do the same for you.”

Anne, whose childish passion for sharing pleasures was one of her most pronounced characteristics, expressed her delight.

“These ribbons are most becoming,” went on Sarah.

“They are to my dear Mrs. Freeman, but I fear poor Morley is not as handsome.”

“Nonsense,” said Sarah, but she smiled complacently at her reflection.

Sarah was delighted. This was not the end of a campaign; it was only the beginning.

The first battle was won. There was no longer a King James II; there would soon be a Mary II; and Mary had no children, so this fat young woman with the mild expression was the heir presumptive to the throne.

“So you like that, Mrs. Morley? I think it most becoming.”

“Then I am sure my dear Mrs. Freeman is right.”

Indeed it was the beginning.

“Let us go to the coach, now,” said Sarah.

Anne rose obediently.

So while James II battled against the seas on his perilous escape to France, his daughter Anne, in the company of Sarah Churchill, attended the playhouse—both resplendent in orange ribbons.

THE UNEASY CORONATION

illiam of Orange, riding in his closed carriage through the streets of London, was disturbed. The conquest had been too simple. Perhaps if there had been battles to be faced and won he would not have felt this depression; but here he was, come to England to preserve the land for Protestantism, and he was not even sure that he would be accepted as its King.

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