In the wainscotted rooms of Worcester House they were made welcome. Ormonde, tried and trusted, who had watched over the boyhood and shared the exile of his king with selfless devotion; and Southampton, whose memory could go back to the awful night, when he was keeping his vigil by the body of his dead king in St James’s, and the muffled figure of Cromwell stole into the dusky room to look at the calm face of his victim; and Edward Nicholas, the Secretary, of whom it could be said that there was “none more industrious, none more loyal, none less selfish than he.”[[105]] These with their host could talk over the days of strife and confusion, of rebellion and anarchy, wherein they had played their parts; days past, so all trusted, never to return. Together they could speak with hushed and saddened voices of lost friends and of the master whom they had served so faithfully, yet failed to save. There, too, often came John Evelyn, a friend true and loyal through long years. “This great person,” he says, speaking of Hyde, “had ever been my friend.” He would come by water from his house at Deptford—that Sayes Court near which he was afterwards to discover the young Gibbons at work on his great carving—and so, landing at the water-gate, would pass through the garden into Worcester House. And there likewise would be Morley, now Dean of Christ Church (who had come back before the Restoration, being sent by Hyde to contradict the report of the King’s apostacy), taking up once more the threads of the close friendship of many years. Perhaps, too, Gilbert Sheldon, who had gone joyfully to meet the returning king at Canterbury—now Dean of the Chapel Royal, but soon to be Bishop of London—was there also, ready for an argument or dispute with Morley, yet both of them united in virtue of long-standing affection for the Chancellor.[[106]] And among them would be other and younger guests: gallants scented and curled, in lace and satin, playing the courtier to the daughters of the house, Anne and even little Frances, or laughing with their young brothers, or, one of them, singing a dainty madrigal or so to the music of a lute or virginals.
[105]. “Life of Edward, Lord Clarendon.” Sir Henry Craik.
[106]. Dictionary of National Biography.
It was to all seeming a happy, sunny time, but suddenly into the midst of the cheerful trifling was flung an announcement which was to prove, with a vengeance, an apple of discord to all whom it could concern.
James, Duke of York, the King’s second brother, the heir presumptive to the Crown, and the Chancellor’s elder daughter, Mistress Anne Hyde, were married, and every one, whether remotely interested or no, stood aghast.
When the Duke first spoke to his brother on the subject is doubtful,[[107]] but according to his own memoir it seems to have been before the Restoration, possibly even at the time of the projected match with Fatima Lambert, though as we have seen he did not openly give it as a reason for his refusal.
[107]. “Original Papers containing Hist. of Gt. Britain,” arranged by John Macpherson, 1775; extracts from “James II., by himself”: “The King at first refused the Duke of York’s marriage with Mrs Hyde.”
Easy-going as Charles II. was on some points, he was naturally strongly opposed to such a marriage for his brother as one with the Chancellor’s daughter, since no possible advantage could result from it, and later, when he did give his consent, he only reluctantly withdrew his opposition.[[108]]
[108]. “Memoirs of the Court of Charles II.” Count Grammont, edit. Sir W. Scott, revised ed. 1846, note 42.
Nevertheless James disregarded the fraternal disapprobation, without at the time confessing the fact, for the marriage on which so much was to hang took place at Breda on 10th November 1659.