A DARK DAWNING
In the King's antechamber at Kensington House my Lord Dorset and one of his pensioners (of which he had a many) awaited an audience of His Majesty.
It was a year since the Revolution, a cold-wet autumn, and Kensington House, recently bought from my Lord Nottingham, stood blank and sad among dripping wet trees.
Lord Dorset strolled to the window and looked out on the great park spreading to the horizon. He, in common with every other Englishman, found both house and grounds an ill substitute for Whitehall, where the King would never go when not forced, spending his time at Hampton Court, Holland House, or here, in this half-built villa, still disfigured with the scaffolding poles of the alterations Mr. Wren was putting in hand. Lord Dorset sighed; he was a tolerant, sweet-natured man, more interested in art than politics; he had been magnificent as Lord Buckhurst, and was more magnificent as Marquess and holder of the office of Lord Chamberlain.
Presently the Lords Shrewsbury and Nottingham came out of the King's Cabinet; the first looked downcast, the second sour.
Dorset lifted his eyebrows at Shrewsbury, who said dolefully as he passed—
"Good God! we are like to get on the rocks—nothing is right."
When the two Secretaries of State had passed, Lord Dorset remarked to his young companion, with a kind of good-natured softness—
"You see—I have brought you to Court in an ill time; perchance I had best not press for an audience to-day——"
But even as he spoke the door of the Cabinet opened and the King came out.