“Mrs. Morley has heard the news?”
Anne looked surprised, and as obviously she hadn’t, Sarah lost no time in telling her.
“Radcliffe says measles, but the man’s a fool. From what I hear it’s the pox.”
“The pox!”
Sarah clicked her tongue impatiently. “You know what this can mean, Mrs. Morley?”
Anne looked startled. Then she said: “Of course. Oh, dear, we must act quickly.”
“There is nothing much we can do at the moment, Mrs. Morley, except be patient for a while.”
But Anne was not listening. “My boy must leave Campden House at once. If there is small pox in Kensington he may be in danger.”
If Dr. Radcliffe diagnosed measles, Dr. Millington could not agree with him.
The Queen was suffering from small pox, said Dr. Millington, and Mary believed him.
She assured them that she felt a little better and that night dismissed her women. “If I need you,” she said, “I shall call. If I do not call, I wish to be left in peace.”
When she was alone, she rose, and taking the boxes in which she kept her writings and correspondence she sat at her table. Many candles had been lighted at her command and piece by piece she destroyed what she had written in her journals, the letters she had received from William during his campaigns, those which she had received from her father and Frances Apsley; she wanted no one to pry into her life, for she had expressed herself too frankly in her journals about her relationships with others. She had always intended to destroy these things at the last moment; and she believed that moment had come.
All through the night she sat there, reading those letters which recalled so much of her life; they brought back memories of a passionate young girl—a girl who had dearly loved another woman before she had been thrust into a marriage for state reasons; of the reluctant marriage which she had done her best to make into the perfect union; of the love she might have had for two men, Monmouth and Shrewsbury, but had never been given, only dreamed of.
“My life has been like a succession of dreams,” she said aloud, “and it has never been easy to know where the world of dreaming ended and that of reality began. And now it is too late to discover.”
She thought of William who from the time she was fifteen had dominated her life. That meant for eighteen years. Eighteen years with William and they had never known each other. She pictured those eighteen years. She saw herself dancing with Monmouth, pleading with Shrewsbury to take office, offering him his Dukedom and the Garter. And she saw William going stealthily up the back staircase to the apartments of the maids of honor to be with Elizabeth Villiers, of his devotion to Bentinck and Keppel.
Perhaps, she thought, it would have been better to have looked for truth rather than to have made dreams.
She smiled at the ashes. The past was dead now and no one should read the truth through her.
But there was one thing she had forgotten. William and Elizabeth Villiers! She believed that she was close to death; yet William had been the one whom everybody had thought would go first. He spat blood; he was in constant pain and his asthma was dangerous. He could die suddenly.
She thought of his dying with the guilt of adultery on him.
She would write to him, implore him to repent of his sin, and warn him that there was only one way he could hope for forgiveness and that was to sin no more.
Writing had always come easily to her; that was why there had been so much to burn during this night. Now her pen flowed smoothly. She knew, of course, of his adulterous intrigue with Elizabeth Villiers and she implored him not to go to his death with that stain on his soul or she feared he would not be received into heaven. He must repent. She begged him to. He must give up that woman. She herself had known of his adultery all through their married life and it had given her great pain. He must repent now. She was going to put this letter into a casket which she would entrust to the Archbishop of Canterbury. And with it she would write to the Archbishop himself telling him the contents of the letter. Then William must take notice of it. It was the only way in which she could save his soul.
She wrote long and passionately; and enclosed the letter in the casket which she addressed to Thomas Tenison, Archbishop of Canterbury, and on the letters she wrote “Not to be delivered excepting in case of my death.”
Then she retired to her bed, exhausted. In the morning her condition had worsened.
Sarah had regained all her old vitality. Gloucester was now with his mother at Berkeley House and Anne watched over him constantly, terrified that he might have contracted the disease.
He went about the house asking questions. How was the Queen? Why did she not want to see him?
His mother explained that she was sick.
“More sick than you?” he asked.
“Much more,” she answered.
He looked at her sadly, his great head on one side.
“Poor Mama,” he said. “Poor Queen!”
There was excitement everywhere. Servants at Berkeley House who knew servants at Kensington Palace discussed the latest news.
Sarah could not restrain herself; she sat by Anne’s chair and insisted on discussing the importance of all this and the possibilities which must ensue if Mary died.
“You should write to her now,” advised Sarah. “You should if necessary see her. It would not be good if she were to die and you two not friends. Who knows what would happen. What you do now is of the utmost importance.”
“I should feel unhappy if I did not have a chance of being friends with her again. I remember when we were little. I used to think she was so wonderful. I copied everything she did.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sarah, “but it is now that is important, not the past.”
Sarah was a little overbearing, thought Anne. She herself felt depressed. It was terrible to think that Mary—once her dear Mary—might be dying. They had not spoken to each other for so long and that made her very sad. She wished that they had never banded together against her father. The last year or so when she had been confined so much to her couch had made her more thoughtful.
She would write to Mary and ask if her sister would see her. There was no danger to herself for she had had the small pox. In any case, she would have risked danger to see Mary and be friends again.
Sarah was pleased. As Anne’s chief lady she would write to the Countess of Derby telling her the Princess Anne’s wishes.
A reply came, written in the hand of the Countess of Derby.
Madam, I am commanded by the King and Queen to tell you they desire you would let the Princess know they both thank her for sending and desiring to come, but it being thought so necessary to keep the Queen as quiet as possible, hope she will defer it. I am, Madam, your ladyship’s most humble servant.
E. Derby.
There was a postscript to this letter which Sarah found significant. It read: “Pray, Madam, present my humble duty to the Princess.”
“It is the most polite note we have had for some time,” said Sarah gleefully. “And what do you think Madame Derby means with her postcript?”
“She presents her duty to me.”
“Her duty! She is suddenly very dutiful. Why? I ask you, Mrs. Morley. It is because when Mary is gone, Mrs. Morley will hold a very important position in this land.”
Sarah looked at Anne who had begun to weep silently.
But Sarah was right. During the next few days there were many callers at Berkeley House. Those who of recent months had not thought it necessary to be aware of the Princess Anne’s existence, now wished to pay their humble respects to her.
No wonder Sarah was gleeful.
In Gloucester’s apartments the servants were talking of the topic which was on everyone’s lips.
“Well, Mr. Jenkins, I have just had it from the Queen’s usher. It is not the small pox. It’s only measles.”
“Oh, be joyful!” cried Jenkins. “Dear lady, she will recover soon.”
“Oh, be joyful,” murmured Gloucester.
“What did you say, sir?” asked Jenkins.
“What you did, Lewis. You said ‘Oh, be joyful’ but soon you will be saying ‘Oh, be doleful’.”
He walked away from them with his strange gait, for he had never yet been able to walk straight on account of his affliction.
They looked after him and then looked fearfully at each other. He was such a strange boy.
The Queen was dying. There was no doubt of it now.
In her bedchamber it was stifling, for so many people came to see her die.
The scent of herbs and unguents filled the room; there were the sounds of whispering voices, of prayers and of weeping.
Mary was not aware of this; she did not see her doctors or her ministers and those who called themselves her friends gathered together to see her die.
The Princess Anne had sent a message by Lady Fitzharding who, determined to deliver it, forced her way to the Queen’s bed. She said in ringing tones that Her Highness the Princess Anne was deeply concerned for her sister.
Mary understood for she smiled faintly and whispered: “Thank her.” Then she closed her eyes.
William who had been told that her end was very near lost his indifference. She would have been astonished if she could have seen his grief. Never while she lived had he shown such feeling for her; but now that he was losing her he remembered all her goodness, all her affection; and he was struck with a sense of great desolation.
Bentinck was at his side—Bentinck who had grown away from him; but at such times it was to old friends whom one turned. “I must go to her,” he said,
“I must ask forgiveness …”
“Your Majesty yourself is ill,” said Bentinck.
As William rose he swayed and would have fallen had not Bentinck caught him.
The King had fainted.
Half an hour passed before, leaning on Bentinck for support, he was able to go to her sickroom. All calm deserted him, and as he stood by the bed he cried aloud: “Mary!”
But she did not answer him. She who had always longed for his affection could not respond now when it was given as never before.
The irony of the situation came home to him. He wanted to show her that he loved her, for now that he had lost her he understood her goodness to him, all that she had offered and he had rejected.
But she had gone. She would never speak to him again, never give him that fearful tremulous smile.
He covered his face with his hands; his body had begun to shake.
Those in the death chamber of Queen Mary saw the astonishing sight of William of Orange giving way to his grief.
TO BE DELIVERED AFTER DEATH
lowly recovering from the grief which surprised him no less than it did those about him, William began to consider his own position, and he was alarmed. He had threatened often to return to Holland, but the prospect of being forced to do this was not pleasing. At his christening the midwife had prophesied three crowns for him; he had won them and he intended to keep them.
He was a wise man; he was a brave man, and his somewhat sour outlook prepared him more for disadvantages than for advantages. He had never tried to gloss over the fact that he was unpopular and that he lacked those qualities to inspire affection. Even his enemies respected him as a great leader; but for the nature of his coming to England and its inevitable conflicts, his rule would have been beneficial. No one who lived close to him and realized what physical torments he suffered uncomplainingly could but admire him. But the fact remained that though he had virtues which bordered on greatness he was completely unlovable.
He turned now to Bentinck, who, like the true friend he was, forgot the estrangement of the past and was by his side in this crisis.
Bentinck, so like himself in many ways, lacked his powers of endurance, his calmness in adversity, his great leadership, but, in place of this lack, possessed a charm and an ability to inspire affection.
He knew that he could trust Bentinck as he could no one else now that Mary had gone.
“Well Bentinck, what news?”
“Some mourn the Queen, some rejoice.”
William nodded.
He wanted the worst so Bentinck would not hesitate to give it.
“In some of the taverns, they are singing Jacobite songs. They are shouting: ‘No foreigners. No taxes!’ ”
“Do they want James back?” said William wearily. “They will say ‘No popery’ then. What’s it to be, foreigners and taxes to keep him out or popery to bring him in? They can make their choice.”
“They have made their choice. If he came back they would be shouting ‘No popery’ through the streets again.”
“And the lampoons?”
Bentinck nodded.
William held out his hand.
“Do you want to look. They are so silly.”
William took the paper and read:
Is Willy’s wife now dead and gone?
I’m sorry he is left alone
Oh, Blundering Death, I do thee ban,
That took the wife and left the man!
Come, Atropos, come with thy knife,
And take the man to his good wife;
And when thou’st rid us of the knave,
A thousand thanks then thou shalt have.
William screwed it up in his hands with a wry smile.
“So foolish,” murmured Bentinck.
“Yet in these outpourings we have an indication of public feeling. We should never shut our eyes to that, my friend.”
“And you have thought how best to act?”
William nodded. “I have been considering the Princess Anne. You know how I loathe the woman.” Bentinck nodded and William gave a sharp laugh. “As much as she loathes me. But this estrangement should end, of course. They will all be looking to her, for now there can be no doubt that she is the heir to the throne.”
Bentinck knew his master well enough to understand what was passing in his mind. What was his position now that Mary was dead? Would the people allow him to keep the crown? Would they remember that in the direct line of succession, Anne came before him.
If this were so, a continuance of the estrangement between them could make great trouble. There was enough conflict abroad; William must have peace with Anne. Therefore a reconciliation was essential.
Thomas Tenison, Archbishop of Canterbury, was asking for an audience with the King on a matter of vital importance, and William ordered that he should be admitted without delay.
The Archbishop was surprised by the signs of grief in William’s face, for never before had he seen him betray any emotion. Never during his married life had he shown how much affection he had for his wife; and in view of the Archbishop’s mission the latter was doubly surprised.
