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
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.