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.
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:
