The King’s eyes opened. With an effort he smiled.
“This is the end, Davy.” He spoke feebly, little above a whisper.
“Have courage, Sir. This is not the end.”
The smile lingered.
“I shall not be sorry, Davy. In—truth, my spirit has—not been at rest—this many a day. Stay by me.” His eyes closed.
The day wore on. One after another the surgeons attended him. He was unconscious, but towards evening he came to himself and seemed better.
Several divines sat with him during the night; the Duke of York scarcely left the bedchamber. Roxhythe sat beside the bed, watchful, immovable.
Charles hardly opened his eyes. He was suffering great pain, but no complaint passed his lips.
On the second day news came of the nation’s grief. During these last years Charles had regained all his old popularity. The people were filled with dismay at his illness; prayers were read for him in every church.
On the fourth day of his illness it was thought that the King would recover, and London rejoiced. Suddenly there was a relapse and the physicians knew that they could not save him.
At sight of her husband’s sufferings, the Queen had fainted and had been forced to retire.
When the news came that the King was dying, the Duchess of Portsmouth had an interview with M. Barillon, as a result of which M. Barillon spoke long and earnestly to the Duke of York.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had urged the King to receive the Sacrament. Charles seemed sunk in apathy.
Thomas Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, fared no better.
Then came James to the bedside, and ordered everyone to stand back. He spoke quietly to his brother.
“Yes—yes! with all my heart!” gasped Charles.
The Duke whispered again. The King’s answer could not be heard.
My Lord Roxhythe was speaking to M. Barillon when James approached. He turned to the Duke.
“Your Grace should seek out the Count of Castel Melhor.”
James frowned.
“There should be some Englishman.”
“There is not!” interposed Barillon eagerly. “The Count will find a confessor.”
“One who cannot speak English. To what avail?”
“It is almost the only chance,” said Roxhythe. “Where will you find a priest these days?”
James hurried out. Roxhythe went out also.
The Count promised to find a confessor, but not one was forthcoming who could speak enough English or French. James was distracted. Then came Roxhythe.
“Do you remember Huddleston, sir?”
“No!” snapped James. “I want no riddles now!”
Roxhythe looked his scorn.
“I offer you none. I speak of the man who saved the King’s life after Worcester.”
“That man!” James started. “Is he a priest?”
“Something approaching it. I have taken him to Castel Melhor who will see that he is well instructed. He is willing to shrive the King.” He went back to the bedside.
“He is very cold,” remarked M. Barillon. “Ma foi! I do not understand you Englishmen.”
“I thank God we are not all like Roxhythe,” answered James curtly. He left the room.
Later the room was cleared, only Feversham and Granville remaining, and Chiffinch brought Huddleston, disguised, by a back way.
For nearly an hour the door to the King’s chamber remained inexorably closed. Glances were exchanged in the outer room, full of significance. Then again the door was opened and everyone was allowed to enter.
The King’s children were brought to receive his blessing, but the absent Monmouth’s name never once passed his lips.
During the night Charles regained some of his old urbanity. He sent messages to the Queen, and recommended several people to his brother’s care. He even contrived to crack a joke.
The dawn came. Roxhythe was kneeling by the bed, the King’s hand in his. His face was a mask; he seemed not to notice anyone in the room save his master. During the night Charles had spoken with him in broken, laboured whispering. No one knew what he had said. His feeble voice reached the favourite’s ears alone, and not even James, watching jealously, could catch a syllable. He had only seen Roxhythe kiss the King’s hand again and again.
The light crept in at the windows. Charles ordered that the curtains should be drawn apart that he might see the day once more. Very shortly after, speech left him.
The slow hours crept on. Once the King’s eyelids flickered, and Roxhythe felt the faint pressure of his hand. He bent over it, his face hidden.
Charles became unconscious. It was now only a matter of hours.
The Duke of York came and went; from time to time the physicians took the King’s pulse. Nothing further could be done for him.
Drearily the moments ticked away. Except for the whispering of the men by the fireplace there was no sound.
M. Barillon jerked his head towards the still, kneeling figure by the bed.
“I think he feels it.”
Feversham sneered.
“As much as he feels anything. It means his downfall.”
“Perhaps,” said Barillon. “Perhaps.”
It was nearly noon. Dr. Shortt drew near the bed, bending over the King. He straightened himself and looked across at the other surgeons. They came to his side. …
Dr. Shortt came away from the bed.
“Gentlemen!”
Everyone turned anxiously. The Duke was with the other physicians.
“Gentlemen, the King is dead.” Shortt walked away to the window, blowing his nose.
There was a long silence. The Duke came away from the great four-poster, his face set. He went out quickly.
Roxhythe held the cold hand still. He had made no movement all through; it was doubtful if he had heard the sentence. Barillon looked at him curiously for a moment. Then he went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Milor’. …” He spoke gently.
Roxhythe looked up. His face was drawn and grey.
“Milor’ … you heard?”
Roxhythe stared before him.
“Ay. I heard.” The level voice did not tremble.
“Eh, bien!” Before this coldness M. Barillon’s gentleness fled.
