The death of the Duke of Gloucester was not much lamented in the political world, for his existence had been rather an obstacle to the designs of the various parties; but to his mother, aside from her deep sorrow, it proved an event of the utmost importance; for even in her own household her position was altered, and she was not treated with the same deference as before.
Lady Marlborough was the first person by whom the change was made apparent, though she of all others had most reason to be grateful to Princess Anne. She had gone with her husband to Althorpe, just a short time before the little duke's death, to further a scheme that they had made between them. King William's health was so poor that they had reason to believe it would not be long before Anne would replace him on the throne. When that should occur, it was argued that she would be assisted in the government by certain statesmen, who would shrink from any cooperation with them, so they planned a strong family alliance that would greatly strengthen their influence. They were aided by the sly politician, Sunderland, and by Lord Godolphin, whose only son had, during the previous year, married their eldest daughter. When this marriage took place Princess Anne presented the bride with five thousand pounds, and gave a similar sum to Lady Marlborough's younger daughter, Anne Churchill, when she married Sunderland's son.
These two marriages formed the principal features in the Marlborough scheme for their own advancement when the proper time should come. For the purpose of doing away with formality when writing to her favorite, it had been early agreed that the princess should merely be addressed as Mrs. Morley, and Lady Marlborough as Mrs. Freeman, which brought them to the same level. Since her bereavement Princess Anne had become more humble, and Lady Marlborough more imperious. When the latter was absent she received three or four notes a day, some of which were signed "your poor, unfortunate, faithful Morley." But the indulgence and kindness of the princess had only spoiled the woman, who was so puffed up by prosperity as to render herself positively ridiculous. She even went so far as to avert her face and turn up her nose when she had any slight office to perform for her benefactress, as though there was something about her person that produced disgust. In course of time the princess began to notice what others had seen for a long while; but accident revealed to her one day the extent to which the ungrateful creature could go with her insults.
One afternoon when Princess Anne was at her toilet, she requested Abigail Hill to fetch her a pair of gloves from the table in the adjoining room. Miss Hill passed into the room designated, leaving the door open behind her. There sat Lady Marlborough reading a letter. Miss Hill soon discovered that she had, by mistake, put on her royal highness' gloves, and gently called her attention to the fact. "My goodness!" exclaimed Lady Marlborough, "have I on anything that has touched the odious hands of that disagreeable woman? Take them away quickly," and she pulled off the gloves, which she threw violently to the ground. Miss Hill picked them up without a word, and left the room closing the door behind her. Lady Marlborough thus remained in ignorance that her disgraceful speech had been overheard; but Abigail Hill saw plainly that not a word of it had been lost on the princess, who never forgot or forgave the disgust manifested by the woman on whom she had lavished affection and favors. Fortunately, the princess had no other attendant besides the one she had despatched for the gloves, so the incident remained a secret for the time being. Lady Marlborough was made to feel on several occasions that she had seriously offended the princess, but was at a loss to know how or when. She could not ready have felt the disgust she expressed, because Princess Anne was renowned all over Europe for the beauty and delicacy of her hands and arms; but perhaps it was envy.
Princess Anne had not taken off mourning for her son when news arrived of the death of her father. This event did not cause her a great deal of sorrow, nor did she think fit to take the slightest notice of the request he made in his farewell letter to her, that when William should die she would make way for her brother on the throne.
King William was at Loo, in Holland, when James II.'s message of forgiveness was delivered to him, and he was so impressed by it that he sat in moody silence the entire day. That was his way of showing that he was painfully affected; but it did not remove the ill-feeling he felt towards the dead king for refusing to permit him to adopt his son,—a request he had made after the death of the Duke of Gloucester. Neither did it prevent his issuing a bill accusing the young Prince of Wales, a boy of twelve, of high treason. But he put on mourning for his uncle, and ordered his footmen and coaches to appear in black. All the nobles and the court of England imitated him, and mourning became the fashion.
His majesty returned to England, as usual, in the autumn, and left the Earl of Marlborough in command of his military forces in Holland, feeling certain, as he said, that the talents of that general would enable him to continue in his stead should his death occur. And it did not seem far off, for William had been seriously ill, the effects of which had so reduced his already enfeebled frame that all who saw him knew he was not long for this world. Nevertheless, he busied himself with preparations for involving England in a war with France, the object being to divide Spain into three parts, to be claimed by Austria, Holland, and England. This was to prevent Louis XIV. from becoming too powerful by his influence over his grandson, who was heir to the Spanish throne.
It was no other than John Fenwick's sorrel pony that brought William's warlike projects to a close. And this is how he did it: His majesty was fond of the pretty animal, and rode on him daily while superintending the excavation of a canal in Hampden Court grounds. It was on the twenty-first of January that he was riding about as usual, when suddenly the pony stuck one foot in a mole hill and fell, throwing his majesty over on his right shoulder, and breaking his collar bone. Some workmen assisted him to rise, and carried him to the palace, where the broken bone was soon set. The accident might not have proved serious had not William, with his usual obstinacy, insisted on driving to Kensington that night. The jolting of the carriage displaced the fractured bone, and he arrived in a state of exhaustion and suffering. The opera-