“And then,” so the chronicle continues, “her agony increasing, she repeated the word ‘Truth, truth, truth’ often.”[[282]] In that wild March morning, when the wind beat and clamoured round the ancient palace of the kings, those hoarse whispers fell awfully on the ears of the watchers, though most likely she herself was unconscious of them. Of her own kindred only her younger brother, Lord Rochester, came to bid her his last farewell, refusing to believe in her change of faith, but the elder, Cornbury, unable to forgive her apostasy, remained away. Of her sister Frances there is at this time no record.
[282]. Burnet further says that the Queen stayed in the room of the Duchess to prevent the prayers of the Church of England being read, but this is improbable.
But she who lay there was past all such things now, and the presence or absence of kinsfolk was alike of little matter.
Blandford “made her a short Christian exhortation suitable to the condition she was in, and so departed.”[[283]]
[283]. “Memoirs of the Court of England under the Reign of the Stuarts.” J. H. Jesse.
Perhaps she received the last rites of Rome from Father Hunt, the Franciscan, who a few months back had admitted her into that fold, but even this is uncertain.[[284]] Another authority declares that there was “noe Preest,” but that Father Howard and Father Patrick, who had come to St James’s in attendance on the Queen,[[285]] were waiting in the ante-room without, and they were probably praying for the parting soul.
[284]. James himself declares: “She died with great resignation, having received all the Sacraments of the Catholic Church.”
[285]. “Verney Memoirs.” Sir William Denton to Sir Ralph Verney.
Out of consideration for the King’s wishes, and in deference to public opinion, the Duke of York, to whom it is impossible to deny some amount of sympathy in this supreme moment, and the difficult part he had to play, sent for the Bishop of Oxford, though by the time the latter arrived, the Duchess was already unconscious.
But in the interval there had been a last appeal, not indeed of controversy, but of human affection, a spark from the fading embers of the old, half extinguished fire, the love which had dared and risked so much in other days. From the ante-room where throughout those dark hours he had perforce to interview one and another, English bishop and Roman priest, courtier and emissary of state, to answer inquiry, to dictate fitting replies, James came quietly in once more, and mounting the dais, stood looking down on the face which had once—yes, once—been so dear to him, the face for which he had braved his mother’s wrath, his brother’s arguments, the scorn of his followers. Anne’s eyes were closed, the long dark tresses tangled over the laced pillow. The world was slipping silently away, or rather it was she who was drifting out upon the waves of death. The long-drawn breaths were growing fainter. A great longing came over him, a longing for at least a final recognition—a word, a look. He stooped over her, and spoke in hushed, unsteady accents from dry lips.