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But even for his sake they could not tolerate her interference in their lives and whenever they were with her flew into rages almost as violent as hers.

The Duke was aware of the atmosphere of his home and thought how characteristic of his life it had become. He had married the woman he loved and his love for her had been like a thread of gold running through the dark web of his life; she was with him now at the end which he knew could not be far off and her devotion and care for him was all he could have asked; and yet there must be this continual strife in his home—and not only in his home but in all his affairs. The building of Blenheim, the dismissal of Vanbrugh, the trouble with Cadogan … the quarrels with Sunderland.… But these belonged to Sarah and wherever she was there would be tempest.

As he sat in his chair he would hear the sound of family quarrels. Sarah’s shrill voice arguing with her daughters or expressing her contempt for her grandchildren. Lady Dye seemed the only one who was not at some time or other in the cloud of Sarah’s displeasure.

As the spring of the year 1772 passed into summer John felt himself growing weaker and tried to keep this from Sarah. His tenderness for her was as great as it had been in the days of their courtship and his greatest concern now that he knew death to be near was for her future. He knew that he had held her back from even greater recklessness; he admired her; she was in his eyes brilliant, but he could not be blind to the fact that she made trouble for herself and everyone around her.

Without him to restrain her what would become of her? Her daughters could help her—if they would. But she would never accept help from them; nor did they love her sufficiently to give it.

Whenever they came to see him he would turn the conversation to their mother; he tried hard to make them see her virtues.

“You have the best mother in the world,” he told them.

Mary, the franker of the two, replied that they had the best of fathers and that was all they could expect.

Their love for him pleased him but he would have transferred that devotion to Sarah if he could have done so.

He sighed. His daughters were as strong-willed as their mother—or almost; and he knew that he was too tired and sick to attempt to bring peace between them.

He would lie in his chair listening to Sarah discussing his case with Sir Samuel Garth, a doctor whom she respected, or sneering at Dr. Mead, whose methods she described as useless; he knew that there was trouble about a rumour concerning Sarah’s support of the Pretender; she would always have her enemies. It was very troubling and, most of all, the knowledge that he could do nothing about it.

It was June and from his window in Windsor Lodge he could see the green of the forest and hear the bird song. Everything fresh and renewed, and he so old and tired! He was seventy-two. A good age for a man who had lived such a life as his; and something told him that the end was very close.

Sarah found him lying on his bed and she knew the worst.

“John, my dearest love,” she whispered.

And he looked at her unable to speak but the devotion of a lifetime was in his eyes.

“What shall I do without him?” she murmured.

Then she was all briskness. Send for Garth. Where was that fool Mead? The Duke had had another stroke.

Henrietta and Mary came and waited in an ante-room, and Sarah left the sickroom while they were there.

“We want no quarrels over his death-bed,” said Sarah.

It was too late for him now to plead with them; he was failing fast. His daughters took their last farewell of him and Sarah came to be with him to the very end, which was what he would wish.

On the 16th June in the year 1722 the great Duke of Marlborough died.

He lay in state at Marlborough House and was later buried with military honours in Westminster Abbey.

Sarah gratified at the honours done him, for none, as she repeated frequently, deserved them more, faced the world