wrought gems,
Medallions, rare mosaics and antiques
From Italy, the niches filled:
Thine is the power to give
Thine to deny,
Joy for the hour I live.
Calmness to die.—WILLIS.
AS the object of young Stanley’s visit to England has no bearing upon
the _dénouement_ of this tale, we will not follow his footsteps thither.
It is probable, however, that we may meet with him on his return, for
we, too, although not in company with him, are about to cross the
Atlantic, and bear our reader along with us.
It is known that when Alice Heath sailed for England, she had strong
hopes from obtaining an interview with Charles II., that she might
succeed by her persuasions, in procuring the pardon of her husband and
father. These hopes, however, were by no means so strong as she had
given the outcasts reason to believe, for it had been clearly
represented to her, how difficult she might find it, owing to his
bitterness against the murderers of his father. Yet there were those who
advised her to the step, on the ground that her chance of success,
although, indeed, thus slender, was by no means entirely void. And, on
this bare possibility, the heroic wife and daughter had torn herself
from the exiles, braved the perils of the ocean alone, and again set
foot in her native land.
So far, at first, from her obtaining the desired interview with Charles,
his minions had seized upon Alice as a hostage for the escaped
prisoners, and thrown her into strict confinement. Here she lingered
during the sixteen years of which our narrative takes no account. We
have said that that length of time may pass, figuratively speaking, to
many, as rapidly as the short turning of a leaf in our volume. But to
her, who was thus imprisoned, how wearily must it have waned! Separated
from those to whom she deemed her presence so necessary—with no means
of communicating to them the fatal termination of her projected journey
of hope, how interminable must it have appeared. Then it was, for the
first time in her distresses, that the noble spirit of Alice Heath sank.
Prevented from acting for those whom she loved, successive days
presented to her, no object in life, and scarce the faint hope of escape
from her imprisonment at any future period.
At length, however, at the time we again recur to her, she had succeeded
in gaining the ear of one who stood high in the favor of the king.
Through his influence she had been released, and was this day to have an
audience with Charles in behalf of her proscribed relatives.
As Alice rode through London, the lofty houses, the stately streets, the
walks crowded with busy citizens of every description, passing and
repassing with faces of careful importance or eager bustle, combined to
form a picture of wealth, bustle and splendor to which she had long been
a stranger. Whitehall at last received her, and she passed under one of
the beautiful gates of tesselated brick-work.
Noon-day was long past when Alice entered the palace, and the usual hour
of the king’s levee—if any thing could be termed usual where there was
much irregularity—was over. The hall and stair-cases were filled with
lackeys and footmen in the most expensive liveries, and the interior
apartments with gentlemen and pages of the household of Charles,
elegantly arrayed. Alice was conducted to an ante-chamber. Here, in
waiting, were many of those individuals who live upon the wants of the
noble, administering to the pleasures of luxurious indolence, and
stimulating the desires of kingly extravagance by devising new modes and
fresh motives of expenditure. There was the visionary philosopher, come
to solicit base metals in order that he might transmute them into gold.
There was the sea-captain, come to implore an expedition to be fitted
out, if not exactly to discover new worlds, at least to colonize and
settle uncivilized ones. Mechanics and artisans of every trade—the
poet—the musician—the dancer—all had collected here under promise of
an audience with their monarch, many of them day by day disappointed,
but still returned anew.
Alice halted at the door of the apartment, seeing it filled with so many
persons, and beckoning a page to her, handed him a passport from the
Duke of Buckingham. On glancing his eye over it, he requested her to
follow him. He led her some distance, through various passages,
elegantly carpeted, and paused before a small withdrawing-room. Throwing
open the door, he desired her to enter. The apartment was hung with the
finest tapestry, representing classic scenes, and carpeted so thick that
the heaviest tread could scarcely be heard. Stools and cushions were
disposed here and there about the floor, and elegant sofas and couches
were placed against the walls. Statues of bronze, intended to light the
apartment by evening, were placed in various niches. A large glass door
opened into a paved court heated by artificial means. In this court a
number of spaniels were playing, and numerous birds, of different
species, seemed to be domesticated there.
Upon this day, the king held his court in Queen Catharine’s apartments.
These were thrown open at a given hour to invited persons of something
less than the highest rank, though the nobility had likewise the
privilege of being present.
It is not unknown that Charles had allowed many of the restrictions by
which the court had been surrounded during the previous reign to be
remitted. This circumstance it was that had chiefly gained him the
popularity which he possessed, and that, in fact, enabled him to retain
the throne. All who could advance the slightest claims to approach his
circle, were readily admitted: and every formality was banished from a
society in which mingled some of the most humorous and witty courtiers
that ever dangled around a monarch. The dignity of the king’s bearing
withal secured him against impertinent intrusion, and his own admirable
wit formed a sure protection against the sallies of others.
On the present day, Charles seemed peculiarly alive to sensations of
enjoyment from the scene before him. Arrangements for prosecuting all
the frivolous amusements of the day, were prepared by the gay monarch. A
band of musicians was provided, selected by his own taste, which, in
every species of art, was of the nicest and most critical kind. Tables
were set for the accommodation of gamesters. From one to the other of
these, the king glided, exchanging a jest, or a bet, or a smile, as the
occasion suggested it.
While he was thus occupied, the page who had conducted Alice into the
withdrawing-room, suddenly entered. He spoke a few words to an attendant
upon the court, who immediately approached and informed his majesty that
a lady, refusing to announce her name, desired to be admitted into the
presence.
“By what right, then, does she claim to enter?” demanded the queen,
hastily.
“She used the name of the Duke of Buckingham,” replied the usher.
“Who can she be?” said a nobleman present.
“In the name of adventure, let us admit her,” said the king.
The games were neglected; the musicians played without being listened
to; conversation ceased; and a strange curiosity pervaded the circle.
“Does your majesty desire the lady to be admitted?” inquired the
attendant.
“Certainly; but, no, I will see her in the ante-room.” So saying, he
left the apartment.
Alice had sat some moments on one of the sofas we have mentioned, when a
person entered, whose appearance caused her heart to beat rapidly, as if
conscious that he was the individual with whom she sought an interview.
He whom she beheld was apparently past thirty years of age. His
complexion was dark, and he wore on his head a long, black periwig. His
dress was of plain black velvet; and a cloak of the same material, hung
carelessly over one shoulder. His features were strongly marked, but an
air of dignified good-humor presided over his countenance.
Alice, conscious of the deep die which hung upon the issue of this
meeting, grew paler than even imprisonment and sorrow had left her, and
her heart palpitated with such energy that it seemed as if it must burst
its prison-house. She rose as the king approached, and fell upon her
knees. As we have said, there was not the faintest shade of vital color
to enliven her countenance, and the deep black garb in which she was
clad, as accordant with her feelings and suitable to her distressed
condition, increased the effect of this unearthly pallor. She was still
beautiful, despite of care and time, and the angel-like expression of
purity had deepened upon her features.
Charles, ever alive to the charms of her sex, paused, much struck, at
the interesting picture she presented. Advancing, after he had gazed on
her for an instant, he bade her rise and be seated.
It was dangerous for the king to behold beauty in the pomp of all her
power, with every look bent upon conquest—more dangerous to see her in
the moment of unconscious ease and simplicity, yielding herself to the
graceful whim of the instant, and as willing to be pleased as desirous
of pleasing. But he was prone to be affected far differently by gazing
on beauty in sorrow: for his feelings were as keenly alive at times to
impressions of genuine kindness and generous sympathy, as they were to
the lighter emotions of the heart.
Her glance was one rather of uncertainty and hesitation, than of
bashfulness or timidity, as she still knelt and said, “I behold his
majesty, the king of England, I presume?”
“It is Charles Stuart, madam, who requests you again to seat yourself,”
said the king.
“The posture I employ is the most fitting for one who comes to ask a
boon such as I have to solicit. I am the daughter and wife of certain of
thy unhappy father’s enemies.”
The king’s countenance instantly changed. “Ah,” said he, “her whose
release I have recently granted.”
“The same,” replied Alice, “and I come now on behalf of my husband and
father, to beg you to extend your clemency to them.”
“Madam,” said Charles, “you have at length obtained your own pardon, and
methinks that is already a sufficient act of generosity, when I might
have held you still as a hostage for the escaped prisoners.”
“If you entertained any hopes from that circumstance,” rejoined Alice,
“that those whom you pursue would ever deliver themselves up for my
redemption, believe me, they were idle; for I had taken care to prevent
the knowledge of my situation ever coming to their ears. And except for
some such a hope, I can hardly think you would desire longer to confine
an innocent female.”
“Your own release is freely granted,” said Charles; “and I grieve, now
that I behold you, that it should have been thus long delayed.”
“My release is something, it is true,” said Alice, “since it will permit
my return to those unhappy beings for whom I plead. But will you not add
to this not of generosity one still more noble, and let me bear to them
the news of their pardon.”
“It grieves me to refuse you,” answered Charles. “But your father was
one of the most implacable judges in that parricidal court that
condemned Charles I. to death.”
At these words Alice leaned back against the walls of the apartment for
support, her countenance becoming, not paler than before, for that was
impossible, but convulsed with the effort to repress her emotion.
“Hear me,” said she at length, after a violent struggle, “I have one
plea to urge in behalf of my request, and if it fails of success, I will
depart in despair.”
“Say on, madam,” answered the king; “your plea must, indeed, be
powerful, since you are about to advance it with so much fervor and
confidence.”
“It is in the confidence of small desert, my lord. But I will proceed at
once to offer it. This is not,” she continued, “the first time that I
have come to beg the boon of a human life within these walls—a life not
endeared to me by personal ties as are those for whom I now implore your
forgiveness. Unprompted by any motives of self-interest, but urged
merely by feelings of compassion, such as I would fain excite this
moment in your bosom, I came hither to beg the life of your father, my
liege, the late unhappy king.”
Charles looked much astonished.
“I came hither, my lord,” pursued Alice, “on the night preceding that
unfortunate day which I will not pain you by naming, to solicit the
influence of the only man in England who could have interposed to save
the life of the late Charles Stuart. My efforts, alas! I need not say,
were but too unavailing. But, by those efforts, all fruitless though
they were, I urge your pardon of the offenders for whose dear sakes I am
here a suppliant. Let the loyalty of the wife and daughter atone in this
instance for the disloyalty of the husband and father; and let this act
of noble forgiveness distinguish your reign.”
The king’s eye had moistened while she spoke, and an exceeding softness
came over his mood. It is known that he was peculiarly alive to gentle
and generous impressions. “Your appeal,” said he, “is—”
“Not fruitless, I trust,” interrupted Alice, who had beheld with joy the
effect of her words upon his countenance.
“Far otherwise,” replied Charles; “but ask not your demand as a boon at
my hands, urge it as a debt of gratitude due from a son to one who would
have saved the life of his parent.”
“Call it what you will, my lord, but grant my request.”
“Rise, madam,” said Charles, “my debt to you shall be canceled—your
husband and father are pardoned.”
Alice pressed the hand with grateful warmth, and raised it to her lips.
“May the Lord reward you for the blest and healing words you have
uttered,” said she. “No thanks my tongue can speak may suitably express
my acknowledgments for what you have done. You have yourself, my liege,
known what it is to be hunted down by those who would have deprived you
of life. And when you first learned that you might again hold your
existence without fear, the thrill of happiness you must have
experienced may be named as a fair parallel with that you now confer on
those two outcasts whose lives and liberty hung upon your word. But
there is no criterion by which one of your sex may judge of the blessing
bestowed upon a wife in restoring the life and freedom of her husband.
May God repay you for the joy you have conferred upon my heart.”
“I am already repaid in your gratitude,” said the king. “Besides, let me
not forget that I am only returning an obligation.”
“I little dreamed,” rejoined Alice, “when I made an effort on account of
the late king, that the time would ever arrive when I should urge it to
your majesty as an obligation on your part. It was a simple act of
compassion, and some instinctive feelings of loyalty toward my unhappy
sovereign. But I find I did not misjudge his son when I thought to found
on it some claims to his mercy and generosity.”
“The circumstance affords an illustration of the truth, that deeds of
kindness sooner or later meet their reward even in this life.”
“May you live then to reap your recompense for that you have but now
performed,” said Alice, terminating the interview, and turning to
depart.
The king accompanied her in person to the outer door of the palace, and
a page conducted her to the gate, where a carriage was in waiting.