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.