Charles smiled and declared that he would taste it. He was anxious to leave the hall for he found the light trying and the noise from the basset table and the singer in the gallery gave him a headache.
In the company of the ladies and a few of his courtiers he left the hall; and no one knew then that it would never be quite the same again.
Charles spent a restless night and then in the morning when he left his bed for his closet his attendants noticed that he walked unsteadily. Later when he talked to them he seemed to forget what he was talking about and his speech was slurred.
It took a long time to dress and as he moved away from his bed he swayed and would have fallen had not his attendants steadied him.
Dr. King, one of his physicians, was in the palace and he came at once to the King’s bedside, but Charles was now clearly very ill indeed, for his face was purple and distorted and his power of speech had left him.
There was tension throughout the palace. The King was ill—more ill than he had ever been before.
They were sending for the Duke of York. What now?
The King was still alive, but there was anxiety throughout the kingdom. He had lived for his own pleasure; he had set the tone of immorality not only in the Court but throughout the country; unknown to his ministers he had made treaties with France; and he was said to be a secret Catholic; yet rarely had the English so sincerely mourned the passing of a King.
In the streets they were weeping openly. Many of them remembered his coming back to them twenty-five years ago—the flowers strewn over the cobbles; the music in the streets; the bonfires; wine and dancing and merriment. And if it had not turned out as wonderful as they had believed it was going to, at least it had been gay and lighthearted and different from the gloom of old Noll Cromwell’s day.
They loved him; they called him the merry Monarch; they remembered some of his sayings which had often been repeated because they were wise and witty. And now he was dying, and leaving them—James!
Under the sorrow there was low rumbling of “No popery!”
In his bedchamber the King lived on. It seemed he could not die. They had tried all the remedies they knew; they had opened his veins with a penknife; they had put a hot iron on his head; they had purged him; they had placed newly killed pigeons at his feet.
Under all these ministrations he rallied for a time and when the news was spread through the streets, the people shouted in their joy; they made bonfires and all the bells of London were ringing at once. He had been ill before and he was well again. All those who had seen him riding through his capital, sauntering through his parks in the company of his ladies with his spaniels at his heels, all those who had seen him throwing at pell mell were certain that he had the strength of ten men.
But the rejoicings were soon over. He could not live and although as he said—and apologized for it—he was a long time a-dying, he was dying all the same.
James was kneeling at his bedside, weeping, begging him to take the sacrament before he died.
Poor James! he was a sentimental man and they were brothers. Later he would think of what his brother’s passing meant to him, but at this time he could remember only the long years of intimacy, of struggle and endeavor, of exile and strife and, at last, the homecoming.
Charles tried to frame the words: “James, best of friends and best of brothers.…”
The tears ran down James’s cheeks, and Charles begged forgiveness for those exiles which had been a necessity, but he was sorry for them.
The Queen came to the bedside; she was a heartbroken woman; there were others too, women, who followed her into the bedchamber, to remind him that though she was his wife they were the ones who had shared his company.
The Queen was sobbing; she begged him to forgive her if she had ever offended him. “Alas, poor lady,” cried Charles, “she begs my pardon! I beg hers, with all my heart.”
He could not breathe; there were so many people crowding the apartment and all day and all night they remained.
James came to the bed, his eyes alight with fanaticism; he bent his head and whispered to his brother that since he was at heart a Catholic he should receive the rites of the Catholic church.
“No,” said Charles, “you endanger your life, brother.”
But when had James thought of danger? He had the chamber cleared and Father Huddleston, who had once saved the King’s life at the battle of Worcester, was brought disguised into the death chamber.
“Brother,” said James, “I bring you a man who once saved your life; now he comes to save your soul.”
The sacrament according to the rites of the church of Rome was given with extreme unction.
Then the doors were thrown open and those who had been shut out were allowed to return.
The next morning Charles II was dead.
LONG LIVE THE KING
There was one who was in the minds of all, though few mentioned his name: James Duke of Monmouth, at present at The Hague, the guest of the Prince and Princess of Orange. What would he do now? His greatest enemy had been the Duke of York who was now King James II. Monmouth had ostentatiously called himself the Protestant Duke. And what was the Protestant Duke doing now?
Anne, heavily pregnant, was thinking constantly of the child she was to have. She indulged herself more than usual.
“I am determined this time,” she told Sarah, “that my child shall live.”
“He will be a step nearer to the throne when he is born than when he was conceived,” commented Sarah.
Anne wept then for Uncle Charles. “He was always so kind to me. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again. Of course, dear Mrs. Freeman, there were times when I had no notion of what he meant. He was so witty always, but kind with it, and you know that is a rare gift. Is that why he was so loved, do you think? Oh, how I miss him.”
Fat, pink fool! thought Sarah. You could be Queen of England before long and all you think of is crying for Uncle Charles!
Sarah had long talks with John. They were growing closer together; they were more than lovers; they were partners and their ambition burned more brightly than any passion; Sarah was once more pregnant and this time they hoped for a son.
“John, John,” she cried, “what does this mean? What can this mean?”
“We can only wait and see.”
Sarah stamped impatiently. “We must not wait too long.”
“But, my dearest, for a while we must wait. I am wondering what is happening now on the Continent.”
“Monmouth?”
“And William. Do not forget William, my love.”
“Depend upon it Caliban is hatching some plot.”
“And forcing his wife to help him, I’ll swear.”
“She has about as much sense as my dear Mrs. Morley. They are told ‘Do this’ ‘Do that.’ And like idiots they do it.”
John touched her cheek lightly. “Which is very good for my dear Mrs. Freeman.”
“I’m thinking of the other one—Mary. Don’t forget she comes first.”
“We must not plan too far ahead, my dear. Remember James is still the King.”
“But is he going to remain King?”
“He has stepped into his brother’s place naturally and easily. I confess I expected trouble. There has been none. It seems he understands his danger for he has been behaving with more good sense than he usually shows.”