It had been publicly spoken, in the street, the press, and even in Parliament, that the Royalists were conspiring for a revolution; and this certainty had sunk deep into the hearts of the people. Their silence was ominous; the Royalists looked upon it as favorable.
But there were Englishmen who knew their countrymen better, and who foreboded darkly, though without fear, of the end; and among these was Richard Lincoln. His heart beat with the popular pulsation, and he knew that there could be but one outcome to such a blind and reckless enterprise.
Mary Lincoln alone perceived how deep was the trouble in her father's soul as those surcharged hours went reeling past. Deep beyond even his trouble was her own, for though she had not confessed it even to herself, every hope of her life was bound up in the destinies of the Royalist conspiracy.
On the afternoon of November 23d there was an early adjournment of Parliament, and her father came home more depressed than she had ever seen him. Her heart grew cold in the unusual silence.
Mary waited for her father to speak, but the evening wore on, and he had only tried to lead her to every-day subjects.
"Father," she said at last, "there is depressing news. What has happened? Will you not tell me?"
"Yes, there is sad news, dear—gloomy news for some. Those madmen will attempt a revolution by civil war within the next twenty-four hours."
"It is known?"
"Yes, it is all known—and all prepared for."
Mary's face changed as if a white light had fallen on it; her pitiful excitement was evident in the quivering lips and restless hands. She would have cried out in her grief and pity had she been alone; but her father's strength, so close to her, made her strong and patient.