Many of those had fled at the first rumor of the restoration, in anticipation of the worst, so that, on the command of Charles, only twenty-seven persons—judges and accomplices inclusive—could be arrested. These had now been incarcerated three weeks awaiting their trial, which was deferred from time to time in the hope that more of the regicides might yet be brought to justice.
Among those thus imprisoned were Henry Lisle and William Heath, whose fates are interwoven with this narrative.
Leaving this needful preface to what is to follow, let us again visit Lisle’s mansion—the same which witnessed the marriage of his daughter. Several years have elapsed since that event; and after the mournful impression caused by the death of the ill-fated king had been obliterated from her mind—for Time has the power speedily to heal all wounds not absolutely inflicted upon the affections—till within the last few weeks, the life of Alice Heath had flowed in as smooth a current as any who beheld her on her wedding-night, could, in their most extravagant wishes, have desired. In their untroubled union, her husband had heretofore forestalled the wife’s privilege to minister and prove devotion—a privilege which, however, when the needful moment demanded it, no woman better than Alice was formed for exerting. Trouble had not hitherto darkened the young brow of either; nor pain, nor sorrow, nor the first ungratified wish, come nigh their dwelling. Under the same roof with her pious and austere but still affectionate father, the daughter had been torn from no former tie in linking herself to another by a still nearer and more indissoluble bond. There had been nothing to desire, and nothing to regret. The life of herself and husband had been as near a type as may be of the perfect happiness we picture in Heaven—save that with them it was now exchanged for sorrow—more difficult to bear from the bitter contrast.
It is an afternoon in September. Alice, not materially changed since we last saw her—except that the interval has given, if any thing, more of interest and character to her features—is in her own room, busily engaged in arranging articles in a traveling-trunk. Her countenance is sad—with a sadness of a more engrossing and heartfelt kind than that which touched it with a mournful shadow when she grieved for the fate of Charles Stuart—for there is an incalculable difference between the sorrow that is expended between a mere object of human sympathy, and that which is elicited by the distress and danger of those we love. And the sadness of Alice was now connected with those dearer to her than life itself. No tear, however, dimmed her eye, nor shade of despair sat upon her brow. Feeling that the emergency of the occasion called upon her to act, not only for herself but for others, the bravery of true womanly resolution in affliction—resolution which, had she alone been concerned, she might perhaps never have evinced, but which, for the sake of others, she had at once summoned to her aid—was distinguishable in her whole deportment as well as in her every movement.
As she was engaged with great seeming interest in the task we have described—the articles alluded to consisting of the clothing suitable for a female child of tender age—the little creature for whose use it was designed was sitting at her feet tired of play, and wondering probably why she was employed in this unusual manner. Alice frequently paused in her occupation to cast a look upon the child—not the mere hasty glance with which a mother is wont to satisfy herself that her darling is for the moment out of mischief or danger—but a long, devouring gaze, as though the refreshing sight were about to be removed forever from her eyes, and she would fain, ere the evil moment arrived, stamp its image indelibly on her memory. Who shall say what thoughts, what prayers were then stirring in her bosom?
The little object of this solicitude had scarcely told her fifth year; and the soft ringlets which descended half way down the shoulders, the delicate bloom, the large, deep blue eyes and flexile features made such an ideal of childish beauty as artists love to paint or sculptors model.
When Alice had finished her employment, she took the little girl in her arms, and strained her for some moments to her heart, with a feeling, as it would seem, almost of agony. The child, though at first alarmed at the unusual vehemence of her caresses, presently, as if prompted by nature, smiled in reply to them. But the artless prattler had no power to rouse her from some purpose on which her thoughts appeared deeply as well as painfully intent. Putting the little creature aside again, she drew near to her writing-desk, and seating herself before it, penned the following letter:
My dear Friend,—It is now some weeks since the imprisonment of my husband and father, who are still awaiting their trial. The active part which the latter is known to have taken in the punishment of the late unhappy king, precludes all hope of their pardon. But I have matured a plan for their escape, which I am only waiting a fitting moment to put into execution. When this is effected, we will take refuge in your American Colonies. I have the promise of influential friends there to assist in secreting us until it shall be safe to dwell among you publicly—for this country can never again be our home.
In the meantime, as some friends are about embarking, after a struggle with myself, I have concluded to send my little daughter in advance of us, lest she might prove an incumbrance in the way of effecting the escape alluded to, inasmuch as she has already been a great hindrance to detain me at home many hours from the dear prisoners—to both of whom my presence is so needful, especially to my husband, who is extremely ill in his confinement.
I need not say that I feel all a mother’s anxiety in parting with my child. But I have confidence that you, my friend, will faithfully supply my place for as long a time as may be necessary. It has occurred to me that it would be well to let the impression go abroad among you that my daughter is the young relative whom you were to receive by the same vessel, and of whose recent death you will be apprised. This may shield her in some measure from the misfortunes of her family; and I would be glad, therefore, if you would humor the innocent deception even with all of your household, until such time as we may reclaim her. With a firm reliance on my Heavenly Father, I commit my precious infant to His protection.