Patience and sorrow strove
Which should express her goodliest.
SHAKSPEARE.
We pass over that brief period in history during which the new form of
government established by Cromwell flourished, and the usurper and his
successor, under the title of Protector of the Commonwealth, enjoyed a
larger share of power than had previously been attached to the regal
dignity. It will be remembered that the deficiency of the latter in
those qualities requisite to his responsible position soon led him
formally to resign the Protectorship, and his abdication speedily paved
the way for the restoration of Charles II. to the throne of his
ancestors. Unfortunately for the chief characters of our tale, one of
the first and most natural aims of the new king on his accession, was to
seek the conviction and punishment of the Court who had so
presumptuously, although in many instances, so conscientiously, passed
that sentence against his father, which we have seen reluctantly carried
into execution.
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.
ALICE HEATH.
She had just concluded, when a servant appeared at the door. “Some
ladies and a gentleman, madam,” said he, “have called, and are awaiting
you in the drawing-room. They came in a traveling-carriage, and are
equipped as if for a long journey.”
“Remove this trunk into the hall,” replied Alice, “and then say to the
visiters that I will see them presently. They have already come to bear
away my darling,” added she to herself. “I scarce thought that the hour
had yet arrived.”
As she spoke, she set about attiring the child with great tenderness,
seemingly prolonging the act unconsciously to herself.
“Now the Lord in Heaven keep thee, precious one!” she exclaimed, as, at
length, the motherly act terminated; and imprinting on her face a kiss
of the most ardent affection, though without giving way to the weakness
of a single tear, she bore her from the chamber.
We leave the reader to imagine the last parting moments between that
mother and her child. She who had framed the separation as an act of
duty, was not one to shrink at the last moment, or betray any faintness
of spirit. With a nobly heroic heart she yielded up the young and
helpless treasure of her affections to the guardianship of others, and
turned to expend her capacities of watchfulness and care upon another
object. How well she performed this labor of love, notwithstanding the
trial she had just experienced—how far she succeeded in dismissing the
recollection of it from her mind sufficiently to enable her to sustain
the weight of the responsibilities still devolving upon her—we shall
now have an opportunity to determine.
Within another half hour Alice entered the cell of a prison. It was one
of those constructed for malefactors of the deepest cast, being
partially under the ground, and partaking of the nature of a dungeon.
The mighty stones of the walls were green and damp, and together with
the cold, clay floor, were sufficient of themselves to suggest speedy
illness, and perhaps death, to the occupant. Its only furniture
consisted of a single wooden stool, a pallet of straw, and a rude table.
On the pallet alluded to lay a man in the prime of life, his eyes closed
in sleep, and the wan hue of death upon his countenance. One pallid
hand, delicate and small as a woman’s, rested upon the coarse coverlet,
while the other was placed beneath his head, from which streamed forth a
profusion of waving hair, now matted and dull, instead of glossy and
bright, as it had been in recent days.
When Alice first entered, the sleeper was breathing somewhat
disturbedly, but as she approached and bent over him, and raising the
hand which lay upon the quilt, pressed it to her lips, his rest suddenly
seemed to grow calm, and a faint smile settled upon his mouth.
“Thank God!” whispered she to herself, as she replaced the hand as
quietly as she had raised it, “my prayer is heard—the fever has left
him, and he is fast recovering.”
Seating herself on the wooden stool by his side, she remained watching
him with looks of the most devoted interest and affection. In about half
an hour he heaved a deep sigh, and opening his eyes, looked around to
the spot where she was sitting.
“You are a guardian angel, dear Alice,” said he; “even in my dreams I am
conscious of your presence.”
“Saving the little time that I must steal from you to bestow upon my
poor father, I shall now be ever present with you,” answered Alice. “I
have placed our little one in safe-keeping, and henceforth, while you
remain here, I shall have no other care but yourself.”
“Methinks I have already been too much your sole care, even to the
neglect of your own health. Yet, except that sad look of sympathy, you
seem not the worse for the tending me, else I might, indeed, reproach
myself for this illness.”
Well might William Heath say she had nursed him with unselfish care—for
never had it fallen to the lot of sick man to be tended with such
untiring devotion. For weeks she had watched his every movement and
look—anticipated his every wish—smoothed his pillow—held the cup to
his parched lips—soothed him with gentle and sympathizing words when in
pain—cheered him when despondent—and seized only the intervals when he
slept to perform her other duties as a mother and daughter. It is no
wonder, therefore, that it appeared to him that she had never been
absent from his side.
Gently repelling his insinuation that she had been too regardless of
herself, she turned the conversation to a topic which she was conscious
would interest and cheer him.
“Continue to make all speed with this recovery, which has thus far
progressed so finely,” said she, “for the opportunity for your escape
from this gloomy place is only waiting until your strength is
sufficiently recruited to embrace it.”
“That prospect it is alone,” replied the invalid, “held up before me so
constantly as it has been during my illness, which has had the power to
prevent my sinking joyfully into the grave from this miserable bed,
rather than recover to die a more violent and unnatural death.”
“It waits alone for your recovery, dearest,” repeated his wife; “and
once in the wild woods of America, you will be as unconfined and free as
her own mountain air, till the very remembrance of this dungeon will
have passed away.”
“Sweet comforter,” he said, taking her hand and pressing it gratefully,
“thou wouldst beguile my thoughts thither, even before my footsteps are
able to follow them.”
“Thank me for nothing,” said Alice; “I am but selfish in all. The rather
return thanks to the Lord for all his mercies.”
“True, He is the great fountain of goodness, and his greatest of all
blessings to me, Alice, is bestowed in thyself.”
“I fear thou art conversing too much,” said Alice, after a moment’s
pause, “and I would not that a relapse should retard this projected
escape a single day. Therefore I will give thee a cordial, and thou must
endeavor to rest again.”
So saying, she administered a soothing potion, and, seating herself by
his side, she watched him until he fell into a peaceful slumber. Then,
stealing so noiselessly away from his pallet that her footsteps were
inaudible, she gently approached the door, and groped along a
gallery—for it was now dark—until she reached another door. It
communicated with a cell similar in all respects to that we have
described.
Within this, before a table, sat the figure of a solitary man. He was
elderly, but seemed more bent by some recent sorrow than by the actual
weight of years; yet his brow was somewhat wrinkled, and his locks in
many places, much silvered with gray. But his countenance was
remarkable, for it evinced a grandeur and dignity of soul even through
its trouble. Beside him, upon the table, burned a solitary candle, whose
long wick shed a blue and flickering light upon the page of a Bible open
before him.
Unlatching the door, Alice paused, for the clear and deep voice of the
inmate fell upon her ear: “Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth:
therefore, despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for he
maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his hands make whole. He
shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven, there shall no evil
touch thee.”
Advancing, Alice threw her arms affectionately round the neck of the
person we have described, and interrupted the reading, which, even more
than her occasional visits, was his chief stay and solace in his
imprisonment.
“Thou wilt rejoice with me, my father, that William is recovering. All
that is needful now is for him to gather strength sufficient to quit
this place. I trust that ere six weeks have elapsed, we shall be on our
way to America.”
“Forget not, my child, Him to whom thy thanks are due for thy husband’s
prospect of recovery. Remember the Lord in the midst of his mercies.”
“I do, my father, and we will return praises together ere I leave you.”
“Saidst thou, Alice,” asked the old man, after a short silence, “that
before six weeks have passed away, we may be freed from this
prison-house?”
“Yes, even so; and I have this day sent my infant in advance of us.”
“The Lord hath indeed been gracious to us, my daughter. Let us arise at
once and give thanks to his holy name.”
At these words they arose together, after the manner of their sect, and
in an earnest, pathetic tone, the voice of the aged Puritan ascended to
Heaven. No palace-halls or brilliant ball-rooms, or garden walks, or
trellised bowers have ever shown so interesting a pair—no festive
scenes, or gorgeous revels, or glittering orgies ever rose upon so
beauteous an hour as did the captive’s cell in that season of prayer!