Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
BRAVE
BESSIE WESTLAND
A Story of Quaker Persecution
BY
EMMA LESLIE
AUTHOR OF
"AUDREY'S JEWELS," "AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BOAR,"
"FOR FRANCE AND FREEDOM," ETC. ETC.
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
BRAVE BESSIE WESTLAND.
[CHAPTER I.]
A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD.
"HUSH, hush, Dorothy! Thee must not cry, for fear they should hear thee, and come and look for us. The Lord will take care of us, now He hath called mother and father to witness for the truth."
These words were spoken in a whisper to the little sister who lay trembling in her arms, but there was something like a gasping sob in Bessie Westland's voice, though she tried to speak bravely and calmly, for fear the two younger sisters should grow more frightened.
But the mention of their mother brought back all the trouble, and in spite of the warning words both burst into tears, while Dorothy sobbed out—
"Oh, where have the cruel soldiers taken mother? Will they burn her, think ye, Bessie?"
"Nay, nay, the Smithfield burnings are ended; there have been none of late. King Charles—"
"Down with the Quakers!" shouted a hoarse voice close to their hiding-place, and Bessie, who was holding the string of the cellar door, felt her whole body shake with terror, for if the mob should find them there was no telling what they might do. So with the cellar door string in one hand, she held the frightened children close to her with the other, as they sat cowering in the dark, and listening to the angry threats of their rude neighbours, whom her father had so often warned to flee from the wrath to come.
"Turn out the rats' nest!" called another voice; and it was clear, from the sound of trampling feet and the breaking of furniture, that the mob were doing their best to fulfil the threats of vengeance against the unfortunate Quakers.
"King Charles has let us see now who are the law-breakers, and who gets their ears slit off," said a man who had posted himself close to the cellar door, while the rest ransacked cupboards and chests for what they could find, as nobody was likely to bring them to account for sacking the house of a convict Quaker.
They seemed to have forgotten the children who were hiding in the cellar, for this man stood with his back against the door and talked, while the rest searched every room and corner, evidently thinking that it was their lawful spoil, now that the owners had been carried off to prison.
How long they sat huddled together in the damp dark cellar, listening to the destruction of their home, and the threats against father and mother, they never knew; but to Bessie and her frightened sisters it seemed hours and hours before the people began to go away, and they were in constant terror lest some one should pull the door open and reveal their hiding-place.
At last the house began to grow more quiet. The man moved away from the door, and little Rose Westland ventured to lift her head from her sister's lap.
"How long shall we have to stay here?" she asked in a trembling whisper.
"Hast thou forgotten mother's words already? how she bade us stay close in the cellar until the Lord sent His messenger to deliver us?"
"But it is so dark," objected Dorothy; for now that the house was left in peace, the child thought she might peep out and see what mischief had been done, and she said so.
"Nay; nay," replied Bessie in a solemn whisper; "we must obey mother, and wait here for the Lord's messenger."
Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her arm ached from holding the string so tightly, but she would not let it fall. "We are safe here; mother said they would not come to the cellar, and thee seest she was right. Now we must wait; the Lord will nathless send His messenger soon." And then Bessie relapsed into silence, to listen for the messenger who should come to their rescue.
The day before, their father had been carried off while preaching a few yards from his own house, and at sunrise that morning a party of soldiers had knocked at the door with a warrant to take their mother to gaol also, for she had been preaching and teaching, in spite of the warnings issued to all Quakers and seditious persons against unlawful assemblies.
Before she went away, she bade Bessie take her younger sisters and hide with them in the cellar. And here they, had been crouching in one corner ever since, too frightened to feel hungry, and sick and faint from terror and exhaustion, yet confidently expecting that God would send help to them, though who would be brave enough to come to the rescue of poor Quaker children, Bessie did not know.
Meanwhile, the prisoner, as she was hurried along the streets by the soldiers, was recognised by one and another she knew, so some of the little Society of Friends soon heard that one of their number had been arrested, and several went to the court where the prisoner was first taken, and there contrived to get a word with her, and to these she said, "The children are in the cellar."
It would be sufficient, she knew, for the committee of suffering formed for the relief of distress would help them somehow, and the brave-hearted woman felt she could go to prison cheerfully if her children were taken care of.
An hour later there was a meeting at the house of one who knew the Westlands, to consider the case of the children, and there it was decided that a messenger should fetch them by water from the Tower Stairs, and they would be quartered upon three Friends living near, one of their number undertaking to manage this delicate business.
At the corner of Soper Lane he met one of those he was in search of, and told him his errand.
"It is thought likely that Friend Westland may be sent out to Jamaica or His Majesty's plantation of Virginia, or he may escape with a fine and the loss of his other ear, so that he may be able to maintain his family again by and by."
"True, friend; but none can tell how soon thy home and mine may also be desolated, and therefore should we be careful how we take charges we are not able to fulfil," said the other, hastily looking round lest any one should overhear what they were talking about, and suspect them of being Quakers.
"But surely we may trust the Lord to provide for us and our little ones?" returned the other in a tone of protest.
"Yea, yea, I doubt it not, friend; but still I hold that we should not run needlessly into danger, and this affair of Westland's is becoming the town talk, and to bring his children among our own just now will be to invite persecution. Wait awhile, and then we shall see."
"See them starving," interrupted the other, with most un-Quaker-like haste and heat; for the thought of this family of little children being left to the tender mercies of a world that was so cruel to Quakers, made his naturally quick temper rise against the extreme caution of his companion, and without waiting to say another word he turned and walked in the direction of his own home.
It was not far from where they had been standing, and in a few minutes he reached the door, which was almost instantly opened by his wife, who had been waiting and watching for his return for nearly an hour.
"Now the Lord be praised for bringing thee back to me in safety once more," said Dame Drayton in a glad whisper, as she closed the street door, while her husband hung up his cloak and tall steeple-shaped hat on the peg in the entry.
"What news?" she asked.
"Bad enough, Martha. Westland is condemned to lose his ears and then be banished to the plantations of Jamaica or Virginia—I am not certain which—and his wife is to be imprisoned in Bridewell until she has earned sufficient to pay the charge of her own transport to join him."
"And they have children, Gilbert," said his wife in a pitying tone, lifting her eyes wistfully to her husband's face, as if mutely asking what they were to do for these.
He understood the look.
"We will ask counsel of the Lord first, and the inner voice will teach us what we ought to do," he said gravely. And as he spoke he turned down a passage leading to his workshop, while his wife went into the kitchen to superintend the preparation of dinner.
As they silently pursued their daily tasks, each lifted their heart to God for guidance, and then listened for the voice of the Holy Spirit to show them what they ought to do.
Two little girls were being taught meanwhile how to help in chopping suet, washing currants, and pounding savoury herbs, which would all be required for dinner. They understood, when they saw their mother close her eyes for a moment, that they were not to talk or ask questions; but before the morning tasks were over, they were startled by being asked whether they would like some brothers and sisters to come and live with them.
"Will they be 'prentices?" inquired the elder, a girl of ten or twelve.
"Why dost thee ask that, Betty?" said her mother.
"Because 'prentices eat so much bread. Deb says she will have to bake and brew again to-morrow, they eat so much."
"Poor Deb is nathless weary, or she would not grudge the labour, since the Lord hath sent meal and malt sufficient for all our wants. That is why thee must learn to do what thee can in the kitchen when thou art not learning from the horn book—that must by no means be neglected. Now, Betty, if thou bast finished those currants, thee may take Hannah and help her with her lesson until I can come to thee."
"But thou hast not told us about the new brothers and sisters," said the younger, a little fair-haired girl whose curls could not be persuaded to lie hidden under the close linen cap, but would peep out all round neck and face, in a fashion that annoyed Dame Drayton sometimes.
"Go with Betty to the keeping-room and learn the spelling task; it may be thee will hear and learn something more than the horn book can teach thee if thou dost ponder over my question. Think of it well, and all it will mean to thee—about the extra baking and brewing. Thee may leave Deborah and I to think," added the mother with a gentle smile on her lips, as the two little girls left the room.
For her own part she had no doubt as to the voice within her, and she longed for dinner time to come, to know what her husband would say. Of course she would wait and hear what he should propose first, but she would contrive to let him know that the Spirit had spoken with no uncertain voice to her.
Master Drayton was a hatter, working with two apprentices at the back of the house, in pasting and pressing the various shaped hats that at present found favour with the London public.
A glance at Master Drayton's workshop would have told the stranger that the country was in a period of transition, for there were tall steeple-crowned hats such as were fashionable in the time of the Lord-Protector Cromwell, but there were quite as many low and broad-brimmed, that would be adorned with a long ostrich feather before they were placed in the fashionable shop window; and Master Drayton often thought of the changes he had seen during the last few years.
But Puritan and Cavalier alike were united in their hatred of Quakers, and it seemed as though they would surely be exterminated between the two. Yet they all worshipped the same God and Father in heaven, and professed to love and serve the same Lord and Saviour who had died to redeem them.
Some such thoughts as these were passing through the hatter's mind as he stood silently directing the labours of one of his 'prentice lads; for even in the workshop the Quaker rule of silence, where words were not actually needed, held full sway, and so, except for the movement of fingers and tools, and the slight noise thus caused, this hat factory was as silent as a church.
"Thee must be more careful not to waste," was Master Drayton's only word of reproof to a clumsy lad who had just spoiled a hat he was making; but the words were so gravely spoken, that the lad reproved felt heartily sorry for his stupidity, and wished he could repair the mischief he had wrought.
When the dinner bell rang, master and apprentices took off their aprons, washed their hands at the pump outside the door, and then went to the fresh sanded dining-room, where Dame Drayton and the two little girls had already taken their seats, with Deborah, the matronly maid-of-all work.
There was a silent pause before the meal was served, but no spoken words of prayer broke the silence.
The plain but bountiful repast was eaten without a word being spoken beyond what was needful, and yet it was by no means a dull and gloomy family gathering.
Dame Drayton, from her place at the foot of the table, beamed upon her husband and his apprentices as though they had been honoured guests, and the little girls smiled gravely but sweetly, seconding their mother's welcome. There were little courteous nods and smiles too, as the bright pewter plates were passed to the master to be filled, the boys forgetting their hunger in their eagerness to see their mistress served first. Deborah might sometimes grudge the labour of making up so much bread, but as she looked at the boys and noted how they enjoyed their meals, she felt content. Mistress and maid often interchanged looks of amused interest, as pies, puddings, and pasties vanished before the healthy appetites.
An atmosphere of peace and content pervaded this household, that needed no words, for it found expression in acts of kindness and courtesy, and looks and smiles of tender love. Indeed, it seemed as though the very repression of all utterance filled the silence with a power of peace and restfulness that no one desired to break.
When the meal was over, the two lads helped Deborah to carry the plates and dishes to the kitchen, the little girls went to walk round the garden, and husband and wife drew together at the window.
"Thou hast thought of my words this morning, dear heart, I can see," said Master Drayton with a smile, as he took his wife's hand.
"Thee knowest it would be grievous to part these little children, Gilbert. The voice of God to me is, that we bring them to dwell here with our little ones."
"But, Martha, hast thou thought what this will mean to thee and Deborah? Three children are no light charge, my wife."
"True, Gilbert; but if the Lord send them, He will natheless give grace and strength to bear with them."
"But the committee of suffering have not apportioned them all to thee, one only to—"
"The committee are natheless wise men," said his wife quickly; "but the Lord's voice can be heard by a woman in the stillness of her home, more clearly, concerning the welfare of little children, and the voice to me is, 'Part not these little ones.' If another would fain receive them, even so let it be; but add not grief to grief, by laying a further burden upon these tender witnesses for the truth. It is enough that their parents are torn from them; let them have the comfort of abiding together, wherever their home may be."
For gentle Dame Drayton to make such a long speech as this, made her husband open his eyes in silent amazement; but it was sufficient to convince him that she felt very strongly about the matter, and this was doubtless the Lord's voice in her heart, or she would not thus have spoken. So after a minute's pause he said, "I will see what Friend Briggs thinks of thy word, and if he wills to take the three children he will natheless tell me. If not, I will fetch them hither at sundown."
There was no further need of words about the matter, and none were spoken. The hatter returned to his workshop, and the busy housewife took out her spinning-wheel; for if these children came to her poorly provided with clothes, she would need to draw upon her store in the linen-press, and so there would be the more need for its replenishment.
But while Dame Drayton's spinning-wheel hummed to the pleasant measure of her thoughts and plans for the children she was ready to welcome to her home, her husband was revolving the same matter in his mind, but in a fashion his wife had never glanced at. He was wondering what the committee of suffering would think of his wife's proposal, in view of the fact that she was not held to be a good Quakeress by the leaders of their district meeting. The cause of this was that she refused to give up entirely her attendance at "a steeple-house," as the Quakers called a church. She was born in Maiden Lane, and had attended All Hallow's Church in Bread Street since she was a child, and there she still took her own children sometimes, since they had been roughly driven out of White Swan Court, where their own meeting-house stood.
Now, the leaders among this little company of Quakers maintained that, for a woman to take her children to "a steeple-house," in preference to a Friends' meeting-house, because a party of rough soldiers had driven back the worshippers in the name of the king two or three times lately, was a weak compliance to the enemy, that must be strongly condemned. Dame Drayton had pleaded that her elder child was a weak and nervous girl, who had been unable to sleep without terrifying dreams, after the encounter with the soldiers, especially as they had the pain of seeing one of their friends carried off to prison by them. These sturdy witnesses for the truth, as it was held and taught by George Fox, thought the best way to overcome such nervous terror on the part of a child, was to accustom her to the sight of thus witnessing to the truth, and she was commanded to attend her district meeting-house, and bring her children with her, each First Day that it was open for worship.
Now Dame Drayton was as devout a Quakeress as any among them, but she had not so learned the truth either from the lips of George Fox or from the Bible, which she diligently studied.
"I am a child of God, and therefore I may not be in bondage to any man," she pleaded. "God can speak to me by the weak voice of my little child as well as by the committee of discipline," she said, when her husband reluctantly brought her the message passed at their monthly meeting, commanding her attendance at worship whenever the leaders should deem it safe to hold such a meeting, for this was not always possible at the present time of persecution.
That one so gentle, and seemingly so timid and compliant, should dare to disobey this command, was a great surprise to many; but Dame Drayton's love for her weakly child was stronger than her fear of those in authority, and so she held on her way, going herself to the meeting-house occasionally, but always taking her children to All Hallow's Church, where, as she said, they could worship God with other servants who were striving to do His will, though they were not Quakers.
This breach of discipline on the part of one of their number was a sore fret to many among the little company, for in all else Dame Drayton had proved a most exemplary member, one who was ever ready to help and succour the distressed, either among themselves or the poor who were often dependent upon them.
Now as the hatter mused over his work, he feared that when he made his appeal to be allowed to have Westland's three children, his wife's breach of discipline would be remembered against her, and they would view this demand on her part as another impeachment of their wisdom in selecting homes for them; and so it was by no means an easy or pleasant task that he had undertaken, for he felt sure his request would be refused as soon as it was made. However, as the children were to be fetched that evening, there was little time for him to ponder over the matter, and so soon as his work for the day was finished, and the apprentices dismissed, he put on his hat and cloak, and hurried off to the house of one of the committee, to consult him upon the matter, for he had agreed to meet the messenger at Triggs' Stairs, who was to bring the children by water from Southwark that evening.
It was by no means a simple business in the times of which we write, for to give shelter and help to one who was known to be a Quaker would bring suspicion and espionage; and, therefore, to take in the children of such a well-known Quaker as Westland might entail a good deal of inconvenience upon those who were brave enough to do it, even if they escaped positive persecution from the authorities.
It was doubtless this that made it difficult to find homes for those who had been practically orphaned, for well-to-do citizens, who could afford to add to their responsibilities in this way, had much to forego in the way of fines and business losses, if their connection with the despised people were thus publicly asserted.
So, when the hatter reached the house of his friend, he found him in great perplexity over this matter, for each of those to whom the Westland children had been assigned had some special reason for asking to be excused the service; and when he saw Drayton, he made up his mind that he had come to him on a similar errand.
"I know what thou past come to say to me, friend, for thou art not the first visitor I have had concerning this business. Of course, Dame Drayton is fearful for her own children, and hath sent thee to say she cannot take these, though—"
"Nay, nay; the word of the Lord to my wife is, that these little ones should not be separated the one from the other, and she desires me to say to thee that she would prefer to have them all, an it so please thee."
"She will take all these children!" exclaimed the Quaker in a tone of astonishment.
"Even so, friend; for she deems it but adding to their burden of sorrow at this time to be parted the one from the other."
"And what sayest thou to this?" asked the other, looking keenly at the hatter; for he was not a wealthy man, but had to work hard for the maintenance of his family, and to add thus to his burden was no light matter.
"I can but follow the word of the Lord in me, and that is that I take these little ones until their parents can claim them at my hand."
"Be it so, then; and the Lord bless thee in thy work, for thou hast lifted a heavy burden of care from my mind anent this matter. I have chosen a discreet messenger to bring them from their home, lest one of us being known should draw the attention of the authorities to what we were doing, and that might end in our being lodged in gaol with our brother Westland."
"But how shall I know this messenger?" asked the hatter. "I can go at once to Triggs' Stairs and meet him."
"Nay, it is a woman who hath chosen this difficult service; and if thou art in doubt concerning who it is, by reason of other passengers being near, ask her the way to the Dyers' Garden; for by that signal was she to know to whom she might deliver the children."
"I will not fail thee," said the hatter. "And when I have taken charge of these little ones, I will bid her come to thee and give a due account of how she hath sped on her errand."
And, saying this, Master Drayton bade his friend farewell, and went at once to the waterside, where he feared the messenger would be waiting for him.
[CHAPTER II.]
DAME DRAYTON.
THE Thames in the reign of Charles the Second was the great highway of traffic for the city of London. There were no steamboats, it is true, but watermen, duly licensed by the city authorities, and wearing badges,—much as cabmen do at the present time,—were always ready with their boats to take passengers wherever they might want to go; then there were wherries, and splendidly decorated barges for pleasure parties; so that the river was always a scene of busy traffic, and especially towards dusk on a summer evening, for then people would be returning home, or hastening to embark; so that the time had been well chosen for the coming of the Westland children, for they were more likely to escape observation now than earlier in the day.
Triggs' Stairs was a well-known landing-place, not very far from his own home; and the hatter went by the shortest cuts, through the busy narrow streets leading to the river, for fear of keeping the messenger waiting, and thus attracting the attention of watermen and passengers alike.
But just as Master Drayton reached the top of the landing-stairs a boat touched the platform below, which the hatter felt sure had brought those he was seeking. The children were neatly clad, but there was a sad woe-begone look in their faces, and two of them seemed to shrink behind the young woman who sat between them. She too looked anxious, until she caught sight of the hatter, and then she seemed to gain more confidence, and led the children up the steps as briskly as their wet and dangerous condition would permit.
"Thee are sent to us by our brother Staples," she said, almost before the question of identification could be asked.
"Yea, I am here to take charge of the little ones; but thou wilt come and see my wife, and tell her what is needful to be told," returned Master Drayton; for he noticed that only a very small bundle had been brought with them, and this was carried by the elder girl. She was about thirteen, he judged, and singularly like her father, as he had seen him a day or two before, when he stood in the court of the Lord Mayor, and was condemned to lose his ears, and then be transported as an obstinate schismatic, dangerous to the king and his authority.
It was not the habit of Quakers to talk in the streets, and so they walked towards Soper Lane, which was close to the river, without asking any further questions, for fear of being overheard by some one passing.
Deborah opened the street door, and received them with a smile of welcome, as she explained that her mistress was in her own room; which Master Drayton knew how to interpret, and went himself to tell her the children had come.
"And none have dared to make them afraid, since the Lord had them in His keeping," said his wife with a pleasant smile; and she hastened to the keeping-room to welcome these strangers to their new home.
"My own little girls, who are to be your sisters, you know, were obliged to go to bed, they were so sleepy, but you will see them in the morning;" and as she spoke she kissed each of the shy, frightened little strangers, putting an arm around each, while she spoke to the Friend who had brought them.
"They were hiding in the cellar when I reached the house; for it seems that our brother hath given great offence to his neighbours by his plainness of speech when he preached and denounced their wickedness, and so they had revenged themselves upon him, by well-nigh stripping his dwelling as soon as he and his wife were taken to prison. Even the clothes seem to have been stolen, for I could find none but these," she said, touching the little bundle that had been placed on the table.
"I think the soldiers took some of the things," said the elder girl at this point; "but mother had said, 'Thee stay with thy sisters in the cellar,' just before they dragged her away, and Dorothy was so frightened when we heard the people running up and down stairs, that I could not go and see what they were doing."
"That was wise of thee, dear child," said Dame Drayton with a sigh; for she could not help wondering what would happen to her own darlings if she and her husband should ever fall into similar trouble. Sometimes it seemed impossible that they could long escape suspicion, and then anyone might denounce them who happened to bear them any ill-will.
The messenger who had brought the children did not stay long, for the streets of London were no fit place for a woman after dusk, even though she might be staid and discreet; and so, as soon as the necessary particulars had been given, Master Drayton put on another hat and coat, to go with her to the Friend who had undertaken to manage the affair for the committee of suffering.
While her husband was gone, Dame Drayton took the children to the little bedroom she had prepared for them near her own, and the nervous, frightened manner of the two younger girls fully justified what her fears had been concerning them.
They clung to their elder sister, trembling even at the kind attentions of their friend, lest she should attempt to tear them from this last protector.
"Thee will let us sleep together," said the little mother, as she took a hand of each of her younger sisters, and led them upstairs. "We are not hungry now, only a little tired with the fright," she explained, when Dame Drayton would have had supper brought into the keeping-room for them.
"Certainly ye shall sleep together, and to-morrow I hope we shall learn to know each other better;" and she shut the children in to themselves, for she could see that it would be kinder to leave them now, than to press any attentions upon them, or to ask them any further questions. Before she went to bed, however, she gently opened the door and looked in, but found to her relief that they were sound asleep in each other's arms; and they did not rouse the next morning until all the house was astir, and the sun peeping in at their windows.
"This is Bessie Westland, and these are her little sisters, Rose and Dorothy," said Dame Drayton the next morning, introducing the new-comers to her own children and the family assembled at the breakfast table.
One of the apprentices had just raised his horn of small ale to drink, but at the name of Westland he paused, and looked first at the new-comers, and then at his companion; for the name of Westland had been heard of a good deal during the last few days, and the lads were not likely to forget it.
The hatter noticed the look that passed between the two boys, and it did not tend to make him feel more comfortable; for although it was known that he was a strict and godly citizen, the fact of his being a Quaker he desired to keep secret as far as possible, but he feared now that the coming of these children might be the means of its discovery.
Dame Drayton had also noticed the surprised looks in the lads' faces; but she felt sure they might be trusted not to mention what they had heard out of the house, for they were steady, quiet, reliable lads, and their occupation kept them out of touch with many of the more turbulent of their class. Their parents were steady God-fearing people; and so Dame Drayton put aside all fear of mischief coming to them through the apprentices.
The children were naturally shy of each other at first; but by degrees this slipped off like a garment there was no further need to use, and the first question Bessie asked was about her mother and father.
"When can I go and see them, Martha Drayton?" she asked.
There was no disrespect in the girl's tone; but she came of a more stern and uncompromising family of Quakers, and would have looked upon it almost as a sin to use any title of courtesy, however much she might revere the individual. Dame Drayton knew all this, but it came upon her with something like a shock, to be addressed as "Martha Drayton" by this child, and she paused for a minute before answering her question.
Then she said, slowly and cautiously, "Dear child, thou hast been placed in our care by the committee of suffering. They will nathless see to it that ye see your father in due time; but thou must not run into needless danger, or bring suspicion upon this household."
"Art thou ashamed of being a Quaker, then, as our enemies call us?" asked the girl rather severely. "To tremble and quake because of sin was a mark that we were children of the Highest, my father said, and should we be ashamed of that?"
"Nay, nay, we should be unworthy of our high calling if we were to despise the work of the Spirit in our hearts; but dost thou not see, Bessie, that if we were to prate in the streets of these things, we should bring trouble and sorrow upon those whom God hath given us to protect?"
"But the trouble and sorrow would be good for them an it came to them," said Bessie Westland.
"Even so; but if I could not offer thee and thy sisters a safe abiding-place now, the trouble and sorrow of thy father and mother would be increased tenfold."
The girl loved her father very dearly, and would have suffered anything herself to lessen his affliction, and so this view of the matter touched her a little; and Dame Drayton took this opportunity of pressing upon her the need of caution.
"We are not called to raise up to ourselves enemies needlessly. It is only when some truth is to be held firmly and unflinchingly, that we may thus brave the law and the mob who alike are against it."
"But my father held that it was the duty of a true friend of sinners to preach the truth to them at all times, whether they would hear, or whether they would forbear," said Bessie after a minute or two.
"Then, my dear child, if that was the voice of God to him, he could do no other than obey it, and God hath honoured him in calling him to witness to that truth. If the same word came to me, I too must obey; but the voice of the Spirit in my heart was, that I should shield and protect thee and thy sisters, and thus comfort the heart of those called to suffer for His name's sake."
"But—but if thee art a true Friend, would not the word of the Lord be the same to thee as to my father?" said Bessie after a pause.
"Nay, that is where thee makest so grave a mistake," said Dame Drayton, sitting down by Bessie's side, and drawing little Rose close to her. "The Lord hath a word of guidance for each if we will but listen and obey it, without seeking to follow what He may say to another. See now, He hath made me the mother of tender children, and given to thee the care of little sisters, which is next in honour to that of being their mother. Now His word to us will be in accord with this, to guide and direct us in our duty, how to walk before them in love."
"But my mother—?" began Bessie.
"Thy mother is a brave and true Friend, following the word of the Lord, I doubt not," said Dame Drayton quickly; "but because she did that which the Lord, bade her do, it doth not follow that thee should do the same, for the voice of the Spirit may have altogether another word for thee, and thou must listen to that word and follow it, though it lead thee in the way thou wouldest shun. Just now, thou art longing to proclaim to all London that thou art of the despised sect of Quakers, and by this thou wouldest bring grave trouble upon all this household, for the Lord Mayor would not send to arrest a girl like thee, but the man and woman who harboured thee, and so we should be sent to the Bridewell, and thou and my own little ones become an added burden to our brethren."
"Would they not send me to prison?" said Bessie, in a disappointed tone.
"I trove not; though King Charles may profess to think men and women are plotting against his throne, he would scarcely accuse a child like thee, and so thou and thy sisters would but be cast forth upon the world again. Wilt thou try to think of this, Bessie; and to remember that the Lord ever speaks to us of the duty that lies nearest to our hand, if we will but listen and obey, instead of seeking to follow the word He may have given to another? This is how so many mistakes are made, dear child. We think that the word spoken to another must be for us also, and so our ears are deafened to the true message that the Spirit is trying to make us hear and understand."
"But dost thou not think my father obeyed the voice in his heart?" asked Bessie quickly.
"Yea, verily, dear child. Nought but the strength that God alone can give can help even a Friend to bear testimony to the truth before such cruel enemies; but dost thou not see that, while some are called to be martyrs for the truth, others are commanded to take up the cross of everyday life, and bear it meekly and patiently, though it lead not to such honour and renown as the martyr may claim? This is what we are called to, dear child. Thou and I must take care of the little ones at home, not denying our faith if any ask us concerning it, but seeking not to thrust it before the eyes of men; content to be unnoticed and unknown, but ever listening to the voice that will not fail to make itself heard in our hearts, if we will but listen with a simple mind."
Bessie bowed her head, but she was only half convinced of the truth her friend had spoken. Her father had declared again and again that they had no right to sit calmly doing the everyday work of life, while sinners were perishing for lack of the word of life.
He had not scrupled to denounce his neighbours who went to church as formalists and hypocrites, and even in the church itself had stood up and warned parson and people alike, telling them that God could be worshipped in the open fields, in the house or shop, better than in a steeple-house; and he had gathered crowds around him in the fields beyond Southwark, and taught them the truth as he had received it from the lips of George Fox, the founder of their Society.
He was a true and ardent disciple of Fox, counting nothing dear so that he might proclaim the truth, the whole truth—as he thought—for in the tenacity with which he held to the little bit he had been able to grasp, he failed to see that he could not grasp the whole. That those whom he denounced so unsparingly also held the truth as they perceived it, or at least another facet of the precious gem, casting its inspiring light upon them, was dark to him.
This had not been heeded by the authorities at first, and Westland, like many another earnest man, was allowed to preach and teach sinners the error of their ways, and warn them of the wrath to come. For to make men tremble and quake, and cry to God for mercy through the Lord Jesus Christ, was the object of all the Quakers' preaching, and the term "Quaker" had been given them in derision on account of this.
For a time these people had been allowed to follow their own way without much interference from the authorities; but their unsparing denunciation of vice and wickedness, whether practised by rich or poor, doubtless raised the resentment of the king, though a political reason was the one put forward for their persecution. The safety of the throne, it was pretended, called for the suppression of these illegal meetings, as sedition was being taught under cover of religion.
So Westland was an early victim, and suffered the loss of his goods, for everything he possessed had to be sold to pay the fine inflicted upon him. But so far from deterring him from doing what he conceived to be his duty, this did but make him the more determined to teach and preach upon every occasion possible.
The next time, a short term of imprisonment, and one ear was cut off by way of punishment. But almost before the place was healed he was preaching again, and denouncing steeple-houses, and those who put their trust in them.
This time the authorities were determined to silence him, and so he had been condemned to lose his other ear, and then be sent as a slave to one of His Majesty's plantations in America, and all London was ringing with the name of Westland, and the punishment that had been dealt out to him as an incorrigible Quaker.
[CHAPTER III.]
AUDREY LOWE.
"MOTHER, am I truly and verily bound 'prentice to Master Drayton?" asked one of the lads when he went home that night.
His mother was a widow, and lived a mile or two from Soper Lane, and moreover was so busily employed in lace-making all day that she heard very little of what went on around her unless her son Simon brought home news that he had heard during the day, or on his way home at night, so that his next question as to whether she had heard the name of Westland only made the widow shake her head as she counted the threads of her lace to make sure that she was not doing it wrong.
"Has Master Drayton taken another apprentice of that name?" asked his mother, not pausing in her work to look at her boy's face, or she would have seen a look of horror there as he answered quickly—
"It isn't quite so bad as that, mother."
"What do you mean, Sim?" she asked. "Dame Drayton is our Dame Lowe's own sister, and a godly woman, I have heard, as well as her husband—godly and charitable as the parson himself," added the widow, "or he would not have taken thee to learn the trade and business of a hatter without price, merely because I was a widow known to the parson and his wife."
"Oh yes, they are godly and kind; but did I ever tell you, mother, that one of the rules of the workshop is that we shall not speak more than is needful?"
"And a very wise rule too, if proper work is to be done," said his mother quickly.
"That may be; but you have heard of the Quakers, mother?"
"Oh yes, a set of infidel people who speak against the king and the church, and rebel against all law and order. A most pestilent and unruly people, I have heard; but surely—"
Sim folded his arms and leaned upon the table, the guttering candle lighting up his face so that his mother could not fail to see the fright and horror depicted there as he said—
"I believe Master Drayton is a Quaker, mother."
"Nay, nay, Sim; 'tis a thing impossible. Dame Lowe told me her sister was a godly Puritan like ourselves; more stiff in her opinions altogether than she and the parson, for Dame Drayton had counselled that he should give up the church rather than use the new prayer-book, since he could not believe and accept all that was taught in it, and—"
"It would have been a bad case for us if Parson Lowe had refused to conform to the new rule, like so many did," interrupted Sim at this point.
"Yes, it would; and a worse case for his wife and children, for they might have starved by this time instead of living in a comfortable house, with money to help the poor as well as themselves, and I must say, since these changes came, parson has been even more strict and attentive to his duties, though none could complain of him before."
"But what has that to do with Master Drayton being a Quaker?" asked the lad, a little impatiently.
"Why, cannot you see, Sim, that all the family are of so godly a sort, that they would not be likely to take up with all the unruly and wild notions that these pestilent people teach?"
"I don't know what the Quakers teach, but I know that one fellow named Westland has had his ears cut off, and now three girls of the same name have come to live with us in Soper Lane. If they were not Quakers themselves, would they take in a disgraced Quaker's children?"
The widow looked at her son for a minute as if she thought this argument was unanswerable, but after a minute's pause she said—
"They are kind and godly folk, you say, and so it may be they are not of this pestilent sect that hath been suffered to spring up to speak evil of dignities, though they succour these children."
But although the widow said this, she decided to go and see her friend the vicar, and have a word with his wife too if it was possible, for it would never do to let her son—her only child—become contaminated, even though he was being taught his trade without the cost of a penny to herself.
During the rest of the evening she asked the boy a good many questions about his work in Soper Lane, and the ways of the household, but there seemed no fault to be found with anything, though doubtless the household was ruled strictly, as most Puritan homes were. Still, what Sim had told her about Westland made her uncomfortable, and before she went to bed she decided to go to the vicarage the next morning as soon as Sim had started to Soper Lane, and doubtless the parson or Dame Lowe would be able to explain everything, and set her fears at rest.
But when she went, she heard from the maid-servant that the vicar was ill in bed with a bad cold, and that she would have to wait a little while to see her mistress.
"Then I will wait," said the widow, for she had scarcely been able to sleep for thinking of the peril to which her boy might be exposed if it should be true that his master was a Quaker, as he suspected. Dame Lowe would be able to set her fears at rest, she hoped, and the moment the lady entered the room the widow began a recital of her trouble.
At first she was too full of what she had to say, and how frightened she had become, to pay much attention to the lady herself, but after a minute or two she noticed that she was trembling, and her face had become as white as the lace ruffle she wore round her neck.
"I—I am afraid you are ill, madam," said the widow, stopping short in her recital, and looking hard at the lady.
"Just a little faint. I have been anxious about the vicar, you see—but go on with your story. What did your boy say was the name of these children?"
The lady spoke eagerly, and looked almost as frightened and anxious as her visitor, though she was careful not to let her know that it arose from the same cause, and spoke of the vicar's illness as being a little alarming, and having upset her.
"But tell me about those children who have gone to live at the house in Soper Lane. Who did you say they were?"
"Well, now, Sim couldn't be quite sure, of course; but he is a careful lad, and he says there was a Quaker of the same name had his ears cut off for heresy only a day or two ago. Of course, I told Sim that his master, being a godly and charitable man, might have had compassion on these witless children without being himself a Quaker."
"Then it is suspected that Dame Drayton and her husband are both Quakers. Is that what you mean, Tompkins?"
The lady's mood had changed during the last few moments, and she looked hard at the widow and spoke in a severe tone, as though such a charge as she brought was not to be believed.
"I—I don't know what to think," said the widow. "Of course, as Madam Drayton is your sister she could scarcely be infected with such heresy as these wild Quakers believe."
"I trow not, indeed. My sister was brought up in a true godly fashion, but the same charity that moved Master Drayton to take Simon as an apprentice without fee or reward, because you were a poor widow known to me to have lost so much by the plague and the great fire, may have moved her to help these poor children, if no one else would do it."
"Then you think my Sim would be quite safe there?" said the widow in a deprecating tone.
Madam Lowe looked surprised at the question. "Why should he not be safe?" she asked. "You told me the other day that he was learning his trade very well, and had certainly improved in his manners."
"But—but if his master should be a Quaker it would be little better than sending him where he would catch the plague, this new plague of heresy that is abroad, and for my Sim to turn Quaker would be worse than losing the others by the pestilence." And at the thought of all the sorrow and suffering she had endured through this scourge, the Widow Tompkins fairly burst into tears.
"There, don't cry—I am sure you are frightening yourself for nothing. I know my sister to be a gentle godly woman; no more like the wild fanatic Fox than you are. She attends her own parish church as you do, and therefore you may rest content that Sim is safe."
The widow allowed herself to be comforted by this assurance.
"It's all we've got to hold fast by in the way of knowing what to believe, for there's been so many changes in religion, as well as other things the last few years, that simple folk like me, who have no learning, hardly know what they ought to believe sometimes; but to have Sim turn Quaker would just break my heart, when I was looking forward to a little comfort after all my trouble."
"Oh, Simon will be a good son, and a comfort to you, I have no doubt," said the lady, rising to dismiss her visitor. "Take care that he is at church by seven o'clock next Sunday morning, for the vicar is going to catechise all the lads and wenches of the parish, and it will not do for Simon to be absent from his place in the chancel."
"My son will be early. I am glad the vicar is going to give them a wholesome reminder of what they ought to know and do, as respectable citizens and members of the Church of England. It will help to stop this wild Quaker heresy, I trow."
The lady smiled and nodded her assent; but she was too impatient for her visitor to go to make any verbal reply to this, and as soon as she had closed the street door she went upstairs to a little room where a girl sat sewing.
"What is the matter, mother?" she asked as the lady seated herself, and buried her face in her hands.
For a minute or two the lady sat thus, and when she removed them she was looking white and anxious.
"Oh, Audrey, I wish I had never persuaded your father to—" But there she stopped, for the girl's wondering eyes told her she was speaking of things she had long ago resolved to bury in her own heart. "My dear, I want you to go and see your Aunt Martha," she said quickly.
"Aunt Martha?" repeated the girl in a tone of wonder.
"Have you forgotten her, Audrey? It is not so many years since you saw your aunt."
"But I thought you said she died in the time of the first plague," said the girl, still looking at her mother with a puzzled expression in her face, as if trying to recall some memory of the forgotten relative.
"Nathless you will remember her again when you see her," said Dame Lowe, in answer to her daughter's puzzled look. "I want you to go to her this afternoon, and say that the Widow Tompkins, who is the mother of one of her husband's 'prentice lads, hath been here with a tale about Quakers that is disgraceful to any godly household."
"The Widow Tompkins is always in a fright about something," returned Audrey slightingly. "What did she say about the Quakers and my Aunt Martha? What has she to do with them?"
"Nothing, I wot; but Master Drayton, her husband, is not always so discreet as he should be, and Simon hath brought home some tale to his mother about Quaker children being harboured in the house. Your aunt ought to be told that this is known, and will soon become the talk of the town if they are not sent away."
"Would you like me to bring the children here, mother, to save Aunt Martha the trouble of them?"
The lady looked at her daughter, aghast with horror at the proposal.
"Audrey, you must not speak so lightly of such matters. For us to be suspected of any touch with these Quakers would mean ruin, and we might be thrown out of house and home, like so many clergymen's families have been, for it is known that your father always felt they were unjustly treated, though he signed the declaration that saved us from being turned into the streets like beggars. This is why I want you to go and see your aunt to-day, for if people think the Draytons are Quakers they may suspect us next. Oh dear! why will people go wild about religion like this man Fox? It is sure to bring disgrace upon somebody. As if the fire and the plague had not caused misery enough in London, they must now begin making fresh trouble about religion, just as I hoped things were getting more settled and comfortable."
"Mother dear, do not look so troubled about this. Surely God can take care of us and of London too. How is my father now?"
"Not much better, and I do not want him to hear about this, or it will make him anxious and unfit to catechise the children in church on Sunday morning. Now, Audrey, we shall have dinner at eleven, and then I should like you to go to your aunt, who lives in Soper Lane, and you can see for yourself who these Quaker children are, and find out whether your aunt still goes to the parish church, for I hear these fanatics call it a steeple-house, and will by no means join in the prayers as they are set forth in the prayer-book."
The errand in itself was not at all to the taste of a girl like Audrey; but the dim recollection she had of her aunt made her desirous of seeing her once more, and she could only wonder how and why it was that her mother had been silent concerning Dame Drayton, for they had but few relatives, and Audrey herself was the only child now. Two had died during the great plague, and she could only suppose that it was because her aunt lived in the City, and her mother still had a lingering dread of the plague returning, that she had not heard this aunt spoken of for so long a time.
Although they lived within easy walking distance of the City, and she knew her father sometimes went there on business, she did not remember ever having seen it herself, for they lived in the fashionable suburbs of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and generally went to walk in the westerly direction among the fields and green lanes. The parish did not wholly belie its name as yet, for they lived in the midst of the open country, although so near London. Her old nurse was to walk with her, and call for her at Soper Lane at four o'clock, that they might reach home before sunset, for although their way lay through the best and most fashionable thoroughfares in the town, they were by no means safe from footpads. Although the Strand was the residence of many of the nobility, and Fleet Street had most of the best shops lining its footway, these were generally shunned by travellers after sundown—unless they were on horseback, armed and attended by two or three stout serving-men.
So Audrey and her nurse set out on their journey about half-past eleven, and less than a mile from her own home, Audrey was in a place altogether new to her.
"I wonder why we have not come this way to walk before," said the girl looking round at the handsome houses in the Strand.
But the 'prentice lads in the front of their masters' shops in Fleet Street, all eager to press their wares upon their notice, were not a pleasant feature of the scene to Audrey.
"Buy an horologue!" called one close to her ear. "The best sarcenet sold here!" cried another. "Laces of all sorts can be had at the Beehive!" bawled a third, thrusting himself in their way, and pointing to his master's shop.
It was the seventeenth century method of advertising, and evidently the 'prentice lads who were employed tried to get as much fun out of it as possible, to the great annoyance of the passengers, who were continually being pestered with the vociferating youths.
"Verily, I little wonder now that my mother liketh not the City," said Audrey, who felt stunned and bewildered by the din of the shouting 'prentices.
Then there were the stalls where hot meat, sheep's feet, and other such delicacies were sold, and a good many people still having their dinner stood round the open tables placed along the edge of the footpath.
"No, I don't like the City," concluded Audrey, as they walked up Cheapside and began to look out for Soper Lane.
"The plague and the great fire hath made it a desolate place to many, Mistress Audrey," said the nurse with a sigh, for she too had sorrowful memories of that bitter time.
"My aunt lives close to the river, and not far from the garden of the Dyers' Company," said Audrey, as they were looking down some of the streets that had been recently rebuilt; for where they were walking now the fire had raged and roared, sweeping down houses and churches, so that all the place seemed uncomfortably new as yet.
"I could never live in the City again, Mistress Audrey," said nurse. "This is not like what it used to be in my young days; times are altered, and not for the better either. The Lord-Protector ruled England then—ruled it in righteousness; but the people were not satisfied, they never are—and so they chose a godless king to rule over them, and little wonder was it that God's judgment followed their choice of King Charles."
"Hush, hush, nurse! They will say you are a Quaker or a Fifth Monarchy woman," said Audrey in some alarm.
"They may say what they like. I care not who hears me, the fire and plague were—" But to Audrey's relief a bustling 'prentice lad ran against them at this moment, and nurse's anger was turned against boys in general and London apprentices in particular. Before she had done complaining of the change in manners since she was young, Soper Lane was reached, and King Charles forgotten in their eagerness to discover where Master Drayton lived.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE RIVER GARDEN.
IN the days of which we are writing, the River Thames was lined with the gardens of the well-to-do citizens, while here and there was a flight of steps leading from the bank for the accommodation of those going by boat to various points. It was the great highway for traffic, and rowing-boats, stately barges, handsomely decorated for parties of pleasure, as well as others heavily laden with merchandise, were constantly passing up and down the stream.
The wealthy London Companies also held gardens skirting the river banks and kept swans, and to go and feed the swans in the Dyers' Garden was a favourite pastime with Dame Drayton's children. Master Drayton was a member of this Company, and therefore it was a right he could claim that his children should be allowed to play or walk about in this garden—a never-ending delight to them. It was not far from Soper Lane, and so Deborah, or Dame Drayton herself, generally took the children to the garden when the day's work was over, that they might spend a few hours in the fresh air whenever it was fine.
Dame Drayton was at the door with her children and the Westlands, just going into the Dyers' Garden, when Audrey Lowe and her nurse came down the Lane. The nurse knew the lady at once, for she had been servant in the family many years, and Dame Drayton greeted her cordially, but looked at Audrey, in doubt for a minute who she could be, until the nurse said,—
"I have brought Mistress Audrey."
"Dear child, I had forgotten you," said Dame Drayton, kissing her niece warmly, without waiting to hear the errand they had come upon, for that was what nurse was about to tell her, she supposed.
But nurse only said, "My mistress made me say I would call again at four of the clock to take Mistress Audrey back."
"But you will come and rest after your long walk?" said Dame Drayton; "or you might come with us to the Garden and see the swans."
Nurse shook her head.
"My brother lives in Honey Lane, and I would fain see him while I wait," she replied.
"Would you like to go in, or will you come with us to the Garden, Audrey?" asked her aunt. "There are seats upon which we can rest," added the lady.
"I should like to go to the Garden, an I may," replied Audrey.
Somehow she felt as though she would like to nestle up to this new-found aunt, and tell her how anxious and sad her mother often looked; for although there was no outer trouble at the vicarage now, there always seemed an undertone of sadness, a sort of suppressed sorrow, that Audrey in her great love for her mother and father could not help feeling, though she would never give expression to her thoughts about it. Now, all at once, she felt that she would like to take this aunt into her confidence, and tell her of the vague undefined sorrow that seemed to pervade her home.
"I am very pleased to see thee, Audrey. Tell thy mother I am so glad that she hath sent thee on this errand—whatever it may be." And as she spoke the lady looked at her niece, for she felt sure she had something to say to her that could scarcely be trusted even to nurse. "We shall be able to have a quiet talk to ourselves, and thee shall tell me all that is in thine heart, in a few minutes."
"This is Bessie Westland, who hath come with her sisters to tarry for a time with us," said Dame Drayton, drawing the girl forward after Audrey had spoken to her cousins.
"We have come because my father and mother are sent to prison for being Quakers," said Bessie, as if she feared this fact might be forgotten if it was not instantly avowed.
"Hush, Bessie! Do not speak so loudly of these matters. People may hear thy words, and—"
"Martha Drayton, I must speak the truth at all times and in all places," said Bessie; "for I would not have this worldling think I am anything but a Quaker." And as she spoke, Bessie looked scornfully at Audrey's fashionable dress of silk brocade, and then at her own coarse homely frock.
Dame Drayton looked distressed, and Audrey shocked and amazed to hear her aunt addressed by this girl as "Martha." No wonder her mother feared that trouble would come upon them if this was the way Quakers behaved. The lady saw the look in her niece's face, and said to Bessie—
"Will you take care of the children for me, that I may talk to my niece while she rests in the Garden? For we have not seen each other for some years."
"Yea, verily. I will do all that I call to keep them from the sight and sound of evil, for this garden is but a worldly place, I trow," said Bessie, for they had reached the gate by this time, and could see the people walking about on the promenade facing the river, where there was always something going on to amuse and interest the visitors.
Dame Drayton had found a quiet corner that was generally unoccupied by the more fashionable citizens, and she led her little party thither, nodding to friends and acquaintances as she passed, but not stopping to speak to anyone to-day, for fear Bessie should feel it her duty to announce that she was a Quaker, which would be pretty sure to draw the attention of the authorities to them.
So she made her way as quickly as she could to a quiet alley, where the children could play at ball between the shrubs, and Bessie would be shielded from the sight of the ladies' gay dresses. There was a seat, too, close at hand, and here Dame Drayton and Audrey could sit and talk; and they made their way to it, leaving Bessie in charge of the little ones and their play.
"Now, dear child, tell me of thy mother and father. It is so long since I heard aught concerning thee that I have grown hungry for news. Thou dost look well, Audrey," she added.
"I am well, dear aunt; but my mother is more troubled than usual, for the Widow Tompkins came to see her this morning concerning something her son had told her. He is one of thy 'prentice lads, my mother bade me say, and told his mother a strange story concerning the Quakers and his master's dealings with them."
"What did he say, Audrey?" asked her aunt, rather anxiously.
"Nay, I did not see the woman myself; but this lad is her only son, and it may be she is over careful concerning him, seeing she lost her other children in the plague; but I wot she hath frightened my mother sorely concerning thee, so that she thought it better that I should come and tell thee it will soon be the town's talk that thou dost harbour Quakers within thy household. This girl who doth so sorely despise me is one of the children Sim Tompkins spoke of, I trow."
"Poor Bessie! Her whole love is given to her father, who hath suffered so sorely for his faith," said Dame Drayton with a sigh.
"Then they are Quakers," said Audrey, a little shocked that her aunt could live on familiar terms with such people.
"Yea, verily; Bessie Westland glories in that which thou dost think is a name of reproach. If thou couldest know her, too, thou wouldest learn that she is a worthy, trusty maid, careful and loving to her little sisters, who are too young to take care of themselves."
"But—but what are you going to do with them, aunt?" asked Audrey.
"Do with them? Nay, until God opens some other refuge for them they must abide in the house, and share with my own children in my care," said her aunt.
"But there is danger in this, and that is why my mother sent me to you," said Audrey.
"It was kind of Annie to think of me, and kinder still to let me see you once more; but you must tell her, Audrey, that I could not do less than offer these children the shelter of my home, since they are worse than orphaned, with father and mother in prison for being Quakers."
"Yea, but why should they be Quakers, and rebel against the king? Perhaps things were better for religion under the Lord-Protector,—nurse says they were,—and my father thinks so too, I know; but now the king has come to his own again we ought to obey him, my mother says."
"Truly, we should; and the Quakers seek not to disobey the law, except in the matter of taking oaths and some small matters in the addressing of people, which was the reason why Bessie called me 'Martha' just now."
"It is not seemly, aunt, that a wench like this Bessie Westland should speak to thee in that fashion," said Audrey, rather hotly.
"Nay, but, dear child, it was no disrespect for Bessie to do this. Her principles as a Quaker forbid her the use of any title beyond that of friend. Not for the king himself would a Quaker remove his hat, and yet the king hath no more loyal subjects than the Quakers. They are of all people the most peaceable, for, if wrongfully and cruelly treated, they are forbidden to strike again, even in their own defence; and if struck upon one cheek, they hold they must turn the other also, an the smiter will have it so."
Audrey opened her eyes and looked at her aunt in amazement.
"I thought they were turbulent people, sowing sedition and disorder. My mother said they might again bring civil war to England, if they were allowed to do as they pleased."
Dame Drayton smiled and shook her head. "Nay, nay, it is not so, believe me. I know what Quakers are, for I too am a Quaker; though I hold it not binding upon my conscience to hold every rule it is thought good by the Society to lay down for the guidance of its members."
"Oh, my aunt!" said Audrey with a gasp; but instead of starting away from her the girl drew closer, as if to protect her.
"Dear Audrey, it is a sweet and joyful thing to be a Quaker, as I believe and strive to live up to my belief in that name. As sinners in the sight of God we quake and tremble before Him; but we fear not what man can do to us, so that we live under the guidance of that divine voice that speaks to the heart of every child of God,—if they will abide in such peace that this still small voice can yet rule and guide them in everything they think and do."
"Is not this voice our conscience, aunt? And are we not taught to obey it in all things?" asked Audrey.
"Yea, verily, dear child; but it is a truth that hath been well-nigh forgotten, until Fox began to preach and teach that the inner voice within the soul of man was the voice of God, which the soul is bound to obey if it will live and grow. It is meat and drink, the very bread of heaven by which alone we can live truly in this naughty world."
"But when my father speaks of obeying the voice of conscience he means the same thing, aunt," said Audrey.
"Yes, I doubt not that, dear child; but people have talked and talked about their conscience until it has come to mean little or nothing to them, and God seeing this, hath sent His messenger, George Fox, to declare once more to His people, that He hath not left them alone, but speaks to the heart of each by His own still small voice. As Quakers we prefer to call things plainly, for we are a plain people, and so have thrown away that word 'conscience' as a worn-out and broken mirror that does but hide instead of revealing more plainly the truth it covers. Therefore, we say 'the voice of God' will guide us in all things if we will but listen, and as little children obey it, even though it should sometimes bid us to walk in a path that is not pleasant to our feet."
"And is it this that makes thee so happy, aunt?" asked Audrey.
The simple form of 'thee' and 'thou' was still in vogue among close friends, and so Audrey's use of it was not at all singular. The exclusive use of it by Quakers later on was a survival of this feeling that there was a closeness of friendship, a sincerity in these terms, and so they rescued from oblivion this simple form of speech that prevailed among all classes in England at that time. The same may be said of their dress. They did but seek to evade observation at the time of which we write, and desiring to be known only as a plain God-fearing people. They dressed in simple, unostentatious colours; but they have brought up through the generations the fashion of the garments worn by their forefathers, and held to them while other and very different fashions prevailed in the world.
So at this time, although Dame Drayton was a professed Quaker, there was little to distinguish her from her neighbours around, in the matter of dress and speech. The Society impressed upon its members the duty of dressing plainly and simply, whatever their rank in life might be, and that Dame Drayton chose to wear greys and drabs in the place of crimsons or other brilliant colours was regarded as a simple matter of taste by her neighbours. She had always been known as a godly woman before she became a Quaker; but as she had never felt called to preach, and went as often to the old parish church she had attended from her girlhood, as she did to the Quaker meeting-house in Gracechurch Street, few knew that she was a Quaker.
As Audrey asked her question, she looked earnestly into her aunt's face and nestled closer to her. "You seem very happy," she added; "so much happier than my mother."
"Dear Audrey, I am very happy, for since I learned this truth from George Fox, there hath come to me a peace that passeth all understanding; for, following the guidance of this voice, the distractions of the world cannot mar the quiet resting upon God, as my Father, my Guide, my Friend, who will never fail nor forsake me. It matters not whether thou art one who worships in a church or in a meeting-house,—which is but a plain room fitted for a plain people who meet together,—if haply the Spirit hath a word to speak by one of them for the edification of all; and if there is no such word given forth, still the Lord can and doth speak to each soul in the silence that to many is better and more helpful even than the words of prayer spoken by another, who cannot know the secret wants and longings of any soul but his own."
"Then at these meetings there is silence all the time, aunt?" said Audrey questioningly.
"Why should any speak if they feel not moved thereto by the inward voice of the Spirit?" asked Dame Drayton. "It is this multiplying of words without life or power that hath made preaching of none effect. Now we know that when one speaketh he is moved thereto by the Spirit of God working in him, and that he hath of a surety a message for one or other or many of us. In some this power of the Spirit to speak and warn and encourage is continually seeking to find utterance, and then woe be to the man if he forbear to utter his testimony for fear of what man shall do to him. Bessie's father was such an one as this, and a brave honest man to boot; so, as he would not be stayed from warning sinners to flee from the wrath to come, whenever and wherever he could find opportunity, the soldiers have haled him to prison, and his wife too, because she felt moved to warn her godless neighbours, when her husband could no longer do so. Bessie being the eldest was left in the cottage to take care of the children, or do as she could, for none cared to befriend them, as they were children of condemned Quakers. They had been despoiled of all they possessed in fines for the same offence; but the little they had left in the cottage was stolen or destroyed by the mob, while Bessie and her sisters hid themselves in the cellar."
"Oh, aunt, would people really be so cruel?" said Audrey in a tone of compassion, as she turned to look at the girl walking up and down with the little ones, but rarely touching the ball herself even when it fell close to her.
"I daresay there were some who felt sorry for them, and would nathless have helped them if they could; but the baser sort, and those whom Friend Westland had reproved for their sin and wickedness, would be willing to break chairs and tables while they shouted, 'Long live King Charles! Down with all Quakers and rebels!' That was how it was done, Bessie says, while she sat cowering in the cellar below, praying that God would keep them from following her, for fear they should frighten the little ones to death."