image008
image009
"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.
image010
image011
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."
"Oh, aunt, it was terrible! And she is not so old as I am, I should think?"
"No, you are sixteen, and Bessie is not yet fourteen. But she is brave and true, and whispered to her sisters not to cry out or make a noise, and God would surely send deliverance to them by the hand of some friend. We knew not to what straits the poor children were left, but as Quakers, who called themselves brethren with him who was suffering for the truth's sake, we were bound to seek the children when we knew they had been left friendless and alone. Thee will tell thy mother what I have told to thee, and then she will understand how I was moved by the inward voice to offer a home and a refuge to these little ones."
"Aunt, methinks the voice would have bidden me do likewise if I was grown up and could have helped them," whispered Audrey, kissing her tenderly, and feeling that she had found a friend in this aunt who could understand her better than her mother could.
image012
image013
THE exemplary punishment dealt out to the unfortunate martyr Westland seemed to satisfy the authorities for some time, or it might have been that their failure to silence Sir William Penn in spite of fines and imprisonment, made them pause to consider before taking up another crusade of persecution.
Sir William Penn was son of the Lord High Admiral of England, who had recently died, leaving his son a considerable fortune, as well as claims upon the government for money lent to them by the old admiral.
But while a student at Oxford, Master William Penn, his son, had embraced Quakerism, and been expelled for preaching and teaching it. His father was very angry, and threatened to disown him for his connection with such a disgraceful set of people, but afterwards sent him to travel on the Continent, in the hope that he would forget what the old admiral thought was the wildest vagary.
But after two years of travel young Penn came home a confirmed Quaker, and very soon was sent to the Tower for writing a pamphlet he called "The Sandy Foundation Shaken," which was specially directed against the Church of England. During his eight months' imprisonment, he wrote "No Cross No Crown," and several others, which he published as soon as he was released.
Then he began preaching again, and was again arrested. But the indomitable young Quaker had won for himself the regard of the citizens of London, and the jury refused to convict him upon the evidence brought forward, and were themselves fined for their refusal.
Master Drayton had been one of these, and it had strained his resources to make up this money; but he felt amply compensated by the friendship that arose out of this between him and the ardent young champion of their despised sect.
When Audrey Lowe had gone home, and the children had been put to bed, Dame Drayton told her husband the errand her niece had come upon.
"The 'prentice lads suspect we are Quakers, and Sim Tompkins has told his mother about it. What wilt thou do, my husband?" she asked.
"Nay, what can we do but put our trust in the Lord?"
"But thou wilt be careful, Gilbert, for the children's sake?"
"Careful, dear heart? It is not to be feared that I shall publish abroad that I am a Quaker; but, as thou sayest, too many suspect it, I fear, and I have been pondering on a thought that came to me to-day when thinking of Westland and his wife. He will doubtless be sent out to the plantations of America by the next cargo of convicts, and when he can save money enough to pay for the passage of his wife, she will be allowed to join him in his exile. Now, our young champion, Sir William Penn, is rich, and moreover the government is deeply indebted to him for moneys lent by his father, and which he hath small hope of regaining, for the king is too extravagant ever to pay his debts. But if he hath little money to spare, he hath many waste lands out in the plantations of America, and he might be induced to sell some to our friend Penn in part payment of his debt. On this land some of us might go and settle, even as the Independents did in the reign of the first Charles, for America is wide and free, and there we might serve God even as the divine voice should guide and direct us, and none could make us afraid."
"That were a blessing indeed," said Dame Drayton, but with a sigh, for the prospect of leaving her native land and her beloved London was a painful thought to her. "Oh that we could have this blessed freedom in England!" she said, clasping her hands, while the tears slowly filled her eyes.
"Nay, nay, dame, thou hast naught to fret over, I trow," said her husband, in some surprise to see his wife in tears.
"It was not of myself I was thinking, but of Annie Lowe, my sister. Audrey hath let me know—without herself understanding—that the way they thought would be soft to their feet hath been strewn with thorns; none the less sharp are they, I trow, because they have to be covered from the world."
"Now thou art speaking in parables, Martha. I thought the vicar was well content to abide in the church that could nourish him."
"It may afford nourishment for the body, but to sign the Act of Uniformity, whereby Parson Lowe and many another gave up the right to serve and worship God as the inner voice would fain lead them, could but be starvation for the soul. I felt sure it would come to this with Annie and her husband, and that she would one day wish she had been among those who were ejected for the truth's sake."
"But—but I thought Annie sent to warn thee of the danger thou wert in through Sim chattering to his mother of what had been spoken here?"
"Yea, she hath grown timid because she hath chosen the path of the coward, until now she hath become timid at a shadow, for she fears that if I walk not warily, men may even accuse her of being a Quaker. Dear Annie! she hath always been feeble and timorous, and the times are hard to endure for such. The child Audrey is different from either mother or father, and so it is for her sake as well as Annie's I long and pray that all in England may have freedom to worship God even as they will, without let or hindrance from king or parliament."
But Master Drayton shook his head.
"That were a vain wish, dear heart; but a tract of country might surely be granted in America, where Quakers could dwell in peace, and another where Independents might rule themselves in matters of religion, for it hath been proved that they cannot abide in peace together. I will talk to Friend Penn of the thought that hath come to me, and it may be he will have sonic light given to guide him in this matter, for to provide a refuge for the Lord's persecuted people will surely be a true way of devoting the wealth he hath inherited to the service of the Lord, which he is fully purposed to do."
It was evident to Dame Drayton that her husband feared trouble was thickening around them, or he would not have spoken in this way, and it must be confessed that life was indeed hard, when each time he went out she knew not whether he would return, or whether some friend might not come to tell her he had been arrested and carried off to Bridewell to await the meeting of the court where his case would be heard.
But Master Drayton went in and out of Soper Lane without interference, and for the next few weeks nothing was heard of the Quakers being molested, so that at last the lady began to breathe more freely again; other Quakers also took courage, and from meeting in their own or at each other's houses for worship, ventured to open once more the little meeting-house which was situated in an alley in Gracechurch Street.
The closing of this had been a great deprivation to many, but Dame Drayton had never wholly given up attending the church of All Hallow's, close to her home, for it was here she first learned to know God as her Father and Friend, and here she could still hold communication with Him, even through the prayers which were such a stumbling-block to many sincere and earnest souls at this time. To her sister they were little else than chains and fetters, galling instead of helping her soul to rise as upon the rungs of a ladder to the very bosom of the Father. This was what the service of the Church of England was to Dame Drayton; but sometimes there were other seasons when nothing but the solemn silence of their own meeting-house would satisfy her soul's need. Yet so that she was fed with the bread of heaven, what did it matter whether it was words or the absence of words, so long as the still small voice of God spoke in her soul, and made itself heard above her fears or the clamour of the world?
To Master Drayton, however, the church but ill supplied the quiet meeting-house, and so he sat at home and read the Bible or some of the pamphlets written by Barclay, Fox, or Penn, in defence of their faith, and to him the opening of the meeting-house once more was a source of great comfort and rejoicing.
He was the more glad, too, when he saw Sir William Penn among the worshippers, for he doubted not the Spirit of God would move him to speak a word of comfort and encouragement to many who were weary and heavy laden with fear and apprehension. Only a few of the bravest among the Quaker community had ventured to attend this first meeting, but as it was uninterrupted by the authorities, the next time the doors were open many more would attend, there was little doubt.
During this time Bessie Westland had taken up an occupation that no one would have thought likely to attract her. A day or two after she came to Soper Lane she asked to be allowed to work at hat-making like one of the boy apprentices.
Dame Drayton looked rather horrified at the proposal, but Bessie said—
"I ought to do something to help to pay what we shall cost you, and if I learn this hat-making now, I may be able to earn some money to help mother and father in the new country." For to comfort her, Dame Drayton had told her that a way would doubtless be opened for her and her sisters to go to the plantations when her mother went.
So with this hope to spur her, Bessie took up the task of pasting and sewing, doing all the lighter portions of the work required in the manufacture of a hat, Master Drayton taking care that there was no opportunity for the apprentices to talk to or interfere with her.
To his surprise the girl proved a far more apt pupil than any boy he had ever had, and the same energy and enthusiasm that made her father a most aggressive Quaker, being turned into this channel by the force of circumstances, in Bessie showed itself in a marvellous quickness and dexterity in doing all the lighter part of hat-making; and the girl grew more content as the weeks went on.
Dame Drayton, however, did not know what to think of a girl taking up what had always been considered boys' work. She would fain have kept Bessie among the children or helping Deborah occasionally with the bread-making and cooking, but as the girl certainly seemed happier now that she had secured some constant employment, she could only think this must be best for Bessie, however strange it might be to her.
She told her husband, however, that Bessie puzzled her. She could not understand the girl wanting to do boys' work when she and Deb were ready to teach her all sorts of womanly handiwork.
"Thou and I must trust it is the Lord's will she should do this, for she hath certainly most deft and useful fingers, and a quick understanding for all kinds of hat-work. Quick and thorough is she, so that her work can be relied upon already, and I should sorely miss the wench now from my side."
Things were in this position when the winter set in, and the Quakers, having met with no disturbance from the authorities, gathered at their meeting-house each First Day—as they chose to call Sunday.
Of course Bessie was most regular in her attendance; but Dame Drayton did not always go with her husband and Bessie, preferring to take some of the children to All Hallow's Church, which was close to her home. One Sunday, however, Bessie was suffering from a bad cold, and wholly unfit to go out in the bleak drizzling rain that was falling, and so her friends insisted that she should remain in bed. Dame Drayton decided to go to the meeting-house with her husband, for there was to be a gathering of the Friends afterwards, to hear something more concerning the plan for founding a Quaker colony across the seas.
But, alas! that meeting was never held, for the Lord Mayor had ordered that the place should be watched, and as soon as the Friends were all assembled, the doors were forced open by a party of men-at-arms, and after a little parleying with those who kept the door, the Quakers were informed they might consider themselves under arrest, and until their names were taken none were allowed to leave the building.