image014
When this business had been got through by the officer in charge, some half-dozen names were read out as being the ringleaders in this seditious gathering, and among them were those of Master Drayton and his wife.
For a minute the heart of the poor woman seemed turned to stone, and her thoughts instantly flew to the children at home,—her own and those who had been practically orphaned by the rigour of the law,—and she covered her face with her hands in the agony of her anxiety.
The halberdier who had been placed in charge of her, so far respected her grief that he did not disturb her until he was compelled by the officer to lead her out in the rear of some half-dozen others who were being conducted to Newgate.
It was a pitiful sight. No resistance had been made by the unoffending people, for it was one of the rules of their Society that they should submit meekly to whatever outrage was perpetrated upon them, and so Dame Drayton, comforted now by the thought that God would surely protect her darlings, walked through the wet muddy streets behind her husband. When they reached Newgate they were thrust into the common prison, where thieves and drunkards were making the place a very hell by their oaths and ribald songs.
The little company of Quakers sat down in one corner by themselves, and for a time could only listen with shivering horror to what was going on around them. But, hardened as most of this crowd were, Dame Drayton's sympathy was soon awakened by the appearance of a young girl with a baby in her arms, and leaving her husband's side, she went and sat down by the girl to say a few words of comfort to her. From speaking to one, she grew courageous enough to speak to others, and thus helped to pass the long weary hours of that dreadful day.
On Monday morning they were taken before the Lord Mayor, and charged with opening premises for seditious meetings, that had previously been closed by order of the court. Master Drayton was one of the four trustees holding the premises, and moreover he was known to be one of the jury who had refused to convict Penn some time before; which circumstance was brought forward against him, as proving him to be an obstinate Quaker, who richly deserved to lose his ears and be transported beyond the seas.
The court, however, sentenced him to six months' imprisonment, but released his wife, when it was pleaded that she was a regular attendant at her parish church, and was only guilty to the extent of having married a Quaker.
It was an intense relief to Master Drayton when he heard that his wife was not to be sent to prison. He could bear the hardship of this far better if he knew that she was safe at home, though how they were to live through the winter while he was in prison he did not know. Three others besides himself had been sentenced to the same punishment, and they would be a helpless burden on the hands of their friends all the time they were in prison; for, although the authorities provided a building in which they should be detained, prisoners had to pay gaolers' fees and maintain themselves, or they had to be kept out of the contributions of the charitable. At every prison door in those days was a box fixed with this notice above it, "Pity the prisoners"; and upon the pence dropped into this the destitute among them had to depend for their daily bread. If the weather was bad and the passengers few, the prisoners often grew savage with hunger, and stole from those whose friends could afford to provide them with victuals.
Of course the Quaker community never allowed any of its members who were imprisoned for conscience sake to become chargeable to the charity fund of the prison, though being for the most part poor themselves, they felt the increasing burden thrown upon them by the imprisonment of their brethren with great severity.
Dame Drayton knew this, and she resolved to try and supply her husband's needs herself, though how it was to be accomplished she did not know; but she trusted that her Father in heaven would supply the want somehow.
image015
image016
THE news of the raid on the Quaker meeting-house, and the arrest of several members, had been carried to Soper Lane by some of the Friends who had been present, but who, after giving their names and addresses, had been allowed to go home. Many of these were present at the Lord Mayor's court on Monday morning; and when Dame Drayton was released, one or two Friends came forward to comfort her with words of hope and promises of help.
After a few parting words had been spoken to her husband she hastened home, feeling sure the whole household was disorganised, for Deborah would be overwhelmed, and give herself up to moaning and lamenting, and the children could but share her grief and dismay.
But, to her surprise, when she got home she found that Bessie had so far succeeded in reassuring the faithful soul, that she had managed to begin her duties; while Bessie herself had assumed the leadership in the workshop, and she with two of the apprentices were labouring harder than ever to make up for the absence of the master.
Simon Tompkins had gone home to tell his mother the disastrous news; but the others did not mean to be outdone by a girl, and so had resolved to stay and help their master over his misfortune, if it was possible.
"She just made us feel ashamed of ourselves," said one of the lads, when Dame Drayton went down to the workshop, and she and the senior apprentice were discussing what had better be done. "Sim said his mother would not like him to stay with a Quaker, and thought he had better go home at once. We might have done the same if Bessie had not said she should stay and work as long as she could get any to do; and so we decided to wait and see what would happen."
"I thank thee for thy thoughtfulness," answered the lady, wishing she knew as much of her husband's business as Bessie did; for now she was at her wit's end to know how to manage and what to do.
She would not let the lads see her distress and how little she understood of the business details; but as she passed the corner where Bessie was at work, the girl saw the tears in her eyes, and at once guessed the cause.
"May I come with you?" she asked, as the lady was leaving the workshop.
Dame Drayton held out her hand, and Bessie slipped hers into it.
"Friend Martha, didst thou see my mother yesterday?" she asked eagerly.
"Nay, Bessie; I was not taken to Bridewell, but to Newgate. Poor child, poor child!" she said, laying her hand on Bessie's shoulder, and drawing her to her side as she entered the quiet keeping-room.
"May I tell thee what I have been thinking?" said Bessie, sitting down on a low stool at the lady's feet. "I have learned to do a good deal to the hats, and Friend Drayton said I could do it as well, or almost as well, as he; but there are some things I cannot do, and yet it would not take a man long to finish off our work, if we all did it carefully, as Tom says he will do for the future."
Bessie talked on eagerly and quickly, too full of the plans she had thought of for helping the family over this time of difficulty to notice at first that her friend did not answer any of her proposals or appear to notice them, and at length, looking up, she saw that Dame Drayton had fainted.
The shock of being arrested and led through the streets to prison, the horror and fright that had made sleep impossible amid such surroundings, then the excitement of being brought before the Lord Mayor and the crowded court, had produced such a nervous condition in Dame Drayton that she could bear up no longer, and from sheer physical exhaustion had sunk into a state of unconsciousness.
Bessie's screams soon brought Deborah, and with her came Madam Lowe and Audrey; for Sim Tompkins, having taken home the news to his mother, she ran with it at once to the vicarage; and although the vicar and his wife professed to be dreadfully shocked at the wickedness and folly of their relatives connecting themselves with the Quakers, Audrey at once insisted that she should be allowed to go and see what could be done for her cousins in the absence of their mother and father, and, finding she was determined to do this, her mother decided to accompany her.
They were at the door when Bessie screamed, for Deb had just opened it, and they all came running into the keeping-room to see what was amiss.
"Dear heart, have you killed her?" exclaimed Deborah, when she saw her mistress looking white and lifeless as a corpse, leaning back in the stiff, upright chair, with her arms hanging limp by her side.
But the sight of her sister, even in this condition, was a relief to Madam Lowe; and she hoped no one among her friends now would hear that she had been in prison.
"When did she come home?" she asked; pushing Bessie aside, and turning to Deborah, who stood wringing her hands in a helpless fashion.
"This morning—not long ago," wailed Deb. "Oh, if she has got the gaol fever whatever shall we do!"
The mere suggestion made Madam Lowe start aside with horror, but Audrey was kissing her aunt's white cheek.
"Get some burnt feathers," she said, turning to Bessie, for this was the most approved remedy for fainting in those days.
Bessie knew where to find plenty of scraps of feather in the workshop, and soon returned with a handful.
In the meanwhile Madam Lowe had somewhat recovered from her fright, and was directing Deborah to get other remedies while she unfastened her dress. But it was Audrey who supported her aunt's head against her breast, and smoothed back the soft brown hair, while her mother held the feathers to her nose, and applied the various remedies approved by our forefathers for a fainting fit.
But Dame Drayton showed no sign of rallying for some time, and at last a doctor was sent for; but Deborah and Audrey were both warned against saying a word about the occurrences of the previous day.
"We can tell him she has had bad news, and that it has given her a shock," said the lady, who was excessively afraid of having her name mentioned in connection with the Quakers.
As soon as the doctor saw Dame Drayton he ordered her to bed, and helped to carry her there, and as bleeding was the favourite remedy for all diseases, he proceeded to weaken her still further by opening a vein in her arm.
That she should be utterly prostrate and unable to speak when she did at last recover consciousness was not very surprising, considering the treatment applied for her relief. She smiled faintly when she saw her sister bending over her, and recognised Audrey beside her.
"My children!" she managed to say at last.
"They are quite well; but I think these others ought to be sent away, for I have no doubt it is from harbouring Quakers that all this trouble has come upon you," said Madam Lowe, a little severely.
But the invalid, weak as she was, managed to shake her head at this suggestion. "Let them stay," she whispered as energetically as she could speak.
"But look at the extra work they make in the house while you are ill," said the clergyman's wife, who intended to get rid of the Westland children if she could, and dissever her sister's family from all contact with the Quakers, now that she had come to see them.
But the invalid, weak as she was, seemed to divine her sister's intention, for rousing herself by a great effort she gasped, "They have no other home, and they must stay here. I shall soon be better," she added as she closed her eyes.
Fortunately for her, Deborah believed in good kitchen physic with as profound a faith as the doctor did in blood-letting, and having no desire to be present at that operation she hurried away as soon as she had brought towels and basin for the doctor's use, and for the sheer comfort that the occupation afforded her, proceeded to shred some beef and mutton into small pieces, and then set it on the fire to stew for her mistress, when she should be able to take anything.
No one seemed to think the poor woman might be in want of food, but in point of fact she had eaten nothing since she left home the day before, so that her weakness was not at all surprising. When, therefore, Deborah brought up a cupful of the savoury broth she had made, with a delicate slice of home-made bread, Dame Drayton was able to take it and appeared greatly revived, so that her sister lost all fear of the illness being gaol fever, and said she must return home, as she was expecting some guests at the vicarage.
"Then I will stay and nurse aunt," said Audrey, following her mother downstairs, for she knew there would be some difficulty in persuading her mother to allow her to do this, and the discussion had better take place at a distance from her aunt's bedroom.
The difficulties were greater than Audrey had anticipated.
"If these Quaker children are sent away, and you can be of any use to poor old Deborah in nursing your aunt, I do not mind you staying; but for a vicar's daughter to live in the same house as a Quaker would be quite unseemly. Perhaps I had better go and tell your aunt what I think about the matter, and let her choose between you." And as she spoke, madam turned to the door.
But Audrey was quicker, and intercepted her before she could open it.
"Mother, why are you so cruel? Why do you want to turn these poor children out when they have no home but this?" said Audrey, with flashing eyes.
"They ought never to have come here. Your aunt should not have taken them in among her own children. It is they who have brought all this trouble upon them. How are they to be kept, I should like to know, now that your uncle is in prison, and can no longer work for them? I do not suppose your aunt has much money put away, and—"
"Mother, is there no God to take care of aunt and these children, that you talk like that?" asked Audrey, looking at her mother's anxious careworn face, and comparing it with her aunt's sweet placid countenance. "Whether aunt is a Quaker or not, she loves God, and of course God loves her, and will take care of her somehow, and I am going to help Him to do it."
She spoke with so much firmness and decision that her mother could only look at her in wondering surprise. "What has come to you, Audrey, that you should thus seek to disobey me?"
"I do not wish to disobey thee, mother dear," said Audrey. "But I am old enough to judge for myself in some things, and feel sure I am wanted here, for I can be of use to my aunt, while there is nothing for me to do at home. And the fine ladies who come to see you do not want me."
"But these Quaker children? You forget them, Audrey," said her mother. "I am willing to let you stay with your aunt, but they must go away."
"No, no, mother dear; I am sure thee would not wish such a thing. Think how cold it is. You would not turn them into the street to starve?"
"Of course not; but someone else might take them."
"Would you give them a home?" asked Audrey.
Her mother looked shocked at the suggestion.
"What wild things you think of, Audrey!" she said in a tone of vexation.
"Then if you will not take them, why should you think other people would like to do it? God told aunt to take them when they first came here, and, of course, He knows all the trouble, and will provide for it and for them."
Madam Lowe was a Christian woman, and had taught her daughter these very truths, so that her arguments were turned against herself, and at last she had reluctantly to consent that Audrey should remain here for a few days at least. "You cannot stay long, of course, for you will be eating the bread that they will need, and I am sure your father will not consent to help in the nourishing of Quakers."
"Very well; I will come home as soon as I find I am eating more than aunt can afford to give me," said Audrey, with a smile.
To her this question of bread or no bread was one far enough away. God would provide somehow, but it was not for her to consider how. All she knew was, that she had a most ardent desire to stay and help the family through the trouble; and she could afford to smile at a difficulty that did not concern her, now that she had won her mother's consent to remain, and do the work she felt sure God had given her.
Meanwhile Bessie Westland had been considering the same question, and with the same faith in God's loving care for them; but just as Audrey felt she must stay and help God take care of her aunt, Bessie decided she must bestir herself, and get help to carry on the business, or it might come to a stand-still, and then what would become of them all? She recognised now that it was God's voice to her that had made her desire to learn the art and craft of hat-making; but she could do very little by herself, and even with the help of the two apprentices they could not do all that was required.
So when Madam Lowe and Audrey came into the room, Bessie slipped out, and, putting on her duffle cloak and hood, went to the house of another Friend in the neighbourhood, and told them what had happened.
"Martha Drayton is ill, and can do nought, even if she had learned as much as I have concerning the business," said Bessie. "What is needed is one who can see that the work we do is well done, and then finish off the hats ready to go away; but he must also be willing to work for small pay, I trow, and none but a Friend will do that for us in our distress."
The girl of fourteen was far more practical and energetic than the gentle, dreamy Friend she had come to consult.
"Thee must ask counsel of the Lord concerning this thing," he said after a pause.
"Yea, verily; but thinkest thou not that it is the leading of the Lord that I should aforetime have desired to learn this hat-making?" asked Bessie quickly.
"An it were so, the Lord will guide thee into the next step to be taken," said the old man.
"Yea; and therefore have I come to thee, for thou dost know many in the Society who companied with my father and Friend Drayton, and would doubtless be ready to come to their help, an they knew how this help should be given. The Lord hath showed me what is needful for this time of distress. If one can be found who understands this art of hat-making, and could give some time each day to the care of what we do, Friend Drayton may be supplied with what is needful while he is in prison, as well as we who are at home, and dependent for bread upon what we can earn."
The old man could only look at the girl in amazement.
"The Lord hath verily given thee the spirit of wisdom concerning this thing, and hath raised thee up to help and cheer our hearts, when we so sorely needed such comfort."
The old man's words were a great encouragement to Bessie in her self-imposed task.
"I greatly desired to preach to sinners, and show them the error of their ways, even as my father had done," said the girl, with a heightened colour; "but Martha Drayton talked to me concerning this matter, showing me that what was the word of the Lord to one, was not meant for all—that all could not be preachers of the word as my father was."
"The Lord forbid!" said the old man fervently, and shaking his head gravely. "Doubtless the Lord hath need of such as thy father, and Fox, and Barclay; but if there were no Quakers save those who preached the word, the enemy would speedily make an end of us as a people, for the gates of death would close upon us, an there were none left to nourish and succour those who were in prison. It hath sorely exercised me and others of our Society, what was to be done in the great calamity that hath befallen our brethren, for we needs must nourish their families while they are suffering for the truth's sake; but we are an impoverished people, for with fines and imprisonment, and the support of those left to the mercy of a world lying in wickedness, we are brought low indeed, so that the counsel thou hast brought concerning this matter is as the shining of a light in a dark place."
"And thou wilt search for a man who can help us in this craft of hat-making?" said the girl, who did not want to stay longer than was needful, talking further about this.
"Yea, verily, that will I, and I doubt not that he will be found ere long. It will be good news to tell to the brethren also, how that the Lord hath wrought by thee such great things for our help. We were fearing that Friend Drayton would find himself ruined when he came out of prison, for this hath happened more than once to our brethren who have suffered for the truth, but now that will be spared us, I trow, by thy help. Truly, out of the mouth of babes and sucklings the Lord hath perfected praise!" concluded the old man, as he went to the door with Bessie, and charged her to deliver all sorts of kind messages to Dame Drayton, and to assure her that the brethren would pray for her continually in her affliction.
image017
image018
BESSIE WESTLAND went back, feeling that, after all, the work she had felt disposed to despise at first might be as needful for the help and growth of the Society of Friends as preaching itself. Certainly if their friends in prison were to be supported by those outside, someone must work for their daily bread, and the thought that in this way she could be of real service to her own mother and father was a great comfort to the girl.
She had been to Bridewell to see her mother, and to Newgate to see her father, and she knew how both were looking forward to meeting her and the little ones in some colony across the sea; but how this was to be accomplished Bessie did not know, and it seemed altogether too good to expect that there would be a place where Quakers could live unmolested this side of heaven.
But as she reached the door she resolved to do what she could in the present, leaving the future in God's hands, for she could do nothing beyond helping to make hats as diligently as she could.
That Dame Drayton was ill and unable to take any share in the management of her husband's business, was soon known throughout the little Quaker community in London, and before night a man was found able and willing to supply the place of Master Drayton in finishing and superintending the work of the apprentices, for they had not forsaken the work, as it was anticipated they would do. It spoke volumes for the love they bore their master and his family, that they were willing to continue in the service of a man who henceforth would be branded as a Quaker, and Deborah was not slow to recognise this.
She resolved to keep the household going as nearly as possible in the way she knew her mistress would desire it should be done, and with Audrey in the sick chamber to look after the invalid, she could do the baking and boiling and attend to the housework. So before night the household had settled down to its new condition, and no one was more diligent than Bessie Westland in doing with all her might the lowly work she had suddenly found to be honourable, even among those who esteemed the work of the Lord to be the highest duty of a Quaker.
There was no formal gathering at the dinner table that day, but Deborah carried the apprentices a huge piece of pasty to the workshop, while Bessie ate her dinner in the kitchen with the children.
But when the day's work was over, Dame Drayton insisted that Audrey should go downstairs and tell Bessie and the children that she was better, and hoped to be up and among them the next day.
Supper had been laid in the keeping-room, and Deborah took her usual seat, and the children gathered to theirs; but they were more sad and subdued than at dinner time, for now mother and father were missed more as they looked at their vacant chairs. It must be confessed that the sight of Bessie Westland was not very pleasant to Audrey, for she regarded her as being the cause of the trouble that had befallen her uncle and aunt, and so she studiously looked away from where she was sitting, and devoted all her attention to her cousins.
But when it grew dusk, and Deborah came to put the children to bed, bringing a message from her mistress that she thought she might sleep if she was left alone, Audrey could not easily escape from the companionship of Bessie; and so, after sitting silent for some time listening to the distant sounds of carts and waggons that rarely came down Soper Lane so late as this, she suddenly said—
"How long have you been a Quaker, Mistress Westland?"
"Nay, I am but Friend Bessie," replied the other girl quickly. "We are a plain people, and use but plain speech. My father belonged to the Society of Friends many years; how many I know not, but I can remember a time when he was wild and often unkind to my mother, though that was before he heard our leader Fox preach."
"But what do Quakers believe? My nurse told me the other day that they were atheists, and did not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ," said Audrey, drawing her chair a little closer to Bessie's in the dimly-lighted room.
"Many have slandered us thus, not knowing aught concerning us," replied Bessie in an eager tone, for somehow, although this girl was in the world and partook of its ways, Bessie felt drawn towards her; and so she added, "We believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who came down from heaven to die for us. We believe, too, that the life He gave for us must be in us, or we can never be saved."
"Then you believe as we do, that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin?" interrupted Audrey, who was anxious to find out some points of agreement between her own faith and that of the Quakers, since her beloved aunt was a Quaker.
"Yes, perhaps that is it," answered Bessie slowly. "Only we say that Christ must be the inner life of every man, and that this life we must be careful to cultivate, in order to be saved from darkness and evil."
"But—but if you believe all that, why should you not come to church as I do?" said Audrey eagerly. "It is what my father teaches in his sermons. Won't you go with me on Sunday and hear him preach?" asked Audrey eagerly.
"Go to a steeple-house!" exclaimed Bessie, in a tone of horror. "Nay, verily, for my father would curse me, an he thought I had forgotten what he had taught me."
"You call a church a steeple-house, and think it such a dreadful place," said Audrey, in a tone of wondering amazement. "Why should you speak of it in this way? It is God's house."
But Bessie shook her head to this. "Nay, nay, it cannot be that," she said decidedly. "Only we who have the life of Christ within us can be the house of God. Your steeple-house, with its forms and ceremonies, makes men forget this true life within them. This light that God only can put into the soul of man can alone be a house of God. That is why my father hated steeple-houses, because they made men forget God, he said."
But Audrey shook her head.
"Thou art quite mistaken, Bessie," she said. "It is a help to me to go to church and join in the prayers. I can understand what you mean, I think; and it may be that some do think only of the church, and not of God or our Lord Jesus Christ, when they are there, but they might do the same in your Quaker meeting-house as well as at church."
"But there is nothing at our meeting-house to make us forget we go to listen to the voice of the Spirit, either in ourselves or spoken by the mouth of one of our brethren, as he is moved to speak at the time, either for our warning or our encouragement. We have no words written down in a book to be repeated over and over again, whether we like them or not. Nay, verily; such things are not for Quakers, who have learned the power of sin, and the power of God also!"
The girl spoke in such fierce scorn that Audrey felt rather displeased, and angry words trembled upon her lips; but she remembered the talk she had had with her aunt that afternoon, and she kept them back, for she really wanted to find out more than she knew about these people, and why they were so hated and despised.
"Then it is our churches you dislike so much?" she said at last, after a long pause.
"Your churches, your world, and your sin and wickedness, which are all tangled up together, hiding the light—the true light—that God would put into every man, if he did not smother it with this tangle of corruption."
"Nay, but, Bessie, the church is not the evil thing you think it. Is not my aunt a good woman? and she goes to church sometimes, as well as to your meeting-house."
"Martha Drayton is a right worthy woman; but, verily, she is a stumbling-block unto many, because she goeth to this house of Baal," said the little Quakeress fiercely; and Audrey saw that it was of little use arguing with her further, for, however they might agree in the more essential points of their religious faith, the outer forms of it they were never likely to appreciate truly, or the position of the other. Audrey might be a little more tolerant, but she was no less sincerely attached to the forms and ceremonies of the Established Church than Bessie, taught by her father to hate all such forms, was in her determination to see no good in anything but the simple meeting-house.
If the girls would have continued their discussion they could not, for they had scarcely spoken the last words when Deborah opened the door, and ushered in a tall dignified young man and the old Quaker whom Bessie had been to see earlier in the day.
"This is Friend William Penn," said the old man. "He hath come to make inquiries concerning Martha Drayton, for he hath heard that she is sorely stricken with grief and sickness at this time."
"My aunt is a little better now," said Audrey, wondering why Quakers would insist upon hurting the feelings of other people in their manner of speech. Why should this stranger call her dear aunt "Martha Drayton," instead of by her proper title?
The younger visitor seemed to understand something of what was passing in her mind, for he said in a courteous tone, noticing her dress—
"The Quakers are a plain folk and prefer plain speech. It may seem of small moment, and one that were better yielded than contended for; but we declare that this giving of titles and terms of respect that ofttimes we feel not for the person so addressed, is a device of the father of lies to sear the consciences of men, that their sense of truth may be blunted, and they more easily fall a victim to his wiles."
"Ay, friend, thou hast withstood even the king in the matter of giving empty titles," said the old man with a keen relish.
"I refused to remove my hat in the presence of the king, or the Duke of York, his brother; but it was a sore grief and pain to me, because the admiral, my father, saw in it so much of disrespect and want of loyalty that it well-nigh broke his heart, and he banished me from my home because of it."
"Ay, thou hast suffered for the truth, friend," said the old man, lifting his hat for a moment to scratch his bald head, but carefully replacing it again as he turned to Bessie and said, "William Penn hath good hope that he may be able to help thy mother and father, and thee also. Thy father is still in Newgate, and is like to stay there until a convict ship is sent out to the plantations in the spring. Should it carry many Quakers, Friend Penn or some other trusty man will go by another ship that will sail faster, so as to reach the port before the convict vessel, and there buy each Friend that is offered for sale. He is already in treaty with the king for a tract of country where a colony could be established, far enough from any other settlement to secure to us the right of worshipping God according to the guidance of the inner light, without let or hindrance from any man."
Bessie's eyes slowly filled with tears of joy at the anticipation, and she clasped her hands as she said fervently—
"It will be as the kingdom of heaven come down to earth, an the Friends may serve God and live as they desire."
image019
"Nay, nay, I am not so sure of that," said Sir William Penn with a smile. "We are not perfect, although we are striving to learn the way of perfection as the inner light guides us. Still, for thee and thine it will be a blessed change, for ye have been so harried and tormented for the truth's sake, that to be able to abide in peace will seem as heaven to thee at first."
"Nay, not at first only," said Bessie with trembling earnestness; "think what it will be to dwell with my mother and father again, to comfort them for all the woes they have endured at this time of sore affliction and travail."
"Ay, and thou hast earned the right to comfort thy mother and father," said the old man, "for thou hast done what thou couldest for those who befriended thee in thy time of trouble. If thou hadst been content to idly bemoan thy lot instead of doing that which lay nearest to thine hand, the burden upon our Society at this time would have been almost greater than could be borne. But now thou canst do so much to the finishing of the hats that there is little fear Friend Drayton's business will fail to bear all the expense of the family, the charges he may be at for gaolers' fees and what not, while he is in prison. Thou art a right worthy daughter of a brave father," concluded the old man; and then he related to Sir William what he had heard from the workman who had undertaken to manage the hatter's business during his absence.
Audrey had heard nothing of this, and indeed had scarcely thought of how her aunt and the household were to be kept during the next six months; but her heart warmed to the girl who, in the midst of her own grief and trouble, could yet turn to labour—little as she could have liked it at first—with such good purpose, that in a few weeks she could make herself so useful in it as to be able to materially lessen the expenditure for skilled help, and by her example keep to their posts of duty those who, but for her, might have forsaken them at a time when it would be almost impossible to supply their places from outside.
Audrey learned all this from the talk of the two visitors, as they sat discussing whether they, as a Society, should undertake the direction and control of the household until Dame Drayton was able to get about, or whether, seeing Bessie was so effective a helper in the workroom and Deborah in the house, things should be left in their hands for the present.
To Audrey it was the greatest surprise possible, for by this time she had learned that one of their visitors was rich and able to live in the highest rank of society, and yet he was willing to concern himself in her uncle's affairs with the same sort of interest as a brother might be expected to do. He promised to go and see him in prison the next day, and arrange for his comfort there as far as possible.
"Everyone knows I am a Quaker now," said the gentleman; "but for one of our brethren to go would inevitably draw upon him the notice of the authorities, and there would soon be another for us to keep in Newgate or Bridewell. It will be a great comfort for our brother Drayton to hear that he is not chargeable to the Society during his imprisonment. Truly the Lord hath blessed him in his deed, for in taking these children he hath brought a blessing to his household. Doubtless the Lord hath spoken by him to me concerning the manner He would have me use that which He hath given me, for of all the plans that hath been devised, this for the founding of a new Quaker colony across the seas cloth commend itself to me as the wisest and most useful."
"Verily, it was through these children that the Spirit gave him that wisdom," said the old man. "He hath come to me sometimes, and told me how sorely his heart ached for the little ones, and how hopeless it seemed that they could ever dwell together again. It would cost Westland years of labour even to send for his wife, and he could never hope to be able to pay for all his children to go to the plantations to him. Yet it was the only earthly hope our martyr-brother cherished, and each time that Friend Drayton went to see him, his talk would be of the home he would make for his wife and children across the seas."
"Yea, and verily his hopes shall be fulfilled," said Sir William fervently. "We will have a free colony where no man shall dare to say, 'Ye cannot serve God after this fashion,' but where we may lift up our voices in prayer and praise, none daring to make us afraid."
Audrey thought that such a place might be a little heaven below to some people, but she was not so sure that Bessie's father would be happy there, for if there were only Quakers to live in the colony, there would be no scope for his preaching-power, and he would have to do as Bessie had done, turn the energy to a more practical account; and the fervour once displayed in preaching to sinners who would not hear, might be used in some way for the help and development of the Friends dependent upon each other for all the comfort and joy of life.
But seeing what Bessie had done in the way of practical work that lay nearest to her hand, there was little doubt but that her father would do the same; for some such thoughts as these had arisen in the mind of Sir William Penn when the plan was first proposed to him, and that was why he felt so much pleasure in hearing about Bessie and the homely work she had undertaken. Out there in his new colony there would be plenty of homely work for everyone who would do it, and those who could not stoop to that would be of little use to themselves or others, and therefore had better stay in England until they were wiser, or the king grew tired of fining and imprisoning Quakers. This was not likely to happen very soon, seeing that these people were a convenient scapegoat for the gradual curtailment of civil and religious liberty, which was slowly but surely being effected now in the new laws that were made and put into force so rigorously.
image020
THE six months' imprisonment to which Master Drayton the hatter had been condemned came to an end at last, but not before his health had become so greatly impaired by the close confinement and impure air of the prison that the doctor greatly feared he would never be strong again, more especially as he would now be known as a Quaker, and consequently watched and harassed by the authorities upon the smallest provocation.
The thought of this and the sight of her husband's pale worn face soon overcame Dame Drayton's reluctance to give up her home and friends in England, and join the band of Quakers who were soon to sail for New Jersey in His Majesty's plantations of America.
This year 1677 was likely to be one of blessed memory in the history of the Society of Friends, for Sir William Penn had carried into practical effect the dream of Master Drayton, and had spent a portion of his wealth in the purchase of land upon which his poor persecuted friends could settle, and worship God according to the dictates of their conscience, none daring to make them afraid.
Bessie's father had been despatched with a party of convicts to the older settlement of Massachusetts; but as Quakers were persecuted almost as bitterly at Boston as in London, an agent had been sent by Sir William to buy the prisoner at the auction of the convicts, which would take place as soon as the vessel arrived.
Westland was a more robust man than his friend the hatter, and, thanks to the care of Friends outside the prison, he had not suffered so severely as the London tradesman.
The lax rules of the prison had given Westland an opportunity of preaching the gospel to the prisoners confined with him, and though many mocked and jeered at his warnings, a few were impressed with the earnestness of his faith; and this was so great a comfort to his ardent soul that he forgot the discomfort of his surroundings in the joy of knowing he had been the means of awakening some souls from the night and sleep of sin, to seek the Saviour who could give to them a new and better life.
As it had been decreed that his wife must remain in Bridewell until he could earn the money to pay her passage to the plantations, it was at first feared that she would have to remain in prison for a much longer time than her husband; but although Sir William Penn was known to be an obstinate Quaker, many about the Court who had known his father were willing to do him a favour, in the hope of drawing him back to what they deemed was his rightful position in society; and by the interest of some of these it was at last arranged that Bessie's mother should be released when the party of Friends were ready to sail from Gravesend.
Bessie was allowed to go and see her father just before he was taken from Newgate; and now to hear at last that her mother would be released to go with them to the new strange home across the seas was almost too much joy for the poor girl.
"We shall see her, Dorothy! we shall see her! thee and me; and we shall not be afraid of people knowing we are Quakers. Verily, God hath been good in giving us such a friend as Sir William Penn, who is indeed our champion and protector."
But Audrey was by no means so delighted as Bessie over the impending change. The two girls had learned to know and love each other by this time, for each had been drawn to the other by the mutual helpfulness that had kept business and household going during the long illness of Dame Drayton and the imprisonment of her husband.
It had seemed impossible at first that pretty, fashionable Audrey Lowe, whose father lived by ministering at a steeple-house, and the stern, uncompromising Bessie Westland could ever be friends, in the closest sense of that word. But circumstances had thrown them so closely together the last few months, that they had learned to look below the surface they each so much disliked in the other, and there they could recognise the true spirit of Christ Jesus, who came not to be ministered unto, but to minister.
In spite of her mother's chafings and warnings lest their fashionable friends should find out that they were related to Quakers, Audrey Lowe insisted upon spending the greater part of her time at Soper Lane during her aunt's illness; so that the girls were necessarily thrown together a good deal, and thus had learned to know and appreciate the selflessness each displayed in working for Dame Drayton and her family. When at last the day of parting came, it was not such an unmingled joy to Bessie as she had anticipated, for her heart clung to this friend, who was so like and yet so unlike herself in all externals of character and surroundings.
"I shall never be able to say a word against steeple-houses and the people who go there, after knowing thee, Audrey," she said, the last evening they spent together.
They were sitting on a box in the keeping-room, waiting for the waggon to come and fetch the last of their goods to the wherry, which would carry them to the schooner chartered by Sir William Penn to convey them to their new home. The girls sat hand in hand, their hearts too full to say much, until Bessie spoke about the steeple-houses.
"I am glad," said Audrey in a whisper, "for I never liked to hear thee speak of what I loved and reverenced with such contempt. I cannot understand how thee can do it, when it is God's house of prayer."
But this was treading on dangerous ground, and had been the most thorny subject of discussion between the two girls; so Audrey hastened to add—
"I have learned to understand what a real Quaker is from knowing thee, Bessie; and I shall always try to help them if I can, and they need my help."
"Ah, and I fear there will be many poor Friends left behind here in London who will need all the help man can give them," answered Bessie. "For we cannot all go in this ship to another land; and Friend William Penn says it would not be good for us or for England to carry all the Quakers away. We have had our share of the battle, and fought for the truth and for liberty of conscience, as God strengthened us to do. Now He will strengthen others to take our places, while we go to plant the truth in other lands. Although Friend William Penn hath been imprisoned for the truth again and again, he will not come with us now, but stay and fight the battle of religious liberty here; for it can only grow and become strong through fighting and struggling—hard as it may be for us who suffer."
"Oh, Bessie, I cannot bear to think there should be all this fighting about it," said Audrey, in a pained tone.
"It hurts thee only to think of it," said Bessie, "and therefore God hath not called thee to this work, but to be a comforter of those who suffer, and help to make them strong and gentle. Thou art tender and loving and pitiful. I thought scornfully of these things once; but since I have known thee, I have learned to see that God hath work for all in His world. For it is His world, Audrey, in spite of the sin and pain and trouble that wicked people make in it. Now I want to fight this wickedness, and so does my father. But it may be God hath other methods, only I have not learned them. But I am glad—oh, so glad!—that God hath called my mother and father, and all of us, out of the fight for a little while—or, at least, this sort of fighting," added Bessie.
"The fight can never be over, while we have our own sin and selfishness to struggle against," said Audrey quickly.
"I know. I have learned that since I have been here," replied Bessie. "There was not time to think of much besides the other sort of fighting before. We needed all our courage to be faithful and true, and preach the gospel to every creature, as the Lord Jesus commanded; but since I have been here, dwelling in safety and comfort, such as I never knew before, I have learned there is another battle to fight, and other victories to be won, and I have been trying to do this as well."
"I know, Bessie," whispered Audrey, "I know it has not been easy for you to do just the everyday work that was so important to aunt and uncle. You are Brave Bessie Westland—the bravest girl I ever knew, especially in what you have done for aunt and all of us here."
They were interrupted at this point, for the box on which they were seated was wanted, and there was no further opportunity of talking.
At daybreak they were going by water to Limehouse Hole, where a wherry was to be in readiness to convey them to Gravesend. The whole party who were going were Quakers, many of them in broken health from imprisonment in unwholesome gaols. Some were bringing all their household goods, as Master Drayton was doing; while others, like Bessie's mother, possessed but the few rags they wore when leaving prison. Most of them came from London and its neighbourhood; but a few were brought from neighbouring gaols, the authorities giving them up to save, the expense of transporting them as slaves to the plantations.
Audrey and her mother bade the Draytons farewell the night before they started. It was hard for the sisters to part after this short reunion, for they too had begun to understand each other better than they had done before, and whatever their differences of opinion might be, they were heartily at one in desiring that religious liberty should be the right of everybody, whatever name they might be called by; for, as Dame Lowe remarked, there were more silent martyrs in any cause than the world dreamed of; and, as Audrey added, there were not many like Brave Bessie Westland.
So the tears of parting had all been shed when the sun rose the next morning, and if they were not all as happy as Bessie herself and her two sisters, it was a calm and hopeful party of men and women who went on board the wherry at Limehouse Hole, and though most of them were being forcibly driven from their native land, they could yet look forward to the new home they were going to make in the unknown world beyond the seas. To many of the more timid of the company, seated among the baskets and bundles on board the wherry, the voyage, with its unknown perils, was the most fearful part of the trial, and if they could not have rested upon the arm of their Father in heaven, they would scarcely have braved its dangers even to escape persecution. But almost all among them had a nearer and dearer self in husband, wife, or children, to think of, and for their sakes the timid became brave, for the time at least, so that when the schooner was reached, where the prisoners had been already placed under the care of the captain, the party of Friends in the wherry were able to meet them with cheerful, hopeful words and greetings.
To Bessie and her sisters it was a moment of great joy, although a second look at the dear mother showed that the months spent in prison had left cruel marks upon her. The hair, so dark when she went away, was now quite white, they saw, as they looked more closely under the hood that covered her head. She was better clothed than most of those who had been brought from different gaols, for Dame Lowe and Audrey had made her a homely but useful outfit for the voyage, and some of the things had been taken by Friends to the prison the day before. For this thoughtful kindness Dame Westland was deeply grateful, since the rags she had been wearing would have been a pain and grief to Bessie, she knew, and to be able to meet her children decently clad was a great comfort.
Truly the passengers going on this voyage were of all sorts and conditions of men; but they were linked in the bonds of love to God, and the truth declared by the Lord Jesus Christ, and for this they had all suffered in mind, body, or estate, some being beggared, some maimed, some broken in health and hope alike, but all brave, true friends and brethren, ready to help each other and bear each other's burdens.
By the help of the same benefactor, under the guidance of God, they had been brought together to make a new home in a new country, and they resolved that, so far as it was possible, religious as well as civil liberty, should be the charter of the new homestead they were going to set up in New Jersey. It was to be a home and refuge for the persecuted Society of Friends. Sir William Penn had bought it, and they were to establish the faith of God upon it.
Later, perhaps, if the persecution of their people in England did not cease, he would endeavour to secure a larger territory in liquidation of a debt owing by the king, for money advanced by his father the admiral. Whether these larger plans would ever come to anything, the present band of pilgrims did not know; but, of course, it would largely depend upon the success of this venture, so every man and woman of the party felt that it would depend upon them whether or not this larger refuge could be founded, and all with one accord, who had heard the story, resolved to follow the example of Brave Bessie Westland.