Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration]



                             BRAVE

                        BESSIE WESTLAND

                 A Story of Quaker Persecution


                              BY
                         EMMA LESLIE

                          AUTHOR OF
      "AUDREY'S JEWELS," "AT THE SIGN OF THE BLUE BOAR,"
             "FOR FRANCE AND FREEDOM," ETC. ETC.



                            LONDON
                  THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
        56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD



            MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.



[Illustration]

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

   I. A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD

  II. DAME DRAYTON

 III. AUDREY LOWE

  IV. THE RIVER GARDEN

   V. ONE SUNDAY MORNING

  VI. A DESOLATE HOUSEHOLD

 VII. SIR WILLIAM PENN

VIII. CONCLUSION



[Illustration]

                     BRAVE BESSIE WESTLAND.

CHAPTER I.

A QUAKER HOUSEHOLD.

"HUSH, hush, Dorothy! Thee must not cry, for fear they should hear
thee, and come and look for us. The Lord will take care of us, now He
hath called mother and father to witness for the truth."

These words were spoken in a whisper to the little sister who lay
trembling in her arms, but there was something like a gasping sob in
Bessie Westland's voice, though she tried to speak bravely and calmly,
for fear the two younger sisters should grow more frightened.

But the mention of their mother brought back all the trouble, and in
spite of the warning words both burst into tears, while Dorothy sobbed
out—

"Oh, where have the cruel soldiers taken mother? Will they burn her,
think ye, Bessie?"

"Nay, nay, the Smithfield burnings are ended; there have been none of
late. King Charles—"

"Down with the Quakers!" shouted a hoarse voice close to their
hiding-place, and Bessie, who was holding the string of the cellar
door, felt her whole body shake with terror, for if the mob should find
them there was no telling what they might do. So with the cellar door
string in one hand, she held the frightened children close to her with
the other, as they sat cowering in the dark, and listening to the angry
threats of their rude neighbours, whom her father had so often warned
to flee from the wrath to come.

"Turn out the rats' nest!" called another voice; and it was clear, from
the sound of trampling feet and the breaking of furniture, that the mob
were doing their best to fulfil the threats of vengeance against the
unfortunate Quakers.

"King Charles has let us see now who are the law-breakers, and who gets
their ears slit off," said a man who had posted himself close to the
cellar door, while the rest ransacked cupboards and chests for what
they could find, as nobody was likely to bring them to account for
sacking the house of a convict Quaker.

They seemed to have forgotten the children who were hiding in the
cellar, for this man stood with his back against the door and talked,
while the rest searched every room and corner, evidently thinking that
it was their lawful spoil, now that the owners had been carried off to
prison.

How long they sat huddled together in the damp dark cellar, listening
to the destruction of their home, and the threats against father and
mother, they never knew; but to Bessie and her frightened sisters it
seemed hours and hours before the people began to go away, and they
were in constant terror lest some one should pull the door open and
reveal their hiding-place.

At last the house began to grow more quiet. The man moved away from
the door, and little Rose Westland ventured to lift her head from her
sister's lap.

"How long shall we have to stay here?" she asked in a trembling whisper.

"Hast thou forgotten mother's words already? how she bade us stay close
in the cellar until the Lord sent His messenger to deliver us?"

"But it is so dark," objected Dorothy; for now that the house was left
in peace, the child thought she might peep out and see what mischief
had been done, and she said so.

"Nay; nay," replied Bessie in a solemn whisper; "we must obey mother,
and wait here for the Lord's messenger."

Her fingers were stiff and cramped, and her arm ached from holding the
string so tightly, but she would not let it fall. "We are safe here;
mother said they would not come to the cellar, and thee seest she was
right. Now we must wait; the Lord will nathless send His messenger
soon." And then Bessie relapsed into silence, to listen for the
messenger who should come to their rescue.

The day before, their father had been carried off while preaching a
few yards from his own house, and at sunrise that morning a party of
soldiers had knocked at the door with a warrant to take their mother
to gaol also, for she had been preaching and teaching, in spite of the
warnings issued to all Quakers and seditious persons against unlawful
assemblies.

Before she went away, she bade Bessie take her younger sisters and
hide with them in the cellar. And here they, had been crouching in one
corner ever since, too frightened to feel hungry, and sick and faint
from terror and exhaustion, yet confidently expecting that God would
send help to them, though who would be brave enough to come to the
rescue of poor Quaker children, Bessie did not know.

Meanwhile, the prisoner, as she was hurried along the streets by the
soldiers, was recognised by one and another she knew, so some of the
little Society of Friends soon heard that one of their number had been
arrested, and several went to the court where the prisoner was first
taken, and there contrived to get a word with her, and to these she
said, "The children are in the cellar."

It would be sufficient, she knew, for the committee of suffering
formed for the relief of distress would help them somehow, and the
brave-hearted woman felt she could go to prison cheerfully if her
children were taken care of.

An hour later there was a meeting at the house of one who knew the
Westlands, to consider the case of the children, and there it was
decided that a messenger should fetch them by water from the Tower
Stairs, and they would be quartered upon three Friends living near, one
of their number undertaking to manage this delicate business.

At the corner of Soper Lane he met one of those he was in search of,
and told him his errand.

"It is thought likely that Friend Westland may be sent out to Jamaica
or His Majesty's plantation of Virginia, or he may escape with a fine
and the loss of his other ear, so that he may be able to maintain his
family again by and by."

"True, friend; but none can tell how soon thy home and mine may also be
desolated, and therefore should we be careful how we take charges we
are not able to fulfil," said the other, hastily looking round lest any
one should overhear what they were talking about, and suspect them of
being Quakers.

"But surely we may trust the Lord to provide for us and our little
ones?" returned the other in a tone of protest.

"Yea, yea, I doubt it not, friend; but still I hold that we should not
run needlessly into danger, and this affair of Westland's is becoming
the town talk, and to bring his children among our own just now will be
to invite persecution. Wait awhile, and then we shall see."

"See them starving," interrupted the other, with most un-Quaker-like
haste and heat; for the thought of this family of little children being
left to the tender mercies of a world that was so cruel to Quakers,
made his naturally quick temper rise against the extreme caution of his
companion, and without waiting to say another word he turned and walked
in the direction of his own home.

It was not far from where they had been standing, and in a few minutes
he reached the door, which was almost instantly opened by his wife, who
had been waiting and watching for his return for nearly an hour.

"Now the Lord be praised for bringing thee back to me in safety once
more," said Dame Drayton in a glad whisper, as she closed the street
door, while her husband hung up his cloak and tall steeple-shaped hat
on the peg in the entry.

"What news?" she asked.

"Bad enough, Martha. Westland is condemned to lose his ears and then
be banished to the plantations of Jamaica or Virginia—I am not certain
which—and his wife is to be imprisoned in Bridewell until she has
earned sufficient to pay the charge of her own transport to join him."

"And they have children, Gilbert," said his wife in a pitying tone,
lifting her eyes wistfully to her husband's face, as if mutely asking
what they were to do for these.

He understood the look.

"We will ask counsel of the Lord first, and the inner voice will teach
us what we ought to do," he said gravely. And as he spoke he turned
down a passage leading to his workshop, while his wife went into the
kitchen to superintend the preparation of dinner.

As they silently pursued their daily tasks, each lifted their heart to
God for guidance, and then listened for the voice of the Holy Spirit to
show them what they ought to do.

Two little girls were being taught meanwhile how to help in chopping
suet, washing currants, and pounding savoury herbs, which would all be
required for dinner. They understood, when they saw their mother close
her eyes for a moment, that they were not to talk or ask questions; but
before the morning tasks were over, they were startled by being asked
whether they would like some brothers and sisters to come and live with
them.

"Will they be 'prentices?" inquired the elder, a girl of ten or twelve.

"Why dost thee ask that, Betty?" said her mother.

"Because 'prentices eat so much bread. Deb says she will have to bake
and brew again to-morrow, they eat so much."

"Poor Deb is nathless weary, or she would not grudge the labour, since
the Lord hath sent meal and malt sufficient for all our wants. That is
why thee must learn to do what thee can in the kitchen when thou art
not learning from the horn book—that must by no means be neglected.
Now, Betty, if thou bast finished those currants, thee may take Hannah
and help her with her lesson until I can come to thee."

"But thou hast not told us about the new brothers and sisters," said
the younger, a little fair-haired girl whose curls could not be
persuaded to lie hidden under the close linen cap, but would peep
out all round neck and face, in a fashion that annoyed Dame Drayton
sometimes.

"Go with Betty to the keeping-room and learn the spelling task; it may
be thee will hear and learn something more than the horn book can teach
thee if thou dost ponder over my question. Think of it well, and all it
will mean to thee—about the extra baking and brewing. Thee may leave
Deborah and I to think," added the mother with a gentle smile on her
lips, as the two little girls left the room.

For her own part she had no doubt as to the voice within her, and she
longed for dinner time to come, to know what her husband would say.
Of course she would wait and hear what he should propose first, but
she would contrive to let him know that the Spirit had spoken with no
uncertain voice to her.

Master Drayton was a hatter, working with two apprentices at the back
of the house, in pasting and pressing the various shaped hats that at
present found favour with the London public.

A glance at Master Drayton's workshop would have told the stranger
that the country was in a period of transition, for there were
tall steeple-crowned hats such as were fashionable in the time of
the Lord-Protector Cromwell, but there were quite as many low and
broad-brimmed, that would be adorned with a long ostrich feather before
they were placed in the fashionable shop window; and Master Drayton
often thought of the changes he had seen during the last few years.

But Puritan and Cavalier alike were united in their hatred of Quakers,
and it seemed as though they would surely be exterminated between the
two. Yet they all worshipped the same God and Father in heaven, and
professed to love and serve the same Lord and Saviour who had died to
redeem them.

Some such thoughts as these were passing through the hatter's mind as
he stood silently directing the labours of one of his 'prentice lads;
for even in the workshop the Quaker rule of silence, where words were
not actually needed, held full sway, and so, except for the movement of
fingers and tools, and the slight noise thus caused, this hat factory
was as silent as a church.

"Thee must be more careful not to waste," was Master Drayton's only
word of reproof to a clumsy lad who had just spoiled a hat he was
making; but the words were so gravely spoken, that the lad reproved
felt heartily sorry for his stupidity, and wished he could repair the
mischief he had wrought.

When the dinner bell rang, master and apprentices took off their
aprons, washed their hands at the pump outside the door, and then
went to the fresh sanded dining-room, where Dame Drayton and the two
little girls had already taken their seats, with Deborah, the matronly
maid-of-all work.

There was a silent pause before the meal was served, but no spoken
words of prayer broke the silence.

The plain but bountiful repast was eaten without a word being spoken
beyond what was needful, and yet it was by no means a dull and gloomy
family gathering.

Dame Drayton, from her place at the foot of the table, beamed upon her
husband and his apprentices as though they had been honoured guests,
and the little girls smiled gravely but sweetly, seconding their
mother's welcome. There were little courteous nods and smiles too, as
the bright pewter plates were passed to the master to be filled, the
boys forgetting their hunger in their eagerness to see their mistress
served first. Deborah might sometimes grudge the labour of making up so
much bread, but as she looked at the boys and noted how they enjoyed
their meals, she felt content. Mistress and maid often interchanged
looks of amused interest, as pies, puddings, and pasties vanished
before the healthy appetites.

An atmosphere of peace and content pervaded this household, that needed
no words, for it found expression in acts of kindness and courtesy, and
looks and smiles of tender love. Indeed, it seemed as though the very
repression of all utterance filled the silence with a power of peace
and restfulness that no one desired to break.

When the meal was over, the two lads helped Deborah to carry the plates
and dishes to the kitchen, the little girls went to walk round the
garden, and husband and wife drew together at the window.

"Thou hast thought of my words this morning, dear heart, I can see,"
said Master Drayton with a smile, as he took his wife's hand.

"Thee knowest it would be grievous to part these little children,
Gilbert. The voice of God to me is, that we bring them to dwell here
with our little ones."

"But, Martha, hast thou thought what this will mean to thee and
Deborah? Three children are no light charge, my wife."

"True, Gilbert; but if the Lord send them, He will natheless give grace
and strength to bear with them."

"But the committee of suffering have not apportioned them all to thee,
one only to—"

"The committee are natheless wise men," said his wife quickly; "but the
Lord's voice can be heard by a woman in the stillness of her home, more
clearly, concerning the welfare of little children, and the voice to me
is, 'Part not these little ones.' If another would fain receive them,
even so let it be; but add not grief to grief, by laying a further
burden upon these tender witnesses for the truth. It is enough that
their parents are torn from them; let them have the comfort of abiding
together, wherever their home may be."

For gentle Dame Drayton to make such a long speech as this, made her
husband open his eyes in silent amazement; but it was sufficient to
convince him that she felt very strongly about the matter, and this was
doubtless the Lord's voice in her heart, or she would not thus have
spoken. So after a minute's pause he said, "I will see what Friend
Briggs thinks of thy word, and if he wills to take the three children
he will natheless tell me. If not, I will fetch them hither at sundown."

There was no further need of words about the matter, and none were
spoken. The hatter returned to his workshop, and the busy housewife
took out her spinning-wheel; for if these children came to her poorly
provided with clothes, she would need to draw upon her store in the
linen-press, and so there would be the more need for its replenishment.

But while Dame Drayton's spinning-wheel hummed to the pleasant measure
of her thoughts and plans for the children she was ready to welcome to
her home, her husband was revolving the same matter in his mind, but
in a fashion his wife had never glanced at. He was wondering what the
committee of suffering would think of his wife's proposal, in view of
the fact that she was not held to be a good Quakeress by the leaders of
their district meeting. The cause of this was that she refused to give
up entirely her attendance at "a steeple-house," as the Quakers called
a church. She was born in Maiden Lane, and had attended All Hallow's
Church in Bread Street since she was a child, and there she still took
her own children sometimes, since they had been roughly driven out of
White Swan Court, where their own meeting-house stood.

Now, the leaders among this little company of Quakers maintained that,
for a woman to take her children to "a steeple-house," in preference
to a Friends' meeting-house, because a party of rough soldiers had
driven back the worshippers in the name of the king two or three times
lately, was a weak compliance to the enemy, that must be strongly
condemned. Dame Drayton had pleaded that her elder child was a weak and
nervous girl, who had been unable to sleep without terrifying dreams,
after the encounter with the soldiers, especially as they had the pain
of seeing one of their friends carried off to prison by them. These
sturdy witnesses for the truth, as it was held and taught by George
Fox, thought the best way to overcome such nervous terror on the part
of a child, was to accustom her to the sight of thus witnessing to the
truth, and she was commanded to attend her district meeting-house,
and bring her children with her, each First Day that it was open for
worship.

Now Dame Drayton was as devout a Quakeress as any among them, but she
had not so learned the truth either from the lips of George Fox or from
the Bible, which she diligently studied.

"I am a child of God, and therefore I may not be in bondage to any
man," she pleaded. "God can speak to me by the weak voice of my little
child as well as by the committee of discipline," she said, when her
husband reluctantly brought her the message passed at their monthly
meeting, commanding her attendance at worship whenever the leaders
should deem it safe to hold such a meeting, for this was not always
possible at the present time of persecution.

That one so gentle, and seemingly so timid and compliant, should
dare to disobey this command, was a great surprise to many; but Dame
Drayton's love for her weakly child was stronger than her fear of
those in authority, and so she held on her way, going herself to the
meeting-house occasionally, but always taking her children to All
Hallow's Church, where, as she said, they could worship God with other
servants who were striving to do His will, though they were not Quakers.

This breach of discipline on the part of one of their number was a sore
fret to many among the little company, for in all else Dame Drayton
had proved a most exemplary member, one who was ever ready to help and
succour the distressed, either among themselves or the poor who were
often dependent upon them.

Now as the hatter mused over his work, he feared that when he made his
appeal to be allowed to have Westland's three children, his wife's
breach of discipline would be remembered against her, and they would
view this demand on her part as another impeachment of their wisdom in
selecting homes for them; and so it was by no means an easy or pleasant
task that he had undertaken, for he felt sure his request would be
refused as soon as it was made. However, as the children were to be
fetched that evening, there was little time for him to ponder over
the matter, and so soon as his work for the day was finished, and the
apprentices dismissed, he put on his hat and cloak, and hurried off to
the house of one of the committee, to consult him upon the matter, for
he had agreed to meet the messenger at Triggs' Stairs, who was to bring
the children by water from Southwark that evening.

It was by no means a simple business in the times of which we write,
for to give shelter and help to one who was known to be a Quaker would
bring suspicion and espionage; and, therefore, to take in the children
of such a well-known Quaker as Westland might entail a good deal of
inconvenience upon those who were brave enough to do it, even if they
escaped positive persecution from the authorities.

It was doubtless this that made it difficult to find homes for those
who had been practically orphaned, for well-to-do citizens, who could
afford to add to their responsibilities in this way, had much to forego
in the way of fines and business losses, if their connection with the
despised people were thus publicly asserted.

So, when the hatter reached the house of his friend, he found him
in great perplexity over this matter, for each of those to whom the
Westland children had been assigned had some special reason for asking
to be excused the service; and when he saw Drayton, he made up his mind
that he had come to him on a similar errand.

"I know what thou past come to say to me, friend, for thou art not the
first visitor I have had concerning this business. Of course, Dame
Drayton is fearful for her own children, and hath sent thee to say she
cannot take these, though—"

"Nay, nay; the word of the Lord to my wife is, that these little ones
should not be separated the one from the other, and she desires me to
say to thee that she would prefer to have them all, an it so please
thee."

"She will take all these children!" exclaimed the Quaker in a tone of
astonishment.

"Even so, friend; for she deems it but adding to their burden of sorrow
at this time to be parted the one from the other."

"And what sayest thou to this?" asked the other, looking keenly at the
hatter; for he was not a wealthy man, but had to work hard for the
maintenance of his family, and to add thus to his burden was no light
matter.

"I can but follow the word of the Lord in me, and that is that I take
these little ones until their parents can claim them at my hand."

"Be it so, then; and the Lord bless thee in thy work, for thou hast
lifted a heavy burden of care from my mind anent this matter. I have
chosen a discreet messenger to bring them from their home, lest one of
us being known should draw the attention of the authorities to what we
were doing, and that might end in our being lodged in gaol with our
brother Westland."

"But how shall I know this messenger?" asked the hatter. "I can go at
once to Triggs' Stairs and meet him."

"Nay, it is a woman who hath chosen this difficult service; and if thou
art in doubt concerning who it is, by reason of other passengers being
near, ask her the way to the Dyers' Garden; for by that signal was she
to know to whom she might deliver the children."

"I will not fail thee," said the hatter. "And when I have taken charge
of these little ones, I will bid her come to thee and give a due
account of how she hath sped on her errand."

And, saying this, Master Drayton bade his friend farewell, and went at
once to the waterside, where he feared the messenger would be waiting
for him.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

DAME DRAYTON.

THE Thames in the reign of Charles the Second was the great highway
of traffic for the city of London. There were no steamboats, it is
true, but watermen, duly licensed by the city authorities, and wearing
badges,—much as cabmen do at the present time,—were always ready with
their boats to take passengers wherever they might want to go; then
there were wherries, and splendidly decorated barges for pleasure
parties; so that the river was always a scene of busy traffic, and
especially towards dusk on a summer evening, for then people would be
returning home, or hastening to embark; so that the time had been well
chosen for the coming of the Westland children, for they were more
likely to escape observation now than earlier in the day.

Triggs' Stairs was a well-known landing-place, not very far from his
own home; and the hatter went by the shortest cuts, through the busy
narrow streets leading to the river, for fear of keeping the messenger
waiting, and thus attracting the attention of watermen and passengers
alike.

But just as Master Drayton reached the top of the landing-stairs a boat
touched the platform below, which the hatter felt sure had brought
those he was seeking. The children were neatly clad, but there was a
sad woe-begone look in their faces, and two of them seemed to shrink
behind the young woman who sat between them. She too looked anxious,
until she caught sight of the hatter, and then she seemed to gain more
confidence, and led the children up the steps as briskly as their wet
and dangerous condition would permit.

"Thee are sent to us by our brother Staples," she said, almost before
the question of identification could be asked.

[Illustration]

"Yea, I am here to take charge of the little ones; but thou wilt come
and see my wife, and tell her what is needful to be told," returned
Master Drayton; for he noticed that only a very small bundle had been
brought with them, and this was carried by the elder girl. She was
about thirteen, he judged, and singularly like her father, as he had
seen him a day or two before, when he stood in the court of the Lord
Mayor, and was condemned to lose his ears, and then be transported as
an obstinate schismatic, dangerous to the king and his authority.

It was not the habit of Quakers to talk in the streets, and so they
walked towards Soper Lane, which was close to the river, without asking
any further questions, for fear of being overheard by some one passing.

Deborah opened the street door, and received them with a smile of
welcome, as she explained that her mistress was in her own room; which
Master Drayton knew how to interpret, and went himself to tell her the
children had come.

"And none have dared to make them afraid, since the Lord had them in
His keeping," said his wife with a pleasant smile; and she hastened to
the keeping-room to welcome these strangers to their new home.

"My own little girls, who are to be your sisters, you know, were
obliged to go to bed, they were so sleepy, but you will see them in
the morning;" and as she spoke she kissed each of the shy, frightened
little strangers, putting an arm around each, while she spoke to the
Friend who had brought them.

"They were hiding in the cellar when I reached the house; for it seems
that our brother hath given great offence to his neighbours by his
plainness of speech when he preached and denounced their wickedness,
and so they had revenged themselves upon him, by well-nigh stripping
his dwelling as soon as he and his wife were taken to prison. Even the
clothes seem to have been stolen, for I could find none but these," she
said, touching the little bundle that had been placed on the table.

"I think the soldiers took some of the things," said the elder girl
at this point; "but mother had said, 'Thee stay with thy sisters in
the cellar,' just before they dragged her away, and Dorothy was so
frightened when we heard the people running up and down stairs, that I
could not go and see what they were doing."

"That was wise of thee, dear child," said Dame Drayton with a sigh; for
she could not help wondering what would happen to her own darlings if
she and her husband should ever fall into similar trouble. Sometimes
it seemed impossible that they could long escape suspicion, and then
anyone might denounce them who happened to bear them any ill-will.

The messenger who had brought the children did not stay long, for the
streets of London were no fit place for a woman after dusk, even though
she might be staid and discreet; and so, as soon as the necessary
particulars had been given, Master Drayton put on another hat and coat,
to go with her to the Friend who had undertaken to manage the affair
for the committee of suffering.

While her husband was gone, Dame Drayton took the children to the
little bedroom she had prepared for them near her own, and the nervous,
frightened manner of the two younger girls fully justified what her
fears had been concerning them.

They clung to their elder sister, trembling even at the kind attentions
of their friend, lest she should attempt to tear them from this last
protector.

"Thee will let us sleep together," said the little mother, as she took
a hand of each of her younger sisters, and led them upstairs. "We are
not hungry now, only a little tired with the fright," she explained,
when Dame Drayton would have had supper brought into the keeping-room
for them.

"Certainly ye shall sleep together, and to-morrow I hope we shall learn
to know each other better;" and she shut the children in to themselves,
for she could see that it would be kinder to leave them now, than to
press any attentions upon them, or to ask them any further questions.
Before she went to bed, however, she gently opened the door and looked
in, but found to her relief that they were sound asleep in each other's
arms; and they did not rouse the next morning until all the house was
astir, and the sun peeping in at their windows.

"This is Bessie Westland, and these are her little sisters, Rose
and Dorothy," said Dame Drayton the next morning, introducing the
new-comers to her own children and the family assembled at the
breakfast table.

One of the apprentices had just raised his horn of small ale to
drink, but at the name of Westland he paused, and looked first at the
new-comers, and then at his companion; for the name of Westland had
been heard of a good deal during the last few days, and the lads were
not likely to forget it.

The hatter noticed the look that passed between the two boys, and it
did not tend to make him feel more comfortable; for although it was
known that he was a strict and godly citizen, the fact of his being a
Quaker he desired to keep secret as far as possible, but he feared now
that the coming of these children might be the means of its discovery.

Dame Drayton had also noticed the surprised looks in the lads' faces;
but she felt sure they might be trusted not to mention what they had
heard out of the house, for they were steady, quiet, reliable lads, and
their occupation kept them out of touch with many of the more turbulent
of their class. Their parents were steady God-fearing people; and so
Dame Drayton put aside all fear of mischief coming to them through the
apprentices.

The children were naturally shy of each other at first; but by degrees
this slipped off like a garment there was no further need to use, and
the first question Bessie asked was about her mother and father.

"When can I go and see them, Martha Drayton?" she asked.

There was no disrespect in the girl's tone; but she came of a more
stern and uncompromising family of Quakers, and would have looked upon
it almost as a sin to use any title of courtesy, however much she might
revere the individual. Dame Drayton knew all this, but it came upon her
with something like a shock, to be addressed as "Martha Drayton" by
this child, and she paused for a minute before answering her question.

Then she said, slowly and cautiously, "Dear child, thou hast been
placed in our care by the committee of suffering. They will nathless
see to it that ye see your father in due time; but thou must not run
into needless danger, or bring suspicion upon this household."

"Art thou ashamed of being a Quaker, then, as our enemies call us?"
asked the girl rather severely. "To tremble and quake because of sin
was a mark that we were children of the Highest, my father said, and
should we be ashamed of that?"

"Nay, nay, we should be unworthy of our high calling if we were to
despise the work of the Spirit in our hearts; but dost thou not see,
Bessie, that if we were to prate in the streets of these things, we
should bring trouble and sorrow upon those whom God hath given us to
protect?"

"But the trouble and sorrow would be good for them an it came to them,"
said Bessie Westland.

"Even so; but if I could not offer thee and thy sisters a safe
abiding-place now, the trouble and sorrow of thy father and mother
would be increased tenfold."

The girl loved her father very dearly, and would have suffered
anything herself to lessen his affliction, and so this view of the
matter touched her a little; and Dame Drayton took this opportunity of
pressing upon her the need of caution.

"We are not called to raise up to ourselves enemies needlessly. It is
only when some truth is to be held firmly and unflinchingly, that we
may thus brave the law and the mob who alike are against it."

"But my father held that it was the duty of a true friend of sinners
to preach the truth to them at all times, whether they would hear, or
whether they would forbear," said Bessie after a minute or two.

"Then, my dear child, if that was the voice of God to him, he could
do no other than obey it, and God hath honoured him in calling him to
witness to that truth. If the same word came to me, I too must obey;
but the voice of the Spirit in my heart was, that I should shield and
protect thee and thy sisters, and thus comfort the heart of those
called to suffer for His name's sake."

"But—but if thee art a true Friend, would not the word of the Lord be
the same to thee as to my father?" said Bessie after a pause.

"Nay, that is where thee makest so grave a mistake," said Dame Drayton,
sitting down by Bessie's side, and drawing little Rose close to her.
"The Lord hath a word of guidance for each if we will but listen and
obey it, without seeking to follow what He may say to another. See now,
He hath made me the mother of tender children, and given to thee the
care of little sisters, which is next in honour to that of being their
mother. Now His word to us will be in accord with this, to guide and
direct us in our duty, how to walk before them in love."

"But my mother—?" began Bessie.

"Thy mother is a brave and true Friend, following the word of the Lord,
I doubt not," said Dame Drayton quickly; "but because she did that
which the Lord, bade her do, it doth not follow that thee should do
the same, for the voice of the Spirit may have altogether another word
for thee, and thou must listen to that word and follow it, though it
lead thee in the way thou wouldest shun. Just now, thou art longing to
proclaim to all London that thou art of the despised sect of Quakers,
and by this thou wouldest bring grave trouble upon all this household,
for the Lord Mayor would not send to arrest a girl like thee, but the
man and woman who harboured thee, and so we should be sent to the
Bridewell, and thou and my own little ones become an added burden to
our brethren."

"Would they not send me to prison?" said Bessie, in a disappointed tone.

"I trove not; though King Charles may profess to think men and women
are plotting against his throne, he would scarcely accuse a child like
thee, and so thou and thy sisters would but be cast forth upon the
world again. Wilt thou try to think of this, Bessie; and to remember
that the Lord ever speaks to us of the duty that lies nearest to our
hand, if we will but listen and obey, instead of seeking to follow the
word He may have given to another? This is how so many mistakes are
made, dear child. We think that the word spoken to another must be for
us also, and so our ears are deafened to the true message that the
Spirit is trying to make us hear and understand."

"But dost thou not think my father obeyed the voice in his heart?"
asked Bessie quickly.

"Yea, verily, dear child. Nought but the strength that God alone can
give can help even a Friend to bear testimony to the truth before such
cruel enemies; but dost thou not see that, while some are called to be
martyrs for the truth, others are commanded to take up the cross of
everyday life, and bear it meekly and patiently, though it lead not to
such honour and renown as the martyr may claim? This is what we are
called to, dear child. Thou and I must take care of the little ones at
home, not denying our faith if any ask us concerning it, but seeking
not to thrust it before the eyes of men; content to be unnoticed and
unknown, but ever listening to the voice that will not fail to make
itself heard in our hearts, if we will but listen with a simple mind."

Bessie bowed her head, but she was only half convinced of the truth
her friend had spoken. Her father had declared again and again that
they had no right to sit calmly doing the everyday work of life, while
sinners were perishing for lack of the word of life.

He had not scrupled to denounce his neighbours who went to church as
formalists and hypocrites, and even in the church itself had stood up
and warned parson and people alike, telling them that God could be
worshipped in the open fields, in the house or shop, better than in
a steeple-house; and he had gathered crowds around him in the fields
beyond Southwark, and taught them the truth as he had received it from
the lips of George Fox, the founder of their Society.

He was a true and ardent disciple of Fox, counting nothing dear so
that he might proclaim the truth, the whole truth—as he thought—for
in the tenacity with which he held to the little bit he had been able
to grasp, he failed to see that he could not grasp the whole. That
those whom he denounced so unsparingly also held the truth as they
perceived it, or at least another facet of the precious gem, casting
its inspiring light upon them, was dark to him.

This had not been heeded by the authorities at first, and Westland,
like many another earnest man, was allowed to preach and teach sinners
the error of their ways, and warn them of the wrath to come. For to
make men tremble and quake, and cry to God for mercy through the Lord
Jesus Christ, was the object of all the Quakers' preaching, and the
term "Quaker" had been given them in derision on account of this.

For a time these people had been allowed to follow their own way
without much interference from the authorities; but their unsparing
denunciation of vice and wickedness, whether practised by rich or
poor, doubtless raised the resentment of the king, though a political
reason was the one put forward for their persecution. The safety of the
throne, it was pretended, called for the suppression of these illegal
meetings, as sedition was being taught under cover of religion.

So Westland was an early victim, and suffered the loss of his goods,
for everything he possessed had to be sold to pay the fine inflicted
upon him. But so far from deterring him from doing what he conceived
to be his duty, this did but make him the more determined to teach and
preach upon every occasion possible.

The next time, a short term of imprisonment, and one ear was cut off
by way of punishment. But almost before the place was healed he was
preaching again, and denouncing steeple-houses, and those who put their
trust in them.

This time the authorities were determined to silence him, and so he had
been condemned to lose his other ear, and then be sent as a slave to
one of His Majesty's plantations in America, and all London was ringing
with the name of Westland, and the punishment that had been dealt out
to him as an incorrigible Quaker.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

AUDREY LOWE.

"MOTHER, am I truly and verily bound 'prentice to Master Drayton?"
asked one of the lads when he went home that night.

His mother was a widow, and lived a mile or two from Soper Lane, and
moreover was so busily employed in lace-making all day that she heard
very little of what went on around her unless her son Simon brought
home news that he had heard during the day, or on his way home at
night, so that his next question as to whether she had heard the name
of Westland only made the widow shake her head as she counted the
threads of her lace to make sure that she was not doing it wrong.

"Has Master Drayton taken another apprentice of that name?" asked his
mother, not pausing in her work to look at her boy's face, or she would
have seen a look of horror there as he answered quickly—

"It isn't quite so bad as that, mother."

"What do you mean, Sim?" she asked. "Dame Drayton is our Dame
Lowe's own sister, and a godly woman, I have heard, as well as her
husband—godly and charitable as the parson himself," added the widow,
"or he would not have taken thee to learn the trade and business of a
hatter without price, merely because I was a widow known to the parson
and his wife."

"Oh yes, they are godly and kind; but did I ever tell you, mother, that
one of the rules of the workshop is that we shall not speak more than
is needful?"

"And a very wise rule too, if proper work is to be done," said his
mother quickly.

"That may be; but you have heard of the Quakers, mother?"

"Oh yes, a set of infidel people who speak against the king and the
church, and rebel against all law and order. A most pestilent and
unruly people, I have heard; but surely—"

Sim folded his arms and leaned upon the table, the guttering candle
lighting up his face so that his mother could not fail to see the
fright and horror depicted there as he said—

"I believe Master Drayton is a Quaker, mother."

"Nay, nay, Sim; 'tis a thing impossible. Dame Lowe told me her sister
was a godly Puritan like ourselves; more stiff in her opinions
altogether than she and the parson, for Dame Drayton had counselled
that he should give up the church rather than use the new prayer-book,
since he could not believe and accept all that was taught in it, and—"

"It would have been a bad case for us if Parson Lowe had refused to
conform to the new rule, like so many did," interrupted Sim at this
point.

"Yes, it would; and a worse case for his wife and children, for they
might have starved by this time instead of living in a comfortable
house, with money to help the poor as well as themselves, and I must
say, since these changes came, parson has been even more strict and
attentive to his duties, though none could complain of him before."

"But what has that to do with Master Drayton being a Quaker?" asked the
lad, a little impatiently.

"Why, cannot you see, Sim, that all the family are of so godly a sort,
that they would not be likely to take up with all the unruly and wild
notions that these pestilent people teach?"

"I don't know what the Quakers teach, but I know that one fellow named
Westland has had his ears cut off, and now three girls of the same
name have come to live with us in Soper Lane. If they were not Quakers
themselves, would they take in a disgraced Quaker's children?"

The widow looked at her son for a minute as if she thought this
argument was unanswerable, but after a minute's pause she said—

"They are kind and godly folk, you say, and so it may be they are not
of this pestilent sect that hath been suffered to spring up to speak
evil of dignities, though they succour these children."

But although the widow said this, she decided to go and see her friend
the vicar, and have a word with his wife too if it was possible, for it
would never do to let her son—her only child—become contaminated, even
though he was being taught his trade without the cost of a penny to
herself.

During the rest of the evening she asked the boy a good many questions
about his work in Soper Lane, and the ways of the household, but
there seemed no fault to be found with anything, though doubtless the
household was ruled strictly, as most Puritan homes were. Still, what
Sim had told her about Westland made her uncomfortable, and before she
went to bed she decided to go to the vicarage the next morning as soon
as Sim had started to Soper Lane, and doubtless the parson or Dame Lowe
would be able to explain everything, and set her fears at rest.

But when she went, she heard from the maid-servant that the vicar was
ill in bed with a bad cold, and that she would have to wait a little
while to see her mistress.

"Then I will wait," said the widow, for she had scarcely been able to
sleep for thinking of the peril to which her boy might be exposed if it
should be true that his master was a Quaker, as he suspected. Dame Lowe
would be able to set her fears at rest, she hoped, and the moment the
lady entered the room the widow began a recital of her trouble.

At first she was too full of what she had to say, and how frightened
she had become, to pay much attention to the lady herself, but after
a minute or two she noticed that she was trembling, and her face had
become as white as the lace ruffle she wore round her neck.

"I—I am afraid you are ill, madam," said the widow, stopping short in
her recital, and looking hard at the lady.

"Just a little faint. I have been anxious about the vicar, you see—but
go on with your story. What did your boy say was the name of these
children?"

The lady spoke eagerly, and looked almost as frightened and anxious as
her visitor, though she was careful not to let her know that it arose
from the same cause, and spoke of the vicar's illness as being a little
alarming, and having upset her.

"But tell me about those children who have gone to live at the house in
Soper Lane. Who did you say they were?"

"Well, now, Sim couldn't be quite sure, of course; but he is a careful
lad, and he says there was a Quaker of the same name had his ears cut
off for heresy only a day or two ago. Of course, I told Sim that his
master, being a godly and charitable man, might have had compassion on
these witless children without being himself a Quaker."

"Then it is suspected that Dame Drayton and her husband are both
Quakers. Is that what you mean, Tompkins?"

The lady's mood had changed during the last few moments, and she looked
hard at the widow and spoke in a severe tone, as though such a charge
as she brought was not to be believed.

"I—I don't know what to think," said the widow. "Of course, as Madam
Drayton is your sister she could scarcely be infected with such heresy
as these wild Quakers believe."

"I trow not, indeed. My sister was brought up in a true godly fashion,
but the same charity that moved Master Drayton to take Simon as an
apprentice without fee or reward, because you were a poor widow known
to me to have lost so much by the plague and the great fire, may have
moved her to help these poor children, if no one else would do it."

"Then you think my Sim would be quite safe there?" said the widow in a
deprecating tone.

Madam Lowe looked surprised at the question. "Why should he not be
safe?" she asked. "You told me the other day that he was learning his
trade very well, and had certainly improved in his manners."

"But—but if his master should be a Quaker it would be little better
than sending him where he would catch the plague, this new plague of
heresy that is abroad, and for my Sim to turn Quaker would be worse
than losing the others by the pestilence." And at the thought of all
the sorrow and suffering she had endured through this scourge, the
Widow Tompkins fairly burst into tears.

"There, don't cry—I am sure you are frightening yourself for nothing.
I know my sister to be a gentle godly woman; no more like the wild
fanatic Fox than you are. She attends her own parish church as you do,
and therefore you may rest content that Sim is safe."

The widow allowed herself to be comforted by this assurance.

"It's all we've got to hold fast by in the way of knowing what to
believe, for there's been so many changes in religion, as well as
other things the last few years, that simple folk like me, who have no
learning, hardly know what they ought to believe sometimes; but to have
Sim turn Quaker would just break my heart, when I was looking forward
to a little comfort after all my trouble."

"Oh, Simon will be a good son, and a comfort to you, I have no doubt,"
said the lady, rising to dismiss her visitor. "Take care that he is at
church by seven o'clock next Sunday morning, for the vicar is going to
catechise all the lads and wenches of the parish, and it will not do
for Simon to be absent from his place in the chancel."

"My son will be early. I am glad the vicar is going to give them a
wholesome reminder of what they ought to know and do, as respectable
citizens and members of the Church of England. It will help to stop
this wild Quaker heresy, I trow."

The lady smiled and nodded her assent; but she was too impatient for
her visitor to go to make any verbal reply to this, and as soon as she
had closed the street door she went upstairs to a little room where a
girl sat sewing.

"What is the matter, mother?" she asked as the lady seated herself, and
buried her face in her hands.

For a minute or two the lady sat thus, and when she removed them she
was looking white and anxious.

"Oh, Audrey, I wish I had never persuaded your father to—" But there
she stopped, for the girl's wondering eyes told her she was speaking of
things she had long ago resolved to bury in her own heart. "My dear, I
want you to go and see your Aunt Martha," she said quickly.

"Aunt Martha?" repeated the girl in a tone of wonder.

"Have you forgotten her, Audrey? It is not so many years since you saw
your aunt."

"But I thought you said she died in the time of the first plague," said
the girl, still looking at her mother with a puzzled expression in her
face, as if trying to recall some memory of the forgotten relative.

"Nathless you will remember her again when you see her," said Dame
Lowe, in answer to her daughter's puzzled look. "I want you to go to
her this afternoon, and say that the Widow Tompkins, who is the mother
of one of her husband's 'prentice lads, hath been here with a tale
about Quakers that is disgraceful to any godly household."

"The Widow Tompkins is always in a fright about something," returned
Audrey slightingly. "What did she say about the Quakers and my Aunt
Martha? What has she to do with them?"

"Nothing, I wot; but Master Drayton, her husband, is not always so
discreet as he should be, and Simon hath brought home some tale to his
mother about Quaker children being harboured in the house. Your aunt
ought to be told that this is known, and will soon become the talk of
the town if they are not sent away."

"Would you like me to bring the children here, mother, to save Aunt
Martha the trouble of them?"

The lady looked at her daughter, aghast with horror at the proposal.

"Audrey, you must not speak so lightly of such matters. For us to be
suspected of any touch with these Quakers would mean ruin, and we might
be thrown out of house and home, like so many clergymen's families have
been, for it is known that your father always felt they were unjustly
treated, though he signed the declaration that saved us from being
turned into the streets like beggars. This is why I want you to go and
see your aunt to-day, for if people think the Draytons are Quakers they
may suspect us next. Oh dear! why will people go wild about religion
like this man Fox? It is sure to bring disgrace upon somebody. As if
the fire and the plague had not caused misery enough in London, they
must now begin making fresh trouble about religion, just as I hoped
things were getting more settled and comfortable."

"Mother dear, do not look so troubled about this. Surely God can take
care of us and of London too. How is my father now?"

"Not much better, and I do not want him to hear about this, or it will
make him anxious and unfit to catechise the children in church on
Sunday morning. Now, Audrey, we shall have dinner at eleven, and then
I should like you to go to your aunt, who lives in Soper Lane, and
you can see for yourself who these Quaker children are, and find out
whether your aunt still goes to the parish church, for I hear these
fanatics call it a steeple-house, and will by no means join in the
prayers as they are set forth in the prayer-book."

The errand in itself was not at all to the taste of a girl like Audrey;
but the dim recollection she had of her aunt made her desirous of
seeing her once more, and she could only wonder how and why it was that
her mother had been silent concerning Dame Drayton, for they had but
few relatives, and Audrey herself was the only child now. Two had died
during the great plague, and she could only suppose that it was because
her aunt lived in the City, and her mother still had a lingering dread
of the plague returning, that she had not heard this aunt spoken of for
so long a time.

Although they lived within easy walking distance of the City, and
she knew her father sometimes went there on business, she did not
remember ever having seen it herself, for they lived in the fashionable
suburbs of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and generally went to walk in
the westerly direction among the fields and green lanes. The parish
did not wholly belie its name as yet, for they lived in the midst of
the open country, although so near London. Her old nurse was to walk
with her, and call for her at Soper Lane at four o'clock, that they
might reach home before sunset, for although their way lay through
the best and most fashionable thoroughfares in the town, they were by
no means safe from footpads. Although the Strand was the residence
of many of the nobility, and Fleet Street had most of the best shops
lining its footway, these were generally shunned by travellers after
sundown—unless they were on horseback, armed and attended by two or
three stout serving-men.

So Audrey and her nurse set out on their journey about half-past
eleven, and less than a mile from her own home, Audrey was in a place
altogether new to her.

"I wonder why we have not come this way to walk before," said the girl
looking round at the handsome houses in the Strand.

But the 'prentice lads in the front of their masters' shops in Fleet
Street, all eager to press their wares upon their notice, were not a
pleasant feature of the scene to Audrey.

"Buy an horologue!" called one close to her ear. "The best sarcenet
sold here!" cried another. "Laces of all sorts can be had at the
Beehive!" bawled a third, thrusting himself in their way, and pointing
to his master's shop.

It was the seventeenth century method of advertising, and evidently
the 'prentice lads who were employed tried to get as much fun out of
it as possible, to the great annoyance of the passengers, who were
continually being pestered with the vociferating youths.

"Verily, I little wonder now that my mother liketh not the City," said
Audrey, who felt stunned and bewildered by the din of the shouting
'prentices.

Then there were the stalls where hot meat, sheep's feet, and other such
delicacies were sold, and a good many people still having their dinner
stood round the open tables placed along the edge of the footpath.

"No, I don't like the City," concluded Audrey, as they walked up
Cheapside and began to look out for Soper Lane.

"The plague and the great fire hath made it a desolate place to many,
Mistress Audrey," said the nurse with a sigh, for she too had sorrowful
memories of that bitter time.

"My aunt lives close to the river, and not far from the garden of the
Dyers' Company," said Audrey, as they were looking down some of the
streets that had been recently rebuilt; for where they were walking now
the fire had raged and roared, sweeping down houses and churches, so
that all the place seemed uncomfortably new as yet.

"I could never live in the City again, Mistress Audrey," said nurse.
"This is not like what it used to be in my young days; times are
altered, and not for the better either. The Lord-Protector ruled
England then—ruled it in righteousness; but the people were not
satisfied, they never are—and so they chose a godless king to rule
over them, and little wonder was it that God's judgment followed their
choice of King Charles."

"Hush, hush, nurse! They will say you are a Quaker or a Fifth Monarchy
woman," said Audrey in some alarm.

"They may say what they like. I care not who hears me, the fire and
plague were—" But to Audrey's relief a bustling 'prentice lad ran
against them at this moment, and nurse's anger was turned against boys
in general and London apprentices in particular. Before she had done
complaining of the change in manners since she was young, Soper Lane
was reached, and King Charles forgotten in their eagerness to discover
where Master Drayton lived.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

THE RIVER GARDEN.

IN the days of which we are writing, the River Thames was lined with
the gardens of the well-to-do citizens, while here and there was a
flight of steps leading from the bank for the accommodation of those
going by boat to various points. It was the great highway for traffic,
and rowing-boats, stately barges, handsomely decorated for parties
of pleasure, as well as others heavily laden with merchandise, were
constantly passing up and down the stream.

The wealthy London Companies also held gardens skirting the river banks
and kept swans, and to go and feed the swans in the Dyers' Garden was
a favourite pastime with Dame Drayton's children. Master Drayton was
a member of this Company, and therefore it was a right he could claim
that his children should be allowed to play or walk about in this
garden—a never-ending delight to them. It was not far from Soper Lane,
and so Deborah, or Dame Drayton herself, generally took the children to
the garden when the day's work was over, that they might spend a few
hours in the fresh air whenever it was fine.

Dame Drayton was at the door with her children and the Westlands, just
going into the Dyers' Garden, when Audrey Lowe and her nurse came down
the Lane. The nurse knew the lady at once, for she had been servant
in the family many years, and Dame Drayton greeted her cordially, but
looked at Audrey, in doubt for a minute who she could be, until the
nurse said,—

"I have brought Mistress Audrey."

"Dear child, I had forgotten you," said Dame Drayton, kissing her niece
warmly, without waiting to hear the errand they had come upon, for that
was what nurse was about to tell her, she supposed.

But nurse only said, "My mistress made me say I would call again at
four of the clock to take Mistress Audrey back."

"But you will come and rest after your long walk?" said Dame Drayton;
"or you might come with us to the Garden and see the swans."

Nurse shook her head.

"My brother lives in Honey Lane, and I would fain see him while I
wait," she replied.

"Would you like to go in, or will you come with us to the Garden,
Audrey?" asked her aunt. "There are seats upon which we can rest,"
added the lady.

"I should like to go to the Garden, an I may," replied Audrey.

Somehow she felt as though she would like to nestle up to this
new-found aunt, and tell her how anxious and sad her mother often
looked; for although there was no outer trouble at the vicarage now,
there always seemed an undertone of sadness, a sort of suppressed
sorrow, that Audrey in her great love for her mother and father could
not help feeling, though she would never give expression to her
thoughts about it. Now, all at once, she felt that she would like to
take this aunt into her confidence, and tell her of the vague undefined
sorrow that seemed to pervade her home.

"I am very pleased to see thee, Audrey. Tell thy mother I am so glad
that she hath sent thee on this errand—whatever it may be." And as she
spoke the lady looked at her niece, for she felt sure she had something
to say to her that could scarcely be trusted even to nurse. "We shall
be able to have a quiet talk to ourselves, and thee shall tell me all
that is in thine heart, in a few minutes."

"This is Bessie Westland, who hath come with her sisters to tarry for a
time with us," said Dame Drayton, drawing the girl forward after Audrey
had spoken to her cousins.

"We have come because my father and mother are sent to prison for being
Quakers," said Bessie, as if she feared this fact might be forgotten if
it was not instantly avowed.

"Hush, Bessie! Do not speak so loudly of these matters. People may hear
thy words, and—"

"Martha Drayton, I must speak the truth at all times and in all
places," said Bessie; "for I would not have this worldling think I am
anything but a Quaker." And as she spoke, Bessie looked scornfully at
Audrey's fashionable dress of silk brocade, and then at her own coarse
homely frock.

Dame Drayton looked distressed, and Audrey shocked and amazed to hear
her aunt addressed by this girl as "Martha." No wonder her mother
feared that trouble would come upon them if this was the way Quakers
behaved. The lady saw the look in her niece's face, and said to Bessie—

"Will you take care of the children for me, that I may talk to my niece
while she rests in the Garden? For we have not seen each other for some
years."

"Yea, verily. I will do all that I call to keep them from the sight and
sound of evil, for this garden is but a worldly place, I trow," said
Bessie, for they had reached the gate by this time, and could see the
people walking about on the promenade facing the river, where there was
always something going on to amuse and interest the visitors.

Dame Drayton had found a quiet corner that was generally unoccupied by
the more fashionable citizens, and she led her little party thither,
nodding to friends and acquaintances as she passed, but not stopping
to speak to anyone to-day, for fear Bessie should feel it her duty to
announce that she was a Quaker, which would be pretty sure to draw the
attention of the authorities to them.

So she made her way as quickly as she could to a quiet alley, where the
children could play at ball between the shrubs, and Bessie would be
shielded from the sight of the ladies' gay dresses. There was a seat,
too, close at hand, and here Dame Drayton and Audrey could sit and
talk; and they made their way to it, leaving Bessie in charge of the
little ones and their play.

"Now, dear child, tell me of thy mother and father. It is so long since
I heard aught concerning thee that I have grown hungry for news. Thou
dost look well, Audrey," she added.

"I am well, dear aunt; but my mother is more troubled than usual, for
the Widow Tompkins came to see her this morning concerning something
her son had told her. He is one of thy 'prentice lads, my mother bade
me say, and told his mother a strange story concerning the Quakers and
his master's dealings with them."

"What did he say, Audrey?" asked her aunt, rather anxiously.

"Nay, I did not see the woman myself; but this lad is her only son, and
it may be she is over careful concerning him, seeing she lost her other
children in the plague; but I wot she hath frightened my mother sorely
concerning thee, so that she thought it better that I should come
and tell thee it will soon be the town's talk that thou dost harbour
Quakers within thy household. This girl who doth so sorely despise me
is one of the children Sim Tompkins spoke of, I trow."

"Poor Bessie! Her whole love is given to her father, who hath suffered
so sorely for his faith," said Dame Drayton with a sigh.

"Then they are Quakers," said Audrey, a little shocked that her aunt
could live on familiar terms with such people.

"Yea, verily; Bessie Westland glories in that which thou dost think is
a name of reproach. If thou couldest know her, too, thou wouldest learn
that she is a worthy, trusty maid, careful and loving to her little
sisters, who are too young to take care of themselves."

"But—but what are you going to do with them, aunt?" asked Audrey.

"Do with them? Nay, until God opens some other refuge for them they
must abide in the house, and share with my own children in my care,"
said her aunt.

"But there is danger in this, and that is why my mother sent me to
you," said Audrey.

"It was kind of Annie to think of me, and kinder still to let me see
you once more; but you must tell her, Audrey, that I could not do less
than offer these children the shelter of my home, since they are worse
than orphaned, with father and mother in prison for being Quakers."

"Yea, but why should they be Quakers, and rebel against the king?
Perhaps things were better for religion under the Lord-Protector,—nurse
says they were,—and my father thinks so too, I know; but now the king
has come to his own again we ought to obey him, my mother says."

"Truly, we should; and the Quakers seek not to disobey the law, except
in the matter of taking oaths and some small matters in the addressing
of people, which was the reason why Bessie called me 'Martha' just now."

"It is not seemly, aunt, that a wench like this Bessie Westland should
speak to thee in that fashion," said Audrey, rather hotly.

"Nay, but, dear child, it was no disrespect for Bessie to do this. Her
principles as a Quaker forbid her the use of any title beyond that of
friend. Not for the king himself would a Quaker remove his hat, and yet
the king hath no more loyal subjects than the Quakers. They are of all
people the most peaceable, for, if wrongfully and cruelly treated, they
are forbidden to strike again, even in their own defence; and if struck
upon one cheek, they hold they must turn the other also, an the smiter
will have it so."

Audrey opened her eyes and looked at her aunt in amazement.

"I thought they were turbulent people, sowing sedition and disorder. My
mother said they might again bring civil war to England, if they were
allowed to do as they pleased."

Dame Drayton smiled and shook her head. "Nay, nay, it is not so,
believe me. I know what Quakers are, for I too am a Quaker; though I
hold it not binding upon my conscience to hold every rule it is thought
good by the Society to lay down for the guidance of its members."

"Oh, my aunt!" said Audrey with a gasp; but instead of starting away
from her the girl drew closer, as if to protect her.

"Dear Audrey, it is a sweet and joyful thing to be a Quaker, as I
believe and strive to live up to my belief in that name. As sinners in
the sight of God we quake and tremble before Him; but we fear not what
man can do to us, so that we live under the guidance of that divine
voice that speaks to the heart of every child of God,—if they will
abide in such peace that this still small voice can yet rule and guide
them in everything they think and do."

"Is not this voice our conscience, aunt? And are we not taught to obey
it in all things?" asked Audrey.

"Yea, verily, dear child; but it is a truth that hath been well-nigh
forgotten, until Fox began to preach and teach that the inner voice
within the soul of man was the voice of God, which the soul is bound to
obey if it will live and grow. It is meat and drink, the very bread of
heaven by which alone we can live truly in this naughty world."

"But when my father speaks of obeying the voice of conscience he means
the same thing, aunt," said Audrey.

"Yes, I doubt not that, dear child; but people have talked and talked
about their conscience until it has come to mean little or nothing to
them, and God seeing this, hath sent His messenger, George Fox, to
declare once more to His people, that He hath not left them alone, but
speaks to the heart of each by His own still small voice. As Quakers we
prefer to call things plainly, for we are a plain people, and so have
thrown away that word 'conscience' as a worn-out and broken mirror that
does but hide instead of revealing more plainly the truth it covers.
Therefore, we say 'the voice of God' will guide us in all things if we
will but listen, and as little children obey it, even though it should
sometimes bid us to walk in a path that is not pleasant to our feet."

"And is it this that makes thee so happy, aunt?" asked Audrey.

The simple form of 'thee' and 'thou' was still in vogue among close
friends, and so Audrey's use of it was not at all singular. The
exclusive use of it by Quakers later on was a survival of this feeling
that there was a closeness of friendship, a sincerity in these terms,
and so they rescued from oblivion this simple form of speech that
prevailed among all classes in England at that time. The same may be
said of their dress. They did but seek to evade observation at the time
of which we write, and desiring to be known only as a plain God-fearing
people. They dressed in simple, unostentatious colours; but they have
brought up through the generations the fashion of the garments worn
by their forefathers, and held to them while other and very different
fashions prevailed in the world.

So at this time, although Dame Drayton was a professed Quaker, there
was little to distinguish her from her neighbours around, in the matter
of dress and speech. The Society impressed upon its members the duty
of dressing plainly and simply, whatever their rank in life might be,
and that Dame Drayton chose to wear greys and drabs in the place of
crimsons or other brilliant colours was regarded as a simple matter of
taste by her neighbours. She had always been known as a godly woman
before she became a Quaker; but as she had never felt called to preach,
and went as often to the old parish church she had attended from her
girlhood, as she did to the Quaker meeting-house in Gracechurch Street,
few knew that she was a Quaker.

As Audrey asked her question, she looked earnestly into her aunt's face
and nestled closer to her. "You seem very happy," she added; "so much
happier than my mother."

"Dear Audrey, I am very happy, for since I learned this truth
from George Fox, there hath come to me a peace that passeth all
understanding; for, following the guidance of this voice, the
distractions of the world cannot mar the quiet resting upon God, as
my Father, my Guide, my Friend, who will never fail nor forsake me.
It matters not whether thou art one who worships in a church or in a
meeting-house,—which is but a plain room fitted for a plain people who
meet together,—if haply the Spirit hath a word to speak by one of them
for the edification of all; and if there is no such word given forth,
still the Lord can and doth speak to each soul in the silence that to
many is better and more helpful even than the words of prayer spoken by
another, who cannot know the secret wants and longings of any soul but
his own."

"Then at these meetings there is silence all the time, aunt?" said
Audrey questioningly.

"Why should any speak if they feel not moved thereto by the inward
voice of the Spirit?" asked Dame Drayton. "It is this multiplying of
words without life or power that hath made preaching of none effect.
Now we know that when one speaketh he is moved thereto by the Spirit of
God working in him, and that he hath of a surety a message for one or
other or many of us. In some this power of the Spirit to speak and warn
and encourage is continually seeking to find utterance, and then woe be
to the man if he forbear to utter his testimony for fear of what man
shall do to him. Bessie's father was such an one as this, and a brave
honest man to boot; so, as he would not be stayed from warning sinners
to flee from the wrath to come, whenever and wherever he could find
opportunity, the soldiers have haled him to prison, and his wife too,
because she felt moved to warn her godless neighbours, when her husband
could no longer do so. Bessie being the eldest was left in the cottage
to take care of the children, or do as she could, for none cared to
befriend them, as they were children of condemned Quakers. They had
been despoiled of all they possessed in fines for the same offence; but
the little they had left in the cottage was stolen or destroyed by the
mob, while Bessie and her sisters hid themselves in the cellar."

"Oh, aunt, would people really be so cruel?" said Audrey in a tone of
compassion, as she turned to look at the girl walking up and down with
the little ones, but rarely touching the ball herself even when it fell
close to her.

"I daresay there were some who felt sorry for them, and would nathless
have helped them if they could; but the baser sort, and those whom
Friend Westland had reproved for their sin and wickedness, would be
willing to break chairs and tables while they shouted, 'Long live King
Charles! Down with all Quakers and rebels!' That was how it was done,
Bessie says, while she sat cowering in the cellar below, praying that
God would keep them from following her, for fear they should frighten
the little ones to death."

"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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

ONE SUNDAY MORNING.

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.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

A DESOLATE HOUSEHOLD.

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

SIR WILLIAM PENN.

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."

[Illustration]

"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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

CONCLUSION.

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.



[Illustration]



MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.