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.
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"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.
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