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.
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