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.
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