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.
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