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."
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"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.
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