Chapter II: 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.

"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.