Chapter IV: 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.