"It"s a thing that would have pleased me well, had I been told that it would happen a year ago, but now I see nothing but trouble in it. There would be no equal yoke there, my Lucy. Whatever extravagances Andrew hath fallen into, the love of Christ runs through all he does and thinks. And canst thou say the like of thy sister?"
"Not yet," I murmured, but Aunt Golding heard me, and said,--
"Ay, well spoken, Lucy; we will remember that when we pray."
After this, Aunt Golding had a long conference with Matthew Standfast, whom she despatched in pursuit of Andrew, that he might furnish him with money and warn him to keep away from the Grange for a season. And after much trouble, Matthew found him, somewhere on the road to York; when it cost him still more pains to lead his young master into compliance with the prudent courses enjoined on him.
"He talked much," said Matthew, "of the honour of suffering for the truth, and how he must not be the vile coward to refuse it. And I had never been able to beat him away from that, but for the excellent counsel of one that was riding with him; I think he was a Quaker also, for he could talk with Master Andrew in his own dialect."
"What manner of man was he?" said our aunt.
"I can hardly tell," said Matthew; "he had a piercing eye, I wot, and a voice as clear as a bell; very neat and seemly he was in his attire, and yet he might have been a ruffling cavalier if one judged by his hair, which he wore long and curled."
"That is much how George Fox himself has been described to me," said Aunt Golding.
"Nay, I cannot think it was any such man," said Matthew, "for he talked very reasonably, plain sense and plain words, such as a simple man like me could not choose but understand; and one told me how George Fox should be in Lancashire about this time."
"Well, what said he to persuade my poor lad?" asked aunt.
"Why, he bade him remember certain works of mercy he had already in hand, which should not be neglected to gratify a mad fancy of thrusting his head in the lion"s mouth whenever it was opened against him. So Master Andrew was ashamed of his rashness, and was persuaded to take himself away for a time; and we parted very lovingly. He says it shall not be long ere you hear from him, mistress."
I believe, in spite of Matthew"s contrary opinion, that Andrew"s counsellor was no other than the famous man whom our aunt had named. But I have no proof of this, only mine own strong persuasion.
Not many days hereafter, we had proof that Mr. Stokes had been very honest in his warning to us. There came constables to the Grange, who showed a warrant to seize the body of Andrew Golding, charged with many strange misdemeanours, but especially with refusing the Oaths of Supremacy and Allegiance. I do not believe the poor youth ever had refused them; but this was the common trap set for the Friends, who were known to decline all oath-taking, because of that saying of our Lord"s, "Swear not at all,"--a harmless scruple at the worst, which never ought to be used, as I think, against honest and peaceable subjects.
We were now heartily glad that Andrew was absent, and that we could truly say, we knew not where he was; nor were the constables much grieved at it. One of them found an occasion of whispering to Aunt Golding, "If you can get word to the young man, let him know this air is unwholesome for him just now;" after which they went hastily away.
And now we began to be haunted with spies, our steps seeming to be dogged even in our own garden, where we were aware of people moving about behind trees and bushes, as if hearkening after our talk; or we caught sight of faces peering in at the windows when we were at evening prayer. Also our friends and neighbours began to shun us as if we had the plague, and no one more than Mrs. Bonithorne, who had been a great worshipper of Mr. Truelocke, but now, as we heard, blamed him openly for his lack of true obedience to the powers that be, "which are ordained of G.o.d," she would often add. It was her husband who told us this as a good jest; but it hurt Mr. Truelocke, and he became more set on his design of leaving the Grange, and betaking himself to his kinsfolk in c.u.mberland, where among the waste and lonely mountains he might linger out his days without offence to any. I could not hear him talk of this plan without tears, which he perceiving tried to stop.
"Seest thou, dear child," he would say, "all these discomforts come upon this house because of my abode in it; for as for poor Andrew, he is known to be elsewhere, and however peaceably I may behave myself, you will be allowed no peace till I am either gone out of sight like him, or lodged in gaol for some fancied offence. Which were best, thinkest thou, Lucy?" and when I had no answer but weeping, he would leave that point and begin to talk of Harry"s ship, the _Good Hope_, of which we had got some news, and would speak hopefully of the joyful meeting we should have when that ship came home.
Alas, I fear he was no prophet! But he was not to be turned from his intention; and presently he was gone indeed, in the company of Mr.
Bonithorne, who had business in the north country, and who undertook with a great deal of satisfaction to let no one, and especially not his wife, into the mystery of his having this reverend travelling companion.
And now the Grange seemed a sad lonely house indeed; for every day and all day long we missed that n.o.ble white head, that kindly presence, that voice still musical and tender in spite of seventy years of service.
Those spyings and watchings of us, which had helped to drive away our fatherly friend, were a little intermitted when he was gone; but the poor benefit was counterpoised with a heavy trouble, for now our Aunt Golding began to decline, falling into a strange lingering kind of fever, which the doctors could not understand. I think it was nothing but trouble of heart which caused it, for she was mightily disquieted about Andrew. There was reason to think it would be as unsafe as ever for him to return home, and letters from him were very rare; he could not often find a messenger whom he would trust, and this difficulty was increased by his wandering about the country as he did, which yet was deemed the best way for him to live.
So being often a prey to anxious thoughts, the poor lady pined and faded away, and presently catching a cold, she began to be troubled with difficulty in breathing, and her sleep went from her. It was now that we learned the worth of Grace Standfast, who fairly took us poor silly girls in hand as her pupils, setting us tasks to do both in the house and the sick chamber, and keeping us in heart with cheerful words and looks. But for all her skill and her cheerfulness, our patient visibly grew worse and worse, and as the year wore into winter, we saw that we should lose her.
And now there befell a strange thing, which I will tell just as it happened, and I think there can be no superst.i.tion in dwelling on it so far.
Aunt Golding"s sickness had now become so sore, that it was needful for one of us always to watch with her; and on the night I speak of it was my turn to do so. She was very uneasy the first part of my watch, but about midnight she fell into a deep sleep, and continued so for an hour, when, hearing no sound, I went to look on her, and saw such heavenly peace on her sleeping countenance, that I could have thought a light shone from it like the glory about a saint"s head in a picture. I do not know how long I had stood gazing on her, when all at once she woke, and, smiling at me,--
"Is it thou, Lucy?" said she; "that is well. I have good news for thee;"
at which I began to fear she was light-headed, for how should she have news that I knew not? But presently she went on, with many pauses because of her difficult breathing.
"Thou hast grieved much, Lucy, thinking thy sailor would never come home to thee again; be at peace, he shall come home, a better man,--and find thee a holier woman for all the troubles thou shalt have seen."
"How do you know? how can you tell?" I cried.
"I cannot tell thee now," she said, "but I do know. And thou hast seen, dear heart, how I have grieved over my Andrew--my heart"s child, the comfort of my old age; I have thought he was clean gone out of the right way, for all his sincerity. It has been shown me in my sleep, that I had no need thus to grieve. His rashness may bring him sharp trials, but even through those shall he enter in. The light that leads him is the true Light. And though he and his fellows are but erring men,--like all others,--yet even their trivial errors shall have their use; in days to come men shall say that these despised and persecuted believers have done n.o.bly--for their country and for the world."
"Then, do you think," I said, in some trouble, "that we are all wrong, and only Andrew and those like-minded in the right?"
"Nay, dear heart," said she, "I think not so. The paths are many--but the Guide is one. Let us only follow His voice,--and He will bring us to His Father"s house in safety. I have comfort about thy sister too,"
she added presently, "though I fear it is not such as she can value yet.
Do not forget, dear child, to have Mr. Stokes sent for to-morrow; I wish to receive the most comfortable Sacrament of the Lord"s Supper once more--with you all, before I go hence." As she said the last words, her voice sank away, and I saw that she was sleeping once more.
The next day we did as she had bidden, in sending for Mr. Stokes, who accordingly came, and gave the Communion to all our household, as well as to our poor aunt. I never liked him better than on that day.
But a sad day it proved to us, for we all saw plainly how our second mother was now a dying woman. I think she hardly said twenty words to one of us thereafter, but quietly slept and dreamed her life away, and on the third day she was gone. This was last winter, the winter of 1664; and I remember how all that melancholy time the people were greatly disturbed about the comet that was to be seen, wondering what mischiefs it should betoken; I saw it myself, but so full was my mind of my private griefs, I cared not much about ill omens to the State. Indeed, one thing that soon happened was very distressing to us, and I shall shortly relate what it was.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW ANDREW CAME TO THE GRANGE BY NIGHT.
It was about a ten days after Mrs. Golding"s death, and we were beginning to feel as if our desolation was a thing that had always been and always would be, for so I think it often seems when a grief is new.
However desolate we were, we were not dest.i.tute; she who was gone had cared for that, and we found a modest dower secured to each of us, without injury to Andrew"s rightful inheritance of the Grange and the lands belonging thereto; also we were to continue dwelling in the Grange till its new master should come home and make such dispositions as pleased him. But for all this we were greatly perplexed; we had been long without news of Andrew, and could not tell how to get word to him of Mrs. Golding"s death.
On the day I speak of, we had been teased by a visit from Mrs.
Bonithorne, who, professing great sorrow for our loss, and her own loss of one whom she called her oldest friend, soon fell to talking of Andrew, and how his unlucky doings were all owing to our good aunt"s foolishness in entertaining so pestilent a heretic as James Westrop under her roof.
"I warned her of it," quoth she; "I said to her, "You will rue it yet, Margaret; with such an one you should have no dealings, no, not so much as to eat," and now see what has come of her perverseness!" and such-like stuff she said, which moved Grace Standfast to say disdainfully, when our visitor was gone, "Yon woman surely owes us a little grudge, that "twas our house and not hers which entertained so rare a monster as a wandering Quaker; she asked me twenty questions about him the day after, I remember it well; but we hardly had heart to laugh, though we were sure enough she had given no such warnings as she spake of. Althea only sighed and said, ""twas an evil day for her when she first saw that man;" and as she told me, his two appearances to us haunted her as she went to rest, and mingled themselves with her dreams.
She woke at last sharply and suddenly, thinking she heard the hail rattling against the windows as it did when Mr. Truelocke preached his last sermon in our church; but it was not hail that rattled, it was some one throwing sand and pebbles up at her window to wake her, and then a voice calling on her name. She sprang up, and, hurrying on some clothes, she ran down-stairs; for, as she told me, she had no more doubt of its being Andrew who called, than if it had been broad daylight, and she could see him standing below the window; and, being too impatient to unlock any door, she undid the hasp of the nearest cas.e.m.e.nt and climbed out; and at the same moment hearing a voice again calling softly, "Althea," she ran in the direction of the sound, and came upon a man whom in the starlight she saw to be Andrew indeed; she spoke his name, holding out both her hands, and he turning at once grasped them in both his, and so they stood gazing at each other awhile. Then she said, half sobbing,--
"You come strangely, Andrew--but you come to your own house, and I am glad that it falls to me to welcome you to it; it lacks a master sadly;"
and she tried to draw him towards the door, telling him she would set it open if he would tarry a few minutes while she herself climbed in to do it.
"Alas!" he said, resisting her efforts; "what do you mean by calling this my house? is our aunt indeed gone? I had hoped that part of the message might be a delusion."
"What message? I sent none, for I knew not where to send, nor did any of us," she replied; "but it is too true that Mrs. Golding is dead these ten days; and all things are at a stand for lack of your presence. Come in; do not keep me here in the darkness and the cold."
"I will not keep thee long," he said sadly; "fear it not, Althea. But I may not come under this roof which thou sayest is mine. I saw the dim light in your window," he went on, like one talking in a dream, "and I could not bear to pa.s.s by and make no sign, as I ought to have done. For I love thee too well, Althea Dacre, as thou knowest."
"How can it be too well," she answered boldly, "if you do not love me better than I do you? and therefore come in to your own home, or I will not believe there is any love in you at all."
"That"s a foolish jest," said he half angrily. "I may not cross the doorstone of this house to-day, Althea; I am forbidden; so hear me say what I came to say. There is a heavy burden laid on me. For seven nights together I saw in vision a dark terrible angel, having his wings outspread and holding in his hand a half-drawn glittering sword; he was hovering over this land of England; and it was shown me that he was a messenger of wrath bidden to smite the land with a pestilence. Now there be those far holier than I who have seen the like vision; but to me came the word that I must go up to London, where this year the plague shall be very sore, and as I go I must warn all men, that they may repent and amend, before this judgment fall on them."
There was that in his voice and words that made Althea tremble like a leaf; she did not disbelieve in his visions while she heard him; but she strove against the impression, and cried out, when she could find her voice, that this was indeed madness.
"You have no right," she said, "to desert your natural and lawful duties, and your poor kinswomen too, who are desolate; you will break our hearts, you will ruin yourself, and all for a delusion."
"It is no delusion," said he; "your own words, Althea, have confirmed to me the truth of my mission. For it was said to me, "This shall be a sign to thee, that Margaret, the widow of thy father"s brother, lies sick even to death; and thou shalt see her face no more, nor come under her roof." And is it not so? for her face is buried out of our sight,"--his voice shook,--"so dost not see, Althea, I may not come in as thou wouldst have me? Furthermore, I believe my earthly pilgrimage shall come to its end in London; I cannot be sure; but, I think, I return no more alive. That is why I hungered so for one last look at thee, Althea; also I wished as a dying man to entreat thee not to despise the Lord"s poor people any more. Now I must go; farewell, dear heart, for ever;" and with these words he a.s.sayed to go; but, as she told me afterwards, she clutched at his coat, pa.s.sionately protesting he should never go; and when he unlocked her hands, and besought her not to hinder him, she dropt on the ground at his feet, clasped him round the knees, and called on me with all her might.