Part 6 (1/2)

'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 Lancas.h.i.+re 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 wors.h.i.+pper 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 s.h.i.+p, the _Good Hope_, of which we had got some news, and would speak hopefully of the joyful meeting we should have when that s.h.i.+p 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.