I lay awake all night thinking of this plan. The more I thought upon it, the more I was pleased with it. To fly from the country was to escape the pursuit of my husband, who would never give over looking for me because he was so obstinate and masterful. I should also escape the reproaches of my lover, Robin, and break myself altogether from a passion which was now (through my own rashness) become sinful. I might also break myself from the loathing and hatred which I now felt towards my wicked husband, and might even, in time and after much prayer, arrive at forgiving him. At that time—yea, and for long afterwards—I did often surprise myself in such a fit of passion as, I verily believe, would have made me a murderess had opportunity or the Evil One sent that man my way. Yea, not once or twice, but many times have I thus become a murderess in thought and wish and intention—I confess this sin with shame, though I have long since repented of it. To have been so near unto it—nay, to have already committed it in my imagination, covers me with shame. And now when I sometimes (my Lord, the master of my affections, doth allow it) visit the Prison of Ilchester and find therein some poor wretch who hath yielded to temptation and sudden wrath (which is the possession by the Devil), and so hath committed what I only imagined, my heart goes forth to that poor creature, and I cannot rest until I have prayed with her and softened her heart, and left her to go contrite to the shameful tree. Nay, since, as you shall hear, I have been made to pass part of my life among the most wicked and profligate of my sex, I am filled with the thought that the best of us are not much better than the worst, and that the worst of us are in some things as good as the best; so that there is no room for pride and self-sufficiency, but much for humiliation and distrust of one's own heart.

Well, if I would consent to fly from the country; across the seas, I should find kith and kin who would shelter me. There should I learn to think about other things—poor wretch, as if I could ever forget the village—and Robin! Oh! that I should have to try—even to try—to forget Robin! I was to learn that though the skies be changed the heart remains the same.

How I fled—and whither—you shall now hear.

Mr. George Penne came to see me next morning, sleek and smiling and courteous.

'Madam,' he said, 'may I know your decision, if you have yet arrived at one?'

'Sir, it is already made. I have slept upon it; I have prayed upon it; I will go.'

'That is well. It is also most opportune, because a ship sails this very day. It is most opportune I say—even Providential. She will drop down the Channel with the coming tide. You will want a few things for the voyage.'

'It will be winter when we arrive, and the winters in that country are cold; I must buy some thicker clothing. Will there be any gentlewoman on board?'

'Surely'—he smiled—'surely. There will be, I am told, more than one gentlewoman on board that ship. There will be, in fact, a large and a cheerful company. Of that you may be assured. Well, since that is settled, a great load of care is removed, because I have heard that your husband rode into Taunton with Judge Jeffreys; that he learned from someone—I know not from whom—of your presence in the town, and of your departure with me.'

'It must have been the market-woman.'

'Doubtless the market-woman'—I have often asked myself whether this was a falsehood or not—'and he is even now speeding towards Bristol hoping to find you. Pray Heaven that he hath not learned with whom you fled!'

'Oh!' I cried. 'Let us go on board the ship at once! Let us hasten!'

'Nay; there is no hurry for a few hours. But stay withindoors. Everything that is wanted for the voyage shall be put on board for you. As for your meals, you will eat with'—here he paused for a moment—'with the rest of the company under the care of the Captain. For your berth, it will be as comfortable as can be provided. Next, as to the money. You have, I understand, two hundred pounds and more?'

I took the bag from my waist and rolled out the contents. There were in all two hundred and forty-five pounds and a few shillings. The rest had been expended at Ilminster.

He counted it carefully, and then replaced the money in the bag.

'The Eykins of Boston, in New England,' he said, 'are people of great credit and substance. There will be no necessity for you to take with you this money should you wish it to be expended to the advantage of your brother and your friends.'

'Take it all, kind Sir. Take it all, if so be it will help them in their need.'

'Nay, that will not do, either,' he replied, smiling, his hand still upon the bag. 'For, first, the Captain of your ship must be paid for his passage; next, you must not go among strangers (though your own kith and kin) with no money at all in purse. Therefore, I will set aside (by your good leave) fifty pounds for your private purse. So: fifty pounds. A letter to my correspondent at Boston, which I will write, will cause him to pay you this money on your landing. This is a safer method than to carry the money in a bag or purse, which may be stolen. But if the letter be lost, another can be written. We merchants, indeed, commonly send three such letters of advice in case of shipwreck and loss of the bags. This done, and the expenses of the voyage provided, there remains a large sum, which, judiciously spent, will, I think, insure for your friends from the outset the treatment reserved for prisoners of distinction who can afford to pay—namely, on their arrival they will be bought (as it is termed) by worthy merchants, who (having been previously paid by me) will suffer them to live where they please, without exacting of them the least service or work. Their relatives at home will forward them the means of subsistence, and so their exile will be softened for them. If you consent thereto, Madam, I will engage that they shall be so received, with the help of this money.'

If I consented, indeed! With what joy did I give my consent to such laying out of my poor Barnaby's money! Everything now seemed turning to the best, thanks to my new and benevolent friend.

At his desire, therefore, I wrote a letter to Barnaby recommending him to trust himself, and to advise Robin and Humphrey to trust themselves, entirely to the good offices of this excellent man. I informed him that I was about to cross the seas to our cousins in New England, in order to escape the clutches of the villain who had betrayed me. And then I told him how his money had been bestowed, and bade him seek me when he should be released from the Plantations (wherever they might send him) at the town of Boston among his cousins. The letter Mr. Penne faithfully promised to deliver. (Nota bene—the letter was never given to Barnaby.)

At the same time he wrote a letter for me to give to his correspondent at Boston, telling me that on reading that letter his friend would instantly pay me the sum of fifty pounds.

Thus was the business concluded, and I could not find words, I told him, to express the gratitude which I felt for so much goodness towards one who was a stranger to him. I begged him to suffer me to repay at least the charges to which he had been put at the inns and the stabling since he took me into his own care and protection. But he would take nothing. 'Money,' he said, 'as payment for such services as he had been enabled to render would be abhorrent to his nature. Should good deeds be bought? Was it seemly that a merchant of credit should sell an act of common Christian charity?'

'What!' he asked, 'are we to see a poor creature in danger of being imprisoned if she is recognised—and of being carried off against her will by a husband whom she loathes, if he finds her—are we to see such a woman and not be instantly fired by every generous emotion of compassion and indignation to help that woman at the mere cost of a few days' service and a few guineas spent?'

I was greatly moved—even to tears—at these words, and at all this generosity, and I told him that I could not sufficiently thank him for all he had done, and that he should have my prayers always.

'I hope I may, Madam,' he said, smiling strangely. 'When the ship hath sailed you will remember, perhaps, the fate of Susan Blake, and, whatever may be your present discomfort on board a rolling ship, say to yourself that this is better than to die in a noisome prison. You will also understand that you have fallen into the hands of a respectable merchant, who is much more lenient than Judge Jeffreys, and will not consent to the wasting of good commercial stuff in jails and on gibbets.'

'Nay, Sir,' I said, 'what doth all this mean?'

'Nothing, Madam; nothing. I was only anxious that you should say to yourself, "Thus and thus have I been saved from a jail."' Such was Mr. Penne's humanity!

'Understand it! Oh! dear Sir, I repeat that my words are not strong enough to express my gratitude.'

'Now, Madam, no doubt your gratitude runs high. Whether to-morrow——'

'Can I ever forget? To-morrow? To-morrow? Surely, Sir——'

'Well, Madam, we will wait until to-morrow. Meantime, lie snug and still all day, and in the afternoon I will come for you. Two hundred and forty-five pounds—'tis not a great sum, but a good day's work—a good day's work, added to the satisfaction of helping a most unfortunate young gentlewoman—most unfortunate.'

What did the good man mean by still talking of the morrow?

At half-past twelve the good woman of the house brought me a plate of meat and some bread.

'So,' she said—her face was red, and I think she had been drinking—'he hath determined to put you on board with the rest, I hear.'

'Hush! If you have heard, say nothing.'

'He thinks he can buy my silence. Come, Madam; though, indeed, some would rather take their chance with Judge Jeffreys—they say he is a man who can be moved by the face of a woman—than with—well, as for my silence, there——It is usual, Madam, to compliment the landlady, and though, I confess, you are not of the kind which do commonly frequent this house, yet one may expect'——

'Alas! my good woman, I have nothing. Mr. Penne has taken all my money.'

'What! you had money? And you gave it to Mr. Penne? You gave it to him? Nay, indeed—why, in the place where thou art going'——

She was silent, for suddenly we heard Mr. Penne's step outside; and he opened the door.

'Come,' he said roughly; 'the Captain says that he will weigh anchor in an hour: the tide serves—come.'

I hastened to put on my hat and mantle.

'Farewell,' I said, taking the old woman's hand. 'I have nothing to give thee but my prayers. Mr. Penne, who is all goodness, will reward thee for thy kindness to me.'

'He all goodness?' asked the old woman. 'He? Why, if there is upon the face of the whole earth'——

'Come, Child!' Mr. Penne seized my hand and dragged me away.

'The woman,' he said, 'hath been drinking. It is a bad habit she hath contracted of late. I must see into it, and speak seriously to her: but a good nature at heart. Come, we must hasten. You will be under the special care of the Captain. I have provided a box full of warm clothing and other comforts. I think there is nothing omitted that may be of use. Come.'

He hurried me along the narrow streets until we came to a quay, where there were a great number of ships, such as I had never before seen. On one of them the sailors were running about clearing away things, coiling ropes, tossing sacks and casks aboard, with such a 'Yo-hoing!' and noise as I never in my life heard before.

''Tis our ship,' said Mr. Penne. Then he led me along a narrow bridge, formed by a single plank, to the deck of the ship. There stood a gentleman of a very fierce and resolute aspect, armed with a sword, hanging from a scarlet sash, and a pair of pistols in his belt. 'Captain,' said Mr. Penne, 'are all aboard?'

'Ay; we have all our cargo. And a pretty crew they are! Is this the last of them? Send her for'ard.'

'Madam,' said Mr. Penne, 'suffer me to lead you to a place where, until the ship sails and the officers have time to take you to your cabin, you can rest and be out of the way. It is a rough assemblage, but at sailing one has no choice.'

Gathered in the forepart of what they call the waist there was a company of about a hundred people. Some were young, some old; some were men, some women; some seemed mere children. All alike showed in their faces the extreme of misery, apprehension, and dismay.

'Who are these?' I asked.

'They will tell you themselves presently. Madam, farewell.' With that Mr. Penne left me standing among this crowd of wretches, and, without waiting for my last words of gratitude, hurried away immediately.

I saw him running across the plank to the quay. Then the boatswain blew a shrill whistle; the plank was shoved over; some ropes were cast loose, and the ship began slowly to move down the river with the tide, now beginning to run out, and a wind from the north-east.

I looked about me. What were all these people? Why were they going to New England? Then, as the deck was now clearer, and the sailors, I suppose, at their stations, I ventured to walk towards the afterpart of the ship with the intention to ask the Captain for my cabin. As I did so, a man stood before me armed with a great cane, which he brandished, threatening, with a horrid oath, to lay it across my back if I ventured any further aft.

'Prisoners, for'ard!' he cried. 'Back you go, or—by the Lord'——

'Prisoner?' I said. 'I am no prisoner. I am a passenger.'

'Passenger? Why, as for that, you are all passengers.'

'All? Who are these, then?'

He informed me with plainness of speech who and what they were—convicts taken from the prisons, branded in the hand, and sentenced to transportation.

'But I am a passenger,' I repeated. 'Mr. Penne hath paid for my passage to New England. He hath paid the Captain'——

'The ship is bound for Barbadoes, not New England. 'Tis my duty not to stir from this spot; but here's the Mate—tell him.'

This was a young man, armed, like the Captain, with pistols and sword.

'Sir,' I said, 'I am a passenger brought on board by Mr. Penne, by whom my passage hath been paid to New England.'

'By Mr. George Penne, you say?'

'The same. He hath engaged a cabin for me, and hath purchased clothes—and'——

'Is it possible,' said the Mate, 'that you do not know where you are, and whither you are going?'

'I am going, under the special care of the Captain, to the city of Boston, in New England, to my cousin, Mr. Eykin, a gentleman of credit and substance of that town.'

He gazed at me with wonder.

'I will speak to the Captain,' he said, and left me standing there.

Presently he returned. 'Come with me,' he said.

'You are Alice Eykin?' said the Captain, who had with him a paper from which he read.

'That is my name.'

'On a certain day in July, your father being a preacher in the army of the Duke of Monmouth, you walked with a procession of girls bearing flags which you presented to that rebel?'

'It is true, Sir.'

'You have been given by the King to some great Lord or other, I know not whom, and by him sold to the man Penne, who hath put you on board this ship, the "Jolly Thatcher," Port of London, to be conveyed, with a hundred prisoners, all rogues and thieves, to the Island of Barbadoes, where you will presently be sold as a servant for ten years; after which period, if you choose, you will be at liberty to return to England.'

Then, indeed, the Captain before me seemed to reel about, and I fell fainting at his feet.