HOW MR. TRUELOCKE AND MRS. GOLDING LEFT US.

Mr. Poole being gone, there came in his place as curate an oldish man, grey-haired and meagre; a great adorer of Archbishop Laud and of King Charles the First, 'the Royal Martyr,' as he would say; but for all his half Popish notions, he was blameless, nay, austere in his life; and he had thriven so ill in the gay new world of London, that he deemed it great good luck to have the curate's place at West Fazeby.

We had half feared that this poor Mr. Stokes would feel bound in conscience to torment and harass Mr. Truelocke into conformity; so when he came to the Grange one day, very earnest to see Aunt Golding and the former Vicar, and that in private, we were on thorns while he stayed; and when we heard the door shut after him, we hurried to our aunt, asking what his errand had been.

She answered us not directly, but, gazing after Mr. Stokes, whom Mr. Truelocke was conducting out through the garden, 'Well, my girls,' said she, 'if the tree may be known by its fruits, yon is a right honest man and a true Christian;' and she went on to say how he had only come to warn her and hers of evil that was designed against them. 'I fear,' she said, smiling, 'the good man's conscience pulled him two ways; yet his heart has proved wiser than his head. I am right glad now that Andrew is away, though I was vexed before; yet I knew his was a charitable journey.'

Then she told us of new crueller devices intended against the Friends, and, indeed, against all Nonconforming folks. 'And there be some,' she said, 'who have spoken very evil things of us here at the Grange. I warrant you it will not be long that we shall be suffered to have family worship if our labouring men share in it as they are used to do; nor can Mr. Truelocke so much as expound a Psalm to us and them, but it shall straight be said we hold a conventicle here.'

'Surely,' says Althea, very pale, 'the gentlemen who now rule the country are too proud-spirited, too noble, to intermeddle with such matters; what is it to them how we say our prayers in our own houses? Abroad, there may be need of a decent face of uniformity, and some open outrageous follies may require to be put down strongly'—She stopped, and Aunt Golding said,—

'Ah, child, thou little knowest. I have not yet heard of any outrageous follies that our poor Andrew has run into; yet I am told, and I fear it's true, that if he were to show his face openly in West Fazeby to-morrow, his next lodging might be in York Castle, where he should lie in the foulest den they could find for him, and have the worst company to boot. Nor will it be very safe here for our good Mr. Truelocke, who now talks of taking his journey to certain worthy kinsfolk of his that are farmers in the Dale country, there he may live in a peaceful obscurity; but his chief aim is to avoid bringing troubles on our house.'

It struck me cruelly to think of Harry's father leaving us, but I had no time to dwell on the thought, for now Althea sank down at my feet, helpless and senseless like one who was dead indeed; and much ado we had to bring her out of her swoon, which was very long, and she very feeble when she was recovered from it. We got her to her room, and persuaded her to lie down and sleep; and when we came away, Aunt Golding turns to me with a puzzled look, saying,—

'What means this, Lucy? I never thought your sister one of those fine ladies who swoon for every trifle;—what is it, think you?'

'Andrew,' says I, 'and the image of his danger; you made a frightful picture of it, dear madam, do you know?'

'Ah, set a thief to catch a thief!' says Aunt Golding, and I felt glad to hear her laugh once more; 'my love-passages are of too ancient a date to serve me, it seems, but yours are fresh and new, my Lucy. But what of Andrew? is Althea dear to him?'

'More dear than he knows, or she guesses,' quoth I; at which our good aunt laughed again, but then said,—

'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 God,' 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 Cumberland, 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 noble 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 superstition 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 nobly—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.