A Quaker Maid

Front matter

NOVELS AT SIX SHILLINGS EACH. The Romance of a Midshipman. By W. Clark Russell. Rodman, the Boat-steerer. Stories by Louis Becke. The Two Standards. By W. Barry, D.D. The Making of a Saint. By W. Somerset Maugham. The Mawkin of the Flow. By Lord Ernest Hamilton Love Is not so Light. By Coxstance Cotterill. Moonlight. By Mary E. Mann. I, Thou, and the Other One. By Amelia E. Barr. The Destroyer. By Benjamin Swift. Tales of Unrest. By Joseph Conrad. The White-headed Boy. By George Bartram. The Silver Christ, and other Stories. By Ouida. Evelyn Innes. By George Moore. The School for Saints. By John Oliver Hoebes. Outlaws of the Marches. By Lord Ernest Hamilton. Hugh Wynne. By Dr. Weir Mitchell. The Tormentor. By Benjamin Swift. The People of Clopton. By George Bartram. Pacific Tales. By Louis Becke.

Prisoners of Conscience. By Amelia E. Barr. The Orey Man. By S. R. Crockett. An Outcast of the Islands. By Joseph Conrad. Almayer's Folly. By Joseph Conrad. A First Fleet Family. By Louis Becke and W. Jeffery. The Ebbing of the Tide. By Louis Becke. Tales of John Oliver Mobbes. With Portrait. The Stickit Minister. By S. R. Crockett. The Raiders. By S. R. Crockett. Nancy Noon. By Benjamin Swift. The Lilac Sunbonnet. By S. R. Crockett. A Daughter of the Fen. By J. T. Bealby. The Herb Moon. By John Oliver Hobbes. Mrs. Keith's Crime. By Mrs. W. k. Clifford. The Mutineer. By Louis Becke and Walter Jeffery. The Gods, Some Mortals, and Lord Wlckenham. By John Oliver Hobbes. LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN. BY MRS. J. F. B. FIRTH L0d^.D0.9( T. FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQUARE MDCCCXCVIII \AU rights reserved^

Preface

s T has been my aim in the following story to draw *■ a perfectly faithful and consistent portraiture of Quakerism in both its phases : firstly, the narrow, upright, conscientious, unbending Quaker of the old school, who feels himself called upon to walk in a very strait path apart from the world — of whom Joseph Bourne is a type — a type, too, which is rapidly disappearing ; and, secondly, the Quaker of the modern school — philanthropic, large-minded, and large-hearted, with sympathy for all good men and good movements — a true Christian gentleman to be reverenced and admired. In the various stories that have appeared from time to time, purporting to portray Quakerism as it really is, I have never succeeded in finding one that is not spoiled by some error or inconsistency ; and it requires a writer to have been born and brought up amongst that worthy sect to write of them quite truly. V

PREFACE.

VI For anything in "A Quaker Maid" which may seem outre or overdrawn I can quote chapter and verse, and many of the characters are drawn from life. It has been my aim to write without bias or prejudice ; to place a faithful picture before the reader, and, in short, to " nought extenuate and nought set down in malice." THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. TENDER TROUBLES . . . .1 ii. Lottie's home . . . . 12 III. MUSIC AND SONG . . . .20 IV. PRISCILLA'S HOME ... 28 V. A CHANGE FOR PRISCILLA . . .38 VI. FAITH'S ENGAGEMENT . . . 52 VII. NAOMI . . . . .63 VIII. NAOMI'S HOME . . . . 75 IX. GUS . . . . . .84 x. naomi's story .... 92 XI. A THORN IN THE FLESH . . . IO4 XII. STOLEN WATERS . . . . 122 XIII. A PLUNGE INTO THE WORLD . . -139 XIV. FACILIS DECENSUS AVERNI . . 1 55 XV. THE BIRD SNARED . . . 1 66 XVI.

THE BIRD FLOWN . . . 1 78 XVII. EARLY MARRIED DAYS . . 1 94 XVIII. MRS. CHAMBERS SPEAKS HER MIND . 205 XIX. AN OFFER SCORNED . . . 21 5 XX. THE CRASH .... 23O XXI. A HAVEN OF REFUGE . . . 243 XXII. AT THE VICARAGE . . . CONTENTS VIII CHAP. PAGE XXIII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER . . • 2°3 XXIV. AUNT CAROLINE INTERCEDES . . 27l XXV. PRISCILLA IS WANTED . . • *8o XXVI. FORGIVENESS .... 2°9 XXVII. GRANDFATHER AND GRANDCHILDREN . 29^ XXVIII. A RENCONTRE . . . . 3°3 XXIX. HOME AGAIN . . . . 316 XXX. WE MEET AGAIN . . . 32^ XXXI. WHO COULD WOUND LIKE PHILIP ? . 34O XXXII. PRISCILLA FIGHTS A BATTLE . . 353 XXXIII. ETHEL . . . . -359 XXXIV. THE WEDDING . . . 369 XXXV. FADING AWAY . . . 38 1 XXXVI. GOODBYES . . . . 388 xxxvii. too late . . . . . 397 xxxviii. exit captain chambers . . 406 xxxix. priscilla to the rescue . . . 413 xl. further changes . . . 42 1 l'envoie . . . . •432

Chapter I Tender Troubles

It is five o'clock on a September afternoon, and the stillness of early autumn is brooding over the landscape. The sky is all of a soft, pearly grey, except towards the west, which is beginning to grow pink and primrose as the sun sinks. The leaves have hardly begun to fall yet, except here and there, where they have spread a golden-brown carpet under some tree, but they begin to rustle on the branches with a dry, crisp sound that speaks of coming fall. The river slips silently by, carrying the reflection of the pink and primrose sky on its placid bosom. A few hundred yards higher up the weir breaks the silence with its monotonous, soft-falling water. Occa sionally comes a short, sharp cry of " Lock ! Lock ! " as some boatman glides on his way, and from time to time rings out the soft tinkle of the neighbouring ferry bell.

Over the flat meadows, with their rich, lush grass, rise white wreaths of autumn mist, which make the 2 I quaint, stunted willows look more weird and strange than ever ; a few belated birds are flying home to their nests, and the calm of autumn is brooding over all, as if nature were preparing to fold her hands to rest for her winter's sleep. By the side of one of the stunted willows, heedless of rising mist and chilly breeze, a young girl is standing, her only companion a large black and tan collie, who sits by her side looking up into his mistress's face with wistful, pathetic eyes, almost human in their expression. But though her hand rests on his head, her thoughts are not with her faithful companion, and she is gazing with unseeing eyes and far-away thoughts across the river and over towards the neighbouring wooded hill rising dim and hazy to view.

There is a world of sadness in the girl's blue eyes, and in the pathetic droop of her small, childish mouth. A very fair face it is, with its pure complexion and clear-cut features. Her hair is a mass of wavy brown locks shot with gold, while the long-lashed eyes are almost violet in their deep blue. Her figure is slim and upright, with a wonderful grace and dignity which cannot be concealed by the ill-fitting and unbecoming dress which she wears. Not a shabby dress by any means, for it is of the very softest, finest cashmere ; but its grey tint is unbe coming ; the cut is evidently designed to hide as much as possible the graceful curves of the girlish form, while the hat which covers the bright hair — though of the very finest straw — is as unbecoming and as severely simple as the dress.

Of ornaments, such as the girlish heart usually delights in, she wears none, unless a simple hair watch-chain can be called such. Her whole appearance bears the uncompromising mark of genuine Quaker plainness. A single glance is sufficient to tell any one that the girl belongs to that worthy and self-denying sect, though the faultless beauty of her face is at variance with the rest of her appearance, as is also the bright, golden hair which will escape from its tight, smooth bands, and curl round her temples and neck in charming little silky tendrils. But standing there by the stunted willow, with the river gliding by so swiftly and so silently at her feet, and with the evening mists rising in the meadows, the girl is utterly unconscious of all. Unconscious too, of the russet woods towards which her unseeing glance is directed, and unconscious of the sympathy of her dumb friend at her side.

Her thoughts are sad, and some inward trouble has blotted the landscape and all surrounding objects from her mind. Presently something blots the landscape literally from her eyes, for everything before her grows blurred and indistinct ; her eyes fill up with big tears, and the sad little mouth begins to quiver ominously. The poor child is on the very verge of bursting into a flood of tears, when suddenly there comes a clear, gay voice ringing through the quiet air — " Tilla ! Tilla ! " it calls. The girl by the willow starts at the sound, hurriedly draws her handkerchief from her pocket, hastily and furtively dabs her eyes therewith, and tries hard to assume a careless manner and hide all trace of recent emotion. For another girl is coming down the ferry path with quick, light footsteps, and the next moment is springing through the grass to reach the spot where the other stands.

" Tilla ! Tilla ! " she repeats. " Don't you hear me call ? Why don't you answer ? I've had quite a hunt to find you, and of course, as usual, I find you with the ever faithful Don." She comes up breathless, puts her arm round the other's neck and kisses her lightly. A gay, bright creature this new comer, with her fresh complexion and dark, fearless eyes, not one half so beautiful as the girl she addressed as " Tilla," but with ten times more dash and aplomb and an easy self-possession, which contrasts strangely with the shy, constrained manner of the other. There was, too, an air of fashion about her which the other lacked so completely ; her dress fitted to perfection and became her admirably, and yet as a matter of fact it was far simpler than the other's unbecoming grey gown. She wore only a blue serge costume, with little touches of dark red here and there ; a sailor's straw hat with a red ribbon, and dark tan gloves ; and if you had asked her she would have told you she had made the dress herself; that it cost less than one quarter of what her companion's did, and that the simple hat — in spite of its red ribbon — was as plain as could be desired.

Tilla returned her friend's greeting with a wan little smile, but she had not been able to remove the traces of tears from her face, and the other's quick eye caught sight of them in a moment. She had begun quickly and eagerly with, " I want to tell you about the party we are going to have next week ; you must come ! " And then she broke off suddenly to exclaim, " What is the matter ? What is wrong, dear ? " " Nothing," the other replied quickly ; « at least it ought to be nothing, and I'm afraid I am very wrong to mind, only " " What, dear ? " was asked kindly and gently. " Only — only," breaking into a dry sob, " I don't know how to tell thee, Charlotte, for I am in great trouble, and the worst is that I fear it is wrong to feel it a trouble at all. Of course father's right ; he always is, and it is very wrong to feel as I do about it.

I wish I might tell thee all." " Tell me anything, dear, that you may tell, and that will be a relief to tell. I know Faith and I always feel ever so much better when we tell each other our troubles, and troubles are always lighter when shared. Surely thou can trust Lottie, dear ? " dropping into the more familiar tu-toyer. " I always trust thee," Tilla answered warmly, drawing nearer to her companion's side and putting one arm round her waist. " I think thou art the very best and dearest cousin a girl ever had — thou and Faith. Oh, tell me, Charlotte, is it very wrong to feel so grieved ? " " About what, dear ? I can't tell thee until I know what the trouble is. Tell me all about it, and see if I cannot help thee." The girl averted her face to hide her rising colour, and began to toy nervously with her little hair watch chain without replying.

" Tell Lottie all about the trouble, dear," the other repeated. Then she faced her with sudden resolution. "Charlotte, does thou remember that young German, Karl Pleydell ? " " Who came in the summer with a letter of introduction to Uncle Joseph ? Yes, I remember his name very well, and I think I spoke to him two or three times. What of him, Tilla ? " " He came to our house one evening when we were all at home," Tilla answered rapidly and ner vously ; " and he stayed to supper, and came again two or three times. I don't think father quite liked his A OUAKER MAID 6 coming, for thou knows he is not a member of our Society ; but then his people had been so kind when father fell ill at Leipsic, that time when he was there alone three years ago. Thou remembers ? " Charlotte nodded, and her cousin proceeded, her slender fingers working nervously all the time — " And when they had been so kind to him father could not help asking the young man, could he, dear ?

And he seemed pleased to come, and because he could only talk a very little English somehow he and I used to talk a great deal together, for thou knows father says his German has grown rusty, and mother does not speak it at all, while I never had any difficulty with languages. And I was glad to have the practice too, and he seemed to like it, and never laughed at all my blunders, so that I soon began not to be at all shy with him, and we talked quite freely. I never felt so little shy with any one ; I don't know why, but he seemed to set me so at my ease." A deep sigh, and then after a pause she resumed. " I'm afraid thou will be sadly shocked when I tell thee what comes next, Lottie, only try not to be very angry ; indeed, indeed 1 meant no harm." And she drew nearer to her cousin's side with a little caress that seemed to plead beforehand for pardon.

"I don't know how I told him, but some way he found out that I always walk in the meadows every after noon when it is fine, while father is at the bank and mother is lying down ; and then he seemed always to be able to manage to meet me there and we used to walk together. Oh, Lottie, was it very wrong ? I always had been used to walk in the meadows, and they were as free to him as to me ; I could not tell him to keep away, could I ? And he seemed to like to come and talk, and I'm afraid / liked it too " — this very low and shamefacedly spoken — " but all the time I felt it might be wrong. But there seemed no one to ask, for just then you had all gone abroad for that long tour, and I seemed as if I could not tell father or mother. Oh, Charlotte, I wanted thee more than I can say, and thou was away such a long time."

" Poor darling ! But was that all ? I don't see anything very bad in the story so far." "No, only it is not quite finished, for one day last week, as we werewalking as we had done so often, he — he . How can I tell thee ? He spoke — he said ." She came to a dead stop and covered her burning face with her hands. " Never mind telling me what he said, dear, perhaps I can guess," Charlotte answered, a tender little smile of mingled pity and amusement rising to her lips. " Perhaps he told thee he loved thee." "Oh, dear, how could thou guess? But he did, and when he spoke to father, oh, he was so grieved and angry that it almost broke my heart. He never spoke so sharply to me in his life, and he said things that seemed so cruel, Lottie 5 he said I had forgotten myself; that I'd made myself 'cheap,' and that I'd deceived him and mother and abused their confidence.

And oh, Lottie, I never meant to have deceived them ; it all seemed to happen unawares somehow, but I never meant to deceive them. I know father's right, but it felt hard to have him say such things to me, and yet I suppose I did deserve them all, for I had forgotten myself, and I'd even told Karl Pleydell that if father gave his consent / would. Think of that, dear ! I am afraid it was sadly wrong." " Why was it so very wrong ? " Charlotte asked, to her cousin's wonder and relief showing neither that she was shocked nor surprised. " Why, thou forgets, dear," Tilla made answer ; " he is not a member of our Society." " Well, what of that ? " retorted her cousin. " If he was a good young man, and there was nothing else against him, and thou was fond of him ? " " But thou wouldn't have had me marry some one who is not a Friend?

" said Tilla in a tone of surprise. "I don't see that it would be any objection," Charlotte replied ; " other things being equal, as Philip says. Don't look so shocked, darling; thou knows I never agreed with Uncle Joseph about such things, and I think he is just ever so little narrow in some things." "But, Charlotte, I am sure he is right there. Thou knows we are told that we must keep ourselves from the world." "But, my dear," was the retort spoken a trifle impatiently, " I don't divide the Society of Friends and the world into two distinct parties, and think all the good is in one and all the bad in the other. There are just as good people outside our own body as in it, and if only Uncle Joseph would let thee mix a little more with outsiders I am sure you would find I am right." " I don't know," Tilla answered with a weary little sigh.

"It may be thou art right, only don't talk so just now, dear — please don't — for I've just been thinking the same things to myself, and it is so hard to help beginning to think father is wrong ; and I've had such hard, bitter thoughts against him and mother that I've been frightened of myself, and I've been trying so hard to fight them off and they will come back again and again ; and all the time I know father loves me, and that he is right, and I am weak and foolish." And the poor child repeated the words with a sturdy, filial loyalty, because her own heart was playing traitor all the time and clamorously con tradicting. Charlotte drew her tenderly to her side, ashamed of her own momentary irritation. " Forgive me, darling," she said ; " I was forget ting thy trouble. And so uncle would not relent after all ?

" " No," Tilla answered drearily. " Karl pleaded and urged, but father only refused all the more emphatically ; and when he would continue to plead he grew angry and told him he would rather follow me to my grave than see me married to any one who was not a member of our Society. And then Karl drew himself up and said something in German which I am glad father did not understand ; and then he turned to go ; but before he went he took my hand, and he told me that until I gave him up of my own free will he should consider himself bound to me, no matter how long it was before we met again. And then he went away, and oh ! Lottie, he seems to have taken all the sunshine away with him. I could not have thought I should have felt so sad and lonely." " Thou poor little child ! " cried Charlotte pity ingly, drawing the golden-brown head down until it rested on her own shoulder.

" And thou has been trying to bear thy trouble all alone all this time with out any one to confide in ; wearing thy poor little self out with all sorts of misery and self blame. I wish thou had told me before ; perhaps I could have helped thee." Tilla kissed her cousin gratefully, but shook her head dissentingly all the same. " Thou art very kind, dear," she said ; " but I do not think any one can help me. Father will never change his views, I know, and Karl has gone away, and I do not suppose I shall ever see him again." " I do not know that," Lottie answered cheerfully ; "I have heard of a gentleman coming back again from a more distant place than Germany, when his heart was fixed upon some girl he had left behind him." But Tilla put the proffered words of sympathy aside. " No, dear," she said, " it would not help at all, even if he did come back, for father's objections would be just the same as ever, and I do not think there is any chance of Karl's ever joining Friends."

And a dreary little sigh ended the words. If Lottie felt inclined to smile a little as Tilla spoke, she was far too full of real sympathy to let her amusement be observed, but only kissed her very warmly, saying in a matter-of-fact voice : " Come back to dinner with me, dear. Mother will be so glad to see thee. Thou hast not been to spend an evening with us for a long time, and Philip has some new songs I know thou would like to hear." " I should like to come," Tilla was beginning, but her cousin's last words made her hesitate. No one knew what a great temptation the new songs were, but to poor, guileless Tilla the very longing for the music seemed little better than a wile of the Evil One. In her narrow Quaker training she had been brought up to regard music as one of the tempting flowers which strew the broad road leading to destruc tion.

No musical instrument had ever found its way into her father's house. The very servants were cau tioned against ever giving way to their feelings by singing. To the worthy Quaker and his wife all such " vain noises " were but a snare and delusion. What a great loss this had been to their daughter no one knew ; perhaps herself as little as any ; for the girl was born with a true musician's soul, whose long ings and strugglings she herself did not understand. Once or twice when her cousins had been singing she had been beguiled into trying to join in, and had been amazed and entranced to find how easily it seemed to come to her — almost as naturally as to a bird. But her cousins' delighted praise recalled her quickly from her short ecstasy, and filled her with bitter self-upbraidings. She felt she had grievously offended in thus giving way to temptation ; but how hard was temptation to withstand which came in so seductive a guise !

Chapter II

lottie's home Tilla left her cousin for a few moments while she ran into the house to ask her mother's leave to go and dine with her uncle, and, that leave having been granted, the two girls set off together for the short walk down the hedge-lined lane that led from the house of Mr. Joseph Bourne to that of his brother John. It was a substantial building of white stone, sur rounded by a neatly kept garden, which even under its autumn aspect did not look dreary. The front of the house was well hung with creepers, and a few chilly roses were still looking in through the broad casement windows. It was growing dark as the two girls turned in at the entrance gates, and as they passed the parlour window they caught a glimpse of a well-set dinner table, laid with abundance of shining silver and glis tening cut glass, while flowers adorned the board profusely.

A maid was lighting a couple of lamps shaded with crimson, which cast a warm, rosy glow over the snowy damask. "Miss Priscilla will be here to dinner, Mary," Lottie said to the servant as they passed the door ; " please lay an extra knife and fork " ; and then she led the way to the drawing-room, where were seated her father, mother, and sister. This room was in pleasant shade, lighted only by the flickering glow of the wood fire burning cheerily on the hearth. Mr. John Bourne, the junior partner in the well-known Greybridge banking firm of " Bourne Brothers " — a firm which the people of the little town looked upon as being as safe as — not to say safer than — the Bank of England itself; — Mr. Bourne was sitting in his own special easy chair on one side of the hearth, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his newspaper lying on the floor by his side, where it had fallen from his hand while he took a quiet nap.

A tall, handsome man was Mr. John Bourne, with white hair, smooth, placid forehead and bright, genial face. A man known far and wide for his generosity and unfailing sympathy, that never turned from any one in need. A wealthy man, too, and one — as many a poor man had said — who richly deserved every penny he possessed. He did not wear the distinctive garb of the Society to which he belonged, and to which, moreover, he was most warmly attached ; neither did his sympathies con fine themselves — as his brother Joseph's were apt to do — -to the members and interests of the sect. He found plenty of common ground and scope for his ready philanthropy among all good men and true outside. " There is good everywhere," he would sometimes say to his brother ; " and I am willing to give the right hand of fellowship to any one who is trying to follow the line of duty conscientiously, without stop ping to ask what are his particular religious views."

At which opinion the narrow-minded elder brother would shake his head doubtfully and dissentingly. But though brother John might do many things with which brother Joseph could — as he would have said — « feel no unity," still he was no bad specimen ofa broad-minded Quaker gentleman of the modern school, and was a man of whom his own brethren in the faith had every reason to be proud. His wife was no unfit partner for such a man. She sat facing him on the hearth, her slim, white fingers working busily at some soft, woolly knitting that required little or no eyesight to do. A mild, sweet-faced, elderly lady, with smoothly-banded grey hair, and a quiet, motherly face, which looked as if all the storms of life might pass over it without disturbing the serenity of the inward peace which ever reigned in her soul.

She was dressed simply as became a Quaker lady, though her costume was not ostentatiously plain or peculiar. Her grey satin dress fell round her in soft, shining folds ; and though her tulle cap was guiltless of lace or flower, it was by no means an unbecoming head-dress, and suited her sweet, placid face well. Round her shoulders was thrown a white, knitted shawl, light and filmy as lace. Faith, Lottie's younger sister, was sitting on the hearthrug, with her elbow resting on her mother's knee, watching the swiftly moving fingers at their work, and talking softly from time to time. A bonny, sweet-faced girl was Faith Bourne, bearing a strong resemblance to her cousin, and though not by any means so beautiful, yet owning a charm of bright frankness which Tilla's sad, repressed face entirely lacked.

Just the sort of girl of which, happily, there are thousands in England ; a girl to make a happy, home-loving wife in the future, a tender and devoted mother, and a girl whose love any man might be proud and glad to secure. " Where is Charlotte ? " Mrs. Bourne was asking, after a little pause, during which her needles went on flashing untiringly in the firelight. "She has just stepped round to Uncle Joseph's," Faith replied ; "she said she was going to try and persuade uncle and aunt to allow Tilla to come to our party next week. Mother, I do wish she might ; I am sure it would do her good, for they keep her so closely at home that she seems to have hardly any pleasure in life. What ever harm do uncle and aunt think it would do her if she came to a quiet party here ? It is not as if we were going to have any dancing — I know how strongly they would disapprove of that.