Thy friend Dorothy

Front matter

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XX How it was Settled

List of Illustrations

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Dorothy looked at the pretty, shimmering silks,

half-wistfully .... Frontispiece

Dorothy stood with clasped hands before an old

SUN-DIAL 48

Joseph drew forth a small bark canoe from among

THE WEEDS, AND, HELPING DOROTHY INTO IT, PAD- DLED ACROSS 1 1 7

“Boys! boys!” she cried, “ what is this ? ” . 207

Dolly looked down and twisted the long stem of A flower around her finger .... 242

Chapter I A Question Of Speech

It was a bright, spring morning in the year 1682. Sweeps of sward in front of a fine old house near the city of Bristol, in old England, showed golden green in the sunlight. The hedgerows were white with blossoming, and the gardens and hillsides were brave with the delicate hues of spring flowers. In the long avenue, the wind rustled softly through the tall trees, in whose tops birds were singing blithely. It was a day for joyous content and perfect peace ; but neither joyousness nor peace pervaded the home of Dorothy James.

It was a slim little girl who stood before Squire Humphrey, a demure and quiet little maid, who, with eyes cast down and meekly folded hands, listened to the tirade which was being poured forth by her irate uncle.

“ Thee me, and thou me, will you ? ” concluded the angry man. “ I’ll have none of it ; do you hear ? — none of it. Let me but once hear you answer me in such speech, and ’twill go hardly with you ; aye, and your meek mother. A pretty bequest for my brother to leave ; a fanatical, shaking Quakeress, and her obstinate child. Go, now, Dorothy James, and let us hear no more thees and thous under this roof.” And the Squire brought his stout stick down with a thump on the floor. Dorothy turned and left the room. A big, wainscoted breakfast room it was, where her uncle was wont to sit of mornings. He was a determined, imperious person, this Squire James, of Humphrey’s Hall, and his word was law. Yet some of the same determination was part of his niece’s heritage. And as the girl turned into the long alley which led toward the summer house, there was a set look about the tender, young mouth which reminded one of the man who had just spoken so determinedly.

Down past the summer house, and on toward the lodge, went Dorothy, not pausing to note the bloom of hawthorne, nor the carol of birds. She held her hands tightly clasped, and every now and then she lifted her eyes to the sky. At the gate of the lodge she paused, and gazed down the road. Soon a look of childish pleasure came into her face, and she called, “ Rhoda, here comes mother.”

A stout woman bustled out. “ Faith, Mistress Dorothy, your mother starts early, and ’tis a shame she foots it. Why does she so ? ”

The girl made no reply, but ran out and grasped the hand of the lady, who had now nearly reached the gate.

“ Oh, mother, mother ! I thought thou wast, perhaps, set upon, or that some ill had befallen thee.”

The mother smiled down at the little maid. “ No, Dorothy, I was but detained in listening to good words from one who spoke well. Friends would fain have had me tarry, but I was anxious to see my daughter.”

“And was there a good meeting? ”

“ A sweet and precious one ! There was one Alexander Parker, a very tender man, who spoke lovingly, but — ,” and the mother sighed. " It is a grievous season, daughter, and I fear me much that we shall be called upon to endure more pains for the faith’s sake.”

“ Oh, mother ! and art thou in danger ? ” “Friends who attend meeting are all in danger ; many have been hurried to the gaol, or exposed to riotous insolence.”

“ Oh, mother — and thou ?”

“ The trouble may be from the world and the world’s spirit, but the spirit within is at peace. I heard much to cause me to commune with myself. John Dunn gave me a most interesting pamphlet, which treats of the new colony which William Penn calls his Holy Experiment. ’Tis of exceeding interest to me, so much so that friends asked what was upon me, and I told them, if so be the Lord move me, I may see it my duty to follow friends overseas.”

“ And leave England forever ?”

‘ If so be it is the voice of the Spirit which calls. Dorothy child,” — the mother stopped suddenly and looked in the child’s face. “ Thou art steadfast ?”

“Oh, mother, I am. Uncle did hardly berate me, this very morning, for saying thee and thou to him, but I will suffer, mother — for thee.”

“ Nay, nay ; not lor me, Dorothy. Thy testimony must be from the purity of thine own conviction. Thou hast heard the voice of the Spirit, so heed it.” Dorothy was silent, but she clasped her mother’s hand even more ii closely, and presently asked, “ When is there another meeting?”

“ On fourth day next.”

By this time they had entered the lofty hall, and Dorothy’s mother proceeded directly to the room where her brother-in-law still sat.

“ So, mistress,” was his greeting, “you are back again, and whither have you been over night ? Methinks you would do more credit to your husband’s name did you stay within your home, instead of mixing with a miscreant rabble. I command you to have done with these stirrings abroad. I hear none too good reports of the shaking Quakers. ’Tis time, Mistress Hester, that you cut loose from such a rabble ; or, if you must sully your fair name, leave your child unsmutted. Already she brings your mouthings and foolish phrasings to me. Next you will become a by-word, and will be immodestly pushing yourself into public sight, as some of those wretched women in the city are doing with their preachments.” Again the staff came down with a thump on the bare wood floor. “ Speak up, now ! Is it bide at home like an honest gentlewoman, or is it follow your wretched crew of shaking Quakers? Yes or No ?”

“I must follow my conscience, Humphrey, and the Spirit leads more truly than does the world.”

“ An’ your conscience or your spirit, or whatever you choose to call it, bids you disgrace your husband’s name ; bids you deny your child her heritage ; seeks to set you up as a dreamer of dreams, and a woman who immodestly speaks in public — a sweet and gracious spirit truly ! — an evil and malignant one, beshrew me, if ’tis not ! Now, listen to me, mistress, once you speak in public meetings ; once you allow your daughter to be exposed to the rabble, and I wash my hands of you. Into this house you enter no more. Dorothy shall have her own, but you have no part nor parcel in her belongings.”

The woman stood pale and silent for a moment. “And if Dorothy choose the straight and narrow way ?” she then said.

“ If by that you mean if the unsophisticated little lass shall try to follow you, I, as her guardian, shall prevent it. She is too young to form correct judgments.”

“ But if she persist, when she is come to years of discretion ?”

“Then,” the staff emphasized each word, “ she goes, too ; you are both cast off. Now you know what to expect, the pair of you. Send Margery to me. I wish to speak to her.”

This dismissal was accepted, and mother and daughter withdrew.

“ Oh, mother,” whispered Dorothy, when they were out of hearing, “what shall we do ?”

“We must wait the Lord’s will in the matter, my daughter, and whatsoever way the Spirit leads, we must follow.”

“ But, mother, I shall not leave thee. I could not.”

Hester James shook her head. “ Say not so with such vehemence, Dorothy. It is the blind affections which speak. Let it be the inner voice which commands.”

At this moment a maid-servant approached. “ Your uncle wishes to see you, Miss Dorothy.”

The girl looked up at her mother. “ Go, my child !”

Dorothy followed the servant to an upper room, where her uncle sat, a pile of rich stuffs on a bench before him. An heavy oaken chest stood open, and from it Margery, the old housekeeper, was lifting more brocades and silken fabrics.

“Here, Dorothy,” said the Squire, “you are old enough to choose yourself a gown for a

May-day frolic — the little Lady Beatrice Lowe has sent you an invitation to her May-pole, and I wish you to go.”

Dorothy looked at the pretty, shimmering silks, half-wistfully, but she said, “ I am not of the world’s people, uncle.”

“Out upon you for such a foolish speech, not of the world’s people ; forsooth ! and you a daughter of Marmaduke James of Humphrey’s Hall, and what are you, pray ?”

“ A Friend.”

“ A Friend ! And whose friend ? If you mean that wretched set called Quakers, they are no friends of yours or mine. Come, you must get that maggot out of your brain, and see if you and 1 cannot rid your poor, phantasystricken mother of her foolish fancies.”

“ Oh, uncle, I believe it to be a truth my mother has found.”

“ You believe ? What matter what a chit like you believes. ’Tis all a seven days’ wonder, a mere frenzy of the moment. You are too sensible a lass to be carried away by such follies. Put such thoughts from you, and come here ; see what gay costumes we have for your choosings. They were your grandmother’s, and well she knew how to carry them off.”

“ I cannot choose them, uncle ; I am bidden to forsake gay apparel.”

“ And who has a better right to bid than your guardian ? You forget yourself, Dorothy, when you set yourself up and declare any one's right over mine.”

It was Squire James' intention to be very gentle and amiable to his niece, to win her in that way to a different way of thinking. He did not doubt that all of this fervor was but a flash in the pan, and that the persistence was but contrariness.

“ Enough of this, Dorothy,” he said, more sharply. “ Such folly ! to set your wishes against mine, for a mere freak. I am too indulgent, I fear. Come, come, your old uncle has not treated you badly, has he, in all these years ?

“ Far from it.”

“And you will not yield at once to my desires, when, after all, 'tis but a concern for your pleasure. Fie, Dorothy ! ”

“ I cannot, uncle.”

“ Then, mistress, we’ll see,” spoke out the old man in sudden rage. “ Since you are disposed to be a disobedient, wilful child, instead of a loving and discreet maiden, we’ll see what best becomes you ;” and, seizing the girl by the arm, he hobbled hurriedly across the floor and thrust her into an adjoining room, closing and bolting the door, Dorothy making not the slightest resistance. It was part of her mother’s creed, which she had adopted as her own, to endure silently.

All her life Dorothy had dwelt under her uncle’s roof. Ever since the death of her father, which had occurred when the girl was but six years old. She remembered well this handsome, courtly father, and how sad a blow his death had been to her mother. Yet, for the past two years, the widow had spoken of her loss with a resignation she had never shown before, and this was since she had heard at the house of one of her relatives the words of one George Fox, and now she had become a follower of the comparatively new sect, first called Quakers by Justice Bennet, of Derby, who bestowed the term in derision, because Fox had bidden his hearers tremble at his words.

The home at Humphrey’s Hall had been a pleasant and a happy one for the little girl, until this time of her mother’s new interest. Squire James was a man of strong prejudices and haughty bearing, but he was very fond of his little niece, his youngest brother’s child, and

1 7 the girl had been accorded many privileges and given many pleasures.

At first the goings and comings of her mother to and from the Friends’ meetings in Bristol had concerned Dorothy very little, but anything which made so deep an impress upon her beloved mother, was sure to affect the girl sooner or later, and she begged to go to the meetings. It was but lately that she had taken up the phraseology of the sect, and what at first her uncle regarded simply as a whim, was now becoming so set a measure as to require, the old man thought, extreme treatment.

After hearing the bolt slipped, Dorothy quietly waited for further developments. The room into which she had been thrust was a small one, having one casement window, which opened out upon a stretch of green lawn. Dorothy could see the lodge, and a bit of woodland from it, with glimpses of the Avon ; so she perched herself upon the broad window ledge to wait patiently for what should come next. She had much to think about. She wondered if she did secretly yearn for the festivities to which Lady Beatrice Lowe had invited her. She was only a little girl, although serious things

had weighed her down of late, it is true. She 2 had gone often enough to the meetings to have heard mirth, amusement, beauty and pleasure decried, and her mother’s example of wearing quiet attire, with no ornaments, she had taken to heart. It was, indeed, her loyalty to her mother which chiefly moved her to deny her uncle his desire regarding the May party, and the girl of fourteen was meeting the man of sixty with a spirit of equal determination. It was that she wished to believe in the Quaker creeds, because they were her mother’s, and she was ready to throw herself heart and soul into a defence of whatever her mother made an issue.

It was old Margery who at last appeared at the door and unbarred it. She brought the girl’s mid-day meal, and set it down near her.

“Thank thee, Margery, ’’said Dorothy, gently.

The old woman leaned forward and touched her with a trembling, shriveled finger. “ Why don’t you please him, mistress ?” she said. “ ’Tis but a little to do, and you are all he has left.”

“ Dost thou mean my uncle ? I would then be arrayed against my mother.”

“ Oh, no ; your good mother must soon turn back to her old ways. Why, mistress, the justices are determined to break up these meetings. More and more do we hear of disturbance, and the Quakers are right mercilessly set upon. It is dangerous — dangerous for any one to be seen attending the meetings. They will soon be compelled to give them up.”

Dorothy looked troubled. She knew that threats and punishments were increasing in the city of Bristol. “ I am fain to believe it, Margery,” she replied.

“ Then persuade your good mother to bide at home, at least for a time, till there is greater quiet. Entreat her to refrain from going to the city for a time.”

“She will go, Margery, if so be the spirit calls her.”

The old woman gave a little impatient shake of her head. “ Begging your pardon, miss, but it is folly. With their rude ways, they must make enemies. Not a one will take off his hat to his betters, nor drop a curtsey, or even say good morning, to the highest in the land. Tis an evil setting up of themselves toward those in high places.”

“We are all alike in the sight of the Lord,” replied Dorothy.

“That is well to say, mistress. But I know better. Even the apostles bade us be obedient to masters. I know my Bible, and it says,

‘ Let servants count their own masters worthy of all honor.’ And am I to set myself up above my mistress ? No. I know my place. And I make my manners to my master, while he, in his turn, makes his to the king. And, bless us, mistress, ’twas but the other day I did hear of a Quaker woman run mad, tearing off her clothes in public, and making herself a spectacle in the street. And one in court, not long since — so Rhoda told me — did face the justice, and tell him his heart was rotten. The impudent blade ! And furthermore, he said he was full of hypocrisy to the brim. What wonder that the law scourged him ? Such talk to a justice on the bench.”

“But,” spoke up Margery, “what he said was doubtless true.”

“ And it may be true that one squints or has an evil eye, must then the world run about telling him so? That is not good manners nor good morals. No, no, mistress, ’twill not do ; and to refuse to lift off one’s hat to any one, or to stand at taking oath in court, ’tis lawless, lawless, and stirs up naughty feeling. You’d best have done with birds of such feather.”

Dorothy shook her head. The old woman had spoken from a feeling of deep concern, the girl reflected, and it might, indeed, be that dangers threatened all who clung to the Quaker beliefs. Nevertheless, she said, “No, no, good Margery, I cannot err against my conscience.’ ’ “And you’ll stay home, shut up?”

“ Where is my mother ? ”

“ She went home an hour ago.”

“ Knew she of my state? ”

“Yes, she but looked wishful when I told her ; but to Bristol she went. Come, now, I’ll tell your uncle that you are ready to look at the pretty gowns we had out.”

“No, no ; here I stay till I am released by his will without word of concession from me. ’Tis no use wasting words, Margery ; I understand thy good-will toward me. Thou hast always been tenderly and lovingly disposed. I would thou couldst receive convincement.” Margery turned sorrowfully toward the door, muttering : “ She was always as set a little

mortal as one could find in a day’s journey. She comes honestly by it. Like her grandmother in that is she.”

Chapter II Rioting

The long day waned, and another servant brought supper and set it before the prisoner, and at night Margery came and told her it was her uncle’s order that she should sleep in her own bed-chamber. Dorothy obediently followed the old woman up the long hall and into her own room, where, again, she was made prisoner. “ My mother ?” she said, as Margery turned to leave her. “ She has not returned.0

The evening of the second day found the little maid still confined behind barred doors. She had been glad of the privilege of remaining in her own room, but now she was becom ing anxious to see her mother. Nearly two whole days since she was parted from her. Surely, she must have returned.

She was just wondering and wishing when the thump ! thump ! of her uncle’s stick was heard along the hall. The sound was that which proclaimed an excited frame of mind, for Dorothy had become used to the heralding of her uncle’s various moods by means of his stick. Were he calm and dignified, the slow tap-tap announced the fact ; were he fretful or ill, it was a short, irregular, nervous rap ; angry or excited, the stick came down with a sharp, decided thump, — such as now was coming nearer and nearer.

There was a sound of bolts withdrawn and a rap on the door. “Are you abed, Dorothy?”

“ No, uncle. I am up and dressed.”

The knob turned, and, looking up, Dorothy saw, by the flickering light of candle which her uncle held, that both anger and grief were visible upon the strong, handsome face.

“So!” he cried, “your lady mother has thrown back my words in my teeth, and has defied me deliberately and intentionally. My brother’s wife, a ranting, raging promoter of broils, an inciter of riots, a defier of law and order.” Dorothy stood up, with parted lips and fear-stricken heart.

“ Yes,” continued the Squire ; “ a gracious and lovely dame is she who stirs up discord, and defames judges. It is well she is in the gaol ; that is less of a disgrace than the act which places her there.”

“My mother in prison ?” faltered Dorothy.

“Where she should be,” replied the old man, grimly. Then a softer look came over his face, and he held out his hands, “ Oh, my poor little child, you are orphaned, indeed !”

But Dorothy shrank back and held her clasped hands tightly against her breast.

Dorothy’s father had been to Squire James more like a son than a brother, for Humphrey, after two years coming of age, found himself the sole guardian of a baby boy, not four years old, whose parents had both died within a year, leaving, out of a family of nine, but these two : the eldest and youngest. The young man and the little boy had been devoted to each other, and, believing his brother, in the natural course of things, would become his heir, Humphrey James had never married, although there had been many rumors, more or less true, of his intentions in such directions. And when Marmaduke brought home his pretty, gentle little bride, his brother had given her a warm welcome. The first sorrow after this, which struck heavily both brothers, was the loss of a little son, Humphrey, whose coming had been hailed with joy. Two years later, Dorothy was born, and when, at last, the younger man was brought home from the hunting field, dead, it seemed for a time as if the elder one would never again lift his head. But when, after a time, he did walk further into the sunshine, it was with a halting tread ; and at fifty-five he was an old man, slightly paralyzed still.

And now had come an added grief. The gentle, quiet little widow of Marmaduke James, who had yielded amiably to her brother-in-law’s opinions and commands, became a steadfast follower of George Fox, and suddenly displayed a persistence and tenacity of purpose entirely surprising. The gentleness remained, but nothing moved her from her zealous following of the Quakers.

As Dorothy shrank back from her uncle, the man’s hands trembled more violently, and his broken accents followed up the appeal — “ Dorothy, Dorothy, my little child ! ”

She stood with downcast eyes, but did not speak, and her uncle sank brokenly into a chair near the door. He looked a pitiful figure of grief, and the girl’s tender heart could not endure it. So she went up to him and laid her hand on his arm, looking wistfully at the bent head resting on the hands which clasped his stick. Presently his arm enfolded her. “ Poor little girl ; poor little lass! It is a sad day, Dorothy. If — if your father had lived, it would never have been.”

“ Oh, uncle, would it not? Why? ”

“ Because your mother would have had no need of vagaries where Marmaduke James was. She has sought a solace in these religious frenzies. Poor, distracted woman ! ”

“ Ah, but uncle, it is truth. My mother believes it is truth.”

“ Truth ! What is truth ? I tell you it is madness— madness from which I would fain protect you, my little maid. Your mother is distracted, I say — mad — frenzied. And small wonder. If I, a strong man, have been so shattered by the loss of that bright life, what must be expected of a poor, weak woman. It is sad — sad that such things must be.”

“ But, uncle, all those who believe, who have received convincement, are not mad. They have not the cause to be bereft of reason that my mother has. What of William Penn, and Robert Barclay, and Nicholas More?”

The staff was again grasped firmly, and

2 7 came down with a thump. “ Even the best of men can sometimes be bewitched, and can be caught in the whirl of a zeal lor a moment. I tell you, child, there are false prophets, blind leaders of the blind. It cannot endure. Already the authorities find them a turbulent, law breaking, impudent rabble, who would set our kingdom all awry if allowed their way. I must keep my brother’s daughter safe within our gates.” The arm around the girl gave a little pressure to the slight figure, and Dorothy’s lips quivered.

“ But my mother,” she said. “ She is in prison. Oh, uncle, my mother ! ”

“ My brother’s wife. Marmaduke’s wife. I remember that. We’ll see, my lass, that she doesn’t tarry there long. I warrant one night’s taste of it will cure her folly. Now, go to bed like a good child, my sweeting. No one shall harm you or your poor mother while you stand by your old uncle.” And in another moment he had clumped out of the room.

Poor little Dorothy spent many wakeful hours that night. Her uncle’s wrath had only made her persistently resolved to follow her mother’s teachings ; but the softer, gentler mood — the argumentative tone had made her a little doubtful, and she wondered if, after all, these followers of George Fox were right ; and it might be, as her uncle said, that her mother’s mind had become unbalanced by her husband’s death. But it was a very pale and mournfuleyed little girl who met her uncle at breakfast the next morning.

“Tut! tut! this will not do. Fine weather, fine outlook, and so pale a maid! We must have you into a chaise, and have you out for an airing ! ”

“ Whither, uncle ?”

“Whither? To Bristol town. I’ll see what is to be done about that foolish little mother of yours. I’ve friends enough to win us her release. Come, bring a smile to those red lips. We’ll soon have you merry when this nonsense is over. I like not long faces on a pretty lass. ’Tis out of keeping. Come, Dolly, my maid, we’ll be off.” And soon they were passing between sweet hedgerows, and before long entered the city of Bristol. “We’ll stop at Cousin Preston’s,” said the Squire, “ and I’ll leave you there. I like not to take you to courts and councils. Stay with Cousin Frances, and we’ll have your mother with you in a twinkling. Not so sober, my Dolly ; you must fain do as you are bid.” And Dorothy, without protest, was left at her cousin’s door.

It was, however, a restless morning which she passed, despite the fact that these cousins did their utmost to show her kindness. Yet she felt their displeasure at her mother was great, and it hurt her much to see the eyebrows lifted, the half-sarcastic smile and the open censure.

Cousin Frances Preston was a widow, whose husband was own cousin to Marmaduke and Humphrey James ; her son, indeed, was the heir of Humphrey Hall, which, being an entailed estate, would pass to Jasper at the death of the present owner. A nice boy was Jasper, always a sturdy defender of his second cousin, Dorothy, and when his grandmother, with a smile of amused tolerance, asked Dorothy if she, too, meant to be a Quaker, Jasper spoke up, “No matter what else she means to be, she’ll be a good daughter; that I well know.” And Dorothy shot him a grateful look. The question of her being a dutiful daughter had heretofore been less weighty than that of her being a dutiful niece, it seemed.

High noon found her uncle still absent, and a growing fear possessed the girl that her mother’s release was more difficult to obtain than at first appeared. But at last the familiar sound of the sturdy stick was heard, and Dorothy hurried out to meet the Squire, whose face at once showed annoyance and chagrin. “A pest on these puling varlets,” he cried. “ Obstinate donkeys, that have taught a simple woman that dogged stubborness is religion ! Not a step will your mother budge, though I held the order in my hand.”

“But why, cousin, why?” spoke up Mistress Preston.

“ Because, forsooth, she must decline to promise she will not repeat the offence. Say the justices, an’ if she will but say she speaks no more in public, ’tis enough ; but not a promise will she give. Easy enough ’tis, too, that she is let off, when whippings are plentiful for such as follow so scurvy a crowd ; but ’tis her first offence, say they, and — she is the widow of Marmaduke James. Well, I am through with the vile business. I like not a mulish woman.”

“ Whenever was Hester James mulish before?” cried Mistress Preston. “’Tis not her habit, cousin.”

“ No, my fair Frances, nor would it be, save for these insane leaders, who have scattered her wits.”