THE PURITAN'S COTTAGE
"The court house is not so full to-day."
"Nay. Do you mind when John Bunyan was tried? Ay, but he answered the justices boldly, and so cleverly that they could not gainsay him."
"True, but they clapped him into gaol for all that."
"Ay, they did; but that did not depend upon the trial. They had made up their minds to do that before he was brought hither. John was among the first, and people thought much of the trials then. We have had so many since that we be getting used to them."
"Well, it makes it pay to be religious."
"Nay, say rather it makes it a paying business to go to church. There's nought of religion in sending godly people to prison for praying in their own way."
"Hush, man! Men be spying around everywhere, and it takes but little to get fined. I hear there is a lot of paid spies, whose business it is to go around to hear folks talk and to give information to the justices."
"Ay, I suppose so. And yet these Dissenters pray and preach more than ever. I am told that they be increasing in number every week."
"And yet I hear that the king and the clergy say they'll never stop until there's not a Dissenter left in the land."
"Ay, I suppose so."
All this and much more I heard as I stood in the Chapel of Herne that March morning, for although it was wellnigh ten o'clock as I entered the building, the justices did not come until late. The reason for this was, that although only the petty sessions were to be held that day, so great was the interest taken in the Nonconformists that both Sir Henry Chester, of Tilsworth, and Sir George Blundell, of Cardington Manor, had declared their intention of being present, I heard, moreover, that both these worshipful gentlemen were very bitter against the Dissenters, and that Sir George Blundell had said that he would "sell a cow for a shilling" rather than the work against them should not go forward. It was also said that when Sir Matthew Hale visited Bedford, he would have set John Bunyan at liberty but for Sir Henry Chester, who declared that Bunyan was a good-for-nothing fellow, who preferred going around stirring up dissension to working at his proper trade, which was that of a travelling tinker.
It was because they were late that proceedings did not begin at the proper hour that morning. When they arrived near noon-day, however, their entrance made a great stir, and they took their seats on the bench with a great show of importance.
I stayed only during the trial of one who was brought thither that morning, but I was told that the other cases were dismissed with great speed, as the justices had some appointment elsewhere which they wished to keep. The man who was tried while I was there was called James Ireton, whose name, I was told, went much against him, seeing that Colonel Ireton had been hanged by the king only a little time before.
He was only a young man, it may be of twenty-five years of age, and looked a harmless sort of fellow, although I saw by the look of quiet determination in his eyes that he was not one who would be easily turned aside from his purposes. He was a blacksmith by trade, and one, I judged, of tremendous strength of arm and body. The indictment brought against him was in these words:
"James Ireton, you are accused of devilishly and perniciously abstaining from coming to church to hear divine service, and for being a common upholder of several unlawful meetings and conventicles, to the great disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of this kingdom, and contrary to the laws of our sovereign lord the king."
The man replied that he did indeed attend a meeting of godly people for praise and prayer, but that it was held in an outhouse nearly half a mile from the king's highway, and that there was not a dwelling-house near it.
"But do you know that such a meeting is unlawful?" cried the magistrate.
"I find nothing in the Word of God against it," replied the man.
"I do not mean the Word of God, of which you are ignorant," replied the magistrate, "but the laws of this country."
"I always put the laws of God above every law," replied the blacksmith, "and there I do find I am commanded to continue in prayer."
"Ay, and the law hath provided the church for you to pray. Do you go to church?"
"Ay, I do go to the Church of God," replied the man.
"What church?"
"A church composed of those who meet together in Christ's name," replied he.
"Ah, some conventicle! That is no church. How can you call that a church?"
"I have Christ's own words," replied the man. "He said, 'Wheresoever two or three are gathered together in My name, there am I in the midst of them,' and it is Christ that makes the church."
"I cannot allow this blasphemy," said the justice. "The question is, do you go to the parish church?"
"No," replied Ireton, "I do not."
"And why?"
"Because I do not find the Scriptures faithfully proclaimed, because many Romish practices are performed, and because I get no good to my soul."
"Thou art a naughty, law-breaking varlet!" said the justice.
"Nay, that is not so. In truth there was a time when this was true of me; for I was a drunkard, and I treated my wife with great cruelty. For this I was not punished; but now that I am trying to obey God's word, and to lead others to holy life, I am e'en haled before you."
"But didst thou go to church when thou wert what thou sayst?"
"Ay, that I did. I was one of the bell-ringers at the parish church."
"Well now, wilt thou not promise to be a decent fellow again? A man who can ring one of a peal of bells is a useful man, and no man can say to the contrary. Now, why not be as you were before? I don't mean as to the wife-beating, that is, of course, wrong. But can't you be religious in the right way, go to church regularly, and drink your ale in moderation?"
"Why," said the man, "I knew nought about religion till I heard John Bunyan preach; then I realized that I had been a sinner, and that I must repent of my sins, and accept Christ as my Saviour. On doing this such a joy and peace came into my heart, that I longed to tell others of the good news which had come to me."
"Ay, but how can an ignorant man like thee be fit to preach?"
"I have often thought of that myself, and truly I have tried not to. But I have felt what I think the Apostle must have felt when he said, 'Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel.' Besides, God hath blessed me wonderfully, and hath used me in leading many to conversion."
After this many other questions were asked, which the man answered in a like fashion.
"Now," said Sir Henry Chester presently, "it hath been proved that thou hast been a naughty, law-breaking varlet. Thou hast devilishly and perniciously abstained from coming to church, and thou hast been guilty of the sin of preaching. For either of these things thou dost deserve to be punished with great severity. But we are inclined to be merciful. If thou wilt promise to go to church as the law dictates, and never to preach again, thou shalt be forgiven. Come now, that is a great mercy."
"Nay," said the man, "I cannot promise, for I must e'en obey God rather than man."
After this he was threatened with many cruel threats, but being obstinate he was committed to gaol as though he were an ordinary felon. No sooner was the man dragged away by the constables than I left the court house, partly because I did not see how I could make any discoveries as to the whereabouts of Constance while there, and secondly, because I thought I saw some of the magistrates casting suspicious eyes upon me.
During the rest of the day I cast my mind about as to what I should do. I discovered that the constables were on the look-out for Constance, and that the whole countryside was being watched, so that if she in any way shewed herself, she should be arrested and thrown into prison. But in this matter many opinions were afloat. Some had it that she had never returned to Bedford at all, but had escaped to Holland directly after her father's death, whither her sister Dorcas had gone. Others, again, held with Peter Blewitt the constable, that it was she who helped many of the Dissenters in their trouble, and, indeed, kept them from starving. This, however, seemed impossible, for how could she, who must keep in constant hiding, be able to help others?
As far as I could judge, no man seemed to recognize me. My long imprisonment had much changed my appearance, while my beard acted almost like a mask. In order to test this, I even went so far as to have a chat with the landlord of The Bull, and so little was he aware as to who I was that I laughed at the fears I had about the magistrates eyeing me with suspicion.
I dared not go to Goodlands, however. I knew that the place was being watched, and thus, if Constance were there—as, remembering what she had told me long months before, I believed she was—I should only increase her danger. And yet I longed to see her more than words could say, for my long imprisonment had not lessened my love. It had increased it. So that the thought that she was only a few miles from me tempted me to discard all prudence, and boldly seek her out. But this I did not do, for true love doth not seek its own pleasure, but the welfare of the one who is beloved. I therefore possessed my soul in patience until night, when I made my way to the cottage where the expelled minister told me he had taken up his abode. I remembered the words that had passed between the husband and the wife when I had seen them on the highway near Bedford, and I believed that it was Constance whom the woman had said had promised to come to them that night.
It must have been nine by the clock as I reached the stile which the man had pointed out to me, but although it was dark, I had but little difficulty in following the path. In truth it seemed like a much trodden road, and one on which many people had lately passed. I had not gone far before I saw a tiny twinkling light, after which I heard the sound of voices singing.
A few minutes later I was so close that I could hear what they were singing. I did not think that the voices were very musical; nevertheless, there was a plaintiveness of tone mingled with triumph that I could not help being moved.
"The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?
"The Lord is the strength of my life: of whom shall I be afraid?
"When evildoers come upon me to eat up my flesh, even mine adversaries and my foes, they stumbled and fell.
"Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.
"One thing have I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after.
"That I may dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life."
After this I heard the voice of John Day, the man who had been the minister of the parish church of St. Martin's.
"My friends," he said, "I feel constrained to speak a few words of comfort and hope to you, for truly the Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad; but before I try to expound God's holy word, let us ask Him for wisdom and light, so that I may speak his words with wisdom, rightly dividing the word of truth."
"It will be well that one of us do go out and watch," said a voice, "for the magistrates be very bitter against us. John Ireton and many others have been sent to gaol to-day, and I do hear that orders have been given to watch some of us, and especial mention hath been made of you, Master Day."
"I do not fear," said the old clergyman; "the Lord hath called me to preach the Gospel, and I may not hold my peace. Still, seeing we live in evil times, it may be as you say, therefore do one of you watch while we seek to eat of the Bread of Life."
I had come up to the cottage unheeded by the worshippers. As far as I could gather there were not a dozen in all, who were evidently labouring men and their wives. Standing where I was, however, I could see the cottage plainly, and I noticed that one of their number went out, and stood at a place where he could take note of any that might come.
After Master John Day had prayed, he began to speak to the people. First of all he expounded the Scriptures to them, and then he sought to enforce his teaching concerning God's providence by example. "You know, my friends," he said, "how I have been put to great straits for bread. You have helped me all you could; but you have had barely enough for your own necessities. I have tried to obtain service at the hands of those who employ labour, but few would hire me. In truth, I should have starved, but for one dear friend who shall be nameless. Then the time came when even she was powerless, and yesterday I and my little ones would have starved had not the Lord sent a stranger along the road, who hath given us enough for our necessities for several days. Shall we doubt the Lord, dear friends? It is true we have been driven from our home, and we have even been forbidden to take religious exercises together, yet hath the Lord watched over us, ay, and He will watch over us, even to the last."
He had scarcely said these words than the man who had been appointed as a watcher rushed in.
"The constables!" he cried; "they will be here in a minute more."
"Shall we stay and meet them boldly?" said Master John Day.
"What good will it do?" one cried. "I know that the Quakers take no note of them, but we be wiser than they. We must e'en disband."
"Nay, but I will gladly suffer for Christ's sake," said John Day. "Still, I must remember my wife, and my dear little ones."
Upon this the light was extinguished, and a few seconds later I heard hurrying footsteps.
I waited hidden behind a thick bush, and presently I heard stealthy footsteps approaching.
"Ay, but they have been here."
"Yes, but they are gone. Let us go in and see if Master Day is there."
"That will be no use. If we go in it will make them more watchful against another time."
"Perhaps that is so. We have missed them this time, but we will pounce upon them unawares another time. You know that Parson Gilloch told us we should have a crown apiece and a gallon of strong ale if we caught Master Day in the act of preaching."
"Ay, that is so. Well, we had better go for the night."
I heard them creep away as silently as they had come, and in a few more minutes all was still. The worshippers had evidently gone to their homes, and not a sound could I hear disturbing the stillness of the night.
Still I waited. I felt that here was my opportunity of finding out the truth concerning the whereabouts of Constance, and I determined to remain where I was until the minister's fears were stilled, after which I would try and have speech with him.
After a time a light twinkled in the cottage again, and I heard the low murmur of voices. The night had become perfectly still, and not a breath of wind moved the bare tree branches. I thought I smelt the breath of spring in the air, the thought of which gave me joy, I knew not why.
"She cannot be coming here to-night," I thought. "It is now wellnigh midnight, and this place must be at least three miles from Goodlands, even although there be a short cut across the fields." This thought made my heart cold, and yet I stayed there in hope, my eyes hungering for a sight of her face. How long I stayed I know not, but presently I thought the voices grew louder, whereupon I crept silently forward, until I could hear more plainly.
"It is because of the goodness of God that you have come to me, my child," the old clergyman said, "and we thank you beyond all telling. Yet do I wish you had not come. The way is long to your hiding place, and the night is dark. Besides, God hath ministered to our necessities. He hath sent a friend to help us."
"Who hath he sent?"
My heart almost stood still! It was the voice of Constance which I heard, and in an instant it seemed to me as though my full strength had come back again. My weakness I felt not, and my weariness had passed away, even as snow ceases to be when the hot sun shines.
"It was yester eve," said the old clergyman. "I was in despair because I had no food for my wife and children, and because I was afraid harm had happened to them. While I was waiting for them, a youth came along riding a raven black horse. We fell to speaking together, and the Lord touched his heart."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"Ay, my child, and although you have told me nought, I cannot help believing that his coming will be good news to you. His name is Roland Rashcliffe."
"Tell me more! Tell me more!"
After that I could not stay outside a moment longer, for she spoke with eagerness and joy. I called to mind the look she had given me when we stood together in the presence of the king, and I felt that she had not forgotten me.
Without ado I opened the door, and stood before them. At first I thought she looked afraid, and this made me say what I should not have dared to say otherwise.
"Constance," I said, "I could not come before, but I have loved you all the time, even as I told you I should."
Her eyes were lifted to mine as if in great wonder, then I saw the tears well up in them; but they were not tears of sorrow.
"You are not angry with me, are you?" I said.
And then she burst out sobbing upon my shoulder, while I, unheeding Master Day and his wife, strained her to my heart.
We did not stay long at the cottage. I gave Master Day enough money to meet his needs for some time to come, and then Constance and I walked to Goodlands together along the silent, lonely road whither she had come.
I will not write of all the things we spoke about during that long journey. Enough to say that she had escaped from the king's palace as my father had told me, and had made her way to Goodlands, which she entered by a secret known only to herself, and to the faithful farmer who occupied the kitchen part of the house and looked after the Goodlands estate. Here she was able to remain unmolested. The entrance to the house, she told me, was by a secret underground passage, the opening of which could only be discovered with great difficulty. Here, moreover, were rooms in which her forefathers had been hidden in the days of Queen Mary, the secret of which had defied all searchers. It was here she had hidden Father Solomon, whose real name was John Walters, and her sister Dorcas, and it was from here she had sent her sister to Holland to meet her husband.
She told me, moreover, that this old man, who claimed to be the father of Lucy Walters, had been driven wellnigh mad because of his daughter's shame, and that he had left his wife because she encouraged her child in her evil ways. He had, moreover, become friendly with Sir Charles Denman, who had given him the right to live in the lonely house. For years he had been a student of the occult sciences, in order, he said, to find out the hiding place of the marriage contract between his daughter and the king, and it was here that her sister came, after she, in a fit of religious frenzy, had sought to take the life of General Monk.
Constance told me, moreover, that she had been taught to fear this old man; yet did she visit him for her sister's sake, on the night when we first met. Whether the marriage contract was genuine, or whether it had been forged by the old man or no, she could not tell, neither did she know where he was now. Directly after her sister had escaped to Holland, he also had disappeared; but before he went he declared that he would yet see his daughter owned as the king's wife, while her son should be king of England.
But it was not these things which troubled me as I walked by Constance's side that dark night in March. I was thinking rather of my great love for her, and how I could take her from the hands of her enemies. For she was now all alone in the world. Her father was dead, hanged by the king, while her sister had rejoined her husband, a man whom Constance regarded with fear and anger.
Although she had stayed long at Goodlands, she felt that her stay there must soon come to an end. She could not live much longer under such circumstances, especially as she felt sure that she was suspected of being hidden in the house.
Of the love we confessed one to another I will not write, for that is not the affair of those who may read this; but that she did love me I did not doubt. How could I doubt it when for me she had defied the king? How could I doubt after the way she had sobbed out her love for me in Master John Day's cottage?
Thus it was that the long walk was to me a joy beyond words. At last my love was by my side, and so I did not dread the dark clouds that hung in our sky, I did not fear the enemies which beset her on every hand.
"There is nought for us to fear," I said to her, for at that moment everything seemed possible to me.
"Oh, I have prayed for this so long, so earnestly," she said. "That night when we stood before the king, I wanted to tell you what was in my heart, but—but—" and then she told me again what my heart was hungering to hear.
"We cannot stay in England," I said, "but we can go across the seas, and make a home in New England, even as your Puritan forefathers did. Will you, Constance?"
"Whither thou goest, I will go," she said; "where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God."
Then I thanked God with a full heart for all His great goodness to me, and there and then we arranged that I should come for her the following night, and that we should ride together to my father's house before setting out to find a new home.
"Good-night, my beloved," I said as we parted; "we will trust, and not be afraid."
"Come as early as you dare," she said shyly, "for in truth I feel I can no longer live without you."
And this I promised with a right good will and with a light heart, for I did not then know what would soon be revealed to me.