Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - Hetty Wesley

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Between him and Susanna Annesley there had been little talk of love,
but no doubt at all. She was now close upon twenty, and ready to
marry him when he named the day. So married they were, in 1689.
Less than a year later their first child, Samuel, was born in their
London lodgings, and soon after came an offer, from the Massingberd
family, through the Marquis of Normanby, of the living of South
Ormsby in Lincolnshire. Thither accordingly they journeyed on
Midsummer Day, 1690, and there resided until the spring of 1697 in a
vicarage little better than a mud-built hut. There Mrs. Wesley bare
Emilia, Susannah and Molly, besides other children who died in
infancy, and there the Rector put forth his _Life of our Blessed Lord
and Saviour Jesus Christ. A heroic poem in ten books_: besides such
trifles as "The Young Student's Library: containing Extracts and
Abridgments of the most Valuable Books printed in England and in the
Foreign Journals from the year '65 to this time. To which is added
A New Essay upon all sorts of Learning."

Close by the parish church stood the Hall, the great house of the
Lord Marquis of Normanby who in 1694 made Mr. Wesley his domestic
chaplain. The Marquis was a rake, and he and his mistresses gave the
poor clergyman many searchings of heart. There was one who took
a fancy to Mrs. Wesley and would be intimate with her. Coming home
one day and finding this visitor seated with his wife, Mr. Wesley
went up to her, took her by the hand and very fairly handed her out.
It cost him his living: but the Marquis, being what is called a good
fellow in the main, bore him no grudge; nay, rather liked his spirit,
and afterwards showed himself a good friend to the amount of twenty
guineas, to which the Marchioness (but this is more explicable) added
five from her own purse.

By good fortune the living of Epworth fell vacant just then, and in
accordance with some wish or promise of the late Queen Mary, to whom
he had dedicated his _Life of Christ_, Mr. Wesley was presented to
it, a decent preferment, worth about 200 pounds a year in the
currency of those times. But by this time his family was large; he
was in debt; the fees to be paid before taking up the living ate
farther into his credit; a larger house had to be maintained, with
three acres of garden and farm-buildings; and his new parishioners
hated his politics and made life as miserable for him as they could.
They were savage fighters, but they found their match. In 1702 they
set fire secretly to the parsonage-house, and burned down two-thirds
of it. In the winter of 1704 they destroyed a great part of his crop
of flax. This was the year of Blenheim, and upon news of the victory
Mr. Wesley sat down to commemorate it in heroic verse. The poem
(published in the early days of 1705), if inferior to Mr. Addison's
on the same occasion, ran to five hundred and ninety-four lines, and
contained compliments enough to please the great Duke of
Marlborough, who sent for its author, rewarded him with the
chaplaincy of Colonel Lepelle's regiment, and promised him a
prebend's stall. The Dissenters, who (with some excuse, perhaps)
looked upon Mr. Wesley as that worst of foes, a deserter from their
own ranks, using their influence in Parliament and at Court, had him
deprived of his regiment and denied the stall. In April Queen Anne
dissolved Parliament, and in May the late Tory members for the county
of Lincoln, Sir John Thorold--and the Dymoke who then held--as his
descendant holds to-day--the dignity of Royal Champion, fought and
lost an election with the Whig candidates, Colonel Whichcott and
Mr. Albert Bertie. The Dissenters of course supported these; and
Mr. Wesley, scorning insults and worse, the unpopular side: with what
results we may read in these extracts from letters to the Archbishop
of York.

Epworth, June 7th, 1705.

I went to Lincoln on Tuesday night, May 29th, and the election
began on Wednesday, 30th. A great part of the night our Isle
people kept drumming, shouting, and firing of pistols and guns
under the window where my wife lay, who had been brought to bed
not three weeks. I had put the child to nurse over against my
own house; the noise kept his nurse waking till one or two in
the morning. Then they left off, and the nurse being heavy with
sleep, overlaid the child. She waked, and finding it dead, ran
over with it to my house almost distracted, and calling my
servants, threw it into their arms. They, as wise as she, ran
up with it to my wife and, before she was well awake, threw it
cold and dead into hers. She composed herself as well as she
could, and that day got it buried.

A clergyman met me in the castle yard and told me to withdraw,
for the Isle men intended me a mischief. Another told me he had
heard near twenty of them say, "if they got me in the castle
yard, they would squeeze my guts out." My servant had the same
advice. I went by Gainsbro', and God preserved me.

When they knew I was got home, they sent the drum and mob, with
guns etc. as usual, to compliment me till after midnight.
One of them, passing by on Friday evening and seeing my children
in the yard, cried out "O ye devils! We will come and turn ye
all out of doors a-begging shortly." God convert them, and
forgive them!

All this, thank God, does not in the least sink my wife's
spirits. For my own, I feel them disturbed and
disordered. . . .

The rebuilding of the parsonage and some unhappy essays in farming
his glebe had run the Rector still farther in debt: and now, not
satisfied with winning the election, his enemies struck at him
privily. His next letter is dated not three weeks later from the
debtors' ward in Lincoln.

Lincoln Castle, June 25th, 1705.

My Lord,--Now I am at rest, for I am come to the haven where I
have long expected to be. On Friday last (June 23rd), when I
had been, in christening a child, at Epworth, I was arrested in
my churchyard by one who had been my servant, and gathered my
tithe last year, at the suit of one of Mr. Whichcott's relations
and zealous friends (Mr Pinder) according to their promise when
they were in the Isle before the election. The sum was not
thirty pounds, but it was as good as five hundred. Now they
knew the burning of my flax, my London journey, and their
throwing me out of my regiment had both sunk my credit and
exhausted my money. My adversary was sent to, when I was on the
road, to meet me, that I might make some proposals to him.
But all his answer was that 'I must immediately pay the whole
sum, or go to prison.' Thither I went, with no great concern to
myself: and find much more civility and satisfaction here than
_in brevibus gyaris_ of my own Epworth. I thank God, my wife
was pretty well recovered and churched some days before I was
taken from her; and hope she'll be able to look to my family, if
they don't turn them out of doors as they have often threatened
to do. One of my biggest concerns was my being forced to leave
my poor lambs in the midst of so many wolves. But the great
Shepherd is able to provide for them and to preserve them.
My wife bears it with that courage which becomes her, and which
I expected from her.

I don't despair of doing some good here (and so I sha'n't quite
lose the end of living), and it may be, do more in this new
parish than in my old one: for I have leave to read prayers
every morning and afternoon here in the prison, and to preach
once a Sunday, which I choose to do in the afternoon when there
is no sermon at the minster. And I'm getting acquainted with my
brother jail-birds as fast as I can; and shall write to London
next post, to the Society for propagating Christian Knowledge,
who, I hope, will send me some books to distribute among
them. . . .

The next letter, dated from prison on September 12th, proves that he
had reasons only too good to be fearful.

The other matter is concerning the stabbing of my cows in the
night since I came hither, but a few weeks ago; and endeavouring
thereby to starve my forlorn family in my absence; my cows being
all dried by it, which was their chief subsistence; though I
hope they had not the power to kill any of them outright. . . .

The same night the iron latch of my door was twined off, and the
wood hacked in order to shoot back the lock, which nobody will
think was with an intention to rob my family. My housedog, who
made a huge noise within doors, was sufficiently punished for
his want of politics and _moderation_, for the next day but one
his leg was almost chopped off by an unknown hand. 'Tis not
every one could bear these things; but, I bless God, my wife is
less concerned with suffering them that I am in the writing, or
than I believe your Grace will be in reading them. . . . Oh, my
lord! I once more repeat it, that I shall some time have a more
equal Judge than any in this world.

Most of my friends advise me to leave Epworth, if e'er I should
get from hence. I confess I am not of that mind, because I may
yet do good there; and 'tis like a coward to desert my post
because the enemy fire thick upon me. They have only wounded me
yet and, I believe, _can't_ kill me. I hope to be home by
Xmass. God help my poor family! . . .

By the end of the year (the Archbishop and other friends assisting) a
good part of his debts had been paid and Mr. Wesley was at home
again. From Epworth he refused to budge; and there, for three years
and more, the rage of his enemies slumbered and his affairs grew
easier. John (if we do not count the poor infant overlaid) had been
the last child born before his imprisonment. Now arrived Patty, in
the autumn of 1706, and Charles, in December, 1707. A third was
expected, and shortly, when in the night of February 9th, 1709, the
parsonage took fire again and burned to the ground in fifteen
minutes.

On Wednesday last, at half an hour after eleven at night, in a
quarter of an hour's time or less, my house at Epworth was
burned down to the ground--I hope by accident; but God knows
all. We had been brewing, but had done all; every spark of fire
quenched before five o'clock that evening--at least six hours
before the house was on fire. Perhaps the chimney above might
take fire (though it had been swept not long since) and break
through into the thatch. Yet it is strange I should neither see
nor smell anything of it, having been in my study in that part
of the house till above half an hour after ten. Then I locked
the doors of that part of the house where my wheat and other
corn lay, and went to bed.

The servants had not been in bed a quarter of an hour when the
fire began. My wife being near her time, and very weak, I lay
in the next chamber. A little after eleven I heard "Fire!"
cried in the street, next to which I lay. If I had been in my
own chamber, as usual, we had all been lost. I threw myself out
of bed, got on my waistcoat and nightgown, and looked out of
window; saw the reflection of the flame, but knew not where it
was; ran to my wife's chamber with one stocking on and my
breeches in my hand; would have broken open the door, which was
bolted within, but could not. My two eldest children were with
her. They rose, and ran towards the staircase, to raise the
rest of the house. There I saw it was my own house, all in a
light blaze, and nothing but a door between the flame and the
staircase.

I ran back to my wife, who by this time had got out of bed,
naked, and opened the door. I bade her fly for her life.
We had a little silver and some gold--about 20 pounds.
She would have stayed for it, but I pushed her out; got her and
my two eldest children downstairs (where two of the servant were
now got), and asked for the keys. They knew nothing of them.
I ran upstairs and found them, came down, and opened the street
door. The thatch was fallen in all on fire. The north-east
wind drove all the sheets of flame in my face, as if
reverberated in a lamp. I got twice to the step and was drove
down again. I ran to the garden door and opened it. The fire
there was more moderate. I bade them all follow, but found only
two with me, and the maid with another in her arms that cannot
go; but all naked. I ran with them to an outhouse in the
garden, out of the reach of the flames; put the least in the
other's lap; and not finding my wife follow me, ran back into
the house to seek her, but could not find her. The servants and
two of the children were got out at the window. In the kitchen
I found my eldest daughter, naked, and asked her for her mother.
She could not tell me where she was. I took her up and carried
her to the rest in the garden; came in the second time and ran
upstairs, the flame breaking through the wall at the staircase;
thought all my children were safe, and hoped my wife was some
way got out. I then remembered my books, and felt in my pocket
for the key of the chamber which led to my study. I could not
find the key, though I searched a second time. Had I opened
that door, I must have perished.

I ran down and went to my children in the garden, to help them
over the wall. When I was without, I heard one of my poor
lambs, left still above-stairs, about six years old, cry out,
dismally, "Help me!" I ran in again, to go upstairs, but the
staircase was now all afire. I tried to force up through it a
second time, holding my breeches over my head, but the stream of
fire beat me down. I thought I had done my duty; went out of
the house to that part of my family I had saved, in the garden,
with the killing cry of my child in my ears. I made them all
kneel down, and we prayed to God to receive his soul.

I tried to break down the pales, and get my children over into
the street, but could not; then went under the flame and got
them over the wall. Now I put on my breeches and leaped after
them. One of my maidservants that had brought out the least
child, got out much at the same time. She was saluted with a
hearty curse by one of the neighbours, and told that we had
fired the house ourselves, the second time, on purpose! I ran
about inquiring for my wife and other children; met the chief
man and chief constable of the town going from my house, not
towards it to help me. I took him by the hand and said "God's
will be done!" His answer was, "Will you never have done your
tricks? You fired your house once before; did you not get
enough by it then, that you have done it again?" This was cold
comfort. I said, "God forgive you! I find you are chief man
still." But I had a little better soon after, hearing that my
wife was saved; and then I fell on mother earth and blessed God.

I went to her. She was alive, and could just speak.
She thought I had perished, and so did all the rest, not having
seen me nor any share of eight children for a quarter of an
hour; and by this time all the chambers and everything was
consumed to ashes, for the fire was stronger than a furnace, the
violent wind beating it down on the house. She told me
afterwards how she escaped. When I went first to open the
back-door, she endeavoured to force through the fire at the
fore-door, but was struck back twice to the ground. She thought
to have died there, but prayed to Christ to help her. She found
new strength, got up alone and waded through two or three yards
of flame, the fire on the ground being up to her knees. She had
nothing on but her shoes and a wrapping gown, and one coat on
her arm. This she wrapped about her breast, and got through
safe into the yard, but no soul yet to help her. She never
looked up or spake till I came; only when they brought her last
child to her, bade them lay it on the bed. This was the lad
whom I heard cry in the house, but God saved him almost by a
miracle. He only was forgot by the servants, in the hurry.
He ran to the window towards the yard, stood upon a chair and
cried for help. There were now a few people gathered, one of
whom, who loves me, helped up another to the window. The child
seeing a man come into the window, was frightened, and ran away
to get to his mother's chamber. He could not open the door, so
ran back again. The man was fallen down from the window, and
all the bed and hangings in the room where he was were blazing.
They helped up the man a second time, and poor Jacky leaped into
his arms and was saved. I could not believe it till I had
kissed him two or three times. My wife then said unto me,
"Are your books safe?" I told her it was not much, now she and
all the rest were preserved. . . .

Mr. Smith of Gainsborough, and others, have sent for some of my
children. . . . I want nothing, having above half my barley
saved in my barns unthreshed. I had finished my alterations in
the _Life of Christ_ a little while since, and transcribed three
copies of it. But all is lost. God be praised!

I hope my wife will recover, and not miscarry, but God will give
me my nineteenth child. She has burnt her legs, but they mend.
When I came to her, her lips were black. I did not know her.
Some of the children are a little burnt, but not hurt or
disfigured. I only got a small blister on my hand.
The neighbours send us clothes, for it is cold without them.

The child (Kezzy) was born and lived. The Rectory was rebuilt within
a year, at a cost of 400 pounds. The day after the fire, as he
groped among the ruins in the garden, Mr. Wesley had picked up a torn
leaf of his Polyglot Bible, on which these words alone were legible:
_Vade; vende omnia quot habes; et attolle crucem, et sequere me_.
He had come to Epworth a poor man: and now, after fifteen years, he
stood as poor as then; poorer, perhaps. He had served his
parishioners only to earn their detestation. But he stood unbeaten:
and as he stared out of his window there gripped him--not for the
first time--a fierce ironical affection for the hard landscape, the
fields of his striving, even the folk who had proved such good
haters. _Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and
thou shalt eat the herb of the field_--ay, and learn to relish it as
no other food. _In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till
thou return unto the ground_. Ah, but to go and surrender that
ground to others--there lay the sting! With him, as with many
another true man disappointed in his fate, his hopes passed from
himself to fasten the more eagerly on his sons. He wanted them to be
great and eminent soldiers of Christ, and he divined already that, if
for one above the others, this eminence was reserved for John.
But he wanted also a son of his loins to succeed him at Epworth, to
hold and improve what painful inches he had gained; and again he
could only think of John. Could a man devote his life to this
forsaken parish and yet be a light set on a hill for the world?
Had not his own life taught the folly of that hope?

He sighed and turned from the window. He had quite forgotten Hetty.

He stepped to the door to summon Johnny Whitelamb: but the sound of
voices drew him across the passage to the best parlour, and there at
the threshold his eyes fell on Sukey's headdress.

"Susannah!"

"Yes, father." Sukey stepped forward to be kissed.

"Take off that--that _thing_!"

"Yes, father." She untied the strings obediently.

"If your husband chooses to dress and carry you about the country
like a figure of fun, I cannot prevent him. But in my house remember
that I am your father, and take my assurance that, although Jezebel
tired her head, she had the saving grace of not looking like a fool."

Mr. Wesley turned on his heel and strode back to his books.

"Why don't you stand up to him?" asked Mr. Dick Ellison suddenly, on
the road to Kelstein.

"To father?" Hetty came out of her day-dreams with a start.

"Yes: you've been having a tiff this morning, anyone can see.
Young man is poison to him, hey? Why don't you take a leaf out of my
book? 'Paternal authority'--and a successor of the apostles into the
bargain--that's his ground. Well, I don't allow him to take it.
'Beggars can't be choosers' is mine, and I pin him to it. Oh, yes,
_I'm_ poison to him, but it does him good. 'That cock won't crow,'
I say. He's game enough on his own dunghill, but a high-blooded lass
like you ought to be his master by this time. Hint that you'll cut
the painter, kick over the traces--you needn't _do_ it, y'know.
Threaten you'll run and join the stage--nothing unlikely in that--
and, by George, it'd bring him up with a clove hitch! Where's your
invention?"

Hetty gazed at the horse's ears and considered. "It's easy for you,
Dick, who have nothing in common with him, not even affection."

"Oh, I like the old fellow well enough, for all his airs with me,"
said Mr. Dick Ellison graciously.

"If they annoyed you more, you might understand him better--and me,"
replied Hetty.

Silence fell between them again and the gig bowled on.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

The frozen canal ran straight towards the sunset, into a flooded
country where only a line of pollard willows, with here and there an
alder, marked the course of its left bank. But where Hetty waited
the banks were higher, and the red ball on the horizon sent a level
shaft down the lane between them.

She was alone. Indeed, the only living creature within sight was a
red-breast, hunched into a ball and watching her from a wintry willow
bough; the only moving object a windmill half a mile away across the
level, turning its sails against the steel-gray sky--so listlessly,
they seemed to be numbed.

She had strapped on a pair of skates--clumsy homemade things, and a
birthday present from Johnny Whitelamb, who had fashioned them with
pains, the Epworth blacksmith helping. Hetty skated excellently
well--in days, be it understood, before the cutting of figures had
been advanced to an art with rules and text-books. But as the poise
and balanced impetus came natural to her, so in idle moments and
casually she had struck out figures of her own, and she practised
them now with the red-breast for spectator. She was happy--her
bosom's lord sitting lightly on his throne--and all because of two
letters she pulled from her pocket and re-read in the pauses of her
skating.

The first was from her mother at Wroote, and told her that to-day or
to-morrow her father would be arriving at Kelstein with her sister
Patty. Hetty had been expecting this for some weeks. At Christmas
(it was now mid-January) the Granthams had written praising her, and
this had given Mr. Wesley the notion of proffering yet another of his
daughters. Two days after receiving the letter he had ridden over to
Kelstein with the proposal. Patty was the one chosen (Hetty could
guess why), and poor Patty knew nothing of it at the time: but Mrs.
Grantham had accepted almost effusively, and she was to come.
In what capacity? Hetty wondered. She herself taught the children,
and she could think of no other post in the household not absolutely
menial. Was it selfish of her to be so glad? For one thing Patty had
fewer whimsies than the rest of her sisters and, likely enough, would
accept her lot as a matter of course. She seldom wept or grumbled:
indeed Hetty, before now, had found her patience irritating. But to
have Patty's company now seemed the most delightful thing in the
world; to fling her arms around somebody who came from home!

The most delightful? Hetty turned to the second letter--and with
that looked up swiftly as her ear caught the ringing sound of skates,
and a young man descended, as it were, out of the sun's disc and came
flying down the long alley on its ray. She put out both hands.
He swooped around her in a long curve and caught them and kissed her
as he came to a standstill, panting, with a flush on each handsome
cheek.

"Hetty!"

No answer to this but a sound like a coo of rapture. He is, as we
should think, a personable young fellow, frank, and taking to the
eye, though his easy air of mastery provokes another look at Hetty,
who is worth ten of him. But to her he is a young god above whom the
stars dance. Splendid creature though she be, she must comply with
her sex which commands her to be passive, to be loved. With his arm
about her she shuts her eyes and drinks delicious weakness; with a
sense of sinking through space supported by that arm--not wholly
relying on him as yet, but holding her own strength in reserve, if he
should fail her.

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