CHAPTER X. THE FIVE MILE ACT. IT wanted but an hour of midnight, and the night was dark and stormy; the wind came in gusts, driving against the casement, and every now and then the sleet and pattering rain beat upon the glass. That stormy wind roared and bellowed in the wide old chimney, but the room itself was not without a genial warmth, for immense clods of heathy turf had been piled, layer above layer, on the broad hearth-stone, and from time to time the fire caught some of the unconsumed sprigs of heath that fringed the turf, and produced a transient blaze, till the whole mass became a heap of glowing ashes. The warmth was needed, for the night was cold; the frost of the previous week was breaking up, and the piercing rawness of the commencing thaw had made the outer air more trying and penetrating to the frame than the intense and bracing frost. At a little distance from the hearth the figure of a youthful and delicate woman was shadowed out in the soft gloom. She was sitting in perfect stillness, her hands crossed one over the other, resting on her knees, but between her hands the hand of one, who lay sleeping on the bed beside which she sat, was tenderly clasped. The face of the sleeper was turned towards her; it was shaded from the light of the lamp which stood on the table, and at times she bent forward her head to look intently upon that of the sleeper. An aged woman sat within the chimney corner, on a low bench, busied with her knitting, but stealing an occasional glance toward the strangers, who had come that night to her lowly dwelling, and whom she had welcomed with heartfelt kindness. She wondered who they were. They had come on foot, wearied, it seemed, with long travel, and suffering from the keenness of the air, and the poorness of their clothing; and yet they had more of the look of high-bred gentlefolks than any whom that aged woman had seen for many a long day, after she left her service with a great family in London, and came down to marry the owner of the small farm-house where she then was, and where she had been settled during the greater portion of her life. She was now a lone and aged widow, and its sole inhabitant. There was a noble and commanding presence in the father-for such at least she knew the gentleman was—which would have scared her, she thought to herself, had not his look been so gentle, and had not his words, some of which she knew to be Scripture words, told her that he was pious and good; and he came with a staff in his hand, so that he seemed almost like a Christian pilgrim, or one of those pious gospellers of whom she had heard her aged grandmother speak, who had gone about the country in the eastern counties when she was a child, and lived there with her parents. And as for the young gentlewoman, she was quite sure she had never seen such a lowly sweetness in any other lady or woman either of high or low degree. And what had pleased her still more was, that the young lady, though herself so faint and tired that she seemed scarcely able to stand, thought nothing about herself, but bore up with a spirit beyond her strength, and spoke such pleasant words, and looked sometimes at her father, and sometimes at her with such lovely smiles, that when they asked for a night's shelter, and she bade them come in and welcome, she felt almost as if two angels had come to her house. And there sat the young gentlewoman, looking now so calm and so happy, while her poor father lay sleeping on the bed; she did not wish to stare at her or to be intrusive, but she felt that it did her good to steal a glance every now and then at them both, while the thought filled her heart with joy, that she, a lone, poor widow, who had so little to give, and that which she could give, so little worth giving, could be of any service to them; and yet how thankfully they had accepted the frugal meal she had placed before them, the cakes of coarse flour, and the cups of milk-all she had had to offer; how they had praised the sweetness of the fare, after the godly father had asked a blessing from the Lord in heaven upon the food before them, and how they seemed to cheer up when they had taken the nourishment they needed; and how the fire had comforted their poor starved bodies, as they sat in the glowing warmth and watched the bright and crackling blaze of the dried heath, and spoke to one another about the sweet smell of the turf-fire; and when they sat in silence, what looks of holy love lighted up their faces, when the father gazed upon his child, and her mild eyes met his; and when they raised their eyes upward, as they often did, and she saw by the movement of the lips, that they were praising and thanking the Father of Mercies, even for the shelter of her poor dwelling. The aged widow was right. Persis and her father were very happy; they had earnestly sought to walk by faith and not by sight; and they had not only determined, as they had often said one to the other, to give practical heed to their Saviour's words, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," but also to the divine promise, "As thy day, so shall thy strength be." The Five Mile Act had driven Mr. Clareton from his quiet and comfortable retreat on the outskirts of his late parish. As if not satisfied with the cruelty and tyranny with which they had pursued the Nonconformist ministers, the rulers of that day, both in church and state, had added yet a more severe Act to those already in force against them. The ejected clergymen were by that abominable Act prohibited from coming within five miles of any place where they had themselves resided as ministers, or within five miles of any town which was governed by a corporation, or of any town represented in parliament. Mr. Clareton had prepared, without delay, to obey that part of the Act to which he could yield a conscientious obedience. But whither should he go? Two plans suggested themselves to his mind: the one was, to take Persis to a cousin of her mother's who resided in Surrey, and who sent an earnest and affectionate invitation to them both; the other plan was to leave Persis with the Harleys, who, he knew, would rejoice to receive her. These plans he proposed to his daughter; but, as she told him, he had said nothing about himself; and that question was the chief consideration in her mind as to any plans which he might adopt. As for himself, he had replied, his path was already marked out for him. And, pointing to a passage in the Bible on his table which he had been reading, he looked up in her face, as her eyes were bent down following the words to which his finger pointed, and said, Therefore they that were scattered abroad, went everywhere preaching the word." "This I thought," said Persis, gravely, "would certainly be your plan; and this I trust you will do. But I must tell you, dear father, most plainly, and with all respect, that my mind is also made up; and whithersoever thou goest, God helping me, I will go also. That would be a cruel Act indeed, far more cruel than I have yet taken it to be-and God knoweth it is bad enough-if it were to prove the means of parting you and me. As for any tribulation you may have to pass through, I am well able to bear it with you; for I have health and youth, and am, in truth, the stronger of the two. And if you shrink, my father, from the thought of my suffering, I must entreat you to understand, that the anxiety and the doubt which I should have to undergo, if parted from you, would only end in wearing my life away, and cause me tenfold more suffering than any trials I could be called upon to endure with you. There will be even enjoyment in the active life, and the exertions we shall be called upon to make, the exercise in the fresh open air, and the change from place to place. The effect upon me at least, my father, will be to brace and to invigorate. You will consent," she continued, as she looked lovingly in his face. It wore the expression of a thoughtful but half-pleased perplexity" nay, do not check that pleased, or rather half-pleased look," she said, coaxingly; "you will, you will let me go with you-will you not? You cannot, and you will not say me nay.” Every objection that could be urged was brought forward by the father, and every objection was overruled, sometimes gravely, and sometimes playfully, by the daughter; and when the old sergeant was called in by Mr. Clareton to their council, or, as he expected, to enforce his own argument, and, when instead of doing so, he took the side of Persis, and said that, according to his mind, there could not be a doubt on the subject, but that the daughter should go with the father, Mr. Clareton was constrained to be silent, and Persis had prevailed. The good sergeant would willingly have made one of the party; and went so far as to propose finding a tenant for his farm, and leaving two rooms in the house for the use of his sister; but he soon saw, as he said in reply to Mr. Clareton's observations, that it would be inexpedient to increase the number of the party, and he felt, as he told them, that he might only expose his minister to greater risks by encumbering them with his presence. "But," he continued, "I let you go without me, reverend and honoured sir, only on one レ |