I
'Dear grandfather will be wearying for me! We must not linger.' There
was a wistful ring in the child's voice as she spoke. Little Mary Samm
looked longingly towards a clump of wood anemones dancing in the
sunshine, as she followed her aunt, Joan Dewsbury, through a coppice
of beech-trees on the outskirts of the city of Warwick. It was a
bright windy day of early spring in the year 1680. Mary was twelve
years old, but so small and slight that she looked and seemed much
younger. And now she wanted badly to gather some wood anemones. But
would Aunt Joan approve? Would it be selfish to leave 'dear
grandfather' longer alone?
Happily the older woman, who preceded little Mary on the narrow
woodland pathway, possessed a kind heart underneath her severe, grey,
Quaker bodice and stiff manner. She caught the wistful tone in the
little girl's voice, and, turning round, noticed the wood anemones.
Indeed, the wood anemones insisted on being noticed. Joan Dewsbury
walked on a few steps further in silence; then, setting the heavy
basket down on the trunk of a felled tree, 'No, Mary,' she said, 'in
truth we must not linger; but we may rest a few moments. Also thou
knowest thy grandfather's love of a posy in his prison. If I see
aright, there are some pale windflowers blowing yonder, beside that
old tree, though it is full early for them still. Here, give me thy
basket, and hie thee to gather them. I will sit down and wait for thy
return; and, if we hasten our steps hereafter, we shall not be much
delayed.'
Little Mary Samm glanced up with a joyful smile. She had espied the
few, first, faint windflowers as soon as she entered the wood; but,
without her aunt's permission, it would never have entered her head to
suggest that she might gather them. For Mary was a carefully trained
(not to say primly brought up) little maiden of the seventeenth
century, when children followed their elders' injunctions in all
things, without daring to dwell on their own wishes. If Joan Dewsbury
had been an artist she would have enjoyed watching the child's slim
little upright figure stepping daintily over the rustling brown beech
leaves, between the rounded trunks of the grey trees. The air was full
of the promise of early spring. A cold blue sky showed through the
lattice work of twigs and branches; but, as yet, no fluttering leaf
had crept out of its sheath to soften, with a hint of tender green,
the virginal stiffness and straightness of the stems. Grey among the
grey tree-trunks little Mary flitted about, gathering her precious
windflowers. She was clad in the demure Puritan dress worn by young
and old alike in the early days of the Society of Friends. A frock of
grey duffel hung in straight lines around her slight figure; a cape of
the same material was drawn closely round her shoulders, while a grey
bonnet framed the pensive face. A strange unchildlike face it was,
small and pinched, with a high, narrow forehead and sharply pointed
chin. There were no childish roses in the pale cheeks. A very faint
flush of pink, caused by fresh air and unwonted exercise, could not
disguise the curious yellow tinge of the skin, like old parchment
that has been kept too long from the light of day. Only the tips of a
few locks of light brown hair, cut very short and straight round the
ears, were visible under the close, tightly-fitting bonnet.
[Illustration: PALE WINDFLOWERS]
'An ugly little girl, in perfectly hideous clothes,' modern children
might have said if they had seen Mary Samm for the first time, looking
down at her windflowers, though even then there was a hint of beauty
in the long, curved, black eyelashes that lay quietly on the pale
cheeks, and a very sweet expression hovered round the corners of the
firm, delicate, little mouth. But no one who could have seen little
Mary running back to her aunt with her precious flowers in her hand
would have called her 'ugly' or even 'plain' any longer. The radiant
light in her eyes transfigured the small, pinched face of the demure
little being in its old-fashioned garments. Even critical modern
children would have forgotten everything else, and would have
exclaimed, 'She has the most beautiful eyes!'
What colour were her eyes? They were not blue, or black, or grey, or
brown, or hazel, or green, or yellow. Perhaps they were in truth more
yellow than anything else. They were full not only of sparkling lights
but also of deep velvety shadows that made it difficult to tell their
exact colour. Who can say the colour of a mountain stream that runs
over a pebbled bed? Every stone can be seen through the clear,
transparent water, but there are mysterious, shadowy darknesses in it
also, reflected from the overhanging banks. Little Mary Samm's eyes
were both clear and mysterious as such a mountain stream; while her
voice,--but hush! she is speaking again, her rather shrill, high tones
breaking the crisp silence of the March afternoon.
'Here is the posy, Aunt; will not dear grandfather love his pale
windflowers, come like stars to visit him in his prison? Only these
flower stars will not pass away quickly out of sight as do the real
stars we watch together through the bars every evening.'
Joan Dewsbury took the bunch of anemones from her niece's cold
fingers, laid it down carefully in Mary's rush basket and covered it
with a corner of the cloth. Had she been a 'nowadays aunt' she might
have thought that Mary was not unlike a windflower herself. The girl's
small white face was flushed faintly, like the ethereal white sepals;
there was a delicate, fragile fragrance about her as if a breath might
blow her away, yet there was an unconquerable air of determination
also in her every movement and gesture. But Joan Dewsbury was not a
'nowadays aunt'; she was a 'thenadays aunt,' and that was an entirely
different kind. She never thought of comparing a little girl, who had
come to take care of her grandfather in his prison, with the white,
starry flowers that came out in the wood so early, holding on tight to
the roots of the old tree, and blooming gallantly through all the
gales of spring. Joan Dewsbury's thoughts were full of different and,
to her, far more important matters than her niece's appearance. She
rose, and, after handing Mary her small rush basket and settling her
own larger one comfortably on her arm, the two started off once more
with quickened steps through the wood. Neither the older woman nor the
girl was much of a talker, and the winding woodland pathways were too
narrow for two people to walk abreast. But when they came out on the
broad grassy way that wandered across the meadows by the side of the
smooth Avon towards the city walls, they did seem to have a few
things to say to one another. They spoke of the farm they had visited,
of the milk, eggs, and cheese they carried in their baskets. But most
often they mentioned 'the prison.' Little Mary still seemed to be in a
great hurry to get back to be with 'dear grandfather,' while her
companion was apparently anxious to detain her long enough to learn
something more of her life in the gaol.
'I could envy thee, Mary, were it not a sin,' she said once. 'Thou art
a real comfort to my dear father. Since my mother died, gladly would I
have been his companion, and have sought to ease his captivity, but
the Governor of the gaol would not allow it.'
'Ay, I know,' replied Mary, in her clear, high-pitched voice. 'My
mother told me that day at my home in Bedfordshire, that no one but a
child like me could be allowed to serve him, and to live in the prison
as his little maid.'
'Didst thou want to come, Mary?' her aunt enquired.
Mary's face clouded for a moment. Then she looked full at her aunt.
The candid eyes that had nothing to hide, reflected shadows as well as
light at that moment.
'No, Aunt,' she said, firmly and clearly, 'at the first I did not want
to come. There was my home, thou seest; I love Hutton Conquest, and my
mother, and the maids, my sisters. Also I had many friends in our
village with whom I was wont to have rare frolics and games. When
first my mother told me of the Governor's permission, I did not want
to leave the pleasant Bedfordshire meadows that lie around our dear
farm, and go to live cooped up behind bolts and bars. Besides, I had
heard that Warwick Gaol was a fearsome place. I was affrighted at the
thought of being shut up among the thieves and murderers. And--' She
hesitated.
'Poor maid,' said her aunt, 'still thou didst come in the end?'
'In the end it was made clear to me that my place was with dear
grandfather,' said the child in her crisp, old-fashioned way. 'My
mother said she could not force me; for she feared the gaol fever for
me. I feared it too. And it is worse even than I feared. At nights I
hear the prisoners screaming with it often. Nearly every day some of
them die. They say it is worse for the young, and I know my
grandfather dreads that I may take it. He looks at me often very
sadly, or he did when I first came. Always then at nightfall he grew
sad. But, latterly, we have been so comfortable together that I think
he hath forgot his fears. When the evenings darken, and he can no
longer read or write, we sit and watch the stars. Then if I can
persuade him to tell me stories of what he hath undergone, that doth
turn his thoughts, and afterwards he will fall asleep, and sleep well
the whole night through.'
'Thou art a comfort to him, sure enough,' her aunt answered. 'It is
wonderful how much brighter he hath been since he had thee, though he
hath never smiled since my mother's death. But thou thyself must
surely grow tired of the prison and its bare stone walls? Thou must
long to be back at play with thy sisters in the Bedfordshire meadows?'
'That do I no longer,' little Mary Samm made answer firmly. 'I love my
sisters dearly, dearly,' she raised her voice unconsciously as she
spoke, and a chaffinch on a branch overhead filled in the pause with
an answering chirp, 'I love my mother too. Didst thou really say thou
wert expecting her to visit thee right soon? My dear, dear mother! But
I love my dear grandfather best of all, for he hath nobody but me to
care for him. At least, of course, he hath thee, Aunt Joan,' she added
hastily, noticing a slight shade pass over her aunt's face. 'And what
should we do without thee to bake bread for us, and go to the farm to
fetch him fresh eggs, and butter, and cheese, and sweet, new milk? He
would soon starve on the filthy prison fare. See, I have the milk
bottle safe hidden under my flowers.'
'Aye, thou wast ever a careful maid,' answered her aunt; 'but, tell
me, hath the Governor indeed grown gentler of late, and hath he given
my father more liberty, and a better room?'
'That he hath indeed. He patted my head this very morn, and said I
might have permission to come out and walk with thee for the first
time,' Mary answered. 'He saith, too, that the gaol is no place for a
child like me, and that thou shalt come and see us in a se'nnight from
now; then haply thou wilt bring my mother with thee! The room my
grandfather hath now is small in truth, but he can lie down at length,
and I have a little cupboard within the wall where I can also lie and
hear if he needs me. Doth he but stir or call "Mary" at nights, ever
so gently, in a moment I am by his side.'
'And canst thou ease him?' her aunt enquired.
'That I can,' answered Mary proudly. 'Often I can ease him, or warm
his poor cold hands, or soothe him till he sleeps again, for he grows
weaker after this long imprisonment.'
'Small wonder,' replied her aunt. 'If thou hadst seen the dungeon
where they set him first--foul, beneath the floor, with no window,
only a grating overhead to give him air. There were a dozen or more
felons and murderers packed in it too, along with him, so that he had
not enough room even to lie down. But there--it is not fit for a child
like thee to know the half of all he hath undergone in the cause of
Truth.'
'Dear, dear grandfather,' said Mary wistfully, 'yet he never
complains. He says always that he "doth esteem the locks and bolts as
jewels," since he doth endure them for his Master's sake.'
'Ay, and what was his crime for which he suffered at first in that
foul place? Nothing but his giving of thanks one night after supper at
an inn. His accusers must needs affirm this to be "preaching at a
conventicle." Hist! we had better be silent now we have reached the
town. I must leave thee at the gate of the gaol, and go on my way,
while thou goest thine. Be sure and say to my dear father that I and
thy mother will visit him as soon as ever the Governor shall permit.'
A few minutes later they stopped; Joan Dewsbury took the basket from
her arm and gave it to her niece. 'Farewell, dear child,' she said
cheerily, as the porter opened the tall portal of the prison; but her
eyes grew dim as she watched the small figure disappear behind the
heavy bolts and bars.
'She is a good maid, and a brave one,' she said to herself as she
passed down the street between the timbered houses to her home. 'Yet
she is not as other children are. For all the comfort she is to my
dear father, I would fain think of her safe once more at home with her
sisters. Right glad I am that her mother hath sent me word by a sure
hand to say she cometh speedily to see of her condition for herself.
The Governor is right, the gaol is no place for a child, nor is it the
life for her either. She liveth too much in her own thoughts. This
morn on our walk to the farm when I asked her wherefore she seemed
sorrowful, she replied that she was "troubled in her conscience, that
she thought she would not live long and wanted satisfaction from the
Lord as to whither her soul would go if she were to die." Yet she
sprang after those flowers as gaily as her sisters, and she saith
always that she is well. If only she may keep as she is until her
mother shall come.'
Shaking her head, and full of anxious thoughts, the kind woman pursued
her homeward way. Over the cobble-stones and between the timbered
houses with their steep gables and high-thatched roofs, she passed
through the city until she came to her own small dwelling, William
Dewsbury's home, where his daughter lived alone, and awaited his
return.