II

Have you ever seen a ray of golden sunshine steal in through the thick

blinds, heavy shutters and close curtains that try to shut it out?

People may pull down the blinds and shut the shutters and draw the

curtains, and do their very best to keep the sunshine away. Yet,

sooner or later, a ray always manages to get in somehow. It dances

through a chink here or a hole there, or steals along the floor, till

at last it arrives, a radiant messenger, in the darkened room to say

that a whole world of light is waiting outside.

In spite of her sombre garments, Mary Samm was like such a ray of

sunshine as she stole into Warwick prison. No doors, bolts or bars

could keep her out; and the gaoler seemed to know it, as he preceded

her down the damp, dark, stone passages: the walls and floor oozing

moisture, and the ceiling blackened by the smoke of many candles. The

prisons of England were all foul, ill-smelling, fever-haunted places

at that time; and hardly any of them was worse than Warwick gaol.

William Dewsbury had earned the esteem of his keepers during his

successive imprisonments which lasted altogether for nearly nineteen

years. He was privileged now to lie away from the other criminals, who

were herded together in the main building. He had been given a small

apartment that looked towards the river on the far side of a

courtyard, called the sergeants' ward. There was even a pump in the

centre of this courtyard from whence his granddaughter might fetch him

water daily, and the old man and the child were now privileged to take

exercise together in the fresh air;--a great solace in the weary

monotony of prison life. The gaoler unlocked the door of this

sergeants' ward, and then, putting into Mary's hand the key of her

grandfather's apartment, he retraced his steps to the outer gate. Mary

sped across the cobble-stones of the courtyard with joyful haste,

unlocked the door, set down her baskets carefully, the big one first,

the little one after it, and then, 'Grandfather, dear Grandfather,'

she exclaimed, 'tell me, am I late? Hast thou missed thy little prison

maid?'

The white-haired man, who was writing at a rough oak table, lifted his

head as she entered. His face was worn and haggard; his eyes were

sunken, but the smile that overspread his countenance, as he saw who

had entered, was as bright as little Mary's own. Laying down his pen

and pushing the papers from him, he held out his arms, and in another

minute his granddaughter was clasped in his embrace.

It would be hard to say which of the two was the happier as she placed

the precious windflowers in his thin, blue-veined hand and told him

all she had seen and done. Joan's messages were given; and then, 'But

what hast thou been doing, dear Grandfather?' Mary asked in her turn.

'Hast thou been writing yet another Epistle to Friends to encourage

them to stand firm? I see thy name very clear and bold at the foot:

"William Dewsbury." I love thy name, Grandfather! It reminds me of our

summer flowers and berries at home in Bedfordshire and of the heavy

dews that fall on them. Thy name is as good as a garden, Grandfather,

in itself.'

'It is thou who shouldst be in a garden thyself, my little Mary,'

William Dewsbury answered sorrowfully. 'It is sad to bring thee back

within these gloomy walls, a maid like thee.'

'Nay, Grandfather, it is not sad! Thou promised me that thou wouldst

never say that again! My work was shewn me plainly; that I was to come

and care for thee, and fetch thee thy provisions. It is full early yet

for supper, although the light is fading; canst thou not tell me a

little tale while I sit on thy knee? Afterwards we will eat our meal,

and then thou wilt tell me more stories yet, more and more, to shorten

the dark hours till the stars are shining brightly and it is time to

go to rest.'

'Thou hast heard most of my tales so often, dear Granddaughter, as we

sit here these dark evenings, that thou dost almost know them better

than I myself,' the old man replied.

'Yea, truly, I know them well,' answered Mary. 'Yet I am never weary

of hearing of thy own life long ago. Tell me once more how thou wast

brought off from being a soldier, and established in the path of

peace.'

'Thou must have that tale well nigh by heart already, dear lamb,' the

old man answered. 'Many a time I have told thee of my early days among

the flocks, how I was a shepherd lad until I came to thine own age of

twelve years. Thereafter, when I was thirteen years old, I was bound

an apprentice to a clothmaker in a town called Holdbeck, near Leeds.

He was a godly man and strict, but sharp of tongue. I might have

continued in that town to this day. But when I was fully come to man's

estate the Civil War between King and Parliament broke out all over

the land. Loath was I to take up arms, having been ever of a peaceable

disposition, but when wise men, whom I revered, called upon me to

fight for the civil and religious freedom of my native land, it seemed

to me, in my dark ignorance of soul, that no other course remained

honourably open to me. I feared if I did not join the Army of the

Parliament that had sworn to curb the tyranny of Charles Stuart, then

upon my head would rest the curse of Meroz, "who went not to the help

of the Lord against the mighty." Thus I became a soldier, thinking

that by so doing I was fighting for the Gospel--and forgetting that my

Master was One who was called the Prince of Peace.

'Small peace, in truth, did I find in the ranks of the army of the

Parliament--or indeed in any other place, until in the fulness of time

it was made clear to me that I was but seeking the living amongst the

dead, and looking without for that which was only to be found within.

'Then my mind was turned within, by the power of the Lord, to wait on

His counsel, the Light in my own conscience, to hear what the Lord

would say: and the word of the Lord came unto me, and said, "Put up

thy sword into thy scabbard.... Knowest thou not that if I need I

could have twelve legions of Angels from my Father": which Word

enlightened my heart, and discovered the mystery of iniquity, and that

the Kingdom of Christ was within, and was spiritual, and my weapons

against them must be spiritual, the Power of God.

'It was on this wise that I came to join the Army of the Lamb, and of

His peaceful servants who follow Him whithersoever He goeth.'

'But, Grandfather, explain to me, how couldst thou leave the

Parliamentary army thou wert pledged to serve?'

'A hard struggle I had truly to get free. Yet I did leave it, for I

was yet more deeply pledged to Him Who had said, "My kingdom is not of

this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants

fight." At length my way was made more plain before me. I left the

army and resumed my weaving. Thus I passed through deep baptizings of

the Holy Ghost and of fire,--baptisms too deep for a child like thee

to understand how they affected my soul.'

Mary nodded her head gently and said to herself, 'Perhaps I can

understand already, better than my grandfather thinks. Have I not

twice already in my young years been brought nigh to death? Even now

death seemeth to me often not far away.'

'Wouldst thou then fear to die, Grandfather?' she added aloud.

'No more than a bird would fear to leave its cage and fly, were once

the door but open,' the old man answered. 'But the door is still

securely fastened for me, it seems; and since I had thee, my little

bird, to share my captivity I am no longer anxious to leave my cage. I

was younger by four years than thou art now, my child, when I lost my

fear of the grave. It was on this wise. I was but a little lad of

eight years old, mourning and weeping for the loss of my dear father,

who had been taken from us. As the tears streamed down my cheeks,

methought I heard a Voice saying: "Weep for thyself; thy father is

well." Never since that day, Mary child, have I doubted for one moment

that for those who go hence in peace, it is well indeed.'

'Dear Grandfather, there is a sad sound in thy voice,' said little

Mary. 'It is too dark by this time to see thy face, but I cannot let

thee be sad. How shall I cheer thee? Ah! I know! how could I have

forgotten? My aunt charged me to say she hath news by a sure hand that

my dear mother may be coming hither to visit thee and me before many

days are over.'

'My daughter Mary is ever welcome,' said the old man dreamily, 'and in

the darkness thy voice is so like to hers, I could almost deem she

herself was sitting by my side. Already the young moon has disappeared

behind the battlements of the castle. Yet I need not her silver light

to tell me that thy hair is softer and straighter than thy mother's,

and without the golden lights and twining curls that hers had when she

was thy age.'

'The moon truly has left us, Grandfather,' Mary interrupted, springing

from his knee. 'Yet what matters the darkness while we are close

together? I can still see to get thy supper ready for thee. Thou must

eat first, and then we will talk further, until it is time to go to

rest.'

Deftly the little prison maid moved about the bare cell, drawing her

grandfather's chair to the rough oak table. On this she arranged the

loaf of bread and bottle of milk from her basket, setting them and the

earthenware mugs and platters out on the white cloth, to look as

home-like as possible. The anemones in the centre still glimmered

faintly as if shining by their own light. The simple meal was a very

happy one. When it was finished and the remains had been cleared away

and carefully replaced in the basket for to-morrow's needs, the stars

were looking in through the prison bars.

'Now, one more story, Grandfather,' said Mary firmly, 'just one,

before we go to rest.'

'I love to see thy small white face shining up at me through the

gloom,' the old man answered. 'I will tell thee of my first meeting

with George Fox. Hast thou ever heard that story?'

The little prison maid was far too wary to reply directly.

'Tell it to me now, Grandfather,' she replied evasively, and then, to

turn the old man's thoughts in the right direction, 'thou hadst

already left the army by that time?' she hazarded.

'Ay, that I had,' answered Dewsbury. 'I had left it for several years,

and a measure of Truth I had found for myself. Greatly I longed to

proclaim it and to share my new-found happiness with others. But the

inward Voice spoke to me clearly and said: "Keep thee silent for six

full years, until the year 1652 shall have come. Then shalt thou find

more hungering and thirsting among the people than at the present

time." So "I kept silence even from good words, though it was pain and

grief to me." Thou knowest, Mary, even while I was yet in the army,

many and deep exercisings had I had in my spirit, and such were still

my portion at times. About this time, by the providence of God, I

chanced to hear of a young woman living in the city of York, who was

going through a like season of sorrow and anguish regarding her

immortal soul. After due deliberation, I found it in my heart to pay

her a visit. I did this and went on foot to York. When I came into her

presence, at once we were made aware of each other's conditions. No

sooner did we begin to converse than we found ourselves joined

together in deep unity of spirit. Her spiritual exercises answered

unto mine own, as in water face answereth to face. Dost thou

understand, child, of what I am speaking?'

'I follow not thy language always with entire comprehension, dear

Grandfather,' answered Mary with her usual precise honesty of speech,

'but it appears to me thy meaning is clear. I think that this young

woman must likely have been my grandmother?'

William Dewsbury smiled. 'Thou art right,' he said, 'it was to be even

so, in the fulness of time; that, however, was long after. Almost at

once we became man and wife. There seemed no need to settle that

between us. It had been settled for us by Him who brought us together.

We knew it from the first moment that we saw each the other's face.

Thy grandmother had in a measure joined herself unto the Anabaptists,

therefore 'twas at one of their meetings that we were wed. The power

of the Spirit was an astonishment unto them, and I have heard it said

that never hath the Divine Presence been more felt in any assembly

than it was that day. Thy grandmother resembled thee, my Mary, as thou

wilt be when thou art a woman grown--when thou shalt be taller and

rounder, and less slim and spare. Her eyes were darker than thine, and

she had the same soft brown hair as thine, but with thy mother's

golden threads in it, my Ann! Before she became my wife, she had been

blessed with a plenty of this world's goods, but no sooner were we wed

than her brother unjustly deprived her of her property. For myself, I

cared not. Now that she was safely mine own, he was welcome to the

land that should have been hers by right. Yet for her sake I strove to

get it back, but in vain. Then did the enemy of souls reproach me for

having brought her, whom I tenderly loved, into a state of poverty. In

humiliation and lowliness of mind before the Lord, without yielding to

the tempter, I desired Him to make me content to be what He would have

me to be; and, in a moment, I was so filled with the presence of the

Lord, that I was not able to bear the weight of the glory that was

upon me. I desired the Lord, if He had any service for me to do, to

withdraw, for I could not live; then I heard as it were a Voice say to

me, "Thou art Mine, all in heaven and earth is Mine, and it is thine

in Me; what I see good I will give unto thee, and unto thy wife and

children."'

'Poor Grandfather, that was a hard pass for thee,' murmured Mary,

smoothing the old man's coat sleeve. 'But did not a great joy follow

close upon thy trouble?' she prompted, 'a great joy on a moonshine

night, not a dark one like this?'

William Dewsbury's countenance kindled with fresh life and vigour.

'Yea, my child,' he answered, 'light did indeed illuminate us on that

same moonshine night of which thou speakest, when we went, my Ann and

I, to Lieutenant Roper's house to hear the Stranger preach. All our

lives we had both been seeking, but now by the Power of the Lord, the

time was come for us to find. We went to hear a Stranger. But no

stranger was George Fox. Rather did we recognise him, from the first

moment of that meeting, as the own brother of our souls. Up and down

the length and breadth of the land I had journeyed, seeking for

deliverance and for truth. Now, in my own county of Yorkshire, my

deliverer was found. It was not alone the words he spake, though they

were forcible and convincing, much more it was the irresistible Power

of the Lord breathing through him that brought us to our knees. All

men could see as they looked upon his goodly form, not then marred by

cruel imprisonments and sufferings, that he was a man among ten

thousand. But to me he was also a chosen vessel of the Lord; for power

spoke through him, yea, to my very heart. I have told thee, Mary, of

my long searchings after truth, and of those of my dear wife. There

was no need to mention one of them to George. With the first words he

spake it was clear to me that he knew them all, he could read our

necessities like an open book. Well hath it been said of him that "he

was a man of God endued with a clear and wonderful depth; a discerner

of other men's spirits, and very much a master of his own." Our hearts

clave unto him at once. We could scarcely restrain ourselves until the

meeting should be at an end, to disclose our inmost souls unto him.

Then at last, when all the multitude had departed, we watched Friend

George set out on his homeward way. We followed him in all haste, my

Ann and I, until we came up with him in a lonely field. The moon shone

full on his face and on our seeking faces, revealing us to each other.

At first he gazed on us as if we were strangers. For all we had longed

ardently to tell him, we found no words. Only a long time we stood

together silently, we three, with the dumb kine slumbering around us

in the dewy meadows; we three, revealed to one another in the full

light. Then at last we confessed to the Truth before him, and from him

we received Truth again. There is no Scripture to warrant the

sprinkling of a few drops of water on the face of a child and calling

that Baptism; but there is a Scripture for being baptized with the

Holy Ghost and with fire. That true essential Baptism did our spirits

receive in very deed that night from God's own minister of His

Everlasting Gospel.

'Thus, then and there, were we three knit together in soul; and the

Lord's Power was over all.'

The old man's voice died away into silence. His thoughts were far off

in the past. The loneliness of the prison was forgotten, little Mary

knew that her evening's task was done. Very gently she flitted from

his side, arranged his bed for the night, and then slipped,

noiselessly as a shadow, into her little inner cell, scarcely larger

than a cupboard. Here she undressed in the darkness and laid herself

down on her little straw pallet on the floor. But she had brought the

precious windflowers with her. 'They are so white, they will be like

company through the dark night hours,' she said to herself, placing

the glass close to her bed. Presently, through a tiny slit of window

high up in the prison wall, one sentinel star looked down into the

narrow cell. It peeped in upon a small white figure straight and slim

amid the surrounding blackness of the cell, with 'dear, long, lean,

little arms lying out on the counterpane'; but Mary's eyes were wide

open, her ears were listening intently for her grandfather's softest

call.

Gradually the ray of starlight crept up the prison wall and

disappeared; soon other stars one by one looked in at the narrow

window and passed upwards also on their high steep pathways; gradually

the eyelids closed, and the long dark lashes lay upon the white

cheeks. Drowsily little Mary thought to herself, 'I am glad my mother

will soon be here, but it hath been a very happy evening. Truly I am

glad I came to help dear grandfather, and to be his little prison

maid.'

Only one starry white windflower, clasped tight in her fingers through

the long night hours, gradually drooped and died.