A Book Of Quaker Saints Part 25

'There is a spirit which I feel, that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end: its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all temptations: as it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thoughts to any other: if it be betrayed it bears it, for its ground and spring is the mercies and forgiveness of G.o.d: its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned, and takes its kingdom with entreaty, and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind: in G.o.d alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it, or can own its life: it is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression: it can never rejoice but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered: I found it alone, being forsaken; I have fellows.h.i.+p therein with them who lived in dens, and desolate places in the earth, who through death obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life.'

That is why this story has a happy ending. A made-up story might have left James Nayler at home with his wife and children. But, after all he had suffered, he may have been too tired to bear much joy on earth.

Besides, how could he have borne for those dear ones to see the condemning 'B' burned on his forehead? and the other scars and signs of his terrible punishments, how could they have borne to see them?

Was it not better that the end came as it did by the roadside near Huntingdon?

Only remember always, that what we call the end is itself only the beginning.

Think how thankful James Nayler must have been to lay down the tired, scarred body in which he had sinned and suffered, while his spirit, strengthened, purified, and cleansed by all he had endured, was set free to serve in the larger, fuller life beyond. James Nayler's difficult school-days were over at last on this little earth, where we are set to learn our lessons. Like the other prodigal son he had gone to receive his own welcome from the Father's heart in the Father's Home.

Why have I told you this story--'the saddest story of all'? A parable will explain it best. Imagine that ever since the beginning of Time there has been a great big looking-gla.s.s with the sun s.h.i.+ning down upon it. Then imagine that that looking-gla.s.s has been broken up into innumerable fragments, and that one bit is given to each human soul, when it is born on earth, to keep and to hold at the right angle, so that it can still reflect the sun's beams. That is something like the truth that George Fox discovered for himself and preached all over England. He called it the doctrine of 'The Inner Light.' To all the hungering, thirsting, sinful, ignorant men and women in England he gave the same message: 'There is that of G.o.d within you, that can reflect Him. You can hear His Voice speaking in your hearts'; or, to continue the parable, 'If you hold your own little bit of looking-gla.s.s in the sunlight it will, it must, reflect the Sun.'

James Nayler listened to this message, accepted it, and rejoiced in it. He did truly turn to the Light. But he forgot one thing that must never be forgotten. He looked too much at his own tiny bit of looking-gla.s.s and too little at the Sun. In this way the mirror of his soul grew soiled and stained and dim. It could no longer reflect the Light faithfully. Then, it had to be cleansed by suffering. But all this time, and always, the Sun of G.o.d's unchanging love was steadily s.h.i.+ning, waiting for him to turn to it again. Let us too look up towards that Sun of Love. Let us open our hearts wide to receive its light. Then we shall find that we have not only a mirror in our hearts but also something alive and growing; what George Fox would call the 'Seed.' Sometimes he calls it the 'Seed,' and sometimes the 'Light,'

because it is too wonderful for any picture or parable to express it wholly. But we each have 'that of G.o.d within' that can reflect and respond to Him, if we will only let it. Let us try then to open our hearts wide, wide, to receive, and not to think of ourselves. If we do this, sooner or later we shall learn to live and grow in the suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d's love, as easily and naturally as the daisies do, when they spread their white and golden hearts wide open in the earthly suns.h.i.+ne on a summer's day.

James Nayler did learn that lesson at last, and therefore even this, 'the saddest story of all,' really and truly has a happy end.

XXI. PALE WIND FLOWERS: OR THE LITTLE PRISON MAID

_'Let not anything straiten you when G.o.d moves.'--W. DEWSBURY, Epistle from York Tower, 1660._

_'All friends and brethren everywhere, that are imprisoned for the Truth, give yourselves up in it, and it will make you free, and the power of the Lord will carry you over all the persecutors. Be faithful in the life and power of the Lord G.o.d and be valiant for the Truth on the earth; and look not at your sufferings, but at the power of G.o.d; and that will bring some good out of all your sufferings; and your imprisonments will reach to the prisoned that the persecutor prisons in himself.... So be faithful in that which overcomes and gives victory.'--G. FOX._

_'Bread and Wine were the Supper of the Lord in the dispensation of Time, ... a figure of His death, which were fulfilled when He had suffered and rose again, and now He is known to stand at the door and knock, "If any man hear my Voice and open the door, I will come in and sup with him and he with me," saith Christ. And we being many are one Bread and one Body and know the Wine renewed in our Father's Kingdom. Christ the Substance we now witness; Shadows and Figures done away; he that can receive it, let him.'--W. DEWSBURY._

XXI. PALE WIND FLOWERS: OR THE LITTLE PRISON MAID

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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 hus.h.!.+ 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.sy 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 Bedfords.h.i.+re, 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 Bedfords.h.i.+re 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 Bedfords.h.i.+re 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 n.o.body but me to care for him. At least, of course, he hath thee, Aunt Joan,' she added hastily, noticing a slight shade pa.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 pa.s.sed 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.