HOW I SAW A MAN WHO BECAME FAMOUS!
The night was falling fast as I drew near Bedford town. The weather was very fine, however, and the country side was fair to behold. Flowers were blooming on all sides, and the scent of the young and bursting life was indeed pleasant. Not that I was in a mood to enter into the joyousness of that spring evening, for I had ridden hard since morning, and I noticed that Black Ben's head drooped, and he dragged one leg wearily after another. Besides, my mind was filled with many doubts and fears. Why had I come to a town of which I knew nothing? And why should I seek to rescue a woman from prison who thought so little of my help that she had treated my offer with but little respect? Added to this, why should I, the son of a gentleman who had fought for Charles Stuart, seek to befriend the woman who had attempted murder in order to prevent the rightful king of the country from coming back to his throne?
These questions, which persisted in coming to me, were real and forceful enough, and try as I would I could find no satisfactory answer to them. Yet did I ride straight on, determined to do that which reason and welfare declared to be madness. For the woman's face haunted me. The look of despair I had seen in her eyes, the tone of her voice, appealed to me so strongly for help that I could not resist. More than that, the very mystery which surrounded her strengthened my determination. What led her to Folkestone, and what connection had she with the old man with whom I had had such strange experiences at Pycroft Hall?
All this determined me to get to Bedford that night, and then to use my utmost endeavour to deliver her from the hands of Monk's minions and from the king's power.
I heard the bells from the old church at Bedford pealing out a note of joy, when I saw a man in plain homely garments trudging along the road in front of me.
"Give you good even," he said, as I rode up.
"Good even," I replied, trying to discern in the fast failing light whether he was a man of quality.
"You look as though you have ridden far."
"From London," I replied, reflecting that although he looked not like a man of wealth, there was an air of authority about him, which made it impossible to pass him by without a second look.
"Ah," he said eagerly. "And what is the news from London?"
"There is much," I replied; "and yet it will not take long in the telling."
"And how is that?"
"Because it all hath to do with the same thing. When you have said that the new king is on his way thither and that the people are preparing to welcome him, you have told all."
"Ah, but that means much, I fear."
"You fear?"
"Ay, I fear, young master, for I fear me the devil is unloosed in London town. If what I have heard be true, then all those things which the children of the Lord have fought against, and driven into the darkness, are to be flaunted in broad daylight, and no man will dare to cry shame."
"The new king loves pleasure," I made answer.
He looked at me steadily, and was silent.
I would have ridden on at this; but thinking he might be able to tell me things I desired to know, I determined to alight and walk by his side.
"We are not far from Bedford, I take it?" I said.
"But a mile."
"Know you of a good hostelry there?"
"I know all that may be found there."
"Then, by your leave, I will walk back with you, for I judge you are travelling thither."
"Ay," he replied, "my home is at Bedford, and my wife and dear ones live there."
There was a quiet dignity in the way he spoke, and although I detected none of the evidences of the schoolman in his speech, I could not help feeling that he was a man of some authority.
"Do you love God, young master?" he said, the moment I had dismounted, and walked by his side.
"How may a man do that?" I asked, for the question took me aback.
"By loving His Son, whom He hath sent in the flesh to proclaim his love, by dying for a sinful world."
"And what may be the signs which show forth that one loves the Son of God?" I continued, concluding that I had happened across one of the Puritans of the district.
"The sign of love is obedience," he replied. "For what are His Words? 'He that hath My commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.'"
"That also may need explanation," I replied, for I determined not to endanger myself in any way by hasty speech.
"The explanation is simple," he replied quietly. "The teaching of Christ is that we do good, not only in lip but in life. That we love one another, and that we also love the truth of God. It is also that we obey God at all costs, even as the Apostles did of olden time. We have a safe guide to the will of God in the Holy Scriptures, and especially is it made clear to us in the New Testament Scriptures. The proofs of love to God are trust in and obedience to Him, as is set forth therein. For what said Martin Luther, when he stood before his judges, who called upon him to recant. 'Confute me with scripture; if you cannot do that, neither can I recant, for it is neither safe nor wise for a man to disobey his conscience.' So then he loves God who is true to Him, and this he does by instructing his conscience by Holy Writ and much prayer, and then obeying his conscience whatever may befall him."
"But may a man not need instruction in Holy Writ?" I asked.
"A man's prayer obtains the best instruction," he made answer. "If we read the Scriptures in prayer and reverence, God will guide us. Thus it is that a wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err in the ways of truth."
"But suppose that one be led in reading the Scriptures to hold views different from those of those set in authority over us?" I asked.
He lifted his large eyes to mine, and scanned my face intently.
"Yet should he hold fast by his integrity," he replied.
"Even if the teachers of the Church command otherwise?" I asked.
"Who are the teachers of the Church?" he asked. "Are they such as Cardinal Pole, and Stephen Gardiner, falsely called the Bishop of Winchester, or Dr. Ridley and Master Hugh Latimer, whom they put to death by fire? Ay, and to whose voice shall we listen; that of Laud, the Papist in disguise, and his lying master Charles Stuart, or to such as Cromwell, and Pym, and Hampden, who saved England from Popery and slavery?"
"That is treason," I said.
"To whom—God or man?" he asked quietly.
"To man," I made answer, even before I knew the words had escaped from my lips.
"Ay, to man," he replied; "but he who loves God will never be a traitor to Him. Nevertheless, may God grant that the will of man and the will of God may never be set against each other."
"Do you fear they will?" I asked.
"What say men in London town?" he asked.
"That the king will bring in a new order of things," I made answer, "and that those who favoured his father's death shall be punished."
"Ay, ay," he said slowly. "But what of the Church, young master, what of the Church?"
"It is said that the bishops are already looking forward to the time when schism shall be overcome, and that they are already making preparation for the change. That they are overjoyed that the king is coming back is but to make suggestion of the whole truth."
"Ay, ay," he replied; "but we fight not with carnal weapons; our strength is in the Lord of Hosts. The three Hebrew youths would not fall down and worship, and they were thrown into the furnace seven times heated, yet did the Lord deliver them. The Apostles were commanded not to preach the Gospel, yet did they preach it, and were thrown into prison; but the Lord opened the prison doors. At present the cloud is no bigger than a man's hand, yet it will darken this land. I can see it plainly, yet must the children of God bear witness to the truth."
The man spoke like one would think the prophets of old times spoke, so calm and quiet, and yet so full of authority were his tones.
"Methinks, those who call themselves the children of God fight with other than carnal weapons," I made answer. "If ever there was a man of the sword it was Oliver Cromwell."
"Ay, but he trusted not in the arm of flesh, but in the Lord God," he made answer, "else would his armies have been but burning stubble in a strong wind. It was the men of God whom Cromwell selected, who won Marston Moor and Naseby. On the other hand, it was the lies and the base living of Charles and his followers which caused their defeat."
"Ay, but Cromwell is dead, and men have it that a whining, hypocritical crew have taken his place. There have been some Judas Iscariots and traitors at the head of England for many months."
"Ay, and some Monks too," he added, a little bitterly, I thought.
"Ay, and a Puritan woman sought to kill him, and if report speaks truly, she is even now in Bedford Gaol."
I thought I saw him start as I spoke, so being young and foolish, and wishing to get the better of an argument of which, as I thought, he had the best all the way, I went on—
"Men have it that Master John Leslie, the father of this woman, is a great man among the hot-gospellers and Independents, while Sir Charles Denman, her husband, is almost as much renowned for his preaching as Hugh Peters himself."
For a moment he stopped still in the road, and he lifted his right hand above his head. Even in the dim light I noted his sturdy thick-set figure, his broad mouth, and his searching, yet kindly eyes.
"Is that what men are saying?" he asked presently, dropping his hand.
"It is common gossip," I replied.
"Men have it that Constance, daughter of John Leslie, together with her husband and father, plotted the murder of Monk, have they? Is that the talk in London town?"
"It is given out by General Monk himself," I replied. "It is told to the new king and his counsellors, and more it hath been proved by many witnesses. The wound in the arm of Monk's secretary is sufficient proof."
He stood still for a minute without speaking, then he said quietly—
"And have you heard aught concerning the probable fate of this maiden?"
"She is to be brought to London without delay after the king hath arrived thither, and then she is to be tried, condemned, and put to death. Men also have it that there is a warrant out against Sir Charles Denman and Master John Leslie."
"Perhaps it is the will of God," he said, presently. "The blood of the martyr hath ever been the seed of the Church of the living God."
"Martyr," I said, for something made me feel that this man knew much of these people. "Can the death of a woman who hath attempted murder be called martyrdom?"
I could have almost bitten my tongue for having uttered these words, for although my reason told me they were true, my heart went against them, and accused me of being unjust to the woman to whom I had avowed that she could never do an unworthy deed.
"There be many things known only to God," he replied solemnly, "and God's ways are not our ways, neither His thoughts our thoughts, yet will we trust Him though He slay us."
"Know you aught of this woman?" I asked.
"I know what all men know," he answered. "I know that she was on her way to Bedford to visit her father, who is a man of substance in Bedford, as well as in London, and that while coming hither she was taken by the minions of Monk, and dragged to gaol."
"From whence did she come?"
"From the south, somewhere."
"But had she no protector?"
"She had none. She was taken during the night."
"But surely she could not travel from the south on foot."
"Nay, she rode a good horse."
I wanted to ask other questions, but I was afraid, for I knew not who the man was, and I dared not trust him so far as to lead him to think I knew anything concerning her.
"Know you aught of her, young master?"
"I have come from the south," I answered, "and it was said that she had been seen not twenty miles from where the king landed but yesterday."
"Ay, poor child, I fear me that this led her to think she would be safe here. For you are mistaken in believing that a warrant is out against her father. It is not true. It hath been proved that Master Leslie had neither part nor lot in the attempt to murder Monk, and in proof of my words he may be seen in Bedford town, although in sore grief that his daughter is now awaiting such a fearful end."
"But he would have sheltered her, ay, and have sought to hide her, had she reached his house?" I said.
"Did not the early Christians hide each other in Rome?" he asked. "And did not men hide their faithful friends in the time of Mary?"
"But they were innocent?"
"And is not she innocent?"
At this I did not speak, although there seemed but little doubt, as I gathered from the words spoken to the king, that proofs of her guilt were unanswerable.
"Nevertheless," he went on, "although Master John Leslie is a man of station and wealth, he has been much insulted these last three days. Men wag their heads as he passes by, especially those who are godless, and rejoice because they believe the coming of the king will mean godlessness and licentiousness. Ay, and whatever be the state of things in London, it seems as though the devil is unchained. Drunkenness and vice walk naked and not ashamed, while many who I thought were founded in the faith have joined the hosts of those who love not the Lord."
By this time we had entered the town, and I began to look around me for some inn where I could find fodder for my horse and a supper for myself.
"Stay you long in Bedford, young master?"
"I hope my stay may be brief," I replied. "Will you show me to the best inn the town affords?"
"The place most free from reproach, and where men of standing gather, is The Bull," he replied, "but methinks even that will scarce be a fitting place to-night for a well-behaved youth, as you seem to be."
"And why?" I asked.
"Because, as I told you, the whole town, since the news of the coming of the king, hath been a scene of drunkenness and revelry. Wherever there is much ale there is much devilry, whether it be drunk at The Bull or elsewhere. Even the ostlers cannot be got to attend to their duties, therefore I fear you will have to groom and feed your horse yourself. As for sleep, I much fear me that you will not be able to obtain it. I will e'en call with you so that you may see for yourself, and if the place is given over to carousal, then if you can think of nought better, I will gladly offer you a bed in my own poor home."
"Thank you, good friend," I made answer, "I trust I may not need to take advantage of your good nature; all the same I am grateful to you, and would like to know the name of one who hath proffered such kindness."
"My name is John Bunyan," he replied, "and I minister to God's people in this town."
"You are then an Independent preacher?" I asked.
"I am called to preach the Gospel of Christ," he replied, "and God hath so blessed me, that I, who was a vile sinner, have been able to point a great multitude to the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world."
I do not know why it was, but although my father had not influenced me to lean either towards the Episcopal Church or towards the Dissenters, I felt prejudiced against him. I determined therefore that nothing should induce me to sleep at his house, and when we presently reached The Bull, and I found the place given over to drinking and revelry even as he had said, I persisted in having the room offered to me.
"Perhaps we shall meet again, young master," he said, as he walked away. "God hath a purpose in bringing people together, and although when I went out this evening to speak words of comfort to a sick member of my flock, I had no premonition that I should meet you, yet I believe God had a purpose in it, for truly I can see that thou art not far from the Kingdom."
It was some time before I was able to obtain an ostler to feed and groom my horse; at length, however, I succeeded in so doing by the promise of extra payment, and then having satisfied myself on this score, I found my way to the inn again, in the hope of supper. But in this I found great difficulty. Drink was plentiful enough, but something to eat was a different matter. Every one in the house seemed too busy in supplying drink to those who came hither to drink the king's health to be able to care aught for the needs of a traveller such as myself. At length, however, I obtained some boiled beef and bread, and with this I had to be content, and after partaking thereof I found my way into a room where I was told the people of quality had congregated.
Little notice was taken of my coming, until it became known that I had come from London town, after which I became a person of great importance, and was plied with many questions. These I answered freely enough. First because my answers could arouse no suspicion, and second because I thought I should thereby lead my questioners to talk about the woman who was imprisoned at Bedford Gaol. In this I found I had conjectured rightly, and when, presently, I found that one of those who talked with me was no less a person than the governor of the gaol, I rejoiced greatly that I had not accepted the hospitality of Master John Bunyan.
"Ah, but it is a feather in my cap," said this man, whose name I found to be John Sturgeon, "and I doubt not that when all the happenings reach the king's ears he will be mightily pleased with me."
I saw that he had been drinking freely, and that he weighed not his words. Moreover, he seemed to be a man of choleric temper, and did not brook opposition from any one.
"And how may that be, Master Sturgeon?" I said. "Think you the king will have so little to do when he arrives at Whitehall that he will pay heed to the imprisonment of what you have called a Puritan woman?"
"Surely you have not lived in London, or you would not speak so foolishly," he cried. "Suppose, I say, suppose she had killed General Monk, would the king have been welcomed back? I tell you no. Therefore will the king bear in mind all who have had aught to do with the capture of such a one."
"Ay, but," I urged, "the governor of the gaol is not the constable who caught her coming hither?"
"Again you speak like a fool, young master, or you would know that I am a man of authority in Bedford. Moreover, was it not I who had Master John Leslie watched? Did I not note his looks of uneasiness, and did not the inquiries I made concerning him lead me to place men along the roads to London? Ah, but it was by the merest shave that they took her. For what was she dressed like, think you? As a witch? Nay, but as a saucy young springald. Moreover, she carried things with a high hand, and threatened Jonathan Wild, the biggest constable in Bedford, to horsewhip him. But her face betrayed her, for one of the men, although she hath lived much in London, and is but little known in Bedford, recognized her in the moonlight, and then having suspicions, pulled off her headgear, whereupon her hair fell down her back."
At this there was much laughter, and many coarse jests.
"Ah, well," went on Master Sturgeon, "I never did like Master Leslie, for he sent many a good fellow to Bedford Gaol, simply because they were not straightlaced Puritans like himself. Things are changed now, and mayhap that I shall have even him under lock and key."
"How did she get her horse and her attire?" I asked.
"That I cannot tell," he replied, "but I doubt not it will all come out when she is tried."
"When and where is the trial to be?"
"In London, I do hear. This, I think, is a shame, for why should all the fun be in London. Still the deed was done there, and mayhap the king, who loves a pretty face, may wish to be at the trial."
Although much more was said, there was little of importance; moreover I found that men were too eager to talk of the events which were to take place in London because of the king's coming, to pay much heed to the woman who had attempted the life of General Monk, wife to Sir Charles Denman though she might be.
Still I kept in the room until wellnigh midnight, when Master Sturgeon rose to go. I was told that he boasted of being able to carry more drink than any man in Bedford, nevertheless I saw that he staggered somewhat on leaving the inn. As he put on his hat a plan was suddenly born in my mind, and without weighing its value I followed him into the street, determining to make my first attempt that very night to obtain the liberty of the woman into whose company I had been so strangely thrown.