A Book of Quaker Saints

by L. V. Hodgkin

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.'