LOOSE, BUT NOT AT LIBERTY
In man's most dark extremity
Oft succor dawns from Heaven.
“Good news, dame; good news!" exclaimed Farmer Smith; of Lower Samsell, as he burst into the tiny dwelling-house in St. Cuthbert's, where Elizabeth Bunyan abode. "'Good news!' said the Chapman to us, as he opened his case of linen and lace. The man brought us word that the King meaneth to set all the religious prisoners free! John Bunyan will be at liberty anon! We saddle the gray mare, and my wife is in the pillion with me to bring the news! Put on thy wimple and let us to the jail, for good tidings cannot be carried too quickly. Now we are started! How light I feel! I could dance for very joy—would I had wings! There, boy, lead the horse. Put the blind maiden on the mare, and dame Bunyan and I will run to greet him first.”
It was evident the tidings had also reached the jail, for John White opened the heavy doors without hesitation. "I knew you would be here amain. Lord Edward Bruce sent his man over with the tidings. Go in, dame Bunyan, thy good man is putting his things together to bring them out.”
“A truce to his things; we will send for them; bring the man out," cried Smith. "Oh, happy day! Come on, old champion! Bring him out and let us give him a cheer!”
“Ay, that we will, in God's Name," cried the throng, who had arrived on similar errands. And when Bunyan emerged from his cell, such a shout rent the old rooftree as perhaps a prison never heard. The tinker was silent, but said he after, "The water stood in mine eyes," as he drew his blind child to his bosom; and with her and his Elizabeth emerged into the dewy freshness of the May morning. 1660, now 1672! Ah well-a-day, what a dreary time to spend in such a den as Bedford Jail! The joy in the tiny room in St. Cuthbert's was too holy a thing to be named; at last the family was complete.
A year and nearly two had now elapsed, and the tinker, made an old man by suffering, when he should have been in his prime, was doing his utmost to put his affairs in order, but it was a weary task. He returned one evening sad and heartsick at the tricks professing friends played him to prevent his obtaining what was his just due, and sat with little appetite to his scanty meal. Yet seeing the anxious look on his wife's face, he ate what he could, and then asked for the Bible. After he had read a little time, he closed the Book cheerfully, saying: “Well, brave heart, we shall get over the matter; but Mary is long coming.”
“She went out with Rogers, who called here this morning. He has been released from prison, for it was proved that the man he was supposed to have slain lived some weeks after receiving the blow, and he hastened here to tell us the news. While I was minding one thing and the other, he was talking to Mary in the casement, and they went out, saying they would be back anon.”
“Oh! here they are. But what is the matter?" exclaimed Bunyan, as he noted the anxious face of Rogers, and looked upon Mary.
“Sit down, or, better far, let her to rest, good mistress," said Rogers; "she is ill; and while they are gone I will tell thee," he whispered to Bunyan.
As the mother and daughter ascended the narrow stair, he broke silence by saying: “Bunyan, you must lose her; and I could die to save her. She has the smallpox, I fear, and cannot recover.”
The tinker started, but said nothing. He buried his face in his hands, and laid them on the table.
“When I left jail, as I came through the High Street," said Rogers, "I met one who urged me to hasten to his house to see a sick man. I made up my mind to go, but bidding him wait at the door, I came in here to tell thee of my release. I told Mary that the man's name was Swinton, who had done thee such wrong, and that 'twas said he was like to die; and, quoth she, "Twere a noble revenge to tell him of Christ,' and she went with me. When I got there I found it was smallpox, but before I knew it Mary had passed in before me, and laid her hand upon the wretch. He raved and cursed beyond description; all his past wickedness came back, and he gloried in it. Oh! it was fearful to see him. Thy daughter spoke gently to him, but he silenced her with his fearful words: 'What would the devil do but for such as me? I used to see the cant of the meetingers when I lived with my uncle, the elder; how they would whine in meeting, and cheat in business. Fool, that I was, I once was one of them; but I know better now. Oh, it was grand sport to hunt them through the fields, climbing trees to watch, or hunting them along the ditches, as one might a weasel. Thy father will be in prison the morn,' he said to Mary. 'Oh, merrie, catch!' First, he would glory in what he had done, then he would curse Foster who had set him to do it. I could do naught, and so brought Mary home. Oh, John, though I be many years older than she is, I do love her! Would to God that I might have made for her a home! I have pictured her by my fireside, rejoicing my heart with her gentle wisdom; now, alas, her earthly home will be the tomb! May I not stay with thee to keep watch, though medicine will not avail.”
That night, as the two men kept solemn and heart-breaking watch, John Bunyan was arrested and again lodged in jail. There, daily, Rogers visited him; and when death opened the eyes of the blind, and Mary Bunyan left the father she had never seen, and looked upon the King in His beauty, Rogers sat with his friend to comfort him during the agony we have all felt when the form of a beloved one is being laid forever from our sight. To Bunyan the anguish was the more intense, because she had died away from him, and without a kiss from his lips.
“Oh, Bunyan, but it was grand to be there, " said Rogers. "I never knew what religion was until I stood by her death-bed. It was wonderful to hear her speak, and look upon her radiant smile. She spoke so of thee, and said, 'Tell him that my mother and I will watch by the golden gates until he shall come. I cannot kiss him now; but tell him Mary will not forget in the long happy time we shall be together in Heaven. I shall be there first, and shall have something to show him when he comes into the City.'”
“Would I were there now," groaned the strong man. "Oh, to look upon her for one little moment! My poor afflicted one, God knows how my heart bleeds for thee! Day and night I thought of her. She was interwoven into my being more than any other of my children. Oh, my child, my child! Strangers are laying thee in the sod, and I not by to drop a tear upon the coffin! Woe is me; the Lord deals strangely!”
“Nay, but there are many who followed her," said Rogers. "I saw many a strong man weep as he watched the coffin go down the street. Even old Strange, the drunken tailor, paused to doff his hat and say, 'I hate her father, but she was like an angel in Heaven come to bless our street. Blessed be the ground she trod upon.' Oh, Bunyan, my heart is full like to break that we shall hear her sweet voice no more.”
And so in the little room over the gateway, in the jail on the bridge in which Bunyan was now confined, the two friends wept in the bitter agony for which there is no human relief, when the bleeding heart seems to be hopelessly rent and torn. God comfort them, and comfort all who cry for the beloved voice that shall never speak to them again!