The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  And what will I do? Run home like a cur with his tail between his legs? Deny the faith and join the Church of England? It would be so easy!

  And what of Lydia? I have not let myself think of it, but here in this room on this night, I set it down so that it will give me strength and purpose to stand when the tribulation comes: By my soul, I love this woman. You are young—you don’t really know yet—you have no profession! They will say this, and more.

  And what is my answer? I love this woman. That is my answer, and I know that even if she does not love me, I will go to my grave with her image in my heart. Yea, though I never see her again in this world, she has spoiled for me the image of all other women—no, not the image—the reality!

  What will I do then? I will do this one thing. I will take my courage all rolled up like a ball, and I will go to her and I will say, Lydia Carbonne, I love you with all my heart. I want you to share my life, my bed, my heart for all time on this earth.

  She will probably say no. That is her decision. Mine is made—to offer her my name and my strong right arm—and my heart—so help me God!

  Slowly Matthew closed the journal, cleaned the tip of the quill, and placed it on the desktop. His face was slightly pale, and as he knelt beside his narrow bed, instead of the rather ritualistic prayer that usually closed his day, he lifted up his face and for a long time waited for some answer. Finally he got into bed and lay there staring at the low ceiling.

  Lydia thereafter said of Matthew’s proposal, “It was the most unusual proposal any man ever made or any girl ever received!”

  The scene was the small chapel in Elstow. The audience was the congregation of Separatists gathered for the customary Sabbath morning sermon. Since the church had no pastor, John Bunyan had been asked to bring the sermon, and he had just started his seventh major point when Matthew Winslow came in, his face pale as paper. Ordinarily he took a seat at the rear of the church, but on this occasion he swept the congregation with a swift glance, and finding Lydia sitting in the second row with her aunt, walked steadily across the pegged wooden floor and plunked himself down firmly beside her.

  Lydia was startled, for the Elstow congregation held to the old ways, men seated on one side, women on the other. Her large eyes flew open as Matthew sat down beside her, and she felt her aunt stirring angrily on her other side.

  Matthew leaned forward and said something in a faint whisper which she did not understand, primarily due to the fact that Brother Bunyan was preaching about hell, and it was the usual custom to raise the volume considerably when the subject was under consideration.

  He leaned forward until one of her black tresses touched his cheek as he whispered into her ear, but at the exact moment he repeated himself, Bunyan slapped the desk in front of him and gave a resounding roar.

  Lydia was confused, having no concept as to what urgency could warrant such behavior on the young man’s part. She turned from him, only to have her arm firmly grasped, pulling her back to face him again. This time he raised his voice so that she understood him very clearly!

  Indeed, every living soul in the congregation heard him, for just as he raised his voice, Brother Bunyan suddenly stopped speaking. And into that sudden and absolute silence that fell over the church, Matthew Winslow said in a clear, urgent voice: “I said, will you marry me, Lydia?”

  The loud question drew a sudden gasp from Lydia’s aunt, and she jerked around, causing her large Bible to drop to the floor with a thud! A hum swept through the room, and John Bunyan, who had heard the guns of war with more aplomb, stood there behind the sacred desk staring at the couple.

  Lydia was stunned. The silence that followed seemed to roar in her ears as she became conscious of the stares burning into her from all sides. Her lips parted and she wondered if she had heard him correctly. Surely no man would be so forward as to propose to a young woman under such circumstances!

  But apparently Matthew Winslow was exactly such a man, for he seemed totally unaware of the gaping audience, and said again, “Lydia, I love you and want you to marry me!”

  She stared at him, her face flushed, tears of vexation filling her eyes. “No!” she snapped indignantly, and with a suddenness that caught everyone off guard, she rose and rushed out of the church, leaving Matthew staring into the angry eyes of her enraged aunt.

  Turning from the irate woman, and without a glance at either preacher or congregation, he dashed out, his heels drumming rapidly on the wood floor.

  As the door slammed behind Matthew, Pastor Bunyan looked with startled eyes at his congregation, took a deep breath and then continued as though nothing had happened. “Hell,” he stated firmly, “was created for the devil and his angels—not for men!” He cast one furtive look at the door where the pair had escaped and added enigmatically, “God made other things for men—such as marriage.” But his attempt to recapture the attention of his flock was hopeless.

  Outside, Lydia ran along the narrow street, crying with humiliation, stumbling over the cobblestones. As she turned the corner onto the lane where she lived with her aunt, strong hands grabbed her from behind.

  “Let me go!” she cried, trying to free herself from the iron embrace. “I hate you, Matthew Winslow!”

  But he just stood there holding her as she beat her fists against his chest, tears running down her cheeks. Finally she stopped and, in a gesture of surrender and helplessness, fell against his broad chest, moaning, “What will I do? What will I do?”

  Placing his hand under her chin, he drew her face upward. She had never seemed so beautiful to him.

  “Why did you do such a thing to me?” she cried.

  Pulling her close, he said passionately, “Because I love you! And I’ll have you, Lydia, or die in the attempt!”

  She gasped at his boldness, but had no time to do anything else, for he suddenly bent his head and kissed her intensely. Then as his kisses grew gentle, she found her arms going around his neck. How long they stood there or who drew back first she never knew, but when they looked at each other in breathless wonder, she whispered, “I love you, Matthew Winslow! I’ll never love anyone else!”

  She took a deep breath and released it. One hand went up to touch his cheek tenderly; then she smiled with trembling lips and murmured, “I never knew love could be like this.”

  “Nor I,” Matthew responded quietly. “But it’s only the beginning, sweetheart!” he said triumphantly. “Only the beginning! Why, we’ve got a whole lifetime to love each other!”

  Then she said something that startled him, so unexpected it was. “And we can love God together, can’t we, Matthew?”

  He thought at once of Bunyan’s comment: She will not be happy with a man who is less of a Christian than she is. He might have given thought to that if he had not been so in love, but he merely smiled and said, “Yes, of course we will!”

  They turned and walked back toward the church with a choir of small birds singing an echo of the joy that had filled their hearts.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE THAT FINDETH A WIFE ...

  Edward Winslow felt the weight of his years as he climbed heavily out of the dusty coach in front of the Mote Hall. He moved stiffly down the narrow lane that led to Pastor Gifford’s cottage, speaking briefly to those who greeted him. The brilliant May sunshine painted the thatched roofs of the village with gold, but he had no eye for the beauty of the lush countryside that day.

  I’m like an old dog looking for a place to die, he thought wearily, then paused abruptly, for he had been a man of great zest, and the discovery that he had given up swept over him. He stood stock-still in the middle of the street, unaware of the white-washed houses of Bedford or the noisy flock of geese crossing the village green like a snowy cloud. He suddenly remembered the day he had stood on the deck of the Mayflower, just off Southampton, with Pastor Robinson—now dead. That day with the small band of believers, they had looked their last at England and turned to face the unseen land across the sea. A lump rose in his throat
as thoughts of them—Standish, Alden, Mullins, Bradford, and Captain Christopher Jones! All gone now—and I’m not far behind.

  “Mr. Winslow!” A voice caught at him, interrupting his reminiscing. As he turned he saw Pastor Gifford approaching from the square with his nephew. “You’re two days late,” Gifford said as he came to take Winslow’s hand. “We’ve been concerned.”

  “Every coach was full for two days after the King arrived from France.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have been most happy to leave earlier.”

  “Come, Uncle,” Matthew said quickly, noting his evident fatigue. “These coach rides are enough to make a man take to his bed. I’ll accompany you to Pastor Gifford’s house. You can tell us the news on the way.”

  “I think I will take a little rest, Matthew,” his uncle nodded. He allowed himself to be led along the street by Matthew’s gentle pressure. He said little as they made their way past the first group of cottages north of the Mote Hall, but gave a sigh of relief as they came to the small cottage of the pastor.

  “Wife!” Gifford called out as they crossed the threshold, “We have a guest.”

  Gifford’s wife Sarah, a short, heavy-set woman of fifty, turned from the massive fireplace, her face lighting up at the sight of the older man. “Ah now, I’ve been cooking for you for two days! Sit you down, and you can have these meat pies I’ve had to fight my husband and your nephew for!”

  “Yes, sit down, Edward,” Gifford urged, pulling a heavy chair back from the table. “Sit you down, too,” he said to the younger Winslow. “You can lie down after you’ve eaten, Edward, but first, tell us about the event.”

  “Charles is king of England—and that’s the whole of it,” Winslow said heavily. He reached into his inner pocket, fumbled around briefly, then pulled a letter out. “A letter from your father.”

  As Matthew opened the letter, he heard Pastor Gifford saying, “Well, we knew it was coming, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we knew it.” Winslow leaned forward, placed his brow on his fist and closed his eyes. “Aye, we knew it, John— but I don’t think any of us really have any idea of what it’s going to be like.”

  “In that you are probably right,” Gifford said slowly. “It’ll be a dark night of the soul for our people.”

  As the two older men spoke of the new order and the problems it would bring to their small world, Matthew read the brief lines:

  4 March 1660

  My son Matthew,

  Your request that we travel to England to meet your new bride is, of course, quite out of the question. I fear you do not yet understand how ill your mother is. She is almost completely bedfast now, and I must stay at home to take care of her, except for those times when the neighbors sit with her.

  I do not even dare go to preach overnight at any of the churches, for fear she will be gone when I return. She is quite ready to go home to the Lord. This morning when one of the good ladies asked her if she had any fear, she roused up, and her eyes had the same fire they had when I first saw her, and she said right smartly, “Afraid? How could I be afraid to go to Him whom I have loved and longed for these fifty years!”

  She had memorized your letters word for word and only wishes that she might have seen your bride. But what has meant the most to her—and to me, my son!—is the portion of the last letter where you indicated your intention to pursue the Lord. That, along with the word from your uncle in which he speaks of your interest in preaching along with good Master Bunyan, have been the joy of her heart, and mine also.

  When we parted, Matthew, I said, “Be true to God and to yourself.” I can add nothing to that, except that your mother and I have great faith now in you, and that if we do not meet again on this earth, we will be reunited in a better Kingdom!

  Gilbert Winslow

  Matthew blinked rapidly, his eyes burning as he read the lines, and he bit his lip as he folded the letter and stored it in his pocket. He had been over-hasty in his marriage, he knew, and the guilt of it bore heavily on him. The original plan had been for a trip to Plymouth with Lydia so she might meet his parents, then marry there. But there had been such objections from Martha Smith over Lydia making such a voyage in an unmarried state that they had given up on the idea. “We’ll go to America soon, dear,” Lydia had said, knowing something of the pain he felt. But the trip was long and expensive. So the five months of their marriage had served only to increase the pain Matthew felt over his parents.

  He shook off the thought and heard his uncle speaking of the restoration of Charles to the throne. “The whole country is one big ball, John. You should have seen the excitement when Charles came ashore day before last! He came in a barge with two dukes. Mr. Pepys was with him, and the captain of the brigantine steered. There was also Mr. Mansell and a dog the king loves—and many others from his nest in France. A large crowd was there to meet him, including General Monk, who fell on him with all imaginable love and respect, thousands of horsemen it seemed, and noblemen of all sorts. The mayor of the town presented him his white staff, the badge of his place, which the King gave him again.” He gave a short laugh and a sardonic light came into his eyes. “You’ll like this, John, the mayor gave him a very rich Bible, which he took and said, holding it up, ‘This is what I love more than anything else in the world!’ ”

  “You don’t think he meant it?” Matthew asked.

  “Meant it? Him, with his fancy French whores in his cabin on the ship he’d just left?” Winslow shook his head violently and struck the table with a clenched fist. “The man’s an actor, I tell you! Now it pleases him to play the benevolent monarch, forgiving his enemies—but mark my word, within months the gallows in England will bear the weight of those who were closest to Cromwell.”

  “What about you, Edward?” Gifford asked quickly.

  “I would not be at all surprised to find myself among those pinpointed by Charles.”

  “But—you won’t stay here, will you, Uncle?” Matthew asked.

  “Stay here? Of course I’ll stay here! I’ve not so much life in front of me that I’d sell out what I’ve lived for just to have a few more hours on this earth!”

  “That’s very well for you, Edward,” Gifford nodded. “But I think for your nephew it might be best to return to Plymouth.”

  “I agree,” the old man said.

  “Well, I don’t!” The face of young Winslow flushed and there was a stubbornness in the set of his chin that brought a sudden image of Gilbert Winslow to the older man. He watched as Matthew got to his feet and paced the confines of the small room in agitation, his trim figure alive with nervous energy. “What sort of man do you take me for? A coward?”

  “Now, Matthew, there’s no question of that,” Gifford soothed. He had grown accustomed to the quick, impulsive shifts in the young man’s behavior, so now he reasoned with him carefully. “First of all, this isn’t your home. What happens here isn’t your battle—except perhaps in prayer. Secondly, you are not alone now. If you were single, that might be a different story, but as Mr. Bacon has said, ‘He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune.’ You must consider Lydia. And thirdly, you must have been under constant burden concerning your mother. You must see that going back to Plymouth would be the wise thing to do.”

  “Perhaps so, but you forget one thing,” Matthew responded quickly. “You and I have had long talks, have we not, about my preaching? Am I to leave that, too? And don’t tell me there’s preaching to be done at Plymouth, Pastor Gifford! I will quote you one scripture, and you tell me how I may without peril to my soul ignore it: ‘He that putteth his hand to the plow and turneth back, is not fit for the kingdom of God!’ ”

  Pastor Gifford gaped open-mouthed at the fiery ardor of young Winslow. Then he gave a short laugh and threw up his hands. “I leave him to you, Edward!”

  “Well, that’s no good, either,” Edward smiled, and for that moment the lines of his face softened and he looked much like the young man before him. “The Winslows have always
been fool-stubborn, and I see this one is no different. His father is that way himself—and so am I, I suppose.”

  Matthew stood there, so tall that his head almost brushed the rough beam over his head. He smiled down at Gifford. “It would be so much easier if it were a real war with swords and pikes, wouldn’t it? Just go out slashing and hacking—then you either killed or got killed. But this isn’t like that, is it?”

  “No, our weapons are not carnal, but mighty to God to the pulling down of strongholds,” Gifford stated emphatically. “And it’s a mighty stronghold that lies before us—the realm of England will be set to crush every Puritan and Separatist to powder, and very soon.”

  There was a silence as Gifford’s wife came to the table with trenchers full of meat. “Well,” the younger man said, “Lydia is expecting me.” He took his uncle’s hand. “You’ll come to our house for supper tomorrow night, will you, sir?”

  “Done!”

  “Good day, then. I’ll read the book by Mr. Hooker before our study tomorrow, Pastor.”

  He left the room hurriedly, and as the two men began to eat, Edward asked, “What’s your judgment, John, on that young man?”

  Gifford chewed a morsel of meat slowly, swallowed, then said, “He’s either going to be a great man—” He paused, then with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, finished by saying, “He’s got the raw material, Edward, but the crucible we’re all going to be in soon will test him out.”

  “It would kill Gilbert and Humility if he failed,” Edward remarked with sadness in his old eyes. “He’s all that’s left of the House of Winslow, isn’t he? If he goes down, it’ll be like there never were any of us.”

  “No! He won’t go down!” Pastor Gifford said suddenly, his usually mild expression twisted to an explosive anger. “This king may think to wipe us out, but he shall not do it, not by all that’s holy! You and I have fought, but we are old. It’ll be young men like your nephew who’ll have to stand in the gap this time!”