The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Who wouldn’t?” Lydia responded softly. “He’s the kind of man—”

  She broke off and Elizabeth finished, “The kind of man you saw in Matthew? Yes, and it’s there, my dear. Blood will tell, and there’s enough of his father’s blood in Matthew Winslow to win his battle!”

  During the weeks that followed, Lydia thought often of Elizabeth’s words. But there seemed to be little to merit hope that Matthew would justify the thought. She saw no improvement in him; indeed, the news of his mother’s death came as such a blow to him that even the strong encouragement Gilbert offered was offset.

  Gilbert’s presence was more of a blessing to John Bunyan, it seemed, than to his own son. The two men became fast friends at once, and Winslow spent most of his time at the prison studying the Scripture with Bunyan. Gilbert was captivated by the man’s vivid imagination, and often when Mary came to visit, he sat there listening to Bunyan’s stories as intently as she. “You ought to write a book, John!” he often said.

  “I’m no book writer!”

  “You’re the best teller of tales I’ve ever heard,” Winslow insisted. “That one about the chap named Pilgrim—it’s almost like reading the Bible, in a way! Think what it would mean if Christian parents had a story about a man who leaves his home and fights his way through difficulties to get to heaven!”

  “They have the Bible,” Bunyan shrugged.

  “But, Father, your stories make the Bible easier to understand,” Mary protested.

  “There you have it, John,” Winslow laughed. “Wisdom from the lips of babes, eh, Matthew?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Matthew sat on a pile of straw, picking at it listlessly. There was no life in his voice.

  Bunyan and Winslow exchanged glances, but said nothing. They had spoken quietly about the young man when Matthew was out of hearing, and agreed that if he gave in to the Crown’s new law, he would live, but would be forever scarred in his spirit.

  Bunyan picked up the story of Pilgrim and had gotten the hero into a terrible predicament when Paul Cobb opened the door of the cell and Pastor Gifford rushed in, his eyes filled with excitement.

  “Twisten—he’s set a date for the trial!”

  “When?” Matthew wheeled from where he stood and leaped to the pastor’s side, showing more animation than they had seen in weeks.

  “A month from now, less a day!”

  “Thank God!” Matthew cried out, tears gathering in his eyes.

  “Yes, thank God,” Bunyan said; then he added carefully, “Now we must pray for a verdict in our favor.”

  Matthew stared at him, then declared defiantly, “God will not leave us here to rot!” He shook his head and laughed for the first time since Gilbert had come to Bedford. “It’s going to be all right! You’ll see!”

  When Lydia came later that day, she was taken off guard by the difference in Matthew. He embraced her, swinging her around in a circle in the old way, crying, “It’s over, Lydia! It’s over!”

  “Matthew, be careful,” she cried out breathlessly. “You’ll get your cough started again!”

  “Devil take the cough!” he grinned. “Let me get a breath of free air and that cough will leave one way or another!” He carried on wildly all the time she was there. The activity did start his cough again, and she had to force him to lie down before he strangled. The two red spots which had shown in his cheeks a week earlier reappeared, and she knew his fever was up.

  That night when Gilbert came by to pray for Elizabeth, she said, “He’s better, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” There was a caution in Gilbert’s voice, and he added soberly, “But it will go hard with him if the verdict isn’t favorable.”

  “Do—do you think that it will be bad—the verdict?”

  “It’s a bad time, Lydia. The tide is against us. I have to go to London to see my brother in two days. I’ll find out something from him. He’s in prison, but he still has powerful friends, and some of them may help.”

  After Gilbert left, Lydia made the mistake of mentioning his words to Matthew, and he grabbed at the chance eagerly. “Why, of course! Uncle Edward will help us!”

  “He’s unable to help himself, lad,” Bunyan said quickly.

  “You never have a cheerful word, do you John?” Bunyan’s efforts to prepare the young man for the possibility of bad news from the trial had not worked; on the contrary, they had driven a wedge between the two that had given grief to the Bunyans as well as to Lydia.

  “John is just—”

  “I know what John is doing!” Matthew snapped at her. “You’re a fine help, all of you! Where’s your faith? We’re supposed to believe God, aren’t we? Well, that’s what I’m doing—and the rest of you are digging my grave with your unbelief—!” He broke off into a paroxysm of coughing and fought Lydia as she attempted to help him. “Leave me alone, you doubters!” he gasped and withdrew into the farthest corner of the cell.

  He apologized the following day, but there was a constraint in him, and he had little to say to either of them. The only subject that he cared about was the trial—that and the return of Gilbert with good news.

  Lydia was at the jail the afternoon Gilbert came back. Bunyan was standing on a bench, speaking out the window to a small group who had formed the habit of coming from time to time to hear him preach.

  Gilbert saw them as he approached, and he paused to listen as the strong voice of Bunyan carried easily on the cold air. The shivering listeners stood there, shifting from one frozen foot to another, beating their hands together to get the cold blood stirring, but none left until he prayed a final prayer and called out a cheery “God bless you!”

  Cobb said as he entered, “Well, sir, here you are, ain’t you now? I hopes it’s good news you be bringin’ to the lad. He’s lived for little else!”

  Matthew saw his father enter and came to him at once. “Father, what did Uncle Edward say? Will he help us?”

  Gilbert pulled off his cloak slowly, not taking his eyes from Matthew’s face. There was something in his eyes that held the young man speechless. Finally he said, “Your uncle is dead, my boy. Gone to be with his Lord.”

  Matthew jerked as though he had been struck; his face twisted and he dropped his head, turning blindly toward the wall.

  Lydia ran to him, and Bunyan said quietly, “I’m sorry to hear it, Gilbert. He was a godly man.”

  “Yes.” Gilbert sat down and Bunyan joined him. “He’s better off, John. He was very ill, and there was little hope of any sort of life for him. I think they would have executed him if he had lived until the next sitting of the court.”

  “No, surely not!” Bunyan said, shocked at the thought.

  Gilbert leaned back against the wall, saying in a tired voice. “They executed Major-General Harrison last Friday. I was there.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Bunyan said. “He was such a good man.”

  “But close to Cromwell—as was Edward. It was Edward who asked me to go. I’ll never forget it. He came to his death as cheerful as any man could do in that condition. He made a brief speech giving glory to God, making no reference to the shameful manner in which he was being treated by his enemies. After he was taken down, his head and his heart were removed and shown to the people—amidst great shouts of joy, John! How beastly these people can be! That’s why I cannot grieve over Edward. He was spared that. I was with him when he died. He was anxious to go.”

  The shock of his uncle’s death hit hard at Matthew, causing him to speak only of the trial. Two days before the date which Justice Twisten had set, Lydia sat beside her husband, listening as he spoke eagerly of the day he would be set free.

  Finally he stooped, and she said, “I found something you might like, Matthew.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, it’s just a poem. Your father showed it to me last night. A man he knew as a boy wrote it, and it’s become famous.”

  “A poem? What does it say?” Matthew asked listlessly.

 
; “It was written to a young woman by a man named Lovelace. It’s just the last verse that I thought you might like.” She took out a slip of paper and read it softly:

  “Stone walls do not a prison make,

  Nor iron bars a cage.

  Minds innocent and quiet take

  That for a hermitage.

  If I have freedom in my love

  And in my soul am free,

  Angels alone that soar above

  Enjoy such liberty!”

  She smiled up at him, saying with a smile, “Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.”

  He stared at her soberly, then shook his head. “That’s pretty poetry, but it’s not life.”

  She sat there and for the first time she asked what had been in her heart for weeks, “Matthew, what if—what if things don’t go well?”

  “What?” he asked angrily. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve prayed so hard,” she said, taking his arm. “But even if you and John did have to stay here for a little while longer, it’ll be—”

  “It’s not going to be that way!” he interrupted with a wild look around at the walls. “Lydia, I’ll die in this place! God won’t let it happen!”

  She changed the subject quickly, but her heart was filled with foreboding as she went home, and she knew that Gilbert felt the same.

  The hours crawled slowly by, but at last the day came for the trial. Every square inch of space was filled in the large hall used for trials, and in spite of the freezing cold, those who could not get inside thronged the outside.

  Justice Twisten sat on a raised platform, his beefy face stony as the case proceeded. “What is the charge against these men?”

  A reedy-voiced clerk named Jacob Tillage read from a large sheet: “John Bunyan and Matthew Winslow, both of Bedford, are charged with a violation of the King’s law, being upholders and maintainers of unlawful assemblies and Conventicles, and for not conforming to the National Worship of the Church of England.”

  A great hulking fellow named Ryeson was the deputy who had arrested the two, and he gave a long, rambling testimony as to how he had followed the two and found them addressing a group of people.

  “Were they armed, any of them?” Justice Twisten demanded.

  “Sir?”

  “Were they armed, I say!”

  “No, sir, they didn’t have naught but Bibles!”

  “Very well.”

  The testimony droned on and finally the justice said, “John Bunyan, you may rise and give your defense.”

  Bunyan was pale from his stay inside, but he spoke firmly and eloquently. A duel soon developed between him and the justice, and it terminated in Twisten shouting, “You will heed the laws of England or I will either see you hanged or you will be harried out of this land!”

  “I will in all civil laws be obedient to my king—whom God knows I respect and pray for—but I will obey the voice of that King who is immortal when there is a conflict between the two!”

  “You stand convicted by your own mouth!” Twisten cried out, getting to his feet in his anger. “You have not denied that you and Winslow were engaged in breaking the King’s law. On the basis of your own testimony and on the evidence presented to this court, I sentence you to perpetual imprisonment!”

  A hum went over the court and he looked around the crowded room, adding, “Do not waste your pity on these men. They may leave prison at any moment—at any moment, that is, when they agree to obey the law.”

  Bunyan suddenly raised his voice and cried out loudly, “I will preach the gospel until the moss grows up to my eyes!”

  “Be it on your head then,” Twisten said, staring at the two men. “You will stay in Bedford Jail until you promise to do your preaching within the limits set by the King! Bailiff, take these two men back to their cells! This court is dismissed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  END OF A MAN

  “Will you go tell him, Gilbert?” Lydia asked wearily. She leaned her arm against the wall, placed her forehead on it, and bit her lip to keep back the tears. “It’s going to kill him, you know—he’s lived for this new baby.”

  “Too bad! Too bad!” Gilbert shook his head. He picked up his heavy coat and said as he pulled it on, “Yes, I’ll go. You’ll stay with Elizabeth?”

  “Yes.” She straightened up and tried to put a little cheer into her voice. “At least Elizabeth is all right. She can have other children, the doctor said. Tell John that.”

  “All right.”

  “And tell Matthew—” She broke off suddenly and stared at the tall man so much like her husband. A question leaped to her lips, and she suppressed it, then seemed to be in fear of something. Finally she asked, “I don’t know what to tell him. Have you noticed anything—different—about the way he is?”

  Winslow nodded slowly. “His mind is troubled. I worry about that more than his health.”

  “Yesterday he talked so wildly I couldn’t make sense of it. He talked about dying. I think he’s given up hope.”

  Gilbert nodded slowly. “He’s sick in body, but we must pray even more for his spirit, Lydia.”

  Winslow left the cottage and made his way along the muddy road, dodging puddles as he went. The first breath of spring had come, melting the snow and stirring the life that lay buried in the frozen ground. He looked at a tiny crocus shouldering a chip inside, vibrant with color against the dull winter earth, and thought of the dead child that all of them mourned. “Too bad!” he murmured again.

  Cobb admitted him into the cell, and he went at once to where Bunyan and Matthew sat together on a bench. Bunyan rose at once, and there was a prophetic look on his heavy features. He waited until Gilbert drew near, then he searched his face, and said quietly, “Elizabeth’s lost the baby.”

  Gilbert nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, John.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “The doctor says she’s fine. She can have other children.”

  “Praise God!” Bunyan breathed heavily, then went over to stare out of the window, alone in his grief.

  Gilbert sat down by Matthew, noting that he looked more worn and haggard than ever. The cough had gotten worse, too, but the mental state troubled Gilbert more. “It’s getting warmer, son. Spring is on the way.”

  Matthew shrugged, saying only, “I suppose I should have known it would happen.”

  Gilbert did not understand him. “What’s that, son?”

  “I knew the baby would die.”

  “It’s a shame—but you mustn’t worry about Lydia. She’s very healthy.”

  Matthew looked at his father out of haggard eyes, sunk deep in his skull. He bore little resemblance to the vigorous young man he had been before his imprisonment. When he spoke, his voice was dead and lifeless as his eyes. “I can’t believe anything anymore.”

  “You don’t mean that, son,” Gilbert said quietly. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and there was an urgency in his eyes and in his voice as he spoke. “You’ve had a bad knock, but these things will pass ...”

  Matthew listened as his father spoke, but there was a sullen set to his shoulders, and finally he said, “Didn’t you hear Justice Twisten? ‘Perpetual imprisonment’ was the term. You know as well as I that there’s no way out of this hole, unless—”

  “Don’t even think that way!” Gilbert said quickly. “I know you’re sick and despondent and there’s the baby on the way. But if you give up now, you’ll never be a man again.”

  “And if I don’t get out of here, I’ll be dead!” Matthew snapped, a madness glowing in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I’ve decided what I’m going to do, Father—and I know you and John will disapprove. You think it’s terrible for a man to give in, but it’s different with me.”

  “How is it different?”

  “Why, you must see that John is a preacher—that’s what he’s going to do. But I’m not.”

  “You were preaching the gospel, Bunyan tells me—and you
told me yourself that you felt God’s hand on your life.”

  “Well, I did say that, but many young fellows take a try at preaching and find out it’s just a notion.”

  “Matthew, don’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Matthew cried, and his voice turned Bunyan from the window. He watched carefully, then came over to stand beside them. “I couldn’t help overhearing.” His fine eyes were filled with compassion and he said, “Don’t make a decision now. Wait until you’ve had time to pray about it.”

  Matthew stared at them and a wild look came into his eyes, a look of madness, and Gilbert saw how close his son was to losing his mind. He said at once, “I’ll leave now, son. You try to calm yourself and I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll think of something.”

  He bade goodbye to Bunyan, begging him with his eyes to look after Matthew. He did not go to the cottage but walked along a little-traveled road, seeking God with desperation. Bunyan had spoken to him of his son’s preoccupation with death, and it frightened him more than anything that had ever come to him. He prayed until finally he looked up and saw that the sun was setting, then turned his steps toward the Bunyan cottage.

  Lydia was busy with the children, and he took over some of the chores so she could be with Elizabeth. It was late by the time the children were in bed and Elizabeth was asleep, but he sat beside her, telling her about his visit with Matthew.

  She sat there staring at the glowing coals in the fireplace, then said, “I’m so tired of it all, I can’t even think.”

  “I know. I—I’m not sure it’s right, Lydia.” The strain had etched new lines on Gilbert’s face, and he shook his head in despair. “If it were my life, I’d know what to do—but who can decide a thing like this for another?”

  That was as far as they got, and he trudged on home wearily. He did not expect to sleep, but he did by some miracle. He had missed much sleep, and slept far past his usual early time for arising. A loud knocking at the door awoke him, and he saw in one startled glance that the sun was high in the sky.