The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  He shrugged, “Do not worry about me, Nahteeah.” Then he smiled, saying earnestly, “You must learn to love your father.”

  Then he was gone as quickly as he had come. His visit left Rachel so shaken she could not concentrate on her work. She went to the beach, walking the rocky shores and thinking, wondering if John was right. “But I don’t hate my father,” she protested to herself. Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was being dishonest. I’ve never forgiven him for deserting me and mother! she admitted.

  She walked home slowly, unhappy with herself. When she arrived, her mother had come back, so she went to where she was sitting outside in the sun. “Mother, I’ve got to tell you something.”

  “What is it, Rachel?”

  Rachel hesitated, then said with a vigorous gesture of her head, “I—I can’t feel right about my father!” she said. “No matter how hard I try, I still can’t—can’t—”

  “You can’t forgive him, Rachel, is that it?”

  “Yes—but I want to, Mother! Why is it so hard?”

  Lydia shook her head, and looked out at the sea before she said with bitterness in her voice, “I’m having the same trouble, Rachel. And it’s pride—nothing more. We’ve been hurt, and we won’t be satisfied until he suffers as we have!”

  Rachel looked at her mother in amazement, for she had never known of Lydia bearing a grudge. “But, Mother— surely you don’t feel that way!”

  Lydia suddenly put her fist to her mouth, pressing hard, and Rachel knew that she was stemming a sob that had risen to her throat. “Yes! I feel that way—and God forgive me! But He won’t, Rachel, because the Bible says that if we won’t forgive those who’ve wronged us, God will not forgive us!”

  Rachel said slowly, “I want to forgive him—but I just can’t!”

  Lydia stared at her daughter and then before she rose to go into the house, she said slowly, “We’re finding out something about ourselves, aren’t we, Rachel? God blesses us with a miracle—and we throw it back in His face! I wonder how we will pray when we need God? And I wonder if He’ll say, ‘I gave you a blessing and you rejected it—now you provide your own miracles!’ ”

  Rachel watched her mother go inside. The rest of the afternoon she went slowly about her work, mechanically and duly, unable to forget her mother’s words. Whom would I call on if I needed a miracle?, she wondered.

  And there was no answer except the slight breeze that stirred the trees and the far-off cry of a curlew.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DEATH IN THE WINTER

  Jude Alden was a contented man. He leaned against the rail fence and gazed off into the distance, savoring the knowledge that every blade of grass and every tree as far as the eye could see belonged to him. He glanced down at Rachel, then raised his arm and indicated a low rise of hills off in the distance. “There’s where the new plot begins—see? There—by that line of timber off to the left.”

  “How many acres did you say?”

  “Over three hundred in the whole tract.” Jude chuckled deep in his chest, and a broad smile crossed his lips as he said, “Old Taylor thought he’d do me in on the swap—but I knew if I held out, he’d get greedy and make a snatch for that worthless piece I traded for this. I let word get out that the new road to the north was going to go through my place— and I made sure that Taylor thought I didn’t know it. Why, it was enough to make a dog laugh, Rachel, the way he came up so innocent and offered to trade me this place! It was like taking candy away from a baby, I tell you!”

  Rachel looked up with an uneasy smile at Alden as they walked back along the trail to his house. She was sure her grandfather would never approve of his methods. Besides, she could never understand the pleasure he got in trading, and now she asked curiously, “Doesn’t your conscience ever hurt, Jude? I mean, you traded the old man a worthless piece of rocky ground for one of the best farms in the area.”

  He stared at her in surprise, and the blank look on his face showed that he had never once considered such a thing a moral issue. He studied how to explain it to her, his sharp-featured face expressive. “Why, I’d not treat a widow or an orphan this way—but if a man wants to do some trading with me, he’d best watch out for himself. It’s just a game, you see, Rachel? I try to best him and he tries to best me—and that’s the fun of it!”

  She thought about it, but her own sense of right and wrong was too limited to render judgment, so she shrugged and said, “Well, you own it, Jude—all this land. But I can enjoy the trees—and the birds sound just as sweet to me with their singing as they do to you.”

  He said little more as they made their way back to the cabin. Finally he smiled and said, “Now, you’re a woman, Rachel, and not able to think about business like a man. And that’s all right with me. I don’t want a wife to do the trading in the family.”

  “What do you want from a wife, Jude?” she asked mischievously. She was amused to see his jaw drop and a look of confusion sweep across his regular features.

  He suddenly stopped, pulled her around and kissed her resoundingly. His lips were cold in the December chill, and the bulky clothes they both wore hindered him. “I guess I want a wife for that for one thing!” he laughed, then kissed her again, holding her soft form tightly until she pulled away.

  “Come on, I’ll race you back to the house!” She took off running, and was so light and fleet of foot that he did not catch up to her until they turned into the clearing where his house sat. She stopped suddenly and was not even breathing hard as she said, “You’ve got company.” She lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the bright winter sun and bit her lip, adding, “It’s my father and John Sassamon.”

  He gave her an odd look. Then as they walked across the open field he said, “Nobody in Plymouth understands about your family, Rachel.” She didn’t answer and he went on, “Your father came out of nowhere eight months ago. He doesn’t live with you and your mother. He runs all over the country with those savages, and I suppose he’s made a fortune in beaver by this time. But—you never say a word about him.”

  “It’s a family problem, Jude.” Rachel shrugged and added only, “There was a falling out years ago, between him and my mother.”

  Jude shook his head. “I don’t like to say anything about your family, Rachel, but it’d be a tragedy if your mother took him back.”

  “Why do you say that?” She lowered her voice, for they were less than a hundred feet away from the house. “My grandfather says he’s a changed man.”

  “Changed from what?” Jude asked instantly. “This country is on the verge of an Indian war, Rachel. Philip is a madman! And your father spends all his time with the Indians.”

  “It’s the Praying Indians he’s with most, Jude. He’s working with Reverend Eliot a great deal.”

  “Praying Indians!” Jude muttered. “When the trouble comes, there’ll just be one kind of Indian! You’ll see. And your friend Sassamon will be right with them!”

  Rachel had argued this with Jude many times, but it was hopeless; Alden, like many of the settlers who lived in the wilderness areas, had no confidence in any Indian.

  Sassamon stepped forward, saying, “Hello, Rachel.”

  She took his hand and gave him a warm smile. “This is a surprise, John. Hello, Father. You’re looking thin.” She took his hand also, and thought about the many months it had taken for her to do a simple thing like calling Matthew Winslow “father.” He had been to their house exactly four times over the past eight months, never staying the night anywhere except in the inn. It was always something like an armed truce, and none of them had been able to feel very comfortable, though outwardly they appeared to be.

  “We’re like a bunch of porcupines!” Gilbert had exclaimed in disgust one evening after Matthew left the house. “We just seem to be full of spines that keep poking somebody else in tender places!”

  “Well,” Lydia said, “it’s not as bad as it was. We can sit down and talk now, at least.”

  “That
’s just, wonderful, isn’t it?” Gilbert had growled. “I’m actually able to sit down and talk with my own son!”

  For the first time in her life, Rachel had flared up at her grandfather. “Well, you’re as bad as she is! He comes here and sits and you talk about nothing but some idiotic sermon! It wouldn’t kill you to bend a little and say a kind word to the poor man, would it?”

  Gilbert and Lydia had stared at her, and finally Gilbert had said resentfully, “Maybe you’re right, Rachel, but there’s some deep wounds in our past. Scars that don’t heal all at once. But what about you? I don’t notice as how you’re sitting on his lap, and if you said one warm kind thing to Matthew tonight, I missed it!”

  Lydia had stopped the quarrel, saying, “We’re all guilty, Gilbert. The next time he comes, I—I’ll be more—gentle.”

  Now, standing there in the cold air, that scene flashed back to Rachel, and she made herself smile at Matthew. “We’ve been disappointed that you’ve not been back to the house.”

  Matthew’s face changed suddenly, and a warmth appeared in his bright blue eyes. “Why, thank you, Rachel. I’ve thought of you every day.”

  Jude said, “Where you headed, Mr. Winslow?”

  “John and I thought we’d make a sweep around the north country. Maybe find a few beaver streams we can trap in, in the spring.”

  Jude frowned. “I’d be careful if I were you. You know how jealous Philip is of his territory.”

  “Philip won’t mind if we take a few beaver, Alden,” Matthew said easily. “Indians don’t mind sharing things.”

  Jude grew defensive then, for Winslow was actually saying that settlers such as himself made the Indians go on the warpath. “Well, I been hearing that the tribes are restless. You hear about the attack on that farm in Bennington?”

  “Bunch of wild young boys drunk on whiskey,” John Sassamon answered. “They weren’t Wampanoags, either.” He turned and said, “I’ll be back this way in three days, Mr. Winslow. Where can we meet?”

  “Why, right here, if Alden doesn’t mind.”

  “Of course.” There was not a great deal of warmth in Jude’s voice, but he could not refuse with Rachel standing there. “Rachel and her grandfather are here for a visit. You’ll be welcome.”

  “Lydia didn’t come?” Matthew asked Rachel.

  “Oh, yes. She and Grandfather are over at Pageville. There’s a little church there having a struggle and they visit when they can to try to help out.”

  “You’ll stay for supper, Mr. Winslow?” Jude asked.

  “Yes, please do, Father,” Rachel said quickly. There had been a cold formality in Jude’s voice, and she had seen Matthew start to shake his head. He was surprised at her insistence. “Why, I think I will.”

  John was not included in the invitation, but as he left, he whispered to Rachel. “That’s my good girl! You honor your father and you’ll live a long time, like the scripture says!” He started to leave, then paused and said so softly she almost missed it, “God love you, Nahteeah—you’ve been a good sister to this Indian!” Then he left on silent steps and disappeared into the line of trees to the east of the house.

  Rachel spent most of the afternoon cooking, and to her surprise, Jude and her father walked around the farm talking, apparently content with each other’s company. Jude was making an attempt, she saw, to get to know her father, and it gave her a warm feeling to see it.

  Gilbert and Lydia got back just as the sun, white as if frozen by the raw winter wind, slipped behind the tall oaks. They came inside the house and as they took off their heavy coats, Rachel said, “Did you know Father is here?”

  Lydia stopped abruptly, turned and said quickly, “No, where is he?”

  “Jude’s been running him all over the farm.” She laughed ruefully, adding, “You’d think Father was interested in buying it, the way he’s looked at it.”

  Gilbert came to stand before the fireplace, holding his hands out to the flickering blaze. There was a wry light in his eyes and he said, “Matthew wouldn’t be interested in this farm—maybe in the man who owns it?”

  Rachel flushed slightly, then said, “Mother, will you help me set the food out? They went up to see a tract of land that Jude is interested in. Said he wanted to know what Father thought of it.”

  By the time the table was set, the two men walked in. Rachel did not miss the way her father’s face changed at the sight of Lydia and his father. She could not say exactly what it was, but there was a certain sadness in his face that she had gradually come to notice. It was not gloom or despair, and few would even discern it, but now as she watched him enter, she saw his whole expression subtly alter. As his eyes fell on Lydia, she saw a longing in his face and a soft smile on his lips. He still loves her, she thought. Then her attention turned to Jude.

  Jude’s face was flushed from the long walk, and he spoke briskly, saying, “Look at that food!” He moved to the table, shook his head and said, “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal like this since the last time you were here.”

  “Hello, Matthew,” Gilbert said, coming to take his hand. “You’ve been away for a long time.”

  “Yes,” Lydia said quickly, coming to stand beside Gilbert. “We expected you back before this.”

  “I’ve been on some pretty far trails since I was in Plymouth.” He hesitated, then added, “You’re both looking well.”

  Rachel interrupted, “We can talk while we eat—everything’s getting cold.”

  They all sat down and spent the most relaxed time any of them had had since Matthew’s return. Time had blunted the initial shock, so they were not constantly ill at ease just being with him. It helped to have the presence of Jude, making it necessary to speak of ordinary things in a normal fashion.

  Jude kept the conversation going, and as the two women kept the food coming and the cups filled, he told Gilbert how he’d been increasing his holdings. “Land will never be so cheap as it is now, Rev. Winslow!” he exclaimed. “Now’s the time to buy up every inch of ground you can, because this country will be worth a great deal of money in the years to come.”

  The rest of them listened, saying little, and finally the meal ended. As the women cleaned the table and put the dishes away, the men sat around talking idly of local matters. Rachel came and sat off to one side, joined by her mother.

  Gilbert had been telling of the church close by. Then he turned to Matthew. “Deacon Lattimore tells me you’ve been quite an encouragement to him, son.”

  “Why, I’ve done little enough,” Matthew protested.

  “Lattimore would disagree,” his father smiled. “He thinks you’re quite a Bible scholar. Told us over and over how much he’s appreciated your visits. And I didn’t know how much you’d done to help with the Indian mission schools.”

  “Oh, John is responsible for most of that. I’ve just been able to help a bit with the cost.”

  Gilbert saw that his son was embarrassed, so he merely smiled and said, “God will bless your work, I’m sure.”

  At last Matthew went to sleep in the barn, and Gilbert and Lydia retired. Jude and Rachel sat before the fire talking for a while.

  Jude had been put in a mellow mood by the quiet evening, and he talked of things he hoped to do—not business matters, but of things he’d never shared with her. His face grew dreamy, more relaxed than she’d ever seen him, and he moved his hands expansively as he spoke of travel, of going to England, even to Germany, someday. For a long time she sat there, her feet curled under her, her head resting on her palms as she listened intently. Several times he said we when speaking of journeys and plans, and she smiled quietly, thinking of how carefully he’d avoided any direct talk such as that for a long time.

  He got up to poke up the fire, then came to sit beside her; she said in a whisper, “I love it when you talk like that, Jude!”

  She made a lovely picture as she sat there, the golden firelight catching fire in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. His blood was stirred, and he lowered his he
ad and kissed her, then put his arms around her, holding her close.

  She allowed this, even went so far as to put her hand on his neck, her heart beating faster. Then just as she was drawing back from the increasing pressure of his lips, whispering, “Jude, we mustn’t—” the front door suddenly opened, and Matthew entered, saying, “Alden—there’s some kind of—”

  Jude and Rachel pulled away so rapidly that she nearly fell off the bench. Her hair fell in disarray and there was a look of guilt in the way they came to their feet, staring at Matthew who stopped suddenly, the words broken off abruptly.

  He stared at them, and for the first time in her life, Rachel saw the Winslow anger she’d heard about since she was a child. Her father’s light eyes blazed like blue fire, and he actually took a step forward so suddenly that Jude stepped backward and raised his hands!

  “Don’t!” Rachel cried, taking a step forward, and it was well she did, for it brought her father’s eyes to her, and she saw his wrath turn to sorrow as he looked at her. Then he pulled himself together and said, “There’s some sort of animal after the stock, Alden—a bear, I think.”

  Jude, welcoming the break in Matthew’s mood, leaped to pull a musket from the wall, crying, “I’ll take care of him.”

  He left the room at a dead run, and Matthew turned without a word to leave, but Rachel said sharply, “Wait!”

  “Yes, Rachel?”

  She was suddenly angry through and through, and she did not realize it was at herself instead of her father. She threw her head back and it was his turn to see some of the Winslow wrath, this time in the French blackness of his daughter’s eyes!

  “I resent what you think!” she said in a tense voice that quivered with rage.

  “I—said nothing,” Matthew answered. He stood there, a tall shape in the flickering light of the candle, the sharp planes of his face bolder in relief.

  She struck out at him; it was not the embarrassment of the moment that drove her to a rage, but the buried resentment and anger at what she had felt from the moment of his return. His act of betrayal fourteen years ago struck the fire that blazed out at Matthew as she stood there.