The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Once—I was,” she whispered. “At least, I thought I was. But then he died, and I promised God I’d serve Him always.”

  Howland prided himself on his control. He lived by a code of iron discipline, never yielding to the weakness of the flesh. Years before, he had put all idea of marriage out of his mind, at least until God gave him freedom to seek a wife.

  But as he stood there holding Rachel’s hand, he was suddenly conscious of her upturned face and was filled with a strange feeling of weakness, causing his hand to tremble.

  Feeling the tremor in his hand, she looked up in surprise, her large eyes luminous in the moonlight. “Why, you’re trembling, Robert!” she exclaimed. Without intending to do it, she reached up and touched his cheek, and a tear rolled down her cheek, making a silver track on her face. “You mustn’t be sorry for me,” she said.

  But it was deep compassion and the suddenness of the emotion that shook him. He was a man who kept his emotion, as well as anything else, under strict control, but her hand on his cheek released something that had been bound up in him for years.

  He took her shoulders, then lowered his head and kissed her soft lips, tasting the salt of her tears.

  Rachel had not been unaware of Howland as a man, and his kiss swept through her with a power she found difficult to repress. He put his arms around her and held her gently. Though there was pity and compassion in his caress, there was more. She had stirred something deep within him, and he found his heart reaching out to her.

  Like Howland, Rachel had kept this part of life tightly locked, but suddenly the door was flung open, and she was conscious only of his strong arms around her, holding her closer, his lips on hers.

  Then she gasped and drew back. Immediately, he dropped his arms, embarrassed. They stared at each other, neither able to speak. Finally Howland said, “I—I must be—”

  He could not finish, and Rachel moved to wipe the tears from her face. “Don’t be upset, Robert—it’s not your fault.”

  He was shocked beyond reason, and stammered as he said, “I—can’t believe that I’ve acted in such a fashion!”

  She gave him a strange smile. “You have a large heart, Robert. And you keep it well caged! But I think I have just seen what a compassionate man you are underneath all that bluster!”

  He shook his head. “I’m glad you can think of it like that, Rachel.”

  “You were just sorry for me—that’s all.” Then she moved away from him, and as she came to the door, she turned and said, “It was a brotherly kiss, Robert. Good night.”

  He watched her go inside, and then he walked for a long time beneath the stars, and finally returned to the house. The last thing he thought of before he finally went to sleep was her words: It was a brotherly kiss—nothing more!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE HUNT IS ON

  “Robert—come in, come in! Where in the world have you been hiding?”

  Grabbing Howland’s arm, Miles literally pulled him into the house and began to berate him for his neglect. Howland’s face broke into a smile; his affection for the young man dissolved the sober look in his student’s face. Robert rode out the storm of words, thinking not so much of what Miles was saying, but of the strange state of mind which had dominated him since his last visit to Salem.

  He was not a man given to excessive introspection, but that short interlude with Rachel had impressed him so much that no matter how he tried to put it out of his mind, the scene kept returning. For years he had been on his guard against anything that would be a hindrance to his ministry—and the most obvious handicap, in his judgment, was marriage. Fending off potential brides had become almost second nature to him, but something was different in this case. He could not put his finger on it, nor could he forget. Their last meeting nagged at him, pulling his mind in two ways at once, and for a month his work, his study in the Word, and his sleep had suffered. Finally that very morning, he had set his jaw after another fitful night, and started for Salem. He had no plan of action, but he knew he had to face Rachel, if only to see if his vivid memory of her was a figment of his imagination.

  “Are your parents at home?” he finally asked, breaking into Miles’ running monologue.

  “Why, no, they’re not, Robert—and you barely caught me.” His face revealed a sudden concern and he said earnestly, “I’m glad you’ve come—things are in a ferment here. I swear the whole town’s gone insane!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Why, it’s this fool witchcraft business!” Miles said in disgust. “Some silly women accused a poor old woman—Bridget Bishop—of being a witch, and the trial is on right now. Come on, it’s already started, and you may be of some help.”

  “I hardly see how,” Howland protested, but he allowed himself to be drawn along. There had been much talk of witchcraft in his own village, and he was curious to see how the business was handled in Salem.

  They made their way to the largest building in Salem, a two-story structure of red brick, and found a crowd pressing around the outside, excitedly talking and staring through the open windows.

  “We’ll never get in there!” Howland said, but Miles pulled his arm, and they were admitted by an elderly man who nodded at the youth and opened the door just wide enough for them to slip through.

  The door they passed through was in the back of the large room, so few people saw them enter. As they took places along the wall, standing with the others who had missed out on the bench seats, Robert saw the Winslow family sitting together close to the front on one of the benches that was at right angles to the room, facing the raised platform where several elderly men sat at a long table—magistrates, he suspected, and judges for the hearing.

  Rachel looked his way, and as their eyes met, he had the strange feeling that she had been as restless as he, for she bit her lower lip in agitation, then nodded and turned back to the scene before her.

  An old woman, plainly dressed and so upset that she could not speak without a break in her voice, stood on a smaller platform with a small rail built around it, waist high. She must have been at least sixty-five or seventy years old, and from her speech and actions, Howland judged her to be of humble origins and not especially intelligent.

  “And you have heard witness after witness testify that you appeared to them in a horrid shape,” one of the judges said sternly. He was a tall, thin man with a long face and staring eyes. “John Cook swears that you appeared to him five years ago, that you struck him on the head, and that on that same day you walked into the room where he was and an apple strangely flew out of his hand into the lap of his mother, six or eight feet from him. What say you to that, Bridget Bishop?”

  “Oh, I ain’t never hit his mother with no apple—please God, I never once hit ’im.”

  “He has sworn that you did! Are you calling Master Cook a liar?”

  “Oh no, sir!” The old woman trembled so violently with fear that she swayed back and forth. “Please God, sir, Mr. Cook—he was angry with me over the business with the suckling pigs, but I never done ’im no hurt!”

  “What is this about pigs?” Every head turned to see Matthew Winslow stand up and face the court.

  “Mr. Winslow! We will take care that all the evidence is heard! You are not a judge in this hearing!”

  Winslow suddenly raised an arm, pointing it like a rapier at the long-faced man who had gone livid with rage. “Thomas Carlew, you have permitted a dozen witnesses to testify of some ridiculous incident going back ten years, while at the same time you are deaf to any suggestion that these people may be as silly as they sound!”

  An angry hum went over the room, and Miles whispered to Howland, “Father’s all stirred up, isn’t he? Look at how mad the witnesses are.”

  Howland saw that many were boiling with anger at Winslow, and he thought, Winslow is making trouble for himself!

  There was a heated argument about whether or not the defendant should be allowed to amplify her statement on the pigs, b
ut the direct attacks of Winslow prevailed, and the old woman said, “Please, sir, it was only that Master Cook bought six suckling pigs from me, and four of ’em died—so he come and wanted his money back—and said they was cursed. Only I didn’t have none of it—so he said I was a thief and a witch.” She began crying, and Matthew turned to a sallow-faced man in the front row.

  “Mr. Cook, you are a prejudiced witness—your testimony is worthless.”

  Cook jumped up and began to scream at Winslow, but the judge said loudly, “Sit down, Mr. Cook! And you, too, Matthew Winslow! Or I will have you put out of this room!”

  Winslow stared at him, then said loudly, “You are a disgrace to your office, Jacob Sneed!” He swept his arm over the entire courtroom and cried out, “In God’s name, can’t you see what a farce this hearing is? Not one trace of evidence! Nothing but a bunch of sniveling, silly, witless gossips determined to have a Roman holiday with one poor, unfortunate woman! God help you all!”

  The room broke into a roar, some being in sympathy with Winslow, but most of the crowd angry at the interruption. Justice Sneed finally quieted the crowd enough to say, “You will leave this room, Matthew Winslow—before I fine you for contempt of court!”

  Winslow rose to his feet with fire in his eyes as he called out in ringing tones, “There are not words enough in the world, not brains enough in your heads, to describe the contempt I feel for this—I will not say court, for it is none! For this pack of dogs without a single trace of Christian love! I wash my hands of you!”

  He stepped to the aisle, and Lydia, Rachel, and Gilbert followed him as he stalked toward the door, his face a mask of outrage. As the party left the room, Miles and Howland joined them. Outside the crowd milled around them, some angry, some saying, “Well done, sir!”

  A burly man with a pock-marked face planted himself before Matthew, a sneer on his lips as he said, “Ye had yer say, Winslow, now I’ll have mine!” He gave a quick look around and was satisfied to see that he had the crowd’s attention. “Now wot about it, Winslow? Ye called me own brother a liar, did ye?”

  Matthew lifted his head and looked coldly at his accuser. Something in Matthew’s eyes made the heavy-set man blink and take a sudden step backward. “Rufus Cook, your brother is a liar, as is well known in this community. You are a liar and a thief, which I am perfectly willing to prove either in a court of law—or right now with fists, knives, guns, or any weapon you care to name!”

  A silence fell over the yard, for Winslow’s youthful reputation as a fighter of terrible proportions had not been greatly dimmed.

  Rufus Cook backed down quickly. “Aw, yer so good an pure, all you Winslows! But lemme’ tell ye, there’s talk about the lot of ye, there is! The girl there, why, the hull town knows there’s something that ain’t natural about the way folks git well when she goes to ’em. And if a body can make somebody well, why, they can cast a spell and make ’em sick, can’t they now?”

  A sinister mutter went over the crowd, and Cook nodded savagely, “And that wife of yers, she prays strange. Some say in some kinda language that ain’t good English!—and wot we wants to know is—wot sort of words is it, Winslow—mebbe’ the Lord’s prayer backwards, could it be, now?”

  Matthew’s arm moved so quickly that it was difficult to see. His fist shot out, catching Cook in the face with a solid thunk! The force of the blow drove the burly man backward, and he fell on his back in the dust. Then Winslow reached down, grabbed his coat and yanked him to his feet. He ignored the blood streaming from Cook’s nose, and in a deadly voice said, “You open your mouth about my family one more time, Rufus Cook, and this community will not be bothered with your worthless presence any longer!”

  He shoved the man away, and the crowd parted to let the family through. None of them spoke until they were out of sight of the square. “They’re mad!” Miles said bitterly.

  “They surely won’t convict the old woman on such evidence!” Rachel said.

  “They might,” her father said heavily. “We must have help with this. I shouldn’t have struck Rufus Cook!” He shook his head and gave Robert an apologetic smile. “You have any ideas about this, Reverend?”

  “I think you must go to Reverend Parris,” Howland instructed. “He may not be your idea of a good pastor—but he is in a position to do some good.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Gilbert said suddenly. “The man has not much of the Spirit of the Lord, but as pastor, he has authority to disperse those idiots!”

  “I wonder why he wasn’t at the trial, Matthew,” Lydia said.

  “His daughter is sick, I believe,” Rachel spoke up. “Perhaps he didn’t want to leave her.”

  “Well, I don’t like the sound of that,” Matthew grunted. “In a matter this important, the pastor should be on the scene. We’ll wait until the hearing is over; then we’ll have a talk with Reverend Parris.”

  It was a long wait, and Howland felt somewhat awkward being there, but when he mentioned leaving, Matthew objected. “No, you must go with us, Robert! Parris may listen to a fellow minister—for he surely won’t pay much heed to me.”

  The morning went by, and Lydia prepared a small lunch. No one was hungry and though the hearing was not far from their thought, they talked mostly of other things. After lunch, Gilbert lay down to take a nap, and Miles left on an errand for his father. When Matthew and Lydia also disappeared, Howland was disconcerted to find himself alone with Rachel.

  As he sat at the table sipping tea, she came and seated herself across from him. “You look tired, Robert,” she remarked. “I suspect you’ve been working hard.”

  He shrugged, started to agree, then a sudden streak of honesty overtook him. “No, I’ve been troubled about the last time I was here, Rachel.” He caught her look of surprise and laughed shortly, adding, “I take it that you haven’t been upset?”

  Rachel stared at him, a slight color rising in her cheeks— making her even more attractive, he thought. “I’ve thought of you,” she said quietly.

  The silence ran on, making the ticking of the clock on the mantel seem very loud. She put her hand on her throat in a feminine gesture, and her eyes found his; for several seconds they looked at each other.

  Then she said, “We’re alike, aren’t we, Robert? I mean, both of us have chosen to give our lives to God. And we’ve both been very careful to build a high wall around our hearts. I saw it in you the first time we met.” She smiled at the memory. “It was like a large sign a man would put on his door: KEEP OUT—NO LOVE ALLOWED!”

  Howland’s face changed, for her words had put his life into sharp focus; he had never thought of it in that way, but now he said, “Why, in that you’re right! I do want to give God my life, but I never made a vow about it.”

  “Nor I!” she admitted, then bit her lip and a sadness filled her hazel eyes as she said, “When I lost the man I was going to marry, I thought life was over—in that way. So I turned to God, and since that day, I’ve tried to think of nothing but serving Him.”

  He got up and paced nervously around the room, pausing to look out the window. Finally he came to stand before her, looking at her with troubled eyes. “I find myself thinking of you constantly,” he said, then added, “I can’t forget your kiss.”

  She rose in agitation, and he caught her before she could turn away. “Robert!” she protested, but he held her fast, and she found her heart beating furiously as they stood there.

  “I may be in love with you, Rachel,” he said quietly.

  “You—mustn’t be!” she cried. “This is no time to talk of that, not with all the trouble,” she finished bruskly.

  “If a man’s in love,” he said roughly, “the time to talk about it is when he has the woman in his arms—like now.” He kissed her again, ignoring her effort to release herself.

  She never knew which of them broke away first, for she was lost in the wonder of it. But when he lifted his head and stepped back, she said swiftly, “This can’t be! It’s too—quick! What w
ould you say to one of the young people in our church who did what we’ve been doing?”

  “We’re not children, Rachel,” Howland answered. “I know one thing, and that is that I feel about you as I’ve never felt toward any other woman! If it’s not love, I don’t know what it is. But answer me this, how do you feel?”

  She was caught between two desires, both of them strong, and she could not answer immediately. He waited as he watched the struggle reflected in her face. Finally she sighed and said, “I must pray! It’s no small thing, is it, to put your heart in the hands of another human being!”

  He smiled as he took her hands. “This is the testing time, Rachel. You say God’s never refused you anything? Then the matter is simple. You must ask Him if it is His will for me to come into your life.”

  “I will,” she said quietly. “But this time, I don’t think God is going to shout the answer from the housetop. I think the answer will be like the treasure hid in a field. Robert, I think we’re going to have to give all we have to find God in this matter!”

  Lydia was not ignorant of what was going on between her daughter and Robert. As they were on their way to the pastor’s house, Lydia looked questioningly at Robert, but said nothing. There was a light in her dark eyes, though, that made him feel uncomfortable, like a small boy caught with his fingers in the honey jar. To avoid any misunderstanding, he resolved to make his feelings known to Rachel’s parents as soon as possible.

  Their visit with Parris was brief, almost abrupt, for the pastor was so agitated that he found it difficult to speak. His red-rimmed eyes indicated he hadn’t slept in days. When Matthew told him why they had come, Parris cried out, “Oh, I cannot put myself against the court! No, not after what has happened here, in my own home!”

  “Why, Pastor, what’s the trouble?” Winslow asked in surprise.

  The slight man began to moan in distress. Finally he made an attempt to compose himself and began. “I must—must tell you,” he said with some pain, “the devil has raised his head—in my own house!”