The Captive Bride (18 page)

By the time she heard the footsteps approaching the house, the hurt and bitterness had taken a firm hold of her mind. She opened the door, and saw at a glance that neither of them had slept. Gilbert's face was pinched in a way she had never seen it, for he was a cheerful man, never gloomy; but now he looked old and worn as he came to embrace her. “You look tired, Rachel,” he said quietly.

“I didn't sleep much. You two didn't either, from the looks of you. I've got some tea ready.” She sat them down and as she poured the tea, she said, “It's hard for me—but much worse for both of you.”

Gilbert took the tea, stirred it slowly with his spoon, then tried to smile. “I feel very guilty, you know. Here is my only son come back from the grave, and I've not been giving God the glory.”

Lydia sat down wearily, looked out the window where the morning sun was beginning to warm the earth. She shook
her head and said, “Matthew is alive—not dead, and I feel so—so ...”

Gilbert gazed at her steadily and said, “It will take a while, my dear.” He sipped his tea, adding, “I've sent word for him to come as soon as he can.”

“But—what are you going to say to him?” Rachel asked, frustration mirroring her usually cheery face. Her full lips narrowed under the pressure, as she continued. “He can't expect to just step back into our lives as if nothing happened! I can't just smile at him and say, ‘Father, I'm so glad you're home,' can I?”

Gilbert stared at his cup, then looked up at her. “I hardly think he expects that, Rachel. But I know what you mean.” Nervously he bit his lip, then added, “Let's wait until we talk to him before we try to make any decisions or form any judgments.”

The next hour was a strain as each tried to occupy himself. But none mentioned Matthew's name. Then as Lydia looked out the window she cried, “Here he comes!” They all stiffened. Following the knock at the door, Gilbert moved stiffly forward, then pulled it open and stepped back.

Matthew took two steps into the room, paused, then meeting Gilbert's gaze, said quietly, “Hello, Father.”

The two women did not move nor speak, for they were caught by the tension that filled the room. Both of them looked at Gilbert's face, now masking his emotions.

Gilbert Winslow was not a man to hide his feelings; that was one of his charms. His expressive features reflected his moods, for he had not formed the habit of concealing his emotions. When he was angry, his bright eyes blazed with a fury that most men could not match, and when he was filled with joy, the light on his face made all who saw him glad.

But now his impassive face revealed no emotion. “Matthew,” he began, “this is a glad day for me. Welcome home.” The words were cordial, perhaps, but they were spoken in a careful, guarded tone, with little warmth.

Matthew's face, bronzed with an eastern sun, had been tense, but Lydia had seen the sudden light of expectancy that had lurked in his eyes and on his lips. At his father's words, his face had gone still, and he bit his lip, nodding slightly. “Thank you, sir.”

It was all so formal, painfully so, that Lydia said quickly, “Come in and sit down.”

“Thank you.” He moved toward the table, sat down and folded his hands on the table. Gilbert sat down opposite him, but the two women remained standing.

Gilbert looked his son in the face and said, “You're looking well.” Then he suddenly struck the table and cried, “Matthew, why—!”

“Father, wait!” Matthew implored, twisting his head to one side. The memory of that mannerism raked hard across Gilbert's nerves, and he knew for a long time he would be seeing and hearing things he had forgotten.

Matthew suddenly smiled, and though it was a bittersweet expression, his tone revealed no malice. “Let me put your minds at ease—all three of you. You're all in a state of shock—and you're all angry with me—” He held up his hand as Gilbert started to speak, and raised his voice as he said, “How could it be otherwise? You are angry, Father, because I ran away from duty. Lydia, how could you not be bitter with a man who deserted you? And you, Rachel, how can you possibly accept a stranger as a father—a man who's never done one thing for you that a real father would have done?”

The words struck all three of them like musket balls. Gilbert finally spoke, his voice edged with agitation and a trace of wonder. “You have picked up some discernment along the way.” This time a smile touched the corners of his mouth and he said, “In my case you are correct—but I will expect that as we spend time together, I will be able to overcome this attitude.”

Looking intently at each one, Matthew said quietly, “You need have no fear that I've come to move into your lives.” At
his words a look of surprise swept across Lydia's face, but he did not see it. “It took me two years to convince myself even to come back. I was ashamed, of course, and I had decided that whatever else I did, the one thing I would not be guilty of was inflicting
more
pain on you.”

“What changed your mind—Matthew?” Lydia asked. She seemed to have trouble pronouncing his name, but the shock of his presence was lessening, and the tense lines on her face had softened.

He hesitated, then gave a smile tinged with embarrassment. “I'll tell you—but it sounds so weak, I'd not expect you to believe it.”

“I'd like to hear whatever part of your life you will tell us, Matthew,” Gilbert encouraged him. “Lydia informs me it's your opinion we would be shocked by some of it—but I think we deserve to know
something!
You owe us that, I think.”

Matthew bit his lip, then shrugged, saying, “Certainly. Father, if you want to know, I'll tell you.” He got up and began to pace the floor, and his gait, his every movement brought back to Lydia and Gilbert the young man they had last seen fourteen years earlier.

“As I told Lydia, I was delirious when I left the jail, and you remember that my mind was in bad shape at that time. The ship was bound for Africa, but for most of that long voyage, I was so ill they kept me in the hold, pretty much expecting me to die. Perhaps you don't know this, but England and Spain are in stiff competition with one sort of merchandise—black slaves from Africa. Well, the
Eagle
made a good haul, but she was overtaken by a Spanish man-of-war and impounded as contraband. They kept the ship and the slaves, and every man on board was tried and found guilty of smuggling!”

Matthew gave them a curious look, then said, “I was in a Spanish prison for nearly six years—which is as close to hell on earth as you'll find on this planet!”

“I've heard something of it,” Gilbert responded. “It's a miracle you're alive at all, from what's said of such places.”

“I wouldn't be if I hadn't escaped. There was a prisoner named Rolfe, Isaac Rolfe. He'd been a soldier, a pirate, and just about everything else—but he got us out of that prison!”

“What did you do then?” Rachel asked suddenly. She had been watching her father pace the floor, and there was a burning desire to know all about him.

“Why, I joined with Rolfe,” he shrugged. “And for the next six years we did all manner of things that men in our condition do to stay alive. We called ourselves ‘soldiers of fortune'—which was a fancy way of saying we would fight on any side for any cause if there was enough gold in it for us.” He paused and his brow furrowed as he thought; then he added, “I must have been in half a dozen armies, and most of the time I didn't even ask what the war was about.”

“There are worse things than being a soldier,” Lydia said.

“Yes, there are, and I managed to discover one,” Matthew said bitterly. “Trading in human flesh—that was my next fine profession! I joined with Rolfe to buy a schooner and we made the trip to Africa time after time, but it never failed to make me sick. We packed them in so thickly on the ship they had to sleep hugging each other, like spoons pressed together. And when the plague would break out in the hold, they'd die like flies! We've thrown them over the side by the dozens—women, nursing mothers, babies—!”

He walked to the window and leaned on the sill, staring out at the green grass and the swaying hills. He stood there so long that he seemed to have forgotten them. Finally Gilbert gave a quick glance at Lydia and cleared his throat. “What happened then?”

“What? Oh, I took it as long as I could—” Matthew turned and looked at them with an odd light in his blue eyes. “Finally I sold my share of the ship to Rolfe and cleared out. I had enough money so that I could go anywhere, and for a few months I just wandered around, looking for something—but I couldn't find any peace.”

He smiled at Gilbert and said, “Here's the part you won't
believe. It sounds too much like a bad story. You see, ever since those days in that Spanish prison, something you told me once kept coming back. You may not remember it—but I've never forgotten. On the day that Uncle Edward and I were leaving for England, you and mother were there. It was the last time I ever saw her.”

“I remember very well,” Gilbert said quietly.

“Do you remember that you started down the ladder, and you called out to me:
‘Be faithful to God, Matthew—never fail Him! Be true to God—and to yourself ' ?”

“Yes, I said that.”

“Well, those words came to me all the years I was in prison, and even while I was serving the devil in the wars and in the slave trade. But when I finally cut all my ties with Rolfe and was alone with nothing to do, those words got even stronger. I tell you, it was like losing my mind—the way they kept ringing in my ears! So then—and here's what I find hard to say to you ...”

He seemed so embarrassed that Gilbert said, “Go on. Let us hear it, son!”

Matthew nodded, then continued in a quiet voice charged with emotion. “I went back to England with no purpose, but one day I suddenly decided to go back to Bedford. It was like a dream when I got there, seeing the little house where we lived, Lydia—and the jail, of course! I found out Pastor Gifford had gone on, but you know about John Bunyan?”

“Yes.” Gilbert smiled for the first time. “He's become quite a famous preacher since his release three years ago. In great demand all over England. And he and Elizabeth have two children of their own now!”

“Yes, I know,” Matthew said. “I stayed with them for six months. He hasn't changed, John hasn't. The years in prison just made him pure gold! But now I have to tell you both—I was a lost sinner when I went to stay with the Bunyans, but through their love and kindness—I found Christ as my Savior.” The confession seemed very difficult for him, and he
laughed shortly. “I told you it would sound like a bad piece of fiction. Sinner gets converted and runs for his father's house—after ruining the lives of the three people he loves most.” Matthew got up, wheeled and started for the door. He paused, turned and added roughly, “I won't trouble you, you may be sure of that!”

His departure was so sudden that they were stunned. Gilbert called out, “Wait—!” But he was gone.

“I—I don't understand, Gilbert,” Lydia said in bewilderment. “Why should he be so—so
ashamed
to tell us he's become a Christian?”

“It sounds too easy for him, I think,” Gilbert said slowly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I can see how he feels, can't you? He behaved shamefully, and now his pride won't let him believe that all he has to do is ask forgiveness.”

“But—is it real? His conversion, I mean?”

Gilbert turned to look at Rachel, then answered, “I don't know, but in a way, it's just as well he feels this way. It will give us all time to think, to try and sort this out.”

“But, what will he do?” Lydia asked.

“I think,” Gilbert murmured softly, “he'll spend a lot of time
showing
us that he's found God—instead of
telling
us!”

Matthew's words on leaving—
I won't trouble you, you may be sure of that!
—were followed so strictly that for the next month it was almost as if his sudden appearance had been a dream! He did not return to the Winslow house, and they had to learn of his movements from others.

“The gentleman with your name, Pastor Winslow, he's your relation, is he?” Martin Tillotson asked one day as Gilbert stopped by the single inn in Plymouth. Tillotson was new to the town, a small, polite man, very regular in his church attendance. He smiled and said, “I could see the resemblance between the two of you—a fine looking man he is, too, like yourself, if I may say so.”

“Yes, Brother Tillotson,” Gilbert said quickly. “He's my son. How did you happen to meet him?”

“Why, he took a room here last week, Pastor—but he's been gone since that first day. Said he'd not be in much. He didn't mention his business.”

Gilbert didn't take the broad hint, for not knowing himself what Matthew was doing, he could not very well answer the innkeeper. He repeated the conversation to Lydia and Rachel. They too were perplexed.

“Why did he come here if he was intending to leave so soon?” Rachel asked sharply. “Everyone knows about it. Mercy asked me right out, ‘Is that
really
your father living at the inn?' And what was I to say? The whole thing makes me feel so—awkward!”

All three of them felt that way the next Sabbath Day, when Matthew walked in and took a back seat in the small church. It was a small town, and every stranger was subjected to minute examination, but Matthew's appearance sent a hum of whispering around the congregation, and several members were in danger of dislocating their necks trying to swivel around and catch a glimpse of the visitor.

Lydia's cheeks burned. Rachel turned to her mother and whispered, “We can't
bear
this, Mother!”

Gilbert took in the avid interest, noting the embarrassment on the faces of Rachel and Lydia. His own face was paler than usual, but he rose and called the congregation to order as if nothing had happened. They sang and several members gave interpretations of scriptures; then Gilbert preached for an hour.