The Captive Bride (6 page)

They walked around the village streets, and Bunyan observed slyly as the neighbors all greeted young Winslow along with himself, “You've become quite a fixture here, Matthew. How long has it been since you came—two months?”

“About that.”

Bunyan said suddenly, turning to face Matthew, “You're completely taken with the Carbonne girl.”

“Well, she's a charming young woman—”

“Faw!” Bunyan snorted. “Don't you think I have eyes? Even Mary, who can't see a thing, asked me when you two were getting married.”

Matthew stopped suddenly, then turned to lean against a rock wall that encircled a snug cottage. He pulled a piece of moss from between two smooth stones, stroked its silky texture, then tossed it to the ground. “I didn't come to England to get married, John. I came to find—” He paused and
once again he plucked a shred of the emerald green moss and seemed to be lost in thought as he stroked it with the tip of his finger. “To tell the truth, Brother Bunyan, I don't know
what
it was I came to find. I thought maybe it was adventure—for I've always wanted that! But these last few days in this place have made me uncertain.”

Bunyan nodded sagely and said, “I know, boy, I know. Didn't I run off when I was only a lad to fight in the war? And there's some of that in you. You'll not be a man content to rust unburnished, I tell you! But war—that's not the answer.” He shook his head and looked up as a swallow sailed gracefully to land in the chimney of the house beyond the wall. “No, men tire of that. But there's another kind of action, the warfare of the spirit. Jesus calls us to arms, you know. He urges us to put on the whole armor of God, to train as athletes for the race. Being a Christian isn't a soft, easy life—especially in this poor country of ours, in the year of our Lord 1659.”

Matthew tossed the shred of moss to the ground and looked at Bunyan with excitement in his bright blue eyes. “I think I'd like to be part of that struggle, John.”

Bunyan took in the lean form, the eager wedge-shaped face turned toward him, and then he shook his head sadly. “It won't be easy, you know. I don't think we can win this war. Some of us won't die in our beds—and some will go to prison or be driven beyond the sea.”

“I'm not afraid of that!”

“No, not now, perhaps. But I tell you flat out, Matthew Winslow, the only ones who will survive this coming darkness will be those to whom the Lord Jesus Christ is a living reality! Can you say that's true of you?”

Matthew dropped his head, and there was a silence on the air so profound that he could hear the far-off cry of a curlew. The silence ran on, broken only by the tinkle of bells on a few sheep in a distant meadow.

When he raised his head, there was a mixture of sadness and desire in his face. “No, John,” he said slowly, “I can't
say that. I've been watching the people here, and I confess to you—as I have to Pastor Gifford—Christ is not formed in my heart. Not
yet!
But I'm willing to throw myself into this battle you say is coming.”

Bunyan straightened his back and looked carefully into the eyes of young Winslow. He liked what he saw but was not ready to say more than, “It's a beginning, Matthew. God will guide you—and as I said, you'll not be a dusty man of business! The spirit in you, why, it's far too strong for that!”

“I—I've been confused about just about everything, John, but one thing I'm sure of is that I want to marry Lydia Carbonne.”

Bunyan stared at the young man, then shook his head. “Be sure of yourself, Matthew.” He held up his hand to cut off the protest that leaped to Matthew's lips. “In the first place, you're young and have no profession. Now, I hear that you may do well in business, so Asa Goodman says. But that's not enough for a marriage.”

“But I love Lydia!”

“There is one thing that few people know about Lydia, Matthew, not even her aunt suspects it.”

“What is that, John?”

“She seems flighty, not at all serious about her religion, but I tell you she
is!
Even her aunt mistakes her; being so much opposed to her mother's marriage, she chooses to think that the French strain has corrupted the English piety. Tell the truth now, son, do you not think the young woman to be somewhat frivolous—though very beautiful?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but—”

“You are mistaken, and you will find out that there is a will of steel in her makeup. I have had more than one talk with her about her commitment to the Lord Jesus Christ, and I tell you she will not be happy with a husband who is less of a Christian than she is.”

“And you think I am not enough of a Christian to be her husband?”

Bunyan smiled and put his large hand on the young man's arm. There was a mixture of love and judgment in his direct gaze. Then he said, his voice low but firm, “I think you have not found yourself yet, my boy—and you have not found your God. I travail much in prayer for you.” Then he slapped the broad shoulder of the young man, saying with encouragement, “You will find your way! Now, let us go inside.”

The two went into the cottage, but for once Matthew had little appetite for Elizabeth's good cooking. He played with his food, then after supper spent some time with the children. Finally he left, thanking the Bunyans for their hospitality. When he went up to his room, he picked up his journal and struggled to put down on paper what was happening to him.

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.