The Captive Bride by Gilbert Morris Page B

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.
    â€œMr. Winslow!” A voice caught at him, interrupting his reminiscing. As he turned he saw Pastor Gifford approaching from the square with his nephew. “You’re two days late,” Gifford said as he came to take Winslow’s hand. “We’ve been concerned.”
    â€œEvery coach was full for two days after the King arrivedfrom France.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have been most happy to leave earlier.”
    â€œCome, Uncle,” Matthew said quickly, noting his evident fatigue. “These coach rides are enough to make a man take to his bed. I’ll accompany you to Pastor Gifford’s house. You can tell us the news on the way.”
    â€œI think I will take a little rest, Matthew,” his uncle nodded. He allowed himself to be led along the street by Matthew’s gentle pressure. He said little as they made their way past the first group of cottages north of the Mote Hall, but gave a sigh of relief as they came to the small cottage of the pastor.
    â€œWife!” Gifford called out as they crossed the threshold, “We have a guest.”
    Gifford’s wife Sarah, a short, heavy-set woman of fifty, turned from the massive fireplace, her face lighting up at the sight of the older man. “Ah now, I’ve been cooking for you for two days! Sit you down, and you can have these meat pies I’ve had to fight my husband and your nephew for!”
    â€œYes, sit down, Edward,” Gifford urged, pulling a heavy chair back from the table. “Sit you down, too,” he said to the younger Winslow. “You can lie down after you’ve eaten, Edward, but first, tell us about the event.”
    â€œCharles is king of England—and that’s the whole of it,” Winslow said heavily. He reached into his inner pocket, fumbled around briefly, then pulled a letter out. “A letter from your father.”
    As Matthew opened the letter, he heard Pastor Gifford saying, “Well, we knew it was coming, didn’t we?”
    â€œYes, we knew it.” Winslow leaned forward, placed his brow on his fist and closed his eyes. “Aye, we knew it, John— but I don’t think any of us really have any idea of what it’s going to be like.”
    â€œIn that you are probably right,” Gifford said slowly. “It’ll be a dark night of the soul for our people.”
    As the two older men spoke of the new order and theproblems it would bring to their small world, Matthew read the brief lines:
    4 March 1660
    My son Matthew,
    Your request that we travel to England to meet your new bride is, of course, quite out of the question. I fear you do not yet understand how ill your mother is. She is almost completely bedfast now, and I must stay at home to take care of her, except for those times when the neighbors sit with her.
    I do not even dare go to preach overnight at any of the churches, for fear she will be gone when I return. She is quite ready to go home to the Lord. This morning when one of the good ladies asked her if she had any fear, she roused up, and her eyes had the same fire they had when I first saw her,