The Hearth and Eagle by Anya Seton Page B

no longer, as he had yesterday discovered upon the arrival of the
Arbella
with the royal charter, and his successor, John Winthrop.
    “You’d best return to your ship,” he said, “till your new Governor lands and can regulate your proceedings. We’ve little food or shelter for you now and there is much sickness.”
    Even Mark’s enthusiasm was quenched by this, and after further consultation between Endicott, the ministers and the
Jewell’s
master, the new arrivals trailed disconsolately back to the ship. So Phebe and Mark slept again in the cramped cabin they had foolishly thought to have seen for the last time.
    The first day on shore was filled with a feverish activity. When the
Arbella
had been warped up to the town dock near the
Jewell,
the great folk on board, the new Governor, the Saltonstalls, the Phillips, all moved majestically down the gangplank ahead of its lesser passengers. Phebe watched eagerly for the Lady Arbella, until she landed last of all, walking slowly, her tall figure swathed in the fur-lined cloak, though the day was warm. She was leaning on the arm of
a
tall, fair young man who was her husband, Mr. Isaac Johnson.
    Phebe drew back shyly as the lady passed, but Arbella noticed her, and smiled with great sweetness. “Why, it’s Mistress Honeywood, Isaac, I told you of her.” She held out her hand. “How was the journey, my dear?”
    Phebe took the thin white hand and curtsied. “I thought it would never end, milady, but now I scarce remember it, there’s so much to do here.”
    Arbella nodded. Her blue eyes wandered past Phebe to the dusty lane which disappeared amongst the trees by the first earthen dugout. “ ’Tis good to be on land,” she said vaguely. “I’ll soon gain strength again.” This was to her husband, and Phebe saw the quick anxiety in his eyes.
    “To be sure you will.” He clasped the hand which rested on his arm. “Do you know where we’re to go?” he asked of Phebe. “Governor Winthrop was to return for us, but he must have been detained.”
    “Oh yes, sir, they’ve prepared a fair wood house for you, down by the green, ’twas built last year by some gentleman of Mr. Higginson’s party—at least,” she added, her lips indenting with a rueful humor, “it’s a fair enough house for Salem.”
    Isaac nodded, and she thought how much alike those two were, both tall and fine-drawn, both informed with an idealistic courage.
    “We don't look for a castle in the wilderness,” he said. “Will you guide us, mistress?”
    Phebe gladly complied, but as she trudged up the path ahead of them her heart was troubled. They did not expect a castle, but did they expect the hardships and the actual hunger which already Phebe had discovered in Salem. This morning when filling a pot with water for the cleansing of their garments, she had talked with a gaunt middle-aged woman near the spring. Goodwife Allan acted half-crazed as she told of the previous winter; the wolves, the savages, the bitter bitter cold, the hunger and the sickness and fear. Her high thin voice whined through her drawn lips as though against its will. She had no pity, nor desire to frighten, either. It seemed she could not stop from touching again and again like a festering tooth the horror of her memories. And Phebe could not get away, for the woman followed her about until another woman came and spoke sharply.
    “Hold your tongue, Goody. 'Tis cruel to so frighten the young mistress here,” and turning to Phebe she spoke lower. “Her two babes died this winter. She returns to England when the fleet goes—and so do I.”
    Home to England—! Phebe had clamped her mind down hard against the great leap of longing and envy she had felt, and hope too. Surely Mark would soon see how different all was from his expectation.
    Yet now, watching the Lady Arbella and her husband, she felt some shame for her own faint heart.
They
would never falter, thought Phebe proudly, nor turn back home in fear and