could find no comfort.
The Lady Arbella was laid near Master Higginson on the burying point that jutted close to the South River. And atop the grave they placed a heavy flat field stone—for fear of wolves. Phebe standing apart from the others, watched the hasty ceremony with a misery so bitter that it was near to disgust. Everywhere on the point there were new mounds; even now before the final words had sealed the lady’s last rest, two servants waited with shovels for the digging of another grave. Doctor Gager had died, and Mrs. Phillips. Arbella’s maid, Molly, had outlived her mistress but an hour. Goodman Bennett, Good wives James and Turner, and Mr. Shepley, and some indentured servants, all had died this week.
And to what purpose—thought Phebe. What had they accomplished here? Where were Arbella’s beauty and courage now, and where her babe that might have been born to gentleness and happy childhood in the castle of its ancestors? Buried in the wilderness beneath a stone for fear of wolves.
She turned and started up the path across the fields. I’m going home, she thought. I’ll make Mark see reason, and if he won’t—I’ll go alone, until he’s ready to come back to me. Nothing can make me bring forth my poor child in this enemy land. She stopped and leaned against a tree, seeing against the coarse dry stubble at her feet a shimmering vision. She saw her mother and father holding out their arms to her from the doorway, and smiling welcome. She saw the great hall behind them garlanded with roses and ivy as it had been last Saint John’s Day, and heard the blithe singing of her sisters at their spinning.
She felt the smoothness of the lavender-scented sheets on her own carved oaken bed, and she saw herself and the babe lying there together, safe and tended by her mother’s knowing hands, while the mellow sunshine—not fierce and scorching like here, flickered through the mulberry leaves and the diamond-paned windows. She had not cried before, but now a sob burst through her throat, and she stumbled blindly on the path, until a hand touched her shoulder.
She raised her bowed head to see Mr. Johnson beside her. His cheeks, no longer pink, had fallen into sharp grooves. His thin blond hair was uncombed, and from his black habit he had cut away every button and shred of lace.
“Mistress Honeywood—” he said, speaking through stiff lips—“will you come back with me, I’ve something to give you.”
She nodded a little, and they walked silently together along the Highway past the green to Arbella’s house. Phebe cast one look at the plank bedstead on which the Lady had died, and turned away, standing by the door.
Isaac Johnson opened a drawer of the little oak table. “She loved you much,” he said, his voice so hoarse that Phebe had to lean forward to hear.
“And I her, sir—”
He fumbled among several letters which he brought from the drawer. “I go straight back to Boston. There’s so much to do—I doubt that I’ve much time before I join her. The sickness gripes at my bowels. It is the Lord’s will. Here are letters she left—one that treats of you. You shall have it.”
He held out to her a folded sheet of paper. Phebe took it, and opened it, stared at the lines of clear, delicate writing.
“I cannot read it—sir,” she said, very low.
“Aye—to be sure.” He snatched it back from her, and she saw that he was impatient to be alone with his sorrow.
“'Twas meant for her sister, Lady Susan Humphrey, but never finished.” He steadied his voice and began to read.
‘“No word yet from home, so I write thee again, dear sister, perchance to send this by the Master of the
Lion.
I try to keep my thoughts from harking back, but ofttimes I cannot, this to my shame for there be many here who are braver.
“ ‘There is great sickness, and I do pray for the babe I carry. I am much alone and endeavor to strengthen my spirit in the Lord God who led us here. He gives me solace,
The Lady Arbella was laid near Master Higginson on the burying point that jutted close to the South River. And atop the grave they placed a heavy flat field stone—for fear of wolves. Phebe standing apart from the others, watched the hasty ceremony with a misery so bitter that it was near to disgust. Everywhere on the point there were new mounds; even now before the final words had sealed the lady’s last rest, two servants waited with shovels for the digging of another grave. Doctor Gager had died, and Mrs. Phillips. Arbella’s maid, Molly, had outlived her mistress but an hour. Goodman Bennett, Good wives James and Turner, and Mr. Shepley, and some indentured servants, all had died this week.
And to what purpose—thought Phebe. What had they accomplished here? Where were Arbella’s beauty and courage now, and where her babe that might have been born to gentleness and happy childhood in the castle of its ancestors? Buried in the wilderness beneath a stone for fear of wolves.
She turned and started up the path across the fields. I’m going home, she thought. I’ll make Mark see reason, and if he won’t—I’ll go alone, until he’s ready to come back to me. Nothing can make me bring forth my poor child in this enemy land. She stopped and leaned against a tree, seeing against the coarse dry stubble at her feet a shimmering vision. She saw her mother and father holding out their arms to her from the doorway, and smiling welcome. She saw the great hall behind them garlanded with roses and ivy as it had been last Saint John’s Day, and heard the blithe singing of her sisters at their spinning.
She felt the smoothness of the lavender-scented sheets on her own carved oaken bed, and she saw herself and the babe lying there together, safe and tended by her mother’s knowing hands, while the mellow sunshine—not fierce and scorching like here, flickered through the mulberry leaves and the diamond-paned windows. She had not cried before, but now a sob burst through her throat, and she stumbled blindly on the path, until a hand touched her shoulder.
She raised her bowed head to see Mr. Johnson beside her. His cheeks, no longer pink, had fallen into sharp grooves. His thin blond hair was uncombed, and from his black habit he had cut away every button and shred of lace.
“Mistress Honeywood—” he said, speaking through stiff lips—“will you come back with me, I’ve something to give you.”
She nodded a little, and they walked silently together along the Highway past the green to Arbella’s house. Phebe cast one look at the plank bedstead on which the Lady had died, and turned away, standing by the door.
Isaac Johnson opened a drawer of the little oak table. “She loved you much,” he said, his voice so hoarse that Phebe had to lean forward to hear.
“And I her, sir—”
He fumbled among several letters which he brought from the drawer. “I go straight back to Boston. There’s so much to do—I doubt that I’ve much time before I join her. The sickness gripes at my bowels. It is the Lord’s will. Here are letters she left—one that treats of you. You shall have it.”
He held out to her a folded sheet of paper. Phebe took it, and opened it, stared at the lines of clear, delicate writing.
“I cannot read it—sir,” she said, very low.
“Aye—to be sure.” He snatched it back from her, and she saw that he was impatient to be alone with his sorrow.
“'Twas meant for her sister, Lady Susan Humphrey, but never finished.” He steadied his voice and began to read.
‘“No word yet from home, so I write thee again, dear sister, perchance to send this by the Master of the
Lion.
I try to keep my thoughts from harking back, but ofttimes I cannot, this to my shame for there be many here who are braver.
“ ‘There is great sickness, and I do pray for the babe I carry. I am much alone and endeavor to strengthen my spirit in the Lord God who led us here. He gives me solace,
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