and in especial hath vouchsafed to me a friend. This, one Phebe Honeywood, wedded to one of the adventurers, and naught but a simple yeoman’s daughter, but a most brave and gentle lass. She is not as illumined by Grace as I could wish....’”
Isaac paused, started to say something, but sighed instead, and went on. “‘Yet she is of fine and delicate spirit, and God is closer to her than she knows. She hath, I confess, been inspiration to me—having a most sturdy courage to surmount any disaster and follow her man anywhere, and found a lasting home.
“ ‘O, my dear sister, it is such as she who will endure in my stead, to fulfill our dream of the new free land, such as she whose babes will be brought forth here to found a new nation—while I ... too feeble and faint-hearted....”’
Isaac’s voice cracked. “That’s all.” He held the letter out again. “Keep it in remembrance of her.”
Phebe could not raise her eyes, red had flooded up her cheeks beneath the slow tears, “Our dear lady misjudged me—” she whispered. “I have no courage—indeed she did not know—”
Isaac was stirred from his own grief by her face. “God will strengthen you, mistress,” he said. “Trust in Him.”
He rose, putting out his hand. She took it and curtsying, turned and left him alone. She went back to the wigwam, and throwing herself down on the pallet lay staring up at the ragged rush thatching.
Arbella’s letter rested beneath her bodice on her heart, and seemed to whisper its words. “It is such as she who will endure—to fulfill our dream....”
She thought of the promise Arbella had asked of her in the first days of her sickness. “Promise me you’ll not give up, no matter what may happen.” She had not promised.
It’s not fair—cried Phebe to the gentle yearning voice, and lying there alone on the pallet, she vanquished the voice with a dozen hot refutations. This founding a new land, this search for a purer religion, was not
her
dream. To her, God had made no special revelation. And as for Mark—would it not be wiser to free him for a while from her hampering presence—hers and the babe’s, until he either tired of the venture or had made a really suitable place for them. It was no disgrace to go home, every home-bound ship was crammed with those who had seen the pointless folly of the venture. The Lady Arbella, herself too weak for survival, had no right to appoint Phebe her surrogate.
The August afternoon flattened under a blistering sun. Beneath the wigwam’s thatching the heat gathered stifling, and fetid with the smell of the swamps. Once, slow footsteps plodded down the path outside toward the Burial Point. Phebe heard the sound of sobbing and one low cry of anguish that faded into nothing. Then again there was no sound but the rasp of locusts, and the rustle of the close-pressing forest.
I shall find the Master of the
Lion
—she thought, starting up at last. The
Lion
would sail as soon as there were fair winds.
Phebe washed her face and hands and smoothed her hair. She took the letter from her bodice and flung it in her bride chest, slamming the lid. She threw open the batten door, and on the earthen threshold stopped dead.
“Oh dear God—” she whispered. “I cannot,” and she sank to her knees between the oak door frames. She kneeled there, facing the eastern horizon, while behind Salem the sun sank slowly into the untracked forests of the New World.
God did not seem to speak to her. She felt no exaltation or comfort. But there was certainty.
When Mark returned from his expedition to Marblehead he found Phebe changed, very silent and with a grim set to her mouth. She listened acquiescently but without comments to his enthusiasm for his new plan, and his satisfaction that through Mr. Allerton’s influence he had obtained a grant of five acres in Marblehead from the Salem authorities, who had little interest in that remote section of their plantation.
She remarked only
Isaac paused, started to say something, but sighed instead, and went on. “‘Yet she is of fine and delicate spirit, and God is closer to her than she knows. She hath, I confess, been inspiration to me—having a most sturdy courage to surmount any disaster and follow her man anywhere, and found a lasting home.
“ ‘O, my dear sister, it is such as she who will endure in my stead, to fulfill our dream of the new free land, such as she whose babes will be brought forth here to found a new nation—while I ... too feeble and faint-hearted....”’
Isaac’s voice cracked. “That’s all.” He held the letter out again. “Keep it in remembrance of her.”
Phebe could not raise her eyes, red had flooded up her cheeks beneath the slow tears, “Our dear lady misjudged me—” she whispered. “I have no courage—indeed she did not know—”
Isaac was stirred from his own grief by her face. “God will strengthen you, mistress,” he said. “Trust in Him.”
He rose, putting out his hand. She took it and curtsying, turned and left him alone. She went back to the wigwam, and throwing herself down on the pallet lay staring up at the ragged rush thatching.
Arbella’s letter rested beneath her bodice on her heart, and seemed to whisper its words. “It is such as she who will endure—to fulfill our dream....”
She thought of the promise Arbella had asked of her in the first days of her sickness. “Promise me you’ll not give up, no matter what may happen.” She had not promised.
It’s not fair—cried Phebe to the gentle yearning voice, and lying there alone on the pallet, she vanquished the voice with a dozen hot refutations. This founding a new land, this search for a purer religion, was not
her
dream. To her, God had made no special revelation. And as for Mark—would it not be wiser to free him for a while from her hampering presence—hers and the babe’s, until he either tired of the venture or had made a really suitable place for them. It was no disgrace to go home, every home-bound ship was crammed with those who had seen the pointless folly of the venture. The Lady Arbella, herself too weak for survival, had no right to appoint Phebe her surrogate.
The August afternoon flattened under a blistering sun. Beneath the wigwam’s thatching the heat gathered stifling, and fetid with the smell of the swamps. Once, slow footsteps plodded down the path outside toward the Burial Point. Phebe heard the sound of sobbing and one low cry of anguish that faded into nothing. Then again there was no sound but the rasp of locusts, and the rustle of the close-pressing forest.
I shall find the Master of the
Lion
—she thought, starting up at last. The
Lion
would sail as soon as there were fair winds.
Phebe washed her face and hands and smoothed her hair. She took the letter from her bodice and flung it in her bride chest, slamming the lid. She threw open the batten door, and on the earthen threshold stopped dead.
“Oh dear God—” she whispered. “I cannot,” and she sank to her knees between the oak door frames. She kneeled there, facing the eastern horizon, while behind Salem the sun sank slowly into the untracked forests of the New World.
God did not seem to speak to her. She felt no exaltation or comfort. But there was certainty.
When Mark returned from his expedition to Marblehead he found Phebe changed, very silent and with a grim set to her mouth. She listened acquiescently but without comments to his enthusiasm for his new plan, and his satisfaction that through Mr. Allerton’s influence he had obtained a grant of five acres in Marblehead from the Salem authorities, who had little interest in that remote section of their plantation.
She remarked only
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