by Anya Seton
"She was kind, and said I could have the apples. Then she took me in her house, and she talked. I don't know just what she said but I felt different inside, ft was about Christ and love, stuff like that, but seemed real—" Deane blushed, gave Elizabeth a funny sideways glance, shouldered his book bag and pelted down the street in confusion.
Elizabeth glanced around and seeing nothing in sight but two dogs and an old scissors grinder, knocked hastily on the Hutchinson door. It was opened by a tiny maidservant who stared at the mask and said, "Be ye come to the meeting, 'cause Mistress she's not holding it today."
"Is she in?" said Elizabeth. "I'd like to see her."
"Wot name, ma'am? And on wot matter?" said the little maid stubbornly barring the door.
Unwilling to answer the first question and unable to answer the second, Elizabeth was struck with the foolishness of her impulse, but it persisted, and she said in tones as imperious as her uncle's, "Tell your mistress a lady wants to see her. Go!"
The maid scuttled off, and presently Anne Hutchinson herself walked into the hall, glanced without surprise at the crimson-cloaked young woman in the mask—many women of all kinds had come to her for help—and said courteously, "What can I do for you, Mistress?"
Elizabeth looked at the tall, gray-haired woman in the simple dark blue gown and white cap, at the broad forehead slightly lined, the dark compassionate eyes that glowed with fervor, and she answered in a voice that sounded like a stranger's to her, "I don't know, Mrs. Hutchinson, I don't know why I trouble you. I had to come."
Anne listened thoughtfully, hesitated, then smiled, and her plain face became beautiful. "Ah, it happens that way, sometimes," she said softly. "If we listen to the Voice, and seek the Inner Light."
"The Inner Light," repeated Elizabeth. "I fear I've never seen that."
Anne put her hand out, and said, "Come. We can't talk here. Poor child, I feel that you are unhappy." She led Elizabeth into a small chamber where a bright fire glinted on brass andirons, and a huge sheepdog lay stretched on the hearth beside a cradle where a baby slept. She indicated a cushioned chair and sat down near Elizabeth, who obey ed without consciousness of her surroundings.
"I don't think I'm unhappy," Elizabeth said in a wondering voice. "Just empty."
"Then in time," said Anne with certainty, "if you seek you will be filled." She pulled a spinning wheel close to her and began to work the treadle; with deft hands she fed the twisting wool fibers onto the great wheel which hummed quietly. "Forgive me that I work," said Anne. "I have so many children to clothe, and I can hear God's voice as clearly when I labor."
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair. Within her breast there was a quivering, an expectancy, and yet all else around her was still. There was peace in this room, in the sighing of the fire, and the humming of the wheel, above all in the composed figure of the woman who looked at her with wise, tender eyes.
"I've never heard God's voice," said Elizabeth. "Or felt Him near. The ministers say one can't. They say He revealed Himself once and for all in Scriptures, and that is all we can ever know of Him."
"They say that—" said Anne, "because they are blind, and still bound by Old Adam's Covenant of Works. They will not listen when The Comforter comes into their hearts."
"I don't understand this..." said Elizabeth sadly.
Anne's treadle stopped; she turned from the wheel and bent towards Elizabeth. "But Paul hath said it: He is the God of all comfort, Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in anv trouble, wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God."
"That is beautiful as you speak it," Elizabeth said. "But how if God is wroth and will not send comfort?"
Anne put her head on one side, considering, and then she smiled. "I do not believe He is ever wroth with those who love enough, for God is Love."
"I've never heard so," cried Elizabeth, startled. "Docs it say so in Scriptures? I've heard that He is jealous, and a consuming fire, and almighty, and our salvation, but I never heard of love."
"It is in Scripture," said Anne gravely. She closed her eyes, and continued in a low moving voice, "I have tried to love those that hate me like Mr. Wilson and Mr. Winthrop—almost I can, then my unregenerate spirit o'ercomes me—and WHY do they hate me? For that they cruelly twist what I say. I meant no harm in speaking of indwelling Grace and Light, but harm or not, I KNOW that it is true, for I have felt it often, and if they come to feel it, they will also be sanctified—but they are not so now."
Elizabeth saw that Mrs. Hutchinson was speaking to herself, and that a troubled look had come into the serene face. There was a silence, then Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "This too they hold against me, that I follow the words of Paul: Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you ... therefore glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are God's."
"The ministers hold that against you," said Elizabeth softly, "I think because they are afraid of you, and of a woman who sees not what they do in the Bible. And they hate this talk of glorifying bodies, or to think that one could listen to God's voice as inspiration. They think it leads to license."
"But it does not!" cried Mrs. Hutchinson forcefully. "Has anyone ever known me to be licentious or libertine? When one has Christ's love in the heart one cannot do wrong!"
"No," said Elizabeth on a long sigh of sudden and utter belief. The quivering anticipation in her breast grew keener. It trembled, then seemed to expand like a moonflower until the petals fell wide open, and at their center was a point of golden light which streamed through her body and permeated it with joy. The luminous joy spread until it filled the room with love, glowing on the cradle, the fire, the sleeping dog, the spinning wheel and the quiet woman who sat near it. In all of these Elizabeth saw a meaning she had never guessed, a truth so exquisite that it was near to pain, and she gave a little cry unknowing. At once, the feeling began to fade. Bodily strength drained from her with the ebbing joy, and trembling, she rested her head on her hand.
"My dear," said Anne quietly. "What is it?"
Elizabeth could not speak. Anne rose and put her arm around Elizabeth's shoulders. In a moment she asked again, "What was it?"
"Something I can't—I don't know. The Light—" The Light was gone, yet still there was a thrilling awe and wonder.
Anne went to the dresser and poured out a glass of wine. She brought it to Elizabeth. "You have been blessed with some revelation, I think," she said tenderly. "Perhaps it was The Comforter. There is joy unsurpassed if we be but touched by the hem of His robe. That is Grace."
She looked down a moment at Elizabeth, gave a soft laugh and added, "Will you not take your mask off, Mistress? I should like to see your face."
Elizabeth started. "I'd forgotten it. Forgive me." Since entering the house she had forgotten everything but her strange response to this woman and what had been evoked here. Slowly she took off the little mask and turned her face up to Anne, who stepped back.
"Mistress Feake—!" she cried. "It is indeed Mistress Feake, niece to John Winthrop! I saw you on the Fast Day."
"Aye," said Elizabeth. "But Mistress—" She could not yet go on, dazed by the change.
Anne recoiled further. Her eyes flashed. "You came to spy on me! Fool that I am—indiscreet again—what have I said to you! Beguiled by your voice and manner—O woeful trust!"
"No, no," cried Elizabeth jumping up. "How can you think this of me? Nobody knows I came here, nor will know. I came not as a Winthrop." The other still frowned in disbelief, and Elizabeth caught her hand. "Mistress, you spoke of love, and don't you know I love you and that through you today—I have felt—I have seen—what I never before did guess at. I know now that all you teach is true."
Anne swallowed. The indignation gradually vanished from her gaze. She took Elizabeth's pleading hand and pressed it, then sank down on her chair. "I think I believe you," she said wearily. "But these days I am beset, so harried by doubts and sudden enmities. I have fears t
hat dart like serpents to attack. Ah, but this is weakness."
Elizabeth wanted to cry out in protest. She yearned to speak of her own vision and to give gratitude to the woman who had been the instrument of its coming. But she could not. The time had passed as the vision had, leaving only memory. "I'll go now, Mistress," she said uncertainly. "I've trespassed long enough on your kindness."
Anne turned, and said in a musing voice, "And did I somehow help you, then?" She read the answer, and added, "For that I'm glad. Tell me—is there not a meeting of the ministers at Mr. Winthrop's home today? I have been warned of it."
Elizabeth nodded mutely.
"What are they saying of me, and my brother Wheelwright?"
"I heard nothing," said Elizabeth after a moment, unwilling to add any further burden to this woman whose exaltation had gone, leaving her big-boned face tired and care-worn. "My uncle never speaks to me of such matters."
"My brother Wheelwright is rash, his sermon on the Fast Day was ill-considered but just." She checked herself. "You see I do trust you. Aye, child, you had better go. No, stay—my weakness is passing. God is strengthening me again. And I feel—I hear—something for you." Her drooping body straightened. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes, a faint listening smile came to her lips. "It is this, I think..." she said slowly. "You will have much tribulation. Tribulation and shame. You will forget what you have felt this day. Forget that we are all one in Christ. But many years from now, and far from here, It will come again and then—" She drew a quick startled breath, her lids flew open, "Hark! What's that?"
They both heard a commotion in the hall, and the tread of heavy feet. There were loud raps on the door.
"Who's there?" Anne called out sternly.
"Underhill," came the answer, "and Coddington." The door burst open before Anne could speak again, and the Captain, with sword, musket and armor, strode in followed by William Coddington. "Where's Wheelwright, Mistress?" said Underhill urgently to Anne. "And is your husband safe at home?"
"Aye," she said, staring at the two whom she knew to be her friends. "My husband's in his closet casting up accounts, and my brother Wheelwright returned this morn to Mount Wollaston. What's ado, gentlemen?"
Underhill's dark face cleared of apprehension, and resumed its usually ironic cast. "There was some rioting near the dock, drunken brawlers, they set fire to your boat, and burned in it straw effigies of—of your brother and husband and—" He paused and cleared his throat.
"Of me," said Anne.
"There was no harm done, barring the loss of the boat," interposed Coddington quickly in a reassuring voice. "Have no fear. The constable's jailed the knaves, but we wanted to be sure of your safety."
Anne had turned pale, but she spoke with composure. "I know that God will protect us, no matter how evil men try to assault us."
Underhill, who had no such conviction, and whose allegiance to the Covenant of Grace sprang as much from his antipathy towards Winthrop as it did from his liking for the Hutchinsons, suddenly discovered Elizabeth, who had shrank into her cloak and hood and was fumbling at her mask.
"Why, now, who is this little red bird with the neat pair of ankles!" cried the Captain, leering down at the crimson hood. "One of your disciples, ma'am?"
"Nay," said Anne, frowning at the Captain whose gallantries displeased her. "Leave her alone, pray."
But Underhill was not one to leave any feminine mystery unsolved. His hand shot out and he jerked back Elizabeth's hood. "Why, the devil take me, 'tis the fair Bessie Feake!" He slapped his thigh and brayed with laughter.
William Coddington's pursy mouth opened then closed again. A flush ran up his pock-marked skin. Since his return from London with a new wife, he and Elizabeth had caught glimpses of each other, but it had been quite possible to avoid a meeting. Elizabeth had been amazed at the kindness of Coddington's tone towards Mrs. Hutchinson, but she saw that towards herself there would be no tolerance, nor forgiveness of the insults she had given him at Groton.
"Why have you received this shameless female, Madam?" he cried to Anne. "She could only make a mock of you, or worse!"
And Underhill, suddenly sobering, drowned out Elizabeth's unhappy protest, by saying, "Aye, that's true. I hadn't thought. She's a Winthrop." His eyes narrowed, and his voice grew biting. "Perhaps you know something about that riot today, eh? Might have picked up a hint or two at Winthrop's table?"
Elizabeth stood up and faced the Captain squarely. "John Underhill, that is outrageous," she said. "Whatever you may think of my uncle, whatever enmity he may have towards some people, you know that he is not a petty plotter, nor would ever demean himself to incite rogues to crime!"
"Well said, Mistress Feake," said Anne, "and truly, I think."
Underhill looked discomfited, but he shrugged and laughed. "My apologies, dear Mistress Bess, I'd not cross swords with so pretty a woman."
Coddington was not softened. "The Devil has given her her tongue," he said. "You need put no faith in it. What is she doing here? I see I'll have yet one more matter of debate to bring before Mr. Winthrop when I see him tomorrow."
"Oh no, I beg!" cried Elizabeth. "Don't tell him I was here!"
Anne, convinced by this unmistakable note of fear, said, "Nay, dear—he won't," but Coddington settled his double chins into his ruff and folded his arms. "I shall do as conscience bids me," he said. "This woman, with or without her uncle's knowledge, means you no good, 'twere best to cut her claws in any case. You must rely on me, Madam—" He turned to Anne with the look of genuine warmth that again startled Elizabeth even in the midst of her discomfort. "Rely on me to do what is best for you and those of us under Grace," Coddington finished.
Anne accompanied Elizabeth into the hall. She gave her almost the same lovely smile that she had in greeting, but now there was sadness in it and preoccupation. "You had better not come to me again," she said. "Not until God has quieted our troubles. But I do believe you love me, no matter what they say. And I shall pray for you."
Elizabeth went out of the door into the winter darkness, longing for solitude in which to think, but no sooner had she stepped into the snowy street than she felt her arm caught and an angry frightened voice said, "Bess!" in her ear. She jerked her arm away, uncertain for a moment in the darkness, and the shaking voice whispered, "Before God, wife, how could you go there! I couldn't believe, but I've been waiting this hour!"
"Robert?" she faltered, as she recognized the voice and caught the whiff of lavender he always used, though his black beaver hat was pulled low over his ears, his face muffled by his cloak. "You're back from Dedham?" she said foolishly, trying to meet this new dismay. "How did you know where I was?"
"Deane told me, when I came to the house. He stopped me from questioning our aunt and uncle, and before the ministers too. Yet Aunt Margaret had missed you. I lied as best I could—I said that in a message you had told me you thought to visit Jack's wife."
Elizabeth gave a curt laugh. "A likely tale! You might have told a better lie than that."
"What could I do? Dear God, if Uncle John should find out—what wicked folly made you go to that virago, that she-Beelzebub!"
"She's none of that," said Elizabeth, beginning to walk. "You do but ape what you have heard my uncle say. Must you always think as he does? Tell me, Robert, would you have been so hot to wed me had I not been a Winthrop?"
She felt him wince and knew that she had hurt and vanquished him, as she always could, except in the rare times when the "strangeness" was on him. "Bess, you speak so cruel," he said faintly. "So hard and cruel. Is this what you learned from Mrs. Hutchinson?"
"No," she answered, stopping dead by the Winthrop gate. "No." She bowed her head. "Already I've forgotten what I've learned. It doesn't stay." She drew a long sobbing breath.
A pine knot torch flared on the comer of the house, and by its light he peered into her averted face. "You weep, Bess?" he whispered unbelieving. He bent nearer, anxious and uncertain. She did not draw away. He
put his arms around her, and she laid her cheek against his cloak. "Ah, husband—" she said. "Forgive me that I do not—" she could not finish aloud. But her whole thought echoed in her heart. Forgive me that I do not love enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THAT WHOLE YEAR of 1637 was the most troubled that the Bay Colony had known. By March Winthrop had consolidated all the ministers but Cotton with the two powerful magistrates, Thomas Dudley and John Endecott. They were ready for attack and they moved. They hailed Wheelwright before the General Court, accusing him of contempt and sedition, as evidenced by his Fast Day speech. The Hutchinson party was thunderstruck and then rallied to the defense, violently protesting the allegation, and its methods, and averring that these hearings behind closed doors remarkably resembled the tyrannies of the detested Star Chamber in England. Fifty-eight of Boston's most prominent citizens signed a remonstrance demanding proper procedure and indicating sympathy for Wheelwright. John Underhill's name headed this petition, which had Governor Harry Vane's and William Coddington's passionate approval. Vane and Winthrop thereupon held stormy private sessions, from which the young governor and his deputy emerged each angrier and more obdurate than ever.
Winthrop's party was, however, compelled by Boston's outcry and the Governor's authority to temporize until the May elections. Moreover as the spring advanced they were all forced into a brief truce by the recognition of acute danger on their western borders. The Pequots were on the rampage.
Plymouth had for some time been writing anxious letters to the Bay. Roger Williams had been sending warning messages from Providence, where he had caned himself a little settlement in the wilderness after banishment from Massachusetts. Boston paid scant attention until Haynes and Hooker both wrote from Connecticut describing the horrors of a Pequot massacre at Wethersfield. Nine of its inhabitants had been scalped and roasted alive; two girls had been captured.
That was different. These were people whom the Bay Colony knew, for they had come from Watertown. The menace became real. The Bay hastily prepared for war.
