It was on Christmas Eve, and Peyto had been there a week, when Elizabeth retired very early and requested that supper be sent up to her room. Sally brought her a jug of wine, half a cold duck, and a large plum pasty garnished with holly, at which Elizabeth stared with astonished pleasure.
"It was Cook, ma'am, what made thot little ould Christmas pie," said Sally defensively. "Being new to the Manor ways, and more'n half Papist if you arsk me."
"It's all right, Sal. I'm glad to have it!"
Elizabeth ate moderately, then dumped the remains in a basket. She made sure that everyone was busy with supper below, including Harry whose rather tipsy laugh she heard. She sneaked along the passages and up the little stairs that twisted around the kitchen chimney. She groped her way to the concealed door and crept in to Peyto who was crouched by the old chest, mournfully flexing his injured foot. There was light from a lantern Harry had brought him, and in consequence they had shrouded the small gable window with some Winthrop wife's moth-eaten green cloak. Peyto had also made use of the chest's contents to cover his nakedness, but the Elizabethan crimson doublet and breeches engulfed the little man. They had cut all his hair off when they searched him for witch marks, so that now with his round head, cropped ears and sad dark eyes he looked like a costumed monkey Elizabeth had once seen at the Bartholomew Fair in London.
"Cheer up, Peyto—" she said. "Look what I brought you!" She gave him the food, stuck a branch of holly in her hair, and another in the slash of his doublet. "'Tis Christmas Eve!"
"Well I know it, Mistress—and I think I'm not like to see another."
"Nonsense! We'll get you safe away from here!"
Tears glittered in his eyes as he looked up at her. "Ye've been good, Mistress ... and my dear master." To her dismay, he suddenly crumpled with his face on his arm and his shoulders heaved. "Would that I had my cards—" he moaned. "My tarot that they took from me and burned up like my poor donkey. But I must've read the cards wrong on All Hallow's Eve. Could I cast them again on Christmas Eve I'd know surer."
"What do you mean?" she cried. "Oh, Peyto, did the cards show you this dreadful trouble for you?"
He shook his head. "Never can I read them for me. It was for him."
"For Harry?" she asked sharply. "What did you see?"
Again he shook his head. "Naught, naught." He spoke with almost sullen misery.
She looked at him frowning, while foreboding gripped her.
"Wait!" he cried, suddenly grabbing her left hand. "Mayhap I can tell something from this!" He turned her palm over and stared at it by the lantern light. "My mother taught me this way too, though for long I've not used it." He stared at her palm, took the right one, and peered at them both, muttering, while she waited uneasily. He let her hands drop. "It was true what I saw before."
"What—?" she whispered shrinking.
"Death," said Peyto, staring into the shadows of the attic. "Oh, not yours—death around ye, by water—by sickness—by madness—by bullets—by fire!"
"I'll not believe it!" she cried angrily. "Before God, Peyto, I believe you are in league with the devil. We should have let you burn!"
"Nay, nay, Mistress—" said the little man sadly. "'Tis not the devil gives my people a look at the future, 'tis the ancient art we've never lost ... But there's more than death and violence in your hands, Mistress—there's love and far places and strivings—ever striving for something ye cannot have. Freedom. Ye'll hanker after freedom, like my own people who cannot live cribbed and cabined." He reached out and took her right hand again, staring at the pink palm and its mesh of lines. "Ye'll get what ye want in the end," he whispered, "but ye won't know it at first—for it'll not be what ye thought to be seeking all the long years—all the long years..." he repeated, running his dirty brown finger down her life line.
The door swung open and Harry stuck his head in. "What's ado here?" he cried laughing. "You graceless knave, you hold my wife's hand behind my back?"
"Oh, hush!" Elizabeth said, for Harry's voice was loud and thickened by drink. He stumbled a little as he stooped to get through the door. "Peyto has been telling my fortune, and a most horrid one it is too."
"But ye'll be happy in the end," said the gypsy earnestly.
"And I?" Harry stuck his big hand under Peyto's nose. "Read me money and land, my boy! And plenty of merriment, children too—a round dozen of 'em—eh, Bess, my beauty?"
But Peyto turned away. "I'm weary, Master," he said. He rested his chin on his knees and closed his eyes. Harry felt irritation. Peyto had lost all his gaiety and impudence, had become limp as a snared rabbit, and what was to be done with him anyway?
The problem was solved almost at once. "Hist!" whispered Elizabeth. As Harry started to speak she put her hand over his mouth. They all heard approaching footsteps. Peyto sucked in his breath, and hobbled frantically to an angle behind the chimney where he hid. The other two waited, until the little door opened and Jack walked in carrying a candle. "So—" he said looking calmly at Harry and Elizabeth, at the disordered robes on the floor, at the remains of food. "I might have guessed this sooner, but I fear my childhood play is long behind me. Where is he?"
"I don't know what you mean," began Harry, jutting his chin, but Elizabeth acted from surer instinct. "Oh, Jack—help us, help poor Peyto! He's still ill, and we can't go on like this. How did you find us?"
"Followed Harry's noisy and by no means difficult trail," said Jack with a faint smile, "though I've suspected you had the gypsy hidden somewhere all along."
"Does Father?" asked Harry quickly.
"No. Nor do I think it wise to disturb him, unless," he added sternly, "the man be indeed involved in witchcraft. I wish to question him, and inspect the mole alleged to be a witch mark."
"Come out, Peyto!" Harry called, and the gypsy obeyed, looking at once so forlorn and funny in his vast old-fashioned clothes, hopping on and off the bandaged foot, that Harry chuckled.
Jack's questions relative to the death of the six cows, the firing of Reynolds's shoe shop, the fits of Goody Biggs's daughter, did not take long to answer. Peyton denied knowledge of all the accusations and Jack, who was intuitive, shrewd and almost free from superstition, knew that he heard the truth. Then Peyto pulled down his crimson breeches and presented the mole on his buttock for Jack's examination, who was soon satisfied. "An ordinary round mole," he said, "and I see no more likeness to a cloven hoof than to a skillet or a peppercorn."
"So you'll help him get away?" cried Elizabeth anxiously, thinking that it was a good thing Jack had not walked in on the fortunetelling.
"Aye—" said Jack, looking at the gypsy with pitying eyes as the man was racked with a spasm of coughing so violent that blood flecked his mouth and chin.
Peyto got away next evening, properly clothed, with ten shillings in his pocket and his fare paid to London. Harry drove him, hidden in a farm cart, as far as Witham, then put Peyto on the Ipswich coach. Jack had made all easy, and provided the money. At the moment of parting the gypsy kissed Harry's hands, wet them with his tears, whispering, "I'll ne'er see ye more," and made a long speech in his own language. Harry clapped him on the back, and said "Farewell" with affection, but he was impatient to try the ale at Witham's White Hart, and anyway the adventure was over.
The White Hart's charms proved alluring, and it was three days later before Harry came back to Groton with the cart, but Jack covered this from their father by saying that he had sent Harry on an errand, and John Winthrop was far too busy with the ever increasing details and problems of the Migration to question his eldest son.
"I suppose you gave him extra money beyond that needed by Peyto?" said Elizabeth with gloomy resignation to Jack one noon while they were still waiting for Harry's return. "You might know he'd drink it—or worse." She and Harry had been so close for weeks, she had thought he would never leave her until he must.
Jack said, "Aye, I'm sorry, Bess," looking at her discouraged face. "I should have known better." His arm itched to hold
her against him, and comfort her, but instead he swung on his heel, stalked out the door into the courtyard and ran smack into Martha who was hurrying from the washhouse with a pile of freshly ironed linen. Their collision was so violent that two of John Winthrop's elaborate white ruffs fell in the mud, and Martha's dismay at this was so great that presently Jack found his arm around her shoulders, and that he was comforting Martha instead. The girl, still clutching her linen, nestled against him, and before he knew it Jack had kissed her several times and found it very pleasant.
CHAPTER SIX
IMMEDIATELY after Christmas, John Winthrop went to London, and used for headquarters either the Downings' home or Isaac Johnson's house in Soper Lane. Despite inevitable annoyances and hindrances, the affairs of the Massachusetts Bay Company were prospering incredibly. God was smiling on the project. The Cambridge Agreement had stipulated that they sail in March, and they would be ready to sail in March—the ten chartered ships and also the splendid converted privateer of 350 tons which the Company had managed to buy for 750 pounds. This great ship once called the Eagle had been rechristened the Arbella. That gentle lady herself would sail on her, as well as the other principal passengers.
Some seven hundred folk of all ages signed up for the Migration to New England, and by February the fleet could accommodate no more. Winthrop most regretfully had to turn down applicants. It disappointed him that only two ministers had agreed to sail at this time—George Phillips and John Wilson. Still, from those he had met at Sempringham—Thomas Hooker, Roger Williams, and the redoubtable John Cotton of Boston—he had received constant backing and the hope that they might come later. In fact most of the nonconformist ministers throughout England had miraculously heard of the brave new colony which was to be founded to the glory of God, and had subtly encouraged their various flocks to consider removal.
On Valentine's Day, Emmanuel Downing returned to his home from a busy session at the Inner Temple and found Winthrop huddled over a table in the small parlor. The table was littered with passenger lists, bills of lading, agreements for provisions and a sheaf of letters from backers and persons of quality which John felt he must answer himself. He looked up as his brother-in-law entered and said jubilantly, "They come from a score of counties. See how the Lord's hand has quickened seed in half this realm!"
Downing glanced at the passenger lists and remarked, "'Tis true, but more from your Suffolk and Essex than the rest. It shows what faith in you they have who know you. And never did I think this work could be done so fast ... You sail from Southampton then, the last week in March?"
John nodded. "If God sends us fair winds."
Downing yanked at the bell pull. "I've a fancy for mulled sack, and 'twill do you good, you work too much. You've grown haggard as a hound. The company has a deputy and assistants besides you. Why don't you go home to Groton a while?"
"I shall this week," said Winthrop. He picked up his goose quill and made a note. His hand quivered suddenly. "For the last time," he added very low.
Emmanuel loosened his doublet and settled his bulk in a chair. "Aye—" he said with sympathy. "'Tis hard to leave the place ye were born, harder still to leave the others—especially Margaret in her state. She's a fine wife to you, John, loves you true."
Winthrop dropped his head, and said with an emotion that embarrassed the bluff Downing, "She is my heart's comfort, my other self, and I sorrow to think how little of my time I've given her of late."
"Well-a-day," said Downing, hastily accepting a mug of hot sack from the servant. "I expect I'd be sorry to part from my Lucy. Her prickles are wearing softer with the years, and she's an able breeder like your Margaret."
Winthrop smiled, and took a sip of sack. "I've good children—save Henry, I fear, though I believe he mends."
"Ah, in clutches large as ours, we must expect to hatch one goshawk," said Downing, belching pleasurably. "My little George will prove a handful, I've no doubt, unless I can beat it out of him. How is the beauteous Bess?"
"Tamer, it seems, as I hoped she would be in a truly God-fearing household. My wife is fond of her, and says she proves dutiful as—" he added with complacence, "does my son John, always!"
Downing laughed. "I vow you dote like a lover on that lad."
"Since the days when I had to whip some childish mischief out of him, never has he displeased me." Winthrop began to gather up his papers thinking with tender pride of young John. The scene in the fields with Jack on the morning after Winthrop's return to Groton Manor was therefore a severe shock.
The Manor had not yet sold, though there were negotiations, but they were gradually selling off furnishings and stock, and a buyer had been found for one of the saddle horses. Winthrop went to the stables to conclude the transaction, while Jack as a matter of course accompanied him. When the farmer had trotted off on the horse, Winthrop turned towards the house, but Jack stopped him. "Could I speak with you privily, sir? Might we walk a bit?"
It was a soft misty morning with the promise of sun, and the smell of fresh earth where the mole-catcher and his terrier were rooting through the new-turned fields. Winthrop, though a trifle startled and also suffering pangs at viewing the dear lands he was so shortly to leave, gladly acquiesced. They walked past the dovecote and the pond, and up the manor rise where they could see their sheep-filled pastures, and the nearby pinnacles on Groton Church. Far to the south soared the graceful tower of the church at Stoke-by-Nayland.
They came to the hedge and stile near the highway, and Winthrop stopped. "Well, what is it, John? I've much ado at the house." He examined his son's embarrassed face, and said with faint humor, "You've not fallen in love, have you?"
Jack took a deep breath, glanced at his father, then down at the blackthorn hedge. "Yes sir ... that is I think ... I think it wise to change my state, I mean it would be helpful here and even more so when I finally join you in New England."
"But, of course, son—'tis most natural." Winthrop smiled and put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Why, you've just turned twenty-four, have you not? I can scarce credit it. Who is the lady, not—" he said eagerly, "Mary Waldegrave, or one of the Alabasters?"
"No, sir," said Jack, still staring at the tangled blackthorns. "'Tis little Mattie—my cousin Martha."
There was a sharp and painful silence. Winthrop's hand dropped from Jack's shoulder. The mole-catcher's dog streaked by barking frantically, and Winthrop called out with irritation, "Tom! Quiet that cur! Take him away!"
The mole-catcher looked frightened. Squire seldom spoke harsh like that. He pulled his forelock and grabbed his dog.
"I'm sorry, sir," said Jack. "I didn't think you'd be so displeased. She's a sweet gentle girl and I-I've grown fond of her."
Winthrop clenched his hands and rage flamed through him. "Is there nobody for my sons to wed but those Fones wenches!" he shouted. "If you must marry your cousins are there not plenty of others to pick from! Or is this like Henry's, a case of 'needs-MUST-wed'?"
Jack stiffened and stared angrily back at his father. "It is NOT! And naturally I shall not go on if you forbid the match, though I did not expect your violent opposition and have applied for special license."
"Without consulting me!"
"It will not be used until you give consent, sir, but I may remind you that I am of full age and that you have entrusted my judgment in all other matters!"
Winthrop turned away, biting his lips. "God forbid that there should be anger between us," he said at last in a trembling voice. "But, John, you and Martha are so near akin—that couldn't be helped with Henry—and she has no lands, no portion—"
"She has four hundred pounds, sir, and a tender docile heart."
Winthrop was silent trying to master his disappointment. Always he had thought that Jack would marry well, even grandly, and of late he had hoped that in the new land the boy might choose from one of the aristocratic planters' families. A Saltonstall perhaps, or even some kin of the Earl of Lincoln ... that is if there were no previous match
with a fine Suffolk family like the Waldegraves. And all these hopes to be dissolved by little Matt Fones! Yet he loved his son and could not bear the cloud between them. Also he felt that there was about Jack's choice some strange motivation that he could not fathom.
He sighed deeply and put his hand again on Jack's shoulder, "f cannot pretend this is not a blow. It may be the Lord wishes to chastise me that I may not take for granted all the success and benefits He has heaped upon my Company. I do not forbid the match, my son, but I ask that you will wait before you wed, wait and pray, as I shall, that God will show you His true will."
Jack seized his father's hand and grasped it warmly. "Thank you, sir. We'll wait, and I'll try to pray on it." I'm glad to wait, he thought ruefully. The sudden application for special license had been an impulse designed to hide from himself his own lukewarmness. Yet—Martha—so gentle, so trusting—and so joyful. She had misunderstood his kisses and gratitude on his birthday, February 12, when she had given him the embroidered purse. He had found himself betrothed to her without quite knowing how it came about.
Elizabeth had been in her bedroom with Harry that afternoon when Martha rushed in with the news. The girl was so excited that she didn't notice that Harry clad only in his breeches was shaving his golden beard at the washbasin. "Bess, Bess!" cried Martha, her small face transfigured. "Fancy what's happened!"
"I fancy you might knock, child!" Elizabeth snapped. Lately she had found Martha exasperating for a very good reason which she was too honest to deny to herself. Also she had just discovered that she could no longer fit into her favorite velvet dress no matter how she loosened the waist.
"But listen!" cried Martha, flinging her arms around her sister's neck. "Jack and I are to be wed! He's writing the Archbishop for a license. Oh, Bess, I'm so happy!"
Elizabeth swayed and her bright cheeks went gray. Her silence penetrated even Martha's rapture. "What's the matter?" cried the little sister, anxious at once. "You look queer!"