"And your sole virtue?" suggested Giles to his retreating back.
Captain Jones was gone a long time. The boys fumed with impatience and feared harm to the papers, but George Heaton grinned at them with the utmost cheerfulness. He had completely sloughed off all share in the theft and plainly enjoyed his superior's discomfiture, being of that order of creatures whose malice revels in the mischances of others.
It proved that the captain's delay was due to his reluctance to comply with Giles's demand. He came at last, slowly, bearing in his hand the packet enveloped in oilskin which Giles remembered having seen in his father's possession.
"I must do your bidding, youngster," he said angrily, "for you can harm me otherwise. But what guarantee have I, if I hand these papers to you, that you will keep the secret?"
"I never said that the secret would be kept; I said that you should suffer no harm. An innocent person is accused of this theft; the truth must be known. But I can and do promise you that you shall not be molested; I can answer for that. As to guarantee, you know my father, you know the Plymouth pilgrims, you know me. Is there any doubt that we are honourable, conscientious, God-fearing, the sort that faithfully keep their word?" demanded Giles.
"No. I grant you that. Take your packet," said Captain Jones, yielding it.
"By your leave I will examine it," said Giles unfastening its straps.
"Do you doubt me?" blustered the captain.
"Not a whit," laughed John with a great burst of mirth, before Giles could answer.
"Why should we doubt you? Haven't you shown us exactly what you are?"
Giles turned over the papers one by one. None was missing. He folded them and replaced them in their case, buckling its straps.
"All the papers are here," he said. "John, we'll be off. This is our final visit to theMayflower, Master Jones—unless I ship with you for England. Good voyage, as I hear they say in France. Hope you'll catch a bit of Puritan conscience before you leave the harbour."
Captain Jones followed the boys to the side of the ship where they were to reëmbark in their rowboat. At every step he grew angrier, the veins swelled in his forehead which was only a shade less purple-red than his cheeks. His defeat was a sore thing, the disappointment of the plans which he had laid upon the possession of the stolen documents became more vividly realized with each moment, and the fact that two lads had thus conquered him and were going away with their prize infuriated him.
Giles had swung himself down into the boat and was shipping the oars, but John halted for a moment in a stuffy corner to gloat over the captain's empurpled face and to dally with a temptation to add picturesqueness to their departure. The temptation got the upper hand of him, though John usually held out both hands to mischief.
He drew Bouncing Bully from his breast and levelled it.
"Stop! Gunpowder!" screamed the captain, choking with fear and rage, and pointing at a small keg that stood hard by.
"I won't hit it," John grinned, delightedly. "Let's see howmygunpowder is." With a flourish the mad boy fired a shot into the wall of the tiny cabin, regardless of the fact that the likely explosion of the keg of gunpowder would have blown up theMayflowerand him with her.
The captain fell forward on his face, the men who were at work splicing ropes in the cubby-like cabin cowered speechless, their faces ashen.
John whooped with joy and fled, leaping into the rowboat which he nearly upset.
"What?" demanded Giles. "Who shot? Did he attack you, Jack?"
"Who? No one attacked me. I shot. Zounds, they were scared! In that pocket of a cabin, with a keg of gunpowder sitting close," chuckled John.
"What in the name of all that's sane did you do that for?" cried Giles. "Scared! I should say with reason! Why, Jack Billington, you might be blown to bits by this time, ship, men, yourself, and all!"
"I might be," assented Jack, coolly. "I'm not. Giles, you should have seen your shipmaster Jones! Flat on his face and fair blubbering with fear and fury! He loves us not, my Giles! I doubt his days are dull on theMayflower, so long at anchor. 'Twas but kind to stir up a lively moment. Here, give me an oar! Even though you said you would row back, I feel like helping you. Wait till I settle Bouncing Bully. He's digging me in the ribs, to remind me of the joke we played 'em, I've no doubt; but he hurts. That's better. Now for shore and your triumph, old Giles!"
Constance had escaped from Humility Cooper and Elizabeth Tilley who had affectionately joined her when she had appeared on her way to the beach to await Giles's return.
Constance invented a question that must be asked Elder Brewster because she knew that the girls, though they revered him, feared him, and never willingly went where they must reply to his gravely kind attempts at conversation with them. "I surely feel like a wicked hypocrite," sighed Constance, watching her friends away as she turned toward the house that sheltered the elder.
"What would dear little Humility say if she knew I had tried to get rid of her? Or Elizabeth either! But it isn't as though I had not wanted them for a less good reason. I do love them dearly! I must meet Giles and hear his news as soon as I can, and it can't be told before another. Mercy upon us, whatwasit that I had thought of to ask Elder Brewster! I've forgotten every syllable of it! Well, mercy upon us! And suppose he sees me hesitating here! I know! I'll confess to him that I was wishing I was in Warwickshire hearing Eastertide alleluias sung in my cousins' church, and ask him if it was sinful. He loves to correct me, dear old saint!"
Dimpling with mischief Constance turned her head away from a possible onlooker in the house to pull her face down into the proper expression for a youthful seeker for guidance. Then, quite demure and serious, with downcast eyes, she turned and went into the house.
Elder William Brewster kept her some time. She was nervously anxious to escape, fearing to miss the boys' arrival. But Elder Brewster was deeply interested in pretty Constance Hopkins, in whom, in spite of her sweet docility and patient daily performance of her hard tasks, he discerned glimpses of girlish liveliness that made him anxious and which he felt must be corrected to bring the dear girl into perfection.
Constance decided that she was expiating fully whatever fault there might have been in feigning an errand to Elder Brewster to get rid of the girls as she sat uneasily listening to that good man's exposition of the value of alleluias in the heart above those sung in church, and the baseness of allowing the mind to look back for a moment at the "shackles from which she was freed." Good Elder Brewster ended by reading from his roughened brown leather-covered Bible the story of Lot's wife to which Constance—who had heard it many times, it being an appropriate theme for the pilgrim band to ponder, sick in heart and body as they had been so long—did not harken.
At last she was dismissed with a fatherly hand laid on her shining head, and a last warning to keep in mind how favoured above her English cousins she had been to be chosen a daughter in Israel to help found a kingdom of righteousness. Constance ran like the wind down the road, stump-bordered, the beginning of a street, and came down upon the beach just as the boys reached it and their boat bumped up on the sand under the last three hard pulls they had given the oars in unison.
"Oh! Giles, oh, Giles, oh Jack!" cried Constance fairly dancing under her excitement.
"Oh, Con, oh, Con! Oh, Constantia!" mocked John, hauling away on the painter and getting the boat up to her tying stake.
"What happened you? Have you news?" Constance implored them.
"We heard no especial news, Con," said Giles. "I'm not sure we asked for any. We have this instead; will that suffice you?"
He took from his breast the packet of papers and offered it to her.
"Oh, Giles!" sighed Constance, clasping her hands, tears of relief springing to her eyes. "All of them? Are they all safe? Thank Heaven!" she added as Giles nodded.
"Did you have trouble getting them? Who held them? Tell me everything!"
"Give me a chance Constantia Chatter," said Giles, using the name Constance had been dubbed when, a little tot, she ceaselessly used her new accomplishment of talking. "We had no trouble, no. We found the thief and made him confess what we already knew, that he was the master's cat's paw. Jones had to disgorge; he could not hold the papers without paying too heavy a penalty. So here they are. Why don't you take them?"
"I take them?" puzzled Constance, accepting them as Giles thrust them into her hand. "Do you want me to put them away for you? Are you not coming to dinner? There is not enough time to go to work before noon. The sun was not two hours from our noon mark beside the house when I left it."
"I suppose I am going to dinner," said Giles. "I am ready enough for it. No, I don't want you to put the papers away for me. You can do with them what you like. I should advise your giving them to Father, since they are his, but that is as you will. I give them into your hands."
"Giles, Giles!" cried Constance, in distress, instantly guessing that this meant that Giles was intending to hold aloof from a part in rejoicing over the recovery.
"Give them to Father yourself. How proud of you he will be that you ferreted out the thief and went so bravely, with only John, to demand them for him! It is not my honour, and I must not take it."
"Oh, as to honour, you got the first clue from Damaris, if there's honour in it, but for that I do not care. I did the errand when you sent me on it, or opened my way. However it came about I will not give the papers to my father. In no wise will I stoop to set myself right in his eyes. Perhaps he will say that the whole story is false, that I did not get the papers on the ship, but had them hidden till fear and an uneasy conscience made me deliver them up, and that you are shielding your brother," said Giles, frowning as he turned from Constance.
"And I thought now everything would be right!" groaned the girl—her lips quivering, tears running down her cheeks. "Giles, dear Giles; don't, don't be so bitter, so unforgiving! It is not just to Father, not just to yourself, to me. It isn'tright. Giles! Will you hold this grudge against the father you so loved, and forget all the years that went before, for a miserable day when he half harboured doubt of you, and that when he was torn by influence, tormented till he was hardly himself?"
"Now, Constance, there is no need of your turning preacher," Giles said, harshly.
"If you like to swallow insult, well and good. It does not matter about a girl, but a man's honour is his chiefest possession. Take the papers, and prate no more to me. My father wanted them; there they are. He suspected me of stealing them; I found the thief. That's all there is about it. What is there to-day to eat? An early row makes a man hungry. Art ready, Jack? We will go to the house, by your leave, pretty Sis. Sorry to see your eyes reddening, but better that than other harm."
Constance hesitated as Giles went up the beach, taking John with him. For a moment she debated seeking Captain Standish, giving him the papers, and asking him to be intermediary between her father and this headstrong boy, who talked so largely of himself as "a man," and behaved with such wrong-headed, childish obstinacy. But a second thought convinced her that she herself might serve Giles better than the captain, and she took her way after her brother, beginning to hope, true to herself, that her father's pleasure in recovering the papers, his desire to make amends to Giles, would express itself in such wise that they would be drawn together closer than before the trouble arose.
It was turning into a balmy day, after a chilly morning. Though only the middle of March the air was full of spring. In the community house, as Constance entered, she found her stepmother, and Mrs. White—each with herMayflower-born baby held in one arm—busily setting forth the dinner, while Priscilla and Humility and Elizabeth helped them, and the smaller children, headed by Damaris, attempted to help, were sharply rebuked for getting in the way, subsided, but quickly darted up again to take a dish, or hand a knife which their inconsistent elders found needed.
Several men—Mr. Hopkins, Mr. White; Mr. Warren, whose wife had not yet come from England; Doctor Fuller, in like plight; John and Francis Billington's father, John Alden and Captain Myles Standish, as a matter of course—were discussing planting of corn while awaiting the finishing touches to their carefully rationed noonday meal.
"If you follow my counsel," the captain was saying, "you will plant over the spot where we have laid so many of our company. Thus far we hardly are aware of our savage neighbours, but with the warm weather they will come forth from their woodlands, and who knows what may befall us from them? Better, say I, conceal from them that no more than half of those who sailed hither are here to-day. Better hide from their eyes beneath the tall maize the graves on yonder hillside."
"Well said, good counsel, Captain Myles," said Stephen Hopkins. "God's acre, the folk of parts of Europe call the enclosure of their dead. We will make our acre God's acre, planting it doubly for our protection, in grain for our winter need, concealment of our devastation."
Suddenly the air was rent with a piercing shriek, and little Love Brewster, the Elder's seven-year-old son, came tumbling into the house, shaking and inarticulate with terror.
Priscilla Mullins caught him into her lap and tried to sooth him and discover the cause of his fright, but he only waved his little hands frantically and sobbed beyond all possibility of guessing what words were smothered beneath the sobs.
"Elder Brewster promised to let the child pass the afternoon with Damaris," began Mrs. Hopkins, but before she got farther John Alden started up.
"Look there," he said. "Is it wonderful that Love finds the sight beyond him?"
Look there, said John Alden
"'Look there,' said John Alden"
Stalking toward the house in all the awful splendour of paint, feathers, beads, and gaudy blanket came a tall savage. He had, of course, seen the child and realized his fright and that he had run to alarm the pilgrims, but not a whit did it alter the steady pace at which he advanced, looking neither to left nor to right, his arms folded upon his breast, no sign apparent of whether he came in friendship or in enmity.
The first instinct of the colonists, in this first encounter with an Indian near to the settlement was to be prepared in case he came in enmity.
Several of the men reached for the guns which hung ready on the walls, and took them down, examining their horns and rods as they handled them. But the savage, standing in the doorway, made a gesture full of calm dignity which the pilgrims rightly construed to mean salutation, and uttered a throaty sound that plainly had the same import.
"Welcome!" hazarded Myles Standish advancing with outstretched hand upon the new-comer, uncertain how to begin his acquaintance, but hoping this might be pleasing. "Yes," said the Indian in English, to the boundless surprise of the Englishmen. "Yes, welcome, friend!" He took Captain Standish's hand.
"Chief?" he asked. "Samoset," he added, touching his own breast, and thus introducing himself.
"How in the name of all that is wonderful did he learn English!" cried Stephen Hopkins.
"Yes, Samoset know," the Indian turned upon him, understanding. "White men ships fish far, far sunrise," he pointed eastward, and they knew that he was telling them that English fishermen had been known to him, whose fishing grounds lay toward the east.
"'Tis true; our men have been far east and north of here," said Myles Standish, turning toward Stephen Hopkins, as to one who had travelled.
"Humphrey Gilbert, but many since then," nodded Mr. Hopkins.
"Big chief Squanto been home long time white men, he talk more Samoset," said Samoset. "Squanto come see——." He waved his hand comprehendingly over his audience, to indicate whom Squanto intended to visit.
"Well, womenfolk, you must find something better than you give us, and set it forth for our guest," said Stephen Hopkins. "Get out our English beer; Captain Myles I'll undertake, will join me in foregoing our portion to-morrow for him. And the preserved fruits; I'm certain he will find them a novelty. And you must draw on our store of trinkets for gifts. Lads—Giles, John, Francis—help the girls open the chest and make selection."
Samoset betrayed no understanding of these English words, maintaining a stolid indifference while preparations for his entertainment went on. But he did full justice to the best that the colonists had to set before him and accepted their subsequent gifts with a fine air of noble condescension, as a monarch accepting tribute.
Later with pipes filled with the refreshing weed from Virginia, which had circuitously found its way back to the New World, via England, the Plymouth men sat down to talk to Samoset.
Limited as was his vocabulary, broken as was his speech, yet they managed to understand much of what he told them, valuable information relating to their Indian neighbours near by, to the state of the country, to climate and soil, and to the people of the forests farther north.
Samoset went away bearing his gifts, with which, penetrating his reserve, the colonists saw that he was greatly pleased. He promised a speedy return, and to bring to them Squanto, from whose friendship and better knowledge of their speech and race evidently Samoset thought they would gain much.
The younger men—Doctor Fuller, John Alden and others, needless to say Giles, John, and Francis Billington, under the conduct of Myles Standish—accompanied Samoset for a few miles on his return.
The sun was dropping westward, the night promising to be as warmly kind as the day had been, and Constance slipped her hand into her father's arm as he stood watching their important guest's departure, under his escort's guardianship.
"A little tiny walk with me, Father dear?" she hinted. "I like to watch the sunset redden the sands, and it is so warm and fine. Besides, I have something most beautiful to tell you!"
"Good news, Con? This seems to be a day of good things," said her father, as Constance nodded hard. "The coming of yonder Indian seems to me the happiest thing that could well have befallen us. Given the friendship of our neighbouring tribes we have little to fear from more distant ones, and the great threat to our colony's continuance is removed. Well, I will walk with you child, but not far nor long. There is scant time for dalliance in our lives, you know."
They went out, Constance first running to snatch her cloak and pull its deep hood over her hair as a precaution against a cold that the warm day might betray her into, and which she had good reason to fear who had helped nurse the victims of the first months of the immigration.
"The good news, Daughter?" hinted Mr. Hopkins after they had walked a short distance in silence.
Constance laughed triumphantly, giving his arm a little shake. "I waited to see if you wouldn't ask!" she cried, "I knew you were just as curious, you men, as we poor women creatures—but of course in a big, manly way!" She pursed her lips and shook her head, lightly pinching her father to point her satire.
"Have a care, Mistress Constantia!" her father warned her. "Curiosity is a weakness, even dangerous, but disrespect to your elders and betters, what is that?"
"Great fun," retorted Constance.
Her father laughed. He found his girl's playfulness, which she was recovering with the springtide and the relief from the heavy sorrow of the first weeks in Plymouth, refreshing amid the extreme seriousness of most of the people around him. "Proceed with your tidings, you saucy minx!" he said.
"Very well then, Mr. Stephen Hopkins," Constance obeyed him, "what would you say if I were to tell you that there was news of your missing packet of papers?"
Stephen Hopkins stopped short. "I should say thank God with all my heart, Constance, not merely because the loss was serious, but most of all because of Giles. Is it true?" he asked.
"They are found!" cried Constance, jubilantly, "and it was Giles himself who faced the thief and forced him to give them up. It is a fine tale!" And she proceeded to tell it.
Her father's relief, his pleasure, was evidently great, but to Constance's alarm as the story ended, his face settled into an expression of annoyance.
"It is indeed good news, Constance, and I am grateful, relieved by it," he said, having heard her to the end. "But why did not Giles tell me this himself, bring me the recovered packet? Would it not be natural to wish to confer upon me, himself, the happiness he had won for me, to hasten to me with his victory, still more that it clears him of the least doubt of complicity in the loss?"
"Ah, no, Father! That is just the point of his not doing so!" cried Constance. "Giles is sore at heart that you felt there might be a doubt of him. He cannot endure it, nor seem to bring you proofs of his innocence. I suppose he does not feel like a boy, but like a man whose honour is questioned, and by—forgive me, Father, but I must make it clear—by one whose trust in him should be stronger than any other's."
"Nonsense, Constantia!" Stephen Hopkins exploded, angrily. "What are we coming to if we cannot question our own children? Giles is not a man; he is a boy, and my boy, so I shall expect him to render me an account of his actions whenever, and however I demand it. I'll not stand for his pride, his assumption of injured dignity. Let him remember that! Thank God my son is an honest lad, as by all reason he should be. But though he is right as to the theft, he is wrong in his arrogance, and pride is as deadly a sin as stealing. I want no more of this nonsense."
"Oh, Father dear," cried Constance, wringing her hands with her peculiar gesture when matters got too difficult for those small hands. "Please, please be kind to Giles! Oh, I thought everything would be all right now that the packet was recovered, and by him! Be patient with him, I beg you. He is not one that can be driven, but rather won by love to do your will. If you will convey to him that you regret having suspected him he will at once come back to be our own Giles."
"Have a care, Constantia, that in your anxiety for your brother you do not fall into a share of his fault!" warned her father. "It is not for you to advise me in my dealing with my son. As to trying to placate him by anything like an apology: preposterous suggestion! That is not the way of discipline, my girl! Let Giles indicate to me his proper humility, his regret for taking the attitude that I am not in authority over him, free to demand of him any explanation, any evidence of his character I please. No, no, Constance! You mean well, but you are wrong."
Thus saying, Mr. Hopkins turned on his heel to go back to the house, and Constance followed, no longer with her hand on her father's arm, but understanding the strong annoyance he felt toward Giles, and painfully conscious that her pleading for her brother had done less than no good.
Giles Hopkins and John and Francis Billington slept in the new house, now nearly finished, on Leyden Street. Therefore it happened that Stephen Hopkins did not see his son until the morning after the recovery of the papers.
"Well, Giles," said his father, with a smile that Giles took to be mocking, but in which the father's hidden gratification really strove to escape, "so you played a man's part with theMayflowercaptain, at the same time proving yourself? I am glad to get my papers, boy, and glad that you have shown that you had no share in their loss, but only in their return. Henceforth be somewhat less insolent when appearances are against you; still better take care that appearances, facts as well, are in your favour."
"Appearances are in the eye of the on-looker," said Giles, drawing himself up and flushing angrily, though, had he but seen it, love and pride in him shone in his father's eyes, though his tone and words were careless, gruff indeed.
"If Dame Eliza is to be the glass through which you view me, then it matters not what course I follow, for you will not see it straight. Nor do I care to act to the end that you may not suspect me of being fit for hanging. A gentleman's honour needs no proving, or else is proved by his sword. And whatever you think of me, I can never defend myself thus against my father. A father may insult his son with impunity."
"But a boy may not speak insultingly to his father with impunity, Master Giles Hopkins," said Stephen Hopkins, advancing close to the lad with his quick temper afire. "One word more of such nature as I just heard and I will have you publicly flogged, as you richly deserve, and as our community would applaud."
Giles bowed, his face as angry as his father's, and passed on cutting the young sprouts along the road with a stick he carried. And thus the two burning hearts which loved each other—too similar to make allowances for each other when the way was open to their reconciliation—were further estranged than before.
In the meantime Constance, Priscilla, and the younger girls, were starting out, tools in hand, baskets swinging on their arms, to prepare the first garden of the colony.
"Thank—I mean I rejoice that we are not sent to work amid the graves on the hillside," said Priscilla, altering her form of expression to conform with the prescribed sobriety.
"Oh, that is to be planted with the Indian corn, you know," said Constance. "It grows high, and will hide our graves. Why think of that, Prissy? I want to be happy." She began to hum a quaint air of her own making. She had by inheritance the gift of music, as the kindred gift of love and taste for all beauty, a gift that should never find expression in her new surroundings.
Presently she found words for her small tune and sang them, swinging her basket in time with her singing and also swinging Humility Cooper's hand as she walked, not without some danger of dropping into a sort of dance step.
This is what she sang:
Over seas lies England;Still we find this wing-land;Birds and bees and butterflies flit about us here.Eastward lies our Mother,Loved as is no other,Yet here flowers blossom with the springing year.We will plant a garden,Eve-like, as the wardenOf the hope of men unborn, future of the race;Tears that we were weeping,Watering our keeping,Till we make the New World joy's own dwelling place.
Over seas lies England;Still we find this wing-land;Birds and bees and butterflies flit about us here.Eastward lies our Mother,Loved as is no other,Yet here flowers blossom with the springing year.
We will plant a garden,Eve-like, as the wardenOf the hope of men unborn, future of the race;Tears that we were weeping,Watering our keeping,Till we make the New World joy's own dwelling place.
Priscilla Mullins stopped short and looked with amazement on her younger companion.
"Did you make that song, Constance?" she demanded, being used to the rhyming which Constance made to entertain the little ones.
"It made itself, Pris," laughed Constance.
"Well, I'm no judge of songs, and as to rhyming I could match cat and rat if it was put to me to do, but no more. Yet it seemeth me that is a pretty song, with exactly the truth for its burden, and it trippeth as sweetly as the robin whistles. Do you know, Constance, it seems to me to run more into smooth cadences than the Metrical Psalms themselves!" Priscilla dropped her voice as she said this, as if she hoped to be unheard by the vengeance which might swoop down on her.
Constance's laugh rang out merrily, quite unafraid.
"Oh, dear Prissy, the Metrical Version was not meant to run in smooth cadences!" she cried. "Do you see why we should not sing as the robin whistles, being young and God's creatures, surely not less than the birds? Priscilla Mullins, there is John Alden awaiting us in the very spot where we are to work! How did he happen there, when no other man is about?"
"He spoke to me of helping us with the first heavy turning of the soil," said Priscilla, exceedingly red and uncomfortable, but constrained to be truthful. "Oh, Constance, never look at me like that! Can I help it that Master Alden is so considerate of us?"
"Sure-ly not!" declared Constance emphatically. "What about his returning home, Pris? He was hired but as cooper for the voyage, and would return. Will he go, think you?"
"He seems not fully decided. He said somewhat to me of staying." Poor Priscilla looked more than miserable as she said this, yet was forced to laugh.
"I will speak to my father and Captain Standish to get them to offer him work a-plenty this summer, so mayhap they can persuade him to let theMayflowersail without him—next week she goes. Or perhaps you could bring arguments to bear upon him, Priscilla! He never seems stiff-necked, nor unbiddable." Constance said this with a great effect of innocence, as if a new thought had struck her, and Priscilla had barely time to murmur:
"Thou art a sad tease, Constance," before they came up with John Alden, who looked as embarrassed as Priscilla when he met Constance's dancing eyes.
Nevertheless it was not long before John Alden and Priscilla Mullins were working together at a little distance apart from the rest, leaving Constance to dig and rake in company with Humility Cooper, Elizabeth Tilley, and the little girls. Thus at work they saw approaching from the end of the road that was lost in the woods beyond a small but imposing procession of tall figures, wrapped in gaudy colored blankets, their heads surmounted with banded feathers which streamed down their backs, softly waving in the light breeze.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear, Connie, they are savages!" whispered Damaris looking about as if wishing that a hole had been dug big enough to hide her instead of the small peas which she was planting.
"But they are friendly savages, small sister," said Constance. "See, they carry no bows and arrows. Do you know, girls, I believe this is the great chief Massasoit, of whom Samoset spoke, promising us his visit soon, and that with him may be Squanto, the Indian who speaks English! Don't you think we may be allowed to postpone the rest of the work to see the great conference which will take place if this is Massasoit?"
"Indeed, Constance, my back calls me to cease louder than any savage," said Humility, her hand on her waist, twisting her small body from side to side. "I have been wishing we might dare stop, but I couldn't bring myself to say so."
"You have not recovered strength for this bending and straining work, my dear," said Constance in her grandmotherly way. "Priscilla, Priscilla! John Alden, see!" she called, and the distant pair faced her with a visible start.
She pointed to the savages, and Priscilla and John hastened to her, thinking her afraid.
"Do you suppose it may be Massasoit and Squanto?" Constance asked at once.
"Let us hope so," said John Alden, looking with eager interest at the Indians. "We hope to make a treaty with Massasoit."
"Before you sail?" inquired Constance, guilelessly.
"Why, I am decided to cast my lot in with the colony, sweet Constance," said John, trying, but failing, to keep from looking at Priscilla.
"Pris?" cried Constance, and waited.
Priscilla threw her arms around Constance and hid her face, crying on her shoulder.
"My people are all dead, Connie, and I alone survive of us all on theMayflower! Even my brother Joseph died; you know it, Connie! Do you blame me?" she sobbed.
"Oh, Prissy, dear Prissy!" Constance laughed at this piteous appeal. "Just as though you did not find John Alden most likeable when we were sailing and no one had yet died! And just as though you had to explain liking him! As though we did not all hold him dear and long to keep him with us! John Alden, I never, never would sit quiet under such insult! You funny Priscilla! What are you crying for? Aren't you happy? tell me that!"
"So happy I must cry," sobbed Priscilla, but drying her eyes nevertheless. "Do you suppose those savages see me?"
"I am sure of it," declared Constance. "Likely they will refuse to make a treaty with white men whose women act so strangely! My father is going to be as glad of your treaty with Priscilla as of the savage chief's treaty, an it be made, Master Alden."
"What is it? What's to do, dear John Alden?" clamoured Damaris, who never spoke to John without the caressing epithet.
The young man swung her to his shoulder, and kissed the soil-stained hand which the child laid against his cheek.
"I shall marry Priscilla and stay in Plymouth, not go back to England at all! Does that please you, little maid?" he cried, gaily.
Damaris scowled at him, weighing the case.
"If you like me best," she said doubtfully.
"Of a certainty!" affirmed John Alden, for once disregarding scruples. "Could I swing up Priscilla on my shoulder like this, I ask you? Why, she's not even a little girl!"
And confiding little Damaris was satisfied.
By this time the band of savages had advanced to the point of the road nearest to where the girls and John Alden were working.
"We must go to greet them lest they find us remiss. We do not know the workings of their minds," said John Alden, striding down toward them, followed by the somewhat timorous group of grown and little girls, Damaris clinging to him, with one hand on Constance, in fearful enjoyment of the wonderful sight.
"Welcome!" said John Alden, coming across the undergrowth to where the savages awaited him. "If you come in friendship, as I see you do, welcome, my brothers."
"Welcome," said an Indian, stepping somewhat in advance. "We come in friendship. I am Squanto who know your race. I have been in England; I have seen the king. I am bring you friendship. This is Massasoit, the great chief. You are not the great white chief. He is old a little. Take us there."
"Gladly will I take you to our governor, who is, as you say, much older than I, and to our war chief, Myles Standish, and to the elders of our nation," said John Alden. "Follow me. You are most welcome, Massasoit, and Squanto, who can speak our tongue."
The singular company, the girls in their deep bonnets to shade them from the sun, the Indians in their paint and gay nodding feathers, the children divided between keen enjoyment of the novelty and equally keen fear of what might happen next, with John Alden the only white man, came down into Plymouth settlement, not yet so built up as to suggest the name.
Governor Carver was busied with William Bradford over the records of the colony, from which they were making extracts to dispatch to England in the near sailing of theMayflower. John Alden turned to Elizabeth Tilley.
"Run on, little maid, and tell the governor and elders whom we bring," he said.
Elizabeth darted into the house, earning a frown from the governor for her lack of manners, but instantly forgiven when she cried:
"John Alden and we who were working in the field are bringing Your Excellency the Indian chief Massasoit, and Squanto, who talks to us in English wonderful to hear, when you look at his feathers and painted face! And John Alden sent me on to tell you. And, there are other Indians with them. And, oh, Governor Carver, shall I tell the women in the community house to cook meat for their dinner, or shall it be just our common dinner of porridge with, maybe, a smoked herring to sharpen us? For this the governor should order, should not he?"
Governor Carver and William Bradford smiled. As a rule the younger members of the community over which these elder, grave men were set, feared them too much to say anything at which they could smile, but the greatness of this occasion swept Elizabeth beyond herself.
"I think, Mistress Elizabeth Tilley, that the matrons will not need the governor's counsel as to the feeding of our guests," said Governor Carver kindly. "Tell Constantia Hopkins to bid her father hither at his earliest convenience. I shall ask him to make the treaty with Massasoit, together with Edward Winslow, if it be question of a treaty, as I hope."
Elizabeth sped back and met the approaching guests. She dropped a frightened curtsy, not knowing the etiquette of meeting a band of friendly savages. But as they paid no attention to her, her manners did not matter, and realizing this with relief she joined Constance at the rear of the procession and delivered her message.
"Porridge indeed!" exclaimed Mistress Hopkins when Elizabeth Tilley repeated to her the governor's comment on her own suggestion as to the dinner for the Indian guests. "Porridge is well enough for us, but we will set the savages down to no such fare, but to our best, lest they fall to and eat us all some night in the dark of the moon, when we are asleep and unprotected! Little I thought I should be cooking for wild red men in an American forest when I learned to make sausage in my father's house! But learn I did, and to make it fit for the king, so it should please the savages, though what they like is beyond my knowledge. Sausage shall they have, and whether or no they will take to griddle cakes I dare not say, but it's my opinion that men are men, civilized or wild, and never a man did I see that was not as keen set on griddle cakes as a fox on a chicken roost. It will be our part to feed these savages well, for, as I say, men are men, wild or English, and if you would have a man deal well by you make your terms after he hath well eaten. Thus may your father and Elder Brewster get a good treaty from these painted creatures. Get out the flour, Constantia, and stir up the batter. Humility and Elizabeth, fetch the jar of griddle fat. Priscilla Mullins, what aileth thee? Art sleep-walking? Call a boy to fetch wood for the hearth, and fill the kettle. Are you John-a-Dreams, and is this the time for dreaming?"
"It's John-dream at least, is it not, Prissy?" whispered Constance, pinching the girl lightly as she passed her on her way to do her share of her step-mother's bidding.
Later Constance went to summon the guests to the community house for their dinner. They came majestically, escorted by the governor, Elder Brewster, William Bradford, Stephen Hopkins, the weighty men of the colony, with Captain Standish in advance, representing the power of might. What the Indians thought of these Englishmen no one could tell; certainly they were not less appreciative of the counsel of the wise than of the force of arms, having reliance on their own part upon their medicine men and soothsayers.
What they thought of the white women's cooking was soon perfectly apparent. It kept the women busy to serve them with cakes, to hold the glowing coals on the hearth at the right degree to keep the griddle heated to the point of perfect browning, never passing it to the burning point. The Indians devoured the cakes like a band of hungry boys, and Mistress Hopkins's boasted sausage was never better appreciated on an English farm table than here.
The young girls served the guests, which the Indians accepted as the natural thing, being used to taking the first place with squaws, both young and old.
The homebrewed beer which had come across seas in casks abundantly, also met with ultimate approval, though at first taste two or three of the Indians nearly betrayed aversion to its bitterness. There were "strong waters" too, made riper by long tossing in theMayflower'shold, which needed no persuading of the Indians' palates.
After the guests had dined Giles, John, Francis, and the other older boys, came trooping to the community house for their dinner.
When they discovered that Squanto spoke English fairly well they were agog to hear from him the many things that he could tell them.
"Stay with us; they do not need you," they implored, but Squanto, mindful of his duties as interpreter, reluctantly left them presently. Massasoit and his other companions returned with the white men to the conclave house, which was the governor's and Elder Brewster's home.
"I go but wish I might stay a little hour," said Squanto. He won Mistress Eliza's heart, with Mistress White's, by his evident friendliness and desire to stay with them.
After this Damaris and the children could not fear him, and thus at his first introduction, Squanto, who was to become the friend and reliance of the colony, became what is even more, the friend of the little children.
The girls of the plantation were gathered together in Stephen Hopkins's house. The logs on the hearth were ash-strewn to check their burning yet to hold them ready to burn when the hour for preparing supper was come and the ashes raked away.
Dame Eliza Hopkins had betaken herself to William Bradford's house, the baby, Oceanus, seated astride her hip in her favourite manner of carrying him; she protested that she could not endure the gabble of the girls, but in truth she greatly desired to discuss with Mistress Bradford, of whom she stood somewhat in awe, the events portending. She was secretly elated with her husband's coming honour, and wanted to convey to Mistress Bradford that, as between their two spouses, Stephen Hopkins was the better man.
Constance, sitting beside the smothered hearth fire, might be considered, since it was at her father's hearthstone the girls were gathered, as the hostess of the occasion, but the gathering was for work, not formalities, and, in any case, Constance was too preoccupied with her task to pay attention to aught else.
Only the older girls were bidden, but little Damaris was there by right of tenancy. She sat at Constance's feet, worshipping her, as she turned and twisted their father's coat, skilfully furbishing it with new buttons and new binding.
"May Mr. Hopkins wear velvet, Constance?" asked Humility Cooper, suddenly; she too had been watching Constance work. "Did not Elder Brewster exhort us to utmost plainness of clothing, as becomes the saints, who set more store upon heavenly raiment than earthly splendour?"
Constance looked up laughingly, pushing out of her eyes her waving locks which had strayed from her cap; she used the back of the hand that held her needle, pulled at great length through a button which she was fastening upon her father's worn velvet coat.
"Oh, Humility, splendour?" she laughed. "When I am trying hard to make this old coat passing decent? Isn't it necessary for us all to wear what we have, willy-nilly, since nothing else is obtainable, garments not yet growing on New World bushes? I do believe that some of the brethren discussed Stephen Hopkins's velvet coat, and decided for it, since it stood for economy. It stood for more; till a ship brings supplies from home, it's this, or no coat for my father. But since he has been selected, with Mr. Edward Winslow, to make the treaty with Massasoit, he should be clad suitably to his office, were there choice between velvet and homespun."
"What does he make to treat Mass o' suet, Constance? What is Mass o' suet; pudding, Constance?" asked Damaris, anxiously, knitting her brow.
Constance's laugh rang out, good to hear. She leaned forward impetuously and snatched off her little sister's decorous cap, rumpled her sleek fair hair with both hands pressing her head, and kissed her. Priscilla Mullins laughed with Constance, looking sympathetically at her, but some of the other girls looked a trifle shocked at this demonstration.
"Massasoit is a great Indian chief, small lass; he is coming in a day or so, and Father and Mr. Winslow will make a treaty with him; that means that Massasoit will promise to be our friend and to protect us from other Indian tribes, he and his Indians, while we shall promise to be true friends to him. It is a great good to our colony, and we are proud, you and I—and I think your mother, too"—Constance glanced with amusement at Priscilla—"that our father is chosen for the colony's representative."
"Do you suppose that the Indians know whether cloth or velvet is grander? Those we see like leather and paint and feathers," said Priscilla. "I hold that our men should overawe the savages, but——"
"And I hold that brides should be bonny, let it be here, or in England," Constance interrupted her. "What will you wear on the day of days, Priscilla, you darling?"
"Well, I have consulted with Mistress Brewster," admitted Priscilla, regretfully. "I did think, being a woman, she would know better how a young maid feeleth as to her bridal gown than her godly husband. But she saith that it is least of all becoming on such a solemn occasion to let my mind consider my outward seeming. So I have that excellent wool skirt that Mistress White dyed for me a good brown, and that with my blue body——"
"Blue fiddlesticks, Priscilla Mullins!" Constance again interrupted her, impatiently. "You'll wear nothing of the kind. I tell you it shall be white for you on your wedding day, with your comely face and your honest eyes shining over it! I have a sweet embroidered muslin, and I can fashion it for you with a little cleverness and a deep frill combined, for that you are taller than I, and more plump to take up its length, there's no denying, Prissy dear! We'll not stand by and see our plantation's one real romance end in dyed brown cloth and dreariness, will we, girls?"
"No!" cried Humility Cooper who would have followed Constance's lead into worse danger than a pretty wedding gown for Priscilla.
But Elizabeth Tilley, her cousin, looked doubtful. "It sounds nice," she admitted, "but I never can tell what is wrong and what is right, because, though we read our Bibles to learn our duty, the Bible does not condemn pleasure, and our teachers do. So it might be safer to wear dull garments when we are married, Constance, and not be light-minded."
"You mean light-bodied; light-coloured bodies, Betsy!" Constance laughed at her, with a glint of mischievous appreciation of Elizabeth's unconscious humour that was like her father. "No, indeed, my sister pilgrim. A snowy gown for Pris, though I fashion it, who am not too skilful. Oh, Francis Billington, how you scared me!" she cried, jumping to her feet and upsetting Damaris who leaned upon her, as Francis Billington burst into the room, out of breath, but full of importance.
"Nothing to fear with me about, girls," he assured the roomful. "But great news! Massasoit has come, marched in upon us before we expected him, and the treaty is to be made to-morrow. Squanto is as proud and delighted as——"
Squanto himself appeared in the doorway at that moment, a smile mantling his high cheek bones and a gleam in his eyes that betrayed the importance that his pride tried to conceal.
"Chief come, English girls," he announced. "No more you be fear Indian; Massasoit tell you be no more fear, he and Squanto fight for you, and he say true. No more fear, little English girl!" he laid his hand protectingly upon Damaris's head and the child smiled up at him, confidingly.
Giles came fast upon Squanto's heels. His face was flushed, his eyes kindled; Constance saw with a leap of her heart that he looked like the lad she had loved in England and had lost in the New World.
"Got Father's coat ready, Con?" he asked. "There's to be a counsel held, and my father is to preside over it on our side, arranging with Massasoit. My father is to settle with him for the colony—of course Mr. Winslow will have his say, also."
"I meant to furbish the coat somewhat more, Giles, but the necessary repairs are made," said Constance yielding her brother the garment. "How proud of Father he is!" she thought, happily. "How truly he adores him, however awry matters go between them!"
Giles hung the coat on his arm, carefully, to keep it from wrinkles, a most unusual thoughtfulness in him, and hastened away.
"No more work to-day, girls, or at least of this sort," cried Constance gaily, her heart lightened by Giles's unmistakable pride in their father. "We shall be called upon to cook and serve. Many Indians come with Massasoit, Squanto?"
"No, his chiefs," Squanto raised one hand and touched its fingers separately, then did the same with the other hand. "Ten," he announced after this illustration.
"That means no less than thirty potatoes, and something less than twenty quarts of porridge," laughed Constance, but was called to account by her stepmother, who had come in from the rear.
"Will you never speak the truth soberly, Constantia Hopkins?" she said. "We do not count on two quarts of porridge for every Indian we feed. Take this child; he is heavy for so long, and he hath kicked with both heels in my flesh every step of the way. Another Hopkins, I'll warrant, I've borne for my folly in marrying your father; a restless, headstrong brood are they, and Oceanus is already not content to sit quietly on his mother's hip, but will drive her, like a camel of the desert." She detached Oceanus's feet from her skirt and handed him over to Constance with a jerk. Constance received him, biting her lips to hold back laughter, and burying her face in the back of the baby neck that had been pitifully thin during the cruel winter, but which was beginning to wrinkle with plumpness now.
Too late she concealed her face; Mistress Eliza caught a glimpse of it and was upon her.
"It's not a matter for laughter that I should be pummelled by your brother, however young he may be," she cried; Dame Eliza had a way of underscoring her children's kinship to Constance whenever they were troublesome. "Though, indeed, I carry on my back the weight of your father's children, and my heart is worse bruised by the ingratitude of you and your brother Giles, than is my flesh with this child's heels. And Mistress Bradford is proud-hearted, and that I will maintain, Puritan or no Puritan, or whether she be one of the elect of this chosen company, or a sinner. For plain could I see this afternoon that she held her husband to be a better man, and higher in the colony, than my husband, nor would she give way one jot when I put it before her—though not so that she would see what I would be after—that Stephen Hopkins it was who was chosen with Mr. Winslow to make the treaty, and not William Bradford. Well, far be it from me to take pride in worldly things; I thank the good training that my mother gave me that I am humble-minded. Often and often would she say to me: Eliza, never plume yourself that you, and your people before you, are, as they are, better, more righteous people than are most other folks. For it is our part to bear ourselves humbly, not setting ourselves up for our virtue, but content to know that we have it and to see how others are lacking in it, making no traffic with sinners, but yet not boasting. And as to you, young women, it would be better if you betook yourselves to your proper homes, not lingering here to encourage Constantia Hopkins to idleness when I've my hands full, and more than full, to make ready for the Indian chiefs' supper, and I need her help."
On this strong hint the Plymouth girls bade Constance good-bye and departed, leaving her to a bustle of hard work, accompanied by her stepmother's scolding; Dame Eliza had come back dissatisfied from her visit, and Constance paid the penalty.
The next morning the men of Plymouth gathered at the house of Elder Brewster, attired in all the decorum of their Sunday garb, their faces gravely expressive of the importance of the event about to take place.
Captain Myles Standish, indeed, felt some misgivings of the pervading gravity of clothing of the civilized participants in this treaty, that it might not sufficiently impress their savage allies. He had fastened a bright plume that had been poor Rose's, on the side of his hat, and a band of English red ribbon across his breast, while he carried arms burnished to their brightest, his sword unsheathed, that the sun might catch its gleam.
Elder Brewster shook his head slightly at the sight of this display, but let it pass, partly because Captain Standish ill-liked interference in his affairs, partly because he understood its reason, and half believed that the doughty Myles was right.
Not less solemn than the white men, but as gay with colours as the Puritans were sombre, the Indians, headed by Massasoit, marched to the rendezvous from the house which had been allotted to them for lodging.
With perfect dignity Massasoit took his place at the head of the council room, and saluted Captain Standish and Elder Brewster, who advanced toward him, then retreated and gave place to Stephen Hopkins and Edward Winslow, who were to execute the treaty.
Its terms had already been discussed, but the Indians listened attentively to Squanto's interpretation of Mr. Hopkins's reading of them. They promised, on the part of Massasoit, perfect safety to the settlers from danger of the Indians' harming them, and, on the part of the pilgrims, aid to Massasoit against his enemies; on the part of both savage and white men, that justice should be done upon any one who wronged his neighbour, savage or civilized.
The gifts that bound both parties to this treaty were exchanged, and the treaty, that was so important to the struggling colony, was consummated.
The women and children, even the youths, were excluded from the council; the women had enough to do to prepare the feast that was to celebrate the compact before Massasoit took up his march of forty miles to return to his village.
But Giles leaned against the casement of the open door, unforbidden, glowing with pride in his father, for the first time in heart and soul a colonist, completely in sympathy with the event he was witnessing.
Stephen Hopkins saw him there and made no sign of dismissal. Their eyes met with their old look of love; father and son were in that hour united, though separated. Suddenly there arose a tremendous racket, a volley of shots, a beating of pans, shouts, pandemonium.
Captain Myles Standish turned angrily and saw John and Francis Billington, decorated with streamers of party-coloured rags, which made them look as if they had escaped from a madhouse, leaping and shouting, beating and shooting; John firing his clumsy "Bouncing Bully" in the air as fast as he could load it; Francis filling in the rest of the outrageous performance.
But worst of all was that Stephen Hopkins, who saw what Captain Myles saw, saw also his own boy, whom but a moment before he had looked at lovingly, bent and swayed by laughter.
Captain Standish strode out in a towering fury to deal with the Billingtons, with whom he was ceaselessly dealing in anger, as they were ceaselessly afflicting the little community with the pranks that shocked and outraged its decorum.
Stephen Hopkins dashed out after him. Quick to anger, sure of his own judgments, he instantly leaped to the conclusion that Giles had been waiting at the door to enjoy this prank when it was enacted, and it was a prank that passed ordinary mischief. If the Indians recognized it for a prank, they would undoubtedly take it as an insult to them. Only the chance that they might consider it a serious celebration of the treaty, afforded hope that it might not annul the treaty at its birth, and put Plymouth in a worse plight than before it was made.
Mr. Hopkins seized Giles by the shoulders and shook him.
"You laugh? You laugh at this, you young wastrel?" he said, fiercely. "By heavens, I could deal with you for conniving at this, which may earn salt tears from us all, if the savages take it amiss and retaliate on us. Will you never learn sense? How, in heaven's name, can you help on with this, knowing what you know of the danger to your own sisters should the savages take offence at it? Angels above us, and but a moment agone I thought you were my son, and rejoicing in this important day!"
Giles, white, with burning eyes, looked straight into his father's eyes, rage, wounded pride, the sudden revolt of a love that had just been enkindled anew in him, distorting his face.
"You never consider justice, sir," he said, chokingly. "You never ask, nor want to hear facts, lest they might be in my favour. You welcome a chance to believe ill of me. It is Giles, therefore the worst must be true; that's your argument."
He turned away, head up, no relenting in his air, but the boy's heart in him was longing to burst in bitter weeping.
Stephen Hopkins stood still, a swift doubt of his accusation, of himself, keen sorrow if he had wronged his boy, seizing him.
"Giles, stop. Giles, come back," he said.
But Giles walked away the faster, and his father was forced to return to Massasoit, to discover whether he had taken amiss what had happened, and, if he had, to placate him, could it be done.
To his inexpressible relief he found that their savage guests had not suspected that the boys' mischief had been other than a tribute to themselves, quite in the key of their own celebrations of joyous occasions.
After the dinner in which all the women of the settlement showed their skill, the Indians departed as they had come, leaving Squanto to be the invaluable friend of their white allies.
Giles kept out of his father's way; Stephen Hopkins was not able to find him to clear up what he began to hope had been an unfounded suspicion on his part. "Zounds!" said the kind, though irascible man. "Giles is almost grown. If I did wrong him, I am sorry and will say so. An apology will not harm me, and is his due—that is in case itisdue! I'll set the lad an example and ask his pardon if I misjudged him. He did not deny it, to be sure, but then Giles is too proud to deny an unjust accusation. And he looked innocent. Well, a good lad is Giles, in spite of his faults. I'll find him and get to the bottom of it."
"Giles is all right, Stephen," said Myles Standish, to whom he was speaking. "Affairs that go wrong between you are usually partly your own fault. He needs guiding, but you lose your own head, and then how can you guide him? But those Billington boys, they are another matter! By Gog and Magog, there's got to be authority put into my hands to deal with them summarily! And their father's a madman, no less. I told them to-day they'd cool their heels in Plymouth jail; we'd build Plymouth jail expressly for that purpose. And I mean it. I'm the last man to be hard on mischief; heaven knows I was a harum-scarum in my time. But mischief that is overflowing spirits, and mischief that is harmful are two different matters. I've had all I'll stand of Jack Billington, his Bouncing Bully and himself!"
"Here comes Connie. I wonder if she knows anything of her brother? If she does, she'll speak of it; if she doesn't, don't disturb her peace of mind, Myles. My pretty girl! She hurts me by her prettiness, here in the wilderness, far from her right to a sweet girl's dower of pleasure, admiration, dancing, and——"
"Stephen, Stephen, for the love of all our discarded saints, forbear!" protested Captain Myles, interrupting his friend, laughing. "If our friends about here heard you lamenting such a list of lost joys for Constance, by my sword, they'd deal with you no gentler than I purpose dealing with the Billingtons! Ah, sweet Con, and no need to ask how the day of the treaty hath left you! You look abloom with youth and gladness, dear lass."
"I am happy," said Constance, slipping her hand into her father's and smiling up into the faces of both the men, who loved her. "Wasn't it a great day, Father? Isn't it blessed to feel secure from invasion, and, more than that, secure of an ally, in case of unknown enemies coming? Oh, Father, Giles was so proud of you! It was funny, but beautiful, to see how his eyes shone, and how straight he carried himself, because his father was the man who made the treaty for us all! I love you, dearest, quite enough, and I am proud of you to bursting point, but Giles is almost a man, and he is proud of you as men are proud; meseems it is a deeper feeling than in us women, who are content to love, and care less for ambition."
Stephen Hopkins winced; he saw that Constance did not know that anything was again amiss between the two who were dearest to her on earth, but he said:
"'Us women,' indeed, Constantia! Do you reckon yourself a woman, who art still but my child-daughter?"
"Not a child, Father," said the girl, truly enough, shaking her head hard. "No pilgrim maid can be a child at my age, having seen and shared what hath fallen to my lot. And to-morrow there is to be another treaty made of peace and alliance, which is much on my mind, because I am a woman and because I love Priscilla. To-morrow is Pris married, Father."
"Of a truth, and so she is!" cried Stephen Hopkins, slapping his leg vigorously.
"Well, my girl, and what is it? Do you want to deck her out, as will not be allowed? Or what is on your mind?"
"Oh, I have made her a white gown, Father," said Constance. "Whatever they say, sweet Pris shall not go in dark clothing to her marriage! But, Father, Mr. Winslow is to marry her, as a magistrate, which he is. Is there no way to make it a little like a holy wedding, with church, and prayers, and religion?"
"My dear, they have decided here that marriage is but a matter belonging to the state. You must check your scruples, child, and go along with arrangements as they are. There is much of your earliest training, of your sainted mother's training, in you yet, my Constance, and, please God, you will remain her daughter always. But you cannot alter the ways of Plymouth colony. So be content, sweet Con, to pray for our Pris all you will, and rest assured they receive blessings who seek them, however they be situate," said Stephen Hopkins, gently touching his girl's white-capped head.
"Ah, well," sighed Constance, turning away in acquiescence.
Captain Myles Standish and her father watched Constance away. Then they turned in the other direction with a sigh.
"Hard to face westward all the time, my friend; even Con feels the tug of old ways, and the old home, on her heartstrings," said Captain Myles.