A Pilgrim Maid: A Story of Plymouth Colony in 1620

by Marion Ames Taggart

  CHAPTER XI

  A Home Begun and a Home Undone

  "Do you know aught of your brother, Constance?" asked Stephen Hopkinswhen he appeared in the great kitchen and common room of his home earlythe following morning.

  "He hath been away from home all night," Dame Eliza answered forConstance, her lips pulled down grimly.

  "Which I know quite well, wife," said her husband. "Constance, did Gilesspeak to you of whither he was going?"

  Constance looked up, meeting her father's troubled eyes, her owncloudless.

  "No, Father, but he must be with the other lads. Perhaps they areserving up some merry trick for the wedding. Nothing can have befallenhim. Giles was the happiest lad yesterday, Father dear! I must hastenthrough the breakfast-getting!"

  Constance fluttered away in a visible state of pleasant excitement. Herfather watched her without speaking, his eyes still gloomy; he knew thatConstance lacked knowledge of his reason for being anxious over Giles'sabsence.

  "And why should you hasten the getting of breakfast, ConstantiaHopkins?" demanded Dame Eliza. "It is to be no earlier than common. Ifyou are thinking to see Priscilla Mullins made the wife of John Alden,it will not be till nine of the clock, and that is nearly three hoursdistant."

  "Ah, but I am going to dress the bride!" triumphed Constance. "I'm goingto dress her from top to toe, and coil her wealth of glossy hair, toshow best its masses! And to crown her dear pretty face with it broughtaround her brow, as only I can bend it, so Pris declares! My dear,winsome Pris!"

  "Will you let be such vanity and catering to sinful worldliness, StephenHopkins?" demanded that unfortunate man's wife, with asperity. "Why willyou allow your daughter to divert Priscilla Mullins from the awfulnessof the vows she will utter, filling her mind with thoughts that illbecome a Puritan bride, and one to be a Puritan wife? I will say foryour wife, sir, that she did not come to vow herself to you in suchwise. And when Constantia herself becomes a matron of this plantationshe will not deport herself becomingly if she spend her maidenhoodfostering vanity in others. But there is no folly in which you will notuphold her! I pray that I may live to keep Damaris to the narrow path."

  "Aye, and my sweet Con hath lost Her mother!" burst out Stephen Hopkins,already too disturbed in mind to bear his wife's nagging.

  His allusion to Constance's mother, of whose memory his wife wasvindictively jealous, would have brought forth a storm, but thatConstance flew to her father, caught him by the arm, and drew himswiftly out of the door, saying:

  "Nay, nay, my dear one; what is the use? Let us be happy on Pris'swedding day. I feel as though if we were happy it would somehow bringgood to her. Don't mind Mistress Eliza; let her rail. If it were notabout this, it would be something else. Come down the grass a way, myfather, and see how the sunshine sparkles on the sea. The day is smilingon Pris, at least, and is decked for her by God, so why should mystepmother mind that I shall make the girl herself as fair as I knowhow?"

  "You are a dear lass, Con, child, and I swear I don't know how I shouldbear my days without you," said Stephen Hopkins, something suspiciouslylike a quaver in his voice.

  He did not return to the house till Con had prepared the breakfast.Hastily she cleared it away, her stepmother purposely delaying the mealas long as possible. But Dame Eliza's utmost contrariness could not holdback Constance's swift work long enough to make the hour very late whenit was done, the room set in order, and Constance herself, unadorned, inher plain Sunday garb, hastening over the young grass to where Priscillaawaited her.

  No one else had been allowed to help Constance in her loving labour.Beginning with Priscilla's sturdy shoes--there were no bridal slippersin Plymouth!--Constance, on her knees, laced Pris into the gear in whichshe would walk to meet John Alden, and followed this up, garment bygarment, which she and Priscilla had sewn in their brief spare moments,until she reached the masses of shining brown hair, which wasPriscilla's glory and Constance's affectionate pride.

  Brushing, and braiding, and coiling skilfully, Constance wound the fine,yet heavy locks around Priscilla's head.

  Then with deft fingers she pulled, and patted and fastened into curvesabove her brow sundry strands which she had left free for that purpose,and fell back to admire her results.

  "Well, my Prissy!" Constance cried, rapturously clapping her hands."Wait till you are dressed, and I let you see this in the glass yonder.No, not now! Only when the bridal gown is donned! My word, PriscillaMullins, but John Alden will think that he never saw, nor loved youuntil this day! Which is as we would wish him to feel. They may forbidus curling and waving our locks in this plantation, but no one ever yet,as I truly believe, could make laws to keep girls from increasing theircharms! Your hair brought down and shaken loose thus around your face,my Pris, is far, far more lovely, and adorns you better than any curlingtongs could do it. Because, after all, nature fits faces and hairtogether, and my waving hair would not be half so becoming to you asyour own straight hair, thus crowning your brow. Constance Hopkins, mygirl, I am proud of your skill as lady's maid!" And Constance kissed herown hand by way of her reward, as she went to the corner and gingerlylifted the white gown that waited there for her handling.

  It was a soft, fragile thing, made of white stuff from the East,embroidered all over with sprigs of small flowers. It had beenConstance's mother's, and had come from England at the bottom of her ownchest, safe hidden, together with other beautiful fabrics that had beenConstance's mother's, from the condemnatory eyes of Stephen Hopkins'ssecond wife.

  "It troubles me to wear this flimsy loveliness, Constance," saidPriscilla, as the gown drifted down over her shoulders. "And to think itwas thy mother's."

  "It will not harm it to lie over your true heart to-day, dearest Pris,when you vow to love John forever. It seems to me as though lifelessthings drew something of value to themselves from contact with goodnessand love. Pris, it is really most exquisite! And that deep ruffle that Isewed around it at the bottom makes it exactly long enough for you, yetit leaves it still right for me to wear, should I ever want to, only byripping it off again! Oh, Priscilla, dear, you are lovely enough, andthis embroidery is fine enough, for you to be a London bride!"

  Once more Constance fell back to admire at the same time Priscilla andher achievements.

  "I think, perhaps, it may be wrong, as they tell us it is, to care toomuch for outward adornment, Con dear. Not but that I like it, and loveyou for being so unselfish, so generous to me," said Priscilla, with hersweet gravity of manner.

  "Constance, if only my mother and father, and Joseph--but of course myparents I mourn more than my brother--were here to bless me to-day!"

  "Try to feel that they are here, Prissy," said Constance. "There beChristians in plenty who would tell you that they pray for you still."

  "Oh, but that is superstition!" protested Priscilla, shocked.

  Constance set her face into a sort of laughing and sweet contrariness.

  "There be Christians in plenty who believe it," she repeated. "And itseems a comforting and innocent enough thing to me. Art ready now,Priscilla? But before you go, kiss me here the kind of good-bye that wecannot take in public; my good-bye to dear Priscilla Mullins; yourgood-bye to Con, with whom, though dear friends we remain for aye,please God, you never again will be just the same close gossip that wehave been as maids together, on ship-board and land, through sore griefand hardships, yet with abounding laughter when we had half a chance tosmile."

  "Why, Con, don't make me cry!" begged Priscilla, holding Constancetight, her eyes filling with tears. "You speak sadly, and like one yearsolder than yourself, who had learned the changes of our mortal life.I'll not love you less that I am married."

  "Yes, you will, Pris! Or, if not less, at least differently. For maidsare one in simple interests, quick to share tears and laughter, whilethe young matron is occupied with graver matters, and there is notoneness between them. It is right so, but----Well, then, kiss megood-bye, Pris, my comrade, and bid Mistress John Alden, when you
knowher, love me well for your sweet sake," insisted Constance, not far fromtears herself.

  Quietly the two girls stole out of the bedroom, into the common room ofthe new house which Doctor Fuller had built for the reception of hiswife, whose coming from England he eagerly awaited. The widow White andPriscilla had been lodged there, helping the doctor to get it in order.

  "You look well, Priscilla," said Mrs. White. "Say what they will, thereis something in the notion of a young maiden going in white to hermarriage. Your friends are waiting you outside. I wish you well, mydaughter, and may you be blessed in all your undertakings."

  Priscilla went to the door and Constance opened it for her, steppingback to let the bride precede her. Beyond it were waiting the younggirls of the settlement; Humility Cooper and her cousin, ElizabethTilley, caught Priscilla by the hands.

  "How fair you are, dear!" cried Humility. "The children begged to beallowed to come to your wedding, and they are all waiting at Mr.Winslow's, for you were always their great friend, and there is scarce alimit to their love for John Alden."

  "Surely let the children come!" said Priscilla. "They are first of allof us, and will win blessings for John Alden and me."

  The girls fell into line ahead of her, and Priscilla walked down LeydenStreet, the short distance that lay between the doctor's house andEdward Winslow's, her head bent, her eyes upon the ground, the colourfaded from her fresh-tinted face. At the magistrate's house the eldersof the little community were gathered, waiting. John Alden came out andmet his bride on the narrow, sanded walk, and led her soberly into thehouse and up to Edward Winslow, who awaited them in his plain,close-buttoned coat, with its broad collar and cuffs of white linennewly and stiffly starched and ironed.

  It was a brief ceremony, divested of all but the necessary questions andreplies, yet to all present it was not lacking in impressiveness, forthe memory of recent suffering was vivid in every mind; the longing forthe many who were dead was poignant, and the consciousness of theuncertainty of the future of the young people, who were thus beginningtheir life together, was acute, though no one would have allowed itsexpression, lest it imply a lack of faith.

  When Mr. Winslow had pronounced John and Priscilla man and wife, ElderWilliam Brewster arose and, with extended hands, called down upon theirheads the blessing of the God of Israel, and prayed for their welfare inthis world, their reward in the world to come.

  Without any of the merriment which accompanied congratulations andsalutations at a marriage in England, these serious men and women cameup in turn and gravely kissed the bride upon her cheek, and shook JohnAlden's hand. Yet each one was fond of Priscilla and had grieved withher on her father's, mother's, and brother's deaths, and each onehonoured and truly was attached to John Alden.

  But even in Plymouth colony youth had to be more or less youthful.

  "Come, now; we're taking you home!" cried Francis Billington. "Fall in,girls and boys, big and little, grown folks as well, if only you will,and let us see our bride and her man started in their new home! And whoremembers a rousing chorus?"

  John Alden had been building his house with the help of the older boys;to it now he was taking Priscilla on her wedding journey, made on herown feet, a distance of a few hundred yards.

  "No rousing choruses here, sir," said Edward Winslow, sternly. "If youwill escort our friends to their home--and to that there can be noobjection--let it be to the sound of godly psalms, not to profanesongs."

  "You offer us youngsters little inducement to marry when our timecomes," muttered Francis, but he took good care that Mr. Winslow shouldnot hear him, having no desire to run counter at that moment to Mr.Winslow's will, knowing that he and Jack were already in danger of beingdealt with by the authorities. And where was Jack? He had not seen hisbrother since the previous day.

  Boys and young men in advance, girls and the younger women following,the bridal pair bringing up the rear, the little procession went upLeyden Street and drew up at the door of the exceedingly small housewhich John Alden had made for his wife. Francis, who had constitutedhimself master of ceremonies, made the escort divide into two lines and,between them, John and Priscilla walked into their house. And with thatthe wedding was over.

  For an instant the young people held their places, staring across thespace that separated them, with the blank feeling that always followsafter the end of an event long anticipated.

  Then Constance turned with a sigh, looking about her, wondering if shereally were to resume her work-a-day tasks, first of all get dinner.

  She met her father's intent gaze and his look startled her. He beckonedher, and she stepped back out of the line and joined him.

  "Giles, Constance; where is he?" demanded Stephen Hopkins.

  "Father, I don't know! Isn't he here?" she cried.

  "He is not here, nor is John Billington," said her father. "No one hasseen either of them since last night. Is it likely that they wouldabsent themselves willingly from this wedding; Giles, who is so fond ofJohn Alden; John Billington, who is so fond of anything whatever thatbreaks the monotony of the days?"

  Constance shook her head. "No, Father," she whispered.

  "No. And you have no clue to this disappearance, Constance?" her fatherinsisted.

  "Father, Father, no; no, indeed!" protested Constance. "I did not somuch as miss the boys from among us. But what could have befallen them?It can't be that they have come to harm?"

  "Constance," said her father with a visible effort, "Giles was deeplyangry with me yesterday----"

  "Father, dear Father, you are quite wrong!" Constance interrupted him."There was no mistaking how delighted Giles was with your making thetreaty. Indeed I saw in him all the old-time love and pride in you thatwe used to make a jest--but how we liked it!--in the dear days acrossthe water, when we were children."

  Stephen Hopkins let her have her say. Then he shook his head.

  "It may all be as you say, Constance," he said, sadly. "I also felt inGiles, saw in his face, the affection I have missed of late. But whenthe Billingtons came making that disturbance I went out--angry, Con; Iadmit it--and accused Giles of abetting them in what might have causedus serious trouble. And he, in turn, was furiously angry with me. He didnot reply to my accusation, but spoke impertinently to me, and wentaway. I have not seen him since."

  "Oh, Father, Father!" gasped Constance, her lips trembling, her facepale.

  "I know, my daughter," said Stephen Hopkins, almost humbly. "But it wasan outrageous thing to risk offending our new allies, and inviting thedeath of us all. And Giles did not deny having a hand in it, remember.But I confess that I should have first asked him whether he had, ornot."

  "Poor Father," said Constance, gently. "It is hard enough to be anxiousabout your boy without being afraid that you wronged him. How I wishthat Giles would not always stand upon his dignity, and scorn speech!How I wish, how I pray, that you may come to understand each other, totrust each other, and be as we were when you trotted Giles and me uponyour knees, and I sometimes feared that you liked me less than you didyour handsome boy, who was so like you."

  "Who _is_ so like me," her father corrected her. "You were right, Con,when you said that Giles and I were too alike to get on well together;the same quick temper, rash action, swift conclusions."

  "The same warm heart, high honour, complete loyalty," Constance amended,swiftly.

  "Father, if you could but once and for ever grasp that! Giles is youagain in your best traits. He can be the reliance that you are, but ifhe turns wrong----"

  She paused and her father groaned.

  "Ah, Constance, you are partial to me, yet you stab me. If I have turnedhim wrong, is what you would say! How womanly you are grown, mydaughter, and how like your dead mother! But, Con, this is no time tostand discussing traits, not even to adjust the blame of this wretchedbusiness. How shall I find the boy?"

  "Why, for that, Father, you know far better than I," said Constance,gently, taking her father's arm. "Let us go home, dear man. I shouldthin
k a party to scour the woods beyond us? And Squanto would be ourbest help, he and Captain Standish, wouldn't they? But I am sure theboys will be in for supper. You know they are sharp young wolves, with ascent like the whole pack in one for supper! Giles is safe! And as toJack Billington, tell me truly, Father, can you imagine anything able toharm him?" She laughed with an excellent reproduction of her own mirthwhen she possessed it, but it was far from hers now.

  Constance shared to the uttermost her father's apprehension. If herpoor, hasty father had again accused Giles of that which he had notdone, and this when he was aglow with a renewal of the old confidencebetween them, then it well might be that Giles, equally hot-headed, haddone some desperate thing in his first sore rage. The fact that he hadbeen absent from the wedding of John Alden, whom he cared for deeply;that he had missed his supper and breakfast; and that John Billington,reckless, adventurous Jack, was missing at the same time, left Constancelittle ground for hope that nothing was wrong.

  But nothing of this did she allow to escape in her manner of speech.

  She gaily told her father all about her morning: how cleverly she hadlengthened Priscilla's gown, her own mother's gown, lent Pris; howbecomingly she had arranged Pris's pretty hair; all the small femininedetails which a man, especially a brave, manly man of Stephen Hopkins'skind, is supposed to scorn, but which Constance was instinctivelysympathetic enough to know rested and amused her father; soothed himwith its pretty femininity; relaxed him as proving that in a world ofsuch pretty trifles tragedy could not exist.

  "My stepmother is not come back yet," Constance said, with a swiftglance around, as she entered. "Father, when she comes in with the babyyou must test his newly discovered powers; Oceanus is beginning to standalone! Now I must go doff my Sunday best--Father, I never can learn tocall it the Sabbath; please forgive me!--and put on my busy-maidclothes! What a brief time a marriage takes! I mean in the making!" Shelaughed and ran lightly away, up the steep stairs that wound inthreatening semi-spiral, up under the steep lean-to roof.

  "Bless my sunshine!" said Stephen Hopkins, fervently, as he watched herskirt whisk around the door at the stairway foot.

  But upstairs, in the small room that she and Damaris shared, his"sunshine" was blurred by a swift rain of tears.