CHAPTER XII
The Lost Lads
A gray evening of mist drifting in from the sea settled down uponPlymouth. It emphasized the silence and seemed to widen and deepen thevacuum created by the absence of Giles and John. For the supper hour, atwhich they were enthusiastically prompt to return to give their heartyappetites their due, came and passed without bringing back the boys.
Stephen Hopkins pushed away his plate with its generous burdenuntouched, threw on his wide-brimmed hat, and strode out of the housewithout a word. Constance knew that he had gone to ask help from MylesStandish, to organize a search, and go out to find the lost.
Damaris crept into her sister's lap and sat with her thin little handsin Constance's, mutely looking up into the white, sorrowing face aboveher.
Even Dame Eliza was reluctantly moved to something like pity for thegirl's silent misery, and expressed it in her way.
"At least," she said, suddenly, out of the deep silence enveloping them,"here is one thing gone wrong without my sending. No one can say that Ihad a finger raised to push your brother out of the right course thistime!"
Constance tried to reply, but failed. Not directly had her stepmotherhad a share in this misfortune, but how great a share had she in theestrangement between father and son that was at the bottom of thepresent misunderstanding? Constance would not remind her stepmother ofthis, and no other reply was possible to her in her intense anxiety.
The night wore away, the dawn came, lifting the fog as the sun shot upout of the sea. Stephen Hopkins came out of the principal bedroom on theground floor of the house showing in his haggard face that he had notslept. Constance came slowly down the winding stairs, pale, with darkcircles under her eyes which looked as though they had withdrawn fromher face, retreated into the mind which dwelt on Giles since they couldno longer see him, and the brain alone could fulfil their office.
"There's no sort of use in getting out mourning till you're sure ofhaving a corpse, so I say," said Mistress Eliza, impatiently. "Giles iscertain to take care of himself. I've no manner of patience with peoplewho borrow what they can't return, and how would you return trouble,borrowed from nothing and nobody?"
Nevertheless she helped both Constance and her father to a generousbowlful of porridge, and set it before them with a snapped-out: "Eatthat!" which Constance was grateful to feel concealed uneasiness on herstepmother's own part.
Another day, and still another, wore themselves away. Constance foughtto keep her mind occupied with all manner of tasks, hoping to tireherself till she must sleep at night, but nevertheless slept onlybrokenly, lying staring at the three stars which she could see throughthe tiny oblong window under the eaves, or into the blackness of theslanting roof, listening to Damaris's quiet breathing, and thinkingthat childhood was not more blessed in being happy than in its abilityto forget.
Stephen Hopkins had gone with Captain Standish, Francis Billington, andSquanto to scour the woods for miles, although labouring hands could illbe spared at that season. They returned at the close of their fourth dayof absence, and no one ventured to question them; that they had not somuch as a clue to the lost lads was clearly written on their faces.
Constance drew her stool close to her father after supper was over, andwound her arms about him and laid her head on his breast, unrebuked byher stepmother.
"Read the fifty-first psalm, my daughter; it was the penitential psalmin England in my beginnings," Stephen Hopkins said, and Constance readit in a low voice, which she dared not raise, lest it break.
An hour later, an hour which had been passed in silence, broken only byDame Eliza's taking Damaris up to bed, the sound of voices was heardcoming down the quiet street. Stephen Hopkins's body tautened as he saterect, and Constance sprang to her feet. No one ever went outside hishouse in the Plymouth plantation after the hour for family prayers,which was identical in every house. But someone was abroad now; it wasnot possible----?
"It is Squanto," said Stephen Hopkins, catching the Indian's syllablesof broken English.
"And Francis Billington, and another Indian, talking in his owntongue!" added Constance, shaking with excitement.
The door opened; Stephen Hopkins did not move to open it. There enteredthe three whom those within the house had recognized; Francis's face wascrimson, his eyes flashing.
"You come to tell me that my son is dead?" said Stephen Hopkins, raisinghis hand as if to ward off a blow.
"No, we don't! Don't look like that, Mr. Hopkins, Con!" cried Francis."Jack and Giles are all right----"
"Massasoit send him," said Squanto, interrupting the boy, as if hewanted to save Stephen Hopkins from betraying the feeling that an Indianwould scorn to betray, for Mr. Hopkins had closed his eyes and swayedslightly as he heard Francis's high boyish voice utter the words he hadso hungered to hear.
Squanto pointed to the Indian beside him as he spoke. "Massasoit senthim. Massasoit know where boys go. Nawsett. It not far; Massasoit morefar. Nawsett Indians fight you when you come, not yet got Plymouthfound. Nawsett. Both boys, both two." Squanto touched two fingers of hisleft hand. "Not dead, not sick, not hurt. You send, Massasoit say. Getboys you send Nawsett. Squanto go show Nawsett." Squanto looked proudlyat his hearers, rejoicing in his good news.
"Praise God from Whom all blessings flow," said Stephen Hopkins, bowinghis head, and Constance burst into tears and seized him around the neck,while Francis drew his sleeves across his eyes, muttering somethingabout: "Rather old Jack was all right."
Dame Eliza came down the stairs, having heard voices, and recognizedthem as Indian, but had been unable to catch what was said. She stoppedas she saw the scene before her, and her face crimsoned. She at onceknew the purport, though not the details, of the message deliveredthrough Squanto by Massasoit's messenger, and that the lost lads weresafe. With a quick revulsion from the anxiety that she had felt, sheinstantly lost her temper.
"Stephen Hopkins, what is this unseemingly exhibition? Will you allowyour daughter to behave in this manner before a youth, and two savagemen? Shame on you! Stand up, Constantia, and let your father alone. SoGiles is safe, I suppose? Well, did I not tell you so? Bad sixpences arehard to lose; your son will give you plenty of the scant comfort you'vealready had from him. No fear of him not coming back to plague me, andto disgrace you," she scolded.
"Oh, Stepmother, when we are so glad and thankful!" sighed Constance,lifting her tired, tear-worn face, over which the light of her gladnessand gratitude was beginning to shine.
There was nothing to be done that night but to try to adjust to therelief that had come, and to wait impatiently for morning to arrange tobring home the wanderers.
Stephen Hopkins was ahead of the sun in beginning the next day, and assoon as he could decently do so, he set out to see Governor Bradford toask his help.
"I rejoice with you, my friend and brother," said dignified WilliamBradford, when he had heard Mr. Hopkins's story. "Like the woman in theGospel you call in your neighbours to rejoice with you that the lost isfound. I will at once send the shallop to sail down the coast and bringoff our thorn-in-the-flesh, young John Billington, and your somewhatunruly lad with him. As your brother in our great enterprise and yourtrue well-wisher, let me advise that you deal sternly with Giles when heis returned to us. He hath done exceeding wrong thus to afflict you, andwith you, all of our community to a lesser extent, by anxiety over hissafety. Furthermore, it is a time in which we need all our workers; hehath not only deprived us of his own services, but hath demanded thevaluable hours of others in striving to rescue him. I doubt not that youwill do your duty as a father, but let me remind you that your duty isnot leniency, but sternness to the lad who is too nearly man to fail usall as he hath done."
"It is true, William Bradford, and I will do my best though it hathafflicted me that I may have driven the lad from me by blaming him whenit was not his desert, and that because of this he went away," said Mr.Hopkins.
"If this were true, Stephen, yet would it not excuse Giles," saidWill
iam Bradford, whose one child, a boy, had been left behind inEngland to follow his father to the New World later, and who was notversed in ways of fatherhood to highstrung youths of Giles's age. "Itbecometh not a son to resent his father's chastisements, which, properlyborne, may result in benefit, whether or not their immediate occasionwas a matter of justice or error. So deal with your son sternly, I warnyou, nor let your natural pleasure in receiving him safe back againrelax you toward him."
The shallop was launched with sufficient men to navigate her, Squantoaccompanying them to guide them southward to the tribe that held Gilesand John, in a sense, their captives.
On the third day after her departure the shallop came again in sight,nosing her way slowly up the harbour against a wind dead ahead andblowing strong. There was time, and to spare for any amount ofpreparation, and yet to get down on the sands to see the shallop come toanchor, and be ready to welcome those whom she bore. Nevertheless,Constance hurried her simple toilet till she was breathless, snarlingthe comb in her hair; tying her shoe laces into knots which hernervousness could hardly disentangle; chafing her delicate skin with thevigorous strokes she gave her face; stooping frequently to peer out ofher bedroom window to see if, by an impossible mischance, the shallophad come up before she was dressed, although the one glimpse that shehad managed to get of the small craft had shown that the shallop was anhour away down the harbour.
At last her flustered mishaps were over, and Constance was neat andtrim, ready to go down to the beach.
"Damaris, little sister, come up and let me see that none of the dinnertreacle is on the outside of your small mouth," Constance called gailydown the stairs.
Damaris appeared, came half way, and stopped forlornly.
"Mother says she will take me, Constance," the child said, mournfully."She says that you will greet Giles with warm welcome, and that I mustnot help in it, for that Giles is wicked, and must be frowned upon. IsGiles wicked, Constance? He is good to me; I love him, not so much asyou, but I do love Giles. Must I not be glad when he comes, Sister?"
"Oh, Damaris, darling, your kind little heart tells you that you wouldwant a welcome yourself if you were returning after an absence! And weknow that the father of that bad son in the Gospel went out to meethim, and fell on his neck! But I must not teach you against yourmother's teaching! You know, little lass, whether or not I think our bigbrother bad!" said poor Constance. "Where is your mother?"
"She hath gone to fetch Oceanus back; he crawled out of the open doorand went as fast as a spider down the street, crawling, Constance! Helooked so funny!" and Damaris laughed.
Constance laughed too, and cried gaily, with one of her sudden changesfrom sober to gay: "And so Oceanus is beginning to run off, too! What atime we shall have, Damaris, with our big brother marching away, and ourbaby brother crawling away, both of them caring not a button whether weare frightened about them, or not!"
She flitted down the stairs with her lightness of movement that gave herthe effect of a half-flight, caught Damaris to her and kissed hersoundly, and set her down just in time to escape rebuke for herdemonstrativeness from Dame Eliza, who returned with her face reddened,and Oceanus kicking under one arm, hung like a sack below it, andscreaming with baffled rage and the desire of adventure. On the beachnearly everyone of the small community was gathered to see the arrival.
Constance stole up behind Priscilla Alden, and touched her shoulder.
"You are not the only happy girl here to-day, my bonny bride," shesaid.
Priscilla turned and caught Constance by both hands.
"Nor the only one glad for this cause, Constance," she retorted. "IndeedI rejoice beyond my powers of telling, that Giles is come to thee, andthat thou art spared the bitter sorrow that we feared had fallen uponthee!"
"Well do I know that, dear Pris," said Constance. "Where is my father?"
"Yonder with William Bradford, Edward Winslow, Elder Brewster; do younot see?" Priscilla replied nodding toward the group that stood somewhatapart from the others. Constance crossed over to them, and curtseyedrespectfully to the heads of this small portion of the king's subjects.
"Will you not come with me, my father?" she said, hoping that StephenHopkins would stand with her on the edge of the sands to be the firstwhom Giles would see on arriving, identifying himself with her who,Giles would know, was watching for him with a heart leaping out towardhim.
"No, Daughter, I will remain here. I am to-day less Giles Hopkins'sfather than one of the representatives of this community, which he andJohn Billington have offended," replied Stephen Hopkins, but whetherwith his mind in complete accord with his decision, or stifling alonging to run to meet his son, like that other father of whom Constancehad spoken to Damaris, the girl could not tell.
She turned away, recognizing the futility of pleading when her fatherwas flanked as he then was.
The shallop was beached and the lost lads leaped out, John with a broadgrin on his face, unmixed enjoyment of the situation visible in hisevery look; Giles with his eyes troubled, joy in getting back strugglingwith his misgivings as to what he might find awaiting him.
The first thing that he found was Constance, and there was no admixturein the delight with which he seized his sister's hands--warmer greetingbeing impossible before a concourse which would rebuke it sternly--andreplied fervently to her: "Oh, Giles, how glad I am to see you again!"
"And I to see you, sweet sis! Ah, there is Pris! I missed her wedding.And there is John Alden!" said Giles, shading his eyes with his hand,but Constance saw the eyes searching for his father, and merely glancingat Priscilla and John.
"Our father is with the other weighty men of our plantation, waiting foryou, Giles. You and John must go to them," suggested Constance.
Giles shrugged his shoulders. "Otherwise they will not know we areback?" he asked. "Very well; come, then, Jack. The sooner the better;then the gods are propitiated."
The two wilful lads walked over to the grave men awaiting them.
"We thank you, Governor Bradford, for sending the shallop after us,"said Giles.
"Is this all that you have to say?" demanded William Bradford!
"No, sir; we have had adventures. We wandered five days, subsisting onberries and roots; came upon an Indian village, called Manamet, which wereckon to be some twenty miles to the southward of Plymouth here. TheseIndians conveyed us on to Nawsett still further along, and there werested until the shallop appeared to take us off. This is, in brief, thehistory of our trip, although I assure you, it was longer in the livingthan in the telling. Permit me to add, Governor, that those Indiansamong whom we tarried are coming to make a peace with us and seeksatisfaction from those of our community who took their corn what timewe were dallying at Cape Cod, when we arrived in the _Mayflower_. Thisis, perhaps, in a measure due to our visit to them, though we would notclaim the full merit of it, since it may also be partly wrought byMassasoit's example."
Giles spoke with an easy nonchalance that held no suggestion ofcontrition, and William Bradford, as well as Elder Brewster, and Mr.Winslow, frowned upon him, while his father flushed darkly under thebronze tint of his skin, and his eyes flashed. At every encounter thisfather and son mutually angered each other.
"Inasmuch as you have done well, Giles Hopkins and John Billington, weapplaud you," said Governor Bradford, slowly. "In sooth we are rejoicedthat you are not dead, not harmed by your adventure. We rejoice, also,in the tidings of peace with yet another savage neighbour. But we demandof you recognition of your evil ways, repentance for the anxiety thatyou have caused those to whom you are dear, to all Christians, who, asis their profession, wish you well; for the injury you have done us intaking yourselves off, to the neglect of your seasonable labours, andthe time which hath been wasted by able-bodied men searching for you.You have not asked your father to pardon you."
Giles looked straight into his father's eyes. Unfortunately there was inthem nothing of the look they had worn a few nights earlier whenConstance had read to him the psalm of
the stricken heart.
"I am truly grieved for the suffering that I know my sister bore whilemy fate was uncertain, for I know well her love for me. And I regretbeing a charge upon this struggling plantation. As far as lies in mypower I will repay that debt to it. But as to my father, his last wordsto me expressed his dislike for me, and his certainty that I was awrong-doer. I cannot think that he has grieved for me," said poor Giles,speaking like a man to men until, at the last words, his voice quavered.
"I have grieved for thee often and bitterly, Giles, and over thee, whichis harder for a father than sorrow for a son. Show me that I am wrong inmy judgment of thee, by humbling thyself to my just authority, andconducting thyself as I would have thee act, and with a great joy in myheart I will confess myself mistaken in thee, and thank Heaven for myerror," said Stephen Hopkins.
Giles's eyes wavered, he dropped his lids, and bit his lip. The simplemanhood in his father's words moved him, yet he reflected that he hadbeen justified in resenting an unfounded suspicion on this father'spart, and he steeled himself against him. More than this, how could hereply to him when he was surrounded by the stern men who condemnedyouthful folly, and whom Giles resisted in thought and deed?
Giles turned away without raising his eyes; he did not see a halfmovement that his father made to hold out his hand to detain him.
"Time will right, or end everything," the boy muttered, and walked away.
Constance, who had been watching the meeting between her twowell-beloveds, crossed over to Myles Standish.
"Captain Standish," she begged him, "come with me; I need you."
"Faith, little Con, I need you always, but never have you! You showscant pity to a lonely man, that misses his little friend," retortedCaptain Standish, turning on his heel, obedient to a gesture fromConstance to walk with her.
"It is about Giles, dear Captain," Constance began. "He is back, I amthankful for it, but this breach between him and my father is a wideone, and over such a foolish thing! And it came about just wheneverything was going well!"
"Foolish trifles make the deepest breaches, Constance, hardest to bridgeover," said Captain Myles. "I grant you that the case is serious,chiefly because the man and the boy love each other so greatly; that,and their likeness, is what balk them. What would you have me do?"
"I don't know, but something!" cried Constance wringing-her hands. "Ihoped you would have a plan by which you could bring them together."
"Well, truth to tell, Con, I have a plan by which to separate them,"said the captain, adding, laughing--as Constance cried out: "Oh, not forall time!"--"But I think a time spent apart would bring them togetherin the end. Here is my plan: I am going exploring. There is that vasttract of country north of us which we have not seen, and tribes ofsavages, of which Squanto tries to tell us, but which he lacks ofEnglish to describe. I am going to take a company of men from here andexplore to the nor'ard. I would take Giles among them. He will learnself-discipline, obedience to me--I am too much a soldier to be lax inexacting obedience from all who serve under me--and he will return herelicked into shape by the tongue of experience, as an unruly cub islicked into his proper form by his dam. In the meantime your father willsee Giles more calmly than at short range, and will not be irritated byhis manly airs. When they come together again it will be on a new plane,as men, not as man and boy, and I foresee between them the saneenjoyment of their profound mutual affection. I had it in mind to askStephen Hopkins to lend me his boy; what say you, my Constance?"
"I say: Bless you, and thrice over bless you, Captain Myles Standish!"cried Constance. "It is the very solution! Oh, I am thankful! I shall beanxious every hour till you return, but with all my heart I say: TakeGiles with you and teach him sense. What should we ever do here withoutyou, Captain, dear 'Arm-of-the-Colony'?"
"I doubt you ever have a chance to try that dire lack, my Con," saidCaptain Myles, with a humorous look at her. "I think I'm chained here bythe interest that has grown in me day by day, and that I shall die amongyou. Though, by my sword, it's a curious thing to think of MylesStandish dying among strict Puritans!"
A Pilgrim Maid: A Story of Plymouth Colony in 1620 Page 14
