A Pilgrim Maid: A Story of Plymouth Colony in 1620

by Marion Ames Taggart

  CHAPTER XIX

  A Fault Confessed, Thereby Redressed

  As the winter wore away, that second winter in Plymouth colony thatproved so hard to endure, the new state of things in the Hopkinshousehold continued. Constance could not understand her stepmother.Though the long habit of a lifetime could not be at once entirelyabandoned, yet Dame Eliza scolded far less, and toward Constance herselfmaintained an attitude that was far from fault-finding. Indeed shemanaged to combine something like regretful deference that was notunlike liking, with a rigid keeping of her distance from the girl.Constance wondered what had come over Mistress Hopkins, but she was toothankful for the peace she enjoyed to disturb it by the least attempt tobridge the distance that Dame Eliza had established between them.

  Her father and Giles were a daily delight to Constance. The comradeshipthat they had been so happy in when Giles was a child was theirs again,increased and deepened by the understanding that years had enabled Gilesand his father to share as one man with another. And added to that waswistful affection, as if the older man and the younger one longed tomake up by strength of love for the wasted days when all had not beenright between them.

  Constance watched them together with gladness shining upon her face.Dame Eliza also watched them, but with an expression that Constancecould not construe. Certain it was that her stepmother was not happy,not sure of herself, as she had always been.

  Oceanus was not well; he did not grow strong and rosy as did the other_Mayflower_ baby, Peregrine White, though Oceanus was by this timewalking and talking--a tall, thin, reed-like little baby, fashioned notunlike the long grasses that grew on Plymouth harbour shore. But Damarishad come back to health. She was Constance's charge; her mother yieldedher to Constance and devoted herself to the baby, as if she had apresentiment of how brief a time she was to keep him.

  It was a cruelly hard winter; except that there was not a secondepidemic of mortal disease it was harder to the exiles than the firstwinter in Plymouth.

  Hunger was upon them, not for a day, a week, or a month, but hourly andon all the days that rose and set upon the lonely little village,encompassed by nothing kinder than reaches of marsh, sand, and barrensthat ended in forest; the monotonous sea that moaned against their coastand separated them from food and kin; and the winter sky that oftensmiled on them sunnily, it is true, but oftener was coldly gray, orhurling upon them bleak winds and driving snows.

  From England had come on the _Fortune_ more settlers to feed, but nofood for them. Plymouth people were hungry, but they faithfully dividedtheir scarcity with the new-comers and hoped that in the spring Mr.Weston, the agent in England who had promised them the greatest help andassured them of the liveliest interest in this heroic venture, wouldsend them at least a fraction of the much he had pledged to itsassistance.

  So when the spring, that second spring, came in and brought a small shipthere was the greatest excitement of hope in her coming. But all shebrought was letters, and seven more passengers to consume the foodalready so shortened, but not an ounce of addition to the supplies. Oneletter was from Mr. Weston, filled with fair words, but so discouragingin its smooth avoidance of actual help that Governor Bradford dared notmake its contents known, lest it should discourage the people, alreadysufficiently downhearted, and with more than enough reason to be so.There was a letter on this ship for Constance from Humility, andGovernor Bradford beckoned to John Howland, standing near and said tohim:

  "Take this letter up to Mistress Constantia Hopkins, and ask her fatherto come to me, if it please him. Say to him that I wish to consult him."

  "I will willingly do your bidding, Mr. Bradford," said John Howland,accepting the letter which the governor held out to him and turning itto see in all lights its yellowed folder and the seal thrice impressedalong its edge to insure that none other than she whose name appearedwritten in a fine, running hand on the obverse side, should first readthe letter. "In fact I have long contemplated a visit to MistressConstantia. It hath seemed to me that Stephen Hopkins's daughter wasgrowing a woman and a comely woman. She is not so grave as I would wanther to be, but allowance must be made for her youth, and her father isnot so completely, nor profoundly set free from worldliness as are ourtruer saints; witness the affair of the shovelboard. But ConstantiaHopkins, under the control and obedience of a righteous man, may beworthy of his hand."

  "Say you so!" exclaimed William Bradford, half amused, half annoyed, andwondering what his quick-tempered but honoured friend Stephen would sayto this from John Howland--he who had a justifiable pride in hishonourable descent and who held no mere man equal to his Constance, theapple of his eye. "I had not a suspicion that you were turning over inyour mind thoughts of this nature. I would advise you to consult Mr.Hopkins before you let them take too strong hold upon your desire. Butin as far as my errand runneth with your purpose to further youracquaintance with the maiden, in so far I will help you, good John, forI am anxious that Mr. Hopkins shall know as soon as possible what newsthe ship hath brought. Stay; here is another letter; for Mistress ElizaHopkins this time. Take that, also, if you will and bid Mr. Hopkinshither."

  John Howland, missing entirely the hint of warning in the governor'svoice and manner, took the two letters and went his way.

  He found Stephen Hopkins at his house, planning the planting of a gardenwith his son.

  "I will go at once; come thou with me, Giles. It sounds like ill news, Ifear me, that hint of wishing to consult me. Somehow it seems that as'good wine needs no bush,' for which we have Shakespeare's authority, sogood news needs little advice, or rarely seeks it, for its dealing."

  So saying Stephen Hopkins, straightening himself with a hand on hisstiffened side went into the house, and, taking his hat, wentimmediately out of it again, with Giles. John Howland followed them intothe house, but not out of it. Instead, he seated himself, unbidden, uponthe fireside settle, and awaited their departure.

  Then he produced his two letters, and offered one to Constance.

  "I have brought you this, Mistress Constantia," he said, ponderously,"at the request of the governor, but no less have I brought it becauseit pleaseth me to do you a service, as I hope to do you many, even tothe greatest, in time to come."

  "Thank you, John," said innocent Constance, having no idea of theweighty meaning underlying this statement, indeed scarce hearing it,being eager to get the letter which he held. "Oh, from Humility! It isfrom Humility! Look, little Damaris, a letter from England, writ byHumility Cooper! The _Fortune_ is safely in port, then! Come, my cosset,and I will read you what Humility hath to tell us of her voyage, ofhome, and all else! First of all shall you and I hear this: then we willhasten to Priscilla Alden and read it to her new little daughter, forshe hath been so short a time in Plymouth that she must long for newsfrom across the sea, do you not say so?"

  Damaris giggled in enjoyment of Constance's nonsense, which the seriouslittle thing never failed to enter into and to enjoy, as unplayfulpeople always enjoy those who can frolic. The big sister ran away, withthe smaller one clinging to her skirt, and with never a backward glancenor thought for John Howland, meditating a great opportunity forConstance, as he sat on the fireside settle.

  "Mistress Hopkins, this is your letter," said John, completing hiserrand when Constance was out of sight.

  He offered Dame Eliza her letter. She looked at it and thrust it intoher pocket with such a heightened colour and distressed look that evenJohn Howland's preoccupation took note of it.

  "This present hour seems to be an opportunity that is a leading, and Iwill follow this leading, Mistress Hopkins, by your leave," John said."It cannot be by chance that all obstacles to plain speaking to you areremoved. I had thought first to speak to Stephen Hopkins, or perhaps toConstantia herself, but I see that it is better to engage a woman's goodoffices."

  Dame Eliza frowned at him, darkly; she was in no mood for dallying, andthis preamble had a sound that she did not like.

  "Good offices for what? My good offices? Why?" she snap
ped. "Why shouldyou speak to Mr. Hopkins, with whose Christian name better men than youin this colony make less free? And still more I would know why youshould speak either first or last to Mistress Constantia? That hath asound that I do not like, John Howland!"

  John Howland stared at her, aghast, a moment, then he said:

  "It is my intent, Mistress Eliza Hopkins, to offer to wed MistressConstantia, and that cannot mislike you. Young though she be, andsomewhat frivolous, yet do I hope much for her from marriage with agodly man, and I find her comely to look upon. Therefore----"

  "Therefore!" cried Dame Eliza who seemed to have lost her breath for amoment in sheer angry amazement. "Therefore you would make a fool ofyourself, had not it been done for you at your birth! Art completely anumbskull, John Howland, that you speak as though it was a favour, anda matter for you to weigh heavily before coming to it, that you mightmake Stephen Hopkins's daughter your wife? Put the uneasiness that itgives you as to her light-mindedness out of your thoughts, nor dwellover-much upon her comeliness, for your own good! Comely is she, and arare beauty, to give her partly her due. And what is more, is she asweet and noble lass, graced with wit and goodness that far exceed yourknowledge; not even her father can know as I do, with half my sorereason, her patience, her charity, her unfailing generosity to give, orto forgive. Marry Constance, forsooth! Why, man, there is not a man inthis Plymouth settlement worthy of her latchets, nor in all England isthere one too good for her, if half good enough! Your eyes will be awryand for ever weak from looking so high for your mate. But that you arethe veriest ninny afoot I would deal with you, John Howland, for yourimpudence! Learn your place, man, and never let your conceit so run awaywith you that you dare to speak as if you were hesitant as to Mr.Hopkins's daughter to be your wife! Zounds! John, get out of my sightlest I be tempted to take my broom and clout ye! Constance Hopkins andyou, forsooth! Oh, be gone, I tell ye! She's the pick and flower ofmaidens, in Plymouth or England, or where you will!"

  John Howland rose, slowly, stiffly, angry, but also ashamed, for he hadnot spirit, and he felt that he had stepped beyond bounds in aspiringto Constance since Dame Eliza with such vehemence set it before him.Then, too, it were a strong man who could emerge unscathed from aninundation of Dame Eliza's wrath.

  "I meant no harm, Mistress," he said, awkwardly. "No harm is done, forthe maid herself knows naught of it, nor any one save the governor, andhe but a hint. Let be no ill will between us for this. I suppose, sinceMistress Constantia is not for me, I must e'en marry whom I can, and Ithink I must marry Elizabeth Tilley."

  "What does it matter to me who you marry?" said Dame Eliza, turning awaywith sudden weariness. "It's no concern of mine, beyond the point I'vesettled for good and all."

  John Howland went away. After he had gone Constance came around thehouse and entered by the rear door. Her eyes were full of moisture fromsuppressed laughter, yet her lips were tremulous and her eyes, dewythough they were, shone with happiness.

  "Hast heard?" demanded Dame Eliza.

  "I could not help it," said Constance. "I left Damaris at Priscilla'sand ran back to ask you, for Priscilla, to lend her the pattern of thelong wrapping cloak that you made for our baby when he was tiny. Pris'sbaby seems cold, she thinks. And as I entered I heard John. I near diedof laughing! I had thought a lover always felt his beloved to be sofair and fine that he scarce dared look at her! Not so John! But afterall, it is less that I am John's beloved than his careful--and doubtfulchoice. But for the rest, Mistress Hopkins--Stepmother--might I call youMother?--what shall I say? I am ashamed, grateful but ashamed, that youpraise me so! Yet how glad I am, never can I find words to tell you. Ithought that you hated me, and it hath grieved me, for love is the air Ibreathe, and without it I shrivel up from chill and suffocation! I wouldthat I could thank you, tell you----." Constance stopped.

  The expression on Dame Eliza's face, wholly beyond her understanding,silenced her.

  "You have thanked me," Dame Eliza said. "Damaris is alive only throughyou. However you love her, yet her life is her mother's debt to you.Much, much more do I owe you, Constantia Hopkins, and none knows itbetter than myself. Let be. Words are poor. There is something yet to bedone. After it you may thank me, or deny me as you will, but between usthere will be a new beginning, its shaping shall be as you will. Tillthat is done which I must do, let there be no more talk between us."

  Puzzled, but impressed by her stepmother's manner and manifest distress,Constance acquiesced. It was not many days before she understood.

  The people of Plymouth were summoned to a meeting at Elder WilliamBrewster's house. It was generally understood that something of thenature of a court of justice, and at the same time of a religiouscharacter was to take place. Everyone came, drawn by curiosity and thedearth of interesting public events.

  Stephen Hopkins, Giles, and Constance came, the two little children withthem, because there was no one at home to look after them. Not the leastsuspicion of what they were to hear entered the mind of these three, orit might never have been heard.

  Elder Brewster, William Bradford, Edward Winslow sat in utmost gravityat the end of the room. It crossed Stephen Hopkins's mind to wonder alittle at his exclusion from this tribunal, for it had the effect of atribunal, but it was only a passing thought, and instantly it wasanswered.

  Dame Eliza Hopkins entered the room, with Mistress Brewster, and seatedherself before the three heads of the colony.

  "My brethren," said William Brewster, rising, "it hath been said onAuthority which one may not dispute that a broken and contrite heartwill not be despised. You have been called together this night for whatpurpose none but my colleagues and myself knew. It is to harken to thepublic acknowledgment of a grave fault, and by your hearing of a publicconfession to lend your part to the wiping out of this sin, which issurely forgiven, being repented of, yet which is thus atoned for. Wehave vainly endeavoured to persuade the person thus coming before youthat this course was not necessary; since her fault affected no one buther family, to them alone need confession be made. As she insisted uponthis course, needs must we consent to it. Dame Eliza Hopkins, we areready to harken to you."

  He sat down, and Dame Eliza, rising, came forward. Stephen Hopkins'sface was a study, and Giles and Constance, crimson with distress, lookedappealingly at their father, but the situation was beyond his control.

  "Friends, neighbours, fellow pilgrims," began Dame Eliza, manifestly inreal agony of shamed distress, yet half enjoying herself, through herlove for drama and excitement, "I am a sinner. I cannot continue in yourmembership unless you know the truth, and admit me thereto. My anger, mywicked jealousy hath persecuted the innocent children of my husband,they whose mother died and whose place I should have tried in somemeasure to make good. But at all times, and in all ways have I used themill, not with blows upon the body, but upon their hearts. Jealousy wasmy temptation, and I yielded to it. But, not content with sharp andcruel words, I did plot against them to turn their father from them,especially from his son, because I wanted for my son the inheritance inEngland which Stephen Hopkins hath power to distribute. I succeeded insowing discord between the father and Giles, but not between my husbandand his daughter. At last I used a signature which fell into my hands,and by forwarding it to England, set in train actions before the lawwhich would defraud Giles Hopkins and benefit my own son. By the shipthat lately came into our harbour I received a letter, sent to me by thegovernor, by the hand of John Howland, promising me success in my wickedendeavour. My brethren, my heart is sick unto death within me.Thankfully I say that all estrangement is past between Giles Hopkins andhis father. In that my wicked success at the beginning was foiled. WhileI was doing these things against the children, Constantia Hopkins, byher sweetness, her goodness, her devotion, without a tinge of grudging,to her little half-sister and brother, and at last her saving of mychild's life when no help but hers was near and the child was dyingbefore me, hath broken my hard heart; and in slaying me--for I have diedto my old self under it--hath ma
de me to live. Therefore I publiclyacknowledge my sin, and bid you, my fellow pilgrims, deal with me as yousee fit, neither asking for mercy, nor in any wise claiming it as mydesert."

  Stephen Hopkins had bent forward, his elbows on his knees, hiding hisface in his hands. Giles stared straight before him, his brow dark red,frowning till his face was drawn out of likeness to itself, his netherlip held tight in his teeth.

  Poor Constance hid her misery in Oceanus's breast, holding the babyclose up against her so that no one could see her face. Little Damaris,pale and quiet, too frightened to move or fully to breathe, clutchedConstance's arm, not understanding what was going forward, but knowingthat whatever it was it distressed everyone that constituted her littleworld, and suffering under this knowledge.

  "My friends," Elder Brewster resumed his office, "you have heard whatMistress Hopkins hath spoken. It is not for us to deny pardon to her.She hath done all, and more than was required of her, in publiclyconfessing her wrong. Let us take her by the hand, and let us pray thatshe may live long to shed peace and joy upon the young people whom shehath wronged, and might have wronged further, had not repentance foundher."

  One by one these severely stern people of Plymouth arose and, passingbefore Mistress Hopkins, took her hand, and said:

  "Sister, we rejoice with you." Or some said: "Be of good consolation,and Heaven's blessing be upon you." A few merely shook her hand andpassed on.

  Before many had thus filed past, Myles Standish leaped to his feet andcried: "Stephen, Stephen Hopkins, come! There's a wild cat somewhere!"

  Stephen Hopkins went out after him, thankful to escape.

  "Poor old comrade," said Captain Standish, putting his hand on theother's shoulder. "If only good and sincere people would consider whatthese scenes, which relieve their nerves, cost others! There is a wildcat somewhere; I did not lie for thee, Stephen, but in good sooth I'veno mortal idea where it may be!"

  He laughed, and Stephen Hopkins smiled. "You are a good comrade, Myles,and we are as like as two peas in a pod. Certes, we find this Plymouthpod tight quarters, do we not, at least at times? I've no liking forairing private grievances in public: to my mind they belong between usand the Lord!--but plainly my wife sees this as the right way. Whatthink you, Myles? Is it going to be better henceforward?" he said.

  "No doubt of that, no doubt whatever," asserted Myles, positively. "Andmy pet Con is the chief instrument of Dame Eliza's change of heart!Well, to speak openly, Stephen, I did not give thy wife credit for somuch sense! Constance is sweet, and fair, and winsome enough to bringany one to her--his!--senses. Or drive him out of them! Better timesare in store for thee, Stephen, old friend, and I am heartily thankfulfor it. So, now; take your family home, and do not mind the talk ofPlymouth. For a few days they will discuss thee, thy wife, thy son, andthy daughter, but it will not be without praise for thee, and it will bea strange thing if Giles and I cannot stir up another event that willturn their attention from thee before thy patience quite gives out."

  Myles Standish laughed, and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder byway of encouragement to him to face what any man, and especially a manof his sort, must dread to face--the comments and talk of his smallworld.

  The Hopkins family went home in silence, Stephen Hopkins gently leadinghis wife by her arm, for she was exhausted by the strain of heremotions.

  Giles and Constance, walking behind them with the children, werethinking hard, going back in their minds to their early childhood, tothe beautiful old mansion which both remembered dimly, to theWarwickshire cousins, to their embittered days since their stepmotherhad reigned over them, and now this marvellous change in her, thisstrange acknowledgment from her before everyone--_their_ every-one--ofwrong done, and greater wrong attempted and abandoned. They both shrankfrom the days to come, feeling that they could not treat theirstepmother as they had done, yet still less could they come nearer toher, as would be their duty after this, without embarrassment. Gileswent at once to his room to postpone the evil hour, but Constance couldnot escape it.

  She unfastened Damaris's cloak, trying to chatter to the child in herold way, and she glanced up at her stepmother, as she knelt beforeDamaris, to invite her to share their smiles. Dame Eliza was watchingher with longing that was almost fear. "Constance," she said in a lowvoice. "Constance----?" She paused, extending her hands.

  Constance sprang up, forgetful of embarrassment, forgetful of oldwrongs, remembering only to pity and to forgive, like the sweet girlthat she was.

  "Ah, Mother, never mind! Love me now, and never mind that once you didnot!" she cried.

  Dame Eliza leaned to her and kissed her cheek.

  "Dear lass," she murmured, "how could I grudge thee thy father's love,since needs must one love thee who knows thee?"

  CHAPTER XX

  The Third Summer's Garnered Yield

  Side by side now, through the weary days of another year, ConstanceHopkins and her stepmother bore and vanquished the cruel difficultieswhich those days brought.

  Dame Eliza had been sincere in her contrition as was proved by the onetest of sincerity--her actions bore out her words.

  Toward Giles she held herself kindly, yet never showed him affection.But toward Constance her manner was what might be called eagerlyaffectionate, as if she so longed to prove her love for the girl thatthe limitations of speech and opportunity left her unsatisfied ofexpression.

  Hunger was the portion of everyone in Plymouth; conditions had grownharder with longer abiding there, except in the one--though that wasimportant--matter of the frightful epidemic of the first winter.

  In spite of want Constance grew lovelier as she grew older. She was nowa full-grown woman, tall with the slenderness of early youth. Her scantrations did not give her the gaunt look that most of the pilgrims, eventhe young ones, wore as they went on working hard and eating little.Instead, it etherealized and spiritualized Constance's beauty. Under herwonderful eyes, with their far-off look of a dreamer warmed andcorrected by the light in them of love and sacrifice, were shadows thatincreased their brilliance. The pallor that had replaced the wild-rosecolour in her cheeks did not lessen the exquisite fairness of her skin,and it set in sharp contrast to it the redness of her lips andemphasized their sweetness.

  Dame Eliza watched her with a sort of awe, and Damaris was growing oldenough to offer to her sister's beauty the admiration that was apartfrom her adoring love for that sister.

  "Connie would set London afire, Stephen Hopkins," said Dame Eliza to herhusband one day. "Why not send her over to her cousins in Warwickshire,to your first wife's noble kindred, and let her come into her own? Itseems a sinful thing to keep her here to fade and wane where no eye cansee her."

  "This from you, Eliza!" cried Stephen Hopkins, honestly surprised, butfeigning to be shocked. "Nay but you and I have changed roles! Never wasI the Puritan you are, yet have I seen enough of the world to know thatit hath little to offer my girl by way of peace and happiness, though itkneel before her offering her adulation on its salvers. Constance issafer here, and Plymouth needs her; she can give here, which is in verytruth better than receiving; especially to receive the heartaches thatthe great world would be like to give one so lovely to attract its eye,so sensitive to its disillusionments. And as to wasted, wife, Con givesme joy, and you, too, and I think there is not one among us who does notdrink in her loveliness like food, where actual food is short. CaptainMyles and our doctor would be going lame and halt, and would feel blind,I make no doubt, did they not meet Constance Hopkins on their ways, likea flower of eglantine, fair and sweet, and for that matter look how shehelps the doctor in his ministrations! Nay, nay, wife; we will keep ourPlymouth maid, and I am certain there will come to her from across seasone day the romance and happiness that should be hers."

  "Ah, well; life is short and it fades us sore. What does it matter whereit passes? I was a buxom lass myself, as you may remember, and look atme now! Not that I was the rare creature that your girl is," sighed DameEliza. "Is it true that
Mr. Weston is coming hither?"

  "True that he is coming hither," assented her husband, "and to ourhouse. He hath made us many promises, but kept none. He hath come overwith fishermen, in disguise, hath been cast away and lost everything atthe hands of savages. He is taking refuge with us and we shall outfithim and deal with him as a brother. I do not believe his protestationsof good-will and the service he will do us in return, when he gets backto England. Yet we must deal generously, little as we have to spare,with a man in distress such as his."

  "Giles is coming now, adown the way with a stranger; is this Mr.Weston?" asked Dame Eliza.

  "I'll go out to greet and bring him in. Yes; this is the man," said Mr.Hopkins, going forth to welcome a man, whom in his heart he could notbut dread. The guest stayed with the Hopkins family for a few days, tillthe colony should be won over to give him beaver skins, under hispromise to repay them with generous interest, when he should have tradedthem, and was once more in England to send to Plymouth something of itsrequirements.

  On the final day of his stay Mr. Weston arose from the best seat in theinglenook, which had been yielded to him as his right, and strolledtoward the door.

  "Come with me, my lad," he said to Giles. "I have somewhat to say tothee."

  "Why not say it here?" asked Giles, surlily, though he followed slowlyafter their guest.

  "Giles Hopkins, you like me not," said Weston, when they had passed outof earshot. "Why is it? Surely I not only use you well, but you are theone person in this plantation that hath all the qualities I like best ina man: brains, courage, youth, good birth, which makes for spirit, andgood looks. Your sister is all this and more, yet is the 'more' becauseshe is a maid, and that excludes her from my preference for my purposes.Giles Hopkins, are you the man I take you for?"

  "Faith, sir, that I cannot tell till you have shown me what form thattaking bears," said Giles.

  "There you show yourself! Prudence added to my list of qualities!"applauded Weston, clapping Giles on the back with real, or pretendedenthusiasm. "I take you for a man with resolution, courage to seize anopportunity to make your fortune, to put yourself among those men ofconsequence who are secure of place, and means to adorn it. Will youmarch with me upon the way I will open to you?"

  "'I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none,'"replied Giles. "I don't know where I learned that, but it sounds likeone of my father's beloved phrases, from his favourite poet. It seemswell to fit the case."

  "Shakespeare is not a Puritan text book," observed Weston, dryly. "NoHopkins is ever fully atune with such a community as this. Therefore,Giles, will you welcome my offer, as a more canting Plymouth pilgrimmight not. Not to waste more time: Will you collect, after I have gone,all the skins which you can obtain from these settlers? And will youhold them in a safe place together, assuring your neighbours that youare secured of a market for them at better prices than they have everreceived? And will you then, after you have got together all the skinsavailable, ship them to me by means which I will open to you as soon asI am sure of your cooperation? This will leave your Plymouth peoplestripped to the winds; their commodity of trade gone, and, scant of foodas they are, they will come to heel like dogs behind him who will leadthem to meat. This will be yourself. I will furnish you with the meansto give them what they will require in order to be bound to you. Youshall be a prince of the New World, holding your little kingdom underthe great English throne; there shall be no end to your possiblegrandeur. I will send you men, commodities for trade, arms, fine clothand raiment to fulfil the brightest fairy dreams of youth. And look you,Giles Hopkins, this is no idle boast; it is within my power to doexactly as I promise. Are you mine?"

  "Yours!" Giles spoke with difficulty, the blood mounting to his templesand knotting its veins, his hands clenching and unclenching as if it wasalmost beyond him to hold them from throttling his father's guest. "Am Ia man or a cur? Cur? Nay, no cur is so low as you would make me. BetrayPlymouth? Turn on these people with whom I've suffered and wrought? Iwould give my hand to kick you out into yonder harbour and drown youthere as you deserve. I have but to turn you over to our governor, andshort ways will you get with the good beaver skins which have been givento you by these people you want me to trick, scant though they are ofeverything, and that owing to you who have never sent them anything butyour lying promises. Nay, turn not so white! You may keep your courage,as you keep your worthless life. Neither will I betray you to them. Butsee to it that this last day of your stay here is indeed the last one!Only till sunset do I give you to get out of Plymouth. If you are withinour boundaries at moonrise I will deliver you over, and urge yourhanging. And be sure these starved immigrants will be in a mood to hangyou higher than Haman, when they hear of what you have laid before me,against them who are in such straits."

  Mr. Weston did not delay to test Giles's sincerity. There was nomistaking that he would do precisely as he promised, and Weston took hisdeparture a good two hours before sundown.

  Giles stood with his hands in his pockets beside his father as Westondeparted.

  "Giles, courtesy to a guest is a law that binds us all," suggestedStephen Hopkins.

  "Mercy, rather," said Giles, tersely. He nodded to Mr. Weston withoutremoving his hands. "A last salute, Mr. Weston," he said. "I expectnever to meet you again, neither in this, nor any other world."

  "Giles!" cried Constance, shocked.

  "Son, what do you know of this man that you dare insult him indeparting?" said Mr. Hopkins.

  "That never will Plymouth receive one penny of value for the beaverskins he hath taken, nor gratitude for the kindness shown him when hewas destitute," said Giles, turning on his heel shortly and leaving hisfather to look after Weston, troubled by this confirmation of the doubtthat he had always felt of this false friend of Plymouth colony.

  The effect upon Giles of having put far from him temptation and stoodfast by his fellow-colonists, though no one but himself knew of it, wasto arouse in him greater zeal for the welfare of Plymouth than he hadfelt before, and greater effort to promote it.

  Plymouth had been working upon the community plan; all its populationlabouring together, sharing together the results of that labour, likeone large family. And, though the plan was based upon the ideal ofbrotherhood, yet it worked badly; food was short, and the men not equalin honest effort, nor willing to see their womankind tilling the soiland bearing heavy burdens for others than their own families. So whilesome bore their share of the work, and more, others lay back andshirked. There must be a remedy found, and that at once, to secure thenecessary harvest in the second year, and third summer of the life ofthe plantation.

  Giles Hopkins went swinging down the road after he had seen the last ofMr. Weston. He was bound for the governor's house, but he came up withWilliam Bradford on the way and laid before him his thoughts.

  "Mr. Bradford," he said, "I've been considering. We shall starve todeath, even though we get the ship that is promised us from home,bringing us all that for which we hope, unless we can raise bettercrops. I am one of the youngest men, but may I lay before you mysuggestion?"

  "Surely, my son," said Governor Bradford. "Old age does not necessarilyinclude wisdom, nor youth folly. What do you advise?"

  "Give every family its allotment of land and seed," said Giles. "Leteach family go to work to raise what it shall need for itself, and abideby the result of its own industry, or indolence, always supposing thatno misfortune excuses failure. I'll warrant we shall see new days--ornew sacks filled, which is more to the point--than when we let theworthless profit by worth, or worth be discouraged by the leeches uponit."

  Governor Bradford regarded Giles smilingly. "Thou art an emphatic lad,Giles, but I like earnestness and strong convictions. Never yet wasthere any one who did not believe in his own panacea for whatever evilhad set him to discovering it! It was Plato's conceit, and otherancients with him, that bringing into the community of a commonwealthall property, making it shared in common, was to make mankind happy andprosper
ous. But I am of your opinion that it has been found to breedmuch confusion and discontent, and that it is against the ordinance ofGod, who made it a law that a man should labour for his own nearest ofkin, and transmit to them the fruit of his labours. So will I act uponyour suggestion, which I had already considered, having seen how wrongwas Plato's utopian plan, or at least how ill it was working here. Withthe approval of our councillors, I will distribute land, seed, and allelse required, and establish individual production instead of ourcommonality."

  "It is time we tried a new method, Governor Bradford," said Giles."Another year like these we've survived, and there would be no survivalof them. I don't remember how it felt to have enough to eat!"

  "Poor lad," said the governor, kindly, though to the full he had sharedthe scarcity. "It is hard to be young and hungry, for at best youth israrely satisfied, and it must be cruel to see every day at the worst!But I have good ground to hope that our winter is over and past, andthat the voice of the turtle will soon be heard in our land. In otherwords, I think that a ship, or possibly more than one, will be here thissummer, bringing us new courage in new helpers, and supplies in plenty."

  "It is to be hoped," said Giles, and went away.

  The new plan was adopted, and it infused new enthusiasm into thePlymouth people. Constance insisted upon having for her own one sectionof her father's garden. Indeed all the women of the colony went to workin the fields now, quite willingly, and without opposition from theirmen, since their work was for themselves.

  "It was wholly different from having their women slaving for strong menwho were no kin to them, as they had done when the community planprevailed," said the men of Plymouth. And so the women of Plymouth wentto work willingly, even gaily.

  There was great hope of a large crop, early in May, when all the landwas planted, and little green heads were everywhere popping up toannounce the grain to come. Constance had planted nothing but peas; shesaid that she loved them because they climbed so bravely, and put outtheir plucky tendrils to help themselves up. Her peas were the pride ofher heart, and all Plymouth was admiring them, when the long drouth setin.

  From the third week in May till the middle of July not a drop of rainfell upon the afflicted fields of Plymouth. The corn had been plantedwith fish, which for a time insured it moisture and helped it, butgradually the promising green growth drooped, wilted, browned, and onthe drier plain, burned and died under the unshadowed sun.

  Constance saw her peas drying up, helpless to save them. She fell intothe habit of sitting drooping like the grain, on the doorstep of theLeyden Street house, her bonnet pushed back, her chin in her hands,sorrowfully sharing the affliction of the soil.

  Elder Brewster, passing, found her thus, and stopped.

  "Not blithe Constantia like this?" he said.

  "Ah, yes, Mr. Brewster," said Constance, rising, "just like this. Thedrouth has parched my heart and dried up my courage. For nine weeks norain, and our life hanging upon it! Oh, Elder Brewster, call for a dayof fasting and prayer that we may be pitied by the Lord with thedownfall of his merciful rain! Without it, without His intervention,starvation will be ours. But it needs not me to tell you this!"

  "My daughter, I will do as you say; indeed is it time, and I have beenthinking so," replied the elder. "The day after to-morrow shall be setaside to implore Heaven's mercy on our brave plantation, which has borneand can offer the sacrifice of a long-suffering patience to supplementits prayers."

  The day of fast and prayer arose with the same metallic sky that hadcloudlessly stretched over Plymouth for two months. Not a sign of mercy,nor of relenting was anywhere above them as the people of Plymouth, theless devout subdued to the same fearless eagerness to implore for mercythat the more devout ones felt, went silently along the dusty roads,heads bent beneath the scorching sun, without having tasted food,assembling in their meeting house to pray.

  In the rear of the bare little building stood the Indians who livedamong the Englishmen, Squanto at their head, with folded arms watchingand wondering what results should follow this appeal to the God of thewhite men, now to be tested for the first time in a great public way asto whether He was faithful to His promise, as these men said, andpowerful to fulfil.

  All day long the prayer continued, with the coming and going of thepeople, taking turns to perform the necessary tasks of the small farms,and to continue in supplication.

  There had been no hotter day of all those so long trying these poorpeople, and no cloud appeared as the sun mounted and reached his height,then began to descend. Damaris took Constance's hand as they walkedhomeward, then dropped it.

  "It is too hot; it burns me," she said, fretfully.

  Constance raised her head and pushed back her hair with the backs of herburning hands. She folded her lips and snuffed the air, much as a finedog stands to scent the birds. Constance was as sensitive to atmosphericconditions as a barometer.

  "Damaris, Damaris, rain!" she cried.

  And the "little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand," was rising on thehorizon.

  Before bedtime the sky was overcast, and the blessed, the prayed-forrain began to fall. Without wind or lightning, quietly it fell, as ifthe angels of God were sent to open the phials of the delicious wetnessand pour it steadily upon Plymouth. As the night went on the rainincreased, one of the soft, steady, soaking rains that penetrate to thedepths of the sun-baked earth, find the withered rootlets, and heal andrevivify.

  Plymouth wakened to an earth refreshed and moistened by a downpour sosteady, so generous, so calm that no rain could have seemed more like adirect visitation of Heaven's mercy than this, which the reverent andawe-stricken colony, even to the doubting Indians, so received. For byit Plymouth was saved.

  It was two weeks later that Doctor Fuller came hastily to StephenHopkins's door.

  "Friends," he said, with trembling voice, "the _Anne_ is coming up!Mistress Fuller and my child are aboard, as we have so often remindedone another. Constance, you promised to go with me to welcome thisfateful ship."

  "Have I time to make a little, a very small toilette, doctor mine?"cried Constance, excitedly. "I want to look my prettiest to greetMistress Fuller, and to tell her what I--what we all owe to you."

  "You have a full half hour, yet it is a pleasure to watch the shipapproach. Hasten, then, vain little Eve of this desolate First AbidingPlace!" the doctor gave her permission.

  Constance ran away and began to dress with her heart beating fast.

  "I wonder why the _Anne_ means so much to me, as if she were thegreatest event of all my days here?" she thought.

  Her simple white gown slipped over her head and into place and out ofits thin, soft folds her little throat rose like a calla, and her face,all flushed, like a wild rose.

  She pinned a lace neckerchief over her breast, and laid its ruffles intoplace with fluttering fingers, catching it with a delicate hoop ofpearls that had been her mother's. For once she decided against herPuritan cap, binding her radiant hair with fillets of narrow blue velvetribbon, around and over which its little tendrils rose, wilful andresisting its shackles.

  On her hands she drew long mitts of white lace, and she slipped her feetinto white shoes, which had also once been worn by her mother infar-away days when she danced the May dances in Warwickshire.

  Constance's glass was too small, too high-hung, to give her the effectof her complete figure, but it showed her the face that scanned it, andwhat it showed her flushed that lovely face with innocent joy in itsloveliness, and completed its perfection.

  She got the full effect of her appearance in the eyes of the four men inthe colony whom, till this day, she had loved best, her father, Giles,Doctor Fuller, and Myles Standish, as she came down the winding stairwayto them.

  They all uttered an involuntary exclamation, and took a step toward her.

  Her father took her hand and tucked it into his own.

  "You are attired like a bride, my wild rose," he said. "Who are yougoing to meet?"

  "Who k
nows!" cried Constance, gaily, with unconscious prophecy."Mistress Fuller, but who can say whom else beside?"

  The _Anne_ came up with wide-spread canvas, free of the gentle easterlybreeze. Her coming marked the end of the hardest days of Plymouthcolony; she was bringing it much that it needed, some sixty colonists;the wives and children of many who had borne the brunt of the beginningand had come on the _Mayflower_; new colonists, some among Plymouth'sbest, some too bad to be allowed to stay, and stores and articles oftrade abundantly.

  As the coming of the _Anne_ marked the close of Plymouth's worst days,so it meant to many who were already there the dawn of a new existence.

  Doctor Fuller took into his arms his beloved wife and his child, withgrateful tears running down his face.

  He turned to present Mistress Fuller to Constance, but found, instead,Captain Myles Standish watching with a smile at once tender, melancholy,and glad another meeting. A young man, tall, browned, gallant, andfearless in bearing, with honest eyes and a kindly smile, had come offthe _Anne_ and had stood a moment looking around him. His eyes fell uponConstance Hopkins on her father's arm, her lips parted, her eyesdilated, her cheeks flushed, a figure so exquisite that he fell back inthrilled wonder. Never again could he see another face, so completelywere his eyes and heart filled by this first sight of Constance Hopkins,unconsciously waiting for him, her husband-to-be, upon the shore of theNew World.

  Damaris was clinging to her hand; Giles and her step-mother werewatching her with loving pride; it was easy to see that all those whohad come ashore from the _Anne_ were admiring this slender blossom ofPlymouth.

  But the young man went toward her, almost without knowing that he didso, drawn to her irresistibly, and Constance looked toward him, and sawhim for the first time, her pulses answering the look in his eyes.

  Myles Standish joined them; he had learned the young man's name.

  "Welcome, Nicholas Snowe, to Plymouth," he said. "We have borne much,but we have won our fight; we have founded our kingdom. Nicholas Snowe,this is a Plymouth maid, Constance Hopkins."

  "I am glad you are come," said Constance; her voice was low and the handthat she extended trembled slightly.

  "I, too, am glad that you are here, Nicholas Snowe," added StephenHopkins. "Yes, this is Constance Hopkins, a Plymouth maid, and mydearest lass."

  THE END

  THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS

  GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

  Transcriber's Notes:

  Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

  Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

  Page 36: "remanent" changed to "remnant" (what would my remnant of lifebe to me)

  Page 51: "so" changed to "no" (I mean no such thing, as well you know)

  Page 67: "senstive" changed to "sensitive" (a girl, sensitive and easilywounded)

  Page 83: "devasting" changed to "devastating" (The devastating diseasesof winter)

  Page 106: "begining" changed to "beginning" (the beginning of a street)

  Page 140: "wordly" changed to "worldly" (to take pride in worldly things)

  Page 160: normalised "work-aday" (her work-a-day tasks)

  Page 180: changed case of "Come" to lower case (come with me; I needyou)

  Page 192: "mercie" changed to "merci" (belle dame sans merci)

  Page 196: "be" changed to "he" (he began to teach Constance otherthings)

  Page 210 "Shakspeare" normalised to "Shakespeare" (we mortals be,as Shakespeare, whom)