A Pilgrim Maid Part 15

Giles stood with his hands in his pockets beside his father as Weston departed.

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

"Mercy, rather," said Giles, tersely. He nodded to Mr. Weston without removing his hands. "A last salute, Mr. Weston," he said. "I expect never 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 in departing?" said Mr. Hopkins.

"That never will Plymouth receive one penny of value for the beaver skins he hath taken, nor grat.i.tude for the kindness shown him when he was dest.i.tute," said Giles, turning on his heel shortly and leaving his father to look after Weston, troubled by this confirmation of the doubt that he had always felt of this false friend of Plymouth colony.

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

Plymouth had been working upon the community plan; all its population labouring together, sharing together the results of that labour, like one large family. And, though the plan was based upon the ideal of brotherhood, yet it worked badly; food was short, and the men not equal in honest effort, nor willing to see their womankind tilling the soil and bearing heavy burdens for others than their own families. So while some bore their share of the work, and more, others lay back and s.h.i.+rked. There must be a remedy found, and that at once, to secure the necessary harvest in the second year, and third summer of the life of the plantation.

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

"Mr. Bradford," he said, "I've been considering. We shall starve to death, even though we get the s.h.i.+p that is promised us from home, bringing us all that for which we hope, unless we can raise better crops. I am one of the youngest men, but may I lay before you my suggestion?"

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

"Give every family its allotment of land and seed," said Giles. "Let each family go to work to raise what it shall need for itself, and abide by the result of its own industry, or indolence, always supposing that no misfortune excuses failure. I'll warrant we shall see new days--or new sacks filled, which is more to the point--than when we let the worthless profit by worth, or worth be discouraged by the leeches upon it."

Governor Bradford regarded Giles smilingly. "Thou art an emphatic lad, Giles, but I like earnestness and strong convictions. Never yet was there any one who did not believe in his own panacea for whatever evil had set him to discovering it! It was Plato's conceit, and other ancients with him, that bringing into the community of a commonwealth all property, making it shared in common, was to make mankind happy and prosperous. But I am of your opinion that it has been found to breed much confusion and discontent, and that it is against the ordinance of G.o.d, who made it a law that a man should labour for his own nearest of kin, and transmit to them the fruit of his labours. So will I act upon your suggestion, which I had already considered, having seen how wrong was Plato's utopian plan, or at least how ill it was working here. With the approval of our councillors, I will distribute land, seed, and all else required, and establish individual production instead of our commonality."

"It is time we tried a new method, Governor Bradford," said Giles. "Another year like these we've survived, and there would be no survival of 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 shared the scarcity. "It is hard to be young and hungry, for at best youth is rarely 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, and that the voice of the turtle will soon be heard in our land. In other words, I think that a s.h.i.+p, or possibly more than one, will be here this summer, 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 the Plymouth people. Constance insisted upon having for her own one section of her father's garden. Indeed all the women of the colony went to work in the fields now, quite willingly, and without opposition from their men, since their work was for themselves.

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

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

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

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

Elder Brewster, pa.s.sing, found her thus, and stopped.

"Not blithe Constantia like this?" he said.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Brewster," said Constance, rising, "just like this. The drouth has parched my heart and dried up my courage. For nine weeks no rain, and our life hanging upon it! Oh, Elder Brewster, call for a day of fasting and prayer that we may be pitied by the Lord with the downfall 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 been thinking so," replied the elder. "The day after to-morrow shall be set aside to implore Heaven's mercy on our brave plantation, which has borne and can offer the sacrifice of a long-suffering patience to supplement its prayers."

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

In the rear of the bare little building stood the Indians who lived among the Englishmen, Squanto at their head, with folded arms watching and wondering what results should follow this appeal to the G.o.d of the white men, now to be tested for the first time in a great public way as to whether He was faithful to His promise, as these men said, and powerful to fulfil.

All day long the prayer continued, with the coming and going of the people, 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 poor people, and no cloud appeared as the sun mounted and reached his height, then began to descend. Damaris took Constance's hand as they walked homeward, 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 her burning hands. She folded her lips and snuffed the air, much as a fine dog stands to scent the birds. Constance was as sensitive to atmospheric conditions as a barometer.

"Damaris, Damaris, rain!" she cried.

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

Before bedtime the sky was overcast, and the blessed, the prayed-for rain began to fall. Without wind or lightning, quietly it fell, as if the angels of G.o.d were sent to open the phials of the delicious wetness and pour it steadily upon Plymouth. As the night went on the rain increased, one of the soft, steady, soaking rains that penetrate to the depths of the sun-baked earth, find the withered rootlets, and heal and revivify.

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

It was two weeks later that Doctor Fuller came hastily to Stephen Hopkins'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 reminded one another. Constance, you promised to go with me to welcome this fateful s.h.i.+p."

"Have I time to make a little, a very small toilette, doctor mine?" cried Constance, excitedly. "I want to look my prettiest to greet Mistress 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 s.h.i.+p approach. Hasten, then, vain little Eve of this desolate First Abiding Place!" 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 the greatest event of all my days here?" she thought.

Her simple white gown slipped over her head and into place and out of its 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 into place with fluttering fingers, catching it with a delicate hoop of pearls that had been her mother's. For once she decided against her Puritan cap, binding her radiant hair with fillets of narrow blue velvet ribbon, around and over which its little tendrils rose, wilful and resisting its shackles.

On her hands she drew long mitts of white lace, and she slipped her feet into white shoes, which had also once been worn by her mother in far-away days when she danced the May dances in Warwicks.h.i.+re.

Constance's gla.s.s was too small, too high-hung, to give her the effect of her complete figure, but it showed her the face that scanned it, and what it showed her flushed that lovely face with innocent joy in its loveliness, and completed its perfection.

She got the full effect of her appearance in the eyes of the four men in the colony whom, till this day, she had loved best, her father, Giles, Doctor Fuller, and Myles Standish, as she came down the winding stairway to 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 you going to meet?"

"Who knows!" 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 easterly breeze. Her coming marked the end of the hardest days of Plymouth colony; she was bringing it much that it needed, some sixty colonists; the wives and children of many who had borne the brunt of the beginning and had come on the Mayflower; new colonists, some among Plymouth's best, some too bad to be allowed to stay, and stores and articles of trade 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, with grateful 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, and fearless in bearing, with honest eyes and a kindly smile, had come off the Anne and had stood a moment looking around him. His eyes fell upon Constance Hopkins on her father's arm, her lips parted, her eyes dilated, her cheeks flushed, a figure so exquisite that he fell back in thrilled wonder. Never again could he see another face, so completely were his eyes and heart filled by this first sight of Constance Hopkins, unconsciously waiting for him, her husband-to-be, upon the sh.o.r.e of the New World.

Damaris was clinging to her hand; Giles and her step-mother were watching her with loving pride; it was easy to see that all those who had come ash.o.r.e from the Anne were admiring this slender blossom of Plymouth.

But the young man went toward her, almost without knowing that he did so, drawn to her irresistibly, and Constance looked toward him, and saw him 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 hand that she extended trembled slightly.

"I, too, am glad that you are here, Nicholas Snowe," added Stephen Hopkins. "Yes, this is Constance Hopkins, a Plymouth maid, and my dearest la.s.s."

THE END.