Part 6 (1/2)
”Very well then, Mr. Stephen Hopkins,” Constance obeyed him, ”what would you say if I were to tell you that there was news of your missing packet of papers?”
Stephen Hopkins stopped short. ”I should say thank G.o.d with all my heart, Constance, not merely because the loss was serious, but most of all because of Giles. Is it true?” he asked.
”They are found!” cried Constance, jubilantly, ”and it was Giles himself who faced the thief and forced him to give them up. It is a fine tale!” And she proceeded to tell it.
Her father's relief, his pleasure, was evidently great, but to Constance's alarm as the story ended, his face settled into an expression of annoyance.
”It is indeed good news, Constance, and I am grateful, relieved by it,” he said, having heard her to the end. ”But why did not Giles tell me this himself, bring me the recovered packet? Would it not be natural to wish to confer upon me, himself, the happiness he had won for me, to hasten to me with his victory, still more that it clears him of the least doubt of complicity in the loss?”
”Ah, no, Father! That is just the point of his not doing so!” cried Constance. ”Giles is sore at heart that you felt there might be a doubt of him. He cannot endure it, nor seem to bring you proofs of his innocence. I suppose he does not feel like a boy, but like a man whose honour is questioned, and by--forgive me, Father, but I must make it clear--by one whose trust in him should be stronger than any other's.”
”Nonsense, Constantia!” Stephen Hopkins exploded, angrily. ”What are we coming to if we cannot question our own children? Giles is not a man; he is a boy, and my boy, so I shall expect him to render me an account of his actions whenever, and however I demand it. I'll not stand for his pride, his a.s.sumption of injured dignity. Let him remember that! Thank G.o.d my son is an honest lad, as by all reason he should be. But though he is right as to the theft, he is wrong in his arrogance, and pride is as deadly a sin as stealing. I want no more of this nonsense.”
”Oh, Father dear,” cried Constance, wringing her hands with her peculiar gesture when matters got too difficult for those small hands. ”Please, please be kind to Giles! Oh, I thought everything would be all right now that the packet was recovered, and by him! Be patient with him, I beg you. He is not one that can be driven, but rather won by love to do your will. If you will convey to him that you regret having suspected him he will at once come back to be our own Giles.”
”Have a care, Constantia, that in your anxiety for your brother you do not fall into a share of his fault!” warned her father. ”It is not for you to advise me in my dealing with my son. As to trying to placate him by anything like an apology: preposterous suggestion! That is not the way of discipline, my girl! Let Giles indicate to me his proper humility, his regret for taking the att.i.tude that I am not in authority over him, free to demand of him any explanation, any evidence of his character I please. No, no, Constance! You mean well, but you are wrong.”
Thus saying, Mr. Hopkins turned on his heel to go back to the house, and Constance followed, no longer with her hand on her father's arm, but understanding the strong annoyance he felt toward Giles, and painfully conscious that her pleading for her brother had done less than no good.
CHAPTER IX.
Seedtime of the First Spring.
Giles Hopkins and John and Francis Billington slept in the new house, now nearly finished, on Leyden Street. Therefore it happened that Stephen Hopkins did not see his son until the morning after the recovery of the papers.
”Well, Giles,” said his father, with a smile that Giles took to be mocking, but in which the father's hidden gratification really strove to escape, ”so you played a man's part with the Mayflower captain, at the same time proving yourself? I am glad to get my papers, boy, and glad that you have shown that you had no share in their loss, but only in their return. Henceforth be somewhat less insolent when appearances are against you; still better take care that appearances, facts as well, are in your favour.”
”Appearances are in the eye of the on-looker,” said Giles, drawing himself up and flus.h.i.+ng angrily, though, had he but seen it, love and pride in him shone in his father's eyes, though his tone and words were careless, gruff indeed.
”If Dame Eliza is to be the gla.s.s through which you view me, then it matters not what course I follow, for you will not see it straight. Nor do I care to act to the end that you may not suspect me of being fit for hanging. A gentleman's honour needs no proving, or else is proved by his sword. And whatever you think of me, I can never defend myself thus against my father. A father may insult his son with impunity.”
”But a boy may not speak insultingly to his father with impunity, Master Giles Hopkins,” said Stephen Hopkins, advancing close to the lad with his quick temper afire. ”One word more of such nature as I just heard and I will have you publicly flogged, as you richly deserve, and as our community would applaud.”
Giles bowed, his face as angry as his father's, and pa.s.sed on cutting the young sprouts along the road with a stick he carried. And thus the two burning hearts which loved each other--too similar to make allowances for each other when the way was open to their reconciliation--were further estranged than before.
In the meantime Constance, Priscilla, and the younger girls, were starting out, tools in hand, baskets swinging on their arms, to prepare the first garden of the colony.
”Thank--I mean I rejoice that we are not sent to work amid the graves on the hillside,” said Priscilla, altering her form of expression to conform with the prescribed sobriety.
”Oh, that is to be planted with the Indian corn, you know,” said Constance. ”It grows high, and will hide our graves. Why think of that, Prissy? I want to be happy.” She began to hum a quaint air of her own making. She had by inheritance the gift of music, as the kindred gift of love and taste for all beauty, a gift that should never find expression in her new surroundings.
Presently she found words for her small tune and sang them, swinging her basket in time with her singing and also swinging Humility Cooper's hand as she walked, not without some danger of dropping into a sort of dance step.
This is what she sang: Over seas lies England; Still we find this wing-land; Birds and bees and b.u.t.terflies flit about us here. Eastward lies our Mother, Loved as is no other, Yet here flowers blossom with the springing year.
We will plant a garden, Eve-like, as the warden Of the hope of men unborn, future of the race; Tears that we were weeping, Watering our keeping, Till we make the New World joy's own dwelling place.
Priscilla Mullins stopped short and looked with amazement on her younger companion.
”Did you make that song, Constance?” she demanded, being used to the rhyming which Constance made to entertain the little ones.
”It made itself, Pris,” laughed Constance.
”Well, I'm no judge of songs, and as to rhyming I could match cat and rat if it was put to me to do, but no more. Yet it seemeth me that is a pretty song, with exactly the truth for its burden, and it trippeth as sweetly as the robin whistles. Do you know, Constance, it seems to me to run more into smooth cadences than the Metrical Psalms themselves!” Priscilla dropped her voice as she said this, as if she hoped to be unheard by the vengeance which might swoop down on her.
Constance's laugh rang out merrily, quite unafraid.
”Oh, dear Prissy, the Metrical Version was not meant to run in smooth cadences!” she cried. ”Do you see why we should not sing as the robin whistles, being young and G.o.d's creatures, surely not less than the birds? Priscilla Mullins, there is John Alden awaiting us in the very spot where we are to work! How did he happen there, when no other man is about?”
”He spoke to me of helping us with the first heavy turning of the soil,” said Priscilla, exceedingly red and uncomfortable, but constrained to be truthful. ”Oh, Constance, never look at me like that! Can I help it that Master Alden is so considerate of us?”
”Sure-ly not!” declared Constance emphatically. ”What about his returning home, Pris? He was hired but as cooper for the voyage, and would return. Will he go, think you?”
”He seems not fully decided. He said somewhat to me of staying.” Poor Priscilla looked more than miserable as she said this, yet was forced to laugh.
”I will speak to my father and Captain Standish to get them to offer him work a-plenty this summer, so mayhap they can persuade him to let the Mayflower sail without him--next week she goes. Or perhaps you could bring arguments to bear upon him, Priscilla! He never seems stiff-necked, nor unbiddable.” Constance said this with a great effect of innocence, as if a new thought had struck her, and Priscilla had barely time to murmur: ”Thou art a sad tease, Constance,” before they came up with John Alden, who looked as embarra.s.sed as Priscilla when he met Constance's dancing eyes.
Nevertheless it was not long before John Alden and Priscilla Mullins were working together at a little distance apart from the rest, leaving Constance to dig and rake in company with Humility Cooper, Elizabeth Tilley, and the little girls. Thus at work they saw approaching from the end of the road that was lost in the woods beyond a small but imposing procession of tall figures, wrapped in gaudy colored blankets, their heads surmounted with banded feathers which streamed down their backs, softly waving in the light breeze.
”Oh, dear, oh, dear, Connie, they are savages!” whispered Damaris looking about as if wis.h.i.+ng that a hole had been dug big enough to hide her instead of the small peas which she was planting.
”But they are friendly savages, small sister,” said Constance. ”See, they carry no bows and arrows. Do you know, girls, I believe this is the great chief Ma.s.sasoit, of whom Samoset spoke, promising us his visit soon, and that with him may be Squanto, the Indian who speaks Englis.h.!.+ Don't you think we may be allowed to postpone the rest of the work to see the great conference which will take place if this is Ma.s.sasoit?”
”Indeed, Constance, my back calls me to cease louder than any savage,” said Humility, her hand on her waist, twisting her small body from side to side. ”I have been wis.h.i.+ng we might dare stop, but I couldn't bring myself to say so.”
”You have not recovered strength for this bending and straining work, my dear,” said Constance in her grandmotherly way. ”Priscilla, Priscilla! John Alden, see!” she called, and the distant pair faced her with a visible start.
She pointed to the savages, and Priscilla and John hastened to her, thinking her afraid.
”Do you suppose it may be Ma.s.sasoit and Squanto?” Constance asked at once.
”Let us hope so,” said John Alden, looking with eager interest at the Indians. ”We hope to make a treaty with Ma.s.sasoit.”
”Before you sail?” inquired Constance, guilelessly.
”Why, I am decided to cast my lot in with the colony, sweet Constance,” said John, trying, but failing, to keep from looking at Priscilla.
”Pris?” cried Constance, and waited.
Priscilla threw her arms around Constance and hid her face, crying on her shoulder.
”My people are all dead, Connie, and I alone survive of us all on the Mayflower! Even my brother Joseph died; you know it, Connie! Do you blame me?” she sobbed.