A Pilgrim Maid: A Story of Plymouth Colony in 1620

by Marion Ames Taggart

  CHAPTER VI

  Stout Hearts and Sad Ones

  Constance turned away from the boys feeling that, till the troublehanging over Giles was settled, waking or sleeping she could think ofnothing else. When she reached the community house she forgot it, nordid it come to her as more than a deeper shadow on the universaldarkness for weeks.

  She found that during her brief absence Edward Tilley's wife had died;she had known that she was desperately ill, but the end had comesuddenly. Edward Tilley himself was almost through with his struggle,and this would leave Humility, herself a very sick child, quite alone,for she had come in her cousins' care. Constance bent over her to giveher the cooling water which she had fetched her.

  "Elizabeth and I are alike now," whispered Humility, looking up atConstance with eyes dry of tears, but full of misery. "Cousin JohnTilley was her father, and Cousin Edward and his wife but my guardians,yet they were all I had." Elizabeth Tilley had been orphaned two weeksbefore, and now John Tilley's brother, following him, would leaveHumility Cooper, as she said, bereft as was Elizabeth.

  "Not all you had, dear Humility," Constance whispered in her ear, afraidto speak aloud for there were in the room many sick whom they mightdisturb.

  "My father will protect you, unless there is someone whom you wouldliefer have, and we will be sisters and meet the spring with hope andlove for each other, together."

  "They will send for me to come home to England, my other cousins, ofthat I am sure. Elizabeth has no one on her side to claim her. ButEngland is far, far away, and I am more like to join my cousins, Johnand Edward Tilley and their kind, dear wives where they are now than tolive to make that fearful voyage again," moaned Humility, turning awayher head despairingly.

  "Follow John and Edward Tilley! Yes, but not for many a day!" Constancereassured her, shaking up the girl's pillow, one deft arm beneath herhead to raise it.

  "Sleep, Humility dear, and do not think. Or rather think of how sweetlythe wind will blow through the pines when the spring sunshine calls youout into it, and we go, you and I, to seek what new flowers we may findin the New World."

  "No, no," Humility moved her head on the pillow in negation. "I will begood, Constance; I will not murmur. I will remember that I lie here inGod's hand; but, oh Constance, I cannot think of pleasant things, Icannot hope. I will be patient, but I cannot hope. Dear, dear, sweetConstance, you are like my mother, and yet we are almost one age. Whatshould we all do without you, Constance?"

  Constance turned away to meet Doctor Fuller's grave gaze looking downupon her. "I echo Humility's question, Constance Hopkins: What should weall do without you? What a blessed thing has come to you thus to comfortand help these pilgrims, who are sore stricken! Come with me a moment; Ihave something to say to you."

  Constance followed this beloved physician into the kitchen where herstepmother was busy preparing broth, her _Mayflower_ baby, Oceanus, tiedin a chair on a pillow, Damaris sitting on the floor beside him inunnatural quiet.

  Dame Eliza looked up as the doctor and Constance entered, but instantlydropped her eyes, a dull red mounting in her face.

  She knew that the girl was ministering to the dying with skill andsympathy far beyond her years, and she remembered the patient sweetnesswith which Constance, during the voyage over, forgiving her injustice,had ministered to her when she was suffering--had tenderly cared forlittle Damaris.

  Dame Eliza had the grace to feel a passing shame, though not enough tomove her to repentance, to reparation.

  "Constance," Doctor Fuller said, "I am going to lay upon you a chargetoo heavy for your youth, but unescapable. You know how many of us havebeen laid to rest out yonder, pilgrims indeed, their pilgrimage over.Many more are to follow them. Mistress Standish among the first, butthere are many whose end I see at hand. I fear the spring will find us asmall colony, but those who remain must make up in courage for those whohave left them. I want you to undertake to be my right hand. PriscillaMullins hath already lost her mother, and her father and her brotherwill not see the spring. Yet she keeps her steady heart. She willprepare me such remedies as I can command here. Truth to tell, thesupply I brought with me is running low; I did not allow for the need ofso many of one kind. Priscilla is reliable; steady in purpose, memory,and hand. She will see to the remedies. But you, brave Constance, willyou be my medical student, visiting my patients, lingering to see thatmy orders are carried out, nursing, sustaining? In a word do what youhave already done since we landed, but on a greater scale, as anestablished duty?"

  "If I can," said Constance, simply.

  "You can; there is no one else that I can count upon. The older menamong us are dying, leaving the affairs of the colony to be carried onby the young ones. In like manner I must call upon so young a girl asyou to be my assistant. The older women are doing, and must do, stillmore important work in preparing the nourishment on which these livesdepend and which the young ones are not proficient to prepare."

  Doctor Fuller looked smilingly toward Dame Eliza as he said this, as ifhe feared her taking offence at Constance's promotion, and sought toplacate her.

  Mistress Hopkins gave no sign of knowing that he had turned to her, butshe said to Damaris, as if by chance: "This broth may do more than herbbrews toward curing, though your mother is not a physician's aid," andDoctor Fuller knew that he had been right.

  A week later, though Humility Cooper was recovering, many more hadfallen ill, and several had died.

  It was late in January; the winter was set in full of wrath againstthose who had dared array themselves to defy its power in thewilderness, but the sun shone brightly, though without warmth-givingmercy, upon Plymouth.

  There was an armed truce between Giles and his father. The boy would notbeg his father's pardon for having defied him. His love for his fatherhad been of the nature of hero-worship, and now, turned to bitterness,it increased the strength of his pride, smarting under false accusation,to resist his father.

  On the other hand Stephen Hopkins, high-tempered, strong of will, wasangry and hurt that his son refused to justify himself, or to plead withhim. So the elder and the younger, as Constance had said, too muchalike, were at a deadlock of suffering and anger toward each other.

  Stephen Hopkins was beginning his house on what he had named LeydenStreet, in memory of the pilgrims' refuge in Holland, though only by theeyes of faith could a street be discerned to bear the name. Like allelse in Plymouth colony, Leyden Street was rather a matter of prophecythan actuality.

  Giles was helping to build the house. All day he worked in silence,bearing the cold without complaint, but in no wise evincing theslightest interest in what he did. At night, in spite of the stringentlaws of the Puritan colony, Giles contrived often to slip away with JohnBillington into the woods. John Billington's father, who was as unrulyas his boys, connived at these escapades. He was perpetually quarrellingwith Myles Standish, whose duty it was to enforce the law, and who didthat duty without relenting, although by all the colonists, except theBillingtons, he was loved as well as respected.

  Early one morning Constance hurried out of the community house, tearsrunning down her cheeks, to meet Captain Myles coming toward it.

  "Why, pretty Constance, don't grieve, child!" said the Plymouth captain,heartily.

  "Giles hath come to no harm, I warrant you, though he has spent thenight again with that harum-scarum Jack Billington, and this timeFrancis Billington, too."

  "Oh, Captain Standish, it is not Giles! I forgot Giles," gaspedConstance.

  "Rose?" exclaimed the captain, sharply.

  Constance bent her head. "She is passing. I came to seek you," she said,and together she and the captain went to Rose's side.

  They found Doctor Fuller there holding Rose's hand as she lay withclosed eyes, breathing lightly. In his other hand he held his watchmeasuring the brief moments left, in which Rose Standish should be apart of time. Mary Brewster, the elder's wife, held up a warning fingernot to disturb Rose, but Doctor Fuller looked quietly toward Capta
inStandish.

  "It matters not now, Myles," he said. "You cannot harm her. There arebut few moments left."

  Myles Standish sprang forward, fell upon his knees, and raised Rose inhis arms.

  "Rose of the world, my English blossom, what have I done to bring theehere?" he sobbed, with a strong man's utter abandonment of grief, andwith none of the Puritan habit of self-restraint.

  "Wherever thou hadst gone, I would have chosen, my husband! I lovedthee, Myles, I loved thee Myles!" she said, so clearly that everyoneheard her sweet voice echo to the farthest corner of the room, and forthe last time.

  For with that supreme effort to comfort her husband, disarming hisregret, Rose Standish died.

  They bore Rose's body, so light that it was scarce a burden to the twomen who carried it as in a litter, forth to the spot upon the hillsidewhither they had already made so many similar processions, which wasfast becoming as thickly populated as was that portion of the colonyoccupied by the living.

  But as the sun mounted higher, although the March winds cut on somedays, then as now they do in March, yet, then as now, there were softand dreamy days under the ascending sun's rays, made more effective bythe moderating sea and flat sands.

  The devastating diseases of winter began to abate; the pale, weakremnants of the _Mayflower's_ passengers crept out to walk with a sortof wonder upon the earth which was new to them, and which they had sonearly quitted that nothing, even of those aspects of things that mostrecalled the home land, seemed to them familiar.

  The men began to break the soil for farming, and to bring forth anddiscuss the grain which they had found hidden by the savages--mostfortunately, for without it there would have been starvation to lookforward to after all that they had endured, since no supplies fromEngland had yet come after them.

  There was talk of the _Mayflower's_ return; she had lain all winter inPlymouth harbour because the Pilgrims had required her shelter andassistance. Soon she was to depart, a severance those ashore dreaded,albeit there was well-grounded lack of confidence in the honesty of hercaptain, Jones, whom the more outspoken among the colonists denouncedopenly as a rascal.

  Little Damaris was fretful, as she so often was, one afternoon early inMarch; the child was not strong and consequently was peevish. Constancewas trying to amuse her, sitting with the child, warmly wrapped from thekeen wind, in the warmth of the sunshine behind the southern wall of thecommunity house.

  "Tell me a story, Constance," begged Damaris, though it was not "astory," but several that Constance had already told her. "Make a fairystory. I won't tell Mother you did. Fairy stories are not lies, nomatter what they say, are they, Connie? I know they are not true and youtell me they are not true, so why are they lies? Why does Mother saythey are lies? Are they bad, are they, Connie? Tell me one, anyway; Iwon't tell her."

  "Ah, little Sister, I would rather not do things that we cannot tellyour mother about," said Constance. "I do not think a fairy story iswrong, because we both know it is make-believe, that there are nofairies, but your mother thinks them wrong, and I do not want you to dowhat you will not tell her you do. Suppose you tell me a story, instead?That would be fairer; only think how many, many stories I have told you,and how long it is since you have told me the least little word of one!"

  "Well," agreed Damaris, but without enthusiasm. "What shall I tell youabout? Not a Bible one."

  "No, perhaps not," Constance answered, looking lazily off to sea. Then,because she was looking seaward, she added:

  "Shall it be one about a sailor? That ought to be an interesting story."

  "A true sailor, or a made-up one?" asked Damaris, getting aroused to hertask.

  "Do you know one about a real sailor?" Constance somewhat sleepilyinquired.

  "Here is a true one," announced Damaris.

  "Once upon a time there was a sailor, and he sailed on a ship named the_Mayflower_. And he came in. And he said: How are you, little girl? AndI said: I am pretty well, but my name is Damaris Hopkins. And he said:What a nice name. And I said: Yes, it is. And he said: Where is yourfolks? and I said: I don't know where my mother went out of the cabinjust this minute. But my sister was around, and my brother Giles washere, fixing my hammock, 'cause it hung funny and let me roll over onmyself and folded me hurt. And my other brother couldn't go nowheres'tall, because he was born when we was sailing here, and he can't walk.And the sailor man said: Yes, there were two babies on the ship when wecame that we didn't have when we started, and show me your hammock. AndI did, and he said it was a nice ham----Constance, what's the matter? Ifelt you jump, and you look scared. Is it Indians? Connie, Connie,don't let 'em get me!"

  "No, no, child, there aren't any Indians about," Constance tried tolaugh. "Did I jump? Sometimes people do jump when they almost fallasleep, and I was just as sleepy as a fireside cat when you began totell me the story. Now I am not one bit sleepy! That is the mostinteresting story I have heard almost--yes, I think quite--in all mylife! And it is a true one?"

  "Yes, every bit true," said Damaris, proudly.

  "And the sailor went into the cabin, and saw your hammock, and said itwas a nice one, did he? Well, so it is a nice one! Did your mother seethe man?" asked Constance, trying to hide her impatience.

  "No," Damaris shook her head, decidedly. "Mother was coming, but the manjust put his hand in and set my hammock swinging. Then he went out, andMother was stopping and she didn't see him. And neither did I, not anymore, ever again."

  "Did you tell your mother about this sailor?" Constance inquired.

  "Oh, no," sighed Damaris. "I didn't tell her. She doesn't like storiesso much as we do. I tell you all my stories, and you tell me all yours,don't we, Constance? I didn't tell Mother. She says: 'That's Hopkins tolike stories, and music, and art.' What's art, Connie? And she says:'You don't get those idle ways from my side, so don't let me hear anyfoolish talk, for you will be punished for idle talk.' What's that,Connie?"

  "Oh, idle talk is--idle talk is hard to explain to you, little Damaris!It is talk that has nothing to it, unless it may have something harmfulto it. You'll understand when you are old enough to make what you doreally matter. But this has not been idle talk to-day! Far, far fromidle talk was that fine story you told me! Suppose we keep that storyall to ourselves, not tell it to anyone at all, will you please, mydarling little sister? Then, perhaps, some day, I will ask you to tellit to Father! Would not that be a great day for Damaris? But only if youdon't tell it to any one till then, not to your mother, not to any one!"Constance insisted, hoping to impress the child to the point of secrecy,yet not to let her feel how much Constance herself set upon thisrequest.

  "I won't! I won't tell it to any one; not to Mother, not to any one,"Damaris repeated the form of her vow. Then she looked up intoConstance's face with a puzzled frown.

  "But you wouldn't tell a fairy story, because you said you didn't wantthings I couldn't tell mother! And now you say I mustn't tell her aboutmy story!" she said.

  Constance burst out laughing, and hugged Damaris to her, hiding in thechild's hood a merrier face than she had worn for many, many a day.

  "You have caught me, little Damaris!" she cried. "Caught me fairly! Butthat was a _fairy_ story, don't you see? This isn't, this is true. Sothis is not to be told, not now, do you see?"

  Damaris said "yes," slowly, with the frown in her smooth little browdeepening. It was puzzling; she did not really see, but since Constanceexpected her to see she said "yes," and felt curiously bewildered.However, what Constance said was to her small half-sister not merelylaw, but gospel. Constance was always right, always the most lovable,the most delightful person whom Damaris knew.

  "All right, Connie. I won't tell anyone my sailor-man story," she saidat last, clearing up.

  "Just now," Constance supplemented her. "Some day you shall tell it,Damaris! Some day I shall want you to tell it! And now, little Sister,will you go into the house and tell Oceanus to hurry up and grow bigenough to run about, because the world, our new world, is getting to b
ea lovely place in the spring sunshine, and he must grow big enough toenjoy it as fast as he can? I must find Giles; I have somethingbeautiful, beautiful to tell him!"

  She kissed Damaris before setting her on her feet, and the child kissedher in return, clinging to her.

  "You are so funny, Constance!" she said, in great satisfaction with hersister's drollery in a world that had been filled with gloom and illnessfor what seemed to so young a child, almost all her life.

  "Ah, I want to be, Damaris! I want to be funny, and happy, and glad! Oh,I want to be!" cried Constance, and ran away at top speed with a rarerelapse into her proper age and condition.