CHAPTER V
The New Year in the New Land
The new year came in bringing with it a driving storm from the Atlantic.The hoary pines threw up their rugged branches as if appealing to theheavens for mercy on the women and little children without shelter onthe desolate coast. But the gray heavens did not relent; they pouredsnow and sleet down upon the infant colony, coating the creaking pineswith ice that bent them low, and checked their intercession.
As fast as willing hands could work, taking it in continuous shifts bynight as well as day, the community house went up. But the storm wasupon the colonists before the shelter was ready for them, and even whenthe roof covered them, the cold laughed it to scorn, entering to wreakits will upon them.
Sickness seized one after another of the pilgrim band, men and womenalike, and the little children fought croup and pneumonia, nursed bywomen hardly more fit for the task than were the little victims.
Rose Standish, already weakened by the suffering of the voyage, wasamong the first to be prostrated. She coughed ceaselessly though eachviolent breath wracked her frail body with pain. A bright colour burnedin her cheeks, her beautiful eyes were clear and dilated, she smiledhopefully when her companions in exile and suffering spoke to her, andassured them that she was "much, much better," speaking pantingly, by aneffort.
The discouragement with which she had looked upon the coast when the_Mayflower_ arrived, gave place to hope in her. She spoke confidently of"next spring," of the "house Captain Myles would build her," of all thatshe should do "when warm weather came."
Constance, to whom she most confided her plans, often turned away tohide her tears. She knew that Doctor Fuller and the more experiencedwomen thought that for this English rose there would be no springtimeupon earth.
Constance had other troubles to bear as well as the hardships andsorrows common to the sorely beset community. She seemed, to herself,hardly to be a young girl, so heavily weighted was she with the burdenthat she carried. She wondered to remember that if she had stayed inEngland she should have been laughing and singing like other girls ofher age, skating now on the Sherbourne, if it were frozen over, as itwell might be. Perhaps she might be dancing, if she were visiting hercousins in Warwickshire, her own birthplace, for the cousins were merrygirls, and like all of Constance's mother's family, quite free frompuritanical ideas, brought up in the English Church, so not debarredfrom the dance.
Constance had no heart to regret her loss of youthful happiness; she wasso far aloof from it, so sad, that she could not rise to the level offeeling its charm. Dame Eliza Hopkins had carried out her threat, hadaccused Giles of the theft of his father's papers, and Constance ofbeing party to his wrong-doing, if not actually its instigator.
It had only happened that morning; Constance heavily awaiteddevelopments. She jumped guiltily when she heard her father's voicespeaking her name, and felt his hand upon her shoulder.
She faced him, white and shaken, to meet his troubled eyes intentlyfastened upon her.
"The storm is bad, Constance, but it is not warm within. Put on yourcoat and come with me. I must speak with you," he said.
In silence Constance obeyed him. Pulling over her head a hood that, likea deep cowl, was attached to her coat, she followed her father into thestorm, and walked beside him toward the marshy shore whither, withoutspeaking to her, he strode.
Arrived at the sedgy ocean line he halted, and turned upon her.
"Constance," he began, sternly, "my wife tells me that valuable paperswhich I entrusted to her keeping have disappeared. She tells me furtherthat she had dropped them--carelessly, as I have told her--into thehammock in which your little sister slept and that you saw them there,commenting upon it; that you soon called Giles to set right some slightmatter in the hammock; and that shortly after you and he had left her,she discovered her loss. What do you know of this? Tell me all that youknow, and tell me the truth."
Constance's fear left her at this word. Throwing up her head she lookedher father in the eyes, nearly on a level with her own as she stood upona sandy hummock. "It needs not telling me to speak the truth, Father. Iam your daughter and my mother's daughter; it runs not in my blood tolie," she said.
Stephen Hopkins touched her arm lightly, a look of relief upon his face.
"Thank you for that reminder, my girl," he said. "It is true, and Gilesis of the same strain. Know you aught of this misfortune?"
"Nothing, Father," said Constance. "And because I know nothing whateverabout it, in answering you I have told you all that I have to tell."
"And Giles----" began her father, but stopped.
"Nor Giles," Constance repeated, amending his beginning. "Giles isheadstrong, Father, and I fear for him often, but you know that he ishonourable, truth-telling. Would your son _steal_ from you?"
"But your stepmother says no one entered the cabin after you had left itbefore she discovered her loss," insisted Stephen Hopkins. "What am I tothink? What do you think, Constance?"
"I think that there is an explanation we do not know. I think that mystepmother hates Giles and me, especially him, as he has the first claimto the inheritance that she would have for her own children. I thinkthat she has seized this opportunity to poison you against us," saidConstance, with spirited daring. "Oh, Father, dear, dear Father, do notlet her do this thing!"
"Nay, child, you are unjust," said her father, gently. "I confess toMistress Eliza's jealousy of you, and that there is not great love foryou in her. But, Constance, do you love her, you or Giles? And that sheis not so base as you suspect is shown by the fact that she has delayeduntil to-day to tell me of this loss, dreading, as she hath told me, toput you wrong in my eyes. Fie for shame, Constance, to suspect her ofsuch outrageous wickedness, she who is, after all, a good woman, as shesees goodness."
"Father, if the packet were lost through her carelessness, would you notblame her? Is it not likely that she would shield herself at our cost,even if she would not be glad to lower us, as I am sure she would be?"persisted Constance.
"Well, well, this is idle talk!" Stephen Hopkins said, impatiently. "Thetruth must be sifted out, and suspicions are wrong, as well as useless.One word before I go to Giles. Upon your sacred honour, ConstantiaHopkins, and by your mother's memory, can you assure me that you knowabsolutely nothing of the loss of this packet of papers?"
"Upon my honour and by my mother's memory, I swear that I do not know somuch as that the packet is lost, except as Mistress Hopkins says that itis," said Constance. Then with a swift change of tone she begged:
"Oh, Father, Father, when you go to Giles, be careful, be kind, I prayyou! Giles is unhappy. He is ill content under the injustice we bothbear, but I with a girl's greater submission. He is ready to break allbounds and he will do so if he feels that you do not trust him, listento his enemy's tales against him. Please, please, dear Father, be gentlewith Giles. He loves you as well as I do, but where your distrust of mewould kill me, because I love you, Giles's love for you will turn tobitterness, if you let him feel that you are half lost to him."
"Nonsense, Constance," said her father, though kindly, "Giles is a boyand must be dealt with firmly. It will never do to coddle him, to givehim his head. You are a girl, sensitive and easily wounded. A boy isanother matter. I will not have him setting up his will against mine,nor opposing discipline for his good. It is for him to clear himself ofwhat looks ill, not resent our seeing the looks of it."
Constance almost wrung her hands.
"Oh, Father, Father, do not go to Giles in that way! Sorrow will come ofit. Think how you would feel to be thus suspected! A boy is not lesssensitive than a girl; I fear he is more sensitive in his honour thanare we. Oh, I am but a girl, but I know that I am right about Giles. Ithink we are given to understand as no man can how to deal with a proud,sullen boy like Giles, because God means us to be the mothers of boyssome day! Be kind to Giles, dear Father; let him see that you trust him,as indeed, indeed you may!"
"Let us go back out of the storm to
such shelter as we have, Constance,"said Stephen Hopkins, smiling with masculine toleration for a foolishgirl. "I have accepted your solemn assurance that you are ignorant ofthis theft, if theft it be. Be satisfied that I have done this, andleave me to deal with my son as I see fit. I will not be unjust to him,but he must meet me respectfully, submissively, and answer to theevidence against him. I have not been pleased of late with Giles'sill-concealed resistance."
This time Constance did wring her hands, as she followed her father,close behind him. She attempted no further remonstrance, knowing that todo so would be not only to harm Giles's cause, but to arouse herfather's quick anger against herself. But as she walked with bent headthrough the cutting, beating storm, she wondered why Giles should not beresistant to his life, and her heart ached with pitying apprehension forher brother.
All that long day of darkening storm and anxiety Constance did not seeGiles. That signified nothing, however, for Giles was at work with themen making winter preparations which could not be deferred, albeit thewinter was already upon them, while Constance was occupied with thenursing for which the daily increase of sickness made more handsrequired than were able to perform it.
Humility Cooper was dangerously ill, burning with fever, struggling forbreath. Constance was fond of the little maid who seemed so childishbeside her, and gladly volunteered to go again into the storm to fetchher the fresh water for which she implored.
At the well which had been dug, and over which a pump from the ship hadbeen placed and made effective, Constance came upon Giles, marching upand down impatiently, and with him was John Billington, his chosencomrade, the most unruly of all the younger pilgrims.
"Well, at last, Con!" exclaimed Giles. "I've been here above an hour. Ithought to meet you here. What has kept you so long?"
"Why, Giles, I could not know that you were awaiting me," saidConstance, reasonably. "Oh, they are so ill, our poor friends yonder! Iam sure many of them will go on a longer pilgrimage and never see thiscolony established."
"Lucky they!" said Giles, bitterly. "Why should they want to? Nobodywants to die, and of course I am sorry for them, but better be dead thanalive here--if it is to be called alive!"
"Oh, dear Giles, do you hate it so?" sighed Constance. "Nothing iswrong?" she added, glancing at John Billington, longing to ask herquestion more directly, but not wishing to betray to him the troubleupon her mind.
"Never mind talking before John," said Giles, catching the glance. "Heknows all about it; I have told him. Have you cleared yourself, Sis, orare you also under suspicion?"
"Oh, dear Giles," said Constance again. "You are not--Didn't Fatherbelieve?--Isn't it all right?" She groped for the least offensive formfor her question.
"I don't know whether or not Father believed that I am a thief," burstout Giles, furiously. "Nor a whit do I care. I told him the word of aman of honour was enough, and I gave him mine that I knew nothing abouthis wife's lies. I told him it seemed to me clear enough that she hadmade away with the papers herself, to defraud us. And I told him I hadno proof of my innocence to give him, but it was not necessary. I toldhim I wouldn't go into it further; that it had to end right there, thatI was not called upon to accept, nor would I submit to such a rankinsult from any man, and that his being my father made it worse, notbetter."
"Oh, Giles, what did he say? Oh, Giles, what a misfortune!" criedConstance, clasping her hands.
"What did he say?" echoed Giles. "What do you think would be said whentwo such tempers as my father's and mine clash? For, mark you, Con,Stephen Hopkins would not stoop to vindicate himself from the charge ofstealing. _Stealing_, remember, not a crime worthy of a gentleman."
"Oh, Giles, what crime is worthy of a gentleman?" Constance grieved. "Isthere any dignity in sin, and any justice in varnishing some sins withthe gloss of custom? But indeed, indeed, it is cruelly hard on you,Giles dear. Tell me what happened."
"The only thing that could happen. My father forgets that I am not achild. He flew into that madness of anger that we know him capable of,railed at me for my impertinence, insisted on my proving myself innocentof this charge, and declared that until I did, with full apology for theway I had received him, I was no son of his. So--Good day, MistressConstantia Hopkins, I hope that you are well? I once had a sister thatwas like you, but sister have I none now, since I am not the son of myreputed father," said Giles, with a sneer and a deep bow.
Constance was in despair. The bitter mockery in Giles's young face, thebleak unhappiness in his eyes stabbed her heart. She knew him too wellto doubt that this mood was dangerous.
"My own dear brother!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Oh,don't steel yourself so bitterly! Father loves you so much that he isstern with you, but it will all come right; it must, once this hotanger that you both share is past. You are too alike, that is all! Beghis pardon, Giles, but repeat that your word is enough to prove youinnocent of the accusation. Father will see that, and yield you that,when you have met him halfway by an apology for hard words."
"See here, Con, why should I do that?" demanded Giles. "Is thereanything in this desolation that I should want to stay here? I've hadenough of Puritans; and Eliza is one of the strongest of them. Exceptfor your sake, little Sis, why should I stay? And I will one day returnfor you. No, no, Con; I will sail for England when the ship returns, andmake my own fortune, somewhere, somehow."
"Dame Eliza is not what she is because she is a Puritan. She is what sheis because she is Dame Eliza. Think of the others whom we all love andwould fain be like," Constance reminded him. "We must all be true to theenterprise we have undertaken, and----"
"Look here, sweet Con," John Billington interrupted her. "There isnothing to hold Giles to this dreary enterprise, nor to hold me, either.I am not in like plight to him. If any one accused me, suspected me asyour father has him, and still more my father did it, I'd let these eastwinds blow over the space I'd have filled in this settlement. I'm foradventure as it is, though my father cares little what Francis and Ido, being a reckless, daring man who surely belongs not in thispsalm-singing company. Giles and I will strike out into the wildernessand try our fortunes. We will try the savages. They can be no worse thanwhite men, nor half as outrageous as your stepmother. Why, Con, how canyou want your brother tamely to sit down under such an insult? No manshould be called upon to prove himself honest! Giles must be off. Letyour father find out for himself who is to blame for the loss of thepapers, and repent too late for lending ear to his wife's story."
Constance stared for a moment at John, realizing how every word he saidfound a ready echo in Giles's burning heart, how potent would be thisunruly boy's influence to draw her brother after him, now, when Gileswas wounded in his two strongest feelings--his pride of honour, his lovefor his father--and she prayed in her heart for inspiration to dealwisely with this difficult situation.
Suddenly the inspiration came to her. She found it in John's last words.
"Nay, but Jack!" she cried, using Francis's name for his brother,disapproved by the elders who would have none of nicknames. "If needs bethat Giles must leave this settlement, if he cannot be happy here, lethim at least bide till he has cleared his name of a foul stain, for hishonour's sake, for the sake of his dead mother, for my sake, who mustabide here and cannot escape, being but a girl, young and helpless. Isit right that I should be pointed out till I am old as the sister of himwho was accused of a great wrong and, cowardlike, ran away because hecould not clear himself, nor meet the shame, and so admitted his guilt?No! Rather do you, John Billington, instead of urging him to run away,bend all your wit--of which you do not lack plenty!--to the ferretingout of this mystery. That would be the manly course, the kind course tome, and you have always called yourself my friend. Then prove it! Helpmy brother to clear himself and never say one more word to urge him awaytill he can go with a stainless name. Our father does not doubt Giles,of that I am certain. He is sore beset, and is a choleric man. What canany man do when his children are on the one hand, and his wi
fe on theother? Be patient with our father, Giles, but in any case do not go awaytill this is cleared."
"She talks like a lawyer!" cried John Billington with his boisterouslaugh "Like----what was that play I once saw before I got, or Fathergot into this serious business of being a Puritan? Wrote by a fellowcalled Shakespeare? Ah, I have it! Merchant of Venison! In that the girlturns lawyer and cozzens the Jew. Connie is another pleader like thatone. Well, what say you, Giles, my friend? Strikes me she is right."
"It is not badly thought of, Constance," admitted Giles. "But can it bedone? For if Mistress Hopkins has had a hand in spiriting away thosepapers for her own advantage and my undoing, then would it be hard toprove. What say you?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Constance. "Truth is mighty, good is strongerthan evil! Patience, Giles, patience for a while, and let us three bindourselves to clear our good name. Will you, will you promise, mybrother? And John?"
"Well, then, yes," said Giles, reluctantly; and Constance clasped herhands with a cry of joy. "For a time I will stay and see what can bedone, but not for long. Mark you, Con, I do not promise long to abide inthis unbearable life of mine."
"Sure will I promise, Connie," assented John. "Why should I go? I wouldnot go without Giles, and it was not for my sake first we were going."
"Giles, dear Giles, thank you, thank you!" cried Constance. "I could nothave borne it had you not yielded. Think of me thus left and be gladthat you are willing to stand by your one own sister, Giles. And let ushope that in staying we shall come upon better days. Now I must takethis ewer of water to poor Humility who is burned and miserable withthirst and pain. She will think I am never coming to relieve her! Oh,boys, it seems almost wicked to think of our good names, of any of ourlittle trials, when half our company is so stricken!"
"You are a good girl, Connie," said John Billington, awkwardly helpingConstance to assume her pitcher, his sympathy betrayed by hisawkwardness. "I hope you are not chilled standing here so long with us."
"No, not I!" said Constance, bravely. "The New Year, and the New Worldare teaching me not to mind cold which must be long borne before theyear grows old. They are teaching me much else, dear lads. So good-bye,and bless you!"
"'Twould have been downright contemptible to have deserted her," saidGiles and John in the same breath, and they laughed as they watched herdepart.