Light-Minded Man, Heavy-Hearted Master
Constance Hopkins sat at the side of the cave-like fireplace; opposite
to where her father, engrossed in a heavy, much-rubbed, leather-bound
book, toasted his feet beside the fire, as was his nightly wont.
He was too deeply buried in his reading to heed her presence, but the
girl felt keenly that her father was there and that she had him quite to
herself. The consciousness of this made her heart sing softly in her
breast, with a contentment that she voiced in the softest humming, not
unlike the contented song of the kettle on the crane, and the purring of
the cat, who sat with infolded paws between her human friends.
Puck, the small spaniel, and Hecate, the powerful mastiff, who had come
with the Hopkins family on the _Mayflower_, shared the hearth with Lady
Fair, the cat, a right that their master insisted upon for them, but
which Dame Eliza never ceased to inveigh against.
However, Dame Eliza had gone to attend upon a sick neighbour that night,
a fact which Hecate had approvingly noted, with her deep-grooved eyelids
half-open, and in which Constance, no less than Puck and Hecate,
rejoiced.
There was the quintessence of domestic joy in thus sitting alone
opposite her father, free from the sense of an unsympathetic element
dividing them, in watching the charring of the tremendous back log, and
the lovely colours in the salt-soaked small sticks under and over it
which had been cast up by the sea and gathered on the beach for this
consumption.
Damaris and baby Oceanus were tucked away asleep for the night. It was
as if once more Constance were a child in England with her widowed
father, and no second marriage had ever clouded their perfect oneness.
So Constance hummed softly, not to disturb the reader, the content that
she felt not lessened by anxiety for Giles; there were hours in which
she was assured of Giles's safe return, and this was one of them.
Stephen Hopkins had been conscious of his girl's loving companionship,
though not aware that he felt it, till, at last, the small tune that she
hummed crept through his brain into his thought, and he laid down his
book to look at her.
She sat straight and prim by necessity. Her chair was narrow and
erect--a carved, dark oaken chair, with a small round seat; it had been
Constance's mother's, and had come out of her grandfather's Tudor
mansion, wherein he had once entertained Queen Bess.
Constance's dress was of dark homespun stuff, coming up close under her
soft chin, falling straight around her feet, ornamented but with narrow
bands of linen at her neck and around her wrists. Yet by its extreme
severity the Puritan gown said: "See how lovely this young creature is!
Only her fleckless skin, her gracious outlines, could triumph over my
barrenness!"
Obedient to her elders' demands upon her to curb its riotousness,
Constance had brushed smooth and capped her lustrous hair, yet its
tendrils escaped upon her brow; it glinted below the cap around her
ears, and in the back of her neck, and shone in the firelight like
precious metal.
Stephen Hopkins's eyes brightened with delight in her charm, but, though
he was not one of the strictest of Plymouth colonists, yet was he too
imbued with their customs to express his pleasure in Constance's beauty.
Instead he said, but his voice thrilled with what he left unsaid:
"It's a great thing, my girl, to draw such a woman as Portia, here in
this leathern book. She shines through it, and you see her clever eyes,
her splendid presence, best of all her great power to love, to humble
herself, to forget herself for the man she hath chosen! I would have you
conversant with the women here met, Constance; they are worthy friends
for you, in the wilderness where such noble ladies are rare."
"Yet we have fine women and devoted ones here, Father," objected
Constance, putting down the fine linen that she was hemstitching for her
father's wearing. He noted the slender, supple hands, long-fingered,
graceful, yet a womanly hand, made for loyalty.
"Far be it from me to belittle them who recognized their hard and
repulsive duty in the plague last winter, and performed it with utter
self-renunciation," said Stephen Hopkins. "But, Constance, there is a
something that, while it cannot transcend goodness, enhances it and
places its possessor on a sort of dais all her life. Your mother had it,
child. She was beautiful, charming, winsome, gracious, yet had she a
lordly way with her; you see it in a fine-bred steed; I know not how to
describe it. She was mettlesome, spirited. It was as if she did the
right with a sort of inborn scorn for aught low; had made her choice at
birth for true nobility and could but abide by it for aye, having made
that choice. You have much of her, my lass, and I am daily thankful for
it. A fine lady, was your exquisite young mother, and that says it,
though the term is lowered by common usage. I would that you could have
known her, my poor child! It was a loss hard to accept that you were
deprived of her too soon, and never could have her direct impress upon
you. And yet, thank Heaven, she hath left it upon you in mothering you,
though the memory of her doth not bless you. And you sit here, upon a
Plymouth hearthstone, far from the civilization that produced her, and
to this I brought you!"
"Oh, Father, Father, my darling!" cried Constance, flinging aside her
work and dropping upon her knees beside him, for his voice quivered with
an emotion that he never before had allowed to escape him, as he uttered
a self-reproach that no one knew he harboured. "Oh, my father, dearest,
don't you know that I am happy here? And are you not here with me?
However fine a lady my sweet mother was--and for your sake I am glad
indeed if you see anything of her in me!--yet was she no truer lady than
you are a fine gentleman. And with you I need no better exemplar. As
time goes on we shall receive from England much of the good we have left
behind; our colony will grow and prosper; we shall not be crude,
unlettered. And how truly noble are many of our company, not only you,
but Governor Bradford, Mr. Brewster, Mr. Winslow; their wives; our Arm,
Captain Myles; and--dearest of all, save you--Doctor Fuller! No maiden
need lack of models who has these! But indeed, I want to be all that you
would have me to be! I cannot say how glad I am if you see in me
anything of my mother! Not for my sake; for yours, for yours!"
"Portia after all!" Stephen Hopkins cried, stroking Constance's cheek.
"That proves how well he knew, great Will of Warwickshire--which is our
county also, my lass! Not for their own sake do true women value their
charm, but for him they love. 'But only to stand high in your account I
might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, exceed!' So spake Portia;
so, in effect, spake you just now. That was your mother's way; she,
too, longed to have, but to give, her possessions, herself----"
There came a knocking at the door and Constance sprang back to her
chair, catching up her sewing, thrusting in her needle with shortened
breath, not to be caught by her severe Plymouth neighbours in so
unseemly a thing as betraying love for her father, leaning on his knee.
Mr. Hopkins answered the summons, and there entered Francis Eaton, Mr.
Allerton, and John Howland, who having come to Plymouth as the servant
of Governor Carver, was now living in the colony with his articles of
bondage annulled, and was inclined to exceed in severity the other
Puritans, as one who had not long had authority even over himself.
"Peace be to you, Mr. Hopkins," said John Howland, gravely. "Mistress
Constantia, I wish you a good evening. Sir, we are come to consult you
as to certain provisions to be made for the winter to come, as to care
of the sick, should there be many----. Will that great beast bite? She
seems not to like me, and I may say the feeling is mutual; I never could
bear a beast."
"She will not bite you, John; she is but deciding on your credentials as
set forth in the odour of your clothing," said Mr. Hopkins, smiling.
"Down, Hecate, good lass! While I am here you may leave it to me to see
to your dwelling and fireside, old trusty!"
Hecate wagged her whip like tail and instantly lay down, her nose on her
extended paws, frowning at the callers.
"But what is this, Stephen Hopkins?" demanded Francis Eaton, picking up
the marred, leather-covered great volume which Stephen Hopkins had laid
down when he had risen. "Shakespeare! Plays! Fie, fie upon you; sir! I
wot you know this is godless matter, and that you are sinning to set the
example of such reading to your child."
Stephen Hopkins's quick temper blazed; he took a step in the speaker's
direction, and Hecate was justified in growling at her master's lead.
"Zounds! Eaton," he cried. "I know that an Englishman's house is his
castle, on whichever side of the ocean he builds it, and that I will not
brook your coming into it to tell me--_you_ to tell _me_,
forsooth!--that I am sinning! Look to your own affairs, sir, but keep
your hands off mine. If you are too ignorant to know more of Shakespeare
than to think him harmful, well, then, sir, you confess to an ignorance
that is in itself a sin against the Providence that gave us poets."
"As to that, Francis Eaton," said Mr. Allerton, "Mr. Hopkins hath the
best of it. We who strive after the highest virtue do not indulge in
worldly reading, but there be those among us who would not condemn
Shakespeare. But what is the noise I hear? Permit us to go yonder into
your outer room, Mr. Hopkins, to satisfy ourselves that worse than
play-reading is not carried on within this house."
"Noise? I heard no noise till now, being too much occupied to note it,
but it is easy to decide upon its cause from here, though if you desire
to go yonder, or to share the play, I'll not prevent you," said Mr.
Hopkins, his anger mounting.
"Say, rather, as I seriously fear, that you are too accustomed to the
sound to note it. I will pass over, as unworthy of you and of my
profession, the insult you proffered me in suggesting that I would bear
part in a wicked game," said Mr. Allerton, going toward the door.
He threw it open with a magnificent gesture and stalked through it,
followed close by the other two, and by Hecate's growl and Puck's sharp
barking.
Constance had dropped her work and sat rigidly regarding her father with
amazed and frightened eyes.
Stephen Hopkins went after them, purple with rage. What they saw was a
table marked off at its farther end by lines drawn in chalk. At the
nearer end sat Edward Doty and Edward Lister, the men whom Stephen
Hopkins had brought over with him on the _Mayflower_ to serve him.
Beside them sat tankards of home-made beer, and a small pile of coins
lay, one at each man's right hand.
Just as Francis Eaton threw open the door, Edward Lister leaned
forward, balanced a coin carefully between his thumb and finger, and
shot it forward over one of the lines at the other end.
"Aimed, by St. George! Well shot, Ted!" cried Edward Doty.
"See that thou beatest me not, Ned; thou art a better man than me at
it," said Lister, and they both took a draught of beer, wiping their
lips on their sleeve in high satisfaction with the flavour, the game,
and each other.
"Shovelboard!" "Shuffleboard!" cried Francis Eaton and John Howland
together, differing on the pronunciation of the obnoxious sport, but one
in the boundless horror in their voices.
"Stephen Hopkins, I am profoundly shocked," said Mr. Allerton, turning
with lowering brows upon their host. "A man of your standing among us! A
man of your experience of the world! Well wot you that playing of games
is forbid among us. That you should tolerate it is frightful to
consider----"
"See here, Isaac Allerton," said Stephen Hopkins, stepping so close to
his neighbour that Mr. Allerton fell back uneasily, "it is a principle
among us that every man is to follow his conscience. If we have thrown
off the authority of our old days, an authority mind you, that had much
to be said for it, and set up our own conscience as the sole guide of
our actions, then how dare you come into my house to reproach me for
what I consider no wrong-doing? Ted and Ned are good fellows, on whose
hands leisure hangs heavily, since they do not read Shakespeare, as does
their master, whom equally you condemn. To my mind shovelboard is
innocent; I have permitted my men to play it. Go, if you will, and
report to our governor this heinous crime of allowing innocent play. But
on your peril read me no sermon, nor set up your opinion in mine own
house, for, by my honour, I'll not abide it."
"By no will of mine will I report you, my brother," said Isaac Allerton,
but the gleam in his eye belied him; there was jealousy in this little
community, as in all human communities. "You know that my duty will
compel me to lay before Governor Bradford what I have seen. Since we
have with our own eyes seen it, there needs no further witnesses."
"Imply that I would deny the truth, were there never a witness, and
Heaven help you, Plymouth or no Plymouth, brother or no brother! I'm not
a liar," cried Stephen Hopkins, so fiercely that Mr. Allerton and his
companions went swiftly out the side door, Mr. Allerton protesting:
"Nay, then Brother and friend; thou art a choleric man, and lax as to
this business, but no one would doubt your honour."
After they had gone Mr. Hopkins went back to his chair by the fireside,
leaving Ted and Ned staring open-mouthed at each other, stunned by the
tempest aroused by their game.
"Well, rather would I have held the psalm book the whole evening than
got the master into trouble," said Ted.
"Easy done, since thou couldst no more than hold it, reading being
beyond thee," grinned Ned. "Yet am I one with thy meaning, which is
clearer to me than is print."
Constance dared not speak to her father when he returned to her. She
glanced up at his angry face and went on with her stitchery in silence.
At length he stretched himself out, his feet well toward the fire, and
let his right hand fall on Hecate's insinuating head, his left on Puck's
thrusting nose.
"Good friends!" he said to the happy dogs. "I am ashamed, my Constance,
so to have afflicted thee. Smile, child; thou dost look as though
destruction awaited me."
"I am so sorry, Father! In good sooth, is there not trouble coming to
you from this night's business?" asked Constance, folding up her work.
"Nothing serious, child; likely a fine. But indeed it will be worth it
to have the chance it will buy me to speak my mind clearly to my fellow
colonists on these matters. Ah, my girl, my girl, what sad fools we
mortals be, as Shakespeare, whom also these grave and reverend seigniors
condemn, hath said! We have come here to sail by the free wind of
conscience, but look you, it must be the conscience of the few, greater
thraldom than it was in the Old World! Ah, Constance, Constance, we came
here to escape the thraldom of men, but to do that it needs that no men
came! If authority we are to have, then let it be authoritative, say I;
not the mere opinion of men. My child, have you ever noted how much
human nature there is in a man?"
But the next day, during which Stephen Hopkins was absent from his home,
when he returned at night his philosophy had been sadly jostled.
He had been called before the governor, reprimanded and fined, and his
pride, his sense of justice, were both outraged when he actually had to
meet the situation. Dame Eliza was in a state of mind that made matters
worse. She had heard from one of those persons through whom ill news
filters as naturally as water through a spring, that her husband had
been, as she termed it, "disgraced before the world."
"They can't disgrace him, Stepmother," protested Constance, though she
knew that it was useless to try to stem the tide of Dame Eliza's
grievance. "My father is in the right; they have the power to fine, but
not to disgrace him who hath done no wrong."
"Of course he hath done no wrong," snapped Dame Eliza. "Shovelboard was
played in my father's kitchen when I was no age. Are these prating men
better than my father? Answer me that! But your father has no right to
risk getting into trouble for two ne'er-do-wells, like his two precious
Edwards. They eat more than any four men I ever knew, and that will I
maintain against all comers, and as to work they cannot so much as see
it. Worthless! And for them will he risk our good name. For mark me,
Constantia, shovelboard is a game, and gaming an abomination, and not to
be mentioned in a virtuous household, yet would your father permit it
played----"
"But you just said it was harmless, and that your father had a table!"
cried Constance.
"My father was a good man, but not a Puritan," said Dame Eliza, somewhat
confused to be called upon to harmonize her own statements. "In England
shovelboard is one thing; in Plymouth a second thing, and two things are
not the same as one thing. I am disgusted with your father, but what
good does it do me to speak? Never am I heeded but rather am I flouted
by the Hopkins brood, young and old, which is why I never speak, but eat
my heart out in silence and patience, knowing that had I married as I
might have married--aye, and that many times, I'd have you know--I'd
not be here among sands and marshes and Indians and barrens, slaving for
ungrateful people who think to show their better blood by treating me as
they best know how! But it is a long lane that hath no turning, and
justice must one day be my reward."
When Stephen Hopkins came in Dame Eliza dared not air her grievances;
his angry face compelled silence. Even Constance did not intrude upon
his annoyance, but contented herself with conveying her sympathy by
waiting upon him and talking blithely to Damaris, succeeding at last in
winning a smile from her father by her amusing stories to the child.
"There is a moon, Constance; is it too cold for you to walk with me? The
sea is fair and silvery beneath the moon rays," said Mr. Hopkins after
supper.
"Not a whit too chill, Father, and I shall like to be out of doors,"
cried Constance, disregarding her stepmother's frown, who disapproved of
pleasure strolls.
Constance drew her cloak about her, its deep hood over her head, and
went out with her father. Stephen Hopkins placed her hand in his arm,
and led her toward the beach. It was a deep, clear autumn night, the
moon was brilliant; the sea, still as a mirror, gave its surface for the
path that led from the earth to the moon, made by the moon rays.
At last her father spoke to Constance.
"Wise little woman," he said, patting the hand in his arm, "to keep
silent till a man has conquered his humours. Your mother had that rare
feminine wisdom. What a comrade was she, my dear! Seeing your profile
thus half-concealed by your hood I have been letting myself feel that
she had returned to me. And so she has, for you are part of her, her
gift to me! Trouble no more over my annoyance, Constance; I have
conquered it. I do not say that there is no soreness left in me, that I
should be thus dealt with, but I am philosopher enough to see that Myles
Standish was right when he once said to me that I was a fool for my
pains; that living in Plymouth I must bear myself Plymouth-wise."
"Father, have you had enough of impertinence in the day's doings, that
your neighbours should dare to judge you, or will you tolerate a little
more impertinence, and from your own daughter?" asked Constance.
"Now what's in the wind?" demanded Stephen Hopkins, stopping short.
"Nay, Father, let me speak freely!" Constance implored. "Indeed there is
nothing in my heart that you would disapprove, could I bare it to your
eyes. Does not this day's experience throw a light upon Giles?"
"Giles! How? Why?" exclaimed her father.
"Giles is as like you as are two peas in a pod, dear Father. He does not
count himself a boy any longer. He hath felt that he was dealt with for
offences that he had not done. He has been wounded, angry, sore,
sad--and most of all because he half worships you. The governor, Mr.
Winslow, no one is to you, nor can hurt you, as you can hurt Giles.
Don't you feel to-day, Father, how hard it is for a young lad to bear
injustice? When Giles comes home will you not show him that you trust
him, love him, as I so well know you do, but as he cannot now be made to
believe you do? And won't you construe him by what you have suffered
this day, and comfort him? Forgive me, Father, my dearest, dearest! I do
not mean wrong, and after all, it is only your Constance speaking her
heart out to you," she pleaded.
For upwards of ten minutes Stephen Hopkins was silent while Constance
hung trembling on his arm.
Then her father turned to her, and took her face in both his hands,
tears in his eyes.
"It is only my Constance speaking; only my dearest earthly treasure," he
said. "And by all the gods, she hath spoken sweetly and truly, and I
will heed her! Yes, my Constance, I will read my own bitterness in
Giles's heart, and I will heal it, if but the lad comes back safe to
us."
With which promise, that sounded in Constance's ears like the carol of
angels, her father kissed her thrice on brow, and lips, a most unusual
caress from him. It was a thankful Constance that lay down beside
Damaris that night, beneath the lean-to roof.
"Now I know that Giles will come back, for this is what has been meant
in all that hath lately come to us," was her last thought as she drifted
into sleep.