A Fault Confessed, Thereby Redressed
As the winter wore away, that second winter in Plymouth colony that
proved so hard to endure, the new state of things in the Hopkins
household continued. Constance could not understand her stepmother.
Though the long habit of a lifetime could not be at once entirely
abandoned, yet Dame Eliza scolded far less, and toward Constance herself
maintained an attitude that was far from fault-finding. Indeed she
managed to combine something like regretful deference that was not
unlike liking, with a rigid keeping of her distance from the girl.
Constance wondered what had come over Mistress Hopkins, but she was too
thankful for the peace she enjoyed to disturb it by the least attempt to
bridge the distance that Dame Eliza had established between them.
Her father and Giles were a daily delight to Constance. The comradeship
that they had been so happy in when Giles was a child was theirs again,
increased and deepened by the understanding that years had enabled Giles
and his father to share as one man with another. And added to that was
wistful affection, as if the older man and the younger one longed to
make up by strength of love for the wasted days when all had not been
right between them.
Constance watched them together with gladness shining upon her face.
Dame Eliza also watched them, but with an expression that Constance
could not construe. Certain it was that her stepmother was not happy,
not sure of herself, as she had always been.
Oceanus was not well; he did not grow strong and rosy as did the other
_Mayflower_ baby, Peregrine White, though Oceanus was by this time
walking and talking--a tall, thin, reed-like little baby, fashioned not
unlike the long grasses that grew on Plymouth harbour shore. But Damaris
had come back to health. She was Constance's charge; her mother yielded
her to Constance and devoted herself to the baby, as if she had a
presentiment of how brief a time she was to keep him.
It was a cruelly hard winter; except that there was not a second
epidemic of mortal disease it was harder to the exiles than the first
winter in Plymouth.
Hunger was upon them, not for a day, a week, or a month, but hourly and
on all the days that rose and set upon the lonely little village,
encompassed by nothing kinder than reaches of marsh, sand, and barrens
that ended in forest; the monotonous sea that moaned against their coast
and separated them from food and kin; and the winter sky that often
smiled on them sunnily, it is true, but oftener was coldly gray, or
hurling upon them bleak winds and driving snows.
From England had come on the _Fortune_ more settlers to feed, but no
food for them. Plymouth people were hungry, but they faithfully divided
their scarcity with the new-comers and hoped that in the spring Mr.
Weston, the agent in England who had promised them the greatest help and
assured them of the liveliest interest in this heroic venture, would
send them at least a fraction of the much he had pledged to its
assistance.
So when the spring, that second spring, came in and brought a small ship
there was the greatest excitement of hope in her coming. But all she
brought was letters, and seven more passengers to consume the food
already so shortened, but not an ounce of addition to the supplies. One
letter was from Mr. Weston, filled with fair words, but so discouraging
in its smooth avoidance of actual help that Governor Bradford dared not
make its contents known, lest it should discourage the people, already
sufficiently downhearted, and with more than enough reason to be so.
There was a letter on this ship for Constance from Humility, and
Governor Bradford beckoned to John Howland, standing near and said to
him:
"Take this letter up to Mistress Constantia Hopkins, and ask her father
to come to me, if it please him. Say to him that I wish to consult him."
"I will willingly do your bidding, Mr. Bradford," said John Howland,
accepting the letter which the governor held out to him and turning it
to see in all lights its yellowed folder and the seal thrice impressed
along its edge to insure that none other than she whose name appeared
written in a fine, running hand on the obverse side, should first read
the letter. "In fact I have long contemplated a visit to Mistress
Constantia. It hath seemed to me that Stephen Hopkins's daughter was
growing a woman and a comely woman. She is not so grave as I would want
her to be, but allowance must be made for her youth, and her father is
not so completely, nor profoundly set free from worldliness as are our
truer saints; witness the affair of the shovelboard. But Constantia
Hopkins, under the control and obedience of a righteous man, may be
worthy of his hand."
"Say you so!" exclaimed William Bradford, half amused, half annoyed, and
wondering what his quick-tempered but honoured friend Stephen would say
to this from John Howland--he who had a justifiable pride in his
honourable descent and who held no mere man equal to his Constance, the
apple of his eye. "I had not a suspicion that you were turning over in
your mind thoughts of this nature. I would advise you to consult Mr.
Hopkins before you let them take too strong hold upon your desire. But
in as far as my errand runneth with your purpose to further your
acquaintance with the maiden, in so far I will help you, good John, for
I am anxious that Mr. Hopkins shall know as soon as possible what news
the ship hath brought. Stay; here is another letter; for Mistress Eliza
Hopkins this time. Take that, also, if you will and bid Mr. Hopkins
hither."
John Howland, missing entirely the hint of warning in the governor's
voice and manner, took the two letters and went his way.
He found Stephen Hopkins at his house, planning the planting of a garden
with his son.
"I will go at once; come thou with me, Giles. It sounds like ill news, I
fear me, that hint of wishing to consult me. Somehow it seems that as
'good wine needs no bush,' for which we have Shakespeare's authority, so
good news needs little advice, or rarely seeks it, for its dealing."
So saying Stephen Hopkins, straightening himself with a hand on his
stiffened side went into the house, and, taking his hat, went
immediately out of it again, with Giles. John Howland followed them into
the house, but not out of it. Instead, he seated himself, unbidden, upon
the fireside settle, and awaited their departure.
Then he produced his two letters, and offered one to Constance.
"I have brought you this, Mistress Constantia," he said, ponderously,
"at the request of the governor, but no less have I brought it because
it pleaseth me to do you a service, as I hope to do you many, even to
the greatest, in time to come."
"Thank you, John," said innocent Constance, having no idea of the
weighty meaning underlying this statement, indeed scarce hearing it,
being eager to get the letter which he held. "Oh, from Humility! It is
from Humility! Look, little Damaris, a letter from England, writ by
Humility Cooper! The _Fortune_ is safely in port, then! Come, my cosset,
and I will read you what Humility hath to tell us of her voyage, of
home, and all else! First of all shall you and I hear this: then we will
hasten to Priscilla Alden and read it to her new little daughter, for
she hath been so short a time in Plymouth that she must long for news
from across the sea, do you not say so?"
Damaris giggled in enjoyment of Constance's nonsense, which the serious
little thing never failed to enter into and to enjoy, as unplayful
people always enjoy those who can frolic. The big sister ran away, with
the smaller one clinging to her skirt, and with never a backward glance
nor thought for John Howland, meditating a great opportunity for
Constance, as he sat on the fireside settle.
"Mistress Hopkins, this is your letter," said John, completing his
errand when Constance was out of sight.
He offered Dame Eliza her letter. She looked at it and thrust it into
her pocket with such a heightened colour and distressed look that even
John Howland's preoccupation took note of it.
"This present hour seems to be an opportunity that is a leading, and I
will follow this leading, Mistress Hopkins, by your leave," John said.
"It cannot be by chance that all obstacles to plain speaking to you are
removed. I had thought first to speak to Stephen Hopkins, or perhaps to
Constantia herself, but I see that it is better to engage a woman's good
offices."
Dame Eliza frowned at him, darkly; she was in no mood for dallying, and
this preamble had a sound that she did not like.
"Good offices for what? My good offices? Why?" she snapped. "Why should
you speak to Mr. Hopkins, with whose Christian name better men than you
in this colony make less free? And still more I would know why you
should speak either first or last to Mistress Constantia? That hath a
sound that I do not like, John Howland!"
John Howland stared at her, aghast, a moment, then he said:
"It is my intent, Mistress Eliza Hopkins, to offer to wed Mistress
Constantia, and that cannot mislike you. Young though she be, and
somewhat frivolous, yet do I hope much for her from marriage with a
godly man, and I find her comely to look upon. Therefore----"
"Therefore!" cried Dame Eliza who seemed to have lost her breath for a
moment in sheer angry amazement. "Therefore you would make a fool of
yourself, had not it been done for you at your birth! Art completely a
numbskull, John Howland, that you speak as though it was a favour, and
a matter for you to weigh heavily before coming to it, that you might
make Stephen Hopkins's daughter your wife? Put the uneasiness that it
gives you as to her light-mindedness out of your thoughts, nor dwell
over-much upon her comeliness, for your own good! Comely is she, and a
rare beauty, to give her partly her due. And what is more, is she a
sweet and noble lass, graced with wit and goodness that far exceed your
knowledge; not even her father can know as I do, with half my sore
reason, her patience, her charity, her unfailing generosity to give, or
to forgive. Marry Constance, forsooth! Why, man, there is not a man in
this Plymouth settlement worthy of her latchets, nor in all England is
there one too good for her, if half good enough! Your eyes will be awry
and for ever weak from looking so high for your mate. But that you are
the veriest ninny afoot I would deal with you, John Howland, for your
impudence! Learn your place, man, and never let your conceit so run away
with you that you dare to speak as if you were hesitant as to Mr.
Hopkins's daughter to be your wife! Zounds! John, get out of my sight
lest I be tempted to take my broom and clout ye! Constance Hopkins and
you, forsooth! Oh, be gone, I tell ye! She's the pick and flower of
maidens, in Plymouth or England, or where you will!"
John Howland rose, slowly, stiffly, angry, but also ashamed, for he had
not spirit, and he felt that he had stepped beyond bounds in aspiring
to Constance since Dame Eliza with such vehemence set it before him.
Then, too, it were a strong man who could emerge unscathed from an
inundation of Dame Eliza's wrath.
"I meant no harm, Mistress," he said, awkwardly. "No harm is done, for
the maid herself knows naught of it, nor any one save the governor, and
he but a hint. Let be no ill will between us for this. I suppose, since
Mistress Constantia is not for me, I must e'en marry whom I can, and I
think I must marry Elizabeth Tilley."
"What does it matter to me who you marry?" said Dame Eliza, turning away
with sudden weariness. "It's no concern of mine, beyond the point I've
settled for good and all."
John Howland went away. After he had gone Constance came around the
house and entered by the rear door. Her eyes were full of moisture from
suppressed laughter, yet her lips were tremulous and her eyes, dewy
though they were, shone with happiness.
"Hast heard?" demanded Dame Eliza.
"I could not help it," said Constance. "I left Damaris at Priscilla's
and ran back to ask you, for Priscilla, to lend her the pattern of the
long wrapping cloak that you made for our baby when he was tiny. Pris's
baby seems cold, she thinks. And as I entered I heard John. I near died
of laughing! I had thought a lover always felt his beloved to be so
fair and fine that he scarce dared look at her! Not so John! But after
all, it is less that I am John's beloved than his careful--and doubtful
choice. But for the rest, Mistress Hopkins--Stepmother--might I call you
Mother?--what shall I say? I am ashamed, grateful but ashamed, that you
praise me so! Yet how glad I am, never can I find words to tell you. I
thought that you hated me, and it hath grieved me, for love is the air I
breathe, and without it I shrivel up from chill and suffocation! I would
that I could thank you, tell you----." Constance stopped.
The expression on Dame Eliza's face, wholly beyond her understanding,
silenced her.
"You have thanked me," Dame Eliza said. "Damaris is alive only through
you. However you love her, yet her life is her mother's debt to you.
Much, much more do I owe you, Constantia Hopkins, and none knows it
better than myself. Let be. Words are poor. There is something yet to be
done. After it you may thank me, or deny me as you will, but between us
there will be a new beginning, its shaping shall be as you will. Till
that is done which I must do, let there be no more talk between us."
Puzzled, but impressed by her stepmother's manner and manifest distress,
Constance acquiesced. It was not many days before she understood.
The people of Plymouth were summoned to a meeting at Elder William
Brewster's house. It was generally understood that something of the
nature of a court of justice, and at the same time of a religious
character was to take place. Everyone came, drawn by curiosity and the
dearth of interesting public events.
Stephen Hopkins, Giles, and Constance came, the two little children with
them, because there was no one at home to look after them. Not the least
suspicion of what they were to hear entered the mind of these three, or
it might never have been heard.
Elder Brewster, William Bradford, Edward Winslow sat in utmost gravity
at the end of the room. It crossed Stephen Hopkins's mind to wonder a
little at his exclusion from this tribunal, for it had the effect of a
tribunal, but it was only a passing thought, and instantly it was
answered.
Dame Eliza Hopkins entered the room, with Mistress Brewster, and seated
herself before the three heads of the colony.
"My brethren," said William Brewster, rising, "it hath been said on
Authority which one may not dispute that a broken and contrite heart
will not be despised. You have been called together this night for what
purpose none but my colleagues and myself knew. It is to harken to the
public acknowledgment of a grave fault, and by your hearing of a public
confession to lend your part to the wiping out of this sin, which is
surely forgiven, being repented of, yet which is thus atoned for. We
have vainly endeavoured to persuade the person thus coming before you
that this course was not necessary; since her fault affected no one but
her family, to them alone need confession be made. As she insisted upon
this course, needs must we consent to it. Dame Eliza Hopkins, we are
ready to harken to you."
He sat down, and Dame Eliza, rising, came forward. Stephen Hopkins's
face was a study, and Giles and Constance, crimson with distress, looked
appealingly at their father, but the situation was beyond his control.
"Friends, neighbours, fellow pilgrims," began Dame Eliza, manifestly in
real agony of shamed distress, yet half enjoying herself, through her
love for drama and excitement, "I am a sinner. I cannot continue in your
membership unless you know the truth, and admit me thereto. My anger, my
wicked jealousy hath persecuted the innocent children of my husband,
they whose mother died and whose place I should have tried in some
measure to make good. But at all times, and in all ways have I used them
ill, not with blows upon the body, but upon their hearts. Jealousy was
my temptation, and I yielded to it. But, not content with sharp and
cruel words, I did plot against them to turn their father from them,
especially from his son, because I wanted for my son the inheritance in
England which Stephen Hopkins hath power to distribute. I succeeded in
sowing discord between the father and Giles, but not between my husband
and his daughter. At last I used a signature which fell into my hands,
and by forwarding it to England, set in train actions before the law
which would defraud Giles Hopkins and benefit my own son. By the ship
that lately came into our harbour I received a letter, sent to me by the
governor, by the hand of John Howland, promising me success in my wicked
endeavour. My brethren, my heart is sick unto death within me.
Thankfully I say that all estrangement is past between Giles Hopkins and
his father. In that my wicked success at the beginning was foiled. While
I was doing these things against the children, Constantia Hopkins, by
her sweetness, her goodness, her devotion, without a tinge of grudging,
to her little half-sister and brother, and at last her saving of my
child's life when no help but hers was near and the child was dying
before me, hath broken my hard heart; and in slaying me--for I have died
to my old self under it--hath made me to live. Therefore I publicly
acknowledge my sin, and bid you, my fellow pilgrims, deal with me as you
see fit, neither asking for mercy, nor in any wise claiming it as my
desert."
Stephen Hopkins had bent forward, his elbows on his knees, hiding his
face in his hands. Giles stared straight before him, his brow dark red,
frowning till his face was drawn out of likeness to itself, his nether
lip held tight in his teeth.
Poor Constance hid her misery in Oceanus's breast, holding the baby
close up against her so that no one could see her face. Little Damaris,
pale and quiet, too frightened to move or fully to breathe, clutched
Constance's arm, not understanding what was going forward, but knowing
that whatever it was it distressed everyone that constituted her little
world, and suffering under this knowledge.
"My friends," Elder Brewster resumed his office, "you have heard what
Mistress Hopkins hath spoken. It is not for us to deny pardon to her.
She hath done all, and more than was required of her, in publicly
confessing her wrong. Let us take her by the hand, and let us pray that
she may live long to shed peace and joy upon the young people whom she
hath wronged, and might have wronged further, had not repentance found
her."
One by one these severely stern people of Plymouth arose and, passing
before Mistress Hopkins, took her hand, and said:
"Sister, we rejoice with you." Or some said: "Be of good consolation,
and Heaven's blessing be upon you." A few merely shook her hand and
passed on.
Before many had thus filed past, Myles Standish leaped to his feet and
cried: "Stephen, Stephen Hopkins, come! There's a wild cat somewhere!"
Stephen Hopkins went out after him, thankful to escape.
"Poor old comrade," said Captain Standish, putting his hand on the
other's shoulder. "If only good and sincere people would consider what
these scenes, which relieve their nerves, cost others! There is a wild
cat somewhere; I did not lie for thee, Stephen, but in good sooth I've
no mortal idea where it may be!"
He laughed, and Stephen Hopkins smiled. "You are a good comrade, Myles,
and we are as like as two peas in a pod. Certes, we find this Plymouth
pod tight quarters, do we not, at least at times? I've no liking for
airing private grievances in public: to my mind they belong between us
and the Lord!--but plainly my wife sees this as the right way. What
think you, Myles? Is it going to be better henceforward?" he said.
"No doubt of that, no doubt whatever," asserted Myles, positively. "And
my pet Con is the chief instrument of Dame Eliza's change of heart!
Well, to speak openly, Stephen, I did not give thy wife credit for so
much sense! Constance is sweet, and fair, and winsome enough to bring
any one to her--his!--senses. Or drive him out of them! Better times
are in store for thee, Stephen, old friend, and I am heartily thankful
for it. So, now; take your family home, and do not mind the talk of
Plymouth. For a few days they will discuss thee, thy wife, thy son, and
thy daughter, but it will not be without praise for thee, and it will be
a strange thing if Giles and I cannot stir up another event that will
turn their attention from thee before thy patience quite gives out."
Myles Standish laughed, and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder by
way of encouragement to him to face what any man, and especially a man
of his sort, must dread to face--the comments and talk of his small
world.
The Hopkins family went home in silence, Stephen Hopkins gently leading
his wife by her arm, for she was exhausted by the strain of her
emotions.
Giles and Constance, walking behind them with the children, were
thinking hard, going back in their minds to their early childhood, to
the beautiful old mansion which both remembered dimly, to the
Warwickshire cousins, to their embittered days since their stepmother
had reigned over them, and now this marvellous change in her, this
strange acknowledgment from her before everyone--_their_ every-one--of
wrong done, and greater wrong attempted and abandoned. They both shrank
from the days to come, feeling that they could not treat their
stepmother as they had done, yet still less could they come nearer to
her, as would be their duty after this, without embarrassment. Giles
went at once to his room to postpone the evil hour, but Constance could
not escape it.
She unfastened Damaris's cloak, trying to chatter to the child in her
old way, and she glanced up at her stepmother, as she knelt before
Damaris, to invite her to share their smiles. Dame Eliza was watching
her with longing that was almost fear. "Constance," she said in a low
voice. "Constance----?" She paused, extending her hands.
Constance sprang up, forgetful of embarrassment, forgetful of old
wrongs, remembering only to pity and to forgive, like the sweet girl
that she was.
"Ah, Mother, never mind! Love me now, and never mind that once you did
not!" she cried.
Dame Eliza leaned to her and kissed her cheek.
"Dear lass," she murmured, "how could I grudge thee thy father's love,
since needs must one love thee who knows thee?"