SECOND MARRIAGES.
Doubtless the Indians lurking in the woods of Watson's Hill had watched
with wonder and alarm the process of mounting and securing the ordnance
of the Fort, itself a novel structure in their eyes, and wisely
concluded to consider the question of peace or war a little further
before bringing it to an open issue. At any rate, they were no more seen
at present, and the colonists wasted no time in pursuing them, but as
the ground dried and warmed hastened to put in such grain and garden
seeds as they had provided, and to lay out the little plots of ground
attached to each house. Among the other crops was one whose harvest no
man, woman, or child of that well-nigh famished company would have
eaten, a crop of wheat whose ripened seeds were allowed to fall as they
would, to sink again into the earth, or to feed the birds of heaven, for
it was sown above the leveled graves of that half the Pilgrims who in
the first four months found the city that they sought. So numerous and
so prominent upon the bold bluff of Cole's Hill were these graves
becoming, that Standish, overlooking the town from the Fort and his home
close beneath its walls, pointed out to Carver and Bradford that the
savages, doubtless as keen-eyed as himself, would in seeing how many of
the invaders were under ground find courage to attack those still
living, and it was his proposal that the earth should be leveled and
planted.
"To what crop?" asked Bradford.
"It matters not," replied Standish a little impatiently. "No man will
care to eat of it, knowing what lies beneath."
"'Thou sowest not that body that shall be, but bare grain, it may chance
of wheat or of some other grain, but God giveth it a body,'" quoted
Carver in a low voice, and Standish reverently answered,--
"Ay. Let it be wheat, since that is Paul's order."
But that night as the sun was setting behind the gloomy evergreen forest
closing the western horizon, the captain, avoiding his comrades, went
quietly up the hill to the Fort, and thence made a circuit northward and
eastward so as to come out upon the bluff of Cole's Hill. Passing among
the graves with careful feet he presently stood beside one, mounded and
shaped with care, and protected by willow rods bent over it and into the
ground at either side. Recently cut, these boughs yet bore their pretty
catkins, and the leaves which had already started seemed inclined to
persist in life and growth.
Removing his buff-cap and folding his arms Standish stood long beside
this grave, silent and almost stern of look, but his heart eloquent with
that deep and inarticulate language in which great souls commune with
God, and with those mysteries of life so far transcending man's
comprehension or powers of definition.
At last he gently pulled up the ends of the willow rods at one side, and
passing round to the other would have done the same, but seeing how
fresh and green they looked held his hand.
"They would grow an' I left them," muttered he; but then with a mournful
gesture added in the same tone, "Nay, then, what need. I shall know
where thou liest, Rose, and"--
Not ungently he drew the twigs from the earth, and stood holding them in
his hand as a voice behind him said,--
"Ay, brother, we must say good-by even to the graves we have loved.
Stern necessity is our master."
Standish, ill pleased at the interruption, turned a dark face upon the
new-comer.
"And yet I have heard, Master Winslow, that thou art already speaking of
marriage with Mistress White. Is stern necessity master there also?"
"Yes, Standish," replied Winslow frowning a little and speaking more
coldly than at first. "You may see it for yourself. Here are we, a scant
threescore souls, not one score grown men, come to people a savage land
and make terms with hordes of savage inhabitants. Is it not the
clearest, ay, sternest necessity that those of us who are unwived, to
our sorrow though it be, should take the women who remain, be they maids
or widows, in honorable wedlock, and rear up children to fill our places
when we are gone? Have we a right, man, to follow our own fantasies and
mourn and mourn like cushat doves over the graves of our lost mates
while the women we ought to cherish struggle on uncared for?"
"Hast put the matter in this light to William White's widow?" asked
Standish sarcastically.
"Nay," returned Winslow with his usual calm. "Words that suit men are
not always for women's ears. What I may say to Susanna White is not of
necessity the business of the Council"--
"Any more than my errand here to-night," retorted Standish, the spark
kindling in his brown eyes.
"Softly, brother, softly," replied Winslow in his measured tones, and
laying a finger upon the other's arm. "It would ill befit us two to
quarrel here between thy wife's grave and mine. We are brethren, and if
I said aught that mispleased thee I am right sorry"--
"Nay, then, 't is I was hasty," interrupted Standish. "Surely thy
marriage is thine own affair, not mine, and I wish you godspeed with all
my heart."
"And yet, brother, I am not all content lacking thine approval, for
there is neither head nor heart in the colony more honorable than
thine."
"'He who praises thee to the face is a false friend; the true one
reproveth thee,'" quoted Standish with his peculiar grim smile.
"And am not I reproving thee for thy selfish disregard of the common
weal?" persisted Winslow, his own smile a little forced. "Nay, then,
must I bewray confidence and tell thee that one who knows assures me
that Priscilla Molines would not say thee nay wert thou to ask her?"
"Pst! What folly art thou at now, Master Winslow? This is no more than
woman's gossip. Some of thy new love's havers, I'll be bound."
"Did not William Molines send to seek speech with thee the night he
died?" asked Winslow fixing his keen eyes upon the soldier's perturbed
face.
"Ay, but it was he and I alone."
"Well, then, he had taken counsel first with a godly matron, in whose
judgment he trusted."
"Mistress White?"
"Ay."
"I would I had known it that day." And with no farther good-by the
Captain turned and strode down the hill ill pleased.
The next day rose warm and misty. The veiled sun seemed smiling behind
the soft vapors, and the earth throbbing with the sweet hopes of spring
smiled back at him. The leaves of willow, and alder, and birch, and
maple, and elm, uncurled their delicate fronds and shyly held out hands
of welcome to the south wind; the birds sang clear and sweet in the
woods, and the delicate springs of sweet water answered back with
rippling laughter and joyous dance.
"A goodly scene, a veritable garden of the Lord," said William Bradford
standing outside the elder's door, and gazing down upon the valley of
Town Brook, and across at the wood-covered hillside beyond. Standish,
whom he addressed, was just coming out of the house, after his
breakfast, and without reply laid his hand upon the younger man's arm
and led him up the hill.
"Whither bound this fair morning my Captain?" asked Bradford, in whose
blood the brave morning air worked like wine.
"First to fetch my snaphance, and then I will have thee into the wood
for a stroll to enjoy thy fine day, and to hold counsel with thy
friend."
"And that is ever to mine own advantage," replied Bradford with
affectionate honesty. Standish glanced at him with the rare sweetness
sometimes lighting the rigor of his soldierly face, and as they had
reached the door of the cabin nestled beneath the Fort, where John Alden
and his friend abode, Standish entered, leaving the future governor to
feast his eyes upon the wider view outspread at his feet. Climbing still
further to the platform of the Fort, he stood lost in reverie, his eyes
fixed upon the lonely Mayflower, sole occupant of the harbor, as she
clumsily rode at anchor tossing upon the flood tide.
"We shall miss the crazy craft when she is gone," said Standish
rejoining him.
"Ay. She is the last bit of Old England," replied Bradford, musingly.
For a few moments the two men stood intently gazing upon the vessel,
each heart busy with its own thoughts, then, as by a common impulse
turned, descending the side of the hill toward the lower spring, and
passed into the forest.
"What is thy matter for counsel, friend?" asked Bradford finding that
Standish strode on in what seemed gloomy silence.
"Yon ship."
"The Mayflower?"
"What other? She brought a hundred souls to these shores some six months
agone."
"Ay, and now we are fifty."
"Fifty alive, and fifty under the sea, or on yon headland where to-day
we level the mounds over their poor bodies and plant wheat to cheat the
salvages."
"'T is too true, good friend, and well I wot that the delight of thine
eyes lies buried there"--
"And thine beneath the waters of our first harbor," interrupted Standish
harshly, for the proud, tender heart could not bear even so light a
touch.
"Yes," replied Bradford briefly, and over his face passed a cloud
blotting out all the boyish enjoyment of scene and hour that had
enlivened its ordinarily thoughtful features. Was Dorothy May indeed the
delight of his eyes and heart?
"Yes, we two men came hither husbands, and to-day we stand as widowers,
and 't is in that matter I seek counsel," exclaimed Standish suddenly
as he turned to face his friend. "Last night, Master Winslow standing
between the graves of his wife and mine, read me a lecture upon the duty
unwived men owe to the community. He says it is naught but selfishness
to let our private griefs rule our lives, that we are bound to seek new
mates and raise up children to carry on the work we have begun. Nor can
we doubt his own patriotism, or the honesty of his counsels, for already
he has spoken to the widow of William White, and his own wife but six
weeks under ground."
"Yes, I know--they will be wed shortly," replied Bradford a little
embarrassed. Standish eyed him keenly.
"And thou art of his mind, and mayhap thine own new mate is already
bespoken?" demanded he in angry surprise.
"Nay, Standish, thou 'rt not reasonable to quarrel with another man's
conscience so that it thwarts not thine," replied Bradford patiently,
although the color rose to his cheek as he felt the scorn of his
comrade's voice. "Neither Winslow nor I would do aught that we could not
answer for to God, and have not we come to this wilderness that we might
be free to serve Him only, in matters of conscience?"
"I meant not to forget courtesy, nay, nor friendship neither, Bradford;
but my speech is ever hasty and none too smooth. So thou wilt marry,
anon?"
"I'll tell thee friend, and thou 'rt the first I've told. There is a
lady in the old country"--
"Which old country? The Netherlands or England?"
"She is in England now, or was when we set forth. Thou must have seen
her, Standish,--Alice Carpenter, who wedded Edward Southworth in
Amsterdam."
"Oh, ay. A goodly crop of daughters had Father Carpenter, and not one
hung on hand so soon as she was marriageable. Truly, I remember Mistress
Southworth well, a fair and discreet dame. And she was left a widow not
many days before we left England, if I mistake not."
"Ay. One little week."
"And didst thou woo her as in the play I saw when last I was in London,
King Richard wooed the widow of him he had slain, following her
husband's corse to the grave? Nay then, nay then, man, I meant it not
awry. But to ask a woman within one week of her widowhood, and thou
still wived"--
"Nay, nay, nay, Myles, thou 'rt all aglee and I doubt me if I had not
better kept mine own counsel. I have not looked upon Alice Carpenter's
face nor heard her voice since she was Southworth's wife."
"Oh, ay--I see, I see--'t is an old flame and thou 'rt of mind to try to
kindle it once more. You were sweethearts of old, eh, lad?"
"Something so,--though I meant not to say so much, and now must leave
the secret in thine honor, Captain."
"Dost doubt the ward, Bradford?"
"Nay. I trust thee as myself, and thou knowest it. Why must thou ever be
so hot, Myles? Yes, when Master Carpenter and his fair troop of
daughters came to Leyden it was not long until I saw that Alice was both
fairest and sweetest of them all; but thou knowest the fight we had for
bread, winning it by strange and unaccustomed labors: I, who knew naught
but my books, and something of husbandry, becoming a weaver of baize;
Brewster a ribbon weaver, Tilley a silk worker, Cushman a wool comber,
Eaton a carpenter, and so on; well, goodman Carpenter was loth to trust
his maid to such scant living as I could offer, nor would he let us even
call ourselves troth-plight; and Alice, the gentle, timid maid that she
was, yielded all to her father's will, and I, in the naughty pride of a
young man's heart, was angered that she would not promise to hold
herself against all importunities, and we quarreled, or forsooth I
should say I quarreled, and flung away, and I knew Dorothy May and her
kin, and she, poor soul, was ready to wed as her father willed"--
"Enough Will, enough; it is not good to put all that is in one's heart
into words. I see the whole story. And now thou 'lt write to Mistress
Southworth and ask her to come out with the residue of our company, and
become thy wife?"
"Ay, dear friend, that is my plan," said Bradford, wringing the hand
Standish extended, and turning his flushed face aside.
"And why not?" asked Myles heartily. "'T is no new affair, no hasty
furnishing forth of a marriage feast with the cold vivers of the funeral
tables, as yon fellow said in the play. 'T is marvelous like one of
those old romaunts my kinswoman Barbara used to tell over to me and the
dear lass that's gone. There now--and thou hadst not this matter in
hand, I'd wive thee to Barbara Standish--'t is the best wench alive, I
do believe, and full of quip, and crank as a jest book."
"Thy cousin?" asked Bradford rather absently.
"Ay, but I know not just how nigh. Her father held for his lifetime a
little place of ours on the Isle of Man, and I, trying to find an old
record that should give me a fair estate feloniously held from me now,
went over there once and again, and so met Rose, and went yet again and
again, until we two wed, and I carried her away to my friends in the
Netherlands."
"And is thy cousin wed?"
"Nay, did not I say I'd like to give her to thee to wife? But barring
that, I'll send for her to come with the next company, perchance under
charge of thy sober widow, Will, and I'll marry her to one of these our
good friends here. So if I do not marry myself, for the weal of the
community as Winslow says, I shall purvey for some one of them a wife
and mother of children in my stead."
"'T is well thought on, Captain," replied Bradford laughing, "and I can
promise that if Mistress Southworth makes the voyage she will gladly
take charge of thy cousin, for whom we will choose a husband of our
best. But why wilt not thou marry again, thyself? Was not that in thy
mind in speaking of counsel?"
"Ay--nay--in good sooth I know not, lad. I fain would know thine own
intentions, and I have them, but for myself--truth to tell, I care not
to wed again. I lived many years with only my good sword here as
sweetheart and comrade, and I was well stead, and--none can make good
the treasure late found and soon lost--but yet--come now, Will,
confidence for confidence, I'll tell thee somewhat"--
"Touching fair Mistress Priscilla?" asked Bradford with a smile of quiet
humor.
"Aha!" exclaimed Standish, a swarthy color mounting to his cheek. "'T is
common talk, then!"
"Well, I know not--certes I have heard it spoken on more than once, but
to say 'common talk'--we who are left alive are so few and so bound
together that 't is no more than a family, and the weal of each is
common to all."
"But what hast thou heard, in very truth?"
"Why, naught, except that Priscilla hath a sort of kindness for thee,
and thou hast, in a way, made her affairs thine own, and so 't was
naught but likely"--
"Ay, ay, I see, I ever had but an ill idea of great families, having
been born into one myself,--as thou sayest, the affairs of one are the
gossip of all."
"Nay, I said"--
"Pst, man, I know what thou saidst, and what I think, so hold thy peace.
Nay, then, this idle prating hath a certain foundation, as smoke aye
shows some little fire beneath, and I'll tell it thee. When William
Molines lay a-dying his mind was sore distraught at leaving his poor,
motherless maid alone, for his son Joseph had gone before him, so he
sent for me to watch with him that night, and somewhere in the small
hours we thought his time had come, and he besought me to promise that I
would take the maid under my keeping and not let her come to want. He
said naught of marriage, nor did I, for my wife was but then at rest,
and such speech would have been unseemly for him and hateful to me. I
took his words as they were spoken, and I gave my promise, and so far as
there was need I have kept it, and seen that the maid was housed and fed
and looked after by Mistress Brewster, but more, I thought not on."
"Master Molines was a discreet and careful man and seldom told out all
his thought," said Bradford astutely. "Methinks he counted upon 'the way
of a man with a maid,' and left it to thee to find out the most perfect
plan of caring for a young gentlewoman."
"Dost think so, Will? Dost think he meant me to take her to wife? Dost
think she so considers it?" and Myles snatching off his barret-cap
pushed up the hair from his suddenly heated and burning forehead.
Bradford looked at him with his peculiar smile of subtle humor and
shrewd kindliness.
"Why, Myles, thou lookst fairly frightened! Thou who never counted the
foe, or thought twice ere leading a forlorn hope, or asked quarter of
Turk or Spaniard"--
"Nay, nay, nay, Will, spare thy gibes! Here is a moil, here is an
ambushment! Here am I, going fair and softly on mine own way, and of a
sudden the trap is sprung, and Honor starts up and cries, 'There's but
one way out of it, take it, willy-nilly!' If the maid is of her father's
mind I am bound to her."
"I think she would not say thee nay," said Bradford demurely.
"Thou hast no right to avow that, Will, and I were but a sorry knave to
believe it. A lady's yea-say is an honor to any man, and he who receives
it must do so in all reverence. No man hath a right to fancy or to say
that a modest maid is ready with yea or nay before she is asked."
"Thou art right, and I wrong, Myles, and in truth I know naught of
Mistress Priscilla's mind."
"But I will, and that ere many days are past. Thou hast done me a good
turn, Will, in showing me where I stand. I dreamed not that Molines
was--well,--he died peacefully and I will not disturb his rest. Yes, I
will but wait until the Mayflower is gone and my cabin weather-tight,
and the garden sown, and then I will speak with Priscilla. If Barbara
comes she'll be rare good company for both of us."
Again Bradford smiled very quietly, and the two men walked on in
silence.