“TWO IS COMPANY, THREE IS TRUMPERY!”
And so it fell that about three o’clock that afternoon, as Sir
Christopher Gardiner and Betty Alden wandered along the southern foot
of Burying Hill, then called Fort Hill, searching under the lee of
every rock and clump of bushes for the epigæa, as often to be found by
its pure spicy fragrance as by sight of its coy clusters of pink and
white blossoms, Prissie Carpenter, a little basket in her hand, came
strolling along the brookside, rather ostentatiously bound upon the
same errand.
“Now would I like the skill of a painter fellow I knew in Holland, one
Martin Ryckaert, a man I could take by the heel and eat him body and
bones as I would a prawn; but give him his charcoal and his paints and
his canvas, and he’d picture out this scene for you as if you saw it.”
So spake Sir Christopher, who, old swashbuckler though he was,
possessed a real love of nature and a real appreciation of beauty in
whatever form it revealed itself, as he stood upright with folded arms
and looked about him, while Betty, her little fingers grimed with soil
and scratched with briers, delved amid the thickset ground pine to find
the flowers hiding there.
It was one of those early April days which redeem the character of the
froward month, and make one almost love its capricious yet prophetic
gleams better than the assured joys of June. A high wind from the
west drove before it great white cumuli, glittering like silver in
the strong sunlight, and careering across the sky and dropping down
behind Manomet as if in an illimitable game of hide-and-seek and
catch-who-catch-can. The waves, uneasy at beholding liberty they might
not have, and games they might not join, leaped as high as they could
toward that azure playground, laughed back to the sun who laughed with
them, or, breaking hoarsely upon the shore, sent up their voices of
sturdy discontent. The trees, moved by such gigantic melody to bear
their part in the grand antiphony, clashed their bare branches in a
rhythm too vast for the human ear to comprehend, while the evergreens
murmured and sobbed and whispered together, lamenting that they had not
even dried leaves to send whirling down that wondrous dance. The brook,
its icy winter shroud still clinging to the banks, rose up to assert
that life defies the shroud, and that there is a power of spring which
shall vanquish death again and again forever; and as the brown waters
went tumbling and leaping down toward the ocean which the icy shroud
can never compass, their sweet voices joined in the universal song like
children in the choir. On sheltered slopes and sunny hillsides the
grass was springing green, and though no flowers disputed the epigæa’s
precedence, the violets and anemones, the snowdrops and the Solomon’s
seal, stood with finger on lip and foot on the threshold, waiting for
courage to cross it.
Coming up the brookside in her blue skirt and mantle, a white
handkerchief tied over her hair, which in spite of it escaped in a
hundred little dancing tendrils, Prissie seemed a part of the great
sweeping harmony of sky and wind and sea and shore, and the knight,
as with his extended right arm he swept in the lines of a magnificent
imaginary landscape, felt, as his eyes first lighted upon that figure,
more as if it were the fitting centre and _motif_ of his piece than a
real personage.
“A red cloak would be better,” muttered he. “And yet no,--no,--the cold
purity of blue is more harmonious, and marries well with sky and sea,
but-- Aha, Betty, there’s your friend Mistress Carpenter!”
“Is it? Oh, yes! I’ll call her.”
“Nay, we’ll stroll that way and see the brook near at hand, and you may
search for gooseberries while I exchange a word with pretty Prissie.”
“There are no gooseberries as yet, sir,” replied Betty, bewildered; but
the knight only laughed and strode farther down the hill toward the
brook.
At that very moment Myles Standish pushed his round head and square
shoulders through the trap door leading from the interior of the Fort
to the flat roof, along the parapet of which his beloved guns were
ranged, and lightly stepped off the ladder, saying,--
“Come out hither, Wright, and I’ll show you through the perspective
glass the beginnings of my new house. Ha! Does not the hill show fairly
against the sky?”
“The Captain’s Hill, all men call it,” said William Wright, carefully
coming out upon the roof, and shading his eyes with his hand as
he looked across the water to the bold eminence, tree-crowned and
majestic, upon whose skirts Standish had already erected a summer
cottage soon to be solidified into a dwelling.
“I know they do,” replied his companion absently, while he adjusted
the clumsy glass solemnly deposited in his charge by the chiefs of the
colony. “But I better like to call it Duxbury, for it minds me of
hills I knew of old.”
“I know no hills called Duxbury in England,” objected Wright cautiously.
“Nay, the hills are called Pennine, but the place where I first saw
them is in the manor of Duxbury. Ha! look you here, Wright, here’s
matter close at hand more nearly concerning us than the Pennine hills.
See you yonder?”
“’Tis Mistress Carpenter and--and the man Gardiner,” stammered Wright,
staring down into the valley at his feet.
“Ay, and little Betty Alden picking posies so far away that she might
as well be at home. Mind you, now, my friend, how close the rascal
walks to the maiden’s side, and how those hawk’s eyen of his stare into
her fair face; and by my faith, he’s grasping her hand and she, poor
maid, knows not how to pull it away!”
“She might an’ she would,” muttered William Wright jealously.
“Oh, I know not, I know not,” retorted Myles, teasing him. “She’s but a
withy lass, and mayhap afraid of him. Is it true she’s troth-plight to
you, Wright?”
“Yes--that is no; she never would give her promise sure and fast, but I
had hoped”--
“Then, man, if you will be said by my advice, you’ll make down to the
brook at best speed and secure that faltering hope before it is floated
away like the flowers the silly maid is stripping off and flinging into
the brook, not knowing what she’s about. Go down, Wright, and claim
your own.”
“Nay, Captain,” returned Wright, whose thin face had grown tallow-pale,
and whose thin lips refused to take moisture from a tongue almost as
dry. “If Mistress Carpenter finds her pleasure in such company and
such folly I’ll not trouble her with mine. No, I’m not for a young
gentlewoman who brings such manners and such morals from the wicked
courts of kings.”
“Come, come, Wright, I’ll not listen to your light-lying of Mistress
Bradford’s sister. ’Tis a good girl as ever stepped and a pure maid as
lives in Plymouth, but she’s young, man, a score of years younger than
you, and doubtless she’s known the man in England, and they’ve met by
chance, and he is parley-vooing after the fashion of his kind, and she
knows not how to be rid of him. Come, go you down, man! Or go with me,
if it suits you better.”
“No, Captain, I’ll not go.” And the stubborn face hardened in the
utterly discouraging way some faces can. “But I’ll ask this much of
your kindness, friend: go you and meet them, and find out, as you
so well can do, what is the meaning and the intent of it all; and
especially tell me if you as an honest man will say to me that this
maid is such a maid as a cautious, God-fearing man may crave for his
wife. I will trust to your discretion rather than to mine own fears,
Standish.”
“Well, man, I’ll try to warrant your trust,” replied the captain,
laughing a little, “although I do not feel it in myself to be the judge
in a Court of Love such as they hold in France and those parts. But
you may be sure I’ll deal fairly both by you and the maid. Come after
sunset and I’ll tell you how I have fared.”
“Nay, Pris, sweet Pris, ’tis such a pretty name I fain would dwell on’t
since I may not take sweeter dews upon my lips, believe me, fairest,
I have forgot nothing of that fair memory; all I then said I say now
and again and again! I came to New England for naught but to find thee
once more, and to woo thee for mine own dear wife and lady paramount so
long”--
But upon the smooth and dulcet tones of the knight suddenly intruded a
strident and mocking voice:--
“Good-e’en to you, Mistress Prissie; so you are looking for mayflowers
already?”
“Ah! Oh, Captain Standish, how you startled me! I knew not you were
here.”
“Nay, I’m grieved to have startled you, mistress, but why should not
I take my walks abroad and look for mayflowers as well as you, or at
least as well as this gentleman, whose walks in life have not always
led him in such pleasant paths, more than mine own. How say you, Sir
Christopher? We did not gather posies much in those stirring days among
the Turks wherein I first met your knightship.”
“I do not remember meeting you, Captain Standish, before I came to New
England,” replied the knight coldly.
“No? Well, you are an older man than I, and your memory more laden, so
like enough a little matter may well slip out of it. But when I saw you
there at Passonagessit t’other day I was sure ’twas not the first time.
And how is the fair lady we saw with you? Your wife, is she not?”
“No, sir, she is not my wife!” thundered Sir Christopher, and the
captain’s face assumed an expression of dismay and embarrassment.
“Not your wife!” echoed he. “Nay, nay; if I’d known that, I would not
have named her in presence of this modest gentlewoman. But how is
it, then, that she spake of you as her lord? Nay, I’ll not push the
matter, sith I see ’tis an over-delicate matter. Wow! this wind cuts
through one’s blood. Mistress Prissie, I much fear me you’ll catch a
megrim if you linger longer by the brookside, and Betty, ’tis high time
thou wert helping thy mother with the supper; run home, little maids,
and Sir Christopher, I’ll show you something more to your taste than
spring flowers and young lassies. Come up to the Fort and help me fire
the sunset gun.”
Sir Christopher’s face was very dark, and possibly enough the captain
had not so easily taken his captive, but that Prissie Carpenter,
ashamed and terrified at the meaning she suspected under the captain’s
debonair look and voice, had already fled toward the village, followed
by Betty with a basket full of flowers, but a conscience full of thorns.
Seeing that resistance had thus become useless, the knight gloomily
accepted his defeat, and clomb the hill beside the captain, whose
jovial manner suddenly dropped into silence, nor did he speak until
the two men stood upon the roof of the Fort. Then, while the sun,
disdaining the mantle of gold and purple officiously presented by the
western clouds, sank in undimmed glory to the horizon, and resting
there an instant seemed to view once more the fair domain he now must
abandon, Standish, his lighted match in one hand, laid a finger of the
other upon his companion’s breast.
“Sir Christopher Gardiner,” said he, “we breed no Mary Groves in these
parts, and yon young gentlewoman is the sister of our governor, and the
promised wife of one of our worthiest citizens. ’Twould go hard with
the man that trifled with her, and well do I hope no more hath been
said than is soon forgotten and will leave no blot behind.”
“Since when hath Myles Standish added the duty of father confessor to
his other cares?” demanded Gardiner with a sneer.
“Ask rather, what sin hath he committed so notable as to call for the
penance of listening to thy confession, my son?” retorted the captain
good-humoredly. “Nay, man, take my hint in good part, as indeed ’tis
meant. This maid is not for thy fooling, and thine own affairs are
like to give thee trouble enough without mixing and moiling them
further. Ha! the sun is going”-- Puff! and the dull boom of heavy metal
resounded across the quiet town, and startled the eagle circling above
his nest on Captain’s Hill.
Then the two men went silently down the hill, and whatever may have
been the knight’s secret resolves of virtue, he never again found the
opportunity to test them.
“Now, Betty,” said her mother, as the family rose from that meal we
call tea, but they named supper, “I will put the babies to bed, and
then step up the hill to Mistress Standish’s to see little Lora, who is
worse of her measles to-night, and thou wash up the dishes and redd the
kitchen, and then go to bed like a good little lass. I’ll take in the
gentleman’s supper, and ask what he fancies for his breakfast. John,
you’ll find me at the captain’s when ’tis time for lecture.”
“Ay, dame; and meantime I’ll smoke a quiet pipe here with Betty and dry
my wet feet.”
But hardly had the mother disappeared when John Alden felt two tender
arms about his neck, and heard a broken whisper,--
“Oh, father! I’m so sorry!”
“What! Betty, child, is’t thou? And crying! Nay, then, little woman,
what is it all about? Come sit on father’s knee and tell him thy
trouble. What makes thee sorry, my little maid?”
“I--don’t--know--father.”
“Don’t know! Nay, how canst thou be sorry and not know why? That’s
naught but foolishness, Betty.”
“Please, father, will you speak to mother, and not have me carry the
gentleman’s sarver into the fore-room, nor make his bed any more?”
“What! what!” exclaimed Alden, pushing the child back until he could
look into her wet and troubled face. “Nay, then, Betty, I ’ll have the
truth of thee; has the man been rude to thee, or said a word amiss?”
“I--oh, don’t look so angry, father; you frighten me.”
“But I will be answered, Betty! Why dost thou fear to go into this
man’s room? What has he said to thee?”
“He’s said naught but kindness, father; he never spoke a cross word,
not one. What should he scold _me_ about?”
And the innocent wonder of the sweet face filled the man with fear lest
his child might have understood him. Yet still with his own persistence
he asked,--
“But why dost thou not want to take him his victual, poppet?”
“I may not tell you, daddy dear, because I promised sure and fast I
would not tell, but I’d rather he asked mother or you”--
“Asked us what, child?”
“To help him-- Nay, father, please do not ask me, for I promised I
would tell nobody, and he said they’d cut off his ears and burn his
cheeks”--
“Tut, tut, he’s been scaring thee, thou silly little maid, and I doubt
not asking thee to help him escape. Now isn’t that the great secret?”
“No, daddy--that is, perhaps he thought Pris would help him escape”--
“Pris? Why, what has she to do with this man, or thou with either of
them?”
“Mother’s coming, and I don’t want to tell her, for she’d chide me so
sharply if I did not give up the secret, and I promised, father dear, I
promised, and you said I ought to die rather than tell a willful lie.”
“And so I did. Well, I’ll think on’t; go back to thy dishes now.”
And as Priscilla bustled into the room and hastily put on her outdoor
gear she noticed neither how grave her husband looked, nor how little
progress Betty had made with the dishes.
A little later, as John Alden brought his wife home from the lecture,
he said,--
“William Wright was telling me that he saw Prissie Carpenter and our
Betty with Sir Christopher Gardiner by the brook picking posies this
afternoon.”
“Why ’twas you that bade me send Betty out with him!” exclaimed
Priscilla, forestalling the objection in her husband’s voice.
“I know it, and I’d better have left the matter to you, wife. It was
ill thought on, and we’ll not have our little maid called in question
if the man is plotting an escape”--
“Talking with Pris Carpenter, was he?” interrupted Priscilla sharply.
“Yes”--
“Then it wasn’t escape he was talking of, but his own captivity to her
charms. She knew him in England, John; she told me so, and showed me a
token he gave her. Mayhap he’s come to marry her!”
“And the woman Mary Grove, what make you of that, wife?”
“Oh, a body must have charity, and many a mare’s nest is naught but a
tangle in the hedge. We’ll see.”
“Ay, but we’ll not have our Betty mixed in with any such matter,
Priscilla, and I pray thee keep her away from this man while he is in
our house. Do not send her to the fore-room again; one of the boys can
carry in the sarver, or I will do’t myself, but Betty is not to go in
thither again.”
“As thou sayest, John,” replied Priscilla with a meekness reserved for
the rare occasions when her husband chose to assert his authority;
so thus it came about that not again during the week he remained at
Plymouth did Sir Christopher Gardiner find speech with the child, who
never to her dying day revealed the secret she had promised to keep,
and never quite comforted herself for the duplicity into which she had
been led.