TOO LATE! TOO LATE!
The Thursday evening lecture was over, and Barbara Standish, with
her son Josias and some of the neighbors, strayed homeward along the
footpath leading from Harden Hill to the Brewster and Standish farms;
but Lora lingered with her father, who spoke of English politics with
Kenelm Winslow, who had just received a letter from his brother Edward
now at the English court.
“One moment, Captain,” said the Elder’s grave and friendly voice, as
Winslow bade good-night, and Standish turned to look after Lora who had
strayed down toward the water. “One moment before you summon the little
maid. I have letters from England”--
“And I too, God save the mark!” growled Standish, who all the evening
had worn the face of a thundercloud.
“Ill news, I fear,” said his friend gently.
“Not more ill than one who has known the world for half a century
should look for; naught more novel than falsehood, and treachery, and
covetousness, and wrong.”
“Nay, friend Myles, nay, my brother; ‘Charity suffereth long and is
kind’”--
“Suffereth long, but opens her eyes at last. However, I will not burden
you with mine own griefs, Elder; you had somewhat to say to me.”
“Yes, but I fear me ’tis in an ill-chosen time. Your spirit is much
disturbed.”
“Not so much that I cannot heed my duty, sir.”
“Nay, Myles, take not so stern a tone with your ancient friend and
constant well-wisher. I fain would touch the tender spot that well
I know lies deep within your heart. I would speak of our children,
Captain.”
“Ah! and you have heard from Rastle?”
“Yes. A long letter, the full outpouring of his heart, and still the
song has but one refrain, the story but one theme. Can you guess it,
friend?”
“Ay, I can guess it.”
“And fain would hear no more on’t?”
“I know not, Elder, I know not; of a truth my soul is vexed within me,
and shapes of wrath and bloodshed that I had thought buried with the
old life have wakened and are thundering at the gate of my will. Had I
that man here on this convenient sod, and I with Gideon in mine hand”--
The grating of strong teeth, set all unconsciously, closed the
sentence, and in the soft gray of the twilight hour the Elder examined
the face of his companion with anxious scrutiny, then sternly spoke:--
“Man! Satan is at your shoulder and whispering in your ear! I can all
but see and hear him.”
“All but!” laughed Standish. “There is no peradventure about it to me.”
“Call that pure maid to your side, and the Evil One will flee.”
“Nay. Tell me what your boy says. Haply ’tis a better time than you
could guess.”
The old man once more examined the face Standish would neither avert
nor soften, and then, unable to comprehend, yet following meekly the
intuitions that guide faithful souls in such matters, he drew from
his breast a folded sheet of the coarse rough paper Spielmann had in
England taught the men of Dartford to manufacture at a cost which would
terrify Marcus Ward to-day, and slowly unfolding it said,--
“I will read you my lad’s own words. The first page doth but tell of
his voyage and his situation in fair lodgings with Edward Winslow, who
is as a father to him, and then he goes on:--
“‘There are many fair ladies at the court who kindly notice me
as Master Winslow’s associate; but, father, you know how it is
with my heart, for I fully laid it open to you before I went
away, sore hurt by what Captain Standish said to me the day you
wot of; nor have I seen the lady of my love since that day, nor
shall I, as I think, while we two abide below. And yet, sir, her
image is more present to mine eyes than are the faces of these
dames, or even your own, though there is naught so dear to me in
this world as yourself,--that is to say, if you will bear with
my fantasy, there’s naught outside of me so dear as my father;
but Lora is within, the life of my life and essence of my being,
and how should a man say his own being is dear to him, for to
what should his own being belong save to itself and the God who
gave it? Honored father, I feel that I should crave pardon of
your dignity for thus claiming its indulgence of a lover’s fond
imaginings; but, sir, you know how since my mother’s death left me
a little lonely child, your tenderness and care have filled both a
father’s and mother’s room in my life, and to-day I speak to you
as I might to her had she been alive; and as I dream of laying
my head in her lap and feeling her hand upon my hair and her
half-remembered voice in mine ears, so now I come to you and say,
I love this maid. I love her with all the power of loving God hath
given me. I love her as Jacob did Rachel, as Isaac did Rebecca,
ay, my father, as you did my mother, and life will never reach
its fullness for me except I may mingle it with her pure life.
Father, is there no hope? Is there no seven years’ or fourteen
years’ probation that may for me pass as a few days for love of
her? Will not you speak once again to the captain for me? I know
not how she feels concerning me. When I spoke to her on that fair
eve it was like arousing a child from its dreams of heaven; she
knew not what I meant, nor how far her own heart could respond to
a love whose face and voice as yet were strange to her; but with
all her tender innocence she hath a singular aptness of mind, and
a delicate discrimination that will ere now have spoken to her
heart many a homily drawn from the text I gave her in that sweet
hour. I cannot tell, I dare not think, but something within me
dares to hope that Lora loves me. Oh, how fair those words look
set down on paper, LORA LOVES ME! Nay, father, I have spent a good
half hour in staring at those three words as if they were some new
gospel of hope. Father! I dare not ask your indulgence, and yet
I know I have it, and well do you know when I thus unveil what
some men would call my weakness to your eyes, that my reverence
never was greater or more profound; but as I writ before, ’tis to
my mother in you that I dare tell all these the deepest secrets
of my heart. And now I will say no more, lest repetition weaken
what hath already been said. But you will speak to the captain,
will you not? Tell him--nay, you shall, if you see fit and find
him in the mood, you shall show him this letter; for though
’twas written for no eyes but my father’s and mother’s, ’tis the
truth as I would speak it before God, and if all went as I would
have it, Lora’s father should be my father too,--not like you,
mine own father, but in some sort; and well do I know how dear he
loves mine own sweet maid. Mayhap that love in him will answer to
this cry of love from me, since both are fixed upon the same dear
object. But there! I will stop at this word, for should I go on
all night and all to-morrow, my pen could only trace again and
again the words it hath so often writ. I love her, I love her, I
love her!
“‘On this other slip of paper I have copied out some verses lent
me by a lady of the court, Countess of Pembroke she is called,
and a right sweet and fair dame she is; but still I must speak of
her as Sir Henry Wotton, who wrote the verses, saith to all other
ladies as compared with his sovereign lady, the English princess
whom he served after she became queen of Bohemia,--
“What’s your praise,
When Philomel her voice doth raise!”
“‘And so with my humble duty and constant affection, I am, dear
sir,
Your humble and obedient son,
WRESTLING BREWSTER.
“‘P. S. The copy of verses is meant for Mistress Lora’s own hand,
if her father makes no objection.
W. B.’”
“And here are the verses,” said the Elder, as the captain took the
letter and immediately gave it back, while conflicting emotions strove
eloquently upon his face. Then accepting the second paper, and turning
his shoulder to the failing light, he read half aloud:--
“‘Ye meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise!
“‘You curious chanters of the wood
That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays,
Thinking your meaning understood
By your weak accents, what’s your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise!
“‘Ye violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year
As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown!
“‘So when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice a queen,
Tell me, is she not one designed
The Eclipse and Glory of her kind?’”
Folding the verses, Standish held out his hand for the letter, and
placed the one carefully within the other, his deliberate movements
betraying the preoccupation of his mind; then raising his gloomy eyes
to the Elder’s face, he said,--
“Your son speaks of Rebecca. When Isaac’s ambassador asked her from her
kinsfolk they made answer, ‘We will call the damsel, and inquire at her
mouth.’ So say I to you, Elder.”
“What! if Lora consent, you will not refuse her to my son?”
“We will call the damsel, and inquire at her mouth. Oh, no, we will
not startle her again, as your son confesses that he did on that
ill-starred night. Give me the letter if you will, and I will bid her
read and ponder it through the night, and to-morrow I will come and
tell you; or no,--if it be as you wish, she shall come herself and tell
you.”
“I felt that my boy’s words must move a father’s heart,” replied the
Elder with a loving complacency, which sank abashed before the fierce
glance of the captain’s eyes, as he strode away, muttering,--
“Had not they suited my purpose, his mops and mows had been my scoff.”
Down near the edge of the bluff that finishes Harden Hill stood Lora,
leaning lightly against a birch, whose silver bark seemed some quaint
ornament of her white samite robe, like the gauzy scarf thrown around
her head and shoulders. One slender foot in its silver-buckled shoe
showed beneath the hem of her robe as if about to follow the earnest
gaze bent seaward. So profound was the maiden’s meditation that she did
not hear her father’s step, and was only roused by his sombre voice
asking,--
“Of what are you dreaming, Lora?”
“Oh! Is it time to go home, father?”
“Of what are you dreaming, child?”
“Nay, father dear, my dreams are not worth the telling.” And with a
pretty air of coaxing the girl turned and laid a hand upon her father’s
arm; but he, withdrawing a step, almost sternly persisted,--
“But yet I will know them, Lora. Tell me truly, of what or of whom were
you thinking, and why did you look so earnestly over the sea?”
“The moon is rising, father,” stammered the young girl with a piteous
attempt at unconcern. “I was looking at her.”
“’Tis not like you, my maid, to trifle and palter in your replies. Will
you tell me of what or of whom you thought?”
“Nay, father, if you insist I must obey, but mayhap you’ll be vexed at
my thought.”
“Mayhap ’tis my own thought, child. Mayhap I’ve come to wish what you
were wishing as you looked over the sea.”
“Oh, no, no, father, and no indeed!” cried Lora with a horror-stricken
look upon her face. “’Tis not your wish, and yet perhaps ’twill be
what--and it may be but mine own foolish fancy, but I was thinking,
father dear, that if the time comes soon, I would well like to lie
just here under this loving tree that seems bending to clip me in its
arms; just here, father, on this little slope, with the sea singing
lullaby at my feet, and the fair moon making a silver road from earth
to heaven, and the whispering leaves of the birch,--to lie down still
and dreamless, with this my robe of white samite folded close around my
feet, and my hair, so far too heavy now, uncoiled and unbraided, and
my two hands clasped upon my breast, and some of mother’s fair white
posies beneath them”--
“Lora! Lora! For Christ’s sweet sake, look at me! Look at me, darling,
and change that smile for one that I dare to meet! Change it for tears,
mine own, tears rather than such a smile; but no, no--see, here is
a letter, a letter full of this world’s love, and life, and a man’s
honest human longing to make my maid his wife. Wrestling wants to
marry you, my bird, my flower, my little Lora! Oh, Lora, Lora darling,
understand me, and take that awful smile from your lips! Wrestling
would marry you, and I give my full and free consent; yes, freely and
gladly, dear. See, here’s the letter, and some pretty poesy, and
such honey-sweet words,--take it, darling, and read it; or no,--’tis
gruesome here among the graves; come home to mother, and read it
sitting in her lap. Come, pussy, come! You love him, don’t you, my
lass? That’s all that ails you, isn’t it? Oh, say you love him and will
be his wife, and we’ll build you such a fair little home close beside
father’s, my poppet; and there’ll be little children by and by to call
me granddad, and make a hobby-horse of Gideon-- Nay, nay, she hears not
a word! Lora! Lora! Speak to me!”
“This letter, father! Did it come from Ras? Did he write it with his
own hand?”
“Yes, my darling. Come home and read”--
“I am reading it now, and more--and more.”
“Nay, dear, you have not opened it.” And Myles, pale and trembling,
tried to take the letter from between Lora’s folded hands. But she,
drawing away, held it firmly, and gazing fixedly out to sea murmured,--
“He loves me so! Dear lad! He loves me so, and thinks of all it may
cost him, and yet--brave Ras! brave and noble heart! She clings to
him, and he will not push her aside! Oh, poor woman, how she writhes
in her agony, and clings and clings; and now he has carried her
into the hovel and laid her down, and one says, ‘’Tis the plague,
and yon poor gentleman must die for his charity,’ and he turns away
and whispers, ‘Lora!’ Yes, darling, yes! I know now that I love
you, dear,--wait--nay, he cannot wait, but goes before, and I--will
come--yes, dear heart, I will”--
And before her father could grasp her she slid from his hands, and lay
there beneath the birch-tree, the moon shining upon her white robe, and
her face as white, and the hands clasping the letter to her breast.