The Literary World Seventh Reader Part 4

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, Clad in [v]doublet and hose, and boots of [v]Cordovan leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.

Buried in thought he seemed, with hands behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold the glittering weapons of warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,-- Cutla.s.s and corslet of steel, and his trusty [v]sword of Damascus.

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and household companion, Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion.

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower.

(Standish takes up a book and reads a moment.) Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.

"Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike weapons that hang here Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, Well, I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet.

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish Would at this moment be mold, in the grave in the Flemish mora.s.ses."

Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: "Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; He in his mercy preserved you to be our shield and our weapon!"

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: "See how bright they are burnished, as if in an a.r.s.enal hanging; That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent [v]adage; So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling Writing epistles important to go next day by the May Flower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, G.o.d willing, Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, Letters written by Alden and full of the name of Priscilla, Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla.

Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!

Finally closing his book, with a bang of its [v]ponderous cover, Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: "When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.

Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!"

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: "Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen, Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish."

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarra.s.sed, and culling his phrases: "'Tis not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla, Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth; Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of actions, Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.

Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases."

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, [v]taciturn stripling, All aghast at his words, surprised, embarra.s.sed, bewildered, Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered: "Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it; If you would have it well done--I am only repeating your maxim-- You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!"

But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth: "Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.

I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.

I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, But of a thundering No! point-blank from the mouth of a woman, That I confess I am afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!

Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!"

Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred; What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!"

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and molding the gentler, Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

II

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of [v]verdure, Peaceful, [v]aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom.

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse.

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow; Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many.

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion.

So he entered the house; and the hum of the wheel and the singing Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, Saying, "I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the pa.s.sage; For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning."

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been mingled Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, Silent before her he stood.

"I have been thinking all day," said gently the Puritan maiden, "Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedgerows of England,-- They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden; Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together.

Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion; Still my heart is so sad that I wish myself back in Old England.

You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it; I almost Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched."

Thereupon answered the youth: "Indeed I do not condemn you; Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this terrible winter.

Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on; So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth!"

Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters,-- Did not [v]embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, But came straight to the point and blurted it out like a schoolboy; Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly.

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with wonder, Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned and rendered her speechless; Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, Why does he not come himself and take trouble to woo me?

If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning!"

Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy,-- Had no time for such things;--such things! the words grating harshly, Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a flash she made answer: "Has he not time for such things, as you call it, before he is married, Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?"

Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding.

But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

With conflicting feelings of love for Priscilla and duty to his friend, Miles Standish, John Alden does not "speak for himself," but returns to Plymouth to tell Standish the result of the interview.

Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, Only smoothing a little and softening down her refusal.

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his armor Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen.

All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, E'en as a hand grenade, that scatters destruction around it.

Wildly he shouted and loud: "John Alden! you have betrayed me!

Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, betrayed me!

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother; Henceforth let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred!"

So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples.

But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians!

Straightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or parley, Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed.

Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance.

Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, Lifted his eyes to the heavens and, folding his hands as in childhood, Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret.

III.

A report comes to the settlement that Miles Standish has been killed in a fight with the Indians. John Alden, feeling that Standish's death has freed him from the need of keeping his own love for Priscilla silent, woos and wins her. At last the wedding-day arrives.

This was the wedding-morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden.

Friends were a.s.sembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the Gospel, One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven.

Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz.

Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate's presence, After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland.

Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in affection, Speaking of life and death, and imploring Divine benedictions.

Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, Clad in armor of steel, a somber and sorrowful figure!

Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?

Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder?

Is it a phantom of air,--a bodiless, spectral illusion?

Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal?

Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unwelcomed; Over its clouded eyes there had pa.s.sed at times an expression Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath them.

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention; But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benediction, Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth!

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with emotion, "Forgive me!

I have been angry and hurt,--too long have I cherished the feeling; I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank G.o.d! it is ended.

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.

Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden."