CHAPTER XXXVII.
“MARY STANDISH, MY DEAR DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.”
The lime-trees have shed not only flowers but fruit, and the bees are adding to their clover and clethra honey a last deposit from latest hollyhocks and goldenrod. The apples lie in fragrant piles beneath the orchard trees, or in a less worthy heap beside the cider mill; the maize and the pumpkins gleam in merry gold, exulting over the withered foliage that in their non-age flaunted above their heads; the barns are bursting, and the cattle sleek with plenteous corn; it is the jocund time of year when Mother Earth spreads an abundant board, and calls her children to eat and give thanks to their Creator and hers.
The waters of Duxbury Bay, placid and gleaming with the hazy sunlight of the Indian summer, reflect the sails of a dozen or more boats lazily gliding in from Plymouth, from Marshfield, from Scituate, and even from Barnstable and Sandwich, for the children of the Pilgrims have not yet outgrown the family love and interest that bound their fathers in so close a tie, and the Robinsons, children of the good pastor who so loved and so cruelly misjudged our captain, have come from the Cape to the wedding of his son, bringing with them little Marcy, to whom Standish left “£3 to her whom I tenderly love for her grandfather’s sake.”
Yes, this is the wedding day of Josiah Standish and Mary Dingley, whose parents have generously consented to bring their daughter to Duxbury and let the marriage take place in her future home, as the captain has requested; and now that he has given his consent, the old man gives his heart to the plan, and sends his own boat with John Haward or Hobomok laden with invitations to the old friends whom in these latter days he has almost churlishly avoided.
“Our maid would have us show true and hearty welcome to the new sister,” he says rather wistfully to Betty, upon whom he leans pathetically for companionship and appreciation, and she confidently replies, “Yes, indeed, she would have it so.”
“The governor’s boat is coming in, father,” announces Josiah, his honest face aglow with love and pride, and the captain rather heavily descends the path, and as the boat grazes the wharf extends his hand to the stately white-haired and benignant man, who grasps it affectionately and says,—
“So here we all are once more, Captain. ’Tis a great compliment these young folk pay me, when so many other magistrates are nigh hand to them.”
“So many, ay,” replies the captain heartily. “But shake us all up in a bag, and we’ll not make one of Will Bradford, let alone that you’re governor of the Colony and my boy’s so cock-a-hoop that no less than the governor will serve his turn.”
“Says your father sooth, Josiah?” demands Bradford, turning to give his hand to the bridegroom, who presents himself with bashful manliness, or if you please with manly bashfulness, to welcome his father’s guests and receive their jocose congratulations.
“And now to business, that we may the sooner come to pleasure, for I shrewdly guess the housewife hath a crust and a cup ready for us somewhere, and so soon as we’ve settled these two young folk, we’ll look for our reward.”
So cried the captain, striving piteously after his old jocular air, as he led the way up the hill to the house, which, with doors standing hospitably open, white curtains waving from swinging casements, and groups of smiling matrons and maids standing around, presented a very festive appearance.
“You have added to your house since I was here, Captain,” remarked Bradford, pausing at the top of the bluff to regard the scene before him.
“Yes. We had to make room for the young couple, and while we were about it, I pleased myself with shaping a sort of fortalice that’s long been in my mind, and the rather that I forebode trouble with the Indians before many years. Hobomok is uneasy, and if the Dutch hanker too greedily for our roasted chestnuts they’ll like enough thrust in a red man’s paw to scratch them out.”
“Why, what hath Hobomok learned? We should know as soon as you, Captain.”
“Oh, there’s no cut-and-dried story to tell, or I would surely have carried it to you, and as it is, I shall offer some good advice to you at Plymouth; but one thing at a time, Will, and to-night we’re at a wedding and not at a council. Think you not ’t is a pretty notion of a fortified cottage?”
“Why, yes”—began the governor, but the soldier eagerly interrupted him, pointing out, with the professional pride of an engineer, how the two parallelograms of the building, so placed as to form two sides of an irregular triangle, inclosed a court or corral closed on the third side by a high stockade. Into this the livestock could be driven, and the farm utensils and other outdoor property secured, at very brief notice, while portholes, cunningly masked, commanded not only the approach to this corral, but to the only outside door of the house, placed at the junction of the two parallelograms, one of which slightly overlapped the other. Three substantial chimneys, two in the southern and one in the northern wing of the house, promised domestic comfort amid all this warlike defense, and beneath the white-curtained casements cottage flowers bravely bloomed, and tossed their heads in saucy security.
“We keep the southern front for ourselves,” remarked Myles with his grim smile. “Old folks need the sun to warm their sluggish blood, but these youngsters can make their own summer, for a while at least.”
“Nay, you’ve lent them some sunshine at the east end of their wing, and well do I hope they’ll lend you some of the summer of their joy, Myles.” So spoke the governor, looking shrewdly into the face of his old friend; but he, avoiding the glance, slightly shrugged his shoulders, muttering,—
“He who lives will see,” and led the way into the house.
The brief and bald civil service soon was said, the hearty salutes bestowed, and the sturdy handshaking over; then Governor Bradford, with an air at once paternal and courtly, led the bride to the head of the principal table, and the feast, upon which the skill of a select committee of our old friends had expended itself, began. But too many feasts have been described, and I dare not tell of the glories of this, save only of the great wedding-cake, with its choice frostwork of flowers and foliage, shaped by Betty Pabodie’s nimble fingers,—a cake to be carved with much ceremony, and amid much mirth and jubilation, by the bride’s own hand, with the gold ring hidden somewhere amid its sweets for the next bride, and the toy half of a scissors for the man doomed to be an old bachelor.
But at last all was over; the hunter’s moon, whose culmination had fixed the date of the wedding, hung glorious in heaven, shedding almost the light of day; the neighbors’ horses were saddled and pillioned, and the boats of those who came from farther afield were manned and ready; Alice Bradford, muffling herself in cloak and hood for the voyage, was changing a last word with Priscilla and Barbara, while sweet Alice Richards, her daughter-in-law, was deep in baby lore with Betty Pabodie, and the governor and the captain outside the door were by chance left for a moment quite alone. Turning by a common impulse—one of those impulses we all have felt compelling us to undreamed-of action,—they faced each other and grasped hands.
“I’m glad you came, Will,” said the captain.
“Ay, and so am I. ’Tis many a year since first we clasped hands in old Amsterdam, Myles.”
“More years than there are months between this and our last hand clasp, friend.”
“God knows—God alone knows.”
“Mind you of that other moonlight night, Will, when you and I stood by my girl’s new-made grave, and you moved me to bury my revenge with her?”
“I’ve thought of it more than once to-night, more than once.”
“He’s dead.”
“What, your cousin?”
“Yes. The man that slighted my maid. He’s dead and buried.”
“And revenge of thought as well as deed is buried with him, Myles, is it not?”
“H—m! Now, that’s a fight where I’m willing to cry craven. See you here, Will, the Lord that made me fashioned me out of mere mortal clay, and his work stands fast in spite of my good will or yours to change it. While I was a young fellow, I fought the Spaniards and the Turks; in my lustyhood, I fought the Indians and the wilderness; and now, in mine age, I fight Myles Standish and the devil; and though I’ve as good a stomach for hard knocks as most men, I feel betimes ’twill not be a sorry thing to undo harness, hang up Gideon, and lay me down to rest and sleep.”
“Not yet, old friend, not yet! We came on pilgrimage together, and we’ll march shoulder to shoulder into the holy city,—that is, if God will.”
“If God will,” echoed Standish, and as the merry throng poured out, they found the elders standing hand in hand and face to face, with the moonlight gleaming softly over them and glistening in their eyes.