THE LOVER’S ERRAND
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 blue-birds and robins
were building
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens
of verdure,
Peaceful, 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.
To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving
and dashing,
As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel,
Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the
ocean!
“Must I relinquish it all,” he cried with
a wild lamentation,
“Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope,
the illusion?
Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped
in silence?
Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and
the shadow
Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New
England?
Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths
of corruption
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion;
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions
of Satan.
All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly!
This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in
anger,
For I have followed too much the heart’s desires
and devices,
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of
Baal.
This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift
retribution.”
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on
his errand;
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over
pebble and shallow,
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming
around him,
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful
sweetness,
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves
in their slumber.
“Puritan flowers,” he said, “and
the type of Puritan maidens,
Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla!
So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May-flower
of Plymouth,
Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will
I take them;
Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and
wither and perish,
Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.”
So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his
errand;
Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean,
Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath
of the east-wind;
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,
Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the
Psalmist,
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.
Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm-book
of Ainsworth,
Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together,
Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall
of a churchyard,
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses.
Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old
Puritan anthem,
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest,
Making the humble house and the modest apparel of
home-spun
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth
of her being!
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold
and relentless,
Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and
woe of his errand;
All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that
had vanished,
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion,
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces.
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said
it,
“Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough
look backwards;
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of
life to its fountains,
Though it pass o’er the graves of the dead and
the hearths of the living,
It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth
for ever!”
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 passage;
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, and gave her the flowers
for an answer,
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered
that day in the winter,
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from
the village,
Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that
encumbered the doorway,
Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the
house, and Priscilla
Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by
the fireside,
Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her
in the snow-storm.
Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he
spoken;
Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished!
So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers
for an answer.
Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the
beautiful Spring-time,
Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower
that sailed on the morrow.
“I have been thinking all day,” said gently
the Puritan maiden,
“Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of
the hedge-rows 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,
And, at the end of the street, the village church,
with the ivy
Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves
in the churchyard.
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 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 her 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 the 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 no 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?
That is the way with you men; you don’t understand
us, you cannot.
When you have made up your minds, after thinking of
this one and that one,
Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with
another,
Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden
avowal,
And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps,
that a woman
Does not respond at once to a love that she never
suspected,
Does not attain at a bound the height to which you
have been climbing.
This is not right nor just: for surely a woman’s
affection
Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the
asking.
When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but
shows it.
Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that
he loved me,
Even this Captain of yours—who knows?—at
last might have won me,
Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen.”
Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of
Priscilla,
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading,
expanding;
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles
in Flanders,
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer
affliction,
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain
of Plymouth;
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree
plainly
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire,
England,
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston
de Standish;
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded,
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest
a cock argent
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the
blazon.
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature;
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during
the winter
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as
woman’s;
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and
headstrong,
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable
always,
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little
of stature;
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous;
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England,
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of
Miles Standish!
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 over-running
with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, “Why don’t
you speak for yourself, John?”
