Standish of Standish: A Story of the PilgrimsAustin, Jane G. (Jane Goodwin)
History
Standish of Standish: A Story of the Pilgrims
Austin, Jane G. (Jane Goodwin)
Massachusetts -- History -- New Plymouth, 1620-1691 -- Fiction
A little offended and a good deal puzzled by the change in Priscilla's
manner since their last interview, Alden devoted himself to unloading
the boat without again addressing her, until he saw her confide herself
to the arms of her brother to be taken ashore; then seizing an armful of
parcels, he strode along close behind the slender stripling whose thews
and sinews were obviously unequal to his courage, and who floundered
painfully over the uneven sands. At last he stumbled, recovered himself,
plunged wildly forward, and fell flat upon his face, while his sister,
suddenly seized and held aloft in two strong arms, did not so much as
wet the hem of her garment, until with a few swift strides her rescuer
set her on dry land and turned to help the boy who came floundering
after them with a rueful and angry countenance.
"'T was all thy fault, Priscilla," began he. "Twisting and squirming to
see who was coming after us."
"Nay, 't was the fault of some great monster who came trampling on our
heels, and making the water wash round my feet. Some whale or griffin
belike, though he has hid himself again," and the girl affected to shade
her eyes and scan the sparkling waters, while Alden strode moodily away.
Priscilla glanced after his retreating figure, and spoke again to her
brother in a voice whose cooing softness poor John had never heard.
"Thou poor dripping lad! And such a cough as thou hast already! Come
with me sweetheart, and I'll set thee between two fires, and put my
duffle cloak about thee, and heat some soup scalding hot. I would I had
a sup of strong waters for thee--ah yes, I see!"
And hurriedly leading her brother to a sheltered nook between two great
fires, she cast her cloak over his shoulders, and then sprang up the
sand-hill with the graceful strength of an antelope to the spot where
Doctor Fuller stood talking with a man whose appearance demands a word
of description. Short and square built, the figure bespoke strength and
long training in athletic exercises, while the haughty set of the head,
the well-shaped hands and feet, and the clear cut of the features told
of gentle blood and the habit of predominance. The bare head was covered
with thick chestnut hair, worn at the temples by pressure of a steel
cap, and well matched in color by eyes whose strong, stern glances
carried defeat to the hearts of his savage foes even before his quick
blows fell. The mouth, firmly closed beneath its drooping moustache, was
like the eyes, stern and terrible in anger, but like them it was
capable of a winning sweetness and charm only known to those he loved,
those he pitied, and to the life-long friends whose loving description
has come down to us; for this was Myles Standish, the soldier and hero
of the Pilgrims; their dauntless defender in battle, their gentle nurse
in illness, their councilor and envoy and shining example in peace; the
right arm of the colony, its modest commander, and its intelligent
servant.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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