Bt Forklift Spare Parts Catalogue 2019 Dvd
Bt Forklift Spare Parts Catalogue 2019 Dvd
Bt Forklift Spare Parts Catalogue 2019 Dvd
2019 DVD
To download the complete and correct content, please visit:
https://manualpost.com/download/bt-forklift-spare-parts-catalogue-2019-dvd
As the winter wore away, that second winter in Plymouth colony that
proved so hard to endure, the new state of things in the Hopkins
household continued. Constance could not understand her
stepmother. Though the long habit of a lifetime could not be at once
entirely abandoned, yet Dame Eliza scolded far less, and toward
Constance herself maintained an attitude that was far from fault-
finding. Indeed she managed to combine something like regretful
deference that was not unlike liking, with a rigid keeping of her
distance from the girl. Constance wondered what had come over
Mistress Hopkins, but she was too thankful for the peace she
enjoyed to disturb it by the least attempt to bridge the distance that
Dame Eliza had established between them.
Her father and Giles were a daily delight to Constance. The
comradeship that they had been so happy in when Giles was a child
was theirs again, increased and deepened by the understanding that
years had enabled Giles and his father to share as one man with
another. And added to that was wistful affection, as if the older man
and the younger one longed to make up by strength of love for the
wasted days when all had not been right between them.
Constance watched them together with gladness shining upon her
face. Dame Eliza also watched them, but with an expression that
Constance could not construe. Certain it was that her stepmother
was not happy, not sure of herself, as she had always been.
Oceanus was not well; he did not grow strong and rosy as did the
other Mayflower baby, Peregrine White, though Oceanus was by this
time walking and talking—a tall, thin, reed-like little baby, fashioned
not unlike the long grasses that grew on Plymouth harbour shore.
But Damaris had come back to health. She was Constance's charge;
her mother yielded her to Constance and devoted herself to the
baby, as if she had a presentiment of how brief a time she was to
keep him.
It was a cruelly hard winter; except that there was not a second
epidemic of mortal disease it was harder to the exiles than the first
winter in Plymouth.
Hunger was upon them, not for a day, a week, or a month, but
hourly and on all the days that rose and set upon the lonely little
village, encompassed by nothing kinder than reaches of marsh,
sand, and barrens that ended in forest; the monotonous sea that
moaned against their coast and separated them from food and kin;
and the winter sky that often smiled on them sunnily, it is true, but
oftener was coldly gray, or hurling upon them bleak winds and
driving snows.
From England had come on the Fortune more settlers to feed, but
no food for them. Plymouth people were hungry, but they faithfully
divided their scarcity with the new-comers and hoped that in the
spring Mr. Weston, the agent in England who had promised them the
greatest help and assured them of the liveliest interest in this heroic
venture, would send them at least a fraction of the much he had
pledged to its assistance.
So when the spring, that second spring, came in and brought a small
ship there was the greatest excitement of hope in her coming. But
all she brought was letters, and seven more passengers to consume
the food already so shortened, but not an ounce of addition to the
supplies. One letter was from Mr. Weston, filled with fair words, but
so discouraging in its smooth avoidance of actual help that Governor
Bradford dared not make its contents known, lest it should
discourage the people, already sufficiently downhearted, and with
more than enough reason to be so. There was a letter on this ship
for Constance from Humility, and Governor Bradford beckoned to
John Howland, standing near and said to him:
"Take this letter up to Mistress Constantia Hopkins, and ask her
father to come to me, if it please him. Say to him that I wish to
consult him."
"I will willingly do your bidding, Mr. Bradford," said John Howland,
accepting the letter which the governor held out to him and turning
it to see in all lights its yellowed folder and the seal thrice impressed
along its edge to insure that none other than she whose name
appeared written in a fine, running hand on the obverse side, should
first read the letter. "In fact I have long contemplated a visit to
Mistress Constantia. It hath seemed to me that Stephen Hopkins's
daughter was growing a woman and a comely woman. She is not so
grave as I would want her to be, but allowance must be made for
her youth, and her father is not so completely, nor profoundly set
free from worldliness as are our truer saints; witness the affair of the
shovelboard. But Constantia Hopkins, under the control and
obedience of a righteous man, may be worthy of his hand."
"Say you so!" exclaimed William Bradford, half amused, half
annoyed, and wondering what his quick-tempered but honoured
friend Stephen would say to this from John Howland—he who had a
justifiable pride in his honourable descent and who held no mere
man equal to his Constance, the apple of his eye. "I had not a
suspicion that you were turning over in your mind thoughts of this
nature. I would advise you to consult Mr. Hopkins before you let
them take too strong hold upon your desire. But in as far as my
errand runneth with your purpose to further your acquaintance with
the maiden, in so far I will help you, good John, for I am anxious
that Mr. Hopkins shall know as soon as possible what news the ship
hath brought. Stay; here is another letter; for Mistress Eliza Hopkins
this time. Take that, also, if you will and bid Mr. Hopkins hither."
John Howland, missing entirely the hint of warning in the governor's
voice and manner, took the two letters and went his way.
He found Stephen Hopkins at his house, planning the planting of a
garden with his son.
"I will go at once; come thou with me, Giles. It sounds like ill news, I
fear me, that hint of wishing to consult me. Somehow it seems that
as 'good wine needs no bush,' for which we have Shakespeare's
authority, so good news needs little advice, or rarely seeks it, for its
dealing."
So saying Stephen Hopkins, straightening himself with a hand on his
stiffened side went into the house, and, taking his hat, went
immediately out of it again, with Giles. John Howland followed them
into the house, but not out of it. Instead, he seated himself,
unbidden, upon the fireside settle, and awaited their departure.
Then he produced his two letters, and offered one to Constance.
"I have brought you this, Mistress Constantia," he said, ponderously,
"at the request of the governor, but no less have I brought it
because it pleaseth me to do you a service, as I hope to do you
many, even to the greatest, in time to come."
"Thank you, John," said innocent Constance, having no idea of the
weighty meaning underlying this statement, indeed scarce hearing it,
being eager to get the letter which he held. "Oh, from Humility! It is
from Humility! Look, little Damaris, a letter from England, writ by
Humility Cooper! The Fortune is safely in port, then! Come, my
cosset, and I will read you what Humility hath to tell us of her
voyage, of home, and all else! First of all shall you and I hear this:
then we will hasten to Priscilla Alden and read it to her new little
daughter, for she hath been so short a time in Plymouth that she
must long for news from across the sea, do you not say so?"
Damaris giggled in enjoyment of Constance's nonsense, which the
serious little thing never failed to enter into and to enjoy, as
unplayful people always enjoy those who can frolic. The big sister
ran away, with the smaller one clinging to her skirt, and with never a
backward glance nor thought for John Howland, meditating a great
opportunity for Constance, as he sat on the fireside settle.
"Mistress Hopkins, this is your letter," said John, completing his
errand when Constance was out of sight.
He offered Dame Eliza her letter. She looked at it and thrust it into
her pocket with such a heightened colour and distressed look that
even John Howland's preoccupation took note of it.
"This present hour seems to be an opportunity that is a leading, and
I will follow this leading, Mistress Hopkins, by your leave," John said.
"It cannot be by chance that all obstacles to plain speaking to you
are removed. I had thought first to speak to Stephen Hopkins, or
perhaps to Constantia herself, but I see that it is better to engage a
woman's good offices."
Dame Eliza frowned at him, darkly; she was in no mood for dallying,
and this preamble had a sound that she did not like.
"Good offices for what? My good offices? Why?" she snapped. "Why
should you speak to Mr. Hopkins, with whose Christian name better
men than you in this colony make less free? And still more I would
know why you should speak either first or last to Mistress
Constantia? That hath a sound that I do not like, John Howland!"
John Howland stared at her, aghast, a moment, then he said:
"It is my intent, Mistress Eliza Hopkins, to offer to wed Mistress
Constantia, and that cannot mislike you. Young though she be, and
somewhat frivolous, yet do I hope much for her from marriage with
a godly man, and I find her comely to look upon. Therefore——"
"Therefore!" cried Dame Eliza who seemed to have lost her breath
for a moment in sheer angry amazement. "Therefore you would
make a fool of yourself, had not it been done for you at your birth!
Art completely a numbskull, John Howland, that you speak as
though it was a favour, and a matter for you to weigh heavily before
coming to it, that you might make Stephen Hopkins's daughter your
wife? Put the uneasiness that it gives you as to her light-mindedness
out of your thoughts, nor dwell over-much upon her comeliness, for
your own good! Comely is she, and a rare beauty, to give her partly
her due. And what is more, is she a sweet and noble lass, graced
with wit and goodness that far exceed your knowledge; not even her
father can know as I do, with half my sore reason, her patience, her
charity, her unfailing generosity to give, or to forgive. Marry
Constance, forsooth! Why, man, there is not a man in this Plymouth
settlement worthy of her latchets, nor in all England is there one too
good for her, if half good enough! Your eyes will be awry and for
ever weak from looking so high for your mate. But that you are the
veriest ninny afoot I would deal with you, John Howland, for your
impudence! Learn your place, man, and never let your conceit so run
away with you that you dare to speak as if you were hesitant as to
Mr. Hopkins's daughter to be your wife! Zounds! John, get out of my
sight lest I be tempted to take my broom and clout ye! Constance
Hopkins and you, forsooth! Oh, be gone, I tell ye! She's the pick and
flower of maidens, in Plymouth or England, or where you will!"
John Howland rose, slowly, stiffly, angry, but also ashamed, for he
had not spirit, and he felt that he had stepped beyond bounds in
aspiring to Constance since Dame Eliza with such vehemence set it
before him. Then, too, it were a strong man who could emerge
unscathed from an inundation of Dame Eliza's wrath.
"I meant no harm, Mistress," he said, awkwardly. "No harm is done,
for the maid herself knows naught of it, nor any one save the
governor, and he but a hint. Let be no ill will between us for this. I
suppose, since Mistress Constantia is not for me, I must e'en marry
whom I can, and I think I must marry Elizabeth Tilley."
"What does it matter to me who you marry?" said Dame Eliza,
turning away with sudden weariness. "It's no concern of mine,
beyond the point I've settled for good and all."
John Howland went away. After he had gone Constance came
around the house and entered by the rear door. Her eyes were full of
moisture from suppressed laughter, yet her lips were tremulous and
her eyes, dewy though they were, shone with happiness.
"Hast heard?" demanded Dame Eliza.
"I could not help it," said Constance. "I left Damaris at Priscilla's and
ran back to ask you, for Priscilla, to lend her the pattern of the long
wrapping cloak that you made for our baby when he was tiny. Pris's
baby seems cold, she thinks. And as I entered I heard John. I near
died of laughing! I had thought a lover always felt his beloved to be
so fair and fine that he scarce dared look at her! Not so John! But
after all, it is less that I am John's beloved than his careful—and
doubtful choice. But for the rest, Mistress Hopkins—Stepmother—
might I call you Mother?—what shall I say? I am ashamed, grateful
but ashamed, that you praise me so! Yet how glad I am, never can I
find words to tell you. I thought that you hated me, and it hath
grieved me, for love is the air I breathe, and without it I shrivel up
from chill and suffocation! I would that I could thank you, tell you
——." Constance stopped.
The expression on Dame Eliza's face, wholly beyond her
understanding, silenced her.
"You have thanked me," Dame Eliza said. "Damaris is alive only
through you. However you love her, yet her life is her mother's debt
to you. Much, much more do I owe you, Constantia Hopkins, and
none knows it better than myself. Let be. Words are poor. There is
something yet to be done. After it you may thank me, or deny me as
you will, but between us there will be a new beginning, its shaping
shall be as you will. Till that is done which I must do, let there be no
more talk between us."
Puzzled, but impressed by her stepmother's manner and manifest
distress, Constance acquiesced. It was not many days before she
understood.
The people of Plymouth were summoned to a meeting at Elder
William Brewster's house. It was generally understood that
something of the nature of a court of justice, and at the same time
of a religious character was to take place. Everyone came, drawn by
curiosity and the dearth of interesting public events.
Stephen Hopkins, Giles, and Constance came, the two little children
with them, because there was no one at home to look after them.
Not the least suspicion of what they were to hear entered the mind
of these three, or it might never have been heard.
Elder Brewster, William Bradford, Edward Winslow sat in utmost
gravity at the end of the room. It crossed Stephen Hopkins's mind to
wonder a little at his exclusion from this tribunal, for it had the effect
of a tribunal, but it was only a passing thought, and instantly it was
answered.
Dame Eliza Hopkins entered the room, with Mistress Brewster, and
seated herself before the three heads of the colony.
"My brethren," said William Brewster, rising, "it hath been said on
Authority which one may not dispute that a broken and contrite
heart will not be despised. You have been called together this night
for what purpose none but my colleagues and myself knew. It is to
harken to the public acknowledgment of a grave fault, and by your
hearing of a public confession to lend your part to the wiping out of
this sin, which is surely forgiven, being repented of, yet which is thus
atoned for. We have vainly endeavoured to persuade the person thus
coming before you that this course was not necessary; since her
fault affected no one but her family, to them alone need confession
be made. As she insisted upon this course, needs must we consent
to it. Dame Eliza Hopkins, we are ready to harken to you."
He sat down, and Dame Eliza, rising, came forward. Stephen
Hopkins's face was a study, and Giles and Constance, crimson with
distress, looked appealingly at their father, but the situation was
beyond his control.
"Friends, neighbours, fellow pilgrims," began Dame Eliza, manifestly
in real agony of shamed distress, yet half enjoying herself, through
her love for drama and excitement, "I am a sinner. I cannot continue
in your membership unless you know the truth, and admit me
thereto. My anger, my wicked jealousy hath persecuted the innocent
children of my husband, they whose mother died and whose place I