“We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.”
sang a poet, and so it was with Anne. Mortified pride and love of
flattery were washed away in copious tears, and then the stings of
remorseful conscience completed the good work. Her vanity crumbled
into ashes, leaving only scars upon her heart, which was really pure
and good at bottom.
At the end of that long week—made up as it seemed to Anne of hundreds
of years—Mrs. Forrest came into the room, carefully shielding the
lighted candle with her hand against the draft. Placing the candle
upon the chest of drawers, she sat down beside the girl, huddled up
in a chair with her face bowed upon her knees.
“I brought you away from your mother, Anne, and the responsibility of
your welfare lies heavy upon my heart. Your conduct since coming here
has grieved me sorely, but I still believe you are a good girl, and
I hope this affair will be a lesson to you. If you live long enough,
my child, you will learn that the love of a good man, no matter how
humble his station, is of priceless value. It is no more to be
compared to the idle words of a brainless fop than a diamond is to a
bit of glass,” she continued, waxing eloquent as her emotions arose.
“Come now, my child, is not your heart sore when you think of your
mother?”
“Oh, more than I can tell you,” cried Anne, throwing herself on her
knees and burying her face in her mistress’s lap. “Indeed I did not
mean to do wrong, I was only thoughtless.”
“I believe you, Anne,” replied Mrs. Forrest, smoothing the girl’s
disheveled curls, “and in the future I know you will be all that John
Laydon could desire.”
“He will never forgive me, he is so proud,” sobbed Anne.
“Compel his admiration by your conduct, and love will have its way
again. True love, my child, forgives many a deep wound inflicted by
the hand of those that are dearest. Now you must go to bed, and let
this coming Sunday be the beginning of your new life.” And then the
repentant maiden, soothed and comforted, was tucked into bed by the
kindly ministrations of a heart that understood and pitied.
In the days that followed, a changed Anne could be seen going about
her household duties. Her sad face and down-cast eyes tugged
strongly at the heartstrings of the now recovered John as he sat
among the men in church.
He tried to steel his heart against her. “No,” he said to himself,
“I am not going to be fooled by her again. She can go her way, and I
will go mine.”
Nevertheless, his eyes constantly wandered over to where she sat with
bent head over her prayer-book.
At the close of the morning prayer, good Chaplain Hunt stood
forth, and in simple words told the touching story of the love and
forgiveness of the Incarnate God, and then went on to speak of
charity, the love that covers all things.
Two large tears rolled down Anne’s cheeks as she listened. The
shining drops caught the wandering eye of John, and for some reason
he found it hard to swallow the lump in his throat. “All sham, done
for effect!” he angrily muttered.
Coming out of church, he was joined by Adam Clotworthy. “Look here,
John, haven’t you punished that poor girl long enough? You haven’t
spoken to her since August, and now ’tis the first of October. If you
do not do something soon, I’ll marry her myself.”
“A pretty bridegroom you would make, with a body like a hogshead set
on skewers!”
“That makes no difference when a girl comes to her senses as Anne
has. She knows now how to value an honest man’s affections. His looks
play but a small part. I saw her looking at you when we were coming
out, and if you could have seen that look you would go straight to
her, unless you have a block of stone for a heart.”
John had seen the look, but he did not enlighten Adam.
After the midday meal, John, too restless to stay indoors, strolled
forth into the hazy sunshine, trying to still the hungry longing at
his heart.
Back of Mrs. Forrest’s cabin a drooping elm threw its shadow over
the brown grass and plumy golden-rod beneath. On a little cushion of
rootlets sat Anne, resting her cheek on her hand and gazing away over
the James. She was so deeply absorbed in thought, that the crackling
of dried twigs under John’s feet did not disturb her.
“Anne, are you sorry?”
With a start she looked up at him. No answer came from her lips.
Lower and lower bent her head over her hands as she twisted and
untwisted her fingers in an effort at self-control. The sunshine,
shimmering through the trees, sought out the gold in the chestnut
curls escaping from beneath her cap.
“You have not answered me, Anne.”
Sob after sob shook her little body, but no words came. The sight
was too much for John, who had all a man’s horror of tears. Sitting
down beside her, he took one of her little hands in his; it no longer
resisted his pressure.
“Will the words not come? Then, little one, if you really care, put
your head here on my heart.”
With an impulsive movement Anne buried her head in his breast,
and as she wept away the follies of childhood, her woman’s heart
acknowledged its love.
“How long are you going to keep me waiting, Anne?”
“Whenever you want me, John, I will come.”
“I want you now, my little one. And, Anne, I will try to give you all
the pretty things I can get by honest toil.”
“Don’t, John; don’t. I do not want them,” she cried, her heart stung
by his loving words. “I only want you, John; I desire nothing else.”
“Tom,” cried Mrs. Forrest to her husband, “come here quickly. Look
through the window. Is it not a pretty sight? The Lord has answered
my prayer.”
Looking out, he saw John Laydon under the trees, holding Anne in his
arms.
“Come away,” said his wife, taking him by the sleeve; “’tis too
sacred a scene for us to look upon.”
It took but a few weeks for Anne to be ready for John, for an
elaborate trousseau was not necessary. Mrs. Forrest, true to her
feminine instincts, delighted in sorting out linen from her store as
a wedding present for the happy couple.
On a lovely autumn day, when the haze of the Indian-summer cast its
dreamy spell over the little church, John and Anne took each other
for better or worse, as long as life should last.
Adam acted as master of ceremonies, marshaling in the Indians invited
to the first marriage in Virginia. Standing by Captain Smith, and as
close to the bridal couple as possible, was Pocahontas, her curious
eyes watching every movement made by Mr. Hunt and the wedding party.
When John placed the simple gold band upon the finger of Anne, the
Indian maid held out her left hand to Captain Smith, and with a
humoring smile he made an imaginary circlet around the marriage
finger.
As soon as the ceremony was completed she stepped up to Anne and held
out a bundle of soft doeskins.
“Pocahontas likes the white squaw now. White squaw has warrior of her
own.”