A mellow afternoon in October. The purple clusters of grapes peep
invitingly out from among the dark green leaves, and the invitation
is eagerly accepted by the honey- and bumble-bees. Their droning hum
fills the drowsy air with booming music.
Down to a favorite nook by the side of the church strolled John Rolfe
and Pocahontas for the daily lesson.
“Tell Pocahontas again of the Son of the Great Spirit.”
In fervent, glowing words he repeated the story of the sacrifice of
the Incarnate Son of God. Springing to her feet and throwing up her
arms she cried, “Pocahontas loves the Royal Christ,” then falling to
her knees she faltered out, “Pocahontas would serve Him as the pale
faces do.”
A deep joy filled the heart of the young teacher. One more soul for
the angels to sing over.
There was great rejoicing among the colonists when they heard
that Pocahontas was to be baptized, and Anne Laydon elected
herself as one of her god-mothers. When it came to choosing a
god-father, Pocahontas settled the matter by saying, “Adam be
god-father—Pocahontas hurt Adam—called him Okee. Pocahontas sorry.”
Those who assembled to witness Pocahontas the Indian maid changed
into Rebecca the Christian could not hear the echo of the priest’s
voice which more than twenty years before had baptized her mother,
Virginia Dare, on Roanoke Island. The echo was there, nevertheless.
* * * * *
Lingering fall paled slowly into the drab-hued tints of winter. Brown
stalks of dead nettles stood stiffly up in soldierly array from the
dry stubble around their feet. Somber cedars added a mournful note
to the cheerless scene around the churchyard. Back and forth paced
Rolfe muffled in his cloak, with a soft dark hat pulled low over his
brow. The depressing note sounded by winter found a ready echo within
his heart, a heart compounded of a curious mingling of Puritan and
Cavalier.
In teaching Pocahontas to speak the English language he had
unwittingly learned another language himself—the hitherto unknown
language of love. His uncertain steps carried him past the grave
where the wife who had forsaken all to follow him across to Virginia
rested. Thoughts of her and his early life in England rose up like an
accusing voice to confront the love he was nurturing in his heart.
Why had it been their misfortune that their lands stepped together
in old England? Why were they betrothed in childhood, when neither
knew what the future might bring forth? Why had he weakly yielded
to the will of his father? Then he did not care, no love had been
between him and the woman lying there; here an accusing voice made
itself heard—alas, she had cared. Looks and loving attentions ranged
themselves in a phantom picture to testify to her love.
He remembered his disapproval of the pretty colors she had worn to
try to make herself comely in his eyes. Her face did not possess the
alluring attraction of beautiful features, and was only redeemed
from plainness by the changeful expression, indexing faithfully the
varying emotions of the heart. How plain she had seemed when at his
command she dressed in sober gray, and tight bands of straw-colored
hair lay where the fluffy curls had strayed. In those days he had
not thought it beseeming a godly matron to use the crisping pins or
deck the sinful body in gay-colored robes.
A wave of pity for her, born of his love for another, swept over him
at the remembrance of her words at the birth of their little daughter
on the island of Bermuda.
“I would that it had been a boy, John. Then perhaps you might have
learned to love the mother.”
No words of tender assurance and comfort had come to his lips; there
was nothing in his heart to prompt them. His answer had been another
blow to her hungry heart.
“We must make the best of it, wife,” he had replied, as he gravely
kissed her brow, ignoring her loving lips.
Then the little Bermuda died on the voyage from the island to
Virginia, and the mother followed soon after they reached Jamestown.
The learned doctor spoke wisely of a frail constitution, worn out
by the hardships of the voyage and wreck of the ship. The wise
Hippocrates might have been mistaken—perhaps her heart had died for
lack of nourishment. He paused beside the long grave, and resting his
hand upon the marble cross, held communion with his unloved dead.
“Wife, you know what it is to love, to feel the heart beat to
suffocation in the presence of the beloved. It was not my fault that
I could not give you what you craved. Love will not go or come at the
bidding of the will. In the clearer light in which you live let your
pity and compassion cover my sins of neglect.”
A sense of comfort stole over him which he interpreted as forgiveness
from the spirit dwelling where there is no marrying or giving in
marriage. He felt free to think of his love for Pocahontas.
Hardly had he settled this matter with his conscience than Pride
awoke and demanded a hearing. Many were the weary battles he fought
with it. What would his equals think of a marriage between him and
the Indian maiden? He felt a just pride in his honorable line of
ancestry. Would he be stooping to a mesalliance? There were fair
ladies in England whom he could wed, for he had much influence to
back him. They would bring name and fortune to add to his.
“Pocahontas is a princess, daughter of the King of Virginia,”
whispered Inclination.
“True,” retorted Pride, “but can an Indian princess match with the
house of Rolfe?”
Through the rest of the winter Inclination and Pride wrestled for the
mastery, using the mind and body of Rolfe as a battleground. When
spring came Pride gathered its forces and took a determined stand for
its last great effort. Both in front and on the flank it brought up
overwhelming arguments and charged down upon Rolfe as he sat under a
copper beech, alone with his thoughts.
“Listen to the contemptuous comments of the council and the grieved
reproaches of your relations at home,” exhorted Pride. “Hear them
saying, ‘Who would have thought that the stately and dignified Rolfe
could have stooped to mingle his proud blood with that of a savage,
when he could have wedded with some gifted lady of England?’ Think of
the example set the men of the colony. They will think that with such
an illustrious precedent any Indian woman will be a fit mate. No need
to wait for the coming of damsels from the mother country. Families
of Indian squaws and half-breeds will be the fashion in Virginia.”
But Inclination brought the thousand calls of birds, and flowers with
love-tipped darts to withstand the shock of the armies of Pride. Far
away in the distance sounded the sweet call of the partridge to its
mate; flocks of pigeons sailing overhead settled down on the eaves
of the cabins to prune their silver breasts and lean their heads
confidingly together; up in the tree above, a mocking-bird sang a
love song of surpassing beauty to the coy mate brooding on a branch
below, and its liquid notes, filled with passionate sweetness drawn
from the deep wells of the heart, swept the routed ranks of Pride
from the hard-fought field, leaving Inclination victor.
Throwing back his head, Rolfe cried aloud to the silence surrounding
him:
“Let the world say what it will, I do not care! I have my own life
to lead, and will not bow to the dictates of any human being.” Over
his countenance flashed a look of exultation. “I love her! _Love
her!_ LOVE HER! She shall be mine that I may drink of her
sweetness.”
The slowly dying sun, resting on a bank of lurid clouds, blazed up
once more to welcome the new disciple of the god of love.
“Come, Lily,” said Rolfe on the ensuing morning, “let us take the
canoe and go over to the pond where the lilies are in bloom.”
As long as they were in sight of the palisades surrounding the
settlement he rowed with strong vigorous strokes, but when the
winding of the shore hid them from view he ceased and let the boat
drift idly that he might feast his eyes on the glowing beauty of
Pocahontas, who with half averted face was trailing a slender hand
through the amber water. How exquisite was the line of beauty
sweeping from the nape of her neck along the graceful curve of the
spine! What could rival the pomegranate flower upon her cheek?
“Fool, fool,” muttered Rolfe inwardly to himself, “to weigh for one
single moment love for that flower with cold critical Pride.”
Picking up the paddles again, he sent the canoe into a shadowed pond
filled with water-lilies, and canopied in green foliage picked out in
golden sunbeams. Close by the bank the water-lilies grew thickest.
There he rested again, while Pocahontas filled her lap with the
blossoms. Gathering two or three, she held them off at arm’s length
to admire their beauty, bestowing on them a loving glance that gave
a jealous pang to Rolfe. A green and gold hummingbird darted down
on gauzy wings to sip the honey glittering like dewdrops within
their powdered stamens. Pocahontas held herself motionless, hardly
breathing lest the tiny sprite should dart away. A faint tremor of
her arm, and lo, it was gone.
Leaning forward and fixing his burning gaze upon her, Rolfe said:
“Lily does not look at John as she used to do. Her eyes hide away
under the fringed lashes. Is she angry with him?”
“Pocahontas could not be angry with her friend,” she murmured,
busying herself with the lilies lying in her lap.
“Will Lily care when John leaves Jamestown, and goes to England,
never to return?”
“John leave Pocahontas alone?” gasped the fear-stricken girl,
clutching at her breast and scattering the lilies in every direction.
His answer was written in her working features and heaving bosom.
“Nay, Lily, John did not mean it; he was only trying to see if you
cared as he did,” he exclaimed, springing to her side and crushing
the lily petals under foot in his haste to reach her.
Drawing her to his breast, he pressed his cheek against her hair.
“John loves you better than life. Will you come to his cabin and be
his dearly loved wife?”
For a few moments she lay on his breast as if stunned, without power
to move or speak. In one brief instant he has stabbed her with pain
and offered her his love.
“Lily has not answered John.”
Raising her head she said with a mournful smile, “Pocahontas was
exceeding sorrowful when her ‘father’ went away, but no knife pierced
her heart as it did just now.” She stroked his cheek with a caressing
hand, and outlining his lips with a dainty forefinger continued, “Let
these lips say again, ‘John will not leave Pocahontas alone.’ She
will fade away as the flowers do when the frost spirit lays his black
hand upon them.”
“John could not leave his treasure alone,” he replied, crushing her
to his breast and covering her face and hands with passionate kisses.
“My heart’s darling, John could not live unless he could see the
light in these dear eyes. Thus and thus he loves them,” imprinting
a kiss on each. Bending back her head, his lips sought in a long
clinging pressure the cupid’s kiss nestling in the hollow of her
throat. “Now let my darling say she loves John better than all else
in the world.”
Leaning over the boat as far as his jealous arm would let her, she
gathered a tightly closed bud, a half-open one and a full-blown
lily. Laying them on her lap, she said in a low sweet voice:
“Pocahontas will give John his answer in the language of the lily.
Many moons ago—ah, so many moons it seems to the lily—a tightly
closed bud slumbered upon its bed of green leaves, not knowing or
caring for the world beyond. One morning a sunbeam came from the east
and showered its smile upon her. New throbs of life pulsated in her
heart as she rocked upon the ripples. Under its sunny smile the green
mantle parted and showed the white satin petals beneath. She called
the sunbeam ‘father.’ A dark cloud arose and hid the sunbeam, leaving
the half-awakened lily to breast the storm of sorrow and loneliness.
Rude hands tore her from her resting-place to plant in strange
waters. Longing for the father sunbeam beat the lily downward on
its red brown stem. Then came another sunbeam and sent its cheering
warmth straight to the heart of the lily. Stronger and stronger grew
the sunbeam as the day grew older. Light, hope, and joy thrust apart
the green mantle and trembling petals, laying bare the quivering
golden heart wide open to the sun. Has Pocahontas answered John?”
Bowing his head upon his breast, he murmured, “O God, I am not worthy
of the great love of two such woman hearts.”
Love had taught him how to measure the rich gift of his dead wife’s
heart.
It was with great reluctance that he left this earthly Eden to row
back to Jamestown. He must write to Governor Dale and obtain his
consent to his marriage with Pocahontas, now the Christian maid
Rebecca.
Much to his surprise, a speedy answer giving consent to the nuptials
came from the bluff Governor. An early day was appointed for the
wedding and an invitation sent to Powhatan.
That grim old veteran had been filled with rage when he learned of
his daughter’s capture by Argall. Messengers sent to barter for her
ransom had been chased from his doors. Nevertheless, during her two
years of captivity the murder of the colonists ceased. Security and
peace had been brought to the settlement by the “Blessed Pocahontas.”
Rallying his fast-failing powers, he now attempted a dignified
oration in which he gave his consent to Pocahontas’s marriage, but
ere he reached its end, love for the long-absent daughter and the
loneliness of old age, shattered his feeble attempt at dignity. His
voice trailed away in a plaintive lament.
“Powhatan is old, his days are few. Let there be peace between the
real man and the pale-face. Opechancanough shall come with Nantaquas,
bearing wedding garments for Pocahontas and presents for the new son,
Rolfe.” Raising his palsied hands, only to let them fall helplessly
into his lap again, he murmured in a far-away voice, “Powhatan is
weary—the warriors are calling to him from the happy hunting-grounds.
Let the pale faces depart.”
On the appointed day Anne Laydon, resplendent in matronly dignity,
dressed the bride in the Indian costume which she was to wear for the
last time.
A mantle of pigeon feathers, gleaming in iridescent colors against a
shimmering gray background, covered a fawn-colored skirt embroidered
in ruby-colored beads. Her flowing black hair was held in place by
the rope of pearls she wore when first she met Captain Smith.
The interior of the church had been decorated with great branches of
laurel and trailing honeysuckle. Fragrant water lilies were banked
upon the altar.
Up the aisle stalked Opechancanough and Nantaquas, son of Pocahontas,
both decorated in all the glory of the Indian brave. Faces and arms
were tattooed in birds and reptiles to do honor to the marriage of
the Pearl of the Powhatans.
As Rolfe placed the plain gold band upon her finger he felt her
hand tremble and pressed it to give her courage. Did she feel the
imaginary circlet which long ago Smith had traced upon her finger?
“I pronounce you man and wife. Whomsoever God has joined together,
let no man put asunder,” said the priest. As he ceased a quivering
shaft of sunlight poured through the altar window, wrapping the
kneeling couple in a shimmering veil of gold.