A year of court life, filled with a continual round of hunting,
masques, theater-going and dancing, failed to dim the brightness of
the wild rose of the west. Enjoying what was noble and pure with
the unspoiled freshness of a child, the Lady Rebecca’s eyes passed
unseeingly over the coarse and degraded elements mingling with the
good.
Letters from Virginia caused Rolfe to feel some uneasiness regarding
the affairs of his plantation. He must return home without delay.
No more following of the hounds in the vast glades of Saint James’s
Park, or in the spring, floating down to Greenwich through a cloud of
swans. Pocahontas must sail for home to take up again plantation life
at Varina, with its round of duties and simple pleasures.
Sailing down the Thames to Gravesend, she looked back with fond
regret upon the scenes which imagination already began to paint in
rose-colored hues.
When they arrived at Gravesend at the mouth of the Thames Rolfe
noticed that Pocahontas looked weary and jaded. A hectic flush
mantled her cheek and her hands were cold as ice.
“What ails my darling?” he inquired anxiously.
“Pocahontas’s head is heavy and her body is cold,” she languidly
replied.
A doctor was hastily summoned. He bled her profusely, but all to no
avail. She grew weaker every hour. Delirium set in. She was back in
Virginia again, roving the forests, visiting Jamestown, strolling
with Smith beside the river or sitting in her cabin playing with her
baby boy.
On the third day she fell into a deep slumber, which was but the
forerunner of the long sleep on which she was entering.
“Surely she will be better when she awakens,” said Rolfe to the
physician. All day he had sat by her side holding her hand or bathing
her brow.
“I dare not deceive you, Master Rolfe. She is sinking rapidly. She
will awaken to consciousness but it will be but the flaring of the
candle, now burnt low in the socket.”
Late in the afternoon she opened her eyes, and feeling for her
husband’s hand, whispered, “John, where are you? It is so dark—the
cold water is lapping on my feet.”
“Tell her, Master Rolfe. She must know her condition,” said the
rector of Saint George’s, who was standing at the foot of the bed.
“I cannot,” said Rolfe, his voice breaking into hoarse sobs as he
flung himself down beside the bed.
Bending over her, the priest gently told her of her approaching end.
“John, John, must Pocahontas leave you and the boy? It is so hard to
part, John.”
“O my darling, I cannot give you up!” cried Rolfe, kissing her brow,
damp with the dews of death.
But womanlike, she put aside her pain to comfort her stricken husband.
“It is the will of the Royal Christ, John. Pocahontas is not afraid.
He will comfort you and care for my babe. Does He not carry the
little lambs in His bosom? Now let the kind priest give us the Body
and Blood of the Lord.”
She lay silent for a while, exhausted by the effort to follow the
priest through the Communion Service. Then she said, “Sing about the
birthnight of the Son of God, John. Pocahontas can hear the angels’
wings.”
Rolfe attempted to sing the ancient hymn, but could not go on.
“Then Pocahontas will sing for John.”
Gathering her fast ebbing strength with a mighty effort, her voice
rang clear and sweet through the twilight. Strong and exultant came
the last verse:
“For lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophets seen of old,
When with the evercircling years
Shall come the time foretold,
When the new heaven and earth shall own
The Prince of Peace their King,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.”
And the “Amen” at its close, begun on earth and ending in heaven,
swept across the glassy sea and broke in melting sweetness at the
feet of the Lamb of God.
Through the bitter winds of March passed the funeral procession, clad
in trappings of woe, to Saint George’s Church. The burial psalms
were chanted, the prayer of committal said. All that was mortal of
Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan, King of Virginia, was laid to rest
in the rector’s vault underneath the chancel.
The broad leaves of the church door swung to behind the departing
mourners. The pulsating silence of the ages settled down upon the
chancel.
Suddenly and noiselessly the nave filled with floating white-robed
angels, the everpresent congregation of ministering spirits.
Gabriel, Announcer of Tidings, stood before the altar and in a voice
of heavenly music, heard only by immortal ears, proclaimed the glad
tidings:
_“The Spirit of Virginia Dare has Returned to the Land of Her
Fathers!”_
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
- Blank pages have been removed.
- Silently corrected typographical errors.
- Spelling and hyphenation variations made consistent.