After a joyous exchange of greeting with her brother-in-law, of whom
she was unusually fond, and a sweet, gracious welcome to her old
play-fellow, Pocahontas withdrew to tell her mother of their arrival,
and to assure herself that every thing was perfectly arranged for Jim's
last meal among them.
Through some strange deficiency in herself, she was unable to give him
what he most desired, but what she could give him she lavished royally.
She wore her prettiest dress in his honor, and adorned it with his
favorite flowers, forgetful in her eagerness to please him, that this
might make things harder for him. She ordered all the dishes she knew
he liked for tea, and spent a couple of hours in the hot kitchen that
scorching morning preparing a cake that he always praised. With eager
haste she took from its glass-doored cabinet the rare old Mason china,
and rifled the garden of roses to fill the quaint century old
punch-bowl for the center of the table. All things possible should be
done to make Jim feel himself, that night, the honored guest, the
person of most importance in their world. It was an heirloom--the
Mason china--quaint and curious, and most highly prized. There was a
superstition--how originated none knew--that the breakage of a piece,
whether by design or accident, foreboded misfortune to the house of
Mason. Very carefully it was always kept, being only used on rare
occasions when special honor was intended. During the civil war it had
lain securely hidden in a heavy box under the brick pavement of one of
the cellar rooms, thereby escaping dire vicissitudes. Many pieces had
been broken, said to have been followed in every case by calamities
harder to endure than the loss of precious porcelain, but much of it
still remained. In design it was unique, in execution wonderful, and
its history was romantic.
In the olden time a rich and fanciful Mason had visited the colonies
with one of the expeditions sent out by the Virginia Company of London.
He was an artist of no mean repute, and during his stay in the new
world had made sketches of the strange beautiful scenery, and studies
from the wild picturesque life which captivated his imagination.
After his return to England, he perfected these drawings from memory,
and some years later crossed over to France, and had them transferred
to china at fabulous cost. The result was very beautiful, for each
piece showed small but exquisite portrayals of life and scenery in the
new world. The scenes were varied, and depicted in soft, glowing
colors, and with a finish that made each a gem.
On one cup a hunter followed the chase through the silent forest;
another showed a dusky maiden dreaming beside a waterfall; a third, a
group of deer resting in a sunny valley; a fourth, a circle of braves
around a council fire.
When, in after years, the grandson of the artist had married a bride
with Indian blood in her veins, the punch-bowl had been added as a
special compliment to the lady, and the china had been sent a wedding
gift from the Masons of England, to the Masons of Virginia. The bowl
was very graceful, and contained on one side a lovely representation of
the landing at Jamestown, with the tranquil, smiling river, the vessel
in the offing, and the group of friendly red men on the shore; on the
other was, of course, depicted the rescue of Captain John Smith by the
Indian girl. The bowl was finished at top and bottom with wreaths of
Virginia creepers, forest leaves and blossoms.
To bring out this precious heirloom in honor of a guest was making him
of consequence indeed.
Jim knew all about it, and when he caught sight of the pretty tea-table
he understood the girl's intention and shot a quick, grateful glance
across to her from his brown eyes. A whimsical memory of a superb
breakfast he had once seen served to a man about to be hanged obtruded
itself, but he banished it loyally. As betook the cup with the
dreaming maiden on it from Mrs. Mason's hand, he said gratefully:
"How good of you to have out the beautiful old china in my honor. When
I was a boy, I always imagined that coffee from these cups tasted
different--had a woodsy, adventurous flavor. I think so still."
It was a merry meal, despite the shadow in the background, for the
gentlemen taking their cue from Pocahontas vied with each other in
talking nonsense, and depicting ridiculous phases of camp life in the
tropics with Jim always for the hero of the scene. And Jim, shaking
off the dismal emotions peculiar to farewell visits, responded
gallantly, defending himself from each sportive attack, and illumining
his exile with such rays of promise as occurred to him. He knew these
old friends were sorry to lose him, and trying to lessen the wrench of
parting; and being a quiet, self-controlled man--more given to action
than speech, and with a deep abhorrence of scenes, he appreciated their
efforts.
After tea, Berkeley and Royall lit their pipes and strolled out toward
the stables, leaving Jim and Pocahontas alone together on the porch.
The girl leaned back in her chair silently, not trying to make
conversation any more, and Jim sat on the steps at her feet, letting
his eyes follow wistfully the slope of the lawn, and the flow of the
river. Presently, without turning his head, he asked her to walk with
him down to the old willows by the riverside, for a farewell look on
the scene so dear to him, and Pocahontas rose instantly and slipped her
hand within his proffered arm.
Down by the river, where the lawn bent softly to the wooing of the
water, stood two ancient willows of unusual size: they were gnarled
with age, but vigorous and long limbed. The story ran that once a
Pocahontas Mason, the lady of the manor here, had lovers twain--twin
brothers who being also Masons were her distant cousins. One she
loved, and one she did not, but both loved her, and being passionate
men both swore that they would have her, come what might; and cause any
man that came between, most bloodily to rue it. Between the brothers
there arose quarrels, and ill feeling, which afflicted the lady, who
was a good woman, and averse to breaking the peace of families. That
brothers--twin-brothers, should be scowling venomously at each other
because of her, appeared a grievous thing, and she set herself to mend
it. By marrying the man she loved, she could end the affair at once,
but his brother would never forgive him, and before love had maddened
them the men had been friends as well as brothers. She gauged their
characters thoughtfully, and hit upon a plan--which, at the expense of
some self-sacrifice, would arrange the matter peacefully. Bidding both
lovers attend her one day, she brought them to this spot, and cutting
two willow wands of exactly the same length and thickness she stuck
them deep into the moist soil, and announced her decision. They would
wait three years, she said, and at the end of that time the man whose
tree had grown the strongest, should come and claim his answer. She
would attend to both willows herself, giving to each the same care, and
treating them with equal fairness. Then she made the men shake hands
in amity once more, and swear to abide by her decision.
The story further tells that both willows flourished finely, but that
in the last year the true love's tree outstripped its mate, as was
right and proper. As the lady had anticipated, when the term of
probation expired only one of the twins appeared to claim an answer to
his suit. And in the pocket of the constant man, when he kissed his
own true love, lay a letter, from across the seas, full of brotherly
affection and congratulation.
This little story was a favorite with Pocahontas, and she was fond of
relating how her great-great-grandmother by a little wit and generous
self-sacrifice, averted a feud between brothers, and kept family peace
unbroken.
The trees were always called "The Lovers," and under their sweeping
branches the young people were fond of gathering on moonlit summer
evenings.
Pocahontas seated herself under the larger tree on the dry, warm grass,
and Jim leaned against the rugged trunk, silently drinking in, with his
eyes, the still beauty of the night--the silvery sheen of the water,
the pure bend of the sky, the slope of the lawn, and the gray
tranquillity of the old house in the background. And as he gazed,
there awoke in his breast, adding to its pain, that weary yearning
which men call home-sickness.
With a shuddering sigh and a movement of the strong shoulders as though
some burden were settling down upon them, Jim dropped himself to the
ground beside his companion, and suffered her gently to possess herself
of his tobacco pouch and pipe. The girl felt that the peacefulness of
the scene jarred upon his mood, and set herself to soothe him into
harmony with himself and nature. Jim watched the white fingers deftly
fill the bowl, and strike the match for him; then he took it from her
hand and breathed softly through the curved stem until the fire circled
brightly round, and the tobacco all was burning. He leaned back on his
elbow and sent the smoke out in long quiet wreaths, and Pocahontas,
with her hands folded together in her lap, watched it rise and vanish
dreamily.
"I wonder," she murmured presently, "if the nights out there--in
Mexico, I mean--can be more beautiful than this. I have read
descriptions, and dreamed dreams, but I can't imagine any thing more
perfect than that stretch of water shimmering in the moonlight, and the
dark outline of the trees yonder against the sky."
"It's more than beautiful; it's _home_." Jim's voice shook a little.
"Do you know, Princess, that whenever the memory of home comes to me
out yonder in the tropics, it will be just this picture, I shall always
see. The river, the lights and shadows on the lawn, the old gray
house, and _you_, with the flowers on your breast, and the moonlight on
your dear face. Don't be afraid, or move away; I'm not going to make
love to you--all that is over; but your face must always be to me the
fairest and sweetest on earth." He paused a moment, and then added,
looking steadily away from her; "I want to tell you--this last time I
may ever have an opportunity of speaking to you alone--that you are
never to blame yourself for what has come and gone. It's been no fault
of yours. You could no more help my loving you than I could help it
myself; or than you could make yourself love me in return."
"Oh, Jim, dear!" spoke the girl, quickly and penitently, "I do love
you. I do, indeed."
"I know it, Princess, in exactly the same way you love Roy Garnett, and
immeasurably less than you love Berkeley. That isn't what I wanted,
dear. I'm a dull fellow, slow at understanding things, and I can't put
my thoughts into graceful, fluent language; but I know what love is,
and what I wanted you to feel is very different. Don't be unhappy
about it--or me. I'll worry through the pain in time, or grow
accustomed to it. It's tough, just at first, but I'll pull through
somehow. It shall not spoil my life either, although it must mar it; a
man must be a pitiful fellow, who lets himself go to the bad because
the woman he loves won't have him. God means every man to hold up his
own weight in this world. I'd as soon knock a woman down as throw the
blame of a wasted life upon her."
Pocahontas listened with her eyes on the folded hands in her lap,
realizing for the first time how deeply the man beside her loved her.
Would any other man ever love her with such grand unselfishness, she
wondered, ever give all, receive nothing in return, and still give on.
_Why_ could not she love him? Why was her heart still and speechless,
and only her mind responsive. He was worthy of any woman's love; why
could not she give him hers?
Ask the question how she would, the answer was always the same. She
did not love him; she could not love him; but the reason was beyond her.
After a little while Jim spoke again: "When you were a little girl," he
said, "I always was your knight. In all our plays, and troubles, it
was always _me_ you wanted. My boat was the one you liked best, and my
dog and horse would come to your whistle as quickly as to mine. I was
the one always to care for you and carry out your will. That can never
be again, I know, but don't forget me, Princess. Let the thought of
your old friend come to you sometimes, not to trouble you, only to
remind you when things are hard and rough, and you need comfort, that
there's a heart in the world that would shed its last drop to help you."
With quick impulse Pocahontas leaned forward and caught his hand in
hers, and before he could divine her intention, bent her head and laid
her soft, warm lips against it. When she lifted her eyes to his there
were tears in them, and her voice trembled as she said: "I will think
of you often, old friend; of how noble you are, and how unselfish. You
have been generous to me all my life; far more generous than I have
ever deserved."
As they arose, to return to the house, the jasmin blossom fell from the
girl's hair to the ground at Jim's feet; he stooped and raised it.
"May I keep it?" he said.
She bowed her head, silently.