Thorne did not accompany the party to Virginia, although it was tacitly
understood that he should follow in time for Blanche's wedding, which
would take place in June. Pocahontas wished it so arranged, and
Thorne, feeling that his love had come to him, as through fire, was
anxious to order all things according to her wishes. He was very
quiet, grave, and self-contained; his old buoyancy, his old lightness
had passed away forever. The whirl and lash of a hurricane leave
traces which not even time can efface. A man does not come through
fire unscathed--he is marred, or purified; he is never the same. In
Thorne, already, faintly stirred nature's grand impulse of growth, of
pressing upward toward the light. He strove to be patient, tender,
considerate, to take his happiness, not as reward for what he was, but
as earnest of what he might become.
Jim remained in New York also. He would go back to his work, he said,
it would be better so. He had come north on business for his company,
and when that should be completed he would return to Mexico. He would
not go to Virginia; he did not want to see strangers in the old home;
he would write to his sisters and explain; no one need trouble about
him; he would manage well enough.
Before they separated, Jim had a long talk with Berkeley, and in the
course of it the poor fellow completed his victory over self. He spoke
generously of Thorne.
"It's a big subject, Berkeley," he said, in conclusion, "and I don't
see that you or I have any call to pass judgment on it, or to lay down
arbitrary lines, saying _this_ is righteous, _that_ is unrighteous. We
may have our own thoughts about the matter--we _must_ have, but we've
no right to lop or stretch other people to fit them. Princess is a
pure woman, a noble woman, better, a thousand-fold, than you or me or
any other man that breathes. From her standpoint, what she does is
right, and, whether we differ with her or not, we are bound to believe
that she has weighed the matter and made her choke in all honor and
truth. And, Berke, listen to me! You are powerless to alter any
thing, and it's a man's part to face the inevitable and make the best
of it. You can't better things, but you can make them worse. Don't
alienate your sister. You are the nearest man of her blood, and, as
such, you have influence with her; don't throw it away. If you are
cold, hard, and unloving to her now, you'll set up a barrier between
you that you'll find it hard to level. Never let her turn from you,
Berke. Stand by her always, old friend."
Poor Jim! He could not as yet disassociate the old from the new. To
him it still seemed as though Berkeley, and, in a measure, he himself
were responsible for her life; must take care and thought for her
future. Love and habit form bonds that thought does not readily burst
asunder.
Berkeley was good to his sister--influenced partly by Blanche, partly
by Jim, but most of all by his strong affection for Pocahontas herself.
He drew her to his breast and rested his cheek against her hair a
moment, and kissed her tenderly, and the brother and sister understood
each other without a spoken word.
He could not bring himself to be cordial to Thorne all at once, but he
loyally tried to do his best, and Thorne was big enough to see and
appreciate the effort. There might come a time when the men would be
friends.
Poor Mrs. Mason! Her daughter's engagement was a shock, almost a blow
to her, and she could not reconcile herself to it at first. The
foundations seemed to be slipping from under her feet, the supports in
which she trusted, to be falling away. She was a just as well as a
loving woman, and she knew that the presence of a new and powerful love
brings new responsibilities and a new outlook on life. She faithfully
tried to put herself in her daughter's place and to judge of the affair
from Pocahontas's standpoint; but the effort was painful to her, and
the result not always what she could wish. She recognized, the love
being admitted, that Thorne had claims which must be allowed; but she
felt it hard that such claims should exist, and her recognition of them
was not sufficiently full and generous to make her feel at one with
herself. Old minds adapt themselves to new conditions slowly.
However, mother-love is limitless, and, through all, her impulse was to
hold to her child, to do nothing, to say nothing which would wound or
alienate her. And for the rest--there was no need of haste; she could
keep these things and "ponder them in her heart."