Part 2 (2/2)
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 pa.s.sionate 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 antic.i.p.ated, 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 gra.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+mmering 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. G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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.
<script>