CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION

Powhatan left no doubt of his friendly feeling towards Captain Smith when, six weeks after he started on his voyage up the Chickahominy, the sachem allowed him to return under guard to Jamestown. He received a warm welcome from his countrymen, and the Indians who had come with him were sent back to Powhatan with many presents for themselves, and still more for the American Emperor himself.

It is one of the many proofs of the fine character of Captain John Smith and of his great service to the colony, that, brief as had been his absence, the settlement had reached the verge of ruin. The little church had been burned, and the good minister held religious services under the trees. Of the more than a hundred men who had come across the ocean a few months before, only forty were alive. On the very day that Smith arrived at the settlement, the new President Ratcliffe and several of his friends had seized the pinnace—the only boat left—and were about to sail for England. This was the third attempt of that kind, and it was defeated again by Smith, who would have shot every man of them had they not come back to land and surrendered.

Now, what do you suppose was the next step of those wicked persons? You must remember that they had other friends, base as they were. They said that under the old Levitical law Smith was guilty of the deaths of the men that had been slain by Indians. They would have hanged him on the charge, had he not ended the business by arresting his accusers, and warning them that, if they caused him any more trouble, he would hang them all.

Woeful times now came to Jamestown. You would think they could be no more dreadful than those through which the settlement had already passed, but the poor people, besides quarrelling among themselves, began starving to death. The gaunt, famished settlers staggered along the single street, too feeble to rise when they stumbled and fell. All they could do was to creep into their cabins and lie down, moaning and waiting for death to end their sufferings. It looked as if not a man would be left alive, and about the only one who kept his feet and moved freely about was Captain Smith. He was always cheery and hopeful, and helped others by his good spirits, which seemed never to leave him.

But the day came when even this brave man saw no hope. He did not know where to get the next mouthful of food without going among the Indians, and his companions were too worn and weak to be taken with him. He would not leave them to their sad fate, but was ready to die among them, as he had been from the first.

Standing moodily on the outside of the palisades, with arms folded and looking off along the trail that led into the forest toward York River, he suddenly saw a strange sight. A girl came out from among the trees, bearing a basket of corn on her shoulder. He had hardly time to recognize her as Pocahontas when he saw she was followed by other Indians. On came the procession, until he counted eighteen. The one next to her was Nantaquas, and, filing after him, were other warriors, every one of whom carried a basket of corn or a haunch of venison. Providence had moved their hearts with pity for the perishing white men, and their timely visit with food saved them when, but for such kindness, all must have perished.

No wonder the grateful English ever after referred to the good maiden as “the dear and blessed Pocahontas.” She came once or twice a week for months, bringing supplies through the woods from the York River to Jamestown. It was she who took the first step in this good work, and Powhatan was willing, for he felt friendly at the time towards the whites. Years after, in a letter to the Queen, Captain Smith referred to these acts of Pocahontas in the following quaint words:

“During the time of two or three years she next under God, was still the instrument to preserve this colony from death, famine, and utter confusion, which, if in those days had once been dissolved, Virginia might have lain as it was at our first arrival to this day.”

I have not the space to tell you the later history of Virginia. Its troubles were by no means ended, and many dark days followed—days when it looked as if nothing could save the colony from passing away. I have aimed rather to show something of the great services of Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan, who ruled over thirty tribes of Indians, She never showed any weakening of her friendship for the white people. Sometimes her father became offended with them and went to war, but nothing could shake her good will. He even grew angry with her, but, though parent and child could not quarrel the maiden only became more guarded in her deeds of kindness, when Powhatan happened to be in one of his ugly moods.

There was a time when the chieftain’s enmity against Smith became so deep that he used every means he could think of to have him put to death. The Captain was ready to fight the Emperor, when nothing else was left. He set out one day with a strong company to surprise Powhatan. He had not been gone long when nine of those whom he had left at home went out in a boat in a severe storm. The craft was capsized and the whole party drowned. Smith had ordered these men to hold themselves ready to join him whenever he sent for them. It was important that he should be told of the calamity as soon as possible, so that his own expedition might not fail through lack of the aid he might need.

The task of reaching Smith through the many miles of wilderness was so dangerous that only one man in the colony was willing to make the attempt. He was captured by Indians and taken before Powhatan at Werowocomoco, and the chieftain ordered him to be put to death. Without drawing suspicion to herself, Pocahontas got him a short distance away in the woods, and hid him among the bushes. He would have been found and brought back by the warriors who set out to search for him had she not cunningly led them in a wrong direction. The man gained enough start to join Smith, and tell him of the sad accident to the men whom he had counted upon for help.

Some time later, when matters seemed to have quieted, a party of colonists went among Powhatan’s people to trade, but all except one was massacred. Pocahontas succeeded in saving his life, and he lived many years, secure in her friendship, among the Indians.

In 1609 Captain Smith, while on one of his exploring expeditions, was so painfully burned by the accidental explosion of a bag of gunpowder, that he suffered great agony. Good medical treatment could not be given him at Jamestown, and he sailed for England. He never came back to Virginia, which was a great misfortune, since no man could be found fitted to take his place. Of the five hundred whom he left behind, only sixty were alive at the end of six months. History refers to this fearful period of Virginia as “the Starving Time.”

When, at last, conditions improved through the steady coming of immigrants, Captain Argall started on a cruise up James River. He invited Pocahontas to visit his vessel, and she, dreaming of no evil, came aboard with an Indian woman, who had been bribed to play her part, under the promise of Argall that no harm should befall the girl. The woman was allowed to go ashore, but Pocahontas was kept as a prisoner. The expectation of Argall was that Powhatan would be glad to pay a large ransom with corn for her return to him. Instead of doing so, the furious sachem prepared to wage a savage war against the colony.

During these troublous weeks Pocahontas stayed at Jamestown, where everyone treated her kindly. John Rolfe, a member of a good English family, became interested in the maiden, and she returned his affection. He was a good Churchman, and talked to Pocahontas about the true religion. She listened with deep interest, and soon showed that no one understood the mysteries of the Christian faith better than she. She was truly converted, and asked that she might be baptized. In the quaint little chapel at Jamestown, whose columns were the rough pines from the forest, whose pews were fragrant cedar, and whose communion table and pulpit were of black walnut, this Princess of the Woods knelt before the font hewn out of a log, made the responses in broken English, and received the baptismal name of Rebecca.

Rolfe and Pocahontas were married in the month of April, 1613. Although Powhatan did not attend the ceremony, he cheerfully gave his consent, and sent his brother and two of his sons to represent him. One of these was our old friend Nantaquas, who was highly pleased with the marriage. The uncle of Pocahontas gave her away in accordance with the Anglican ritual. The windows of the chapel were festooned with evergreens, wild flowers, and crimson hollyberries. The communion table was covered with spotless white linen, and on it rested bread from the wheat fields and wine from the native grapes. The settlers and Indian visitors crowded the small building, and gazed with deep interest upon the beautiful picture.

When the bride and groom appeared, she was dressed in a simple tunic of white muslin, with her comely arms bared to the shoulders. Sir Thomas Dale had presented her with a rich robe, which she had herself embroidered. Her abundant black hair flowed down her back, and was encircled by a fillet, filled with the bright plumage of birds, and holding in its fastenings a cloudlike, misty veil. A few simple articles of jewelry gleamed on her wrists. Modest, loving, and beautiful, she made a charming bride.

Nor must we forget the groom. He had a manly figure, and with his short, full beard, an attractive countenance. He was dressed like an English cavalier, and wore a short sword on his thigh as a mark of distinction. The two stood upon the chancel steps, which had no railing, and there the clergyman, with impressive voice and manner, amid the breathless hush of the spectators, made the two man and wife.

This union was a happy one in every respect. Husband and wife devotedly loved each other, and Powhatan became the true friend of the English, and so remained to the close of his life. When Governor Dale sailed for England in 1616, he took Rolfe and Pocahontas with him. She was called “Lady Rebecca,” and surely it was proper that she should wear such honor, for was she not the daughter of the Greatest American King of his time? She received marked attention from the court and leading dignitaries in England, and everything was done to make her feel happy in a land so new and strange to her.

It was natural that Pocahontas should feel anxious to meet her old friend Captain Smith. He was the first whom she asked about, but, to her grief, she was told that he was dead. While mourning for him, the Captain called upon her. She was so shocked that she burst into tears, and asked why the deception had been used. All sorts of explanations and excuses were made; but you will agree with me that none was sufficient to justify such cruel treatment.

She soon regained her cheerfulness, and the two sat down and had a long talk over their lives in the land, three thousand miles away, in the depth of the American woods. She called the Captain “father,” and he returned by speaking to her as “daughter.”

Since I know you feel an interest in the brave Captain John Smith, I will say in this place that he sailed along the coast of New England in 1614, and gave the name of Boston to the principal city in that region, besides partially exploring the country. He spent his last years in London, engaged in writing his histories. He died in 1631, and was buried under the chancel of St. Sepulchre’s Church. The opening of the poetical inscription is, “Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered kings,” and the close of the prayer is, that “with angels he might have his recompense.”

Rolfe and his wife had made ready to sail for the New World, when, at the beginning of the year 1617, she fell ill at Gravesend, and died at the age of twenty-two years. She left an infant son, Thomas, who was taken to London and educated by his uncle, Henry Rolfe. When he reached manhood he returned to America, gained a large fortune, and became a gentleman of distinction. From him some of the leading families in Virginia today are proud to trace their descent.

By the way, I may add, as an interesting coincidence, the fact that the home of _Little Folks_, “LaBelle Sauvage,” was thus named in honor of Pocahontas, the “Princess of the Woods.”

EDNA’S SACRIFICE

-------

BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN

EDNA’S SACRIFICE

-------

IT was a cold night in September. For three days the rain had fallen almost unceasingly. It had been impossible for us to get out; and no visitors had been in. Everything looked dreary enough, and we felt so, truly. Of course the stoves were not prepared for use; and this night we (that is, Nell, Floy, Aunt Edna, and myself) were huddled in the corners of the sofa and arm-chairs, wrapped in our shawls. We were at our wits’ end for something to while the hours away. We had read everything that was readable; played until we fancied the piano sent forth a wail of complaint, and begged for rest; were at the backgammon board until our arms ached; and I had given imitations of celebrated actresses, until I was hoarse, and Nell declared I was in danger of being sued for scandal. What more could we do? To dispel the drowsiness that was stealing over me, I got up, walked up and down the floor, and then drew up the blind, and gazed out into the deserted street. Not a footfall to be heard, neither man’s nor beast’s; nothing but patter, patter, patter. At length, after standing fully fifteen minutes—oh, joyful sound!—a coming footstep, firm and quick. My first thought was that those steps would stop at our door. But, directly after, I felt that very improbable for who was there that _would_ come such a night? Papa was up north with mamma: Nell and Floy were visiting Aunt Edna and me, the only ones home, save the servants. Neither of us had as yet a lover so devoted or so demented as to come out, if he had anywhere to _stay in_.

On and past went the steps. Turning away, I drew down the blind, and said: “Some one must be ill, and that was the doctor, surely: for no one else would go out, only those from direst necessity sent.”

A deep sigh escaped Aunt Edna’s lips, and although partially shaded by her hand, I could see the shadow on the beautiful face had deepened.

Why my aunt had never married was a mystery to me, for she was lovable in every way, and must have been very beautiful in her youth. Thirty-six she would be next May-day, she had told me. Thirty-six seemed to me, just sixteen, a very great many years to have lived. But aunt always was young to us; and the hint of her being an old maid was always resented, very decidedly, by all her nieces.

“Aunt Edna,” I said, “tell us a story—a love-story, please.”

“Oh, little one, you have read _so_ many! And what can I tell you more?” she answered, gently.

“Oh, aunty, I want a _true_ story! Do, darling aunty, tell us your own. Tell us why you are blessing our home with your presence, instead of that of some noble man, for noble he must have been to have won your heart, and—hush-sh! Yes, yes; I know something about somebody, and I must know all. Do, please!”

I plead on. I always could do more with Aunt Edna than any one else. I was named for her, and many called me like her—“only not nearly so pretty” was always added.

At last she consented, saying:

“Dear girls, to only one before have I given my entire confidence, and that was my mother. I scarce know why I have yielded to your persuasions, little Edna, save that this night, with its gloom and rain, carries me back long years, and my heart seems to join its pleading with yours, yearning to cast forth some of its fulness, and perchance find relief by pouring into your loving heart its own sorrows. But, darling, I would not cast my shadow over your fair brow, even for a brief time.”

With her hand still shading her face, Aunt Edna began:

“Just such a night as this, eighteen years ago, dear child, my fate was decided. The daughter of my mother’s dearest friend had been with us about a year. Dearly we all loved the gentle child, for scarcely more than child she was—only sixteen. My mother had taken her from the cold, lifeless form of her mother into her own warm, loving heart, and she became to me as a sister. So fair and frail she was! We all watched her with the tenderest care, guarding her from all that could chill her sensitive nature or wound the already saddened heart. Lilly was her name. Oh, what a delicate while lily she was when we first brought her to our home; but after a while she was won from her sorrow, and grew into a maiden of great beauty. Still, with child-like, winning ways.

“Great wells of love were in her blue eyes—violet hue _he_ called them. Often I wondered if any one’s gaze would linger on my dark eyes when hers were near? Her pale golden hair was pushed off her broad forehead and fell in heavy waves far down below her graceful shoulders and over her black dress. Small delicately formed features, a complexion so fair and clear that it seemed transparent. In her blue eyes there was always such a sad, wistful look; this, and the gentle smile that ever hovered about her lips, gave an expression of mingled sweetness and sorrow that was very touching. You may imagine now how beautiful she was.

“Her mother had passed from earth during the absence of Lilly’s father. Across the ocean the sorrowful tidings were borne to him. He was a naval officer. Lilly was counting the days ere she should see him. The good news had come that soon he would be with her. At last the day arrived, but oh! what a terrible sorrow it brought! When her heart was almost bursting with joy, expecting every moment to be clasped in those dear arms—a telegraphic dispatch was handed in. Eagerly she caught it, tore it open, read—and fell lifeless to the floor.

“Oh! the fearful, crushing words. We read, not of his coming to Lilly, but of his going to her, his wife, in heaven. Yes, truly an orphan the poor girl was then.

“In vain proved all efforts to restore her to consciousness. Several times, when she had before fainted, mother was the only physician needed. But that night she shook her head and said:

“‘We must have a doctor, and quickly.’

“It was a terrible night. Our doctor was very remote. Your father suggested another, near by.

“Dr. ——, well, never mind his name. Your father said he had lately known him, and liked him much.

“Through the storm he came, and by his skilful treatment Lilly was soon restored to consciousness, but not to health. A low nervous fever set in, and many days we watched with fearful hearts. Ah! during those days I learned to look too eagerly for the doctor’s coming. Indeed, he made his way into the hearts of all in our home. After the dreaded crisis had passed, and we knew that Lilly would be spared to us, the doctor told mother he should have to prescribe for me. I had grown pale, from confinement in the sickroom, and he must take me for a drive, that the fresh air should bring the roses back to my cheeks. Willingly mother consented. After that I often went. When Lilly was able to come down-stairs, this greatest pleasure of my life then was divided with her. One afternoon I stood on the porch with her, waiting while the doctor arranged something about the harness.

“‘Oh! _how_ I wish it was my time to go!’ she whispered.

“‘Well, darling, it shall be your time. I can go tomorrow. Run, get your hat and wraps,’ I said, really glad to give any additional pleasure to this child of many sorrows.

“‘No, no, that would not be fair. And, Edna, don’t you know that _tomorrow_ I would be so sorry if I went today? I do not mean to be selfish, but, oh, indeed, I cannot help it! I am wishing _every time_ to go. Not that I care for a ride—’ She hesitated, flushed, and whispered: ‘I like to be with my doctor. Don’t you, Edna? Oh! I wish he was my father, or brother, or cousin—just to be with us all the time, you know.’

“Just then the doctor came for me, and I had to leave her. As we drove off I looked back and kissed my hand to her, saying:

“‘Dear little thing! I wish she was going with us.’

“‘I do not,’ the doctor surprised me by saying.

“I raised my eyes inquiringly to his. In those beautiful, earnest eyes I saw something that made me profoundly happy. I could not speak. After a moment he added:

“‘She is a beautiful, winning child, and I enjoy her company. But when with her, I feel as if it was my duty to devote myself entirely to her—in a word, to take care of her, or, I should say, to care for _her_ only. And this afternoon, of all others, I do not feel like having Lilly with us.’

“That afternoon was one of the happiest of my life. Although not a word of love passed his lips, I knew it filled his heart, and was for me. He told me of his home, his relatives, his past life. Of his mother he said:

“‘When you know her, you will love her dearly.’

“He seemed to be sure that I should know her. And then—ah, well, I thought so too, then.

“Lilly was waiting for us when we returned. He chided her for being out so late. It was quite dark. Tears filled her eyes as she raised them to his and said:

“‘Don’t be angry. I could not help watching. Oh, why did you stay _so_ long? I thought you would never come back. I was afraid something had happened—that the horse had run away, or—’

“‘Angry I could not be with you, little one. But I don’t want you to get sick again. Come, now, smile away your tears and fears! Your friend is safe and with you again,’ the doctor answered.”

Taking her hand, he led her into the parlor.

“He had not understood the cause of her tears. Only for him she watched and wept.

“‘_Do_ stay,’ she plead, when her doctor was going.

“He told her he could not, then; there was another call he must make, but would return after a while.

“She counted the minutes, until she should see him again. Never concealing from any of us how dearly she loved him. She was truly as guileless as a child of six years.

“From the first of her acquaintance with him, she had declared ‘her doctor’ was like her father. Mother too, admitted, the resemblance was very decided.

“This it was, I think, that first made him so dear to her.

“Several times, after the doctor returned that evening, I saw he sought opportunity to speak to me, unheard by others. But Lilly was always near.

“Ah! it was better so. Better that from his _own_ lips I heard not those words he would have spoken. Doubly hard would have been the trial. Oh, that night when he said, ‘good-byee!’ He slipped in my hand a little roll of paper. As Lilly still stood at the window, watching as long as she could see him, I stole away to open the paper. Then, for a while, I forgot Lilly, aye, forgot everything, in my great happiness. He loved me! On my finger sparkled the beautiful diamond—my engagement ring—to be worn on the morrow, ‘if I could return his love,’ he said.

“Quickly I hid my treasures away, his note and the ring—Lilly was coming.

“She was not yet strong, and soon tired. I helped her to get off her clothes, and as she kissed me good-night, she said:

“‘I wish we had a picture of him—don’t you?’

“‘Who, dear?’ I asked.

“‘My doctor! Who else? You tease. You _knew_ well enough,’ she answered, as she nestled her pretty head closer to mine.

“Soon she was sleeping and dreaming of him. Sweet dreams at first I knew they were; for soft smiles flitted over her face.

“I could not sleep. A great fear stole in upon my happiness. Did not Lilly love him too? How would she receive the news which soon must reach her? Was her love such as mine? Such as is given to but one alone? Or only as a brother did she love him? I must _know_ how it was. Heaven grant that joy for one would not bring sorrow to the other, I prayed. I had not long to wait. Her dreams became troubled. Her lips quivered and trembled, and then with a cry of agony she started up.

“‘Gone, gone, gone!’ she sobbed.

“It was many minutes ere I succeeded in calming and making her understand ’twas but a dream.

“‘Oh, but _so_ real, so _dreadfully_ real. I thought he did not care for me. That he had gone and left me, and they told me he was married!’

“Telling this, she began to sob again.

“‘Lilly, dear, tell me truly—tell your sister, your very best friend—how it is you love your doctor?’ I asked.

“‘How?’ she returned. ‘Oh, Edna, more than all the world! He is all that I have lost and more; and if he should die, or I should lose him, I would not wish to live. I _could_ not live. He loves me a little, does he not, Edna?’

“I could not reply. Just then there was a terrible struggle going on in my heart. _That_ must be ended, the victory won ere I could speak. She waited for my answer and then said, eagerly:

“‘Oh, speak, _do_! What _are_ you thinking about?’

“Pressing back the sigh—back and far down into the poor heart—I gave her the sweet, and kept the bitter part, when I could answer.

“‘Yes, dear, I _do_ think he loves you a little now, and will, by-and-by, love you dearly. God grant he may!’

“‘Oh, you darling Edna! You have made me so happy!’ she cried, kissing me; and still caressing me she fell asleep.

“Next morning I enclosed the ring, with only these words:

“‘Forgive if I cause you sorrow, and believe me your true friend. I return the ring that I am not _free_ to accept.’

“I intended that my reply should mislead him, when I wrote that I was not free, and thus to crush any hope that might linger in his heart. While at breakfast that morning, we received a telegram that grandma was extremely ill, and wanted me. Thus, fate seemed to forward my plans. I had thought to go away for a while. I told mother all. How her dear heart ached for me! Yet she dared not say aught against my decision. She took charge of the note for the doctor, and by noon I was on my journey. Two years passed ere I returned home. Mother wrote me but little news of either Lilly or her doctor after the first letter, telling that my note was a severe shock and great disappointment. Three or four months elapsed before grandma was strong enough for me to leave her. An opportunity at that time presented for my going to Europe. I wanted such an entire change, and gladly accepted. Frequently came letters from Lilly. For many months they were filled with doubts and anxiety; but after a while came happier and shorter ones. Ah, she had only time to be with him, and to think in his absence of his coming again.

“When I was beginning to tire of all the wonders and grandeur of the old world, and nothing would still the longing for home, the tidings came they were married, Lilly and her doctor, and gone to his western home to take charge of the patients of his uncle, who had retired from practice. Then I hastened back, and ever since, dear girls, I have been contented, finding much happiness in trying to contribute to that of those so dear. Now, little Edna, you have my only love-story, its beginning and ending.”

“But, aunty, do tell me his name,” I said. “Indeed, it is not merely idle curiosity. I just feel as if I must know it—that it is for something very important. Now you need not smile. I’m very earnest, and I shall not sleep until I know. I really felt a presentiment that if I knew his name it might in some way affect the conclusion of the story.”

“Well, my child, I may as well tell you. Dr. Graham it was—Percy Graham,” Aunt Edna answered, low.

“Ah! did I not tell you? It was not curiosity. Listen, aunty mine. While you were away last winter, papa received a paper from St. Louis; he handed it to me, pointing to an announcement. But I will run get it. He told me to show it to you, and I forgot. I did not dream of all this.”

From my scrap-book I brought the slip, and Aunt Edna read:

“DIED.—Suddenly, of heart disease, on the morning of the 15th, Lilly, wife of Doctor Percy Graham, in the 34th year of her age.”

Aunt Edna remained holding the paper, without speaking, for some minutes; then, handing it back to me, she said, softly, as if talking to her friend:

“_Dear_ Lilly! Thank heaven, I gave to _you_ the _best_ I had to give, and caused you naught but happiness. God is merciful! Had _he_ been taken, and you left, how _could_ we have comforted you?” And then, turning to me, she said: “Nearly a year it is since Lilly went to heaven. ’Tis strange I have not heard of this.”

“’Tis strange from him you have not heard,” I thought; “and stranger still ’twill be if he comes not when the year is over. For surely he _must_ know that you are free—” But I kept my thoughts, and soon after kissed aunty good-night.

One month passed, and the year was out. And somebody was in our parlor, making arrangements to carry away Aunt Edna. I knew it was he, when he met me at the hall door, and said:

“Edna—Miss Linden! _can_ it be?”

“Yes and no, sir—both—Edna Linden; but, Doctor Graham, not _your_ Edna. You will find her in the parlor,” I answered, saucily, glad and sorry, both, at his coming.

Ah, she welcomed him with profound joy, I know. He knew all; papa had told him. And if he loved the beautiful girl, he then worshipped that noble woman.

“Thank God! Mine at last!” I heard him say, with fervent joy, as I passed the door, an hour after.

How beautiful she was, when, a few weeks after, she became his very own. I stood beside her and drew off her glove. How happy he looked as he placed the heavy gold circlet on her finger! How proudly he bore her down the crowded church aisle!

Ah, little Lilly was no doubt his dear and cherished wife. But _this_ one, ’twas plain to see, was the one love of his life.

THE END.

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

End of Project Gutenberg's Campfire Girls' Lake Camp, by Irene Elliott Benson