Mary Greenway McClelland - Princess

M >> Mary Greenway McClelland >> Princess

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Having finished her work, Pocahontas crossed the room to one of the
tall, old-fashioned windows, and pushed open the half-shut blinds,
letting a flood of sunshine and morning freshness into the room. Under
the window stood an ottoman covered with drab cloth, on which the
fingers of some dead and gone Mason had embroidered a dingy wreath of
roses and pansies. Pocahontas knelt on it, resting her arms on the
lofty window-sill, and gazed out over the lawn, and enjoyed the dewy
buoyance of the air. The September sunshine touched with golden glory
the bronze abundance of her hair, which a joyous, rollicking breeze,
intoxicated with dew and the breath of roses, tangled and tumbled into
a myriad witcheries of curl and crinkle. The face, glorified by this
bright aureole, was pure and handsome, patrician in every line and
curve, from the noble forehead, with its delicate brown brows, to the
well-cut chin, which spoke eloquently of breadth of character and
strength of will. The eyes were gray, and in them lay the chief charm
of the face, for their outlook was as honest and fearless as that of a
child--true eyes they were, fit windows for a brave, true soul.

The house, neutral-tinted with years and respectability, stood well
back from the river, to whose brink the smooth, green lawn swept in
scarcely perceptible undulation. The river here was broad, almost
resembling an arm of the sea it was moving languidly to join. There
was no haste about it, and no fret of ever active current; as all large
bodies should, it moved slowly, and the eye rested gratefully on the
tranquil flow. Across the water, apparently against the far horizon, a
dense line of trees, fringing the further shore, rose tall and dark,
outlined with picturesque distinctness against the soft, warm blue.
The surrounding country was flat, but relieved from monotony by a
certain pastoral peacefulness, and a look of careless plenty which,
with thrift, might have become abundance. In the meadows the grass
grew rich and riotous between the tall stacks of cured hay, and the
fields of corn and tobacco gave vigorous promise of a noble harvest.
The water also teemed with life and a shiftless out-at-elbow energy.
Shabby looking fishing smacks, with dirty white wings, like birds too
indolent to plume themselves, passed constantly, and flat-bottomed
canoes, manned by good-humored negro oystermen, plied a lazy, thievish
trade, with passing steamers.

Presently a gate slammed somewhere in the regions back of the house,
and there was a sound of neighing and trampling. Pocahontas leaned far
out, shading her eyes with her hands, to watch the colts career wildly
across the lawn, with manes and tails and capering legs tossed high in
air, in the exuberance of equine spirits. Following them sedately came
a beautiful black mare, stepping high and daintily, as became a lady of
distinction. She was Kentucky born and bred, and had for sire none
other than Goldenrod himself. In answer to a coaxing whistle of
invitation, she condescended to approach the window and accept sugar
and caresses. Pocahontas patted the glossy head and neck of the
beauty, chattering soft nonsense while the little heap of sugar she had
placed on the window-sill vanished. Presently she laid an empty palm
against the nose pushed in to her, and dealt it a gentle blow.

"That's all, Phyllis; positively all this morning. You would empty the
sugar bowl if I'd let you. No, take your nose away; it's all gone;
eleven great lumps have you had, and the feast of the gods is over."

But Phyllis would not be convinced; she pushed her nose up over the
window ledge, and whinnied softly. As plainly as a horse can beg, she
begged for more, but her mistress was obdurate. Placing both hands
behind her, she drew back into the room, laughing.

"Not another lump," she called, "eleven are enough. Greedy Phyllis, to
beg for more when you know I'm in earnest. Go away and play with the
colts; you'll get no more to-day."

"You'll never make Phyllis believe that, my dear," remarked a tall,
gray-haired lady, in a pretty muslin cap, who had entered unperceived.

"Oh, yes, mother. She understands quite well. See, she's moving off
already. Phyllis knows I never break my word, and that persuasion is
quite useless," replied Pocahontas, turning to give her mother the
customary morning kiss, to place her chair before the waiter for her,
and to tell her how becoming her new cap was. The Masons never
neglected small courtesies to each other.

The branch of the Mason family still resident at the old homestead of
Lanarth had dwindled to four living representatives--Mrs. Mason, who
had not changed her name in espousing her cousin Temple Mason, of
Lanarth, and her son Berkeley, and daughters Grace and Pocahontas.
There had been another son, Temple, the younger, whose story formed one
of those sad memories which are the grim after-taste of war. All three
of the Masons had worn gray uniforms; the father had been killed in a
charge at Malvern Hill, the elder son had lost his good right arm, and
the younger had died in prison.

Of the two daughters, Grace had early fulfilled her destiny in true
Virginian fashion, by marrying a distant connection of her family, a
Mr. Royall Garnett, who had been a playmate of her brothers, and whose
plantation lay in an adjoining county. With praiseworthy conservatism,
Mrs. Garnett was duplicating the uneventful placidity of her parents'
early years, content to rule her household wisely, to love and minister
to her husband, and to devote her energies to the rearing of her
children according to time-honored precedent. Pocahontas, the youngest
of the family, was still unmarried, nay, more--still unengaged.

They had called her "Pocahontas" in obedience to the unwritten law of
southern families, which decrees that an ancestor's sin of distinction
shall be visited on generations of descendants, in the perpetuation of
a name no matter what its hideousness. It seems a peculiarity of
distinguished persons to possess names singularly devoid of beauty;
therefore, among the burdens entailed by pride upon posterity, this is
a grievous one. Some families, with the forest taint in their blood,
at an early date took refuge in the softer, prettier "Matoaca;" but not
so the Masons. It was their pride that they never shirked an
obligation, or evaded a responsibility: they did not evade this one.
Having accepted "Pocahontas" as the name by which their ancestress was
best known, they never swerved from it; holding to it undaunted by its
length and harshness, and unmoved by the discovery of historians that
Pocahontas is no name at all, but simply a pet sobriquet applicable to
all Indian girls alike, and whose signification is scarcely one of
dignity. Historians might discover, disagree, wrangle and explain, but
Pocahontas followed Pocahontas in the Mason family with the undeviating
certainty of a fixed law.

To the present Pocahontas (the eighth in the line) it really seemed as
though the thing should stop. She yielded to the family fiat her own
case, because not having been consulted she had no option in the
matter, but when Grace's little daughter was born she put in a plea for
the child.

"Break the spell," she entreated, "and unborn generations will bless
you. We Virginians will keep on in one groove until the crack of doom
unless we are jerked out of it by the nape of the neck. Your heart
ought to yearn over the child--mine does. It's a wicked sin to call a
pretty baby by such a monstrous name."

Grace trampled on the protest: "Not name her Pocahontas? Why, of
_course_ I shall! If the name were twice as long and three times as
ugly my baby should bear it. I wonder you should object when you know
that every Pocahontas in the family has invariably turned out an
exceptionally fine woman. All have been noble, truthful, honorable;
quick to see the right and unswerving in pursuit of it. I shall call
my baby by that name, and no other."

Pocahontas opened her eyes. "Why, Grace," she said, "you talk as if
the name were a talisman; as if virtues were transmitted with it.
Isn't that silly?"

"Not at all," responded Grace promptly; "unless we cease to be
ourselves after death, we _must_ still take interest in the things of
this world, in our families and descendants. We may not be able
actually to transmit our virtues to them, but surely by guardian
influence we can help them imitate ancestral good qualities. Guardian
angels of our own blood are a great deal nearer than outside angels,
and I believe the dear Lord appoints them whenever he can; and if so,
why shouldn't the good women who are in heaven take interest in my baby
who will bear their name? It _is_ their name still, and it must hurt
them to see it soiled; of course they must take interest. Were I an
angel, the child on earth who bore my name should be my special charge."

"Then, according to your showing, Grace, six good women, now holy
angels, have baby and me in constant keeping for love of our ugly name.
The idea is fanciful, and I don't consider it orthodox: but it's
pretty, and I like it. Miss Pocahontas the ninth, you and I must walk
with circumspection, if not to grieve the good ladies up above who are
kind enough to take such interest in us."

Pocahontas mocked at Grace's idea, but it pleased her all the same, and
unconsciously it influenced her more than she knew. She loved the
legends of her house, delighted in the fact of descent from brave men
and true women. The past held her more than is common with the young
people of the present day, and she sought out and treasured all the
records of the six women who had borne her name, from the swarthy
Indian princess down to the gentle gray-haired lady who held the place
of honor at the Lanarth breakfast table.

"Princess," said Mrs. Mason, as she distributed the sugar and cream, "I
wish you'd ring the bell. Rachel must have breakfast ready by this
time, and I hear Berkeley's step outside."

Princess rang the bell quite meekly. The pet sobriquet was in as
familiar use among them as her real name, but her touch on the bell did
not suggest the imperiousness of royalty. Aunt Rachel was an old
family servant, faithful, fat, and important, and Aunt Rachel _hated_
to be hurried. She said "it pestered her, an' made her spile the
vittles." She answered promptly this time, however, entering with the
great waiter of hot and tasty dishes before the bell had ceased its
faint tintinnabulation. Berkeley, a tall fair man, whose right sleeve
was fastened against his breast, entered also.

"I saw Jim Byrd this morning," he remarked as he seated himself, after
the customary greeting to his mother and sister. "He called here on
his way over to Roy Garnett's, where he was going to bid good-by. I
asked him in to breakfast, but he couldn't stop; said he had promised
Grace to take breakfast with them. He has to make a farewell tour, or
old friends' feelings will be hurt. It's rather awful, and hard on
Jim, but he couldn't bear the thought of the neighbors feeling
slighted. I suggested a barbecue and a stump speech and bow, but the
idea didn't seem to appeal to Jim. Poor old fellow!"

"Couldn't he contrive to hold Shirley, Berke?" questioned Mrs. Mason,
as she passed his cup. "He had retained possession so long, there must
have been some way to hold it altogether."

"No; the thing was impossible," replied Berkeley; "the plantation was
mortgaged to the hub before Jim was born. The Byrds have been
extravagant for generations, and a crash was inevitable. Old Mr. Byrd
could barely meet the interest, even before the loss of Cousin Mary's
money. During the last years of his life some of it was added to the
principal, which made it harder work for Jim. But for Jim's
management, and the fact that the creditors all stood like a row of
blocks in which the fall of one would inevitably touch off the whole
line, things would have gone to smash long ago. Each man was afraid to
move in the matter, lest by so doing he should invite his own creditors
to come down on him. Until lately they haven't bothered Jim much
outside of wringing all the interest out of him they could get. While
his sisters were single, he was obliged to keep a home together for
them, you know. Nina's marriage last spring removed that
responsibility, and I reckon it's a relief to Jim to relinquish the
struggle."

"What a pity old Mr. Byrd persuaded Mary to sell out her bonds, and
invest the money in tobacco during the war!" observed Mrs. Mason,
regretfully. "It would have been something for the children if she had
kept the bonds. It was too bad that those great warehouses, full of
tobacco, belonging to the Byrds and Masons were burned in Richmond at
the evacuation. Charlie Mason persuaded Mr. Byrd into that
speculation, and although Charlie is my own cousin and Mary's brother,
I must admit that he did wrong. Your father always disapproved of the
sale of those bonds."

"The speculation was a good one, and would have paid splendidly had
events arranged themselves differently; even at the worst no one could
foresee the burning of Richmond. Cousin Mary's money couldn't have
freed Shirley, but if things had gone well with the venture, that
tobacco would have done so, and left a handsome surplus. Charlie Mason
is a man of fine judgment, and that he failed that time was through no
fault of his. It was the fortunes of war."

Mrs. Mason sighed and dropped the subject. She was unconvinced, and
continued to feel regret that Mr. Byrd had been allowed to work his
speculative will with his wife's little patrimony. It would have been
a serviceable nest-egg for the children, and a help to Jim in his long
struggle. All of her life, she had been accustomed to seeing husbands
assume full control of their wives' property, using it as their own,
and she had taken little thought of the equities of the matter. To her
it appeared natural that a wife's surrender to her husband should
embrace things financial as well as things less material, but in this
case she had always felt it a trifle hard. It would have been such a
pleasant thing for Jim to have had some money, and been able to hold
Shirley.

Pocahontas helped herself to hot waffles, and sugared them with a
liberal hand.

"Dear old Jim," she said, calmly, "I wish he had come in: you should
have insisted, Berkeley. It's cruel for him to have to give up the old
home to strangers, and start life in a new place. I can't bear to
think of it. Jim's such a good fellow, and Mexico seems a long way
off. When is he coming to say good-by to us, Berke?"

"This evening. He is coming to tea; so mind you have something
special."

After a pause, Mrs. Mason resumed the subject with the inquiry whether
he had heard any thing relative to the purchaser of Shirley. But
Berkeley only knew that the place had been bought by a northern man, a
retired army officer, and that his name was Smith.

After they rose from the table, he lingered awhile, watching his mother
gather the cups and saucers into the waiter in readiness for Aunt
Rachel, and Pocahontas collect scraps for the dogs, two of which were
already poking impatient, wistful noses into the room. Beyond the
threshold they were not allowed to intrude, but they stood in the
passage outside the open door, and whined and indulged in sharp "yaps"
of protest against hope deferred. When they saw their mistress
advancing with a heaped-up plate of food, both gave reins to their joy,
and jumped and barked around her with delight. Pocahontas loved
animals; the nobleness and fidelity of their instincts, harmonized with
the large faithfulness of her own nature.

When his sister was out of hearing, Berkeley reopened the topic of Jim
Byrd. He was standing at the mantle filling his pipe, which he
balanced dextrously against one of the ornaments, and his back was
toward his mother as he spoke.

"Mother," he questioned, "did it ever occur to you that Jim might grow
fond of Pocahontas--might want her for a wife, in fact? I fancy
something of the sort has happened, and that he came to grief. He has
been depressed and unhappy for months; and neither business, nor
trouble about the old place can account for his shunning us in the way
he has been doing lately. I don't believe he's been inside this house
twice in the last three months."

"Yes, my dear, I used often to think of it--long before Jim thought of
it himself, I believe, Berkeley. He spoke to Princess this summer, and
she refused him. She did not tell me about it; but from little things
I could guess pretty accurately. It's a great disappointment to me,
for I scarcely remember when the hope that they might love each other
first dawned on my mind. Mary Mason and I were warm friends, as well
as cousins, and it seemed natural that our children should marry."

Berkeley knew that his mother had wished him to marry Belle or Susie,
and that this was not the first time that she had been disappointed in
her desire for another Byrd-Mason match. Had Temple lived, Nina Byrd
would have been his wife: the two had been sweethearts from babyhood.

Mrs. Mason sighed regretfully. "I wish it could have been," she said;
"Jim is such a good fellow, and was always gentle and careful with the
little girls, even when he grew a great rough lad; such a little
chevalier in his feelings, too. I remember one Christmas just after
the war, when he was about fourteen, the children wanted some Christmas
green to decorate the parlor. It was the fall you were in the South,
and they wanted to make the room pretty to welcome you home again.
Susie, Nina and my two girls, went over into the Shirley woods to get
it, and Jim went with them. They found plenty of lovely holly, but no
mistletoe for a long time; you know how scarce it is around here. At
last Pocahontas 'spied a splendid bunch, full of pure, waxen berries,
way up in the top of a tall oak tree, and she set her heart at once on
having it. There had been heavy sleet the night before, and every limb
was caked with ice--slippery as glass. Climbing was doubly dangerous,
and Grace begged him not to try, but that foolish Pocahontas looked
disappointed, and Jim dashed right at the tree. It was a terribly
foolhardy thing to do, and Grace said it made her sick to watch him;
every minute she expected to see him slip and come crashing to the
ground. The little girls all cried, and Grace boxed Jim's ears the
instant he was safe on the ground again with the mistletoe. The
children came home in great excitement, Pocahontas with the mistletoe
hugged tight in her arms and tears pouring down her cheeks. When I
scolded Jim for his recklessness, he opened those honest hazel eyes of
his at me in surprise and said, 'But Princess wanted it,' as if that
were quite sufficient reason for risking his life. Poor little
Princess."

After a moment she resumed: "I wish she could have loved him in the way
we wish. Marriage is a terrible risk for a girl like her. She is too
straightforward, too uncompromisingly intolerant of every-day
littleness, to have a very peaceful life. She has grown up so
different from other girls; so full of ideals and romance; she belongs,
in thought and motives, to the last century rather than to this, if
what I hear be true. She is large-hearted and has a great capacity for
affection, but she is self-willed and she could be hard upon occasion.
If she should fall into weak or wicked hands she would both endure and
inflict untold suffering. And there is within her, too, endless power
of generosity and self-sacrifice. Poor child! with Jim I could have
trusted her; but she couldn't love him, so there's nothing to be done."

"Why couldn't she?" demanded Berkeley, argumentatively. "She'll never
do any better; Jim's a handsome fellow, as men go, brave, honorable and
sweet-tempered. What more does she want? It looks to me like sheer
perversity."

Mrs. Mason smiled indulgently at her son's masculine obtuseness. The
subtleties of women were so far beyond his comprehension that it was
hardly worth while to endeavor to make him understand. She made the
effort, however, despite its uselessness.

"It isn't perversity, Berkeley," she said; "I hardly realize, myself,
why the thing should have seemed so impossible. I suppose, having
always regarded Jim as a kindly old playmate, and big, brotherly
friend, the idea of associating sentiment with him appeared absurd.
Had they ever been separated the affair might have had a different
termination; but there has never been a break in their intercourse--Jim
has always been here, always the same. That won't do with a girl like
Princess. It is too commonplace, too devoid of interest and
uncertainty. Yes, my dear, I know that in your eyes this is folly, but
at the same time it is nature. You don't understand. Princess, I
fear, sets undue value on intellect, holding less brilliant endowments
cheap beside it. And we must admit, Berkeley, dearly as we love Jim
Byrd, and noble fellow as he is, he has not the intellectual power
which commands admiration. With all my respect for intellect, I can
see that Princess greatly overrates it. She has often declared that
unless a man were intellectually her superior, she could never love
him."

"Intellectually--a fiddle-stick!" scoffed Berkeley, contemptously.
"She don't know what she wants, or what is good for her. Women rarely
do. They make their matrimonial selections like the blindest of bats,
the most egregious of fools, and then, when the mischief is done, go in
for unending sackcloth, or a divorce court. Pocahontas will get hold
of a fellow some day who will wring her heart--with her rubbishing
longing after novelty and intellect, and fine scorn of homespun truth
and loyalty. Were I a woman, I should esteem the size of my husband's
heart, and the sweetness of his temper, matter of more importance than
the bigness of his brain, or the freshness of the acquaintance."

"Very true, my son," assented Mrs. Mason, gently, "but you are
powerless to alter women. Their hearts must go as nature wills, and
lookers-on can only pray God to guide them rightly. But, Berkeley, you
are unjust to your sister. Pocahontas has sound discrimination, and a
very clear judgment. Her inability to meet our wishes is no proof that
her choice will fall unworthily."

Berkeley made no response in words, but he looked unconvinced, and soon
withdrew to attend to the plantation, indulging in profound conclusions
about women, which were most of them erroneous.

In the afternoon Pocahontas, providing herself with a book and a gayly
colored feather fan, established herself comfortably in the old
split-bottomed rocking-chair in the deep shadow of the porch. The day
had been close and sultry, and even the darkened rooms felt stifling;
outside it was better, although the morning freshness had evaporated,
and that of evening had not yet come. The sun sank slowly westward,
sending long rays across the bosom of the river, whose waters were so
still that they gleamed with opalescent splendor. The slender leaves
of the old willows at the foot of the lawn drooped exhaustedly, showing
all their silver linings; and the sky was one tawny blaze of color.
The sail-boats in sight rocked gently with the sluggish flow of the
current, and drifted rather than sailed on their course. Once a noisy,
throbbing steamer, instinct with life and purpose, dashed by
tumultuously, churning the still water with impatient wheels, and
rupturing the slumberous air with its discordant whistle. It jarred
upon the quiet beauty of the scene, and it was a relief when it swept
around a bend of the river, leaving only a trail of blue smoke, which
was harmonious.

One of the setters who had secreted himself in the house during the hot
hours, stepped out with overdone innocence, and stretched himself in a
shaded corner, panting and yawning dismally.

Pocahontas formed the only bit of coolness in the picture, sitting in
the shadow of the old porch, in her pretty white dress, with a cape
jessamine blossom showing purely against the bronze knot of her hair,
and another among the laces on her breast. The volume of Emerson
selected for the enlargement of her mental vision lay unheeded in her
lap, and the big fan moved lazily, as the gray eyes gazed and gazed out
over the parched lawn and the glistening river until the glare nearly
blinded them.

She was thinking of Jim, and feeling pitiful and sad over her old
friend who must break away from every home association, and far from
kindred and family, among strange faces and unfamiliar surroundings,
make for himself a new life. She was sorry for Jim--grieved for his
pain in parting, for his disappointment in regard to herself, for her
own inability to give him the love he longed for. She would have loved
him had it been in her power; she honestly regretted that the calm,
true sisterly affection she felt for him could not be converted into
something warmer. Her friends wished it; his friends wished it. It
was the natural and proper thing to have happened, and yet with her it
had not happened. With Pocahontas, marriage was a very sacred thing,
not to be contemplated lightly, or entered into at all without the
sanctification of a pure, unselfish love. If she should marry Jim now,
it would be with the knowledge that the depths of her nature were
unstirred, the true rich gold still hidden. It did not seem to her
that her old playfellow's hand was the one destined to stir the one, or
discover the other. She might judge wrongly, but so it appeared to
her, and she was too loyal to Jim to imagine for an instant that he
would be satisfied with aught save her very best.

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