A wave of pity for her, born of his love for another, swept over him at the remembrance of her words at the birth of their little daughter on the island of Bermuda.
“I would that it had been a boy, John. Then perhaps you might have learned to love the mother.”
No words of tender assurance and comfort had come to his lips; there was nothing in his heart to prompt them. His answer had been another blow to her hungry heart.
“We must make the best of it, wife,” he had replied, as he gravely kissed her brow, ignoring her loving lips.
Then the little Bermuda died on the voyage from the island to Virginia, and the mother followed soon after they reached Jamestown. The learned doctor spoke wisely of a frail constitution, worn out by the hardships of the voyage and wreck of the ship. The wise Hippocrates might have been mistaken—perhaps her heart had died for lack of nourishment. He paused beside the long grave, and resting his hand upon the marble cross, held communion with his unloved dead.
“Wife, you know what it is to love, to feel the heart beat to suffocation in the presence of the beloved. It was not my fault that I could not give you what you craved. Love will not go or come at the bidding of the will. In the clearer light in which you live let your pity and compassion cover my sins of neglect.”
A sense of comfort stole over him which he interpreted as forgiveness from the spirit dwelling where there is no marrying or giving in marriage. He felt free to think of his love for Pocahontas.
Hardly had he settled this matter with his conscience than Pride awoke and demanded a hearing. Many were the weary battles he fought with it. What would his equals think of a marriage between him and the Indian maiden? He felt a just pride in his honorable line of ancestry. Would he be stooping to a mesalliance? There were fair ladies in England whom he could wed, for he had much influence to back him. They would bring name and fortune to add to his.
“Pocahontas is a princess, daughter of the King of Virginia,” whispered Inclination.
“True,” retorted Pride, “but can an Indian princess match with the house of Rolfe?”