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  THE CURSE OF
  POCAHONTAS

  By WENONA GILMAN

  HART SERIES NO. 102

  Copyright 1895, by George Munro's Sons
  Copyright, 1912 by The Arthur Westbrook Co.

  Published by
  THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY,
  Cleveland Ohio, U. S. A.




THE CURSE OF POCAHONTAS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I.
  CHAPTER II.
  CHAPTER III.
  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.
  CHAPTER VI.
  CHAPTER VII.
  CHAPTER VIII.
  CHAPTER IX.
  CHAPTER X.
  CHAPTER XI.
  CHAPTER XII.
  CHAPTER XIII.
  CHAPTER XIV.
  CHAPTER XV.
  CHAPTER XVI.
  CHAPTER XVII.
  CHAPTER XVIII.
  CHAPTER XIX.
  CHAPTER XX.
  CHAPTER XXI.
  CHAPTER XXII.
  CHAPTER XXIII.
  CHAPTER XXIV.
  CHAPTER XXV.
  CHAPTER XXVI.
  CHAPTER XXVII.
  CHAPTER XXVIII.
  CHAPTER XXIX.
  CHAPTER XXX.
  CHAPTER XXXI.
  CHAPTER XXXII.
  CHAPTER XXXIII.
  CHAPTER XXXIV.
  CHAPTER XXXV.
  CHAPTER XXXVI.
  CHAPTER XXXVII.




CHAPTER I.


Mrs. de Barryos sat beside a window overlooking a dainty rose-garden,
the golden sunshine streaming over her, the balmly air lifting the soft
curls of dark hair that was artistically touched with gray. Her hands
were folded idly over a letter that lay in her lap--small hands that
looked as if they had never known the meaning of toil, they were pale
and thin, like the face of the woman to whom they belonged, for Mrs. de
Barryos was an invalid.

She had been pretty before her face acquired its present angles through
suffering; never beautiful, but pretty in a dainty, meaningless sort of
way; inoffensively pretty some people might have called her, for there
was no strength in it, nor character. Her eyes were innocent, wide-open
brown ones that were like those of an obedient child. Her chin was
decidedly weak, and about the mouth had grown with her age a sort of
querulous tremble, as if she felt that the world had used her unfairly,
and wanted all mankind to sympathize with and pet her because of it.

She was never known to miss an opportunity to tell people of all the
wretchedness that had been so bravely and uncomplainingly borne. She
had fancied for the past five years that death was imminent, that its
shadows lay across her threshold, and yet she was apparently as far
from it as she had been at the beginning of the five years.

There was another thing about Mrs. de Barryos' life of which she was
apparently as proud as of her illness and patience, and that was the
fact that she was a lineal descendant of the renowned Pocahontas, a
fact at which some people laughed; but it was an undisputed fact, all
the same, for the historical Indian maiden had given birth to one of
the grandfathers upon the maternal side, and the curling hair and
weakness of character had been inherited from the branch of the family
that should have imparted its strength.

And it was of that same ancestress that Mrs. de Barryos was thinking as
she sat there beside the window, her eyes mechanically following the
flitting movements of a graceful form in the garden that was bending
above the roses.

And surely the girl was beautiful enough to look upon.

It might have been easy enough to believe that there was the blood of
an Indian flowing through her veins, for the clear olive complexion,
the inky blackness of the hair, which still was not straight, the
touch of crimson in the cheeks, and the great velvet eyes might have
indicated it. There was a better explanation of it, however, in the
fact that her father was a Mexican.

After a little she came toward the window at which her mother sat, her
arms filled with the lovely crimson blossoms that fitted her dusky
beauty so royally, and seated herself upon the sill of the window,
dropping the roses about her in gorgeous profusion as she prepared to
bind them into a bouquet.

"Aren't they exquisite?" she asked, admiringly, her voice a full, rich
contralto that made music even of the most ordinary speech. "It seems
to me that I never saw them so fine before."

"I wish you would put them away!" exclaimed her mother, querulously.
"It seems to me, Carlita, that you are always working among the
flowers, and that I never get a moment in which to speak to you."

The girl threw one swift glance of blended astonishment and reproach
in her mother's direction, then rose quietly, gathered up her flowers,
entered the room, and placed them upon a table, then drew a stool to
her mother's feet and sat upon it.

"I am awfully sorry if I have neglected you, dearest," she said,
gently. "Was there anything special that you wanted to speak to me
about?"

"Yes, there is," returned the plaintive voice. "There is something I
want to tell you. I have just had a letter from--from Jessica."

"Well?"

"I--I wrote to her mother the other day. I know you don't like me to be
making preparations for my death, Carlita, but--"

"Oh, mother!"

"Well, what is a woman to do when she sees death staring her in the
face and no one will believe it?" cried the woman, fretfully. "I wanted
to make some provision for you, and--"

"My dear, my dear, if you knew how this pains me, I am sure--"

"If I don't know, it isn't because you haven't told me often enough,
Heaven knows!" exclaimed Mrs. de Barryos, with irritation. "You never
think of any one but yourself, Carlita."

For a moment it seemed as if the girl were about to utter a protest;
then she thought better of it, and contented herself with a little
gesture of deprecation and silence.

After a brief hesitation, her mother continued more quietly, soothed,
perhaps, by her daughter's submission:

"Your Aunt Erminie and I never agreed, and so I knew that you would not
desire to live there at my death, and so I have written to Jessica's
mother, who was my old school friend, asking if I might appoint her
your guardian. She has written today, through Jessica, to say that she
will be very happy to accept the trust. I have not seen Louise for a
very great many years; but I have always loved her, and I am quite sure
that she will be kind to my little motherless girl."

"Oh, mother! Why will you persist in saying such dreadful things?"

"Because I know the end is not far off, my dear, and--"

"You have said that same thing for five years."

"Then the end is five years nearer. I never can have any satisfaction
in talking to you, Carlita. You won't sit down and reason a thing out,
as other people do."

The girl leaned her exquisite face upon her hand and looked dreamily
through the window.

"I beg your pardon," she said, softly. "I will not interrupt again."

"I feel so satisfied," her mother continued, spreading out her hands
curiously; "now that Louise has undertaken your guardianship, I can die
quite contented. You will have Jessica for a companion, and--"

"I have never seen Jessica or her mother."

"There you go again! What difference can that possibly make? Louise
and I were the greatest friends as girls. I shall never forget how she
cried when I told her that I was going to marry your father.

"'My dear Dorindah,' she said, 'you will regret it to the last day of
your life. Jose de Barryos is a hot-tempered Mexican, and you know how
dreadful they are.'

"It was quite true, Carlita. I never knew a moment's happiness from
the time I married your father until the day he died."

The girl moved restlessly; there was intense pain depicted in her
countenance; but her mother continued as if she had not observed:

"He ruined my life, made me the wreck that I am--I, who was called one
of the greatest beauties of my day. I was never happy for a single
moment after I became his wife; but that is only what I might have
expected from the curse that rests upon me."

"The curse that rests upon you?" returned Carlita, looking at her
mother for the first time with a dawning interest. "Why, what curse
rests upon you?"

"It is that about which I wanted to talk to you, that about which I
wanted to tell you. My poor child, when you go into the world, at my
death, you will go with the same curse upon you that has spoiled my
life, and that must wreck yours."

"Mother, what do you mean?" asked Carlita.

"It is a curse of Pocahontas, child--the curse that falls, from
generation to generation, upon one girl child who shows the trace of
the Indian, and you are that one! I was the one of my generation, you
of yours."

"Mother, you are jesting."

"I am in most deadly earnest, Carlita. You know that we are descendants
of Pocahontas. She married a white man--John Rolf, if you remember--and
died a broken-hearted woman. She left one son, and upon her death-bed
she pronounced a curse--a curse that has never failed to fall. It was
that one girl descendant of each generation should suffer, through
her love, even as she had suffered. It was that she should know no
happiness; that if she dared to love, the most bitter misery should
fall upon her and the man of her choice. And the curse has never
failed, Carlita. It has never failed and it never can fail. Think!
You have heard the story of how, when your great-aunt and uncle were
coming from their wedding, the skiff in which they were crossing the
river capsized, and all within it were drowned--six of them! Your
great-grandmother went mad, and died a raving maniac, when her husband
was killed right before her eyes. Your grandmother died of a broken
heart when her husband wandered away, and no one ever knew whether
the Indians killed him, or he simply deserted her. He was never heard
of afterward. Your mother's pitiful history you know well enough; it
needs no repetition. I want you to know all this, and that the curse
has descended to you, in order that you may escape the misery and
heartache that has fallen upon the others of your race. If you would
save yourself from suffering and death, you must never love!"

The girl sprang to her feet, the crimson color passionately staining
her cheeks.

"Mother!" she cried, hotly, "what are you saying? Would you rob a
young life of all that makes it worth the living? Would you make of
me a hermit, shunning the whole world, and shunned in turn? Would you
deprive me of that sentiment for which God created me woman?"

The invalid stretched out her hands again deprecatingly.

"I have only told you the truth," she said, without the slightest
compassion for her daughter's suffering, because she could not
understand it. "I have warned you and done my duty. I shall not be
here to look after you and protect you, and all that I can do is to
warn you. The truth stands there, and you must recognize it. If you
love, if you wed, you will not only ruin your own life, but that of
the man who tempts you to marriage. You have that to keep before you
always--always. If I had done it I should not be the wreck I am today;
but I had no one to warn me against the fate I was preparing for
myself. Just keep these words ever fresh within your memory, and you
will be safe: 'The curse of Pocahontas rests upon me!'"




CHAPTER II.


Shortly after that, to the surprise of everybody, Mrs. de Barryos did
die.

People had expected that she was going to be one of those who lived
eternally, eternally complaining, and her death came in the nature of
a sort of shock to the community. Carlita was looked upon with general
favor, and there were those who, while they sighed, exclaimed to each
other consolingly:

"Well it is the first freedom of any sort the poor child ever had. She
will grieve, of course, but as soon as the first shock has worn off,
she'll be happier than she ever was in her life before."

But any kind of a mother is better than no mother at all, and there was
the sincerest sorrow in Carlita's heart. There was enough of the warm
Mexican blood in her veins to fill her with a passion that was beyond
the understanding of those colder, more northern folk, and she had
loved her mother very sincerely. She was frightened, too, at the time
of her mother's death by the remembrance of that curse which her mother
had impressed upon her many times before the end came, and felt that
shrinking sense of loneliness, of bitter oppression, of isolation from
all the world that is so hard to bear.

When Jose de Barryos died he left his fortune, and it was considerable,
equally to his wife and daughter, the daughter under her guardianship
and that of a brother who did not long survive him, so that at the
time of Mrs. de Barryos' death there was considerable interest felt as
to who she had appointed guardian of her daughter in her own place,
Carlita being still under legal age. Some said that she would appoint
her husband's sister, Mrs. Erminie Blanchard but there were others
who knew that there had not been sufficient friendship between the
two women for that, and there was a rustle of excitement felt when
two ladies in mourning arrived on the day of the funeral, two women
whom none of them had ever seen before, but who went at once to the
great de Barryos mansion, for it was nothing less in that country, and
established themselves in the house.

There was considerable talk among the neighbors, who stood off and
looked at them from a distance like frightened sheep, feeling somehow
an embarrassment that they were never known to exhibit before.

Both of them were large women, the elder inclined to be stout, with a
waist that was suspiciously small for the size of bust and hips. Her
hair was yellow--a brilliant, half-greenish yellow--that contrasted
oddly with her very dark eyebrows and black lashes. Her eyes were a
dark blue, and her complexion very white and very pink about the cheeks.

She was startlingly young-looking to confess to being the mother of the
young woman who accompanied her.

She--the daughter--was a curious contrast to her mother, while
following at the same time upon much the same lines. Her hair was
red--that glorious dark rich auburn--her eyes dark brown and rather
fine, her complexion singularly like that of her mother. She was not
beautiful--not even pretty--but there was a certain sort of dangerous
fascination about her that even inexperienced people recognized.

Carlita rather gasped when they bore down upon her suddenly the day
of her mother's funeral, their mourning was so heavy, so crisp, so
new, and they gushed over her in such a curious way, calling her "a
dear thing!" "darling!" and all the rest of it, which was quite new to
Carlita, and they took such absolute possession of everything. But she
explained it all to herself by remembering that letter which her mother
had received signed "Jessica," and tried to be satisfied.

When the will was read, the good people understood it all better.

Mrs. Louise Chalmers has been appointed guardian of the orphaned
heiress, and Mrs. Louise Chalmers was that rather large, rather showy,
rather overdressed, while yet in mourning, woman, and to her had been
left an income of eight thousand dollars a year so long as she remained
Carlita's guardian.

Her black-bordered handkerchief was pressed very closely to her eyes
during the reading of the will; but although an occasional sob was
heard by those who sat nearest to her, there wasn't an atom of moisture
on the handkerchief when it was removed. Her little, black King Charles
spaniel fidgeted and sneezed on her lap during the entire time, not
quite able to comprehend why he should be neglected for the first time
in all his absurdly spoiled life.

It did not seem quite appropriate to those plain Southern folks that
Mrs. Chalmers should hold a dog on her lap during the reading of her
old friend's will; but they rather forgave her when she went up to
Carlita, and, in a really very pretty way, put her arms about the young
orphan's neck, and said in her sweetest and most maternal voice:

"I can not take your mother's place, my darling, but I shall try to be
a second one to you. It is a very sacred trust that she has left me,
and I shall try with all my heart to be worthy of it."

And she immediately took the place of "second mother," taking the
direction of everything in her own hands with a clear sweep that rather
staggered Carlita. Her mother had been ill for five years before her
death, as has already been told, and the girl had been housekeeper
in entire charge, so that to be so completely swept aside in her own
domain was something which she had not calculated upon. Still, she
submitted, because there did not seem to be anything else to be done.

There were not many changes made in the house, because practically
there was no way of making them. The town was not full of
opportunities. The people were slow and inactive. Jose de Barryos had
owned a huge cotton plantation just outside the limits of the town, and
had been contented to have his dwelling-place there, though it must
be confessed that he had not spent much of his time at home. He and
his wife had not agreed sufficiently well