51. LI.
THE APOLOGY.
TWO or three days have passed. It is a beautiful
morning of the “Indian Summer” as before.
The landscape of mountain and valley is reposing
beneath the mellow haze; and the air has
that dreamy and delightful softness which inclines the heart
to reverie.
In the large room of Greenway Court, Lord Fairfax is
conversing with George and Cannie. The youth had
brought the girl behind him from the Fort on the preceding
evening—they had spent the night—and before setting out
to return, Cannie examined the objects around her, with
evident interest.
George was gazing at her with unconscious earnestness.
His affection for the girl had grown deeper and stronger.
As he came to know her better, the rare charms of her
mind and heart had enthralled him. Her goodness and
simplicity, and absence of all littleness, irresistibly attracted
his frank nature; and the unconscious refinement and grace
of the little maiden, riveted the influence which her character
had exerted upon the boy. He thus gazed at her
with a fondness which was plainly uncontrollable, and the
Earl smiled with melancholy pleasure as he saw the youth's
secret. His countenance wore the old expression of sorrowful
thought, but there was nothing cynical in it now.
The grim look had disappeared, and though cheerfulness
was not there, still the face was more pleasant for the
change. He leaned back in his arm-chair, caressing with
one hand the solemn head of a huge deer-hound at his side
and his gaze wandered absently but pleasantly from George
to Cannie.
“So, you like my house, Cannie?” he said; “my old
hunting-lodge?”
“Yes, sir—oh, yes, I mean my lord,” returned the girl;
“I have been looking at the books and the pictures and all.
They remind me of home.”
“Of home? Do you remember your home? Where was
that?”
“In the Low Country, sir. But I was born in England.”
“And you do not remember England?”
“Very slightly, sir. I look upon Virginia as my home,
and love it—because grandpapa is with me. He is all I
have.”
The eyes of George seemed to contradict this statement,
but he said nothing. Then a sigh from the Earl made him
turn his head,
“You are right, my child,” said the old nobleman, gazing
at Cannie with wistful tenderness; “our real home is the
land where the heart finds its rest. 'Tis a terrible disease,
what is called home-sickness, Cannie, and I've felt it, as
many others have done.”
The quick look of sympathy in the eyes of the girl seemed
to touch the Earl, and he continued in the same tone of
melancholy softness:
“I was born and reared in England, and you see that I
am living now in another land. I long sometimes to look
upon the familiar old scenes, and pluck a daisy from the sod
of old England, my mother soil. I remember the same
feeling in a nobleman of my acquaintance who was exiled
by political troubles to France. His name was Henry St.
John, a very brilliant person, whom you, George, have read
of, I am sure, and it may be Cannie, also, though he's long
dead, and she's very young. I had known him in London,
and spent many delightful hours with him—for his conversation
was wonderfully attractive. His favorite topic was
the superiority of a strong mind to misfortune—the strength
he possessed to bear up against obloquy and exile, sustained
by his own thoughts and his philosophy. Well, see
how it ended. I went to visit him in France, and a more
unhappy personage I have rarely seen. All his philosophy
was gone—he had yielded. `The burst of the cloud had gone
near to overwhelm him,' he said one day: and he looked
as he spoke toward the cliffs of England, as a child does toward
its mother. He never rested in his efforts to regain
his home—and sometimes I think I am his shadow in the
New World. I would return, and lay my bones in the soil
where my forefathers sleep.”
The Earl was silent again, absently caressing the head of
the great deer-hound.
“All is the same, however, my dear,” he added, in a
moment, “under the blue skies of home, or the stormy
clouds of distant countries, the one thing is to be honest
and true. One looks down on us who governs and directs
for the best—do you not feel that?”
“Oh, yes, sir—my lord,” returned Cannie, to whose eyes
the sad tones of the old cavalier had brought tears, “indeed
I do, and that is enough to make us happy, I am sure! In
the mountaians or the lowlands, He is still beside us.
Whether we are buried in the sands, or the ocean, it is still
the same—as Mr. Falconbridge said, you remember,
George.”
“Mr. Falconbridge?” murmured the Earl; “do you
know him, then, Cannie?”
“Oh, yes, sir—he has been to see us, and I could not
help loving him. His face is so kind and true-looking—and
when he smiles I feel as if it was sunshine.”
“That is true,” said the Earl, with a bright light in his
eyes which made his face pleasant to behold. “Mr. Falbridge
is truly a gentleman.”
“Oh, I'm sure he is. I loved him from the first moment
I saw him.”
“He loved you as well,” said a voice behind the speaker.
And Falconbridge, who had entered without attracting
attention, inclined his head to the company. In a moment
the girl, by an irresistible impulse, had risen to her feet, and
caught in her own warm little hand, the thin hand of the
young man. Then she gazed into his eyes with a wistful
look, and said:
“You are very, very pale, sir.”
Indeed the young man resembled a ghost rather than a
human being. All the laughing pride of the eye and lip
had vanished; his cheeks had lost their bloom, and were falling
away; an unspeakable sadness stamped his entire countenance
and bearing; in a few days he seemed to have lived
twenty years. As he smiled now, and pressed the little
hand in his own, there was something so touching and pathetic
in his appearance, that Cannie could not restrain her
tears.
“There, there, don't cry, my dear,” said Falconbridge;
“you distress me. The change in my appearance moves
you, I suppose—but 'tis nothing. I have been somewhat
unwell, but am better. I trust your lordship is well.”
And the speaker inclined low, with stately courtesy, before
the Earl.
“Thanks—yes, sir—very well,” replied Lord Fairfax, who
had scarcely moved, and still regarded his visitor with evident
agitation. But there was nothing hostile in his emotion.
On the contrary a strange earnestness and softness
characterized his bearing, as he pointed to a seat, and
bowed low to his guest.
“Many thanks, my lord,” returned Falconbridge, “but
my visit must be brief. In three days I shall leave this region,
and I come to make an explanation to your lordship.”
The Earl, still singularly agitated, glanced uneasily at
George and Cannie. The two young persons rose with
quick courtesy, and would have retired, but Falconbridge
arrested them by a movement of his hand.
“No, do not retire,” he said; “my explanation is not
a private one—and I have entire confidence in you both,
George and Cannie. Pray remain, then—and now, my
lord, for my business. I have come hither to say, like an
honest gentleman, that I have wronged you, and to beg
you to pardon me. I will imitate the reserve of your lordship
on the mountain yonder, and add in general terms
what I mean. I accused you, in my heart, and to your face,
in the forest there, of an unworthy and dishonorable action.
I insulted and outraged you, and forced you to meet me in
single combat. I am truly glad at the issue of that business,
for I wronged you, not intentionally, but no less
really. Since that time, I have discovered my error, and
your innocence. I have been ill, and had time to reflect.
I have risen from my sick couch to come and say to your
lordship, that I am sorry for my words and for my actions
—to declare my conviction of your irreproachable honor—
and to entreat your pardon and forgiveness.”
With these words Falconbridge bowed low again, and was
silent.
“I have nothing to forgive, sir,” replied the Earl, almost
eagerly; “I should rather sue to you—for I have wounded
you, I fear, deeply. On my honor, sir, the act was not malicious—I
pray you to forget all, and receive my hand.”
There was something earnest and noble in the voice of
the Earl as he thus spoke, and a slight color came to the
cheek of the young man. He took the proffered hand, and
the eyes of the strange rivals met in one long look of deep
meaning.
“I shall now beg your lordship's permission to retire,”
said Falconbridge. “I am not well, and the ride hither has
fatigued me. As I have declared, in three days I leave this
country. This will be my farewell to your lordship.”
Then turning to George and Cannie, he held out his
hand, with the melancholy smile which had excited the
child's tears. She cried again as she took it, and George
bit his lip to conceal his emotion.
“I am glad to have seen your kind face again,” he said to
Cannie; and yours, George, though I trust you'll come to
see me before I go. And now, good-bye. I salute your
lordship, and bid you farewell.”
In spite of the Earl's hospitable invitations to remain,
which were uttered with great earnestness, the young man
then departed; and soon afterwards George and Cannie set
ont on their return to the mountain.
“In three days!” murmured the Earl,—“then he goes
in three days! But he shall not!—no, he shall not! How
noble he is, and how pale! Poor boy, my heart ached
when he smiled as he did. In three days? We shall
see!”
As the Earl spoke thus, Captain Wagner hastily entered
the apartment.
