76. LXXVI.
THE HEART OF LORD FAIRFAX.
SINCE the events which we have related, more
than thirty years have passed.
The month of October, 1781, is drawing to its
close.
In a house in Winchester, a man of about eighty, with
long gray hair, thickly powdered; a thin, worn countenance,
bearing the marks of illness; and an attenuated figure clad
in a richly embroidered dressing-gown, sits in a large arm-chair,
supported by pillows, extending his hands from time
to time toward a cheerful blaze in the wide fireplace.
At three paces from him, erect, silent, and watchful, stands
an old servant, with hair as gray as his master's, but a face
still hale and ruddy in spite of his great age.
“John,” says the invalid, in a thin, weak voice.
“My lord.”
And the old servant approaches his master.
“What noise was that, which I heard? They were shouting
in the street, I thought. Has any intelligence arrived
from the army? You came in a moment ago, and must
be informed. What intelligence?”
Old John hesitates. Upon his countenance it is easy to
read an expression of acute pain.
“Speak!” Lord Fairfax says, in his weak and faltering
voice. “Lord Cornwallis has not evacuated Yorktown?
It is not possible!”
“No my lord,” is the low reply.
“What then?”
John hesitates again. His master turns toward him with
querulous energy.
“Am I to have a reply, or are you dumb?” he says.
Old John sighs, and looks at Lord Fairfax with deep
affection and sympathy.
“The news is bad, my lord,” he says, “and I would
rather not tell it.”
“Bad? speak! I am not a baby! Cornwallis has not
evacutated Yorktown, you say—what then?”
“Worse than that, my lord.”
Lord Fairfax rose suddenly erect in his chair.
“Worse? what do you mean?”
Old John groans this time.
“I thought to keep the news from you, my lord. But
you order me to speak, and I obey your order. My lord,
Cornwallis has surrendered his army.”
“Surrendered!”
“Yes, my lord!” groans old John.
“To — George Washington?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Fairfax sinks back, and a groan of inexpressible anguish
tears its way from the trembling breast.
“That boy! that boy!” he murmurs, “the child whom I
brought up! The English dominion in North America
overturned by that curly pate!”
A spasm passes over the features of the old earl, as he
utters these words. He totters in his chair. Suddenly he
extends his arms toward the old servant, closes his eyes,
and murmurs.
“Take me to bed, John, it is time for me to die!”[1]
Six months afterwards he was dead.
