77. LXXVII.
THE HEART OF GEORGE.
A MONTH after this scene—that is to say, in November,
1781—a cavalier coming from the east
by way of Ashby's gap, forded the Shenandoah,
and entered the Valley.
He was a man of about fifty, tall, powerful, as straight as
an arrow, and with something proud and imposing in his
appearance and carriage. His eyes were clear and penetrating,
his lips firm, the poise of the head indicative of
command. He wore the full dress uniform of a general of
the American army, and rode an excellent horse, which went
along gaily beneath his powerful rider, through the November
sunshine.
Passing to the left of the little village of Millwood, the
stranger threw a glance toward “Saratoga,” the residence
of General Morgan, which was seen on a hill across the
woods, on his right; then he continued his way, reached
the town of White Post, turned to the left at the post, which
still stood in the main street, and pushing on, reached
Greenway Court, in its great lawn, backed by woods.
Dismounting in front of the deserted mansion, the stranger
tethered his horse to a bough, pushed open the decayed
door, and entered the house.
All was silent and dreary. The rooms were bare and
desolate. The panes of the windows were broken; the spiders
had woven their webs everywhere; and the dust lay
half an inch deep on the discolored floor.
The stranger gazed around him for a moment. Threw a
glance toward the staircase, as if he thought of ascending it;
but apparently gave up the design, and a moment afterwards
left the house, going back to his horse.
He had not uttered a word. With a parting glance at the
mansion, he mounted, and rode in the direction of the
Massinutton.
He crossed the river, and entered the gorge, along the
bank of Passage Creek, as the sun was declining.
Pushing on, as though he were afraid of being benighted,
he followed the narrow and winding road up the slope of the
mountain, and in half an hour came in front of a small
house, with a great rock at its back.
A moment afterward, he had dismounted, approached
the house, and forced an entrance through the creaking
door.
The house was deserted. Some broken furniture alone
indicated that it had once been occupied. The stranger
looked around him with painful earnestness, and then went
toward a small apartment, upon one side of the main room,
his heavy heels armed with huge spurs clashing upon the
decayed floor, and arousing a hundred echoes.
The smaller apartment was bare like the larger, but the
stranger suddenly stopped and picked up an object from
the floor. It was a small portion of a woman's or a child's
ruffle, apparently—such as at that period decorated the upper
edge of the bodice. An imperceptible tremor passed
over the stalwart frame of the personage as he gazed at the
object in his hand; then having satisfied his curiosity apparently,
he placed it in his bosom.
Returning to the front door of the mansion, he cast a final
look around him, taking in at a glance every feature, every
detail. All was ruinous, deserted; the spot had a melancholy
air about it—and the stranger slowly remounted his
horse, and left it, muttering:
“I can scarcely realize that it is the same!”
Instead of returning by the same road, he directed his
way along a devious bridle-path toward a mighty pine which
raised its trunk against the sky, on the very summit of the
mountain, at the point where it sank suddenly into the valley.
After great exertion, his horse stumbling frequently,
he reached a spot beyond which it seemed impossible to
proceed. He solved the difficulty by dismounting and advancing
on foot. Even then the ascent was arduous. The
huge masses of granite were piled up like a Titanic pyramid,
but he finally surmounted all obstacles and reached the foot
of the great pine.
It grew in a narrow patch of soil, encircled by rocks; at
its foot were three graves, marked by moss-covered slabs of
marble.
The stranger stopped to breathe for an instant, and his
glance swept the immense horizon of mountain, valley and
river. From his great elevation he looked down upon a
vast extent of country stretched beneath him like a map,
and the view was sublime in its wild magnificence.
But the wanderer had evidently come with no intention
to gaze at the landscape. He dwelt upon it for a moment
only—then his glance was directed toward the grave-stones.
He stooped down, and pushing aside the moss, read the
inscription upon the largest of the three.
The inscription was as follows:
“Beneath this ſtone lies
Edmund Viscount Fairfax, only ſon of Thomas
Lord Fairfax, of Denton, England.
God rest him.”
The stranger gazed long and sorrowfully upon the words,
recalling plainly some scenes of the past which the name on
the stone suggested. His head drooped, and a deep sigh
issued from his lips as he murmured:
“There lies the noblest heart I have ever known—a great,
true soul, full of kindness and honor—a gentleman of the
antique days of knighthood. Yes, yes, God rest him! The
Supreme, the All-seeing, the Rewarder of charity and love,
and faith—has He not received to his eternal rest this noble
suffering soul? Who was ever like him? I have met with
no other human being so great! Falconbridge! Falconbridge!
your death was a glorious one! You died as you
had lived—a true gentleman!”
The head drooped lower as these almost inaudible words
escaped from the lips of the stranger. He remained for
some time, gazing at the stone, his shoulders drooping, his
breast heaving—then drawing a long breath, he fixed his
eyes upon the one beside it, which bore this inscription only
“To the memory of
Bertha Argal,
Beautiful and unhappy.”
“Yes, yes,” the stranger murmured, “very beautiful—very
unhappy—poor child of misfortune!”
And his sad glance wandered toward the third tombstone.
He seemed almost to dread deciphering it—but setting
his lips close, knelt down and read what was cut upon
the marble.
These were the words:
“Here lies the body of Cannie,
the daughter of an Engliſh
gentleman:
Born in England, May the 10th, 1733,
Died in Virginia, May the 9th, 1749.
`And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them,
and blessed them.' ”
The stranger riveted his eyes upon this inscription with
an expression of such anguish that it was plain the stone
covered a great sorrow. His broad breast was shaken, his
clear, penetrating eyes slowly filled with tears, and his
cheeks flushed with passionate emotion.
Mastered by a sudden impulse, he took from his pocket a
pencil, and after the words:
“Here lies the body of Cannie...”
wrote, in addition:
... “And the heart of George,
Born in Weſtmoreland, Virginia,
February 22d, 1732:
Died the ſame day and hour,
May 9th, 1749.
As the stranger finished the addition to the inscription,
two tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon the stone.
Burying his face in the long grass growing upon the grave,
he sobbed, rather than said, in a hoarse and broken voice:
“Farewell youth! farewell happiness! farewell dream of
my boyhood! The earth is dreary since you went away.
Farewell until we meet again!”
THE END.
