So much for my visit to Five Forks. I pass thus rapidly over it, with real regret—lamenting the want of space which compels me to do so.
Do you love the queenly rose, and the modest lily of the valley, reader? I could have shown you those flowers, in Georgia and Virginia Conway. They were exquisitely cordial and high-bred—as was their gray-haired father. They spoke, and moved, and looked, as only the high-bred can. Pardon that obsolete word, “high-bred,” so insulting in the present epoch! I am only jesting when I seem to intimate that I considered the stately old judge better than the black servant who waited upon me at supper!
Of Mohun and Will Davenant, I had said nothing, in conversing with the smiling young ladies. But I think Miss Georgia, stately and imposing as she was, looked at me with a peculiar smile, which said, “You are his friend, and cannot be a mere ordinary acquaintance to me!”
And here I ought to inform the reader, that since that first visit of mine to Five Forks, affairs had marched with the young lady and her friend. Mohun and Miss Georgia were about to be married, and I was to be the first groomsman. The woman-hating Benedict of the banks of the Rappahannock had completely succumbed, and the satirical Beatrice had also lost all her wit. It died away in sighs, and gave place to reveries—those reveries which come to maidens when they are about to embark on the untried seas of matrimony.
But I linger at Five Forks when great events are on the march. Bidding my hospitable host and his charming daughters good morning, I mounted my horse and set out over the White Oak road toward Petersburg. As I approached the Rowanty, I saw that the new defenses erected by Lee, were continuous and powerful. Long tiers of breastworks, and redoubts crowning every eminence, showed very plainly the great importance which Lee attached to holding the position.
In fact, this was the key to the Southside road. Here was to take place the last great struggle.
I rode on, in deep thought, but soon my reverie was banished. Just as I reached the hill above Burgess’s, who should I see coming from the direction of the Court-House—but Tom Herbert and Katy Dare!
Katy Dare, on a little pony, with a riding skirt reaching nearly to the ground!—with her trim little figure clearly outlined by the fabric—with a jaunty little riding hat balanced lightly upon her ringlets—with her cheeks full of roses, her lips full of smiles, her eyes dancing like two blue waves, which the wind agitates!
Don’t find fault with her, Mrs. Grundy, for having Tom only as an escort. Those were stern and troubled times; our poor girls were compelled often to banish ceremony. Katy had only this means to get back to her family, and went with Tom as with her brother.
She held out both hands to me, her eyes dancing. Three years have passed since then, but if I were a painter, I could make her portrait, reproducing every detail! Nothing has escaped my memory; I still hear her voice; the sun of 1868, not of 1865, seems to shine on the rosy cheeks framed by masses of golden ringlets!