University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It was sunset when Major Heyward and his party
reached home. Never had Fennimore passed so
delightful a day. The hospitality and politeness of
his entertainment, had taught him to forget that he was
a stranger. Their free and joyous hilarity had excited
his feelings, and given a fresh impulse to his heart.
His conversational powers were naturally fine, and
were rendered peculiarly agreeable by a simplicity and
frankness peculiar to himself. But, under the influence
of a high flow of spirits, his manner acquired a more
than ordinary vivacity, his language became copious
and brilliant, and the rich stores of his mind began to
exhibit their exuberance. Two hours passed rapidly
away; the parties, pleased with each other, conversed
with that freedom which is the result of perfect confidence,
and with a degree of wit and animation, which showed

how highly they all enjoyed the intellectual repast. It
was one of those happy moments, which seldom occur,
when persons, pleased with each other, and surrounded
by propitious circumstances, are happy without effort,
and agreeable without design.

Major Heyward was in the habit of retiring early to
bed, and when his servant appeared to attend him to his
chamber, Mr. Fennimore desired an audience of a few
minutes, with so much earnestness, that he was invited
to accompany the worthy old man to his sleeping apartment.
Here they remained some time engaged in
business, and then all the parties separated for the night.

Mr. Fennimore, finding that it was still early, sat
down to write a letter to his friend Charles Wallace, a
young attorney in Philadelphia, in which the events of
the day were alluded to, and certain characters described,
in language which, the reader may well suppose, was
quite as sentimental as the occasion required. We
shall not copy this epistle, but will content ourselves
with treating the reader to one or two of the concluding
paragraphs.

“— So much for Virginia Pendleton, the belle of
the Blue Mountains, the fairest and brightest vision that
has ever warmed my fancy! How faint until now were
all my conceptions of female loveliness! How little did
I dream of that concentration of attractions, that intensity
of excellence, that combination of charms, which
I have now witnessed! How many excellent qualities
have I this day seen combined in the character of this
extraordinary female—exquisite beauty, superior intelligence,
elegant wit, and the utmost sweetness of disposition!

Of the other attributes of her mind and
heart, I am ignorant; but with respect to those that I
have enumerated, I cannot be mistaken.”

If the reader will pardon us for the interruption, we
suggest that the last averment savors of what the lawyers
call surplusage. It is certainly an unnecessary
averment; for how could a young gentleman be mistaken
in such plain matters? We admire the argument
of a love-letter, or of any letter treating of the mysteries
of this all-pervading passion. Let us proceed:

“You will no doubt, now, take it into your wise head,
that I am in love, or, at least, that I am rapidly imbibing
the delightful, the dangerous poison. Let me assure
you seriously, that nothing is farther from my intentions.
I have already wooed a mistress, under whose
banner I am enlisted. Plighted to the service of my
country, with the path of fame bright before me, I may
not linger in the bowers of pleasure. Even Miss Pendleton
has no charms, when weighed in the balance
against my duty. But why should I speak of her? I,
a penniless man, unknown to fame—a needy soldier,
depending on my sword, with an aged mother to support?
And she, the `observed of all observers,' the
darling of her friends, the heiress of a noble fortune!
It is painful to reflect on the disparity between us, yet
dangerous to think of her in any other light. * * * *

“To-morrow morning, I must bid adieu to Walnut-Hill,
to Miss Pendleton, and to the generous-hearted
Major Heyward. When I left Philadelphia, to rejoin
the army now encamped in the wilderness bordering
on the Ohio, I was intrusted with dispatches for General

Wayne. At my earnest request, I was permitted
to take this place in my route, and to halt one day, to
attend to my own personal affairs, but was admonished
at the same time, that as the letters committed to my
care were important, any further delay would not be
allowed. I have, therefore, no choice; and perhaps it is
well for me that I have none. Virginia Pendleton is
not a common woman, and it would be madness for me
to remain within the magic circle of her attractions.”

At the very moment that Mr. Fennimore was inditing
these amorous and heroic sentiments, Miss Pendleton
was seated at her writing-desk, penning a note to
her bosom friend, Mrs. Mountford, a young lady
recently married. The ideas of the fair writer ran off
in the following train:

“I am sorry, my dear Caroline, that you were not
with us to-day—we had such a delightful party! You
cannot think how much I regretted your absence, nor
how much you lost by it. The weather was very
agreeable, and the scenery of the river-shore, and the
mountains, was never more beautiful than at this moment.
The arrangements were charming. I think I
never saw a Barbecue pass off so happily. There was
no shower, nor any disastrous accident—except the
upsetting of a canoe, by which nobody was hurt. Mrs.
Lee superintended the preparation of the dinner, with
her usual taste. General Armour had a new story for
the occasion; the Peytons had new bonnets, and we had
a new beau. The latter made quite a sensation among
the girls, and I have no doubt I shall have a dozen
morning visitors to-morrow—for he is staying with us.

Can you guess who it is? If you cannot, you must
remain in the dark, for I can give you little assistance.
He is a young officer, just dropped into our neighborhood,
from the moon, or from the frontier, or from some
other parts unknown. He is at our house, so that I
have the honor of entertaining him. He is not at all
handsome, though I think him clever.

“I shall not be able, dear Caroline, to spend to-morrow
evening with you, as I proposed, for my uncle
cannot accompany me, and you know I am unwilling
to leave him alone. Mr. Fennimore, our guest, will
remain, I suppose, some days with us, and although his
visit is entirely to my uncle, and on business, I must, as
in duty bound, make my appearance as lady of the
mansion, and do the honors to the best of my poor
ability. Mr. Fennimore has travelled a good deal, and
is quite intelligent; I think you would be pleased with
him.

“Do come and dine with me to-morrow—you and
Mr. B—. If you are still determined on taking that
dreadful journey over the mountains, it may be useful
to you to see Mr. Fennimore, who is just from that
country, and can tell you all about it. He is remarkably
agreeable in conversation: I am very sure you will
like him.”

Having sealed this note, Virginia retired to repose,
and was soon wrapped in that calm forgetfulness which
attends the slumbers of the young and innocent. About
midnight she was awakened by the terrific cry of
“fire!” Springing to the floor, she hastily threw a
cloak around her, and rushed to the chamber-door; but

as she opened it, a thick volume of smoke burst in, and
she beheld with affright a sheet of flame enveloping the
whole stair-case. Retreat in that direction was impossible.
She had the presence of mind to close the door,
and recollecting that the roof of a piazza extended
under her window, she determined to make her escape
that way. But here an object met her view, more terrific
than the devouring element: the shoulders and head
of a man of most hideous appearance, occupied the
window to which she was approaching. The face was
larger than common, and, to her excited imagination,
seemed of superhuman dimensions. The complexion
was sanguine, and its redness heightened by the glare
of the fire; the features were harsh and savage; a
beard of several weeks' growth covered the lower part of
the face, while the uncovered head displayed an immense
mass of tangled coarse red hair. The malignant eye that
scowled upon her, was full of savage ferocity; and a
demoniac laugh which distended the mouth of this
human monster, conveyed to the affrighted girl a sensation
of horror, such as she had never before experienced.
A single glance told her that the apparition was
not imaginary, that the form was that of a stranger,
and that the purpose of his visit was sinister. But Virginia
was of an heroic mould; she neither screamed nor
fainted; but, summoning all her resolution, turned
towards a window in the opposite direction, and was
retreating, when Fennimore entered the chamber, having
clambered up the blazing stair-case at the risk of his
life.

“Fly, fly! Miss Pendleton!” he exclaimed as he

caught her hands, and drew her towards the same window
at which she had seen the object of her terror.

“Oh, not there! not there!” she cried; “stop, for
mercy's sake, we shall all be murdered!”

Fennimore, attributing her incoherent expressions to
an excess of terror caused by the fire, delayed not; but
catching her up in his arms, proceeded towards the
window.

Virginia uttered a piercing shriek, and struggled to
release herself.

“Pardon me,” said Fennimore—“excuse my rudeness,”
as he threw up the window, and passed through
it with his lovely burthen. In a moment he stood on
the roof of the piazza.

“See there!” screamed Virginia, as her eye caught a
glimpse of the figure of a man stealing behind a distant
chimney. “Oh fly, Mr. Fennimore! hasten from this
dreadful spot.”

Fennimore involuntarily turned his head in the direction
indicated, and saw a man leaning against the
chimney. He looked again, and the figure had disappeared.

The servants, who were filled with consternation, and
crowded round the blazing pile, running to and fro
without order, or definite purpose, now beheld them, and
hastened to their assistance. One of the stoutest negroes
mounting on a table under the eaves of the low
roof, was enabled to receive his young mistress in his
arms, while Fennimore leaped nimbly to the ground.

No sooner was Virginia in safety than she looked
round for her uncle, and not perceiving him in the

crowd that pressed round to congratulate her on her
escape, eagerly inquired for him. The negroes, habitually
indolent, timid, and thoughtless, stood gazing in
terror on the conflagration, without thinking on the possibility
of extinguishing the flames, or of rescuing either
life or property. But they loved their master, and when
his name was mentioned, made a general movement towards
his apartment. In a moment the voice of Fennimore
was heard, like that of one accustomed to command,
leading and directing them. The passive blacks,
used to implicit obedience, followed him with alacrity.
But it was all in vain. The fire seemed to have originated
in Major Heyward's chamber, and the flames
were bursting from every window. Fennimore burst
open a door and rushed in, but was speedily driven out
by a volume of smoke and flame. “Follow me,” he
exclaimed impatiently to the blacks; “rush in, and save
your master!” and again he entered the apartment with
some of the most intrepid of the negroes. Their
efforts were herculean. Several times they had nearly
reached the bed, and as often were driven back by the
flames; and the negroes at last returned, dragging out
Mr. Fennimore, who was struck down by a falling
rafter. Exposure to the cool air revived him instantly,
and he returned with desperate courage to the room,
exclaiming, “Follow me! in there! in! my brave boys!”
It was a forlorn hope; but the effort was gigantic. The
negroes, attached to their master, and excited by the
heroic bearing of their young leader, now worked as
if in their native element. The side of the house,
which was of frame, was torn away, and in a few minutes
the lifeless body of Major Heyward was dragged
out of the ruins.

By this time the whole pile was in flames. There
was no longer any occasion for exertions, except in
removing the furniture from some of the apartments.
The neighbors, who began to arrive, and the domestics,
stood round in silence. Virginia hung in mute agony
over the body of Major Heyward, who had been to her
more than a father. Nor was she alone in her sorrow.
Though none of those around her were possessed of
sensibilities as keen as her own, or had the same personal
cause for grief, yet the respect and affection entertained
by all for the worthy old man, and the awful
manner of his death, caused universal sorrow. At
length the flames began to sink; Virginia was torn
almost by force from the spot, and carried to the house
of her friend Mrs. Mountford; the neighbors dispersed;
darkness and silence settled over the spot, and a heap
of smoking ruins occupied the place which was so lately
the seat of hospitality and cheerfulness.