University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Miss Pendleton had left the place of her nativity,
under a melancholy depression of spirits. Reared in
affluence, the favorite and only object of affection of a
kind guardian, surrounded by friends, followed by a
train of admirers, and accustomed to every indulgence,
the sudden reverse of her fortunes afflicted her heart
with keen anguish. She was too high-minded to mourn
with unavailing regret over the blight of those advantages
which merely elevated her above her companions.
The truly generous mind estimates the gifts of fortune
at something like their real value. But the loss of the
dearly loved guardian of her youth, and the dreadful
catastrophe which produced that melancholy bereavement,
deeply touched her heart, and awakened all her
sensibilities. The measure of her grief seemed to be
full; but when she came to the resolution of quitting
the scenes of her childhood, and parting with her early
friends, she found that her heart had still room for other
afflictions, and she left her native land sorrowing, and
bowed down in spirit. Possessed, however, of a strong
intellect, and a buoyant temper, the exercise of travelling,
the change of scene, and the kindness of her companions,
if they did not diminish her sorrows, rendered
them supportable. By degrees her mind began to
assume its natural tone, and she reflected more calmly
on the scenes through which she had lately passed. In

these reveries the image of Fennimore continually presented
itself. His visit seemed to be intimately, yet
strangely, connected with the death of her uncle. She
had heard enough of the circumstances which we have
detailed, to know that it had relation to a pecuniary
claim against the estate of Major Heyward, but knew
nothing of its justice, extent, or character. Mrs. Lee
had spoken of it as a demand which would absorb the
whole of her venerable relative's vast fortune, and which
placed the claimant in the position of a competitor with
herself, and had thrown out imputations against his
integrity of the darkest import. On the other hand,
she remembered that he had been received not only with
the hospitality extended to all visitors at Walnut-Hill,
but with affectionate cordiality. Her uncle, who was a
man of excellent discernment, had treated him with the
confidence of friendship, and she was slow to believe,
either that he was deceived in the character of his guest,
or that he had professed a show of kindness which he
did not feel. Mr. Fennimore's appearance and manners
were highly prepossessing; there was especially about
him a frankness, and manly dignity, which could hardly
be deceptive. She passed in review the agreeable hours
of his short visit, and a flush of maiden pride mantled
her cheek, as she recollected his earnest yet respectful
attentions, and confessed, that of all the homage which
she had received in the triumph of beauty, none had
ever been so acceptable as that of this handsome and
gallant soldier. We have little faith in the romantic
doctrine of love at first sight; but on the other hand, we
cannot think it strange that an intelligent and susceptible
woman should readily draw a distinction between the
common-place civilities of ordinary men, or the silly
gallantries of mere witless beaux, and the enlightened
preference of a gentleman of taste and judgment, nor
that she should feel flattered by an appearance of partiality
from such a source. She was at an age when the
heart is feelingly alive to the tender sensations, and it
would have been singular if she had not become interested
in a modest and highly-gifted man, so nearly of
her own years and condition, who had been her companion
for several days; nor would it have been natural
for one so accustomed as herself to the attentions of the
other sex, to mistake the effect which her own attractions
had produced on the mind of the agreeable stranger.
Then the ready gallantry with which he risked
his own life to rescue her from the flames, and his
courageous efforts to save her uncle—these, though she
never spoke of them, awakened a sentiment of gratitude
which she felt could never be effaced. Again, when
she recalled the circumstances under which he left
the neighborhood of Walnut-Hill, without any explanation
to the friends of Major Heyward, of the object of his
visit, and without leaving any message for herself, his
conduct seemed incomprehensible, and strangely at variance
with what she supposed to be his character. But
these mysterious circumstances, although they excited
momentary doubts, and sometimes awakened a slight
glow of resentment, only served in the end to render
Mr. Fennimore more interesting to Miss Pendleton; for
without inferring, as some ill-natured persons would do,
that the mind of woman is made up of contradictions,
it is enough to say that she exercised her ingenuity in
imagining a variety of possible explanations, by which
his conduct might be placed in a favorable light, and his
character even exalted, until she persuaded herself that
such developments would undoubtedly be made in due
time.

Mrs. Mountford, although she had never seen Mr.
Fennimore, had made up her mind that he was an impostor;
a mere fortune-hunter, who had visited Walnut-Hill
in the prosecution of some desperate scheme against
the person and fortune of her fair friend. Without
having any definite ideas of that plan, or being able to
trace its connexion with subsequent events, she was
charitable enough to attribute the catastrophe which had
marred the fortunes of Virginia, to this source, and
spoke of Fennimore as little less than an incendiary.
Perhaps there might have been policy in this; for discovering
that Virginia always defended her uncle's visitor
with some spirit, she often introduced the subject for
the sole purpose of disturbing her reveries, and awakening
her mind from the apathy into which it seemed to
be sinking. In these discussions, Miss Pendleton, with
her usual frankness, recapitulated all the evidence in
favor of Mr. Fennimore, with some of the arguments
which her own ingenuity had suggested, and thus
became accustomed to defend his character. After all,
there was but one argument which had any weight with
the pertinacious Mrs. Mountford; it was the same which
had appealed so forcibly to the genuine Virginia feeling
of Colonel Antler, namely, “that a gentleman would
not commit arson.” “If he is really a gentleman, my

dear,” was Mrs. Mountford's usual conclusion, “that
settles the question; but how few of those do we find
north of the Potomac!—and this Mr. Fennimore, you
know, did not pretend to have been born in the Old
Dominion.”

The unexpected discovery of a murdered body in the
road, had deeply affected our heroine, and had led her
thoughts back to the most melancholy event in her own
history. She was this evening unusually depressed, and
it was in the hope of diverting her reflections into some
other channel, that her friends, though much fatigued,
had proposed the walk which led them to the vicinity
of the pack-horse camp, and had been induced to linger,
the concealed witnesses of the rude scene which was
there enacted.

The events which we have described arrested her
attention. It had so happened, however, that she stood
in such a position as not to see the face of the person
whose appearance caused so much curiosity, until the
moment of his drawing his knife, when a movement of
his body brought him full before her, and to her utter
dismay she recognized the same savage countenance
which she had discovered at her window on the night of
the conflagration! Her alarm and agitation may be
easily conceived. An involuntary expression of horror
burst from her lips, which drew the attention not only
of her own friends, but of the party on the opposite
side of the stream. With some exertion she resumed
her self-command, and returned immediately to the camp.
She had heretofore described to Mr. Mountford, the apparition
which had so greatly terrified her on the occasion

above alluded to; and that gentleman, as well as
others, had supposed that she had been deceived by her
imagination. But now, on her repeating that incident,
the description which she gave of the supposed incendiary
corresponded so completely with that of the
remarkable person they had seen, as to leave little doubt
of the identity of the one with the other; and he hastened
to the encampment of the carriers, to acquaint
them with his suspicions, and procure assistance to
arrest the stranger. Their services were offered with
alacrity, and all the adjacent coverts were carefully
examined; but, night coming on, any extensive search
was impracticable.

Virginia spent a miserable night. In addition to the
afflicting recollections that had previously depressed her
mind, the events of the day had suggested a new and
dreadful train of thought. Might not the unfortunate
person whose remains had been found concealed by the
mountain-path have been one in whom she felt an interest
which she could not conceal from herself? She had
not seen the body, and the friend for whose safety she
now trembled was unknown to Mr. Mountford. She
knew that Mr. Fennimore was on his way to the western
frontier, when he called at Walnut-Hill—his presence
there on the night of the conflagration had probably
defeated to some extent the designs of the incendiary—
and now a young gentleman whose description answered
too well with his, was found murdered in the very path
that he had taken. She had seen the murderer of her
lamented uncle; and circumstances had occurred to render
it not unlikely that the same terrible assassin had

waylaid Mr. Fennimore, and was now tracking her own
footsteps! A dreadful mystery seemed to hang over
her fate. In vain did she endeavor to find some clue to
these dark transactions. Major Heyward had been the
most inoffensive of men; she herself had no enemy,
and why should she, now an unprotected and penniless
orphan, be thus persecuted? These thoughts tormented
her already agitated mind, and drove sleep from her
pillow.

Miss Pendleton occupied a tent containing her own
bed and that of a negro maid-servant. Mr. Mountford's
negro train were accustomed to spend their evenings
in those festivities, to which the whole of that
careless race are so much addicted. They had now
collected a great pile of logs, whose blaze illuminated
the camping ground, and threw a brilliant glare for
some distance into the surrounding forest. A gray-haired
fiddler, whose musical abilities had contributed to
the amusement of several successive generations of the
Mountfords—white and black—sat on a log scraping
his merry violin, while his sable comrades danced on
the green. Happy in the absence of all care, and under
the protection of an indulgent master, who had grown
up from childhood among them, and was endeared to
them by the ties of long association, and the interchange
of kindnesses known only to those who are acquainted
with the relation of master and servant, these thoughtless
beings gave themselves up entirely to merriment.
They had no property to care for, no want to supply,
no peril in anticipation to excite their fears, no speculation
in their eye to poison the enjoyment of the present

moment; and although undergoing the fatigue of a toilsome
march, their eye-balls glistened, their sable cheeks
shone, and their snow-white teeth became visible, at the
first note of the fiddle. Seated in a circle round the
blazing log-heap, they ate their rations, told merry tales
of “Old Virginny,” and then joining in the dance,
capered with as much vigor and agility as if their whole
bodies were made upon springs and muscles, while
streams of perspiration rolled from their shining visages.
At length that part of the accompaniment, to which,
not being a musician, I am unable to give a scientific
Italian name, but which consists in certain drowsy nods,
and comfortable naps, on the part of the artist, interpolated
between the tunes, and spreading off like the
shading of a picture, so as to mingle insensibly with the
brighter and gayer parts of the performance, began to
preponderate; the heavy eye-lids of the musician were
raised less frequently and with a duller motion, the
elbow lost its elasticity, the sable belles crawled away
one by one to their pallets, and the hilarity of the night
died away into a profound silence.

Our heroine, however, did not share the contagious
drowsiness. She remained in a feverish state of excitement,
sometimes wrapped for a few moments in
abstracted thought, as ruminating on the past, and
sometimes endeavoring to banish reflection, by listening
with an ear acutely alive to the slightest sound. As the
vociferous notes of merriment died away, other tones,
more congenial with her frame of mind, invaded the
silence of the night. The atmosphere was clear and
chill; not a breath shook the trees or disturbed the

repose of the valley. The murmuring of the rivulet,
scarcely perceptible during the day, now fell distinctly
and pleasantly on the ear. An occasional and distant
tinkling was heard, at intervals, from the bells attached
to the cattle and the carriers' horses. “The wolf's long
howl,” reverberating from cliff to cliff, was answered by
the bark of the travellers' dogs; but even these sounds
ceased when the faithful animals sought repose by their
masters' sides. The owl hooted from her solitary den;
and once, when every other voice was hushed, and
nature seemed to repose in death-like stillness, a huge
tree, probably a majestic pine, which had braved the
mountain storm for ages, fell to the ground with a
terrific crash, which re-echoed from rock to rock, and
from one cavern to another, rolling along the valley like
the prolonged reiterations of thunder, or a continuous
discharge of artillery. The scared owl shouted in
alarm, the dogs rushed howling from their beds, the
wolf renewed his savage complaint, and again all was
silent.

Miss Pendleton, exhausted by a variety of contending
emotions, at last sunk into a feverish slumber, from
which she was awakened by a slight noise. She raised
her head, and the strong light, still brightly reflected from
the expiring fires upon the white canvas, enabled her to
see distinctly the figure of a man at the entrance of the
tent; his head—that dreadful head, so strongly pictured
upon her memory—already protruded within the opening,
and one hand, which grasped a knife, was employed
in cutting a number of strong cords by which the
entrance was closed. She uttered a loud scream, but

the villain, nothing daunted, continued his efforts, cutting
and tearing the slight obstacles, with a violence which
shewed a determination to accomplish his dreadful purpose
at all hazards. Accident, aided perhaps by the
confusion of guilt, delayed him for a moment; his feet
became entangled in some harness carelessly thrown
before the tent: the screams of Virginia roused the
watch dogs; Mr. Mountford seized his pistols and hastened
to her relief, while the foiled assassin hastily
retreated, leaping nimbly over every obstacle, pushing
aside the bushes with gigantic strength, and disappearing
in the gloom of the forest.