University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Several days had succeeded the termination of the
adventure described in our last chapter, and the parties
were all assembled at the mansion of Colonel Hendrickson.
This was a house somewhat larger than ordinary,
built of hewn logs, after the plain but comfortable fashion
of the country. There was not the slightest attempt
at ornament, but every thing was substantial and neat;
and a stranger might see at a glance that it was the
abode of hospitality and abundance. A large farm lying
around, consisted of extensive fields newly cleared,
whose deep rich soil was now heavily loaded with luxuriant
crops of tobacco and corn. A large number of
negroes, decently clothed, cheerful, and contented, were
engaged in the various labors of agriculture.

The Colonel's family consisted of himself, his wife,

and an only daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen, who
combined in her person and manners the truly feminine
gracefulness, the easy politeness, the cordiality, and
frankness, so remarkably characteristic of the ladies of
Kentucky, who unite, with singular tact and elegance,
the noble independence and generous kindness of their
country, with the gentleness and delicacy appropriate to
their sex.

This young lady was now walking, arm in arm, with
William Colburn, on the beautiful lawn in front of the
house. It was one of those fine autumnal days, which
are thought to be peculiar to the western country, when
the atmosphere is mild, and in a state of perfect repose,
the leaves of the forest are tinged with a variety of rich
and gorgeous but pensive hues, and every natural object
wore the sober drapery and the serene aspect of the
departing year. The sun shone brightly, the soft warm
air created a delightful sense of luxurious enjoyment;
and the young couple that sauntered together, conversing
in expressive glances, and tones of confiding affection,
were not the least interesting objects in the picturesque
landscape.

Miss Pendleton sat at a window, with Mr. George Lee.
This young gentleman was as much in love as ever, and
as difficult to be persuaded that it was not altogether
possible and proper for his fair relative to return his passion.
It was beyond the power of language, and the
art of logic, to convince him that he had not the best
claim to her affections. He was a gentleman of good
family, and had an ample estate—he had been her companion
from infancy, and had loved her from the first

dawn of reason. These arguments he now urged, for
the hundredth time, with all the eloquence of which
he was master, not forgetting to insist on the priority of
his suit.

“Who is there, cousin Virginia, who has loved you
as long as I have? or who will ever love you half as
much? When we were children, did I not climb the
tallest trees in the woods, at the risk of my neck, to
gather grapes for you, or to catch young squirrels or
birds for you to play with?”

“I am inclined to think, cousin George, that you had
a natural propensity for such feats, which required but
little stimulus to bring it into action.”

“There it is, again! I have been trying all my life
to convince you of my love for you—and you will never
believe it.”

“Do not do me injustice; I have always known your
feelings—have always been sincerely grateful for your
kindness—have always valued and prized your friendship—”

“Friendship! there it is, again—it is a shame to call
such devoted love as mine by the cold name of friendship.
I love you better than my own life; I have shown
that.”

“You have indeed,” replied Virginia, with much
emotion, “and I should be most ungrateful not to be
deeply affected by your kindness, by an affection so long
continued and disinterested. But it is painful, Mr. Lee—”

“Don't, don't, call me Mr. Lee. You know, Virginia,
I can never stand that. Refuse me, if you will—but
don't treat me as a stranger.”

“I was only going to remark, how painful it is to see
you persevere in a suit which I have never encouraged
—and which I have so often—so very often—declined.
I feel towards you, cousin George, all the affection of a
relative; if you were my only brother, my feelings and
sentiments in regard to you could hardly be different
from what they are. More than this we cannot be to
each other.”

“There it is, again—that is just the way you always
wind up. I can't for my soul, understand you. Why,
if you love me so much, will you not marry me?”

Miss Pendleton, though grieved, and even shocked, at
the perseverance of her generous but silly lover, could
not repress a melancholy smile as she replied, “Because
there is a great difference, George, between sisterly
affection, and that love which is necessary to happiness
in marriage.”

“Well, I cannot for my life see that. I love you like
a brother—yet I wish to marry you, to live for you, to
die for you, to do anything for you, that would make
you happy.”

“But if marrying you would not conduce to my happiness,
what then?”

“Dear Virginia, you could not help being happy. I
should be devoted to you. I have a large fortune, a fine
house, plenty of servants, and every thing that heart
could wish.”

“Let us drop the subject, Mr. Lee, now and for ever.”

George rose, and walked across the room.

“So you are determined not to marry me?”

“I have always told you so.”

“Virginia, it is not for myself that I care. It is for
your happiness that I am interested. I cannot bear to
leave you here in this cabin, in these wild woods, and in
the neighborhood of those dreadful savages. Say you
will go back to the Old Dominion, live with my mother,
and be my sister; let me divide my fortune equally with
you; and I will never again ask you to be my wife.”

She was deeply affected. She had always known that
this simple young man, although almost an idiot in intellect,
was generous, and sincerely attached to her. She
had seen him forsake an affluent home, and pleasures to
which he was fatally addicted, to follow her to the wilderness.
She had been the innocent means of leading
him into captivity and suffering. There he had shown
his devotion to her, in the most extravagant, yet touch-ing,
offers of self-sacrifice. All this passed rapidly
through her mind; and his last offer brought tears into
her eyes.

“No, George,” said she, rising, and offering her hand,
which he grasped with a lover's eagerness, “I cannot
accept your offer, nor is it necessary—I cannot be your
wife, but if ever I should need a friend, or a brother, I
will frankly apply to you—if ever I shall be destitute
of a home or a protector, most willingly will I seek them
under your mother's roof.” So saying, she left the
room.

While this scene went forward, Colonel Hendrickson
and Mr. Fennimore were engaged in close consultation,
in the garden. Mr. Fennimore, after communicating
the facts with which the reader is already acquainted,
proceeded as follows:

“Major Heyward having satisfied me that my mother
had no legal claim upon him, added that he had already
made his will, by which he had bequeathed his whole
estate to Miss Pendleton, who had been brought up as
his adopted child, and who, having been reared in the
expectation of being his sole heiress, could not now be
disinherited without injustice. Nor could his affection
for her, which was that of a father, permit him to make
any disposition of his fortune to the prejudice of her
interest. But he desired to be reconciled to my mother,
and spoke of making some provision for her.

“That will, you are aware, has been lost. I am the
heir at law of my uncle, and I have come to you, as the
legal guardian of Miss Pendleton, to say that I intend to
fulfil strictly his intentions. This instrument contains a
formal relinquishment and transfer to her, of all my
right, title, and claim, to the whole of my deceased
uncle's estate. This was one of the objects of my visit
here; the other is to bring to justice the murderer of
Major Heyward, who I am satisfied is Micajah Harpe,
and who, with the assistance of our friend Mr. Colburn,
I have traced to this neighborhood.”

“That paper,” replied the Colonel, “I shall not
accept, without consulting Miss Pendleton. I had determined
to divide my own property equally between her
and my daughter. I shall apprize her of my intention,
and let her decide for herself on your offer.”

“But I hope, my dear sir, that you will advise her
that it is her duty to accept that which of right belongs
to her.”

“If my advice is asked,” said Colonel Hendrickson,

“I will give such as I think it becomes my niece to
accept. You are the proper heir of your uncle. Had
he left all his property to her, he would have done
wrong; and I shall certainly not advise her to avail
herself of your generosity.”