University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

On joining Miss Peyton, Frances learnt that
Dunwoodie was not yet returned; although, with
a view to relieve Henry from the importunities of
the supposed fanatic, he had desired a very respectable
divine of their own church, to ride up
from the river and offer his services. This gentleman
was already arrived, and spent the half-hour
he had been there, in a sensible and well bred
conversation with the spinster, that in no degree
touched upon their domestic affairs.

To the eager inquiries of Miss Peyton, relative
to her success in her romantic excursion, Frances
could say no more, than that she was bound to
be silent, and to recommend the same precaution
to the good maiden also. There was a smile
that played around the beautiful mouth of Frances,
while she uttered this injunction, chasing
away the momentary gleam of distrust that clouded
her features, which satisfied her aunt that all
was as it should be. She was urging her niece to
take some refreshment after her fatiguing expedition,
with the kind-hearted consideration of her
habits, when the noise of a horseman riding to
the door, announced the return of the major.

He had been found by the courier, who was despatched
by Mason, impatiently waiting the return
of Harper to the ferry, and immediately flew to
the place where his friend had been confined,
harassed by many different reflections. The
heart of Frances bounded with violence, as she
listened to his approaching footsteps. It wanted
yet an hour to the termination of the shortest period
that the pedlar had fixed as the time necessary,
in which to effect his escape. Even Harper,
powerful and well disposed as he acknowledged
himself to be, had laid great stress upon the importance
of detaining the Virginians from pursuit
during that hour. The maid, however, had not
time to rally her thoughts, before Dunwoodie
entered one door, as Miss Peyton, with the readiness
of female instinct, retired through another.

The countenance of Peyton was flushed, and
there was an air of vexation and disappointment
that pervaded his whole manner—

“'Twas imprudent, Frances; nay, it was unkind,”
he cried, throwing himself into a chair,
“to fly at the very moment that I had assured
him of his safety. I can almost persuade myself
that you delight in creating points of difference in
our feelings and duties.”

“In our duties there may very possibly be a
difference,” returned the maid, approaching
near to where he sat, and leaning her slender
form slightly against the wall; “but not in our feelings,
Peyton—You must certainly rejoice in the
escape of Henry from death!”

“There was no death impending. He had the
promise of Harper; and it is a word never to be
doubted.—Oh! Frances! Frances! had you
known this man, you would never have distrusted
his assurance; nor would you have again reduced
me to this distressing alternative.”

“What alternative?” asked Frances, pitying
his emotions deeply, but eagerly seizing upon
every circumstance to prolong the interview.

“What alternative! am I not compelled to spend
this night in the saddle, to re-capture your brother,
when I had thought to have laid it on my
pillow, with the happy consciousness of contributing
to his release. You make me seem your
enemy; me, who would cheerfully shed the last
drop of my blood in your service. I repeat, Frances
it was rash—it was unkind—it was a sad, sad
mistake.”

The maid bent towards him, and timidly took
one of his hands, while with the other she gently
removed the raven curls from his burning brow,
as she said—

“But why go at all, dear Peyton?—you have
done much for our country, and she cannot exact
such a sacrifice as this at your hands.”

“Frances! Miss Wharton!” exclaimed the
youth, springing on his feet, and pacing the floor
with a cheek that burnt with fire through its brown
covering, and an eye that sparkled with conscious
integrity; “it is not my country, but my honor,
that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fled from
a guard of my own corps? But for this I might
have been spared the blow!—But if the eyes of
the Virginians are blinded to deception and artifice,
their horses are swift of foot, and their sabres
keen. We will see before to-morrow's sun
who it is will presume to hint, that the beauty of
the sister furnished a mask to skreen the brother.
Yes—yes—I should like even now,” he continued,
laughing bitterly, “to hear the villain, who
would dare to surmise that such a treachery existed!”

“Peyton—dear Peyton,” said Frances, recoiling

in terror from his angry eye, “you curdle my
blood—would you kill my brother?”

“Would I not die for him!” exclaimed Dunwoodie
with a softened voice, as he turned to her
more mildly; “you know I would; but I am
distracted with the cruel surmise to which this
step of Henry's subjects me. What will Washington
think of me, should he learn that I ever
became your husband?”

“If that alone impels you to act so harshly
towards my brother,” returned Frances, with a
slight tremor in her voice, “let it never happen
for him to learn.”

“And this is consoling me, Frances!” cried
her lover; “what a commentary on my sufferings!”

“Nay, dear Dunwoodie, I meant nothing harsh
nor unkind; but are you not making us both of
more consequence to Washington, than the truth
will justify?”

“I trust that my name is not entirely unknown
to the commander in chief,” said the major a little
proudly; “nor are you as obscure as your
modesty would make you. I believe you, Frances,
when you say that you pity me, and it must
be my task to continue worthy of such feelings—
But I waste the precious moments; we must go
through the hills to-night, that we may be refreshed
in time for the duty of to-morrow. Mason is
already waiting for my orders to mount; and
Frances I leave you, with a heavy heart—pity
me, but feel no concern for your brother—he
must again become a prisoner, but every hair of
his head is sacred.”

“Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you,” cried Frances,
gasping for breath, as she noticed that the
hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to the
desired hour; “before you go on your errand of

fastidious duty, read this note that Henry has left
for you, and which, doubtless, he thought he was
writing to the friend of his youth.”

“Frances, I excuse your feelings, but the time
will come, when you will do me justice.”

“That time is now,” said the maid, extending
her hand, unable any longer to feign a displeasure
that she did not feel.

“Where got you this note!” exclaimed the
youth, glancing his eyes over its contents. “Poor
Henry, you are indeed my friend! If any one
wishes me happiness, it is you.”

“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly;
“he wishes you every happiness; believe what he
tells you—every word is true.”

“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me
to you for its confirmation. Would that I could
trust equally to your affections!”

“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up
with innocent confidence towards her lover.

“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,”
interrupted Dunwoodie, holding the note towards
her with eyes that sparkled with every passion but
anger.

Frances received it in astonishment and read the
following:

“Life is too precious to be trusted to uncertainties.
I leave you, Peyton, unknown to all but
Cæsar, and I recommend him to your mercy. But
there is a care that weighs me to the earth. Look
at my aged and infirm parent. He will be stigmatised
for the supposed crime of his son. Look
at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me
without a protector. Prove to me that you love
us all. Let the clergyman that you will bring
with you, unite you this night to Frances, and become
at once, brother, son, and husband.”

The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and
she endeavoured to raise her eyes to the face of
Dunwoodie, but they sunk abashed before his eager
gaze.

“What say you!” said Peyton, with an insinuating
voice; “am I worthy of this confidence?
will you send me out against your brother this
night, to meet my own brother? or will it be the
officer of Congress in quest of the officer of Britain?”

“And would you do less of your duty, because
I am your wife, Major Dunwoodie? in what degree
would it better the condition of Henry?”

“Henry, I repeat, is safe. The word of Harper
is his guarantee; but I will show the world a
bridegroom,” continued the youth, perhaps deceiving
himself a little, “Who is equal to the duty
of arresting the brother of his bride.”

“And will the world comprehend it all?” said
Frances, with a musing air that lighted a thousand
hopes in the bosom of her lover. In fact,
the temptation was mighty—indeed, there seemed
no other way to detain Dunwoodie until the fatal
hour had elapsed. The words of Harper himself,
who had so lately told her that openly he
could do but little for Henry, and that every thing
depended upon the gaining of time, were deeply
engraved upon her memory. Perhaps there was
also a fleeting thought of the possibility of an eternal
separation from her lover, should he proceed
and bring back her brother to punishment. It is
difficult at all times to analyze human emotions,
and they pass through the sensitive heart of a
woman with the rapidity and nearly with the vividness
of lightning.

“Why do I tarry, dear Frances,” cried Dunwoodie,
who was studying her varying countenance

with rapture; “a few minutes might give
me a husband's claim to protect you.”

The brain of Frances whirled. She turned an
anxious eye to the clock, and the hand seemed to
linger over its face, as if with intent to torture her.

“Speak, my Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie;
“may I summon my good kinswoman—determine,
for time presses.”

Frances endeavoured to reply, but could only
whisper something that was inaudible, but which
her lover, with the privilege of immemorial custom,
construed into assent. He turned and flew
to the door, when the maid recovered her voice—

“Stop, Peyton; I cannot enter into such a
solemn engagement with a fraud upon my conscience.
I have seen Henry since his escape, and
time is all important to him. Here is my hand;
it is now freely yours, if you will not reject it.”

“Reject it!” cried the delighted youth; “I
take it as the richest gift of heaven. There is
time enough for us all. Two hours will take me
through the hills, and by noon to-morrow, I will
return with Washington's pardon for your brother,
and Henry will help to enliven our nuptials.”

“Then, meet me here in ten minutes,” said
Frances, greatly relieved by unburthening her
mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry's
safety, “and I will return and take those vows
which will bind me to you forever.”

Dunwoodie paused only to press her once to
his bosom, and flew to communicate his wishes to
the priest.

Miss Peyton received the avowal of her niece,
with infinite astonishment and a little displeasure.
It was violating all the order and decorum of a
wedding to get it up so hastily, and with so little
ceremony. But Frances, with modest firmness,
declared that her resolution was taken—she had

long possessed the consent of her friends, and their
nuptials for months had only waited her pleasure.
She had now promised Dunwoodie, and it was her
wish to comply—more she dare not say without
committing herself, by entering into explanations
that might endanger Birch, or Harper, or both. Unused
to contention, and really much attached to
her kinsman, the feeble objections of Miss Peyton
gave way to the firmness of her niece. Mr. Wharton
was too completely a convert to the doctrine
of passive obedience and non-resistance, to withstand
any solicitation from an officer of Dunwoodie's
influence in the rebel armies, and the
maid returned to the apartment, accompanied by
her father and aunt, at the expiration of the time
that she had fixed. Dunwoodie and the clergyman
were already there. Frances silently, and
without the affectation of reserve, placed in his
hand the wedding ring of her own mother, and after
some little time spent in arranging Mr. Wharton
and herself, Miss Peyton suffered the ceremony
to proceed.

The clock stood directly before the wandering
eyes of Frances, and she turned many an anxious
glance at the dial—but soon the solemn language
of the priest caught her attention, and her mind
became intent upon the vows she was uttering.—
It was quickly over, and as the clergyman closed
the words of benediction, the clock told the hour
of nine. This was the time that Harper had
deemed so important, and Frances felt as if a
mighty load was at once removed from her
heart.

Dunwoodie folded her in his arms; saluted the
spinster again and again, and shook Mr. Wharton
and the divine repeatedly by the hands. In the
midst of this excess of rapture a tap was heard at
the door.—It was opened, and Mason appeared—

“We are in the saddle,” said the Lieutenant,
“and with your permission will lead on; as you
are so well mounted, you can overtake us at your
leisure.”

“Yes, yes—my good fellow—march,” cried
Dunwoodie, gladly seizing an excuse to linger; “I
will reach you at the first halt.”

The subaltern retired to execute these orders,
and was followed by Mr. Wharton and the divine.

“Now, Peyton,” said Frances, “it is indeed a
brother that you seek; I am sure I need not
caution you in his behalf, should you unfortunately
find him.”

“Say fortunately,” cried the youth; “for I am
determined he shall yet dance at my wedding.
Would that I could win him to our cause—it is the
cause of his country, and I could fight with more
pleasure, Frances, with your brother by my side.”

“Oh! mention it not! you awaken terrible reflections.”

“I will not mention it,” returned her husband;
“but I must now leave you. Tom Mason moved
off at a famous rate, and the fellow has no orders.---But
the sooner I go, Frances, the sooner I
will return.”

The noise of a horseman was heard approaching
the house, with great speed, and Dunwoodie was
yet taking leave of his bride and her aunt, when an
officer was shown into the room by his own man.

The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp,
and the Major at once knew him to form
part of the family of Washington.

“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing
courteously to the ladies; “the Commander-in-Chief
has directed me to give you these orders.”
He executed his mission, and pleading duty took
his leave immediately.

“Here, indeed!” cried the Major “is an unexpected
turn in the whole affair; but I understand it---
Harper has got my letter, and already we feel his
influence.”

“Have you news affecting Henry,” cried Frances,
springing to his side.

“Listen—and you shall judge.”

“Sir

—Upon receipt of this, you will concentrate
your squadron, so as to be in front of the enemy's
covering party to their foragers, by ten
o'clock to-morrow, on the heights of Croton;
where you will find a body of foot to support you.
The escape of the English spy has been reported
to me, but his arrest is unimportant, compared
with the duty I now give you. You will, therefore,
recal your men, if any are in pursuit, and
endeavour to defeat the enemy forthwith.

Your's Respectfully,
George Washington.”

“There, thank God,” cried Dunwoodie, “my
hands are washed of Henry's re-capture; I can
now move to my duty with honour.”

“And with prudence too, dear Peyton,” said
Frances, with a face as pale as death; “remember,
Dunwoodie, you leave behind you new
claims upon your caution and care.”

The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features
with rapture, and as he pressed her hand to
his heart, exclaimed—

“But why this haste? I can reach Peekskill
before the troops have breakfasted, if I start some
hours hence. I am too old a soldier to be hastened
or disconcerted.”

“Nay! go at once,” said Frances, in a hurried
voice, with a face whose bright tints would have
shamed a ruddy morn—“neglect not the orders

of Washington.—And oh! be prudent—be careful.”

“For your sake I will, lovely innocent,” cried
her husband, folding her to his heart for the last
time. Frances sobbed a moment on his bosom,
and he tore himself from her presence.

Miss Peyton retired with her niece, to whom
she conceived it necessary, before they separated
for the night, to give an abundance of good advice
on the subject of matrimonial duty. Her lecture
was modestly received if not properly digested.
We regret that history has not handed down to us
this precious dissertation; but the result of all our
investigation has been to learn that it partook
largely of those peculiarities, which are said to
tincture the rules prescribed to govern bachelor's
children. We will leave them, and return to Captain
Wharton and Harvey Birch.