Dunwoodie paused not to read; but flew, with the elastic spring of youth and joy, to the chamber of the prisoner. The sentinel knew him, and he was suffered to pass without question.
“Oh! Peyton,” cried Frances as he entered the apartment; “you look like a messenger from heaven: bring you tidings of mercy?”
“Here, Frances--here, Henry--here, dear cousin Jeannette,” cried the youth, as with trembling hands he broke the seal; “here is the letter itself, directed to the captain of the guard. But listen”--
All did listen, with intense anxiety; and the pang of blasted hope was added to their misery, as they saw the glow of delight which had beamed on the countenance of the Major on his entrance, give place to a look of astonishment and terror. The paper contained the sentence of the court, and underneath was written these simple words--
“Approved--George Washington.”
“He’s lost--he’s lost!” cried Frances, in the piercing tones of despair, sinking into the arms of her aunt.
“My son--My son!” sobbed the father, “there is mercy in heaven, if there is none on earth.-- May Washington never want that mercy he thus denies to my innocent child.”
“Washington!” echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror. “Yes, ’tis the act of Washington himself; there are his characters-- his very name is here to sanction the dreadful deed.”
“Cruel, cruel Washington!” cried Miss Peyton; “how has familiarity with blood changed his nature!”
“Blame him not,” said Dunwoodie; “it is the General, and not the man; my life on it, he feels the blow he is compelled to inflict.”
“I have been deceived in him,” cried Frances. “He is not the saviour of his country; but a cold and merciless tyrant. Oh! Peyton, Peyton! how have you misled me in his character!”
“Peace, dear Frances; peace, for God’s sake; use not such language,” cried her lover. “He is but the guardian of the law.”
“You speak the truth, Major Dunwoodie,” said Henry, recovering from the shock of having his last ray of hope extinguished, and advancing from his seat by the side of his father. “I, who am to suffer, blame him not. Every indulgence has been granted me that I can ask. On the verge of the grave, I cannot continue unjust. At such a moment, with so recent an instance of danger to your cause from treason, I wonder not at Washington’s unbending justice. Nothing now remains, but for me to prepare for that fate which so speedily awaits me. To you Major Dunwoodie, I make my first request.”
“Name it,” said the Major, giving utterance with difficulty.
Henry turned and pointed impressively at the groupe of weeping mourners near him, as he continued--
“Be a son to this aged man--help his weakness, and defend him from any usage to which the stigma thrown upon me may subject him. He has not many friends amongst the rulers of this country; let your powerful name be found among them.”
“It shall,” said Dunwoodie, fervently pressing the hand of his friend.
“And this helpless innocent,” continued Henry, pointing to where Sarah sat, in unconscious melancholy. “I had hoped for an opportunity to revenge her wrongs,” a momentary flush of excitement passed over his pallid features; “but such thoughts are evil--I feel them to bewrong. Under your care, Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge.”
“She will,” whispered Dunwoodie, unable to speak aloud.
“This good aunt has claims upon you already; of her I will not speak; but here,” taking the hand of Frances, and dwelling upon her countenance with an expression of fraternal affection-- “Here is the choicest gift of all. Take her to your bosom, and cherish her as you would cultivate innocence and virtue.”
The Major could not repress the eagerness with which he extended his hand to receive the precious boon, but Frances shrinking from his touch, hid her face in the bosom of her aunt, as she murmured--
“No, no, no--none can ever be any thing to me, who aid in my brother’s destruction.”
Henry continued gazing at her in tender pity for several moments, before he again resumed a discourse that all felt was most peculiarly his own.
“I have been mistaken then. I did think, Peyton, that your worth, your noble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that your kindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship to me, in short, that your character was understood and valued by my sister.”
“It is--it is,” whispered Frances, burying her face still deeper in the bosom of her aunt.
“I believe, dear Henry,” said Dunwoodie, “this is a subject that had better not be dwelt upon now.”
“You forget,” returned the prisoner, with a faint smile, “how much I have to do, and how little time is left to do it in.”
“I apprehend,” continued the Major, with a face of fire, “that Miss Wharton has imbibed some opinions of me, that would make a compliance with your request irksome to her--opinions that it is now too late to alter.”
“No, no, no,” cried Frances, quickly; “you are exonerated, Peyton--with her dying breath she removed my doubts.”
“Generous Isabella!” murmured Dunwoodie, with a glow of momentary rapture; “but still, Henry, spare your sister now; nay, spare even me.”
“I cannot spare myself,” returned the brother gently removing Frances from the arms of her aunt. “What a time is this to leave two such lovely females without a protector!--Their abode is destroyed, and misery will speedily deprive them of their last male friend,” looking at his father; “can I die in peace, with the knowledge of the danger to which they will be exposed?”
“You forget me,” said Miss Peyton, shrinking herself at the idea of celebrating nuptials at such a moment.’
“No, my dear aunt, I forget you not, nor shall I, until I cease to remember; but you forget the times and the danger.--The good woman who lives in this house has already despatched a messenger for a man of God, to smooth my passage to another world;--Frances, if you would wish me to die in peace--to feel a security that will allow me to turn my whole thoughts to heaven, you will let this clergyman unite you to Dunwoodie.”
Frances shook her head, but remained silent.
“I ask for no joy--no demonstration of a felicity that you will not, cannot feel for months to come.--But obtain a right to his powerful name-- give him an undisputed title to protect you--”
Again the maid made an impressive gesture of denial.
“For the sake of that unconscious sufferer--” pointing to Sarah, “for your sake--for my sake-- my sister--”
“Peace, Henry, or you will break my heart,” cried the agitated girl; “not for worlds would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows that you wish.--It would render me miserable for life.”
“You love him not,” said Henry reproachfully.” I cease to importune you to do what is against your inclinations.”
Frances raised one hand to conceal the countenance that was overspread with crimson, as she extended the other towards Dunwoodie, and said earnestly--
“Now you are unjust to me--before you were unjust to yourself.”
“Promise me, then,” said Wharton, musing awhile in silence, “that so soon as the recollection of my fate is softened, you will give my friend that hand for life, and I am satisfied.”
“I do promise,” said Frances, withdrawing the hand that Dunwoodie delicately relinquished without even pressing it to his lips.
“Well then, my good aunt,” continued Henry, “will you leave me for a short time alone with my friend. I have a few melancholy commissions with which to intrust him, and would spare you and my sister the pain of hearing them.”
“There is yet time to see Washington again,” said Miss Peyton, moving towards the door; and then speaking with extreme dignity, she continued--“I will go myself; surely he must listen to a woman from his own colony?--and we are in some degree connected with his family.”
“Why not apply to Mr. Harper?” said Frances, recollecting the parting words of their guest for the f
irst time.
“Harper!” echoed Dunwoodie, turning towards her with the swiftness of lightning; “what of him? do you know him?
“It is in vain,” said Henry drawing him aside; “Frances clings to hope with the fondness of a sister--retire, my love, and leave me with my friend.”
But Frances read an expression in the eye of Dunwoodie that chained her to the spot. After struggling to command her feelings, she continued--
“He staid with us for two days--he was with us when Henry was arrested.”
“And--and--did you know him?”
“Nay,” continued Frances, catching her breath as she witnessed the intense interest of her lover, “we knew him not--he came to us in the night a stranger, and remained with us during the severe storm; but he seemed to take an interest in Henry, and promised him his friendship.”
“What!” exclaimed the youth in astonishment; “did he know your brother?”
“Certainly;--it was at his request that Henry threw aside his disguise.”
“But--” said Dunwoodie, turning pale with suspense, “he knew him not as an officer of the royal army.”
“Indeed he did,” cried Miss Peyton; “and cautioned against this very danger.”
Dunwoodie caught up the fatal paper, that still lay where it had fallen from his own hands. and studied its characters intently. Something seemed to bewilder his brain.--He passed his hand over his forehead, while each eye was fixed on him in dreadful suspense--all feeling afraid to admit those hopes anew, that had once been so sadly destroyed.
“What said he?--what promised he?”--at length Dunwoodie asked with feverish impatience.
“He bid Henry apply to him when in danger, and promised to requite to the son the hospitality of the father.”
“Said he this, knowing him to be a British officer?”
“Most certainly; and with a view to this very danger.”
“Then--” cried the youth aloud, and yielding to his rapture, “then you are safe--then will I save him--yes, Harper will never forget his word.”
“But has he the power?” said Frances; “Can he move the stubborn purpose of Washington?”
“Can he! if he cannot--” shouted the youth in uncontrollable emotion, “if he cannot, who can?--Greene, and Heath, and young Hamilton are as nothing, compared to this Harper.--But,” rushing to his mistress, and pressing her hands convulsively, “repeat to me--you say you have his promise?”
“Surely--surely--Peyton;--his solemn, deliberate promise, knowing all of the circumstances.”
“Rest easy--” cried Dunwoodie, holding her to his bosom for a moment, “rest easy, for Henry is safe.”
He waited not to explain, but darting from the room he left the family in amazement. They continued in silent wonder, until they heard the feet of his charger, as he dashed from the door with the speed of an arrow.
A long time was spent after this abrupt departure of the youth, by the anxious friends he had left, in discussing the probability of his success. The confidence of his manner had, however, communicated to his auditors something of its own spirit. Each felt that the prospects of Henry were again brightening, and, with their reviving hopes, they experienced a renewal of spirits, which in all but Henry himself amounted to pleasure; with him, indeed, his state was too awful to admit of trifling, and for a few hours he was condemned to feel how much more intolerable was suspense, than even the certainty of calamity. Not so with Frances. She, with all the reliance of affection, reposed in security on the assurance of Dunwoodie, without harassing herself with doubts, that she possessed not the means of satisfying; but believing her lover able to accomplish every thing that man could do, and retaining a vivid recollection of the manner and benevolent appearance of Harper, the maid abandoned herself to all the felicity of renovated hope.
The joy of Miss Peyton was more sobered, and she took frequent occasions to reprove her niece for the exuberance of her spirits, before there was a certainty that their expectations were to be realized. But the slight smile that hovered around the lips of the spinster contradicted the very sobriety of feeling that she inculcated.
“Why, dearest aunt,” said Frances playfully, in reply to one of her frequent reprimands, “would you have me repress the pleasure that I feel at Henry’s deliverance, when you yourself have so often declared it to be impossible, that such men as ruled in our country could sacrifice an innocent man.”
“Nay, I did believe it impossible, my child, and yet think so; but still there is a discretion to be shown in joy as well as in sorrow.”
Frances recollected the declarations of Isabella, and turned an eye filled with tears of gratitude on her excellent aunt as she replied--
“True; but there are feelings that will not yield to reason.--Ah! there are those monsters, who have come to witness the death of a fellow creature, moving around yon field, as if this life was to them but a military show.”
“It is but little more to the hireling soldier,” said Henry, endeavouring to forget his uneasiness.
“You gaze, my love, as if you thought a military show of some importance,” said Miss Peyton, observing her niece to be looking from the window with a fixed and abstracted attention.-- But Frances answered not.
From the window where she stood the pass that they had travelled through the highlands was easily to be seen; and the mountain which held on its summit the mysterious hut was directly before her. Its side was rugged and barren; huge and apparently impassable barriers of rocks presenting themselves through the stunted oaks, which, stripped of their foliage, were scattered over its surface. The base of the hill was not half a mile from the house, and the object which attracted the notice of Frances, was the figure of a man emerging from behind a rock of remarkable formation, and as suddenly disappearing. This manœuvre was several times repeated, as if it were the intention of the fugitive, (for such by his air he seemed to be,) to reconnoitre the proceedings of the soldiery, and assure himself of the position of things on the plain. Notwithstanding the distance, Frances instantly imbibed the opinion that it was Birch. Perhaps this impression was partly owing to the air and figure of the man, and in some measure to the idea that presented itself on formerly beholding the object at the summit of the mountain.--That they were the same figure she was confident, although this wanted the appearance, which in the other she had taken for the pack of the pedlar. Harvey had so connected himself with the mysterious deportment of Harper within her imagination, that under circumstances of less agitation than those in which she had laboured since her arrival, she would have kept her suspicions to herself. Frances, therefore, sat ruminating on this second appearance in silence, and endeavouring to trace in her thoughts, what possible connexion this extraordinary man could have with the fortunes of her own family. He had certainly saved Sarah, in some degree, from the blow that had partially alighted on her, and in no instance had he proved himself to be hostile to their interests.
After gazing for a long time at the point where she had last seen the figure, in the vain expectation of its re-appearance, she turned to her friends in the apartment. Miss Peyton was sitting by Sarah, who gave some slight additional signs of noticing what passed, but who still continued insensible to either joy or grief.
“I suppose by this time, my love, that you are well acquainted with the manœuvres of a regiment,” said the spinster, smiling at her nephew. “It is no bad quality in a soldier’s wife, at all events.”
“I am not a wife yet,” said Frances, colouring to the eyes; “and we have no reason to wish for another wedding in our family.”
“Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing the floor in violent agitation, “touch not that chord again, I entreat you. While my fate is yet so uncertain I would wish to be at peace with all men.”
“Then let the uncertainty cease,” cried Frances, springing to the door; “for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release.”
The words were hardly uttered before
the door opened, and the Major entered. In his air there was neither the appearance of success nor defeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the hand that Frances in the fulness of her heart extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.
“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.
“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.
“I have not--I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side in another. I returned without delay, and traced him for several miles into the Highlands by the western pass, but there I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your uneasiness; but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for Henry.”
“But saw you Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.
Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question was repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve--
“The commander in chief had left his quarters.”
“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”
Her lover turned his eyes slowly on her anxious countenance, and dwelling a moment on her features, said, still musing--
“You say that he promised to assist Henry.”
“Certainly, of his own accord, and in requital for the hospitality that he had received.”
Dunwoodie shook his head, and began to look extremely grave.
“I like not that word hospitality--it has an empty sound--there must be something more reasonable to tie Harper. I dread some mistake-- repeat to me all that passed.”
Frances, in a hurried and earnest voice, complied with his request. She related particularly the manner of his arrival at the Locusts, the reception that he received, and the events that passed, as minutely as her memory would supply her with the means. As she alluded to the conversation that occurred between her father and his guest, the Major smiled, but remained silent. She then gave a detail of Henry’s arrival, and the events of the following day. She dwelt upon the part where Harper had desired her brother to throw aside his disguise, and recounted with wonderful accuracy his remarks upon the hazard of the step that the youth had taken. She even remembered his remarkable expression to her brother, “that he was safer from Harper’s knowledge of his person than he would be without it.” Frances mentioned, with the warmth of her youthful admiration, the benevolent character of his deportment to herself, and gave a minute relation of his adieus to the whole family.
The Spy, Volume 2 Page 15