The Spy, Volume 2

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Frances hesitated, and unconsciously played with the handle of one of the pistols, and the paleness that her fears had spread over her fine features, began to give place to a rich tint, as after a short pause she added--

  “We can depend much on the friendship of Major Dunwoodie, but his sense of honour is so pure, that--that--notwithstanding his--his--feelings--he will conceive it to be his duty to apprehend my brother again. Besides, he thinks there will be no danger in so doing, as he relies greatly on your interference.”

  “On mine!” said Harper, raising his eyes in surprise.”

  “Yes, on yours. When we told him of your kind language, he at once assured us all that you had the power, and if you had promised, would have the inclination, to procure Henry’s pardon.”

  “Said he more?” asked Harper, glancing a quick and searching eye towards the maiden.”

  “Nothing but reiterated assurances of Henry’s safety--even now he is in quest of you.”

  “Miss Wharton,” said Harper, advancing with calm but impressive dignity, “that I bear no mean part in the unhappy struggle between England and America, it might be now useless to deny. You owe your brother’s escape this night to my knowledge of his innocence, and the remembrance of my word. Major Dunwoodie is mistaken, when he says that I might openly have procured his pardon. I now can controul his fate, and I pledge to you a word which has some influence with Washington, that means shall be taken to prevent his recapture. But from you also, I exact a promise, that this interview, and all that has passed between us, remains confined to your own bosom, until you have my permission to speak upon the subject.”

  Frances gave the desired assurance, and he continued--

  “The pedlar and your brother will soon be here, but I must not be seen by the royal officer, or the life of Birch might be the forfeiture.”

  “Never!” cried Frances, ardently; “Henry could never be so base as to betray the man who saved him.”

  “It is no childish game that we are now playing, Miss Wharton. Men’s lives and fortunes hang upon slender threads, and nothing must be left to accident that can be guarded against. Did Sir Heary Clinton know that the pedlar held communien with me, and under such circumstances, the life of the miserable man would be taken instantly--therefore, as you value human blood, or remember the rescue of your brother, be prudent, and be silent.--Communicate what you know to them both, and urge them to instant departure-- if they can reach the last picquets of our army before morning’s dawn, it shall be my care that there are none to intercept them.--There is better work for Major Dunwoodie, than to be exposing the life of his friend.”

  While Harper was speaking, he carefully rolled up the map he had been studying, and placed it, together with sundry papers that were also open, into his pocket. He was still occupied in this manner, when the voice of the pedlar, talking in unusually loud tones, was heard directly over their heads.

  “Stand further this way, Captain Wharton, and you can see the tents in the moonshine--but let them mount, and ride; I have a nest here that will hold us both, and we will go in at our leisure.”

  “And where is this nest?” cried Henry, with a voice of exultation; “I confess that I have eaten but little the last two days, and I crave some of the cheer that you mentioned.”

  “Hem”--said the pedlar, exerting his voice still more; “hem--this fog has given me a cold; but move slow--and be careful not to slip, or you may land on the baggonet of the sentinel on the flats--’tis a steep hill to rise, but one can go down it with all ease.”

  Harper pressed his finger on his lip, to remind Frances of her promised silence, and taking his pistols and hat, so that no vestige of his visit remained, retired deliberately to a far corner of the hut, where, lifting several articles of dress, he entered a recess in the rock, and letting them fall again, was hid from view. Frances noticed, by the strong fire-light, as he entered, that it was a natural cavity, and contained nothing but a few more articles for domestic use.

  The surprise of Henry and the pedlar, on entering and finding Frances in possession of the hut, may be easily imagined. Without waiting for explanations or questions, the warm-hearted girl flew into the arms of her brother, and gave a vent to her emotions in tears. But the pedlar seemed struck with very different feelings. His first look was at the fire, which had been recently supplied with fuel; he then drew open a small drawer of the table, and looked a little alarmed at finding it empty--

  “Are you alone, Miss Fanny?” he asked in a quick voice; “You did not come here alone?”

  “As you see me, Mr. Birch,” said Frances, raising herself from her brother’s arms, and turning an expressive glance towards the secret cavern, that the quick eye of the pedlar instantly understood.

  “But why, and wherefore are you here?” exclaimed her astonished brother; “and how knew you of this place at all?”

  Frances entered at once into a brief detail of what had occurred at the house since their departure, and the motives which induced her to seek them.

  “But,” said Birch, “why follow us here, when we were left on the opposite hill?”

  The maid related the glimpse that she had caught of the hut and the pedlar, in her passage through the highlands, as well as her view of him on that day; and her immediate conjecture that the fugitives would seek the shelter of this habitation for the night. Birch examined her features, as with open ingenuousness she related the simple incidents that had made her mistress of his secret, and as she ended, he sprang upon his feet, and striking the window with the stick in his hand, demolished it at a blow.

  “’Tis but little of luxury or comfort that I know,” he said, “but even that little cannot be enjoyed in safety.--Miss Wharton,” he added, advancing before Fanny, and speaking with that bitter melancholy that was common to him; “I am hunted through these hills like a beast of the forest; but whenever, tired with my toils, I can reach this spot, poor and dreary as it is, I can spend my solitary nights in safety.--WIll you aid to make the life of a wretch still more miserable?”

  “Never!” cried Frances, with fervour; “your secret is safe with me.”

  “Major Dunwoodie--” said the pedlar slowly, turning an eye upon her that red her soul.

  Frances sunk her head upon her bosom for a moment in shame, then elevating her face glowing with fire, added with enthusiasm--

  “Never, never--Harvey, as God may hear my prayers.”

  The pedlar seemed satisfied; for he drew back, and watching his opportunity, unseen by Henry, slipped behind the skreen, and entered the cavern.

  Frances, and her brother, who thought his companion had passed through the door, continued conversing on the latter’s situation for several minutes, when the maid repeatedly urged the necessity of expedition on his part, in order to precede Dunwoodie, from whose sense of duty they knew they had no escape. The Captain took out his pocket book and wrote a few lines with his pencil, then folding the paper, he handed it to his sister--

  “Frances,” he said, “you have this night proved yourself to be an incomparable woman. As you love me, give that unopened to Dunwoodie, and remember, that two hours of time may save my life.”

  “I will--I will--but why delay? why not fly, and improve these precious moments?”

  “Your sister says well, Captain Wharton,” exclaimed Harvey, who had re-entered unseen; “we must go at once. Here is food to eat as we travel.”

  “But who is to see this fair creature in safety?” cried the captain. “I can never desert my sister in such a place as this.”

  “Leave me! leave me--” said Frances; “I can descend as I came up. Do not doubt me-- you know not my courage nor my strength.”

  “I have not known you, dear girl, it is true; but now, as I learn your value, can I quit you here?--no--never--never.”

  “Captain Wharton!” said Birch, throwing open the door, “You can trifle with your own lives, if you have many to spare: I have but one, and must nurse it.--Do I go alone or not?”
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br />   “Go--go--dear Henry,” said Frances, embracing him; “go--remember our father--remember Sarah--” She waited not for his answer, but gently forced him through the door, and closed it with her own hands.

  For a short time there was a warm debate between Henry and the pedlar; but the latter finally prevailed, and the maid heard the successive plunges, as they went down the side of the mountain at a rapid rate, and they were soon out of hearing.

  Soon after the noise of their departure had ceased Harper re-appeared. He took the arm of Frances in silence, and led her from the hut. The way seemed familiar to him as, ascending to the ledge above them, he led the maid across the table land, tenderly pointing out the little difficulties in their route, and cautioning her against injury.

  Frances felt as she walked by the side of his majestic person, that she was supported by a man of no common stamp. The firmness of his step and the composure of his manner, seemed to indicate a mind that was settled and resolved. By taking a route over the back of the hill, they descended with great expedition and but little danger. The distance it had taken Frances an hour to conquer, was passed by Harper and his companion in ten minutes, and they entered the open space, already mentioned. He struck into one of the sheep paths, and crossing the clearing with rapid strides, they came suddenly upon a horse, caparisoned for a rider of no mean rank. The noble beast snorted and pawed the earth as his master approached and replaced the pistols in the holsters.

  Harper then turned, and taking the hand of Frances, spoke as follows:

  “You have this night saved your brother, Miss Wharton. It would not be proper for me to explain why there are limits to my ability to serve him, but if you can detain the horse for two hours, he is safe. After what you have already done, I can believe you equal to any duty. God has denied to me children, young lady, but if it had been his blessed will that my marriage should not have been childless, such a treasure as yourself would I have asked from his mercy. But you are my child. All who dwell in this broad land are my children and my care, and take the blessing of one who hopes yet to meet you in happier days.”

  As he spoke, with a solemnity that touched Frances to the heart, he laid his hand impressively upon her head. The maid turned her face towards him, and the hood again falling back, exposed her lovely features to the fulness of the moon-beams. A tear was glistening on either cheek, and her mild blue eyes were gazing upon him in reverence. Harper bent and pressed a paternal kiss upon her forehead, and continued--

  “Any of these sheep-paths will take you to the plain; but here we must part--I have much to do and far to ride--forget me in all but your prayers.”

  He then threw himself into his saddle, and lifting his hat with studied politeness, rode towards the back of the mountain, descending at the same time, and was soon hid by the trees. Frances sprang forward with a lightened heart, and taking the first path that led downwards, in a few minutes reached the plain in safety. While busied in stealing privately through the meadows towards the house, the noise of horse approaching, startled her, and she felt how much more was to be apprehended from man, in some situations, than from solitude.--Hiding her form in the angle of a fence near the road, she remained quiet for a moment, and watched their passage. A small party of dragoons, whose dress was different from the Virginians, passed at a brisk trot, and were followed by a gentleman, enveloped in a large cloak, who she at once knew to be Harper. Behind him rode a black in livery, and two youths in uniforms brought up the rear.--Instead of taking the road that led by the encampment, they turned short to the left, and entered the hills.

  Wondering who this unknown but powerful friend of her brother could be, the maid glided across the fields, and using due precautions in approaching the dwelling, regained her residence undiscovered and in safety.

  CHAPTER XV.

  “Hence bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!

  I am your wife, if you will marry me--”

  Tempest

  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 th
e 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.”