Wondering who this unknown but powerful friend of her brother could be, Frances glided across the fields, and using due precautions in approaching the dwelling, regained her residence undiscovered and in safety.
Chapter XXXI
“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 had been passing 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 playing around the beautiful mouth of Frances, while she uttered this injunction, which satisfied her aunt that all was as it should be. She was urging her niece to take some refreshment after her fatiguing expedition, 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, tormented by a thousand conflicting fears. The heart of Frances bounded, 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, 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 during that hour. She, 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 an air of vexation and disappointment pervaded his manner—
“’Twas imprudent, Frances; nay, it was unkind,” he cried, throwing himself in a chair, “to fly at the very moment that I had assured him of 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 his mistress, approaching, and leaning her slender form against the wall; “but not in our feelings, Peyton—You must certainly rejoice in the escape of Henry!”
“There was no danger impending. He had the promise of Harper; and it is a word never to be doubted.—Oh! Frances! Frances! had you known the 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 lay my head on its pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to his release. You make me seem your enemy; I, who would cheerfully shed the last drop of blood in your service. I repeat, Frances, it was rash—it was unkind—it was a sad, sad mistake.”
She bent towards him, and timidly took one of his hands, while with the other she gently removed the curls from his burning brow—
“Why go at all, dear Peyton?” she asked. “You have done much for your 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 through its brown covering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded 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 shall see before to-morrow’s sun who will presume to hint, that the beauty of the sister furnished a mask to conceal the brother! Yes—yes—I should like even now,” he continued, laughing bitterly, “to hear the villain, who would dare to surmise that such treachery existed!”
“Peyton—dear Peyton,” said Frances, recoiling from his angry eye, “you curdle my blood—would you kill my brother?”
“Would I not die for him!” exclaimed Dunwoodie, 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 consolation, Frances!”
“Nay, dear Dunwoodie, I meant nothing harsh or unkind; but are you not making us both of more consequence with 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 my orders to mount; 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,” she answered, 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.
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 Caesar, 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 reproached 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 whom 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 to the floor.
“Am I worthy of this confidence? will you send me out 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 b
etter 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 this refinement?” 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 gaining 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 you hesitate, dear Frances,” cried Dunwoodie, who was studying her varying countenance; “a few minutes might give me a husband’s claim to protect you.”
Frances grew giddy. 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, Frances,” murmured Dunwoodie; “may I summon my good kinswoman—determine, for time presses.”
She 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 his mistress 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; if, with this knowledge of the consequences of delay, you will not reject it, it is freely yours.”
“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 the 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 eyes of Frances, and she turned many an anxious glance at the dial—but the solemn language of the priest soon caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon the vows she was uttering.—The ceremony 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 mild aunt again and again, and shook Mr. Wharton and the divine repeatedly by the hands. In the midst of the felicitations, 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 I 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; he 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. But the sooner I go, Frances, the sooner I shall return.”
The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, 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 be one of the military family of Washington.
“Major Dunwoodie,” he said, after bowing 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 a covering party which the enemy has sent up, in front of his 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 assign you. You will, therefore, recal your men, if any are in pursuit, and endeavour to defeat the enemy forthwith.
Your Obedient Servant,
GEO: WASHINGTON.”
“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 on your life.”
The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture, and as he pressed her hand to his heart, exclaimed—
“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 admonitory lecture on the subject of matrimonial duty. Her instruction 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 shall now leave the ladies of the Wharton family, and return to Captain Wharton and Harvey Birch.
Chapter XXXII
“Allow
him not a parting word;
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord!”
Rokeby.
* * *
THE PEDLAR and his companion soon reached the valley, and after pausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuers were abroad, they entered the highway. Acquainted with every step that led through the mountains, and possessed of sinews inured to toil, Birch led the way, with the lengthened strides that were peculiar to the man and his profession—his pack alone was wanting to finish the appearance of his ordinary business air. At times when they approached one of those little posts, held by the American troops, with which the highlands abounded, he would take a circuit to avoid the sentinels, and plunge fearlessly into a thicket, or ascend a rugged hill, that to the eye seemed impassable. But the pedlar was familiar with every turn in their difficult route, knew where the ravines might be penetrated, or where the streams were fordable. In one or two instances, Henry thought that their further progress was absolutely at an end, but the ingenuity, or knowledge, of his guide conquered every difficulty. After walking at a great rate for three hours, they suddenly diverged from the road, which inclined to the east, and held their course directly across the hills, in a due south direction. This movement was made, the pedlar informed his companion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patroled in the southern entrance of the highlands, as well as to shorten the distance, by travelling in a straight line. After reaching the summit of a hill, Harvey seated himself by the side of a little run, and opening a wallet, that he had slung where his pack was commonly suspended, he invited his comrade to partake of the coarse fare it contained. Henry had kept pace with the pedlar, more by the excitement natural to his situation, than by the equality of his physical powers. The idea of a halt was unpleasant, so long as there existed a possibility of the horse getting below him in time to intercept their retreat through the neutral ground.—He, therefore, stated his apprehensions to his companion, and urged a wish to proceed.
The Spy & Lionel Lincoln Page 45