DUNWOODIE'S INVESTIGATION.
After sufficient time had passed to make a very comfortable meal, a
trumpet suddenly broke on the ears of the party, sending its martial
tones up the valley, in startling melody. The trooper rose instantly
from the table, exclaiming:
"Quick, gentlemen, to your horses; there comes Dunwoodie;" and,
followed by his officers, he precipitately[49] left the room.
[Footnote 49: very hastily.]
With the exception of the sentinels left to guard Captain Wharton, the
dragoons mounted, and marched out to meet their comrades.
In the advancing troop, one horseman seemed to be distinguished in
particular from those around him. Even the steed of this youthful
soldier seemed to be conscious that he sustained the weight of no
common man. The dragoon sat in the saddle with a firmness and ease
that showed him master of himself and horse, his figure uniting the
just proportions of strength and activity, being tall, round, and
muscular. To this officer Lawton made his report, and side by side
they rode into the field opposite to the cottage.
The officer gave a few hasty orders to his second in command, walked
rapidly into the lawn, and approached the cottage. The dragoon
ascended the steps of the piazza, and had barely time to touch the
outer door, when it opened to his admission.
Frances silently led the way into a vacant parlor, opposite to the
one in which the family were assembled, and turning to the soldier
frankly, placing both her hands in his own, exclaimed:
"Ah, Dunwoodie, how happy on many accounts I am to see you! I have
brought you in here to prepare you to meet an unexpected friend in the
opposite room."
"To whatever cause it may be owing," cried the youth, pressing her
hands to his lips, "I, too, am happy in being able to see you alone.
Frances, the probation[50] you have decreed is cruel; war and distance
may separate us forever."
[Footnote 50: trial.]
"We must submit to the necessity which governs us. But it is not love
speeches I would hear now: I have other and more important matter for
your attention."
"What can be of more importance than to make you mine by a tie that
will be indissoluble![51] Frances, you are cold to me--me--from whose
mind, days of service and nights of alarm have never been able to
banish your image for a single moment."
[Footnote 51: never to be loosened.]
"Dear Dunwoodie," said Frances, softening nearly to tears, "you know
my sentiments. This war once ended, and you may take my hand forever;
but I cannot consent to tie myself to you by any closer union, so long
as you are arrayed against my only brother. Even now, that brother is
waiting your decision to restore him to liberty, or to conduct him to
a probable death."
"Your brother!" cried Dunwoodie, starting and turning pale; "Frances!
what can I do?"
"Do!" she repeated, gazing at him wildly; "would Major Dunwoodie yield
to his enemies his friend, the brother of his betrothed wife? Do you
think I can throw myself into the arms of a man whose hands are
stained with the blood of my only brother!"
"Frances, you wring my very heart; but, after all, we may be torturing
ourselves with unnecessary fears, and Henry, when I know the
circumstances, may be nothing more than a prisoner of war; in which
case, I can liberate him on parole."
Frances now led the way to the opposite room. Dunwoodie followed her
reluctantly, and with forebodings of the result.
The salutations of the young men were cordial and frank, and, on the
part of Henry Wharton, as collected as if nothing had occurred to
disturb his self-possession.
After exchanging greetings with every member of the family, Major
Dunwoodie beckoned to the sentinel to leave the room. Turning to
Captain Wharton, he inquired mildly:
"Tell me, Henry, the circumstances of this disguise in which Captain
Lawton reports you to have been found; and remember--remember--Captain
Wharton, your answers are entirely voluntary."
"The disguise was used by me, Major Dunwoodie," replied the English
officer, gravely, "to enable me to visit my friends without incurring
the danger of becoming a prisoner of war."
"But you did not wear it until you saw the troop of Lawton
approaching?"
"Oh, no!" interrupted Frances, eagerly, "Sarah and myself placed them
on him when the dragoons appeared; it was our awkwardness that led to
the discovery."
The countenance of Dunwoodie brightened, as, turning his eyes in
fondness on the speaker, he listened to her explanation.
"Probably some articles of your own," he continued, "which were at
hand, and were used on the spur of the moment."
"No," said Wharton, with dignity; "the clothes were worn by me from
the city; they were procured for the purpose to which they were
applied, and I intended to use them again in my return this very day."
"But the pickets--the party at the Plains?" added Dunwoodie, turning
pale.
"I passed them, too, in disguise. I made use of this pass, for which
I paid; and, as it bears the name of Washington, I presume it is
forged."
Dunwoodie caught the paper eagerly, and stood gazing on the signature
for some time in silence, during which the soldier gradually prevailed
over the man; then he turned to the prisoner with a searching look, as
he asked:
"Captain Wharton, whence did you procure this paper?"
"This is a question, I conceive, Major Dunwoodie has no right to ask."
"Your pardon, sir; my feelings may have led me into an impropriety.
This name is no counterfeit. Captain Wharton, my duty will not suffer
me to grant you a parole; you must accompany me to the Highlands."
"I did not expect otherwise, Major Dunwoodie."
"Major Dunwoodie," said Frances, "I have already acknowledged to you
my esteem; I have promised, Dunwoodie, when peace shall be restored to
our country, to become your wife; give my brother his liberty on
parole, and I will this day go with you to the altar, follow you to
the camp, and, in becoming a soldier's bride, learn to endure a
soldier's privations."
Dunwoodie seized the hand which the blushing girl extended towards
him, and pressed it for a moment to his bosom; he paced the room in
excessive agitation.
"Frances, say no more, I conjure you, unless you wish to break my
heart."
"Then you reject my proffered hand?" she said, rising with dignity.
"Reject it! Have I not sought it with entreaties, with tears? But to
take it under such conditions would be to dishonor both. Henry must be
acquitted; perhaps not tried. No intercession of mine shall be
wanting, you must well know; and believe me, Frances, I am not without
favor with Washington."
"That paper, that abuse of his confidence, will steel him to my
brother's case. If threats or entreaties could move his stern sense
of justice, would Andre have suffered?" As Frances uttered these
words, she fled from the room in despair.
Dunwoodie remained for a minute nearly stupefied; and then he
followed with a view to vindicate[52] himself, and to relieve her
apprehensions. On entering the hall that divided the two parlors,
he was met by a ragged boy, who looked one moment at his dress, and
placing a piece of paper in his hands, immediately vanished through
the outer door of the building. The soldier turned his eyes to the
subject of the note. It was written on a piece of torn and soiled
paper, and in a hand barely legible; but, after much labor, he was
able to make out as follows:
[Footnote 52: free from blame.]
"The rig'lars are at hand, horse and foot."
Dunwoodie started; and, forgetting everything but the duties of a
soldier, he precipitately left the house. While walking rapidly
towards the troops, he noticed on a distant hill a vidette[53] riding
with speed; several pistols were fired in quick succession, and the
next instant the trumpets of the corps rang in his ears with the
enlivening strain of "To arms." By this time he had reached the ground
occupied by his squadron; the major saw that every man was in active
motion. Lawton was already in the saddle, eying the opposite extremity
of the valley with the eagerness of expectation.
[Footnote 53: a mounted sentinel.]