DUNWOODIE GAINS HIS SUIT, AND CAPTAIN WHARTON HIS
FREEDOM.
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.
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. The heart of Frances
bounded as she listened to his approaching footsteps. She, however,
had not time to rally her thoughts before he entered.
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! 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 the 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 recapture your brother, when I had thought to lay my head on
its pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to his
release?"
She bent toward 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 hand."
"Frances! Miss Wharton!" exclaimed the youth, springing on his feet
and pacing the floor with a cheek that burned 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?"
"Peyton, dear Peyton," said Frances, "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. 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[127]
duty, read this note that Henry has left for you, and which,
doubtless, he thought he was writing to the friend of his youth."
[Footnote 127: She thought his sense of duty too exacting.]
"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 it; 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
to 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 endeavored to raise
her eyes to the face of Dunwoodie, but they sank abashed to the floor.
"Speak, Frances," murmured Dunwoodie; "may I summon my good kinswoman?
Determine, for time presses."
"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 at noon to-morrow I will return with
Washington's pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enliven
our nuptials."[128]
[Footnote 128: marriage.]
"Then meet me here in ten minutes," said Frances, greatly relieved by
unburdening 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 to his bosom, and flew to
communicate his wishes to the priest.
Dunwoodie and the clergyman were soon there. Frances, silently,
and without affectation[129] 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.
[Footnote 129: pretence.]
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 was deemed so important, and Frances felt
as if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.
The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, and Dunwoodie
was yet taking leave of his bride and 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 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 the 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,[130] 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, recall your men, if any are in pursuit, and
endeavor to defeat the enemy forthwith. Your obedient
servant,
"GEO. WASHINGTON."
[Footnote 130: a river flowing into the Hudson about
thirty-two miles above New York; high ground bordering on
this river.]
"Thank God!" cried Dunwoodie, "my hands are washed of Henry's
recapture; I can now move to my duty with honor."
"And with prudence, too, dear Peyton," said Frances, with a face as
pale as death. "Remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you claims on
your life."
The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture, and,
as he folded her to his heart, exclaimed:
"For your sake I will, lovely innocent!" Frances sobbed a moment on
his bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.
The peddler 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. 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 peddler informed his
companion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patrolled in
the southern entrance of the Highlands, as well as to shorten the
distance by travelling in a straight line.
The peddler became more guarded in the manner in which they
proceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any moving
parties of the Americans.
A steep and laborious ascent brought them from the level of the
tide-waters to the high lands that form, in this part of the river,
the eastern banks of the Hudson. The day was now opened, and objects
could be seen in the distance with distinctness. To Henry and the
peddler the view displayed only the square yards and lofty masts of a
vessel of war riding a few miles below them.
"There, Captain Wharton," said the peddler--"there is a safe
resting-place for you; America has no arm that can reach you if you
gain the deck of that ship."
By following the bank of the river, Birch led the way free from
observation until they reached a point opposite to the frigate,[131]
when, by making a signal, a boat was induced to approach.
[Footnote 131: a ship of war.]
Some time was spent and much precaution used before the seamen would
trust themselves ashore; but Henry having finally succeeded in making
the officer in command of the party credit his assertions, he was able
to rejoin his companions in arms in safety.
Before taking leave of Birch, the captain handed him his purse, which
was tolerably well supplied for the times.
The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned on his heel, drawing
his breath like one relieved, and shot up the hills with the strides
for which he was famous.