"Washington!" echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror. "Yes, "tis the act of Washington himself; these 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 savior 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 G.o.d"s sake; use not such language. 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 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 pointing to the group of weeping mourners near him, 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."
"And this helpless innocent," continued Henry, pointing to where Sarah sat, unconscious of what was pa.s.sing, "I had hoped for an opportunity to revenge her wrongs;" a flush of excitement pa.s.sed over his features; "but such thoughts are evil-I feel them to be wrong. Under your care, Peyton, she will find sympathy and refuge."
"She shall," whispered Dunwoodie.
"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.
"No, no, no!" she murmured. "None can ever be anything 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 n.o.ble devotion to a cause that you have been taught to revere, that your kindness to our father when in imprisonment, your friendship for 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; "but, still, Henry, spare your sister now; nay, spare even me."
"I speak in pity to 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 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 dispatched a messenger for a man of G.o.d, to smooth my pa.s.sage 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 t.i.tle 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 her countenance, 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 as 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 presuming to press 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 first 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 stayed 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 he cautioned us 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 pa.s.sed 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 been so sadly destroyed.