CHAPTER XXII.
DUNWOODIE GAINS HIS SUIT, AND CAPTAIN WHARTON HIS FREEDOM.
On joining Miss Peyton, Frances learnt that Dunwoodie was notyet returned; although, with a view to relieve Henry from theimportunities of the supposed fanatic, he had desired a veryrespectable divine of their own church to ride up from the riverand offer his services. This gentleman was already arrived.
To the eager inquiries of Miss Peyton, relative to her success in herromantic excursion, Frances could say no more than that she was boundto be silent, and to recommend the same precaution to the good maidenalso. There was a smile playing around the beautiful mouth of Frances,while she uttered this injunction, which satisfied her aunt that allwas as it should be. She was urging her niece to take some refreshmentafter her fatiguing expedition, when the noise of a horseman riding tothe door announced the return of the major. The heart of Francesbounded 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 anddisappointment pervaded his manner.
"'Twas imprudent, Frances! nay, it was unkind," he cried, throwinghimself in a chair, "to fly at the very moment that I had assured himof safety! There was no danger impending. He had the promise ofHarper, 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, buteagerly seizing upon every circumstance to prolong the interview.
"What alternative! Am I not compelled to spend this night in thesaddle to recapture your brother, when I had thought to lay my head onits pillow, with the happy consciousness of having contributed to hisrelease?"
She bent toward him, and timidly took one of his hands, while with theother she gently removed the curls from his burning brow. "Why go atall, 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 feetand pacing the floor with a cheek that burned through its browncovering, and an eye that sparkled with wounded integrity; "it is notmy country, but my honor, that requires the sacrifice. Has he not fledfrom 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 hermore mildly. "You know I would; but I am distracted with the cruelsurmise to which this step of Henry's subjects me. Frances, I leaveyou 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 issacred."
"Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you," cried Frances, gasping for breath,as she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes tothe 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 overits contents. "Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If any one wishesme happiness, it is you."
"He does, he does," cried Frances, eagerly; "he wishes you everyhappiness. Believe it; every word is true."
"I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for itsconfirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!"
"You may, Peyton," said Frances, looking up with innocent confidenceto her lover.
"Then read for yourself, and verify your words," interruptedDunwoodie, 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 andinfirm parent. He will be reproached for the supposed crime of hisson. Look at those helpless sisters that I leave behind me without aprotector. Prove to me that you love us all. Let the clergyman whomyou will bring with you unite you this night to Frances, and become atonce brother, son, and husband."
The paper fell from the hands of Frances, and she endeavored to raiseher 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 afraud upon my conscience. I have seen Henry since his escape, and timeis all-important to him. Here is my hand; if, with this knowledge ofthe consequences of delay, you will not reject it, it is freelyyours."
"Reject it!" cried the delighted youth; "I take it as the richestgift of Heaven. There is time enough for us all. Two hours willtake me through the hills; and at noon to-morrow I will return withWashington's pardon for your brother, and Henry will help to enlivenour nuptials."[128]
[Footnote 128: marriage.]
"Then meet me here in ten minutes," said Frances, greatly relieved byunburdening her mind, and filled with the hope of securing Henry'ssafety, "and I will return and take those vows which will bind me toyou forever."
Dunwoodie paused only to press her to his bosom, and flew tocommunicate his wishes to the priest.
Dunwoodie and the clergyman were soon there. Frances, silently,and without affectation[129] of reserve, placed in his hand thewedding-ring of her own mother, and after some little time spent inarranging Mr. Wharton and herself, Miss Peyton suffered the ceremonyto proceed.
[Footnote 129: pretence.]
The clock stood directly before the eyes of Frances, and she turnedmany an anxious glance at the dial; but the solemn language of thepriest soon caught her attention, and her mind became intent upon thevows she was uttering. The ceremony was quickly over, and as theclergyman closed the words of benediction the clock told the hour ofnine. This was the time that was deemed so important, and Frances feltas if a mighty load was at once removed from her heart.
The noise of a horseman was heard approaching the house, and Dunwoodiewas yet taking leave of his bride and aunt, when an officer was showninto the room by his own man.
The gentleman wore the dress of an aid-de-camp, and the major knew himto be one of the military family of Washington.
"Major Dunwoodie," he said, after bowing to the ladies, "thecommander-in-chief has directed me to give you these orders."
He executed his mission, and, pleading duty, took his leaveimmediately.
"Here, indeed," cried the major, "is an unexpected turn in the wholeaffair. But I understand it: Harper has got my letter, and already wefeel 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'srecapture; I can now move to my duty with honor."
"And with prudence, too, dear Peyton," said Frances, with a face aspale as death. "Remember, Dunwoodie, you leave behind you claims onyour life."
The youth dwelt on her lovely but pallid features with rapture, and,as he folded her to hi
s heart, exclaimed:
"For your sake I will, lovely innocent!" Frances sobbed a moment onhis bosom, and he tore himself from her presence.
The peddler and his companion soon reached the valley, and, afterpausing to listen, and hearing no sounds which announced that pursuerswere abroad, they entered the highway. After walking at a great ratefor three hours they suddenly diverged from the road, which inclinedto the east, and held their course directly across the hills in a duesouth direction. This movement was made, the peddler informed hiscompanion, in order to avoid the parties who constantly patrolled inthe southern entrance of the Highlands, as well as to shorten thedistance by travelling in a straight line.
The peddler became more guarded in the manner in which theyproceeded, and took divers precautions to prevent meeting any movingparties of the Americans.
A steep and laborious ascent brought them from the level of thetide-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 objectscould be seen in the distance with distinctness. To Henry and thepeddler the view displayed only the square yards and lofty masts of avessel of war riding a few miles below them.
"There, Captain Wharton," said the peddler--"there is a saferesting-place for you; America has no arm that can reach you if yougain the deck of that ship."
By following the bank of the river, Birch led the way free fromobservation 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 wouldtrust themselves ashore; but Henry having finally succeeded in makingthe officer in command of the party credit his assertions, he was ableto rejoin his companions in arms in safety.
Before taking leave of Birch, the captain handed him his purse, whichwas tolerably well supplied for the times.
The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned on his heel, drawinghis breath like one relieved, and shot up the hills with the stridesfor which he was famous.