CHAPTER XXII.

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 Cæsar, 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.