Part 45 (1/2)

”Was.h.i.+ngton!” echoed Dunwoodie, gazing around him in vacant horror. ”Yes, 'tis the act of Was.h.i.+ngton himself; these are his characters; his very name is here, to sanction the dreadful deed.”

”Cruel, cruel Was.h.i.+ngton!” 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 Was.h.i.+ngton'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 friends.h.i.+p 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.”