“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.”
“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.”