“’Tis thought you have little to apprehend for your brother,” said Frances, in the same embarrassed manner. “Had you seen him when he was brought in by Major Dunwoodie—”
Frances paused, with a feeling of conscious shame, for which she could not account; and, in raising her eyes, she saw Isabella studying her countenance with an earnestness that again drove the blood tumultuously to her temples.
“You were speaking of Major Dunwoodie,” said Isabella, faintly.
“He was with Captain Singleton.”
“Do you know Dunwoodie? Have you seen him often?”
Once more Frances ventured to look her guest in the face, and again she met the piercing eyes bent on her, as if to search her inmost heart. “Speak, Miss Wharton; is Major Dunwoodie known to you?”
“He is my relative,” said Frances, appalled at the manner of the other.
“A relative!” echoed Miss Singleton; “in what degree?—speak, Miss
Wharton, I conjure you to speak.”
“Our parents were cousins,” faintly replied Frances.
“And he is to be your husband?” said the stranger, impetuously.