“Am I a villain, Miss Wharton, that you receive me with such language? When have I ever deceived you, Frances? Who has practiced in this manner on your purity of heart?”
“Why has not Major Dunwoodie honored the dwelling of his intended father with his presence lately? Did he forget it contained one friend on a bed of sickness, and another in deep distress? Has it escaped his memory that it held his intended wife? Or is he fearful of meeting more than one that can lay a claim to that title? Oh, Peyton—Peyton, how have I been deceived in you! With the foolish credulity of my youth, I thought you all that was brave, noble, generous, and loyal.”
“Frances, I see how you have deceived yourself,” cried Dunwoodie, his face in a glow of fire. “You do me injustice; I swear by all that is most dear to me, that you do me injustice.”
“Swear not, Major Dunwoodie,” interrupted Frances, her fine countenance lighting with the luster of womanly pride. “The time is gone by for me to credit oaths.”
“Miss Wharton, would you have me a coxcomb—make me contemptible in my own eyes, by boasting with the hope of raising myself in your estimation?”
“Flatter not yourself that the task is so easy, sir,” returned Frances, moving towards the cottage. “We converse together in private for the last time; but—possibly—my father would welcome my mother’s kinsman.”
“No, Miss Wharton, I cannot enter his dwelling now; I should act in a manner unworthy of myself. You drive me from you, Frances, in despair. I am going on desperate service, and may not live to return. Should fortune prove severe, at least do my memory justice; remember that the last breathings of my soul will be for your happiness.” So saying, he had already placed his foot in the stirrup, but his youthful mistress, turning on him an eye that pierced his soul, arrested the action.
“Peyton—Major Dunwoodie,” she said, “can you ever forget the sacred cause in which you are enlisted? Duty both to your God and to your country forbids your doing anything rashly. The latter has need of your services; besides”—but her voice became choked, and she was unable to proceed.
“Besides what?” echoed the youth, springing to her side, and offering to take her hand in his own. Frances having, however, recovered herself, coldly repulsed him, and continued her walk homeward.
“Is this our parting!” cried Dunwoodie, in agony. “Am I a wretch, that you treat me so cruelly? You have never loved me, and wish to conceal your own fickleness by accusations that you will not explain.”