“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 God, to smooth my passage 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.”
Frances shook her head, but remained silent.
“I ask for no joy—no demonstration of a felicity that you will not, cannot feel, for months to come; but obtain a right to his powerful name—give him an undisputed title to protect you—”
Again the maid made an impressive gesture of denial.
“For the sake of that unconscious sufferer”—pointing to Sarah, “for your sake—for my sake—my sister—”
“Peace, Henry, or you will break my heart,” cried the agitated girl. “Not for worlds would I at such a moment engage in the solemn vows that you wish. It would render me miserable for life.”
“You love him not,” said Henry, reproachfully. “I cease to importune you to do what is against your inclinations.”