“Frances!” exclaimed her brother, starting from his seat, and pacing the floor in violent agitation. “Touch not the chord again, I entreat you. While my fate is uncertain, I would wish to be at peace with all men.”
“Then let the uncertainty cease,” cried Frances, springing to the door, “for here comes Peyton with the joyful intelligence of your release.”
The words were hardly uttered, before the door opened, and the major entered. In his air there was the appearance of neither success nor defeat, but there was a marked display of vexation. He took the hand that Frances, in the fullness of her heart, extended towards him, but instantly relinquishing it, threw himself into a chair, in evident fatigue.
“You have failed,” said Wharton, with a bound of his heart, but an appearance of composure.
“Have you seen Harper?” cried Frances, turning pale.
“I have not. I crossed the river in one boat as he must have been coming to this side, in another. I returned without delay, and traced him for several miles into the Highlands, by the western pass, but there I unaccountably lost him. I have returned here to relieve your uneasiness, but see him I will this night, and bring a respite for Henry.”
“But saw you Washington?” asked Miss Peyton.
Dunwoodie gazed at her a moment in abstracted musing, and the question was repeated. He answered gravely, and with some reserve,—
“The commander in chief had left his quarters.”
“But, Peyton,” cried Frances, in returning terror, “if they should not see each other, it will be too late. Harper alone will not be sufficient.”