“And a good thing Washington didn’t marry 143 her!” said Peyton, gallantly. “She’d have tried to turn him Tory, and the ladies of this family are not to be resisted.”
“Go on with your letter,” said Elizabeth, chillingly.
“‘Mr. Bryan Fairfax,’” dictated Peyton, steadying his voice with an effort, “‘Towlston Hall, Fairfax County, Virginia. My dear Fairfax: If ever these reach you, ’twill be from out a captivity destined, probably, to end soon in that which all dread, yet to which all must come; a captivity, nevertheless, sweetened by the divinest presence that ever bore the name of woman—’”
Elizabeth stopped writing, and looked up, with an astonishment so all-possessing that it left no room even for indignation.
Peyton, his eyes astray in the preoccupation of composition, did not notice her look, but, as if moved by enthusiasm, rose on his right leg and stood, his hands placed on the back of the light chair by the sofa, the chair’s front being turned from him. He went on, with an affectation of repressed rapture: “‘’Twere worth even death to be for a short hour the prisoner of so superb—’”
“Sir, what are you saying?” And Elizabeth dropped the pen, and stood up, regarding him with freezing resentment.
“My thoughts, madam,” said he, humbly, meeting her gaze.
“How dare you jest with me?” said she.
“Jest? Does a man jest in the face of his own death?”