CHAPTER IV.
“It is the form, the eye, the word,
The bearing of that stranger Lord;
His stature, manly, bold, and tall,
Built like a castle's battled wall,
Yet moulded in such just degrees,
His giant-strength seems lightsome case,
Weather and war their rougher trace
Have left on that majestic face;—
But 'tis his dignity of eye!
There, if a suppliant, would I fly,
Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief,
Of sympathy, redress, relief—
That glance, if guilty, would I dread
More than the doom that spoke me dead!”—
“Enough, enough,” the princess cried,
“ 'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride!”
Walter Scott.
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The party sat in silence for several minutes
after the pedlar withdrew. Mr. Wharton had
heard enough to increase his uneasiness, without
in the least removing his apprehensions on behalf
of his son. The Captain was impatiently wishing
Harper in any other place, than the one he occupied
with such apparent composure; while Miss
Peyton completed the disposal of her breakfast
equipage, with the mild complacency of her nature,
aided a little by inward satisfaction at her
possessing so large a portion of the trader's lace—
Sarah was busily occupied in arranging her purchases,
and Frances was kindly assisting her in the
occupation, disregarding her own neglected bargains
for the moment, when the stranger suddenly
broke the silence by saying—
“If any apprehensions of me induce Captain
Wharton to maintain his disguise, I wish him to
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be undeceived—had I motives for betraying him,
they could not operate under present circumstances.”
The younger sister sunk into her seat colourless
and astonished. Miss Peyton dropped the tea-tray
she was lifting from the table; and Sarah sat with
her purchases unheeded in her lap, in speechless
surprise. Mr. Wharton was stupified; but the
Captain, hesitating a moment from astonishment,
sprang into the middle of the room, and exclaimed,
as he tore off the instruments of his disguise—
“I believe you from my soul, and this tiresome
imposition shall continue no longer under the roof
of my father. Yet I am at a loss to conceive in
what manner you know me.”
“You really look so much better in your proper
person, Captain Wharton,” said Harper with a
slight smile, “I would advise you never to conceal
it in future. There is enough to betray you,
if other sources of detection were wanting:” as he
spoke, he pointed to a picture suspended over the
mantle-piece, which exhibited the British officer
in his regimentals.
“I had flattered myself,” cried young Wharton
with a laugh, “that I looked better on the canvass
than in masquerade—you must be a close observer,
sir!”
“Necessity has made me one,” said Harper
mildly, rising from his seat.
Frances met him as he was about to withdraw,
and, taking his hand between both her own, said
with earnestness—her cheeks mantling with their
richest vermilion—“You cannot—you will not
betray my brother.”
Foran instant Harper paused in silent admiration
of the lovely pleader, and then, folding her hands
on his breast, replied solemnly—“ I cannot, and I
will not;” he released her hands, and laying his
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own on her head gently, continued—“ If the
blessing of a stranger can profit you, receive it.”
He turned, and, bowing low, retired to his apartment.
The whole party were deeply impressed with
the ingenuous and solemn manner of the traveller,
and all but the father found immediate relief in
his declaration. Some of the cast-off clothes of
the captain, which had been removed with the
goods from the city, were produced; and young
Wharton, released from the uneasiness of his disguise,
began at last to enjoy a visit which had been
undertaken at so much personal risk to himself.
Mr. Wharton retiring to his apartment in pursuance
of his regular engagements, the ladies, with
the young man, were left to an uninterrupted communication
on such subjects as were most agreeable.
Even Miss Peyton was affected with the
spirits of her younger relatives; and they sat for
an hour enjoying in heedless confidence, the pleasures
of an unrestrained conversation, without reflecting
on any danger which might be impending
over them. The city and their acquaintances
were not long neglected; for Miss Peyton, who
had never forgotten the many agreeable hours of
her residence within its boundaries, soon inquired,
among others, after their old acquaintance Colonel
Wellmere.
“Oh!” cried the Captain gaily, “he yet continues
there, as handsome and as gallant as ever.”
Although a woman be not actually in love, she
seldom hears without a blush, the name of a man
whom she might love, and who has been connected
with herself, by idle gossips, in the amatory
rumour of the day. Such had been the case with
Sarah, and she dropped her eyes on the carpet
with a smile, that, aided by the blush which suffused
her cheek, in no degree detracted from her
native charms.
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Captain Wharton, without heeding this display
of interest in his sister, immediately continued—
“At times he is melancholy—we tell him it must
be love.” Sarah raised her eyes to the face of
her brother, and was consciously turning them on
the rest of the party, when she met those of her
sister, laughing with good-humour and high spirits,
as she cried, “Poor man—does he despair?”
“Why, no—one would think he could not—the
eldest son of a man of wealth, so handsome, and
a Colonel.”
“Strong reasons, indeed, why he should prevail,”
said Sarah, endeavouring to laugh, “more
particularly the latter.”
“Let me tell you,” replied the Captain gravely,
“a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the Guards is a
very pretty thing”—
“And Colonel Wellmere a very pretty man,”
cried Frances, with a laugh.
“Nay, Frances,” returned her sister, “Colonel
Wellmere was never a favorite with you—he is
too loyal to his King to be agreeable to your
taste.”
Frances took the hand of her sister, as she said—
“and is not Henry loyal to his King?”
“Come, come,” said Miss Peyton, “no difference
of opinion about the Colonel—he is a favorite
of mine.”
“Fanny likes Majors better,” cried the brother,
pulling her upon his knee.
“Nonsense,” said the blushing girl, as she endeavoured
to extricate herself from the grasp of
her laughing brother.
“It surprizes me,” continued the Captain,
“that Peyton, when he procured the release of
my father, did not endeavour to detain my sister
in the rebel camp.”
“That might have endangered his own liberty,”
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said the maid, smiling archly, and resuming her
seat; “you know it is liberty for which Major
Dunwoodie is fighting.”
“Liberty!” exclaimed Sarah, “very pretty
liberty—which exchanges one master for fifty.”
“The privilege of changing masters at all is a
liberty,” returned the other good-humouredly.
“And one you ladies would sometimes be glad
to exercise,” cried the captain.
“We like, I believe, to have the liberty of
choosing who they shall be in the first place,”
said the laughing girl; “don't we, aunt Jeanette.”
“Me!” cried Miss Peyton starting; “what do
I know of such things child; you must ask some
one else, if you wish to learn such matters.”
“Ah!” returned the maid, looking playfully at
her aunt, “you would have us think you were
never young—but what am I to believe of all the
tales I have heard about the handsome Miss Jeanette
Peyton.”
“Nonsence—my dear—nonsense,” said the
aunt, endeavouring to suppress a smile; “it is
very silly to believe all you hear.”
“Nonsense! do you call it,” cried the captain
gaily; “to this hour General Montrose toasts
Miss Peyton; I heard him within the week, at Sir
Henry's table.”
“Why, Henry, you are as saucy as your sister,”
returned the lady; “and to break in upon your
folly, I must take you to see my new home-made
manufactures in contrast with the finery of Birch.”
The young people rose to follow their aunt, in
perfect good humour with each other and the
world. On ascending the stairs to the place of
deposit for Miss Peyton's articles of economy, she
availed herself, however, of an opportunity to inquire
of her nephew, whether General Montrose
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suffered as much from the gout, as he had done
when she knew him.
It is a painful discovery that we make, as we
advance in life, that none of us are exempt from
its frailties. When the heart is fresh, and the
view of the future unsullied by the blemishes
which have been gathered from the experience of
the past, it is that our feelings are most holy—we
love to identify with the persons of our natural
friends, all those qualities to which we ourselves
aspire, and all those virtues we have been taught
to revere. The confidence with which we esteem
seems a part of our nature; and there is a purity,
thrown around the affections which tie us to our
kindred, that after life can seldom hope to see uninjured.
The family of Mr. Wharton continued
to enjoy, for the remainder of the day, a happiness
to which they had long been strangers; and one
that sprung, in its younger members, from the delights
of the most confiding affection, and the exchange
of the most disinterested endearments.
Harper appeared only at the dinner table, and
retired with the cloth, under the pretence of some
engagements in his own room. Notwithstanding
the confidence created by his manner, the family
felt his absence a relief; for the visit of Captain
Wharton was necessarily to be confined to a
very few days, both from the limitation to his
leave of absence, and the danger of a discovery.
All dread of consequences, however, were lost
in the pleasure of the meeting. Once or twice
during the day, Mr. Wharton had suggested a
doubt as to the character of his unknown guest,
and the possibility of the detection of his son proceeding
in some manner from his information:
but the idea was earnestly opposed by all his children;
even Sarah united with her brother and
sister in pleading warmly in favor of the sincerity
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expressed in the outward appearance of the traveller.
“Such appearances, my children,” replied the
desponding parent, “are but too often deceitful;
when men like Major André lend themselves to
the purposes of fraud, it is idle to reason from
qualities, much less externals.”—
“Fraud!” cried his son quickly; “surely, sir,
you forget that Major Andre was serving his king,
and that the usages of war justified the measure.”
“And did not the usages of war justify his death,
Henry?” inquired Frances, speaking in a low voice,
unwilling to abandon what she thought the cause
of her country, and yet unable to suppress her
feelings for the man.
“Never!” exclaimed the young man, springing
from his seat, and pacing the floor rapidly—“Frances
you shock me; suppose it should be my fate,
even now, to fall into the power of the rebels—
you would vindicate my execution—perhaps exult
in the cruelty of Washington.”
“Henry!” said Frances solemnly, quivering
with emotion, and with a face pale as death, “you
little know my heart.”—
“Pardon me—my sister—my little Fanny,” cried
the repentant youth, pressing her to his bosom,
and kissing off the tears which had burst in torrents
from her eyes.
“It is very foolish to regard your hasty words,
I know,” said Frances, extricating herself from his
arms, and raising her yet humid eyes to his face
with a smile—“But reproach from those we love
is most severe, Henry—particularly—where we—
we think—we know,”—the paleness of the maid
gradually gave place to the colour of the rose, as
she concluded in a low voice, with her eyes directed
to the carpet,—“we are undeserving of
it.”—
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Miss Peyton moved from her own seat to the
one next her niece, and, kindly taking her hand,
observed, “you should not suffer the impetuosity
of your brother to affect you so much—boys, you
know,” she continued with a smile, “are proverbially
ungovernable.”—
“And you might add cruel, from my conduct,”
said the Captain, seating himself on the other side
of his sister; “but on the subject of the death of
André we are all of us uncommonly sensitive—
you did not know him—he was all that was brave—
that was accomplished—that was estimable.”
Frances smiled faintly and shook her head, but
made no reply. Her brother, observing the marks
of incredulity in her countenance, continued—
“you doubt it, and justify his death?”
“I do not doubt his worth,” replied the maid
mildly, “nor his being deserving of a more happy
fate; but I doubt the impropriety of Washington's
conduct. I know but little of the customs of war,
and wish to know less; but with what hopes of success
could the Americans contend, if they yielded
all the principles which long use had established,
to the exclusive purposes of the British?”
“Why contend at all?” cried Sarah impatiently;
“besides, being rebels, all their acts are illegal.”—
“Women are but mirrors, which reflect the
images before them,” cried the captain good naturedly.—
“In Frances I see the picture of Major
Dunwoodie—and in Sarah”—
“Colonel Wellmere,” interrupted the younger
sister laughing, and blushing crimson. “I must
confess I am indebted to the Major for my reasoning—
am I not aunt Jeanette?”
“I believe there is something like it, indeed,
child,” replied Miss Peyton with a smile, “in his
last letter to me.”
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“Yes, I plead guilty—and you, Sarah, have not
forgotten the learned discussions of Colonel Wellmere.”—
“I trust I never forget the right,” said Sarah,
emulating her sister in colour, and rising, under
the pretence of avoiding the heat of the fire.
Nothing occurred of any moment during the
rest of the day; but in the evening Cæsar reported
that he had overheard voices in the room of Harper,
conversing in a low tone. The apartment
occupied by the traveller was the wing at the extremity
of the building, opposite to the parlor in
which the family ordinarily assembled; and it
seems, that Cæsar had established a regular system
of espionage, with a view to the safety of his
young master. This intelligence gave some uneasiness
to all the members of the family; but the
entrance of Harper himself, with the air of benevolence
and sincerity which shone through his reserve,
soon removed the doubts from the breast
of all but Mr. Wharton. His children and sister
believed Cæsar to have been mistaken, and the
evening passed off without any additional alarm.
On the afternoon of the succeeding day, the
party were assembled in the parlor around the
tea-table of Miss Peyton, when a change in the
weather occurred. The thin scud, that apparently
floated but a short distance above the tops of
the hills, began to drive from the west towards the
east in astonishing rapidity. The rain yet continued
to beat against the eastern windows of the
house with incredible fury: in that direction all
was dark and gloomy. Frances was gazing at the
scene with the desire of youth to escape from the
tedium of confinement, when, as if by magic, all
was still. The rushing winds had ceased: the
pelting of the storm was over—and, springing to
the window, the maid, with delight pictured in her
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face, saw a glorious ray of sunshine lighting on the
opposite wood. The foliage glittered with the
chequered beauties of the October leaf—reflecting
back from the moistened boughs the richest
lustre of an American autumn. In an instant, the
piazza, which opened to the south, was thronged
with the inmates of the cottage. The air was
mild, balmy, and refreshing—in the east, clouds,
which might be likened to the retreating masses
of a discomfited army, hung around the horizon in
awful and increasing darkness. At a little elevation
above the cottage, the thin and vapory clouds
were still rushing towards the east with amazing
velocity; while in the west the sun had broken
forth in all his majesty, and shed his parting radiance
on the scene below, aided by the fullest
richness of a clear atmosphere and freshened
herbage.—Such moments belong only to the climate
of America, and are enjoyed in a degree proportioned
to the suddenness of the contrast, and
the pleasure we experience in escaping from the
turbulence of the elements to the quiet of a peaceful
evening, and an air still as the softest mornings
in June.
“What a magnificent scene!” said Harper in a
low tone; “how grand! how awfully sublime!
May such a quiet speedily await the struggle in
which my country is engaged, and such a glorious
evening follow the day of her adversity.”
Frances, who stood next him, alone heard the
voice—turning in amazement from the view to
the speaker, she saw him standing bare headed,
erect, and with his eyes to heaven; there was no
longer the quiet which had seemed their characteristic,
but they were lighted into something like
enthusiasm, and a slight flush passed over his pale
features.
There can be no danger apprehended from such,
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a man, thought Frances—such feelings belong only
to the virtuous.
The musings of the party were now interrupted
by the sudden appearance of the pedlar. He had
taken advantage of the first gleam of sunshine to
hasten to the cottage. Heedless of wet or dry as
it lay in his path, with arms swinging to and fro,
and with his head bent forward of his body several
inches, Harvey Birch now approached the piazza,
with a gait peculiarly his own—the quick,
lengthened pace of a vender of goods.
“Fine evening,” said the pedlar, saluting the
party without raising his eyes, “quite warm and
agreeable for the season.”
Mr. Wharton assented to the remark, and inquired
kindly after the health of his father. Harvey
heard him, and continued standing for some
time in moody silence; but the question being repeated,
he answered with a slight tremor in his
voice—
“He fails fast; old age and hardships will do
their work.” The pedlar turned his body from
the view of most of the family; but Frances noticed
his glistening eyes and quivering lips, and, for
the second time, Harvey rose in the estimation of
the maid.
The valley in which was the residence of Mr.
Wharton ran in a direction from North-west to
South-east, and the house stood on the side of a
hill which terminated its length in the former direction.
A small opening, occasioned by the receding
of the opposite hill, and the fall of the
land to the level of the tide water, afforded a view
of the Sound over the tops of the distant woods on
its margin. The surface of the water, which had
so lately been lashing the shores with boisterous
fury, was already losing its ruffled darkness in the
long and regular undulations that succeed a
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tempest, while the light air from the South-west was
gently touching their summits, lending its feeble
aid in stilling the waters. Some dark spots were
now to be distinguished, occasionally rising into
view, and again sinking behind the lengthened
waves which interposed themselves to the sight.
They were unnoticed by all but the pedlar. He
had seated himself on the piazza, at a distance
from Harper, and appeared to have forgotten the
object of his visit. His roving eye, however, soon
caught a glimpse of these new objects in the view,
and he sprang up with alacrity, gazing intently
towards the water. The juices of the tobacco
soon disfigured the floor of Miss Peyton—he moved
his place—glanced his eye with marked uneasiness
on Harper—and then said with great emphasis—
“The rig'lars must be out from below.”
“Why do you think so?” inquired Captain
Wharton eagerly; “God send it may be true; I
want their escort in again.”
Those ten whale boats would not move so fast,”
answered Birch drily, “unless they were better
manned than common.”
“Perhaps,” cried Mr. Wharton in alarm, “they
are—they are continentals returning from the island.”
“They look like rig'lars,” said the pedlar with
great meaning.
“Look!” repeated the captain, “there is nothing
but spots to be seen.”
Harvey disregarded his observation, but seemed
to be soliloquizing as he said, in an under tone—
“They came out before the gale—have laid on the
island these two days—horse are on the road—
there will soon be fighting near us.” During this
speech Birch several times glanced his eye towards
Harper, with evident uneasiness, but no
corresponding emotion betrayed any interest of
that gentleman in the scene.—He stood in silent
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contemplation of the view, and seemed enjoying
the change in the air. As Birch concluded, however,
Harper turned to his host and mentioned,
that his business would not admit of unnecessary
delay; he would, therefore, avail himself of the
fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey.
Mr. Wharton made many professions of regret at
losing so agreeable an inmate; but was too mindful
of his duty not to speed the parting guest, and
orders were instantly given to that effect.
The uneasiness of the pedlar increased in a
manner for which nothing apparent could account;
his eye was constantly wandering towards the
lower end of the vale, as if in expectation of some
interruption from that quarter. At length Cæsar
appeared leading the noble beast which was to
bear the weight of the traveller. The pedlar officiously
assisted to tighten the girths, and fasten
the blue cloak and valisse to the mail straps.
Every preparation being completed, Harper
proceeded to take his leave. To Sarah and her
aunt he paid his compliments with ease and kindness—
but when he came to Frances, he paused a
moment, while his face assumed an expression of
more than ordinary benignity; his eye repeated
the blessing which had before fallen from his lips,
and the maid felt her cheeks glow and heart
beat with a quicker pulsation, as he spoke his
adieus. There was a mutual exchange of polite
courtesy between the host and his parting guest;
but as Harper frankly offered his hand to Captain
Wharton, he remarked, in a manner of great solemnity—
“The step you have undertaken is one of much
danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself
may result from it—in such a case I may have it
in my power to prove the gratitude I owe your
family for its kindness.”
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“Surely, sir,” cried the father, losing sight of
delicacy in apprehension for his child, “you will
keep secret the discovery which your being in my
house has enabled you to make.”
Harper turned quickly to the speaker, and then
losing the sternness which had begun to gather on
his countenance, he answered mildly, “I have
learnt nothing in your family, sir, of which I was
ignorant before—but your son is safer from my
knowledge of his visit, than he would be without
it.”
He bowed to the whole party, and without taking
any notice of the pedlar other than by simply
thanking him for his attentions, mounted his horse,
and riding steadily and gracefully through the little
gate, was soon lost behind the hill which sheltered
the valley to the northward.
The eye of the pedlar followed the retiring figure
of the horseman so long as it continued
within view, and as it disappeared from his sight,
he drew a long and heavy sigh, as if relieved from
a load of apprehension. The Whartons had meditated
in silence on the character and visit of their
unknown guest for the same period, when the father
approached Birch, and observed—
“I am yet your debtor, Harvey, for the tobacco
you were so kind as to bring me from the city.”
“If it should not prove so good as the first,” replied
the pedlar, fixing a last and lingering look
on the direction of Harper's route, “it is owing
to the scarcity of the article.”
“I like it much,” continued the other, “but
you have forgotten to name the price.”
The countenance of the trader changed, and
losing its expression of deep care in a natural
acuteness, he answered—
“It is hard to say what ought to be the price;
I believe I must leave it to your own generosity.”
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Mr. Wharton had taken a hand well filled with
the images of Carolus III. from his pocket, and
now extended it towards Birch with three of the
pieces between his finger and thumb. Harvey's
eyes twinkled as he contemplated the reward;
and rolling over in his mouth a large quantity of
the article in question, coolly stretched forth his
hand into which the dollars fell with a most agreeable
sound; but not satisfied with the transient
music of their fall, the pedlar gave each piece in
succession a ring on the stepping-stone to the piazza,
before he consigned it to the safe keeping of
a huge deer-skin purse, which vanished from the
sight of the spectators so dexterously, that not one
of them could have told about what part of his
person it was secreted.
This very material point in his business so satisfactorily
completed, the pedlar rose from his seat
on the floor of the piazza, and approached where
Captain Wharton stood, supporting his sisters on
either arm, as they listened with the lively interest
of affection, to his conversation.
The agitation of the preceding incidents had
caused such an expenditure of the juices which
had become necessary to the mouth of the pedlar,
that a new supply of the weed was required before
he could turn his attention to business of lesser
moment. This done, he asked abruptly—
“Captain Wharton, do you go in to night?”
“No!” said the captain laconically, and looking
at his lovely burdens with great affection.—
“Mr. Birch, would you have me leave such company
so soon, when I may never enjoy it again.”
“Brother!” said Frances in a low tone, “jesting
on such a subject is cruel.”
“I rather guess,” continued the pedlar coolly,
“now the storm is over, the Skinners may be
moving; you had better shorten your visit, Captain
Wharton.”
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“Oh!” cried the British officer, “a few guineas
will buy off those rascals at any time should I
meet them. No—no—Mr. Birch, here I stay until
morning.”
“Money could not liberate Major André,” said
the pedlar drily.
Both the sisters now turned to the captain in
alarm, and the elder observed—
“You had better take the advice of Harvey—
rest assured, brother, his opinion in such matters
ought not to be disregarded.”
“Yes,” added the younger, “if, as I suspect,
Mr. Birch assisted you to come here—your safety—
our happiness, dear Henry, require you to
listen to him now.”
“I brought myself out, and can take myself in,”
said the captain positively; “our bargain went no
farther than to procure my disguise, and let me
know when the coast was clear, and in the latter
particular you were mistaken, Mr. Birch.”
“I was,” said the pedlar with some interest,
“and the greater is the reason why you should
get back to night—the pass I gave you will serve
you but once.”
“Cannot you forge another?”
The pale cheek of the trader showed an unusual
colour, but he continued silent, with his
eyes fixed to the ground, until the young man
added with great positiveness—“here I stay this
night, come what will.”
“Captain Wharton,” said the pedlar with great
deliberation and marked emphasis, “beware a
tall Virginian, with huge whiskers—he is below
you yo my knowledge; the devil can't deceive
him; I never could but once myself.”
“Let him beware of me.” said Wharton haughtily;
“but Mr. Birch, I exonerate you from further
responsibility.”
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“Will you give me that in writing?” asked the
cautious Birch.
“Oh! cheerfully,” cried the captain with a
laugh; “Cæsar! pen, ink, and paper, while I write
a discharge for my trusty attendant, Harvey Birch,
pedlar, &c. &c.”
The implements for writing were produced,
and the captain, with great gaiety, wrote the desired
acknowledgment in language of his own;
which the pedlar took, and, carefully depositing it
by the side of the images of his Catholic majesty,
made a sweeping bow to the whole family, and departed
as he had approached. He was soon seen at
a distance stealing into the door of his own humble
dwelling.
The father and sisters of the captain were too
much rejoiced in retaining the young man to express,
or even entertain, the apprehensions his situation
might reasonably excite; but on retiring to
their evening repast, a cooler reflection induced
the captain to think of changing his mind—unwilling
to trust himself out of the protection of his
father's domains, the young man despatched Cæsar
to desire another interview with Harvey. The
black soon returned with the unwelcome intelligence
that it was now too late. Katy had told
him Harvey must be miles on his road to the
northward, having left home at early candle light,
with his pack. Nothing now remained to the
captain but patience, until the morning afforded
further opportunity of deciding on the best course
for him to pursue.
“This Harvey Birch, with his knowing looks
and portentous warnings, gives me more uneasiness
than I am willing to own,” said Captain
Wharton, rousing himself from a fit of musing in
which the danger of his situation made no small
part of his meditations.
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“How is it, that he is able to travel to and fro
in these difficult times without molestation?” inquired
Miss Peyton.
“Why the rebels suffer him to escape so easily,
is more than I can answer,” returned the other;
“but Sir Henry would not permit a hair of his
head to be injured.”
“Indeed!” cried Frances with interest; “is he
then known to Sir Henry Clinton?”
“At least he ought to be,” said the captain,
smiling significantly.
“Do you think, my son,” asked Mr. Wharton,
“there is no danger of his betraying you?”
“Why—no—I reflected on that before I trusted
myself to his power,” said the Captain thoughtfully;
“he seems to be faithful in matters of business.
The danger to himself, should he return to
the city, would prevent such an act of villany.”
“I think,” said Frances, adopting the manner
of her brother, “Harvey Birch is not without good
feelings; at least, he has the appearance of them
at times.”
“Oh!” cried her sister exultingly, “he has loyalty,
and that with me is a cardinal virtue.”
“I am afraid,” said her brother laughing, “love
of money is a stronger passion than love to his
king.”
“Then,” said the father, “you cannot be safe
while in his power—for no love will withstand
the temptation of money when offered to avarice.”
“Surely, sir,” cried the youth, recovering his
gaiety, “there must be one love that can resist
any thing—is there not Fanny?”
“Here is your candle,” said the distressed
maiden: “you keep your father up beyond his
usual hour.”
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Cooper, James Fenimore, 1789-1851 [1821], The spy, volume 1 (Wiley & Halsted, New York) [word count] [eaf052v1].
