University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.
WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN EXPECTED.

It was a delightful evening: the noxious impurities
of a sultry atmosphere had just been dissipated
by the “red artillery of heaven,” whose
receding murmurs were still heard at a distance,
in the east; the sun had sunk in golden splendor
behind the Canadian mountains, while the “bow
of promise” seemed to span the far-extended territory
of freemen. The air was balmy, cool, and
refreshing; the moon-beam played on the ever-restless
bosom of Niagara, and sparkled in the

rain-drops with which every leaf was freighted.
Both George and Reuben had (as usual, in a
summer evening) disencumbered their persons of
every martial habiliment, and were loosely attired
in light mantles of India calico.

Our hero had just finished a very tender epistle
to his Catharine, and arose to enjoy the beauties
of the evening scene, when he observed that Reuben
was also busily employed with his pen. This
was not a circumstance so unusual as to excite
any surprise or curiosity in the mind of George,
had not his attendant, on this occasion, exhibited
evident tokens of embarrassment on being discovered,
and attempted to conceal the paper.

“No treason, Reuben, I hope?” asked George,
with one of his irresistible smiles of inquiry; “no
intercourse with the enemy?”

“O, no, sir.”

“With a sweetheart, perhaps? Well—I shall
not chide you.”

The modest lad blushed deeply; and, after a
moment's hesitation, replied—

“I only write for amusement, sir.”

“What amuses Reuben in writing,” replied
George “might entertain his friend in reading—
if you think him deserving such confidence.”

“O sir, I have no single thought that I wish to
conceal from you. This is nothing secret; but I
am apprehensive that so accomplished a scholar
and poet as yourself, will be too severe a critic on
the simple effusions of my brain.”

“Is it poetry, then? I shall esteem the privilege
of its perusal a fresh token of your friendship.
Come, Reuben, be under no apprehensions
of severity from me. When has my severity
ever given you pain?”

“Never, sir,” replied Reuben, “and therefore
I tremble to encounter it. It would break my
heart.”

“You shall never encounter it—faithful, affectionate
boy!” exclaimed George. “I love you
as a brother, and in me you shall always meet a
brother's tenderness and affection.”

“And will you permit me to call you brother?”
eagerly enquired Reuben.

“Let the appellation be reciprocal. And now,
my little brother, on what subject have you been
exercising your poetic talent?”

“You must not laugh at me,” stammered Reuben;
“but—you have often commended a lively
little song, beginning—

and have been pleased to praise my voice, and
style of singing it. This has induced me to make
an attempt to adapt new words to the same air;
and, if you will excuse my vanity, I will submit
them to your inspection.”

“Your vanity, Reuben, will never be obtrusive,
while connected with your present modesty.
But now I must beg the favor of your singing this
production—and then, I am certain I shall be
pleased with it.”

After a little hesitation, Reuben complied, and
sung the following words, in a faultless and fascinating
style. If there was any imperfection in
the execution, it was attributable to the extreme
youth of the performer, which rendered his voice
rather too effeminate, though peculiarly sweet.

“The performance far exceeds my expectation,”
said George, as Reuben concluded; “but
I confess I do not understand the plot. Who is
this Ella?”

“The story is old,” answered Reuben. “Ella
loved a young hero whose mistress was Glory;
and so eager was he in the pursuit of military
fame, that he was totally insensible to the charms
of beauty. She followed him to camp, disguised
in male attire, enjoyed his society, but never had
the courage to discover herself; till, languishing
and drooping with a hopeless passion, in the

hour of death she disclosed, at once, the secret of
her sex, and the consuming flame that preyed
upon her existence. Oh! my brother, would you
not have pitied the unfortunate Ella?”

“Who could withhold his pity? But you tell
this story with the pathes of a lover. Is it possible
that my brother Reuben has felt this “consuming
flame?” Can the infant deity have pierced
a bosom so young as this?

As our hero spoke, he placed his hand on the
shrinking Reuben's palpitating heart, and started
with amazement. With eager haste he tore open
the ruffled cambric that veiled a female bosom,
and exclaimed—

“Rash—imprudent girl! Who are you?”

The counterfeit Reuben fell prostrate at the
feet of our hero; then clinging to his knees, and
raising a pair of streaming eyes, implored his forgiveness.

“Oh! do not hate me, my brother!” uttered
a feminine voice almost stifled with convulsive
sobs. “You have allowed me the privilege of
calling you brother—Oh! do not retract it—it is
all the bliss I aspire to. Do not abandon—do
not despise—do not murder with reproaches, one
whose only fault is loving you! To live in your
presence—to hear your voice—to meet your
smiles—this is all I ask—all I hope—Oh! do not
deny me that! Pity, at least, the lost Sophia!”

“Lost, indeed!” exclaimed the thunderstruck
George. “Dreadful—fatal infatuation!”

“O think what must have been the extent of
my love! For that have I abandoned a husband
who adored me!—parents, whose existence was
bound up in mine!—broke a sister's heart!—
forfeited the respect and esteem of the virtuous!—

encountered the hardships of a camp!—risked
the dangers of war! and, what I value most of all,
risked your displeasure!—all for love!—for the
sake of being near to you—to hear you speak—
to see you smile—to nurse you in sickness—to
serve you in health! And will you hate me for
this, my brother? Oh! rather stab me to the
heart at once, and take that life which is devoted
to you—a life which knows no joy but what it
derives from your friendship! Rather let your
sword pierce this bosom, and end my miseries by
death.”

As Sophia uttered these last words, she rose
upon her knees, and throwing open her loose attire,
displayed a bosom heaving with agitation
and doubtful hopes—white as alabaster—beautiful
beyond description. Her black eyes, suffused
with tears, were fixed with a melting fondness
on those of George, and through them she
poured her very soul, emanating in the dazzling
rays of love. George was bewildered—she saw
her advantage—and, suddenly rising, threw herself
into his arms.

Our hero had frequently stood firm and unmoved
when assailed by a host of British invincibles—
conquerors in Egypt, Spain, and France; he had
heard unappalled the savage war-whoop, and
encountered all the terrors of an Indian fight,
without suffering a nerve to quiver—a joint to
tremble. But now, his nerves quivered—his
joints trembled—his bosom palpitated. He was
closely, warmly pressed in the arms of an amorous,
melting beauty, whose soul was dissolved in
love:

I have never asserted that my hero was more
than a man. Sophia conquered.

Let fastidious virtue close the volume. I write
nothing but truth.