Part 14 (1/2)
A feeling of deep gratification pervaded the benevolent countenance of Mrs D'Egville, as, on perusal, she found that it contained the offer of an asylum for herself and daughters in case Amherstburg should be carried by storm, as, considering the American great superiority of force, was thought likely, in the event of the British General refusing to surrender.
”Excellent, kind hearted friend!” she exclaimed when she had finished--”this indeed does merit an answer. Need of a.s.sistance, however, there is none, since my n.o.ble friend, the General, has pledged himself to antic.i.p.ate any attempt to make our soil the theatre of war--still, does it give me pleasure to be enabled to reciprocate her offer, by promising, in my turn, an asylum against all chances of outrage on the part of the wild Indians, attached to our cause”--and she left the room.
No sooner did the American find himself alone with the sisters, for Colonel D'Egville had previously retired to the General, than discarding all reserve, and throwing himself on his knees at the feet of her who sat next him, he exclaimed, in accents of the most touching pathos:
”Julia, dearest Julia! for this alone am I here. I volunteered to be the bearer of the summons to the British General, in the hope that some kind chance would give you to my view, and now that fortune, propitious beyond my utmost expectations, affords me the happiness of speaking to you whom I had feared never to behold more, oh, tell me that, whatever be the result of this unhappy war, you will not forget me. For me, I shall ever cherish you in my heart's core.”
The glow which mantled over the cheek of the agitated girl, plainly told that this pa.s.sionate appeal was made to no unwilling ear. Still she spoke not.
”Dearest Julia, answer me--the moments of my stay are few, and at each instant we are liable to interruption.
In one word, therefore, may I hope? In less than a week, many who have long been friends will meet as enemies.
Let me then at least have the consolation to know from your lips, that whatever be the event, that dearest of all gifts--your regard--is unchangeably mine.”
”I do promise, Ernest,” faltered the trembling girl.
”My heart is yours and yours forever--but do not unnecessarily expose yourself,” and her head sank confidingly on the shoulder of her lover.
”Thank you, dearest,” and the encircling arm of the impa.s.sioned officer drew her form closer to his beating heart. Gertrude, you are witness of her vow, and before you, under more auspicious circ.u.mstances, will I claim its fulfilment. Oh Julia, Julia, this indeed does recompense me for many a long hour of anxiety and doubt.”
”And hers too have been hours of anxiety and doubt,” said the gentle Gertrude. ”Ever since the war has been spoken of as certain, Julia has been no longer the gay girl she was. Her dejection has been subject of remark with all, and such is her dislike to any allusion to the past, that she never even rallies Captain Cranstoun on his bear-skin adventure of last winter on the ice.”
”Ah,” interrupted the American, ”never shall I forget the evening that preceded that adventure. It was then, dearest Julia, that I ventured to express the feeling with which you had inspired me. It was then I had first the delight of hearing from your lips that I need not entirely despair. I often, often, think of that night.”
”Of course you have not yet received my note, Ernest.
Perhaps you will deem it inconsiderate in me to have written, but I could not resist the desire to afford you what I conceived would be a gratification, by communicating intelligence of ourselves.”
”Note! what note! and by whom conveyed?”
”Have you not heard,” enquired Gertrude, warming into animation, ”that the General has sent a flag this morning to Detroit, and, under its protection, two prisoners captured by my gallant cousin, who is the officer that conducts them.”
”And to that cousin you have confided the letter?”
interrupted the Colonel, somewhat eagerly.
”No, not my cousin,” said Julia, ”but to one I conceived better suited to the trust. You must know that my father, with his usual hospitality, insisted on Major Montgomerie and his niece, the parties in question, taking up their abode with us during the short time they remained.”
”And to Miss Montgomerie you gave your letter,” hurriedly exclaimed the Colonel, starting to his feet, and exhibiting a countenance of extreme paleness.”
”Good heaven, Ernest! what is the matter? Surely you do not think me guilty of imprudence in this affair. I was anxious to write to you,--I imagined you would be glad to hear from me, and thought that the niece of one of your officers would be the most suitable medium of communication. I therefore confessed to her my secret, and requested her to take charge the letter.”
”Oh, Julia, you have been indeed imprudent. But what said she--how looked she when you confided to her our secret?”
”She made no other remark than to ask how long our attachment had existed, adding that she had once known something of you herself; and her look and voice were calm, and her cheek underwent no variation from the settled paleness observable there since her arrival.”
”And in what manner did she receive her trust?” again eagerly demanded the Colonel.
”With a solemn a.s.surance that it should be delivered to you with her own hand--then, and then only, did a faint smile animate her still but beautiful features. Yet why all these questions, Ernest? Or can it really be? Tell me,” and the voice of the young girl became imperative, ”has Miss Montgomerie any claim upon your hand--she admitted to have known you?”
”On my honor, none;” impressively returned the Colonel.
”Oh, what a weight you have removed from my heart, Ernest, but wherefore your alarm, and wherein consists my imprudence?”
”In this only, dearest Julia, that I had much rather another than she had been admitted into your confidence.