The Lake Gun and other Stories. Джеймс Фенимор Купер

S. June 25th. Not having yet sent my letter, although I am sure you must be dying with anxiety to hear how we get on, I must add, that we have a companion here that would delight you – a Mr. Edward Stanley. What a delightful name! and he is as delightful as his name: his eye, his nose, his whole countenance, are perfect. In short, Julia, he is just such a man as we used to draw in our conversation at school. He is rich, and brave, and sensible, and I do nothing but talk to him of you. He says, he longs to see you; knows you must be handsome; is sure you are sensible; and feels that you are good. Oh! he is worth a dozen Charles Westons. But you may give my compliments to Mr. Weston, though I don’t suppose he ever thinks it worth his while to remember such a chick as me. I should like to hear what he says about me, and I will tell you all Edward Stanley says of you. Once more, adieu. Your letters got here safe and in due season. I let Edward take a peep at them.”

      The first time Julia read this letter she was certainly disappointed. It contained no descriptions of the lovely scenery of the west. The moon had risen and the sun had set on the lakes of the interior, and Anna had said not one word of either. But the third and fourth time of reading began to afford more pleasure, and at the thirteenth perusal she pronounced it charming. There was evidently much to be understood; vacuums that the fancy could easily fill; and, before Julia had left the summer-house, the letter was extended, in her imagination, to the promised six sheets. She walked slowly through the shrubbery towards the house, musing on the contents of her letter, or rather what it might be supposed to contain, and unconsciously repeating to herself in a low tone –

      “Young, handsome, rich, and sensible – just as we used to paint in our conversation. Oh, how delightful!”

      “Delightful indeed, to possess all those fine qualities; and who is the happy individual that is so blessed?” asked Charles Weston, who had been lingering in the walks with an umbrella to shield her on her return from an approaching shower.

      “Oh!” said Julia, starting, “I did not know you were near me. I have been reading Anna’s sweet letter,” pressing the paper to her bosom as she spoke.

      “Doubtless you must be done by this time, Julia, and,” pointing to the clouds, “you had better hasten to the house. I knew you would be terrified at the lightning all alone by yourself in that summer-house, so I came to protect you.”

      “You are very good, Charles, but does it lighten?” said Julia in terror, and hastening her retreat to the dwelling.

      “Your letter must have interested you deeply not to have noticed the thunder – you, who are so timid and fearful of the flashes.”

      “Foolishly fearful, you would say, if you were not afraid of hurting my feelings, I know,” said Julia.

      “It is a natural dread, and therefore not to be laughed at,” answered Charles mildly.

      “Then there is natural fear, but no natural love, Mr. Charles; now you are finely caught,” cried Julia exultingly.

      “Well, be it so. With me fear is very natural, and I can almost persuade myself love also.”

      “I hope you are not a coward, Charles Weston. A cowardly man is very despicable. I could never love a cowardly man,” said Julia, laughing.

      “I don’t know whether I am what you call a coward,” said Charles gravely; “but when in danger I am always afraid.”

      The words were hardly uttered before a flash of lightning, followed instantly by a tremendously heavy clap of thunder, nearly stupified them both. The suddenness of the shock had, for a moment, paralyzed the energy of the youth, while Julia was nearly insensible. Soon recovering himself, however, Charles drew her after him into the house, in time to escape a torrent of rain. The storm was soon over, and their natural fear and surprise were a source of mirth for Julia. Women are seldom ashamed of their fears, for their fright is thought to be feminine and attractive; but men are less easy under the imputation of terror, as it is thought to indicate an absence of manly qualities.

      “Oh! you will never make a hero, Charles,” cried Julia, laughing heartily. “It is well you chose the law instead of the army as a profession.”

      “I don’t know,” said the youth, a little nettled, “I think I could muster courage to face a bullet.”

      “But remember, that you shut your eyes, and bent nearly double at the flash – now you owned all this yourself.”

      “At least he was candid, and acknowledged his infirmities,” said Miss Emmerson, who had been listening.