 | CHAPTER VI. The deerslayer: or, The first war-path |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.”
Disputed.
The reader must imagine the horror that daughters would
experience, at unexpectedly beholding the shocking spectacle
that was placed before the eyes of Judith and Esther, as
related in the close of the last chapter. We shall pass over
the first emotions, the first acts of filial piety, and proceed
with the narrative, by imagining rather than relating most
of the revolting features of the scene. The mutilated and
ragged head was bound up, the unseemly blood was wiped
from the face of the sufferer, the other appliances required
by appearances and care were resorted to, and there was
time to inquire into the more serious circumstances of the
case. The facts were never known until years later, in all
their details, simple as they were; but they may as well be
related here, as it can be done in a few words. In the
struggle with the Hurons, Hutter had been stabbed by the
knife of the old warrior, who had used the discretion to remove
the arms of every one but himself. Being hard pushed
by his sturdy foe, his knife had settled the matter. This
occurred just as the door was opened, and Hurry burst out
upon the platform, as has been previously related. This
was the secret of neither party's having appeared in the
subsequent struggle; Hutter having been literally disabled,
and his conqueror being ashamed to be seen with the traces
of blood about him, after having used so many injunctions to
convince his young warriors of the necessity of taking their
prisoners alive. When the three Hurons returned from the
chase, and it was determined to abandon the castle, and join
the party on the land, Hutter was simply scalped, to secure
the usual trophy, and was left to die by inches, as has been
done in a thousand similar instances, by the ruthless warriors
Hutter been confined to his head, he might have recovered,
however; for it was the blow of the knife that proved
mortal.
There are moments of vivid consciousness, when the stern
justice of God stands forth in colours so prominent, as to
defy any attempts to veil them from the sight, however unpleasant
they may appear, or however anxious we may be
to avoid recognising it. Such was now the fact with Judith
and Hetty, who both perceived the decrees of a retributive
Providence, in the manner of their father's suffering, as a
punishment for his own recent attempts on the Iroquois.
This was seen and felt by Judith, with the keenness of perception
and sensibility that were suited to her character;
while the impression made on the simpler mind of her sister
was perhaps less lively, though it might well have proved
more lasting.
“Oh! Judith,” exclaimed the weak-minded girl, as soon
as their first care had been bestowed on the sufferer. “Father
went for scalps, himself, and now where is his own?
The Bible might have foretold this dreadful punishment!”
“Hush—Hetty—hush, poor sister—he opens his eyes; he
may hear and understand you. 'T is as you say and think;
but 't is too dreadful to speak of!”
“Water—”ejaculated Hutter, as it might be by a desperate
effort, that rendered his voice frightfully deep and
strong, for one as near death as he evidently was—“water
—foolish girls—will you let me die of thirst?”
Water was brought and administered to the sufferer; the
first he had tasted in hours of physical anguish. It had the
double effect of clearing his throat, and of momentarily reviving
his sinking system. His eyes opened with that
anxious, distended gaze, which is apt to accompany the passage
of a soul surprised by death, and he seemed disposed to
speak.
“Father—”said Judith, inexpressibly pained by his deplorable
situation, and this so much the more from her ignorance
of what remedies ought to be applied—“Father, can
we do any thing for you? Can Hetty and I relieve your
pain?”
“Father!” slowly repeated the old man. “No, Judith—
no father. Look in the chest—tis all there—give me more
water.”
The girls complied; and Judith, whose early recollections
extended farther back than her sister's, and who, on every
account, had more distinct impressions of the past, felt an
uncontrollable impulse of joy, as she heard these words.
There had never been much sympathy between her reputed
father and herself, and suspicions of this very truth had
often glanced across her mind, in consequence of dialogues
she had overheard between Hutter and her mother. It
might be going too far to say she had never loved him; but
it is not so to add, that she rejoiced it was no longer a duty.
With Hetty the feeling was different. Incapable of making
all the distinctions of her sister, her very nature was full of
affection, and she had loved her reputed parent, though far
less tenderly than the real parent; and it grieved her, now,
to hear him declare he was not naturally entitled to that
love. She felt a double grief, as if his death and his words
together, were twice depriving her of parents. Yielding to
her feelings, the poor girl went aside and wept.
The very opposite emotions of the two girls, kept both
silent for a long time. Judith gave water to the sufferer frequently,
but she forbore to urge him with questions, in some
measure out of consideration for his condition; but, if truth
must be said, quite as much lest something he should add,
in the way of explanation, might disturb her pleasing belief
that she was not Thomas Hutter's child. At length Hetty
dried her tears, and came and seated herself on a stool by
the side of the dying man, who had been placed at his length
on the floor, with his head supported by some worn vestments
that had been left in the house.
“Father,” she said, “you will let me call you father,
though you say you are not one,—Father, shall I read the
bible to you—mother always said the bible was good for
people in trouble. She was often in trouble herself, and
then she made me read the bible to her; for Judith wasn't
as fond of the bible as I am—and it always did her good.
Many is the time I've known mother begin to listen with
the tears streaming from her eyes, and end with smiles and
gladness. Oh! father, you don't know how much good the
chapter, and it will soften your heart, as it softened the
hearts of the Hurons.”
While poor Hetty had so much reverence for, and faith
in, the virtue of the bible, her intellect was too shallow to
enable her fully to appreciate its beauties, or to fathom its
profound, and sometimes mysterious wisdom. That instinctive
sense of right, which appeared to shield her from
the commission of wrong, and even cast a mantle of moral
loveliness and truth around her character, could not penetrate
abstrusities, or trace the nice affinities between cause
and effect, beyond their more obvious and indisputable connection,
though she seldom failed to see all the latter, and to
defer to all their just consequences. In a word, she was one
of those who feel and act correctly, without being able to
give a logical reason for it, even admitting revelation as her
authority. Her selections from the bible, therefore, were
commonly distinguished by the simplicity of her own mind,
and were oftener marked for containing images of known
and palpable things, than for any of the higher cast of
moral truths with which the pages of that wonderful book
abound—wonderful, and unequalled, even without referring
to its divine origin, as a work replete with the profoundest
philosophy, expressed in the noblest language. Her mother,
with a connection that will probably strike the reader, had
been fond of the book of Job; and Hetty had, in a great
measure, learned to read by the frequent lessons she had
received from the different chapters of this venerable and
sublime poem—now believed to be the oldest book in the
world. On this occasion, the poor girl was submissive to
her training, and she turned to that well-known part of the
sacred volume, with the readiness with which the practised
counsel would cite his authorities from the stores of legal
wisdom. In selecting the particular chapter, she was influenced
by the caption, and she chose that which stands in
our English version as, “Job excuseth his desire of death.”
This she read steadily, from beginning to end, in a sweet,
low, and plaintive voice; hoping devoutly that the allegorical
and abstruse sentences might convey to the heart of the
sufferer the consolation he needed. It is another peculiarity
of the comprehensive wisdom of the bible, that scarce a
does not contain some searching truth that is applicable to
the condition of every human heart, as well as to the temporal
state of its owner, either through the workings of that
heart, or even in a still more direct form. In this instance,
the very opening sentence,—“Is there not an appointed
time to man on earth?”—was startling; and as Hetty proceeded,
Hutter applied, or fancied he could apply many
aphorisms and figures to his own worldly and mental condition.
As life is ebbing fast, the mind clings eagerly to
hope, when it is not absolutely crushed by despair. The
solemn words,—“I have sinned; what shall I do unto thee,
O thou preserver of men? Why hast thou set me as a
mark against thee, so that I am a burden to myself,” struck
Hutter more perceptibly than the others; and, though too obscure
for one of his blunted feelings and obtuse mind either
to feel or to comprehend in their fullest extent, they had a
directness of application to his own state that caused him to
wince under them.
“Don't you feel better now, father?” asked Hetty, closing
the volume. “Mother was always better when she had
read the bible.”
“Water,” returned Hutter; “give me water, Judith. I
wonder if my tongue will always be so hot! Hetty, isn't
there something in the bible about cooling the tongue of a
man who was burning in hell-fire?”
Judith turned away, shocked; but Hetty eagerly sought
the passage, which she read aloud to the conscience-stricken
victim of his own avaricious longings.
“That's it; poor Hetty; yes, that's it. My tongue wants
cooling, now; what will it be hereafter?”
This appeal silenced even the confiding Hetty, for she
had no answer ready for a confession so fraught with despair.
Water, so long as it could relieve the sufferer, it
was in the power of the sisters to give; and, from time to
time, it was offered to the lips of the sufferer as he asked
for it. Even Judith prayed. As for Hetty, as soon as she
found that her efforts to make her father listen to her texts
were no longer rewarded with success, she knelt at his side,
and devoutly repeated the words which the Saviour has left
behind him as a model for human petitions. This she continued
act could benefit the dying man. Hutter, however, lingered
longer than the girls had believed possible, when they first
found him. At times he spoke intelligibly, though his
lips oftener moved in utterance of sounds that carried no
distinct impressions to the mind. Judith listened intently,
and she heard the words “husband,” “death,” “pirate,”
“law,” “scalps,” and several others of a similar import,
though there was no sentence to tell the precise connection
in which they were used. Still they were sufficiently expressive
to be understood by one whose ears had not escaped
all the rumours that had been circulated to her reputed father's
discredit, and whose comprehension was as quick as
her faculties were attentive.
During the whole of the painful hour that succeeded, neither
of the sisters bethought her sufficiently of the Hurons
to dread their return. It seemed as if their desolation and
grief placed them above the danger of such an interruption;
and when the sound of oars was at length heard, even Judith,
who alone had any reason to apprehend the enemy,
did not start, but at once understood that the ark was near.
She went upon the platform fearlessly; for, should it turn
out that Hurry was not there, and that the Hurons were
masters of the scow also, escape was impossible. Then she
had the sort of confidence that is inspired by extreme misery.
But there was no cause for any new alarm,—Chingachgook,
Hist, and Hurry all standing in the open part of the scow,
cautiously examining the building, to make certain of the
absence of the enemy. They, too, had seen the departure
of the Hurons, as well as the approach of the canoe of the
girls to the castle, and, presuming on the latter fact, March
had swept the scow up to the platform. A word sufficed to
explain that there was nothing to be apprehended, and the
ark was soon moored in her old berth.
Judith said not a word concerning the condition of her
father, but Hurry knew her too well not to understand that
something was more than usually wrong. He led the way,
though with less of his confident bold manner than usual,
into the house, and, penetrating to the inner room, found
Hutter lying on his back, with Hetty sitting at his side, fanning
him with pious care. The events of the morning had
his skill as a swimmer, and the readiness with which he had
adopted the only expedient that could possibly save him, the
helplessness of being in the water, bound hand and foot, had
produced some such effect on him as the near approach of
punishment is known to produce on most criminals, leaving
a vivid impression of the horrors of death upon his mind,
and this, too, in connection with a picture of bodily helplessness;
the daring of this man being far more the offspring
of vast physical powers than of the energy of the will, or
even of natural spirit. Such heroes invariably lose a large
portion of their courage with the failure of their strength;
and, though Hurry was now unfettered, and as vigorous as
ever, events were too recent to permit the recollection of his
late deplorable condition to be at all weakened. Had he
lived a century, the occurrences of the few momentous minutes
during which he was in the lake, would have produced
a chastening effect on his character, if not always on his
manner.
Hurry was not only shocked when he found his late associate
in this desperate situation, but he was greatly surprised.
During the struggle in the building, he had been
far too much occupied himself to learn what had befallen
his comrade, and, as no deadly weapon had been used in
his particular case, but every effort had been made to capture
him without injury, he naturally believed that Hutter had
been overcome, while he owed his own escape to his great
bodily strength, and to a fortunate concurrence of extraordinary
circumstances. Death, in the silence and solemnity
of a chamber, was a novelty to him. Though accustomed
to scenes of violence, he had been unused to sit by the
bed-side and watch the slow beating of the pulse as it gradually
grew weaker and weaker. Notwithstanding the
change in his feelings, the manners of a life could not be
altogether cast aside in a moment, and the unexpected scene
extorted a characteristic speech from the borderer.
“How now! Old Tom,” he said, “have the vagabonds
got you at an advantage, where you're not only down, but
are likely to be kept down! I thought you a captyve it's
true, but never supposed you as hard run as this!”
Hutter opened his glassy eyes and stared wildly at the
wavering mind at the sight of his late comrade. It was
evident that he struggled with his own images, and knew not
the real from the unreal.
“Who are you?” he asked in a husky whisper, his failing
strength refusing to aid him in a louder effort of his
voice. “Who are you?—You look like the mate of the
Snow—he was a giant, too, and near overcoming us.”
“I'm your mate, Floating Tom, and your comrade,
but have nothing to do with any snow. It's summer now,
and Harry March always quits the hills as soon after the
frosts set in as is convenient.”
“I know you—Hurry Skurry—I'll sell you a scalp!—
a sound one, and of a full-grown man;—what'll you give?”
“Poor Tom! That scalp business hasn't turned out at
all profitable, and I've pretty much concluded to give it up,
and to follow a less bloody calling.”
“Have you got any scalp? Mine's gone—How does it
feel to have a scalp?—I know how it feels to lose one—fire
and flames about the brain—and a wrenching at the heart
—no, no—kill first, Hurry, and scalp afterwards.”
“What does the old fellow mean, Judith? He talks like
one that is getting tired of the business as well as myself.
Why have you bound up his head? or, have the savages
tomahawked him about the brains?”
“They have done that for him, which you and he, Harry
March, would have so gladly done for them. His skin
and hair have been torn from his head to gain money from
the governor of Canada, as you would have torn theirs from
the heads of the Hurons, to gain money from the governor
of York.”
Judith spoke with a strong effort to appear composed, but
it was neither in her nature, nor in the feeling of the moment
to speak altogether without bitterness. The strength
of her emphasis, indeed, as well as her manner, caused Hetty
to look up reproachfully.
“These are high words to come from Thomas Hutter's
darter, as Thomas Hutter lies dying before her eyes,” retorted
Hurry.
“God be praised for that!—whatever reproach it may
“Not Thomas Hutter's darter!—Don't disown the old
fellow in his last moments, Judith, for that's a sin the Lord
will never overlook. If you're not Thomas Hutter's darter,
whose darter be you?”
This question rebuked the rebellious spirit of Judith; for,
in getting rid of a parent, whom she felt it was a relief to
find she might own she had never loved, she overlooked the
important circumstance that no substitute was ready to supply
his place.
“I cannot tell you, Harry, who my father was,” she answered
more mildly; “I hope he was an honest man, at
least.”
“Which is more than you think was the case, with old
Hutter? Well, Judith, I'll not deny that hard stories were
in circulation consarning Floating Tom, but who is there
that doesn't get a scratch when an inimy holds the rake?
There's them that say hard things of me; and even you,
beauty as you be, don't always escape.”
This was said with a view to set up a species of community
of character between the parties, and, as the politicians
of the day are wont to express it, with ulterior intentions.
What might have been the consequences with one of Judith's
known spirit, as well as her assured antipathy to the
speaker, it is not easy to say; for, just then, Hutter gave
unequivocal signs that his last moment was nigh. Judith
and Hetty had stood by the dying bed of their mother, and
neither needed a monitor to warn them of the crisis, and
every sign of resentment vanished from the face of the first.
Hutter opened his eyes, and even tried to feel about him
with a hand, a sign that sight was failing. A minute later
his breathing grew ghastly; a pause totally without respiration
followed; and, then, succeeded the last, long-drawn
sigh, on which the spirit is supposed to quit the body. This
sudden termination of the life of one who had hitherto filled
so important a place in the narrow scene on which he had
been an actor, put an end to all discussion.
The day passed by without further interruption, the Hurons,
though possessed of a canoe, appearing so far satisfied
with their success as to have relinquished all immediate
indeed, to approach it under the rifles of those it was
now known to contain, and it is probable that the truce was
more owing to this circumstance than to any other. In the
meanwhile, the preparations were made for the interment
of Hutter. To bury him on the land was impracticable,
and it was Hetty's wish that his body should lie by the side
of that of her mother, in the lake. She had it in her power
to quote one of his speeches, in which he himself had called
the lake the “family burying-ground,” and luckily this was
done without the knowledge of her sister, who would have
opposed the plan, had she known it, with unconquerable
disgust. But Judith had not meddled with the arrangement,
and every necessary disposition was made without her
privity or advice.
The hour chosen for the rude ceremony, was just as the
sun was setting, and a moment and a scene more suited to
paying the last office to one of calm and pure spirit, could
not have been chosen. There are a mystery and a solemn
dignity in death, that dispose the living to regard the
remains of even a malefactor with a certain degree of reverence.
All worldly distinctions have ceased; it is thought
that the veil has been removed, and that the character and
destiny of the departed are now as much beyond human
opinions, as they are beyond human ken. In nothing is death
more truly a leveller than in this, since, while it may be
impossible absolutely to confound the great with the low,
the worthy with the unworthy, the mind feels it to be arrogance
to assume a right to judge of those who are believed
to be standing at the judgment-seat of God. When Judith
was told that all was ready, she went upon the platform,
passive to the request of her sister, and then she first took
heed of the arrangement. The body was in the scow, enveloped
in a sheet, and quite a hundred-weight of stones,
that had been taken from the fire-place, were enclosed with
it, in order that it might sink. No other preparation seemed
to be thought necessary, though Hetty carried her bible beneath
her arm.
When all were on board the ark, this singular habitation
of the man whose body it now bore to his final abode, was
set in motion. Hurry was at the oars. In his powerful
which were wielded without effort, and, as he was expert in
their use, the Delaware remained a passive spectator of the
proceedings. The progress of the ark had something of the
stately solemnity of a funeral procession, the dip of the oars
being measured, and the movement slow and steady. The
wash of the water, as the blades rose and fell, kept time
with the efforts of Hurry, and might have been likened to
the measured tread of mourners. Then the tranquil scene
was in beautiful accordance with a rite, that ever associates
with itself the idea of God. At that instant, the lake
had not even a single ripple on its glassy surface, and the
broad panorama of woods seemed to look down on the holy
tranquillity of the hour and ceremony in melancholy stillness.
Judith was affected to tears, and even Hurry, though he
hardly knew why, was troubled. Hetty preserved the outward
signs of tranquillity, but her inward grief greatly surpassed
that of her sister, since her affectionate heart loved
more from habit and long association, than from the usual
connections of sentiment and taste. She was sustained by
religious hope, however, which in her simple mind usually
occupied the space that worldly feelings filled in that of Judith;
and she was not without an expectation of witnessing
some open manifestation of divine power, on an occasion so
solemn. Still, she was neither mystical nor exaggerated,
her mental imbecility denying both. Nevertheless her
thoughts had generally so much of the purity of a better
world about them, that it was easy for her to forget earth
altogether, and to think only of heaven. Hist was serious,
attentive and interested, for she had often seen the interments
of the pale-faces, though never one that promised to
be as peculiar as this; while the Delaware, though grave,
and also observant in his demeanour, was stoical and calm.
Hetty acted as pilot, directing Hurry how to proceed, to
find that spot in the lake, which she was in the habit of terming
“mother's grave.” The reader will remember that the
castle stood near the southern extremity of a shoal that extended
near half a mile northerly, and it was at the farthest
end of this shallow water that Floating Tom had seen fit to
deposit the remains of his wife and child. His own were
now in the course of being placed at their side. Hetty
although the position of the buildings, the general direction
of the shoal, and the beautiful transparency of the water, all
aided her, the latter even allowing the bottom to be seen.
By these means the girl was enabled to note their progress,
and at the proper time she approached March, whispering—
“Now, Hurry, you can stop rowing. We have passed
the stone on the bottom, and mother's grave is near.”
March ceased his efforts, immediately dropping the kedge,
and taking the warp in his hand, in order to check the scow.
The ark turned slowly round, under this restraint, and when
it was quite stationary, Hetty was seen at its stern, pointing
into the water, the tears streaming from her eyes, in ungovernable
natural feeling. Judith had been present at the interment
of her mother, but she had never visited the spot
since. This neglect proceeded from no indifference to the
memory of the deceased; for she had loved her mother,
and bitterly had she found occasion to mourn her loss; but
she was averse to the contemplation of death; and there had
been passages in her own life since the day of that interment,
which increased this feeling, and rendered her if possible
still more reluctant to approach the spot that contained
the remains of one whose severe lessons of female morality
and propriety, had been deepened and rendered doubly impressive
by remorse for her own failings. With Hetty, the
case had been very different. To her simple and innocent
mind, the remembrance of her mother brought no other
feeling than one of gentle sorrow; a grief that is so often
termed luxurious, even, because it associates with itself the
images of excellence, and the purity of a better state of existence.
For an entire summer, she had been in the habit
of repairing to the place after night-fall; and carefully anchoring
her canoe so as not to disturb the body, she would
sit and hold fancied conversations with the deceased, sing
sweet hymns to the evening air, and repeat the orisons that
the being who now slumbered below, had taught her in infancy.
Hetty had passed her happiest hours in this indirect
communion with the spirit of her mother; the wildness of
Indian traditions, and Indian opinions, unconsciously to herself,
mingling with the Christian lore received in childhood.
Once she had even been so far influenced by the former, as
rites at her mother's grave, which the red men are known to
observe; but the passing feeling had been obscured by the
steady, though mild, light of Christianity, which never
ceased to burn in her gentle bosom. Now, her emotions
were merely the natural outpourings of a daughter that wept
for a mother whose love was indelibly impressed on the
heart, and whose lessons had been too earnestly taught to
be easily forgotten by one who had so little temptation to
err.
There was no other priest than nature, at that wild and
singular funeral rite. March cast his eyes below, and through
the transparent medium of the clear water, which was almost
as pure as air, he saw what Hetty was accustomed to
call “mother's grave.” It was a low straggling mound of
earth, fashioned by no spade, out of a corner of which
gleamed a bit of the white cloth that formed the shroud of the
dead. The body had been lowered to the bottom, and Hutter
brought earth from the shore and let it fall upon it,
until all was concealed. In this state the place had remained,
until the movement of the waters had revealed the solitary
sign of the uses of the spot, that has just been mentioned.
Even the most rude and brawling are chastened by
the ceremonies of a funeral. March felt no desire to indulge
his voice in any of its coarse outbreakings, and was disposed
to complete the office he had undertaken in decent sobriety.
Perhaps he reflected on the retribution that had alighted on
his late comrade, and bethought him of the frightful jeopardy
in which his own life had so lately been placed. He signified
to Judith that all was ready, received her directions to
proceed, and with no other assistant than his own vast
strength, raised the body and bore it to the end of the scow.
Two parts of a rope were passed beneath the legs and shoulders,
as they are placed beneath coffins, and then the corpse
was slowly lowered beneath the surface of the lake.
“Not there—Harry March—no, not there,” said Judith,
shuddering involuntarily; “do not lower it, quite so near
the spot where mother lies!”
“Why not, Judith?” asked Hetty, earnestly. “They
lived together in life, and should lie together in death.”
“No—no—Harry March, farther off—farther off.—Poor
this.”
“I know I am weak-minded, Judith, and that you are
clever—but, surely a husband should be placed near a wife.
Mother always said that this was the way they bury in
Christian church-yards.”
This little controversy was conducted earnestly, but in
smothered voices, as if the speakers feared that the dead
might overhear them. Judith could not contend with her
sister, at such a moment, but a significant gesture from her
induced March to lower the body, at a little distance from
that of his wife; when he withdrew the cords, and the act
was performed.
“There's an end of Floating Tom!” exclaimed Hurry,
bending over the scow, and gazing through the water at the
body. “He was a brave companion on a scout, and a
notable hand with traps. Don't weep, Judith—don't be
overcome, Hetty, for the righteousest of us all must die;
and when the time comes, lamentations and tears can't bring
the dead to life. Your father will be a loss to you, no doubt;
most fathers are a loss, especially to onmarried darters; but
there's a way to cure that evil, and you're both too young
and handsome to live long without finding it out. When
it's agreeable to hear what an honest and onpretending man
has to say, Judith, I should like to talk a little with you,
apart.”
Judith had scarce attended to this rude attempt of Hurry's
at consolation, although she necessarily understood its
general drift, and had a tolerably accurate notion of its
manner. She was weeping at the recollection of her mother's
early tenderness, and painful images of long-forgotten
lessons and neglected precepts were crowding her
mind. The words of Hurry, however, recalled her to the
present time, and abrupt and unseasonable as was their import,
they did not produce those signs of distaste that one
might have expected, from the girl's character. On the
contrary, she appeared to be struck with some sudden idea,
gazed intently for a moment at the young man, dried her
eyes, and led the way to the other end of the scow, signifying
her wish for him to follow. Here she took a seat, and
motioned for March to place himself at her side. The decision
intimidated her companion, and Judith found it necessary
to open the subject herself.
“You wish to speak to me of marriage, Harry March,”
she said, “and I have come here, over the grave of my parents,
as it might be—no, no—over the grave of my poor,
dear, dear, mother, to hear what you have to say.”
“This is oncommon, and you have a skearful way with
you, this evening, Judith,” answered Hurry, more disturbed
than he would have cared to own; “but truth is truth, and
it shall come out, let what will follow. You well know, gal,
that I've long thought you the comeliest young woman my
eyes ever beheld, and that I've made no secret of that fact,
either here on the lake, out among the hunters and trappers,
or in the settlements.”
“Yes—yes, I've heard this before, and I suppose it to be
true,” answered Judith, with a sort of feverish impatience.
“When a young man holds such language of any particular
young woman, it's reasonable to calculate he sets
store by her.”
“True—true, Hurry—all this you've told me, again and
again.”
“Well, if it's agreeable, I should think a woman couldn't
hear it too often. They all tell me this is the way with
your sex—that nothing pleases them more than to repeat
over and over, for the hundredth time, how much you like
'em, unless it be to talk to 'em of their good looks!”
“No doubt—we like both, on most occasions; but this is
an uncommon moment, Hurry, and vain words should not
be too freely used. I would rather hear you speak plainly.”
“You shall have your own way, Judith, and I some suspect
you always will. I've often told you that I not only
like you better than any other young woman going, or, for
that matter, better than all the young women going; but
you must have obsarved, Judith, that I've never asked you,
in up and down tarms, to marry me.”
“I have observed both,” returned the girl, a smile struggling
about her beautiful mouth, in spite of the singular and
engrossing intentness which caused her cheeks to flush and
lighted her eyes with a brilliancy that was almost dazzling,
—“I have observed both, and have thought the last remarkable
“There's been a reason, gal, and it's one that troubles
me even now—nay, don't flush up so, and look fiery-like,
for there are thoughts which will stick long in any man's
mind, as there be words that will stick in his throat—but,
then, ag'in, there's feelin's that will get the better of 'em
all, and to these feelin's I find I must submit. You've no
longer a father, or a mother, Judith; and it's morally impossible
that you and Hetty could live here, alone, allowing
it was peace and the Iroquois was quiet; but, as matters
stand, not only would you starve, but you'd both be prisoners,
or scalped, afore a week was out. It's time to think
of a change and a husband, and, if you'll accept of me,
all that's past shall be forgotten, and there's an end on't.”
Judith had difficulty in repressing her impatience until
this rude declaration and offer were made, which she evidently
wished to hear, and which she now listened to with a
willingness that might well have excited hope. She hardly
allowed the young man to conclude, so eager was she to
bring him to the point, and so ready to answer.
“There, Hurry, that's enough,” she said, raising a hand,
as if to stop him; “I understand you as well as if you were
to talk a month. You prefer me to other girls, and you
wish me to become your wife.”
“You put it in better words than I can do, Judith, and I
wish you to fancy them said, just as you most like to hear
'em.”
“They're plain enough, Hurry, and 'tis fitting they
should be so. This is no place to trifle or deceive in.
Now, listen to my answer, which shall be, in every tittle, as
sincere as your offer. There is a reason, March, why I
should never—”
“I suppose I understand you, Judith; but if I'm willing
to overlook that reason, it's no one's consarn but mine.
Now don't brighten up like the sky at sundown; for no offence
is meant, and none should be taken.”
“I do not brighten up, and will not take offence,” said
Judith, struggling to repress her indignation, in a way she
had never found it necessary to exert before. “There is a
reason why I should not, can not, ever be your wife, Hurry,
tell you, as plainly as you have asked me to consent to become
so. I do not, and I am certain that I never shall, love
you well enough to marry you. No man can wish for a
wife who does not prefer him to all other men; and when I
tell you this frankly, I suppose you yourself will thank me
for my sincerity.”
“O Judith, them flaunting, gay, scarlet-coated officers of
the garrisons have done all this mishief!”
“Hush, March; do not calumniate a daughter over her
mother's grave! Do not, when I only wish to treat you
fairly, give me reason to call for evil on your head, in bitterness
of heart! Do not forget that I am a woman, and
that you are a man; that I have neither father nor brother
to revenge your words.”
“Well, there is something in the last, and I'll say no
more. Take time, Judith, and think better of this.”
“I want no time; my mind has long been made up, and
I have only waited for you to speak plainly, to answer
plainly. We now understand each other, and there is no
use in saying any more.”
The impetuous earnestness of the girl awed the young
man, for never before had he seen her so serious and determined.
In most of their previous interviews she had met his
advances with evasion, or sarcasm; but these Hurry had
mistaken for female coquetry, and had supposed might easily
be converted into consent. The struggle had been with
himself, about offering; nor had he ever seriously believed
it possible that Judith would refuse to become the wife of
the handsomest man on all that frontier. Now that the refusal
came, and that in terms so decided as to put all cavilling
out of the question, if not absolutely dumfounded, he
was so much mortified and surprised, as to feel no wish to
attempt to change her resolution.
“The Glimmerglass has now no great call for me,” he
exclaimed, after a minute's silence. “Old Tom is gone;
the Hurons are as plenty on shore, as pigeons in the woods;
and altogether, it is getting to be an onsuitable place.”
“Then leave it. You see it is surrounded by dangers,
and there is no reason why you should risk your life for
others. Nor do I know that you can be of any service to
any thing forgetful, or unmanly.”
“If I do go, 't will be with a heavy heart on your account,
Judith; I would rather take you with me.”
“That is not to be spoken of any longer, March; but, I
will land you in one of the canoes, as soon as it is dark, and
you can strike a trail for the nearest garrison. When you
reach the fort, if you send a party—”
Judith smothered the words, for she felt that it was humiliating
to be thus exposing herself to the comments and
reflections of one who was not disposed to view her conduct
in connection with all in these garrisons, with an eye of favour.
Hurry, however, caught the idea; and, without perverting
it, as the girl dreaded, he answered to the purpose.
“I understand what you would say, and why you don't
say it,” he replied. “If I get safe to the fort, a party shall
start on the trail of these vagabonds, and I'll come with it,
myself; for I should like to see you, and Hetty, in a place
of safety, before we part for ever.”
“Ah, Harry March, had you always spoken thus, felt
thus, my feelings towards you might have been different!”
“Is it too late, now, Judith? I'm rough, and a woodsman;
but we all change under different treatment from what
we have been used to.”
“It is too late, March. I can never feel towards you, or
any other man but one, as you would wish to have me.
There, I've said enough, surely, and you will question me
no further. As soon as it is dark, I, or the Delaware, will
put you on the shore; you will make the best of your way
to the Mohawk, and the nearest garrison, and send all you
can to our assistance. And, Hurry, we are now friends,
and I may trust you, may I not?”
“Sartain, Judith; though our fri'ndship would have been
all the warmer, could you look upon me, as I look upon
you.”
Judith hesitated, and some powerful emotion was struggling
within her. Then, as if determined to look down all
weaknesses, and accomplish her purposes, at every hazard,
she spoke more plainly.
“You will find a captain of the name of Warley, at the
nearest post,” she said, pale as death, and even trembling as
I would greatly prefer it should be another. If Captain
Warley can be kept back, 't would make me very happy!”
“That's easier said than done, Judith; for these officers
do pretty much as they please. The major will order, and
captains, and lieutenants, and ensigns must obey. I know
the officer you mean; a red-faced, gay, oh!-be-joyful sort
of a gentleman, who swallows Madeira enough to drown the
Mohawk, and yet a pleasant talker. All the gals in the
valley admire him; and they say he admires all the gals. I
don't wonder he is your dislike, Judith, for he's a very
gineral lover, if he isn't a gineral officer.”
Judith did not answer, though her frame shook, and her
colour changed from pale to crimson, and from crimson back
again to the hue of death.
“Alas! my poor mother!” she ejaculated mentally, instead
of uttering it aloud; “we are over thy grave, but little
dost thou know how much thy lessons have been forgotten;
thy care neglected; thy love defeated!”
As this goading of the worm that never dies was felt, she
arose, and signified to Hurry, that she had no more to communicate.
| CHAPTER VI. The deerslayer: or, The first war-path | |