 | CHAPTER XIII. The pathfinder, or, The inland sea |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Art made a mirror to behold my plight:
Whil'ome thy fresh spring flower'd; and after hasted
Thy summer proude, with daffodillies dight;
And now is come thy winter's stormy state,
Thy mantle mar'd wherein thou maskedst late.”
Spenser.
Although the soldier may regard danger, and even death,
with indifference, in the tumult of battle, when the passage
the change commonly brings with it the usual train of
solemn reflections; of regrets for the past; and of doubts and
anticipations for the future. Many a man has died with an
heroic expression on his lips, but with heaviness and distrust
at his heart; for, whatever may be the varieties of our religious
creeds,—let us depend on the mediation of Christ, the
dogmas of Mahomet, or the elaborated allegories of the East,
there is a conviction, common to all men, that death is but
the stepping-stone between this and a more elevated state of
being. Serjeant Dunham was a brave man; but he was departing
for a country in which resolution could avail him
nothing; and as he felt himself gradually loosened from the
grasp of the world, his thoughts and feelings took the natural
direction; for, if it be true that death is the great leveller, in
nothing is it more true, than that it reduces all to the same
views of the vanity of life.
Pathfinder, though a man of quaint and peculiar habits and
opinions, was always thoughtful, and disposed to view the
things around him, with a shade of philosophy, as well as
with seriousness. In him, therefore, the scene in the block-house
awakened no very novel feelings; but the case was
different with Cap. Rude, opinionated, dogmatical, and
boisterous, the old sailor was little accustomed to view even
death, with any approach to the gravity that its importance
demands; and, notwithstanding all that had passed, and
his real regard for his brother-in-law, he now entered the
room of the dying man, with much of that callous unconcern
which was the fruit of long training in a school, that,
while it gives so many lessons in the sublimest truths, generally
wastes its admonitions on scholars who are little disposed
to profit by them.
The first proof that Cap gave of his not entering as fully
as those around him, into the solemnity of the moment, was
by commencing a narration of the events which had just led
to the deaths of Muir and Arrowhead. “Both tripped their
anchors in a hurry, brother Dunham,” he concluded; “and
you have the consolation of knowing that others have gone
before you, in the great journey, and they, too, men whom
you 've no particular reason to love; which to me, were I
placed in your situation, would be a source of very great
that dying people's spirits should not be damped, but that
they ought to be encouraged by all proper and prudent
means; and this news will give the poor fellow a great lift,
if he feels towards them savages any way as I feel myself.”
June arose, at this intelligence, and stole from the block-house
with a noiseless step. Dunham listened with a vacant
stare, for life had already lost so many of its ties that he had
really forgotten Arrowhead, and cared nothing for Muir; but
he inquired, in a feeble voice, for Eau-douce. The young
man was immediately summoned, and soon made his appearance.
The serjeant gazed at him kindly, and the expression
of his eyes was that of regret for the injury he had done
him, in thought. The party in the block-house now consisted
of Pathfinder, Cap, Mabel, Jasper, and the dying man.
With the exception of the daughter, all stood around the serjeant's
pallet, in attendance on his last moments. Mabel
kneeled at his side, now pressing a clammy hand to her
head, now applying moisture to the parched lips of her
father.
“Your case will shortly be ourn, sarjeant,” said Pathfinder,
who could hardly be said to be awe-struck by the
scene, for he had witnessed the approach and victories of
death too often for that; but who felt the full difference between
his triumphs in the excitement of battle, and in the
quiet of the domestic circle; “and I make no question we
shall meet ag'in, hereafter. Arrowhead has gone his way,
'tis true; but it can never be the way of a just Indian.
You 've seen the last of him; for his path cannot be the
path of the just. Reason is ag'in the thought, in his case,
as it is also, in my judgment, ag'in it, too, in the case of
Lieutenant Muir. You have done your duty in life, and
when a man does that, he may start on the longest journey,
with a light heart, and an actyve foot.”
“I hope so, my friend—I 've tried to do my duty.”
“Ay—ay—” put in Cap; “intention is half the battle;
and though you would have done better had you hove-to in
the offing, and sent a craft in to feel how the land lay; things
might have turned out differently; no one, here, doubts that
you meant all for the best, and no one anywhere else, I
t' other.”
“I did—yes—I meant all for the best.”
“Father!—Oh! my beloved father!”
“Magnet is taken aback by this blow, Master Pathfinder,
and can say, or do, but little to carry her father over the
shoals; so we must try all the harder to serve him a friendly
turn, ourselves.”
“Did you speak, Mabel?” Dunham asked, turning his eyes
in the direction of his daughter, for he was already too feeble
to turn his body.
“Yes, father; rely on nothing you have done yourself,
for mercy and salvation; trust altogether in the blessed mediation
of the Son of God!”
“The chaplain has told us something like this, brother—
the dear child may be right.”
“Ay—ay—that 's doctrine, out of question. He will be
our judge, and keeps the log-book of our acts, and will foot
them all up, at the last day, and then say who has done
well, and who has done ill. I do believe Mabel is right, but
then you need not be concerned, as no doubt the account has
been fairly kept.”
“Uncle!—dearest father!—This is a vain illusion—Oh!
place all your trust in the mediation of our holy redeemer!
Have you not often felt your own insufficiency to effect your
own wishes in the commonest things, and how can you
imagine yourself, by your own acts, equal to raise up a frail
and sinful nature sufficiently to be received into the presence
of perfect purity? There is no hope for any, but in the
mediation of Christ!”
“This is what the Moravians used to tell us,” said Pathfinder
to Cap, in a low voice; “rely on it, Mabel is right.”
“Right enough, friend Pathfinder, in the distances, but
wrong in the course. I 'm afraid the child will get the serjeant
adrift, at the very moment when we had him in the
best of the water, and in the plainest part of the channel.”
“Leave it to Mabel—leave it to Mabel—she knows better
than any of us, and can do no harm.”
“I have heard this before”—Dunham at length replied—
“Ah! Mabel; it is strange for the parent to lean on the
child, at a moment like this!”
“Put your trust in God, father—lean on his holy and
compassionate son. Pray, dearest, dearest father—pray for
his omnipotent support.”
“I am not used to prayer—brother—Pathfinder—Jasper
— can you help me to words?”
Cap scarce knew what prayer meant, and he had no
answer to give. Pathfinder prayed often, daily if not hourly
—but it was mentally, in his own simple modes of thinking,
and without the aid of words at all. In this strait, therefore,
he was as useless as the mariner, and had no reply to make.
As for Jasper Eau-douce, though he would gladly have
endeavoured to move a mountain, to relieve Mabel, this was
asking assistance, it exceeded his power to give, and he
shrunk back with the shame, that is only too apt to overcome
the young and vigorous, when called on to perform an act
that tacitly confesses their real weakness and dependence on
a superior power.
“Father”—said Mabel, wiping her eyes, and endeavouring
to compose features that were pallid, and actually quivering
with emotion—“I will pray with you—for you—for
myself, for us all. The petition of the feeblest and humblest
is never unheeded.”
There was something sublime, as well as much that was
supremely touching in this act of filial piety. The quiet,
but earnest manner in which this young creature prepared
herself to perform the duty; the self-abandonment with which
she forgot her sex's timidity and sex's shame, in order to
sustain her parent at that trying moment; the loftiness of
purpose with which she directed all her powers to the immense
object before her, with a woman's devotion, and a
woman's superiority to trifles, when her affections make the
appeal; and the holy calm into which her grief was compressed,
rendered her, for the moment, an object of something
very like awe and veneration to her companions.
Mabel had been religiously and reasonably educated;
equally without exaggeration and without self-sufficiency.
Her reliance on God was cheerful and full of hope, while
it was of the humblest and most dependent nature. She had
been accustomed from childhood, to address herself to the
Deity, in prayer;—taking example from the divine mandate
of Christ himself, who commanded his followers to abstain
that is unequalled for sublimity and sententiousness, as if
expressly to rebuke the disposition of man to set up his own
loose and random thoughts as the most acceptable sacrifice.
The sect in which she had been reared, has furnished to its
followers some of the most beautiful compositions of the language,
as a suitable vehicle for its devotion and solicitations.
Accustomed to this mode of public and even private prayer,
the mind of our heroine had naturally fallen into its train
of lofty thought; her task had become improved by its study,
and her language elevated and enriched by its phrases. In
short, Mabel, in this respect, was an instance of the influence
of familiarity with propriety of thought, fitness of language,
and decorum of manner, on the habits and expressions of
even those who might be supposed not to be always so susceptible
of receiving high impressions of this nature. When
she kneeled at the bed-side of her father, the very reverence
of her attitude and manner, prepared the spectators for
what was to come; and as her affectionate heart prompted
her tongue, and memory came in aid of both, the petition
and praises that she offered up, were of a character that
might have worthily led the spirits of angels. Although the
words were not slavishly borrowed, the expressions partook
of the simple dignity of the liturgy to which she had been
accustomed, and was probably as worthy of the being to
whom they were addressed as they could well be made by
human powers. They produced their full impression on the
hearers; for it is worthy of remark, that, notwithstanding the
pernicious effects of a false taste when long submitted to,
real sublimity and beauty are so closely allied to nature, that
they generally find an echo in every heart.
But when our heroine came to touch upon the situation
of the dying man, she became the most truly persuasive,
for then she was the most truly zealous and natural.
The beauty of the language was preserved, but it was sustained
by the simple power of love; and her words were
warmed by a holy zeal, that approached to the grandeur of
true eloquence. We might record some of her expressions,
but doubt the propriety of subjecting such sacred themes to
a too familiar analysis, and refrain.
The effect of this singular but solemn scene, was different
soon lost in the subject of the prayer; and he felt some such
relief, as one who finds himself staggering on the edge of a
precipice under a burthen difficult to be borne, might be supposed
to experience, when he unexpectedly feels the weight
removed, in order to be placed on the shoulders of another
better able to sustain it. Cap was surprised, as well as
awed; though the effects on his mind were not very deep or
very lasting. He wondered a little at his own sensations,
and had his doubts whether they were as manly and heroic
as they ought to be; but he was far too sensible of the influence
of truth, humility, religious submission and human dependency,
to think of interposing with any of his crude objections.
Jasper knelt opposite to Mabel, covered his face,
and followed her words, with an earnest wish to aid her
prayers with his own; though it may be questioned if his
thoughts did not dwell quite as much on the soft, gentle
accents of the petitioner, as on the subject of her petition.
The effect on Pathfinder was striking and visible; visible,
because he stood erect, also opposite to Mabel; and the workings
of his countenance, as usual, betrayed the workings of
the spirit within. He leaned on his rifle, and, at moments,
the sinewy fingers grasped the barrel with a force that seemed
to compress the weapon; while, once or twice, as Mabel's
language rose in intimate association with her thoughts, he
lifted his eyes to the floor above him, as if he expected to
find some visible evidence of the presence of the dread being
to whom the words were addressed. Then again his feelings
reverted to the fair creature who was thus pouring out
her spirit, in fervent but calm petitions, in behalf of a dying
parent; for Mabel's cheek was no longer pallid, but was flushed
with a holy enthusiasm, while her blue eyes were upturned
in the light, in a way to resemble a picture by Guido. At
these moments all the honest and manly attachment of Pathfinder
glowed in his ingenuous features, and his gaze at our
heroine was such as the fondest parent might fasten on the
child of his love.
Serjeant Dunham laid his hand feebly on the head of Mabel,
as she ceased praying, and buried her face in his blanket.
“Bless you—my beloved child—bless you—” he rather
would that I too could pray!”
“Father, you know the Lord's prayer—you taught it to
me yourself, while I was yet an infant.”
The serjeant's face gleamed with a smile; for he did
remember to have discharged that portion, at least, of the
paternal duty; and the consciousness of it gave him inconceivable
gratification at that solemn moment. He was then
silent for several minutes, and all present believed that he
was communing with God.
“Mabel—my child—” he at length uttered, in a voice that
seemed to be reviving—“Mabel—I 'm quitting you.”—The
spirit, at its great and final passage, appears ever to consider
the body as nothing—“I 'm quitting you, my child—where is
your hand?”
“Here, dearest father—here are both—oh! take both.”
“Pathfinder—” added the serjeant, feeling on the opposite
side of the bed, where Jasper still knelt, and getting one of
the hands of the young man, by mistake—“take it—I leave
you as her father—as you and she may please—bless you—
bless you both—”
At that awful instant, no one would rudely apprise the serjeant
of his mistake; and he died a minute or two later,
holding Jasper's and Mabel's hands covered by both his own.
Our heroine was ignorant of the fact, until an exclamation
of Cap's announced the death of her father; when, raising
her face, she saw the eyes of Jasper riveted on her own, and
felt the warm pressure of his hand. But a single feeling
was predominant at that instant; and Mabel withdrew to
weep, scarcely conscious of what had occurred. The Pathfinder
took the arm of Eau-douce, and he left the block.
The two friends walked in silence past the fire, along
the glade, and nearly reached the opposite shore of the island,
in profound silence. Here they stopped, and Pathfinder
spoke.
“'Tis all over, Jasper,” he said; “'tis all over. Ah's
me! Poor Sarjeant Dunham has finished his march, and that
too, by the hand of a venomous Mingo. Well, we never
know what is to happen, and his luck may be your'n or
mine, to-morrow or next day!”
“And Mabel?—What is to become of Mabel, Pathfinder?”
“You heard the sarjeant's dying words—he has left his
child in my care, Jasper; and it is a most solemn trust, it
is; yes, it is a most solemn trust!”
“It 's a trust, Pathfinder, of which any man would be
glad to relieve you,” returned the youth, with a bitter smile.
“I 've often thought it has fallen into wrong hands. I 'm
not consaited, Jasper; I 'm not consaited, I do think I 'm
not; but if Mabel Dunham is willing to overlook all my imperfections
and ignorances like, I should be wrong to gainsay
it, on account of any sartainty I may have myself about my
own want of merit.”
“No one will blame you, Pathfinder, for marrying Mabel
Dunham, any more than they will blame you for wearing a
precious jewel in your bosom, that a friend had freely given
you.”
“Do you think they 'll blame Mabel, lad?—I 've had my
misgivings about that, too; for all persons may not be as disposed
to look at me with the same eyes as you and the sarjeant's
daughter.” Jasper Eau-douce started, as a man flinches
at sudden bodily pain; but he otherwise maintained his self-command.—“And
mankind is envious and ill-natured, more
particularly in and about the garrisons. I sometimes wish,
Jasper, that Mabel could have taken a fancy to you, I do;
and that you had taken a fancy to her; for it often seems to
me, that one like you, after all, might make her happier than
I ever can.”
“We will not talk about this, Pathfinder,” interrupted Jasper,
hoarsely and impatiently—“you will be Mabel's husband,
and it is not right to speak of any one else in that
character. As for me, I shall take Master Cap's advice, and
try and make a man of myself, by seeing what is to be done
on the salt-water.”
“You, Jasper Western!—you quit the lakes, the forests,
and the lines; and this, too, for the towns and wasty ways
of the settlements, and a little difference in the taste of the
water. Haven't we the salt-licks, if salt is necessary to
you? and oughtn't man to be satisfied with what contents the
other creatur's of God? I counted on you, Jasper—I counted
on you, I did—and thought, now that Mabel and I intend
to dwell in a cabin of our own, that some day you might be
tempted to choose a companion, too, and come and settle in
miles west of the garrison, that I had chosen in my mind,
for my own place of abode; and there is an excellent harbour
about ten leagues this side of it, where you could run
in and out, with the cutter, at any leisure minute; and I 'd
even fancied you, and your wife, in possession of the one
place, and Mabel and I in possession of t'other. We should
be just a healthy hunt apart; and if the Lord ever intends any
of his creatures to be happy on 'arth, none could be happier
than we four.”
“You forget, my friend,” answered Jasper, taking the
guide's hand, and forcing a friendly smile, “that I have no
fourth person to love and cherish; and I much doubt if I
ever shall love any other, as I love you and Mabel.”
“Thank 'ee, boy; I thank you with all my heart—but
what you call love for Mabel, is only friendship, like, and a
very different thing from what I feel. Now, instead of sleeping
as sound as natur' at midnight, as I used to could, I dream
nightly of Mabel Dunham. The young does sport before
me; and when I raise Killdeer, in order to take a little venison,
the animals look back, and it seems as if they all had
Mabel's sweet countenance, laughing in my face, and looking
as if they said, `shoot me if you dare!' Then I hear her
soft voice calling out among the birds as they sing; and no
later than the last nap I took, I bethought me, in fancy, of
going over the Niagara, holding Mabel in my arms, rather
than part from her. The bitterest moments I 've ever known,
were them in which the devil, or some Mingo conjurer, perhaps,
has just put into my head to fancy in dreams that Mabel
is lost to me, by some unaccountable calamity—either by
changefulness, or by violence.”
“Oh! Pathfinder, if you think this so bitter in a dream,
what must it be to one who feels its reality, and knows it all
to be true—true—true. So true, as to leave no hope; to
leave nothing but despair!”
These words burst from Jasper, as a fluid pours from the
vessel that has been suddenly broken. They were uttered
involuntarily, almost unconsciously, but with a truth and feeling,
that carried with them the instant conviction of their
deep sincerity. Pathfinder started, gazed at his friend for
quite a minute, like one bewildered; and then it was, that, in
know how corroborating proofs crowd upon the mind, as
soon as it catches a direct clue to any hitherto unsuspected
fact; how rapidly the thoughts flow, and premises tend
to their just conclusions, under such circumstances. Our
hero was so confiding by nature, so just, and so much disposed
to imagine that all his friends wished him the same happiness
as he wished them, that, until this unfortunate moment,
a suspicion of Jasper's attachment for Mabel had never been
awakened in his bosom. He was, however, now too experienced
in the emotions that characterize the passion; and
the burst of feeling in his companion was too violent, and too
natural, to leave any further doubt on the subject. The feeling
that first followed this change of opinion, was one of
deep humility and exquisite pain. He bethought him of
Jasper's youth, his higher claims to personal appearance,
and all the general probabilities that such a suitor would be
more agreeable to Mabel, than he could possibly be, himself.
Then the noble rectitude of mind, for which the man was so
distinguished, asserted its power; it was sustained by his rebuked
manner of thinking of himself, and all that habitual
deference for the rights and feelings of others, which appeared
to be inbred in his very nature. Taking the arm of Jasper,
he led him to a log, where he compelled the young man
to seat himself, by a sort of irresistible exercise of his iron
muscles, and where he placed himself at his side.
The instant his feelings had found vent, Eau-douce was
both alarmed at, and ashamed of, their violence. He would
have given all he possessed on earth, could the last three
minutes be recalled, but he was too frank by disposition, and
too much accustomed to deal ingenuously by his friend, to
think a moment, of attempting further concealment, or of any
evasion of the explanation that he knew was about to be demanded.
Even while he trembled in anticipation of what
was about to follow, he never contemplated equivocation.
“Jasper,” Pathfinder commenced, in a tone so solemn as
to thrill on every never in his listener's body, “this has
surprised me! You have kinder feelings towards Mabel,
than I had thought; and, unless my own mistaken vanity
and consait have cruelly deceived me, I pity you, boy, from
my soul, I do! Yes, I think, I know how to pity any one,
he sees a prospect of her regarding him, as he regards her.
This matter must be cleared up, Eau-douce, as the Delawares
say, until there shall not be a cloud atween us.”
“What clearing up can it want, Pathfinder? I love Mabel
Dunham, and Mabel Dunham does not love me—she
prefers you for a husband; and the wisest thing I can do, is
to go off at once, to the salt-water, and try to forget you
both.”
“Forget me, Jasper!—that would be a punishment I don't
desarve. But, how do you know that Mabel prefars me?
—how do you know it, lad? to me it seems impossible, like!”
“Is she not to marry you, and would Mabel marry a man
she does not love?”
“She has been hard urged by the sarjeant, she has; and
a dutiful child may have found it difficult to withstand the
wishes of a dying parent. Have you ever told Mabel, that
you prefarred her, Jasper; that you bore her these feelings?”
“Never—Pathfinder—I would not do you that wrong!”
“I believe you, lad, I do believe you; and I think you
would now go off to the salt-water, and let the scent die with
you. But this must not be. Mabel shall hear all, and she
shall have her own way, if my heart breaks in the trial, she
shall. No words have ever passed atween you, then Jasper?”
“Nothing of account—nothing direct. Still, I will own
all my foolishness, Pathfinder, for I ought to own it to a
generous friend like you, and there will be an end of it.
You know how young people understand each other, or think
they understand each other, without always speaking out in
plain speech; and get to know each other's thoughts, or to
think they know them, by means of a hundred little ways?”
“Not I, Jasper, not I,” truly answered the guide; for,
sooth to say, his advances had never been met with any of
that sweet and precious encouragement that silently marks
the course of sympathy united to passion. “Not I, Jasper
—I know nothing of all this. Mabel has always treated me
fairly, and said what she has had to say, in speech as plain
as tongue could tell it.”
“You have had the pleasure of hearing her say that she
loved you, Pathfinder?”
“Why no, Jasper, not just that, in words. She has told
me that we never could—never ought to be married; that
she was not good enough for me; though she did say that
she honoured me, and respected me. But then the sarjeant
said it was always so with the youthful and timid,—that her
mother did so, and said so, afore her; and that I ought to
be satisfied if she would consent, on any terms, to marry
me: and, therefore, I have concluded that all was right, I
have.”
In spite of all his friendship for the successful wooer—in
spite of all his honest, sincere wishes for his happiness, we
should be unfaithful chroniclers, did we not own that Jasper
felt his heart bound with an uncontrollable feeling of delight,
at this admission. It was not that he saw or felt any hope
connected with the circumstance; but it was grateful to the
jealous covetousness of unlimited love, thus to learn that no
other ears had heard the sweet confessions that were denied
its own.
“Tell me more of this manner of talking without the use
of the tongue,” continued Pathfinder, whose countenance was
getting to be grave, and who now questioned his companion,
like one that seemed to anticipate evil in the reply. “I can
and have conversed with Chingachgook, and with his son
Uncas, too, in that mode, afore the latter fell; but I didn't
know that young girls practysed this art; and, least of all,
Mabel Dunham!”
“'Tis nothing, Pathfinder. I mean only a look, or a
smile, or a glance of the eye, or the trembling of an arm, or
a hand, when the young woman has had occasion to touch
me; and because I have been weak enough to tremble even
at Mabel's breath, or her brushing me with her clothes, my
vain thoughts have misled me. I never spoke plainly to Mabel,
myself; and now there is no use for it, since there is
clearly no hope.”
“Jasper,” returned Pathfinder, simply, but with a dignity
that precluded farther remarks at the moment, “we will talk
of the sarjeant's funeral, and of our own departure from this
island. After these things are disposed of, it will be time
enough to say more of the sarjeant's daughter. This matter
must be looked into; for the father left me the care of his
child.”
Jasper was glad enough to change the subject; and the
friends separated, each charged with the duty most peculiar
to his own station and habits.
That afternoon all the dead were interred—the grave of
Serjeant Dunham being dug in the centre of the glade, beneath
the shade of a huge elm. Mabel wept bitterly at the
ceremony, and she found relief in thus disburthening her
sorrow. The night passed tranquilly, as did the whole of
the following day; Jasper declaring that the gale was too
severe to venture on the lake. This circumstance detained
Captain Sanglier, also; who did not quit the island until the
morning of the third day after the death of Dunham; when
the weather had moderated, and the wind had become fair.
Then, indeed, he departed, after taking leave of the Pathfinder,
in the manner of one who believed he was in company
of a distinguished character, for the last time. The two
separated like those who respect one another, while each felt
that the other was an enigma to himself.
| CHAPTER XIII. The pathfinder, or, The inland sea | |