 | CHAPTER III. The pathfinder, or, The inland sea |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
It is to be all made of faith and service:—
It is to be all made of fantasy,—
All made of passion, and all made of wishes:
All adoration, duty, and observance;
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance.”
Shakspeare.
It was near noon when the gale broke; and then its force
abated as suddenly as its violence had arisen. In less
than two hours after the wind fell, the surface of the lake,
though still agitated, was no longer glittering with foam;
scene of disturbed water, that was unbroken by the
violence of a tempest. Still the waves came rolling incessantly
towards the shore, and the lines of breakers remained,
though the spray had ceased to fly: the combing of the
swells was more moderate, and all that there was of violence
proceeded from the impulsion of wind that had abated.
As it was impossible to make head against the sea that
was still up, with the light opposing air that blew from the
eastward, all thoughts of getting under way that afternoon
were abandoned. Jasper, who had now quietly resumed the
command of the Scud, busied himself, however, in heaving
up to the anchors, which were lifted in succession. The
kedges that backed them were weighed, and everything was
got in readiness for a prompt departure, as soon as the state
of the weather would allow. In the meantime, they who
had no concern with these duties sought such means of
amusement as their peculiar circumstances allowed.
As is common with those who are unused to the confinement
of a vessel, Mabel cast wistful eyes towards the shore;
nor was it long before she expressed a wish that it were possible
to land. The Pathfinder was near her at the time, and
he assured her that nothing would be easier, as they had a
bark canoe on deck, which was the best possible mode of
conveyance to go through a surf. After the usual doubts
and misgivings, the serjeant was appealed to:—his opinion
proved to be favourable, and preparations to carry the whim
into effect were immediately made.
The party that was to land, consisted of Serjeant Dunham,
his daughter and the Pathfinder. Accustomed to the canoe,
Mabel took her seat in the centre with great steadiness, her
father was placed in the bows, while the guide assumed the
office of conductor, by steering in the stern. There was little
need of impelling the canoe by means of the paddle, for
the rollers sent it forward, at moments, with a violence that
set every effort to govern its movements at defiance. More
than once, ere the shore was reached, Mabel repented of her
temerity, but Pathfinder encouraged her, and really manifested
so much self-possession, coolness and strength of arm, himself,
that even a female might have hesitated about owning all her
apprehensions. Our heroine was no coward, and while she
she also experienced a fair proportion of its wild delight. At
moments, indeed, her heart was in her mouth, as the bubble
of a boat floated on the very crest of a foaming breaker, appearing
to skim the water like a swallow, and then she flushed
and laughed, as, left by the glancing element, they appeared
to linger behind, as if ashamed of having been out-done in
the headlong race. A few minutes sufficed for this excitement,
for, though the distance between the cutter and the land considerably
exceeded a quarter of a mile, the intermediate space
was passed in a very few minutes.
On landing, the serjeant kissed his daughter kindly, for he
was so much of a soldier as always to feel more at home, on
terra-firma, than when afloat, and taking his gun, he announced
his intention to pass an hour, in quest of game.
“Pathfinder will remain near you, girl, and no doubt he
will tell you some of the traditions of this part of the world,
or some of his own experiences with the Mingos.”
The guide laughed, promised to have a care of Mabel, and
in a few minutes the father had ascended a steep acclivity,
and disappeared in the forest. The others took another direction,
which, after a few minutes of a sharp ascent also,
brought them to a small naked point on the promontory,
where the eye overlooked an extensive and very peculiar panorama.
Here Mabel seated herself on a fragment of fallen
rock, to recover her breath and strength, while her companion,
on whose sinews no personal exertion seemed to make any
impression, stood at her side, leaning in his own and not
ungraceful manner on his long rifle. Several minutes passed,
and neither spoke; Mabel, in particular, being lost in admiration
of the view.
The position the two had obtained, was sufficiently elevated
to command a wide reach of the lake, which stretched away
towards the north-east, in a boundless sheet, glittering beneath
the rays of an afternoon's sun, and yet betraying the remains
of that agitation which it had endured while tossed by the
late tempest. The land set bounds to its limits, in a huge
crescent, disappearing in distance towards the south-east and
the north. Far as the eye could reach, nothing but forest
was visible, not even a solitary sign of civilization breaking
in upon the uniform and grand magnificence of nature. The
which the French were then endeavouring to gird the English
North American possessions; for, following the channels of
communication between the great lakes, their posts were on
the banks of the Niagara, while our adventurers had reached
a point many leagues westward of that celebrated streight.
The cutter rode at single anchor, without the breakers,
resembling some well imagined and accurately executed toy,
that was intended rather for a glass case, than for the struggles
with the elements which she had so lately gone through,
while the canoe lay on the narrow beach, just out of reach
of the waves that came booming upon the land, a speck upon
the shingles.
“We are very far, here, from human habitations!” exclaimed
Mabel, when, after a long and musing survey of the
scene, its principal peculiarities forced themselves on her active
and ever brilliant imagination; “this is indeed being on
a frontier!”
“Have they more sightly scenes than this, nearer the sea,
and around their large towns?” demanded Pathfinder, with
an interest he was apt to discover in such a subject.
“I will not say that; there is more to remind one of his
fellow beings, there than here; less, perhaps, to remind one
of God.”
“Ay, Mabel, that is what my own feelings say. I am
but a poor hunter, I know; untaught and unlarned; but God
is as near me, in this my home, as he is near the king in his
royal palace.”
“Who can doubt it?”—returned Mabel, looking from the
view up into the hard-featured but honest face of her companion,
though not without surprise at the energy of his manner—“One
feels nearer to God, in such a spot, I think, than
when the mind is distracted by the objects of the towns.”
“You say all I wish to say myself, Mabel, but in so much
plainer speech, that you make me ashamed of wishing to let
others know what I feel on such matters. I have coasted
this lake, in search of skins, afore the war, and have been
here already; not at this very spot, for we landed yonder
where you may see the blasted oak that stands above the
cluster of hemlocks—”
“How! Pathfinder, can you remember all these trifles so
accurately!”
“These are our streets and houses; our churches and
palaces. Remember them, indeed! I once made an appointment
with the Big Sarpent, to meet at twelve o'clock at noon,
near the foot of a certain pine, at the end of six months,
when neither of us was within three hundred miles of the
spot. The tree stood, and stands still, unless the judgment
of Providence has lighted on that too, in the midst of the
forest, fifty miles from any settlement, but in a most extraordinary
neighbourhood for beaver.”
“And did you meet at that very spot and hour!”
“Does the sun rise and set? when I reached the tree, I
found the Sarpent leaning against its trunk, with torn leggings
and muddied moccasins. The Delaware had got into
a swamp, and it worried him not a little to find his way out
of it; but, as the sun which comes over the eastern hills in the
morning, goes down behind the western at night, so was he
true to time and place. No fear of Chingachgook when
there is either a friend or an enemy in the case. He is
equally sartain with each.”
“And where is the Delaware now—why is he not with us
to-day?”
“He is scouting on the Mingo trail, where I ought to have
been too, but for a great human infirmity.”
“You seem above, beyond, superior, to all infirmity, Pathfinder;
I never yet met with a man who appeared to be so
little liable to the weaknesses of nature.”
“If you mean in the way of health and strength, Mabel,
Providence has been kind to me; though I fancy the open
air, long hunts, active scoutings, forest fare, and the sleep
of a good conscience, may always keep the doctors at a distance.
But I am human, after all; yes, I find I'm very human,
in some of my feelings.”
Mabel looked surprised, and it would be no more than delineating
the character of her sex, if we added that, her sweet
countenance expressed a good deal of curiosity, too, though
her tongue was more discreet.
“There is something bewitching in this wild life of yours,
Pathfinder,” she exclaimed, a tinge of enthusiasm mantling
her cheeks. “I find I'm fast getting to be a frontier girl,
The towns seem tame to me, and, as my father will probably
pass the remainder of his days here, where he has already
lived so long, I begin to feel that I should be happy to continue
with him, and not to return to the sea shore.”
“The woods are never silent, Mabel, to such as understand
their meaning. Days at a time, have I travelled them
alone, without feeling the want of company; and, as for conversation,
for such as can comprehend their language, there
is no want of rational and instructive discourse.”
“I believe you are happier when alone, Pathfinder, than
when mingling with your fellow-creatures.”
“I will not say that—I will not say exactly that! I have
seen the time when I have thought that God was sufficient
for me in the forest, and that I craved no more than his bounty
and his care. But other feelings have got uppermost, and
I suppose natur' will have its way.—All other creatur's
mate, Mabel, and it was intended man should do so, too.”
“And have you never bethought you of seeking a wife,
Pathfinder, to share your fortunes,” enquired the girl, with
the directness and simplicity that the pure of heart, and the
undesigning, are the most apt to manifest, and with that feeling
of affection which is inbred in her sex. “To me, it seems,
you only want a home to return to, from your wanderings,
to render your life completely happy. Were I a man, it
would be my delight to roam through these forests at will, or
to sail over this beautiful lake.”
“I understand you, Mabel; and God bless you for thinking
of the welfare of men as humble as we are. We have
our pleasures, it is true, as well as our gifts, but we might be
happier; yes, I do think we might be happier.”
“Happier! in what way, Pathfinder? In this pure air,
with these cool and shaded forests to wander through, this
lovely lake to gaze at, and sail upon, with clear consciences,
and abundance for all the real wants, men ought to be nothing
less than as perfectly happy, as their infirmities will allow.”
“Every creatur' has its gifts, Mabel, and men have theirs,”
answered the guide, looking stealthily at his beautiful companion,
whose cheeks had flushed and eyes brightened under
the ardour of feelings, excited by the novelty of her striking
situation; “and all must obey them. Do you see yonder
the fallen chestnut?”
“Certainly; it is the only thing stirring with life in it, besides
ourselves, that is to be seen in this vast solitude.”
“Not so, Mabel, not so; Providence makes nothing that
lives, to live quite alone.—Here is its mate, just rising on the
wing; it has been feeding near the other beach, but it will
not long be separated from its companion.”
“I understand you, Pathfinder;” returned Mabel, smiling
sweetly, though as calmly as if the discourse was with her
father. “But a hunter may find a mate, even in this wild region.
The Indian girls are affectionate and true, I know, for
such was the wife of Arrowhead, to a husband who oftener
frowned than smiled.”
“That would never do, Mabel, and good would never
come of it. Kind must cling to kind, and country to country,
if one would find happiness. If, indeed, I could meet
with one like you, who would consent to be a hunter's wife,
and who would not scorn my ignorance and rudeness, then,
indeed, would all the toil of the past appear like the sporting
of the young deer, and all the future like sunshine!”
“One like me!—A girl of my years and indiscretion
would hardly make a fit companion for the boldest scout and
surest hunter on the lines!”
“Ah! Mabel, I fear me, that I have been improving a
red-skin's gifts, with a pale-face's natur'! Such a character
would insure a wife, in an Indian village.”
“Surely, surely, Pathfinder, you would not think of choosing
one as ignorant, as frivolous, as vain, and as inexperienced
as I, for your wife!” Mabel would have added, “and
as young,” but an instinctive feeling of delicacy repressed
the words.
“And why not, Mabel? If you are ignorant of frontier
usages, you know more than all of us, of pleasant anecdotes
and town customs; as for frivolous, I know not what it
means, but if it signifies beauty, ah's me! I fear it is no fault
in my eyes. Vain you are not, as is seen by the kind manner
in which you listen to all my idle tales about scoutings
and trails; and as for experience, that will come with years.
Besides, Mabel, I fear men think little of these matters, when
they are about to take wives, I do.”
“Pathfinder—your words—your looks—surely all this is
meant in trifling—you speak in pleasantry!”
“To me it is always agreeable to be near you, Mabel, and
I should sleep sounder this blessed night, than I have done
for a week past, could I think that you find such discourse as
pleasant as I do.”
We shall not say that Mabel Dunham had not believed herself
a favourite with the guide. This her quick, feminine
sagacity had early discovered, and perhaps she had occasionally
thought there had mingled with his regard and friendship,
some of that manly tenderness which the ruder sex
must be coarse indeed not to show, on occasions, to the
gentler; but the idea that he seriously sought her for his
wife, had never before crossed the mind of the spirited and
ingenuous girl. Now, however, a gleam of something like
the truth broke in upon her imagination, less induced by the
words of her companion, perhaps, than by his manner.
Looking earnestly into the rugged, honest countenance of the
scout, Mabel's own features became concerned and grave,
and when she spoke again, it was with a gentleness of manner
that attracted him to her, even more powerfully than the
words themselves were calculated to repel.
“You and I should understand each other, Pathfinder,”
she said, with an earnest sincerity, “nor should there be any
cloud between us. You are too upright and frank to meet
with any thing but sincerity and frankness in return. Surely
—surely, all this means nothing—has no other connexion
with your feelings, than such a friendship as one of your
wisdom and character would naturally feel for a girl like me?”
“I believe it 's all nat'ral, Mabel; yes, I do; the sarjeant
tells me he had such feelings towards your own mother, and
I think I 've seen something like it, in the young people I
have, from time to time, guided through the wilderness. Yes,
yes—I dare say it 's all nat'ral enough, and that makes it
come so easy, and is a great comfort to me.”
“Pathfinder, your words make me uneasy! Speak plainer,
or change the subject for ever. You do not—cannot mean
that—you—cannot wish me to understand—” even the tongue
of the spirited Mabel faltered, and she shrunk with maiden
shame, from adding what she wished so earnestly to say.
Rallying her courage, however, and determined to know all
she continued—“I mean, Pathfinder, that you do not
wish me to understand that you seriously think of me as a
wife?”
“I do, Mabel; that's it—that's just it, and you have put
the matter in a much better point of view than I, with my
forest gifts and frontier ways, would ever be able to do. The
Sarjeant and I have concluded on the matter, if it is agreeable
to you, as he thinks is likely to be the case, though I doubt
my own power to please one who deserves the best husband
America can produce.”
Mabel's countenance changed from uneasiness to surprise,
and then by a transition still quicker, from surprise to pain.
“My father!” she exclaimed. “My dear father has thought
of my becoming your wife, Pathfinder!”
“Yes, he has, Mabel; he has indeed. He has even thought
such a thing might be agreeable to you, and has almost encouraged
me to fancy it might be true.”
“But, you, yourself—you, certainly can care nothing,
whether this singular expectation shall ever be realized or
not?”
“Anan?”
“I mean, Pathfinder, that you have talked of this match
more to oblige my father than any thing else; that your
feelings are no way concerned, let my answer be what it
may?”
The scout looked earnestly into the beautiful face of Mabel,
which had flushed with the ardour and novelty of her sensations,
and it was not possible to mistake the intense admiration
that betrayed itself in every lineament of his ingenuous
countenance.
“I have often thought myself happy, Mabel, when ranging
the woods, on a successful hunt, breathing the pure air of
the hills, and filled with vigour and health, but, I now know
that it has all been idleness and vanity compared with the
delight it would give me to know that you thought better of
me than you think of most others.”
“Better of you!—I do indeed think better of you, Pathfinder,
than of most others—I am not certain that I do not
think better of you, than of any other; for your truth, honesty,
by any of earth.”
“Ah! Mabel!—These are sweet and encouraging words
from you, and the sarjeant, after all, was not as near wrong
as I feared.”
“Nay, Pathfinder—in the name of all that is sacred and
just, do not let us misunderstand each other, in a matter of
so much importance. While I esteem, respect—nay, reverence
you, almost as much as I reverence my own dear
father, it is impossible that I should ever become your wife—
that I”—
The change in her companion's countenance was so sudden
and so great, that the moment the effect of what she had
uttered became visible in the face of the Pathfinder, Mabel
arrested her own words, notwithstanding her strong desire to
be explicit, the reluctance with which she could at any time
cause pain being sufficient of itself to induce the pause.
Neither spoke for some time, the shade of disappointment
that crossed the rugged lineaments of the hunter, amounting
so nearly to anguish, as to frighten his companion, while the
sensation of choking became so strong in the Pathfinder, that
he fairly griped his throat, like one who sought physical
relief for physical suffering. The convulsive manner in
which his fingers worked actually struck the alarmed girl
with a feeling of awe.
“Nay, Pathfinder,” Mabel eagerly added, the instant she
could command her voice—“I may have said more than I
mean, for all things of this nature are possible, and women,
they say, are never sure of their own minds. What I wish
you to understand is, that it is not likely that you and I
should ever think of each other, as man and wife ought to
think of each other.”
“I do not—I shall never think in that way again, Mabel—”
gasped forth the Pathfinder, who appeared to utter his words,
like one just raised above the pressure of some suffocating
substance. “No—no—I shall never think of you, or any
one else, again, in that way.”
“Pathfinder—dear Pathfinder—understand me—do not
attach more meaning to my words than I do myself—a match
like that would be unwise—unnatural, perhaps.”
“Yes, unnat'ral—ag'in natur'; and so I told the sarjeant,
but he would have it otherwise.”
“Pathfinder!—Oh! this is worse than I could have imagined—take
my hand, excellent Pathfinder, and let me see
that you do not hate me. For God's sake smile upon me
again!”
“Hate you, Mabel!—Smile upon you!—Ah's me!”
“Nay, give me your hand; your hardy, true and manly
hand—both, both, Pathfinder, for I shall not be easy until I
feel certain that we are friends again, and that all this has
been a mistake.”
“Mabel,” said the guide, looking wistfully into the face
of the generous and impetuous girl, as she held his two
hard and sunburnt hands in her own pretty and delicate
fingers, and laughing in his own silent and peculiar manner,
while anguish gleamed over lineaments which seemed incapable
of deception, even while agitated with emotions so conflicting,
“Mabel, the sarjeant was wrong!”
The pent-up feelings could endure no more, and the tears
rolled down the cheeks of the scout like rain. His fingers
again worked convulsively at his throat, and his breast
heaved, as if it possessed a tenant of which it would be rid,
by any effort, however desperate.
“Pathfinder! — Pathfinder!” Mabel almost shrieked,—
“any thing but this—any thing but this. Speak to me,
Pathfinder,—smile again—say one kind word—any thing to
prove you can forgive me.”
“The sarjeant was wrong;” exclaimed the guide, laughing
amid his agony, in a way to terrify his companion by
the unnatural mixture of anguish and light-heartedness. “I
knew it—I knew it, and said it; yes, the sarjeant was wrong,
after all.”
“We can be friends, though we cannot be man and wife,”
continued Mabel, almost as much disturbed as her companion,
scarce knowing what she said; “we can always be
friends, and always will.”
“I thought the sarjeant was mistaken,” resumed the Pathfinder,
when a great effort had enabled him to command
himself, “for I did not think my gifts were such as would
please the fancy of a town-bred girl. It would have been
better, Mabel, had he not over-persuaded me into a different
so pleasant and confiding, like; yes, it would.”
“If I thought any error of mine had raised false expectations
in you, Pathfinder, however unintentionally on my part,
I should never forgive myself; for, believe me, I would rather
endure pain in my own feelings, than you should suffer.”
“That 's just it, Mabel; that 's just it. These speeches
and opinions, spoken in so soft a voice, and in a way I 'm so
unused to in the woods, have done the mischief. But I now
see plainly, and begin to understand the difference between
us better, and will strive to keep down thought, and to go
abroad again as I used to do, looking for the game and the
inimy. Ah's me! Mabel, I have indeed been on a false trail,
since we met!”
“But you will now travel on the true one. In a little
while you will forget all this, and think of me as a friend, who
owes you her life.”
“This may be the way in the towns, but I doubt if it 's
nat'ral to the woods. With us, when the eye sees a lovely
sight, it is apt to keep it long in view, or when the mind
takes in an upright and proper feeling, it is loath to part
with it.”
“But it is not a proper feeling that you should love me,
nor am I a lovely sight. You will forget it all, when you
come seriously to recollect that I am altogether unsuited to be
your wife.”
“So I told the sarjeant—but he would have it otherwise.
I knew you was too young and beautiful for one of middle
age, like myself, and who never was comely to look at, even
in youth; and then your ways have not been my ways, nor
would a hunter's cabin be a fitting place for one who was
edicated among chiefs, as it were. If I were younger and
comelier, though, like Jasper Eau-douce—”
“Never mind Jasper Eau-douce,” interrupted Mabel, impatiently;
“we can talk of something else.”
“Jasper is a worthy lad, Mabel; ay, and a comely;” returned
the guileless guide, looking earnestly at the girl, as if
he distrusted her judgment in speaking slightingly of his
friend. “Were I only half as comely as Jasper Western,
my misgivings in this affair would not have been so great, and
they might not have been so true.”
“We will not talk of Jasper Western,” repeated Mabel,
the colour mounting to her temples—“he may be good
enough in a gale, or on the lake, but he is not good enough
to talk of here.”
“I fear me, Mabel, he is better than the man who is likely
to be your husband, though the sarjeant says that never can
take place. But the sarjeant was wrong once, and he may
be wrong twice.”
“And who is likely to be my husband, Pathfinder?—This
is scarcely less strange, than what has just passed between
us!”
“I know it is nat'ral for like to seek like, and for them
that have consorted much with officers' ladies, to wish to be
officers' ladies themselves. But, Mabel, I may speak plainly
to you, I know, and I hope my words will not give you pain,
for, now I understand what it is to be disappointed in such
feelings, I wouldn't wish to cause even a Mingo sorrow, on
this head. But happiness is not always to be found in a
marquee, any more than in a tent, and though the officers'
quarters may look more tempting than the rest of the barracks,
there is often great misery, between husband and
wife, inside of their doors.”
“I do not doubt it, in the least, Pathfinder; and did it rest
with me to decide, I would sooner follow you to some cabin
in the woods, and share your fortune, whether it might be
better or worse, than go inside the door of any officer I know,
with an intention of remaining there as its master's wife.”
“Mabel, this is not what Lundie hopes, or Lundie thinks!”
“And what care I for Lundie? He is major of the 55th,
and may command his men to wheel and march about as he
pleases, but he cannot compel me to wed the greatest or the
meanest of his mess: besides, what can you know of Lundie's
wishes on such a subject?”
“From Lundie's own mouth. The sarjeant had told him
that he wished me for a son-in-law; and the major being an
old and a true friend, conversed with me on the subject: he
put it to me, plainly, whether it would not be more ginerous in
me to let an officer succeed, than to strive to make you share
a hunter's fortune. I owned the truth, I did; and that was,
that I thought it might; but when he told me that the quarter-master
would be his choice, I would not abide by the conditions.
though he may make you a lady, he can never make you a
happy woman, or himself a gentleman. I say this honestly,
I do; for I now plainly see that the sarjeant has been wrong.”
“My father has been very wrong, if he has said or done
aught to cause you sorrow, Pathfinder; and so great is my
respect for you, so sincere my friendship, that were it not for
one—I mean that no person need fear Lieutenant Muir's influence
with me. I would rather remain as I am, to my
dying day, than become a lady, at the cost of being his
wife.”
“I do not think you would say that which you do not feel,
Mabel,” returned Pathfinder, earnestly.
“Not at such a moment, on such a subject, and least of
all, to you. No; Lieutenant Muir may find wives where he
can—my name shall never be on his catalogue.”
“Thank you—thank you, for that, Mabel; for though
there is no longer any hope for me, I could never be happy
were you to take to the Quarter-master. I feared the commission
might count for something, I did, and I know the
man. It is not jealousy that makes me speak in this manner,
but truth, for I know the man. Now, were you to fancy
a desarving youth, one like Jasper Western, for instance—”
“Why always mention Jasper Eau-douce, Pathfinder? he
can have no concern with our friendship; let us talk of yourself,
and of the manner in which you intend to pass the
winter.”
“Ah's me!—I'm little worth at the best, Mabel, unless it
may be on a trial, or with the rifle; and less worth now
that I 've discovered the sarjeant's mistake. There is no
need, therefore, of talking of me. It has been very pleasant
to me, to be near you so long, and even to fancy that the
sarjeant was right; but that is all over now. I shall go
down the lake with Jasper, and then there will be business to
occupy us, and that will keep useless thoughts out of the
mind.”
“And you will forget this—forget me—no, not forget me,
either, Pathfinder; but you will resume your old pursuits,
and cease to think a girl of sufficient importance to disturb
your peace?”
“I never know'd it afore, Mabel, but girls, as you call
of more account in this life, than I could have believed.
Now, afore I know'd you, the new-born babe did not sleep
more sweetly than I used to could; my head was no sooner
on the root, or the stone, or mayhap on the skin, than all was
lost to the senses, unless it might be to go over, in the night,
the business of the day, in a dream, like; and there I lay till
the moment came to be stirring, and the swallows were not
more certain to be on the wing, with the light, than I to be
afoot, at the moment I wished to be. All this seemed a gift,
and might be calculated on, even in the midst of a Mingo
camp; for I 've been outlying, in my time, in the very villages
of the vagabonds.”
“And all this will return to you, Pathfinder; for one so
upright and sincere will never waste his happiness on a mere
fancy. You will dream again, of your hunts, of the deer you
have slain, and of the beaver you have taken.”
“Ah's me, Mabel, I wish never to dream again! Before
we met, I had a sort of pleasure in following up the hounds,
in fancy, as it might be; and even in striking a trail of the
Iroquois—nay, I 've been in skrimmages, and ambushments,
in thought, like, and found satisfaction in it, according to my
gifts; but all those things have lost their charms since I 've
made acquaintance with you. Now, I think no longer of any
thing rude in my dreams, but the very last night we staid in
the garrison, I imagined I had a cabin in a grove of sugar
maples, and at the root of every tree was a Mabel Dunham,
while the birds that were among the branches, sung ballads,
instead of the notes that natur' gave, and even the deer stopped
to listen. I tried to shoot a fa'an, but Killdeer missed fire, and
the creatur' laughed in my face, as pleasantly as a young
girl laughs in her merriment, and then it bounded away, looking
back, as if expecting me to follow.”
“No more of this, Pathfinder—we 'll talk no more of these
things,” said Mabel, dashing the tears from her eyes; for the
simple, earnest manner in which this hardy woodsman
betrayed the deep hold she had taken of his feelings, nearly
proved too much for her own generous heart. “Now, let us
look for my father; he cannot be distant, as I heard his gun,
quite near.”
“The sarjeant was wrong—yes, he was wrong, and it 's
wolf.”
“Here comes my dear father,” interrupted Mabel; “let
us look cheerful and happy, Pathfinder, as such good friends
ought to look, and keep each other's secrets.”
A pause succeeded; the serjeant's foot was heard crushing
the dried twigs hard by, and then his form appeared shoving
aside the bushes of a copse, quite near. As he issued into
the open ground, the old soldier scrutinized his daughter and
her companion, and speaking good-naturedly, he said—
“Mabel, child; you are young and light of foot—look for
a bird I 've shot, that fell just beyond the thicket of young
hemlocks, on the shore; and, as Jasper is showing signs of
an intention of getting under way, you need not take the
trouble to clamber up this hill again, but we will meet you,
on the beach, in a few minutes.”
Mabel obeyed, bounding down the hill with the elastic step
of youth and health. But, notwithstanding the lightness of
her steps, the heart of the girl was heavy, and no sooner was
she hid from observation, by the thicket, than she threw herself
on the root of a tree, and wept as if her heart would
break. The serjeant watched her until she disappeared, with
a father's pride, and then turned to his companion, with a
smile as kind and as familiar as his habits would allow him
to use towards any.
“She has her mother's lightness and activity, my friend,
with somewhat of her father's force,” he said. “Her mother
was not quite as handsome, I think myself; but the Dunhams
were always thought comely, whether men or women. Well,
Pathfinder, I take it for granted you 've not overlooked the
opportunity, but have spoken plainly to the girl? women like
frankness, in matters of this sort.”
“I believe Mabel and I understand each other, at last,
sarjeant,” returned the other, looking another way to avoid
the soldier's face.
“So much the better. Some people fancy that a little
doubt and uncertainty makes love all the livelier, but I am
one of those who think the plainer the tongue speaks, the
easier the mind will comprehend. Was Mabel surprised?”
“I fear she was, sarjeant; I fear she was taken quite by
surprise—yes, I do.”
“Well, well, surprises in love, are like an ambush in war,
and quite as lawful; though it is not as easy to tell when a
woman is surprised, as to tell when it happens to an enemy.
Mabel did not run away, my worthy friend, did she?”
“No, sarjeant, Mabel did not try to escape; that I can
say with a clear conscience.”
“I hope the girl was not too willing, neither! Her mother
was shy and coy for a month, at least—but frankness, after
all, is a recommendation, in man or woman.”
“That it is—that it is—and judgment, too.”
“You are not to look for too much judgment in a young
creature of twenty, Pathfinder, but it will come with experience.
A mistake in you, or in me, for instance, might not
be so easily overlooked, but in a girl of Mabel's years, one
is not to strain at a gnat, lest they swallow a camel.”
The reader will remember that Serjeant Dunham was not
a Hebrew scholar.
The muscles of the listener's face twitched, as the serjeant
was thus delivering his sentiments, though the former had
now recovered a portion of that stoicism which formed so
large a part of his character, and which he had probably
imbibed from long association with the Indians. His eyes
rose and fell, and once a gleam shot athwart his hard features,
as if he were about to indulge in his peculiar laugh,
but the joyous feeling, if it really existed, was as quickly
lost in a look allied to anguish. It was this unusual mixture
of wild and keen mental agony, with native, simple, joyousness,
that had most struck Mabel, who, in the interview just
related, had a dozen times been on the point of believing that
her suitor's heart was only lightly touched, as images of happiness
and humour gleamed over a mind that was almost
infantine in its simplicity and nature; an impression, however,
that was soon driven away, by the discovery of emotions
so painful and so deep, that they seemed to harrow the
very soul. Indeed, in this respect, the Pathfinder was a mere
child: unpractised in the ways of the world, he had no idea
of concealing a thought of any kind, and his mind received
and reflected each emotion, with the pliability and readiness
of that period of life; the infant scarcely yielding its wayward
imagination to the passing impression, with greater
facility, than this man, so simple in all his personal feelings,
ordinary pursuits.
“You say true, sarjeant,” Pathfinder answered—“a mistake
in one like you is a more serious matter.”
“You will find Mabel sincere and honest in the end, give
her but a little time.”
“Ah's me, sarjeant!”
“A man of your merits, would make an impression on a
rock, give him time, Pathfinder.”
“Sarjeant Dunham, we are old fellow campaigners—that
is, as campaigns are carried on here in the wilderness; and
we have done so many kind acts to each other, that we can
afford to be candid—what has caused you to believe that a
girl like Mabel could ever fancy one as rude as I am?”
“What?—why a variety of reasons, and good reasons,
too, my friend. Those same acts of kindness, perhaps,
and the campaigns you mention; moreover, you are my
sworn and tried comrade.”
“All this sounds well, so far as you and I are consarned,
but they do not touch the case of your pretty daughter. She
may think these very campaigns have destroyed the little
comeliness I may once have had, and I am not quite sartain
that being an old friend of her father would lead any young
maiden's mind into a particular affection for a suitor. Like
loves like, I tell you, sarjeant, and my gifts are not altogether
the gifts of Mabel Dunham.”
“These are some of your old modest qualms, Pathfinder,
and will do you no credit with the girl. Women distrust
men who distrust themselves, and take to men who distrust
nothing. Modesty is a capital thing in a recruit, I grant you;
or in a young subaltern who has just joined, for it prevents
his railing at the non-commissioned officers, before he knows
what to rail at; I'm not sure it is out of place in a commissary,
or a parson, but it 's the devil and all when it gets possession
of either a real soldier, or a lover. Have as little to
do with it as possible, if you would win a woman's heart.
As for your doctrine that like loves like, it is as wrong as
possible, in matters of this sort. If like loved like, women
would love one another, and men also. No—no—like loves
dislike,”—the serjeant was merely a scholar of the camp,
“and you have nothing to fear from Mabel on that score.
they tell me, and there is no more modesty in him
than there is in a cat-o'-nine-tails.”
“Lieutenant Muir will never be the husband of Mabel
Dunham, let him ruffle his feathers as much as he may.”
“That is a sensible remark of yours, Pathfinder, for my
mind is made up that you shall be my son-in-law. If I were
an officer myself, Mr. Muir might have some chance; but
time has placed one door between my child and myself, and
I don't intend there shall be that of a marquee, also.”
“Sarjeant, we must let Mabel follow her own fancy; she
is young and light of heart, and God forbid that any wish
of mine should lay the weight of a feather on a mind that is
all gaiety now, or take one note of happiness from her
laughter.”
“Have you conversed freely with the girl?” the serjeant
demanded quickly, and with some asperity of manner.
Pathfinder was too honest to deny a truth plain as that
which the answer required, and yet too honourable to betray
Mabel, and expose her to the resentment of one whom he
well knew to be stern in his anger.
“We have laid open our minds,” he said, “and though
Mabel's is one that any man might love to look at, I find
little there, sarjeant, to make me think any better of myself.”
“The girl has not dared to refuse you — to refuse her
father's best friend?”
Pathfinder turned his face away to conceal the look of
anguish, that consciousness told him was passing athwart it,
but he continued the discourse in his own quiet manly tones.
“Mabel is too kind to refuse any thing, or to utter harsh
words to a dog. I have not put the question in a way to be
downright refused, serjeant.”
“And did you expect my daughter to jump into your arms,
before you asked her? She would not have been her mother's
child had she done any such thing, nor do I think she would
have been mine. The Dunhams like plain dealing, as well
as the King's Majesty, but they are no jumpers. Leave me
to manage this matter for you, Pathfinder, and there shall be
no unnecessary delay. I 'll speak to Mabel myself, this very
evening, using your name as principal in the affair.”
“I'd rather not—I'd rather not, sarjeant. Leave the matter
ind. Young girls are like timorsome birds; they do not overrelish
being hurried or spoken harshly to, nither. Leave the
matter to Mabel and me.”
“On one condition I will, my friend; and that is, that you
promise me on the honour of a scout, that you will put the
matter plainly to Mabel, the first suitable opportunity, and no
mincing of words.”
“I will ask her, sarjeant—yes, I will ask her, on condition
that you promise not to meddle in the affair—yes, I will
promise to ask Mabel the question whether she will marry
me, even though she laugh in my face, at my doing so, on
that condition.”
Serjeant Dunham gave the desired promise, very cheerfully,
for he had completely wrought himself up into the
belief that the man he so much esteemed and respected himself,
must be acceptable to his daughter. He had married a
woman much younger than himself, and he saw no unfitness
in the respective years of the intended couple. Mabel was
educated so much above him, too, that he was not aware of
the difference which actually existed between the parent and
child, in this respect; for it is one of the most unpleasant features
in the intercourse between knowledge and ignorance,
taste and unsophistication, refinement and vulgarity, that the
higher qualities are often necessarily subjected to the judgments
of those who have absolutely no perception of their existence.
It followed that Serjeant Dunham was not altogether qualified
to appreciate his daughter's tastes, or to form a very probable
conjecture what would be the direction taken by those
feelings, which oftener depend on impulses and passion, than
on reason. Still, the worthy soldier was not so wrong in
his estimate of the Pathfinder's chances, as might at first
appear. Knowing, as he well did, all the sterling qualities
of the man, his truth, integrity of purpose, courage, self-devotion,
disinterestedness, it was far from unreasonable to
suppose that qualities like these would produce a deep impression
on any female heart, where there was an opportunity
to acquire a knowledge of their existence; and the father
erred principally in fancying that the daughter might know,
as it might be, by intuition, what he himself had acquired by
years of intercourse and adventure.
As Pathfinder and his military friend descended the hill to
the shore of the lake, the discourse did not flag. The latter
continued to persuade the former that his diffidence, alone,
prevented complete success with Mabel, and that he had
only to persevere in order to prevail. Pathfinder was much
too modest by nature, and had been too plainly, though so
delicately, discouraged, in the recent interview, to believe all
he heard; still the father used so many arguments that seemed
plausible, and it was so grateful to fancy that the daughter
might yet be his, the reader is not to be surprised, when he
is told that this unsophisticated being did not view Mabel's
recent conduct in precisely the light in which he may be
inclined to view it himself. He did not credit all that the
serjeant told him, it is true; but he began to think virgin
coyness, and ignorance of her own feelings, might have
induced Mabel to use the language she had.
“The Quarter Master is no favourite,” said Pathfinder, in
answer to one of his companion's remarks. “Mabel will
never look on him as more than one who has had four or five
wives already.”
“Which is more than his share. A man may marry
twice, without offence to good morals and decency, I allow;
but four times is an aggravation.”
“I should think even marrying once, what Master Cap
calls a circumstance!” put in Pathfinder, laughing in his
quiet way, for, by this time, his spirits had recovered some
of their buoyancy.
“It is indeed, my friend, and a most solemn circumstance
too. If it were not that Mabel is to be your wife, I would
advise you to remain single. But here is the girl herself,
and discretion is the word.”
“Ah's me! sarjeant, I fear you are mistaken!”
| CHAPTER III. The pathfinder, or, The inland sea | |