Deerslayer (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (59 page)

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 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, further off—further off. Poor Hetty, you know not what you say. Leave me to order 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 churchyards.”

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 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 unreasonable 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 and earnestness with which all this was done, a little 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 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 her 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 for a man of Harry March’s decision and fearlessness.”

“There’s been a reason, gal, and it’s one that troubles me even now—nay, don’t flush up so, and look fierylike, for there are thoughts which will stick long in any man’s mind, there be words which 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 was 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 a 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 offense is meant, and none should be taken.”

“I do not brighten up, and will not take offense,” 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, cannot, ever be your wife, Hurry, that you seem to overlook, and which it is my duty now to 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”

“0 Judith, them flaunting, gay, scarlet-coated officers of the garrisons have done all this mischief!”

“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; and 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 on 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 caviling out of the question, if not absolutely dumbfounded, 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 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 us. Go tonight; we’ll never accuse you of having done anything forgetful or unmanly.”

“If I do go, ’twill 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 favor. 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 forever.”

“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 she spoke; “I think it likely he will wish to head the party; I would greatly prefer it should be another. If Captain Warley can be kept back, ’twould 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, 0-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 gin‘ral lover, if he isn’t a gin’ral officer.”

Judith did not answer, though her frame shook, and her color 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.

“That point
In misery, which makes the oppressed man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the oppressor’s.”

Coleridge

 

ALL THIS TIME HETTY had remained seated in the head of the scow, looking sorrowfully into the water which held the body of her mother, as well as that of the man whom she had been taught to consider her father. Hist stood near her in gentle quiet, but had no consolation to offer in words. The habits of her people taught her reserve in this respect; and the habits of her sex induced her to wait patiently for a moment when she might manifest some soothing sympathy by means of acts rather than of speech. Chingachgook held himself a little aloof, in grave reserve, looking like a warrior, but feeling like a man.