“That point in misery, which makes the oppressed man regardless
of his own life, makes him too Lord of the oppressor's.”
Coleridge, Remorse, V.i.201-04.
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.
Judith joined her sister with an air of dignity and solemnity it was not
her practice to show, and, though the gleamings of anguish were still
visible on her beautiful face, when she spoke it was firmly and without
tremor. At that instant Hist and the Delaware withdrew, moving towards
Hurry, in the other end of the boat.
“Sister,” said Judith kindly, “I have much to say to you; we will get
into this canoe, and paddle off to a distance from the Ark--The secrets
of two orphans ought not to be heard by every ear.”
“Certainly, Judith, by the ears of their parents? Let Hurry lift the
grapnel and move away with the Ark, and leave us here, near the graves
of father and mother, to say what we may have to say.”
“Father!” repeated Judith slowly, the blood for the first time since her
parting with March mounting to her cheeks--“He was no father of ours,
Hetty! That we had from his own mouth, and in his dying moments.”
“Are you glad, Judith, to find you had no father! He took care of us,
and fed us, and clothed us, and loved us; a father could have done no
more. I don't understand why he wasn't a father.”
“Never mind, dear child, but let us do as you have said. It may be well
to remain here, and let the Ark move a little away. Do you prepare the
canoe, and I will tell Hurry and the Indians our wishes.”
This was soon and simply done, the Ark moving with measured strokes of
the sweeps a hundred yards from the spot, leaving the girls floating,
seemingly in air, above the place of the dead; so buoyant was the
light vessel that held them, and so limpid the element by which it was
sustained.
“The death of Thomas Hutter,” Judith commenced, after a short pause had
prepared her sister to receive her communications, “has altered all our
prospects, Hetty. If he was not our father, we are sisters, and must
feel alike and live together.”
“How do I know, Judith, that you wouldn't be as glad to find I am not
your sister, as you are in finding that Thomas Hutter, as you call him,
was not your father. I am only half witted, and few people like to
have half witted relations; and then I'm not handsome--at least, not as
handsome as you--and you may wish a handsomer sister.”
“No, no Hetty. You and you only are my sister--my heart, and my love for
you tell me that--and mother was my mother--of that too am I glad, and
proud; for she was a mother to be proud of--but father was not father!”
“Hush, Judith! His spirit may be near; it would grieve it to hear his
children talking so, and that, too, over his very grave. Children should
never grieve parents, mother often told me, and especially when they are
dead!”
“Poor Hetty! They are happily removed beyond all cares on our account.
Nothing that I can do or say will cause mother any sorrow now--there is
some consolation in that, at least! And nothing you can say or do will
make her smile, as she used to smile on your good conduct when living.”
“You don't know that, Judith. Spirits can see, and mother may see as
well as any spirit. She always told us that God saw all we did, and that
we should do nothing to offend him; and now she has left us, I strive to
do nothing that can displease her. Think how her spirit would mourn and
feel sorrow, Judith, did it see either of us doing what is not right;
and spirits may see, after all; especially the spirits of parents that
feel anxious about their children.”
“Hetty--Hetty--you know not what you say!” murmured Judith, almost livid
with emotion--“The dead cannot see, and know nothing of what passes
here! But, we will not talk of this any longer. The bodies of Mother
and Thomas Hutter lie together in the lake, and we will hope that the
spirits of both are with God. That we, the children of one of them,
remain on earth is certain; it is now proper to know what we are to do
in future.”
“If we are not Thomas Hutter's children, Judith, no one will dispute our
right to his property. We have the castle and the Ark, and the canoes,
and the woods, and the lakes, the same as when he was living, and what
can prevent us from staying here, and passing our lives just as we ever
have done?”
“No, no poor sister--this can no longer be. Two girls would not be safe
here, even should these Hurons fail in getting us into their power.
Even father had as much as he could sometimes do, to keep peace upon the
lake, and we should fail altogether. We must quit this spot, Hetty, and
remove into the settlements.”
“I am sorry you think so, Judith,” returned Hetty, dropping her head on
her bosom, and looking thoughtfully down at the spot where the funeral
pile of her mother could just be seen. “I am very sorry to hear it. I
would rather stay here, where, if I wasn't born, I've passed my life.
I don't like the settlements--they are full of wickedness and heart
burnings, while God dwells unoffended in these hills! I love the trees,
and the mountains, and the lake, and the springs; all that his bounty
has given us, and it would grieve me sorely, Judith, to be forced to
quit them. You are handsome, and not at all half-witted, and one day you
will marry, and then you will have a husband, and I a brother to take
care of us, if women can't really take care of themselves in such a
place as this.”
“Ah! if this could be so, Hetty, then, indeed, I could now be a thousand
times happier in these woods, than in the settlements. Once I did not
feel thus, but now I do. Yet where is the man to turn this beautiful
place into such a garden of Eden for us?”
“Harry March loves you, sister,” returned poor Hetty, unconsciously
picking the bark off the canoe as she spoke. “He would be glad to be
your husband, I'm sure, and a stouter and a braver youth is not to be
met with the whole country round.”
“Harry March and I understand each other, and no more need be said about
him. There is one--but no matter. It is all in the hands of providence,
and we must shortly come to some conclusion about our future manner of
living. Remain here--that is, remain here, alone, we cannot--and perhaps
no occasion will ever offer for remaining in the manner you think of. It
is time, too, Hetty, we should learn all we can concerning our relations
and family. It is not probable we are altogether without relations, and
they may be glad to see us. The old chest is now our property, and we
have a right to look into it, and learn all we can by what it holds.
Mother was so very different from Thomas Hutter, that, now I know we are
not his children, I burn with a desire to know whose children we can be.
There are papers in that chest, I am certain, and those papers may tell
us all about our parents and natural friends.”
“Well, Judith, you know best, for you are cleverer than common, mother
always said, and I am only half-witted. Now father and mother are dead,
I don't much care for any relation but you, and don't think I could love
them I never saw, as well as I ought. If you don't like to marry Hurry,
I don't see who you can choose for a husband, and then I fear we shall
have to quit the lake, after all.”
“What do you think of Deerslayer, Hetty?” asked Judith, bending
forward like her unsophisticated sister, and endeavoring to conceal her
embarrassment in a similar manner. “Would he not make a brother-in-law
to your liking?”
“Deerslayer!” repeated the other, looking up in unfeigned surprise.
“Why, Judith, Deerslayer isn't in the least comely, and is altogether
unfit for one like you!”
“He is not ill-looking, Hetty, and beauty in a man is not of much
matter.”
“Do you think so, Judith? I know that beauty is of no great matter, in
man or woman, in the eyes of God, for mother has often told me so, when
she thought I might have been sorry I was not as handsome as you, though
she needn't have been uneasy on that account, for I never coveted any
thing that is yours, sister--but, tell me so she did--still, beauty is
very pleasant to the eye, in both! I think, if I were a man, I should
pine more for good looks than I do as a girl. A handsome man is a more
pleasing sight than a handsome woman.”
“Poor child! You scarce know what you say, or what you mean! Beauty in
our sex is something, but in men, it passes for little. To be sure,
a man ought to be tall, but others are tall, as well as Hurry; and
active--and I think I know those that are more active--and strong; well,
he hasn't all the strength in the world--and brave--I am certain I can
name a youth who is braver!”
“This is strange, Judith!--I didn't think the earth held a handsomer, or
a stronger, or a more active or a braver man than Hurry Harry! I'm sure
I never met his equal in either of these things.”
“Well, well, Hetty--say no more of this. I dislike to hear you talking
in this manner. 'Tis not suitable to your innocence, and truth, and
warm-hearted sincerity. Let Harry March go. He quits us to-night, and no
regret of mine will follow him, unless it be that he has staid so long,
and to so little purpose.”
“Ah! Judith; that is what I've long feared--and I did so hope he might
be my brother-in-law!”
“Never mind it now. Let us talk of our poor mother--and of Thomas
Hutter.”
“Speak kindly then, sister, for you can't be quite certain that spirits
don't both hear and see. If father wasn't father, he was good to us,
and gave us food and shelter. We can't put any stones over their graves,
here in the water, to tell people all this, and so we ought to say it
with our tongues.”
“They will care little for that, girl. 'Tis a great consolation to know,
Hetty, that if mother ever did commit any heavy fault when young, she
lived sincerely to repent of it; no doubt her sins were forgiven her.”
“Tisn't right, Judith, for children to talk of their parents' sins. We
had better talk of our own.”
“Talk of your sins, Hetty!--If there ever was a creature on earth
without sin, it is you! I wish I could say, or think the same of myself;
but we shall see. No one knows what changes affection for a good husband
can make in a woman's heart. I don't think, child, I have even now the
same love for finery I once had.”
“It would be a pity, Judith, if you did think of clothes, over your
parents' graves! We will never quit this spot, if you say so, and will
let Hurry go where he pleases.”
“I am willing enough to consent to the last, but cannot answer for the
first, Hetty. We must live, in future, as becomes respectable young
women, and cannot remain here, to be the talk and jest of all the rude
and foul tongu'd trappers and hunters that may come upon the lake. Let
Hurry go by himself, and then I'll find the means to see Deerslayer,
when the future shall be soon settled. Come, girl, the sun has set,
and the Ark is drifting away from us; let us paddle up to the scow, and
consult with our friends. This night I shall look into the chest, and
to-morrow shall determine what we are to do. As for the Hurons, now we
can use our stores without fear of Thomas Hutter, they will be easily
bought off. Let me get Deerslayer once out of their hands, and a single
hour shall bring things to an understanding.”
Judith spoke with decision, and she spoke with authority, a habit she
had long practised towards her feeble-minded sister. But, while thus
accustomed to have her way, by the aid of manner and a readier command
of words, Hetty occasionally checked her impetuous feelings and hasty
acts by the aid of those simple moral truths that were so deeply
engrafted in all her own thoughts and feelings; shining through both
with a mild and beautiful lustre that threw a sort of holy halo around
so much of what she both said and did. On the present occasion, this
healthful ascendancy of the girl of weak intellect, over her of a
capacity that, in other situations, might have become brilliant and
admired, was exhibited in the usual simple and earnest manner.
“You forget, Judith, what has brought us here,” she said reproachfully.
“This is mother's grave, and we have just laid the body of father by her
side. We have done wrong to talk so much of ourselves at such a spot,
and ought now to pray God to forgive us, and ask him to teach us where
we are to go, and what we are to do.”
Judith involuntarily laid aside her paddle, while Hetty dropped on her
knees, and was soon lost in her devout but simple petitions. Her sister
did not pray. This she had long ceased to do directly, though anguish of
spirit frequently wrung from her mental and hasty appeals to the great
source of benevolence, for support, if not for a change of spirit.
Still she never beheld Hetty on her knees, that a feeling of tender
recollection, as well as of profound regret at the deadness of her own
heart, did not come over her. Thus had she herself done in childhood,
and even down to the hour of her ill fated visits to the garrisons, and
she would willingly have given worlds, at such moments, to be able to
exchange her present sensations for the confiding faith, those pure
aspirations, and the gentle hope that shone through every lineament
and movement of her otherwise, less favored sister. All she could do,
however, was to drop her head to her bosom, and assume in her attitude
some of that devotion in which her stubborn spirit refused to unite.
When Hetty rose from her knees, her countenance had a glow and serenity
that rendered a face that was always agreeable, positively handsome.
Her mind was at peace, and her conscience acquitted her of a neglect of
duty.
“Now, you may go if you want to, Judith,” she said, “for God has been
kind to me, and lifted a burden off my heart. Mother had many such
burdens, she used to tell me, and she always took them off in this
way. 'Tis the only way, sister, such things can be done. You may raise
a stone, or a log, with your hands; but the heart must be lightened by
prayer. I don't think you pray as often as you used to do, when younger,
Judith!”
“Never mind--never mind, child,” answered the other huskily, “'tis no
matter, now. Mother is gone, and Thomas Hutter is gone, and the time has
come when we must think and act for ourselves.”
As the canoe moved slowly away from the place, under the gentle
impulsion of the elder sister's paddle, the younger sat musing, as was
her wont whenever her mind was perplexed by any idea more abstract and
difficult of comprehension than common.
“I don't know what you mean by 'future', Judith,” she at length,
suddenly observed. “Mother used to call Heaven the future, but you seem
to think it means next week, or to-morrow!”
“It means both, dear sister--every thing that is yet to come, whether in
this world or another. It is a solemn word, Hetty, and most so, I fear,
to them that think the least about it. Mother's future is eternity; ours
may yet mean what will happen while we live in this world--Is not that a
canoe just passing behind the castle--here, more in the direction of
the point, I mean; it is hid, now; but certainly I saw a canoe stealing
behind the logs!”
“I've seen it some time,” Hetty quietly answered, for the Indians had
few terrors for her, “but I didn't think it right to talk about such
things over mother's grave! The canoe came from the camp, Judith,
and was paddled by a single man. He seemed to be Deerslayer, and no
Iroquois.”
“Deerslayer!” returned the other, with much of her native
impetuosity--“That cannot be! Deerslayer is a prisoner, and I have
been thinking of the means of setting him free. Why did you fancy it
Deerslayer, child?”
“You can look for yourself, sister, for there comes the canoe in sight,
again, on this side of the hut.”
Sure enough, the light boat had passed the building, and was now
steadily advancing towards the Ark; the persons on board of which were
already collecting in the head of the scow to receive their visitor. A
single glance sufficed to assure Judith that her sister was right, and
that Deerslayer was alone in the canoe. His approach was so calm and
leisurely, however, as to fill her with wonder, since a man who had
effected his escape from enemies by either artifice or violence, would
not be apt to move with the steadiness and deliberation with which his
paddle swept the water. By this time the day was fairly departing, and
objects were already seen dimly under the shores. In the broad lake,
however, the light still lingered, and around the immediate scene of the
present incidents, which was less shaded than most of the sheet, being
in its broadest part, it cast a glow that bore some faint resemblance to
the warm tints of an Italian or Grecian sunset. The logs of the hut and
Ark had a sort of purple hue, blended with the growing obscurity, and
the bark of the hunter's boat was losing its distinctness in colours
richer, but more mellowed, than those it showed under a bright sun.
As the two canoes approached each other--for Judith and her sister had
plied their paddles so as to intercept the unexpected visiter ere
he reached the Ark--even Deerslayer's sun-burned countenance wore a
brighter aspect than common, under the pleasing tints that seemed to
dance in the atmosphere. Judith fancied that delight at meeting her had
some share in this unusual and agreeable expression. She was not aware
that her own beauty appeared to more advantage than common, from the
same natural cause, nor did she understand what it would have given her
so much pleasure to know, that the young man actually thought her, as
she drew nearer, the loveliest creature of her sex his eyes had ever
dwelt on.
“Welcome--welcome, Deerslayer!” exclaimed the girl, as the canoes
floated at each other's side; “we have had a melancholy--a frightful
day--but your return is, at least, one misfortune the less! Have the
Hurons become more human, and let you go; or have you escaped from the
wretches, by your own courage and skill?”
“Neither, Judith--neither one nor t'other. The Mingos are Mingos still,
and will live and die Mingos; it is not likely their natur's will ever
undergo much improvement. Well! They've their gifts, and we've our'n,
Judith, and it doesn't much become either to speak ill of what the Lord
has created; though, if the truth must be said, I find it a sore trial
to think kindly or to talk kindly of them vagabonds. As for outwitting
them, that might have been done, and it was done, too, atween the
Sarpent, yonder, and me, when we were on the trail of Hist--” here the
hunter stopped to laugh in his own silent fashion--“but it's no easy
matter to sarcumvent the sarcumvented. Even the fa'ans get to know the
tricks of the hunters afore a single season is over, and an Indian whose
eyes have once been opened by a sarcumvention never shuts them ag'in
in precisely the same spot. I've known whites to do that, but never a
red-skin. What they l'arn comes by practice, and not by books, and
of all schoolmasters exper'ence gives lessons that are the longest
remembered.”
“All this is true, Deerslayer, but if you have not escaped from the
savages, how came you here?”
“That's a nat'ral question, and charmingly put. You are wonderful
handsome this evening, Judith, or Wild Rose, as the Sarpent calls you,
and I may as well say it, since I honestly think it! You may well call
them Mingos, savages too, for savage enough do they feel, and savage
enough will they act, if you once give them an opportunity. They feel
their loss here, in the late skrimmage, to their hearts' cores, and are
ready to revenge it on any creatur' of English blood that may fall in
their way. Nor, for that matter do I much think they would stand at
taking their satisfaction out of a Dutch man.”
“They have killed father; that ought to satisfy their wicked cravings
for blood,” observed Hetty reproachfully.
“I know it, gal--I know the whole story--partly from what I've seen
from the shore, since they brought me up from the point, and partly from
their threats ag'in myself, and their other discourse. Well, life is
unsartain at the best, and we all depend on the breath of our nostrils
for it, from day to day. If you've lost a staunch fri'nd, as I make
no doubt you have, Providence will raise up new ones in his stead, and
since our acquaintance has begun in this oncommon manner, I shall take
it as a hint that it will be a part of my duty in futur', should the
occasion offer, to see you don't suffer for want of food in the wigwam.
I can't bring the dead to life, but as to feeding the living, there's
few on all this frontier can outdo me, though I say it in the way
of pity and consolation, like, and in no particular, in the way of
boasting.”
“We understand you, Deerslayer,” returned Judith, hastily, “and take all
that falls from your lips, as it is meant, in kindness and friendship.
Would to Heaven all men had tongues as true, and hearts as honest!”
“In that respect men do differ, of a sartainty, Judith. I've known them
that wasn't to be trusted any farther than you can see them; and others
ag'in whose messages, sent with a small piece of wampum, perhaps, might
just as much be depended on, as if the whole business was finished afore
your face. Yes, Judith, you never said truer word, than when you said
some men might be depended on, and other some might not.”
“You are an unaccountable being, Deerslayer,” returned the girl, not a
little puzzled with the childish simplicity of character that the hunter
so often betrayed--a simplicity so striking that it frequently appeared
to place him nearly on a level with the fatuity of poor Hetty, though
always relieved by the beautiful moral truth that shone through all that
this unfortunate girl both said and did--“You are a most unaccountable
man, and I often do not know how to understand you. But never mind, just
now; you have forgotten to tell us by what means you are here.”
“I!--Oh! That's not very onaccountable, if I am myself, Judith. I'm out
on furlough.”
“Furlough!--That word has a meaning among the soldiers that I
understand; but I cannot tell what it signifies when used by a
prisoner.”
“It means just the same. You're right enough; the soldiers do use it,
and just in the same way as I use it. A furlough is when a man has leave
to quit a camp or a garrison for a sartain specified time; at the end
of which he is to come back and shoulder his musket, or submit to his
torments, just as he may happen to be a soldier, or a captyve. Being the
last, I must take the chances of a prisoner.”
“Have the Hurons suffered you to quit them in this manner, without watch
or guard.”
“Sartain--I woul'n't have come in any other manner, unless indeed it had
been by a bold rising, or a sarcumvention.”
“What pledge have they that you will ever return?”
“My word,” answered the hunter simply. “Yes, I own I gave 'em that, and
big fools would they have been to let me come without it! Why in
that case, I shouldn't have been obliged to go back and ondergo any
deviltries their fury may invent, but might have shouldered my rifle,
and made the best of my way to the Delaware villages. But, Lord! Judith,
they know'd this, just as well as you and I do, and would no more let me
come away, without a promise to go back, than they would let the wolves
dig up the bones of their fathers!”
“Is it possible you mean to do this act of extraordinary
self-destruction and recklessness?”
“Anan!”
“I ask if it can be possible that you expect to be able to put yourself
again in the power of such ruthless enemies, by keeping your word.”
Deerslayer looked at his fair questioner for a moment with stern
displeasure. Then the expression of his honest and guileless face
suddenly changed, lighting as by a quick illumination of thought, after
which he laughed in his ordinary manner.
“I didn't understand you, at first, Judith; no, I didn't! You believe
that Chingachgook and Hurry Harry won't suffer it; but you don't know
mankind thoroughly yet, I see. The Delaware would be the last man on
'arth to offer any objections to what he knows is a duty, and, as for
March, he doesn't care enough about any creatur' but himself to
spend many words on such a subject. If he did, 'twould make no great
difference howsever; but not he, for he thinks more of his gains than
of even his own word. As for my promises, or your'n, Judith, or any
body else's, they give him no consarn. Don't be under any oneasiness,
therefore, gal; I shall be allowed to go back according to the furlough;
and if difficulties was made, I've not been brought up, and edicated as
one may say, in the woods, without knowing how to look 'em down.”
Judith made no answer for some little time. All her feelings as a woman,
and as a woman who, for the first time in her life was beginning to
submit to that sentiment which has so much influence on the happiness
or misery of her sex, revolted at the cruel fate that she fancied
Deerslayer was drawing down upon himself, while the sense of right,
which God has implanted in every human breast, told her to admire an
integrity as indomitable and as unpretending as that which the other so
unconsciously displayed. Argument, she felt, would be useless, nor was
she at that moment disposed to lessen the dignity and high principle
that were so striking in the intentions of the hunter, by any attempt to
turn him from his purpose. That something might yet occur to supersede
the necessity for this self immolation she tried to hope, and then she
proceeded to ascertain the facts in order that her own conduct might be
regulated by her knowledge of circumstances.
“When is your furlough out, Deerslayer,” she asked, after both canoes
were heading towards the Ark, and moving, with scarcely a perceptible
effort of the paddles, through the water.
“To-morrow noon; not a minute afore; and you may depend on it, Judith,
I shan't quit what I call Christian company, to go and give myself up
to them vagabonds, an instant sooner than is downright necessary. They
begin to fear a visit from the garrisons, and wouldn't lengthen the time
a moment, and it's pretty well understood atween us that, should I fail
in my ar'n'd, the torments are to take place when the sun begins to
fall, that they may strike upon their home trail as soon as it is dark.”
This was said solemnly, as if the thought of what was believed to be
in reserve duly weighed on the prisoner's mind, and yet so simply, and
without a parade of suffering, as rather to repel than to invite any
open manifestations of sympathy.
“Are they bent on revenging their losses?” Judith asked faintly, her own
high spirit yielding to the influence of the other's quiet but dignified
integrity of purpose.
“Downright, if I can judge of Indian inclinations by the symptoms. They
think howsever I don't suspect their designs, I do believe, but one that
has lived so long among men of red-skin gifts, is no more likely to be
misled in Injin feelin's, than a true hunter is like to lose his trail,
or a stanch hound his scent. My own judgment is greatly ag'in my own
escape, for I see the women are a good deal enraged on behalf of Hist,
though I say it, perhaps, that shouldn't say it, seein' that I had a
considerable hand myself in getting the gal off. Then there was a cruel
murder in their camp last night, and that shot might just as well have
been fired into my breast. Howsever, come what will, the Sarpent and his
wife will be safe, and that is some happiness in any case.”
“Oh! Deerslayer, they will think better of this, since they have given
you until to-morrow noon to make up your mind!”
“I judge not, Judith; yes, I judge not. An Injin is an Injin, gal, and
it's pretty much hopeless to think of swarving him, when he's got the
scent and follows it with his nose in the air. The Delawares, now, are a
half Christianized tribe--not that I think such sort of Christians much
better than your whole blooded onbelievers--but, nevertheless, what good
half Christianizing can do to a man, some among 'em have got, and yet
revenge clings to their hearts like the wild creepers here to the tree!
Then, I slew one of the best and boldest of their warriors, they say,
and it is too much to expect that they should captivate the man who did
this deed, in the very same scouting on which it was performed, and
they take no account of the matter. Had a month, or so, gone by, their
feelin's would have been softened down, and we might have met in a more
friendly way, but it is as it is. Judith, this is talking of nothing but
myself, and my own consarns, when you have had trouble enough, and may
want to consult a fri'nd a little about your own matters. Is the old man
laid in the water, where I should think his body would like to rest?”
“It is, Deerslayer,” answered Judith, almost inaudibly. “That duty has
just been performed. You are right in thinking that I wish to consult a
friend; and that friend is yourself. Hurry Harry is about to leave us;
when he is gone, and we have got a little over the feelings of this
solemn office, I hope you will give me an hour alone. Hetty and I are at
a loss what to do.”
“That's quite nat'ral, coming as things have, suddenly and fearfully.
But here's the Ark, and we'll say more of this when there is a better
opportunity.”