It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
It is to be all made of faith and service;
It is to be all made of phantasy;
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.
SHAKESPEARE.
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; and in double that time, the entire sheet
presented the ordinary 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 which
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 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 Sergeant was appealed to; his opinion proved to be favorable, and
preparations to carry the whim into effect were immediately made.
The party which was to land consisted of Sergeant 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, before
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 felt the novelty of her situation, in landing through a surf, 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 outdone 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 Sergeant 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 gale had driven the _Scud_ beyond the line
of those forts with which the French were then endeavoring 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 strait. The cutter rode at single
anchor, without the breakers, resembling some well-imagined and
accurately-executed toy, intended rather for a glass case than for
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 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 neighborhood 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 moecassins. 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, and am coming to love all this grand
silence of the woods. 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 seashore.”
“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 have 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?” inquired 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 their 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 ardor of feelings excited by the
novelty of her striking situation; “and all must obey them. Do you see
yonder pigeon that is just alightin' on the beach--here in a line with
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 so
ignorant, so frivolous, so vain, and so 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 favorite
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,” said she with an
earnest sincerity; “nor should there be any cloud between us. You are
too upright and frank to meet with anything but sincerity and frankness
in return. Surely, surely, all this means nothing,--has no other
connection 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 Sergeant 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 daresay 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
shrank, with maiden shame, from adding what she wished so earnestly to
say. Rallying her courage, however, and determined to know all as
soon and as plainly as possible, after a moment's hesitation, 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 Sergeant 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 anything 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 ardor 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
vigor 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, simplicity, justice, and courage are
scarcely equalled by any of earth.”
“Ah, Mabel, these are sweet and encouraging words from you! and the
Sergeant, after all, was not so 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 Sergeant, 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 Sergeant 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; “anything but this,
anything but this! Speak to me, Pathfinder! Smile again, say one kind
word, anything to prove you can forgive me.”
“The Sergeant 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
Sergeant was wrong after all.”
“We can be friends, though we cannot be man and wife,” continued Mabel,
almost as much disturbed as her companion, scarcely knowing what she
said; “we can always be friends, and always will.”
“I thought the Sergeant 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
notion; and it might have been better, too, had you not been 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.”
“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.”
“You will forget it all, when you come seriously to recollect that I am
altogether unsuited to be your wife.”
“So I told the Sergeant; 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 color 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 Sergeant says that never can take place. But the
Sergeant 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 Sergeant 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
Quartermaster would be his choice, I would not abide by the conditions.
No, no, Mabel; I know Davy Muir well, and though he may make you a lady,
he can never make you a happy woman, or himself a gentleman.”
“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
Quartermaster. 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
trail or with the rifle; and less worth now that I have discovered the
Sergeant'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 Sergeant 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 knowed it afore, Mabel; but girls are of more account in this
life than I could have believed. Now, afore I knowed you, the new-born
babe did not sleep more sweetly than I used; 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
anything rude in my dreams; but the very last night we stayed 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 among the
branches sang ballads instead of the notes that natur' gave, and even
the deer stopped to listen. I tried to shoot a fa'n, 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 Sergeant was wrong--yes, he was wrong, and it's of no avail to
attempt to make the dove consort with the 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 Sergeant's foot was heard crushing the dried
twigs hard by, and then his form appeared shoving aside the bushes of
a copse just 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
that 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 Sergeant 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,” said he. “Her mother was not quite so 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, Sergeant,”
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, Sergeant; 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 so 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, Sergeant, Mabel did not try to escape; _that_ I can say with a
clear conscience.”
“I hope the girl was too willing, neither! Her mother was shy and coy
for a month, at least; but frankness, after all, is a recommendation in
a 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 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 Sergeant Dunham was not a Hebrew scholar.
The muscles of the listener's face twitched as the Sergeant 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, which 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 humor gleamed over a mind that was almost infantile in
its simplicity and nature; an impression, however, which was soon driven
away by the discovery of emotions so painful and so deep, that they
seemed to harrow the very soul.
“You say true, Sergeant,” 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, Sergeant!”
“A man of your merits would make an impression on a rock, give him time,
Pathfinder.”
“Sergeant 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 so 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, Sergeant; 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 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 Sergeant was merely a scholar of the camp,--“and you have
nothing to fear from Mabel on that score. Look at Lieutenant Muir;
the man has had five wives already, 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.”
“Sergeant, 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 Sergeant 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 honorable 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, Sergeant, 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 anything, or to utter harsh words to a dog.
I have not put the question in a way to be downright refused, Sergeant.”
“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, Sergeant. Leave the matter to Mabel
and me, and I think all will come right in the ind. Young girls are like
timorsome birds; they do not over-relish 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 will promise
me, on the honor 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, Sergeant, on condition that you promise not to meddle
in the affair--yes, I will promise to ask Mabel whether she will marry
me, even though she laugh in my face at my doing so, on that condition.”
Sergeant Dunham gave the desired promise very cheerfully; for he had
completely wrought himself up into the belief that the man he so much
esteemed 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. It followed
that Sergeant 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 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; 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 which seemed plausible, and it
was so grateful to fancy that the daughter might yet be his, that 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 Sergeant 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 Quartermaster is no favorite,” 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, Sergeant, I fear you are mistaken!”