The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Forget me, Jasper! —that would be a punishment I don’t desarve. But, how do you know that Mabel prefars me?—how do you know it, lad; to me it seems impossible, like!”

  “Is she not to marry you, and would Mabel marry a man she does not love?”

  “She has been hard urged by the sarjeant, she has; and a dutiful child may have found it difficult to withstand the wishes of a dying parent. Have you ever told Mabel, that you prefarred her, Jasper; that you bore her these feelings?”

  “Never—Pathfinder—I would not do you that wrong!”

  “I believe you, lad, I do believe you; and I think you would now go off to the salt-water and let the secret die with you. But this must not be. Mabel shall hear all, and she shall have her own way, if my heart breaks in the trial, she shall. No words have ever passed atween you then, Jasper?”

  “Nothing of account—nothing direct. Still, I will own all my foolishness, Pathfinder, for I ought to own it to a generous friend like you, and there will be an end of it. You know how young people understand each other, or think they understand each other, without always speaking out, in plain speech, and get to know each other’s thoughts, or to think they know them, by means of a hundred little ways?”

  “Not I, Jasper, not I,” truly answered the guide, for, sooth to say, his advances had never been met with any of that sweet and precious encouragement that silently marks the course of sympathy united to passion. “Not I, Jasper—I know nothing of all this. Mabel has always treated me fairly, and said what she has had to say, in speech as plain as tongue could tell it.”

  “You have had the pleasure of hearing her say that she loved you, Pathfinder!”

  “Why, no, Jasper, not just that, in words. She has told me that we never could—never ought to be married—that she was not good enough for me, though she did say that she honored me, and respected me. But, then, the sarjeant said it was always so with the youthful and timid; that her mother did so, and said so afore her, and that I ought to be satisfied if she would consent, on any tarms, to marry me; and, therefore, I have concluded that all was right, I have.”

  In spite of all his friendship for the successful wooer, in spite of all his honest, sincere wishes for his happiness, we should be unfaithful chroniclers did we not own that Jasper felt his heart bound with an uncontrollable feeling of delight, at this admission. It was not that he saw, or felt, any hope connected with the circumstance, but it was grateful to the jealous covetousness of unlimited love, thus to learn that no other ears had heard the sweet confessions that were denied his own.

  “Tell me more of this manner of talking without the use of the tongue—” continued Pathfinder, whose countenance was getting to be grave, and who now questioned his companion, like one that seemed to anticipate evil in the reply. “I can, and have conversed with Chingachgook, and with his son Uncas, too, in that mode, afore the latter fell, but I did n’t know that young gals practysed this art, and least of all, Mabel Dunham!”

  “’Tis nothing, Pathfinder—I mean only a look, or a smile, or a glance of the eye, or the trembling of an arm, or a hand, when the young woman has had occasion to touch me; and because I have been weak enough to tremble even at Mabel’s breath, or her brushing me with her clothes, my vain thoughts have misled me. I never spoke plainly to Mabel, myself, and now there is no reason for it, since there is clearly no hope.”

  “Jasper,” returned Pathfinder simply, but with a dignity that precluded farther remarks at the moment, “we will talk of the sarjeant’s funeral, and of our own departure from this island; after these things are disposed of, it will be time enough to say more of the sarjeant’s daughter. This matter must be looked into, for the father left me the care of his child.”

  Jasper was glad enough to change the subject, and the friends separated, each charged with the duty most peculiar to his own station, and habits.

  That afternoon all the dead were interred, the grave of Serjeant Dunham being dug in the centre of the glade, beneath the shade of a huge elm. Mabel wept bitterly at the ceremony, and she found relief in thus disburdening her sorrow. The night passed tranquilly, as did the whole of the following day, Jasper declaring that the gale was too severe to venture on the lake. This circumstance, detained Capt. Sanglier also, who did not quit the island until the morning of the third day after the death of Dunham, when the weather had moderated, and the wind had become fair. Then, indeed, he departed, after taking leave of the Pathfinder, in the manner of one who believed he was in company of a distinguished character, for the last time. The two separated, like those who respect one another, while each felt that the other was an enigma to himself.

  Chapter XXIX

  “Playful she turned that he might see

  The passing smile her cheek put on;

  But when she marked how mournfully

  His eyes met hers, that smile was gone,—”

  —Moore, Lalla Rookh, “The Fire-Worshippers,” ll. 269–72.

  * * *

  THE OCCURRENCES of the last few days had been too exciting, and had made too many demands on the fortitude of our heroine to leave her in the helplessness of grief. She mourned for her father, and she occasionally shuddered, as she recalled the sudden death of Jennie, and all the horrible scenes she had witnessed, but, on the whole, she had aroused herself, and was no longer in the deep depression that usually accompanies grief. Perhaps the overwhelming, almost stupefying sorrow that crushed poor June, and left her for nearly twenty four hours in a state of stupor, assisted Mabel in conquering her own feelings, for she had felt called on to administer consolation to the young Indian woman. This she had done, in the quiet, soothing, insinuating way, in which her sex usually exerts its influence, on such occasions.

  The morning of the third day, was set for that on which the Scud was to sail. Jasper had made all his preparations; the different effects were embarked, and Mabel had taken leave of June, a painful and affectionate parting. In a word, all was ready, and every soul had left the island but the Indian woman, Pathfinder, Jasper and our heroine. The former had gone into a thicket to weep, and the three last were approaching the spot where three canoes lay; one of which was the property of June, and the other two were in waiting to carry the others off to the Scud. Pathfinder led the way, but, when he drew near the shore, instead of taking the direction to the boats, he motioned to his companions to follow, and proceeded to a fallen tree, that lay on the margin of the glade, and out of view of those in the cutter. Seating himself on the trunk, he signed to Mabel to take her place on one side of him, and to Jasper to occupy the other.

  “Sit down here, Mabel; sit down there, Eau douce,” he commenced, as soon as he had taken his own seat; “I’ve something that lies heavy on my mind, and now is the time to take it off, if it’s ever to be done. Sit down, Mabel, and let me lighten my heart, if not my conscience, while I’ve the strength to do it.”

  The pause that succeeded, lasted two or three minutes, and both the young people wondered what was to come next, the idea that Pathfinder could have any weight on his conscience, seeming equally improbable to each.

  “Mabel,” our hero at length resumed, “we must talk plainly to each other, afore we join your uncle in the cutter, where the Salt-water has slept every night since the last rally; for he says it’s the only place in which a man can be sure of keeping the hair on his head, he does—Ah’s! me; what have I to do with these follies and sayings, now! I try to be pleasant, and to feel light-hearted, but the power of man can’t make water run upstream. Mabel, you know that the sarjeant, afore he left us, had settled it atween us two, that we were to become man and wife, and that we were to live together, and to love one another as long as the Lord was pleased to keep us both on ’arth, yes, and afterwards, too?”

  Mabel’s cheeks had regained a little of their ancient bloom, in the fresh air of the morning, but at this unlooked for address they blanched again, nearly to the pallid hue which grief had imprinted there. Still she looked kindly, though ser
iously, at Pathfinder, and even endeavored to force a smile.

  “Very true, my excellent friend—” she answered—“this was my poor father’s wish, and I feel certain that a whole life devoted to your welfare and comforts could scarcely repay you for all you have done for us.”

  “I fear me, Mabel, that man and wife needs be bound together by a stronger tie than such feelings, I do. You have done nothing for me, or nothing of any account, and yet my very heart yearns toward you, it does, and therefore it seems likely that these feelings come from something besides saving scalps and guiding through woods.”

  Mabel’s cheeks had begun to glow again; and, though she struggled hard to smile, her voice trembled a little, as she answered.

  “Had we not better postpone this conversation, Pathfinder,” she said; “we are not alone, and nothing is so unpleasant to a listener, they say, as family matters in which he feels no interest.”

  “It’s because we are not alone, Mabel—or rather because Jasper is with us, that I wish to talk of this matter. The sarjeant believed I might make a suitable companion for you, and though I had misgivings about it—yes, I had many misgivings—he finally persuaded me into the idee, and things came round atween us, as you know. But when you promised your father to marry me, Mabel, and gave me your hand so modestly, but so prettily, there was one circumstance, as your uncle calls it, that you did’n’t know, and I’ve thought it right to tell you what it is, afore matters are finally settled. I’ve often taken a poor deer for my dinner, when good venison was not to be found, but it’s in natur’ not to take up with the worst, when the best may be had.”

  “You speak in a way, Pathfinder, that is difficult to be understood. If this conversation is really necessary, I trust you will be more plain.”

  “Well, then, Mabel, I’ve been thinking it was quite likely when you gave in to the sarjeant’s wishes, that you did not know the natur’ of Jasper Western’s feelings towards you?”

  “Pathfinder!”—and Mabel’s cheek now paled to the livid hue of death; then it flushed to the tint of crimson, and her whole form shuddered. Pathfinder, however, was too intent on his own object to notice this agitation, and Eau douce had hid his face in his hands, in time to shut out its view.

  “I’ve been talking with the lad, and, on comparing his dreams with my dreams, his feelings with my feelings and his wishes with my wishes, I fear we think too much alike consarning you, for both of us to be very happy.”

  “Pathfinder—you forget—you should remember that we are betrothed!” said Mabel huskily, and in a voice so low, that it required acute attention in the listeners, to catch the syllables. Indeed, the last word was not quite intelligible to the guide, and he confessed his ignorance by the usual—

  “Anan?”

  “You forget that we are to be married; and such allusions are improper, as well as painful.”

  “Every thing is proper that is right, Mabel, and every thing is right that leads to justice, and fair dealing; though it is painful enough, as you say, as I find on trial, I do. Now, Mabel, had you known that Eau douce thinks of you in this way, maybe you never would have consented to be married to one as old and as uncomely as I am!”

  “Why this cruel trial, Pathfinder—To what can all this lead—Jasper Western thinks no such thing—he says nothing—he feels nothing—”

  “Mabel!” burst from out of the young man’s lips, in a way to betray the uncontrollable nature of his emotions, though he uttered not another syllable.

  Mabel buried her face in both her hands, and the two sat, like a pair of guilty beings, suddenly detected in the commission of some crime that involved the happiness of a common patron. At that instant, perhaps, Jasper himself was inclined to deny his passion, through an extreme unwillingness to injure his friend, while Mabel, on whom this positive announcement of a fact, that she had rather unconsciously hoped than believed, came so unexpectedly, felt her mind momentarily bewildered, and she scarce knew whether to weep, or to rejoice. Still she was the first to speak, since Eau douce could utter naught that would be disingenuous, or that would pain his friend.

  “Pathfinder,” she said—“you talk wildly;—why mention this, at all?”

  “Well, Mabel, if I talk wildly, I am half wild, you know; by natur’, I fear, as well as by habits—” as he said this he endeavored to laugh in his usual noiseless way, but the effect produced a strange and discordant sound, and it appeared nearly to choke him. “Yes, I must be wild; I’ll not attempt to deny it.”

  “Dearest Pathfinder!—my best, almost my only friend! you cannot, do not think I intended to say that!” interrupted Mabel, almost breathless in her haste to relieve his mortification—“If courage, truth, nobleness of soul and conduct, unyielding principles and a hundred other excellent qualities can render any man respectable, esteemed, or beloved, your claims are inferior to those of no other human being.”

  “What tender and bewitching voices they have, Jasper!” resumed the guide, now laughing freely and naturally—“Yes, natur’ seems to have made them on purpose, to sing in our ears, when the music of the woods is silent! But we must come to a right understanding; we must. I ask you ag’in, Mabel, if you had known that Jasper Western loves you as well as I do, or better perhaps, though that is scarce possible; that in his dreams, he sees your face in the water of the lake; that he talks to you, and of you, in his sleep; fancies all that is beautiful, like Mabel Dunham, and all that is good and virtuous; believes he never knowed happiness until he knowed you; could kiss the ground on which you have trod, and forgets all the joys of his calling, to think of you and of the delight of gazing at your beauty, and in listening to your voice, would you then have consented to marry me?”

  Mabel could not have answered this question, if she would, but, though her face was buried in her hands, the tint of the rushing blood was visible between the openings, and the suffusion seemed to impart itself to her very fingers. Still nature asserted her power, for there was a single instant when the astonished, almost terrified girl stole a glance at Jasper, as if disputing Pathfinder’s history of his feelings, read the truth of all he said in that furtive look, and instantly concealed her face again, as if she would hide it from observation, forever.

  “Take time to think, Mabel,” the guide continued, “for it is a solemn thing to accept one man for a husband, while the thoughts and wishes lead to another. Jasper and I have talked this matter over, freely and like old friends, and though I always knowed that we viewed most things pretty much alike, I could’n’t have thought that we regarded any particular object with the very same eyes, as it might be, until we opened our minds to each other, about you. Now, Jasper owns that the very first time he beheld you, he thought you the sweetest and winningest creatur’ he had ever met; that your voice sounded like murmuring water in his ears; that he fancied his sails were your garments, fluttering in the wind; that your laugh, haunted him in his sleep, and that, ag’in and ag’in, has he started up affrighted, because he has fancied some one wanted to force you out of the Scud, where he imagined you had taken up your abode. Nay, the lad has even acknowledged that he weeps often, at the thought that you are likely to spend your days with another, and not with him.”

  “Jasper!”

  “It’s solemn truth, Mabel, and it’s right you should know it. Now stand up, and choose atween us. I do believe Eau douce loves you as well as I do myself; he has tried to persuade me that he loves you better, but that I will not allow, for I do not think it possible, but I will own the boy loves you, heart and soul, and he has a good right to be heard. The sarjeant left me your protector, and not your tyrant. I told him that I would be a father to you, as well as a husband, and it seems to me no feeling father would deny his child this small privilege. Stand up, Mabel, therefore, and speak your thoughts as freely, as if I were the sarjeant himself, seeking your good, and nothing else.”

  Mabel dropped her hands, arose, and stood face to face, with her two suitors, though the flush that was on her c
heeks was feverish, the evidence of excitement, rather than of shame.

  “What would you have, Pathfinder?—” she asked. “Have I not already promised my poor father to do all you desire?”

  “Then I desire this. Here I stand, a man of the forest, and of little larning, though I fear with an ambition beyond my desarts, and I’ll do my endivors to do justice to both sides. In the first place, it is allowed that so far as feelings in your behalf are consarned, we love you just the same; Jasper thinks his feelings must be the strongest, but this I cannot say, in honesty, for it does n’t seem to me that it can be true; else I would frankly and freely confess it, I would. So in this particular, Mabel, we are here afore you, on equal tarms. As for myself, being the oldest, I’ll first say what little can be produced in my favor, as well as ag’in it. As a hunter, I do think there is no man near the lines that can outdo me. If venison, or bear’s meat, or even birds and fish should ever be scarce in our cabin, it would be more likely to be owing to natur’ and Providence, than to any fault of mine. In short, it does seem to me, that the woman who depended on me, would never be likely to want for food. But, I’m fearful ignorant! It’s true, I speak several tongues, such as they be, while I’m very far from being expart at my own. Then, my years are greater than your own, Mabel, and the circumstance that I was so long the sarjeant’s comrade, can be no great merit in your eyes. I wish, too, I was more comely, I do; but we are all as natur’ made us, and the last thing that a man ought to lament, except on very special occasions, is his looks. When all is remembered, age, looks, larning and habits, Mabel, conscience tells me I ought to confess that I’m altogether unfit for you, if not downright unworthy, and I would give up the hope, this minute, I would, if I did n’t feel something pulling at my heart strings which seems hard to undo.”