The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “Pathfinder!—Noble, generous Pathfinder—” cried our heroine, seizing his hand, and kissing it with a species of holy reverence—“you do yourself injustice—you forget my poor father and your promise—you do not know me!”

  “Now, here’s Jasper,” continued the guide, without allowing the girl’s caresses to win him from his purpose; “with him, the case is different. In the way of providing, as in that of loving, there’s not much to choose atween us, for the lad is frugal, industrious and careful. Then he is quite a scholar—knows the tongue of the Frenchers—reads many books, and some, I know, that you like to read yourself—can understand you at all times, which, perhaps, is more than I can say for myself.”

  “What of all this—” interrupted Mabel, impatiently—“why speak of it now—why speak of it, at all!”

  “Then the lad has a manner of letting his thoughts be known, that I fear I can never equal. If there’s any thing on ’arth that would make my tongue bold and persuading, Mabel, I do think it’s yourself, and, yet, in our late conversations, Jasper has outdone me, even on this point, in a way to make me ashamed of myself. He has told me how simple you were, and how true-hearted, and kind-hearted; and how you looked down upon vanities, for though you might be the wife of more than one officer, as he thinks, that you cling to feeling, and would rather be true to yourself, and natur’, than a colonel’s lady. He fairly made my blood warm, he did, when he spoke of your having beauty without seeming ever to have looked upon it, and the manner in which you moved about like a young fa’an, so nat’ral and graceful like, without knowing it; and the truth and justice of your idees, and the warmth and generosity of your heart—”

  “Jasper!” interrupted Mabel, giving way to feelings that had gathered an ungovernable force by being so long pent, and falling into the young man’s willing arms, weeping like a child, and almost as helpless. “Jasper!—Jasper!—Why have you kept this from me!”

  The answer of Eau douce was not very intelligible, nor was the murmured dialogue that followed remarkable for coherency. But the language of affection is easily understood. The hour that succeeded passed like a very few minutes of ordinary life, so far as a computation of time was concerned, and when Mabel recollected herself, and bethought her of the existence of others, her uncle was pacing the cutter’s deck, in great impatience, and wondering why Jasper should be losing so much of a favorable wind. Her first thought was of him, who was so likely to feel the recent betrayal of her real emotions.

  “Oh! Jasper!” she exclaimed like one suddenly self convicted—“the Pathfinder!”

  Eau douce fairly trembled, not with unmanly apprehension, but with the painful consciousness of the pang he had given his friend, and he looked in all directions, in the expectation of seeing his person. But Pathfinder had withdrawn, with a tact and a delicacy, that might have done credit to the sensibility and breeding of a courtier. For several minutes the two lovers sate, silently waiting his return, uncertain what propriety required, under circumstances so marked, and so peculiar. At length they beheld their friend advancing slowly towards them, with a thoughtful and even pensive air.

  “I now understand what you meant, Jasper, by speaking without a tongue, and hearing without an ear,” he said, when close enough to the tree to be heard,—“Yes, I understand it, now, I do, and a very pleasant sort of discourse it is, when one can hold it with Mabel Dunham. Ah’s me!—I told the sarjeant I was’n’t fit for her; that I was too old, too ignorant, and too wild like, but he would have it, otherwise.”

  Jasper and Mabel sate, resembling Milton’s picture of our first parents, when the consciousness of sin first laid its leaden weight on their souls. Neither spoke; neither even moved; though both at that moment, fancied they could part with their new-found happiness, in order to restore their friend to his peace of mind. Jasper was pale as death, but, in Mabel, maiden modesty had caused the blood to mantle on her cheeks, until their bloom was heightened to a richness that was scarce equalled in her hours of light-hearted buoyancy and joy. As the feeling which in her sex, always accompanies the security of love returned, threw its softness and tenderness over her countenance, she was singularly beautiful. Pathfinder gazed at her, with an intentness he did not endeavor to conceal, and then he fairly laughed, in his own way, and with a sort of wild exultation as men that are untutored are wont to express their delight. This momentary indulgence, however, was expiated by the pang that followed the sudden consciousness that this glorious young creature was lost to him, forever. It required a full minute, for this simple-minded being to recover from the shock of this conviction, and then he resumed his dignity of manner, speaking with gravity, almost with solemnity.

  “I have always known, Mabel Dunham, that men have their gifts,” he said, “but I’d forgotten that it did not belong to mine, to please the young, and beautiful, and l’arned. I hope the mistake has been no very heavy sin, and if it was, I’ve been heavily punished for it, I have. Nay, Mabel, I know what you’d say, but it’s unnecessary. I feel it all, and that is as good as if I heard it all. I’ve had a bitter hour, Mabel. I’ve had a very bitter hour, lad—”

  “Hour!” echoed Mabel, as the other first used the word, the tell-tale blood, which had begun to ebb towards her heart, rushing again tumultuously to her very temples—“surely not an hour, Pathfinder!”

  “Hour!” exclaimed Jasper, at the same instant—“no—no—my worthy friend, it is not ten minutes, since you left us!”

  “Well, it may be so, though to me it has seemed to be a day. I begin to think, howsever, that the happy count time by minutes, and the miserable count it by months. But we will talk no more of this; it is all over now, and many words about it, will make you no happier, while they will only tell me what I’ve lost, and quite likely how much I desarved to lose her—no—no—Mabel, ’tis useless to interrupt me; I admit it all, and your gainsaying it, though it be so well meant, cannot change my mind. Well, Jasper, she is yourn, and though it’s hard to think it, I do believe you’ll make her happier than I could, for your gifts are better suited to do so, though I would have strived hard to do as much, if I know myself I would. I ought to have known better than to believe the sarjeant, and I ought to have put faith in what Mabel told me at the head of the lake, for reason and judgment might have shown me its truth; but it is so pleasant to think what we wish, and mankind so easily over-persuade us, when we over-persuade ourselves! But, what’s the use in talking of it, as I said afore. It’s true, Mabel seemed to be consenting, though it all came from a wish to please her father, and from being skeary about the savages—”

  “Pathfinder!”

  “I understand you, Mabel, and bear no hard feelings, I don’t. I sometimes think I should like to live in your neighborhood, that I might look at your happiness, but, on the whole, it’s better I should quit the 55th altogether, and go back to the 60th, which is my natyve rigiment, as it might be. It would have been better, perhaps, had I never left it, though my sarvices were much wanted, in this quarter, and I’d been with some of the 55th, years agone, Sarjeant Dunham for instance, when he was in another corps. Still, Jasper, I do not regret that I’ve known you—”

  “And me, Pathfinder—” impetuously interrupted Mabel—“do you regret having known me?—Could I think so, I should never be at peace with myself!”

  “You, Mabel—” returned the guide, taking the hand of our heroine, and looking up into her countenance with guileless simplicity, but earnest affection, “how could I be sorry that a ray of the sun came across the gloom of a cheerless day; that light has broken in upon darkness, though it remained so short a time? I do not flatter myself with being able to march quite as light-hearted, as I once used to could, or to sleep as sound, for some time to come, but I shall always remember how near I was to being undesarvedly happy, I shall. So far from blaming you, Mabel, I only blame myself for being so vain, as to think it possible I could please such a creatur’, for, sartainly, you told me how it was, when we talked it over, on the mo
untain, and I ought to have believed you, then, for I do suppose it’s nat’ral that young women should know their own minds better than their fathers. Ah’s me! It’s settled now, and nothing remains but for me to take leave of you, that you may depart; I feel that Master Cap, must be impatient, and there is danger of his coming on shore to look for us, all.”

  “To take leave!” exclaimed Mabel.

  “Leave!” echoed Jasper, “you do not mean to quit us, my friend?”

  “’Tis best, Mabel—’tis altogether best, Eau douce, and it’s wisest. I could live and die in your company, if I only followed feeling; but if I follow reason, I shall quit you, here. You will go back to Oswego and become man and wife, as soon as you arrive, for, all that is determined with Master Cap, who hankers after the sea ag’in, and who knows what is to happen; while, I shall return to the wilderness, and my Maker. Come Mabel,” continued Pathfinder, rising and drawing nearer to our heroine, with grave decorum. “Kiss me. Jasper will not grudge me one kiss; then we’ll part.”

  “Oh! Pathfinder—” exclaimed Mabel falling into the arms of the guide, and kissing his cheeks, again and again, with a freedom and warmth she had been far from manifesting while held to the bosom of Jasper—“God bless you, dearest Pathfinder—you will come to us, hereafter—we shall see you again—when old, you will come to our dwelling, and let me be a daughter to you?”

  “Yes—that’s it—” returned the guide, almost gasping for breath—“I’ll try to think of it, in that way. You’re more befitting to be my daughter, than to be my wife, you are. Farewell, Jasper. Now we’ll go to the canoe—it’s time you were on board.”

  The manner in which Pathfinder led the way to the shore, was solemn and calm. As soon as he reached the canoe, he again took Mabel, by the hands, held her at the length of his own arms, and gazed wistfully into her face, until the unbidden tears rolled out of the fountains of feeling, and trickled down his rugged cheeks, in streams.

  “Bless me, Pathfinder?” said Mabel, kneeling reverently at his feet. “Oh! at least bless me, before we part.”

  That untutored, but noble-minded being, did as she desired, and aiding her to enter the canoe, seemed to tear himself away, as one snaps a strong and obstinate cord. Before he retired, however, he took Jasper by the arm, and led him a little aside, when he spoke as follows.

  “You’re kind of heart, and gentle by natur’, Jasper, but we are both rough and wild in comparison with that dear creatur’. Be careful of her, and never show the roughness of man’s natur’ to her soft disposition. You’ll get to understand her, in time, and the Lord who governs the lake and the forest, alike, who looks upon virtue with a smile, and upon vice with a frown, keep you happy, and worthy to be so!”

  Pathfinder made a sign for his friend to depart, and he stood leaning on his rifle, until the canoe had reached the side of the Scud. Mabel wept as if her heart would break, nor did her eyes once turn from the open spot in the glade, where the form of the Pathfinder was to be seen, until the cutter had passed a point that completely shut out the island. When last in view, the sinewy frame of this extraordinary man was as motionless, as if it were a statue set up in that solitary place, to commemorate the scenes of which it had so lately been the site and the witness.

  Chapter XXX

  “Oh! let me only breathe the air,

  The blessed air that’s breathed by thee;

  And whether on its wings it bear

  Healing or death, ’tis sweet to me!”

  —Moore, Lalla Rookh, “Paradise and the Peri,” ll. 250–53.

  * * *

  PATHFINDER was accustomed to solitude, but, when the Scud had actually disappeared, he was almost overcome with a sense of his loneliness. Never before had he been conscious of his isolated condition in the world, for his feelings had gradually been accustoming themselves to the blandishments and wants of social life, particularly as the last were connected with the domestic affections. Now, all had vanished, as it might be, in one moment, and he was left equally without companions and without hope. Even Chingachgook had left him, though it was but temporarily; still his presence was missed at the precise instant which might be termed the most critical in our hero’s life.

  Pathfinder stood leaning on his rifle, in the attitude described in the last chapter, a long time after the Scud had disappeared. The rigidity of his limbs seemed permanent, and none but a man accustomed to put his muscles to the severest proof, could have maintained that posture, with its marble-like inflexibility, for so great a length of time. At length he moved away from the spot, motion of the body being preceded by a sigh that seemed to heave up from the very depths of his bosom.

  It was a peculiarity of this extraordinary being, that his senses and his limbs, for all practical purposes, were never at fault, let the mind be preoccupied with other interests as much as it might. On the present occasion, neither of these great auxiliaries failed him, but, though his thoughts were exclusively occupied with Mabel, her beauty, her preference of Jasper, her tears and her departure, he moved in a direct line to the spot where June still remained, which was the grave of her husband. The conversation that followed, passed in the language of the Tuscaroras, which Pathfinder spoke fluently, but, as that tongue is understood only by the extremely learned, we shall translate it freely into the English, preserving, as far as possible, the tone of thought of each interlocutor, as well as the peculiarities of manner.

  June had suffered her hair to fall about her face, had taken a seat on a stone that had been dug from the excavation made by the grave, and was hanging over the spot that contained the body of Arrowhead, unconscious of the presence of any other. She believed, indeed, that all had left the island but herself, and the tread of the guide’s moccasined foot was too noiseless, rudely to undeceive her.

  Pathfinder stood gazing at the woman, for several minutes, in mute attention. The contemplation of her grief, the recollection of her irreparable loss, and the view of her desolation produced a healthful influence on his own feelings; his reason telling him how much deeper lay the sources of grief, in a young wife, who was suddenly and violently deprived of her husband, than in himself.

  “Dew of June,” he said, solemnly, but with an earnestness that denoted the strength of his sympathy—“you are not alone in your sorrow. Turn, and let your eyes look upon a friend.”

  “June has no longer any friend!” the woman answered. “Arrowhead has gone to the happy hunting grounds, and there is no one left to care for June. The Tuscaroras would chase her from their wigwams; the Iroquois are hateful in her eyes, and she could not look at them. No—leave June to starve over the grave of her husband.”

  “This will never do—this will never do. ’Tis ag’in reason and right. You believe in Manitou, June?”

  “He has hid his face from June, because he is angry. He has left her alone, to die.”

  “Listen to one, who has had a long acquaintance with red natur’, though he has a white birth, and white gifts. When the Manitou of a pale face wishes to produce good in a pale face heart, he strikes it with grief, for it is in our sorrows, June, that we look with the truest eyes into ourselves, and with the farthest sighted eyes too, as respects right. The Great Spirit wishes you well, and he has taken away the chief, lest you should be led astray, by his wily tongue, and get to be a Mingo in your disposition, as you were already in your company.”

  “Arrowhead was a great chief!” returned the woman proudly.

  “He had his merits, he had; and he had his demerits, too. But, June, you’re not desarted, nor will you be soon. Let your grief out—let it out, according to natur’, and when the proper time comes, I shall have more to say to you.”

  Pathfinder now went to his own canoe, and he left the island. In the course of the day, June heard the crack of his rifle, once or twice, and as the sun was setting, he reappeared bringing her birds ready cooked, and of a delicacy and flavor that might have tempted the appetite of an epicure. This species of intercourse lasted a month
, June obstinately refusing to abandon the grave of her husband, all that time, though she still accepted the friendly offerings of her protector. Occasionally they met and conversed, Pathfinder sounding the state of the woman’s feelings, but the interviews were short, and far from frequent. June slept in one of the huts, and she laid down her head in security, for she was conscious of the protection of a friend, though Pathfinder invariably retired at night, to an adjacent island, where he had built himself a hut.

  At the end of the month, however, the season was getting to be too far advanced to render her situation pleasant to June. The trees had lost their leaves, and the nights were becoming cold and wintry. It was time to depart.

  At this moment Chingachgook reappeared. He had a long and confidential interview on the island, with his friend. June witnessed their movements, and she saw that her guardian was distressed. Stealing to his side, she endeavored to soothe his sorrow, with a woman’s gentleness, and with a woman’s instinct.

  “Thank you, June—thank you—” he said—“’Tis well meant, though it’s useless. But it is time to quit this place. To-morrow, we shall depart. You will go with us, for now you’ve got to feel reason.”

  June assented in the meek manner of an Indian woman, and she withdrew to pass the remainder of her time, near the grave of Arrowhead. Regardless of the hour and the season, the young widow did not pillow her head during the whole of that autumnal night. She sat near the spot that held the remains of her husband, and prayed, in the manner of her people, for his success on the endless path on which he had so lately gone, and for their reunion in the land of the just. Humble and degraded as she would have seemed in the eyes of the sophisticated and unreflecting, the image of God was on her soul, and it vindicated its divine origin by aspirations and feelings that would have surprised those, who feigning more, feel less.