The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “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 the 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 theirn,” 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 a striking situation, “and all must obey them. Do you see yonder pigeon, that is just alightin’ on the beech, 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 feedin’ near the other beech, 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 Injin village.”

  “Surely, surely, Pathfinder, you would not think of choosing one as ignorant, as frivolous, as vain, and as 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,” she said, with an earnest sincerity, “nor should there be any cloud between us. You are too upright and frank to meet with any thing 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 Sarjeant 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 dare say 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 forever. You do not—cannot mean that—you—cannot wish me to understand—” even the tongue of the spirited Mabel faultered, and she shrunk 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 Sarjeant and I have concluded on the matter, if it is agreeable to you, as he thinks is likely will 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 any thing 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 impossible 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 feel 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 sarjeant, a’ter all, was not as 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 sarjeant, 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 you 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 sarjeant was wrong!”

  The pent-up feelings would 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—“any thing but this—any thing but this—Speak to me, Pathfinder—smile, again—say one kind word—any thing to prove you can forgive me.”

  “The sarjeant 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 knowed it—I knowed it, and said it; yes, the sarjeant was wrong, a’ter all.”

  “We can be friends, though we cannot be man and wife,” continued Mabel, almost as much disturbed as her companion, scarce knowing what she said; “we can always be friends, and always will.”

  “I thought the sarjeant 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 gal. It would have been better, Mabel, had he not overpersuaded me into a different notion, and it might have been better, too, had you not been so pleasant and friendly, 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 ag’in, 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!”

  “But you will now travel on the true one. 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.”

  “But it is not a proper feeling that you should love me, nor am I a lovely sight. You will forget it all, when you come seriously to recollect that I am altogether unsuited to be your wife.”

  “So I told the sarjeant, but he would have it otherwise. I knowed you were 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 colour 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 sarjeant says that never can take place. But the sarjeant 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 would’n’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 sarjeant 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 Quarter Master 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. I say this honestly, I do; for I now plainly see, that the sarjeant has been wrong.”

  “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 Lt. 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.”

&nb
sp; “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; Lt. 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 Quarter Master. 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’ve discovered the sarjeant’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 sarjeant 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 know’d it afore, Mabel, but girls—as you call them, though gals is the name I’ve been taught to use—are of more account in this life, than I could have believed. Now, afore I knowd you, the new-born babe did not sleep more sweetly than I used to could; 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.”