The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Never before had Mabel struck him as so beautiful, as she appeared that night. Possibly she never had displayed so many engaging qualities to her father, for concern on his account had begun to be active in her breast, and then her sympathies met with unusual encouragement, through those which had been stirred up in the sterner bosom of the veteran. She had never been entirely at her ease with her parent, the great superiority of her education, creating a sort of chasm which had been widened by the military severity of manner he had acquired, by dealing so long and intimately with beings who could only be kept in subjection, by an unremitted discipline. On the present occasion, however, or after they were left alone, the conversation between the father and daughter became more confidential than usual, until Mabel rejoiced to find that it was gradually becoming endearing; a state of feeling that the warm-hearted girl had silently pined for in vain, ever since her arrival.

  “Then mother was about my height?” Mabel said, as she held one of her father’s hands in both her own—looking up into his face with humid eyes. “I had thought her taller.”

  “That is the way with most children, who get a habit of thinking of their parents with respect, until they fancy them larger and more commanding than they actually are. Your mother, Mabel, was as near your height, as one woman could be to another.”

  “And her eyes, father?”

  “Her eyes were like thine, child, too—blue, and soft, and inviting like; though hardly so laughing.”

  “Mine will never laugh again, dearest father, if you do not take care of yourself in this expedition.”

  “Thank you, Mabel—hem—thank you, child, but I must do my duty. I wish I had seen you comfortably married before we left Oswego! My mind would be easier.”

  “Married!—To whom, father?”

  “You know the man I wish you to love. You may meet with many gayer, and many dressed in finer clothes, but with none with so true a heart, and just a mind.”

  “None, father?”

  “I know of none; in these particulars, Pathfinder has few equals, at least.”

  “But I need not marry at all. You are single, and I can remain to take care of you.”

  “God bless you, Mabel!—I know you would, and I do not say that the feeling is not right, for I suppose it is; and yet I believe there is another, that is more so.”

  “What can be more right than to honor one’s parents?”

  “It is just as right to honor one’s husband, my dear child.”

  “But I have no husband, father.”

  “Then take one, as soon as possible, that you may have a husband to honor. I cannot live forever, Mabel, but must drop off in the course of nature, ere long, if I am not carried off in the course of war. You are young, and may yet live long; and it is proper that you should have a male protector, who can see you safe through life, and take care of you in age, as you now wish to take care of me.”

  “And do you think, father—” said Mabel, playing with his sinewy fingers, with her own little hands, and looking down at them, as if they were subjects of intense interest, though her lips curled in a slight smile, as the words came from them—“And do you think, father, that Pathfinder is just the man to do this?—Is he not within ten or twelve years, as old as yourself?”

  “What of that?—His life has been one of moderation and exercise, and years are less to be counted, girl, than constitution. Do you know another more likely to be your protector?”

  Mabel did not; at least another who had expressed a desire to that effect, whatever might have been her hopes and her wishes.

  “Nay, father, we are not talking of another, but of the Pathfinder,” she answered evasively. “If he were younger, I think it would be more natural for me to think of him for a husband.”

  “’Tis all in the constitution, I tell you, child. Pathfinder is a younger man than half our subalterns.”

  “He is certainly younger than one, sir—Lieutenant Muir.”

  Mabel’s laugh was joyous and light-hearted, as if just then, she felt no care.

  “That he is—young enough to be his grandson—he is younger in years too. God forbid, Mabel! that you should ever become an officer’s lady, at least until you are an officer’s daughter.”

  “There will be little fear of that, father, if I marry Pathfinder!” returned the girl, looking up archly in the serjeant’s face, again.

  “Not by the King’s commission, perhaps, though the man is even now the friend and companion of generals. I think I could die happy, Mabel, if you were his wife.”

  “Father!”

  “’Tis a sad thing to go into battle, with the weight of an unprotected daughter laid upon the heart.”

  “I would give the world to lighten yours of its load, my dear sir!”

  “It might be done—” said the serjeant, looking fondly at his child, “though I could not wish to put a burthen on yours, in order to do so.”

  The voice was deep and tremulous, and never before had Mabel witnessed such a show of affection in her parent. The habitual sternness of the man, lent an interest to his emotions, that they might otherwise have wanted, and the daughter’s heart yearned to relieve the father’s mind.

  “Father, speak plainly,” she cried, almost convulsively.

  “Nay, Mabel, it might not be right—your wishes and mine may be very different.”

  “I have no wishes—know nothing of what you mean— would you speak of my future marriage?”

  “If I could see you promised to Pathfinder—know that you were pledged to become his wife, let my own fate be what it might, I think I could die happy. But I will ask no pledge of you my child—I will not force you to do what you might repent. Kiss me, Mabel, and go to your bed.”

  Had Serjeant Dunham exacted of Mabel the pledge that he really so much desired, he would have encountered a resistance that he might have found difficult to overcome, but, by letting nature have its course, he enlisted a powerful ally on his side, and the warm-hearted, generous-minded Mabel was ready to concede to her affections, much more than she would ever have yielded to menace. At that touching moment she thought only of her parent, who was about to quit her perhaps forever, and all of that ardent love for him, which had possibly been as much fed by the imagination as by any thing else, but which had received a little check by the restrained intercourse of the last fortnight, now returned with a force that was increased by pure and intense feeling. Her father seemed all in all to her, and to render him happy, there was no proper sacrifice that she was not ready to make. One painful, rapid, almost wild gleam of thought shot across the brain of the girl, and her resolution wavered; but endeavoring to trace the foundation of the pleasing hope on which it was based, she found nothing positive to support it. Trained like a woman, to subdue her most ardent feelings, her thoughts reverted to her father, and to the blessings that awaited the child who yielded to a parent’s wishes.

  “Father,” she said quietly, almost with a holy calm—“God blesses the dutiful daughter!”

  “He will, Mabel; we have the good book for that.”

  “I will marry whomever you desire.”

  “Nay—nay, Mabel—you may have a choice of your own—”

  “I have no choice—that is—none have asked me to have a choice, but Pathfinder and Mr. Muir, and between them, neither of us would hesitate. No, father; I will marry whomever you may choose.”

  “Thou knowest my choice, beloved girl; none other can make thee as happy, as the noble-hearted guide.”

  “Well, then, if he wish it—if he ask me again—for, father, you would not have me offer myself, or that any one should do that office for me—” and the blood stole across the pallid cheeks of Mabel, as she spoke, for high and generous resolution had driven back the stream of life to her heart,— “no one must speak to him of it, but if he seek me again, and, knowing all that a true girl ought to tell the man she marries, and he then wishes to make me his wife, I will be his.”

  “Bless you, my Mabel—God
in Heaven bless you, and reward you as a pious daughter deserves to be rewarded.”

  “Yes, father—put your mind at peace—go on this expedition with a light heart, and trust in God. For me, you will have, now, no care. In the spring—I must have a little time, father—but, in the spring, I will marry Pathfinder, if that noble hearted hunter shall then desire it.”

  “Mabel, he loves you, as I loved your mother. I have seen him weep like a child, when speaking of his feelings towards you.”

  “Yes, I believe it—I’ve seen enough to satisfy me, that he thinks better of me than I deserve, and, certainly the man is not living for whom I have more respect, than for Pathfinder; not even for you, dear father.”

  “That is as it should be, child, and the union will be blessed. May I not tell Pathfinder this?”

  “I would rather you would not, father. Let it come of itself—come naturally—the man should seek the woman, and not the woman the man—” The smile that illuminated Mabel’s handsome face, was angelic, as even her parent thought, though one better practised in detecting the passing emotions, as they betray themselves in the countenance, might have traced something wild and unnatural in it—“No—no—we must let things take their course; but, father, you have my solemn promise.”

  “That will do—that will do, Mabel; now kiss me—God bless and protect you, girl—you are a good daughter.”

  Mabel threw herself into her father’s arms, it was the first time in her life, and sobbed on his bosom like an infant. The stern old soldier’s heart was melted, and the tears of the two mingled. But Serjeant Dunham soon started, as if ashamed of himself, and gently forcing his daughter from him, he bade her good night, and sought his pallet. Mabel went sobbing to the rude corner that had been prepared for her reception, and in a few minutes the hut was undisturbed by any sound, save the heavy breathing of the veteran.

  Chapter XX

  “Wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

  By the dial stone aged and green,

  One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk

  To mark where a garden had been.”

  —Campbell, “Lines Written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire,” ll. 10–13.

  * * *

  IT WAS NOT only broad day-light, when Mabel awoke, but the sun had actually been up some time. Her sleep had been tranquil, for she rested on an approving conscience, and fatigue contributed to render it sweet, and no sound of those who had been so early in motion, had interfered with her rest. Springing to her feet, and rapidly dressing herself, the girl was soon breathing the fragrance of the morning, in the open air. For the first time, she was sensibly struck with the singular beauties, as well as with the profound retirement of her present situation. The day proved to be one of those of the autumnal glory so common to a climate that is more abused than appreciated, and its influence was in every way inspiriting and genial. Mabel was benefitted by this circumstance, for, as she fancied, her heart was heavy on account of the dangers to which a father, whom she now began to love, as women love when confidence is created, was about to be exposed.

  But the island seemed absolutely deserted. The previous night the bustle of the arrival, had given the spot an appearance of life that was now entirely gone, and our heroine had turned her eyes nearly around on every object in sight, before she caught a view of a single human being to remove the sense of utter solitude. Then, indeed, she beheld all who were left behind, collected in a group, around a fire which might be said to belong to the camp. The person of her uncle, to whom she was so much accustomed, reassured the girl, and she examined the remainder, with a curiosity natural to her situation. Besides Cap, and the Quarter Master, there were the corporal, the three soldiers, and the woman who was cooking. The huts were silent and empty, and the low, but tower-like summit of the block-house rose above the bushes, by which it was half concealed, in picturesque beauty. The sun was just casting its brightness into the open places of the glade, and the vault, over her head, was impending in the soft sublimity of the blue void. Not a cloud was visible, and she secretly fancied the circumstance might be taken as a harbinger of peace and security.

  Perceiving that all the others were occupied with that great concern of human nature, a breakfast, Mabel walked, unobserved, towards an end of the island, where she was completely shut out of view, by the trees and bushes. Here she got a stand on the very verge of the water, by forcing aside the low branches, and stood watching the barely perceptible flow and reflow of the miniature waves that laved the shore; a sort of physical echo to the agitation that prevailed on the lake, fifty miles above her. The glimpses of natural scenery, that offered, were very soft and pleasing, and, our heroine, who had a quick and true eye for all that was lovely in nature, was not slow in selecting the more striking bits of landscape. She gazed through the different vistas formed by the openings between the islands, and thought she had never looked on aught more lovely.

  While thus occupied, Mabel was suddenly alarmed by fancying that she caught a glimpse of a human form among the bushes that lined the shore of the island that lay directly before her. The distance across the water was not a hundred yards, and though she might be mistaken, and her fancy was wandering when the form passed before her sight, still she did not think she could be deceived. Aware that her sex would be no protection against a rifle bullet, should an Iroquois get a view of her, the girl instinctively drew back, taking care to conceal her person, as much as possible by the leaves, while she kept her own look rivetted on the opposite shore, vainly waiting for some time, in the expectation of the stranger. She was about to quit her post in the bushes, and hasten to her uncle in order to acquaint him of her suspicions, when she saw the branch of an alder, thrust beyond the bushes, on the other island, and waved towards her significantly, and, as she fancied, in a token of amity. This was a breathless and a trying moment, to one as inexperienced in frontier warfare as our heroine, and yet she felt the great necessity that existed for preserving her recollections, and of acting with steadiness and discretion.

  It was one of the peculiarities of the exposure, to which those who dwelt on the frontiers of America were liable, to bring out the moral qualities of the women to a degree, that they must themselves, under other circumstances, have believed they were incapable of manifesting, and Mabel well knew that the borderers loved to dwell, in their legends, on the presence of mind, fortitude and spirit that their wives and sisters had displayed, under circumstances the most trying. Her emulation had been awakened by what she had heard on such subjects, and it at once struck her, that now was the moment for her to show that she was truly Serjeant Dunham’s child. The motion of the branch was such as, she believed, indicated amity, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she broke off a twig, fastened it to a stick, and thrusting it through an opening, waved it in return, imitating as closely as possible the manner of the other.

  This dumb show lasted two or three minutes on both sides, when Mabel perceived that the bushes opposite, were cautiously pushed aside, and a human face appeared at an opening. A glance sufficed to let Mabel see that it was the countenance of a red skin, as well as of a woman. A second and a better look satisfied her, that it was the face of the Dew of June, the wife of Arrowhead. During the time she had travelled in company with this woman, Mabel had been won by the gentleness of manner, the meek simplicity and the mingled awe and affection with which she regarded her husband. Once or twice, in the course of the journey she fancied the Tuscarora had manifested towards herself an unpleasant degree of attention, and on those occasions it had struck her that his wife exhibited sorrow and mortification. As Mabel, however, had more than compensated for any pain she might, in this way, unintentionally have caused her companion, by her own kindness of manner and attentions, the woman had shown much attachment to her, and they had parted, with a deep conviction on the mind of our heroine, that, in the Dew of June, she had lost a friend.

  It is useless to attempt to analyze all the ways by which the human heart is le
d into confidence. Such a feeling, however, had the young Tuscarora woman awakened in the breast of our heroine, and the latter, under the impression that this extraordinary visit was intended for her own good, felt every disposition to have a closer communication. She no longer hesitated about showing herself, clear of the bushes, and, was not sorry to see the Dew of June imitate her confidence, by stepping fearlessly out of her own cover. The two girls, for the Tuscarora, though married, was even younger than Mabel, now openly exchanged signs of friendship, and the latter beckoned to her friend to approach, though she knew not the manner, herself, in which this object could be effected. But, the Dew of June was not slow in letting it be seen that it was in her power, for disappearing a moment, she soon showed herself again in the end of a bark canoe, the bows of which she had drawn to the edge of the bushes, and of which the body still lay in a sort of covered creek. Mabel was about to invite her to cross, when her own name was called aloud, in the stentorian voice of her uncle. Making a hurried gesture for the Tuscarora girl to conceal herself, Mabel sprang from the bushes, and tripped up the glade towards the sound, and perceived that the whole party had just seated themselves at breakfast, Cap having barely put his appetite under sufficient restraint to summon her to join them. That this was the most favorable instant for the interview flashed on the mind of Mabel, and excusing herself on the plea of not being prepared for the meal, she bounded back to the thicket, and soon renewed her communications with the young Indian woman.

  Dew of June was quick of comprehension, and with half a dozen noiseless strokes of the paddle, her canoe was concealed in the bushes of Station Island. In another minute, Mabel had her hand, and was leading her through the grove towards her own hut. Fortunately, the latter was so placed, as to be completely hidden from the sight of those at the fire, and they both entered it unseen. Hastily explaining to her guest, in the best manner she could, the necessity of quitting her for a short time, Mabel, first placing the Dew of June in her own room, with a full certainty that she would not quit it until told to do so, went to the fire, and took her seat among the rest, with all the composure it was in her power to command.