When all were on board the Ark, the singular habitation of the man whose body it now bore to its final abode, was set in motion. Hurry was at the oars. In his powerful hands, indeed, they seemed little more than a pair of sculls, which were wielded without effort, and, as he was expert in their use, the Delaware remained a passive spectator of the proceedings. The progress of the Ark had something of the stately solemnity of a funeral procession, the dip of the oars being measured, and the movement slow and steady. The wash of the water, as the blades rose and fell, kept time with the efforts of Hurry, and might have been likened to the measured tread of mourners. Then the tranquil scene was in beautiful accordance with a rite that ever associates with itself the idea of God. At that instant, the lake had not even a single ripple, on its glassy surface, and the broad panorama of woods seemed to look down on the holy tranquillity of the hour and ceremony in melancholy stillness. Judith was affected to tears, and even Hurry, though he hardly knew why, was troubled. Hetty preserved the outward signs of tranquillity, but her inward grief greatly surpassed that of her sister, since her affectionate heart loved more from habit and long association, than from the usual connections of sentiment and taste. She was sustained by religious hope, however, which in her simple mind usually occupied the space that worldly feelings filled in that of Judith, and she was not without an expectation of witnessing some open manifestation of divine power, on an occasion so solemn. Still she was neither mystical nor exaggerated; her mental imbecility denying both. Nevertheless her thoughts had generally so much of the purity of a better world about them that it was easy for her to forget earth altogether, and to think only of heaven. Hist was serious, attentive and interested, for she had often seen the interments of the pale-faces, though never one that promised to be as peculiar as this; while the Delaware, though grave, and also observant, in his demeanor was stoical and calm.
Hetty acted as pilot, directing Hurry how to proceed, to find that spot in the lake, which she was in the habit of terming “mother’s grave.” The reader will remember that the castle stood near the southern extremity of a shoal that extended near half a mile northerly, and it was at the farthest end of this shallow water that Floating Tom had seen fit to deposit the remains of his wife and child. His own were now in the course of being placed at their side. Hetty had marks on the land by which she usually found the spot, although the position of the buildings, the general direction of the shoal, and the beautiful transparency of the water all aided her, the latter even allowing the bottom to be seen. By these means the girl was enabled to note their progress, and at the proper time, she approached March, whispering—
“Now, Hurry you can stop rowing. We have passed the stone on the bottom, and mother’s grave is near.”
March ceased his efforts, immediately dropping the kedge, and taking the warp in his hand, in order to check the scow. The Ark turned slowly round, under this restraint, and when it was quite stationary, Hetty was seen at its stern, pointing into the water, the tears streaming from her eyes, in ungovernable natural feeling. Judith had been present at the interment of her mother, but she had never visited the spot since. This neglect proceeded from no indifference to the memory of the deceased, for she had loved her mother, and, bitterly, bitterly had she found occasion to mourn her loss, but she was averse to the contemplation of death, and there had been passages in her own life since the day of that interment, which increased this feeling, and rendered her if possible still more reluctant to approach the spot that contained the remains of one whose severe lessons of female morality and propriety had been deepened and rendered doubly impressive by remorse for her own failings. With Hetty, the case had been very different. To her simple and innocent mind the remembrance of her mother, brought no other feeling than one of gentle sorrow; a grief that is so often termed luxurious, even, because it associates with itself the images of excellence, and the purity of a better state of existence. For an entire summer, she had been in the habit of repairing to the place after nightfall, and carefully anchoring her canoe so as not to disturb the body, she would sit and hold fancied conversations with the deceased, sing sweet hymns to the evening air, and repeat the orisons that the being who now slumbered below, had taught her in infancy. Hetty had passed her happiest hours in this indirect communion with the spirit of her mother, the wildness of Indian traditions, and Indian opinions, unconsciously to herself, mingling with the christian lore received in childhood. Once she had even been so far influenced by the former, as to have bethought her of performing some of those physical rites at her mother’s grave, which the red men are known to observe, but the passing feeling had been obscured by the steady, though mild, light of christianity, which never ceased to burn in her gentle bosom. Now, her emotions were merely the natural outpourings of a daughter that wept for a mother whose love was indelibly impressed on the heart, and whose lessons had been too earnestly taught to be easily forgotten by one who had so little temptation to err.
There was no other priest than nature, at that wild and singular funeral rite. March cast his eyes below, and through the transparent medium of the clear water, which was almost as pure as air, he saw what Hetty was accustomed to call “mother’s grave.” It was a low straggling mound of earth, fashioned by no spade, out of a corner of which gleamed a bit of the white cloth, that formed the shroud of the dead. The body had been lowered to the bottom, and Hutter brought earth from the shore and let it fall upon it, until all was concealed. In this state the place had remained, until the movement of the waters revealed the solitary sign of the uses of the spot, that has just been mentioned. Even the most rude and brawling are chastened by the ceremonies of a funeral. March felt no desire to indulge his voice in any of its coarse outbreakings, and was disposed to complete the office he had undertaken in decent sobriety. Perhaps he reflected on the retribution that had alighted on his late comrade, and bethought him of the frightful jeopardy in which his own life had so lately been placed. He signified to Judith that all was ready, received her directions to proceed, and with no other assistant than his own vast strength, raised the body and bore it to the end of the scow. Two parts of a rope were passed beneath the legs and shoulders, as they are placed beneath coffins, and then the corpse was slowly lowered beneath the surface of the lake.
“Not there—Harry March—no, not there,” said Judith, shuddering involuntarily—“do not lower it, quite so near the spot where mother lies!”
“Why, not, Judith?” asked Hetty, earnestly—“They lived together in life, and should lie together in death.”
“No—no—Harry March; further off—further off—Poor Hetty, you know not what you say.—Leave me to order this.”
“I know I am weak minded, Judith, and that you are clever—but, surely a husband should be placed near a wife. Mother always said that this was the way they bury in christian church yards!”
This little controversy was conducted earnestly, but in smothered voices, as if the speakers feared that the dead might overhear them. Judith could not contend with her sister, at such a moment, but a significant gesture from her, induced March to lower the body, at a little distance from that of his wife, when he withdrew the cords, and the act was performed.
“There’s an end of Floating Tom!” exclaimed Hurry, bending over the scow, and gazing through the water at the body. “He was a brave companion on a scout, and a notable hand with traps. Do n’t weep, Judith, do n’t be overcome Hetty, for the righteousest of us all must die; and when the time comes, lamentations and tears can’t bring the dead to life. Your father will be a loss to you, no doubt; most fathers are a loss, especially to onmarried darters; but there’s a way to cure that evil, and you’re both too young and handsome to live long without finding it out. When it’s agreeable to hear what an honest and onpretending man has to say, Judith, I should like to talk a little with you, apart.”
Judith had scarce attended to this rude attempt of Hurry’s at consolation, although she necessarily understood its general
drift, and had a tolerably accurate notion of its manner. She was weeping at the recollection of her mother’s early tenderness, and painful images of long forgotten lessons and neglected precepts were crowding her mind. The words of Hurry, however, recalled her to the present time, and abrupt and unseasonable as was their import, they did not produce those signs of distaste that one might have expected from the girl’s character. On the contrary, she appeared to be struck with some sudden idea, gazed intently for a moment at the young man, dried her eyes, and led the way to the other end of the scow, signifying her wish for him to follow. Here she took a seat and motioned for March to place himself at her side. The decision and earnestness with which all this was done, a little intimidated her companion, and Judith found it necessary to open the subject herself.
“You wish to speak to me of marriage, Harry March,” she said, “and I have come here, over the grave of my parents, as it might be—no—no—over the grave of my poor, dear—dear, mother, to hear what you have to say.”
“This is oncommon, and you have a skearful way with you, this evening, Judith,” answered Hurry, more disturbed than he would have cared to own, “but truth is truth, and it shall come out, let what will follow. You well know, gal, that I’ve long thought you the comeliest young woman my eyes ever beheld, and that I’ve made no secret of that fact, either here on the lake, out among the hunters and trappers, or in the settlements.”
“Yes—yes, I’ve heard this before, and I suppose it to be true,” answered Judith with a sort of feverish impatience.
“When a young man holds such language of any particular young woman, it’s reasonable to calculate he sets store by her.”
“True—true, Hurry—all this you’ve told me, again and again.”
“Well, if it’s agreeable, I should think a woman coul’n’t hear it too often. They all tell me this is the way with your sex, that nothing pleases them more than to repeat over and over, for the hundredth time, how much you like ’em, unless it be to talk to ’em of their good looks!”
“No doubt—we like both, on most occasions, but this is an uncommon moment, Hurry, and vain words should not be too freely used. I would rather hear you speak plainly.”
“You shall have your own way, Judith, and I some suspect you always will. I’ve often told you that I not only like you better than any other young woman going, or, for that matter, better than all the young women going, but you must have obsarved, Judith, that I’ve never asked you, in up and down tarms, to marry me.”
“I have observed both,” returned the girl, a smile struggling about her beautiful mouth, in spite of the singular and engrossing intentness which caused her cheeks to flush and lighted her eyes with a brilliancy that was almost dazzling—“I have observed both, and have thought the last remarkable for a man of Harry March’s decision and fearlessness.”
“There’s been a reason, gal, and it’s one that troubles me even now—nay, do n’t flush up so, and look fiery like, for there are thoughts which will stick long in any man’s mind, as there be words that will stick in his throat—but, then, ag’in, there’s feelin’s that will get the better of ’em all, and to these feelin’s I find I must submit. You’ve no longer a father, or a mother, Judith, and it’s morally impossible that you and Hetty could live here, alone, allowing it was peace and the Iroquois was quiet; but, as matters stand, not only would you starve, but you’d both be prisoners, or scalped, afore a week was out. It’s time to think of a change and a husband, and, if you’ll accept of me, all that’s past shall be forgotten, and there’s an end on’t.”
Judith had difficulty in repressing her impatience until this rude declaration and offer were made, which she evidently wished to hear, and which she now listened to with a willingness that might well have excited hope. She hardly allowed the young man to conclude, so eager was she to bring him to the point, and so ready to answer.
“There—Hurry—that’s enough—” she said, raising a hand as if to stop him—“I understand you as well, as if you were to talk a month. You prefer me to other girls, and you wish me to become your wife.”
“You put it in better words than I can do, Judith, and I wish you to fancy them said, just as you most like to hear ’em.”
“They’re plain enough, Harry, and ’tis fitting they should be so. This is no place to trifle or deceive in. Now, listen to my answer, which shall be, in every tittle, as sincere as your offer. There is a reason, March, why I should never—”
“I suppose I understand you, Judith, but if I’m willing to overlook that reason, it’s no one’s consarn but mine—Now, do n’t brighten up like the sky at sundown, for no offence is meant, and none should be taken.”
“I do not brighten up, and will not take offence,” said Judith, struggling to repress her indignation, in a way she had never found it necessary to exert before. “There is a reason why I should not, cannot, ever be your wife, Hurry, that you seem to overlook, and which it is my duty now to tell you, as plainly as you have asked me to consent to become so. I do not, and I am certain that I never shall, love you well enough to marry you. No man can wish for a wife who does not prefer him to all other men, and when I tell you this frankly, I suppose you yourself will thank me for my sincerity.”
“Ah! Judith, them flaunting, gay, scarlet-coated officers of the garrisons, have done all this mischief!”
“Hush, March; do not calumniate a daughter over her mother’s grave! Do not, when I only wish to treat you fairly, give me reason to call for evil on your head in bitterness of heart! Do not forget that I am a woman, and that you are a man; and that I have neither father, nor brother, to revenge your words!”
“Well, there is something in the last, and I’ll say no more. Take time, Judith, and think better on this.”
“I want no time—my mind has long been made up, and I have only waited for you to speak plainly, to answer plainly. We now understand each other, and there is no use in saying any more.”
The impetuous earnestness of the girl awed the young man, for never before had he seen her so serious and determined. In most of their previous interviews she had met his advances with evasion, or sarcasm, but these Hurry had mistaken for female coquetry, and had supposed might easily be converted into consent. The struggle had been with himself, about offering, nor had he ever seriously believed it possible that Judith would refuse to become the wife of the handsomest man on all that frontier. Now that the refusal came, and that in terms so decided, as to put all cavilling out of the question, if not absolutely dumbfounded, he was so much mortified and surprised, as to feel no wish to attempt to change her resolution.
“The Glimmerglass has now no great call for me,” he exclaimed, after a minute’s silence. “Old Tom is gone, the Hurons are as plenty on the shore, as pigeons in the woods, and altogether it is getting to be an onsuitable place.”
“Then leave it. You see it is surrounded by dangers, and there is no reason why you should risk your life for others. Nor do I know that you can be of any service to us. Go, tonight; we’ll never accuse you of having done any thing forgetful, or unmanly.”
“If I do go, ’twill be with a heavy heart on your account, Judith; I would rather take you with me.”
“That is not to be spoken of any longer, March; but, I will land you in one of the canoes, as soon as it is dark and you can strike a trail for the nearest garrison. When you reach the fort, if you send a party—”
Judith smothered the words, for she felt that it was humiliating to be thus exposing herself to the comments and reflections of one who was not disposed to view her conduct in connection with all in those garrisons, with an eye of favor. Hurry however, caught the idea, and, without perverting it, as the girl dreaded, he answered to the purpose.
“I understand what you would say, and why you do n’t say it,” he replied. “If I get safe to the fort, a party shall start on the trail of these vagabonds, and I’ll come with it, myself, for I should like to see you, and Hetty, in a place of saf
ety, before we part forever.”
“Ah, Harry March, had you always spoken thus, felt thus, my feelings towards you might have been different!”
“Is it too late, now, Judith? I’m rough and a woodsman, but we all change under different treatment from what we have been used to.”
“It is too late, March. I can never feel towards you, or any other man but one, as you would wish to have me. There, I’ve said enough, surely, and you will question me no further. As soon as it is dark, I, or the Delaware will put you on the shore. You will make the best of your way to the Mohawk, and the nearest garrison, and send all you can to our assistance. And, Hurry, we are now friends, and I may trust in you, may I not?”
“Sartain, Judith; though our fri’ndship would have been all the warmer, could you look upon me, as I look upon you.”
Judith hesitated, and some powerful emotion was struggling within her. Then, as if determined to look down all weaknesses, and accomplish her purposes, at every hazard, she spoke more plainly.
“You will find a captain of the name of Warley at the nearest post,” she said, pale as death, and even trembling as she spoke; “I think it likely he will wish to head the party, but I would greatly prefer it should be another. If Captain Warley can be kept back, ’t would make me very happy!”
“That’s easier said than done, Judith, for these officers do pretty much as they please. The Major will order, and captains, and lieutenants, and ensigns must obey. I know the officer you mean, a red faced, gay, oh! be joyful sort of a gentleman, who swallows madeira enough to drown the Mohawk, and yet a pleasant talker. All the gals in the valley admire him, and they say he admires all the gals. I do n’t wonder he is your dislike, Judith, for he’s a very gin’ral lover, if he is n’t a gin’ral officer.”
Judith did not answer, though her frame shook, and her colour changed from pale to crimson, and from crimson back again to the hue of death.
The Leatherstocking Tales II Page 97
