“Who is that in scarlet?” asked Hetty, as soon as the captain’s uniform caught her eye. “Tell me, Judith, is it the friend of Hurry?”
“ ’T is the officer who commands the troops, that have rescued us all from the hands of the Hurons,” was the low answer of the sister.
“Am I rescued, too?--I thought they said I was shot, and about to die. Mother is dead, and so is father; but you are living, Judith, and so is Hurry. I was afraid Hurry would be killed, when I heard him shouting among the soldiers.”
“Never mind--never mind, dear Hetty”--interrupted Judith, sensitively alive to the preservation of her sister’s secret, more, perhaps at such a moment, than at another. “Hurry is well, and Deerslayer is well, and the Delaware is well, too.”
“How came they to shoot a poor girl like me, and let so many men go unharmed? I didn’t know that the Hurons were so wicked, Judith!”
“ ’T was an accident, poor Hetty; a sad accident it has been! No one would willingly have injured you.”
“I’m glad of that!--I thought it strange; I am feeble-minded, and the red men have never harmed me before. I should be sorry to think that they had changed their minds. I am glad, too, Judith, that they haven’t hurt Hurry. Deerslayer, I don’t think God will suffer any one to harm. It was very fortunate the soldiers came as they did though, for fire will burn!”
“It was, indeed, fortunate, my sister; God’s holy name be for ever blessed for the mercy!”
“I dare say, Judith, you know some of the officers; you used to know so many!”
Judith made no reply; she hid her face in her hands and groaned. Hetty gazed at her in wonder; but naturally supposing her own situation was the cause of this grief, she kindly offered to console her sister.
“Don’t mind me, dear Judith,” said the affectionate and pure-hearted creature--“I don’t suffer, if I do die; why father and mother are both dead, and what happens to them, may well happen to me. You know I am of less account than any of the family; therefore few will think of me after I’m in the lake.”
“No, no, no--poor, dear, dear Hetty!” exclaimed Judith, in an uncontrollable burst of sorrow--“I, at least, will ever think of you; and gladly, oh! how gladly would I exchange places with you, to be the pure, excellent, sinless creature you are!”
Until now, Captain Warley had stood leaning against the door of the cabin; when this outbreak of feeling, and perchance of penitence, escaped the beautiful girl, he walked slowly and thoughtfully away; even passing the ensign, then suffering under the surgeon’s care, without noticing him.
“I have got my Bible here, Judith!” returned her sister, in a voice of triumph. “It’s true, I can’t read any longer; there’s something the matter with my eyes--you look dim and distant--and so does Hurry, now I look at him;--well, I never could have believed that Henry March would have so dull a look! What can be the reason, Judith, that I see so badly, to-day? I, whom mother always said had the best eyes of the whole family. Yes, that was it; my mind was feeble--what people call half-witted--but my eyes were so good!”
Again Judith groaned; this time no feeling of self, no retrospect of the past, caused the pain. It was the pure, heart-felt sorrow of sisterly love, heightened by a sense of the meek humility and perfect truth of the being before her. At that moment, she would gladly have given up her own life to save that of Hetty. As the last, however, was beyond the reach of human power, she felt there was nothing left her but sorrow. At this moment Warley returned to the cabin, drawn by a secret impulse he could not withstand, though he felt, just then, as if he would gladly abandon the American continent for ever, were it practicable. Instead of pausing at the door, he now advanced so near the pallet of the sufferer as to come more plainly within her gaze. Hetty could still distinguish large objects, and her look soon fastened on him.
“Are you the officer that came with Hurry?” she asked. “If you are, we ought all to thank you; for, though I am hurt, the rest have saved their lives. Did Harry March tell you where to find us, and how much need there was for your services?”
“The news of the party reached us by means of a friendly runner,” returned the captain, glad to relieve his feelings by this appearance of a friendly communication; “and I was immediately sent out to cut it off. It was fortunate, certainly, that we met Hurry Harry, as you call him, for he acted as a guide; and it was not less fortunate that we heard a firing, which I now understand was merely a shooting at the mark, for it not only quickened our march, but called us to the right side of the lake. The Delaware saw us on the shore, with the glass, it would seem; and he and Hist, as I find his squaw is named, did us excellent service. It was, really, altogether a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, Judith.”
“Talk not to me of any thing fortunate, sir,” returned the girl, huskily, again concealing her face. “To me, the world is full of misery. I wish never to hear of marks, or rifles, or soldiers, or men, again!”
“Do you know my sister?” asked Hetty, ere the rebuked soldier had time to rally for an answer. “How came you to know that her name is Judith? You are right, for that is her name; and I am Hetty, Thomas Hutter’s daughters.”
“For heaven’s sake, dearest sister; for my sake, beloved Hetty,” interposed Judith, imploringly, “say no more of this.”
Hetty looked surprised; but, accustomed to comply, she ceased her awkward and painful interrogatories of Warley, bending her eyes towards the Bible, which she still held between her hands, as one would cling to a casket of precious stones, in a shipwreck, or a conflagration. Her mind now reverted to the future, losing sight, in a great measure, of the scenes of the past.
“We shall not long be parted, Judith,” she said; “when you die, you must be brought and buried in the lake, by the side of mother, too.”
“Would to God, Hetty, that I lay there at this moment!”
“No; that cannot be, Judith; people must die before they have any right to be buried. ’Twould be wicked to bury you, or for you to bury yourself, while living. Once I thought of burying myself;--God kept me from that sin.”
“You!--you, Hetty Hutter, think of such an act!” exclaimed Judith, looking up in uncontrollable surprise, for she well knew nothing passed the lips of her conscientious sister, that was not religiously true.
“Yes, I did, Judith; but God has forgotten--no he forgets nothing--but he has forgiven it,” returned the dying girl, with the subdued manner of a repentant child. “ ’Twas mother’s death; I felt I had lost the best friend I had on earth, if not the only friend. ’Tis true, you and father were kind to me, Judith, but I was so feeble-minded, I knew I should only give you trouble; and then you were so often ashamed of such a sister and daughter; and ’tis hard to live in a world where all look upon you as below them. I thought then, if I could bury myself by the side of mother, I should be happier in the lake, than in the hut.”
Forgive me--pardon me, dearest Hetty; on my bended knees, I beg you to pardon me, sweet sister, if any word or act of mine drove you to so maddening and cruel a thought!”
“Get up, Judith; kneel to God--don’t kneel to me. Just so I felt, when mother was dying. I remembered every thing I had said and done to vex her, and could have kissed her feet for forgiveness. I think it must be so with all dying people; though, now I think of it, I don’t remember to have had such feelings on account of father.”
Judith arose, hid her face in her apron, and wept. A long pause--one of more than two hours--succeeded, during which, Warley entered and left the cabin several times; apparently uneasy when absent, and yet unable to remain. He issued various orders, which his men proceeded to execute; and there was an air of movement in the party, more especially as Mr. Craig, the lieutenant, had got through with the unpleasant duty of burying the dead, and had sent for instructions from the shore, desiring to know what he was to do with his detachment. During this interval, Hetty slept a little, and Deerslayer and Chingachgook left the ark to confer together. But, at the end of the time mentioned,
the surgeon passed upon the platform; and with a degree of feeling his comrades had never before observed in one of his habits, he announced that the patient was rapidly drawing near her end. On receiving this intelligence, the group collected again; curiosity to witness such a death--or a better feeling--drawing to the spot, men who had so lately been actors in a scene seemingly of so much greater interest and moment. By this time, Judith had got to be inactive, through grief; and Hist alone was performing the little offices of feminine attention that are so appropriate to the sick bed. Hetty herself had undergone no other apparent change, than the general failing that indicated the near approach of dissolution. All that she possessed of mind was as clear as ever; and, in some respects, her intellect, perhaps, was more than usually active.
“Don’t grieve for me so much, Judith,” said the gentle sufferer, after a pause in her remarks; “I shall soon see mother: I think I see her now; her face is just as sweet and smiling as it used to be! Perhaps when I’m dead, God will give me all my mind, and I shall become a more fitting companion for mother than I ever was before.”
“You will be an angel in heaven, Hetty,” sobbed the sister; “no spirit there will be more worthy of its holy residence!”
“I don’t understand it quite; still I know it must be all true; I’ve read it in the Bible. How dark it’s becoming! Can it be night so soon? I can hardly see you at all; where is Hist?”
“I here, poor girl; why you no see me?”
“I do see you; but I couldn’t tell whether ’t was you or Judith. I believe I sha’n’t see you much longer, Hist.”
“Sorry for that, poor Hetty. Never mind; pale-face got a heaven for girl, as well as for warrior.”
“Where’s the Serpent? Let me speak to him; give me his hand; so; I feel it. Delaware, you will love and cherish this young Indian woman; I know how fond she is of you; and you must be fond of her. Don’t treat her as some of your people treat their wives; be a real husband to her. Now, bring Deerslayer near me; give me his hand.”
This request was complied with, and the hunter stood by the side of the pallet, submitting to the wishes of the girl with the docility of a child.
“I feel, Deerslayer,” she resumed, “though I couldn’t tell why--but I feel that you and I are not going to part for ever. ’T is a strange feeling! I never had it before; I wonder what it comes from!”
“ ’T is God encouraging you in extremity, Hetty; as such it ought to be harboured and respected. Yes, we shall meet ag’in, though it may be a long time first, and in a far distant land.”
“Do you mean to be buried in the lake, too? If so, that may account for the feeling.”
“ ’T is little likely, gal; ’t is little likely: but there’s a region for Christian souls, where there’s no lakes nor woods, they say; though why there should be none of the last, is more than I can account for; seeing that pleasantness and peace is the object in view. My grave will be found in the forest, most likely, but I hope my spirit will not be far from your’n.”
“So it must be, then. I am too weak-minded to understand these things, but I feel that you and I will meet again. Sister, where are you? I can’t see, now, any thing but darkness. It must be night, surely!”
“Oh! Hetty, I am here; at your side; these are my arms that are round you,” sobbed Judith. “Speak, dearest; is there any thing you wish to say, or have done, in this awful moment?”
By this time Hetty’s sight had entirely failed her. Nevertheless, death approached with less than usual of its horrors, as if in tenderness to one of her half-endowed faculties. She was pale as a corpse, but her breathing was easy and unbroken; while her voice, though lowered almost to a whisper, remained clear and distinct. When her sister put this question, however, a blush diffused itself over the features of the dying girl; so faint, however, as to be nearly imperceptible; resembling that hue of the rose which is thought to portray the tint of modesty, rather than the dye of the flower in its richer bloom. No one but Judith detected this expression of feeling, one of the gentle expressions of womanly sensibility, even in death. On her, however, it was not lost, nor did she conceal from herself the cause.
“Hurry is here, dearest Hetty,” whispered the sister, with her face so near the sufferer as to keep the words from other ears. “Shall I tell him to come and receive your good wishes?”
A gentle pressure of the hand answered in the affirmative, and then Hurry was brought to the side of the pallet. It is probable that this handsome but rude woodsman had never before found himself so awkwardly placed, though the inclination which Hetty felt for him (a sort of secret yielding to the instincts of nature, rather than any unbecoming impulse of an ill-regulated imagination) was too pure and unobtrusive to have created the slightest suspicion of the circumstance in his mind. He allowed Judith to put his hard colossal hand between those of Hetty, and stood waiting the result in awkward silence.
“This is Hurry, dearest,” whispered Judith, bending over her sister, ashamed to utter the words so as to be audible to herself; “speak to him, and let him go.”
“What shall I say, Judith?”
“Nay, whatever your own pure spirit teaches, my love. Trust to that, and you need fear nothing.”
“Good bye, Hurry”--murmured the girl, with a gentle pressure of his hand--“I wish you would try and be more like Deerslayer.”
These words were uttered with difficulty; a faint flush succeeded them for a single instant, then the hand was relinquished, and Hetty turned her face aside, as if done with the world. The mysterious feeling that had bound her to the young man, a sentiment so gentle as to be almost imperceptible to herself, and which could never have existed at all, had her reason possessed more command over her senses, was for ever lost in thoughts of a more elevated, though scarcely of a purer character.
“Of what are you thinking, my sweet sister?” whispered Judith,--“tell me, that I may aid you at this moment.”
“Mother--I see mother, now, and bright beings around her in the lake. Why isn’t father there?--It’s odd, that I can see mother, when I can’t see you!--Farewell, Judith.”
The last words were uttered after a pause, and her sister had hung over her some time, in anxious watchfulness, before she perceived that the gentle spirit had departed. Thus died Hetty Hutter, one of those mysterious links between the material and immaterial world, which, while they appear to be deprived of so much that is esteemed and necessary for this state of being, draw so near to, and offer so beautiful an illustration of the truth, purity, and simplicity of another.
CHAPTER XVII.
“A baron’s chylde to be begylde! it were a cursed dede:
To be felawe with an outlawe! Almighty God forbede!
Yea, better were, the poor squyère, alone to forest yede,
Than ye sholde say, another day, that by my cursed dede
Ye were betrayed: wherefore, good mayde, the best rede that I can
Is, that I to the grene wode go, alone, a banyshed man.”
Notbrowne Mayde The day that followed proved to be melancholy, though one of much activity. The soldiers, who had so lately been employed in interring their victims, were now called on to bury their own dead. The scene of the morning had left a saddened feeling on all the gentlemen of the party; and the rest felt the influence of a similar sensation, in a variety of ways, and from many causes. Hour dragged on after hour, until evening arrived, and then came the last melancholy offices in honour of poor Hetty Hutter. Her body was laid in the lake, by the side of that of the mother she had so loved and reverenced; the surgeon, though actually an unbeliever, so far complying with the received decencies of life as to read the funeral service over her grave, as he had previously done over those of the other Christian slain. It mattered not;--that all-seeing eye which reads the heart, could not fail to discriminate between the living and the dead, and the gentle soul of the unfortunate girl was already far removed beyond the errors or deceptions of any human ritual. These simple rites, however, were
not wholly wanting in suitable accompaniments. The tears of Judith and Hist flowed freely, and Deerslayer gazed upon the limpid water that now flowed over one whose spirit was even purer than its own mountain springs, with glistening eyes. Even the Delaware turned aside to conceal his weakness, while the common men gazed on the ceremony with wondering eyes and chastened feelings.
The business of the day closed with this pious office. By order of the commanding officer, all retired early to rest, for it was intended to begin the march homeward with the return of light. One party, indeed, bearing the wounded, the prisoners, and the trophies, had left the castle in the middle of the day, under the guidance of Hurry, intending to reach the fort by shorter marches. It had been landed on the point so often mentioned, or that described in our opening pages; and, when the sun set, was already encamped on the brow of the long, broken, and ridgy hills that fell away towards the valley of the Mohawk. The departure of this detachment had greatly simplified the duty of the succeeding day, disencumbering its march of its baggage and wounded, and otherwise leaving him who had issued the order greater liberty of action.
Judith held no communications with any but Hist, after the death of her sister, until she retired for the night. Her sorrow had been respected, and both the females had been left with the body, unintruded on, to the last moment. The rattling of the drum broke the silence of that tranquil water, and the echoes of the tattoo were heard among the mountains, so soon after the ceremony was over, as to preclude the danger of interruption. That star which had been the guide of Hist, rose on a scene as silent as if the quiet of nature had never yet been disturbed, by the labours or passions of man. One solitary sentinel, with his relief, paced the platform throughout the night; and morning was ushered in, as usual, by the martial beat of the reveillé.
The Deerslayer; or, The First Warpath . . . Volume 2 Page 31
