It is to be all made of sighs and tears;
It is to be all made of faith and service;
It is to be all made of phantasy;
All made of passion, and all made of wishes;
All adoration, duty, and observance;
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience;
All purity, all trial, all observance.
SHAKESPEARE.
It was near noon when the gale broke; and then its force abated as
suddenly as its violence had arisen. In less than two hours after
the wind fell, the surface of the lake, though still agitated,
was no longer glittering with foam; and in double that time, the
entire sheet presented the ordinary scene of disturbed water, that
was unbroken by the violence of a tempest. Still the waves came
rolling incessantly towards the shore, and the lines of breakers
remained, though the spray had ceased to fly; the combing of
the swells was more moderate, and all that there was of violence
proceeded from the impulsion of wind which had abated.
As it was impossible to make head against the sea that was still
up, with the light opposing air that blew from the eastward,
all thoughts of getting under way that afternoon were abandoned.
Jasper, who had now quietly resumed the command of the _Scud_,
busied himself, however, in heaving-up the anchors, which were
lifted in succession; the kedges that backed them were weighed, and
everything was got in readiness for a prompt departure, as soon as
the state of the weather would allow. In the meantime, they who
had no concern with these duties sought such means of amusement as
their peculiar circumstances allowed.
As is common with those who are unused to the confinement of a
vessel, Mabel cast wistful eyes towards the shore; nor was it long
before she expressed a wish that it were possible to land. The
Pathfinder was near her at the time, and he assured her that nothing
would be easier, as they had a bark canoe on deck, which was the
best possible mode of conveyance to go through a surf. After the
usual doubts and misgivings, the Sergeant was appealed to; his
opinion proved to be favorable, and preparations to carry the whim
into effect were immediately made.
The party which was to land consisted of Sergeant Dunham, his
daughter, and the Pathfinder. Accustomed to the canoe, Mabel took
her seat in the centre with great steadiness, her father was placed
in the bows, while the guide assumed the office of conductor, by
steering in the stern. There was little need of impelling the canoe
by means of the paddle, for the rollers sent it forward at moments
with a violence that set every effort to govern its movements
at defiance. More than once, before the shore was reached, Mabel
repented of her temerity, but Pathfinder encouraged her, and really
manifested so much self-possession, coolness, and strength of arm
himself, that even a female might have hesitated about owning all
her apprehensions. Our heroine was no coward; and while she felt
the novelty of her situation, in landing through a surf, she also
experienced a fair proportion of its wild delight. At moments,
indeed, her heart was in her mouth, as the bubble of a boat floated
on the very crest of a foaming breaker, appearing to skim the water
like a swallow, and then she flushed and laughed, as, left by the
glancing element, they appeared to linger behind as if ashamed of
having been outdone in the headlong race. A few minutes sufficed
for this excitement; for though the distance between the cutter and
the land considerably exceeded a quarter of a mile, the intermediate
space was passed in a very few minutes.
On landing, the Sergeant kissed his daughter kindly, for he was so
much of a soldier as always to feel more at home on _terra firma_
than when afloat; and, taking his gun, he announced his intention
to pass an hour in quest of game.
"Pathfinder will remain near you, girl, and no doubt he will tell
you some of the traditions of this part of the world, or some of
his own experiences with the Mingos."
The guide laughed, promised to have a care of Mabel, and in a few
minutes the father had ascended a steep acclivity and disappeared
in the forest. The others took another direction, which, after a
few minutes of a sharp ascent also, brought them to a small naked
point on the promontory, where the eye overlooked an extensive and
very peculiar panorama. Here Mabel seated herself on a fragment of
fallen rock to recover her breath and strength, while her companion,
on whose sinews no personal exertion seemed to make any impression,
stood at her side, leaning in his own and not ungraceful manner on
his long rifle. Several minutes passed, and neither spoke; Mabel,
in particular, being lost in admiration of the view.
The position the two had obtained was sufficiently elevated to
command a wide reach of the lake, which stretched away towards
the north-east in a boundless sheet, glittering beneath the rays
of an afternoon's sun, and yet betraying the remains of that
agitation which it had endured while tossed by the late tempest.
The land set bounds to its limits in a huge crescent, disappearing
in distance towards the south-east and the north. Far as the eye
could reach, nothing but forest was visible, not even a solitary sign
of civilization breaking in upon the uniform and grand magnificence
of nature. The gale had driven the _Scud_ beyond the line of
those forts with which the French were then endeavoring to gird
the English North American possessions; for, following the channels
of communication between the great lakes, their posts were on the
banks of the Niagara, while our adventurers had reached a point
many leagues westward of that celebrated strait. The cutter rode
at single anchor, without the breakers, resembling some well-imagined
and accurately-executed toy, intended rather for a glass case
than for struggles with the elements which she had so lately gone
through, while the canoe lay on the narrow beach, just out of
reach of the waves that came booming upon the land, a speck upon
the shingles.
"We are very far here from human habitations!" exclaimed Mabel,
when, after a long survey of the scene, its principal peculiarities
forced themselves on her active and ever brilliant imagination;
"this is indeed being on a frontier."
"Have they more sightly scenes than this nearer the sea and around
their large towns?" demanded Pathfinder, with an interest he was
apt to discover in such a subject.
"I will not say that: there is more to remind one of his fellow-beings
there than here; less, perhaps, to remind one of God."
"Ay, Mabel, that is what my own feelings say. I am but a poor
hunter, I know, untaught and unlarned; but God is as near me, in
this my home, as he is near the king in his royal palace."
"Who can doubt it?" returned Mabel, looking from the view up into
the hard-featured but honest face of her companion, though not
without surprise at the energy of his manner. "One feels nearer
to God in such a spot, I think, than when the mind is distracted
by the objects of the towns."
"You say all I wish to say myself, Mabel, but in so much plainer
speech, that you make me ashamed of wishing to let others know
what I feel on such matters. I have coasted this lake in search of
skins afore the war, and have been here already; not at this very
spot, for we landed yonder, where you may see the blasted
oak that stands above the cluster of hemlocks -- "
"How, Pathfinder, can you remember all these trifles so accurately?"
"These are our streets and houses, our churches and palaces. Remember
them, indeed! I once made an appointment with the Big Sarpent, to
meet at twelve o'clock at noon, near the foot of a certain pine,
at the end of six months, when neither of us was within three hundred
miles of the spot. The tree stood, and stands still, unless the
judgment of Providence has lighted on that too, in the midst of the
forest, fifty miles from any settlement, but in a most extraordinary
neighborhood for beaver."
"And did you meet at that very spot and hour?"
"Does the sun rise and set? When I reached the tree, I found the
Sarpent leaning against its trunk with torn leggings and muddied
moecassins. The Delaware had got into a swamp, and it worried him
not a little to find his way out of it; but as the sun which comes
over the eastern hills in the morning goes down behind the western
at night, so was he true to time and place. No fear of Chingachgook
when there is either a friend or an enemy in the case. He is
equally sartain with each."
"And where is the Delaware now? why is he not with us to-day?"
"He is scouting on the Mingo trail, where I ought to have been too,
but for a great human infirmity."
"You seem above, beyond, superior to all infirmity, Pathfinder; I
never yet met with a man who appeared to be so little liable to
the weaknesses of nature."
"If you mean in the way of health and strength, Mabel, Providence
has been kind to me; though I fancy the open air, long hunts,
active scoutings, forest fare, and the sleep of a good conscience,
may always keep the doctors at a distance. But I am human after
all; yes, I find I'm very human in some of my feelings."
Mabel looked surprised, and it would be no more than delineating
the character of her sex, if we added that her sweet countenance
expressed a good deal of curiosity, too, though her tongue was more
discreet.
"There is something bewitching in this wild life of yours, Pathfinder,"
she exclaimed, a tinge of enthusiasm mantling her cheeks. "I find
I'm fast getting to be a frontier girl, and am coming to love all
this grand silence of the woods. The towns seem tame to me; and,
as my father will probably pass the remainder of his days here,
where he has already lived so long, I begin to feel that I should
be happy to continue with him, and not to return to the seashore."
"The woods are never silent, Mabel, to such as understand their
meaning. Days at a time have I travelled them alone, without
feeling the want of company; and, as for conversation, for such
as can comprehend their language, there is no want of rational and
instructive discourse."
"I believe you are happier when alone, Pathfinder, than when mingling
with your fellow-creatures."
"I will not say that, I will not say exactly that. I have seen
the time when I have thought that God was sufficient for me in
the forest, and that I have craved no more than His bounty and His
care. But other feelings have got uppermost, and I suppose natur'
will have its way. All other creatur's mate, Mabel, and it was
intended man should do so too."
"And have you never bethought you of seeking a wife, Pathfinder,
to share your fortunes?" inquired the girl, with the directness
and simplicity that the pure of heart and the undesigning are the
most apt to manifest, and with that feeling of affection which is
inbred in her sex. "To me it seems you only want a home to return
to from your wanderings to render your life completely happy. Were
I a man, it would be my delight to roam through these forests at
will, or to sail over this beautiful lake."
"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 their 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 theirs," 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 her striking situation; "and all must
obey them. Do you see yonder pigeon that is just alightin' on the
beach --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 feeding near the other beach, 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 Indian village."
"Surely, surely, Pathfinder, you would not think of choosing one so
ignorant, so frivolous, so vain, and so 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," said she with
an earnest sincerity; "nor should there be any cloud between us.
You are too upright and frank to meet with anything 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 Sergeant 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 daresay 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 for ever. You do not, cannot mean that -- you cannot
wish me to understand" -- even the tongue of the spirited Mabel
faltered, and she shrank, 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 Sergeant and
I have concluded on the matter, if it is agreeable to you, as he
thinks is likely to 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 anything 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 not possible 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 know 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 Sergeant, after all, was not so 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 Sergeant, 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 me 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 Sergeant was wrong."
The pent-up feelings could 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; "anything but
this, anything but this! Speak to me, Pathfinder! Smile again,
say one kind word, anything to prove you can forgive me."
"The Sergeant 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 knew it, I knew it, and said
it; yes, the Sergeant was wrong after all."
"We can be friends, though we cannot be man and wife," continued
Mabel, almost as much disturbed as her companion, scarcely knowing
what she said; "we can always be friends, and always will."
"I thought the Sergeant 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
girl. It would have been better, Mabel, had he not over-persuaded
me into a different notion; and it might have been better, too,
had you not been so pleasant and confiding 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 again 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."
"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."
"You will forget it all, when you come seriously to recollect that
I am altogether unsuited to be your wife."
"So I told the Sergeant; but he would have it otherwise. I knew you
was 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 color
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 Sergeant says that never can take place.
But the Sergeant 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 wouldn'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 Sergeant 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 Quartermaster 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, be can never make you a happy
woman, or himself a gentleman."
"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 Lieutenant 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."
"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; Lieutenant 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 Quartermaster. 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 have
discovered the Sergeant'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 Sergeant 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 knowed it afore, Mabel; but girls are of more account in
this life than I could have believed. Now, afore I knowed you,
the new-born babe did not sleep more sweetly than I used; 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."
"And all this will return to you, Pathfinder, for one so upright
and sincere will never waste his happiness on a mere fancy. You
will dream again of your hunts, of the deer you have slain, and of
the beaver you have taken."
"Ah's me, Mabel, I wish never to dream again! Before we met,
I had a sort of pleasure in following up the hounds, in fancy, as
it might be; and even in striking a trail of the Iroquois -- nay,
I've been in skrimmages and ambushments, in thought like, and found
satisfaction in it, according to my gifts; but all those things
have lost their charms since I've made acquaintance with you. Now,
I think no longer of anything rude in my dreams; but the very last
night we stayed in the garrison I imagined I had a cabin in a grove
of sugar maples, and at the root of every tree was a Mabel Dunham,
while the birds among the branches sang ballads instead of the notes
that natur' gave, and even the deer stopped to listen. I tried to
shoot a fa'n, but Killdeer missed fire, and the creatur' laughed
in my face, as pleasantly as a young girl laughs in her merriment,
and then it bounded away, looking back as if expecting me to follow."
"No more of this, Pathfinder; we'll talk no more of these things,"
said Mabel, dashing the tears from her eyes: for the simple, earnest
manner in which this hardy woodsman betrayed the deep hold she had
taken of his feelings nearly proved too much for her own generous
heart. "Now, let us look for my father; he cannot be distant, as
I heard his gun quite near."
"The Sergeant was wrong -- yes, he was wrong, and it's of no avail
to attempt to make the dove consort with the wolf."
"Here comes my dear father," interrupted Mabel. "Let us look
cheerful and happy, Pathfinder, as such good friends ought to look,
and keep each other's secrets."
A pause succeeded; the Sergeant's foot was heard crushing the dried
twigs hard by, and then his form appeared shoving aside the bushes
of a copse just near. As he issued into the open ground, the old
soldier scrutinized his daughter and her companion, and speaking
good-naturedly, he said, "Mabel, child, you are young and light
of foot --look for a bird that I've shot that fell just beyond the
thicket of young hemlocks on the shore; and, as Jasper is showing
signs of an intention of getting under way, you need not take the
trouble to clamber up this hill again, but we will meet you on the
beach in a few minutes."
Mabel obeyed, bounding down the hill with the elastic step of
youth and health. But, notwithstanding the lightness of her steps,
the heart of the girl was heavy, and no sooner was she hid from
observation by the thicket, than she threw herself on the root of
a tree and wept as if her heart would break. The Sergeant watched
her until she disappeared, with a father's pride, and then turned
to his companion with a smile as kind and as familiar as his habits
would allow him to use towards any.
"She has her mother's lightness and activity, my friend, with
somewhat of her father's force," said he. "Her mother was not quite
so handsome, I think myself; but the Dunhams were always thought
comely, whether men or women. Well, Pathfinder, I take it for granted
you've not overlooked the opportunity, but have spoken plainly to
the girl? women like frankness in matters of this sort."
"I believe Mabel and I understand each other at last, Sergeant,"
returned the other, looking another way to avoid the soldier's
face.
"So much the better. Some people fancy that a little doubt and
uncertainty makes love all the livelier; but I am one of those
who think the plainer the tongue speaks the easier the mind will
comprehend. Was Mabel surprised?"
"I fear she was, Sergeant; I fear she was taken quite by surprise
-- yes, I do."
"Well, well, surprises in love are like an ambush in war, and
quite as lawful; though it is not so easy to tell when a woman is
surprised, as to tell when it happens to an enemy. Mabel did not
run away, my worthy friend, did she?"
"No, Sergeant, Mabel did not try to escape; _that_ I can say with
a clear conscience."
"I hope the girl was too willing, neither! Her mother was
shy and coy for a month, at least; but frankness, after all, is a
recommendation in a man or woman."
"That it is, that it is; and judgment, too."
"You are not to look for too much judgment in a young creature of
twenty, Pathfinder, but it will come with experience. A mistake
in you or me, for instance, might not be so easily overlooked;
but in a girl of Mabel's years, one is not to strain at a gnat lest
they swallow a camel."
The reader will remember that Sergeant Dunham was not a Hebrew
scholar.
The muscles of the listener's face twitched as the Sergeant was
thus delivering his sentiments, though the former had now recovered
a portion of that stoicism which formed so large a part of his
character, and which he had probably imbibed from long association
with the Indians. His eyes rose and fell, and once a gleam shot
athwart his hard features as if he were about to indulge in his
peculiar laugh; but the joyous feeling, if it really existed, was
as quickly lost in a look allied to anguish. It was this unusual
mixture of wild and keen mental agony with native, simple joyousness,
which had most struck Mabel, who, in the interview just related,
had a dozen times been on the point of believing that her suitor's
heart was only lightly touched, as images of happiness and humor
gleamed over a mind that was almost infantile in its simplicity
and nature; an impression, however, which was soon driven away by
the discovery of emotions so painful and so deep, that they seemed
to harrow the very soul.
"You say true, Sergeant," Pathfinder answered; "a mistake in one
like you is a more serious matter."
"You will find Mabel sincere and honest in the end; give her but
a little time."
"Ah's me, Sergeant!"
"A man of your merits would make an impression on a rock, give him
time, Pathfinder."
"Sergeant Dunham, we are old fellow-campaigners --that is, as
campaigns are carried on here in the wilderness; and we have done
so many kind acts to each other that we can afford to be candid --
what has caused you to believe that a girl like Mabel could ever
fancy one so rude as I am?"
"What? -- why, a variety of reasons, and good reasons too, my
friend. Those same acts of kindness, perhaps, and the campaigns
you mention; moreover, you are my sworn and tried comrade."
"All this sounds well, so far as you and I are consarned; but they
do not touch the case of your pretty daughter. She may think these
very campaigns have destroyed the little comeliness I may once
have had; and I am not quite sartain that being an old friend of
her father would lead any young maiden's mind into a particular
affection for a suitor. Like loves like, I tell you, Sergeant;
and my gifts are not altogether the gifts of Mabel Dunham."
"These are some of your old modest qualms, Pathfinder, and will
do you no credit with the girl. Women distrust men who distrust
themselves, and take to men who distrust nothing. Modesty is
a capital thing in a recruit, I grant you; or in a young subaltern
who has just joined, for it prevents his railing at the non-commissioned
officers before he knows what to rail at; I'm not sure it is out
of place in a commissary or a parson, but it's the devil and all
when it gets possession of a real soldier or a lover. Have as little
to do with it as possible, if you would win a woman's heart. As
for your doctrine that like loves like, it is as wrong as possible
in matters of this sort. If like loved like, women would love one
another, and men also. No, no, like loves dislike," -- the Sergeant
was merely a scholar of the camp, -- "and you have nothing to fear
from Mabel on that score. Look at Lieutenant Muir; the man has had
five wives already, they tell me, and there is no more modesty in
him than there is in a cat-o'-nine-tails."
"Lieutenant Muir will never be the husband of Mabel Dunham, let
him ruffle his feathers as much as he may."
"That is a sensible remark of yours, Pathfinder; for my mind is made
up that you shall be my son-in-law. If I were an officer myself,
Mr. Muir might have some chance; but time has placed one door between
my child and myself, and I don't intend there shall be that of a
marquee also."
"Sergeant, we must let Mabel follow her own fancy; she is young
and light of heart, and God forbid that any wish of mine should lay
the weight of a feather on a mind that is all gaiety now, or take
one note of happiness from her laughter!"
"Have you conversed freely with the girl?" the Sergeant demanded
quickly, and with some asperity of manner.
Pathfinder was too honest to deny a truth plain as that which the
answer required, and yet too honorable to betray Mabel, and expose
her to the resentment of one whom he well knew to be stern in his
anger.
"We have laid open our minds," he said; "and though Mabel's is one
that any man might love to look at, I find little there, Sergeant,
to make me think any better of myself."
"The girl has not dared to refuse you -- to refuse her father's
best friend?"
Pathfinder turned his face away to conceal the look of anguish that
consciousness told him was passing athwart it, but he continued
the discourse in his own quiet, manly tones.
"Mabel is too kind to refuse anything, or to utter harsh words to
a dog. I have not put the question in a way to be downright refused,
Sergeant."
"And did you expect my daughter to jump into your arms before you
asked her? She would not have been her mother's child had she
done any such thing, nor do I think she would have been mine. The
Dunhams like plain dealing as well as the king's majesty; but they
are no jumpers. Leave me to manage this matter for you, Pathfinder,
and there shall be no unnecessary delay. I'll speak to Mabel myself
this very evening, using your name as principal in the affair."
"I'd rather not, I'd rather not, Sergeant. Leave the matter to
Mabel and me, and I think all will come right in the ind. Young
girls are like timorsome birds; they do not over-relish being hurried
or spoken harshly to nither. Leave the matter to Mabel and me."
"On one condition I will, my friend; and that is, that you will
promise me, on the honor of a scout, that you will put the matter
plainly to Mabel the first suitable opportunity, and no mincing of
words."
"I will ask her, Sergeant, on condition that you promise not to
meddle in the affair -- yes, I will promise to ask Mabel whether
she will marry me, even though she laugh in my face at my doing
so, on that condition."
Sergeant Dunham gave the desired promise very cheerfully; for he
had completely wrought himself up into the belief that the man
he so much esteemed himself must be acceptable to his daughter.
He had married a woman much younger than himself, and he saw no
unfitness in the respective years of the intended couple. Mabel
was educated so much above him, too, that he was not aware of the
difference which actually existed between the parent and child in
this respect. It followed that Sergeant Dunham was not altogether
qualified to appreciate his daughter's tastes, or to form a very
probable conjecture what would be the direction taken by those
feelings which oftener depend on impulses and passion than on reason.
Still, the worthy soldier was not so wrong in his estimate of the
Pathfinder's chances as might at first appear. Knowing all the
sterling qualities of the man, his truth, integrity of purpose,
courage, self-devotion, disinterestedness, it was far from
unreasonable to suppose that qualities like these would produce a
deep impression on any female heart; and the father erred principally
in fancying that the daughter might know as it might be by intuition
what he himself had acquired by years of intercourse and adventure.
As Pathfinder and his military friend descended the hill to the shore
of the lake, the discourse did not flag. The latter continued to
persuade the former that his diffidence alone prevented complete
success with Mabel, and that he had only to persevere in order to
prevail. Pathfinder was much too modest by nature, and had been too
plainly, though so delicately, discouraged in the recent interview
to believe all he heard; still the father used so many arguments
which seemed plausible, and it was so grateful to fancy that the
daughter might yet be his, that the reader is not to be surprised
when he is told that this unsophisticated being did not view Mabel's
recent conduct in precisely the light in which he may be inclined
to view it himself. He did not credit all that the Sergeant told
him, it is true; but he began to think virgin coyness and ignorance
of her own feelings might have induced Mabel to use the language
she had.
"The Quartermaster is no favorite," said Pathfinder in answer to
one of his companion's remarks. "Mabel will never look on him as
more than one who has had four or five wives already."
"Which is more than his share. A man may marry twice without
offence to good morals and decency, I allow! but four times is an
aggravation."
"I should think even marrying once what Master Cap calls a
circumstance," put in Pathfinder, laughing in his quiet way, for
by this time his spirits had recovered some of their buoyancy.
"It is, indeed, my friend, and a most solemn circumstance too. If
it were not that Mabel is to be your wife, I would advise you to
remain single. But here is the girl herself, and discretion is
the word."
"Ah's me, Sergeant, I fear you are mistaken!"