The Pathfinder, James Fenimore Cooper [top reads .TXT] 📗

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