The Pathfinder by James Fenimore Cooper (best book series to read TXT) 📕

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