James Cooper - LEATHERSTOCKING TALES – Complete Collection

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 churchyards.”

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 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. Don’t weep, Judith, don’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, don’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 unpossible 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, don’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.”