The Deerslayer (Barnes & Noble Classics) - James Fenimore Cooper [211]
There was no other priest than nature at that wild and singular funeral rite. March cast his eyes below, and through the transparent medium of the clear water, which was almost as pure as air, he saw what Hetty was accustomed to call “mother’s grave.” It was a low, straggling mound of earth, fashioned by no spade, out of a corner of which gleamed a bit of the white cloth that formed the shroud of the dead. The body had been lowered to the bottom, and Hutter brought earth from the shore and let it fall upon it, until all was concealed. In this state the place had remained until the movement of the waters revealed the solitary sign of the uses of the spot that has just been mentioned.
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 unreasonable 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