The Deerslayer (Barnes & Noble Classics) - James Fenimore Cooper [212]
“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 couldn’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 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 her 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 fierylike, for there are thoughts which will stick long in any man’s mind, there be words which 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 impossible 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 was 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 a 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, Hurry, 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 offense