The Deerslayer (Barnes & Noble Classics) - James Fenimore Cooper [217]
“It would be a pity, Judith, if you did think of clothes, over your parents’ graves! We will never quit this spot, if you say so, and will let Hurry go where he pleases.”
“I am willing enough to consent to the last, but cannot answer for the first, Hetty. We must live, in future, as becomes respectable young women, and cannot remain here to be the talk and jest of all the rude and foul-tongued trappers and hunters that may come upon the lake. Let Hurry go by himself, and then I’ll find the means to see Deerslayer, when the future shall be soon settled. Come, girl, the sun has set, and the ark is drifting away from us; let us paddle up to the scow, and consult with our friend. This night I shall look into the chest, and tomorrow shall determine what we are to do. As for the Hurons, now we can use our stores without fear of Thomas Hutter, they will be easily bought off Let me get Deerslayer once out of their hands, and a single hour shall bring things to an understanding.”
Judith spoke with decision, and she spoke with authority, a habit she had long practiced towards her feebleminded sister. But, while thus accustomed to have her way, by the aid of manner and a readier command of words, Hetty occasionally checked her impetuous feelings and hasty acts by the aid of those simple moral truths that were so deeply engrafted in all her own thoughts and feelings; shining through both with a mild and beautiful luster that threw a sort of holy halo around so much of what she both said and did. On the present occasion, this healthful ascendency of the girl of weak intellect over her of a capacity that, in other situations, might have become brilliant and admired, was exhibited in the usual simple and earnest manner.
“You forget, Judith, what has brought us here,” she said, reproachfully. “This is mother’s grave, and we have just laid the body of father by her side. We have done wrong to talk so much of ourselves at such a spot, and ought now to pray God to forgive us, and ask him to teach us where we are to go, and what we are to do.”
Judith involuntarily laid aside her paddle, while Hetty dropped on her knees, and was soon lost in her devout but simple petitions. Her sister did not pray. This she had long ceased to do directly, though anguish of spirit frequently wrung from her mental and hasty appeals to the great Source of benevolence, for support, if not for a change of spirit. Still, she never beheld Hetty on her knees, that a feeling of tender recollection, as well as of profound regret at the deadness of her own heart, did not come over her. Thus had she herself done in childhood, and even down to the hour of her ill-fated visits to the garrisons; and she would willingly have given worlds, at such moments, to be able to exchange her present sensations for that confiding faith, those pure aspirations, and the gentle hope that shone through every lineament and movement of her otherwise less-favored sister. All she could do, however, was to drop her head to her bosom, and assume in her attitude some of that devotion in which her stubborn spirit refused to unite.
When Hetty rose from her knees, her countenance had a glow and serenity that rendered a face that was always agreeable, positively handsome. Her mind was at peace and her conscience acquitted her of a neglect of duty.
“Now you may go, if you want to, Judith,” she said; “God has been kind to me, and lifted a burden off my heart. Mother had many such burdens, she used to tell me, and she always took them off in this way. ’Tis the only way, sister, such things can be done. You may raise a stone, or a log, with your hands; but the heart must be lightened by prayer. I don’t think you pray as often as you used to do when younger, Judith!”
“Never mind—never mind, child,” answered the other huskily; “ ’tis no matter now. Mother is gone, and Thomas Hutter is gone, and the time has come when we must think and act for ourselves.”
As the canoe