The Deerslayer (Barnes & Noble Classics) - James Fenimore Cooper [299]
“Are you the officer that came with Hurry?” she asked. “If you are, we ought all to thank you; for though I am hurt, the rest have saved their lives. Did Harry March tell you where to find us, and how much need there was of your services?”
“The news of the party reached us by means of a friendly runner,” returned the captain, glad to relieve his feelings by this appearance of a friendly communication; “and I was immediately sent out to cut it off. It was fortunate, certainly, that we met Hurry Harry, as you call him, for he acted as a guide; and it was not less fortunate that we heard a firing, which I now understand was merely a shooting at the mark, for it not only quickened our march, but called us to the right side of the lake. The Delaware saw us on the shore, with the glass,2 it would seem; and he and Hist, as I find his squaw is named, did us excellent service. It was really altogether a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, Judith.”
“Talk not to me of anything fortunate, sir,” returned the girl, huskily, again concealing her face. “To me the world is full of misery. I wish never to hear of marks, or rifles, or soldiers, or men again.”
“Do you know my sister?” asked Hetty, ere the rebuked soldier had time to rally for an answer. “How came you to know that her name is Judith? You are right, for that is her name; and I am Hetty; Thomas Hutter’s daughters.”
“For Heaven’s sake, dearest sister; for my sake, beloved Hetty,” interposed Judith, imploringly, “say no more of this.”
Hetty looked surprised; but accustomed to comply, she ceased her awkward and painful interrogatories of Warley, bending her eyes towards the Bible, which she still held between her hands, as one would cling to a casket of precious stones, in a shipwreck or a conflagration. Her mind now reverted to the future, losing sight, in a great measure, of the scenes of the past.
“We shall not long be parted, Judith,” she said; “when you die, you must be brought and buried in the lake, by the side of mother, too.”
“Would to God, Hetty, that I lay there at this moment!”
“No: that cannot be, Judith; people must die before they have any right to be buried. ’Twould be wicked to bury you, or for you to bury yourself while living. Once I thought of burying myself; God kept me from that sin.”
“You!—you, Hetty Hutter, think of such an act?” exclaimed Judith, looking up in uncontrollable surprise, for she well knew nothing passed the lips of her conscientious sister that was not religiously true.
“Yes, I did, Judith; but God has forgotten—no, he forgets nothing—but he has forgiven it,” returned the dying girl, with the subdued manner of a repentant child. “ ’Twas after mother’s death; I felt I had lost the best friend I had on earth, if not the only friend. ’Tis true, you and father were kind to me, Judith, but I was so feebleminded I knew I should give you trouble; and then you were so often ashamed of such a sister and daughter; and ’tis hard to live in a world where all look upon you as below them. I thought then if I could bury myself by the side of mother, I should be happier in the lake than in the hut.”
“Forgive me—pardon me, dearest Hetty; on my bended knees, I beg you to pardon me, sweet sister, if any word or act of mine drove you to so maddening and cruel a thought.”
“Get up, Judith; kneel to God—don’t kneel to me. Just so I felt when mother was dying. I remembered everything I had said and done to vex her, and could have kissed her feet for forgiveness. I think it must be