“That point in misery, which makes the oppressed man regardless

 of his own life, makes him too Lord of the oppressor’s.”

Coleridge, Remorse, V.i.201–04.

All this time Hetty had remained seated in the head of the scow, looking sorrowfully into the water which held the body of her mother, as well as that of the man whom she had been taught to consider her father. Hist stood near her in gentle quiet, but had no consolation to offer in words. The habits of her people taught her reserve in this respect, and the habits of her sex induced her to wait patiently for a moment when she might manifest some soothing sympathy by means of acts, rather than of speech. Chingachgook held himself a little aloof, in grave reserve, looking like a warrior, but feeling like a man.

Judith joined her sister with an air of dignity and solemnity it was not her practice to show, and, though the gleamings of anguish were still visible on her beautiful face, when she spoke it was firmly and without tremor. At that instant Hist and the Delaware withdrew, moving towards Hurry, in the other end of the boat.

“Sister,” said Judith kindly, “I have much to say to you; we will get into this canoe, and paddle off to a distance from the Ark — The secrets of two orphans ought not to be heard by every ear.”

“Certainly, Judith, by the ears of their parents? Let Hurry lift the grapnel and move away with the Ark, and leave us here, near the graves of father and mother, to say what we may have to say.”

“Father!” repeated Judith slowly, the blood for the first time since her parting with March mounting to her cheeks —“He was no father of ours, Hetty! That we had from his own mouth, and in his dying moments.”

“Are you glad, Judith, to find you had no father! He took care of us, and fed us, and clothed us, and loved us; a father could have done no more. I don’t understand why he wasn’t a father.”

“Never mind, dear child, but let us do as you have said. It may be well to remain here, and let the Ark move a little away. Do you prepare the canoe, and I will tell Hurry and the Indians our wishes.”

This was soon and simply done, the Ark moving with measured strokes of the sweeps a hundred yards from the spot, leaving the girls floating, seemingly in air, above the place of the dead; so buoyant was the light vessel that held them, and so limpid the element by which it was sustained.

“The death of Thomas Hutter,” Judith commenced, after a short pause had prepared her sister to receive her communications, “has altered all our prospects, Hetty. If he was not our father, we are sisters, and must feel alike and live together.”

“How do I know, Judith, that you wouldn’t be as glad to find I am not your sister, as you are in finding that Thomas Hutter, as you call him, was not your father. I am only half witted, and few people like to have half witted relations; and then I’m not handsome — at least, not as handsome as you — and you may wish a handsomer sister.”

“No, no Hetty. You and you only are my sister — my heart, and my love for you tell me that — and mother was my mother — of that too am I glad, and proud; for she was a mother to be proud of — but father was not father!”

“Hush, Judith! His spirit may be near; it would grieve it to hear his children talking so, and that, too, over his very grave. Children should never grieve parents, mother often told me, and especially when they are dead!”

“Poor Hetty! They are happily removed beyond all cares on our account. Nothing that I can do or say will cause mother any sorrow now — there is some consolation in that, at least! And nothing you can say or do will make her smile, as she used to smile on your good conduct when living.”

“You don’t know that, Judith. Spirits can see, and mother may see as well as any spirit. She always told us that God saw all we did, and that we should do nothing to offend him; and now she has left us, I strive to do nothing that can displease her. Think how her spirit would mourn and feel sorrow, Judith, did it see either of us doing what is not right; and spirits may see, after all; especially the spirits of parents that feel anxious about their children.”

“Hetty — Hetty — you know not what you say!” murmured Judith, almost livid with emotion —“The dead cannot see, and know nothing of what passes here! But, we will not talk of this any longer. The bodies of Mother and Thomas Hutter lie together in the lake, and we will hope that the spirits of both are with God. That we, the children of one of them, remain on earth is certain; it is now proper to know what we are to do in future.”

“If we are not Thomas Hutter’s children, Judith, no one will dispute our right to his property. We have the castle and the Ark, and the canoes, and the woods, and the lakes, the same as when he was living, and what can prevent us from staying here, and passing our lives just as we ever have done?”

“No, no poor sister — this can no longer be. Two girls would not be safe here, even should these Hurons fail in getting us into their power. Even father had as much as he could sometimes do, to keep peace upon the lake, and we should fail altogether. We must quit this spot, Hetty, and remove into the settlements.”

“I am sorry you think so, Judith,” returned Hetty, dropping her head on her bosom, and looking thoughtfully down at the spot where the funeral pile of her mother could just be seen. “I am very sorry to hear it. I would rather stay here, where, if I wasn’t born, I’ve passed my life. I don’t like the settlements — they are full of wickedness and heart burnings, while God dwells unoffended in these hills! I love the trees, and the mountains, and the lake, and the springs; all that his bounty has given us, and it would grieve me sorely, Judith, to be forced to quit them. You are handsome, and not at all half-witted, and one day you will marry, and then you will have a husband, and I a brother to take care of us, if women can’t really take care of themselves in such a place as this.”

“Ah! if this could be so, Hetty, then, indeed, I could now be a thousand times happier in these woods, than in the settlements. Once I did not feel thus, but now I do. Yet where is the man to turn this beautiful place into such a garden of Eden for us?”

“Harry March loves you, sister,” returned poor Hetty, unconsciously picking the bark off the canoe as she spoke. “He would be glad to be your husband, I’m sure, and a stouter and a braver youth is not to be met with the whole country round.”

“Harry March and I understand each other, and no more need be said about him. There is one — but no matter. It is all in the hands of providence, and we must shortly come to some conclusion about our future manner of living. Remain here — that is, remain here, alone, we cannot — and perhaps no occasion will ever offer for remaining in the manner you think of. It is time, too, Hetty, we should learn all we can concerning our relations and family. It is not probable we are altogether without relations, and they may be glad to see us. The old chest is now our property, and we have a right to look into it, and learn all we can by what it holds. Mother was so very different from Thomas Hutter, that, now I know we are not his children, I burn with a desire to know whose children we can be. There are papers in that chest, I am certain, and those papers may tell us all about our parents and natural friends.”

“Well, Judith, you know best, for you are cleverer than common, mother always said, and I am only half-witted. Now father and mother are dead, I don’t much care for any relation but you, and don’t think I could love them I never saw, as well as I ought. If you don’t like to marry Hurry, I don’t see who you can choose for a husband, and then I fear we shall have to quit the lake, after all.”

“What do you think of Deerslayer, Hetty?” asked Judith, bending forward like her unsophisticated sister, and endeavoring to conceal her embarrassment in a similar manner. “Would he not make a brother-in-law to your liking?”

“Deerslayer!” repeated the other, looking up in unfeigned surprise. “Why, Judith, Deerslayer isn’t in the least comely, and is altogether unfit for one like you!”

“He is not ill-looking, Hetty, and beauty in a man is not of much matter.”

“Do you think so, Judith? I know that beauty is of no great matter, in man or woman, in the eyes of God, for mother has often told me so, when she thought I might have been sorry I was not as handsome as you, though she needn’t have been uneasy on that account, for I never coveted any thing that is yours, sister — but, tell me so she did — still, beauty is very pleasant to the eye, in both! I think, if I were a man, I should pine more for good looks than I do as a girl. A handsome man is a more pleasing sight than a handsome woman.”

“Poor child! You scarce know what you say, or what you mean! Beauty in our sex is something, but in men, it passes for little. To be sure, a man ought to be tall, but others are tall, as well as Hurry; and active — and I think I know those that are more active — and strong; well, he hasn’t all the strength in the world — and brave — I am certain I can name a youth who is braver!”

“This is strange, Judith!— I didn’t think the earth held a handsomer, or a stronger, or a more active or a braver man than Hurry Harry! I’m sure I never met his equal in either of these things.”

“Well, well, Hetty — say no more of this. I dislike to hear you talking in this manner. Tis not suitable to your innocence, and truth, and warm-hearted sincerity. Let Harry March go. He quits us tonight, and no regret of mine will follow him, unless it be that he has staid so long, and to so little purpose.”

“Ah! Judith; that is what I’ve long feared — and I did so hope he might be my brother-in-law!”

“Never mind it now. Let us talk of our poor mother — and of Thomas Hutter.”

“Speak kindly then, sister, for you can’t be quite certain that spirits don’t both hear and see. If father wasn’t father, he was good to us, and gave us food and shelter. We can’t put any stones over their graves, here in the water, to tell people all this, and so we ought to say it with our tongues.”

“They will care little for that, girl. ’Tis a great consolation to know, Hetty, that if mother ever did commit any heavy fault when young, she lived sincerely to repent of it; no doubt her sins were forgiven her.”

“Tisn’t right, Judith, for children to talk of their parents’ sins. We had better talk of our own.”

“Talk of your sins, Hetty!— If there ever was a creature on earth without sin, it is you! I wish I could say, or think the same of myself; but we shall see. No one knows what changes affection for a good husband can make in a woman’s heart. I don’t think, child, I have even now the same love for finery I once had.”

“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 tongu’d 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 friends. This night I shall look into the chest, and to-morrow 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 practised towards her feeble-minded 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 lustre that threw a sort of holy halo around so much of what she both said and did. On the present occasion, this healthful ascendancy 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 the 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, “for 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 moved slowly away from the place, under the gentle impulsion of the elder sister’s paddle, the younger sat musing, as wa............