“No, no; you shall not go to such a distance,” cried Elizabeth, laying her white hand on his deer-skin pack—“I am right!
I feel his camp-kettle, and a canister of powder!
He must not be suffered to wander so far from us, Oliver; remember how suddenly Mohegan dropped away.”
“I knowed the parting would come hard, children—I knowed it would!” said Natty, “and so I got aside to look at the graves by myself, and thought if I left ye the keep sake which the Major gave me, when we first parted in the woods, ye wouldn’t take it unkind, but would know that, let the old man’s body go where it might, his feelings stayed behind him.”
“This means something more than common,” exclaimed the youth.
“Where is it, Natty, that you purpose going?”
The hunter drew nigh him with a confident, reasoning air, as If what he had to say would silence all objections, and replied:
“Why, lad, they tell me that on the big lakes there’s the best of hunting, and a great range without a white man on it unless it may be one like myself.
I’m weary of living in clearings, and where the hammer is sounding in my ears from sunrise to sundown.
And though I’m much bound to ye both, children—I wouldn’t say it if It was not true—I crave to go into the woods agin—I do.”
“Woods!” echoed Elizabeth, trembling with her feelings; “do you not call these endless forests woods?”
“Ah! child, these be nothing to a man that’s used to the wilderness.
I have took but little comfort sin’ your father come on with his settlers; but I wouldn’t go far, while the life was in the body that lies under the sod there.
But now he’s gone, and Chingachgook Is gone; and you be both young and happy.
Yes! the big house has rung with merriment this month past!
And now I thought was the time to get a little comfort in the close of my days.
Woods! indeed!
I doesn’t call these woods, Madam Effingham, where I lose myself every day of my life in the clearings.”
“If there be anything wanting to your comfort, name it, Leather-Stocking; if it be attainable it is yours.”
“You mean all for the best, lad, I know; and so does madam, too; but your ways isn’t my ways.
‘Tis like the dead there, who thought, when the breath was in them, that one went east, and one went west, to find their heavens; but they’ll meet at last, and so shall we, children.
Yes, and as you’ve begun, and we shall meet in the land of the just at last.”
“This is so new! so unexpected!” said Elizabeth, in almost breathless excitement;
“I had thought you meant to live with us and die with us, Natty.”
“Words are of no avail,” exclaimed her husband: “the habits of forty years are not to be dispossessed by the ties of a day.
I know you too well to urge you further, Natty; unless you will let me build you a hut on one of the distant hills, where we can sometimes see you, and know that you are comfortable.”
“Don’t fear for the Leather-Stocking, children; God will see that his days be provided for, and his indian happy.
I know you mean all for the best, but our ways doesn’t agree.
I love the woods, and ye relish the face of man; I eat when hungry, and drink when a-dry; and ye keep stated hours and rules; nay, nay, you even over-feed the dogs, lad, from pure kindness; and hounds should be gaunty to run well.
The meanest of God’s creatures be made for some use, and I’m formed for the wilderness, If ye love me, let me go where my soul craves to be agin!”
The appeal was decisive; and not another word of en treaty for him to remain was then uttered; but Elizabeth bent her head to her bosom and wept, while her husband dashed away the tears from his eyes; and, with hands that almost refused to perform their office, he procured his pocket-book, and extended a parcel of bank-notes to the hunter.
“Take these,” he said, “at least take these; secure them about your person, and in the hour of need they will do you good service.”
The old man took the notes, and examined them with curious eye.
“This, then, is some of the new-fashioned money that they’ve been making at Albany, out of paper!
It can’t be worth much to they that hasn’t larning!
No, no, lad—— take back the stuff; it will do me no sarvice, I took kear to get all the Frenchman’s powder afore he broke up, and they say lead grows where I’m going, it isn’t even fit for wads, seeing that I use none but leather!—Madam Effingham, let an old man kiss your hand, and wish God’s choicest blessings on you and your’n.”
“Once more let me beseech you, stay!” cried Elizabeth.
“Do not, Leather-Stocking, leave me to grieve for the man who has twice rescued me from death, and who has served those I love so faithfully.
For my sake, if not for your own, stay.
I shall see you in those frightful dreams that still haunt my nights, dying in poverty and age, by the side of those terrific beasts you slew.
There will be no evil, that sickness, want, and solitude can inflict, that my fancy will not conjure as your fate.
Stay with us, old man, if not for your own sake, at least for ours.”
“Such thoughts and bitter dreams, Madam Effingham,” returned the hunter, solemnly, “will never haunt an innocent parson long. They’ll pass away with God’s pleasure.
And if the cat-a-mounts be yet brought to your eyes in sleep, tis not for my sake, but to show you the power of Him that led me there to save you.
Trust in God, madam, and your honorable husband, and the thoughts for an old man like me can never be long nor bitter.
I pray that the Lord will keep you in mind—the Lord that lives in clearings as well as in the wilderness—and bless you, and all that belong to you, from this time till the great day when the whites shall meet the red-skins in judgement, and justice shall be the law, and not power.”
Elizabeth raised her head, and offered her colorless cheek to his salute, when he lifted his cap and touched it respectfully.
His hand was grasped with convulsive fervor by the youth, who continued silent.
The hunter prepared himself for his journey, drawing his belt tighter, and wasting his moments in the little reluctant movements of a sorrowful departure.
Once or twice he essayed to speak, but a rising in his throat prevented it.