Alice Wilde: The Raftsman's Daughter. A Forest Romance

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

  CHAPTER IV.

  BEN PERKINS.

  The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to try her newthimble in running up the skirt of her merino dress. The frock whichshe wore, and all her others, probably, were fashioned in the style oftwenty years ago--short under the arms; a belt at the waist; low inthe neck; full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline.Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden torrentaround her neck, was looped up in the quaint style which marked thefashion of her dress. She looked like the portrait, come to life, ofsome republican belle and beauty of long ago. Quite unconscious thatthis ancient style had been superseded by the balloons of to-day, shemeasured off the three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leaveher pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered feet,peeped from beneath her gingham.

  If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art, and hadpossessed "patterns" of the latest mode, he would not have instructedhis hostess in any changes, she looked so picturesque and quaint asshe was. But he did not let her sew very steadily that day. He wantedto explore the surroundings of the cabin, and she was his ready,intelligent guide.

  They went back into the forest, through which thundered, ever and anon,the crash of a falling tree; for many men were busy cutting timber foranother raft, on which, at its completion, Philip was to return toCenter City. His business would not have detained him more than threeor four days, but he was in no haste; he wanted to hunt and fish alittle, and he liked the novelty of the idea of floating down the riveron a raft of logs in company with a score of rough fellows. AlthoughDavid Wilde sawed up some of his timber himself, his old-fashioned millwas not equal to the supply, and he sent the surplus down to the steamsaw-mills, one of which was owned by Philip and his partner.

  It called forth all his affability to conquer the shyness of hispretty guide, who at last dared to look full into his face with thosebrilliant blue eyes, and to tell him where the brooks made the sweetestmusic, where the fawns came oftenest to drink, where the violetslingered the latest, and where there was a grape-vine swing.

  Both of them looked very happy when they came in, just in time to meetMr. Wilde at the supper-table, who had been at the mill all day. _He_did not seem in such good spirits. Some new thought troubled him. Hiskeen, gray eyes scanned the countenance of his child, as if searchingfor something hitherto undiscovered; and then turned suspiciously tothe stranger, to mark if he, too, held the same truth. For the firsttime it occurred to him, that his "cub," his pet, was no longer alittle girl--that he might have done something fatally foolish inbringing that fine city aristocrat to his cabin. Had he not alwayshated and despised these dandified caricatures of men?--despisedtheir vanity, falsehood, and affectation?--hated their vices, theirkid-gloves, their perfumed handkerchiefs, and their fashionablenonsense? Yet, pleased with one of them, and on a mere matter ofbusiness, he had, without the wisdom of a fool, much less of a father,brought one of that very class to his house. How angry he was withhimself his compressed lip alone revealed, as he sharply eyed hisguest. Yet the laws of hospitality were too sacred with him to allow ofhis showing any rudeness to his guest, as a means of getting rid of him.

  Unconscious of the bitter jealousy in her father's heart, Alice wasas gay as a humming-bird. She had never been happier. We are formedfor society; children are charmed with children, and youth delights inyouth. Alice had been ignorant of this sweet want, until she learnedit now, by having it gratified. For, although she had passed pleasantwords with such young men as chanced to be employed by her father, theyhad never seemed to her like companions, and she naturally adopted thereserve which her father also used with them. His cabin was his castle.No one came there familiarly, except upon invitation. The "hands" wereall fed and lodged in a house by themselves, near the mill. The gloomof the host gradually affected the vivacity of the others; and thewhole household retired early to rest.

  The next day, Philip set off to the mill with Mr. Wilde, carrying onhis shoulder the excellent rifle of the latter, as he proposed, afterbusiness was over, to make a search for deer, now nearly driven awayfrom that locality by the sound of the ax in those solitudes once sodeep and silent.

  "Tell Aunt Pallas I'll bring her a haunch of venison for supper," hesaid gayly to the young girl, touching his straw hat with a grace thatquite confused her.

  She looked after them wistfully as they went away. She felt lonely; hersewing fatigued her; the sun was too hot to go out on the water; shedidn't know what to do. Even her new books failed for once to keep herinterested many hours. When Pallas looked for her to help pick overberries to dry, she was not to be found. She had sought that delightfulrefuge of early youth--the garret; which in this instance was but aloft over the main story, reached by a ladder, and seldom resortedto by any one, except when the raftsman stored away a bear-skin, awinter's store of nuts, or something of the kind. To-day Alice feltpowerfully attracted toward a certain trunk which had stood in thatgarret ever since she could remember. It was always locked; she hadnever seen it open; and did not know its contents. Now, for a wonder,the key was in the lock; she never thought of there being any thingwrong in the act, as she had never heard the trunk mentioned, and hadnever been forbidden access to it, and lifting the lid, she sat downbeside it and began an examination of its mysteries. Lifting up anapkin spread over the top, she was met by a lovely face, looking up ather from the ivory upon which it was so exquisitely painted. The breathdied upon her lips.

  "It must be my mother's; how very beautiful she was--my mother!"

  Hot tears rushed up into her eyes at this life-like vision of a beingshe did not remember, of whom old Pallas often spoke, but whom herfather seldom mentioned--never, save in the most intimate moments oftheir association. She was sorry she had opened the trunk, realizingat once that if her father had desired her to know of the miniaturehe would have shown it to her years ago; she had a glimpse of awhite-silk dress, some yellow lace, a pair of white-silk slippers, andlong white-kid gloves, but she would not gratify the intense curiosityand interest which she felt. She remembered hearing her father descendfrom the garret late in the preceding night; and she guessed now thepurpose of his visit.

  An impulse was given to her thoughts which drove away her restlessmood; she retreated from the loft, and set very quietly to work helpingPallas with the blackberries. She was sitting in the kitchen-door, anapron on, and a huge bowl in her lap, when Philip Moore came throughthe pines, dragging after him a young deer which he had slain. Pallaswas on a bench outside the shanty, and it was at her feet the hunterlaid his trophy.

  "Bress you, masser Moore, I'se mighty glad you went a huntin'. MissAlice she laugh and say de deer needn't be afraid of you, 'cause youwas a city gentleum, but I tol' her she didn't know nuffin' about it.I was afeard you'd get tired of white-fish and salmon, and bacon andfowls,--dis ven'sen jes' de meat I want."

  "Well, Aunt Pallas, I shall claim one of your best pies as my reward,"said the amateur hunter, laughing. "But little Alice here mustn't thinkno one can do any thing right except foresters and lumbermen."

  "Oh, I don't!" exclaimed she, blushing. "I think you do every thingbeautifully, Mr. Moore, that you've been brought up to do, youknow--but shooting deer--they don't do that in cities, do they?"

  "Not exactly in cities; but there are wild woods near enough New Yorkyet for young men to have a chance at gaining that accomplishment. Isuppose you wouldn't trust me to take you out sailing, to-morrow, wouldyou?"

  "If she would, yer couldn't do it, for I want the boat myself. CaptainWilde's goin' to send me down to the pint with it."

  Mr. Moore looked up in surprise at the speaker, who had just come upfrom the river, and whose looks and tones were still ruder than hiswords.

  "Hi, Ben! yer as surly as a bar," spoke up Pallas; "yer haven't a grainof perliteness in yer body," she added, in a lower tone.

  "I leaves perliteness to them as is wimmen enough to want it," answeredBen, throwing back a glance of defiance and contem
pt at the innocentstranger, as he stepped into the shanty. "I want them new saws as camehome with the capt'n."

  "There's somebody that looks upon me in the same light you do," laughedPhilip, when the youth had secured the saws and departed.

  "Oh, Mr. Moore, you don't know how I look upon you!" she exclaimed,earnestly; neither did he, any more than he knew how the fate of thatblack-eyed, heavy-browed mill-hand was to be mixed and mingled with hisown.

  He admired Alice Wilde as he would have done any other pretty andsingular young creature; but he never thought of loving her; she wasa child in his eyes, ignorant and uncultivated in many things, thoughalways graceful and refined; a child, who would be out of place inany other sphere except that peculiar one in which she now moved. Hedid not guess that in her eyes he was a hero, almost supernatural,faultless, glorious--such as an imaginative girl who had seen nothingof the world, but who had read many poems and much fiction, wouldnaturally create out of the first material thrown in her way.

  No! all through that happy fortnight of his visit he talked with herfreely, answering her eager questions about the world from which shewas so secluded, roamed the woods with her, sailed the river, playedhis flute, sang favorite love-songs, and all without reflecting uponthe deathless impression he was making. Keen eyes were upon him, andsaw nothing to justify censure; he would have laughed at the idea ofthat little wild girl falling in love with him, if he had thought of itat all; but he did not think of it; sometimes he frolicked with her, asif they were both children; and sometimes he kindly took upon himselfthe pleasant task of teaching her in matters about which she showed aninterest. He was touched by her beauty and innocence; and was extremelyguarded in her presence not to let a hint of evil be breathed uponthat young soul--her father, Pallas, all who approached her, seemednaturally to pay her purity the same deference.

  The raft for which Philip was waiting was now in readiness, and wasto commence its drifting journey upon the next day. Alice had fledaway into the pine-woods, after dinner, to anticipate, with dread, hercoming loneliness; for her father was also to accompany it, and wouldbe absent nearly three weeks. Her footsteps wandered to a favoritespot, where the grape-vine swing had held her in its arms, many andmany a frolic hour. She sat down in it, swinging herself slowly toand fro. Presently a footfall startled her from her abstraction, and,looking up, she saw Ben Perkins coming along the path with a cage inhis hand, of home manufacture, containing a gorgeous forest-bird whichhe had captured.

  "I reckon I needn't go no further, Miss Alice," he said; "I war abringin' this bird to see if you'd be so agreeable as to take it. Icotched it, yesterday, in the wood."

  "Oh, Ben, how pretty it is!" she cried, quickly brushing away hertears, that he might not guess what she had been crying about.

  "It sings like any thing. It's a powerful fine singer, Miss Alice--Ithought mebbe 't would be some comfort to ye, seein' yer about to losethat flute that's been turnin' yer head so."

  "What do you mean?--you speak so roughly, Ben."

  "I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken; but I mean what I say,which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks thinks it good sport to betelling you fine fibs, I've no doubt."

  "Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have no reason to,Ben? It isn't generous."

  "But I _have_ reason--O Alice, you don't know how much!" he set thebird-cage down, and came closer to her. "I've got suthin' to say that Ican't keep back no longer. Won't you set down 'side of me on this log?"

  "I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was about to takeher hand.

  The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the question changed toa look which half frightened her, at her gesture of refusal.

  "You didn't object to settin' by that town chap; you sot here on thisvery log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and his fine clothes, Isay!"

  "I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language; I don't knowwhat's the matter with you to-day," and she turned to go home.

  "I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he caught her handalmost fiercely. "I can't keep still any longer and see that fellerhangin' 'round. I didn't mean to speak this long time yet, but thatstranger's driven me crazy. Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see himsmirking and bowin' and blowin' on that blasted flute, around _you_;and you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off? Do yous'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton of the purtiestgirl that ever growd? You needn't wince--it's true; jist as soon ashe'd got away from here he'd forget all about you, or only think of youto laugh at your hoosier ways with some proud lady as fine as himself."

  "Oh, I am afraid it's too true!" burst forth Alice, involuntarily.

  "Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde! Or, at the best, he'd takeyer away from yer own old father as loves the ground you tread, andtry and make a lady of you, and never let you speak to your own fleshand blood agin. While I--I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer fatherwanted; I'd settle down side of him, work for him, see to things, andtake the care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them proudpeacocks, Alice--he _hates_ 'em, and so do I! I know he'd ruther haveme. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl."

  "I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to pass, forshe was troubled and wanted to get away.

  "I'll tell you then," he said, "I want you to marry me, Alice. I'vebeen thinking about it these two years--night and day, night and day."

  "Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "_I_ never thought of it--never!and I can not now. Father will be very angry with you. Let go of myhand; I want to go home."

  "You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess yerfather 'll find it out. He may be mad for a spell; but he'll get overit; and when he comes to think of the chances of his dyin' and leavin'yer alone, he'll give his consent. Come, Alice, say yes, do, now?"

  The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, from sympathy,but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as she replied, "Never! solong as I live, never! And you must not speak of it again, unless youwant to be discharged from--"

  "Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to be threatened.If I'd have said what I've said this day, three weeks ago, you wouldn'thave been so mighty cool. Not that I think I'm good enough forye--there ain't the man livin' that's that; but I'm as good as some asthinks themselves better--and I won't be bluffed off by any broadclothcoat. I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in themill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye more years than he'sseen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' so sure as I live, thatman shall never marry you, Alice Wilde."

  "He never thought of it; and it hurts me, Ben, to have you speak of it.Let me go now, this instant."

  She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful of the birdhe had given her.

  Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; butwhen, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, hepassed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, _hate_--thedangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthybrow.

  Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way.She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far,Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and theinstincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon herby this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself herequal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor.And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhapsothers thought the same--perhaps her father would wish her to accepthim, some time in the far future--perhaps Philip--ah, Philip! howalmost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came outof the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and thewind tossing his brown hair.

  "Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to flyaway by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?"

  How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while _she_ was so sad!
shefelt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her liptrembled.

  "What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindlylooking down into the suffused eyes.

  "I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is goingaway, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas."

  "And that handsome young man I just saw parting from you," he said,mischievously, looking to see her blush and smile.

  "Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for _him_?" sheasked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which vanished in a deepblush the next instant.

  "Well, I don't know; you _are_ too good for him," he answered, frankly,as if the idea had just occurred to him.

  An expression of pain swept over Alice's face.

  "I know, Mr. Moore, how you must regard me; and I can not blame youfor it. I know that I am ignorant--a foolish, ignorant child,--that mydress is odd, my manner awkward,--that the world, if it should see me,would laugh at me--that my mind is uncultivated,--but oh, Mr. Moore,you do not know how eager I am to learn--how hard I should study! Iwish my father would send me away to school."

  "That would just spoil your sweet, peculiar charms, little Alice."

  He smoothed her hair soothingly, as he would have done a child's; butsomething in her tone had put a new thought in his mind; he looked ather earnestly as she blushed beneath this first slight caress which hehad ever given her. "Can it be so?" he asked himself; and in his eyesthe young girl suddenly took more womanly proportions. "How very--howexquisitely beautiful she is now, with the soul glowing through herface. Shall I ever again see a woman such as this--pure as an infant,loving, devoted, unselfish, and so beautiful?" Another face, haughty,clear-cut, with braids of perfumed black hair, arose before his mentalvision, and took place beside this sweet, troubled countenance. One sounmoved, so determined, even in the moment of giving bitter pain--thisother so confiding, so shy, so full of every girlish beauty. Philip wastouched--_almost_ to saying something which he might afterward regret;but he was a Moore, and he had his pride and his prejudices, stubbornas old Mortimer Moore's, nearly. These hardened his heart against thesentiment he saw trembling through that eloquent countenance.

  "You are but a little girl yet, and will have plenty of chance to growwise," he continued playfully. "This pretty Wilde-rose 'needs not theforeign aid of ornament.' When I come again, I hope to find her just asshe is now--unless she should have become the bride of that stalwartforester."

  "Then you are coming again?" she asked, ignoring the cruel kindness ofthe latter part of his speech, and thinking only of that dim futurepossibility of again seeing and hearing him, again being in hispresence, no matter how indifferent he might be to her.

  For Alice Wilde, adoring him as no man ever deserved to be adored,still, in her forest simplicity, called not her passion love, norcherished it from any hope of its being reciprocated. No; she herselfconsidered herself unworthy of the thought of one so much moreaccomplished, so much wiser than herself. Her's was

  "The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow;"

  and now that there was a chance in the future for her to burn her whitewings still more cruelly, she grew a shade happier.

  "I have business with your father which will bring me here again,perhaps this fall, in October, certainly, in the spring. What shall Ibring you when I come again, Alice? You've been a kind hostess, andI owe you many happy hours. I should like to make you some triflingreturn."

  She looked up in his face sadly, thinking she should like to ask him toremember her, but she dared not trust herself.

  "If you will select some books--such as you think I ought to study, myfather will buy them for me."

  "Don't you love jewelry and such pretty trifles as other girls seekafter?"

  "I really don't know; I've no doubt I could cultivate such a liking,"she replied, with some of her native archness.

  "I wouldn't try very hard--you're better without," he said, pressing alight kiss on her forehead; and the two went slowly home, walking moresilently than was their wont.

  Pallas saw them, as they came up through the garden, and gave them ascrutinizing look which did not seem to be satisfactory.

  "Dat chile's troubles jes' began," she murmured to herself. "Ef deseyer ole arms could hide her away from ebery sorrow, Pallas would behappy. But dey can't. Things happen as sure as the worl'; and girlswill be girls--it's in em; jes' as sartin as it's in eggs to bechickens, and acorns to be oaks. Hi! hi!"