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

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

  CHAPTER VII.

  SUSPENSE.

  What was the consternation of Alice when her father returned theevening of the day of his departure and told her he had concluded hecould not be spared for the trip, and so, when they reached the mill,he had chosen Ben to fill his place! Every vestige of color fled fromher face.

  "O father! how could you trust him with Philip?" burst forthinvoluntarily.

  "Trust Ben? Why, child, thar ain't a handier sailor round the place.And if he wan't, I guess Moore could take care of himself--he'll managea craft equal to an old salt."

  "Can't you go after them, father? oh, do go, now, this night--thishour!"

  "Why, child, you're crazy!" replied the raftsman, looking at her insurprise. "I never saw you so foolish before. Go after a couple ofyoung chaps full-grown and able to take care of themselves? They'vethe only sail-boat there is, besides--and I don't think I shall breakmy old arms rowing after 'em when they've got a good day's start," andhe laughed good-naturedly. "Go along, little one, I'm 'fraid you'relove-cracked."

  Got the only sail-boat there was! There would be no use, then, inmaking her father the confidant of her suspicions. It seemed as iffate had fashioned this mischance. Several of the men had got into aquarrel, at the mill, that morning; some of the machinery had broken,and so much business pressed upon the owner, that he had been obligedto relinquish his journey. He had selected Ben as his substitutebecause he was his favorite among all his employees; trusty, quick,honest, would make a good selection of winter stores, and render a fairaccount of the money spent. Such had been the young man's character;and the little public of Wilde's mill did not know that a stain hadcome upon it--that the mark of Cain was secretly branded upon theswarthy brow which once could have flashed back honest mirth upon them.

  They say "the devil is not so black as he is painted;" and surelyBen Perkins was not so utterly depraved as might be thought. He wasa heathen; one of those white heathen, found plentifully in thisChristian country, not only in the back streets of cities, but in theback depths of sparsely-settled countries.

  He had grown up without the knowledge of religion, as it is taught,except an occasional half-understood sensation sermon from sometravelling missionary--he had never been made to comprehend thebeauty of the precepts of Christ--and he had no education which wouldteach him self-control and the noble principle of self-government.Unschooled, with a high temper and fiery passions, generous andkindly, with a pride of character which would have been fine had itbeen enlightened, but which degenerated to envy and jealousy of hissuperiors in this ignorant boy-nature--the good and the bad grewrankly together. From the day upon which he "hired out," a youth ofeighteen, to Captain Wilde, and saw Alice Wilde, a child of twelve,looking shyly up at him through her golden curls, he had loved her.He had worked late and early, striven to please his employer, shownhimself hardy, courageous, and trustworthy--had done extra jobs that hemight accumulate a little sum to invest in property--all in the hopeof some time daring to ask her to marry him. Her superior refinement,her innate delicacy, her sweet beauty were felt by him only to makehim love her the more desperately. As the sun fills the ether withwarmth and light, so she filled his soul. It was not strange that hewas infuriated by the sight of another man stepping in and winning soeasily what he had striven for so long--he saw inevitably that Alicewould love Philip Moore--this perfumed and elegant stranger, with hisfine language, his fine clothes, and his fine manners. He conceiveda deadly hate for him. All that was wicked in him grew, choking downevery thing good. He allowed himself to brood over his wrongs, ashe regarded them; growing sullen, imprudent, revengeful. Then theopportunity came, and he fell beneath the temptation.

  Chance had saved him from the consummation of the deed, though notfrom the guilt of the intent. He had thought himself, for half a day,to be a murderer,--and during those hours the rash boy had changed intothe desperate man. Whether he had suffered so awfully in consciencethat he was glad to hear of the escape of his intended victim, orwhether he swore still to consummate his wish, his own soul only knew.

  Everybody at Wilde's mill had remarked the change in him, from a gayyouth full of jests and nonsense to a quiet, morose man, working morediligently than ever, but sullenly rejecting all advances of sport orconfidence.

  If he _was_ secretly struggling for the mastery over evil, it wasa curious fatality which threw him again upon a temptation sooverwhelming in its ease and security of accomplishment.

  Ah, well did the unhappy Alice realize how easily now he could followhis intent--how fully in his power was that unsuspicious man who hadalready suffered so much from his hands. Appetite and sleep forsookher; if she slept it was but to dream of a boat gliding down a river,of a strong man raising a weak one in his grasp and hurling him,wounded and helpless, into the waters, where he would sink, sink, tillthe waves bubbled over his floating hair, and all was gone. Many anight she started from her sleep with terrified shrieks, which alarmedher father.

  "'Tain't right for a young girl to be having the nightmare so, Pallas.Suthin' or another is wrong about her--hain't no nerves lately. I dohope she ain't goin' to be one of the screechin', faintin' kind ofwomen folks. I detest sech. Her health can't be good. Do try and findout what's the matter with her; she'll tell you quicker 'an she willme. Fix her up some kind of tea."

  "De chile ain't well, masser; dat's berry plain. She's getting thinevery day, and she don't eat 'nuff to keep a bird alive. But it'sher _mind_, masser--'pend on it, it's her mind. Dese young gentleummake mischief. Wish I had masser Moore under my thumb--I'd give him ascoldin' would las' him all his life."

  "Cuss Philip Moore, and all others of his class," muttered theraftsman, moodily.

  Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas began to lose their high opinion of theyoung man, as they witnessed the silent suffering of their darling. Hisgoing down the river without his expected company had cheated Philipout of the revelation he had desired to make; and Alice, with thatexcessive delicacy of some timid young girls, had not even confided hersecret to her good old nurse.

  Much better it would have been for her peace of mind, had she told allto her friends--her love and her fears. Then, if they had seen goodreason for her apprehensions, they might have chased the matter down,at whatever trouble, and put her out of suspense. But she did not doit. She shut the growing terror in her heart where it fed upon her lifeday by day.

  There was no regular communication between Wilde's mill and the lowercountry, and in the winter what little there had been was cut off. Thelovely, lingering Indian-summer days, in the midst of which the twovoyagers had set out, were over, and ice closed the river the very dayafter the return of Ben.

  A sudden agony of hope and fear convulsed the heart of Alice, when herfather entered the house one day, and announced Ben's arrival.

  "Did he not bring me a letter? was there no letter for you, father?"

  It would be so natural that he should write, at least to her father,some message of good wishes and announcement of his safe journey--ifshe could see his own handwriting, she would be satisfied that all waswell.

  "Thar' was none for me. If Ben got a letter for you, I s'pose he'lltell you so, as he's coming in with some things."

  "Have you any thing for me--any message or letter?"

  It was the first time she had met Ben, face to face, since thatnever-to-be-forgotten night of the house-warming; but now he looked herin the eyes, without any shrinking, and it appeared to her as if theshadow which had lain upon him was lifted. He certainly looked morecheerful than he had done since the day of Philip's unexpected arrivalat the new house. Was it because he felt that an enemy was out of theway? Alice could not tell; she waited for him to speak, as the prisonerwaits for the verdict of a jury.

  "Thar' ain't any letter, Miss Alice," he replied, "but thar's apackage--some presents for you, and some for Pallas, too, from Mr.Moore. He told me to tell you that he was safe and sound, and hopedyou'd accept the things he sent."

  His eyes did not quail as he made
this statement, though he knewthat she was searching them keenly. Perhaps there was a letter inthe bundle. She carried it to her own room and tore it open. No! nota single written word. The gifts for the old servant--silk aprons,gay-colored turbans, and a string of gold beads--were in one bundle.In another was a lady's dressing-case, with brushes, perfumeries, andall those pretty trifles which grace the feminine toilet, a quantity offine writing materials, paper-folder, gold-pen, some exquisite smallengravings, and, in a tiny box, a ring set with a single pure pearl.That ring! was it indeed a betrothal ring, sent to her by her lover,which she should wear to kiss and pray over? or was it intended to helpher into a bond with his murderer? Eagerly she scanned every bit ofwrapping-paper to find some proof that it was Philip's own hand whichhad made up the costly and tasteful gifts. She could find nothing tosatisfy her. They might have been purchased with his money, but notby him. The ring which she would have worn so joyfully had she beencertain it had come from him, she put back in its case without eventrying it on her finger.

  "O God!" she murmured, throwing herself upon her knees, "must I bearthis suspense all this endless winter?"

  Yes, all that endless winter the weight of suspense was not to belifted--nor for yet more miserable months.

  December sat in extremely cold, and the winter throughout was one ofunusual severity.

  As the Christmas holidays drew near, that time of feasting so preciousto the colored people raised in "ole Virginny," Saturn bestirredhimself a little out of his perpetual laziness. If he would give dueassistance in beating eggs and grinding spices, chopping suet andpicking fowls, as well as "keep his wife in kindling-wood," Pallaspromised him rich rewards in the way of dainties, and also to make himhis favorite dish a--woodchuck pie.

  "'Clar' to gracious, I don't feel a bit of heart 'bout fixin' upfeastesses dis yere Chris'mas," said she to him, one evening in themidst of the bustle of preparation. "We've allers been Christian folks'nuff to keep Chris'mas, even in de wilderness; but what's de use ofcookin' and cookin' and dar's Miss Alice don't eat as much as datfrozen chick I brought in and put in dat basket by de fire."

  "But dar's masser, _he_ eat well 'nuff,--and I--I'se mighty hungry desedays. Don't stop cookin', Pallas."

  "You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger, Saturn. Nobody'dtink you was brought up in one de best families. If I could only tinkof somethin' new dat would coax up pickaninny's appetite a little!"

  "P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested Saturn.

  It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish which heusually reserved especially to himself, but he, too, felt as tender ashis organism would permit, toward his youthful mistress.

  "Our missus eat woodchuck pie! you go 'long, Saturn; she wouldn'tstomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our chile begins to lookjus' as missus did de year afore she died. I feel worried 'bout her."

  "Does you? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neurology. I got derheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish you'd fix up some of yerliniment, wife."

  "Wall, wall, eberybuddy has der troubles, even innocen' ones like ourchile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse generation, and dat is de reasonour woods tuk fire and our house burn up; and now our dear chile mus'go break her heart 'bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs heror not. She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'da thought our family wud ever come to sech an end? I remember whenMortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran' style 'fore he sol' eberybuddy but you and I, Saturn, and kep' us cause we wouldn't leab defamily, and tuk us to New York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sideswith my young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and run'way wid her, and see to her tru thick and thin. But I see her die,and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chile die. Dun know whatpoor old woman lib for to bury all her children for. When I tink ofall de mince-pies and de chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, forChris'mas, I don't feel no heart for to lif' dis choppin'-knife anoddertime."

  Yet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New Year'sday the men at the mill were supplied with a feast; but Alice couldnot bring herself to decorate the house with wreaths of evergreen,according to custom--it brought back hateful fears too vividly. Theunceasing cry of her heart was for the river to open. She counted thehours of the days which must drag on into weeks and months.

  Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would not talk tohim, he would make himself agreeable to the old servants; any thingfor an excuse to linger about where he could obtain glimpses of theface growing so sad and white. Mr. Wilde had always favored him as awork-hand, and now he invited him often to his home. He hoped thateven Ben's company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from her"love-sickness."

  It was a few weeks after the holidays that, one evening, Mr. Wilde tookAlice upon his knee, smoothing her hair as if she were a baby, andlooking fondly into her face.

  "I've some curious news for you, little one," he said, with a smile."Would you believe that any one had been thinking of my little cub fora wife, and had asked me if he might talk to her about it?"

  "Was it Ben, father?"

  "Yes, it was Ben. No doubt you knew of it before, you sly puss!"

  "I refused him long ago, father. Didn't he tell you that?"

  "No."

  "Would you be willing I should marry a person like him?"

  "No, not willing. Once I'd have set him afloat if he'd had theimpudence to mention it. But you're failing so, Alice, and you'reso lonesome and so shut up here. I know how it is. The young musthave their mates; and if _you_ want him, I shan't make any seriousobjection. He's the best there is in these parts. He's better than aflattering, deceiving _gentleman_, Alice. I _was_ fool enough onceto imagine you'd never marry, but live your lifetime with yer oldfather; but I ought to have known better. 'Tain't the way of the world.'Twasn't my way, nor your mother's way. No, Alice, if yer ever in love,and want to marry, unless I know the man's a villain, I shall make noobjections. Ben loves you, my dear, desperately. A girl should give twothoughts before she throws away such a love as his. 'Tain't every manis capable of it."

  "But I'm engaged to Philip Moore, father. _We_ love each other." Herblushing cheek was pressed against his that he might not see it.

  "Alice, my child," said the raftsman very gently, in a voice full ofpity and tenderness; "Mr. Moore is a rascal. He may have told you thathe loved you, but he don't. He don't intend to marry you. He's a d----proud aristocrat!" waxing wrathy as he went on. "There! there! don'tyou feel hurt; I know all about him. Knew't he made fun of us, afterall we'd done for him, in his store down to Center City, when he didn'tknow Ben was listenin'. Besides, he advised Ben to marry you, to keepyou from breakin' your heart about _him_; said you expected him back inthe spring, but he was goin' on East to marry a girl there. So you seeyou must think no more of that rascally fellow, Alice. If he ever doescome back here I'll whip him."

  "Ben told you this?" cried Alice, her eyes flashing fire and her whitelips quivering. "And you believed the infamous lie, father? No! no! Benhas _murdered_ him, father--he has murdered my Philip, and has inventedthis lie to prevent our expecting him. O Philip!"--her excitementoverpowered her and she fainted in her father's arms.

  Now that the tension of suspense had given way, and she deemed herselfcertain of the fate of her lover, she yielded for a time to thelong-smothered agony within her, going from one fainting-fit to anotherall through that wretched night.

  The next day, when composed enough to talk, she told her fatherall--Ben's offer of marriage, his threats, the circumstantial evidencewhich fixed the guilt of the assault in the woods upon him, and herbelief now that Philip had been made away with. The raftsman himselfwas startled; and to quiet and encourage his child, he promised toset off, by to-morrow, upon the ice, and _skate_ down to Center City,that her fears might be dispelled or confirmed. But that very nightthe weather, which had been growing warm for a week, melted into rain,and the ice became too rotten to trust. There was nothing to do but towait.<
br />
  "'Tain't by no means certain he's done sech a horrible thing. And ifyou'll pick up courage to think so, and make yerself as easy as youcan, I'll start the very first day it's possible. Likely in March thespring 'll open. You may go 'long with me, too, if you wish, so as tolearn the news as soon as I do. I'll say nothing of my suspicions toyoung Perkins, but try to treat him the same as ever, till I know hedesarves different."