CHAPTER XII.
FAMILY AFFAIRS.
It was the day before the wedding. The house was in order, to thefull satisfaction of the sable housekeeper. Viands, worthy of theoccasion, filled the store-room to overflowing. Philip, with his suite,including the minister who was to officiate, was expected to arrive bysupper-time. The last touches were given to the arrangements, and Alicewas dressed to receive her guests, by the middle of the afternoon. Themotherly heart of her old nurse was so absorbed in her, that she camevery near making fatal mistakes in her dressings and sauces. Everyfive minutes she would leave her work to speak with the restless youngcreature, who, beautiful with hopes and fears, fluttered from room toroom, trying to occupy herself so that her heart would not beat quiteso unreasonably.
"They are coming!" she cried, at last, having stolen out for thehundredth time to the top of a little knoll which gave her a fartherview of the river. How gladly the ripples sparkled, how lightly thewinds danced, to her joyous eyes. "Oh, Pallas, they are coming! whatshall I do?" and she hid her face on the old woman's bosom, as ifflying from what she yet so eagerly expected.
"Do, darlin'? oh, my chile, you got to be a woman now; no more littlechile to run away and hide. Masser Moore berry proud of his wife dat isto be. Don't make him 'shamed, darlin'."
Ashamed of her! mortify Philip! the thought was death to Alice'ssensitive spirit. She lifted her head and became calm at once.
"There, nursie, I don't feel so startled any more. I think I can meetthem, clergyman and all, without flinching."
Her father, who had been on the look-out, took a little skiff and wentdown to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore, as she had done uponthe day of Philip's first arrival. A soft rose glowed in either cheek,which was all the outward sign of the inward tumult as she saw herbridegroom sailing near enough to recognize and salute her. She saw inthe boat Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, and a young ladywhom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman.
It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that young lady turnedand grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low voice:
"I don't wonder you refused _me_, cousin Philip. I did not know suchbeings existed except in poetry and painting."
Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and the new dresssent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny did credit to _her_"broughten' up," as she saw the manner, quiet, modest, but filled withpeculiar grace, with which Alice received her guests.
"Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud stranger inhers; "this is my cousin Virginia."
"I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kissing her cheeklightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way.
Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her manner, touchedthe affectionate heart of her hostess, who returned her kiss withinterest.
"For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick--quick! Who be dat comin'up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny? Ef dat ain't little VirginnyMoore, growed up, who is it?"
"It's Virginny, sure 'nuff!" ejaculated her husband.
In the mean time that young lady herself began to look about withquick, inquiring glances; she peered into the raftsman's faceanxiously, and again toward the old servants, a perplexed look comingover her face as she neared the house.
"You needn't say a word, Miss Virginny--it's us, sartain--Pallas andSaturn, your fadder's people, who had you in our arms ebery day tillyou was eight year old. You do remember old Pallas, don't you now,honey? My! my! what a han'some, tall girl you is growed--de picture obyour fadder. Yer a Moore tru and tru, Missus. My ole eyes is glad tosee you."
"Hi! hi! Miss Virginny!" chuckled Saturn, bowing and scraping.
"Come 'long and let me get your bunnit off. I want to take a goodlook at ye, honey. Missus Alice neber was a Moore--she was like _her_mudder, small and purty and timid-like; but ye's a perfect Moore, MissVirginny. My! my! I know 'em all, root and branch. I tol' my ole manMasser Philip belonged to our Mooreses, but Masser Wilde he neber leton"--she had the visitor's bonnet off by this time, talking all thetime, and oblivious, in her excited state, of the other guests.
"Yes, Miss Virginia," said the raftsman, drawing his powerful figure upto its full height, "I am that brother-in-law you have been taught todetest and be ashamed of. You would hardly have come to the wedding, ifyou had known what poor company you were to get in."
All those of the company who knew him looked at him in surprise, forhe had dropped his hoosier form of speech and took on the air of asuperior man. Virginia looked at him a moment calmly, taking, as itwere, an estimate of the mind and heart outside of that athletic frame,and gleaming through those noble though weather-beaten features.
"I do not see any thing to be ashamed of," she said, with a smile,giving him her hand, frankly, in a sisterly manner. "I was but a littlechild, you know, when your connection with our family commenced.Doubtless I have been influenced by what I have heard. If my fatherwronged you, David Wilde, it is time for you to forgive it--lay up nohard thoughts against the dead."
Her lip trembled over the last sentence.
"Dear Virginia! is it possible my Alice is to find in you--"
"An aunt? yes, Philip,--and you are about to marry your third cousin.It's rather curious, isn't it?"
"We'll talk it over after supper," said the host. "Pallas, our guestsare hungry. The river breeze sharpens the appetite."
Pallas wanted no further hint. Perfectly content that she had the meansof satisfying any amount of hunger, she retired, with her subordinatehusband, to dish up the feast.
"I 'spect I'll spile half dese tings, I'se so flusterated. Did youmind whar' I put dat pepper, Saturn? I declar' I can't say wedder Iput it in de gravy or in de coffee. I jes' turn 'round and put it inde _suthin'_ on de stove, wile I was tinkin' how cur'us tings happens.Dear! dear! I put it in de coffee, sure 'nuff, and now dat's all to betrowed away! 'Spect tings won't be fit to eat. Why don' you fly roundand grin' more coffee? You is de stupidest nigger!"
In spite of small tribulations, however, the supper was served indue season and with due seasoning. Gay conversation prevailed; butAlice, though bright and attentive, felt uneasy. Her glance frequentlywandered to the windows and open doors. A certain dark figure had sooften started up in unexpected places, and seemed to hover about sowhen least expected, that she could not be entirely at her ease. It wastrue that several men were on guard, and that Ben had not been heardof for a week; but he was so sly, so subtle, she felt almost as if hemight drop out of the roof or come up out of the earth at any instant.
Philip was warned to be on the look-out. He laughed and said he was amatch for Ben in a fair fight, and if the other had no fire-arms, hecould take care of himself.
Long after the rest of the party, fatigued with their journey, hadretired for the night, David Wilde, Alice, Philip, and Virginia sat up,talking over the past, present, and future.
Alice, who had never known the particulars of her mother's marriageand death, except as she had gathered hints from her old nurse, nowlistened with tearful eyes to brief explanations of the past.
Her father, in his youth, had been a medical student, poor, butpossessed of talent--a charity-student, in fact, who, one day had, atthe risk of his own life, saved the lovely daughter of Mortimer Moorefrom the attack of a rabid dog in the street. He had actually chokedthe ferocious creature to death in his desperate grip. Grateful forthe noble and inestimable service, the father invited him to the houseto receive a substantial token of his gratitude in the shape of a sumof money sufficient to carry him through his course of study. But thecourage, the modesty, the fine address and respectful admiration of herpreserver, made a deep impression upon Alice Moore--it was a case oflove at first sight upon both sides--they were young and foolish--thefather opposed the match with contempt and indignation. His rudenessroused the ire of the proud student; he resolved to marry the womanhe loved, in spite of poverty. They fled, accompanied by Pallas, theattendant of the young girl; the father re
fused to forgive them; andthen, when sickness and suffering, untempered by the luxuries ofwealth, came upon his delicate wife, the young husband realized whathe had done in persuading her away from her home and the habits of herlife. If he had first finished his studies and put himself in the wayof gaining even a modest living, and she had chosen to share such alot, he would have done right in following the dictates of his heart.Now he felt that he had been cruelly rash. A year of strange, wildhappiness, mixed with sorrow and privation passed, and the wife becamea mother. Pallas nursed her with tireless assiduity; her husband,bound to her sick couch, could not exert himself as he might havedone alone; they grew desperately poor--he could not see her sufferwithout humbling his pride, and writing to her father to send _her_,not him, the means necessary to her comfort and recovery. They werecoldly denied. Privation somewhat, but care, grief, and trouble more,retarded her recovery,--she fell into a decline, and died in his arms,who swore a great oath over her beloved corpse to forsake a world sounjust, so cruel, so unhappy. Sending a bitter message to her father,he disappeared with their infant child. The old colored nurse, whohad also persuaded her husband to accompany them, went with him asfoster-mother to the child. They traveled to the far West--much fartherin those days than now--and when they first settled where they nowwere, they were isolated in the wilderness.
Mr. Wilde took up his portion of government land. By the time otheremigrants had made settlements down the river, he had made enough fromit to purchase more. He felled timber with his own hands, and driftedit down to where it was wanted. As years passed, he employed hands,built a mill, and as towns grew up within market-distance, foundbusiness increasing upon him. During all this time he had nurtured hisspleen against the civilized world; natures strong and wayward likehis, are subject to prejudice--and because one haughty old aristocrathad allowed a fair child to perish neglected, he condemned refinedsociety _en masse_. He adopted the conversation and manners, to a greatdegree, of those by whom he was surrounded.
All these things explained to Philip many incongruities in the talkand habits of Mr. Wilde--the possession of books, the knowledge ofman--which had hitherto challenged his curiosity.
It had been the object of the raftsman to bring up his daughter instrict seclusion from the world he despised; he had not thoughtof further consequences than to keep her innocent, unselfish,unsuspicious, and free from guile. Chance threw Philip in their way.His frankness, pleasant temper, and sincerity excused his fashionablegraces in Mr. Wilde's estimation; more intimate association withhim did much to wear away the prejudices he had been heaping upunchallenged for so long; and when it came to the certainty that hisdaughter must choose between one of the rough and uneducated men aroundher, or on a man like Philip, he could not conceal from himself thatPhilip was his choice.
"And what do you think brought _me_ out here at this critical moment?"asked Virginia. "I come to throw myself upon Philip's charity--tobecome a pensioner upon his bounty. Yes, Mr. Wilde, upon closing upmy father's estate, there was absolutely nothing left for his onlychild. He lived up to all that he possessed, hoping, before his povertybecame known, that I would make a brilliant match. A fortnight ago mylawyer told me there would be nothing left, but a small annuity frommy mother, which they can not touch. It is a sum barely sufficientto dress me plainly--it will not begin to pay my board. So I, unableto bear my discomfiture alone, friendless, sorrowful, thought itless bitter to begin anew among strangers than in the scenes of myformer triumph. I came on to beg Philip to find me some little ruralschool where I might earn my bread and butter in peace, unstung by thecoldness of past worshipers. I'll make a good teacher,--don't you thinkso?--so commanding!"
Yet she sighed heavily, despite her attempt at pleasantry. It waseasy to be seen that earning her own living would go hard with theaccomplished daughter of Mortimer Moore.
"But Philip will never let you go away from us, I am sure," saidAlice's soft voice, caressingly.
"Until she goes to a home of her own," added her cousin, with amischievous smile. "I wouldn't be guilty of match-making; but I own Ihad a purpose in asking my friend Irving to stand as groomsman withVirginia. How do you like him, my sweet cousin?--be honest now."
"Not as well as I have liked some other man, sir?"
"Oh, of course, not yet; but you'll grow to it; and he has no stainupon his escutcheon--he isn't even a flour-merchant or mill-owner."
"You haven't told me what he is yet," said Virginia, with a slight showof interest.
"He's my book-keeper."
"Oh, Philip! you're jesting."
"No, indeed, I'm not. He has not a cent, saving his salary; but he's agentleman and a scholar, and has seen better days."
"Well, I like him, anyhow," she remarked, presently.
"You ought to encourage him to pay his addresses to you. You couldteach school, and he could keep books. You could take a suite of threerooms, and wait upon yourselves. I'll promise to furnish the rooms withdimity, delf, and rag-carpeting."
"You are generous, Philip."
"And to send you an occasional barrel of flour and load of refusekindling-wood."
"My prospects brighten."
"Don't tease the girl," said the raftsman, "she'll do better'n youthink for yet. Since my own chick has deserted me for another nest, Idon't know but I shall adopt Virginia myself."
"I wish you would," and the great black eyes were turned to him with amournful, lonely look. "Everybody else is so happy and blessed, they donot need me. But I should love to wait upon you, and cheer you, sir."
It was a great change which misfortune was working in the spirit of theproud and ambitious girl. Philip, who knew her so well, regarded herpresent mood with surprise.
"Well, well, without joking, I intend to adopt this orphan girl. She'sthe sister of my own dead wife, and she shall share equally with mylittle Alice in all that the rough old raftsman has."
"Which won't be much, father," said Alice, with a smile, glancingaround upon their humble forest home.
"Don't be too sure of that, little one. I haven't felled pine logsand sawed lumber for fifteen years to no account. Did you think yourtwo dresses a year, your slippers, and straw-hats had eaten up allthe money-bags I brought home with me upon my trips? Here's a checkfor five thousand dollars, puss, to furnish that new house with; andwhen Philip gets time to 'tend to it, the cash is ready to put up asteam saw-mill nigh about here, somewhere--the income to be yours.It'll bring you in a nice little bit of pocket-money. And if Virginiaconcludes to accept that pale-faced book-keeper, thar's an equal sumlaid aside for her--and home and money as much as she wants in the meantime. It shan't be said the old raftsman's pretty daughters had nowedding portion."
Virginia took his rough hand in her two white ones, and a tear mingledwith the kiss which she pressed upon it.
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