CHAPTER XIII.
THE TORNADO.
When Alice came out of her room dressed for the marriage ceremony shelooked quaintly lovely. Old Pallas sobbed as she looked at her, and herfather wiped the dimness again and again from his eyes; for it was asif the fair young bride of long ago had come to life.
Philip had made it an especial request that she should dress in acostume similar to that she wore when he first loved her; and herfather had told her to provide no wedding-robe, as he wished her towear one of his own choosing. She had been attired in the bridal robeand vail, the high-heeled satin slippers, the long white gloves whichhad lain so many years in the mysterious trunk. Philip's gift, abandeau of pearls, shone above a brow not less pure--set in the goldenmasses of her hair.
Virginia laid aside her mourning for that day, appearing in a fleecymuslin robe, as bride-maid, and none the less queenly on account ofthe simplicity of her dress. Her face had gained an expression ofgentleness which added very much to her superb attractions, and whichwas not unnoticed by her companion in the ceremonies.
The words had been said which made the betrothed pair man and wife.A more romantic wedding seldom has occurred than was this, in whichwealth and elegance were so intimately combined with the rudesimplicity of frontier life. To see those beautiful and richly-dressedladies flitting in and out the modest house buried in the shadows ofthe western woods; the luxurious viands of the cook's producing servedupon the plainest of delf, to have the delicate and the rough socontrasted, made a pretty and effective picture against the sunshineof that September day. The spirit of the scene was felt and enjoyedby all, even the venerable clergyman--rich voices and gay laughterblent with the murmur of the river--fond, admiring eyes followed everymotion of the bride. The bride! where was the bride?
She had been standing on the lawn, just in front of the door with Mrs.Raymond, who was saying--
"'Happy is the bride the sun shines on,'"
just the previous moment; Mrs. Raymond had run down to the river-bank,and was throwing pebbles in the water.
Mr. Wilde, ever apprehensive, ever vigilant, had just missed her, andwas turning to inquire of the bridegroom, when a shriek, wild, sharp,agonizing, paralyzed for an instant every faculty of the listeners.
"Great God, it is that madman!" burst from the father's lips.
Philip and he sprang out-of-doors together, just in time to see herborne into the forest, flung like an infant over the shoulder of herabductor, who was making great leaps along the path with the speed andstrength of a panther. The two men appointed as guards were runningafter him. Mr. Wilde sprang for his rifle--the bridegroom waited fornothing.
"Don't shoot!" he shouted to the men; "you will kill the girl!"
Philip reached and distanced the men; the raftsman, strong and tall,and accustomed to the woods, passed him even, madly as he exertedhimself.
"If I only dared to fire," he breathed, between his clenched teeth. "Ifhe would give me just one second's fair and square aim--but my child,she is his shield!"
Two or three times the two foremost pursuers came in sight, almostwithin arm's reach of the terrified girl, crying, "Philip! father!" insuch piercing tones of entreaty.
"Can not you save me, Philip?" once he was so near, he heard thequestion distinctly--but the furious creature who grasped her, gavea tremendous whoop and bound, leaping over logs and fallen trees,brooks, and every obstacle with such speed, that his own feet seemedto be loaded with lead, and he to be oppressed with that powerlessnesswhich binds us during terrible dreams. He flew, and yet to his agony ofimpatience, he seemed to be standing still.
"Philip--father--Philip!"
How faint, how far away. At length they heard her no more; theyhad lost the clue--they knew not which way to pursue. The forestgrew wilder and denser; it was dim at mid-day under those tall,thick-standing pines; and now the afternoon was wearing toward sunset.
"Philip," said the raftsman in a hoarse voice, "we must separate--eachman of the party must take a different track. Here is my rifle; I willget another from the men. Use it if you dare--use it, _at all risks_,if that devil seeks to harm her. His strength must give up some time."
"Don't despair, father," said the new-made husband, but his own heartwas cold in his bosom, and he felt so desperate that he could haveturned the rifle upon himself.
Not knowing but that he was going farther from instead of nearer tothe objects of his search, with every step, he had to pause frequentlyto listen for some sound to guide him. Wandering on in this wild,unsatisfactory way, his brain growing on fire with horror, suddenly heheard a sharp voice chanting--
"'I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near.'"
The next moment he came face to face with Ben Perkins--but no Alice wasin his arms now, nor was she anywhere in sight.
"Fiend! devil! what have you done with my wife?"
His eyes shone like coals out of a face as white as ashes, as heconfronted his enemy with a look that would have made any sane mantremble; but the wretch before him only stared him vacantly in the facewith a mournful smile, continuing to sing--
"'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Her paddle I soon shall hear.'"
"Where is she--answer me, devil?"
The hand of Philip clutched the lunatic's throat, and with the strengthof an anguish as superhuman as the transient power of the other hadbeen, he shook him fiercely as he repeated the question. The madmanwilted under his grasp, but as soon as the hold was relaxed, he slidfrom under it, and sprang away.
"'They made her a grave too cold and damp,'"
he chanted, darting from tree to tree, as Philip, hopeless of makinghim tell what he had done with Alice, tried to shoot him down.
"He has murdered her," he thought; and getting a momentary chance, hefired, but without effect; Ben climbed a tree, springing from branch tobranch like a squirrel, until he reached the top, and like a squirrel,chattering nonsense to himself. "If I had another shot I would putan end to his miserable existence," muttered Philip, turning away totrace, if possible, the track of the man, and find where he had droppedAlice.
Soon he came out upon a small, open, elevated space--the river wasupon one side, the woods all around. Something strange was in theair--nature seemed to be listening--not a breath rippled the water ormade a leaf quiver--he felt hot and suffocated. Despite of all hismental misery, he, too, paused and listened like the elements--his earcaught a far-away murmur. The day had been very warm for that season ofthe year; it grew, now, oppressive. A low bank of dark clouds lay alongthe south and west, hanging over the prairie on the opposite side ofthe stream--it was such a bank of clouds as would seem to threaten rainbefore midnight; but even while he gazed, a great black column wheeledup from the mass and whirled along the sky with frightful rapidity.The distant murmur grew to a roar, and the roar deepened and increaseduntil it was like the surf-swell of a thousand oceans. Stunned by thetumult, fascinated by the sublime terror of the spectacle, he followedwith his gaze the course of the destructive traveler, which flewforward, sweeping down upon the country closer and more close. The airwas black--night fell upon every thing--he saw the tornado--holding inits bosom dust, stones, branches of trees, roofs of houses, a dark,whirling mass of objects, which it had caught up as it ran--reach theriver, and with an instinct of self-preservation, threw himself flatupon the ground, behind a rock which jutted up near him. He could tellwhen it smote the forest, for the tremendous roar was pierced throughwith the snapping, crackling sound of immense trees, broken off likepipe-stems and hurled in a universal crash to the earth.
A short time he crouched where he was, held down in fact, pressed,flattened, hurt by the trampling winds; but nothing else struck him,and presently he struggled to his feet.
What a spectacle met him, as he looked toward the forest from which hehad so lately emerged! A vast and overwhelming ruin, in the midst ofwhich it seemed impossible that any life, animal or vegetable, shouldhave esca
ped. A desolation, such as poets have pictured as clingingto the "last man," came over the soul of Philip Moore. Where were hisfriends? where that gay party he had invited from their distant homesto meet this fate? where was Alice, his wife of an hour? His manhoodyielded to the blow; he cowered and sobbed like a child.
The darkness passed over for a brief time, only to come again with thesetting sun, which had sent some lurid gleams of light, like torchesto fire the ruin, through the storm, before sinking from sight. Adrenching rain fell in torrents, the wind blew chilly and rough.
"I will search for her--I will find her, and die beside her mangledremains," murmured Philip, arising and turning toward the forest.
The incessant flashes of lightning were his only lamps as he struggledthrough the intricate mazes of fallen trees. It was a task whichdespair, not hope, prompted, to toil through rain and wind anddarkness, over and under and through splintered trunks and tangledfoliage, looking, by the lightning's evanescent glare, for some glimpseof the white bridal robe of his beloved. The hours prolonged themselvesinto days and weeks to his suffering imagination, and still it was notmorning. As if not content with the destruction already wrought, theelements continued to hurl their anger upon the prostrate wilderness;ever and anon the sharp tongue of the lightning would lick up somesolitary tree which the wind had left in its hurry; hail cut the fallenfoliage, and the rain fell heavily. It was a strange bridal night.
Not knowing what moment he might stumble upon the crushed body of someone of his friends, Philip wandered through the storm. He felt moreand more as if he were going mad--reason trembled and shuddered at hismisfortunes. Two or three times he resolved to dash his brains outagainst a tree, to prevent himself the misery of going mad and yetliving on in those dismal solitudes, till hunger conquered what griefrefused to vanquish. Then the lightning would glimmer over some whiteobject, perchance the bark freshly scaled from some shattered trunk,and he would hurry toward it, calling--"Alice!" as once she had called,"Philip," through a less wretched night.
It seemed to him that if no other morning began to come before long,the morning of eternity must open its gates upon the world; thestrength of the tempest was spent; only fitful gushes of wind sweptpast; here and there a star looked down hurriedly through the driftingclouds; the solemn roll of the thunder resounded afar, like the drumsof an enemy beating a retreat.
Exhausted, he sank at the foot of one of those Indian mounds common inwestern forests. A gleam of the vanishing lightning flickered over thescene. Hardly had it faded into darkness before a voice close to hisside whispered his name; a warm hand felt through the night, touchinghis; a form glowing with life, soft, and tender, albeit its garmentswere cold and drenched, sank into his outstretched arms.
"Yes, Philip, it is I--safe, unhurt. And you--are you uninjured?"
He could not answer; his throat was choked with the sweetest tearswhich ever welled from a man's heart; he could only press her close,close, in the silence of speechless delight.
In that hour of reunion they knew not if they had a friend left; butthe thought only drew them more near in heart than ever they had orcould have been before. Weary and storm-beaten, but filled with asolemn joy, they clasped each other close and sank upon the wet sod, tosleep the sleep of exhaustion, until the morning should dawn upon themto light their search for their friends.
Alice Wilde: The Raftsman's Daughter. A Forest Romance Page 13