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

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING.

  "It's an ill-wind dat blows nobody no good; and dat yar wind dat blowedde fire right down on our cabin did us some good ater all. Masser 'udlibbed in dat log-house till de day he died, hadn't been for dat firedat frighted me so, and made me pray fasser 'n eber I prayed afore.Lord! Miss Alice, it looked like de judgment-day, when we sailed downde ribber in de light ob de pine-woods. 'Peared to me de worl' was allon fire. I see Saturn a shakin' in his boots. He tole me, nex' day, hetought it was de day of judgment, sure 'nuff. I heard him askin' degood Lord please forgib him fur all de 'lasses he'd taken unbeknown.My! my! I larfed myself to pieces when I tought of it arterward, caseI'd never known where de 'lasses went to hadn't been for dat fire.Dis new house mighty nice. Ben didn't forget ole niggers when hebuilt dis--de kitchen, and de pantry, and my settin'-room is mightycomfor'able. Ben's a handy young man--smart as a basket o' chips.He's good 'nuff for _most_ anybody, but he's not good 'nuff for _my_pickaninny, and he ought to hab sense 'nuff to see it. Ye'd best bekerful, Miss Alice; he's high-tempered, and he'll make trouble. 'Scuseme for speakin'; I know ye've allers been so discreet and as modestas an angel. None can blame you, let what will happen. But I wishdat Mr. Moore would go way. Yes, I _do_, Miss Alice, for more 'n onereason. Don't tink ole Pallas not see tru a grin'-stone. Ef he wantsto leab any peace o' mind behind him, he'd better clar out soon. Thar!thar, chile, nebber mind ole nigger. My! how purty you has made detable look. I'm much obleeged for yer assistance, darlin'. I'se boundto hab a splendid supper, de fust in de new house. 'Taint much of ahouse-warmin', seein' we'd nobody to invite, and no fiddle, but we'vedone what we could to make things pleasant. Laws! ef dat nigger obmine wasn't sech a fool he could make a fiddle, and play suthin' forus, times when we was low-sperited."

  Pallas' tongue did not go any faster than her hands and feet. It wasthe first day in the new house, and Alice and herself had planned todecorate the principal apartment, and have an extra nice supper. Eversince her father left for the mill, in the middle of the day, afterthe furniture was moved in, while Pallas put things "to rights," shehad woven wreaths of evergreens, with scarlet dogberries and brilliantautumn-leaves interspersed, which she had festooned about the windowsand doors; and now she was busy decorating the table, while the oldcolored woman passed in and out, adding various well-prepared dishes tothe feast.

  Pallas had been a famous cook in her day, and she still made the bestof the materials at her command. A large cake, nicely frosted, andsurrounded with a wreath, was one of the triumphs of her skill. Aplentiful supply of preserved strawberries and wild-plum marmalade,grape-jelly, and blackberry-jam adorned the board. A venison-pie wasbaking in the oven, and a salmon, that would have roused the envy ofDelmonico's, was boiling in the pot, while she prepared a sauce for it,for which, in times gone by, she had received many a compliment.

  Philip had been taken into the secret of the feast, as Alice wasobliged to depend upon him for assistance in getting evergreens. He wasnow out after a fresh supply, and Alice was beginning to wish he wouldmake more haste, lest her father should return before the preparationswere complete.

  Again and again she went to the door to look out for him; and at last,six o'clock being come and past, she said with a pretty little frown ofvexation:

  "There's father coming, and Mr. Moore not back!"

  The feast waited until seven--eight--and yet Philip had not returned.

  Several of the men who had been busy about the house during the daywere invited into supper; and at eight o'clock they sat down to it, insomething of silence and apprehension, for every one by this time hadcome to the conclusion that Philip was lost in the woods. Poor Alicecould not force herself to eat. She tried to smile as she waited uponher guests; but her face grew paler and her eyes larger every moment.Not that there was any such great cause for fright; there were no wildanimals in that vicinity, except an occasional hungry bear in thespring, who had made his way from some remote forest; but she was awoman, timid and loving, and her fears kept painting terrible picturesof death by starvation, fierce wolves, sly panthers, and all thehorrors of darkness.

  "Poh! poh! child, don't look so scart," said her father, though he wasevidently hurrying his meal, and quite unconscious of the perfectionof the salmon-sauce, "there's no cause. He's lost; but he can't get sofur in the wrong direction but we'll rouse him out with our horns andlanterns and guns. We'll load our rifles with powder and fire 'em off.He hasn't had time to get fur."

  "Likely he'll make his own way back time we're through supper,"remarked one of the men cheerfully, as he helped himself to a secondlarge piece of venison-pie. "'Tain't no use to be in a hurry. Thesecity folks can't find thar way in the woods quite like us fellers,though. They ain't up to 't."

  Alice looked over at the speaker; and, albeit she was usually sohospitable, wished he _would_ make more speed with his eating. Pallaswaited upon the table in profound silence. Something was upon hermind; but when Alice looked at her anxiously she turned her eyes away,pretending to be busy with her duties.

  Ben Perkins had been asked to supper, but did not make his appearanceuntil it was nearly over. When he came in he did not look anybodystraight in the face, but sitting down with a reckless, jovial air,different from his usual taciturn manner, began laughing, talking, andeating, filling his plate with every thing he could reach.

  "Have you seen any thing of Mr. Moore?" was the first question put tohim, in the hope of hearing from the absent man.

  "Moore? no,--ain't he here? Thought of course he'd be here makin'himself agreeable to the women;" and he laughed.

  Whether Alice's excited state exalted all her perceptions, or whetherher ears were more finely strung than those around her, this laugh,short, dry, and forced, chilled her blood. He did not look towardher as he spoke, but her gaze was fixed upon him with a kind offascination; she could not turn it away, but sat staring at him, as ifin a dream. Only once did he lift his eyes while he sat at the table,and then it was toward her; they slowly lifted as if her own fixed gazedrew them up; she saw them clearly for an instant, and--such eyes!His soul was in them, although he knew it not--a fallen soul--and thecovert look of it through those lurid eyes was dreadful.

  A strange tremulousness now seized upon Alice. She hurried her fatherand his men in their preparations, brought the lanterns, the rifles,the powder-horns; her hands shaking all the time. They laughed ather for a foolish child; and she said nothing, only to hurry them.Ben was among the most eager for the search. He headed a party whichhe proposed should strike directly back into the wood; but two orthree thought best to go in another direction, so as to cover thewhole ground. When they had all disappeared in the wood, their lightsflashing here and there through openings and their shouts ringingthrough the darkness, Alice said to Pallas:

  "Let us go too. There is another lantern. You won't be afraid, willyou?"

  "I'll go, to please you, chile, for I see yer mighty restless. I don'tlike trabelling in de woods at night, but de Lord's ober all, and I'llpray fas' and loud if I get skeered."

  A phantom floated in the darkness before the eyes of Alice all throughthat night spent in wandering through forest depths, but it wasshapeless, and she would not, dared not give shape to it. All nightguns were fired, and the faithful men pursued their search; and atdaybreak they returned, now really alarmed, to refresh their exhaustedpowers with strong coffee and a hastily-prepared breakfast, beforerenewing their exertions.

  The search became now of a different character. Convinced that themissing man could not have got beyond the hearing of the clamor theyhad made through the night, they now anticipated some accident, andlooked closely into every shadow and under every clump of fallen trees,behind logs, and into hollows.

  Drinking the coffee which Pallas forced upon her, Alice again setforth, not with the others, but alone, walking like one distracted,darting wild glances hither and thither, and calling in an impassionedvoice that wailed through the wilderness, seeming to penet
rate everybreath of air,--"Philip! Philip!"

  And now she saw where he had broken off evergreens the day before,and fluttering round and round the spot, like a bird crying after itsrobbed nest, she sobbed,--"Philip! Philip!"

  And then she saw _him_, sitting on a log, pale and haggard-looking, hiswhite face stained with blood and his hair mottled with it, a frightfulgash across his temple and head, which he drooped upon his hand; and hetried to answer her. Before she could reach him he sank to the ground.

  "He is dead!" she cried, flying forward, sinking beside him, andlifting his head to her knee. "Father! father! come to us!"

  They heard her sharp cry, and, hastening to the spot, found her, paleas the body at her feet, gazing down into the deathly face.

  "Alice, don't look so, child. He's not dead--he's only fainted. Here,men, lift him up speedily, for he's nigh about gone. Thar's beenmischief here--no mistake!"

  Captain Wilde breathed hard as he glared about upon his men. Thethought had occurred to him that some one had attempted to murderthe young man for his valuable watch and chain and the well-filledpurse he was supposed to carry. But no--the watch and money wereundisturbed;--may be he had fallen and cut his head--if he shouldrevive, they would know all.

  They bore him to the house and laid him upon Alice's white bed inthe pretty room just arranged for her comfort; it was the quietest,pleasantest place in the house, and she would have him there. After theadministration of a powerful dose of brandy, the faint pulse of thewounded man fluttered up a little stronger; more was given him, theblood was wiped away, and cool, wet napkins kept around his head; andby noon of the same day, he was able to give some account of himself.

  He was sitting in the very spot where they had found him, on theprevious afternoon, with a heap of evergreens gathered about him,preoccupied in making garlands, so that he saw nothing, heard nothing,until _something_--it seemed to him a club wielded by some assailantwho had crept up behind him--struck him a blow which instantly deprivedhim of his senses. How long he lay, bleeding and stunned, he could onlyguess; it seemed to be deep night when he recalled what had happened,and found himself lying on the ground, confused by the pain in his headand faint from loss of blood. He managed to crawl upon the log, soas to lean his head upon his arms, and had been there many hours. Heheard the shouts and saw the lights which came near him two or threetimes, but he could not make noise enough to attract attention. When heheard Alice's voice, he had lifted himself into a sitting posture, butthe effort was too great, and he sank again, exhausted, at the momentrelief reached him.

  His hearers looked in each other's faces as they heard his story. _Who_could have done that murderous deed? What was the object? the pleasantyoung stranger had no enemies,--he had not been robbed; there were noIndians known to be about, and Indians would have finished their workwith the scalping-knife.

  Alas! the terrible secret preyed at the heart of Alice Wilde. She knew,though no mortal lips had revealed it, who was the would-be murderer.A pair of eyes had unconsciously betrayed it. She had read "_murder_"there, and the wherefore was now evident.

  Yet she had no proof of that of which she was so conscious. Should shedenounce the guilty man, people would ask for evidence of his crime.What would she have to offer?--that the criminal loved her, and sheloved the victim. No! she would keep the gnawing truth in her ownbosom, only whispering a warning to the sufferer should he ever be wellenough to need it; a matter by no means settled, as David Wilde wasdoctor enough to know.

  Despite of all the preventives within reach, a fever set in thatnight, and for two or three days, Philip was very ill, a part of thetime delirious; there was much more probability of his dying thanrecovering. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas had that skill picked up by thenecessity of being doctors to all accidents and diseases around them;and they exerted themselves to the utmost for their unfortunate youngguest.

  Then it was that Mr. Wilde found where the heart of his little girlhad gone astray; and cursed himself for his folly in exposing herto a danger so probable. Yet, as he looked at her sweet face, wornwith watching and trouble, he could not but believe that the hand ofthe proudest aristocrat on earth was none too good for her, and thatPhilip would recognize her beauty and worth. If she _must_ love, and bemarried, he would more willingly resign her to Philip Moore than to anyother man. Alice lacked experience as a nurse, but she followed everymotion of the good old colored woman, and stood ready to interferewhere she could be of any use.

  Sitting hour after hour by Philip's bedside, changing the wet clothsconstantly to keep them cool, she heard words from his deliriouslips which added still more to her despair--fond, passionate words,addressed not to her, but to some beloved woman, some beautiful"Virginia," now far away, unconscious of her lover's danger, while toher fell the sad pleasure of attending upon him.

  "Oh, that he may live, and not die by the hand of an assassin, soinnocent a victim to a needless jealousy. Oh, that he may live to savethis Virginia, whoever she may be, from the fate of a hopeless mourner.It will be joy enough for _me_ to save his life," she cried to herself.

  The crisis passed; the flush of fever was succeeded by the languor andpallor of extreme prostration; but the young man's constitution wasexcellent, and he recovered rapidly. Then how it pleased Pallas to cookhim tempting dishes; and how it pleased Alice to see the appetite withwhich he disposed of them. Women love to serve those who are dear tothem; no service can be so homely or so small that their enthusiasmdoes not exalt it.

  Yet the stronger Philip grew, the more heavily pressed a cold horrorupon the soul of Alice. Ben Perkins had not been to the house sincethe wounded man was brought into it; and when Alice would have askedher father of his whereabouts, her lips refused to form his name. Shehoped that he had fled; but then she knew that if he had disappeared,her father would have mentioned it, and that the act would have fixedsuspicion upon him. She felt that he was hovering about, that he oftenbeheld her, when she was unaware of the secret gaze; she could notendure to step to the door after dark, and she closed the curtains ofthe windows with extremest care, especially in Philip's room.

  The first light snow of November had fallen when the invalid wasable to sit up all day; but, although he knew that his long absencewould excite consternation among his friends at Center City, and thatbusiness at home required his attention, he found each day of hisconvalescence so pleasant, that he had not strength of will sufficientto break the charm. To read to his young friend while she sewed; towatch her flitting about the room while he reclined upon a lounge; totalk with her; to study her changing countenance, grew every day moresweet to him. At first he thought it was gratitude--she had been sokind to him. But a thrilling warmth always gathered about his heartwhen he remembered that passionate voice, crying through the pine-woodswith such a sobbing sound--"Philip! Philip!"

  Finding himself thus disposed to linger, he was the more chagrinedto perceive that Alice was anxious to have him go; she gave him noinvitation to prolong his visit, and said unequivocally, that if he didnot wish to be ice-bound for the winter, he would have to depart assoon as his strength would permit. Her father had promised him, whenhe came up, to take him down the river again when he was ready, as heshould be obliged to go down again for his winter stores; and he nowwaited his visitor's movements.

  No words had passed between Alice and Pallas on the subject of theattempted murder, yet the former half knew that the truth was guessedby the faithful servant who also hastened the departure of their guest.

  "I declare, Aunt Pallas, I believe I have worn out my welcome. I'vebeen a troublesome fellow, I know; but it hurts my vanity to see yougetting so tired of me," he said, laughingly, one day, when they werealone together, he sitting on the kitchen-steps after the lazy mannerof convalescents, trying to get warmth, both from the fire within andthe sun without.

  "Ole folks never gets tired of young, bright faces, masser Philip. Butole folks knows sometimes what's fer de best, more 'n young ones."

  "Then you think Miss Alice
wants to get rid of me, and you second yourdarling's wishes--eh, Pallas?" and he looked at her, hoping she wouldcontradict him.

  "I'd do a' mos' any thing for my pickaninny--I lub her better den life;an' dar' never was anudder such a chile, so pretty and so good, as _I_know as has been wid her sence she drew her firs' bref. If I toughtshe wanted you to go, I'd want you to go, too, masser, not meanin' anydisrespeck--and she _do_ want you to go; but she's got reasons for it;"and she shook her yellow turban reflectively.

  "Do you think she is getting to dislike me?"

  "Dat's her own bisness, ef she is; but dat ain't de main reason.She don't like de look of that red scar down your forrid. She knowswho made dat ugly scar, and what fer they did it. She tinks dis a_dangerous_ country for you, Masser Moore, and Pallas tink so too. Goway, masser, quick as you can, and nebber come back any more."

  "But I _shall_ come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring yousomething nice for all you've done for me, and because--because--Ishan't be able to stay away," he answered, though somewhat startled andpuzzled by her revelation.

  "Why not be able to stay 'way?" queried she, with a sharp glance.

  "Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you."

  "People isn't allers satisfied with guessing--like to have thingsplain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas.

  "Just so. _I_ am not satisfied with guessing who tried to kill me, andwhat their object was. I am going to ask Alice, this evening. She'sevidently frightened about me; she won't let me stir a step alone. Soyou think your pickaninny is the best and the prettiest child alive, doyou?"

  "Dat I do."

  "So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such a worthless kind of aperson as myself? Do, now, tell me, won't you, auntie?"

  "You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy wid disironin'. You'd better ask _her_, if yer want to find out."

  "But can't you say something to encourage me?"

  "You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin' on hand."

  "You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas; for, be it knownto you, to-morrow is set for my departure, and when I'm gone it will betoo late to send your answer after me;" and the young man rose, with avery becoming air of injured feeling which delighted her much.

  "Hi! hi! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after him. "But wecan't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite so easy as I smoof outdis table-cloth. He's one ob de family, no mistake; and masser's foundit out, too, 'fore dis."

  That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen puttingup her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions for the nextday's journey, and the master himself busied about many small affairsdemanding attention.

  The two young people sat before a blazing wood-fire in the front room;the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's convenience, and hiscompanion at his request had taken a seat by his side. The curtainswere closely drawn, yet Alice would frequently look around in a timid,wild way, which he could not but notice.

  "You did not use to be so timid."

  "I have more reason now;" and she shuddered. "Until you were hurt, Mr.Moore, I did not think how near we might be to murderers, even in ourhouse."

  "You should not allow it to make such an impression on your mind.It is passed; and such things scarcely happen twice in one person'sexperience."

  "I do not fear for myself--it is for you, Mr. Moore."

  "Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing I _was_ indanger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?"

  She did not answer.

  "Well, what would you risk for some one you loved--say, your father?"

  "All things--my life."

  "There are some people who would rather risk their life than theirpride, their family name, or their money. Supposing a man loved a womanvery much, and she professed to return his love, but was not willing toshare his meager fortunes with him; could not sacrifice splendor andthe passion for admiration, for his sake--what would you think of her?"

  "That she did not love him."

  "But you do not know, little Alice; you have never been tempted; andyou know nothing of the strength of fashion in the world, of theinfluence of public opinion, of the pride of appearances."

  "I have guessed it," she answered, sadly.

  He thought there was a shadow of reproach in those pure eyes, as if shewould have added, that she had been made to feel it, too.

  "I loved a woman once," he continued; "loved her so rashly that I wouldhave let her set her perfect foot upon my neck and press my life out.She knew how I adored her, and she told me she returned my passion. Butshe would not resign any of her rank and influence for my sake."

  "Was her name Virginia?"

  "It was; how did you know?"

  "You talked of her when you were ill."

  "I'll warrant. But _she_ wouldn't have sat up one night by my bedside,for fear her eyes would be less brilliant for the next evening's ball.She drove me off to the West to make a fortune for her to spend, incase she did not get hold of somebody else's by that time. Do you thinkI ought to make it for her?"

  There was no answer. His companion's head was drooping. He lifted oneof her hands, as he went on:

  "I was so dazzled by her magnificence that, for a long time, I couldsee nothing in its true light. But my vision is clear now. Virginiashall never have my fortune to spend, nor me to twist around herjeweled finger."

  The hand he held began to tremble.

  "Now, little Alice, supposing I had told _you_ of such love, and youhad professed to answer it, what sacrifices would you have made? Wouldyou have given me that little gold heart you wear about your neck--youronly bit of ornamentation?"

  "I would have made a sacrifice, full as great in its way, as thedecline in pomp and position might have been to the proud lady," shereplied, lifting her eyes calmly to his face. "I would have _refused_the offered happiness if, by accepting it, I thought I should ever,by my ignorance of proprieties, give him cause to blush for me--if Ithought my uncultivated tastes would some time disappoint him, thathe would grow weary of me as a friend and companion because I was nottruly fitted for that place--if I thought I was not worthy of him, Iwould sacrifice _myself_, and try to wish only for his best happiness."

  Her eyes sank, as she ceased speaking, and the tears which would comeinto them, gushed over her cheeks.

  "Worthy! you are more than worthy of the best man in the world, Alice!far more than worthy of _me_!" cried Philip, in a rapture he could notrestrain. "O Alice, if you only loved _me_ in that fashion!"

  "You know that I do," she replied, with that archness so native to her,smiling through her tears.

  "Then say no more. There--don't speak--don't speak!" and he shut hermouth with the first kiss of a lover.

  For a while their hearts beat too high with happiness to recall any ofthe difficulties of their new relation.

  "We shall have small time to lay plans for the future, now. But I shallfly to you on the first breezes of spring, Alice. Your father shallknow all, on our way down the river. Oh, if there was only a mailthrough this forlorn region. I could write to you, at least."

  "I shall have so much to do, the winter will speedily pass; I muststudy the books you brought me. But I shall not allow myself to hopetoo much," she added, with a sudden melancholy, such as sometimes isborn of prophetic instinct.

  "_I_ can not hope too highly!" said Philip, with enthusiasm. "Herecomes your father. Dear Alice, your cheeks are so rosy, I believe hewill read our secret to-night."