[Illustration: "I must return to the house! There's something in the
garret I must have."--page 34.]
ALICE WILDE:
THE
RAFTSMAN'S DAUGHTER.
A
FOREST ROMANCE.
BY MRS. METTA V. VICTOR.
NEW YORK:
IRWIN P. BEADLE AND COMPANY,
141 WILLIAM ST., CORNER OF FULTON.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, by
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO.,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
ALICE WILDE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE CABIN HOME.
CHAPTER II. PALLAS AND SATURN.
CHAPTER III. REJECTED ADDRESSES.
CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS.
CHAPTER V. AN APPALLING VISITOR.
CHAPTER VI. THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING.
CHAPTER VII. SUSPENSE.
CHAPTER VIII. AWAY FROM HOME.
CHAPTER IX. A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER.
CHAPTER X. RECONCILIATION.
CHAPTER XI. A MEETING IN THE WOODS.
CHAPTER XII. FAMILY AFFAIRS.
CHAPTER XIII. THE TORNADO.
CHAPTER XIV. GATHERING TOGETHER.
CHAPTER XV. BEN AND ALICE.
CHAPTER I.
THE CABIN HOME.
"That ar' log bobs 'round like the old sea-sarpint," muttered Ben
Perkins to himself, leaning forward with his pole-hook and trying to
fish it, without getting himself too deep in the water. "Blast the
thing! I can't tackle it no how;" and he waded in deeper, climbed on
to a floating log, and endeavored again to catch the one which so
provokingly evaded him.
Ben was a "hand" employed in David Wilde's saw-mill, a few rods farther
up the creek, a young fellow not without claims to admiration as a
fine specimen of his kind and calling. His old felt-hat shadowed hair
as black as an Indian's, and made the swarthy hue of his face still
darker; his cheeks and lips were red, and his eyes blacker than his
hair. The striped wammus bound at the waist by a leather belt, and the
linen trowsers rolled up to the knees, were picturesque in their way
and not unbecoming the lithe, powerful figure.
Ben had bobbed for saw-logs a great many times in his life, and was
a person too quick and dextrous to meet with frequent accidents; but
upon this day, whether the sudden sight of a tiny skiff turning the
bend of the river just below and heading up the creek threw him off his
guard, or what it was, certain it is, that stretching forward after
that treacherous log, he lost his balance and fell into the water. He
did not care for the ducking; but he cared for the eyes which saw him
receive it; his ears tingled and his cheeks burned as he heard the
silvery laugh which greeted his misfortune. Climbing up on to a log
again, he stood dripping like a merman and blushing like a peony, as
the occupant of the boat rowed nearer.
"Keep out the way them logs, Miss Alice, or ye'll get upsot!" he cried,
glad of an excuse for attracting attention from his own mishap.
"I can take care of myself, thank you," was the gay answer. "Do you see
father's boat coming, anywhere in sight, Ben? He was to be home this
afternoon; and I took a fancy to go down and meet him."
"I don't see nuthin' of it. That war a mighty big raft he took down
to Centre City; the biggest raft that ever floated on that river, I
reckon. He mought not be home for two or three days yet, Miss Alice.
Gorry! but won't he hev a heap of money when he sells that ar' raft!"
"And he'll be sure to bring me something pretty--he always does."
"He knows what's what," responded Ben, stealing a sidelong, admiring
glance at the sweet, young face in the skiff.
If a compliment was intended, it was not understood by the hearer.
"Yes, father always knows _just_ what suits me best. Dear father! I
hope he _will_ come home to-night. I've been out picking blackberries
for supper--just look at my hands," and she held up two pretty, dimpled
hands, as if to show how charming they were, instead of to betray the
purple-tipped fingers.
But Alice Wilde did not know they were pretty, in sober truth, for she
had never been praised, flattered, nor placed in a situation where she
could institute comparisons.
"Well, Ben, good-by. I shall float down the river a few miles, and if I
don't see him, I can row back alone."
"You're mighty pert with the oars, for a gal. I never seed no woman 't
could row a boat like you, Miss Alice."
"Thank you," she said, with a bright smile, as she turned her little
birchen skiff about and struck out into the river again.
Ben watched that graceful form until it was out of sight, heaving a
sigh, as he turned again to his work, which told how absorbed he had
been.
Drifting down the river, under the shadow of precipitous bluffs, while
the sunshine flecked with gold the rolling prairie-land upon the
opposite side, the young girl sang wild negro-melodies which she had
learned of the two old colored people who formed her father's retinue
of house-servants. Rich and clear, her voice floated through those
beautiful solitudes, heard only by the envious birds in the trees which
overtopped the bluffs.
Presently she had listeners, of whom she was unaware. An abrupt bend in
the river hid from her the little boat with its single sail, fluttering
like a butterfly against the current. It held two persons--David Wilde,
the owner and captain of the raft of which Ben had spoken, a rough,
striking-looking man of middle age, attired in a pink calico shirt and
brown linen jacket and trowsers, who sat at the tiller smoking his
pipe; and a young man of four and twenty, extremely good-looking and
fashionably-dressed.
"What's that?" exclaimed the latter, as the sweet voice thrilled over
the water.
"That's herself, sure," replied the raftsman, listening; "she's comin'
to meet me, I reckon. It's just like her."
"And who's 'herself?'" queried the other, laughing.
"My cub, sir. Won't yer take yer flute out of yer pocket and give her a
tune, before she sees us? It'll set her to wonderin' what 'n earth it
is."
The young man put the pieces of his flute together, and joined in the
strain, rising loud and exultant upon the breeze; the voice ceased; he
stopped playing; the voice began, and again he accompanied it; it sang
more exuberently than ever, and the flute blent in with it accordantly.
It was not until they were nearly upon her fairy bark that they came
in sight of the singer, her bright hair flying, her cheeks redder than
roses with the double exercise of rowing and singing. Philip Moore
thought he had never beheld so lovely an apparition.
"Oh, father, I'm so glad you're home again. Did you hear that beautiful
echo?" she asked, her eyes all aglow with surprise and pleasure. "I
never heard any thing like it before. It must be the rocks."
"'Twant the rocks--'twas this here gentleman," said David Wilde,
smiling. "Mr. Moore, this is my daughter Alice."
Unknown to himself, his tone and look were full of pride as he
presented her to his companion, who never paid a more sincere tribute
of admiration to any woman, however accomplished, than he did to the
artless child who returned his deep bow with so divine a blush.
"I thought I'd come to meet you, and run a race home with you," she
said to her father, with a fond look.
"That's just like my little cub--allers on hand. Wall, go ahead! the
breeze is fair, and I guess we'll beat ye. Hope ye'll make good time,
fur I'm beginning to get rather growly in the region of the stomach."
"Pallas expects you," returned Alice, laughing.
"If your skiff were large enough for two, I'd take those oars off your
hands," said the young gentleman.
"Nobody ever touches this, but myself," and away sped the fairy affair
with its mistress, darting ahead like an arrow, but presently dropping
behind as they tacked, and then shooting past them again, the young
girl stealing shy glances, as she passed, at the stranger who was
watching her with mingled curiosity and admiration. So sweetly bashful,
yet so arch and piquant--so rustic, yet so naturally graceful--so
young, he could not tell whether she esteemed herself a child or a
woman--certainly she was very different from the dozen of tow-headed
children he had taken it for granted must run wild about the 'cabin' to
which he was now about to make a visit.
"How many children have you, Mr. Wilde?"
"She's all. That's my mill you see just up the mouth of the creek thar.
We're nigh on to my cabin now; when we've rounded that pint we shall
heave in sight. Seems to me I smell supper. A cold snack is very good
for a day or two, but give me suthin' of Pallas' getting up after it.
Thar's the cabin!"
Philip had been following with his eyes the pretty sailor, who had
already moored her craft to the foot of a huge elm, overhanging the
gravelly shore from a sloping bank above, and now stood in the shadow
of the tree awaiting them.
If it had not been for the blue smoke curling up in thin wreaths
from a stick chimney which rose up in the rear, he would hardly have
discovered the dwelling at first sight--a little one-story log-house,
so completely covered with clambering vines that it looked like a green
mound. Tartarian honeysuckles waved at the very summit of the chimney,
and wild-roses curtained every window.
Taking upon herself the part of hostess, Alice led the way to the
house. Philip was again agreeably surprised, as he entered it. He had
read of squatter life, and considered himself "posted" as to what to
expect--corn-bread and bacon, an absence of forks and table-cloths,
musquitoes, the river for a wash-basin, sand for soap, the sun for
a towel, and the privilege of sharing the common bed. But upon
entering the cabin, he found himself in a large room, with two smaller
apartments partitioned from the side; the cooking seemed to be done in
a shanty in the rear. The table was set in the center of the room, with
a neat cloth, and a great glass plate, heaped with blackberries, stood
upon it, and was surrounded by a wreath of wild-flowers woven by the
same dimpled hands which had managed the oars so deftly.
"'Clar to gracious, masser, you tuk us unbeknown."
The new speaker was an old negro woman, portly and beaming, who
appeared at the back door, crowned with a yellow turban, and bearing in
her left hand that scepter of her realm, the rolling-pin.
"But not unprepared, hey, Pallas?"
"Wall, I dunno, masser. I didn't spec' the pickaninny 'ud eat more 'n
_one_ roas' chicken. But thar's two in de oven; for, to tell de trute,
masser, I had a sense dat you war a comin'; and I know'd if you wasn't,
me and my ole man wouldn't be afraid of two fowls."
"But I've brought home company, Pallas."
"Hev you now, masser? I'se mighty glad to hear it. I'd as soon wait on
masser's frien's as to sing de Land of Canaan. Yer welcome," she added,
dropping a courtesy to the guest with as much importance as if she were
mistress of the house--as, in fact, she had been, in most matters, for
many long years. He made her a deep and gracious bow, accompanied by a
smile which took her old heart by storm.
Retreating to the kitchen outside, where Saturn, her husband, had been
pressed into service, and sat with an apron over his knees pareing
potatoes, buoyed up by the promise of roast chicken from his wife, she
told him as she rolled and cut out her biscuits:
"The finest gentleum she had sot eyes on sence she left ole
Virginny. His smile was enough to melt buttah--jus' de smile what a
sweet-mannered young gentleum ought to have. She was mighty glad," she
added, in a mysterious whisper, "dat ar' pickaninny was no older."
"Wha' for?" queried Saturn, pausing, with a potato on the end of
his knife, and a look of hopeless darkness on his face, barring the
expanding whites of his eyes.
"You nebbah could see tru a grin'-stone till I'd made a hole in it for
yer. It's a wonder I tuk up wid such an ole fool as you is, Saturn. If
yer eyes were wurf half as much as dem pertaters' eyes, yer could see
for yerself. Hasn't masser swore agin dem city gentleum?"
"He's swore--dat's so."
"And he never would forgive one as would come and steal away his
precious child--nebbah!" continued Pallas, lifting her rolling-pin
threatingly at the bare thought. "If he war rich as gold, and lubbed
her to distruction, 'twouldn't make a speck o' difference. He's jealous
of the very ground she walks on; and he hates dem smoof-spoken city
folks."
"Do you suspec' he's a kidnapper--dat ar' vis'ter?" asked Saturn, his
eyes growing still bigger, and looking toward the door as if he thought
of the possibility of the handsome young stranger carrying _him_ off.
"You is born a fool, and you can't help it. Put 'em 'taters in
de pot, and mind yer own bisness. I want some more wood for dis
fiah--immejetly!"
When Pallas said "immejetly!" with that majestic air, there was
nothing left for her worser half save to obey, and he retreated to the
wood-pile with alacrity. On going out he run against Ben Perkins, who
had been standing by the open door, unperceived, for the last five
minutes.
"Why, Ben, dat you?" asked Pallas, good-naturedly, not dreaming that he
had overheard her confidential conversation.
"Yes; I came up to the house to seen if Captain Wilde had any orders
for the mill to-night. I see him when he passed the creek. Who's with
him, Pallas?"
The old colored woman gave a sudden sharp glance at the youth's
troubled face.
"It's a frien' for all I know. What bisness is it of yours to be
askin'?"
"I s'pose I hain't no business. Do you think it's likely it's anybody
as expects to marry Miss Alice?" his voice trembled, and he looked at
his boots as he asked the question.
"Marry Miss Alice! What a simpl'un you is, Ben. Wha's that pickaninny
but a chile yet, I'se like to know? a little chit as don't know nothin'
'bout marryin' nobody. 'Sides that, long as her fadder libs, she'll
never marry, not if it war a king. He'd be mad as fury ef any one was
to dar' to speak of such a thing. Humf! my pickaninny, indeed!" with
an air of scorn and indignation deeply felt by the youth, whose face
was flushing beneath the implied rebuke. "Ef you'll stop a few minutes,
I'll give yer some of dese soda biscuits," she said, after a brief
silence, secretly pitying a trouble at which she had shrewdly guessed,
though she resented the audacity of the hope from which it sprang. "Dat
ar' man-cook what gets up the vittles for the mill-hands can't make
sech biscuits as mine. Stop now, and hab some, won't yer?"
"Thank ye, Pallas, I ain't hungry," was the melancholy
reply--melancholy when proceeding from a hearty, hard-working young
man, who _ought_ to have been hungry at that hour of the day. He
turned away, and without even going to the cabin-door to inquire of
Mr. Wilde as he had proposed, struck into the pine-woods back of the
garden-patch.