BEN PERKINS.
The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to try her new
thimble in running up the skirt of her merino dress. The frock which
she wore, and all her others, probably, were fashioned in the style of
twenty years ago--short under the arms; a belt at the waist; low in
the neck; full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline.
Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden torrent
around her neck, was looped up in the quaint style which marked the
fashion of her dress. She looked like the portrait, come to life, of
some republican belle and beauty of long ago. Quite unconscious that
this ancient style had been superseded by the balloons of to-day, she
measured off the three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leave
her pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered feet,
peeped from beneath her gingham.
If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art, and had
possessed "patterns" of the latest mode, he would not have instructed
his hostess in any changes, she looked so picturesque and quaint as
she was. But he did not let her sew very steadily that day. He wanted
to explore the surroundings of the cabin, and she was his ready,
intelligent guide.
They went back into the forest, through which thundered, ever and anon,
the crash of a falling tree; for many men were busy cutting timber for
another raft, on which, at its completion, Philip was to return to
Center City. His business would not have detained him more than three
or four days, but he was in no haste; he wanted to hunt and fish a
little, and he liked the novelty of the idea of floating down the river
on a raft of logs in company with a score of rough fellows. Although
David Wilde sawed up some of his timber himself, his old-fashioned mill
was not equal to the supply, and he sent the surplus down to the steam
saw-mills, one of which was owned by Philip and his partner.
It called forth all his affability to conquer the shyness of his
pretty guide, who at last dared to look full into his face with those
brilliant blue eyes, and to tell him where the brooks made the sweetest
music, where the fawns came oftenest to drink, where the violets
lingered the latest, and where there was a grape-vine swing.
Both of them looked very happy when they came in, just in time to meet
Mr. Wilde at the supper-table, who had been at the mill all day. _He_
did not seem in such good spirits. Some new thought troubled him. His
keen, gray eyes scanned the countenance of his child, as if searching
for something hitherto undiscovered; and then turned suspiciously to
the stranger, to mark if he, too, held the same truth. For the first
time it occurred to him, that his "cub," his pet, was no longer a
little girl--that he might have done something fatally foolish in
bringing that fine city aristocrat to his cabin. Had he not always
hated and despised these dandified caricatures of men?--despised
their vanity, falsehood, and affectation?--hated their vices, their
kid-gloves, their perfumed handkerchiefs, and their fashionable
nonsense? Yet, pleased with one of them, and on a mere matter of
business, he had, without the wisdom of a fool, much less of a father,
brought one of that very class to his house. How angry he was with
himself his compressed lip alone revealed, as he sharply eyed his
guest. Yet the laws of hospitality were too sacred with him to allow of
his showing any rudeness to his guest, as a means of getting rid of him.
Unconscious of the bitter jealousy in her father's heart, Alice was
as gay as a humming-bird. She had never been happier. We are formed
for society; children are charmed with children, and youth delights in
youth. Alice had been ignorant of this sweet want, until she learned
it now, by having it gratified. For, although she had passed pleasant
words with such young men as chanced to be employed by her father, they
had never seemed to her like companions, and she naturally adopted the
reserve which her father also used with them. His cabin was his castle.
No one came there familiarly, except upon invitation. The "hands" were
all fed and lodged in a house by themselves, near the mill. The gloom
of the host gradually affected the vivacity of the others; and the
whole household retired early to rest.
The next day, Philip set off to the mill with Mr. Wilde, carrying on
his shoulder the excellent rifle of the latter, as he proposed, after
business was over, to make a search for deer, now nearly driven away
from that locality by the sound of the ax in those solitudes once so
deep and silent.
"Tell Aunt Pallas I'll bring her a haunch of venison for supper," he
said gayly to the young girl, touching his straw hat with a grace that
quite confused her.
She looked after them wistfully as they went away. She felt lonely; her
sewing fatigued her; the sun was too hot to go out on the water; she
didn't know what to do. Even her new books failed for once to keep her
interested many hours. When Pallas looked for her to help pick over
berries to dry, she was not to be found. She had sought that delightful
refuge of early youth--the garret; which in this instance was but a
loft over the main story, reached by a ladder, and seldom resorted
to by any one, except when the raftsman stored away a bear-skin, a
winter's store of nuts, or something of the kind. To-day Alice felt
powerfully attracted toward a certain trunk which had stood in that
garret ever since she could remember. It was always locked; she had
never seen it open; and did not know its contents. Now, for a wonder,
the key was in the lock; she never thought of there being any thing
wrong in the act, as she had never heard the trunk mentioned, and had
never been forbidden access to it, and lifting the lid, she sat down
beside it and began an examination of its mysteries. Lifting up a
napkin spread over the top, she was met by a lovely face, looking up at
her from the ivory upon which it was so exquisitely painted. The breath
died upon her lips.
"It must be my mother's; how very beautiful she was--my mother!"
Hot tears rushed up into her eyes at this life-like vision of a being
she did not remember, of whom old Pallas often spoke, but whom her
father seldom mentioned--never, save in the most intimate moments of
their association. She was sorry she had opened the trunk, realizing
at once that if her father had desired her to know of the miniature
he would have shown it to her years ago; she had a glimpse of a
white-silk dress, some yellow lace, a pair of white-silk slippers, and
long white-kid gloves, but she would not gratify the intense curiosity
and interest which she felt. She remembered hearing her father descend
from the garret late in the preceding night; and she guessed now the
purpose of his visit.
An impulse was given to her thoughts which drove away her restless
mood; she retreated from the loft, and set very quietly to work helping
Pallas with the blackberries. She was sitting in the kitchen-door, an
apron on, and a huge bowl in her lap, when Philip Moore came through
the pines, dragging after him a young deer which he had slain. Pallas
was on a bench outside the shanty, and it was at her feet the hunter
laid his trophy.
"Bress you, masser Moore, I'se mighty glad you went a huntin'. Miss
Alice she laugh and say de deer needn't be afraid of you, 'cause you
was a city gentleum, but I tol' her she didn't know nuffin' about it.
I was afeard you'd get tired of white-fish and salmon, and bacon and
fowls,--dis ven'sen jes' de meat I want."
"Well, Aunt Pallas, I shall claim one of your best pies as my reward,"
said the amateur hunter, laughing. "But little Alice here mustn't think
no one can do any thing right except foresters and lumbermen."
"Oh, I don't!" exclaimed she, blushing. "I think you do every thing
beautifully, Mr. Moore, that you've been brought up to do, you
know--but shooting deer--they don't do that in cities, do they?"
"Not exactly in cities; but there are wild woods near enough New York
yet for young men to have a chance at gaining that accomplishment. I
suppose you wouldn't trust me to take you out sailing, to-morrow, would
you?"
"If she would, yer couldn't do it, for I want the boat myself. Captain
Wilde's goin' to send me down to the pint with it."
Mr. Moore looked up in surprise at the speaker, who had just come up
from the river, and whose looks and tones were still ruder than his
words.
"Hi, Ben! yer as surly as a bar," spoke up Pallas; "yer haven't a grain
of perliteness in yer body," she added, in a lower tone.
"I leaves perliteness to them as is wimmen enough to want it," answered
Ben, throwing back a glance of defiance and contempt at the innocent
stranger, as he stepped into the shanty. "I want them new saws as came
home with the capt'n."
"There's somebody that looks upon me in the same light you do," laughed
Philip, when the youth had secured the saws and departed.
"Oh, Mr. Moore, you don't know how I look upon you!" she exclaimed,
earnestly; neither did he, any more than he knew how the fate of that
black-eyed, heavy-browed mill-hand was to be mixed and mingled with his
own.
He admired Alice Wilde as he would have done any other pretty and
singular young creature; but he never thought of loving her; she was
a child in his eyes, ignorant and uncultivated in many things, though
always graceful and refined; a child, who would be out of place in
any other sphere except that peculiar one in which she now moved. He
did not guess that in her eyes he was a hero, almost supernatural,
faultless, glorious--such as an imaginative girl who had seen nothing
of the world, but who had read many poems and much fiction, would
naturally create out of the first material thrown in her way.
No! all through that happy fortnight of his visit he talked with her
freely, answering her eager questions about the world from which she
was so secluded, roamed the woods with her, sailed the river, played
his flute, sang favorite love-songs, and all without reflecting upon
the deathless impression he was making. Keen eyes were upon him, and
saw nothing to justify censure; he would have laughed at the idea of
that little wild girl falling in love with him, if he had thought of it
at all; but he did not think of it; sometimes he frolicked with her, as
if they were both children; and sometimes he kindly took upon himself
the pleasant task of teaching her in matters about which she showed an
interest. He was touched by her beauty and innocence; and was extremely
guarded in her presence not to let a hint of evil be breathed upon
that young soul--her father, Pallas, all who approached her, seemed
naturally to pay her purity the same deference.
The raft for which Philip was waiting was now in readiness, and was
to commence its drifting journey upon the next day. Alice had fled
away into the pine-woods, after dinner, to anticipate, with dread, her
coming loneliness; for her father was also to accompany it, and would
be absent nearly three weeks. Her footsteps wandered to a favorite
spot, where the grape-vine swing had held her in its arms, many and
many a frolic hour. She sat down in it, swinging herself slowly to
and fro. Presently a footfall startled her from her abstraction, and,
looking up, she saw Ben Perkins coming along the path with a cage in
his hand, of home manufacture, containing a gorgeous forest-bird which
he had captured.
"I reckon I needn't go no further, Miss Alice," he said; "I war a
bringin' this bird to see if you'd be so agreeable as to take it. I
cotched it, yesterday, in the wood."
"Oh, Ben, how pretty it is!" she cried, quickly brushing away her
tears, that he might not guess what she had been crying about.
"It sings like any thing. It's a powerful fine singer, Miss Alice--I
thought mebbe 't would be some comfort to ye, seein' yer about to lose
that flute that's been turnin' yer head so."
"What do you mean?--you speak so roughly, Ben."
"I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken; but I mean what I say,
which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks thinks it good sport to be
telling you fine fibs, I've no doubt."
"Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have no reason to,
Ben? It isn't generous."
"But I _have_ reason--O Alice, you don't know how much!" he set the
bird-cage down, and came closer to her. "I've got suthin' to say that I
can't keep back no longer. Won't you set down 'side of me on this log?"
"I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was about to take
her hand.
The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the question changed to
a look which half frightened her, at her gesture of refusal.
"You didn't object to settin' by that town chap; you sot here on this
very log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and his fine clothes, I
say!"
"I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language; I don't know
what's the matter with you to-day," and she turned to go home.
"I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he caught her hand
almost fiercely. "I can't keep still any longer and see that feller
hangin' 'round. I didn't mean to speak this long time yet, but that
stranger's driven me crazy. Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see him
smirking and bowin' and blowin' on that blasted flute, around _you_;
and you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off? Do you
s'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton of the purtiest
girl that ever growd? You needn't wince--it's true; jist as soon as
he'd got away from here he'd forget all about you, or only think of you
to laugh at your hoosier ways with some proud lady as fine as himself."
"Oh, I am afraid it's too true!" burst forth Alice, involuntarily.
"Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde! Or, at the best, he'd take
yer away from yer own old father as loves the ground you tread, and
try and make a lady of you, and never let you speak to your own flesh
and blood agin. While I--I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer father
wanted; I'd settle down side of him, work for him, see to things, and
take the care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them proud
peacocks, Alice--he _hates_ 'em, and so do I! I know he'd ruther have
me. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl."
"I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to pass, for
she was troubled and wanted to get away.
"I'll tell you then," he said, "I want you to marry me, Alice. I've
been thinking about it these two years--night and day, night and day."
"Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "_I_ never thought of it--never!
and I can not now. Father will be very angry with you. Let go of my
hand; I want to go home."
"You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess yer
father 'll find it out. He may be mad for a spell; but he'll get over
it; and when he comes to think of the chances of his dyin' and leavin'
yer alone, he'll give his consent. Come, Alice, say yes, do, now?"
The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, from sympathy,
but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as she replied, "Never! so
long as I live, never! And you must not speak of it again, unless you
want to be discharged from--"
"Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to be threatened.
If I'd have said what I've said this day, three weeks ago, you wouldn't
have been so mighty cool. Not that I think I'm good enough for
ye--there ain't the man livin' that's that; but I'm as good as some as
thinks themselves better--and I won't be bluffed off by any broadcloth
coat. I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in the
mill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye more years than he's
seen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' so sure as I live, that
man shall never marry you, Alice Wilde."
"He never thought of it; and it hurts me, Ben, to have you speak of it.
Let me go now, this instant."
She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful of the bird
he had given her.
Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after her; but
when, a few moments later, as he made his way back toward the mill, he
passed Philip Moore, who gave him a pleasant, careless nod, _hate_--the
dangerous hate of envy, jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy
brow.
Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her homeward way.
She had never thought of marriage except as a Paradise in some far,
Arcadian land of dreams which she had fashioned from books and the
instincts of her young heart; and now to have the idea thrust upon her
by this rude, determined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her
equal, shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's clamor.
And if this young man thought himself a fit husband for her, perhaps
others thought the same--perhaps her father would wish her to accept
him, some time in the far future--perhaps Philip--ah, Philip! how
almost glorified he looked to her vision as at that moment he came out
of the forest-shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the
wind tossing his brown hair.
"Here is the little humming-bird, at last! was it kind of her to fly
away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay?"
How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while _she_ was so sad! she
felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply as gayly, but her lip
trembled.
"What's the matter with the little Wilde-rose?" he asked, kindly
looking down into the suffused eyes.
"I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father is going
away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but good old Pallas."
"And that handsome young man I just saw parting from you," he said,
mischievously, looking to see her blush and smile.
"Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for _him_?" she
asked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which vanished in a deep
blush the next instant.
"Well, I don't know; you _are_ too good for him," he answered, frankly,
as if the idea had just occurred to him.
An expression of pain swept over Alice's face.
"I know, Mr. Moore, how you must regard me; and I can not blame you
for it. I know that I am ignorant--a foolish, ignorant child,--that my
dress is odd, my manner awkward,--that the world, if it should see me,
would laugh at me--that my mind is uncultivated,--but oh, Mr. Moore,
you do not know how eager I am to learn--how hard I should study! I
wish my father would send me away to school."
"That would just spoil your sweet, peculiar charms, little Alice."
He smoothed her hair soothingly, as he would have done a child's; but
something in her tone had put a new thought in his mind; he looked at
her earnestly as she blushed beneath this first slight caress which he
had ever given her. "Can it be so?" he asked himself; and in his eyes
the young girl suddenly took more womanly proportions. "How very--how
exquisitely beautiful she is now, with the soul glowing through her
face. Shall I ever again see a woman such as this--pure as an infant,
loving, devoted, unselfish, and so beautiful?" Another face, haughty,
clear-cut, with braids of perfumed black hair, arose before his mental
vision, and took place beside this sweet, troubled countenance. One so
unmoved, so determined, even in the moment of giving bitter pain--this
other so confiding, so shy, so full of every girlish beauty. Philip was
touched--_almost_ to saying something which he might afterward regret;
but he was a Moore, and he had his pride and his prejudices, stubborn
as old Mortimer Moore's, nearly. These hardened his heart against the
sentiment he saw trembling through that eloquent countenance.
"You are but a little girl yet, and will have plenty of chance to grow
wise," he continued playfully. "This pretty Wilde-rose 'needs not the
foreign aid of ornament.' When I come again, I hope to find her just as
she is now--unless she should have become the bride of that stalwart
forester."
"Then you are coming again?" she asked, ignoring the cruel kindness of
the latter part of his speech, and thinking only of that dim future
possibility of again seeing and hearing him, again being in his
presence, no matter how indifferent he might be to her.
For Alice Wilde, adoring him as no man ever deserved to be adored,
still, in her forest simplicity, called not her passion love, nor
cherished it from any hope of its being reciprocated. No; she herself
considered herself unworthy of the thought of one so much more
accomplished, so much wiser than herself. Her's was
"The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow;"
and now that there was a chance in the future for her to burn her white
wings still more cruelly, she grew a shade happier.
"I have business with your father which will bring me here again,
perhaps this fall, in October, certainly, in the spring. What shall I
bring you when I come again, Alice? You've been a kind hostess, and
I owe you many happy hours. I should like to make you some trifling
return."
She looked up in his face sadly, thinking she should like to ask him to
remember her, but she dared not trust herself.
"If you will select some books--such as you think I ought to study, my
father will buy them for me."
"Don't you love jewelry and such pretty trifles as other girls seek
after?"
"I really don't know; I've no doubt I could cultivate such a liking,"
she replied, with some of her native archness.
"I wouldn't try very hard--you're better without," he said, pressing a
light kiss on her forehead; and the two went slowly home, walking more
silently than was their wont.
Pallas saw them, as they came up through the garden, and gave them a
scrutinizing look which did not seem to be satisfactory.
"Dat chile's troubles jes' began," she murmured to herself. "Ef dese
yer ole arms could hide her away from ebery sorrow, Pallas would be
happy. But dey can't. Things happen as sure as the worl'; and girls
will be girls--it's in em; jes' as sartin as it's in eggs to be
chickens, and acorns to be oaks. Hi! hi!"