AWAY FROM HOME.
A quaint party were to be seen passing through some of the streets
of Center City one April day of the following spring. A tall and
vigorous man, with a keen, intelligent face, clad in a calico shirt,
a blue-woolen hunter's frock and buckskin breeches, strode on as if
anxious to reach his destination; or, rather, as if used to making
good time over endless prairies and through unsurveyed forests. By his
side walked a young girl whose dress, though of the best materials,
was antique as our grandmothers'; a broad-brimmed hat shaded a face
the loveliest ever beheld in that city; her little slippers with their
silver buckles peeped out from beneath her short frock. Those who were
fortunate enough to see her as she passed did not know which to admire
most--the exquisite, unstudied grace of her manners, which was as
peculiar as her beauty, or the seraphic innocence of her expression.
She kept pace with her companion, looking gravely forward with those
great blue eyes, only occasionally giving the crowd a fawn-like,
startled look, when it pressed too near. A few paces behind trudged an
ancient colored couple, the man short, and white-eyed, rolling smiles
as he passed, evidently supposing all the attention of the lookers-on
to be concentrated on his flaming vest, his flowered coat, and bran-new
boots; the woman a perfect black Juno, really superb in her air and
physique, wearing her neatly-folded yellow turban as if it were a
golden crown. She seldom took her eyes off the young mistress whom she
followed, except occasionally to frown at some impudent fellow who
stared too hard.
The group wended their way onward until they read the names of "Raymond
& Moore," in gilt letters over a new four-story brick store of this
thriving new town, and here they disappeared from the view of outsiders.
"Captain Wilde! how do you do? you're down early this spring. Well, the
mill's waiting for you to feed it. Come down on a raft?"
"Yes, Mr. Raymond, a thundering big one. Brought my family this time to
give 'em a chance to pick out a few things for themselves. My daughter,
sir."
The merchant gave the young lady a chair. She took it, mechanically,
but her heart, her eyes, were asking one question of the smiling,
curious man, the friend and partner of her own Philip, who for the
first time began to suspect the cause which had kept the latter so
long, "hunting and fishing" up at Wilde's mill. Could he look so
smiling, so assured, and her Philip be dead? The cry: "Where is he?"
trembled silently on her lips.
"Yes, a thundering big raft we got out this spring. Wood-choppers to
work all winter," continued the raftsman, walking along farther from
his daughter, and speaking with apparent carelessness. "By the way,
where's Mr. Moore? did he get home safe, after his spell of sickness,
at our house last fall?"
"Oh, yes! he got home safe and in fine spirits. He was soon as well or
better than ever. I expect he got pretty good care," and the merchant
glanced over at the young girl respectfully.
Mr. Raymond was a good-hearted, refined young married man; but if
he had been gross or impure, or not over-fastidious, or fond of a
jest, there was something about both father and child to suppress all
feelings but those of respect and wondering admiration, Alice Wilde's
beauty was of a kind to defy criticism. She might have worn sackcloth
and ashes, or flannel and thick boots, or a Turkish dress, or a Puritan
maiden's, or a queen's robe, it would have made but small difference;
her loveliness was of that overmastering kind which draws the hearts of
high and low, and makes every man feel in her presence, forgetful of
every lesser consideration--lo! here is a beautiful woman! Such charms
as hers have had great power whenever they have been found--they have
exalted peasant women to thrones, and led men of genius and rank, as if
they were children, hither and thither. It is not strange that Alice's
personal loveliness, added to her still more unusual unconsciousness
of it, and infantile innocence, should at once have commanded the
reverence of people of the world, in spite of the quaintness of manner
and attire, in themselves pretty and piquant.
Although her father had spoken in a low voice, Alice had heard his
question and the answer. The splendor of happiness broke over her
countenance--blushes rose to her cheeks and smiles to her eyes; she
hardly dared to glance in any direction lest she should see her lover
unexpectedly, and betray her joy to strangers.
"Is he about the store this morning; or will I have to go to the mill
to see him?" asked the raftsman.
"You will not see him at all, this trip, I'm afraid. Mr. Moore has
gone on East; he's been away several weeks now, and I hardly know when
to expect him. He was called there quite unexpectedly, upon business
connected with his uncle, and their relatives in England. It would not
surprise me at all if he should bring a bride home--that is, if he can
persuade his fair cousin that the West is not such a terrible savage
wilderness as she supposes."
Mr. Raymond was perfectly honest in this remark. He knew that Virginia
Moore used to be the idol of his friend; and as Philip had not
communicated the change in his ideas, he still supposed that Philip was
only waiting to get rich enough to go home and marry her; and as Philip
was now doing so well with his western enterprises, he had planned it
all out in his own imagination--fortune, acceptance, and the happy
_finale_ of a grand wedding. He could not help looking over at the
pretty forester to see how she received the news, but the portly person
of the old colored woman had come between them, and he could not see
her face.
"Laws, Miss Alice, do see them yere calikers--they're sruperb! Look
at that red one with the blue flowers--'tain't so handsome though, as
this with the yaller. My! my! thar's a jewerlly shop across the way.
Yer fadder ought to take yer in dar', fust place. Young gals likes them
places. Laws, darlin', dis don't compare wid New York City. Le's have a
drink of water, and step over de street."
All this volubility was to screen the young girl from scrutiny. A
pitcher of water stood on the counter, near her, and she poured a glass
for her mistress. But Alice waved the glass away, and arose without any
signs of grief and pain in her face; but the expression had changed--an
icy pride composed every feature; she asked the merchant to show her
some of his goods in a clear, low tone as sweet as it was passionless.
Her hand did not tremble as she turned over silks and laces.
"Good for her! She's got her father's grit," thought the raftsman to
himself, while his own throat swelled almost to choking with anger and
grief, and he felt that if he only had Philip Moore within sight he
would have the satisfaction of thrashing a little conscience into him.
Neither he nor Alice any longer doubted the statements of Ben
Perkins. Mr. Moore _had_ ridiculed them--_had_ mockingly given
another permission to console her whom he had forsaken--_had_ said
that he was going East to marry a more fit companion. As the raftsman
looked in the quiet face of his child which repelled sympathy with a
woman's pride--that pride so terrible because it covers such tortured
sensibilities--his blood boiled up with ungovernable rage. He was not
accustomed to concealing his sentiments upon any subject.
"Let them finnified fixin's alone, Alice," he said, taking her hand and
drawing her away. "Men that make it a business to handle that sort of
thing, grow about as flimsy as their wares. I despise 'em. I want you
to understand, Mr. Raymond, that all connection between me and this
firm, business or other, is dissolved. I won't even take your cussed
money. When Mr. Moore returns, tell him that the laws of hospitality
practised by your four-story-bricks ain't known in squatters' cabins,
and if he ever comes on my premises again I'll consider myself at
liberty to shoot him down for a dog;" and before the surprised merchant
could reply he had strode forth.
"Come 'long, Saturn! don' stan' dar' starin'; don't yer see masser's
gone? I shall be sorry I brought yer 'long ef yer don't behabe wid more
propisciousness. What der s'pose folks 'll tink your missus and masser
is, ef you don't act like a fust-family nigger? Ef yer don't do credit
to Miss Alice, I'll nebber bring you 'way from home agin;" and Pallas
took "her nigger" by the elbow and drew him away from the fascinating
array of dry-goods and ready-made clothing.
That afternoon Captain Wilde and his daughter sat in a little private
sitting-room of the hotel, overlooking the street. Every thing was
novel to Alice. This was absolutely her first experience away from her
forest home. Yet upon all the busy, bustling scene beneath her she
gazed with vacant eyes.
About the rapid rise and growth of some of our western cities there is
an air peculiar to themselves--an experience unique in the history of
civilization. Situated amid scenes of unparalleled beauty, they seem
to jar upon and disturb the harmony of their surroundings; brick and
plaster, new shingles, and glowing white paint, unsubdued by time, rise
up in the midst of fairy-land; rude wharves just over the silver waters
where erst the silent canoe of the Indian only glided; wild roses flush
the hill-sides crowned with sudden dwellings; stately old forests loom
up as backgrounds to the busiest of busy streets. The shrill cry of
the steam-whistle startles the dreamy whippoorwill; the paddle-wheel
of the intrusive steamboat frightens the indolent salmon from his
visions of peace. As the landscape, so the people; curiously mixed of
rough and refined. Center City was one of the most picturesque of these
young towns; and, at present, one of the most prosperous. Broken-down
speculators from the East came thither and renewed their fortunes; and
enterprising young men began life with flattering prospects.
It was upon the principal street that Alice sat and looked. Streams of
people hurried by, like the waves of the river past her cabin in the
wood. She saw ladies dressed in a fashion differing widely from her
own; across the way, in a suite of parlors in the second story, she
saw, through the open blind, a young girl of about her own age sitting
at a musical instrument, from which she drew, as if by magic, music
that held her listener as by golden chains. New thoughts and aims came
into the mind of the raftsman's daughter. Pride was struggling to heal
the wounds which love had made.
"Father, will you send me to school?"
For a long time there was no answer; his head was bent upon his hand.
She crept upon his knee, in her little-girl way, and drew away the hand.
"It'll be undoin' the work of sixteen year to send you to one of them
boarding-schools. They'll learn you plenty of vanity and worse things,
my child; they'll make you unfit to be happy and contented with yer
plain old father. But that you are already. I've made a failure. You're
too good for them that's about you, and not good enough for them you
wish to be like. Go to school if you want to, child; go, and learn to
put on airs and despise those who would give their heart's blood for
ye. I shall make no objections."
"Do you think I could learn to be so very bad, father? If you can not
trust me, I will not go. So let us say no more about it," and she
kissed him.
"Thar', thar', child, I didn't mean to deny ye. But I feel bitter
to-day--hard and bitter--as I used to in days gone by, when your
mother died, turned off by them that were ashamed of yer father. If
you'll only keep like yer mother, you may do what you will. _She_ went
to school, and she knew more than a dozen fine-lady scholars; but it
didn't spoil her. May be I've done wrong to bring you up the way I
have--to visit my experience and my doubts on your young head. We must
all live and learn for ourselves. Go to school, if you want to. I'll
try and get along without my little cubbie for a year or two."
"It's hard, father--hard for me--but I wish it." Pride was steeling the
heart of the forest maiden. "But are you able, father; can you pay the
expense."
This thought never came to her until after she had his promise.
"Yes, I'm able--and if it's done, it shall be done in the best style.
I haven't cut down all the pine timber I've set afloat for the last
fifteen year, without laying up something for my cub. I want you to
dress as well as any you see, and study whatever you like, and play
lady to yer heart's content. You'd better find a dress-maker, the first
thing, and not be stared at every time you step out of the door. Get
yourself silks and satins, girl, and hold your head up like the queen
of the prairie."
When Captain Wilde returned up the river, he and his sable suite made
a melancholy journey; for the light of their eyes, the joy of their
hearts, was left behind them.
A young ladies' seminary, "a flourishing young institution, beautifully
located in a healthy region, with spacious grounds enjoying the
salubrious river-breezes," etc., etc., held prisoner, the wild bird of
the forest.
"Where's your daughter?" asked Ben Perkins of his employer, when he
saw the returning party land without Alice. His face was blanched to
a dead-white, for he expected certainly to hear that she had been
claimed as his bride by Philip Moore.
"Yer story was true, Ben, though I did ye the wrong to doubt it. Alice
will never be the wife of that counter-jumper. But she'll never be
yours, neither; so you might as well give up, first as last. Go off
somewhere, Ben, and find somebody else; that's my advice."
"Look-a-here, Captain Wilde, I know you mean the best, and that my
chance is small; but I tell you, sir, jest as long as Alice is free to
choose, and I've got breath and sense to try for her, I shan't give her
up. Never, sir! I'll work my fingers off to serve you and her--I'll
wait years--I'll do any thing you ask, only so you won't lay any thing
in my way."
The raftsman looked pityingly in the haggard face of the speaker--the
face which a year ago was so bright and boyish. He saw working in those
dark lineaments, in the swart blood coursing under the olive skin, in
the gleam of the black eyes, passions difficult to check, which might
urge him in future years to yet other crimes than the one into which he
had already been betrayed.
"You're high-tempered, Ben, my boy, and a little too rough to suit a
girl like mine. She knows what your temper has already led you to do;"
and he looked straight at the youth as he spoke, whose eyes wavered
and sunk to the ground--it was the first intimation he had had that
his guilt was suspected. "Why not go off, and find some one more like
yourself--some pretty, red-cheeked lass who'll think you the best and
handsomest fellow on the earth, and be only too happy to marry you?
Thar's plenty such chances--and you'd be a deal happier."
"Don't, _don't_ talk so!" burst forth Ben, impetuously. "I _can't_ do
it, and that's the end on 't. I've tried to get away, but I'm bound
here. It's like as if my feet were tied to this ground. I've done bad
things in my determination to keep others away. I know it, and I own
up to it. I've been desp'rate-crazy! But I ain't a bad fellow. If Miss
Alice would smile upon me, 'pears to me I _couldn't_ be bad--'pears
to me I'd try to get to be as good as she is. Even if she never would
marry me, if she'd let me stay 'round and work for you, and she didn't
take up with nobody else, I'd be content. But if I have to give her
up entirely, I expect I'll make a pretty bad man, cap'n. I've all
kinds of wicked thoughts about it, and I can't help it. I ain't made
of milk-and-water. I'd rather fight a bar' than court a girl. I shan't
never ask another woman to have me--no, sir! I'd 'ave made you a good
son, if all hands had been willin'. But if Miss Alice means to make
herself a fine lady to catch some other sweet lady-killer like the
one that's given her the mitten, it's her choice. She'll up and marry
somebody that won't speak to her old father, I s'pose."
"Thar's no telling," answered the raftsman, sadly; for, in truth, the
changed manner of his darling before he left her, lay like a weight
upon his memory and heart. He felt a chord of sympathy binding him to
the young man, as if theirs was a common cause. Alice seemed to have
receded from them, as in a dream, growing more cold and reserved, as
she glided into the distance. Her trouble, instead of flinging her
more closely into her father's arms, had torn her from him, and taught
her self-control. She had deserted her home, had left him to care for
himself, while she fitted herself for some sphere into which he could
not come. That "sharper than a serpent's tooth--a thankless child,"
he was tempted to call her. Yet his heart refused such an accusation.
She had been suddenly shaken in her innocent faith in others, had been
wounded in pride and deserted in love--and her present mood was the
high reaction of the blow. Presently she would be herself again, would
come back to her home and her humble friends with the same modest,
affectionate, gentle character as of old.
But he would treat her differently; he would gratify her love of
the beautiful. She should have books, music, fine furniture, fine
clothes. He did not ask himself what all these would be worth without
that paramount necessity of the youthful mind--companionship. Alas!
the raftsman, bringing up his idol in seclusion, had foolishly and
selfishly thought to fix her heart only upon himself; but the little
bird had learned to fly and had gone out of the parent nest, fluttering
out into the untried world, impelled by the consciousness of wings.