A MEETING IN THE WOODS.
Pallas was in "her elements." There's nothing a genuine cook likes
so well as to be given _carte blanche_ for a wedding. If the Wildes
had invited a hundred guests to stop with them a fortnight, she would
hardly have increased the measure of her preparations. No wonder the
old soul was happy in the prospect of the really excellent match her
darling was to make, as well as in the promise that she was to go with
her and take the culinary department of the new household under her
charge.
"We's goin' to lib soon whar' de clo'es massa gives us 'll do us some
good, Saturn. We can go to meetin' once more like 'spectable colored
quality should. An' de house 'll be bran new, and I'm to keep de keys
of all de closets myself--and young missus will set at de head ob de
table, wid plenty of silber, as my missuses have allers done. An'
you'll have to have some pride about you, and get ober bein' so sleepy.
Nebber hear nor see any ting so cur'us as we goin' back into dat berry
family. Now, Saturn, don't you let me cotch you cookin' or eatin' a
single egg, 'cause I want 'em all for cake. Masser only brought home
twenty dozen, which ain't near enough. I want ebery one dem pullets
lays. An' you feed em chickens up good and fat an' dem wild turkeys
in de pen. Dis isn't a bad country for a cook, arter all. I've been
reck'nin' up, an' I find we can have wild turkey and partridges and
salmon and ven'sen and chicken, and masser's brought home ebery ting
from de grocery-stores a pusson could ask. Whar's dat citron now?
Saturn, has you been in dat citron? Laws, I cotch you in _dat_, you'll
nebber forget it! Stop eatin' dem raisins! I declar' to gracious, ef I
trus' you to chop a few raisins for me, you eat half of 'em up. Cl'ar
out de kitchen--immejetly! I'd rudder get 'long alone."
Poor Saturn had to "fly round" more than was agreeable to his
temperament; but he contrived to keep up his strength and his spirits
upon stolen sweets, and he tried to be excessively useful.
"Wall, wall, his arpetite does beat all; he's gettin' ole and childish,
my nigger is and I s'pose I mus' humor him a little. His heart is set
on de good tings ob dis worl'. I'se 'fraid he'll hate to gib up eatin'
and sleepin' when he comes to die. Dar ain't no eatin' and drinkin'
_thar_, Saturn; no marryin' nor givin' in marriage."
"Wha' for? is eatin' wicked, Pallas?"
"Not on dis yearth, where it is a necessary evil. But _dar_--dar's
better tings. We'll sing dar, Saturn," she continued, anxious to
rekindle the religious ardor which she was fearful of cooling by her
picture of the purely spiritual pleasures of the next world. "We'll set
under de tree ob life, by side de beautiful ribber, and sing all de
hymns and psalms;" and she struck up, in a voice of rich melody,
"O Canaan, my happy home,
Oh, how I long for thee!"
while her husband joined in the strain with equal fervor.
Alice loved to hear them singing at their work; not only because of
their musical voices, but the enthusiasm, the joy and expectation
swelling through them, awakened her own young soul to hope and prayer.
A happier face than hers, as she sat in the little parlor, sewing
upon the wedding-garments, it would be difficult to find--a kind of
intense radiance from the utter content and love within shone through
her features. When a young girl is about to marry the man she loves,
with the full approval of her judgment and conscience, the consent of
parents and friends, when her heart is full of hopes, when she blushes
in solitude at her own happy thoughts, as she sits quietly sewing upon
rich and delicate fabrics which are to enhance her beauty in _his_
eyes, then she experiences the most blessed portion of her life.
The sunshine of promise rested upon the house. All its delightful
activity was pervaded by thrilling anticipations. And yet there was a
shadow--a light shadow, which at times would darken and again entirely
disappear. It was the dread of Ben. The men at the mill reported having
caught glimpses of some one whom they were quite sure was him, at
different times, in different lonely places in the forest.
Saturn came in, one day, with the whites of his eyes of frightful
circumference, averring that a ghost had run after him in the
woods. What could be the purpose of a person thus hovering about in
concealment? surely nothing good. Alice was not herself, personally,
much afraid. She did not think Ben would harm her, but she felt that
he was hanging about, that his eyes watched every preparation, that he
would know when Philip came, and she was afraid he would have another
opportunity to attempt his life. The courage which would not quail on
the battle-field will fail before a secret and unknown evil. Even the
raftsman, brave and powerful as he was, felt that uneasiness which
springs from such a source. Many a time he went out with his rifle on
his shoulder, resolved that if he met with the wretched and desperate
youth, he would deal with him severely. His search was always in vain.
Alice gave up all her rambles, much as she longed to get again into the
heart of the whispering pine-forest.
One afternoon, when her father was at the mill, and Pallas, as usual,
busy in the kitchen, as she sat sewing and singing to herself in a low
voice, the bright room suddenly grew dark, and looking up at the open
window, she saw Ben standing there gazing at her. If she had not known
of his vicinity, she would not have recognized him at the first glance;
his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and tangled,
his clothing soiled and worn.
"Don't scream!" he begged, as he saw that she perceived him, in a voice
so hollow that it checked the cry rising to her lips. "I ain't going to
harm you. I wouldn't harm a hair of your head--not to save the neck yer
so anxious to see hanging from the gallows. I know where your father
is, and I just crept up to have a look at you. You look happy and
content, Alice Wilde. See me! how do you like your work?"
"It is _not_ my work, Ben, and you know it. Do not blame me. I pity
you; I pray for you. But do go away from here--do go! I would rather
you would harm me than to harm those I love. Oh, if you really care
for me, go away from this spot--leave me to my happiness, and try and
be happy yourself. Be a man. Go, Ben--let us alone. If you do _not_ go,
you will certainly be taken by others, and perhaps punished."
"Catch a weasel asleep, but you can't catch me. You may put twenty men
on the watch. How pleasant it must be for you to sit here making your
weddin'-clothes; I think of it nights, as I lay on the hemlock boughs,
with my eyes wide open, staring up at the stars. What's that song I
used to like to hear you sing so well, Alice?
"'They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night long, by the fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her light canoe.'"
The maiden shuddered to her heart's core as his voice rose wild and
mournful in the sweet tune to which the ballad was set, "Ha! ha! Alice,
it's the same little canoe that you used to come up to the mill in so
often, in those pleasant old times--
"'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
Her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'"
Alice seemed to be listening to her own dirge;
"'Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds--
His path was rugged and sore:
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before!'"--
and with an unearthly shriek he bounded away through the garden and
into the woods, leaving Alice so overcome, that Pallas, who had been
attracted to the door by the strange voice, brought her the "camfire"
bottle to restore her.
"He's a ravin' maniac, that poor boy is, my chile. He ought to be
cotch'd and put in de 'sylum at onct 'fore harm's done. Mercy, chile,
I was jus' goin' to take down de rifle to 'fend my pickaninny. I was
'fraid he'd t'ar you all to pieces, like a ragin' wild beas'."
"You wouldn't have had courage to fire, would you? I'm sure I
shouldn't."
"In course I should have had courage. S'pose I'd stan' by and see my
chile toted off into the woods by a madman? Tush! even a hen'll fight
for her chickens. Ef I hadn't a rifle, I'd spring on 'em, tooth and
nail, ef he laid a hand on my chile;" and the old negro woman breathed
hard, holding herself erect, and looking so determined, that she
inspired courage in the one who regarded her.
"Then I shall choose you for my body-guard," said Alice, "for I begin
to feel like a poor little chick in a big field, with an unseen hawk
in the air which might pounce on it at any time. Oh, Pallas, didn't he
look fearful?"
"Awful, missus, awful! We can't be too kerful of a fanatick--and poor
Ben's got to be one, sure 'nuff. Poor Ben! a year ago he was as merry
a young pusson as dese yere ole eyes car' for to see; and so willin'
and kind, allers lookin' out to do a little sarvice, bringin' us game
and berries, and makin' us furnitur' and fixin's about de house,--ready
to work all day, jus' to hab you say, 'Tank you, Ben,' or gib him one
smile. I jes' wish dis weddin' was safe ober. I has a sense as suthin'
is goin' to happen. And you know, chile, when ole Pallas has a sense,
it allers comes to suthin'."
"Don't tell me of it, if you have, Pallas, for I'm nervous enough
already. There comes father now. I feel safe when he is near."
Upon hearing her account of Ben's looks and words, the raftsman
resolved more firmly than ever to take him into custody if possible.
Leaving Pallas, who was a better man than her husband, with a
double-barreled gun, to defend the house, if necessary, in their
absence, he summoned his full force and hunted the woods for
twenty-four hours without success. He then stationed two men in the
outskirts, in view of the house, to be relieved every eight hours by
two others, and to keep up the watch, on double wages, day and night,
till the enemy was taken or the wedding over.
On the third day of his watch, one of the men, while standing by the
garden-fence, eating his lunch, his rifle leaning against the rails
beside him, was suddenly knocked down, and by the time he got upon
his feet again, he saw Ben Perkins vanishing into the forest with
the weapon on his shoulder. The news of this mishap was any thing but
encouraging, for the chances of his doing mischief were increased
tenfold by the fact of his having possession of a loaded gun. Yet Alice
sung and sewed, praying silently to Heaven that all might be well, and,
happy in the faith and hope of youth, went on with her preparations;
and Pallas finished shelves full of frosted cake and other niceties;
and Saturn hewed wood and brought water, receiving his reward as he
went, from his wife's benevolent hand; and Mr. Wilde was alert and
vigilant, ready for all emergencies.
It was now near the middle of September; the blackberries were gone;
and the grapes were yet green and unpalatable. Pallas was in want of
wild-plums to pickle, and of wild-mint to flavor some of the dressings
for dishes yet to be cooked. She set forth into the woods, having no
occasion for personal fears, and not finding what she desired, wandered
further into their depths than she had intended. Suddenly she started,
with a--"Hi! hi! what's this?"
"If you've any thing in that basket a starving man can eat, give it to
me." It was Ben Perkins who spoke, from behind a fallen tree, where he
was crouching, lifting his emaciated face to her view.
"I hab nothin' at all; and ef I had, why should I gib it to you, when
you'se makin' us all de trouble you can?"
"You've turned against me, too, Aunt Pallas," he said, in so hopeless a
tone, that she paused from her purpose of getting away as fast as she
could. "I've done you many favors in days gone by; I've never refused
to lend you a helpin' hand, and I've never done nothin' to injure you;
but you, too, will try to get me on to the gallows. Go and tell 'em
where I am, if you want to. I don't know as I've strength to get away
any longer. It's a week sence any thing has passed my lips but a nest
full of bird's-eggs I climbed up after yesterday. Say, won't you bring
me a piece of bread?"
"You go home wid me, and behabe yourself, and you shall hab all de
bread you want. Nobody's starving you but yourself."
"Ha! ha! you're a cute 'un, ain't you now? I don't think I shall put my
foot into that trap."
"Well, den, you gib me dat gun what you've got thar'. Gib me dat gun
and I'll bring you suthin' to eat, and won't tell where you are."
"No--no! you can't come that game."
"You doesn't s'pose I'd bring you any ting to eat or help keep you
alive, when you're tryin' yer bes' to kill my masser's frien's, do ye?
It's _you_ is foolish, Ben. What for you be so bad, so wicked for, Ben?
You use to be a nice boy. I like you berry much a year ago. I can't
bar' to see you hurtin' yerself so--let alone odders. Come, now, yer
gib me back dat gun, an' ac' like a man 'stid of a wil' beas', and I'll
do all I can for you, sartain sure, Ben."
"Pallas, I tell you, I'm starving. I want somethin' to eat. Let that
gun alone. I swear to you, I won't use it on any of your family. I
wouldn't hurt a hair of Alice's head--nor her father's. But I want that
rifle--it's none of your business why. Won't ye give me suthin' to eat,
for the sake of old times, Pallas?"
That miserable, hungry, beseeching look--how could she refuse it?
"You've acted like a crazy man, Ben, and you've done berry wrong to
yourself as well as odders. I can't help you, 'less you promise to do
better. Gib me dat gun, and take yer Bible oath you'll never try to
hurt him that's to be Miss Alice's husband, an' I'll help you all I
can."
"Why should I promise not to harm him? hasn't he done all he could to
injure me? hadn't I _ought_ to kill him if I can? wouldn't it be right
and justifiable for me to take his heart's blood?--as he's taken mine,
but in a different way. I was a homeless, poor, hard-workin' young man,
with nuthin' but my hands to rely on. I hadn't no education, I hadn't
no money, but I loved the captain's daughter--I worshiped her shadow.
She'd have been mine--I know she would--if he hadn't come along and got
her away from me. He, who had every thing, came and robbed me of the
only thing I cared to have. He used his education and his money and his
fine ways to steal my only hope. As soon as he come hangin' round I was
nuthin'--Miss Alice walked right over me to get in his arms. I tell ye,
that man has robbed me and wronged me and murdered me, as it were. I
_ought_ to be revenged."
"You is wuss den crazy, Ben Perkins; and I'll tell ye de trute, if ye
get as mad as fire at me for it. 'Tain't noways likely my missus would
eber 'ave taken up wid ye, if Philip Moore had neber seen her. She's
a lady, born and bred; she came of a high family--and it was in her
blood. She wouldn't neber have taken up wid you. She liked you, and
we all liked you; but she wouldn't a married you. You'd no business
to 'spect she would. It's you is all de wrong. Den when a young man
what is suitable to her comes along, and can't no more help fallin' in
love wid her sweet face den you can, when he loves her, and wants to
marry her, and she loves him, as she naturally would, you get wicked
and ugly, and want to kill him. Fie, man! you _don't_ love her! Ef
you did, you couldn't neber break her heart, killing her husband as
is to be. What would you gain by it? 'Stid of likin' and pityin' you,
she'd shudder to hear your name, and she'd wilt away and die, and
you'd be her murderer, well as his. For shame! call dat love? Why, ef
you _really_ loved her, you'd try to make her happy, and seein' you
couldn't hab her, you'd be glad she got de man she like bes'. You is a
bad fellow, Ben Perkins, and you jus' show how lucky it is Miss Alice
didn't take up wid you."
"_She_ thinks I'm so bad, too, doesn't she?--oh, yes, of course she
must; she must hate me, and wish me dead. I know it, but I couldn't
help it. Oh, Pallas, tell her not to think too hard of me. I was never
well brought up. I'd only my wild passions to guide me. I've done wrong
only because my heart was so set upon her. Yet I've struggled against
temptation--I've tried to wish she could be happy without me. Tell her,
when I was on the river alone with Philip Moore, I might have put him
out of the way, but for her sake I wouldn't do it. Often and often as
we sat together in that little boat, alone on the water, the devil in
my heart set me on to strangle him and throw him overboard, I don't
know why I didn't do it, 'ceptin' it seemed as if Alice's eyes was
lookin' at me and wouldn't let me do it. One night he was asleep, his
head on his arm, and I was bending over him--my hand was on his throat,
when _she_ took hold of me and held me back. I seen her as plain as I
see you now. She had on a long, white dress, and her hair was streamin'
down her shoulders, and her feet was bare. She looked at me _so_--I
couldn't stand it; and I made up my mind never to lay hands on that
person again. And I felt so much more like a man, I could look her
straight in the face agin, when I got back. But I told lies, and tried
to get in her good graces. Do you think that was so very bad, under the
circumstances, Aunt Pallas? I never meant to do nuthin' worse; but when
I seen all my plans knocked in the head, and that person meeting her
agin and making up, and she lookin' so like an angel, and so proud and
happy, and all of 'em casting scornful eyes on me, the devil broke out
again worse 'an ever, and I set fire to Philip Moore's store, hopin' to
burn him up; and since then I've been about as desp'rate as a man ever
gets to be. Part the time I'm as good as crazy, I think such thoughts
out here in the woods alone--and agin I'm quite cool and reflect all
over my bad conduct. I'd take it all back, if I could, for _her_ sake;"
and he burst out weeping.
"Yer poor, mis'able soul, I pity you. But I mus' say you did wrong.
'Tain't too late to repent and be saved. Gib up all dose wil', wicked
feelin's, be resigned to de will ob Providence which doesn't allow of
your having the girl you happen to love fust. 'Tain't for us to hab
all we want in dis yere worl'. 'Tain't for us to revenge our enemies.
Chris' says do good to dem dat despitefully use yer. And nobody has
used you bad. He says love your enemies. O Ben! Ben! ef, instid of
bein' de wicked bein' you has, you had prayed to de Lord Jesus to sabe
yer from temptation, and sence yer couldn't be happy in dis life, to
make yer good, yer wouldn't be hidin' here in dis state. People has had
troubles 'fore yer. Don't tink yer de only one, poor boy. Dar's plenty
of tears for Chris' to wipe away on dis yearth."
"I don't know nuthin about it. I've never been taught. 'Tain't nateral
for a man to love his enemies. I can't do it. But if I thought you'd
pity me and pray for me--if I thought Miss Alice would pray for me, I'd
give up wicked thoughts, and try to govern myself."
"She does pray for yer, Ben, wid all her heart every time she prays.
I've seen her cry about yer many time. She'd gib her right hand mos',
to hab you good and happy. Masser's sorry for yer, too; he tought so
much of you once; but course he can't let you kill his friends. Come,
now, Ben, you promise to do right, and I'll stan' by yer tru thick and
thin."
"Some of the time I'm good, and agin I'm bad. I didn't use to be so.
It's only wretchedness has made me so ugly. I don't know how to try to
be better."
"May I pray for you, Ben?"
"Yes--if you want to be such a fool," he said, reluctantly.
The good old colored woman went down on her knees there upon the mossy
cushion of the earth, pouring out her soul in prayer for the haggard
being, who sat, with his chin in his hands, listening to her appeal
in his behalf. Tears streamed down her cheeks; the earnestness, the
pathos of her sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed
to believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt him as
a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature--his sobs
accompanied her "Amen!"
"I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she had finished,
"if I wasn't so weak; but when a fellow's fasted a week he ain't none
of the bravest. I thank you, though, for your prayer, Aunt Pallas--I'll
remember it to my dyin' day. Here's the gun--take it. P'raps if I keep
it an hour longer, I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it,
while you can get it; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you
break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up, I shan't
never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make a Christian of me,
you mus'n't fool me."
"Neither will I," said Pallas; "I'll be back here in an hour wid bread
and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat time, to go home wid
me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him do as he feels is best wid
yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure."
She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that means of
harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not to break her promise
to him, much as she desired that he might be put in safe quarters, and
this uncomfortable suspense be done away with. As he had confessed
himself so changeable in his moods, she did not rely much upon his
present one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying nothing
about it, and filling her basket with substantial food, she returned to
the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was not there. She waited a
few minutes, but he did not come.
"I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def," she muttered,
setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree. "I'll leave dis
here--and now I've kep' my promise I'll go straight home and tell
masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech steps as he tinks bes'."
She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the raftsman as
soon as he came in to tea. When she came to that part of his confession
where he spoke of being about to choke Philip, while on the river,
Alice turned pale, saying with a shudder--as she recalled one of those
visions which haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the
journey of her lover with his deadly enemy:
"Yes! yes! I did--but it was in a dream. I beheld the skiff gliding
along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm under his head, and
his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was stooping over him, his face was
white as ashes, his teeth were clenched, his hands were creeping toward
Philip's throat--I sprang upon him--I held his hands--I drew him
back--I screamed--and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into my
room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my nightmare, father,
don't you recollect?"
"Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek, when his
servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right down sorry for the lad.
And when you are married and out of the way, puss, I'll take him in
hand, and try and reclaim him. He'll make a man yet."
"He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no good
broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doctrines ef he'll only
let me, once Miss Alice is 'way," remarked Pallas.
Mr. Wilde went to the spot indicated by Pallas--the basket of food had
been taken away, but no one was in the vicinity.