FAMILY AFFAIRS.
It was the day before the wedding. The house was in order, to the
full satisfaction of the sable housekeeper. Viands, worthy of the
occasion, filled the store-room to overflowing. Philip, with his suite,
including the minister who was to officiate, was expected to arrive by
supper-time. The last touches were given to the arrangements, and Alice
was dressed to receive her guests, by the middle of the afternoon. The
motherly heart of her old nurse was so absorbed in her, that she came
very near making fatal mistakes in her dressings and sauces. Every
five minutes she would leave her work to speak with the restless young
creature, who, beautiful with hopes and fears, fluttered from room to
room, trying to occupy herself so that her heart would not beat quite
so unreasonably.
"They are coming!" she cried, at last, having stolen out for the
hundredth time to the top of a little knoll which gave her a farther
view of the river. How gladly the ripples sparkled, how lightly the
winds danced, to her joyous eyes. "Oh, Pallas, they are coming! what
shall I do?" and she hid her face on the old woman's bosom, as if
flying from what she yet so eagerly expected.
"Do, darlin'? oh, my chile, you got to be a woman now; no more little
chile to run away and hide. Masser Moore berry proud of his wife dat is
to be. Don't make him 'shamed, darlin'."
Ashamed of her! mortify Philip! the thought was death to Alice's
sensitive spirit. She lifted her head and became calm at once.
"There, nursie, I don't feel so startled any more. I think I can meet
them, clergyman and all, without flinching."
Her father, who had been on the look-out, took a little skiff and went
down to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore, as she had done upon
the day of Philip's first arrival. A soft rose glowed in either cheek,
which was all the outward sign of the inward tumult as she saw her
bridegroom sailing near enough to recognize and salute her. She saw in
the boat Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Raymond, and a young lady
whom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman.
It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that young lady turned
and grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low voice:
"I don't wonder you refused _me_, cousin Philip. I did not know such
beings existed except in poetry and painting."
Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and the new dress
sent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny did credit to _her_
"broughten' up," as she saw the manner, quiet, modest, but filled with
peculiar grace, with which Alice received her guests.
"Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud stranger in
hers; "this is my cousin Virginia."
"I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kissing her cheek
lightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way.
Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her manner, touched
the affectionate heart of her hostess, who returned her kiss with
interest.
"For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick--quick! Who be dat comin'
up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny? Ef dat ain't little Virginny
Moore, growed up, who is it?"
"It's Virginny, sure 'nuff!" ejaculated her husband.
In the mean time that young lady herself began to look about with
quick, inquiring glances; she peered into the raftsman's face
anxiously, and again toward the old servants, a perplexed look coming
over her face as she neared the house.
"You needn't say a word, Miss Virginny--it's us, sartain--Pallas and
Saturn, your fadder's people, who had you in our arms ebery day till
you was eight year old. You do remember old Pallas, don't you now,
honey? My! my! what a han'some, tall girl you is growed--de picture ob
your fadder. Yer a Moore tru and tru, Missus. My ole eyes is glad to
see you."
"Hi! hi! Miss Virginny!" chuckled Saturn, bowing and scraping.
"Come 'long and let me get your bunnit off. I want to take a good
look at ye, honey. Missus Alice neber was a Moore--she was like _her_
mudder, small and purty and timid-like; but ye's a perfect Moore, Miss
Virginny. My! my! I know 'em all, root and branch. I tol' my ole man
Masser Philip belonged to our Mooreses, but Masser Wilde he neber let
on"--she had the visitor's bonnet off by this time, talking all the
time, and oblivious, in her excited state, of the other guests.
"Yes, Miss Virginia," said the raftsman, drawing his powerful figure up
to its full height, "I am that brother-in-law you have been taught to
detest and be ashamed of. You would hardly have come to the wedding, if
you had known what poor company you were to get in."
All those of the company who knew him looked at him in surprise, for
he had dropped his hoosier form of speech and took on the air of a
superior man. Virginia looked at him a moment calmly, taking, as it
were, an estimate of the mind and heart outside of that athletic frame,
and gleaming through those noble though weather-beaten features.
"I do not see any thing to be ashamed of," she said, with a smile,
giving him her hand, frankly, in a sisterly manner. "I was but a little
child, you know, when your connection with our family commenced.
Doubtless I have been influenced by what I have heard. If my father
wronged you, David Wilde, it is time for you to forgive it--lay up no
hard thoughts against the dead."
Her lip trembled over the last sentence.
"Dear Virginia! is it possible my Alice is to find in you--"
"An aunt? yes, Philip,--and you are about to marry your third cousin.
It's rather curious, isn't it?"
"We'll talk it over after supper," said the host. "Pallas, our guests
are hungry. The river breeze sharpens the appetite."
Pallas wanted no further hint. Perfectly content that she had the means
of satisfying any amount of hunger, she retired, with her subordinate
husband, to dish up the feast.
"I 'spect I'll spile half dese tings, I'se so flusterated. Did you
mind whar' I put dat pepper, Saturn? I declar' I can't say wedder I
put it in de gravy or in de coffee. I jes' turn 'round and put it in
de _suthin'_ on de stove, wile I was tinkin' how cur'us tings happens.
Dear! dear! I put it in de coffee, sure 'nuff, and now dat's all to be
trowed away! 'Spect tings won't be fit to eat. Why don' you fly round
and grin' more coffee? You is de stupidest nigger!"
In spite of small tribulations, however, the supper was served in
due season and with due seasoning. Gay conversation prevailed; but
Alice, though bright and attentive, felt uneasy. Her glance frequently
wandered to the windows and open doors. A certain dark figure had so
often started up in unexpected places, and seemed to hover about so
when least expected, that she could not be entirely at her ease. It was
true that several men were on guard, and that Ben had not been heard
of for a week; but he was so sly, so subtle, she felt almost as if he
might drop out of the roof or come up out of the earth at any instant.
Philip was warned to be on the look-out. He laughed and said he was a
match for Ben in a fair fight, and if the other had no fire-arms, he
could take care of himself.
Long after the rest of the party, fatigued with their journey, had
retired for the night, David Wilde, Alice, Philip, and Virginia sat up,
talking over the past, present, and future.
Alice, who had never known the particulars of her mother's marriage
and death, except as she had gathered hints from her old nurse, now
listened with tearful eyes to brief explanations of the past.
Her father, in his youth, had been a medical student, poor, but
possessed of talent--a charity-student, in fact, who, one day had, at
the risk of his own life, saved the lovely daughter of Mortimer Moore
from the attack of a rabid dog in the street. He had actually choked
the ferocious creature to death in his desperate grip. Grateful for
the noble and inestimable service, the father invited him to the house
to receive a substantial token of his gratitude in the shape of a sum
of money sufficient to carry him through his course of study. But the
courage, the modesty, the fine address and respectful admiration of her
preserver, made a deep impression upon Alice Moore--it was a case of
love at first sight upon both sides--they were young and foolish--the
father opposed the match with contempt and indignation. His rudeness
roused the ire of the proud student; he resolved to marry the woman
he loved, in spite of poverty. They fled, accompanied by Pallas, the
attendant of the young girl; the father refused to forgive them; and
then, when sickness and suffering, untempered by the luxuries of
wealth, came upon his delicate wife, the young husband realized what
he had done in persuading her away from her home and the habits of her
life. If he had first finished his studies and put himself in the way
of gaining even a modest living, and she had chosen to share such a
lot, he would have done right in following the dictates of his heart.
Now he felt that he had been cruelly rash. A year of strange, wild
happiness, mixed with sorrow and privation passed, and the wife became
a mother. Pallas nursed her with tireless assiduity; her husband,
bound to her sick couch, could not exert himself as he might have
done alone; they grew desperately poor--he could not see her suffer
without humbling his pride, and writing to her father to send _her_,
not him, the means necessary to her comfort and recovery. They were
coldly denied. Privation somewhat, but care, grief, and trouble more,
retarded her recovery,--she fell into a decline, and died in his arms,
who swore a great oath over her beloved corpse to forsake a world so
unjust, so cruel, so unhappy. Sending a bitter message to her father,
he disappeared with their infant child. The old colored nurse, who
had also persuaded her husband to accompany them, went with him as
foster-mother to the child. They traveled to the far West--much farther
in those days than now--and when they first settled where they now
were, they were isolated in the wilderness.
Mr. Wilde took up his portion of government land. By the time other
emigrants had made settlements down the river, he had made enough from
it to purchase more. He felled timber with his own hands, and drifted
it down to where it was wanted. As years passed, he employed hands,
built a mill, and as towns grew up within market-distance, found
business increasing upon him. During all this time he had nurtured his
spleen against the civilized world; natures strong and wayward like
his, are subject to prejudice--and because one haughty old aristocrat
had allowed a fair child to perish neglected, he condemned refined
society _en masse_. He adopted the conversation and manners, to a great
degree, of those by whom he was surrounded.
All these things explained to Philip many incongruities in the talk
and habits of Mr. Wilde--the possession of books, the knowledge of
man--which had hitherto challenged his curiosity.
It had been the object of the raftsman to bring up his daughter in
strict seclusion from the world he despised; he had not thought
of further consequences than to keep her innocent, unselfish,
unsuspicious, and free from guile. Chance threw Philip in their way.
His frankness, pleasant temper, and sincerity excused his fashionable
graces in Mr. Wilde's estimation; more intimate association with
him did much to wear away the prejudices he had been heaping up
unchallenged for so long; and when it came to the certainty that his
daughter must choose between one of the rough and uneducated men around
her, or on a man like Philip, he could not conceal from himself that
Philip was his choice.
"And what do you think brought _me_ out here at this critical moment?"
asked Virginia. "I come to throw myself upon Philip's charity--to
become a pensioner upon his bounty. Yes, Mr. Wilde, upon closing up
my father's estate, there was absolutely nothing left for his only
child. He lived up to all that he possessed, hoping, before his poverty
became known, that I would make a brilliant match. A fortnight ago my
lawyer told me there would be nothing left, but a small annuity from
my mother, which they can not touch. It is a sum barely sufficient
to dress me plainly--it will not begin to pay my board. So I, unable
to bear my discomfiture alone, friendless, sorrowful, thought it
less bitter to begin anew among strangers than in the scenes of my
former triumph. I came on to beg Philip to find me some little rural
school where I might earn my bread and butter in peace, unstung by the
coldness of past worshipers. I'll make a good teacher,--don't you think
so?--so commanding!"
Yet she sighed heavily, despite her attempt at pleasantry. It was
easy to be seen that earning her own living would go hard with the
accomplished daughter of Mortimer Moore.
"But Philip will never let you go away from us, I am sure," said
Alice's soft voice, caressingly.
"Until she goes to a home of her own," added her cousin, with a
mischievous smile. "I wouldn't be guilty of match-making; but I own I
had a purpose in asking my friend Irving to stand as groomsman with
Virginia. How do you like him, my sweet cousin?--be honest now."
"Not as well as I have liked some other man, sir?"
"Oh, of course, not yet; but you'll grow to it; and he has no stain
upon his escutcheon--he isn't even a flour-merchant or mill-owner."
"You haven't told me what he is yet," said Virginia, with a slight show
of interest.
"He's my book-keeper."
"Oh, Philip! you're jesting."
"No, indeed, I'm not. He has not a cent, saving his salary; but he's a
gentleman and a scholar, and has seen better days."
"Well, I like him, anyhow," she remarked, presently.
"You ought to encourage him to pay his addresses to you. You could
teach school, and he could keep books. You could take a suite of three
rooms, and wait upon yourselves. I'll promise to furnish the rooms with
dimity, delf, and rag-carpeting."
"You are generous, Philip."
"And to send you an occasional barrel of flour and load of refuse
kindling-wood."
"My prospects brighten."
"Don't tease the girl," said the raftsman, "she'll do better'n you
think for yet. Since my own chick has deserted me for another nest, I
don't know but I shall adopt Virginia myself."
"I wish you would," and the great black eyes were turned to him with a
mournful, lonely look. "Everybody else is so happy and blessed, they do
not need me. But I should love to wait upon you, and cheer you, sir."
It was a great change which misfortune was working in the spirit of the
proud and ambitious girl. Philip, who knew her so well, regarded her
present mood with surprise.
"Well, well, without joking, I intend to adopt this orphan girl. She's
the sister of my own dead wife, and she shall share equally with my
little Alice in all that the rough old raftsman has."
"Which won't be much, father," said Alice, with a smile, glancing
around upon their humble forest home.
"Don't be too sure of that, little one. I haven't felled pine logs
and sawed lumber for fifteen years to no account. Did you think your
two dresses a year, your slippers, and straw-hats had eaten up all
the money-bags I brought home with me upon my trips? Here's a check
for five thousand dollars, puss, to furnish that new house with; and
when Philip gets time to 'tend to it, the cash is ready to put up a
steam saw-mill nigh about here, somewhere--the income to be yours.
It'll bring you in a nice little bit of pocket-money. And if Virginia
concludes to accept that pale-faced book-keeper, thar's an equal sum
laid aside for her--and home and money as much as she wants in the mean
time. It shan't be said the old raftsman's pretty daughters had no
wedding portion."
Virginia took his rough hand in her two white ones, and a tear mingled
with the kiss which she pressed upon it.