SUSPENSE.

What was the consternation of Alice when her father returned the evening of the day of his departure and told her he had concluded he could not be spared for the trip, and so, when they reached the mill, he had chosen Ben to fill his place! Every vestige of color fled from her face.

"O father! how could you trust him with Philip?" burst forth involuntarily.

"Trust Ben? Why, child, thar ain't a handier sailor round the place. And if he wan't, I guess Moore could take care of himself—he'll manage a craft equal to an old salt."

"Can't you go after them, father? oh, do go, now, this night—this hour!"

"Why, child, you're crazy!" replied the raftsman, looking at her in surprise. "I never saw you so foolish before. Go after a couple of young chaps full-grown and able to take care of themselves? They've the only sail-boat there is, besides—and I don't think I shall break my old arms rowing after 'em when they've got a good day's start," and he laughed good-naturedly. "Go along, little one, I'm 'fraid you're love-cracked."

Got the only sail-boat there was! There would be no use, then, in making her father the confidant of her suspicions. It seemed as if fate had fashioned this mischance. Several of the men had got into a quarrel, at the mill, that morning; some of the machinery had broken, and so much business pressed upon the owner, that he had been obliged to relinquish his journey. He had selected Ben as his substitute because he was his favorite among all his employees; trusty, quick, honest, would make a good selection of winter stores, and render a fair account of the money spent. Such had been the young man's character; and the little public of Wilde's mill did not know that a stain had come upon it—that the mark of Cain was secretly branded upon the swarthy brow which once could have flashed back honest mirth upon them.

They say "the devil is not so black as he is painted;" and surely Ben Perkins was not so utterly depraved as might be thought. He was a heathen; one of those white heathen, found plentifully in this Christian country, not only in the back streets of cities, but in the back depths of sparsely-settled countries.

He had grown up without the knowledge of religion, as it is taught, except an occasional half-understood sensation sermon from some travelling missionary—he had never been made to comprehend the beauty of the precepts of Christ—and he had no education which would teach him self-control and the noble principle of self-government. Unschooled, with a high temper and fiery passions, generous and kindly, with a pride of character which would have been fine had it been enlightened, but which degenerated to envy and jealousy of his superiors in this ignorant boy-nature—the good and the bad grew rankly together. From the day upon which he "hired out," a youth of eighteen, to Captain Wilde, and saw Alice Wilde, a child of twelve, looking shyly up at him through her golden curls, he had loved her. He had worked late and early, striven to please his employer, shown himself hardy, courageous, and trustworthy—had done extra jobs that he might accumulate a little sum to invest in property—all in the hope of some time daring to ask her to marry him. Her superior refinement, her innate delicacy, her sweet beauty were felt by him only to make him love her the more desperately. As the sun fills the ether with warmth and light, so she filled his soul. It was not strange that he was infuriated by the sight of another man stepping in and winning so easily what he had striven for so long—he saw inevitably that Alice would love Philip Moore—this perfumed and elegant stranger, with his fine language, his fine clothes, and his fine manners. He conceived a deadly hate for him. All that was wicked in him grew, choking down every thing good. He allowed himself to brood over his wrongs, as he regarded them; growing sullen, imprudent, revengeful. Then the opportunity came, and he fell beneath the temptation.

Chance had saved him from the consummation of the deed, though not from the guilt of the intent. He had thought himself, for half a day, to be a murderer,—and during those hours the rash boy had changed into the desperate man. Whether he had suffered so awfully in conscience that he was glad to hear of the escape of his intended victim, or whether he swore still to consummate his wish, his own soul only knew.

Everybody at Wilde's mill had remarked the change in him, from a gay youth full of jests and nonsense to a quiet, morose man, working more diligently than ever, but sullenly rejecting all advances of sport or confidence.

If he was secretly struggling for the mastery over evil, it was a curious fatality which threw him again upon a temptation so overwhelming in its ease and security of accomplishment.

Ah, well did the unhappy Alice realize how easily now he could follow his intent—how fully in his power was that unsuspicious man who had already suffered so much from his hands. Appetite and sleep forsook her; if she slept it was but to dream of a boat gliding down a river, of a strong man raising a weak one in his grasp and hurling him, wounded and helpless, into the waters, where he would sink, sink, till the waves bubbled over his floating hair, and all was gone. Many a night she started from her sleep with terrified shrieks, which alarmed her father.

"'Tain't right for a young girl to be having the nightmare so, Pallas. Suthin' or another is wrong about her—hain't no nerves lately. I do hope she ain't goin' to be one of the screechin', faintin' kind of women folks. I detest sech. Her health can't be good. Do try and find out what's the matter with her; she'll tell you quicker 'an she will me. Fix her up some kind of tea."

"De chile ain't well, masser; dat's berry plain. She's getting thin every day, and she don't eat 'nuff to keep a bird alive. But it's her mind, masser—'pend on it, it's her mind. Dese young gentleum make mischief. Wish I had masser Moore under my thumb—I'd give him a scoldin' would las' him all his life."

"Cuss Philip Moore, and all others of his class," muttered the raftsman, moodily.

Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas began to lose their high opinion of the young man, as they witnessed the silent suffering of their darling. His going down the river without his expected company had cheated Philip out of the revelation he had desired to make; and Alice, with that excessive delicacy of some timid young girls, had not even confided her secret to her good old nurse.

Much better it would have been for her peace of mind, had she told all to her friends—her love and her fears. Then, if they had seen good reason for her apprehensions, they might have chased the matter down, at whatever trouble, and put her out of suspense. But she did not do it. She shut the growing terror in her heart where it fed upon her life day by day.

There was no regular communication between Wilde's mill and the lower country, and in the winter what little there had been was cut off. The lovely, lingering Indian-summer days, in the midst of which the two voyagers had set out, were over, and ice closed the river the very day after the return of Ben.

A sudden agony of hope and fear convulsed the heart of Alice, when her father entered the house one day, and announced Ben's arrival.

"Did he not bring me a letter? was there no letter for you, father?"

It would be so natural that he should write, at least to her father, some message of good wishes and announcement of his safe journey—if she could see his own handwriting, she would be satisfied that all was well.

"Thar' was none for me. If Ben got a letter for you, I s'pose he'll tell you so, as he's coming in with some things."

"Have you any thing for me—any message or letter?"

It was the first time she had met Ben, face to face, since that never-to-be-forgotten night of the house-warming; but now he looked her in the eyes, without any shrinking, and it appeared to her as if the shadow which had lain upon him was lifted. He certainly looked more cheerful than he had done since the day of Philip's unexpected arrival at the new house. Was it because he felt that an enemy was out of the way? Alice could not tell; she waited for him to speak, as the prisoner waits for the verdict of a jury.

"Thar' ain't any letter, Miss Alice," he replied, "but thar's a package—some presents for you, and some for Pallas, too, from Mr. Moore. He told me to tell you that he was safe and sound, and hoped you'd accept the things he sent."

His eyes did not quail as he made this statement, though he knew that she was searching them keenly. Perhaps there was a letter in the bundle. She carried it to her own room and tore it open. No! not a single written word. The gifts for the old servant—silk aprons, gay-colored turbans, and a string of gold beads—were in one bundle. In another was a lady's dressing-case, with brushes, perfumeries, and all those pretty trifles which grace the feminine toilet, a quantity of fine writing materials, paper-folder, gold-pen, some exquisite small engravings, and, in a tiny box, a ring set with a single pure pearl. That ring! was it indeed a betrothal ring, sent to her by her lover, which she should wear to kiss and pray over? or was it intended to help her into a bond with his murderer? Eagerly she scanned every bit of wrapping-paper to find some proof that it was Philip's own hand which had made up the costly and tasteful gifts. She could find nothing to satisfy her. They might have been purchased with his money, but not by him. The ring which she would have worn so joyfully had she been certain it had come from him, she put back in its case without even trying it on her finger.

"O God!" she murmured, throwing herself upon her knees, "must I bear this suspense all this endless winter?"

Yes, all that endless winter the weight of suspense was not to be lifted—nor for yet more miserable months.

December sat in extremely cold, and the winter throughout was one of unusual severity.

As the Christmas holidays drew near, that time of feasting so precious to the colored people raised in "ole Virginny," Saturn bestirred himself a little out of his perpetual laziness. If he would give due assistance in beating eggs and grinding spices, chopping suet and picking fowls, as well as "keep his wife in kindling-wood," Pallas promised him rich rewards in the way of dainties, and also to make him his favorite dish a—woodchuck pie.

"'Clar' to gracious, I don't feel a bit of heart 'bout fixin' up feastesses dis yere Chris'mas," said she to him, one evening in the midst of the bustle of preparation. "We've allers been Christian folks 'nuff to keep Chris'mas, even in de wilderness; but what's de use of cookin' and cookin' and dar's Miss Alice don't eat as much as dat frozen chick I brought in and put in dat basket by de fire."

"But dar's masser, he eat well 'nuff,—and I—I'se mighty hungry dese days. Don't stop cookin', Pallas."

"You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger, Saturn. Nobody'd tink you was brought up in one de best families. If I could only tink of somethin' new dat would coax up pickaninny's appetite a little!"

"P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested Saturn.

It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish which he usually reserved especially to himself, but he, too, felt as tender as his organism would permit, toward his youthful mistress.

"Our missus eat woodchuck pie! you go 'long, Saturn; she wouldn't stomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our chile begins to look jus' as missus did de year afore she died. I feel worried 'bout her."

"Does you? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neurology. I got de rheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish you'd fix up some of yer liniment, wife."

"Wall, wall, eberybuddy has der troubles, even innocen' ones like our chile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse generation, and dat is de reason our woods tuk fire and our house burn up; and now our dear chile mus' go break her heart 'bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs her or not. She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'd a thought our family wud ever come to sech an end? I remember when Mortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran' style 'fore he sol' ebery buddy but you and I, Saturn, and kep' us cause we wouldn't leab de family, and tuk us to New York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sides with my young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and run 'way wid her, and see to her tru thick and thin. But I see her die, and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chile die. Dun know what poor old woman lib for to bury all her children for. When I tink of all de mince-pies and de chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, for Chris'mas, I don't feel no heart for to lif' dis choppin'-knife anodder time."

Yet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New Year's day the men at the mill were supplied with a feast; but Alice could not bring herself to decorate the house with wreaths of evergreen, according to custom—it brought back hateful fears too vividly. The unceasing cry of her heart was for the river to open. She counted the hours of the days which must drag on into weeks and months.

Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would not talk to him, he would make himself agreeable to the old servants; any thing for an excuse to linger about where he could obtain glimpses of the face growing so sad and white. Mr. Wilde had always favored him as a work-hand, and now he invited him often to his home. He hoped that even Ben's company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from her "love-sickness."

It was a few weeks after the holidays that, one evening, Mr. Wilde took Alice upon his knee, smoothing her hair as if she were a baby, and looking fondly into her face.

"I've some curious news for you, little one," he said, with a smile. "Would you believe that any one had been thinking of my little cub for a wife, and had asked me if he might talk to her about it?"

"Was it Ben, father?"

"Yes, it was Ben. No doubt you knew of it before, you sly puss!"

"I refused him long ago, father. Didn't he tell you that?"

"No."

"Would you be willing I should marry a person like him?"

"No, not willing. Once I'd have set him afloat if he'd had the impudence to mention it. But you're failing so, Alice, and you're so lonesome and so shut up here. I know how it is. The young must have their mates; and if you want him, I shan't make any serious objection. He's the best there is in these parts. He's better than a flattering, deceiving gentleman, Alice. I was fool enough once to imagine you'd never marry, but live your lifetime with yer old father; but I ought to have known better. 'Tain't the way of the world. 'Twasn't my way, nor your mother's way. No, Alice, if yer ever in love, and want to marry, unless I know the man's a villain, I shall make no objections. Ben loves you, my dear, desperately. A girl should give two thoughts before she throws away such a love as his. 'Tain't every man is capable of it."

"But I'm engaged to Philip Moore, father. We love each other." Her blushing cheek was pressed against his that he might not see it.

"Alice, my child," said the raftsman very gently, in a voice full of pity and tenderness; "Mr. Moore is a rascal. He may have told you that he loved you, but he don't. He don't intend to marry you. He's a d—— proud aristocrat!" waxing wrathy as he went on. "There! there! don't you feel hurt; I know all about him. Knew't he made fun of us, after all we'd done for him, in his store down to Center City, when he didn't know Ben was listenin'. Besides, he advised Ben to marry you, to keep you from breakin' your heart about him; said you expected him back in the spring, but he was goin' on East to marry a girl there. So you see you must think no more of that rascally fellow, Alice. If he ever does come back here I'll whip him."

"Ben told you this?" cried Alice, her eyes flashing fire and her white lips quivering. "And you believed the infamous lie, father? No! no! Ben has murdered him, father—he has murdered my Philip, and has invented this lie to prevent our expecting him. O Philip!"—her excitement overpowered her and she fainted in her father's arms.

Now that the tension of suspense had given way, and she deemed herself certain of the fate of her lover, she yielded for a time to the long-smothered agony within her, going from one fainting-fit to another all through that wretched night.

The next day, when composed enough to talk, she told her father all—Ben's offer of marriage, his threats, the circumstantial evidence which fixed the guilt of the assault in the woods upon him, and her belief now that Philip had been made away with. The raftsman himself was startled; and to quiet and encourage his child, he promised to set off, by to-morrow, upon the ice, and skate down to Center City, that her fears might be dispelled or confirmed. But that very night the weather, which had been growing warm for a week, melted into rain, and the ice became too rotten to trust. There was nothing to do but to wait.

"'Tain't by no means certain he's done sech a horrible thing. And if you'll pick up courage to think so, and make yerself as easy as you can, I'll start the very first day it's possible. Likely in March the spring 'll open. You may go 'long with me, too, if you wish, so as to learn the news as soon as I do. I'll say nothing of my suspicions to young Perkins, but try to treat him the same as ever, till I know he desarves different."