Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/434

 . 12, 1861.] died the night O’Brien saw him. But you heard all that before.”

“Yes, I heard it. Don’t you think it was strange the old hunter sent no message to Coral? He told me, once, that he had money put up safely, which would make her independent when he died.”

“Well, I’m sure I never thought he cared a straw about her,” said Denis. “No one would have ever thought she was his child.”

“Well, perhaps she wasn’t,” said Keefe.

“Not his child! Whose, then?”

“How could I tell? But I’ve heard stories of white children being stolen by Indians before now. I’m sure she doesn’t look like an Indian. Who ever saw a squaw with a skin and hair like hers?”

“Would you like her better, Keefe, if you thought she wasn’t an Indian?” asked Denis.

“I don’t know,” said Keefe, carelessly. “I guess it would make no difference.”

“Keefe, will you answer me the question I am going to ask you, truly?”

“Of course I will.”

“Do you love Coral? I don’t mean, do you like to listen to her voice, but does its sound make your heart leap? I don’t mean, do you like to look on her face, but is it always before your eyes? I don’t mean, would you die to save her from harm, but would you die to hear her say she loves you?”

Keefe listened with surprise to the first words of true and earnest love that had ever reached his ears, and gazed wonderingly at his companion’s agitation. The next instant Coral’s radiant eyes seemed to float before him: something whispered that he too could love with deep and tender passion, and he asked himself, where could he find one sweeter or fairer than Coral to bestow it on? Then he looked at the breathless, anxious gaze with which Denis was watching him, and his hesitation vanished.

“No, Denis, I don’t love her: not the way you do, at any rate. I’ve read such love as you talk of, in that old book of poems that used to belong to my mother, but I never believed there was such a thing to be met with now-a-days; so you see I can’t have felt it. I dare say I never shall,” he added, with a laugh; “I think my heart’s too hard.”

At first Denis had listened to him half-doubtingly, but Keefe’s gay laugh banished all suspicion, and he sprang up joyfully: the next moment his face darkened again, and he threw himself on the ground once more.

“I’m a fool,” cried he bitterly, “and worse, to be glad of what may break her heart, and do me no good. Her heart’s yours, Keefe, every bit of it.”

“No such thing, Denis; half of it is yours at any rate.”

Denis shook his head gloomily.

“You can’t tell me anything about that, Keefe; no one can read her heart as well as I can. She loves you as I love her. The smallest hair of your head is dearer to her than my soul and body. But it is no matter for that; I love her all the same; I can’t help it.”

“It’s your great fondness for her makes you afraid she doesn’t care about you,” said Keefe, eagerly. “I’ll engage she does. I’ve often heard that women always show the least liking to those they like best, and that’s just the reason she seems to think more of me sometimes.”

“Do you think so, Keefe?”

“I’m sure of it. Try her; tell her how much you love her, and you’ll find I am right.”

“Yes, I’ll tell her; I only waited to speak to you first; and if I had found that you loved her, I’d have gone off without a word.”

“You’re a generous fellow, Denis.”

“Very little generosity in that. I know too well how little chance I’d have if you were my rival.”

“I wish you would not talk that nonsense, Denis,” said Keefe, impatiently.

Denis made no answer, but after a minute’s silence he jumped up.

“I guess she’s on Sealy’s Head this minute, and I’ll go after her; take care of my gun, will you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he darted off through the trees; Keefe, who had till now remained standing, stretched himself on the grass, and pulling his hat over his eyes, seemed to go to sleep.

the foot of the rock, called Sealy’s Head, was a small green space sprinkled with juniper bushes, and a few wild fruit trees, and double spruce pines. Below this was an abrupt descent to the lake; broken masses of rock, climbing plants, shrubs, and trees thrown on the side of the precipice in every variety of picturesque confusion. The warm bright rays of the morning sun came shimmering through the boughs, making the young satin-soft leaves a golden green, and drawing from the blossoms of the almond and plum trees, the gums of the pines and hemlock, and the balm of Gilead balsam trees the most delicious aroma; and in the midst of this fair scene sat a being as fresh, and sweet, and lovely as the beautiful season, or the bright opening day.

It was a young girl of sixteen or seventeen. Her blue muslin bonnet lay at her feet, leaving her curls of bright hair uncovered. Her gown of blue homespun could not spoil the grace of her slight figure, and her hands were as small, soft, and “thorough bred” as if she had boasted the purest Norman descent; for, thanks to old Brady, no coarse work had spoiled them. Her feet, equally pretty, were cased in gaily embroidered moccasins. She sat on a stone, her head leaning against a rock, and her eyes wandering over the lake beneath; she was looking for Keefe’s skiff, and it was not to be seen. She had often sat here for hours, and watched it gliding along, with its snowy sails set, like a floating pearl; or seen it cresting the white caps of the waves in a squall, as if the little bark, like its bold young helmsman, exulted in the dangers it braved; but to-day no skiff was visible, and disappointed and vexed, Coral pulled the flowers that grew within her reach to scatter their petals on the breeze, and plucked up tufts of moss and fragments of stone