Page:Once a Week Volume V.djvu/485

 478 smiling at the thought of the great change a few words from him would make in her regard for the little Indian girl. And he was not mistaken. It took some time to make her comprehend the strange tidings he brought, and at first she could only stare at him in breathless amazement.

“But it is in earnest you are, Keefe Dillon?” she asked at last, “or are you only romancing?”

“I never was more in earnest in my life,” said Keefe.

“Wen, if ever I heard the like!” exclaimed Nelly; “why, it beats the story books all to nothing!”

As soon as her astonishment had a little subsided, her selfish and greedy nature began to speculate on the advantages Coral’s altered for tunes might bring to herself and her family.

“Well, you see,” she said, “that ought to teach us that we never know what’s for our good, poor blind creatures that we are. Many a time I thought it a hardship to be bothered with the girl, though old Louis paid for her keep, and more, in skins and maple sugar; but then she was queer in her ways, and so nonsensical in her notions, that oftentimes I felt as if it was a fairy, God save us! I had in the house, and not a human being. And then, Denis broke my heart entirely running after her, and no wonder; for sure the world knows she’d make a pitiful wife for a poor man. But she’ll be rich now, and that alters the case from first to last. She can afford to pay for her fancies now. My old man was right enough for once in his life, and a blessing will come with her, sure enough, as he often said. Denis will be rolling in his carriage yet. She just wants a steady boy to manage her; and, Denis was always that same.”

“You forget that she’s half-Indian yet, Mrs. Brady,” said Keefe, mischievously, “her mother was only a savage.”

“Oh! well, never mind that now, Keefe Dillon. What need we care about that now, when her mother’s dead and gone, and her father such a great man, and able to make a lady of her at once. I only wish Denis was home. You see, they ought to get married at once, in case her father should object to it when he gets her; and the poor thing’s so fond of Denis, she’d be sure to break her heart, if she wasn’t let to have him. And now goodness knows where he’s gone, or how we’re to get him back.”

“You needn’t fret about that, Mrs. Brady,” said Keefe; “you ought to know Denis better than to think of proposing anything so mean and dishonest to him.”

“Mean and dishonest!” cried Nelly, angrily.

But Keefe’s steady manner and cool temper could always hold her violence in control.

“You may as well keep quiet, Mrs. Brady,” he said calmly; “it won’t do to quarrel with me, for you won’t be likely to find Coral’s father, or prove her to be the child he lost, without my help.”

“Maybe, you intend to take her to him, and claim the reward we’ve a right to,” said Nelly, getting angry; “I wouldn’t be a bit astonished if that was your plan, though you pretend to be such a great friend to Denis.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Brady; you know perfectly well what I mean; I intend to write to the Count, and tell him that you’ll take her to Toronto, if he’ll meet her there; that’s all I’ve got to do with the matter; you and he may settle the rest between you. But where is Coral now?”

“How on earth can I tell? In the bush as she always is, I suppose; very considerate and grateful it was of her to run off there the minute she came home, without letting me know a word of what she had heard, me that was the same as a mother to her!”

And so Mrs. Brady talked on to herself, enlarging on the ingratitude of Coral, the perverseness of Denis in being out of the way when he was most wanted, and the pride and insolence of Keefe; raising her voice more loudly as Keefe got farther away, while, deaf and indifferent to the torrent of words poured after him, he walked away in search of Coral.

Entering the bush near a spot which he knew was one of her haunts, he began to whistle little Indian air which Coral often sung, and soon the clear and musical sounds were heard ringing through every cleft, glade, and hollow. After a little while he paused, and then tones, which at first might have seemed the echoes of his own, repeated the air, gradually swelling sweeter, fuller, and more distinct, till the notes of a human voice, silvery, clear, rich, and oft, came through the arches of the wood. Following the sound, Keefe quickly came on the object of his search. She stood in a little opening, in the centre of which was an old lime kiln, its white sides covered with all that profusion of verdure, fruit, and flowers, with which the American summer wreathes every nook of the forest, every fallen tree, and pile of stones. A spring of water bubbled up through the crumbling lime-stones, and ran away through the clearing, glittering like silver, and singing gaily as it danced and sparkled through the channel it had worn. Under some tall white birches that grew on its brink, a bed of sweet phlox, white and lilac, grew so thickly as to scent the whole opening, and a few early strawberries showed their scarlet fruit peeping from out “green honeycombs of leaves.” There Coral was standing, her long curls in the sunlight, her cheek glowing with pleasure, her eyes bright with hope, and she was gazing eagerly in the direction of Keefe’s whistle. Around her were collected a myriad of little winged creatures, blue-birds, yellow-birds, brown-birds, devouring grains of corn and crumbs of bread which she had brought them; but as Keefe came near, they took hasty flight, hopping and chirping about at a little distance, as if waiting to see if they might not return to their feast without danger.

“You look like the queen of Fairyland, with all your small subjects about you,” said Keefe, sitting down on a stone at her feet.

“Do I?” she answered, laughing; “then take care that I don’t throw some enchantment over you.”