Chapter Fifteen.
Brother and Sister.
As Alice Rody left the spot, which had so nearly proved her tomb, she thought of the old hunter with admiration. His courage and honest courtesy had won her, but she had also noticed his surprise on hearing her name.
Of the feeling entertained by him for her father and brother she knew nothing.
The female mind loves riddles, and Alice, like a true woman, racked her brain for a solution of that one Carrol’s conduct seemed to embody.
Thus occupied, she emerged from the forest, and had proceeded some distance upon her road, when she perceived two individuals in close conversation.
Their backs were turned towards her, and, as her light footfall did not disturb them, she got close to the spot on which they stood without their perceiving her.
Near enough, in fact, to hear the following:—
“Hark you, you black rascal! If you betray me, it will be the worse for you. I have a means of silencing those who prove false to me.”
Whatever reply the “black rascal” would have made was prevented by an impetuous gesture of the speaker, who had caught sight of Alice.
“Ah, Alice, you here?” said he, facing towards her. “I did not know you were abroad—”
It was her brother Warren.
Alice recognised in the “black rascal” no less a personage than Crookleg.
Warren thrust a piece of silver into the negro’s hands.
“There, there, that’ll do. I’ll forgive you this time, but remember! Now be off with you—be off, I say.”
Crookleg, cut short in his attempt to address Alice, hobbled away, muttering some words to himself.
“Why, Warren,” asked his sister, “what makes you speak so harshly to poor Crookleg?”
“Because he’s a pestilent fellow. I want him to know his place.”
“But a kind word doesn’t cost much.”
“There, sister! no scolding, if you please. I’m not in the best of humours now. Where is your horse?”
Alice told her brother of the incident, and spoke warmly of Carrol.
“So the old hunter did you a good service, did he? I didn’t think he had it in him, the old bear.”
“How unjust you are, Warren. Bear, indeed! I tell you that Cris Carrol is as good a gentleman as ever lived!”
As she said this she showed signs of indignation.
“Is he, indeed!” was the brother’s mocking retort.
“Yes—a thorough gentleman! One who wouldn’t wound another’s feelings if he could help it—and that’s my idea of a gentleman!”
“Well, we won’t argue the point. He has done good this time, and that’ll go to his credit; for all that, I don’t like him!”
Alice bit her lip with vexation, but made no reply.
“He’s too officious,” continued Warren; “too free with his advice—and I hate advice!”
“Most people do, especially when it is good,” quickly answered his sister.
“Who said it was good?”
“I know it is, or you would have liked it, and have followed it.”
“You are sarcastic.”
“No—truthful.”
“Well, as I am in no mode for quarrelling, we’ll drop the subject, and Cris Carrol too.”
“You may, but I shall never drop him. He is my friend from this time forward!”
“You are welcome to choose your friends—I’ll select my own.”
“You have done so already.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Nelatu, the Indian, seems to be one of them.”
“Have you anything against him?”
“Oh, no. I am only afraid he’ll be the loser by the intimacy.”
“Am I so dangerous?” asked her brother.
“Yes, Warren, you are dangerous, for, with all your pretended goodness, you lack principle. You cannot conceal your real character from me. Remember, I am your sister.”
“I am glad you remind me. I should forget it.”
“That’s because you avoid me so much. If you believed in my wishes for your welfare, you would not do that.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Indeed, then I beg you won’t waste your sympathy on me. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“You think you are.”
“Well, have it that way if it pleases you better. But what has this to do with my friendship for the Indian?”
“A great deal. I don’t like your intimacy with him. Not because he’s an Indian—although that is one reason—but because you have some purpose to serve by it that’ll do him no good.”
“Why, one would think you were in love with the young copper-skin!”
“No, but they might think he’s in love with me.”
“What! has he dared—”
“No, he has dared nothing; only a woman’s eye can see more than a man’s. Nelatu has never spoken a familiar word to me, but, for all that, I can see that he admires me.”
“And you—do you admire him?”
The young girl stopped in her walk.
Her eyes sparkled strangely as she answered—
“Shame, brother, to put such a question! I am a white woman—he is an Indian. How dare you speak of such a thing?”
Warren laughed lightly at his sister, as he answered.
“Why, you don’t think that I care for the fellow, do you?”
The young girl saw her opportunity, and seized it.
“And yet you pretend to be his friend. Ah! have I caught you by your own confession?”
“Again, what do you mean?”
“That my doubts are now certainties—that some wicked scheme is concealed under this false friendship for Nelatu.”
“You are mad, Alice.”
“No, perfectly sane. You have some design, and I advise you, whatever it be, to abandon it. You don’t like my tears, so I’ll try to suppress them if I can; but I implore you, Warren, brother, to give it up now and for ever.”
She dashed a few bitter drops from her eyes ere she spoke again.
“I have only you and my father to look to for support and comfort; my heart has yearned towards you both, but has met with nothing but coldness. Oh, Warren, be a brave man—brave enough to despise wickedness, and you will not only make me happy, but, perhaps, avert that terrible retribution which overtakes transgression. There is time yet; hear my prayer before it is too late.”
Her pleading voice fell upon an ear that heard not.
The appeal did not reach her brother’s stony heart.
With a few commonplaces he endeavoured to exculpate himself from any evil intentions towards the young Indian.
All in vain.
Her woman’s instinct saw through his hypocrisy, and showed him to her as he was—wicked!
That night Alice Rody prayed long and earnestly for support in an affliction which she felt was but too surely coming; and she wept till her pillow was bedewed with tears!