“Choseph! Stop! You hurt my wrist,” and again she held me prisoned. “There. Be quiet. Well,” with a resigned sigh, “I suppose the foolish man will keep on loving Beela and hating Lentala, and end by breaking poor Lentala’s heart.”
I am not positive that I entirely succeeded in suppressing my laugh.
“It has to be Beela, then,” the sweet voice went on. “But, Choseph, suppose the madcap should really be very different from what she ever appeared to you, and you should discover that she had deceived you about an important matter,—you can’t be certain that you know all her disguises,—wouldn’t you think her unworthy of your trust and love?”
A very decided shake, and above me a soft laugh and a little squeeze of my head.
“Choseph, you know you had suspicions about her skill in staining you and Christopher.”
I had nearly forgotten it; but as her father had been a white man and her mother a native, her skin would require some staining to look exactly like a native’s. I made no response to her speech.
“Choseph, suppose a very little girl born in some other country had been wrecked with her father on this island. She might have been yellow, or—or almost anything. As she grew, it might have become necessary that she be given the color of the natives.” There was a pause, and then came the hurried question, “She’d still be the same girl, wouldn’t she?”
I nodded, simply to please her, for her chatter meant no more to me than that Beela was playing and teasing.
“Think, Joseph.” She was really serious. “Once, when Lentala dressed like Annabel, you were shocked, and said some strange things that made her very unhappy and uneasy, and she was afraid to tell you the whole truth. And for other reasons she thought it best to keep up the deception. Could anything new that you might learn about her change your regard?”
I shook my head, but was puzzled and uneasy.