“Claud,” replied my brother, “I am beginning to be afraid of you; you are like a witch. But—but,” he added, “this is foolish; it is wicked; for she is a relation—at least, a kind of a one, you know—and you have no reason to dislike her. But isn’t she pretty, though?”
“Pretty! Well, so is a tigress, so is a serpent, and she reminds me of both; she puts me in mind of the portrait in that French story-book we used to read at home, of the woman who poisoned so many husbands—just the same plump figure, raven hair, pale skin, dark eyes, that seem to mean everything, under an effort to look as if they meant nothing, and soft hands; then her embrace was as mock as a play-actor’s, nothing real in it, and her kiss like that of Judas.”
“Hang it, Claud, it’s a shame; be quiet, you shall say no more!” exclaimed my brother, placing his hand upon my mouth. And in truth I did feel a little ashamed of this warm expression of opinion upon so short an acquaintance; nevertheless, I believed in it at the time, and, moreover, that night dreamt that all I had said had come true. But then, you know, there is not much in dreams; at least, it is foolish to place reliance upon them.
After this conversation, neither spoke for some time. At length the silence was broken by Martin. “Claud,” said he, “I wonder how much money our uncle has left to father?”
“Not much, I fear, if our new aunt had any part in making his will.”
“Oh! bother; drop talking of her. It’s a great shame if he hasn’t, though, after coming all this way by his own invitation.”
“Well, we shall soon know all about the will, I dare say,” said I, a little shocked that my brother should so soon speak of money affairs; and Martin understood and felt hurt at my thoughts, for he answered:
“It is for our father, who is ill, and has had so much trouble, that I want the money, Claud, not myself; for I am strong and healthy, and, if necessary, shall be able to get my living somehow—for instance, as a clerk, a messenger, a hunter, or anything, you know, out here, where white men are valuable.”
“But you, Martin, are only a boy.”
“And I should like to know whether a white boy is not as good as two mahogany-colored men?” he replied, boastfully.