Part 115 (1/2)
”Many things.”
”Name them!”
”Well, for one--the way I love you.”
She made no rejoinder.
”A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; ”a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end only with my life. It could not end with _yours_.”
There was a pause, but still no reply.
”'Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day--ay, the same hour--I first saw you.
”I won't say it grew stronger as time pa.s.sed. It could not. On my first visit to your father's house--now six years ago--you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden--while dinner was being got ready.
”You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in beauty--as beautiful as you are at this moment.
”No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yet _dissipation_, has been able to efface.”
The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!
Still did she keep silence.
Calhoun continued:--
”Yes, Loo; it's true as I tell you. I've tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.
”I won't say, that my pa.s.sion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I've already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin--ah! you called me _handsome_ cousin, Loo--from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate--ay, so much, that I could have _killed_ you!”
”Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!”
”'Tis serious, nevertheless. I've been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not--as you have reason to know.”
”Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think--”
”I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I'll say it for you: 'to think that you ever loved me.' Those were the words upon your lips.
”I don't say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: ”I don't accuse you of tempting me. Something did. G.o.d, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”
”What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Ca.s.sius, 'tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches.
Why not address yourself to them?”
”Why not?” he echoed, with bitter emphasis. ”What an idle question!”
”I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid with you, Ca.s.sius. I do not--I _cannot_, love you.”
”You will not marry me then?”
”That, at least, is an idle question. I've said I do not love you.
Surely that is sufficient.”