“Never!”
There was no prevarication about the speech—no apology for having made it.
Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise.
Possibly—in all probability—he expected it.
But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.
As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.
There was that in his eye which seemed to say:—
“In less than sixty seconds, you’ll change your tune.”
What he did say was:—
“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”
“I am, sir.
Have I spoken like one who jests?”
“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”
“Upon what?”
“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 passed. 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 passion 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.