“‘Has been;’—true. But see how times have changed! Isaac has left off writing to you so frequently as he did—”
“No, no. He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write as I wrote to him.”
“Well, well. Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such apologies were necessary—”
“How dare you— What right have you to pry into my heart?” exclaimed Aimée, withdrawing herself from her companion’s side.
“The right of love,” he replied, following till both were seated on the very verge of the water. “Can you suppose that I do not see your disappointment when L’Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change when you see it? Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?—happiness which makes me feel of no account to you—happiness which makes me jealous of my very brother—for my brother he is, as he is yours.”
“It should not do that,” replied Aimée, as she sat looking into the water. “You should not be angry at my being happy. If you have learned so much of my thoughts—”
“Say on! Oh, say on!”
“There is no need,” said she, “if you can read the soul without speech, as you seem to profess.”
“I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself. I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides. If you care for me, I need to hear it from yourself.”
“If this quarrel comes to bloodshed, what will become of my brothers? If you love me, tell me that.”