“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. Something did. God, 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 Cassius, ’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, Cassius. I do not—I cannot, love you.”
“You will not marry me then?”