“Zuleime is so nervous and sensitive ever since Carolyn’s illness, that the news of that massacre, and the death of her old playmate and companion, has quite overwhelmed her. I suppose this music awoke her sensibilities,” said Georgia, composedly. If Mrs. Cabell had any suspicion of the truth, she was too well bred to express it then and there. And the matter ended for the moment. But after this evening, Zuleime was never the same. Her fortitude seemed entirely to have given away. Her calmness was utterly broken up. A strange, wild terror and incertitude had come upon her. The next day, Mrs. Clifton, of Hardbargain, came over to call on the visitors. Nevertheless, in the course of the call, Major Cabell found the opportunity he sought, of taking Zuleime to task for what he called her miserable weakness. “You are unfaithful—false at heart—you cherish the image of this young man secretly, while you pretend to be true to me! Pah! Well! why don’t you answer me? Have you anything to say?” “Cousin Charles, does not the grave sanctify any affection? Is it a crime to remember a dead friend?” “It is a miserable, druling weakness! a maudlin, mawkish, drivelling, puling piece of unfaithfulness to duty—and leads you into the exhibition of such scenes as that of last night. Such whining, whimpering, contemptible _self-pity_! I protest you are the most false-hearted and selfish woman I ever met with in my life. It is _your own_ griefs and regrets and reverses, that occupy you all the time. And now! instead of listening to me, and replying—you are falling away into thought again! Come! answer me, now! Was it not self-pity, that caused you to faint during the singing of that _à propos_ song—which, by the way, I gave you as an ordeal! Come! say! Wasn’t it self-pity?” “_No, nor was it the song._ If I pitied myself, should I not pity _you_ as much? It is not such a happy fate, Cousin Charles, to marry a grief-stricken girl like me, I know.” “_No!_ If I calculate upon your continued indulgence of that grief, which I do not! _No!_ Trust me on the part of my wife, there must and shall be no such exhibitions of feeling as that of last night.” “I do not know why you wish to marry me!” she broke forth, with strange wildness. “You do not love me! Perhaps you hate me, and marriage will give you the same power to work out your hate as it would to act out your love! Yes! I do suppose that is really the key to the riddle!” “Perhaps it is,” he answered, sarcastically. “One thing I beg of you,” she said; “while we stay here—in my father’s presence—try to use me kindly—to spare his feelings—he is an old man. Reserve your vengeance until I am your wife, until we get to Richmond, when you will have full power, and ample time and space to work your will.”