Reader, shall I shock _you_, and distress myself, by a recital of some of the scenes that disgraced the next two or three weeks? Hagar’s confirmed suspicions, anguish, and terror? Raymond’s stern, calm, implacable repression of her passion? The death throes of her suppressed and smothered rage? The indomitable strength of will by which he held her down—so that through all this, for many weeks, the innocent and artless Rosalia had no suspicion of _his_ guilty passion, or of _her_ racking jealousy! The poor girl wandered distressed and perplexed over the house, wondering in vain at a sorrow and an anger of which she could see no reasonable cause. If she inquired of Raymond, he would smile gaily and give her a light or an indifferent answer, and ask her for a song. If she inquired of Hagar, she would turn from her with a burning cheek and heaving bosom, without reply; if she pressed the question, Hagar would exclaim, in an agony, “Nothing! nothing! don’t ask me, Rosalia,” and leave the room; for Raymond had said to his wife, while his hand, talon-like, grasped her little shoulder, and his eye struck fiercely into hers, “Alarm this girl, give her one single inkling of the diabolical suspicions you cherish, and, as Heaven hears me, I will never see or speak to you thenceforth!” and she saw and felt that he would have kept his word. Yet, though she concealed the cause of her sorrow from Rosalia, she could not act the part of a hypocrite; she could not bring herself to feel kindly, or to act kindly, towards the girl who, however unconsciously, was wiling away her husband’s affections. Rosalia grew daily more dejected—pining for the love, the tenderness, the sympathy and confidence, the free and affectionate intercourse with her friends, to which she had been accustomed; which was the great necessity of her life; without which she could not exist. She confined herself as much as possible to the nursery, and to Hagar’s two children, who were just beginning to notice and to love her. She longed for Sophie and Captain Wilde, and for the sweet home like feeling she enjoyed with them. She was beginning to dream of them frequently, and to wake weeping for them. She was beginning to regret the tears that prevented her accompanying them, to wonder whether it were possible now to go to them. She was very unhappy here. She felt herself in an atmosphere of coldness and vague censure, that chilled and depressed her. She felt strange and lonesome now, yet she tried to make herself agreeable to all, exerted herself to cheer Hagar when she saw her depressed, to amuse Raymond when he was grave. One evening, after a particularly unsuccessful attempt to disperse the gloom of the drawing-room by her sweet music, she had sought her own chamber in despair; finding Mrs. Collins there engaged in sorting linen, she fell weeping bitterly upon the bed, and exclaiming through her sobs, “Mrs. Collins! what _is_ the matter in this house, can you tell me?”