"Oh, no indeed," said Adelaide, with an impatient sigh; "you are right there, my dear Cora; never was there such a cold-hearted, matter-of-fact being as that cousin and future husband of mine. If he pays me a compliment, it is only an artful way of drawing attention to one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather numerous. If he ever utters an affectionate word, I always feel convinced that he is laughing at me. Imagine, now, my dear Cora, was it not flattering to my womanly vanity to hear him say, when he arrived in London a month or two ago, after a separation of four years, 'My dear Adelaide, my aunt has taken it into her head that you and I ought to marry; I don't want to oppose her, and I suppose you don't, either.'"
"And you replied—"
"'Oh, no, my dear cousin; I've no objection to marry you. But pray don't ask anything else.'"
"But why did you give your consent?" asked Cora.
"I scarcely know. I am impetuous, rash, passionate, capable of doing even a wicked action when under the influence of some sudden impulse. I am daring enough, Heaven knows, but there is one species of courage that I lack—the courage which gives the power of resistance. I could not oppose my aunt. Has she not been the tenderest of mothers to me? Besides, I did not love any one else, or at least—Why abandon myself to dreams that can never be realized? Again, as the wife of my cousin Mortimer, I shall never be an exile from my dear native South. If you see me gay and happy, Cora, in spite of my approaching marriage, it is that I shall soon behold the blue skies of my beloved Louisiana."
"Forgive me, dearest Adelaide," said Cora Leslie, "but from a few words that escaped you just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your heart. Has Mr. Margrave, by any chance, made an impression in that quarter?"
"You are very inquisitive, miss," replied Adelaide, blushing; "Mr. Margrave is an accomplished young man, but his manner to me has never gone beyond the bounds of the most ceremonious politeness. Perhaps, indeed, had he betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I might—But do not, I implore you, force me to reflect, my dear Cora. Is it not decided that I am to marry Mortimer? I will present him to you this evening if he makes his appearance, and you shall tell me what you think of him."
"I am most impatient to see him," said Cora. "Tell me, dear Adelaide, did you ask him for tidings of my father?"
"Do not think me forgetful, dear Cora, but I had so much to say to him about my brother and my native country that I forgot to make the inquiries you charged me with. There, now, you are angry with me, I know, I can see it in your eyes."
"No, Adelaide, no!" answered Cora, "that which you see in my eyes is not anger, but anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have received any letter from my dear father, and this long silence is so unlike his affectionate consideration that it has filled me with alarm."