How happy would she be, installed at Broxbridge as mistress of the grand old mansion!
No wonder, when she thought of this, that she grew sad, silent, and unhappy.
The little cottage became unbearable then, the needful little economies most hateful, the husband for whom she was sacrificing so much a source of aversion.
Then a sudden fit of remorse would seize her—she would prove her love for him by every possible means—she would laugh and sing, all to show him that she was happy—she would utter a thousand little extravagances about their little home and her affection for it.
And then would follow the reaction, and she would be intensely wretched again.
So matters went on for three long weeks, until her health began to give way.
A nobler woman, having once determined to make the sacrifice, would have abided by it; not so with her, however—she wavered even while she believed herself most firm.
She looked ill—her face was always either flushed or white, her hands trembled; she was nervous, hysterical, and unlike herself.
In vain her husband tried everything to please her; he was, if possible, more unhappy than herself.
She could not be contented with her lot at Wood Green. It was not possible for her to forget Broxbridge and its surroundings.