While he lived, Captain Rothesay never forgot that night. Nor did Sybilla; for then she had first seen that cold, stern look, and heard that altered tone. How many times was it to haunt her afterwards!
CHAPTER V.
Next morning Captain Rothesay and his wife sat together by the fireside, where she had so often sat alone. Sybilla seemed in high spirits—her love was ever exuberant in expression—and the moment her husband seemed serious she sprang on his knee and looked playfully in his face.
“Just as much a child as ever, I see,” said Angus Rothesay, with a rather wintry smile.
And then, looking in his face by daylight, Sybilla had opportunity to see how changed he was. He had become a grave, middle-aged man. She could not understand it. He had never told her of any cares, and he was little more than thirty. She felt almost vexed at him for growing so old; nay, she even said so, and began to pull out a few grey hairs that defaced the beauty of his black curls.
“You shall lecture me presently, my dear,” said Captain Rothesay. “You forget that I had two welcomes to receive, and that I have not yet seen my little girl.”
He had not indeed. His eager inquiries after Olive overnight had been answered by a pretty pout, and several trembling, anxious speeches about “a wife being dearer than a child.” “Baby was asleep, and it was so very late—he might, surely, wait till morning.” To which, though rather surprised, he assented. A few more caresses, a few more excuses, had still further delayed the terrible moment; until at last the father's impatience would no longer be restrained.
“Come, Sybilla, let us go and see our little Olive.”
“O Angus!” and the mother turned deadly white.