“Sybilla, come to me!” The words were a fond husband's words: the tone was that of a master who took on himself his prerogative. Never had Angus spoken so before, and the wilful spirit of his wife rebelled.
“I cannot come. I dare not even look at you. You are so angry.”
His only answer was the reiterated command, “Sybilla, come!” She crept from the far end of the room, where she was sobbing in a fear-stricken, childish way, and stood before him. For the first time she recognised her husband, whom she must “obey.” Now, with all the power of his roused nature, he was teaching her the meaning of the word. “Sybilla,” he said, looking sternly in her face, “tell me why, all these years, you have put upon me this cheat—this lie!”
“Cheat!—lie! Oh, Angus! What cruel, wicked words!”
“I am sorry I used them, then. I will choose a lighter term—deceit. Why did you so deceive your husband?”
“I did not mean it,” sobbed the young wife. “And this is very unkind of you, Angus! As if Heaven had not punished me enough in giving me that miserable child!”
“Silence! I am not speaking of the child, but of you; my wife, in whom I trusted; who for five long years has wilfully deceived me. Why did you so?”
“Because I was afraid—ashamed. But those feelings are past now,” said Sybilla, resolutely. “If Heaven made me mother, it made you father to this unhappy child. You have no right to reproach me.”
“God forbid! No, it is not the misfortune—it is the falsehood which stings me.”
And his grave, mournful tone, rose into one of bitter anger. He paced the room, tossed by a passion such as his wife had never before seen.