“Glad—glad to have been kept in the dark like a baby—a fool! It was not proper treatment towards your wife, Angus,” was the petulant answer, as Sybilla drew herself from his arm, which came as a mute peacemaker to encircle her waist.
“Now you are a child indeed. I did it from love—believe me or not, it was so—that you might not be pained with the knowledge of my struggles, toils, and cares. And was not the reward, the wealth, all for you?”
“No; it wasn't.”
“Pray, hear reason, Sybilla!” her husband continued, in those quiet, unconcerned tones, which, to a woman of quick feelings and equally quick resentments, were sure to add fuel to fire.
“I will not hear reason. When you have these four years been rolling in wealth, and your wife and child were—O Angus!” and she began to weep.
Captain Rothesay tried at first, by explanations and by soothings, to stop the small torrent of fretful tears and half-broken accusations. All his words were misconstrued or misapplied. Sybilla would not believe but that he had slighted, ill-used, deceived her.
At the term the husband rose up sternly.
“Mrs. Rothesay, who was it that deceived me?”
He pointed to the child, and the glance of both rested on little Olive.
She sat, her graceful playthings fallen from her hands, her large soft eyes dilated with such a terrified wonder, that both father and mother shrank before them. That fixed gaze of the unconscious child seemed like the reproachful look of some angel of innocence sent from a purer world.