“Never made a worse bet in my life,” replied the gentleman, throwing his legs upon the sofa.
“Perhaps not,” replied his wife, with offended seriousness; “but recollect, Mr Rainscourt, that you have no one to blame but yourself—you were not deceived. I might have been happy—might have met with sincerity and reciprocal affection. Your conduct towards me was an act of cruelty, which would have called forth some compunction in the breast of my bitterest enemy; and yet, unoffending, I was heartlessly sacrificed to your vanity.”
“Say, rather, to your own, which blinded you, or you would have been able to discriminate better.”
Mrs Rainscourt burst into tears. Before her emotion could be controlled, her husband, who was hardened to these scenes of alternate anger and grief, either was, or pretended to be, in a sound sleep.
The little girl had nestled close to her mother at the ebullition of her feelings, and waited in silence until it was exhausted.
“Why, mamma, I thought you said we should be so happy now.”
“Did I, my dear?” replied Mrs Rainscourt, mournfully.
“Yes, you did, and told me that we should have a fine house in London, and that we should not go back to the old castle again. I was sorry for that, though. Where shall we go now, mamma?”
“God knows, my child; you must ask your father.”
“Papa’s asleep, and I must not wake him. I do hope we shall go back to the castle.”