he whole
armoury of girlish coquetry, or childish wile, passionate tenderness
and angry or sullen reproach, alternating each other. Her husband was
equally unmoved by all. He seemed a very rock, indifferent to either
sunshine or storm. And yet it was not so. He had in his nature deep,
earnest, abiding tenderness; but he was one of those people who must be
loved only in their own quiet, silent way. A hard lesson for one whose
every feeling was less a principle than an impulse. Sybilla could not
learn it. And thus the happiness of two lives was blighted, not
from evil, or even lack of worth in either, but because they did not
understand one another. Their current of existence flowed on coldly and
evenly, in two parallel lines, which would never, never meet!

The world beheld Captain Rothesay in two phases--one as the grave,
somewhat haughty but respected master of Merivale Hall; the other as the
rash and daring speculator, who was continually doubling and trebling
his fortune by all the thousand ways of legal gambling in which men
of capital can indulge. There was in this kind of life an interest and
excitement Captain Rothesay rushed to it as many another man would have
rushed to far less sinless means of atoning for the dreary blank of
home.

In Mrs. Rothesay the world only saw one of its fairest adornments--one
of those "charming women" who make society so agreeable; beautiful,
kind-hearted--at least as much so as her thoughtless life allowed;
lively, fond of amusement--perhaps a little too much, for it caused
people to note the contrast between the master and the mistress of the
Hall, and to say what no wife should ever give the world reason to say,
"Poor thing! I wonder if she is happy with her husband?"

But between those two stood the yet scarce recognised tie which bound
them together--the little deformed child.

CHAPTER X.

"Captain Rothesay?"

"My dear?"

Reader, did you ever notice the intense frigidity that can be expressed
in a "my dear!" The coldest, cruellest husband we ever knew once
impressed this fact on our childish fancy, by our always hearing him
call his wife thus. Poor, pale, broken-hearted creature! He "my deared"
her into her grave.

Captain Rothesay also used the epithet with a formality which was
chilling enough in its way. He said it without lifting his eyes from the
book, "Smith's Wealth of Nations," which had become his usual evening's
study now, whenever he was at home. That