CHAPTER XXXIII. THE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN.
December 15.—The first snow fell yesterday. As I write, the air is still darkened with the falling flakes. From here to the village is spread a soft white carpet, ankle-deep. I am more than usually interested in this common phenomenon, as I can tell, by the deep footprints, exactly who is coming and going. One track interests me especially—that of a shapely foot, clad in an elegant, tightly fitting boot. Its holy owner came as far as the lodge gate, no further. To make certain that I was not mistaken, I inquired of the lodge-keeper, and found that the clergyman had passed this morning.
As matters stand now, I can arrange everything with coolness and sang froid, for I am really the master of the situation. I hold this man, as it were, in the hollow of my hand. I know his life, his comings and goings, his offences against social propriety, against his own conscience; there is not a step of that poor instrument, his soul, of which I am not master. Despite all this, he is still absolutely blind to his danger. He thinks me sleeping sound, when I am wide awake. Imbecile!
Well, I mean to have my revenge, somehow or other; how and when, I have not exactly determined. I should like to read my satyr such a lesson as would last him for a lifetime; and of course, without any kind of public scandal. I have thought once or twice of a way, but it would, perhaps, be playing with fire to attempt it; nor is it easy to carry out without my wife’s co-operation.
As for Ellen, she remains restless and bewildered; certain of the man’s unworthiness, yet fascinated by his pertinacity. She goes to church, as usual; otherwise, she avoids Santley as much as possible. What would she say, if I were to tell her all I know? I am afraid, after all, it would not facilitate her cure; for, strange to say, women love a scoundrel of the amorous kind.=
```”That we should call these delicate creatures ours,
````And not their ——— sentiments!”
Yes, it is nothing but sentiment, I know. She is as pure as crystal, but she cannot quite forget that she was once a foolish maid, and this man an impassioned boy; and he comes to her, moreover, in the shining vestments of a beautiful, though lying, creed. I shall have to be cruel, I am afraid, very cruel, before I can quite cure her.... Pshaw! what am I thinking, writing? Folly, folly! I am trying to survey Ellen Haldane philosophically, to assume a calmness, though I have it not—though all the time my spirit is in arms against her. I am jealous, damnably jealous, that is all.