I was right, then: justification, and ‘—jealousy.
“You forget,” I answered quickly, “that I heard the whole conversation. Besides, though the language of words may be distorted, that of kisses and embraces is unmistakable.”
“He did not kiss her; he did not embrace her! I will never believe it.”
“Then, you simply assume that I am stating an untruth?”
“I know how glad you are,” she cried passionately, “to put this slur upon him.”
With some difficulty I mastered my indignation. Sick of the discussion, I rose and prepared to leave the room; but before leaving I spoke, with cold decision, to the following effect:—
“I have told you precisely what I saw; it is for you to impeach my motives, if you please, and to think, in your infatuation, that I dislike Mr. Santley because of the cloth he wears. If you doubt me, question the girl; you can possibly get the truth from her. In any case, remember that, from this moment, I forbid you to entertain that man in my house.”
So I left her, leaving my words to work.
The next day, i.e. yesterday, Santley called. She did not see him, but sent out a message that she was engaged. I saw him creeping, pale and crestfallen, past my laboratory door.
Since the conversation recorded above, Ellen and I have not alluded to the subject; indeed, we have seen little of each other, and spoken still less. Possibly our temporary estrangement might account for the fixed pallor, the cold look of sorrow and reproach, on my wife’s face; but I am inclined to fear otherwise. At all events, the thing had gone so far, and I knew so much, that the overtures to reconciliation could not come from me. I had to conquer my struggling tenderness, and watch.