“Oh, George! what do you mean?” she murmured somewhat irrelevantly.
“Precisely what I say. He made hot love to you—embraced you—kissed you, madam. He informed you that your husband was a heretic, and that to make him a cuckold would be a certain way of getting an express pass right through to paradise. Very polite indeed, you will agree!”
She saw that I knew everything, and wrung her hands in protestation and despair.
“George, if you know so much—and some one has been playing the spy—you know that it was all against my will; you know that I tried to silence him, to thrust him from me, but, being ill and helpless, sick, and in pain——”
Here her self-pity, coming sharp upon her consternation, quite conquered her, and she fell into hysterical tears.
“O God! God!” she sobbed.
What kaleidoscopes are women! From light to shade, from brightness to dimness, and back again to brightness; from one colour to another, from the tints of the thunder-cloud to the hues of the rainbow, how suddenly they can flit and change! Ellen, who had just before been so gay and smiling, seemed now liked a broken woman. I watched her gloomily, almost despairingly. I knew that ten minutes afterwards, she might change again, scattering away her tears as the sunshine scatters the drops of dew.
Midnight.—I have just left my wife’s bedside. Ellen has promised me, if I spare the man and avoid any scandal, that she will never speak to him again, or even enter his church. Can I trust her? I believe not. However, we shall see.
Christmas Eve.—My mind is now made up. To-day I intercepted a letter from Santley to Ellen, left as usual at the lodge gate. It ran as follows:—
“To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I have not a moment to spare. I will call, however, next day, on the business about which we spoke yesterday. Pray for me till then, as I pray for you.—C. S.”