The great struggle came this morning. I observed it with sickening suspense. Had honest indignation conquered, had Ellen held to her first decision of not returning into that man’s church, I think I should have taken her into my arms and begged her pardon for suspecting her. But no! she has gone; not, I am sure, to pray. Surely I am a model husband, to sit so tamely here!
Sunday Evening.—She drove home immediately after morning service, and
I saw by the expression of her face that she was greatly agitated. We lunched in silence, and afterwards she took a volume of sermons and sat reading on the terrace. Later on in the afternoon, while I sat writing alone, she came in behind me, and before I could speak, put her arms around my neck and kissed me.
“Forgive me,” she cried, with her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Oh, George, I am so unhappy! I cannot bear to quarrel.”
And she knelt by my side, looking pitifully up into my face.
I returned her kiss, and for the time being, in her soft embrace, forgot my suspicions. It was a happy hour! Neither of us spoke of the subject of our disagreement.
Tuesday.—After a temporary calm, the storm has again broken, and the weather is still charged with thunder. Let me try to record calmly what has taken place.
This afternoon, as I sat at work, Baptisto entered quietly.
“I think you are wanted, senor; there is some one here.”
“What do you mean? Who is it?”