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CHAPTER XXXII. “FLIEH’! AUF’! HINAUS! IN’S WEITE LAND!”

For several days after that meeting, it seemed to Mrs. Russell that Edith was sickening for a fever. Edith herself was afraid that the terrible trial through which she had passed, was likely to have serious results. In her agony, the girl prayed to die; but for her there was no such mercy. At the end of a few days the ominous symptoms had passed away, and Edith was almost herself again. No doctor had been sent for. Mrs. Russell in her anxiety, was eager for him to see her niece; but Edith, driven almost distracted at the thought, had refused so-decidedly to see him that her Aunt had yielded, and had promised to put off sending to him for a few days. At the end of a few days Edith was better, so no message was sent, and the doctor never came.

So the time wore on. Winter had fairly set in, and everybody in the village was making preparations for Christmas, Mrs. Russell following the fashion of all the rest. From morning till night she was herself employed with the maid in the kitchen, chopping up mincemeat, and preparing various other dainties for Christmas fare. But her kindly face was troubled; she was always thinking of Edith, who was so sadly changed. The illness which had been so much dreaded, had passed away, it is true, but something almost as pitiable had been left in its place. The girl looked pale and worn, and old before her time. She never crossed the threshold, but sat at-home day after day, shivering over the fire, and when questioned by her aunt, she merely said —

“I don’t feel very well. But don’t notice me, aunt dear; go on with your preparations for Christmas. I like to think that you will make the house bright, for I am sure I shall be better, so much better, when Christmas comes.”

Mrs. Russell, according to her usual custom, wanted to have company, since it was dull, she said, for two lonely: women to spend their Christmas together. So she proposed to her niece that she should write to Mrs. Hetherington, asking her to come, with her son, and eat her Christmas dinner at the cottage. But this idea was opposed by Edith as vehemently as the doctor’s visit had been; and in this case, as in the other, the aunt had yielded.

“Well, Edith, shall I ask them for the New Year?” she asked; and the girl, eagerly seizing the respite, had answered —

“Yes, aunt; for the New Year. For this once, you and I will spend our Christmas alone.”

So the time passed on, until one morning Edith opened her eyes, and lay listening to the Christmas bells.

“Peace on earth, good will towards men!”

That was the message they were chiming forth; that was the doctrine he must preach to-day. He, through whose cruelty she, who only last Christmas had been a happy, contented girl, now lay there a very sorrowful, weary woman.

Would he think of her when he stood in his pulpit, gazing into the enraptured faces of his flock, and preaching to them the gospel of faith and love? Would he think for one moment of this poor girl, whom he had made an outcast?

When mother and daughter sat at breakfast, Edith announced her determination to stay at home as usual; so Mrs. Russell went alone through the snow to hear the vicar’s sermon. She was sorry Edith was not with her, she said to herself again and again, as she sat in the church, listening in rapt attention to the benevolent gospel which Mr. Santley preached. He had never been known to have spoken so well before, and when he had finished, one half of the congregation had been reduced to tears.

Mrs. Russell told Edith all about it at dinner, and again expressed her sorrow that Edith had not been there to hear. To this the girl said nothing, but there passed over her face a look it was well the aunt did not see.

Thus the day passed – a day so full of joy to some, so full of sadness to others. Well, joy and sadness were ended. Mrs. Russell, following her usual custom, reached down the old family Bible, and read from it; then, taking her niece’s hand in hers, she knelt down to say a prayer. When they rose from their knees, Edith put her arms round her aunt’s neck, and kissed her fondly.

“Aunt dear,” she said, “I have often been a great trouble to you – I have often caused you disappointment and a deal of unnecessary pain; but tonight, on Christmas night, when we should all forgive and love one another, you will tell me, will you not, that you forgive me?”

With strange, wondering eyes, the old lady looked at her niece, so pale and sadly changed; then she kissed her, as she said —

“My darling, what there is to forgive I forgive. We cannot all do as we ought, Edith – we are poor creatures at the best of times – but you are a good girl, Edith; and perhaps, after all, things have shaped themselves for the best.”

The old lady, all unconscious of the real state of things, was thinking of the collapse of the pet scheme she had had of making Walter Hetherington her son.

“Dear aunt,” said Edith, fondly, “it was impossible.”

“Yes, yes; I know that now, my dear: and perhaps, after all, as I said before, it is for the best. There, don’t think of it again to-night, dear, but go to bed and rest!”

So Edith went to her room; and while the rest of the household were falling into blessed, tranquil slumber, she sat, dressed as she was, upon the bed and stared vacantly before her. She did not weep; her time for that, had passed away, even as the greatness of her sorrow grew. Her face was fixed and determined; her heart seemed to-have hardened to stone. For days and days she had waited for she knew not what; but a vague kind of hopefulness, had taken possession of her heart, and she had allowed it to remain. Perhaps, during those terrible days of agonizing suspense, she had thought that she might have received some word or sign from him. It had been a vague, almost a hopeless, hope; nevertheless, it had been that one spark which had kept life within her. But now that hope was gone: he had made no sign. And with the knowledge that she could no longer conceal her shame, came also the assurance that the man for whose sake she had sinned, had pitilessly abandoned her.

Edith, sitting at home by the fire that day, had thought over all this, while her aunt had been at church listening to the vicar’s touching sermon; and, after having forced herself to accept and acknowledge the truth, she had finally decided what she must do. She had decided; it but remained for her to act. She had determined to leave her home that night; to walk whither her wandering footsteps might lead her, and leave no trace behind.

So, having reached her room, she sat until the house was quiet; then she rose, and began to make her preparations for departure. She went to a drawer, and took from it what money still remained there – some bank-notes and gold – and stitched it firmly in a fold of her dress; then she put on her hat and warm winter cloak, and stood ready.

The village clocks were striking twelve.

She opened her door and listened. All was still; so she passed quietly onwards, after securely locking her bedroom door – passed noiselessly down the stairs, out of the house, and stood in, the darkness alone.

It was a bitter night. The snow lay thick all round her, and the cruel wind which blew seemed to turn the life-blood in her veins to ice.

Edith stood for a moment, chilled to the heart. She gave one look at the home she was leaving; then, as if fearing the strength of her own resolution, she turned and quickly pursued her way.

Whither she went she knew not, nor did she care to know; she only knew that every step was taking her further and further from her home, and from the man who had broken her heart. So she walked on quickly, with her cloak wrapped well about her, and bending her head to shelter her face from the bitter breath of the wind.

She walked on and on, while the darkness gathered above her and the snow lay thick all around. Sometimes she sat down to rest, and then the thought came to her, that perhaps it would be better if she could end it all; if she could but lie down on the frozen earth, with the snow wrapped like a mantle around her, and sink to her eternal sleep. Henceforth there would be no more sorrow and no more pain – The idea having occurred to her, took possession of her mind, and held to it tenaciously. “Oh, if she could only die!” – close her eyes in the darkness, and feel for a moment that blessed peace which had passed from her for ever! Yes, Edith knew it would be better; though, with the instinct implanted in all human things, she shrank from death, she knew that his presence would be-merciful. Henceforth, what would life be to her – an outcast, a thing to be spoken of with pitiless contempt, to be hidden for ever from the sight of all her fellow-men? Then she asked herself, “Would it be a sin to take the life which God had given her, and yield it up to Him?” No; she believed it would be no sin.

She walked on and on. Then once more, in the bitter anguish of her heart, she cried on God to be merciful to her. For, weary with travelling, cold and sick at heart, she cast herself down upon the snow, and sobbed —

“Oh, if I could only die!”

But death did not come. The snow closed all round her as she lay fainting and cold; but she did not die. Its icy touch, lying on her parched lips and brow, revived her. With wild, wandering eyes, she looked around.

The night was well-nigh spent, and the sky gave tokens of quickly approaching dawn. As every hour passed on the air grew colder, and now its touch chilled her to the very bone; she shivered, yet her brow, her lips, and hands were burning. She tried to think, but could not; even the events of the past were becoming strangely blurred and dim.

Where was she? She hardly knew; yet she must have wandered many, many miles from home, since she was footsore, and growing very faint for lack of food. She listened feverishly, and her ear caught the murmuring of a running stream.

She rose; but her limbs were feeble, for she staggered and fell again upon the ground. Then she cried from very weakness, and a sense of utter helplessness and loneliness.

After a while she rose again. How her hands and lips burned! Her brain was in wild confusion, and everything about her seemed fading into the mystery of a dream. Was it coming, that death for which she had prayed?

Suddenly a wild fear seized her. If she fell and lay here on the snow, she might be recognized by some passing traveller and taken home! That must not be. She must never be found, and then no one would ever know.

As this new terror seized her, she heard again the rippling of the stream. It seemed to lure her on. She thrust a handful of snow into her mouth, and staggered forward. The sweet sound of the running water came nearer and nearer. She stood now on the banks of the stream – a stream deep and rapid, flowing between banks now laden with snow. Edith looked down into the dark, cold water, and thought, “If I lay there, quiet and cold, no one would ever find me and no one would ever know.”

“Yes, yes; it would be better,” she cried. “The water called me, and I have come!” And, with a wild sob, she sprang forward, and sank beneath the swiftly flowing waters of the stream.

When Edith opened her eyes, she found herself lying upon a bed of straw. She was dressed in dry clothes, sheltered by a canvas roof, warmed by a fire, and watched by a woman. Her eyes, after having carelessly noted these things, remained fixed on the face of the woman, for she had recognized the bold black eyes of Sal Blexley.

Edith remained dumb, but Sal broke the silence with a loud laugh.

“Yes, it’s me, my lady,” she said.

“I said we should meet again, and so we have, you see. I thought it would come to this.”

“Where am I?” asked Edith, faintly.

“Where are ye? Why, in a gipsy tent, with me and my pals. I was out on the rampage with my chap, when we saw ye throw yourself in the river. I got him to fish you out – more dead than alive, I bet – and between us we brought ye here. There, don’t shrink away, and don’t look afeard. I ain’t agoin’ to harm ye. Your man’s deserted ye, I reckon. Well, ye despised me once, ye know, and so did he; but I mean to let ye see that ‘tain’t only gentlefolks and clergy that can do a good turn to them as wants it.”

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.

To talk about the crystal purity of a woman who has a moral cancer, which must kill her if it is not killed! To describe her folly as mere sentiment, when I know, more than most men, that such sentiment as that is simple conscience-poisoning! If I did not save her, if I were not by with my protecting hand, she would assuredly be lost. Well, I shall cure her, as I said, or kill her in the attempt. Once, when a boy, in a Parisian hospital, I saw an ouvreuse operated upon, for a tumorous deposit, which necessitated the excision of the whole of the right breast. It was before the days of chloroform, and the patient’s agony was terrible to witness. But she was saved. For the moral cancer also, the knife may be the only remedy; and it will be, as in the other case, kill or cure.

Meantime, our domestic life goes on with characteristic monotony. We have no quarrels, and no confidences. We eat, drink, and sleep like comfortable wedded people. The greater part of my day is spent among my books; the greater part of hers in simple domestic duties, in music, in wanderings about the gardens. She seldom visits in the parish now; but the poor come to her on stated days, and she is, as ever, charitable. At least once every Sunday she goes to church.

A sombre, sultry state of the atmosphere, with gathering thunder!

December 20. – I have been reading, to-day, Naquet’s curious pamphlet on “Divorce,” a subject which is just now greatly exercising our neighbours across the Channel. This study, combined with that of two new attempts in Zolaesque (which a French friend has been good enough to send me), has left me with a certain sense of nausea. Gradually, but surely, I am afraid, I am losing that fine British faith in the feminine ideal, which was among the legacies left me by a perfect mother. It is dawning upon me, at middle age, as it dawns upon a Parisian at twenty-one, that women are, at best, only the highest, or among the highest, of animals, and that sanitary precautions of the State must be taken – to keep them cleanly. It is this discovery which, perpetuated in Art, makes the whole literature of the Second Empire so repulsive to an English Philistine. “And smell so – faugh!” Are the days of chivalry, then, over? Is the ideal of pure maidenhood, of perfect womanhood, utterly overthrown? Is the modern woman – not Imogen, not Portia, not the lily maid of Ascolat, not Romola, not even Helen Pendennis? – but Messalina, Lucretia – nay, even Berthe Rougon, or the shamble-haunting wife of Claude, or the utterable Madame Bovary? Surely, surely, there cannot be all this literary smoke without some little social fire. Thank God, therefore, that the wise Republic has taken to the drastic remedy of crushing those vipers, the Christian priests, and of abolishing the solemn farce of the marriage ceremony. Marriage is a simple contract, not an arrangement made in heaven; it is social and sanitary, not religious and ideal; – and when any of the conditions are broken by either of the contracting parties, the contract is at an end.

Yes, I suppose it is so; I suppose that women are not angels, and that married life is an arrangement. And yet how much sweeter was that old-fashioned belief which pictured the wedded life as a divine communion of souls, a golden ladder beginning at the altar, and reaching – through many dark shadows, perhaps, but surely reaching – up to heaven! Ah, my hymeneal Jacob’s Ladder, with angels for ever descending and ascending, you have vanished from the world, with Noah’s Dove of Peace, and Christ’s Rainbow of Promise! All faiths have gone, and the faith in Love is the last to go.

I find that I am philosophizing – prosing, in other words – instead of setting down events as they occur. But indeed, there are no events to set down. I am in the position of the needy knife-grinder of the Anti-Jacobin:

“Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!”

So, to ease my mind, I pour out my bile on paper.

December 21. – I have made a discovery. During the last few days my wife and Santley have been in correspondence. At any rate, he has written to her; and I suspect she has replied.

Baptisto has been my informant. Despite my command that he should cease to play the spy, he has persisted in keeping his eyes and ears open, and has managed to convey to me, in one way or another, exactly what he has seen or heard. This morning, when hanging about the lodge (still fascinated, I suspect, by the little widow), he discovered that there was a letter there addressed to his mistress, and he asked me, quite innocently, if he should fetch and take it to her. I showed no sign of anger or surprise, but bade him mind his own business. In the forenoon, I saw Ellen emerge from the house, and stroll carelessly in the direction of the lodge gates. I followed her at a distance, and saw, her enter the lodge, and emerge directly afterwards with a letter, which she read hastily and thrust into her bosom.

When she returned up the avenue, I was standing outside my den, waiting for her.

She came up smiling, with her air of perfect innocence. Wrapped from head to foot in furs, and wearing the prettiest of fur caps à la Russe, she looked her very best and brightest. The sun was shining clearly on the snow, and, as she came, she left soft footprints behind her.

“What is my Bear doing,” she cried, “out in the cold, and without his great coat, too?”

“The day looked so bright that I was tempted out. Where have you been?”

“Only for a little stroll,” she replied; “it is so pleasant out of doors. By-the-bye, dear, they are skating down on Omberley Pond. I think I shall drive over. Will you come?”

“Not to-day, Nell.”

She did not look sorry, I thought, at my refusal.

“Is there a party?” I asked carelessly.

“I don’t know; but I heard the Armstrongs were going, and some of the people from the Abbey.”

“And Mr. Santley, I suppose?”

She flushed slightly, but answered without hesitation —

“Perhaps he will be there; but I need not speak to him, if you forbid it. I will stay at home if you wish it, dear.”

“I don’t wish it,” I said. “Go and amuse yourself.”

“Won’t you come?” she murmured, hesitating.

I shook my head, and turned back to my den. She looked after me, and sighed; then walked slowly towards the house. What a sullen beast she must have thought me! But I was irritated beyond measure by what I had seen at the lodge. Not a word of the letter!

Half an hour afterwards I saw the pony-carriage waiting for her, and presently she drove off, looking (as I thought) bright and happy enough. No sooner had she gone than I was mad with myself for not having accompanied her. Was it a rendezvous? Had she gone, of set purpose, to meet him? I cursed my stupidity, my sullenness. At a word from me she would have remained. I had almost made up my mind to walk over, when in came Baptisto. He was wrapped up to the chin in an old travelling cloak, and his nose was blue with cold.

“Have you any message in the village, senor?” he asked. “I am going there.”

I could not resist the temptation, though I hated myself for setting a spy upon her.

“No, I have no message. Stay, though! While you are there, pass by the skating-pond, and see if any of our friends are there.”

He understood me perfectly, and went away, well satisfied at the commission. More and more, as the days go on, the rascal intrudes himself into my confidence, with silent looks of sympathy, dumb signs of devotion. He says nothing, but his looks are ever significant. Sometimes I long, in my irritation, to get rid of him for ever; but no, I may find him useful. I know he would go through fire and water for my sake.

In about two hours he returned with his report.

“Well?” I said, scowling at him.

“The pond is covered, senor, with gentlemen and ladies. His lordship is there, and they are very gay. It is pretty to see them gliding about the ice, the ladies and the gentlemen hand in hand. Sometimes the ladies slip, and the gentlemen catch them in their arms, and then all laugh! It is a pity that you are not there; you would be amused.”

“Is this all you have to tell me?”

“Yes, senor, except that my mistress is among them. She bade me tell you – ”

“Yes! yes!”

“That she was enjoying herself so much, and would not be home for lunch.” He stood with head bent gently, respectful and submissive, but his face wore the expression which had often irritated me before – an expression which said, as plainly as words, “How far will you let them go? Cannot you perceive what is going on? It is no affair of mine, but is it possible that you will endure so much and so long?” I read all this, I say, in the fellow’s face.

“Very well,” I said sternly, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.

He went lingeringly, knowing I would be certain to call him back. As I did.

“Was Mr. Santley there?”

Baptisto smiled – darkly, malignantly.

“Oh yes, senor, of course!”

I could have struck him.

Damn him! does he think I am already ornamented, like Falstaff, with an ugly pair of horns? I shall have to get rid of him, after all. He saw the expression on my face, and was gone in a moment; but he had left his poison to work.

All the devil was awake within me. I could not work, I could not read, I could not rest in any place. When the lunch-bell sounded, I went in, and drank a couple of glasses of wine, but ate nothing. Then for some hours I flitted about like a ghost, from room to room, from the house to the laboratory, upstairs and down. I went into her boudoir. The rosy curtains were drawn, and the air was still sweet with perfumes, with the very breath of her body. I am afraid I was mean enough to play the spy – to open drawers, to look into her work-basket; nay, I even went so far as to inspect her wardrobe, and examine the pocket of the dress she had worn that morning.

I wanted that letter.

If I could have found it, and read in it any confirmation of my suspicions, I would have taken instant action. But I could not find it.

In the drawer of the work-table, however, I found something.

A sheet of paper, carefully folded up. I opened it, and found it covered with writing in a man’s hand. At the top was written – “I think these are the verses you wanted? I have transcribed them for you. – C. S.” The verses followed – some twaddle about the meeting in heaven of those who have lived on earth; with incredible images of cherubs sitting on clouds (blowing their own trumpets, I suppose, with angelic self-satisfaction); descriptions of impossible habitations, with roofs of gold and silver, and inspired rhymes of “love” and “dove,” “eyes” and “paradise.” The paper was the pinkest of pinks, and delicately perfumed; the writing beautiful, with ethereal curves and upsweeps, exquisite punctuation, and a liberal supply of points of exclamation. I put the rubbish back in its place. It had obviously been lying there for some time, and was not at all the sort of document of which I was in search. So I quitted the boudoir, not much wiser than when I entered it, and resumed my uneasy ramblings about the house.

About four in the afternoon, I heard wheels coming up the avenue. I looked out, and was just in time to see the pony-carriage pass. What was my amazement, however, when I beheld, calmly driving the carriage, with my wife seated at his side, the clergyman himself.

My head went round, and I felt positively bloodthirsty. Seizing my hat, I hastened round, and arrived just as Santley was carrying Ellen up the steps into the house. Yes, actually carrying her in his arms! I could scarcely believe my eyes; but, coming up close, I saw that she was ghastly pale, and that something unusual must have occurred.

He had placed her on a chair in the lobby, and was bending over her just as I followed. I am afraid that the expression of my face was sinister and agitated enough; I stood glaring at the two, like one gasping for breath.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, meeting my eyes. “There has been a slight accident, that is all. Mrs. Haldane slipped on the ice, and, falling, sprained her ankle.”

Ellen, who seemed in great pain, looked up at me with a beseeching expression; for she at least read my suspicion in my face.

“It was so stupid of me!” she murmured, forcing a faint smile, and reaching out her hand. “I could not come home alone – I was in such pain – and Mr. Santley kindly volunteered to bring me.”

What could I do? I could not knock a man down for having performed what appeared a simple act of courtesy. I could not exhibit any anger, without looking like an idiot or a boor. Santley had merely done what any other gentleman would have done under the circumstances. For all that, I had an uneasy sense of being humbugged.

“Let me look at your foot,” I said gruffly.

She pushed, it from underneath her dress. The boot had been taken off, and a white silk handkerchief tightly wrapped about the ankle.

“Mr. Santley bound it up,” she explained.

I took the foot in my hand, and in my secret fury, I think I was a little rough, for she uttered a cry.

“Take care!” cried the clergyman. “It is very tender.”

I looked up at him with a scowl, but said nothing.

“Shall I carry you into the drawingroom?” he said, with tender solicitude.

“No; I am better now, and George will give me his arm. Pray do not stay.”

She rose with difficulty, and, resting all her weight upon her left foot, leant upon me. In this manner she managed to limp into the drawing-room, and to place herself upon a couch. Her pallor still continued, and I felt sorry, for I hate to see a woman suffer. Santley, who had followed us, and was watching her with extraordinary sympathy, now bent softly over her.

“Are you still in pain?” he murmured.

“A little; but – ”

“Shall I send Doctor Spruce over? I shall be passing the surgery on my way back. If he is not at home, I will procure some remedies, and bring them on myself.”

Here I interposed.

“Pray do not trouble yourself,” I said, with a sneer. “A sprained ankle is a trifle, and I can attend to it. Unless my wife is in need of religious ministration, you need not remain.”

I spoke brutally, as I felt; and, meeting the man’s pale, sad, astonished gaze, I became secretly humiliated. A husband, I perceive, is a ridiculous animal, and always at a disadvantage. I begin to understand how the poets, from Molière downwards, have made married men their shuttlecocks. A jealous lover has dignity; a jealous husband, none. Nobody sympathizes with my lord of Rimini, while all the world weeps for Lancelot and Francesca. Even Ford, ere he turns the tables on Sir John, poses as an ass. All the right was on my side, all the offended dignity, all the outraged honesty; yet somehow I felt, at that moment, like an ill-conditioned cur.

“I am not here in a religious capacity,” he replied courteously, “so your sneer is hardly fair. However, since I can be of no further service, I will go.”

He turned softly to Ellen, holding out his hand.

“Good-bye. I hope you will be better to-morrow.”

“Good-bye, and thank you,” she replied. “It was so good of you to bring me home.”

And so, with a courteous bow to me, which I returned with a nod, he retired victoriously. Yes, he had the best of it for the time being. For some minutes after he left, and while the scent of his perfumed handkerchief still filled the air, I stood moodily waiting. At last Ellen spoke.