I could be of use, but
I grudged it when I could be of none. He had made his bed and he must
lie upon it. Ernest had felt all this and had seldom come near me till
now, one evening late in 1860, he called on me, and with a very woebegone
face told me his troubles.

As soon as I found that he no longer liked his wife I forgave him at
once, and was as much interested in him as ever. There is nothing an old
bachelor likes better than to find a young married man who wishes he had
not got married--especially when the case is such an extreme one that he
need not pretend to hope that matters will come all right again, or
encourage his young friend to make the best of it.

I was myself in favour of a separation, and said I would make Ellen an
allowance myself--of course intending that it should come out of Ernest's
money; but he would not hear of this. He had married Ellen, he said, and
he must try to reform her. He hated it, but he must try; and finding him
as usual very obstinate I was obliged to acquiesce, though with little
confidence as to the result. I was vexed at seeing him waste himself
upon such a barren task, and again began to feel him burdensome. I am
afraid I showed this, for he again avoided me for some time, and, indeed,
for many months I hardly saw him at all.

Ellen remained very ill for some days, and then gradually recovered.
Ernest hardly left her till she was out of danger. When she had
recovered he got the doctor to tell her that if she had such another
attack she would certainly die; this so frightened her that she took the
pledge.

Then he became more hopeful again. When she was sober she was just what
she was during the first days of her married life, and so quick was he to
forget pain, that after a few days he was as fond of her as ever. But
Ellen could not forgive him for knowing what he did. She knew that he
was on the watch to shield her from temptation, and though he did his
best to make her think that he had no further uneasiness about her, she
found the burden of her union with respectability grow more and more
heavy upon her, and looked back more and more longingly upon the lawless
freedom of the life she had led before she met her husband.

I will dwell no longer on this part of my story. During the spring
months of 1861 she kept straight--she had had her fling of dissipation,
and this, together with the impression made upon her by her having taken
the pledge, tamed her for a