PTER 
 
 HE 
 
 >RM
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE 
 
 OF 
 
 LOS 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 CALIFORNIA 
 ANGELES
 
 AFIER THE STORM. 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 THE KEYSTONE PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 1890.
 
 COPTRJGHT 
 
 BT KEYSTONE PUBLISHING CO.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 THE WAR or THE ELEMENTS 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 THE LOVERS. ..* ......* .*.* ...*** 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 THE CLOTTD AND THB SIGN.. *** 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 UNDER THB CLOUD 46 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THB BURSTING OF THB STORM. ..*.* ** *** 67 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 AFTER THB STORK*. ^i 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 THE LETTER... 80 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 THK FLIGHT AND THB RBTUBX..., .. 96 
 
 * 
 
 1 1 1
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MM 
 
 THE RECOKCILIATJOX . 103 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 AFTER THE STORM 112 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 117 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 IK BONDS*. ......................... 128 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 THE REFORMERS ..*..*......*.... ....*........ 138 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE 148 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN 15V 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 WEART OP CONSTRAINT 168 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 GONE FOR EVER! 178 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE 194 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE .. , 204
 
 CONTENTS. 7 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 PAOI 
 
 THE PALSIED HEART 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THK IRREVOCABLE DECREE 227 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 STRUCK Down 236 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 THE HAUNTED VISION.. ......... ......... ..*...... ....... ..*.....*... 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL 257 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER 26fl 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 IjOVE NEVER DIES... ......... ...*..... ......*................*...*......*.... 276 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 EPFECTS OF THE STORM 288 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 AFTER THK STORK .,,. Mi
 
 AFTER THE STORM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. 
 
 TO June day ever opened with a fairer ptot-Le 
 Not a single cloud flecked the sky, and tht 
 sun coursed onward through the azure sea until 
 past meridian, without throwing to the earth a 
 single shadow. Then, low in the west, appeared 
 something obscure and hazy, blending the hill-tops 
 with the horizon ; an hour later, and three or four 
 small fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in 
 the airy ocean, and slowly ascending avant-eou- 
 riers of a coming storm. Following these were 
 mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with 
 desolate valleys between. Then, over all this arc- 
 tic panorama, fell a sudden shadow. The white 
 tops of the cloudy hills lost their clenr, gleaming 
 outlines and their slumbrous stillness. The at- 
 mosphere was in motion, and a white scud began 
 to drive across the heavy, dark masses of clouds 
 that lay far back against the sky in mountain-like 
 repose. 
 
 t
 
 10 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 How grandly now began the onward march of 
 the tempest, which had already invaded the sun's 
 domain and shrouded his face in the smoke of ap- 
 proaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along 
 more than half the visible horizon, while its crown 
 jivaded the zenith. 
 
 As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. 
 N r ature seemed to pause and hold her breath in 
 dread anticipation. Then came a muffled, jarring 
 sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away 
 into an oppressive stillness. Suddenly from zenith 
 to horizon the cloud was cut by a fiery stroke, an 
 instant visible. Following this, a heavy thunder- 
 peal shook the solid earth, and rattled in booming 
 echoes along the hillsides and amid the cloudy 
 caverns above. 
 
 At last the storm came down on the wind's 
 strong pinions, swooping fiercely to the earth, like 
 an eagle to its prey. For one wild hour it raged 
 as if the angel of destruction were abroad. 
 
 At the window of a house standing picturesquely 
 among the Hudson Highlands, and looking down 
 upon the river, stood a maiden and her lover, gaz- 
 ing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear 
 had pressed her closely to his side, and he had 
 drawn an arm around her in assurance of safety. 
 
 Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her 
 face, cried out and shuddered. The lightning had 
 shivered a tree upon which her gaze was fixed, 
 rending it as she could have rent a willow wand.
 
 WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. 11 
 
 " God is in the storm," said the lover, bending 
 to her ear. He spoke reverently and in a voice 
 that had in it no tremor of fear. 
 
 The maiden withdrew her hands from before her 
 elmt eyes, and looking up into his face, answered 
 in a voice which she strove to make steady : 
 
 " Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God 
 is present in the storm, as in the sunshine." 
 
 " Look !" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, 
 pointing to the river. A boat had just come in 
 sight. It contained a man and a woman. The 
 former was striving with a pair of oars to keep 
 the boat right in the eye of the wind ; but while 
 the maiden and her lover still gazed at them, a 
 wild gust swept down upon the water and drove 
 their frail bark under. There was no hope in their 
 case ; the floods had swallowed them, and would 
 not give up their living prey. 
 
 A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great 
 arms had for nearly a century spread themselve* 
 out in the sunshine tranquilly or battled with the 
 storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it 
 to the very foundations. 
 
 The maiden drew back from the window, over- 
 come with terror. These shocks were too much 
 for her nerves. But her lover restrained her, say- 
 ing, with a covert chiding in his voice, 
 
 " Stay, Irene ! There is a wild delight in all 
 this, and are you not brave enough to share it\uth 
 me?''
 
 12 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 But she struggled to release herself from his 
 ami, replying with a shade of impatience 
 
 " Let me go, Hartley ! Let me go !" 
 
 The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the 
 imiiden was freo. She went back, hastily, from the 
 window, and, sitting down on a sofa, buried her 
 fa< in her hands. The young man did not follow 
 her, but remained standing by the window, gazing 
 out upon Nature in her strong convulsion. It may, 
 however, be doubted whether his mind took note 
 of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. 
 A cloud was in the horizon of his mind, dimming 
 its heavenly azure. And the maiden's sky was 
 shadowed also. 
 
 For two or three minutes the young man stood 
 by the window, looking out at the writhing trees 
 and the rain pouring down an avalanche of water, 
 and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle 
 and a conquest, turned and walked toward the sofa 
 on which the maiden still sat with her face hidden 
 from view. Sitting down beside her, he took her 
 hand. It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; 
 but she gave back no returning pressure. There 
 came a sharp, quick gleam of lightning, followed 
 by a crash that jarred the house. But Irene did 
 not start we may question whether she even saw 
 the one or heard the other, except as something 
 remote. 
 
 " Irene !" 
 
 She :lid not stir.
 
 WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. 13 
 
 The young man leaned clceer, and said, in a 
 tender voice 
 
 " Irene darling " 
 
 Her hand moved in his just moved but did 
 not return the pressure of his own. 
 
 " Irene." And now his arm stole around her. 
 She yielded, and, turning, laid her head upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 There had been a little storm in the maiden's 
 heart, consequent upon the slight restraint ventured 
 on by her lover when she drew back from the win- 
 dow ; and it was only now subsiding. 
 
 " I did not mean to oflfend you," said the young 
 man, penitently. 
 
 " Who said that I was offended ?" She looked 
 up, with a smile that only half obliterated the 
 shadow. "I was frightened, Hartley. It is a 
 fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the 
 window. 
 
 The lover accepted this affirmation, though he 
 knew better in his heart. He knew that his slight 
 attempt at constraint had chafed her naturally im- 
 patient spirit, and that It had taken her some time 
 to regain her lost self-control. 
 
 Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, 
 the lightning gleamed out less frequently, and the 
 thunder rolled at a farther distance. Then came 
 that deep stillness of nature which follows in the 
 wake of the tempest, and in its hush the lovers 
 stood again at the window, looking out upon tho
 
 14 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 wrecks that were strewn in its path. They were 
 silent, for on both hearts was a shadow, which had 
 not rested there when they first stood by the win- 
 dow, although the sky was then more deeply veiled. 
 JSo slight was the cause on which these shadows 
 depended that memory scarcely retained its im- 
 pression. He was tender, and she was yielding; 
 and each tried to atone by loving acts for a moment 
 of willfulness. 
 
 The sun went down while yet the skirts of the 
 storm were spread over the western sky, and with- 
 out a single glance at the ruins which lightning, 
 wind and rain had scattered over the earth's fair 
 surface. But he arose gloriously in the coming 
 morning, and went upward in his strength, con- 
 suming the vapors at a breath, and drinking up 
 every bright dewdrop that welcomed him with a 
 quiver of joy. The branches shook themselves in 
 the gentle breezes his presence had called forth to 
 dally amid their foliage and sport with the flower*; 
 and every green thing put on a fresher beauty in 
 delight at his retnrn ; while from the bosom of the 
 trees from hedgerow and from meadow went up 
 the melody of birds. 
 
 In the brightness of this morning, the lovers 
 went out to look at the storm- wrecks that lay scat- 
 tered around. Here a tree had been twisted oif 
 where the tough wood measured by feet instead of 
 inches ; there stood the white and shivered trunk 
 of another sylvan lord, blasted in an instant by a
 
 WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. 15 
 
 lightning stroke ; and there lay, prone upon the 
 ground, giant limbs, which, but the day before, 
 spread themselves abroad in proud defiance of the 
 storm. Vines were torn from their fastenings; 
 flower-beds destroyed ; choice shrubbery, tended 
 with care for years, shorn of its beauty. Even the 
 solid earth had been invaded by floods of water, 
 which ploughed deep furrows along its surface. 
 And, saddest of all, two human lives had gone out 
 while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury. 
 
 Af the lover and maiden stood looking at the 
 signs of violence so thickly scattered around, the 
 former said, in a cheerful tone 
 
 " For all his wild, desolating power, the tempest 
 is vassal to the sun and dew. He may spread his 
 sad trophies around in brief, blind rage ; but they 
 soon obliterate all traces of his path, and make 
 beautiful what he has scarred with wounds or dis- 
 figured by the tramp of his iron heel." 
 
 " Not so, ray children," said the calm voice of the 
 maiden's father, to whose ears the remark had come. 
 " Not so, my children. The sun and dew never 
 fully restore what the storm has broken and tram- 
 pled upon. They may hide disfiguring marks, and 
 cover with new forms of life and beauty the ruins 
 which time can never restore. This is something, 
 and we may take the blessing thankfully, and try 
 to forget what is lost, or so changed as to be no 
 longer desirable. Look at this fallen and shattered 
 elm, my children. Is there any hope for that ill
 
 16 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these buiid 
 it up again, and spread out its arms as of old, 
 bringing back to me, as it has done daily, the 
 image of my early years ? No, my children. 
 After every storm are ruins which can never be 
 repaired. Is it not so with that lightning-stricken 
 oak? And what art can restore to its exquisite 
 loveliness this statue of Hope, 'thrown down by 
 the ruthless hand of the unsparing tempest ? 
 Moreover, is there human vitality in the sunshine 
 and fructifying dew? Can they put life into the 
 dead? 
 
 "No no my children. And take the lesson 
 to heart. Outward tempests but typify and repre- 
 sent the fiercer tempests that too often desolate the 
 human soul. In either case something is lost that 
 can never be restored. Beware, then, of storms, 
 for wreck and ruin follow as surelv as the passions 
 rage."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 jjfRENE DELANCY was a girl of quick, 
 II strong feelings, and an undisciplined will. 
 Jl Her mother died before she reached her tenth 
 ^ year. From that time she was either at home, 
 under the care of domestics, or within the scarcely 
 more favorable surroundings of a boarding-school. 
 She grew up beautiful and accomplished, but capri- 
 cious and with a natural impatience of control, that 
 unwise reactions on the part of those who attempted 
 to govern her in no degree tempered. 
 
 Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and 
 passionate, but possessed many fine qualities. A 
 weak mother yielded to his resolute struggles to 
 have his own way, and so he acquired, at an early 
 age, control over his own movements. He went to 
 college, studied hard, because he was ambitious, 
 and graduated with honor. Law he chose as a 
 profession; and, in order to secure the highest ad- 
 vantages, entered the office of a distinguished attor- 
 ney in the city of New York, and gave to its study 
 (lie best efforts of a clear, acute and logical mind. 
 Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit of reaching his 
 ends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the 
 
 2 17
 
 Ib AFTER TTTE STORM. 
 
 bar with a promise of success rarely exceeded. 
 From his widowed mother, who died before he 
 reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited a 
 moderate fortune with which to begin the world. 
 Few young men started forward on their life-jour- 
 ney with so small a number of vices, or with so 
 spotless a moral character. The fine intellectual 
 cast of his mind, and his devotion to study, lifted 
 him above the baser allurements of sense and kept 
 his garments pure. 
 
 Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson 
 lovers and betrotned at the time we present them 
 to our readers. They met, two years before, at 
 Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. 
 She was the first to whom his heart had bowed in 
 homage ; and until she looked upon him her pulse 
 had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form. 
 
 Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some 
 wealth and advanced in years, saw no reason to 
 interpose objections. The family of Emerson oc- 
 cupied a social position equal with his own ; and 
 the young man's character and habits were blame- 
 less. So far, the course of love ran smooth ; and 
 only three months intervened until the wedding- 
 day. 
 
 The closer relation into which the minds of the 
 lovers came after their betrothal and the removal 
 of a degree of deference and self-constraint, gave 
 opportunity for the real character of each to show 
 itself. Irene could not always repress her willful
 
 THE LOVERS. 19 
 
 ness and impatience of another's control ; nor her 
 lover hold a firm hand on quick-springing anger 
 when anything checked his purpose. Pride and 
 adhesiveness of character, under such conditions of 
 mind, were dangerous foes to peace ; and both were 
 proud and tenacious. 
 
 The little break in the harmonious flow of their 
 lives, noticed as occurring while the tempest raged, 
 was one of many such incidents; and it was in 
 consequence of Mr. Delancy's observation of these 
 unpromising features in their intercourse that he 
 spoke with so much earnestness about the irrepara- 
 ble ruin that followed in the wake of storms. 
 
 At least once a week Emerson left the city, and 
 his books and cases, to spend a day with Irene in 
 her tasteful home ; and sometimes he lingered there 
 for two or three days at a time. It happened, 
 almost invariably, that some harsh notes jarred 
 in the music of their lives during these pleasant 
 seasons, and left on both their hearts a feeling of 
 oppression, or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice. 
 Then there grew up between them an affected oppo- 
 sition and indifference, and a kind of half-sportive, 
 half-earnest wrangling about trifles, which too often 
 grew serious. 
 
 Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, 
 and often interposed to restore some broken links 
 HI the chain of harmony. 
 
 "You must be more conciliating, Irene," he 
 would often say to his daughter. " Hartley s
 
 20 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 earnest and impulsive, and you should yield to 
 him gracefully, even when you do not always see 
 and feel as he does. This constant opposition and 
 standing on your dignity about trifles is fretting 
 both of you, and bodes evil in the future." 
 
 "Would you have me assent if he said black 
 was white?" she answered to her father's remon- 
 strance one day, balancing her little head firmly 
 and setting her lips together in a resolute way. 
 
 " It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter 
 dissent, if, in so doing, both were made unhappy," 
 returned her father. 
 
 "And so let him think me a passive fool ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " No ; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonable- 
 ness by her self-control." 
 
 " I have read somewhere," said Irene, " that all 
 men are self-willed tyrants the words do not apply 
 to you, my father, and so there is an exception to 
 the rule." She smiled a tender smile as she looked 
 into the face of a parent who had ever been too 
 indulgent. "But, from my experience with a 
 lover, I can well believe the sentiment based in 
 truth. Hartley must have me think just as he 
 thinks, and do what he wants me to do, or he gets 
 ruffled. Now I don't expect, when I am married, 
 to sink into a mere nobody to be my husband's 
 echo and shadow; and the quicker I can make 
 Hartley comprehend this the better will it be for 
 both of us. A few rufflings of his feathers now
 
 THE LOVERS. 21 
 
 will teach him how to keep them smooth and 
 glossy in the time to come." 
 
 "You are in error, my child," replied Mr. De- 
 lancy, speaking very seriously. " Between those 
 who love a cloud should never interpose; and I 
 pray you, Irene, as you value your peace and that 
 of the man who is about to become your husband, 
 to be wise in the very beginning, and dissolve with 
 a smile of affection every vapor that threatens a 
 coming storm. Keep the sky always bright." 
 
 " I will do everything that I can, father, to keep 
 the sky of our lives always bright, except give up 
 my own freedom of thought and independence of 
 action. A wife should not sink her individuality 
 in that of her husband, any more than a husband 
 should sink his individuality in that of his wife. 
 They are two equals, and should be content to 
 remain equals. There is no love in subordination." 
 
 Mr. Delancy sighed deeply : " Is argument of 
 any avail here ? Can words stir conviction in her 
 mind ?" He was silent for a time, and then said 
 
 " Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and 
 go through life alone, than venture upon marriage, 
 in your state of feeling, with a man like Hartley 
 Emerson." 
 
 " Dear father, you are altogether too serious !" 
 exclaimed the warm-hearted girl, putting her arms 
 around his neck and kissing him. " Hartley and 
 I love each other too well to be made very un- 
 happy by any little jar that takes place in the first
 
 22 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 reciprocal movement of our lives. AVe shall soon 
 come to understand each other, and then the har- 
 monies will be restored." 
 
 " The harmonies should never be lost, my child," 
 returned Mr. Delancy. " In that lies the danger. 
 When the enemy gets into the citadel, who can say 
 that he will ever be dislodged ? There is no safety 
 but in keeping him out." 
 
 " Still too serious, father," said Irene. " There 
 is no danger to be feared from any formidable 
 enemy. All these are very little things." 
 
 " It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, 
 my daughter," Mr. Delancy replied ; " and if the 
 tender grapes are spoiled, what hope is there in the 
 time of vintage? Alas for us if in the later years 
 the wine of life shall fail !" 
 
 There was so sad a tone in her father's voice, and 
 so sad an expression on his face, that Irene was 
 touched with a new feeling toward him. She again 
 put her arms around his neck and kissed him ten- 
 derly. 
 
 " Do not fear for us," she replied. " These are 
 only little summer showers, that make the earth 
 greener and the flowers more beautiful. The sky 
 is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, 
 and the sun shines more gloriously than before." 
 
 But the father could not be satisfied, and an- 
 swered 
 
 " Beware of even summer showers, my darling. 
 I have known fearful ravages to follow in their
 
 THE LOVERS. 23 
 
 path seen many a goodly tree go down. After 
 every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the 
 earth upon which it fell has suffered some loss 
 which is a loss for ever. Begin, then, by concilia- 
 tion and forbearance. Look past the external, 
 which may seem at times too exacting or impera- 
 tive, and see only the true heart pulsing beneath 
 the true, brave heart, that would give to every 
 muscle the strength of steel for your protection if 
 danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with 
 knowing that you are loved deeply, truly, ten- 
 derly ? What more can a woman ask ? Can you 
 not wait until this love puts on its rightly-adjusted 
 exterior, as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled 
 with self-love, and its action modified by impulse 
 and habit. Wait wait wait, my daughter. Bear 
 and forbear for a time, as you value peace on earth 
 and happiness in heaven." 
 
 " I will try, father, for your sake, to guard my- 
 self," she answered. 
 
 " No, no, Irene. Not for my sake, but for the 
 Bake of right," returned Mr. Delancy. 
 
 They were sitting in the vine-covered portico 
 that looked down over a sloping lawn toward the 
 river. 
 
 " There is Hartley now !" exclaimed Irene, as the 
 form of her lover came suddenly into view, moving 
 forward along the road that approached from the 
 landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidly 
 down to meet him. There was an ardent kiss, a
 
 24 AFTER THE STORK. 
 
 twining of arms, warmly spoken words and earnest 
 gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them as they 
 stood fondly together, and sighed. He could not 
 help it, for he knew there was trouble before them. 
 After standing and talking for a short time, they 
 began moving toward the house, but paused at 
 every few paces sometimes to admire a pictu- 
 resque view sometimes to listen one to the other 
 and respond to pleasant sentiments and sometimes 
 in fond dispute. This was Mr. Delancy's reading 
 of their actions and gestures, as he sat looking at 
 and observing them closely. 
 
 A little way from the path by which they were 
 advancing toward the house was a rustic arbor, so 
 placed as to command a fine sweep of river from 
 one line of view and West Point from another. 
 Irene paused and made a motion of her hand to- 
 ward this arbor, as if she wished to go there ; but 
 Hartley looked to the house and plainly signified a 
 wish to go there first. At this Irene pulled him 
 gently toward the arbor ; he resisted, and she drew 
 upon his arm more resolutely, when, planting his 
 feet firmly, he stood like a rock. Still she urged 
 and still he declined going in that direction. It 
 was play at first, but Mr. Delancy saw that it was 
 growing to be earnest. A few moments longer, and 
 he saw Irene separate from Hartley and move to- 
 ward the arbor ; at the same time the young man 
 came forward in the direction of the house. Mr. 
 Delancy, as he stepped from the portico to meet
 
 THE LOVERS. 25 
 
 him, noticed that his color was heightened and hia 
 eyes unusually bright. 
 
 " What's the matter with that self-willed girl of 
 mine ?" he asked, as he took the hand of Emerson, 
 affecting a lightness of tone that did not correspond 
 with his real feelings. 
 
 " Oh, nothing serious," the young man replied. 
 " She's only in a little pet because I wouldn't go 
 with her to the arbor before I paid my respects to 
 you." 
 
 " She's a spoiled little puss/' said the father, in 
 a fond yet serious way, " and you'll have to humor 
 her a little at first, Hartley. She never had the 
 wise discipline of a mother, and so has grown up 
 unused to that salutary control which is so neces- 
 sary for young persons. But she has a warm, true 
 heart and pure principles ; and these are the foun- 
 dation-stones on which to build the temple of hap- 
 piness." 
 
 " Don't fear but that it will be all right between 
 us. I love her too well to let any flitting humors 
 affect me." 
 
 He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat 
 down. . Irene had before this reached the arbor and 
 taken a seat there. Mr. Delancy could do no less 
 than resume the chair from which he had arisen on 
 the young man's approach. In looking into Hart- 
 ley's face he noticed a resolute expression about 
 his mouth. For nearly ten minutes they sat and 
 talked, Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr.
 
 26 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Delancy then said, in a pleasant, off-handed 
 way, 
 
 "Come, Hartley, you have punished her long 
 enough. I don't like to see you even play at dis- 
 agreement." 
 
 He did not seem to notice the remark, but 
 started a subject of conversation that it was almost 
 impossible to dismiss for the next ten minutes. 
 Then he stepped down from the portico, and was 
 moving leisurely toward the arbor when he per- 
 ceived that Irene had already left it and was return- 
 ing by another path. So he came back and seated 
 himself again, to await her approach. But, instead 
 of joining him, she passed round the house and 
 entered on the opposite side. For several minutes 
 he sat, expecting every instant to see her come out 
 on the portico, but she did not make her appear- 
 ance. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting 
 not to notice the absence of Irene, kept up an ani- 
 mated conversation with Mr. Delancy. A whole 
 hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. 
 Suddenly starting up, at the end of this time, 
 Hartley exclaimed 
 
 "As I live, there comes the boat! and I must 
 be in New York to-night." 
 
 " Stay," said Mr. Delancy, " until I call Irene.'" 
 
 " I can't linger for a moment, sir. It will take 
 quick walking to reach the landing by the time the 
 boat is there." The young man spoke hurriedly,
 
 THE LOVERS. 27 
 
 shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung 
 away, moving at a rapid pace. 
 
 " What's the matter, father ? Where is Hartley 
 going ?" exclaimed Irene, coming out into the por- 
 tico and grasping her father's arm. Her face waa 
 pale and her lips trembled. 
 
 "He is going to New -York," replied Mr. De- 
 lancy. 
 
 "To New York!" She looked almost fright- 
 ened. 
 
 " Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he 
 must be in the city to-night." 
 
 Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled. 
 
 " Why have you remained away from Hartley 
 ever since his arrival ?" asked Mr. Delancy, fixing 
 his eyes upon Irene and evincing some displeasure. 
 
 Irene did not answer, but her father saw the 
 color coming back to her face. 
 
 " I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by 
 your singular treatment. What possessed you to 
 do so ?" 
 
 "Because I was not pleased with him/' said 
 Irene. Her voice was now steady. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I wished him to go to the arbor." 
 
 " He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if 
 there was no other motive, you should have let his 
 wishes govern your movements," Mr. Delancy 
 replied. 
 
 " He is always opposing me !" said Irene, giving
 
 28 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 way to a flood of tears and weeping for a time 
 bitterly. 
 
 " It is not at all unlikely, my daughter," replied 
 Mr. Delancy, after the tears began to flow less 
 freely, " that Hartley is now saying the same thing 
 of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart. 
 I have no idea that any business calls him to New 
 York to-night." 
 
 " Nor I. He takes this means to punish me," 
 said Irene. 
 
 "Don't take that for granted. Your conduct 
 has blinded him, and he is acting now from blind 
 impulse. Before he is half-way to New York he 
 Avill regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust 
 you are already regretting its occasion." 
 
 Irene did not reply. 
 
 " I did not think," he resumed, " that my late 
 earnest remonstrance would have so soon received 
 an illustration like this. But it may be as well. 
 Trifles light as air have many times proved the 
 beginning of life-long separations between friends 
 and lovers who possessed all the substantial quali- 
 ties for a life-long and happy companionship. Oh, 
 my daughter, beware ! beware of these little begin- 
 nings of discord. How easy would it have been 
 for you to have yielded to Hartley's wishes ! how 
 hard will it to endure the pain that must now bo 
 suffered! And remember that you do not suffer 
 alone ; your conduct has made him an equal suf- 
 ferer. He came up all the way from the city full
 
 THE LOVERS. 29 
 
 of sweet anticipations. It was for your sake that 
 he came ; and love pictured you as embodying all 
 attractions. But how has he found you ? Ah, my 
 daughter, your caprice has wounded the heart that 
 turned to you for love. He came in joy, but goes 
 back in sorrow." 
 
 Irene went up to her chamber, feeling sadder 
 than she had ever felt in her life; yet, mingling 
 with her sadness and self-reproaches, were com- 
 plaining thoughts of her lover. For a little half- 
 playful pettishness was she to be visited with a 
 punishment like this ? If he had really loved her 
 so she queried would he have flung himself 
 away after this hasty fashion ? Pride came to her 
 aid in the conflict of feeling, and gave her self- 
 control and endurance. At tea-time she met her 
 father, and surprised him with her calm, almost 
 cheerful, aspect. But his glance was too keen not 
 to penetrate the disguise. After tea, she sat read- 
 ing or at least affecting to read in the portico, 
 until the evening shadows came down, and then 
 she retired to her chamber. 
 
 Not many hours of sleep brought forgetfulness 
 of suffering through the night that followed. 
 Sometimes the unhappy girl heaped mountains 
 of reproaches upon her own head ; and sometimes 
 pride and indignation, gaining rule in her heart, 
 would whisper self-justification, and throw the 
 weight of responsibility upon her lover. 
 
 Her pale face and troubled eyes revealed too
 
 30 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 plainly, on the next morning, the conflict through 
 which she had pas.-ed. 
 
 " Write him a letter of apology or explanation," 
 said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 But Irene was not in a state of mind for this. 
 Pride came whispering too many humiliating ob- 
 jections in her ear. Morning passed, and in the 
 early hours of the afternoon, when the New York 
 boat usually came up the river, she was out on the 
 portico watching for its appearance. Hope whis- 
 pered that, repenting of his hasty return on the 
 day before, her lover was now hurrying back to 
 meet her. At last the white hull of the boat came 
 gliding into view, and in less than half an hour it 
 was at the landing. Then it moved on its course 
 again. Almost to a second of time had Irene 
 learned to calculate the minutes it required for 
 Hartley to make the distance between the landing 
 and the nearest point in the road where his form 
 could meet her view. She held her breath in eager 
 expectation as that moment of time approached. 
 It came it passed; the white spot in the road, 
 where his dark form first revealed itself, was 
 touched by no obscuring shadow. For more than 
 ten minutes Irene sat motionless, gazing still to- 
 ward that point; then, sighing deeply, she arose 
 and went up to her room, from which she did not 
 come down until summoned to join her father at 
 tea. 
 
 The next day passed as this had done, and so did
 
 THE LOVERS. 31 
 
 the next. Hartley neither came nor sent a message 
 of any kind. The maiden's heart began to fail. 
 Grief and fear took the place of accusation and 
 self-reproach. What if he had left her for ever ! 
 The thought made her heart shiver as if an icy 
 wind had passed over it. Two or three times she 
 took up her pen to write him a few words and 
 entreat him to come back to her again. But she 
 could form no sentences against which pride did 
 not come with strong objection ; and so she suffered 
 on, and made no sign. 
 
 A whole week at last intervened. Then the en- 
 during heart began to grow stronger to bear, and, 
 in self-protection, to put on sterner moods. Hera 
 was not a spirit to yield weakly in any struggle. 
 She was formed for endurance, pride and self- 
 reliance giving her strength above common natures. 
 But this did not really lessen her suffering, for she 
 was not only capable of deep affection, but really 
 loved Hartley almost as her own life; and the 
 thought of losing him, whenever it grew distinct, 
 filled her with terrible anguish. 
 
 With pain her father saw the color leave her 
 cheeks, her eyes grow fixed and dreamy, and her 
 lips shrink from their full outline. 
 
 "Write to Hartley," he said to her one day, 
 after a week had passed. 
 
 - " Never !" was her quick, firm, almost sharply 
 uttered response ; " I would die first !" 
 
 " But, my daughter "
 
 32 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 
 
 " Father," she interrupted him, two bright spots 
 suddenly burning on her cheeks, "don't, I pray 
 you, urge me on this point. I have courage enough 
 lo break, but I will not bend. I gave him no 
 offence. What right has he to assume that I was 
 not engaged in domestic duties while he sat talking 
 with you? He said that he had an engagement in 
 New York. Very well; there was a sufficient 
 reason for his sudden departure ; and I accept the 
 reason. But why does he remain away ? If sim- 
 ply because I preferred a seat in the arbor to one 
 in the portico, why, the whole thing is so un- 
 manly, that I can have no patience with it. Write 
 to him, and humor a whim like this ! No, no 
 Irene Delancy is not made of the right stuff. He 
 went from me, and he must return again. I can- 
 not go to him. Maiden modesty and pride forbid. 
 And so I shall remain silent and passive, if my 
 heart breaks." 
 
 It was in the afternoon, and they were sitting in 
 the portico, where, at this hour, Irene might have 
 been found every day for the past week. The boat 
 from New York came in sight as she closed the last 
 sentence. She saw it for her eyes were on the 
 look-out the moment it turned the distant point 
 of land that hid the river beyond. Mr. Delancy 
 also observed the boat. Its appearance was an 
 incident of sufficient importance, taking things as 
 they were, to check the conversation, which was far 
 from being satisfactory on either side.
 
 THE LOVERS, 33 
 
 The figure of Irene was half buried in a deep 
 cushioned chair, which had been wheeled out upon 
 the portico, and now her small, slender form seemed 
 to shrink farther back among the cushions, and she 
 sat as motionless as one asleep. Steadily onward 
 came the boat, throwing backward her dusky trail 
 and lashing with her great revolving wheels the 
 quiet waters into foamy turbulence onward, until 
 the dark crowd of human forms could be seen upon 
 her decks ; then, turning sharply, she was lost to 
 view behind a bank of forest trees. Ten minutes 
 more, and the shriek of escaping steam was heard, 
 as she stopped her ponderous machinery at the 
 landing. 
 
 From that time Irene almost held her breath, as 
 she counted the moments that must elapse before 
 Hartley could reach the point of view in the road 
 that led up from the river, should he have been a 
 passenger in the steamboat. The number was fully 
 told, but it was to-day as yesterday. There was 
 no sign of his coming. And so the eyelids, weary 
 with vain expectation, drooped heavily over the 
 dimming eyes. But she had not stirred, nor shown 
 a sign of feeling. A little while she sat with her 
 long lashes shading her pale cheeks ; then she 
 slowly raised them and looked out toward the 
 river again. What a quick start she gave ! Did 
 her eyes deceive her ? No, it was Hartley, just in 
 the spot she had looked to see him only a minute 
 or two before. But how slowly he moved, and 
 3
 
 34 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 with what a weary step ! and, even at this long 
 distance, his face looked white against the wavy 
 masses of his dark-brown hair. 
 
 Irene started up with an exclamation, stood as 
 if in doubt for a moment, then, springing from the 
 ]>ortico, she went flying to meet him, as swiftly aa 
 if moving on winged feet. All the forces of her 
 ardent, impulsive nature were bearing her forward. 
 There was no remembrance of coldness or imagined 
 wrong pride did not even struggle to lift its head 
 love conquered everything. The young man 
 stood still, from weariness or surprise, ere she 
 reached him. As she drew near, Irene saw that 
 his face was not only pale, but thin and wasted. 
 
 " Oh, Hartley ! dear Hartley !" came almost 
 wildly from her lips, as she flung her arms around 
 his neck and kissed him over and over again, ou 
 lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tender- 
 ness that no maiden delicacy could restrain. " Have 
 you been sick or hurt? Why are you so pale, 
 darling?" 
 
 " I have been ill for a week ever since I was 
 last here," the young man replied, speaking in a 
 slow, tremulous voice. 
 
 "And I knew it not !" Tears were glittering in 
 her eyes and pressing out in great pearly beads 
 from between the fringing lashes. " Why did you 
 not send for me, Hartley ?" 
 
 And she laid her small hands upon each side of 
 his face, as you have seen a mother press the cheeks
 
 THE LOVERS. 35 
 
 of her child, and looked up tenderly into his love- 
 beaming eyes. 
 
 " But come, dear," she added, removing her 
 hands from his face and drawing her arm within 
 his not to lean on, but to offer support. " My 
 father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on 
 your account, is waiting your arrival at the house." 
 
 Then, with slow steps, they moved along the 
 upward sloping way, crowding the moments with 
 loving words. 
 
 And so the storm passed, and the sun came out 
 again in the firmament of their souls. But looked 
 he down on no tempest-marks? Had not the 
 ruthless tread of passion marred the earth's fair 
 surface ? Were no goodly trees uptorn, or clinging 
 vines wrenched from their support ? Alas ! was 
 there ever a storm that did not leave some ruined 
 hope behind ? ever a storm that did not strew the 
 sea with wrecks or mar the earth's fair beauty ? 
 
 As when the pain of a crushed limb ceases there 
 comes to the sufferer a sense of delicious ease, so, 
 after the storm had passed, the lovers sat in the 
 warm sunshine and dreamed of unclouded happi- 
 ness in the future. But in the week that Hartley 
 spent with his betrothed were revealed to their 
 eyes, many times, desolate places where flowers had 
 been; and their hearts grew sad as they turned 
 their eyes away, and sighed for hopes departed, 
 faith shaken, and untroubled confidence in each 
 other for the future before them, for ever gone.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 
 
 'jjfN alternate storm and sunshine their lives 
 II passed on, until the appointed day arrived 
 jl that was to see them bound, not by the grace- 
 ' ful true-lovers' knot, which either might untie, 
 but by a chain light as downy fetters if borne in 
 mutual love, and galling as ponderous iron links, 
 if heart answered not heart and the chafing spirit 
 struggled to get free. 
 
 Hartley Emerson loved truly the beautiful, tal- 
 ented and affectionate, but badly-disciplined, quick- 
 tempered, self-willed girl he had chosen for a wife ; 
 and Irene Delancy would have gone to prison and 
 to death for the sake of the man to whom she had 
 yielded up the rich treasures of her young heart. 
 In both cases the great drawback to happiness was 
 the absence of self-discipline, self-denial and self- 
 conquest. They could overcome difficulties, brave 
 danger, set the world at defiance, if need be, for 
 each other, and not a coward nerve give way ; but 
 when pride and passion came between them, each 
 was a child in weakness and blind self-will. Un- 
 fortunately, persistence of character was strong in 
 both. They were of such stuff as martyrs were 
 
 26
 
 THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 37 
 
 made of in the fiery times of power and perse- 
 cution. 
 
 A brighter, purer morning than that on which 
 their marriage vows were said the year had not 
 given to the smiling earth. Clear and softly blue 
 as the eye of childhood bent the summer sky above 
 them. There was not a cloud in all the tranquil 
 heavens to give suggestion of dreary days to come 
 or to wave a sign of warning. The blithe birds 
 sung their matins amid the branches that hung 
 their leafy drapery around and above Irene's win- 
 dows, in seeming echoes to the songs love was 
 singing in her heart. Nature put on the loveliest 
 attire in all her ample wardrobe, and decked herself 
 with coronals and wreaths of flowers that loaded 
 the air with sweetness. 
 
 "May your lives flow together like two pure 
 streams that meet in the same valley, and as bright 
 a "sky bend always over you as gives its serene 
 promise for to-day." 
 
 Thus spoke the minister as the ceremonials closed 
 that wrought the external bond of union between 
 them. His words were uttered with feeling and 
 solemnity ; for marriage, in his eyes, was no light 
 tiling. He had seen too many sad hearts strug- 
 gling in chains that only death could break, ever 
 to regard marriage with other than sober thoughts 
 that went questioning away into the future. 
 
 The "amen" of Mr. Delancy was not audibly 
 spoken, but it was deep-voiced in his heart.
 
 38 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 There was to be a wedding-tour of a few weeks, 
 and then the young couple were to take possession 
 of a new home in the city, which Mr. Emerson 
 had prepared for his bride. The earliest boat that 
 came up from New York was to bear the party to 
 Albany, Saratoga being the first point of their 
 destination. 
 
 After the closing of the marriage ceremony some 
 two or three hours passed before the time of de- 
 parture came. The warm congratulations were 
 followed by a gay, festive scene, in which glad 
 young hearts had a merry-making time. How 
 beautiful the bride looked ! and how proudly the 
 gaze of her newly-installed husband turned ever 
 and ever toward her, move which way she would 
 among her maidens, as if she were a magnet to his 
 eyes. He was standing in the portico that looked 
 out upon the distant river, about an hour after the 
 wedding, talking with one of the bridesmaids, when 
 the latter, pointing to the sky, said, laughing 
 
 " There comes your fate." 
 
 Emerson's eyes followed the direction of her 
 finger. 
 
 " You speak in riddles," he replied, looking back 
 into the maiden's face. " What do you see ?" 
 
 "A little white blemish on the deepening azure," 
 was answered. "There it lies, just over that stately 
 horse-chestnut, whose branches arch themselves into 
 the outline of a great cathedral window." 
 
 "A scarcely perceptible cloud?"
 
 HE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 
 
 "Yes, no bigger than a hand ; and just below it 
 is another." 
 
 " I see ; and yet you still propound a riddle. 
 What has that cloud to do with my fate ?" 
 
 " You know the old superstition connected with 
 wedding-days ?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " That as the aspect of the day is, so will the 
 wedded life be." 
 
 " Ours, then, is full of promise. There has been 
 no fairer day than this," said the young man. 
 
 "Yet many a day that opened as bright and 
 cloudless has sobbed itself away in tears." 
 
 " True ; and it may be so again. But I am no 
 believer in signs." 
 
 " Nor I," said the young lady, again laughing. 
 
 The bride came up at this moment and, hearing 
 the remark of her young husband, said, as she drew 
 her arm within his 
 
 "What about signs, Hartley?" 
 
 " Miss Carman has just reminded me of the 
 superstition about wedding-days, as typical of 
 life." 
 
 "Oh yes, I remember," said Irene, smiling. 
 " If the day opens clear, then becomes cloudy, and 
 goes out in storm, there will be happiness in the 
 beginning, but sorrow at the close; but if clouds 
 and rain herald its awakening, then pass over and 
 leave the sky blue and sunny, there will be trouble 
 at first, but smiling peace as life progresses and de-
 
 40 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 clines. Our sky is bright as heart could wish." 
 And the bride looked up into the deep blue ether. 
 
 Miss Carman laid one hand upon her arm and 
 with the other pointed lower down, almost upon 
 the horizon's edge, saying, in a tone of mock solem- 
 nity 
 
 "As I said to Mr. Emerson, so I now say to 
 you There comes your fate." 
 
 " You don't call that the herald of an approach- 
 ing storm ?" 
 
 " AVeatherwise people say," answered the maiden, 
 "that a sky without a cloud is soon followed by 
 stormy weather. Since morning until now there 
 has not a cloud been seen." 
 
 " Weatherwise people and almanac-makers speak 
 very oracularly, but the day of auguries and signs 
 is over," replied Irene. 
 
 " Philosophy," said Mr. Emerson, " is beginning 
 to find reasons in the nature of things for results 
 that once seemed only accidental, yet followed with 
 remarkable certainty the same phenomena. It dis- 
 covers a relation of cause and effect where ignorance 
 only recognizes some power working in the dark. 1 ' 
 
 " So you pass me over to the side of ignorance !'' 
 Irene spoke in a tone that Hartley's ear recognized 
 too well. His remark had touched her pride. 
 
 " Not by any means," he answered quickly, eager 
 to do away the impression. " Not by any moans," 
 he repeated. " The day of mere auguries, omens 
 and signs is over. Whatever natural phenomena
 
 THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 4l 
 
 appear are dependent on natural causes, and men 
 of science are beginning to study the so-called su- 
 perstitions of farmers and seamen, to find out, if 
 possible, the philosophical elucidation. Already a 
 number of curious results have followed investiga- 
 tion in this field." 
 
 Irene leaned on his arm still, but she did not 
 respond. A little cloud had come up and lay just 
 upon the verge of her soul's horizon. Her husband 
 knew that it was there; and this knowledge caused 
 a cloud to dim also the clear azure of his mind. 
 There was a singular correspondence between their 
 mental sky and the fair cerulean without. 
 
 Fearing to pursue the theme on which they 
 were conversing, lest some unwitting words might 
 shadow still further the mind of Irene, Emerson 
 changed the subject, and was, to all appearance, 
 successful in dispelling the little cloud. 
 
 The hour came, at length, when the bridal party 
 must leave. After a tender, tearful parting with 
 her father, Irene turned her steps away from ths 
 home of her childhood into a new path, that would 
 lead her out into the world, where so many thou- 
 sands upon thousands, who saw only a way of 
 velvet softness before them, have cut their tendei 
 feet upon flinty rocks, even to the very end of theii 
 tearful journey. Tightly and long did Mr. De- 
 lancy hold his child to his heart, and when his last 
 kiss was given and his fervent " God give you a 
 happy life, my daughter !" said, he gazed after her
 
 12 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 departing form with eyes from which manly firm- 
 ness could not hold back the tears. 
 
 No one knew better than Mr. Delancy the perils 
 that lay before his daughter. That storms would 
 darken her sky and desolate her hear*, he had too 
 good reason to fear. His hope for Ler lay beyond 
 the summer-time of life, when, chastened by suffer- 
 ing and subdued by experience, a tranquil autumn 
 would crown her soul with blessings that might 
 have been earlier enjoyed. He was not supersti- 
 tious, and yet it was with a feeling of concern that 
 he saw the white and golden clouds gathering like 
 enchanted land along the horizon, and piling them- 
 selves up, one above another, as if in sport, build- 
 ing castles and towers that soon dissolved, changing 
 away into fantastic forms, in which the eye could 
 see no meaning ; and when, at last, his ear caught 
 a far-distant sound that jarred the air, a sudden 
 pain shot through his heart. 
 
 " On any other day but this !" he sighed to him- 
 self, turning from the window at which he \va? 
 standing and walking restlessly the floor for several 
 minutes, lost in a sad, dreamy reverie. 
 
 Like something instinct with life the stately 
 steamer, quivering with every stroke of her iron 
 heart, swept along the gleaming river on her 
 upward passage, bearing to their destination her 
 freight of human souls. Among these was our 
 bridal party, which, as the day was so clear and 
 beautiful, was gathered upon the upper deck. As
 
 THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 43 
 
 Irene's eyes turned from the closing vision of her 
 father's beautiful home, where the first cycle of her 
 life had recorded its golden hours, she said, with a 
 sigh, speaking to one of her companions 
 
 "Farewell, Ivy Cliff! I shall return to you 
 again, but not the same being I was when I left 
 your pleasant scenes this morning." 
 
 "A happier being, I trust/' replied Miss Car- 
 man, one of her bridemaids. 
 
 Rose Carman was a young friend, residing in the 
 neighborhood of her father, to whom Irene was 
 tenderly attached. 
 
 " Something here says no." And Irene, bending 
 toward Miss Carman, pressed one of her hands 
 against her bosom. 
 
 " The weakness of an hour like this," answered 
 her friend with an assuring smile. " It will pass 
 away like the morning cloud and the early 
 dew." 
 
 Mr. Emerson noticed the shade upon the face 
 of his bride, and drawing near to her, said, ten- 
 derly- 
 
 " I can forgive you a sigh for the past, Irene. 
 Ivy Cliff is a lovely spot, and your home has been 
 all that a maiden's heart could desire. It would 
 be strange, indeed, if the chords that have so long 
 bound you there did not pull at your heart in 
 parting." 
 
 Irene did not answer, but let her eyes turn back- 
 ward with a pensive almost longing glance toward
 
 44 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 the spot where lay hidden among the distant trees 
 the home of her early years. A deep shadow had 
 suddenly fallen upon her spirits. Whence it came 
 she knew not and asked not ; but with the shadow 
 was a dim foreboding of evil. 
 
 There was tact and delicacy enough in the com- 
 panions of Irene to lead them to withdraw observa- 
 tion and to withhold further remarks until she 
 could recover the self-possession she had lost. This 
 came back in a little while, when, with an effort, 
 she put on the light, easy manner so natural to 
 her. 
 
 " Looking at the signs ?" said one of the party, 
 half an hour afterward, as she saw the eyes of 
 Irene ranging along the sky, where clouds were 
 now seen towering up in steep masses, like distant 
 mountains. 
 
 "If I were a believer of signs," replied Irene, 
 placing her arm within that of the maiden who 
 had addressed her, and drawing her partly aside, 
 " I might feel sober at this portent. But I am 
 not. Still, sign or no sign, I trust we are not 
 going to have a storm. It would greatly mar our 
 pleasure." 
 
 But long ere the boat reached Albany, rain began 
 to fall, accompanied by lightning and thunder ; 
 and soon the clouds were dissolving in a mimic 
 deluge. Hour after hour, the wind and rain and 
 lightning held fierce revelry, and not until near 
 the completion of the voyage did the clouds hold
 
 THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 45 
 
 oack their watery treasures, and the sunbeams 
 force themselves through the storm's dark barriers. 
 When the stars came out that evening, studding 
 the heavens with light, there was no obscuring spot 
 on all the o'erarci.ing tk^.
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 
 
 'HE wedding party was to spend a week at 
 Saratoga, and it was now the third day since 
 its arrival. The time had passed pleasantly, 
 or wearily, according to the state of mind or 
 social habits and resources of the individual. The 
 bride, it was remarked by some of the party, seemed 
 dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend 
 better, perhaps, than any other individual in the 
 company, and kept her under close observation, 
 was concerned to notice an occasional curtness of 
 manner toward her husband, that was evident!}' 
 not relished. Something had already transpired 
 to jar the chords so lately attuned to harmony. 
 
 After dinner a ride was proposed by one of the 
 company. Emerson responded favorably, but 
 Irene was indiiferent. He urged her, and she gave 
 an evidently reluctant consent. While the gentle- 
 men went to make arrangement for carriages, the 
 ladies retired to their rooms. Miss Carman ac- 
 companied the bride. She had noticed her manner, 
 and felt slightly troubled at her state of mind, 
 knowing, as she did, her impulsive character and 
 blind self-will when excited by opposition. 
 
 46
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 47 
 
 "I don't want to ride to-day!" exclaimed Irene, 
 throwing herself into a chair as soon as she had 
 entered her room ; " and Hartley knows that I do 
 not." 
 
 Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled. 
 
 " If it will give him pleasure to ride out," said 
 Rose, in a gentle soothing manner, "you cannot but, 
 have the same feeling in accompanying him." 
 
 " I beg your pardon !" replied Irene, briskly. 
 " If I don't want to ride, no company can make 
 the act agreeable. Why can't people learn to leave 
 others in freedom? If Hartley had shown the 
 same unwillingness to join this riding party that I 
 manifested, do you think I would have uttered a 
 second word in favor of going? No. I am pro- 
 voked at his persistence." 
 
 " There, there, Irene !" said Miss Carman, draw- 
 ing an arm tenderly around the neck of her friend ; 
 " don't trust such sentences on your lips. I can't 
 bear to hear you talk so. It isn't my sweet friend 
 speaking." 
 
 "You are a dear, good girl, Rose," replied Irene, 
 smiling faintly, " and I only wish that I had a 
 portion of your calm, gentle spirit. But I am as 
 I am, and must act out if I act at all. I must be 
 myself or nothing." 
 
 " You can be as considerate of others as of your- 
 self?" said Rose. 
 
 Irene looked at her companion inquiringly. 
 
 " I mean," added Rose, " that you can exercise
 
 48 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 the virtue of self-denial in order to give pleasure 
 to another especially if that other one be an 
 object very dear to you. As in the present case, 
 seeing that your husband wants to join this riding 
 party, you can, for his sake, lay aside your indiffer- 
 ence, and enter, with a hearty good-will, into the 
 proposed pastime." 
 
 " And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care 
 to ride, deny himself a little for my sake, and not 
 drag me out against my will? Is all the yielding 
 and concession to be on my side? Must his will 
 rule in everything? I can tell you what it is, Rose, 
 this will never suit me. There will be open war 
 between us before the honeymoon has waxed and 
 waned, if he goes on as he has begun." 
 
 " Hush ! hush, Irene !" said her friend, in a tone 
 of deprecation. " The lightest sense of wrong gains 
 undue magnitude the moment we begin to com- 
 plain. We see almost anything to be of greater 
 importance when from the obscurity of thought we 
 bring it out into the daylight of speech." 
 
 " It will be just as I say, and saying it will not 
 make it any more so," was Irene's almost sullen 
 response to this. " I have my own ideas of things. 
 and my own individuality, and neither of these do 
 I mean to abandon. If Hartley hasn't the good 
 sense to let me have my own way in what concerns 
 myself, I will take my own way. As to the trou- 
 bles that may come afterward, I do not give them 
 any weight in the argument. I would die a mar-
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 40 
 
 tyr's death rather than become the passive creature 
 of another." 
 
 " My dear friend, why will you talk so ?" Rose 
 gpoke in a tone of grief. 
 
 "Simply because I am in earnest. From the 
 hour of our marriage I have seen a disposition on 
 the part of my husband to assume control to make 
 his will the general law of our actions. It has not 
 exhibited itself in things of moment, but in trifles, 
 showing that the spirit was there. I say this to 
 you, Rose, because we have been like sisters, and 1 
 can tell you of my inmost thoughts. There is a 
 cloud already in the sky, and it threatens an ap- 
 proaching storm." 
 
 " Oh, my friend, why are you so blind, so weak, 
 so self-deceived ? You are putting forth yout 
 hands to drag down the temple of happiness. If 
 it fall, it will crush you beneath a mass of ruins ; 
 and not you only, but the one you have so lately 
 pledged yourself before God and his angels to 
 love." 
 
 "And I do love him as deeply as ever man was 
 loved. Oh that he knew my heart ! He would not 
 then shatter his image there. He would not trifle 
 with a spirit formed for intense, yielding, passion- 
 ate love, but rigid as steel and cold as ice when its 
 freedom is touched. He should have known me 
 better before linking his fate with mine." 
 
 One of her darker moods had come upon Irene, 
 and she was beating about in the blind obscurity
 
 50 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 of passion. As she began to give uttertmce to 
 complaining thoughts, new thoughts formed them- 
 selves, and what was only vague feelings grew into 
 ideas of wrong ; and these, when once spoken, as- 
 sumed a magnitude unimagined before. In vai i 
 did her friend strive with her. Argument, remon- 
 strance, persuasion, only seemed to bring greater 
 obscurity and to excite a more bitter feeling in her 
 mind. And so, despairing of any good result, Rose 
 withdrew, and left her with her own unhappy 
 thoughts. 
 
 Not long after Miss Carman retired, Emerson 
 came in. At the sound of his approaching foot- 
 steps, Irene had, with a strong effort, composed 
 herself and swept back the deeper shadows from 
 her face. 
 
 " Not ready yet ?" he said, in a pleasant, half- 
 chiding way. " The carriages will be at the door 
 in ten minutes." 
 
 " I am not going to ride out," returned Irene, in 
 a quiet, seemingly indifferent tone of voice. Hart- 
 ley mistook her manner for sport, and answered 
 pleasantly 
 
 " Oh yes you are, my little lady." 
 
 " No, I am not." There was no misapprehension 
 now. 
 
 " Not going to ride out ?" Hartley's brows con 
 tracted. 
 
 " No ; I am not going to ride out to-day." Euch 
 word was distinctly spoken.
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 51 
 
 u I don't understand you, Irene." 
 
 " Are not my words plain enough ? J> 
 
 "Yes, they are too plain so plain ab to make 
 them involve a mystery. What do you mean by 
 this sudden change of purpose ?" 
 
 " I don't wish to ride out," said Irene, with as- 
 sumed calmness of manner; "and that being so, 
 may I not have my will in the case ?" 
 
 "No" 
 
 A red spot burned on Irene's cheeks and her 
 eyes flashed. 
 
 " No," repeated her husband ; " not after you 
 have given up that will to another." 
 
 " To you !" Irene started to her feet in instant 
 passion. " And so I am to be nobody, and you the 
 lord and master. My will is to be nothing, and 
 yours the law of my life." Her lip curled in con- 
 temptuous anger. 
 
 " You misunderstand me," said Hartley Emerson, 
 speaking as calmly as was possible in this sudden 
 emergency. " I did not refer specially to myself, 
 but to all of our party, to whom you had given up 
 your will in a promise to ride out with them, and 
 to whom, therefore, you were bound." 
 
 "An easy evasion," retorted the excited bride, 
 who had lost her mental equipoise. 
 
 " Irene," the young man spoke sternly, " are 
 those the right words for your husband ? An easy 
 evasion !'* 
 
 " I have said them."
 
 62 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "And you must unsay them." 
 
 Both had passed under the cloud which prida 
 and passion had raised. 
 
 " Must ! I thought you knew me better, Hartley." 
 Irene grew suddenly calm. 
 
 " If there is to be love between us, all barriers 
 must be removed." 
 
 "Don't say must to me, sir! I will not endure 
 the word." 
 
 Hartley turned from her and walked the floor 
 with rapid steps, angry, grieved and in doubt as 
 to what it were best for him to do. The storm had 
 broken on him without a sign of warning, and he 
 was wholly unprepared to meet it. 
 
 " Irene," he said, at length, pausing before her, 
 " this conduct on your part is wholly inexplicable. 
 I cannot understand its meaning. Will you ex- 
 plain yourself?" 
 
 " Certainly. I am always ready to give a reason 
 for my conduct," she replied, with cold dignity. 
 
 "Say on, then." Emerson spoke with equal 
 coldness of manner. 
 
 " I did not wish to ride out, and said so in the 
 beginning. That ought to have been enough for 
 you. But no my wishes were nothing; your will 
 must be law." 
 
 " And that is all ! the head and front of my 
 offending !" said Emerson, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " It isn't so much the thing itself that I object 
 to, as the spirit in which it is done," said Irene.
 
 UNDER THE CLOUD. 53 
 
 " i spirit of overbearing self-will !" said Em- 
 erson. 
 
 "Y'_s, if you choose. That is what my soul 
 revolts against. I gave you my heart and my 
 hand my love and my confidence not my free- 
 dom. The last is a part of my being, and I will 
 maintain it while I have life." 
 
 " Perverse girl ! What insane spirit has got 
 possession of your mind?" exclaimed Emerson, 
 chafed beyond endurance. 
 
 " Say on," retorted Irene ; " I am prepared for 
 this. I have seen, from the hour of our marriage, 
 that a time of strife would come ; that yonr will 
 would seek to make itself ruler, and that I would 
 not submit. I did not expect the issue to come so 
 soon. I trusted in your love to spare me, at least, 
 until I could be hidden from general observation 
 when I turned myself upon you and said, Thus far 
 thou mayest go, but no farther. But, come the 
 struggle early or late now or in twenty years I 
 am prepared." 
 
 There came at this IE Dment a rap at their door. 
 Mr. Emerson opened it. 
 
 " Carriage is waiting," said a servant. 
 
 " Say that we will be down in a few minutes." 
 
 The door closed. 
 
 " Come, Irene," said Mr. Emerson. 
 
 " You spoke very confidently to the servant, and 
 said we would be down in a few minutes." 
 
 " There, there, Irene ! Let this folly die ; it has
 
 64 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 lived long enough. Come ! Make yourself ready 
 with all speed our party is delayed by this pro- 
 longed absence." 
 
 " You think me trifling, and treat me as if I 
 were a captious child," said Irene, with chilling 
 calmness; "but I am neither." , 
 
 "Then you will not go?" 
 
 " I will not go." She said the words slowly and 
 deliberately, and as she spoke looked her husband 
 steadily in the face. She was in earnest, and he 
 felt that further remonstrance would be in vain. 
 
 " You will repent of this," he replied, with 
 enough of menace in his voice to convey to her 
 mind a great deal more than was in his thoughts. 
 And he turned from her and left the room. Going 
 down stairs, he found the riding-party waiting for 
 their appearance. 
 
 " Where is Irene ?" was asked by one and an- 
 other, on seeing him alone. 
 
 " She does not care to ride out this afternoon, 
 and so I have excused her," he replied. Miss Car- 
 man looked at him narrowly, and saw that there 
 was a shade of trouble on his countenance, which 
 he could not wholly conceal. She would have re- 
 mained behind with Irene, but that would have 
 disappointed the friend who was to be her com- 
 panion in the drive. 
 
 As the party was in couples, and as Mr. Emer- 
 son had made up his mind to go without his young 
 wife, he had to ride alone. The absence of Irene
 
 UXDER THE CLOUD. 55 
 
 was felt as a drawback to the pleasure of all the 
 company. Miss Carman, who understood the real 
 cause of Irene's refusal to ride, was so much trou- 
 bled in her mind that she sat almost silent during 
 the two hours they were out. Mr. Emerson left 
 the parry after they had been out for an hour, and 
 returned to the hotel. His excitement had cooled 
 off, and ne began . to feel regret at the unl>ending 
 way in wmch he had met his bride's unhappy mood. 
 " Her over-sensitive mind has taken up a wrong 
 impression/' he said, as he talked with himself; 
 " and, instead of saying or doing anything to in- 
 crease that impression, I should, by word and act 
 of kindness, have done all in my power for its 
 removal. Two wrongs never make a right. Pas- 
 sion met by passion results not in peace. I should 
 have soothed and yielded, and so won her back to 
 reason. As a man, I ought to possess a cooler and 
 more rationally balanced mind. She is a being of 
 feeling and impulse, loving, ardent, proud, sensi- 
 tive and strong-willed. Knowing this, it was 
 madness in me to chafe instead of soothing her; 
 to oppose, when gentle concession would have torn 
 from her eyes an illusive veil. Oh that I could 
 learn wisdom in time ! I was in no ignorance as 
 to her peculiar character. I knew her faults and 
 her weaknesses, as well as her nobler qualities; and 
 it was for me to stimulate the one and bear with 
 the others. Duty, love, honor, humanity, all 
 pointed to this."
 
 66 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 The longer Mr. Emerson's thoughts ran in Ihi* 
 direction, the deeper grew his feeling of self-con^ 
 demnation, and the more tenderly yearned his heart 
 toward the young creature he had left alone with 
 the enemies of their peace nestling in her bosom 
 and filling it with passion and pain. After sepa- 
 rating himself from his party, he drove back to- 
 ward the hotel at a speed that soon put his horse* 
 into a foam.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BURSTIJfG OF THE STORM. 
 
 ll *fR. DELANCY was sitting in his library on 
 the afternoon of the. fourth day since the 
 wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the en- 
 trance of some one caused him to turn toward 
 the door. 
 
 " Irene !" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and 
 alarm, as he started to his feet ; for his daughter 
 stood before him. Her face was pale, her eyes 
 fixed and sad, her dress in disorder. 
 
 " Irene, in Heaven's name, what has happened?" 
 
 "The worst," she answered, in a low, hoarse 
 voice, not moving from the spot where she first 
 stood still. 
 
 " Speak plainly, my child. I cannot bear sus- 
 pense." 
 
 " I have left my husband and returned to you !" 
 was the firmly uttered reply. 
 
 " Oh, folly ! oh, madness ! What evil counselor 
 has prevailed with you, my unhappy child ?" said 
 Mr. Delancy, in a voice of anguish. 
 
 " I have counseled with no one but myself." 
 
 " Never a wise counselor never a wise coun- 
 
 67
 
 58 AFTER THE STOEM. 
 
 selor ! Bui why, why have you taken this despe- 
 rate step?" 
 
 " In self-protection," replied Irene. 
 
 " Sit down, my child. There !" and he led her 
 to a seat. " Now let me remove your bonnet and 
 shawl. How wretched you look, poor, misguided 
 one ! I could have laid you in the grave with less 
 agony than I feel hi seeing you thus." 
 
 Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell 
 over her face. In the selfishness of her own 
 sternly-borne trouble, she had forgotten the sorrow 
 she was bringing to her father's heart. 
 
 " Poor child ! poor child !" sobbed the old man, 
 as he sat down beside Irene and drew her head 
 against his breast. And so both wept together 
 for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. De- 
 lancy said 
 
 " Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, 
 the meaning of this step which you have so hastily 
 taken. Let me have the beginning, progress and 
 consummation of the sad misunderstanding: 1 ' 
 
 While yet under the government of blind pas- 
 sion, ere her husband returned from the drive which 
 Irene had refused to take with him, she had, acting 
 from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, 
 left her room and, taking the cars, passed down to 
 Albany, where she remained until morning at one 
 of the hotels. In silence and loneliness she had, 
 during the almost sleepless night that followed, 
 ample time for reflection and repentance. And
 
 THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 59 
 
 both came, with convictions of error and doep 
 regret for the unwise, almost disgraceful step she 
 had taken, involving not only suffering, but hu- 
 miliating exposure of herself and husband. But 
 it was felt to be too late now to look back. 1'ride 
 would have laid upon her a positive interdiction, 
 if other considerations had not come in to push the 
 question of return aside. 
 
 In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene 
 left in the New York boat, and passed down the 
 river toward the home from which she had gone 
 forth, only a few days before, a happy bride 
 returning with the cup, then full of the sw^eet wine 
 of life, now brimming with the bitterest potion that 
 had ever touched her lips. 
 
 And so she had come back to her father's house. 
 In all the hours of mental anguish which had 
 passed since her departure from Saratoga, there 
 had been an accusing spirit at her ear, and, resist 
 as she would, self-condemnation prevailed over 
 attempted self-justification. The cause of this un- 
 happy rupture was so slight, the first provocation so 
 insignificant, that she felt the difficulty of making 
 out her case before her father. As to the world, 
 pride counseled silence. 
 
 With but little concealment or extenuation of 
 her own conduct, Irene told the story of her dis- 
 agreement with Hartley. 
 
 " And that was all !" exclaimed Mr. Delancey, 
 iu amazement, when she ended her narrative.
 
 60 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "All, but enough 1" she answered, with a resolute 
 manner. 
 
 Mr. Delancy arose and walked the floor in silence 
 for more than ten minutes, during which time Irene 
 neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 " Oh, misery !" ejaculated the father, at length, 
 lifting his hands above his head and then bringing 
 them down with a gesture of despair. 
 
 Irene started up and moved to his side. 
 
 " Dear father !" She spoke tenderly, laying her 
 hands upon him ; but he pushed her away, saying 
 
 " Wretched girl I you have laid upon my old 
 head a burden of disgrace and wretchedness that 
 you have no power to remove." 
 
 "Father! father!" She clung to him, but he 
 pushed her away. His manner was like that of 
 one suddenly bereft of reason. She clung still, but 
 he resolutely tore himself from her, when she fell 
 exhausted and fainting upon the floor. 
 
 Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and 
 Mr. Delancy was endeavoring to lift the insensible 
 body, when a quick, heavy tread in the portico 
 caused him to look up, just as Hartley Emerson 
 pushed open one of the French windows and en- 
 tered the library. He had a wild, anxious, half- 
 frightened look. Mr. Delancy let the body fall 
 from his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a 
 chair, while Emerson sprung forward, catching up 
 the fainting form of his young bride and bearing it 
 to a sofa.
 
 TEE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 61 
 
 " How long has she been in this way ?" asked 
 the young man, in a tone of agitation. 
 
 "She fainted this moment," replied Mr. De- 
 lancy. 
 
 " How long has she been here ?" 
 
 " Not half an hour," was answered ; and as Mr. 
 Delancy spoke he reached for the bell and jerked 
 it two or three times violently. The waiter, start- 
 led by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurripdly 
 to the library. 
 
 " Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and 
 ride over swiftly for Dr. Edmundson. Tell him to 
 come immediately." 
 
 The waiter stood for a moment or two, looking 
 in a half-terrified way upon the white, deathly face 
 of Irene, and then fled from the apartment. No 
 grass grew beneath his horse's feet as he held him 
 to his utmost speed for the distance of two miles, 
 which lay between Ivy Cliff and the doctor's resi- 
 dence. 
 
 Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent 
 summons of the waiter, came flying into the library. 
 The moment her eyes rested upon Irene, who still 
 lay insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, in 
 terror 
 
 "Oh, she's dead! she's dead!" and stood still 
 as if suddenly paralyzed ; then, wringing her hands, 
 she broke out in a wild, sobbing tone 
 
 " My poor, poor child ! Oh, she is dead, dead !" 
 
 " No, Margaret," said Mr. Delancy, as calmly as
 
 C2 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 he could sj/eak, " she is not dead ; it is only a fa^ 
 ing fit. Bring some water, quickly." 
 
 Water was brought and dashed into the face of 
 Irene ; but there came no sign of returning con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 " Hadn't you better take her up to her room, 
 Mr. Emerson ?" suggested Margaret. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; and, lifting the insensible 
 form of his bride in his arms, the unhappy man 
 bore her to her chamber. Then, sitting down be- 
 side the bed upon which he had placed her, he 
 kissed her pale cheeks and, laying his face to hers, 
 sobbed and moaned, in the abandonment of his 
 grief, like a distressed child weeping in despair for 
 some lost treasure. 
 
 " Come," said Margaret, who was an old family 
 domestic, drawing Hartley from the bedside, 
 "leave her alone with me for a little while." 
 
 And the husband and father retired from the 
 room. When they returned, at the call of Marga- 
 ret, they found Irene in bed, her white, unconscious 
 face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillow on 
 which her head was resting. 
 
 " She is alive," said Margaret, in a low but ex- 
 cited voice ; " I can feel her heart beat." 
 
 " Thank God !" ejaculated Emerson, bending 
 again over the motionless form and gazing anx- 
 iously down upon the face of his bride. 
 
 But there was no utterance of thankfulness in 
 the heart of Mr. Delancy. For her to come bach
 
 THE BURSTING OF THE STOR^f. 63 
 
 again to conscious life was, he felt, but a return to 
 wretchedness. If the true prayer of his heart 
 could have found voice, it would have been for 
 death, and not for life. 
 
 In silence, fear and suspense they waited an hour 
 before the doctor arrived. Little change in Irene 
 took place during that time, except that her respi- 
 ration became clearer and the pulsations of her 
 heart distinct and regular. The application of 
 warm stimulants was immediately ordered, and 
 their good effects soon became apparent. 
 
 "All will come right in a little while," said Dr. 
 Edmundson, encouragingly. " It seems t.) be only 
 a fainting fit of unusual length." 
 
 Hartley drew Mr. Delancy aside. 
 
 " It will be best that I should be alon"> *ith her 
 when she recovers," said he. 
 
 " You may be right in that," said Mr. Delancy, 
 after a moment's reflection. 
 
 " I am sure that I am," was returned. 
 
 " You think she will recover soon ?" said Mr. 
 Delancy, approaching the doctor. 
 
 " Yes, at any moment. She is breathing deeper, 
 and her heart beats with a fuller impulse." 
 
 " Let us retire, then ;" and he drew the doctor 
 from the apartment. Pausing at the door, he called 
 to Margaret in a half whisper. She went out also, 
 Emerson alone remaining. 
 
 Taking his place by the bedside, he waited, in 
 trembling anxiety, for the moment when her eyes
 
 64 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 should open and recognize him. At lost there 
 came a quivering of the eyelids and a motion about 
 the sleeper's lips. Emerson bent over and took 
 one of her hands in his. 
 
 " Irene I" He called her name in a voice of the 
 tenderest affection. The sound seemed to pene- 
 trate to the region of consciousness, for her lipa 
 moved with a murmur of inarticulate words. He 
 kissed her, and said again 
 
 "Irene!" 
 
 There was a sudden lighting up of her face. 
 
 " Irene, love ! darling !" The voice of Emerson 
 tvas burdened with tenderness. 
 
 " Oh, Hartley !" she exclaimed, opening her eyes 
 and looking with a kind of glad bewilderment into 
 his face. Then, half rising and drawing her arms 
 around his neck, she hid her face on his bosom, 
 murmuring 
 
 " Thank God that it is only a dream !" 
 
 " Yes, thank God !" replied her husband, as he 
 kissed her in a kind of wild fervor; "and may 
 such dreams never come again." 
 
 She lay very still for some moments. Thought 
 and memory were beginning to act feebly. The 
 response of her husband had in it something that 
 set her to questioning. But there was one thing 
 that made her feel happy : the sound of his loving 
 voice was in her ears ; and all the while she felt 
 his hand moving, with a soft, caressing touch, over 
 her cheek and temple.
 
 THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 65 
 
 " i)ear Irene !" he murmured in her ears ; and 
 then her hand tightened on his. 
 
 And thus she remained until conscious life re- 
 gained its full activity. Then the trial came. 
 
 Suddenly lifting herself from the bosom of her 
 husband, Irene gave a hurried glance around the* 
 well-known chamber, then turned and looked with 
 a strange, fearful questioning glance into his face : 
 
 " Where am I ? What does this mean ?" 
 
 " It means," replied Emerson, " that the dream, 
 thank God ! is over, and that my dear wife is awake 
 again." 
 
 He placed his arms again around her and drew 
 her to his heart, almost smothering her, as he did 
 so, with kisses. 
 
 She lay passive for a little while ; then, disen- 
 gaging herself, she said, faintly 
 
 " I feel weak and bewildered ; let me lie down." 
 
 She closed her eyes as Emerson placed her back 
 on the pillow, a sad expression covering her still 
 pallid face. Sitting down beside her, he took her 
 hand and held it with a firm pressure. She did 
 not attempt to withdraw it. He kissed her, and a 
 warmer flush came over her face. 
 
 " Dear Irene !" His hand pressed tightly upon 
 hers, and she returned the pressure. 
 
 " Shall I call your father ? He is very anxious 
 about you." 
 
 " Not yet." And she caught slightly her breath, 
 as if feeling were growing too strong for her.
 
 66 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Let it be as a dream, Hartley." Irene lifted 
 herself up and looked calmly, but with a very sad 
 expression on her countenance, into her husband's 
 face. 
 
 " Between us two, Irene, even as a dream from 
 which both have awakened," he replied. 
 
 She closed her eyes and sunk back upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 Mr. Emerson then went to the door and spoke 
 to Mr. Delancy. On a brief consultation it was 
 thought best for Dr. Edmundson not to see her 
 again. A knowledge of the fact that he had been 
 called in might give occasion for more disturbing 
 thoughts than were already pressing upon her mind. 
 And so, after giving some general directions as to 
 the avoidance of all things likely to excite her 
 mind unpleasantly, the doctor withdrew. 
 
 Mr. Delancy saw his daughter alone. The inter- 
 view was long and earnest. On his part was the 
 fullest disapproval of her conduct and the most 
 solemnly spoken admonitions and warnings. She 
 confessed her error, without any attempt at excuse 
 or palliation, and promised a wiser conduct in the 
 future. 
 
 " There is not one husband in five," said the 
 father, "who would have forgiven an act like this, 
 placing him, as it does, in such a false and humili- 
 ating position before the world. He loves you with 
 too deep and true a love, my child, for girlish tri- 
 fling like this. And let me warn you of the danger
 
 THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 67 
 
 you incur of turning against you the spirit of such 
 a man. I have studied his character closely, and I 
 see in it an element of firmness that, if it once sets 
 itself, will be as inflexible as iron. If you repeat 
 acts of this kind, the day must come when forbear- 
 ance will cease ; and then, in turning from you, it 
 will be never to turn back again Harden him 
 against you once, and it will be for all time." 
 
 Irene wept bitterly at this strong representation, 
 and trembled at thought of the danger she had 
 escaped. 
 
 To her husband, when she was alone with him 
 again, she confessed her fault, and prayed him to 
 let the memory of it pass from his mind for ever. 
 On his part was the fullest denial of any purpose 
 whatever, in the late misunderstanding, to bend her 
 to his will. He assured her that if he had dreamed 
 of any serious objection on her part to the ride, he 
 would not have urged it for a moment. It involved 
 no promised pleasure to him apart from pleasure to 
 her ; and it was because he believed that she would 
 enjoy the drive that he had urged her to make one 
 of the party. 
 
 All this was well, as far as it could go. But 
 repentance and mutual forgiveness did not restore 
 everything to the old condition did not obliterate 
 that one sad page in their history, and leave them 
 free to make a new and better record. If the folly 
 had been in private, the effort at forgiving and for- 
 getting would have been attended with fewer an-
 
 68 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 noying considerations. But it was committed in 
 public, and under circumstances calculated to attract 
 attention and occasion invidious remark. And then, 
 how were they to meet the different members of the 
 wedding-party, which they had so suddenly thrown 
 into consternation ? 
 
 On the next day the anxious members of this 
 party made their appearance at Ivy Cliff, not hav- 
 ing, up to this time, received any intelligence of the 
 fugitive bride. Mr. Delancy did not attempt to 
 excuse to them the unjustifiable conduct of his 
 daughter, beyond the admission that she must 
 have been temporarily deranged. Something was 
 Baid about resuming the bridal tour, but Mr. De- 
 lancy said, " No ; the quiet of Ivy Cliff will yield 
 more pleasure than the excitement of travel." 
 
 And all felt this to be true.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Ci FTER the storm. Alas ! that there should 
 [I be a wreck-strewn shore so soon ! That within 
 JJ\> three days of the bridal morning a tempest 
 should have raged, scattering on the wind 
 sweet blossoms which had just opened to the sun- 
 shine, tearing away the clinging vines of love, and 
 leaving marks of desolation which no dew and sun- 
 shine could ever obliterate ! 
 
 It was not a blessed honeymoon to them. How 
 could it be, after what had passed? Both were 
 hurt and mortified; and while there was mutual 
 forgiveness and great tenderness and fond conces- 
 sions, one toward the other, there was a sober, 
 thoughful state of mind, not favorable to hap- 
 piness. 
 
 Mr. Delancy hoped the lesson a very severe 
 one might prove the guarantee of future peace. 
 It had, without doubt, awakened Irene's mind to 
 sober thoughts and closer self-examination than 
 usual. She was convicted in her own heart of 
 folly, the memory of which could never return to 
 her without a sense of pain. 
 
 At the end of three weeks from the day of their
 
 70 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson went down to the 
 city to take possession of their new home. On the 
 eve of their departure from Ivy Cliff, Mr. Delancy 
 had a long conference with his daughter, in which 
 he conjured her, by all things sacred, to guard her- 
 self against that blindness of passion which had 
 already produced such unhappy consequences. She 
 repeated, with many tears, her good resolutions for 
 the future, and showed great sorrow and contrition 
 for the past. 
 
 " It may come out right," said the old man to 
 himself, as he sat alone, with a pressure of fore- 
 boding on his mind, looking into the dim future, on 
 the day of their departure for New York. His 
 only and beloved child had gone forth to return no 
 more, unless in sorrow or wretchedness. " It may 
 come out right, but my heart has sad misgivings." 
 
 There was a troubled suspense of nearly a week, 
 when the first letter came from Irene to her father. 
 He broke the seal with unsteady hands, fearing to 
 let his eyes fall upon the opening page. 
 
 "My dear, dear father! I am a happy young 
 wife." 
 
 " Thank God !" exclaimed the old man aloud, 
 letting the hand fall that held Irene's letter. It 
 was some moments before he could read farther ; 
 then he drank in, with almost childish eagerness, 
 every sentence of the long letter. 
 
 " Yes, yes, it may come out right," said Mr. De- 
 lancy ; " it may come out right." He uttered the
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 71 
 
 words, so often on his lips, with more confidence 
 than usual. The letter strongly urged him to make 
 her a visit, if it was only for a day or two. 
 
 " You know, dear father," she wrote, " that most 
 of your time is to be spent with us all your win- 
 ters, certainly ; and we want you to begin the new 
 arrangement as soon as possible." 
 
 Mr. Delancy sighed over the passage. He had 
 not set his heart on this arrangement. It might 
 have been a pleasant thing for him to anticipate ; 
 but there was not the hopeful basis for anticipation 
 which a mind like his required. 
 
 Not love alone prompted Mr. Delancy to make 
 an early visit to New York ; a feeling of anxiety 
 to know how it really was with the young couple 
 acted quite as strongly in the line of incentive. 
 And so he went down to the city and passed nearly 
 a week there. Both Irene and her husband knew 
 that he was observing them closely all the while, 
 and a consciousness of this put them under some 
 constraint. Everything passed harmoniously, and 
 Mr. Delancy returned with the half-hopeful, half- 
 doubting words on his lips, so often and often 
 repeated 
 
 " Yes, yes, it may come out right." 
 
 But it was not coming out altogether right. 
 Even while the old man was under her roof, Irene 
 had a brief season of self-willed reaction against 
 her husband, consequent on some unguarded word 
 or act, which she felt to be a trespass on her free-
 
 f2 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 dom. To save appearances while Mr. Delancy was 
 with them, Hartley yielded and tendered concilia- 
 tion, all the while that his spirit chafed sorely. 
 
 The departure of Mr. Delancy for Ivy Cliff was 
 the signal for both Irene and her husband to lay 
 aside a portion of the restraint which each had 
 borne with a certain restlessness that longed for a 
 time of freedom. On, the very day that he left 
 Irene showed so much that seemed to her husband 
 like perverseness of will that he was seriously 
 offended, and spoke an unguarded word that was 
 as fire to stubble a word that was repented of as 
 soon as spoken, but which pride would not permit 
 him to recall. It took nearly a week of suffering 
 to discipline the mind of Mr. Emerson to the point 
 of conciliation. On the part of Irene there was 
 not the thought of yielding. Her will, supported 
 by pride, was as rigid as iron. Reason had no 
 power over her. She felt, rather than thought. 
 
 Thus far, both as lover and husband, in all their 
 alienations, Hartley had been the first to yield; and 
 it was so now. He was strong-willed and persist- 
 ent; but cooler reason helped him back into the 
 right way, and he had, thus far, found it quicker 
 than Irene. Not that he suffered less or repented 
 sooner. Irene's suffering was far deeper, but she 
 was blinder and more self-determined. 
 
 Again the sun of peace smiled down upon them, 
 but, as before, on something shorn of its strength 
 or beauty.
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 72 
 
 " I will be more guarded," said Hartley to him- 
 self. " Knowing her weakness, why should I not 
 protect her against everything that wounds her sen- 
 sitive nature ? Love concedes, is long suffering and 
 full of patience. I love Irene words cannot tell 
 how deeply. Then why should I not, for her sake, 
 bear and forbear ? Why should I think of myself 
 and grow fretted because she does not yield as read- 
 ily as I could desire to my wishes ?" 
 
 So Emerson talked with himself and resolved. 
 But who does not know the feebleness of resolution 
 when opposed to temperament and confirmed habits 
 of mind ? How weak is mere human strength ! 
 Alas ! how few, depending on that alone, are ever 
 able to bear up steadily, for any length of time, 
 against the tide of passion ! 
 
 Off his guard in less than twenty-four hours 
 after resolving thus with himself, the young hus- 
 band spoke in captious disapproval of something 
 which Irene had done or proposed to do, and the 
 consequence was the assumption on her part of a 
 cold, reserved and dignified manner, which hurl 
 and annoyed him beyond measure. Pride led him 
 tc treat her in the same way ; and so for days they 
 met in silence or formal courtesy, all the while suf- 
 fering a degree of wretchedness almost impossible 
 to be endured, and all the while, which was worst 
 of all, writing on their hearts bitter things against 
 each other. 
 
 To Emerson, as before, the better state first re-
 
 74 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 turned, and the sunshine of his countenance drove 
 the shadows from hers. Then for a season they 
 were loving, thoughtful, forbearing and happy. 
 But the clouds came back again, and storms 
 marred the beauty of their lives. 
 
 All this was sad very sad. There were good 
 and noble qualities in the hearts of both. They 
 were not narrow-minded and selfish, like so many 
 of your placid, accommodating, calculating people, 
 but generous in their feelings and broad in their 
 sympathies. They had ideals of life that went 
 reaching out far beyond themselves. Yes, it was 
 Bad to see two such hearts beating against and 
 bruising each other, instead of taking the same 
 pulsation. But there seemed to be no help for 
 them. Irene's jealous guardianship of her free- 
 dom, her quick temper, pride and self-will made 
 the position of her husband so difficult that it was 
 almost impossible for him to avoid giving offence. 
 
 The summer and fall passed away without any 
 serious rupture between the sensitive couple, al- 
 though there had been seasons of great unhappiness 
 to both. Irene had been up to Ivy Cliff many 
 times to visit her father, and now she was begin- 
 ning to urge his removal to the city for the winter; 
 but Mr. Delancy, who had never given his full 
 promise to this arrangement, felt less and less in- 
 clined to leave his old home as the season advanced. 
 Almost from boyhood he had lived there, and hig 
 habits were formed for rural instead of city life.
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 75 
 
 He pictured the close streets, with their rows of 
 houses, that left for the eye only narrow patches of 
 ethereal blue, and contrasted this with the broad 
 winter landscape, which for him had always spread 
 itself out with a beauty rivaled by no other season, 
 and his heart failed him. 
 
 The brief December days were on them, and 
 Irene grew more urgent. 
 
 " Come, dear father," she wrote. " I think of 
 you, sitting all alone at Ivy Cliff, during these long 
 evenings, and grow sad at heart in sympathy with 
 your loneliness. Come at once. "Why linger a 
 week or even a day longer ? We have been all in 
 all to each other these many years, and ought not 
 to be separated now." 
 
 But Mr. Delancy was not ready to exchange the 
 pure air and widespreading scenery of the High- 
 lands for a city residence, even in the desolate 
 winter, and so wrote back doubtingly. Irene and 
 her husband then came up to add the persuasion 
 of their presence at Ivy Cliff. It did not avail, 
 however. The old man was too deeply wedded to 
 his home. 
 
 " I should be miserable in New York," he replied 
 to their earnest entreaties; "and it would not add to 
 your happiness to see me going about with a sober, 
 discontented face, or to be reminded every little 
 while that if you had left me to my winter's hiber- 
 nation I would have been a contented instead of a 
 dissatisfied old man. No, no, my children ; Ivy
 
 76 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Cliff is the best place for me. You shall come up 
 and spend Christmas here, and we will have a gay 
 season." 
 
 There was no further use in argument. Mr. De- 
 lancy would have his way ; and he was right. 
 
 Irene and her husband went back to the city, 
 with a promise to spend Christmas at the old 
 homestead. 
 
 Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of De- 
 cember. Without previous intimation, Irene came 
 up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her father by coming 
 in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as 
 the leaden sky began to scatter down the winter's 
 first offering of snow. 
 
 " My daughter !" he exclaimed, so surprised that 
 he could not move from where he was sitting. 
 
 " Dear father !" she answered with a loving 
 smile, throwing her arms around his neck and 
 kissing him. 
 
 "Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, look- 
 ing past Irene toward the door through which she 
 had just entered. 
 
 " Oh, I left him in New York," she replied. 
 
 " In New York ! Have you come alone ?" 
 
 " Yes. Christmas is only five days off, you know, 
 and I am here to help you prepare for it. Of course, 
 Hartley cannot leave his business." 
 
 She spoke in an excited, almost gay tone of voice. 
 Mr. Delancy looked at her earnestly. Unpleasant 
 doubts flitted through his mind.
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 77 
 
 " When will your husband usnie up ?" he in- 
 quired. 
 
 "At Christmas/' she answered, without hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Why didn't you write, love ?" asked Mr. De- 
 lancy. " You have taken me by surprise, and set 
 my nerves in a flutter." 
 
 " I only thought about it last evening. One of 
 my sudden resolutions." 
 
 And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It 
 might have been an error, but her father had a 
 fancy that it did not come from her heart. 
 
 " I will run up stairs and put off my things," 
 she said, moving away. 
 
 " Did you bring a trunk ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; it is at the landing. Will you send 
 for it?" 
 
 And Irene went, with quick steps, from the 
 apartment, and ran up to the chamber she still 
 called her own. On the way she met Margaret. 
 
 " Miss Irene !" exclaimed the latter, pausing and 
 lifting her hands in astonishment. " Why, where 
 did you come from ?" 
 
 "Just arrived in the boat. Have come to help 
 you get ready for Christmas." 
 
 " Please goodness, how you frightened me !" said 
 the warm-hearted domestic, who had been in the 
 family ever since Irene was a child, and was 
 strongly attached to her. " How's Mr. Emerson .'" 
 
 " Oh, he's well, thank you, Margaret."
 
 78 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Well now, child, you did set me all into a 
 fluster. I thought maybe you'd got into one of 
 your tantrums, and come off and left your hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Why, Margaret !" A crimson flush mantled 
 the face of Irene. 
 
 "You must excuse me, child, but just that came 
 into my head," replied Margaret. " You're very 
 downright and determined sometimes; and there 
 isn't anything hardly that you wouldn't do if the 
 spirit was on you. I'm glad it's all right. Dear 
 me ! dear me !" 
 
 " Oh, I'm not quite so bad as you all make me 
 out," said Irene, laughing. 
 
 " I don't think you are bad," answered Margaret, 
 in kind deprecation, yet with a freedom of speech 
 warranted by her years and attachment to Irene. 
 "But you go off in such strange ways get so 
 wrong-headed sometimes that there's no counting 
 on you." 
 
 Then, growing more serious, she added 
 
 " The fact is, Miss Irene, you keep me feeling 
 kind of uneasy all the time. I dreamed about you 
 last night, and maybe that has helped to put ine 
 into a fluster now." 
 
 " Dreamed about me !" said Irene, with a degree 
 of interest in her manner. 
 
 " Yes. But don't stand here, Miss Irene ; corne 
 over to your room." 
 
 " What kind of a dream had you, Margaret ?"
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 79 
 
 asked the young wife, as she sat down on the side 
 of the bed where, pillowed in sleep, she had 
 dreamed so many of girlhood's pleasant dreams. 
 
 " I was dreaming all night about you," replied 
 Margaret, looking sober-faced. 
 
 " And you saw me in trouble ?" 
 
 " Oh dear, yes ; in nothing but trouble. I thought 
 once that I saw y"bu in a great room full of wild 
 beasts. They were chained or in cages ; but you 
 would keep going close up to the bars of the cages, 
 or near enough for the chained animals to spring 
 upon you. And that wasn't all. You put the end of 
 your little parasol in between the bars, and a fierce 
 tiger struck at you with his great cat-like paw, 
 tearing the flesh from your arm. Then I saw you 
 in a little boat, down on the river. You had put 
 up a sail, and was going out all alone. I saw the 
 boat move off from the shore just as plainly as I 
 see you now. I stood and watched until you were 
 in the middle of the river. Then I thought Mr. 
 Emerson was standing by me, and that we both 
 saw a great monster a whale, or something else- 
 chasing after your boat. Mr. Emerson was in great 
 distress, and said, * I told her not to go, but she is 
 so self-willed.' And then he jumped into a boat 
 and, taking the oars, went gliding out after you as 
 swiftly as the wind. I never saw mortal arm make 
 a boat fly as he did that little skiff. And I saw 
 him strike the monster with his oar just as his 
 huge jaws were opened to devour you. Dear!
 
 80 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 dear ! but I was frightened, and woke up all in a 
 tremble." 
 
 " Before he had saved me ?" said Irene, taking a 
 deep breath. 
 
 " Yes ; but I don't think there was any chance 
 of saving there, and I was glad that I waked up 
 when I did." 
 
 " What else did you dream ?" asked Irene. 
 
 " Oh, I can't tell you all I dreamed. Once I 
 saw you fall from the high rock just above West 
 Point and go dashing down into the river. Then 
 I saw you chased by a mad bull." 
 
 "And no one came to my rescue?" 
 
 " Oh yes, there was more than one who tried to 
 save you. First, your father ran in between you 
 and the bull; but he dashed over him. Then I 
 saw Mr. Emerson rushing up with a pitchfork, and 
 he got before the mad animal and pointed the sharp 
 prongs at his eyes ; but the bull tore down on him 
 and tossed him away up into the air. I awoke as 
 I saw him falling on the sharp-pointed horns that 
 were held up to catch him." 
 
 " Well, Margaret, you certainly had a night of 
 horrors," said Irene, in a sober way. 
 
 "Indeed, miss, and I had; such a night as I 
 don't wish to have again." 
 
 "And your dreaming was all about me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And I was always in trouble or danger?" 
 
 " Yes, always; and it was mostly your own fault.
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 81 
 
 too. And that reminds me of what the minister 
 told us in his sermon last Sunday. He said that 
 there were a great many kinds of trouble in this 
 world some coming from the outside and some 
 coming from the inside ; that the outside troubles, 
 which we couldn't help, were generally easiest to 
 be borne; while the inside troubles, which we 
 might have prevented, were the bitterest things in 
 life, because there was remorse as well as suffering. 
 I understood very well what he meant." 
 
 "I am afraid," said Irene, speaking partly to 
 herself, " that most of my troubles come from the 
 inside." 
 
 " I'm afraid they do," spoke out the frank do- 
 mestic. 
 
 "Margaret!" 
 
 " Indeed, miss, and I do think so. If you'd 
 only get right here" laying her hand upon her 
 breast "somebody beside yourself would be a 
 great deal happier. There now, child, I've said 
 it ; and you needn't go to getting angry with me." 
 
 "They are often our best friends who use the 
 plainest speech," said Irene. "No, Margaret, I 
 am not going to be angry with one whom I know 
 to be true-hearted." 
 
 "Not truer-hearted than your husband, Miss 
 Irene; nor half so loving." 
 
 " Why did you say that ?" Margaret started at 
 the tone of voice in which this interrogation was 
 made.
 
 82 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Because I think so," she answered naively. 
 
 Irene looked at her for some moments with a 
 penetrating gaze, and then said, with an affected 
 carelessness of tone 
 
 "Your preacher and your dreams have made 
 you quite a moralist." 
 
 " They have not taken from my heart any of the 
 love it has felt for you," said Margaret, tears 
 coming into her eyes. 
 
 " I know that, Margaret. You were always too 
 kind and indulgent, and I always^oo wayward and 
 unreasonable. But I am getting years on my side, 
 and shall not always be a foolish girl." 
 
 Snow had now begun to fall thickly, and the late 
 December day was waning toward the early twi- 
 light. Margaret went down stairs and left Irene 
 alone in her chamber, where she remained until 
 nearly tea-time before joining her father. 
 
 Mr. Delancy did not altogether feel satisfied in 
 his mind about this unheralded visit from his 
 daughter, with whose wayward moods he was too 
 familiar. It might be all as she said, but there 
 were intrusive misgivings that troubled him. 
 
 At tea-time she took her old place at the table 
 in such an easy, natural way, and looked so pleased 
 and happy, that her father was satisfied. He asked 
 about her husband, and she talked of him without 
 reserve. 
 
 " What day is Hartley coming up?" he inquired. 
 
 " I hope to see him on the day before Christmas,"
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 83 
 
 returned Irene. There was a falling in her voice 
 that, to the ears of Mr. Delancy, betrayed a feeling 
 of doubt. 
 
 " He will not, surely, put it off later," said the 
 father. 
 
 " I don't know," said Irene. " He may be pre- 
 vented from leaving early enough to reach here 
 before Christmas morning. If there should be a 
 cold snap, and the river freeze up, it will make the 
 journey difficult and attended with delay." 
 
 " I think the winter has set in ;" and Mr. De- 
 lancy turned his ear toward the window, against 
 which the snow and hail were beating with vio- 
 lence. " It's a pity Hartley didn't come up with 
 you." 
 
 A sober hue came over the face of Irene. This 
 did not escape the notice of her father ; but it was 
 natural that she should feel sober in thinking of her 
 husband as likely to be kept from her by the storm. 
 That such were her thoughts her words made evi- 
 dent, for she said, glancing toward the window 
 
 " If there should be a deep snow, and the boats 
 stop running, how can Hartley reach here in time ?" 
 
 On the next morning the sun rose bright and 
 warm for the season. Several inches of snow had 
 fallen, giving to the landscape a wintry whiteness, 
 but the wind was coming in from the south, genial 
 as spring. Before night half the snowy covering 
 was gone. 
 
 " We had our fears for nothing," said Mr. Be-
 
 84 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 lancy, on the second day, which was as mild as the 
 preceding one. "All things promise well. I saw 
 the boats go down as usual ; so the river is open 
 still." 
 
 Irene did not reply. Mr. Delancy looked at 
 her curiously, but her face was partly turned away, 
 and he did not get its true expression. 
 
 The twenty-fourth came. No letter had been 
 receive^ by Irene, nor had she written to New 
 York since her arrival at Ivy Cliff. 
 
 " Isn't it singular that you don't get a letter from 
 Hartley?" said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 Irene had been sitting silent for some time when 
 her father made this remark. 
 
 " He is very busy," she said, in reply. 
 
 " That's no excuse. A man is never too busy to 
 write to his absent wife." 
 
 " I haven't expected a letter, and so am not dis- 
 appointed. But he's on his way, no doubt. How 
 Boon will the boat arrive?" 
 
 " Between two and three o'clock." 
 
 " And it's now ten." 
 
 The hours passed on, and the time of arrival 
 came. The windows of Irene's chamber looked 
 toward the river, and she was standing at one of 
 them alone when the boat came in sight. Her face 
 was almost colorless, and contracted by an express- 
 ion of deep anxiety. She remained on her feet for 
 the half hour that intervened before the boat could 
 reach the landing. It was not the first time that
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 85 
 
 she Lad watched there, in the excitement of doubt 
 and fear, for the same form her eyes were now 
 straining themselves to see. 
 
 The shrill sound of escaping steam ceased to 
 quiver on the air, and in a few minutes the boat 
 shot forward into view and went gliding up the 
 river. Irene scarcely breathed, as she stood, with 
 colorless face, parted lips and eager eyes, looking 
 down the road that led to the landing. But she 
 looked in vain ; the form of her husband did not 
 appear and it was Christmas Eve 1 
 
 What did it mean ?
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THJE LETTER. 
 
 A ES, what did it mean ? Christmas Eve, and 
 
 Hartley still absent ? . 
 
 Twilight was falling when Irene came down 
 ^ from her room and joined her father in the 
 library. Mr. Delancy looked into her face nar- 
 rowly as she entered. The dim light of the closing 
 day was not strong enough to give him its true ex- 
 pression ; but he was not deceived as to its troubled 
 aspect. 
 
 "And so Hartley will not be here to-day," he 
 said, in a tone that expressed both disappointment 
 and concern. 
 
 " No. I looked for him confidently. It is 
 strange." 
 
 There was a constraint, a forced calmness in 
 Irene's voice that did not escape her father's notice. 
 
 " I hope he is not sick," said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 " Oh no." Irene spoke with a sudden earnest- 
 ness ; then, with failing tones, added 
 
 " He should have been here to-day." 
 
 She sat down near the open grate, shading her 
 face with a hand-screen, and remained silent and 
 abstracted for some time.
 
 THE LETTER. 87 
 
 " There is scarcely a possibility of his arrival to- 
 night," said Mr. Delancy. He could not get his 
 thoughts away from the fact of his son-in-law's 
 absence. 
 
 " He will not be here to-night," replied Irene, a 
 cold dead level in her voice, that Mr. Delancy well 
 understood to be only a blind thrown up to conceal 
 her deeply-disturbed feelings. 
 
 " Do you expect him to-morrow, my daughter ?" 
 asked Mr. Delancy, a few moments afterward, 
 speaking as if from a sudden thought or a sudden 
 purpose. There was a meaning in his tones that 
 showed his mind to be in a state not prepared to 
 brook evasion. 
 
 " I do," was the unhesitating answer ; and she 
 turned and looked calmly at her father, whose eyes 
 rested with a fixed, inquiring gaze upon her coun- 
 tenance. But half her face was lit by a reflection 
 from the glowing grate, while half lay in shadow. 
 His reading, therefore was not clear. 
 
 If Irene had shown surprise at the question, her 
 father would have felt better satisfied. He meant 
 it as a probe; but if a tender spot was reached, 
 she had the self-control not to give a sign of pain. 
 At the tea-table Irene rallied her spirits and talked 
 lightly to her father ; it was only by an effort that 
 he could respond with even apparent cheerfulness. 
 
 Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon 
 after tea, to her room, and did not come down again 
 during the evening.
 
 8 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 The next day was Christmas. It rose clear and 
 mild as a day in October. When Irene came down 
 to breakfast, her pale, almost haggard, face showed 
 too plainly that she had passed a night of sleepless- 
 ness and suffering. She said, "A merry Christ- 
 mas," to her father, on meeting him, but there was 
 no heart in the words. It was almost impossible 
 to disguise the pain that almost stifled respiration. 
 Neither of them did more than make a feint at 
 eating. As Mr. Delancy arose from the table, he 
 said to Irene 
 
 "I would like to see you in the library, my 
 daughter." 
 
 She followed him passively, closing the door 
 behind her as she entered. 
 
 " Sit down. There." And Mr. Delancy placed 
 a chair for her, a little way from the grate. 
 
 Irene dropped into the chair like one who moved 
 by another's volition. 
 
 "Now, daughter," said Mr. Delancy, taking a 
 chair, and drawing it in front of the one in which 
 she was seated, " I am going to ask a plain ques- 
 tion, and I want a direct answer." 
 
 Irene rallied herself on the instant. 
 
 " Did you leave New York with the knowledge 
 and consent of your husband ?" 
 
 The blood mounted to her face and stained it a 
 deep crimson : 
 
 " I left without his knowledge. Consent I never 
 ask."
 
 THE LETTER. 89 
 
 The old proud spirit was in her tones. 
 
 " I feared as much," replied Mr. Delancy, his 
 v -ice falling. " Then you do not expect Hartley 
 ti-day?" 
 
 " I expected him yesterday. He may be here 
 to-day. I am almost sure he will come " 
 
 " Does he know you are here ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Why did you leave without his knowledge ?" 
 
 " To punish him." 
 
 " Irene !" 
 
 " I have answered without evasion. It was to 
 punish him." 
 
 " I do not remember in the marriage vows you 
 took upon yourselves anything relating to punish- 
 ments," said Mr. Delancy. " There were explicit 
 things said of love and duty, but I do not recall a 
 sentence that referred to the right of one party to 
 punish the other." 
 
 Mr. Delancy paused for a few moments, but 
 there was no reply to this rather novel and unex- 
 pected view of the case. 
 
 " Did you by anything in the rite acquire au- 
 thority to punish your husband when his conduct 
 didn't just suit your fancy?" 
 
 Mr. Delancy pressed the question. 
 
 " It is idle, father," said Irene, with some sharp- 
 ness of tone, " to make an issue like this. It does 
 not touch the case. Away back of marriage con- 
 tracts lie individual rights, which are never surren-
 
 90 
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 dered. The right of self-protection is one of these ; 
 and if retaliation is needed as a guarantee of future 
 peace, then the right to punish is included in the 
 right of self-protection." 
 
 " A peace gained through coercion of any kind is 
 not worth having. It is but the semblance of 
 peace is war in bonds," replied Mr. Delancy. 
 "The moment two married partners begin the 
 work of coercion and punishment, that moment 
 love begins to fail. If love gives not to their 
 hearts a common beat, no other power is strong 
 enough to do the work. Irene, I did hope that the 
 painful experiences already passed through would 
 have made you wiser. It seems not, however. It 
 seems that self-will, passion and a spirit of retalia- 
 tion are to govern your actions, instead of patience 
 and love. Well, my child, if you go on sowing 
 this seed in your garden now, in the spring-time 
 of life, you must not murmur when autumn gives 
 you a harvest of thorns and thistles. If you sow 
 tares in your field, you must not expect to find corn 
 there when you put in your sickle to reap. You 
 can take back your morning salutation. It is not 
 a ' merry Christmas' to you or to me ; and I think 
 we are both done with merry Christmases." 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 The tone in which this word was uttered was 
 almost a cry of pain. 
 
 " It is even so, my child even so," replied Mr. 
 Delancy, in a voice of irrepressible sadness. " You
 
 THE LETTER. 91 
 
 nave left your husband a secern! time. It is not 
 every man who would forgive tiie first offence; not 
 one in twenty who would pardon the second. You 
 are in great peril, Irene. This storm that you have 
 conjured up may drive you to hopeless shipwreck. 
 You need not expect Hartley to-day. He will not 
 come. I have studied his character well, and kno>v 
 that he will not pass this conduct over lightly." 
 
 Even while this was said a servant, who had 
 been over to the village, brought in a letter and 
 handed it to Mr. Delancy, who, recognizing in the 
 superscription the handwriting of his daughter's 
 husband, broke the seal hurriedly. The letter was 
 in these words : 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR : As your daughter has left 
 me, no doubt with the purpose of finally abandon- 
 ing the effort to live in that harmony so essential 
 to happiness in married life, I shall be glad if you 
 will choose some judicious friend to represent her 
 in consultation with a friend whom I will select, 
 with a view to the arrangement of a separation, as 
 favorable to her in its provisions as it can possibly 
 be made. In view of the peculiarity of our tem- 
 peraments, we made a great error in this experi- 
 ment. My hope was that love would be counselor 
 to us both ; that the law of mutual forbearance 
 would have rule. But we are both too impulsive, 
 too self-willed, too undisciplined. I do not pretend 
 to throw all the blame on Irene. We are as flint
 
 92 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 and steel. But she has taken the responsibility of 
 separation, and I am left without alternative. May 
 God lighten the burden of pain her heart will have 
 to bear in the ordeal through which she has elected 
 to pass. 
 
 " Your unhappy son, 
 
 "HAKTLEY EMEKSON." 
 
 Mr. Delancy's hand shook so violently before he 
 had finished reading that the paper rattled in the 
 air. On finishing the last sentence he passed it, 
 without a word, to his daughter. It was some mo- 
 ments before the strong agitation produced by the 
 sight of this letter, and its effect upon her father, 
 could be subdued enough to enable her to read a 
 line. 
 
 " What does it mean, father ? I don't understand 
 it," she said, in a hoarse, deep whisper, and with 
 pale, quivering lips. 
 
 "It means," said Mr. Delancy, "that your hus- 
 band has taken you at your word." 
 
 " At my word ! What word ?" 
 
 " You have left the home he provided for you, I 
 believe?" 
 
 " Father !" 
 
 Her eyes stood out staringly. 
 
 " Let me read the letter for you." And he took 
 it from her hand. After reading it aloud and 
 slowly, he said 
 
 " That is plain talk, Irene. I do not think any
 
 THE LETTER. 93 
 
 one can misunderstand it. You have, in his view, 
 left him finally, and he now asks me to name a 
 judicioug friend to meet his friend, aiid arrange a 
 basis of separation as favorable to you ill its pro- 
 visions as it can possibly be made." 
 
 " A separation, father ! Oh no, he cannot mean 
 that !" And she pressed her hands strongly against 
 her temples. 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, that is the simple meaning." 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ! He never meant that." 
 
 "You left him?" 
 
 " But not in that way ; not in earnest. It was 
 only in fitful anger half sport, half serious." 
 
 "Then, in Heaven's name, sit down and write 
 him so, and that without the delay of an instant. 
 Pie has put another meaning on your conduct. He 
 believes that you have abandoned him." 
 
 "Abandoned him ! Madness!" And Irene, who 
 had risen from her chair, commenced moving about 
 the room in a wild, irresolute kind of way, some- 
 thing like an actress under tragic excitement. 
 
 " This is meant to punish me !" she said, stop- 
 ping suddenly, and speaking in a voice slightly 
 touched with indignation. "I understand it all, 
 and see it as a great outrage. Hartley knows as 
 well I do that I left as much in sport as in earnest. 
 But this is carrying the joke too far. To write 
 such a letter to you ! Why didn't he write to me ? 
 Why didn't he ask me to appoint a friend to repre- 
 sent me in the arrangement proposed V"
 
 94 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " He understood himself and the case entirely," 
 replied Mr. Delancy. " Believing that you had 
 abandoned him " 
 
 " He didn't believe any such thing !" exclaimed 
 Irene, in strong excitement. 
 
 " You are deceiving yourself, my daughter. His 
 letter is calm and deliberate. It was not written, 
 as you can see by the date, until yesterday. He 
 has taken time to let passion cool. Three days 
 were permitted to elapse, that you might be heard 
 from in case any change of purpose occurred. But 
 you remained silent. You abandoned him." 
 
 " Oh, father, why will you talk in this way ? I 
 tell you that Hartley is only doing this to punish 
 me ; that he has no more thought of an actual .sepa- 
 ration than he has of dying." 
 
 "Admit this to be so, which I only do in the 
 argument," said Mr. Delancy, "and what better 
 aspect does it present ?" 
 
 " The better aspect of sport as compared with 
 earnest," replied Irene. 
 
 "At which both will continue to play until ear- 
 nest is reached and a worse earnest than the 
 present. Take the case as you will, and it is one 
 of the saddest and least hopeful that I have 
 seen." 
 
 Irene did not reply. 
 
 " You must elect some course of action, and that 
 with the least possible delay," said Mr. Delancy. 
 " This letter requires an immediate answer. Go to
 
 THE LETTER. 95 
 
 your room and, in communion with God and your 
 own heart, come to some quick decision upon the 
 subject." 
 
 Irene turned away without speaking and left her 
 feier alone in the library.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE FLIGHT AUD THE 
 
 fE will not speak of the cause that led to this 
 serious rupture between Mr. and Mrs. Em- 
 erson. It was light as vanity an airy 
 nothing in itself a spark that would have 
 gone out on a baby's cheek without leaving a sign 
 of its existence. On the day that Irene left the 
 home of her husband he had parted from her 
 silent, moody and with ill-concealed anger. Hard 
 words, reproaches and accusations had passed be- 
 tween them on the night previous ; and both felt 
 unusually disturbed. The cause of all this, as we 
 have said, was light as vanity. During the day 
 Mr. Emerson, who was always first to come to his 
 senses, saw the folly of what had occurred, and 
 when he turned his face homeward, after three 
 o'clock, it was with the purpose of ending the un- 
 happy state by recalling a word to which he had 
 given thoughtless utterance. 
 
 The moment our young husband came to this 
 sensible conclusion his heart beat with a freer 
 motion and his spirits rose again into a region of 
 tranquillity. He felt the old tenderness toward 
 his wife returning, dwelt on her beauty, accom- 
 
 96
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 97 
 
 plishments, rirtues and high mental endowments 
 with a glow of pride, and called her defects of cha- 
 racter light in comparison. 
 
 " If I were more a man, and less a child of feel- 
 ing and impulse," he said to himself, " I would be 
 more worthy to hold the place of husband to a 
 woman like Irene. She has strong peculiarities 
 who has not peculiarities ? Am I free from them ? 
 She is no ordinary woman, and must not be tram- 
 meled by ordinary tame routine. She has quick 
 impulses ; therefore, if I love her, should I not 
 guard them, lest they leap from her feebly restrain- 
 ing hand in the wrong direction ? She is sensitive 
 to control ; why, then, let her see the hand that 
 must lead her, sometimes, aside from the way she 
 would walk through the promptings of her own 
 will ? Do I not know that she loves me ? And is 
 she not dear to me as my own life ? What folly 
 to strive with each other ! What madness to let 
 angry feelings shadow for an instant our lives I" 
 
 It was in this state of mind that Emerson re- 
 turned home. There were a few misgivings in his 
 heart as he entered, for he was not sure as to the 
 kind of reception Irene would offer his overtures 
 for peace ; but there was no failing of his purpose 
 to sue for peace and obtain it. With a quick step 
 he .passed through the hall, and, after glancing into 
 ihe parlors to see if his wife were there, went up 
 stairs with two or three light bounds. A hurried 
 glance through the chambers showed him that they 
 7
 
 98 AFTER TEE STORM. 
 
 had no occupant. He was turning to leave them, 
 when a letter, placed upright on a bureau, attracted 
 his attention. He caught it up. It was addressed 
 to him in the well-known hand of his wife*. He 
 opened it and read : 
 
 " I leave for Ivy Cliff to-day. IRENE." 
 
 Two or three times Emerson read the line " I 
 leave for Ivy Cliff to-day" and looked at the 
 signature, before its meaning came fully into his 
 thought. 
 
 " Gone to Ivy Cliff!" he said, at last, in a low, 
 hoarse voice. " Gone, and without a word of inti- 
 mation or explanation ! Gone, and in the heat of 
 anger ! Has it come to this, and so soon ! God 
 help us !" And the unhappy man sunk into a 
 chair, heart-stricken and weak as a child. 
 
 For nearly the whole of the night that followed 
 he walked the floor of his room, and the next day 
 found him in a feverish condition of both mind 
 and body. Not once did the thought of following 
 his wife to Ivy Cliff, if it came into his mind, rest 
 there for a moment. She had gone home to her 
 father with only an announcement of the fact. He 
 would wait some intimation of her further purpose; 
 but, if they met again, she must come back to him. 
 This was his first, spontaneous conclusion ; and it 
 was not questioned in his thought, nor did he waver 
 from it an instant. She must come back of her 
 own free will, if she came back at all.
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 93 
 
 It was on the twentieth day of December that 
 Irene left New York. Not until the twenty-second 
 could a letter from her reach Hartley, if, on reflec- 
 tion or after conference with her father, she desired 
 to make a communication. But the twenty-second 
 came and departed without a word from the absent 
 one. So did the twenty-third. By this time Hart- 
 ley had grown very calm, self-adjusted and reso- 
 lute. He had gone over and over again the history 
 of their lives since marriage bound them together, 
 and in this history he could see nothing hopeful as 
 bearing on the future. He was never certain of 
 Irene. Things said and done in moments of 
 thoughtlessness or excitement, and not meant to 
 hurt or offend, were constantly disturbing their 
 peace. It was clouds, and rain, and fitful sun- 
 shine all the while. There were no long seasons 
 of serene delight. 
 
 "Why," he said to himself, "seek to prolong 
 this effort to blend into one two lives that seem 
 hopelessly antagonistic. Better stand as far apart 
 as the antipodes than live in perpetual strife. If I 
 should go to Irene, and, through concession or en- 
 treaty, win her back again, what guarantee would 
 I have for the future? None, none whatever. 
 Sooner or later we must be driven asunder by the 
 violence of our ungovernable passions, never to 
 draw again together. We' are apart now, and it is 
 well. I shall not take the first step toward a 
 reconciliation."
 
 100 AFTER TEE STORM. 
 
 Hartley Emerson was a young man of cool pur- 
 pose and strong will. For all that, he was quick- 
 tempered and undisciplined. It was from the 
 possession of these qualities that he was steadily 
 advancing in his profession, and securing a practice 
 at the bar which promised to give him a high posi- 
 tion in the future. Persistence was another element 
 of his character. If he adopted any course of con- 
 duct, it was a difficult thing to turn him aside. 
 When he laid his hand upon the plough, he was of 
 those who rarely look back. Unfortunate qualities 
 these for a crisis in life such as now existed. 
 
 On the morning of the twenty-fourth of Decem- 
 ber, no word having come from his wife, Emerson 
 coolly penned the letter to Mr. Delancy which is 
 given in the preceding chapter, and mailed it sc 
 that it would reach him on Christmas day. He 
 was in earnest sternly in earnest as Mr. Delancy, 
 on reading his letter, felt him to be. The honey- 
 moon flight was one thing ; this abandonment of a 
 husband's home, another thing. Emerson gave to 
 them a different weight and quality. Of the first 
 act he could never think without a burning cheek 
 a sense of mortification a pang of wounded pride ; 
 and long ere this he had made up his mind that if 
 Irene ever left him again, it would be for ever, so 
 far as perpetuity depended on his action in the 
 case. He would never follow her nor seek to win 
 her back. 
 
 Yes, he was in earnest. He had made his mind
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. .101 
 
 up for the worst, and was acting with a desperate 
 coolness only faintly imagined by Irene on receipt 
 of his letter to her father. Mr. Delancy, who 
 understood'Emerson's character better, was not de- 
 ceived. He took the communication in its literal 
 meaning, and felt appalled at the ruin which im- 
 pended. 
 
 Emerson passed the whole of Christmas Jay 
 alone in his house. At meal-times he went to the 
 table and forced himself to partake lightly of food, 
 in order to blind the servants, whose curiosity in 
 regard to the absence of Mrs. Emerson was, of 
 course, all on the alert. After taking tea he went 
 out. 
 
 His purpose was to call upon a friend in whom 
 he had great confidence, and confide to him the un- 
 happy state of his affairs. For an hour he walked 
 the streets in debate on the propriety of this course. 
 Unable, however, to see the master clearly, he re- 
 turned home with the secret of his domestic trou- 
 ble still locked in his own bosom. 
 
 It was past eight o'clock when he entered his 
 dwelling. A light was burning in one of the par- 
 lors, and he stepped into the room. After walk- 
 ing for two or three times the length of the apart- 
 ment, Mr. Emerson threw himself on a sofa, a 
 deep sigh escaping his lips as he did so. At the 
 same moment he heard a step in the passage, and 
 the rustling of a woman's garments, which caused 
 him to start again to his f ^et. In moving his eyes
 
 102 ,. AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 met the tbrra of Irene, who advanced toward him, 
 and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbed, 
 
 " Dear husband ! can you, will you forgive my 
 childish folly?" 
 
 His first impulse was to push her away, and he 
 even grasped her arms and attempted to draw them 
 from his neck. She perceived this, and clung to 
 him more eagerly. 
 
 " Dear Hartley !" she said, " will you not speak 
 to me ?" 
 
 " Irene I" His voice was cold and deep, and aa 
 he pronounced her name he withdrew himself from 
 her embrace. At this she grew calm and stepped 
 a pace back from him. 
 
 " Irene, we are not children," he said, in the 
 same cold, deep voice, the tones of which were 
 even and measured. " That time is past. Nor 
 foolish young lovers, who fall out and make up 
 again twice or thrice in a fortnight ; but man and 
 wife, with the world and its sober realities before 
 us. 
 
 " Oh, Hartley," exclaimed Irene, as he paused ; 
 " don't talk to me in this way ! Don't look at me 
 so! It will kill me. I have done wrong. I have 
 ncted like a foolish child. But I am penitent. It 
 was half in sport that I went away, and I was so 
 sure of seeing you at Ivy Cliff yesterday that I 
 told father you were coming." 
 
 " Irene, sit down." And Emerson took the 
 hand of his wife and led her to a sofa. Then,
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 103 
 
 after closing the parlor door, he drew a chair and 
 seated himself directly in front of .her. There was 
 a coldness and self-possession about him that 
 chilled Irene. 
 
 " It is a serious thing," he said, looking 
 steadily in her face, " for a wife to leave, in anger, 
 her husband's house for that of her father." 
 
 She tried to make some reply and moved her 
 lips in attempted utterance, but the organs of 
 speech refused to perform their office. 
 
 " You left me once before in anger, and I went 
 after you. But it was clearly understood with my- 
 self then that if you repeated the act it would be 
 final in all that appertained to me; that unless you 
 returned, it would be a lifelong separation. You 
 have repeated the act; and, knowing your pride 
 and tenacity of will, I did not anticipate your re- 
 turn. And so I was looking the sad, stern future 
 in the face as steadily as possible, and preparing to 
 meet it as a man conscious of right should be pre- 
 pared to meet whatever trouble lies in store for 
 him. I went out this evening, after passing the 
 Christmas day alone, with the purpose of consult- 
 ing an old and discreet friend as to the wisest 
 course of action. But the thing was too painful 
 to speak of yet. So I came back and you are 
 here!" 
 
 She looked at him steadily while he spoke, her 
 face white as marble, and her colorless lips drawn 
 from her teeth.
 
 104 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Irene," he continued, " it is folly for us to keep 
 on in the way we have been going. I am wearied 
 out, and you cannot be happy in a relation that is 
 for ever reminding you that your own will and 
 thought are no longer sole arbiters of action ; that 
 there is another will and another thought that must 
 at times be consulted, and even obeyed. I am a 
 man, and a husband ; you a woman, and a wife, 
 we are equal as to rights and duties equal in the 
 eyes of God ; but to the man and husband apper- 
 tains a certain precedence in action ; consent, co- 
 operation and approval, -if he be a thoughtful and 
 judicious man, appertaining to the wife." 
 
 As Emerson spoke thus, he noticed a sign of 
 returning warmth in her pale face, and a dim, dis- 
 tant flash in her eyes. Her proud spirit did not 
 accept this view of their relation to each other. 
 He went on : 
 
 i( If a wife has no confidence in her husband's 
 manly judgment, if she cannot even respect him, 
 then the case is altered. She must be understand- 
 ing and will to herself; must lead both him and 
 herself if he be weak enough to consent. But the 
 relation is not a true one; and marriage, under 
 this condition of things, is only a semblance." 
 
 "And that is your doctrine?" said Irene. There 
 was a shade of surprise in her voice that lingered 
 huskily in her throat. 
 
 " Tlfat is my doctrine," was Emerson's firmly 
 spoken answer.
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 105 
 
 Irene sighed heavily. Both were silent for 
 some moments. At length Irene said, lifting her 
 hands and bringing them down with an action of 
 despair, 
 
 " In bonds ! in bonds 1" 
 
 " No, no !" Her husband replied quickly and 
 earnestly. . " Not in bonds, but in true freedom, if 
 you will the freedom of reciprocal action." 
 
 " Like bat and ball," she answered, with bitter- 
 ness in her tones. 
 
 " No, like heart and lungs," he returned, calmly. 
 "Irene! dear wife! Why misunderstand me? 
 I have no wish to rule, and you know I have 
 never sought to place you in bonds. I have had 
 only one desire, and that is to be your husband in 
 the highest and truest sense. But, I am a man 
 you a woman. There are two wills and two un- 
 derstandings that must act in the same direction. 
 Now, in the nature of things, the mind of one 
 must, helped by the mind of the other to see right, 
 take, as a general thing, the initiative where action 
 is concerned. Unless this be so, constant collisions 
 will occur. And this takes us back to the question 
 that lies at the basis of all order and happiness 
 which of the two minds shall lead ?" 
 
 " A man and his wife are equal," said Irene, 
 firmly. The strong individuality of her character 
 was asserting its claims even in this hour of severe 
 mental pain. 
 
 " Equal in the eyes of God, as I have said be-
 
 106 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 fore, but where action is concerned one must lake 
 precedence of the other, for it cannot be, seeing 
 that their office and duties are different, that their 
 judgment in the general affairs of life can be 
 equally clear. A man's work takes him out into 
 the world, and throws him into sharp collision with 
 other men. He learns, as a consequence, to think 
 carefully and with deliberation, and to decide with 
 caution, knowing that action, based on erroneous 
 conclusions, may ruin his prospects in an hour. 
 Thus, like the oak, which grows up exposed to all 
 elemental changes, his judgment gains strength, 
 while his perceptions, constantly trained, acquire 
 clearness. But a woman's duties lie almost wholly 
 within this region of strife and action, and she re- 
 mains, for the most part, in a tranquil atmosphere. 
 Allowing nothing for a radical difference in mental 
 constitution, this difference of training must give 
 a difference of mental power. The man's judg- 
 ment in affairs generally must be superior to the 
 woman's, and she must acquiesce in its decisions 
 or there can be no right union in marriage." 
 
 " Must lose herself in him," said Irene, coldly. 
 " Become a cypher, a slave. That will not suit 
 me, Hartley !" And she looked at him with firmly 
 compressed mouth and steady eyes. 
 
 It came to his lips to reply, "Then you had 
 better return to your father," but he caught the 
 words back ere they leaped forth into sound, and, 
 rising, walked the floor for the space of more than
 
 THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 107 
 
 five minutes, Irene not stirring from tlie sofa. 
 Pausing at length, he said in a voice which had 
 lost its steadiness : 
 
 "You had better go up to your room, Irene. 
 We are not in a condition to help each other now." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson did not answer, but, rising, left 
 the parlor and went as her husband had juggested. 
 He stood still, listening, until the sound of her 
 steps and the rustle of her garments had died a\vay 
 into silence, when he commenced slowly walking 
 the parlor floor with his head bent down, and con- 
 tinued thus, as if he had forgotten time and place, 
 for over an hour. Then, awakened to conscious- 
 ness by a sense of dizziness and exhaustion, he laid 
 himself upon a sofa, and, shutting his eyes, tried 
 to arrest the current of his troubled thoughts and 
 #ipk into sleep and forgetfulness.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 )R such a reception the young wife was wholly 
 unprepared. Suddenly her husband had put 
 on a new character and assumed a right of 
 control against which her sensitive pride and 
 native love of freedom arose in strong rebellion. 
 That she had done wrong in going away she ac- 
 knowledged to herself, and had acknowledged to 
 him. But he had met confession in a spirit so 
 different from what was anticipated, and showed an 
 aspect so cold, stern, and exacting, that she was 
 bewildered. She did not, however, mistake the 
 meaning of his language. It was plain that she 
 understood the man's position to be one of dicta- 
 tion and control : we use the stronger aspect in 
 which it was presented to her mind. As to sub- 
 mission, it was not in all her thoughts. Wrung to 
 agony as her heart was, and appalled as she looked, 
 trembling and shrinking into the future, she did 
 not yield a moment to weakness. 
 
 Midnight found Irene alone in her chamber. 
 
 She had flung herself upon a bed when she came 
 
 up from the parlor, and fallen asleep after an hour 
 
 of fruitless beating about in her mind. Awaking 
 
 108
 
 THE RECONCILIATION. 109 
 
 from a maze of troubled dre?ms, she started up 
 and gazed, half fearfully, around the dimly-lighted 
 room. 
 
 " Where am I ?" she asked herself. Some mo- 
 ments elapsed before the painful events of the past 
 few days began to reveal themselves to her con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 "And where is Hartley?" This question fol- 
 lowed as soon as all grew clear. Sleep had tran- 
 quilized her state, and restored a measure of just 
 perception. Stepping from the bed, she went from 
 the room and passed silently down stairs. A light 
 still burned in the parlor where she had left her 
 husband some hours before, and streamed out 
 through the partly opened door. She stood for 
 some moments, listening, but there was no sound 
 of life within. A sudden fear crept into her heart. 
 Her hand shook as she laid it upon the door and 
 pressed it open. Stepping within, she glanced 
 around with a frightened air. 
 
 On the sofa lay Hartley, with his face toward 
 the light. It was wan and troubled, and the brows 
 were contracted as if from intense pain. For some 
 moments Irene stood looking at him ; but his eyes 
 were shut and he lay perfectly still. She drew 
 nearer and bent down over him. He was sleeping, 
 but his breath came so faintly, and there was so 
 little motion of his chest, that the thought flashed 
 through her with an electric thrill that he might be 
 dying ! Only by a strong effort of self-control did
 
 110 AFTER THE STOEM. 
 
 she repress a cry of fear, or keep back her hands 
 from clasping his neck. In what a strong tide 
 did love rush back upon her soul ! Her heart 
 overflowed with tenderness, was oppressed with 
 yearning. 
 
 " Oh, Hartley, my husband, my dear husband !" 
 she cried out, love, fear, grief and anguish blending 
 wildly in her voice, as she caught him in her arms 
 and awoke him with a rain of tears and kisses. 
 
 " Irene ! Love ! Darling ! What ails you ? 
 "Where are we ?" were the confusedly uttered sen- 
 tences of Mr. Emerson, as he started from the sofa 
 and, holding his young wife from him, looked into 
 her weeping face. 
 
 " Call me again ' love' and ' darling/ and I care 
 not where we are !" she answered, in tones of pas- 
 sionate entreaty. "Oh, Hartley, my dear, dear 
 husband ! A desert island, with you, would be a 
 paradise ; a paradise, without you, a weary desert ! 
 Say the words again. Call me ' darling !' " And 
 Bhe let her head fall upon his bosom. 
 
 " God bless you !" he said, laying his hand upon 
 her head. He was awake and clearly conscious of 
 place and position. His voice was distinct, but 
 tremulous and solemn. " God bless you, Irene, my 
 wife!" 
 
 "And make me worthy of your love," she re- 
 sponded faintly. 
 
 "Mutually worthy of each other," said he. 
 "Wiser better more patient and forbearing.
 
 THE RECONCILIA TION. Ill 
 
 Oh, Irene," and his voice grew deep and tender, 
 " why may we not be to each other all that our 
 hearts desire?" 
 
 " We can we muft we will !" she answered, 
 lifting her hidden face from his bosom and turning 
 it up fondly to his. " God helping me, I will be 
 to you a better wife in the future." 
 
 "And I a more patient, loving, and forbearing 
 husband," he replied. " Oh that our hearts might 
 beat together as one heart !" 
 
 For a little while Irene continued to gaze into 
 her husband's countenance with looks of the ten- 
 derest love, and then hid her face on his bosoin 
 again. 
 
 And thus were they again reconciled.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 4.FTER THE 8TOS3T. 
 
 iFTER the storm. And they were reconciled. 
 The clouds rolled back; the sun came out 
 again with his radiant smiles and genial 
 warmth. But was nothing broken ? nothing 
 lost? Did each flower in the garden of love lift 
 its head as bravely as before ? In every storm of 
 passion something is lost. Anger is a blind fury, 
 who tramples ruthlessly on tenderest and holiest 
 things. Alas for the ruin that waits upon her 
 footsteps ! 
 
 The day that followed this night of reconcil- 
 iation had many hours of sober introversion of 
 thought for both Emerson and his wife ; hours in 
 which memory reproduced language, conduct and 
 sentiments that could not be dwelt upon without 
 painful misgivings for the future. They under- 
 stood each other too well to make light account 
 of things said and done, even in anger. 
 
 In going over, as Irene did many times, the lan- 
 guage used by her husband on the night before, 
 touching their relation as man and wife, and his 
 prerogative, she felt the old spirit of revolt arising. 
 She tried to let her thought fall into his rational 
 
 112
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 113 
 
 presentation of the question involving precedence, 
 and even said to herself that he was right; but 
 pride was strong, and kept lifting itself in her 
 mind. She saw, most clearly, the hardest aspect 
 of the case. It was, in her view, command and 
 obedience. And she knew that submission was, 
 for her, impossible. 
 
 On the part of Emerson, the day's sober thought 
 left his mind iii no more hopeful condition than 
 that of his wife. The pain suffered in consequence 
 of her temporary flight from home, though lessened 
 by her return, had not subsided. A portion of con- 
 fidence in her was lost. He felt that he had no 
 guarantee for the future; that at any moment, in 
 the heat of passion, she might leave him again. 
 He remembered, too distinctly, her words on the 
 night before, when he tried to make her compre- 
 hend his view of the relation between man and 
 wife " That will not suit me, Hartley." And he 
 felt that she was in earnest ; that she would resist 
 every effort he might make to lead and control as a 
 man in certain things, just as she had done from 
 the beginning. 
 
 In matrimonial quarrels you cannot kiss and 
 make up again, as children do, forgetting all the 
 stormy past in the sunshiny present. And this 
 was painfully clear to both Hartley and Irene, as 
 she, alone in her chamber, and he, alone in his 
 office, pondered, on that day of reconciliation, the 
 past and the future. Yet each resolved to be more
 
 114 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 forbearing and less exacting ; to be emulous of con- 
 cession, rather than exaction ; to let love, uniting 
 with reason, hold pride and self-will in close sub- 
 mission. 
 
 Their meeting, on Hartley's return home, at his 
 usual late hour in the afternoon, was tender, but 
 not full of the joyous warmth of feeling that often 
 showed itself. Their hearts were not light enough 
 for ecstasy. But they were marked in their atten- 
 tions to each other, emulous of affectionate words 
 and actions, yielding and considerate. And yet 
 this mutual, almost formal, recognition of a recent 
 state of painful antagonism left on each mind a 
 feeling of embarrassment, checked words and sen- 
 tences ere they came to utterance, and threw amid 
 their pleasant talks many intermittent pauses. 
 
 Often through the day had Mr. Emerson, as he 
 dwelt on the unhappy relation existing between 
 himself and his wife, made up his mind to renew 
 the subject of their true position to each other, as 
 briefly touched upon in their meeting of the night 
 before, and as often changed his purpose, in fear of 
 another rupture. Yet to him it seemed of the first 
 importance that this matter, as a basis of future 
 peace, should be settled between them, and settled 
 at once. If he held one view and she another, and 
 both were sensitive, quick-tempered and tenacious 
 of individual freedom, fierce antagonism might 
 occur at any moment. He had come home inclined 
 to the affirmative side of the question, and many
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 115 
 
 times during the evening it was on his lips to intro- 
 duce the subject. But he was so sure that it would 
 prove a theme of sharp discussion, that he had not 
 the courage to risk the consequences. 
 
 There was peace again after this conflict, but it 
 was not, by any means, a hopeful peace. It had 
 no well-considered basis. The causes which had 
 produced a struggle were still in existence, and 
 liable to become active, by provocation, at any 
 moment. No change had taken place in the cha- 
 racters, dispositions, temperaments or general views 
 of life in either of the parties. Strife had ceased 
 between them only in consequence of the pain it 
 involved. A deep conviction of this fact so sobered 
 the mind of Mr. Emerson, and altered, in conse- 
 quence, his manner toward Irene, that she felt its 
 reserve and coldness as a rebuke that chilled the 
 warmth of her tender impulses. 
 
 And this manner did not greatly change as the 
 days and weeks moved onward. Memory kept too 
 vividly in the mind of Emerson that one act, and 
 the danger of its repetition on some sudden provo- 
 cation. He could not feel safe and at ease with his 
 temple of peace built close to a slumbering volcano, 
 which was liable at any moment to blaze forth and 
 bury its fair proportions in lava and ashes. 
 
 Irene did not comprehend her husband's state of 
 mind. She felt painfully the change in his man- 
 ner, but failed in reaching the true cause. Some- 
 times she attributed his coldness to resentment;
 
 116 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 sometimes to defect of love ; and sometimes to a 
 settled determination on his part to inflict punish- 
 ment. Sometimes she spent hours alone, weeping 
 over these sad ruins of her peace, and sometimes, 
 in a spirit of revolt, she laid down for herself a line 
 of conduct intended to react against her husband. 
 But something in his calm, kind, self-reliant man- 
 ner, when she looked into his face, broke down her 
 purpose. She was afraid of throwing herself 
 against a rock which, while standing immovable, 
 might bruise her tender limbs or extinguish life in 
 the strong concussion.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 |OTH Emerson and his wife came up from 
 this experience changed in themselves and 
 toward each other. A few days had matured 
 them beyond what might have been looked 
 for in as many years. Life suddenly put on more 
 sober hues, and the future laid off its smiles and 
 beckonings onward to greener fields and mountain- 
 heights of felicity. There was a certain air of 
 manly self-confidence, a firmer, more deliberate 
 way of expressing himself on all subjects, and an 
 evidence of mental clearness and strength, which 
 gave to Irene the impression of power and supe- 
 riority not wholly agreeable to her self-love, yet 
 awakening emotions of pride in her husband when 
 she contrasted him with other men. As a man 
 among men, he was, as he had ever been, her beau 
 ideal ; but as a husband, she felt a daily increasing 
 spirit of resistance and antagonism, and it required 
 constant watchfulness over herself to prevent this 
 feeling from exhibiting itself in act. 
 
 On the part of Emerson, the more he thought 
 about this subject of the husband's relative duties 
 and prerogatives thought as a man and as a law- 
 
 117
 
 118 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 yer the more strongly did he feel about it, and 
 the more tenacious of his assumed rights did he be- 
 come. Matters which seemed in the beginning of 
 such light importance as scarcely to attract his at- 
 tention, now loomed up before him as things of 
 moment. Thus, if he spoke of their doing some 
 particular thing in a certain way, and Irene sug- 
 gested a different way, instead of yielding to her 
 view, he would insist upon his own. If she tried 
 to show him a reason why her way was best, he 
 would give no weight to her argument or repre- 
 sentation. On the other hand, it is but just to say 
 that he rarely opposed her independent suggestions 
 or interfered with her freedom ; and if she had 
 been as considerate toward him, the danger of 
 trouble would have been lessened. 
 
 It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, 
 and so it is the little reactions of two spirits against 
 each other that spoil the tender blossoms of love 
 and destroy the promised vintage. Steadily, day 
 by day, and week by week, were these light reac- 
 tions raarring the happiness of our undisciplined 
 young friends, and destroying in them germ after 
 germ, and bud after bud, which, if left to growth 
 and development, would have brought forth ripe, 
 luscious fruit in the later summer of their lives. 
 Trifles, light as air were noticed, and their import- 
 ance magnified. Words, looks, actions, insignifi- 
 cant in themselves, were made to represent states of 
 will or antagonism which really had no existence.
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 1 1 9 
 
 Unhappily for their peace, Irene had a brood- 
 ing disposition. She held in her memory utter- 
 ances and actions forgotten by her husband, and, 
 by dwelling upon, magnified and gave them an im- 
 portance to which they were not entitled. Still 
 more unhappily for their peace, Irene met about 
 this time, and became attached to, a lady of fine 
 intellectual attainments and fascinating manners, 
 who was an extremist in opinion on the subject of 
 sexual equality. She was married, but to a man 
 greatly her inferior, though possessing some literary 
 talent, which he managed to turn to better account 
 than she did her finer powers. He had been at- 
 tracted by her brilliant qualities, and in approach- 
 ing her scorched his wings, and ever after lay at 
 her feet. She had no very high respect for him, 
 but found a husband on many accounts a conve- 
 nient thing, and so held on to the appendage. If 
 he had been man enough to remain silent on the 
 themes she was so fond of discussing on all occa- 
 sions, people of common sense and common percep- 
 tion would have respected him for what he was 
 worth. But he gloried in his bondage, and rattled 
 his chains as gleefully as if he were discoursing 
 sweet music. What she announced oracularly, he 
 attempted to demonstrate by bald and feeble argu- 
 ments. He was the false understanding to her 
 perverted will. 
 
 The name of this lady was Mrs. Talbot. Irene 
 met her soon after her marriage and removal to
 
 120 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 New York, and was charmed with her from the 
 beginning. Mr. Emerson, on the contrary, liked 
 neither her nor her sentiments, and considered her 
 a dangerous friend for his wife. He expressed 
 'himself freely in regard to her at the commence- 
 ment of the intimacy ; but Irene took her part so 
 warmly, and used such strong language in her 
 favor, that Emerson deemed it wisest not to create 
 new sentiments in her favor out of opposition to 
 himself. 
 
 Within a week from that memorable Christmas 
 day on which Irene came back from Ivy Cliff, Mrs. 
 Talbot, who had taken a fancy to the spirited, in- 
 dependent, undisciplined wife of Emerson, called 
 in to see her new friend. Irene received her cor- 
 dially. She was, in fact, of all her acquaintances, 
 the one she most desired to meet. 
 
 " I'm right glad you thought of making me a 
 call," said Mrs. Emerson, as they sat down to- 
 gether. " I've felt as dull all the morning as an 
 anchorite." 
 
 ''You dull!" Mrs. Talbot affected surprise, as 
 she glanced round the tasteful room in which they 
 were sitting. " What is there to cloud your mind? 
 With such a home and such a husband as you pos- 
 sess life ought to be one long, bright holiday." 
 
 " Good things in their way," replied Mrs. Emer- 
 son. " But not everything." 
 
 She said this in a kind of thoughtless deference 
 to Mrs. Talbot's known views on the subject of
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 121 
 
 homes and husbands, which she had not hesitated 
 to call women's prisons" and women's jailers. 
 
 " Indeed ! And have you made that discovery?" 
 Mrs. Talbot laughed a low, gurgling sort of laugh, 
 leaning, at the same time, in a confidential kind 
 of way, closer to Mrs. Emerson. 
 
 " Discovery !" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It is no discovery," said Mrs. Emerson. "The 
 fact is self-evident. There is much that a woman 
 needs for happiness beside a home and a husband." 
 
 " Right, my young friend, right !" Mrs. Tal- 
 bot's manner grew earnest. u No truer words were 
 ever spoken. Yes yes a woman needs a great 
 deal more than these to fill the measure of her 
 happiness ; and it is through the attempt to restrict 
 and limit her to such poor substitutes for a world- 
 wide range and freedom that she has been so 
 dwarfed in mental stature, and made the unhappy 
 creature and slave of man's hard ambition and 
 indomitable love of power. There were Amazons 
 of old as the early Greeks knew to their cost 
 strong, self-reliant, courageous women, who ac- 
 knowledged no human superiority. Is the Ama- 
 zonian spirit dead in the earth ? Not so ! It is 
 alive, and clothing itself with will, power and per- 
 sistence. Already it is grasping the rein, and the 
 mettled steed stands impatient to feel the rider's 
 impulse in the saddle. The cycle of woman's 
 degradation and humiliation is completed. A new
 
 122 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 era in the world's social history has dawned for 
 her, and the mountain-tops are golden with the 
 coming day." 
 
 Irene listened w T ith delight and even enthusiasm 
 to these sentiments, uttered with ardor and elo- 
 quence. 
 
 " It is not woman's fault, taking her in the ag- 
 gregate, that she is so weak in body and mind, and 
 such a passive slave to man's will," continued Mrs. 
 Talbot. " In the retrocession of races toward bar- 
 barism mere muscle, in which alone man is su- 
 perior to woman, prevailed. Physical strength set 
 itself up as master. Might made right. And so 
 unhappy woman was degraded below man, and 
 held to the earth, until nearly all independent life 
 has been crushed out of her. As civilization has 
 lifted nation after nation out of the dark depths of 
 barbarism, the condition of woman physically has 
 been improved. For the sake of his children, if 
 from no better motive, man has come to treat his 
 wife with a more considerate kindness. If she is 
 still but the hewer of his wood and the drawer of 
 his water, he has, in many cases, elevated her to 
 the position of dictatress in these humble affairs. 
 He allows her ' help !' But, mentally and socially, 
 he continues to degrade her. In law she is scarcely 
 recognized, except as a criminal. She is punished 
 if she does wrong, but has no legal protection in 
 her rights as an independent human being. She is 
 only man's shadow. The public opinion that affects
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 123 
 
 her is made by him. The earliest literature of a 
 country is mail's expression ; and in this man's 
 view of woman is always apparent. The senti- 
 ment is repeated generation after generation, and 
 age after age, until the barbarous idea comes down, 
 scarcely questioned, to the days of high civiliza- 
 tion, culture and refinement. 
 
 " Here, my young friend, you have the simple 
 story of woman's degradation in this age of the 
 world. Now, so long as she submits, man will 
 hold her in fetters. Power and dominion are sweet. 
 If a man cannot govern a state, he will be content 
 to govern a household but govern he will, if he 
 can find anywhere submissive subjects." 
 
 " He is born a tyrant; that I have always felt," 
 said Mrs. Emerson. " You see it in a family of 
 sisters and brothers. The boys always attempt to 
 rule their sisters, and if the latter do not submit, 
 then comes discord and contention." 
 
 " I have seen this in hundreds of instances," re- 
 plied Mrs. Talbot. " It was fully illustrated in 
 my own case. I had two brothers, who undertook 
 to exercise their love of domineering on me. But 
 they did not find a passive subject no, not by any 
 means. I was never obedient to their will, for I 
 had one of my own. We made the house often a 
 bedlam for our poor mother ; but I never gave way 
 no, not for an instant, come what might. I had 
 different stuff in me from that of common girls, 
 and in time the boys were glad to let me alone."
 
 124 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 'Are your brothers living?" asked Mrs. 
 Emerson. 
 
 " Yes. One resides in New York, and the other 
 in Boston. One is a merchant, the other a phy- 
 sician." 
 
 " How was it as you grew older ?" 
 
 " About the same. They are like nearly all men 
 despisers of woman's intellect." 
 
 Irene sighed, and, letting her eyes fall to the 
 floor, sat lost in thought for some moments. The 
 suggestions of her friend were not producing 
 agreeable states of mind. 
 
 " They reject the doctrine of an equality in the 
 sexes?" said Mrs. Emerson. 
 
 " Of course. All men do that," replied Mrs. 
 Talbot. 
 
 " Your husband among the rest ?" 
 
 "Talbot? Oh, he's well enough in his way!" 
 The lady spoke lightly, tossing her head in a man- 
 ner that involved both indifference and contempt. 
 " I never take him into account when discussing 
 these matters. That point was settled between us 
 long and long ago. We jog on without trouble. 
 Talbot thinks as I do about the women or pre- 
 tends that he does, which is all the same." 
 
 "A rare exception to the general run of hus- 
 bands," said Irene, thinking at the same time how 
 immeasurably superior Mr. Emerson was to this 
 weakling, and despising him in her heart for sub- 
 mitting to be ruled by a woman. Thus nature and
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 125 
 
 true perception spoke in her, even while she was 
 seeking to blind herself by false reasonings. 
 
 " Yes, he's a rare exception ; and it's well for us 
 both that it is so. If he were like your husband, 
 for instance, one of us would have been before the 
 legislature for a divorce within twelve months of 
 our marriage night." 
 
 " Like my husband ! What do you mean ?" 
 Mrs. Emerson drew herself up, with half real and 
 half affected surprise. 
 
 " Oh, he's one of your men who have positive 
 |ualities about them strong in intellect and will." 
 
 Irene felt pleased with the compliment bestoM r ed 
 upon her husband. 
 
 " But wrong in his ideas of woman." 
 
 " How do you know ?" asked Irene. 
 
 "How do I know? As I know all men with 
 whom I come in contact. I probe them." 
 
 " And you have probed my husband ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly." 
 
 " And do not regard him as sound on this sub- 
 ject?" 
 
 " No sounder than other men of his class. He 
 regards woman as man's inferior." 
 
 " I think you state the case too strongly," said 
 Mrs. Emerson, a red spot burning on her cheek. 
 " He thinks them mentally different." 
 
 " Of course he does." 
 
 " But not different as to superiority and inferior- 
 ity," replied Irene.
 
 12G AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Mere hair-splitting, my child. If they aro 
 mentally different, one must be more highly organ- 
 ized than the other, and of coarse, superior. Mr. 
 Emerson thinks a man's rational powers stronger 
 than a woman's, and that, therefore, he must direct 
 in affairs generally, and she follow his lead. I 
 know; I've talked with and drawn him out on 
 this subject." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson sighed again faintly, while her 
 eyes dropped from the face of her visitor and sunk 
 to the floor. A shadow was falling on her spirit 
 a weight coming down with a gradually increasing 
 pressure upon her heart. She remembered the 
 night of her return from Ivy Cliff and the lan- 
 guage then used by her husband on this very sub- 
 ject, which was mainly in agreement with the range 
 of opinions attributed to him by Mrs. Talbot. 
 
 " Marriage, to a spirited woman," she remarked, 
 in a pensive undertone, " is a doubtful experiment." 
 
 "Always," returned her friend. "As woman 
 stands now in the estimate of man, her chances for 
 happiness are almost wholly on the side of old- 
 maidisin. Still, freedom is the price of struggle 
 and combat; and woman will first have to show, 
 in actual strife, that she is the equal of her present 
 lord." 
 
 " Then you would turn every home into a battle- 
 field?" said Mrs. Emerson. 
 
 " Every home in which there is a tyrant and an 
 oppressor," was the prompt answer. " Many fair
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 127 
 
 lands, in all ages, have been trampled down ruth- 
 lessly by the iron feet of war ; and that were better ; 
 as the price of freedom, than slavery." 
 
 Irene sighed again, and was again silent. 
 
 " What," she asked, " if the oppressor is so much 
 stronger than the oppressed that successful resist- 
 ance is impossible? that with every struggle the 
 links of the chain that binds her sink deeper into 
 her quivering flesh ?" 
 
 " Every age and every land have seen noble 
 martyrs in the cause of freedom. It is better to 
 die for liberty than live an ignoble slave," answered 
 the tempter. 
 
 "And I will die a free woman." This Irene 
 said in her heart.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN BONDS. 
 
 .ENTIMENTS like these, coming to Irene aa 
 -y* they did while she was yet chafing under a 
 ' " recent collision with her husband, and while 
 the question of submission was yet an open 
 one, were near proving a quick-match to a slum- 
 bering mine in her spirit, and had not her husband 
 been in a more passive state than usual, there might 
 have been an explosion which would have driven 
 them asunder with such terrific force that reunion 
 must have been next to impossible. 
 
 It would have been well if their effects had died 
 with the passing away of that immediate danger. 
 But as we think so we incline to act. Our senti- 
 ments are our governors ; and of all imperious 
 tyrants, false sentiments are the most ruthless. 
 The beautiful, the true, the good they trample out 
 of the heart with a fiery malignity that knows no 
 touch of pity ; for the false is the bitter enemy of 
 the true and makes with it no terms of amity. 
 
 The coldness which had followed their reconcili- 
 ation might have gradually given way before the 
 warmth of genuine love, if Irene had been left to 
 the counsels of her own heart ; if there had beea 
 
 128
 
 *# BONDS. 129 
 
 no enemy to her peace, like Mrs. Talbot, to throw 
 in wild, vague thoughts of oppression and freedom 
 among the half-developed opinions which were 
 forming in her mind. As it was, a jealous scru- 
 tiny of words and actions took the place of that 
 tender confidence which was coming back to Irene's 
 heart, and she became watchfully on the alert ; not, 
 as she might have been, lovingly ministrant. 
 
 Only a few days were permitted to elapse after 
 the call of this unsafe friend before Irene returned 
 the visit, and spent two hours with her, conning 
 over the subject of woman's rights and woman's 
 wrongs. Mrs. Talbot introduced her to writers on 
 the vexed question, who had touched the theme 
 with argument, sarcasm, invective and bold, bril- 
 liant, specious generalities ; read to her from their 
 books ; commented on their deductions, and uttered 
 sentiments on the subject of reform and resistance 
 as radical as the most extreme. 
 
 " We must agitate we must act we must do 
 good deeds of valor and self-sacrifice for our sex,"' 
 she said, in her enthusiastic way. " Every woman, 
 whether of high or low condition, of humble pow- 
 ers or vigorous intellect, has a duty to perform, and 
 she is false to the honor and rights of her sex if 
 she do not array herself on the side of freedom. 
 You have great responsibilities resting upon you, 
 my young friend. I say it soberly, even solemnly. 
 Responsibilities which may not be disregarded 
 without evil consequences to yourself and others.
 
 130 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 You are young, clear-thoughted and resolute 
 have will, purpose and endurance. You are mar- 
 ried to a young man destined, I think, to make his 
 mark in the world ; but, as I have said before, a 
 false education has given him erroneous ideas on 
 this great and important subject. Now what is 
 your duty ?" 
 
 The lady paused as if for an answer. 
 
 " What is your duty, my dear young friend ?" 
 she repeated. 
 
 " I will answer for you," she continued. " Your 
 duty is to be true to yourself and to your sisters in 
 bonds." 
 
 " In bonds ! / in bonds !" Mrs. Talbot touched 
 her to the quick. 
 
 "Are you a free woman?" The inquiry was 
 calmly made. 
 
 Irene started to the floor and moved across the 
 room, then turned and came back again. Her 
 checks burned and her eyes flashed. She stood 
 before Mrs. Talbot and looked at her steadily. 
 
 " The question has disturbed you ?" said the lady. 
 
 " It has," was the brief answer. 
 
 " Why should it disturb you ?' 
 
 Irene did not answer. 
 
 " I can tell you." 
 
 " Say on." 
 
 " You are in bonds, and feel the fetters." 
 
 " Mrs. Talbot !" 
 
 " It is so, my poor child, and you know it as
 
 IN BONDS. 131 
 
 well as I do. From the beginning of our acquaint- 
 ance I have seen this ; and more than once, in our 
 various conversations, you have admitted the fact." 
 
 " I ?" 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 Irene let her thoughts run back through the sen- 
 timents and opinions which she had permitted her- 
 self to utter in the presence of her friend, to see if 
 she had so fully betrayed herself. She could not 
 recall the distinct language, but it was plain that 
 Mrs. Talbot had her secret, and therefore reserve 
 on the subject was useless. 
 
 " Well," she said, after standing for some time 
 before Mrs. Talbot, " if I am in bonds, it is not 
 because I do not worship freedom." 
 
 " I know that," was the quickly-spoken answer. 
 " And it is because I wish to see you a free wonjan 
 that I point to your bonds. Now is the time to 
 break thefn now, before years have increased their 
 strength now, before habit has made tyranny a 
 part of your husband's nature. He is your ruler, 
 because the social senfiment is in favor of manly 
 domination. There is hope for you now, and now 
 only. You must begin the work of reaction while 
 both are young. Let your husband understand, 
 from this time, that you are his equal. It may go 
 a little hard at first. He will, without doubt, hold 
 on to the reins, for power is sweet ; but if tbt-re be 
 true love for you in his heart, he will yield in the 
 struggle, and make you his companion and equal,
 
 132 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 as you should be. If his love be not genuine, 
 why" 
 
 She checked herself. It might be going a step 
 too far with her young friend to utter the thought 
 that was coming to her lips. Irene did not ques- 
 tion her as to what more she was about to say. 
 There was stimulus enough in the words already 
 spoken. She felt all the strength of her nature 
 rising into opposition. 
 
 " Yes, I will be free," she said in her heart. " I 
 will be his equal, not his slave." 
 
 " It may cost you some pain in the beginning," 
 resumed the tempter. 
 
 " I am not afraid of pain," said Irene. 
 
 " A brave heart spoke there. I wish we had 
 more on our side with the stuff you are made of. 
 There would be hope of a speedier reform than is 
 now promised." 
 
 "Heaven send the reform right early! It can- 
 not come a day too soon." Irene spoke with rising 
 ardor. 
 
 " It will be our own fault," said Mrs. Talbot, 
 " if we longer bow our necks to the yoke or move 
 obedient to our task-masters. Let us lay the axe 
 to the very root of this evil and hew it down." 
 
 " Even if we are crushed by the tree in falling," 
 responded Irene, in the spirit of a martyr. 
 
 From this interview our wrong-directed young 
 friend went home with more clearly defined pur- 
 poses touching her conduct toward her husbaud
 
 IN BONDS. 133 
 
 than she had hitherto entertained. She saw him 
 in a new aspect, and in a character more definitely 
 outlined. He loomed up in more colossal propor- 
 tions, and put on sterner features. All disguises 
 were thrown away, and he stood forth, not a lov- 
 ing husband, but the tyrant of her home. Weak, 
 jealous, passion-tost child ! how this strong, sel- 
 willed, false woman of the world had bewildered 
 her thoughts, and pushed her forth into an arena 
 of strife, where she could only beat about blindly, 
 and hurt herself and others, yet accomplish no 
 good. 
 
 From her interview with Mrs. Talbot, Irene 
 went home, bearing more distinct ideas of resist- 
 ance in her mind. In this great crisis of her life 
 she felt that she needed just such a friend, who 
 could give direction to her striving spirit, and 
 clothe for her in thoughts the native impulses that 
 she knew only as a love of freedom. Sho believed 
 now that she understood herself better than before, 
 and comprehended more clearly her duties and 
 responsibilities. 
 
 It was in this mood of mind that she met her 
 husband when he returned in the afternoon from 
 his office. Happily for them, he was in a quiet, 
 non-resistant state, and in a special good-humor 
 with himself and the world. Professional matter? 
 had shaped themselves to his wishes, and left hL 
 mind at peace. Irene had, in consequence, every- 
 thing pretty much her own way. Hartley did not
 
 134 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 fail to notice a certain sharpness of manner about 
 her, and a certain spiciness of sentiment when the 
 subject of their intermittent talks verged on themes 
 relating to women ; but he felt no inclination what- 
 ever for argument or opposition, and so hei> arrows 
 struck a polished shield, and went gracefully and 
 harmlessly aside. 
 
 " Shall we go and have a merry laugh with Mat- 
 thews to-night ?" said Hartley, as they sat at the 
 tea-table. " I feel just in the humor." 
 
 " No, I thank you," replied Irene, curtly. " I 
 don't incline to the laughing mood, just now." 
 
 " Laughing is contagious," suggested Hartley. 
 
 " I shall not take the infection to-night." And 
 ehe balanced her little head with the perpendicu- 
 larity of a plumb-line. 
 
 " Can't I persuade you ?'' He was in a real 
 good-humor, and smiled as he said this. 
 
 t{ No, sir. You may w r aive both argument and 
 persuasion. I am in earnest." 
 
 " And when a woman is in earnest you might as 
 well essay to move the Pillars of Hercules." 
 
 "You might as well in my case," answered 
 Irene, without any softening of tone or features. 
 
 " Then I shall not attempt, after a hard day's 
 work, a task so difficult. I am in a mood for resk 
 and quiet," said the young husband. 
 
 ' f Perhaps," he resumed, after a little pause, 
 " you may feel somewhat musical. There is to l>e 
 a vocal and instrumental concert to-night. What
 
 IN BONDS. 135 
 
 say you fo going- there? I think I could enjoy 
 some good ainging, mightily." 
 
 Irene closed her lips firmly, and shook her head. 
 
 " Not musically inclined this evening ?" 
 
 " No," she replied. 
 
 " Got a regular stay-at-home feeling?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Enough," said Hartley, with unshadowed good- 
 humor, " \ve will stay at home." 
 
 And he sung a snatch of the familiar song 
 " There's no place like home," rising, as he did so, 
 from the table, and offering Irene his arm. She 
 could do no less than accept the courtesy, and so 
 they went up to their cozy sitting-room arm-in- 
 arm he chatty, and she almost silent. 
 
 " What's the matter, petty ?" he asked, in a fond 
 way, after trying for some time, but in vain, td 
 draw her out into pleasant conversation. " Ain't 
 you well to-night ?" 
 
 Now, so far as her bodily state was concerned, 
 Irene never felt better in her life. So she could 
 not plead indisposition. 
 
 " I feel well," she replied, glancing up into her 
 husband's face in a cold, embarrassed kind of way. 
 
 " Then your looks belie your condition that's 
 all. If it isn't the body, it must be the mind. 
 What's gone wrong, darling?" 
 
 The tenderness in Hartley's tones was genuine, 
 and the heart of Irene leaped to his voice with a 
 responsive throe. But was he not her master and
 
 136 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 tyrant? How that thought chilled the sweet 
 impulse ! 
 
 " Nothing wrong," she answered, with a sadness 
 of tone which she was unable to conceal. " But I 
 feel dull, and cannot help it." 
 
 "You should have gone with me to laugh with 
 Matthews. He would have shaken all these cob- 
 webs from your brain. Come! it is not yet too 
 late." 
 
 But the rebel spirit was in her heart ; and to 
 have acceded to her husband's wishes would have 
 been to submit herself to control. 
 
 " You must excuse me," she replied. " I feel 
 as if home were the better place for me to-night." 
 
 An impatient answer was on her tongue; hut 
 she checked its utterance, and spoke from a better 
 spirit. 
 
 Not even as a lover had Hartley shown more 
 considerate tenderness than marked all his conduct 
 toward Irene this evening. His mind was in a 
 clear-seeing region, and his feelings tranquil. The 
 sphere of her antagonism failed to reach him. He 
 did not understand the meaning of her opposition 
 to his wishes, and so pride, self-love and self-will 
 remained quiescent. How peacefully unconscious 
 was he of the fact that his feet were standing over 
 a mine, and that a single spark of passion struck 
 from him would have sprung that mine in fierce 
 explosion ! He read to Irene from a volume which 
 he knew to be a favorite ; talked to her about Ivy
 
 IN BONDS. 137 
 
 Cliff and her father ; suggested an early visit to 
 the pleasant old river home; and thus charmed 
 away the evil spirits which had found a lodgment 
 in her bosom. 
 
 But how different it might have been !
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE REFORMERS. 
 
 >OCIAL theories that favor our passions, pe- 
 -,-. culiarities, defects of character or weaknesses 
 
 ' " are readily adopted, and, with minds of an 
 ardent temper, often become hobbies. There 
 is a class of persons who are never content with 
 riding their own hobbies ; they must have others 
 mount with them. All the world is going wrong 
 because it moves past them trotting, pacing or 
 galloping, as it may be, upon its own hobbies. 
 And so they try to arrest this movement or that, 
 or, gathering a company of aimless people, they 
 galvanize them with their own wild purposes, and 
 start them forth into the world on Quixotic er- 
 rands. 
 
 These persons are never content to wait for tne 
 slow changes that are included in all orderly devel- 
 opments. Because a thing seems right to them in 
 the abstract, it must be done now. They cannot 
 wait for old things to pass away, as preliminary to 
 the inauguration of what is new. 
 
 " If I had the power," we have heard one of this 
 class say, " evil and sorrow and pain should cease 
 from the earth in a moment." And in saying this
 
 THE REFORMERS. 139 
 
 the thought was not concealed that God had this 
 power, but failed to exercise it. With them no 
 questions of expediency, no regard for time-en- 
 dowed prejudices, no weak spirit of waiting, no 
 looking for the fullness of time could have any 
 influence. What they willed to be done must be 
 done now ; and they were impatient and angry at 
 every one who stood in their way or opposed their 
 theories. 
 
 In most cases, you will find these " reformers," 
 as they generally style themselves, governed more 
 by a love of ruling and influencing others than by 
 a spirit of humanity. They are one-sided people, 
 and can only see one side of a subject in clear light. 
 It matters little to them what is destroyed, so that 
 they can build. If they possess the gift of lan- 
 guage, either as writers or talkers have wit, bril- 
 liancy and sarcasm they make disciples of the less 
 gifted, and influence larger or smaller circles of men 
 and women. Flattered by this homage to their 
 talents, they grow more ardent in the cause which 
 they have espoused, and see, or affect to see, little 
 else of any importance in the world. They do 
 some good and much harm. Good, in drawing 
 general attention to social evils that need reform- 
 ing evil, in causing weak people to forget common 
 duties in their ambition to set the world right. 
 
 There is always danger in breaking suddenly 
 away from the regular progression of things and 
 taking the lead in some new and antagonistic move-
 
 140 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 ment. Such things must and will be; but they 
 who set up for social reformers must be men and 
 women of pure hearts, clear minds and the broadest 
 human sympathies. They must be lovers of their 
 kind, not lovers of themselves ; brave as patriots, 
 not as soldiers of fortune who seek for booty and 
 renown. 
 
 Not many of these true reformers all honor to 
 them ! are found among the noisy coteries that 
 infest the land and turn so many foolish people 
 away from real duties. 
 
 One of the dangers attendant on association with 
 the class to which we refer lies in the fact that they 
 draw around them certain free-thinking, sensual 
 personages, of no very stable morality, who are 
 ready for anything that 'gives excitement to their 
 morbid conditions of mind. Social disasters, of 
 the saddest kind, are constantly occurring through 
 this cause. Men and women become at first un- 
 settled in their opinions, then unsettled in their 
 conduct, and finally throw off all virtuous restraint. 
 
 Mrs. Talbot, the new friend of Mrs. Emerson, 
 belonged to the better sort of reformers in one 
 respect. She was a pure-minded woman ; but this 
 did not keep her out of the circle of those who were 
 of freer thought and action. Being an extremist 
 on the subject of woman's social position, she met 
 and assimilated with others on the basis of a com- 
 mon sentiment. This threw her in contact with 
 many from whom she would have shrunk with
 
 THE REFOEMEBS. 141 
 
 instinctive aversion had she Known their true 
 quality. Still, the evil to her was a gradual wear- 
 ing away, by the power of steady attrition, of old, 
 true, conservative ideas in regard to the binding 
 force of marriage. There was always a great deal 
 said on this subject, in a light way, by persons for 
 whose opinions on other subjects she had the highest 
 respect, and this had its influence. Insensibly her 
 views and feelings changed, until she found herself, 
 in some cases, the advocate of sentiments that once 
 would have been rejected with instinctive repug- 
 nance.' 
 
 This was the woman who was about acquiring a 
 strong influence over the undisciplined, self-willed 
 and too self-reliant young wife of Hartley Emer- 
 son ; and this was the class of personages among 
 whom her dangerous friend was about introducing 
 her. At the house of Mrs. Talbot, where Irene 
 became a frequent visitor, she met a great many 
 brilliant, talented and fascinating people, of whom 
 she often spoke to her husband, for she was too 
 independent to have any concealments. She knew 
 that he did not like Mrs. Talbot, but this rather 
 inclined her to a favorable estimation, and really 
 led to a more frequent intercourse than would 
 otherwise have been the case. 
 
 Once a week Mrs. Talbot held a kind of conver- 
 sazione, at which brilliant people and people with 
 hobbies met to hear themselves talk. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Emerson had a standing invitation to be pres-
 
 142 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 ent at these reunions, and, as Irene wished to go, 
 her husband saw it best not to interpose obstacles. 
 Besides, as he knew that she went to Mrs. Talbot's 
 often in the day-time, and met a good many people 
 there, he wished to see for himself who they were, 
 and judge for himself as to their quality. Of the 
 men who frequented the parlors of Mrs. Talbot, 
 the larger number had some prefix to their names, 
 as Professor, Doctor, Major, or Colonel. Most of 
 the ladies were of a decidedly literary turn some 
 had written books, some were magazine contrib- 
 utors, one was a physician, and one a public lec- 
 turer. Nothing against them in all this, but much 
 to their honor if their talents and acquirements 
 were used for the common good. 
 
 The themes of conversation at these weekly gath- 
 erings were varied, but social relations and social 
 reform were in most cases the leading topics. Two 
 or three evenings at Mrs. Talbot's were enough to 
 satisfy Mr. Emerson that the people who met there 
 were not of a character to exercise a good influence 
 upon his wife. But how was he to keep her from 
 associations that evidently presented strong attrac- 
 tions ? Direct opposition he feared to make, for the 
 experience of a few months had been sufficient to 
 show him that she would resist all attempts on his 
 part to exercise a controlling influence. 
 
 He tried at first to keep her away by feigning 
 slight indisposition, or weariness, or disinclination 
 to go out, and so lead her to exercise some self-
 
 THE REFORMERS. 14,'3 
 
 denial for his sake. But her mind was too firmly 
 bent on going to be turned so easily from its pur- 
 pose ; she did not consider trifles like these of suffi- 
 cient importance to interfere with the pleasures of 
 an evening at one of Mrs. Talbot's conversaziones. 
 Mr. Emerson felt hurt at his wife's plain disregard 
 of his comfort and wishes, and said within himself, 
 with bitterness of feeling, that she was heartless. 
 
 One day, at dinner-time, he said to her 
 
 " I shall not be able to go to Mrs. Talbot's to- 
 night." 
 
 " Why ?" Irene looked at her husband in sur- 
 prise, and with a shade of disappointment on her 
 countenance. 
 
 " I have business of importance with a gentleman 
 who resides in Brooklyn, and have promised to 
 meet him at his house this evening." 
 
 " You might call for me on your return," said 
 Irene. 
 
 " The time of my return will be uncertain. I 
 cannot now tell how late I may be detained in 
 Brooklyn." 
 
 " I'm sorry." And Irene bent down her eyes in 
 a thoughtful way. " I promised Mrs. Talbot to be 
 there to-night," she added. 
 
 " Mrs. Talbot will excuse you when she knows 
 why you were absent." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said Irene. 
 
 " She must be a very unreasonable woman," re- 
 marked Emerson.
 
 144 AFTER THE STORM 
 
 " That doesn't follow. You could take me there, 
 and Mrs. Talbot find me an escort home." 
 
 " Who ?" Emerson knit his brows and glanced 
 sharply at his wife. The suggestion struck him 
 unpleasantly. 
 
 " Major Willard, for instance;" and she smiled in 
 a half-amused, half-mischievous way. 
 
 " You cannot be in earnest, surely ?" said Em- 
 erson. 
 
 "Why not?" queried his wife, looking at her 
 husband with calm, searching eyes. 
 
 " You would not, in the first place, be present 
 there, unaccompanied by your husband ; and, in the 
 second place, I hardly think my wife would be seen 
 in the street, at night, on the arm of Major Wil- 
 lard." 
 
 Mr. Emerson spoke like a man who was in 
 earnest. 
 
 " Do you know anything wrong of Major Wil- 
 lard ?" asked Irene. 
 
 " I know nothing about him, right or wrong," 
 was replied. " But, if I have any skill in reading 
 men, he is very far from being a fine specimen." 
 
 " Why, Hartley! You have let some prejudice 
 come in to warp your estimation." 
 
 " No. I have mixed some with men, and, though 
 my opportunity for observation has not been large, 
 I have met two or three of your Major Willards. 
 They are polished and attractive on the surface, but 
 unprincipled and corrupt."
 
 THE REFORMERS. 145 
 
 " I cannot believe this of Major Willard," said 
 Irene. 
 
 " It might be safer for you to believe it," replied 
 Hartley. 
 
 " Safer ! I don't understand you ! You talk 
 in riddles ? How safer ?" 
 
 Irene showed some irritation. 
 
 "Safer as to your good name/' replied her 
 husband. 
 
 " My good name is in my own keeping," said 
 the young wife, proudly. 
 
 " Then, for Heaven's sake, remain its safe cus- 
 todian," replied Emerson. "Don't let even the 
 shadow of a man like Major Willard fall upon it." 
 
 " I am sorry to see you so prejudiced," said 
 Irene, coldly ; " and sorry, still further, that you 
 have so poor an opinion of your wife." 
 
 "You misapprehend me," returned Hartley. 
 " I am neither prejudiced nor suspicious. But see- 
 ing danger in your way, as a prudent man I lift a 
 voice of warning. I am out in the world more 
 than you are, and see more of its worst side. My 
 profession naturally opens to me doors of observa- 
 tion that are shut to many. I see the inside of 
 character, where others look only upon the fair 
 outside." 
 
 " And so learn to be suspicious of everybody," 
 gaid Irene. 
 
 " No ; only to read indices that to many others 
 are unintelligible."
 
 146 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " I must learn to read them also." 
 
 " It would be well if your sex and place in the 
 WO/ld gave the right opportunity," replied Hartley. 
 
 " Truly said. And that touches the main ques- 
 tion. Women, immured as they now are, and 
 never suffered to go out into the world unless 
 guarded by husband, brother or discreet managing 
 friend, will continue as weak and undiscriminating 
 as the great mass of them now are. But, so far as 
 I am concerned, this system is destined to change. 
 I must be permitted a larger liberty, and oppor- 
 tunities for independent observation. I wish to 
 read character for myself, and make up my own 
 mind in regard to the people I meet." 
 
 "I am only sorry," rejoined her husband, "that 
 your first effort at reading character and making 
 up independent opinions in regard to men and 
 principles had not found scope in another direction. 
 I am afraid that, in trying to get close enough to 
 the people you meet at Mrs. Talbot's for accurate 
 observation, you will draw so near to dangerous 
 fires as to scorch your garments." 
 
 "Complimentary to Mrs. Talbot!" 
 
 " The remark simply gives you my estimate ol 
 some of her favored visitors." 
 
 "And complimentary to your wife," added 
 Irene. 
 
 " My wife," said Hartley, in a serious voice, " is, 
 like myself, young and inexperienced, and should 
 be particularly cautious in regard to all new ac-
 
 THE REFORMERS. 147 
 
 quaintanees men or women particularly if they 
 be some years her senior, and particularly if they 
 show any marked desire to cultivate her acquaint- 
 ance. People with, a large worldly experience, 
 like most of those we have met at Mrs. Talbot's, 
 take you and I at disadvantage. They read us 
 through at a single sitting, while it may take u*t 
 months, even years, to penetrate the disguises thpy 
 know so well how to assume." 
 
 "Nearly all of which, touching the pleasant 
 people we meet at Mrs. Talbot's, is assumed," re- 
 plied Irene, not at all moved by her husband's 
 earnestness. 
 
 " You may learn to your sorrow, when the 
 knowledge comes too late," he responded, " that 
 even more than I have assumed is true." 
 
 " I am not in fear of the sorrow," was answered 
 lightly. 
 
 As Irene, against all argument, persuasion and 
 remonstrance on the part of her husband, persisted 
 in her determination to go to Mrs. Talbot's, he en- 
 gaged a carriage to take her there and to call for 
 her at eleven o'clock. 
 
 " Come away alone," he said, with impressive 
 earnestness, a? he parted from her. ''Don't let 
 any courteous >ffer induce you to accept an attend- 
 ant when you return home."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 
 
 tRS. EMERSON did not feel altogether com- 
 fortable in mind as she rode away from her 
 door alone. She was going unattended by 
 
 * her husband, and against his warmly-spoken 
 remonstrance, to pass an evening with people of 
 whom she knew but little, and against whom he 
 had strong prejudices. 
 
 " It were better to have remained at home," she 
 said to herself more than once before her arrival 
 at Mrs. Talbot's. The marked attentions she re- 
 ceived, as well from Mrs. Talbot as from several 
 of her guests, soon brought her spirits up to the 
 old elevation. Among those who seemed most 
 attracted by her was Major Willard, to whom 
 reference has already been made. 
 
 " Where is your husband ?" was almost his first 
 inquiry on meeting her. " I do not see him in the 
 room." 
 
 " He had to meet a gentleman on business over 
 in Brooklyn this evening," replied Irene. 
 
 "Ah, business!" said the major, with a shrug, 
 a movement of the eyebrows and a motion in the 
 corners of his mouth which were not intelligible 
 
 148
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 149 
 
 i gns to Mrs. Emerson. That they meant some- 
 thing more than he was prepared to utter in words, 
 she was satisfied, but whether of favorable or un- 
 favorable import touching her absent husband, she 
 could not tell. The impression on her mind wau 
 not agreeable, and she could not help remembering 
 what Hartley had said about the major. 
 
 " I notice," remarked the latter, " that we have 
 several ladies here who come usually without their 
 husbands. Gentlemen are not always attracted by 
 the feast of reason and the flow of soul. They 
 require something more substantial. Oysters and 
 terrapin are nearer to their fancy." 
 
 " Not more to my husband's fancy," replied Mrs. 
 Emerson, in a tone of vindication, as well as re- 
 buke at such freedom of speech. 
 
 " Beg your pardon a thousand times, madam !" 
 returned Major Willard, " if I have even seemed 
 to speak lightly of one who holds the honored 
 position of your husband. Nothing could have 
 been- farther from my thought. I was only 
 trifling." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson smiled her forgiveness, and the 
 major became more polite and attentive than be- 
 fore. But his attentions were not wholly agree- 
 able. Something in the expression of his eyes as 
 he looked at her produced an unpleasant repulsion. 
 She was constantly remembering some of the cau- 
 tions spoken by Hartley in reference to this man, 
 and she wished scores of times that he would turn
 
 150 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 his attentions to some one else. But the major 
 eeemed to have no eyes for any other lady in the 
 room. 
 
 In spite of the innate repulsion to which we 
 have referred, Mrs. Emerson was nattered by the 
 polished major's devotion of himself almost wholly 
 to her during the evening, and she could do no 
 less in return than make herself as agreeable as 
 possible. 
 
 At eleven o'clock she had notice that her car- 
 riage was at the door. The major was by, and 
 heard the communication. So, when she came 
 down from the dressing-room, he was waiting for 
 her in the hall, ready cloaked and gloved. 
 
 " No, Major Willard, I thank you," she said, on 
 his making a movement to accompany her. She 
 spoke very positively. 
 
 " I cannot see you go home unattended." And 
 the major bowed with graceful politeness. 
 
 " Oh no," said Mrs. Talbot. " You must not 
 leave my house alone. Major, I shall expect you 
 to attend my young friend." 
 
 It was in vain that Mrs. Emerson objected and 
 remonstrated, the gallant major would listen to 
 nolLing; and so, perforce, she had to yield. 
 After handing her into the carriage, he spoke a 
 word or two in an undertone to the driver, and 
 then entering, took his place by her side. 
 
 Mrs. Emerson felt strangely uncomfortable and 
 embarrassed, and shrunk as far from her companion
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 151 
 
 as the narrow space they occupied would permit; 
 while he, it seemed to her, approached as she re- 
 ceded. There was a different tone in his voice 
 when he spoke as the carriage moved away from 
 any she had noticed heretofore. He drew his face 
 near to hers in speaking, but the rattling of the 
 wheels made hearing difficult. He had, during 
 the evening, referred to a star actress then occupy- 
 ing public attention, of whom some scandalous 
 things had been said, and declared his belief in her 
 innocence. To Mrs. Emerson's surprise almost 
 disgust his first remark after they were seated in 
 the carriage was about this actress. Irene did not 
 respond to his remark. 
 
 " Did you ever meet her in private circles ?" he 
 tiext inquired. 
 
 " No, sir," she answered, coldly. 
 
 " I have had that pleasure/' said Major Willard. 
 
 There was no responsive word. 
 
 " She is a most fascinating woman," continued 
 the major. " That Juno-like beauty which so dis- 
 tinguishes her on the stage scarcely shows itself in 
 the drawing-room. On the stage she is queenly 
 in private, soft, voluptuous and winning as a 
 houri. I don't wonder that she has crowds of 
 admirers." 
 
 The major's face was close to that of his com- 
 panion, who felt a wild sense of repugnance, so 
 strong as to be almost suffocating. The carriage 
 bounded as the wheels struck an inequality in the
 
 152 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 street, throwing them together with a slight con- 
 cussion. The major laid his hand upon that of 
 Mrs. Emerson, as if to support her. But she in- 
 stantly withdrew the hand he had presumed to 
 touch. He attempted the same familiarity again, 
 but she placed both hands beyond the possibility 
 of accidental or designed contact with his, and 
 shrank still closer into the corner of the carriage, 
 while her heart fluttered and a tremor ran through 
 her frame. 
 
 Major Willard spoke again of the actress, but 
 Mrs. Emerson made no reply. 
 
 "Where are we going?" she asked, after the 
 lapse of some ten minutes, glancing from the win- 
 dow and seeing, instead of the tall rows of stately 
 houses which lined the streets along the whole dis- 
 tance between Mrs. Talbot's residence and her own 
 house, mean-looking tenements. 
 
 " The driver knows his route, I presume," was 
 answered. 
 
 " This is not the way, I am sure," said Mrs. 
 Emerson, a slight quiver of alarm in her voice. 
 
 "Our drivers know the shortest cuts," replied 
 the major, "and these do not always lead through 
 (he most attractive quarters of the town." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson shrunk back again in her seat 
 and was silent. Her heart was throbbing with a 
 vague fear. Suddenly the carriage stopped and 
 the driver alighted. 
 
 " This is not my home," said Mrs. Emerson, aa
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 153 
 
 the driver opened the door, and the major stepped 
 out upon the pavement. 
 
 "Oh, yes. This is No. 240 L street. 
 
 Yes, ma'am," added the driver, "this is the 
 number that the gentleman told me/' 
 
 " What gentleman ?" asked Mrs. Emerson. 
 
 " This gentleman, if you please, ma'am." 
 
 " Drive me home instantly, or this may cost 
 you dear!" said Mrs. Emerson, in as stern a 
 voice as surprise and fear would permit her to 
 assume. 
 
 " Madam " Major Willard commenced speak- 
 ing. 
 
 " Silence, sir! Shut the door, driver, and take 
 me home instantly !" 
 
 The major made a movement as if he were about 
 to enter the carriage, when Mrs. Emerson said, in 
 a low, steady, threatening voice 
 
 "At your peril, remain outside! Driver, shut 
 the door. If you permit that man to enter, my 
 husband will hold you to a strict account." 
 
 " Stand back !" exclaimed the driver, in a reso- 
 lute voice. 
 
 But the major was not to be put off in this way. 
 Fie did not move from the open door of the car- 
 riage. In the next moment the driver's vigorous 
 arm had hurled him across the pavement. The 
 door was shut, the box mounted and the carriage 
 whirled away, before the astonished man could 
 rise, half stunned, from the place where he fell. A
 
 ] 54 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 few low, bitter, impotent curses fell from his lips, 
 and then he walked slowly away, muttering threats 
 of vengeance. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o'clock when Irene reached 
 home. 
 
 " You are late," said her husband, as she came 
 in. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " later than I intended." 
 
 " What's the matter ?" he inquired, looking at 
 her narrowly. 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" She tried to put on an air 
 of indifference. 
 
 " You look pale and your voice is dis- 
 turbed." 
 
 " The driver went through parts of the town in 
 returning that made me feel nervous, as I thought 
 of my lonely and unprotected situation." 
 
 "Why did he do that?" 
 
 "It wasn't to make the way shorter, for the di- 
 rectest route would have brought me home ten 
 minutes ago. I declare ! The fellow's conduct 
 made me right nervous. I thought a dozen im- 
 probable things." 
 
 " It is the last time I will employ him," said 
 Hartley. " How dare he go a single block away 
 from a direct course, at this late hour?" He 
 spoke with rising indignation. 
 
 At first, Irene resolved to inform her husband 
 of Major Willard's conduct, but it will be seen by 
 this conversation that she had changed her mind,
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 155 
 
 at least for the present. T*vo or three things 
 caused her to hesitate until she could turn the 
 matter over in her thoughts more carefully. Pride 
 had its influence. She did not care to admit that 
 she had been in error and Hartley right as to 
 Major Willard. But there was a more soher as- 
 pect of the case. Hartley was excitable, brave and 
 strong-willed. She feared the consequences that 
 might follow if he were informed of Major Wil- 
 lard's outrageous conduct. A personal collision 
 she saw to be almost inevitable in this event. 
 Mortifying publicity, if not the shedding of blood, 
 would, ensue. 
 
 So, for the present at least, she resolved to keep 
 her own secret, and evaded the close queries of her 
 husband, who was considerably disturbed by the 
 alleged conduct of the driver. 
 
 One good result followed this rather startling 
 experience. Irene said no more about attending 
 the conversaziones of Mrs. Talbot. She did not 
 care to meet Major Willard again, and as he was a 
 regular visitor at Mrs. Talbot's, she couldn't go 
 there without encountering him. Her absence on 
 the next social evening was remarked by her new 
 friend, who called on her the next day. 
 
 " I didn't see you last night," said the agreeable 
 Mrs. Talbot. 
 
 " No, I remained at home," replied Mrs. Emer- 
 son, the smile with which she had received her 
 friend fading partly away.
 
 156 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "Not indisposed, I hope?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "But your husband was ! Talk it right out, my 
 pretty one !" said Mrs. Talbot, in a gay, bantering 
 tone. " Indisposed in mind. He don't like the 
 class of people one meets at my house. Men of 
 his stamp never do." 
 
 It was on the lips of Mrs. Emerson to say that 
 there might be ground for his dislike of some who 
 were met there. But she repressed even a remote 
 reference to an affair that, for the gravest of reasons, 
 she still desired to keep as her own secret. So she 
 merely answered 
 
 " The indisposition of mind was on my part." 
 
 "On your part? Oh dear! That alters the 
 ease. And, pray, what occasioned this indis- 
 position? Not a previous mental surfeit, I 
 hope." 
 
 " Oh no. I never get a surfeit in good com- 
 pany. But people's states vary, as you are aware. 
 I had a stay-at-home feeling last night, and in- 
 dulged myself." 
 
 " Very prettily said, my dear. I understand 
 you entirely, and like your frank, outspoken wav. 
 This is always best with friends. I desire all of 
 mine to enjoy the largest liberty to come and 
 see me when they feel like it, and to stay away 
 when they don't feel like coming. We had a de- 
 lightful time. Major Willard was there. He's a 
 charming man! Several times through the evening
 
 A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 157 
 
 he asked for you. I "really think your absence 
 worried him. Now, don't blush ! A handsome, 
 accomplished man may admire a handsome and 
 accomplished woman, without anything wrong Ixs 
 ing involved. Because one has a husband", is she 
 not to be spoken to or admired by other men? 
 Nonsense ! That is the world's weak prudery, 01 
 rather the common social sentiment based on man's 
 tyranny over woman." 
 
 As Mrs. Talbot ran on in this strain, Mrs. Emer- 
 son had time to reflect and school her exterior. To- 
 ward Major Willard her feelings were those of dis- 
 gust and detestation. Tl>e utterance of his name 
 shocked her womanly delicacy, but when it was 
 coupled with a sentiment of admiration for her, 
 and an intimation of the probable existence of 
 something reciprocal on her part, it was with diffi- 
 culty that she could restrain a burst of indignant 
 feeling. But her strong will helped her, and 
 she gave no intelligible sign of what was really 
 passing in her thoughts. The subject being al- 
 together disagreeable, she changed it as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 In this interview with Mrs. Talbot a new im- 
 pression in regard to her was made on the mind 
 of Mrs. Emerson. Something impure seemed to 
 jx;rvade the mental atmosphere with which she was 
 surrounded, and there seemed to be things involved 
 in what she said that shadowed a latitude in mor- 
 als wholly outside of Christian duty. When they
 
 158 AFTER THE STOEM. 
 
 separated, much of the enthusiasm which Irene 
 had felt for this specious, unsafe acquaintance was 
 gone, and her power over her was in the same 
 measure lessened.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 
 
 UT it is not so easily escaping from a woman 
 like Mrs. Talbot, when an acquaintanceship 
 is once formed. In less than a week she 
 called again, and this time in company with 
 another lady, a Mrs. Lloyd, whom she introduced 
 as a very dear friend. Mrs. Lloyd was a tall, 
 spare woman, with an intellectual face, bright, 
 restless, penetrating eyes, a clear musical voice, 
 subdued, but winning manners. She was a little 
 past thirty, though sickness of body or mind had 
 stolen the bloom of early womanhood, and carried 
 her forward, apparently, to the verge of forty. 
 Mrs. Emerson had never before heard of this lady. 
 But half an hour's conversation completely cap- 
 tivated her. Mrs. Lloyd had traveled through 
 Europe, and spoke in a familiar way of the cele- 
 brated personages whom she had met abroad, 
 talked of art, music and architecture, literature, 
 artists and literary men displayed such high cul- 
 ture and easy acquaintance with themes qaite above 
 the range usually met with among ordinary people, 
 that Mrs. Emerson felt really flattered with the 
 compliment of a visit. 
 
 159
 
 160 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " My good friend, Mrs. Talbot," said Mrs. Lloyd, 
 during their conversation, " has spoken of you so 
 warmly that I could do no less than make over- 
 tures for an acquaintance, which I trust may prove 
 agreeable. I anticipated the pleasure of seeing 
 you at her house last week, but was disappointed." 
 
 " The interview of to-day," remarked Mrs. Tal- 
 bot, coming in adroitly, "will only make pleasanter 
 your meeting on to-morrow night." 
 
 "At your house?" said Mrs. Lloyd. 
 
 "Yes." And Mrs. Talbot threw a winning 
 smile upon Mrs. Emerson. "You will be there?" 
 
 " I think not," was replied. 
 
 " Oh, but you must come, my dear Mrs. Emer- 
 Bon ! We cannot do without you." 
 
 " I have promised my husband to go out with 
 him." 
 
 "Your husband!" The voice of Mrs. Talbot 
 betrayed too plainly her contempt of husbands. 
 
 " Yes, my husband." Mrs. Emerson let her 
 voice dwell with meaning on the word. 
 
 The other ladies looked at each other for a 
 moment or two with meaning glances ; then Mrs. 
 Talbot remarked, in a quiet way, but with a little 
 pleasantry in her voice, as if she were not right 
 clear in regard to her young friend's state of feeling, 
 
 "Oh dear! these husbands are dreadfully in the 
 way, sometimes ! Haven't you found it so, Mrs. 
 Lloyd ?" 
 
 The eyes of Mrs. Emerson were turned instantly
 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 161 
 
 to the face of her new acquaintance. She saw a 
 slight change of expression in her pale face that 
 took something from its agreeable aspect. And 
 yet Mrs. Lloyd smiled as she answered, in a way 
 meant to be pleasant, 
 
 " They are very good in their place." 
 
 " The trouble," remarked Mrs. Talbot, in reply, 
 <f is to make them keep their place," 
 
 "At our feet." Mrs. Emerson laughed as she 
 said this. 
 
 " No," answered Mrs. Lloyd " at our sides, as 
 equals." 
 
 "And beyond that," said Mrs. Talbot, " we want 
 them to give us as much freedom in the world as 
 they take for themselves. They come in and go 
 out 'when they please, and submit to no questioning 
 on our part. Very well ; I don't object ; only I 
 claim the same right, for myself. * I will ask my 
 husband.' Don't you hear this said every day? 
 Pah ! I'm always tempted to cut the acquaintance 
 of a woman when I hear these words from her lips. 
 Does a man, when a friend asks him to do anything 
 or go anywhere, say, ' I'll ask my wife ?' Not he. 
 A lady who comes occasionally to our weekly re- 
 unions, but whose husband is too much of a man to 
 put himself down to the level of our set, is permit- 
 ted the enjoyment of an evening with us, now and 
 then, on one condition." 
 
 " Condition !" There was a throb of indignant 
 feeling in the voice of Mrs. Lloyd. 
 11
 
 162 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Yes, on condition that no male visitor at my 
 house shall accompany her home. A carriage is 
 sent for her precisely at ten o'clock, when she must 
 leave, and alone." 
 
 " Humiliating !" ejaculated Mrs. Lloyd. 
 
 " Isn't it ? I can scarcely have patience with 
 her. Major Willard has, at my instance, several 
 times made an effort to accompany her, and once 
 actually entered her carriage. But the lady com- 
 manded him to retire, or she would leave the car- 
 riage herself. Of course, when she took that 
 position, the gallant major had to leave the field." 
 
 " Such a restriction would scarce have suited my 
 fancy," said Mrs. Lloyd. 
 
 "Nor mine. What do you think of that?" 
 And Mrs. Talbot looked into the face of Mrs. Em- 
 erson, whose color had risen beyond its usual tone. 
 
 " Circumstances alter cases," replied the latter, 
 crushing out all feeling from her voice and letting 
 it fall into a dead level of indifference. 
 
 " But circumstances don't alter facts, my dear. 
 There are the hard facts of restrictions and condi- 
 tions, made by a man, and applied to his equal, a 
 woman. Does she say to him, You can't go to your 
 club unless you return alone in your carriage, and 
 leave the club-house precisely at ten o'clock ? Oil 
 no. He would laugh in her face, or, perhaps, con- 
 sult the family physician touching her sanity." 
 
 This niode of putting the question rather bewil- 
 dered the mind of our young wife, and she dropped
 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 163 
 
 her eyes from those of Mrs. Talbot and sat looking 
 upon the floor in silence. 
 
 " Can't you get your husband to release you from 
 this engagement of which you have spoken?" asked 
 Mrs. Lloyd. " I should like above all things to 
 meet you to-morrow evening." 
 
 Mrs. Emerson smiled as she answered, 
 
 " Husbands have rights, you know, as well aa 
 wives. We must consult their pleasure sometimes, 
 as well as our own." 
 
 " Certainly certainly." Mrs. Lloyd spoke with 
 -*isible impatience. 
 
 " I promised to go with my husband to-morrow 
 /light," said Mrs. Emerson ; " and, much as I may 
 desire to meet you at Mrs. Talbot's, I am not at 
 liberty to go there." 
 
 " In bonds ! Ah me ! Poor wives !" sighed 
 Mrs. Talbot, in affected pity. "Not at liberty! 
 The admission which comes to us from all sides/' 
 
 She laughed in her gurgling, hollow way as she 
 said this. 
 
 " Not bound to my husband, but to my word of 
 promise," replied Mrs. Emerson, as pleasantly as 
 her disturbed feelings would permit her to speak. 
 The ladies were pressing her a little too closely, 
 nd she both saw and felt this. They were step- 
 ping beyond the bounds of reason and delicacy. 
 
 Mrs. Lloyd saw the state of mind which had 
 been produced, and at once changed the subject. 
 
 " May I flatter myself with the prospect of hav-
 
 1CI AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 ing this call returned?'' she said, handing Mrs, 
 Emerson her card as she was about leaving. 
 
 " It will give me great pleasure to know you 
 better, and you may look to seeing me right early," 
 was the bland reply. And yet Mrs. Emerson was 
 not really attracted by this woman, but, on the con- 
 trary, repelled. There was something in her keen, 
 searching eyes, which seemed to be looking right 
 into the thoughts, that gave her a feeling of doubt. 
 
 "Thank you. The favor will be all on my 
 Fide," said Mrs. Lloyd, as she held the hand of 
 Mrs. Emerson and gave it a warm pressure. 
 
 The visit of these ladies did not leave the mind 
 of Irene in a very satisfactory state. Some things 
 that were said she rejected, while other things ling- 
 ered and occasioned suggestions which were not 
 favorable to her husband. While she had no wish 
 to be present at Mrs. Talbot's on account of Major 
 Willard, she was annoyed by the thought that 
 Hartley's fixing on the next evening for her to go 
 out with him was to prevent her attendance at the 
 weekly conversazione. 
 
 Irene did not mention to her husband the fact 
 that she had received a visit from Mrs. Talbot, in 
 company with a pleasant stranger, Mrs. Lloyd. 
 It would have been far better for her if she had 
 done so. Many times it was on her lips to mention 
 the call, but as often she kept silent, one or the 
 other of two considerations having influence. Hart- 
 ley did not like Mrs. Talbot, and therefore tha
 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 165 
 
 mention of her name, and the fact of her calling, 
 would not be a pleasant theme. The other consid- 
 eration had reference to a woman's independence. 
 ' He doesn't tell me of every man he meets 
 through the day, and why should I feel under 
 obligation to, speak of every lady who calls ?" So 
 she thought. "As to Mrs. Lloyd, he would have 
 a hundred prying questions to ask, as if I were not 
 competent to judge of the character of my own 
 friends and acquaintances." 
 
 Within a week the call of Mrs. Lloyd was recip- 
 rocated by Mrs. Emerson ; not in consequence of 
 feeling drawn toward that lady, but she had prom- 
 ised to return the friendly visit, and must keep her 
 word. She found her domiciliated in a fashionable 
 boarding-house, and was received in the common 
 parlor, in which were two or three ladies and a 
 gentleman, besides Mrs. Lloyd. The greeting she 
 received was warm, almost affectionate. In spite 
 of the prejudice that was creeping into her mind 
 in consequence of an unfavorable first impression, 
 Mrs. Emerson was flattered by her reception, and 
 before the termination of her visit she was satisfied 
 that she had not, in the beginning, formed a right 
 estimate of this really fascinating woman. 
 
 " I hope to see you right soon," she said, as she 
 bade Mrs. Lloyd good-morning. " It will not be 
 my fault if we \\o not soon know each other better." 
 
 " Nor mine either," replied Mrs. Lloyd. " I 
 think I shall find you just after my own heart."
 
 166 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 The voice of Mrs. Lloyd was a little raised aa 
 she said this, and Mrs. Emerson noticed that a 
 gentleman who was in the parlor when she entered, 
 but to whom she had not been introduced, turned 
 and looked at her with a steady, curious gaze, which 
 struck her at the time as being on the verge of im- 
 pertinence. 
 
 Only two or three days passed before Mrs. Lloyd 
 returned this visit. Irene found her more interest- 
 ing than ever. She had seen a great deal of society, 
 and had met, according to her own story, with most 
 of the distinguished men and women of the coun- 
 try, about whom she talked in a very agreeable 
 manner. She described their personal appearance, 
 habits, peculiarities and manners, and related pleas- 
 ant anecdotes about them. On authors and books 
 she was entirely at home. 
 
 But there was an undercurrent of feeling in all 
 she said that a wiser and more experienced woman 
 than Irene would have noted. It was not a feeling 
 of admiration for moral, but for intellectual, beauty. 
 She could dissect a character with wonderful skill, 
 but always passed the quality of goodness as not 
 taken into account. In her view this quality did 
 not seem to be a positive element. 
 
 When Mrs. Lloyd went away, she left the mind 
 of Irene stimulated, restless and fluttering with 
 vague fancies. She felt envious of her new 
 friend's accomplishments, and ambitious to move 
 in as wide a sphere as she had compassed. The
 
 CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 1(17 
 
 visit was returned at an early period, and, as before, 
 Mrs. Emerson met Mrs. Lloyd in the public parlor 
 of her boarding-house. The same gentleman* whose 
 manner had a little annoyed her was present, and 
 she noticed several times, on glancing toward him, 
 that his eyes were fixed upon her, and with an. 
 expression that she did not understand. 
 
 After this, the two ladies met every day or two, 
 and sometimes walked Broadway together. The 
 only information that Mrs. Emerson had in regard 
 to her attractive friend she received from Mrs. 
 Talbot. According to her statement, she was a 
 widow whose married life had not been a happy 
 one. The husband, like most husbands, was an 
 overbearing tyrant, and the wife, having a spirit of 
 her own, resisted his authority. Trouble was the 
 consequence, and Mrs. Talbot thought, though she 
 was not certain, that a separation took place before 
 Mr. Lloyd's death. She 'had a moderate income, 
 which came from her husband's estate, on which 
 she lived in a kind of idle independence. So she 
 had plenty of time to read, visit and enjoy herself 
 in the ways her fancy or inclination might prompt.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 
 
 'IME moved on, and Mrs. Emerson's intimate 
 city friends were those to whom she had been 
 introduced, directly or indirectly, through 
 Mrs. Talbot. Of these, the one who had 
 most influence over her was Mrs. Lloyd, and that 
 influence was not of the right kind. Singularly 
 enough, it so happened that Mr. Emerson never 
 met this lady at his house, though she spent hours 
 there every week ; and, more singular still, Iren 
 had never spoken about her to her husband. She 
 had often been on the point of doing so, but an 
 impression that Hartley would take up an unrea- 
 sonable prejudice against her kept the name of 
 this friend back from her lips. 
 
 Months now succeeded each other without the 
 occurrence of events marked by special interest. 
 Mr. Emerson grew more absorbed in his profession 
 as cases multiplied on his hands, and Irene, inter- 
 ested in her circle of bright-minded, independent- 
 thoughted women, found the days and weeks glid- 
 ing on pleasantly enough. But habits of estimat- 
 ing things a little differently from the common 
 sentiment, and views of life not by any means 
 166
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 109 
 
 consonant with those prevailing among the larger 
 numbers of her sex, were gradually taking root. 
 
 Young, inexperienced, self-willed and active in 
 mind, Mrs. Emerson had most unfortunately been 
 introduced among a class of persons whose influ- 
 ence upon her could not fail to be hurtful. Their 
 conversation was mainly of art, literature, social 
 progress and development ; the drama, music, pub- 
 lic sentiment on leading topics of the day ; the ad- 
 vancement of liberal ideas, the necessity of a larger 
 liberty and a wider sphere of action for woman, and 
 the equality of the sexes. All well enough, all to 
 be commended when viewed in their just relation 
 to other themes and interests, but actually per- 
 nicious when separated from the homely and use- 
 ful things of daily life, and made so to overshadow 
 these as to warp them into comparative insignifi- 
 cance. Here lay the evil. It was this elevation 
 of her ideas above the region of use and duty into 
 the mere a3sthetic and reformatory that was hurt- 
 ful to one like Irene that is, in fact, hurtful to 
 any woman, for it is always hurtful to take away 
 from the mind its interest in common life the life, 
 we mean, of daily useful work. 
 
 Work ! \Ve know the word has not a pleasant 
 sound to many ears, that it seems to include 
 degradation, and a kind of social slavery, and lies 
 away down in a region to which your fine, culti- 
 vated, intellectual woman cannot descend without, 
 in her view, soiling her garments. But for all
 
 170 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 this, it is alone in daily useful work of mind or 
 hands, work in which service and benefits to others 
 are involved, that a woman (or a man) gains any 
 true perfection of character. And this work must 
 be her own, must lie within the sphere of her own 
 relations to others, and she must engage in it from 
 a sense of duty that takes its promptings from her 
 own consciousness of right. No other woman can 
 judge of her relation to this work, and she who 
 dares to interfere or turn her aside should be con- 
 sidered an enemy not a friend. 
 
 No wonder, if this be true, that we have so 
 many women of taste, cultivation, and often bril- 
 liant intellectual powers, blazing about like comets 
 or shooting stars in our social firmament. They 
 attract admiring attention, excite our wonder, give 
 us themes for conversation and criticism ; but as 
 guides and indicators while we sail over the dan- 
 gerous sea of life, what are they in comparison 
 with some humble star of the sixth magnitude 
 that ever keeps its true place in the heavens, shin- 
 ing on with its small but steady ray, a perpetual 
 blessing? And so the patient, thoughtful, loving 
 wife and mother, doing her daily work for human 
 souls and bodies, though her intellectual powers IKJ 
 humble, and her taste but poorly cultivated, tills 
 more honorably her sphere than any of her more 
 brilliant sisters, who cast off what they consider 
 the shackles by which custom and tyranny have 
 bound them down to mere home duties and the
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 171 
 
 drudgery of household care. If down into these 
 they would bring their superior powers, their cul- 
 tivated tastes, their larger knowledge, how quickly 
 would some desert homes in our land put on re- 
 freshing greenness, and desolate gardens blossom 
 like the rose! We should have, instead of vast 
 imaginary Utopias in the future, model homes in 
 the present, the light and beauty of which, shining 
 abroad, would give higher types of social life for 
 common emulation. 
 
 Ah, if the Genius of Social Eeforra would only 
 take her stand centrally ! If she would make the 
 regeneration of homes the great achievement of 
 our day, then would she indeed come with promise 
 and blessing. But, alas ! she is so far vagrant in 
 her habits -a fortune-telling gipsy, not a true, lov- 
 ing, useful woman. 
 
 Unhappily for Mrs. Emerson, it was the weird- 
 eyed, fortune-telling gipsy whose Delphic utter 
 ances had bewildered her mind. 
 
 The reconciliation which followed the Christmas- 
 time troubles of Irene and her husband had given 
 both more prudent self-control. They guarded 
 themselves with a care that threw around the man- 
 ner of each a certain reserve which was often felt 
 by the other as coldness. To both this was, in a 
 degree, painful. There was tender love in their 
 hearts, but it was overshadowed by self-will and 
 false ideas of independence on the one side, and by 
 a brooding spirit of accusation and unaccustomed
 
 172 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 restraint on the other. Many times, each day of 
 their lives, did words and sentiments, just about to 
 be uttered by Hartley Emerson, die unspoken, lest 
 in them something might appear which would stir 
 the quick feelings of Irene into antagonism. 
 
 There was no guarantee of happiness in such a 
 state of things. Mutual forbearance existed, not 
 from self-discipline and tender love, but from fear 
 of consequences. They were burnt children, and 
 dreaded, as well they might, the fire. 
 
 With little change in their relations to each 
 other, and few events worthy of notice, a year went 
 by. Mr. Delancy came down to New York sev- 
 eral times during this period, spending a few days 
 at each visit, while Irene went frequently to Ivy 
 Cliff, and stayed there, occasionally, as long as two 
 or three weeks. Hartley always came up from the 
 city while Irene was at her father's, but never 
 stayed longer than a single day, business requiring 
 him to be at his office or in court. Mr. Delancy 
 never saw them together without closely observing 
 their manner, tone of speaking and language. 
 Both, he could see, were maturing rapidly. Irene 
 had changed most. There was a style of thinking, 
 a familiarity with popular themes and a w r oraanly 
 confidence in her expression of opinions that at 
 times surprised him. With her views on some 
 subjects his own mind was far from being in agree- 
 ment, and they often had warm argument?. Oc- 
 casionally, when her husband was at Ivy Cliff, a
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 173 
 
 difference of sentiment would arise between them. 
 Mr. Delancy noticed, when this was the case, that 
 Irene always pressed her view with ardor, and that 
 her husband, after a brief but pleasant combat, re- 
 tired from the field. He also noticed that in most 
 cases, after this giving up of the contest by Hart- 
 ley, he was more than usually quiet and seemed to 
 be pondering things not wholly agreeable. 
 
 Mr. Delancy was gratified to see that there was 
 no jarring between them. But he failed not at the 
 same time to notice something else that gave him 
 uneasiness. The warmth of feeling, the tender- 
 ness, the lover-like ardor which displayed itself in 
 the beginning, no longer existed. They did not 
 even show that fondness for each other which is so 
 beautiful a trait in young married partners. And 
 yet he could trace no signs of alienation. The 
 truth was, the action of their lives had been inhar- 
 monious. Deep down in their hearts there was no 
 defect of love. But this love was compelled to 
 hide itself away ; and so, for the most part, it lay 
 concealed from even their own consciousness. 
 
 During the second year of their married life 
 there came a change of state in both Irene and her 
 husband. They had each grown weary of con- 
 straint when together. It was irksome to be al- 
 ways on guard, lest some word, tone or act should 
 be misunderstood. In consequence, old collisions 
 were renewed, and Hartley often grew impatient 
 and even contemptuous toward his wife, when she
 
 174 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 ventured to speak of social progress, woman's 
 rights, or any of the kindred themes in which she 
 still took a warm interest. Angry retort usually 
 followed on these occasions, and periods of coldness 
 ensued, the effect of which was to produce states 
 of alienation. 
 
 If a babe had come to soften the heart of Irene, 
 to turn thought and feeling in a new direction, to' 
 awaken a mother's love with all its holy tender- 
 ness, how different would all have been ! different 
 with her, and different with him. There would 
 then have been an object on which both could cen- 
 tre interest and affection, and thus draw lovingly 
 together again, and feel, as in the beginning, heart 
 beating to heart in sweet accordings. They would 
 have learned their love-lessons over again, and un- 
 derstood their meanings better. Alas that the 
 angels of infancy found no place in their dwelling! 
 
 With no central attraction at home, her thoughts 
 stimulated by association with a class of intellect- 
 ual, restless women, who were wandering on life's 
 broad desert in search of green places and refresh- 
 ing springs, each day's journey bearing them far- 
 ther and farther away from landscapes of perpetual 
 verdure, Irene grew more and more interested in 
 subjects that lay for the most part entirely out of 
 the range of her husband's sympathies; while he 
 was becoming more deeply absorbed in a profession 
 that required close application of thought, intellect- 
 ual force and clearness, and cold, practical modes
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 175 
 
 of looking at all questions that came np for con- 
 sideration. The consequence was that they were, 
 in all their common interests, modes of thinking 
 and habits of regarding the affairs of life, steadily 
 receding from each other. Their evenings were 
 now less frequently spent together. If home had 
 been a pleasant place to him, Mr. Emerson would 
 have usually remained at home after the day's du- 
 ties were over; or, if he went abroad, it would 
 have been usually in company with his wife. But 
 home was getting to be dull, if not positively dis- 
 agreeable. If a conversation was started, it soon 
 involved disagreement in sentiment, and then came 
 argument, and perhaps ungentle words, followed 
 by silence and a mutual writing down in the mind 
 of bitter things. If there was no conversation, 
 Irene buried herself in a book some absorbing 
 novel, usually of the heroic school. 
 
 Naturally, under this state of things, Mr. Emer- 
 son, who was social in disposition, sought compan- 
 ionship elsewhere, and with his own sex. Brought 
 into contact with men of different tastes, feelings 
 and habits of thinking, he gradually selected a few 
 as intimate friends, and, in association with these, 
 formed, as his wife was doing, a social point of in- 
 terest outside of his home; thus widening still 
 further the space between them. 
 
 The home duties involved in housekeeping, in- 
 differently as they had always been discharged by 
 It-eue, were now becoming more and more distaste-
 
 176 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 ful to her. This daily care about mere eating and 
 drinking seemed unworthy of a woman who had 
 noble aspirations, such as bflrned in her breast. 
 That was work for women-drudges who had no 
 higher ambition ; " and Heaven knows," she would 
 often say to herself, " there are enough and to spare 
 of these." 
 
 " What's the use of keeping up an establishment 
 like this just for two people?" she would often 
 remark to her husband ; and he would usually 
 reply, 
 
 " For the sake of having a home into which one 
 may retire and shut out the world." 
 
 Irene would sometimes suggest the lighter ex- 
 pense of boarding. 
 
 " If it cost twice as much I would prefer to live 
 in my own house," was the invariable answer. 
 
 " But see what a burden of care it lays on my 
 shoulders." 
 
 Now Hartley could only with difficulty repress 
 a word of impatient rebuke when this argument 
 was used. He thought of his own daily devotion 
 to business, prolonged often into the night, when an 
 important case was on hand, and mentally charged 
 his wife with a selfish love of ease. On the other 
 hand, it seemed to Irene that her husband was 
 selfish in wishing her to bear the burdens of house- 
 keeping just for his pleasure or convenience, when 
 they might live as comfortably in a hotel or board- 
 ing-house.
 
 WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 177 
 
 On this subject Hartley would not enter into a 
 discussion. " It's no use talking, Irene," he would 
 say, when she grew in earnest. "You cannot tempt 
 me to give up my home. It includes many things 
 that with me are essential to comfort. I detest 
 boarding-houses ; they are only places for sojourn- 
 ing, not living." 
 
 As agreement on this subject was out of the 
 question, Irene did not usually urge considerations 
 in favor of abandoning their pleasant home. 
 11
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 GONE FOR EVER1 
 
 NE evening it was nearly three years from 
 the date of their marriage Hartley Emerson 
 and his wife were sitting opposite to each 
 other at the centre-table, in the evening. 
 She had a book in her hand and he held a news- 
 paper before his face, but his eyes were not on the 
 printed columns. He had spoken only a few words 
 since he came in, and his wife noticed that he had 
 the manner of one whose mind is in doubt or per- 
 plexity. 
 
 Letting the newspaper fall upon the table at 
 length, Hartley looked over at his wife and said, 
 in a quiet tone, 
 
 " Irene, did you ever meet a lady by the name 
 of Mrs. Lloyd?" 
 
 The color mounted to the face of Mrs. Emerson 
 as she replied, 
 
 " Yes, I have met her often." 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 " I have known her intimately for the past two 
 years." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Emerson started to his feet and looked for some
 
 GONE FOE EVER! 17S 
 
 moments steadily at his wife, his countenance ex- 
 pressing the profoundest astonishment. 
 
 "And never once mentioned to me her name I 
 Has she ever called here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Often?" 
 
 " As often as two or three times a week." 
 
 " Irene !" 
 
 Mrs. Emerson, bewildered at first by her hus- 
 band's manner of interrogating her, now recovered 
 her self-possession, and, rising, looked steadily at 
 him across the table. 
 
 " I am wholly at a loss to understand you," she 
 now said, calmly. 
 
 "Have you ever visited that person at her 
 boarding-house?" demanded Hartley. 
 
 " I have, often." 
 
 "And walked Broadway with her?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Good heavens ! can it be possible !" exclaimed 
 the excited man. 
 
 " Pray, sir," said Irene, " who is Mrs. Lloyd ?" 
 
 " An infamous woman !" was answered passion- 
 ately. 
 
 " That is false !" said Irene, her eyes flashing as 
 she spoke. " I don't care who says so, I pronounce 
 the words false I" 
 
 Hartley stood still and gazed at his wife for some 
 moments without speaking; then he sat down at 
 the table from which he had arisen and, shading
 
 1 80 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 his face with his hands, remained motionless for a 
 long time. He seemed like a man utterly con- 
 founded. 
 
 " Did you ever hear of Jane Beaufort ?" he asked 
 at length, looking up at his wife. 
 
 " Oh yes ; everybody has heard of her." 
 
 " Would you visit Jane Beaufort ?" 
 
 " Yes, if I believed her innocent of what the 
 world charges against her." 
 
 " You are aware, then, that Mrs. Lloyd and Jane 
 Beaufort are the same person ?" 
 
 " No, sir, I am not aware of any such thing." 
 
 " It is true." 
 
 " I do not believe it. Mrs. Lloyd I have known 
 intimately for over two years, and can verify her 
 character." 
 
 " I am sorry for you, then, for a viler character 
 it would be difficult to find outside the haunts of 
 infamy," said Emerson. 
 
 Contempt and anger were suddenly blended in 
 his manner. 
 
 " I cannot hear one to whom I am warmly at- 
 tached thus assailed. You must not speak in that 
 style of my friends, Hartley Emerson !" 
 
 ' Your friends !" There was a look of intense 
 corn on his face. " Precious friends, if she repre- 
 &snt them, truly ! Major Willard is another, may- 
 hap?" 
 
 The face of Irene turned deadly pale at the 
 mention of this name.
 
 GONE FOE EVER! 181 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 Emerson bent eagerly toward his wife. 
 
 "And is that true, also?" 
 
 "What? Speak out, sir!" Irene caught her 
 1 eath, and grasped the rein of self-control which 
 h d dropped, a moment, from her hands. 
 
 '* It is said that Major Willard bears you corn- 
 pa jy, at times, in your rides home from evening 
 cai 5 upon your precious friends." 
 
 < And you believe the story?" 
 
 * [ didn't believe it," said Hartley, but in a tone 
 tha( showed doubt. 
 
 " . ut have changed your mind ?" 
 
 " 3 ' you say it is not true that Major Willard 
 never entered your carriage I will take your word 
 in opposition to the whole world's adverse testi- 
 mony." 
 
 But Irene could not answer. Major Willard, as 
 the reader knows, had ridden with her at night, 
 and alone. But once, and only once. A few times 
 since then she had encountered, but never deigned 
 to recognize, him. In her pure heart the man was 
 held in utter detestation. 
 
 Now was the time for a full explanation; but 
 pride was aroused strong, stubborn pride. She 
 knew herself to stand triple mailed in innocency 
 to be free from weakness or taint ; and the thought 
 that a mean, base suspicion had entered the mind 
 of her husband aroused her indignation and put a 
 seal upon her Jips as to all explanatory utterances.
 
 182 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Then I am to believe the worst ?" said Hartley, 
 seeing that his wife did not answer. " The worst, 
 and of you !" 
 
 The tone in which this was said, as well as the 
 words themselves, sent a strong throb to the heart 
 of Irene. " The worst, and of you !" This from 
 her husband ! and involving far more in tone and 
 manner than in uttered language. " Then I am to 
 believe the worst I" She turned the sentences over 
 in her mind. Pride, wounded self-love, a smoth- 
 ered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to 
 gather their gloomy forces in her mind. " The 
 worst, and of you!" How the echoes of these 
 words came back in constant repetition! "The 
 worst, and of you !" 
 
 " How often has Major Willard ridden with you 
 at night ?" asked Hartley, in a cold, resolute way. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "And did you always come directly home?" 
 
 Hartley Emerson was looking steadily into the 
 face of his wife, from which he saw the color fall 
 away until it became of an ashen line. 
 
 " You do not care to answer. Well, silence is 
 significative," said the husband, closing his lips 
 firmly. There was a blending of anger, perplexity, 
 pain, sorrow and scorn in bis face, all of which 
 ]rene read distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily 
 upon him. He tried to gaze back nntil her eyes 
 should sink beneath his steady look, but the effort 
 was lost; for not a single instant did they waver.
 
 GONE FOR EVER! 183 
 
 lie was about turning away, when she arrested the 
 movement by saying, 
 
 " Go on, Hartley Emerson ! Speak of all that 
 is in your mind. You have now an opportunity 
 that may never come again." 
 
 There was a dead level in her voice that a little 
 puzzled her husband. 
 
 " It is for you to speak," he answered. " I 
 have put my interrogatories." 
 
 Unhappily, there was a shade of imperiousness 
 in his voice. 
 
 " I never answer insulting interrogatories ; not 
 even from the man who calls himself my husband," 
 replied Irene, haughtily. 
 
 " It may be best for you to answer," said Hart- 
 ley. There was just the shadow of menace in his 
 tones. 
 
 " Best !" The lip of Irene curled slightly. " On 
 whose account, pray ?" 
 
 " Best for each of us. Whatever affects one in- 
 juriously must affect both." 
 
 " Humph ! So we are equals !" Irene tossed 
 her head impatiently, and laughed a short, mock- 
 ing laugh. 
 
 " Nothing of that, if you please !" was the hus- 
 band's impatient retort. The sudden change in 
 his wife's manner threw him off his guard. 
 . "Nothing of what?" demanded Irene. 
 
 " Of that weak, silly nonsense. We have graver 
 matters in hand for consideration now."
 
 184 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "Ah?*' She threw up her eyebrows, then con- 
 tracted them again with an angry severity. 
 
 " Irene," said Mr. Emerson, his voice falling 
 into a calm but severe tone, "all this is but 
 weakness and folly. I have heard things touching 
 your good name " 
 
 " And believe them," broke in Irene, with angry 
 impatience. 
 
 " I have said nothing as to belief or disbelief. 
 The fact is grave enough." 
 
 "And you have illustrated your faith in the 
 slander beautifully, becomingly, generously !" 
 
 " Irene !" 
 
 " Generously, as a man who knew his wife. Ah, 
 well !" This last ejaculation was made almost 
 Ughtly, but it involved great bitterness of spirit. 
 
 " Do not speak any longer after this fashion," 
 said Hartley, with considerable irritation of man- 
 ner ; " it doesn't suit my present temper. I want 
 something in a very different spirit. The matter 
 is of too serious import. So pray lay aside your 
 trifling. I came to you as I had a right to come, 
 and made inquiries touching your associations when 
 not in my company. Your answers are not satis- 
 factory, but tend rather to con " 
 
 "Sir!" Irene interrupted him in a stern, deep 
 voice, which came so suddenly that the word re- 
 mained unspoken. Then, raising her finger in a 
 warning manner, she said with menace, 
 
 "Beware I"
 
 GONE FOR EVER! 185 
 
 For some moments they stood looking at each 
 other, more like two animals at bay than husband 
 and wife. 
 
 "Touching my associations when not in your 
 company ?" said Irene at length, repeating his 
 language slowly. 
 
 " Yes," answered the husband. 
 
 " Touching my associations ? Well, Mr. Emer- 
 son so far, I say well." She was collected in 
 manner and her voice steady. "But \vhat touch- 
 ing your associations when not in my company ?" 
 
 The very novelty of this interrogation caused 
 Emerson to start and change color. 
 
 "Ha!" The blood leaped to the forehead of 
 Irene, and her eyes, dilating suddenly, almost glared 
 upon the face of her husband. 
 
 " Well, sir f" Irene drew her slender form to its 
 utmost height. There was an impatient, demand- 
 ing tone in her voice. " Speak !" she added, with- 
 out change of manner. "What touching your 
 associations when not in my company ? As a wife, 
 I have some interest in this matter. Away from 
 home often until the brief hours, have I no right 
 to put the question where and with whom? It, 
 would seem so if we are equal. But if I am the 
 slave and dependant the creature of your will 
 and pleasure why, that alters the case !" 
 
 " Have you done ?" 
 
 Emerson was recovering from his surprise, but 
 not gaining clear sight or prudent self-possession.
 
 186 AFTER THE STOR3T. 
 
 "You have not answered," said Irene, looking 
 coldly, but with glittering eyes, into his face. 
 " Come ! If there is to be a mutual relation of 
 acts and associations outside of this our home, let 
 us begin. Sit down, Hartley, and compose your- 
 self. You are the man, and claim precedence. I 
 yield the prerogative. So let me have your con- 
 fession. After you have ended I will give as faith- 
 ful a narrative as if on my death-bed. What more 
 can you ask ? There now, lead the way !" 
 
 This coolness, which but thinly veiled a con- 
 temptuous air, irritated Hartley almost beyond the 
 hounds of decent self-control. 
 
 "Bravely carried off! "Well acted!" he re- 
 torted with a sneer. 
 
 " You do not accept the proposal," said Irene, 
 growing a little sterner of aspect. " Very well. I 
 scarcely hoped that you would meet me on this 
 even ground. Why should I have hoped it? 
 Were the antecedents encouraging ? No ! But I 
 am sorry. Ah, well ! Husbands are free to go 
 and come at their own sweet will to associate with 
 anybody and everybody. But wives oh dear !'' 
 
 She tossed her head in a wild, scornful way, as 
 if on the verge of being swept from her feet by 
 some whirlwind of passion. 
 
 " And so," said her husband, after a long silence, 
 "you do not choose to answer my qi cstions as to 
 Major Willard?" 
 
 That was unwisely pressed. In her heart of
 
 GONE FOE EVER! 187 
 
 hearts Irene loathed this man. His name was an 
 offence to her. Never, since the night he had 
 forced himself into her carriage, had she even 
 looked into his face. If he appeared in the room 
 where she happened to be, she did not permit her 
 eyes to rest upon his detested countenance. If he 
 drew near to her, she did not seem to notice his 
 presence. If he spoke to her, as he had ventured 
 several times to do, she paid no regard to him 
 whatever. So far as any response or manifestation 
 of feeling on her part was concerned, it was as if 
 his voice had not reached her ears. The very 
 thought of this man was a foul thing in her mind. 
 No wonder that the repeated reference by her hus- 
 band was felt as a stinging insult. 
 
 " If you dare to mention that name again in 
 connection with mine," she said, turning almost 
 fiercely upon him, " I will " 
 
 She caught the words and held them back in the 
 silence of her wildly reeling thoughts. 
 
 " Say on !" 
 
 Emerson was cool, but not sane. It was mad- 
 ness to press his excited young wife now. Had he 
 lost sense and discrimination ? Could he not see, 
 in her strong, womanly indignation, the sfgns f in- 
 nocence? Fool ! fool ! to thrust sharply at her now ! 
 
 " My father !" came in a sudden gush of strong: 
 feeling from the lips of Irene, as the thought of 
 him whose name was thus ejaculated came into her 
 mind. She struck her hands together, and stood
 
 188 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 like one in wild bewilderment. " My father !" she 
 added, almost mournfully ; " oh, that I had never 
 left you !" 
 
 " It would have been better for you and better 
 for me." No, he was not sane, else would no such 
 words have fallen from his lips. 
 
 Irene, with a slight start and a slight change in 
 the expression of her countenance, looked up at 
 her husband : 
 
 "You think so?" Emerson was a little sur- 
 prised at the way in which Irene put this interro- 
 gation. He looked for a different reply. 
 
 " I have said it," was his cold answer. 
 
 " Well." She said no more, but looked down 
 and sat thinking for the space of more than a 
 minute. 
 
 " I will go back to Ivy Cliff." She looked up, 
 with something strange in the expression of her 
 face. It was a blank, unfeeling, almost unmeaning 
 expression. 
 
 " Well." It was Emerson's only response. 
 
 " Well ; and that is all ?" Her tones were so 
 chilling that they came over the spirit of her hus- 
 band like the low waves of an icy wind. 
 
 " No, that is not all." What evil spirit was 
 blinding his perceptions? What evil influence 
 pressing him on to the brink of ruin? 
 
 "Say on." How strangely cold and calm she 
 remained ! " Say on," she repeated. Was there 
 none to warn him of danger ?
 
 GONE FOR EVER! 189 
 
 " If you go a third time to ) our father " He 
 paused. 
 
 " Well ?" There was not a quiver in her low, 
 clear, icy tone. 
 
 " You must do it with your eyes open, and iu 
 full view of the consequences." 
 
 " What are the consequences ?" 
 
 Beware, rash man ! Put a seal on your lips ! 
 Do not let the thought so sternly held find even a 
 shadow of utterance ! 
 
 " Speak, Hartley Emerson. What are the con- 
 sequences ?" 
 
 " You cannot return !" It was said without a 
 quiver of feeling. 
 
 " Well." She looked at him with an unchanged 
 countenance, steadily, coldly, piercingly. 
 
 "I have said the words, Irene; and they are no 
 idle utterances. Twice you have left me, but you 
 cannot do it a third time and leave a way open be- 
 tween us. Go, then, if you will ; but, if we part 
 here, it must be for ever !" 
 
 The eyes of Irene dropped slowly. There was 
 a slight change in the expression of her face. Her 
 hands moved one within the other nervously. 
 
 For ever ! The words are rarely uttered without, 
 leaving on the mind a shade of thought. For ever ! 
 They brought more than a simple shadow to the 
 mind of Irene. A sudden darkness fell upon her 
 soul, and for a little while she groped about like 
 one who had lost her way. But her husband's
 
 1 90 A FTER TUK STORM. 
 
 threat of consequences, his cold, imperious man- 
 ner, his assumed superiority, all acted as sharp 
 spurs to pride, and she stood up, strong again, in 
 full mental stature, with every power of her being 
 in full force for action and endurance. 
 
 " I go." There was no sign of weakness in her 
 voice. She had raised her eyes from the floor and 
 turned them full upon her husband. Her face 
 was not so pale as it had been a little while before. 
 Warmth had come back to the delicate skin, flush- 
 ing it with beauty. She did not stand before him 
 an impersonation of anger, dislike or rebellion. 
 There was not a repulsive attitude or expression ; 
 no flashing of the eyes, nor even the cold, diamond 
 glitter seen a little while before. Slowly turning 
 away, she left the room ; but, to her husband, she 
 seemed still standing there, a lovely vision. There 
 had fallen, in that instant of time, a sunbeam which 
 fixed the image upon his memory in imperishable 
 colors. What though he parted company here 
 with the vital form, that effigy would be, through 
 all time, his inseparable companion ! 
 
 " Gone I" Hartley Emerson held his breath as 
 the word came into mental utterance. There was 
 a motion of regret in his heart ; a wish that he had 
 not spoken quite so sternly that he had kept back 
 a part of the hard saying. But it was too late 
 now. He could not, after all that had just passed 
 between them after she had refused to answer his 
 questions touching Major Willard make any con-
 
 GONE FOR EVER! 191 
 
 cessions. Come what would, there was to be no 
 retracing of steps now. 
 
 "And it may be as well/' said he, rallying him- 
 self, "that we part here. Our experiment has 
 proved a sad failure. We grow colder and more 
 repel lant each day, instead of drawing closer to- 
 gether and becoming more lovingly assimilated. 
 It is not good this life for either of us. We 
 struggle in our bonds and hurt each other. Better 
 apart ! better apart ! Moreover" his face dark- 
 ened "she has fallen into dangerous companion- 
 ship, and will not be advised or governed. I have 
 heard her name fall lightly from lips that cannot 
 utter a woman's name without leaving it soiled. 
 She is pure now pure as snow. I have not a 
 shadow of suspicion, though I pressed her close. 
 But this contact is bad ; she is breathing an impure 
 atmosphere; she is assorting with some who are 
 sensual and evil-minded, though she will not be- 
 lieve the truth. Mrs. Lloyd ! Gracious heavens ! 
 My wife the intimate companion of that woman ! 
 Seen with her in Broadway ! A constant visitor 
 at my house ! This, and I knew it not !" 
 
 Emerson grew deeply agitated as he rehearsed 
 these things. It was after midnight when he re- 
 tired. He did not go to his wife's apartment, but 
 passed to a room in the story above that in which 
 he usually slept. 
 
 Day was abroad when Emerson awoke the next 
 morning, and the sun shining from an angle that
 
 192 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 showed him to be nearly two hours above tut horl 
 zon. It was late for Mr. Emerson. Rising hur- 
 riedly, and in some confusion of thought, be went 
 down stairs. His mind, as the events of the last 
 evening began to adjust themselves, felt an increas- 
 ing sense of oppression. How was he to meet 
 Irene? or was he to meet her again? Had she 
 relented ? Had a night of sober reflection wrought 
 any change? Would she take the step he had 
 warned her as a fatal one ? 
 
 With such questions crowding upon him, Hart- 
 ley Emerson went down stairs. In passing their 
 chamber-door he saw that it stood wide open, and 
 that Irene was not there. He descended to the 
 parlors and to the sitting-room, but did not find 
 her. The bell announced breakfast ; he might find 
 her at the table. No she w T as not at her usual 
 place when the morning meal was served. 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Emerson ?" he asked of the 
 waiter. 
 
 '' I have not seen her," was replied. 
 
 Mr. Emerson turned away and went up to their 
 chambers. His footsteps had a desolate, echoing 
 sound to his ears, as he bent his way thither. He 
 looked through the front and then through the back 
 chamber, and even called, faintly, the name of his 
 wife. But all was still as death. Now a small 
 envelope caught^his eye, resting on a casket in 
 which Irene had kept her jewelry. He lifted it, 
 and saw his name inscribed thereon. The hand-
 
 GONE FOR EVER! 193 
 
 writing was not strange. He broke the seal and 
 read these few words : 
 
 " I have gone. IRENE." 
 
 The narrow piece of tinted paper on which this 
 was written dropped from his nerveless fingers, and 
 he stood for some moments still as if death-stricken, 
 and rigid as stone. 
 
 "Well," he said audibly, at length, stepping 
 across the floor, " and so the end has come !" 
 
 He moved to the full length of the chamber and 
 then stood still turned, in a little while, and 
 walked slowly back across the floor stood still 
 again, his face bent down, his lips closely shut, his 
 finger-ends gripped into the palms. 
 
 " Gone !" He tried t-) shake himself free of the 
 partial stupor which had fallen upon him. "Gone!" 
 he repeated. " And so this calamity is upon us ! 
 She has dared the fatal leap ! has spoken the irrevo- 
 cable decree ! God help us both, for both have need 
 of help ; I and she, but she most. God help her 
 to bear the burden she has lifted to her weak 
 shoulders ; she will find it a match for her strength. 
 I shall go into the world and bury myself in its 
 cares and duties shall find, at least, in the long 
 days a compensation in work earnest, absorbing, 
 exciting work. But she? Poor Irene! The days 
 and nights will be to her equally desolate. Poor 
 Irene ! Poor Irene !" 
 
 13
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE. 
 
 'HE night had passed wearily for Mr. Delancy, 
 broken by fitful dreams, in which the image 
 of his daughter was always present dreams 
 that he could trace to no thoughts or impress- 
 ions of the day before; and he arose unrefreshed, 
 and with a vague sense of trouble in his heart, 
 lying there like a weight which no involuntary 
 deep inspirations would lessen or remove. No 
 June day ever opened in fresher beauty than did 
 this one, just four years since the actors in our 
 drama came smiling before us, in the flush of youth 
 and hope and confidence in the far-oif future. The 
 warmth of early summer had sent the nourishing 
 sap to every delicate twig and softly expanding 
 leaf until, full foliaged, the trees around Ivy Cliff 
 stood in kingly attire, lifting themselves up grandly 
 in the sunlight which flooded their gently-waving 
 tops in waves of golden glory,. The air was soft 
 and of crystal clearness ; and the lungs drank it in 
 as if the draught were ethereal nectar. 
 
 On such a morning in June, after a night of 
 broken and unrefreshing sleep, Mr. Delancy walked 
 forth, with that strange pressure on his heart which 
 1M
 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE. 195 
 
 he had been vainly endeavoring to push aside since 
 the singing birds awoke him, in the faint auroral 
 dawn, with their joyous welcome to the coming 
 day. He drew in long draughts of the delicious 
 air; expanded his chest; moved briskly through 
 the garden ; threw his arms about to hurry the 
 sluggish flow of blood in his veins ; looked with 
 constrained admiration on the splendid landscape 
 that stretched far and near in the sweep of his 
 vision ; but all to no purpose. The hand still lay 
 heavy upon his heart ; he could not get it removed. 
 
 Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfort- 
 able for this fruitless effort to rise above what he 
 tried to call an unhealthy depression of spirits con- 
 sequent on some morbid state of the body, Mr. 
 Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh 
 young face greeted him with light and smiles. 
 
 " Good-morning, Rose," said the old gentleman, 
 as his face brightened in the glow of the young 
 girl's happy countenance. " I am glad to see you ;" 
 and he took her hand and held it tightly. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Delancy. When did you 
 hear from Irene?" 
 
 " Ten days ago." 
 
 " She was well ?" 
 
 "Oh yes. Sit down, Rose; there." And Mr. 
 Delancy drew a chair before the sofa for his young 
 visitor, and took a seat facing her. 
 
 " I haven't had a letter from her in six months," 
 said Rose, a sober hue falling on her countenance.
 
 196 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " I don't think she is quite thoughtful enough of 
 her old friends." 
 
 " And too thoughtful, it may be, of new ones," 
 replied Mr. Delancy, hia voice a little depressed 
 from the cheerful tone in which he had welcomed 
 his young visitor. 
 
 "These new friends are not always the best 
 friends, Mr. Delancy." 
 
 " No, Rose. For my part, I wouldn't give one 
 old friend, whose heart I had proved, for a dozen 
 untried new ones." 
 
 "Nor I, Mr. Delancy. I love Irene. I have 
 always loved her. You know we were children 
 together." 
 
 " Yes, dear, I know all that ; and I'm not pleased 
 with her for treating you with so much neglect, and 
 all for a set of" 
 
 Mr. Delancy checked himself. 
 
 "Irene," said Miss Carman, whom the reader 
 will remember as one of Mrs. Emerson's bride- 
 maids, " has been a little unfortunate in her Xew 
 York friends. I'm afraid of these strong-minded 
 women, as they are called, among whom she has 
 fallen." 
 
 " I detest them !" replied Mr. Delancy, with sud- 
 denly aroused feelings. " They have done my child 
 more harm than they will ever do good in the world 
 by way of atonement. She is not my daughter of 
 old." 
 
 " I found her greatly changed at our last meet-
 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE. 197 
 
 ing/' said Rose. " Full of vague plans of reforms 
 and social reorganizations, and impatient of oppo- 
 sition, or even mild argument, against her favorite 
 ideas." 
 
 " She has lost her way/' sighed the old man, in 
 a 1 )\v, sad voice, " and I'm afraid it will take her a 
 long, long time to get back again to the old true 
 paths, and that the road will be through deep suf- 
 fering. I dreamed about her -all night, Rose, and 
 the shadow of my dreams is upon me still. It is 
 foolish, I know, but I cannot get my heart again 
 into the sunlight." 
 
 And Rose had been dreaming troubled dreams 
 of her old friend, also ; and it was because of the 
 pressure that lay upon her feelings that she had 
 come over to Ivy Cliff* this morning to ask if Mr. 
 Delancy had heard from Irene. She did not, how- 
 ever, speak of this, for she saw that he was in. an 
 unhappy state on account of his daughter. 
 
 "Dreams are but shadows/' she said, forcing a 
 smile to her lips and eyes. 
 
 "Yes yes." The old man responded with an 
 abstracted air. " Yes ; they are only shadows. 
 But, my dear, was there ever a shadow without a 
 substance ?" 
 
 " Not in the outside world of nature. Dreams 
 are unreal things the fantastic images of a brain 
 where reason sleeps." 
 
 " There have been dreams that came as warnings 
 Rose."
 
 198 A FTER THE ST ) ILV. 
 
 "And a thousand, for every one of these, that 
 signified nothing." 
 
 " True. But I cannot rise out of these shadows. 
 They lie too heavily on my spirit. You must bear 
 with me, Rose. Thank you for coming over to see 
 me ; but I cannot make your visit a pleasant one, 
 and you must leave me when you grow weary of 
 the old man's company." 
 
 "Don't talk so, Mr. Dclancy. I'm glad I came 
 over. I meant this only for a call ; but as you aie 
 in such poor spirits I must stay a while and cheer 
 you up." 
 
 " You are a good girl," said Mr. Delancy, taking 
 the hand of Rose, "and I am vexed that Irene 
 should neglect you for the false friends who are 
 leading her mind astray. But never mind, dear; 
 she will see her error one of these days, and learn 
 to prize true hearts." 
 
 " Is she going to spend much of her time at Ivy 
 Cliff this summer?" asked Rose. 
 
 " She is coming up in July to stay three or four 
 weeks." 
 
 " Ah ? I'm pleased to hear you say so. I shall 
 then revive old-time memories in her heart." 
 
 "God grant that it may be so!" Rose half 
 started at the solemn tone in which Mr. Delancy 
 spoke. What could be the meaning of his strangely 
 troubled manner? Was anything seriously wrong 
 with Irene? She remembered the confusion into 
 which her impulsive conduct had thrown Hie wed-
 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE. 199 
 
 ding-party; and there was a vague rumor afloat 
 that Irene had left her husband a few months after- 
 ward and returned to Ivy Cliff. But she had al- 
 ways discredited this rumor. Of her life in New 
 York she knew but little as to particulars: That 
 it was not making of her a truer, better, happier 
 woman, nor a truer, better, happier wife, observa- 
 tion had long ago told her. 
 
 "" There is a broad foundation of good principles 
 in her character," said Miss Carman, "and this 
 gives occasion for hope in the future. She will not 
 go far astray with her wily enticers, who have only 
 stimulated and given direction, for a time, to her 
 undisciplined impulses. You know how impatient 
 she has always been under control how restively 
 her spirit has chafed itself when a restraining hand 
 was laid upon her. But there are real things in 
 life of too serious import to he set aside for idle 
 fancies, such as her new friends have dignified with 
 imposing names real things, that take hold upon 
 the solid earth like anchors, and hold the vessel 
 firm amid wildly rushing currents." 
 
 " Yes, Rose, I know all that," replied Mr. De- 
 lancy. " I have hope in the future of Irene ; but 
 I shudder in heart to think of the rough, thorny, 
 desolate ways through which she may have to pass 
 with bleeding feet before she reaches that serene 
 future. Ah ! if I could save my child from the 
 pain she seems resolute on plucking down and 
 wearing in her heart !"
 
 200 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Your dreams have made you gloomy, Mr. De- 
 Jancy," said Rose, forcing a smile to her sweet 
 young face. " Come now, let us be more hopeful. 
 Irene has a good husband. A little too much like 
 her in some things, but growing manlier and 
 broader in mental grasp, if I have read him 
 aright. He understands Irene, and, what is more, 
 ' loves her deeply. I have watched them closely." 
 
 " So have I." The voice of Mr. Delancy was 
 not so hopeful as that of his companion. 
 
 " Still looking on the darker side." She smiled 
 again. 
 
 " Ah, Rose, my wise young friend," said Mr. 
 Delancy, " to whom I speak my thoughts with a 
 freedom that surprises even myself, a father's eyes 
 read many signs that have no meaning for others." 
 
 "And many read them, through fond suspicion, 
 wrong," replied Rose. 
 
 " Well yes that may be." He spoke in par- 
 tial abstraction, yet doubtfully. 
 
 " I must look through your garden," said the 
 young lady, rising; "you know how I love 
 flowers." 
 
 "Not much yet to hold your admiration," re- 
 plied Mr. Delancy, rising also. "June gives us 
 wide green carpets and magnificent draperies of the 
 same deep color, but her red and golden broideries 
 are few; it is the hand of July that throws them 
 in with rich profusion." 
 
 "But June flower.5 are sweetest and dearestr
 
 YOUNG, BUT WISE. 201 
 
 tender nurslings of the summer, first-born of her 
 love," said Rose, as they stepped out into the por- 
 tico. " It may be that the eye gets sated with 
 beauty, as nature grows lavish of her gifts ; but 
 the first white and red petals that unfold them- 
 selves have a more delicate perfume seem made 
 of purer elements and more wonderful in perfec- 
 tion than their later sisters. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " If it only appears so it is all the same as if 
 real," replied Mr. Delancy, smiling, 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " It is real to you. What more could you have? 
 Not more enjoyment of summer's gifts of beauty 
 and sweetness," 
 
 " No ; perhaps not." 
 
 Rose let her eyes fall to the ground, and re- 
 mained silent. 
 
 " Things are real to us as we see them ; not al- 
 ways as they are," said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 "And this is true of life?" 
 
 " Yes, child. It is in life that we create for 
 ourselves real things out of what to some are airy 
 nothings. Real things, against which we often 
 bruise or maim ourselves, while to others they are 
 as intangible as shadows." 
 
 " I never thought of that," said Rose. 
 
 " It is true." 
 
 " Yes, I see it. Imaginary evils we thus make 
 real things, and hurt ourselves by contact, as, may- 
 be, you have done this morning, Mr. Delancy."
 
 202 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Yes yes. And false idea" of things which 
 are unrealities in the abstract for only what is 
 true has actual substance become real to the per- 
 verted understanding. Ah, child, there are strange 
 contradictions and deep problems in life for each 
 of us to solve." 
 
 " But, God helping us, we may always reach the 
 true solution/' said Hose Carman, lifting a bright, 
 confident face to that of her companion. 
 
 "That was spoken well, my child," returned 
 Mr. Delancy, with a new life in his voice; 
 " and without Him we can never be certain of our 
 way." 
 
 " Never never." There was a tender, trusting 
 solemnity in the voice of Rose. 
 
 " Young, but wise," said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 " No ! Young, but not wise. I cannot see the 
 way plain before me for a single week, Mr. De- 
 lancy. For a week ? No, not for a day !" 
 
 " Who does ?" asked the old man. 
 
 "Some." 
 
 "None. There are many who walk onward 
 with erect heads and confident bearing. They are 
 sure of their way, and smile if one whisper a cau- 
 tion as*to the ground upon which they step so 
 fearlessly. But they soon get astray or into pit- 
 falls. God keeping and guiding us, Rose, we 
 may find our way safely through this world. But 
 we will soon lose ourselves if we trust in our own 
 wisdom."
 
 70UXG, BUT WISE. 203 
 
 Thus they talked that old man and gentle- 
 hearted girl as they moved about the garden- 
 walks, every new flower, or leaf, or opening bud 
 they paused to admire or examine, suggesting 
 themes for wiser words than usually pass between 
 one so old and one so young. At Mr. Delancy's 
 earnest request, Rose stayed to dinner, the waiting- 
 man being sent to her father's, not far distant, to 
 take word that she would not be at home until in 
 the afternoon.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 
 
 FTE]N, during that morning, did the name of 
 Irene come to their lips, for the thought of 
 her was all the while present to both. 
 
 "You must win her heart back again, 
 Rose," said Mr. Delancy. " I will lure her to 
 Ivy Cliff often this summer, and keep her here as 
 long as possible each time. You will then be much 
 together." They had risen from the dinner-table 
 and were entering the library. 
 
 " Things rarely come cut as we plan them," an- 
 swered Rose. " But I love Irene truly, and will 
 make my own place in her heart again, if she will 
 give me the key of entrance." 
 
 " You must find the key, Rose." 
 
 Miss Carman smiled. 
 
 ' I said if she would give it to me." 
 
 " She does not carry the key that opens the door 
 for you," replied Mr. Delancy. " If you do not 
 know where it lies, search for it in the secret places 
 of your own mind, and it will be found, God help- 
 ing you. Rose." 
 
 Mr. Delancy looked at her significantly. 
 
 " God helping me," she answered, with a rever 
 em sinking of her voice, " I will find the key/' 
 
 204
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 205 
 
 " Who is that ?" said Mr. Delancy, in a tone of 
 surprise, turning his face to the window. 
 
 Rose followed his eyes, but no one was visible. 
 
 " I saw, or thought I saw, a lady cross the . por- 
 tico this moment." 
 
 Both stood still, listening and expectant. 
 
 " It might have been fancy," said Mr. Delancy, 
 drawing a deep breath. 
 
 Rose stepped to one of the library windows, 
 and throwing it up, looked out upon the portico. 
 
 " There is no one," she remarked, coming back 
 into the room. 
 
 " Could I have been so mistaken ?" 
 
 Mr. Delancy looked bewildered. 
 
 Seeing that the impression was so strong on his 
 mind, Miss Carman went out into the hall, and 
 glanced from there into the parlor and dining- 
 room. 
 
 " No one came in, Mr. Delancy," she said, on 
 returning to the library. 
 
 "A mere impression," remarked the old man, 
 soberly. " Well, these impressions are often very 
 singular. My face was partly turned to the win- 
 dow, so that I saw out, but not so distinctly as if 
 both eyes had been in the range of vision. The 
 form of a woman came to my sight as distinctly as 
 if the presence had been real the form of a wo- 
 man going swiftly past the window." 
 
 " Did you recognize the form ?" 
 
 It was some time before Mr, Delancy replied.
 
 206 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "Yes." He looked anxious. 
 
 " You thought of Irene ?" 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " We have talked and thought of Irene so much 
 lo-day," said Rose, " that your thought of her has 
 made you present to her mind with more than 
 usual distinctness. Her thought of you has been 
 more intent in consequence, and this has drawn her 
 nearer. You saw her by an inward, not by an out- 
 ward, vision. She is now present with you in 
 spirit, though her body be many miles distant. 
 These things often happen. They startle us by 
 their strangeness, but are as much dependent on 
 laws of the mind as bodily nearness is dependent 
 on the laws of matter." 
 
 " You think so ?" Mr. Delancy looked at his 
 young companion curiously. 
 
 " Yes, I think so." 
 
 The old man shook his bead. " Ingenious, but 
 not satisfactory." 
 
 " You will admit," said Rose, " that as to our 
 minds we may be present in any part of the world, 
 and in an instant of time, though our bodies 
 move not." 
 
 " Our thought may be," replied Mr. Delaucy. 
 
 " Or, in better words, the eyes of our mind 
 may be ; for it is the eyes that see objects," said 
 Rose. 
 
 " Well ; say the eyes of our minds, then." 
 
 " We cannot see objects in London, for instance,
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 207 
 
 with our bodily eyes unless our bodies be in Lon 
 don ?" resumed Rose. 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Nor with our mental eyes, unless our spirits 
 1)H there.." 
 
 Mr. Delancy looked down thoughtfully. 
 
 " It must be true, then, that our thought of any 
 one brings us present to that individual, and that 
 such presence is often recognized." 
 
 t<: That is pushing the argument too far." 
 
 " I think not. Has it not often happened that 
 suddenly the thought of an absent one came into 
 your mind, and that you saw him or her for a mo- 
 ment or two almost as distinctly as if in bodily 
 presence before you ?" 
 
 " Yes. That has many times been the case." 
 
 " And you had not been thinking of that per- 
 son, nor had there been any incident as a re- 
 minder ?" 
 
 " I believe not." 
 
 " My explanation is, that this person from some 
 cause had been led to think of you intently, and 
 so came to you in spirit. There was actual pres- 
 ence, arid you saw each other with the eyes of 
 your minds." 
 
 " But, my wise reasoner," said Mr. Delancy, " it 
 was the bodily form with face, eyes, hands, feet 
 and material garments that was seen, not the 
 spirit. If our spirits have eyes that see, why they 
 can only see spiritual things."
 
 208 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Has not a spirit a face, and hands, and feet ?" 
 asked Rose, with a confidence that caused the old 
 man to look at her almost wonderingly. 
 
 " Not a face, and hands, and feet like these of 
 mine," he answered. 
 
 " Yes, like them," she replied, " but of spiritual 
 substance." 
 
 "Spiritual substance! That is a novel terra. 
 This is substance." And Mr. Delancy grasped the 
 arm of a chair. 
 
 " No, that is material and unsubstantial," she 
 calmly replied ; "it is subject to change and decay. 
 A hundred years from now and there may be no 
 visible sign that it had ever been. But the soul 
 is imperishable and immortal ; the only thing 
 about man that is really substantial. And now," 
 she added, " for the faces of our spirits. What 
 gives to our natural faces their form, beauty and 
 expression ? Is it not the soul-face within ? Re- 
 move that by death, and all life, thought and 
 feeling are gone from the stolid effigy. And so 
 you see, Mr. Delancy, that our minds must be 
 formed of spiritual substance, and that our bodies 
 are but the outward material clothing which the 
 EOU! puts on for action and use in this world of 
 nature." 
 
 " Why, you are a young philosopher !" exclaimed 
 Mr. Delancy, looking in wonder at his fair com- 
 panion. 
 
 " No," she answered, with simplicity, " I talk
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 209 
 
 with my father ahout these things, and it all seems 
 very plain to me. I cannot see how any one can 
 question what appears to me so plain. That the 
 mind is substantial we see from this fact alone it 
 retains impressions longer than the body." 
 
 "You think so?" 
 
 " Take an instance," said Rose. " A boy is pun- 
 ished unjustly by a passionate teacher, who uses 
 taunting words as well as smarting blows. Now 
 the pain of these blows is gone in less than an 
 hour, but the word-strokes received on his spirit 
 hurt him, maybe, to the end of his mortal life. Is 
 it not so ? And if so, why ? There must be sub- 
 stance to hold impressions so long." 
 
 " You silence, if you do not fully convince," re- 
 plied Mr. Delancy. " I must dream over what you 
 have said. And so your explanation is, that my 
 thought of Irene has turned her thought to me, 
 and thus we became really present ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that I saw her just now by an inner, and 
 not by an outer, sight ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But why was the appearance an outward mani- 
 festation, so to speak ?" 
 
 " Sight is in the mind, even natural sight. The 
 eye does not go out to a tree, but the image of the 
 tree comes to the eye, and thence is presented, in a 
 wonderful and mysterious way, to the mind, which 
 takes note of its form. The appearance is, that
 
 210 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 the soul looks out at the tree j but the fact is, the 
 image of the tree comes to the brain, and is there 
 seen. Now the brain may be impressed, and re- 
 spond by natural vision, from an internal as well 
 as from an external communication. We see this 
 in cases of visual aberrations,*the instances of which 
 given in books, and clearly authenticated, are innu- 
 merable. Things are distinctly seen in a room 
 which have no existence in nature; and the illu- 
 sion is so perfect that it seems impossible for eyes 
 to be mistaken." 
 
 "Well, well, child," said Mr. Delancy, "this is 
 curious, and a little bewildering. Perhaps it is all 
 just as you say about Irene; but I feel very heavy 
 here;" and he laid his hand on his breast and 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 At this moment the library door was pushed 
 gently open, and the form of a woman stood in the 
 presence of Mr. Delancy and Rose. She was 
 dressed in a dark silk, but had on neither bonnet 
 nor shawl. Both started ; Mr. Delancy raised his 
 hands and bent forward, gazing at her eagerly, his 
 lips apart. The face of the woman was pale and 
 haggard, yet familiar as the face of an old friend ; 
 but in it was something so strange and unnatural 
 thai for a moment or two it was not recognized. 
 
 " Father !" It was Irene. She advanced quietly 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 " My daughter !" He caught the extended hand 
 and kissed her, but she showed no emotion.
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 211 
 
 " Rose, dear, lam glad to see you." There was 
 truth in the dead level tone with which " I am glad 
 to see you" was spoken, and Rose, who perceived 
 tl is, took her hand and kissed her. Both hands 
 and lips were cold. 
 
 " What's the matter, Irene ? Have you been 
 sick ?" asked Mr. Delancy, in a choking voice. 
 
 " No, father, I'm very well." You would never 
 have recognized that voice as the voice of Irene. 
 
 " No, child, you are not well. What ails you ? 
 Why are you here in so strange a way and looking 
 so strangely ?" 
 
 "Do I look strangely?" There was a feeble 
 effort to awaken a smile, which only gave her face 
 a ghastly expression. 
 
 " Is Hartley with you ?" 
 
 " No." Her voice was fuller and more emphatic 
 as she uttered this word. She tried to look steadily 
 at her father, but her eyes moved aside from the 
 range of his vision. 
 
 For a little while there was a troubled silence 
 with all. Rose had placed an arm around the 
 waist of Irene and drawn her to the sofa, on which 
 they were now sitting; Mr. Delancy stood before 
 them. Gradually the cold, almost blank, express- 
 ion of Irene's face changed and the old look came 
 back. 
 
 " My daughter," said Mr. Delancy. 
 
 " Father" Irene interrupted him u I know 
 what you are going to say. My sudden, unan-
 
 212 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 nounced appearance, at this time, needs explana- 
 tion. I am glad dear Rose is here my old, true 
 friend" and she leaned against Miss Carman 
 " I can trust her." 
 
 The arm of Rose tightened around the waist of 
 Irene. 
 
 " Father" the \roice of Irene fell to a deep, 
 solemn tone ; there was no emphasis on one word 
 more than on another ; all was a dead level ; yet 
 the meaning was as full and the involved purpose 
 as fixed as if her voice had run through the whole 
 range of passionate intonation " Father, I have 
 come ba<5k to Ivy Cliff and to you, after having 
 suffered shipwreck on the voyage of life. I went 
 out rich, as I supposed, in heart-treasures ; I come 
 back poor. My gold was dross, and the sea has 
 swallowed up even that miserable substitute for 
 wealth. Hartley and I never truly loved each 
 other, and the experiment of living together as 
 husband and wife has proved a failure. We have 
 not been happy; no, not from the beginning. We 
 have not even been tolerant or forbearing toward 
 each other. A steady alienation has been in pro- 
 gress day by day, week by week, and month by 
 month, until no remedy is left but separation. 
 That has been, at length, applied, and here I am ! 
 It is the third time that I have left him, and to 
 both of us the act is final. He will not seek me, 
 and I shall not return." 
 
 There had come a slight flush to *he counte-
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 213 
 
 nance of Irene before she commenced speal 'ng, 
 but this retired again, and she looked deathly k wile. 
 No one answered her only the arm of Hose tight- 
 ened like a cord around the waist of her unhappy 
 friend. 
 
 " Father," and now her voice fluttered a little, 
 " for your sake I am most afflicted. I am strong 
 enough to bear my fate but you !" 
 
 There was a little sob a strong suppression of 
 feeling and silence. 
 
 "Oh, Irene! my child! my child!" The old 
 man covered his face with his hands, sobbed, and 
 shook like a fluttering leaf. t " I cannot bear this ! 
 It is too much for me!" and he staggered back- 
 ward. Irene sprung forward and caught him in 
 her arms. He would have fallen, but for this, to 
 the floor. She stood clasping and kissing him 
 wildly, until Rose came forward and led them 
 both to the sofa. 
 
 Mr. Delancy did not rally from this shock. He 
 leaned heavily against his daughter, and she felt a 
 low tremor in his frame. 
 
 " Father !" She spoke tenderly, with her lips to 
 his ear. " Dear father !" 
 
 But he did not reply. 
 
 " It is my life-discipline, father," she said ; " I 
 will be happier and better, no doubt, in the end for 
 this severe trial. Dear father, do not let what is 
 inevitable so break down your heart. You are my 
 strong, brave, good father, and I shall need now
 
 214 AFTER THE UTinX. 
 
 more than ever, your sustaining arm. There was 
 no help for this. It had to come, sooner or later. 
 It is over now. The first bitterness is past. Let 
 us be thankful for that, and gather up our strength 
 for the future. Dear father ! Speak to me !" 
 
 Mr. Delancy tried to rally himself, but he was 
 too much broken down by the shock. He said a 
 few words, in which there was scarcely any connec- 
 tion of ideas, and then, getting up from the sofa, 
 walked about the room, turning one of his hands 
 within the other in a distressed way. 
 
 " Oh dear, dear, dear !" he murmured to himself, 
 in a feeble manner. "I have dreaded this, and 
 prayed that it might not be. Such wretchedness 
 and disgrace ! Such wretchedness and disgrace ! 
 Had they no patience with each other no forbear- 
 ance no love, that it must come to this? Dear! 
 dear ! dear ! Poor child !" 
 
 Irene, with her white, wretched face, sat looking 
 at him for some time, as he moved about, a picture 
 of helpless misery ; then, going to him again, she 
 drew an arm around his neck and tried to comfort 
 him. But there was no comfort in her words. 
 What could she say to reach with a healing power 
 Hie wound from which his very life-blood was 
 pouring. 
 
 " Don't talk ! don't talk !" he said, pushing Irene 
 away, with slight impatience of manner. " I ana 
 heart-broken. Words are nothing !" 
 
 u Mr. Delancy," said Rose, now coming to hia
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 215 
 
 side, and laying a hand upon his arm, "you must 
 not speak so to Irene. This is not like you." 
 
 There was a calmness of utterance and a firmness 
 of manner which had their right effect. 
 
 " How have I spoken, Rose, dear ? What have 
 I said ?" Mr. Delancy stopped and looked at Miss 
 Carman in a rebuked, confused way, laying his 
 hand upon his forehead at the same time. 
 
 " Not from yourself," answered Rose. 
 
 "Not from myself!" He repeated her words, 
 as if his thoughts were still in a maze. " Ah, 
 child, this is dreadful !" he added. " I am not 
 myself! Poor Irene! Poor daughter! Poor 
 father!" 
 
 And the old man lost himself again. 
 
 A look of fear now shadowed darkly the face of 
 Irene, and she glanced anxiously from her father's 
 countenance to that of Rose. She did not read in 
 the face of her young friend much that gave assu- 
 rance or comfort. 
 
 " Mr. Delancy," said Rose, with great earnest- 
 ness of manner, " Irene is in sore trouble. She 
 has come to a great crisis in her life. You are 
 older and wiser than she is, and must counsel and 
 sustain her. Be calm, dear sir calm, clear-seeing, 
 wise and considerate, as you have always been." 
 
 " Calm clear-seeing wise." Mr. Delancy re- 
 peated the words, as if endeavoring to grasp the 
 .rein of thought and get possession of himself 
 again.
 
 216 AFTER THE STORlf. 
 
 " Wise to counsel and strong to sustain," said 
 Rose. " You must not fail us now." 
 
 " Thank you, my sweet young monitor," replied 
 Mr. Delancy, partially recovering himself; " it was 
 the weakness of a moment. Irene," and he looked 
 toward his daughter, " leave me with my own 
 thoughts for a little while. Take her, Rose, to her 
 own room, and God give you power to speak words 
 of consolation ; I have none." 
 
 Rose drew her arm within that of Irene, and 
 said, " Come." But Irene lingered, looking ten- 
 derly and anxiously at her father. 
 
 " Go, my love." Mr. Delancy waved his hand. 
 
 " Father ! dear father !" She moved a step to- 
 ward him, while Rose held her back. 
 
 " I cannot help myself, father. The die is cast. 
 Oh bear up with me ! I will be to you a better 
 daughter than I have ever been. My life shall be 
 devoted to your happiness. In that I will find a 
 compensation. All is not lost all is not ruined. 
 My heart is as pure as when I left you three years 
 ago. I come back bleeding from my life-battle it 
 is true, but not in mortal peril wounded, but not 
 unto death cast down, but not destroyed." 
 
 All the muscles of Mr. Delancy's face quivered 
 with suppressed feeling as he stood looking at his 
 daughter, who, as she uttered the words, "cast 
 down, but not destroyed," flung herself in wild 
 abandonment on his breast.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE PALSIED HEART. 
 
 HE shock to Mr. Delancy was a fearful one, 
 coming as v it did on a troubled, foreboding 
 state of mind; and reason lost for a little 
 while her firm grasp on the rein of govern- 
 ment. If the old man could have seen a ray of 
 hope in the case it would have been different. But 
 from the manner and language of his daughter it 
 was plain that the dreaded evil had found them ; 
 and the certainty of this falling suddenly, struck 
 him as with a heavy blow. 
 
 For several days he was like one who had been 
 stunned. All that afternoon on which his daughter 
 returned to Ivy Cliff he moved about in a bewil- 
 dered way, and by his questions and remarks 
 showed an incoherence of thought that filled the 
 heart of Irene with alarm. 
 
 On the next morning, when she met him at the 
 breakfast-table, he smiled on her in his old affec- 
 tionate way. As she kissed him, she said, 
 " I hope you slept well last night, father ?" 
 A slight change was visible in his face. 
 " I slept soundly enough," he replied, " but my 
 dreams were not agreeable." 
 
 217
 
 218 AFTER THE STOEM. 
 
 Then he looked at her with a slight closing of 
 the brows and a questioning look in his eyes. 
 
 They sat down, Irene taking her old place at the 
 table. As she poured out her father's coffee, he 
 said, smiling, 
 
 " It is pleasant to have you sitting there, 
 daughter." 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 Irene was troubled by this old manner of her 
 father. Could he have forgotten why she was 
 there ? 
 
 " Yes, it is pleasant," he replied, and then his 
 eye dropped in a thoughtful way. 
 
 " I think, sometimes, that your attractive New 
 York friends have made you neglectful of your 
 lonely old father. You don't come to see him as 
 often as you did a year ago.'' 
 
 Mr. Delancy said this with simple earnestness. 
 
 " They shall not keep me from you any more, 
 dear father/' replied Irene, meeting his humor, yet 
 heart-appalled at the same time with this evidence 
 that his mind was wandering from the truth. 
 
 " I don't think them safe friends," added Mr. 
 Delancy, with seriousness. 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied Irene. 
 
 " Ah ! I'm glad to hear you say so. Now, you 
 have one true, safe friend. I wish you loved her 
 better than you do." 
 
 " What is her name ?" 
 
 " Rose Carman," said Mr. Delancy, wiih a slight
 
 THE PALSIED HEART. 210 
 
 hesitation of manner, as if he feared repulsion on 
 the part of his daughter. 
 
 " I love Rose, dearly ; she is the best of girls ; 
 and I know her to be a true friend," replied Irene. 
 
 "Spoken like my own 'daughter !" said the old 
 man with a brightening countenance. " You must 
 not neglect her any more. Why, she told me you 
 hadn't written to her in six months. Now, that 
 isn't right. -Never go past old, true friends for 
 the sake of new, and maybe false ones. No no. 
 Rose is hurt ; you must write to her often every 
 week." 
 
 Irene could not answer. Her heart was beating 
 wildly. What could this mean ? Had reason fled? 
 But she struggled hard to preserve a calm exterior. 
 
 " Will Hartley be up to-day ?" 
 
 Irene tried to say " No," but could not find 
 utterance. 
 
 Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously, and now in 
 a slightly troubled way. Then he let his eyes fall, 
 and sat holding his cup like one who was turning 
 perplexed thoughts in his mind. 
 
 " You are not well this morning, father," said 
 Irene, speaking only because silence was too op- 
 pressive for endurance. 
 
 "I don't know; perhaps I'm not very well ;" 
 ."wid Mr. Delancy looked across the table at his 
 daughter very earnestly. "I had bad dreams all 
 last night, and they seem to have got mixed up in 
 my thoughts with real things. How is it ? When
 
 220 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 did you come up from New York ? Dou't smile 
 at me. But really I can't think." 
 
 " I came yesterday/' said Irene, as calmly as she 
 could speak. 
 
 " Yesterday !" He looked at her with a quickly 
 changing face. 
 
 " Yes, father, I came up yesterday." 
 
 " And Rose was here ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mr. Delancy's eyes fell again, and he sat very 
 still. 
 
 " Hartley will not be here to-day ?" 
 
 Mr. Delancy did not look up as he asked this 
 question. 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 " Nor to-morrow ?" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 A sigh quivered on the old man's lips. 
 
 "Nor the day after that?" 
 
 " He did not say when he was coming," replied 
 Irene, evasively. 
 
 " Did not say when ? Did not say when ?" Mr. 
 Delancy repeated the sentence two or three times, 
 evidently trying all the while to recall something 
 which had faded from his memory. 
 
 "Don't worry yourself about Hartley," said 
 Irene, forcing herself to pronounce a name that 
 Beemed like fire on her lips. " Isn't it enough that 
 I am here ?" 
 
 " No, it is not enough." And her father put his
 
 THF PALSIED HEART. 221 
 
 hand to his forehead and looked upward in an 
 earnest, searching manner. 
 
 What could Irene say? What could she do? 
 The mind of her father was groping about in the 
 dark, and she was every moment in dread lest he 
 should discover the truth and get farther astray 
 from the shock. 
 
 No food was taken by either Mr. Delancy or his 
 daughter. The former grew more entangled in his 
 thoughts, and finally arose from the table, saying, 
 in a half-apologetic way, 
 
 " I don't know what ails me this morning." 
 
 " Where are you going ?" asked Irene, rising at 
 the same time. 
 
 " Nowhere in particular. The air is close here 
 I'll sit a while in the portico," he answered, and 
 throwing open one of the windows he stepped out- 
 side. Irene followed him. 
 
 " How beautiful !" said Mr. Delancy, as he sat 
 down and turned his eyes upon the attractive land- 
 scape. Irene did not trust her voice in reply. 
 
 " Now go in and finish your breakfast, child. 1 
 feel better; I don't know what came over me." 
 He added the last sentence in an undertone. 
 
 Irene returned into the house, but not to resume 
 her place at the table. Her mind was in an agony 
 of dread. She had reached the dining-room, and 
 was about to ring for a servant, when she heard 
 her name called by her father. Kunning back 
 quickly to the portico, she found him standing
 
 222 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 in the attitude of one who had been suddenly 
 startled ; his face all alive with question and 
 suspense. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! yes ! I thought you were here this 
 moment! And so it's all true?" he said, in a 
 quick, troubled way. 
 
 " True ? What is true, father ?" asked Irene, as 
 she paused before him. 
 
 " True, what you told me yesterday." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "You have left your husband?" He looked 
 soberly into her face. 
 
 " I have, father." She thought it best to use no 
 evasion. 
 
 He groaned, sat down in the chair from which 
 he had arisen, and let his head fall upon his bosom. 
 
 " Father !" Irene kneeled before him and 
 clasped his hands. " Father ! dear father !" 
 
 He laid a hand on her head, and smoothed her 
 hair in a caressing manner. 
 
 " Poor child ! poor daughter !" he said, in a 
 fond, pitying voice, "don't take it so to heart. 
 Your old father loves you still." 
 
 She could not stay the wild rush of feeling that 
 was overmastering her. Passionate sobs heaved 
 ner breast, and tears came raining from her eyes. 
 
 " Now, don't, Irene ! Don't take on so, daugh- 
 ter ! I love you still, and we will be happy here, 
 as in other days." 
 
 " Yes, father," said Irene, holding down her
 
 THE PALSIED HEART. 223 
 
 head and calming her voice, " we will be hajjpy 
 here, as in the dear old time. Oh we will be very 
 happy together. I won't leave you any more." 
 
 " I wish you had never left me," he answered, 
 mournfully; "I was always afraid of this always 
 afraid. But don't let it break your heart; I'm all 
 the same ; nothing will ever turn me against you. 
 I hope he hasn't been very unkind to you ?" His 
 voice grew a little severe. 
 
 " We wont say anything against him," replied 
 Irene, trying to understand exactly her father's 
 state of mind and accommodate herself thereto. 
 " Forgive and forget is the wisest rule always." 
 
 "Yes, dear, that's it. Forgive and forget for- 
 give and forget. There's nothing like it in this 
 world. I'm glad to hear you talk so." 
 
 The mind of Mr. Delancy did not again wander 
 from the truth. But the shock received when it 
 first came upon him with stunning force had taken 
 away his keen perception of the calamity. He was 
 sad, troubled and restless, and talked a great deal 
 about the unhappy position of his daughter some- 
 times in a way that indicated much incoherence of 
 thought. To this state succeeded one of almost 
 total silence, and he would sit for hours, if not 
 aroused from reverie and inaction by his daughter, 
 in apparent dreamy listlessness. His conversation, 
 when he did talk on any subject, showed, however, 
 that his mind had regained its old clearness. 
 
 On the third day after Irene's arrival at Ivy
 
 224 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Cliff, her trunks came up from New York. She 
 had packed them on the night before leaving her 
 husband's house, and marked them with her name 
 and that of her father's residence. No letter or 
 message accompanied them. She did not expect 
 nor desire any communication, and was not there- 
 fore disappointed, but rather relieved from what 
 would have only proved a cause of disturbance. 
 All angry feelings toward her husband had sub- 
 sided ; but no tender impulses moved in her heart, 
 nor did the feeblest thought of reconciliation 
 breathe over the surface of her mind. She had 
 been in bonds ; now the fetters were cast off, and 
 she loved freedom too well to bend her neck again 
 to the yoke. 
 
 No tender impulses moved, we have said, in her 
 heart, for it lay like a palsied thing, dead in her 
 bosom dead, we mean, so far as the wife was con- 
 cerned. It was not so palsied on that fatal even- 
 ing when the last strife with her husband closed. 
 But in the agony that followed there came, in 
 mercy, a cold paralysis ; and now toward Hartley 
 Emerson her feelings were as calm as the surface 
 of a frozen lake. 
 
 And how was it with the deserted husband ? 
 Stern and unyielding also. The past year had 
 been marked by so little of mutual tenderness, 
 there had been so frw passages of love between 
 them green spots in the desert of their lives 
 that memory brought hardly a relic from the past
 
 THE PALSIED HEART. 225 
 
 over which the heart could brood. For the sake 
 of worldly appearances, Emerson most regretted 
 the unhappy event. Next, his trouble was fen 
 Irene and her father, but most for Irene. 
 
 "Willful, wayward one!" he said many, many 
 times. " You, of all, will suffer most. No wo- 
 man can take a step like this without drinking of 
 pain to the bitterest dregs. If you can hide the 
 anguish, well. But I fear the trial will be too 
 hard for you the burden too heavy. Poor, mis- 
 taken one !" 
 
 For a month the household arrangements of Mr. 
 Emerson continued as when Irene left him. He 
 did not intermit for a day or an hour his business 
 duties, and came home regularly at his usual times 
 always, it must be said, with a feeble expecta- 
 tion of meeting his wife in her old places ; we do 
 not say desire, but simply expectation. If she had 
 returned, well. He would not have repulsed, nor 
 would he have received her with strong indications 
 of pleasure. But a month went by, and she did 
 not return nor send him any word. Beyond the 
 brief " I have gone," there had come from her 
 no sign. 
 
 Two months elapsed, and then Mr. Emerson 
 dismissed the servants and shut up the house, but 
 he neither 'removed nor sold the furniture ; that 
 remained as it was for nearly a year, when he or- 
 dered a sale by auction and closed the estab- 
 lishment, 
 is
 
 226 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Hartley Emerson, under the influence of business 
 and domestic trouble, matured rapidly, and became 
 grave, silent and reflective beyond men of his 
 years. Companionable he was by nature, and dur- 
 ing the last year that Irene was with him, failing 
 to receive social sympathy at home, he had joined 
 a club of young men, whose association was based 
 on a declared ambition for literary excellence. 
 From this club he withdrew himself; it did not 
 meet the wants of his higher nature, but offered 
 much that stimulated the grosser appetites and pas- 
 sions. Now he gave himself up to earnest self- 
 improvement, and found in the higher and wider 
 range of thought which came as the result a par- 
 tial compensation for what he had lost. But he 
 was not happy ; far, very far from it. And there 
 were seasons when the past came back upon him in 
 such a flood that all the barriers of indifference 
 which he had raised for self-protection were swept 
 away, and he had to build them up again in sad- 
 ness of spirit. So the time wore on with him, 
 anil troubled life-experiences were doing their work 
 upon his character.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 
 
 |T is two years since the day of separation be- 
 tween Irene and her husband. Just two years. 
 And she is sitting in the portico at Ivy Cliff' 
 with her father, looking down upon the river 
 that lies gleaming in sunshine not thinking of 
 the river, however, nor of anything in nature. 
 
 They are silent and still very still, as if sleep 
 had locked their senses. He is thin and wasted as 
 from long sickness, and she looks older by ten 
 years. There is no fine bloom on her cheeks, from 
 which the fullness of youth has departed. - 
 
 It is a warm June day, the softest, balmiest, 
 brightest day the year has given. The air comes 
 laden with delicate odors and thrilling with bird 
 melodies, and, turn the eye as it will, there is a 
 feast of beauty. 
 
 Yet, the odors are not perceived, nor the music 
 heard, nor the beauty seen by that musing old man 
 and his silent daughter. Their thoughts are not 
 in the present, but far back in the unhappy past, 
 the memories of which, awakened by the scene and 
 season, have come flowing in a strong tide upon 
 
 227
 
 228 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Two years ! They have left the prints of their 
 heavy feet upon the life of Irene, and the deep 
 marks will never be wholly obliterated. She were 
 less than human if this were not so. Two years ! 
 Yet, not once in that long, heart-aching time had 
 she for a single moment looked backward in weak- 
 ness. Sternly holding to her act as right, she 
 Strengthened herself in suffering, and bore her pain 
 as if it were a decree of fate. There was no anger 
 in her heart, nor anything of hardness toward her 
 husband. But there was no love, nor tender yearn- 
 ing for conjunction at least, nothing recognized as 
 such in her own conscious ness. 
 
 Not since the day Irene left the house of her 
 husband had she heard from him directly; and 
 only two or three times indirectly. She had never 
 visited the city since her flight therefrom, and all 
 her pleasant and strongly influencing associations 
 there were, in consequence, at an end. Once her 
 very dear friend Mrs. Talbot carne up to sym- 
 pathize with and strengthen her in the fiery trial 
 through which she was passing. She found Irene's 
 truer friend, Rosa Carman, with her ; and Rose did 
 not leave them alone for a moment at a time. All 
 sentiments that she regarded as hurtful to Irene in 
 her present state of mind she met with her calm, 
 conclusive mode of reasoning, that took away the 
 specious force of the sophist's dogmas. But her 
 influence was chiefly used in the repression of un- 
 profitable themes, and the introduction of such as
 
 THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 22D 
 
 tended to tranquilize the feelings, and turn the 
 thoughts of her friend away from the trouble that 
 was lying upon her soul like a suffocating night- 
 mare. Mrs. Talbot was not pleased with her visit, 
 and did not come again. But she wrote several 
 times. The tone of her letters was not, however, 
 pleasant to Irene, who was disturbed by it, and 
 more bewildered than enlightened by the senti- 
 ments that were announced with oracular vague- 
 ness. These letters were read to Miss Carman, on 
 whom Irene was beginning to lean with increasing 
 confidence. Rose did not fail to expose their weak- 
 ness or fallacy in such clear light that Irene, 
 though she tried to shut her eyes against the truth 
 presented by Rose, could not help seeing it. Her 
 replies were not, under these circumstances, very- 
 satisfactory, for she was unable to speak in a free, 
 assenting, confiding spirit. The consequence was 
 natural. Mrs. Talbot ceased to write, and Irene 
 did not regret the broken correspondence. Once 
 Mrs. Lloyd wrote. When Irene broke the seal 
 and let her eyes rest upon the signature, a shudder 
 of repulsion ran through her frame, and the letter 
 dropped from her hands to the floor. As if pos- 
 sessed by a spirit whose influence over her she 
 could not control, she caught up the unread sheet 
 and threw it into the fire. As the flames seized 
 upon and consumed it, she drew a long breath and 
 murmured, 
 
 " So perish the memory of our acquaintance !"
 
 230 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 Almost a dead letter of suffering had been those 
 two years. Th< re' are no events to record, and but 
 little progress to state. Yes, there had been a dead 
 level of suffering a palsied condition of heart and 
 iniud ; a period of almost sluggish endurance, in 
 which pride and an indomitable will gave strength 
 to bear. 
 
 Mr. Delancy and his daughter were sitting, as 
 we have seen, on that sweet June day, in silent ab- 
 straction of thought, when the serving-man, who 
 had been to the village, stepped into the portico 
 and handed Irene a letter. The sight of it caused 
 her heart to leap and the blood to crimson sud- 
 denly her face. It was not an ordinary letter 
 one in such a shape had never come to her hand 
 before. 
 
 " What is that ?" asked her father, coming back 
 as it were to life. 
 
 " I don't know/' she answered, with an effort to 
 appear indifferent. 
 
 Mr. Delancy looked at his daughter with a per- 
 plexed manner, and then let his eyes fall upon the 
 legal envelope in her hand, on which a large red 
 seal was impressed. 
 
 Rising in a quiet way, Irene left the portico with 
 slow steps; but no sooner was she beyond hei 
 father's observation than she moved toward her 
 chamber with winged feet. 
 
 " Bless me, Miss, Irene !" exclaimed Margaret, 
 who met her on the stairs, " what has happened f
 
 THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 231 
 
 But Irene swept by her without a response / and, 
 entering her room, shut the door and locked it. 
 Margaret stood a moment irresolute, and then, 
 going back to her young lady's chamber, knocked 
 for admission. There was no answer to her sum- 
 mons, and she knocked again. 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 She hardly knew the voice.- 
 
 " It is Margaret. Can't I come in ?" 
 
 " Not now," was answered. 
 
 " What's the matter, Miss Irene ?" 
 
 " Nothing, Margaret. I wish to be alone now." 
 
 " Something has happened, though, or you'd 
 never look just like that," said Margaret to herself, 
 as she went slowly down stairs. " Oh dear, dear ! 
 Poor child ! there's nothing but trouble for her in 
 this world." 
 
 It was some minutes before Irene found courage 
 to break the imposing seal and look at the commu- 
 nication within. She guessed at the contents, and 
 was not wrong. They informed her, in legal 
 phrase, that her husband had filed an application 
 for a divorce on the ground of desertion, and gave 
 notice that any resistance to this application must 
 be on file on or before a certain date. 
 
 The only visible sign of feeling that responded 
 to this announcement was a deadly paleness and a 
 slight, nervous crushing of the paper in her hands. 
 Moveless as a thing inanimate, she sat with fixed, 
 dreamy eyes for a long, long time.
 
 232 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 A divorce ! She had looked for this daily for 
 more than a year, and often wondered at her hus- 
 band's tardiness. Had she desired it? Ah, that 
 is the probing question. Had she desired an act 
 of law to push them fully asunder to make the 
 separation plenary in all respects? No. She did 
 not really wish for the irrevocable sundering decree. 
 
 Since her return to her father's house, the whole 
 life of Irene had been marked by great circumspec- 
 tion. The trial through which she had passed was 
 enough to sober her mind and turn her thoughts in 
 some new directions ; and this result had followed. 
 Pride, self-will and impatience of control found no 
 longer any spur to reactive life, and so her interest 
 in woman's rights, social reforms and all their con- 
 comitants died away, for lack of a personal bearing. 
 At first there had been warm arguments with Miss 
 Carman on these subjects, but these grew gradu- 
 ally less earnest, and were finally avoided by both, 
 as not only unprofitable, but distasteful. Gradu- 
 ally this wise and true friend had quickened in the 
 mind of Irene an interest in things out of herself. 
 There are in every neighborhood objects to awaken 
 our sympathies, if we will only look at and think 
 of them. " The poor ye have always with you." 
 Not the physically poor only, but, in larger num- 
 bers, the mentally and spiritually poor. The hands 
 of no one need lie idle a moment for lack of work, 
 for it is no vague form of speech to say that the 
 harvest is great and the laborers few.
 
 THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 233 
 
 There were ripe harvest-fields around Ivy Cliff, 
 though Irene had rot observed the golden grain 
 bending its head for the sickle until Rose led her 
 feet in the right direction. Not many of the natu- 
 rally poor were around them, yet some required 
 even bodily ministrations children, the sick and 
 the aged. The destitution that most prevailed was 
 of the mind ; and this is the saddest form of pov- 
 erty. Mental hunger! how it exhausts the soul 
 and debases its heaven-born faculties, sinking it 
 into a gross corporeal sphere, that is only a little 
 removed from the animal ! To feed the hungry 
 and clothe the naked mean a great deal more than 
 the bestowal of food and raiment ; yes, a great deal 
 more ; and we have done but a small part of Chris- 
 tian duty have obeyed only in the letter when 
 we supply merely the bread that perishes. 
 
 Rose Carman had been wisely instructed, and 
 she was an apt scholar. Nov/, from a learner she 
 became a teacher, and in the suffering Irene found 
 one ready to accept the higher truths that governed 
 her life, and to act with her in giving them a real 
 ultimation. So, in the two years which had woven 
 their web of new experiences for the heart of Irene, 
 she had been drawn almost imperceptibly by Rose 
 iutc fields of labor where the work that left her 
 hands was, she saw, good work, and must endure 
 for ever. What peace it often brought to her stri- 
 ving spirit, when, but for the sustaining and pro- 
 tecting power of good deeds, she would have beea
 
 234 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 swept out upon the waves of turbulent passion 
 tossed and beaten there until her exhausted heart 
 sunk down arnid the waters, and lay dead for a 
 while at the bottom of her great sea of trouble ! 
 
 It was better oh. how much better! when she 
 laid her head at night on her lonely pillow, to have 
 in memory the face of a poor sick woman, which 
 had changed from suifering to peace as she talked 
 to her of higher things than the body's needs, and 
 bore her mind up into a region of tranquil thought, 
 than to be left with no image to dwell upon but an 
 image of her own shattered hopes. Yes, this was 
 far better ; and by the power of such memories the 
 unhappy one had many peaceful seasons and nights 
 of sweet repose. 
 
 All around Ivy Cliff, Irene and Rose were known 
 as ministrant spirits to the poor and humble. The 
 father of Rose was a man of wealth, and she had 
 his entire sympathy and encouragement. Irene 
 had no regular duties at home, Margaret being 
 housekeeper and directress in all departments. So 
 there was nothing to hinder the free course of her 
 will as to the employment of time. With all her 
 pride of independence, the ease with which Mrs. 
 Talbot drew Irene in one direction, and now Miss 
 Carman in another, showed how easily she might 
 l>e influenced when off her guard. This is true in 
 most cases of your very self-willed people, and the 
 reason why so many of them get astray. Only 
 conceal the hand that leads them, and you may
 
 THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 235 
 
 often take them "where you will. Ah, if Hartley 
 Emerson had been wise enough, prudent enough 
 and loving enough to have influenced aright the 
 fine young spirit he was seeking to make one \yith 
 his own, how different would the result have been ! 
 
 In the region round about, our two young friends 
 came in time to be known as the " Sisters of Cha- 
 rity." It was not said of them mockingly, nor in 
 gay depreciation, nor in mean ill-nature, but in 
 expression of a common sentiment, that recognized 
 their high, self-imposed mission. 
 
 Thus it had been with Irene since her retu> u to 
 the old home at Ivy Cliff.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 STRUCK VOWX. 
 
 @ES, Irene had looked for this looked for it 
 daily for now more than a year. Still it came 
 upon her with a shock that sent a strange, 
 wild shudder through all her being. A di- 
 vorce ! She was less prepared for it than she had 
 ever been. 
 
 What was beyond ? Ah I that touched a chord 
 which gave a thrill of pain. What was beyond? 
 A new alliance, of course. Legal disabilities re- 
 moved, Hartley Emerson would take upon himself 
 new marriage vows. Could she say, " Yea, and 
 amen" to this ? No, alas ! no. There was a feel- 
 ing of intense, irrepressible anguish away down in 
 heart-regions that lay far beyond the lead-line of 
 prior consciousness. What did it mean ? She 
 asked herself the question with a fainting spirit. 
 Had she not known herself ? Were old states of 
 tenderness, which she had believed crushed out and 
 dead along ago, hidden away in secret places of her 
 heart, and kept there safe from harm ? 
 
 No wonder she sat pale and still, crumpling 
 nervously that fatal document which had startled 
 her with a new revelation of herself. There waa 
 
 235
 
 STR UCK DO WN. 237 
 
 love in her heart still, and she knew it not. For 
 a long time she sat like one in a dream. 
 
 "God help me!" she said at length, looking 
 around her in a wild, bewildered manner. " What 
 does all this mean ?" 
 
 There came at this moment a gentle tap at her 
 door. She knew whose soft hand had given the 
 sound. 
 
 " Irene," exclaimed Rose Carman, as she took 
 the hand of her friend and looked into her changed 
 countenance, " what ails you ?" 
 
 Irene turned her face partly away to get control 
 of its expression. 
 
 " Sit down, Rose," she said, as soon as she could 
 trust herself to speak. 
 
 They sat down together, Rose troubled and won- 
 dering. Irene then handed her friend the notice 
 which she had received. Miss Carman read it, but 
 made no remark for some time. 
 
 " It has disturbed you," she said at length, seeing 
 that Irene continued silent. 
 
 " Yes, more than I could have believed," an- 
 swered Irene. Her voice had lost its familiar 
 tones. 
 
 ' You have expected this ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought you were prepared for it." 
 
 "And I am," replied Irene, speaking with more 
 firmness of manner. "Expectation grows so nerv- 
 ous, sometimes, that when the event comes it falls
 
 238 A FTER THE STOhM. 
 
 upon us with a painful shook. This is my case 
 uow. I would have felt it less severely if it had 
 occurred six months ago." 
 
 " What will you do?" asked Kose. 
 
 "Do?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What can I do?" 
 
 " Resist the application, if you will." 
 
 " But I will not," answered Irene, firmly. " He 
 signifies his wishes in the case, and those wishes 
 must determine everything. I will remain 
 passive." 
 
 " And let the divorce issue by default of an- 
 Bwer?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a faintness of tone which Rose could 
 not help remarking. 
 
 " Yes," Irene added, " he desires this complete 
 separation, and I can have nothing to say in oppo- 
 sition. I left him, and have remained ever since 
 a stranger to his home and heart. We are nothing 
 to each other, and yet are bound together by the 
 strongest of bonds. Why should he not wish to 
 be released from these bonds ? And if he desires 
 it. I have nothing to say. We are divorced in fact 
 why then retain the form ?" 
 
 " There may be a question of the fact," said 
 Rose. 
 
 " Yes ; I understand you. We have discussed 
 that point fully. Your view may be right, but I
 
 STRUCK DOWN. 23i; 
 
 do not sec it clearly. I will at least remain pas- 
 sive. The responsibility shall rest with him." 
 
 No life or color came back to the face of Irene. 
 She looked as cold as marble ; not cold without 
 feeling, but with intense feeling recorded as in a 
 piece of sculpture. 
 
 There were deeds of kindness and mercy set 
 down in the purposes of our young friend, and it 
 was to go forth and perform them that Rose had 
 called for Irene this morning. But only one Sister 
 of Charity went to the field that day, and only one 
 for many days afterward. 
 
 Irene could not recover from the shock of this 
 legal notice. It found her less prepared than she 
 had been at any time during the last two years of 
 separation. Her life at Ivy Cliff had not been 
 favorable to a spirit of antagonism and accusation, 
 nor favorable to a self-approving judgment of her- 
 self when the past came up, as it often came, strive 
 as she would to cover it as with a veil. She had 
 grown in this night of suffering, less self-willed 
 and blindly impulsive. Some scales had dropped 
 from her eyes, and she saw clearer. Yet no re- 
 pentance for that one act of her life, which involved 
 a scries of consequences beyond the reach of con- 
 jecture, had found a place in her heart. There 
 was no looking back from this no sober question- 
 ing as to the right or necessity which had been in- 
 volved. There had been one great mistake so 
 she decided the case and that was the marriage.
 
 240 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 From this fatal error all subsequent evil was 
 born. 
 
 Months of waiting and expectation followed, and 
 then came a decree annulling the marriage. 
 
 " It is well," was the simple response of Irene 
 when notice of the fact reached her. 
 
 Not even to Rose Carman did she reveal a 
 thought that took shape in her mind, nor betray a 
 single emotion that trembled in her heart. If 
 there had been less appearance of indifference less 
 avoidance of the subject her friends would have 
 felt more comfortable as to her state of mind. The 
 unnatural repose of exterior was to them signifi- 
 cant of a strife within which she wished to conceal 
 from all eyes. 
 
 About this time her true, loving friend, Miss 
 Carman, married. Irene did not stand as one of 
 the bridemaids at the ceremony. Rose gently 
 hinted her wishes in the case, but Irene shrunk 
 from the position, and her feeling was respected. 
 The husband of Rose was a merchant, residing in 
 New York, named Everet. After a short bridal 
 tour she went to her new home in the city. Mr. 
 Everet was five or six years her senior, and a man 
 worthy to be her life-companion. No sudden at- 
 tachment had grown up between them. Eor years 
 they had been in the habit of meeting, and in this 
 time the character of each had been clearly read by 
 the other. When Mr. Everet asked the maiden's 
 hand, it was yielded without a sign of hesitation.
 
 STRUCK DOWN. 241 
 
 The removal of Rose from the neighborhood of 
 Ivy Cliff greatly disturbed the even-going tenor 
 of Irene's life. It withdrew also a prop on which 
 she had leaned often in "times of weakness, which 
 would recur very heavily. 
 
 " How can I live without you ?" she said in 
 tears, as she sat alone with the new-made bride on 
 the eve of her departure ; " you have been every- 
 thing to me, Rose strength in weakness ; light, 
 when all around was cold and dark ; a guide when 
 I had lost my way. God bless and make you 
 happy, darling! And he will. Hearts like yours 
 create happiness wherever they go." 
 
 " My new home will only be a few hours' dis- 
 tant," replied Rose; " I shall see you there often." 
 
 Irene sighed. She had been to the city only a 
 few times since that sad day of separation from her 
 husband. Could she return again and enter one 
 of its bright social circles ? Her heart said no. 
 But love drew her too strongly. In less than a 
 month after Rose became the mistress of a stately 
 mansion, Irene was her guest. This was just six 
 years from the time when she set up her home there, 
 a proud and happy young wife. Alas ! that hearth 
 was desolate, " its bright fire quenched and gone." 
 
 It was best for Irene thus to get back again into 
 a wider social sphere to make some new friends, 
 and those of a class that such a woman as Mrs. 
 Everet would naturally draw around her. Three 
 years of suffering, and the effort to lead a life of 
 
 16
 
 242 AFTER THE 
 
 self-denial and active interest in others, had 
 wrought in Irene a great change. The old, flash- 
 ing ardor of manner was gone. If she grew ani- 
 mated in conversation, as she often did from tem- 
 perament, her face would light up beautifully, but 
 it did not show the radiance of old times. Thought, 
 more than feeling, gave its living play to her coun- 
 tenance. All who met her were attracted; as her 
 history was known, observation naturally took the 
 form of close scrutiny. People wished to find the 
 angular and repellant sides of her character in or- 
 der to see how far she might be to blame. But 
 they were not able to discover them. On the sub- 
 jects of woman's rights, domestic tyranny, sexual 
 equality and all kindred themes she was guarded 
 in speech. She never introduced them herself, and 
 said but little when they formed the staple of con- 
 versation. 
 
 Even if, in three years of intimate, almost daily, 
 association with Rose, she had not learned to think 
 in some new directions on these bewildering ques- 
 tions, certain womanly instincts must have set a 
 seal upon her lips. Not for all the world would 
 she, to a stranger no, nor to any new friend ut- 
 ter a sentiment that could in the least degree give 
 color to the thought that she wished to throw even 
 the faintest shadow of blame on Hartley Emerson. 
 Not that she was ready to take blame to herself, 
 or give the impression that fault rested by her 
 door. No. The subject was sacred to herself, and
 
 STRUCK DOWN. 2-13 
 
 she asked no sympathy and granted no confidences. 
 There were those who sought to draw her out, who 
 watched her face and words with keen intentness 
 when certain themes were discussed. But they 
 were unable to reach the penetralia of her heart. 
 There was a chamber of record there into which no 
 one could enter but herself. 
 
 Since the separation of Irene from her husband, 
 Mr. Delancy had shown signs of rapid failure. 
 His heart was bound up in his daughter, who, with 
 all her captious self-will and impulsiveness, loved 
 him with a tenderness and fervor that never knew 
 change or eclipse. To see her make shipwreck of 
 life's dearest hopes to know that her name was 
 spoken by hundreds in reprobation to look daily 
 on her quiet, changing, suffering face, was more 
 than his fond heart could bear. It broke him 
 down. This fact, more perhaps, than her own sad 
 experiences, tended to sober the mind of Irene, 
 and leave it almost passive under the right influ- 
 ences of her wise young friend. 
 
 After the removal of Rose from the neighbor- 
 hood of Ivy Cliff, the health of Mr. Delancy failed 
 still more rapidly, and in a few months the brief 
 visits of Irene to her friend in New York had to be 
 intermitted. She could no longer venture to leave 
 her father, even under the care of their faithful 
 Margaret. A sad winter for Irene succeeded. Mr. 
 Delancy drooped about until after Christmas, in a 
 weary, listless way, taking little interest in any-
 
 244 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 thing, and bearing both physical and mental con- 
 sciousness as a burden it would be pleasant to lay 
 down. Early in January he had to give up and 
 go to bed; and now the truth of his condition 
 startled the mind of Irene and filled her with 
 alarm. By slow, insidious encroachments, that 
 dangerous enemy, typhoid fever, had gained a lodg- 
 ment in the very citadel of life, and boldly revealed 
 itself, defying the healer's art. For weeks the dim 
 light of mortal existence burned with a low, wav- 
 ering flame, that any sudden breath of air might 
 extinguish ; then it grew steady again, increased, 
 and sent a few brighter rays into the darkness 
 which had gathered around Ivy Cliff. 
 
 Spring found Mr. Delancy strong enough to sit, 
 propped up with pillows, by the window of his 
 chamber, and look out upon the newly-mantled 
 trees, the green fields, and the bright river flashing 
 in the sunshine. The heart of Irene took courage 
 again. The cloud which had lain upon it all 
 winter like a funereal pall dissolved, and went 
 floating away and wasting itself in dim expanses. 
 
 Alas, that all this sweet promise was but a 
 mockery of hope ! A sudden cold, how taken it 
 was almost impossible to tell for Irene guarded 
 her father as tenderly as if he were a new-born in- 
 fant disturbed life's delicate equipoise, and the 
 scale turned fatally the wrong way. 
 
 Poor Irene! She had only staggered under 
 former blows this one struck her down. Had
 
 STRUCK DOWN. 245 
 
 .ife anything to offer now ? " Nothing 1 nothing!" 
 she said in her heart, and prayed that she might 
 die and be at rest with her father. 
 
 Months of stupor followed this great sorrow ; 
 then her heart began to beat again with some in- 
 terest in life. There was one friend, almost her 
 only friend for she now repelled nearly every one 
 who approached her who never failed in hopeful, 
 comforting, stimulating words and offices, who 
 visited her frequently in her recluse life at Ivy 
 Cliff, and sought with untiring assiduity to win her 
 once more away from its dead seclusion. And she 
 was at last successful. In the winter after Mr. 
 Delancy's death, Irene, after much earnest per- 
 suasion, consented to pass a few weeks in the city 
 with Mrs. Everet. This gained, her friend was 
 certain of all the rest.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE HAUNTED VISION. 
 
 RADUALLY the mind of Irene attained 
 clearness of perception as to duty, and a 
 firmness of will that led her to act in obe- 
 dience to what reason and religion taught he* 
 was right. The leading idea which Mrs. Everet 
 endeavored to keep before her was this : that no 
 happiness is possible, except in some work that re- 
 moves self-consciousness and fills our minds with 
 an interest in the well-being of others. While 
 Kose was at Ivy Cliff, Irene acted with her, and 
 was sustained by her love and companionship. 
 After her marriage and removal to New York, 
 Irene was left to stand alone, and this tried her 
 strength. It was feeble. The sickness and deatn 
 of her father drew her back again into herself, and 
 for a time extinguished all interest in what was on 
 the outside. To awaken a new and higher life was 
 the aim of her friend, and she never wearied in her 
 generous efforts. During this winter plans were 
 matured for active usefulness in the old spher *-, 
 and Mrs. Everet promised to pass as much time in 
 the next summer with her father as possible, so as to 
 act with Irene in the development of these schemes. 
 
 246
 
 THE HAUXTED VISION. 247 
 
 The first warm days of summer found Irene 
 back again in her home at Ivy Cliff. Her visit in 
 New York had been prolonged far beyond the limit 
 assigned to it in the beginning, but Rose would not 
 consent to an earlier return. This winter of daily 
 life with Mrs. Everet, in the unreserved intercourse 
 of home, \vas of great use to Irene. Affliction had 
 mellowed all the harder portions of her disposition, 
 which the trouble and experiences of the past few 
 years could not reach with their softening influ- 
 ences. There was good soil in her mind, well 
 prepared, and the sower failed not in the work of 
 scattering good seed upon it with a liberal hand- 
 seed that felt soon a quickening life and swelled in 
 the delight of coming germination. 
 
 It is not our purpose to record the history of 
 Irene during the years of her discipline at Ivy 
 Cliff, where she lived, nun-like, for the larger part 
 of her time. She had useful work there, and in 
 its faithful performance peace came to her troubled 
 joul. Three or four times every year she paid a 
 visit to Rose, and spent on each occasion from pne 
 to three or four weeks. It could not but happen 
 that in these visits congenial friendships would 
 be made, and tender remembrances go back with 
 her into the seclusion of her country home, to 
 remain as sweet companions in her hours of lone- 
 liness. 
 
 It \vas something remarkable that, during the 
 six or seven years which followed Irene's separa-
 
 248 AFTER THE STOKM. 
 
 tion from her husband, she had never seen him. 
 He was still a resident of New York, and well 
 known as a rapidly advancing member of the bar. 
 Occasionally his name met her eyes in the newspa- 
 pers, as connected with some important suit; but, 
 beyond this, his life M^IS to her a dead letter. He 
 might be married again, for all she knew to the 
 contrary. But she never dwelt on that thought; 
 its intrusion always disturbed her, and that pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 And how was it with Hartley Emerson? Had 
 he again tried the experiment which once so sig- 
 nally failed? No; he had not ventured upon the 
 eea whose depths held the richest vessel he had 
 freighted in life. Visions of loveliness had floated 
 before him, and he had been lured by them, a few 
 time?, out of his beaten path. But he carried in 
 his memory a picture that, when his eyes turned 
 inward, held their gaze so fixedly that all other 
 images grew dim or unlovely. And so, with a 
 sigh, he would turn again to the old way and move 
 on as before. 
 
 But the past was irrevocable. " And shall I," 
 he began to say to himself, " for this* one great error 
 of my youth this blind mistake pass a desolate 
 and fruitless life?" 
 
 Oftener and oftener the question was repeated in 
 his thoughts, until it found answer in an emphatic 
 No ! Then he looked around with a new interest, 
 and went more into society. Soon one fair face
 
 THE HAUNTED VISION. 249 
 
 came more frequently before the eyes of his mind 
 than any other face, He saw it as he sat in his 
 law-office, saw it on the page of his book as he 
 read in the evening, lying over the printed words 
 and hiding from his thoughts their meaning ; saw 
 it in dreams. The face haunted him. How long 
 was this since that fatal night of discord and sepa- 
 ration ? Ten years. So long ? Yes, so long. 
 Ten weary years had made their record upon his 
 book of life and upon hers. Ten weary years! 
 The discipline of this time had not worked on 
 either any moral deterioration. Both were yet 
 sound to the core, and both were building up cha- 
 racters based on the broad foundations of virtue. 
 
 Steadily that face grew into a more living dis- 
 tinctness, haunting his daily thoughts and nightly 
 visions. Then new life-pulses began to throb in 
 his heart ; new emotions to tremble over its long 
 calm surface; new warmth to flow, spring-like, 
 into the indurated soil. This face, which had 
 begun thus to dwell with him, was the face of a 
 maiden, beautiful to look upon. He had met her 
 often during a year, and from the beginning of their 
 acquaintance she had interested him. If he erred 
 not, the interest was mutual. From all points of 
 view he now commenced studying her character. 
 Having made one mistake, he was fearful and 
 guarded. Better go on a lonely man to the end of 
 life than again have his love-freighted bark buried 
 in mid-ocean.
 
 250 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 At last, Emerson was satisfied. He had found 
 the sweet being whose life could blend in eternal 
 oneness with his own; and it only remained for 
 him to say to her in words what she had read as 
 plainly as written language in his eyes. So far as 
 she was concerned, no impediment existed. We 
 will not say that she was ripe enough in soul to 
 wed with this man, who had passed through expe- 
 riences of a kind that always develop the character 
 broadly and deeply. No, for such was not the case. 
 She was too young and inexperienced to understand 
 him ; too narrow in her range of thought ; too much 
 a child. But something in her beautiful, innocent, 
 sweet young face had won his heart; and in the 
 weakness of passion, not in the manly strength of 
 a deep love, he had boAved down to a shrine at 
 which he could never worship and be satisfied. 
 
 But even strong men are weak in woman's toils, 
 and Hartley Emerson was a captive. 
 
 There was to be a pleasure-party on one of the 
 steamers that cut the bright waters of the fair 
 Hudson, and Emerson and the maiden, whose face 
 was now his daily companion, were to be of the 
 number. He felt that the time had come for him 
 to speak if he meant to speak at all to say what 
 was in his thought, or turn aside and let another 
 woo and win the lovely being imagination had al- 
 ready pictured as the sweet companion of his future 
 home. The night that preceded this excursion was 
 a sleepless one for Hartley Emerson. Questions
 
 THE HAUNTED VISION. 251 
 
 and doubts, scarcely defined in his thoughts before, 
 pressed themselves upon him and demanded a 
 solution. The past came up with a vividness not 
 experienced for years. In states of semi-conscious- 
 ness half-sleeping, half-waking there returned to 
 him such life-like realizations of events long ago 
 recorded in his memory, and covered over with the 
 dust of time, that he started from them to full 
 wakefulness, with a heart throbbing in wild tumult. 
 Once there was presented so vivid a picture of Irene 
 that for some moments he was unable to satisfy 
 himself that all these ten years of loneliness were 
 not a dream. He saw her as she stood before him 
 on that ever-to-be-remembcred night and said, "1 
 go !" Let us turn back and read the record of her 
 appearance as he saw her then and now : 
 
 "She had raised her eyes from the floor, and 
 turned them full upon her husband. Her face was 
 not so pale. Warmth had come back to the deli- 
 cate skin, flushing it with beauty. She did not 
 stand before him an impersonation of anger, dislike 
 or rebellion. There was not a repulsive attitude 
 or^expression. No flashing of the eyes, nor even 
 the cold, diamond glitter seen a little while before. 
 Slowly turning away, she left the room. But to 
 her husband she seemed still standing there, a 
 lovely vision. There had fallen, in that instant of 
 time, a sunbeam, which fixed the image upon his 
 memory in imperishable colors." 
 
 Emerson groaned as he fell back upon his pillow
 
 252 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 and shut his eyes. What would he not then have 
 given for one full draught of Lethe's fabled waters. 
 
 Morning came at last, its bright beams dispers- 
 ing the shadows of night; and with it came back 
 the warmth of his new passion and his purpose on 
 that day, if the opportunity came, to end all doubt, 
 by offering the maiden his hand we do not say 
 heart, for of that he was not the full possessor. 
 
 The day opened charmingly, and the pleasure- 
 party were on the wing betimes. Emerson felt a 
 sense of exhilaration as the steamer passed out 
 from her moorings and glided w r ith easy grace 
 along the city front. He stood upon her deck 
 with a maiden's hand resting on his arm, the touch 
 of which, though light as the pressure of a flower, 
 was felt with strange distinctness. The shadows 
 of the night, which had brooded so darkly over 
 his spirit, were gone, and only a dim remembrance 
 of the gloom remained. Onward the steamer 
 glided, sweeping by the crowded line of buildings 
 and moving grandly along, through palisades of 
 rock on one side and picturesque landscapes on the 
 other, until bolder scenery stretched away and 
 mountain barriers raised themselves against the 
 blue horizon. 
 
 There was a large number of passengers on 
 board, scattered over the decks or lingering in the 
 cabins, as inclination prompted. The observer of 
 faces and character had field enough for study ; but 
 Hartley Emerson was not inclined to read in the
 
 THE HAUNTED VISION. 253 
 
 book of character on tins occasion. One subject 
 occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all others. 
 There had come a period that was full of interest 
 and fraught with momentous consequences which 
 must extend through all of his after years. He 
 saw little but the maiden at his side thought of 
 little but his purpose to ask her to walk with him, 
 a soul-companion, in the journey of life. 
 
 During the first hour there was a constant mov- 
 ing to and fro and the taking up of new positions 
 by the passengers a hum and buzz of conversa- 
 tion laughing exclamations gay talk and en- 
 thusiasm. Then a quieter tone prevailed. Solitary 
 individuals took places of observation ; groups 
 seated themselves in pleasant circles to chat, and 
 couples drew away into cabins or retired places, or 
 continued the promenade. 
 
 Among the latter were Emerson and his com- 
 panion. Purposely he had drawn the fair girl 
 away from their party, in order to get the oppor- 
 tunity he desired. He did not mean to startle her 
 with an abrupt proposal here, in the very eye of 
 observation, but to advance toward the object by 
 slow approaches, marking well the, effect of his 
 words, and receding the moment he saw that, in 
 beginning to comprehend him, her mind showed 
 repulsion or marked disturbance. 
 
 Thus it was with them when the boat entered 
 the Highlands and swept onward with wind-like 
 speed. They were in one of the gorgeously fur-
 
 254 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 nished cabins, rifting together on a sofa. There 
 had been earnest talk, but on some subject of taste. 
 Gradually Emerson changed the theme and began 
 approaching the one nearest to his heart. Slight 
 embarrassment followed; his voice took on a differ- 
 ent tone; it was lower, tenderer, more deliberate and 
 impressive. He leaned closer, and the maiden did 
 not retire; she understood him, and was waiting 
 the pleasure of his speech with heart-throbbings 
 that seemed as if they must be audible in his ears 
 as well as her own. 
 
 The time had come. Everything was propitious. 
 The words that would have sealed his fate and hers 
 were on his lips, when, looking up, he knew not 
 why, but under an impulse of the moment, he met 
 two calm eyes resting upon him with an expression 
 that sent the blood leaping back to his heart. Two 
 calm eyes and a pale, calm face were before him for 
 a moment ; then they vanished in the crowd. But 
 he knew them, though ten years lay between the 
 last vision and this. 
 
 The words that were on his lips died unspoken, 
 lie could not have uttered them if life or death 
 hung on the issue. No no no. A dead silence 
 followed. 
 
 <l Are you ill?" asked his companion, looking at 
 him anxiously. 
 
 " Xo, oh no," he replied, trying to rally himself. 
 
 " But you are illy Mr. Emerson. How pale your 
 face is!"
 
 THE HAUNTED VISION. 255 
 
 " It will pass off in a moment." He spoke with 
 an effort to appear self-possessed. " Let us go on 
 deck," he added, rising. " There are a great many 
 people in the cabin, and the atmosphere is -op- 
 pressive." 
 
 A dead weight fell upon the maiden's heart as 
 she arose and went on deck by the side of Mr. 
 Emerson. She had noticed his sudden pause and 
 glance across the cabin at the instant she was hold- 
 ing her breath for his next words, but did not 
 observe the object, a sight of which had wrought 
 on him so remarkable a change. They walked 
 nearly the entire length of the boat, after getting 
 on deck, before Mr. Emerson spoke. He then re- 
 marked on the boldness of the scenery and pointed 
 out interesting localities, but in so absent and pre- 
 occupied a way that his companion listened without 
 replying. In a little while he managed to get into 
 the neighborhood of three or four of their party, 
 with whom he left her, and, moving away, took a 
 position on the upper deck just over the gangway 
 from which the landings were made. Here he 
 remained until the boat came to at a pier on which 
 his feet had stepped lightly many, many times. 
 Ivy Cliff was only a little way distant, hidden 
 from view by a belt of forest trees. The pon- 
 derous machinery stood still, the plunging wheels 
 stopped their muffled roar, and in the brooding 
 silence that followed three or four persons stepped 
 on the plank which had been thrown out and passed
 
 256 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 to the shore. A single form alone fixed the eyes 
 of Hartley Emerson. He would have known it 
 on the instant among a thousand. It was that of 
 Irene. Her step was slow, like one abstracted in 
 mind or like one in feeble health. After gaining 
 the landing, she stood still and turned toward the 
 boat, when their eyes met again met, and held 
 each other by a spell which neither had power to 
 break. The fastenings were thrown off, the engi- 
 neer rung his bell ; there was a clatter of machinery, 
 a rush of waters and the boat glanced onward. 
 Then Irene started like one suddenly aroused from 
 Bleep and walked rapidly away. 
 
 And thus they met for the first time after a sepa- 
 ration of ten years.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL. 
 
 CLATTER of machinery, a rush of waters, 
 and the boat glanced onward ; but still Hart- 
 y Emerson stood motionless and statue-like, 
 h>s eyes fixed upon the shore, until the 
 swiftly gliding vessel bore him away, and the ob- 
 ject which had held his vision by a kind of fasci- 
 nation was concealed from view. 
 
 " An angel, if there ever was one on this side 
 of heaven !" said a voice close to his ear. Emer- 
 son gave a start and turned quickly. A man 
 plainly Pressed stood beside him. He was of mid- 
 dle age, and had a mild, grave, thoughtful counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Of tfhom do you speak ?" asked Emerson, not 
 able entirely to veil his surprise. 
 
 " Of the lady we saw go ashore at the landing 
 just now. She turned and looked at us. You 
 could rot help noticing her." 
 
 " Who is she ?" asked Emerson, and then held 
 his broath awaiting the answer. The question was 
 almost involuntary, yet prompted by a suddenly 
 awakened desire to hear the world's testimony in 
 regard to Irene. 
 
 17 267
 
 258 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " You don't know her, then ?" remarked the 
 st ranger. 
 
 " I asked \vho she was." Emerson intended to 
 Bay this firmly, but his voice was unsteady. "Let 
 us sit down," he added, looking around, and then 
 leading the way to where some unoccupied chairs 
 were standing. By the time they were seated he 
 had gained the mastery. over himself. 
 
 ' ; You don't know her, then ?" said the man, re- 
 peating his words. " She is well known about 
 these parts, I can assure you. Why, that was old 
 Mr. Delancy's daughter. Did you never hear of 
 her?" 
 
 " What about her?" was asked. 
 
 " Well, in the first place, she was married some 
 ten or twelve years ago to a lawyer down in New 
 York ; and, in the second place, they didn't live 
 very happily together why, I never heard. I 
 don't believe it was her fault, for she's the sweetest, 
 kindest, gentlest lady it has ever been my good 
 fortune to meet. Some people around Ivy Cliff 
 cuU her the ' Angel,' and the word has meaning in 
 it as applied to her. She left her husband, and he 
 gf.'t a divorce, but didn't charge anything wrong 
 against her. That, I suppose, was more thau he 
 dared to do, for a snow-flake is not purer." 
 
 " You have lived in the neighborhood ?" said 
 Emerson, keeping his face a little averted. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir. I have lived about here pretty 
 much all mv life."
 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL* 259 
 
 " Then you knew Miss Delancy before she was 
 married ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I can't say that I knew much about 
 her before that time. I used to see her now and 
 then as she rode about the neighborhood. She 
 was a gay, wild girl, sir. But that unhappy mar- 
 riage made a great change in her. I cannot forget 
 the first time I saw her after she came back to her 
 father's. She seemed to me older by many years 
 than when I last saw her, and looked like one just 
 recovered from a long and serious illness. The 
 brightness had passed from her face, the fire from 
 her eyes, the spring from her footsteps. I believe 
 she left her husband of her own accord, but I 
 never knew that she made any complaint against 
 him. Of course, people were very curious to know 
 why she had abandoned him. But her lips must 
 have been sealed, for only a little vague talk went 
 floating around. I never heard a breath of wrong 
 charged against him as coming from her." 
 
 Emerson's face was turned still more away from 
 his companion, his eyes bent down and his brows 
 firmly knit. He did not ask farther, but the man 
 was on a theme that interested him, and so con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " For most of the time since her return to Ivy 
 Cliff the life of Miss Delancy has been given to 
 Christian charities. The death of her father was 
 a heavy stroke, It took the life out of her for a 
 while. Since her recovery from that shock she has
 
 260 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 been constantly active among us in good deeds. 
 Poor sick women know the touch of her gentle 
 hand and the music of her voice. She has brought 
 gunlight into many wintry homes, and kindled 
 again on hearths long desolate the fires of loving 
 kindness. There must have been some lack of 
 true appreciation on the part of her husband, sir. 
 Bitter fountains do not send forth sweet waters 
 like these. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 " How should I know ?" replied Emerson, a 
 little coldly. The question was sprung upon him 
 so suddenly that his answer was given in confusion 
 of thought. 
 
 " We all have our opinions, sir," said the man, 
 " and this seems a plain case. I've heard said that 
 her husband was a hot-headed, self-willed, ill- 
 regulated young fellow, no more fit to get married 
 than to be President. That he didn't understand 
 the woman or, maybe, I should say child whom 
 he took for his wife is very certain, or he never 
 would have treated her in the way he did !" 
 
 " How did he treat her ?" asked Mr. Emerson. 
 
 " As to that," replied his talkative companion, 
 " we don't know anything certain. But we shall 
 not go far wrong in guessing that it was neither 
 wise nor considerate. In fact, he must have out- 
 raged her terribly." 
 
 " This, I presume, is the common impression 
 about Ivy Cliff?" 
 
 "No," said the man; "I've heard him well
 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL. 261 
 
 spoken of. The fact is, people are puzzled about 
 the matter. We can't just understand it. But, 
 I'm all on her side." 
 
 "I wonder she has not married again?" said 
 Emerson. " There are plenty of men who would 
 be glad to wed so perfect a being as you represent 
 her to be." 
 
 " She marry !" There was indignation and sur- 
 prise in the man's voice. 
 
 "Yes; why not?" 
 
 " Sir, she is a Christian woman !" 
 
 " I can believe that, after hearing your testimony 
 in regard to her," said Emerson. But he still kept 
 his face so much turned aside that its expression 
 could not be seen. 
 
 "And reads her Bible." 
 
 " As we all should." 
 
 " And, what is more, believes in it," said the man 
 emphatically. 
 
 " Don't all Christian people believe in the 
 Bible ?" asked Mr. Emerson. 
 
 " I suppose so, after a fashion ; and a very queer 
 fashion it is, sometimes." 
 
 " How does this lady of whom you speak be- 
 lieve in it differently from some others?" 
 
 " In this, that it means what it says on the sub- 
 ject of divorce." 
 
 "Oh, I understand. You think that if she 
 were to marry again it would be in the face of con- 
 scientious scruples ?"
 
 262 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 I do." 
 
 Mr. Emerson was about asking another question 
 when one of the party to which he belonged joined 
 him, and so the strange interview closed. He 
 bowed to the man with whom he had been con- 
 versing, and then passed to another part of the 
 boat. 
 
 With slow steps, that were unsteady from sud- 
 den weakness, Irene moved along the road that led 
 to her home. After reaching the grounds of Ivy 
 Cliff she turned aside into a small summer-house, 
 and sat down at one of the windows that looked 
 out upon the river as it stretched upward in its 
 gleaming way. The boat she had just left was al- 
 ready far distant, but it fixed her eyes, and they 
 saw no other object until it passed from view 
 around a wooded point of land. And still she sat 
 motionless, looking at the spot where it had van- 
 ished from her sight. 
 
 " Miss Irene !" exclaimed Margaret, the faithful 
 old domestic, who still bore rule at the homestead, 
 breaking in upon her reverie, " what in the world 
 are you doing here? I expected you up to-day, 
 and when the boat stopped at the landing and you 
 didn't come, I was uneasy and couldn't rest. Why, 
 child, what is the matter ? You're sick !" 
 
 " Oh no, Margaret, I'm well enough," said 
 Irene, trying to smile indifferently. And she arose 
 and left the summer-house. 
 
 Kind, observant old Margaret was far from L*-
 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL. 2G3 
 
 ing satisfied, however. She saw that Irene was not 
 as when she departed for the city a week before. 
 If she were not sick in body, she was troubled in 
 her mind, for her countenance was so changed that 
 she could not look upon it without feeling a pang 
 in her heart. 
 
 " I'm sure you're sick, Miss Irene," she said, as 
 they entered the house. " Now, what is the mat- 
 ter? What can I do or get for you? Let me 
 send over for Dr. Edmondson ?" 
 
 " No, no, my good Margaret, don't think of 
 such a thing," replied Irene. " I'm not sick." 
 
 "Something's the matter with you, child," per- 
 sisted Margaret. * 
 
 " Nothing that won't cure itself," said Irene, 
 trying to speak cheerfully. " I'll go up to my 
 room for a little while." 
 
 And she turned away from her kind-hearted do- 
 mestic. On entering her chamber Irene locked the 
 door in order to be safe from intrusion, for she 
 knew that Margaret would not let half an hour 
 pas without coming up to ask How she was. Sit- 
 ting down by the window, she looked out upon the 
 river, along whose smooth surface had passed the 
 vessel in which, a little while before, she met the 
 man once called by the name of husband met 
 him and looked into his face for the first time in 
 ten long years ! The meeting had disturbed her 
 profoundly. In the cabin of that vessel she had 
 Been him by the side of a fair young girl in earn-
 
 264 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 est conversation; aud she had watched with a 
 strange, fluttering interest the play of his features. 
 What was he saying to that fair young girl that 
 she listened with such a breathless, waiting air? 
 Suddenly he turned toward her, their eyes met and 
 were spell-bound for moments. What did she read 
 in his eyes in those brief moments? What did he 
 read in hers? Both questions pressed themselves 
 upon her thoughts as she retreated among the 
 crowd of passengers, and then hid herself from the 
 chance of another meeting until the boat reached 
 the landing at Ivy Cliff. Why did she pause on 
 the shore, and turn to look upon the crowded 
 decks ? She knew not. The act was involuntary. 
 Again their eyes met met and held each other 
 until the receding vessel placed dim distance be- 
 tween them. 
 
 In less than half an hour Margaret's hand was 
 on the door, but she could not enter. Irene had 
 not moved from her place at the window in all 
 that time. 
 
 " Is that you, Margaret ?" she called, starting 
 from her abstraction. 
 
 " Do you want anything, Miss Irene ?" 
 
 " No, thank you, Margaret." 
 
 She answered in as cheerful a tone as she could 
 assume, and the kind old waiting-woman retired. 
 
 From that time every one noted a change in 
 Irene. But none knew, or even guessed, its cause 
 or meaning. Not even to her friend, Mrs. Everet,
 
 THE MINISTERING ANGEL. .265 
 
 did she speak of her meeting with Hartley Emer- 
 scm. Her face did not light up as before, and her 
 eyes seemed always as if looking inward or gazing 
 dreamily upon something afar off. Yet in good 
 deeds she failed not. If her own heart was heavier, 
 she made other hearts lighter by her presence. 
 
 And still the years went on in their steady re- 
 volutions one, two, three, four, five more years, 
 and in all that time the parted ones did not meet 
 again.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 
 
 SAW Mr. Emerson yesterday," said Mrs. 
 Everet. She was sitting with Irene in her 
 own house in New York. 
 
 " Did you ?" Irene spoke evenly and 
 quietly, but did not turn her face toward Mrs. 
 Everet. 
 
 " Yes. I saw him at my husband's store. Mr. 
 Everet has engaged him to conduct an important 
 suit, in which many thousands of dollars are at 
 stake." 
 
 u How does he look ?" inquired Irene, without 
 showing any feeling, but still keeping her face 
 turned from Mrs. Everet. 
 
 " Well, I should say, though rather too much 
 frosted for a man of his years." 
 
 " Gray, do you mean ?" Irene manifested some 
 surprise. 
 
 " Yes ; his hair and beard are quite sprinkled 
 with time's white snow-flakes." 
 
 " He is only forty," remarked Irene. 
 
 "I should say fifty, judging from his appear- 
 ance." 
 
 " Only forty." And a faint sigh breathed on the
 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 267 
 
 lips of Irene. She did not look around at her 
 friend, but sat very still, with her face turned 
 partly away. Mrs. Everet looked at her closely, 
 to read, if possible, what was passing in her mind. 
 But the countenance of Irene was too much hid- 
 den. Her attitude, however, indicated iutentness 
 of thought, though not disturbing thought. 
 
 " Rose," she said at length, " I grow less at peace 
 with myself as the years move onward." 
 
 "You speak from some passing state of mind," 
 suggested Mrs. Everet. 
 
 " No; from a gradually forming permanent state. 
 Ten years ago I looked back upon the past in a 
 stern, self-sustaining, martyr-spirit. Five years 
 ago all things wore a different aspect. I began to 
 have misgivings; I could not so clearly make out 
 my case. New thoughts on the subject and not 
 very welcome ones began to intrude. I was self- 
 convicted of wrong ; yes, Rose, of a great and an ir- 
 reparable wrong. I shut my eyes ; I tried to look 
 in other directions ; but the truth, once seen, could 
 not pass from the range of mental vision. I have 
 never told you that I saw Mr. Emerson five years 
 ago. The effect of that meeting was such that I 
 could not speak of it, even to you. We met on 
 one of the river steamboats met and looked into 
 each other's eyes for just a moment. It may only 
 be- a fancy of mine, but I have thought sometimes 
 that, but for this seemingly accidental meeting, he 
 would have married again."
 
 268 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 " Why do you think so ?" asked Mrs. Everet, 
 
 Irene did not answer for some moments. Sh 
 hardly dared venture to put what she had seen in 
 words. It was something that she felt more like 
 hiding even from her own consciousness, if that 
 were possible. But, having ventured so far, she 
 could not well hold back. So she replied, keeping 
 her voice into as dead a level as it was possible to 
 assume : 
 
 " He was sitting in earnest conversation with a 
 young lady, and from the expression of her face, 
 which I could see, the subject on which he was 
 speaking was evidently one in \vhich more than 
 her thought was interested. I felt at the time 
 that he was on the verge of a new life-ex peri men t 
 was about venturing upon a sea on which he had 
 once made shipwreck. Suddenly he turned half 
 around and looked at me before I had time to 
 withdraw my eyes looked at me with a strange, 
 surprised, startled look. In another moment a 
 form came between us ; when it passed I was lost 
 from his gaze in the crowd of passengers. I have 
 puzzled myself a great many times over that fact 
 of his turning his eyes, as if from some hidden 
 impulse, just to the spot where I was sitting. 
 There are no accidents as I have often heard you 
 say in the common acceptation of the term ; 
 therefore this was no accident." 
 
 " It was a providence," said .Rose. 
 
 " And to what end ?" asked Irene.
 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 269 
 
 Mrs. EverM; shook her head 
 
 " I will not even presume to conjecture." 
 
 Irene sighed, and then sat lost in thought. Re- 
 covering herself, she said : 
 
 " Since that time I have been growing less and 
 less satisfied with that brief, troubled portion of my 
 life which closed so disastrously. I forgot how 
 much the happiness of another was involved. A 
 blind, willful girl, struggling in imaginary bonds, 
 I thought only of myself, and madly rent apart 
 the ties which death only should have sundered. 
 For five years, Rose, I have carried in my heart 
 the expression which looked out upon me from the 
 eves of Mr. Emerson at that brief meeting. Its 
 meaning was not then, nor is it now, clear. I have 
 never set myself to the work of interpretation, and 
 believe the task would be fruitless. But whenever 
 it is recalled I am affected with a tender sadness. 
 And so his head is already frosted, Rose?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Though in years he has reached only manhood's 
 ripened state. How I have marred his life! Bet- 
 ter, far better, would it have been for him if 
 I had been the bride of Death on my wedding- 
 day!" 
 
 A shadow of pain darkened her face. 
 
 "No," replied Mrs. Everet; "it is better for 
 both you and him that you were not the bride of 
 Death. There are deeper things hidden in the 
 events of life than our reason can fathom. W
 
 270 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 die when it is best for ourselves and best for others 
 that we should die never before. And the fact 
 that we live is in itself conclusive that we are yet 
 needed in the world by all who can be affected by 
 our mortal existence." 
 
 " Gray hairs at forty !" This seemed to haunt 
 the mind of Irene. 
 
 " It may be constitutional/' suggested Mrs. Ev- 
 eret; "some heads begin to whiten at thirty." 
 
 " Possibly." 
 
 But the tone expressed no conviction. 
 
 " How was his face ?" asked Irene. 
 
 " Grave and thoughtful. At least so it appeared 
 to me." 
 
 " At forty." Jt was all Irene said. 
 
 Mrs. Everet might have suggested that a man 
 of his legal position would naturally be grave and 
 thoughtful, but she did not. 
 
 " It struck me," said Mrs. Everet, " as a true, 
 pure, manly face. It was intellectual and refined ; 
 delicate, yet firm about the mouth and expansive 
 in the upper portions. The hair curled softly away 
 from his white temples and forehead." 
 
 " Worthy of a better fate !" sighed Irene. " And 
 it is I who have marred his whole life ! How blind 
 is selfish passion ! Ah, my friend, the years do not 
 bring peace to my soul. There have been times 
 when to know that he had sought refuge from a 
 lonely life in marriage would have been a relief to 
 ine. Were this the case, the thought of his isola-
 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 271 
 
 tion, of his imperfect life, would not be for ever 
 rebuking me. But now, while no less severely 
 rebufked by this thought, I feel glad that lie has 
 not ventured upon an act no clear sanction for 
 which is found in the Divine law. He could not, 
 I feel, have remained so true and pure a man as 1 
 trust he is this day. God help him to hold on, 
 faithful to his highest intuitions, even unto the 
 end." 
 
 Mrs, Everet looked at Irene wonderingly as she 
 S]K>ke, She had never before thus unveiled her 
 thoughts, 
 
 " He struck me," was her reply, " as a man who 
 had passed through years of discipline and gained 
 the mastery of himself." 
 
 " I trust that it may be so," Irene answered, 
 rather as if speaking to herself than to another. 
 
 "As I grow older," she added, after a long 
 pause, now looking with calm eyes upon her 
 friend, "and life-experiences correct my judgment 
 and chasten my feelings, I see all things in a new 
 aspect. I understand my own heart letter its 
 needs, capacities and yearnings ; and self-know- 
 ledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery 
 of other souls. So a deeper self-acquaintance en- 
 ables me to look deeper into the hearts of all around 
 me, I erred in marrying Mr. Emerson. We were 
 both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights 
 and opinions to come together in a union so sacred 
 and so intimate. But, after I had become his wife,
 
 272 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 after I had taken upon myself such holy vow.*, it 
 was my duty to stand fast. I could not abandon 
 my place and be innocent before God and man. 
 And I am not innocent, Rose." 
 
 The face of Irene was strongly agitated for some 
 moments ; but she recovered herself and went on : 
 
 "I am speaking of things that have hitherto 
 been secrets of my own heart. I could not bring 
 them out even for you to look at, my dearest, 
 truest, best of friends. Now it seems as if I could 
 not bear the weight of my heavy thoughts alone ; 
 as if, in admitting you beyond the veil, I might 
 find strength to suffer, if not ease from pain. There 
 is no such thing as living our lives over again and 
 correcting their great errors. The past is an irrevo- 
 cable fact. Ah, if conscience would sleep, if strug- 
 gles for a better life would make atonement for 
 wrong then, as our years progress, we might lapse 
 into tranquil states. But gradually clearing vision 
 increases the magnitude of a fault like mine, for 
 its fatal consequences are seen in broader light. 
 There is a thought which has haunted me for a 
 year past like a spectre. It comes to me unbidden ; 
 sometimes to disturb the quiet of my lonely even- 
 ings, sometimes in the silent night-watches to 
 banish sleep from my pillow ; sometimes to place 
 silence on my lips as I sit among cherished friends. 
 I never imagined that I would put this thought in 
 words for any mortal ear ; yet it is coming to my 
 lips now, and I feel impelled to go on. You be>-
 
 BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 273 
 
 lieve that there are, as you call them, ' conjugal 
 partners/ or men and women born for each other, 
 who, in a true marriage of souls, shall become eter- 
 nally one. They do not always meet in this life ; 
 nay, for the sake of that discipline which leads to 
 purification, may form other and uncongenial ties 
 in the world, and live unhappily ; but in heaven 
 they will draw together by a divinely-implanted 
 attraction, and be there united for ever. I have 
 felt that something like this must be true; that 
 every soul must have its counterpart. The thought 
 which has so haunted me is, that Hartley Emerson 
 and unhappy I were born for each other." 
 
 She paused and looked with a half-startled air 
 upon Mrs. Everet to mark the effect of this reve- 
 lation. But Rose made no response and showed 
 no surprise, however she might have been affected 
 by the singular admission of her friend. 
 
 " It has been all in vain," continued Irene, "that 
 I have pushed the thought aside called it absurd, 
 insane, impossible back it would come and take 
 its old place. And, stranger still, out of facts that 
 I educed to prove its fallacy would come corrobo- 
 rative suggestions. I think it is well for my peace 
 of mind that I have not been in the way of hear- 
 ing about him or of seeing him. Since we parted 
 it has been as if a dark curtain had fallen between 
 us ; and, so far as I am concerned, that curtain has 
 been lifted up but once or twice, and then only for 
 a moment of time. So all my thoughts of him are 
 13
 
 274 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 joined to the past. Away back in that sweet lima, 
 when the heart of girlhood first thrills with the 
 passion of love are some memories that haunt my 
 soul like dreams from Elysium. He was, in my 
 eyes, the impersonation of all that was lovely and 
 excellent ; his presence made my sense of happiness 
 complete ; his voice touched my ears as the blend- 
 ing of all rich harmonies. But there fell upon him 
 a shadow ; there came hard discords in the masic 
 which had entranced my soul; the fine gold was 
 dimmed. Then came that period of mad strife, of 
 blind antagonism, in which we hurt each other bj 
 rough contact. Finally, we were driven far asun- 
 der, and, instead of revolving together around a 
 common centre, each has moved in a separate orbit. 
 For years that dark period of pain has held the 
 former period of brightness in eclipse ; but of late 
 gleams from that better time have made their way 
 down to the present. Gradually the shadows are 
 giving away. The first state is coming to be felt 
 more and more as the true state as that in best 
 agreement with what we are in relation to each 
 other. It was the evil in us that met in such fatal 
 antagonism not the good ; it was something that 
 we must put off if we would rise from natural and 
 selfish life into spiritual and heavenly life. It was 
 our selfishness and passion that drove us asunder. 
 Thus it is, dear Rose, that my thoughts have been 
 wandering about in the maze of life that entangle* 
 ae. In my isolation I have time enough for men-
 
 ORN FOR EACH OTHER. 275 
 
 tal inversion for self-exploration for idle fancies, 
 if you will. And so I have lifted the veil for you ; 
 uncovered my inner life; taken you into the sanc- 
 tuary over whose threshold no foot but my own 
 had ever passed." 
 
 There was too much in all this for Mrs. Everet 
 to venture upon any reply that involved suggestion 
 or advice. It was from a desire tc look deeper into 
 the heart of her friend that she had spoken of her 
 meeting with Mr. Emerson. The glance she ob- 
 tained revealed far more than her imagination had 
 ever reached.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 
 
 fHE brief meeting with Mrs. Everet had stirred 
 the memory of old times in the heart of Mr. 
 Emerson. With a vividness unknown foi 
 years, Ivy Cliff and the sweetness of many 
 lite-passages there came back to him, and set heart- 
 pulses that he had deemed stilled for ever beating 
 iii tumultuous waves. When the business of the 
 day was over he sat down in the silence of his 
 chamber and turned his eyes inward. He pushed 
 aside intervening year after year, until the long-ago 
 past was, to his consciousness, almost as real as the 
 living present. What he saw moved him deeply. 
 He grew restless, then showed disturbance of man- 
 ner. There was an effort to turn away from the 
 haunting fascination of this long-buried, but now 
 exhumed period ; but the dust and scoria were 
 removed, and it lifted, like another Pompeii, its 
 desolate walls and silent chambers in the clear 
 noon-rays of the present. 
 
 After a long but fruitless effort to bury the past 
 again, to let the years close over it as the waves 
 close over a treasure-laden ship, Mr. Emerson gave 
 himself up to its thronging memories and let them 
 bear him whither they would. 
 
 27
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 277 
 
 In this state of mind he unlocked one of the 
 lowers in a secretary and took therefrom a small 
 box or casket. Placing this on a table, he sat down 
 and looked at it for some minutes, as if in doubt 
 whether it were best for him to go further in this 
 direction. Whether satisfied or not, he presently 
 laid his fingers upon the lid of the casket and 
 slowly opened it. It contained only a morocco 
 case. He touched this as if it were something 
 precious and sacred. For some moments after it 
 was removed he sat holding it in his hand and 
 looking at the dark, blank surface, as a long- 
 expected letter is sometimes held before the seal is 
 broken and the contents devoured with impatient 
 eagerness. At last his finger pressed the spring 
 on which it had been resting, and he looked upon 
 a young, sweet face, whose eyes gazed back into his 
 with a living tenderness. In a little while his 
 hand so trembled, and his eyes grew so dim, that 
 the face was veiled from his sight. Closing the 
 miniature, but still retaining it in his hand, he 
 leaned back in his chair and remained motionless, 
 with shut eyes, for a long time ; then he looked at 
 the fair young face again, conning over every fea- 
 ture and expression, until sad memories came in 
 and veiled it again with tears. 
 
 " Folly ! weakness !" he said at last, pushing the 
 picture from him and making a feeble effort to get 
 back his manly self-possession. " The past is gone 
 for ever. The page on which its sad history is
 
 278 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 written was closed long ago, and the book is sealed. 
 Why unclasp the volume and search for that dark 
 record again ?" 
 
 Yet, even as he said this, his hand reached out 
 for the miniature, and his eyes were on it ere the 
 closing words had parted from his lips. 
 
 " Poor Irene I" he murmured, as he gazed on her 
 pictured face. "You had a pure, tender, loving 
 heart " then, suddenly shutting the miniature, 
 with a sharp click of the spring, he tossed it from 
 him upon the table and said, 
 
 "This is folly! folly! folly!" and, leaning back 
 in his chair, he shut his eyes and sat for a long 
 time with his brows sternly knitted together and 
 his lips tightly compressed. Rising, at length, he 
 restored the miniature to its casket, and the casket 
 to its place in the drawer. A servant came to the 
 door at this moment, bringing the compliments of 
 a lady friend, who asked him, if not engaged, to 
 favor her with his company on that evening, as she 
 had a visitor, just arrived, to whom she wished to 
 introduce him. He liked the lady, who was the 
 wife of a legal friend, very well ; but he was not 
 always so well pleased with her lady friends, of 
 whom she had a large circle. The fact was, she 
 considered him too fine a man to go through life 
 companionless, and did not hesitate to use every 
 art in her power to draw him into an entangling 
 alliance. He saw this, and was often more amused 
 than annoyed by her finesse.
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 279 
 
 It was on his lips to send word that he was en- 
 gaged, but a regard for truth would not let him 
 make this excuse ; so, after a little hesitation and 
 debate, he answered that he would present himself 
 during the evening. The lady's visitor was a 
 widow of about thirty years of age rich, edu- 
 cated, accomplished and personally attractive. She 
 was from Boston, and connected with one of the 
 most distinguished families in Massachusetts, whose 
 line of ancestry ran back among the nobles of Eng- 
 land. In conversation this lady showed herself to 
 be rarely gifted, and there was a charm about her 
 manners that was irresistible. Mr. Emerson, who 
 had been steadily during the past five years grow- 
 ing less and less attracted by the fine women he 
 met in society, found himself unusually interested 
 in Mrs. Eager. 
 
 " I knew you would like her," said his lady 
 friend, as Mr. Emerson was about retiring at 
 eleven o'clock. 
 
 " You take your conclusion for granted," he an- 
 swered, smiling. " Did I say that I liked her ?" 
 
 " We ladies have eyes," was the laughing rejoin- 
 der. "Of course you like her. She's going to 
 spend three or four days with me. You'll drop in 
 to-morrow evening. Now don't pretend that you 
 have an engagement. Come ; I want you to know 
 her better. I think her charming," 
 
 Mr, Emerson did not promise positively, but 
 said that he might look in during the evening.
 
 280 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 For a new acquaintance, Mrs. Eager had attracted 
 him strongly; and his thoughtful friend was not 
 disappointed in her expectation of seeing him at 
 her house on the succeeding night. Mrs. Eager, tc 
 whom the lady she was visiting had spoken of Mr. 
 Emerson in terms of almost extravagant eulogy, 
 was exceedingly well pleased with him, and much 
 gratified at meeting him again. A second inter- 
 view gave both an opportunity for closer observa- 
 tion, and when they parted it was with pleasant 
 thoughts of each other lingering in their minds. 
 During the time that Mrs. Eager remained in New 
 York, which was prolonged for a week beyond the 
 period originally fixed, Mr. Emerson saw her al- 
 most every day, and became her voluntary escort in 
 visiting points of local interest. The more he saw 
 of her the more he was charmed with her charac- 
 ter. She seemed in his eyes the most attractive 
 woman he had ever met. Still, there was some- 
 thing about her that did not wholly satisfy him/ 
 though what it was did not come into perception. 
 
 Five years had passed since any serious thought 
 of marriage had troubled the mind of Mr. Emer- 
 son. After his meeting with Irene he had felt that 
 another union in this world was not for him that 
 he had no right to exchange vows of eternal fidelity 
 with any other woman. She had remained unwed- 
 ded, and would so remain, he felt, to the end of her 
 life. The legal contract between them was dis- 
 solved ; but, since h's brief talk with the stranger
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 281 
 
 >n the boat, he had not felt so clear as to the higher 
 law obligations which were upon them. And so 
 he had settled it in his mind to bear life's burdens 
 alone. 
 
 But Mrs. Eager had crossed his way, and filled, 
 in many respects, his ideal of a woman. There 
 was a charm about her that won him against all 
 resistance. 
 
 " Don't let this opportunity pass," said his inter- 
 ested lady friend, as the day of Mrs. Eager's de- 
 parture drew nigh. "She is a woman in a thousand, 
 and will make one of the best of wives. Think, 
 too, of her social position, her wealth and her large 
 cultivation. An opportunity like this is never pre- 
 sented more than once in a lifetime." 
 
 " You speak," replied Mr. Emerson, " as if I 
 had only to say the word and this fair prize would 
 drop into my arms." 
 
 "She will have to be wooed if she is won. 
 Were this not the case she would not be worth 
 having," said the lady. " But my word for it, if 
 you turn wooer the winning will not be hard. If 
 I have not erred in my observation, you are about 
 mutually interested. There now, my cautious sir, 
 if you do not get handsomely provided for, it will 
 be no fault of mine." 
 
 In two days from this time Mrs. Eager was to 
 return to Boston. 
 
 " You must take her to see those new paintings 
 at the rooms of the Society Library to-morrow. I
 
 282 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 heard her express a desire to examine them before 
 returning to Boston. Connoisseurs are in ecstasies 
 over three or four of the pictures, and, as Mrs. 
 Eager is something of an enthusiast in matters of 
 art, your favor in this will give her no light 
 pleasure." 
 
 " I shall be most happy to attend her," replied 
 Mr. Emerson. " Give her my compliments, and 
 say that, if agreeable to herself, I will call for her 
 at twelve to-morrow." 
 
 " No verbal compliments and messages," replied 
 the lady; "that isn't just the way." 
 
 " How then ? Must I call upon her and deliver 
 my message? That might not be convenient to 
 me nor agreeable to her." 
 
 " Oh !" ejaculated the lady, with affected impa- 
 tience, " you men are so stupid at times ! You know 
 how to write ?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, I comprehend you now." 
 
 " Very well. Send your compliments and your 
 message in a note ; and let it be daintily worded ; 
 not in heavy phrases, like a legal document." 
 
 "A very princess in feminine diplomacy!" said 
 Mr. Emerson to himself, as he turned from the 
 lady and took his way homeward. " So I must 
 pen a note." 
 
 Now this proved a more difficult matter than he 
 had at first thought. He sat down to the task im- 
 mediately on returning to his room. On a small 
 sheet of tinted note-paper he wrote a few words,
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 283 
 
 but they did not please him, and the page was 
 thrown into the fire. He tried again, but with no 
 better success again and again ; but still, as he 
 looked at the brief sentences, they seemed to ex- 
 press too much or too little. Unable to pen the 
 note to his satisfaction, he pushed, at last, his 
 writing materials aside, saying, 
 
 " My head will be clearer and cooler in the 
 morning." 
 
 It was drawing on to midnight, and Mr. Emer- 
 son had not yet retired. His thoughts were too 
 busy for sleep. Many things were crowding into 
 his mind questions, doubts, misgivings scenes 
 from the past and imaginations of the future. 
 And amid them all came in now and then, just for 
 a moment, as he had seen it five years before, the 
 pate, still face of Irene. 
 
 \V earied in the conflict, tired nature at last gave 
 woy, and Mr. Emerson fell asleep in his chair. 
 Two hours of deep slumber tranquilized his spirit. 
 He awoke from this, put off his clothing and laid 
 his head on his pillow. It was late in the morn- 
 ing when he arose. He had no difficulty now in 
 penning a note to Mrs. Eager. It was the work 
 of a moment, and satisfactory to him in the first 
 effort. 
 
 At twelve he called with a carriage for the lady, 
 whom he found all ready to accompany him, and 
 in the best possible state of mind. Her smile, as 
 he presented himself, was absolutely fascinating'
 
 284 AFTER THE STOKM. 
 
 and her voice seemed like a freshly-tuned instru- 
 ment, every tone was so rich in musical vibration, 
 and all the tones came chorded to his ear. 
 
 There were not many visitors at the exhibition 
 rooms a score, perhaps but they were art-lovers, 
 gazing in rapt attention or talking in hushed whis- 
 pers. They moved about noiselessly here and 
 there, seeming scarcely conscious that others were 
 present. Gradually the number increased, until 
 within an hour after they entered it was more than 
 doubled. Still, the presence of art subdued all 
 into silence or subdued utterances. 
 
 Emerson was charmed with his companion's ap- 
 preciative admiration of many pictures. She was 
 familiar with art-terms and special points of in- 
 terest, and pointed out beauties and harmonies that 
 to him were dead letters without an interpreter. 
 They came, at last, to a small but wonderfully 
 effective picture, which contained a single figure, 
 that of a man sitting by a table in a room which 
 presented the appearance of a library. Pie held a 
 letter in his hand an old letter; the artist had 
 made this plain but was not reading. He had 
 been reading ; but the words, proving conjurors, 
 had summoned the dead past before him, and he 
 was now looking far away, with sad, dreamy eyes, 
 into the long ago. A casket stood open. The 
 letter had evidently been taken from this reposi- 
 tory. There was a miniature; a bracelet of auburn 
 hair ; a ring and a chain of gold lying on the ta-
 
 LOVE yEVER DIES. 285 
 
 ble. Mr. Emerson turned to the catalogue an<? 
 read, 
 
 " WITH THE BURIED PAST." 
 
 And below this title the brief sentiment 
 
 " Love never dies." 
 
 A deep, involuntary sigh came through his lips 
 and stirred the pulseless air around him. Then, 
 like an echo, there came to his ears an answering 
 sigh, and, turning, he looked into the face of Irene! 
 She had entered the rooms a little while before, 
 and in passing from picture to picture had reached 
 this one a few moments after Mr. Emerson. She 
 had not observed him, and was just beginning to 
 feel its meaning, when the sigh that attested its 
 power over him reached her ears and awakened an 
 answering sigh. For several moments their eyes 
 were fixed in a gaze which neither had power to 
 withdraw. The face of Irene had grown thinner, 
 paler and more shadowy if we may use that term 
 to express something not of the earth, earthy than 
 it was when he looked upon it five years before. 
 But her eyes were darker in contrast with her 
 colorless face, and had a deeper tone of feeling. 
 
 They did not speak nor pass a sign of recog- 
 nition. But the instant their eyes withdrew from 
 each other Irene turned from the picture and left 
 the rooms. 
 
 When Mr. Emerson looked back into the face 
 of his companion, its charm was gone. Beside 
 hat of the fading countenance, so still and nun-
 
 286 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 like, upon which he had gazed a moment before, 
 it looked coarse and worldly. When she spoke, 
 her tones no longer came in chords of music to his 
 ears, but jarred upon his feelings. He grew 
 silent, cold, abstracted. The lady noted the change, 
 and tried to rally him ; but her efforts were vain. 
 He moved by her side like an automaton, and 
 listened to her comments on the pictures they 
 paused to examine in such evident absent-minded- 
 ness that she became annoyed, and proposed re- 
 turning home. Mr. Emerson made no objection, 
 and- they left the quiet picture-gallery for the tur- 
 bulence of Broadway. The ride home was a silent 
 one, and they separated in mutual embarrassment, 
 Mr. Emerson going back to his rooms instead of 
 to his office, and sitting down in loneliness there, 
 with a shuddering sense of thankfulness at bis 
 heart for the danger he had just escaped. 
 
 " What a blind spell was on me !" he said, as he 
 gazed away down into his soul far, far deeper than 
 any tone or look from Mrs. Eager had penetrated 
 and saw needs, states and yearnings there which 
 must be filled or there could be no completeness 
 of life. And now the still, pale face of Irene 
 stood out distinctly ; and her deep, weird, yearn- 
 ing eyes looked into his with a fixe intent- 
 ness that stirred his heart to its profoundest 
 depths. 
 
 Mr. Emerson was absent from his office all that 
 day. Bat on the next morning he was at his post,
 
 LOVE NEVER DIES. 287 
 
 and it would have taken a close observer to have 
 detected any change in his usually quiet face. But 
 there was a change in the man a great change. 
 He had gone down deeper into his heart than he 
 had ever gone before, and understood himself bet- 
 ter. There was little danger of his ever being 
 tempted again in this direction.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 EFFECTS OF THE STORM. 
 
 *j|f T was more than a week before Mr. Emerson 
 
 II called again upon the lady friend who had 
 J| shown so strong a desire to procure him a 
 wife. He expected her to introduce the name 
 of Mrs. Eager, and came prepared to talk in a way 
 that would for ever close the subject of marriage 
 between them. The lady expressed surprise at not 
 having seen him for so long a time, and then in 
 troduced the subject nearest her thought. 
 
 " What was the matter with you and Mrs 
 Eager ?" she asked, her face growing serious. 
 
 Mr. Emerson shook his head, and said, "No- 
 thing," with not a shadow of concern in his voice. 
 
 "Nothing? Think again. I could hardly have 
 been deceived." 
 
 " Why do you ask? Did the lady charge any- 
 thing ungallant against me?" 
 
 Mr. Emerson was unmoved. 
 
 " Oh no, no ! She scarcely mentioned your 
 name after her return from viewing the pictures. 
 But she was not in so bright a humor as when she 
 went out, and was dull up to the hour of her de- 
 parture for Boston. I'm afraid you offended her 
 
 288
 
 EFFECTS OF THE STORM. 289 
 
 in some way unconsciously on your part, of 
 course." 
 
 " Xo, I think not," said Mr. Emerson. " She 
 would be sensitive in the extreme if offended by 
 any word or act of mine." 
 
 u Well, letting that ail pass, Mr. Emerson, 
 what do you think of Mrs. Eager ?" 
 
 " That she is an attractive and highly accom- 
 plished woman." 
 
 " And the one who reaches your ideal of a wife?" 
 
 " No, ma'am," was the unhesitating answer, and 
 made in so emphatic a tone that there was no mis- 
 taking his sincerity. There was a change in his 
 countenance and manner. He looked unusually 
 serious. 
 
 The lady tried to rally him, but he had come 
 in too sober a state of mind for pleasant trifling on 
 this subject, of all others. 
 
 " My kind, good friend," he said, " I owe you 
 many thanks for the interest you have taken in 
 me, and for your efforts to get me a companion. 
 But I do not intend to marry." 
 
 " So you have said " 
 
 " Pardon me for interrupting you." Mr. Emer- 
 son checked the light speech that was on her tongue. 
 " I am going to say to you some things that have 
 never passed my lips before. You will understand 
 me ; this I know, or I would not let a sentence 
 tome into utterance. And I know more, that you 
 will not make light of what to me is sacred."
 
 290 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 The lady was sobered in a moment. 
 
 " To make light of what to you is sacred would 
 be impossible," she replied. 
 
 " I believe it, and therefore I am going to speak 
 of things that are to me the saddest of my life, 
 and yet are coming to involve the holiest senti- 
 ments. I have more than one reason for desiring 
 now to let another look below 7 the quiet surface ; 
 and I will lift the veil for your eyes alone. You 
 know that I was married nearly twenty years ago, 
 and that my wife separated herself from me in less 
 than three years after our union ; and you also 
 know that the separation was made permanent by 
 a divorce. This is all that you or any other one 
 knows, so far as I have made communication on the 
 subject ; and I have reason to believe that she who 
 was my wife has been as reserved in the matter as 
 myself. 
 
 " The simple facts in the case are these : We 
 were both young and undisciplined, both quick- 
 tempered, self-willed, and very much inclined to 
 have things our own way. She was an only child, 
 and so was I. Each had been spoiled by long self- 
 indulgence. So, when we came together in mar- 
 riage, the action of our lives, instead of taking a 
 common pulsation, was inharmonious. For a few 
 years we strove together blindly in our bonds, and 
 then broke madly asunder. J think we were about 
 equally in fault; but if there was a preponder- 
 ance of blame, it rested on my side, for, as a man,
 
 EFFECTS OF THE STORM. 291 
 
 I should have kept a cooler head and shown 
 greater forbearance. But the time for blame has 
 long si vice passed. It is with the stern, irrevocable 
 facts thi-t we are dealing now. 
 
 " So bitter had been our experience, and so pain- 
 ful the fUiock of separation, that I think a great 
 many yars must have passed before repentance 
 came into either heart before a feeling of regret 
 that we bad not held fast to our marriage vows 
 was born. How it was with me you may infer 
 from the fact that, after the lapse of two years, I 
 deliberately asked for and obtained a divorce on 
 the ground of desertion^ But doubt as to the 
 propriety o"f this step stirred uneasily in my mind 
 for the first time when I held the decree in my 
 hand ; and I have never felt wholly satisfied with 
 myself since. There should be something deeper 
 than incompatibility of temper to warrant a di- 
 vorce. The parties should correct what is wrong 
 in themselves, and thus come into harmony. There 
 is no excuse for pride, passion and self-will. The 
 law of God does not make these justifiable causes 
 of divorce, and neither should the law of man. A 
 purer woman than my wife never lived ; and she 
 had elements of character that promised a rare de- 
 velopment. I was proud of her. Ah, if I had 
 been wiser and more patient ! If I had endeavored 
 to lead, instead of assuming the manly prerogative J 
 But I was young, and blind, and willful ! 
 
 " Fifteen years have passed since the day we
 
 292 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 parted, and each has remained single. If we had 
 not separated, we rnigl t now be living in a true 
 heart-union ; for I believe, strange as it may 
 sound to you, that we were made for each other 
 that, when the false and evil of our lives are put 
 off, the elements of conjunction will appear. AVe 
 have made for ourselves of this world a dreary 
 waste, when, if we had overcome the evil of our 
 hearts, our paths would have been through green 
 and fragrant places. It may be happier for us in 
 the next ; and it will be. I am a better man, I 
 think, for the discipline through which I have 
 passed, and she is a better woman." 
 
 Mr. Emerson paused. 
 
 "She? Have you seen her?" the lady asked. 
 
 " Twice since we parted, and then only for a 
 moment. Suddenly each time we met, and looked 
 into each other's eyes for a single instant; then, as 
 if a curtain had dropped suddenly between us, we 
 were separated. But the impression of her face 
 remained as vivid and permanent as a sun-picture. 
 She lives, for most of her time, secluded at Ivy 
 Cliff, her home on the Hudson ; and her life is 
 passed there, I hear, in doing good. And, if good 
 deeds, from right ends, write their history on the 
 human face, then her countenance bears the record 
 of tenderest charities. It was pale when I last 
 saw it pale, but spiritual I can use no other 
 word ; and I felt a sudden pain at the thought that 
 she was growing into a life so pure and heavenly
 
 EFFECTS OF THE STORM. 293 
 
 that I must stand afar off as unworthy. It had 
 sometimes come into my thought that we were 
 approaching each other, as both put off, more and 
 more, the evil which had driven us apart and held 
 us so long asunder. But this illusion our last brief 
 meeting dispelled. She has passed me on the road 
 of self-discipline and self-abnegation, and is jour- 
 neying far ahead. And now I can but follow 
 through life at a distance. 
 
 " So much, and no more, my friend. I drop the 
 veil over my heart. You will understand me better 
 hereafter. I shall not marry. That legal divorce 
 is invalid. I could not perjure my soul by vows 
 of fidelity toward another. Patiently and earnestly 
 will I do my allotted work here. My better hopes 
 lie all in the heavenly future. 
 
 " And now, my friend, we will understand each 
 other better. You have looked deeper into my 
 thoughts and experiences than any other human 
 being. Let the revelation be sacred to yourself. 
 The knowledge you possess may enable you to do 
 me justice sometimes, and sometimes to save me 
 from an intrusion of themes that cannot but touch 
 me unpleasantly. There was a charm about Mrs. 
 Eager that, striking me suddenly, for a little while 
 bewildered my fancy. She is a woman of rare en- 
 dowments, and I do not regret the introduction and 
 passing influence she exercised over me. It was a 
 dream from which the awakening was certain. 
 Suddenly the illusion vanished, as I saw her b-
 
 294 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 side my lost Irene. The one was of the earth, 
 earthy the other of heaven, heavenly; and as I 
 looked back into her brilliant face, radiant with 
 thought and feeling, I felt a low, creeping shudder, 
 as if just freed from the spell of a siren. I cannot 
 be enthralled again, even for a moment." 
 
 Back again into his world's work Mr. Emerson 
 returned after this brief, exciting episode, and 
 found in its performance from high and honorable 
 motives that calmly sustaining power which comet 
 only as (he reward of duties faithfully done.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 AFTER THE STORM, 
 
 ihe storm! How long the treasure 
 remain, d buried in deep waters ! How long 
 the eaith showed unsightly furrows and bar- 
 ren places ! For nearly twenty years there 
 been warm sunshine, and no failure of the 
 dews nor the early and latter rain. But grass had 
 not grown nor flowers blossomed in the path of 
 that desolating tempest. Nearly twenty years ! 
 If the history of these two lives during that long 
 period could be faithfully written, it would flood 
 the soul with tears. 
 
 Four years later than the time when we last pre- 
 sented Irene to the reader we introduce her again. 
 That meeting in the picture-gallery had disturbed 
 profoundly the quiet pulses of her life. She did 
 not observe Mr. Emerson's companion. The pic- 
 ture alone had attracted her attention ; and she had 
 just began to feel its meaning when an audible sigh 
 reached her ears. The answering sigh was invol- 
 untary. Then they looked into each other's faces 
 again only for an instant but with what a 
 volume of mutual revelations ! 
 
 It was four years subsequent to this time that
 
 296 AFTER THE STOKM. 
 
 Irene, after a brief visit in New York to her friend, 
 Mrs. Everet, returned to her rural home. Mrs 
 Everet was to follow on the next day, and spend a 
 few weeks with her father. It was yet in the early 
 summer, and there were not many passengers on 
 the boat. As was usual, Irene provided herself 
 with a volume, and soon after going on board took 
 a retired place in one of the cabins and buried 
 herself in its pages. For over three hours she 
 remained completely absorbed in what she was 
 reading. Then her mind began to w r ander and 
 dwell on themes that made the even pulses of her 
 heart beat to a quicker measure ; yet still her eyes 
 remained fixed on the book she held in her hand. 
 At length she became aware that some one was 
 near her, by the falling of a shadow on the page 
 ehe was trying to read. Lifting her head, she met 
 the eyes of Hartley Emerson. He was standing 
 close to her, his hand resting on the back of a 
 chair, which he now drew nearly in front of her. 
 
 " Irene," he said, in a low, quiet voice, " I am 
 glad to meet yon again in this world." And he 
 reached out his hand as he spoke. 
 
 For a moment Irene sat very still, but she did 
 not take her eyes from Mr. Emerson's face ; then 
 ehe extended her hand and let it lie in his. He 
 did not fail to notice that it had a low tremor. 
 
 Thus received, he sat down. 
 
 " Nearly twenty years have passed, Irene, sine* 
 a word or sign has passed between us."
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 297 
 
 Her lips moved, but there was no utterance. 
 
 " Why should we not, at least, be friends ?" 
 
 Her lips moved again, but no words trembled 
 on the air. 
 
 " Friends, that may meet now and then, and feel 
 kindly one toward the other." 
 
 His voice was still even in tone very even, but 
 very distinct and impressive. 
 
 At first, Irene's face had grown pale, but now a 
 warm flush was pervading it. 
 
 " If you desire it, Hartley," she answered, in a 
 voice that trembled in the beginning, but grew 
 firm ere the sentence closed, " it is not for me to 
 say, ' No.' As for kind feelings, they are yours 
 always always. The bitterness passed from my 
 heart long ago." 
 
 " And from mine," said Mr. Emerson. 
 
 They were silent for a few moments, and each 
 showed embarrassment. 
 
 " Nearly twenty years ! That is a long, long 
 time, Irene." His voice showed signs of weakness. 
 
 " Yes, it is a long time." It was a mere echo 
 of his words, yet full of meaning. 
 
 " Twenty years !" he repeated. " There has been 
 full time for reflection, and, it may be, for repent- 
 ance. Time for growing wiser and better." 
 
 Irene's eyelids drooped until the long lashes lay 
 in a dark fringed line on her pale cheeks. When 
 ehe lifted them they were wet. 
 
 " Yes, Hartley," she answered with much feeling,
 
 298 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 "there has been, indeed, time for reflection and 
 repentance. It is no light thing to shadow the 
 whole life of a human being." 
 
 " As I have shadowed yours. 
 
 " No, no," she answered quickly, " I did not 
 mean that ; as I have shadowed yours." 
 
 She could not veil the tender interest that was in 
 her eyes ; would not, perhaps, if it had been in her 
 power. 
 
 At this moment a bell rang out clear and loud. 
 Erene started and glanced from the window ; then, 
 rising quickly, she said 
 
 " We are at the landing." 
 
 There was a hurried passage from cabin to deck, 
 a troubled confusion of thought, a brief period of 
 waiting, and then Irene stood on the shore and 
 Hartley Emerson on the receding vessel. In a few 
 hours miles of space lay between them. 
 
 " Irene, darling," said Mrs. Everet, as they met 
 at Ivy Cliff on the next day, " how charming you 
 look ! This pure, sweet, bracing air has beautified 
 you like a cosmetic. Your cheeks are warm and 
 your eyes are full of light. It gives me gladness 
 of heart to see in your face something of the old 
 look that faded from it years ago." 
 
 Irene drew her arm around her friend and kissed 
 her lovingly. 
 
 " Come and sit down here in the library. I 
 have something to tell you," she answered, "that 
 will make your heart beat quicker, as it has mine."
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 209 
 
 " I have met him," she said, as they sat down 
 and looked again into each other's faces. 
 
 " Him ! Who ?" 
 
 " Hartley." 
 
 " Your husband ?" 
 
 " He who was my husband. Met him face to 
 face ; touched his hand ; listened to his voice ; al- 
 most felt his heart beat against mine. Oh, Rose 
 darling, it has sent the blood bounding in new life 
 through my veins. He was on the boat yesterday, 
 and came to me as I sat reading. We talked to- 
 gether for a few minutes, when our landing was 
 reached, and we parted. But in those few minutes 
 my poor heart had more happiness than it has 
 known for twenty years. We are at peace. He 
 asked why \re might not be as friends who could 
 meet now and then, and feel kirdly toward each 
 other? God bless him for the words! After a 
 long, long night of tears, the sweet morning has 
 broken !" 
 
 And Irene laid her head down against Rose, 
 hiding her face and weeping from excess of joy. 
 
 " What a pure, true, manly face he has !" she 
 continued, looking up with swimming eyes. 
 "How full it is of thought and feeling! You 
 called him my husband just now, Rose. My hus- 
 band !" The light went back from her face. 
 " Not for time, but " and she glanced upward, 
 with eyes full of hope " for the everlasting ages ! 
 Oh is it not a great gain to have met here in for-
 
 300 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 giveness of the past to have looked kindly into 
 each other's faces to have spoken words that 
 cannot die ?" 
 
 What could Rose say to all this? Irene had 
 carried her out of her depth. The even tenor of 
 her life-experiences gave no deep sea-line that 
 could sound these waters. And so she sat silent, 
 bewildered and half afraid. 
 
 Margaret came to the library, and, opening the 
 door, looked in. There was a surprised expression 
 on her face. 
 
 " \Vhatis it?" Irene asked. 
 
 " A gentleman has called, Miss Irene." 
 
 " A gentleman !" 
 
 " Yes, miss ; and wants to see you." 
 
 " Did he send his name ?" 
 
 " No, miss." 
 
 "Do you know him, Margaret?" 
 
 " I can't say, miss, for certain, but " she 
 stopped. 
 
 " But what, Margaret ?" 
 
 " It may be just my thought, miss ; but he looks 
 for all the world as if he might be " 
 
 She paused again. 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " I can't say it, Miss Irene, no how, and I won't. 
 But the gentleman asked for you. What shall I 
 tell him?" 
 
 "That I will see him in a moment," answered 
 Irene.
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 30) 
 
 Margaret retired. 
 
 The face of Irene, which flushed at first, now 
 became pale as ashes. A wild hope trembled in 
 her heart. 
 
 " Excuse me for a few minutes," she said to Mrs. 
 Everet, and, rising, left the room. 
 
 Jt was as Irene had supposed. On entering the 
 parlor, a gentleman advanced to meet her, and she 
 stood face to face with Hartley Emerson 1" 
 
 " Irene," he said, extending his hand. 
 
 " Hartley," fell in an irrepressible throb from 
 her lips as she put her hand in his. 
 
 " I could not return to New York without see- 
 ing you again," said Mr. Emerson, as he stood 
 holding the hand of Irene. " We met so briefly, 
 and were thrown apart again so suddenly, that 
 some things I meant to say were left unspoken." 
 
 He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, 
 still looking intently in her face. Irene was far 
 from being as calm as when they sat together the 
 day before. A world of new hopes had sprung up 
 in her heart since then. She had lain half asleep 
 and half awake nearly all night, in a kind of de- 
 licious dream, from which the morning awoke her 
 with a cold chill of reality. She had dreamed 
 again since the sun had risen ; and now the dream 
 was changing into the actual. 
 
 u Have I done wrong in this, Irene ?" he asked. 
 
 And she answered, 
 
 " No, it is a pleasure to meet you, Hartley."
 
 302 AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 She had passed through years of self-discipline, 
 and the power acquired during this time came to 
 her aid. And so she was able to answer with wo- 
 manly dignity. It was a pleasure to meet him 
 there, and she said so. 
 
 " There are some things in the past, Irene/' said 
 Mr. Emerson, " of which I must speak, now that 
 I can do so. There are confessions that I wish to 
 make. Will you hear me ?" 
 
 "Better," answered Irene, "let the dead past 
 bury its dead." 
 
 "I do not seek to justify myself, but you, 
 Irene." 
 
 " You cannot alter the estimate I have made of 
 my own conduct," she replied. " A bitter stream 
 does not flow from a sweet fountain. That dead, 
 dark, hopeless past ! Let it sleep if it will !" 
 
 "And what, then, of the future?' 7 asked Mr. 
 Emerson. 
 
 "Of the future!" The question startled her. 
 She looked at him with a glance of eager inquiry. 
 
 "Yes, of the future, Irene. Shall it be as the 
 past? or have we both come up purified from the 
 fire? Has it consumed the dross, and left only the 
 fine gold? I can believe it in your case, and hope 
 that it is so in mine. But this I do know, Irene : 
 after suffering and trial have done their WDrk of 
 abrasion, and I get down to the pure metal of my 
 heart, I find that your image is fixed there in the 
 imperishable substance. I did not hope to meet
 
 AFTER THE STORM. 303 
 
 you again in this world as now to look into your 
 face, to hold your hand, to listen to your voice as 
 I have done this day but I have felt that God 
 was fitting us through earthly trial, for a heavenly 
 union. We shall be one hereafter, dear Irene 
 one and for ever I" 
 
 The strong man broke down. His voice fell 
 into low sobs tears blinded his vision. He' groped 
 about for the hand of Irene, found it, and held it 
 wildly to his lips. 
 
 Was it for a loving woman to hold back coldly 
 now ? No, no, no ! That were impossible. 
 
 "My husband!" she said, tenderly and rever- 
 ently, as she placed her saintly lips on his forehead 
 
 There was a touching ceremonial at Ivy Cliff on 
 the next day one never to be forgotten by the few 
 who were witnesses. A white-haired minister the 
 same who, more than twenty years before, had said 
 to Hartley Emerson and Irene Delancy, " May 
 your lives flow together like two pure streams thai 
 meet in the same valley," again joined theii 
 hands and called them " husband and wife.' 1 The 
 long, dreary, tempestuous night had passed away, 
 and the morning arisen in brightness and beauty. 
 
 THE END.
 
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