AFTER THE STORM. 

BY

T. S. ARTHUR. 

PHILADELPHIA:

1868

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER I. THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. CHAPTER II. THE LOVERS. CHAPTER III. THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE CLOUD. CHAPTER V. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. CHAPTER VI. AFTER THE STORM. CHAPTER VII. THE LETTER. CHAPTER VIII. THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. CHAPTER IX. THE RECONCILIATION. CHAPTER X. AFTER THE STORM. CHAPTER XI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. CHAPTER XII. IN BONDS. CHAPTER XIII. THE REFORMERS. CHAPTER XIV. A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. CHAPTER XV. CAPTIVATED AGAIN. CHAPTER XVI. WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. CHAPTER XVII. GONE FOR EVER! CHAPTER XVIII. YOUNG, BUT WISE. CHAPTER XIX. THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. CHAPTER XX. THE PALSIED HEART. CHAPTER XXI. THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. CHAPTER XXII. STRUCK DOWN. CHAPTER XXIII. THE HAUNTED VISION. CHAPTER XXIV. THE MINISTERING ANGEL. CHAPTER XXV. BORN FOR EACH OTHER. CHAPTER XXVI. LOVE NEVER DIES. CHAPTER XXVII. EFFECTS OF THE STORM. CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER THE STORM. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS. 

_NO_ June day ever opened with a fairer promise. Not a single cloudflecked the sky, and the sun coursed onward through the azure seauntil past meridian, without throwing to the earth a single shadow. Then, low in the west, appeared something obscure and hazy, blendingthe hill-tops with the horizon; an hour later, and three or foursmall fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in the airy ocean, and slowly ascending--avant-couriers of a coming storm. Followingthese were mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with desolatevalleys between. Then, over all this arctic panorama, fell a suddenshadow. The white tops of the cloudy hills lost their clear, gleaming outlines and their slumbrous stillness. The atmosphere wasin motion, and a white scud began to drive across the heavy, darkmasses of clouds that lay far back against the sky in mountain-likerepose. 

How grandly now began the onward march of the tempest, which hadalready invaded the sun's domain and shrouded his face in the smokeof approaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along more than halfthe visible horizon, while its crown invaded the zenith. 

As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. Nature seemed to pauseand hold her breath in dread anticipation. Then came a muffled, jarring sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away into anoppressive stillness. Suddenly from zenith to horizon the cloud wascut by a fiery stroke, an instant visible. Following this, a heavythunder-peal shook the solid earth, and rattled in booming echoesalong the hillsides and amid the cloudy caverns above. 

At last the storm came down on the wind's strong pinions, swoopingfiercely to the earth, like an eagle to its prey. For one wild hourit raged as if the angel of destruction were abroad. 

At the window of a house standing picturesquely among the HudsonHighlands, and looking down upon the river, stood a maiden and herlover, gazing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear hadpressed her closely to his side, and he had drawn an arm around herin assurance of safety. 

Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her face, cried out andshuddered. The lightning had shivered a tree upon which her gaze wasfixed, rending it as she could have rent a willow wand. 

"God is in the storm, " said the lover, bending to her ear. He spokereverently and in a voice that had in it no tremor of fear. 

The maiden withdrew her hands from before her shut eyes, and lookingup into his face, answered in a voice which she strove to makesteady:

"Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God is present in thestorm, as in the sunshine. "

"Look!" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, pointing to the river. Aboat had just come in sight. It contained a man and a woman. Theformer was striving with a pair of oars to keep the boat right inthe eye of the wind; but while the maiden and her lover still gazedat them, a wild gust swept down upon the water and drove their frailbark under. There was no hope in their case; the floods hadswallowed them, and would not give up their living prey. 

A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly acentury spread themselves out in the sunshine tranquilly or battledwith the storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it to thevery foundations. 

The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror. Theseshocks were too much for her nerves. But her lover restrained her, saying, with a covert chiding in his voice, "Stay, Irene! There is a wild delight in all this, and are you notbrave enough to share it with me?"

But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with ashade of impatience--

"Let me go, Hartley! Let me go!"

The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free. Shewent back, hastily, from the window, and, sitting down on a sofa, buried her face in her hands. The young man did not follow her, butremained standing by the window, gazing out upon Nature in herstrong convulsion. It may, however, be doubted whether his mind tooknote of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. A cloud wasin the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure. And themaiden's sky was shadowed also. 

For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, lookingout at the writhing trees and the rain pouring down an avalanche ofwater, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and aconquest, turned and walked toward the sofa on which the maidenstill sat with her face hidden from view. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand. It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; butshe gave back no returning pressure. There came a sharp, quick gleamof lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house. But Irenedid not start--we may question whether she even saw the one or heardthe other, except as something remote. 

"Irene!"

She did not stir. 

The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice--

"Irene--darling--"

Her hand moved in his--just moved--but did not return the pressureof 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 uponthe slight restraint ventured on by her lover when she drew backfrom the window; and it was only now subsiding. 

"I did not mean to offend you, " said the young man, penitently. 

"Who said that I was offended?" She looked up, with a smile thatonly half obliterated the shadow. "I was frightened, Hartley. It isa fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the window. 

The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in hisheart. He knew that his slight attempt at constraint had chafed hernaturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time toregain her lost self-control. 

Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, the lightning gleamedout less frequently, and the thunder rolled at a farther distance. Then came that deep stillness of nature which follows in the wake ofthe tempest, and in its hush the lovers stood again at the window, looking out upon the wrecks that were strewn in its path. They weresilent, for on both hearts was a shadow, which had not rested therewhen they first stood by the window, although the sky was then moredeeply veiled. So slight was the cause on which these shadowsdepended that memory scarcely retained its impression. He wastender, and she was yielding; and each tried to atone by loving actsfor a moment of willfulness. 

The sun went down while yet the skirts of the storm were spread overthe western sky, and without a single glance at the ruins whichlightning, wind and rain had scattered over the earth's fairsurface. But he arose gloriously in the coming morning, and wentupward in his strength, consuming the vapors at a breath, anddrinking up every bright dewdrop that welcomed him with a quiver ofjoy. The branches shook themselves in the gentle breezes hispresence had called forth to dally amid their foliage and sport withthe flowers; and every green thing put on a fresher beauty indelight at his return; while from the bosom of the trees--fromhedgerow and from meadow--went up the melody of birds. 

In the brightness of this morning, the lovers went out to look atthe storm-wrecks that lay scattered around. Here a tree had beentwisted off 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 lightning stroke; and there lay, proneupon the ground, giant limbs, which, but the day before, spreadthemselves abroad in proud defiance of the storm. Vines were tornfrom their fastenings; flower-beds destroyed; choice shrubbery, tended with care for years, shorn of its beauty. Even the solidearth had been invaded by floods of water, which ploughed deepfurrows along its surface. And, saddest of all, two human lives hadgone out while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury. 

As the lover and maiden stood looking at the signs of violence sothickly scattered around, the former said, in a cheerful tone--

"For all his wild, desolating power, the tempest is vassal to thesun and dew. He may spread his sad trophies around in brief, blindrage; but they soon obliterate all traces of his path, and makebeautiful what he has scarred with wounds or disfigured by the trampof his iron heel. "

"Not so, my children, " said the calm voice of the maiden's father, to whose ears the remark had come. "Not so, my children. The sun anddew never fully restore what the storm has broken and trampled upon. They may hide disfiguring marks, and cover with new forms of lifeand beauty the ruins which time can never restore. This issomething, and we may take the blessing thankfully, and try toforget what is lost, or so changed as to be no longer desirable. Look at this fallen and shattered elm, my children. Is there anyhope for that in the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these build itup again, and spread out its arms as of old, bringing back to me, asit has done daily, the image of my early years? No, my children. After every storm are ruins which can never be repaired. Is it notso with that lightning-stricken oak? And what art can restore to itsexquisite loveliness this statue of Hope, thrown down by theruthless hand of the unsparing tempest? Moreover, is there humanvitality in the sunshine and fructifying dew? Can they put life intothe dead?

"No--no--my children. And take the lesson to heart. Outward tempestsbut typify and represent the fiercer tempests that too oftendesolate the human soul. In either case something is lost that cannever be restored. Beware, then, of storms, for wreck and ruinfollow as surely as the passions rage. "

CHAPTER II. 

THE LOVERS. 

_IRENE DELANCY_ was a girl of quick, strong feelings, and anundisciplined will. Her mother died before she reached her tenthyear. From that time she was either at home under the care ofdomestics, or within the scarcely more favorable surroundings of aboarding-school. She grew up beautiful and accomplished, butcapricious and with a natural impatience of control, that unwisereactions on the part of those who attempted to govern her in nodegree tempered. 

Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and passionate, butpossessed many fine qualities. A weak mother yielded to his resolutestruggles 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 asa profession; and, in order to secure the highest advantages, entered the office of a distinguished attorney in the city of NewYork, and gave to its study the best efforts of a clear, acute andlogical mind. Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit of reaching hisends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the bar with apromise of success rarely exceeded. From his widowed mother, whodied before he reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited amoderate fortune with which to begin the world. Few young menstarted forward on their life-journey with so small a number ofvices, or with so spotless a moral character. The fine intellectualcast of his mind, and his devotion to study, lifted him above thebaser allurements of sense and kept his garments pure. 

Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson--lovers and betrothed atthe time we present them to our readers. They met, two years before, at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. She was thefirst to whom his heart had bowed in homage; and until she lookedupon him her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form. 

Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced inyears, saw no reason to interpose objections. The family of Emersonoccupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man'scharacter and habits were blameless. So far, the course of love ransmooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day. 

The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came aftertheir betrothal and the removal of a degree of deference andself-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each toshow itself. Irene could not always repress her willfulness andimpatience of another's control; nor her lover hold a firm hand onquick-springing anger when anything checked his purpose. Pride andadhesiveness of character, under such conditions of mind, weredangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious. 

The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed asoccurring while the tempest raged, was one of many such incidents;and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy's observation of theseunpromising features in their intercourse that he spoke with so muchearnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake ofstorms. 

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 helingered there for two or three days at a time. It happened, almostinvariably, that some harsh notes jarred in the music of their livesduring these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts afeeling of oppression, or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice. Then there grew up between them an affected opposition andindifference, and a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wranglingabout trifles, which too often grew serious. 

Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposedto restore some broken links in the chain of harmony. 

"You must be more conciliating, Irene, " he would often say to hisdaughter. "Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and you should yield tohim gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does. This constant opposition and standing on your dignity about triflesis fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future. "

"Would you have me assent if he said black was white?" she answeredto her father's remonstrance one day, balancing her little headfirmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way. 

"It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter dissent, if, in sodoing, both were made unhappy, " returned her father. 

"And so let him think me a passive fool?" she asked. 

"No; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonableness by herself-control. "

"I have read somewhere, " said Irene, "that all men are self-willedtyrants--the words do not apply to you, my father, and so there isan exception to the rule. " She smiled a tender smile as she lookedinto the face of a parent who had ever been too indulgent. "But, from my experience with a lover, I can well believe the sentimentbased in truth. Hartley must have me think just as he thinks, and dowhat he wants me to do, or he gets ruffled. Now I don't expect, whenI am married, to sink into a mere nobody--to be my husband's echoand shadow; and the quicker I can make Hartley comprehend this thebetter will it be for both of us. A few rufflings of his feathersnow will teach him how to keep them smooth and glossy in the time tocome. "

"You are in error, my child, " replied Mr. Delancy, speaking veryseriously. "Between those who love a cloud should never interpose;and I pray you, Irene, as you value your peace and that of the manwho is about to become your husband, to be wise in the verybeginning, and dissolve with a smile of affection every vapor thatthreatens a coming storm. Keep the sky always bright. "

"I will do everything that I can, father, to keep the sky of ourlives always bright, except give up my own freedom of thought andindependence of action. A wife should not sink her individuality inthat of her husband, any more than a husband should sink hisindividuality in that of his wife. They are two equals, and shouldbe content to remain equals. There is no love in subordination. "

Mr. Delancy sighed deeply: "Is argument of any avail here? Can wordsstir conviction in her mind?" He was silent for a time, and thensaid--

"Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and go through lifealone, than venture upon marriage, in your state of feeling, with aman like Hartley Emerson. "

"Dear father, you are altogether too serious!" exclaimed thewarm-hearted girl, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. "Hartley and I love each other too well to be made very unhappy byany little jar that takes place in the first reciprocal movement ofour lives. We shall soon come to understand each other, and then theharmonies will be restored. "

"The harmonies should never be lost, my child, " returned Mr. Delancy. "In that lies the danger. When the enemy gets into thecitadel, who can say that he will ever be dislodged? There is nosafety but in keeping him out. "

"Still too serious, father, " said Irene. "There is no danger to befeared 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, whathope is there in the time of vintage? Alas for us if in the lateryears the wine of life shall fail!"

There was so sad a tone in her father's voice, and so sad anexpression on his face, that Irene was touched with a new feelingtoward him. She again put her arms around his neck and kissed himtenderly. 

"Do not fear for us, " she replied. "These are only little summershowers, that make the earth greener and the flowers more beautiful. The sky is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, and the sunshines more gloriously than before. "

But the father could not be satisfied, and answered--

"Beware of even summer showers, my darling. I have known fearfulravages to follow in their path--seen many a goodly tree go down. After every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the earth uponwhich it fell has suffered some loss which is a loss for ever. Begin, then, by conciliation and forbearance. Look past theexternal, which may seem at times too exacting or imperative, andsee only the true heart pulsing beneath--the true, brave heart, thatwould give to every muscle the strength of steel for your protectionif danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with knowing that youare loved--deeply, truly, tenderly? What more can a woman ask? Canyou not wait until this love puts on its rightly-adjusted exterior, as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled with self-love, and itsaction modified by impulse and habit. Wait--wait--wait, my daughter. Bear and forbear for a time, as you value peace on earth andhappiness in heaven. "

"I will try, father, for your sake, to guard myself, " she answered. 

"No, no, Irene. Not for my sake, but for the sake of right, "returned Mr. Delancy. 

They were sitting in the vine-covered portico that looked down, overa sloping lawn toward the river. 

"There is Hartley now!" exclaimed Irene, as the form of her lovercame suddenly into view, moving forward along the road thatapproached from the landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidlydown to meet him. There an ardent kiss, a twining of arms, warmlyspoken words and earnest gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them asthey stood fondly together, and sighed. He could not help it, for heknew there was trouble before them. After standing and talking for ashort time, they began moving toward the house, but paused at everyfew paces--sometimes to admire a picturesque view--sometimes tolisten one to the other and respond to pleasant sentiments--andsometimes in fond dispute. This was Mr. Delancy's reading of theiractions and gestures, as he sat looking at and observing themclosely. 

A little way from the path by which they were advancing toward thehouse was a rustic arbor, so placed as to command a fine sweep ofriver from one line of view and West Point from another. Irenepaused and made a motion of her hand toward this arbor, as if shewished to go there; but Hartley looked to the house and plainlysignified a wish to go there first. At this Irene pulled him gentlytoward the arbor; he resisted, and she drew upon his arm moreresolutely, when, planting his feet firmly, he stood like a rock. Still she urged and still he declined going in that direction. Itwas play at first, but Mr. Delancy saw that it was growing to beearnest. A few moments longer, and he saw Irene separate fromHartley and move toward the arbor; at the same time the young mancame forward in the direction of the house. Mr. Delancy, as hestepped from the portico to meet him, noticed that his color washeightened and his eyes unusually bright. 

"What's the matter with that self-willed girl of mine?" he asked, ashe took the hand of Emerson, affecting a lightness of tone that didnot correspond with his real feelings. 

"Oh, nothing serious, " the young man replied. "She's only in alittle pet because I wouldn't go with her to the arbor before I paidmy respects to you. "

"She's a spoiled little puss, " said the father, in a fond yetserious way, "and you'll have to humor her a little at first, Hartley. She never had the wise discipline of a mother, and so hasgrown up unused to that salutary control which is so necessary foryoung persons. But she has a warm, true heart and pure principles;and these are the foundation-stones on which to build the temple ofhappiness. "

"Don't fear but that it will be all right between us. I love her toowell to let any flitting humors affect me. "

He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat down. Irene hadbefore this reached the arbor and taken a seat there. Mr. Delancycould do no less than resume the chair from which he had arisen onthe young man's approach. In looking into Hartley's face he noticeda resolute expression about his mouth. For nearly ten minutes theysat and talked, Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr. Delancy thensaid, in a pleasant off-handed way, "Come, Hartley, you have punished her long enough. I don't like tosee you even play at disagreement. "

He did not seem to notice the remark, but started a subject ofconversation that it was almost impossible to dismiss for the nextten minutes. Then he stepped down from the portico, and was movingleisurely toward the arbor when he perceived that Irene had alreadyleft it and was returning by another path. So he came back andseated himself again, to await her approach. But, instead of joininghim, she passed round the house and entered on the opposite side. For several minutes he sat, expecting every instant to see her comeout on the portico, but she did not make her appearance. 

It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting not to notice theabsence of Irene, kept up an animated conversation with Mr. Delancy. A whole hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. Suddenlystarting, up, at the end of this time, Hartley exclaimed--

"As I live, there comes the boat! and I must be in New Yorkto-night. "

"Stay, " said Mr. Delancy, "until I call Irene. "

"I can't linger for a moment, sir. It will take quick walking toreach the landing by the time the boat is there. " The young manspoke hurriedly, shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung away, moving at a rapid pace. 

"What's the matter, father? Where is Hartley going?" exclaimedIrene, coming out into the portico and grasping her father's arm. Her face was pale and her lips trembled. 

"He is going to New York, " relied Mr. Delancy. 

"To New York!" She looked almost frightened. 

"Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the cityto-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 somedispleasure. 

Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back toher face. 

"I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singulartreatment. What possessed you to do so?"

"Because I was not pleased with him, " said Irene. Her voice was nowsteady. 

"Why not?"

"I wished him to go to the arbor. "

"He was your guest, and, in simple courtesy, if there was no othermotive, you should have let his wishes govern your movements, " Mr. Delancy replied. 

"He is always opposing me!" said Irene, giving way to a flood oftears and weeping for a time bitterly. 

"It is not at all unlikely, my daughter, " replied Mr. Delancy, afterthe tears began to flow less freely, "that Hartley is now saying thesame thing of you, and treasuring up bitter things in his heart. Ihave 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 heis acting now from blind impulse. Before he is half-way to New Yorkhe will regret this hasty step as sincerely as I trust you arealready regretting its occasion. "

Irene did not reply. 

"I did not think, " he resumed, "that my late earnest remonstrancewould have so soon received an illustration like this. But it may beas well. Trifles light as air have many times proved the beginningof life-longs separations between friends and lovers who possessedall the substantial qualities for a life-long and happycompanionship. Oh, my daughter, beware! beware of these littlebeginnings of discord. How easy would it have been for you to haveyielded to Hartley's wishes!--how hard will it to endure the painthat must now be suffered! And remember that you do not sufferalone; your conduct has made him an equal sufferer. He came up allthe way from the city full of sweet anticipations. It was for yoursake that he came; and love pictured you as embodying allattractions. But how has he found you? Ah, my daughter, your capricehas 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 feltin her life; yet, mingling, with her sadness and self-reproaches, were complaining thoughts of her lover. For a little half-playfulpettishness was she to be visited with a punishment like this? If hehad really loved her--so she queried--would he have flung himselfaway after this hasty fashion? Pride came to her aid in the conflictof feeling, and gave her self-control and endurance. At tea-time shemet 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 reading--or at least affecting to read--in theportico, until the evening shadows came down, and then she retiredto her chamber. 

Not many hours of sleep brought forgetfulness of suffering throughthe night that followed. Sometimes the unhappy girl heaped mountainsof reproaches upon her own head; and sometimes pride andindignation, gaining rule in her heart, would whisperself-justification, and throw the weight of responsibility upon herlover. 

Her pale face and troubled eyes revealed too plainly, on the nextmorning, the conflict through which she had passed. 

"Write him a letter of apology or explanation, " said Mr. Delancy. 

But Irene was not in a state of mind for this. Pride came whisperingtoo many humiliating objections in her ear. Morning passed, and inthe early hours of the afternoon, when the New York boat usuallycame up the river, she was out on the portico watching for itsappearance. Hope whispered that, repenting of his hasty return onthe day before, her lover was now hurrying back to meet her. At lastthe white hull of the boat came gliding into view, and in less thanhalf an hour it was at the landing. Then it moved on its courseagain. Almost to a second of time had Irene learned to calculate theminutes it required for Hartley to make the distance between thelanding and the nearest point in the road where his form could meether view. She held her breath in eager expectation as that moment oftime approached. It came--it passed; the white spot in the road, where his dark form first revealed itself, was touched by noobscuring shadow. For more than ten minutes Irene sat motionless, gazing still toward that point; then, sighing deeply, she arose andwent up to her room, from which she did not come down until summonedto join her father at tea. 

The next day passed as this had done, and so did the next. Hartleyneither came nor sent a message of any kind. The maiden's heartbegan to fail. Grief and fear took the place of accusation andself-reproach. What if he had left her for ever! The thought madeher heart shiver as if an icy wind had passed over it. Two or threetimes she took up her pen to write him a few words and entreat himto come back to her again. But she could form no sentences againstwhich pride did not come with strong objection; and so she sufferedon, and made no sign. 

A whole week at last intervened. Then the enduring heart began togrow stronger to bear, and, in self-protection, to put on sternermoods. Hers was not a spirit to yield weakly in any struggle. Shewas formed for endurance, pride and self-reliance giving herstrength above common natures. But this did not really lessen hersuffering, for she was not only capable of deep affection, butreally loved Hartley almost as her own life; and the thought oflosing him, whenever it grew distinct, filled her with terribleanguish. 

With pain her father saw the color leave her cheeks, her eyes growfixed 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; "Iwould die first!"

"But, my daughter--"

"Father, " she interrupted him, two bright spots suddenly burning onher cheeks, "don't, I pray you, urge me on this point. I havecourage enough to break, but I will not bend. I gave him no offence. What right has he to assume that I was not engaged in domesticduties while he sat talking with you? He said that he had anengagement in New York. Very well; there was a sufficient reason forhis sudden departure; and I accept the reason. But why does heremain away? If simply because I preferred a seat in the arbor toone in the portico, why, the whole thing is so unmanly, that I canhave 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 fromme, and he must return again. I cannot go to him. Maiden modesty andpride forbid. And so I shall remain silent and passive, if my heartbreaks. "

It was in the afternoon, and they were sitting in the portico, where, at this hour, Irene might have been found every day for thepast week. The boat from New York came in sight as she closed thelast sentence. She saw it--for her eyes were on the look-out--themoment it turned the distant point of land that hid the riverbeyond. Mr. Delancy also observed the boat. Its appearance was anincident of sufficient importance, taking things as they were, tocheck the conversation, which was far from being satisfactory oneither side. 

The figure of Irene was half buried in a deep cushioned chair, whichhad been wheeled out upon the portico, and now her small, slenderform seemed to shrink farther back among the cushions, and she satas motionless as one asleep. Steadily onward came the boat, throwingbackward her dusky trail and lashing with her great revolving wheelsthe quiet waters into foamy turbulence--onward, until the dark crowdof human forms could be seen upon her decks; then, turning sharply, she was lost to view behind a bank of forest trees. Ten minutesmore, and the shriek of escaping steam was heard as she stopped herponderous machinery at the landing. 

From that time Irene almost held her breath, as so she counted themoments that must elapse before Hartley could reach the point ofview in the road that led up from the river, should he have been apassenger in the steamboat. The number was fully told, but it wasto-day as yesterday. There was no sign of his coming. And so theeyelids, weary with vain expectation, drooped heavily over thedimming 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 wasHartley, just in the spot she had looked to see him only a minute ortwo before. But how slowly he moved, and with what a weary step!and, even at this long distance, his face looked white against thewavy masses of his dark-brown hair. 

Irene started up with an exclamation, stood as if in doubt for amoment, then, springing from the portico, she went flying to meethim, as swiftly as if moving on winged feet. All the forces of herardent, impulsive nature were bearing her forward. There was noremembrance of coldness or imagined wrong--pride did not evenstruggle to lift its head--love conquered everything. The young manstood still, from weariness or surprise, ere she reached him. As shedrew near, Irene saw that his face was not only pale, but thin andwasted. 

"Oh, Hartley! dear Hartley!" came almost wildly from her lips, asshe flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him over and overagain, on lips, cheeks and brow, with an ardor and tenderness thatno maiden delicacy could restrain. "Have you been sick, or hurt? Whyare you so pale, darling?"

"I have been ill for a week--ever since I was last here, " the youngman replied, speaking in a slow, tremulous voice. 

"And I knew it not!" Tears were glittering in her eyes and pressingout in great pearly beads from between the fringing lashes. "Why didyou not send for me, Hartley?"

And she laid her small hands upon each side of his face, as you haveseen a mother press the cheeks of her child, and looked up tenderlyinto his love-beaming eyes. 

"But come, dear, " she added, removing her hands from his face anddrawing her arm within his--not to lean on, but to offer support. "My father, who has, with me, suffered great anxiety on youraccount, 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 firmamentof their souls. But looked he down on no tempest-marks? Had not theruthless tread of passion marred the earth's fair surface? Were nogoodly trees uptorn, or clinging vines wrenched from their support?Alas! was there ever a storm that did not leave some ruined hopebehind? ever a storm that did not strew the sea with wrecks or marthe earth's fair beauty?

As when the pain of a crushed limb ceases there comes to thesufferer a sense of delicious ease, so, after the storm had passed, the lovers sat in the warm sunshine and dreamed of uncloudedhappiness in the future. But in the week that Hartley spent with hisbetrothed were revealed to their eyes, many times, desolate placeswhere flowers had been; and their hearts grew sad as they turnedtheir eyes away, and sighed for hopes departed, faith shaken, anduntroubled confidence in each other for the future before them, forever gone. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN. 

_IN_ alternate storm and sunshine their lives passed on, until theappointed day arrived that was to see them bound, not by thegraceful true-lovers' knot, which either might untie, but by a chainlight as downy fetters if borne in mutual love, and galling asponderous iron links, if heart answered not heart and the chafingspirit struggled to get free. 

Hartley Emerson loved truly the beautiful, talented andaffectionate, but badly-disciplined, quick-tempered, self-willedgirl he had chosen for a wife; and Irene Delancy would have gone toprison and to death for the sake of the man to whom she had yieldedup the rich treasures of her young heart. In both cases the greatdrawback 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 camebetween them, each was a child in weakness and blind self-will. Unfortunately, persistence of character was strong in both. Theywere of such stuff as martyrs were made of in the fiery times ofpower and persecution. 

A brighter, purer morning than that on which their marriage vowswere said the year had not given to the smiling earth. Clear andsoftly blue as the eye of childhood bent the summer sky above them. There was not a cloud in all the tranquil heavens to give suggestionof dreary days to come or to wave a sign of warning. The blithebirds sung their matins amid the branches that hung their leafydrapery around and above Irene's windows, in seeming echoes to thesongs love was singing in her heart. Nature put on the loveliestattire in all her ample wardrobe, and decked herself with coronalsand wreaths of flowers that loaded the air with sweetness. 

"May your lives flow together like two pure streams that meet in thesame valley, and as bright a sky bend always over you as gives itsserene promise for to-day. "

Thus spoke the minister as the ceremonials closed that wrought theexternal bond of union between them. His words were uttered withfeeling and solemnity; for marriage, in his eyes, was no lightthing. He had seen too many sad hearts struggling in chains thatonly death could break, ever to regard marriage with other thansober thoughts that went questioning away into the future. 

The "amen" of Mr. Delancy was not audibly spoken, but it wasdeep-voiced in his heart. 

There was to be a wedding-tour of a few weeks, and then the youngcouple were to take possession of a new home in the city, Which Mr. Emerson had prepared for his bride. The earliest boat that came upfrom New York was to bears the party to Albany, Saratoga being thefirst point of their destination. 

After the closing of the marriage ceremony some two or three hourspassed before the time of departure came. The warm congratulationswere followed by a gay, festive scene, in which glad young heartshad a merry-making time. How beautiful the bride looked! and howproudly the gaze of her newly-installed husband turned ever and evertoward her, move which way she would among her maidens, as if shewere a magnet to his eyes. He was standing in the portico thatlooked out upon the distant river, about an hour after the wedding, talking with one of the bridesmaids, when the latter, pointing tothe 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'sface. "What do you see?"

"A little white blemish on the deepening azure, " was answered. "There it lies, just over that stately horse-chestnut, whosebranches arch themselves into the outline of a great cathedralwindow. "

"A scarcely perceptible cloud?"

"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 todo 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 thanthis, " said the young man. 

"Yet many a day that opened as bright and cloudless has sobbeditself 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 heryoung husband, said, as she drew her arm within his--

"What about signs, Hartley?"

"Miss Carman has just reminded me of the superstition aboutwedding-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 happinessin the beginning, but sorrow at the close; but if clouds and rainherald its awakening, then pass over and leave the sky blue andsunny, there will be trouble at first, but smiling peace as lifeprogresses and declines. Our sky is bright as heart could wish. " Andthe bride looked up into the deep blue ether. 

Miss Carman laid one hand upon her arm and with the other pointedlower down, almost upon the horizon's edge, saying, in a tone ofmock solemnity--

"As I said to Mr. Emerson, so I now say to you--There comes ourfate. "

"You don't call that the herald of an approaching storm?"

"Weatherwise people say, " answered the maiden, "that a sky without acloud is soon followed by stormy weather. Since morning until nowthere has not a cloud been seen. "'

"Weatherwise people and almanac-makers speak very oracularly, butthe day of auguries and signs is over, " replied Irene. 

"Philosophy, " said Mr. Emerson, "is beginning to find reasons in thenature of things for results that once seemed only accidental, yetfollowed with remarkable certainty the same phenomena. It discoversa relation of cause and effect where ignorance only recognizes somepower working in the dark. "

"So you pass me over to the side of ignorance!" Irene spoke in atone that Hartley's ear recognized too well. His remark had touchedher pride. 

"Not by any means, " he answered quickly, eager to do away theimpression. "Not by any means, " he repeated. "The day of mereauguries, omens and signs is over. Whatever natural phenomena appearare dependent on natural causes, and men of science are beginning tostudy the so-called superstitions of farmers and seamen, to findout, if possible, the philosophical elucidation. Already a number ofcurious results have followed investigation in this field. "

Irene leaned on his arm still, but she did not respond. A littlecloud 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 acloud to dim also the clear azure of his mind. There was a singularcorrespondence between their mental sky and the fair ceruleanwithout. 

Fearing to pursue the theme on which they were conversing, lest someunwitting words might shadow still further the mind of Irene, Emerson changed the subject, and was, to all appearance, successfulin dispelling the little cloud. 

The hour came, at length, when the bridal party must leave. After atender, tearful partings with her father, Irene turned her stepsaway from the home of her childhood into a new path, that would leadher out into the world, where so many thousands upon thousands, whosaw only a way of velvet softness before them, have cut their tendedfeet upon flinty rocks, even to the verve end of their tearfuljourney. Tightly and long did Mr. Delancy hold his child to hisheart, and when his last kiss was given and his fervent "God giveyou a happy life, my daughter!" said, he gazed after her departingform with eyes front which manly firmness could not hold back thetears. 

No one knew better than Mr. Delancy the perils that lay before hisdaughter. That storms would darken her sky and desolate her heart, he had too good reason to fear. His hope for her lay beyond thesummer-time of life, when, chastened by suffering and subdued byexperience, a tranquil autumn would crown her soul with blessingsthat might have been earlier enjoyed. He was not superstitious, andyet it was with a feeling of concern that he saw the white andgolden clouds gathering like enchanted land along the horizon, andpiling themselves up, one above another, as if in sport, buildingcastles and towers that soon dissolved, changing away into fantasticforms, in which the eye could see no meaning; and when, at last, hisear caught a far-distant sound that jarred the air, a sudden painshot through his heart. 

"On any other day but this!" he sighed to himself, turning from thewindow at which he was standing and walking restlessly the floor forseveral minutes, lost in a sad, dreamy reverie. 

Like something instinct with life the stately steamer, quiveringwith every stroke of her iron heart, swept along the gleaming riveron her upward passage, bearing to their destination her freight ofhuman souls. Among theme was our bridal party, which, as the day wasso clear and beautiful, was gathered upon the upper deck. As Irene'seyes turned from the closing vision of her father's beautiful home, where the first cycle of her life had recorded its golden hours, shesaid, with a sigh, speaking to one of her companions--

"Farewell, Ivy Cliff! I shall return to you again, but not the samebeing I was when I left your pleasant scenes this morning. "

"A happier being I trust, " replied Miss Carman, one of herbridemaids. 

Rose Carman was a young friend, residing in the neighborhood of herfather, 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 anassuring smile. "It will pass away like the morning cloud and theearly dew. "

Mr. Emerson noticed the shade upon the face of his bride, anddrawing near to her, said, tenderly--

"I can forgive you a sigh for the past, Irene. Ivy Cliff is a lovelyspot, 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 boundyou there did not pull at your heart in parting. "

Irene did not answer, but let her eyes turn backward with a pensivealmost longing glance toward the spot where lay hidden among thedistant trees the home of her early years. A deep shadow hadsuddenly fallen upon her spirits. Whence it came she knew not andasked not; but with the shadow was a dim foreboding of evil. 

There was tact and delicacy enough in the companions of Irene tolead them to withdraw observation and to withhold further remarksuntil she could recover the self-possession she had lost. This cameback 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 hourafterward, as she saw the eyes of Irene ranging along the sky, whereclouds were now seen towering up in steep masses, like distantmountains. 

"If I were a believer of signs, " replied Irene, placing her armwithin that of the maiden who had addressed her, and drawing herpartly 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. Itwould greatly mar our pleasure. "

But long ere the boat reached Albany, rain began to fall, accompanied by lightning and thunder; and soon the clouds weredissolving in a mimic deluge. Hour after hour, the wind and rain andlightning held fierce revelry, and not until near the completion ofthe voyage did the clouds hold back their watery treasures, and thesunbeams force themselves through the storm's dark barriers. 

When the stars came out that evening, studding the heavens withlight, there was no obscuring spot on all the o'erarching sky. 

CHAPTER IV. 

UNDER THE CLOUD. 

_THE_ wedding party was to spend a week at Saratoga, and it was nowthe third day since its arrival. The time had passed pleasantly, orwearily, according to the state of mind or social habits andresources of the individual. The bride, it was remarked by some ofthe party, seemed dull; and Rose Carman, who knew her friend better, perhaps, than any other individual in the company, and kept herunder close observation, was concerned to notice an occasionalcurtness of manner toward her husband, that was evidently notrelished. Something had already transpired to jar the chords solately attuned to harmony. 

After dinner a ride was proposed by one of the company. Emersonresponded favorably, but Irene was indifferent. He urged her, andshe gave an evidently reluctant consent. While the gentlemen went tomake arrangement for carriages, the ladies retired to their rooms. Miss Carman accompanied the bride. She had noticed her manner, andfelt slightly troubled at her state of mind, knowing, as she did, her impulsive character and blind self-will when excited byopposition. 

"I don't want to ride to-day!" exclaimed Irene, throwing herselfinto a chair as soon as she had entered her room; "and Hartley knowsthat I do not. "

Her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled. 

"If it will give him pleasure to ride out, " said Rose, in a gentlesoothing manner, "you cannot but have the same feeling inaccompanying him. "

"I beg your pardon!" replied Irene, briskly. "If I don't want toride, no company can make the act agreeable. Why can't people learnto leave others in freedom? If Hartley had shown the sameunwillingness to join this riding party that I manifested, do youthink I would have uttered a second word in favor of going? No. I amprovoked at his persistence. "

"There, there, Irene!" said Miss Carman, drawing an arm tenderlyaround the neck of her friend; "don't trust such sentences on yourlips. I can't bear to hear you talk so. It isn't my sweet friendspeaking. "

"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 myselfor nothing. "

"You can be as considerate of others as of yourself?" said Rose. 

Irene looked at her companion inquiringly. 

"I mean, " added Rose, "that you can exercise the virtue ofself-denial in order to give pleasure to another--especially if thatother 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 indifference, and enter, with a heartygood-will, into the proposed pastime. "

"And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care to ride, deny himselfa little for my sake, and not drag me out against my will? Is allthe yielding and concession to be on my side? Must his will rule ineverything? I can tell you what it is, Rose, this will never suitme. There will be open war between us before the honeymoon has waxedand waned, if he goes on as he has begun. "

"Hush! hush, Irene!" said her friend, in a tone of deprecation. "Thelightest sense of wrong gains undue magnitude the moment we begin tocomplain. We see almost anything to be of greater importance whenfrom the obscurity of thought we bring it out into the daylight ofspeech. "

"It will be just as I say, and saying it will not make it any moreso, " was Irene's almost sullen response to this. "I have my ownideas of things and my own individuality, and neither of these do Imean to abandon. If Hartley hasn't the good sense to let me have myown way in what concerns myself, I will take my own way. As to thetroubles that may come afterward, I do not give them any weight inthe argument. I would die a martyr's deaths rather than become thepassive creature of another. "

"My dear friend, why will you talk so?" Rose spoke in a tone ofgrief. 

"Simply because I am in earnest. From the hour of our marriage Ihave seen a disposition on the part of my husband to assumecontrol--to make his will the general law of our actions. It has notexhibited itself in things of moment, but in trifles, showing thatthe spirit was there. I say this to you, Rose, because we have beenlike sisters, and I can tell you of my inmost thoughts. There is acloud already in the sky, and it threatens an approaching storm. "

"Oh, my friend, why are you so blind, so weak, so self-deceived? Youare putting forth your hands to drag down the temple of happiness. If it fall, it will crush you beneath a mass of ruins; and not youonly, but the one you have so lately pledged yourself before God andhis angels to love. "

"And I do love him as deeply as ever man was loved. Oh that he knewmy heart! He would not then shatter his image there. He would nottrifle with a spirit formed for intense, yielding, passionate love, but rigid as steel and cold as ice when its freedom is touched. Heshould have known me better before linking his fate with mine. "

One of her darker moods had come upon Irene, and she was beatingabout in the blind obscurity of passion. As she began to giveutterance to complaining thoughts, new thoughts formed themselves, and what was only vague feelings grew into ideas of wrong; andthese, when once spoken, assumed a magnitude unimagined before. Invain did her friend strive with her. Argument, remonstrance, persuasion, only seemed to bring greater obscurity and to excite amore bitter feeling in her mind. And so, despairing of any goodresult, Rose withdrew, and left her with her own unhappy thoughts. 

Not long after Miss Carman retired, Emerson came in. At the sound ofhis approaching footsteps, Irene had, with a strong effort, composedherself and swept back the deeper shadows from her face. 

"Not ready yet?" he said, in a pleasant, half-chiding way. "Thecarriages will be at the door in ten minutes. "

"I am not going to ride out, " returned Irene, in a quiet, seeminglyindifferent tone of voice. Hartley mistook her manner for sport, andanswered 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 contracted. 

"No; I am not going to ride out to-day. " Each word was distinctlyspoken. 

"I don't understand you, Irene. "

"Are not my words plain enough?"

"Yes, they are too plain--so plain as to make them involve amystery. What do you mean by this sudden change of purpose?"

"I don't wish to ride out, " said Irene, with assumed calmness ofmanner; "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 willto another. "

"To you!" Irene started to her feet in instant passion. "And so I amto 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 contemptuous anger. 

"You misunderstand me, " said Hartley Emerson, speaking as calmly aswas possible in this sudden emergency. "I did not refer specially tomyself, but to all of our party, to whom you had given up your willin a promise to ride out with them, and to whom, therefore, you werebound. "

"An easy evasion, " retorted the excited bride, who had lost hermental equipoise. 

"Irene, " the young man spoke sternly, "are those the right words foryour husband? An easy evasion!"

"I have said them. "

"And you must unsay them. "

Both had passed under the cloud which pride and passion had raised. 

"Must! I thought you knew me better, Hartley. " Irene grew suddenlycalm. 

"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 waswholly unprepared to meet it. 

"Irene, " he said, at length, pausing before her, "this conduct onyour part is wholly inexplicable. I cannot understand its meaning. Will you explain yourself?"

"Certainly. I am always ready to give a reason for my conduct, " shereplied, 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. Thatought 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 spiritin which it is done, " said Irene. 

"A spirit of overbearing self-will!' said Emerson. 

"Yes, if you choose. That is what my soul revolts against. I gaveyou my heart and my hand--my love and my confidence--not my freedom. The last is a part of my being, and I will maintain it while I havelife. "

"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, fromthe hour of our marriage, that a time of strife would come; thatyour will would seek to make itself ruler, and that I would notsubmit. I did not expect the issue to come so soon. I trusted inyour love to spare me, at least, until I could be bidden fromgeneral observation when I turned myself upon you and said, Thus farthou mayest go, but no farther. But, come the struggle early orlate--now or in twenty years--I am prepared. "

There came at this moment a rap at their door. Mr. Emerson openedit. 

"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 bedown in a few minutes. "

"There, there, Irene! Let this folly die; it has lived long enough. Come! Make yourself ready with all speed--our party is delayed bythis prolonged 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 asshe spoke looked her husband steadily in the face. She was inearnest, and he felt that further remonstrance would be in vain. 

"You will repent of this, " he replied, with enough of menace in hisvoice to convey to her mind a great deal more than was in histhoughts. And he turned from her and left the room. Going downstairs, he found the riding-party waiting for their appearance. 

"Where is Irene?" was asked by one and another, on seeing him alone. 

"She does not care to ride out this afternoon, and so I have excusedher, " he replied. Miss Carman looked at him narrowly, and saw thatthere was a shade of trouble on his countenance, which he could notwholly conceal. She would have remained behind with Irene, but thatwould have disappointed the friend who was to be her companion inthe drive. 

As the party was in couples, and as Mr. Emerson had made up his mindto go without his young wife, he had to ride alone. The absence ofIrene was felt as a drawback to the pleasure of all the company. Miss Carman, who understood the real cause of Irene's refusal toride, was so much troubled in her mind that she sat almost silentduring the two hours they were out. Mr. Emerson left the party afterthey had been out for an hour, and returned to the hotel. Hisexcitement had cooled off, and he began to feel regret at theunbending way in which 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 anythingto increase that impression, I should, by word and act of kindness, have done all in my power for its removal. Two wrongs never make aright. Passion met by passion results not in peace. I should havesoothed and yielded, and so won her back to reason. As a man, Iought to possess a cooler and more rationally balanced mind. She isa being of feeling and impulse, --loving, ardent, proud, sensitiveand strong-willed. Knowing this, it was madness in me to chafeinstead of soothing her; to oppose, when gentle concession wouldhave torn from her eyes an illusive veil. Oh that I could learnwisdom in time! I was in no ignorance as to her peculiar character. I knew her faults and her weaknesses, as well as her noblerqualities; and it was for me to stimulate the one and bear with theothers. Duty, love, honor, humanity, all pointed to this. "

The longer Mr. Emerson's thoughts ran in this direction, the deepergrew his feeling of self-condemnation, and the more tenderly yearnedhis heart toward the young creature he had left alone with theenemies of their peace nestling in her bosom and filling it withpassion and pain. After separating himself from his party, he droveback toward the hotel at a speed that soon put his horses into afoam. 

CHAPTER V. 

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM. 

_MR. DELANCY_ was sitting in his library on the afternoon of thefourth day since the wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the entranceof some one caused him to turn toward the door. 

"Irene!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and alarm, as he startedto 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 fromthe spot where she first stood still. 

"Speak plainly, my child. I cannot bear suspense. "

"I have left my husband and returned to you!" was the firmly utteredreply. 

"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 counselor! But why, why haveyou taken this desperate step?"

"In self-protection, " replied Irene. 

"Sit down, my child. There!" and he led her to a seat. "Now let meremove your bonnet and shawl. How wretched you look, poor, misguidedone! I could have laid you in the grave with less agony than I feelin seeing you thus. "

Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell over her face. In theselfishness of her own sternly-borne trouble, she had forgotten thesorrow she was bringing to her father's heart. 

"Poor child! poor child!" sobbed the old man, as he sat down besideIrene and drew her head against his breast. And so both wepttogether for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. Delancy said--

"Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, the meaning of thisstep which you have so hastily taken. Let me have the beginning, progress and consummation of the sad misunderstanding. "

While yet under the government of blind passion, ere her husbandreturned from the drive which Irene had refused to take with him, she had, acting from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, lefther room and, taking the cars, passed down to Albany, where sheremained until morning at one of the hotels. In silence andloneliness she had, during the almost sleepless night that followed, ample time for reflection and repentance. And both came, withconvictions of error and deep regret for the unwise, almostdisgraceful step she had taken, involving not only suffering, buthumiliating exposure of herself and husband. But it was felt to betoo late now to look back. Pride would have laid upon her a positiveinterdiction, if other considerations had not come in to push thequestion of return aside. 

In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene left in the NewYork boat, and passed down the river toward the home from which shehad gone forth, only a few days before, a happy bride--returningwith the cup, then full of the sweet wine of life, now brimming withthe bitterest potion that had ever touched her lips. 

And so she had come back to her father's house. In all the hours ofmental anguish which had passed since her departure from Saratoga, there had been an accusing spirit at her ear, and, resist as shewould, self-condemnation prevailed over attempted self-justification. The cause of this unhappy rupture was so slight, the first provocationso insignificant, that she felt the difficulty of making out her casebefore her father. As to the world, pride counseled silence. 

With but little concealment or extenuation of her own conduct, Irenetold the story of her disagreement with Hartley. 

"And that was all!" exclaimed Mr. (sic) Delancey, in amazement, whenshe ended her narrative. 

"All, but enough!" she answered, with a resolute manner. 

Mr. Delancy arose and walked the floor in silence for more than tenminutes, during which time Irene neither spoke nor moved. 

"Oh, misery!" ejaculated the father, at length, lifting his handsabove his head and then bringing them down with a gesture ofdespair. 

Irene started up and moved to his side. 

"Dear father!" She spoke tenderly, laying her hands upon him; but hepushed her away, saying--

"Wretched girl! you have laid upon my old head a burden of disgraceand wretchedness that you have no power to remove. "

"Father! father!" She clung to him, but he pushed her away. Hismanner was like that of one suddenly bereft of reason. She clungstill, but he resolutely tore himself from her, when she fellexhausted and fainting upon the floor. 

Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and Mr. Delancy wasendeavoring to lift the insensible body, when a quick, heavy treadin the portico caused him to look up, just as Hartley Emerson pushedopen one of the French windows and entered the library. He had awild, anxious, half-frightened look. Mr. Delancy let the body fallfrom his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a chair, whileEmerson sprung forward, catching up the fainting form of his youngbride and bearing it to a sofa. 

"How long has she been in this way?" asked the young man, in a toneof agitation. 

"She fainted this moment, " replied Mr. Delancy. 

"How long has she been here?"

"Not half an hour, " was answered; and as Mr. Delancy spoke hereached for the bell and jerked it two or three times violently. Thewaiter, startled by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurriedly to thelibrary. 

"Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and ride over swiftly forDr. Edmundson. Tell him to come immediately. "

The waiter stood for a moment or two, looking in a half-terrifiedway upon the white, deathly face of Irene, and then fled from theapartment. No grass grew beneath his horse's feet as he held him tohis utmost speed for the distance of two miles, which lay betweenIvy Cliff and the doctor's residence. 

Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent summons of thewaiter, came flying into the library. The moment her eyes restedupon Irene, who still insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, interror--

"Oh, she's dead! she's dead!" and stood still as if suddenlyparalyzed; 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 he could speak, "sheis not dead; it is only a fainting fit. Bring some water, quickly. "

Water was brought and dashed into the face of Irene; but there cameno sign of returning consciousness. 

"Hadn't you better take her up to her room, Mr. Emerson?" suggestedMargaret. 

"Yes, " he replied; and, lifting the insensible form of his bride inhis arms, the unhappy man bore her to her chamber. Then, sittingdown beside the bed upon which he had placed her, he kissed her palecheeks and, laying his face to hers, sobbed and moaned, in theabandonment of his grief, like a distressed child weeping in despairfor some lost treasure. 

"Come, " said Margaret, who was an old family domestic, drawingHartley from the bedside, "leave her alone with me for a littlewhile. "

And the husband and father retired from the room. When theyreturned, at the call of Margaret, they found Irene in bed, herwhite, unconscious face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillowon which her head was resting. 

"She is alive, " said Margaret, in a low and excited voice; "I canfeel her heart beat. "

"Thank God!" ejaculated Emerson, bending again over the motionlessform and gazing anxiously down upon the face of his bride. 

But there was no utterance of thankfulness in the heart of Mr. Delancy. For her to come back again to conscious life was, he felt, but a return to wretchedness. If the true prayer of his heart couldhave found voice, it would have been for death, and not for life. 

In silence, fear and suspense they waited an hour before the doctorarrived. Little change in Irene took place during that time, exceptthat her respiration became clearer and the pulsations of her heartdistinct and regular. The application of warm stimulants wasimmediately ordered, and their good effects soon became apparent. 

"All will come right in a little while, " said Dr. Edmundson, encouragingly. "It seems to be only a fainting fit of unusuallength. "

Hartley drew Mr. Delancy aside. 

"It will be best that I should be alone with her when she recovers, "said he. 

"You may be right in that, " said Mr. Delancy, after a moment'sreflection. 

"I am sure that I am, " was returned. 

"You think she will recover soon?" said Mr. Delancy, approaching thedoctor. 

"Yes, at any moment. She is breathing deeper, and her heart beatswith 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. Shewent out also, Emerson alone remaining. 

Taking his place by the bedside, he waited, in trembling anxiety, for the moment when her eyes should open and recognize him. At lastthere came a quivering of the eyelids and a motion about thesleeper's lips. Emerson bent over and took one of her hands in his. 

"Irene!" He called her name in a voice of the tenderest affection. The sound seemed to penetrate to the region of consciousness, forher lips 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 was burdened withtenderness. 

"Oh, Hartley!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes and looking with akind of glad bewilderment into his face. Then, half rising anddrawing 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 ofwild fervor; "and may such dreams never come again. "

She lay very still for some moments. Thought and memory werebeginning to act feebly. The response of her husband had in itsomething that set her to questioning. But there was one thing thatmade 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, caressingtouch, over her cheek and temple. 

"Dear Irene!" he murmured in her ears; and then her hand tightenedon his. 

And thus she remained until conscious life regained its fullactivity. Then the trial came. 

Suddenly lifting herself from the bosom of her husband, Irene gave ahurried glance around the well-known chamber, then turned and lookedwith 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, disengaging herself, shesaid, faintly--

"I feel weak and bewildered; let me lie down. "

She closed her eyes as Emerson placed her back on the pillow, a sadexpression covering her still pallid face. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand and held it with a firm pressure. She did notattempt to withdraw it. He kissed her, and a warmer flush came overher face. 

"Dear Irene!" His hand pressed tightly upon hers, and she returnedthe pressure. 

"Shall I call your father? He is very anxious about you. "

"Not yet. " And she caught slightly her breath, as if feeling weregrowing too strong for her. 

"Let it be as a dream, Hartley. " Irene lifted herself up and lookedcalmly, but with a very sad expression on her countenance, into herhusband's face. 

"Between us two, Irene, even as a dream from which both haveawakened, " 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 abrief consultation it was thought best for Dr. Edmundson not to seeher again. A knowledge of the fact that he had been called in mightgive occasion for more disturbing thoughts than were alreadypressing upon her mind. And so, after giving some general directionsas to the avoidance of all things likely to excite her mindunpleasantly, the doctor withdrew. 

Mr. Delancy saw his daughter alone. The interview was long andearnest. On his part was the fullest disapproval of her conduct andthe most solemnly spoken admonitions and warnings. She confessed hererror, without any attempt at excuse or palliation, and promised awiser conduct in the future. 

"There is not one husband in five, " said the father, "who would haveforgiven an act like this, placing him, as it does, in such a falseand humiliating position before the world. He loves you with toodeep and true a love, my child, for girlish trifling like this. Andlet me warn you of the danger you incur of turning against you thespirit of such a man. I have studied his character closely, and Isee in it an element of firmness that, if it once sets itself, willbe as inflexible as iron. If you repeat acts of this kind, the daymust come when forbearance will cease; and then, in turning fromyou, it will be never to turn back again. Harden him against youonce, and it will be for all time. "

Irene wept bitterly at this strong representation, and trembled atthought of the danger she had escaped. 

To her husband, when she was alone with him again, she confessed herfault, and prayed him to let the memory of it pass from his mind forever. On his part was the fullest denial of any purpose whatever, inthe late misunderstanding, to bend her to his will. He assured herthat if he had dreamed of any serious objection on her part to theride, he would not have urged it for a moment. It involved nopromised pleasure to him apart from pleasure to her; and it wasbecause he believed that she would enjoy the drive that he had urgedher to make one of the party. 

All this was well, as far as it could go. But repentance and mutualforgiveness did not restore everything to the old condition--did notobliterate that one sad page in their history, and leave them freeto make a new and better record. If the folly had been in private, the effort at forgiving and forgetting would have been attended withfewer annoying considerations. But it was committed in public, andunder circumstances calculated to attract attention and occasioninvidious remark. And then, how were they to meet the differentmembers of the wedding-party, which they had so suddenly thrown intoconsternation?

On the next day the anxious members of this party made theirappearance at Ivy Cliff, not having, up to this time, received anyintelligence of the fugitive bride. Mr. Delancy did not attempt toexcuse to them the unjustifiable conduct of his daughter, beyond theadmission that she must have been temporarily deranged. Somethingwas said about resuming the bridal tour, but Mr. Delancy said, "No;the quiet of Ivy Cliff will yield more pleasure than the excitementof travel. "

And all felt this to be true. 

CHAPTER VI. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

_AFTER_ the storm. Alas! that there should be a wreck-strewn shoreso soon! That within three days of the bridal morning a tempestshould have raged, scattering on the wind sweet blossoms which hadjust opened to the sunshine, tearing away the clinging vines oflove, and leaving marks of desolation which no dew and sunshinecould ever obliterate!

It was not a blessed honeymoon to them. How could it be, after whathad passed? Both were hurt and mortified; and while there was mutualforgiveness and great tenderness and fond concessions, one towardthe other, there was a sober, thoughtful state of mind, notfavorable to happiness. 

Mr. Delancy hoped the lesson--a very severe one--might prove theguarantee of future peace. It had, without doubt, awakened Irene'smind to sober thoughts--and closer self-examination than usual. Shewas convicted in her own heart of folly, the memory of which couldnever return to her without a sense of pain. 

At the end of three weeks from the day of their marriage, Mr. AndMrs. Emerson went down to the city to take possession of their newhome. On the eve of their departure from Ivy Cliff, Mr. Delancy hada long conference with his daughter, in which he conjured her, byall things sacred, to guard herself against that blindness ofpassion which had already produced such unhappy consequences. Sherepeated, with many tears, her good resolutions for the future, andshowed great sorrow and contrition for the past. 

"It may come out right, " said the old man to himself; as he satalone, with a pressure of foreboding on his mind, looking into thedim future, on the day of their departure for New York. His only andbeloved child had gone forth to return no more, unless in sorrow orwretchedness. "It may come out right, but my heart has sadmisgivings. "

There was a troubled suspense of nearly a week, when the firstletter came from Irene to her father. He broke the seal withunsteady 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 thatheld Irene's letter. It was some moments before he could readfarther; then he drank in, with almost childish eagerness, everysentence of the long letter. 

"Yes, yes, it may come out right, " said Mr. Delancy; "it may comeout right. " He uttered the words, so often on his lips, with moreconfidence than usual. The letter strongly urged him to make her avisit, if it was only for a day or two. 

"You know, dear father, " she wrote, "that most of your time is to bespent with us--all your winters, certainly; and we want you to beginthe new arrangement as soon as possible. "

Mr. Delancy sighed over the passage. He had not set his heart onthis arrangement. It might have been a pleasant thing for him toanticipate; but there was not the hopeful basis for anticipationwhich a mind like his required. 

Not love alone prompted Mr. Delancy to make an early visit to NewYork; a feeling of anxiety to know how it really was with the youngcouple acted quite as strongly in the line of incentive. And so hewent down to the city and passed nearly a week there. Both Irene andher 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 thehalf-hopeful, half-doubting words on his lips, so often and oftenrepeated--

"Yes, yes, it may come out right. "

But it was not coming out altogether right. Even while the old manwas under her roof, Irene had a brief season of self-willed reactionagainst her husband, consequent on some unguarded word or act, whichshe felt to be a trespass on her freedom. To save appearances whileMr. Delancy was with them, Hartley yielded and tenderedconciliation, all the while that his spirit chafed sorely. 

The departure of Mr. Delancy for Ivy Cliff was the signal for bothIrene and her husband to lay aside a portion of the restraint whicheach had borne with a certain restlessness that longed for a time offreedom. On the very day that he left Irene showed so much thatseemed to her husband like perverseness of will that he wasseriously offended, and spoke an unguarded word that was as fire tostubble--a word that was repented of as soon as spoken, but whichpride would not permit him to recall. It took nearly a week ofsuffering to discipline the mind of Mr. Emerson to the point ofconciliation. On the part of Irene there was not the thought ofyielding. Her will, supported by pride, was as rigid as iron. Reasonhad 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 wasstrong-willed and persistent; but cooler reason helped him back intothe right way, and he had, thus far, found it quicker than Irene. Not that he suffered less or repented sooner. Irene's suffering wasfar deeper, but she was blinder and more self-determined. 

Again the sun of peace smiled down upon them, but, as before, onsomething shorn of its strength or beauty. 

"I will be more guarded, " said Hartley to himself. "Knowing herweakness, why should I not protect her against everything thatwounds her sensitive nature? Love concedes, is long suffering andfull of patience. I love Irene--words cannot tell how deeply. Thenwhy should I not, for her sake, bear and forbear? Why should I thinkof myself and grow fretted because she does not yield as readily asI could desire to my wishes?"

So Emerson talked with himself and resolved. But who does not knowthe feebleness of resolution when opposed to temperament andconfirmed habits of mind? How weak is mere human strength! Alas! howfew, depending on that alone, are ever able to bear up steadily, forany length of time, against the tide of passion!

Off his guard in less than twenty-four hours after resolving thuswith himself, the young husband spoke in captious disapproval ofsomething which Irene had done or proposed to do, and theconsequence was the assumption on her part of a cold, reserved anddignified manner, which hurt and annoyed him beyond measure. Prideled him to treat her in the same way; and so for days they met insilence or formal courtesy, all the while suffering a degree ofwretchedness almost impossible to be endured, and all the while, which was worst of all, writing on their hearts bitter thingsagainst each other. 

To Emerson, as before, the better state first returned, and thesunshine of his countenance drove the shadows from hers. Then for aseason they were loving, thoughtful, forbearing and happy. But theclouds came back again, and storms marred the beauty of their lives. 

All this was sad--very sad. There were good and noble qualities inthe hearts of both. They were not narrow-minded and selfish, like somany of your placid, accommodating, calculating people, but generousin their feelings and broad in their sympathies. They had ideals oflife that went reaching out far beyond themselves. Yes, it was sadto see two such hearts beating against and bruising each other, instead of taking the same pulsation. But there seemed to be no helpfor them. Irene's jealous guardianship of her freedom, her quicktemper, pride and self-will made the position of her husband sodifficult that it was almost impossible for him to avoid givingoffence. 

The summer and fall passed away without any serious rupture betweenthe sensitive couple, although there had been seasons of greatunhappiness to both. Irene had been up to Ivy Cliff many times tovisit her father, and now she was, beginning to urge his removal tothe city for the winter; but Mr. Delancy, who had never given hisfull promise to this arrangement, felt less and less inclined toleave his old home as the season advanced. Almost from boyhood hehad lived there, and his habits were formed for rural instead ofcity life. 

He pictured the close streets, with their rows of houses, that leftfor the eye only narrow patches of ethereal blue, and contrastedthis with the broad winter landscape, which for him had alwaysspread itself out with a beauty rivaled by no other season, and hisheart 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 aloneat Ivy Cliff, during these long evenings, and grow sad at heart insympathy with your loneliness. Come at once. Why linger a week oreven a day longer? We have been all in all to each other these manyyears, and ought not to be separated now. "

But Mr. Delancy was not ready to exchange the pure air andwidespreading scenery of the Highlands for a city residence, even inthe desolate winter, and so wrote back doubtingly. Irene and herhusband then came up to add the persuasion of their presence at IvyCliff. It did not avail, however. The old man was too deeply weddedto his home. 

"I should be miserable in New York, " he replied to their earnestentreaties; "and it would not add to your happiness to see me goingabout with a sober, discontented face, or to be reminded everylittle while that if you had left me to my winter's hibernation Iwould have been a contented instead of a dissatisfied old man. No, no, my children; Ivy Cliff is the best place for me. You shall comeup and spend Christmas here, and we will have a gay season. "

There was no further use in argument. Mr. Delancy would have hisway; and he was right. 

Irene and her husband went back to the city, with a promise to spendChristmas at the old homestead. 

Two weeks passed. It was the twentieth of December. Without previousintimation, Irene came up alone to Ivy Cliff, startling her fatherby coming in suddenly upon him one dreary afternoon, just as theleaden sky began to scatter down the winter's first offering ofsnow. 

"My daughter!" he exclaimed, so surprised that he could not movefrom where he was sitting. 

"Dear father!" she answered with a loving smile, throwing her armsaround his neck and kissing him. 

"Where is Hartley?" asked the old man, looking past Irene toward thedoor 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 tohelp you prepare for it. Of course, Hartley cannot leave hisbusiness. "

She spoke in an excited, almost gay tone of voice. Mr. Delancylooked at her earnestly. Unpleasant doubts flitted through his mind. 

"When will your husband come up?" he inquired. 

"At Christmas, " she answered, without hesitation. 

"Why didn't you write, love?" asked Mr. Delancy. "You have taken meby surprise, and set my nerves in a flutter. "

"I only thought about it last evening. One of my suddenresolutions. "

And she laughed a low, fluttering laugh. It might have been anerror, but her father had a fancy that it did not come from herheart. 

"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 tothe chamber she still called her own. On the way she met Margaret. 

"Miss Irene!" exclaimed the latter, pausing and lifting her hands inastonishment. "Why, where did you come from?"

"Just arrived in the boat. Have come to help you get ready forChristmas. "

"Please goodness, how you frightened me!" said the warm-hearteddomestic, 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. "

"Well now, child, you did set me all into a fluster. I thought maybeyou'd got into one of your tantrums, and come off and left yourhusband. "

"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 spiritwas 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 attachmentto Irene. "But you go off in such strange ways--get so wrong-headedsometimes--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 thetime. I dreamed about you last night, and maybe that has helped toput me into a fluster now. "

"Dreamed about me!" said Irene, with a degree of interest in hermanner. 

"Yes. But don't stand here, Miss Irene; come over to your room. "

"What kind of a dream had you, Margaret?" asked the young wife, asshe sat down on the side of the bed where, pillowed in sleep, shehad dreamed so many of girlhood's pleasant dreams. 

"I was dreaming all night about you, " replied Margaret, lookingsober-faced. 

"And you saw me in trouble?"

"Oh dear, yes; in nothing but trouble. I thought once that I saw youin 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 nearenough for the chained animals to spring upon you. And that wasn'tall. You put the end of your little parasol in between the bars, anda fierce tiger struck at you with his great cat-like paw, tearingthe flesh from your arm. Then I saw you in a little boat, down onthe river. You had put up a sail, and was going out all alone. I sawthe boat move off from the shore just as plainly as I see you now. Istood and watched until you were in the middle of the river. Then Ithought Mr. Emerson was standing by me, and that we both saw a greatmonster--a whale, or something else--chasing after your boat. Mr. Emerson was in great distress, and said, 'I told her not to go, butshe is so self-willed. ' And then he jumped into a boat and, takingthe oars, went gliding out after you as swiftly as the wind. I neversaw mortal arm make a boat fly as he did that little skiff. And Isaw him strike the monster with his oar just as his huge jaws wereopened to devour you. Dear! dear; but I was frightened, and woke upall 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 Iwas 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 thehigh 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, yourfather ran in between you and the bull; but he dashed over him. ThenI saw Mr. Emerson rushing up with a pitchfork, and he got before themad animal and pointed the sharp prongs at his eyes; but the bulltore down on him and tossed him away up into the air. I awoke as Isaw him falling on the sharp-pointed horns that were held up tocatch 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 haveagain. "

"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, too. And thatreminds me of what the minister told us in his sermon last Sunday. He said that there were a great many kinds of trouble in thisworld--some coming from the outside and some coming from the inside;that the outside troubles, which we couldn't help, were generallyeasiest to be borne; while the inside troubles, which we might haveprevented, were the bitterest things in life, because there wasremorse as well as suffering. I understood very well what he meant. "

"I am afraid, " said Irene, speaking partly to herself, "that most ofmy troubles come from the inside. "

"I'm afraid they do, " spoke out the frank domestic. 

"Margaret!"

"Indeed, miss, and I do think so. If you'd only get righthere"--laying her hand upon her breast--"somebody beside yourselfwould be a great deal happier. There now, child, I've said it; andyou needn't go to getting angry with me. "

"They are often our best friends who use the plainest speech, " saidIrene. "No, Margaret, I am not going to be angry with one whom Iknow to be true-hearted. "

"Not truer-hearted than your husband, Miss Irene; nor half soloving. "

"Why did you say that?" Margaret started at the tone of voice inwhich this interrogation was made. 

"Because I think so, " she answered naively. 

Irene looked at her for some moments with a penetrating gaze, andthen 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 foryou, " said Margaret, tears coming into her eyes. 

"I know that, Margaret. You were always too kind and indulgent, andI always too wayward and unreasonable. But I am getting years on myside, and shall not always be a foolish girl. "

Snow had now begun to fall thickly, and the late December day waswaning toward the early twilight. Margaret went down stairs and leftIrene alone in her chamber, where she remained until nearly tea-timebefore joining her father. 

Mr. Delancy did not altogether feel satisfied in his mind about thisunheralded visit from his daughter, with whose wayward moods he wastoo familiar. It might be all as she said, but there were intrusivemisgivings 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 wassatisfied. He asked about her husband, and she talked of him withoutreserve. 

"What day is Hartley coming up?" he inquired. 

"I hope to see him on the day before Christmas, " 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 prevented from leaving earlyenough to reach here before Christmas morning. If there should be acold snap, and the river freeze up, it will make the journeydifficult and attended with delay. "

"I think the winter has set in;" and Mr. Delancy turned his eartoward the window, against which the snow and hail were beating withviolence. "It's a pity Hartley didn't come up with you. "

A sober hue came over the face of Irene. This did not escape thenotice of her father; but it was natural that she should feel soberin thinking of her husband as likely to be kept from her by thestorm. That such were her thoughts her words made evident, for shesaid, glancing toward the window--

"If there should be a deep snow, and the boats stop running, how canHartley 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 wintrywhiteness, but the wind was coming in from the south, genial asspring. Before night half the snowy covering was gone. 

"We had our fears for nothing, " said Mr. Delancy, on the second day, which was as mild as the preceding one. "All things promise well. Isaw the boats go down as usual; so the river is open still. "

Irene did not reply. Mr. Delancy looked at her curiously, but herface was partly turned away and he did not get its true expression. 

The twenty-fourth came. No letter had been received by Irene, norhad she written to New York since her arrival at Ivy Cliff. 

"Isn't it singular that you don't get a letter from Hartley?" saidMr. Delancy. 

Irene had been sitting silent for some time when her father madethis remark. 

"He is very busy, " she said, in reply. 

"That's no excuse. A man is never too busy to write to his absentwife. "

"I haven't expected a letter, and so am not disappointed. But he'son his way, no doubt. How soon 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 ofIrene's chamber looked toward the river, and she was standing at oneof them alone when the boat came in sight. Her face was almostcolorless, and contracted by an expression of deep anxiety. Sheremained on her feet for the half hour that intervened before theboat could reach the landing. It was not the first time that she hadwatched there, in the excitement of doubt and fear, for the sameform her eyes were now straining themselves to see. 

The shrill sound of escaping steam ceased to quiver on the air, andin a few minutes the boat shot forward into view and went gliding upthe river. Irene scarcely breathed, as she stood, with colorlessface, parted lips and eager eyes, looking down the road that led tothe landing. But she looked in vain; the form of her husband did notappear--and it was Christmas Eve!

What did it mean?

CHAPTER VII. 

THE LETTER. 

_YES_, what did it mean? Christmas Eve, and Hartley still absent?

Twilight was falling when Irene came down from her room and joinedher father in the library. Mr. Delancy looked into her face narrowlyas she entered. The dim light of the closing day was not strongenough to give him its true expression; but he was not deceived asto its troubled aspect. 

"And so Hartley will not be here to-day, " he said, in a tone thatexpressed 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 didnot escape her father's notice. 

"I hope he is not sick, " said Mr. Delancy. 

"Oh no. " Irene spoke with a sudden earnestness; then, with failingtones, added--

"He should have been here to-day. "

She sat down near the open grate, shading her face with ahand-screen, and remained silent and abstracted for some time. 

"There is scarcely a possibility of his arrival to-night, " said Mr. Delancy. He could not get his thoughts away from the fact of hisson-in-law's absence. 

"He will not be here to-night, " replied Irene, a cold dead level inher voice, that Mr. Delancy well understood to be only a blindthrown up to conceal her deeply-disturbed feelings. 

"Do you expect him to-morrow, my daughter?" asked Mr. Delancy, a fewmoments afterward, speaking as if from a sudden thought or a suddenpurpose. There was a meaning in his tones that showed his mind to bein a state not prepared to brook evasion. 

"I do, " was the unhesitating answer; and she turned and lookedcalmly at her father, whose eyes rested with a fixed, inquiring gazeupon her countenance. But half her face was lit by a reflection fromthe glowing grate, while half lay in shadow. His reading, thereforewas not clear. 

If Irene had shown surprise at the question, her father would havefelt better satisfied. He meant it as a probe; but if a tender spotwas reached, she had the self-control not to give a sign of pain. Atthe tea-table Irene rallied her spirits and talked lightly to herfather; it was only by an effort that he could respond with evenapparent cheerfulness. 

Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon after tea, to herroom, and did not come down again during the evening. 

The next day was Christmas. It rose clear and mild as a day inOctober. When Irene came down to breakfast, her pale, almosthaggard, face showed too plainly that she had passed a night ofsleeplessness and suffering. She said, "A merry Christmas, " to herfather, on meeting him, but there was no heart in the words. It wasalmost impossible to disguise the pain that almost stifledrespiration. 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 sheentered. 

"Sit down. There. " And Mr. Delancy placed a chair for her, a littleway from the grate. 

Irene dropped into the chair like one who moved by another'svolition. 

"Now, daughter, " said Mr. Delancy, taking a chair, and drawing it infront of the one in which she was seated, "I am going to ask a plainquestion, and I want a direct answer. "

Irene rallied herself on the instant. 

"Did you leave New York with the knowledge and consent of yourhusband?"

The blood mounted to her face and stained it a deep crimson:

"I left without his knowledge. Consent I never ask. "

The old proud spirit was in her tones. 

"I feared as much, " replied Mr. Delancy, his voice falling. "Thenyou do not expect Hartley to-day?"

"I expected him yesterday. He may be here to-day. I am almost surehe 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 yourselvesanything relating to punishments, " said Mr. Delancy. "There wereexplicit things said of love and duty, but I do not recall asentence that referred to the right of one party to punish theother. "

Mr. Delancy paused for a few moments, but there was no reply to thisrather novel and unexpected view of the case. 

"Did you by anything in the rite acquire authority to punish yourhusband when his conduct didn't just suit your fancy?"

Mr. Delancy pressed the question. 

"It is idle, father, " said Irene, with some sharpness of tone, "tomake an issue like this. It does not touch the case. Away back ofmarriage contracts lie individual rights, which are neversurrendered. The right of self-protection is one of these; and ifretaliation is needed as a guarantee of future peace, then the rightto punish is included in the right of self-protection. "

"A peace gained through coercion of any kind is not worth having. Itis but the semblance of peace--is war in bonds, " replied Mr. Delancy. "The moment two married partners begin the work of coercionand punishment, that moment love begins to fail. If love gives notto their hearts a common beat, no other power is strong enough to dothe work. Irene, I did hope that the painful experiences alreadypassed through would have made you wiser. It seems not, however. Itseems that self-will, passion and a spirit of retaliation are togovern your actions, instead of patience and love. Well, my child, if you go on sowing this seed in your garden now, in the spring-timeof life, you must not murmur when autumn gives you a harvest ofthorns and thistles. If you sow tares in your field, you must notexpect to find corn there when you put in your sickle to reap. Youcan take back your morning salutation. It is not a 'merry Christmas'to you or to me; and I think we are both done with merryChristmases. "

"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 voiceof irrepressible sadness. "You have left your husband a second time. It is not every man who would forgive the first offence; not one intwenty who would pardon the second. You are in great peril, Irene. This storm that you have conjured up may drive you to hopelessshipwreck. You need not expect Hartley to-day. He will not come. Ihave studied his character well, and know that he will not pass thisconduct over lightly. "

Even while this was said a servant, who had been over to thevillage, brought in a letter and handed it to Mr. Delancy, who, recognizing in the superscription the handwriting of his daughter'shusband, broke the seal hurriedly. The letter was in these words:

"MY DEAR SIR: As your daughter has left me, no doubt with thepurpose of finally abandoning the effort to live in that harmony soessential to happiness in married life, I shall be glad if you willchoose some judicious friend to represent her in consultation with afriend whom I will select, with a view to the arrangement of aseparation, as favorable to her in its provisions as it can possiblybe made. In view of the peculiarity of our temperaments, we made agreat error in this experiment. My hope was that love would becounselor to us both; that the law of mutual forbearance would haverule. But we are both too impulsive, too self-willed, tooundisciplined. I do not pretend to throw all the blame on Irene. Weare as flint and steel. But she has taken the responsibility ofseparation, and I am left without alternative. May God lighten theburden of pain her heart will have to bear in the ordeal throughwhich she has elected to pass. 

Your unhappy son, "HARTLEY EMERSON. "

Mr. Delancy's hand shook so violently before he had finished readingthat the paper rattled in the air. On finishing the last sentence hepassed it, without a word, to his daughter. It was some momentsbefore the strong agitation produced by the sight of this letter, and its effect upon her father, could be subdued enough to enableher to read a line. 

"What does it mean, father? I don't understand it, " she said, in ahoarse, deep whisper, and with pale, quivering lips. 

"It means, " said Mr. Delancy, "that your husband has taken you atyour 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 one can misunderstandit. You have, in his view, left him finally, and he now asks me toname a judicious friend to meet his friend, and arrange a basis ofseparation as favorable to you in its provisions as it can possiblybe made. "

"A separation, father! Oh no, he cannot mean that!" And she pressedher 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 fitfulanger--half sport, half serious. "

"Then, in Heaven's name, sit down and write him so, and that withoutthe delay of an instant. He 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, something like an actress under tragic excitement. 

"This is meant to punish me!" she said, stopping suddenly, andspeaking in a voice slightly touched with indignation. "I understandit all, and see it as a great outrage. Hartley knows as well I dothat I left as much in sport as in earnest. But this is carrying thejoke too far. To write such a letter to you! Why didn't he write tome? Why didn't he ask me to appoint a friend to represent me in thearrangement proposed?"

"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 strongexcitement. 

"You are deceiving yourself, my daughter. His letter is calm anddeliberate. It was not written, as you can see by the date, untilyesterday. He has taken time to let passion cool. Three days werepermitted to elapse, that you might be heard from in case any changeof purpose occurred. But you remained silent. You abandoned him. "

"Oh, father, why will you talk in this way? I tell you that Hartleyis only doing this to punish me; that he has no more thought of anactual separation 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, " repliedIrene. 

"At which both will continue to play until earnest is reached--and aworse earnest than the present. Take the case as you will, and it isone 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 leastpossible delay, " said Mr. Delancy. "This letter requires animmediate answer. Go to your room and, in communion with God andyour own heart, come to some quick decision upon the subject. "

Irene turned away without speaking and left her father alone in thelibrary. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN. 

_WE_ will not speak of the cause that led to this serious rupturebetween Mr. And Mrs. Emerson. It was light as vanity--an airynothing in itself--a spark that would have gone out on a baby'scheek without leaving a sign of its existence. On the day that Ireneleft the home of her husband he had parted from her silent, moodyand with ill-concealed anger. Hard words, reproaches and accusationshad passed between them on the night previous; and both feltunusually disturbed. The cause of all this, as we have said, waslight as vanity. During the day Mr. Emerson, who was always first tocome to his senses, saw the folly of what had occurred, and when heturned his face homeward, after three o'clock, it was with thepurpose of ending the unhappy state by recalling a word to which hehad given thoughtless utterance. 

The moment our young husband came to this sensible conclusion hisheart beat with a freer motion and his spirits rose again into aregion of tranquillity. He felt the old tenderness toward his wifereturning, dwelt on her beauty, accomplishments, virtues and highmental endowments with a glow of pride, and called her defects ofcharacter light in comparison. 

"If I were more a man, and less a child of feeling and impulse, " hesaid to himself, "I would be more worthy to hold the place ofhusband to a woman like Irene. She has strong peculiarities--who hasnot peculiarities? Am I free from them? She is no ordinary woman, and must not be trammeled by ordinary tame routine. She has quickimpulses; therefore, if I love her, should I not guard them, lestthey leap from her feebly restraining hand in the wrong direction?She is sensitive to control; why, then, let her see the hand thatmust lead her, sometimes, aside from the way she would walk throughthe promptings of her own will? Do I not know that she loves me? Andis she not dear to me as my own life? What folly to strive with eachother! What madness to let angry feelings shadow for an instant ourlives!"

It was in this state of mind that Emerson returned home. There werea few misgivings in his heart as he entered, for he was not sure asto the kind of reception Irene would offer his overtures for peace;but there was no failing of his purpose to sue for peace and obtainit. With a quick step he passed through the hall, and, afterglancing into the parlors to see if his wife were there, went upstairs with two or three light bounds. A hurried glance through thechambers showed him that they had no occupant. He was turning toleave them, when a letter, placed upright on a bureau, attracted hisattention. He caught it up. It was addressed to him in thewell-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 Cliffto-day"--and looked at the signature, before its meaning came fullyinto his thought. 

"Gone to Ivy Cliff!" he said, at last, in a low, hoarse voice. "Gone, and without a word of intimation or explanation! Gone, and inthe 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 achild. 

For nearly the whole of the night that followed he walked the floorof his room, and the next day found him in a feverish condition ofboth mind and body. Not once did the thought of following his wifeto Ivy Cliff, if it came into his mind, rest there for a moment. Shehad gone home to her father with only an announcement of the fact. He would wait some intimation of her further purpose; but, if theymet 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 ownfree will, if she came back at all. 

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 reflection or after conference with her father, she desiredto make a communication. But the twenty-second came and departedwithout a word from the absent one. So did the twenty-third. By thistime Hartley had grown very calm, self-adjusted and resolute. He hadgone over and over again the history of their lives since marriagebound them together, and in this history he could see nothinghopeful 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 theirpeace. It was clouds, and rain, and fitful sunshine all the while. There were no long seasons of serene delight. 

"Why, " he said to himself, "seek to prolong this effort to blendinto one two lives that seem hopelessly antagonistic. Better standas far apart as the antipodes than live in perpetual strife. If Ishould go to Irene, and, through concession or entreaty, win herback again, what guarantee would I have for the future? None, nonewhatever. Sooner or later we must be driven asunder by the violenceof our ungovernable passions, never to draw again together. We areapart now, and it is well. I shall not take the first step toward areconciliation. "

Hartley Emerson was a young man of cool purpose and strong will. Forall that, he was quick-tempered and undisciplined. It was from thepossession of these qualities that he was steadily advancing in hisprofession, and securing a practice at the bar which promised togive him a high position in the future. Persistence was anotherelement of his character. If he adopted any course of conduct, itwas a difficult thing to turn him aside. When he laid his hand uponthe plough, he was of those who rarely look back. Unfortunatequalities these for a crisis in life such as now existed. 

On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, no word having comefrom his wife, Emerson coolly penned the letter to Mr. Delancy whichis given in the preceding chapter, and mailed it so that it wouldreach him on Christmas day. He was in earnest--sternly inearnest--as Mr. Delancy, on reading his letter, felt him to be. Thehoneymoon flight was one thing; this abandonment of a husband'shome, another thing. Emerson gave to them a different weight andquality. Of the first act he could never think without a burningcheek--a sense of mortification--a pang of wounded pride; and longere 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 inthe case. He would never follow her nor seek to win her back. 

Yes, he was in earnest. He had made his mind up for the worst, andwas acting with a desperate coolness only faintly imagined by Ireneon receipt of his letter to her father. Mr. Delancy, who understoodEmerson's character better, was not deceived. He took thecommunication in its literal meaning, and felt appalled at the ruinwhich impended. 

Emerson passed the whole of Christmas day alone in his house. Atmeal-times he went to the table and forced himself to partakelightly of food, in order to blind the servants, whose curiosity inregard to the absence of Mrs. Emerson was, of course, all on thealert. After taking tea he went out. 

His purpose was to call upon a friend in whom he had greatconfidence, and confide to him the unhappy state of his affairs. Foran hour he walked the streets in debate on the propriety of thiscourse. Unable, however, to see the matter clearly, he returned homewith the secret of his domestic trouble still locked in his ownbosom. 

It was past eight o'clock when he entered his dwelling. A light wasburning in one of the parlors, and he stepped into the room. Afterwalking for two or three times the length of the apartment, Mr. Emerson threw himself on a sofa, a deep sigh escaping his lips as hedid so. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and therustling of a woman's garments, which caused him to start again tohis feet. In moving his eyes met the form of Irene, who advancedtoward 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 herarms 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!" His voice was cold and deep, and as he pronounced her namehe withdrew himself from her embrace. At this she grew calm andstepped 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. Norfoolish young lovers, who fall out and make up again twice or thricein a fortnight; but man and wife, with the world and its soberrealities before us. "

"Oh, Hartley, " exclaimed Irene, as he paused; "don't talk to me inthis way! Don't look at me so! It will kill me. I have done wrong. Ihave acted like foolish child. But I am penitent. It was half insport that I went away, and I was so sure of seeing you at Ivy Cliffyesterday that I told father you were coming. "

"Irene, sit down. " And Emerson took the hand of his wife and led herto a sofa. Then, after closing the parlor door, he drew a chair andseated himself directly in front of her. There was a coldness andself-possession about him, that chilled Irene. 

"It is a serious thing, " he said, looking steadily in her face, "fora wife to leave, in anger, her husband's house for that of herfather. "

She tried to make some reply and moved her lips in attemptedutterance, but the organs of speech refused to perform their office. 

"You left me once before in anger, and I went after you. But it wasclearly understood with myself then that if you repeated the act itwould be final in all that appertained to me; that unless youreturned, it would be a lifelong separation. You _have_ repeated theact; and, knowing your pride and tenacity of will, I did notanticipate your return. And so I was looking the sad, stern futurein the face as steadily as possible, and preparing to meet it as aman conscious of right should be prepared to meet whatever troublelies in store for him. I went out this evening, after passing theChristmas day alone, with the purpose of consulting an old anddiscreet friend as to the wisest course of action. But the thing wastoo 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 back from her teeth. 

"Irene, " he continued, "it is folly for us to keep on in the way wehave been going. I am wearied out, and you cannot be happy in arelation that is for ever reminding you that your own will andthought are no longer sole arbiters of action; that there is anotherwill and another thought that must at times be consulted, and evenobeyed. I am a man, and a husband; you a woman, and a wife, --we areequal as to rights and duties--equal in the eyes of God; but to theman and husband appertains 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 herpale face, and a dim, distant flash in her eyes. Her proud spiritdid not accept this view of their relation to each other. He wenton:

"If a wife has no confidence in her husband's manly judgment, if shecannot even respect him, then the case is altered. She must beunderstanding and will to herself; must lead both him and herself ifhe 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 ofsurprise in her voice that lingered huskily in her throat. 

"That is my doctrine, " was Emerson's firmly spoken answer. 

Irene sighed heavily. Both were silent for some moments. At lengthIrene said, lifting her hands and bringing them down with an actionof despair, "In bonds! in bonds!"

"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 bitterness 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 havenever sought to place you in bonds. I have had only one desire, andthat is to be your husband in the highest and truest sense. But, Iam a man--you a woman. There are two wills and two understandingsthat 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 usback to the question that lies at the basis of all order andhappiness--which of the two minds shall lead?"

"A man and his wife are equal, " said Irene, firmly. The strongindividuality of her character was asserting its claims even in thishour of severe mental pain. 

"Equal in the eyes of God, as I have said before, but where actionis concerned one must take precedence of the other, for, it cannotbe, seeing that their office and duties are different, that theirjudgment in the general affairs of life can be equally clear. Aman's work takes him out into the world, and throws him into sharpcollision with other men. He learns, as a consequence, to thinkcarefully and with deliberation, and to decide with caution, knowingthat action, based on erroneous conclusions, may ruin his prospectsin an hour. Thus, like the oak, which, grows up exposed to allelemental changes, his judgment gains strength, while hisperceptions, constantly trained, acquire clearness. But a woman'sduties lie almost wholly within this region of strife and action, and she remains, 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 judgment in affairs generally must be superior to thewoman's, and she must acquiesce in its decisions or there can be noright union in marriage. "

"Must lose herself in him, " said Irene, coldly. "Become a cypher, aslave. That will not suit me, Hartley!" And she looked at him withfirmly compressed mouth and steady eyes. 

It came to his lips to reply, "Then you had better return to yourfather, " but he caught the words back ere they leaped forth intosound, and, rising, walked the floor for the space of more than fiveminutes, Irene not stirring from the sofa. Pausing at length, hesaid in a voice which had lost its steadiness:

"You had better go up to your room, Irene. We are not in a conditionto help each other now. "

Mrs. Emerson did not answer, but, rising, left the parlor and wentas her husband had suggested. He stood still, listening, until thesound of her steps and the rustle of her garments had died away intosilence, when he commenced slowly walking the parlor floor with hishead bent down, and continued thus, as if he had forgotten time andplace, for over an hour. Then, awakened to consciousness by a senseof dizziness and exhaustion, he laid himself upon a sofa, and, shutting his eyes, tried to arrest the current of his troubledthoughts and sink into sleep and forgetfulness. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE RECONCILIATION. 

_FOR_ such a reception the young wife was wholly unprepared. Suddenly her husband had put on a new character and assumed a rightof control against which her sensitive pride and native love offreedom arose in strong rebellion. That she had done wrong in goingaway she acknowledged to herself, and had acknowledged to him. Buthe had met confession in a spirit so different from what wasanticipated, and showed an aspect so cold, stern, and exacting, thatshe was bewildered. She did not, however, mistake the meaning of hislanguage. It was plain that she understood the man's position to beone of dictation and control: we use the stronger aspect in which itwas presented to her mind. As to submission, it was not in all herthoughts. Wrung to agony as her heart was, and appalled as shelooked, trembling and shrinking into the future, she did not yield amoment to weakness. 

Midnight found Irene alone in her chamber. She had flung herselfupon a bed when she came up from the parlor, and fallen asleep afteran hour of fruitless beating about in her mind. Awaking from a mazeof troubled dreams, she started up and gazed, half fearfully, aroundthe dimly-lighted room. 

"Where am I?" she asked herself. Some moments elapsed before thepainful events of the past few days began to reveal themselves toher consciousness. 

"And where is Hartley?" This question followed as soon as all grewclear. Sleep had tranquilized her state, and restored a measure ofjust perception. Stepping from the bed, she went from the room andpassed silently down stairs. A light still burned in the parlorwhere she had left her husband some hours before, and streamed outthrough the partly opened door. She stood for some moments, listening, but there was no sound of life within. A sudden fearcrept into her heart. Her hand shook as she laid it upon the doorand pressed it open. Stepping within, she glanced around with afrightened air. 

On the sofa lay Hartley, with his face toward the light. It was wanand troubled, and the brows were contracted as if from intense pain. For some moments Irene stood looking at him; but his eyes were shutand he lay perfectly still. She drew nearer and bent down over him. He was sleeping, but his breath came so faintly, and there was solittle motion of his chest, that the thought flashed through herwith an electric thrill that he might be dying! Only by a strongeffort of self-control did she repress a cry of fear, or keep backher hands from clasping his neck. In what a strong tide did loverush back upon her soul! Her heart overflowed with tenderness, wasoppressed with yearning. 

"Oh, Hartley, my husband, my dear husband!" she cried out, love, fear, grief and anguish blending wildly in her voice, as she caughthim in her arms and awoke him with a rain of tears and kisses. 

"Irene! Love! Darling! What ails you? Where are we?" were theconfusedly uttered sentences of Mr. Emerson, as he started from thesofa and, holding his young wife from him, looked into her weepingface. 

"Call me again 'love' and 'darling, ' and I care not where we are!"she answered, in tones of passionate entreaty. "Oh, Hartley, mydear, dear husband! A desert island, with you, would be a paradise;a paradise, without you, a weary desert! Say the words again. Callme 'darling!'" And she let her head fall upon his bosom. 

"God bless you!" he said, laying his hand upon her head. He wasawake and clearly conscious of place and position. His voice wasdistinct, but tremulous and solemn. "God bless you, Irene, my wife!"

"And make me worthy of your love, " she responded faintly. 

"Mutually worthy of each other, " said he. "Wiser--better--morepatient and forbearing. Oh, Irene, " and his voice grew deep andtender, "why may we not be to each other all that our heartsdesire?"

"We can--we must--we will!" she answered, lifting her hidden facefrom his bosom and turning it up fondly to his. "God helping me, Iwill 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'scountenance with looks of the tenderest love, and then hid her faceon his bosom again. 

And thus were they again reconciled. 

CHAPTER X. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

_AFTER_ 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 gardenof love lift its head as bravely as before? In every storm ofpassion something is lost. Anger is a blind fury, who tramplesruthlessly on tenderest and holiest things. Alas for the ruin thatwaits upon her footsteps!

The day that followed this night of reconciliation had many hours ofsober introversion of thought for both Emerson and his wife; hoursin which memory reproduced language, conduct and sentiments thatcould not be dwelt upon without painful misgivings for the future. They understood each other too well to make light account of thingssaid and done, even in anger. 

In going over, as Irene did many times, the language used by herhusband on the night before, touching their relation as man andwife, and his prerogative, she felt the old spirit of revoltarising. She tried to let her thought fall into his rationalpresentation of the question involving precedence, and even said toherself that he was right; but pride was strong, and kept liftingitself in her mind. She saw, most clearly, the hardest aspect of thecase. It was, in her view, command and obedience. And she knew thatsubmission was, for her, impossible. 

On the part of Emerson, the day's sober thought left his mind in nomore hopeful condition than that of his wife. The pain suffered inconsequence of her temporary flight from home, though lessened byher return, had not subsided. A portion of confidence in her waslost. He felt that he had no guarantee for the future; that at anymoment, in the heat of passion, she might leave him again. Heremembered, too distinctly, her words on the night before, when hetried to make her comprehend his view of the relation between manand wife--"That will not suit me, Hartley. " And he felt that she wasin earnest; that she would resist every effort he might make to leadand control as a man in certain things, just as she had done fromthe beginning. 

In matrimonial quarrels you cannot kiss and make up again, aschildren 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 thatday of reconciliation, the past and the future. Yet each resolved tobe more forbearing and less exacting; to be emulous of concession, rather than exaction; to let love, uniting with reason, hold prideand self-will in close submission. 

Their meeting, on Hartley's return home, at his usual late hour inthe afternoon, was tender, but not full of the joyous warmth offeeling that often showed itself. Their hearts were not light enoughfor ecstasy. But they were marked in their attentions to each other, emulous of affectionate words and actions, yielding and considerate. And yet this mutual, almost formal, recognition of a recent state ofpainful antagonism left on each mind a feeling of embarrassment, checked words and sentences ere they came to utterance, and threwamid their pleasant talks many intermittent pauses. 

Often through the day had Mr. Emerson, as he dwelt on the unhappyrelation existing between himself and his wife, made up his mind torenew the subject of their true position to each other, as brieflytouched upon in their meeting of the night before, and as oftenchanged his purpose, in fear of another rupture. Yet to him itseemed of the first importance that this matter, as a basis offuture 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, fierceantagonism might occur at any moment. He had come home inclined tothe affirmative side of the question, and many times during theevening it was on his lips to introduce the subject. But he was sosure that it would prove a theme of sharp discussion, that he hadnot the courage to risk the consequences. 

There was peace again after this conflict, but it was not, by anymeans, a hopeful peace. It had no well-considered basis. The causeswhich had produced a struggle were still in existence, and liable tobecome active, by provocation, at any moment. No change had takenplace in the characters, dispositions, temperaments or general viewsof life in either of the parties. Strife had ceased between themonly in consequence of the pain it involved. A deep conviction ofthis fact so sobered the mind of Mr. Emerson, and altered, inconsequence, his manner toward Irene, that she felt its reserve andcoldness as a rebuke that chilled the warmth of her tender impulses. 

And this manner did not greatly change as the days and weeks movedonward. Memory kept too vividly in the mind of Emerson that one act, and the danger of its repetition on some sudden provocation. Hecould not feel safe and at ease with his temple of peace built closeto a slumbering volcano, which was liable at any moment to blazeforth and bury its fair proportions in lava and ashes. 

Irene did not comprehend her husband's state of mind. She feltpainfully the change in his manner, but failed in reaching the truecause. Sometimes she attributed his coldness to resentment;sometimes to defect of love; and sometimes to a settleddetermination on his part to inflict punishment. Sometimes she spenthours alone, weeping over these sad ruins of her peace, andsometimes, in a spirit of revolt, she laid down for herself a lineof conduct intended to react against her husband. But something inhis calm, kind, self-reliant manner, when she looked into his face, broke down her purpose. She was afraid of throwing herself against arock which, while standing immovable, might bruise her tender limbsor extinguish life in the strong concussion. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

_BOTH_ Emerson and his wife came up from this experience changed inthemselves and toward each other. A few days had matured them beyondwhat might have been looked for in as many years. Life suddenly puton more sober hues, and the future laid off its smiles andbeckonings onward to greener fields and mountain-heights offelicity. There was a certain air of manly self-confidence, afirmer, more deliberate way of expressing himself on all subjects, and an evidence of mental clearness and strength, which gave toIrene the impression of power and superiority not wholly agreeableto her self-love, yet awakening emotions of pride in her husbandwhen 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 adaily increasing spirit of resistance and antagonism, and itrequired constant watchfulness over herself to prevent this feelingfrom exhibiting itself in act. 

On the part of Emerson, the more he thought about this subject ofthe husband's relative duties and prerogatives--thought as a man andas a lawyer--the more strongly did he feel about it, and the moretenacious of his assumed rights did he become. Matters which seemedin the beginning of such light importance as scarcely to attract hisattention, now loomed up before him as things of moment. Thus, if hespoke of their doing some particular thing in a certain way, andIrene suggested a different way, instead of yielding to her view, hewould insist upon his own. If she tried to show him a reason why herway was best, he would give no weight to her argument orrepresentation. On the other hand, it is but just to say that herarely opposed her independent suggestions or interfered with herfreedom; and if she had been as considerate toward him, the dangerof trouble would have been lessened. 

It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, and so it isthe little reactions of two spirits against each other that spoilthe tender blossoms of love and destroy the promised vintage. Steadily, day by day, and week by week, were these light reactionsmarring the happiness of our undisciplined young friends, anddestroying in them germ after germ, and bud after bud, which, ifleft to growth and development, would have brought forth ripe, luscious fruit in the later summer of their lives. Trifles, light asair were noticed, and their importance magnified. Words, looks, actions, insignificant in themselves, were made to represent statesof will or antagonism which really had no existence. 

Unhappily for their peace, Irene had a brooding disposition. Sheheld in her memory utterances and actions forgotten by her husband, and, by dwelling upon, magnified and gave them an importance towhich they were not entitled. Still more unhappily for their peace, Irene met about this time, and became attached to, a lady of fineintellectual attainments and fascinating manners, who was anextremist in opinion on the subject of sexual equality. She wasmarried, but to a man greatly her inferior, though possessing someliterary talent, which he managed to turn to better account than shedid her finer powers. He had been attracted by her brilliantqualities, and in approaching her scorched his wings, and ever afterlay at her feet. She had no very high respect for him, but found ahusband on many accounts a convenient thing, and so held on to theappendage. If he had been man enough to remain silent on the themesshe was so fond of discussing on all occasions, people of commonsense and common perception would have respected him for what he wasworth. But he gloried in his bondage, and rattled his chains asgleefully as if he were discoursing sweet music. What she announcedoracularly, he attempted to demonstrate by bald and feeblearguments. He was the false understanding to her perverted will. 

The name of this lady was Mrs. Talbot. Irene met her soon after hermarriage and removal to New York, and was charmed with her from thebeginning. Mr. Emerson, on the contrary, liked neither her nor hersentiments, and considered her a dangerous friend for his wife. Heexpressed himself freely in regard to her at the commencement of theintimacy; but Irene took her part so warmly, and used such stronglanguage in her favor, that Emerson deemed it wisest not to createnew sentiments in her favor out of opposition to himself. 

Within a week from that memorable Christmas day on which Irene cameback from Ivy Cliff, Mrs. Talbot, who had taken a fancy to thespirited, independent, undisciplined wife of Emerson, called in tosee her new friend. Irene received her cordially. 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 together. "I've felt as dull all the morning as ananchorite. "

"You dull!" Mrs. Talbot affected surprise, as she glanced round thetasteful room in which they were sitting. "What is there to cloudyour mind? With such a home and such a husband as you possess lifeought to be one long, bright holiday. "

"Good things in their way, " replied Mrs. Emerson. "But noteverything. "

She said this in a kind of thoughtless deference to Mrs. Talbot'sknown views on the subject of homes and husbands, which she had nothesitated 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 thesame 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 ahusband. "

"Right, my young friend, right!" Mrs. Talbot's manner grew earnest. "No truer words were ever spoken. Yes--yes--a woman needs a greatdeal more than these to fill the measure of her happiness; and it isthrough the attempt to restrict and limit her to such poorsubstitutes for a world-wide range and freedom that she has been sodwarfed in mental stature, and made the unhappy creature and slaveof man's hard ambition and indomitable love of power. There wereAmazons of old--as the early Greeks knew to their cost--strong, self-reliant, courageous women, who acknowledged no humansuperiority. Is the Amazonian spirit dead in the earth? Not so! Itis alive, and clothing itself with will, power and persistence. Already it is grasping the rein, and the mettled steed standsimpatient to feel the rider's impulse in the saddle. The cycle ofwoman's degradation and humiliation is completed. A new era in theworld's social history has dawned for her, and the mountain-tops aregolden with the coming day. "

Irene listened with delight and even enthusiasm to these sentiments, uttered with ardor and eloquence. 

"It is not woman's fault, taking her in the aggregate, that she isso weak in body and mind, and such a passive slave to man's will, "continued Mrs. Talbot. "In the retrocession of races towardbarbarism mere muscle, in which alone man is superior to woman, prevailed. Physical strength set itself up as master. Might maderight. And so unhappy woman was degraded below man, and held to theearth, until nearly all independent life has been crushed out ofher. As civilization has lifted nation after nation out of the darkdepths of barbarism, the condition of woman physically has beenimproved. For the sake of his children, if from no better motive, man has come to treat his wife with a more considerate kindness. Ifshe 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 inthese humble affairs. He allows her 'help!' But, mentally andsocially, he continues to degrade her. In law she is scarcelyrecognized, except as a criminal. She is punished if she does wrong, but has no legal protection in her rights as an independent humanbeing. She is only man's shadow. The public opinion that affects heris made by him. The earliest literature of a country is man'sexpression; and in this man's view of woman is always apparent. Thesentiment is repeated generation after generation, and age afterage, until the barbarous idea comes down, scarcely questioned, tothe days of high civilization, culture and refinement. 

"Here, my young friend, you have the simple story of woman'sdegradation 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 mancannot govern a state, he will be content to govern a household--butgovern 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 alwaysattempt to rule their sisters, and if the latter do not submit, thencomes discord and contention. "

"I have seen this, in hundreds of instances, " replied Mrs. Talbot. "It was fully illustrated in my own case. I had two brothers, whoundertook to exercise their love of domineering on me. But they didnot find a passive subject--no, not by any means. I was neverobedient to their will, for I had one of my own. We made the houseoften a bedlam for our poor mother; but I never gave way--no, notfor an instant, come what might. I had different stuff in me fromthat of common girls, and in time the boys were glad to let mealone. "

"Are your brothers living?" asked Mrs. Emerson. 

"Yes. One resides in New York, and the other in Boston. One is amerchant, the other a physician. "

"How was it as you grew older?"

"About the same. They are like nearly all men--despisers of woman'sintellect. "

Irene sighed, and, letting her eyes fall to the floor, sat lost inthought for some moments. The suggestions of her friend were notproducing 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 manner that involved both indifference andcontempt. "I never take him into account when discussing thesematters. That point was settled between us long and long ago. We jogon without trouble. Talbot thinks as I do about the women--orpretends that he does, which is all the same. "

"A rare exception to the general run of husbands, " said Irene, thinking at the same time how immeasurably superior Mr. Emerson wasto this weakling, and despising him in her heart for submitting tobe ruled by a woman. Thus nature and 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 isso. If he were like your husband, for instance, one of us would havebeen before the legislature for a divorce within twelve months ofour 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 qualities aboutthem--strong in intellect and will. "

Irene felt pleased with the compliment bestowed 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. Iprobe them. "

"And you have probed my husband?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"And do not regard him as sound on this subject?"

"No sounder than other men of his class. He regards woman as man'sinferior. "

"I think you state the case too strongly, " said Mrs. Emerson, a redspot burning on her cheek. "He thinks them mentally different. "

"Of course he does. "

"But not different as to superiority and inferiority, " repliedIrene. 

"Mere hair-splitting, my child. If they are mentally different, onemust be more highly organized than the other, and of course, superior. Mr. Emerson thinks a man's rational powers stronger than awoman's, and that, therefore, he must direct in affairs generally, and she follow his lead. I know; I've talked with and drawn him outon this subject. "

Mrs. Emerson sighed again faintly, while her eyes dropped from theface of her visitor and sunk to the floor. A shadow was falling onher spirit--a weight coming down with a gradually increasingpressure upon her heart. She remembered the night of her return fromIvy Cliff and the language then used by her husband on this verysubject, which was mainly in agreement with the range of opinionsattributed to him by Mrs. Talbot. 

"Marriage, to a spirited woman, " she remarked, in a pensiveundertone, "is a doubtful experiment. "

"Always, " returned her friend. "As woman stands now in the estimateof man, her chances for happiness are almost wholly on the side ofold-maidism. Still, freedom is the price of struggle and combat; andwoman will first have to show, in actual strife, that she is theequal of her present lord. "

"Then you would turn every home into a battlefield?" said Mrs. Emerson. 

"Every home in which there is a tyrant and an oppressor, " was theprompt answer. "Many fair lands, in all ages, have been trampleddown ruthlessly by the iron feet of war; and that were better, asthe price of freedom, than slavery. "

Irene sighed again, and was again silent. 

"What, " she asked, "if the oppressor is so much stronger than theoppressed that successful resistance is impossible? that with everystruggle the links of the chain that binds her sink deeper into herquivering flesh?"

"Every age and every land have seen noble martyrs in the cause offreedom. It is better to die for liberty than live an ignobleslave, " answered the tempter. 

"And I will die a free woman. " This Irene said in her heart. 

CHAPTER XII. 

IN BONDS. 

_SENTIMENTS_ like these, coming to Irene as they did while she wasyet chafing under a recent collision with her husband, and while thequestion of submission was yet an open one, were near proving aquick-match to a slumbering mine in her spirit, and had not herhusband been in a more passive state than usual, there might havebeen an explosion which would have driven them asunder with suchterrific force that reunion must have been next to impossible. 

It would have been well if their effects had died with the passingaway of that immediate danger. But as we think so we incline to act. Our sentiments are our governors; and of all imperious tyrants, false sentiments are the most ruthless. The beautiful, the true, thegood they trample out of the heart with a fiery malignity that knowsno touch of pity; for the false is the bitter enemy of the true andmakes with it no terms of amity. 

The coldness which had followed their reconciliation might havegradually given way before the warmth of genuine love, if Irene hadbeen left to the counsels of her own heart; if there had been noenemy to her peace, like Mrs. Talbot, to throw in wild, vaguethoughts of oppression and freedom among the half-developed opinionswhich were forming in her mind. As it was, a jealous scrutiny ofwords and actions took the place of that tender confidence which wascoming back to Irene's heart, and she became watchfully on thealert; not, as she might have been, lovingly ministrant. 

Only a few days were permitted to elapse after the call of thisunsafe friend before Irene returned the visit, and spent two hourswith her, conning over the subject of woman's rights and woman'swrongs. Mrs. Talbot introduced her to writers on the vexed question, who had touched the theme with argument, sarcasm, invective andbold, brilliant, specious generalities; read to her from theirbooks; commented on their deductions, and uttered sentiments on thesubject of reform and resistance as radical as the most extreme. 

"We must agitate--we must act--we must do good deeds of valor andself-sacrifice for our sex, " she said, in her enthusiastic way. "Every woman, whether of high or low condition, of humble powers orvigorous intellect, has a duty to perform, and she is false to thehonor and rights of her sex if she do not array herself on the sideof freedom. You have great responsibilities resting upon you, myyoung friend. I say it soberly, even solemnly. Responsibilitieswhich may not be disregarded without evil consequences to yourselfand others. You are young, clear-thoughted and resolute--have will, purpose and endurance. You are married to a young man destined, Ithink, to make his mark in the world; but, as I have said before, afalse education has given him erroneous ideas on this great andimportant 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 toyourself and to your sisters in bonds. "

"In bonds! _I_ 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 turnedand came back again. Her cheeks burned and her eyes flashed. Shestood 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 well as I do. From thebeginning of our acquaintance 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 sentiments and opinionswhich she had permitted herself to utter in the presence of herfriend, to see if she had so fully betrayed herself. She could notrecall the distinct language, but it was plain that Mrs. Talbot hadher 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 Iwish to see you a free woman that I point to your bonds. Now is thetime to break them--now, before years have increased theirstrength--now, before habit has made tyranny a part of yourhusband's nature. He is your ruler, because the social sentiment isin favor of manly domination. There is hope for you now, and nowonly. You must begin the work of reaction while both are young. Letyour husband understand, from this time, that you are his equal. Itmay go a little hard at first. He will, without doubt, hold on tothe reins, for power is sweet; but if there be true love for you inhis heart, he will yield in the struggle, and make you his companionand equal, as you should be. If his love be not genuine, why--"

She checked herself. It might be going a step too far with her youngfriend to utter the thought that was coming to her lips. Irene didnot question her as to what more she was about to say. There wasstimulus enough in the words already spoken. She felt all thestrength 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 thestuff you are made of. There would be hope of a speedier reform thanis now promised. "

"Heaven send the reform right early! It cannot come a day too soon. "Irene spoke with rising ardor. 

"It will be our own fault, " said Mrs. Talbot, "if we longer bow ournecks to the yoke or move obedient to our task-masters. Let us laythe axe to the very root of this evil and hew it down. "

"Even if we are crushed by the tree in falling, " responded Irene, inthe spirit of a martyr. 

From this interview our wrong-directed young friend went home withmore clearly defined purposes touching her conduct toward herhusband than she had hitherto entertained. She saw him in a newaspect, and in a character more definitely outlined. He loomed up inmore colossal proportions, and put on sterner features. Alldisguises were thrown away, and he stood forth, not a lovinghusband, but the tyrant of her home. Weak, jealous, passion-tostchild! how this strong, self-willed, false woman of the world hadbewildered her thoughts, and pushed her forth into an arena ofstrife, where she could only beat about blindly, and hurt herselfand others, yet accomplish no good. 

From her interview with Mrs. Talbot, Irene went home, bearing moredistinct ideas of resistance in her mind. In this great crisis ofher life she felt that she needed just such a friend, who could givedirection to her striving spirit, and clothe for her in thoughts thenative impulses that she knew only as a love of freedom. Shebelieved now that she understood herself better than before, andcomprehended more clearly her duties and responsibilities. 

It was in this mood of mind that she met her husband when hereturned in the afternoon from his office. Happily for them, he wasin a quiet, non-resistant state, and in a special good-humor withhimself and the world. Professional matters had shaped themselves tohis wishes, and left his mind at peace. Irene had, in consequence, everything pretty much her own way. Hartley did not fail to notice acertain sharpness of manner about her, and a certain spiciness ofsentiment when the subject of their intermittent talks verged onthemes relating to women; but he felt no inclination whatever forargument or opposition, and so her arrows struck a polished shield, and went gracefully and harmlessly aside. 

"Shall we go and have a merry laugh with Matthews to-night?" saidHartley, 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 thelaughing mood, just now. "

"Laughing is contagious, " suggested Hartley. 

"I shall not take the infection to-night. " And she balanced herlittle head with the perpendicularity of a plumb-line. 

"Can't I persuade you?" He was in a real good-humor, and smiled ashe said this. 

"No, sir. You may waive both argument and persuasion. I am inearnest. "

"And when a woman is in earnest you might as well essay to move thePillars of Hercules. "

"You might as well in my case, " answered Irene, without anysoftening of tone or features. 

"Then I shall not attempt, after a hard day's work, a task sodifficult. I am in a mood for rest and quiet, " said the younghusband. 

"Perhaps, " he resumed, after a little pause, "you may feel somewhatmusical. There is to be a vocal and instrumental concert to-night. What say you to going there? I think I could enjoy some goodsinging, 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, "we will stay athome. "

And he sung a snatch of the familiar song--"There's no place likehome, " rising, as he did so, from the table, and offering Irene hisarm. She could do no less than accept the courtesy, and so they wentup to their cozy sitting-room arm-in-arm--he chatty, and she almostsilent. 

"What's the matter, petty?" he asked, in a fond way, after tryingfor some time, but in vain, to draw her out into pleasantconversation. "Ain't you well to-night?"

Now, so far as her bodily state was concerned, Irene never feltbetter in her life. So she could not plead indisposition. 

"I feel well, " she replied, glancing up into her husband's face in acold, embarrassed kind of way. 

"Then your looks belie your condition--that's all. If it isn't thebody, it must be the mind. What's gone wrong, darling?"

The tenderness in Hartley's tones was genuine, and the heart ofIrene leaped to his voice with a responsive throe. But was he nother master and tyrant? How that thought chilled the sweet impulse!

"Nothing wrong, " she answered, with a sadness of tone which she wasunable to conceal. "But I feel dull, and cannot help it. "

"You should have gone with me to laugh with Matthews. He would haveshaken all these cobwebs from your brain. Come! it is not yet toolate. "

But the rebel spirit was in her heart; and to have acceded to hehusband's wishes would have been to submit herself to control. 

"You must excuse me, " she replied. "I feel as if home were thebetter place for me to-night. "

An impatient answer was on her tongue; but she checked itsutterance, and spoke from a better spirit. 

Not even as a lover had Hartley shown more considerate tendernessthan marked all his conduct toward Irene this evening. His mind wasin a clear-seeing region, and his feelings tranquil. The sphere ofher antagonism failed to reach him. He did not understand themeaning of her opposition to his wishes, and so pride, self-love andself-will remained quiescent. How peacefully unconscious was he ofthe fact that his feet were standing over a mine, and that a singlespark of passion struck from him would have sprung that mine infierce explosion! He read to Irene from a volume which he knew to bea favorite; talked to her about Ivy Cliff and her father; suggestedan early visit to the pleasant old river home; and thus charmed awaythe evil spirits which had found a lodgment in her bosom. 

But how different it might have been!

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE REFORMERS. 

_SOCIAL_ theories that favor our passions, peculiarities, defects ofcharacter or weaknesses are readily adopted, and, with minds of anardent temper, often become hobbies. There is a class of persons whoare never content with riding their own hobbies; they must haveothers mount with them. All the world is going wrong because itmoves past them--trotting, pacing or galloping, as it may be, uponits own hobbies. And so they try to arrest this movement or that, or, gathering a company of aimless people, they galvanize them withtheir own wild purposes, and start them forth into the world onQuixotic errands. 

These persons are never content to wait for the slow changes thatare included in all orderly developments. Because a thing seemsright to them in the abstract, it must be done now. They cannot waitfor old things to pass away, as preliminary to the inauguration ofwhat is new. 

"If I had the power, " we have heard one of this class say, "evil andsorrow and pain should cease from the earth in a moment. " And insaying this the thought was not concealed that God had this power, but failed to exercise it. With them no questions of expediency, noregard for time-endowed prejudices, no weak spirit of waiting, nolooking for the fullness of time could have any influence. What theywilled to be done must be done now; and they were impatient andangry at every one who stood in their way or opposed their theories. 

In most cases, you will find these "reformers, " as they generallystyle themselves, governed more by a love of ruling and influencingothers than by a spirit of humanity. They are one-sided people, andcan only see one side of a subject in clear light. It matters littleto them what is destroyed, so that they can build. If they possessthe gift of language, either as writers or talkers--have wit, brilliancy and sarcasm--they make disciples of the less gifted, andinfluence larger or smaller circles of men and women. Flattered bythis homage to their talents, they grow more ardent in the causewhich they have espoused, and see, or affect to see, little else ofany importance in the world. They do some good and much harm. Good, in drawing general attention to social evils that needreforming--evil, in causing weak people to forget common duties intheir ambition to set the world right. 

There is always danger in breaking suddenly away from the regularprogression of things and taking the lead in some new andantagonistic movement. Such things must and will be; but they whoset up for social reformers must be men and women of pure hearts, clear minds and the broadest human sympathies. They must be loversof their kind, not lovers of themselves; brave as patriots, not assoldiers of fortune who seek for booty and renown. 

Not many of these true reformers--all honor to them!--are foundamong the noisy coteries that infest the land and turn so manyfoolish people away from real duties. 

One of the dangers attendant on association with the class to whichwe refer lies in the fact that they draw around them certainfree-thinking, sensual personages, of no very stable morality, whoare ready for anything that gives excitement to their morbidconditions of mind. Social disasters, of the saddest kind, areconstantly occurring through this cause. Men and women become atfirst unsettled 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 bettersort of reformers in one respect. She was a pure-minded woman; butthis did not keep her out of the circle of those who were of freerthought and action. Being an extremist on the subject of woman'ssocial position, she met and assimilated with others on the basis ofa common sentiment. This threw her in contact with many from whomshe would have shrunk with instinctive aversion had she known theirtrue quality. Still, the evil to her was a gradual wearing away, bythe power of steady attrition, of old, true, conservative ideas inregard to the binding force of marriage. There was always a greatdeal said on this subject, in a light way, by persons for whoseopinions on other subjects she had the highest respect, and this hadits influence. Insensibly her views and feelings changed, until shefound herself, in some cases, the advocate of sentiments that oncewould have been rejected with instinctive repugnance. 

This was the woman who was about acquiring a strong influence overthe undisciplined, self-willed and too self-reliant young wife ofHartley Emerson; and this was the class of personages among whom herdangerous friend was about introducing her. At the house of Mrs. Talbot, where Irene became a frequent visitor, she met a great manybrilliant, talented and fascinating people, of whom she often spoketo her husband, for she was too independent to have anyconcealments. She knew that he did no like Mrs. Talbot, but thisrather inclined her to a favorable estimation, and really led to amore frequent intercourse than would otherwise have been the case. 

Once a week Mrs. Talbot held a kind of conversazione, at whichbrilliant people and people with hobbies met to hear themselvestalk. Mr. And Mrs. Emerson had a standing invitation to be presentat these reunions, and, as Irene wished to go, her husband saw itbest not to interpose obstacles. Besides, as he knew that she wentto Mrs. Talbot's often in the day-time, and met a good many peoplethere, he wished to see for himself who they were, and judge forhimself as to their quality. Of the men who frequented the parlorsof Mrs. Talbot, the larger number had some prefix to their names, asProfessor, Doctor, Major, or Colonel. Most of the ladies were of adecidedly literary turn--some had written books, some were magazinecontributors, one was a physician, and one a public lecturer. Nothing against them in all this, but much to their honor if theirtalents and acquirements were used for the common good. 

The themes of conversation at these weekly gatherings were varied, but social relations and social reform were in most cases theleading topics. Two or three evenings at Mrs. Talbot's were enoughto satisfy Mr. Emerson that the people who met there were not of acharacter to exercise a good influence upon his wife. But how was heto keep her from associations that evidently presented strongattractions? Direct opposition he feared to make, for the experienceof a few months had been sufficient to show him that she wouldresist 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 toexercise some self-denial for his sake. But her mind was too firmlybent on going to be turned so easily from its purpose; she did notconsider trifles like these of sufficient importance to interferewith the pleasures of an evening at one of Mrs. Talbot'sconversaziones. Mr. Emerson felt hurt at his wife's plain disregardof his comfort and wishes, and said within himself, with bitternessof 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 surprise, and with a shade ofdisappointment on her countenance. 

"I have business of importance with a gentleman who resides inBrooklyn, 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 lateI may be detained in Brooklyn. "

"I'm sorry. " And Irene bent down her eyes in a thoughtful way. "Ipromised 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, " remarked Emerson. 

"That doesn't follow. You could take me there, and Mrs. Talbot findme an escort home. "

"Who?" Emerson knit his brows and glanced sharply at his wife. Thesuggestion struck him unpleasantly. 

"Major Willard, for instance;" and she smiled in a half-amused, half-mischievous way. 

"You cannot be in earnest, surely?" said Emerson. 

"Why not?" queried his wife, looking at her husband with calm, searching eyes. 

"You would not, in the first place, be present there, unaccompaniedby your husband; and, in the second place, I hardly think my wifewould be seen in the street, at night, on the arm of Major Willard. "

Mr. Emerson spoke like a man who was in earnest. 

"Do you know anything wrong of Major Willard?" asked Irene. 

"I know nothing about him, right or wrong, " was replied. "But, if Ihave any skill in reading men, he is very far from being a finespecimen. "

"Why, Hartley! You have let some prejudice come in to warp yourestimation. "

"No. I have mixed some with men, and, though my opportunity forobservation has not been large, I have met two or three of yourMajor Willards. They are polished and attractive on the surface, butunprincipled and corrupt. "

"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 custodian, " repliedEmerson. "Don't let even the shadow of a man like Major Willard fallupon it. "

"I am sorry to see you so prejudiced, " said Irene, coldly; "andsorry, still further, that you have so poor an opinion of yourwife. "

"You misapprehend me, " returned Hartley. "I am neither prejudicednor suspicious. But seeing danger in your way, as a prudent man Ilift 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 medoors of observation that are shut to many. I see the inside ofcharacter, where others look only upon the fair outside. "

"And so learn to be suspicious of everybody, " said Irene. 

"No; only to read indices that to many others are unintelligible. "

"I must learn to read them also. "

"It would be well if your sex and place in the world gave the rightopportunity, " replied Hartley. 

"Truly said. And that touches the main question. Women, immured asthey now are, and never suffered to go out into the world unlessguarded by husband, brother or discreet managing friend, willcontinue as weak and undiscriminating as the great mass of them noware. But, so far as I am concerned, this system is destined tochange. I must be permitted a larger liberty, and opportunities forindependent observation. I wish to read character for myself, andmake up my own mind in regard to the people I meet. "

"I am only sorry, " rejoined her husband, "that your first effort atreading character and making up independent opinions in regard tomen and principles had not found scope in another direction. I amafraid that, in trying to get close enough to the people you meet atMrs. Talbot's for accurate observation, you will draw so near todangerous fires as to scorch your garments. "

"Complimentary to Mrs. Talbot!"

"The remark simply gives you my estimate of some of her favoredvisitors. "

"And complimentary to your wife, " added Irene. 

"My wife, " said Hartley, in a serious voice, "is, like myself, youngand inexperienced, and should be particularly cautious in regard toall new acquaintances--men or women--particularly if they be someyears her senior, and particularly if they show any marked desire tocultivate her acquaintance. People with a large worldly experience, like most of those we have met at Mrs. Talbot's, take you and I atdisadvantage. They read us through at a single sitting, while it maytake us months, even years, to penetrate the disguises they know sowell how to assume. "

"Nearly all of which, touching the pleasant people we meet at Mrs. Talbot's, is assumed, " replied Irene, not at all moved by herhusband'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 thepart of her husband, persisted in her determination to go to Mrs. Talbot's, he engaged a carriage to take her there and to call forher at eleven o'clock. 

"Come away alone, " he said, with impressive earnestness, as heparted from her. "Don't let any courteous offer induce you to acceptan attendant when you return home. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

A STARTLING EXPERIENCE. 

_MRS. EMERSON_ did not feel altogether comfortable in mind as sherode away from her door alone. She was going unattended by herhusband, and against his warmly-spoken remonstrance, to pass anevening with people of whom she knew but little, and against whom hehad strong prejudices. 

"It were better to have remained at home, " she said to herself morethan once before her arrival at Mrs. Talbot's. The marked attentionsshe received, as well from Mrs. Talbot as from several of herguests, soon brought her spirits up to the old elevation. Amongthose who seemed most attracted by her was Major Willard, to whomreference has already been made. 

"Where is your husband?" was almost his first inquiry on meetingher. "I do not see him in the room. "

"He had to meet a gentleman on business over in Brooklyn thisevening, " replied Irene. 

"Ah, business!" said the major, with a shrug, a movement of theeyebrows and a motion in the corners of his mouth which were notintelligible signs to Mrs. Emerson. That they meant something morethan he was prepared to utter in words, she was satisfied, butwhether of favorable or unfavorable import touching her absenthusband, she could not tell. The impression on her mind was notagreeable, and she could not help remembering what Hartley had saidabout the major. 

"I notice, " remarked the latter, "that we have several ladies herewho come usually without their husbands. Gentlemen are not alwaysattracted by the feast of reason and the flow of soul. They requiresomething more substantial. Oysters and terrapin are nearer to theirfancy. "

"Not more to my husband's fancy, " replied Mrs. Emerson, in a tone ofvindication, as well as rebuke 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 honoredposition of your husband. Nothing could have been farther from mythought. I was only trifling. "

Mrs. Emerson smiled her forgiveness, and the major became morepolite and attentive than before. But his attentions were not whollyagreeable. Something in the expression of his eyes as he looked ather produced an unpleasant repulsion. She was constantly rememberingsome of the cautions spoken by Hartley in reference to this man, andshe wished scores of times that he would turn his attentions to someone else. But the major seemed to have no eyes for any other lady inthe room. 

In spite of the innate repulsion to which we have referred, Mrs. Emerson was flattered by the polished major's devotion of himselfalmost wholly to her during the evening, and she could do no less inreturn than make herself as agreeable as possible. 

At eleven o'clock she had notice that her carriage was at the door. The major was by, and heard the communication. So, when she camedown 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 movementto accompany her. She spoke very positively. 

"I cannot see you go home unattended. " And the major bowed withgraceful 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, thegallant major would listen to nothing; and so, perforce, she had toyield. After handing her into the carriage, he spoke a word or twoin an undertone to the driver, and then entering, took his place byher side. 

Mrs. Emerson felt strangely uncomfortable and embarrassed, andshrunk as far from her companion as the narrow space they occupiedwould permit; while he, it seemed to her, approached as she receded. There was a different tone in his voice when he spoke as thecarriage moved away from any she had noticed heretofore. He drew hisface near to hers in speaking, but the rattling of the wheels madehearing difficult. He had, during the evening, referred to a staractress then occupying public attention, of whom some scandalousthings had been said, and declared his belief in her innocence. ToMrs. Emerson's surprise--almost disgust--his first remark after theywere seated in the carriage was about this actress. Irene did notrespond to his remark. 

"Did you ever meet her in private circles?" he next 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. "ThatJuno-like beauty which so distinguishes her on the stage scarcelyshows itself in the drawing-room. On the stage she is queenly--inprivate, soft, voluptuous and winning as a houri. I don't wonderthat she has crowds of admirers. "

The major's face was close to that of his companion, who felt a wildsense of repugnance, so strong as to be almost suffocating. Thecarriage bounded as the wheels struck an inequality in the street, throwing them together with a slight concussion. The major laid hishand upon that of Mrs. Emerson, as if to support her. But sheinstantly withdrew the hand he had presumed to touch. He attemptedthe same familiarity again, but she placed both hands beyond thepossibility of accidental or designed contact with his, and shrankstill closer into the corner of the carriage, while her heartfluttered and a tremor ran through her frame. 

Major Willard spoke again of the actress, but Mrs. Emerson made noreply. 

"Where are we going?" she asked, after the lapse of some tenminutes, glancing from the window and seeing, instead of the tallrows of stately houses which lined the streets along the wholedistance 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 quiverof alarm in her voice. 

"Our drivers know the shortest cuts, " replied the major, "and thesedo not always lead through the most attractive quarters of thetown. "

Mrs. Emerson shrunk back again in her seat and was silent. Her heartwas throbbing with a vague fear. Suddenly the carriage stopped andthe driver alighted. 

"This is not my home, " said Mrs. Emerson, as the driver opened thedoor, and the major stepped out upon the pavement. 

"Oh, yes. This is No. 240 L---- street. Yes, ma'am, " added thedriver, "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 herto assume. 

"Madam--" Major Willard commenced speaking. 

"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 permitthat man to enter, my husband will hold you to a strict account. "

"Stand back!" exclaimed the driver, in a resolute voice. 

But the major was not to be put off in this way. He did not movefrom the open door of the carriage. In the next moment the driver'svigorous arm had hurled him across the pavement. The door was shut, the box mounted and the carriage whirled away, before the astonishedman could rise, half stunned, from the place where he fell. A fewlow, bitter, impotent curses fell from his lips, and then he walkedslowly 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 disturbed. "

"The driver went through parts of the town in returning that made mefeel 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 directest route wouldhave brought me home ten minutes ago. I declare! The fellow'sconduct made me right nervous. I thought a dozen improbable things. "

"It is the last time I will employ him, " said Hartley. "How dare hego a single block away from a direct course, at this late hour?" Hespoke with rising indignation. 

At first, Irene resolved to inform her husband of Major Willard'sconduct, but it will be seen by this conversation that she hadchanged her mind, at least for the present. Two or three thingscaused her to hesitate until she could turn the matter over in herthoughts more carefully. Pride had its influence. She did not careto admit that she had been in error and Hartley right as to MajorWillard. But there was a more sober aspect of the case. Hartley wasexcitable, brave and strong-willed. She feared the consequences thatmight follow if he were informed of Major Willard's outrageousconduct. A personal collision she saw to be almost inevitable inthis 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 considerablydisturbed by the alleged conduct of the driver. 

One good result followed this rather startling experience. Irenesaid no more about attending the conversaziones of Mrs. Talbot. Shedid not care to meet Major Willard again, and as he was a regularvisitor at Mrs. Talbot's, she couldn't go there without encounteringhim. Her absence on the next social evening was remarked by her newfriend, 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. Emerson, the smile with whichshe had received her friend fading partly away. 

"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 likethe class of people one meets at my house. Men of his stamp neverdo. "

It was on the lips of Mrs. Emerson to say that there might be groundfor his dislike of some who were met there. But she repressed even aremote reference to an affair that, for the gravest of reasons, shestill 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 case. And, pray, whatoccasioned this indisposition? Not a previous mental surfeit, Ihope. "

"Oh no. I never get a surfeit in good company. But people's statesvary, as you are aware. I had a stay-at-home feeling last night, andindulged myself. "

"Very prettily said, my dear. I understand you entirely, and likeyour frank, outspoken way. This is always best with friends. Idesire all of mine to enjoy the largest liberty--to come and see mewhen they feel like it, and to stay away when they don't feel likecoming. We had a delightful time. Major Willard was there. He's acharming man! Several times through the evening he asked for you. Ireally think your absence worried him. Now, don't blush! A handsome, accomplished man may admire a handsome and accomplished woman, without anything wrong being involved. Because one has a husband, isshe not to be spoken to or admired by other men? Nonsense! That isthe world's weak prudery, or rather the common social sentimentbased on man's tyranny over woman. "

As Mrs. Talbot ran on in this strain, Mrs. Emerson had time toreflect and school her exterior. Toward Major Willard her feelingswere those of disgust and detestation. The utterance of his nameshocked her womanly delicacy, but when it was coupled with asentiment of admiration for her, and an intimation of the probableexistence of something reciprocal on her part, it was withdifficulty that she could restrain a burst of indignant feeling. Buther strong will helped her, and she gave no intelligible sign ofwhat was really passing in her thoughts. The subject beingaltogether disagreeable, she changed it as soon as possible. 

In this interview with Mrs. Talbot a new impression in regard to herwas made on the mind of Mrs. Emerson. Something impure seemed topervade the mental atmosphere with which she was surrounded, andthere seemed to be things involved in what she said that shadowed alatitude in morals wholly outside of Christian duty. When theyseparated, much of the enthusiasm which Irene had felt for thisspecious, unsafe acquaintance was gone, and her power over her wasin the same measure lessened. 

CHAPTER XV. 

CAPTIVATED AGAIN. 

_BUT_ it is not so easily escaping from a woman like Mrs. Talbot, when an acquaintanceship is once formed. In less than a week shecalled again, and this time in company with another lady, a Mrs. Lloyd, whom she introduced as a very dear friend. Mrs. Lloyd was atall, spare woman, with an intellectual face, bright, restless, penetrating eyes, a clear musical voice, subdued, but winningmanners. She was a little past thirty, though sickness of body ormind had stolen the bloom of early womanhood, and carried herforward, apparently, to the verge of forty. Mrs. Emerson had neverbefore heard of this lady. But half an hour's conversationcompletely captivated her. Mrs. Lloyd had traveled through Europe, and spoke in a familiar way of the celebrated personages whom shehad met abroad, --talked of art, music and architecture, literature, artists and literary men--displayed such high culture and easyacquaintance with themes quite above the range usually met withamong ordinary people, that Mrs. Emerson felt really flattered withthe compliment of a visit. 

"My good friend, Mrs. Talbot, " said Mrs. Lloyd, during theirconversation, "has spoken of you so warmly that I could do no lessthan make overtures for an acquaintance, which I trust may proveagreeable. I anticipated the pleasure of seeing you at her houselast week, but was disappointed. "

"The interview of to-day, " remarked Mrs. Talbot, 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. "Youwill be there?"

"I think not, " was replied. 

"Oh, but you must come, my dear Mrs. Emerson! We cannot do withoutyou. "

"I have promised my husband to go out with him. "

"Your husband!" The voice of Mrs. Talbot betrayed too plainly hercontempt of husbands. 

"Yes, my husband. " Mrs. Emerson let her voice dwell with meaning onthe word. 

The other ladies looked at each other for a moment or two withmeaning glances; then Mrs. Talbot remarked, in a quiet way, but witha little pleasantry in her voice, as if she were not right clear inregard 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 to the face of hernew acquaintance. She saw a slight change of expression in her paleface 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, "is to make them keeptheir 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 asmuch freedom in the world as they take for themselves. They come inand go out when they please, and submit to no questioning on ourpart. Very well; I don't object; only I claim the same right formyself. '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 Ihear these words from her lips. Does a man, when a friend asks himto do anything or go anywhere, say, 'I'll ask my wife?' Not he. Alady who comes occasionally to our weekly reunions, but whosehusband is too much of a man to put himself down to the level of ourset, is permitted the enjoyment of an evening with us, now and then, on one condition. "

"Condition!" There was a throb of indignant feeling in the voice ofMrs. Lloyd. 

"Yes, on condition that no male visitor at my house shall accompanyher home. A carriage is sent for her precisely at ten o'clock, whenshe 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, andonce actually entered her carriage. But the lady commanded him toretire, or she would leave the carriage herself. Of course, when shetook 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 intothe face of Mrs. Emerson, whose color had risen beyond its usualtone. 

"Circumstances alter cases, " replied the latter, crushing out allfeeling from her voice and letting it fall into a dead level ofindifference. 

"But circumstances don't alter facts, my dear. There are the hardfacts of restrictions and conditions, made by a man, and applied tohis equal, a woman. Does she say to him, You can't go to your clubunless you return alone in your carriage, and leave the club-houseprecisely at ten o'clock? Oh no. He would laugh in her face, or, perhaps, consult the family physician touching her sanity. "

This mode of putting the question rather bewildered the mind of ouryoung wife, and she dropped her eyes from those of Mrs. Talbot andsat looking upon the floor in silence. 

"Can't you get your husband to release you from this engagement ofwhich you have spoken?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. "I should like above allthings to meet you to-morrow evening. "

Mrs. Emerson smiled as she answered, "Husbands have rights, young know, as well as wives. We must consulttheir pleasure sometimes, as well as our own. "

"Certainly--certainly. " Mrs. Lloyd spoke with visible impatience. 

"I promised to go with my husband to-morrow night, " said Mrs. Emerson; "and, much as I may desire to meet you at Mrs. Talbot's, Iam 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 tospeak. The ladies were pressing her a little too closely, and sheboth saw and felt this. They were stepping beyond the bounds ofreason and delicacy. 

Mrs. Lloyd saw the state of mind which had been produced, and atonce changed the subject. 

"May I flatter myself with the prospect of having this callreturned?" she said, handing Mrs. Emerson her card as she was aboutleaving. 

"It will give me great pleasure to know you better, and you may lookto seeing me right early, " was the bland reply. And yet Mrs. Emersonwas not really attracted by this woman, but, on the contrary, repelled. There was something in her keen, searching eyes, whichseemed to be looking right into the thoughts, that gave her afeeling of doubt. 

"Thank you. The favor will be all on my side, " said Mrs. Lloyd, asshe 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 verysatisfactory state. Some things that were said she rejected, whileother things lingered and occasioned suggestions which were notfavorable to her husband. While she had no wish to be present atMrs. Talbot's on account of Major Willard, she was annoyed by thethought that Hartley's fixing on the next evening for her to go outwith him was to prevent her attendance at the weekly conversazione. 

Irene did not mention to her husband the fact that she had receiveda 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 shekept silent, one or the other of two considerations havinginfluence. Hartley did not like Mrs. Talbot, and therefore themention of her name, and the fact of her calling, would not bepleasant theme. The other consideration had reference to a woman'sindependence. 

"He doesn't tell me of every man he meets through the day, and whyshould I feel under obligation to speak of every lady who calls?" Soshe thought. "As to Mrs. Lloyd, he would have a hundred pryingquestion's to ask, as if I we not competent to judge of thecharacter of my own friends and acquaintances?"

Within a week the call of Mrs. Lloyd was reciprocated by Mrs. Emerson; not in consequence of feeling drawn toward that lady, butshe had promised to return the friendly visit, and must keep herword. She found her domiciliated in a fashionable boarding-house, and was received in the common parlor, in which were two or threeladies and a gentleman, besides Mrs. Lloyd. The greeting shereceived was warm, almost affectionate. In spite of the prejudicethat was creeping into her mind in consequence of an unfavorablefirst impression, Mrs. Emerson was flattered by her reception, andbefore the termination of her visit she was satisfied that she hadnot, in the beginning, formed a right estimate of this reallyfascinating woman. 

"I hope to see you right soon, " she said, as she bade Mrs. Lloydgood-morning. "It will not be my fault if we do not soon know eachother better. "

"Nor mine either, " replied Mrs. Lloyd. "I think I shall find youjust after my own heart. "

The voice of Mrs. Lloyd was a little raised as she said this, andMrs. Emerson noticed that a gentleman who was in the parlor when sheentered, but to whom she had not been introduced, turned and lookedat her with a steady, curious gaze, which struck her at the time asbeing on the verge of impertinence. 

Only two or three days passed before Mrs. Lloyd returned this visit. Irene found her more interesting than ever. She had seen a greatdeal of society, and had met, according to her own story, with mostof the distinguished men and women of the country, about whom shetalked in a very agreeable manner. She described their personalappearance, habits, peculiarities and manners, and related pleasantanecdotes about them. On authors and books she was entirely at home. 

But there was an undercurrent of feeling in all she said that awiser and more experienced woman than Irene would have noted. It wasnot a feeling of admiration for moral, but for intellectual, beauty. She could dissect a character with wonderful skill, but alwayspassed the quality of goodness as not taken into account. In herview 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 hernew friend's accomplishments, and ambitious to move in as wide asphere as she had compassed. The visit was returned at an earlyperiod, and, as before, Mrs. Emerson met Mrs. Lloyd in the publicparlor of her boarding-house. The same gentleman whose manner had alittle annoyed her was present, and she noticed several times, onglancing toward him, that his eyes were fixed upon her, and with anexpression that she did not understand. 

After this, the two ladies met every day or two, and sometimeswalked Broadway together. The only information that Mrs. Emerson hadin regard to her attractive friend she received from Mrs. Talbot. According to her statement, she was a widow whose married life hadnot been a happy one. The husband, like most husbands, was anoverbearing tyrant, and the wife, having a spirit of her own, resisted his authority. Trouble was the consequence, and Mrs. Talbotthought, though she was not certain, that a separation took placebefore Mr. Lloyd's death. She had a moderate income, which came fromher husband's estate, on which she lived in a kind of idleindependence. So she had plenty of time to read, visit and enjoyherself in the ways her fancy or inclination might prompt. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

WEARY OF CONSTRAINT. 

_TIME_ moved on, and Mrs. Emerson's intimate city friends were thoseto whom she had been introduced, directly or indirectly, throughMrs. Talbot. Of these, the one who had most influence over her wasMrs. Lloyd, and that influence was not of the right kind. Singularlyenough, it so happened that Mr. Emerson never let this lady at hishouse, though she spent hours there every week; and, more singularstill, Irene had never spoken about her to her husband. She hadoften been on the point of doing so, but an impression that Hartleywould take up an unreasonable prejudice against her kept the name ofthis friend back from her lips. 

Months now succeeded each other without the occurrence of eventsmarked by special interest. Mr. Emerson grew more absorbed in hisprofession as cases multiplied on his hands, and Irene, interestedin her circle of bright-minded, independent-thoughted women, foundthe days and weeks gliding on pleasantly enough. But habits ofestimating things a little differently from the common sentiment, and views of life not by any means consonant with those prevailingamong the larger numbers of her sex, were gradually taking root. 

Young, inexperienced, self-willed and active in mind, Mrs. Emersonhad most unfortunately been introduced among a class of personswhose influence upon her could not fail to be hurtful. Theirconversation was mainly of art, literature, social progress anddevelopment; the drama, music, public sentiment on leading topics ofthe day; the advancement of liberal ideas, the necessity of a largerliberty and a wider sphere of action for woman, and the equality ofthe sexes. All well enough, all to be commended when viewed in theirjust relation to other themes and interests, but actually perniciouswhen separated from the homely and useful things of daily life, andmade so to overshadow these as to warp them into comparativeinsignificance. Here lay the evil. It was this elevation of herideas above the region of use and duty into the mere æsthetic andreformatory that was hurtful to one like Irene--that is, in fact, hurtful to any woman, for it is always hurtful to take away from themind its interest in common life--the life, we mean, of daily usefulwork. 

Work! We know the word has not a pleasant sound to many ears, thatit seems to include degradation, and a kind of social slavery, andlies away down in a region to which your fine, cultivated, intellectual woman cannot descend without, in her view, soiling hergarments. But for all this, it is alone in daily useful work of mindor hands, work in which service and benefits to others are involved, that a woman (or a man) gains any true perfection of character. Andthis work must be her own, must lie within the sphere of her ownrelations to others, and she must engage in it from a sense of dutythat takes its promptings from her own consciousness of right. Noother woman can judge of her relation to this work, and she whodares to interfere or turn her aside should be considered anenemy--not a friend. 

No wonder, if this be true, that we have so many women of taste, cultivation, and often brilliant intellectual powers, blazing aboutlike comets or shooting stars in our social firmament. They attractadmiring attention, excite our wonder, give us themes forconversation and criticism; but as guides and indicators while wesail over the dangerous sea of life, what are they in comparisonwith some humble star of the sixth magnitude that ever keeps itstrue place in the heavens, shining on with its small but steady ray, a perpetual blessing? And so the patient, thoughtful, loving wifeand mother, doing her daily work for human souls and bodies, thoughher intellectual powers be humble, and her taste but poorlycultivated, fills more honorably her sphere than any of her morebrilliant sisters, who cast off what they consider the shackles bywhich custom and tyranny have bound them down to mere home dutiesand the drudgery of household care. If down into these they wouldbring their superior powers, their cultivated tastes, their largerknowledge, how quickly would some desert homes in our land put onrefreshing greenness, and desolate gardens blossom like the rose! Weshould have, instead of vast imaginary Utopias in the future, modelhomes 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 Reform would only take her standcentrally! If she would make the regeneration of homes the greatachievement of our day, then would she indeed come with promise andblessing. But, alas! she is so far vagrant in her habits--afortune-telling gipsy, not a true, loving, useful woman. 

Unhappily for Mrs. Emerson, it was the weird-eyed, fortune-tellinggipsy whose Delphic utterances had bewildered her mind. 

The reconciliation which followed the Christmas-time troubles ofIrene and her husband had given both more prudent self-control. Theyguarded themselves with a care that threw around the manner of eacha certain reserve which was often felt by the other as coldness. Toboth this was, in a degree, painful. There was tender love in theirhearts, but it was overshadowed by self-will and false ideas ofindependence on the one side, and by a brooding spirit of accusationand unaccustomed restraint on the other. Many times, each day oftheir lives, did words and sentiments, just about to be uttered byHartley Emerson, die unspoken, lest in them something might appearwhich 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 tenderlove, but from fear of consequences. They were burnt children, anddreaded, as well they might, the fire. 

With little change in their relations to each other, and few eventsworthy of notice, a year went by. Mr. Delancy came down to New Yorkseveral 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 upfrom the city while Irene was at her father's, but never stayedlonger than a single day, business requiring him to be at his officeor in court. Mr. Delancy never saw them together without closelyobserving their manner, tone of speaking and language. Both, hecould see, were maturing rapidly. Irene had changed most. There wasa style of thinking, a familiarity with popular themes and a womanlyconfidence in her expression of opinions that at times surprisedhim. With her views on some subjects his own mind was far from beingin agreement, and they often had warm arguments. Occasionally, whenher husband was at Ivy Cliff a difference of sentiment would arisebetween them. Mr. Delancy noticed, when this was the case, thatIrene always pressed her view with ardor, and that her husband, after a brief but pleasant combat, retired from the field. He alsonoticed that in most cases, after this giving up of the contest byHartley, he was more than usually quiet and seemed to be ponderingthings not wholly agreeable. 

Mr. Delancy was gratified to see that there was no jarring betweenthem. But he failed not at the same time to notice something elsethat gave him uneasiness. The warmth of feeling, the tenderness, thelover-like ardor which displayed itself in the beginning, no longerexisted. They did not even show that fondness for each other whichis so beautiful a trait in young married partners. And yet he couldtrace no signs of alienation. The truth was, the action of theirlives had been inharmonious. Deep down in their hearts there was nodefect of love. But this love was compelled to hide itself away; andso, for the most part, it lay concealed from even their ownconsciousness. 

During the second year of their married life there came a change ofstate in both Irene and her husband. They had each grown weary ofconstraint when together. It was irksome to be always on guard, lestsome word, tone or act should be misunderstood. In consequence, oldcollisions were renewed, and Hartley often grew impatient and evencontemptuous toward his wife, when she ventured to speak of socialprogress, woman's rights, or any of the kindred themes in which shestill took a warm interest. Angry retort usually followed on theseoccasions, and periods of coldness ensued, the effect of which wasto produce states of alienation. 

If a babe had come to soften the heart of Irene, to turn thought andfeeling in a new direction, to awaken a mother's love with all itsholy tenderness, how different would all have been!--different withher, and different with him. There would then have been an object onwhich both could centre interest and affection, and thus drawlovingly together again, and feel, as in the beginning, heartbeating to heart in sweet accordings. They would have learned theirlove-lessons over again, and understood their meanings better. Alasthat the angels of infancy found no place in their dwelling!

With no central attraction at home, her thoughts stimulated byassociation with a class of intellectual, restless women, who werewandering on life's broad desert in search of green places andrefreshing springs, each day's journey bearing them farther andfarther away from landscapes of perpetual verdure, Irene grew moreand more interested in subjects that lay for the most part entirelyout of the range of her husband's sympathies; while he was becomingmore deeply absorbed in a profession that required close applicationof thought, intellectual force and clearness, and cold, practicalmodes of looking at all questions that came up for consideration. 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 lessfrequently spent together. If home had been a pleasant place to him, Mr. Emerson would have usually remained at home after the day'sduties were over; or, if he went abroad, it would have been usuallyin company with his wife. But home was getting to be dull, if notpositively disagreeable. If a conversation was started, it sooninvolved disagreement in sentiment, and then came argument, andperhaps ungentle words, followed by silence and a mutual writingdown in the mind of bitter things. If there was no conversation, Irene buried herself in a book--some absorbing novel, usually of theheroic school. 

Naturally, under this state of things, Mr. Emerson, who was socialin disposition, sought companionship elsewhere, and with his ownsex. Brought into contact with men of different tastes, feelings andhabits of thinking, he gradually selected a few as intimate friends, and, in association with these, formed, as his wife was doing, asocial point of interest outside of his home; thus widening stillfurther the space between them. 

The home duties involved in housekeeping, indifferently as they hadalways been discharged by Irene, were now becoming more and moredistasteful to her. This daily care about mere eating and drinkingseemed unworthy of a woman who had noble aspirations, such as burnedin her breast. That was work for women-drudges who had no higherambition; "and Heaven knows, " she would often say to herself, "thereare enough and to spare of these. "

"What's the use of keeping up an establishment like this just fortwo people?" she would often remark to her husband; and he wouldusually reply, "For the sake of having a home into which one may retire and shutout the world. "

Irene would sometimes suggest the lighter expense 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 impatientrebuke when this argument was used. He thought of his own dailydevotion to business, prolonged often into the night, when animportant case was on hand, and mentally charged his wife with aselfish love of ease. On the other hand, it seemed to Irene that herhusband was selfish in wishing her to bear the burdens ofhousekeeping just for his pleasure or convenience, when they mightlive as comfortably in a hotel or boarding-house. 

On this subject Hartley would not enter into a discussion. "It's nouse talking, Irene, " he would say, when she grew in earnest. "Youcannot tempt me to give up my home. It includes many things thatwith me are essential to comfort. I detest boarding-houses; they areonly places for sojourning, not living. "

As agreement on this subject was out of the question, Irene did notusually urge considerations in favor of abandoning their pleasanthome. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

GONE FOR EVER!

_ONE_ evening--it was nearly three years from the date of theirmarriage--Hartley Emerson and his wife were sitting opposite to eachother at the centre-table, in the evening. She had a book in herhand and he held a newspaper before his face, but his eyes were noton the printed columns. He had spoken only a few words since he camein, and his wife noticed that he had the manner of one whose mind isin doubt or perplexity. 

Letting the newspaper fall upon the table at length, Hartley lookedover 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 moments steadily athis wife, his countenance expressing the profoundest astonishment. 

"And never once mentioned to me her name! Has she ever called here?"

"Yes. "

"Often?"

"As often as two or three times a week. "

"Irene!"

Mrs. Emerson, bewildered at first by her husband's manner ofinterrogating 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?" demandedHartley. 

"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 passionately. 

"That is false!" said Irene, her eyes flashing as she spoke. "Idon't care who says so, I pronounce the words false!"

Hartley stood still and gazed at his wife for some moments withoutspeaking; then he sat down at the table from which he had arisenand, shading his face with his hands, remained motionless for a longtime. He seemed like a man utterly confounded. 

"Did you ever hear of Jane Beaufort?" he asked at length, looking upat 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 againsther. "

"You are aware, then, that Mrs. Lloyd and Jane Beaufort are the sameperson?"

"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 overtwo years, and can verify her character. "

"I am sorry for you, then, for a viler character it would bedifficult 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 attached thus assailed. Youmust not speak in that style of my friends, Hartley Emerson!"

"Your friends!" There was a look of intense scorn on his face. "Precious friends, if she represent them, truly! Major Willard isanother, mayhap?"

The face of Irene turned deadly pale at the mention of this name. 

"Ha!"

Emerson bent eagerly toward his wife. 

"And is that true, also?"

"What? Speak out, sir!" Irene caught her breath, and grasped therein of self-control which had dropped, a moment, from her hands. 

"It is said that Major Willard bears you company, at times, in yourrides home from evening calls upon your precious friends. "

"And you believe the story?"

"I didn't believe it, " said Hartley, but in a tone that showeddoubt. 

"But have changed your mind?"

"If you say it is not true--that Major Willard never entered yourcarriage--I will take your word in opposition to the whole world'sadverse testimony. "

But Irene could not answer. Major Willard, as the reader knows, hadridden with her at night, and alone. But once, and only once. A fewtimes since then she had encountered, but never deigned torecognize, him. In her pure heart the man was held in utterdetestation. 

Now was the time for a full explanation; but pride wasaroused--strong, stubborn pride. She knew herself to stand triplemailed in innocency--to be free from weakness or taint; and thethought that a mean, base suspicion had entered the mind of herhusband aroused her indignation and put a seal upon her lips as toall explanatory utterances. 

"Then I am to believe the worst?" said Hartley, seeing that his wifedid 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 mannerthan in uttered language. "Then I am to believe the worst!" Sheturned the sentences over in her mind. Pride, wounded self-love, asmothered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to gather theirgloomy forces in her mind. "The worst, and of you!" How the echoesof these words came back in constant repetition! "The worst, and ofyou!"

"How often has Major Willard ridden with you at night?" askedHartley, 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, fromwhich he saw the color fall away until it became of an ashen hue. 

"You do not care to answer. Well, silence is significative, " saidthe husband, closing his lips firmly. There was a blending of anger, perplexity, pain, sorrow and scorn in his face, all of which Ireneread distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily upon him. He tried togaze back until her eyes should sink beneath his steady look, butthe effort was lost; for not a single instant did they waver. 

He was about turning away, when she arrested the movement by saying, "Go on, Hartley Emerson! Speak of all that is in your mind. You havenow an opportunity that may never come again. "

There was a dead level in her voice that a little puzzled herhusband. 

"It is for you to speak, " he answered. "I have put myinterrogatories. "

Unhappily, there was a shade of imperiousness in his voice. 

"I never answer insulting interrogatories; not even from the man whocalls himself my husband, " replied Irene, haughtily. 

"It may be best for you to answer, " said Hartley. There was just theshadow of menace in his tones. 

"Best!" The lip of Irene curled slightly. "On whose account, pray?"

"Best for each of us. Whatever affects one injuriously must affectboth. "

"Humph! So we are equals!" Irene tossed her head impatiently, andlaughed a short, mocking laugh. 

"Nothing of that, if you please!" was the husband's impatientretort. The sudden change in his wife's manner threw him off hisguard. 

"Nothing of what?" demanded Irene. 

"Of that weak, silly nonsense. We have graver matters in hand forconsideration now. "

"Ah?" She threw up her eyebrows, then contracted them again with anangry severity. 

"Irene, " said Mr. Emerson, his voice falling into a calm but severetone, "all this is but weakness and folly. I have heard thingstouching your good name--"

"And believe them, " broke in Irene, with angry impatience. 

"I have said nothing as to belief or disbelief. The fact is graveenough. "

"And you have illustrated your faith in the slander--beautifully, becomingly, generously!"

"Irene!"

"Generously, as a man who knew his wife. Ah, well!" This lastejaculation was made almost lightly, but it involved greatbitterness of spirit. 

"Do not speak any longer after this fashion, " said Hartley, withconsiderable irritation of manner; "it doesn't suit my presenttemper. I want something in a very different spirit. The matter isof too serious import. So pray lay aside your trifling. I came toyou as I had a right to come, and made inquiries touching yourassociations when not in my company. Your answers are notsatisfactory, but tend rather to con--"

"Sir!" Irene interrupted him in a stern, deep voice, which came sosuddenly that the word remained unspoken. Then, raising her fingerin a warning manner, she said with menace, "Beware!"

For some moments they stood looking at each other, more like twoanimals at bay than husband and wife. 

"Touching my associations when not in your company?" said Irene atlength, repeating his language slowly. 

"Yes, " answered the husband. 

"Touching, my associations? Well, Mr. Emerson--so far, I say well. "She was collected in manner and her voice steady. "But what touchingyour associations when not in _my_ company?"

The very novelty of this interrogation caused Emerson to start andchange 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?_" Irene drew her slender form to its utmost height. There was an impatient, demanding tone in her voice. "Speak!" sheadded, without change of manner. "What touching _your_ associationswhen not in _my_ company? As a wife, I have some interest in thismatter. Away from home often until the brief hours, have I no rightto put the question--where and with whom? It would seem so if we areequal. But if I am the slave and dependant--the creature of yourwill and pleasure--why, that alters the case!"

"Have you done?"

Emerson was recovering from his surprise, but not gaining clearsight or prudent self-possession. 

"You have not answered, " said Irene, looking coldly, but withglittering eyes, into his face. "Come! If there is to be a mutualrelation of acts and associations outside of this our home, let usbegin. Sit down, Hartley, and compose yourself. You are the man, andclaim precedence. I yield the prerogative. So let me have yourconfession. After you have ended I will give as faithful a narrativeas if on my death-bed. What more can you ask? There now, lead theway!"

This coolness, which but thinly veiled a contemptuous air, irritatedHartley almost beyond the bounds of decent self-control. 

"Bravely carried off! Well acted!" he retorted with a sneer. 

"You do not accept the proposal, " said Irene, growing a littlesterner of aspect. "Very well. I scarcely hoped that you would meetme on this even ground. Why should I have hoped it? Were theantecedents encouraging? No! But I am sorry. Ah, well! Husbands arefree to go and come at their own sweet will--to associate withanybody and everybody. But wives--oh dear!"

She tossed her head in a wild, scornful way, as if on the verge ofbeing swept from her feet by some whirlwind of passion. 

"And so, " said her husband, after a long silence, "you do not chooseto answer my questions as to Major Willard?"

That was unwisely pressed. In her heart of hearts Irene loathed thisman. His name was an offence to her. Never, since the night he hadforced himself into her carriage, had she even looked into his face. If he appeared in the room where she happened to be, she did notpermit her eyes to rest upon his detested countenance. If he drewnear to her, she did not seem to notice his presence. If he spoke toher, as he had ventured several times to do, she paid no regard tohim whatever. So far as any response or manifestation of feeling onher part was concerned, it was as if his voice had not reached herears. The very thought of this man was a foul thing in her mind. Nowonder that the repeated reference by her husband was felt as astinging 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 wildlyreeling thoughts. 

"Say on!"

Emerson was cool, but not sane. It was madness to press his excitedyoung wife now. Had he lost sense and discrimination? Could he notsee, in her strong, womanly indignation, the signs of innocence?Fool! fool! to thrust sharply at her now!

"My father!" came in a sudden gush of strong feeling from the lipsof Irene, as the thought of him whose name was thus ejaculated cameinto her mind. She struck her hands together, and stood like one inwild 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 wasnot sane, else would no such words have fallen from his lips. 

Irene, with a slight start and a slight change in the expression ofher countenance, looked up at her husband:

"You think so?" Emerson was a little surprised at the way in whichIrene put this interrogation. 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 thespace of more than a minute. 

"I will go back to Ivy Cliff. " She looked up, with something strangein the expression of her face. It was a blank, unfeeling, almostunmeaning expression. 

"Well. " It was Emerson's only response. 

"Well; and that is all?" Her tones were so chilling that they cameover the spirit of her husband like the low waves of an icy wind. 

"No, that is not all. " What evil spirit was blinding hisperceptions? What evil influence pressing him on to the brink ofruin?

"Say on. " How strangely cold and calm she remained! "Say on, " sherepeated. Was there none to warn him of danger?

"If you go a third time to your father--" He paused. 

"Well?" There was not a quiver in her low, clear, icy tone. 

"You must do it with your eyes open, and in full view of theconsequences. "

"What are the consequences?"

Beware, rash man! Put a seal on your lips! Do not let the thought sosternly held find even a shadow of utterance!

"Speak, Hartley Emerson. What are the consequences?"

"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 leavea way open between 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 theexpression of her face. Her hands moved one within the othernervously. 

For ever! The words are rarely uttered without leaving on the mind ashade of thought. For ever! They brought more than a simple shadowto the mind of Irene. A sudden darkness fell upon her soul, and fora little while she groped about like one who had lost her way. Buther husband's threat of consequences, his cold, imperious manner, his assumed superiority, all acted as sharp spurs to pride, and shestood up, strong again, in full mental stature, with every power ofher being in full force for action and endurance. 

"I go. " There was no sign of weakness in her voice. She had raisedher eyes from the floor and turned them full upon her husband. Herface was not so pale as it had been a little while before. Warmthhad come back to the delicate skin, flushing it with beauty. She didnot stand before him an impersonation of anger, dislike orrebellion. There was not a repulsive attitude or expression; noflashing of the eyes, nor even the cold, diamond glitter seen alittle while before. Slowly turning away, she left the room; but, toher husband, she seemed still standing there, a lovely vision. Therehad fallen, in that instant of time, a sunbeam which fixed the imageupon his memory in imperishable colors. What though he partedcompany here with the vital form, that effigy would be, through alltime, his inseparable companion!

"Gone!" Hartley Emerson held his breath as the word came into mentalutterance. There was a motion of regret in his heart; a wish that hehad not spoken quite so sternly--that he had kept back a part of thehard saying. But it was too late now. He could not, after all thathad just passed between them--after she had refused to answer hisquestions touching Major Willard--make any concessions. Come whatwould, there was to be no retracing of steps now. 

"And it may be as well, " said he, rallying himself, "that we parthere. Our experiment has proved a sad failure. We grow colder andmore repellant each day, instead of drawing closer together andbecoming more lovingly assimilated. It is not good--this life--foreither of us. We struggle in our bonds and hurt each other. Betterapart! better apart! Moreover"--his face darkened--"she has falleninto dangerous companionship, and will not be advised or governed. Ihave heard her name fall lightly from lips that cannot utter awoman's name without leaving it soiled. She is pure now--pure assnow. I have not a shadow of suspicion, though I pressed her close. But this contact is bad; she is breathing an impure atmosphere; sheis assorting with some who are sensual and evil-minded, though shewill not believe the truth. Mrs. Lloyd! Gracious heavens! My wifethe intimate companion of that woman! Seen with her in Broadway! Aconstant visitor at my house! This, and I knew it not!"

Emerson grew deeply agitated as he rehearsed these things. It wasafter midnight when he retired. He did not go to his wife'sapartment, but passed to a room in the story above that in which heusually slept. 

Day was abroad when Emerson awoke the next morning, and the sunshining from an angle that showed him to be nearly two hours abovethe horizon. It was late for Mr. Emerson. Rising hurriedly, and insome confusion of thought, he went down stairs. His mind, as theevents of the last evening began to adjust themselves, felt anincreasing sense of oppression. How was he to meet Irene? or was heto meet her again? Had she relented? Had a night of sober reflectionwrought any change? Would she take the step he had warned her as afatal one?

With such questions crowding upon him, Hartley Emerson went downstairs. In passing their chamber-door he saw that it stood wideopen, and that Irene was not there. He descended to the parlors andto the sitting-room, but did not find her. The bell announcedbreakfast; he might find her at the table. No--she was not at herusual 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 footstepshad a desolate, echoing sound to his ears, as he bent his waythither. He looked through the front and then through the backchamber, and even called, faintly, the name of his wife. But all wasstill as death. Now a small envelope caught his eye, resting on acasket in which Irene had kept her jewelry. He lifted it, and sawhis name inscribed thereon. The handwriting was not strange. Hebroke the seal and read these few words:

"I have gone. IRENE. "

The narrow piece of tinted paper on which this was written droppedfrom his nerveless fingers, and he stood for some moments still asif death-stricken, and rigid as stone. 

"Well, " he said audibly, at length, stepping across the floor, "andso the end has come!"

He moved to the full length of the chamber and then stoodstill--turned, in a little while, and walked slowly back across thefloor--stood still again, his face bent down, his lips closely shut, his finger-ends gripped into the palms. 

"Gone!" He tried to shake himself free of the partial stupor whichhad fallen upon him. "Gone!" he repeated. "And so this calamity isupon us! She has dared the fatal leap! has spoken the irrevocabledecree! God help us both, for both have need of help; I and she, butshe most. God help her to bear the burden she has lifted to her weakshoulders; she will find it a match for her strength. I shall gointo 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 nightswill be to her equally desolate. Poor Irene! Poor Irene!"

CHAPTER XVIII. 

YOUNG, BUT WISE. 

_THE_ night had passed wearily for Mr. Delancy, broken by fitfuldreams, in which the image of his daughter was alwayspresent--dreams that he could trace to no thoughts or impressions ofthe day before; and he arose unrefreshed, and with a vague sense oftrouble in his heart, lying there like a weight which no involuntarydeep inspirations would lessen or remove. No June day ever opened infresher beauty than did this one, just four years since the actorsin our drama came smiling before us, in the flush of youth and hopeand confidence in the far-off future. The warmth of early summer hadsent the nourishing sap to every delicate twig and softly expandingleaf until, full foliaged, the trees around Ivy Cliff stood inkingly attire, lifting themselves up grandly in the sunlight whichflooded their gently-waving tops in waves of golden glory. The airwas soft and of crystal clearness; and the lungs drank it in as ifthe draught were ethereal nectar. 

On such a morning in June, after a night of broken and unrefreshingsleep, Mr. Delancy walked forth, with that strange pressure on hisheart which he had been vainly endeavoring to push aside since thesinging birds awoke him, in the faint auroral dawn, with theirjoyous welcome to the coming day. He drew in long draughts of thedelicious air; expanded his chest; moved briskly through the garden;threw his arms about to hurry the sluggish flow of blood in hisveins; looked with constrained admiration on the splendid landscapethat stretched far and near in the sweep of his vision; but all tono purpose. The hand still lay heavy upon his heart; he could notget it removed. 

Returning to the house, feeling more uncomfortable for thisfruitless effort to rise above what he tried to call an unhealthydepression of spirits consequent on some morbid state of the body, Mr. Delancy was entering the library, when a fresh young facegreeted him with light and smiles. 

"Good-morning, Rose, " said the old gentleman, as his face brightenedin the glow of the young girl's happy countenance. "I am glad to seeyou;" 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 beforethe 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 soberhue falling on her countenance. 

"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, his voice a little depressed from the cheerful tone in which he hadwelcomed 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 heartI had proved, for a dozen untried new ones. "

"Nor I, Mr. Delancy. I love Irene. I have always loved her. You knowwe were children together. "

"Yes, dear, I know all that; and I'm not pleased with her fortreating 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 ofMrs. Emerson's bridemaids, "has been a little unfortunate in her NewYork friends. I'm afraid of these strong-minded women, as they arecalled, among whom she has fallen. "

"I detest them!" replied Mr. Delancy, with suddenly arousedfeelings. "They have done my child more harm than they will ever dogood in the world by way of atonement. She is not my daughter ofold. "

"I found her greatly changed at our last meeting, " said Rose. "Fullof vague plans of reforms and social reorganizations, and impatientof opposition, or even mild argument, against her favorite ideas. "

"She has lost her way, " sighed the old man, in a low, sad voice, "and I'm afraid it will take her a long, long time to get back againto the old true paths, and that the road will be through deepsuffering. I dreamed about her all night, Rose, and the shadow of mydreams is upon me still. It is foolish, I know, but I cannot get myheart 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 thatshe had come over to Ivy Cliff this morning to ask if Mr. Delancyhad heard from Irene. She did not, however, speak of this, for shesaw that he was in an unhappy state on account of his daughter. 

"Dreams are but shadows, " she said, forcing a smile to her lips andeyes. 

"Yes--yes. " The old man responded with an abstracted air. "Yes; theyare only shadows. But, my dear, was there ever a shadow without asubstance?"

"Not in the outside world of nature. Dreams are unreal things--thefantastic images of a brain where reason sleeps. "

"There have been dreams that came as warnings, Rose. "

"And a thousand, for every one of these, that signified nothing. "

"True. But I cannot rise out of these shadows. They lie too heavilyon my spirit. You must bear with me, Rose. Thank you for coming overto see me; but I cannot make your visit a pleasant one, and you mustleave me when you grow weary of the old man's company. "

"Don't talk so, Mr. Delancy. I'm glad I came over. I meant this onlyfor a call; but as you are in such poor spirits I must stay a whileand 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 friendswho are leading her mind astray. But never mind, dear; she will seeher 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-timememories in her heart. "

"God grant that it may be so!" Rose half started at the solemn tonein which Mr. Delancy spoke. What could be the meaning of hisstrangely troubled manner? Was anything seriously wrong with Irene?She remembered the confusion into which her impulsive conduct hadthrown the wedding-party; and there was a vague rumor afloat thatIrene had left her husband a few months afterward and returned toIvy Cliff. But she had always discredited this rumor. Of her life inNew York she knew but little as to particulars. That it was notmaking of her a truer, better, happier woman, nor a truer, better, happier wife, observation 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 onlystimulated and given direction, for a time, to her undisciplinedimpulses. You know how impatient she has always been undercontrol--how restively her spirit has chafed itself when arestraining hand was laid upon her. But there are real things inlife of too serious import to be set aside for idle fancies, such asher new friends have dignified with imposing names--real things, that take hold upon the solid earth like anchors, and hold thevessel firm amid wildly rushing currents. "

"Yes, Rose, I know all that, " replied Mr. Delancy. "I have hope inthe future of Irene; but I shudder in heart to think of the rough, thorny, desolate ways through which she may have to pass withbleeding feet before she reaches that serene future. Ah! if I couldsave my child from the pain she seems resolute on plucking down andwearing in her heart!"

"Your dreams have made you gloomy, Mr. Delancy, " said Rose, forcinga 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 himaright. He understands Irene, and, what is more, loves her deeply. Ihave watched them closely. "

"So have I. " The voice of Mr. Delancy was not so hopeful as that ofhis companion. 

"Still looking on the darker side. " She smiled again. 

"Ah, Rose, my wise young friend, " said Mr. Delancy, "to whom I speakmy thoughts with a freedom that surprises even myself, a father'seyes 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 partial abstraction, yetdoubtfully. 

"I must look through your garden, " said the young lady, rising; "youknow how I love flowers. "

"Not much yet to hold your admiration, " replied Mr. Delancy, risingalso. "June gives us wide green carpets and magnificent draperies ofthe same deep color, but her red and golden broideries are few; itis the hand of July that throws them in with rich profusion. "

"But June flowers are sweetest and dearest--tender nurslings of thesummer, first-born of her love, " said Rose, as they stepped out intothe portico. "It may be that the eye gets sated with beauty, asnature grows lavish of her gifts; but the first white and red petalsthat unfold themselves have a more delicate perfume--seem made ofpurer elements and more wonderful in perfection--than their latersisters. 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 ofsummer's gifts of beauty and sweetness. "

"No; perhaps not. "

Rose let her eyes fall to the ground, and remained silent. 

"Things are real to us as we see them; not always as they are, " saidMr. Delancy. 

"And this is true of life?"

"Yes, child. It is in life that we create for ourselves real thingsout of what to some are airy nothings. Real things, against which weoften bruise or maim ourselves, while to others they are asintangible as shadows. "

"I never thought of that, " said Rose. 

"It is true. "

"Yes, I see it. Imaginary evils we thus make real things, and hurtourselves by contact, as, maybe, you have done this morning, Mr. Delancy. "

"Yes--yes. And false ideas of things which are unrealities in theabstract--for only what is true has actual substance--become real tothe perverted understanding. Ah, child, there are strangecontradictions and deep problems in life for each of us to solve. "

"But, God helping us, we may always reach the true solution, " saidRose Carman, lifting a bright, confident face to that of hercompanion. 

"That was spoken well, my child, " returned Mr. Delancy, with a newlife in his voice; "and without Him we can never be certain of ourway. "

"Never--never. " There was a tender, trusting solemnity in the voiceof Rose. 

"Young, but wise, " said Mr. Delancy. 

"No! Young, but not wise. I cannot see the way plain before me for asingle week, Mr. Delancy. 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 confidentbearing. They are sure of their way, and smile if one whisper acaution as to the ground upon which they step so fearlessly. Butthey soon get astray or into pitfalls. God keeping and guiding us, Rose, we may find our way safely through this world. But we willsoon lose ourselves if we trust in our own wisdom. "

Thus they talked--that old man and gentle-hearted girl--as theymoved about the garden-walks, every new flower, or leaf, or openingbud they paused to admire or examine, suggesting themes for wiserwords than usually pass between one so old and one so young. At Mr. Delancy's earnest request, Rose stayed to dinner, the waiting-manbeing tent to her father's, not far distant, to take word that shewould not be at home until in the afternoon. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE. 

_OFTEN_, during that morning, did the name of Irene come to theirlips, for the thought of her was all the while present to both. 

"You must win her heart back again, Rose, " said Mr. Delancy. "I willlure her to Ivy Cliff often this summer, and keep her here as longas possible each time. You will then be much together. " They hadrisen from the dinner-table and were entering the library. 

"Things rarely come out as we plan them, " answered Rose. "But I loveIrene truly, and will make my own place in her heart again, if shewill 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, " repliedMr. Delancy. "If you do not know where it lies, search for it in thesecret places of your own mind, and it will be found, God helpingyou, Rose. "

Mr. Delancy looked at her significantly. 

"God helping me, " she answered, with a reverent sinking of hervoice, "I will find the key. "

"Who is that?" said Mr. Delancy, in a tone of surprise, turning hisface to the window. 

Rose followed his eyes, but no one was visible. 

"I saw, or thought I saw, a lady cross the portico 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 Carmanwent out into the hall, and glanced from there into the parlor anddining-room. 

"No one came in, Mr. Delancy, " she said, on returning to thelibrary. 

"A mere impression, " remarked the old man, soberly. "Well, theseimpressions are often very singular. My face was partly turned tothe window, so that I saw out, but not so distinctly as if both eyeshad been in the range of vision. The form of a woman came to mysight as distinctly as if the presence had been real--the form of awoman going swiftly past the window. "

"Did you recognize the form?"

It was some time before Mr. Delancy replied. 

"Yes. " He looked anxious. 

"You thought of Irene?"

"I did. "

"We have talked and thought of Irene so much to-day, " said Rose, "that your thought of her has made you present to her mind with morethan usual distinctness. Her thought of you has been more intent inconsequence, and this has drawn her nearer. You saw her by aninward, not by an outward, vision. She is now present with you inspirit, though her body be many miles distant. These things oftenhappen. They startle us by their strangeness, but are as muchdependent on laws of the mind as bodily nearness is dependent on thelaws of matter. "

"You think so?" Mr. Delancy looked at his young companion curiously. 

"Yes, I think so. "

The old man shook his head. "Ingenious, but not satisfactory. "

"You will admit, " said Rose, "that as to our minds we may be presentin any part of the world, and in an instant of time, though ourbodies move not. "

"Our thought may be, " replied Mr. Delancy. "Or, in better words, theeyes of our minds may be; for it is the eyes that see objects, " saidRose. 

"Well; say the eyes of our minds, then. "

"We cannot see objects in London, for instance, with our bodily eyesunless our bodies be in London?" resumed Rose. 

"Of course not. "

"Nor with our mental eyes, unless our spirits be there. "

Mr. Delancy looked down thoughtfully. 

"It must be true, then, that our thought of any one brings uspresent to that individual, and that such presence is oftenrecognized. "

"That is pushing the argument too far. "

"I think not. Has it not often happened that suddenly the thought ofan absent one came into your mind, and that you saw him or her for amoment or two almost as distinctly as if in bodily presence beforeyou?"

"Yes. That has many times been the case. "

"And you had not been thinking of that person, nor had there beenany incident as a reminder?"

"I believe not. "

"My explanation is, that this person from some cause had been led tothink of you intently, and so came to you in spirit. There wasactual presence, and you saw each other with the eyes of yourminds. "

"But, my wise reasoner, " said Mr. Delancy, "it was the bodilyform--with face, eyes, hands, feet and material garments--that wasseen, not the spirit. If our spirits have eyes that see, why theycan only see spiritual things. "

"Has not a spirit a face, and hands, and feet?" asked Rose, with aconfidence that caused the old man to look at her almostwonderingly. 

"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 term. This is substance. " AndMr. Delancy grasped the arm of a chair. 

"No, that is material and unsubstantial, " she calmly replied; "it issubject to change and decay. A hundred years from now and there maybe no visible sign that it had ever been. But the soul isimperishable and immortal; the only thing about man that is reallysubstantial. 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? Remove 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 thesoul puts on for action and use in this world of nature. "

"Why, you are a young philosopher!" exclaimed Mr. Delancy, lookingin wonder at his fair companion. 

"No, " she answered, with simplicity, "I talk with my father aboutthese things, and it all seems very plain to me. I cannot see howany one can question what appears to me so plain. That the mind issubstantial we see from this fact alone--it retains impressionslonger than the body. "

"You think so?"

"Take an instance, " said Rose. "A boy is punished unjustly by apassionate teacher, who uses taunting words as well as smartingblows. Now the pain of these blows is gone in less than an hour, butthe word-strokes received on his spirit hurt him, maybe, to the endof his mortal life. Is it not so? And if so, why? There must besubstance to hold impressions so long. "

"You silence, if you do not fully convince, " replied Mr. Delancy. "Imust dream over what you have said. And so your explanation is, thatmy thought of Irene has turned her thought to me, and thus we becamereally 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 manifestation, so to speak?"

"Sight is in the mind, even natural sight. The eye does not go outto a tree, but the image of the tree comes to the eye, and thence ispresented, in a wonderful and mysterious way, to the mind, whichtakes note of its form. The appearance is, that the soul looks outat the tree; but the fact is, the image of the tree comes to thebrain, and is there seen. Now the brain may be impressed, andrespond by natural vision, from an internal as well as from anexternal communication. We see this in cases of visual aberrations, the instances of which given in books, and clearly authenticated, are innumerable. Things are distinctly seen in a room which have noexistence in nature; and the illusion is so perfect that it seemsimpossible for eyes to be mistaken. "

"Well, well, child, " said Mr. Delancy, "this is curious, and alittle 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 andsighed deeply. 

At this moment the library door was pushed gently open, and the formof a woman stood in the presence of Mr. Delancy and Rose. She wasdressed in a dark silk, but had on neither bonnet nor shawl. Bothstarted; Mr. Delancy raised his hands and bent forward, gazing ather eagerly, his lips apart. The face of the woman was pale andhaggard, yet familiar as the face of an old friend; but in it wassomething so strange and unnatural that for a moment or two it wasnot recognized. 

"Father!" It was Irene. She advanced quietly and held but her hand. 

"My daughter!" He caught the extended hand and kissed her, but sheshowed no emotion. 

"Rose, dear, I am glad to see you. " There was truth in the deadlevel tone with which "I am glad to see you" was spoken, and Rose, who perceived this, took her hand and kissed her. Both hands andlips 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 thatvoice as the voice of Irene. 

"No, child, you are not well. What ails you? Why are you here in sostrange 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 thisword. She tried to look steadily at her father, but her eyes movedaside from the range of his vision. 

For a little while there was a troubled silence with all. Rose hadplaced 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, expression of Irene's face changedand the old look came back. 

"My daughter, " said Mr. Delancy. 

"Father"--Irene interrupted him--"I know what you are going to say. My sudden, unannounced appearance, at this time, needs explanation. I am glad dear Rose is here--my old, true friend"--and she leanedagainst Miss Carman--"I can trust her. "

The arm of Rose tightened around the waist of Irene. 

"Father"--the voice of Irene fell to a deep, solemn tone; there wasno 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 ifher voice had run through the whole range of passionateintonation--"Father, I have come back to Ivy Cliff and to you, afterhaving suffered shipwreck on the voyage of life. I went out rich, asI supposed, in heart-treasures; I come back poor. My gold was dross, and the sea has swallowed up even that miserable substitute forwealth. Hartley and I never truly loved each other, and theexperiment of living together as husband and wife has proved afailure. We have not been happy; no, not from the beginning. We havenot even been tolerant or forbearing toward each other. A steadyalienation has been in progress day by day, week by week, and monthby month, until no remedy is left but separation. That has been, atlength, applied, and here I am! It is the third time that I haveleft 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 the countenance of Irene before shecommenced speaking, but this retired again, and she looked deathlypale. No one answered her--only the arm of Rose tightened like acord around the waist of her unhappy friend. 

"Father, " and now her voice fluttered a little, "for your sake I ammost afflicted. I am strong enough to bear my fate--but you!"

There was a little sob--a strong suppression of feeling--andsilence. 

"Oh, Irene! my child! my child!" The old man covered his face withhis hands, sobbed, and shook like a fluttering leaf. "I cannot bearthis! It is too much for me!" and he staggered backward. Irenesprung forward and caught him in her arms. He would have fallen, butfor 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 againsthis daughter, and she felt a low tremor in his frame. 

"Father!" She spoke tenderly, with her lips to his ear. "Dearfather!"

But he did not reply. 

"It is my life-discipline, father, " she said; "I will be happier andbetter, no doubt, in the end for this severe trial. Dear father, donot let what is inevitable so break down your heart. You are mystrong, brave, good father, and I shall need now 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. Letus 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 downby the shock. He said a few words, in which there was scarcely anyconnection of ideas, and then, getting up from the sofa, walkedabout the room, turning one of his hands within the other in adistressed way. 

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" he murmured to himself, in a feeble manner. "I have dreaded this, and prayed that it might not be. Suchwretchedness and disgrace! Such wretchedness and disgrace! Had theyno patience with each other--no forbearance--no love, that it mustcome to this? Dear! dear! dear! Poor child!"

Irene, with her white, wretched face, sat looking at him for sometime, as he moved about, a picture of helpless misery; then, goingto him again, she drew an arm around his neck and tried to comforthim. But there was no comfort in her words. What could _she_ say toreach with a healing power the wound from which his very life-bloodwas pouring. 

"Don't talk! don't talk!" he said, pushing Irene away, with slightimpatience of manner. "I am heart-broken. Words are nothing!"

"Mr. Delancy, " said Rose, now coming to his side, and laying a handupon his arm, "you must not speak so to Irene. This is not likeyou. "

There was a calmness of utterance and a firmness of manner which hadtheir right effect. 

"How have I spoken, Rose, dear? What have I said?" Mr. Delancystopped and looked at Miss Carman in a rebuked, confused way, layinghis hand upon his forehead at the same time. 

"Not from yourself, " answered Rose. 

"Not from myself!" He repeated her words, as if his thoughts werestill in a maze. "Ah, child, this is dreadful!" he added. "I am notmyself! 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 sheglanced anxiously from her father's countenance to that of Rose. Shedid not read in the face of her young friend much that gaveassurance or comfort. 

"Mr. Delancy, " said Rose, with great earnestness of manner, "Ireneis in sore trouble. She has come to a great crisis in her life. Youare older and wiser than she is, and must counsel and sustain her. Be calm, dear sir--calm, clear-seeing, wise and considerate, as youhave always been. "

"Calm--clear-seeing--wise. " Mr. Delancy repeated the words, as ifendeavoring to grasp the rein of thought and get possession ofhimself again. 

"Wise to counsel and strong to sustain, " said Rose. "You must notfail us now. "

"Thank you, my sweet young monitor, " replied Mr. Delancy, partiallyrecovering himself; "it was the weakness of a moment. Irene, " and helooked toward his daughter, "leave me with my own thoughts for alittle while. Take her, Rose, to her own room, and God give youpower to speak words of consolation; I have none. "

Rose drew her arm within that of Irene, and said, "Come. " But Irenelingered, looking tenderly and anxiously at her father. 

"Go, my love. " Mr. Delancy waved his hand. 

"Father! dear father!" She moved a step toward him, while Rose heldher 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 lifeshall be devoted to your happiness. In that I will find acompensation. All is not lost--all is not ruined. My heart is aspure as when I left you three years ago. I come back bleeding frommy life-battle it is true, but not in mortal peril--wounded, but notunto death--cast down, but not destroyed. "

All the muscles of Mr. Delancy's face quivered with suppressedfeeling as he stood looking at his daughter, who, as she uttered thewords, "cast down, but not destroyed, " flung herself in wildabandonment on his breast. 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE PALSIED HEART. 

_THE_ shock to Mr. Delancy was a fearful one, coming as it did on atroubled, foreboding state of mind; and reason lost for a littlewhile her firm grasp on the rein of government. If the old man couldhave 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 thatthe dreaded evil had found them; and the certainty of this fallingsuddenly, struck him as with a heavy blow. 

For several days he was like one who had been stunned. All thatafternoon on which his daughter returned to Ivy Cliff he moved aboutin a bewildered way, and by his questions and remarks showed anincoherence of thought that filled the heart of Irene with alarm. 

On the next morning, when she met him at the breakfast-table, hesmiled on her in his old affectionate way. As she kissed him, shesaid, "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 notagreeable. "

Then he looked at her with a slight closing of the brows and aquestioning look in his eyes. 

They sat down, Irene taking her old place at the table. As shepoured 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 haveforgotten why she was there?

"Yes, it is pleasant, " he replied, and then his eye dropped in athoughtful way. 

"I think, sometimes, that your attractive New York friends have madeyou neglectful of your lonely old father. You don't come to see himas 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, " repliedIrene, meeting his humor, yet heart-appalled at the same time withthis evidence that his mind was wandering from the truth. 

"I don't think them safe friends, " added Mr. Delancy, withseriousness. 

"Perhaps not, " replied Irene. 

"Ah! I'm glad to hear you say so. Now, you have one true, safefriend. I wish you loved her better than you do. "

"What is her name?"

"Rose Carman, " said Mr. Delancy, with a slight 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 bea true friend, " replied Irene. 

"Spoken like my own daughter!" said the old man with a brighteningcountenance. "You must not neglect her any more. Why, she told meyou 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 falseones. No--no. Rose is hurt; you must write to her often--everyweek. "

Irene could not answer. Her heart was beating wildly. What couldthis mean? Had reason fled? But she struggled hard to preserve acalm 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 troubledway. Then he let his eyes fall, and sat holding his cup like one whowas turning perplexed thoughts in his mind. 

"You are not well this morning, father, " said Irene, speaking onlybecause silence was too oppressive for endurance. 

"I don't know; perhaps I'm not very well;" and Mr. Delancy lookedacross the table at his daughter very earnestly. "I had bad dreamsall last night, and they seem to have got mixed up in my thoughtswith real things. How is it? When did you come up from New York?Don'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 thesentence two or three times, evidently trying all the while torecall something which had faded from his memory. 

"Don't worry yourself about Hartley, " said Irene, forcing herself topronounce a name that seemed like fire on her lips. "Isn't it enoughthat I am here?"

"No, it is not enough. " And her father put his hand to his foreheadand looked upward in an earnest, searching manner. 

What could Irene say? What could she do? The mind of her father wasgroping about in the dark, and she was every moment in dread lest heshould discover the truth and get farther astray from the shock. 

No food was taken by either Mr. Delancy or his daughter. The formergrew more entangled in his thoughts, and finally arose from thetable, 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 inthe portico, " he answered, and throwing open one of the windows hestepped outside. Irene followed him. 

"How beautiful!" said Mr. Delancy, as he sat down and turned hiseyes upon the attractive landscape. Irene did not trust her voice inreply. 

"Now go in and finish your breakfast, child. I feel better; I don'tknow what came over me. " He added the last sentence in an undertone. 

Irene returned into the house, but not to resume her place at thetable. Her mind was in an agony of dread. She had reached thedining-room, and was about to ring for a servant, when she heard hername called by her father. Running back quickly to the portico, shefound him standing in the attitude of one who had been suddenlystartled; his face all alive with question and suspense. 

"Oh, yes! yes! I thought you were here this moment! And so it's alltrue?" 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 lethis 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 caressingmanner. 

"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 overmasteringher. Passionate sobs heaved her breast, and tears came raining fromher eyes. 

"Now, don't, Irene! Don't take on so, daughter! I love you still, and we will be happy here, as in other days. "

"Yes, father, " said Irene, holding down her head and calming hervoice, "we will be happy here, as in the dear old time. Oh we willbe very happy together. I won't leave you any more. "

"I wish you had never left me, " he answered, mournfully; "I wasalways afraid of this--always afraid. But don't let it break yourheart; I'm all the same; nothing will ever turn me against you. Ihope he hasn't been very unkind to you?" His voice grew a littlesevere. 

"We wont say anything against him, " replied Irene, trying tounderstand exactly her father's state of mind and accommodateherself thereto. "Forgive and forget is the wisest rule always. "

"Yes, dear, that's it. Forgive and forget--forgive and forget. There's nothing like it in this world. I'm glad to hear you talkso. "

The mind of Mr. Delancy did not again wander from the truth. But theshock received when it first came upon him with stunning force hadtaken away his keen perception of the calamity. He was sad, troubledand restless, and talked a great deal about the unhappy position ofhis daughter--sometimes in a way that indicated much incoherence ofthought. To this state succeeded one of almost total silence, and hewould sit for hours, if not aroused from reverie and inaction by hisdaughter, in apparent dreamy listlessness. His conversation, when hedid talk on any subject, showed, however, that his mind had regainedits old clearness. 

On the third day after Irene's arrival at Ivy Cliff, her trunks cameup from New York. She had packed them on the night before leavingher husband's house, and marked them with her name and that of herfather's residence. No letter or message accompanied them. She didnot expect nor desire any communication, and was not thereforedisappointed, but rather relieved from what would have only proved acause of disturbance. All angry feelings toward her husband hadsubsided; but no tender impulses moved in her heart, nor did thefeeblest thought of reconciliation breathe over the surface of hermind. She had been in bonds; now the fetters were cast off, and sheloved freedom too well to bend her neck again to the yoke. 

No tender impulses moved, we have said, in her heart, for it laylike a palsied thing, dead in her bosom--dead, we mean, so far asthe wife was concerned. It was not so palsied on that fatal eveningwhen the last strife with her husband closed. But in the agony thatfollowed there came, in mercy, a cold paralysis; and now towardHartley Emerson her feelings were as calm as the surface of a frozenlake. 

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 few passages of love between them--green spots inthe desert of their lives--that memory brought hardly a relic fromthe past over which the heart could brood. For the sake of worldlyappearances, Emerson most regretted the unhappy event. Next, histrouble was for Irene and her father, but most for Irene. 

"Willful, wayward one!" he said many, many times. "You, of all, willsuffer most. No woman can take a step like this without drinking ofpain to the bitterest dregs. If you can hide the anguish, well. ButI fear the trial will be too hard for you--the burden too heavy. Poor, mistaken one!"

For a month the household arrangements of Mr. Emerson continued aswhen Irene left him. He did not intermit for a day or an hour hisbusiness duties, and came home regularly at his usual times--always, it must be said, with a feeble expectation of meeting his wife inher old places; we do not say desire, but simply expectation. If shehad returned, well. He would not have repulsed, nor would he havereceived her with strong indications of pleasure. But a month wentby, 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 andshut up the house, but he neither removed nor sold the furniture;that remained as it was for nearly a year, when he ordered a sale byauction and closed the establishment. 

Hartley Emerson, under the influence of business and domestictrouble, matured rapidly, and became grave, silent and reflectivebeyond men of his years. Companionable he was by nature, and duringthe last year that Irene was with him, failing to receive socialsympathy at home, he had joined a club of young men, whoseassociation was based on a declared ambition for literaryexcellence. From this club he withdrew himself; it did not meet thewants of his higher nature, but offered much that stimulated thegrosser appetites and passions. Now he gave himself up to earnestself-improvement, and found in the higher and wider range of thoughtwhich came as the result a partial compensation for what he hadlost. But he was not happy; far, very far from it. And there wereseasons when the past came back upon him in such a flood that allthe barriers of indifference which he had raised for self-protectionwere swept away, and he had to build them up again in sadness ofspirit. So the time wore on with him, and troubled life-experienceswere doing their work upon his character. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE. 

_IT_ is two years since the day of separation between Irene and herhusband. Just two years. And she is sitting in the portico at IvyCliff with her father, looking down upon the river that liesgleaming in sunshine--not thinking of the river, however, nor ofanything in nature. 

They are silent and still--very still, as if sleep had locked theirsenses. He is thin and wasted as from long sickness, and she looksolder by ten years. There is no fine bloom on her cheeks, from whichthe fullness of youth has departed. 

It is a warm June day, the softest, balmiest, brightest day the yearhas given. The air comes laden with delicate odors and thrillingwith bird melodies, and, turn the eye as it will, there is a feastof beauty. 

Yet, the odors are not perceived, nor the music heard, nor thebeauty seen by that musing old man and his silent daughter. Theirthoughts are not in the present, but far back in the unhappy past, the memories of which, awakened by the scene and season, have comeflowing in a strong tide upon them. 

Two years! They have left the prints of their heavy feet upon thelife of Irene, and the deep marks will never be wholly obliterated. She were less than human if this were not so. Two years! Yet, notonce in that long, heart-aching time had she for a single momentlooked backward in weakness. Sternly holding to her act as right, she strengthened herself in suffering, and bore her pain as if itwere a decree of fate. There was no anger in her heart, nor anythingof hardness toward her husband. But there was no love, nor tenderyearning for conjunction--at least, nothing recognized as such inher own consciousness. 

Not since the days Irene left the house of her husband had she heardfrom him directly; and only two or three times indirectly. She hadnever visited the city since her flight therefrom, and all herpleasant and strongly influencing associations there were, inconsequence, at an end. Once her very dear friend Mrs. Talbot cameup to sympathize with and strengthen her in the fiery trial throughwhich 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 presentstate of mind she met with her calm, conclusive mode of reasoning, that took away the specious force of the sophist's dogmas. But herinfluence was chiefly used in the repression of unprofitable themes, and the introduction of such as tended to tranquilize the feelings, and turn the thoughts of her friend away from the trouble that waslying upon her soul like a suffocating nightmare. Mrs. Talbot wasnot pleased with her visit, and did not come again. But she wroteseveral times. The tone of her letters was not, however, pleasant toIrene, who was disturbed by it, and more bewildered than enlightenedby the sentiments that were announced with oracular vagueness. Theseletters were read to Miss Carman, on whom Irene was beginning tolean with increasing confidence. Rose did not fail to expose theirweakness or fallacy in such clear light that Irene, though she triedto shut her eyes against the truth presented by Rose, could not helpseeing it. Her replies were not, under these circumstances, verysatisfactory, for she was unable to speak in a free, assenting, confiding spirit. The consequence was natural. Mrs. Talbot ceased towrite, and Irene did not regret the broken correspondence. Once Mrs. Lloyd wrote. When Irene broke the seal and let her eyes rest uponthe signature, a shudder of repulsion ran through her frame, and theletter dropped from her hands to the floor. As if possessed by aspirit whose influence over her she could not control, she caught upthe unread sheet and threw it into the fire. As the flames seizedupon and consumed it, she drew a long breath and murmured, "So perish the memory of our acquaintance!"

Almost a dead letter of suffering had been those two years. Thereare no events to record, and but little progress to state. Yes, there had been a dead level of suffering--a palsied condition ofheart and mind; a period of almost sluggish endurance, in whichpride and an indomitable will gave strength to bear. 

Mr. Delancy and his daughter were sitting, as we have seen, on thatsweet June day, in silent abstraction of thought, when theserving-man, who had been to the village, stepped into the porticoand handed Irene a letter. The sight of it caused her heart to leapand the blood to crimson suddenly her face. It was not an ordinaryletter--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 perplexed manner, and thenlet his eyes fall upon the legal envelope in her hand, on which alarge red seal was impressed. 

Rising in a quiet way, Irene left the portico with slow steps; butno sooner was she beyond her father's observation than she movedtoward her chamber with winged feet. 

"Bless me, Miss Irene!" exclaimed Margaret, who met her on thestairs, "what has happened?"

But Irene swept by her without a response, and, entering her room, shut the door and locked it. Margaret stood a moment irresolute, andthen, going back to her young lady's chamber, knocked for admission. There was no answer to her summons, 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 likethat, " said Margaret to herself, as she went slowly down stairs. "Ohdear, dear! Poor child! there's nothing but trouble for her in thisworld. "

It was some minutes before Irene found courage to break the imposingseal and look at the communication within. She guessed at thecontents, and was not wrong. They informed her, in legal phrase, that her husband had filed an application for a divorce on theground of desertion, and gave notice that any resistance to thisapplication must be on file on or before a certain date. 

The only visible sign of feeling that responded to this announcementwas a deadly paleness and a slight, nervous crushing of the paper inher hands. Moveless as a thing inanimate, she sat with fixed, dreamyeyes for a long, long time. 

A divorce! She had looked for this daily for more than a year, andoften wondered at her husband's tardiness. Had she desired it? Ah, that is the probing question. Had she desired an act of law to pushthem 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 hadbeen marked by great circumspection. The trial through which she hadpassed was enough to sober her mind and turn her thoughts in somenew directions; and this result had followed. Pride, self-will andimpatience of control found no longer any spur to reactive life, andso her interest in woman's rights, social reforms and all theirconcomitants died away, for lack of a personal bearing. At firstthere had been warm arguments with Miss Carman on these subjects, but these grew gradually less earnest, and were finally avoided byboth, as not only unprofitable, but distasteful. Gradually this wiseand true friend had quickened in the mind of Irene an interest inthings out of herself. There are in every neighborhood objects toawaken 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 numbers, the mentally and spiritually poor. The handsof no one need lie idle a moment for lack of work, for it is novague form of speech to say that the harvest is great and thelaborers few. 

There were ripe harvest-fields around Ivy Cliff, though Irene hadnot observed the golden grain bending its head for the sickle untilRose led her feet in the right direction. Not many of the naturallypoor were around them, yet some required even bodilyministrations--children, the sick and the aged. The destitution thatmost prevailed was of the mind; and this is the saddest form ofpoverty. Mental hunger! how it exhausts the soul and debases itsheaven-born faculties, sinking it into a gross corporeal sphere, that is only a little removed from the animal! To feed the hungryand clothe the naked mean a great deal more than the bestowal offood and raiment; yes, a great deal more; and we have done but asmall part of Christian duty--have obeyed only in the letter--whenwe supply merely the bread that perishes. 

Rose Carman had been wisely instructed, and she was an apt scholar. Now, from a learner she became a teacher, and in the suffering Irenefound one ready to accept the higher truths that governed her life, and to act with her in giving them a real ultimatum. So, in the twoyears which had woven their web of new experiences for the heart ofIrene, she had been drawn almost imperceptibly by Rose into fieldsof labor where the work that left her hands was, she saw, good work, and must endure for ever. What peace it often brought to herstriving spirit, when, but for the sustaining and protecting powerof good deeds, she would have been swept out upon the waves ofturbulent passion--tossed and beaten there until her exhausted heartsunk down amid the waters, and lay dead for a while at the bottom ofher great sea of trouble!

It was better--oh, how much better!--when she laid her head at nighton her lonely pillow, to have in memory the face of a poor sickwoman, which had changed from suffering to peace as she talked toher of higher things than the body's needs, and bore her mind upinto a region of tranquil thought, than to be left with no image todwell upon but an image of her own shattered hopes. Yes, this wasfar better; and by the power of such memories the unhappy one hadmany peaceful seasons and nights of sweet repose. 

All around Ivy Cliff, Irene and Rose were known as ministrantspirits to the poor and humble. The father of Rose was a man ofwealth, and she had his entire sympathy and encouragement. Irene hadno regular duties at home, Margaret being housekeeper and directressin all departments. So there was nothing to hinder the free courseof her will as to the employment of time. With all her pride ofindependence, the ease with which Mrs. Talbot drew Irene in onedirection, and now Miss Carman in another, showed how easily shemight be influenced when off her guard. This is true in most casesof your very self-willed people, and the reason why so many of themget astray. Only conceal the hand that leads them, and you may oftentake them where you will. Ah, if Hartley Emerson had been wiseenough, prudent enough and loving enough to have influenced arightthe fine young spirit he was seeking to make one with his own, howdifferent would the result have been!

In the region round about, our two young friends came in time to beknown as the "Sisters of Charity. " It was not said of themmockingly, nor in gay depreciation, nor in mean ill-nature, but inexpression of a common sentiment, that recognized their high, self-imposed mission. 

Thus it had been with Irene since her return to the old home at IvyCliff. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

STRUCK DOWN. 

_YES_, Irene had looked for this--looked for it daily for now morethan a year. Still it came upon her with a shock that sent astrange, wild shudder through all her being. A divorce! She was lessprepared for it than she had ever been. 

What was beyond? Ah! that touched a chord which gave a thrill ofpain. What was beyond? A new alliance, of course. Legal disabilitiesremoved, Hartley Emerson would take upon himself new marriage vows. Could she say, "Yea, and amen" to this? No, alas! no. There was afeeling of intense, irrepressible anguish away down in heart-regionsthat lay far beyond the lead-line of prior consciousness. What didit mean? She asked herself the question with a fainting spirit. Hadshe not known herself? Were old states of tenderness, which she hadbelieved crushed out and dead along ago, hidden away in secretplaces of her heart, and kept there safe from harm?

No wonder she sat pale and still, crumpling nervously that fataldocument which had startled her with a new revelation of herself. There was love in her heart still, and she knew it not. For a longtime 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 whosesoft hand had given the sound. 

"Irene, " exclaimed Rose Carman, as she took the hand of her friendand 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 tospeak. 

They sat down together, Rose troubled and wondering. Irene thenhanded her friend the notice which she had received. Miss Carmanread it, but made no remark for some time. 

"It has disturbed you, " she said at length, seeing that Irenecontinued silent. 

"Yes, more than I could have believed, " answered Irene. Her voicehad 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 nervous, sometimes, that when the event comesit falls upon us with a painful shock. This is my case now. I wouldhave felt it less severely if it had occurred six months ago. "

"What will you do?" asked Rose. 

"Do?"

"Yes. "

"What can I do?"

"Resist the application, if you will. "

"But I will not, " answered Irene, firmly. "He signifies his wishesin the case, and those wishes must determine everything. I willremain passive. "

"And let the divorce issue by default of answer?"

"Yes. "

There was a faintness of tone which Rose could not help remarking. 

"Yes, " Irene added, "he desires this complete separation, and I canhave nothing to say in opposition. I left him, and have remainedever since a stranger to his home and heart. We are nothing to eachother, and yet are bound together by the strongest of bonds. Whyshould he not wish to be released from these bonds? And if hedesires it, I have nothing to say. We are divorced in fact--why thenretain the form?"

"There may be a question of the fact, " said Rose. 

"Yes; I understand you. We have discussed that point fully. Yourview may be right, but I do not see it clearly. I will at leastretain passive. The responsibility shall rest with him. "

No life or color came back to the face of Irene. She looked as coldas marble; not cold without feeling, but with intense feelingrecorded as in a piece of sculpture. 

There were deeds of kindness and mercy set down in the purposes ofour young friend, and it was to go forth and perform them that Rosehad called for Irene this morning. But only one Sister of Charitywent to the field that day, and only one for many days afterward. 

Irene could not recover from the shock of this legal notice. Itfound her less prepared than she had been at any time during thelast two years of separation. Her life at Ivy Cliff had not beenfavorable to a spirit of antagonism and accusation, nor favorable toa self-approving judgment of herself when the past came up, as itoften came, strive as she would to cover it as with a veil. She hadgrown in this night of suffering, less self-willed and blindlyimpulsive. Some scales had dropped from her eyes, and she sawclearer. Yet no repentance for that one act of her life, whichinvolved a series of consequences beyond the reach of conjecture, had found a place in her heart. There was no looking back fromthis--no sober questioning as to the right or necessity which hadbeen involved. There had been one great mistake--so she decided thecase--and that was the marriage. 

From this fatal error all subsequent evil was born. 

Months of waiting and expectation followed, and then came a decreeannulling the marriage. 

"It is well, " was the simple response of Irene when notice of thefact reached her. 

Not even to Rose Carman did she reveal a thought that took shape inher mind, nor betray a single emotion that trembled in her heart. Ifthere had been less appearance of indifference--less avoidance ofthe subject--her friends would have felt more comfortable as to herstate of mind. The unnatural repose of, exterior was to themsignificant of a strife within which she wished to conceal from alleyes. 

About this time her true, loving friend, Miss Carman, married. Irenedid not stand as one of the bridesmaids at the ceremony. Rose gentlyhinted 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 shewent to her new home in the city. Mr. Everet was five or six yearsher senior, and a man worthy to be her life-companion. No suddenattachment had grown up between them. For years they had been in thehabit of meeting, and in this time the character of each had beenclearly read by the other. When Mr. Everet asked the maiden's hand, it, was yielded without a sign of hesitation. 

The removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff greatlydisturbed the even-going tenor of Irene's life. It withdrew also aprop on which she had leaned often in times of weakness, which wouldrecur very heavily. 

"How can I live without you?" she said in tears, as she sat alonewith the new-made bride on the eve of her departure; "you have beeneverything to me, Rose--strength in weakness; light, when all aroundwas cold and dark; a guide when I had lost my way. God bless andmake you happy, darling! And he will. Hearts like yours createhappiness wherever they go. "

"My new home will only be a few hours' distant, " replied Rose; "Ishall see you there often. "

Irene sighed. She had been to the city only a few times since thatsad day of separation from her husband. Could she return again andenter one of its bright social circles? Her heart said no. But lovedrew her too strongly. In less than a month after Rose became themistress of a stately mansion, Irene was her guest. This was justsix years from the time when she set up her home there, a proud andhappy young wife. Alas! that hearth was desolate, "its bright firequenched and gone. "

It was best for Irene thus to get back again into a wider socialsphere--to make some new friends, and those of a class that such awoman as Mrs. Everet would naturally draw around her. Three years ofsuffering, and the effort to lead a life of self-denial and activeinterest in others, had wrought in Irene a great change. The old, flashing ardor of manner was gone. If she grew animated inconversation, as she often did from temperament, her face wouldlight up beautifully, but it did not show the radiance of old times. Thought, more than feeling, gave its living play to her countenance. All who met her were attracted; as her history was known, observation naturally took the form of close scrutiny. People wishedto find the angular and repellant sides of her character in order tosee how far she might be to blame. But they were not able todiscover them. On the subjects 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 theyformed the staple of conversation. 

Even if, in three years of intimate, almost daily, association withRose, she had not learned to think in some new directions on thesebewildering questions, certain womanly instincts must have set aseal upon her lips. Not for all the world would she, to astranger--no, nor to any new friend--utter a sentiment that could inthe least degree give color to the thought that she wished to throweven the faintest shadow of blame on Hartley Emerson. Not that shewas ready to take blame to herself, or give the impression thatfault rested by her door. No. The subject was sacred to herself, andshe asked no sympathy and granted no confidences. There were thosewho sought to draw her out, who watched her face and words with keenintentness when certain themes were discussed. But they were unableto reach the penetralia of her heart. There was a chamber of recordthere into which no one could enter but herself. 

Since the separation of Irene from her husband, Mr. Delancy hadshown signs of rapid failure. His heart was bound up in hisdaughter, who, with all her captious self-will and impulsiveness, loved him with a tenderness and fervor that never knew change oreclipse. To see her make shipwreck of life's dearest hopes--to knowthat her name was spoken by hundreds in reprobation--to look dailyon her quiet, changing, suffering face, was more than his fond heartcould bear. It broke him down. This fact, more perhaps, than her ownsad experiences, tended to sober the mind of Irene, and leave italmost passive under the right influences of her wise young friend. 

After the removal of Rose from the neighborhood of Ivy Cliff, thehealth of Mr. Delancy failed still more rapidly, and in a few monthsthe brief visits of Irene to her friend in New York had to beintermitted. She could no longer venture to leave her father, evenunder the care of their faithful Margaret. A sad winter for Irenesucceeded. Mr. Delancy drooped about until after Christmas, in aweary, listless way, taking little interest in anything, and bearingboth physical and mental consciousness as a burden it would bepleasant to lay down. Early in January he had to give up and go tobed; and now the truth of his condition startled the mind of Ireneand filled her with alarm. By slow, insidious encroachments, thatdangerous enemy, typhoid fever, had gained a lodgment in the verycitadel of life, and boldly revealed itself, defying the healer'sart. For weeks the dim light of mortal existence burned with a low, wavering flame, that any sudden breath of air might extinguish; thenit grew steady again, increased, and sent a few brighter rays intothe darkness which had gathered around Ivy Cliff. 

Spring found Mr. Delancy strong enough to sit, propped up withpillows, by the window of his chamber, and look out upon thenewly-mantled trees, the green fields, and the bright river flashingin the sunshine. The heart of Irene took courage again. The cloudwhich 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! Asudden cold, how taken it was almost impossible to tell--for Ireneguarded her father as tenderly as if he were a new-borninfant--disturbed life's delicate equipoise, and the scale turnedfatally the wrong way. 

Poor Irene! She had only staggered under former blows--this onestruck her down. Had life anything to offer now? "Nothing! nothing!"she said in her heart, and prayed that she might die and be at restwith her father. 

Months of stupor followed this great sorrow; then her heart began tobeat again with some interest in life. There was one friend, almosther only friend--for she now repelled nearly every one whoapproached her--who never failed in hopeful, comforting, stimulatingwords and offices, who visited her frequently in her recluse life atIvy Cliff, and sought with untiring assiduity to win her once moreaway from its dead seclusion. And she was at last successful. In thewinter after Mr. Delancy's death, Irene, after much earnestpersuasion, 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. 

_GRADUALLY_ the mind of Irene attained clearness of perception as toduty, and a firmness of will that led her to act in obedience towhat reason and religion taught her was right. The leading ideawhich Mrs. Everet endeavored to keep before her was this: that nohappiness is possible, except in some work that removesself-consciousness and fills our minds with an interest in thewell-being of others. While Rose was at Ivy Cliff, Irene acted withher, and was sustained by her love and companionship. After hermarriage and removal to New York, Irene was left to stand alone, andthis tried her strength. It was feeble. The sickness and death ofher father drew her back again into herself, and for a timeextinguished all interest in what was on the outside. To awaken anew and higher life was the aim of her friend, and she never weariedin her generous efforts. During this winter plans were matured foractive usefulness in the old spheres, and Mrs. Everet promised topass as much time in the next summer with her father as possible, soas to act with Irene in the development of these schemes. 

The first warm days of summer found Irene back again in her home atIvy Cliff. Her visit in New York had been prolonged far beyond thelimit assigned to it in the beginning, but Rose would not consent toan earlier return. This winter of daily life with Mrs. Everet, inthe unreserved intercourse of home, was 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 notreach with their softening influences. There was good soil in hermind, well prepared, and the sower failed not in the work ofscattering good seed upon it with a liberal hand--seed that feltsoon a quickening life and swelled in the delight of cominggermination. 

It is not our purpose to record the history of Irene during theyears of her discipline at Ivy Cliff, where she lived, nun-like, forthe larger part of her time. She had useful work there, and in itsfaithful performance peace came to her troubled soul. Three or fourtimes every year she paid a visit to Rose, and spent on eachoccasion from one to three or four weeks. It could not but happenthat in these visits congenial friendship would be made, and tenderremembrances go back with her into the seclusion of her countryhome, to remain as sweet companions in her hours of loneliness. 

It was something remarkable that, during the six or seven yearswhich followed Irene's separation from her husband, she had neverseen him. He was still a resident of New York, and well known as arapidly advancing member of the bar. Occasionally his name met hereyes in the newspapers, as connected with some important suit; but, beyond this, his life was to her a dead letter. He might be marriedagain, for all she knew to the contrary. But she never dwelt on thatthought; its intrusion always disturbed her, and that profoundly. 

And how was it with Hartley Emerson? Had he again tried theexperiment which once so signally failed? No; he had not venturedupon the sea whose depths held the richest vessel he had freightedin life. Visions of loveliness had floated before him, and he hadbeen lured by them, a few times, out of his beaten path. But hecarried in his memory a picture that, when his eyes turned inward, held their gaze so fixedly that all other images grew dim orunlovely. And so, with a sigh, he would turn again to the old wayand move on as before. 

But the past was irrevocable. "And shall I, " he began to say tohimself, "for this one great error of my youth--this blindmistake--pass a desolate and fruitless life?"

Oftener and oftener the question was repeated in his thoughts, untilit found answer in an emphatic No! Then he looked around with a newinterest, and went more into society. Soon one fair face came morefrequently before the eyes of his mind than any other face. He sawit as he sat in his law-office, saw it on the page of his book as heread in the evening, lying over the printed words and hiding fromhis thoughts their meaning; saw it in dreams. The face haunted him. How long was this since that fatal night of discord and separation?Ten years. So long? Yes, so long. Ten weary years had made theirrecord upon his book of life and upon hers. Ten weary years! Thediscipline of this time had not worked on either any moraldeterioration. Both were yet sound to the core, and both werebuilding up characters based on the broad foundations of virtue. 

Steadily that face grew into a more living distinctness, hauntinghis daily thoughts and nightly visions. Then new life-pulses beganto throb in his heart; new emotions to tremble over its long calmsurface; new warmth to flow, spring-like, into the indurated soil. This face, which had begun thus to dwell with him, was the face of amaiden, 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 henow commenced studying her character. Having made one mistake, hewas fearful and guarded. Better go on a lonely man to the end oflife than again have his love-freighted bark buried in mid-ocean. 

At last, Emerson was satisfied. He had found the sweet being whoselife could blend in eternal oneness with his own; and it onlyremained for him to say to her in words what she had read as plainlyas written language in his eyes. So far as she was concerned, noimpediment existed. We will not say that she was ripe enough in soulto wed with this man, who had passed through experiences of a kindthat always develop the character broadly and deeply. No, for suchwas not the case. She was too young and inexperienced to understandhim; too narrow in her range of thought; too much a child. Butsomething in her beautiful, innocent, sweet young face had won hisheart; and in the weakness of passion, not in the manly strength ofa deep love, he had bowed down to a shrine at which he could neverworship and be satisfied. 

But even strong men are weak in woman's toils, and Hartley Emersonwas a captive. 

There was to be a pleasure-party on one of the steamers that cut thebright waters of the fair Hudson, and Emerson and the maiden, whoseface was now his daily companion, were to be of the number. He feltthat the time had come for him to speak if he meant to speak atall--to say what was in his thought, or turn aside and let anotherwoo and win the lovely being imagination had already pictured as thesweet companion of his future home. The night that preceded thisexcursion was a sleepless one for Hartley Emerson. Questions anddoubts, scarcely defined in his thoughts before, pressed themselvesupon him and demanded a solution. The past came up with a vividnessnot experienced for years. In states ofsemi-consciousness--half-sleeping, half-waking--there returned tohim such life-like realizations of events long ago recorded in hismemory, and covered over with the dust of time, that he started fromthem to full wakefulness, with a heart throbbing in wild tumult. Once there was presented so vivid a picture of Irene that for somemoments he was unable to satisfy himself that all these ten years ofloneliness were not a dream. He saw her as she stood before him onthat ever-to-be-remembered night and said, "_I go!_" Let us turnback and read the record of her appearance as he saw her then andnow:

"She had raised her eyes from the floor, and turned them full uponher husband. Her face was not so pale. Warmth had come back to thedelicate skin, flushing it with beauty. She did not stand before himan impersonation of anger, dislike or rebellion. There was not arepulsively attitude or expression. No flashing of the eyes, noreven the cold, diamond glitter seen a little while before. Slowlyturning away, she left the room. But to her husband she seemed stillstanding there, a lovely vision. There had fallen, in that instantof time, a sunbeam, which fixed the image upon his memory inimperishable colors. "

Emerson groaned as he fell back upon his pillow and shut his eyes. What would he not then have given for one full draught of Lethe'sfabled waters. 

Morning came at last, its bright beams dispersing the shadows ofnight; and with it came back the warmth of his new passion and hispurpose on that day, if the opportunity came, to end all doubt, byoffering the maiden his hand--we do not say heart, for of that hewas not the full possessor. 

The day opened charmingly, and the pleasure-party were on the wingbetimes. Emerson felt a sense of exhilaration as the steamer passedout from her moorings and glided with easy grace along the cityfront. He stood upon her deck with a maiden's hand resting on hisarm, the touch of which, though light as the pressure of a flower, was felt with strange distinctness. The shadows of the night, whichhad brooded so darkly over his spirit, were gone, and only a dimremembrance 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 onthe other, until bolder scenery stretched away and mountain barriersraised themselves against the blue horizon. 

There was a large number of passengers on board, scattered over thedecks or lingering in the cabins, as inclination prompted. Theobserver of faces and character had field enough for study; butHartley Emerson was not inclined to read in the book of character onthis occasion. One subject occupied his thoughts to the exclusion ofall others. There had come a period that was full of interest andfraught with momentous consequences which must extend through all ofhis after years. He saw little but the maiden at his side--thoughtof little but his purpose to ask her to walk with him, asoul-companion, in the journey of life. 

During the first hour there was a constant moving to and fro and thetaking up of new positions by the passengers--a hum and buzz ofconversation--laughing--exclamations--gay talk and enthusiasm. Thena quieter tone prevailed. Solitary individuals took places ofobservation; groups seated themselves in pleasant circles to chat, and couples drew away into cabins or retired places, or continuedthe promenade. 

Among the latter were Emerson and his companion. Purposely he haddrawn the fair girl away from their party, in order to get theopportunity he desired. He did not mean to startle her with anabrupt proposal here, in the very eye of observation, but to advancetoward the object by slow approaches, marking well the effect of hiswords, and receding the moment he saw that, in beginning tocomprehend him, her mind showed repulsion or marked disturbance. 

Thus it was with them when the boat entered the Highlands and sweptonward with wind-like speed. They were in one of the gorgeouslyfurnished cabins, sitting together on a sofa. There had been earnesttalk, but on some subject of taste. Gradually Emerson changed thetheme and began approaching the one nearest to his heart. Slightembarrassment followed; his voice took on a different tone; it waslower, tenderer, more deliberate and impressive. He leaned closer, and the maiden did not retire; she understood him, and was waitingthe pleasure of his speech with heart-throbbings that seemed as ifthey must be audible in his ears as well as her own. 

The time had come. Everything was propitious. The words that wouldhave sealed his fate and hers were on his lips, when, looking up, heknew not why, but under an impulse of the moment, he met two calmeyes resting upon him with an expression that sent the blood leapingback to his heart. Two calm eyes and a pale, calm face were beforehim 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. He could not haveuttered them if life or death hung on the issue. No--no--no. A deadsilence followed. 

"Are you ill?" asked his companion, looking at him anxiously. 

"No, oh no, " he replied, trying to rally himself. 

"But you are ill, Mr. Emerson. How pale your face is!"

"It will pass off in a moment. " He spoke with an effort to appearself-possessed. "Let us go on deck, " he added, rising. "There are agreat many people in the cabin, and the atmosphere is oppressive. "

A dead weight fell upon the maiden's heart as she arose and went ondeck by the side of Mr. Emerson. She had noticed his sudden pauseand glance across the cabin at the instant she was holding herbreath for his next words, but did not observe the object, a sightof which had wrought on him so remarkable a change. They walkednearly the entire length of the boat, after getting on deck, beforeMr. Emerson spoke. He then remarked on the boldness of the sceneryand pointed out interesting localities, but in so absent andpreoccupied a way that his companion listened without replying. In alittle while he managed to get into the neighborhood of three orfour of their party, with whom he left her, and, moving away, took aposition on the upper deck just over the gangway from which thelandings were made. Here he remained until the boat came to at apier on which his feet had stepped lightly many, many times. IvyCliff was only a little way distant, hidden from view by a belt offorest trees. The ponderous machinery stood still, the plungingwheels stopped their muffled roar, and in the brooding silence thatfollowed three or four persons stepped on the plank which had beenthrown out and passed to the shore. A single form alone fixed theeyes of Hartley Emerson. He would have known it on the instant amonga thousand. It was that of Irene. Her step was slow, like oneabstracted in mind or like one in feeble health. After gaining thelanding, she stood still and turned toward the boat, when their eyesmet again--met, and held each other, by a spell which neither hadpower to break. The fastenings were thrown off, the engineer runghis bell; there was a clatter of machinery, a rush of waters and theboat glanced onward. Then Irene started like one suddenly arousedfrom sleep and walked rapidly away. 

And thus they met for the first time after a separation of tenyears. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE MINISTERING ANGEL. 

_A CLATTER_ of machinery, a rush of waters, and the boat glancedonward but still Hartley Emerson stood motionless and statue-like, his eyes fixed upon the shore, until the swiftly-gliding vessel borehim away, and the object which had held his vision by a kind offascination was concealed from view. 

"An angel, if there ever was one on this side of heaven!" said avoice close to his ear. Emerson gave a start and turned quickly. Aman plainly dressed stood beside him. He was of middle age, and hada mild, grave, thoughtful countenance. 

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Emerson, not able entirely to veil hissurprise. 

"Of the lady we saw go ashore at the landing just now. She turnedand looked at us. You could not help noticing her. "

"Who is she?" asked Emerson, and then held his breath awaiting theanswer. The question was almost involuntary, yet prompted by asuddenly awakened desire to bear the world's testimony regard toIrene. 

"You don't know her, then?" remarked the stranger. 

"I asked who she was. " Emerson intended to say this firmly, but hisvoice was unsteady. "Let us sit down, " he added, looking around, andthen 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, repeating his words. "Sheis well known about these parts, I can assure you. Why, that was oldMr. 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 yearsago to a lawyer down in New York; and, in the second place, theydidn't live very happily together--why, I never heard. I don'tbelieve it was her fault, for she's the sweetest, kindest, gentlestlady it has ever been my good fortune to meet. Some people aroundIvy Cliff call her the 'Angel, ' and the word has meaning in it asapplied to her. She left her husband, and he got a divorce, butdidn't charge anything wrong against her. That, I suppose, was morethan he dared to do, for a snow-flake is not purer. "

"You have lived in the neighborhood?" said Emerson, keeping his facea little averted. 

"Oh yes, sir. I have lived about here pretty much all my life. "

"Then you knew Miss Delancy before she was married?"

"No, sir; I can't say that I knew much about her before that time. Iused to see her now and then as she rode about the neighborhood. Shewas a gay, wild girl, sir. But that unhappy marriage made a greatchange in her. I cannot forget the first time I saw her after shecame back to her father's. She seemed to me older by many years thanwhen I last saw her, and looked like one just recovered from a longand serious illness. The brightness had passed from her face, thefire from her eyes, the spring from her footsteps. I believe sheleft her husband of her own accord, but I never knew that she madeany complaint against him. Of course, people were very curious toknow why she had abandoned him. But her lips must have been sealed, for only a little vague talk went floating around. I never heard abreath of wrong charged against him as coming from her. "

Emerson's face was turned still more away from his companion, hiseyes bent down and his brows firmly knit. He did not ask farther, but the man was on a theme that interested him, and so continued. 

"For most of the time since her return to Ivy Cliff the life of MissDelancy has been given to Christian charities. The death of herfather was a heavy stroke. It took the life out of her for a while. Since her recovery from that shock she has been constantly activeamong us in good deeds. Poor sick women know the touch of her gentlehand and the music of her voice. She has brought sunlight into manywintry homes, and kindled again on hearths long desolate the firesof loving kindness. There must have been some lack of trueappreciation on the part of her husband, sir. Bitter fountains donot send forth sweet waters like these. Don't you think so?"

"How should I know?" replied Emerson, a little coldly. The questionwas sprung upon him so suddenly that his answer was given inconfusion of thought. 

"We all have our opinions, sir, " said the man, "and this seems aplain case. I've heard said that her husband was a hot-headed, self-willed, ill-regulated young fellow, no more fit to get marriedthan to be President. That he didn't understand the woman--or, maybe, I should say child--whom he took for his wife is verycertain, 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 knowanything certain. But we shall not go far wrong in guessing that itwas neither wise nor considerate. In fact, he must have outraged herterribly. "

"This, I presume, is the common impression about Ivy Cliff?"

"No, " said the man; "I've heard him well 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 areplenty of men who would be glad to wed so perfect a being as yourepresent her to be. "

"She marry!" There was indignation and surprise 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 thatits 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 believe in it differently fromsome others?"

"In this, that it means what it says on the subject of divorce. "

"Oh, I understand. You think that if she were to marry again itwould be in the face of conscientious scruples?"

"I do. "

Mr. Emerson was about asking another question when one of the partyto which he belonged joined him, and so the strange interviewclosed. He bowed to the man with whom he had been conversing, andthen passed to another part of the boat. 

With slow steps, that were unsteady from sudden weakness, Irenemoved along the road that led to her home. After reaching thegrounds of Ivy Cliff she turned aside into a small summer-house, andsat down at one of the windows that looked out upon the river as itstretched upward in its gleaming way. The boat she had just left wasalready far distant, but it fixed her eyes, and they saw no otherobject until it passed from view around a wooded point of land. Andstill she sat motionless, looking at the spot where it had vanishedfrom her sight. 

"Miss Irene!" exclaimed Margaret, the faithful old domestic, whostill bore rule at the homestead, breaking in upon her reverie, "what in the world are you doing here? I expected you up to-day, andwhen the boat stopped at the landing and you didn't come, I wasuneasy and couldn't rest. Why child, what is the matter? You'resick!"

"Oh no, Margaret, I'm well enough, " said Irene, trying to smileindifferently. And she arose and left the summer-house. 

Kind, observant old Margaret was far from being satisfied, however. She saw that Irene was not as when she departed for the city a weekbefore. 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 itwithout feeling a pang in her heart. 

"I'm sure you're sick, Miss Irene, " she said as they entered thehouse. "Now, what is the matter? What can I do or get for you? Letme send over for Dr. Edmondson?"

"No, no, my good Margaret, don't think of such a thing, " repliedIrene. "I'm not sick. "

"Something's the matter with you, child, " persisted Margaret. 

"Nothing that won't cure itself, " said Irene, trying to speakcheerfully. "I'll go up to my room for a little while. "

And she turned away from her kind-hearted domestic. On entering herchamber Irene locked the door in order to be safe from intrusion, for she knew that Margaret would not let half an hour pass withoutcoming up to ask how she was. Sitting down by the window, she lookedout upon the river, along whose smooth surface had passed the vesselin which, a little while before, she met the man once called by thename of husband--met him and looked into his face for the first timein ten long years! The meeting had disturbed her profoundly. In thecabin of that vessel she had seen him by the side of a fair younggirl in earnest conversation; and she had watched with a strange, fluttering interest the play of his features. What was he saying tothat fair young girl that she listened with such a breathless, waiting air? Suddenly he turned toward her, their eyes met and werespell-bound for moments. What did she read in his eyes in thosebrief moments? What did he read in hers? Both questions pressedthemselves upon her thoughts as she retreated among the crowd ofpassengers, and then hid herself from the chance of another meetinguntil the boat reached the landing at Ivy Cliff. Why did she pauseon the shore, and turn to look upon the crowded decks? She knew not. The act was involuntary. Again their eyes met--met and held eachother until the receding vessel placed dim distance between them. 

In less than half an hour Margaret's hand was on the door, but shecould not enter. Irene had not moved from her place at the window inall 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 kindold waiting-woman retired. 

From that time every one noted a change in Irene. But none knew, oreven guessed, its cause or meaning. Not even to her friend, Mrs. Everet, did she speak of her meeting with Hartley Emerson. Her facedid not light up as before, and her eyes seemed always as if lookinginward or gazing dreamily upon something afar off. Yet in good deedsshe failed not. If her own heart was heavier, she made other heartslighter by her presence. 

And still the years went on in their steady revolutions--one, two, three, four, five more years, and in all that time the parted onesdid not meet again. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

BORN FOR EACH OTHER. 

"_I SAW_ Mr. Emerson yesterday, " said Mrs. Everet. She was sittingwith Irene in her own house in New York. 

"Did you?" Irene spoke evenly and quietly, but did not turn her facetoward Mrs. Everet. 

"Yes. I saw him at my husband's store. Mr. Everet has engaged him toconduct an important suit, in which many thousands of dollars are atstake. "

"How does he look?" inquired Irene, without showing any feelings butstill keeping her face turned from Mrs Everet. 

"Well, I should say, though rather too much frosted for a man of hisyears. "

"Gray, do you mean?" Irene manifested some surprise. 

"Yes; his hair and beard are quite sprinkled with time's whitesnow-flakes. "

"He is only forty, " remarked Irene. 

"I should say fifty, judging from his appearance. "

"Only forty. " And a faint sigh breathed on the lips of Irene. Shedid not look around at her friend but sat very still, with her faceturned partly away. Mrs. Everet looked at her closely, to read, ifpossible, what was passing in her mind. But the countenance of Irenewas too much hidden. Her attitude, however, indicated intentness ofthought, though not disturbing thought. 

"Rose, " she said at length, "I grow less at peace with myself as theyears move onward. "

"You speak from some passing state of mind, " suggested Mrs. Everet. 

"No; from a gradually forming permanent state. Ten years ago Ilooked back upon the past in a stern, self-sustaining, martyr-spirit. Five years ago all things wore a different aspect. Ibegan to have misgivings; I could not so clearly make out my case. New thoughts on the subject--and not very welcome ones--began tointrude. I was self-convicted of wrong; yes, Rose, of a great and anirreparable wrong. I shut my eyes; I tried to look in otherdirections; but the truth, once seen, could not pass from the rangeof mental vision. I have never told you that I saw Mr. Emerson fiveyears ago. The effect of that meeting was such that I could notspeak of it, even to you. We met on one of the river steamboats--metand looked into each other's eyes for just a moment. It may only bea fancy of mine, but I have thought sometimes that, but for thisseemingly accidental meeting, he would have married again. "

"Why do you think so?" asked Mrs. Everet. 

Irene did not answer for some moments. She hardly dared venture toput what she had seen in words. It was something that she felt morelike hiding even from her own consciousness, if that were possible. But, having ventured so far, she could not well hold back. So shereplied, keeping her voice into as dead a level as it was possibleto assume:

"He was sitting in earnest conversation with a young lady, and fromthe expression of her face, which I could see, the subject on whichhe was speaking was evidently one in which more than her thought wasinterested. I felt at the time that he was on the verge of a newlife-experiment--was about venturing upon a sea on which he had oncemade shipwreck. Suddenly he turned half around and looked at mebefore 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 histurning his eyes, as if from some hidden impulse, just to the spotwhere I was sitting. There are no accidents--as I have often heardyou say--in the common acceptation of the term; therefore this wasno accident. "

"It was a providence, " said Rose. 

"And to what end?" asked Irene. 

Mrs. Everet shook her head. 

"I will not even presume to conjecture. "

Irene sighed, and then sat lost in thought. Recovering herself, shesaid:

"Since that time I have been growing less and less satisfied withthat brief, troubled portion of my life which closed sodisastrously. I forgot how much the happiness of another wasinvolved. A blind, willful girl, struggling in imaginary bonds, Ithought only of myself, and madly rent apart the ties which deathonly should have sundered. For five years, Rose, I have carried inmy heart the expression which looked out upon me from the eyes ofMr. Emerson at that brief meeting. Its meaning was not then, nor isit now, clear. I have never set myself to the work ofinterpretation, and believe the task would be fruitless. Butwhenever it is recalled I am affected with a tender sadness. And sohis head is already frosted, Rose?"

"Yes. "

"Though in years he has reached only manhood's ripened state. How Ihave marred his life! Better, far better, would it have been for himif 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 thatyou were not the bride of Death. There are deeper things hidden inthe events of life than our reason can fathom. We die when it isbest for ourselves and best for others that we should die--neverbefore. And the fact that we live is in itself conclusive that weare yet needed in the world by all who can be affected by our mortalexistence. "

"Gray hairs at forty!" This seemed to haunt the mind of Irene. 

"It may be constitutional, " suggested Mrs. Everet; "some heads beginto 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. " It was all Irene said. 

Mrs. Everet might have suggested that a man of his legal positionwould naturally be grave and thoughtful, but she did not. 

"It struck me, " said Mrs. Everet, "as a true, pure, manly face. Itwas intellectual and refined; delicate, yet firm about the mouth andexpansive in the upper portions. The hair curled softly away fromhis white temples and forehead. "

"Worthy of a better fate!" sighed Irene. "And it is I who havemarred his whole life! How blind is selfish passion! Ah, my friend, the years do not bring peace to my soul. There have been times whento know that he had sought refuge from a lonely life in marriagewould have been a relief to me. Were this the case, the thought ofhis isolation, of his imperfect life, would not be for ever rebukingme. But now, while no less severely rebuked by this thought, I feelglad that he has not ventured upon an act no clear sanction forwhich is found in the Divine law. He could not, I feel, haveremained so true and pure a man as I trust he is this day. God helphim to hold on, faithful to his highest intuitions, even unto theend. "

Mrs. Everet looked at Irene wonderingly as she spoke. She had neverbefore thus unveiled her thoughts. 

"He struck me, " was her reply, "as a man who had passed throughyears of discipline and gained the mastery of himself. "

"I trust that it may be so, " Irene answered, rather as if speakingto herself than to another. 

"As I grow older, " she added, after a long pause, now looking withcalm eyes upon her friend, "and life-experiences correct my judgmentand chasten my feelings, I see all things in a new aspect. Iunderstand my own heart better--its needs, capacities and yearnings;and self-knowledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery ofother souls. So a deeper self-acquaintance enables me to look deeperinto the hearts of all around me. I erred in marrying Mr. Emerson. We were both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights andopinions to come together in a union so sacred and so intimate. But, after I had become his wife, after I had taken upon myself such holyvows, it was my duty to stand fast. I could not abandon my place andbe innocent before God and man. And I am not innocent, Rose. "

The face of Irene was strongly agitated for some moments; but sherecovered herself and went on:

"I am speaking of things that have hitherto been secrets of my ownheart. I could not bring them out even for you to look at, mydearest, truest, best of friends. Now it seems as if I could notbear the weight of my heavy thoughts alone; as if, in admitting youbeyond the veil, I might find strength to suffer, if not ease frompain. There is no such thing as living our lives over again andcorrecting their great errors. The past is an irrevocable fact. Ah, if conscience would sleep, if struggles for a better life would makeatonement for wrong--then, as our years progress, we might lapseinto tranquil states. But gradually clearing vision increases themagnitude of a fault like mine, for its fatal consequences are seenin broader light. There is a thought which has haunted me for a yearpast like a spectre. It comes to me unbidden; sometimes to disturbthe quiet of my lonely evenings, sometimes in the silentnight-watches to banish sleep from my pillow; sometimes to placesilence on my lips as I sit among cherished friends. I neverimagined 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. Youbelieve that there are, as you call them 'conjugal partners, ' or menand women born for each other, who, in a true marriage of souls, shall become eternally 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 liveunhappily; but in heaven they will draw together by adivinely-implanted attraction, and be there united for ever. I havefelt that something like this must be true; that every soul musthave its counterpart. The thought which has so haunted me is, thatHartley Emerson and unhappy _I_ were born for each other. "

She paused and looked with a half-startled air upon Mrs. Everet tomark the effect of this revelation. But Rose made no response andshowed no surprise, however she might have been affected by thesingular admission of her friend. 

"It has been all in vain, " continued Irene "that I have pushed thethought aside--called it absurd, insane, impossible--back it wouldcome and take its old place. And, stranger still, out of facts thatI educed to prove its fallacy would come corroborative suggestions. I think it is well for my peace of mind that I have not been in theway of hearing about him or of seeing him. Since we parted it hasbeen as if a dark curtain had fallen between us; and, so far as I amconcerned, that curtain has been lifted up but once or twice, andthen only for a moment of time. So all my thoughts of him are joinedto the past. Away back in that sweet time when the heart of girlhoodfirst thrills with the passion of love are some memories that hauntmy soul like dreams from Elysium. He was, in my eyes, theimpersonation of all that was lovely and excellent; his presencemade my sense of happiness complete; his voice touched my ears asthe blending of all rich harmonies. But there fell upon him ashadow; there came hard discords in the music which had entranced mysoul; the fine gold was dimmed. Then came that period of mad strife, of blind antagonism, in which we hurt each other by rough contact. Finally, we were driven far asunder, and, instead of revolvingtogether around a common centre, each has moved in a separate orbit. For years that dark period of pain has held the former period ofbrightness in eclipse; but of late gleams from that better time havemade their way down to the present. Gradually the shadows are givingaway. The first state is coming to be felt more and more as the truestate--as that in best agreement with what we are in relation toeach other. It was the evil in us that met in such fatalantagonism--not the good; it was something that we must put off ifwe would rise from natural and selfish life into spiritual andheavenly life. It was our selfishness and passion that drove usasunder. Thus it is, dear Rose, that my thoughts have been wanderingabout in the maze of life that entangles me. In my isolation I havetime enough for mental inversion--for self-exploration--for idlefancies, if you will. And so I have lifted the veil for you;uncovered my inner life; taken you into the sanctuary over whosethreshold no foot but my own had ever passed. "

There was too much in all this for Mrs. Everet to venture upon anyreply that involved suggestion or advice. It was from a desire tolook deeper into the heart of her friend that she had spoken of hermeeting with Mr. Emerson. The glance she obtained revealed far morethan her imagination had ever reached. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

LOVE NEVER DIES. 

_THE_ brief meeting with Mrs. Everet had stirred the memory of oldtimes in the heart of Mr. Emerson. With a vividness unknown foryears, Ivy Cliff and the sweetness of many life-passages there cameback to him, and set heart-pulses that he had deemed stilled forever beating in tumultuous waves. When the business of the day wasover he sat down in the silence of his chamber and turned his eyesinward. He pushed aside intervening year after year, until thelong-ago past was, to his consciousness, almost as real as theliving present. What he saw moved him deeply. He grew restless, thenshowed disturbance of manner. There was an effort to turn away fromthe haunting fascination of this long-buried, but now exhumedperiod; but the dust and scoria were removed, and it lifted, likeanother Pompeii, its desolate walls and silent chambers in the clearnoon-rays of the present. 

After a long but fruitless effort to bury the past again, to let theyears close over it as the waves close over a treasure-laden ship, Mr. Emerson gave himself up to its thronging memories and let thembear him whither they would. 

In this state of mind he unlocked one of the drawers in a secretaryand 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 doubtwhether it were best for him to go further in this direction. Whether satisfied or not, he presently laid his fingers upon the lidof the casket and slowly opened it. It contained only a moroccocase. He touched this as if it were something precious and sacred. For some moments after it was removed he sat holding it in his handand looking at the dark, blank surface, as a long-expected letter issometimes held before the seal is broken and the contents devouredwith impatient eagerness. At last his finger pressed the spring onwhich it had been resting, and he looked upon a young, sweet face, whose eyes gazed back into his with a living tenderness. In a littlewhile his hand so trembled, and his eyes grew so dim, that the facewas veiled from his sight. Closing the miniature, but stillretaining it in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and remainedmotionless, with shut eyes, for a long time; then he looked at thefair young face again, conning over every feature and expression, until sad memories came in and veiled it again with tears. 

"Folly! weakness!" he said at last, pushing the picture from him andmaking a feeble effort to get back his manly self-possession. "Thepast is gone for ever. The page on which its sad history is writtenwas closed long ago, and the book is sealed. Why unclasp the volumeand 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 hislips. 

"Poor Irene!" he murmured, as he gazed on her pictured face. "Youhad a pure, tender, loving heart--" then, suddenly shutting theminiature, with a sharp click of the spring, he tossed it from himupon the table and said, "This is folly! folly! folly!" and, leaning back in his chair, heshut his eyes and sat for a long time with his brows sternly knittedtogether and his lips tightly compressed. Rising, at length, herestored the miniature to its casket, and the casket to its place inthe drawer. A servant came to the door at this moment, bringing thecompliments of a lady friend, who asked him, if not engaged, tofavor her with his company on that evening, as she had a visitor, just arrived, to whom she wished to introduce him. He liked thelady, who was the wife of a legal friend, very well; but he was notalways so well pleased with her lady friends, of whom she had alarge circle. The fact was, she considered him too fine a man to gothrough life companionless, and did not hesitate to use every art inher power to draw him into an entangling alliance. He saw this, andwas often more amused than annoyed by her finesse. 

It was on his lips to send word that he was engaged, but a regardfor truth would not let him make this excuse; so, after a littlehesitation and debate, he answered that he would present himselfduring the evening. The lady's visitor was a widow of about thirtyyears of age--rich, educated, accomplished and personallyattractive. She was from Boston, and connected with one of the mostdistinguished families in Massachusetts, whose line of ancestry ranback among the nobles of England. In conversation this lady showedherself to be rarely gifted, and there was a charm about her mannersthat was irresistible. Mr. Emerson, who had been steadily during thepast five years growing less and less attracted by the fine women hemet in society, found himself unusually interested in Mrs. Eager. 

"I knew you would like her, " said his lady friend, as Mr. Emersonwas about retiring at eleven o'clock. 

"You take your conclusion for granted, " he answered, smiling. "Did Isay that I liked her?"

"We ladies have eyes, " was the laughing rejoinder. "Of course youlike her. She's going to spend three or four days with me. You'lldrop in to-morrow evening. Now don't pretend that you have anengagement. Come; I want you to know her better. I think hercharming. "

Mr. Emerson did not promise positively, but said that he might lookin during the evening. 

For a new acquaintance, Mrs. Eager had attracted him strongly; andhis thoughtful friend was not disappointed in her expectation ofseeing him at her house on the succeeding night. Mrs. Eager, to whomthe lady she was visiting had spoken of Mr. Emerson in terms ofalmost extravagant eulogy, was exceedingly well pleased with him, and much gratified at meeting him again, A second interview gaveboth an opportunity for closer observation, and when they parted itwas with pleasant thoughts of each other lingering in their minds. During the time that Mrs. Eager remained in New York, which wasprolonged for a week beyond the period originally fixed, Mr. Emersonsaw her almost every day, and became her voluntary escort invisiting points of local interest. The more he saw of her the morehe was charmed with her character. She seemed in his eyes the mostattractive woman he had ever met. Still, there was something abouther that did not wholly satisfy him, though what it was did not comeinto perception. 

Five years had passed since any serious thought of marriage hadtroubled the mind of Mr. Emerson. After his meeting with Irene hehad felt that another union in this world was not for him--that hehad no right to exchange vows of eternal fidelity with any otherwoman. She had remained unwedded, and would so remain, he felt, tothe end of her life. The legal contract between them was dissolved;but, since his brief talk with the stranger on the boat, he had notfelt 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 himagainst all resistance. 

"Don't let this opportunity pass, " said his interested lady friend, as the day of Mrs. Eager's departure drew nigh. "She is a woman in athousand, and will make one of the best of wives. Think, too, of hersocial position, her wealth and her large cultivation. Anopportunity like this is never presented more than once in alifetime. "

"You speak, " replied Mr. Emerson, "as if I had only to say the wordand this fair prize would drop into my arms. "

"She will have to be wooed if she is won. Were this not the case shewould not be worth having, " said the lady. "But my word for it, ifyou turn wooer the winning will not be hard. If I have not erred inmy observation, you are about mutually interested. There now, mycautious sir, if you do not get handsomely provided for, it will beno 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 theSociety Library to-morrow. I heard her express a desire to examinethem before returning to Boston. Connoisseurs are in ecstasies overthree or four of the pictures, and, as Mrs. Eager is something of anenthusiast in matters of art, your favor in this will give her nolight pleasure. "

"I shall be most happy to attend her, " replied Mr. Emerson. "Giveher my compliments, and say that, if agreeable to herself, I willcall for her at twelve to-morrow. "

"No verbal compliments and messages, " replied the lady; "that isn'tjust the way. "

"How then? Must I call upon her and deliver my message? That mightnot be convenient to me nor agreeable to her. "

"Oh!" ejaculated the lady, with affected impatience, "you men are sostupid at times! You know how to write?"

"Ah! yes, I comprehend you now. "

"Very well. Send your compliments and your message in a note; andlet it be daintily worded; not in heavy phrases, like a legaldocument. "

"A very princess in feminine diplomacy!" said Mr. Emerson tohimself, as he turned from the lady and took his way homeward. "So Imust pen a note. "

Now this proved a more difficult matter than he had at firstthought. He sat down to the task immediately on returning to hisroom. On a small sheet of tinted note-paper he wrote a few words, 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; butstill, as he looked at the brief sentences, they seemed to expresstoo 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. Emerson had not yet retired. His thoughts were too busy for sleep. Many things were crowding intohis mind--questions, doubts, misgivings--scenes from the past andimaginations 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 pale, still face of Irene. 

Wearied in the conflict, tired nature at last gave way, and Mr. Emerson fell asleep in his chair. 

Two hours of deep slumber tranquilized his spirit. He awoke fromthis, put off his clothing and laid his head on his pillow. It waslate in the morning when he arose. He had no difficulty now inpenning a note to Mrs. Eager. It was the work of a moment, andsatisfactory to him in the first effort. 

At twelve he called with a carriage for the lady, whom he found allready to accompany him, and in the best possible state of mind. Hersmile, as he presented himself, was absolutely fascinating; and hervoice seemed like a freshly-tuned instrument, every tone was so richin 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 ortalking in hushed whispers. They moved about noiselessly here andthere, seeming scarcely conscious that others were present. Gradually the number increased, until within an hour after theyentered it was more than doubled. Still, the presence of art subduedall into silence or subdued utterances. 

Emerson was charmed with his companion's appreciative admiration ofmany pictures. She was familiar with art-terms and special points ofinterest, and pointed out beauties and harmonies that to him weredead letters without an interpreter. They came, at last, to a smallbut wonderfully effective picture, which contained a single figure, that of a man sitting by a table in a room which presented theappearance of a library. He held a letter in his hand--a old letter;the artist had made this plain--but was not reading. He had beenreading; but the words, proving conjurors, had summoned the deadpast before him, and he was now looking far away, with sad, dreamyeyes, into the long ago. A casket stood open. Time letter hadevidently been taken from this repository. There was a miniature; abracelet of auburn hair; a ring and a chain of gold lying on thetable. Mr. Emerson turned to the catalogue and 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 thepulseless air around him. Then, like an echo, there came to his earsan answering sigh, and, turning, he looked into the face of Irene!She had entered the rooms a little while before, and in passing frompicture to picture had reached this one a few moments after Mr. Emerson. She had not observed him, and was just beginning to feelits meaning, when the sigh that attested its power over him reachedher ears and awakened an answering sigh. For several moments theireyes were fixed in a gaze which neither had power to withdraw. Theface of Irene had grown thinner, paler and more shadowy--if we mayuse that term to express something not of the earth, earthy--than itwas when he looked upon it five years before. But her eyes weredarker in contrast with her colorless face, and had a deeper tone offeeling. 

They did not speak nor pass a sign of recognition. But the instanttheir eyes withdrew from each other Irene turned from the pictureand left the rooms. 

When Mr. Emerson looked back into the face of his companion, itscharm was gone. Beside that of the fading countenance, so still andnun-like, upon which he had gazed a moment before, it looked coarseand worldly. When she spoke, her tones no longer came in chords ofmusic 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 examinein such evident absent-mindedness that she became annoyed, andproposed returning home. Mr. Emerson made no objection, and theyleft the quiet picture-gallery for the turbulence of Broadway. Theride home was a silent one, and they separated in mutualembarrassment, Mr. Emerson going back to his rooms instead of to hisoffice, and sitting down in loneliness there, with a shudderingsense of thankfulness at his heart for the danger he had justescaped. 

"What a blind spell was on me!" he said, as he gazed away down intohis soul--far, far deeper than any tone or look from Mrs. Eager hadpenetrated--and saw needs, states and yearnings there which must befilled or there could be no completeness of life. And now the still, pale face of Irene stood out distinctly; and her deep, weird, yearning eyes looked into his with a fixed intentness that stirredhis heart to its profoundest depths. 

Mr. Emerson was absent from his office all that day. But on the nextmorning he was at his post, and it would have taken a close observerto have detected any change in his usually quiet face. But there wasa change in the man--a great change. He had gone down deeper intohis heart than he had ever gone before, and understood himselfbetter. There was little danger of his ever being tempted again inthis direction. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

EFFECTS OF THE STORM. 

_IT_ was more than a week before Mr. Emerson called again upon thelady friend who had shown so strong a desire to procure him a wife. He expected her to introduce the name of Mrs. Eager, and cameprepared to talk in a way that would for ever close the subject ofmarriage between them. The lady expressed surprise at not havingseen him for so long a time, and then introduced the subject nearesther thought. 

"What was the matter with you and Mrs. Eager?" she asked, her facegrowing serious. 

Mr. Emerson shook his head, and said, "Nothing, " with not a shadowof concern in his voice. 

"Nothing? Think again. I could hardly have been deceived. "

"Why do you ask? Did the lady charge anything ungallant against me?"

Mr. Emerson was unmoved. 

"Oh no, no! She scarcely mentioned your name after her return fromviewing the pictures. But she was not in so bright a humor as whenshe went out, and was dull up to the hour of her departure forBoston. I'm afraid you offended her in some way--unconsciously onyour part, of course. "

"No, I think not, " said Mr. Emerson. "She would be sensitive in theextreme if offended by any word or act of mine. "

"Well, letting that all pass, Mr. Emerson, what do you think of Mrs. Eager?"

"That she is an attractive and highly accomplished woman. "

"And the one who reaches your ideal of a wife?"

"No, ma'am, " was the unhesitating answer, and made in so emphatic atone that there was no mistaking his sincerity. There was a changein his countenance and manner. He looked unusually serious. 

The lady tried to rally him, but he had come in too sober a state ofmind for pleasant trifling on this subject, of all others. 

"My kind, good friend, " he said, "I owe you many thanks for theinterest you have taken in me, and for your efforts to get me acompanion. But I do not intend to marry. "

"So you have said--"

"Pardon me for interrupting you. " Mr. Emerson checked the lightspeech that was on her tongue. "I am going to say to you some thingsthat have never passed my lips before. You will understand me; thisI know, or I would not let a sentence come into utterance. And Iknow more, that you will not make light of what to me is sacred. "

The lady was sobered in a moment. 

"To make light of what to you is sacred would be impossible, " shereplied. 

"I believe it, and therefore I am going to speak of things that areto me the saddest of my life, and yet are coming to involve theholiest sentiments. I have more than one reason for desiring now tolet another look below the quiet surface; and I will lift the veilfor your eyes alone. You know that I was married nearly twenty yearsago, and that my wife separated herself from me in less than threeyears after our union; and you also know that the separation wasmade permanent by a divorce. This is all that you or any other oneknows, so far as I have made communication on the subject; and Ihave reason to believe that she who was my wife has been as reservedin the matter as myself. 

"The simple facts in the case are these: We were both young andundisciplined, both quick-tempered, self-willed, and very muchinclined to have things our own way. She was an only child, and sowas I. Each had been spoiled by long self-indulgence. So, when wecame together in marriage, the action of our lives, instead oftaking a common pulsation, was inharmonious. For a few years westrove together blindly in our bonds, and then broke madly asunder. I think we were about equally in fault; but if there was apreponderance of blame, it rested on my side, for, as a man, Ishould have kept a cooler head and shown greater forbearance. Butthe time for blame has long since passed. It is with the stern, irrevocable facts that we are dealing now. 

"So bitter had been our experience, and so painful the shock ofseparation, that I think a great many years must have passed beforerepentance came into either heart--before a feeling of regret thatwe had not held fast to our marriage vows was born. How it was withme you may infer from the fact that, after the lapse of two years, Ideliberately asked for and obtained a divorce on the ground ofdesertion. But doubt as to the propriety of this step stirreduneasily in my mind for the first time when I held the decree in myhand; and I have never felt wholly satisfied with myself since. There should be something deeper than incompatibility of temper towarrant a divorce. The parties should correct what is wrong inthemselves, and thus come into harmony. There is no excuse forpride, passion and self-will. The law of God does not make thesejustifiable causes of divorce, and neither should the law of man. Apurer woman than my wife never lived; and she had elements ofcharacter that promised a rare development. 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! But I was young, andblind, and willful!

"Fifteen years have passed since the day we parted, and each hasremained single. If we had not separated, we might now be living ina 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 ofour lives are put off, the elements of conjunction will appear. Wehave made for ourselves of this world a dreary waste, when, if wehad overcome the evil of our hearts, our paths would have beenthrough green and fragrant places. It may be happier for us in thenext; and it will be. I am a better man, I think, for the disciplinethrough 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 eachtime we met, and looked into each other's eyes for a single instant;then, as if a curtain had dropped suddenly between us, we wereseparated. But the impression of her face remained as vivid andpermanent as a sun-picture. She lives, for most of her time, secluded at Ivy Cliff, her home on the Hudson; and her life ispassed there, I hear, in doing good. And, if good deeds, from rightends, write their history on the human face, then her countenancebears the record of tenderest charities. It was pale when I last sawit--pale, but spiritual--I can use no other word; and I felt asudden panic at the thought that she was growing into a life so pureand heavenly that I must stand afar off as unworthy. It hadsometimes come into my thought that we were approaching each other, as both put off, more and more, the evil which had driven us apartand held us so long asunder. But this illusion our last briefmeeting dispelled. She has passed me on the road of self-disciplineand self-abnegation, and is journeying far ahead. And now I can butfollow through life at a distance. 

"So much, and no more, my friend. I drop the veil over my heart. Youwill understand me better hereafter. I shall not marry. That legaldivorce is invalid. I could not perjure my soul by vows of fidelitytoward another. Patiently and earnestly will I do my allotted workhere. My better hopes lie all in the heavenly future. 

"And now, my friend, we will understand each other better. You havelooked deeper into my thoughts and experiences than any other humanbeing. Let the revelation be sacred to yourself. The knowledge youpossess may enable you to do me justice sometimes, and sometimes tosave me from an intrusion of themes that cannot but touch meunpleasantly. There was a charm about Mrs. Eager that, striking mesuddenly, for a little while bewildered my fancy. She is a woman ofrare endowments, and I do not regret the introduction and passinginfluence she exercised over me. It was a dream from which theawakening was certain. Suddenly the illusion vanished, as I saw herbeside my lost Irene. The one was of the earth, earthy--the otherof heaven, heavenly; and as I looked back into her brilliant face, radiant with thought and feeling, I felt a low, creeping shudder, asif just freed from the spell of a siren. I cannot be enthralledagain, even for a moment. "

Back again into his world's work Mr. Emerson returned after thisbrief, exciting episode, and found in its performance from high andhonorable motives that calmly sustaining power which comes only asthe reward of duties faithfully done. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

_AFTER_ the storm! How long the treasure remained buried in deepwaters! How long the earth showed unsightly furrows and barrenplaces! For nearly twenty years there had been warm sunshine, and nofailure of the dews nor the early and latter rain. But grass had notgrown nor flowers blossomed in the path of that desolating tempest. Nearly twenty years! If the history of these two lives during thatlong period could be faithfully written, it would flood the soulwith tears. 

Four years later than the time when we last presented Irene to thereader we introduce her again. That meeting in the picture-galleryhad disturbed profoundly the quiet pulses of her life. She did notobserve Mr. Emerson's companion. The picture alone had attracted herattention; and she had just began to feel its meaning when anaudible sigh reached her ears. The answering sigh was involuntary. Then they looked into each other's faces again--only for aninstant--but with what a volume of mutual revelations!

It was four years subsequent to this time that Irene, after a briefvisit in New York to her friend, Mrs. Everet, returned to her ruralhome. Mrs. Everet was to follow on the next day, and spend a fewweeks with her father. It was yet in the early summer, and therewere not many passengers on the-boat. As was usual, Irene providedherself with a volume, and soon after going on board took a retiredplace in one of the cabins and buried herself in its pages. For overthree hours she remained completely absorbed in what she wasreading. Then her mind began to wander and dwell on themes that madethe even pulses of her heart beat to a quicker measure; yet stillher eyes remained fixed on the book she held in her hand. At lengthshe became aware that some one was near her, by the falling of ashadow on the page she was trying to read. Lifting her head, she metthe eyes of Hartley Emerson. He was standing close to her, his handresting on the back of a chair, which he now drew nearly in front ofher. 

"Irene, " he said, in a low, quiet voice, "I am glad to meet youagain 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 eyesfrom Mr. Emerson's face; then she extended her hand and let it liein his. He did not fail to notice that it had a low tremor. 

Thus received, he sat down. 

"Nearly twenty years have passed, Irene, since a word or sign haspassed between us. "

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 theother. "

His voice was still event in tone--very even, but very distinct andimpressive. 

At first Irene's face had grown pale, but now a warm flush waspervading it. 

"If you desire it, Hartley, " she answered, in a voice that trembledin the beginning, but grew firm ere the sentence closed, "it is notfor me to say, 'No. ' As for kind feelings, they are yoursalways--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 voiceshowed signs of weakness. 

"Yes, it is a long time. " It was a mere echo of his words, yet fullof meaning. 

"Twenty years!" he repeated. "There has been full time forreflection, and, it may be, for repentance. Time for growing wiserand better. "

Irene's eyelids drooped until the long lashes lay in a dark fringedline on her pale cheeks. When she lifted them they were wet. 

"Yes, Hartley, " she answered with much feeling, "there has been, indeed, time for reflection and repentance. It is no light thing toshadow the whole life of a human being. "

"As I have shadowed yours. "

"No, no, " she answered quickly, "I did not mean that; as I haveshadowed yours. "

She could not veil the tender interest that was in her eyes; wouldnot, perhaps, if it had been in her power. 

At this moment a bell rang out clear and loud. Irene started andglanced from the window; then, rising quickly, she said--

"We are at the landing. "

There was a hurried passage from cabin to deck, a troubled confusionof thought, a brief period of waiting, and then Irene stood on theshore and Hartley Emerson on the receding vessel. In a few hoursmiles of space lay between them. 

"Irene, darling, " said Mrs. Everet, as they met at Ivy Cliff on thenext day, "how charming you look! This pure, sweet, bracing air hasbeautified you like a cosmetic. Your cheeks are warm and your eyesare full of light. It gives me gladness of heart to see in your facesomething 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 tellyou, " she answered, "that will make your heart beat quicker, as ithas mine. "

"I have met him, " she said, as they sat down and looked again intoeach 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; almost felt his heart beat against mine. Oh, Rose darling, it has sent the blood bounding in new life through myveins. He was on the boat yesterday, and came to me as I satreading. We talked together for a few minutes, when our landing wasreached, and we parted. But in those few minutes my poor heart hadmore happiness than it has known for twenty years. We are at peace. He asked why we might not be as friends who could meet now and then, and feel kindly 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 andweeping from excess of joy. 

"What a pure, true, manly face he has!" she continued, looking upwith swimming eyes. "How full it is of thought and feeling! Youcalled him my husband just now, Rose. My husband!" The light wentback from her face. "Not for time, but--" and she glanced upward, with eyes full of hope--"for the everlasting ages! Oh is it not agreat gain to have met here in forgiveness of the past--to havelooked kindly into each other's faces--to have spoken words thatcannot die?"

What could Rose say to all this? Irene had carried her out of herdepth. The even tenor of her life-experiences gave no deep sea-linethat could sound these waters. And so she sat silent, bewildered andhalf afraid. 

Margaret came to the library, and, opening the door, looked in. There was a surprised expression on her face. 

"What is 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 asif he might be--"

She paused again. 

"Well?"

"I can't say it, Miss Irene, no how, and I won't. But the gentlemanasked for you. What shall I tell him?"

"That I will see him in a moment, " answered Irene. 

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. 

It was as Irene had supposed. On entering the parlor, a gentlemanadvanced to meet her, and she stood face to face with HartleyEmerson!

"Irene, " he said, extending his hand. 

"Hartley, " fell in an irrepressible throb from her lips as she puther hand in his. 

"I could not return to New York without seeing 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 tosay were left unspoken. "

He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, still looking intentlyin her face. Irene was far from being as calm as when they sattogether the day before. A world of new hopes had sprung up in herheart since then. She had lain half asleep and half awake nearly allnight, in a kind of delicious dream, from which the morning awokeher with a cold chill of reality. She had dreamed again since thesun had risen; and now the dream was changing into the actual. 

"Have I done wrong in this, Irene?" he asked. 

And she answered, "No, it is a pleasure to meet you, Hartley. "

She had passed through years of self-discipline, and the poweracquired during this time came to her aid. And so she was able toanswer with womanly dignity. It was a pleasure to meet him there, and she said so. 

"There are some things in the past, Irene, " said Mr. Emerson, "ofwhich I must speak, now that I can do so. There are confessions thatI 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, " shereplied. "A bitter stream does not flow from a sweet fountain. Thatdead, dark, hopeless past! Let it sleep if it will!"

"And what, then, of the future?" asked Mr. Emerson. 

"Of the future!" The question startled her. She looked at him with aglance of eager inquiry. 

"Yes, of the future, Irene. Shall it be as the past? or have we bothcome up purified from the fire? Has it consumed the dross, and leftonly the fine gold? I can believe it in your case, and hope that itis so in mine. But this I do know, Irene: after suffering and trialhave done their work of abrasion, and I get down to the pure metalof my heart, I find that your image is fixed there in theimperishable substance. I did not hope to meet you again in thisworld as now--to look into your face, to hold your hand, to listento your voice as I have done this day--but I have felt that God wasfitting us through earthly trial, for a heavenly union. We shall beone hereafter, dear Irene--one and for ever!"

The strong man broke down. His voice fell into low sobs--tearsblinded 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! Thatwere impossible. 

"My husband!" she said, tenderly and reverently, as she placed hersaintly lips on his forehead. 

There was a touching ceremonial at Ivy Cliff on the next day--onenever to be forgotten by the few who were witnesses. A white-hairedminister--the same who, more than twenty years before, had said toHartley Emerson and Irene Delancy, "May your lives flow togetherlike two pure streams that meet in the same valley, "--again joinedtheir hands and called them "husband and wife. " The long, dreary, tempestuous night had passed away, and the morning arisen inbrightness and beauty. 

THE END.