After the Storm

Mr. Delancy was sitting in his library on the afternoon of the

fourth day since the wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the entrance

of some one caused him to turn toward the door.

"Irene!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and alarm, as he started

to his feet; for his daughter stood before him. Her face was pale,

her eyes fixed and sad, her dress in disorder.

"Irene, in Heaven's name, what has happened?"

"The worst," she answered, in a low, hoarse voice, not moving from

the spot where she first stood still.

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

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

reply.

"Oh, folly! oh, madness! What evil counselor has prevailed with you,

my unhappy child?" said Mr. Delancy, in a voice of anguish.

"I have counseled with no one but myself."

"Never a wise counselor--never a wise counselor! But why, why have

you taken this desperate step?"

"In self-protection," replied Irene.

"Sit down, my child. There!" and he led her to a seat. "Now let me

remove your bonnet and shawl. How wretched you look, poor, misguided

one! I could have laid you in the grave with less agony than I feel

in seeing you thus."

Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell over her face. In the

selfishness of her own sternly-borne trouble, she had forgotten the

sorrow she was bringing to her father's heart.

"Poor child! poor child!" sobbed the old man, as he sat down beside

Irene and drew her head against his breast. And so both wept

together for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. Delancy said-"Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, the meaning of this

step which you have so hastily taken. Let me have the beginning,

progress and consummation of the sad misunderstanding."

While yet under the government of blind passion, ere her husband

returned from the drive which Irene had refused to take with him,

she had, acting from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, left

her room and, taking the cars, passed down to Albany, where she

remained until morning at one of the hotels. In silence and

loneliness she had, during the almost sleepless night that followed,

ample time for reflection and repentance. And both came, with

convictions of error and deep regret for the unwise, almost

disgraceful step she had taken, involving not only suffering, but

humiliating exposure of herself and husband. But it was felt to be

too late now to look back. Pride would have laid upon her a positive

interdiction, if other considerations had not come in to push the

question of return aside.

In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene left in the New

York boat, and passed down the river toward the home from which she

had gone forth, only a few days before, a happy bride--returning

with the cup, then full of the sweet wine of life, now brimming with

the bitterest potion that had ever touched her lips.