After the Storm

Mr. Delancy sighed over the passage. He had not set his heart on

this arrangement. It might have been a pleasant thing for him to

anticipate; but there was not the hopeful basis for anticipation

which a mind like his required.

Not love alone prompted Mr. Delancy to make an early visit to New

York; a feeling of anxiety to know how it really was with the young

couple acted quite as strongly in the line of incentive. And so he

went down to the city and passed nearly a week there. Both Irene and

her husband knew that he was observing them closely all the while,

and a consciousness of this put them under some constraint.

Everything passed harmoniously, and Mr. Delancy returned with the

half-hopeful, half-doubting words on his lips, so often and often

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

But it was not coming out altogether right. Even while the old man

was under her roof, Irene had a brief season of self-willed reaction

against her husband, consequent on some unguarded word or act, which

she felt to be a trespass on her freedom. To save appearances while

Mr. Delancy was with them, Hartley yielded and tendered

conciliation, all the while that his spirit chafed sorely.

The departure of Mr. Delancy for Ivy Cliff was the signal for both

Irene and her husband to lay aside a portion of the restraint which

each had borne with a certain restlessness that longed for a time of

freedom. On the very day that he left Irene showed so much that

seemed to her husband like perverseness of will that he was

seriously offended, and spoke an unguarded word that was as fire to

stubble--a word that was repented of as soon as spoken, but which

pride would not permit him to recall. It took nearly a week of

suffering to discipline the mind of Mr. Emerson to the point of

conciliation. On the part of Irene there was not the thought of

yielding. Her will, supported by pride, was as rigid as iron. Reason

had no power over her. She felt, rather than thought.

Thus far, both as lover and husband, in all their alienations,

Hartley had been the first to yield; and it was so now. He was

strong-willed and persistent; but cooler reason helped him back into

the right way, and he had, thus far, found it quicker than Irene.

Not that he suffered less or repented sooner. Irene's suffering was

far deeper, but she was blinder and more self-determined.

Again the sun of peace smiled down upon them, but, as before, on

something shorn of its strength or beauty.

"I will be more guarded," said Hartley to himself. "Knowing her

weakness, why should I not protect her against everything that

wounds her sensitive nature? Love concedes, is long suffering and

full of patience. I love Irene--words cannot tell how deeply. Then

why should I not, for her sake, bear and forbear? Why should I think

of myself and grow fretted because she does not yield as readily as

I could desire to my wishes?"