So Emerson talked with himself and resolved. But who does not know

the feebleness of resolution when opposed to temperament and

confirmed habits of mind? How weak is mere human strength! Alas! how

few, depending on that alone, are ever able to bear up steadily, for

any length of time, against the tide of passion!

Off his guard in less than twenty-four hours after resolving thus

with himself, the young husband spoke in captious disapproval of

something which Irene had done or proposed to do, and the

consequence was the assumption on her part of a cold, reserved and

dignified manner, which hurt and annoyed him beyond measure. Pride

led him to treat her in the same way; and so for days they met in

silence or formal courtesy, all the while suffering a degree of

wretchedness almost impossible to be endured, and all the while,

which was worst of all, writing on their hearts bitter things

against each other.

To Emerson, as before, the better state first returned, and the

sunshine of his countenance drove the shadows from hers. Then for a

season they were loving, thoughtful, forbearing and happy. But the

clouds came back again, and storms marred the beauty of their lives.

All this was sad--very sad. There were good and noble qualities in

the hearts of both. They were not narrow-minded and selfish, like so

many of your placid, accommodating, calculating people, but generous

in their feelings and broad in their sympathies. They had ideals of

life that went reaching out far beyond themselves. Yes, it was sad

to see two such hearts beating against and bruising each other,

instead of taking the same pulsation. But there seemed to be no help

for them. Irene's jealous guardianship of her freedom, her quick

temper, pride and self-will made the position of her husband so

difficult that it was almost impossible for him to avoid giving

offence.

The summer and fall passed away without any serious rupture between

the sensitive couple, although there had been seasons of great

unhappiness to both. Irene had been up to Ivy Cliff many times to

visit her father, and now she was, beginning to urge his removal to

the city for the winter; but Mr. Delancy, who had never given his

full promise to this arrangement, felt less and less inclined to

leave his old home as the season advanced. Almost from boyhood he

had lived there, and his habits were formed for rural instead of

city life.

He pictured the close streets, with their rows of houses, that left

for the eye only narrow patches of ethereal blue, and contrasted

this with the broad winter landscape, which for him had always

spread itself out with a beauty rivaled by no other season, and his

heart failed him.

The brief December days were on them, and Irene grew more urgent.




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