After the Storm

On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, no word having come

from his wife, Emerson coolly penned the letter to Mr. Delancy which

is given in the preceding chapter, and mailed it so that it would

reach him on Christmas day. He was in earnest--sternly in

earnest--as Mr. Delancy, on reading his letter, felt him to be. The

honeymoon flight was one thing; this abandonment of a husband's

home, another thing. Emerson gave to them a different weight and

quality. Of the first act he could never think without a burning

cheek--a sense of mortification--a pang of wounded pride; and long

ere this he had made up his mind that if Irene ever left him again,

it would be for ever, so far as perpetuity depended on his action in

the case. He would never follow her nor seek to win her back.

Yes, he was in earnest. He had made his mind up for the worst, and

was acting with a desperate coolness only faintly imagined by Irene

on receipt of his letter to her father. Mr. Delancy, who understood

Emerson's character better, was not deceived. He took the

communication in its literal meaning, and felt appalled at the ruin

which impended.

Emerson passed the whole of Christmas day alone in his house. At

meal-times he went to the table and forced himself to partake

lightly of food, in order to blind the servants, whose curiosity in

regard to the absence of Mrs. Emerson was, of course, all on the

alert. After taking tea he went out.

His purpose was to call upon a friend in whom he had great

confidence, and confide to him the unhappy state of his affairs. For

an hour he walked the streets in debate on the propriety of this

course. Unable, however, to see the matter clearly, he returned home

with the secret of his domestic trouble still locked in his own

bosom.

It was past eight o'clock when he entered his dwelling. A light was

burning in one of the parlors, and he stepped into the room. After

walking for two or three times the length of the apartment, Mr.

Emerson threw himself on a sofa, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he

did so. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the

rustling of a woman's garments, which caused him to start again to

his feet. In moving his eyes met the form of Irene, who advanced

toward him, and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbed, "Dear husband! can you, will you forgive my childish folly?"

His first impulse was to push her away, and he, even grasped her

arms and attempted to draw them from his neck. She perceived this,

and clung to him more eagerly.

"Dear Hartley!" she said, "will you not speak to me ?"