Their meeting, on Hartley's return home, at his usual late hour in
the afternoon, was tender, but not full of the joyous warmth of
feeling that often showed itself. Their hearts were not light enough
for 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 of
painful antagonism left on each mind a feeling of embarrassment,
checked words and sentences ere they came to utterance, and threw
amid their pleasant talks many intermittent pauses.
Often through the day had Mr. Emerson, as he dwelt on the unhappy
relation existing between himself and his wife, made up his mind to
renew the subject of their true position to each other, as briefly
touched upon in their meeting of the night before, and as often
changed his purpose, in fear of another rupture. Yet to him it
seemed of the first importance that this matter, as a basis of
future 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, fierce
antagonism might occur at any moment. He had come home inclined to
the affirmative side of the question, and many times during the
evening it was on his lips to introduce the subject. But he was so
sure that it would prove a theme of sharp discussion, that he had
not the courage to risk the consequences.
There was peace again after this conflict, but it was not, by any
means, a hopeful peace. It had no well-considered basis. The causes
which had produced a struggle were still in existence, and liable to
become active, by provocation, at any moment. No change had taken
place in the characters, dispositions, temperaments or general views
of life in either of the parties. Strife had ceased between them
only in consequence of the pain it involved. A deep conviction of
this fact so sobered the mind of Mr. Emerson, and altered, in
consequence, his manner toward Irene, that she felt its reserve and
coldness as a rebuke that chilled the warmth of her tender impulses.
And this manner did not greatly change as the days and weeks moved
onward. Memory kept too vividly in the mind of Emerson that one act,
and the danger of its repetition on some sudden provocation. He
could not feel safe and at ease with his temple of peace built close
to a slumbering volcano, which was liable at any moment to blaze
forth and bury its fair proportions in lava and ashes.