After the Storm

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.