After the Storm

"I cannot hear one to whom I am warmly attached thus assailed. You

must not speak in that style of my friends, Hartley Emerson!"

"Your friends!" There was a look of intense scorn on his face.

"Precious friends, if she represent them, truly! Major Willard is

another, mayhap?"

The face of Irene turned deadly pale at the mention of this name.

"Ha!"

Emerson bent eagerly toward his wife.

"And is that true, also?"

"What? Speak out, sir!" Irene caught her breath, and grasped the

rein of self-control which had dropped, a moment, from her hands.

"It is said that Major Willard bears you company, at times, in your

rides home from evening calls upon your precious friends."

"And you believe the story?"

"I didn't believe it," said Hartley, but in a tone that showed

doubt.

"But have changed your mind?"

"If you say it is not true--that Major Willard never entered your

carriage--I will take your word in opposition to the whole world's

adverse testimony."

But Irene could not answer. Major Willard, as the reader knows, had

ridden with her at night, and alone. But once, and only once. A few

times since then she had encountered, but never deigned to

recognize, him. In her pure heart the man was held in utter

detestation.

Now was the time for a full explanation; but pride was

aroused--strong, stubborn pride. She knew herself to stand triple

mailed in innocency--to be free from weakness or taint; and the

thought that a mean, base suspicion had entered the mind of her

husband aroused her indignation and put a seal upon her lips as to

all explanatory utterances.

"Then I am to believe the worst?" said Hartley, seeing that his wife

did not answer. "The worst, and of you!"

The tone in which this was said, as well as the words themselves,

sent a strong throb to the heart of Irene. "The worst, and of you!"

This from her husband! and involving far more in tone and manner

than in uttered language. "Then I am to believe the worst!" She

turned the sentences over in her mind. Pride, wounded self-love, a

smothered sense of indignation, blind anger, began to gather their

gloomy forces in her mind. "The worst, and of you!" How the echoes

of these words came back in constant repetition! "The worst, and of

you!"

"How often has Major Willard ridden with you at night?" asked

Hartley, in a cold, resolute way.

No answer.

"And did you always come directly home?"

Hartley Emerson was looking steadily into the face of his wife, from

which he saw the color fall away until it became of an ashen hue.

"You do not care to answer. Well, silence is significative," said

the husband, closing his lips firmly. There was a blending of anger,

perplexity, pain, sorrow and scorn in his face, all of which Irene

read distinctly as she fixed her eyes steadily upon him. He tried to

gaze back until her eyes should sink beneath his steady look, but

the effort was lost; for not a single instant did they waver.