After the Storm

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Edited by Charles Aldarando (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

AFTER THE STORM.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1868

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.
CHAPTER II. THE LOVERS.
CHAPTER III. THE CLOUD AND THE SIGN.
CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE CLOUD.
CHAPTER V. THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.
CHAPTER VI. AFTER THE STORM.
CHAPTER VII. THE LETTER.
CHAPTER VIII. THE FLIGHT AND THE RETURN.
CHAPTER IX. THE RECONCILIATION.
CHAPTER X. AFTER THE STORM.
CHAPTER XI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
CHAPTER XII. IN BONDS.
CHAPTER XIII. THE REFORMERS.
CHAPTER XIV. A STARTLING EXPERIENCE.
CHAPTER XV. CAPTIVATED AGAIN.
CHAPTER XVI. WEARY OF CONSTRAINT.
CHAPTER XVII. GONE FOR EVER!
CHAPTER XVIII. YOUNG, BUT WISE.
CHAPTER XIX. THE SHIPWRECKED LIFE.
CHAPTER XX. THE PALSIED HEART.
CHAPTER XXI. THE IRREVOCABLE DECREE.
CHAPTER XXII. STRUCK DOWN.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE HAUNTED VISION.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE MINISTERING ANGEL.
CHAPTER XXV. BORN FOR EACH OTHER.
CHAPTER XXVI. LOVE NEVER DIES.
CHAPTER XXVII. EFFECTS OF THE STORM.
CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER THE STORM.

AFTER THE STORM.

CHAPTER I.

THE WAR OF THE ELEMENTS.

_NO_ June day ever opened with a fairer promise. Not a single cloud
flecked the sky, and the sun coursed onward through the azure sea
until past meridian, without throwing to the earth a single shadow.
Then, low in the west, appeared something obscure and hazy, blending
the hill-tops with the horizon; an hour later, and three or four
small fleecy islands were seen, clearly outlined in the airy ocean,
and slowly ascending--avant-couriers of a coming storm. Following
these were mountain peaks, snow-capped and craggy, with desolate
valleys between. Then, over all this arctic panorama, fell a sudden
shadow. The white tops of the cloudy hills lost their clear,
gleaming outlines and their slumbrous stillness. The atmosphere was
in motion, and a white scud began to drive across the heavy, dark
masses of clouds that lay far back against the sky in mountain-like
repose.

How grandly now began the onward march of the tempest, which had
already invaded the sun's domain and shrouded his face in the smoke
of approaching battle. Dark and heavy it lay along more than half
the visible horizon, while its crown invaded the zenith.

As yet, all was silence and portentous gloom. Nature seemed to pause
and hold her breath in dread anticipation. Then came a muffled,
jarring sound, as of far distant artillery, which died away into an
oppressive stillness. Suddenly from zenith to horizon the cloud was
cut by a fiery stroke, an instant visible. Following this, a heavy
thunder-peal shook the solid earth, and rattled in booming echoes
along the hillsides and amid the cloudy caverns above.

At last the storm came down on the wind's strong pinions, swooping
fiercely to the earth, like an eagle to its prey. For one wild hour
it raged as if the angel of destruction were abroad.

At the window of a house standing picturesquely among the Hudson
Highlands, and looking down upon the river, stood a maiden and her
lover, gazing upon this wild war among the elements. Fear had
pressed her closely to his side, and he had drawn an arm around her
in assurance of safety.

Suddenly the maiden clasped her hands over her face, cried out and
shuddered. The lightning had shivered a tree upon which her gaze was
fixed, rending it as she could have rent a willow wand.

"God is in the storm," said the lover, bending to her ear. He spoke
reverently and in a voice that had in it no tremor of fear.

The maiden withdrew her hands from before her shut eyes, and looking
up into his face, answered in a voice which she strove to make
steady:

"Thank you, Hartley, for the words. Yes, God is present in the
storm, as in the sunshine."

"Look!" exclaimed the young man, suddenly, pointing to the river. A
boat had just come in sight. It contained a man and a woman. The
former was striving with a pair of oars to keep the boat right in
the eye of the wind; but while the maiden and her lover still gazed
at them, a wild gust swept down upon the water and drove their frail
bark under. There was no hope in their case; the floods had
swallowed them, and would not give up their living prey.

A moment afterward, and an elm, whose great arms had for nearly a
century spread themselves out in the sunshine tranquilly or battled
with the storms, fell crashing against the house, shaking it to the
very foundations.

The maiden drew back from the window, overcome with terror. These
shocks were too much for her nerves. But her lover restrained her,
saying, with a covert chiding in his voice,

"Stay, Irene! There is a wild delight in all this, and are you not
brave enough to share it with me?"

But she struggled to release herself from his arm, replying with a
shade of impatience--

"Let me go, Hartley! Let me go!"

The flexed arm was instantly relaxed, and the maiden was free. She
went back, hastily, from the window, and, sitting down on a sofa,
buried her face in her hands. The young man did not follow her, but
remained standing by the window, gazing out upon Nature in her
strong convulsion. It may, however, be doubted whether his mind took
note of the wild images that were pictured in his eyes. A cloud was
in the horizon of his mind, dimming its heavenly azure. And the
maiden's sky was shadowed also.

For two or three minutes the young man stood by the window, looking
out at the writhing trees and the rain pouring down an avalanche of
water, and then, with a movement that indicated a struggle and a
conquest, turned and walked toward the sofa on which the maiden
still sat with her face hidden from view. Sitting down beside her,
he took her hand. It lay passive in his. He pressed it gently; but
she gave back no returning pressure. There came a sharp, quick gleam
of lightning, followed by a crash that jarred the house. But Irene
did not start--we may question whether she even saw the one or heard
the other, except as something remote.

"Irene!"

She did not stir.

The young man leaned closer, and said, in a tender voice--

"Irene--darling--"

Her hand moved in his--just moved--but did not return the pressure
of his own.

"Irene." And now his arm stole around her. She yielded, and,
turning, laid her head upon his shoulder.

There had been a little storm in the maiden's heart, consequent upon
the slight restraint ventured on by her lover when she drew back
from the window; and it was only now subsiding.

"I did not mean to offend you," said the young man, penitently.

"Who said that I was offended?" She looked up, with a smile that
only half obliterated the shadow. "I was frightened, Hartley. It is
a fearful storm!" And she glanced toward the window.

The lover accepted this affirmation, though he knew better in his
heart. He knew that his slight attempt at constraint had chafed her
naturally impatient spirit, and that it had taken her some time to
regain her lost self-control.

Without, the wild rush of winds was subsiding, the lightning gleamed
out less frequently, and the thunder rolled at a farther distance.
Then came that deep stillness of nature which follows in the wake of
the tempest, and in its hush the lovers stood again at the window,
looking out upon the wrecks that were strewn in its path. They were
silent, for on both hearts was a shadow, which had not rested there
when they first stood by the window, although the sky was then more
deeply veiled. So slight was the cause on which these shadows
depended that memory scarcely retained its impression. He was
tender, and she was yielding; and each tried to atone by loving acts
for a moment of willfulness.

The sun went down while yet the skirts of the storm were spread over
the western sky, and without a single glance at the ruins which
lightning, wind and rain had scattered over the earth's fair
surface. But he arose gloriously in the coming morning, and went
upward in his strength, consuming the vapors at a breath, and
drinking up every bright dewdrop that welcomed him with a quiver of
joy. The branches shook themselves in the gentle breezes his
presence had called forth to dally amid their foliage and sport with
the flowers; and every green thing put on a fresher beauty in
delight at his return; while from the bosom of the trees--from
hedgerow and from meadow--went up the melody of birds.

In the brightness of this morning, the lovers went out to look at
the storm-wrecks that lay scattered around. Here a tree had been
twisted off where the tough wood measured by feet instead of inches;
there stood the white and shivered trunk of another sylvan lord,
blasted in an instant by a lightning stroke; and there lay, prone
upon the ground, giant limbs, which, but the day before, spread
themselves abroad in proud defiance of the storm. Vines were torn
from their fastenings; flower-beds destroyed; choice shrubbery,
tended with care for years, shorn of its beauty. Even the solid
earth had been invaded by floods of water, which ploughed deep
furrows along its surface. And, saddest of all, two human lives had
gone out while the mad tempest raged in uncontrollable fury.

As the lover and maiden stood looking at the signs of violence so
thickly scattered around, the former said, in a cheerful tone--

"For all his wild, desolating power, the tempest is vassal to the
sun and dew. He may spread his sad trophies around in brief, blind
rage; but they soon obliterate all traces of his path, and make
beautiful what he has scarred with wounds or disfigured by the tramp
of his iron heel."

"Not so, my children," said the calm voice of the maiden's father,
to whose ears the remark had come. "Not so, my children. The sun and
dew never fully restore what the storm has broken and trampled upon.
They may hide disfiguring marks, and cover with new forms of life
and beauty the ruins which time can never restore. This is
something, and we may take the blessing thankfully, and try to
forget what is lost, or so changed as to be no longer desirable.
Look at this fallen and shattered elm, my children. Is there any
hope for that in the dew, the rain and sunshine? Can these build it
up again, and spread out its arms as of old, bringing back to me, as
it has done daily, the image of my early years? No, my children.
After every storm are ruins which can never be repaired. Is it not
so with that lightning-stricken oak? And what art can restore to its
exquisite loveliness this statue of Hope, thrown down by the
ruthless hand of the unsparing tempest? Moreover, is there human
vitality in the sunshine and fructifying dew? Can they put life into
the dead?

"No--no--my children. And take the lesson to heart. Outward tempests
but typify and represent the fiercer tempests that too often
desolate the human soul. In either case something is lost that can
never be restored. Beware, then, of storms, for wreck and ruin
follow as surely as the passions rage."

CHAPTER II.

THE LOVERS.

_IRENE DELANCY_ was a girl of quick, strong feelings, and an
undisciplined will. Her mother died before she reached her tenth
year. From that time she was either at home under the care of
domestics, or within the scarcely more favorable surroundings of a
boarding-school. She grew up beautiful and accomplished, but
capricious and with a natural impatience of control, that unwise
reactions on the part of those who attempted to govern her in no
degree tempered.

Hartley Emerson, as a boy, was self-willed and passionate, but
possessed many fine qualities. A weak mother yielded to his resolute
struggles to have his own way, and so he acquired, at an early age,
control over his own movements. He went to college, studied hard,
because he was ambitious, and graduated with honor. Law he chose as
a profession; and, in order to secure the highest advantages,
entered the office of a distinguished attorney in the city of New
York, and gave to its study the best efforts of a clear, acute and
logical mind. Self-reliant, proud, and in the habit of reaching his
ends by the nearest ways, he took his place at the bar with a
promise of success rarely exceeded. From his widowed mother, who
died before he reached his majority, Hartley Emerson inherited a
moderate fortune with which to begin the world. Few young men
started forward on their life-journey with so small a number of
vices, or with so spotless a moral character. The fine intellectual
cast of his mind, and his devotion to study, lifted him above the
baser allurements of sense and kept his garments pure.

Such were Irene Delancy and Hartley Emerson--lovers and betrothed at
the time we present them to our readers. They met, two years before,
at Saratoga, and drew together by a mutual attraction. She was the
first to whom his heart had bowed in homage; and until she looked
upon him her pulse had never beat quicker at sight of a manly form.

Mr. Edmund Delancy, a gentleman of some wealth and advanced in
years, saw no reason to interpose objections. The family of Emerson
occupied a social position equal with his own; and the young man's
character and habits were blameless. So far, the course of love ran
smooth; and only three months intervened until the wedding-day.

The closer relation into which the minds of the lovers came after
their betrothal and the removal of a degree of deference and
self-constraint, gave opportunity for the real character of each to
show itself. Irene could not always repress her willfulness and
impatience of another's control; nor her lover hold a firm hand on
quick-springing anger when anything checked his purpose. Pride and
adhesiveness of character, under such conditions of mind, were
dangerous foes to peace; and both were proud and tenacious.

The little break in the harmonious flow of their lives, noticed as
occurring while the tempest raged, was one of many such incidents;
and it was in consequence of Mr. Delancy's observation of these
unpromising features in their intercourse that he spoke with so much
earnestness about the irreparable ruin that followed in the wake of
storms.

At least once a week Emerson left the city, and his books and cases,
to spend a day with Irene in her tasteful home; and sometimes he
lingered there for two or three days at a time. It happened, almost
invariably, that some harsh notes jarred in the music of their lives
during these pleasant seasons, and left on both their hearts a
feeling of oppression, or, worse, a brooding sense of injustice.
Then there grew up between them an affected opposition and
indifference, and a kind of half-sportive, half-earnest wrangling
about trifles, which too often grew serious.

Mr. Delancy saw this with a feeling of regret, and often interposed
to restore some broken links in the chain of harmony.

"You must be more conciliating, Irene," he would often say to his
daughter. "Hartley is earnest and impulsive, and you should yield to
him gracefully, even when you do not always see and feel as he does.
This constant opposition and standing on your dignity about trifles
is fretting both of you, and bodes evil in the future."

"Would you have me assent if he said black was white?" she answered
to her father's remonstrance one day, balancing her little head
firmly and setting her lips together in a resolute way.

"It might be wiser to say nothing than to utter dissent, if, in so
doing, both were made unhappy," returned her father.

"And so let him think me a passive fool?" she asked.

"No; a prudent girl, shaming his unreasonableness by her
self-control."

"I have read somewhere," said Irene, "that all men are self-willed
tyrants--the words do not apply to you, my father, and so there is
an exception to the rule." She smiled a tender smile as she looked
into the face of a parent who had ever been too indulgent. "But,
from my experience with a lover, I can well believe the sentiment
based in truth. Hartley must have me think just as he thinks, and do
what he wants me to do, or he gets ruffled. Now I don't expect, when
I am married, to sink into a mere nobody--to be my husband's echo
and shadow; and the quicker I can make Hartley comprehend this the
better will it be for both of us. A few rufflings of his feathers
now will teach him how to keep them smooth and glossy in the time to
come."

"You are in error, my child," replied Mr. Delancy, speaking very
seriously. "Between those who love a cloud should never interpose;
and I pray you, Irene, as you value your peace and that of the man
who is about to become your husband, to be wise in the very
beginning, and dissolve with a smile of affection every vapor that
threatens a coming storm. Keep the sky always bright."

"I will do everything that I can, father, to keep the sky of our
lives always bright, except give up my own freedom of thought and
independence of action. A wife should not sink her individuality in
that of her husband, any more than a husband should sink his
individuality in that of his wife. They are two equals, and should
be content to remain equals. There is no love in subordination."

Mr. Delancy sighed deeply: "Is argument of any avail here? Can words
stir conviction in her mind?" He was silent for a time, and then
said--

"Better, Irene, that you stop where you are, and go through life
alone, than venture upon marriage, in your state of feeling, with a
man like Hartley Emerson."

"Dear father, you are altogether too serious!" exclaimed the
warm-hearted girl, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him.
"Hartley and I love each other too well to be made very unhappy by
any little jar that takes place in the first reciprocal movement of
our lives. We shall soon come to understand each other, and then the
harmonies will be restored."

"The harmonies should never be lost, my child," returned Mr.
Delancy. "In that lies the danger. When the enemy gets into the
citadel, who can say that he will ever be dislodged? There is no
safety but in keeping him out."

"Still too serious, father," said Irene. "There is no danger to be
feared from any formidable enemy. All these are very little things."

"It is the little foxes that spoil the tender grapes, my daughter,"
Mr. Delancy replied; "and if the tender grapes are spoiled, what
hope is there in the time of vintage? Alas for us if in the later
years the wine of life shall fail!"

There was so sad a tone in her father's voice, and so sad an
expression on his face, that Irene was touched with a new feeling
toward him. She again put her arms around his neck and kissed him
tenderly.

"Do not fear for us," she replied. "These are only little summer
showers, that make the earth greener and the flowers more beautiful.
The sky is of a more heavenly azure when they pass away, and the sun
shines more gloriously than before."

But the father could not be satisfied, and answered--

"Beware of even summer showers, my darling. I have known fearful
ravages to follow in their path--seen many a goodly tree go down.
After every storm, though the sky may be clearer, the earth upon
which it fell has suffered some loss which is a loss for ever.
Begin, then, by conciliation and forbearance. Look past the
external, which may seem at times too exacting or imperative, and
see only the true heart pulsing beneath--the true, brave heart, that
would give to every muscle the strength of steel for your protection
if danger threatened. Can you not be satisfied with knowing that you
are loved--deeply, truly, tenderly? What more can a woman ask? Can
you not wait until this love puts on its rightly-adjusted exterior,
as it assuredly will. It is yet mingled with self-love, and its
action modified by impulse and habit. Wait--wait--wait, my daughter.
Bear and forbear for a time, as you value peace on earth and
happiness in heaven."

"I will try, father, for your sake, to guard myself," she answered.

"No, no, Irene. Not for my sake, but for the sake of right,"
returned Mr. Delancy.

They were sitting in the vine-covered portico that looked down, over
a sloping lawn toward the river.

"There is Hartley now!" exclaimed Irene, as the form of her lover
came suddenly into view, moving forward along the road that
approached from the landing, and she sprung forward and went rapidly
down to meet him. There an ardent kiss, a twining of arms, warmly
spoken words and earnest gestures. Mr. Delancy looked at them as
they stood fondly together, and sighed. He could not help it, for he
knew there was trouble before them. After standing and talking for a
short time, they began moving toward the house, but paused at every
few paces--sometimes to admire a picturesque view--sometimes to
listen one to the other and respond to pleasant sentiments--and
sometimes in fond dispute. This was Mr. Delancy's reading of their
actions and gestures, as he sat looking at and observing them
closely.

A little way from the path by which they were advancing toward the
house was a rustic arbor, so placed as to command a fine sweep of
river from one line of view and West Point from another. Irene
paused and made a motion of her hand toward this arbor, as if she
wished to go there; but Hartley looked to the house and plainly
signified a wish to go there first. At this Irene pulled him gently
toward the arbor; he resisted, and she drew upon his arm more
resolutely, when, planting his feet firmly, he stood like a rock.
Still she urged and still he declined going in that direction. It
was play at first, but Mr. Delancy saw that it was growing to be
earnest. A few moments longer, and he saw Irene separate from
Hartley and move toward the arbor; at the same time the young man
came forward in the direction of the house. Mr. Delancy, as he
stepped from the portico to meet him, noticed that his color was
heightened and his eyes unusually bright.

"What's the matter with that self-willed girl of mine?" he asked, as
he took the hand of Emerson, affecting a lightness of tone that did
not correspond with his real feelings.

"Oh, nothing serious," the young man replied. "She's only in a
little pet because I wouldn't go with her to the arbor before I paid
my respects to you."

"She's a spoiled little puss," said the father, in a fond yet
serious way, "and you'll have to humor her a little at first,
Hartley. She never had the wise discipline of a mother, and so has
grown up unused to that salutary control which is so necessary for
young persons. But she has a warm, true heart and pure principles;
and these are the foundation-stones on which to build the temple of
happiness."

"Don't fear but that it will be all right between us. I love her too
well to let any flitting humors affect me."

He stepped upon the portico as he spoke and sat down. Irene had
before this reached the arbor and taken a seat there. Mr. Delancy
could do no less than resume the chair from which he had arisen on
the young man's approach. In looking into Hartley's face he noticed
a resolute expression about his mouth. For nearly ten minutes they
sat and talked, Irene remaining alone in the arbor. Mr. Delancy then
said, in a pleasant off-handed way,

"Come, Hartley, you have punished her long enough. I don't like to
see you even play at disagreement."

He did not seem to notice the remark, but started a subject of
conversation that it was almost impossible to dismiss for the next
ten minutes. Then he stepped down from the portico, and was moving
leisurely toward the arbor when he perceived that Irene had already
left it and was returning by another path. So he came back and
seated himself again, to await her approach. But, instead of joining
him, she passed round the house and entered on the opposite side.
For several minutes he sat, expecting every instant to see her come
out on the portico, but she did not make her appearance.

It was early in the afternoon. Hartley, affecting not to notice the
absence of Irene, kept up an animated conversation with Mr. Delancy.
A whole hour went by, and still the young lady was absent. Suddenly
starting, up, at the end of this time, Hartley exclaimed--

"As I live, there comes the boat! and I must be in New York
to-night."

"Stay," said Mr. Delancy, "until I call Irene."

"I can't linger for a moment, sir. It will take quick walking to
reach the landing by the time the boat is there." The young man
spoke hurriedly, shook hands with Mr. Delancy, and then sprung away,
moving at a rapid pace.

"What's the matter, father? Where is Hartley going?" exclaimed
Irene, coming out into the portico and grasping her father's arm.
Her face was pale and her lips trembled.

"He is going to New York," relied Mr. Delancy.

"To New York!" She looked almost frightened.

"Yes. The boat is coming, and he says that he must be in the city
to-night."

Irene sat down, looking pale and troubled.

"Why have you remained away from Hartley ever since his arrival?"
asked Mr. Delancy, fixing his eyes upon Irene and evincing some
displeasure.

Irene did not answer, but her father saw the color coming back to
her face.

"I think, from his manner, that he was hurt by your singular
treatment. What possessed you to do so?"

"Because I was not pleased with him," said Irene. Her voice was now
steady.

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