After the Storm

T >> T. S. Arthur >> After the Storm

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There was a large number of passengers on board, scattered over the
decks or lingering in the cabins, as inclination prompted. The
observer of faces and character had field enough for study; but
Hartley Emerson was not inclined to read in the book of character on
this occasion. One subject occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of
all others. There had come a period that was full of interest and
fraught with momentous consequences which must extend through all of
his after years. He saw little but the maiden at his side--thought
of little but his purpose to ask her to walk with him, a
soul-companion, in the journey of life.

During the first hour there was a constant moving to and fro and the
taking up of new positions by the passengers--a hum and buzz of
conversation--laughing--exclamations--gay talk and enthusiasm. Then
a quieter tone prevailed. Solitary individuals took places of
observation; groups seated themselves in pleasant circles to chat,
and couples drew away into cabins or retired places, or continued
the promenade.

Among the latter were Emerson and his companion. Purposely he had
drawn the fair girl away from their party, in order to get the
opportunity he desired. He did not mean to startle her with an
abrupt proposal here, in the very eye of observation, but to advance
toward the object by slow approaches, marking well the effect of his
words, and receding the moment he saw that, in beginning to
comprehend him, her mind showed repulsion or marked disturbance.

Thus it was with them when the boat entered the Highlands and swept
onward with wind-like speed. They were in one of the gorgeously
furnished cabins, sitting together on a sofa. There had been earnest
talk, but on some subject of taste. Gradually Emerson changed the
theme and began approaching the one nearest to his heart. Slight
embarrassment followed; his voice took on a different tone; it was
lower, tenderer, more deliberate and impressive. He leaned closer,
and the maiden did not retire; she understood him, and was waiting
the pleasure of his speech with heart-throbbings that seemed as if
they must be audible in his ears as well as her own.

The time had come. Everything was propitious. The words that would
have sealed his fate and hers were on his lips, when, looking up, he
knew not why, but under an impulse of the moment, he met two calm
eyes resting upon him with an expression that sent the blood leaping
back to his heart. Two calm eyes and a pale, calm face were before
him for a moment; then they vanished in the crowd. But he knew them,
though ten years lay between the last vision and this.

The words that were on his lips died unspoken. He could not have
uttered them if life or death hung on the issue. No--no--no. A dead
silence followed.

"Are you ill?" asked his companion, looking at him anxiously.

"No, oh no," he replied, trying to rally himself.

"But you are ill, Mr. Emerson. How pale your face is!"

"It will pass off in a moment." He spoke with an effort to appear
self-possessed. "Let us go on deck," he added, rising. "There are a
great many people in the cabin, and the atmosphere is oppressive."

A dead weight fell upon the maiden's heart as she arose and went on
deck by the side of Mr. Emerson. She had noticed his sudden pause
and glance across the cabin at the instant she was holding her
breath for his next words, but did not observe the object, a sight
of which had wrought on him so remarkable a change. They walked
nearly the entire length of the boat, after getting on deck, before
Mr. Emerson spoke. He then remarked on the boldness of the scenery
and pointed out interesting localities, but in so absent and
preoccupied a way that his companion listened without replying. In a
little while he managed to get into the neighborhood of three or
four of their party, with whom he left her, and, moving away, took a
position on the upper deck just over the gangway from which the
landings were made. Here he remained until the boat came to at a
pier on which his feet had stepped lightly many, many times. Ivy
Cliff was only a little way distant, hidden from view by a belt of
forest trees. The ponderous machinery stood still, the plunging
wheels stopped their muffled roar, and in the brooding silence that
followed three or four persons stepped on the plank which had been
thrown out and passed to the shore. A single form alone fixed the
eyes of Hartley Emerson. He would have known it on the instant among
a thousand. It was that of Irene. Her step was slow, like one
abstracted in mind or like one in feeble health. After gaining the
landing, she stood still and turned toward the boat, when their eyes
met again--met, and held each other, by a spell which neither had
power to break. The fastenings were thrown off, the engineer rung
his bell; there was a clatter of machinery, a rush of waters and the
boat glanced onward. Then Irene started like one suddenly aroused
from sleep and walked rapidly away.

And thus they met for the first time after a separation of ten
years.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MINISTERING ANGEL.

_A CLATTER_ of machinery, a rush of waters, and the boat glanced
onward but still Hartley Emerson stood motionless and statue-like,
his eyes fixed upon the shore, until the swiftly-gliding vessel bore
him away, and the object which had held his vision by a kind of
fascination was concealed from view.

"An angel, if there ever was one on this side of heaven!" said a
voice close to his ear. Emerson gave a start and turned quickly. A
man plainly dressed stood beside him. He was of middle age, and had
a mild, grave, thoughtful countenance.

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Emerson, not able entirely to veil his
surprise.

"Of the lady we saw go ashore at the landing just now. She turned
and looked at us. You could not help noticing her."

"Who is she?" asked Emerson, and then held his breath awaiting the
answer. The question was almost involuntary, yet prompted by a
suddenly awakened desire to bear the world's testimony regard to
Irene.

"You don't know her, then?" remarked the stranger.

"I asked who she was." Emerson intended to say this firmly, but his
voice was unsteady. "Let us sit down," he added, looking around, and
then leading the way to where some unoccupied chairs were standing.
By the time they were seated he had gained the mastery over himself.

"You don't know her, then?" said the man, repeating his words. "She
is well known about these parts, I can assure you. Why, that was old
Mr. Delancy's daughter. Did you never hear of her?"

"What about her?" was asked.

"Well, in the first place, she was married some ten or twelve years
ago to a lawyer down in New York; and, in the second place, they
didn't live very happily together--why, I never heard. I don't
believe it was her fault, for she's the sweetest, kindest, gentlest
lady it has ever been my good fortune to meet. Some people around
Ivy Cliff call her the 'Angel,' and the word has meaning in it as
applied to her. She left her husband, and he got a divorce, but
didn't charge anything wrong against her. That, I suppose, was more
than he dared to do, for a snow-flake is not purer."

"You have lived in the neighborhood?" said Emerson, keeping his face
a little averted.

"Oh yes, sir. I have lived about here pretty much all my life."

"Then you knew Miss Delancy before she was married?"

"No, sir; I can't say that I knew much about her before that time. I
used to see her now and then as she rode about the neighborhood. She
was a gay, wild girl, sir. But that unhappy marriage made a great
change in her. I cannot forget the first time I saw her after she
came back to her father's. She seemed to me older by many years than
when I last saw her, and looked like one just recovered from a long
and serious illness. The brightness had passed from her face, the
fire from her eyes, the spring from her footsteps. I believe she
left her husband of her own accord, but I never knew that she made
any complaint against him. Of course, people were very curious to
know why she had abandoned him. But her lips must have been sealed,
for only a little vague talk went floating around. I never heard a
breath of wrong charged against him as coming from her."

Emerson's face was turned still more away from his companion, his
eyes bent down and his brows firmly knit. He did not ask farther,
but the man was on a theme that interested him, and so continued.

"For most of the time since her return to Ivy Cliff the life of Miss
Delancy has been given to Christian charities. The death of her
father was a heavy stroke. It took the life out of her for a while.
Since her recovery from that shock she has been constantly active
among us in good deeds. Poor sick women know the touch of her gentle
hand and the music of her voice. She has brought sunlight into many
wintry homes, and kindled again on hearths long desolate the fires
of loving kindness. There must have been some lack of true
appreciation on the part of her husband, sir. Bitter fountains do
not send forth sweet waters like these. Don't you think so?"

"How should I know?" replied Emerson, a little coldly. The question
was sprung upon him so suddenly that his answer was given in
confusion of thought.

"We all have our opinions, sir," said the man, "and this seems a
plain case. I've heard said that her husband was a hot-headed,
self-willed, ill-regulated young fellow, no more fit to get married
than to be President. That he didn't understand the woman--or,
maybe, I should say child--whom he took for his wife is very
certain, or he never would have treated her in the way he did!"

"How did he treat her?" asked Mr. Emerson.

"As to that," replied his talkative companion, "we don't know
anything certain. But we shall not go far wrong in guessing that it
was neither wise nor considerate. In fact, he must have outraged her
terribly."

"This, I presume, is the common impression about Ivy Cliff?"

"No," said the man; "I've heard him well spoken of. The fact is,
people are puzzled about the matter. We can't just understand it.
But, I'm all on her side."

"I wonder she has not married again?" said Emerson. "There are
plenty of men who would be glad to wed so perfect a being as you
represent her to be."

"She marry!" There was indignation and surprise in the man's voice.

"Yes; why not?"

"Sir, she is a Christian woman!"

"I can believe that, after hearing your testimony in regard to her,"
said Emerson. But he still kept his face so much turned aside that
its expression could not be seen.

"And reads her Bible."

"As we all should."

"And, what is more, believes in it," said the man emphatically.

"Don't all Christian people believe in the Bible?" asked Mr.
Emerson.

"I suppose so, after a fashion; and a very queer fashion it is,
sometimes."

"How does this lady of whom you speak believe in it differently from
some others?"

"In this, that it means what it says on the subject of divorce."

"Oh, I understand. You think that if she were to marry again it
would be in the face of conscientious scruples?"

"I do."

Mr. Emerson was about asking another question when one of the party
to which he belonged joined him, and so the strange interview
closed. He bowed to the man with whom he had been conversing, and
then passed to another part of the boat.

With slow steps, that were unsteady from sudden weakness, Irene
moved along the road that led to her home. After reaching the
grounds of Ivy Cliff she turned aside into a small summer-house, and
sat down at one of the windows that looked out upon the river as it
stretched upward in its gleaming way. The boat she bad just left was
already far distant, but it fixed her eyes, and they saw no other
object until it passed from view around a wooded point of land. And
still she sat motionless, looking at the spot where it had vanished
from her sight.

"Miss Irene!" exclaimed Margaret, the faithful old domestic, who
still bore rule at the homestead, breaking in upon her reverie,
"what in the world are you doing here? I expected you up to-day, and
when the boat stopped at the landing and you didn't come, I was
uneasy and couldn't rest. Why child, what is the matter? You're
sick!"

"Oh no, Margaret, I'm well enough," said Irene, trying to smile
indifferently. And she arose and left the summer-house.

Kind, observant old Margaret was far from being satisfied, however.
She saw that Irene was not as when she departed for the city a week
before. If she were not sick in body, she was troubled in her mind,
for her countenance was so changed that she could not look upon it
without feeling a pang in her heart.

"I'm sure you're sick, Miss Irene," she said as they entered the
house. "Now, what is the matter? What can I do or get for you? Let
me send over for Dr. Edmondson?"

"No, no, my good Margaret, don't think of such a thing," replied
Irene. "I'm not sick."

"Something's the matter with you, child," persisted Margaret.

"Nothing that won't cure itself," said Irene, trying to speak
cheerfully. "I'll go up to my room for a little while."

And she turned away from her kind-hearted domestic. On entering her
chamber Irene locked the door in order to be safe from intrusion,
for she knew that Margaret would not let half an hour pass without
coming up to ask how she was. Sitting down by the window, she looked
out upon the river, along whose smooth surface had passed the vessel
in which, a little while before, she met the man once called by the
name of husband--met him and looked into his face for the first time
in ten long years! The meeting had disturbed her profoundly. In the
cabin of that vessel she had seen him by the side of a fair young
girl in earnest conversation; and she had watched with a strange,
fluttering interest the play of his features. What was he saying to
that fair young girl that she listened with such a breathless,
waiting air? Suddenly he turned toward her, their eyes met and were
spell-bound for moments. What did she read in his eyes in those
brief moments? What did he read in hers? Both questions pressed
themselves upon her thoughts as she retreated among the crowd of
passengers, and then hid herself from the chance of another meeting
until the boat reached the landing at Ivy Cliff. Why did she pause
on the shore, and turn to look upon the crowded decks? She knew not.
The act was involuntary. Again their eyes met--met and held each
other until the receding vessel placed dim distance between them.

In less than half an hour Margaret's hand was on the door, but she
could not enter. Irene had not moved from her place at the window in
all that time.

"Is that you, Margaret?" she called, starting from her abstraction.

"Do you want anything, Miss Irene?"

"No, thank you, Margaret."

She answered in as cheerful a tone as she could assume, and the kind
old waiting-woman retired.

From that time every one noted a change in Irene. But none knew, or
even guessed, its cause or meaning. Not even to her friend, Mrs.
Everet, did she speak of her meeting with Hartley Emerson. Her face
did not light up as before, and her eyes seemed always as if looking
inward or gazing dreamily upon something afar off. Yet in good deeds
she failed not. If her own heart was heavier, she made other hearts
lighter by her presence.

And still the years went on in their steady revolutions--one, two,
three, four, five more years, and in all that time the parted ones
did not meet again.

CHAPTER XXV.

BORN FOR EACH OTHER.

_I SAW_ Mr. Emerson yesterday," said Mrs. Everet. She was sitting
with Irene in her own house in New York.

"Did you?" Irene spoke evenly and quietly, but did not turn her face
toward Mrs. Everet.

"Yes. I saw him at my husband's store. Mr. Everet has engaged him to
conduct an important suit, in which many thousands of dollars are at
stake."

"How does be look?" inquired Irene, without showing any feelings but
still keeping her face turned from Mrs Everet.

"Well, I should say, though rather too much frosted for a man of his
years."

"Gray, do you mean?" Irene manifested some surprise.

"Yes; his hair and beard are quite sprinkled with time's white
snow-flakes."

"He is only forty," remarked Irene.

"I should say fifty, judging from his appearance."

"Only forty." And a faint sigh breathed on the lips of Irene. She
did not look around at her friend but sat very still, with her face
turned partly away. Mrs. Everet looked at her closely, to read, if
possible, what was passing in her mind. But the countenance of Irene
was too much hidden. Her attitude, however, indicated intentness of
thought, though not disturbing thought.

"Rose," she said at length, "I grow less at peace with myself as the
years move onward."

"You speak from some passing state of mind," suggested Mrs. Everet.

"No; from a gradually forming permanent state. Ten years ago I
looked back upon the past in a stern, self-sustaining,
martyr-spirit. Five years ago all things wore a different aspect. I
began to have misgivings; I could not so clearly make out my case.
New thoughts on the subject--and not very welcome ones--began to
intrude. I was self-convicted of wrong; yes, Rose, of a great and an
irreparable wrong. I shut my eyes; I tried to look in other
directions; but the truth, once seen, could not pass from the range
of mental vision. I have never told you that I saw Mr. Emerson five
years ago. The effect of that meeting was such that I could not
speak of it, even to you. We met on one of the river steamboats--met
and looked into each other's eyes for just a moment. It may only be
a fancy of mine, but I have thought sometimes that, but for this
seemingly accidental meeting, he would have married again."

"Why do you think so?" asked Mrs. Everet.

Irene did not answer for some moments. She hardly dared venture to
put what she had seen in words. It was something that she felt more
like hiding even from her own consciousness, if that were possible.
But, having ventured so far, she could not well hold back. So she
replied, keeping her voice into as dead a level as it was possible
to assume:

"He was sitting in earnest conversation with a young lady, and from
the expression of her face, which I could see, the subject on which
he was speaking was evidently one in which more than her thought was
interested. I felt at the time that he was on the verge of a new
life-experiment--was about venturing upon a sea on which he had once
made shipwreck. Suddenly he turned half around and looked at me
before I had time to withdraw my eyes--looked at me with a strange,
surprised, startled look. In another moment a form came between us;
when it passed I was lost from his gaze in the crowd of passengers.
I have puzzled myself a great many times over that fact of his
turning his eyes, as if from some hidden impulse, just to the spot
where I was sitting. There are no accidents--as I have often heard
you say--in the common acceptation of the term; therefore this was
no accident."

"It was a providence," said Rose.

"And to what end?" asked Irene.

Mrs. Everet shook her head.

"I will not even presume to conjecture."

Irene sighed, and then sat lost in thought. Recovering herself, she
said:

"Since that time I have been growing less and less satisfied with
that brief, troubled portion of my life which closed so
disastrously. I forgot how much the happiness of another was
involved. A blind, willful girl, struggling in imaginary bonds, I
thought only of myself, and madly rent apart the ties which death
only should have sundered. For five years, Rose, I have carried in
my heart the expression which looked out upon me from the eyes of
Mr. Emerson at that brief meeting. Its meaning was not then, nor is
it now, clear. I have never set myself to the work of
interpretation, and believe the task would be fruitless. But
whenever it is recalled I am affected with a tender sadness. And so
his head is already frosted, Rose?"

"Yes."

"Though in years he has reached only manhood's ripened state. How I
have marred his life! Better, far better, would it have been for him
if I had been the bride of Death on my wedding-day!"

A shadow of pain darkened her face.

"No," replied Mrs. Everet; "it is better for both you and him that
you were not the bride of Death. There are deeper things hidden in
the events of life than our reason can fathom. We die when it is
best for ourselves and best for others that we should die--never
before. And the fact that we live is in itself conclusive that we
are yet needed in the world by all who can be affected by our mortal
existence."

"Gray hairs at forty!" This seemed to haunt the mind of Irene.

"It may be constitutional," suggested Mrs. Everet; "some heads begin
to whiten at thirty."

"Possibly."

But the tone expressed no conviction.

"How was his face?" asked Irene.

"Grave and thoughtful. At least so it appeared to me."

"At forty." It was all Irene said.

Mrs. Everet might have suggested that a man of his legal position
would naturally be grave and thoughtful, but she did not.

"It struck me," said Mrs. Everet, "as a true, pure, manly face. It
was intellectual and refined; delicate, yet firm about the mouth and
expansive in the upper portions. The hair curled softly away from
his white temples and forehead."

"Worthy of a better fate!" sighed Irene. "And it is I who have
marred his whole life! How blind is selfish passion! Ah, my friend,
the years do not bring peace to my soul. There have been times when
to know that he had sought refuge from a lonely life in marriage
would have been a relief to me. Were this the case, the thought of
his isolation, of his imperfect life, would not be for ever rebuking
me. But now, while no less severely rebuked by this thought, I feel
glad that he has not ventured upon an act no clear sanction for
which is found in the Divine law. He could not, I feel, have
remained so true and pure a man as I trust he is this day. God help
him to hold on, faithful to his highest intuitions, even unto the
end."

Mrs. Everet looked at Irene wonderingly as she spoke. She had never
before thus unveiled her thoughts.

"He struck me," was her reply, "as a man who had passed through
years of discipline and gained the mastery of himself."

"I trust that it may be so," Irene answered, rather as if speaking
to herself than to another.

"As I grow older," she added, after a long pause, now looking with
calm eyes upon her friend, "and life-experiences correct my judgment
and chasten my feelings, I see all things in a new aspect. I
understand my own heart better--its needs, capacities and yearnings;
and self-knowledge is the key by which we unlock the mystery of
other souls. So a deeper self-acquaintance enables me to look deeper
into the hearts of all around me. I erred in marrying Mr. Emerson.
We were both too hasty, self-willed and tenacious of rights and
opinions to come together in a union so sacred and so intimate. But,
after I had become his wife, after I had taken upon myself such holy
vows, it was my duty to stand fast. I could not abandon my place and
be innocent before God and man. And I am not innocent, Rose."

The face of Irene was strongly agitated for some moments; but she
recovered herself and went on:

"I am speaking of things that have hitherto been secrets of my own
heart. I could not bring them out even for you to look at, my
dearest, truest, best of friends. Now it seems as if I could not
bear the weight of my heavy thoughts alone; as if, in admitting you
beyond the veil, I might find strength to suffer, if not ease from
pain. There is no such thing as living our lives over again and
correcting their great errors. The past is an irrevocable fact. Ah,
if conscience would sleep, if struggles for a better life would make
atonement for wrong--then, as our years progress, we might lapse
into tranquil states. But gradually clearing vision increases the
magnitude of a fault like mine, for its fatal consequences are seen
in broader light. There is a thought which has haunted me for a year
past like a spectre. It comes to me unbidden; sometimes to disturb
the quiet of my lonely evenings, sometimes in the silent
night-watches to banish sleep from my pillow; sometimes to place
silence on my lips as I sit among cherished friends. I never
imagined that I would put this thought in words for any mortal ear;
yet it is coming to my lips now, and I feel impelled to go on. You
believe that there are, as you call them 'conjugal partners,' or men
and women born for each other, who, in a true marriage of souls,
shall become eternally one. They do not always meet in this life;
nay, for the sake of that discipline which leads to purification,
may form other and uncongenial ties in the world, and live
unhappily; but in heaven they will draw together by a
divinely-implanted attraction, and be there united for ever. I have
felt that something like this must be true; that every soul must
have its counterpart. The thought which has so haunted me is, that
Hartley Emerson and unhappy _I_ were born for each other."

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