After the Storm

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She paused and looked with a half-startled air upon Mrs. Everet to
mark the effect of this revelation. But Rose made no response and
showed no surprise, however she might have been affected by the
singular admission of her friend.

"It has been all in vain," continued Irene "that I have pushed the
thought aside--called it absurd, insane, impossible--back it would
come and take its old place. And, stranger still, out of facts that
I educed to prove its fallacy would come corroborative suggestions.
I think it is well for my peace of mind that I have not been in the
way of hearing about him or of seeing him. Since we parted it has
been as if a dark curtain had fallen between us; and, so far as I am
concerned, that curtain has been lifted up but once or twice, and
then only for a moment of time. So all my thoughts of him are joined
to the past. Away back in that sweet time when the heart of girlhood
first thrills with the passion of love are some memories that haunt
my soul like dreams from Elysium. He was, in my eyes, the
impersonation of all that was lovely and excellent; his presence
made my sense of happiness complete; his voice touched my ears as
the blending of all rich harmonies. But there fell upon him a
shadow; there came hard discords in the music which had entranced my
soul; the fine gold was dimmed. Then came that period of mad strife,
of blind antagonism, in which we hurt each other by rough contact.
Finally, we were driven far asunder, and, instead of revolving
together around a common centre, each has moved in a separate orbit.
For years that dark period of pain has held the former period of
brightness in eclipse; but of late gleams from that better time have
made their way down to the present. Gradually the shadows are giving
away. The first state is coming to be felt more and more as the true
state--as that in best agreement with what we are in relation to
each other. It was the evil in us that met in such fatal
antagonism--not the good; it was something that we must put off if
we would rise from natural and selfish life into spiritual and
heavenly life. It was our selfishness and passion that drove us
asunder. Thus it is, dear Rose, that my thoughts have been wandering
about in the maze of life that entangles me. In my isolation I have
time enough for mental inversion--for self-exploration--for idle
fancies, if you will. And so I have lifted the veil for you;
uncovered my inner life; taken you into the sanctuary over whose
threshold no foot but my own had ever passed."

There was too much in all this for Mrs. Everet to venture upon any
reply that involved suggestion or advice. It was from a desire to
look deeper into the heart of her friend that she had spoken of her
meeting with Mr. Emerson. The glance she obtained revealed far more
than her imagination had ever reached.

CHAPTER XXVI.

LOVE NEVER DIES.

_THE_ brief meeting with Mrs. Everet had stirred the memory of old
times in the heart of Mr. Emerson. With a vividness unknown for
years, Ivy Cliff and the sweetness of many life-passages there came
back to him, and set heart-pulses that he had deemed stilled for
ever beating in tumultuous waves. When the business of the day was
over he sat down in the silence of his chamber and turned his eyes
inward. He pushed aside intervening year after year, until the
long-ago past was, to his consciousness, almost as real as the
living present. What he saw moved him deeply. He grew restless, then
showed disturbance of manner. There was an effort to turn away from
the haunting fascination of this long-buried, but now exhumed
period; but the dust and scoria were removed, and it lifted, like
another Pompeii, its desolate walls and silent chambers in the clear
noon-rays of the present.

After a long but fruitless effort to bury the past again, to let the
years close over it as the waves close over a treasure-laden ship,
Mr. Emerson gave himself up to its thronging memories and let them
bear him whither they would.

In this state of mind he unlocked one of the drawers in a secretary
and took therefrom a small box or casket. Placing this on a table,
he sat down and looked at it for some minutes, as if in doubt
whether it were best for him to go further in this direction.
Whether satisfied or not, he presently laid his fingers upon the lid
of the casket and slowly opened it. It contained only a morocco
case. He touched this as if it were something precious and sacred.
For some moments after it was removed he sat holding it in his hand
and looking at the dark, blank surface, as a long-expected letter is
sometimes held before the seal is broken and the contents devoured
with impatient eagerness. At last his finger pressed the spring on
which it had been resting, and he looked upon a young, sweet face,
whose eyes gazed back into his with a living tenderness. In a little
while his hand so trembled, and his eyes grew so dim, that the face
was veiled from his sight. Closing the miniature, but still
retaining it in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and remained
motionless, with shut eyes, for a long time; then he looked at the
fair young face again, conning over every feature and expression,
until sad memories came in and veiled it again with tears.

"Folly! weakness!" he said at last, pushing the picture from him and
making a feeble effort to get back his manly self-possession. "The
past is gone for ever. The page on which its sad history is written
was closed long ago, and the book is sealed. Why unclasp the volume
and search for that dark record again?"

Yet, even as he said this, his hand reached out for the miniature,
and his eyes were on it ere the closing words had parted from his
lips.

"Poor Irene!" he murmured, as he gazed on her pictured face. "You
had a pure, tender, loving heart--" then, suddenly shutting the
miniature, with a sharp click of the spring, he tossed it from him
upon the table and said,

"This is folly! folly! folly!" and, leaning back in his chair, he
shut his eyes and sat for a long time with his brows sternly knitted
together and his lips tightly compressed. Rising, at length, he
restored the miniature to its casket, and the casket to its place in
the drawer. A servant came to the door at this moment, bringing the
compliments of a lady friend, who asked him, if not engaged, to
favor her with his company on that evening, as she had a visitor,
just arrived, to whom she wished to introduce him. He liked the
lady, who was the wife of a legal friend, very well; but he was not
always so well pleased with her lady friends, of whom she had a
large circle. The fact was, she considered him too fine a man to go
through life companionless, and did not hesitate to use every art in
her power to draw him into an entangling alliance. He saw this, and
was often more amused than annoyed by her finesse.

It was on his lips to send word that he was engaged, but a regard
for truth would not let him make this excuse; so, after a little
hesitation and debate, he answered that he would present himself
during the evening. The lady's visitor was a widow of about thirty
years of age--rich, educated, accomplished and personally
attractive. She was from Boston, and connected with one of the most
distinguished families in Massachusetts, whose line of ancestry ran
back among the nobles of England. In conversation this lady showed
herself to be rarely gifted, and there was a charm about her manners
that was irresistible. Mr. Emerson, who had been steadily during the
past five years growing less and less attracted by the fine women he
met in society, found himself unusually interested in Mrs. Eager.

"I knew you would like her," said his lady friend, as Mr. Emerson
was about retiring at eleven o'clock.

"You take your conclusion for granted," he answered, smiling. "Did I
say that I liked her?"

"We ladies have eyes," was the laughing rejoinder. "Of course you
like her. She's going to spend three or four days with me. You'll
drop in to-morrow evening. Now don't pretend that you have an
engagement. Come; I want you to know her better. I think her
charming."

Mr. Emerson did not promise positively, but said that he might look
in during the evening.

For a new acquaintance, Mrs. Eager had attracted him strongly; and
his thoughtful friend was not disappointed in her expectation of
seeing him at her house on the succeeding night. Mrs. Eager, to whom
the lady she was visiting had spoken of Mr. Emerson in terms of
almost extravagant eulogy, was exceedingly well pleased with him,
and much gratified at meeting him again, A second interview gave
both an opportunity for closer observation, and when they parted it
was with pleasant thoughts of each other lingering in their minds.
During the time that Mrs. Eager remained in New York, which was
prolonged for a week beyond the period originally fixed, Mr. Emerson
saw her almost every day, and became her voluntary escort in
visiting points of local interest. The more he saw of her the more
he was charmed with her character. She seemed in his eyes the most
attractive woman he had ever met. Still, there was something about
her that did not wholly satisfy him, though what it was did not come
into perception.

Five years had passed since any serious thought of marriage had
troubled the mind of Mr. Emerson. After his meeting with Irene he
had felt that another union in this world was not for him--that he
had no right to exchange vows of eternal fidelity with any other
woman. She had remained unwedded, and would so remain, he felt, to
the end of her life. The legal contract between them was dissolved;
but, since his brief talk with the stranger on the boat, he had not
felt so clear as to the higher law obligations which were upon them.
And so he had settled it in his mind to bear life's burdens alone.

But Mrs. Eager had crossed his way, and filled, in many respects,
his ideal of a woman. There was a charm about her that won him
against all resistance.

"Don't let this opportunity pass," said his interested lady friend,
as the day of Mrs. Eager's departure drew nigh. "She is a woman in a
thousand, and will make one of the best of wives. Think, too, of her
social position, her wealth and her large cultivation. An
opportunity like this is never presented more than once in a
lifetime."

"You speak," replied Mr. Emerson, "as if I had only to say the word
and this fair prize would drop into my arms."

"She will have to be wooed if she is won. Were this not the case she
would not be worth having," said the lady. "But my word for it, if
you turn wooer the winning will not be hard. If I have not erred in
my observation, you are about mutually interested. There now, my
cautious sir, if you do not get handsomely provided for, it will be
no fault of mine."

In two days from this time Mrs. Eager was to return to Boston.

"You must take her to see those new paintings at the rooms of the
Society Library to-morrow. I heard her express a desire to examine
them before returning to Boston. Connoisseurs are in ecstasies over
three or four of the pictures, and, as Mrs. Eager is something of an
enthusiast in matters of art, your favor in this will give her no
light pleasure."

"I shall be most happy to attend her," replied Mr. Emerson. "Give
her my compliments, and say that, if agreeable to herself, I will
call for her at twelve to-morrow."

"No verbal compliments and messages," replied the lady; "that isn't
just the way."

"How then? Must I call upon her and deliver my message? That might
not be convenient to me nor agreeable to her."

"Oh!" ejaculated the lady, with affected impatience, "you men are so
stupid at times! You know how to write?"

"Ah! yes, I comprehend you now."

"Very well. Send your compliments and your message in a note; and
let it be daintily worded; not in heavy phrases, like a legal
document."

"A very princess in feminine diplomacy!" said Mr. Emerson to
himself, as he turned from the lady and took his way homeward. "So I
must pen a note."

Now this proved a more difficult matter than he had at first
thought. He sat down to the task immediately on returning to his
room. On a small sheet of tinted note-paper he wrote a few words,
but they did not please him, and the page was thrown into the fire.
He tried again, but with no better success--again and again; but
still, as he looked at the brief sentences, they seemed to express
too much or too little. Unable to pen the note to his satisfaction,
he pushed, at last, his writing materials aside, saying,

"My head will be clearer and cooler in the morning."

It was drawing on to midnight, and Mr. Emerson had not yet retired.
His thoughts were too busy for sleep. Many things were crowding into
his mind--questions, doubts, misgivings--scenes from the past and
imaginations of the future. And amid them all came in now and then,
just for a moment, as he had seen it five years before, the pale,
still face of Irene.

Wearied in the conflict, tired nature at last gave way, and Mr.
Emerson fell asleep in his chair.

Two hours of deep slumber tranquilized his spirit. He awoke from
this, put off his clothing and laid his head on his pillow. It was
late in the morning when he arose. He had no difficulty now in
penning a note to Mrs. Eager. It was the work of a moment, and
satisfactory to him in the first effort.

At twelve he called with a carriage for the lady, whom he found all
ready to accompany him, and in the best possible state of mind. Her
smile, as he presented himself, was absolutely fascinating; and her
voice seemed like a freshly-tuned instrument, every tone was so rich
in musical vibration, and all the tones came chorded to his ear.

There were not many visitors at the exhibition rooms--a score,
perhaps--but they were art-lovers, gazing in rapt attention or
talking in hushed whispers. They moved about noiselessly here and
there, seeming scarcely conscious that others were present.
Gradually the number increased, until within an hour after they
entered it was more than doubled. Still, the presence of art subdued
all into silence or subdued utterances.

Emerson was charmed with his companion's appreciative admiration of
many pictures. She was familiar with art-terms and special points of
interest, and pointed out beauties and harmonies that to him were
dead letters without an interpreter. They came, at last, to a small
but wonderfully effective picture, which contained a single figure,
that of a man sitting by a table in a room which presented the
appearance of a library. He held a letter in his hand--a old letter;
the artist had made this plain--but was not reading. He had been
reading; but the words, proving conjurors, had summoned the dead
past before him, and he was now looking far away, with sad, dreamy
eyes, into the long ago. A casket stood open. Time letter had
evidently been taken from this repository. There was a miniature; a
bracelet of auburn hair; a ring and a chain of gold lying on the
table. Mr. Emerson turned to the catalogue and read,

"WITH THE BURIED PAST."

And below this title the brief sentiment--

"Love never dies."

A deep, involuntary sigh came through his lips and stirred the
pulseless air around him. Then, like an echo, there came to his ears
an answering sigh, and, turning, he looked into the face of Irene!
She had entered the rooms a little while before, and in passing from
picture to picture had reached this one a few moments after Mr.
Emerson. She had not observed him, and was just beginning to feel
its meaning, when the sigh that attested its power over him reached
her ears and awakened an answering sigh. For several moments their
eyes were fixed in a gaze which neither had power to withdraw. The
face of Irene had grown thinner, paler and more shadowy--if we may
use that term to express something not of the earth, earthy--than it
was when he looked upon it five years before. But her eyes were
darker in contrast with her colorless face, and had a deeper tone of
feeling.

They did not speak nor pass a sign of recognition. But the instant
their eyes withdrew from each other Irene turned from the picture
and left the rooms.

When Mr. Emerson looked back into the face of his companion, its
charm was gone. Beside that of the fading countenance, so still and
nun-like, upon which he had gazed a moment before, it looked coarse
and worldly. When she spoke, her tones no longer came in chords of
music to his ears, but jarred upon his feelings. He grew silent;
cold, abstracted. The lady noted the change, and tried to rally him;
but her efforts were vain. He moved by her side like an automaton,
and listened to her comments on the pictures they paused to examine
in such evident absent-mindedness that she became annoyed, and
proposed returning home. Mr. Emerson made no objection, and they
left the quiet picture-gallery for the turbulence of Broadway. The
ride home was a silent one, and they separated in mutual
embarrassment, Mr. Emerson going back to his rooms instead of to his
office, and sitting down in loneliness there, with a shuddering
sense of thankfulness at his heart for the danger he had just
escaped.

"What a blind spell was on me!" he said, as he gazed away down into
his soul--far, far deeper than any tone or look from Mrs. Eager had
penetrated--and saw needs, states and yearnings there which must be
filled or there could be no completeness of life. And now the still,
pale face of Irene stood out distinctly; and her deep, weird,
yearning eyes looked into his with a fixed intentness that stirred
his heart to its profoundest depths.

Mr. Emerson was absent from his office all that day. But on the next
morning he was at his post, and it would have taken a close observer
to have detected any change in his usually quiet face. But there was
a change in the man--a great change. He had gone down deeper into
his heart than he had ever gone before, and understood himself
better. There was little danger of his ever being tempted again in
this direction.

CHAPTER XXVII.

EFFECTS OF THE STORM.

_IT_ was more than a week before Mr. Emerson called again upon the
lady friend who had shown so strong a desire to procure him a wife.
He expected her to introduce the name of Mrs. Eager, and came
prepared to talk in a way that would for ever close the subject of
marriage between them. The lady expressed surprise at not having
seen him for so long a time, and then introduced the subject nearest
her thought.

"What was the matter with you and Mrs. Eager?" she asked, her face
growing serious.

Mr. Emerson shook his head, and said, "Nothing," with not a shadow
of concern in his voice.

"Nothing? Think again. I could hardly have been deceived."

"Why do you ask? Did the lady charge anything ungallant against me?"

Mr. Emerson was unmoved.

"Oh no, no! She scarcely mentioned your name after her return from
viewing the pictures. But she was not in so bright a humor as when
she went out, and was dull up to the hour of her departure for
Boston. I'm afraid you offended her in some way--unconsciously on
your part, of course."

"No, I think not," said Mr. Emerson. "She would be sensitive in the
extreme if offended by any word or act of mine."

"Well, letting that all pass, Mr. Emerson, what do you think of Mrs.
Eager?"

"That she is an attractive and highly accomplished woman."

"And the one who reaches your ideal of a wife?"

"No, ma'am," was the unhesitating answer, and made in so emphatic a
tone that there was no mistaking his sincerity. There was a change
in his countenance and manner. He looked unusually serious.

The lady tried to rally him, but he had come in too sober a state of
mind for pleasant trifling on this subject, of all others.

"My kind, good friend," he said, "I owe you many thanks for the
interest you have taken in me, and for your efforts to get me a
companion. But I do not intend to marry."

"So you have said--"

"Pardon me for interrupting you." Mr. Emerson checked the light
speech that was on her tongue. "I am going to say to you some things
that have never passed my lips before. You will understand me; this
I know, or I would not let a sentence come into utterance. And I
know more, that you will not make light of what to me is sacred."

The lady was sobered in a moment.

"To make light of what to you is sacred would be impossible," she
replied.

"I believe it, and therefore I am going to speak of things that are
to me the saddest of my life, and yet are coming to involve the
holiest sentiments. I have more than one reason for desiring now to
let another look below the quiet surface; and I will lift the veil
for your eyes alone. You know that I was married nearly twenty years
ago, and that my wife separated herself from me in less than three
years after our union; and you also know that the separation was
made permanent by a divorce. This is all that you or any other one
knows, so far as I have made communication on the subject; and I
have reason to believe that she who was my wife has been as reserved
in the matter as myself.

"The simple facts in the case are these: We were both young and
undisciplined, both quick-tempered, self-willed, and very much
inclined to have things our own way. She was an only child, and so
was I. Each had been spoiled by long self-indulgence. So, when we
came together in marriage, the action of our lives, instead of
taking a common pulsation, was inharmonious. For a few years we
strove together blindly in our bonds, and then broke madly asunder.
I think we were about equally in fault; but if there was a
preponderance of blame, it rested on my side, for, as a man, I
should have kept a cooler head and shown greater forbearance. But
the time for blame has long since passed. It is with the stern,
irrevocable facts that we are dealing now.

"So bitter had been our experience, and so painful the shock of
separation, that I think a great many years must have passed before
repentance came into either heart--before a feeling of regret that
we had not held fast to our marriage vows was born. How it was with
me you may infer from the fact that, after the lapse of two years, I
deliberately asked for and obtained a divorce on the ground of
desertion. But doubt as to the propriety of this step stirred
uneasily in my mind for the first time when I held the decree in my
hand; and I have never felt wholly satisfied with myself since.
There should be something deeper than incompatibility of temper to
warrant a divorce. The parties should correct what is wrong in
themselves, and thus come into harmony. There is no excuse for
pride, passion and self-will. The law of God does not make these
justifiable causes of divorce, and neither should the law of man. A
purer woman than my wife never lived; and she had elements of
character that promised a rare development. I was proud of her. Ah,
if I had been wiser and more patient! If I had endeavored to lead,
instead of assuming the manly prerogative! But I was young, and
blind, and willful!

"Fifteen years have passed since the day we parted, and each has
remained single. If we had not separated, we might now be living in
a true heart-union; for I believe, strange as it may sound to you,
that we were made for each other--that, when the false and evil of
our lives are put off, the elements of conjunction will appear. We
have made for ourselves of this world a dreary waste, when, if we
had overcome the evil of our hearts, our paths would have been
through green and fragrant places. It may be happier for us in the
next; and it will be. I am a better man, I think, for the discipline
through which I have passed, and she is a better woman."

Mr. Emerson paused.

"She? Have you seen her?" the lady asked.

"Twice since we parted, and then only for a moment. Suddenly each
time we met, and looked into each other's eyes for a single instant;
then, as if a curtain had dropped suddenly between us, we were
separated. But the impression of her face remained as vivid and
permanent as a sun-picture. She lives, for most of her time,
secluded at Ivy Cliff, her home on the Hudson; and her life is
passed there, I hear, in doing good. And, if good deeds, from right
ends, write their history on the human face, then her countenance
bears the record of tenderest charities. It was pale when I last saw
it--pale, but spiritual--I can use no other word; and I felt a
sudden panic at the thought that she was growing into a life so pure
and heavenly that I must stand afar off as unworthy. It had
sometimes come into my thought that we were approaching each other,
as both put off, more and more, the evil which had driven us apart
and held us so long asunder. But this illusion our last brief
meeting dispelled. She has passed me on the road of self-discipline
and self-abnegation, and is journeying far ahead. And now I can but
follow through life at a distance.

"So much, and no more, my friend. I drop the veil over my heart. You
will understand me better hereafter. I shall not marry. That legal
divorce is invalid. I could not perjure my soul by vows of fidelity
toward another. Patiently and earnestly will I do my allotted work
here. My better hopes lie all in the heavenly future.

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