After the Storm

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

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"You are a dear, good girl, Rose," replied Irene, smiling faintly,
"and I only wish that I had a portion of your calm, gentle spirit.
But I am as I am, and must act out if I act at all. I must be myself
or nothing."

"You can be as considerate of others as of yourself?" said Rose.

Irene looked at her companion inquiringly.

"I mean," added Rose, "that you can exercise the virtue of
self-denial in order to give pleasure to another--especially if that
other one be an object very dear to you. As in the present case,
seeing that your husband wants to join this riding party, you can,
for his sake, lay aside your indifference, and enter, with a hearty
good-will, into the proposed pastime."

"And why cannot he, seeing that I do not care to ride, deny himself
a little for my sake, and not drag me out against my will? Is all
the yielding and concession to be on my side? Must his will rule in
everything? I can tell you what it is, Rose, this will never suit
me. There will be open war between us before the honeymoon has waxed
and waned, if he goes on as he has begun."

"Hush! hush, Irene!" said her friend, in a tone of deprecation. "The
lightest sense of wrong gains undue magnitude the moment we begin to
complain. We see almost anything to be of greater importance when
from the obscurity of thought we bring it out into the daylight of
speech."

"It will be just as I say, and saying it will not make it any more
so," was Irene's almost sullen response to this. "I have my own
ideas of things and my own individuality, and neither of these do I
mean to abandon. If Hartley hasn't the good sense to let me have my
own way in what concerns myself, I will take my own way. As to the
troubles that may come afterward, I do not give them any weight in
the argument. I would die a martyr's deaths rather than become the
passive creature of another."

"My dear friend, why will you talk so?" Rose spoke in a tone of
grief.

"Simply because I am in earnest. From the hour of our marriage I
have seen a disposition on the part of my husband to assume
control--to make his will the general law of our actions. It has not
exhibited itself in things of moment, but in trifles, showing that
the spirit was there. I say this to you, Rose, because we have been
like sisters, and I can tell you of my inmost thoughts. There is a
cloud already in the sky, and it threatens an approaching storm."

"Oh, my friend, why are you so blind, so weak, so self-deceived? You
are putting forth your hands to drag down the temple of happiness.
If it fall, it will crush you beneath a mass of ruins; and not you
only, but the one you have so lately pledged yourself before God and
his angels to love."

"And I do love him as deeply as ever man was loved. Oh that he knew
my heart! He would not then shatter his image there. He would not
trifle with a spirit formed for intense, yielding, passionate love,
but rigid as steel and cold as ice when its freedom is touched. He
should have known me better before linking his fate with mine."

One of her darker moods had come upon Irene, and she was beating
about in the blind obscurity of passion. As she began to give
utterance to complaining thoughts, new thoughts formed themselves,
and what was only vague feelings grew into ideas of wrong; and
these, when once spoken, assumed a magnitude unimagined before. In
vain did her friend strive with her. Argument, remonstrance,
persuasion, only seemed to bring greater obscurity and to excite a
more bitter feeling in her mind. And so, despairing of any good
result, Rose withdrew, and left her with her own unhappy thoughts.

Not long after Miss Carman retired, Emerson came in. At the sound of
his approaching footsteps, Irene had, with a strong effort, composed
herself and swept back the deeper shadows from her face.

"Not ready yet?" he said, in a pleasant, half-chiding way. "The
carriages will be at the door in ten minutes."

"I am not going to ride out," returned Irene, in a quiet, seemingly
indifferent tone of voice. Hartley mistook her manner for sport, and
answered pleasantly--

"Oh yes you are, my little lady."

"No, I am not." There was no misapprehension now.

"Not going to ride out?" Hartley's brows contracted.

"No; I am not going to ride out to-day." Each word was distinctly
spoken.

"I don't understand you, Irene."

"Are not my words plain enough?"

"Yes, they are too plain--so plain as to make them involve a
mystery. What do you mean by this sudden change of purpose?"

"I don't wish to ride out," said Irene, with assumed calmness of
manner; "and that being so, may I not have my will in the case?"

"No--"

A red spot burned on Irene's cheeks and her eyes flashed.

"No," repeated her husband; "not after you have given up that will
to another."

"To you!" Irene started to her feet in instant passion. "And so I am
to be nobody, and you the lord and master. My will is to be nothing,
and yours the law of my life." Her lip curled in contemptuous anger.

"You misunderstand me," said Hartley Emerson, speaking as calmly as
was possible in this sudden emergency. "I did not refer specially to
myself, but to all of our party, to whom you had given up your will
in a promise to ride out with them, and to whom, therefore, you were
bound."

"An easy evasion," retorted the excited bride, who had lost her
mental equipoise.

"Irene," the young man spoke sternly, "are those the right words for
your husband? An easy evasion!"

"I have said them."

"And you must unsay them."

Both had passed under the cloud which pride and passion had raised.

"Must! I thought you knew me better, Hartley." Irene grew suddenly
calm.

"If there is to be love between us, all barriers must be removed."

"Don't say _must_ to me, sir! I will not endure the word."

Hartley turned from her and walked the floor with rapid steps,
angry, grieved and in doubt as to what it were best for him to do.
The storm had broken on him without a sign of warning, and he was
wholly unprepared to meet it.

"Irene," he said, at length, pausing before her, "this conduct on
your part is wholly inexplicable. I cannot understand its meaning.
Will you explain yourself?"

"Certainly. I am always ready to give a reason for my conduct," she
replied, with cold dignity.

"Say on, then." Emerson spoke with equal coldness of manner.

"I did not wish to ride out, and said so in the beginning. That
ought to have been enough for you. But no--my wishes were nothing;
your will must be law."

"And that is all! the head and front of my offending!" said Emerson,
in a tone of surprise.

"It isn't so much the thing itself that I object to, as the spirit
in which it is done," said Irene.

"A spirit of overbearing self-will!' said Emerson.

"Yes, if you choose. That is what my soul revolts against. I gave
you my heart and my hand--my love and my confidence--not my freedom.
The last is a part of my being, and I will maintain it while I have
life."

"Perverse girl! What insane spirit has got possession of your mind?"
exclaimed Emerson, chafed beyond endurance.

"Say on," retorted Irene; "I am prepared for this. I have seen, from
the hour of our marriage, that a time of strife would come; that
your will would seek to make itself ruler, and that I would not
submit. I did not expect the issue to come so soon. I trusted in
your love to spare me, at least, until I could be bidden from
general observation when I turned myself upon you and said, Thus far
thou mayest go, but no farther. But, come the struggle early or
late--now or in twenty years--I am prepared."

There came at this moment a rap at their door. Mr. Emerson opened
it.

"Carriage is waiting," said a servant.

"Say that we will be down in a few minutes."

The door closed.

"Come, Irene," said Mr. Emerson.

"You spoke very confidently to the servant, and said we would be
down in a few minutes."

"There, there, Irene! Let this folly die; it has lived long enough.
Come! Make yourself ready with all speed--our party is delayed by
this prolonged absence."

"You think me trifling, and treat me as if I were a captious child,"
said Irene, with chilling calmness; "but I am neither."

"Then you will not go?"

"I will not go." She said the words slowly and deliberately, and as
she spoke looked her husband steadily in the face. She was in
earnest, and he felt that further remonstrance would be in vain.

"You will repent of this," he replied, with enough of menace in his
voice to convey to her mind a great deal more than was in his
thoughts. And he turned from her and left the room. Going down
stairs, he found the riding-party waiting for their appearance.

"Where is Irene?" was asked by one and another, on seeing him alone.

"She does not care to ride out this afternoon, and so I have excused
her," he replied. Miss Carman looked at him narrowly, and saw that
there was a shade of trouble on his countenance, which he could not
wholly conceal. She would have remained behind with Irene, but that
would have disappointed the friend who was to be her companion in
the drive.

As the party was in couples, and as Mr. Emerson had made up his mind
to go without his young wife, he had to ride alone. The absence of
Irene was felt as a drawback to the pleasure of all the company.
Miss Carman, who understood the real cause of Irene's refusal to
ride, was so much troubled in her mind that she sat almost silent
during the two hours they were out. Mr. Emerson left the party after
they had been out for an hour, and returned to the hotel. His
excitement had cooled off, and he began to feel regret at the
unbending way in which he had met his bride's unhappy mood.

"Her over-sensitive mind has taken up a wrong impression," he said,
as he talked with himself; "and, instead of saying or doing anything
to increase that impression, I should, by word and act of kindness,
have done all in my power for its removal. Two wrongs never make a
right. Passion met by passion results not in peace. I should have
soothed and yielded, and so won her back to reason. As a man, I
ought to possess a cooler and more rationally balanced mind. She is
a being of feeling and impulse,--loving, ardent, proud, sensitive
and strong-willed. Knowing this, it was madness in me to chafe
instead of soothing her; to oppose, when gentle concession would
have torn from her eyes an illusive veil. Oh that I could learn
wisdom in time! I was in no ignorance as to her peculiar character.
I knew her faults and her weaknesses, as well as her nobler
qualities; and it was for me to stimulate the one and bear with the
others. Duty, love, honor, humanity, all pointed to this."

The longer Mr. Emerson's thoughts ran in this direction, the deeper
grew his feeling of self-condemnation, and the more tenderly yearned
his heart toward the young creature he had left alone with the
enemies of their peace nestling in her bosom and filling it with
passion and pain. After separating himself from his party, he drove
back toward the hotel at a speed that soon put his horses into a
foam.

CHAPTER V.

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.

_MR. DELANCY_ was sitting in his library on the afternoon of the
fourth day since the wedding-party left Ivy Cliff, when the entrance
of some one caused him to turn toward the door.

"Irene!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety and alarm, as he started
to his feet; for his daughter stood before him. Her face was pale,
her eyes fixed and sad, her dress in disorder.

"Irene, in Heaven's name, what has happened?"

"The worst," she answered, in a low, hoarse voice, not moving from
the spot where she first stood still.

"Speak plainly, my child. I cannot bear suspense."

"I have left my husband and returned to you!" was the firmly uttered
reply.

"Oh, folly! oh, madness! What evil counselor has prevailed with you,
my unhappy child?" said Mr. Delancy, in a voice of anguish.

"I have counseled with no one but myself."

"Never a wise counselor--never a wise counselor! But why, why have
you taken this desperate step?"

"In self-protection," replied Irene.

"Sit down, my child. There!" and he led her to a seat. "Now let me
remove your bonnet and shawl. How wretched you look, poor, misguided
one! I could have laid you in the grave with less agony than I feel
in seeing you thus."

Her heart was touched at this, and tears fell over her face. In the
selfishness of her own sternly-borne trouble, she had forgotten the
sorrow she was bringing to her father's heart.

"Poor child! poor child!" sobbed the old man, as he sat down beside
Irene and drew her head against his breast. And so both wept
together for a time. After they had grown calm, Mr. Delancy said--

"Tell me, Irene, without disguise of any kind, the meaning of this
step which you have so hastily taken. Let me have the beginning,
progress and consummation of the sad misunderstanding."

While yet under the government of blind passion, ere her husband
returned from the drive which Irene had refused to take with him,
she had, acting from a sudden suggestion that came to her mind, left
her room and, taking the cars, passed down to Albany, where she
remained until morning at one of the hotels. In silence and
loneliness she had, during the almost sleepless night that followed,
ample time for reflection and repentance. And both came, with
convictions of error and deep regret for the unwise, almost
disgraceful step she had taken, involving not only suffering, but
humiliating exposure of herself and husband. But it was felt to be
too late now to look back. Pride would have laid upon her a positive
interdiction, if other considerations had not come in to push the
question of return aside.

In the morning, without partaking of food, Irene left in the New
York boat, and passed down the river toward the home from which she
had gone forth, only a few days before, a happy bride--returning
with the cup, then full of the sweet wine of life, now brimming with
the bitterest potion that had ever touched her lips.

And so she had come back to her father's house. In all the hours of
mental anguish which had passed since her departure from Saratoga,
there had been an accusing spirit at her ear, and, resist as she
would, self-condemnation prevailed over attempted
self-justification. The cause of this unhappy rupture was so slight,
the first provocation so insignificant, that she felt the difficulty
of making out her case before her father. As to the world, pride
counseled silence.

With but little concealment or extenuation of her own conduct, Irene
told the story of her disagreement with Hartley.

"And that was all!" exclaimed Mr. (sic) Delancey, in amazement, when
she ended her narrative.

"All, but enough!" she answered, with a resolute manner.

Mr. Delancy arose and walked the floor in silence for more than ten
minutes, during which time Irene neither spoke nor moved.

"Oh, misery!" ejaculated the father, at length, lifting his hands
above his head and then bringing them down with a gesture of
despair.

Irene started up and moved to his side.

"Dear father!" She spoke tenderly, laying her hands upon him; but he
pushed her away, saying--

"Wretched girl! you have laid upon my old head a burden of disgrace
and wretchedness that you have no power to remove."

"Father! father!" She clung to him, but he pushed her away. His
manner was like that of one suddenly bereft of reason. She clung
still, but he resolutely tore himself from her, when she fell
exhausted and fainting upon the floor.

Alarm now took the place of other emotions, and Mr. Delancy was
endeavoring to lift the insensible body, when a quick, heavy tread
in the portico caused him to look up, just as Hartley Emerson pushed
open one of the French windows and entered the library. He had a
wild, anxious, half-frightened look. Mr. Delancy let the body fall
from his almost paralyzed arms and staggered to a chair, while
Emerson sprung forward, catching up the fainting form of his young
bride and bearing it to a sofa.

"How long has she been in this way?" asked the young man, in a tone
of agitation.

"She fainted this moment," replied Mr. Delancy.

"How long has she been here?"

"Not half an hour," was answered; and as Mr. Delancy spoke he
reached for the bell and jerked it two or three times violently. The
waiter, startled by the loud, prolonged sound, came hurriedly to the
library.

"Send Margaret here, and then get a horse and ride over swiftly for
Dr. Edmundson. Tell him to come immediately."

The waiter stood for a moment or two, looking in a half-terrified
way upon the white, deathly face of Irene, and then fled from the
apartment. No grass grew beneath his horse's feet as he held him to
his utmost speed for the distance of two miles, which lay between
Ivy Cliff and the doctor's residence.

Margaret, startled by the hurried, half-incoherent summons of the
waiter, came flying into the library. The moment her eyes rested
upon Irene, who still insensible upon the sofa, she screamed out, in
terror--

"Oh, she's dead! she's dead!" and stood still as if suddenly
paralyzed; then, wringing her hands, she broke out in a wild,
sobbing tone--

"My poor, poor child! Oh, she is dead, dead!"

"No, Margaret," said Mr. Delancy, as calmly as he could speak, "she
is not dead; it is only a fainting fit. Bring some water, quickly."

Water was brought and dashed into the face of Irene; but there came
no sign of returning consciousness.

"Hadn't you better take her up to her room, Mr. Emerson?" suggested
Margaret.

"Yes," he replied; and, lifting the insensible form of his bride in
his arms, the unhappy man bore her to her chamber. Then, sitting
down beside the bed upon which he had placed her, he kissed her pale
cheeks and, laying his face to hers, sobbed and moaned, in the
abandonment of his grief, like a distressed child weeping in despair
for some lost treasure.

"Come," said Margaret, who was an old family domestic, drawing
Hartley from the bedside, "leave her alone with me for a little
while."

And the husband and father retired from the room. When they
returned, at the call of Margaret, they found Irene in bed, her
white, unconscious face scarcely relieved against the snowy pillow
on which her head was resting.

"She is alive," said Margaret, in a low and excited voice; "I can
feel her heart beat."

"Thank God!" ejaculated Emerson, bending again over the motionless
form and gazing anxiously down upon the face of his bride.

But there was no utterance of thankfulness in the heart of Mr.
Delancy. For her to come back again to conscious life was, he felt,
but a return to wretchedness. If the true prayer of his heart could
have found voice, it would have been for death, and not for life.

In silence, fear and suspense they waited an hour before the doctor
arrived. Little change in Irene took place during that time, except
that her respiration became clearer and the pulsations of her heart
distinct and regular. The application of warm stimulants was
immediately ordered, and their good effects soon became apparent.

"All will come right in a little while," said Dr. Edmundson,
encouragingly. "It seems to be only a fainting fit of unusual
length."

Hartley drew Mr. Delancy aside.

"It will be best that I should be alone with her when she recovers,"
said he.

"You may be right in that," said Mr. Delancy, after a moment's
reflection.

"I am sure that I am," was returned.

"You think she will recover soon?" said Mr. Delancy, approaching the
doctor.

"Yes, at any moment. She is breathing deeper, and her heart beats
with a fuller impulse."

"Let us, retire, then;" and he drew the doctor from the apartment.
Pausing at the door, he called to Margaret in a half whisper. She
went out also, Emerson alone remaining.

Taking his place by the bedside, he waited, in trembling anxiety,
for the moment when her eyes should open and recognize him. At last
there came a quivering of the eyelids and a motion about the
sleeper's lips. Emerson bent over and took one of her hands in his.

"Irene!" He called her name in a voice of the tenderest affection.
The sound seemed to penetrate to the region of consciousness, for
her lips moved with a murmur of inarticulate words. He kissed her,
and said again--

"Irene!"

There was a sudden lighting up of her face.

"Irene, love! darling!" The voice of Emerson was burdened with
tenderness.

"Oh, Hartley!" she exclaimed, opening her eyes and looking with a
kind of glad bewilderment into his face. Then, half rising and
drawing her arms around his neck, she hid her face on his bosom,
murmuring--

"Thank God that it is only a dream!"

"Yes, thank God!" replied her husband, as he kissed her in a kind of
wild fervor; "and may such dreams never come again."

She lay very still for some moments. Thought and memory were
beginning to act feebly. The response of her husband had in it
something that set her to questioning. But there was one thing that
made her feel happy: the sound of his loving voice was in her ears;
and all the while she felt his hand moving, with a soft, caressing
touch, over her cheek and temple.

"Dear Irene!" he murmured in her ears; and then her hand tightened
on his.

And thus she remained until conscious life regained its full
activity. Then the trial came.

Suddenly lifting herself from the bosom of her husband, Irene gave a
hurried glance around the well-known chamber, then turned and looked
with a strange, fearful questioning glance into his face:

"Where am I? What does this mean?"

"It means," replied Emerson, "that the dream, thank God! is over,
and that my dear wife is awake again."

He placed his arms again around her and drew her to his heart,
almost smothering her, as he did so, with kisses.

She lay passive for a little while; then, disengaging herself, she
said, faintly--

"I feel weak and bewildered; let me lie down."

She closed her eyes as Emerson placed her back on the pillow, a sad
expression covering her still pallid face. Sitting down beside her,
he took her hand and held it with a firm pressure. She did not
attempt to withdraw it. He kissed her, and a warmer flush came over
her face.

"Dear Irene!" His hand pressed tightly upon hers, and she returned
the pressure.

"Shall I call your father? He is very anxious about you."

"Not yet." And she caught slightly her breath, as if feeling were
growing too strong for her.

"Let it be as a dream, Hartley." Irene lifted herself up and looked
calmly, but with a very sad expression on her countenance, into her
husband's face.

"Between us two, Irene, even as a dream from which both have
awakened," he replied.

She closed her eyes and sunk back upon the pillow.

Mr. Emerson then went to the door and spoke to Mr. Delancy. On a
brief consultation it was thought best for Dr. Edmundson not to see
her again. A knowledge of the fact that he had been called in might
give occasion for more disturbing thoughts than were already
pressing upon her mind. And so, after giving some general directions
as to the avoidance of all things likely to excite her mind
unpleasantly, the doctor withdrew.

Mr. Delancy saw his daughter alone. The interview was long and
earnest. On his part was the fullest disapproval of her conduct and
the most solemnly spoken admonitions and warnings. She confessed her
error, without any attempt at excuse or palliation, and promised a
wiser conduct in the future.

"There is not one husband in five," said the father, "who would have
forgiven an act like this, placing him, as it does, in such a false
and humiliating position before the world. He loves you with too
deep and true a love, my child, for girlish trifling like this. And
let me warn you of the danger you incur of turning against you the
spirit of such a man. I have studied his character closely, and I
see in it an element of firmness that, if it once sets itself, will
be as inflexible as iron. If you repeat acts of this kind, the day
must come when forbearance will cease; and then, in turning from
you, it will be never to turn back again. Harden him against you
once, and it will be for all time."

Irene wept bitterly at this strong representation, and trembled at
thought of the danger she had escaped.

To her husband, when she was alone with him again, she confessed her
fault, and prayed him to let the memory of it pass from his mind for
ever. On his part was the fullest denial of any purpose whatever, in
the late misunderstanding, to bend her to his will. He assured her
that if he had dreamed of any serious objection on her part to the
ride, he would not have urged it for a moment. It involved no
promised pleasure to him apart from pleasure to her; and it was
because he believed that she would enjoy the drive that he had urged
her to make one of the party.

All this was well, as far as it could go. But repentance and mutual
forgiveness did not restore everything to the old condition--did not
obliterate that one sad page in their history, and leave them free
to make a new and better record. If the folly had been in private,
the effort at forgiving and forgetting would have been attended with
fewer annoying considerations. But it was committed in public, and
under circumstances calculated to attract attention and occasion
invidious remark. And then, how were they to meet the different
members of the wedding-party, which they had so suddenly thrown into
consternation?

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