"We are at the landing."
There was a hurried pa.s.sage from cabin to deck, a troubled confusion of thought, a brief period of waiting, and then Irene stood on the sh.o.r.e and Hartley Emerson on the receding vessel. In a few hours miles of s.p.a.ce lay between them.
"Irene, darling," said Mrs. Everet, as they met at Ivy Cliff on the next day, "how charming you look! This pure, sweet, bracing air has beautified you like a cosmetic. Your cheeks are warm and your eyes are full of light. It gives me gladness of heart to see in your face something of the old look that faded from it years ago."
Irene drew her arm around her friend and kissed her lovingly.
"Come and sit down here in the library. I have something to tell you," she answered, "that will make your heart beat quicker, as it has mine."
"I have met him," she said, as they sat down and looked again into each other"s faces.
"Him! Who?"
"Hartley."
"Your husband?"
"He who was my husband. Met him face to face; touched his hand; listened to his voice; almost felt his heart beat against mine. Oh, Rose darling, it has sent the blood bounding in new life through my veins. He was on the boat yesterday, and came to me as I sat reading. We talked together for a few minutes, when our landing was reached, and we parted. But in those few minutes my poor heart had more happiness than it has known for twenty years. We are at peace.
He asked why we might not be as friends who could meet now and then, and feel kindly toward each other? G.o.d bless him for the words!
After a long, long night of tears, the sweet morning has broken!"
And Irene laid her head down against Rose, hiding her face and weeping from excess of joy.
"What a pure, true, manly face he has!" she continued, looking up with swimming eyes. "How full it is of thought and feeling! You called him my husband just now, Rose. My husband!" The light went back from her face. "Not for time, but--" and she glanced upward, with eyes full of hope--"for the everlasting ages! Oh is it not a great gain to have met here in forgiveness of the past--to have looked kindly into each other"s faces--to have spoken words that cannot die?"
What could Rose say to all this? Irene had carried her out of her depth. The even tenor of her life-experiences gave no deep sea-line that could sound these waters. And so she sat silent, bewildered and half afraid.
Margaret came to the library, and, opening the door, looked in.
There was a surprised expression on her face.
"What is it?" Irene asked.
"A gentleman has called, Miss Irene."
"A gentleman!"
"Yes, miss; and wants to see you."
"Did he send his name?"
"No, miss."
"Do you know him, Margaret?"
"I can"t say, miss, for certain, but--" she stopped.
"But what, Margaret?"
"It may be just my thought, miss; but he looks for all the world as if he might be--"
She paused again.
"Well?"
"I can"t say it, Miss Irene, no how, and I won"t. But the gentleman asked for you. What shall I tell him?"
"That I will see him in a moment," answered Irene.
Margaret retired.
The face of Irene, which flushed at first, now became pale as ashes.
A wild hope trembled in her heart.
"Excuse me for a few minutes," she said to Mrs. Everet, and, rising, left the room.
It was as Irene had supposed. On entering the parlor, a gentleman advanced to meet her, and she stood face to face with Hartley Emerson!
"Irene," he said, extending his hand.
"Hartley," fell in an irrepressible throb from her lips as she put her hand in his.
"I could not return to New York without seeing you again," said Mr.
Emerson, as he stood holding the hand of Irene. "We met so briefly, and were thrown apart again so suddenly, that some things I meant to say were left unspoken."
He led her to a seat and sat down beside her, still looking intently in her face. Irene was far from being as calm as when they sat together the day before. A world of new hopes had sprung up in her heart since then. She had lain half asleep and half awake nearly all night, in a kind of delicious dream, from which the morning awoke her with a cold chill of reality. She had dreamed again since the sun had risen; and now the dream was changing into the actual.
"Have I done wrong in this, Irene?" he asked.
And she answered,
"No, it is a pleasure to meet you, Hartley."
She had pa.s.sed through years of self-discipline, and the power acquired during this time came to her aid. And so she was able to answer with womanly dignity. It was a pleasure to meet him there, and she said so.
"There are some things in the past, Irene," said Mr. Emerson, "of which I must speak, now that I can do so. There are confessions that I wish to make. Will you hear me?"
"Better," answered Irene, "let the dead past bury its dead."
"I do not seek to justify myself, but you, Irene."
"You cannot alter the estimate I have made of my own conduct," she replied. "A bitter stream does not flow from a sweet fountain. That dead, dark, hopeless past! Let it sleep if it will!"
"And what, then, of the future?" asked Mr. Emerson.
"Of the future!" The question startled her. She looked at him with a glance of eager inquiry.
"Yes, of the future, Irene. Shall it be as the past? or have we both come up purified from the fire? Has it consumed the dross, and left only the fine gold? I can believe it in your case, and hope that it is so in mine. But this I do know, Irene: after suffering and trial have done their work of abrasion, and I get down to the pure metal of my heart, I find that your image is fixed there in the imperishable substance. I did not hope to meet you again in this world as now--to look into your face, to hold your hand, to listen to your voice as I have done this day--but I have felt that G.o.d was fitting us through earthly trial, for a heavenly union. We shall be one hereafter, dear Irene--one and for ever!"