The moment our young husband came to this sensible conclusion his heart beat with a freer motion and his spirits rose again into a region of tranquillity7. He felt the old tenderness toward his wife returning, dwelt on her beauty, accomplishments8, virtues9 and high mental endowments with a glow of pride, and called her defects of character light in comparison.
"If I were more a man, and less a child of feeling and impulse," he said to himself, "I would be more worthy10 to hold the place of husband to a woman like Irene. She has strong peculiarities11—who has not peculiarities? Am I free from them? She is no ordinary woman, and must not be trammeled by ordinary tame routine. She has quick impulses; therefore, if I love her, should I not guard them, lest they leap from her feebly restraining hand in the wrong direction? She is sensitive to control; why, then, let her see the hand that must lead her, sometimes, aside from the way she would walk through the promptings of her own will? Do I not know that she loves me? And is she not dear to me as my own life? What folly to strive with each other! What madness to let angry feelings shadow for an instant our lives!"
It was in this state of mind that Emerson returned home. There were a few misgivings12 in his heart as he entered, for he was not sure as to the kind of reception Irene would offer his overtures13 for peace; but there was no failing of his purpose to sue for peace and obtain it. With a quick step he passed through the hall, and, after glancing into the parlors14 to see if his wife were there, went up stairs with two or three light bounds. A hurried glance through the chambers16 showed him that they had no occupant. He was turning to leave them, when a letter, placed upright on a bureau, attracted his attention. He caught it up. It was addressed to him in the well-known hand of his wife. He opened it and read:
"I leave for Ivy17 Cliff to-day. IRENE."
Two or three times Emerson read the line—"I leave for Ivy Cliff to-day"—and looked at the signature, before its meaning came fully18 into his thought.
"Gone to Ivy Cliff!" he said, at last, in a low, hoarse19 voice. "Gone, and without a word of intimation or explanation! Gone, and in the heat of anger! Has it come to this, and so soon! God help us!" And the unhappy man sunk into a chair, heart-stricken and weak as a child.
For nearly the whole of the night that followed he walked the floor of his room, and the next day found him in a feverish20 condition of both mind and body. Not once did the thought of following his wife to Ivy Cliff, if it came into his mind, rest there for a moment. She had gone home to her father with only an announcement of the fact. He would wait some intimation of her further purpose; but, if they met again, she must come back to him. This was his first, spontaneous conclusion; and it was not questioned in his thought, nor did he waver from it an instant. She must come back of her own free will, if she came back at all.
It was on the twentieth day of December that Irene left New York. Not until the twenty-second could a letter from her reach Hartley, if, on reflection or after conference with her father, she desired to make a communication. But the twenty-second came and departed without a word from the absent one. So did the twenty-third. By this time Hartley had grown very calm, self-adjusted and resolute21. He had gone over and over again the history of their lives since marriage bound them together, and in this history he could see nothing hopeful as bearing on the future. He was never certain of Irene. Things said and done in moments of thoughtlessness or excitement, and not meant to hurt or offend, were constantly disturbing their peace. It was clouds, and rain, and fitful sunshine all the while. There were no long seasons of serene22 delight.
"Why," he said to himself, "seek to prolong this effort to blend into one two lives that seem hopelessly antagonistic23. Better stand as far apart as the antipodes than live in perpetual strife24. If I should go to Irene, and, through concession25 or entreaty26, win her back again, what guarantee would I have for the future? None, none whatever. Sooner or later we must be driven asunder27 by the violence of our ungovernable passions, never to draw again together. We are apart now, and it is well. I shall not take the first step toward a reconciliation28."
Hartley Emerson was a young man of cool purpose and strong will. For all that, he was quick-tempered and undisciplined. It was from the possession of these qualities that he was steadily29 advancing in his profession, and securing a practice at the bar which promised to give him a high position in the future. Persistence30 was another element of his character. If he adopted any course of conduct, it was a difficult thing to turn him aside. When he laid his hand upon the plough, he was of those who rarely look back. Unfortunate qualities these for a crisis in life such as now existed.
On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, no word having come from his wife, Emerson coolly penned the letter to Mr. Delancy which is given in the preceding chapter, and mailed it so that it would reach him on Christmas day. He was in earnest—sternly in earnest—as Mr. Delancy, on reading his letter, felt him to be. The honeymoon31 flight was one thing; this abandonment of a husband's home, another thing. Emerson gave to them a different weight and quality. Of the first act he could never think without a burning cheek—a sense of mortification—a pang32 of wounded pride; and long ere this he had made up his mind that if Irene ever left him again, it would be for ever, so far as perpetuity depended on his action in the case. He would never follow her nor seek to win her back.
Yes, he was in earnest. He had made his mind up for the worst, and was acting33 with a desperate coolness only faintly imagined by Irene on receipt of his letter to her father. Mr. Delancy, who understood Emerson's character better, was not deceived. He took the communication in its literal meaning, and felt appalled34 at the ruin which impended35.
Emerson passed the whole of Christmas day alone in his house. At meal-times he went to the table and forced himself to partake lightly of food, in order to blind the servants, whose curiosity in regard to the absence of Mrs. Emerson was, of course, all on the alert. After taking tea he went out.
His purpose was to call upon a friend in whom he had great confidence, and confide36 to him the unhappy state of his affairs. For an hour he walked the streets in debate on the propriety37 of this course. Unable, however, to see the matter clearly, he returned home with the secret of his domestic trouble still locked in his own bosom38.
It was past eight o'clock when he entered his dwelling39. A light was burning in one of the parlors, and he stepped into the room. After walking for two or three times the length of the apartment, Mr. Emerson threw himself on a sofa, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he did so. At the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the rustling40 of a woman's garments, which caused him to start again to his feet. In moving his eyes met the form of Irene, who advanced toward him, and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbed41,
"Dear husband! can you, will you forgive my childish folly?"
His first impulse was to push her away, and he, even grasped her arms and attempted to draw them from his neck. She perceived this, and clung to him more eagerly.
"Dear Hartley!" she said, "will you not speak to me?"
"Irene!" His voice was cold and deep, and as he pronounced her name he withdrew himself from her embrace. At this she grew calm and stepped a pace back from him.
"Irene, we are not children," he said, in the same cold, deep voice, the tones of which were even and measured. "That time is past. Nor foolish young lovers, who fall out and make up again twice or thrice in a fortnight; but man and wife, with the world and its sober realities before us."
"Oh, Hartley," exclaimed Irene, as he paused; "don't talk to me in this way! Don't look at me so! It will kill me. I have done wrong. I have acted like foolish child. But I am penitent42. It was half in sport that I went away, and I was so sure of seeing you at Ivy Cliff yesterday that I told father you were coming."
"Irene, sit down." And Emerson took the hand of his wife and led her to a sofa. Then, after closing the parlor15 door, he drew a chair and seated himself directly in front of her. There was a coldness and self-possession about him, that chilled Irene.
"It is a serious thing," he said, looking steadily in her face, "for a wife to leave, in anger, her husband's house for that of her father."
She tried to make some reply and moved her lips in attempted utterance, but the organs of speech refused to perform their office.
"You left me once before in anger, and I went after you. But it was clearly understood with myself then that if you repeated the act it would be final in all that appertained to me; that unless you returned, it would be a lifelong separation. You have repeated the act; and, knowing your pride and tenacity43 of will, I did not anticipate your return. And so I was looking the sad, stern future in the face as steadily as possible, and preparing to meet it as a man conscious of right should be prepared to meet whatever trouble lies in store for him. I went out this evening, after passing the Christmas day alone, with the purpose of consulting an old and discreet44 friend as to the wisest course of action. But the thing was too painful to speak of yet. So I came back—and you are here!"
She looked at him steadily while he spoke45, her face white as marble, and her colorless lips drawn46 back from her teeth.
"Irene," he continued, "it is folly for us to keep on in the way we have been going. I am wearied out, and you cannot be happy in a relation that is for ever reminding you that your own will and thought are no longer sole arbiters47 of action; that there is another will and another thought that must at times be consulted, and even obeyed. I am a man, and a husband; you a woman, and a wife,—we are equal as to rights and duties—equal in the eyes of God; but to the man and husband appertains a certain precedence in action; consent, co-operation and approval, if he be a thoughtful and judicious48 man, appertaining to the wife."
As Emerson spoke thus, he noticed a sign of returning warmth in her pale face, and a dim, distant flash in her eyes. Her proud spirit did not accept this view of their relation to each other. He went on:
"If a wife has no confidence in her husband's manly49 judgment50, if she cannot even respect him, then the case is altered. She must be understanding and will to herself; must lead both him and herself if he be weak enough to consent. But the relation is not a true one; and marriage, under this condition of things, is only a semblance51."
"And that is your doctrine52?" said Irene. There was a shade of surprise in her voice that lingered huskily in her throat.
"That is my doctrine," was Emerson's firmly spoken answer.
Irene sighed heavily. Both were silent for some moments. At length Irene said, lifting her hands and bringing them down with an action of despair,
"In bonds! in bonds!"
"No, no!" Her husband replied quickly and earnestly. "Not in bonds, but in true freedom, if you will—the freedom of reciprocal action."
"Like bat and ball," she answered, with bitterness in her tones.
"No, like heart and lungs," he returned, calmly. "Irene! dear wife! Why misunderstand me? I have no wish to rule, and you know I have never sought to place you in bonds. I have had only one desire, and that is to be your husband in the highest and truest sense. But, I am a man—you a woman. There are two wills and two understandings that must act in the same direction. Now, in the nature of things, the mind of one must, helped by the mind of the other to see right, take, as a general thing, the initiative where action is concerned. Unless this be so, constant collisions will occur. And this takes us back to the question that lies at the basis of all order and happiness—which of the two minds shall lead?"
"A man and his wife are equal," said Irene, firmly. The strong individuality of her character was asserting its claims even in this hour of severe mental pain.
"Equal in the eyes of God, as I have said before, but where action is concerned one must take precedence of the other, for, it cannot be, seeing that their office and duties are different, that their judgment in the general affairs of life can be equally clear. A man's work takes him out into the world, and throws him into sharp collision with other men. He learns, as a consequence, to think carefully and with deliberation, and to decide with caution, knowing that action, based on erroneous conclusions, may ruin his prospects53 in an hour. Thus, like the oak, which, grows up exposed to all elemental changes, his judgment gains strength, while his perceptions, constantly trained, acquire clearness. But a woman's duties lie almost wholly within this region of strife and action, and she remains54, for the most part, in a tranquil6 atmosphere. Allowing nothing for a radical55 difference in mental constitution, this difference of training must give a difference of mental power. The man's judgment in affairs generally must be superior to the woman's, and she must acquiesce56 in its decisions or there can be no right union in marriage."
"Must lose herself in him," said Irene, coldly. "Become a cypher, a slave. That will not suit me, Hartley!" And she looked at him with firmly compressed mouth and steady eyes.
It came to his lips to reply, "Then you had better return to your father," but he caught the words back ere they leaped forth57 into sound, and, rising, walked the floor for the space of more than five minutes, Irene not stirring from the sofa. Pausing at length, he said in a voice which had lost its steadiness:
"You had better go up to your room, Irene. We are not in a condition to help each other now."
Mrs. Emerson did not answer, but, rising, left the parlor and went as her husband had suggested. He stood still, listening, until the sound of her steps and the rustle58 of her garments had died away into silence, when he commenced slowly walking the parlor floor with his head bent59 down, and continued thus, as if he had forgotten time and place, for over an hour. Then, awakened60 to consciousness by a sense of dizziness and exhaustion61, he laid himself upon a sofa, and, shutting his eyes, tried to arrest the current of his troubled thoughts and sink into sleep and forgetfulness.
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1
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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13
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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14
parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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17
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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31
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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34
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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35
impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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38
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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41
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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42
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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43
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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44
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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45
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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46
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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47
arbiters
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| 仲裁人，裁决者( arbiter的名词复数 ) | |
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48
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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49
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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50
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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51
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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52
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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53
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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56
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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57
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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58
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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60
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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61
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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