“Father!”

The tone in which this word was uttered was almost a cry of pain.

“It is even so, my child—­even so,” replied Mr. Delancy, in a voice of irrepressible sadness.  “You have left your husband a second time.  It is not every man who would forgive the first offence; not one in twenty who would pardon the second.  You are in great peril, Irene.  This storm that you have conjured up may drive you to hopeless shipwreck.  You need not expect Hartley to-day.  He will not come.  I have studied his character well, and know that he will not pass this conduct over lightly.”

Even while this was said a servant, who had been over to the village, brought in a letter and handed it to Mr. Delancy, who, recognizing in the superscription the handwriting of his daughter’s husband, broke the seal hurriedly.  The letter was in these words: 

“My dear sir:  As your daughter has left me, no doubt with the purpose of finally abandoning the effort to live in that harmony so essential to happiness in married life, I shall be glad if you will choose some judicious friend to represent her in consultation with a friend whom I will select, with a view to the arrangement of a separation, as favorable to her in its provisions as it can possibly be made.  In view of the peculiarity of our temperaments, we made a great error in this experiment.  My hope was that love would be counselor to us both; that the law of mutual forbearance would have rule.  But we are both too impulsive, too self-willed, too undisciplined.  I do not pretend to throw all the blame on Irene.  We are as flint and steel.  But she has taken the responsibility of separation, and I am left without alternative.  May God lighten the burden of pain her heart will have to bear in the ordeal through which she has elected to pass.

Your unhappy son,

“Hartley Emerson.”

Mr. Delancy’s hand shook so violently before he had finished reading that the paper rattled in the air.  On finishing the last sentence he passed it, without a word, to his daughter.  It was some moments before the strong agitation produced by the sight of this letter, and its effect upon her father, could be subdued enough to enable her to read a line.

“What does it mean, father?  I don’t understand it,” she said, in a hoarse, deep whisper, and with pale, quivering lips.

“It means,” said Mr. Delancy, “that your husband has taken you at your word.”

“At my word!  What word?”

“You have left the home he provided for you, I believe?”

“Father!”

Her eyes stood out staringly.

“Let me read the letter for you.”  And he took it from her hand.  After reading it aloud and slowly, he said—­

“That is plain talk, Irene.  I do not think any one can misunderstand it.  You have, in his view, left him finally, and he now asks me to name a judicious friend to meet his friend, and arrange a basis of separation as favorable to you in its provisions as it can possibly be made.”