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 honeymoon 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 pang 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 acting 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 appalled at the ruin which impended.

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 confide to him the unhappy state of his affairs.  For an hour he walked the streets in debate on the propriety 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 bosom.

It was past eight o’clock when he entered his dwelling.  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 rustling 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, sobbed,

“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.”