For nearly the whole of the night that followed he walked the floor
of his room, and the next day found him in a feverish 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 resolute. 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 serene delight.

"Why," he said to himself, "seek to prolong this effort to blend
into one two lives that seem hopelessly antagonistic. Better stand
as far apart as the antipodes than live in perpetual strife. If I
should go to Irene, and, through concession or entreaty, win her
back again, what guarantee would I have for the future? None, none