“So bitter had been our experience, and so painful the shock of separation, that I think a great many years must have passed before repentance came into either heart—­before a feeling of regret that we had not held fast to our marriage vows was born.  How it was with me you may infer from the fact that, after the lapse of two years, I deliberately asked for and obtained a divorce on the ground of desertion.  But doubt as to the propriety of this step stirred uneasily in my mind for the first time when I held the decree in my hand; and I have never felt wholly satisfied with myself since.  There should be something deeper than incompatibility of temper to warrant a divorce.  The parties should correct what is wrong in themselves, and thus come into harmony.  There is no excuse for pride, passion and self-will.  The law of God does not make these justifiable causes of divorce, and neither should the law of man.  A purer woman than my wife never lived; and she had elements of character that promised a rare development.  I was proud of her.  Ah, if I had been wiser and more patient!  If I had endeavored to lead, instead of assuming the manly prerogative!  But I was young, and blind, and willful!

“Fifteen years have passed since the day we parted, and each has remained single.  If we had not separated, we might now be living in a true heart-union; for I believe, strange as it may sound to you, that we were made for each other—­that, when the false and evil of our lives are put off, the elements of conjunction will appear.  We have made for ourselves of this world a dreary waste, when, if we had overcome the evil of our hearts, our paths would have been through green and fragrant places.  It may be happier for us in the next; and it will be.  I am a better man, I think, for the discipline through which I have passed, and she is a better woman.”

Mr. Emerson paused.

“She?  Have you seen her?” the lady asked.

“Twice since we parted, and then only for a moment.  Suddenly each time we met, and looked into each other’s eyes for a single instant; then, as if a curtain had dropped suddenly between us, we were separated.  But the impression of her face remained as vivid and permanent as a sun-picture.  She lives, for most of her time, secluded at Ivy Cliff, her home on the Hudson; and her life is passed there, I hear, in doing good.  And, if good deeds, from right ends, write their history on the human face, then her countenance bears the record of tenderest charities.  It was pale when I last saw it—­pale, but spiritual—­I can use no other word; and I felt a sudden panic at the thought that she was growing into a life so pure and heavenly that I must stand afar off as unworthy.  It had sometimes come into my thought that we were approaching each other, as both put off, more and more, the evil which had driven us apart and held us so long asunder.  But this illusion our last brief meeting dispelled.  She has passed me on the road of self-discipline and self-abnegation, and is journeying far ahead.  And now I can but follow through life at a distance.